Ok, if you live in any of the tree’s native habitat areas in South America, the Jaboticaba and its fruit may not be so unusual to you. But for the rest of us, the tree is a sight to behold:
Jaboticaba; photo taken at the Missouri Botanical Garden in St. Louis.
The Jaboticaba (Plinia cauliflora, aka Jaboticabeira, aka Brazilian Grape Tree) is a showstopper because it exhibits an unusual botanical trait, ie, its fragrant white flowers and sweet/tangy fruits grow directly on the trunk of the tree, rather than from new growth or shoots. In botanical terms, this is called cauliflory; hence the “cauliflora” part of the Jaboticaba’s Latin name. (“Plinia” refers to a genus of flowering plants in the myrtle family, Myrtaceae, to which the Jaboticaba belongs.) Other cauliflory plants include Durian, Cacao, Jackfruit, Papaya, and the lesser-known Cannonball Tree — which, though they all share this same botanical trait of cauliflory, are not actually related to the Jaboticaba.
Left: Papaya tree; photo taken at the Botanic Garden of Rome. Right: Cannonball Tree; photo taken at Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden in Florida.
Cauliflory is most common in tropical areas; in the United States, the Jaboticaba can be grown in Zones 9-11. Botanists believe cauliflory evolved for a couple reasons: 1) accessibility: insects and fruit-eating animals that can’t easily get to the highest parts of trees can access the flowers and fruits on the lower parts of the trunk of a cauliflory plant, thus helping ensure the tree’s reproduction via cross-pollination and seed dispersal. Another reason for cauliflory may be due to 2) structural support: the trunks and main stems can more easily bear the weight of heavy fruits like Durians, Jackfruits, and Papayas.
Though Jaboticabas are very slow growing, once they reach maturity, they can produce up to 100 pounds of berries, which look like very large grapes and come in different varieties and colors (purply-black, red, and white). The skins are a bit thick and tannic; some people eat the berries skin and all for a nice “pop,” while others squeeze the juicy pulp into their mouths and discard the skin. The pulp is translucent and jelly-like, with a few seeds. It looks a little like the inside of a lychee or blueberry. Depending on the “jabo” variety, the berries are said to taste like Muscadine grapes, blueberries, and/or lychees — or a combo of all those flavors — with slight acidic undertones. Jaboticaba berries are also quite nutritious; they contain lots of Vitamin C and other antioxidants, as well as amino acids and nutrients such as calcium, phosphorus, and iron.
In addition to being eaten fresh, the Jaboticaba fruits can be made into juice, syrup, jam, and other usually sweet concoctions. The important thing is to use the fruit quickly after picking it, as it has a very short shelf life (which explains why those of us who cannot grow this tree also cannot find the fruit in our local supermarkets).
If you like gnocchi, or spinach-ricotta ravioli, you may very well also like gnudi.Gnocchi and gnudiare similar, except gnocchi are made with potatoes and have some chewiness, whereas gnudi are made with ricotta and are quite light and soft, which I prefer. In Italian, “gnudi” means “naked ones;” these spinach-ricotta delights are essentially the filling for ravioli, without the pasta to cover it up.
You can eat them with a marinara sauce, which would keep them very light — but I first learned how to make gnudi in a cream sauce with crunchy prosciutto on top, which is what I’ll share here because it is delicious! You can easily omit the prosciutto for a vegetarian main, however.
Ingredients 4 servings
11 oz (300 gr) spinach leaves 2 garlic cloves, minced extra-virgin olive oil 150 gr whole-milk ricotta (drained if very wet) 1 egg, lightly beaten 150 gr. ( about 2 c.) Parmesan or Pecorino Romano cheese, grated — and divided in half 2-3 tbsp. flour 500 gr. (2 c.) heavy cream salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste pinch ground nutmeg
Preparation
1. Preheat the oven to 400F (200C). 2. Rinse the spinach well and cook in a pot with only the water that is clinging to it, until soft and wilted. Remove, drain/squeeze dry, then chop. Put the spinach in a bowl with the garlic and a drizzle of olive oil; toss to combine.
3. Add the ricotta, egg, 1 cup of the grated cheese, flour, a small pinch of salt (but not too much, due to the cheese), and pepper. Mix well, form the dough into a ball, and let rest for 30 minutes.
4. Meanwhile, place the prosciutto on a baking sheet and bake until crispy, keeping a close eye on it as it can go from crispy to burnt very quickly. Let the prosciutto cool, then break into pieces. Set aside.
5. Once the gnudi dough has rested, take pieces of it and roll into logs on flour-dusted parchment paper. Cut the logs into small pieces. Start a big pot of lightly salted water boiling.
6. Make the cream sauce: Bring the cream to a simmer for a couple minutes, stirring continuously. Take it off the heat and add the remaining cup of grated cheese, whisking to incorporate. Season to taste with salt, pepper, and nutmeg (if desired). 7. Gently slide the gnudi in the boiling water (you can take the parchment paper and slowly funnel them into the pot that way, or use a skimmer, spider, or slotted spoon). You may need to add the gnudi to the boiling water in batches; only put enough in to form a single layer across the top of the pot. The gnudi will be ready in just a few minutes — as soon as they float back up to the surface.
8. Remove the gnudi with the skimmer, spider, or slotted spoon and place them in a serving bowl (or another pot); pour the cream sauce over, adding more grated cheese if desired. Serve in individual bowls with crispy prosciutto on top. Enjoy!
Lately, we have been lulled into thinking spring is around the corner, with a warm day or two and lots of sun — only to be brought back to our cold, overcast, wet or sometimes snowy reality. This state of affairs got me thinking about (ie, longing for) flowers, and sunflowers in particular. If you grow sunflowers, you may know all there is to know about them. I did not, though I did learn very early on that our intrepid squirrels could scale our giant sunflowers under cover of darkness and chew off the beautiful heads, leaving decapitated 9-foot stalks in their scheming rodent wake.
I did know a few other things, such as the origins of the scientific name for the common sunflower: Helianthus annuus. Helianthus comes from the Greek “helios,” meaning sun, and “anthos,” meaning flower. Sunflowers are also heliotropic, ie, young sunflowers follow the sun’s position from sunrise to sunset. They do this until they reach maturity, at which point they stay facing East, which allows the sunflowers to get warmer more quickly (and thus, to attract more pollinators).
Another thing I knew was that each sunflower head is made of hundreds and maybe thousands of smaller flowers, which means it is an inflorescence (same as alliums). The bright yellow (or sometimes, red or rusty orange) petals surrounding the sunflower head are called ray florets. The real, tiny flowers are in the central part of the flower head and are called disc florets. In the photos below, you can see the dark brown anthers of the disc florets topped with pollen; each of these flowers will produce a sunflower seed.
Finally, one last thing I knew, but did not really think about until now is that the sunflower’s disc florets are arranged in a spiral pattern that follows the Fibonacci sequence, a mathematical sequence in which each number is the sum of the two preceding ones. If you count the spirals in a sunflower head (which can be done in different ways), you will usually end up with a Fibonacci number (0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, …). Why? Because the pattern makes efficient use of available space for seed formation. The growing seeds press on each other, creating geometric patterns. The Fibonacci sequence is found everywhere in nature (such as in pineapples, pinecones, broccolo romanesco, sea shells, tree branches, storms, galaxies, and even the distribution of seeds in a raspberry, to name just a few occurrences).
This is where my knowledge of sunflowers ended. Then, I discovered a couple more reasons to admire them:
1. Every part of a sunflower — not just the seeds — can be eaten:
Sunflower sprouts can be used in the same way as alfalfa or bean sprouts, in a stir fry or a spring salad or Thai salad.
Jerusalem artichokes (aka sunroots, sunchokes) are a type of sunflower whose roots are edible; prepare them as you would other root vegetables: roast, sauté, fry, mash, or puree them — or shred or slice them raw.
Sunflower stalks can be eaten like celery when small and slender. You can also make flour from the stalks. (OR… dry the stalks and use them to support other plants in the garden the following year.)
Younger, smaller sunflower leaves can be eaten in salads, and older, bigger leaves can be boiled and sauteed like collards or other leafy greens; removing the central rib may make them a little less bitter. Some people also prepare tea from dried sunflower leaves and/or petals.
The flowers (ie, ray florets) are edible; try them in a salad.
The opened (giant) sunflower heads (not fully mature, with seeds that are still white) can be grilled, if you are feeling particularly adventurous.
2. Sunflowers can absorb some serious toxins. Because of this ability, they are called hyperaccumulators. When a reactor exploded at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant in Ukraine in 1986, it released radioactive elements into the environment; thousands of sunflowers were planted to help remove these elements from the soil and ponds near the disaster site. Using plants to cleanse the environment is called phytoremediation. Today, sunflowers are the international symbol for nuclear disarmament (and as the national flower of Ukraine, they are also symbols of solidarity, resilience, and hope).
Puff pastry is a culinary lifesaver, since pretty much anything tastes better when puff pastry is involved. Also, it’s a great way to use up all sorts of things in your fridge or cupboards. This week, I defrosted a package of puff pastry for a meal I did not end up making, and I needed to use it soon. So the scavenger hunt began. Amongst other things in the fridge, I spotted two pork sausage links, some mushrooms that were not going to make it much longer, and a bit of fresh spinach that was beginning to look not so fresh. On the counter, I could see some cherry tomatoes on the cusp of wrinkling. And in the cheese drawer were wedges of Gruyere and Pecorino Romano.
These ingredients reminded me of a sausage and mushroom pizza al taglio (pizza by the slice) I loved in Rome. So the solution was clear–I would make an ‘Avoid Food Waste/Clear Out the Fridge’ puff pizza al taglio. (Ok, honestly, this can also be called a puff pastry tart….) You can cut it into larger pieces for lunch or dinner, or cut it smaller ones to serve as an appetizer.
Note: This recipe is just a suggestion; you can put all sorts of things on top of puff pastry (like this beet and feta vegetarian option) and you will end up with something delicious. I often let fate and the contents of my fridge decide. With a little bit of extra effort, you can also make puffs, but I was feeling lazy and went freeform.
Ingredients
1 pkg. puff pastry (the kind I buy has two sheets of pastry; I used both) mushrooms, sliced (16 oz./450 gr.) garlic salt (optional) baby spinach, chopped (as much as desired; I only had a small handful) 2 pork sausages, casings removed cherry tomatoes, cut in quarters (as much as desired; I had about 10 cherry tomatoes to use) Gruyere cheese, grated (as much as desired) Pecorino Romano cheese, grated (as much as desired)
Preparation
1. Thaw your puff pastry (ideally, overnight in the fridge). 2. Preheat oven to 375 F (190 C). 3. Cook any ingredients that are likely to wet the puff pizza too much (or not cook fully while in the oven). For me, those ingredients were the mushrooms, spinach, and sausage. In a frying pan, I quickly sauteed the mushrooms in some olive oil and tossed them with garlic salt. I placed them on a dish, then cooked the sausage in the same pan until it was no longer pink, crumbling it as it cooked. The sausage went on another plate and the little spinach I had went into the pan; it almost disappeared before my eyes, but ended up being just enough to add a spot of additional color to the puff pizza.
4. Spray a rimmed baking sheet with olive oil cooking spray, or wipe a thin layer of oil over it. 5. Lay the puff pastry sheets down the center of the baking sheet, pressing the seam between the two together. Score the sides of the pastry with a sharp knife. This will allow the sides to rise into a crust. (I did not score the short sides as I was able to press them up against the baking sheet rim where they formed their own crust.)
6. Layer your prepped ingredients onto the puff pastry, taking care to not place anything past the score lines: I started with a little Gruyere, then the mushrooms, sausage, tomatoes, and spinach, ending with a bit more Gruyere and some Pecorino Romano. I tend to go lightly on the cheeses as I want the flavors of the other ingredients to shine, but feel free to add as much as you like.
7. Bake for 25-30 minutes, or until puff pastry and cheeses are golden. Using a firm spatula, lift one edge of the pizza up and check the bottom; you want to be sure it, too, is golden. 8. Remove, let sit for a minute or two, then cut into individual pieces. Enjoy!
Taralli (or tarallini) are a delicious, crispy, unleavened, ring-shaped snack from the Puglia region of Italy, though they have spread well beyond their place of origin. In Rome, you may be served savory taralli along with your aperitivo (Aperol Spritz, anyone?)–but they are also available in local grocery shops in a variety of flavors, including plain (classico), pepper (al pepe), fennel seed (al finocchio), and chili-flavored (al peperoncino). We used to keep a stash at home when we lived in Italy.
Our kids (who, sadly, have not lived with us for while now as they are all grown) loved to have taralli when they would come visit us in Rome, and every time we returned to the U.S. to see them, we would make sure to stash several bags in our suitcases (along with vacuum-packed wedges of Pecorino Romano from Antica Caciara in Trastevere). Mmmm….
It became much more difficult to find taralli when we moved back to the U.S., at least where we currently live. So I decided to see how hard it was to make them. If you have ever made bagels at home, then you will have no problem making taralli. The technique is similar: make the dough, shape it, boil it, let it dry, then bake it. Being much smaller than bagels, taralli get nice and crispy–a perfect snack. I would sometimes also crumble them over a bowl of pureed vegetable soup.
This recipe is for a small batch (about 24-28) of the classic style; feel free to add any of the optional ingredients. When I made them, I added black pepper.
Ingredients:
1 3/4 c. (1/2 lb., 250 gr.) 00 flour 3/4 tsp. sea salt (about 4.5 gr.) 1/4 c. (75 ml. ) olive oil 3.5 oz. (3/8 c., 100 ml.) white wine
Optional (freshy ground black pepper, fennel seeds, chili flakes)
Preparation:
1. In a medium bowl, combine the flour and salt (and any other optional ingredients). Make a well, and add the olive oil and wine. Using a fork, slowly stir to incorporate.
2. Knead the dough for about 10 minutes, until smooth. Shape into a ball, then cover with plastic wrap or place in a plastic bag, and let rest for half an hour.
3. Start a medium pot of water boiling. Add a pinch of salt to the pot. Place a clean dish towel on a baking sheet (or platter) near your stove.
4. Divide the taralli dough into four equal pieces and roll into four equally sized logs. Cut each log into 6 or 7 pieces and shape each piece into a little ball.
5. Roll each little ball into a small, thin log shape. (Though, now that I think of it, I’m wondering why I made the little balls in the first place! I could have rolled each of the cut pieces into a small, thin log and skipped the ball part. I probably wanted to make sure everything was the same size… and, those little dough balls look cute. But, feel free to ignore the ball step.) Form each little log into a ring shape, pulling and pinching the ends together.
6. Boil the taralli, maybe 5-8 at a time depending on the size of your pot, until they float. Remove with a slotted spoon or skimmer, and place them on the clean dish towel to dry. Repeat until all the taralli are done; let them dry thoroughly. (You could, at this stage, leave them out for a few hours and bake them later; the extra drying time will not hurt at all.)
7. Preheat the oven to 400F/200C. Place the taralli on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper and bake on the center rack for about 30 minutes, or until the taralli are deeply golden brown; the longer they bake, the crispier they become. Enjoy!
Ruined dome of Western Palestra (gymnasium), Baths of Caracalla, Rome
The Ancient Romans were master architects, builders, and innovators. That we can still see the remains of many 2,000+-year-old structures is a testament to the Romans’ skill and to the materials they used. And also to the happy fact that in subsequent millennia, rather than be destroyed, many ancient buildings and structures were built over or incorporated into other buildings, or simply left where they were as the effort involved in removing them would be too great. Here is one example I’ve always enjoyed seeing: apartments built right into and around the ruins of the Baths of Agrippa near the Pantheon:
In contrast, I am certain that in 2,000 years, there will be nary a trace of my house here in the Midwest or any of the modern buildings nearby. So, how did the Romans make structures that have lasted so long? The answer is that they made excellent concrete and great bricks, and combined the two in various ways to construct extremely strong and long-lasting walls and other structures.
Of course, walls and buildings were also built with blocks carved from rock. In Rome, some of the earliest examples you can see are “dry walls,” built with blocks of volcanic rock called tufa without any mortar between the blocks. This technique of using blocks is called opus quadratum (also, ashlar or cuboidal masonry):
1) Part of the Temple of Capitoline Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva in the Capitoline Museums, 6th century BC; 2) Portion of the Servian Wall on the Aventine Hill, 4th century BC; 3) Wall behind the Forum of Augustus, circa 27 BC-AD 14.
If you are walking around Rome and see these types of tufa-block walls, you can be sure they are quite old. They deserve a nod of appreciation, because cutting large blocks cleanly and evenly, hoisting them, and placing them perfectly with just their weight and position to keep them in place — that is a feat requiring a lot of hard work and skill.
Building techniques began to change in the second century BC, when the Romans discovered they could substitute volcanic ash (pozzolana) for the sand in concrete mixtures, yielding much stronger and more weather-resistant concrete. This super concrete turned out to be a perfect material for the inner core of walls (opus caementicium). Plus, it did not require as much hard work or skill to make, compared to the large block walls. The idea was that the concrete core would be covered (ie, faced) with stone or brick, and then, depending on the structure, faced again with stucco, paint, or polished stone veneers like marble.
One of the first ways of using this concrete core involved a construction technique called opus incertum: randomly inserting irregularly shaped, uncut stones and/or small tufa blocks into the concrete. This technique was used in building the Porticus Aemilia, a storehouse complex built in 193 BC along the Tiber river by Testaccio:
Though fired bricks had been around for a long time, the Romans did not really begin to use them significantly until the cusp of the first century AD. Two of the first structures to be made of fired brick in Rome were the Theatre of Marcellus (Teatro di Marcello) and the Tomb of Caecelia Metella on the Appian Way. The Teatro di Marcello was completed in 13 BC; miraculously, it still has its facade, though apartments were built on top of it in the 16th century. The Tomb of Caecilia Metella is thought to have been built somewhere between 30-10 BC.
Teatro di MarcelloTomb of Caecila Metella
After these two structures were built, fired bricks began to be used all across the Roman Empire, in various ways. The most basic was a technique that involved facing the concrete core of a wall with courses of brick. It was called opus testaceum. The cut-away section in the photo below shows an inner concrete core and brick facing, from a wall at Portus, the ancient port of Rome, built around 50 AD. (Portus is about 35 minutes from central Rome, near Fiumicino Airport, and is definitely worth a visit if you can make it there.)
Inside view of ancient Roman wall, Portus.
Though bricks had come into fashion, tufa and other materials were still used as building materials. The photo below is of a section of the Aurelian Wall (270-275 AD) made with both brick and tufa. The technique used is called opus vittatum(ie, banded work, when the bricks and tufa are placed in alternating rows):
Opus vittatum, Aurelian Wall at Porta Tiburtina
Roman bricks came in different sizes: round, square, oblong, triangular, or rectangular. And walls were also built in different patterns. A pattern of pure brick rows (courses) was called opus testaceum, as mentioned above. Though it is hard to see, the skinny flat bricks used in these types of walls were often triangular, with the longest side lined up on the outside of the wall and the pointy side of the brick embedded in the concrete. A diamond or net-like pattern was called opus reticulatum. It consisted of small tufa blocks carved like little pyramids, with the square base being visible and the pointy part embedded in the concrete. When two techniques were used together, that was called opus mixtum.
The photos below show a wall in the Portico of Claudius, at Portus. On the right side of each photo is a section of opus testaceum (OT), ie, uninterrupted rows of bricks. The left part of the photo shows a section of opus mixtum (OM) consisting of a couple rows of brick (opus testaceum) interspersed with diamond-shaped sections of tufa blocks (opus reticulatum, OR).
Sometimes, the opus reticulatum was made with a combination of brick and black basalt instead of tufa to achieve a more distinct polychrome coloring, as in the first photo below from Ostia Antica (which is also an example of opus mixtum). Fun fact: The black cobblestones of Rome are also made out of black basalt.
Sometimes you will see brick arches in the walls. They are called relieving arches and they were used on tall walls, and above doors or windows or other openings, to help distribute weight and maintain structural integrity. The square holes you often see, too, are where the scaffolding was inserted when the wall was being built. They are called putlog (or putlock) holes. Other holes are where the exterior facades were attached.
Capitolium at Ostia Antica, circa 120 AD.Putlog holes, facade holes, and a few remaining bits of a marble frieze, Baths of Caracalla, 216 AD.
I hope these notes on bricks, stones, structures, walls, and holes will help as you walk around Rome, take day trips, or find yourself seeing Roman ruins anywhere else in the world.
I’ll sign off with a question about a longstanding mystery. I have always loved the look of this wall in the Cortile Biblioteche at Hadrian’s Villa in Tivoli (about 40 min. drive from Rome). But I have never been able to figure out why it was constructed this way, with pointy bricks sticking out. So if anyone knows, please do tell!
Like many others, I first learned about Kouign-Amann from watching the Great British Bake Off (Great British Baking Show), marveling at the complexity and apparent deliciousness of this pastry from Brittany. Then I tasted some in San Francisco and Berkeley while visiting my son, daughter-in-law, and daughter — and became a convert. Kouign-Amann is a crispy, buttery, salty/sweet confection that is worth every moment of a weekend day (or two) to make — especially when, as is currently the case for me, there are no such pastries to be had nearby. I start thinking about them in winter when it is harder to be out and about and when the weather lends itself to baking. These pastries are perfect with a cup of coffee or tea as you settle into a cozy inside spot while reading one of the Brittany-based Commissaire Dupin mysteries.
This excellent recipe is from Brown Eyed Baker, though I reduced the sugar slightly and included cinnamon and chocolate chips as optional ingredients. Neither of those are traditional, but each lends something to the pastries. The original version is absolutely delicious, too. Finally, these kouign-amann are individual sized, whereas in Brittany the pastry is more traditionally made in the shape of a caramelized, crispy cake that is meant to be sliced.
Kouign-Amann Makes 12
For the Dough: 1 c. (240 ml.) water, at room temperature 2 tsp. (3.2 gr.) instant yeast 2.5 c. (355 gr.) all-purpose flour 1 tsp. sea salt
For the Butter Block: 8 oz. (227 gr.) salted butter, chilled and cubed
For the Pastries: 1 1/3 cup (267 gr.) granulated white sugar, divided 1 tsp. (2.6 gr.) cinnamon (optional) dark chocolate chips (optional)
Directions
Make the Dough: Combine the water and yeast in the bowl of a stand mixer (or a mixing bowl, if kneading by hand). Add the flour and the salt. Stir with a wooden spoon until a shaggy dough is formed.
Fit the mixer with a dough hook attachment and knead the dough at low speed until the dough is slightly tacky but smooth, 3 to 5 minutes. If the dough sticks to the sides of the bowl, add 1 tablespoon of flour at a time and knead until the dough is smooth. If the dough feels very stiff and dry, add 1 tablespoon of water at a time and knead until the dough is smooth.
Transfer the dough to a clean bowl that has been lightly greased with butter, turning the dough to coat it with butter. Cover the mixing bowl with plastic wrap and let the dough rise until doubled in size, about 1 hour. Once the dough has doubled in size, place it in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes.
MAKE-AHEAD NOTE1: At this point, you can refrigerate the dough overnight, then proceed with the recipe.
Make the Butter Block: Beat the butter on low speed until it’s smooth, about 3 minutes, scraping the beater and bowl as needed to break up the cubes. Turn the butter out onto a piece of parchment paper and shape into a rectangle about 6 x 10 in. (15 x 25 cm.). Wrap the butter in the parchment paper, pressing out any air. Gently roll a rolling pin over the butter packet, pushing the butter into the corners to create a perfect rectangle with even thickness. Refrigerate until firm yet still pliable, about 25 to 30 minutes.
Roll out the Dough: Place the chilled dough onto a floured work surface and roll into a rectangle 12 in. wide x 20 in. long (30 x 50 cm.). Remove the butter from the refrigerator and place it in the middle of the dough. Fold one half of the dough over the butter, then fold the other half on top, like folding a letter. Roll it out slightly to press the layers together, then fold it again into thirds like a letter.
–Turn #1: Rotate the dough so that the open, narrower edge is facing you. Roll the dough out to a rectangle 12 in. wide x 20 in. long (30 x 50 cm.). Fold the top third down and bottom third up, again like folding a letter. Place the packet of dough on a baking sheet, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for 30 minutes (but not longer as the butter will get too hard).
–Turn #2: Place the unwrapped packet of dough on a floured surface with the open, narrower edge facing you. Roll the dough out to a rectangle 12 in. wide x 20 in. long (30 x 50 cm.). Fold the top third down and bottom third up, again like folding a letter. Place the packet of dough on a baking sheet, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for 30 minutes.
MAKE-AHEAD NOTE 2: At this point, you can wrap the dough in plastic wrap, place in a freezer-safe bag and freeze for up to 2 months. Thaw in the refrigerator overnight, then proceed with the recipe. **If you would only like to make a half batch now (ie, 6 pastries), cut the dough in half, wrap and freeze one half, and proceed with the recipe using the other half. This is my preferred option, as we no longer have a full house of eaters who could polish off 12 pastries in a weekend!
–Turn #3: Place the unwrapped packet of dough on a floured surface with the open, narrower edge facing you. Roll the dough out to a rectangle 12 in. wide x 20 in. long (30 x 50 cm.) [If making half a batch, roll the dough out to 6 x 10 in. (15 x 25 cm.); pinch cut edge closed before rolling]. Sprinkle the entire surface of the dough with 2/3 c. sugar [1/3 c. sugar for half batch], then press lightly to help it stick to the dough. Sprinkle with 1 tsp. cinnamon [1/2 tsp. for half batch], if using. Fold the top third down and bottom third up, again like folding a letter. If any sugar falls out, press it back into the folds. Place the packet of dough on a baking sheet, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for 30 minutes.
–Turn #4: Place the unwrapped packet of dough on a floured surface with the open, narrower edge facing you. Roll the dough out to a rectangle 12 in. wide x 20 in. long (30 x 50 cm.) [If making half a batch, roll the dough out to 6 x 10 in. (15 x 25 cm.)]. Sprinkle the entire surface of the dough with 2/3 c. sugar [1/3 c. sugar for half batch], then press lightly to help it stick to the dough. Sprinkle with 1 tsp. cinnamon [1/2 tsp. for half batch], if using. Fold the top third down and bottom third up, again like folding a letter. If any sugar falls out, press it back into the folds. Place the packet of dough on a baking sheet, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for 30 minutes.
Prepare the Muffin Tin: Generously grease the insides of a standard 12-cup muffin pan (or 6-cup muffin pan if making a half batch) with butter. Set aside.
Shape the Kouign-Amann: Remove the dough from the refrigerator and transfer it to the counter. Sprinkle a little extra sugar (and cinnamon, if desired) over the top of the dough; pat to press it in. Roll the dough out to a rectangle 8 in. wide by 24 in. long (20 x 60 cm.) [If making half a batch, roll the dough out to 8 x 12 in. (20 x 30 cm.).] Slice the dough down the long side to form two strips that are 4 in. wide. Cut each strip into 4 x 4-in. squares (10 x 10 cm.) to create 12 squares (or 6 squares if making a half batch).
If you are adding chocolate chips, arrange chocolate chips on each square. Note: You want to taste the buttery, salty, sweet pastry, so err on the side of fewer chocolate chips vs more. Fold the corners of each square toward the center. Pick up each pastry and tuck it firmly into the buttered muffin pan.
MAKE-AHEAD NOTE 3: At this point, you can cover the muffin pan with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight. The next day, allow the pastries to come to room temperature and rise for 1 hour before baking.
Otherwise, cover the pan loosely with plastic wrap and let the pastries rise until slightly puffy, 30 to 40 minutes. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 400 degrees F (200 C).
Bake the Kouign-Amann: Set the muffin pan on a rimmed baking sheet, place in the oven and immediately reduce the heat to 350 degrees F (180 C). Bake until the pastries are deep golden brown and tips are very dark brown, 40 to 45 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through baking.
Transfer the pan to a cooling rack and let the pastries stand until they are just cool enough to handle, about 5 minutes. Gently remove them from the muffin pan and set them on the cooling rack to finish cooling completely. The kouign-amann can be served warm or at room temperature.
Final note: The pastries are best served the same day they are made, but you can store them at room temperature in an air-tight container and they will be good for one more day; after that they will get soft. You can also freeze the baked pastries by letting them cool completely, wrapping them individually in plastic wrap, and placing them in a freezer-safe bag; freeze for up to 3 months. Thaw at room temperature or place in a 325-degree F (163 C) oven for 10 minutes.
I like ferns. Whenever I am at a botanic garden, I take a close look at them. I love the elegance of the leaves (fronds), the way the fronds unfurl, and the polka-dot patterns of the sori (spore cases) on the underside of the fronds.
During the recent winter holidays, we went to the Garfield Park Conservatory in Chicago — a magical place any time of the year, but a fantastic one to visit during the colder months. My attention was caught by a fern I had never seen before, with an intriguing leaf pattern:
This fern is called a Microsorum musifolium (or Polypodium musifolium). ‘Microsorum’ means ‘small sori’ and ‘musifolium’ means ‘banana-like leaves,’ because of the fern’s long, strap-like leaves. ‘Polypodium’ means ‘many-feet’ and refers to the growth pattern of the fern’s underground, horizontal stems (see the lithograph at the bottom of this post).
In recent years, this plant has also become known as a Crocodile Fern because some people think the texture and pattern of the fronds looks reptilian. (And because some clever house-plant marketers decided “Crocodile Fern’ would sell better than, say, ‘Banana-Leaf Fern’ — or worse, ‘Wart Fern,’ as it is sometimes also called.) Because of this new-ish twist on the plant’s name, it is now common to see the fern [mis]labelled as Microsorum musifolium ‘Crocodylus,’ the latter part of which signals an animal genus, not a botanical one.
I don’t have any crocodile photos, but I do have some close-ups of an alligator’s back. And while I can see that the fern does look reptilian in a way, it may be a stretch to say it looks like the patterns on the back of a crocodile (or alligator):
Common names aside, the fern is native to Southeast Asia and the Pacific Islands, and is an epiphyte; it grows on trees for support but it does not take any nutrients from them. Instead, it forms a half-basket against the tree trunk that catches falling leaves and debris, which give the plant moisture as well as nutrients as the leaves and debris decompose. As a houseplant (ie, when it is not tucked against a tree trunk), the fern will form a full, circular basket. Plants that do this — including Bromeliads — are called ‘trash-basket plants,’ which is not the nicest name for a great adaptation. Luckily, many ferns in this category are called Bird’s Nest ferns, which sounds much better.
Microsorum musifolium was first described by the German-Dutch botanist Carl Ludwig Blume in his famous 19th-century work, Flora Javae (Plants of Java), written after he had served as a director at the botanic garden in Bogor (then known as Buitenzorg), Java. There is some confusion over when, precisely, Flora Javae was published, as different sections were added between 1828-1858.
I saw a hand-colored lithograph of ‘Polypodium Musaefolium’ attributed to Blume’s 1829 edition of the book for sale online, and wanted to confirm that it was, in fact, from that book (not that I wanted to buy it; I just wanted to know when the fern was first mentioned). I looked at the list of sections added to Flora Javae over the years, which notes all the ones added in 1829, but there were no sections called Polypodium or Polypodiopsida. I wondered if ferns were called something else back in the day. Sure enough, ferns were traditionally classified as Filices — and that was the title of one of the 1829 sections. So I knew Blume had devoted a sizeable section of Flora Javae to ferns, and I hoped Microsorum musifolium was among them.
Motivated by this discovery, I kept looking and — amazingly — found a full-text 1858 version of Flora Javae, thanks to the Biodiversity Heritage Library; it is from an edition held by the Peter H. Raven Library at the Missouri Botanical Garden. The 1858 version includes all the sections added previously, including the one on ferns. I searched the text for ‘Microsorum musifolium,’ but no luck. Then I remembered Blume’s lithograph was labeled ‘Polypodium.’ That worked; there are a LOT of Polypodium entries in Flora Javae. But the search did not turn up any entries for Polypodium musifolium or musaefolium (at the time, I did not realize that this result – POLYPODIUM MUSffiF0LIU3L — was the one I was looking for). So I tried to scroll through all the entries manually to find it . No luck, again. Until I came across another clue: the lithograph was described online as being Tab. LXXIX, and using that as a guide, I finally found the entry for ‘Polypodium Musaefolium’ on pp. 171-72 of Flora Javae:
And there you have it. Should you be lucky enough to see this unusually patterned fern in a botanic garden, or grow it as a houseplant, you will be able to say it was first immortalized in print almost 200 years ago! And that it kind of, sort of — from a certain angle and at a certain distance — could resemble a crocodile’s back.
Recently, my husband pointed out that we had TWO jars of cherry preserves, TWO jars of fig jam, and an unruly assortment of other jams, jellies, and preserves in the fridge. I was accused of jam overpopulation. I admitted to accidently opening a new jar of cherry preserves (my favorite) without realizing we already had one in the fridge, but I still maintain the other jars were not my fault…. However, in the spirit of providing a solution to this problem, I offered to make a ricotta crostata with what was left in one of the jars of cherry preserves. One less jar in the fridge, and attention diverted to dessert. A win-win.
Actually, a ricotta crostata is always a win-win; the sweet ricotta is beautifully creamy and you can use any preserves or jam of your liking, though the most traditional way of preparing this Italian sweet is with cherry preserves. Second, the dough for this crostata comes together in a food processor, adding speed and ease to the recipe’s many virtues. And finally, a crostata not only makes a great dessert, but a tasty breakfast as well — and a good accompaniment to afternoon tea or coffee.
You can also let your creative side loose on the top crust; I made a very simple (unwoven) lattice with scalloped strips this time around.
Crostata Ricotta e Visciole Recipe inspired by (and translated from) Antonio Romano Runchef Note: This recipe is best made using a kitchen scale to weigh the ingredients.
Tart Dough: 225 gr. sugar (about 1 1/8 c.) grated zest of one lemon 250 gr. butter (2 sticks + 1 tbsp) 120 gr. eggs (I used 3 yolks + 2 whole eggs, carefully adding the white of the last egg until I got to 120 gr.) 1 tsp. vanilla pinch of salt 500 gr. flour (I used all-purpose; you can also use 00)
Filling: 450-500 gr. ricotta (16-oz. container); I try to find ricotta that is not super wet. Here in the U.S., I like Bel Gioioso Ricotta con Latte. I pour out any little liquid that may have collected in the container and dab the top with a paper towel to remove any extra moisture. 100 gr. sugar
250 gr. cherry preserves (about 3/4 c.)
Directions: 1. Place the sugar and lemon zest in a food processor and pulse until combined. 2. Cut the butter into cubes. (Note: An easy way to cut butter into cubes is to use a bench scraper; cut the sticks lengthwise into quarters, then chop into cubes. ) Add the butter cubes to the sugar in the food processor and continue to pulse until incorporated; the butter will look grainy. Add the eggs and vanilla and process until well combined. 3. Add the flour and sprinkle the pinch of salt over. Process just until a smooth dough forms.
4. Turn the dough onto a floured countertop and roll into a thick log. Pat into a rectangle, wrap in plastic film (or put in a sealable bag) and refrigerate for 2 hours. 5. Meanwhile, butter a tart pan. Make the ricotta filling by mixing the ricotta and sugar together; let it sit, stirring occasionally, until the sugar is fully incorporated.
6. Cut the dough into a 2/3 piece and a 1/3 piece. Return the 1/3 piece to the refrigerator. Roll the 2/3 piece into a circle about 3 inches wider than your tart pan. Carefully drape the dough over the pan, lifting it gently to tuck it into the inner diameter of the pan. If any dough overlaps the edge, press on it to crimp it off. Save the extra dough. 7. Spoon 2/3 of the preserves ( 1/2 c.) over the base of the tart. Carefully add the ricotta mixture, smoothing the top as best as possible. Dollop the remaining preserves across the top of the ricotta mixture and gently swirl.
8. Roll the remaining 1/3 piece of dough into a rectangle at least as long as the diameter of your tart pan. Cut into 10 strips, and lay the strips in a diamond pattern across the top of the tart. (You can also re-use any extra dough you have leftover from lining the tart pan, to make the 10 strips.)
9. Bake the crostata at 170C/340F for about 35 minutes, or until the lattice is golden. Let cool and then serve.
I am lucky in that I have a neighbor who loves plants and gardening as much (if not more) than I do. She has a number of unusual plants in her garden, but one of my favorites is a vine I have never seen anywhere else. Nor had I ever heard of it before, either: a “Kintzley’s Ghost” honeysuckle (Lonicera reticulata). And doubly lucky for me, it grows against the fence between our two houses, so I get to see it in all its glory.
This photo was taken at the end of May. Its tubular yellow flowers are quite pretty and though they are slightly fragrant, they don’t have that full honeysuckle aroma. What sets “Kintzley’s Ghost” apart, though, are the circular bracts surrounding those flowers. Bracts are modified leaves; in this case, the circular bracts are different from the plant’s other, more usual-looking leaves. Since bracts often help play a reproductive role, perhaps these round bracts serve as a sort of bullseye, drawing pollinators’ attention to the center of the circles, where the flowers are, and later, drawing birds’ attention to where the berries have developed. Butterflies and hummingbirds are among the “Kintzley’s Ghost” many admirers, as are humans.
Not only are the bracts eye catching because of their shape, but also because they taken on a silvery-white cast that reminds some people of a Silver Dollar eucalyptus. Because of this coloration, the vine has been described as being “a galaxy of full moons” when it is in its silvery phase later in the season. Unfortunately I don’t have a photo of the full galaxy, just a couple moons (first photo below, taken in October). Eventually, the silvery-white green color gives way to yellow as winter approaches (second photo below).
There is a bit of mystery to the history of this heirloom native honeysuckle, which adds to its allure. It was propagated in the 1880s by William Kintzley, who worked in the greenhouses at Iowa State University, but it was never released commercially. Instead, Mr. Kintzley gave cuttings of the vine to family members. Over time, the plant dropped out of other people’s sight and minds. It was rediscovered in 2001, when someone from a local nursery in Fort Collins, Colorado saw the masses of yellow flowers and round bracts down a side street. As the story goes, he walked up to the house to ask about this very unusual honeysuckle vine and found himself speaking with the elderly grandson of William Kintzley.
The vine is now offered for sale, but can be hard to find. My neighbor was visiting a nursery in Wisconsin about five years ago, when she, too, was mesmerized by her first sight of a mature “Kintzley’s Ghost” vine growing up a barn at the nursery; they can get up to 12 feet high. She bought a small 8-inch clipping and brought it home; it clearly likes the mini ecosystem between our two houses, because it is now more than 8 feet tall.
In general, this honeysuckle variety is pretty happy-go-lucky. It will grow in almost any soil as long as it is relatively moist. And it is very cold tolerant; “Kintzley’s Ghost” is hardy to Zone 4 in the United States, which means it can tolerate temperatures as low as -30°F (-34.4°C). Since it is a vine, it needs some structural support such as a trellis, fence, or wall.
Should you be lucky enough to find one and to be able to grow it in your region, you will be forever grateful–as I am to my neighbor who shares it with me.
Perennial Pastimes 