‘Tis the season for glutting ourselves on sweets and baked goods of every persuasion. 'Tis also the season for parties, get-togethers, open houses, family meals, and all the stress, awkwardness, and inappropriate alcohol-induced honesty that go along with these social engagements. The winter season forces us to confront our past in a way that is unique to this time of year; so mired in tradition is every aspect of these holidays that we must continually make conscious decisions to either repeat or break with what we have done previously. In this day and age, this leaves us with a variety of different approaches: those trying to carry on or resuscitate old traditions, those trying to forsake everything they’ve done before and forge brand new traditions, and those doing a little of both- finally eschewing the hassle of a real tree only to adorn the plastic stand-in with hideous string-and-glue ornaments made by their now-30-year-old children, for instance. Amidst the distractions of the larger decisions (angel or star? Turkey or roast beef?) and onus of ensuring that each successive year lives up to the last, the smaller, less Yule-centric traditions tend to go unnoticed, but it was just one of these conventions that came to my attention amidst a whirlwind of my own social engagements, and after enjoying two particularly tasty desserts.
When invited to someone’s home for a meal, I was taught, it is only proper for the invitee to offer- nay, insist- on bringing something. If denied, it is then the gracious guest’s duty to ignore the assurance of their host that they don’t need anything, and bring something anyway. Knowing this, or perhaps out of sincere need for help, the host will often concede, allowing friends and family to proffer salads, loaves of bread, or other things complementary yet superfluous to the meal. If this concession is not made by the host, he or she will be punished with a box of chocolates she must then serve, a pine-scented candle she must then light, or a garish houseplant she must then prominently display and keep alive. Often times, the guest either offers or is asked to bring a dessert. At larger gatherings (family thanksgiving, open houses) there might be multiple desserts. This not only takes the pressure off the guest to provide sweets for all, but lets the host rest assured that even if that guest screws up and forgets their task, or brings something inedible (fruitcake, anyone?), it won’t throw a pall over the whole event. In addition to the ‘multiple dessert’ safety net, there is the assumption that even without a dessert, or with a grossly sub-par offering, the meal will not be ruined. A delicious repast with every component a red-blooded American has come to expect (meat, starch, veggie) is still the most vital part of a successful dinner party, while the dessert remains both extraneous to the meal, and separate enough from the main course that if it is a disaster, the host can audibly thank the guest for their contribution, thus rendering themselves unaccountable.
The same principle can be seen in restaurants nationwide, where many a menu offers a clichéd selection of sweets, assuming that even a complete throwaway of a dessert can’t sully a stellar meal. But why has this traditional after-dinner course become such a nonessential? Is it simply because Americans sate themselves on food and beverage to such an extent that they are too full and drunk to care what they eat next? Have American palates become so dulled by packaged food, artificial sweeteners, and preservatives that our brain simply needs to register the sensation of sweetness to feel like we’ve had a satisfactory dessert? Whatever the case may be, the state of sugar in our culinary culture represents a significant downgrade from its former glory.
Once a province solely of the wealthy, sweets represented the ultimate in luxury edibles, and were usually reserved for extravagant feasts, banquets, weddings and the like. At nearly fifty bucks a pound in the 1300s, and hard to come by even of you had the cash, it’s easy to see why sugary foods became a status symbol of sorts- but why this sweet course at the end of a big meal? Perhaps by waiting until the guests were replete before trotting out the sweet stuff, hosts ensured that there was enough of the precious commodity to go around? The first desserts were probably just fruit or nuts rolled in honey, but after a few goose legs and a rack of venison, it’d even be hard to tuck into very many of those…ah well. Whatever the logic behind it, after sugar manufacturing began in the middle ages, the variety and creativity of desserts expanded to include the pantheon of treats we enjoy today: cakes, cookies, tarts, pies, etc. Since cooking with sugar was a relatively new concept at the time, it stands to reason that most desserts began simply as a sweet version of a pre-existing recipe. Pies and tarts were traditionally filled with meat and vegetables, pastries with spices and nuts, and puddings and custards were likewise savory, being made with soaked bread and leftover meats. Whether its called dessert, pudding, sweet, or ‘afters’, it’s come to be something we expect at the end of dinner, and while still not as vital as the main course, I would argue that it can indeed elevate or demote the meal as a whole- after all, it’s the last taste we’re left with, and the effects- positive or otherwise- can be lingering.
It was with this in mind that I offered to bring a dessert to a recent holiday dinner I was attending. I wanted something that was festive in both flavor and appearance, easy enough so that I wouldn’t have to spend the whole day in the kitchen while still appearing to have put in due effort, and hopefully delicious, but pretty enough to make up for any lack therein. I chose a fruit tart, more specifically, a
spiced pear and cranberry tart. After making a simple dough in the food processor, I rolled it out, laid it into my tart pan, and baked it off. The pears and cranberries were poached in a mixture of red wine, sugar, spices, lemon zest, and a splash of apple cider, which was then reduced down to a syrup after the fruit was removed. This simmering concoction filled the house with those familiar, evocative aromas; cinnamon and clove mixed with citrus and apple. In addition, it splattered my stove with a fine mist of sticky, bright red liquid, but I tried not to focus on that.
When my tart shell was cool, I brushed it with some of the syrup, then sprinkled on a layer of pistachio sugar that I had made by using the food processor to pulverize- you guessed it- sugar and pistachios. On top of this, I arranged the pears and some of the cranberries, and brushed it all with plenty of syrup until it took on a lacquered sheen. The rest of the cranberries I coated in syrup and superfine sugar, then let them dry so they had a sparkly, crystallized effect. I decorated the tart with these and some chopped pistachios, and stood back to admire my work. It was quite lovely, but it needed one more component. I had a tub of mascarpone in the fridge, so into this I mixed sugar, brandy, and the seeds from a fresh vanilla bean. Done. I toted my creation proudly- and carefully- to my grateful host, and while the meal would have been delightful if it had ended with the spiral cut ham and wild rice, I couldn’t help but hope that my contribution made it that much more satisfying for all.
A few weeks later, I had the chance to be on the other end of this equation. My family had decided to invite an outsider to our Christmas meal, which we had chosen to keep very small and informal this year. A friend of my sister’s was orphaned for the holidays, not able to return home, and thus an obligatory dinner invitee for our little clan. This being the first Christmas we were spending not only outside of New England, but without our extended family, the four of us were in unchartered territory to begin with, so why not go all out? I should probably also mention that December 25
th just happens to be the anniversary of my birth, and as such, the holiday meal has always included a birthday cake. When my sister informed me that her guest would be providing dessert, my first response was ‘does she know it has to have candles in it?’ Perhaps not the most gracious reaction, buy hey, I have to share my special day with Jesus, excuse me for being a little territorial. When said guest arrived at the door, I don’t know quite what she had been expecting, but it was clear that she had thought her contribution would be a player in the aforementioned ‘multiple dessert’ scenario. The fear was evident. When I learned that she had brought ‘egg nog pie’, the fear was shared. After a simple meal of grilled steaks, asparagus, roasted root vegetables, and local sourdough bread, there had been enough food and wine that if dessert
had been a disaster, I probably would have seen it as a blessing. But after plucking the candles out of the creamy, nutmeg covered concoction, I had the distinct pleasure of being proven quite wrong; the pie was delicious. Apparently the specialty of the grandmother in our guest’s family, the pie had a simple, flaky crust filled with silky, rich custard. The flavor was unmistakably reminiscent of that infamous yuletide cocktail without being cloying, and the texture was firm but delicate- not having become victim to over gelatinization, one of my dessert pet peeves. I was not the only one who went back for seconds.
Now that the holidays are over, I’ve had a respite from social engagements. When the next one does arise, I will most likely play my role as dutiful guest, and offer to bring a dessert. Not because I want to obviate any possible blame for wreaking havoc on the 'important' part of the meal, but because I feel like I owe it to the institution of sugar. I, too, have been guilty of considering dessert the dispensable component of the meal, but I won't make that mistake again. After all, something's gotta hold up those birthday candles....
The vines here are planted on steep terraces, which makes vineyard work extremely difficult and many peasants just gave up of tending vines. Then former Math teacher turned into winegrower, restaurateur, and cook, Francesco Carfagna along with a handful of like-minded came to rescue the tradition of Ansonaco in Giglio. And the result was in my glass.
