Custard

Demeter, the goddess of grain, hallowed by i siculi—the warrior tribe that inhabited the island before the Greeks—was all of resplendence, even to the high crown formed from her flaxen braids. It was she who illuminated the magic of sowing seeds beneath the earth and then protecting them, feeding them, and growing them up into ripeness. The tribe’s harvests grew ever more abundantly, the goddess conjuring the sun and the rain and the breezes on their behalf, they honoring her with great bonfires under the full moon’s light and ritual offerings of bread and wine. The island was Elysium, uninterrupted. And then, heaving himself up through a rent in the earth’s crust, Pluto stole Demeter’s daughter, Persephone, as plunder for his abyss. Demeter screeched and mourned and cast Sicilia into darkness. There was nothing to nourish her tribe save the tears Demeter cried down from the heavens. So clamorously did the goddess petition him that Pluto succumbed, vowing riddance to the child as much as to her shrewish mother. He would liberate Persephone. Only then, though, did Pluto take note that Persephone had cut in two a pomegranate, and that she sat slaking her child’s thirst on its juices and its glistening, rosy seeds—a blunder. He howled up at her mother that Persephone had devoured the sacred seeds of fertility, and for this sin he must halve his promise. Just as she had broken the fruit, Persephone would be liberated for only six months of every year. And, as penance, she must, each year and everlastingly, stay six months in the shades of Hades. And so it was that Demeter heralded the sun and the rain and raised up the wheat, thick and golden, from May through October, when Persephone was at her side, leaving the island barren and under an impotent sun from November until April—her half-mourning an allegory of the seasons, of life and of death. In the early springtime, one can see still the great roaring fires lit by Sicilian wheat farmers and whole villages in dance and song, invoking the gods’ promise to keep safe their newly sown fields. Only now, old, sweet Demeter, pagan that she was, has been supplanted by St. Joseph, her powers having been ferried over into his realm. Not so long after a woman in Palermo had told us this story of Demeter, we were staying awhile in Enna, an interior agricultural city. One evening, the man who served our supper of rough-cut semolina pasta with a mutton sauce and thick chops of pork, oven-roasted with wild onions, dispatched to our table his mother—a fine country cook—with the sad news that she’d had not a moment to put together some rustic little tart or other that day. There would be no sweet. Unless, of course, she murmured, we’d like a pomegranate with un cucchiaino di zabaglione—a small spoonful of custard. We agreed. What she brought forth to us on an old plate of cranberry-colored glass were two pomegranates that seemed to be broken rather than cut in two, their crimson juices spilling out from the jagged shells with tiny coffee spoons plunged into the hearts of seeds. Two diminutive porcelain pitchers of some winy custard were laid beside the plate. We were urged to pour the custard over, into the pomegranates. Sweet but not quite sweet against the tart, peppery seeds, the sauce was the color of ambered muscadine, its scent that of crushed violets. It was a plate quietly, achingly beautiful to see and to eat. Later, when we asked her son if we might give our thanks to his mother for the fine supper and, especially, for the pomegranates, he told us that she’d gone upstairs to bed. Thinking to write our thanks in a little note, I asked him, “What is her name?” “Mia madre si chiama Demetra,” said the man. “My mother is called Demeter.” Startled, dazed even, for a moment, the story of Demeter came racing to mind. Thinking the note unnecessary, all we said w...

The vanilla bean is one of the wonders of the culinary world. Cured until nearly shriveled, black as a two-week-old banana, the slender pods have a sweetness that belies their appearance. The rich fragrance of true vanilla is so intense that, after my first encounter with a vanilla pot de crème in France, it seemed to permeate even my dreams. I have adapted this pot de crème recipe from one of my favorite cookbooks, Simply French, by Patricia Wells and Joel Robuchon. The French-inspired chocolate sablés were developed by my pastry chef Roxana Jullapat. Encourage your guests to use them as edible spoons to scoop up the rich, silky custard.

Figs and almonds—a classic pairing. For this tart, I cut the figs into quarters and sauté them with sugar, butter, and vanilla for a jammy texture. Then I pour the super-easy custard base into a baked pâte sucrée crust with the caramelized figs, and bake until the top is slightly browned. Be sure to bake the crust completely before filling it, to ensure it stays crisp. Although this tart is so very French, it reminds me just a little bit of all-American Fig Newtons.

If you want to quickly cool the hot custard, pour it into a large bowl set in a larger bowl filled with ice and cold water. Stirring the custard frequently will help to cool it even faster.

A high proportion of lemon juice gives curd its intense flavor. As an acid, the juice also prevents the yolks from curdling when heated (unlike when making pastry cream, which requires the extra step of tempering). You can substitute an equal amount of juice from other citrus, such as lime, grapefruit, or blood orange.

Boiled custard is a southern tradition that has been used for centuries in recipes like banana pudding, pies, and homemade ice cream. It adds the richness and flavor of a pastry cream to every recipe it’s used in, but it’s not as thick.

When we were children, we never made homemade ice cream unless we had company. I’m not sure if it was because we were being sociable or if it was because we needed help with the old hand churn. After working that hard, you definitely deserved a big bowl of ice cream! Daddy always added fresh peaches to this recipe because he loved homemade peach ice cream. Feel free to experiment with a fruit you love. I usually make it plain, then put out bowls of peaches, strawberries, bananas, nuts, and chocolate syrup so my guests can top it as they please.

These pots de crème are ridiculously easy and ridiculously good. Don’t despair if you don’t have eight 4-ounce ramekins; you can use a variety of teacups, prep bowls, or even canning jars of any size. You can also make these a few days ahead of time if you like. Just be sure to wrap them tightly in plastic and remove any particularly stinky items from the refrigerator (chocolate is prone to absorbing neighboring odors).

Alexis and Eric Koefoed operate Soul Food Farm (see page 173) in a rural area of Solano County, Napa’s neighbor. The eggs from their pasture-raised chickens are so superior to conventional eggs that they inspired a cooking class at the winery. For the class dessert, Brian created this variation on floating island, a retro French dessert that deserves to come back into fashion. The “islands” are poached meringues that, in the original version, float on vanilla custard—a superb way to showcase first-rate eggs. The unusual caramel sauce flavored with Cakebread Cellars rosé is Brian’s addition.

When gently cooked together in a saucepan, milk, egg yolks, and sugar become a simple pouring custard, or crème anglaise. Served on its own, in a chilled cup, crème anglaise can be a delightfully simple dessert, but more often it is a sauce served to complement sliced fresh fruit, baked and poached fruit, and cakes. Only the yolks of eggs are used to make pouring custard. When slowly heated, the yolks thicken, adding richness and body to the milk. The standard ratio of egg yolks to milk for custard is 2 yolks to each cup of milk. Separate the eggs, saving the whites for another preparation. Put the egg yolks in a small bowl and mix them lightly, just until they are broken up. Too much stirring or whisking will make them foamy. Heat the milk in a heavy-bottomed pot with sugar and a split vanilla bean. (Vanilla extract can be used instead of vanilla bean, but the flavor will not be quite the same and the visual effect of the tiny black seeds floating in the custard will be lost.) The milk is heated to dissolve the sugar, steep the vanilla bean, and thicken the yolks. Heat it just to the point where little bubbles are forming around the sides of the pan and the milk is steaming; do not let it boil. When the milk is hot, the egg yolks are added, but first they are thinned and warmed with a bit of the hot milk. Whisk a ladleful of the milk into the yolks and then pour them, stirring all the while, into the hot milk. Now comes the most important step. If overheated, the eggs yolks will scramble and separate from the milk. To avoid this, stir the hot mixture constantly over medium heat. I like to use a wooden spoon with a bowl that has a flat end, almost like a spatula. Stir in a figure-eight pattern covering the entire bottom of the pan. The bottom of the pan is where the heat is strongest and where overcooking is most likely to happen (this is why it is important to use a heavy-bottomed pan). Don’t forget to scrape the corners of the pot, where the sides and bottom come together. Cook the custard just until it thickens and coats the back of the spoon. I find this easier to see with a dark-colored wooden spoon. Run your finger along the length of the back of the spoon. If the mixture stays parted and does not drip back across the line created by your finger, then it is done. The temperature at which this occurs is 170°F. The other visual signal I watch for is when the mixture starts to steam profusely, the way other liquids do right before they are going to boil. Keep checking the custard while you are stirring; it will remain the same for a while and then thicken quickly, almost abruptly, when the proper temperature is reached. Have a strainer and bowl ready before you start cooking. Once the custard has thickened, immediately remove it from the heat, stir it vigorously for a minute or two, and then pour it through the strainer into the bowl. Stir the custard to cool it further and stop it from cooking. Retrieve the vanilla pod from the strainer and squeeze it into the custard. A lot of seeds and flavor will come out. Serve the custard right away or chill, covering tightly once cold. The custard will thicken even as it cools. Stir well before serving. For variety pouring custard or crème anglaise can be flavored with fruit purées, espresso, caramel, chocolate, or liquors such as rum, Cognac, or other eaux-de-vie. Flavored pouring custard becomes ice cream when enriched with cream and frozen in an ice-cream maker. The custard can be made slightly thicker with an extra egg yolk, or enriched by substituting half-and-half for part or all of the milk. Custard can also be baked in the oven rather than on the stovetop. An example is pots de crème, rich custards made with cream (or a mixture of cream and half-and-half or milk), in the same ratio of 2 yolks to 1 cup of liquid. Pour the yolk and cream mixture into a heat-proof ceramic baking dish or into little ramekins and bake in a hot-water ...

Palm sugar, or jaggery, is dark, unrefined sugar made from a variety of sources, including the sap of the palm tree. It can be chunky and must be broken up; dark brown sugar is a nearly perfect substitute. This dish is great with slices of ripe fresh mango.

Chawan-mushi is an egg custard flavored with stock and soy and laced with a number of tasty tidbits. In Tokyo, I had a bowl that contained tiny amounts of myoga (a potent member of the ginger family), shrimp, chicken, ginkgo nut, and yuzu, an Asian citrus fruit. None of these is essential, and you can substitute for any or all of them, as I do here. The fillings, called gu, are supposed to be whatever you have on hand. If you have covered ramekins, they are ideal for this preparation. But covering the pot works just as well.

I love custards—when they are properly baked, that is, so each spoonful feels like velvet and truly melts on the tongue, releasing all its flavors. This is one of the most basic pleasures of eating, one that my family enjoys and that I want to share with you. Here is a custard that has everything: lots of the flavor of fresh mushrooms, dried porcini, sage, garlic, and leeks, all concentrated and deepened in the skillet, and a creamy custard that holds all these flavors in suspension. When a spoonful of this melts on your tongue, you’ll understand why I love custards. Serve it as a first course at a special dinner, or as the centerpiece of a holiday brunch. This recipe is for eight small custards and is easily multiplied to make more. The recipe details the important steps in making any custard, so, if you haven’t made one particularly successfully before, pay special attention. For uniform baking, I recommend that you use identical molds to bake up a batch, if possible. If you don’t have any, I encourage you to buy a set of inexpensive 1/2-cup ceramic molds—get eight or a dozen; either a small shallow soufflé shape or the taller traditional custard cup is fine. You’ll use them forever, I hope.

This custard is a very tasty dessert and is often served with fruit, cookies, or pound cake. Although it is called a sauce, the natilla takes center stage rather than the other way around. Many convents serve it in a large bowl and dust freshly ground canela over a stencil to create a religious symbol or figure on top. I particularly like it with fruit such as mango, guava, or berries.

I hesitated about including this recipe in the book because these sweet, cheeselike curds are quite unattractive and you might get scared away if this is the first recipe you try. There is no way around it, and even the most experienced photographer couldn’t beautify them. Once you get past their appearance, however, their wonderful, sweet cinnamony flavor comes through, and you will realize that the taste makes up for what they lack in the beauty department. They were originally created in the city of Zamora in Michoacán, but this recipe is derived from one prepared by the Esperanza clan at Dulcería Esperanza, a family-run candy business in another part of the same state that cooks more than 30 gallons of milk a day in huge rectangular copper pots to make them.