Nut

Oregon on a plate: From Willamette Valley Pinot Noir to cranberry bogs and filbert trees, this menu celebrates one great state!

Green beans and almonds are a classic combination. Here we’ve given it our own interpretation by pairing the blanched green beans with an almond-yogurt dressing. We like French feta for this because it tends to be sweeter and less salty than Greek or Bulgarian feta. This is a wonderful cold dish that travels well for picnics or meals on the go.

These sticky buns can be prepped in the skillet the day before, stored in the refrigerator, and baked in the morning for a decadent weekend breakfast indulgence—although they are so good that sometimes we just make them for lunch and ride the sugar high into the afternoon. Soft raisins make a big difference. If yours are dry you may want to soak them in water at least overnight. Instead of rolling out individual buns, we score the top of the bread for easy cutting and bake it as a whole. That way you can control the portion size and the bread itself cooks more evenly—no more doughy centers. We love that.

This melt-in-your-mouth cookie, also called ghouribi, comes from Oran, Algeria, but is widely used across North Africa. I love its soft, crumbly texture, made from crushed nuts and sugar. It reminds me of Mexican wedding tea cakes or Greek kourambiedes. You can substitute butter for the oil if you like. These irresistible and simply made drop cookies are eaten on Purim, Hanukkah, and Shabbat, when Moroccan Jews decorate the table with flowers and sweets. They are also one of the symbolic cookies that women gather together today in France to make for weddings and other life-cycle events.

In the quaint walled town of Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, I passed the birthplace of Michel de Nostredame—called Nostradamus by most—a physician and astrologer best known for his prophecies, not for his recipes. Nearby is a small bakery called Le Petit Duc. Owned and operated by Anne Daguin and her husband, Hermann van Beeck, the bakery, which has a branch in Paris called La Grande Duchesse, specializes in Renaissance recipes. They include those of the prominent Nostradamus, who came from a Jewish family that converted to Catholicism in 1504, when he was just under a year old. When I spoke with Anne, whose mother is Jewish, she told me that she had wanted to open her shop in Saint-Rémy but felt that there was no real pastry tradition there. So she turned to old books for inspiration, and found many recipes, some by Jewish physicians like Nostradamus, who came from a long line of men skilled in mathematics and medicine. As a healer, he often used foods and herbs as treatments for various illnesses, such as this praline with pine nuts.

As a child, I love the holiday of Purim, the time when my mother would make hamantashen, filled with apricot jam or dried prune fillings. As a young adult, when I was living in Jerusalem, I discovered a whole new world of hamantashen fillings, and the magic of the shalach manot, the gift baskets stuffed with fruits and cookies. Traditionally, these were made to use up the year’s flour before the beginning of Passover as well as to make gift offerings. Strangely enough, hamantashen are little known in France, except among Jews coming from eastern European backgrounds. The North African Jews don’t make them, nor do the Alsatian Jews, who fry doughnuts for Purim (see following recipe). French children who do eat hamantashen like a filling of Nutella, the hazelnut-chocolate spread. You can go that route, or opt for the more traditional apricot preserves, prune jam, or the filling of poppy seeds, fruit, and nuts that I’ve included here.

To learn how to make the French macaroons that I tasted at many bakeries and homes in Paris, I asked Sherry Yard, executive pastry chef at Wolfgang Puck’s Spago, for guidance. Spending a day with Sherry and her staff, I had the opportunity to witness how American pastry chefs are learning from the macaroon-crazy French. The first of these dainty macaroon sandwiches filled with chocolate ganache was developed by the pastry chef Pierre Desfontaines Ladurée at the beginning of the twentieth century. Today almost every pastry shop in France makes them in a dizzying array of flavors and colors with jam, chocolate, and buttercream fillings. Some pastry shops make certified kosher versions. Here is a master recipe for the chocolate macaroon, with suggestions for making them vanilla- or raspberry-flavored. I have given a recipe for chocolate-mocha filling as well. You can also fill them with good-quality raspberry jam or almond paste. After you have made a few macaroons, use your own imagination to create others. And do serve them for Passover.

In Jewish homes in France and all around the world, recipes for macaroons have been handed down from mother to daughter for centuries. Jewish macaroons are descended from the Ladino marunchinos and almendredas, both terms for almond cookies. In fact, during the Inquisition, historian David Gitlitz told me, crypto-Jews were accused of having bought almond cookies from the Jewish quarter in Barbastro, in Aragón. The modern Jewish macaroon is specifically associated with Boulay, a town about twenty-five miles north of Nancy. It seems that a Jewish wine salesman named Bines Lazard opened in 1854 Maison Lazard, along with his wife, Françoise, and their son Léopold, where they sold macaroons, matzo, and wholesale wine. In 1898, the folklorist Auricoste de Lazarque tasted their macaroons, and proclaimed them the best in France, making the company enormously successful. During World War I, the Lazard family sold the wine business, and in 1932, they abandoned the matzo trade. Some thirty years later, the business, which included its secret recipe for macaroons, was sold to Jean Alexandre, who opened a shop in Boulay where macarons de Boulay are baked and sold to this day. Made from the traditional mixture of almonds, sugar, and egg whites, they are slightly robust, a departure from the flat and shiny French macaroons that are so popular today. Although the Alexandres would not give me their secret recipe, Yves Alexandre (no relation), from Strasbourg, had me taste his, which are very similar but made by hand, rather than machine.

This cookie was one that “Mamine”—an affectionate name for Maryse Weil, the matriarch of the Weil family from Besançon—baked as a young girl for family gatherings. Her granddaughter Martine Trèves makes it now in her kitchen. She showed me the recipe from a handwritten book that suggested adding a “grain of salt” to the batter.

I have always felt that cooking is the time to tell stories. In the sixties, when I learned to make this Passover carrot torte from Ruth Moos in Annecy, we talked about lots of things, but never about World War II. When I cook this torte now, after her death, I tell the story of how brave she was during the occupation. Not only did she help so many Jews trying to flee, but she had a narrow escape herself once. When the Annecy police warned the Mooses that the Gestapo was looking for her husband, Rudi, he went underground, hiding between the pork sausages and hams in a butcher’s smokehouse. Looking for him, the Gestapo went to the hotel where the Mooses had been hiding in nearby Talloires. Ruth, walking outside for a quick breath of fresh air while her tiny daughter was sleeping upstairs, turned around to see the Gestapo agents entering the lobby. In order to sneak past the guards, she grabbed some sheets from a chambermaid and, posing as a maid herself, climbed the stairs, passing the Gestapo. Terrified, she snatched her baby and fled to safety.

During World War II , Claudine Moos’s family hid in Lyon, which was the center of the Free Zone and considered to be a slightly safer city for the Jews. One day, her father, a socialist and Resistance fighter, was distributing leaflets against the Germans at the railroad station. The French police, helped by the German SS officer Klaus Barbie, caught him and others, and they were dispatched on the last train to Auschwitz. As they were escorted away, they sang the “Marseillaise,” the French national anthem, at the top of their lungs. Claudine, who was five years old at the time, has memories of their singing voices fading off into the distance. She was raised by her mother, who had also lost her father at a young age. Despite a difficult life, having lost her father and her husband, Claudine’s mother’s last words were “Life is good.” Even in a good life, food could be a challenge. “During and after the war, food was rationed,” Claudine told me in her kitchen in Annecy. “We got ration cards for the milk and eggs. Of course there was no chocolate. I remember my mother coming home with the first tablet of chocolate she could get after the war. How excited we all were!” Regardless of the shortages during the war, chestnuts still fell from trees throughout France in autumn. This rich uncooked cake would have been made from the chestnuts that were collected on the street. The recipe comes from a handwritten cookbook that Claudine’s grandmother gave her when she got married in 1960. The original recipes were measured in interesting ways, calling for a “glass of mustard” and a “nut of butter.” Peeling chestnuts used to be a laborious task. Her grandmother would collect or buy them whole, score them a quarter of the way down, boil them to loosen the skin, and then peel them. For Claudine, it is so much easier these days to make this cake, because she can buy frozen or jarred chestnuts, already peeled. Best made a day in advance, this rich cake should be served in small portions, topped with dollops of whipped cream.

When I interviewed Gilles Choukroun, one of the darlings of a new generation of French chefs who are injecting playfulness into French food, he had just opened the Mini Palais, a beautiful restaurant in Paris’s newly renovated Grand Palais exhibition hall, across from Les Invalides. In addition to his nascent restaurant empire, Gilles is also the father of Generation C, which stands for “Cuisines et Culture,” a group of chefs who teach cooking to the disadvantaged in Paris. Gilles, whose father is a Jew from Algeria, experiments with the spices and flavors of North Africa to accent his French food. One of his signature desserts is this refreshing citrus-fruit soup. It makes the perfect ending to a North African meal, especially with cookies on the side.

When I was trying to figure out how to make nougatine, I consulted pastry chef Ann Amernick, who has perfected nougatine and makes it effortlessly. This recipe is adapted from her latest book, The Art of the Dessert.

Kugelhopf, seen in every bakery in Alsace, is the regional special-occasion cake par excellence. The marvelous nineteenth-century illustration by Alphonse Lévy shows how this tea cake, which he calls baba, was also revered by the Jews of Alsace. Kugel means “ball” in German, and hopf means “cake” in Alsatian. This cake is found all over Germany, Austria, Hungary, and parts of Poland. According to food historians Philip and Mary Hyman, a Kugelhopf is first mentioned in German texts in the 1730s, where it is described as a cake baked in a mold shaped like a turban. I suspect that this cake went back and forth throughout the Austro-Hungarian Empire with travelers and cooks, and possibly came back to Lorraine as baba, also a turbaned cake in its original form. Sometimes kugelhopf is raised with yeast; some later versions use baking powder. It may contain raisins, or a combination of raisins and almonds. Kugelhopf molds are as varied as the myriad recipes. You can easily find kugelhopf molds at fine kitchen-supply stores, or you can use a small-capacity Bundt pan. Be careful to watch the cake as it cooks, since baking time will vary depending on the size and material of your pan, and you do not want to let the cake dry out.

Danielle Fleischmann bakes this apple cake in the same beat-up rectangular pan that her mother used. Known as a “Jewish apple cake” because oil is substituted for butter, it is called gâteau de Hannouka in France. When Danielle makes the cake, she uses very little batter, and half sweet and half tart apples, a combination that makes a really tasty version of this simple Polish cake. Although her mother grated the apples, Danielle cuts them into small chunks. I often make it in a Bundt pan and serve it sprinkled with sugar.