Take a bow...

There’s a Broadway theater named the Lunt-Fontanne—maybe you’ve seen it if you’ve walked through Times Square? Lunt-Fontanne was actually two people: Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne, husband and wife, perhaps the biggest stars of the early to mid twentieth century. I could claim they were the Brangelina of their time, but that’s not quite accurate. They may actually have been bigger; their Broadway plays were invariably hits, they dutifully took them out on the road playing cities of every size (a/k/a, “the provinces,”) and they were pioneers of a natural, realistic acting style. One night while channel surfing I happened to catch a kinescope of a play they had performed live on TV in the late fifties. Even then, in their late sixties, they had timing, humor, and chemistry that would be considered contemporary today.

What in the world does this have to do with food?

It’s a stretch, but bear with me.

Anyway, during their down time, “The Lunts” lived on a farm (now a museum) called “Ten Chimneys” in Genesee Depot, Wisconsin (Lunt was a Wisconsin native.) While there, Alfred channeled his artistic talent into the kitchen, becoming quite skilled in that venue too.

Blatz showed Lunt in his kitchen (left)

I found this out a few years ago, and was amused enough by it that I decided to name one of my recipes in his honor, giving it an imaginary “back story,” and the aura of mystery that goes along with it. (Food geek? Me? Hi! Have we met?)

The question was: which recipe? Then Thanksgiving rolled around. After a quick tour through my recipe file, the answer became obvious. For many years I have been making a pumpkin pie with a chocolate cookie crumb crust. The original idea came from seeing the pre-made chocolate cookie crumb crusts stacked near the canned pumpkin in the supermarket. It was as easy as asking, “What if I tried those two together?”

One year, I couldn’t find the pre-made chocolate cookie crumb crusts, and realized I would have to make my own. That’s when I found Nabisco Famous Chocolate Wafers. You may have seen those: they are packaged in a cellophane wrapped yellow box. A plain, simple, dark chocolate cookie, they are more than just a bit addictive, and, after a spin in the food processor, perfect in a crumb crust.

(If you doubt me that the cookies are addictive, I’ll admit that more than once I have had to run out and get another box because I no longer had enough to make a full crust. Oink.)

Although I have never been able to find out why the cookies are called famous, pairing the most famous stage actor / cook of the twentieth century with a cookie named “famous” just seemed natural to me. Could there be a better match? That’s how “Alfred Lunt’s Famous Pumpkin Pie” was born. The recipe is all mine, but its cachet is borrowed.

So, now, to the pie itself. I have written in this venue about a tendency I used to have to over spice pumpkin pie, a nasty habit swiftly broken by my mother’s insistence that she wanted to taste the pumpkin in the pumpkin pie. So I tempered my recipe, putting the pumpkin center stage, and relegating the spices to supporting roles. The spices are all still there; in fact I used a kitchen sink approach, just in smaller quantities, sometimes as small as a pinch. A restrained twist of orange zest adds a spring to the pumpkin’s step.

To give the pumpkin custard a bit of complexity I used three different sweeteners: white sugar, and smaller doses of maple syrup and molasses. The maple syrup adds a bit of smoke, and the molasses makes the sugar less cloying, effectively keeping the whole thing with two feet planted firmly on the ground. If you’re a fan of using sweet potato instead of pumpkin (and why wouldn’t you be?) I suggest using a bit less of each sweetener, and give some thought to employing them in different ratios than you would with pumpkin. Perhaps a bit less of the sugar and maple, and a bit more of the molasses?

I use a light version of the classic pumpkin custard, omitting the egg yolks, and using fat free evaporated milk. The remaining egg whites are whipped to soft peaks, breathing a bit of lift into what is usually a very dense pie. Pumpkin is rich enough on its own, so the resulting pie retains its heft, but you’ll have room for all the other goodies that are sure to find themselves under your nose on turkey day.

Because the pumpkin mixture is so liquid when poured into the pan, it soaks the chocolate cookie crumbs slightly, but the result seems like providence rather than poor baking skills. You get a dark, dense, mildly chocolate crust that sets off the rusty pumpkin better than a predictable pie crust ever could. Contrary to the expectation that the chocolate might upstage the pumpkin, they actually work together in a well rehearsed banter.

This all reminds me that the holidays are a perfect time to bring some theater to the table. I bake this pie in a Springform pan. This serves two purposes: first, you pop open the pan and the pie is freed, easier to slice, and ready to do its job; second, the perfectly upright sides of the pan give each slice a pleasingly symmetrical discipline. Why not take the slices out of the pan and line them up on a rectangular platter, like a line of whipped cream-topped Rockettes ready to kick their way across your table. Ta da!

And the cachet? I’ll be telling folks that Alfred Lunt used to bake this pie every Thanksgiving at Ten Chimneys. So when I offer seconds, it is in the tradition of the man himself exhorting Noel Coward to, “…have another piece of pie, old boy.” You can make up your own story if it pleases you. That’s “thee-a-tah.”

Hmmm: I wonder what I did with that recipe for Kathie Lee’s Crab Cakes?

Click here for the recipe for “Alfred Lunt’s Famous Pumpkin Pie.”

Let me email you when the blog has been updated! Opt in by clicking the biscotti at right or by sending your email address to michael@butterfloureggs.com

Don't be scared. It's only a cookie.

You want scary? You should see me carving a Jack O’Lantern. Don’t worry, this isn’t a gruesome or gory story; no blood has ever been spilled. Sadly, this is simply a story of a boring pumpkin carver. Me.

This is a realization many years in the making. I don’t remember carving Jack O’Lanterns as a kid. But when my Baby Niece (“BN” as I refer to her in this venue) was growing up I was always the designated carver. I haven’t asked her lately what her memories of our pumpkin carving are, but her lack of vocal nostalgia through the years speaks volumes. It’s not that my Jack O’Lanterns were bad or messy, it’s just that they were…tame. Two triangular eyes. A triangular nose. A jagged mouth. Zzzzzzzzzzz.

From the vantage point of time passed, I see a two-fold problem. The first is relatively simple. Tools are everything, and I always feel that the tools I have at hand are inadequate for the “art of the gourd.” Pumpkins are big and have tough skins (I’ve worked for people like that) and kitchen knives always seem too small or frighteningly too big (I’ve worked for people like that too. Hmmm…)

I have seen Martha Stewart go at the poor defenseless vegetables with all manner of electric drills and saws. Where’s the sport in that? Bringing electric power to bear here seems like performing open heart surgery with a jack hammer. (I’m a big fan of Martha’s, but the look of glee on her face as she went at the pumpkin with a hole saw was eye opening for more than just the pumpkin.)

Last year at Williams-Sonoma I saw an electric tool designed specifically for pumpkin carving. Where’s the finesse? Where’s the artistry? Besides, if I used that a friend of mine would have labeled me a “cheater” to the end of my days. (I have a couple of friends who like to throw pumpkin carving parties. Let’s just say it’s a tough room.)

If you sense some hemming and hawing on my part it is likely due to the second part of the two-fold problem. I tend to personify the pumpkins. When I shop for a pumpkin I don’t choose the first pumpkin I see. I look for one that is big, round, and, for lack of a better description, happy. For me, pumpkin shopping is not unlike adopting a big round orange mutt from the pound.

Let me digress for a moment. I have a friend who has a dog. One Christmas season, someone (not me!) had the inspiration to place a set of felt reindeer antlers on the dog. I will never forget the look of shame and disappointment on the dog’s face as he hung his head in shame. If the dog could have spoken, he likely would have said, “Antlers? You’re kidding, right? I thought you were better than this.”

I look at my beautiful, happy pumpkin, and can’t help but feel the same attitude coming from him—I mean–it. So, my instinct is always to enjoy the fat, happy pumpkin as is.

But social obligations being what they are, when invited to a Jack O’Lantern carving party one must arrive with the makings of a Jack O’Lantern. That’s where some butter, flour, and eggs come in handy.

Yes, if there’s a holiday and a party, it’s likely that I can find a cookie to suit the day. In this case a Jack O’Lantern cookie isn’t a cheat, no; it’s a creative swerve into another lane on the highway. All you need is a Jack O’Lantern cookie cutter.

The first time I made Jack O’Lantern cookies, I used a tangy maple-flavored dough, sprinkled them with a dusting of maple sugar, and filled them like a sandwich cookie with chocolate buttercream. 

This year I thought it would be fun to go with tradition and use an orange colored filling. A chocolate cookie would be good, but a little predictable. I was in the mood for something else, so the cookies are mocha-flavored.

I was faced with a few choices for the filling, and decided to present you with an either / or decision. You can use an easy buttercream and tint it orange, but if kids are involved in the occasion, I thought it would be fun to make them into a kind of a Halloween S’Mores cookie. I painted the bottom cookie with melted chocolate, let it set, then topped that with a dab of Italian meringue (Marshmallow Fluff from the jar is a perfectly acceptable substitute) tinted orange. I closed the sandwich with a cookie whose eyes, nose, and mouth were cut out so the orange filling would show.

The trick? I didn’t have to carve a pumpkin. The treat? Cookies, of course.

Click here for my Jack O’Lantern cookie recipe.

Let me email you when the blog has been updated! Opt in by using the Subscribe section at right or by sending your email address to michael@butterfloureggs.com

Pumpkin Apple Praline Cake

No, I am not calendar-challenged; this Friday marks the beginning of the Jewish New Year holiday, which starts with Rosh Hashanah, and ends the following week with Yom Kippur. 

On the lunar-based Jewish calendar this year will be 5770, and yes, I agree, time flies: seems like it was just 5760.

Here’s the “Emily Post”: Yes, by all means wish your Jewish friends a Happy New Year, but do not say, “Happy Yom Kippur.” Yom Kippur is all about fasting to atone for your sins, and mourning those we’ve lost. Stick with, “Happy New Year” and you’re covered.

In spite of the fact that the holiday includes a day of fasting, as with any big holiday there is also a big meal. My baby niece (that’s what I call her in spite of the fact that she is a college graduate) is the event planner. I have been tasked with providing desserts. Baby Niece (or “BN” as she will heretofore be known) assigned me this task as much for my skills in the kitchen as for the fact that we are simpatico when it comes to our choice of which desserts should be served on any given holiday.

The tradition of desserts on this holiday is not a particularly rich one. Traditional Jewish New Year desserts include apples dipped in honey (a symbolic gesture of hope for a sweet new year,) Honey Cake, Sponge Cake, and Taiglach, which could be wonderful, but ends up being soup nuts coated with “honey” (I use that term loosely), and tossed with chopped almonds and a few confused-looking maraschino cherries. This is usually sold in a disposable aluminum pie tin.

Maraschino cherries in a disposable pie tin. Tempting. If you’re a smelter with a sweet tooth.

Jewish food is basically a reflection of the various places we have lived; for some this means a largely Eastern European influence, and for others a largely North African and Southern European influence.

As I am several generations removed from the Eastern European experience, I think it is time to reflect (and celebrate) the rich traditions of the place where I grew up.

Welcome to “Extreme Makeover: Jewish New Year Desserts” edition.

The sponge cake is the first to be shown the door. The role has been recast with Lemon Yogurt cake, a simple recipe from Ina Garten, a/k/a the Barefoot Contessa, which has a fizzy lemon intensity that belies its humble name. (My family and I do not observe kosher laws, so we can have a cake made with yogurt, a dairy product, in the same meal as meat.)

I have a few ideas for the Taiglach, but they’ll need some work in the lab before I can use them, so I’m moving on, for now, to the honey cake, which is joining its sponge cake buddy in blessed retirement.  Perhaps they’ll drop us a note now and then.

BN and my mom have been tempted of late by pumpkin which I think fits the harvest celebration aspect of the New Year beautifully.  But flabby, over spiced pumpkin loaf recipes abound, and frankly, with the homey simplicity of the Lemon Yogurt cake something equally rustic, but slightly more stylish is needed. There’s also the fact that I learned my lesson about over spicing pumpkin several Thanksgivings ago when my mom, between shovelfuls of my Pumpkin Pie paused long enough only to breathe and say, “Delicious! But I can’t taste the pumpkin.”

So, a light hand with the spice. The earthy intensity would come from the use of brown sugar and maple syrup which would sweeten the cake, and reflect my New England background. A few wisps of orange zest would supercharge the pumpkin flavor. With a nod towards the apples and honey tradition, there would need to be apples in the cake, but more fun I thought, if the apples could be sliced and end up on top of the cake. The goal is like the lovechild of a cake and a clafouti.

Then I had second thoughts.  It sounded good, but the lily needed a bit of gilding: the cake still seemed a bit plain, and I like things to have a bit of crunch, which, unless I was clumsy with an eggshell, is not something for which cake is usually known.

Hmmm…my mind lingered for a moment on the almonds and honey in the Taiglach. What if the honey and almonds could somehow be a source of crunch on the cake? This is frequently done using crushed praline, which is simply sugar cooked with nuts, then allowed to harden, and crushed into a powder. Why not do the same thing with honey and almonds?

The story, I’m happy to report, has a happy ending. A trial run revealed the need for a few adjustments: a bit less orange zest here, a slightly greener apple there, and the use of cake flour instead of all purpose flour to dry the crumb a bit. But all in all, a wonderful makeover for that tired old honey cake.

The cake, once cooled, was first dusted with confectioner’s sugar, then with the honey praline. The apples were cooked on the bottom of the pan so they would be on top when the cake was turned out of the pan. Combined with the confectioner’s sugar they formed a thin, almost “jammy” layer. The pumpkin cake retained the buttery brightness of the pumpkin and orange zest, but revealed the smoky sweetness of the maple syrup. The praline was the best surprise of all, starting and ending each bite with a toasty, honeyed crackle that said, “Happy New Year!”

And the good news is that the cake is perfect for any occasion during fall and autumn, from a gathering as big as Thanksgiving, to one as intimate as coffee with a chum.

Click here for my recipe, and “L’shana Tova!”