Strong Guts

My Beloved and I have strong guts. We ate slices of this Bartlett pear croustade.

I made the croustade because we had invited our next door neighbor over for dinner out of pity for his bachelor state - his wife was away on a girlie weekend with her best friend.

I used the last of the pears that Cranky gave me and I've been hoarding in the fridge. I didn't even peel them, just cored and sliced them lengthwise, tossed them with a minimal amount of sugar and allspice, piled them in a paté brisée crust, dotted them with butter and folded the crust up around them before sliding it into a 350 degree oven for about 40-50 minutes. It came out leaking the most beautiful bubbly brown pear juice you've ever seen escaping a buttery crust and looking adorably rustic. It perfumed the whole house.

So, I slid it, still warm, onto my beautiful, handmade glass plate, the one with the wreath of greens and flowers around the edge melted into the design, the biggest plate I own, the one I excitedly bought 20 years ago in Rochester, NY direct from the artist who made it. I loved that plate. I discovered it was made of non-tempered glass when it cracked dramatically into three pieces underneath my cooling croustade.

Needless to say, I couldn't serve it to our neighbor (he's a nice guy) with glass slivers in it. I sorrowfully consigned my much-loved plate to the recycling bin double-wrapped in paper bags, slid the ruined croustade back onto the baking sheet to cool completely, and rushed down to the local market to pick up some small cookies and coffee ice cream to make an emergency dessert of ice cream sandwiches.

The next day, I kept thinking, "I gotta just throw this croustade away!" But the pears were so beautiful and the crust was just right and the plate broke cleanly (except for a few small slivers of glass on my counter) and, well, I just couldn't do it. So, for lunch today I cut myself a healthy wedge, heated it gently in the oven and ever so gingerly took a bite. It was everything I had hoped it would be - buttery, fruity and spicy. When My Beloved got home, he did the same. So far, no glass. And, even if we do encounter some, we have strong guts when it comes to pear croustades.

Plum Crazy

Now that I'm retired and walking for exercise around our funky 'hood each morning, I actually stop and chat with my neighbors, rather than the hasty wave they got when I was hurrying on my way to the BART station. You'd have to be crazy to dress for walking as I do, given my age and body type, but I do it anyway - I've reached the age where I figure "What the heck." Plus, not only has it improved community relations, it has been a windfall of fruit.

Several of the nearby yards have fruit trees and some of the kind people who live in those houses have given me their extras. Maybe, given my goofy appearance, they're afraid not to? In any case, an example - yellow plums, so sweet and ripe that they splat if they fall from the tree before you gently pick them. My neighbor up the hill gave me six of these little beauties and the idea for making a fruit picker from a bamboo pole and a soda pop bottle which I'm going to try out today.

I combined those six plums with some of the last strawberries of our local season into two small croustades so sweet and yet tangy that they did a little song and dance on the tongue. All I did was halve the plums and strawberries and arrange them on a crust*, sprinkle them with a little allspice and wrap the crust partway around the fruit before painting it with a egg white and sprinkling with just a touch of sugar. Popped them into a 400 degree oven for about 30-35 minutes and out came these crazy good little tarts, one for me and My Beloved and one for my neighbor to say "Thanks a bunch!"

We're nuts about our neighbors.

*If you want the crust recipe, look here: http://zoomiestation.blogspot.com/2007/08/cookiecrumb-jyah-pear-croustade.html

Summer Fruit Heaven

Having made Pear Croustade last year from Cousin J-Yah's recipe, I wanted to try one this summer using white nectarines and cherries. Somehow, that combination sounded like near nirvana to me, so this week, I made one.

This time, I used the recipe for pate brisee* that came in my Cuisinart instruction manual thirty years ago, then just loaded the pitted, sliced fruit into the crust, dotted it with butter and sprinkled a single tablespoon of turbinado sugar over the crust and already-sweet fruit before turning up the crust around the fruit and baking it in a 350 degree oven for about 30-40 minutes.

Initially, I was a little apprehensive when it came out of the oven as it wasn't bubbling and shiny like most fruit pies, but the first bite dispelled any concerns. It retained the essence of the two kinds of fruit, except where the mingled juices made a juicy, sexy marriage of flavors. Served with just a dollop of creme fraiche on top, it made a lovely summer dessert, as close to transcendance as I have found on earth.

*Pate Brisee (Basic Pastry Dough) from the Cuisinart instruction manual, 1978.

2-2/3 cups all-purpose flour (I use unbleached)
1 cup (2 sticks) very cold butter, cut into 1" pieces (I use frozen)
1-1/2 tsp. salt (original recipe calls for 2 tsps. but I find that unpleasantly salty)
1/2 cup minus 1 Tbs. ice water
1 egg yolk

With metal blade in place, add flour, butter, egg yolk and salt to the work bowl. Process for 8-10 seconds, or until mixture has the consistency of coarse meal. With processor running, pour ice water through feed tube in a steady stream. Stop processing as soon as dough begins to form a ball. Turn out onto waxed paper and shape into two smooth, flattened disks (for a two-crust pie - if making a crousade, keep it all together). Use immediately or wrap in plastic and refrigerate or freeze for later use.

When ready to roll chilled dough, let stand at room temperature to soften slightly. Allow frozen dough thaw for 10 to 15 minutes. Roll on lightly floured board to 1/8 inch thickness. Fit into pan or pans and chill again before baking to prevent shrinkage.

Makes enough pastry for a double-crust 10-inch pie, or one large croustade.