chompsky

There are certain things that sunny summer dinners on the patio call to mind. Light salads full of heirloom tomatoes, perhaps, or simple barbecued fare adorned with torn bits of herbs straight from the garden; endless pitchers of lemonade (or of mojitos, if your name happens to start with j and end with ulie). There are lots of summery foodstuffs I could name right now. Almond-scented gelatinized heavy cream would probably not be among them.

And yet, there we were, Nick and I, at the Kitsilano Farmers’ Market on Sunday surveying a table piled with rhubarb, neglected next to the first fresh little strawberry babies one table over. (Yes, I did call them babies. As I did the whole way home, as Nick carried a little cartonful, asking How are my babies? and Don’t you love our babies?) Honestly, I would have neglected them, too, if I didn’t have a tendency to irrationally assign human emotions to things like vegetables and then feel guilty about ignoring said vegetable. It’s like when you were a toddler, and perhaps felt that one teddy bear would be offended if you always played with the other. Except now you’re an adult and still believing that Bucky Buckhorse, sitting on a shelf in your childhood bedroom, might still want to hunt you down because you replaced him with Serena the Cat.

Back to rhubarb. I never was a big fan. It might have something to do with my grandmother and her pies. Her pies were delicious, every one, with pumpkin and apple being obvious standouts, but all the adults in my family used to coo the most over her strawberry-rhubarb pie. As a child, I could never get behind it, being far too bitter for my taste. Since then, my palate has matured (a bit…what, Skittles aren’t mature?) but I still associated rhubarb with that bitterness. Happily for me, my neurotic vegetable animism got the best of me and we bought three of those monstrous red-tinged celery stalks.

Back home, I searched my Google Reader for starred recipes containing the word “rhubarb.” There were admittedly few, but there was one that immediately caught my fancy: Savour Fare’s Toasted Almond Blancmange Panna Cotta with Rhubarb Compote. I love panna cotta and have been talking about how I was going to make some for Nick since Valentine’s Day (sorry, babe!) but never seemed to get around to it. It seemed intimidating, making those delicate little wiggly milk puddings that can stand up all by themselves. Throw in a fancy French word like “blancmange” and it goes the way of macarons and opera cakes–things I desperately want to make but are probably best left to the professionals. This time, though, I actually took the time to read the recipe, and it was astonishingly simple. Heat some cream, add some almonds, throw out almonds, put in gelatin, stick in fridge. Tap foot and stick face in fridge every fifteen minutes until they’re done, three hours later (though it would probably go faster if you weren’t constantly opening the refrigerator door.)

I resolved to make this blancmange, but, as I said, heavy cream is not really what I reach for when bikini season is upon us. So, with Tartelette’s dairy-free panna cotta recipe in mind, I replaced half the cream with almond milk (a wonderful substance which belongs in everyone’s refrigerator!) to cut some of the fat while maintaining that silkiness that makes panna cotta so worth it. The result?

Well, let’s just say we found ourselves asking each other if panna cotta with granola would be a healthy breakfast.

Blancmange-Lite with Rhubarb Compote
adapted from Savour Fare and Tartelette

I found the compote and panna cotta together ended up being a bit too sweet–which is funny, because I thought the rhubarb would be way too bitter with only 1/3 cup of sugar. Shows how much I know about rhubarb. Anyway, I next time I would dial back the sweetness in either the panna cotta or the compote, or both, maybe by about a tablespoon.

Rhubarb compote (see below)
½ c. blanched slivered almonds
1 cup heavy cream
1 cup unsweetened, unflavored almond milk
¼ cup sugar
½ tsp. almond extract
1 packet powdered gelatin
3 tablespoons cold water

For layered parfaits, spoon an half of the chilled rhubarb compote into the bottoms of four wine glasses. Place in the freezer to firm up the compote and prevent the panna cotta from mixing with it when layering.

Toast the almonds in a 350° oven until golden brown, five to seven minutes, tossing them around every few minutes. Roughly chop.

Heat the cream, almond milk, sugar, and almonds in a saucepan until the sugar is dissolved. Do not boil. Remove from heat and let sit for 30 minutes. Pour through a fine mesh strainer lined with a dishcloth (I just used a colander with small holes and it worked fine), reserve liquid and discard almonds. Rewarm liquid, add almond extract. Do not boil.

Sprinkle the gelatin over the cold water in a medium bowl and let stand 5 to 10 minutes. Add gelatin to warm cream mixture, and stir until gelatin is completely dissolved.

Allow the cream mixture to cool to just above room temperature before dividing among the wine glasses, as the extreme temperature change could break the glass.  Chill in the refrigerator at least 2 hours or until firm. Top each glass with the remaining rhubarb compote.

Rhubarb Compote
2 cups chopped rhubarb
1/3 c. sugar
½ tsp vanilla.

Combine all ingredients in small saucepan. Cook over low heat, stirring frequently, until the rhubarb has broken down and the mixture is the texture of chunky applesauce, about half an hour. Chill.