nesselrode pie

One of my clients, an elegant elderly woman, has an insatiable sweet tooth. Seriously— how she has survived as long without developing diabetes should make her a medical curiosity. Because her disposition is as sweet as her tooth, I made her something special for the holidays: marrons glacés. I knew she would like them because of her fondness for all things sweet and French.

Making marrons glacés is a labor of love. It's a four day process that requires an investment of time and careful attention— though not the kind that one would lavish on creating one of the Great Gateaux. The bulk of the labor is in peeling the pellicle from the chestnuts— a tedious task that I have yet to find a shortcut for. I did experiment with microwaving them in 10-second intervals, with mixed results. While some of the nuts peeled easily and cleanly, one out of five turned out hard and dry. But once they're peeled, the rest of the process requires little time and effort. Twice a day, a sugar and glucose syrup is brought to an increasingly higher temperature and viscosity, then poured over the chestnuts for a twelve hour soak. The process is repeated six times, followed by a drying period. Impregnated with sugar, the chestnuts become a denser, silkier version of themselves.

As I'd hoped, Ms. Sweet Tooth loved them. She ate her way through the box while recounting stories of childhood holidays in Paris, where her mother treated her to the candied chestnuts. Curiously, she stopped in mid-sentence, her attention clearly swept away by another memory, turned to me with wide eyes and whispered "Can you make Nesselrode pie?"

Not knowing what else to say, I told her the truth: I had no idea what Nesselrode pie was.

Apparently, I wasn't alone— the internet is full of people who were as much in the dark as I was. And some of those who knew what it was confessed that they had never laid eyes on one. And yet others waxed about it in mythical proportions. Was Nesselrode pie the unicorn of desserts?

Further searching led to several articles in the New York Times. One, from 1988, stated the following: "While for years it was a popular American Christmas dessert, Nesselrode pie left our collective culinary consciousness about 30 years ago and has hardly been heard from since." Another, on thefoodmaven.com, Arthur Schwartz claims "It's extinct now— no restaurant serves it, no bakery makes it— but this old New York dessert still lives vividly in the taste memories of many."

So, Nesselrode pie isn't a unicorn after all. It's more of a Javan tiger. But what exactly is it?

In the 1988 edition of "Larousse Gastronomique", Nesselrode is described as "The name given to various cooked dishes and pastries, all containing chestnut purée, dedicated to Count Nesselrode, the 19th century Russian diplomat who negotiated the Treaty of Paris after the Crimean War." It goes on to describe a salted chestnut purée, served with sauteed sweetbreads or roebuck steaks or used to fill profiteroles that are served with game consomme. Larousse makes no mention of Nesselrode pie, but says of its predecessor Nesselrode pudding "It consists of custard cream mixed with chestnut puree, crystallized fruit, currants, sultanas, and whipped cream." This edition of Larousse doesn't mention that original versions of the recipe include maraschino liqueur and were served frozen.

By most accounts, Nesselrode pudding was created by Count Nesselrode's chef, Monsieur Mouy, although that claim was contradicted by Eliza Acton and Mrs. Beeton, who both give credit to the French chef Antonin Careme in the recipes that are published in their books. In fact, Careme himself accused Mouy of copying his chestnut pudding and was outraged that he named it after a [non-French] foreigner. The feud was put to rest when E. S. Dallas published Mouy's recipe in "Kettner's Book of the Table" in 1877, pronouncing it "the most perfect of iced puddings."

In the late nineteenth century and early twentieth, Nesselrode pudding was a fashionable holiday dessert in Europe and then in New York. As was popular at the time, iced puddings, or coupes, were molded into fanciful shapes by skilled pastry chefs. The pudding did not freeze hard because of the liqueuer, challenging Victorian pastry chefs to devise ways to prevent them from melting on the table. In "The Royal Pastry and Confectionery Book" (London:1874), Jules Gouffé illustrated a meringue cloche modeled after a thatched beehive that he designed to slip over an iced pudding to act as an insulator.

Because of the skill needed to make and serve an iced dessert, Nesselrode pudding was exclusively available in restaurants and hotels that catered to the upper classes or in private homes that employed a capable staff. It was just a matter of time before a creative and enterprising baker adapted the challenging iced version into a more approachable pie.

Enter Mrs. Hortense Spier, credited with serving the original pie at her restaurant on the Upper West Side of New York City. The restaurant closed before World War II, but Mrs. Spier continued to make the pie for many of the city's leading restaurants including Lindy's and Longchamps. According to Bernard Gwertzman in a NYT article, "My memory [of Mrs' Spier's pie] is of a lot of whipped cream, chocolate shavings on top, candied fruits in the custard of the pie, and a rum flavor throughout. The original Nesselrode had chestnut puree; later recipes omit this ingredient." Sounds delicious, doesn't it? So, what happened?

Like all things popular and trendy, Nesselrode pie ran it's course. As the neighborhoods surrounding the restaurants where the pies were served changed, so too did the tastes of the residents. Unceremoniously, Nesselrode pie faded from our tables and now lives in the realm of forgotten dessserts alongside Baked Alaska and Charlotte Russe. I'm told that they're holding a place for Molten Chocolate Cake.

So now that I know more than I ever thought
I'd care to know about Nesselrode pie, I could answer Ms. Sweet Tooth's question; "Yes, I can make Nesselrode pie". And I did.

But I did one better. I made my version of Nesselrode— with marrons glacés, and candied buddha's hand citron, and real maraschino cherries (sour cherries macerated in simple syrup, cherry juice, maraschino liqueur, and some toasted cherry kernels tossed in for a boost of benzaldehyde).

For Ms. Sweet Tooth, I made a traditional pie, based on the the description of Mrs. Spier's, with a creme bavaroise base in a pastry crust, studded with the candied chestnuts and citron and the maraschinos, crowned with whipped cream and a dusting of chocolate shavings. She was very grateful.

For myself— well, I just played around with the components in a modern design.

And— I made Monsieur Mouy''s recipe for Nesselrode pudding* (it's actually just a very decadent ice cream), mainly because I wanted to taste its origin, but also because It provided me with an excuse to dig out my vintage jello molds. Abandoned and forsaken— the Nesselrode, just like the molds— were begging to be unearthed. Dusted off and polished up, they look shiny again.

*Monsieur Mouy's (Mony) original recipe can be viewed in Kettner's Book of the Table. Scroll to page 312 for Nesselrode Pudding. (note: 1 gill= 142g/5oz)
Caremes recipe (from Mrs. Beeton) can be found here. Scroll halfway down the page for Nesselrode Pudding.

Download recipe: candied buddha's hand citron

Download recipe: marrons glaces

Download recipe: real maraschino cherries

Download recipe: nesselrode pie

confitures

candied buddha's hand citron

marrons glacés

real maraschino cherries

If you're a bit long in the tooth— or just have a sweet one— you might already know what these are destined for.

buddah’s hand citron

If a squid and a lemon had a love child, I imagine it would look like a Buddah's hand citron.

The visually striking Buddah's hand citron (Citrus medica var. sarcodactylis) is an ancient species of citrus, a genetic mutation that originated in Northeastern India or China. It's fragrance is sweet and floral— like lemons and oranges, kissed by violets— and so powerful that in China it's used to scent rooms and tucked in with clothing and linens.

Buddah's hand citron has no pulp or juice— just a fragrant rind, laden with essential oils, and a mild, sweet albedo (pith), devoid of the bitterness found in other citrus.

I purchased a pair of them in early December and after admiring their forms and fragrance on display around the house, it was time to bring them into the kitchen.

Buddah's hand citron is most commonly used in sweet applications, but I wanted to explore its use as a savory component. Knowing that I wouldn't have time to work them into a dish, I cut them into fingers and preserved them in salt and Meyer lemon juice. Nearly six weeks later, they were ready— and so was I.

Preserved in their salty and acidic bath, the rind of the Buddah's hand citron appeared darker and slightly shriveled, while the spongy albedo had softened and condensed. Like preserved lemons, they were fiercely pungent— salty and puckery, but underneath that was their characteristic sweet, floral aroma. Straight out of the brine, they would've made a distinctive accent to nearly anything from seafood to lamb, if used sparingly.

In an attempt to tone them down, I cooked them in a pressure cooker with water and just a spoonful of the brine. They turned out mellower in flavor with a melting soft texture that easily turned into a smooth puree in the food processor.

Now what?

Indian Summer :: the lake :: duck cranberry wild rice

Pemmican was the original power bar— a rich source of energy, and a nutritious survival food. Native Americans made pemmican by blending pounded, dried meat (jerky) with rendered fat in a 50/50 ratio. Typically, the meat came from ungulate (hoofed) animals— bison, moose, elk, deer. The fat was melted tallow or marrow, extracted from the bones. For special ceremonies, dried berries were added for flavor and color.

The word pemmican comes from the Algonquin word pimikan, derived from pimil, the Cree-Chippewa word for fat.

The hunter-gatherers of North America ate diets that were high in saturated animal fat— alarmingly high by today's standards— yet they lived long, healthy lives, free of disease (until the Europeans arrived). Hunters, in particular, were driven by a lust for fat that they believed was vital to their physical and mental well-being.

Early visitors who witnessed the native hunter's prowess were in awe. One Spanish explorer, Cabeza de Vaca, wrote "The men could go after deer for an entire day without resting or apparent fatigue… one man near seven feet in stature… runs down a buffalo on foot and slays it with his knife or lance, as he runs by its side".

No doubt, their active lifestyle contributed to their physical integrity and superiority. Maintaining it placed a premium on the quality and quantity of their caloric intake, necessitating fat as part of their diet. With nearly 2 1/2 times the energy of complex carbohydrates, sugars, or meat, animal fat was the most efficient way to consume calories without adding bulk.

puffed wild rice: (top) cook until very soft, (center) dehydrate until hard and dry, (bottom) fry in rendered duck fat until puffed

The Chippewa (anglicized name for Ojibwe), are the third largest group of Native Americans in the United States, though they are equally divided between the US and Canada. They once occupied a large territory around The Great Lakes that spread from the prairies of Canada to the plains of Montana.

Chippewas are best known for the wild rice that they gather from the lakes in birchbark canoes. The manoomin (meaning "good berry"), or wild rice, is a sacred plant to the Obijwe, who believed that it was a gift to them from the spirits. According to legend, their creator Gichi-Manidoo guided them on a long journey from the east to Lake Mole, in Wisconsin, where they found "the food that grows on water". Manoomin became so valuable and integrated in their lives that in the early 1800's, they fought a bloody war with the Sioux over it, in which the Chippewa were ultimately victorious.

Wild rice (Zizania) quickly became a staple in the Chippewas diet, and they learned to prepare it many different ways: cooked into a paste to be eaten as bread, mixed with cranberries and maple syrup for breakfast, to thicken broths, and popped, or puffed in hot grease. Wild rice was also traded for furs and was useful for attracting geese, ducks, and other wild fowl, making them easy prey for the Indians who waited, hiding in the dense reeds. The Chippewas believed that the birds that fed on the revered crop were the most delicious of all. Makes sense to me.

Pemmican

dried duck, cranberries, crispy duck skin

puffed wild rice

autumn pudding

from behind cascading leaves
the sun emerges like a sleepy child

heavy eyelids
blink
fractals of gilded light
a gentle yawn
exhale
a universe of scent
both familiar and exotic

leaves drift
fall
rustle a lullaby

I bid it sweet dreams
and eat my way across the autumn sky

parsnip vanilla pudding
butternut squash, autumnberry, kaffir lime gelee
candied pumpkin

Download recipe: Autumn pudding

autumnberry

I equate the back half of my property to the side of a mountain. I'm probably being overly dramatic but it does feel that way when I climb it. When I brought my father up there, he said it would make a fine vineyard. He was right— it had good drainage and a southwestern exposure, but I had different kinds of fruit in mind: cherries, pears, apples, plums… I wanted to plant a mountain orchard.

The second spring after we moved in, my husband and I cleared an area on the lower rise. We took down a few mature trees, numerous saplings, and a ton of unidentified shrubs that dominated the understory. They were attractive as far as wild shrubs go— long arching branches, silvery leaves, and insignificant yellow flowers that perfumed the mountain with their sweet scent. I would have hesitated to cut them down, but honestly, they were everywhere.

That spring, I planted six semi-dwarf fruit trees with the intentions of planting six more the following year. It was too far from the house to bring in water, but I managed to get a large tub up to gather rainwater for dry spells. That first year, I checked on the trees frequently, though there was little to do except to adjust their supports and weed around their base. By midsummer, the stumps of the shrubs that had been cut to the ground were sending out multiple shoots that began to encroach on the trees. It seemed that the more severely they were cut, the more vigorous they became. They were tenacious— I gave them that— but so was I. That first year I was confident that I had them under control [insert Nature's mocking laugh].

It was August of the following year when I finally made my way back up to the orchard. Plans to plant more trees were thwarted; other things took priority. In the wild overgrowth that ensued in my neglect, I had to look hard to find the fruit trees. Half of them were dead and the remaining three didn't look so good. I suppose that I should have felt defeated, but I had more invested in the orchard than the hours of labor and cost of the trees— I was chasing a dream of my own private Eden; trying to fulfill a plan that would bring me closer to the land and further from the grid. Stubbornly, I resolved to reclaim the orchard and waged a quiet, but violent war with pruning saw and shears.

I went back to work full-time the following year. In the restaurant biz, that means 14-16 hour days, leaving little free time for gardening. I didn't make it back to the orchard until late in the season, then I wished I hadn't. It's never easy to admit defeat. Or to let go of dreams.

I let a few years pass before I ventured back up the mountain. With the fruit trees dead, there didn't seem much point— until last month, when I found a reason to return.

You see, I finally identified the tenacious shrubs. It turns out that my nemesis and the squasher of my mountain orchard dream is the Autumn Olive (Elaeagnus umbellata)— a close relative of Russian Olive, a native of Asia (Aki-gumi) and cultivated by the Europeans who introduced it to North America. Originally intended as an ornamental, its tolerance of a wide range of environmental conditions and nitrogen-fixing root nodules that allows it to thrive in poor soil and drought, made it attractive to public works horticulturists, who planted it along highways to prevent erosion and attract wildlife. They didn't account for its highly viable seed, spread by birds, and its tendency to overcrowd native species, landing it squarely on the federal invasive species list. Here, in the Northeast, Autumn Olive is classified as an invasive exotic gone feral. I can certainly vouch for that.

It does, however, have a saving grace— it produces edible fruit.

In late fall, the green drupes begin to blush. Their color deepens and darkens with the onset of cold. When green, they are tannic and unpalatable— much like raw green olives. As they ripen, the tannins give way to tartness and eventually sweetness, which doesn't occur until they are threatened by frost. When fully ripe, as they are now, they straddle a balance of sweet and tart, with a flavor that is reminiscent of pomegranates, currants and cranberries.

The fruit has captured the attention of the USDA, who gave it a new name, Autumnberry, and opened an Autumnberry research lab in hopes of promoting their rich nutritional value. The berries contain high levels of vitamin A, C, and E, as well as flavonoids and carotenoids, but it is their particularly high levels of the antioxidant lycopene that makes them unique. With 30-70 mg of lycopene per 100 g of fruit, it surpasses (by up to 17 times) the levels found in raw tomato.

And so, after identifying the plant and learning of its edible fruit, I watched and waited. At least once a week, I climbed the mountain to check on their progress and taste for the developing sweetness. Last week, on a cold, windy day following a light frost, they were ready. I picked a few quarts, forcing myself to stop when my bare fingers became too cold and stiff to continue. It felt completely surreal and unnatural to be harvesting fruit in November— but aren't the sweetest things in life the ones that take you by surprise and not the ones you plan for? And even though Autumnberry robbed me of my dreams of cherries, pears, apples, and plums, I forgive them because— in an entirely unexpected way— I have my mountain orchard after all.

aged gouda
autumnberry cheese
comice pear
pumpkinseed oil

perfect apple pie

A standard of perfection is as fluid as the emotions that define and measure it. Because it is an arbitrary judgement, it evolves with time and varies from person to person, with no one being wrong.

I thought that the very first apple pie that I made was perfect because it looked like the picture in the cookbook. It came out of the oven all golden and full of promise. Everything but its appearance was a disappointment.

I had piled the apples high in the center and carefully draped the top crust over them, but when I cut into it, the top crust collapsed into the cavity that was left by the shrunken apples. And although the crust was crisp on the outside– inside, it was pasty from the steam created by the cooking apples (even though I had cut vents in it). The filling, too, was a disaster. I had used the wrong apples (this was before I understood the difference between a cooking apple and an eating apple) and had sliced them too thin, causing them to break down into mush. And even though I had followed the recipe precisely, the juices turned into starchy glop.

In all of my subsequent attempts at achieving my vision of pie perfection, I came to the realization that tossing a bunch of ingredients into a sealed crust, with no way of adjusting the texture and flavor as it cooked, was a leap of faith.

At one point, I thought that I had found the perfect apple pie when I tasted Tarte Tatin: crisp, flaky pastry; crisp-tender caramelized apples, cooked only in butter and sugar. It set a new standard in texture and flavor, but it wasn't really a pie– not in the American-as-apple-pie sense.

Later, I discovered that blind-baking the bottom crust ensured that it would be crisp and flaky all the way through, and that caramelizing the apples separately allowed me full control of their texture, But then there was the problem of the top crust. Not wanting to compromise the perfectly cooked apples with further cooking, I topped the compressed apple filling with pre-baked streusel crumbs. By my standards, I had created the perfect apple pie, but it was a Dutch apple pie– not the double-crusted, golden-domed, All-American apple pie.

I don't know what took me so long to figure out that the top crust could also be pre-baked and then 'glued' to the bottom crust to produce the iconic form with all of the components cooked separately to their respective states of perfection, but I'm glad that I did. It reinforces my belief that techniques are sometimes perpetuated because of tradition, not because they are perfect, and in the search for perfection– everything needs to be reexamined.

peach melba pie

frozen raspberry ice cream… cold peach curd… warm peach compote… all wrapped up in flaky pastry…

How?

raspberry kaffir shortcake

brown butter biscuit

raspberry

kaffir cream

daylily

As with most dishes, It started as a concept…

The idea was to showcase a flower– not just as a taste/aroma, or as a representation– but to present the flower intact, in full bloom, even as it grows on the stem.

Then, I thought, wouldn't it be better if there were two flowers on that stem that could be presented in different preparations: one hot, one cold; one cooked, one raw? Sure it would.

And– what if there were buds that could be…oh, say, pickled…to serve as a counterpoint to the other preparations? Awesome right?

The problem was finding the right flower. No matter how lovely, would anyone want to approach a rose with a knife and fork?

It was a tall order and I all but gave up on the concept because, frankly, I wasn't sure that such a flower existed. But Nature knew that it did…and set the day lilies a-bloomin".

king crab/creme fraiche/preserved lemon/tarragon

king crab tempura

pickled lily buds

mango/yellow bell pepper

cantaloupe

tomato

fava/orange mint

A single daylily stem can produce up to 50 blossoms, each one programmed to last only a day. They have a tender, lettuce-like texture and mildly sweet vegetal flavor, reminiscent of melon or squash. Do not mistake toxic lilies (Lilium) for daylilies (Hemerocallis). While the flowers are easily confused, the plants are distinct– daylily leaves are long blades that grow directly from the base of the plant, while Lilium species have short leaves that grow along the length of the stem.