Tag Archives: Travel
When it comes to baking I am not perfect. I embrace presentations that are what they are – not too fussy, but simple, honest and fresh (as we should embrace ourselves, right?) It was my daughter’s birthday recently, and her favorite cake is lagkage, a traditional Danish cake consisting of layers of genoise or vanilla cake, whipped cream and fresh fruit. It’s beautifully simple – no piping, no bling, just vanilla-infused cake and slathers of whipped cream smushed with macerated fruit. The only decorations are oodles of berries and pretty snipped edible flowers and herbs from the garden. Actually, it’s…perfect.
I adapted this cake from a cookbook by Danish food icon, Camilla Plum. She is a Danish chef who, in addition to her television shows, cookbooks and garden books, has an organic farm an hour outside of Copenhagen, open to the public on weekends. During the summers you can stroll through her fields, orchards and greenhouses. Her sprawling and well-lived property includes a shop with organic produce, fruit and flowers from her farm, as well as organic meats, kitchenwares and, of course, her cookbooks.
There is also a cozy cafe where you can enjoy a slice of lagkage with a cup of coffee or hyldeblomst (elderflower juice) outside in the gardens before heading home. Just watch out, you might also leave with a kitten.
Danish Layer Cake (Lagkage) with Whipped Cream and Berries
The cakes may be divided into 2 or 3 thin layers. Feel free to use as many layers as you like when assembling the cake. Recipe translated and adapted from Blomstrende Mad (Flowering Food) by Camilla Plum.
8 large eggs
1 3/4 cups (375g) granulated sugar
1/3 cup (50g) almond meal
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Finely grated zest of 1/2 lemon
5 tablespoons (75g) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
1 3/4 cups (250g) unbleached all purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
2 cups heavy cream
2 tablespoons sifted confectioners sugar
1 cup raspberries, plus more for decorating
Assorted berries (raspberries, sliced strawberries, currants)
Fresh edible flowers, herb sprigs and leaves for garnish
Make the cake:
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Butter two (9-inch) cake pans. Line the bottoms with parchment and butter the parchment. Beat the eggs and sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer until light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. Gently mix in the almond meal, vanilla, and lemon zest. Stir in the butter. Whisk the flour and baking powder in a small bowl, then add to the eggs. Gently mix just until combined without over mixing. Divide among prepared pans. Bake until light golden and tops spring back when pressed, about 25 minutes. Cool completely on racks. Remove the cakes from pans and slice horizontally in half (or thirds).
Make the cream:
Whip the cream in the bowl of an electric mixer until traces of the whisk are apparent. Add the sugar and beat until firm peaks form. Place 1 cup raspberries in a bowl and mash with a fork. Add half of the whipped cream and gently stir to combine.
Place one cake layer on a cake plate and top with raspberry cream. Repeat with remaining layers. Spread the remaining whipped cream over top and sides of cake. Top with fresh berries. Garnish with snipped edible flowers and/or herbs.
to embrace nature
and get their feet wet
Where the sky is the limit
to receive abundance
and break bread
with fellow travelers
and kindred spirits
Size is not everything at this wonderful little farm stand in Rancho Sante Fe, California. Just north of San Diego, Chino Farms is a family-run farm that has been in business for over 30 years. Tucked in the countryside east of Del Mar, Chino Farms sells its just-harvested produce to any and all who stop at their roadside stand. Chefs and home cooks alike patiently stand in line to choose their produce. If you dine in any of the area’s best farm-to-table restaurants, you can be sure your veggies are from Chinos.
Since we were there as tourists, and unable to return to our kitchen to prepare a farm-fresh meal, we satsified ourselves with baskets of wild strawberries to nibble on as we drove down coastal route 101 on our way to the beach. In the evening, back at the Lodge at Torrey Pines, we were lucky enough to enjoy a meal at A.R. Valentien where we were told the chef uses fresh produce from Chino Farms.
You would not believe the variety of kitchens I have used in the last 18 years. I have lived in 8 different homes in 5 different countries since 1990 and have been exposed to a catalog of kitchen styles and appliances.
The first kitchen I had was when I moved to Paris and rented a tiny apartment in the 18th arrondissement while I attended Le Cordon Bleu Ecole de Cuisine. The kitchen was more of a kitchenette and had a dormitory-sized refrigerator and a hotplate as a cooktop, which I rarely used. To be honest, I was so tired of cooking and tasting all day at school, that by the time I came home the last thing I felt like doing was cooking more food. Besides, if a meal was to be had, there were too many restaurants to explore in the city, and I was on a mission to try as many as possible.
My first house in Geneva had another tiny kitchen. It was the size of a closet and had a galley of efficiency appliances with a postage stamp-sized work surface along one wall. There was just enough space left for a tiny bistro table and 2 café chairs, where I would eat with my boyfriend. Despite the size, I adjusted and found the efficiency refreshing. I could literally stand in one place, pivoting left and right, and everything was at my fingertips. I entertained regularly out of that kitchen and even catered a few dinner parties, while borrowing surface space from the living room around the corner as necessary. It worked, but I suspect it would be difficult to go back to at this time.
There were several other homes along the way, while I lived for 8 more years in the Geneva countryside before moving to England for 3 years. Most of our homes were at least 100 years old with lots of character, yet blessed with modern kitchen conveniences and European appliances. We rented a few, so accepted the varying styles and finishes that came with the rent, and for those we purchased, we tweaked to our taste and learned to use a whole new set of appliances.
Our biggest coup was when we purchased a renovated barn south of London in 1999. With the barn we acquired a large rambling country kitchen with a coveted Aga oven. What a beauty. It was a cast iron, cobalt-blue enameled fixture the size of a Mini Cooper. It took up the entire north wall of our kitchen and was truly the heart of the home. It was always on, emitting warmth (very useful in drafty homes in the English countryside) and the cats and children would curl up in front of it on a cold wintry day. The kitchen also came equipped with an AEG gas cooktop and convection oven range. When we first moved in, I was relieved to see the range and assumed I would frequently use it in place of the enigmatic Aga. Wrong. I never used the range – not even once in the 2 years we were there.
The Aga had 4 ovens with specific temperatures that did not fluctuate. One was for warming, one for baking and one for roasting. There were 2 cast iron cooking plates on the top that also did not fluctuate. One was high temperature (boiling) and the other was medium-low (simmering.) There was also a warming plate you could place a pot on once removed from the cooking elements. I quickly learned to manipulate my pots and pans over these surfaces and in the ovens, and the results were phenomenal. Nothing was impossible – I could even toast bread on the Aga. Food that came from the ovens seemed to have more flavor. This was slow cooking at its best. In fact, our neighbors told us that they would put their Christmas turkey in the warming oven of their Aga the night before eating (this is not a recommendation, but they swore by it!) According to them, after 24 hours the turkey was finished, succulent and delicious. The only quibble I can think of regarding our Aga is that since the ovens sealed in all the air and exhausted through a chimney outside, I could not smell my food cooking. This made me appreciate how much I use my sense of smell to judge when something is done. (No, I have never developed the habit of using an oven timer.)
When we moved from England to Denmark, our 130 year-old home outside of Copenhagen had a lovely restored kitchen with a minimalist Danish style. The cooktop was induction. This was a new one for me, and, at first, I was very dubious, especially since I was still on my Aga-high. As I got used to this new slick, clean cooking element I was very pleasantly surprised. It was fast, consistent and, as mentioned, very clean. I was worried I would have to replace my pots and pans, since induction requires a ferrous metal, such as iron or steel, as a component in the cooking pans to react to the magnetic field, so they will heat. I was relieved to find that most of my pots and pans already had this. As the heat is inducted in the pan, it’s the pan that becomes the cooking element, so the cooktop surface never becomes too hot, which I appreciated with small children in the kitchen. And, believe it or not, I found it at times faster and more controllable than gas, as the organic aspect of the gas flame is less predictable. I loved it.
So, fast forward to our present home in Northern California, where we inherited a 6-burner commercial grade gas cooktop. Before Denmark, I would have been ecstatic about this. However, if I had my choice now, I would opt for induction. Yet, I see none in all the spiffy renovated kitchens I visit. My question is: Why hasn’t induction caught on here yet? Does anyone know?
Last summer we were in Denmark visiting friends and family during the solstice. Miraculously, we managed to get a coveted dinner reservation at the acclaimed Copenhagen restaurant NOMA, and realized that our luck was only due to the general population out partying in traditional solstice-style on beaches before bonfires rather than in restaurants. Seizing our opportunity, we invited our Danish friends and hosts (who were more than happy to abandon tradition for a table at NOMA) to join us.
That evening, we dined on a fabulous prix-fixe menu consisting of 7 courses composed exclusively of ingredients hailing from Nordic countries. (NOMA is an acronym for Nordisk Mad – or Nordic Food in Danish.) A visit to this restaurant is highly recommended if you are in Copenhagen, although advance reservations are a must. It is a fantastic collaboration between Danish chefs Claus Meyer and René Redzepi. All ingredients originate from Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Iceland, Greenland and the Faroe Islands. They run from the familiar to the exotic: eel, musk ox, green strawberries, hare, seaweed, rye bread, black lobster are a few examples (quite out of context.) You may feast on dishes such as Sautéed Dover Sole with New Danish Potatoes, Green Strawberries and Elderberry Sauce perhaps accompanied by Stirred Mashed Potatoes with Lumpfish Roe and Crispy Chicken Skin, and finish with Caramel Ice Cream with Icelandic Buttermilk, Dried Swedish Berries and Sorrel Crème Anglaise.
I enjoy poring over the NOMA Nordic Cuisine cookbook, which I bought as a memento after our meal. It is an inspirational and unique testament to Nordic terroir, and apropos several interesting blogs that attempt to prepare every single recipe in a particular tome of a cookbook, I would seriously have a go at reproducing NOMA’s – if only I could get my hands on chickweed, seakale and sweet cicely. For now, I do what I always do and improvise with the seasonal and local products I find in my part of the world.
As we drove home after our long dinner, it was approaching midnight. To the west the sun had just set and exited the sky in a swirl of orange and purple flourishes in its haste to rise again. To the east it was doing just that, where the sky was brightening and soft pink tinges nudged the gray-blue midnight summer sky. It was truly a magical Danish solstice moment.
No, I am not talking about the Superbowl. I am talking about UEFA. It’s World Cup Football Championship time again and for those of you not interested in or in touch with this intenrationl rite, it is THE football championship that takes place worldwide every summer. Don’t get me wrong. I hardly watch football (that’s soccer for you Americans). But, after all, I am married to a Dane and spent many years in Europe where, come summer, if you are not following at least a teensy bit of football in the news or on the television, you are living in a shoebox. Two years ago we were vacationing in Italy at the time the Italians won the world cup. Now that left an impression I am still talking about. During the quarterfinals we were in Rome. Being the tourists we were, we naively ventured into the city for dinner during the quarterfinal match. While the restaurants were open, they were very empty except for wayward disoriented tourists such as ourselves. The staff were, to say the least, distracted, and we quickly deduced that we might as well just go with the flow, and root for our new favorite football team while not being overly critical about the spotty table service. After our meal we realized that there would be no hope in finding a taxi driver to bring us back to our hotel. So, we wandered into another restaurant with a lounge and cheered on our new favorite team as they won the match. From that moment on the streets came alive with revelers, cars honking, sirens blaring. This continued well into the night, long after we had gone to bed – and it was just the quarterfinals. The semi-finals took place after we left Rome for Tuscany where we were sharing a house with some friends near Montepulciano. The afternoon of the match, we wandered around the narrow streets of the medieval village and came upon the square, or Piazza, where an enormous screen was being erected against a building façade. Rows of folding chairs filled the Piazza, encircling the fountain, and an instant outdoor theater was in place where all the village residents would gather together that evening and watch the football match. It made me think of the film Cinema Paradiso.
The finals were played on one of our last nights in Italy. We had moved on to the Isle of Elba and were staying in a lovely hotel with an excellent restaurant. The staff was very professional and proper, and the clientelle was well-heeled and dignified, hailing from Europe, the Middle East and Russia. So, imagine the night of the finals, when in the middle of the first dinner service, a tuxedoed maître d’ wheeled a television into the center of the dining terrasse. On cue, all protocol was suspended, and waiters, busboys, hotel staff gathered around the television along with diners balancing dinner plates on their tuxedoed laps. The French tourists cheered on France and the Italian tourists and staff cheered on the Italians. We were all caught up in a passionate TV dinner for the next 2 hours. When the meal was finished we crowded into the bar, squeezing into already full sofas, balancing on the arms of chairs, sitting cross-legged on the floor, elbow to elbow with our fellow football fans. A Swedish photographer bought us a round of drinks, we reciprocated and also bought drinks for the French couple sitting at our feet, the bartender invited our children to perch on the bar and gave them free sodas. Together we cheered and booed as Italy won the world cup. What an equalizer. Who said that English is the international language?
Perhaps it’s the heat or perhaps I have the itch to travel right now. I am thinking of Italy. There are plenty of things to think about in Italy, but I am specifically thinking of a restaurant I dined at in Milan a number of years ago called Molo 13. This restaurant is one of those restaurants where if you are a tourist, if you do not have a local resident show it to you, you would never know it’s existence. This is the best kind of restaurant to eat in when traveling.
In my post Border Crossings, I mention a road trip to Milan I took with my friend, Deb, when I lived near Geneva. Aside from having a gun drawn on us by a particularly ruffled border guard at the French/Italian frontier, this was a very positive experience. As we drove on to Milan through the mountains of Aosta and Piemonte, we anticipated our arrival in the city, shopping along the Monte Napoleone, seeing the Duomo, and, of course, eating. In fact, we had a dinner scheduled for later that evening. The plan was that after checking into our hotel, we would drive to Malpensa airport where we would pick up my husband and his Italian colleague, Eugenio. They were returning from a business meeting in Rome, and Eugenio would take us to dinner at one of his favorite restaurants in Milan.
So arrived and checked in, Deb and I headed out, informed by the hotel’s concierge that signs to the airport would be clearly marked. We easily found the ring road that encircles Milan, a major motorway for commuters, that would take us to the airport some 35 km. away. As rush hour was peaking we were caught up in the whirlwind of the zooming traffic. Drivers sped past us, criss-crossing lanes from left to right and back again, taking turns tailgating each other. Crazy, dangerous, and wild were the operating adjectives at hand – it was automotive-chaos-theory at 200 km/hour. Appropriately, it was at this time that the headlights on my spiffy, sporty, somewhat older BMW failed. (There must be a football metaphor in there somewhere… Italian Exuberance:1 vs. German Reticence:0?)
In a split second we took stock of our situation: No map, no improved language skills since our brief exposure to Italian epithets at the border crossing, and now no functioning headlights, so even if we could read the road signs, we could hardly see them. At this moment, in most civilized societies this would be enough of a motive to just get off the road. But, this being Italy (very civilized, by the way, but in its own special way) there is a different principle applied to driving: it’s viewed as a sport; it’s adrenaline merging with testosterone; it’s an accumulation of many espressos. No lights? No problem! Besides, now that we were caught up in the swirling vortex of the ring road, all physics of an easy, gentle trajectory towards a spontaneous exit went out the window. Either you plan your exit at least 5 km. in advance and preferably never leave the exit lane (very un-Italian.) Or you simply exit NOW! no matter what is in your way; things will just sort themselves out (very Italian.)
Well, we made it. (I am a schooled Boston driver, after all.) I have a memory of hurtling in the dark on the motorway and swerving sharply on 2 wheels when we saw the sign at the very last moment to the airport, cutting off several cars in our path. As I swerved again to avoid side-swiping an Alfa Romeo, I could have sworn I caught the approving nod of its Italian driver as I accelerated past him with no headlights. I was driving like a local.
So, imagine our relief when we finally arrived at our restaurant later that evening. The relief was replaced by delight as we entered Molo 13 and were overcome by the warm, lively, fully booked restaurant filled with Italians enjoying seafood specialties inspired by the Sardinian coast. We let Eugenio do the ordering and were treated to a multi-coursed feast beginning with assorted antipasti, followed by a sublime seafood risotto, and a main course of baked sea bass encrusted in sea salt. For the cheese course an enormous wheel of Parmigiano-Reggiano was passed around the table, and we scooped out large chunks of the cheese with a spoon. (I still have that in mind as a cheese course for a very large dinner party.) The food was Italian at its best – uncomplicated and clean, showcasing the freshness of ingredients in their simplicity of use.
Since then, I have replicated the baked fish in sea salt recipe at home. It is a remarkably easy recipe and a beautiful way to present a whole fish. Break away the salt at the table for added effect. The fish will be succulent and flavorful, the only garnish needed is a drizzle of olive oil and fresh lemon juice.
Whole Fish Baked in Sea Salt – Pesce al Sale
Extra-virgin olive oil
Preheat oven to 400 F.
Place lemon slices in cavity of the fish.
Combine egg white and sea salt in a bowl. Mix well to moisten salt.
Spread 1/3 salt mixture on bottom of an oven-proof baking dish. Lay fish on top. Pour remaining salt over fish, covering completely. If needed, tail can remain exposed.
Bake in oven 30 minutes.
Crack crust open with a small hammer or knife. Remove and discard crust.
Fillet the fish. Serve drizzled with olive oil and lemon.
I miss the English language.
In 1999, we moved to London from Geneva due to a corporate relocation. After 9 years in Switzerland, this was a new development in our family saga. Among the mixed emotions, one standout was a relief to live again in an English speaking culture. We could move right in and mix with the locals! We could live anywhere, not dependent on an international community or school to settle in. If we didn’t want to pay a hugely-exorbitant property price in London, we could pay a moderately-exorbitant property price in the countryside. We could move to a charming provincial English village in the hills or downs, find a crumbling stone property or a creaky half-timbered cottage and fit right in. After all, we were fluent in the local language – we only missed a sturdy pair of wellies.
I should have known better. I had plenty of British expat friends back in Geneva. Perhaps I hadn’t paid attention, or perhaps in the expat world, you have your own expat culture and dialect; everyone ends up speaking affected versions of the international language of English, adapted and tweaked to mingle with the myriad mother tongues and language abilities encountered in an enormous international community.
Whatever the case, upon arrival in London and following a brief rental experience in Surrey, we moved to that aforementioned tiny provincial village where we purchased a rambling, L-shaped, feng-shui-challenged barn renovation near the south coast with distant views to the Isle of Wight. Suddenly, I found myself in the thick of all things English and thoroughly in the dark.
While I can write volumes about our bumbling and surprisingly foreign experience settling into U.K. life, I will remain on the topic of language. After all, that was one of the perks of this move for us, and the excuse we used to propel ourselves to a remote corner of Southeast England in our well-intentioned quest to live like a local.
So please reflect upon these images:
Explanation: If your child is invited home by a classmate for Tea one day, rest assured your precious 4 year-old will not be served a scalding cup of Earl Grey. Most likely, he will be supplied with an early supper served to children; beans on toast is a favorite.
Here is a picture of Pudding. And here is a picture of Pudding.
Explanation: If you are invited to a neighbour’s home for dinner and asked to bring a pudding, don’t despair if you are unsure as to whether you can recreate your mother’s Butterscotch Pudding recipe from your childhood. Pudding is a synonym for dessert, so feel free to live on the wild side and whip up a cake or trifle.
Now you have an idea of the linguistic hurdles I faced. However, with time, and in my eternal pursuit of going native and not blatantly sticking out like the Yankee that I am, I slowly caught on to the English language. My vocabulary shifted. I embraced words such as whilst and hence. I quickly learnt to refer to the car boot and clothing articles such as knickers, jumpers, and trainers. More importantly, I learnt to never, ever, compliment someone on their pants (blush) – for they are trousers. My written word adjusted to include u’s and t’s (neighbour, favourite, learnt, burnt.) The letter “z” became “zed” and was often substituted with an “s” as in finalise and realise. Ever, ever so civilised.
Years later, when we would move on from England to Denmark, and I was straddling the Danish and international communities, British-English remained the English language. I miss it now and still use it in my writing. Unfortunately, my very-American computer program is none too pleased, and my text is littered with red lines.
I confess that when I first moved to Paris to study cooking, I was somewhat inflexible in terms of feeding myself. Here I was, twenty-something, educated, professional, and, at least in my opinion, worldly. Now, this is my own small story, but I will dare say that I conformed to a rather structured, and, perhaps American, way of viewing diet and exercise: compulsive, rigorous and disciplined. This translated to a philosophy that excluded butter, red meat, caffeine, little alcohol and included fresh fruit, veggies, fish and so on. It also included a regimen of daily exercise, even if it meant rising at 5 a.m. to squeeze a workout into an active, fully-booked life. A day without exercise was unthinkable; deviation from my super healthy diet bordered on cataclysmic.
So, wouldn’t it make perfect sense that I would apply to cooking school in Paris? Not only cooking school, but the revered, classical, traditional French cooking school, Le Cordon Bleu. Goodness knows what I was thinking. Perhaps it was a subconscious acknowledgement of the starkness of my present routine and the need to just live a little; the gap of an ocean and the excuse of a new culture to step away from life as I knew it. Or perhaps it was the lack of meat protein in my diet that impacted my reasoning skills. Whatever the case, off I went to cook and eat in the land of butter, cream, pastry, runny cheese and terrines, at a school that for over 100 years held the distinguished and elite position of teaching classical French cuisine et pâtisserie.
And guess what? Nothing untoward happened. In fact, lots of delicious, sensual, pleasurable, yummy, gooey, and rich experiences befell me. The foods I wistfully admired from the sidelines of my healthy regimen back in the U.S. became the daily staples of my new Parisian life. I had an encyclopedia of cheeses at my disposal, bakeries on every street corner displayed gorgeous oven-baked breads and flaky croissants, cafés dotted every neighborhood serving comforting French bistro fare. Open air markets peppered the city, and depending on the day I could alter my route to school to pass by stands displaying a rainbow of fresh seasonal produce, glistening fresh meats and a sea of fish. Cheeses, pâtés, and more breads were prominently displayed along with a kaleidescope of cut flowers readily available for the finishing touch to the table.
For exercise I walked to school every day – literally across town – from the 18th to the 15th arrondissement. I risked life and limb crossing streets and boulevards, skirting the occasional mob of striking postal workers, protesting students and subsequent swarms of police, allowing 20 minutes at the minimum to navigate across the sweeping Place de la Concorde as I would officially cross from the right to the left bank over the Seine. Each day I would change my walking route, either purposely or more often erroneously, discovering new streets, neighborhoods, shops and cafés. I had a short list of favorite cafés where I would stop for my morning tartine (avec beurre) and café au lait (avec caféine.) Outside of the school I learned which bakeries had the best sandwiches – simple, satisfying packages with thickly sliced Comté cheese or paper-thin tongues of jambon sechée, a little butter and mustard, and perhaps a cornichon for garnish on a crusty, airy baguette the length of a forearm. So satisfying and so uncomplicated. An afternoon pick-me-up between classes or along my walk home would include an espresso and perhaps a tarte au citron – a dollop of perfectly balanced sweet, tart and very lemony curd nestled in a palm-sized shell of pâte sucrée. If I could bear to make dinner after a day of cooking in class, I would improvise a light dish with some of the purchases from the market or head out to a bistro or restaurant on my un-ending list of new places to try. Simply put, my life in Paris revolved around eating, cooking, walking and eating more. I was very happy. Bon Appétit.
Lemon Tart – Tarte au Citron
Makes one 9″ tart
For the pastry – Pâte Sucrée
1 1/4 cup flour
2 tablespoons sugar
1/8 teaspoon salt
7 tablespoons chilled unsalted butter, cut in 1/2″ pieces
1 egg yolk
1 tablespoon ice water
Combine flour, sugar and salt in bowl of food processor. Add butter, using on/off turns until the mixture becomes crumbly.
Stir together egg yolk and water in small bowl. Add to flour mixture. Pulse until dough begins to clump together.
Press dough into bottom and up sides of 9-inch tart pan with removable bottom. Trim edges. Pierce crust all over with fork. Freeze 20 minutes.
Preheat oven to 350 F. Line crust with foil. Fill with dried beans or pie weights. Bake until crust is set, about 15 minutes. Remove foil and beans or weights. Continue baking until crust is lightly golden, about 20 minutes. Transfer to rack to cool while preparing the filling.
For the Lemon Filling:
6 egg yolks
2/3 cup sugar
3/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (2-3 lemons)
6 tablespoons butter, softened
pinch of salt
2 teaspoons lemon zest
Combine egg yolks and sugar in a medium sauce pan. Mix well to combine. Add remaining ingredients, except for the lemon zest. Cook over medium-low heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon. (Do not allow to boil or the mixture will curdle.)
When the mixture changes to a bright yellow color and thickly coats the wooden spoon, remove from heat. Pour through a fine strainer. Discard the residue. Stir in lemon zest.
Pour the filling into the cooled tart shell; it will continue to thicken as it sets. Let it sit at least one hour. Serve at room temperature or cold.