jen goes to college

baked eggs with leeks

2012-02-13T06:49:00.004-05:00

i remember reading once, years ago, that the average woman ingests four pounds of lipstick in a lifetime.

my immediate response to that statistic, as an obedient product of modern critical thinking education, is to ask how on earth anyone could possibly figure that out.

skepticism aside, though, i really love the idea. fitting, somehow, that we so literally consume what we consume. i think that growing up with an odd fascination with fashion and beauty magazines created some sort of mental link between cosmetics and food--a weird neurological cross-over between my reward centers. two products to be coveted, with which to sensorily engorge myself: visually, texturally, orally. in department stores i would become aware of an urge to bite into the rows of gleaming, jewel-toned lipsticks on display, to dig my teeth and fingernails into the rainbow palettes of shadows. call it a sickness of growing up in an era of hyper-advertising, largely geared towards women. i call it sensory conflation.

either way, the idea of all those pounds of lipstick, waxy-slick and inky-tinted, slowly passing through me--it doesn't bother me at all. and when my food is just as visually pleasing, it's a win-win. certainly i would be the last person to bash homelier pots of stewy, lentilly, mucky meals--but you also won't hear me complaining when food is pleasing to the eye, and my strong associations between taste and pleasure often lead me to want to eat beautiful things, even if they're not necessarily food.

this recipe comes to us from camino restaurant in oakland, and it's about as simple as they get (second, perhaps, to this, which i'm chomping at the bit to try, if only to satisfy my skepticism). you sweat a pile of herbed leeks, throw them into a ramekin, top with an egg and some cream, bake a few minutes, and inhale with a chunk of baguette. pantry-friendly, time-friendly, dinner-brunch-lunch friendly œufs en cocotte, in minutes. oh, and they're cuuute in their little ramekins, for one or for many.

baked eggs in cream with herbed leeks

adapted from a recipe by camino restaurant for the new york times

makes one serving, but easily scaled up

1 tbsp butter
1/4 cup sliced leeks, light green and white parts only*
salt
2 sprigs thyme, leaves roughly chopped
2 sprigs parsley, leaves roughly chopped
1 large farm-fresh egg (i used two eggs, hedonist that i am)
about 2 tbsp half-and-half (i used heavy cream, see above)
coarsely ground black pepper
grilled or toasted bread slices

*don't be afraid to make more; having leftover herbed leeks on hand is never a bad thing.

set a rack in the middle of the oven and preheat to 400°F. in a small sauté pan, melt the butter over medium heat. add the leeks, a splash of water and a pinch of salt and cook until the leeks are tender, about 2 minutes. add the herbs and transfer to a 6" ramekin, cocotte or other ceramic dish, covering the bottom with the butter, leeks and herbs.

crack the egg(s) into the middle of the dish. add enough half-and-half to barely cover the white. sprinkle with salt and coarsely ground pepper. cook until the white is set, 8 to 12 minutes (i like to aim closer to 8 minutes here, giving me a runny yolk to wind its way into the leeks and get mopped up with bread). serve immediately, with bread.

crust sauce cheese

2012-02-03T03:20:00.003-05:00

meyer lemon, chevre, olive, & rosemary pizza

1 ball peter reinhart's napoletana pizza dough
flour, for stretching dough
1 whole meyer lemon, sliced into paper thin rounds
chevre
kalamata or other good quality olives, coarsely chopped or torn
olive oil
fresh rosemary, finely chopped
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

follow reinhart's instructions for stretching and rolling out a round of dough on a well-floured surface. preheat oven as high as it will go, typically 500°F.

tile pizza dough with lemon slices. drizzle with olive oil, sprinkle liberally with goat cheese, olives, rosemary salt, and pepper. slide onto preheated pizza stone and bake until crust is lightly burnished, cheese is melted, and lemons are browning around the edges. remove from oven, top with rosemary, and allow to cool for a few minutes before slicing. serve immediately.

a hard sell

2012-01-31T03:49:00.003-05:00

you guys must hate me, adding insult to injury like this, week after week.

this winter has been no different from any other. the cabbage reared its cruciferous head, as has been its wont in chilly months gone by. lentils were yet again made happy bedfellows with the humble onion. mushrooms lurked in the crisper drawer, waiting to be cooked down with thyme and mopped up with bread. beige has been the dominant color of the season. martha would be proud.

today, though, i'm really reaching. not only am i going to try to cajole you into eating soup that at best is a clean muted beige, and at worst, resembles watered down mustard--but i'm going to ask you to stare headlong into the abyss, into the vegetal heart of darkness, and to make the acquaintance of the poor unfortunate ~~soul~~ vegetable whence it comes.

the celery root. also answers to celeriac (which i still think sounds like a horrible blood disease, maybe a rare cousin of sickle-cell anemia) and knob celery (hardly an improvement, as names go). o, ye unsung hero of winter vegetables, ugly duckling of starch alternatives, frog prince of velvety purées! bear with me. close your eyes if you must.

warty, craggy, and mottled as the exterior may be, be brave. the best way to get to the pristine white interior, i find, is to plunk your celery root in the sink and use a paring knife rather than a peeler to shave downward in long, broad strokes. any resilient nobs or straggler hairs can be carved out on a cutting board. it's smooth sailing from here, asking for only a half hour of your time and five more real ingredients. five! and with what synergy! you sautée some aromatics, give them a simmer in some broth, and then zizz the whole mess in a blender, and ta-da! a smoother, more gently comforting liquid is hard to find this time of year.

i passed mugs of it to drew and nick around 1 am one night as i was prepping lunches en masse for the week ahead, and upon first sip, they both (if i remember correctly) softly said "wow." granted, it's hard to say how much this reflects upon the soup itself and how much of it had to do with the fact that the fishbowl has yet to turn the heat on this winter, at all (yes, i realize that this is probably illegal and that our pipes might freeze)--but as such, any hot, nourishing anything slurped out of a mug will, by default, taste infinitely better than it might elsewhere. that being said, i proceeded to eat this for lunch and dinner last week, carried to campus in a jar and reheated anywhere i could find a microwave, and it did not disappoint. it is mellow, gently sweet, and creamy without being heavy (i.e. there's not a drop of cream in it). and so, in the case of the celery root, what is essential is invisible to the eye. one can truly only see rightly with the heart, or, perhaps, in this instance, the stomach.

favorite winter soups, elsewhere: veselka's borscht, kabocha french lentil, smothered cabbage, sweet potato coconut with sage, carrot fennel, coconut lentil, and broccoli with lemon chive cream.

purée of celery root soup
adapted from the red cat cookbook via marian burros for the new york times
makes about 8 servings (freeze some for later!)

1/4 cup olive oil
2 leeks, white part only, coarsely chopped
1 medium onion, coarsely chopped
4 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
5 cups peeled, coarsely chopped celery root (about 2 lbs after peeling)
5 cups vegetable stock, ideally homemade--otherwise i like rapunzel bouillon
1/2 cup milk
salt and freshly ground black pepper (or white pepper, if you're concerned about color)
2 tablespoons sliced chervil or tarragon, optional (i omitted this)

in a large saucepan or dutch oven over medium heat, heat a big splash olive oil and add leek, onion, celery and garlic. sauté until softened but not browned, about 5 minutes.

add celery root and stock, and bring to a boil. reduce heat to low and simmer until celery root is tender when pierced with a knife, about 20 minutes.

using a blender and working in batches, purée soup until smooth. add another two tablespoons oil and milk as needed to enrich soup. season with salt and pepper to taste. if desired, soup may be cooled, covered and refrigerated for up to 24 hours before serving. reheat gently just until steaming. garnish with herbs, if using, and serve hot.

lemony olive oil banana bread

2012-01-17T22:03:00.003-05:00

i recently finished five days of a modified master cleanse, which i tried less for a new years' resolution or weight loss purposes than for a sort of physical and, dare i say it, spiritual detox. it was harrowing, to say the least, and almost felt like field research on corporeal abjection, the central concept of my thesis. i had bouts of euphoria followed by feeling like utter hell. moreover, the experience forced me to notice new things about myself--it brought with it an awareness of the differences between wanting to eat for genuine hunger, for cravings, or for boredom. it's an altered state, of sorts.

phasing out of the cleanse was just as interesting. i found my sense of taste different, heightened even, and i had some outrageous sugar and starch cravings. mostly, though, i felt an overwhelming appreciation for food--for what it does for me, for what it allows me to do, for the pleasurable processes of cooking, feeling substances take shape under my hands, tasting, noticing. zesting a lemon, kneading pizza dough into a pliant mass, cracking eggs into a skillet. it's a pretty beautiful bargain that we've got worked out with our bodies--they do whatever we ask them to do in exchange for food. and what a joy the food itself can be.

i made this banana bread recipe as a home for a bunch of squishy bananas that santi brought home from work. it comes to us from the infallible melissa clark, she of seared radish crostini with anchovy, fig tart with stilton, corn chowder with basil and lime, roasted broccoli with shrimp, raw kale salad with parmesan and lemon, etc., etc. the woman can do no wrong, and this cakey quick bread is no exception: densely moist with olive oil, yogurt, and banana, nubbly with whole wheat flour, fragrant with lemon zest, studded with melty pockets of dark chocolate. i poured it into a muffin tin to speed up bake time (read: i was hungry), but you can make it in a standard loaf pan or even a bundt pan if you're feeling ~fancy.~ the glaze adds a crunchy hit of acidic brightness, but if you're feeling virtuous you could easily skip it.

lemon, olive oil, & banana cake, elsewhere: chocolate chip ginger banana bread, lemon olive oil cake, rosemary olive oil chocolate chip cake. oh, and for fans of the chocolate ginger banana bread, i recently remixed it into a pancake batter using martha stewart's basic pancake recipe, and it was dope. highly recommended.

lemony olive oil banana bread (muffins)
adapted from melissa clark's cook this now via heidi

1 cup / 125g all-purpose flour
1 cup / 140g whole wheat flour
3/4 cup / 125 g dark muscovado or dark brown sugar
3/4 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp kosher salt
1 cup / 115 g coarsely chopped bittersweet chocolate (leave some big chunks)
1/3 cup / 80 ml extra-virgin olive oil
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
1 1/2 cups / 340 g mashed, very ripe bananas (~3 bananas)
1/4 cup / 60 ml plain, whole milk yogurt
1 tsp freshly grated lemon zest (i used more)
1 tsp vanilla extract

for the glaze:

1/2 cup / 85 g sifted dark muscovado or dark brown sugar
1/2 cup / 55 g confectioners' sugar
4 tsp freshly squeezed lemon juice (i used more)

preheat the oven to 350°F, and place a rack in the center. grease a 9"x5" (23x13 cm) loaf pan, a 12-muffin tin, or equivalent.

in a large bowl, whisk together the flours, sugar, baking soda, and salt. add the chocolate pieces and combine well.

in a separate bowl, mix together the olive oil, eggs, mashed banana, yogurt, zest, and vanilla. pour the banana mixture into the flour mixture and fold with a spatula until just combined. scrape the batter into the prepared pan and bake until golden brown, about 50 minutes. you want to get a beautiful color on the cake, but at the same time you don't want to bake all the moisture out of it. so the minute you're in that zone, pull it. err on the side of under-baking rather than over.

transfer the pan to a wire rack to cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then turn the loaf out of the pan to cool completely.

while the cake is cooling, prepare the glaze. in a bowl, whisk together the sugars and the lemon juice until smooth. when the cake is completely cool, drizzle the glaze on top of the cake, spreading with a spatula to cover.

makes 12 muffins, or serves 10 as a loaf cake.

mujaddara

2012-01-14T22:14:00.008-05:00

last winter my friend paul packed a gaggle of girls, myself included, into a car and drove us up to a twilight zone-esque area of industrial northern portland to shoot a video for his song "nuclear planet." if i remember correctly, the style guidelines included the words "post-apocalyptic," "hobo-chic," "the road," and "granny-zombie." i was wearing fishnets, hiking boots, some grungy slip-dresses, a few grandma sweaters, fingerless gloves, my giant scarf, and zombie makeup, with my hair teased into a tangled cloud. it was cold and misty-drizzling, and i remember watching out of the corners of my eyes as water droplets collected in my hair like plastic beads, and then eventually froze. perfect for the purposes of the video, miserable for us.

we stood outside for what felt like all day, taking turns holding up an enormous greenscreen and an umbrella for paul's computer, lipsynching into each others' mouths, dancing, running, looking cold and sad, and acting like sex-starved zombies.

fun, yes, but by the time we were done, the sun had set, we were soaked to the bone, couldn't feel any of our extremities, and were hungrier than any of us could ever remember being. paul had the brilliant idea to go to nicholas, one of portland's beloved lebanese restaurants. in we walked, smeared makeup and all, looking like something a homeless cat dragged in off of a michael jackson video set, greeted by snickering waiters, platters of flatbread fresh out of the oven, and cups of steaming mint tea. i ignored the looks, opened mouth, inserted food, began to thaw.

it wasn't the first time i've eaten mujaddara, a mixture of rice, lentils, and caramelized onions, but it's certainly the instance that sticks out most in my memory--one of the most restorative meals to have ever crossed my lips. a strange thing to rave about, given that it's built upon a trio of humble pantry staples, and that it's downright ugly at best. i tweaked the more traditional recipe a lot (and probably made it wildly inauthentic) by applying ruth's technique for cooking indian-style lentils to the mujaddara, making it fragrant with cinnamon, ginger, cumin, and anise. warm, spiced, complex, comforting. this makes a pretty sizeable batch, and conveniently it improves with age as the flavors meld and mellow--make it a day in advance if possible, reheating it over the stove with a splash of stock. i've also been eating it for breakfast topped with a fried egg and a chunk of baguette, and would be hard-pressed to name a better savory wake-up meal. you can garnish it with chopped cilantro if you like--i didn't, obviously, because i know that cilantro is satan's herb, but do as you choose. stay warm, and happy eating.

mujaddara (moo-JHA-dra)
adapted from a handful of recipes
serves 6

2 large sweet white onions, thinly sliced
2 tbsp olive oil
2 cups long grain white rice, well-rinsed
3-4 cardamom pods
1 1/2 cups brown or green lentils (not red or french lentils), picked through for debris and rinsed
2 cinnamon sticks
3 bay leaves
4 coins (each ≈1/4" thick) fresh peeled ginger root
2 whole cloves garlic, peeled
2-3 star anise pods
2 tsp cumin seeds
3/4 of a lemon, sliced into 6-8 very thin rounds
1/2 tsp ground cumin
1/4 tsp cayenne pepper
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tbsp ground coriander
1 tsp turmeric
salt and pepper to taste
optional: plain thick yogurt or labneh for serving

warm the olive oil and a big pinch of salt in your largest skillet. add the onions. set heat on medium-low and stir occasionally until very soft, about 30 minutes. turn heat to medium high and keep cooking and stirring often until deeply browned and sweet, another 20 minutes or more. burn them a little in spots, even.

meanwhile, cook the rice according to the package directions. add the cardamom pods to the rice pot while cooking, then discard when done. in a separate pan, combine the lentils and enough water (or good quality vegetable stock) to cover by an inch. add cinnamon sticks, bay leaves, ginger, garlic, star anise, and cumin seeds. bring to a boil over medium-high heat. reduce to a simmer and cook, undisturbed, for 20 minutes. they should be tender but not mushy or soupy; they should retain their shape. drain and set aside.

combine rice, lentils, half the caramelized onions, lemon slices, cumin, cayenne, ground cinnamon, coriander, turmeric, salt and pepper in a large pot. add about half a cup of water or stock and the olive oil and heat everything together until fragrant, warm and combined. remove cinnamon sticks, bay leaves, ginger, garlic, and star anise, and lemon. taste and adjust for seasoning--if you didn't add stock, you'll probably need a liberal amount of salt, and more of the other spices if you feel like it. don't be shy.

spoon mujaddara in serving dish. scatter remaining caramelized onions over top. serve, with plain thick yogurt, labneh, or flatbread on the side if desired.

preserved lemons

2012-01-11T03:58:00.006-05:00

a produce haiku:

winter: kale, turnips--
zing! citrus! persimmons! pow!
alien jewels.

amidst the slump of muted winter produce, seeing meyer lemons in the grocery store always gives me this overwhelming impulse to buy bag after bag of them, since they seem like such a rare boreal gift. i tell myself that i'll just use them for whatever i use regular lemons for, i.e. dousing everything that goes in my mouth with juice, but it always feels too extravagant, as if i should use them for something that will be more meyer-lemon-centric, something that will let them really shine. after all, the reason that meyer lemons (purportedly a hybrid between lemons and oranges) have become the darling pet produce of the foodblog world is their bright tartness without all the bitter sharpness of lemons. lemon-y, but softened, sweetened.

enter the salt-preserved lemon. while it's completely fine to use plain jane lemons here, i used a 2:3 ratio of meyers to regular lemons. and as far as preserving goes, it could not be simpler: there is no cheesecloth, vacuum sealing, pectin, foam-skimming, water-packing, or boiling involved here. all you need is lemons, salt, a sterilized jar, and some patience.

and what do you do with preserved lemons? well. chop them up and stir them into a tabbouleh. or an herb salad. or a stuffing, with thyme and rosemary. throw a few slices under the skin or into the cavity of a chicken before you roast it. chop them and mix with greek yogurt and mint, to serve with a hummus and flatbread spread or alongside lamb. serve with a tagine, or throw them into a braising liquid during the last few minutes of cooking to add a hit of brightness to the final product. mix them into a cous cous with roasted squash. incorporate them into a gremolata or a fresh tomato salsa with lots of basil. mix them into indian-style lentils, or use them as a topping for many different indian dishes. they go great with fish. my mom used them as a topping for an outrageously comforting lablabi, which i'll definitely be sharing in the near future. they're a great punch for milder vegetables--i'd love to try them atop some fried cauliflower with tahini--and i'd be curious to see how they fare in sweeter applications...

moroccan salt-preserved lemons
makes however much you'd like

lemons: meyer, regular, or a mixture (i used a total of three to fill a 12 oz. jar. organic is recommended here, since you'll be eating the exterior)
salt (sea salt or kosher salt, not table salt)
spices, if you so choose (cloves, coriander seeds, peppercorns, cinnamon stick, bay leaf, etc.)

scrub the lemons with a vegetable brush and dry them off. slice your lemons lengthwise into 4-6 segments per lemon. place two tablespoons of salt at the bottom of your sterilised jar. pack the lemons into the jar, salting well after you add each slice--don't be skimpy, this is your preserving agent so use lots. add spices as you go, if you're using them. press the lemons as you add them--you're aiming to produce enough juice to cover all of your lemons. when you've added them all, press them down hard one final time, cover with a final layer of salt, and seal your jar.

let stand overnight at room temperature. the next day, open your jar and press the lemons down again. if they haven't produced enough juice to cover all the lemons, squeeze some more juice in from a fresh lemon until covered. turn the jar every few days, if you can remember.

after one month, when the lemons are soft, they're ready to use. store in the refrigerator from now on, where they'll be good for at least 6 months.

to use: remove lemons from the liquid and rinse to remove excess salt. scrape out the pulp, if you wish, though it's perfectly usable. slice the lemon peels into thin strips or cut into small dices. you may wish to press the pulp through a sieve to obtain the flavorful juice, which can be used for flavoring as well, then discard the innards.

rosemary gin fizzes

2012-01-04T22:07:00.003-05:00

ooh. hello. is it january already? is it 2012? is this truly the year in which i'm going to Graduate From College?

2011 has been a mixed bag. some of the best months of my life were last spring, living in new york, working a job that i adored at saveur, getting to see my family every day, meeting new people all the time, feeling liberated from school and suffocating social structures. summer was a blur, working an insane restaurant job, taking summer classes, riding my bike, being in a dreamy relationship during the in-between moments of quiet. fall got rough, unsurprisingly: bouts of depression, anxiety about impending adulthood and financial independence. thesis neurosis. max died. i ended a friendship with somebody very close to me.

but i have so much more, too. i have a house that truly feels like home, with five housemates who have somewhat unexpectedly become my favorite people in the world. elizabeth and i are starting to think seriously about our future apartment in new york. i finally feel as if i am coming into my own as a self-aware human being. i am itching to move back to the east coast, to the city in which i feel most like myself. there are so many amazing people that i love and that love me back. i have no definitive idea of what i'll do with the next few years of my life, but i'm overflowing excited. i can do anything, anything.

as finals week wound down and i came to the uncomfortable realization that i've written approximately 83 pages this semester, we at the fishbowl decided to host a dinner party. for appetizers, nick and cora made baguette toasts with melty brie and a killer apricot jam, and i made this onion, mustard and fennel tart, which stuck unrelentingly to the pan and had to be gruesomely butchered but was still delicious. david and santi roasted chickens and served them with a zingy ginger sauce, rice, and sautéed snap peas. dessert was alice waters's apple tart, dolloped with crème fraîche, which--no offense, alice--was kind of okay.

but--! there was a fire in our well-loved fireplace, thanks to our steroid-addicted former-reality-TV-star neighbor, who surprised us in the middle of the night with a mountain of firewood in our backyard. one of our new mouse-friends made a dramatic appearance, which resulted in a fruitless group scramble to trap him under all sorts of vessels--popcorn bowls, wine glasses, cardboard boxes, an empty cigarette carton--and a slight mashing to my beloved in-progress 1,000 piece puzzle, which will maybe look like this one day:

there may also have been some incidental fall-out damage to our gingerbread house, of which i won't post pictures for the sake of decency.

what stuck out for me, though, were these rosemary gin fizzes. think of them as gussied-up gin-and-tonics, with a flavor pairing that makes all too much sense given the piney herbaciousness of rosemary and gin's woodsy echo. an assertive, sparkling counterpoint to all the mulled, thickly spiced wine, dense eggnogs, and heady hot toddies that so mysteriously find their way into our mouths around this time of year. i still haven't gotten past my love for using rosemary in unexpected places--i.e. not as a fusty seasoning for chicken. i love it worked into a semifreddo or a nubbly olive oil cake just as much as on a savory-sweet fig and stilton tart. and i love it in cocktails.

you might make a double batch of the rosemary simple syrup--it'll keep in the fridge for a week, but i don't see why you couldn't flash freeze it in ice cube trays before throwing it all in a zip-loc bag.

this year will be good to us. my three Life Goals that i've had for far too long are to 1. have better posture, 2. stop talking shit, and 3. stop feeling guilty. but my additional resolutions for this year are to eat more bacon, graduate college, and make more ~~babies~~ (hi mom!) things that i'm proud of. which may or may not include cocktails.

cheers.

rosemary gin fizzes
adapted from food & wine
makes one cocktail, but very amenable to larger assembly-line style batches

1/4 cup gin
2 tbsp fresh lemon juice
1 tbsp rosemary syrup, recipe below
ice cubes
cold club soda
1 rosemary sprig and fresh red currants, for garnish (i skipped the currants)

in a tall glass, stir the gin, lemon juice and rosemary syrup. fill the glass halfway with ice; top with club soda. garnish with the rosemary and currants and serve.

note: to get the most juice out of your lemons, microwave the whole fruit at high power for about 20 seconds, then roll it on the counter while pressing firmly before cutting and squeezing (brilliant!).

rosemary syrup

makes about 2 cups

2 cups water
1/2 cup sugar
4 large rosemary sprigs, rinsed

combine all of the ingredients in a saucepan. bring to a boil, then simmer over moderately low heat for 2 minutes. remove from the heat and let steep for 10 minutes. strain the syrup and chill. the syrup can be prepared and chilled for up to 1 week.

broiled mushrooms with mozzarella & thyme

2011-12-08T18:44:00.002-05:00

finals season, and all i feel like doing is making things--things that are, weirdly enough, not my final papers. i have another "all i want for christmas" cover in the making. yesterday elizabeth and i made plaster molds of our boobs that we’re going to use to make glass paperweights. henry and i are going to collaborate on a frank ocean cover. i’m working on a music video project with drew for reed arts week—it’s going to be set to a lou christie song, with all the visual bodily grossness that i haven’t had an excuse to fit into my thesis. i’m also thinking about some of the music that i’m going to help with for bekah’s phantasmagoria show. the other weekend i made a series of jello installations for alex’s futurist carnival. elizabeth and i are planning on recreating a few gory crime scene photos. on saturday i’m going to work on a salsa techno dixie chicks cover (??) with paul. and all the cooking urges that i've been bottling up all semester because "i'm too busy" have finally burst forth in a fit of holiday spirit. maple walnut custard pie for thanksgiving, black sticky gingerbread, pumpkin pies, lentil stews, peppermint bark, triple ginger cookies, mujadarra, mug after mug of lemon ginger tea with cayenne. pomegranates, and plowing through crates of clementines at an alarming rate.

oh, and these mushrooms. a dreamy late-night meal, for the kinds of nights when you get home from the library at 2 am absolutely starving and confused and cannot bear to go to bed hungry. what you do is thinly slice up a handful of mushrooms, pinch off nibs of fresh mozzarella, scatter the whole mess over a platter with some oil and salt, and run it under the broiler until the mushrooms darken and get chewy and fragrant, until the cheese melts in pockets and blisters beautifully.

topped with a fresh herb of your choosing and a hit more of big, flaky salt, it's dead simple, comes together in minutes with a handful of ingredients, and can only be described as luxurious. what i cannot vouch for are its nutritional merits--good mozzarella should be unabashedly full-fat, and i'm still not even really sure what's going on with mushrooms (i mean really, are they good for you or what? what can mushrooms do for me?). but piled on top of a toasted hunk of crusty baguette and eaten with equally cranky housemates over a puzzle (you'll notice in the pictures; ~~the fishbowl has~~ i've been pretty hung-up on puzzles lately), it makes for a pretty dreamy, if nutritionally devoid, dinner.

broiled mushrooms with fresh mozzarella & thyme
adapted from jamie’s italy via orangette

this is one of those recipes where exact measurements are totally unnecessary, but when i made it the other day, i used roughly half of a large ball of mozzarella and six baby portabellos with a few criminis for good measure, and could easily have scarfed the whole thing on my own. wild mushrooms are great if they're in season, but just get the best that are available. forking over for truly fresh mozzarella is worth it, if it's an option, but i just used the least questionable that i could find at safeway and it worked fine.

fresh mushrooms, such as porcini, crimini, shiitake, or portobello
fresh mozzarella
olive oil
fresh thyme, leaves removed and stem discarded (i used the last gasp of my poor citrus basil plant, chiffonaded, and it was quite good)
sea salt

preheat the broiler.

clean the mushrooms with a pastry brush or damp paper towel, and then slice them thinly (ideally, aim for slices that are no thicker than ¼"). arrange them in a single layer on a large ovenproof platter. tear the mozzarella into coarse bits – each about the size of a nickel – and scatter them over the mushrooms. drizzle with olive oil. scatter the thyme leaves over the top (since i was using basil, i added it once the mushrooms were out of the oven), along with a good pinch or two of salt.

slide the platter under the broiler, and cook, checking frequently, for 3 to 4 minutes, or until the cheese is melted, bubbling and golden in spots. add more salt (i like sel gris here) if needed and serve immediately, with bread for mopping up the platter.

on grieving

2011-11-14T07:00:00.006-05:00

a few weeks ago i wrote an entry about autumn. it’s been a consistently hard season for me, often meaning relocation, a major relationship change, coping with social and academic pressure. a new house. trying to find a niche. feeling isolated. rain.
i deleted most of the entry before i ever posted it, deciding that it sounded ungracious and melodramatic, but the truth is, it’s more relevant than ever now. if you were to dig back in my blog archives, you would find entries from 2008 and 2009 littered with references to max—taking dumb pictures of himself while i was cooking, bickering over who had to do the dishes, devouring whole loaves of homemade bread in an hour, making pizza, sharing valentine’s day dinners, being a generally appreciative stomach/audience.

max and i dated for the two years that i went to school in indiana. i don’t know if i believe in love at first sight, but the second i met him, i very clearly remember thinking, “i want that one.” i remember: what both of us were wearing that day, everything he said to me, going back to my dorm and instant messaging a picture of him to all of my friends from home, brain buzzing at the headiness of this new crush. at the time i thought he was aloof, quietly funny, gorgeous, a way-too-cool-for-me upperclassman-and-how-would-i-ever-get-him-to-like-me-especially-when-he-has-so-many-cooler-older-post-punk-loving-chick-friends kind of guy. within a few weeks of knowing him, i figured out that most of those first impressions were premature: he was side-splittingly funny, terrifically bizarre, down-to-earth, charmingly awkward, and just as unsure of what he was doing as i was. gorgeous, yes. too cool, certainly not.

we quickly bonded over mutual loves for music, late night snacks, cheap wine, and watching the most disturbing movies we could get ahold of. we spent as much time as possible together for the next two years, only separating for a few hours each day for classes. the truth is, i was never particularly happy in indiana, but i stayed because i wanted to be with max. it was teenage codependency at its finest, but we made each other spectacularly happy, blasting new order and giggling until the sun came up, driving from indiana to new mexico in his noisy, airless jetta, getting jobs shelving books at the library so we could sneak away from work to make out in the stacks. figuring out who we were, and figuring out how those two people could fit together.

i got more interested in cooking when i finally had my own house my sophomore year, and though i hated that he never wanted to cook with me, it quickly became something i could share with him, do for him. he gave me an excuse to prepare extravagant four course meals for no reason; he was someone for whom to make huge pots of slow-cooked french onion soup, someone to surprise with a pie after we had gone blackberry picking together.

it ended when i left to come to reed. we tried long distance for a few months, but it never felt right. it was a messy but necessary breakup, though at the time i still felt as if i could have stayed with him forever had we been in the same place.

it was hard, then, to see him a year later and feel almost appalled, as if i was talking to a stranger. that was a year ago, when i visited him in san francisco, and it was the last time i saw him alive. we had been in regular contact since i left, and he had told me on the phone that he wasn’t doing well, but i was still shocked to see just how much his mental condition had deteriorated. he was still bitter that i had left, and i was still angry that he couldn’t be more supportive of what was good for me. we fought for most of my visit, with occasional lucid moments in which i could recognize him for the person i had loved for two years; moments that made it all the harder to negotiate who he had become. we’d been angry with each other ever since, said all kinds of awful things, and became inextricably alienated from one another. that distance made it easy for me to write off our relationship as an accident, as young stupidity, but the truth is, now that i’ve exhumed all the bits and pieces that i have of him—pictures, videos, letters, emails, text messages—i can’t help but acknowledge that before things got very bad, things were very, very good, and that, put in the same situation, i would do it all again in a heartbeat.

max ended his life a month ago. i never thought i’d be in indiana again, and going back was hard—i was never there without him; our relationship was structured around it, so for me bloomington is still spring-loaded everywhere with memories of him. i had always assumed we would be friends again one day, when he was better. i’m not a particularly forgiving person, but one thing that growing up has taught me is that it’s easy to hold grudges for so long that you’ve forgotten why you have them in the first place. i know that in coping with death, there’s no room for regrets, but i truly wish i had made peace with him. it’s difficult not to feel stuck with all this residual anger and not know what to do with it. harder still has been witnessing his family’s pain. it’s been helpful to remember what was good, before things fell apart--

driving back from concerts in chicago late at night, feet out the window, looking up at indiana stars. hungover trips to waffle house on sunday mornings. getting our faces melted off seeing my bloody valentine live. setting my alarm early so i could have cinnamon buns ready when he woke up. napping in central park. polaroids, birthday cake, stealing each others’ clothes, big mugs of tea, days at the lake, ritual goodwill-hopping, sledding on plastic cafeteria trays, cutting his hair, sharing apples and watching twin peaks in bed.

it’s strange that i should be coming to terms with him now, finally understanding just how much he constitutes what i am—my sense of humor, my aesthetics, my mannerisms. i’m writing my thesis about our mutual favorite cronenberg movie. it’s strange, to spend so much time with someone that you start to lose track of the boundaries of your own identity. the truth is, things return to some semblance of normalcy. life goes on. grief softens. but our overlap—i’ve been thinking of it as a consolation prize of sorts, a souvenir of a deeply formative experience. it’s the best i could ask for. i hope he wouldn’t mind my holding on to that.

this is a recipe for something i’ve been eating a lot recently, comfort food for colder nights. it comes to us from the joy of cooking via the illustrious molly, and is excellent seasonal transition food: warm and soothing, but neither heavy nor bland. i like it served with a hunk of bread, a fried egg (or two) and lots of flaky salt.

also note that if you have a food processor with a grating attachment, now is the time to use it: my kitchenaid made seconds’ work of the cabbage, apple, and onion.

braised red cabbage with apples and caraway
adapted from the all new joy of cooking
serves 4-5

2 tbsp olive oil
3 tbsp finely chopped red onion
1 small head red cabbage (about 2 lbs), quartered, cored, and very thinly sliced
1 large granny smith apple, peeled, cored, and coarsely grated
4-5 tbsp apple cider vinegar
3 tbsp honey (swap in agave for vegans)
1 tsp salt
½ tsp caraway seeds
½ tsp yellow mustard seeds
½ tsp fennel seeds
for serving (optional): big flake salt, fried eggs, and/or bread

heat oil in a large, nonreactive skillet or dutch oven over medium-low heat. add onions and cook until translucent and slightly golden. add cabbage, apple, vinegar, honey, salt, and seeds; then cover pan and cook over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until the cabbage is very soft but not falling apart, about an hour. taste and adjust for seasoning, vinegar, honey. serve warm, with good salt for passing at the table.

first uncommons dinner

2011-10-05T15:49:00.014-04:00

/uncommons/ vegan dinner menu
1 october 2011

beet juice, tomato juice, gin
homemade almond milk, root beer liqueur

cauliflower chip, mushroom pâté, slivered fennel
purple cabbage gazpacho, grated apple, creamy horseradish
savory fried mochi, chive oil, bean sprout & microgreens salad
cucumber sandwich, avocado, dill, lemon, homemade wonderbread

kombu broth, kabocha, pumpkin roe, toasted nori, green onion
teff injera blini, ajvar, eggplant caviar
collard green pouches, black eyed peas, bbq sauce, homemade fritos

jicama, lemon pickled daikon, ginger

mushroom & mustard green ravioli wontons, onion & walnut purée
fried heirloom tomatoes, corn sauce, lemon, arugula
sage wheatberry risotto, olive-oil poached cherry tomatoes, chive oil

tomato sorbet, cucumber

pandan black sesame bao, homemade plum jam
carrot coconut cardamom ice cream, pistachio

pasta with beet greens, lemon, and anchovy

2011-09-24T18:32:00.003-04:00

fall is a weird season.

for me, in the past few years, it's often meant a relationship change, a move, school starting, the beginning of the god-awful social parade. library isolation. eating at the scrounge. strange weather. dietary changes. rain.

comfort food is important at this time of year. i've got borscht on the brain. simone made popovers this morning, towering crowns with layers of warm eggy interior. we slathered them in butter and maldon salt, alternating mouthfuls with cherry preserves. i've also been eating a lot of burritos, from sellwood's cha cha cha, el nutritaco and los gorditos. ross and i made about twenty jars of golden plum jam with the plums we picked from the enormous gnarled tree in his backyard.

i wanted to share an unassuming meal we made. i've realized that i have the tendency to forget to tell you about the meals that are thrown together without foresight, the dinners that don't come from a big-name source or any recipe at all, really. the ones that aren't particularly creative, but do exactly what they need to do: feed you, taste good.

it comes together quickly, even if you're distracted writing a thesis proposal or freaking out about a potential mouse problem your house may or may not have. you cook down some yellow onion with a can of anchovies till the onion slumps and mellows, the anchovies surrender their fishy brine and melt into the background, leaving only a salty-rich umami something that slicks every noodle. one that pairs exceptionally well with a lemony twang. rather than throw out the beet greens i had leftover from pickling with beets, i stirred them into this pasta for some pretense of greenery. eaten over whole wheat rotini with flaky salt and crushed red pepper, topped with a cloud of parmesan, it made for a warming, grounding kind of dinner. autumn or otherwise.

rotini with beet greens, lemon, & anchovy
serves 3

approx. 12 oz of whole wheat rotini or fusili, or the pasta of your choice
1 large yellow onion, cut into 1" strips
olive oil for frying
2 oz anchovy fillets in olive oil (do not drain)
1 cup beet greens (or other quick-cooking green), well-washed and torn into bite-sized pieces
2 tsp minced fresh basil
1 large lemon, zested and juiced, plus extra lemon wedges for serving
freshly grated parmesan, for serving
flaky salt and crushed red pepper flakes, for serving

bring a large, well-salted pot of water to a rolling boil.

meanwhile, heat a glug of olive oil over medium heat until it shimmers. cook onions in oil until they begin to soften. stir in anchovies and all of their oil and cook 5 minutes, stirring regularly, until onions go translucent and anchovies melt. add additional olive oil, if necessary. don't allow onions to caramelize properly, but they should be browning around the edges. remove from heat and stir in lemon zest.

when water is boiling, cook pasta according to package instructions. about thirty seconds before it's done, add beet greens. drain well. stir in onion and anchovy sauce, basil, lemon juice, and salt and red pepper to taste. note that some anchovies are very salty, so you may not need to add much. toss well, taste, and adjust seasoning as necessary. top liberally with parmesan and serve immediately with additional salt, red pepper, and lemon wedges.

beet pickled deviled eggs

2011-09-10T18:07:00.004-04:00

"write! and your self-seeking text will know itself better than flesh and blood, rising, insurrectionary dough kneading itself, with sonorous, perfumed ingredients, a lively combination of flying colors, leaves, and rivers plunging into the sea we feed...but look, our seas are what we make of them, full of fish or not, opaque or transparent, red or black, high or smooth, narrow or bankless; and we are ourselves sea, sand, coral, seaweed, beaches, tides, swimmers, children, waves...more or less wavily sea, earth, sky--what matter would rebuff us? we know how to speak them all."

--cixous, "the laugh of the medusa"

i find myself coming back to these words when i feel stagnant, blocked, or uninspired, especially since i think so much of what holds me back is fear of failure or insufficiency. when i need prodding towards productivity, i read cixous, although i like to think about it less as a call to women in the name of feminism and more as a call to more generalized humans in the name of knocking down walls, creative or otherwise. what's standing in my way right now? i was just reading the blog of an old friend who recently graduated, and found herself dizzied by all her options: "i can do anything anything"--

but really, when can we not do anything? as confined as i feel by school right now, i know so many people who are still producing and creating on their own time, because they can. and here i am tearing my hair out trying to decide if i should apply to grad school, what city i want to live in after i graduate. i don't even want to think about any of those things right now. when i graduate, i want to travel like crazy, read everything, get my yoga teaching certificate, write, get paid for it, and veg for a year before i think about grad school. rent here is cheap; the real world can wait.

i made these beet-pickled eggs to serve as bribery-snacks for students; incentive for them to vote for uncommons in the campus funding poll. i'm told they serve something very similar at grüner, and with good reason. their taste is as vibrant as their color, starting with a faint hit of perfumey spice and brine as you bite into their pickled rims. those immediately fade into mild egg white before you hit the center of yolky richness, laced with enough mustard and horseradish to allow for a delicate spray of nasal heat that is gone before you have time to swallow it. that was my real change to the recipe--upping the flavor interest of the filling, cutting out some of the mayo to make it less greasy and more clean tasting. oh, and they're beautiful, of course, with the egg whites soaking up enough beet juice to make a sunset gradient of color and flavor. deviled egg skeptics, beware.

beet pickled deviled eggs

liberally adapted from gilt taste

makes 24 deviled eggs

3 cups water
1 cup distilled white vinegar
1 small beet, peeled and sliced
1 small shallot, sliced
1 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon pickling spice*
12 hard-boiled large eggs, peeled (don't use very fresh eggs for this, as they'll be a nightmare to peel)
1/3 cup mayonnaise
3 tbsp grainy mustard
4 tbsp prepared horseradish
3 tbsp finely chopped chives

*i used 2 bay leaves, 1 cinnamon stick, 2 fat coins of fresh ginger, a tsp of peppercorns, a few cloves, and 1/2 tsp cardamom

bring the water, vinegar, beet, shallot, sugar, pickling spice, and 1/2 teaspoon salt to a boil in a small saucepan, then lower the liquid to a simmer, covered, until the beet is tender, about 20 minutes. cool the liquid completely, uncovered. put the beet mixture in a container with the eggs and marinate, chilled, gently stirring once or twice, at least 2 hours and up to 2 days. (the longer the time, the stronger the color and flavor will be, but also firmer the texture of the egg--it’s up to you.)

remove the eggs from the beet mixture and pat them dry. cut each egg in half lengthwise and remove the yolks. mash the yolks with the mayonnaise, mustard, horseradish, and half the chives. season the filling with salt and pepper, and taste, adding more mustard or horseradish or chives if necessary. divide mixture among the egg whites. top with the rest of the chives.

perfect blueberry pancakes

2011-09-08T03:57:00.004-04:00

we caught the last of the blueberries on sauvie island, right as august was winding up and everyone was having panicked, end-of-summer potlucks. i found myself with pounds and pounds of blueberries, which i had every intention of freezing half of for the winter--but they will never make it to the freezer. i love them on my cereal too much to save any for later.

i've also made, for the umpteenth time, an iteration of ina garten's lemon yogurt cake, this time with whole wheat pastry flour and a cup of fresh berries folded in. it came out outrageously moist, fragrant with lemon zest and streaked with pouches of berry juice. breakfast perfection with a dollop of greek yogurt.

and aside from folding them into a batch of frozen yogurt to be turned into berry yogurt popsicles, shoveling them in my mouth by the handful, and baking them into a peach pie, there seemed to be only one thing left to do with this great berry surplus.

it would be more than superfluous for me to wax poetic about blueberry pancakes, so let me remind you that pancake recipes are what martha stewart was born to perfect.

this one is no exception: perfectly crisp around the edges whilst still retaining a delicate fluff, lightly twangy with buttermilk and rich with butter, without--and this is the kicker, for me--being too sweet. i hate overly sweetened pancakes, because they completely deny you the pleasures of drowning your breakfast in syrup. and that, to me, begs the question if it's even worth it at all.

pancakes, previously: oatmeal pancakes, cornmeal pancakes and blackberry rhubarb compote, pumpkin pancakes, whole wheat pancakes with berry compote.

note: deb has kindly put together an excellent list of pancake tips over here. most important, i think, is to avoid over-mixing, and to avoid turning your heat up too high.

best buttermilk pancakes with blueberries
adapted from the martha stewart living cookbook

makes about 12 5" pancakes

2 cups all-purpose flour (or whole wheat pastry flour)
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp kosher salt, or slightly less table salt
3 tbsp sugar

2 large eggs, lightly beaten
3 cups buttermilk (or make your own)
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted, plus extra for frying
1 cup blueberries, fresh or frozen and thawed (i used almost two cups)

place a large, heavy, well-seasoned cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat. whisk together the dry ingredients in a medium bowl. add the eggs, buttermilk, and 4 tablespoons melted butter, and whisk to combine. the batter should have small to medium lumps--please don't overmix, for the love of god.

test the pan by sprinkling a few drops of water on it. if the water bounces and spatters, the griddle is hot enough. butter your pan well (you can use a pastry brush to lightly brush pan with melted butter, if you're feeling picky, but i like to go with a pretty liberal coating).

pour your batter into the largest liquid measuring cup you have (ideally with a spout). pour the batter in 1/2 cup pools 2 inches apart. arrange a handful of blueberries over the cooking pancake, pressing them in slightly. when the pancakes have bubbles on top and are slightly dry around the edges, about 2 1/2 minutes, flip over. if any batter oozes or blueberries roll out, push them back under with your spatula. cook until golden on bottom, about 1 minute.

repeat with the remaining batter, buttering skillet between batches. you can keep the finished pancakes on a heat-proof plate in the oven at 175°F. serve warm, with good syrup.

kimchee fried rice and a confession

2011-08-29T22:41:00.005-04:00

i would like to tell you what you should have for dinner tomorrow night. not tonight, because it involves fried rice, and since one of the cornerstones of fried rice theory is that it must be done with day old rice*, this polite suggestion affords you a few more hours of daylight with which to cook up a batch of white rice to have ready for tomorrow night, should you not have one on hand already.

*this is because freshly cooked rice is too soft and wet; it won't fry up to crispy perfection the way slightly drier, day-old rice will.

so: this fried rice. it's dotted with kimchee, that most polarizing of fermented foods--one which i happen to love. recently ross has gotten in the happy habit of making a brunchy concoction he refers to as "kimchee meal," typically consisting of steamed white rice with a pile of kimchee and a fried egg. yesterday, though, we took things to the next level. it's not just that the rice itself is fried, it's what it's fried in that makes all the difference. and that frying substance? it's bacon.

which is where the confession part comes in. this summer, when i started my restaurant job, my first day of work was borderline traumatic in several ways. in addition to several minor injuries, i also deliberately ate meat for the first time in 8+ years. my boss, whom i sensed had taken an immediate dislike to me, clearly thought that i was an ignorant liberal arts college brat who didn't know how to cook (all very fair and reasonable assumptions, in the grand scheme of things). when he foisted a large chunk of pastrami upon me "for lunch," i suddenly realized that my decision to not eat meat would not only make it very difficult to eat anything in this environment, but it would also make me an object of scorn to all of my coworkers, save the vegan dishwasher, a mercilessly mocked martyr.

and so, caught off guard, rather than fess up to my meatlessness, i ate the pastrami. only later did i realize that after that moment there was no turning back--i couldn't go back and admit to being a vegetarian without appearing spineless or a liar. i was a newly born carnivore, at least for the next 10 weeks.

now that my summer of sin is over, though, i'm reverting back to pescetarianism. i have no regrets; it's been a delicious couple of months--but now that school's starting i will no longer have the time or money to eat meat ethically. this fried rice was the last meaty meal i prepared; all the more reason i feel compelled to share it.

so: you fry some bacon, just long enough for it to release all of its fatty splendor, and then you use that fat as a base for your fried rice, throwing in a generous mound of kimchee along the way. i skipped the sesame seeds and scallions and used pickled ginger as a garnish instead, but only because it's what i had on hand. either way will be delicious.

molly's note: if you have a well-seasoned wok, use it. or, if you’re stuck with just a heavy skillet and an electric range, as i am, that’s okay. i use my largest cast-iron pan. it’s nicely seasoned, but the rice still sticks a bit. it’s annoying, but not annoying enough to keep me from making fried rice. (just put some hot water in the pan when you’re finished, soak briefly, and the stuck rice will come right out.) one word of warning: i wouldn’t use a nonstick pan. the coating isn’t safe for use over high heat.

kimchee fried rice
adapted from orangette
serves 2 very hungry or 3 more reasonable people

4 strips bacon, cut crosswise into ½" pieces
2 cups napa cabbage kimchee, diced (i used about 2½ cups)
4 cups cooked white rice (use an asian style short or medium grain)
1 tbsp unsalted butter, plus more for frying eggs
2 tsp sesame oil
salt
sesame seeds, for garnish
sliced scallions or sweet spring onions, for garnish
eggs, for frying (i vote two per person)

put the bacon in a large skillet or wok, and place over medium heat. (i find that by starting the bacon in a cold skillet, i can get it to render more fat than it does when i start it in a hot skillet, and that’s helpful for this recipe.) cook, stirring occasionally, until the bacon is cooked through but still tender. add the kimchee, and cook for several minutes, until the kimchee is hot and maybe even beginning to brown in spots.

when the kimchee looks right, raise the heat to high, and add the rice, stirring well. cook, stirring occasionally, for several minutes, until the rice is hot and beginning to brown. (if the rice is wanting to stick to the pan, it’s going to be hard to brown it properly, but don’t worry. just make sure it’s nice and hot. it’ll still taste very good.)

meanwhile, in another skillet, warm some butter (i used olive oil) and fry as many eggs as you’d like, seasoning with salt to taste.

when the rice is ready, stir in the butter and sesame oil, and season with salt to taste. divide between two or three bowls, and top each with a fried egg or two. garnish with sesame seeds and scallions (or pickled ginger; see note above).

fennel ice cream

2011-08-25T22:06:00.007-04:00

in an effort to avoid acknowledging that my fifth and final year of college is about to start (oh, god, why), i've been visiting as many rivers, beaches, and islands as possible in the past few weeks. fittingly so, as the past few days have been the hottest portland has seen all summer.

which means, that in addition to the obscene amount of food i've ingested recently*, i've also wanted to eat even more ice cream than normal. as if mike's drive-in having a 99¢ soft-serve cone wasn't bad enough, i also was the happy recipient of an ice cream machine for my birthday (!!) and have just barely scraped the tip of the ice cream iceberg (icecreamberg?). there are so many options.

and while it was a hard choice (saffron, hazelnut, buttermilk, black pepper, olive oil, ricotta, basil, stout, gingersnap, toast...??), my maiden voyage was fennel ice cream--made with the seeds of the plant, rather than the bulb. and what a batch it was--i plan on using this recipe as an ice cream base for future experimentation. it's outlandishly silky, rich without feeling heavy on the tongue, and with a delicately rounded anise taste that is neither aggressive nor overly herbacious. it's still noticeably perfumed with fennel, but the flavor is softened in hot cream, smoothed and swaddled in an eggy custard base.

it's ideal for summer, because it asks to be paired with late summer fruits--berries or stone fruits or maybe a compote of sorts--but i imagine that it would also work beautifully at the end of a winter meal, maybe as a cool afterthought to a spicy curry. maybe scooped on top of something chocolatey. maybe i won't start school on monday and will instead spend the semester churning out ice cream.

*my parents visited me for the first time since i've been in portland, and in addition to driving around the oregon coast and gorging ourselves on seafood (see above), we also did a pretty serious portland restaurant sweep: clyde common, the laurelhurst market, broder, deschutes, evoe, etc. detox starts as soon as i can stop thinking about ice cream.

fennel ice cream
adapted from a holly smith recipe for gourmet

yields about 1 quart

1 2/3 cup heavy cream
2 tsp fennel seeds (i used slightly more), crushed (use a mortar and pestle if you have one)
1 cup whole milk
¾ cup sugar, divided
pinch of salt
4 large egg yolks

combine the cream and fennel seeds in a small heavy saucepan, and bring just to a simmer. remove from the heat, cover, and let steep for about 30 minutes. meanwhile, prepare an ice bath.

combine the milk, ½ cup sugar, and a pinch of salt in a medium heavy saucepan, and bring just to a simmer, stirring to dissolve the sugar.

in a large bowl, whisk together the egg yolks and the remaining ¼ cup sugar. add the hot milk mixture in a slow stream, whisking constantly. return the mixture to the medium saucepan and cook, stirring with a wooden spoon, until the mixture coats the back of the spoon and registers 175°F on an instant-read thermometer. (do not allow it to boil.) immediately strain through a fine-mesh sieve into a metal bowl. cool in the ice bath, stirring occasionally.

when the custard is cool, strain the fennel cream through a fine-mesh sieve into the custard, pressing on the solids. continue to chill in the ice bath until the custard is very cold. (alternatively, cover the mixture, and chill it in the refrigerator overnight.) freeze in an ice cream maker. transfer to an airtight container, and put in the freezer to harden, about 1 hour.

peach tarte tatin

2011-08-17T01:47:00.002-04:00

in case anyone was wondering, i am still attempting to do one thing every day that scares me. some days this just means biking over a busy bridge; others, it's standing up for myself to a friend, or even--heaven forbid!--uprooting massive slimy hair conglomerates out of the shower drain.

tarte tatin, though, is a whole other matter. alongside bread (which is just a matter of practice and bread-empathy), risotto (a phobia i'm completely mystified by--it's just a lot of stirring), and deep-frying (completely understandable; enormous vats of spattering, boiling oil), tarte tatin seems to be one of the most canonical cooking fears. this is also completely legitimized--you make a caramel, which is in itself a source of anxiety, since there are only a few seconds between a perfect golden brown and a burnt, smoking, sugar-brick--and then you have to cook fruit in it, keeping them in a somewhat pretty arrangement, quickly and carefully throw a disc of dough over the whole thing, bake it, and then--oh god--turn your boiling lava hot pan out onto a plate without spilling liquid molten sugar on yourself.

but! if there's anyone able to inspire confidence in the most timid bakers, it is dorie greenspan, she of that most motherly reassurance. she promises that "it's a forgiving recipe, emerging from the oven with its prettily placed apples glazed with caramel and perched on a golden pastry ring," that "you'll figure it out as you go along," and that "you can fuss and figure out a pattern, but somehow, no matter what you do, this tarte always looks beautiful."

and so, overflowing with stone fruits as we are, i decided to take my first whack at it with peaches instead of the ubiquitous apples. at clyde common, we served a similar dessert drizzled with a balsamic vinegar reduction and a scoop of vanilla ice cream. for this one, i sprinkled some chopped fresh thyme in between the fruit and pastry layers. both of these are optional--i could also see basil being a bomb addition. be forewarned that this is not a light summer dessert by any means: it's intensely buttery, rich, and sweet, but also very impressive and rewarding. happy fear conquering!

peach tarte tatin with thyme
adapted from dorie greenspan's recipe
serves 8

for tart dough:

1 1/2 c. all-purpose flour
scant 1/2 c. confectioners' sugar
1/4 tsp salt
1 stick plus 1 tbsp (9 tbsp) very cold (or frozen) unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
1 large egg yolk

for tart filling:

1 stick (8 tbsp) unsalted butter
3/4 cup sugar
about 8 ripe but still firm peaches, peeled, pitted, and quartered
1 tsp chopped fresh thyme (optional)

make the pastry: put the flour, confectioners' sugar and salt in a food processor and pulse a couple of times to combine (or whisk by hand in a large mixing bowl). scatter the pieces of butter over the dry ingredients and pulse until the butter is coarsely cut in — you should have some pieces the size of oatmeal flakes and some the size of peas (or cut in with two knives or a handheld pastry blender). stir the yolk, just to break it up, and add it a little at a time, pulsing (or mixing by hand) after each addition. when the egg is in, process in long pulses — about 10 seconds each — until the dough, which will look granular soon after the egg is added, forms clumps and curds (this can also be done by hand). just before you reach this stage, the sound of the machine working the dough will change — heads up. turn the dough out onto a work surface and, very lightly and sparingly, knead the dough just to incorporate any dry ingredients that might have escaped mixing. press dough into a disc and refrigerate for at least an hour, wrapped in plastic wrap, until ready to use.

center a rack in the oven and preheat the oven to 375°F. choose a 9 or 10" ovenproof skillet (cast iron works well). line a baking sheet with parchment or a silicone mat. you'll also need a large, rimmed serving plate for the tart.

working on a lightly floured surface, roll the dough out until it is about 1/8" thick (it can be thicker, if you'd like). using a paring knife, cut the dough into a circle that is 1" larger than the diameter of the pan you're using. prick the dough all over with the tines of a fork and transfer it to the baking sheet. cover the dough and refrigerate it while you work on the fruit.

put the skillet over medium heat and add the butter. when it melts, tilt the pan so that the sides have a thin coating of melted butter (or do this with a pastry brush). sprinkle the sugar over the butter. cook over medium heat until the sugar turns a deep caramel color. to get the color you want without burning the sugar, you may have to lower the heat after a while. transfer the skillet to the baking sheet.

fit a layer of peaches into the caramel, putting the peaches into the pan rounded side down and making concentric circles. what's important here is to pack in the fruit — because it shrinks as it cooks, you want to make sure they are snug in the pan. when you've got a tight single layer, cut the remaining peach quarters in half and strew them over the first layer. (you might have to cut more peaches to get a fairly even layer here, or you might have peach quarters left over.) don't worry about making this layer beautiful — no one will see it, but it will give the finished tart a little height. sprinkle fruit with thyme, if using.

remove the pastry from the fridge and center it over the fruit, loosely tucking in any overhang (it's okay if you have a double layer of dough around the edges), or not — the oven's heat will shrink the pastry to size.

bake for 30 to 40 minutes, or until the pastry is baked through. remove from oven and cover the skillet with the large, rimmed serving plate and, acting quickly and confidently (and making sure you're wearing good oven mitts), turn the tart out onto the platter and remove the pan. if any of the fruit has stuck to the pan, gently lift it off the pan with a spatula and press it gently back onto the tart. let cool for at least 10 minutes before serving, but definitely serve within the hour, with ice cream or unsweetened crème fraîche.

asparagus salad with dates, pecorino & walnuts

2011-08-13T19:50:00.003-04:00

i write this from a dimly lit basement, from whence i am about to embark on movie #5 of a weekend horror marathon that i have lovingly dubbed "splatterfest." i picked a good weekend--real school hasn't started yet, it's cool and overcast out, and we happen to have a very expensive projector in our possession for a few days.

the lineup is as follows:

FRIDAY

tod browning's dracula (1931)
wes craven's the last house on the left (1972)

SATURDAY

richard donner's the omen (1976)
victor fleming's dr. jekyll & mr hyde (1941)
dario argento's phenomena, or creepers (1985)
tony scott's the hunger (1983)
f.w. mirnau's nosferatu (1922)

SUNDAY

wes craven's the hills have eyes (1977)
jesús franco's justine (1969)
larry cohen's god told me to (1976)
ingmar bergman's cries and whispers (1972)
herschell gordon lewis's the wizard of gore (1970)

the impetus for such a prolonged period of self-imposed confinement (with lots of visitors and snacks, thankfully) is that as i start to get serious about writing my thesis in the fall, i've been thinking more and more about a critical theory film thesis. all the horror theory i've been reading brings me back over and over to issues of the body; body alterations and mutations and limitations. the above list is mostly films that keep coming up in my readings, films that i either haven't seen in years or haven't seen at all--and so i've decided to kill twelve (shrieking, sanguinary) birds with one stone and watch them all in one go.

in other news, i've finished my stage at clyde common and am slowly remembering how to cook for myself again. it was a tremendous learning experience (my fingertips are still peeling from all of the burns) and i'm proud to have done it--but i can't understand how line cooks manage to do what they do indefinitely. i have a newly found respect for the people i worked with, as i'm sure line cooks are some of the hardest working people in the world, but now i'm more certain than ever that i have no place in the restaurant industry.

in slowly coming down from the high-speed mode of restaurant cooking, i've been appreciating being able to take my time all the more. being able to afford making mistakes, having the time to correct them, experimenting with no regard for the consequences.

this is a salad that i've been making a lot this summer, one which is blissfully simple to throw together but still a joy to assemble. ross and i ate it the other night as the backbone of a meal, alongside a few cubes of pan-fried tofu, and it did quite nicely. you could also serve it alongside any protein of choice, especially a grilled one. the salad is nutty, crisp, sweet, sharp, and complex, and would be just as happy on a brunch table as on a dinner one.

oh, and a nice trick for removing the tough, woody ends from asparagus--rather than cutting them, which sometimes makes it difficult to figure out where the toughness ends, you can snap them with your hands, aiming to snap off roughly the lower third of the stalk, and it will naturally break right where the woodiness stops.
asparagus salad with walnuts, dates, & pecorino
adapted from food + wine
serves 4 as a side

1 1/4 cups walnuts
1 small shallot, minced
2 tbsp fresh lemon juice
3-4 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
2 lbs asparagus, chopped into 2" segments and blanched for 2 minutes in salted, boiling water
3/4 cup pitted dates, coarsely chopped
3 oz dry pecorino cheese, shaved with a vegetable peeler or grated finely

toast walnuts in a dry, heavy skillet over medium heat, stirring regularly, until nuts are slightly darkened and fragrant. watch carefully as these can burn in seconds.

in a small bowl, make the dressing: combine the shallot with the lemon juice. slowly whisk in 3 tbsp oil and season with salt and pepper. taste and adjust for seasonings, adding additional tbsp of oil if necesary.

in a large bowl, toss the toasted walnuts, asparagus, dates, and most of the pecorino, reserving a handful. add 2/3 of the dressing and toss. taste and adjust for seasonings, adding remaining dressing if necessary. serve immediately.

coconut creamed corn with ginger

2011-07-29T01:53:00.000-04:00

if you're on the east coast and are still dripping through the 90°+ weather, you should stop reading immediately and go make yourself some watermelon caprese, or maybe a cherry basil muddler (try it with gin!). when i can't even muster up the energy to chop anything, i find myself plowing through so many cherries that i am forever leaving a hansel-and-gretelesque trail of cherry pits in my wake. must coerce somebody into taking me cherry picking ASAP so i can stop forking over $4 a pound to feed my ravenous habit.

but--! if you aren't in new england or somewhere equally swampy, if you can stand to turn on your stove for a few minutes, you should consider having this for dinner tonight, maybe alongside some thai-style catfish or a roast chicken and a tomato-heavy salad. peach pie for dessert. track down good, very fresh corn, the kind you would be happy to eat raw off the cob. this ain't yo grandma's bland, watery creamed corn. you're welcome.

coconut creamed corn with ginger
modified from betty fussell (am i the only one who didn't realize she was married to paul fussell?)'s recipe for the new york times
serves 5 as a side

5 or 6 ears fresh sweet corn (to make 3 -4 cups kernels)
1 tsp olive oil
1/2 tsp toasted cumin seeds
1/2 tsp ground coriander
1/2 cup diced onion
2 tbsp grated fresh ginger
2 cups unsweetened coconut milk (i used maybe 2.5)
salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
cayenne pepper
limes, for serving (optional)

husk the corn and remove the silk. stand each ear upright in a wide, shallow bowl, and cut the kernels off with a sharp knife. with the back of the knife, scrape the cob down well to press out the milk. set aside.

rub the bottom of a saute pan with the oil, and place over medium heat. add the cumin, coriander, and onion, and saute until the onion is translucent, 2 to 3 minutes. add corn kernels with their milk, the ginger and the coconut milk. season to taste with salt, pepper and cayenne. heat until simmering, mix well, and taste again for seasoning. serve hot, with lime wedges for squeezing at the table if you like.

clyde common's tomato jam

2011-07-07T19:21:00.002-04:00

oof, what a time it's been.

between work, classes, and way too many projects, i haven't had much time to breathe, let alone write. most nights i get home from work after 11, with barely enough energy to brush my teeth. yet somehow, in between bouts of exhaustion, there has been strawberry picking, exceptional brunches (tasty and sons, screen door, arleta library), a hike at forest park, fireworks set off in illicit fashions, grilled oysters, bike rides, a birthday party, no-knead bread, trips to the farmers market, a john maus concert, dim sum, a museum visit, picnics, horrendous karaoke, stone fruit galettes, grilled peaches, and a particularly bizarre trip to a nude beach along the river.
on my own time i've stumbled my way through a biology final, painted my bedroom, painted the stairwell, de-molded the bathroom, deep-cleaned the living room, defrosted the freezer, planted flowers, pickled grapes, made some recordings, unclogged the shower drain (with my bare hands!), chased spiders out of the corners, and have finally started to feel at home. right now there's a loaf of ginger chocolate banana bread in the oven, taunting the house with its gentle, rounded smell. at work i've baked rye bread, pickled every imaginable fruit and vegetable, shaped hundreds of burgers, cleaned squid, smoked hams, made harissa, brined trout and pastrami, picked parsley, made stews, puréed beans, blended pestos, peeled favas, jointed chickens, floreted mountains of broccoli, and plated too many desserts. i've noticed calluses forming on my right hand from where i hold my knife. i feel oddly proud of them.

oh, and it was also at work that i found this jam recipe. it's a tomato jam, with some apricot blended in so that it just toes the line between sweet and savory. i once read that sun dried tomatoes are to fresh tomatoes what espresso is to coffee, and this jam certainly makes use of sun dried tomatoes' deep richness. stirred in are more of my favorite flavors than i know what to do with: vinegars, mustard seed, fennel seed, honey, red onion. it pops with tart brightness but has a more lingering complexity from the spices.

at clyde common it's served alongside burgers, and i see no reason why it couldn't be paired with other meats--sausage and chicken cutlets come to mind. me, though--when i'm not eating it by the spoonful, i've been having it on toast or putting it on cheese plates, along side fresh fruit and toasted bread. it would be a welcome addition to many different sandwiches, and to be honest, i've been eating it on vanilla ice cream (is this weird?).

bring a jar on a picnic and eat it on baguette alongside coldcuts and burrata. or purée it completely smooth and try it as a kicked up ketchup substitute. happy summering.

clyde common's tomato jam
makes five 8oz. jars

1 medium red onion, julienned
1 tbsp fennel seed
1/8 cup yellow mustard seed
1 small bunch fresh oregano, picked and chopped
3 cups sun dried tomatoes, roughly chopped*
2 cups dried apricots
1 cup balsamic vinegar
1/2 cup red wine vinegar
2 cups water
1/2 cup honey
1/4 cup sugar
salt and olive oil

*if you have a surplus of fresh tomatoes, you should totally sun dry your own--they'll be better and cheaper than store bought.

sweat onions in olive oil over medium heat until softened and slightly brown. season well with salt, then add mustard and fennel seeds and cook a bit to infuse the onion with their flavor. add dried fruits, vinegars, water, and honey, but not sugar, and combine well. bring to a boil then simmer, covered, for an hour, stirring often. stir in oregano, cook two more minutes, and taste. add sugar and/or salt, if necessary.

now you have some options: the original recipe purées the entire pot of jam until smooth. i puréed half of mine to leave some chunks and texture. you could do either or you could leave it completely chunky.

jar up your jam to be eaten immediately, freeze some, or process jars for long-term preserving.

oatmeal pancakes

2011-06-18T23:43:00.001-04:00

this morning we made our first farmer's market visit of the season, and though it's still a bit of a circus, the market remains one of my favorite places in portland--even on cool, drizzly days. we loaded up on asparagus, strawberries, basil, fennel, artichokes, cheese; i've got big plans for fresh strawberry tarts, ginger basil gimlets, artichoke salads with candied lemon. right now, summer feels like enjoying every second of every bike ride, and a sudden fierce craving to have a beer with dinner every night.

this week i got to attend two days of cooking classes with the illustrious robert reynolds. aside from being a terrific teacher, robert is a marvelous human being--but the classes also served as a reminder of how important it is to be able to cook simply. fittingly, for the past few months i've been finding myself reaching for well-loved, straightforward recipes, the kinds of things that my hands know how to make without having to consult instructions. roasted shrimp with broccoli, coconut ginger granola, parmesan crusted tofu, carrot and jicama salad, ginger plum galette. the kinds of recipes you keep close to your heart.

these pancakes are destined to become one of those well-worn recipes. i know because i've made them three times in the past month alone. they come to us from whole-grain wizard kim boyce, she of my favorite rosemary olive oil cake and sweet potato date muffins. you whirr some oats in a food processor (or a blender, if times are desperate) to make your own oat flour (i believe bob's red mill makes this also, if you're looking for it in a grocery store). alongside a cup of cooked oatmeal, oat flour forms the backbone to a thick, barely sweetened pancake batter. but it fries up to so much more than the sum of its parts: startlingly crispy around the edges but meltingly tender in the middle, nibbly with oats and their low, earthy sweetness.

they're ideal for a lazy saturday morning, but if you'd like to expedite it, grind up bigger batches of oat flour to have on hand at a moment's notice and keep a pot of cooked oatmeal in the fridge. also note that although the batter is best if using immediately, it can sit for up to 1 hour on the counter or overnight in the refrigerator. when you return to the batter, it will be very thick and should be thinned, one tablespoon at a time, with milk. take care not to overmix.

oatmeal pancakes
adapted from good to the grain via smitten kitchen
makes about 18 pancakes

3/4 cup oat flour (you can make this by pulsing rolled oats into a food processor or spice grinder until finely ground; 1 cup of oats yielded 3/4 cup oat flour for me)
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 tbsp sugar
2 tsp baking powder
3/4 tsp kosher or coarse salt
3 tbsp unsalted butter, melted and cooled slightly (plus extra for the pan)
1 1/4 cups whole milk
1 cup cooked oatmeal*
1 tbsp unsulphured (not blackstrap) molasses or 1 tbsp honey
2 large eggs

whisk the dry ingredients (oat flour, flour, sugar, baking powder and salt) together in a large bowl. in a smaller bowl, whisk the butter, milk, cooked oatmeal, honey and eggs together until thoroughly combined. gently fold the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients. using a light hand is important for tender pancakes; the batter should be slightly thick with a holey surface.

heat a 10" cast-iron or non-stick pan or griddle over medium heat until water sizzles when splashed onto the pan. rub the pan generously with butter; boyce says this is the key to crisp, buttery edges. working quickly, dollop 1/4-cup mounds of batter onto the pan, 2 or 3 at a time. once bubbles have begun to form on the top side of the pancake, flip the pancake and cook until the bottom is dark golden-brown, about 5 minutes total. wipe the pan with a cloth before griddling the next pancake. continue with the rest of the batter. serve the pancakes hot, straight from the skillet or keep them warm in a low oven. i liked them best with nothing but good maple syrup, to let the oats really do their oat thing, but a slap of butter or some fresh strawberries are never a bad idea.

*make oatmeal, if you don’t have any leftover: bring 2 cups of water, 1 cup of rolled oats and a big pinch of salt to a boil and simmer on low for 5 minutes. let cool. you’ll have some extra oatmeal, which you can eat while you’re cooking.

gỏi cuốn (summer rolls) with peanut sauce

2011-06-14T21:05:00.001-04:00

when i mentioned some finger mutilation the other day, i wasn't kidding. ignore the accidental-but-still-appropriate west-coast gang sign.

last week i started a kitchen internship at clyde common. i've all but managed a restaurant before, but it was a tiny café with twenty five seats and a menu that hadn't changed in years. clyde common is an entirely different playing field, one in which i am reminded every day of just how much i don't know.

in fact, my first day there left me so traumatized that i somehow found myself wandering around the pearl district and, lo and behold, inside sur la table, from whence i walked out shortly thereafter having spent an exorbitant amount of money on one of these babies. far and away the most expensive thing i've bought for myself in years, but better to impulsively buy a beautiful tool that i'll use for the rest of my life than to, say, channel my insecurities into drug purchases. after all, for every pretentious, heavily tattooed portland food snob, there is a twitching portland meth head endlessly riding the bus. (portland!)

my knives and i, we've been getting increasingly intimate these past few weeks. i'm happy to say that my scarred fingertips have nothing to do with the knives but instead involved a nasty accident with a very dull mandoline and a 25 lb. box of red onions. i've been learning so much that it's made my head spin, and i'm thrilled about it--and the job in general. and while i admit that i have an overwhelming amount of progress left to make (as my boss reminds me multiple times daily), look at this julienne (!):

the other night, to bid chloe farewell before she left for nerd camp, ross and i made gỏi cuốn; something that i used to obsess over with two of my best high school friends. as delicious as mint, basil, and spicy peanut sauce are, for me summer rolls are less about taste than texture: all crisp and crunch and cool, with a pleasing gummy chewiness from the rice paper. if rice noodles and paper are readily available to you, these are a breeze to throw together: even moreso if you're looking for some intensive chopping practice.

gỏi cuốn with peanut dipping sauce
adapted from the kitchn
makes 8 rolls or more
for sauce:

2 tbsp creamy organic or natural peanut butter
2 tbsp rice vinegar
2 tsp soy sauce
2 tsp sugar
1/2 tsp crushed red pepper flakes
juice from 1/2 a lime

for the rolls:

1 package cellophane noodles (also called bean threads), roughly 4 oz
1/2 tsp sesame oil
red pepper flakes
1 cucumber, peeled according to your liking
2 medium carrots, peeled
1 red bell pepper
2-3 medium radishes
2 scallions, chopped
several handfuls each fresh mint and basil
1 package rice paper wrappers

whisk together all ingredients for the sauce and set aside.

prepare the cellophane noodles according to the package directions. drain the noodles, put them in a bowl, and toss with the sesame oil and a dash of red pepper flakes.

use a mandoline or a sharp knife to slice the cucumber and carrot into thin strips. julienne the red pepper and the radishes. i like to use a wide platter with each filling ingredient (cucumber, carrot, red pepper, radish, scallion, noodles, mint, basil) in a separate pile so you can switch up the ratios and combinations of each roll depending on individual preferences.

prepare the rice paper according to package directions. we filled a shallow cake pan with cool water and immersed each wrapper individually until it softened, about 10 seconds. working with one wrapped at a time, lay a wrapped on your work surface and fill it first with about 2 tablespoons of noodles. then, add vegetables to your preference--while you don't want to overfill, you don't need to skimp too much since rice paper is slightly stretchy and your rolls will look the best if your paper is stretched taught over your fillings. add a few basil and/or mint leaves--i like 3-4 leaves per roll.

to roll, fold the edge of the wrapper farthest from you over the filling, then fold in the edges towards the center and continue rolling the filled wrapper towards you until it's closed and snug. i like to place the mint and basil closer to the front edge of the wrapper, so that they are rolled into the last layer and show through the top of the finished roll. there are some good instructions here--you would be placing your herbs where they put the shrimp in this video, so that they're still visible. as you finish each roll, place it on a cookie sheet and cover the rolls with a damp towel. refrigerate if not serving right away.

to serve, slice in half--i like a bias cut here--and serve with peanut sauce.

homemade fresh goat cheese

2011-06-10T22:24:00.100-04:00

the past month has been a bit of a whirlwind. aside from being the sickest i've been in years (the aforementioned bout of strep turned into some antibiotic-resistant bubonic nightmare, complete with enormous lymph nodes and a raging ear infection), i've finally moved into my new house, making this the first time i've had my own bedroom since december. i've started a new job, which is exhausting and very very scary and has resulted in several mutilated fingers but i love it just the same (more on this later). somewhere amidst all of this, jordan and i took a train up to washington and spent two weeks on a buddhist abbey and organic farm, where we worked in exchange for room and board.

it was idyllic, to say the least. the farm was sandwiched in between mount adams (above) and mount hood, utterly isolated, beautiful and full of weirdos. we spent most of our work hours weeding, thinning plant beds, watering, hauling and spreading compost, transplanting, and nitpicking around the greenhouse. it gave me a deep appreciation for the high prices of organic foods: this particular farm, for example, eschewed herbicides altogether, organic or otherwise, and so eight people would have to spend several days hand-weeding a half acre of field, which might pay off if the crops weren't destroyed by pests.

the farm also had a coop of hens that they kept for eggs, and one of our chores was to "put them to bed" every night. this included, amongst other things, singing to them. a buddhist chant was recommended as lullaby material, but most nights jordan and i brought a guitar into the coop and sang them leonard cohen, or, fittingly, bob dylan's "lay lady lay."

we also met a beautiful family who kept a herd of goats and had a homemade woodburning pizza oven in their back yard. aside from giving me new faith in the nuclear family structure, i've decided that the man i marry will have to build me one of these, no exceptions.

and despite the whole waking-up-at-dawn thing and some uncomfortable questions about organized religion that i was left with, i couldn't help but notice that everybody seems happier in secluded farm territory, in tiny towns where everyone knows everyone, where people work outside all day and don't have time to sit around long enough to get bored, let alone depressed.

oh, and i was fed a phenomenal homemade goat milk cottage cheese, which reminded me that i needed to post about making fresh goat cheese.

after all, isn't it high time we liberate goat cheese? once a peasant food, then nouvelle american cuisine, now achingly bourgeois chèvre--it seems deeply criminal for it to be confined to a purple-stained beet-salad prison. there is so much more to goat cheeses than the aseptic logs of paste we obligingly toss into our shopping carts, with thoughts of elegant herb-crusted hors d'oeuvres served alongside gleaming bowls of grapes. i'm not even talking about aged goat cheeses, those tiny yellow-tinged pungent wheels with pleasingly yielding rinds and pale centers of complex and crumbling creaminess. no, there is a world of fresh chèvre that we have abandoned in favor of convenience.

last summer i tried my hand at making ricotta at home, and was thrilled. turns out, making goat cheese at home is an almost identical process, with results that are equally stunning, if not moreso. but be forewarned: it doesn't taste like the fresh goat cheese you buy at trader joe's. not even close.

it's better. it's more subtle, less tangy, more earthy. it's barely sweet and almost nutty, with a heady, cleanly mammalian taste that far surpasses any i've tried.

don't eat it with beets. eat it smeared on toast, atop pancakes, folded into little pillows of ravioli, spooned over strawberries or figs, mixed with fresh herbs, on pizza, with chocolate, with jam, with honey, kneaded into gnocchi dough, alongside fried eggs and kale. turn it into ice cream or custard. the world is your oyster.

fresh chèvre
adapted from guilty kitchen

1 litre goat milk
1 cup buttermilk
juice of 1 lemon (2 tbsp, divided)
1/2 tsp sea salt (optional)

line a colander with a double layer of cheesecloth and set into a large bowl to catch the whey.

pour goat’s milk and buttermilk into a medium sized saucepan with a thermometer attached (alternatively you could take a reading every now and then if you don’t have a clip on thermometer). set heat to medium. bring the milk to between 170°F-185°F. when the milk begins to bubble slightly and begin to curdle, remove it from the heat. add 1 tbsp of the lemon juice and stir. you should see lots of curdle-y goodness now.

return to stove and bring the heat down to 120°F. ladle the curds into the cheesecloth lined colander and drain the whey into the bowl. either save the whey for goat-y protein shakes or toss it.

tie the top of the cheesecloth as tight as possible and secure it with string or an elastic. loop the handle of a long wooden spoon through the knot and use it to suspend the cheesecloth bundle over a tall drinking glass or other cylindrical vessel. place in refrigerator for 2 hours to drain.

remove from fridge, scrape cheese into bowl and season with salt, if desired. stir in 1 tbsp of lemon juice (or don't; your goat-taste will be clearer and cleaner if there's less acid to mask it). use immediately or return to fridge and allow the flavours to intensify over the next 1-2 days. will keep for up to one week in the fridge.

the truth is

2011-05-10T15:38:00.028-04:00

confession time: i'm in the midst of a big move, with all my stuff spread out between several different basements. i can't move into my new house quite yet so i've been couchsurfing, which, coupled with a nasty case of post-renn fayre strepthroat that has totally immobilized me for the past few days, means that i haven't been cooking much. the real kicker, though, is that i don't know where my camera cord is, and it's the one i need to import photos to my computer (ah, the joys of moving). long story short: i'm not cooking much and i can't tell you about recent projects because of photo absence.

but, while recently eating a (very impressive) pizza made by a vendor with a miraculous portable wood-burning pizza oven, it dawned on me that i had this pizza post that i had drafted a few weeks ago, while still in new york (sigh) and had never posted. so, without further ado:

new york is an ideal city in which to be a pizza lover, and accordingly, i have happily eaten my way through it. below is a recap of some of the slices i've slurped in recent months. pizzas are, of course, a deeply subjective matter, since thin-crust, new york/napoletana-style pizza is not for everyone, but let's be real: if you like deep dish, thick-crust, chicago/sicilian style pizza, you are wrong. while it may be delicious, it isn't pizza, it's bread with things on it. hopefully now that you've realized the error of your ways, you can make good with a pizza done right--and conveniently, i've provided some suggestions below. happy eating!

co., 230 9th ave, chelsea. we walked out to chelsea one bracingly cold night to eat at co., pronounced 'company,' in the hopes of being charmed by jim lahey's wizard bread genius extraordinaire. it seems to be a popular watering hole for yuppied out suit types: i got there a few minutes before my date and was immediately descended upon by slightly tipsy, lonely 30-somethings looking for someone with whom to bemoan the slow climb up the corporate ladder. the waiters, on the other hand, are forced to do that thing that i hate, called wearing-matching-logo-printed-t-shirts-and-sneakers to send off that "just because we're charging a lot of money doesn't mean our servers aren't still fun and approachable" vibe. true to form, once we finally were seated, our waiter got just inches away from our faces to give us a heartfelt "howdy, folks!" (you can't make this kind of thing up.) oh, and as if the squat, box-shaped room, attempted faux-industrial warehouse style exposed pipes, and bad brushed aluminum hanging light fixtures were not enough, there is a looped video of a fireplace playing in the corner without a trace of irony. seriously. we were, however, right in thinking that he who brought us the beloved no-knead bread would be able to churn out some spectacular pizzas: if i remember correctly, i had the popeye, which came with pecorino, gruyère, mozzarella, spinach, black pepper, and garlic. it was very, very good, and worth braving the cold. the crust was, of course, impeccable--i would expect nothing less from mr. lahey--but between the steep prices for smallish pizzas, the long wait time, the clientele, the decor and the waitstaff, i probably won't go back.

tarry lodge, 18 mill street, port chester, ny. my first batali experience! so, first the good: despite this being a massive, multi level maze of a restaurant, the service was attentive, accomodating and friendly. i had some of the best pasta i've ever been served in a restaurant: garganelli con funghi trifolati in a creamy sauce with thyme. the pasta was exceedingly fresh, obviously hand-rolled paper thin and cooked perfectly al dente. they could have served it with chef boyardee meatballs and i would have raved. dessert was similarly revelatory; we shared a mascarpone cheesecake with pistachio gelato and a pine nut brittle, both velvety and crunchy, sweet and subtle. the pizza, though, fell a bit flat, which i attribute to the size of the restaurant: it's not easy to churn out mass quantities of artisan-style pizza. the crust, though nicely charred, tasted as if it had been made in bulk and frozen, as it didn't have that jubilant, crackling oomph that only a slow-risen fresh yeasted dough has. we had ours with ramps, tomato, pecorino and chiles, and unfortunately it was far too heavily topped. while i appreciate the generosity, the excess of ramps were unwieldly to cut or bite into, and their moisture left the crust a sodden mess in the middle. conversely, the chiles were oddly uneven--there were maybe two bites in the entire pizza that were searingly spicy, and the rest was totally devoid of heat. overall, it was a lovely meal, but for the price you're better off ordering non-pizza entrées and taking your pizza business elsewhere.

motorino, 349 e. 12th st., east village. formerly the beloved una pizza napoletana, getting in here is not easy since motorino doesn't take reservations. you can, however, call ahead before you leave home and get on the waiting list before you arrive, which is great. the inside is very, very crowded, dimly lit and plays atrocious music, plus our waiter kind of looked like a murderer. i will happily forgive them all of these things, however, because without wanting to sound hyperbolic, the pizza is hands down the best i've ever had outside of italy. joey and i shared two pizzas: stracciatella, which came with basil, buffalo mozzarella and tomato, and a second with cherry stone clams, mozzarella, parsley butter, and fresh lemon. both were perfection, in their own right. their mozzarella is dazzlingly milky, almost floral. i asked where they get their cheese, hoping to be pointed towards some hidden gem of a manhattan cheesemonger, but sadly all i could get out of ed gein our server was that they import it from italy. sigh. the crust was ethereal: blistered and billowy around the edges, thin but with enough yeasty chew to stand up to a slick of cheese. and the lemon/clam/parsley combination was mind-bogglingly good: sharp, briny, sweet, tangy. am chomping at the bit to go to their brooklyn location for a slightly different menu and (hopefully) better music.

franny's, 295 flatbush ave, prospect heights. slightly more expensive than motorino but much less smushed and with better music. jonah had a radicchio and prosciutto cotto pizza, which he seemed nonplussed by. being broke, i went for the buffalo mozzarella and tomato pizza, which did not disappoint. i always appreciate when tomato sauce actually tastes like fresh tomatoes--light and clean--rather than heavy, saccharine or over-spiced as they so often are. franny's delivered on that front, and the buffalo mozzarella was delicate and intensely creamy. crust was just how i like it: thin, but with puffed, lightly charred edges. my sole complaint is that after 5-10 minutes out of the oven, their crust starts to acquire a tough staleness, so you have to scarf quickly if you want the most bang for your buck (pizzas with actual things on them will run you $16 and up). other reviewers complained loudly about the size, so i was expecting coaster-sized personal pizzas, but i'd say each pizza was 10-12" and easily enough food for one.

best pizza, 33 havemeyer st., williamsburg. best pizza ought to win some kind of word for utter unpretentiousness. not only is their website amazing, but the dining space itself is a study in informality: the walls are lined with paper plates decorated by sharpie-wielding customers, the tables are bare, the water comes from a fill-it-yourself station, and the beer from an honor-system self-serve keg. oh, and the clientele seems to be predominantly bearded burly men (or at least this was the case on the night i was there). in spite of all that, this is not your typical fluorescent-lit buck-a-slice tony's pizza, the kinds of places that are a dime a dozen in manhattan. best pizza uses fresh ricotta, a house-made mozzarella, a pat lafrieda (of shake shack, gramercy tavern, the spotted pig, etc.) meat blend in their meatball sub, and sesame seeds to freckle some of their pizza crusts. their two menu cornerstones are a humble plain cheese and an excellent white pie (they also had grandma slices a month or two ago, but it no longer seems to be on their menu?), whereas add-on toppings are pared down to nine options, including caramelized onion and pickled vegetables. with 20" pizzas, this isn't your typical tiny artisanal napoletana pizza shpeal, but it sure is delicious: thin, crunchy crust, clean and vibrant tomato sauce, excellent fresh mozzarella. if you're getting a slice rather than a whole pie, ask them when a fresh pie is coming out of the oven and camp out a little while for it, to avoid getting one that's been sitting out. it'll be good either way, but fresh out of the oven is, of course, where best pizza really shines.

fornino, 187 bedford ave, williamsburg. if best pizza is the antithesis to pizza pretension, fornino is a strong foil. not only do they offer a $50 pizza (seriously) but the rest of their pizzas lie mostly in the $15-$22 range. is it justifiable to charge that much for pizza with a thin-crust, perfectly charred in a wood-burning oven, and not too heavy with cheese or sauce? well, for that price they should at least be cooking creatively as well as authentically, but their menu is more trying-really-hard-to-be-artisanal than it is inspired. sure, a lot of the price is paying for real estate as well as food, since fornino is directly adjacent to the bedford stop on the L train and is therefore hipstie real estate gold. but, however good the pizza may be (and it is good, especially the funghi misti), i would rather take my 20-something dollars elsewhere (ideally, somewhere in which i don't feel as if i'm surrounded by weenies) to really get my socks knocked off.

gnocco, 337 east 10th st., east village. gnocco's pizza is quite good--their tartufata was borderline ambrosial--but steeply priced. other perks include a very friendly waitstaff (we were all given free flutes of prosecco upon arrival), a covered back patio with a pretty garden, and a generally nice ambiance. cons: can get very crowded at prime time, swarmed with obnoxious clientele, and can get loud. other things on the menu are certainly worth your attention--i had an excellent salmon carpaccio with fennel. their crusts could stand to be a bit livelier, but their cheese is excellent: definitely worth stopping by if you're in the neighborhood.

roberta's, 261 moore st., bushwick. run by the same folks behind by best pizza, roberta's is everything a pizza restaurant should be: highly quality conscious, casual, affordable, but with a few surprises up its sleeve. the first time i went there i had a pea tendril salad with breadcrumbs, lemon, and bottarga (!), a four cheese pizza with honey and kale, and banana cake with pretzel brittle and cinnamon gelato. i was wowed by everything, the pizza being no exception. no, this is not motorino--the crust has less va-va-voom--but it is still a damn good pie: thin, balanced, a resilient crust with tender insides. when i came back a second time it was for brunch, at which we had a margherita pizza and the most ethereal lemon ricotta pancakes that have ever passed my lips. so, aside from being some of the best bang for your buck at any of new york's high-end pizzerias, roberta's has an extended non-pizza menu that is very deserving of your attention. that, in itself, is a rarity.

crap i like to eat

2011-05-03T22:02:00.004-04:00

sometimes, some nights, i think it's totally reasonable to make pasta dough from scratch, roll it out paper thin, oven-roast some vegetables, use them to stuff the pasta, meticulously fold dozens of individual raviolis, and throw together some kind of sauce while the little pasta pillows are boiling. other nights, it's all i can do not to curl up alone in a corner gnawing a block of cheese until i don't want to eat anymore.

i've been having a lot of nights like those lately, especially at the tail end of renn fayre, a three day long party with some of the most outlandish behavior you'll ever see, anywhere. i've eaten a lot of questionable things over the past few days, especially since renn fayre includes a 24 hour peanut butter and jelly station. i made the dangerous/disgusting discovery that if you put a couple of oreos in a peanut butter and jelly, it elevates things to a whole new level.

on these kinds of days, the stuffing-hydrogenated-cookies-in-your-sandwiches kinds of days, i find it really helpful to have a list, molly-style, called Crap I Like To Eat. aside from the self-evident, this list should largely contain food that's fairly easy to assemble, food that makes you excited to cook and eat, food you're eager to make again. there should also be some things that are good sources of inspiration, things that lend themselves to experimentation, and some of your favorite blank-slate type of meals (pizza, tacos, etc.). if you're coming up blank, dig through a few of your favorite food blogs or flip through a cookbook. (may i recommend, albeit redundantly, super natural everyday? it's a beautiful book, in every way.) oh, and be honest with yourself. fried ice cream, for example, is perfectly acceptable.

last night we made tacos and they were very, very good. we crumbled up some tempeh and fried it with cumin, coriander, cayenne and garlic, ross sautéed some green chiles, and i made a red cabbage and mango slaw with lime. we ate them on soft corn tortillas with sour cream, feta, and sliced avocado. it reminded me, for the umpteenth time, that food need not be expensive, complicated or time consuming to be startlingly delicious, all the moreso after a weekend of weird sandwiches.

here's my list, with some links. a good Crap I Like To Eat list can contain as few as three things. try it, slap it on your fridge, and consult it the next time all you can think to do is pour yourself a bowl of cocoa puffs.

crap i like to eat
wheat toast with:

onion jam & avocado
herbed cream cheese & tomato
nutella & banana
sautéed green things with poached/fried eggs
anything, really

macaroni and cheese
fried bean sprouts with soy sauce and leftover rice

roasted broccoli with shrimp
stewed prunes, on yogurt
lemon pizza
tomato sauce with butter and onion
broiled grapefruit
coconut lentil soup
corn pancakes with fruit compote
tacos.

corn & tomato chowder

frozen waffles with hagelslag
curried mango jicama salad
no-knead bread
baked eggs
black beans with:

cumin
onions
corn
tortilla/chips

bananas with almond butter & jam, fried, with salt and pepper
kale & cheddar frittata
roasted chickpeas with whatever

radish crostini
carrot fennel soup
raw kale salad with pecorino
peanut citrus soba noodles
broiled leeks with apple vinaigrette
tahini fried cauliflower
broccoli soup with lemon chive cream
buckwheat crepes with whatever's in the fridge
roasted asparagus with walnut crema
grilled cheese with apple & sage hazelnut pesto
french tomato tart
fig tart with stilton & rosemary

ginger pistachio scones

2011-04-26T18:25:00.004-04:00

my internship with saveur has sadly come to an end. i am now going about the awkward process of trying to find a paying summer internship working in a restaurant kitchen (pah), making a schedule of tedious biology summer courses at PSU, picking classes for my last year of college (!), and attempting to make peace with the outlandish mass of objects that i've accumulated and that seem to follow me everywhere i go.

i hate packing, if for no other reason than that it's an incessant reminder of how unnecessary most of what i own is, how skewed my personal value system is. as restless as i am, i can't wait for the day when i have a permanent home in one place, with all my books on one shelf, all my shirts hanging in the same closet, my ramshackle collection of secondhand cast iron that i bought without worrying about the weight and the impracticality of shipping, moving, schlepping all of my stuff.
anyway. i've made these ginger scones a couple of times now, with different variations: once for ella's breakfast-for-dinner birthday, once for a brunch with friends, and most recently to say goodbye to the staffers at saveur. they come to us from nancy silverton, one of the masterminds behind the illustrious la brea bakery, who tells us that they are still their best-selling scone. i like them best with a half cup of chopped pistachios kneaded into the dough, to add both textural and flavor interest. it doesn't hurt that pistachios look beautiful alongside chopped candied ginger; freckles of peach and mint green like tiny gems.

the scones themselves are buttery, flaky little discs, minimally sweetened--which makes them all that more compatible with a generous smearing of jam and clotted cream (hint: devon cream company imports it; it's available in tiny, exorbitantly priced jars in the specialty dairy sections of most whole foods). silverton recommends using a 3" cutter to yield a total of 8 scones, i like to roll mine slightly thinner and cut them in 2" rounds to yield a total of 16 scones, since these are on the heavy side. either way, they are delicious and will convert even those who snub the scone after a traumatic starbucks experience.

ginger pistachio scones
tweaked slightly from nancy silverton's recipe in pastries from la brea bakery

2 1/4 cups pastry flour or all-purpose flour (i swapped in white whole wheat for half of the total flour)
1/3 cup granulated sugar*
1 tbsp baking powder
1 tsp finely chopped lemon zest (about 1/2 lemon)
1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter, cut into 1" cubes and frozen
4 1/2 oz candied ginger, finely chopped into 1/4" pieces to equal 2/3 cup
1/2 cup unsalted chopped pistachios
3/4 cup heavy cream, plus extra for brushing the tops of the scones

*note: i reduced the white sugar by a few tablespoons and instead sprinkled the scones with turbinado sugar after brushing them with cream, right before sliding them in the oven. this yields a slightly sweet, golden, crunchy top.

adjust the oven rack to the middle position and preheat the oven to 400°F.

in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade or in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, combine the flour, sugar, and baking powder, and pulse or mix on low to incorporate. add the lemon zest and butter, and pulse on and off, or mix on low, untl the mixture is pale yellow and the consistency of fine meal. (note: i did this by hand, cutting in the butter with a pastry blender. two sharp knives and a bit of patience also work well.)

transfer the mixture to a large bowl and stir in the ginger and pistachios. make a well in the center and pour in the cream. using one hand, draw in the dry ingredients, mixing until just combined.

wash and dry your hands and dust them with flour. turn the dough out onto a lightly floured work surface and gently knead a few times to gather it into a ball. roll or pat the dough into a circle about 3/4" thick. cut out the circles with a 2" cutter or drinking class, cutting as closely together as possible and keeping the trimmings intact.

gather the scraps, pat and press the pieces back together, and cut out the remaining dough. place the scones 1" apart on a parchment-lined (or greased) baking sheet.

brush the tops with the remaining cream. sprinkle with coarse-grain sugar, if using (see note in header). bake for 12 to 16 minutes, until the surface cracks and they are slightly browned. cool on a rack and serve with jam (i recommend blackberry) and clotted cream or butter. scones are best the first day they're baked but will keep for up to 3 days in an airtight container.

marcella hazan's tomato sauce

2011-04-20T00:53:00.003-04:00

tomato sauce is sort of a bit of a hard sell. you can go to a bit of trouble to make your own, and it'll be fine--better than jarred sauce--but it won't make the dish; it will not wow your intrepid diners. it hardly seems worth it: after all, why bother when there are enough gussied up varieties available on any supermarket shelf to make your head spin?

actually, if we're being honest, i tend to think of jarred tomato sauce as prime midnight snack material. is this totally gross? far too often when i wake up hungry in the middle of the night i have an uncontrollable urge to spoon an entire jar of the stuff down my throat. it's usually on muggy summer nights that i'll catch myself slurping sauce in a dark kitchen, illuminated only by the humming refrigerator light, exposing me in all my snacking freakishness. something about that cold hit of acidity, slightly chunky but still slippery enough to inhale at an ungodly rate, really beckons to me when making a peanut butter and jelly seems to be asking an awful lot.

on pasta i can take it or leave it. but pizza--that's when i really notice it. on good pizza, jarred tomato sauce is a bull in a china shop. it's heavy on the tongue, saccharine, over-spiced, puddled with oil, and miles away from anything tomato. for most of my cooking years, when called upon to make tomato sauce i would usually start with fresh tomatoes in an effort to exhume the sauce from its preservativey grave--but it never wowed me. always too garlicky, too oily, too fusty with dried herbs. turns out i was over-complicating things. friends, there is an alternative.

enter marcella hazan's three-ingredient tomato sauce, which i'm embarrassed that i haven't shared with you sooner. of course she, the creator of my favorite smothered cabbage soup, would simplify an italian cornerstone with such elegance. here's what you do: you take a big ole can of whole peeled tomatoes, dump them in a pot with a knob of butter and a halved onion, and you cook the whole mess real slow for 45 minutes. next you take the onion out, devour it with pepper and flaky salt, and completely forget about your sauce. then you'll remember it and feel sort of guilty, and you'll carefully salt your sauce and then quietly spoon it over any surface that will hold still long enough for you to baptize it in tomato glory.

that's it. no garlic at all. not even olive oil. if, right about now, you're piping up with a "but olive oil has heart healthy unsaturated fats and a classic mediterranean flavor blah blah blah," that's your business. but just know that marcella makes no mistakes. this sauce tastes vibrantly clean, rich with butter but not slick or oily. the onion infusion is genius: you get a haunting allium backdrop without the textural interruption of chopped onion. what you really get is pure, gutsy, humming tomato taste like nothing from a can.

you can use it to elevate a lowly bag of dried pasta. if you're trying to impress your friends/family/crush/scary dinner guests, pool it over fresh, homemade pasta, no grated parmesan required. its higher calling, though, is pizza. while a lot of unreliable internet sources will tell you that pizza sauce is by definition more heavily spiced than pasta sauce, i'm a subscriber to just the opposite camp. traditional napoletana pizza, as i understand it, is sauced with straight up crushed san marzano tomatoes. marcella's deviates ever so slightly, but the theory remains the same: other flavors belong in toppings, not in sauce. so: if you want basil, dot your finished pizza with whole basil leaves. if you want garlic, throw on a few roasted cloves of garlic. if you want anchovies, tear up a few and sprinkle them on top of your pizza before sliding it in the oven.

then again, you could skip the pizza altogether and just squirrel away a double batch of sauce, because you never know when you'll need a midnight snack.

tomato sauce with butter and onion
adapted from marcella hazan's the essentials of classic italian cooking
makes enough sauce to lightly coat about a pound of spaghetti, or three smallish pizzas

28 oz (800 grams) whole peeled tomatoes from a can (san marzano, if you can find them, organic if you can't)
5 tbsp (70 grams) unsalted butter
1 medium yellow onion, peeled and halved
salt to taste

put the tomatoes, onion and butter in a heavy 3 quart saucepan over medium heat. bring to a simmer, then lower the heat to keep the sauce at a slow, steady simmer for about 45 minutes, or until droplets of fat float free of the tomatoes. stir occasionally, crushing the tomatoes against the side of the pot with a wooden spoon. note that if you're using it for pizza, you might cook it a few minutes longer to allow more of your liquid to reduce, therein avoiding a soggy crust.

remove pot from heat, discard the onion (hint: eat it), gently salt sauce to taste (you might find that your tomatoes came salted and that you don't need to add more) and keep warm while you prepare your pasta. serve with spaghetti, with or without grated parmesan cheese to pass.

jean-georges's fried rice

2011-04-15T22:36:00.005-04:00

on overthinking everything: cooking jean-georges reimagined fried rice felt like decoding an embedded text, like reading "ozymandias," stratified by layers of narration. first we've got fried rice, a cornerstone of chinese cooking, one which has been warped and weather-worn by the good-intentioned hands of american culture. then we've got jean-georges vongerichten, a renowned french chef, looking at the dish through the lenses of his native cuisine with the whimsy of innovation that has made his restaurants famous. lastly, we've got mark bittman, a cheerleader of minimalism, paring it down to make it more approachable for home cooks.

which is good news for us. think of it as a simplified french deconstruction: while leeks exist in chinese cooking, they typically aren't caramelized. eggs are usually scrambled and stirred throughout the rice for hits of eggy richness, rather than fried whole. ginger and garlic are incorporated as aromatics, rather than crisped separately and used as crunchy finishing toppings. likewise, soy sauce and sesame oil are typically incorporated into the rice as it fries, rather than being daintily drizzled over the top as liquid accents, finishing-salt style.

turning all those things on their heads makes so much sense that it's strange fried rice hasn't been reworked this way before. the rice has a resilient toothsomeness, the leeks are buttery sweet in the middle and crisped around the edges, sesame oil adds pockets of delicate nuttiness, and the whole thing is bound up in an ooze of yolky richness from a fried egg over-easy.

one thing i cannot stress enough is using old rice: freshly steamed rice will simply be too wet and your finished product will be soggy rather than crispy. leftover takeout rice works like a charm.

ginger fried rice with leeks & fried eggs

serves 4

1/2 cup peanut oil (i used less)*
2 tbsp minced garlic
2 tbsp minced ginger
salt
2 cups thinly sliced leeks, white and light green parts only, rinsed and dried
4 cups day-old cooked white rice (jasmine, short-grain sushi rice, or takeout leftovers all work fine), at room temperature
4 large eggs
2 tsp sesame oil (i used more)
4 tsp soy sauce

*the original recipe uses rendered chicken fat, which i can only imagine tastes amazing. the amount might differ slightly, though, so add slowly if this is your fat of choice.

in a large skillet, heat 1/4 cup oil over medium heat. add garlic and ginger and cook, stirring occasionally, until crisp and brown. with a slotted spoon, transfer to paper towels and salt lightly.

reduce heat under skillet to medium-low and add 2 additional tbsp of oil and leeks. cook about 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until very tender but not browned. season lightly with salt. raise heat to medium and add rice. cook, stirring well, until heated through. season to taste with salt.

in a nonstick skillet, fry eggs in remaining oil, sunny-side-up, until edges are set but yolk is still runny.

divide rice among four dishes (you can mound it using a bowl as a mold if you're feeling crazy). drizzle each with 1/2 tsp sesame oil and 1 tsp soy sauce and top with an egg. sprinkle crisped garlic and ginger over everything and serve immediately.

veselka's borscht

2011-04-12T16:13:00.003-04:00

i didn't really do anything terribly productive over the past few days, and yet i'm completely wiped out. i walked, a lot. jordan came to visit from boston. we walked around dumbo and had a delicious brunch at vinegar hill house (buttery slow-scrambled eggs with ramps, bitter greens and sourdough toast). we walked around carroll gardens and visited the morbid anatomy library. we walked around greenpoint and ate candied ginger ice cream at van leeuwen. i saw a friend's first feature length film debut at clearview cinemas in chelsea. another friend got into cooper union. i ate bad sushi at oyama and good sushi at momo. i went to il laboratorio del gelato, twice (ginger and basil the first time, cream cheese and tarragon the second) and sundaes and cones, also twice (black sesame the first time, lychee the second). we made eggs in a basket with lacy windows of oven-crisped aged cheddar and ate them atop piles of sautéed lemony beet greens. we walked all over the lower east side and i lusted after things i will never buy in creatures of comfort and assembly new york. joey and i saw wire play a somewhat confusing set at music hall of williamsburg. oh, and there was borscht.

it wasn't just any old borscht; it was veselka's recipe, adapted from their cookbook which you may have heard about if you've eaten there recently. they've placed conspicuous adverts on all the tables, announcing the book with a not-unthreatening admonition to "loosen your borscht belt." and they aren't kidding. i am no expert on ukrainian cooking, but i know a good thing when i eat it, and if ever a soup has merited a bloat-induced clothing adjustment, this is it.

veselka makes their soup with a double hit of sweet rootiness by first boiling a batch of sliced beets for two hours to yield a beet stock. the beets are strained out and new, raw beets are cooked and then grated into the soup for more taste and texture. potatoes, carrots, cabbage and beans are added for an earthbound heft, but what really sets this borscht apart, at least for me, is a generous hit of white vinegar. the recipe says it's for color retention; i beg to differ: i think that added splash of acidic twang is what really wakes up the soup so that all the deep, low flavors can really perk up and sparkle. a final swirl of sour cream adds a welcome silky richness, just because.

oh, and then j stuffed a banana with almond butter and blackberry jam and fried it in olive oil. we ate it doused with salt, pepper and raw honey. i like to think we walked it all off.
borscht

adapted from veselka's recipe

serves 8-10

3 lbs (10 to 12) small beets, scrubbed thoroughly but not peeled
9 tbsp white vinegar
8 cups vegetable stock or bouillon
1 bay leaf
3 large carrots, peeled and sliced
3 large celery stalks, sliced (i omitted this)
1 small head of green cabbage (about 3⁄4 to 1 lb), shredded (about 4 cups)
2 medium idaho potatoes, peeled and cut into 1⁄2" dice (i left the skin on)
one 15" can lima beans, drained and rinsed
salt
sour cream and/or chopped dill, for garnishing (optional)

to make the “beet water,” roughly chop 2 lbs of the beets (select the smaller ones), preferably in a food processor fitted with the metal blade. place the chopped beets in a large stockpot. add 10 cups of water and 1 tbsp vinegar.

place the stockpot over high heat and bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to low, and simmer for 2 hours. (if it seems like the liquid is evaporating too quickly, you may need to cover the pot partially with an off set lid.) the beets should be extremely soft and the liquid bright red.

strain the liquid, pressing the cooked beets against the side of the strainer to extract as much liquid as possible. discard the pulp. set aside the beet water. you should have just about 4 cups.

meanwhile, place the remaining 1 lb of whole beets in a separate large stockpot. add water to cover and bring to a boil. reduce the heat to low, and simmer until the beets are tender-firm, about 40 minutes. when the beets are cooked, add 1 tbsp white vinegar and set them aside to cool.

when the whole cooked beets are cool enough to handle, peel them; the skins should slip off easily (i left the skins on). grate the peeled beets on the largest holes of a box grater or in a food processor fitted with the grating blade.

to cook the vegetables, place the carrots, celery and bay leaf in a large stockpot and pour the vegetable stock over them. bring to a boil, reduce the heat, and simmer until the carrots and celery are just tender, about 8 minutes. add the cabbage and potatoes and continue to cook until the potatoes and carrots are easily pierced with a paring knife but keep their shape, 15 to 20 additional minutes. add the lima beans and cook for 5 additional minutes, just to meld the flavors. gradually add the remaining 7 tablespoons white vinegar, tasting between additions and stopping when the flavor is to your liking. remove the soup from the heat and set aside.

to compose the soup, in a large soup pot combine the “beet water” with the vegetables and broth. add the grated beets. stir to combine and bring to a simmer over low heat. season to taste with salt and serve immediately, garnished with sour cream or dill fronds if you like.

brown butter brownies

2011-04-04T00:30:00.005-04:00

tonight, after a pretty impressive pizza at franny's, that stressful thing happened called "i heard my subway pulling in right as i was swiping my card at the turnstile, inciting a frantic dash down the stairs and a triumphant leap through the subway doors just as they were sliding shut." gloating, i found a seat--except the lady sitting next to it had decided to give it to a round foil container of (presumably) left-over dinner, instead of allotting it for a human behind. i gave her that cute, laconic "excuse me" whilst meaningfully pointing my derrière in the direction of the seat to which that food carrier was so stubbornly clinging. she gave me a sour look and reached to remove the offending dinner bits--right as the train made an unusually abrupt lurch. i stumbled, tripped over her outstretched legs, and careened backwards, limbs frantically windmilling, and landed on my butt. what did i do, after making a point to laugh very conspicuously so the dozen sniggering bystanders would all know that i, too, think it's funny when people fall over?

i apologized to surly leftovers lady.

then a very nice man outstretched a hand and pulled me up, and in my disorientation i apologized to him too.

i hate statistics, especially where gender is concerned, so i don't particularly want to ratify the "women apologize more than men do" generalization (although i admittedly see some truth to it). instead of speaking for all women, i'd prefer to take personal responsibility: i apologize too much. i apologize when people bump into me on the street. i apologize for occasionally being ambitious, and when it's rewarded. i apologize for unblunted honesty. i apologize for my privileges but also for my hard-earned successes. i apologize for the actions of my friends, my family, anyone that i feel i might bear some responsibility for. i apologized to the lady over whom i tripped, for cryin' out loud.

so, in addition to my perpetually mantric life goals (have better posture, stop talkin' shit, stop feeling guilty about everything), i am adding one more: stop apologizing unnecessarily. big things as well as little ones: my major life choices are not up for discussion or external criticism, because i'm not sorry. but it's equally important that i'm not sorry for my failure to infer that a customer was allergic to nuts when i brought her the salad she ordered, the one that was plainly advertised as containing nuts. sure i'll bring you another one, but i'm not sorry. nor am i sorry for occasionally cutting a phone call short, putting my foot down, sticking up for myself, or making a selfish decision. and what i'm really not sorry about is sharing these outlandish brownies, especially given that it's been an unusually starch-and-fat heavy couple of weeks around here. winter produce is eking out, rhubarb and asparagus haven't reared their springy heads yet, and seasonal food is in a bit of a no-man's land. own it. if it's any consolation, i have eaten no fewer than two and a quarter pizzas in the past 24 hours (entirely for research purposes, i promise).

these are the brownies that will ensure you never buy a boxed brownie mix again, and this coming from an ardent believer in occasional betty crocker magic. they were dreamed up by alice medrich, author of the canonical pure dessert and, more recently, a book with a lot of adjectives in the title. she's tweaked her acclaimed cocoa brownies recipe for bon appétit, studding them with walnuts and brilliantly browning the butter before mixing it into the batter. i tweaked it even more by swapping in deeply toasted pine nuts for the walnuts, and stirring in a scoop of cacao nibs for an added bitter chocolate hit and a surprising crunch. i like the pine nuts here: they're so unexpected outside of the pasta/salad realm, so i think they're all the more pleasing in desserts. the nibs elevate them to some sort of holy trinity of toasty flavors: brown butter, nuts, and roasted cacao beans. bam. oh, and these brownies are totally swanky enough to be served to guests, maybe with a scoop of mascarpone ice cream and a dusting of cocoa powder...? you, um, won't be sorry, i promise.
cocoa brownies with brown butter, pine nuts and cacao nibs
adapted from alice medrich's recipe for bon appétit, via francis lam (swoon)

2½ sticks of unsalted butter (don't freak out! you'll only really use half of it.)
1 cup sugar (i used slightly less)
heaping ¾ cup unsweetened cocoa powder (you'd be amazed at how much difference there is in cocoa powders; get a good quality one)
¼ tsp salt
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 tsp water
2 large eggs, cold
1/3 cup plus 1 tbsp all-purpose flour
1 cup walnuts, lightly toasted (i swapped in ½ cup deeply toasted pine nuts; your call)
1/3 cup cacao nibs (optional)

preheat oven to 325°F. line an 8x8" baking pan with aluminum foil or parchment paper, pressing it into the corners of the pan and leaving a couple inches of overhang. (you're going to use this to lift the brownies out later.) rub a little butter over the foil to grease it.

melt and brown butter, as described here. while the butter is still in the early stages of cooking, combine the sugar, cocoa and salt in a fairly heatproof bowl.

have a second heatproof cup or bowl ready. when the milk solids are beautifully browned, either pour or scoop out ½ cup (8 tbsp) of the butter into that cup, being careful to keep all the browned bits with you in the pan. then all at once dump the butter from the pan into the bowl with the cocoa mixture. scrape in all the browned bits stuck to the pan, unless they're burnt. add the vanilla and water, and stir to blend. it will come together like rough concrete (honestly, i'm not really sure i know what rough concrete looks like, and i'm also not sure that my batter even closely resembled it. soldier on!). the mixture should be fairly hot; let cool for 5 minutes. (you get to keep the extra butter for other uses; store in fridge.

beat in one of the eggs vigorously. it will look horrible. the butter will probably separate out of the cocoa/sugar mass, and it will start to make you very sad. beat in the second egg, though, and watch it all come back together. egg #2 saves the day!

when your mixture looks shiny and uniform, add the flour and stir until blended. the recipe continues: "beat vigorously 60 strokes." and seriously, they're not kidding. as you work it, the gluten will develop in the flour and make it firmer and tougher. just take a breath, hold on and crank it.

stir in the nuts and nibs, and scrape the batter into the baking pan. bake 25 minutes, or until a toothpick in the center comes out not quite clean (there should be a few moist crumbs sticking to it). cool the pan on a rack, then lift the brownies out with the foil. cut into four strips, and quarter those to make 16 brownies.

note: right out of the oven, these have that unbeatable warm-brownies thing going for them, and the flavor is a little more delicate, more sweet than chocolatey. but after resting for 12 hours or so, they mature and intensify, with a denser texture and a deeper fudgy taste--cleverly offset by the toasted butter. if you're into that kind of thing, make them ahead of time.

brunchspiration

2011-03-31T00:33:00.000-04:00

two brunches:

the first, inspired by a piece i did for saveur on espelette pepper (if you only knew the way my hands quivered typing those words), is a sourdough toast with melted brie, fresh tomato, a drizzle of olive oil and a showering of espelette. i toasted the bread on both sides under the broiler, just long enough for it to take on a pleasingly brown crunch, and then tiled it with hunks of brie. then it went back under the broiler just long enough for the brie to melt and ooze its heady brie funk all over the toast. removed from broiler, topped with tomato, espelette and a drizzle of olive oil, and immediately inhaled.

the second was an impulsive experiment. after making that semifreddo a few days ago, i had a bunch of leftover eggwhites. usually i'll just improvise an egg white omelette with whatever's moping around in the veggie crisper, but after noticing that i still had my hand mixer out, i had a thought. what if i were to whip egg whites to stiff peaks and then fry the whole whipped, airy mass? the answer is a savory meringue pancake, of sorts: fried in butter, i had no problems with it sticking or falling apart, although next time i might use three small egg whites instead of four for a thinner (and theoretically crispier) pancake. the texture is exactly what i had hoped for: ethereally fluffy. i topped it with grated pecorino and asparagus tips, ran the whole thing under the broiler, and then ate it with a spicy mustard, which was pretty boss. next time, with a little more foresight, i might accompany it with a béarnaise sauce or something. i'd also be interested in the sweeter applications of fried meringue: lightly sugaring your egg whites, or even folding berries directly into the whites before cooking, and then topping with greek yogurt for a sort of remixed breakfast pavlova? will report back upon further experimentation.

happy brunching!

chard and onion panade

2011-03-28T17:18:00.007-04:00

i've been taking advantage of the cold snap to revel in the final days of wearing my fur-trimmed coat (shameful pescetarian, i am), stuffing my face with oatmeal (breakfast this morning marked five consecutive meals of oatmeal [oatmeals, as we enlightened ones call them]), and cranking out a few last wintry dishes. it's amazing how a little sunshine can incite a whole-hearted embrace of cold weather, even in the last gasps of march--that's right, "going out like a lamb," i'm lookin' at you.

yes, march, you're a fickle mistress, but you've kindly been my last window in which to make this chard and onion panade. panade! a beautiful word. as we cooked i couldn't help but find myself singing a slightly reworked version of edith piaf's "padam padam," the revised lyrics of which, unoriginally, went something like this: "panade, panade, panaaaade!"

it is, as the name suggests, bread based: think of it as a savoury bread pudding, slow cooked with stock so that the bread cubes collapse into a meltingly silken mess with a golden-crusted top and an ooze of bubbling cheese. and it opens itself up to dizzying possibilities: what about a curried version with kabocha squash and chunks of paneer? or honey-glazed brussels sprouts and sesame seeds? oven roasted cherry tomatoes, fennel and burrata? this particular panade makes a pretty dreamy jumping-off point: ribboned with greens and sweetly softened onions, it is indeed peasant food for the gods, as luisa calls it. yet peasant food so conveniently overlaps with some of my favorite comfort food (case in point) which is to say, ugly food (ditto), which is, conveniently, delicious when enjoyed with somebody cute. a final wintry send-off, if you will.

chard and onion panade
adapted from the zuni café cookbook
serves 4 as a main course (i say more) or 8 as a side dish

1 1/2 lbs thinly sliced yellow onions
up to 1/2 cup mild-tasting olive oil
6 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
salt
1 lb swiss chard (thick ribs removed), cut into 1" wide ribbons
10 oz day-old chewy peasant-style bread cut into rough 1" cubes
up to 4 cups chicken stock (i used vegetable)
6 oz gruyère, coarsely grated

place the onions in a deep 4-quart saucepan and drizzle and toss with oil to coat, about 1/4 cup. set over medium-high heat and, shimmying the pan occasionally, cook until the bottom layer of onions is slightly golden around the edges, about 3 minutes. stir and repeat.

once the second layer of onions has colored, reduce the heat to low and stir in the garlic and a few pinches of salt. stew, stirring occasionally, until the onions are a pale amber color and tender but not mushy, another 20 minutes or so. if at any point the onions look as if they may dry out, cover them to trap some of the moisture in the pan. taste for salt. you should get about 2 1/4 cups cooked onions.

preheat the oven to 325°F (or as low as 250°F, if it suits your schedule to stretch the cooking time from about 1 hour 45 minutes to 2 hours 45 minutes; the slower the bake, the more unctuous and mellow the results).

wilt prepared chard in batches: place a few handfuls of leaves in a 3-quart saute pan or a 10-to 12" skillet with a drizzle of oil, a sprinkling of water (if you've just washed the chard, it may have enough on the leaves), and a few pinches of salt. set the pan over medium heat until the water begins to steam, then reduce the heat and stir and fold leaves until they are just wilted, 3 to 4 minutes. leaves should be uniformly bright green, the white veins pliable (the veins will blacken later if they are not heated through). taste. the chard may be slightly metallic-tasting at this point, but make sure it's salted to your taste. set aside.

toss and massage the cubed bread with a few tablespoons of olive oil, a generous 1/4 cup of the stock and a few pinches of salt, to taste.

choose a flameproof, 3-quart souffle dish or enameled cast-iron dutch oven. assemble the panade in layers, starting with a generous smear of onions, followed by a loose mosaic of bread cubes, a second layer of onions, a wrinkled blanket of chard, and a handful of the cheese. repeat, starting with bread, the onions and so on, until the dish is brimming. aim for 2 to 3 layers of each component, then make sure the top layer displays a little of everything. irregularity in the layers makes the final product more interesting and lovely. drizzle with any remaining olive oil.

bring the remaining 3 3/4 cups stock to a simmer and taste for salt. add stock slowly, in doses, around the edge of the dish. for a very juicy, soft panade, best served on its own, like a soup or risotto, add stock nearly to the rim; for a firm but succulent panade, nice as a side dish, fill to about 1 inch below the rim. wait a minute for stock to be absorbed, then add more to return to the desired depth. the panade may rise a little as the bread swells.

set panade over low heat and bring to a simmer; look for bubbles around the edges (heating it here saves at least 30 minutes of oven time; it also means every panade you bake starts at the same temperature, so you can better predict total cooking times). cover the top of the panade with parchment paper, then very loosely wrap the top and sides with foil. place a separate sheet of foil under the panade or on the rack below it, to catch drips.

bake until the panade is piping hot and bubbly. it will rise a little, lifting the foil with it. the top should be pale golden in the center and slightly darker on the edges. this usually takes about 1 1/2 hours, but varies according to shape and material of baking dish and oven. (you can hold the panade for another hour or so; just reduce the temperature to 275°F until 20 minutes before serving.)

uncover panade, raise temperature to 375°F, and leave until golden brown on top, 10 to 20 minutes. (if you aren't quite ready when your panade is, re-tent the surface with parchment and foil and reduce the heat to 275°F. you can hold it another half hour this way without it overbrowning or drying out.) slide a knife down the side of the dish and check the consistency of the panade. beneath the crust, it should be very satiny and it should ooze liquid as you press against it with the blade of the knife. if it seems dry, add a few tablespoons simmering stock and bake for 10 minutes longer.

rosemary & caramelized mascarpone semifreddo

2011-03-26T01:07:00.001-04:00

a few weeks ago i had the pleasure of meeting rozanne gold at nyu’s bobst library. the occasion was her donation of gourmet’s food library to nyu, making bobst's food studies collection the largest in the country. i can personally attest to its daunting size, having finagled my way into the building twice in the past week in the name of saveur research (i now know more about latvian cooking than i ever dreamed possible). it’s a collection to be reckoned with, one which fortuitously fills in the new york public library’s cookery gaps. we're lucky to have a piece of gourmet history within reach—i know i’m not the only one who, over a year later, is still mourning the magazine's loss. my sister and i grew up with it, my earliest coffee table memories consisting largely of gourmet, national geographic, and cat fancy (ah yes, the 90’s). it’s reassuring to me, then, that their 4,000-something volume library will be put to good use.

and rozanne gold, she of radically simple fame, managed to put even somebody as easily intimidated as myself immediately at ease. she is, without a doubt, one of the sweeter and more genuine people i've had the pleasure of meeting.

she's not the only one doing inspiring thing things in the food world, though. i've been taking advantage of the cookbook library at work and have been unable to tear myself away from selmelier extraordinaire mark bitterman's gorgeous book, salted. bitterman (not to be confused with mark bittma n, upon whom i am also shamelessly crushing, but for very different reasons) is responsible for portland's the meadow, but also for some of the most stunning food prose i've ever laid ravenous eyes upon. case in point:

make your soup, adding less than half the salt that you normally would. when you serve it, pass flake salt at the table. the right flake salt (or even sel gris) sprinkled on your soup will float on the surface for minutes before dissolving. so when the liquid with this crystalline flotilla slips off the spoon across your tongue, the crackling mineral architecture of the salt catches your attention. your tongue then presses the salt up against the roof of your mouth, arresting its movement toward your throat, and the liquid around it glitters, an eddy of freshly salted intensity, until it is swirled away by the next sip. finishing a soup with salt tunes our senses to the singular sensation of salt and frees the rest of the soup to tell a tale of its own quieter mood. (bitterman, 205)

the man is giving me the chills. salted reads like poetry, although to be honest few poets leave me quite this weak in the knees. i'll be testing out his recipe for cacao-nib encrusted chevre with cyprus black flake sea salt as soon as i'm reunited with my salt stash, currently squirreled away in portland.

of course, there are lesser-known chefs and authors who are also doing extraordinary things. i recently discovered a beautiful blog written by a fellow connecticutter (umm, i meant this as a bad cooking pun rather than a reference to self-mutilation) called playing with fire and water. linda experiments with molecular gastronomy modernist cuisine, a field with which i'm still somewhat uneasy, but she does it in such an inquisitive and unpretentious way that it seems completely logical to have a sudden urge to whip up some tomato milk in your own kitchen (and the best part is that you totally can).

and that's where i found inspiration for this dessert. a few weeks ago when i was making those chili truffles i accidentally torched some heavy cream, with phenomenal result: the cream was lightly caramelized in some places, yielding one of the most profoundly nutty, rich, and complex things i've ever put in my mouth. it was the jam. i haven't stopped thinking about it since.

so it was pure serendipity when, whilst digging through linda's archives, i stumbled across her post on that exact subject: caramelizing unsweetened dairy products, such as heavy cream, evaporated milk, and mascarpone. she did the research that i was too lazy to do myself, discovering that "the word caramelization should be reserved for the browning of sugar- any kind of sugar- in the absence of protein. when sugars or starches occur together with proteins as they do in onions, breads, and meats, the browning is mostly due to the maillard reaction, not caramelization." oops, i guess that means we now have to top our pizzas with maillardized onions and serve our ginger cakes with maillardized pears...but hey, cool! science!

though i plan on eventually ~~caramelizing~~ maillardifying lots of linda's recommended dairy products, mascarpone was the one which called my name the most loudly. joey suggested a profiterole filling--typically profiteroles are stuffed with ice cream or pastry cream (both sweetened), whereas mascarpone has no added sugar. i wanted to play off of that savoriness by incorporating rosemary, another savory herb that gets all happy in desserts. candying the herbs seemed like a logical choice, but then i decided to infuse the hot mascarpone with rosemary, figuring a hit of herbaceousness would be all the better for being invisible.

after a couple trial-and-errors, we decided that baking a shallow layer of mascarpone in a foil-covered baking dish was the best method of caramelization. the profiteroles were wonderful (thank you, julia child), but i wanted a mascarpone application that would allow it to really shine without having to play second banana to other textures. back to the ice cream drawing board, except i (still) don't have an ice cream machine. the only solution? semifreddo.

essentially a frozen mousse, semifreddo is unfortunately not one of those tasteful, effortless, last-minute-dinner-party desserts. caramelizing mascarpone takes around three hours, and then requires a few hours of chilling time. assembling the dessert itself takes about fifteen minutes, but the whole shebang needs a good 8 hours to freeze. if you have the time, though, it's worth it--it allows for all the flavor experimentation of ice cream, sans machine. i like this one in particular because it's not too sweet and has some beautifully complex flavors: toasty, rich, green. texturally, it's all the more interesting from an addition of irregular chunks of bittersweet chocolate, stracciatella-style, that can alternatingly melt across the tongue or give way with a toothsome crunch.

rosemary & caramelized mascarpone semifreddo
serves 8

1 cup mascarpone
3 big sprigs rosemary
5 egg yolks
½ cup sugar
2 cups heavy cream
seeds of ½ vanilla bean, or ½ tsp pure vanilla extract
2 tbsp honey
3 oz good quality chocolate (i used callebaut 54%), finely chopped

first, caramelize your mascarpone. preheat the oven to 425°F. pour mascarpone into a glass pie plate or a shallow baking dish. set the pie plate within a larger oven safe pan or baking dish, and add hot water to the larger pan until it reaches halfway up the side of the pie plate. cover the pie plate snugly with aluminum foil and bake for 2-3 hours until lightly browned. check a few times during baking, stirring mascarpone to help it brown evenly, and adding more water to the roasting pan if necessary.

during the last half hour of cooking, put your sprigs of rosemary in with the mascarpone and gently stir so the rosemary is covered with the mascarpone. when done baking, remove from oven and allow to cool, uncovered. when the mascarpone has reached room temperature, gently remove the rosemary sprigs, cover mascarpone and refrigerate an hour or two (or overnight), until completely chilled.

make semifreddo: in a small mixing bowl, combine yolks and 1/2 cup sugar. beat on medium speed with a handheld mixer for 2 minutes, then turn mixer to high and beat for an additional 3 minutes, or until the yolks are light and fluffy. set aside.

in a larger clean mixing bowl, combine heavy cream, vanilla and honey. beat on medium-low for 2 minutes, then increase speed to medium and whisk until soft peaks form. add mascarpone, and whisk on low until incorporated. gently fold yolks and chopped chocolate into cream mixture until there are minimal streaks.

transfer semifreddo to a freezer proof container (i used a 9" round ceramic souffle dish, covering the surface of the semifreddo with seran wrap). freeze at least 8 hours before serving. when ready to serve, unmold semifreddo onto a plate and allow to soften at room temperature for 5 minutes before cutting into wedges.

six seed soda bread

2011-03-13T16:15:00.007-04:00

to be honest, i've never actually met an irish soda bread that i've particularly liked. i attribute this largely to my location, where things like starbucks culture have made it acceptable to market crumbly, tasteless bricks as "scones," the relentless cupcake fad* has deëmphasized the baked good itself in favor of a beehive of tricked-out frosting, and a general public tolerance of low-quality baking prevails. as such, every irish soda bread i've tried (all, tragically, on the wrong side of the pond) has been either completely bland or harshly discordant with an overpowering baking soda taste. they are uncomfortably dense and dry, reconstituting back into leaden bricks in the stomach and leaving you feeling oddly heavy.

reading about the way it should be, though, was enough to make me want what i had never had, st. patrick's day providing a convenient impetus. what i've learned is that, when eating soda bread, you have to resist the impulse to compare it to traditional yeast breads and instead treat it as a completely separate beast. soda breads are, inevitably, denser than their yeasted counterparts, with a texture more like cornbread or french cakes ("les cakes," SVP)--yet they are still delicious in their own right.

this recipe yields a pleasantly salted, craggy loaf, freckled with seeds and crowned with a crackly crust--and, miraculously, you can get a loaf in the oven in under ten minutes. i liked it best still warm, buttered and topped with a smear of raw honey, but i bet heidi's suggestion of fresh farmer's cheese would make for a pretty dreamy breakfast too.

*how is this still a thing, by the way?

six seed irish soda bread
adapted from hugh fearnley-whittingstall's river cottage everyday via 101 cookbooks
makes a single loaf

2 1/2 tbsp EACH sunflower, pumpkin, sesame, poppy, and flax seeds
1 tsp fennel seeds (more, if you're a fan)
1 3/4 cup (250g) spelt flour (i used white whole wheat, regular whole wheat is fine too)
2 cups (250g) all-purpose flour
2 tsp baking soda
1 tsp fine grain sea salt
1 3/4 cup buttermilk, plus more for brushing

preheat your oven to 400°F. place a rack in the center of the oven. in a small bowl combine all the seeds and set aside.

sift the flours, baking soda, and salt into a large mixing bowl. stir in all but 2 tbsp of the seeds. make a well in the flour, pour in the buttermilk, and stir until the dough just comes together. if you need to add an extra splash of buttermilk because the dough is too dry, you can.

tip the dough out onto a lightly floured work surface and knead lightly for about a minute, just long enough to pull it together into a loose ball but no longer - you need to get it into the oven while the baking soda is still doing its thing (come to think of it, why has nobody ever reminded me of this in regards to other baked goods?).

place the dough on a lightly floured baking sheet and mark it with a deep cross across the top, cutting two-thirds of the way through the loaf with a serrated knife. brush with buttermilk and sprinkle with the remaining seeds, making sure plenty of seeds make it down into the cracks.

bake for 35 - 40 minutes, or until the bread is golden crusted on top and bottom (you may want to move the oven rack up for the last 15 minute if you need more color on the top of the loaf; either way, check your loaf after 20 minutes as mine was done in about half an hour). cool on a wire rack.

ramen roundup

2011-03-11T18:09:00.004-05:00

this is horrifically poor timing, given what's happening in japan right now, but it's also long overdue. in any event, my thoughts are with those who have been touched by the earthquake.

---

in portland, a favorite summer pastime is the incessant hunt is for the perfect burrito. in new york, at least for me, the wintertime answer to The Great Burrito Chase is the hunt for the best ramen and udon. this is by no means an exhaustive list; there are still dozens of places that i have yet to try and i’m sure my dream ramen is still out there, patiently waiting for me. i also recognize that it’s impossible for a vegetarian to have a proper ramen experience since ramen is traditionally made with tonkotsu (pork based) or shio (meat and vegetable) broth. to further cloud my judgment, i’m neither an expert nor a traditionalist and am totally open-minded to ramen innovation (ramenovation). here’s a rundown of the noodles i’ve slurped in recent months, in no particular order.

kambi ramen house, 351 e. 14^th st. i have yet to go to minca, kambi’s sister restaurant, but i’ve heard good things. i love how ungimmicky kambi is: small, fairly crowded, without pretense or stupid décor, yet still a warm atmosphere. $13 will get you a positively massive bowl of ramen. their broth is wonderfully rich and velvety, even without meat. my vegetarian bowl came with a tea egg, crispy fried tofu, bamboo shoots, corn, green onions and some root vegetable type things. heaven. in terms of their other food, gyoza and kimchi are decent options, but don’t bother with the radish salad: a giant pile of bland pre-shredded radish with too-salty peanut dressing. the ramen is the star of the show, plain and simple, and makes one of the best winter meals imaginable.

sobaya noodles, 229 e. 9^th st. a dizzying selection of soba and udon with lots of vegetarian options. a polished feel to the place, which i almost don’t like in a noodle house. still, decently priced with very large portions and a lot of good sake to choose from (including hot, which is all i want in january). to be honest, i came here on a first date with the man of my dreams so i don’t have too much specific recollection of the food, but i had some sort of fried tofu udon bowl and it was delicious, not overly-salted (hallelujah!) and had a nice medium-consistency broth.

ishihama, 319 5^th ave. oh dear. i wish i liked this place as it’s just steps away from my office, the service is so polite and the presentation is lovely, but i’m fairly certain their “ramen” is just instant korean noodles. the broth has no body and is much too salty, the noodles are totally flaccid (definitely not fresh) and even more bizarrely, they serve it in those hot stone bowls that i thought were reserved for bibimbap. this means that your ramen takes literally forever to cool down to a palatable temperature, by which time the vegetable tempura that my ramen came topped with (i think it’s a bit odd to put tempura on ramen, but i’m not complaining) had turned to an utterly sodden mess. oh, and the music is mind-numbingly bad.

hung ry noodles, 55 bond st. i didn’t want to like hung ry: the name is stupid and it seems sort of gimmicky-new-york-timesy. having seen the light, i am sold, hook line and sinker. it is so refreshing to find innovative japanese food that isn't wildly overpriced haute cuisine. the menu changes often, but i’ve fallen hard for their squash broth, a rich, lightly sweet soup base warmed with ginger and cardamom (i think). vegetables change with availability but mine came with kale, carrot, parsnip, butternut, etc. a real stroke of brilliance is a smear of charred tamarind paste along the rim of the bowl. i’m not normally a huge fan of tamarind but found it made for a perfectly tart accent. noodles are hand-pulled to order with your specified thickness: get them thick so you can appreciate their chewy resiliency that only really fresh noodles have. one of the best bowls of “ramen” i’ve ever eaten. appetizers are worth trying: the composed winter vegetables are a trio of carrot, radish and pickled beets, each with a different dressing that compliments like a dream. crispy kale with grapefruit and chili oil is a brain-fizzler of texture and heat. between 3 people, an appetizer, three entrees, a bottle of sake and a dessert totaled $90, but i would have happily paid more for it.

udon west, 11 st. marks place. cheap, casual noodle bar with the hole-in-the-wall feeling that i love. lots of options: ramen, udon, vegetable and shrimp tempura noodle bowls, yakitori, rice bowls, etc. i had an udon noodle bowl with mountain vegetables and a soft-boiled egg. the broth was almost painfully salty and the noodles were definitely not fresh, making this more of a quick-meal-on-the-fly place than a real ramen experience, but it’s a satisfying (and very affordable) one.

momofuku noodle bar, 171 1^st ave. oh, the hype. i highly recommend going for lunch rather than battling for a table at dinner time. all their ramen is meat-based, so i went with the ginger scallion noodle bowl, which came with cucumber, pickled shiitake and bamboo. the noodles weren’t memorable and i think the whole thing could have used more ginger. the pickled shiitakes, though, were the dish's saving grace: wonderfully tart, chewy and faintly sweet (oh my god, found a recipe for them!). for dessert we had brown butter cake soft serve ice cream with toasted coconut flakes, which was delicious and perfectly salted (just like my beloved cereal milk soft serve at momofuku milk bar). i might come back again for lunch, but that meal will not haunt my dreams as promised. for that price i could do much better elsewhere.

ippudo, 65 4^th ave. getting a table at ippudo is borderline impossible as it’s always packed. it’s deafeningly loud, too—as if all the chatter weren’t bad enough, the entire staff has to yell some sort of japanese catch phrases every time a new customer comes in (wildly annoying). oh, and it’s hyped to death, but with good reason: this is some of the best ramen i’ve eaten in new york. ask for the vegetarian ramen, which isn’t on the menu, but comes with bamboo, mountain vegetables and (exceedingly good) thin-sliced bean curd. i requested a poached egg in mine, and i think they actually just dropped a raw egg directly into the bowl and let it cook in the hot broth. that's not a bad thing; it means your egg is a silky tangle of white and yellow that you don’t split open so much as dig out. the broth is terrifically rich and fragrant—i think they might even put olive oil in it, which is unexpected but it seems to make sense on the tongue. noodles are thin, and they do that service where as you’re finishing up your noodles, if you still have a decent amount of broth left you can ask for a noodle refill for a small surcharge. lovely. the appetizers, however, are so small and overpriced that they’re not even worth it: i had the raw baby octopus with fresh diced wasabi, and the fresh mountain yam with mentai plum and jalapeno masago, both of which were textural anomalies but were sized more like amuse-bouche than appetizers. bottom line: if you come for the ramen, it's worth the wait.

cardamom scented profiteroles

2011-03-08T23:42:00.007-05:00

it seems appropriate, given that i'm about to share a julia child recipe, to quote the lady herself: "everything in moderation, including moderation." (okay, fine, she may have re-appropriated it from oscar wilde.)

this has very little to do with anything, but i love it so.

tomorrow is ash wednesday, which marks the beginning of lent. though i'm not a religious person in the slightest, i've abstained for lent in past years, more as a test of self-will than as a spiritual goal per se. i've given up swearing, alcohol, and (one particularly rough year) i gave up the massive chocolate chip muffins that my high school food court used to bake fresh every morning, the smell of which was the sole motivator to totter, bleary-eyed, off of the bus at 7 am, and of which i ate enough to compose at least 25% of my body's cellular makeup.

i'm not giving anything up this year, though i probably should (like, ahh, an insatiable ice cream habit that i've clung to since a young age but unfortunately no longer have the metabolism of a 12-year-old to go with it). this year i've decided to embrace the julia child approach to moderation.

which brings me to today's recipe, inspired by semlor, or swedish buns filled with cardamom-scented cream that are typically eaten the day before lent. the pastry component is a sturdier, yeasted affair, so they can feasibly be served at breakfast or with afternoon tea. i wanted all-out immoderation, so to turn this into shameless dessert fare i borrowed the cardamom cream and used it as a filling for profiteroles.

i also swiped julia's flawless recipe for pâte à choux, which in my mind is some sort of molecular miracle: containing only butter, water, flour, and eggs (no leavening agent), it relies only on a high moisture content to create steam as it bakes, yielding a delicately puffed bun as if by magic. it's dead simple to make, with none of the fussiness of pie dough or puff pastry: you essentially boil together butter and water, stir in flour and eggs, and spoon it onto a baking sheet. no kneading, folding, or crimping. done and done.

the cream is a little trickier. be forewarned, you'll think nothing's happening and then in a split second it'll thicken up at an alarming speed. it requires a bit of chilling, a straining if you're finicky about curdled egg bits, and a gentle folding in of whipped cream. go ahead, it's worth the extra effort. the result is a silken, pudding-like mixture generously spiked with enough heady cardamom to make fans sit up and take notice, and to leave those unfamiliar with the spice wondering what that perfumey something is.

and of course, the chocolate part is a no-brainer. you can go for a modest drizzle using the tines of a fork, or you can throw moderation to the wind (recommended) and deluge the damn things like it's your last year on earth. your choice. happy mardi gras!

cardamom-scented profiteroles
squished together from this and this
makes about 30 puffs, with some extra pastry cream
for pastry cream:

3⁄4 cup sugar
3 tbsp cornstarch
1 tbsp ground cardamom
3⁄4 tsp kosher salt
1 1⁄2 cups milk
3 eggs
6 tbsp unsalted butter, cut into 1⁄2" cubes
1 cup heavy cream
1 1⁄2 tsp vanilla extract

for the pâte à choux:

1 cup water
5 large eggs, divided
6 tbsps butter, cut into pieces; plus extra for greasing the baking sheets
1 tsp salt
1 tsp sugar
pinch of nutmeg (i skipped this)
extra butter to grease the baking sheets and 1 egg, beaten, for egg wash

for the chocolate:

3 oz. dark chocolate (i used callebaut 54%), chopped
3 tbsp heavy cream

make pastry cream: whisk together sugar, cornstarch, cardamom, and salt in a 2-quart saucepan; whisk in milk and eggs. bring to a boil over medium heat; cook, whisking constantly, until thickened, about 1 minute. remove from heat, and if you have strong feelings about not wanting tiny bits of curdled egg in your cream, now is a good time to force it through a fine mesh sieve (full disclosure: i didn't bother). whisk in butter. transfer mixture to a bowl; press a piece of plastic wrap onto surface of filling. refrigerate.

in a bowl, whisk cream and vanilla to stiff peaks. fold whipped cream into chilled filling; transfer to a piping bag fitted with a fluted tip (or just leave it covered in a bowl and spoon in the filling for a more, um, rustic effect). chill for 2 hours.

make pastry: boil water, butter and seasonings in a 2-quart heavy bottomed saucepan. remove from the heat and quickly mix in the flour all at once. stir vigorously until blended thoroughly. continue to stir over medium-high heat for 1 to 2 minutes, until the mixture separates from the sides of the pan forming one mass, and it begins to film the bottom of the pan. remove from heat.

create a well in the middle of the paste and break an egg into it. stir for a few seconds until the egg is incorporated and continue to add the rest of the eggs in the same manner. the third and fourth eggs will be absorbed more slowly. mix until smooth.

preheat oven to 425°F with one rack placed on the upper third of the oven and another in the lower third. prepare two baking sheets by generously rubbing butter on the baking surface.

you can drop the paste on the baking sheet with a spoon (what i did) or pipe it with a pastry bag (with a 1/2" round tube opening) into mounds about an inch in diameter and half an inch high, 2 inches apart. dip a pastry brush into the egg wash and lightly tap each mound with the side of the brush. avoid dripping down the puff and the sheet, because that prevents the puff from rising. i gave my puffs a showering of turbinado sugar after brushing them with egg wash, but that's optional.

place the sheets in the preheated oven, one on each rack, and bake for about 20 minutes, or until they puffs have doubled in size, are golden brown, and are firm and crusty to the touch. take them out of the oven. using a sharp knife, pierce the side of each puff to prevent the crusty outside from getting soggy. return the baking sheets to the now turned off oven, with the door ajar, and leave for 10 minutes. continue to cool the puffs on a cooling rack.

while puffs are cooling, combine chocolate and cream either in a double boiler over simmering water, or in a bowl in the microwave, cooking for 20 seconds, stirring, and repeating until smooth.

using a sharp knife, cut the tops off of your puffs and fill with 2-3 tsp of pastry cream (again, you can use a pastry bag, but i just spooned it in). place the top of the puff back on and drizzle with melted chocolate. serve immediately.

if you'd like to freeze unfilled puffs, wait for the puffs to completely cool and then place them in ziploc bags. reheat in a 425°F oven for 3 to 4 minutes to thaw and crisp before serving. when using a toaster oven for a few pieces, 400°F for a minute or two does the job as well.

also, you'll probably have some leftover pastry cream. i personally recommend eating it cold with a spoon (hey, as far as midnight snacks go it's better than eating an entire jar of pasta sauce, which i may or may not have done last night), but i see no reason why you couldn't smear it on toast or cookies or use it as a decadent filling between cake layers. (oh god, why didn't i think of the cake thing before i ate most of my leftovers...?)

five to try, polenta with kale & mushrooms

2011-03-02T19:40:00.008-05:00

oh, hello. is it march already? time flies when you're having fun.

five of my recent favorite things:

1. veselka, 144 2nd avenue. everyone in my family has a crush on this place, and though i was only recently inducted into the cult of veselka worshippers, i’ve already been back a handful of times. essentially a ukrainian soul food diner, veselka has reached legendary status in the each village, and with its perfectly bitchy waitresses, 24 hour service, and the best borscht you’ll ever eat on this side of the pond, it’s no mystery why. try their blintzes, pierogis, stuffed cabbage, etc., for one of the most filling and comforting meals you can get in manhattan at a reasonable price. oh, and i found out that the secret that gives their borscht such brightness is a dosing of white vinegar. will do my best to recreate and share their recipe before spring rears its soup-eschewing head.

2. stand, 24 east 12th st. i have yet to try any of the food here, and to be honest i’m not really interested as it kind of looks like mostly overpriced burgers, but after yoseff’s recommendation joey and i stopped in the other night to catch the tail end of the oscars and both ordered (very expensive) milkshakes. holy hell. i had the ricotta pistachio, pleasantly mild and studded with crunchy-sweet nuts—subtle, which made it all the more surprising at a place like stand. joey had the toasted marshmallow, which came topped with a golden brown puffed marshmallow, and while it was exceedingly delicious, i would recommend sticking with a mini-sized shake, as it’s almost achingly sugary. will be coming back for the perfectly 90’s-esque honey lavender, and maybe some of their malted numbers.

3. o café, 482 6th st. a tiny place that i’ve walked by a zillion times without properly registering because of the minimal signage. they specialize in brazilian coffee, pastries, and gimmicky compostable cups, and while i have yet to try the coffee (let’s hope it stays that way, i’ve been clean for two weeks and counting), what was remarkable was the hot chocolate. order the “submarino” and they’ll put big chunks of excellent quality bittersweet chocolate at the bottom of your cup and pour steamed milk over it. all you have to do is stir as the chocolate melts, yielding you some of the most flavorful hot chocolate that'll ever cross your lips. even better, it's thankfully lacking that cloying, syrup-in-the-back-of-the-throat sensation that you’ll get from, say, starbucks hot chocolate.

4. num pang cambodian sandwiches, 21 east 12th st. i ignored this place forever because i wrongly assumed it would be entirely meaty, but yoseff took me in here recently and i was pleasantly surprised. there are a handful of vegetarian options: i had the roasted salt and pepper japanese yam with cipollini onions and sautéed chard, which was delicious after being de-cilantroed. i also was pretty into some stolen bites of yoseff’s coconut tiger shrimp, and will come back to try the grilled king mackerel with leek or the roasted cauliflower sandwich. while these are on the slightly pricier end for bánh mì style sandwiches (yes, i am aware that vietnam and cambodia are not the same thing), they’re very filling and the creativity of the menu makes it worth the couple extra bucks.

5. hotel delmano, 82 berry st. intimate, dimly lit and tastefully decorated with some of my favorite cocktails in brooklyn: things like chili cinnamon rims, spiced apple grenadine, elderflower tequila gimlets, etc. at $10-$13 a pop, this isn’t the kind of place i can afford to hang out at all night, but if you have a date or want to impress someone (ideally on a weeknight, as getting a table on weekends is almost impossible) this is a perfect spot. also, i’m told their raw bar is exceptional.

and finally, a recipe for the homebody in all of us. is it weird that i’m feeling reluctant to let go of wintery menus? admittedly last night i thought about the way the greenmarket smells at the peak of spring produce and it made me feel a little fluttery, but then i remembered all things i still want to make with winter’s produce and felt certain i could stand a few more months of february. there was a spiced pear chutney that i had big dreams of canning giant batches of. i still haven’t made heidi’s hazelnut chard ravioli, or deb’s butternut squash and caramelized onion galette. today i found another lentil soup recipe that made me salivate, this one with caraway seeds and a minted yogurt. siiigh. there’s always next winter, i guess.

which brings me to this humble little number: a creamy, rich polenta, puddled on a plate and topped with lemon-spiked sautéed kale and mushrooms in a rich pan-gravy. serve it alongside fish and call it italian-southern fusion: just don’t do what i did last night, which involved accidentally oven-torching a gorgeous cut of tuna into rubbery oblivion. or you can pile your polenta and kale high in a bowl, top it with a fried egg and call it the breakfast (or brunch, or lunch, or dinner) of champions.

kale & mushrooms with creamy polenta
adapted from bon appétit
serves 6 as a main course

1 1/4 lbs kale, stemmed, cut into 1” pieces (i just shredded with my hands)
4 cups whole milk
3 1/2 cups water
2 cups polenta (i used coarse-ground yellow cornmeal)
salt and freshly ground black pepper
4 oz fresh mushrooms (such as crimini, oyster, and stemmed shiitake), sliced
5 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil, divided
1 fat garlic clove, minced
1/2 cup low-salt vegetable broth
2 tbsp chopped fresh thyme
1 tbsp grated lemon peel
4 tbsp unsalted butter
2/3 cup freshly grated parmesan cheese (i used less)
fried eggs, for topping (optional)

steam kale until tender, about 5 minutes.

meanwhile, bring milk, water, polenta, salt, and pepper to boil in heavy large saucepan over medium heat, whisking constantly. reduce heat to low and simmer until thick, stirring occasionally, about 20 minutes. remove from heat.

sautée mushrooms and 3 tbsps oil to drippings in a heavy skillet. cook until mushrooms are tender, about 6 minutes. add garlic and broth; simmer until broth is slightly reduced, about 6 minutes. stir in kale, thyme, lemon peel, and remaining 2 tbsp oil, and stir well to combine. cook a few more minutes until kale is slightly collapsing and mixture is a bit more homogenized. season generously with salt and pepper.

whisk butter and parmesan into polenta and divide among plates. top with kale mixture. serve with fried eggs, if you like.

kabocha french lentil soup

2011-02-18T00:50:00.008-05:00

there’s a line from a wordsworth poem that’s been kicking around the inner recesses of my brain for a few years now:

as if his whole vocation/were endless imitation

at first i thought it was the unusually pleasing rhyme, the solid satisfaction in the way the syllables fall that made the line resonate with such persistence. recently it’s been more than that though—it pegs an insistent anxiety that’s been taking shape on my back burner for a long time.

originality. or, perhaps, lack thereof. inspiration and its origins. and not just in our “vocations,” or what we claim that we “do for a living.” it’s an imitation that echoes in each and every one of our actions. i’m not even talking about anything as all-encompassing or ideological as, say, gender role imitation—i’m more preoccupied with the facsimiled shards of other people that we pick up and hold on to, subsuming them under our own skin and calling them our own often enough that we eventually forget the name of the street corner at which we found them in the first place.
i realize more and more every day just how much i’m a catalog of the people in my life that have inspired me, people that i love. my mannerisms, my sense of humor, my aesthetic values, my interests. i worry that i’ll never have a completely independent thought, an idea in a vacuum. i might simply imitate, parroting pieces off of those i look up to for the rest of my life.

more specifically, getting back to the vocation bit—i’m terrified of the mimicry involved in food writing. i don’t mean the literal following of a recipe—that doesn’t bother me at all—i’m more getting at what it is that inspires all of us. if you read a food blog regularly for a few months you might start to think that the author’s life is nothing but immaculately sunny days, parks and beaches and farms and ice rinks with a cherubic curly-haired toddler in tow, friendly neighbors forever leaving baskets of pristine persimmons on their doorsteps.

of course that’s not reality—it’s just us mimicking one another, pretending to live a life that we’ve convinced each other is some semblance of perfection. it's beautiful, if hackneyed. and on an even more obvious level, far too many food pieces follow the “i had never eaten X food, until Y happened, and it was the most delicious thing ever” stencil—why, i’ll never know, but it’s become de rigueur.

i notice these endless imitations, and i catch myself slipping into them, and it freaks me out. if i'm honest with myself, i know i don't want the kind of walk in the park/camping trip/baby galoshes life that always looks even less real through an expensive camera lens. i consider myself a happy person for the most part, but i don’t anticipate spending the rest of my life sugarcoating words if i’m feeling depressed or angry or irritable. we are human beings, and i’m realizing that what my favorite food blogs (literature in general?) all share is that very humanity that i’m struggling to exhume from the veneer of endless imitation. if nothing else, that’s what i’ll always find inspiring.

i’m still getting over being sick (does it show?) and so i’m going to fall back on a favorite staple: lentil soup. i’m sorry if i’m beating a dead horse, especially on a day like today. new york had its first waft of spring—there were ice cream trucks in union square, and we propped all the doors open in the café this afternoon—but right now this is the only kind of food i can think to eat as i scrape this stubborn haze out of my sinuses. it’s far from humdrum, this soup: rich with earthy-sweet squash, spiked with a gentle heat from coins of fresh ginger and perfumed with star anise. what i really love is the trio of aromatics: onion, unsurprisingly, but also leeks and fennel, to play off of the anise flavor with a more toothsome herbaceousness.

bound up with nibby french green lentils, it makes for a reassuringly wholesome meal, one which develops nicely after a rest in the fridge. a beautifully written recipe. it requires no small amount of chopping, but it’s well worth it, in my opinion—an hour of methodical kitchen work yields you six freezer-friendly meals. it’s still february, after all.

lentils, previously: coconut lentil soup with warm spices, cauliflower dal with panch phoran, indian lentils, lentil stew.

french lentil, kabocha & fennel soup
serves 4-6
adapted from rebecca stevens’s souplove via 101 cookbooks

1 small kabocha or other dark orange winter squash, 1½ lb*
1/2 cup water
1 tbsp olive oil
sea salt
1 cup / 7 oz french green lentils, rinsed
5 coins peeled fresh ginger, 1/8” thick
1 whole star anise
6 cups water
2 tsp sea salt, plus more to taste
1/4 cup olive oil
1 yellow onion, medium dice
1 leek, sliced into 1/4 moons
1 fennel bulb, medium dice
red pepper flakes

*butternut, acorn, pie pumpkin, rugosa, etc., will all work—i imagine yams or sweet potatoes would make for a delicious substitute as well.

preheat oven to 425°F with a rack in the top third of the oven. cut the squash in half and remove the seeds. oil and salt the squash and roast cut side down (in a rimmed baking pan) with the 1/2 cup / 120 ml of water poured into the pan. roast until tender, about 35 to 45 minutes. when cool enough, scoop out cooked squash and set aside. (i instead cubed my squash into ¾” pieces, tossed them with salt and olive oil and roasted them at 400°F, tossing occasionally, until soft, about 20 minutes.)

in the meantime, in a medium saucepan, combine the lentils, ginger, star anise and water. simmer until tender, about 30 minutes. add 2 tsp salt.

in a large stockpot combine the olive oil, onion, leeks, fennel and additional salt. cook covered over low heat until vegetables soften, about 7-10 minutes.

add the lentils, lentil broth and squash to the vegetables in the stock pot. stir well and cook for another 15 minutes or so, allowing the flavors to blend. remove star anise and ginger. taste and adjust the seasoning here with more salt (you’ll probably need lots) and crushed red pepper to taste.

serve as is, or topped with lots of garlicky homemade croutons: rip up a few slices of bread (i used the remainders of a three day old cracked wheat sourdough) into tiny shreds, douse them in olive oil, garlic and a bit of salt, and toast in a 375°F oven until golden and crunchy.

almond cake with pomegranate reduction & creme fraiche

2011-02-16T01:57:00.003-05:00

i got pointed towards an intriguing article today, one which has inevitably been a long time coming: a backlash against the self-proclaimed "foodies" (a term which, to be honest, still makes me cringe). it was written by brian reynolds myers (also of the new york times and the wall street journal) for the atlantic, and can be read here.

it raises some interesting (and occasionally valid) points--questions surrounding gluttony, the self-righteousness of the food-movement, its inherent ostentatiousness, etc. but the two points that myers hammered home the hardest were 1. the unbending single-mindedness of foodies (cringe) and 2. the movement's inherent idealization of cold-blooded violence and its bizarre conflation with indulgence, prestige and sexuality.

granted, i am young, inexperienced and naïve. i've followed a pescatarian diet for almost half of my life, and i grew up in the decades of pilates, whole foods, the 90's low-fat craze and skim lattes for all. in short, i missed out on the ill-conceived, overtly decadent and often confusing fusion cuisine of the 80's, and subsequently it's hard for me to imagine an america in which i can't find at least three different brands of tofu at any given fluorescent grocery chain.

that being said, i was baffled by the axes myers chose to grind, the first being the narrow-mindedness of foodophiles: "Needless to say, no one shows much interest in literature or the arts—the real arts. When Marcel Proust’s name pops up, you know you’re just going to hear about that damned madeleine again."

ouch. i suppose the first defense that comes to mind here is a beloved professor of english at reed who also moonlights as a prominent portland food critic--and hosted our entire class in his home for a mind-bogglingly good dinner (involving homemade gougères, a blood orange fennel salad, and an orange almond cake) which we ate whilst ravenously discussing (what else?) literature. a multi-disciplinary study indeed.

of course, we could take the multi-facetedness of the food movement in a slightly less flattering direction, just to drive the point home. i can't help but think of the college student hipster cliché embodied in a certain bloomington burrito joint that will remain nameless. the restaurant proclaims itself to be deeply sensitive to environmental issues by sourcing local ingredients, providing many vegan options, and using organics wherever possible. employers have to pass an application process more rigorous than that of a tri delta chapter at a big ten school: being a foodie, in this instance, is not just about an interest in food; it's a package deal. multiple facial piercings, heavily tattooed arms, a fixed gear bicycle, a part-time job at a thrift store and an extensive collection of vinyl, vhs and/or vintage comic books are all excellent resumé prerequisites. this is no isolated instance, i would like to add: there are handfuls of institutions like this at every american city in which young people congregate. they are emblematic of the food movement's inextricable link with generation Y counter-culture and alternative lifestyles (which, like it or not, entail a broad, if redundant, palette of interests).

and the foodies' carnal obsession with gore and violence? myers explains: "The doublespeak now comes in more pious tones, especially when foodies feign concern for animals. Crowding around to watch the slaughter of a pig—even getting in its face just before the shot—is described...as 'solemn' and 'respectful' behavior...The full strangeness of this culture sinks in when one reads affectionate accounts...of children clamoring to kill their own cow—or wanting to see a pig shot, then ripped open with a chain saw: 'YEEEEAAAAH!'"

well, as a co-worker eloquently stated, it's "kind of like writing about religion by combining analyses of Crusades-era Christianity, Buddhism, Mayanism, Scientology, and a secular travelogue of Rome and not distinguishing between them at all." clearly myers has spent no time in the food blogosphere, else he would have been inundated with any of the hundreds of wildly popular vegan, vegetarian and food ethics blogs. there will always be an anthony bourdain sadistically feasting on ortolan. but likewise, there will always be a heidi swanson making natural vegetarian cooking indisputably appealing without ever tiptoeing into preachy territory. vegetarianism is at an all-time high, unsurprisingly with a reported 42% of american vegetarians falling in the 18-34 year old demographic (read: the same generation wielding the foodie sword).

it seems like common reporter sense not to use outlying groups as sweeping generalizations of a much larger movement, yet myers shamelessly speculates. i admittedly share his irk wth the trendiness of "foodie-ism"--food is a cornerstone of our existence; how can it be fetishized anymore than walking or thinking?--but if we as a consumer culture have to pick something to fixate on, i'm perfectly happy for it to be a goal that, if executed appropriately, can help us better ourselves as individuals as well as residents of a greater environment. finally, i'd like to make the perhaps prosaic point that many of myers's gripes are tantamount to grievances that have already been lodged against every other ideological group, um, ever: religious devotees, politicians, feminists, civil rights activists...for every gandhi and irigaray, there will be a bin laden and a katy perry. thus, for every jamie oliver, a paula deen.

oof. rant over. and, for making it through (or not): an intensely almond cake! made for valentine's day, i skipped keller's top layer of slivered almonds and instead dusted it with powdered sugar around a heart-shaped paper stencil. d'aaaw. i also swapped out strawberry-rhubarb compote for a more seasonally-appropriate pomegranate reduction. i didn't get any proper pictures, but i think this should tell you all you need to know: multiple spoons, no plates.

gâteau aux amandes
adapted from a thomas keller recipe via leite's culinaria
serves 6-8

butter and flour for the pan
7 oz almond paste
1/4 cup granulated sugar
4 ounces unsalted butter, cut into small pieces and chilled
2 tbsp honey
3 large eggs
2 tbsp amaretto, plus additional for brushing
1/3 cup all-purpose flour, sifted
kosher salt
1/3 to 1/2 cup sliced almonds, toasted (i skipped this)
confectioners’ sugar
3/4 cup crème fraîche, whipped to soft peaks (i didn't bother whipping mine)
pomegranate reduction (recipe below)

preheat the oven to 350°F. butter and flour the bottom and sides of an 8" round cake pan. line the bottom with a circle of parchment paper.

place the almond paste and sugar in the bowl of a heavy-duty mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, or in another large bowl if using a handheld mixer. begin to cream the mixture on low speed to break up the almond paste, then increase the speed to medium for about 2 minutes, or until the paste is broken into fine particles.

add the butter and mix for 4 to 5 minutes, or until the mixture is light in color and airy; stop the machine and scrape down the sides as necessary. it is important to mix long enough or the cake will have a dense texture. (i did this with a fork and my arm. i don't recommend it, but let's just say i'm ripped now.)

mix in the honey, then add the eggs one at a time, beating until each one is fully incorporated before adding the next. add the amaretto, flour, and a pinch of salt and mix just to combine. scrape the batter into the prepared pan and smooth the top. bake for about 25 minutes, or until the cake is golden and springs back when pressed. (note: while cake is baking, make pomegranate reduction, below.)

transfer cake to a rack to cool for five minutes before inverting cake onto the rack, removing the parchment paper, and inverting the cake again so that the top is once again facing upward. brush the top of the cake with amaretto and sprinkle with the toasted almonds. dust with confectioners’ sugar. cake can be stored, well wrapped, at room temperature for up to 2 days. to serve, cut into wedges. serve with a dollop of whipped crème fraîche and the pomegranate reduction (recipe below).

pomegranate reduction

2 cups bottled pomegranate juice (16 fl oz)
3 tbsp sugar
pinch salt

while cake is in the oven, bring pomegranate juice, sugar, and salt to a boil in a 1 1/2- to 2-quart saucepan over moderately high heat, then boil until reduced to a generous 1/3 cup, 20 to 30 minutes. don't cook down too much or you'll wind up with a problematically thick reduction once it cools.

ricotta & swiss chard dumplings

2011-02-14T21:29:00.004-05:00

oof. eating has been weird recently. between chocolate binges, that aforementioned nine-course extravaganza, drinking too much over the course of fashion week, stuffing my face at veselka (!), having a bomb dinner at roberta's last night,* and then spending most of today being violently ill, my stomach doesn't really know which way is up. my valentine's day resolution is to be nicer to my body this week.

although i feel fairly confident that i'm doing one of the nicest things i possibly could do for myself this winter, which is not being in portland. i forgot how much more pleasant winter is on the east coast--very cold, yes, but snowy and sunny. i don't think i realized last winter how emotionally taxing it was to always be soaking wet, never see the sun, incessantly be biking through freezing rain, constantly worrying about catching foot rot--if you're not prepared, it really takes a toll on you.

case in point: an excerpt from a recent email from a portland friend.

let me illustrate: as I was saying "[expletive! expletive! expletive!]" aloud while biking by myself to school today in the rain (after being delayed because I had to recoop our chickens that jumped the fence into our neighbors yard), I was thinking, "Oh god, all my classes suck, I haven't done enough work for any of them, [expletive]! I spent over 8 hours writing a [expletive] thesis proposal and I'm not even finished, even though it's due in a couple hours and I haven't even started any of my other homework. [expletive]! I'm so screwed but not in a good way even though it is valentine's day oh man that milk braised pork yesterday was so good. [expletive]!"

i'm hoping i'll be in a condition to be able to deal with this kind of thing next year (i suppose i won't really have a choice), but right now, as much as i love reed, i simply couldn't do it.

oh, and being immersed in perpetual food inspiration at saveur is staunchly reinforcing my decision to take the semester off. that's how i stumbled across this recipe for malfatti, italian dumplings made of ricotta and swiss chard. if my patchy italian serves me correctly, the name translates as "badly made"--an unjust title that i'm assuming refers to their rustic shape and not their flavor, which is terrifically delicate. i managed without a food processor, but i imagine the consistency of your malfatti will be much more pleasing if you use one to chop your greens. i also halved the recipe, but this is the kind of dish that is perfectly suited to flash freezing extras, uncooked and without sauce, and eating them later. exactly the kind of meal you'll be ecstatic to have waiting for you some rainy night.

*pea tendril salad with bottarga (!), breadcrumbs and lemon (though how they hunted down pea tendrils at this time of year is beyond me), four cheese pizza with honey and kale, banana cake with pretzel brittle and cinnamon gelato. oh haaaay.
malfatti
adapted from anna klinger of al di là via saveur.com
serves 4-6 (you might halve it)
note: for best results you should drain your ricotta overnight, so plan accordingly.

1 lb. ricotta (make your own, if you're up for it!)
1 tsp. kosher salt, plus more to taste
4 bunches swiss chard (about 4 lbs.), stemmed
16 tbsp (2 sticks) unsalted butter, melted
1/4 cup flour, plus more
1/2 tsp freshly grated nutmeg (i used less)
4 egg yolks
1 egg
freshly ground black pepper, to taste
24 sage leaves
freshly grated parmesan cheese, for serving

put ricotta in a cheesecloth (or non-terry cotton towel)-lined strainer set over a bowl and let drain overnight in refrigerator. measure 1 1/4 cups drained ricotta and reserve any remaining ricotta for another use.

bring a large pot of salted water to a boil and add chard; cook until soft, 3–4 minutes. drain chard and let cool. squeeze chard with your hands to expel as much liquid as possible. transfer chard to center of a tea towel, bring up edges, and squeeze to expel remaining liquid. (alternatively, working in batches, put chard in a potato ricer and squeeze to expel liquid.) transfer chard to a food processor and pulse until finely chopped. transfer chard to a large bowl along with drained ricotta, 1 tsp salt, 8 tbsp butter, flour, nutmeg, egg yolks, and egg. season with pepper and mix until smooth. (test 1 dumpling: bring a small pot of water to a boil. measure out 1 tbsp of mixture, roll in flour, and boil until the dumpling floats. if dumpling falls apart, stir 1/4 cup more flour into mixture.)

using a spoon, divide mixture into about 40 portions. working with 1 portion at a time, use 2 spoons to shape portion into an oval and dust with flour. transfer dumplings to a lightly floured baking sheet and repeat with remaining portions. (if not cooking immediately, flash freeze malfatti for up to 6 months.)

bring a large pot of salted water to a boil and add dumplings; cook until dumplings float, 1–2 minutes. using a slotted spoon, transfer dumplings to a baking sheet. meanwhile, heat remaining butter in a 10" skillet over medium-high heat, stirring occasionally, until lightly browned, about 5 minutes. add sage and cook until leaves are crisp, 1 minute. divide dumplings between 6 serving plates, drizzle with sage butter, and garnish with more parmesan and nutmeg, if you like. serve immediately.

cinnamon chili truffles

2011-02-12T19:31:00.001-05:00

i am happy to say that despite being a cynic in regard to most things, i'm a fan of valentine's day. even when (especially when?) i'm single. i love so many people.

last night yoseff hosted a food and desire themed valentine's day dinner party. i was dateless. it was fine. it was better than fine. we made a nine course meal. i revealed that i'm often a total idiot in the kitchen by spilling about eight gallons of various liquids on yoseff's floor, including when i grabbed for a salt canister and poured some into my hand only to realize that i was actually pouring the contents of a bottle of wine into my palm and subsequently onto the floor. this was, i should add, without a drop of alcohol in my system.

the first part of the aforementioned menu that i'd like to share is a recipe from robert linxe, of la maison du chocolat. while "linxe" and "chocolatier" might be the sexiest last name/profession combination i've ever heard, i have some bad news, which is that i just google image searched him and he's way too old for me.

that being said, the man knows his stuff. i mean, really knows it. full disclosure: i made these truffles around christmas as gifts, and i was pretty sorely disappointed in them. the consistency was miles away from truffly silkiness and they were achingly sweet. i've had this recipe on the back burner ever since. can i tell you something? they are not nearly as labor intensive as they sound. they're actually fun (albeit messy) to make. i have two fairly straightforward pieces of advice: 1. the freezer is your friend, and 2. use the best chocolate you can find. i know this flies in the face of my distaste for ingredient snobbery, and even moreso of namedropping, but these will be profoundly underwhelming if you don't splurge. linxe insists upon valrhona 56% in his recipe--i used callebaut 54%, but i also feel fairly confident in my guess that scharffen berger would work beautifully too. you want a big block of the stuff, not chips.

i deviated a little from linxe's otherwise perfect recipe and added some cinnamon and cayenne to the final dusting of cocoa powder, so that these have a bit of a tingle in the back of the throat. you get a dusting of bitterness from darkly bitter cocoa powder, a slight crunch from a delicate shell of pure chocolate, and then the center, which is outrageously silky, smoothly sweet without being cloying, but with that deep, faintly bitter liquor taste that you get from really high quality chocolate.

oh, and one more thing--during the boiling cream stage, which i did only twice (linxe boils his cream three times because he believes it extends the shelf life of the finished product, which i wasn't worried about because i couldn't imagine these sticking around for more than a few days)--i committed a cardinal kitchen no-no and walked away from the stove while i was boiling it the second time around. it scalded.

here's the weird part though--it acquired a bit of skin, a yellowish tinge, and a couple brown spots, so i was about to throw it out and start a new batch, but i was curious, so i tasted some. okay, i tasted a burnt patch. i fished out an island of mocha-colored milk skin and i ate it. judge away. here's where it gets really weird: it was without a doubt one of the most delicious things i've ever eaten. caramelized, lightly sweet, with some startlingly earthy things going on it, sort of like brown butter but with a much more unapologetically milky, rich taste and smell. it was phenomenal, so i used it. sadly the flavor was lost in the truffling process, but i thought i should share in case anyone has ever experimented with deliberately burning cream and has a clever application for it. i'm nervous to try and recreate it deliberately--and it also seems silly to tinker with perfection.
chocolate truffles with chili
supposedly yields around 60 (i got maybe 35 and i didn't think they were particularly large, but hey!)

10 oz valrhona chocolate, 56% cacao (see notes above about brands)
2/3 cup heavy cream
1/3 cup unsweetened valrhona cocoa powder for dusting
1-2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp cayenne pepper

chop 8 oz of the chocolate very finely and put in a bowl.

bring heavy cream to a boil in a small heavy saucepan. make sure your pan is small, so you'll lose the least amount of cream to evaporation, and heavy, which will keep the cream from scorching. linxe boils his cream three times, letting it cool between boilings — he believes that makes the ganache last longer. if you do this, compensate for the extra evaporation by starting with a little more cream. i boiled it twice.

pour the cream over the chocolate, mashing any big pieces with a wooden spoon. then stir with a whisk in concentric circles (don't beat or you'll incorporate air), starting in the center and working your way to the edge, until the ganache is smooth.

let stand at room temperature until thick enough to hold a shape, about 1 hour, then, using a pastry bag with a 3/8" opening or tip, pipe into mounds (about 3/4" high and 1" wide) on parchment-lined baking sheets. when piping, finish off each mound with a flick of the wrist to soften and angle the point tip. freeze until firm, about 15 minutes. (full disclosure: my pastry bag is in portland, and this also seemed a bit fussy, so i used a spoon and my fingers. they're not as pretty, but it worked.)

in a small bowl, combine cocoa powder, cinnamon and cayenne with a fork until well mixed. taste a bit and adjust for spices--this depends on the strength of your cinnamon and pepper, and how spicy of a truffle you want.

melt the remaining 2 oz of the chocolate and smear some on a latex gloved hand. (full disclosure: i just used a square of plastic wrap on my palm.) gently rub each chilled truffle to coat lightly with chocolate. (the secret to a delicate coating of chocolate is to roll each truffle in a smear of melted chocolate in your hand. linxe always uses gloves.)

toss the truffles in your cocoa powder mixture (linxe recommends using a fork). shake truffles in a sieve to eliminate excess cacao. store truffles in the refrigerator.

fettucine with hashed brussels sprouts, pine nuts & a fried egg

2011-01-30T01:14:00.002-05:00

it's strange to overhear the melée of television strains from the sofa area when i'm cooking dinner: my stepdad channelsurfs and i catch bits of bill o'reilly, footage from tahrir square, and what may very well be the most atrocious superbowl half time show i've ever heard*, courtesy of fergie.

i guess what's strange is to see these images from far away of people we will never meet who are doing incredibly brave things--these images sandwiched between incessant reminders of our own weird little cultural reality.

i mean, in the past two years in my life i've been able to point my finger at a select few things and say, "i want this badly enough to work really hard for it." and so i have. but to willingly die for something? for something that, if attained, i wouldn't even be around to reap the rewards of? i'm not sure if i've ever felt that passionately about anything. yes, i've worked for things, but at the end of the day i also get a lot of things handed to me, too. i have all my limbs. i have access to clean drinking water. i'm a fast learner. i have a family that loves me. i can go to college. what's more, my school has been invaluable to my growth as a creative individual. oh, and today i ate a crystallized ginger donut that was insane (this belongs on the list of things that were handed to me, because it was indeed handed to me by a donut man).

so what do i want? what do any of us with roofs over our heads, stable food prices and free speech still hunger for when we wake up in the morning? did passion die with jean valjean?? as of right now, my biggest problems are a nagging cough, a broken external harddrive and an ex-boyfriend who has recently taken to public internet harassment. i have, in other words, nothing to complain about. nothing to want. an embarrassment of riches, really. my cup runneth over.

and until i can figure out what it is that's making me tick, i'll settle for this. it's not too shabby, i promise. you're gonna have to fall back pretty hard on some winter staples: the faithful brussels sprout, most loyal of crucifers, as well as the toasted nut, that linchpin of warm winter flavors. oh, and i'm going to ask you to put an egg on it, because Without Fried Eggs I Am Nothing. it's not really a deviation from my go-to triumvirate of starch + green + egg, but if it ain't broke...! lightly browned butter and toasted pine nuts combine with the almost mustardy edge that barely-sautéed brussels sprouts have. you get a low, earthy nuttiness that makes for pure comfort-food, especially with a generous showering of parmesan. use whatever pasta you like--whole wheat spaghetti, fresh linguine, etc.

it's not going to solve the world's problems, and it (probably) won't help you find yourself, but it's something to chew on while you ponder your grander motives, and in the mean time it makes for a pretty dreamy dining companion.

*this may not be saying much, since if memory serves me correctly the only other superbowl halftime show i've ever seen was the year prince played/the earth stood still.

brussels sprouts, previously: brussels sprouts & chestnuts in brown butter sauce, crispy brussels sprouts with parmesan crusted tofu, sweet potato gnocchi with brussels sprouts & walnuts.

fettucine with hashed brussels sprouts, pine nuts & fried eggs
serves 4 as a main course

1 1/2 lbs brussels sprouts, trimmed and rinsed (look for smaller ones)
6 tbsps pine nuts, lightly toasted in a heavy skillet
8 oz dried pasta (i used a spinach fettucine, but any long noodle will do)
5 tbsp butter
4 tbsps olive oil, divided
2 fat cloves garlic, minced
4 eggs
salt & freshly ground pepper to taste
freshly grated parmigiano reggiano, for serving

this is one of those dishes where having your ingredients all prepped beforehand really matters, because you're going to be multitasking and it'll move quickly, whether you're ready or not. make sure your garlic is minced, your cheese grated, and everything within easy reach before you start. oh, and about the sprouts--if you have a food processor, now is absolutely the time to use it. if you don't, it's totally feasible with a sharp knife and a big cutting board (i did it this way) but i'm sure you can think of a million things you would rather be doing on a sunday night that don't include cutting a million slippery little sprouts into tiny slivers. besides, this is, at the heart of the matter, a very simply assembled dish, so it's nice to keep it that way.

if using a food processor, fit it with a slicing disk and slice the brussels sprouts into a fine hash. if not, slice them finely with a sharp knife.

place a large pot of salted water over high heat. when it's boiling, add the pasta and cook until al dente.

while the pasta cooks, cook the brussels sprouts. heat a large skillet (the widest one you've got) over medium-high heat. add the butter and 2 tbsps of the olive oil. when the butter has melted (i recommend browning it a little), add the brussels sprouts, garlic and salt to taste. put a lid over the pan and cook for about 8 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the sprouts are bright green and just tender.

meanwhile, put the last 2 tbsps of olive oil in a large cast iron skillet over medium heat. when the pan is hot, crack your four eggs and fry until crisp around the edges. flip if you like, or leave sunny-side-up.

when pasta is ready, drain it, reserving about 1/2 cup cooking water. put pasta in a large serving bowl with sprouts and pine nuts. add salt, pepper and parmigiano generously, and toss well. taste and adjust seasonings as necessary--if the pasta seems a bit dry, add a splash or two of the cooking water.

portion pasta out onto plates and top each plate with a fried egg. serve immediately, with additional parmigiano reggiano and salt on the table.

seared radish crostini, round 2

2011-01-25T02:35:00.023-05:00

i am positively bubbling over. this week i started my internship at saveur, and can truthfully say that i cannot think of anything i would rather be doing.

i feel weird saying much more about it on the internet, especially since i would just be creepily gushing. but dear god, it is exciting.

that aside, it's also been making me feel re-inspired to cook, which i haven't been so much for the past few weeks. it's not that i don't want to, not that i don't have ideas, but i've been feeling a bit--flighty? distracted? i don't know. a bit too scatterbrained to just hang out and cook, which for me is usually quiet alone wind-down time.

plus i have an encyclopedic list of all the restaurants in new york that i still want to try (and an almost-as-long list of people that i plan on cajoling into buying me dinner). but being in that office, constantly immersed in a cloud of wonderful smells emanating from their glorious test-kitchen, over-hearing clever food-banter (clever! food! banter!), reading article drafts--it's impossible not to be itching to cook by the end of the day.

so today for lunch i made my favorite seared radish crostini à la melissa clark, but this time i tweaked it a bit. i found something called a watermelon radish at the greenmarket the other day and couldn't not take one home with me. for one, look at the damn thing: a sight for winter-bleached eyes. but also, the vendor was cuuute. also again, the explicatory sign was even cuter: "these are radishes, not watermelons."

and accurately so: despite being significantly larger than the french breakfast radish or the cherry belle (mine was the size of a large grapefruit), they have that wonderfully spicy snap to them, that tingling radishy bite that i used to begrudgingly pick out of my salads with a shudder as a child.

oh, speaking of childhood food phobias that i'm totally over: anchovies. i've been eating them for years (anyone who tries to feed me an anchovy-less caesar salad will be scoffed at), but until fairly recently would never have dreamed of cooking with them. i clearly remember opening my father's kitchen cupboard at the tender age of five and all but shrieking in horror at his massive stockpile of jarred anchovies, their clear glass walls allowing for (what seemed at the time) a horrific display of mutilated fish bits suspended in blood-tinged pond scum.

but recently i've been on a pretty serious anchovy bender and am kicking myself for having avoided them all these years. frying them in a little butter with garlic and watching them melt--literally, melt--into a puddle of luscious, umami-rich sauce is one of the most pleasing things you can do in five minutes. (a word of advice: hold the salt; these guys tend to be plenty salty as is.)

my other major tweak to the recipe was to add a teaspoon of toasted fennel seeds to the sauce, because i was thinking about how well fennel gets along with fish and figured i should introduce it to my new found little jarred friends.

the result is unreal: you get the slightly mellowed snap of the watermelon radishes, gone gently sweet around the edges, drizzled with a butter-rich, salty-kicky sauce, and underscored with a toothsome seeded-toast crunch. the whole mess gets punctuated by a generous lemon twang to light up that herbal, floral fennel seed thing--oh my. why i didn't have this for lunch and dinner today is beyond me.

seared radish crostini with fennel anchovy sauce

adapted from melissa clark's recipe for the new york times

serves 2 for a dream lunch

1 bunch radishes, or one large watermelon radish
2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
1/4 tsp freshly grated pepper
6 tbsp butter
8 anchovy fillets, finely chopped
2 large garlic cloves, minced
generous pinch red pepper flakes
1 tsp fennel seeds (i recommend toasting them in a cast-iron skillet)
8 thin slices crusty bread, toasted
lemon wedges, for serving

remove leaves and stems from radishes, trim the tails (or, if using a watermelon radish, quarter the whole thing and then slice each quarter up, lengthwise, into wedges). cut larger radishes lengthwise into sixths and smaller radishes lengthwise into quarters.

place a large skillet over medium-high heat until very hot. add 2 tbsp oil, radishes in a single layer (do not crowd) and black pepper. cook radishes, without moving them, until they are lightly colored on undersides, about 3 minutes. shake pan and continue cooking until tender, about 3 more minutes.

in a small skillet over medium heat, melt butter. stir in anchovies, garlic, red pepper and fennel seeds. reduce heat and simmer about 4 minutes.

brush each slice of toast with sauce and top with several radish wedges. spoon additional sauce on top, sprinkle with additional crushed red pepper, if you like, and a generous squirt of lemon juice. serve with additional lemon wedges.

the brave and the beautiful

2011-01-20T04:59:00.006-05:00

i probably should have called this blog "in defense of ugly or otherwise stigmatized food."
although that would have been a misnomer too, though, because like most people i'm also a sucker for an aesthetically pleasing plate. what i'm really getting at, i suppose, is that many of my secret gastronomical weaknesses are homely at best--and it might just be that their vulnerability as such makes me crush on them that much harder.

~~i have two words for you, and i'm going to ask you not to laugh: stewed prunes.~~

~~how does 'dried plum compote' sound?~~

look, there's no easy way for me to say this. here's what i'm asking you to do: take a pound of prunes, forgive them their unglamorous laxative day job, and plunk them into a pot over low heat with some sort of slivered citrus, a cinnamon stick and a slosh of water. walk away for a half hour, maybe forty five minutes if you've got a big driveway to shovel, and then come back, stick the whole mess in the fridge, and forget about it till the next morning. that's when the magic really happens: you can swirl your ~~stewed prunes~~ ~~dried plum compote~~ rehydrated stone fruit sauce into yogurt or nest it into a steaming bowl of oatmeal. if you're one of those dessert-for-breakfast types, i feel morally obligated to tell you that a puddle of these babies atop a slice of toast with nutella is Out Of Control. if you're one of those dessert-for-every-meal types, spoon them over some toasted almond ice cream and you won't be sorry.

what makes such a cruelly monickered snack so wonderful? well. remember plums? remember galette and fennel salad and crumble and gingery sauce? despite having the same glorious origin, stewed prunes are nothing like plums. they are the brooding, darkly sensual cousin of the effervescent student-body-president plum. they're adrien brody to plum's josh hartnett. they are the less popular but infinitely more alluring relative that induced such jealousy within the plum's stony heart that it cast the stewed prune away with a name unfortunate enough to insure the plum's everlasting societal superiority.

it was an exercise in futility, though, because let's be real--i'd way rather go out on a date with adrien brody. don't get me wrong, i love plums in all their incarnations, but i'm going to have to side with david lebovitz on this one: stewed prunes are infinitely more interesting than a rehydrated dehydrated plum. with an amiable nudge from a low flame and some citrus twang, they collapse into a silken pockets of intoxicating juice. they're almost winey. (unsurprisingly, my next application for the noble stewed prune will be an alcoholic one, served for dessert atop a pillow of mascarpone.)

and the best part is that this is stupid-easy "cooking," a recipe that barely even qualifies as such since you will have it instantly memorized. the finished product really, truly gets better as it ages--the sweetness quiets down, allowing tart and winey notes to shine through that much more as flavors meld and mellow. make it at least the night before you plan on eating it, but ideally a full 24 hours in advance. do it. do it for the poor, misunderstood prunes.

stewed prunes with citrus and cinnamon
adapted from tomato blessings and radish teachings via orangette
makes 4-7 servings, depending on how you're eating them

1 orange, OR 2 small tangerines, OR 1 small orange and ½ a lemon*
1 lb pitted prunes
1 cinnamon stick
1-2 tsp ground ginger (my addition, optional)

*(next time i might use two small lemons for a little added tartness, but i also spend most of my time thinking about lemons, so take that with a grain of salt)

cut the citrus fruit in half vertically, and then slice it thinly, peel and all. place the slices in a medium saucepan with the prunes, cinnamon stick, and ginger if using, and add water to cover. bring the mixture to a gentle simmer, and cook over medium-low heat for about 30-45 minutes, until the prunes are quite tender, the citrus slices are soft and glassy, and the liquid in the pan is caramelly. remove the cinnamon stick and serve, or store in a sealed container in the refrigerator for up to a week. they're definitely better after a rest (see note above) so try to make them a day or so in advance.

mushrooms and the dead of winter

2011-01-16T17:17:00.003-05:00

bottarga.

say it aloud to yourself, slowly. boh-taaahr-ga. it sort of sounds like the location of captain jack sparrow's hidden pirate cove.

it also sounds, at least to me, like summer. i read about it a few days ago and haven't been able to stop thinking about it since. it's the roe pouch of female tuna or grey mullet, salt cured and dried until it has the consistency of parmigiano reggiano. it's typically eaten thinly sliced or grated on top of things (artichoke hearts, shaved fennel or celeriac doused with lemon juice come to mind) or blended with olive oil and garlic as a creamy, sea-laden sauce for pasta. or, as a chef at quince restaurant first tasted it, "grated over a plate of fresh shelling beans that were bathed in tuscan olive oil." that's what really stopped me in my tracks and has been haunting me with visions of the sicilian seaside, all brininess and salty kick and summertime.

i'm sure i could hunt it down fairly easily in this neck of the woods--the west village is not wanting for ~~high-end~~ overpriced specialty food stores--but it wouldn't be right. not in manhattan in the dead of winter. i want my bottarga domestic, or i don't want it at all. if this means i have to wait twenty years until i find myself in sicily, so be it--i will dream of shelling beans and heirloom tomatoes atop a mound of arugula crowned with olive oil and curls of bottarga until then.

and in the meantime, i will share something almost embarrassingly quotidian in comparison with sicilian delicacies. jamie oliver's mushroom bruschetta. i have joined the hordes of women who are crushin' hard on jamie oliver--and can you blame us? he's unreasonably ~~cute~~ philanthropic. but that's not what i want to talk to you about. i want to talk about mushrooms.

these are mushrooms as you might have had them before, but With A Backbone. you can serve them atop toasted sourdough, as jamie suggests, or piled over grilled baguette. you can stir in oozy hunks of mozzarella di bufala or use them as a bed for a poached egg. you could swirl them into a risotto or nest them alongside a wine-braised chicken breast. or you could do as i did, and double or triple the recipe and serve them all on their own as a side dish.

what you do is take an "interesting" mix of mushrooms (i love this instruction, so open-ended but also so trusting of our judgment) and cook them down with a couple of aromatics, gloss the whole thing over with a "knob" (another instruction that i love) of butter, perk it up with a hit of lemon, and then collect all of your earthy mushroom essence from the edges of the pan with a couple spoonfuls of water (yes, water). it's admittedly everyday food--you might catch yourself making it for brunch three days in a row--but even though it's no gnochetti alla bottarga, it's still delicious. after all, it is january.

ultimate mushroom bruschetta
adapted from jamie oliver
serves 2

extra virgin olive oil
11 ounces mixed interesting mushrooms, wiped clean (i used baby portobellos, shiitake, white, oyster and morels)
2 cloves of garlic, 1 peeled and finely chopped, the other halved
a few sprigs of fresh thyme, leaves picked
optional: a sprig of summer savory, leaves picked
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 dried red chilli, crumbled
a small knob of butter
1 lemon
2 slices of sourdough bread

put a large frying pan, big enough to hold all the mushrooms in one layer, on the heat and add a couple of glugs of extra virgin olive oil. depending on the size of your mushrooms, leave any small ones whole but tear, break or slice the larger ones up. add them all to the pan and give it a shake to toss the mushrooms in the oil. add the chopped garlic and fresh herbs and shake the pan again. add a pinch of salt and pepper and the crumbled chilli and leave to fry gently for a few minutes. if the mixture becomes dry, pour in a little more oil (i used a splash of white wine).

once the mushrooms have got some color going on, after about 3 to 4 minutes, add the butter and a squeeze of lemon juice to give a nice twang--don't go overboard here, you don't need much--and toss again. to finish this off and make a creamy sauce, spoon 2 to 3 tablespoons of water into the pan. simmer for a little longer, until you have a lovely simple sauce that just loosely coats the mushrooms. now toast your bread.

when toasted, rub the bread with the cut side of the remaining clove of garlic. place each slice on a serving plate, pile the mushrooms and creamy juices from the pan on top and eat immediately.

the marmalade chronicles

2011-01-12T16:16:00.098-05:00

something about being in this apartment consistently gives me the impulse to make jam. i'm not sure why.

maybe it's the proximity to the glorious greenmarket, where seeing such an excess of produce awakens some deeply rooted primordial instinct in me to store food for the winter (i keep reminding myself that it already is winter, but you try arguing with my survival impulses--they simply will not see reason). maybe it's because i like the gentle hum of a such an archaic product: a few hours of hands-on productional therapy, a quiet jammy eye in the middle of a new york storm. maybe it's because our apartment is small enough that a bubbling pot on the stove can warm the whole space in minutes.

right now, all i really know is that in addition to my ongoing dousing-everything-i-eat-with-lemon-juice problem, winter also gives rise to an eating-half-my-weight-in-citrus problem. the whole foods a few blocks away is not making it any easier: mountains of blood oranges, tangelos, grapefruits of all shades, tangerines, cara cara oranges, and other citruses that i've never even heard of make it impossible for me to walk by without taking a couple home.
which is all fine and good--nobody ever had a heart attack from eating 13 clementines in a day--but i'm slightly worried about burning a hole in my stomach lining, rotting my dental enamel, or similar.

siiiigh.

well, the convergence of my rampant citrus addiction and my uncontrollable impulse to jammery have inevitably led me to one thing: marmalade. and lots of it.

my first batch came about after some recipe googling. blood orange marmalade, i decided, would have the advantages of being a stunning jewel tone and sounding a lot sexier than, say, seville orange marmalade. so i sliced up six ruby-fleshed globes into a million tiny triangles and cooked them down with sugar, water, and a pectin bag. and then i tasted it, and it was horrendously bitter. undaunted, i kept cooking. and cooking. and cooking.

about two hours later, i realized that they simply were not going to collapse into the faintly bittersweet jammy slump i had hoped for. by this time i had all but obliterated my tastebuds with taste testing, so i hoped i was maybe imagining that it was worse than it was, and that maybe when it cooled it would mellow out a little. wrong. it was all but inedible, and this is coming from someone who loves bitter things. it was unspeakably bad.

round two: having learned a few things, namely that very thick-skinned fruit is not a good choice for jamming, i instead went for a meyer lemon and ginger number. hot damn. i have found marmalade nirvana (am i wrong or does this totally sound like the name of a failed shoegaze band from the 90's?)

it's slightly labor intensive: slicing two pounds of fruit very finely is time consuming, as is some delicate lemon segment-skin surgery, an extended cook time, and jar processing. but it's well worth it, in my opinion: you wind up with some of the most flavorful jam you'll ever taste, sweet and tangy and just barely whispering of bitterness, punctuated just-so with pockets of gingery heat. and as long as you don't have any cuts on your hands, all that slicing can be therapeutic, especially if you're watching the dark crystal at the same time. just don't come crying to me when you run out of bread and find yourself smearing marmalade on tortilla chips at three in the morning.

meyer lemon & ginger marmalade
adapted from simply recipes
makes (in my case) 28 oz. of jams, or 3 8oz. jars and 1 4oz. jar

2 lbs of meyer lemons (about 6 lemons)--note that you can't substitute regular lemons here
4 cups water
4 cups granulated sugar
an approx. 2" knob of fresh ginger

note that the proportion of lemon segments to water to sugar is 1:1:1. if you don't have a kitchen scale and don't weigh your lemons to begin with, as you proceed through this recipe keep in mind these proportions. your 2 lbs of lemons should yield 4 cups of chopped lemon. 4 cups of chopped lemon will be cooked first with 4 cups of water, and then later 4 cups of sugar are added. you can also do this recipe with 6 cups of chopped lemons, 6 cups of water, and 6 cups of sugar; but don't double the recipe.

also note that instead of adding packaged pectin, this recipe naturally extracts it from the lemons by putting all the extra lemon pieces (skin, seeds, segments, etc.) in a DIY cheesecloth bag and boiling it with the jam. so when preparing your fruit, keep this in mind and set aside pieces that you remove instead of throwing them away.

equipment needed

1 wide 6 or 8-quart pan (stainless steel or copper with stainless steel lining, not aluminum which will leach)
a sharp chef's knife
a candy thermometer, if you've never made jam before
canning jars (the kind with a two-part lid)
cheesecloth, enough to double over and form a bag to hold the seeds for making pectin, or a muslin jelly bag

scrub the lemons clean. discard any that are moldy or damaged. cut 1/4" off from the ends of the lemons. working one at a time, stand a lemon on end. cut the lemon in half lengthwise. cut each lemon half into several segments, lengthwise. (i cut mine into sixths, you could also cut them into eighths as you cut the lemons into segments, if you can, pull off any exposed membranes. just get the ones that are easy to get to, ignore the rest. when you've cut down to the final segment, cut away the pithy core. remove all seeds from the segments. reserve the seeds and any removed membrane or pith. you will need them to make pectin.

cut each lemon segment crosswise into even pieces to make little triangles of lemon peel and pulp. (there are good pictures of this on the original recipe; i prefer cutting the citrus into thinner strips, like this, because i like the texture of the finished product better that way.)

put all of the seeds, membranes and pith you removed from the lemons into a bag fashioned out of two layers of cheesecloth or a muslin jelly bag.

place the lemon segments and water into a large, wide pot. place the pectin bag in the pot with the fruit pulp and secure to the pot handle. bring mixture to a medium boil on medium high heat. let boil, uncovered, for about 25-35 minutes, until the peels are soft and cooked through. taste one of the lemon peel pieces. it should be soft. if it is still chewy, keep cooking until soft. remove from heat.

remove the pectin bag, place the pectin bag in a bowl and let cool until it is comfortable to touch. once your pectin bag has cooled to the point you can handle it, if you want, squeeze it like play-doh to extract any extra pectin, letting it drip into your jam pot. (you might wear latex gloves for this.) you should be able to get a tablespoon or two more from the bag. it has the consistency of sour cream.

measure out your sugar and add it to the pan with the lemon mixture. note that a lot of jam aficionados say that you can't reduce sugar in a recipe like this because the jelly won't set properly, but i used a scant 3 cups instead of 4 (which, even then, i found a bit too sweet, though i might have had unusually sweet lemons) and my marmalade still set like a dream. to be on the safe side, you might want to not add all of your sugar at once, and if it needs to be sweeter you can always add more later. peel and finely dice your ginger, and add about half of it to the pot as well. as with the sugar, you can always add more later if it's not gingery enough for you.

heat the jelly mixture on medium high and bring it to a rapid boil. secure a candy thermometer to the side of the pan. the marmalade may take anywhere from 20 to 35 minutes or so to be ready to pour out. after about 15 minutes, start checking it frequently.

there are two ways to test that the marmalade is ready to pour out into jars: the mixture reaching a temperature of 220-222°F (or 8-10°F above the boiling point at your altitude), or a bit of it put on a chilled plate "wrinkles up" when you push it with your finger tip. i don't have a thermometer, so i do the latter.

for the wrinkle test, put a small plate into the freezer. as the jelly temperature reaches 218°F (or after it's been cooking for 15 minutes after you've added your sugar), start testing it by placing a small amount of the hot jelly on a chilled plate. if the jelly spreads out and thins immediately, it isn't ready. if it holds its shape a bit, like an egg yolk, that's a good sign. wait 15 seconds and push up against it with your finger tip. if the jelly sample wrinkles at all, it is time to take the jelly off the heat and pour it out into jars (again, see pictures on the original recipe here). taste again, adding additional sugar or ginger if necessary, and cook another minute or so to allow sugar to meld.

when you use a candy thermometer to test the temperature of your mixture, make sure the probe isn't touching the bottom of the pan and that the indentation on the probe (with modern candy thermometers this is about an inch and a half from the bottom of the probe) is actually surrounded by the mixture. this may mean that you have to tilt the pan to one side to cover the probe sufficiently and get a good reading.

while the marmalade is in its second cooking stage, rinse out your canning jars, dry them, and place them, without lids, in a 200°F oven. they should be in the oven at least 10 minutes before using them.

as the time approaches for the marmalade to be done, boil some water. put the jar lids in a clean glass or ceramic bowl and pour the boiling water over them to sterilize.

once the jelly has reached 220°F or its "wrinkly" stage, remove the jelly pot from the heat. carefully ladle the jelly into the jars, one at a time, leaving 1/4 inch head space at the top of the jars for a vacuum seal. wipe the rim clean with a clean, wet paper towel. place the lid on the jar, securing with a jar ring.

fill a large pot with water and bring it to a boil. submerge your filled, sealed jars in it--the jars should be completely covered with at least an inch of water above the lids. boil for twenty minutes, and carefully remove from heat, draining the water. when jars are cool enough to touch, twist the lids on a little tighter. you will hear them make a popping sound within the next hour or so as the vacuum is sealed. note that the jelly will firm up as it cools. don't eat any jam that hasn't sealed properly (i.e. the "button" on the lid is up). this is marvelous on toast with a fresh chevre or mascarpone and a crank or two of black pepper. i'm just sayin'.

roasted squash & farro salad

2011-01-09T14:58:00.003-05:00

since i've been back in new york, my once fastidiously organized phonebook has been inundated with made-up last names for new additions: mnemonic tags like "whatever," "cutie," "pretentious," "uhbuhhh," and (my personal favorite) "ice cream." strange to meet people outside of a tiny college's equally tiny social sphere, but also refreshing to not know somebody's last name and everything about them before you meet them.

it's sort of a trial run for what life will be like when i'm ~~a real human being~~ no longer a student, when i'll be forced to do the unthinkable and meet people without the guiding hands of college regularly dropping friends into my lap. words like "holiday office party," "grabbing a drink with my coworkers" and "let's have the neighbors over for dinner" are looming ominously over my head. maybe i'll just run away to a nunnery after college.

in the mean time, though, new york is treating me like a lady. last night i saw ferreri's il seme dell'uomo at the perfectly hole-in-the-wall spectacle theater, which was one of the better movies i've seen in a long time. i've heard some impressive bands play and drank some impressive hot toddies in the process. i've also made it my personal mission to root out the best bowl of ramen in new york before spring.

you can't slurp noodles forever, though--it starts to add up. still in economical student cooking mode, i've been falling back on variations of my favorite one bowl meals: combinations of grains, greens and proteins prepared in bulk and eaten for a couple of days. (though at the rate i'm going, this number will be lucky if it survives to see tomorrow.) this one is based on clotilde's einkorn salad, which i tweaked a bit. i used farro instead of einkorn (i have yet to find it in american grocery stores, though i believe it's quite similar to spelt), threw in some torn baby spinach and doused the whole thing in lemon. of course it's flexible--you could swap out shallots for some oven-roasted pearl onions, use a different quick-cooking green in place of the spinach, etc. the finish product is chewy, nutty, lightly sweet from oven-caramelized squash chunks, faintly tangy with lemon, bound up with a dusting of warm toastiness from ras-el-hanout. and, conveniently, it's just as good cold as it is warm or at room temperature.

roasted squash & farro winter salad

adapted from chocolate and zucchini

serves 7

1 medium hokkaido squash, approx 2 1/2 lb (other winter squashes may be substituted; just make sure you pick a variety that holds its shape when cooked--i.e. not spaghetti squash)
1 tbsp ras-el-hanout or other warm spice mix
ground cayenne pepper, to taste
1 1/2 cups uncooked farro (or wheat berries, or spelt, or einkorn wheat, etc.)
2 medium shallots, peeled and finely minced
one bunch fresh tarragon (or parsley, or cilantro, or a mix), roughly chopped
the meat from about 20 walnuts, crumbled (and toasted if you like)
several handfuls baby spinach, roughly torn (or use other quick cooking greens)
olive oil
1 lemon
sea salt and freshly ground pepper

preheat the oven to 400°F.

cook your grain according to package instructions, adding the minced shallot to the cooking water. if you have a pressure cooker, this should take just under half an hour; otherwise it can take up to an hour, depending on the grain and whether you've presoaked, so plan accordingly. you want your grain to be tender but still have some of its springy resiliency to the bite: just chewy enough to still be pleasing to eat.

while grains are cooking, prepare squash. if you're using an organic hokkaido, butternut, or kabocha squash, you don't need to peel it, but otherwise you should slip the skin off with a sharp knife or a veggie peeler. cut the squash into quarters and scoop out the seeds and stringy flesh (a grapefruit spoon works wonders here). cut the flesh into bite-sized cubes.

turn the squash out onto a rimmed baking sheet. sprinkle with the ras-el-hanout, cayenne pepper, and salt to taste. drizzle with olive oil, toss well to coat, arrange in an even layer, and insert in the oven. roast for 30 to 40 minutes, until the squash is tender and golden in places, stirring halfway through. remove from oven.

when squash and grains are done, combine them in a very large salad bowl along with the spinach, walnuts, herbs, a generous dousing of salt and pepper, and juice from half of your lemon. toss well, taste, and adjust seasoning, adding juice from the other half of your lemon if you like.

serve immediately, or cover and reserve in the refrigerator for a few hours before serving. you can also make the salad a day ahead, in which case you might wanna hold the fresh herbs and lemon, adding them just before serving.

breakfast thoughts

2011-01-07T16:08:00.010-05:00

1.) clockwise, from top left: sliced tangelo; italian veggie sausage, tomato, and spinach "scramble"; caramelized fennel; olive oil fried egg.

2.) frittata with mushrooms, spinach, onions, tomato, veggie sausage and an herbed fromage blanc, topped with thinly sliced pears and more cheese right before broiling. served with baguette and ginger beer gimlets.

a good frittata template is over here. the idea will more or less be the same regardless of what mix-ins you're using: lightly sautée your veggies, beat 5-8 eggs with some salt and pepper (and cheese, if you like) in a separate bowl and then pour over veggies, cook over medium heat until set around edges, top with more cheese, broil for a minute or two until lightly browned.

wine glazed radicchio

2011-01-04T14:46:00.005-05:00

if anyone remembers my fateful words of foreboding the night all blizzarding hell broke loose, i should tell you that they were rightfully ominous. it wasn't just the new york airports that were remarkably inept at dealing with new england winter weather, but the entire northeast. getting a flight to mexico from anywhere within a 300 mile radius was, for all intents and purposes, impossible.

so we, uh, drove to georgia and flew from there.

i have little to say about our impromptu 15 hour family road trip except that i learned that there is, in fact, a town in pennsylvania called "intercourse" and that over the duration of the trip there were two (2 [II]) lost passports, one set of keys locked in the car, one lost cellphone, a dead GPS and several airport-confiscated bottles of hot sauce.

oh, and we had to sacrifice my sister to the amtrak gods, but i don't want to talk about that because i'm still deeply embittered.

a belated christmas dinner photo. radicchio plated
alongside a cherry-glazed roast pork. notice santa hat.

sometimes that can be a good thing though. case in point: radicchio (i'm sorry, i know that was an atrocious attempt at a segue). radicchio, or chicory, is a pretty polarizing vegetable, as far as they go. and to the best of my knowledge, you can't cook the bitterness out of it the way you can with kale or cabbage. you can, however, mellow it out a little, balancing it with a sweet and sour wine reduction, streaked with honey and balsamic.

it's still uncompromisingly acerbic, at the heart of the matter, but rounded out--softened slightly with just enough sugar and acid to make it sparkle. this is radicchio with a backbone. shower it with freshly grated parmesan and serve as a side, or top it with toasted nuts and a fried egg (i'll bet you knew that was coming) for a beautiful plum-toned one-bowl dinner that, despite being a little rough around the edges, you might find charmingly bittersweet.

wine-glazed radicchio
adapted from pithy and cleaver
serves 1, or 2 as a side dish

1 cup red wine
olive oil
1 shallot
2 heads radicchio (about 1 lb total)
2 tbsp balsamic vinegar
2 tbsp honey
optional for serving: freshly grated parmesan, fried eggs

in a small saucepan, boil down the wine until it reduces by half. meanwhile, remove any grungy outer layers from radicchio, core and slice thinly. finely chop shallot.

in a large frying pan, heat olive oil and add shallot. cook until transparent, then add radicchio, reduced wine, balsamic, and honey. turn up to medium-high heat and cook until most of the wine evaporates and radicchio has softened (but isn’t mush.) season with salt and pepper to taste, top with grated parmesan and a fried egg or two.

mexico

2011-01-02T16:18:00.010-05:00

a chloe and jen guacamole collaborative

exorbitant advertising

tostadas con ceviche de camoranes, mid-cilantro purge

...and after

there was also a fried mysterious white fish topped with a grapefruit avocado salsa that i was pretty into, but it sadly did not photograph well. more words later. happy new year!

gingerbread apple upside-down cake

2010-12-23T19:46:00.011-05:00

i am currently snowed into my house as well as into the country.

we're supposed to leave for mexico tomorrow, but our flight's been canceled. we have decided, instead, to get to the airport obscenely early in the morning and camp out until somebody lets us on a plane.

a foolproof plan!

so, since (if all goes as planned) i will spend the next week thinking only of ceviche and guacamole and margaritas, i'm leaving you with something that is about as wintery as it gets: that aforementioned gingerbread cake, but with (not to gild the lily or anything) a layer of caramelized apples.

oof. what you do is make a quick stovetop caramel out of brown sugar and butter, swirl it along the bottom of a cake pan, tile it with thinly sliced apples, and then pile on a thick layer of spicy gingerbread batter. after a dalliance in the oven, you turn it out onto a plate, so it can show off a layer of sugar-softened apples and toffee-colored underside. but don't forget the gingerbread itself: it's phenomenally moist and unreasonably fragrant. i served it dolloped with creme fraiche, but unsweetened whipped cream, sour cream or ice cream would all be equally happy platemates. you would be hardpressed to find a more seasonally appropriate dessert--or a more delicious one, for that matter.

gingerbread apple upside-down cake
recipe by karen bates at the philo apple farm via the new york times, adapted from smitten kitchen
serves 12

for topping:

4 tbsp butter, plus extra for greasing pan
1/2 cup dark brown sugar
pinch of salt
4 apples (about 1 3/4 lbs), peeled, cored and cut into 1/4" wedges

for batter:

1/2 cup (1 stick or 4 ounces) butter, at room temperature
1/2 cup sugar
1 large egg
1/3 cup dark molasses
1/3 cup honey
1 cup buttermilk*
2 1/4 cups flour
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 1/2 tsp ground ginger
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp allspice
1 tsp cardamom
dash mace (optional)
dash nutmeg

*see here for instructions on how to make your own buttermilk

make topping: preheat the oven to 325°F. grease a 10" cake pan. melt butter in a small saucepan. add brown sugar and simmer over moderate heat, stirring, four minutes, then swirl in salt (don't you love using 'swirl' that way?). remove from heat and pour into the bottom of your cake pan. make circles of overlapping apple slices on top of the caramel. chop any remaining slices and place them in the gaps.

make batter: using a mixer, blend 1/2 cup butter and the sugar on medium-low speed. increase the speed to high and cream until light and fluffy.

in a medium bowl, whisk together the egg, molasses, honey and buttermilk. in a separate bowl, sift together the flour, baking soda, salt and spices. alternate mixing the flour and molasses mixtures into the butter mixture, adding the next once the last has been incorporated.

pour the batter into the pan and smooth with a spatula. bake at least 45 to 50 minutes or until a wooden tester inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean (it might take longer). let cool on a rack for 10 to 15 minutes, then turn out onto a platter. serve warm with softly whipped cream, creme fraiche, sour cream, ice cream, etc.

carrot coconut purée with ras el hanout

2010-12-20T00:41:00.007-05:00

around this time last year, i was having a hot and heavy affair with my blender. it's all a bit of a blur now, not so much because of a delirious passion as because i was bleeding profusely from the mouth and completely loaded up on vicodin the whole time. i had, you see, just gotten my wisdom teeth out, and blended soups and smoothies were suddenly looking mighty fine to my beat up grill.
(it took me a couple of months, actually, to overcome my negative associations with gingerbread: for some reason i made a massive loaf of the stuff and was completely incapable of resisting it, even though at the time baked goods were still far more solid than my mouth could handle. of course i inflicted a great deal of uncontrollably masochistic [mastichistic?] gingerbread consumption pain upon myself, and for awhile after, the mere thought of gingerbread made my jaw ache. but never fear, those days are long over and i will share a damn fine gingerbread cake recipe with you in the immediate future.)
so, anyway, where i was going with that is that it seems fitting that i should have purées on the brain again. i guess part of it is that thanksgiving and christmas tend to evoke mashed potatoes or whipped yams or butternut squash purées, all of which are delicious but a bit hackneyed and with redundant flavor palettes.

i wanted something on the christmas table that would be colorful, festive, seasonally appropriate but not humdrum, and started thinking about root vegetable alternatives. and how about, instead of sour cream or chevre or yogurt or butter, we skip dairy altogether and use--wait--for it--coconut milk, to lend some floral headiness? and--oh--if we're getting really crazy, how about taking garlic and shallot and chives and other alliumy things out of the picture altogether and using a smattering of warm moroccan spices, but without crossing over into brown sugar cinnamon nutmeg candied yam dead horse territory? done, done and done. no sugar, no oil, no onion, nada--just enough potato to lend some starchy body and a nudging of spices that don't take center stage but are happy to be back-up dancers, so the carrots can really perk up and sing. this way that low, sweet, earthy thing that they do so well is what really shines--which is why it's best to use really good quality carrots here, ones you would be happy to eat raw and unaccompanied. this probably isn't the best place for dinged-up leathery specimens of questionable age from the bottom of your crisper, i'm just sayin'.
the bottom line, though, is that i could happily eat a bowl of this for breakfast, so there is no way this should be limited to a holiday table especially given how easy it is to throw together. and as always, tweak the spices to suit your own tastes--play with it as much as you like. enjoy, and merry christmas!

carrot purée with coconut milk and ras el hanout
serves 7, as a side

2 lbs (32 oz) carrots, peeled and cut into 1/4" coins
2 largish yukon gold potatoes, peeled and diced
1 12 oz can unsweetened full-fat coconut milk
1 tbsp ras el hanout, or your own combination of cardamom, ginger, allspice, cumin, cinnamon, clove, etc.--warm spices
sea salt
crushed red pepper flakes

place the vegetables in a steamer basket in a large pot over an inch or two of water. cover and steam until vegetables are tender (especially the carrots, which won't purée if they're still too crisp). reserving the water left at the bottom of the pot, transfer potatoes and carrots to a food processor or food mill and process until smooth. alternatively, i had neither a food mill nor a food processor, so i transferred just the carrots to a blender and added a splash of reserved vegetable steaming water and the entire can of coconut milk, and pureed until smooth (you might need to do this in batches). in a separate bowl, i mashed the potatoes with a masher and then combined them with the puréed carrots--i liked leaving a little bit of the texture to the potatoes, so you could somewhat detect them in the finished product, but that's up to you.

when both vegetables have reached your desired smoothness, stir in coconut milk, spices (start with less than you think and then adjust) and salt and pepper to taste. stir well to combine and adjust seasonings as necessary. if your purée isn't hot enough, heat it in a large pot over medium heat until warmed through. i topped mine with some chopped thyme (because i had it on hand), fleur de sel and black pepper, but that's up to you.

buckeye cookies

2010-12-18T14:46:00.005-05:00

oof. (i'm way into onomatopoeia these days.)
it snuck up on us, didn't it? christmas, i mean. aren't we post-traumatic-finals-disorder sufferers allotted a longer recuperation period before, you know, having to think about christmas, and, uh, having to...eat a bunch of stuff? i still have ~~two~~ one gift to buy. and, ugh, so much baking to do. but i can cross these suckers off my list, and you know what? it's a good thing my mother shamelessly freeloads off my cookie-baking as christmas gifts for neighbors, because these buckeye cookies are dangerous to have around.
having been woefully ignorant of buckeyes until i saw this (speaking of my sugary to-do list...), i can tell you that they are sweetened peanut butter balls dipped in chocolate. buckeye cookies, on the other hand, are chewy little chocolate numbers with a peanut butter filling ("peanut butter on crack," as sarah so aptly put it, because it's mixed with a ~~hefty~~ negligible pile of sugar). they're then rolled in, oh, more sugar, tactfully flattened, and baked until they start to gently puff up and crack around the edges, wafting the most marvelous halitus all over your kitchen in the process. they're like tagalongs, only eleventy billion* times better: you get a crystalline sugar crust, a resilient layer of chocolate with a dense crumb, and a clever pocket of peanut butter in the middle. it's a universally winning combination, in case you've got any neighbors about whom you're feeling guilty for having forgotten to get a gift.

*approximation

and look, my friends even helped me with a photo shoot!

chocolate and peanut butter, previously (brace yourselves): chocolate peanut butter cake, peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter "brownies", chocolate chip oatmeal peanut butter cookies. aagh.

buckeye cookies
adapted from liv life
makes about 20 cookies, i suggest doubling it

1 ½ cups all purpose flour
½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder
½ tsp baking soda
¼ tsp salt
½ cup granulated sugar (plus more for rolling)
½ cup packed brown sugar
½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature
¼ cup creamy peanut butter (i used crunchy and loved it)
1 egg
1 tsp vanilla extract

for filling:

¼ cup plus 2 tbsp creamy peanut butter (again, used chunky and loved it)
¼ cup plus 2 tbsp confectioners’ sugar

preheat oven to 375ºF. line baking sheets with parchment paper or silicone baking mats (or lightly grease); set aside.

in a medium bowl, whisk together flour, cocoa, baking soda, and salt.

in the bowl of an electric mixer (or a mixing bowl, using hand mixers or a fork and some elbow grease), beat together butter, sugars, and ¼ cup of peanut butter until light and fluffy. add egg and vanilla, beating to combine, scraping down the sides of the bowl as needed. add flour mixture and beat until just combined. set aside.

in a medium bowl mix together peanut butter and confectioners’ sugar for filling, stirring until smooth.

using a 1" cookie scoop or a heaping tablespoon, flatten a tablespoon of dough into a 2 1/2 to 3" circle with your hands. place about a teaspoon of peanut butter filling in the center of the dough. wrap the dough around the peanut butter, pressing to seal. gently roll the dough into a ball, being careful not to squish the peanut butter filling out, and roll the ball in granulated sugar to coat. place cookies on prepared baking sheets, spacing about 2 inches apart. using the flat bottom of a glass, press the cookies down gently, flattening to about ½" thick.

bake, rotating halfway through, for 7 to 9 minutes. let stand on baking sheet for 2 minutes before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely.

sweet potato falafel

2010-12-13T00:19:00.004-05:00

whooosh.

that's the exhale of finals being over, my essays handed in, my house cleaned and packed up, my paperwork filed, my tired body schlepped across the country, my loose ends tied up. i have been sleep-deprived, caffeine-addled, sugar-rushed, homework-harrowed and could not be happier to be at home, snuggling in front of the fire with my cat and being fed by my mother.

i was sadder to leave portland than i had anticipated i would be. maybe sad isn't the right adjective--nostalgic? emotional? hesitant? eh. i spent most of this semester trying to convince myself that i was happy, but sort of knowing that i wasn't. then, of course, the moment i finalized my decision to take the semester off from school, it changed everything. funny how things start to fall into place the moment you make a conscious effort to change them and try something else.

i'm excited, though, because i know that this is what i should be doing right now--though also a bit worried that the rest of my life is going to be moves of indecision, wanderlust, the constant nagging sensation that i might be happier elsewhere.
these falafels were part of a fridge-clean-out dinner that i made with chloe; the last we had before our house disbanded for christmas break. she made an out-of-control root vegetable stovetop stuffing and a big dish of garlicky oven-roasted brussels sprouts, and i adapted these sweet potato falafels from the leon cookbook. the major change that i made was to pan-fry them instead of baking them, because we are not a household that shies away from oil when it's appropriate. they're pretty straightforward to throw together, with just a handful of ingredients and a big, bold flavor that is complimented perfectly by a tahini sauce. i made a quick version of dressing that was fairly similar to this one. you could also stuff them in a pita with dressing, fresh veggies or pickles for a very filling lunch.

note that i've included two versions below: the baked one, in which the falafels get a smattering of sesame seeds and are then baked, giving you a softer, less crispy finished product that are delicious in their own right. i chose to skip the sesame seeds, giving mine a dunk in extra flour and then frying them into something closer to a traditional falafel. both ways are great, though heidi says that next time she might dip hers in some sort of egg bath before baking for additional crunch. feel free to experiment.
pan-fried sweet potato falafel
adapted from leon: ingredients and recipes via 101 cookbooks
makes roughly 18 falafel, serves 4-6

2 medium sweet potatoes, around 700g or 1 1/2 lbs total
1 1/2 tsp ground cumin
2 small cloves of garlic, chopped
1 1/2 tsp ground coriander
2 big handfuls fresh cilantro, chopped (i omitted this because i hate it)
juice of half a lemon
a scant cup (120g) of chickpea flour*
a splash of olive oil
a sprinkling of sesame seeds
salt and pepper to taste

if frying instead of baking:

additional flour for rolling (chickpea or all-purpose are both fine)
about 1/3 cup of neutral tasting oil, such as grapeseed, sunflower, or safflower oil

*i picked mine up at rainbow grocery co-op while i was in san francisco, but i know bob's red mill also makes chickpea (also known as gram) flour.
preheat the oven to 425°F and roast the sweet potatoes whole until just tender - 45 minutes to 1 hour. turn off the oven, leave the potatoes to cool, then peel.
put the sweet potatoes, cumin, garlic, ground and fresh coriander, lemon juice and chickpea flour into a large bowl. season well, and mash until smooth with no large chunks (i recommend a fork). stick in the fridge to firm up for an hour, or the freezer for 20-30 minutes. when you take it out, your mix should be sticky rather than really wet. you can add a tablespoon or so of additional chickpea flour if necessary (the water content of sweet potatoes varies enormously).
if baking your falafel, reheat the oven to 400°F and grease a baking tray with olive oil. using a couple of soup spoons (put a well-heaped spoonful of mix in one spoon and use the concave side of the other to shape the sides) or a falafel scoop if you have one, make the mixture into falafelly looking things and put them on your oiled tray. sprinkle sesame seeds on top and bake in the oven for around 15 minutes, until the bases are golden brown.
if frying your falafel, heat your neutral tasting oil (olive oil has a lower smoke point so isn't optimal for frying things like this) over medium heat until hot but not smoking (your falafels should sizzle when you drop them in, but should not be violently spattering). form the falafels as instructed above, except drop them into a small dish of roughly 1/2 cup extra flour (either chickpea or all-purpose). roll them so they're evenly floured on all sides and fry them in batches of 5, turning occasionally, until golden brown all over. drain on a paper towel while you fry the remaining falafel. serve immediately, with some sort of tahini sauce for dipping if you like.

alton brown's kheer

2010-12-11T19:31:00.008-05:00

i recently got to guest star at a house dinner with matt's housemates. they do that wonderfully retro college thing where each housemate gets a night of the week to cook dinner, under the pretense that they all eat together every night--something almost unheard of around here, with schoolwork as demanding as it is.

they have a wonderful house dynamic, and it made me realize how much i'm going to miss my own housemates next semester. we're a pretty strange combination of people, but we get along fabulously, and coming home to at least one person that you truly enjoy being around is one of the nicest parts of the day. i love always having somebody to hang out with, to snuggle in front of the fire and do homework and eat fancy cheese and watch ~~the human centipede~~ daria with. i luv you guys. college!

so, this dinner: matt made pan-fried kale with curry, mashed potatoes with garlic and fennel, and a roast with a marmalade mustard glaze: a perfect meal. i made kheer, or indian rice pudding, which i may or may not have bastardized beyond recognition, but hear me out.

alton brown's recipe, which dozens of other trustworthy internet sources kept pointing me back to, originally calls for a pretty scant hit of cardamom as its sole spicing agent. i wish i were refined enough to appreciate this kind of subtlety, but i'm not: i wanted something a little bolder, a little more complicated. i added in a pinch of saffron threads, toasted fennel seeds, five spice powder, some cinnamon, ginger, allspice, and black pepper, tasting and tweaking as i went. done and done: you wind up with a pudding that is all kinds of creamy (how could it not be, with all that coconut milk?), with a warm and almost savory spice palette foiled by pockets of sweetness from golden raisins. pistachios add crunch and a low, rich earthiness: it's not much to look at, but this kheer makes up for it in complexity.

indian rice pudding
adapted from alton brown
serves 4, easily doubled

1 cup cooked long grain or basmati rice
1 cup whole milk
1/2 cup heavy cream
3/4 cup coconut milk
2 ounces sugar, approximately 1/4 cup
1/2 tsp ground cardamon
a pinch of saffron threads
a pinch of salt
a few grinds of black pepper
1/2 tsp ground ginger
1/4 tsp allspice
1/4 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp toasted fennel seeds (you could grind them in a spice grinder or leave them whole)
1/4 tsp five spice powder
1 1/2 ounces golden raisins, approximately 1/3 cup
1 1/2 ounces chopped unsalted pistachios, approximately 1/3 cup

in a large nonstick saute pan over medium heat, combine the cooked rice and milk. Heat until the mixture begins to boil. decrease the heat to low and cook at a simmer until the mixture begins to thicken, stirring frequently, approximately 5 minutes.

increase the heat to medium, add the heavy cream, coconut milk, sugar, and all of the spices. continue to cook until the mixture just begins to thicken again, approximately 5 to 10 minutes. use a whisk to help prevent the spices from clumping. taste and adjust for seasonings: more ginger or pepper, if you'd like more heat, etc. once the mixture just begins to thicken, remove from the heat and stir in the raisins and pistachios, reserving some for garnish if you like. transfer the mixture to individual serving dishes or a glass bowl and place plastic wrap directly on the surface of the pudding. serve chilled or at room temperature, garnished with reserved raisins and nuts if you like.