Like Water for Chocolate: Framboise-Framboise Brownies

RECIPE: Framboise-Framboise Brownies
Framboise Framboise Brownies

Framboise-Framboise Brownies

From what I understand, human beings are seventy percent water. Perhaps that is where the expression “eau de vie” comes from: water of life. But, as most girls would agree, if I could pull a great switcheroo, I would. I would trade water, for chocolate.

If I were seventy percent chocolate, I would never have a care in the world. PMS would no longer exist. Absolutely everyone would love me, crave me, find themselves inexplicably drawn to me. Heroin would have nothing on me; I would be the subject of the entire world’s addiction. I have a feeling I would go very far in my vie, if my eau de vie were chocolat.

But I suppose there are certain risks involved that must be considered. For example, my Framboise-Framboise Brownies are ninety-five percent chocolate, and they never made it very far at all. In fact, they never made it past the plate, and they only stayed there a matter of a few excruciating hours of longing. If I were going to trade my water for chocolate, I would have to make very sure that my chocolate were not dark cocoa fudge studded with chips of white chocolate.

And I would have to be very careful never to wear pink. For my Framboise-Framboise Brownies are enrobed in a frosting of fresh-bitten raspberries. They are also spiked with real eau de vie: Framboise, raspberry brandy. They were dangerously irresistible, and, well, I require the freedom of choice, which the poor little dears never had.

No, trading water for chocolate, exchanging the eau de ma vie, is too dangerous. For you see, there are no brownies left! I am irresistible to Mr. English, and I suppose that will have to be enough.

So, I’ll just keep my eau de vie, and enhance it with a bit of eau de parfum. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go lick the bowl from my next batch of Framboise-Framboise Brownies.

BON APP!

Framboise-Framboise Brownies

Framboise Framboise BrowniesIngredients

  • 1 box Duncan Hines brownie mix
  • 2 eggs
  • ¼ cup vegetable oil
  • ½ cup water
  • 1 cup white chocolate chips
  • 2 tablespoons of Framboise
  • 1 ½ cups confectioners’ sugar
  • 1 cup of frozen raspberries, which will yield 3 tablespoons of juice, thawed
  • 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
  • 1 tablespoon unsalted butter, at room temperature

Procedure

  1. Preheat the oven to 350°F.
  2. Spray an 8x8 brownie pan with nonstick cooking spray
  3. In a large bowl, combine the brownie mix, eggs, oil, water, white chocolate chips, and Framboise. Mix until just combined. Pour into the greased brownie pan.
  4. Bake for 40-45 minutes. Insert a toothpick—it should come out clean.
  5. Leave the brownies to cool in the pan, and when they set and only slightly warm, remove them to a cooling rack to complete the process.
  6. Meanwhile, make the raspberry glaze. Place the thawed raspberries in the blender, and purée completely. Pass through a fine sieve—the berries should yield 3 tablespoons of ruby red juice. Be sure to measure the juice, and not just the berries, and the texture of the glaze depends on it.
  7. Combine the raspberry juice, butter, vanilla, and confectioners’ sugar. Spread evenly on top of the completely cool brownies. Allow to set for 15 minutes.
  8. Cut into little squares and try not to eat them all at once!
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Categories: Chocolate, Desserts, Eat, Recipes, Vegetarian
 

Merci-Giving

RECIPE: Pumpkin Brioche Bread Pudding

Scroll down for recipes that say Thanksgiving with a French accent: Provencal Turkey Roast with Riesling, Potato Gratin and Baguette Stuffing Tart, Thoroughly Modern Haricots Verts Amandine, and Pumpkin Brioche Bread Pudding. These recipes come from my SeriousEats.com article Thanksgiving with a French Accent.

By the looks of my family’s Thanksgiving, it is easily believed that the Pilgrims were French women dressed in hourglass imitation Diors and swaddled in not-imitation furs—or at least, that’s how my grandmother looks in the portrait I have of her on the deck of her ocean liner as she entered New York harbor for the first time with a young, unrecognizable version of my mother in bangs in tow. The Indians were mostly the greengrocers on the corner near their new Queens apartment.

I am not sure when they took up the Thanksgiving sport, but when I was young our Thanksgiving dinner on 68th Street in Manhattan bore so little resemblance to Plymouth that no one thought it amiss that I ate hotdogs and thought stuffing positively repugnant. Soggy bread? Ew, I decided. They gave me cornbread at school—I spat it indiscreetly and resolutely into my napkin. So dry it turned my tongue into a dessicated sponge. As M. le Norman puts it (my mother’s Normandy-hailing boyfriend of many years): “Maize existe seulement pour les cochons!” Yes, corn exists exclusively for pigs.

But then I tried pumpkin pie. Maybe American food wasn’t so bad after all! My family regarded the fairytale gourd with curiosity, and then dismissal. No, absolutely not, it’s unnatural, they swore. To them, the evil face of Jack-O-Lantern stared through every ridged orange façade. But the pie was so good! Eventually, I talked myself into turkey. And by the time I was eighteen, I ate cornbread. Stuffing didn’t come until my early twenties, but then at last my Thanksgiving meal was complete after all.

Despite the quirky picture they painted, every year, my family consistently gathered for Thanksgiving, and as I was the lone American in the group, it was always at our house. It was as though they were all woman, and I was the sole man on the dancefloor. They waited for me to take the lead, and so I made the meal. I always dreamed up French versions of all the traditionals. I usually make Herbes de Provence-roasted turkey instead of plain, haricots verts amandine and pomegranate braised wild mushrooms instead of green bean and cream of mushroom soup casserole, potatoes au gratin instead of mashed potatoes, and a granita made from Norman apple cider instead of apple pie. I did a menu called Thanksgiving with a French Accent for SeriousEats.com this year, and I wrote there that I do that because my family celebrates a different kind of Thanksgiving. No, we weren’t at Plymouth, and don’t have the Indians to thank for our survival. Mémé had her fur coat and didn’t arrive here freezing and riddled with scurvy. No, she would never have tolerated that—scurvy ruins the complexion! Our Thanksgiving is a time to say “Merci aux Etats-Unis”: for good fortune, for opportunity, for freedom, for acceptance, for a bite out of the American dream, and a slice of that pumpkin-flavored American pie. And so every year, remembering where we came from, and where we happily are now, we say “Thank You” with a French accent. A “Merci” to New York and to America. Merci bien.

My recipes this year are a quick and simple French Thanksgiving for six. The turkey is a boneless turkey breast roast that pays homage to the far-flung regions of France. It is braised in stock spiked with Alsatian Riesling. It is crusted with the mustard of Dijon. It is rubbed with the garlic and Herbes de Provence and olive oil of the south, and the caramelized shallot gravy makes something of a Provençal pissaladiere of the turkey breast. Our traditional potatoes au gratin get a makeover based on a tart I made at the Escoffier school at the Ritz in Paris. The cream-boiled potatoes are laid in a tart crust, and covered with my version of stuffing: baguette soaked in the herby cream of the potatoes, and baked to a crust. These haricots verts amandine are a thoroughly modern take on the classic, coating the crisp green beans with almond crumbs and lemon zest. A respite from the heavy rest of the meal. And for dessert—something decadent, but still tolerably French enough for my relatives: pumpkin brioche bread pudding. Happy Thanksgiving, my fellow, Americans, and comme toujours…BON APP!

For the eloquent complete versions of these recipes, please follow the links provided to SeriousEats. The main menu begins HERE.

Provençal Roast Turkey with Riesling

Provençal Roast Turkey with Riesling

Provençal Turkey Roast with Riesling

1 4- to 4 1/2-pound pound turkey breast roast, without bones, tied by your butcher

2 tablespoons of Herbes de Provence

8 sage leaves

1 sprig of fresh rosemary

2 sprigs of fresh thyme

1 tablespoon of Dijon mustard

Salt and pepper

3 tablespoons of olive oil, plus 1 tablespoon

2 cloves of garlic, minced

4 carrots, sliced on a bias into chunks

10 cipollini onions, peeled

1 cup of low-sodium chicken stock

1 cup of dry Riesling wine

2 tablespoons of butter

3 shallots, finely chopped

2 tablespoons of flour

  • Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
  • Set the turkey breast roast in a roasting pan and make the rub by mixing together the Herbes de Provence, chopped fresh sage, rosemary, and thyme, Dijon mustard, salt and pepper, 3 tablespoons of olive oil, and garlic. Use your hands to pack the herb paste on the meat, and rub it all over the roast.
  • Toss the chunks of carrots and cipollini onions with 1 tablespoon of olive oil and salt and pepper. Scatter in the roasting pan on either side of the turkey.
  • Pour the stock and Riesling into the bottom of the roasting pan around the turkey. Roast for 2 hours, basting occasionally.
  • To make a quick gravy while the turkey rests, melt the butter in a saucepan, add the shallots, and sauté for 5 minutes until they are translucent. Add the flour and cook for 1 minute more. Pour in the roasting sauce and turkey juices, and whisk until thickened—about 3 or 4 more minutes.
  • Cut the string off the turkey, and slice the roast. Serve with the roasted vegetables alongside and gravy on top.

Potato Gratin and Baguette Stuffing Tart

Potato Gratin and Baguette Stuffing Tart

Potato Gratin and Baguette Stuffing Tart

1 premade pie crust

5 large boiler potatoes, peeled and thinly sliced

3 cups of half and half

2 bay leaves

2 sprigs of thyme

A pinch of freshly ground nutmeg

Salt and pepper

2 onions, thinly sliced

2 tablespoons of butter, plus a bit extra

½ baguette, cut into a ½-inch dice

1 slice of prosciutto, chopped

  1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
  2. Roll out the cold pie crust so that it fits into a 10-inch pie crust. Cover the bottom with dry beans and bake for about 18 minutes, until the crust is ¾ of the way cooked. Put to the side.
  3. Meanwhile, add the potatoes, half and half, bay leaves, thyme, and nutmeg, along with a good amount of salt and pepper, to a saucepot. Bring to a low simmer, and simmer, mostly covered, for 20 minutes, until the potatoes are tender. Drain the potatoes, but reserve the cooking cream. Discard the bay leaves and thyme stems.
  4. Sauté the onions for 15 minutes in 2 tablespoons of butter, so that they soften, but do not take on color. Season with salt and pepper.
  5. Spread the onions on the bottom of the pie crust. Follow with the potatoes, and then the prosciutto. Pour ½ cup of the reserved cooking cream over the potatoes.
  6. Pour enough of the reserved cooking cream over the baguette cubes to saturate (most of the liquid). Allow them to soak up the liquid, then, using your hands (this will be messy!), lift them out, allowing the excess to drip off, but allowing them also to retain the moisture they have absorbed. Place a layer of baguette over the potato tart. Top with a few dabs of bottom to facilitate the browning of the tart.
  7. Bake for 35 minutes, until the top of the baguettes are crisp, and the pie crust is golden. Serve in wedges.

Thoroughly Modern Haricots Verts Almondine

Thoroughly Modern Haricots Verts Almondine

Thoroughly Modern Haricots Verts Amandine

1 1/2 pounds of haricot verts, trimmed

2 tablespoons of cold unsalted butter, cubed

Zest of 1 lemon

3/4 cup of toasted almonds, pulsed in the food processor until they look like chunky almond crumbs

  1. To toast your almonds, scatter them on a rimmed baking sheet and roast in a 325 degree oven for 10 minutes. Let them cool before chopping the food processor.
  2. Bring a large pot of water to a boil, and salt it.
  3. Drop the haricots verts into the water for 3 to 4 minutes—just until they are no longer raw.
  4. Meanwhile, cut the 2 tablespoons of cold butter into little chunks and place them at the bottom of a large mixing bowl.
  5. Drain the haricots verts and immediately toss with the butter, and the zest of the lemon, plus salt and pepper to taste. The heat from the haricots verts should just melt the butter.
  6. Place into a serving bowl, and scatter the toasted almonds crumbs over the top.
Pumpkin Brioche Bread Pudding

Pumpkin Brioche Bread PuddingIngredients

  • 2/3 cup milk
  • 1 1/3 cups cream
  • 4 eggs
  • 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
  • 1 teaspoon of pumpkin pie spice
  • 1 ¼ cups pumpkin puree (from a can)
  • 1 11-ounce loaf of brioche, with most of the crust cut off, cut into 1-inch cubes

Procedure

  1. In a large bowl, beat together the eggs, and add in the sugar, and beat to incorporate. Add the milk, cream, vanilla, pumpkin pie spice, and pumpkin, and whisk to combine.
  2. Tumble in the cubes of brioche, and allow to sit for 30-40 minutes, until most of the custard has been absorbed.
  3. Bake in a buttered casserole dish in a 350-degree oven for 45 minutes. Serve with powdered sugar and vanilla ice cream.
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The Existential Fondue

Fondue BaguetteSometimes, when I’m walking down the street in Chinatown, surrounded by fake Fendis and Vuittons and Pradas, I ask myself, “Will anyone know this is fake?”

It seems that this thought process is not limited to fashionable Manhattan women hoping to save a thousand dollars on their next handbag, but extends to English men, hoping to save time making fondue.

Fondue PotWhile I was visiting Mr. English in London last week, he told me that his father, who will hereafter be referred to as Sir English, had just returned from Normandy bearing loads of cheese, and had invited us over that night for fondue.

“Fondue!?”

“Yes, fondue.”

We were coincidentally standing among all the real Fendis and Vuittons and Pradas in Harrods, and I immediately dropped the Valentino I had been inspecting, grabbed his hand, and tugged him into the food halls.

“What can I bring to Sir English’s house?” I chanted to myself. I am always frightfully on edge about appearing as the uncouth ugly American to Mr. English’s family and friends. “What about Laduree macarons?” (They have an outpost there). Veto. Then, knowing Sir English, I thought, “Let’s get some really good beer like they have in Normandy.” Where’s the beer in Harrods? Then it hit me: “I’m buying the beigneuses! Tell your father all he needs is cheese!”

The food halls at Harrods, if you like food, are similar to how you may envision heaven, should you be a religious person. Whether or not you are, witnessing room after room of turkey to Turkish delight tumbling from gilded baroque cases may at least convince you that there is a God. I always think of shopping there as the modern day equivalent to the kings of Britain hunting white stags and unicorn in old tapestries—except, now I’m the royalty and I can just ask the man behind the counter for a piece of venison instead of shooting it in the heart with the claws of my falcon.

It was within this wonderland that I found my beigneuses, a French word meaning “bathers,” so called because fondue is known in the produce community as the Turkish baths for bread and vegetables. I bought Spanish chorizo and Rosette de Lyons, a French salami. I bought endive and Pink lady apples. I bought boule and baguette. I bought too much.

Rosette de Lyon

Rosette de Lyon

Because he is a bit of a gourmet, Sir English knew to leave the fondue preparation until the last minute. But he wasn’t counting on my making myself at home in his kitchen, chopping up endive spears and baguette crusts. He walked over to the refrigerator and said, “Kerry, I hoped you spare you the sight of this,” and pulled out a plastic pouch that said FONDUE.

Some foodies might have been miffed, but I was fascinated. I have a secret obsession with French packaged foods, because they always leave one thought in my mind: why don’t we have this in America? How can Publix stock all of its thousands of square yards of shelves, and not find room for plastic-packaged fondue?

The pouch contained the three primary Swiss fondue cheeses: Emmenthaler, Gruyere, and Comte. It had white wine and Kirsch. Butter and garlic. Meekfully anticipating reproach, Sir English pulled out a few wedges of emmenthaler from the fridge, but I turned to him and yelped, “This is amazing.”

I then taught him how make Fondue Savoyarde, which is the traditional fondue most of us think of when we daydream about fondue. He rubbed the fondue pot with a cut clove of garlic, and added some white wine and fresh thyme. Then, we stirred in the packet of fondue, and grated in a bunch of fresh Emmenthaler. We used the pouched fondue as a flavorful binder, instead of cornstarch, to prevent the fondue from separating. And so Sir English and I brought to the table a pot of liquid gold.

So, to answer the existential question of the post, no. No one can tell it’s a fake. Or rather, perhaps an editor at Vogue could tell it’s a fake Fendi, or a cheese monger in Savoy could taste the plastic-wrapped cheese, but for all intents and purposes, our semi-packaged fondue brought extreme gastronomic pleasure into Sir English’s house. Mr. English’s sister, Miss English, abandoned her cheese-free diet to jostle endive spears with me in the pot. Mr. English found that bread was a much more efficient and desirable way to clean a fondue pot than a sponge and soap. Sir English poured another round of Pommeau, a Norman apple brandy, as we all crowded close to the flame, and all were warmed, inside and out.

It all proves that the answers to most of life’s more difficult questions can be found in a French supermarket—or in a French woman’s closet (existentialism is French, after all, mes amis). If you mix high and low, and accessorize well, no one will suspect a thing.

Good advice for braving the recession ahead.

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Say Cheese!

Ile de France Brie

Ile de France Brie

It has been said that Charles de Gaulle once uttered the seminal and lactose-inspired words: “How can you govern a country where there are 246 different types of cheese?”

Ile de France makes three of them.

The company held a contest for the best recipe using the brand’s camembert, brie, and fresh goat cheese. The three winning recipes are as follows:

Second Runner Up: Double Chocolate Zucchini Cupcakes filled with Chocolate Ganache and Topped with Creamy Goat Cheese Frosting

Ile de France Cupcake

Photograph from Ile de France

Runner Up: Open-Faced Ile De France Brie and Chicken Salad Sandwich

Grand Prize Winner: Grilled Polenta, Goat Cheese, and Tomato Stacks with Roasted Garlic Aioli and Herb Oil Drizzle

Ile de France Polenta

Photograph from Ile de France

For me though, I think the grand prize should go to Jamie Oliver, in whose new book the Ministry of Food I found a recipe for camembert pasta, in which hot pasta is drizzled with the insides of a baked wheel of camembert cheese studded with herbs and garlic.

Imagine what we could do with 245 more cheeses. Say cheese!

What would be your prize-winning French cheese recipe?

French Revolution loves cheese

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Edible Election: Bipartisan Blueberry and Strawberry Galette

RECIPE: Bipartisan Blueberry and Strawberry Galette

Strawberries and Blueberries. Photograph by steve_jay.

Today, if we do our duty, we will stand in line at the polls and pronounce ourselves one of two things: Democrat, or Republican. Blue, or Red. And though we declare our differences, let us remember that blue and red, though in opposition today, both color our nation’s flag and define what, above all, we truly are: American. This galette, a French free-form tart, is my way of reaching across the aisle and across the table. It starts with the bluest blueberries and reddest strawberries, but after a while in the oven, the juices run together and become a delicious and delirious amalgamation of purple. Let us be red strawberries or blue blueberries today, but by tonight, I hope we can come together as purple pie filling and give our beloved country a future as sweet as this American pie.

Blueberry Galette

Blueberry Galette

United We Stand: VOTE!

Bon app, to all!

American Flag

Bipartisan Blueberry and Strawberry Galette

Blueberry GaletteIngredients

  • 1 bag of frozen strawberries, drained
  • 1 bag of frozen blueberries, drained
  • Sugar
  • Lemon juice
  • Flour
  • 1 cold prepared piecrust

Procedure

What obsesses me about galettes are how inexact I always am with them, and how perfectly they come out. Therefore, this is not going to be a recipe, but just a set of instructions. Start by heating your oven to 425 degrees. Roll out the pie crust a little, using bench flour if necessary. Transfer to a baking sheet. In a bowl, mix together the thawed and drained berries, a tablespoon or 2 of sugar, and 2 or 3 tablespoons of flour, along with a slight squeeze of lemon juice. Mix to combine, and spoon the mixture into the center of the pie crust, spreading it out, but leaving about a 1 1/2 to 2 inch border. Tuck one edge of the pie crust just over the berry filling, and then continue pleating the crust around the filling until there is a tucked crust at the edges and an exposed berry center. Bake until the crust is golden and the filling is purple and bubbly and oozing.

Let cool for a few minutes, and then serve a la mode with all-American vanilla ice cream (there is white in the American flag too!). Eat with Republicans and Democrats alike.

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Who Moved My Cheese?

Parmesan Wheel

Parmesan Cheese. Photo by abbyladybug.

Most French people, myself very happily included, have a healthy relationship, some might even say a passionate relationship, with cheese. Manchego and I, for instance, are inseparable, and meet each morning for a breakfast rendez-vous, where I promptly devour poor Manchego after tucking him into a morsel of crusty bread, and chasing him down with some sweet grapes or pears d’Anjou. Some morning after! But when Mr. English told me that Samuel Pepys, the great diarist and Secretary of the Admiralty in England during the Great Fire of London, actually went out into his backyard and buried his Parmesan cheese to save it from the flames (evidently, he didn’t want Parmesan fondue), I realized that he had the same kind of lusty love for Parmesan that I have with Señor Manchego. And while I don’t keep my Manchego in a safe to ride out the impending financial cataclysm that may indeed be Manhattan’s answer to London’s flaming inferno, I did panic a bit this morning when my Manchego was not in its normal spot at my little corner market. Who moved my cheese!?

Samuel Pepys

Samuel Pepys

But more importantly, if the end of your world were approaching, which cheese would you bury in the backyard, too precious to you to be ravaged the burning lick of flames or the ravenous bites of impoverished Manhattanites?

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Peace o’ Pizza

RECIPE: Pizza Marianne

I do believe I have a split personality.

But don’t worry, it’s not schizophrenia. Nor is it my fault! The simple truth is that one half of me, my mom’s half, is French. The other half, naturally my dad’s, is New Yorker. Most of the time it works out much as it has in wartime politics. The French came to New York’s aid, after all, in the Revolution, and New York bailed out France in World War II. Occasionally, true to the comparison, there is a schism and eventually an entente, and the majority of the time both my personalities go on living together in perfect harmony, the best of friends and greatest of allies, at peace.

But it’s a piece of pizza that causes the greatest schism in my culinary duality. It seems my confusion began around the age of 7. Up until then, my father, who ordered in pizza for me every Saturday night, would mysteriously conceal my slice in the kitchen until he emerged with it, neatly segmented into about 15 perfect squares, which I would stab with my plastic fork and negotiate into mouth. However, when I began to eat for myself, being the Manhattanite that I am, my father taught me the habit of any true New Yorker: how to fold my glorious oozing slice over my finger, and then dip the crust in the grease that had escaped through the pizza ravine.

It was with this proud mindset that I travelled with my mother when I was fifteen years old, for the first time, to France. We landed in Cannes starving and cranky as the New Yorkers assume the French always to be. What to eat? Pizza it was. My Pizza Margherita arrived, but suddenly, I reversed back to my young self. I was presented with a whole pizza, uncut, and I had no idea how to eat it, nor did my father miraculously slice it away into 15 perfect little squares. I shrugged, and promptly took my knife to the pie, separating the round into 4 perfect triangles, one of which I then folded over my finger and lifted into my mouth. The man at the next dropped his knife and his jaw and stared positively appalled. I returned my slice to the plate and proceeded to saw at it with my butter knife until it was cold and I was miserable.

Pizza Marianne

Pizza Marianne

The reality is, pizza is very common in France. Ironically, the “American” variety tumbles everything we would never eat on pizza, like sweet corn and hard boiled eggs, onto one unfortunate but gaudy pie. The Margherita, however, always comes with fresh basil leaves, and a little nest of niçoise olives at the center. In every circumstance, it is eaten with a fork. I have now learned to judge my European pizza establishments not only by the quality of their crust, cheese, and sauce, but by the quality of knife they serve alongside them.

This Pizza Marrianne is my chapeau to that first French pizza I tackled in Cannes. While the Margherita famously incorporates the colors of the Italian flag, Marrianne, named for the lady of the Revolution, uses opal basil, an indigo variety, to capture the colors of the French flag, along with the très français ingredients of goat cheese, herbes de Provence, and the requisite niçoise olives.

Pizza Marianne SliceFrance may have many things. It may have fraternité, and perhaps egalité, but certainly not the liberté to eat your pizza as you see fit. So, to New York for teaching me the love, and Cannes for teaching me the manners. Merci bien à vous deux…

Bon app!

From Serious Eats: Pizza with a Knife & Fork?

Pizza Marianne

Pizza MarianneIngredients

  • 1 ball of bought pizza dough, enough “for a 12-inch pie”
  • ¾ cup of marinara sauce
  • 10-12 ounces of fresh mozzarella, patted dry, and thinly sliced
  • 4 ounces of fresh goat cheese
  • 1 tablespoon of Herbes de Provence
  • 1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon of olive oil
  • 16 opal or purple basil leaves
  • 9 Niçoise olives
  • Salt and pepper

Procedure

  1. Preheat the oven to 450 degrees F.
  2. Roll out the dough into a 15-inch round, using bench flour as needed. Place onto a baking sheet.
  3. Brush the dough with 1 tablespoon of olive oil. Season with salt and pepper.
  4. Ladle the sauce into the center of the dough, and spread outward, leaving a 1-inch border as crust.
  5. Arrange the mozzarella slices all over the pizza.
  6. Roll the goat cheese so that the outside is coated in herbes de provence. Slice into thin discs, and arrange in the gaps in the mozzarella.
  7. Arrange the basil leaves in 2 concentric circles around the pizza. Stud with the olives, placing 3 at the center.
  8. Drizzle 1 teaspoon of olive oil all over the pizza.
  9. Bake for 15 minutes, turning it up to broil for the 16th.
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Categories: Bread & Butter, Eat, Recipes, Tarts, Quiches, Pizzas, Vegetarian