roasted grape clafoutis

I’ve been thinking about alchemy a lot lately. Not the quest to turn lead into gold, but the type of magic that unfolds in the kitchen--the transformation of pantry staples into something transcendent.

I became somewhat obsessed with the idea of kitchen sorcery while developing the recipe for this roasted grape clafoutis. Like a soufflé or a a Dutch baby, a clafoutis feels like an impressive magic trick. You whisk together a few mundane ingredients (flour, sugar, eggs, milk), drop in a handful of fruit and slide your batter in the oven. Less than an hour later, you’ve got a puffed, sugar-crusted pillow of cakey, custardy deliciousness.

This clafoutis is based on a version my friend Rachael made during our Paris culinary retreat. Now Rachael is a talented pastry chef, so I was prepared for her clafoutis to be delicious (which it was). What I wasn’t prepared for were the the memories each bite unleashed.

Suddenly, I was 19 again, accompanying my mother on a work trip to France. Thrilled to be  abroad for the first time, I was in awe of everything: The Eiffel Tower! The Arc de Triomphe! Croissants! People actually smoking Gauloise cigarettes like they do in old French movies!!!

Near Alsace, we stopped for lunch at an unassuming restaurant with a hand-painted sign. The menu was classic French: steak au poivre, blanquette de veau, coq au vin. For dessert, there was something called clafoutis. I had zero idea what clafoutis was, but it sounded sexy and French so I ordered it.

When my dessert arrived, the unpitted cherries and hint of kirsch confirmed its continental sophistication in my mind. Sitting in a French restaurant eating what I thought was a refined dish, I felt grown-up. Wordly even. Miles from the Midwestern girl raised on Kraft Mac and Cheese and Eggo waffles. 

That clafoutis was proof that marvelous things existed. Sophisticated, delicious things. Things I wanted to be part of. 

Memories of that trip tumbled back with every bite of Rachael’s clafoutis: Our tiny rented car. Getting lost on winding country roads. The inevitable mother-daughter squabbles. The thrill of discovering steak-frites and being allowed to drink wine before my 21st birthday.

Amazement, too. That I had managed to wind my way back, however circuitously, to this country I love. I was shocked to realize how many of the twists and turns my life has taken were rooted in that trip: my French-Studies major, working in the department of French Painting at the Met, four years in Brussels pursuing a master’s degree in French history, working in a French restaurant in Seattle. 

And now, two decades after that first revelatory bite of clafoutis, I find myself leading culinary tours to Paris, sharing a love of all things French sparked half a lifetime ago. This feels magical, too. As though my 19-year-old self willed this life into being. Like I planted a piece of my heart in France and I’ve been returning ever since in order to feel whole again. 

Thoughts of that clafoutis stayed with me when I got home. When I started working on my own version, I wanted the results to feel like the transformation it embodied: a dessert that goes in the oven a simple custard and emerges miraculously golden and souffléd under a crackled sugar crust. Add to that the rum-raisin notes conjured up by roasting grapes with a splash of dark spirits and you’ll see why this dish tastes like magic. Served with a dollop of tart crème fraîche, it’s far grander than the sum of its parts.

It’s funny how all this nostalgia and serendipity got rolled into one roasted grape clafoutis. But it’s fitting, too, that this particular dish reminds me of how each time I come back to Paris I’m transformed into my truest and lightest self--through some mysterious alchemy of the soul.

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Roasted Grape Clafoutis

• 1 lb grapes, washed and dried
• 1 tablespoon butter, plus extra for the pan
• 2 tablespoons dark rum, divided
• 2 tablespoons water
• ¾ cup + 2 tablespoons sugar, divided, plus extra for the pan
• 1 tablespoon freshly-squeezed lemon juice
• ¾ cup all-purpose flour
• Pinch salt
• 7 large eggs, at room temperature
• 1 ⅓ cup heavy cream
• ⅛ teaspoon almond extract
• 1 ½ cups crème fraîche, to serve

*Notes: I recommend a sweet-tart variety of grapes for this recipe. The first time I made it, my grapes were too sweet and the finished result was cloying. If you can't find grapes with a little sour zing, add a bit more lemon juice to balance them.

- Having your eggs at room temperature allows the clafoutis to puff higher. If you forget to pull them in advance, just pop you eggs in a bowl of hot tap water and let them sit for 15 minutes or so before using them.

- Traditionally, this French dessert is made with cherries. But one of the best things about a clafoutis is that it’s supremely adaptable. In addition to cherries and roasted grapes, it’s lovely with pitted and sliced stone fruit such as plums, peaches, nectarines and apricots. A few handfuls of fresh berries work well in spring and summer. Apples or pears sauteed in butter with a splash of calvados, brandy or pear au de vie are perfect for making this dish in the winter months.

- Whatever you do, don’t skip the crème fraîche; you want that hit of tanginess to balance the sweet grapes.

Preheat the oven to 450° F with a rack in the center of the oven. Place the grapes (on the stem or not) on a parchment-lined rimmed sheet pan. Melt 1 tablespoon of butter in a small pan or in the microwave and pour it over the grapes. Sprinkle them with 1 tablespoon of the rum, 2 tablespoons of water and 1 tablespoon of the sugar. Roast until the grapes have softened slightly (their skins will shrivel a little bit) and the sugar has caramelized, about 20 minutes. Pour the lemon juice over the grapes as soon as you remove them from the oven to deglaze the pan. Set aside to cool slightly. Reduce the oven temperature to 375° F

While the grapes are cooling, generously butter a baking pan and coat it with sugar. (Mine was 8" x 11".) Invert the pan and tap out any excess sugar. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, ½ cup + 2 tablespoons of the sugar and the salt. Add the eggs and whisk until the mixture is smooth. This takes a minute--if the batter looks lumpy, just keep whisking until it evens out. Whisk in the cream, almond extract and remaining tablespoon of rum.

Arrange the grapes over the bottom of the prepared pan. Use a wooden spoon or spatula to scrape any juices from the sheet pan over the grapes. Pour the batter over the grapes. Sprinkle the remaining 3 tablespoons of sugar evenly over the top of the clafoutis and carefully place it in the oven. 

Bake until the clafoutis is puffed, golden-brown at the edges and just set in the center, 30-35 minutes. Remove from the oven and set aside to cool slightly before serving. The clafoutis will deflate as it cools. While it is still warm, cut the clafoutis into slices and serve topped with crème fraîche.

Makes 6-8 servings.

Recipe adapted from Rachael Coyle of Coyle's Bakeshop

simple suppers: spaghetti with roasted cauliflower, currants, pine nuts, chile and sardines

You’ll be happy to hear I’m (mostly) done complaining about being back under grey Northwest skies. Shaking the nasty head cold I came home with has helped brighten my mood. As did seeing so many fantastic folks from the Seattle food community at Book Larder’s 5th birthday bash last night. 

The food was mightily on point, too. My friend Kyle made ridiculously delicious lamb meatballs bathed in some sort of creamy tomato business that everyone was swooning over. And pastry chef extraordinaire, Rachael Coyle, baked a carrot cake studded with dates and nuts and layered with the fluffiest mascarpone filling that made me lose all restraint. (I may or may not have gone back for thirds.)

Also, a brute of a storm is rolling into town this weekend. There’s talk of gale-force winds and power outages. Beau and I have battened down our hatches and are planning to spend the next couple days indoors playing cards, reading, watching movies and cooking (as long as we have power), which sounds like the perfect way to spend a blustery fall weekend.

Another thing that boosted my mood this week is this spicy spaghetti with roasted cauliflower, currants, pine nuts and sardines. This humble, improvised dinner was just the sort of comfort food I needed. Creamy, nutty and salty-sweet, it was a happy coincidence of pantry staples that yielded a whole much greater than the sum of its parts. A sort of weeknight dinner alchemy. And the best part is that it somehow managed to taste even better today when we had the leftovers for lunch. 

Good ingredients are key here. Especially, the sardines. I used a can of the amazing sardines I brought back from Portugal. I recommend searching out good quality Portuguese, Spanish or Italian sardines for this dish. (A few mashed up anchovy fillets would work in a pinch.) And for those of you who are not fans of canned fish--I hear you. I would never open a can of sardines and eat them with a fork like Beau does. That’s far too fishy for me! But against a backdrop of earthy roasted cauliflower, sweet-tart dried currants, salty parmesan and toothsome spaghetti, sardines lend just the right amount of briny umami to round out this dish. 

I cannot say precisely whether it was seeing so many friends this week, or the mood-boosting properties of all the sardines I ate, or the excitement of preparing for this weekend’s storm, or possibly even the carrot cake-induced sugar rush I experienced yesterday that lifted my mood. What I can say is that I’m grateful to be feeling more at home in our little home. And that this pasta is my new favorite cold-weather comfort food.

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Spaghetti with Roasted Cauliflower, Currants, Pine Nuts, Chile and Sardines

• 1 medium head cauliflower
• 6-8 tablespoons good quality extra-virgin olive oil
• Sea salt or kosher salt, to taste
• 12 oz. dried spaghetti
• 3-4 cloves garlic, minced or pressed
• Generous pinch chile flakes (or to taste)
• ¼ cup capers, rinsed
• ¼ cup dried currants
• 1 can sardine filets (about 4 oz.)
• 1 cup finely grated parmesan, plus additional to garnish
• ½ cup toasted pine nuts

Preheat your oven to 450° F.

Wash and dry your cauliflower well. Remove any tough leaves and stalks and toss. Remove the tender, pale green leaves and set aside. Slice the cauliflower into ½-inch thick slices (the flat sides of sliced cauliflower make more uniform contact with the pan allowing the cauliflower to brown more evenly). Arrange the cauliflower and tender leaves in a single layer on a rimmed sheet pan (use parchment paper for easier clean-up if you want). Brush with 2-4 tablespoons of the olive oil. The amount you need will depend on the size of your cauliflower--you want it coated on all sides. Sprinkle with salt and roast until the cauliflower is just tender and nicely browned, about 20 minutes, turning once.  

While the cauliflower is roasting, bring a large pot of generously salted water (it should taste like the sea) to the boil. Add the spaghetti and cook, stirring occasionally, until al dente. Reserve 1 cup of the pasta-cooking water. Drain the pasta and place it back in the pot. Add a tablespoon or so of the cooking water if necessary to keep it from sticking to the pot.

When the cauliflower is done, remove it from the oven and set aside. Heat 4 tablespoons of the olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the garlic and chile flakes and cook until fragrant, about a minute. Add the capers, currants and sardines. Reduce the heat to medium-low and cook, stirring often  until the ingredients are heated through. Smash the sardines with the back of a wooden spoon if necessary to break them up. Cut the cauliflower into bite-sized pieces and add it to the pot with the spaghetti along with the cheese and ½ cup of the reserved pasta water. Cook over low heat, stirring well, until the cheese has melted and formed a sauce with the pasta water. Taste and add a bit more salt if necessary and a bit more pasta water if it seems dry. Serve hot sprinkled with the toasted pine nuts and extra grated parmesan.

Makes 4 servings.

home away from home soup

Today has been one of those rare perfect days. 

I’m writing this from a picnic table in front of an old stone farmhouse in the Portuguese countryside. There’s a flawless blue sky overhead and a lazy breeze rocking the eucalyptus trees nearby. This morning, Beau and I walked to the beach where we watched the comings and goings of a flock of seagulls and listened to the waves roar in.

Later, we hopped in our rented station wagon and bobbed over country roads flanked by groves of cork oak trees. Our destination: a little restaurant housed in an old schoolhouse where we ordered a pile of fried fish and a bottle of crisp vinho verde to wash them down. Back at our guesthouse, I spent the afternoon lazing by the pool reading magazines and floating in and out of a delicious sleep. 

It’s days like today that keep me yearning to travel. To discover more serene beaches and locals-only restaurants nestled along country roads. 

But of course, travel is not always as idyllic as this sun-kissed day in the Portuguese countryside. I’ve been on the road for over three weeks now and it’s had its inevitable ups and downs. In Paris, I led a culinary tour with my friend Rachael that was fantastic. And exhilarating. And a lot of work. Navigating a group of ten through Paris traffic is not exactly a walk in the park. And pinning down tour logistics with the maddeningly noncommittal French has it’s own set of unique challenges. 

As soon as the tour ended, Beau and I headed to Porto and Lisbon to explore, see friends and do research for my next Portugal tour. Until today, this trip has been a whirlwind of seeing and doing and eating and trekking through different cities. Somewhere along the way, I started to feel pretty frazzled. There’s something about being away from the rituals of home, sleeping in an unfamiliar bed, eating strange foods, navigating foreign languages, that leaves me a little unmoored. A few days after we arrived in Portugal, I started waking up in the middle of the night feeling disoriented and anxious and longing to book the next flight home.

Luckily, I know what to do when I feel the travel blues coming on. I make this soup.

It is decidedly un-fancy. A few humble vegetables cooked together in a bit of water to make a savory broth with some chicken and/or sausage thrown in for good measure. It’s restorative powers lie in this simplicity. After days (or weeks) of rich fare and exotic ingredients, it’s exactly what I want to eat.

I first made this soup a couple years ago while staying at an Airbnb rental in Paris. I’d just finished leading a culinary tour and couldn’t imagine eating one more eclair or croissant or charcuterie plate. I stopped in at the corner market beneath my apartment and threw this together with what I found there. A bowl of this simple, homey soup cured my malaise. Now it’s my go-to remedy when I’m traveling and feeling out of sorts. 

Of course, you don’t need to be in a foreign country or fed up with French food to enjoy this soup. It will right your ship on a grey fall day or chill winter night. For me, this home-away-from-home soup (as I like to think of it) is a touchstone of sorts. A small ritual that anchors me when everything around me feels foreign. A brothy comfort that restores body and soul as only a warm bowl of homemade soup can.

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Chilled Spring Greens Soup with Crispy Prosciutto

Home Away From Home Soup with Cabbage, Kuri Squash, Linguiça and Chicken

• 2 tablespoons good quality extra virgin olive oil + additional for drizzling
• 1 medium leek, white and pale green part only, halved lengthwise then sliced into half moons
• Sea salt
• ½ medium head savoy or green cabbage, cored and cut into 1-inch ribbons
• 1 medium kuri or kabocha squash, seeded and cut into bite-sized pieces (no need to peel)
• 2-3 small turnips, tops and tails removed and cut into ½-inch thick wedges
• 6 medium tomatoes or 1 28-oz can peeled tomatoes (drained), roughly chopped
• 6 oz linguiça or Portuguese-style cured chorizo, sliced into ¼-inch thick rounds
• 1 red pepper, seeded and cut into 1-inch pieces
• 1 medium zucchini, halved lengthwise then sliced into half moons
• 2 cups leftover roasted chicken

*Note: Pretty much everything in this soup is optional or adaptable. If you don’t have a leek, use a small onion. If you don’t like cabbage, use kale or another green you prefer. Sub potatoes for turnips if you want. Leave out the chicken and sausage (and maybe add a small handful of green lentils) for a vegan version. The version here is the one I first made and the one I always come back to. But feel free to experiment and make this soup your own.

- This was the first time I added sausage to the soup. In the past I've always made it with chicken. But since we're in Portugal, I threw in some sliced linguiça we had in the fridge. I think the smokiness of the sausage adds delicious depth of flavor the soup. 

Heat the olive oil in a heavy-bottomed stock pot or Dutch oven over medium heat. Add the leek and a sprinkle of salt and cook for a few minutes until the leek is starting to get soft. Add the cabbage, squash, turnips, tomatoes and sausage along with 4 cups of water. Salt to taste. Bring to the boil over high heat then reduce heat and simmer until the vegetables are almost tender. Add the red pepper and zucchini and cook for another 10 minutes or so. 

Add another cup or two of water if you like your soup on the brothy side like I do. Taste and add more salt if necessary. Continue to cook the soup until the vegetables are as tender as you like them. Sometimes I like them tender-crisp (this yields a prettier soup) and sometimes I like them super-soft (which is not as bright in color, but more comforting somehow).

Serve soup hot with a nice drizzle of olive oil over the top.

Makes 4-6 servings.