Apple Pie with Cheddar Crust

 What's your favorite pie?  Mine is apple I think.  Although, I also really love chess pie.  And my mom makes this chocolate bourbon pecan pie that will make your knees weak.  Then there's pumpkin pie, which I didn't care for until recently but now wonder what in the world I was thinking.  And I quite like a peanut butter pie, the no-bake kind?  Oh -- COCONUT CREAM PIE!!!!!!  I also LOVE coconut cream pie, and lemon pie, and ooooooo, cherry pie in the summertime, and have you ever had a peach pie?  Oh, how I love pie in every way, shape, form, or flavor.  My favorite though -- favorite favorite -- is apple pie, with vanilla ice cream.

If you too like apple pie, could I get you to try this one next time?  Could I also get you to make your own crust?  I know, it's asking a lot, but wait until you have a free Saturday afternoon, pour yourself a glass of wine, and make a pie the way your grandma did.

The wine, you don't really need (my practice is to always recommend wine), because in reality homemade crust isn't as bad as it sounds.  If you're in possession of even the most basic food processor, you're golden.

And look, I'm not against semi-homemaking anything (Semi Homemade with Sandra Lee, though, is another story -- a bad one).  I believe Alton Brown when he says that there's no discernible difference between cake-mix cake and from-scratch cake because, well, he's a scientist.  And I do use pre-made pie crusts, especially the refrigerated roll-out kind, for something I'm going to take to the office on a Tuesday, or as the base of a cherry tart you might make on the fly and eat, in its entirety, by yourself, for dinner.  I've never done that, I'm just saying, it was would be convenient.

But for this pie, please, go on and make the cheddar crust.  The cheese, I like.  It's interesting and adds a little bit of savory to the already delicious sweet mix.  A homemade crust -- flaky, the result of tiny bits of unmixed butter -- does right by this pie.  And remember, wine is available by the gallon.

Recipe at MarthaStewart.com.

Pasta with Cauliflower

This is one of those recipes that was so surprisingly good that I want to share with as many people as I can, as soon as possible.  I say "surprisingly good" because, while cauliflower isn't usually offensive to anyone (heeeeeey brussel sprouts), it isn't exactly the shining star of the vegetable universe.   Furthermore, the pasta requires a good amount of anchovies, and it -- GASP -- doesn't call for the inclusion of any animal formerly walking this earth.  This alone is normally a deal breaker. 

Except when it isn't, because y'all:  trust me, this is awesome.

Just days ago, Greg was all "YUCK" over a pizza I ordered with anchovies, so obviously I didn't tell him about the fish until after I fed it to him, and even then I started talking quickly about umami (the supposed "fifth taste") created by just a tiny bit of anchovy (or MSG, if you have it and no one will sue you).  But he couldn't tell!  It really just adds that certain something, a salty savoriness bearing no resemblance at all to sea creatures, I promise.

If you've only had cauliflower boiled or sauteed or (no judgment) microwaved, you're really doing yourself and your vegetable a disservice.  Cauliflower wants to be caramelized, it wants to spend just a little bit of undisturbed time sizzling over or under a high flame, to develop a golden brown.  Only then does it show itself to be, not boring, but full of flavor.  This pasta lets it sing.

Recipe below

Cream of Mushroom Soup

Before last month you couldn't get me to eat mushrooms.

Because, check them out here.  Brown, limp, spongy, and -- worst of all -- slimy, like eating worms, and not the delicious Neon Sour Crawler type.

Last month, though, Greg took me for this incredibly special birthday dinner at Five and Ten in Athens, and the third course of our EXLUSIVE CHEF-DESIGNED ONLY-FOR-US SIX-COURSE BIRTHDAY MENU (that's right) was a mushroom risotto with chanterelles, shiitakes, and buttons, shaved parmesan and leek crema.  See?

It being an Incredibly Special Birthday Dinner, I had to at least try it, and lo and behold it turns out that I LOVE FANCY MUSHROOMS!  The fancy -- I guess that's the difference.  Maybe I just eat like a 5-year-old and the things that used to frighten me swimming around in glass jars in my mother's pantry are actually really, incredibly delicious in real life, especially when prepared by James Beard Award nominees.

The point is, I'm trying to get mushrooms in my belly as fast as possible now, vis-a-vis, in one instance, this cream of mushroom soup.  NOT Campbell's.  NOT to be used as a casserole base.  Although . . . can you imagine?  The recipe is from Balthazar in New York City (where I have dined, actually, having what I called at the time the "best meal and best dish and best single bite of my life," though later investigation would reveal that, while it was certainly an exceptional meal, I was possibly somewhat influenced by their equally exceptional wine) by way of the Smitten Kitchen.  It is a creamy, extravagant, flavorful soup, but not a hard one to make, freeze, and save for a little luxury at your desk lunch all week.

Recipe follows . . . 

More Scenes from Antico Pizza Napaletana

 

BYOB!

 

If you still haven't been to Antico, well, you are in serious danger of failing at life. 

Penne with Pumpkin, Sausage, and Spinach

AGAIN, with the gourds.

Yes, true, but you love it.  You want to eat pumpkin until your face turns orange and you are poisoned by vitamin A.  You want all things squash -- seeds, innards, jack-o-lanterns, carved-out decorative little bird houses -- and I am going to give it to you.  Well, not all things.  Birds ought not be encouraged.

Adult Supervision

Being an aspiring homesteader, I had to spend time this weekend doing some back-breaking from-scratch project, so because I knew you wanted the aforementioned pumpkin, on Sunday I put up pumpkin puree from a couple of obsolete jack-o-lanterns.  Let me tell you, though, it wasn't easy.  Cutting up pumpkins is hard.  As Greg noted while we struggled to carve the most basic design, butchering the thick rind of a slippery, wobbly gourd with a dull chef's knife is a rather interesting children's activity.  Indeed, cutting, roasting, and pureeing endless batches of leftover pumpkin took all my strength, and thus the rest of the homestead was left neglected and covered in seeds and orange pith.  I shan't do it again.  I shan't!

I shall, however, be doing this pasta again, with canned pumpkin puree.  I have a new go-to combination and it is this: sausage+pasta, or, on an even more basic and true level, pig+grain.  This time, with cinnamon and sage, some unnecessary but redeeming spinach, and pillows of grated parmesan, it was a surprising success.

 

  Recipe follows . . .

Jacob Tucker Shiver

Meet my new nephew, Jake.  My sister Melly and her husband Jim welcomed this precious little bundle of angelic joy to the world last Thursday night.  Jake weighed 7 pounds 11 ounces, was 20 inches long, and was born at 7:46pm on my mother's birthday, October 22, in Thomasville, Georgia, a very nice place to be born I think.

When we arrived Jake was wearing this seasonally appropriate hat, which the ladies auxiliary had knit for him.  He looked very festive and it was thus decided that Jake will wear a hat all the days of his baby life, because hats are funny and babies naturally have very little choice but to wear whatever is put on their heads.  Thus decided = decided by me.  

If I had to describe Jake in one word, it would be "Bubba," which is what my father has taken to calling him against his entire family's stern warnings.  If I had to describe Bubba in another word, it would be "sleeeeeeeeeepy."  This baby is la-a-a-zy, which means he is going to fit in super well among the dogs and cats at my parents' house.  I say that because I expect my mother to maybe steal him?  Or at least borrow him A LOT. 

The really good news, besides the miracle of birth and life and all that, is that I'm an aunt now!  Finally, something to spend money on!  You know how you have that awesome aunt or uncle, the cool one, the one you love to visit and on whom model yourself and your life plan?  I don't have one of those, I love and respect all three of my aunts equally, but you can bet your pretty pacifier that AUNT SISSY is going to be that aunt.  Aunt Sissy will go hungry so that Baby Jake can have tiny little gold-button blazers.  Aunt Sissy will take out a second mortgage to finance Baby Jake's study abroad.  Aunt Sissy has always wanted to work nights and weekends at Baby Gap and get a 10% employee discount.  Just kidding.  A little. 

Antico Pizza Napoletana

There's a generally accepted convention in the restaurant review practice that a critic should visit an establishment at least twice, preferably three times, before passing judgment on it.  To be safe, I visited Antico Pizza Napoletana four times since its recent opening, and my carefully considered verdict is GIMME MORE.

I first read about Antico on Jennifer Zyman's site, where she expressed a similarly enthusiastic sentiment, and gushed that "[i]t tasted just like Italy."  A few days later, a friend's Facebook status announced he'd just eaten the best pizza in Atlanta at Antico.  [Aside:  what did we eat before the www?!]  That night, heavily persuaded, Greg and I shared a take-out Margherita D.O.P., back three weeks ago, in the early days of Antico when it didn't have tables or a single chair.

This pizza -- traditional Naples-style super-thin crust in the middle, thick, soft, chewy edges, charred black in tiny spots, tomato sauce, bufala mozzerella, basil, olive oil --, this pizza is a dream.  In pizza as in everything, there are individual tastes and personal preferences, but as for me, this is it:  the end-all be-all of pizza in this city, the undeniable winner of the Pizza Wars. 

Since that first pie, we've shared a San Gennaro with our good friend Lis, split a spicy Diavaola one night last week when I went for a run and asked Greg to "have pizza waiting when I get back" WHICH HE DID, and, most recently, took five uninitiated friends on Saturday night to a packed house of believers.  

This last time, in addition to having great pizza, we had an incomparable dining experience.  The seven of us ordered three pizzas -- Margherita, Lasagna, and Capricciosa (my favorite so far; see artichokes) --, and immediately one of the pizzaioli scurried to find us a place to light.  Minutes later, we were squeezed around a big farm table in the kitchen, our pizzas sitting atop cans of San Marzano tomatoes, sharing space with other eager patrons with whom we exchanged praise for one another's excellent taste and judgment.  One of the chefs let me take a good look at the three ovens, which were imported from Italy and register close to 1000 degrees. 

The pizzas, as usual, were delicious, and we followed them with a sampling of the desserts and the most incredible espresso.  I felt warm and stimulated and filled with complete and utter satisfaction and contentedness.  If you notice an imagined similarity between this and a drug addict's review of a crack house and its product, you're getting it. 

Antico is little more than a mile from my front door, and despite the effect that may have on my thighs, I'm proud that the Best Pizza in Atlanta comes from the Westside.  When I moved to my house in Underwood Hills back in March, I had little idea I was dropping anchor in such an exciting and dynamic location.  I'm steps from now-favorite eats (Flip, JCT Kitchen, Star Provisions and its related food factories), a short walk away from Marietta Street (the exceedingly exciting Hop City beer shop and Octane Coffee), and, one day, hopefully close by the Beltline and all its promised splendor.  And now, if it ever comes time to sell my little house, the Best Pizza in Atlanta will have sent its value through the roof.   

Fall and a Salad

September 23, the very first full day of Fall this year, was not particularly cool, and the leaves hadn’t quite turned, and the way that it smelled wasn’t exactly like the smell of a high school football game. If you think, though, that any of that stopped me from incorporating pumpkin into three meals that day, you underestimate how much I love Fall and the most delicious and comforting foodstuffs it brings. If there’s one day of the year you can fully justify living off of Pumpkin Spice Latte alone, it’s the first day of Fall.

Greg and I are on the invitation list for this underground supperclub, Prelude to Staplehouse, run by a husband and wife who put on dinners at their home in anticipation of opening their own restaurant, “Staplehouse.” They send out menus in advance, and in a first-come, first-served manner, choose ten or so diners to come over, eat, drink, and generally be merry. We haven’t made it to a dinner yet, but we have been completely inspired by the advance menus, most recently by this: salad of baby spinach, pumpkin seeds, dried cherries, roasted butternut squash, goat cheese and cinnamon vinaigrette. And so we did just that, as seen here, substituting only arugula for baby spinach.

Salads like this are one of my favorite things to do, because it’s so improvisational. To me, good salads are all a variation of the same theme: green (your lettuce element) + something substantial (the squash, here, or apple, or pear, or asparagus, or green beans) + nut or seed (toasted, always) + cheese (when in doubt: goat) + your vinaigrette, which is also always a variation of the same recipe. I thought a cinnamon vinaigrette was unexpected and so smart. That’s why the Staplehouse folks are in the restaurant business, and I’m in the copycat business.

Recipe follows . . .