Shameful secret: Every time I make beans I have to call my mom. There are some basic Nica recipes I assumed came embedded in my genetic material. Imagine my surprise when for years I couldn’t make tortillas. Or rice.

The tortillas and rice are under control, but I still hiccup and reach for the phone when I make beans. Last night, however, I finally wrote mom’s procedure down and the training wheels are coming off.

This is how I make beans, and though I normally research alternative methods for making recipes to make sure my bases are covered, this is what I know and trust. Plus, I love that my mom calls for seven cloves of garlic. Seven, no explanation.

FRIJOLES NICARAGÜENSES (EN BALA)

Goya sells “Central American Beans” which are the small, red kidney beans that are standard issue in Nicaragua. If you can’t find them, use small black beans.

Served straight freshly boiled, the beans are called “frijoles en bala”—beans bullet-style. Don’t ask.

Stay tuned for refried beans and gallopinto.

1 (16-ounce) bag dried small red or black beans
Salt
7 garlic cloves, peeled

- Spread beans out in a rimmed baking sheet. Pick out any debris and questionable looking beans.

- Transfer beans to a colander and rinse under cold running water. Place rinsed beans in a large bowl and cover with cold water. Let soak for 30 minutes.

- Transfer beans and water to a large pot; water should cover the beans about 3 inches—add more if necessary. Bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat to medium and simmer beans for 30 minutes. Turn off heat, cover beans, and let rest 1 hour.

- Bring the beans back up to a boil over high heat. Add 2 teaspoons salt and garlic, reduce heat to medium, and simmer until beans are tender, 30 to 60 minutes.

- If storing the beans, cool completely, then transfer beans and some of the cooking liquid to quart-sized zipper-lock bags.  When ready to use, thaw out in the refrigerator and heat on the stovetop in a saucepan or in the microwave.

Pie crust can be daunting.  I know numerous cooks, professional and amateur, that don’t relish the thought of making it. I’ve always found making pies a soothing activity, but did have a lousy, nightmarish episode with crusts recently that almost made me break out in hives. Anyway. I won’t make you break out into hives or develop an eye twitch. This pie crust lesson is tedious and longer than the recipes I’ve been posting lately, but holiday season is fast approaching and maybe you’d like to try your hand at it, get some practice, so you can bring something “wow” to your family dinner this year.

HOW TO MAKE PIE CRUST

I rarely cook or provide recipes using the metric system, however, when it comes to pie crust I dutifully unwrap my scale and press the “grams” button. I’ve translated the measurements to cups and tablespoons, but I do prefer the certainty of the scale.

The following recipe is applicable only to the pastel de piña (pineappple pie) that follows. I read and reread my mother’s recipe for the Nicaraguan bakery staple, and unconventional as it is, it’s traditional. Normally, a tart or single crust pie such as lemon meringue is made by “blind” baking the crust: the tart mold or pie plate is lined with pie dough which is pricked to prevent puffing, lined with parchment or foil, weighed down, and baked prior to being cooled and filled. A double-crust pie like apple pie is filled raw: the pie plate is lined with pie dough, filled, and topped with a second, vented crust or with a latticed top, then baked.

Pastel de piña uses an unorthodox combination of the two methods: the crust is blind baked, filled, then topped with a lattice and returned to the oven.

PÂTE BRISÉE with EGG
Makes a double-crust for an 8- to 9-inch pie
Don’t skip any of the resting or chilling periods in the recipe, unless you want a shriveled, shrunken, or tough crust!

400 grams (2 ¾ cups) all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt
200 grams (15 tablespoons) chilled butter cut into ¼ inch pieces
2 eggs, lightly beaten
Ice water, as needed

1 egg yolk
2 teaspoons heavy cream
Pinch of salt

- Combine the flour and salt on a clean, dry work surface. With a bench scraper, cut in the butter until it resembles wet sand. Alternatively, combine the flour and salt in the bowl of a food processor and add the butter. Pulse until the mixture resembles wet sand, then transfer mixture to a clean, dry work surface.

- Form  a well in the center of the flour mixture and pour in the eggs plus 1 tablespoon ice water.

- Working quickly, use the bench scraper to cut in the eggs and water.  If the mixture appears very dry and crumbly, add water, 1 teaspoon at a time, until the mixture is cohesive but not overly wet.

- Bring the dough together with your hands. Pinch off pieces of dough (about 2-inch pieces) and with the heel of your hand extend on the surface. This method, called fraisage, ensures that the butter is evenly distributed in the dough. Shape the dough into a ball and cut it in half. Shape each half into a disc and wrap in plastic. Refrigerate for 30 minutes.

- On a lightly floured surface, roll the dough out to about 10 inches in diameter. Gently fold the dough into quarters and transfer to an 8-inch tart shell.  Unfold the dough and press it into the shell. Trim off excess overhang and lightly prick all over with fork.  Transfer the lined shell to refrigerator and chill 30 minutes, then, freeze for 20 minutes.  Preheat the oven to 375˚F.

- Roll out the second dough disc on a piece of lightly floured parchment paper to 10 inches in diameter and cut into 8 1-inch-thick strips. Slide parchment and strips onto a baking sheet or jelly board and refrigerate.

- Line the chilled shell with foil or parchment paper (not wax paper!) and fill with pie weights or dry beans. Bake until the dough looks opaque, 20 to 25 minutes.

- Fill the pie shell with the pineapple mixture (see recipe below).  Following photo 13, lay out four dough strips across the pie at about 1-inch intervals. Then, starting in the middle, lay one additional strip perpendicular to the original strips. Carefully weave the strips into each other, following figures 13 to 16.

- Beat the egg yolk, cream, and salt in small bowl. With a pastry brush, paint the egg mixture over the lattice top. Bake until golden, 30 to 40 minutes. Transfer pie to wire rack and cool to room temperature, 1 to 2 hours.

PASTEL DE PIÑA
Serves 6 to 8

1 large, ripe pineapple
½ cup water
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1 ½ cups sugar
1/8 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into 1 inch pieces

To prepare the pineapple:

- With a chef’s knife, cut off the crown of leaves and about 1 inch from the base. Stand the pineapple upright and cut the prickly exterior off. If there are any “eyes” left, trim them.

- Lay the pineapple on its side and cut the flesh off; discard the core. Cut the pineapple into ½-inch pieces.

- Transfer half of the pineapple chunks to a food processor and pulse until pineapple is a thick puree.

- Transfer to a large pot.

- Whisk cornstarch and water together in a small bowl and stir into pineapple. Stir in the sugar and salt.

- Bring the pineapple mixture to a boil and simmer, stirring occasionally, until deep golden and jam-like, 45 to 60 minutes.  Off heat, stir in butter.

- Fill the blind baked crust and continue to recipe above.

It was a plain wooden table, rectangular, and filled most of the kitchen. She sat at its head, owning it with her large, meaty body. Her bulbous knees were spread apart, butting into the table’s legs, her own legs anchored by thick ankles that ended in feet solidly packed into white canvas sneakers. It would’ve been a humorous sight but for the fact that we were starving and this she-troll was ruler of the pantry, fridge, and stovetop. She yawned, stretching ham-like arms that strained against the fabric of her sleeves, and asked if we would like breakfast. It didn’t sound inviting, so my mother and I, terrified and slightly embarrassed at trespassing on this woman’s turf and morning, mumbled that we could manage on our own. Her mood changed suddenly to solicitousness (seasoned with sass) and she ordered us to sit as she’d just made a whole pot of scrambled eggs. Meek as mice we took our place at her table and waited. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her dishing out a pile of dried out yellow curds onto our plates. We swallowed hard and knew we had to comply.

Unless you find yourself forced to play the role of grateful guest (or compliant hostage), never, never, never eat a reheated egg of any sort, especially scrambled. Scrambled eggs are meant to be a moist, creamy cloud of small curds, not hard, dried out, crusty lumps of sponge.

GAG-FREE SCRAMBLED EGGS
Serves 1

2 large eggs at room temperature
1 tablespoon milk or cream
Salt and pepper
1 ½ tablespoons unsalted butter

- Crack eggs into medium bowl. (Note: to avoid shells falling into your eggs, tap the eggs on a flat surface rather than the edge of your bowl or sink. If a bit of shell does make it into the bowl, scoop it out with the edge of an egg shell – it’s more efficient than chasing it about with your fingers or a spoon). Season with salt and pepper and add milk. Whisk until the mixture is frothy and pale yellow, 1 to 2 minutes.

- Heat 1 tablespoon of the butter in a small nonstick skillet over medium-low heat. Once melted, pour in the eggs and start stirring in small concentric circles all around the pan with a heatproof rubber spatula or wooden spoon, making sure to scrape up and incorporate eggs on the bottom and sides of pan.

- Small curds will start to develop; keep stirring. Once most of the egg mixture is set, drop in the remaining ½ tablespoon butter and turn off heat. Keep stirring to incorporate the butter and serve. Eat immediately.

I was in New York last weekend and went to brunch at a restaurant where I’ve had consistently good food on every single one of my many visits. Sadly, this time around the stars were not in alignment. The meal got off to a bad start when I saw that the bread basket wasn’t on the menu. “Only on Sundays,” I was informed. What? Why can’t the public have baked goods on a Saturday? I was annoyed, but moved on. More room for the huge plate of beef, hash, and eggs I wanted. Not on the menu either. “Seasonal menu,” was the explanation. Apparently cows aren’t in season. Who knew.

Since this was my favorite brunch place when I lived in New York, I let both offenses slide and ordered the special: a breakfast sandwich with spicy merguez sausage, horseradish cream, and my favorite, fried eggs. I settled back into the booth and sipped my coffee. Things were going to be just fine.

And then my food arrived. The eggs – quel horreur! – were completely overcooked. The yolks were firm and the whites were crunchy. I don’t know how you like your eggs, but I like mine over-easy, i.e. firm but not crispy whites and yolks that run when pricked with a fork tine. I don’t usually send things back, but I was revolted and just had to get rid of them. I politely asked for a replacement (I even offered to keep the rest of the dish) and in good faith saw them off. But when the second batch of eggs showed up, I knew it was all over. This pair was raw. No question about it. The whites were not white, but unsettlingly mucous-y and clear, and the yolks bright marigold instead of delicately hidden under a thin, shell pink skin.

Step 3 of my previous post explains how to make eggs over easy, but after last weekend’s debacle it occurred to me that perhaps the frying of an egg – or at least my version of the method – deserved a post all of its own. If you hate this recipe, e-mail me and I’ll tell you where to go in New York for a well done egg.

1 egg
1 pat of butter
1 pinch salt
1 tablespoon water

Crack the egg into a teacup or cereal bowl.

Melt the butter in a small nonstick pan over medium-high heat. Swirl the pan around to evenly grease it.

Gently slide the egg into the skillet and sprinkle it with salt. The edges will start to bubble and turn white after about 15 seconds.

At that point, add the water and cover it with a lid.

Cook the egg for 1 to 2 minutes until the white is set and the yolk has a pale pink coating over it.

Transfer the egg to a plate and enjoy.

Bread is the perfect food. There’s no arguing that – it’s even in the Lord’s Prayer: “give us today our daily bread.” I know I’m interpreting that very literally, but there it is, in black and white.

I used to get my bread at Fairway on the Upper West Side and was pretty happy with it. No additives, no less-than-2%-of-the-following-impossible-to-pronounce ingredients. When I moved away from the UWS it was, for the most part, back to the bread aisle at the supermarket. There I would walk past Wonder and Sunbeam, Arnold and Nature’s Own. It got to a point where it didn’t really matter what I bought. All of these breads were wimpy and forgettable.

Tired of blah bread, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I’d been to the library recently in search of a Boston cream pie recipe (coming soon!) and along the way found a recipe for honey whole wheat bread in Greg Patent’s Baking in America. Mr. Patent failed to inform this dimwitted reader that perhaps her standard-sized Kitchen Aid (aka Kiki) would be no match for seven cups of flour. I should’ve known it wasn’t, but if there’s a recipe in a cookbook meant for home cooks, I expect it to work with standard kitchen appliances. My little Kiki started bucking like a bronco, and rather than risk breaking her neck, I turned her off and plunked the dough onto the counter. Now I would truly have to take matters into my own hands – I would have to knead.

Kneading was not easy. I’m too short to really bear down on the dough, so I strapped on some heels, but they didn’t help my situation – the heels provided height but not much in the way of support. Back in sneakers, I stood on my tip-toes and tried my best to work the dough, pretending all the time I was Lady Macbeth, outing the damned spot. Sweat started beading my brow and the bile starting bubbling. “I hate Greg Patent!” I muttered. But I kept going. I was scared because the dough was dry and crumbly and for the first few minutes, my labors did nothing to bring it together. It wasn’t smooth or elastic, just an ill-formed, uncooperative lump. To make matters worse, I kept remembering what my old boss W. told me about dough: “It’s alive.” Surely, I was killing it.

What a lump.

I continued to fret while the bread was rising. It wasn’t smooth and beautiful, but heavyset and squat. Into the oven went two loaves anyway and without waiting for it to cool I cut a slice and buttered it. It was dense and a little chewy, bland in flavor, and OK at best.

Squat, toad-like loaves.

I’d decided to make bread despite the fact that I had a date the very next day to meet a real baker at a bakery a friend described as “THE BEST BREAD EVER:” Clear Flour Bakery (www.clearflourbread.com). Clear Flour specializes in the production of French and Italian breads that are real: no additives, no preservatives. My new baker friend D. gave me a tour, which was awesome: Brobdingnagian mixers, about 50 times bigger and more powerful than my dinky little Kiki, imposing deck ovens, buckets of dough, stacks of beautiful frielings and bannetons (round and rectangular molds for shaping and proofing bread), and the main event: bread. There were baguettes, ficelles, olive rolls made with green olives, focaccia smothered with onions, hearty rolls with studded with nuts and plump raisins bearing the very poetic name of Paris night.

Bannetons.

Big mama mixers.

There is but a small area in front of the counter at it was packed solid at all times. Everyone, staff and visitors alike, were very kind, though, letting me be all interrupt-y with my camera.

I bought an assortment and Señor O and I promptly went about the business of eating it. The ficelle was perfectly crunchy and French, as was its larger friend, baguette. I didn’t get to the baguette till this morning and, swoon, it was so perfect in its simplicity and straightforwardness that I was completely swept away. I spread some good European butter on it and ate away. I also treated myself to a Paris night roll with some apricot preserves I brought back from a recent trip to Rome. I haven’t enjoyed breakfast this thoroughly since I can’t remember when. Thank you, Clear Flour for keeping it real.

A dream of Paris.