Strawberry Gets Its Piece

Cherry pie has paeans devoted to it; the last slice of apple pie, at least from my family's Thanksgiving table, is handled more carefully than an antique diamond brooch, hidden in the refrigerator, and fought over when discovered missing the next morning (there is little better for breakfast, and it does pay to get up the earliest).

But what of the strawberry?


As the first ripe fruit of the season, it deserves tribute: a simple, fresh strawberry pie, the kind you could imagine your grandmother pulling out of the oven one June afternoon in 1949.


Of course, she would have probably paired it with a neat glass of absinthe, but it pairs just as well with a tart cup of strawberry tea (which I was lucky enough to be introduced to by some friends in Poland one spring; it's just dried strawberries, and it tastes like spring in liquid form). It can be difficult to find here, but even adding some sliced strawberries atop your favorite tea will make a worthy accompaniment.

Strawberry Pie
Makes: 8 servings.

Pate brisee (pie crust), fully baked in a 9-inch pan
6 cups strawberries
1 cup sugar
4 tablespoons cornstarch
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup water
2 tablespoons lemon juice
2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1. Wash strawberries, removing green tops. Drain, and cut any large berries into halves or quarters. Measure out 4 cups into a medium bowl and set aside. Puree remaining 2 cups strawberries in blender or food processor.

2. In medium saucepan, whisk together sugar, cornstarch and salt. Whisk in water, then stir in pureed berries, lemon juice and butter. Bring the mixture to a simmer over medium-high heat, stirring constantly, and cook 1 minute more. Remove from heat.

3. Into cooked pie crust, spoon half of reserved berries. Pour half of hot berry mixture over, gently shaking pie pan to coat berries evenly. Cover with remaining berries, then top with remaining hot berry mixture.

4. Let cool at room temperature for 30 minutes, then cover and refrigerate at least 4 hours before slicing.

The Decisive Moments

We work in union with movement as though it were a presentiment of the way in which life itself unfolds. But inside movement there is one moment at which the elements in motion are in balance. Photography must seize on upon this moment and hold immobile the equilibrium of it...

Composition must be one of our constant preoccupations, but at the moment of shooting it can stem only from our intuition, for we are out to capture the fugitive moment, and all the interrelationships involved are on the move...[T]he only pair of compasses at the photographer's disposal is his own pair of eyes.

Henri Cartier-Bresson, The Decisive Moment (1952)

I have terrible eyesight, but I've always loved photography.

It's made focus and lighting more challenging, certainly, but that has just fostered a more dedicated work ethic (which is in dangerously short supply for every other area of my life). A recent conversation inspired me to pull out some of my old photography textbooks and hundreds of black-and-white prints from school, and in going through them, a motif reappeared that struck me as pertinent to the art of making images as that of making tea.

Much like Kodak's point-and-shoot cameras- from the Brownie of 1900 through the Instamatic of the 1960s- digital cameras have transformed the art of photography; or cheapened it, as purists have argued for over a century. Cameras that require minimal training or technical knowledge to operate have long wrested picture-making from the elite, which is both a great thing (liberating art enables more to partake) and a dangerous one (in the proliferation of mediocrity).

In traditional processing, which I first learned 15 years ago, you must spend hours and hours in the darkroom, in that soft, dark, unearthly red light. It's been awhile since I've developed photos, but I can instantly summon the feeling that would wash over as I rocked the blank paper in the tray of developer and after that endless minute and a half, watched the image regenerate, myriad shades of gray filling in as if by an unseen brush, some remaining faint, others deepening into inky black.

The decisive moment, as Cartier-Bresson described above, is fractions of a second before the snap of the shutter, but for me it was also right before that photograph was developed to the edge of where I wanted it, just before I would place into the stop bath so as to fix it indelibly. It was before the photo was finished processing, before the chemicals were washed off, before the paper was hung to dry; but just at that moment, suspended in that shallow tray of water, the blacks and grays saturated and gleaming, that I would never see such beauty.

Outside the darkroom, the same process happens with the cup of sencha I prepare each morning: It takes about as long as developing a photograph, and the sense of that moment, just as the leaves have been caressed by the steaming water for the right amount of time and the color has intensified to a bright emerald green, is as arresting.

The equipment itself is insignificant when you look at it this way. Cartier-Bresson, one of modern photography's most seminal influences, used a 50-mm Leica. Emotionally, I'll always be more attached to an old-fashioned print than the images from my cheap little digital camera, but as long as I can still harness that moment of beauty, it's done its job. And whether your morning cup is antique porcelain and prepared by a Japanese tea master or disposal paper from the water cooler in a florescent-lit office, if you've grasped that ideal, nuanced balance in the brew, each sip will be a work of art.

It's the process, and attention you devote to it, that matters.

A Sunday Morning Suggestion

Sunday mornings seem more indulgent than Saturday's. Perhaps the looming threat of the week inspires decadence for breakfast, and the need to eat it while still in pajamas.

Although then what excuse can I use for cookies on the couch for breakfast every other day of the week?


I'll come up with something, as soon as I finish another luxurious spoonful of this chocolate croissant bread pudding. The recipe is adapted from Nigella Lawson, and who better to instruct us in a culinary life of hedonism?

It's an effortless start to your day, and will reward you with possibly the most comforting dish to ever come out of an oven. It is rich, but it manages to quiver somewhere between savory and sweet. And just like that '80s movie misfit who is transformed into the most popular kid in school by upgrading from glasses to contacts, chocolate croissants will never be looked at quite the same way again.

Chocolate Croissant Bread Pudding
Makes: 6 servings.

3-4 day-old chocolate croissants
3 tablespoons sugar
1 large egg
3 egg yolks
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 cups milk
2 cups heavy cream

1. Butter a 6-cup overproof dish. Cut croissants into 1-inch-thick slices and arrange in dish. In large liquid measuring cup, whisk together sugar, egg, yolks and vanilla. In medium saucepan, bring milk and cream just to a boil; pour a few tablespoons into egg mixture, whisking. Slowly pour in remaining liquid and blend thoroughly. Pour over the prepared croissants and let sit for 10 minutes.

2. Heat oven to 325°. Bake bread pudding for about 50-55 minutes, or until softly set.

A breakfast this extravagant requires a strong tea, and I found the tannic notes of a black (such as Assam or a Tanzanian) preferable to a green, for once. Assam in particular plays well with the chocolate notes swirled throughout the pudding.


All you need to do now is scoop out another serving, and get back in bed.

It's Chinatown

I'll never forget that first sip.

It was a pot of milky, sweet black sesame tea and I was sharing it with my small New York crew at St. Alps Teahouse, on Mott St., in Chinatown.


As the first cluster of inky, gelatinous balls hit my mouth, I recoiled from the tiny table. It was such an unexpected sensation- something chewy in a drink- and I couldn't quite wrap my head or palate around it.

But the very next day, at work in midtown, I was seized with an irrepressible urge around noon. I surreptitiously gathered my bag and coat and hopped on the train to Canal St., raced the several blocks east to the shop, ordered a cup of mango green bubble tea and then hustled right back to the subway. It took over an hour and a half, but as I gulped down bubble after bubble, I was strangely soothed. And addicted. Almond and coconut milk tea, taro, passionfruit; with the exception of plum (strangely reminiscent of a McRib), I loved every flavor I tried.

Now, bubble tea is all over the city (and St. Alps is under new management), so I don't often trek to Chinatown. But when I do make the special trip, it's always worth it. My new go-to is Ten Ren Tea Time (79 Mott St.), a claustrophobic cafe adjoining the venerable Chinese tea company shop. The flavors seem fresher, the balls chewier, and it's the only spot I've found that offers a matcha-based bubble tea, which has a lovely balance of strong, vegetal green tea and syrupy sweetened condensed milk.



On my most recent visit, I even tried a new flavor- jasmine- and was pleased to find my old love for bubble tea still aflame.

If only I could make it last more than two minutes.

So This Lemon Walks Into a Bar

Lemon bars are that rare anachronistic dessert yet to be exploited by the foodsionistas like cupcakes and soft-serve ice cream.


There's no cult around lemon bars: Celebrities aren't spotted accessorizing their plates with them, and celebrity chefs don't serve them. There's something inherently old-fashioned about their sticky-fingered ways that refuses to permit deconstruction or reinvention.

Perhaps that's why I've always loved them so, especially for breakfast with a cup of tea. But what about with tea inside? The naturally sweet, floral profile of chamomile seemed a good match for all that tangy citrus.


Of course, some would argue that now I'm exploiting a classic. The only response that comes to mind is bite me. Then you'll see.

Lemon-Chamomile Bars

Crust:
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted
1/4 cup sugar
3/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup all-purpose flour
Topping:
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
3 eggs, at room temperature
1 1/2 teaspoons finely grated lemon zest
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice
2-3 tablespoons chamomile tea
Powdered sugar, for garnish

1. Heat oven to 350°. Line an 8 x 8 baking pan with nonstick foil. In pot used to melt butter, mix butter, sugar, vanilla, salt and flour and mix until just incorporated. Press dough evenly over bottom of pan. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, or until crust is fully baked, well browned at edges and golden brown in center.

2. While crust is baking, prepare topping: in medium bowl, whisk together sugar, flour, eggs and lemon zest. In small saucepan, bring lemon juice and chamomile tea to a boil; immediately turn off heat and let steep for two minutes. Press through a strainer into topping mixture, and stir until incorporated. Pour onto hot crust.

3. Return pan to oven and lower temperature to 300°. Bake 20 to 25 minutes, or until topping no longer jiggles in center when the pan is tapped. Remove from oven and let cool completely on rack.

4. Lift out of pan and cut into squares. Serve at room temperature or refrigerate for up to one week.

The crust hits your tongue first, with a buttery crunch of caramel, then your teeth sink through the lush, pillowy layer of tart lemon. The chamomile is in there, too, with a gentle, applelike sweetness that comes up like a unexpected breeze behind you.


If you pair it with a cup of chamomile tea, it's even more pronounced. I rarely do that when cooking with tea, but this has convinced me that I've been missing out by not tasting the tea alone and as an ingredient.

The potential here is endless- orange bars with Earl Grey, lime bars with jasmine pearls, and maybe even demand for me to open New York's first lemon bar bar.

Ding Dong, Tea Calling

I usually dread the trip from New York to Boston. It's not much more than 200 miles, but it can be spectacularly uncomfortable at best, and longer than a flight to Europe at worst (12 hours, but that's a story for another time). But it was mother's day this past weekend, and during the celebration I discovered a treat worth traveling for: a Hong Kong Ding Dong from the Bread & Chocolate Bakery Cafe (108 Madison Ave., Newton).

My mom has taught me much about tea, and chocolate. And luckily she's still up for culinary exploration, so we headed to this bakery- which features a unique take on that classic childhood indulgence- as soon as I arrived. For $3.50, you're handed a hefty square with a glossy, bittersweet chocolate coating and telltale squiggle. I was a bit wary, recalling all the ho hos and ding dongs that have disappointed me over the years (and there have been countless, not always in dessert form).


But this is some fine chocolate, and tender, moist green-tea cake underneath. Even the sticky marshmallow filling is homemade, and it renders this cupcake so far from anything packaged or mass-produced that calling it a ding dong seems an insult.


It's more like a petit four on steriods, and simply mouth-crammingly delicious. And I like to think it's helping to introduce tea to those who would turn their nose up at a bowl of matcha under any other circumstances.

It may not be in its purest form, but sometimes purity is really overrated.

Nero Twittered While Rome Burned

We all have our coping mechanisms in the face of dire situations. When I'm confronted with threats, be they porcine- or poverty-based, what do I do?

I make tea with Evian.


Of course it's foolish. But it's still cheaper than going out to dinner. And due to my unattainable dream career of scientist (thanks, organic chemistry), I have a soft spot for experiments.

This one's even easier than the drugging and mating of Drosophila melanogaster (fruit flies) that I did way back when it was very illegal for me to do either. It was just a simple blind taste test: the same tea brewed in filtered tap water vs. bottled.


I used an Umegashima sencha- a green I'm very familiar with- in equal amounts and steeped for the same amount of time. It was no contest.

The version made with Evian was outstanding, and instantly identifiable. It tasted incredibly bright and smooth, albeit with that trademark, mineraly aftertaste of the plain water. My good old NYC tap water, in contrast, produced a murky, dull cup, with the grassiness of the sencha far more muted.

I've heard many tea experts claim that my city's water is stellar for a municipal supply, and I'd always believed it until now. Ah, well. At least I can finish the bottle for the rest of the day's tea, and pretend that everything is just fine with every sip.