How is it already thisclose to being June? I'm holding tight to the well-worn marks of weekly routines to remind myself of the borders between these days, rather than accepting them as a smear across the calendar.
I am happiest with a schedule, and yet want Monday to feel different than Wednesday. Saturdays are for the farmer's market and tacos for breakfast, Tuesdays are often a standing bibimbap lunch, and Sunday night is when I make granola.
When I was fine-tuning the recipes for my book, certain ones that had always been part of my weekly to-do list became even more so entrenched in the way we do things around here. The soft sandwich bread took over the bread box, instead of sharing the space with the milk-and-honey-enriched loaf that was our alternate. I was giving away jar after jar of the pickled strawberry preserves. I had a freezer's worth of variations on the Walnut, Cherry Butter Tart Pie (there was one with milk chocolate, one with bittersweet, and one with cacao nibs; then one with pecans instead of the walnuts, another with bourbon, and one with dried cranberries, and every permutation in between). The clumpy granola became our one and only, and it was made with such devotedness that there was usually a surplus stashed in the pantry.
Once the book was done and out in the world, I took a break from many of those recipes, first off because—and nobody tells you this—while you're promoting a book you end up doing very little cooking. Then it was summertime, when our schedule had only the loosest of parameters. Slowly, slowly with fall and winter and school and holidays, I found my way again to the little ceremonies of my kitchen.
I'm back to a varied bread baking program, and the yeasted ones from the book are supplemented with a rye-heavy sourdough on the regular. The butter tart pie was was on the table at Thanksgiving, and it'll be shuttled to the cottage this summer.
Now the granola has its antithetical compatriot sharing a shelf. While mine is rough with clusters, this one from Emma Galloway's My Darling Lemon Thyme, is snappy, crackling and light. Hers is a toasted muesli, with a combination of flaked grains, coconut, seeds, and nuts, plus such a collection of dried fruit that each bite is a change from the one before. The kicker really is Emma's ingenious binding agent; tahini, mixed with coconut oil and honey. The resulting syrup is rich without going overboard, and not overly sweet. It is fragrant yet not sickly, evocatively savoury almost. In short, it's compellingly good.
Sarah wrote about this recipe just last month, so I consider this adding my voice to the chorus of praise as this muesli is one for encores.
EMMA GALLOWAY'S TAHINI, ORANGE + COCONUT TOASTED MUESLI
"Muesli-making was always my dad's domain when we were little. Late at night he would set himself up in the kitchen, toasting and chopping like a mad man, before decanting the goods into his giant glass muesli jar. I remember him saying how expensive it was to make but, and this is a huge BUT, homemade muesli beats that store-bought sweetened stuff hands down. This is my favourite version, and it's filled to the brim with the goodness of quinoa flakes, shredded coconut, nuts, and fruit all bound together in a sweet (but not in-your-face-sweet) mixture of coconut oil, tahini, honey, and orange zest. To keep things strictly mean you can use pure maple or brown rice syrup in place of the honey. Also, whole-grain oats can be used in place of the quinoa flakes."
— From My Darling Lemon Thyme: Recipes from my Real Food Kitchen by Emma Galloway (Roost Books, 2015)
Makes 1.5kg | 2 pounds
INGREDIENTS (please see below and the note for my changes)
- 5 cups | 500 g quinoa flakes
- 2 cups |180g unsweetened shredded or flaked coconut (I used both)
- 1/2 cup | 65g cashews, roughly chopped
- 1/2 cup | 75g whole raw almonds, roughly chopped (I used flaked)
- 1/2 cup | 65g pumpkin (pepita) seeds
- 1/2 cup | 60g sunflower seeds
- 1/4 cup | 35g sesame seeds
- 1/3 cup | 80ml virgin coconut oil
- 1/3 cup | 80ml un-hulled tahini
- 1/3 cup | 80ml honey, pure maple or brown rice syrup (I used maple)
- 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
- The finely grated zest of 2 oranges
- 1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt
- 1 cup | 200g natural raisins or sultanas
- 1 1/2 cups | 165g dried cranberries
- 1 cup | 95g firmly packed dried apple slices, roughly chopped
- 1/2 cup | 80g pitted dried dates, roughly chopped
Preheat oven to 350°F / 180°C. Combine quinoa flakes, coconut, cashews, almonds, pumpkin seeds, sunflower and sesame seeds in a large bowl using your hands to combine thoroughly. Combine coconut oil, honey or syrup, tahini, vanilla, orange zest and sea salt in a small pan and bring slowly to the boil, stirring constantly until melted and combined. Pour over dry ingredients and mix well.
Transfer to a large deep baking sheet and bake for 25-30 minutes, stirring every 10 minutes, until toasty and golden brown. Watch those edges like a hawk as they have a tendency to burn. Remove from the oven and set aside to cool. Stir in the dried fruit and transfer to a large glass jar or airtight container. Will keep for 2-3 weeks as long as airtight.
NOTE FROM TARA:
Instead of quinoa alone, I used 3 cups rolled oats, 11/2 cups quinoa flakes, and 1/2 cup buckwheat groats. I tailored the fruit to my sons' preferences, using 1/2 cup sultanas, 1/2 cup chopped figs, 1 cup dried cranberries, 1/2 cup dried cherries, 1/2 cup dried blueberries, 1/4 cup minced candied ginger, and 1/2 cup pitted dried dates, chopped.
Last but not least, thank you for the generosity of your kindness in response to my post about my grandfather. You guys are the absolute best. xo
It was Tuesday's dusk; the sun was on its way but hadn't quite left, and the night was at the door. That's when the rain arrived. Those last few glimmers of day hung in the wet air, and turned the raindrops to prisms and set our backyard aglow.
March rain is like the gentle hand of a parent on the shoulder of an eager child. It keeps us closer to home than we might like. It reminds us to please wait, only for a moment, to slow down and tread lightly as the world outside isn't ready just yet for our boisterous play.
Spring may be awake, but she still bears the imprint of her pillowcase upon her cheek. Soon she'll join us, in her finest dress in shades of sunbeam yellow.
In no time she will arrive, and our world will change. Spring is the most rambunctious of seasons, skipping across the landscape, with cascades of cherry blossoms tumbling from her hair and leaving trails of mossy green footprints.
In the blink of her eye, the Firsts of the season will be upon us. The first crocuses, drowsy headed and darling; the first evening walk when the breeze is mild and sweet; the first dinner eaten outdoors, preferably with strings of lights overhead.
And as we anticipate Spring's approach, we also mark the celebration of the Lasts of Winter. The last day to wear those woolen socks you loved in December but resent four months later; the last fire to crackle in the fireplace; the last of the Sunday roast suppers. Well maybe not the last, but at least the less frequent for those.
It was during the stay of Mr. Winter that I ran into trouble, wanting rice not bread on a particular Sunday night. With that classic recipe as my inspiration, I served a brown rice salad rocky with almonds and tangy currants, with the spice of arugula there to light up everything. And while its bready predecessor has my lifelong devotion, I was pretty fond of how it turned out.
Now back to that night of that rain I mentioned to start. There was to be roast chicken for dinner. Without currants or arugula, I did have cranberries and parsley, and chose to build upon my previous improvisation. I included a pinch of ground coriander for good measure, bringing the subtle suggestion of grass and citrus beneath the direct flavours of clementine and fresh herbs. We were well fed.
In the end, the rain lasted the night, today we're again beneath its watery cloak, and tomorrow looks to be cold. But we have a date with warmer days penciled in our calendar.
It'll be soon enough, and we'll be ready.
BROWN RICE SALAD FOR A MARCH EVENING
You'll note that there aren't quantities for many ingredients, and there is a reason for that. I treated our dish much like a salad, dressed with a deconstructed vinaigrette. But, you can easily consider this more like a pilaf, seasoning it instead with a subtle hand and omitting the vinegar, leaving the flavours more mellow and round.
You might think that there is a lot of parsley, and it is. It is an ingredient here, not a garnish or an accent. I like the effect of the whole leaves for their juicy crunch, but chop them roughly if you prefer.
- 1 tablespoon unsalted butter
- 1/4 minced shallot
- 1 clove garlic, minced
- A good pinch of ground coriander seed
- 1 cup brown rice, rinsed
- 1/2 cup raw nuts, I like a mixture of flaked almonds and whole cashews
- 1/4 cup dried currants or 1/3 cup dried sweetened cranberries
- One clementine
- Champagne vinegar, optional
- Extra virgin olive oil
- 1/2-3/4 cup parsley leaves
- Salt and freshly-ground black pepper to taste
In a medium, heavy-bottomed saucepan over medium heat, melt the butter. Add the shallots and cook, stirring, until soft but without colour, around 3 minutes. Add the garlic, season with salt and ground coriander, and cook for 30 seconds more.
Add the rice, stirring to coat each grain with the butter. Toast for around 30 seconds, then add water and cook according to your rice's package instructions.
Meanwhile, toast the mixed nuts in a dry pan over medium heat, tossing often. When well-toasted and bronzed in places, remove from the pan to a bowl to cool. Set aside.
When the rice is done, pour into a serving bowl and fluff with a fork. Add the dried fruit to the bowl and grate over some of the zest from the clementine (do this when the rice is still quite hot, the heat of the rice plump the fruit and will diffuse the oils from the rind). Squeeze over some of the juice from the clementine, a splash of Champagne vinegar, if using, and a drizzle of olive oil. Fork through again. Season with salt and freshly-ground black pepper to taste.
Can be served immediately, warm or at room temperature. Stir in most of the nuts and parsley right before serving, saving some for garnish.
• I think this is especially good with a brown and wild rice blend; the wild rice adds an extra chewiness I like.
• Heidi has a wild rice salad that is served with goat's cheese, an idea I'll be borrowing in the future.
I was granted the gift of a decent ability to remember things. My capacity for recall has served me well enough; through years of English Lit exams, countless passwords and PINs, phone numbers and postal codes, and all the other scraps of information deemed vital these days.
For the longest time, I had my brother's Social Insurance Number memorized. I was without specific reason to do so, I just did.
Mysterious how the mind works. Doubly mysterious how it sometimes chooses to abandon you completely. In my case? That memory of mine has one specific failing, and a funny one at that. Pakoras.
It's not that I've forgotten them, that would be impossible. Those vegetable fritters were one of the reasons that ours was the most popular house for after-school snacks on our street.
My grandmother and mother made them with onions or with sliced potatoes most often, sometimes with cauliflower too. Crisp and tender, touched by spice, they were like onion rings and potato chips and french fries all rolled together, made that much better by the combination.
Sitting at the table, I'd concoct an accompaniment to the pakoras as we waited for them to be cooked. The glass bottle of ketchup and a plastic bottle of chili sauce was all it took. You'd pour some ketchup into a little bowl, then stir in a swirl of firey-hot chili sauce, being as miserly or as generous as you'd like. That's it, that's all, you were ready to go. (This sauce is not at all authentic, but the thing to a six-year-old palate.)
My preferred pakoras were onion ones. They would emerge from the oil open-weaved, with rings of onion coiling around each other. In those few spots where the batter collected, the pakora was soft and fluffy; where the batter was thin, it shattered with a delicate crunch.
Trouble is that Grandma, the maker of superlative pakoras, firmly disavows these lacy versions of my childhood memory as her intended result. For a split second I foolhardily considered a defense of my recollection, but you don't argue with Grandma.
Of course the mistake was mine.
As I examined this lapse in my reminiscence, I had two epiphanies. First, my well-documented greed is probably at the root of this. I wouldn't be surprised if my childhood self (or my adult self for that matter) saw it fit to only select the thinnest, snappiest, pakoras of the bunch; only those ideal specimens would have been squirreled onto my plate.
Second, I shouldn't expect myself to be a faithful narrator to this story. It is inherent to the nature of our most treasured childhood memories that they be viewed through the blurred lens of nostalgia. Of course it would be that in my recollection every pakora was my exact favourite.
Lucky for me, pakoras are not only in my memory. And now that I'm the one at the stove, I can indulge my fancy and make sure that every pakora out of the oil is, in fact, my exact favourite kind. Yes, I know, greedy of me. Again.
But I'll sit with spine straight and head high. To me, these are memory brought to life, or to our plates to be specific, with the bias of sentiment fully, marvelously intact.
INDIAN ONION FRITTERS
Pakoras are often made with a batter that includes a variety of spices and a leavening agent. This is my Grandmother's recipe, who believes that simplicity is best when appreciating the qualities of each ingredient. As I said, you don't want to contest her opinion; I'm smart enough to be a good little granddaughter and report it faithfully.
Since I do deviate from tradition in the way they are shaped, I've called these fritters to avoid any confusion. Ramshackle and rustic, the messier your clumps of onion, the more texture there will be in the finished fritter.
For the full pakora experience of my childhood, the ketchup chili sauce combination is a must.
- 1/2 cup gram (chickpea) flour
- 1 small red chili, seeded and minced
- 2 teaspoons minced cilantro
- A generous 1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
- Oil for deep frying (peanut, vegetable or canola)
- 2 medium onions, trimmed, peeled and sliced into thin rings horizontally
- Salt and fresh lime wedges for serving
- Ketchup and chili sauce for serving (optional, see above)
In a medium bowl, stir together the flour, chili, cilantro and salt. Slowly stir in enough water until the mixture reaches the consistency of whipping (heavy) cream. Beat the batter well, so it is lightened and foamy at the edges. Set aside.
In a heavy-bottomed pot on the stove or in a deep fryer, heat oil to 350°F (175°C). When that's reached temperature, separate the onion layers into individual rings and drop them into the batter, stirring gently to coat. Using a fork, pick up a clump of onion rings and allow the excess batter to drip off.
Carefully drop the tangle of onions into the oil and fry until lightly golden on one side, around 30-40 seconds. Flip the fritter and cook until crisp on the other side. Remove from the oil and drain on a cooling rack set up over newspaper or on some folded paper towels.
Repeat, frying a few at a time, until all the onion and batter is used.
Enjoy immediately, with additional salt sprinkled over and a squeeze of lime juice. Offer a condiment of ketchup blended with chili sauce for dipping.
Serves 2-4, depending on appetite. To be safe, let's say 2.
• A small amount of crushed dried red chili can be used in place of the fresh.
• Pakoras can be made with a variety of vegetables. Melissa has some phenomenal versions to offer.
From soup to nuts, from turkey to trifles, we are done.
With family both near and only slightly-far, the Christmas holiday stretched over a number of days, our merry band of revelers moving from house to house, from city to city, in celebratory caravan. The journeys and visits rushed by in a blur of sparkle and shine, with spirited carols and a chorus of laughter our theme.
In that wonderful blur there were moments, those treasures in time when your breath catches and click, it's forever in your memory.
A tree groaningly, gloriously laden with ornaments, most especially at the precise height of a three-year-old who is thisclose to turning four. A pair of slender glasses that chimed when clinked, filled with berry-hued bubbly drinks to be sipped over the quiet hours of mid night. That bite of shortbread cookie, swirled with raspberry jam and finely chopped almonds, buttery and tender and tart and perfect.
Full, happy days they were.
After all of that joyous hubbub, the time that follows seem quiet. But is a lull that is not without its own particular charm, as anticipated as the holiday itself.
These plaid flannel pajama days are not meant for rushing about, but for settling in. The first day after our celebrations Mother Nature granted us the gift of the First Proper Snowfall we've had this winter, amounting to far more than all of the dustings we'd had up until that point. Out our windows all was white, white, white, with the spiky tips of evergreen poking through the backyard drifts here and there.
Once finished with the business of the obligatory snowball fight and tromp through the powder, we were content to retreat to the house, with excuse to spend time on the comfy couch by the fire, warming ourselves with a blanket pulled up to our laps and a snacks nearby.
Yesterday, the snack was popcorn to go along with movies. It's another tradition of our family - someone (usually that's plural) always gives someone else a movie (also often plural) in their stocking, watched after a lively debate as to the order in which they shall be screened. Ensconced upon the aforementioned couch, these movie marathons require a snack that can be eaten out of shared bowls with little messing about. This popcorn fit the bill nicely.
It was inspired by the famous spiced nuts served at the bar of Union Square Café in New York, and the result was highly-flavoured and equally-addicting. Spiky needles of rosemary, fitting for the season I thought, were chopped into the tiniest of evergreen specks and then combined with crunchy Demerara sugar. A sprinkling of cayenne and salt added heat and savoury depth to the mix. As the adornment for mounds of hot, buttery popcorn, the combination was met with murmured praise as everyone's mouths were stuffed full.
Just in case I don't see you before Friday, all my best wishes to each of you for the coming year. 2010 looks singularly grand on paper, don't you think? Let's make sure it lives up to that. Until then, if you need me, the end seat, closest to the fire, is where you'll find me.
By the way, did you know that theMenu for Hope campaign has been extended until December 31, 2009? You can still bid on raffle items, here, with full details on how everything works here. And oh! I have added more items to my personal contribution to the effort, raffle item CA03; I will be including some vintage copies of Gourmet magazine along with paper ephemera from lovely design in my collection of a few favourite things.
Please consider these measurements a rough guide, and more of a suggested combination of flavours. I like the inclusion of a healthy pinch of red pepper flakes at the end; the capricious flecks of firecracker heat add an element of (mild) danger that makes this more than just a mindless munchable.
- 8 cups freshly-popped popcorn, still hot
- 2 teaspoons Demerara sugar
- 1 teaspoon finely-chopped fresh rosemary leaves
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 1/4-1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper, depending on taste
- 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
- A good pinch of dried red pepper flakes (optional)
While your popcorn is popping, mix together the rosemary, Demerara sugar, salt and cayenne in a small bowl. Set aside.
With the popped popcorn in a large bowl, drizzle a some of the butter over the top and toss to coat. Repeat, drizzling and tossing, until all the popcorn is coated. Now continue this process with the spice mixture, scattering on some, then tossing the popcorn lightly, then adding more until it is evenly seasoned. Sprinkle over the red pepper flakes, if using, and serve.
Makes 8 cups.
• Although I've not tried the method with this recipe, Lara's Chile Lime Tequila Popcorn (by way of Heidi) uses the method of drying the seasoned popcorn in a low oven for five minutes. I'll be trying that next time. (And by the way, that chili lime popcorn is super good.)
• If you do not have Demerara, turbinado or raw sugar would be best. Do not use brown sugar or Muscovado instead; Demerara lacks the sticky quality of those, and you need something granular here.
• The recipe for the original spiced mixed nuts can be found here, via Nigella Lawson.
Today is Monday dressed up in Thursday's clothing. Of this, I am certain.
Unexpected company for the last two days led to Tuesday and Wednesday's schedules taking on the traits of Saturday and Sunday respectively, with a weekend-ish pace to boot. But that didn't mean we were exempt from the requirements of midweek days, so that was packed in too.
Today is back to its usual routine, behaving decidedly like the start of the week rather than the end.
But the calendar says it is Thursday, and the fourth Thursday of November at that, which makes it American Thanksgiving. But then, all the chatter about turkeys and pies and pumpkins conjures memories of the Canadian holiday of the same name, which we celebrated in October. On the second Monday of the month to be precise.
Here we are, back to Monday. On Thursday. I'm not sure if I should be coming or going, getting ready to face a new week or eager to bid goodbye one.
Thank goodness that on this Monday-ish Thursday there is still some kale around. Kale might not sound like a consolation, but when your mind is awhirl, a plate of kale is as good as a spot as any to choose to settle gently. In fact, I would say that on a rainy fall evening that nothing is more soothing than sitting someplace comfy, tucking your feet up, and scooping up your supper by the emerald forkful.
This kale is roughly torn, with some of the bitterness blanched out of its leaves before it slumps into a pile of soft onions and garlic. As it hits the heat, the resulting steam is savourily-aromatic, damp and dense with the vegetal essence of sturdy greens. After cooking the kale softens to supple leatheriness, its sinewy leaves still hale and hearty but more relaxed. Fleshy crowns of walnuts add autumnal bulk, and cranberries give both a tempered sweetness and an appreciated touch of acidity.
The final effect is one of Rudolph among the evergreens, complete with the white flecks of a light snowfall; and as this Thursday is the last before December, it might be perfect timing.
KALE WITH WALNUTS AND CRANBERRIES
- 1 pound kale, washed well, trimmed of tough ribs and torn into large pieces
- 1 tablespoon unsalted butter
- 1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
- 1 small onion, minced
- 3 cloves garlic, minced
- 1/2 cup chopped walnuts
- 1/4 cup dried cranberries
- Kosher salt and freshly-ground black pepper
Bring a large pot of salted water to boil.
Boil the kale until bright green and just tender, about 5 minutes. Immediately plunge the greens into a bowl of ice water to stop the cooking. Once cooled, drain well but do not squeeze.
In the same pot over medium heat, melt the butter with the olive oil. Add the onion and cook, stirring occassionally, until the onion is fragrant and beginning to turn translucent, about 2-3 minutes. Stir in the garlic and cook for 30 seconds more. Tumble in the walnuts, tossing to coat well with the butter/oil. Continue to cook until the nuts are golden and lightly toasted, around 2 minutes. Stir in the cranberries.
Using your hands or tongs, separate the kale as best as you can and add to the pot. Stir to combine, and continue to turn the leaves through the onion and walnut mixture until they are warmed through and softened. Season to taste with salt and pepper.
What would you consider the value of a bowl of frozen yogurt?
To be clear, I don't mean its sentimental value, nothing as romantic as all of that, I'm talking about nitty-gritty, slap-a-pricetag-on-that-puppy value.
Hold on, let me give you the details before you all start yelling out answers all The Price is Right-style on me.
This is not just any frozen confection. It is removed from the insipidly-sweet ranks of those frozen yogurts parading as ice cream. It has the unmistakable twang of yogurt, softened only slightly by sweetness. This is one that puts Greek yogurt front and centre; yogurt so thick that when spooned it falls lazily back upon itself in luscious folds. This is one where the yogurt plays equal partner to handful upon handful of mixed berries that have been squished and squashed into a violet-hued pulp.
It's darn good stuff.
Still can't decide? I'll be more specific. Would you think that the aforementioned frozen yogurt was worth, hmm ... I don't know ... say, a bouquet of peonies?
I'm totally serious. You can keep your dollars and cents, thank you very much, I will happily hand over pints in exchange for armfuls of blooms.
Why, you ask? The peony is one of my two absolute favourite flowers. They are, without a doubt, the most feminine of beauties; debutante-dreamy with their frilled crinoline petals. And I am surrounded by them, everywhere but in our yard. While our neighborhood is filled plentiful bushes, heavy with showy blossoms, ours is a peony-free zone. Our yard is too shady for their liking.
In lieu of turning to a life of floral theft, I am seriously considering a trade with our neighbors. Or, better yet, a frozen yogurt stand at the end of our driveway. One bloom for one scoop of equally girly-girl pink yogurt sounds fair, doesn't it?
My father has glorious peonies growing at home; if our neighborhood's contingent are debs, his are divas. His bushes boast bountiful blooms, bodacious in their size. He kindly gifted me with some recently, on Father's Day no less. (If you look carefully in the photograph above, you'll catch a glimpse of his flowers in the reflection on the spoons.)
The next day, I made Dad a batch of mango frozen yogurt.
So all's well that ends well, dear reader. The only thing wanting is that I do wish I offer you some frozen yogurt. We could sit around my kitchen table, leaning into our bowls, and have a good chat. I could excitedly share with you the news that I am a contributor to the summer issue of UPPERCASE magazine.
I came to know about UPPERCASE gallery through the art of Jennifer Judd-McGee. When she unveiled the piece she had completed for an upcoming show, I was curious to learn more about the (Canadian!) gallery hosting the exhibit. And when I did, I became an immediate fan of Janine Vangool and her many creative endeavours. The magazine is her latest, and I am happy to be included in its pages.
The issue will out on July 2nd. Here's a sneak preview of what I made, and a peek between the covers. In other news, I have also been working on a revised About section, with a little more about me and answers to often asked questions. See the link at the left.
MIXED BERRY FROZEN YOGURT
Greek yogurt is rich to say the least, and heavy on the tongue. It provides a rounded base to all the high-note acidity of the fruit juices.
- 2 cups fresh mixed berries, I used strawberries, blueberries, blackberries and raspberries
- 2/3 cup granulated sugar, see note
- 1 tablespoon freshly-squeezed lemon juice
- 2 cups Greek yogurt, or well-drained whole milk yogurt
Take your lovely berries and, in a large bowl with 1/3 cup of the sugar, crush the life out of them with a potato masher or the back of a spoon. Add the lemon juice, stir briefly, and cover. Allow the berries to macerate at room temperature for about an hour.
Using a coarse sieve set over another large bowl, press the berries through the mesh with the back of a spoon. Underneath the juices should be thick and slightly pulpy, but all seeds and larger fibers should remain above. Once all the berries have been sieved, you should have a generous 1 cup of purée.
Stir in the yogurt. Sweeten, a little at a time, with the remaining sugar. As so much will depend on the sweetness of your berries, add the sugar judiciously, tasting often. You want to take the mixture to where it tastes balanced to your palate, then sweeten it a little bit further. Sweetness is dulled by freezing, so this extra oomph will compensate.
When satisfied with the level of sweetness and all the sugar has dissolved, cover and chill the mix for two hours. Freeze according to your ice cream maker's manufacturer's instructions.
Makes about 1 quart. Soften at room temperature for a few minutes before scooping.
• I have used as little as a 1/2 cup of sugar, and as much as almost a full cup for this recipe.
• As Elise points out, frozen yogurt will turn icy once frozen for more than 6-8 hours. So really, the universe is telling you to eat this yogurt the day its made. If you really must store it for longer than that, follow her advice and "add a tablespoon of vodka or kirsch to the mixture right before churning."