Last night, as I contemplated vegetable options for my dinner party, I was overwhelmed by the unmistakable craving for sweet potatoes. It had been a chilly day, overcast and predictive of rain, and by the time evening rolled around my hankering (yes, I use this word. And almost in earnest, too) had built to such a mighty intensity that I spared myself any futile efforts towards other vegetables. I find the almost shocking sweetness of these tubers, as a palatable indication of the complex carbohydrates and dense nutrient profile they offer, to chase away the cold with singular efficiency. Bored with the terribly overdone idea of sweet potatoes roasted with brown sugar or male syrup (of which I am admittedly a fan,) I desired a more savory rendering to accompany my rosemary- marinated pork loin. Sweet potatoes are one of the very few exceptions I make in my culinary life, preferring them cooked in butter than in olive oil. The damages created by holiday feasting in full evidence, however (bursting buttons and split seams, anyone?) I wanted them to be less… excessive. No butter, no sugar. Not wanting to compromise their lushness either, I realized the following: though they aren’t related to potatoes, we treat sweet potatoes in exactly the same way as les pommes de terres. The French are very much in the habit of cooking potatoes in duck or goose fat, and I find this to be the only potato preparation that actually tempts me. So why not? Sweet potatoes tossed in a smidge of duck fat, with salt and pepper. A bit of animal fat, yes, but of the healthful kind (ducks and geese contain an amino acid that we lack, and which therefore makes their fat extremely beneficial to us.) I roasted them as plain medallions, but they’d carry the flavors of either rosemary, thyme, or sage delightfully. If my pork hadn’t been so thoroughly perfumed with rosemary, this is the one I would have chosen.
If you have any leftovers, cube them and toss them into warm quinoa! Add pecans and you have a lovely lunch, add chickpeas and you have a one-pot veggy dinner.
To Form the Dough:
To Mold the Quiche:
The variability of ovens, altitudes, and length of cooking for different filling ingredients prevents me from providing a specific time. But this is good: I have found that since I liberated myself from strict adherence to cooking times, the quality of my baking has improved remarkably. In France, pastry chefs never pay heed to times or even specific temperatures. Most things are baked within the realm of 180 degrees celsius, and cooked for 20-25 minutes. Miraculously, this inclusive frame is effective in baking almost anything to golden brown perfection. The moral of the story here is not to feel beholden to pre-specified requirements; cooking is forgiving, baking a little less so, but with practice it is a science than can become increasingly artistic and personal. Rely on your senses more than anything: you can see when a crust is golden. Removing it before this point just because a recipe says you should is useless, and letting it bake more, to a crisp, is a waste. You will smell doneness, and hear the bubbling of filling that is ready.
For the Mushrooms:
For the Filling:
Alors, quiche! This savory tart, like many things French, is an unfussy mainstay of it’s homeland that has been distorted to a curious state of trendy idolatry dans les Etats-Unis. This is not to say that quiche’s merits aren’t deserving of love, for they absolutely are, but rather a comment on how les imbeciles americaines, in all the splendid glory of their gastronomic ignorance, become taken with food in puzzling ways, determining certain dishes to be in and out of favor, in and out of fashion. A quiche is the opposite of stylish, and therein lies it’s timeless success: a perfectly crumbly crust set with a simple custard of eggs and cream, and judiciously filled with a few complimentary ingredients. The stuff of fads? Je ne pense pas! No indeed, it is the humble nature of the dish that endears quiche to us so enduringly!
I don’t know anyone worth knowing in this world who isn’t enamored of tart crust, savory or sweet. In fact, I make it a point to discard people upon whom the pleasures of flaky pastry are lost, to keep my distance, for there is something fundamentally wrong with them, something reminiscent of disease, almost. Plus, if you make mini’s, you can call them quickies, as my friend does! I just received a porno call on Skype from a group sex chat, so forgive me if my mind has fallen into the gutter, but from where I stand right now, that seems a rather lurvely bonus.
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Tapenade, and Pine Nuts