A Crisp Simplicity

I am not the most natural hostess. I think I’ve already said that, maybe several times. If so, I apologize. As much as I love a good dinner party and conversations with friends, the prospect of hosting people at my house always fills me with a kind of dread. Once the evening is underway, I am almost always happy, stress notwithstanding. But the days leading up to any meal involving people other than my husband and children, are invariably filled with anxiety, and endless ruminations on how this is possibly the worst time to be hosting anybody and giving myself so much work. “I know I’ve said this before, but this time is really not the right time” – you know the drill. Junior has a test the next day, and you’re just recovering from a cold, and your better half was away on a business trip, making the prospect of another domestic endeavor just about unbearable. Whatever the reason, and even when there are no good reasons to be complaining, the broken record goes on, a few days before the fateful dinner, or lunch. Will the meat be overcooked and the veggies inedible? Is it the right menu for the season? Should I really try to serve this new dessert I’ve never made before? How awkward will it be for me to engage in conversation while keeping an eye on the oven? When should I stick the asparagus in said oven? How long should we sit with drinks before sitting down to dinner, and how to plan the meat prep accordingly? All these hostess details that always appear seamless to me when I am not the one performing them, become and endless source of second-guessing and doubt. None of which seem to ever appear in any cookbook of food memoir that I ever set my eyes on. The Martha Stewart and Ina Garten of the world, just seem to genuinely ENJOY hosting large groups of people on a seemingly weekly, if not daily, basis. Am I the neurotic one, or are they? I would say THEY are crazy, of course, but I’m definitely biased.

To make things worse, I have noticed, recently, that my anxiety has been creeping up even when I am a guest - which is a new and worrying development. Last weekend for example, when we showed up late to a dinner party after an impromptu “apéritif” in the park with school friends, and our daughter decided to call me as soon as I walked in the door. She wasn’t going to spend the night at her friend’s house after all and needed to get home from the picnic that I had myself left too late. I was already quite sweaty and out of sorts, and now had to hastily arrange an Uber ride, while we were being greeted by our hosts. It was awkward for sure, especially as we didn’t know our hosts very well and were invited at their house for the first time. I could have just laughed it off, and normally would have, but this time for some strange reason I felt a surge of embarrassment and shame, which didn’t really leave me the entire evening. It didn’t help when the next morning I realized that in the chaos of my disheveled arrival, I had forgotten to give our hostess the wine we had brought. Shame upon shame, I tell you. And I was surprised by how strong my reaction was. It seems like, after all these years, there is still that little – sometimes not so little at all- voice inside me, telling me that I don’t know how to do things properly, that I don’t master the codes of polite society, that I will be somehow unmasked as not growing up the “right way”. As if the simple act of inviting or being invited, required some basic, intuitive knowledge that I just do not have.

I grew up in a modest, quiet household where my parents never had any guests. Is this why having guests over for dinner remains a thing for me? After we moved from the center of Paris to the suburbs, when I was about nine years old, I don’t think anybody aside from my paternal grandparents, and an occasional school friend, ever set foot in our small apartment. The round, mahogany dining table only fit four people, and my mother didn’t like to cook. Also, the living and dining room also served – or, come to think of it, mainly served - as my father’s office and library, and my father did not like his things to be disturbed, his solitary routine to be perturbed. When my mother was away on a school trip with her class for two or three weeks, his parents, and then just his mom after my grandfather passed away, would come and stay with us. My grandmother would cook for my father and me during that time, but we still ate in the kitchen even though there was really no space, around the table or otherwise. My grandmother is the only quiet presence I remember having at my house, outside of my parents. In middle school I invited a friend or two, but in high school I became too embarrassed to show my house and would only go to my friend’s fancy 16th arrondissement apartments, and cozy beach houses – for which I am forever grateful.

It has struck me lately, how much of this social awkwardness, or downright shame, I carry with me to this day. I have found myself more self-conscious in social settings than I have in years. I notice that I am constantly afraid to do, or say, the wrong thing. Which probably results in me appearing as awkward as I feel and wouldn’t be if I didn’t have those paralyzing thoughts. Whether it’s a crisis or a new trend remains to be seen. But it’s disconcerting to realize how awkward one can still feel in one’s late forties, around new people or people who are not close family and friends. More so than in the previous three decades, when I think I navigated invitations and upper-echelon social gatherings with more ease.

So, a dinner at our house last week, with my husband’s beloved second cousin’s daughters, was a welcome break in that neurotic streak. I did fret over the menu for a couple of days, as I will always do, I’m afraid. But the day came, and everything felt quite simple in the execution. Maybe because our guests were two lovely young women in their early twenties. It would have been hard to feel too uncomfortable around them, and the kids were all thrilled to be around such beautiful, joyous, inspiring ladies. But also, there was that chicken, and that crisp, which made my life easier. The chicken was ready to go before they arrived, and there only remained the matter of the crisp. I did fret over whether I should bake it ahead of time, and I probably should have. I served it very late, and too warm. It was, however, comforting to everyone, including myself. And the perfect unmissable Spring dessert. Really, it is unmissable, as most crumbles and crisps are, and everybody wanted seconds. My only regret was not making two of them. So, there you have it. An oven-baked, forgiving Spring beauty before it gets too hot to turn on the oven, for those good friends and family you don’t need to impress but want to be happy.

Strawberry-Rhubarb Crisp

From Once Upon a Chef

Servings: 6-8

Prep Time: 20 Minutes

Cook Time: 50 Minutes

Total Time: 1 Hour 10 Minutes

INGREDIENTS

METRIC

FOR THE FILLING

• 1 pound rhubarb stalks, trimmed and sliced ½-inchthick (about 4 cups)

• ½ pound strawberries, hulled and quartered (about 2 cups)

• ½ cup granulated sugar

• 1½ tablespoons cornstarch

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

FOR THE TOPPING

• ¾ cup all-purpose flour, spooned into measuring cup and leveled-off with a knife

• ½ cup packed light brown sugar

• 2 tablespoons granulated sugar

• ¼ teaspoon salt

• 6 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into ½-inch cubes

• ¾ cup old fashioned rolled oats

• ½ cup chopped pecans

• Lightly sweetened whipped cream or vanilla ice cream, for serving (optional)

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Preheat the oven to 350°F. 

   
   

FOR THE FILLING

1. In a large bowl, combine the rhubarb, strawberries, sugar, cornstarch, and vanilla. Stir until the fruit is evenly coated with the sugar mixture, and the sugar mixture is no longer white. 

2. Transfer the fruit mixture to a 2-quart or 8-inchbaking dish (no need to butter it) and set aside while you prepare the topping.

FOR THE TOPPING

1. In the bowl of a food processor, combine the flour, brown sugar, granulated sugar and salt. Process until well combined, about 30 seconds. Add the cold butter and pulse until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs, with a few pea-sized clumps of butter within. Transfer to a medium bowl and stir in the oats and chopped pecans. 

2. Spoon the topping evenly over the fruit without packing down. Bake for 45-55 minutes, until the fruit is bubbling around the edges and the topping is golden brown. Cool for 20 minutes before serving. Spoon into shallow bowls and serve with vanilla ice cream.

3. Note: If your baking dish is shallow, place it on top of a foil-lined sheet pan to catch any spills that might bubble over the edges.

4. Note: Don't be tempted to increase the strawberries in the recipe, or you'll end up with fruit soup (they release a lot of juice).

5. Freezer-Friendly Instructions: The crisp can be frozen tightly covered for up to 3 months. Before serving, reheat it, uncovered, in a 300°F oven until heated through and crisp on top.