Simple Cooking

Surprisingly, a lot of people have never seen a fresh fig. When they do, they invariably ask, “What is that?” Indeed, a majority of the fig harvest gets dried and made into the familiar bar cookies. But fresh figs have a sweet succulence that is unmatched by their dried counterparts. A fig is ripe when the sides crack and split and a dewy drop of juice starts to ooze from the tiny hole in the bottom. Once picked, figs don’t ripen any more, so buy only figs that are dead-ripe. For best results, use Black Mission figs, which will give the ice cream a lovely deep-violet color.

One winter I visited my friend Kate Hill, who lives in Gascony, a region famous for its tasty prunes, les pruneaux d’Agen. As a means of prying me away from the cozy kitchen hearth, where I could happily eat cassoulet and drink Armagnac all day by the fire, we decided to do something cultural and visit the local prune museum. It was all rather exciting: an entire museum full of educational displays on the history of prunes, including informative dioramas showing the various phases of prune production. We ended our visit with a thrilling film explaining prune cultivation and harvesting, which was a real nail-biter. On our way out, near the prune-filled gift shop (there was a comic book about a prune-fueled superhero…I’m not kidding), was a shrine with a jar holding what they claimed was the world’s oldest prune, dating back to the mid-1800s. For this recipe, you should use prunes that are wrinkled but not necessarily that old, and be alert that it’s become au courant to call them dried plums in America.

If you’re lucky enough to live in an area where fresh apricots are bountiful in the summer, be sure to take advantage of their brief season by churning up a batch of this ice cream. Don’t be put off by apricots that are übersoft, as plump and fragile as an overfilled water balloon, seemingly ready to burst at the slightest touch. Those are invariably the best-tasting fruits.

Bill Fujimoto, the produce expert at Monterey Market in Berkeley, grew up in Japan. He once told me about the produce market where his father worked, which featured a wall covered with tarantulas, each individually nailed in place. In days past, native islanders would hoist bunches of bananas onto ships heading landward, and the bananas would sometimes include a little something extra from the jungle lurking beneath the stem. Sometimes people would bring home bananas only to discover an unwelcome houseguest the next day, enjoying a morning stroll across the kitchen counter. In spite of their risky reputation, bananas have become the most popular, and least intimidating, fruit in America. I’ve eaten more than my fair share and have yet to see any hazardous signs of life. (But that doesn’t mean I don’t take a peek every now and then.) Roasting bananas in butter and brown sugar gives them a deep, rich butterscotch flavor, which enhances their abundant natural sweetness.

What do you say when a nice Jewish boy gives up a promising career as a lawyer to become a self-appointed “amateur gourmet”? (“Oy!” his mom probably said.) When the audacious amateur himself, Adam Roberts, used my recipe for Strawberry Frozen Yogurt (page 91) as inspiration for churning up a batch of Sour Cherry Frozen Yogurt, he posted the results on his web site, www.amateurgourmet.com. It was an idea too delicious not to include in this book. However, when pressed for minor details like, say, a recipe or exact quantities, Adam played the amateur card and feigned ignorance, forcing a certain professional to do his duty. This recipe calls for sour cherries, which are different from their sweeter counterparts and sometimes require a bit of foraging to find (Adam found his at Manhattan’s Greenmarket). Their tiny little pits can easily be slipped out by squeezing the cherries with your fingers or with the help of a cherry pitter.

I love, love, love dried apricots. They’re one of my favorite foods on earth, as long as they’re the ones from California. People are often tempted by Turkish and Chinese dried apricots, since they’re usually more colorful and far more plump (and cheaper), but I find them terribly sweet, and ice cream made with them lacks the delicious flavor and intensity of dried apricots. The combination of pistachio nuts and apricots is particularly good. Don’t toast the pistachio nuts or they’ll lose their lovely green hue. Make sure the pistachio nuts you’re using are fresh and crisp.

Fortunately, I once worked with pastry chef Mary Canales. Unfortunately, our time together lasted merely a few hours. I was ending my tenure at Chez Panisse, and she was just beginning hers. But I liked her instantly, and we kept in touch. Years later, she decided to open an ice cream shop, Ici, in Berkeley, and I was thrilled when her ice creams became legendary in the Bay Area. Here’s the most popular flavor from her vast repertoire. Panforte is a Italian cake, a Tuscan specialty that’s so dense and delicious that it’s practically a confection. And like the best panforte, Mary’s ice cream has the perfect balance of spices, toasted almonds, and candied orange peel.

This curious combination of flavors will surprise you, as it did the unsuspecting friends I invited over to taste test it. One was so enamored of it that she kept digging her spoon in until the container was scraped clean! I like to serve this with warm oven-baked pears. Not only do they taste very good together, but the combination does double duty as the cheese course and the dessert. A few helpful tips: You can replace the Roquefort with a favorite blue cheese, with excellent results. Also, if your honey is very strong, you may wish to use the smaller amount indicated. And be a bit careful when making the custard; because it has no sugar, it will cook quickly.

Maybe I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer. When I visited the Chartreuse distillery in the French Alps, our guide told us that the exact recipe for the famed herbal liqueur was a closely guarded secret, known only by three brothers who worked at the monastery. Astounded, I spoke up. “Wow, that’s incredible. What is the likelihood of three brothers going into the same business together, as well as becoming monks at the same monastery?” The other guests on the tour simply stopped and looked at me with their mouths slightly agape. Then our guide enlightened me and we moved on, but not before I overheard a few hushed conversations evaluating my intellect. This is a very light ice cream, and it’s so simple that anyone, regardless of their intelligence level, can easily put it together.

If you need to liven things up around your holiday table, this tipsy ice cream will do the trick. Warm apple crisp, cranberry upside-down cake, or the ever-popular pumpkin pie—all are improved with a sidecar of this frozen version of eggnog. This will definitely make those obligatory family get-togethers a bit less traumatic…which I offer on very good authority. The simplest way to measure freshly grated nutmeg, which is the only kind you should use, is to fold a sheet of paper in half, reopen it, and grate the nutmeg over the paper. Then fold the paper again to direct the nutmeg into the measuring spoon.

Crème fraîche is the cultured French cousin to American sour cream, although it’s far richer and more unctuous, with a distinct nutty-tangy-sweet flavor. This ice cream is made in a slightly different manner than other recipes, since mixing the crème fraîche with the other ingredients too far in advance can cause the whole batch to turn into a whole lot of crème fraîche, perhaps more than you bargained for.

Do you know how tin roof ice cream got its name? Neither do I. Nor does anyone, it seems. I’ve tried to find out but have always come up empty-handed. I do know that it’s one of my favorite ice cream combinations, and I guess I need to be content with that. Tin roof sundaes are traditionally made of vanilla ice cream topped with chocolate sauce and a scattering of red-skinned Spanish peanuts. I couldn’t resist using chocolate-covered peanuts instead and folding them into the ice cream, where they become embedded between layers of fudge ripple.

I once visited a sugar shack in Canada, a magical place where sticky maple sap gets boiled down into glistening maple syrup. I watched the process until I could stand it no more, and then my wildest dreams came true: We sat down to a lunch where everything came to the table drenched with pure, precious maple syrup. And in case there wasn’t enough, a big pitcher of warm maple syrup also sat within reach so we could help ourselves to as much as we wanted. If my shoulder bag had been syrup-proof, I would have been very tempted to take some of the obvious overflow off their hands. Maple syrup is usually graded dark amber or light amber. The darker the syrup, the deeper the flavor, so I always use the darker type, since there’s no such thing as too much maple syrup flavor. Adding Wet Walnuts (page 198) drenched in maple syrup ensures a delivery of delicious maple flavor with each bite.

I froze lots and lots and lots of ice cream when writing this book. It was a treat having freshly made ice cream every day, but space in my freezer soon became an issue, and more than once a frozen brick of ice cream slipped out, nearly crashing down on my foot. I eventually realized that it was impossible (and a little dangerous) to coexist with too many flavors all at once. Consequently, I passed off lots of ice cream to friends, neighbors, local shopkeepers, and occasionally a startled delivery man. All were more than happy to take a quart off my hands. But I guarded this Malted Milk Ice Cream, saving it all for myself. The recipe calls for malt powder, which is usually found in the ice cream aisle of your supermarket. Sometimes, however, it’s stocked alongside chocolate drink mixes like Ovaltine, which isn’t the same thing and shouldn’t be used here. The most common brands of malt powder are Carnation and Horlicks. (See Resources, page 237, for online sources.)

This ice cream is for those who are nostalgic for those orange-and-cream-flavored popsicles. If you miss that taste, you’ll discover it again here.

This ice cream tastes just like a big, moist, chewy oatmeal cookie, thanks to the winning combination of plump raisins and crunchy oatmeal praline folded into a custard made with just the right touch of brown sugar.

Spicy cinnamon sticks give this ice cream a stronger, far more complex flavor than ground cinnamon does. Around the winter holidays, skip the bowl of whipped cream to accompany pumpkin pie or apple crisp and treat your lucky guests to cinnamon ice cream instead. It is also very good alongside any favorite chocolate dessert, such as devil’s food cake or perched atop a homemade Brownie (pages 220 and 221).

There’s something about the slightly smoky, potent, and fruity flavor of black currant tea that makes it the perfect complement to chocolate (see Perfect Pairings, below). But if black currants aren’t your cup of tea, substitute another aromatic infusion, such as Earl Grey, scented with bergamot, or smoky oolong instead.

If you like the hearty taste of Guinness Stout, this is the ice cream for you. I was curious as to whether the beer flavor was too strong, so I asked my friend Heather, a knockout whose microscopic waistline belies the fact that the girl really knows her beer, to come by and taste. She gave this one a big thumbs up, so I sent her home with the whole container. The next day the phone rang. It was Heather, telling me that she offered some to her good-looking new neighbor, whom she’d been looking for an excuse to approach, and he was smitten enough to ask her out on a date between spoonfuls. While I can’t promise that sharing this ice cream will wind up being an icebreaker for you, I don’t see any reason not to give it a try.

Two great tastes—smooth, creamy peanut butter and pure unadulterated cocoa—merge together to make one terrific ice cream.