perfect pumpkin pie

January isn't a pumpkin pie month—traditionally. But I'm on my eighth pumpkin pie of the squash season, and I don't think I'll stop making them until the last potimarron is gone.

I never was a pumpkin pie gal. At Thanksgiving, I always stuck to apple pie or, better, my Grammie's chocolate pudding pie. All of that changed a few years ago when I made a pumpkin pie for the first time, using butternut squash and a recipe in Baking Illustrated. While their test kitchen recommends sticking with canned pumpkin for ease, it seriously only adds five minutes of work and a little extra oven time—and it adds unbeatable flavor and texture. 

For the first pie this season, I used a little pie pumpkin. But the pumpkins on the farm went fast, so for the next pie, I had my pick of squash of all wintry colors and knobby shapes. I tested out a few; it was easy to decide on potimarron for its size, super-smooth purée, and sweetness. One potimarron, peeled and gutted, is just about sixteen ounces, the exact weight of squash needed, and its sugariness means I can drop the added brown sugar by half. 

Mixed with the usual spices and cooked briefly over the stove with cream and milk (fresh and raw, yes), then poured in a buttery, prebaked shell, it was a very good pie. 

But then we butchered the pigs, and besides all the meat, we got a handful of pounds of leaf fat, a delicate and prized fat that lies just behind the pig's kidneys and renders into a snowy white fat that's apparently magical for pies. We spent a few afternoons rendering the fat over super-low heat—the liquid that seeps out cools into a solid that is actually, shockingly pure white. After a few trial runs, I decided that just one ounce of leaf fat mixed with three ounces of butter added a melt-in-your mouth flakiness to the crust that plain butter just doesn't, but avoids any unwanted lardy taste (which I admit I'm overly sensitive to). This week, I finally made the crust—the pinnacle of crusts, with that sought-after crisp and flake and melt, a bit of sweetness, zero sogginess under the custard. And I really think it's mostly because of that one ounce of lard. 

Probably the biggest turning point in the pumpkin pie season was this New York Times article, though. It's a dangerous article—I may never be satisfied with plain pumpkin pie again after stealing its secret. Instead of relying on the typical spice suspects, like cinnamon and cloves and nutmeg, it calls on the warm and savory blend of garam masala. Garam masala does include those basic spices, but also adds cardamom, cumin, and fennel. 

When I finished this week's pie, I felt like I'd graduated. I'd dealt with grainy custard (no more baking in toaster ovens), burnt crust (use aluminum foil!), weird crust (I botched the butter ratio), forgetting the eggs (yes, I did pull the pie out of the oven to add them in), and probably other disasters. But this one, this one, was a perfect pumpkin pie.

* * *

Pie crust 
From Ratio by Michael Ruhlman, this crust relies on an easy-to-remember ratio of flour-butter-water: 3-2-1-PIE! Use a scale to measure out the ingredients--easier than it sounds, and you won't have to wash out any measuring cups.
6 ounces flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon sugar
4 ounces cold fat (I prefer 3 oz butter, 1 oz leaf fat)
2-3 ounces cold water

Pumpkin custard 
Adapted from Baking Illustrated and the New York Times recipe for Garam Masala Pumpkin Tart. 
16 ounces potimarron squash, peeled, gutted, and cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1/2-2/3 cup brown sugar
1-inch piece of ginger, grated fine
1 1/2 teaspoon garam masala
2/3 cup cream
2/3 cup whole milk
4 eggs

I love using my hands when I make pie dough—it seems to be so important to be able to feel the consistency and texture of the dough. It will tell you all! Mix the flour, salt, sugar, and fat with your fingers, rubbing it all together until the mixture is sandy and has lumps of fat no bigger than a pea. Add the water slowly; use your fingers to press the dough together. When the dough comes together, stop. Don't overmix it. Shape the dough into a disc, wrap it in plastic, and refrigerate for an hour.

When the dough is thoroughly chilled, roll it out. I use a marble pastry slab or a silicon baking mat and plenty of flour, flipping the crust over frequently to make sure it's not sticking and rolling very slowly and not too firmly. If it cracks, it is not a big deal. At all. Just patch it back together.

When the pie dough is rolled large enough to cover the pie pan and hang an inch or so over the edge all around, transfer it to the pan. You can do this by folding the crust lightly into quarters, placing the parcel in the pan, and carefully unfolding it; or—this is truly life changing—lift the silicon mat, flip it over the pie pan, and slowly peel back the silicon. Make your pretty pie crust edges, cover the pan with plastic wrap, and put it in the fridge for about an hour, then freeze for 10-15 minutes.

All the "cold" terms here are key. Keep the fat chilled and it will make a flaky crust. Let the fat melt and it just won't be the same.

While the pie crust is chilling, preheat the oven to 375. Put the squash in a rimmed baking dish, add a splash or two of water, and cover with foil. Then bake for 15-20 minutes, or until it's very soft. I've found that roasting the squash without the foil and water causes undesirably crispy edges (yummy with dinner, not in pie) and a dry texture that doesn't yield a spectacular custard consistency.

When the pie crust is thoroughly chilled, cover it with foil and a thin layer of dried lentils or beans (or pie weights), and put it straight in the 375-degree oven. Bake for 25-30 minutes, or until it's a nice light golden color. Remove the foil (although I like to leave a ring of foil around the crust edges to prevent over browning) and bake for another 5-6 minutes, until nicely golden.

Meanwhile, puree the squash in a food processor until super smooth (it's fine to use hot squash, but beware of the hot-things-expand-in-a-blender rule). Add the brown sugar, ginger, and spices and puree again until blended. Transfer to a medium pot over medium heat on the stove. Heat until it sputters a little, stirring carefully so it doesn't burn or stick. Then add the milk and cream in a slow, steady stream, stirring all along (I find a wooden spoon works well) so that everything incorporates smoothly. Continue to stir occasionally and heat until the squash-milk mixture simmers gently.

Now crack the four eggs into the food processor bowl (no need to clean it out first). Pulse a few times until blended. Then pour the hot squash-milk mixture into the food processor. Blend for about 30 seconds until smooth and silky.

Right about now, your hot pie crust should be steaming on your stovetop. Increase the oven temp to 400, pour the hot custard into the hot pie crust, and send it off to bake for 20-25 minutes.

All the "hot" terms here are key. Hot, prebaked pie crust = no soggy mixing with custard. Hot custard = a quick set, so no soggy mixing with crust.

When the custard jiggles just a bit when you gently move the pie, it's done. Let it cool to room temperature, and chill it if you want, but I bet you won't want to wait that long. 

pig day

With nearly two months between me and pig day, it's hard for me to rewind my mind and put myself back in pre-pork days--live-pig days when our pink monstrosity was snorting around in our friends' backyard. Especially after the winner carnitas we ate tonight for dinner.

Our friends John and Bri cared for the three pigs we raised. And I say "we" loosely; the most I ever had to do with the pigs was on the slaughter and butcher days. The distance, my work schedule, and convenience meant I usually just said "hey" to the piggies when we happened to be over for dinner, and helped once or twice with moving their pen around the yard. So I suppose my experience was fairly one-sided; I know the pigs more as cuts of meat than as rather terrifyingly large (320-pound) animals.

I do know the pigs all had happy lives of rooting around in fresh soil and leaves for bugs, eating grain and cottage cheese and fresh-fruit-and-veggie slop from the grocery store, being scratched by Leila, and sleeping together in a pig pile under a truck canopy.

And they died quickly, and had their meat carefully prepared by a team of people who respected and thanked them for the bounty of food they provided--food that's now been shared over many cozy wintry meals and parties. Don't you think that's a good life?

Slaughter day, we met early at John and Bri's for breakfast and prep. We were all relative newbies, book learned but sans hands-on experience except for Tim, resident expert as this was his third pig slaughter. The crew included me, Tim, John, Bri, Rory, Liam, Brook, Dom, Hannah, and Stephanie.

I decided to designate myself the official photographer. Plucking chickens still makes me squeamish, so I wanted to experience slaughter day through sights and sounds only this first time--distanced by a lens--rather than plunging all-in.

Tools: A chain hoist, which Tim hooked to a large madrone leaning over the yard, lifted the pigs in and out of the 50-gallon barrel of 140-degree water.

Bell scrapers to scrape the hair off the scalded pigs.

Bone saws and buckets.

Tim and John played rock paper scissors to see whose pig would go first--John's, the black one. The moment before the shot was quiet--the late fall breeze crisp, sun starting to peek above the trees, everyone standing back and barely breathing. The actual shot popped, didn't bang. The pig bled out quickly, no drama.

Once it had bled out, down to business.

To preserve as much fat as possible--and use skin for stock-making--we decided to scrape the pigs. When you skin them, you lose all the skin and much of the fat (unless, maybe, you're an expert skinner?).The pig was hoisted up by the chain hoist and gambrel and dipped into the barrel of water. The water is supposed to loosen the hairs.

The scraping was not particularly easy. A combo, perhaps, of dull bell scrapers and a faulty thermometer?

But then it was hair-free and, surprisingly, not black any more.

We eviscerated the first pig on a clean pallet and plywood sheet, as we'd read that it's easier for beginners to do the job without gravity--which causes the innards to lean out precariously when you're maybe not ready for them.

The plywood sheet wasn't the easiest. Next pig, we went for the gravity assistance.

It was like dissection in biology class, a lesson in life and the hidden things that make mammals go. The lacy caul fat, delicate as spiderwebs; the massive sheets of lung, too simple-looking to be performers of tricks with O2 and CO2; the heart that shocked us with its mass--bigger than two fists--and the spindle-like chordae tendineae hidden inside.

Slaughter day is the day to prepare and eat the offal--the heart, liver, kidney, head cheese, etc. We'd planned to have an offal feast (okay, they'd planned to have an offal feast; I'd planned to avoid it) for lunch. But, pressed for time, we had to give this up (although John did make loafs of pate later)--and even give up lunch. No time! Next year, we'll divide everyone into teams: the slaughter team, the cooking team, and the childcare team.

Pig number two as the sun started to set. After the evisceration, the pig gets cut in half down the backbone and left to cool completely. Thank goodness for a sunny, chilly November day that slid into an icebox November night.

I traded my camera for a headlamp and flashlight as darkness fell--and became the official light holder for the second pig. Of course, after the trial-run experience of pig number one, the second one went much faster.

The next morning, we were up at dawn to transform our kitchen into a butcher shop. Our kitchen island plus a huge door--balanced on sawhorses, scrubbed down, and covered with two layers of butcher paper--became our butcher tables.

I became butcher woman for the day, so don't have many pictures. We broke each half of the two pigs down separately, start to finish. You first divide the half into four quarters--the shoulder, loin, belly, and ham--and then break each quarter down into the roasts you want. It's a creative process. Believe it or not, there are no lines inside telling you where to cut. So it all depends on what you want to do with the meat. A whole leg to hang for prosciutto? Large shoulder roasts to slow-cook into pulled pork? Slabs of belly to cure? Thick pork chops to pan-fry? Any to grind into sausage?

Luckily, Tim and I had spent quite a lot of time researching--reading and watching YouTube videos--so we knew what we wanted. Still, it was an exhausting process, and we didn't eat much lunch or dinner again. Just cut and trimmed and wrapped--in winding layers of plastic wrap and butcher paper to protect against freezer burn--and labeled and carted out to the walk-in fridge.

Is it possible that the pig grew as we broke it down? I had not spent much time visualizing what a whole pig would look like when packaged up. It is a lot of meat.

Leila helped out a bit with a dull butcher knife and some scraps.

A whole ham! We decided to do each half of our pig slightly differently. We wanted a few big roasts--like a large ham--along with plenty of dinner-sized roasts and chops. I wanted half of the back fat and all of the leaf fat to render (into snowy white lard--a jaw-dropping transformation), so we left half of the pork chops fat-and-skin-on, half without. We wanted some bones packaged separately for stock, so we de-boned some roasts--but not all, figuring we'd make stock as we ate each roast. We wanted most of the bacon for curing, although the "scraps" from squaring off the edges turned into about twenty pounds of fresh bacon for roasting. We wanted plenty of sausage, too, so added half of a shoulder to our bleached and iced buckets for meat and fat trimmings.

The day sped by. Our feet ached, our stomachs grumbled, but still there was work to be done. In the late evening, when it was just us and John, we roasted a skirt steak--dusted with chipotle powder and rolled with garlic--for a quick dinner. Scarfed with zingy mustard greens, it was pure deliciousness.

We mixed our sausage meat with the spices and let it sit in the fridge for a few hours before grinding. The grinder was a lot of work. We weighed the sausage into one- and two-pound packages for the freezer: sweet Italian, spicy Italian, chorizo, and plain.

 Finally, the pork was all wrapped and sharpie-labeled and filling our chest freezer to the brim--even after careful tetris packing.

But we became obsessive around midnight. How much meet had we gotten, really? We flew through a weighing session and scratched down all the stats into a notebook. End results? A total of 214 pounds of meat. I kept all the specific numbers--like pounds of fat, pounds of picnic roasts, pounds of Boston butt--but will spare you the details. The gist? We have quite enough pork in our freezer.

Reflections on this two-day marathon range from the practical to the philosophical. Practical: next time, we'll do it in three days, reserving the third day for sausage making, bacon curing, and offal feasting; and we'll have sharper knives and bell scrapers. Philosophical: dare I speak of the circle of life? I strongly believe--even more strongly now--that cutting out the slaughtering and butchering of animals from the meat-eating cycle is only harmful to us, to our minds, and to the meat industry our culture supports. The separation leads to a lack of knowledge and a lack of caring, and a waste of the myriad useful parts of an animal. The connection restores all of this--knowledge, care, full use.

More philosophical? The act of meat eating, after participating in the slaughtering and butchering process, feels whole-er to me now. I feel good about eating the meat in a way that I haven't felt before--mostly because I know it. I tend to be squeamish about eating meat; I get scared if I see bones or fat or skin. But somehow, because I participated, because saw every cut of meat as a whole, saw the bones connected to them, cut through the tendons, put the scraps of meat and fat into the sausage grinder myself, I am not so squeamish. I'm still not an eater of fat. But I feel confident, and that is enough.

Okay, philosophical thoughts over. My biggest reflection? This pork, to quote my favorite Seattle brunch place, is damn good food.

modern milkers

And yes, I'm posting this from the milking room.

cabbage kick

Knobby winter squash awaiting eating

The night after we butchered our pig, as we tetris-packed 160 pounds of meat into our chest freezer, I vowed to blog about every cut we cooked. One month and at least eight cuts later, I haven't blogged anything pork and all I can think of is cabbage.

A few years ago, the word I probably would have used to describe cabbage was slimy--likely because of those plastic cups of mayo-drenched coleslaw. But we've been eating cabbage all fall and I'm somewhat obsessed with it now, with shredding it into crunchy confetti, snacking on it raw like potato chips, and sautéing it just barely with a few sprinkles of salt and pepper. I'm obsessed with chopping it; the sound effect rivals the symphonic crackle (to quote Ratatouille) of a fresh baguette crust. I'm also obsessed with making sauerkraut, not the eating as much as the fountains of water that gush out of the leaves when you pack it into jars with salt.

I might even be starting to feel passionate about this leafy thing. Because seriously, why is the only cabbage our country knows slimed into mass-produced cole-slaw? Tonight at dinner, as we munched cabbage braised with spareribs, bay leaf, and hot peppers, we tried to understand it. It's no less transportable than broccoli, long lasting like carrots and onions, green (as in, basically a multivitamin), and actually delicious. But it's completely misunderstood.

Reasons we brainstormed:

We just read the other day in the epic The Art of Fermentation that lettuce kvass, once a celebrated drink in Eastern Europe, was nearly lost forever in the destruction and dispersement of the region's people groups in the twentieth century. One woman, who remembered her grandmother making it, was only able to find a handful of other people around the world who recalled this tradition. What uses of cabbage have vanished forever?

On a lighter side: Cabbage is not as easy to anthropomorphize as broccoli stems and carrot sticks. Have you ever seen a smiling, cartoony cabbage? A wrinkly, head-shaped blob is not easy to market to kids.

And that mythical slime, too, the sag of limp sauerkraut strands, the collapse of overcooked boiled cabbage on a plate into a puddle--there is nothing less appealing, but it doesn't have to be that way. (This sauerkraut is proof. Would you believe it's crunchy, soda-pop fizzy, and tastebud-prickling tangy all at the same time? I will dance around the kitchen when we get our own batch that tastes like that.)

To celebrate this powerhouse of crunch and nutrition, here are two cabbage recipes.

Sautéed Cabbage with Grapefruit and Red Pepper 
I didn't come up with this one--all the credit goes to my dad. It was a spur-of-the-moment brainstorm twenty minutes before dinner, and the kick of citrus and heat won the cabbage more oohs and aahs than all the rest of our planned dishes combined.

1 large grapefruit
1 tbs butter
1 medium head of cabbage, cored and diced
1/2 tsp red pepper flakes, ground
Salt and pepper to taste

Zest the grapefruit and reserve all of it. Peel the grapefruit with a sharp carving knife, and then divide it into segments, carefully slicing on either side of the tough inner skin. Cut each segment in thirds.

In a large frying pan, heat the butter over medium high heat. When it's melted and bubbling, add the cabbage. Cook, stirring frequently, until it brightens, about 2-3 minutes. Add the zest, red pepper flakes, and salt and pepper. Cook another two minutes until the cabbage softens and releases a little moisture--but doesn't collapse! no collapsing! Add the grapefruit. One minute more, and it's done. The cabbage should be slightly soft, but retaining some of the crunch is key. Serve it hot.

Apple-Date-Cabbage Salad 
At the end of Thanksgiving vacation, Tim and I cooked two meals for his parents. For one, squash soup, I wanted something cool, light, and crunchy to contrast. Rummaging through the cupboards and fridge, I found dates, mint, and almonds left over from a Moroccan stew Tim's mom made earlier in the week, and ta da--salad.

1/2 small head of cabbage
Juice of 1 lemon (and zest, optional)
1/2 cup slivered almonds
1 large apple
6 large Medjool dates
6-8 fresh mint leaves

Core the cabbage, then grate it using a box grater or food processor. Toss with the lemon juice and a little bit of zest too, if you'd like, and set aside.

Toast the almonds in a small frying pan over medium heat until they're just starting to brown. Set aside to cool. Slice the apple into skinny matchsticks, and then chop the matchsticks into green-pea-sized pieces. Remove the pits from the dates and dice into pea-sized chunks as well. Mince the mint.

Add the cooled almonds, apples, dates, and mint to the cabbage and toss until combined. Serve at room temperature.

This salad keeps really well, thanks to the magical properties of cabbage--unlike lettuce, it won't wilt to nothing after being stored with an acidic dressing. We ate leftovers for dinner the next evening.

fall projects

Canning season's over and summer's most definitely over too, no matter how hard it's tried to linger (evidenced in the bowl of cherry tomatoes we ate last night with dinner).

So it's time for our fall projects, and if you could see the stack of how-to library books on our table you might wonder if we're just a little too ambitious.

In two weeks, we will embark on a butchering and charcuterie adventure--our white pig, which has been growing fat since spring at our friends John and Bri's house, along with two other pigs, is almost bacon. (I think that's the nicest way to say it.) Our pork plans involve some simple charcuterie (curing bacon and dry-curing jowls), sausage-making, and lots of pork chops. I feel somewhat overwhelmed by the sheer poundage of pork descending on our freezer and the many ways to cure and cook it--but since we plan to raise many more pigs in the future, we're going to start simple.

Meanwhile, we've suddenly plunged into the world of cheesemaking (very novice and experimental cheesemaking). We're starting to learn how to milk a jersey cow named Jingle, owned by an amazing island couple, Ben and Kelsey, who plan to start a creamery here. Jingle's giving about nine gallons of milk a day--so once we learn how to operate the milking machine, we'll be milking her once a week in exchange for four gallons of raw milk.

My first experiment was butter--a fresh-cream butter that I started in the food processor (with the paddle attachment, not the blade) and finished with my shaking machine (a.k.a. Tim). When we opened the Mason jar--ta da!--lumps of bright yellow butter were swimming in buttermilk. A thrill.

Yesterday, my dad and I took Ben and Kelsey's cheesemaking class, a hands-on introduction to making cultured butter, feta, mozzarella, fromage blanc, and ricotta. And yes, we feasted too, on everything we made plus wine, salad greens, veggie frittatas, sourdough bread, and some of Kelsey's alpine-style aged cheese. Add to that Ben and Kelsey's knowledge and love of artisan cheesemaking that carried us through the day--well, it was pretty much amazing. So amazing, in fact, that I just spent an afternoon with my packet of notes and almost two gallons of raw milk. Results? Pillowy ricotta cooling on the counter, yogurt fermenting in the oven (warmed by the pilot light), and a soft cheese separating into curds and whey in a bowl.

I am full of schemes: this week, trying cultured butter, which tastes infinitely butterier than fresh-cream butter, and a true fromage blanc. (The soft cheese from today is kind of a cheater's version, I think, as I didn't culture the cream and just used white vinegar to create the curds and whey.) More yogurt! Creme fraiche! As soon as my rennet and lipase from the New England Cheesemaking Supply arrive, I'm going to attempt feta.

As I'm skimming off cream and consulting my newest library book, Casco the farm cat is dozing upstairs in a fresh-milk-induced coma. If anyone's addicted to this new abundance of milk, it's him. He used to show up on our windowsill every few evenings for some cuddles and a nap on the couch, but the last few days he's been making morning, evening, and afternoon appearances--quite demanding appearances accompanied by yowls (much louder than meows) and tail-twitches. We may have unwittingly adopted him.

fall colors

with thoughts of coming fall

fall leaves in London

Apparently this is a touchy subject, fall. The way our summer is lingering, everyone in Seattle seems to be in denial -- everyone right down to my fellow 118 riders who yelped "don't say it!" to the bus drivers standing around at the ferry dock gossiping about the inescapable change.

But the shifting of seasons is pretty hard to deny when you live on a farm. I've seen it coming for months, actually. For right at the pinnacle of summer, the height of the tomato harvest, the heat of canning season, autumn was right outside our front door: in the pumpkins swelling orange and fat in the patch along the driveway, and in the jungle of prickly winter squash leaves in the north field, and in the cover crop that started to creep across fields put to bed already for winter.

Weeks ago now we felt the weather switch -- like the snap of the farm cat's tail when he perches on our windowsill every evening, asking to be let in (a cold-weather habit). It's dark when I get up and barely dawn when I leave, and I need my biking jacket again. We used to leave our big barn door open until nine o'clock in the evening, but we close it around six now, the windows an hour later.

Okay, yes, the farmstand is still full of tomatoes and peppers and squash and cucumbers. But I happen to have heard a rumor that the tomato harvest this week was thirty percent of last week's. And this weekend we feasted on the first brussels sprouts.

Lest this sound too melancholy and chilly, I have to say I'm very much ready for fall. Fall typically symbolizes eras drawing to a close, and this is true: my era in-house at Mountaineers Books is nearly over. But to me, fall always symbolizes newness more than anything: new colors in the trees, new briskness in the weather, new classes and friends and things to learn, new vigor as the school year gets going. And this is true, too: I'm at the brink of so much newness as I pour my time, full time, into The Friendly Red Pen. These changes bring new vigor and creativity to my mind as I think and plan and imagine.

I'm also ready for the newness of rain and cooler weather -- something besides sun, however much I've liked it; for the coziness and -- yes, even this -- the drawing darkness that comes with the change. I'm also ready for root vegetables and a freezer full of pork. Just imagine: pork chops, brussels sprouts, squash, and potatoes for dinner. It makes us both drool.