The Root of Things

Friends, I have discovered heaven. I have a little shot glass of it by my keyboard, and no, it's not what you think it is, and it's not what's pictured above, but those are both proven heavenly flavor combinations. Tomorrow, this nascent god will cogitate for twenty minutes in a machine of miracles and will emerge like a holy butterfly from its cool chrysalis to spread peace and love to the blessèd. And I will tell you how to make your own quart container of heaven. For now, I leave him to coolly meditate in my fridge while we work out our differences, namely, that I tried to put him in a blender. I happen not to have a lid for this blender. I tell you this to let you know only that I write this with bits of chocolate splatter all over me, slightly harrowed by the experience but also salivating. As you will be, too.

But moving on!

I do have a recipe to share with you, although depending on your climate, I'm not sure it's entirely summer-appropriate. If you live in Portland and are privy to our erratic weather patterns (they call it Junuary), there may just come a day in the next few weeks when all you want to do is curl up in two sweaters with a slice of this pie to keep you company. You'll feel all pleased with yourself for 1) turning one of the cheapest vegetables around into a meal that would put Alice Waters to shame, and 2) cooking locally and seasonally in a way that would also put Alice Waters to shame. (Fun fact: when I asked the sous-chef of St Jack what he thought of Chez Panisse, he said, "You mean Cheese Penis?" He has what you might call less than affectionate feelings for a place that charges a fortune for a spear of asparagus.)



That's right: onions have seasons, who knew? And we're rolling in a big old pile of sweet onions right now. If you're on the West Coast, it's Walla Walla onions from Washington; on the East Coast it's Vidalia onions with a Georgian drawl. Maybe I'm crazy, but out of curiosity I took a big honking bite of the greens--yeah, I'm probably crazy--and even those taste sweet. They're so sweet I chopped them up later and mixed them with an egg and equal parts quinoa for some little patties and ate them with no tears. If I'd had any onions left I probably would have fried those and put them on top. At this rate, the only person willing to kiss me until onion season is over will be George.

For the record, he is looking adoringly, not at me, but at an encroaching moth that he would like to eat.

The little caramelized onion tart to follow was the star of a meal I shared with a good friend from my freshman year of college, who was with me through the first German class I've taken since the first grade and all it entailed: six hours of Berlin Alexanderplatz, bewilderment at the Subjunktiv II, torrid love affair with Heinrich von Kleist. (What a hottie.) She's about to leave for Frankfurt on a Fulbright to study fairy tales, so I had to give her a good send-off (although it's still a ways away, thankfully).

It's the perfect meal to make when you'd rather be catching up, musing about unripe strawberries, and planning multiple, simultaneous book clubs with hefty tomes rather than worrying about exact amounts and cooking times and temperatures. The onions get to hang out at a low temperature for a little under an hour while you hastily clean off the dining room table. Once they've turned into sticky soft caramel they're mixed with some Gruyère and turn delicious in the oven while you work on that brassy bottle of red wine you've been saving for just this occasion.

You can use whatever pie crust--so long as it is buttery, don't you ever go and make a pie crust with shortening--you have sitting around in your fridge or freezer, if you are the type to make up double and quadruple recipes of pie crust, as I am wont to do. It may sound contradictory, but this is the best thing to do if you're the impatient type. There's nothing more instantly gratifying that stealing foraging a basket of raspberries from a neglected yard, and after inhaling half of them, thinking, "I bet the other half of these would taste great piled high on a dollop of cream in a flaky pie crust," and having said flaky pie crust ready to go once you've rolled it out. Otherwise there's all this waiting around while you 1) make the dough and then 2) wait for it to chill because soft butter going into a hot oven does not a pie crust make (it makes sad islands of goo in a melted butter sea).

Caramelized Onion Galette
makes one 9-inch pie

I don't understand why people groan at the prospect of caramelizing onions, arguing that it's some long involved process. Yes, it takes time, but it's not time you actually have to spend in the kitchen. I'd much rather let the suckers hang out for forty minutes while I read a book, rather than nurse them like this poor guy. (Whose article, by the way, does a great job of explaining how the caramelization process works, even if I disagree that his method is worth it.) Now, why do I bake this in a pie dish if it's a galette? Well, because the difference between pies, galettes, and tarts is negligible, except that pies are generally deeper, and because I like things to be symmetrical. Baking a structureless thing like onions in a pie dish ensures that nothing sloshes over the edges.

For the rye crust:
75g rye flour
175g whole-wheat pastry or unbleached all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp fine-grain sea salt
2 sticks unsalted butter
1/4 cup ice-cold water (I like to fill a large glass with ice and water and scoop with a dry-measure from there)

Others have written with more pictures and fewer puns about making pie dough, so I will let Deb and Pim show you how to do it. This was the first time I've done it the second way, and I was pleased with my results using the preceding recipe, adapted from 101 Cookbooks. You'll only need half of the recipe; wrap up the rest real tight in plastic wrap and refrigerate or freeze it.

For the caramelized onions:

~2 tbsp butter
3 large onions of choice, in cm-wide slices
pinch of brown sugar
salt & pepper
white cooking wine (I use Chinese rice wine; it is both cheap and delicious)

In a large skillet (not non-stick, never non-stick), melt the butter on medium-low heat. Add the onions and a sprinkle of salt, pepper, and brown sugar (which bumps up the sweetness just a tad without changing the flavor profile). Stir that around until the onions are evenly coated, then go do your thing. Seriously, leave. Just come back every ten minutes or so to stir them around again to make sure that they're not burning (in which case, turn the heat down). You'll notice a brown patina beginning to form on the bottom of the pan; add a splash of wine to deglaze the pan and redistribute all those caramelized bits evenly. Once the onions are a dark, even gold color, remove them from heat and allow them to cool. At this point, preheat your oven to 350F.

Assemble your tart:

buttery crust of choice

caramelized onions

a few tablespoons of Dijon mustard

small block of Gruyère cheese (it's my favorite, but maybe cheddar is yours--use what you like, this is your pie!)

1. Roll out your pie dough to about a quarter of an inch; it should form a circle slightly larger than 9 inches. Press it into a 9-inch pie pan, making sure to press it down into the bottom to remove air bubbles. Trim anything hanging over the edge and reserve it for another day and another pie, or leave 'em if you're going for a rustic look (in which case your pie pan should probably be bearded and also wear plaid).
2. Spread the mustard onto the dough with the back of a spoon
3. Grate however much cheese you'd like directly into the cooled onions and mix that up, using the same spoon, even, from the last step. Check to make sure it's seasoned to your liking; if not, add salt and pepper to taste. Add that on top of your pie crust and spread it all out. If you're feeling decadent, grate some more cheese on the top. Yeah, you know you want to.
4. Fold over the edges of the crust, pleating as you go, and put in the oven for about an hour--I'd start checking at around 40 minutes, because all ovens are different. You'll know it's done when the crust is lightly browned and the onion filling is no longer gooey--you can tell the difference in the pictures.