Market season: Not done yet

Chanterelles

Our little farmers’ market traditionally closes the weekend before Thanksgiving, and while the number of vendors has dropped sharply, there’s still wonderful autumn food to be had. Yesterday it was wild mushrooms – one vendor literally had bushel baskets full of chanterelles, and another was offering more unusual varieties. I should have brought more cash. But at $15 a pound, I did score two pounds of lovely, orange-fleshed chanterelles, my favorite autumn mushroom. And I had enough money for a pound of ground lamb.

The mushrooms got spread out on newspapers to dry out enough so I could brush away the pine needles and forest duff, then separated into paper bags: One containing the largest mushrooms, which I’ll slice and dry in my food dehydrator tomorrow night; one to make a batch of pan-roasted mushrooms*, and one, along with the lamb, for tonight’s dinner (and this week’s lunches): A white-sauced lasagna of mushrooms, lamb and pumpkin. Which in the oven as I type this, and filling the house with savory autumn smells.

Pumpkin and wild mushrooms – or stronger flavored tame ones, such as Crimini or Portobello – are gorgeous together. Think of a pumpkin-mushroom soup with lots of garlic, or a creamy pumpkin-mushroom risotto. Adding lamb might be considered gilding the lily (and indeed, there’s no reason you couldn’t convert this to a vegetarian dish by omitting the lamb and using more mushrooms ), but I’ve had Morroccan and Afghan dishes that combine pumpkin and lamb to wonderful effect. So, feeling experimental and having a long Sunday evening to play in the kitchen, I came up with this.

Lasagna with pumpkin, lamb and chanterelles

Lasagne with pumpkin, lamb and wild mushrooms

Ingredients

• 1 small pumpkin (edible variety) or large butternut squash
• 1 lb lean ground lamb
• 3/4 cup butter (1 1/2 stick), divided
• 1/2 pound chanterelles or other flavorful, meaty mushrooms, cleaned, trimmed of any bad spots and sliced lengthwise
• 1 small onion, chopped
• 3-4 cloves of garlic, minced
• 2 Tbsp fresh sage, minced
• 2 Tbsp fresh thyme, minced
• 1 Tbsp fresh rosemary, minced
• 1 15-ounce container whole-milk ricotta (2 cups)
• 2 large eggs
• 1 cup grated parmesan cheese, divided
• 20 oz. fresh mozarella cheese,
• 1/2 cup flour
• 4 cups flavorful vegetable stock
• Olive oil
• 1 package no-boil lasagna noodles

Method

Preheat oven to 350F

Cut pumpkin in half and scoop out fibers and seeds (you are saving your pumpkin seeds to toast, right?) Oil the cut edges, and place cut-side down on a baking sheet. Bake for 30 minutes, until flesh is tender but not too soft. Remove from oven and allow to cool until you can handle it without burning your fingers. (Do not turn the oven off unless you plan to wait a while to finish the dish).

Meanwhile:

In a large skillet over medium heat, brown the ground lamb, breaking it up as you go. Stir in half the fresh herbs. Using a slotted spoon, remove the cooked lamb from the skillet and set aside.

To the juices in the skillet, add 1/4 cup (1/2 stick) butter and allow it to melt. Add mushrooms, onion and garlic, stir well and reduce heat. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the onion is translucent and the mushrooms are cooked. Stir the cooked lamb into the mushrooms and remove from heat.

Mix ricotta, eggs and half the parmesan. Slice the mozarella on the diagonal into pieces about a third of an inch thick.

In a small pan over medium heat, melt the remaining stick of butter and whisk in the flour to make a smooth roux. Gradually add the stock, whisking all the while, and the rest of the herbs. Simmer until it is thickened (This is a sauce velouté, the non-dairy version of a bechamel), remove from heat.

When the pumpkin is cool enough to work with, use a paring knife to cut around the stem and blossom ends, then grasp the peel and pull it off; it should come away easily. Slice the pumpkin radially into half-inch-thick crescents.

Assembly:

Brush a little olive oil in the bottom of a 9×13x2-inch baking dish, and layer as follows:

• The ricotta mixture
• Layer of noodles
• The pumpkin pieces, arranged to cover the noodles
• Half of the sauce velouté
• Layer of noodles
• The lamb and mushroom mixture
• The ovals of mozarella, distributed evenly over the lamb.
• Layer of noodles
• Spoon the rest of the sauce velouté over the final layer of noodles and spread evenly. Sprinkle with remaining parmesan. Cover with oiled foil.

Bake at 350 for 30 minutes. Remove foil, and continue baking for 25 minutes, or until top is nicely puffed and browned. Remove from the oven and let stand 10 minutes to firm up before serving.

Like all lasagnas, this one can be assembled a day in advance and then refrigerated until time to bake.

Makes 8 servings.

*I’ll blog the pan-roasted mushrooms recipe in the next day or two, when I make it. It’s a little fiddly, but produces delicious results.

Strange fruit

“What is that?”

The question, from a woman in a green windbreaker, was directed at the vendor, but I couldn’t stop myself.

“It’s a quince – it’s like the essence of apple, multiplied by 10, only you have to cook it before you can eat it. They’re fabulous!”

I do that when I’m at the farmers’ market: Engage in conversations with total strangers about food, and the preparation thereof. It’s part of what makes a local market so much more enjoyable than, say, a quick trip to Safeway. Strangers talk to each other; community happens over a bin of ripe, red tomatoes, a mountain of sweet corn – or a basket full of quinces.

The green windbreaker lady was interested but skeptical; she walked away with a bag of pears but no quinces. But the vendor seemed pleased. She should be; she’s the one who introduced me to the joys of quinces, and I’ve become one of a cadre of quince-lovers who snatch up the hard, golden fruits each autumn when she brings them to market.

“Quince” is one of those words I first encountered in literature (A Midsummer Night’s Dream), and in my mother’s dog-eared copy of the Fannie Farmer Boston Cooking School cookbook, handed down from the grandmother who raised her. I had no idea what a quince actually was, mind you. In my mind’s eye, I imagined it as a small, round fruit, something like a kumquat, probably because of the “qu-” sound they shared. And knew that one could make jelly from it, as well as something called quince paste. It sounded genteel, ladylike and vaguely Victorian.

Imagine my surprise, during a stroll through the market two autumns ago, at encountering the real thing: A hard, yellow-gold fruit the size of a man’s fist, slightly pear-shaped and covered with a soft, waxy down that rubs off on your fingertips. And the fragrance! Quince has an intense perfume reminiscent of apples and honey, only more so.
I bought two on the spot, having no idea what I’d do with them. And then, like any good foodblogger, sat down at the computer to do a little research.

What the heck is a quince, anyway? Cydonia oblonga, botanically speaking: one of the most venerable fruits of the rose family, probably older than apples – and, many scholars believe, the fruit that got mistranslated as “apple” from many ancient writings, from the Greek mythologies to the Christian Bible. Given the quince’s origins in the temperate climate of the Caucasus and Mediterranean fertile crescent, it may well have been the fruit that tempted Eve, and the apple Paris handed Aphrodite.

In practice, quince is one of those Difficult Fruits. You can’t eat it raw – it’s too hard and too astringent, as anyone who’s tried to nibble its flesh will tell you (can you say “pucker”?) But those very qualities, caused by an abundance of natural pectins, also make cooked quince a natural for jellies and preserves (marmalade, now mostly made with oranges and other citrus fruits, originated in the Middle Ages as a way preserving quinces in honey).

Popular among colonial American gardeners, the quince has fallen out of favor in North America, replaced by fruits that are easier to eat and cultivate. Fireblight, a bacterial orchard disease, has wiped out many old stands of quince in the United States.
But some growers, particularly those who cultivate heirloom tree fruit, still grow quince, and now and then the fruit turns up in farm or specialty markets. Around here, First Fruits Farms grows beautiful quince, big and heavy and golden-ripe, and when I see them, I snatch them up.

What to do with all that quince? Most often, I simple cut them up and add them to applesauce for an extra boost of flavor. Lately, though, I’ve been branching out.
Google, my personal cybernetic brain enhancement, leads to all manner of lovely things to do with quince:

• David Leibovitz gives us a simple recipe for quince poached in sugar-and-vanilla syrup
• Via In Praise of Sardines, Paula Wolfert’s recipe for slow-baked quince, along with an explanation of why the fruit turns pink when cooked.
• From The Traveler’s Lunchbox, the classic Spanish dulce de membrillo, a solid quince paste most often eaten with pungent cheeses
• SimplyRecipes provides a clear quince jelly that takes advantage of the fruit’s natural pectins
• And from Lucullian Delights, an inventive recipe for quince with rosemary, pine nuts honey and rum

What really caught my attention this week, though, were recipes for Greek and Middle Eastern meals that combine quince with lamb to make a fragrant, fruity stew. I already had tender lamb rib chops from Wood Family Farm, but they’re better grilled or pan-fried than stewed. It seemed as if there ought to be a way to treat the meat the way it deserved to be treated and still enjoy the complex, fruity flavors of those stews and tagines.

And so, after poring over a few dozen recipes and rummaging through my pantry to see what I had on hand, I set out to improvise and deconstruct. What I wound up with was both easy and terrific: Succulent, spicy lambchops and tender, fragrant fruit; perfect fare for a chilly fall evening.

Moroccan-spiced lamb with stewed quince and couscous

Ingredients:

• 1 large quince, peeled, cored and sliced into half-inch-thick pieces
• 2 1/2 cups water
• 3/4 cup sugar
• 2 Tbsp honey
• Juice of half a lemon
• 1 tsp culinary rosewater (you could substitute vanilla)

Combine water, sugar, honey and lemon juice in a non-reactive saucepan and bring to a simmer, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Add quince, reduce heat and simmer, uncovered, for 30 minutes or until quince is tender and rosy-hued. Stir in rosewater, if you have it. This much can be made ahead; if you do, return it briefly to the burner to reheat while the lamb is cooking.

• 4-6 small lamb rib chops, trimmed of excess fat
• 1 Tbsp salt
• 1 tsp ground black pepper
• 1 tsp ground coriander
• 1 tsp ground cumin
• 1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
• 1Tbsp olive oil
• Juice of the other half lemon

Rinse the lamb chops and pat them dry. Mix spices and rub them all over the chops. Heat oil in a large, heavy skillet until hot but not smoking. Add chops and cook 4 minutes, then turn and cook 3 minutes on the other side. Remove meat to a warmed plate.

Ladle 1/2 cup of the syrup from the cooked quinces into the skillet; stir to scrape up the browned spices and meat drippings. Boil until the liquid is reduced by half; add lemon juice and salt, if needed, to taste.
Serve the chops alongside the quince (strained from the cooking syrup with a slotted spoon; reserve the syrup for some other use), and with couscous tossed with chopped dried apricots and toasted almonds. Spoon the pan sauce over all. Serves 2.

Postscript: Not long after falling in love with quinces, I was heading out for a coffee break at work when I stopped in my tracks across the street from my office. The ground was absolutely littered with quinces. Glancing up, I discovered that an unassuming tree I’d never really noticed among the landscaping was, in fact, a quince.

When I got back to work, I called the groundskeeping office. Would they object, I asked,if I collected some of the quinces that fell on the ground? Far from it, came the reply – they’d be glad to have some help clearing them off the walk.

So it is that each October I find myself toting plastic grocery sacks to work, and spending my breaks gleaning fallen quinces. Here’s where the fruit’s hard texture is a plus; the ones that land in the flower beds suffer barely a bruise. My co-workers (who think I’m nuts, anyway) are used to those few weeks each fall when my office reeks of quince.