It’s fall. The weather has changed. It even snowed last week on the mountain above me. All that right after a heat wave, so I, the dogs, and the trees heaved a sigh of relief. The trees that can showed their gratitude by beginning the turn to a brilliance of color. The oaks, the mountain maples, the dogwoods. Alex and I walk, in the afternoon, down a hill covered with scrub oak. At this time of year, we call it the walk of gold.
What else happens? I start to think about baked apples for breakfast. For two reasons: the obvious one is that it’s apple harvest time, and the stores and farmers markets are burgeoning with all the different kinds—not to mention the trees of my across the street neighbor. And they are, indeed, a multitude of kinds. Not just the Golden Delicious and Red Delicious of my childhood, but McIntosh, Pippin, Winesap, Jonathan Gold, Rome Beauty. A plethora of romantic names.
I want to try them all. That’s the first reason. The second is that, come dinner time, I start thinking about casseroles to put into the oven for an hour while I drink my wine. I hate just using the oven for one thing. So the obvious solution is to bake a lot of fruit, and then parcel it out on little baking dishes to heat up in the toaster oven all week for breakfast.
I’ve got apples, a lot of them, different kinds though I can’t identify them. Doesn’t matter, they’ll all be good. So I pick out a few, put them in a baking dish, toss some brown sugar on top, and add some apple juice, about an inch, around them.
For dinner, we’re having one of Alex’s favorites, a long cooking potato/anchovy/garlic/cream casserole. A pound of thin sliced potatoes, yellow and unpeeled this time at his request. A can of anchovies. About eight chopped garlic cloves. A buttered baking dish, one level of potatoes, one level of anchovies laid out neatly, one level of scattered garlic cloves, another level of potatoes. Fill the dish up with cream, pressing the potatoes down. A little milk to make sure they’re submerged. The anchovy oil from the can dribbled on top. The whole thing goes in a 350 degree oven for about an hour. And on the shelf below, the baking dish of apples.
I let the apples cool while we eat dinner. Then decant each one into its own cozy little dish. Cover each one. Refrigerate.
This morning was so cold. It promises snow, if not here, then not too far above us. Perfect morning for a baked apple breakfast. One of the little cazuelas the apples are nestled in, the addition of a dribble of apple juice and a little more cream. Popped into the toaster oven at 350 degrees until the apple smells of roasted apple again.
The perfect breakfast. Now, I’m thinking when it snows, another great winter breakfast is real hot chocolate.
Stay tuned for that.