Basil Strawberry Ice Cream

Sometimes inspiration this gorgeous leads to the sublime. But not this time.

I blame the farmer’s market.

The strawberries there were gorgeous: deep red and perfect and as sweet as cherubs rolled in powdered sugar. And they were right next to some kick-ass basil. They looked so pretty together and it sounded so good. What could possibly go wrong?

Quite a bit, as it turned out.

Strawberry and basil are flavors that should go great together. And after spending a little time with Mr. Google I found that people had even put them together in ice cream. Sold.

The recipes I found for strawberry basil ice cream were actually strawberry ice cream infused with a bit of basil. But I also saw plain old basil ice cream recipes, and thought, why not something like basil ice cream with delicious strawberry preserves rippled through it? Sounds awesome, right?

Macerated strawberries. This shit was utterly delicious.

I chopped up all my strawberries and macerated them in lemon juice and sugar, then cooked them down until their juices had thickened. I’m not going to lie - those berries rocked my world. Too bad I had to go and ruin them with the fucking basil ice cream.

So where did it all go wrong?

The basil ice cream, obviously, which had two big problems. 1. There was too much basil. Period. 2. The texture was all wrong. Little bits of basil acted as niduses for fat to cling to and became tiny fatty bitter-bombs that made my tongue feel like I had licked a rubber garden clog.

First, let’s talk about problem #1. Typical ice cream proportions are 3 cups of liquid (some combination of milk/cream) to 5 or 6 egg yolks. To this base, I saw people using very different amounts of basil: 3 tablespoons chopped fresh basil leaves; 1/2 cup chopped fresh basil leaves; 1 1/2 ounces basil leaves; 1 cup basil leaves; 30 grams basil leaves; 12 basil leaves; 2 cups (!!!!) basil leaves. Lightly packed measures, tightly packed…oh such diversity of opinion on the subject. Thanks for fucking nothing, Google.

Bygones. I had a decision to make. Eenie, meenie, minie… 1 1/2 ounces.

A couple of recipes added lemon zest, which seems like a great add to both basil and strawberry. One recipe even utilized an oleo-saccharum - wherein you zest the lemon right into the sugar and toss it around to draw out the oils. Great idea, so this is where I started, adding the basil leaves to the sugar and chopping it all together in a food processor. This is where the texture started to go all fucky: tiny bits of basil that were big enough to cause problems and small enough to get through my fine-mesh strainer.

Do you remember that science experiment as a kid where you use a seed crystal to grow a bigger crystal? Think of these tiny bits of basil as the seed crystals for bigger crystals that taste like gardening footwear.

I took this lemon-basil sugar and added it to the cream and milk, heating and whisking as per my usual ice cream technique. Yes, it was pretty speckled, but I wasn’t worried yet.

Basil custard, pre-straining.

Then I strained it. Tiny bits of basil remained. No biggie, I thought.

I chilled it, then poured into my ice cream maker, and then this happened:

This was a WTF moment. Check out that texture.

Grainy looking ice cream. Hmm. I tasted it. Those grains weren’t ice crystals. They were fat crystals, and in a bad way. Mouth-coating and bitter. I should have stopped there and done macerated strawberry shots. Or vodka shots. Or both. But I forged ahead, mostly because I still wanted to figure out how to make a ripple type ice cream and it was still morning and vodka shots might be considered inappropriate in some circles. Not the circles I frequent, but still.

Is it just me or does the ice cream look like Play Doh?

I layered ice cream, berries, ice cream, berries, and a last layer of ice cream for good measure. After a little time in the freezer, I scooped and served.

The good news: the ripple thing worked, and it wasn’t horrible looking. Visible bits of basil, but less grainy-looking than before.

The bad news: it tasted like a garden clog… albeit, one rippled with delicious strawberries.

It will be a while before I attempt this basil-strawberry-ripple jazz again. I think it would be prudent to master plain basil ice cream first, nailing down the right amount of basil to use. Which will be a fuck-ton less than I used here. I will also use whole blanched leaves next time, steeping them in the cream and then straining, so as to avoid the aforementioned fucky texture.

And maybe one of those basil-infused strawberry ice creams I found in my recipe search will scratch that basil-strawberry itch. Though to be honest, that spot ain’t too itchy after this experience.

You win some, you lose some.

Bygones.

Twenty Year Apple Pie

It's fucking apple season, motherfuckers.

I have lived in Minnesota for the past twenty-five years, and I can say with great authority that there are one or two pretty significant downsides to choosing a life this far north.

Winter, for instance.

Sure, Christmas is pretty. But by the time February rolls around and you haven't seen the sun in 40 days your shoulders are spasming from the constant shivering, you're pretty much over it.

It stops being pretty. The snow is now the color of dirt and half the grocery store parking lot is taken up by a mountain that looks suspiciously like a gigantic poop emoji which you'll be stuck with until Memorial Day.

Once, on a winter yoga retreat, I went out for wine during a snowstorm and almost didn't make it back with all my fingers and toes. My car got stuck in a snowdrift on a dark country road and I sat there for an hour with the car running on fumes and me in yoga pants and fucking backless clogs hoping someone might come along. They eventually did, but not before I got out and, standing ass-deep in snow, attempted to dig the tires out of the snowbank with a shoe.

So yeah, some downsides.

But those downsides are very nearly matched by the upsides of the apple season. No place outside of Eden can match the luscious glory of the Minnesota apple. Minnesota apples are fucking magic.

And apple pie is the best career to which an apple can aspire.

I've been aiming for apple pie perfection for 20 years. Not just the occasional glorious pie but consistent, knock it out of the park, perfect crust, zero drippy fillings no matter what apples or pie dish or phase of the moon, mouth-watering, covetable pie-fection.

And if you are a math whiz like me, you know that 20 years of apple pie = pi raised to the 20th power. Which is 8,681,463,856. Which is a very big number.

The components of a good pie are the crust and the filling. Obvious, sure, but they bear discussing separately.

For a double crust fruit pie, one needs flaky pie crust. You achieve flakiness by having minimal gluten formation and layers of butter between layers of flour. Butter contains water, which steams as the pie bakes, creating the layers that become flakes.

Let us bypass all the bullshit of vodka, vinegar, and all other additives that purport to help you achieve perfect flakiness. Let's go right to technique:

1. Do not overwork the dough, especially after liquid has been added to the flour

2. Laminate your crust

WTF does it mean to laminate the crust? Lamination is the process of rolling and folding the dough to bring it together, creating thin sheets of butter within the dough, rather than chunks of butter. This equals layer after layer of brittle flakes that explode on impact, becoming a buttery, appley ticker-tape parade of flavor on your tongue.

I mash the butter between my fingers, leaving it in largish flakes.

After the water is added, I bring the dough together in the bowl, then dump onto my rolling surface.

After rolling and folding 4-5 times.

Pie crust perfection. It only took 20 years. Whatever.

Lamination legit changed my life.

Now for the filling. I want crisp-tender apples in a matrix of gently thickened apple juice. Not crunchy apples. Not apple pudding. Not runny juice fucking up my bottom crust. To achieve this magic, one must use some sort of thickener, the most common being flour or cornstarch.

I don't like using flour. You need to use a lot in order for it to work as a thickener, and I don't like the slight grittiness it leaves in the filling. I prefer the texture of a filling made with cornstarch, but cornstarch comes with one huge drawback. If the filling does not boil - all the way to the center - that shit won’t thicken. A relatively small or thin pie will come up to temperature in the center pretty quickly. Not so for a 10 inch deep dish pie. In order for the center of the filling to boil you'll have to cook it long enough that either your crust will overbrown, or the apples will overcook, or both.

One solution, or course, is to bake a smaller (or thinner) pie.

Fuck that.

My solution is to make science work for me, rather than against me. I give the apples and their juices a quick shot of heat on the stovetop before piling all that lusciousness into a crust for the final bake.

Downside: one more pan to wash. Upside: 1. Apples tossed in browned butter, motherfuckers! 2. Perfect filling no matter the kind of apples, no matter how many.

That means consistency. No more holding your breath, palms all sweaty as you cut that first slice after Thanksgiving dinner thinking, "Shit. Maybe the apples were too juicy this year. Did I add enough cornstarch? Am I going to look like some B-list chump?"

Nope. You slice that shit and lever it onto a plate smiling the whole time, never once breaking the gaze of your mother-in-law or boss or smart ass neighbor. As they ooh and ahh, you just shrug and say, "Oh, this old thing? I just threw it together."

But you’re really thinking, “Welcome to fucking apple season, motherfuckers.”

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Shit You Need

Pie crust:

1. 13 ounces all-purpose flour

2. 1 teaspoon kosher salt

3. 1 tablespoon sugar

4. 12 tablespoons (1 1/2 sticks) very cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/2 inch pieces

5. 1/3 cup very cold vegetable shortening, cut into pieces

6. 1/2 cup ice water.

   I add a few handfuls of ice to a 2 cup pyrex measuring glass, give it a good stir, and set it aside as I throw the rest of the crust together. Once I am ready, I measure 1/2 cup in a 1 cup measuring glass, then add it to the rest of the ingredients.

Filling:

1. About 8 apples, peeled, cored and sliced into quarters, then each quarter sliced into thirds - or halves if they are small apples. You are aiming for 2 1/2 pounds of apples slices when all is said and done.

   Let’s take a moment to talk about apple choices. My sweet spot (haha, see what I did there) is a combination of mostly one sweet/tart/firm/juicy variety like Honeycrisp, Sweetango, First Kiss (Rave), Haralson, or Zestar. To these I add one small granny smith apple (for pectin) and one golden delicious. That golden delicious will break down and add an applesaucey matrix around the other apples.

2. 5-6 ounces sugar, depending on the sweetness of the apples

   Pro tip: taste the apples

3. 1 1/2 tsp cinnamon

4. 1/4 tsp freshly grated nutmeg

5. 1 1/2 ounces cornstarch (about 3 generous tablespoons)

6. 3 tablespoons unsalted butter

7. A few tablespoons of milk, to brush to top of the pie

8. Extra sugar mixed with a bit of cinnamon, for dusting.

First kiss (Rave) apples, one Golden Delicious, and one Granny Smith.

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Keep Calm and justeffingcook

Pie crust:

1. Position a rack in the upper 1/3 of the oven and preheat to 425 degrees Fahrenheit.

2. Add the flour, salt, and sugar to a large mixing bowl and whisk together.

3. Working quickly with your fingers, cut the shortening into the flour mixture until it looks like coarse sand.

4. Add the sliced butter and again, using your fingers, smush the pieces flat. Some pieces will break, others will flake. It’s fine. Don’t overdo it.

5. Make a well in the center and pour in the ice water. Yep, I do it all at once, and the whole thing. Because I know it’s going to work, that’s why.

6. Still using your fingers, toss the water in with the flour mixture, scooping along the bottom a bit to get the finer bits of flour. Once it starts to haold together a little, you’re done.

7. Dump the flour mixture onto a lightly-floured rolling surface, Using a dough scraper, corral all the bits the best you can. With a floured rolling pin, roll that mess in into a vague rectangle.

8. Using the dough scraper, lift up one short end and fold it to the other side. Corral the strays, get butter bits off the rolling pin and re-flour it, and roll the folded dough into a slightly less messy rectangle.

9. Repeat until the dough holds together and you’ve completed four or five folds. Cut the dough in half, make two rough disks, wrap in plastic wrap, and refrigerate at least an hour, or up to a day.

Filling:

1. Add all the apple slices to a large mixing bowl.

2. To a smaller bowl, add the sugar, spices and cornstarch and whisk together.

3. Add the sugar mixture to the apples and mix well. Let them sit, mixing occasionally over the next 15-20 minutes, until the apples have released some juice and they are now coated in a runny, sugary mess.

4. While the apples sit, add the butter to a large skillet or dutch oven and heat over medium high heat, swirling as the butter foams. Turn down the heat as needed so that the butter doesn’t burn but rather turns golden brown and smells nutty and awesome.

5. Add the apple mixture and turn the heat to high or medium high, aiming for the juices to bubble and thicken before the apples cook much at all. This should only take 2 or 3 minutes. Set aside and let cool to room temperature.

After tossing the apples, sugar, spices and cornstarch in browned butter, the house smells exactly like a hug feels.

Assembly:

1. Roll out the larger of the two disks of dough to 1/8 inch thick. Tease up an edge, roll it onto your rolling pin, transfer to the pie plate and unroll. Gently ease the dough into the pie plate without stretching it.

2. Leaving 1/4 to 1/2 inch overhang, cut off excess dough.

3. Top with the apple filling. If your pie plate is like mine, it will be slightly mounded above the rim toward the center.

4. Roll out the other crust to 1/8 inch thick and using the same method, release it onto the top of the pie. Leave 1/2 inch overhang and cut off excess. Fold the two edges over one another and crimp decoratively.

5. Cut slits in the top of the pie crust to allow steam to escape.

6. Using a pastry brush, dab the top crust with a little milk.

7. Dust with cinnamon sugar.

8. Bake at 425 degrees for 15 minutes.

9. Turn the oven down to 350 and bake for 30 minutes more. Keep an eye on the crust to be sure it’s staying in golden territory, rather than going full charcoal. If you see danger looming, cover the offending pie parts with aluminum foil.

10. Let cool before slicing. A little warm is okay - you should be able to rest the pie plate comfortably on your palm.

11. Serve with the ice cream of your choice, and with pride.

Awaiting the top crust.

Next, brush the top with a bit of milk, and sprinkle with cinnamon sugar.

Begging for some ice cream. Vanilla, caramel, and cinnamon are all good bets.

Bomb-ass Jambalaya

I finally cracked the Jambalaya code! Way more satisfying than the Davinci one.

One-pot rice dishes can easily suffer from texture issues - such as layers of concrete on the bottom of the pot and gummy-textured rice. Every previous version of my jambalaya tasted great (sausage, shrimp, spice…duh) but the rice was always mushier than I wanted.

I adjusted the amount of water I was using, tried finishing the rice in the oven instead of on the stovetop. Better, but not enough.

I wanted my rice to tumble off my fork on the way to my mouth, studded with jewel-like bits of tomato and green onion and glistening with spicy, unctuous oils. Fucking flavor confetti. Mardi Gras in your mouth, but without the beads and drunk tourists. This was the jambalaya I needed in my life.

My personal #jambalayagoals.

Those pretty, pretty colors.

So I borrowed some techniques from other recipes - like cooking the chicken and sausage first to brown everything and get it all Maillardy*, and toasting the rice in oil before adding the liquid. The oven finish of the rice was a keeper, so I kept it.

And you know what? Flavor confetti. Mardi Gras in my mouth. Bomb-ass, blessed-by-God jambalaya. I went back for seconds. And then I went back for thirds.

And now I will always cook my Jambalaya like this. Forever and ever, amen.

Yes, there are more steps, which is why I jammed it in the Worth the Work category. But it’s still a one pot meal, and still pretty damn easy. No extra dishes and totally worth the few extra minutes you’ll spend browning things separately.

Make it immediately. Thank me later.

*The Maillard reaction is the process by which heat alters amino acids, browning your food and making it considerably more delicious.

Ready to top with chicken and pop in the oven.

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Shit You Need

1. 4 bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs

2. Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

3. 12 ounces andouille sausage, sliced diagonally into 1/4 inch ovals

4. one large onion, diced

5. one large red bell pepper, diced

6. 3 stalks celery, diced

7. 5 cloves garlic, minced

8. 1 bunch scallions, chopped, white and green parts separated

9. 2 cups long-grain rice

10. 1 tablespoon dried thyme

11. 1 1/2 tablespoons paprika (I used paprika flakes - it was super FUN!)

12. 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, plus more, to taste

13. 1/2 teaspoon cayenne

14. 1 teaspoon crushed Calabrian chiles in oil (Optional, sorta…they add complexity to the heat.)

15. 3 1/2 cups chicken stock

16. 1 pound of cherry tomatoes, cut in quarters. If you can find fresh San Marzano tomatoes, even better.

17. 1 pound shrimp (26-30 count tail-on is my preference, but feel free to use what you like)

18. 1/4 cup fresh parsley, chopped

Right before oven time.

After 45 minutes in the oven, the stock is fully absorbed. Set the chicken aside and give the shrimp 5-8 minutes to cook with the rice.

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Keep Calm and justeffingcook

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Position the racks in the bottom third of the oven.

2. Salt and pepper the chicken thighs (about a teaspoon of salt and 4 or five cranks of pepper per piece).

   Add a tablespoon or two of olive oil to a good size stockpot or dutch oven (one with a lid - you don’t need it now, but you will later) and heat over a medium flame. Add the chicken thighs, skin-side down. Adjust the flame toward medium-low as needed so the skin renders and browns over about 15-20 minutes.

   Pull the chicken from the pot and set aside.

3. Toss in the andouille sausage, turn the heat to medium-high, and cook until well-browned. Set aside.

4. You now have a gorgeous layer of chicken and sausage fat in the bottom of your pot. Add the rice and toss it well. It will turn translucent, and then the starches on the outside will start falling off and coating the bottom and sides of the pot, browning. This is where all the good shit starts to happen.

5. Add the paprika, cayenne, and thyme. Toss to coat in oil.

6. Add the onion, bell pepper, celery, garlic, and white part of scallions and let them sweat, pulling all the yummy brown stuff from the pan.

7. Add the chicken stock, sausage and tomatoes. Bring to a boil, then turn off the heat. Place the chicken thighs on top, skin side up, cover the pot, and place in the oven for 45 minutes.

8. Set aside the chicken thighs. Add the shrimp to the pot, burying them in the rice a bit, and return the pot to the oven for 5 minutes.

9. Remove from oven and stir in most of the scallion greens and parsley. Place the mixture in your serving dish, top with the chicken thighs, and a last sprinkle of parsley and green onions.

10. Have seconds.

11. Have thirds.

12. Sit down and compose a thoughtful comment on this blog post. Tell me how it worked out for you. Success or fail? Yay or Nay? Bomb-ass or dumpster fire? Gimme the dirt, baby!

Pasta with Burrata and Pea Shoots

Creamy burrata. Sweet peas. Peppery pea shoots. Spicy Calabrian chiles. Fucking delicious.

I know, I missed Fucking Delicious Friday last week. Shut up about it. I was busy.

How about I make it up to you by sharing my favorite pasta recipe?

You know that pasta sauce I love so much? The one with garlic and Calabrian chiles? Well, toss that on some pasta with some peas and pea shoots, then mix some creamy burrata all up in that shit, and this is what you get: fucking deliciousness. Spicy and lemony with that gooey, creamy goodness is a winning - no, a genius - combo.

I came across this brilliant pairing when browsing an awesome blog: The Original Dish. Kayla gets major props from me. And my eternal gratitude. ‘Cause burrata.

I am now looking for all the ways to use that magical cheese. And since heirloom tomato season is literally now, I am finding other ways to do just that.

What a magical time of year. Heirloom tomatoes, sweet corn, figs. The beginning of apple season. Just before decorative gourd season sets in and fall really begins to sink its teeth into you. 

It’s time for a fire on the porch, drinking up the last of that summer rose before it’s too cold, and a big bowl of this pasta to help bulk up for the cold months to come.

Alright, you got me. I used arugula here. I make this so often, I will toss in whatever greens I have.

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Shit You Need

1. One pound dried pasta

2. 2 tablespoons olive oil

3. 3 gloves garlic, thinly sliced

4. 1 - 2 Tbs chopped or crushed Calabrian chiles (depending on how hot they are and your spice tolerance)

5. 1 1/2 tablespoons honey

6. kosher salt and freshly ground pepper

7. 12 ounces fresh English peas, or thawed frozen peas

8. The juice of one small lemon

9. 2 tablespoons cold unsalted butter.

10. one large handful of pea shoots, coarsely chopped

11. 8 ounces burrata

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Keep Calm and justeffingcook

1. In a large pasta pot or dutch oven, get about 4 quarts of water heating. Salt it well (so you can taste the ocean!)

2. While you are waiting for your water to boil, get the yummy flavors going in a large skillet. On medium-low, heat the olive oil and add the garlic and Calabrian chiles. Let them hang out while you heat the pasta water and cook the pasta. If you are using fresh English peas, add them now to let them get tender. If using thawed frozen peas, hold off for the moment.

3. Cook that pasta 2 minutes less than recommended on the package.

4. Right before the pasta is finished, add a pinch of kosher salt to the garlic/oil mixture along a few grinds of pepper and the honey. Turn up the heat to medium-high.

5. Using tongs or a slotted spoon, transfer the pasta to the skillet. Don’t drain it - let it bring some of that starchy water along for the sauce. If you haven’t added the peas yet, add them now.

6. Add another 1/2 cup of pasta water and let the whole mixture simmer as some of the water cooks away, 2 minutes.

7. Add the lemon juice and cold butter and stir to combine. Watch the magic happen! Clingy sauce!

8. Taste and adjust seasoning if necessary. It should be warming from the chile, bright from the lemon juice, with enough salt to make it pop.

9. Transfer the pasta to your serving bowl and toss with half the pea shoots. Murder your burrata right over the bowl, letting the creamy center drop right in. Shred the exterior part and add half. Toss to mix.

10. Top your dish with the remaining pea shoots and shreds of burrata.

11. Get that fire going outside. Pour your wine/bourbon/moonshine and eat a big bowl of this fireside.

12. Don’t forget seconds.