Adventurous Eating Starts at Home: Grape & Lavender Galette

-Adventurous eating doesn't always mean roasted grasshoppers and 1000 year eggs.-

“So I think I’m going to make a grape and lavender tart. I found a recipe on Martha Stewart,” I nonchalantly told BF.

“Grape and lavender? Why?” BF seemed curious about this one. It wasn’t the most straightforward recipe to be sure. In fact, I doubt he had ever seen or conceptualized a grape dessert before. It wasn’t like they were on the menus of every restaurant.

“Well,” I sighed, “to be honest it’s because, One: I’m intrigued by the idea of it. Two: It sounds kinda terrible to me but also sorta tasty. See, the idea of cooked grapes to me actually seems rather unpleasant. Grapes have a flavor that I think is best cold or even frozen -” I love to freeze grapes as a snack, “-and the idea of them being served hot just sounds groady. I imagine them tasting rather sickly sweet and having a texture of hot boiled mash with nasty strings of curled grape skins.”

“I assume the lavender is a part of this, too?”

“Exactly. Lavender is a tricky food. Few people can cook with it well and fewer even know how much to use when they do. I’ve had great experiences when it was used on a turkey as part of a salt rub and enjoyed some whipped cream touched with lavender, but other than that… I dunno. It’s quick to go from floral fragrance to being snuffed out with the fume of a grandmother’s panty drawer.”

“Ew.”

-The grapes I used were Flame, Black Emerald, Champagne, Obsidian, and Concord.-

“Yeah, I thought you'd like that comparison. So, this is just a grand experiment to see if I can get myself to like both cooked grapes and try lavender in a new way. Hopefully it’ll be awesome. It may just be alright. Possibly, it may taste like the sins of a used up, overly made-up, tranny hooker baked in a pie crust.”

“Nice,” he said and turned to leave the room.

“Ha ha! Man, I am on a roll today.”

This wasn’t my first stroll down this particularly unusual avenue of cooking. I had traveled this route many times, mapping out my various culinary distastes and challenging them in all sorts of ways. Too many jaunts down lima bean alley left me to realize that I simply don’t care for them in any way, and that I had my mother’s terrible and overcooked turkey soup to blame for this. A surprise run-in with Brussels sprouts and its retinue of Parmesan cheese and garlic showed me just how much I enjoyed the little cruciferous’ company on my plate. I have had enough encounters with spaghetti squash to know that given the chance I would lock them all up in a cell and throw away the key, the nasty little things. I attempted cooking with eggplant once years ago after being more than a bit nervous of them. These days we’re the best of friends.

So I would try with grapes and lavender.

The Tiny Gourmand: Apricot-Frangipane Tart

-A classic recipe and a new kitten make for an excellent weekend.-

After she bit my finger we realized she had taken on a proper affinity for the name we had given her, our little Zola. Short, of course, for Gorgonzola. We named her because calling her The Kitten for the past week left a bland aftertaste of indifference in our mouths that none of us cared for. The name Zola had given her a sense of character and bequeathed her a piquant chutzpah and certain regality reminiscent of her namesake.

Romantic as I try to make it the name was originally picked out because she smelled outrageously funky when we plucked her stray little self out of the garden like a fuzzy little turnip where she had been hiding under the thick tomatillo canopy. We heard her mewling and lost, separated from her mother and siblings. We quickly went out and carefully - delicately -chased, cornered, and captured her. It was a difficult task considering how tiny and fast she is. She hissed and cried when I picked her up in my Ove-Glove guarded hands. She was scared and terrified of the giants that her missing mother had trained her to fear.

She spent the night wrapped in a warm blanket with a bowl filled to the brim with food and a saucer of water. She seemed to take her sudden imprisonment with quiet fortitude and guarded distrust.

Yet, in less than a day, she softened to us. The next morning I quietly crept into her room. As I cooed to her like a new mother she nervously crawled out from her sheets. She cowered when I reached for her but made no sudden dash. Her hackles were just barely bristled from tension, but she allowed me to pet her. As I stroked her neck and cheek she erupted with purring. It was a soft sound that bellowed from her tiny frame and filled the room. She cradled herself against my chest, looked at me and went to sleep.

-She also enjoys sleeping with Cid.-

The next morning she was dumped into the sink and given her first bath. Scrubbed and soaked she dealt with it with a begrudging quiet like a student being lectured by a teacher he doesn't particularly care for. Though, given her size, it wasn't as if she could escape my hands, which were able to keep her securely in the water. A few minutes later, fluffed dry and fed, she ran into the other room to continue her very full kitten schedule of napping, snuggling, playing, and pooping.

I was smitten with the kitten. Soon, she as well with me. More so with Roommate whom she snuggled mercilessly and whom she cried for whenever he wasn't around.

Her wiles have worked their magic as he has decided to adopt her.

Christ. It's now four cats to three gay men in this apartment. How stereotypical sitcom is that? Punch my pink card because I'm done.

As I type this Zola is attempting to chew my fingers, which is making blogging rather difficult. It makes me miss those first few days of her tepid uncertainty back before she was ricocheting around the apartment with all the vim and vinegar of youth and attempting to devour my hands for another morsel of cheese.

-A perfect sun for a cloudy day.-

Allow me to explain the cheese and finger nipping.

You see, a few hours ago I was nibbling a piece of Parmesan when a small crumb fell to the floor. She instantly pounced on and devoured it out of kittenhood curiosity. (She is, after all, at that stage where kids put everything they find into their mouths.) A swallow and some smacking of the lips and she had had her first accidental taste of human food. Immediately, Zola began frantically scouring the floor for more, hunting furtively like a meth addict searching for a good shard of glass.

I picked her up to comfort and tease her a bit. That was my mistake. My fingers still smelled of cheese. She sniffed them and without any thought chomped down on my fingers with her needlepoint teeth as deep as they would go. She didn’t break skin, but, holy hell, enthusiastic kitten bites hurt. When I yelped she wasn’t even fazed. She smelled the cheese on my breath and lunged for my face licking my lips and greedily sucking up my curdy breath in a purr-heavy frenzy.

You could see it in her eyes, "MORE!" they screamed. "MORE WHATEVER THAT WAS!"

Through the fate of a name and allowing the feline employment of the Five Second Rule I had created a monster. A fuzzy, adorable one that sleeps under your chin and enjoys wrestling an old shoe lace, but a monster nonetheless. A monster with a taste for cheese.

Roommate is understandably concerned.

Zola now seems to be an Eat Beast in training. She follows him around in epic, playful battle. He’s her mountain to climb and his erratic tail her dragon to be vanquished. Eat Beast takes it in stride simply sitting there and only showing protest when she bites his tail a wee bit too hard. He cleans her, takes her to the water dish, and generally looks after her. Still, we’ve made a clear cut policy in this home that she will not be allowed people food ever again.

-How much luck do you really think we're having with that policy?-

Which, you know, is going to be a difficult rule to enforce. She trails after Eat Beast and is taking his unintentional tutoring to heart. When he starts sniffing around a plate of cookies and snatches one away she follows along, takes a bite of his loot, and then decides to go back for a cookie of her own. When he sneaks into the fridge she does the same. She, too, has an unhealthy curiosity for what's under the lid of the butter dish. God help us all.

So, with that, the structured life of our apartment - that of myself, BF, Roommate, and the three cats - was suddenly turned upside down with a rambunctious ten week-old kitten. We couldn’t be happier for it, if not also slightly freaked out since kittens are essentially perpetual motion machines that constantly eat and poop. This one with a particular inclination towards the former.

It’s also not just cheese she seems to crave. She has a taste for apricots, both raw and cooked. Zola is a gourmand in training with a bit more of a discerning palate than Eat Beast. While Eat Beast goes for anything and everything; Zola is a picky, little snob. I can whip out some dime store lunch meat and she won't bat an eye. I roast a duck and sauce it with cherry-balsamic and she's all over me like a hooker on a hundred dollar bill.

-"Soon, little apricots, soon you will be mine."-

So, as we do with Eat Beast, I now put her in the other room when I bake just to keep her out of the way. If I don't she circles the kitchen and has a tendency to get in the way. And, while she still can't jump on the counter, we're trying to instill a sense that even thinking about jumping on on it is a quick way to get hosed down with the spray bottle.

We're also trying to teach her not to try and scale us like a mountain when we eat. I swear, every time I take a meal it's like a race between her and me to see just who is going to eat what's at the business end of my fork. Lucky for me, she's tiny and I'm faster. The bad news is that during our races she has no qualms using her tiny claws to scale up my pant leg and the leg within it.

It's going to take some time to train her. (Dear God, I hope we can train her.)

-Cute and mischievous: A rather evil combination when it comes to kittens, cute people you meet at the bar, and children.-

I do have some hope. She did stay clear for the most part while I crafted together this tart. A simple shortbread crust, frangipane, the first sunny apricots of the season. The fruit was surprisingly ripe in spite of this ridiculously bipolar weather this Spring. Biting into one the juice burst out and ran down my arm onto the floor where Eat Beast and Zola gleefully lapped it up. I lightly lacquered the apricots with a brushing of honey mixed with a bit of rose water before dusting it all with a bit of pistachio to liven up an otherwise homespun treat.

I guess this tart - at least, for me - is a way to celebrate change in life by bringing in something old and familiar. A new kitten, child, job, home... it can all be stressful. These things throw your life into a bit of chaos. Chaos that you revel in, but chaos nonetheless. It's freaky and exciting, and it will make you exhausted. A plain 'ol tart, your favorite cake, or whatever comfort foods you enjoy are ways to mellow things out.

Celebrate the new by ringing it in with the old.

Just be sure that you keep an eye on the new because the second you turn your head it might get sneaky and eat the old.


Apricot-Frangipane Tart
Frangipane recipe adapted from David Lebovitz's, Room for Dessert

For Shortbread Crust
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 cup sugar
pinch salt
1 stick (1/2 cup) unsalted butter, cold, cut into cubes
2 egg yolks
3 teaspoons ice-cold vanilla extract
1-3 teaspoons ice-cold water

1. Place the flour, sugar and salt in a food processor and pulse a few times to blend. Add the butter and pulse until the butter is the size of peas. In a bowl whisk together the egg yolks and vanilla extract. Pour into the flour mixture and process for about 5-10 seconds until clumps form. Do not let it form into a ball. You should be able to squeeze the crumbs together rather easily. If they fall apart add a teaspoon of water ad pulse several times. Test again and repeat if necessary.

2. Turn the dough out on a lightly floured work surface and knead the dough 2-3 times to bring it all together. Pat it into the shape of a disc. Wrap it in plastic wrap and chill for about 20 minutes. Roll the dough out between two pieces of wax paper. (If it cracks, let the dough sit for a few minutes until it softens. Roll the dough into an 11-inch tart plate and press into place.

3. Preheat oven to 375F. Line the unbaked tart shell with foil and fill with pie weights or dry beans to prevent the crust from bubbling during the prebake. Bake for 20 minutes. The foil should come away easily and not tear the dough (if not, bake for a few more minutes). Bake for 10 more minutes. Allow to cool completely.


For Frangipane
4 ounces almond paste, crumbled
1 1/2 teaspoons of sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons all-purpose flour
pinch of salt
1/8 teaspoon almond extract
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into pieces, room temperature
1 large egg, room temperature

While the tart shell bakes place almond paste, sugar, flour, and salt in a food processor and process until crumbly and almost sandy. Add the butter and process until smooth. Add the egg and extracts and process until smooth.


For Finishing the Tart
4-6 ripe apricots, cut into quarters lengthwise
1/4 cup honey
1/2 teaspoon rose water
pistachios for garnish (optional)

1. Spread the frangipane onto the prebaked tart shell. Arrange the apricots into a circle. Bake for 30-40 minutes or until the frangipane is slightly golden and firm. Cool on a wire rack.

2. While it cools heat the honey and rose water in cup in the mixrowave or in a saucepan. Brush onto the apricots, being careful to avoid the crust. Garnish with finely chopped pistachios for garnish is desired.

-Success! Om nom nom!-

Book Club Brunch

-A simple tart always impresses your guests.-

For the first time in what seems like forever I finally have enough free time to sit down and actually read a book on my own. The past many, many years have been plagued with assigned readings where a 400 page novel had to be completed, processed, analyzed, and written about within a seven day time span. Epic rhetorical essays had to be understood with the expectation that their key points could be regurgitated - eloquently, I might add - on request. Theories about teaching, composition, and how to instruct English-as-a-second-language students were to be compressed in whatever corner of my crammed little mind.

It's no wonder I wasn't doing any pleasure reading. For the longest time my brain simply rejected any written words that didn't have an immediate practical applicability that was somehow related to my GPA. Even reading the most pleasant and beautiful food blogs resulted in mental projectile vomit, my head crying in the spaces between words, "No more!"

Only now do I finally have a moment to breath and read. I can graze over the words and ponder them. I don't have to question what Derrida would think (I'll give those of you who don't know that name a moment to look him up, and those that do a moment to recover from the trauma) or the postcolonial interpretations of what the text is saying and what its greater implications upon society as a whole are; or, you know, whatever stuff like that.

-A phenomenal read to chat about over a meal with friends.-

Still, I do crave thoughtful literary discussion. It exercises my brain and gives me a chance to socialize with like-minded people, so it only made sense that I start up a book club. I called a few close friends: a fellow grad student who had graduated before me, a friendly food blogger with Mexico ties, a techie and a few others who jumped at the idea. I proposed meeting in thirty days to discuss our first selection, Amy Tan's, The Kitchen God's Wife.

The book is a wonderful read; thoughtful and dramatic, funny in all the right places and usually leaving me wanting dim sum. However, it was how I read the book that was so staggering to me. I read for fun! I was so proud of myself! I read my book without pen and highlighter in arm's reach. I only noted a few passages I found funny or especially poignant so I could bring them up to fellow book club members and pick their brains. In previous years my books have always ended up marred in annotations and underlinings, or flagged with so many little post-its it looked like the binding was spouting more ribbon than a Mardi Gras float. My copy of Tan's novel only has a few penned in stars and two dog eared pages.

The book club is something I need and enjoy; moments of friendly debate, co-misery, and gushing. The members fill me up and energize me not just for literature but other intellectual activities, like cooking. The club meeting was an opportunity to gather friends together and cook them a perfect little meal.

-Talking about a book is difficult when your face is full of cake.-

I was torn between cooking Chinese food, a cuisine I'm competent at and which would have matched the book, or what I considered to be stereotypical book club fare like salads and teeny sandwiches. Taking into account it was dry and 102 degrees outside I went with the latter and developed a menu that, by pure happenstance, was totally designed by my friend David (even if he wasn't aware of it).

David's almond cake is one of those practical recipes that I added to my repertoire a few years ago. It's easy to throw together at the last second and always produces the same amazing result: a cake heady with almond flavor and an incredibly moist crumb. Served with a bit of fruit macerated in sugar and spices it's a simple crowd pleaser that's appropriate for any occasion at any time of year. The fact that it was all almond seemed to also synch up well with the book where almond desserts abound.

-The drama shot. Blueberries are always dramatic.-

Before the cake I served a simple tomato tart that David wrote up a few weeks ago. It was one of those recipes that just hooked me and sat in my brain niggling at the front of my skull knocking around asking, "Ya' gonna' make me yet?" The book club meeting proved to be the perfect chance to serve this. An easy recipe with a big wow factor. It tastes like sun and cool, grassy breezes. Served with chilled Rose wine it was a wonderful way to usher in our first meeting.

Overall, the meeting went well as people felt each other out and learned to express their opinions in the forum. I found how enjoyable a novel really can be and how light exploration can force you to turn over a good book and look at it in a new light. Similarly, it gives you an excuse to exercise your creative juices in the kitchen and fuel your friends for riveting discussion.

-One of the easiest tarts I've ever made. If you use a pre-made frozen tart crust this is even easier, though making your own is simple and tastes better.-

My Confidence, Like My Puff Pastry, Has Risen

-Flakey, buttery, and delicious. Pepperidge Farms has nothing on this.-

"Oh my God, it's rising!" I called over BF and Roommate to peek through the oven window. There, with butter bubbling sides, rose my first ever homemade puff pastry that I had crafted earlier in the week at the Advanced Pastry class. As steam was released from the heated bits of butter that had been folded and folded and folded in with flour the puff pastry rose from a cold 1/8 of an inch thickness to over an inch in flaky height. Proof that I had not screwed up my first attempt at puff pastry but, surprisingly, succeeded in every way.

My confidence grew more than the puff did. I felt like a competent baker. That baking was something I might not only have potential for, but might actually even be good at, made me beam. All cupcake recipes aside this was a major milestone for me as I had always held puff pastry to be one of those quintessential recipes that separated the home baker from the professional baker. Given, I was far from a professional, but this was a step in the direction I wanted to go. I had made puff!

Oh, and the smell. Readers, store bought puff pastry does not smell like this when baking. The stuff you make yourself is richer and sweeter. The smell of cooking butter was one more aroma that interlaced the others already wafting in the perfumed apartment. Earlier, I had been reducing onions in olive oil and, yes, a bit more butter, and had tossed in some fresh thyme and minced garlic. Those were set on scored bits of rolled out puff, then topped with slices of fresh tomato that were brushed with olive oil. Some crumbled goat cheese for tang and a few bits of shaved Parmesan finished it appropriately. The scent of all this melding together in the oven was intoxicating and so heavy with butter you almost became drunk on it.

-Puff pastry about to be rolled. Getting to this point takes a lot of patience and even more butter.-

After 25 minutes at 425F I took them out of the oven and placed a chiffonade of basil on each one. Striking is the best way to describe their visual appeal, though rustic would work equally well.

They looked small and dainty, but the amount of fat and goodness in each one made them a full meal. None of us talked as we ate. We just sat in silence determined to enjoy the flavor of the cheese, and the flaky, crumbly texture of the golden puff pastry. Only the occasional smacking of lips or "Mmmm" escaped us.

And it's true, so true: homemade puff pastry can't be beat. The frozen stuff has its place; homemade is a real time sucker and requires a lot of attention, but the task itself is easy-peasy. You just have to have patience, a few pounds of butter (yes, pounds), some spare hours, and a heavy hand on your rolling pin.

I cannot wait to put together the mille feuilles next weekend.

-The perfect weekend brunch.-

Tarted Up A Bit - Strawberry and Rhubarb Tart

-A perfect tarty treat after tarting up your garden.-

The garden was a bit of a slag when we put it together. Plants placed haphazardly with little forethought, tomatoes here and tomatoes there rather than them being grouped together, the whole thing was as well laid out as the streets of Boston. Which is to say, poorly. Many of the plants that needed sun sat in the chilling shade, their growth noticeably stunted. Other plants were taking in too much water and root rot began the slow decomposition within the stalks.

With the exception of our strawberries, mints, blackberry plant, and our dwarf citrus trees the rest of our prolific garden was on the verge of ruin. The garden wasn't simply suffering, it was cluttered, unplanned, and somewhat slovenly. The garden was like a guy I used to see at my local gym, he had the body of a god, but he had the face to guard it. This garden was his equivalent; it possessed striking potential and had the ability to produce, but unless something was done to clean it up a bit it would be remain a secret garden defined by ugly struggle.

Roommate, BF, and I undertook the day long trial of reviving and turning this garden around. We picked up a few sacks of steer manure, plenty of dirt, a few new plants, and borrowed some shovels from BF's family. Toiling, slathered in sweat and sun screen, we carefully dug up every eggplant, every pepper, every everything and gingerly laying them in misted shade so the roots wouldn't wither and dry. We quickly turned the first 10 inches of soil with manure before laying the plants back in the ground in ordered rows. Each row was so clearly defined and categorized that any real farmer or librarian would be proud.

-A happy, well organized, slightly chic vegetable and fruit garden.-

All decked out the garden is vogue, Cover Girl. She's strutting her stuff. Bedazzled with berries, parading with peppers, and a few good pots of basil (which never go out of style). She's all tarted up in the most fashionable ways.

Afterwards, covered in mud and a bit tousled, we tarted ourselves, albeit in a different way. We sat down to the remnants of a made yesterday strawberry and poached rhubarb tart. The recipe came from Chez Panisse Desserts, authored by Lindsey Shere, a cookbook I had purchase but then expressed disappointment at as I had been expecting something ill-defined and vague I called "more." A few people chastised me, nudging me on in their motherly way to give the book a go.

I did and, I admit, I was wrong. The book did me well though a few more notes about the cooking process would have been appreciated. Particularly the base recipes such as the shortbread crust and pastry cream; both simple and reliable, little black dresses of the pastry world.

The tart is spectacular and always in style come Spring. The perfect accessory to hold in your dirt stained knuckles as you revel in your made-over garden.

Short Crust Pastry
(For 9-inch pastry shell)
adapted from Chez Panisse Desserts

1 cup of flour
1 tablespoon of sugar
pinch of salt
1/4 teaspoon of grated lime peel
1/2 cup unsalted butter, not too cold
1 tablespoon of water
1/2 teaspoon of vanilla extract

1. Mix flour, sugar, salt, peel and butter and cut with your hands or a pastry knife until it resembles cornmeal sized pieces. Add water and vanilla and combine into flour-butter mixture until the pastry will hold together when you press it. Pat into a ball and wrap it with plastic wrap and pop it in the fridge for 30 minutes.

2. Press into a 9-inch tart pan, making sure you keep it even. It should be somewhat thin, but don't worry as it will puff a bit when baking and become thicker. Wrap the pan in foil and freeze for 30 minutes.

3. Preheat oven to 375F. Remove the foil and bake for 25 minutes or until golden brown. The dough will puff up a lot during the baking process. Don't worry as it will sink back down. Cool on a wire rack. When cool fill with pastry cream and top with fruit.


Pastry Cream
adapted from Chez Panisse Desserts

2 cups of milk
1/3 cup of flour
6 tablespoons of sugar
6 egg yolks
2 tablespoons of butter
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract

1. Heat the milk until small bubbles appear around the side on the pot, signaling it is just about to boil. Mix the flour and sugar in a heavy saucepan. Beat egg yolks in a bowl until thick and light colored. Whisk the hot milk into the flour mixture and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until the mixture has boiled for a minute or two.

2. Whisk some of the milk mixture into the egg mixture to temper them and then stir the egg mixture back into the rest of the milk mixture. Mix well. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until the pastry cream begins to hold a slight shape, about 170F. Do not boil.

3. Remove from heat and stir in butter. Allow to cool, then whisk in the vanilla and smooth out the pastry cream. Do not overmix cooled pastry cream.


Poached Rhubarb with Strawberries

2 pints of strawberries
1 cup of chopped rhubarb
1 cup of sugar

1. Core and slice strawberries. Set aside.

2. Place sugar and 2 cups of water in saucepan. Bring to a simmer. Add poache rhubarb and simmer on low for 8 minutes. Take off heat and allow to cool for an hour.

3. Drain rhubarb (the cooking liquid is wonderful in cocktails, so save it) and carefully toss them with strawberries.

-Yes, I worked a Madonna song into my post. It would have been wrong not to.-

The Queen of Hearts and Chocolate Caramel Tarts

-While the Queen of Hearts should be leading her kingdom, she's instead baking this. Who could blame her?-

The Queen of Hearts certainly gets a lot of attention. Songs, nursery rhymes, and Disney villains are centered on her royal presence.

It might be because she's the monarch of the most tender of suits. It might be her circus freak appearance what with her lower torso being a twin who was only half absorbed in the womb, and both wearing matching robes and wimples. Maybe her green thumb, and affinity for tiny flowers?

But, personally, I think it's because we adore her fondness of tarts. I submit the following evidence:

The Queen of Hearts she made some tarts all on a summer's day;
The Knave of Hearts he stole the tarts and took them clean away.
The King of Hearts called for the tarts and beat the Knave full sore
The Knave of Hearts brought back the tarts and
vowed he'd steal no more.

To have your hubby kick the heck out of a guy like he's an old soup can because he stole a tart? I dare you to find a greater example of someone's love for good food.

Now, obviously, the Queen was being selfish. Royalty or not she should share her tarts. That's why the Knave stole them, he was hungry and wanted a taste.

And, really, can you blame him?

I mean, look at this tart. Chocolate, caramel, more chocolate, and salt. What's not to love? Who wouldn't steal a piece? I would totally snag a slice of tart if it were just lying around, but I'd be smart to pack a tazer to take down kingy. And if he wasn't around and I had to deal with the Queen proper, well I doubt something like 5000 volts will take her down. After all, this is her tart we're talking about.

That's dedication you can appreciate.

Now you've probably seen this particular tart around the Internet. First on Saveur, then on Lottie+Doof, and on Eating-SF, but now you're seeing it here. This one is my tart. Actually, my first tart. Ever.

In my desire to learn more about baking I've been trying new things. This tart is a perfect beginner's tart and though it might look daunting, it isn't. Furthermore, avid tart bakers with more experience will appreciate how simply this tosses together for a real wow-factor at any event, enough to even impress a Queen.

-The obligatory chocolate caramel tart shot. Seriously, go check. If you do this recipe, you have to take this particular photo. It's one of the unsaid rules of food writing.-

Chocolate Caramel Tart
The crust for this recipe comes from Cindy Mushet's The Art and Soul of Baking and served me quite well. The caramel is adapted from Lottie+Doof. The tart recipe as a whole is adapted from Saveur.

FOR THE CRUST:
1 stick of unsalted butter, softened
1/2 cup of sugar
1 large egg yolk
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 1/2 tablespoons of Dutch-processed cocoa powder

FOR THE CARAMEL
1/2 cup water
2 cups granulated sugar
1/4 cup light corn syrup
1/2 cup heavy cream
8 tablespoons of salted butter
2 tablespoons sour cream

FOR THE GANACHE
1/2 cup heavy cream
4 ounces extra-bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped
Sea salt or kosher salt for garnish

1. Place butter and sugar in the bowl of a mixer and mix on medium for 3 minutes. Scrape down the sides and add the egg yolk and beat well.

2. In another bowl whisk together the flour and cocoa powder. Add to the butter mixture all at once. Then mix in at lowest speed until it just comes together (it will have small and medium clumps). Any more and it will become sticky and difficult to work with.

3. Scrape dough into tart pan. Press into the bottom of the tart and outward using the heel of your palm. Use your fingers to pull the tart up the edge. Chill for an hour in the fridge. Reserve a little bit of dough to patch the shell later if necessary.

4. Preheat the oven to 350F. Bake tart shell for 15 minutes. Check to see if the dough has cracked, if so patch it with the reserved dough. Bake for another 10-15 minutes, keeping an eye on it to ensure it doesn't burn. Cool on wire rack.

5. Make the caramel: In a saucepan, whisk together sugar, corn syrup, and water and bring to a boil. Cook over medium-high heat until a medium-dark amber color, swirling occasionally. Take off heat and add the cream, butter, and sour cream. Stir together until smooth. Pour into cooled tart shell and let cool to room temperature, then place in the fridge to chill and set.

6. Make the ganache: Bring cream to a boil in a 1-qt. saucepan over medium heat. Put chocolate into a medium bowl and pour in hot cream; let sit for 1 minute, then stir slowly with a rubber spatula until smooth. Pour ganache evenly over tart and refrigerate until set, 4–5 hours. Sprinkle tart with sea salt, slice, and serve chilled.

SERVES 8-10

-I'd totally smack a Knave if he pilfered this.-

_________________________________________________________________________

This post extolling the awesomness of this tart was actually written before I found out that Saveur had nominated me for one of their Best Food Blog Awards. I've been nominated amongst some other amazing bloggers for the category of Best Individual Post for the cheese profile on Devil's Gulch.

I do hope you'll all go and vote for me if you feel my post exemplifies the kind of writing you hope to see in a quality food blog. =)