Autumn Trifle with Spice-Roasted Apples, Pears, and Pumpkin-Caramel Sauce

 
I’ll be honest – November is not my favorite month. That may not come as much of a surprise to you, but perhaps the reason will: it’s not because of the painfully short days or the bone-chilling temperatures, or even the pre-Christmas what-on-earth-am-I-going-to- give-people-this-year agony. It’s because of Thanksgiving, pure and simple, and the sad realization that once again, I am not taking part.

As someone who has lived the expat life for close to a decade now, I thought I was used to it. In fact, the first few years I lived on foreign soil the fact of being away from home for Thanksgiving didn’t bother me at all. Only one end-of-year holiday to pay penance for at the gym! No need to choke down turkey just to be polite! One less occasion for family conflicts! Instead I channeled my holiday food enthusiasm into Christmas, which apart from the presents and carols and inescapable mass commercialization seemed a perfectly fine substitute.

But as the years went by, a strange ache started to grow in my chest as the winter closed in. However happy I might be with my non-American life the rest of the year, as soon as November arrived I would start suffering intense bouts of homesickness, and all I could think about was that unlike the rest of my countrymen I didn’t have travel plans to finalize, time off work to anticipate and a big feast to plan at the end of the month. I tried to quell my melancholy by attending the annual Thanksgiving dinner thrown by my American departmental colleagues, but nothing about it was right; there were no big bear hugs from long-lost relatives, no good-natured arguments lasting half the night, and far too much shop talk. And the food – well, let’s just say that collective nostalgia does not for superlative eating make. After giving up on those I tried halfheartedly to organize my own dinner one year, but the fact that I don’t actually have any American friends (or an American husband, for that matter) proved to be more of an obstacle than I’d imagined. Of course it was no problem to lure people over for dinner, but since Europeans don’t seem to understand the whole eat-until-you’re-comatose premise, the dinner resembled a civilized dinner party with a vague Thanksgiving theme more than a proper holiday blowout (and I suppose the fact that I eschew most traditional Thanksgiving foods probably didn’t help either). So I pretty much gave up, resigning myself to Thanksgivings enjoyed vicariously through food blogs and telephone calls and dreaming of the far-off November day I’ll be able to celebrate the whole affair properly again.

Before you start to feel too sorry for me, though, and assume I spend Thanksgiving noshing on carrot sticks and oatmeal, I should tell you about the one concession I make which helps me feel I’m celebrating at least a little. Each year, no matter what else we’re eating or who we’re eating with, I make one gigantic, indulgent and totally over-the-top Thanksgiving dessert which we gorge ourselves silly on for several nights in a row. It’s very often pie, sometimes cheesecake, or if I’m feeling really homey, just a giant crisp. This year, however, it’s that most English of desserts, the trifle, though a version which has swapped the traditional sherry and raspberries for a powerful hit of autumn.

This trifle, in fact, is everything you could want in a Thanksgiving dessert, and more. It has pumpkin, apples, and pears; warm spices, toasted nuts, caramel and bourbon; creamy parts, crunchy parts, boozy parts and sweet-sour-spicy parts. It’s suitably over-the-top and outrageously decadent, which, let’s be honest, is really the point of the whole thing, isn’t it? The only thing it’s missing is a family, preferably mine, to spring from its billowy folds, laughing and arguing and bearing the rest of a deliciously epic, waist-stretching feast.

Oh well, at least it comes with considerably less gym time as a result. And for that, I’m certainly thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Autumn Trifle with Spice-Roasted Apples, Pears, and Pumpkin-Caramel Sauce

The truth is I’ve never really been one of those less-is-more kind of people. And definitely when it comes to the sanctioned excesses of Thanksgiving, more is definitely more, something this trifle delivers in spades. It is admittedly a bit time-consuming with all its various components, so if you’ve got a lot on your plate (how’s that for a pun!) I’d either start several days ahead or else just bring it along to an event you’re not hosting (or if you are hosting, convince one of your guests to make it…;). Once everything is prepared, though, assembly is a snap and it can sit for up to a day before its last-minute gilding of cream, caramel and nuts. And for heaven’s sake, whatever you do, just don’t forget to save room! p.s. The bourbon can easily be left out if you’re going to be serving alcohol-phobic people or small children; likewise if you can’t or won’t buy bourbon, a mid-range brandy makes a perfectly acceptable stand-in. Or why not just throw all caution to the wind and experiment with your favorite booze?
Source: Inspired by Bon Appétit, November 2003
Serves: 10-12

Vanilla-Bourbon Custard
1/4 cup (32g) cornstarch
2 cups (500ml) whole milk
1 cup (250ml) whipping cream
3/4 cup (150g) sugar
6 large egg yolks, at room temperature
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 tablespoons bourbon, or to taste

Pumpkin-Caramel Sauce
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter
1/2 cup (100g) sugar
1 cup (250ml) whipping cream
1/2 cup (125ml) canned pure pumpkin
generous pinch salt

Spice-Roasted Fruit
4 large tart apples (something good for baking, e.g. granny smith), peeled, cored, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
4 large firm pears (preferably Bosc), peeled, cored, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1/3 cup (70g) sugar
3-4 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon finely grated lemon zest
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon ground mace
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut in small pieces

Assembly
about 16oz. (450g) store-bought sponge or poundcake, cut into 1-inch (2.5cm) cubes
20 gingersnaps or other crisp, spicy cookies
6 tablespoons bourbon, or to taste

Topping
2 cups (500ml) cold whipping cream
3 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 tablespoon bourbon, or to taste
1 cup (100g) sliced or slivered almonds, lightly toasted

For custard:
Whisk the cornstarch and 1/2 cup (125ml) milk together in a medium bowl. Add the sugar, egg yolks, and salt. Whisk until the sugar dissolves. Bring the remaining milk and the cream to a simmer in heavy medium saucepan over medium heat. Gradually whisk 1/2 cup hot milk into the yolk mixture until well blended. Gradually whisk the yolk mixture back into the saucepan. Cook, stirring constantly, until custard thickens and comes to a boil, about 2 minutes. Continue cooking for about 30 seconds more, then pour into a clean bowl. Stir in the vanilla extract and bourbon. Press plastic wrap directly onto the surface of the custard to keep it from forming a skin. Chill until cold, about 2
hours. (Can be made 2 days ahead. Keep chilled.)

For pumpkin caramel:
Melt the butter in a heavy small saucepan over medium heat. Add the sugar and cook until the mixture is deep amber, stirring constantly, about 8 minutes (mixture will be grainy). Reduce the heat to medium-low. Add the cream (be careful – the mixture will bubble and steam). Stir until the caramel bits dissolve and the mixture is smooth, about 5 minutes. Add the pumpkin and salt to taste; stir until blended. Refrigerate until cold, about 2 hours. (Can be made 2 days ahead. Cover and keep refrigerated.)

For roasted fruit:
Preheat the oven to 400°F/200°C. Toss the apples and pears with the sugar, lemon juice and spices in a large bowl. Grease a large rimmed baking sheet or roasting pan (or line with non-stick foil, my new best friend), and spread the fruit out in a shallow layer. Dot with the butter and roast until the fruit is soft, golden and most of the liquid has evaporated, turning with a spatula every 15 minutes, about 45 minutes total (keep a close eye on it toward the end so it doesn’t burn). Cool the fruit on the sheet.

To assemble:
Line the bottom of a large (2-3 quart/liter) bowl or trifle dish with cake cubes, forming a more or less even layer*. Crumble half the gingersnaps over the cake. Drizzle over half the bourbon. Spoon half of the custard into the dish; smooth the top. Cover with half the fruit. Drizzle 1/2 cup (125ml) caramel sauce over. Cover fruit with another even layer of cake cubes (you may not end up using all the cake). Crumble remaining gingersnaps on top. Drizzle with remaining bourbon. Spoon remaining custard over. Cover with remaining fruit. Drizzle with another 1/2 cup caramel sauce (reserve the remainder). Cover with plastic wrap and chill at least 6 hours. (Up to this point it can be made 1 day ahead. Keep chilled.)
*You can, of course, also make individual trifles using wine or cocktail glasses like you see in the photo above. Just divide the mixture evenly between 10-12 glasses.

To finish:
Whip cream, sugar, vanilla and bourbon in a chilled bowl until the mixture holds soft peaks. Spoon the whipped cream over the top of the trifle, swirling decoratively. (Up to this point it can be prepared 3 hours ahead. Keep chilled.) Just before serving, drizzle the whipped cream with a little more of the reserved caramel sauce and sprinkle with the toasted almonds. Serve immediately, though a couple hours sitting at room temperature won’t do it much harm.
 

 
Chestnut Trofie with Creamy Porcini Sauce

 
It sneaks up entirely without warning. One minute I’m still clinging to summer, blissfully munching away on colorful salads for dinner, slicing up some fresh fruit for dessert, picking new recipes out of cookbooks because they feature the words ‘light’ and ‘healthy’ in their headnotes, when suddenly, as Emeril would say, bam! Overnight, it’s all I can do to not eat everything in sight. Those same salads that stuffed me a month ago leave me raiding the fridge two hours later. ‘Rib-sticking’ and ‘robust’ have become the two most beautiful words I know. Fruit is no longer very attractive outside of a pie crust, tart shell or crisp topping. I while away the day at work daydreaming about hot chocolate and big hunks of meat and melted cheese on everything.

Oh, fall.

I don’t think my change in appetite would take me so much by surprise if we had a proper fall, you know, of the the red-leaves and frost-on-the-ground kind. But because the weather doesn’t actually change that much here, and all that stands between the rains of summer and the rains of fall are a few degrees of chill, it doesn’t seem like fall should hold that much sway over what I eat. I mean, even when the icy northern winds start to blow in late October, there’s always a few mild, balmy days thrown in here and there to temper things out. Truly cold weather on the coast of Scotland is in fact a rarity; in the six years I’ve lived here I’ve seen it snow fewer times than I have fingers to count them on, and even when it does it never lasts more than a day. But somehow that fact is lost on my appetite, and as soon as the days start to grow shorter, those ancient survival instincts kick in, telling me to prepare for winter by ingesting as many calories as humanly possible.

Thankfully, much of the fall produce I love lends itself to exactly the rich, earthy preparations I’m craving. In northern Italy, the fall harvest includes two of my all-time favorites, the sweet chestnut and the dusky, pungent porcini mushroom. I could eat both of these a million different ways and never get tired of them, but combining them in a rich, belly-warming pasta dish is about as good as it gets. You might be thinking that making the pasta itself out of chestnuts sounds awfully avant garde, but it’s actually a preparation that goes back hundreds of years, to a time when wheat was a rare and expensive commodity in the mountainous areas where chestnut trees grew rampant. By drying and grinding the abundant nuts, the region’s poor discovered a virtually cost-free starch they could used in cakes, bread, polenta, and of course this, a sturdy, flavorful, subtly-sweet pasta that is equally at home under a thin blanket of melted butter and parmesan as it is standing up to a gutsy mushroom sauce. By all means substitute fresh porcinis if you’re lucky enough to have a source for them, but using dried in no way makes for an inferior dish, and it also means you’ll be able to enjoy this dish deep into the winter, when the very idea that you were once eating nothing but salad for dinner is all but laughable in its inconceivability.

Chestnut Trofie with Creamy Porcini Sauce

Before some of you get freaked out by the idea of making your own pasta, let me just reassure you that this is not your average pasta. In fact, adding chestnut flour to pasta makes the whole thing a snap, as it needs far less elbow grease than its wheat-only sibling. The only caveat is that rolling all those cute little trofie takes quite a while, so don’t plan this for a night when dinner needs to get on the table quickly (or else, just roll out the pasta with a machine). The other thing to keep in mind is that the proportion of chestnut flour is adjustable depending on your tastes. Some recipes call for a one-to-one ratio with wheat flour, and while this gives by far the best chestnut flavor, the lack of gluten causes quite quite a heavy, dense texture. Other recipes call for as much as four times as much wheat flour as chestnut; while this produces a better pasta texture-wise, the flavor of chestnut gets easily lost. I’ve put what I think is a good compromise here, but should you wish to tinker, feel free to increase or decrease the proportion of chestnut flour to your liking. Also, a word about chestnut flour itself: try to buy it from a place with a high turnover, and store it in the freezer as it goes rancid quickly. And if you can’t find any locally, don’t worry – it’s widely available online.
Serves: 6-8

For chestnut pasta:
2 1/2 cups (360g) all-purpose flour, plus more as needed
1 1/2 cups (180g) chestnut flour
1 teaspoon fine sea salt
5 large eggs, at room temperature
1 tablespoon olive oil

For porcini sauce:
1 ounce (30g) dried porcini mushrooms
1 cup (250ml hot water
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 large onion, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
1/2 cup (125ml) dry Marsala or dry sherry
1 tablespoon minced fresh rosemary
1 cup (250ml) chicken stock
1 cup (250ml) heavy cream
salt and pepper

freshly grated parmesan cheese, for serving

Mix the all-purpose flour, chestnut flour and salt on a work surface, shape into a mound, and make a well in the center. Break the eggs into the well, add the oil, and start mixing them together with a fork or your fingers. Gradually incorporate enough of the flour into the eggs to make a fairly firm but easy-to-work dough; it will feel slightly tacky but should not stick to clean fingers. Add more flour if needed. Knead it for a couple of minutes, just until the dough is smooth, then cover the dough with a damp tea towel and let it rest at room temperature for at least 15 minutes.

Meanwhile, combine the porcini mushrooms and the hot water in small bowl. Let stand for 30 minutes. Remove the mushrooms from the liquid, squeezing excess liquid from mushrooms back into bowl; reserve the liquid. Chop the mushrooms coarsely and reserve.

To make trofie, break off chickpea-sized nuggets of dough, keeping the rest covered so it doesn’t dry out. Roll out each nugget between your palms or on the work surface to a skinny rope about 2 inches (5cm) long. Holding each end of the rope between thumb and forefinger, twist the ends in opposite directions until the pasta curls on itself like a corkscrew. Alternatively, if you’re feeling dexterous you can try this technique. Don’t worry if it’s not perfect; the rustic, handmade look has a charm all its own. If this sounds like too much trouble, roll out the dough with a pasta machine and cut into wide ribbons (say, 1/2-3/4-inch). Leave the pasta to air-dry on a floured baking sheet while you make the sauce.

Heat the oil in a large, heavy saucepan over medium-high heat. Add onion and garlic; sauté until onion softens and turns brown around the edges, about 15 minutes. Add Marsala and boil until most of the liquid evaporates, about 4 minutes. Add rosemary, mushrooms, chicken stock and reserved mushroom liquid, carefully leaving any sediment behind, and let the mixture boil until
it has reduced by about half. Add the heavy cream, lower the heat slightly, and let it boil gently until the sauce thickens, another 8-10 minutes. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Bring a large pot of salted water to a rolling boil, and cook the pasta (in batches, if necessary) until it has softened and lost its raw taste, for trofie about 6-8 minutes, and machine-rolled pasta a bit less. The pasta will never become completely soft like traditional wheat pasta, but will retain a toothsome bite in the center.

Drain the pasta and add it to the pan with the mushroom sauce, tossing to combine. Serve hot, passing a bowl of freshly-grated parmesan cheese at the table. A great accompaniment is a salad of crisp greens, sliced pears and walnuts.

 

 
David’s Fresh Ginger Cake with Caramel-Roasted Pears

 
Among all the types of dishes I collect recipes for – the latest, greatest twists on comfort-food favorites, exotic creations from far-flung places I’ll probably never even muster the courage to attempt, things that look quick and nutritious enough for weeknight dinners – one category is probably the bizarrest. I collect dozens of recipes for things I don’t even really like that much.

For example, I bookmark nearly every bread pudding recipe I come across, despite the fact that the most complimentary thing I’ve ever been able to say about one is that its texture reminded me of wet Kleenex. Ditto for rice pudding, only I think my precise words here involved something about wallpaper paste. And oh, don’t even get me started on fruitcakes – deep down I must know that putting dried fruit and cake together is the culinary equivalent of, say, double-booking a banquet hall for both the NRA and PETA, but that hasn’t stopped me from filling an entire folder on my computer with recipes for it, many of them promising to be the fruitcake even fruitcake-haters love. The thing is, I don’t even identify myself as a fruitcake-hater, or a hater of anything else for that matter; I prefer to think of myself as an aficionado-in-waiting, someone who will love it unconditionally just as soon as the right version presents itself. I mean, the millions of people who do can’t all be wrong, can they? Somewhere out there I’m convinced there’s a recipe with my name on it, and all I need to do to find it is keep trying.

It doesn’t happen very often, but every once in a while this strategy pays off. Like last week, for example, when I finally fell head-over-heels for gingerbread (or in this case, ginger cake, though the difference, as long as we’re not talking about gingerbread cookies, is strictly a matter of terminology). I have been collecting recipes for this most quintessential of cold-weather desserts since I was thirteen years old and pulled one out of my oven that was so heavy, dry and completely dominated by the acrid taste of molasses that it went straight into the trash. I made a few more over the years that fared marginally better, but I think it’s safe to say that I never once met one that I had any desire to meet again. My collection of recipes for them has kept growing, however, including a recent contender from our very own David Lebovitz that he claims is his most-requested recipe ever, and whether you think you like ginger cake or not, that’s the kind of statement that makes you sit up and pay attention.

As it turned out, it took me the better part of a year to put his claim to the test, but last week, battling one the nastiest colds I’ve had in ages, and looking for a bit of distraction from all my nose-blowing, I decided to give it a try. Funnily enough, at some point between putting the cake in the oven and pulling it out both my sense of taste and smell vanished without a trace (this often happens to me during colds, but never from one minute to the next like that!) and for two whole days all I could do was stare miserably at the cake while Manuel helped himself to piece after piece. So strong was his enthusiasm for the cake, in fact, that I had to start thinking about hiding places for the last few pieces, but luckily my airways unclogged before I had to resort to any truly drastic measures.

And what did I think of the cake, when I was finally able to taste it? Well I know it sounds clichéd, but this is the very cake fall was made for. It was a cake that propelled me (leaky sinuses and all) out of the house on a late October afternoon, hands buried deep in my pockets and scarf wrapped tight against the arctic northern wind, the frigid air condensing my every wheeze and cough into wispy little breath-clouds, the weak sun doing nothing to stop my nose and earlobes and toes from turning into icicles as I trudged aimlessly through piles of brown and yellow leaves just so I could have the pleasure of coming home to a slice of it, tender and moist and so warmly spiced it seemed to thaw me from the inside out. In fact, as I settled back into my toasty apartment, a steaming mug of milky tea clutched between my frozen fingers and a softly slumped roasted pear nestling up against it on the plate, I would have been hard-pressed to say I’d ever eaten anything better.

So I’ve obviously made my peace with gingerbread, but it does make me wonder if my other long-term food foes are going to be quite as easy to conquer. Certainly if you, dear readers, happen to have any favorite recipes for, say, bread or rice pudding, or even a fruitcake that you can’t imagine life without, I hope you’ll share. Buoyed by such success, my other aficionados-in-waiting are getting restless.

David’s Fresh Ginger Cake with Caramel-Roasted Pears

Surprisingly for someone as tinker-happy as me, the only thing I felt the need to change in this cake was the amount of molasses. Since the recipe called for mild molasses and the black treacle I was using tasted anything but mild, I decreased the amount by one-third and made up the difference with golden syrup. I thought the flavor was perfect, so if you have any doubts about the strength of yours you might want to the same. As for what to eat with this rich, spicy cake, I have to admit it’s pretty spectacular plain, with nothing but a cup of tea or coffee to help it go down, but garnished with a dollop of tangy yogurt cream and a sweet-salty caramelized pear, it verges on dangerously good. As in, I-may-never-make- another-dessert-again good. Or almost-worth-losing-my-taste-for-two-entire-days good!
Serves: 8
Source: Room for Dessert by David Lebovitz

4 ounces (120g) fresh ginger, peeled
1 cup (250ml) mild molasses (or 2/3 cup (160ml) black treacle + 1/3 cup (80ml) golden syrup)
1 cup (200g) sugar
1 cup (250ml) vegetable oil
2 1/2 cups (350g) flour
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
1 cup (250ml) water
2 teaspoons baking soda
2 large eggs, at room temperature

For pears: 
6-8 medium ripe yet firm pears, peeled, halved and cored (a mellon-baller works great for this)
1/2 cup (100g) sugar, brown or white
1/2 cup (160ml) water
3 tablespoons (50g) butter
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 vanilla pod, halved lengthwise, or 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract 
generous pinch sea salt 

lightly-sweetened whipped cream mixed with a few spoonfuls plain yogurt, to serve

Position the oven rack in the center of the oven. Preheat the oven to 350°F/175°C. Line a 9-inch (23cm) springform pan (or a 9×3-inch cake pan) with a circle of parchment paper.

Slice and chop the ginger very fine with a knife (or process in a food processor until very finely chopped). In a large bowl mix together with the molasses, sugar, oil and ginger. In another bowl, sift together the flour, cinnamon, cloves and black pepper.

Bring the water to a boil in a saucepan, stir in the baking soda, and then stir the hot water into the molasses mixture. Gradually whisk the dry ingredients into the batter. Add the eggs, and continue mixing until everything is thoroughly combined. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake
for about 1 hour, until the top of the cake springs back lightly when pressed or a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. If the top of the cake browns too quickly before the cake is done, drape a piece of foil over it and continue baking. Cool the cake for at least 30 minutes. Run a knife around the edge of the cake to loosen it from the pan. Remove the cake from the pan and peel off the parchment paper.

If you’re making the pears, increase the oven temperature to 375°F/190°C. Nestle the pear halves in a baking dish just big enough to fit them in a single layer. Bring the remaining ingredients to a boil in a saucepan, stirring to distribute. Pour this mixture over the pears and roast in the oven, basting them with the liquid every ten minutes or so, for about 25-30 minutes, or until the liquid is bubbling very thickly and the pears are tender when pierced with a knife. (Don’t forget to remove the vanilla bean, rinse it lightly and add it to your extract jar, if you’re making some!) Let cool slightly before serving.