Strawberry-Rhubarb Clafoutis catches some rays at breakfast

Sometimes I get a little over-zealous at the farmers’ market, especially in the late-Spring. I stock up on gorgeous gem-colored cherries, tangy-sweet blueberries, pints of radiant red strawberries, baby beets and rainbow chard, forgetting I made dinner plans or agreed to go to a wine tasting later in the week. As I’m unloading my bags and stuffing my crisper until it’s spilling out the seams like Jack Sprat, I realize I’ve bought way more than I’ll have time to eat without a little strategizing. (And sadly there are weeks I don’t realize this until I the strawberries begin looking like a fifth grade science experiment.)

Walking to the old Farmers’ Market on Fairfax and Third last week, Neal and I spied some rhubarb growing in a neighbor’s yard. The plant had already gone to flower, so it wasn’t going to be good eating, even if it wasn’t an integral part of their landscaping. But it got me thinking of the pint of strawberries in my fridge and one of my favorite, simple French desserts: clafoutis.

I love clafoutis, which is essentially fruit and cake batter, but it tastes a cross between custard and a pancake-y Dutch baby. In Limousin, where the dessert originated, it’s usually made with early-Season cherries, pits and all. The little stones inside aren’t edible, but as they cook they add depth of flavor to the clafoutis. When I make the dessert with cherries, I like to pit them, but rather than cutting the cherries up, I prefer to split them by hand to remove the pit but keep them mostly in tact. It adds to the rustic appeal of the dish.

Moreover, I love clafoutis because it’s so hard to mess up. Even the worst clafoutis tastes pretty good, and it takes hardly any time to make.  So I picked up some crimson stalks of rhubarb at the market to make a strawberry-rhubarb clafoutis. I found a recipe from the folks at King Arthur flour that I used as a foundation and set to hulling and halving strawberries and dicing rhubarb. And while the final version made for some good after-dinner treats (and late-afternoon, passing-through-the-kitchen will-power busters), this not-to-sweet version, which I spiked with cardamom and black pepper, was a delight first thing in the morning with my cup of coffee.

Spiced Strawberry Rhubarb Clafoutis
adapted from King Arthur Flour

Fruit
1 lb ripe strawberries, hulled and halved
1 cup rhubarb (about 2 stalks), diced
4 tbsp butter
1/3 cup sugar

Batter
1/3 cup sugar
1/4 tsp salt
3 eggs
3/4 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
3/4 whole milk
1 tsp vanilla
1 tsp ground cardamom
1 tsp fresh-ground black pepper

Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 9-inch cake pan or casserole dish.

In a sauté pan, melt the mutter. Add the rhubarb and place the strawberries on top, cooking for about five minutes and giving an occasional shake to make sure it’s not sticking. (The goal is the reduce the fruits’ juices to create a bit of a syrup without turning the strawberries to mush.) Sprinkle the 1/3-cup of sugar over the berries, stir and bring the mixture to a boil. Cook for a few minutes, until the mixture thickens slightly. Pour the fruit into you baking dish and let cook while you make the batter.

In a medium-sized bow, whisk the sugar, salt and eggs together until it is light. Slowly add the flour, whisking until combined. Stir in cream, vanilla, cardamom and pepper. Pour the batter over the fruit. Bake for 35-45 minutes, until the cake is puffy and browned on top. Dust with powdered sugar or serve with whip cream or ice cream.

Strawberries from Harry’s Berries@ the Hollywood Farmers’ Market

Sometimes I think I want to just throw in the towel. Writing is hard work, and some days the last thing I want to do, after a full day writing and editing for work, is to sit in front of the computer while the last hours of sunshine and warmth recede into purplish sunsets. To me a bad day writing is like a bad day cooking—you’ve still got something you created in front of you, but do you really want to eat it?

Still, it seems, almost immediately after a string of uninspired days, I’ll be filled with a creative impulse that allows my brain and my ego to shut off just long enough for me to type with abandon. And generally, that inspiration comes from the kitchen, a dish or dessert that rekindles that desire to share, a literary running around with the spoon, eager to feed everyone. I had intended to make a springtime pizza this week complete with a new dough recipe I’m working on in my head. But a succession of incidents left me feeling discouraged, and I never got around to making the dough. As of yesterday, the English peas, fava beans and asparagus for the pizza were still sitting in my fridge, next to the three pints of ruby red strawberries I picked up at the farmers’ market last week.

I love strawberries. In fact, I love them so much, and I ate them with such gusto as a kid (strawberries, strawberry jam, strawberry shortcake, strawberry yogurt—if it had strawberry in it, I ate it) that I developed a strawberry allergy. For nearly a decade, those sweet, juicy berries were forbidden fruit. I grew out of the allergy, thank goodness, but to this day I savor every berry like it might be my last. I try not to over-indulge, but the force is strong with me. I can easily eat a pint in a sitting. Surprised that I hadn’t eaten more of them, my wheels started churning.

I learned long ago that pity parties are best with ice cream. So I decided to take advantage of my new loaner, countertop ice cream maker, my semi-sour mood and riff on the strawberry thyme sorbet recipe I’ve been playing with.  (Thanks Adam!) And wouldn’t you know, inside the perfectly smooth scoop of strawberry rosewater sorbet last night was that seed of inspiration that I had been looking for. Now I have two recipes to post!

To spring!

Strawberry Rosewater Sorbet
adapted from David Lebovitz’s Perfect Scoop

1 lb fresh strawberries
¾ cup sugar
2 tsp lemon juice
½ tsp rosewater
pinch salt
1 tsp vodka

Rinse and hull the strawberries, then quarter them. Add strawberries, sugar, lemon juice, rosewater, salt and vodka to a medium bowl and cover with plastic. Let the strawberry mixture macerate for a half an hour and stir. Let stand for another half an hour. Puree strawberry mixture, then push through a fine-meshed sieve with a wooden spoon to get rid of any pulp or seeds. Chill mixture for 6-8 hours and then freeze according to your ice cream maker’s instructions.

Strawberry Thyme Sorbet
adapted from David Lebovitz’s Perfect Scoop

1 lb fresh strawberries
¾ cup sugar, separated
1 tsp lemon juice
1 oz fresh thyme springs
¼ cup water
pinch salt
1 tsp vodka

Rinse and hull the strawberries, then quarter them. Add strawberries, ½ cup sugar, lemon juice, vodka and pinch of salt to a medium bow. Let macerate for an hour covered with plastic wrap, stirring occasionally. In the meantime, place ¼ cup water, ¼ cup sugar and thyme springs in a small saucepan, heat until the sugar dissolves. Let cool, then pour over the strawberry mixture. Let macerate for another half hour to hour.

Remove thyme spring and puree strawberry mixture. Run through a fine-meshed sieve to get rid of any pulp or seeds. Chill mixture for 6-8 hours and then freeze according to your ice cream maker’s instructions.

A couple of years ago I didn’t know peas had a season—the only ones I’d ever ate came from the freezer section of the grocery store. They were a standby veg, little green orbs best reserved for swollen ankles and pot pies. But peas are so much more than the Jolly Green Giant would lead you to believe (that deceptive behemoth has lied before, you know). Peas are nature’s indicator species, announcing spring’s arrival louder than any of the birds chirping away the morning news outside my window.

This spring, though, I was ready for them, eagerly awaiting the tender, artful pea shoots, like edible curlicues, and the Sweet English shelling peas that immediately follow. A member of the legume family, English peas, also known as sweet peas and common garden peas, are best when super-fresh. The moment they’re picked, these sweet spheres start converting their tempting sugars into starch, and it’s the starchy peas that have vexed American children for the last 50 years, pushing them to hide them under mashed potatoes or roll them off plates out of gustatory boredom.

The key to choosing delicious peas is to find ones that have just been picked, and what better place to do that than your local farmers’ market? At the Hollywood Farmers’ Market the best peas I’ve found are from McGrath Family Farms (Camarillo) and Tutti Frutti (Lompoc). For the tastiest peas, select pods that are plump and bright green with tight-skinned peas inside (crack one open and take a look and taste, you’ll get the idea quickly). This year, many of them have pale speckles on the pods—these are from frost—but they shouldn’t affect the flavor. I find shelling peas meditative and love sitting in the sun snapping the pods open and listening as the peas roll into a stainless steel bowl. It’s a great job for kids, too, if you’re trying to get them into cooking. But if shelling peas isn’t your jam, try sugar snap peas. A cross between the English pea and a Chinese snow pea, these crisp, sweet treats can be eaten pod and all, and they require no cooking (actually, I strongly discourage cooking them). Both kinds of pea pair deliciously with herbs, especially mint and basil, which elevate their flavors and pretty up the plate. Pea shoots add a fresh, springy, hint-of-pea flavor to salads, and are delicious on their own just quickly blanched and sautéed. However you serve them, just remember that good peas don’t need much adulteration, practice restraint when preparing them, and none when eating them.

Here are a few pea recipes that are making my mouth water:

Summer Pea Soup from Elise at Simply Recipes

Peas, Mint and Homemade Greek Yogurt Cheese from Brooke at Foodwoolf

Piselli con Asparagi e Basilico from these pages (and Gourmet)

Snap Peas with Meyer Lemon and Mint from the Kitchn

Happy Spring!

Learn more about green peas on Foodista, a cool cooking encyclopedia.