Fruit

Italians will often serve a Torta di Verdura for dessert, a cross between a cake and a tart packed with leafy greens. The first time I tried it I was unsure if I’d like it, but I found it unusually delicious and devoured the slice offered. Italian basil, which has a slight aniselike scent, provides the base for this herbaceous ice cream. This is wonderful to make in the summer when large bunches of basil are abundantly available at the market.

I’ll admit that my favorite selection from the shiny white Good Humor jalopy that cruised our neighborhood was simply called Toasted Coconut: vanilla ice cream on a stick, coated with lots of sugary-sweet coconut. On the last fateful day that I’d ever see the Good Humor man, the bully next door decided to spray him with water from a hose as he slowly circled our block. He beat a hasty retreat and never came back. Being blackballed by the Good Humor man made that the worst summer of my life. I don’t know what happened to the neighborhood bully, but now that I’m an adult I can have Toasted Coconut Ice Cream whenever I want. And I do. This ice cream is pictured marbled with Mango Sorbet (page 108).

This frozen yogurt is a snap to put together, especially welcome in the summer which is when you may want to limit your time in a warm kitchen. But don’t let its ease of preparation fool you; this vibrantly colored frozen yogurt provides the biggest blast of strawberry flavor imaginable.

I’m a firm believer in being very nice to the people who feed me, which comes from working in restaurants and seeing what can happen to people who aren’t. I have a particular soft spot for the young folks at my local fish market, who wake early each morning to unpack, bone, and clean icy cold fish all day long. Since their freezer has a much larger capacity than mine, and their capacity for eating ice cream follows suit, I got into the habit of bringing them lots of ice creams and sorbets. Each time I’d bring them another flavor, they’d drop whatever work they were doing, rip off the lid, and dig right in. They liked this Raspberry Swirl Ice Cream the most, and it earned me VIP status instantly. Since that day, I’ve gotten the quickest and most helpful service of anyone who shops at that fish store. This perplexes the other shoppers, who have no idea of the power of homemade ice cream. For best results, layer the just-churned ice cream with the raspberry swirl and avoid stirring it to preserve the colorful contrast between the frozen vanilla custard and the gorgeous swirl of raspberries.

This is the first ice cream that springs to mind when people recall hand-cranked, old-fashioned fruit ice creams from their past. More than any other homemade ice cream, this is perhaps the most beloved of all flavors and is indeed best when spooned right out of the machine, just moments after it’s been churned. An easy way to peel peaches is to cut an X at the bottom and then lower them in a pot of boiling water for about 20 seconds. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the peaches to a colander and shock them with cold water, then let them cool. Afterward, you’ll find their fuzzy peels just slip right off.

Brilliant pink fresh strawberry ice cream is a classic flavor and, along with chocolate and vanilla, is an American favorite. I’m a big fan of any kind of berries served with tangy sour cream, but I think strawberries are the most delicious, especially when frozen into a soft, rosy red scoop of ice cream. Macerating the strawberries beforehand magically transforms even so-so berries into fruits that are brilliantly red. Try to eat this ice cream soon after it’s been churned.

As a smart shopper, I like to outwit unsuspecting produce clerks who don’t know any better and mark down passion fruits that are ugly and deeply wrinkled, which actually indicates that they’re perfectly ripe and ready to use. I buy any and all, whether I need them right away or not, since the pulp freezes beautifully. You can find good-quality frozen passion fruit pulp in Latin markets as well (or see Resources, page 237). I like to add a drop or two of pure orange oil to augment the passion fruit flavor, but if unavailable, you can substitute a few swipes of freshly grated orange zest if you wish. To extract the pulp, cut each passion fruit in half at the equator and scoop the pulp and seeds into a nonreactive strainer set over a bowl. Use a flexible rubber spatula to press and extract as much as the precious pulp as possible, until the seeds look rather dry. You can freeze the fragrant pulp or use it right away. But save a few of the seeds to add back to the ice cream just after it’s churned.

When I wrote my first book on desserts, I told the story of the blueberry bush my father planted when I was growing up, which was an early lesson in disappointment (there were many more to come, but that was the first). As soon as the berries would ripen, the wily and evil blackbirds would come and snag any and all berries before I got to taste even one. When I returned home about a year ago, my sister had just sold the house and was moving away, and I noticed that the lonely berry bush was still there. And still devoid of berries. Although I gave up hope a long time ago, I considered warning the family moving in not to get their hopes up for any ripe blueberries. But I decided to let them find out on their own. They’ll learn the same lesson I did, and end up buying blueberries at the store, where the blackbirds can’t get them. Hopefully they’ll spare themselves the disappointment of a life as unfulfilled as mine, devoid of homegrown blueberries.

Raspberry ice cream is one of life’s most unabashed luxuries. I prefer to strain out the seeds, which interfere with the sublime smoothness and pleasure of this ice cream. To do this, purée the raspberries in a food processor, then press them through a mesh strainer with a flexible rubber spatula, or use a food mill. This recipe requires 1 1/2 cups (375 ml) of purée, so you’ll need to begin with about 6 cups (750 g) of fresh or frozen raspberries.

Unlike some of the other frozen yogurts in this book, I only make this with plain, unstrained yogurt. Since the peach purée is so velvety thick, this frozen yogurt has a lovely consistency when frozen.

The Belgians have their own version of gingersnaps, called speculoos (SPEC-oulooze). They’re meant to be nibbled alongside the copious amounts of beer that Belgians drink, which was one of the many lessons I learned when I went to chocolate school there, at Callebaut College. The Belgians like their beer so much that the outdoor beer gardens are busy all year long, even during the freezing cold winters. You have to brush the snow off your table to put down your glass! The good news is that you don’t have to worry about your beer getting warm. Back home, I found that speculoos go equally well when crumbled and folded into lemon ice cream, which can be consumed any time of the year.

This recipe comes from Barbara Tropp, the woman who introduced many Americans to the wonders of Chinese cooking. But she was also one of those people who was just absolutely lovely to be around in every respect. She was deservedly popular in the food community and left many great recipes behind as her legacy, including this famous lemon ice cream. It was passed on to me by Susan Loomis, a dear friend we both had in common. I made it, ate one spoonful, and immediately found another reason to love, and miss, Barbara. It’s superbly lemony and clean…and as zesty as Barbara was herself.

After a big meal, when I feel like I can’t eat another bite, I like a dessert that’s been infused with an intriguing flavor, like Szechwan pepper, to coax my taste buds back to life. This ice cream starts off comfortably, with the familiar flavor of orange, and then comes alive with a kick from the Szechwan peppercorns.

When friends found out I was writing a book on ice cream, many felt compelled to “help out” by passing along really odd flavor combinations they’d either seen or heard of. But somehow, I just couldn’t seem to get enthusiastic about combinations like Clam-Raisin or Duck Fat Swirl. However, when Judy Witts raved about this combination, which she’d enjoyed at her local gelateria in Florence, it piqued my interest. After a bit of trial and error, I discovered that the key to preserving the character of pecorino is to very finely dice the cheese rather than grating it. The little bites of salty cheese are the perfect counterpoint to the fruity, pear-flavored custard.

Surprisingly, a lot of people have never seen a fresh fig. When they do, they invariably ask, “What is that?” Indeed, a majority of the fig harvest gets dried and made into the familiar bar cookies. But fresh figs have a sweet succulence that is unmatched by their dried counterparts. A fig is ripe when the sides crack and split and a dewy drop of juice starts to ooze from the tiny hole in the bottom. Once picked, figs don’t ripen any more, so buy only figs that are dead-ripe. For best results, use Black Mission figs, which will give the ice cream a lovely deep-violet color.

This ice cream combines the best of two worlds: deeply caramelized sugar and sweet, juicy pears. Use the ripest, most flavorful pears you can find, since you want the flavor of the pears to stand up to the slightly burnt taste of the caramel. I recommend Comice or Bartlett pears, which have a heady, roselike aroma when ripe. Don’t be alarmed if the sugar hardens and crackles when you add the pears. Keep cooking, and the pears will dissolve the caramelized sugar nicely.

One winter I visited my friend Kate Hill, who lives in Gascony, a region famous for its tasty prunes, les pruneaux d’Agen. As a means of prying me away from the cozy kitchen hearth, where I could happily eat cassoulet and drink Armagnac all day by the fire, we decided to do something cultural and visit the local prune museum. It was all rather exciting: an entire museum full of educational displays on the history of prunes, including informative dioramas showing the various phases of prune production. We ended our visit with a thrilling film explaining prune cultivation and harvesting, which was a real nail-biter. On our way out, near the prune-filled gift shop (there was a comic book about a prune-fueled superhero…I’m not kidding), was a shrine with a jar holding what they claimed was the world’s oldest prune, dating back to the mid-1800s. For this recipe, you should use prunes that are wrinkled but not necessarily that old, and be alert that it’s become au courant to call them dried plums in America.

If you’re lucky enough to live in an area where fresh apricots are bountiful in the summer, be sure to take advantage of their brief season by churning up a batch of this ice cream. Don’t be put off by apricots that are übersoft, as plump and fragile as an overfilled water balloon, seemingly ready to burst at the slightest touch. Those are invariably the best-tasting fruits.

For many years, I was delighted to work with Lindsey Shere, the founding pastry chef at Chez Panisse. She was constantly surprising us with amazing fruits and berries from neighbors’ backyards and nearby farms. Without fail, Lindsey would come in one weekend each summer carrying a big plastic Tupperware container, which, due to its distinctive rounded shape, left no question that it was precisely designed to hold a canned ham. But instead of a ham, inside would be a jumble of tiny, tender, smushed wild plums picked by her mother. Eaten raw, they were puckery-tart, but once stewed, they made an incredibly flavorful plum ice cream. Each year I would wait patiently for that one late-summer weekend when Lindsey would walk though the door lugging her now-infamous canned ham container. Although wild plums may be hard to come by, you can use whatever plums are available with equal success.

Bill Fujimoto, the produce expert at Monterey Market in Berkeley, grew up in Japan. He once told me about the produce market where his father worked, which featured a wall covered with tarantulas, each individually nailed in place. In days past, native islanders would hoist bunches of bananas onto ships heading landward, and the bananas would sometimes include a little something extra from the jungle lurking beneath the stem. Sometimes people would bring home bananas only to discover an unwelcome houseguest the next day, enjoying a morning stroll across the kitchen counter. In spite of their risky reputation, bananas have become the most popular, and least intimidating, fruit in America. I’ve eaten more than my fair share and have yet to see any hazardous signs of life. (But that doesn’t mean I don’t take a peek every now and then.) Roasting bananas in butter and brown sugar gives them a deep, rich butterscotch flavor, which enhances their abundant natural sweetness.