“High-heat egg” is a term I learned from my allergist. It’s the term that I sought for years, without knowing it actually existed, to describe my relationship with eggs. Raw or stovetop-cooked, and I’m toast, with violent cramps and vomiting that are akin to food poisoning. Throw those eggs into a baked good, however–a really well-baked good–and I’m just dandy.
Low- and no-heat eggs are why I carry an Epi-Pen. High-heat eggs are why I finally decided to dust off my foresaken quiche pan tonight and try something new.
When I lived in France (some quarter-century ago now!), I was introduced to “la tarte,” and I couldn’t get enough. Tarte aux poireaux, tart aux oingons, tarte aux asperges. Plus, tarte aux pommes, tarte Tatin, tarte aux pêches, aux poires, aux cerises. The whole shebang. Miam-miam. When I came home, I threw a beautiful ceramic tart pan into my luggage, along with the secrets of making a good pâte brisée crust, and this staple of French home-cooking became a staple in my home, too.
Of course, the tartes—and all of their dairy-ful, wheat-ful friends—were also slowly eating away at my insides. So, when the cheese and milk had to go, I pushed the pan to the back of my cabinets. Losing wheat a year ago sealed the deal.
It’s just that, even with the Massively Allergen-Free diet a year behind me, I still get so bored of my food. I miss crusts. I miss creamy things. It was definitely time to experiment.
For a crust, I borrowed this nice almond-flour version from over at Meaningful Eats, and cooked according to the directions there.
For the filling, I sauteed onion, mushroom, and a bag of frozen spinach. Then covered with a custard similar to Johanna’s over on her blog, but with a good grind of fresh nutmeg, and without the Daiya cheese (which I just can’t get into). Bake the heck out of it, and it wasn’t quiche, exactly, but it was the closest thing that I’ve had in a long, long time.
We rounded off dinner with the amazing tomato-basil soup (served chilled) from Chloe’s Kitchen, a lovely fresh salad, and a tasty glass of prosecco for the grown-ups. Isn’t summer fun?