Friday night I was in bed at 10:30. Instead of going out to listen to music and guzzle beer last night, I decided to stay home and assemble a tart. ASSEMBLE A TART. I then asked a friend if he could meet for coffee next weekend. I am having a serious “St. Elmo’s Fire” moment. But I have been dreaming of this tart since I first read about it a month ago. And last weekend while in Bayfield- after narrowly losing out by only 17 minutes in a foot race across Lake Superior to Madeline Island and back to this dog-
I finally found a bag of rye flour as I celebrated my victory over Cody the corgi with a carrot cake cupcake at Coco in Washburn.
In addition to making sandwiches (many vegetarian!), breads and desserts, Coco sells rye and whole wheat flour- ground just down the road at Maple Hill Farm.
So last night I rolled out the crust, separated six yolks from their whites, cursed the curd for not thickening, swore at the crust for collapsing in the oven and fell asleep on the couch watching a 1970 Led Zeppelin concert (Animal from The Muppets must be based on John Bonham) while the tart chilled in the fridge.
And so it became a breakfast tart, enjoyed with coffee for brunch dessert on this slate gray Sunday.
And for my first tart, it wasn’t bad. I think I like the idea of it even more than I liked eating it, but sometimes that is all that matters. There are worse things than daydreaming of citrus and rye, aprons covered in flour and wooden rolling pins. And staying home on a Saturday night.
Enjoy the extra hour of light, my friends, rainy as it may be.