MattBites

Grenadine Revisited

Why yes I'm fully aware that this photo looks like a crime scene and yes, I realize it's a bit over the top and yes, I won't be angry with you for not stopping me when I decided to make grenadine again.

Let me set the stage for you: extra poms on the kitchen counter, some vodka, a friend in town, pink hands, you get the picture.

And you'd think I would have learned my lesson already, sheesh.

But I must admit it was well worth the effort. Homemade grenadine is nothing like that bottled stuff, and every year I look forward to making a few batches and staining everything within 12 feet of me and my cutting board. It really makes all the difference in a cocktail and I suppose you could use it for other non-celebratory purposes.

Cheers!

Basic Grenadine Recipe
Because I like the tartness of pomegranates I usually go easy on the sugar, or I omit the sugar completely when making a reduction. This allows me to use my syrup not only in cocktails but as a dressing or marinade for savory recipes. It can also be made with honey.

2 cups pomegranate juice (I can't advise you on a good method because I always make a mess no matter how hard I try)
1 cup sugar (or less if you prefer it not so sweet)

Bring juice to a simmer over medium heat and cook until reduced by half. Reduce heat and add sugar, stirring constantly until it dissolves, about 2 or 3 minutes. Allow liquid to cool completely and then refrigerate. It should last about 1 week.

Mess with the pie, you'll get the...Oh just give me a damn fork.

It started simply enough: the other half felt the need to bake. For me, well, I'm no baker and the urge to do so is akin to washing my car or preparing receipts for tax purposes. I'll do it but only begrudgingly. But like many things I'm fully prepared to participate in the end result, and in this case it was a pie of monstrous proportions.

I'm not quite sure of his thought process as I wasn't in the kitchen when he found the recipe, but I know it involved tons of pecans, a spring form pan and the new oven. I was a bit relieved that I wasn't around as anyone knows to mess with a Texan's Pecan Pie is clearly not the smartest thing to do (even if said Texan lives in California.)  It's not quite sacrilege -- but it's pretty damn close.

Melissa, Lisa, please stop reading now. I won't be upset.

I understand.

"So this pie I'm baking, I found a recipe online and I'm not sure how it's going to come out," my big red-headed angel tells me.

"You're a baker, I'm sure it'll be just fine," I respond.

"I don't know about that, it's kind of a different sort of Pecan Pie."

Different sort of pecan pie. Different sort of pecan pie. DIFFERENT SORT OF PECAN PIE. DIFFERENT SORT OF PECAN PIE! Are you getting that, folks? As those words floated around the kitchen they took their sweet little time worming their way into my brain. A what type of what pie? Did I really hear you correctly? Would you like to grab an enchilada while you're at it and poke me in the eye? How about hitting me over the head with a rib bone from Tyler, Texas? Come on, I'm all yours, just do it! You already started.

I calmed myself down and told myself he was only coming from a place of love, and honestly, he's never made a bad thing, especially when he bakes. I said a prayer to the giant pecan trees that towered over our house in Austin, asking for forgiveness. I then went online to see if I could legally participate in this kitchen experiment without serving 5-7 for crimes committed against my home state (turns out George W. did enough of that himself so luckily I was off the hook).

After I finished my breathing exercises I began to think about the pecan pie and most importantly why was I such a snob about them? After all, it's only crust, nuts, and filling. That's all. And if we break it down sometimes it's so cloyingly sweet (especially when someone serves you up a slice with Texas tea) that there's really no flavor and you get a gummy, gelatinous mouthfeel with a feeble crunch. I then understood why people passed on Pecan Pies and when to Apple or Pumpkin. Why was I getting all pedantic and territorial and hella defensive?

BECAUSE I WAS BORN AND RAISED IN TEXAS, Y'ALL! THAT'S WHY!

But no matter. I was going to approach this with an open mind. Out with anger and in with love, I always say. Obviously someone created this recipe to taste good, not bad. So after this giant thing (because really, I didn't know what to call it) came out of the oven and set overnight Adam took out the electric knife and began to carve.

A beautiful, almost cookie-like crust began to open up and reveal a pie not mired in goo but with a beautiful ratio of whole pecans to filling. No chintzy pie here but a real, delicious hunk that would make any Texan proud. The recipe retained the true spirit of the pecan pie while giving it extra oooomph. Made properly a pecan pie may not need it, but in this case it sure was nice. I didn't even need ice cream, and that's saying a lot!

After spending a good 43 minutes eating and chewing one piece I realized that this Deep Dish Pecan Pie was not in fact Texan heresy but a way of changing things up just a bit while making sure the new oven works. I've since learned to relax with his experiments, enjoy the delicious outcomes, and brace myself for the Chicken Fried Steak Frittata that I'm secretly hoping he invents.

Deep-Dish Pecan Pie, Oxmoor House, January 2000

Because of its size you'll really want to chill this before slicing, and don't do what I did and serve yourself a giant piece. A little goes a long way -- a lesson I still haven't quite picked up after 37 years.

1 cup butter or margarine, softened
2 (3-ounce) packages cream cheese, softened
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 cup sugar
1 (16-ounce) bottle light corn syrup (2 cups)
1 1/2 cups firmly packed light brown sugar
1/3 cup butter or margarine, melted
4 large eggs, lightly beaten
4 egg yolks, lightly beaten
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 1/2 cups pecan pieces or halves

Beat 1 cup butter and cream cheese at medium speed of an electric mixer until creamy. Gradually add flour and 1/4 cup sugar, beating well. Shape dough into a flat disc; cover and chill 15 minutes. Roll chilled dough to a 13" circle; carefully transfer to an ungreased 9" springform pan. (We recommend covering the outside of your springform pan with aluminum foil before filling and baking this pie. It's a safeguard against leaks.) Press dough up sides of pan. Cover and chill.

Combine corn syrup, brown sugar, and melted butter in a large bowl; stir well with a wire whisk. Add eggs, egg yolks, vanilla, and salt; stir well. Stir in pecans. Pour filling into unbaked pastry-lined pan.

Bake at 375° for 15 minutes. Reduce oven temperature to 300°: bake 2 hours and 15 minutes, shielding pie with aluminum foil to prevent excess browning, if necessary. Cool completely on a wire rack. Cover and chill, if desired. Remove sides of springform pan to serve.

Yield:  1 (9") pie

It's Breakfast. It's Dessert. It's Gone.

Or, alternate title: BE QUIET FOR A MINUTE, IS THAT POSSIBLE? KTHANKSBI!

This weekend Adam and I are hosting a very special guest. To say she's talented would really be an understatement -- this woman is simply amazing.  But between you and me (and you'll really keep this between us, I just know it) I'm a little worried that I'll never be able to get a word in with her. If you know her, she talks and talks and talks and talks and really won't stop.  And just when you think she has nothing left to say she starts all over again. And on and on and on and on and on. About stuff. Just stuff. Enough, I always say, let me speak, woman!

Oh my darling K, I'm only kidding. I can't wait for you to get here.

We have all sorts of nifty things planned for our guest. We'll go apple picking this weekend, check out the sights around town, probably head out to an afterhours and dance until 6 am, you know, regular every day stuff.  And thanks to my wonderful partner, we'll be able to indulge in a little French Toast Bread Pudding for breakfast, which I must say is one of the most indulgent things I've had the pleasure of tasting recently. Well, it wasn't so much taste as inhale, as both dishes were gone so quickly that I was simultaneously embarrassed and disgusted for being such a pig.

But in the presence of our weekend guest I promise to be civilized and refined. Not like she'll notice anyway, she'll be chatty cathy the entire time.

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French Toast Bread Pudding from Bon Appétit
This is a great way to use up an entire loaf of Challah. This recipe is from Bon Appétit, a magazine that has been on the brain lately. And not only because I was seated next to the lovely Kristine Kidd at a wonderful event this past Monday evening. You know why.

Ingredients
12 ounces challah or other egg bread with crust, torn into 3/4-inch pieces
7 large eggs
2 1/2 cups whole or reduced-fat (2%) milk
1/2 cup sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
3/4 teaspoon freshly grated whole nutmeg or ground nutmeg

1/2 cup chopped toasted pecans
Warm maple syrup

Preparation
Butter 11x7x2-inch glass baking dish. Place bread in dish. Whisk eggs and next 4 ingredients in medium bowl to blend; pour over bread. Using spatula, lightly press down on bread to moisten completely. Cover with foil and chill overnight.

Place foil-covered dish in cold oven. Set oven at 350°F and bake 30 minutes. Remove foil and continue to bake until pudding is puffed and golden brown, about 35 minutes longer. Spoon pudding onto plates, sprinkle with toasted nuts, and serve with warm maple syrup.

 

makes 6 servings or if no one is home or looking it's for one person.

 

A Cupcake Haiku, more or less

I swore off Sprinkles
   then Seasonal Cherry came
Now my waistline grows.

Alfajores

On our last trip to Argentina I was lucky enough to celebrate my birthday surrounded by great company and excellent food. I ate myself into oblivion, and upon returning to our hotel for a nightcap (god I love that word!) I discovered a little treat waiting for me from the staff. It turned out that Christian, our charming server extraordinaire, brought over a glass of champagne and a small treat set on a gorgeous small white plate. It was a treat I had never seen before.

"This is from me to you and I wish you a very happy birthday! It's an Alfajor, a treat I've loved since I was a little boy."

After fighting back a few stray tears (I cry a lot when I'm happy, if you haven't figured that out), I picked up this weighty cookie, rotated it and gave it a good inspection and realized I was holding two crisp cookies that were sandwiched around a thick layer of dulce de leche.

Everyone stood around waiting for me to take a bite, almost as if I was tied to some stake in the town square and the only way I'd be set free would be from my reaction to the cookie. Frown and I'd be immolated, or smile and toss outs some "oohs" and "ahhhs" and I'd be the town hero.

I took a bite.

"Do you like it?" Christian asked.

"Do I like it? Do I like it? Are you crazy?" I responded.

And that is how I fell in love with Alfajores.

The Alfajor, also known as a Caramel Sandwich Cookie, is a traditional Latin American cookie although you'll find a variation of it in Spain that's usually served during Christmas. Two round biscuits are spread with dulce de leche and sprinkled with powdered sugar. The premise changes a bit depending on the country, and some varieties are rolled in coconut, chopped peanuts, or dipped in chocolate. There's even a luscious black and white Alfajor.

Just recently our friend Francine sent us a jar of Dulce De Leche from Uruguay. After spending a year in Montevideo she and her husband moved back to Southern California and she found herself with an extra jar of mymostfavoritethingontheentireplanet. She didn't want it to go to waste so she sent it to us, along with a few Alfajores from Uruguay. (Francine, you're crazy for parting with it but I wasn't about to talk you out of it, tú sabes....) I took a bite of this softer variety, looked at the jar, took another bite, looked at the jar again, and the idea hit me: make alfajores! Or, have Adam make alfajores!

Never one to ignore a challenge, Adam whipped up a batch of his orange cookies, this time omitting the orange juice so that the flavor wouldn't complete with that caramelly, rich taste of the dulce de leche. He scooped up some sticky dulce de leche into a piping bag, carefully placed dollops onto the underside of the cookie, topped it with another cookie and voila! An Alfajor was born. A little sprinkle of cinnamon and powdered sugar sent them over the edge, and by the end of the day all but 6 cookies were gone. In our defense we had people over for lunch, but that's not saying I wouldn't have eaten them all by myself anyway. Cuz I totally would have.

Alfajores a la Adam

You'll find alfajores made with a crispier cookie, you'll even find them made with cornmeal and molasses. However, I like a soft cookie and I'm not afraid to say it, damnit. And everything that bothered my self-critical Adam about his version– the cookies were too soft, the tops were too sticky, the filling oozed out too fast–were the things I went bonkers over, so it just goes to show you...um, I don't know what it goes to show you now that I think about it. Let's just eat cookies and call it a day.

Ingredients
1 1/4 cup sugar
3/4 cup shortening (Earth Balance makes a non-hydrogenated version, hot damn!)
2 unbeaten eggs
3 cups sifted flour
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 cup milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Method
Cream together the sugar,  shortening and the unbeaten eggs. Add flour, salt and baking powder. Mix the milk and vanilla extract and then add to the flour mixture. Drop by rounded tablespoon onto a greased cookie sheet or a baking pan lined with parchment paper. Bake at 350 degrees for 10-14 minutes, depending on oven. Keep an eye on them, cook until the edges are light brown. The cookies will be extremely soft and will need a few minutes to rest and firm.

To assemble the alfajores, place a dollop of dulce de leche on the bottom of the cookie and top with another cookie. Sprinkle with powdered sugar and enjoy until your tummy hurts.

Peach & Raspberry Cobbler

With the peaches, nectarines, plums and apricots trickling into the market it's hard to resist the temptation to eat them everyday–at least for me it is. It's as if I enter this stone fruit* frenzy, forsaking my usual selection of fruits and vegetables in order indulge on insanely delicious peaches 4 or 5 times a day. Can you blame me? What is more pleasurable than a hefty peach enjoyed over the kitchen sink, juicy syrup running down your arms? Nothing I tell you!

(That actually reminds me of a friend I know who takes her peaches and mangos into the shower with her. Kind of clever I think, if not a bit strange. But like I have room to call anyone strange.)

I have a soft spot for all sorts of peach cobblers, pies, crumbles, krumps and slumps. Something about crust, dumpling or biscuit dough and peaches mixed together makes me weak in the knees. Oh, and I'm kidding about the krump thrown in there to see if you were paying attention. But really, you oughtta see me throw down with a clown suit and some hip hop. Call Mr. LaChapelle now.

The following recipe is from Lori Longbotham. I love it because of its biscuit top, which of course could be cut to cover the fruit but when made smaller lets some of the warm juicy peaches and berries peek through. I wouldn't even dream of serving this without some vanilla ice cream or pouring cream all over it.

Peach and Raspberry Cobbler

Filling:
10 small firm-ripe peaches
1/2 cup water
1/2 cup sugar
4 teaspoons cornstarch
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1/2 pint ripe raspberries

Biscuits:
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons sugar, plus additional for sprinkling
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) cold butter
1 cup heavy cream, plus additional cream or milk for brushing biscuits

Cook peaches in a large pot of boiling water for 1 minute. Peel, pit, and slice peaches. (You should have about 6 cups.)

Preheat oven to 450°F. Have ready a 1 1/2-quart shallow baking dish.

To make the filling: Combine peaches, water, sugar, cornstarch, and lemon juice in a Dutch oven over medium-high heat and bring just to a boil, stirring constantly. Reduce heat and simmer for 5 minutes, or just until peaches are beginning to soften. Transfer mixture to baking dish and stir in raspberries.

To make the biscuits: Whisk together flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl. Cut in butter. Beat cream with an electric mixer on medium-high speed in a large deep bowl just until it holds soft peaks when beaters are lifted. Make a well in center of dry ingredients, spoon in cream, and stir with a fork just until a dough begins to form.

On a lightly floured surface, knead dough several times. Pat dough out to 3/4 inch thick and, with a 2 1/2-inch cutter, cut out 6 rounds. Gather scraps together and pat out again, if necessary. Arrange on top of peaches, brush with cream, and sprinkle with sugar.

Bake until peaches are bubbling and biscuits are browned, 15 to 17 minutes. Let cobbler cool slightly, and serve warm.

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*Without sharing details because I am a class act, I once wrote about a certain hybrid stone fruit in a full page ad in a major newspaper but failed to include a registered trademark next to the name because 1) no one told me and 2) I am a bad researcher and 3) how the hell was I supposed to know? Trademarking fruit names kind of freaks me out to begin with! Anyway, instead of an email reading "oh, our fruit is trademarked so next time please spell it accordingly" I had a huge lashing from the grower and PR company and felt embarrassed and small. I can't even look at these hybrid fruits at the market without shaking. Please. Hold me.

Apricots & Lessons From Helen

My mother, the ever-so-gorgeous Helen, taught me a few important lessons as a child. They are:

• Never criticize the tidiness of someone's home while standing inside it even if you cannot pass through the hallway and the kitchen table is covered in Christmas decoration boxes and it's July.
• Bodily functions aren't funny–even though to 6-year old boys they are, really.
• Children aren't supposed to eat flashlight bulbs and raw garden snails. Hey, I like crunch. So sue me.
• Always wash your hands.
• Never look a gift horse in the mouth.

I've pretty much followed the rules throughout my life, save a few here and there. I've especially learned to never seem ungrateful when a horse trots by bearing gifts, even though something tells me it's not really a horse and why exactly are you not supposed to look a horse in the mouth? What if you're a veterinarian providing dental care to Sweet Kentucky Spirit? What do you do then? Man, it's confusing.

In my case there's no horse but a tree. A very happy apricot tree that has exploded with fruit and gone crazy. And when I say crazy I don't mean a few pounds here and there but bushels of tiny fruit that is falling like crazy, plopping on the ground and leaving that distinctive sweet-rotting vinegary smell while the birds and insects have their way. At first I felt slightly annoyed and then I could hear my mother's voice in my head. The voice said "Mateo do not hit your sister over the head with the croquet mallet!" and then it gave way to "How nice of that tree to bear so much fruit for you and all it asks in return is that you make your bed and wash your hands because once I saw a vending machine clerk wipe his nose and then refill the candy dispenser and did you think for one second he stopped to wash his hands? No he didn't and you will never be allowed to buy gum balls from them so don't even ask me for a nickel and if you want something sweet you'll wait until we get home and ask your Abuela because I know she has some galletas and pan dulce made by good people who wash their hands after they sneeze so get in this stationwagon now young man and don't make me call your father MATEOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Oops. Sorry about that. Clearly I'm working through some vending machine issues.

Anyway, mom was right. The tree was offering its bounty to me, no questions asked.

Not one to disobey my mother, I came home early today and headed to the backyard armed with a few empty bowls and a ladder. I gingerly plucked the fruit from the branches, sorted through the half-eaten pieces (loads of thanks, you dirty birdies) and saved the pristine ones. When I was done I couldn't believe the amount of apricots I had and just like a child I ran into the house, bowls in arms, screaming. At first I wondered what I was going to do with all the fruit, and before I could hear my mom's voice yelling at me in my head I remembered our latest kitchen resource that is torn and dog-eared already: The Perfect Scoop. I won't harp on David's brilliance here, but let me just say that if you think it "might" be in his ice cream book then yes, it magically appears in there. A quick search through the index took me to page 76, and there it was, waiting for me and my bushels of freshly picked summer apricots.

Right after I washed my hands.

Fresh Apricot Ice Cream fromThe Perfect Scoop by David Lebovitz

David says if you're lucky enough to find a bounty of fresh summer apricots then you must take advantage of them–their season is far too short. Just come over to my house in the next few days and you can have as many as you want!

1 pound squishy-ripe fresh apricots (10 to 16, depending on size)
1/2 cup water
1/2 cup sugar
1 cup heavy cream
3 drops almond extract
a few drops freshly squeezed lemon juice

Slice open the apricots and remove the pits, then cut each apricot into sixths. Cook the apricot pieces with the water in a covered medium, nonreactive saucepan over medium heat until tender, about 8 minutes, and stirring occasionally. Remove from the heat and stir in the sugar until dissolved. Let cool to room temperature.

Once cool, purée the apricots and any liquid in a blender or food processor until smooth. Taste a big spoonful; if there are any small fibers, press the mixture through a mesh strainer to remove them. Stir in the cream, almond extract, and lemon juice.

Chill the mixture thoroughly in the refrigerator, then freeze it in your ice cream maker according to the manufacturer's instructions.

"We're Serving Hot Fruit!"

Does anyone remember the scene from the television show "Strangers With Candy" where the tremendously unpopular Geraldine Antonia Blank (otherwise known as Gerri), tries to woo her classmates into coming to her house for a party?

"Anyone coming to my party Friday night? We're serving hot fruit!"

While the phrase sounds odd out of context and perhaps a bit unpleasant, here's something that sounds good: grilled fruit.

Ribs and chicken aren't the only things that should get grill time. There's nothing quicker and easier than slicing a fruit or two, tossing it on the grill and dressing it with a glaze, syrup or a sprinkle of brown sugar and cinnamon. It's the perfect topping for a scoop of ice cream and quite a delicious and unusual way of serving summer's stone fruit. The heat brings out the sweet sugary flavors and the grill lends a tiny bit of outdoor panache.

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Grilled Nectarines with Honey-Balsamic Glaze
This recipe is from Bon Appétit and has always served me well. However, in the photo I made a Mint-Honey Syrup which pooled in the hollow fruit quite nicely and was all tasty and deeeeelicious. But then again I love mint anything. I also didn't use any crème fraîche because I had none. Don't you feel sorry for me? Boo hoo.

Ingredients
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons honey
1/4 cup balsamic vinegar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 8-ounce container crème fraîche
6 firm but ripe nectarines, halved, pitted    

       

Method
Whisk 1/2 cup honey, vinegar, and vanilla in small bowl. Whisk crème fraîche and remaining 2 tablespoons honey in medium bowl to blend. (Glaze and crème fraîche mixture can be made 1 day ahead. Cover separately. Refrigerate crème fraîche mixture. Rewhisk both before using.)

Prepare barbecue (medium-high heat). Matt's note: make sure your grill is free of burnt meat bits. Brush nectarines generously with half of glaze. Grill until heated through, turning occasionally, about 4 minutes. Arrange 2 nectarine halves, cut side up, on each plate. Drizzle with remaining glaze. Spoon some crème fraîche mixture into center of each nectarine half and serve.

from Bon Appétit

National Donut Day

Depending on who you ask, Friday, June 1st is National Donut Day. Marketing ploy or genuine unrecognized American holiday? Who the hell cares! All I know is that you should enjoy your favorite donut with friends and family and celebrate this ever-so-important date.

Jelly Filled, anyone?

Full confession:  I didn't grow up eating cherries. Not a one. In fact, I can't remember ever having a fresh cherry when I was a kid. The only thing I can remember was the woefully unoriginal idea of cherry: cherry soda, canned cherry filling, maraschino cherries, cherry cough drops, cherry candy, cherry air freshener (ick!), etc. That bizarre red unidentifiable flavor that tries to be a cherry but can't quite reach its goal. I have no doubt you know what I'm talking about.

Fake cherry.

I fault no one, and we all know necessity is the mother of invention. How else were the masses supposed to enjoy the bright happy zing of a cherry throughout the year? There's only one problem though–cherry flavor is nothing like a real cherry.

There. I said it. I got it off my chest.

Unlike citrus and tropical fruits,  cherries are modest with their flavor. They don't fill up a room with perfume and they don't knock you over and give you a puckerface. And therein lies their beauty. Those little crimson globes are delightful as is, sweet and juicy with a fleeting flavor that can truly be appreciated when fresh.

And not in a cough syrup.

Because that artificial cherry thing is imprinted on my brain I am a little gun shy when it comes to cherries. It's only been the past few years that I have learned to love them and only in their fresh state. I'll pass on the Cherry Garcia and smile politely if you offer me a chocolate covered cherry (it's that goo, no thanks!). But I'll never turn down a fresh cherry.

In my convoluted and twisted 'lil opinion I believe that cherries lose their magic when cooked (but I will make an exception with a properly prepared clafouti, thankyouverymuch). You get this nice yet not so fantastic flavor when their flesh has been cooked down to mush and that's why I like cooking them as little as possible. I realize I may be going against popular opinion here, and hey,  I'm cool with that.

My wonderful partner knows I'll never earn the title "World's Greatest Cherry-Lovin' Mexican" and was quite excited to stumble upon a recipe in this month's Everyday Food. They call it a tart, but it's not really a tart as much as a semi-trashy dessert with raw cherries on top. Hurray! Raw! And please, it's not my intention to offend, but you must admit this recipe is very 1970's Melba-Toast-Eatin'-Mom. Perhaps you'll want to sit in a bean bag and play some Linda Ronstadt while you enjoy it.

Fresh Cherry Tart from Everyday Food, June 2007

9 graham crackers, each 2 1/2 by 5 inches
2 tablespoons plus 1/4 cup sugar
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
8 ounces bar cream cheese, room temperature
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
3/4 cup heavy cream
1 pound fresh sweet cherries, such as Bing, pitted and halved
1 tablespoon seedless raspberry jam

1. Preheat oven to 350˚. In a food processor, pulse graham crackers and 2 tablespoons sugar until finely ground. Add butter, and process until combined. Transfer mixture to a 9-inch tart pan with a removable bottom. Using the base of a dry measuring cup, firmly press mixture into bottom and up sides of pan. Baked until browned, 10 to 12 minutes. Let cool completely on a wire rack.

2. Meanwhile, in a large bowl, using an electric mixer on medium speed, beat cream cheese, vanilla, and remaining 1/4 cup sugar until light and fluffy. Gradually add cream, and beat until soft peaks form; spread mixture in cooled crust. Scatter cherries on top.

3. In a small saucepan, combine jam and 1 teaspoon water; heat over low until liquefied, about 2 minutes. Using a pastry brush, dab cherries with glaze. Refrigerate tart at least 30 minutes or, covered, up to 1 day.