Tiny Banquet Committee

further deliberations by our fritter subcommittee

2010-04-25T22:00:00.000-04:00

I wasn't going to write about ramps this year, despite the risk that keeping quiet about them might lead to trouble with the food blog police. (I'm sure I'm already on some sort of watch-list for being insufficiently bacon-crazed and for only ever baking breads that get kneaded, among other things). I wasn't going to mention them but then I remembered that around this time last year I made ramp bhajis, loved them, and never got around to posting about them before the season ended. It seems particularly appropriate to call your attention to the recipe now because fritters of all varieties have been on my mind lately.

Ramps seem relatively pricey this year, and I'm assuming it's because more and more people know what they are and wish to take some home and not because growing conditions were unfavorable. Last year they were $3/bundle at the Union Square greenmarket (and the same the year before, if my memory is correct); I haven't priced them there this year but this morning I noticed them at my local (the Tompkins Square Park greenmarket) for $6/bundle. Six dollars! Have any of you taken on seasonal work this year to support your ramp-munching habit? Or tried smoking them?

There's no blue light special; those are yesteryear's ramps above.
Obviously it's preferable to gather your own ramps for free. I spotted plenty of them growing in the woods last weekend in Connecticut, particularly very close to the stream we crossed on our hike. If you're planning to forage your own be sure to bring something spoon-like; their little bulbs can be difficult to dislodge even if you're willing to get your fingers dirty.

On to the recipe. It comes from the always-reliable (in my experience) Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, and it's got chickpea flour in it (besan), which is reliably one of my favorite ingredients. The resulting fritters have plenty of exciting crisp wispy bits around the edges, and it's a nice change of pace to have ramps getting along with rather bold spices rather than dominating a dish. I'm not going to cut-and-paste the recipe because I didn't change anything about it apart from using ramps in place of the spring onions, so go have a look at it here. Ramps are more pungent than spring onions so you'll want them daintier than the "chunky slices" he calls for.

Hugh F-W (even the Grauniad calls him that) gave a recipe for a radish goats' cheese raita to accompany his bhajis. It sounds great but I improvised one made with just yogurt, chopped cilantro, chopped mint, and a pinch of salt:

I don't have any measurements for the raita, sorry, but if you're confident enough in the kitchen to make ramp bhajis I'm sure you won't screw it up.

I've been thinking of them as bhajis, but the throat-clearing sounds coming from the direction of my fritter subcommittee remind me that you might look at them and see bhujia (or bhujiya) or pakoras. I've only been to northern India and these would be pakoras there. At the Bangladeshi-owned Indian restaurant near Tiny Banquet HQ they'd probably be bhujia (though they also have bhajees on the menu) and from what I understand they'd be bhujia in southern India. I don't want to make any enemies among the barons of the Big Bhujia industry so I'm open to calling these whatever seems most reasonable. We all agree they're fritters, correct?

feeling slightly clammy

2010-04-22T07:02:00.002-04:00

Is it possible you've been so preoccupied with ramps and other spring vegetables that you've neglected to think about clam cakes? I suppose you could make your own at home whenever you like, especially if you're willing to use frozen clams, but if you are the type to set off on a spontaneous road trip to Maine to eat them in their native habitat you've got to mind the calendar. My stepfather was doing just that and so a planned weekend visit to his place in CT recently turned into a relatively-unplanned visit to southern Maine instead.

To Ken's, specifically. A fried seafood joint in Scarborough, Maine. I am still officially not in the habit of blogging about eating sentient beings, and yet I feel obligated to tell you that Ken's is open for the season. Voila, clam cakes. There are lots of other things on the menu — fried clams, lobster rolls, etc. — but we went for clam cakes and did not regret it.

They're available in sandwich form (on hamburger buns) or all by themselves in little wax paper sacks. Most in our party eat them as pictured above, with crisp but otherwise utterly indifferent french fries, perfectly acceptable cole slaw, squishy rolls of the variety that would be disappointing elsewhere but become palatable in salty New England seaside air, and homemade tartar sauce (not on the menu, I think, but now you know to ask for it). Note the bloody mary in the background, although beer is fine too. I'm entirely convinced that as a meal this is more than the sum of its parts, but the seasonal habits of migratory eaters are hard to break. If you're in search of new habits or have yet to acquire any, my stepsister reports that clam cakes are pretty good dipped into lobster stew. I also noted two white-haired guys at a nearby table looked rather convincing eating theirs with a thin smear of yellow mustard.

As for what differentiates clam cakes from fritters, I can only tell you that I have never personally known them as fritters but have little reason to believe they are not, in fact, fritters on some basic level. Wikipedia says they are typically made with chopped clams in a batter of flour, milk, clam juice, eggs and baking powder. Very fritter-ish, no? I've never made them at home but were I to try, this recipe for clam fritters would be the one I would reach for; it looks appropriate and trustworthy and the results . . . look more or less like clam cakes to me.* I am almost — only almost — willing to hazard a guess that what's called a fritter on Long Island and in Massachusetts is called a cake in Maine and Rhode Island (e.g.). A few hungry minutes of research reveal plenty of exceptions, though I'm not sure it's fair to call them "exceptions" when there don't seem to be any firm rules.

As for whether clams are sentient beings, I am willing to say yes I think they are. At least, I don't see why they're not. They don't have a central nervous system but they do have sensations, responses to their surroundings, and a way of life. They have hearts, feet and gonads and varying degrees of interest in opening and shutting their homes. I don't know much about them but the pictures of their various features here seem helpful.

Anyhow, if you want to digest your first clam cakes of the season while walking on a chilly, deserted beach and photographing shuttered motels, you'd better hurry.

And if you want to take a few clam cakes for a ride back to NYC or other points south, Ken's will sell you uncooked ones. Don't freeze them or they'll turn gummy! In fact I think you might be better off getting cooked ones and re-heating them on a baking sheet. I'm pretty sure the ones at the restaurant are deep-fried and you won't get the same results pan-frying them at home.

If you are looking for a place to stop for a snack on your way up to Ken's, you might try Reilly's bakery in Biddeford, which has been in business since 1910. My stepfather is fond of their cream horns filled with buttercream frosting but they close around 1 o'clock on Saturdays, and apparently much of their supply sells out well before then. By the time we got there (maybe 1:15?) the door was locked and the display cases were bare. This stung a bit. As a kid I found rainy-day drives to Reilly's agonizing because they were inevitably preceded by awkward visits to distant relatives, and because I was always too full of blueberry pancake breakfasts to have any interest in baked goods. This time I was interested and not full of pancakes. Alas. Someday, Reilly's.

* I have a suspicion that many of the people who cook summer clam cakes for a living would go cross-eyed about Mr. Claiborne's fresh parsley, but if you want to experiment with it behind closed kitchen doors I'm not going to discourage you.

the potato eaters

2010-03-17T00:06:00.001-04:00

I was going to try to get this recipe posted before St. Patrick's Day because it's Irish in origin and you might want to include it in your holiday menu . . . but then I thought it might be more fun to wait until the day itself, with the idea that some of you might be drunk already by the time you read this and it won't make any sense whatsoever. It's dessert but it's made with potatoes. And whiskey. And it's not too late for you to whip up at the last minute after all because there's not much else in it. You've got some potatoes and half a dozen eggs, right?

It's good! I wasn't sure what to expect but it works and I'd happily make it again. The alcohol doesn't taste as cooked-off as you might expect and if you like whiskey you'll probably like this dessert. I was wary of using all the sugar the recipe calls for but went ahead with it because I was afraid to change the texture, and thankfully it ended up being not particularly sweet. I meant to buy some crème fraiche to serve with it but forgot and it was tasty enough on its own. A dusting of powdered sugar might be nice on it, as would a scoop of good vanilla ice cream, or you could make it very festive with both of those plus more whiskey.

The recipe comes from here. I didn't make any major changes to it but I did make some notes in brackets.

Carrigaline Whiskey Pie (Sweet Whiskey and Potato Soufflé)

The source says this serves 6 but I think you can probably get at least 8 servings out of it. You'll want to have some leftover for breakfast, though, because it's nice and boozy the next morning and good with coffee. The texture changes as it spends time in the refrigerator — the first day mine had two layers, with the top one more cake-y and the bottom more moist, even though I baked it a bit longer than the recipe called for. A day or two later it was more uniformly like a cold soufflé. I think it's pleasant at every stage but let me know what you think.

A note about the almonds: the source calls for 3 almonds, pounded, period. I decided to use 3 tablespoons (ground rather finely in a food processor) because I've tried a few other cake recipes that call for 4 tablespoons and that seems to be about the right amount to do something for the texture without making the cake identifiably nutty. I didn't regret using the three tablespoons and I'm reasonably sure three almonds wouldn't do fuck-all except give you a squishy dessert.

1/2 lb boiled potatoes (approximately 1 1/4 cups) [I used German Butterball variety; any flavorful type that's not waxy ought to be ok]
1/4 lb butter, melted [I used Irish butter because I didn't want to make the leprechauns cry]
3/4 lb sugar
3 [tablespoons] pounded almonds
1 tablespoon orange extract or two tablespoons fresh bitter Seville orange juice [I used 2 tablespoons of marmalade]
6 eggs, separated
4 fluid ounces Irish whiskey

Butter and flour a 21-cm springform pan. Cut a piece of greaseproof paper / baking parchment to fit the bottom of the pan, butter it well, and put it in the pan. [I used a silicone springform pan with a ceramic bottom, buttered it well and skipped the parchment paper]. Alternately, if you don't have a springform pan, or just prefer to do it this way, prepare two 9-inch pie pans with a bottom crust only.

Preheat the oven to 375° F.

Mash the potatoes until smooth and lump-free. Separate the yolks and whites of the eggs. Beat the egg yolks until lemon-colored. Then beat in the sugar, adding it a little at a time until the mixture becomes fluffy.

Now beat in the potatoes. Once they're completely combined with the egg and sugar mixture, add the melted butter, pounded almonds, orange extract or orange juice [or marmalade, and finally the whiskey. Mix well: then pour into a large bowl and set aside.

Beat the egg whites until stiff, Carefully fold them into the egg mixture in the large bowl until they're completely incorporated. Make sure your oven is up to heat when you start this procedure.

When the egg whites are completely folded into the yolk mixture, pour immediately into the springform pan (or pie crusts) and put the pie(s) carefully into the oven. Close the oven door with as little vibration as possible, as any soufflé is vulnerable at this point.

Bake at 375° F for 40-45 minutes. Remove carefully from the oven and set aside to cool. The soufflés / pies will immediately fall at this point. This is normal, so don't panic! [Actually mine didn't fall much . . .].

The pie can be eaten while warm if you like, though (if you've made it in a springform pan, without crusts) it's somewhat fragile at this point and will tend to fall apart. You may prefer to let it cool to at least room temperature, or (better still) chill in the refrigerator overnight, after which it will slice a lot more easily.

Serve with unsweetened whipped cream or double cream, and perhaps with a grind of nutmeg on top. Serves approximately six. [No, eight, I think].

hurry up, spring

2010-03-14T23:43:00.001-04:00

It's definitely not white wine weather yet in NYC but I want to put an idea in your head (even if, like me, you're not really a white wine person). It's a very, very simple idea and I wish I could take credit for it but it comes from Maxime de la Falaise's Food in Vogue: two teaspoons of cracked black peppercorns in a bottle of Vouvray. Leave them in there for three days and you have "a drink that exalts virile powers." Whether it gives your boyfriend Loire Valley wood or not it's spicy and delicious, and the peppercorns turn a visually-uninteresting straw-colored wine a beautiful shade of honey. It's very refreshing in warm weather but I've been thinking about it lately and I suspect it might also be appropriate in miserable old March, just the thing for clearing away sniffles and the scent of damp wooly sweaters.

I'm sure it's meant to be served as an apéritif and it's terrific with cheese and olives and other foods that traditionally accompany apéritifs, but if you like pepper you may find yourself drinking it right through dinner. For that reason I can't tell you what happens if you leave the peppercorns in the wine for a very long time — I prepared several bottles this way late last summer and none lasted more than a couple days.

The Vouvray I used most often was this one (a 2008 Domaine de Vaufuget). Falaise says you can also use a Saumur. Both Saumur and Vouvray are made from Chenin Blanc grapes; generally Saumur is dry and Vouvray is off-dry.

Falaise credits this concoction to André Lemaire's Les Secrets du Docteur and gives instructions for several of his other "love philters." I'm intrigued by the one that calls for adding a few drops of ginseng essence to tomato juice ("[a] Tarzan trick for vegetarians") but haven't tried it yet. I'm planning to write about Food in Vogue as the next book in my series of reviews of out-of-print cookbooks and if I've made a Bloody Mary with priapic powers by the time I do, I'll be sure to tell you about it.

You probably won't need to bother straining the wine until you get to the last glass. I've seen pre-cracked peppercorns for sale but wouldn't recommend buying them unless you plan to use them all quite soon; it's easy enough to crack whole peppercorns as needed. Just put them on a clean dishtowel, fold half the towel over them, and give them a few whacks with a hammer or a rolling pin.

cross-reference

2010-03-12T11:11:00.003-05:00

If you enjoyed my post about Valentine's Day candy, you might like one about Wicker Man-inspired pagan candy-making I just posted on my other blog. In it I take a close look at the contents of May Morrison's sweet shop (that's her selection of hares pictured above) and inquire into how to go about re-creating them.

walnuts x 3

2010-03-01T22:32:00.001-05:00

Considering that my gas is STILL off it's a good time to post a few recipes I tried long ago and never got around to telling you about. Here are three I found lurking in my files, all of which use walnuts and all of which I'd happily make again. I don't recommend making all three during the same week unless you're making a serious effort to fatten up, but individually you can walk them off, sweat them off in a dimly-lit bathhouse, or do whatever it is you people do.

pasta with walnut sauce

Long before I bothered to learn anything about cooking, I learned that I could "cook" (i.e. stir together) a relatively unusual and impressive pasta dinner at home with the help of a little tub of walnut sauce (salsa di noci) from Balducci's on Sixth Ave. I wish I'd scrutinized the list of ingredients more closely because other walnut sauces seem to use more ingredients and I don't enjoy them as much. In my memory Balducci's version was a dead-simple pesto-like preparation of finely chopped walnuts, olive oil, probably more salt than I would have dared to use on my own at the time, maybe a little garlic, and possibly some finely grated Parmesan (but not enough to be a dominate flavor).

Some cursory poking around the internet reveals that walnut sauce is Ligurian in origin and that there is little consensus about what goes into it besides the nuts. Most versions I've come across so far have cream in them and I can't quite bring myself to endorse the use of more than a tablespoon or two of it; my idea of a walnut sauce is that it's a little rough around the edges, and cream smooths out flavors as well as texture. Many are thickened with a slice of bread soaked in milk, which I don't think is necessary; it's already a very rich and thick sauce due to the nuts, and hardly needs any help to cling to pasta. Many contain a little fresh marjoram, which sounds nice but is at odds with my fond memories of eating herb-less walnut sauce in a slightly-creepy unheated loft in Williamsburg.

The last time I made my own walnut sauce I decided to give cream a try and I intended to use this recipe, but I just couldn't see adding Vin Santo or Moscato, both of which are sweet wines. Creamy, ok; sweet, absolutely not. Likewise, I was open to using a little fresh grated nutmeg but cinnamon seemed like it would take the sauce in a vaguely medieval direction and I didn't want to go there.

So, the preparation that follows is a compromise, and it's more of a sketch than a proper recipe. Further experimentation is needed, advice is welcome, and the subject will be revisited here as soon as it's revisited in my kitchen. As much as I like wine it doesn't belong in my ideal walnut sauce. The version in the Silver Spoon is closer to what I have in mind as definitive — it consists only of skinned walnuts, olive oil, a little cream (2 tablespoons), salt and white pepper — but I know I won't be happy until I work out a cream-less one for myself.

pasta with walnut sauce

Loosely adapted from here. You'll end up with more sauce than you need for 1 lb. of pasta, so stir it in gradually until you're satisfied with the way it coats the pasta and refrigerate the leftover sauce to use in assembling weird and unrepeatable sandwiches later in the week.

People who get emotional about garlic will roll their eyes at my use of one measly clove but I don't like using a lot of it; I like using a little that was grown by some happy-eyed hippie farmer who plants 20 or 30 varieties of it. Try to find someone like that reasonably close to where you live and see if their good shit doesn't change your outlook. I don't know enough about the various varieties to recommend one by name (and you probably wouldn't be able to shop that way even if I did) but I seem to have good results with ones that have very pink or very purple-streaked skin.

2 handfuls of walnuts
1 clove of garlic, green shoot removed if it's got one
sea salt and fresh ground pepper
a little freshly grated nutmeg
1/4 cup olive oil
1/4 cup white wine (Chardonnay or white Burgundy are good choices, nothing too oaky or too acidic)
2 tablespoons heavy cream, or more if you're into it
1 lb. pasta of your choice

Lightly toast the walnuts in a moderately hot oven or toaster oven and while they're still warm, rub them together in a clean dishcloth to remove as much of their skin as possible. (Don't worry if they crumble a bit because they're going into the food processor anyhow, but the larger the pieces, the easier it will be to get them out of the pile of skin). Coarsely chop the garlic, then pulse the walnuts and the garlic in a food processor until they are mealy in texture. The mixture should look more pesto than nut butter. Add the spices and the liquids and pulse or process just until everything comes together and begins to look like a sauce. It's not attractive. It'll look a little better when it's on the pasta so don't dwell on it.

Cook the pasta in salted water until it's done to your liking, drain it, and stir in spoonfuls of the walnut sauce until it's evenly but lightly coated.

Steamed green beans are very nice on the side. If you are thoughtful about pasta shapes, note that the Silver Spoon specifies fresh fettuccine (or boiled turnips!) for walnut sauce. Several other recipes suggest pairing it with meatless ravioli, either cheese or pumpkin. The pasta pictured above is maccheroni al torchio. No particular reason; it was there and needed to be used up.

slightly-buzzed oatmeal cookies

If your tastes shift with the seasons there's a relatively narrow window for cookies between the months after Christmas (when cranking out pan after pan of them feels appropriate but rapidly exhausts one's interest in them) and the months in which baking them becomes uninteresting (due to warm weather, the arrival of asparagus, other distractions). I was attracted to this recipe because I had a craving for oatmeal cookies and it looked suitably classic, but I couldn't resist fiddling with it a little. I only made one significant change to it but it gave the cookies a grown-up and slightly savory taste I really loved: I soaked the raisins in warm sherry until they had absorbed all they could. I forgot to write down which variety I used but I almost always buy Amontillado unless I have some particular reason to use another because I like it for both drinking and cooking. For this recipe I think you'd be fine with anything other than a very pale Fino, which would be too dry and probably too subtle to pair with the walnuts and spices. If you happen to have some cognac it might be worth a try in place of the sherry. Sorry about not taking a photo; somehow all the cookies got eaten before that could happen.

slightly-buzzed oatmeal cookies

The following recipe is very slightly adapted from the Oct. 2004 one from Real Simple linked to above. (I shifted the order of ingredients so that you don't forget to soak the raisins before proceeding with the rest, and I made a few notes in brackets). Makes about 2 dozen cookies.

1/2 cup raisins [I used golden raisins]
[enough sherry to cover the raisins, approx. 1/2 cup; see comments above as to which variety]
3/4 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup unsalted butter (1 stick), softened [I used salted because I like salt, and I used a little extra for the pan rather than the cooking spray called for in the instructions below]
1 1/4 cups oatmeal [rolled oats are perfect]
1 egg
3 tablespoons whole milk
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves [I ground whole cloves in a spice grinder; unless you cook with cloves a lot your pre-ground ones probably aren't very fresh, and it only takes a minute to grind them]
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup walnuts, chopped [I used a bit more]
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

[Heat the sherry in a saucepan until it's warm but not simmering and pour it over the raisins. You can do this in the morning and leave them to soak until you're ready to bake. If you forget, try to let them soak at least 30 minutes before you start baking.] Preheat oven to 375° F. Lightly coat a baking sheet with cooking spray [or softened butter]. In a medium mixing bowl, combine the brown sugar and butter until well blended. Add the oatmeal, egg, and milk, stirring well. In a small bowl, stir together the flour, baking soda, cinnamon, cloves, and salt. Gradually add to the oatmeal mixture, stirring well. Stir in the walnuts, raisins, and vanilla. Drop the dough by tablespoonfuls, spaced about 1 inch apart, onto the baking sheet. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes. Transfer the cookies to a wire rack to cool. Repeat with the remaining dough. [I baked the cookies an additional 5 minutes or so and didn't regret it. I think this was necessary because I had two pans in the oven at once, and opened the door mid-way through the first 10 minutes to reverse their positions.]

walnut, fennel seed and raisin scones

I made this recipe years ago and never got around to writing about it, but it's really good and I pause whenever I scroll past it in my recipe collection. I don't buy scones often because they're usually too sweet and I don't make them often because they don't do enough for me taste-wise to earn their calories, but these have a nice herbal edge courtesy of fennel seeds. They're especially good warm.

The recipe below is from Bon Appétit here. It makes 12 scones.

2 cups all purpose flour
1/3 cup sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons chilled unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
2 large egg yolks
1/2 cup buttermilk
1/2 cup golden raisins [other dried fruits could work too, or maybe fresh diced apple]
1/3 cup chopped toasted walnuts
1 tablespoon fennel seeds
1 large egg beaten to blend with 1 tablespoon water (for glaze)

Preheat oven to 400°F. Butter large baking sheet. Whisk flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in large bowl to blend. Add butter. Using fingertips, blend mixture until coarse meal forms. Whisk egg yolks and buttermilk in small bowl to blend. Slowly stir egg mixture into flour mixture. Gently stir in raisins, walnuts, and fennel seeds. Turn dough out onto lightly floured work surface and knead gently just until smooth, about 4 turns. Divide dough in half; pat each half into 6-inch round. Cut each round into 6 wedges. Transfer scones to prepared baking sheet. Brush with egg glaze. Bake until scones are light brown, about 17 minutes. Serve warm or at room temperature. [No, serve them warm! Unless you have a scone every morning there's no reason to be blasé about this.]

exactly what you've been looking for

2010-02-14T15:21:00.003-05:00

Even when this blog is dormant, there is a small but steady stream of new readers: people who've gone searching for something else entirely and ended up here. StatCounter tells me so. I always enjoy seeing what brought them here and which particular page they landed on, and wondering how they may have responded to what they found. Sometimes I've written about just what they were looking for, but to my frustration some of the most common search terms lead people to things I wrote back when hardly anyone was reading and I was still sorting out what I was doing. (What to do with a cast iron cookie mold is always popular, for example, which makes me wish I'd been more thorough at the time; I've always wanted this site to be more of a cook's journal than an instruction manual, but I think I'm capable of striking a better balance now). Anyhow, some of my favorite internet discoveries have been the things I stumbled over on my way to something else, and I like to think some of these people enjoyed and/or were completely bewildered by their rest stop here. The following are some of the search terms that led readers here:

"why are there more snails on rainy days": Poor kid, just wanted to know why snails like rain and instead found some vintage cookbook instructions on how to get them good and stoned in advance of killing and eating them. For the record, my guess is that snails like rain because it keeps their slimy parts slimy. Twice now I have found tiny snails in my farmers' market lettuce, and I kept them in a dish with some damp lettuce to munch or hide under until I could take them down to the community garden and liberate them. They seemed happy with these arrangements.

"how to pronounce deviled eggs": Dee-viled eggs. No matter what the other picnic-goers tell you, the -viled sounds just like wild, but with a v. You're welcome.

"what did the Aztecs eat": In addition to the Aztec hot chocolate pudding I once wrote about, they also ate lots of maize and peyote, and they chewed on the noses of their enemies, which they stored in vessels like this after all the flavor had gone out:

If you use this information or the photo in your report, be sure to credit me. Your teacher will want to know where it came from.

"man-pleasing recipes": Oh, lady! You are invited to come over and listen to Patti Smith records with me. I'll bake some special brownies just for the occasion and you can take the leftovers back to your men-folk.

"how to season canned corn": I was trying to be light-hearted and here we are in a dark place. I haven't eaten canned corn since I was a child and I can't understand why anyone who has any say about what's set in front of them (i.e., anyone but prisoners, children, and the infirm) would eat it voluntarily. If my memory is correct, no matter what you season it with it's still going to taste like the can it came out of, with notes of the dingy-looking water that it sat soaking in for months. Frozen costs about the same and the texture is much better. Somewhere in my archives there's a great Madhur Jaffrey recipe for corn but it's so easy you don't even really need it: sauté the corn with grated fresh ginger (at least a rounded teaspoon, more if you like) and minced green chile pepper (to taste) in a little butter or oil, just until it's starting to brown in spots. Then salt & pepper to taste. If you've got cumin seeds, sizzle a teaspoon or so of those in the butter or oil just before you add the other ingredients. I've only ever made this with fresh corn but I'm sure frozen would be ok. Sort of ok. More ok than canned, definitely.

"where does the world's skinniest cow live": This seeker ended up on my post about pancakes for the skinniest skinnies. I'd never thought about the world's skinniest cow and now it worries me a little. Wherever it lives, I really hope it is not subject to the lurid gaze of too many admirers. I also hope it's not feeling faint due to some silly crash diet or other deprivation.

"walker brothers blueberry pancake recipe": This person ended up on that same post because I mentioned Scott Walker in it. I would LOVE to have a pancake recipe from him and I would politely feign interest in John and Gary's too. (They probably all have different ones because they weren't really brothers, you know . . . ). In the meantime I use the recipe I wrote about here.

"tiny bookshops cooking": I, too, would like to know what the people who run tiny bookshops cook to fortify themselves for doing battle with Amazon. I would even buy a cookbook on the subject. My favorite neighborhood bookshop is St. Mark's Bookshop, which isn't exactly tiny but it's not very big. The people who work there probably cook up some interesting stuff because there are two Japanese grocery stores very close by and East Village Cheese is right across the street. I am guessing that a lot of tiny bookshop cooking is inspired by the shop's surroundings that way.

"chance of receiving rare tiny plastic from lucky surprise eggs": The odds are probably against you, so it would be interesting to know how many you've opened thus far.

"why won't my pie crust recipe work anymore": I haven't written about pie crust much. I'm pretty content to not reinvent the wheel with the basics so I turn to my cookbooks when I want to make some. Tamasin Day-Lewis is particularly good, so check out her books on both pies and tarts. Maybe your wrists and fingers are to blame?

Handling pie crust too much will toughen it but that's all the more reason to be mindful of dexterity and remain limber. Is it possible that you mixed up your flour and used bread or cake flour rather than all-purpose flour? Different flours have different levels of protein in them and some even have leaveners already added. Even the same type of flour can vary depending on where it's grown, when the wheat was harvested, etc. If you are buying store-brand flour, local preferences might be something to think about too. It's possible that the flour you're using lately doesn't have the same properties as the ones you've used in the past. Take your reading glasses when you go shopping for flour and do the finger and wrist exercises above while you are reading the labels, and again when you're ready to make pie. People will think you are a very serious baker, to the point that they might even overlook the flaws in your pie crust.

a question about Valentine candy

2010-02-06T14:25:00.001-05:00

Which is more exciting, cheap n' nasty or luxurious and tasteful? The more expensive stuff tastes better, of course, and its ingredients won't make a lab rat of you, but that doesn't stop the cheapest of the cheap from being a vulgar little thrill every once in a while, highly unnatural colors, acrid tastes, crinkly wrappers and all. Here's to a heap of candy hearts and daft dimestore lips.

Clicking on these photos will take you right to the goods.

red wax lips vs. Bluestocking Bonbons Rasperries de Pizan (made with NY State raspberries, organic fair trade chocolate and other great stuff, named after a 15th century Venetian feminist);

squishy Peeps hearts vs. Woodhouse Chocolate Hearts & Domes Box (which includes, among other things, hearts flavored with saffron, rose-water and cinnamon and domes flavored with passionfruit);

ring pop vs. Ladurée Langues de Chat cookies;

Pop Rocks vs. Payard Pop Rocks chocolate truffles (which also have champagne in them, so you can go out with a bang Mikey-style);

Pez vs. Vosges Haut-Chocolat's Gatsby Collection (things didn't go very well for him and Daisy but let's not dwell on that...);

candy straws for candy snortin' (although who knows what generic Pixy Stix are cut with these days...) vs. Bond Street Chocolate tequila ganache bonbons (infused with Herradura Blanco);

cheapo choco lips vs. Maison du Chocolat's heart-shaped box (dibs on the Bacchus piece, which is dark chocolate ganache, flambé grapes and rum);

grape/strawberry Nerds vs. Bluestocking Bonbons pink box (raspberry-balsamic chocolate truffles, also coriander-beet, fennel-apple, and pomegranate-rose petal... like the other pick from this chocolatier, vegan and impeccably sourced);

rainbow heart lollies vs. Mast Brothers Chocolate bars (a variety of flavors available individually via the link above, or a lovely stack of all flavors directly from the chocolate-makers here)

Smarties hearts vs. Woodhouse filled chocolate hearts (how to choose among red ones of milk or dark chocolate with caramel and fleur de sel, Claddagh ones with dark chocolate truffle, and floral ones of milk or dark chocolate with elderflower, orange blossom or jasmine tea?)

Chupa Chupa pops vs. handmade strawberry swirl pop.

{Minor update: I re-arranged the contents of this post a bit after I published it. My apologies if it shows up in your in-box or your feed reader with twice twice the candy candy.}

an invitation

2010-01-16T20:13:00.000-05:00

to visit my new blog:

Lunar Camel Co.

The first post is chock full of videos . . . it's not my intention for all of them to be, but it felt right to christen it with tight pants, shiny, spangly outfits and terrible dancing.

I'm not abandoning this blog; I'm thinking of the new one as a parallel universe where I won't have to work a recipe or a food photo into whatever I want to post about. We haven't been doing much cooking lately, anyhow — the gas has been out since Christmas and there's only so much one can do with a salad spinner and an electric panini press.

Con Ed tore up the block and diligently poked around in that dirty, slushy hole pictured above, but still no gas. It seems like the problem is in my building, which I understand was constructed in 1899. I see more salads in my future!

come on in, it's still November here

2009-12-22T01:01:00.002-05:00

Not everyone is rushing around cracked out on candy canes and hyperventilating about what else they might buy buy buy before time runs out. But too many people are, and so it's the best time of year to hide away in bed with dinner and a movie. The snow is turning to slush anyhow, so we might as well turn back the clock to autumn in Vermont. I didn't get enough crunchy orange leaves underfoot this year, or in any other.

All of these screen captures are gratefully borrowed from the 1000 Frames of Hitchcock project.

That's a wee little Jerry Mathers, pre-Beaver. Do you recognize the movie yet?

Those socks ought to give it away, but it's one of Hitchcock's lesser-known American films and relatively few people here have seen it. It's The Trouble With Harry, and it was released in 1955 to general ambivalence and then was unavailable for thirty years. It was re-released in the Eighties but it remains under-loved — it's not even mentioned on his Wikipedia page at the moment.

There are a number of possible reasons for this. It's sometimes described as "one of Hitchcock's most British films," which is an American way of saying the humor is thought to be inscrutable and not labored enough. It didn't have any stars in it (who were stars at the time, at least). And — potentially very problematic for viewers expecting suspense — nothing much happens in it. Harry, whose stocking feet you see above, is dead from the very beginning. He's dead even in the lovely opening credits by Saul Steinberg:

John McCarten, writing in The New Yorker at the time, didn't like this aspect one bit: "Alfred Hitchcock, whose work has been going steadily downhill ever since he arrived in Hollywood, skids to preposterous depths in 'The Trouble With Harry.' This is an over-blown joke about a corpse."

Harrumph! Some of us like corpse jokes very much. Especially when they're set amidst cheerfully idiosyncratic New England types, in the pastoral scenery that displays them to their best advantage. (In other words, exactly the sort of person I'd like to buy roadside maple syrup from).

Among the main characters are Wiggie, who does indeed sell maple syrup, and Sam, an artist. Wiggie is played by Mildred Dunnock and Sam is played by John Forsythe, who you might recognize from teevee (he was Blake Carrington on "Dynasty" and before that, the voice of Charlie on "Charlie's Angels"). Don't let that put you off; he was surprisingly charming before Aaron Spelling embalmed him in oil money.

The Trouble With Harry also features Shirley MacLaine. It was her first film and she's adorable in it as a pouty-faced single mother. Naturally she and the handsome painter have to sort out their feelings for one another.

They also have to sort out what to do about Harry's corpse, and in that they have company: Miss Graveley (a spinster-ish older woman, just the type Hitchcock usually likes to do something gruesome to, played by Mildred Natwick) and Captain Wiles (a roly-poly retired sea captain who awkwardly puts the moves on her over a plate of blueberry muffins, played by Edmund Gwenn, who you've doubtlessly seen as Santa in Miracle on 34th Street).

There isn't much else to say about the plot. If black humor appeals to you the movie might become a favorite, not because any one moment is screamingly funny but because of the way the characters relate to the dead guy — each with what might seem like indifference, but each has their own cogent reasons for wanting Harry buried — and because of the way they get along with each other. Hitchcock supposedly changed the story's location from London to Vermont because he liked the contrast between the dark theme and the rural setting at its brightest and most beautiful, but there is something about the characters' individuality and the space they give one another that's a perfect fit in an idealized New England. (This subject surely deserves its own post here someday, given our tendency to head north to Maine every summer, where the good humor and neighborliness of the seemingly granite-faced locals tends to be lost on first-time visitors. Having grown up in Connecticut I feel qualified to draw distinctions among hundreds of varieties of froideur, from the loving kind to the truly disdainful, each of which manifests itself differently depending on the class of the bearer. Eskimos have many words for snow, etc.) Anyhow, if you like the idea of warm and witty people digging a grave together — and your definition of "warm" is not too inflexible — The Trouble With Harry is just the right film for curling up with on a cold night.

But what to eat? If your kitchen isn't a gingerbread-scented shitshow at the moment and you can bear to face something other than take-out, it might be nice to start off with some crisp chickpea flour pancakes with black olive and sage.

Maybe you have a sack of chickpea flour left over from when Bittman urged you to make something similar a few months back? Or maybe you are a long-time reader who has had the stuff sitting around since I enthused about basic Indian ones in ye olde 2006? Probably not. It doesn't matter. The point is, they're amenable to just about any direction you want to take them in. These latest ones were vaguely Mediterranean, without belonging to (or desecrating) any one particular tradition.

It's nice to have some kind of sauce or chutney or something with them for textural contrast, and with these we had a sort of celery / hazelnut / Manchego salsa. You could definitely make the whole dish vegan by leaving the cheese out. If I hadn't had a little bit of it that needed to be used up I wouldn't have bothered to go out and get some.

chickpea flour pancakes with black olives and sage
and celery / hazelnut / Manchego salsa

The number of servings will depend on how hungry everyone is and what else you're serving, but this should be enough for at least 4 people as a first course.

for the pancakes:

2 cups chickpea flour (also called besan in Indian grocery stores)
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 teaspoon fine sea salt (or a little less if your olives are very salty)
2 cups cold water
1 heaping tablespoon finely sliced fresh sage leaves
approximately 1/3 cup oil-cured black olives, pitted and chopped (or whatever your favorite type of olive is . . .)
olive oil for cooking
additional fresh sage leaves, whole, for decorating the pancakes (optional)

for the celery / hazelnut / Manchego salsa:

2 stalks of celery, very finely sliced
2 heaping tablespoons toasted and skinned hazelnuts, coarsely chopped
2 teaspoons sherry vinegar
1 to 2 tablespoons olive oil (if the celery is very fresh you may only need 1)
a pinch of fine sea salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
2 to 3 tablespoons Manchego cheese, very finely sliced and then chopped or crumbled into bite-sized pieces

Sift the chickpea flour into a bowl, stir in the salt and the cayenne pepper, and slowly stir in the cold water 1/2 cup at a time, adding more only when you've gotten the lumps out of what you started with. (This isn't difficult if you make a little well in the center of the dry flour and spice mixture, pour the water in it, and slowly bring in more and more of the flour with your spoon). When all of the water is incorporated the batter should be very much like typical breakfast pancake batter. Madhur Jaffrey says that when preparing her Indian recipe for these you should set the batter aside for 30 minutes before using it and I always do, but I don't know why it's necessary. After you've let the batter rest, give it a good stir and see whether any stubborn lumps remain. If so, you can strain the batter through a sieve.

Stir the sage and the chopped olives into the batter and heat a heavy skillet (preferably cast iron or non-stick) over medium-high heat. Drizzle in enough olive oil to coat the bottom evenly and when it's very hot (but not smoking hot) add 1/4 cup or so of batter to the pan, tilting the pan to spread the batter around evenly. If you like, place a few whole fresh sage leaves on the uncooked side of the pancake that's facing up at you before you flip it over. Whether you do this or not, it's a good idea to drizzle a tiny bit more olive oil over the uncooked side of the first pancake before you flip it. (You may not need it for the following pancakes, but the first one can be too dry without it). Flip the pancake over when it's starting to look crisp at the edges and cook the other side until golden brown. (Cook for approximately 3 to 4 minutes per side). Stack the cooked pancakes on a layer of paper towel or clean kitchen towel to absorb any excess oil and keep going until the batter's gone. Stir it once in a while as you're cooking to make sure that all the olives and sage don't end up in the last pancake.

While the pancakes are cooking, stir the salsa ingredients together in a small bowl and set aside. Add the cheese last; otherwise it will be very crumbly.

Leftover pancakes can be kept in the refrigerator and reheated until crisp in a medium-hot oven. (If your oven is on the nod, you can even reheat them in a electric panini press, like the ones with faint grill marks pictured above).

The pancakes are very filling for a first course so don't plan on following them with anything too heavy. Radish greens soup would be just right and requires very little in the way of ingredients. I wrote about it here (scroll down a bit), and a direct link to the recipe is here.

Did you want dessert too? It had better have maple syrup in it after all this leaf-peeping. I enthusiastically recommend a Maple-Buttermilk Pudding Cake, which is so much nicer than it looks. I promise it's nothing at all like the greenish lump of cornbread it appears to be. I have no idea whether the recipe is authentic or not but it's so good warm out of the oven that I'm confident you could seduce any French-Canadian Christmas tree vendor you've had your eye on with a spoonful of it.

It's gooey and richly-flavored with maple syrup (too gooey to be a proper "cake," really, since the syrup on the bottom doesn't solidify) and it's just perfect with a little blob of crème fraîche on top. Don't even think of making it with imitation "pancake topping" (or whatever that sad gunk is called). It's not a fancy dessert at all but that's all the more reason to use good, honest maple syrup: it's the dominant flavor here, so it had better come out of a picturesque maple tree at the hands of a picturesque backwoods beard-wearer rather than an industrial vat of corn syrup and synthetic flavors.

Semi-related (click on images for links):

The first post in our very-occasional series about dinner and a movie involved a pizza that was better for breakfast.

If you are a Hitchcock nut I've got a little something in my bookshop for you.

terrarium afternoons

2009-08-30T19:18:00.013-04:00

Sorry for the lack of updates lately, but we've not been doing much cooking at all. On weeknights I've been working kind of late and on weekends we've been out of town.

Here are some photos from a recent hike — the most humid hike ever — in a Connecticut forest like a terrarium, just us and the moss and the mushrooms and the millipedes. Very little light worked its way into these woods. No breezes either, except for when we were at the very top of whichever ridge we wound our way around.

Chatfield Hollow State Park, Killingworth, CT.

also Chatfield Hollow

this too

Devil's Hopyard State Park, East Haddam, CT.

fungi-striped tree, Chatfield Hollow

crumbly wall at Chatfield Hollow

trees about mid-way on the white trail (Lookout trail) at Chatfield Hollow

falls at Devil's Hopyard

If you visit Chatfield Hollow, make sure you stop in the nature center and see the three-legged turtle. There's also a book of photos of the park's construction by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s.

Here's some music suitable for this time of year. With the exception of the Jarvis Cocker track on the A-side it's mostly old favorites rather than shiny new stuff.

music for a humid late summer picnic

A-side
The Monochrome Set, White Noise
(from Black And White Minstrels)
Jane Birkin, Mon Amour Baiser
(from Di Doo Dah)
Disco Zombies, Mary Millington
(from Perfect Unpop: Peel Show Hits And Long Lost Lo-Fi Favourites - Vol 1. 1976-80)
Jarvis Cocker, Leftovers
(from Further Complications)
Jeremy Jay, Lunar Camel
(from Airwalker)
Morrissey, My Love Life
(from Morrissey At KROQ [EP])
The Velvet Underground, New Age
(from Loaded)
Levitts, Candy
(from We Are The Levitts)
Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood, Summer Wine
(from Nancy & Lee)
The Jesus And Mary Chain, In The Rain
(from The Complete John Peel Sessions)
Scott Walker, Time Operator
(from 'Til The Band Comes In)

B-side
Pulp, The Birds In Your Garden
(from We Love Life)
Connie Converse, Talkin' Like You (Two Tall Mountains)
(from How Sad, How Lovely)
Vashti Bunyan, I'd Like To Walk Around In Your Mind
(from Just Another Diamond Day)
Maher Shalal Hash Baz, On The Shore Of Loch Kawaguchi
(from From A Summer To Another Summer (An Egypt To Another Egypt))
Robert Wyatt, Just As You Are
(from Comicopera)
Beirut, Forks and Knives (La Fete)
(from The Flying Club Cup)
So Everyone, Bonnie 'Prince' Billy
(from Lie Down In The Light)
Crystal Stilts, The City In The Sea
(from Alight of Night)
The Durutti Column, Sketch for Summer
(from The Return Of The Durutti Column)
PJ Harvey, seagulls
(from Uh Huh Her)

All photos in this post were taken with an iPhone and processed with the app CameraBag.

the best $1.50 we spent at the farmers' market lately

2009-07-02T14:56:00.001-04:00

There are plenty of great finds for approximately the same price but we recently came home with a voluminous bunch of lovage that deserved some sort of prize. It's a pungent herb with a celery-like scent and flavor and it's a brilliant addition to all sorts of familiar foods. I used every scrap of leaf on it and was sad to see it go.

I forgot to take a photo of the bundle itself in its glory.
It looks a lot like this 18th-century illustration of mountain lovage (Ligusticum mutellina)
from the NYPL digital image library.
Its appearance is celery-like too: flat leaves, with a shape familiar to those who seek out bundles of celery with as much foliage as possible still attached, for adding to salads and soups and anywhere parsley would go. (If you've never taken apart a tidy pile of celery bundles at the grocery store to get at the one with the most lush and perfect leaves, try it some day; they are worth searching for, and it's easy enough to neaten up after yourself after you get your secret goodies that no one else cares about). Lovage stalks, too, look very much like celery, although they're more slender, and too fibrous to chew happily. That shouldn't stop you from adding them to something you're braising or simmering, though, and fishing them out at the end of cooking along with all the other woody bits like bay leaves and thyme stems. Or you could throw them in your bath "to increase attractiveness and attract love."

I've mentioned lovage in the past — remember the focaccia with strong herbs, for people with strong personalities? or the stuffed squash? — but only in passing, and my recent experiences with it convinced me I need to grow it on my fire escape to be assured of having a steady supply of it.

My first use of it was to add a tablespoon or so (finely chopped) to a super-simple salad that would have been completely unremarkable without it: a can of white beans, a handful of sliced cherry tomatoes, a handful of the first local snap peas of the season (trimmed and halved), and a dressing of nothing more than olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper. I threw this together one morning and took some of it to work, and voilà, my lunch outside at grey old 1 Chase Manhattan Plaza was a picnic. The lovage added a brightness that demanded to be noticed, but it wasn't overpowering. It gave the salad an intense celery flavor but in the nicest possible way, like celery might taste if you pulled it straight out of a garden still warm from the sun. If you try this make sure you rinse the beans well under plenty of cold water; they can taste like can otherwise.

The most memorable lovage-bedecked meal was a dinner of seared seitan with a wilted lovage sauce.

We ate this with some quinoa studded with braised radishes, steamed radish greens and flowering chives, and the rest of the snap peas, barely-steamed and tossed with a little butter and chopped lemon balm. An unlikely assortment of ingredients, but a very pleasant dinner. There's a lot of lovage in the sauce considering how intense it is compared to other herbs, but the seitan is flavorful and chewy enough to support it. Think of it as sort of an eccentric vegetarian take on steak with maître d'hotel butter. The quinoa will get its own post soon but how to give a recipe the lovage sauce when I didn't measure anything? I'll do my best at reconstructing it but use your judgment (i.e., if the sauce looks dry, add a splash more wine, and if you added too much wine, let it reduce a little longer).

seared seitan with wilted lovage sauce
serves 2 to 3 people

8 ounces seitan (this one is perfect), sliced 1/2" thick and patted dry
2 teaspoons olive oil
2 tablespoons butter, plus a bit more near the end of cooking
1/3 cup white wine or dry vermouth (Noilly Prat is good)
1/2 cup loosely-packed lovage leaves, finely chopped
sea salt and freshly ground pepper

Sear the seitan in the olive oil over medium-high heat in a non-stick pan. When it is evenly browned on both sides, remove it from the pan and set it aside. (Don't cover it tightly, though, or you'll lose the nice crispness around the edges). Wipe out the pan with a paper towel and melt the butter over low heat. Add the wine or vermouth, turn up the heat to medium-high, and let it simmer until it is reduced by half (or by a third, if you are hungry and impatient). Stir in the lovage and cook for another two minutes or so. (It should be thoroughly wilted and softened). Take the pan off the heat, season the sauce with a pinch of salt and some pepper, and add a bit more butter (an additional 1/2 a tablespoon will help the flavors come together; a full tablespoon is better). Stir gently just until the butter is melted. Spoon the sauce over the seitan and serve right away.

Later in the week the lovage did something interesting for prosaic stuffed mushrooms, which I might never have even bothered to make without it.

I had large white mushrooms and an annoyingly close-to-finished bag of panko bread crumbs taking up space in the cabinet, so I sautéed a finely minced shallot with some of the mushroom stems (maybe 1/2 of the stems) in 2 tablespoons or so of olive oil until both were softened, turned the heat off, let them cool, then stirred in a tablespoon of finely chopped lovage, two tablespoons or so of cubed sheeps' milk feta cheese, and enough panko bread crumbs to stuff all my mushroom caps. I baked the stuffed mushroom caps for maybe 15 or 20 minutes in a 375°F oven and they were just the right crisp thing to have with a dinner salad in place of bread. Stuffed mushrooms are an old-fashioned cocktail party-type of food and whenever people do make them now they tend to get self-conscious and make them too rich. Preparing them simply this way and not weighing down the stuffing with cream or too much gooey cheese reminded me that they can be fun to eat. If they look dry on top before you put them in the oven, drizzle some olive oil or white wine or dry vermouth over them, or even a tiny splash of water flicked from your fingers. The stuffing should be light and crisp, but not so crisp that diabolical shards of breadcrumbs shred the roof of your mouth.

There's more: we were not out of lovage just yet. I had a craving for cornbread so that's where it went. If you hold fervent beliefs about traditional cornbread ingredients, rest assured that I didn't screw with much else about it. It's still very basic, very spot-on (for me, at least) in terms of flavor and texture; it's just that the lovage added a deep green garden note to it.

I have been using this Food & Wine recipe for corn bread for years. Although there's no text accompanying the recipe, I believe they may have taken it from the Dean & Deluca Cookbook, since that's what I have it attributed to in my recipe collection. (The recipe section of their website used to be a lot fuller in the early days of the internet, although there's still a lot there).

lovage cornbread

Makes one 9" round cornbread.

Adapted from this recipe, which makes double the quantity. I have always reduced the amount of sugar when I make it because I can't abide sweet cornbread, but of course you may prefer it that way.

A cast iron skillet (see below) is recommended but not absolutely essential. You can follow the same process with any baking pan that's the same size.

1 1/2 tablespoons peanut or vegetable oil
3/4 cup all purpose flour (I used white whole wheat this time and it didn't really behave differently than AP)
1 1/4 cups stone-ground cornmeal
2 scant tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon fine sea salt
1/4 cup finely chopped lovage leaves
1 cup buttermilk (I used low-fat cultured buttermilk this time but I have used the powdered stuff many times and that's fine too, as is regular milk)
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
3 tablespoons butter, melted

Heat the oven to 425° F.

Stir together the flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder, salt and lovage. Add the buttermilk, lightly beaten eggs, and melted butter and stir just until the ingredients are thoroughly combined. (If you are using white whole wheat flour in place of all purpose, as I did, the batter will look a little shaggy; that's perfectly fine).

Swirl the oil around to coat the interior of a 9" cast iron skillet and heat it over medium-high heat until it is hot but not smoking. (Alternatively, if you're using a baking pan, heat it in the oven). Pour the batter into the skillet or pan (it may bubble and hiss, so be careful) and bake for approximately 20 minutes, or until the top is springy when pressed and lightly browned. The bread is at its best while still warm but leftovers reheat well.

Even with one pan of cornbread rather than the two the original recipe produces, we still had quite a bit for two people to eat. Thus the last 1/4 of the bread (and some of the buttermilk I'd bought to make it) ended up in an improbable but very tasty preparation of stuffed zucchini.

I added some fresh sage since I had some on hand, but thyme would be great too.

improbable stuffed zucchini

2 medium zucchini
4 large mushrooms (120 g/4.25 ounces), sliced
1/2 of a small sweet onion, finely chopped (approximately 1/3 cup)
2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon finely sliced fresh sage (or finely chopped thyme)
fine sea salt and freshly ground pepper
1/4 of a 9" round cornbread (a little stale is fine), cut into 1/2" cubes
3/4 cup cultured low-fat buttermilk (or whatever type of buttermilk you have; vegetable stock would probably work too)
a tiny bit of oil for whatever you're going to bake the zucchini in

Halve the zucchini the long way and scrape out the seeds. A grapefruit spoon is perfect for this. I sprinkled the interiors with salt and left them upside-down to drain some of the water out, but I'm not certain it's necessary.

Sautée the mushrooms and onions in 2 tbsp butter until soft. The mushrooms will have given off some liquid and although you would normally cook it off, it's fine to leave a bit in the pan here, since you don't want the stuffing to be too dry.

Heat the oven to 375° F.

Stir the sage or thyme into the mushroom and onion mixture and season it generously with salt and pepper. Gently stir in the cubed cornbread and the buttermilk. Stir just until the bread is thoroughly integrated with the other stuffing ingredients, taking care not to mash it into a mush.

Use the bread mixture to stuff the zucchini and bake them in a lightly oiled pan for approximately 25 minutes, or until well browned.

a dinner just toothsome enough for a guest whose chompers are undergoing repairs

2009-06-16T16:43:00.005-04:00

Mr. Banquet has had two root canals in recent weeks, which means we've been chowing down a little more daintily than usual.

Chompers + claws vs. chompers
at the Clambake restaurant, Scarborough, Maine.
Dinner requires a little more thought about texture than usual. Really crusty bread is out, obviously, and the things that work so well with crusty bread are far less appealing when one imagines squishy pre-sliced grocery store bread alongside them. Eggs in all forms are ideal for times like these, but we already eat plenty of them. Polenta might be nice, but it's not what one really wants to eat on a late spring/early summer evening. Nor great big pots of soup or beans. Cold sesame noodles, however, are just right. Most of the recipes are pretty basic and benefit from an addition of barely-steamed vegetables: yellow wax beans (like so), spinach, carrots, and mushrooms work very well, as do raw bell peppers, chopped cucumbers, finely shredded cabbage, and crisp greens like mizuna. This recipe has been a recent favorite, but I'm not so in love with it that I won't try others. (Note, however, that it's improved by using rice vinegar rather than red wine vinegar, and that if your soy sauce or tamari is very low in sodium you may need to add a little salt).

Cold sesame noodles with very simple baked tofu.

There's no recipe for the tofu; it's just marinated in tamari, toasted sesame oil, red chile pepper oil and loads of finely chopped ginger, and baked at 375°F until well-browned and crisp at the edges.
I've had Hsiang Ju Lin and Tsuifeng Lin's The Art of Chinese Cuisine on my shelf for ages and had never cooked from it so I decided to try their recipe instead. It's very basic but I nonetheless made a few changes to it, so we'll call this an adaptation. First, the recipe called for MSG, which has fallen out of fashion since the book was published in 1969 for several good reasons. Second, the recipe called for only a very scant measure of peanut butter and didn't specify how much sauce it yields; I had tahini instead, and nearly a pound of brown rice noodles I needed sauce for, so I upped the measurements a bit. And finally, the recipe called for 1 pound of bean sprouts; I do like them but I had other vegetables I wanted to use instead (mushrooms, carrots, and scallions).

cold noodles with sesame sauce
adapted from Hsiang Ju Lin and Tsuifeng Lin's The Art of Chinese Cuisine

serves 4

for the sauce:

1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh ginger
1 teaspoon plus 1 tablespoon peanut oil
3/4 teaspoon mirin (you can use sugar instead)
1 tablespoon sesame oil
1/4 cup tahini (you can use peanut butter instead, although the flavor will of course be different)
2 tablespoons tamari (or low-sodium soy sauce)
1 tablespoon rice vinegar
approximately 3 tablespoons water
fresh finely ground white pepper (or dried red chile flakes or shreds if you want spicy noodles)

An hour or so before you are ready to begin cooking, marinate the finely chopped ginger in 1 teaspoon peanut oil and 3/4 teaspoon mirin or sugar. (I'm not sure what the reasons for this step are but the original recipe insists on it; I'm guessing it enhances the flavor of the ginger).

Whisk together with a fork 1 tablespoon peanut oil, 1 tablespoon sesame oil, the tahini, the tamari, and the rice vinegar. Whisk in approximately 3 tablespoons water, or a little more if your tahini is very thick, until the sauce is a nice consistency for coating the noodles. Stir in the ginger and its marinade and season the sauce to taste with the white pepper.

for the noodles:

1 14 oz. package of brown rice pasta (fettuccine, linguine or spaghetti shape)
vegetables of your choice (I used a large handful of sliced shiitake mushrooms and 1 large carrot, sliced)
2 to 3 scallions (green onions), finely sliced
bean sprouts (optional), blanched for 30 seconds and drained well
2 tablespoons toasted and lightly crushed sesame seeds (optional)

Prepare the noodles according to the package directions and steam or blanch your vegetables while they're cooking. Toss the cooked noodles with the sauce until they are thoroughly coated. Gently mix in the vegetables, scallions, sprouts and sesame seeds (if using). You might want to reserve a little of the sesame seeds to sprinkle on individual servings; we left them out this time because we didn't want Mr. Banquet's dentist to find them stuck in his grill.

************
After so many utilitarian dinners, dessert seemed to be in order. I had gorgeous local strawberries and couldn't remember the last time I'd had strawberry shortcake so that was an easy decision, but I also had loads of fresh herbs from the greenmarket and was eager to use at least one of them in dessert: lovage, chervil, lemon balm and Delfino cilantro. I've been eyeing this recipe for a long time so the idea of combining strawberries and cilantro didn't seem all that strange to me, but I had something else in mind for the latter. The lovage, too, was destined for a number of other things. (More on this soon). The lemon balm would seem to be the most dessert-friendly of the bunch but as soon as I sampled the chervil — delicate, sparklingly fresh, tasting of anise but somehow brighter — that was the one I wanted to use. Why had I only ever used it in savory dishes before?

Being a lifelong Northeasterner (and having a selectively sieve-like memory), I need a recipe to make biscuits, so I pulled Villas at Table off the shelf and skimmed the chapter on strawberry shortcake. Villas had quite a bit to say about it:

Now for the very sensitive and touchy question as to whether genuine strawberry shortcake should be made with biscuit or scone dough or sponge cake. Most Southerners and Midwesterners simply could not conceive of eating real shortcake not made with some form of short pastry; Yankees, who've never really understood what biscuits are all about, generally maintain that shortcake is synonymous with sponge cake; and I'm resolutely convinced that today's inhabitants of the West Coast (where, ironically, the world's greatest strawberries are produced), couldn't care one way or the other. Since I must say that, over the years, I've savored some very decent strawberry shortcake prepared with sponge pastry (most notably at Lindy's in New York), I'd almost be willing to attribute high status to this version were it not for one important culinary fact: the word 'shortcake' indicates automatically that shortening (or some form of fat) is a major ingredient in the pastry, and since sponge cake contains no trace of fat, it cannot qualify as an authentic foundation for the dessert.

Sponge cake was out of the question for me; its inexplicable prevalence is the reason why I almost never order this dessert in restaurants. I would rather not have any dessert at all than have a sad little disc of what appears to be yellowing insulation set down before me. Somehow, though, I ended up using a more recent Villas biscuit recipe (from his promisingly-titled Biscuit Bliss) rather than the one in Villas at Table.

And it's a brilliant recipe, although I always seem to have good luck with biscuits. (Is there something about the shape of my fingers that permits me to turn out perfectly respectable biscuits while my dumplings look like a poorly-supervised kindergarten project?) The only thing I changed about it was to add chervil, but somehow I ended up with 8 fluffy biscuits — plus one little lumpy one for me to taste-test — rather than the 6 the recipe says it yields. I measured my biscuit cutter to be sure I'd used the size Villas specifies and sure enough I did, and if anything I rolled the dough out even thicker than the recipe says to. I've not specified quantities for the strawberries or cream because I didn't measure them, as I was only making dessert for two. (If it's any help, I'm guessing I used approximately half a cup of cream, beaten with a tablespoon or so of powdered sugar, to make more whipped cream than we intended on eating but somehow polished off).

I really want to make this again before strawberry season ends because the chervil flavor didn't come through as intensely as I'd hoped it would and I want to try something else with it: There's a recipe for herb-infused milk or cream in The Herbfarm Cookbook that's a very simple but very effective process of extracting loads of flavor from herbs through heating and steeping. This is the same idea I recently made use of in preparing the chamomile-honey crème anglaise I wrote about; it's not any more complicated than making a cup of tea, and I think it's necessary to infuse the cream for the biscuits if the chervil is to play a major role in this dessert. Another thing I'd like to try is maybe adding a splash of Pastis to the whipped cream, which would complement the chervil's anise notes.

strawberry-chervil shortcake
shortcake recipe from James Villas

serves 8

for the shortcake:

2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
2 tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup fresh chervil, finely chopped
1 1/4 cups heavy cream
milk for brushing (optional)

for the rest of the dessert:

strawberries
heavy cream
powdered sugar
more fresh chervil, finely chopped

Heat the oven to 425°F (220°C).

Whisk together the flour, baking powder, sugar, salt and chervil. Add the cream and stir just until the ingredients start to form a dough. Turn the dough out of the bowl onto a lightly-floured surface and gently knead it just long enough to thoroughly combine the ingredients. (Villas says "knead about 8 times").

Pat the dough out approximately 1/2-inch thick and cut out biscuits using a 3" cutter. If you need to, pat the scraps together and cut out more biscuits until you have eight of them, but try to handle the dough as gently as possible. (I'd also recommend that you rinse your hands with very cold water and dry them quickly before you do this, but maybe I'm just paranoid about being very deliberate with biscuit dough).

Arrange the biscuits on a baking sheet or two, brush them with a little milk or cream (optional), and bake them approximately 15 minutes, or until they are lightly browned. (I use two quarter-sheet pans and rotate them while cooking, and that seems to be a good way to cook them evenly).

Let the biscuits cool completely. In the meantime, wash and slice the strawberries, and whip the cream and powdered sugar together in a large bowl. (As I mentioned above, I only made enough whipped cream for the two of us, and I used approximately 1/2 cup cream and 1 tablespoon powdered sugar).

Split the biscuits and pile the sliced strawberries, whipped cream, and additional chopped chervil on top.

greens mixed with greens, plus some greens

2009-05-19T14:36:00.001-04:00

inside a pastry. Specifically, kale, dandelion greens, mint, dill and green garlic shoots, with just enough enough goats' milk feta and beaten egg to prevent relentless verdancy.

I have done a little research and I am still at a loss as to what to call these so let's just say they're pastries. In spirit they are close to a Cornish pasty — or pasties, plural — but the seam of those often runs along the top, not the side. The shape of my pastry more closely resembles that of an elongated Scottish Forfar bridie (here or here) but without its characteristic peepholes, or an obese empanda (particularly the Argentinian and Chilean incarnations, aquí o aquí).

The taxonomy gets even more complicated when we consider the contents. Pasties can hold just about anything but are traditionally made with meat. The Oxford Companion to Food (2nd ed). explains that "[c]ubed beef with root vegetables is now considered standard, but other meats or fish, or vegetables alone, were used," and quotes pasty authority Theodora FitzGibbon for a proverb about pasty innards: "'It is said in Cornwall that the Devil never crossed the River Tamar into that county for fear of the Cornish woman's habit of putting anything and everything into a pasty.'"

Despite what the Companion says, I have a feeling that if my all-vegetable pastries went masquerading as pasties in a shop window like this one, they might be called perfumed ponces and run away screaming:

a scene from Withnail & I
The Companion, by the way, says pasties have "a seam of crimped pastry running the full length of the upper side," while the Cornish Pasty Association says they are "crimped on one side, never on top," because historically they were taken to work by miners, who could grasp their lunch by its sturdy seam-edge without washing their grubby hands, and simply toss its handle away when finished eating. (The pasties would presumably be too bottom heavy if the seam was on the top, causing the miners to dribble pasty innards all over their jumpsuits.)

The pasty has never caught on in the States, which might be a little strange considering how portable it is and how much Americans like to eat in their cars and at their desks. It's tidier than a burger — is that the problem, that it's too introverted for us? Too utilitarian? We have enough expats and curious Anglophiles to sustain the sale of proper pasties in New York City but they're very much a specialty item. Former NY Times restaurant critic William Grimes sneered at pasties in the late 1990s after tasting one in its native habitat and Cornwall sneered right back, but more recent pasty debate has centered around whether pasties are indeed Cornish or Devonian. A debate I would not wade into even with titanium wellies, so let's just move along to my recipe for pastries with an r.

You can prepare the vegetables or the dough for the crust a day or two ahead of time without any harm to the finished pastries, and there's quite a bit of flexibility regarding the greens. This recipe came about because I bought mild, young kale at the farmers' market and absentmindedly picked up some dandelion greens at the health food store the next day, but you could use one or the other, or spinach in place of either.

I didn't weigh my dandelion greens. If you can manage to pick some yourself, pick about this many.
Likewise, I used green garlic because I had some that needed using up; you could easily leave it out, or substitute one or two cloves of ordinary mature garlic. I forgot to snap a photo of the green garlic shoots but there's an old one in my Flickr here; it's stinky stuff but the taste is fairly mild, and you can use between one and three shoots of it in this recipe. I washed and steamed all my greens the day before and ended up with slightly more than necessary to fill the pastries, but they're perfect for stirring into scrambled eggs or filling omelettes.

If you don't feel like making the pastry dough you could use filo instead, as I did for the pumpkin dinner I made for Halloween, or you could use frozen puff pastry. The very popular brand that sounds like Leper Midge Arms is made with partially hydrogenated vegetable shortening and high fructose corn syrup, so if avoiding that sort of thing is important to you look for this brand instead. Fresh Direct used to sell something comparable for a lot less money but they don't carry it any longer, so you'll have to empty your piggybank or pose for some very arty photos if you want to buy the good stuff. I'd bookmarked a recipe for a pot pie pastry that I wanted to try so I scaled it down with a brilliant gadget and used that. I made 4 big pastries; let me know how many you end up with if you make smaller ones.

pastry dough

2 1/4 cups (250g) all-purpose flour (I replaced 1/2 cup (60g) of it with whole wheat flour)
1 teaspoon salt
3 oz/85g chilled butter (I chop it into 1/2" cubes and put it into the coldest part of refrigerator the morning I intend to bake with it)
1/4 cup + 2 tablespoons (85g) chilled shortening
approximately 3 tablespoons finely chopped dill
approximately 5 tablespoons icy-cold water

Combine the flour, salt, and dill in a large bowl and cut in the butter and shortening with a pastry blender or 2 butter knives. Alternatively, you can use a food processor. When the butter and shortening are in small pea-sized pieces (and not a moment later), add enough icy-cold water to form a dough. Continue mixing with your hands (or pulsing the food processor) just long enough for it to hold a shape. Divide the dough into 4 relatively flat patties. Stack them with squares of wax or parchment paper in between, wrap them well in plastic wrap, and chill in the refrigerator until ready to bake. It's probably best to let the dough chill for at least 30 minutes even if you plan to bake right away; pastry dough can get tough if it doesn't have a chance to rest.

filling

1 large bunch of kale, chopped into bite-sized pieces
1 medium bunch of dandelion greens, likewise
1 or 2 shoots of green garlic, everything but the frizzled ends finely sliced
1 big egg
approximately 1/4 cup finely chopped fresh mint and dill (preferably a mixture of both, although either one on its own would be fine)
approximately 1/2 cup crumbled feta cheese (I used a goats' milk feta from Consider Bardwell Farms, which I highly recommend if you can get it)
freshly ground black pepper
freshly grated nutmeg

also:
2 to 3 tablespoons milk, for brushing onto the dough before baking

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil and cook the kale for 10 minutes. (I had young kale; if yours has tougher, older stems, cook them separately for 3 to 5 minutes before you add the leaves to the pot). At the 10-minute point, add the dandelion greens and cook for an additional 4 to 5 minutes. During the final minute of cooking, add the green garlic and give the pot a good stir. Drain the greens well and set them aside to cool.

When the greens are cool, lightly beat the egg in a large bowl and stir in the greens until they are thoroughly glossy with it. Stir in the crumbled cheese and season the mixture with the pepper and nutmeg. Feta often contributes enough saltiness on its own, but if your feta isn't salty then add a pinch of salt to the mixture to your taste.

Heat the oven to 375 F.

Roll out the four portions of dough so that each one is approximately 1/4-inch thick and 7 to 8 inches in diameter. Don't worry about the shape or size too much; as long as there is some sort of shape that can be folded in half after you spoon the filling on top, they'll turn out fine, and the edges will look far more presentable after you trim them. Scoop up a generous half-cup of the filling and evenly distribute it over one half of each portion of dough, not too close to the edges. (I was left with an extra 1/2 cup or so of the filling, which went into an egg white omelet the next morning). Fold the dough over the filling of each pastry, pressing down firmly around the edges to seal them, and trim any raggedy edges away. If there are any thin portions around the seams, use these trimmings to fatten them up. Press the end of a fork into the seams to make sure they are nicely sealed.

Transfer the assembled pastries to two baking sheets lined with parchment paper. Arrange them with the fattest parts turned outward and you'll be less likely to burn the edges. The parchment paper is not absolutely necessary but without it you will have to be vigilant about trimming away any sticky leaks while the pastries are still warm so that they don't stick to the pan. Of course you can use Silpats instead.

Bake the pastries 40 to 50 minutes, or until they are nicely browned. Rotate the pans mid-way through baking (and if you didn't use parchment paper, take a moment to trim away any filling that has leaked out at the seams). Let the pastries cool for at least 10 to 15 minutes before eating them. You can eat them at room temperature but they're nicest warm.

If you are ok with having an only vaguely-Mexican Cinco de Mayo,

2009-05-03T18:46:00.001-04:00

may I recommend you do something with the banana salsa below?

This meal came together because I am still trying to use up the can of chipotle peppers I cracked open a little while ago. (Yes they are still going, and they're good for another few weeks yet). I really like them with beans but the banana salsa completely stole the show here. I thought it would be ok, sort of interesting, but it was terrific and I know I'm going to be making it often. The cumin and cilantro and lime brought out a floral taste in the bananas and we couldn't stop eating it by the spoonful while the rest of the food was cooking.

I made pan-grilled tofu and something resembling frijoles borrachos to go with it, but I think the salsa would be great with salty tortilla chips too.

The tofu went into a very simple marinade. You can make it as spicy as you like, but if you are making the beans to go with it I think it's best to keep the tofu on the mild side of incendiary.

This meal serves 3 people, and possibly one more if you are making something else to go with it or serving it with tortillas. However, the remaining tofu and salsa are very tasty the next day, so I recommend you make it for 2 and enjoy what's leftover.

for the tofu:

1 package extra-firm tofu, sliced into three 1/2"-thick slices and then again into triangles
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 1/2 tablespoons lime juice
1 teaspoon honey
1 clove garlic, finely minced
1 teaspoon ground coriander
pinch of fine sea salt
pinch of cayenne pepper (alternatively, use a tiny bit of adobo sauce)
2 to 3 tablespoons finely chopped cilantro
2 to 3 tablespoons whole cilantro leaves for garnish

Dry the tofu as best you can in layers of paper towel, gently pressing down to extract the water. Arrange the dry tofu in a dish in a single layer.

Whisk together everything but the tofu and cilantro until thoroughly combined. When that's accomplished, stir in the chopped cilantro and pour the mixture over the tofu. Marinate the tofu in the refrigerator for at least 3 or 4 hours. (Better still is to do this in the morning the day you plan to eat the tofu for dinner).

Take the dish out of the refrigerator and allow the tofu to come to room temperature while you are making the salsa and getting ready to cook the beans (see below).

While the beans are simmering, heat a grill pan over medium-high heat until it's good and hot. Lift the tofu out of the marinade and shake it a bit so that it's not dripping wet, but don't throw the leftover marinade away yet. Cook the tofu for approximately 4 minutes per side. When it's evenly browned, remove the pan from the heat and spoon the marinade remaining in the dish over the tofu.

banana salsa:

1 1/2 tablespoons olive oil
juice of 1 lime
pinch of ground cumin (ideally made from seeds toasted in a dry pan and freshly ground)
pinch of sea salt
2 very ripe bananas, diced (I've been buying organic bananas lately and they're on the small side; if you have a *b i g b a n a n a* then one will do)
2 tablespoons finely chopped red onion
1/4 cup finely chopped cilantro

Whisk the olive oil, lime juice, cumin and salt together. Stir in the other ingredients.

drunkard beans:

(very similar to frijoles borrachos, meaning drunken beans, but those usually have a little bacon in them; these don't, and are simple enough to be prepared by even a drunk vegetarian)

2 tablespoons olive oil
1 small red onion, finely chopped (anything between 1/3 and 1/2 cup is fine)
1 teaspoon dried Mexican oregano
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
one 25-oz can pinto beans (or 2 1/2 cups cooked pinto beans, if you are more organized about bean cookery)
approximately 2/3rds of a bottle of beer (nothing too dark; I like Red Stripe)
1 chipotle pepper, with a little adobo sauce clinging to it
fine sea salt, if needed

Rinse the beans under cold water and drain them. Sautée the onion in the olive oil until it has started to soften but not brown. Add the oregano and cumin, stir, and sautée for another minute or so. Add the beans, the chipotle pepper and the beer. Allow everything to come to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer the beans for another 20 minutes or so, stirring every so often. They'll start to disintegrate a bit and that's totally fine. Mid-way through cooking, taste them to see if they need salt. (Mine did, but if you are using salted beans they might not). Add a splash more beer if they look too dry.

When the beans are cooked to your liking, spoon them out onto plates, arrange the tofu on top of them, and put some of the banana salsa on top of that.

Rainy Day Snails #12 & 35

2009-04-15T07:21:00.001-04:00

In which we resume our occasional series of reviews of out-of-print cookbooks:

California Artists Cookbook

produced by Chotsie Blank and Ann Seymour
for the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (Abbeville Press, 1982).

I bought this because I wanted to see the Wayne Thiebauds in it; I've liked his work since I first encountered it at Wadsworth Atheneum as a tiny kid on field trips. Although the images in this book are not of high quality (they scan nicer than they are in print) they're still fun to look at.

Wayne Thiebaud. Cakes and a Counter. 1963.

At the time of the book's publication this one was apparently in Thiebaud's own collection but now it's at the National Gallery of Art in Washington.

Wayne Thiebaud. Three Strawberry Shakes. 1964.

Contributed to the book courtesy Charles Campbell Gallery, San Francisco.

Wayne Thiebaud. Plate of Hors d'oeuvres. 1963.

Contributed to the book courtesy Charles Campbell Gallery, San Francisco.

There's lots of other great art in the book. This painting by Paul Wonner is probably my favorite:

Paul Wonner. Dutch Still-life with Stuffed Birds and Chocolates. 1981.

Contributed to the book courtesy John Berggruen Gallery, San Francisco.

The carnivorous among you (and a certain portion of the anti-carnivorous) may prefer Marianne Boers's still-life with Safeway meats:

Marianne Boers. Safeway Meats. 1973.

Contributed to the book courtesy John Berggruen Gallery, San Francisco.

Her "Royal Baking Powder" (which is not in the book) is a similar work of supermarket photorealism but dark and metallic rather than pastel and fleshy.

There are also over 200 recipes, and they are far more interesting than the type usually found in let's-collect-recipes-from-friends cookbooks. I didn't spot any that appeared to have been lifted from the back of a bag or the side of a can, and a great many of them are inventive and unusual. You are not likely to be served painter Penelope Fried's preparation of mangoes for reflective moments, for example, by anyone but Penelope Fried:

I flagged quite a few recipes I wanted to try. Painter Rooney O'Neill's recipe for penne strascicate appealed to me right away because of its simplicity and reliance on well-chosen ingredients. I also liked her admonition not to serve grated cheese with the dish; it's a sign that the recipe did in fact come from a good, strict Italian cook who is confident in their way with pasta and won't stand for any interference with the flavors they intend it to have.

I am happy to report that the recipe is indeed a keeper; the acidic canned plum tomatoes and the crème fraîche come together beautifully. I used only 1/4 cup of olive oil because I thought any more than that would just end up in little puddles around the edges of the pan. I was also a little concerned that the tomatoes wouldn't break down enough while the sauce was cooking so I took a wooden spoon to the most stubborn ones as they simmered, and by the end of the 30 minutes I had a very nice sauce — fresh-tasting and just rich enough — that didn't need to be puréed.

Gerald Gooch's recipe for creamy sunflower dressing turned me into the sort of hippie who goes and buys a bottle of Bragg's Aminos (not to be confused with Dr. Bronner's, although both have word-soup packaging). There must be some sort gateway hippie substance among the aminos because I am now also happily drinking a little of their apple cider vinegar every day.

This dressing is GOOD. It's creamy and tangy and the flavor is really well-balanced. In the photo above it was used in a baked tofu wrap; it was terrific on simple green salads too. I was suspicious of the recipe because of the water and because it doesn't call for much in the way of spices, but I am definitely going to be making it again often. Maybe it's the serotonin talking, but I think this dressing is good enough to please even people who claim to hate hippie health-food-store type foods. And possibly even children, though I don't have any to test it on. I didn't even use all the oil the recipe calls for (I ran out after 1 1/3 cups) and it was still delicious. I also had no parsley so I used celery leaves instead, and that didn't hurt it at all. Note, however, that the recipe makes an enormous quantity of dressing, so you might want to try halving it, or inviting all the local beard-wearers and spinners of lumpen pottery over to share it with you.

You can buy sprouted sunflower seeds at many health food stores but us hippies like to sprout our own.

I used these instructions and while my first batch didn't sprout nicely — a few seeds did but most were duds — the second batch was a success. I think the problem with the first batch was that I didn't drain them well enough, and I put them in the refrigerator too soon. I drained the second batch really, really well, washed and dried the jar, then returned the seeds to the jar and let them sprout in it overnight (in a relatively cool, dark place) before refrigerating them. I was so excited to see that I finally had home-grown sprouts that I forgot to take a photo before I used them in the dressing, but for your edification you should know that they won't get as long as alfalfa sprouts. Their tails are between 1/4" - 1/2" or so. I still don't have a sprouting lid for my glass jar but cheesecloth is a fine substitute.

Gooch's work is worth a look, by the way. There isn't a great deal of it on the internet but there's a sour-faced art critic I'm very fond of, and his Man with a Scarf diptych has its own charms. Here is the man himself posing in front of some palm trees (symbols of "all the pricks in the world").

The most unusual recipe in the book is probably one for escargot à la Cheech and Chong, which includes detailed instructions for building a mesh enclosure to raise healthy snails in one's backyard, and some interesting suggestions on what to feed the captives:

A very close second in the most-unusual category is a recipe called "Imprisoned Eggs for Timothy Leary," which is sort of an IHOP Funny Face for tuned-in adults:

The timing is a little odd since Leary had already been released from prison at the time, but apparently cosmic emancipation happens only when one is prepared to realize it.

There's also an unusual recipe for a salmon barbecue buffet. The ingredients and method of preparation aren't very strange — two whole salmon, stuffed with a mixture of mushrooms, bread crumbs, crabmeat and fresh herbs and grilled over hot coals — but the recipe also calls for two small trout to be stuffed and cooked in the same manner as the salmon, and when everything is ready, the fish are to be arranged on large platters in a tableau mort, with the trout clasped in the salmons' mouths, and a cherry tomato in each trout's mouth. An impressive display certain to have any vegetarians at the party clutching their glass of wine just a little more tightly, if they've not already run off into a darkened bedroom to lie down for a while.

As a whole, though, the book features a nice mixture of appealing, very cookable recipes and curiosities that require special plates with eyeballs. Since these were California artists the use of fresh fruits and vegetables throughout the book is of particular interest, and I'd really like to try the loquat pie, persimmon pudding, cold yogurt soup with cucumber, mint and walnuts, and Ansel Adams's sorrel soup. The dessert chapter is by far the most extensive (37 recipes) but the meat and fish chapters are a very close second and third. Abstract expressionists are apparently fond of brooding over long-simmering stews and sauces: oxtail ragout, rabbit braised with rosemary, beef tenderloin Bordelaise.

As for the introduction by James Beard, it was surely a coup for the Museum's Modern Art Council to get him to write it, but unless you are a huge fan of him it's probably not of much interest. It was just a few years before he died and there's a very unflattering photo of him looking jolly and liver-spotted; he made a few interesting points about the importance of having "an aesthetic appreciation of what one sees and eats," but it's a brief introduction and this theme is not developed in great detail.

If you think you might like to buy the book, it is available through my bookshop cheap as chips.

-----------------------------

Previous posts in this series:

New York Entertains by the Junior League of the City of New York

The Single Girl's Cookbook by Helen Gurley Brown

Eggs I Have Known by Corinne Griffith and Cookbook in Solidarity With the Symbionese Liberation Army by Mona Bazaar

Have you seen this woman?

2009-04-13T12:51:00.001-04:00

If you have ever shopped for chipotle peppers in a NYC grocery, you have very likely seen la doña chipotle on an attractive little orange can, hovering over a sea of peppers. But who is she? Is she a renowned cook or a renowned beauty, or both? Is she the CEO's beloved auntie? The peppers are manufactured by La Morena, and their English-language site offers little in the way of history, explaining only that "La Morena products are made in small batches, so you can trust that each and every product will have the same great taste you [have] always trusted." The Spanish-language site (which can be read in both Spanish and English) is a lot fancier and explains that the company began operations in 1969 (when the current owners apparently bought out their former employer), that its name ("the dark one") honors the Virgin of Guadalupe, and that they have grown to have over 1800 employees. It goes on to say that their motto of "quality and tradition" extends to every aspect of their way of doing business (such as contributing to social and humanitarian projects in the community), and that the fact their products are still, after 40 years in business, hand-made according to unchanged traditional recipes is what allows them to offer the best quality, tradition and flavor. It's very nice to know that some companies still believe in these things, but what about la doña chipotle? She resembles the Virgin of Guadalupe to the extent that she has dark hair and her gaze is cast downward, but they're definitely not twins. She looks a bit like Frida, although somehow less likely to have had an affair with Leon Trotsky.

I wrote to the company to ask whether they might tell me something about her, but I didn't hear back from anyone. In some ways this is preferable because it allows me to conclude that la doña chipotle is a reclusive genius. She is perhaps the JD Salinger of the condiment aisle (and accordingly, capable of thrilling neighbors merely by venturing out to do some shopping), or, if you are very hip, its Connie Converse. And like other reclusive geniuses, she has a special something that her rivals just can't compete with (although those in the know might suspect it has something to do with the judicious use of sesame oil).

I very often have a can of the chipotle chiles in adobo my cabinet, but I'd never seen La Morena's "home made style red Mexican sauce" at the grocery until very recently, and the rustic little molcajete and blocky font and folk-art vegetables were irresistible to me.

So irresistible, in fact, that it never occurred to me I was simply buying a little can of salsa.

It wasn't as good as I'd hoped, but my method of preparing black bean soup — which so far I've made three times this chilly spring, and will likely make again before the weather improves — is quite flexible, and can easily accommodate a few spoons of salsa.

It's not a pretty soup, particularly without a couple cilantro leaves or a few wisps of pickled red onion as a garnish, but the fact that it can be made when the refrigerator is nearly empty and still be a very satisfying dinner is part of its attraction. The key ingredients are the black beans (which take on an incredibly velvety texture when pureed) and a couple of small tortillas (which thicken the soup without making it too dense).

black bean soup
Serves 2 for dinner + some leftover for lunch for one the next day.

2 tablespoons olive oil
2 cloves garlic, finely sliced
1 small onion, finely chopped
1 chipotle pepper in adobo, with a little of the sauce clinging to it (or 2 minced jalapeño peppers if that's what you have)
1 teaspoon ground cumin (preferably freshly ground)
1 generous teaspoon dried Mexican oregano (the one sold by Rancho Gordo is perfect)
2 6" tortillas (preferably corn tortillas, although flour ones work too), sliced in half and then finely sliced into strips
2 to 3 tablespoons salsa (optional)
approximately 2 1/2 cups vegetable stock or water
1 15.5 oz. can black beans, rinsed well under cold running water
a splash of sherry vinegar
freshly ground black pepper and possibly a pinch of salt

also: a hand blender, food processor or blender to puree the soup

Saute the garlic and onion (and the jalapeño peppers if you're using them) in the olive oil over medium to medium-low heat until softened but not browned. Stir in the cumin and oregano and cook for an additional minute, or just until the mixture is very fragrant. Add the tortillas and stir until thoroughly coated in the spice mixture. Stir in the black beans and add the stock or water (and the chipotle pepper and/or salsa if you're using either of those), and simmer approximately 30 minutes. (I make this soup in a 2.25-quart pot and add just enough stock or water to fill it without any danger of bubbling over). After the soup has simmered for 30 minutes or so, puree it in the pot with a hand blender. (If you are using a food processor or blender instead I trust that you know to be very careful about transferring it there and back, and let it cool for a few minutes first). Add a splash of sherry vinegar and some fresh ground black pepper to the pureed soup and taste it for seasoning. Add salt only if necessary.

As long as you'll be using tortillas you might as well make a quesadilla to go with the soup, and we recently had a very un-Mexican but very tasty one made with chopped daikon greens and goat cheese.

I'd bought daikon for the first time for another recipe and the greens were so nice-looking I didn't want to throw them away. Fortunately they have a great flavor (a little peppery, like watercress) and some health benefits too. You don't need to cook them before using them in a quesadilla; just wash them and chop them into bite-size pieces and mix them with whatever cheese you're using.

a mild cake for pleasant dreams

2009-02-24T13:36:00.002-05:00

Dream of a Rarebit Fiend (Edwin S. Porter, 1906).

You don't want your bed skittering out from under you, do you? Or chafing dish goblins jumping about your weary head? Then you'd better quit ladling welsh rarebit into your greedy gullet before you tuck in for the night. A small piece of cake with a modest spoonful of chamomile-honey crème anglaise is a more restful little something between dinner and bed.

There are several recipes for chamomile crème anglaise wafting through the internets, but I improvised based on this recipe for a lavender one. I made it with lavender a while back and enjoyed it, and I like that it uses milk rather than half-and-half (or light cream, if you're outside the U.S.). Crème anglaise is basically a cold, thin custard and half-and-half does give it a very nice texture, but this time around I was really just looking for a vehicle for the flavor of chamomile, and milk is fine for that.

As for the cornmeal cake, there are hundreds upon hundreds of different recipes out there and I feel like I've tried maybe a third of them. Some use ground nuts in the batter, some use olive oil rather than butter, some specifically call for polenta rather than cornmeal, etc. I am pretty well settled on the recipe below because the somewhat-scary number of egg yolks give it an amazing texture. It may look a bit bread-y in my photo, but the taste is unmistakably, unequivocally cake.

The original recipe for the cake is here. I haven't changed anything about the cake itself; I only fiddled with the syrup. I did rewrite the directions because you definitely don't need to use an electric mixer. The rosemary syrup is really good, though, so do try it some time. The honey syrup I replaced it with is not absolutely necessary, and if you don't want to go buy a bottle of honey liqueur I suppose you could try a simple syrup of 2 tablespoons honey and 2 tablespoons water, heated just until runny.

cornmeal cake with honey syrup

8 servings

cake:
1 stick (1/2 cup) unsalted butter, softened
1 cup sugar
1 cup yellow cornmeal [the best quality you can get your hands on, hopefully Anson Mills; the texture really does make a difference]
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
3/4 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs
1 large egg yolk
2/3 cup milk

honey syrup:
3 tablespoons honey liqueur (I used Bärenjäger)
1 tablespoon mild honey, such as clover

Preheat the oven to 350°F, with the rack positioned in the center. Generously butter an 8- by 2-inch round cake pan. (Possibly I am just paranoid after a bad experience with a sticky cake around Christmas time, but I used nearly a tablespoon of butter for the pan. We're fat now but the cake didn't stick.) Once the pan is buttered, give it a very light dusting of flour (i.e., put a tablespoon or so of flour in your smallest mesh sieve and tap that about over the pan, working fast, so that the entire interior surface is evenly but very lightly coated).

In a large bowl, beat the butter and sugar with a pastry blender "until light and fluffy." This is a standard phrase in cake recipes and I've always understood it to mean that the butter and sugar need to be thoroughly integrated, with no visible streaks of either remaining in the bowl:

Add the remaining cake ingredients and beat everything together until thoroughly combined into a pale yellow batter.

Pour the batter into the pan and bake for 40 minutes. (The original recipe says to bake it "until a tester comes out with a few crumbs adhering.")

Cool the cake in its pan on a rack for 10 minutes.

While the cake is cooling, heat the honey liqueur and the honey in a small saucepan (preferably one with a spout for pouring) just until warmed through and very runny.

Invert the cake onto a plate and, while it is still warm, pour the honey syrup evenly over the surface. I've been keeping the cake at room temperature and I'm convinced the small amount of alcohol kills all cooties, but you can refrigerate it if you're nervous.

chamomile-honey crème anglaise

2 cups milk
4 egg yolks
1/2 cup mild honey (I used raw clover honey)
3 chamomile tea bags, or the equivalent amount of loose chamomile tea

Heat the milk and the chamomile tea bags (or loose tea) in a heavy saucepan over medium heat until the milk starts to bubble around the edges of the pan. (A heavy pan — such as enameled cast iron — is ideal because milk can easily get too hot too fast in a cheapo pan). Turn the heat off and let the chamomile steep in the warm milk for approximately 20 minutes.

After 20 minutes or so, heat the milk again over medium heat. If it appears to have reduced quite a bit since the first time around, you can add a splash more to the pan.

While the milk is heating a second time, whisk the egg yolks and the honey together until they are very thoroughly blended.

Remove the tea bags from the pan. (If you've used loose tea, leave it in, and see note below about straining).

Once the milk has again started to bubble at the edges, whisk 1/2 cup of it into the egg yolk and honey mixture. Whisk constantly but not too vigorously; the purpose of this step is to get the egg yolk mixture acclimated to the temperature of the milk, not to get it to change texture. Pour the egg yolk mixture into the pan and keep whisking for approximately one minute, or until the mixture thickens slightly. "Slightly" is all you're looking for: Once it is thick enough to coat the back of a spoon, it's done, and you can take the pan off the heat. Transfer the crème anglaise to a bowl or pitcher and refrigerate until chilled. (If you have used loose chamomile, now is the time for you to pass the crème anglaise through a mesh sieve). It will taste just as good, if not better, the next day. If a skin has formed on the surface of the crème anglaise while chilling, remove it with a spoon before serving.

If you think the cake will be too naked with just a little crème anglaise on it, I think a spoonful of sautéed apples (maybe with a little honey, fresh thyme, and lemon juice?) would be nice on the plate. Fresh berries would work too. Candied walnuts or pecans wouldn't be out of place either.

breakfast of underemployed champions

2009-02-15T15:10:00.004-05:00

"And Bread-and-Butter-Cups (Fresh Every Morning)" by Walter Crane, from an unpublished children's book. Found at
the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University.

It's been a while! A few months isn't an especially long time in human years, but in blog years I suppose I've popped my clogs and been resurrected. Go ahead and cancel the arrangement of mourning flowers you ordered and put your black veil away; we're going to bake some bread.

I've made the walnut bread below three times since the recipe appeared in the Guardian in early January, making small changes each time depending on mood and kitchen inventory. I've not baked much in the past apart from quick-and-easy stuff like biscuits and muffins, in part because there's so much that can go wrong with a proper loaf. It's such a disappointment to spend all afternoon kneading and waiting and end up with something fit only for a duck's breakfast. I've found this dough a lot more pleasant to work with than the earnest hippie whole wheat bombs I've struggled with in the past. Is it the generous measure of warm milk? The way the warm milk and warm bowl help the yeast along? I can't say. It just works.

____________ and walnut bread

[Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's recipe is titled fig and walnut bread, but I keep making it with anything but figs. I've not changed anything else about the recipe because it's pretty much perfect as-is, but I have made notes in brackets.]

850g strong bread flour, plus extra for dusting
7g sachet dry active yeast
2-3 tsp fine-ground salt
450ml whole milk
100ml water
60g unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
2 tbsp honey [maple syrup works well too]
150g dried figs, soaked overnight in enough hot tea to cover, then drained and roughly chopped [I have used both dates and golden raisins with very good results. Neither need to be soaked more than 15 minutes. I've also used a combination of grated zucchini and blanched grated carrot, both of which should be drained well rather than soaked in anything.]
150g walnuts, roughly chopped

In a large, warmed mixing bowl, combine the flour, yeast and salt. In a saucepan, heat the milk, water, butter and honey [or maple syrup] to blood temperature, allowing the butter to melt, then add to the bowl. Mix with one hand to form a rough dough, then turn out on to a work surface and knead until soft, velvety and elastic, about 10 minutes. Shape into a tight ball, coat lightly with flour all over and place in a bowl. Cover with clingfilm or a plastic bag, and leave to rise in a warm place for an hour or so until doubled in size.

Turn the risen dough out on to a floured surface and press it gently into a rectangle. Combine the figs and walnuts in a bowl, scatter over the dough and roll up. Knead until thoroughly amalgamated and divide in two. On a lightly floured surface, shape each half into a ball, press into a flat disc, and roll up tightly to make a nice, even loaf shape. [Of course you can shape all or part of the dough into small rolls; they'll take a total of approximately 20 minutes to bake.] Smooth the ends under tightly, dust all over with flour, then leave to rise again, covered, on a floured tea towel or wooden board until almost doubled in size.

While the dough is rising, turn the oven to its highest setting. [I don't go any higher than 450 F because my small apartment gets far too warm.] Put in a large baking tray to heat up, and put a roasting tin on the oven floor. Boil the kettle. [Not necessary; keep reading.] When your loaves are risen, remove the tray from the oven, put the loaves on it, cut three parallel slashes into the top of each loaf and return to the oven. Pour half a kettleful of boiling water into the roasting tin and quickly close the door. [I don't bother boiling the water. Instead I simply add a roasting pan filled with an inch and a half of hot water from the tap at the same time I put the bread in. I put it on a shelf arranged just below the one the bread is on and that works very well for me.] After 10 minutes, turn down the heat to 190C/375F/gas mark 5 and bake for a further 20-30 minutes, until the loaves sound hollow when tapped on the base. Leave on a rack to cool completely before slicing.

breakfast tea for underemployed persons

This one is all me. I have no idea whether Mr. Fearnley-Whittingstall drinks at breakfast but I can assure you, it's not shameful unless there's something slovenly about your bearing.

Serves 1.

1 tablespoon muscovado or dark brown sugar
juice of half a lemon
1 to 2 shots of good dark rum (depending on mood and schedule and size of cup)
Lapsang Souchong tea (bagged or loose tea, up to you)
enough freshly boiled water to fill your insulated sippy cup

The sugar and lemon juice go in the cup first. Stir until the sugar is beginning to dissolve; then add the rum and the tea. (Obviously use some type of strainer if you are a loose tea person). Then the hot water. Give it a good stir and put the lid right on so it stays nice and hot for the rest of the morning.

after all this please please please don't forget to VOTE!

2008-11-04T07:38:00.003-05:00

Image from january20th2009's Flickr photostream

And if you're a reader outside the U.S. and can't vote, please light your finest voodoo candles, put on your luckiest underwear, chant your most effective mantra, etc., for a good result in today's election.

music for carving yr pumpkin

2008-10-26T16:50:00.003-04:00

Halloween postcard from the NYPL digital image gallery.
Sharpen your knives and carve your pumpkin to songs about werewolves, black cats and morbid thoughts. Don't throw away the pumpkin seeds because you'll need them for the recipe that follows.

Halloween A-side
Lou Reed, "Halloween Parade" (from New York)
Siouxsie and the Banshees, "Halloween" (John Peel Session Oct. 2, 1981) (from Voices On The Air: The Peel Sessions)
Talking Heads, "Psycho Killer" (from Talking Heads: 77)
Jarvis Cocker, "Black Magic" (from Jarvis)
The Cramps, "I Was A Teenage Werewolf" (from Songs The Lord Taught Us)
The Fall, "City Hobgoblins" (from Grotesque (After The Gramme))
The Monochrome Set, "Silicon Carne" (from Black And White Minstrels)
The Shaggs, "It's Halloween" (from Philosophy of the World)
Tyrannosaurus Rex, "Cat Black (The Wizard's Hat)" (from Unicorn)
Devendra Banhart, "Pumpkin Seeds" (from Oh Me Oh My . . .)
Serge Gainsbourg, "Bloody Jack" (from A Gainsbarre A Gainsbourg Volume 4: Initials B.B. - 1966-1968)
Marianne Faithful, "Witches' Song" (from Broken English)

Halloween B-side
Scott Walker, "Funeral Tango" (from Scott 3)
Joey Heatherton, "My Blood Runs Cold" (from Joey Heatherton)
The New York Dolls, "Frankenstein" (from New York Dolls)
Os Mutantes, "Ave, Lucifer" (from A Divina Comedia ou ando meio desligado)
The Smiths, "Cemetry Gates" (from The Queen Is Dead)
Patty Waters, "Moon, Don't Come Up Tonight" (from Sings)
Inflatable Boy Clams, "Skeletons" (from Inflatable Boy Clams)
Wolf Parade, "Same Ghost Every Night" (from Apologies to the Queen Mary)
Beck, "Scarecrow" (from Guero)
Pulp, "Being Followed Home" (from Freaks)
The Rolling Stones, "The Lantern" (from Their Satanic Majesties Request)
Nick Cave, "Death Is Not the End" (from Murder Ballads)

pumpkin for dinner

I wanted to make vegetarian pastries with pumpkin and cheese and herbs, and instead of using frozen filo dough I went to get the good stuff:

Poseidon Bakery, 629 Ninth Ave. (between 44th and 45th).
Fresh filo dough from Poseidon Bakery, the only place I know of in Manhattan that makes it. (Surely there are alternatives in Astoria; speak up in the comments if you have a favorite). I'm not really discerning about filo dough in terms of being able to taste the difference between fresh vs. good quality frozen, but I liked not having to wait a day or two to defrost it, and the fresh dough seemed a little easier to work with. I also liked the snack I got to fortify myself for pumpkin-carving.

The recipe below calls for roasted pumpkin, and I have a few words of advice.

Cooking a whole pumpkin is labor-intensive! You've got to cut it into manageable pieces with your biggest, sharpest knife; you've got to scrape away all the stringy innards (and you must be rutheless about this because otherwise they'll make the whole thing watery); you've got to comb out the seeds with your fingers and wash away more of the cold, stringy innards clinging to them; then you've got to pare off the skin from the manageable pieces and cut those into bite-sized pieces. It's not mentally-challenging work, obviously, but you will want a drink when you finally finish, or maybe before then. If you want to try this recipe but don't have time for rasslin' a pumpkin, I suggest using 1 can of pumpkin purée (not the kind described as "pumpkin pie filling") and mixing it with the cheese and egg mixture (see below). I would add an additional beaten egg to keep it from getting too runny in the oven. I am not a fan of food than comes in cans but I have used organic, unseasoned pumpkin purée in soup and other things and I think it would be fine here. Of course you could also roast the pumpkin a day or two ahead of time and refrigerate it until you are ready to proceed with the rest of the recipe.

I used a small pumpkin of the "Sugar Pie" variety. I wanted to use the seeds in a salad so I roasted them along with the pumpkin. (Cook them in a separate pan, of course; mix them with a bit of olive oil, flaky sea salt, and some fresh ground black pepper and check on them after 20 minutes).

Lots of cultures make something similar to these pastries. A quick scan through my recipe collection and favorite cookbooks led me to Greek, Turkish and Serbian recipes involving filo dough and cheese and/or pumpkin. They're all quite similar and once you look at a few you'll have the basic idea and won't need to keep going back to the instructions while you're cooking.

Pumpkin pastry with sage. Try not to knock these about when you're getting them from pan to plate or you'll end up with little rips and tears like I did.

Pumpkin pastry, interior view.

we're having pumpkin for dinner
4 servings

1 small- to medium-sized pumpkin or squash of a variety suitable for eating (my pumpkin was just over 4 pounds/a little less than 2 kilos)
3 tablespoons olive oil, plus an additional tablespoon or two if roasting pumpkin seeds (see comments above)
sea salt and freshly ground pepper
1 small habanero pepper (or any other orange or red chile pepper), finely minced*
1 egg, beaten well
7 ounces feta cheese, the best quality you can find (I used a creamy French feta made with sheeps' milk)
1/2 package filo dough, defrosted if frozen, cut into rectangles approximately 11" by 15"
4 tablespoons butter
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1 heaping teaspoon whole black peppercorns
12 whole sage leaves
1 egg white, beaten with 1 teaspoon cold water until smooth

Heat the oven to 375° F.

Cut the pumpkin into 3 or 4 manageable wedges and scrape away every last bit of the stringy innards. Whether or not you intend to roast the seeds, the tidiest way to do this is to scrape the stringy mess out onto a large square of wax paper. (If you want the seeds you then have a work surface to separate them on, and if you don't want the seeds, you nonetheless have a relatively clean kitchen). Pare the skin away from the remaining pumpkin flesh and cut the pumpkin into bite-sized cubes.

Toss the cubed pumpkin with olive oil until it is lightly but thoroughly coated, season it with salt and pepper, and roast it until it is tender when pierced with a fork (approximately 35 minutes). If your baking sheet is not large enough to roast the pumpkin in a single later, use 2 so that it cooks evenly. When the pumpkin is done, mix it with the minced chile pepper and set it aside. Leave the oven on.

Crumble the feta cheese into the beaten egg, season it with pepper, and stir vigorously with a fork until the mixture is fluffy.

Put the butter, coriander and peppercorns in a small saucepan and cook over low heat just until the butter is melted. Stir the mixture to integrate the spices.

Now you've got to work quickly to prevent the filo dough from drying out: Arrange the dough in front of you with the longer sides on your left and right (i.e., as if it was a sheet of letter paper you were going to write on). Using a pastry brush, evenly brush the top layer with some of the melted butter and neatly place 4 sage leaves about 1/3 of the way up from the bottom edge. (The peppercorns are only for flavoring the butter; make sure none of them end up on the filo dough). Spoon out about 1 cup of the cubed, roasted pumpkin between you and the sage leaves, top it with a layer of the feta-egg mixture, and quickly roll it up into a tidy, rectangle-shaped pie. (This is not as tricky as it might sound: Keep the sage leaves, pumpkin, and cheese mixture at least 1 1/2" from the edges of the dough, gently fold 2 layers of the dough over the left and right sides, roll up the rest as if was a big cigar, and put the finished pastry on a baking sheet with the seam-side down). Repeat the process with the remaining ingredients until you have 4 pastries. Lightly brush the pastries with the egg white and water mixture and bake approximately 25 minutes, or until they are crisp and golden brown.

* You could use a generous pinch of cayenne pepper instead, or a couple teaspoons of harissa if you happen to have some.

On the side we had a simple salad of watercress with tahini dressing and roasted pumpkin seeds, and roasted golden cauliflower sprinkled with sumac. To make the dressing, whisk together 3 tablespoons of tahini and the juice of 1 lemon. Add a pinch of fine sea salt, 1/2 a clove of finely-minced garlic, and a teaspoon or two each of olive oil and cold water and whisk some more until it's thoroughly blended. If it's still too thick, add a little more cold water until it is thin enough to drizzle over your salad.

Related posts: 2006 was a good year for pumpkin-carving.

fundraiser! tomorrow night! for Obama!

2008-10-02T08:21:00.004-04:00

What's that Barack? You want to discuss my law review article? Ok I suppose we could.
Photo from Barack Obama's Flickr photostream.

Tomorrow night there's a Grill-o-Rama for Obama on a rooftop on the lower East side of Manhattan and I really think you should be there. The idea is you bring something, we grill it. Also, we all throw some money in a pile and send it to the campaign. I am working on an Indonesian satay of tempeh, marinated in a Kenyan fashion, and served with Chicago-style (sort of!) pickled vegetables, so don't worry that your vegetarian friend won't have anything to munch on. The event is being hosted by a friend of a friend, in collaboration with East Village for Obama and NYC4Obama. You can get the details and RSVP here. If you can't make it, please consider contributing some money to our pile on that same RSVP page.

a virtuous farro salad for (y)our latest health regimen

2008-09-25T08:09:00.001-04:00

The recipe that follows is particularly useful for detoxifying the body after too many pancakes. Look, it's so healthy that it has a vegetal glow no matter how many times I fiddle with the colors of my photo.

Farro is a nutty-tasting ancient Italian grain rich with fiber and vitamins. It's the only thing in this salad that I measured so don't fret if you have a big pepper instead of a small one, etc. — you probably won't have the exact same assortment of vegetables on hand so just choose whatever's fresh and brightly-colored and work with that. My only advice is to not take the healthy-health aspect of the salad too far by using beet greens. Yes, they are ultra healthy, but there's something sordid about their dirty-old-velvet texture, and they have so much iron I swear it's all I can taste, a ferric taste like vinegar that's been on the shelf way too long. I've tried hard to like them—in addition to the health benefits, there is the difficulty in throwing away such a voluminous pile of edible greenery—but I didn't realize how poorly my efforts were failing until it hit me that even a generous layer of cheese couldn't distract me from their flaws. I'm much happier with radish greens (remember the radish soup?) so that's what went into the salad.

One unresolved question about the salad: are yellow wax beans as healthy as green beans? I crave them every week during the summer so I'm curious about this. According to some sort of back-alley generic Wiki they are "high in vitamins A and C," but I couldn't find any authoritative answer and I think the Google is broken:

No matter the answer, don't put those in your salad.

farro salad

serves 3 to 5 people depending on what, if anything, goes with it

1 large handful wax beans, tough ends snapped off
1 cup farro, rinsed under cold running water and drained
1 small bell pepper (orange is nice for color)
the juice of 1 lemon, divided
2 to 3 tablespoons olive oil
fine sea salt and freshly ground pepper
1 crisp apple, finely chopped (I used a Gala)
2 to 3 tablespoons thinly shaved flavorful hard cheese of your choice (I used pecorino)
2 to 3 tablespoons finely chopped fresh herb of your choice (I used oregano, but I can't think of any other that would be out-of-place here)
1/4 cup finely chopped fresh flat leaf parsley
3/4 cup chopped radish greens, or more if they're nice and fresh
4 radishes, finely sliced
2 or 3 scallions, finely chopped

Add a generous pinch of salt (about 1 teaspoon) to a medium-sized pot of water (at least 4 cups, maybe a little more) and bring it to a boil. Blanch the wax beans for just a minute or two and then pull them out with tongs and run them under cold water to stop them from cooking. Set them aside to drain. Add the farro to the pot and bring the water back to a boil. Adjust the heat and cook the farro at a simmer for approximately 25 minutes, or until it's tender. Drain the farro and set it aside to cool.

While the farro is cooking, roast the pepper over a gas burner until it's evenly blistered on the outside. (You'll need metal tongs or a long fork for this). Put the charred pepper in a small bowl and cover it tightly with plastic wrap. Let it soften for about 10 minutes; then remove the seeds and finely chop the pepper. (The skin of my pepper wasn't tough to begin with so I charred it lightly and left it on, but if you've got a large, crisp pepper you may wish to char it thoroughly and remove the skin before chopping it).

Whisk together half of the lemon juice, all of the olive oil, and sea salt and fresh ground pepper to taste.

Dice the apple and toss it with the other half of the lemon juice to keep if from browning.

In a bowl large enough to hold everything, combine the farro with the remaining ingredients, pour the vinaigrette on top, and give it a few good stirs until everything is thoroughly combined and coated in the dressing.

pizza and movie night chez Tiny Banquet

2008-09-22T09:33:00.006-04:00

Pizza and a movie at home: an ideal way to forget about whatever is troubling you at the moment. My troubles with the police were over, but I was in dire need of a break from the constant whirring of election chatter in my internets and my NPR. Maybe it's the fiscal crisis that's working your stomach into a pile of knots? No, not me; I am hopeful it will lead to an exodus of broke-ass bankers from my neighborhood. What I really, really needed was some time away from the terrifying visage of lying liar Sarah Palin, a primitive human being who ought to put a plate in her lip and a bone through her nose and call it a day.

The pizza was a minimalist one based on Gordon Ramsay's recipe for Wild Mushroom, Garlic And Mint Pizza.

Not being in an obedient mood, I gave the recipe a quick glance while I was gathering my ingredients together and got some of it wrong during the execution. Mr. Ramsay probably would've had a few words for me. I put the toppings under the cheese because I was worried about the mint and the thinly-sliced mushrooms becoming crunchy in the oven, and because I thought I'd be better off scattering more fresh mint over the top of the cooked pizza anyhow. Also, I have a giant stash of dried shiitake mushrooms that I need to use, so I soaked them in boiling hot water for 30 minutes and used those rather than sautéed fresh ones.

We liked the pizza, but I used pecorino because Mr. Banquet is lactarded and it didn't melt nicely. I'd like to try again with kasseri, which I've used in the past; it's a Greek cheese made with sheep or goats' milk and melts beautifully.

I didn't see the link to Ramsay's recipe for basic pizza dough so I used one I've been relying on for a long time. It doesn't make the best pizza crust I've ever had but it is good, and it's ridiculously easy to make; it comes together in less time than it would take you to locate prepared pizza dough in the grocery store. I keep meaning to try this one because Heidi at 101 Cookbooks makes a very convincing case for its deliciousness, but I wasn't planning ahead and needed a dough that would be ready in half an hour.

pizza with shiitake mushrooms, pecorino and mint

adapted from Gordon Ramsay
makes 2 pizzas that will serve 4 to 6 people

for the dough:

3/4 cup warm water
1 envelope active dry yeast
small pinch of sugar
2 cups all-purpose flour, plus a little more
1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt
2 tablespoons olive oil, plus a tiny bit more for the bowl
a few pinches of semolina or cornmeal for baking

for the pizzas:

2 or 3 good handfuls of dried sliced shiitake mushrooms
boiling hot water to soak them in
1 or 2 cloves garlic, finely minced
1 tablespoon olive oil
freshly ground black pepper
approximately 1/4 pound sheeps' milk cheese of your choice, thinly shaved or coarsely grated
at least 3 good handfuls of finely chopped fresh mint, one for each pizza and another for garnish
1/4 cup finely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley (optional)

Put 3/4 cup warm water in a large mixing bowl, sprinkle the yeast on top, and add a small pinch of sugar. Let the yeast bubble up for 2 to 3 minutes. (I think it helps to warm the bowl first by swishing some hot water around in it and dumping it out, but maybe I am being too nice to my dough). When the yeast is dissolved, add the flour, salt and olive oil and stir vigorously with a wooden spoon. When this mixture starts to come together and form a dough, turn it out onto a lightly floured work surface and knead it until it's smooth. (This whole process shouldn't take more than 5 minutes). Lightly coat the inside of the bowl with a little more olive oil, put the ball of dough back in it, cover it tightly with plastic wrap, and let it rise for approximately 30 minutes, or until it has just about doubled in size.

Bring a medium-sized pan of water to a boil, throw in the mushrooms, turn off the heat, and clamp the lid on. Let them sit for approximately 30 minutes, or until they're thoroughly softened.

Preheat the oven to 400 °F.

Sprinkle 2 pizza pans with a little semolina or cornmeal. (I used one proper pizza pan 12" in diameter plus one quarter-size sheet pan 13" x 9"). Divide the dough in half and roll it out or stretch it to fit the pans.

Drain the mushrooms and squeeze them mercilessly until they're dry. Toss them with the garlic and the tablespoon of olive oil. Divide the mushrooms evenly over the pizza dough, grind plenty of black pepper over the top, and scatter the mint and the cheese over them. Bake the pizzas for approximately 20 minutes, or until they are nicely browned. (It helps to switch the pans around halfway through cooking). Cut the pizza into pieces, scatter more fresh mint over the portions to be eaten right away (and the parsley, if using), and serve at once. There's no sense scattering fresh mint over the whole lot if you're not going to eat it all that night because it will only turn brown and ugly.

In an interesting plot twist, the leftovers were far more exciting than the dinner. First—and most blissful—was a breakfast of leftover pizza warmed in the oven and topped with a fried egg and yet another handful of chopped mint. That's it, voila. Use olive oil to fry the egg, and maybe add a pinch of hot pepper flakes if that will help you face the day.

The remaining pizza got cut up into small squares, topped with thickened yogurt and more fresh mint, and served as a first course. It was still pizza of course but the yogurt and greenery made it feel healthy. I like Ronnybrook Dairy's tangy fat-free yogurt (really, it is likable!), which I thicken by plopping it into a clean coffee filter set in a sieve over a bowl. If you are starting with a thick yogurt already, you are a step ahead and all you need to do is cut up the pizza and the mint.

The movie on our movie night was Billy Liar, a 1963 comedy directed by John Schlesinger. It stars Tom Courtenay as a young man who lives with his mum and dad and grannie, works as a clerk for some undertakers, and has several girlfriends he's engaged to, one of whom is Julie Christie. Here's the trailer:

The protagonist reminded me of Jim Dixon in Kingsley Amis's Lucky Jim: a young man uncomfortable in post-war Britain, trying to make it a bit more comfortable with a very very active imagination. But where Jim fantasizes about plunging his adversaries into toilets, pushing things up their noses, and telling them exactly what he thinks of them right to their fat faces, Billy fantasizes about gunning them down. I don't think this works as well as a humorous gag as it might have in 1963, when it didn't happen in real life on a regular basis.

Billy is nonetheless a very likable character and the movie is worth a look-see. There are some very funny scenes—this one, for example, in which Billy prepares to give his notice at work—and there is Julie Christie swinging her handbag on her arm, which you really ought to see.

Rage at the farmers' market!

2008-09-21T11:56:00.003-04:00

And in the dog run! I was happily shopping at the Tompkins Square Park greenmarket this morning when Mr. Banquet called from the dog run in the opposite corner of the park. "Could you come over here? The dog took this woman's tennis ball AND SHE'S CALLED THE POLICE." And so began an internal struggle: could I avoid laughing, which would surely enrage the lunatic more? And could I avoid pelting her with my recently-acquired heirloom tomatoes, which are way too expensive to use as weapons? The police arrived at the dog run just a few moments after I did. They didn't seem to understand the risks involved in prying such a thrilling prize from my little peanut's chompy jaws, but they duly noted our offers to buy the petulant lunatic a new tennis ball, which she repeatedly refused. With no other resolution in sight, we agreed to go our separate ways and have a nice day. I returned to the market to finish my shopping and the Ronnybrook Dairy lady told me a rotten bitch of a story that puts mine in perspective: at 6 am this morning, the people from Norwich Meadows Farm were unloading their beautiful, beautiful tomatoes from their truck when a drunken asshole from NJ demanded that they move the flats of tomatoes so he could get his assholemobile out his parking spot without having to use his feeble mind or feeble eyes. When they didn't do this fast enough to please him, he backed his car up, knocked over the tomatoes, and took off. Ronnybrook Dairy lady estimates that he destroyed ABOUT $7,000 WORTH OF TOMATOES. For fuck's sake! I wish every day was like Sunday.

You may wish to avert your eyes for a moment because we fell off our vegetarian wagon while in Maine

2008-09-17T22:04:00.004-04:00

but it’s not lobster I want to talk about; it’s smoked fish. Specifically, smoked haddock (a.k.a. finnan haddie), which plays a central role in two very old-fashioned English recipes that had been gathering metaphorical dust in my collection, curiosities (to me, at least) that I thought I might never have occasion to use: Omelet Arnold Bennett, and kedgeree.

I’d searched for smoked haddock in Manhattan in the past and come home empty-handed: Whole Foods didn’t have it, neither did Dean & Deluca, or Gourmet Garage, or the venerated Russ & Daughters. (I can't recall whether I tried Tea & Sympathy but there's nothing involving haddock on their lunch menu at present). I’d wanted it for a smoked haddock and watercress tart in Tamasin Day-Lewis’s The Art of the Tart. I made the tart anyhow, using Stonington Sea Products smoked Maine shrimp, which, unlike their smoked haddock, are readily available at a grocery nearby. The tart was superb even in its Americanized version but I remained curious about smoked haddock, and I didn’t want to bother attempting either kedgeree or the omelet with a substitute for it. It seemed preferable to tuck these recipes away for some improbable future situation. And there it was on our Vinalhaven vacation, 3 or 4 styrofoam trays of smoked haddock sitting in a refrigerated case at Carver's Harbor Market. Have you ever experienced a sense of culinary now-or-never-ism, in which you recall one of the more obscure recipes in your collection while at once understanding that if you don’t make it now you probably never will? Neither of these recipes is complicated or requires strenuous effort—they’re both simple enough to be taught to even the most sullen hired help at the most remote English country house—but I couldn’t see myself ever making them at any other time.

Omelet Arnold Bennett

This is almost as English as David Dickinson waggling his eyebrows at you at a car boot sale. I have no idea how I stumbled across this recipe but every time I scrolled past it while on my way to another egg dish in my collection, I would conjure up an unlikely and very specific set of circumstances in which it would be a pleasure to cook and eat this one. Most of these scenarios involved icy rain pounding on the roof, but maybe you have different ideas. Mr. Bennett reportedly simplified matters by demanding that it be made wherever he went.

More than you ever wanted to know about Arnold Bennett's whereabouts, from a 1970's edition of The Oxford Literary Guide to the British Isles I found at the cabin. Another section of the book revealed that Bennett and I have something in common besides a love of omelettes: he briefly practiced law but found it "uncongenial."
He also reportedly liked to eat his omelet late at night but it’s a fine lunch dish too. It's basically a standard omelet with a souffléed layer of smoked haddock and a little grated cheese on top. It’s lighter than it looks but somehow you may wish to spend the rest of the afternoon lying on the sofa with a glass of scotch in order to digest it properly.

The recipe I used comes from Delia Smith but there are several similar versions out there, including one purporting to be the original from the Savoy Hotel's archives. I departed from Delia's recipe on a few small matters so we'll call this an adaptation.

omelet Arnold Bennet for two
(adapted from Delia Smith)

3 tablespoons heavy cream
8 oz smoked haddock, cut into small bite-sized pieces, any skin and bones removed
fresh ground black pepper, to taste
5 eggs
½ teaspoon all-purpose flour
pinch of fresh ground nutmeg (optional)
1 tablespoon butter
2 to 3 tablespoons grated Gruyère or Parmesan cheese
1 to 2 tablespoons finely-chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley (optional)

Bring the cream to a simmer in a small, heavy saucepan and add the smoked haddock. Season it with pepper and let it simmer gently for 5 minutes. (Smoked haddock can be salty so wait until you've had a bite of the finished omelet before seasoning it with salt).

Take one of the eggs and separate the yolk and the white in small bowls. Add the flour to the yolk and beat it well. When the fish is done simmering, turn off the heat and add the egg yolk and flour mixture to the pan, beating continuously until it thickens.

Heat up the broiler very hot.

Whisk the egg white until it is as close as it can get to soft-peak stage. (I find it near impossible to get a single egg white to this stage so I settled for beating the hell out of it until it was very very frothy). Gently fold it into the haddock mixture. (A small silicone spatula is ideal for this).

Beat the 4 eggs well and grate a tiny bit of nutmeg into them as you do. (The nutmeg is optional, but since I began adding it to scrambled eggs and omelettes I've been unable to do without it).

On the stove top, melt the butter in a heavy pan about 8" in diameter. (Enameled cast iron is ideal; do not use a non-stick pan because those should not go under the broiler). When the butter is sizzling but not browned, add the 4 beaten eggs and treat them as you would for any other omelet: let them settle for a few moments, and when they are starting to look cooked at the edge of the pan, gently draw the edges to the center and tilt the pan so that the runny liquid bits are evenly distributed. Do not, however, let this omelet cook all the way through, and do not fold it. When it looks about halfway cooked, turn off the heat and sprinkle the parsley over the top. (Or, leave the parsley aside until the very end and sprinkle it over the cooked omelet; that's up to you). Gently spread the haddock mixture over the top of the omelet using a butter knife or small silicone spatula. Sprinkle the grated cheese over the top and put it under the broiler until it is puffed up and nicely browned (approximately 2 minutes; watch it vigilantly so it doesn't burn).

Cut the omelet into two halves and serve at once. No folding!

Note: If you are interested in reading more about omelettes before moving on to kedgeree, I enthusiastically recommend Peter Hertzmann's article on the subject.

Kedgeree

This is arguably even more English than Omelet Arnold Bennett because it was nicked from India: it is kitchari that’s been cozied-up for drafty English country house breakfasts. I’ll let the British Food Trust fill you in on the historical tidbits.

Having now tried kedgeree, it's easy to understand how someone waking up at an English country house and suffering with a hangover, or chilblains, or a gardening injury, or itchy tweeds, or possibly just feeling poorly, would really be looking forward to having it for breakfast. It's light but filling, very easy on the stomach, and it's very attractive on the plate when steaming hot.

I improvised the recipe below based on the British Food Trust article I linked to above because that's all I had with me in the sticks. Not having done any further research at the time, I didn't know that most recipes (e.g., this one) call for simmering the haddock in water or milk or cream before adding it to the rice. Instead I gave the haddock a good stir in the melted butter that I softened the scallions in, and that worked well. If you suspect your fish of being very chewy, by all means simmer it the traditional way. Also: I didn't add any lemon juice or curry powder, but a teaspoon or so of each could be very good.

I didn’t measure anything when I prepared this, and while I've tried to be as precise as I could in writing it down, my sense is that it’s not a recipe one needs to be precise about. By this I mean that you are not going to ruin the dish if you use more or less scallions or parsley or whatever. I think that with some sort of smoking contraption, one could make a very good vegetarian version with smoked shiitake mushrooms. They would have the right texture and—with a little help from tamari sauce?—the depth of flavor to replace the fish, but you’d have to smoke them yourself because I don’t know of anyone who sells them. Of course you could also use lentils instead, as in the many Indian versions.

kedgeree for two

3 tablespoons butter
3 or 4 scallions, washed but not chopped until the last possible moment right before you are ready to use them, at which point you finely chop both the white and green parts
8 ounces smoked haddock, flaked or chopped into small pieces (each just a couple centimeters across)
1 1/2 cups freshly cooked hot white rice, preferably good basmati,* fluffed up but kept covered until you are ready to use it
2 hard-boiled eggs, chopped into small pieces
A really generous grinding of very fresh black pepper and a pinch of fine sea salt, to taste
1/4 cup finely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley

Melt the butter in a sturdy skillet–enameled cast iron is ideal–and when it starts to sizzle, add the scallions. Give them a few good stirs before adding the smoked haddock. Stir the scallion and haddock mixture about until it is heated through (approximately 3 minutes) and then add the rice, the hard-boiled eggs, the seasoning and the parsley, all of this in rapid succession. Use a fork to thoroughly but delicately mix it all together. (Give it a good stirring but not a brutal one). Serve very hot.

* If you don’t have a really good Indian grocery nearby where you can buy top-quality basmati, I think Tilda is best among supermarket brands. It cooks up better than those ones in hippie-looking packages.

Brandade de Morue

A bonus recipe that’s only semi-related, with an extra-bonus crunchy morsel at the very end. I made this last year when we visited Vinalhaven in August and I found a thrillingly rustic-looking wooden box of wild-caught Canadian salted cod in the market.

I’d been wanting to taste brandade again since the first time I’d tried it, when Christine served it at a party and I wanted to sneak off and eat the entire dish in secret. Brandade is a traditional Provençal Christmas dish, but Vinalhaven in August can be cold in the evenings and mornings, and warm brandade on thin slices of toasted baguette was such an ideal thing to eat while gazing at ocean and pine trees that it could easily become a traditional Vinalhaven cocktail snack.

This is the sort of recipe you need to taste with great care to get the seasoning just right: salted cod can be excessively salty, but if it isn’t—and if you’ve successfully drawn out most of the salt during soaking—you will need to add more salt later on to bring out the flavors. Also, you should consider the quality of your tap water before you attempt this or any other brandade recipe. You're going to be soaking the fish in several changes of water, and if your tap water doesn't have a pleasant taste for drinking, it won't be good for your brandade either, so use filtered water. The water at the cabin is of very good quality and cold enough to rapidly numb one's fingers, so I opted for the lazy and slightly wasteful soaking method of leaving the fish in a bowl in the sink overnight with a constant stream of cold water trickling into it. It felt like a science project but that's part of the fun. (If you have a cat obviously this method would be no fun for you at all, and your cod will have to have its soak in the refrigerator).

Another comment on the recipe: Try not to be alarmed by the quantity of garlic! You’re not going to eat it, you are just using it to infuse the simmering fish and the olive oil.

Finally, if you are not making this for a group of 6, I recommend scooping the finished brandade into small oven-safe dishes, as seen above. You can eat the leftovers cold but they are so much nicer warm, and this way you can warm up small portions as needed.

brandade de Morue
(recipe from chef Riad Nasr of Balthazar, by way of evil Martha)

Serves 4 to 6

* 1 pound dried salt cod, cut into large pieces
* 4 dried bay leaves
* 2 sprigs fresh rosemary
* 12 sprigs fresh thyme
* 2 heads garlic, halved crosswise, outer paper removed
* 2 cups milk
* 1 cup water
* 1 pound Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and quartered
* 1/2 cup olive oil
* 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons heavy cream, warmed
* Garlic confit, for garnish [I skipped this with no regrets]
* Toasted croutons or bread

1. In large bowl, completely cover cod in water, and soak for at least 24 hours, changing water every 2 to 3 hours.

2. Make two bouquets garnis: For each, bunch 2 bay leaves, 1 sprig rosemary, and 6 sprigs thyme together, and tie with kitchen string. In a medium saucepan, place cod with 1 head of garlic, 1 bouquet garni, the milk, and 1 cup water. Over low heat, bring to simmer. Cook until fish is flaky, about 10 minutes. Drain, and discard garlic and bouquet garni. When cool enough to touch, flake fish, and set aside.

3. Place potatoes in medium saucepan, and cover with salted water. Cook potatoes at a simmer until fork-tender, 15 to 20 minutes, and drain.

4. In small saucepan, add oil, remaining head of garlic, and remaining bouquet garni. Over low heat, warm the oil, about 10 minutes. Discard garlic and bouquet garni.

5. Put potatoes through a food mill while still warm. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, combine potatoes and cod on low speed until just incorporated. Slowly add the infused oil, then add 1 cup cream. Do not overmix, or potatoes will become pasty. [I used a food processor for all of this and it turned out fine, but do be careful not to over-process.]

6. Garnish brandade with remaining 2 tablespoons warm cream and garlic confit. Serve with toasted croutons or bread.

I’m surprised I forgot to publish anything about brandade here last year because I was eager to share what I consider the highest and best use for the leftovers: in shatteringly crisp croquettes, to be served at breakfast or, surprise, with more drinks. With any luck they will be lightly crunchy on the outside with a dreamily fluffy interior, and you will think of them fondly even many months later.

To make these, peel a russet potato, cut it into 1” pieces, and boil it in salted water until it’s very tender (approximately 12 minutes, but start testing it with the tip of knife after 10 minutes; there should be no resistance when you poke the largest piece through the center). Drain the potato, mash it with a fork, and blend it with however much leftover brandade you want to use. (Approximately one cup should work; the important thing is that the blended mixture should be stiff enough to hold a shape.) I also added a generous pinch of cayenne pepper. Form the mixture into little balls or patties with your hands and dip them in a beaten egg, then in fresh bread crumbs, turning gently to coat both sides. (If you aren't able to make fresh bread crumbs in a food processor, use panko instead). Pan fry the croquettes in a bit of peanut oil that’s been heated very hot but not smoking until they are golden brown on each side and very crisp around the edges. Transfer the cooked croquettes to a plate lined with paper towels to remove any excess oil and serve immediately.

A little chopped parsley on top is very very nice but not absolutely necessary. If you must make the croquettes ahead of time, keep them warm in a moderately hot oven (350° F or so) because they should be steaming hot inside. Really it is best to cook them at the last minute. They only take a few minutes to brown and they taste much better than they will if cooked in advance.

the FDR to the Hutchinson to I-95 to I-91 to I-84, and so forth

2008-09-04T22:28:00.000-04:00

Shouldn't we have left for Vinalhaven by now? I couldn't agree more, and we're finally leaving tomorrow. It's been a long time to wait for pine trees and granite and buoys bobbing in Penobscot Bay, but things have been complicated here.

Last year's post regarding the portable kitchen still looks pretty complete to me, so this year I'm thinking about the other things we drag all the way to Maine. It is a long way! It is 7 hours from Manhattan to Rockland by car, and no one comes 'round with a drinks cart.

Luckier travelers, from superbomba's photostream on Flickr.
Because of the timing of our drive and the ferry schedule, we spend a night in Rockland before we arrive on the island. There's not a lot to do there. There's a wine bar we like for dinner, and a really great little market for picking up things for the cabin at the last minute. There's an unusually attractive movie theater and there's the Farnsworth Museum, but after being in the car all day our minds are thoroughly jellied. The remaining source of entertainment: hotboxing behind the Navigator. Please don't knock on our car window, you'll startle us.

Just kidding, Navigator people!
Early the next morning we try to get on the first ferry out, with our tickets and our dog and our toothbrushes and our iPods and all the rest.

Fact: It is always raining when we leave Rockland.
Once we're there we spend most of our time on the deck, and we like to identify the birds we see. An Audubon guide is essential.

We see bald eagles, ospreys, kingfishers and woodpeckers. I intended to get some sort of insect guide this year because I always want to know what I am looking at and it's always a mystery. Can any of you recommend one?

Can't tell you about these; I need a book.

I'm in the market for a guide to mushrooms, too. I know that chanterelles grow on the island; our neighbors there mentioned harvesting them on their property, and many times I've opened a cookbook in the cabin we rent and had a chanterelle recipe clipping land in my lap. So far we've only stumbled across brightly-colored mushrooms that can't possibly be edible, so please light a candle for us or consult your Santería lady on our behalf, etc., because I WANT CHANTERELLES. Lovely frilly chanterelles, not something scarier that would require dialysis after dinner.

A sip of Laphroaig while walking in the woods looking for mushrooms would really contribute to one's sense of well-being, or at least help pickle one's kidneys as a precautionary measure. This tooled leather flask is made to order and has "a protective finish to protect it from drinking binges." I can't believe I don't have one already.

Flask, $60 from Moxie and Oliver on Etsy. It has taken a lot of willpower for me to not order it but I am saving my pennies for a new camera (maybe this one).
Vinalhaven in September is going to be cold in the mornings and evenings, definitely cold enough for sweaters. This is ideal vacation weather as far as I'm concerned. It's hard to look purposeful when it's 80 degrees.

Vladimir and Véra Nabokov on vacation, scanned from Stacy Schiff's Véra.
I recently came across this photo of Lady Rhoda Birley in her garden and it's to blame for the pile of brightly-colored cardigans I'm packing, and my fervent desire to wear them all at once.

Photo of Rhoda Birley from Juncus Effusus on Flickr. I first read about Birley at An Aesthete's Lament, where she was described as "an eccentric Irish beauty and talented gardener." If you know anything about her milliner, please speak up.
The fall APC catalog has me dying to wear a blanket, too.

I didn't want to spend quite so much cheddar on it, though, so instead I ordered a small Hudson’s Bay point blanket.

Hudson's Bay capote blanket, which I say is a jacket, $131 from Woolrich.

I am going to try to pin it together over all my cardigans with one or two of these (pins, $6 on Etsy from A Minor Thread), and if it doesn't look right we'll just have a picnic on it.

yes but what will we be reading?

I try not to bring too many books to Vinalhaven because I never get through as many as I think I will, but what if it rains?

Having finally finished Jude the Obscure, I won't feel bad if I only manage bits and pieces of this-and-that, and many of the books coming with me this year are well-suited for reading a few pages at a time:

Pier Paolo Pasolini, Stories From the City of God. A collection of short pieces about Rome by one of my favorite filmmakers.
André Breton, Nadja. Often described as a "Surrealist romance." I'm not sure what that means but I am hoping for a combination of Locus Solus and The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant. It can't possibly be that great so I'll probably be disappointed. Hence the other books.
Robert Walser, Selected Stories. I don't know anything about this; I bought it solely on NYRB's description of Walser as "a Paul Klee in words."

Cecil Beaton, Beaton in the Sixties: The Cecil Beaton Diaries as He Wrote Them, 1965-1969. I read The Unexpurgated Beaton (his diaries from the 70s and 80s) years ago and enjoyed it, and I'm sure I'll like this too. Beaton was very witty and he knew everyone. I was going to say he was bitchy but really it's just that he was so good at observing others; it's not his fault if at moments they were boring or creepy or interested in all the wrong things.
Joris-Karl Huysmans, Against Nature (À rebours). Somehow I didn't know of this until I finally saw Withnail and I, and now I feel like I ought to have read it years ago.
Elizabeth Bishop: Poems, Prose and Letters. It's only appropriate to bring this along; I didn't realize it until very recently but Bishop spent time on the next-door island of North Haven. In a Paris Review interview from 1978 she explained that she was drawn to the island:

I sometimes feel that I shouldn't keep going back to this place that I found just by chance through an ad in the Harvard Crimson. I should probably go to see more art, cathedrals and so on. But I'm so crazy about it that I keep going back. You can see the water, a great expanse of water and fields from the house. Islands are beautiful. Some of them come right up, granite, and then dark firs. North Haven isn't like that exactly, but it's very beautiful. The island is sparsely inhabited and a lot of people who have homes there are fearfully rich. Probably if it weren't for these people the island would be deserted the way a great many Maine islands are, because the village is tiny. But the inhabitants almost all work—they're lobstermen but they work as caretakers . . . The electricity there is rather sketchy. Two summers ago it was one hour on, one hour off. There I was with two electric typewriters and I couldn't keep working. There was a cartoon in the grocery store—it's eighteen miles from the mainland—a man in a hardware store saying, 'I want an extension cord eighteen miles long!'

We have reliable electricity in our cabin but the caretaker is always a lobsterman.

Vinalhaven viewed from the North Haven casino. A casino in this context means a place where people gather before and after dinghy racing, not a garish gambling hall filled with dazed, hippopotamus-shaped tourists clutching plastic buckets of coins in their sweaty paws.

yes but what will we listen to in the car?

I made muxtapes for you, reader, but then muxtape shut down. So I made mixes for you at 8tracks.com but — are you sitting? standing then? — they are only 8 tracks each. You and I both need more than that, so there are three of them: the A-side, the A-and-a-half-side, and the B-side. 8tracks.com is not the most comfortable way to listen to music, so if you send me a nice email, I will happily send you AN ACTUAL CD. IN THE MAIL. All these songs, on one CD, for you! I will try not to get crumbs and dog hairs in the envelope. Naturally this offer is limited to a reasonable number of persons, to be determined by me. I have maybe four readers (five or six if I publish something that mentions boobs or peen), so there shouldn't be any problem if you want one.

The A-side starts out very calm, as is appropriate for getting off of the FDR and through all that bullshit right after it. We will be sipping coffee and munching breakfast from Sunny & Annie's (Avenue B at 6th St.), and making sure little so-and-so is cozy in the backseat. Mr. Banquet doesn't like The Fall as much as I do so there will be no Fall early in the morning. He likes Joy Division more than I so there's some of that later on. The A-and-a-half-side gets a bit shambolic but it won't make anyone feel super-edgy, I don't think.

NYC to Rockland, A-side
Serge Gainsbourg, Scenic Railway (from Confidentiel)
Orange Juice, Untitled Melody (from You Can't Hide Your Love Forever)
Jeremy Jay, Oh, Bright Young Things (from A Place Where We Could Go)
Young Marble Giants, Brand - New - Life (John Peel session, 1980) (from Colossal Youth - Expanded Edition)
The Jam, That's Entertainment (demo version) (from Snap!)
David Bowie, Drive In Saturday (from Aladdin Sane)
Pylon, Stop It (from Gyrate)
The Monochrome Set, Eine Symphonie Des Grauens (from The Independent Singles Collection)

NYC to Rockland, A-and-a-half-side
Bill Callahan, Day (from Woke on a Whaleheart)
Mrs Pilgrimm, Drop My Name (from Mrs Pilgrimm)
Devendra Banhart, So Long Old Bean (from Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon)
Lee Hazelwood, After Six (from These Boots Are Made for Walkin': The Complete MGM Recordings)
The Fall, Iceland (from Hex Enduction Hour)
Au Pairs, It's Obvious (from Perfect Unpop: Peel Show Hits And Long Lost Lo-Fi Favourites - Vol 1. 1976-80)
Jeremy Jay, Airwalker (from Airwalker)
Orange Juice, Three Cheers for Our Side (from The Glasgow School)

NYC to Rockland, B-side
Buzzcocks, Boredom (from Spiral Scratch)
The Fall, Fiery Jack (from 50,000 Fall Fans Can't Be Wrong (39 Golden Greats))
The Kinks, Wicked Annabella (from The Kinks Are The Village Green Preservation Society)
Tyrannosaurus Rex, The Seal of Seasons (from Unicorn (Expanded Edition))
Joy Division, Transmission (from Peel Sessions)
Smog, Ex-Con (from Red Apple Falls)
Johnny Thunders, All By Myself (Live) (from You Can't Put Your Arms Around a Memory)
Antony and the Johnsons, Fistful of Love (from The Lake EP)

well-fed animals

2008-08-24T17:42:00.003-04:00

Those are exactly the type of animals we like to make a fuss over when visiting a country fair.

These photos are not from the same fair I've posted about in the past — that was the Durham fair, which happens September 26th - 28th this year. These are from the Chester Fair, which is even smaller and more rural. It's been taking place since 1877.

Photo from the Chester Historical Society, via the via the fair's web site.

We arrived in Westbrook on Saturday morning and went for a hike at Salt Meadows, which is part of the Stewart B. McKinney National Wildlife Refuge.

Salt marsh, Westbrook CT

Salt Meadows is a stopping place for many types of migrating birds, and visiting naturalists record their sightings in an observation log.

Too bad they weren't all together.

We went to the fair on Sunday morning, and the first thing we encountered was a picturesque cattle barn filled with picturesque cows.

There were also plenty of goats (both in a petting zoo and in competition), chickens and rabbits.

These two thought my camera was examining their new egg. And they were totally right.

Piglet, born July 28th.
There was a mesmerizing horse pull competition, in which pairs of work horses pull a sled loaded with cement blocks. The horses are often ready to go before their harness can be linked to the sled, and have to be led back to it in a tense circle.

pancakes for the skinniest skinnies

2008-07-24T10:31:00.001-04:00

It has come to my attention that some of you could eat a plate of pancakes with no harm to your adorably scrawny physique, so I am taking the unprecedented step of publishing one pancake recipe after another.

Last week we saw Jeremy Jay at Mercury Lounge, and then on Tuesday we saw Jarvis Cocker at Terminal 5. They were each in their own way "as charming as the top of an apple-tree above a wall,"¹ but the sometimes-Mr. Tiny Banquet, who went with me to both shows, and who is himself tall and skinny, couldn't help noticing the similarities in body type. We know Jeremy Jay eats something once in a while because he said he dug John's Pizza earlier that day, but I suspect that Jarvis — a generous soul who did two encores, and who gave his glass of wine to an audience member who insisted it was her birthday — might actually be giving away the small amount of food that ends up on his plate.

Jeremy Jay, above left; Jarvis Cocker, above. This might seriously be the last time I have to apologize for crap iPhone photos because my real camera is in for repairs RIGHT THIS MINUTE.
Maybe Jarvis is just shake, shake, shaking the weight off. It's difficult to find a video of him dancing with decent sound and image quality and he's pretty subdued in the one below, so you'll just have to take my word that he's a hard-working man. Sheffield's own James Brown, in a way.

Fat Children.

The next concert we're planning to go to is a performance of Scott Walker's recent work at the Barbican this November. Scott is not going to be on stage because he's a reclusive genius, but if he were, he'd be tall and skinny too. He's gained a couple pounds since his Walker Brothers days but not many, and surely he could put away a plate of pancakes with butter and syrup without busting the seams on his pants.

I am not in the habit of flying across the pond for a single show but I can't explain what happened; I read about this event when it was announced and the next thing I knew I was looking at a seating chart. There were only two available seats next to each other in the stalls for the last night and I couldn't not take them.

The recipe below for crispy cornmeal pancakes is based on this one for blueberry pancakes, which I wrote about way back in the olde-timey days of 2006.

If you live or vacation in a place where people keep cows, do try to get fresh, local butter for your pancakes. It's the right thing to do.

If you are not on tour right now shaking your peaches all over the world, then I recommend the Swiss yogurt from Gregory's Coffee: low-fat yogurt, skim milk, cold cooked whole oats, and some chopped apple, banana and almonds. It's not as good as these pancakes but I think it's a decent alternative, and it doesn't smell weird like egg whites on whole grain toast.

crispy cornmeal pancakes

serves 2

1 cup sifted all-purpose flour
1/4 cup yellow cornmeal, preferably stone-ground
2 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt
1 1/2 tbsp. sugar
1 egg
1 cup milk
1 tsp. vegetable oil, plus a little more for cooking
butter and maple syrup for serving, and sliced strawberries would be nice too

Sift the flour into a medium-sized bowl and stir in the cornmeal, baking powder, salt, and sugar. Beat the egg with the milk and the teaspoon of oil and stir this mixture into the dry ingredients with a fork until everything is thoroughly blended.

Heat a good, heavy pan or griddle (cast iron is ideal) over medium-high heat and grease it with the additional vegetable oil. (The instructions in the recipe linked to above are spot-on about using a paper towel to coat the pan with just enough oil so have a look at that).

Ladle or spoon the batter into the pan to make pancakes as big or small as you like. For classic, generous pancakes, use about 1/4 cup of batter for each. Let the pancakes cook undisturbed until small bubbles form on the surface and then flip them over with some confidence. They should be golden brown on each side and crisp at the edges.

Serve the pancakes with butter and real maple syrup, not the cheapo maple-flavored syrup. If you are trying to impress anyone (including yourself), heat the syrup until warm. Sliced strawberries are nice on top, too.

-----------------------------------

1. Firbank, Ronald. Vainglory. New York: New Directions Books, 1986.

A tale of two Seventies

2008-06-29T23:48:00.003-04:00

In which we resume our occasional series of reviews of out-of-print cookbooks:
New York Entertains
by the Junior League of the City of New York (1974).

How was 1974 for you? What were you into? I wouldn’t be born for another two years, so I have to take the August 1974 issue of Viva magazine at its word:

Women are into:
total feminism
male nudes
pubic hairstyles
hash smuggling
great new fall fashions

I started collecting old issues of Viva after reading this appreciation of it at Vmagazine.com (no relation), which I urge you to take a look at if you have any interest in magazine publishing, or in a brief period of U.S. history during which even prime-time teevee stars weren't too uptight to pose for photos shoving their hands down the pants of a new friend.

Aside from the fascinating topics listed above, the August 1974 Viva also featured reviews of Joni Mitchell’s Court and Spark and Lou Reed’s Rock ‘n’ Roll Animal, an interview with Arianna Huffington, age 24 (then Arianna Stassinopoulos), and a profile of WNEW-FM DJ Alison Steele:

“She smokes tiny cigars, dismisses inconsequential people, and embraces maître d’s in restaurants, where she expects the best tables by virtue of her fame. When they are not given to her, she moves to them, glaring at the waiter.” The tiny cigars make it ok somehow, don’t you think? They’re perfect for her.
Meanwhile, the NYC Junior League published a cookbook to raise funds for its "community program." According to their website, their work in the Seventies focused on job training for women inmates, but for some reason the book doesn't even hint that the Upper East Side hostesses who contributed menus for "celebrating after the opera" and "[the] next time your husband asks you to entertain visiting businessmen" would ever have anything to do with Rikers Island jailbirds.

A detail from the inside back jacket of New York Entertains
by the Junior League of the City of New York, illustrated by Patricia Whitman.
My readers abroad might not know that in the States, the Junior League has a reputation as being an organization for brittle young socialites wearing pearls, a sense of entitlement, and a terrifying back-stabby gleam in the eyes. In London they might be identified as Sloane rangers, but the British have always allowed their upper classes a bit of kink, whereas Junior League girls are expected to have ice water running through their veins.

It won't be a surprise, then, that in 1974 they favored centerpieces that required a little too much effort.

And yet the recipes aren't as WASPy as I expected. Apparently NYC Junior League girls didn't share their New England comrades' affection for potato salad with mayonnaise deluge (and flavorless grocery-brand paprika sprinkled on top, if there was any gathering dust in the summer house cabinet), incompetent drunken clambakes, grilled cheese sandwiches on white bread, and canapés involving Ritz crackers, all washed down with truly grownup-size gin and tonics made with the second-cheapest gin available (often Five O'Clock, quite possibly picked up at the vile state-run liquor stores on I-95 in Vermont on the way to or from Maine).

In Memoirs of a Beatnik, Diane di Prima recalled a WASPy school friend's family she'd met in the early Sixties:

Her parents who had no more money than my own, lived beyond their means in expensive Darien, and shopped in a Gristede's where everything cost three times as much as it did in the local supermarket in Brooklyn, but where Tallulah Bankhead could be seen buying brandied peaches. Tomi's mother Martha was a handsome little woman in her mid-forties, Anglo-Saxon and proper, grim and laconic, a woman who did what was expected of her, and took no pleasure in it. It was a well-known—and frequently discussed—fact within the family circle that she was frigid. Her father was a florid Latin type, half French and half Italian, who drank emotionally, spent too much money, and was openly and despairingly in love with his wife. Their dogs were mangy, but thoroughbred; their heroes F. Scott Fitzgerald and Harry Crosby. Their house was much too small, their barn too big; they read The New Yorker and the Sunday Times, lived on peanut butter sandwiches and scrambled eggs, and drank endless martinis in front of the fireplace in their dark, crowded living room.

One thing we might take from all this is that the classics of WASP gastronomy are fundamentally ill-suited to appear in cook books, and that is because they are embarrassing for several reasons. Stumbling across a recipe for an authentic WASP lunch or cocktail happening in a Junior League fundraiser cook book would be like stumbling across a photo of a grown man in diapers.

So, instead we get modestly stylish suggested menus for structured social occasions: An Easter Luncheon for Six, Derby Day Luncheon for Sixteen, A Theater or Benefit Supper for Twelve, The Bicyclers' Back-pack Picnic for Four.

The menu for the committee lunch for twelve (i.e., fundraising, but "lovely enough to serve as a bridesmaids' luncheon"): vitello tonnato (veal braised in white wine, with a sauce of Italian tuna, capers, anchovies, mayonnaise and lemon juice), leeks vinaigrette, sesame seed toasts, apricot ice, and chocolate chiffon cookies.

The menu for the bicyclers' picnic ("Everyone is biking now, more than ever") includes a chilled lemon soup, salad niçoise, sesame bread sticks wrapped in prosciutto, radishes and carrot sticks, and fruit and cheese for dessert.

If you are curious about the caviar soufflé from the menu for a sans souci lunch ("simple but chic"), note that it calls for four ounces of caviar to serve two people. Hey, some landlords are ok with you being a month behind.

The crêpes Gravetye Manor sound much better: apple, bittersweet chocolate, and cream.

I was going to try that one, but I ended up making the Dutch apple pancakes instead. Yes, I know the part of the recipe with the instructions has a stain on it. It's not mine.

I couldn't bring myself to use 4 tablespoons of butter to sauté the apples so I used about 3, or a little less. That was plenty, even for sautéing in two batches. I used a salted, cultured butter and I added approximately 2 teaspoons of finely chopped fresh rosemary to the cooked apple slices, which I made in advance and set aside in the refrigerator. (If you do the same, take them out of the refrigerator about 15 minutes before you are ready to cook the pancakes. The pancakes don't take long to cook, and if the apples are still cold when you begin they might not be heated through by the time the pancakes are done.) Also: I used the lesser quantity of sugar, I added a pinch of fine sea salt to the flour, and I used Negra Modelo beer.

~~My camera is on strike so we'll have to make do with a couple of hazy iPhone photos.~~

We ate the pancakes for dinner with tofu sausages on the side. The pancakes were terrific, very light and crisp around the edges. I'll definitely make them again, but next time I'll slice the apples very thin. I sliced them thinner than the recipe calls for and they were still too clunky, which made the pancakes clumsy to flip (too much weight, poorly distributed) and to eat.

I doubt the Viva crowd made pancakes often, unless for a really special morning-after breakfast. One thing everyone could agree on in the Seventies, presumably: the right capes and tweeds can be hot shit.

cape and tweedy skirt by Luba, Viva magazine, August 1974

Previous posts in this series:
Corinne Griffith's Eggs I Have Known and Mona Bazaar's Cookbook in Solidarity With the Symbionese Liberation Army;

Helen Gurley Brown's The Single Girl's Cookbook

YES WE CAN sell all these cookies

2008-06-21T16:11:00.003-04:00

What are you doing reading a blog when all the cool people are at the bake sale? Come down to Hanger Bar on East 3rd between B and C for cookies, cookies, cookies, focaccia, empanadas, spring rolls, and just about anything else you'd want to munch on with drinks. Get there before 8, but if you want an empanada you'd better get there sooner because we're eating all of those.

hey hello, is there anyone here?

2008-06-18T08:06:00.002-04:00

It's mercifully easier to end my unscheduled blog-hiatus with a brief announcement rather than an epic post about what I've been up to during the past six months. So, I'm inviting you to a bake sale.

It's this Saturday at Hanger Bar (3rd Street between Avenues B and C) from 1 pm until 7. I will be contributing herb focaccia and maybe some cookies too, if I can really get my shit together. If you can't make it to 3rd and B, go to MoveOn.org and see if there's a Hungry For Change bake sale in your neighborhood.

I wasn't going to do a 2nd annual post on gifts for cooks, but . . .

2007-12-14T23:08:00.000-05:00

according to my beloved StatCounter, a disconcerting number of you are in the market for a pair of fancy dishwashing gloves. (These misguided souls among us are landing on this post from July 2006, which does not endorse fancy or proletariat dishwashing gloves. I suspect they're looking for something like this. I've been reading a lot of Evelyn Waugh lately and I've been so, so good in not repeating the phrase "sick-making" as often as Agatha Runcible, but: those things are too sick-making to crumple into a ball under one's sink, let alone wear.) If you need to buy a gift for a cook or—ugh, hate this word—a foodie, and you've already considered the suggestions I posted last Christmas, here are some more presents I would not return:

For the cook who has a healthy appetite for both cheese and kitsch, a fromage board and knife ($40 for both).

For the cook whose "cooking" is limited to making tea, a shiny gold teapot ($27 for 1-liter size and $33 for the 1 1/2-liter);

a sugar shaker named "sweet talker" (£29; let's not think about how many $$);

and a couple of graph paper mugs that might inspire post-tea scribbling ($12.95 each).

Or, if your tea drinker has been caught with their pinky in the air, a pair of grey-brown cups and saucers with gold rims to match the teapot ($28 per set).

For the cook who is basically competent but slightly inattentive, an adorable milk saver ($29).

It's not often that I cook something that requires me to heat up milk or cream, but nearly every time I have I've gone beyond scalding. The problem is that it can go from a gentle simmer to a volcanic mess in just a few seconds, and as that's happening it doesn't make any noise. You can't set a timer, either, because you don't know how long it will take. The solution is a milk saver, a little ceramic disk that rattles against the bottom of your pan just as the simmering begins. This one's got a brilliant red flag, to catch even a glazed-over eye.

For the cook who needs to work on having more friendly thoughts about pigs and fewer covetous thoughts about bacon, a pink salt pig with ears and, reportedly, a curly tail ($7.95).

For the cook who you don't know very well but want to buy a little gift for, a set of gleaming gelato spoons ($2.49 each). A cheap gift indeed, so you'd better at least tie them up with some thrillingly gaudy ribbon ($1.80 per yard).

For the cook who, when they're not cooking, eats even more toast and yogurt than you think they do, a bird-like honey pot ($44)

Or, if you've got more scratch to spend, a set of porcelain Mad Hatter dishes to hold jam, sugar, etc. ($250). Who doesn't want to be reminded of Hatty Town while having breakfast?

For the cook with raggedy post-it notes sticking out of their favorite cookbooks, Mark my Words for Cooks ($5.95) a kit for flagging recipes one would like to try, or tried and loved, or tried and hated.

For the cook who has knocked over countless glasses of red wine while getting dinner ready, stubby, old-fashioned café wine glasses ($40.50 for a set of four) for drinking exactly 23 francs worth of wine without spilling a drop.

For the cook who frequently comes home from the grocery store with a big bag of lumpy lemons, a lemon seed necklace ($280) or a copy of The Golden Lemon ($14.95). I have this book and I haven't tried any of the recipes yet but they're almost all appealing.

For the cook who has occasionally served you over-cooked pasta, a stainless steel spaghetti tester ($48). I'm not sure exactly where I stand on this—I can think of better uses for $48—but if someone gave me one I'd end up using it.

For the vegan, an obscure Dutch vegan cookbook ($12). I'm curious about the "Devilled Eggplant in Tulips."

For the Anglophile baker, a "Made in England" rolling pin (£39).

Finally, for any cook with ambitions beyond a single burner, a fancy new timer ($29.95). Said cook might set up to four independent timers at once (!!) and the numbers are BIG. The result could only be a happier relationship between arroz and frijoles.

Step away from the turkey: it's not too late for a non-murderous Thanksgiving

2007-11-18T18:37:00.000-05:00

As an ex-vegetarian who is seriously contemplating getting back on the wagon, I feel that this is an opportune moment to remind you that you don't need to munch on turkey tomorrow. You don't need to munch on the vile faux-corpse of a Tofurkey either, because I'm going to give you a recipe for something better. (Stuffed squash, which I'll get to in a moment).

Long-time readers know that I've always been ambivalent about posting meat recipes here — I don't think I've ever posted a single recipe involving beef or pork, for example. Birds and sea creatures haven't fared as well, and their surviving friends and relations are hereby forgiven if they ever wish to wave their wings, claws, tentacles, or wee little fins at me in a menacing manner.

Readers will also know that when I see beady little eyes peering in my window I'll hand over nuts without hesitation, not because I am fattening the little cuties for pâté but because I like having them around. They will also know that my adoration of the spaniel pictured below is limitless, even when he's trying to eat wood chips or lint or curtains or other unworthy things.

I don't think it's outlandish to assume that he perpetually wags his tail in part because he trusts that he won't be roasted, grilled, or pan-seared. Shouldn't all creatures feel the same? They get their hearts broken by stupid plastic boyfriends just like we do, you know. And like us, they crave justice and rarely get it.

Obviously there are lots of reasons not to eat meat, and I won't prattle on about them now because that's almost certainly not what you're here for. Let's just say that I was a vegetarian for many years and am very sympathetic to the point of view that there are many arguments against eating meat, and no good arguments in favor of eating it.^*

Are you annoyed with me for raising this issue at this time of year? Everyone has got to draw a line somewhere. Otherwise you'll end up like der Karl, thinking that a plate of horse meat carpaccio is as appealing as Hedi Slimane trousers.

Besides, a series of recent concerts reminded me of my long-dormant suspicions that happiness awaits in a new career as the leader of a Morrissey cult. An enterprise in which I am doomed to failure if I haven't gone back to veg. I'm going to get started on preparing the pamphlets I'll distribute at the next symposium, on the assumption that I'll surely have come 'round by then.

I was going to make a silly joke and caption this "a rare recent photo of Morrissey and Mike Joyce," but sensitive types may consider such a comment libelous against dear, blameless turkeys.
Photo from Morrissey-web.com

Anyhow, on to the recipe. I've been making this for years, with a few changes. The first being to omit the dried cranberries. They're almost always sold sweetened, too sweetened, and there's just something awful about dried fruit in one's dinner. It's very 70's. If you truly like the idea of dried cranberries I urge you to play up the 70's theme in a big way so as to make clear it's not an accident — decorate your table with images from Our Bodies, Our Selves and the Black Panther Coloring Book, and offer drugs to all of your guests in the main room, instead of sneaking off to the drug room with the hip-looking ones.

Other changes to the recipe: Fresh herbs. There is simply no excuse for dried, which taste dusty and have an awful texture. Also, I usually replace the onion with leek, which is more subtle-tasting and more colorful, and the water with white wine or stock, and the whole wheat bread with sourdough or whole-wheat sourdough. I also usually add some nuts, if the squirrels haven't eaten them all. I never measure any of this stuff so if something doesn't feel right, decrease or increase it as you see fit.

On the left, baby leeks, which I got from the same people who sell ramps at the Union Square greenmarket when those are in season; on the right, a pile of herbs.
Finally, note that the original recipe I linked to above calls for microwaving the squash before you stuff it. I haven't got a microwave so I roast it, but I have microwaved it at other people's houses and it's fine that way too. Consult the link if you need directions for that.

stuffed squash

Serves 4; yes, you can halve or double the recipe

2 small- to medium-sized acorn squashes (or dumpling squashes or small kabocha), halved lengthwise and seeded
5 tablespoons butter (1 tablespoon of which should be softened to room-temperature)
salt and freshly ground pepper
approximately 1 cup finely sliced leek, white and pale green parts
1/3 to 1/2 cup white wine, dry vermouth (Noilly Prat is good), or vegetable stock
8 ounces fresh wild mushrooms, tough stems removed and sliced
2 to 4 tablespoons mixed fresh herbs — a combination of sage, thyme, rosemary and lovage is nice
2 cups fresh breadcrumbs, preferably sourdough or whole wheat sourdough — I use fresh bread and break it into small, irregular pieces in the food processor
1/4 cup lightly toasted and coarsely chopped walnuts or pecans

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Put the squash halves on one or two baking sheets, cut side up, and rub the tablespoon of softened butter on the insides until they're evenly coated. Season them with salt and pepper and roast them until they're very tender when pierced with a fork, about 40 minutes. (You can do this in advance and refrigerate the roasted squash until you're ready to proceed with the recipe, but let it warm up a bit at room temperature before you go ahead with the final cooking).

Increase the oven temperature to 425°F (or preheat it if you roasted the squash in advance).

Melt the rest of the butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the leeks and the mushrooms and sauté until they soften, about 5 to 10 minutes. Add the herbs and the breadcrumbs and sauté a few minutes more, until the crumbs begin to brown. Stir in enough wine or stock to moisten the stuffing. (It shouldn't be dry-looking but you shouldn't be able to see liquid in the pan, either.) Stir in the nuts and season the stuffing with salt and pepper.

Mound the stuffing into the squash halves and bake them until they are crisp on top, about 10 to 15 minutes.

* "Animals taste good" is a conclusion, not an argument! It's a conclusion that reflects one's point of view on various ethical and social issues, which you free to discuss in comments on this post, or not. Up to you.

a postcard from the art parade

2007-09-10T10:39:00.000-04:00

Wish you were here — were you? The 3rd annual art parade—organized by Deitch Projects, Creative Time and Paper Magazine—made its way down West Broadway Saturday afternoon, and it was so nice to be reminded of a time when Manhattan had yet to be taken over by high-anxiety career-obsessed dullards.

My favorite was the girls with their hair braided together.

There were also marching bands, balloons, and a run away on a raft.

And a sexy troubador with an armful of bracelets.

An egg.

A dreamy dessert cart.

Also oranges shared with the crowd, a sweet-faced horse, and a little red riding hood gang.

Other girls were busy talking on their phones.

Musicians, messages, and balloons are essential for any good parade.

Brought to you by the letter D.

rumors of the Committee's demise are greatly exaggerated, but you are welcome to send flowers

2007-09-04T12:44:00.000-04:00

I wish my reasons for remaining blog-silent in August were thrilling; alas, I did not win the Mega Millions and go on another vacation and return to buy an island off the coast of Maine, where I rehabilitate orphaned squirrels and chipmunks and teach them to parade through the woods in tiny marching band formations. No, what happened was I got caught up in a project at work that will have me summarizing deposition testimony into 2008. A thousand yawns!

Just when I was getting settled into a routine of churning out annoyingly detailed charts and starting to believe I could make time for ye olde blog again, I was struck with food poisoning that beat my ass down like Foxy Brown. If I'd gotten it from a restaurant I would very likely name names, but it was from my law firm's cafeteria. Obviously this place is trying to kill me, and in the future I will look over my shoulder for Colonel Mustard with the candlestick before I even sit down at my desk. Thanks to plenty of white toast, chicken broth, and two consecutive prescriptions for Cipro I am not ready to enter into eternal rest just yet.

I've hardly cooked a thing since the end of July but there was focaccia that turned out well and the recipe is below. You can buy decent focaccia, of course, but if you want some with interesting herbs you'll have to make your own. This one had lovage—which looks like celery leaves, and tastes a bit like a cross between tarragon and celery—summer savory, and tarragon, and it was terrific.

The recipe below is adapted from one in Jerry Traunfeld's The Herbfarm Cookbook, one of my all-time favorite cookbooks. Black bean soup with apple, braised monkfish with fennel and lemon thyme, bay laurel roasted chicken, coriander-orange scones, lavender and plum chutney, herbed home-cured salmon, don't these things sound good? They're all in there, along with botanical watercolors, gardening tips, and a guide to using just about every herb from angelica to woodruff. Ok, so maybe those two particular herbs evoke hippies sitting in stinky teepees rubbing their crystals together, but I promise the recipes are appealingly modern, and the ones I've tried so far—a lot—have all been winners. There are also tons of suggestions on ways to vary the recipes, which makes it instructive for any cook looking to make the jump from being dependent on recipes to being confident about improvisation. Traunfeld has a more recent book out (The Herbal Kitchen: Cooking with Fragrance and Flavor) and the only thing stopping me from adding it to my collection is the fact that I am drowning in books. I have books on my desk, books on my dresser, and in my bookcases there are horizontal books on top of the vertical books.

A comment on the recipe below: If you read through it all the way—ha! I have never done such a thing!—you will see that you need to have all your herbs ready to go near the beginning of the process. If you don't make a note of this before you get started and you get to the point where you suddenly need to add half the herbs, and you haven't even washed them yet, I warned you so that's totally not my fault.

herbs on top, herbs on the inside — I hope you like herbs

Focaccia with strong herbs, for people with strong personalities

Adapted from the recipe for Herbed Focaccia in Jerry Traunfeld's The Herbfarm Cookbook.

2 cups warm water (105° to 110° F)
1 package active dry yeast (2 1/2 teaspoons)
1/2 cup mixed fresh lovage, summer savory and tarragon
1 1/2 teaspoons fine sea salt
4 1/2 cups unbleached bread flour, plus additional flour as needed
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
flaky sea salt or kosher salt for sprinkling on top of the bread

Pour the water into a large mixing bowl and sprinkle the yeast over it. Let it sit for 5 to 10 minutes, until the yeast is dissolved and blooming on the surface. Add half of the herbs to the yeast mixture; put the remaining herbs in a small container or tightly-covered bowl and refrigerate until needed. Stir the salt and the flour into the yeast mixture to form a soft dough. Knead the dough on a lightly floured surface for 8 to 10 minutes. It should be shiny and soft, but with some elasticity; if it is very sticky, sprinkle a little additional flour on it (just a tablespoon or two) and keep kneading. Put the dough in a large bowl—yes, it can be the same one you mixed it in, if you wipe it clean first—and tightly cover the top with plastic wrap, then a dish towel. Let it rise at room temperature until it's doubled in size, 1 1/2 to 2 hours.

After the dough has doubled in size, it's time to prepare it for the second rise: take the dough ball out of the bowl, set it down on a sheet of lightly oiled wax or parchment paper, stir together the olive oil and the remaining herbs in your large bowl, and plop the dough back in the bowl. Don't bother turning it around and around to coat it with the olive oil and herbs because when you are ready to bake, you'll invert the dough ball and they'll be on top, looking pretty. Simply cover the bowl as you did earlier and let the dough rise until it doubles again, about 40 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 400° F. Turn the dough out onto a sturdy quarter-sheet or half-sheet pan so that the herbs are on the the top and gently stretch it out until you have an oval or a rectangle about 12 inches long and 10 inches across. (I used a quarter-sheet pan and stretched it as far as I could in all directions; the bread ended up being thicker than I would have liked but it tasted fine). Let the dough rise again for 10 to 15 minutes, sprinkle it with flaky or coarse salt to taste, and bake it for approximately 25 minutes, or until it is golden brown. It will smell terrific, but let it cool for at least 10 minutes before you slice it or tear it apart.

we're back and I'm a little cranky about it

2007-07-26T09:05:00.000-04:00

Some of it is the usual vacation-is-over malaise; some of it is the sense that but for oppressive student loan debt, I'd like to live on the island for at least a year or two. I've lived in the east village for nearly ten years now and, particularly during this third visit to Vinalhaven, I've come to suspect I could be really, really happy there. I also strongly suspect that whatever bacon I would be able to bring home there would fail to satisfy The Student Loan People's voracious maw.

But! Of course the preceding two weeks were not marred by gloom.

We sniffed at pine-scented breezes.

We ate superlative clam chowder, fried clams, blueberry pie.

The chowder, clams and pie above were from the Harbor Gawker, which happens to be for sale (scroll down). Any fantastically generous readers want to buy me a restaurant? I am smart enough not to tinker with their menu, nor alienate their super-friendly employees. And I'm a lawyer, which might come in handy if Rebecca Charles ever drops by.

We also ate plenty of fearsome creatures from the deep.

It's a bad season for lobstermen so far, and I understand last year was bad too, but the industry seems to be a sustainable one.

We found a SPOOKY hidden graveyard in the woods.

We admired spindly, celadon green mosses and pearly seaweed.

It rained A LOT.

And it was foggy A LOT.

On the sunnier days, we drove around with all the windows open.

Or we sat on the deck and watched for the birds: osprey, herons, the occasional bald eagle.

I fell in love with moths and yellow spiders.

This preposterous fuzzy-headed creature in the faux bois style — a luna moth — alit on our door the morning of my birthday. He seemed determined to stay for a while so we moved him to a rock nearby, for fear that he'd be trampled by the guys coming to work on the hot water heater. He didn't move for a very long time, even after a breeze knocked him off the rock and onto the deck, and my mind rattled with plans for his florid little corpse: I didn't have a shoe box but I had a plastic container about the right size to transport him to Manhattan, and then he'd probably need to be sprayed with some sort of preserving tincture, wouldn't he, and maybe I ought to see about having a professional mount him in a little glass case, and wouldn't that be the most memorable birthday gift to myself? The little beast did not expire after all; he was only resting, and flew away before the morning was over.

Another one came by the next morning, and stayed until his impressive antennae were dry.

I'm still unpacking but hope to be posting recipes for lobster rolls and whatnot soon.

Committee adjourns for summer recess until July 22nd

2007-07-07T07:00:00.000-04:00

For weeks I've increasingly found myself longing to be on Vinalhaven now, reminded, on a daily basis, of my love for the place by some sensory fragment or other.

On my way to work one recent morning, a problem with the F train compelled me to get off one stop before my usual one and walk up 6th Avenue. As droplets from the spray of the many fountains landed on my face, scattered by the wind, I could think only of how much I'd rather be on the ferry, passing by those first outlying islands so crowded with pines.

On my way to the wine store another day I noticed a new ice cream shop in my neighborhood; I contemplated going in but it just couldn't taste as good as it does after an early morning hike on one the island's trails.

And on mornings when I've walked the dog and struggled to keep him from snacking on the discarded chicken bones and pizza crusts littering the sidewalk, I thought of how much nicer it is to take him for his morning walk at the Lane's Island nature preserve, where the only thing he'll get to nibble on is the occasional found blackberry I'm willing to share.

A NOTE ON COMMENTS Please be patient if you leave a comment on any of my posts while I'm away; it won't appear on the site until I've approved it, and I may not be able to do that until I get back from vacation!

there is zhough in everything

2007-07-05T14:20:00.000-04:00

It's all gone now, but during one recent week the Yemeni spice paste zhough wound up in just about everything in the Tiny Banquet kitchen. Early one morning I crushed a pile of chile peppers, spices and herbs to a pulp with a mortar and pestle—not an effortless task, but fortunately I had plenty of coffee before I got started—and voila, the result was a generous quantity of spicy, delicious, vivid green zhough.

The recipe below comes from Deborah Madison's Local Flavors: Cooking and Eating from America's Farmers' Markets. Too often I buy a new cookbook and excitedly flag the most appealing recipes with post-it notes, only to put the book away without trying any of them. That's exactly what I did with Local Flavors, unfortunately. Sometimes it happens because I've only just discovered a book during the wrong season (like when I stumbled across Claudia Roden's Everything Tastes Better Outdoors one miserable February), but there are interesting recipes for every season in this book. I wish I could say I prepared an entire meal from it, but so far I've only gotten to the zhough.

I was intrigued by Madison's suggested uses for it: "A chile paste from Yemen with a hint of sweet spice, zhough can be spread on pita bread or stirred into vegetable stews, soups, and sauces. Try it with grilled sweet potatoes or whenever you want extra heat and spice."

Madison explains that "[y]ou can use jalapeños, serranos, Anaheims, poblanos, or perhaps another chile that grows in your area. I usually use jalapeños with 1 serrano thrown in for extra heat and flavor." I only had serrano peppers, which can be quite a bit hotter than jalapeños, so I used only half the amount of them. 2 ounces of serrano peppers, if you were wondering, looks like this:

I was pleased with the level of heat; the paste was spicy, but not painfully so.

Green Chile Paste (Zhough)

4 ounces fresh green or red chiles [see comments above]
1 teaspoon black peppercorns
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
1 teaspoon caraway seeds
1/2 teaspoon ground cardamom
1/2 cup coarsely chopped parsley
1/2 cup coarsely chopped cilantro
4 garlic cloves, peeled and chopped
olive oil to moisten
pinch sea salt

1. Remove the seeds and veins from the chiles, chop by hand or in a food processor and set aside. (If using food processor, stand back—the volatile oils can be irritating.)

2. Crush the peppercorns and spices in a mortar. Add the chopped chile, parsley, cilantro, and garlic and continue to work to make a smooth paste. Add oil to moisten—the zhough should have a paste-like consistency—and a pinch of salt. Keep refrigerated and use within a few days.

I was initially afraid I wouldn't be able to use all my zhough but I ended up using every last spoonful. The first dish I made with it was possibly my favorite: I rubbed about two tablespoons of it underneath the skin of a chicken breast, and roasted it as usual.

It smelled fantastic, and the spice paste kept the meat juicy. I particularly enjoyed the flavor of the caraway and I regretted than I hadn't made an entire chicken this way.
If you want to try this, use your fingers to gently separate the skin from the meat, and evenly distribute about a tablespoon of the zhough underneath the skin on each side of the breast (or a bit less if your chicken is in smaller pieces; I'm sure this would be good with chicken thighs or legs as well). Rub the outside of the skin with a bit of olive oil or softened butter, season it with salt and freshly ground pepper, and roast as usual.

On the side we had braised carrots with galangal, which was inspired by Marcella Hazan's simple (but precise) method of cooking carrots, which you can read about here. It sounds like it requires you to pay an inordinate amount of attention to your carrots, but it's not labor-intensive and the results are worth it. To make them with galangal (or fresh ginger) rather than Parmesan, simply add a tablespoon of grated or minced galangal (or ginger) to the pan along with the salt and the sugar, and omit the cheese.

I also want to mention something we ate before the chicken, because it was so good and I know I won't manage to fit it into another post: remember the za'atar I wrote about a couple weeks ago, in my scallop post? It is amazing in deviled eggs, and fun to eat. When was the last time you ate deviled eggs? Possibly years ago, right? I am definitely going to make these more often because the za'atar was so good with them, and it's not even necessary to make it in advance: simply stir a little fresh thyme and toasted sesame seeds into the egg yolk mixture (you only need a tiny bit of mayonnaise, more for texture than for flavor), and sprinkle a pinch of sumac on top after you've spooned the yolk mixture back into the egg whites. If you have any interest in assembling a vaguely-Middle-Eastern picnic, this is the perfect food to start with.

Returning to the zhough, my second-favorite use for it was stirred into chickpeas. Canned chickpeas are ok for this; just rinse them well under plenty of cold running water, drain them well, and pat them dry. Heat a tablespoon of olive oil in a sturdy pan over medium-high heat, add the chickpeas and cook until they are heated through and beginning to brown, and stir in a rounded tablespoon of zhough, or a little more or a little less, to taste. That's it. Chopped fresh parsley or cilantro is nice, but not necessary. If you have some good plain yogurt, a spoonful would be nice on top. These chickpeas as good at room temperature as they are warm, something to keep in mind if you are considering a vaguely-Middle-Eastern picnic.

I used the rest of the zhough to marinate some shrimp, which I broiled and served on top of a simple green salad dressed only with olive oil and lemon juice.

They were good but not as good as the chicken, and I think the reason was their brief time under the broiler. Shrimp of this size need to cook only for about 3 minutes, but the heat mellowed the zhough's spiciness more than I expected. If I make these again I'll set some of the zhough aside and use it to make a dressing for the cooked shrimp.

the portable kitchen

2007-07-02T08:35:00.000-04:00

We reserved our customary crumbling hippie shack on the island of Vinalhaven, Maine for two weeks in July and suddenly it's time to start thinking about what to bring.

Did you happen to read Cynthia Zarin's "Fantasy Island" in last August's Gourmet supplement, about the challenges of cooking in a rental on a small Maine island? Zarin was writing about Swan's Island but her description of the sad little grocery store reminded me of the one on Monhegan Island, which we visited several years ago:

The owner of the cottage had left a map marked with the location of the grocery store and the historical society. (Later I was to reflect that these were, in some respects, one and the same). We piled into the car, still packed with our swimsuits and summer reading, our towels and orange peels. A few minutes later, I stood in front of the vegetable bin, which contained three molting cabbages and a few wormy potatoes. Too late, I read the message of those grocery bags on the ferry. Dismay hit. What would we eat?

Fortunately the author's neighbor on the island turned out to be a lobsterman amenable to bargaining, but after five days of boiled lobster, sautéed lobster, grilled lobster, and lobster salad, "[t]he children had recoiled from lobster's waving tentacles, its garish red hue, and by Thursday, so did we."

I'm hesitant to tell anyone, but the situation on Vinalhaven is much more agreeable. There's a small but well-stocked grocery store (Carver's Harbor Market, shown below), and an even-smaller but also well-stocked store across the street (Island Spirits) that sells wine, cheese, olives, bread from Atlantic Baking Co. on the mainland, and good coffee.

The Victorian-style house to the right of the post office belongs to the artist Robert Indiana.

Many (most?) of the island's year-round residents are lobstermen, and at the Vinalhaven Fisherman's Co-op — just down the road from the grocery — you can choose a vivacious local lobster from the tank while you put gas in your car.

It's hard for me to get used to thinking about food shopping in advance when at home I pass by so many grocery stores and markets on foot every day, but my vacation cooking tends to be improvisational, and a forgotten bundle of chives or whatever can always be worked around.

We're fortunate with respect to the kitchen at the cabin. It's small, but so is the one in my apartment and this one's got a nicer view. It's also unusually well-equipped for a summer cabin kitchen: there's a full-sized food processor, a coffee/spice grinder, decent pots and pans (plus a few pieces of Le Creuset, which are more than decent), sharp knives, and the lobster crackers and their accompanying picks and forks and butter cups are all accounted for.

Nonetheless, I bring a box of kitchen must-haves, and over the past couple years I think I've refined my packing list to the point where I'm bringing only things I know I'll end up using. Of course much of the list that follows is a matter of one's cooking style and preferences, but I hope it will be useful to those of you who will have occasion to take your batterie de cuisine on the road this summer:

the Tiny Banquet portable kitchen (summer edition)

gadgets:

kitchen shears

timer

tongs (there are probably some there but I can't remember, and can't deal with two weeks without them)

favorite corkscrew

muslin (for straining seafood shells out of stock)

twine (for who-knows-what)

pastry blender (it's definitely not too hot to bake there)

biscuit cutter

lemon reamer

tiny strainer (am I the only person who finds these indispensable?)

tiny whisks (like these; I know they look ridiculous but I use them constantly for making small quantities of salad dressing)

small Kyocera ceramic slicer (like this)

microplane grater

silicone basting brush

small silicone spatula

spices

peppermill and plenty of peppercorns (Malabar)

flaky sea salt

smoked salt

Aleppo pepper (a flavorful red pepper from Syria)

Pimentón de la Vera (hot Spanish smoked paprika)

cayenne pepper

coriander seeds

cumin seeds

cardamom seeds

fennel seeds

whole nutmeg

five-spice powder (a versatile blend of star anise, cinnamon, clove, fennel and white pepper)

Old Bay seasoning

saffron

cookware

silicone muffin pan (in anticipation of Maine blueberries)

small cast iron skillet (9") (the pans at the cabin are all larger, and this one is my most-used pan at home)

grilling paraphernalia: I know the grill there is rusted and unusable. I'm bringing a small charcoal grill this year, and they require a few accessories.

wire brush for cleaning

chimney for starting charcoal

hardwood chips

bamboo skewers

condiments & etc.

favorite olive oil

Vinagre de Jerez Sherry vinegar

Champagne vinegar

Maille extra-hot Dijon mustard

Kewpie mayonnaise

salt-packed capers

good imported tuna in olive oil

pine nuts (why is it that in many places they seem to be sold only in tiny, overpriced jars?)

grains and such

good dried pasta

good polenta

chickpea flour

de Puy lentils

Calasparra rice

It's a lengthy list, I know, but most of these items are small. At least, that's what I tell myself.

I didn't include cookbooks on my list, for a few reasons: (1) as I mentioned above, I don't often cook from recipes while we're there; (2) there are a few cookbooks at the cabin in case I'm stuck on making something I can't improvise (the most useful seems to be a giant Craig Clairborne book, as big as a dictionary); and (3) I've got lots of recipes in my laptop, stored in MacGourmet. I've also got lots of newer recipes in my del.icio.us, but there's no internet at the cabin, so I'll have to go through and see if there are any I have to add to MacGourmet before we leave.

Think I've forgotten anything important?

Chicken satay with no national allegiances

2007-06-25T11:55:00.000-04:00

I had some chicken thighs that needed to be cooked, a new bottle of kejap manis, the Indonesian sweet soy sauce, and, I thought, a nice big piece of galangal, a ginger-like root I've recently become crazy about. Perfect for chicken satay with peanut sauce, right? The galangal, much to my dismay, had grown a healthy coat of mold since I'd seen it last and had to be thrown away, but by the time I realized this I was determined to have satay for dinner.

I consulted several recipes, including chicken skewers with nuoc cham (Food & Wine), gingery chicken satay with peanut sauce (ditto), Balinese chicken satay (Martha Stewart), beef satay (Chez Pim; a different meat, but peanut sauce does not discriminate), and pork satay with an appealingly simple marinade (Bon Appétit). I didn't end up following any of them; instead I improvised a recipe using what I had on hand. The result was a delicious satay that was a little Indonesian (by way of the kejap manis), a little Thai (by way of Golden Boy fish sauce — the radiant baby is my new favorite kitchen icon), and a little Balinese (by way of the coconut). I wouldn't present it to anyone as an authentic rendition of the cuisine of any of these cultures, of course, although it would be loads of fun to put together a comparative satay menu someday, wouldn't it?

Adding plenty of fish sauce to the marinade for your satay will give you a radiant, youthful glow.

There is no one right way to make satay. There's not even one way to spell it; in some places it is saté, and in South Africa it is sosatie. According to The Oxford Companion to Food, satay is

a dish of SE Asia, especially Indonesia, Malaysia, and Thailand, which consists of small strips of meat, chicken, or fish threaded on to thin skewers . . . . Marinades vary from place to place but typically include dark soy sauce with lime juice, sugar, garlic and other seasoning. The common accompaniment for satay is a dipping sauce based on peanuts, pale brown in color. But other sauces may be used.

The entry goes on to quote Jennifer Brennan's Encyclopaedia of Chinese and Oriental Cookery on the origins of satay. Although it's often regarded as Indonesian, it did not spring up in Indonesia in a singular moment of genius:

Although both Thailand and Malaysia claim it as their own, its Southeast Asian origin was in Java, Indonesia. There satay was developed from the Indian kebab brought by the Muslim traders. Even India cannot claim its origin, for there it was a legacy of Middle Eastern influence.

A few comments on the recipe that follows: First, the only thing kecap manis has in common with ketchup, apart from the sound of the name, is that it comes in a bottle. I recommend picking up a bottle the next time you see one because it's got great flavor and a very nice texture - thick, smooth, glossy - but it is basically a sweet soy sauce, and you can substitute a mixture of soy sauce and brown sugar if you don't have it. (A low-sodium soy sauce would be preferable because the fish sauce will add plenty of salt to the recipe). Second, there isn't really a satisfactory substitute for fish sauce, and it's easy enough to come by (and versatile enough to be used up before it goes bad), so you might as well buy a bottle. Third, I used dried lemongrass, and I don't feel too bad about it - I'd rather use that than have woody bits of past-its-prime fresh lemongrass stuck between my teeth. If you have 2 stalks or so of tender fresh lemongrass, by all means use it, but if all that's readily available is dried-out and sad looking, use the dried stuff. Finally, I used light coconut milk. I do feel sort of bad about that because the flavor tends to be insipid, but have you looked at the fat and calorie content of regular canned coconut milk lately? There are some high calorie foods one can compromise on without suffering too badly, and for me coconut milk is sometimes one of them: I find it acceptable, for some recipes, to boost the flavor of light coconut milk with a spoonful or two of shredded unsweetened coconut. For a good curry, only the full-fat type will do, but for a marinade this mixture is a decent compromise.

I'm hesitant to suggest how many people this serves because it can be a first course or a main course or, for the industrious, a snack to have with drinks. Let's say it serves 3 to 6 people.

chicken satay with peanut sauce

1 1/4 lb. boneless, skinless chicken thighs, trimmed of fat and cut into strips suitable for threading on skewers (about 1 1/2" wide)

marinade:
2 serrano chiles, seeds and ribs removed, coarsely chopped
2 cloves garlic, peeled and chopped
1 heaping tbsp. shredded unsweetened coconut
1 heaping tsp. freshly toasted and ground coriander seeds
1 heaping tsp. grated fresh ginger
1 heaping tsp. powdered lemongrass (see comments above)
3/4 cup coconut milk (see comments above)
1 tbsp. kejap manis (substitute 1 tbsp. low-sodium soy sauce + 2 tsp. dark brown sugar)
2 tbsp. fish sauce
peanut oil for brushing pan or grill

peanut sauce:
1 tbsp. peanut oil
2 small cloves garlic (or 1 large), minced
1 heaping tsp. freshly toasted and ground coriander seeds
1 tbsp. shredded, unsweetened coconut
3/4 cup coconut milk
1/3 cup natural peanut butter
1 tbsp. kejap manis (see note above regarding substitute)
juice of 1/2 a lime
fish sauce, to taste

accompaniments:
crisp lettuce leaves
wedges of lime
chopped cilantro
coarsely chopped dry-roasted peanuts

equipment:
wooden skewers, soaked in water for 30 min. before ready to use
a broiler pan, a cast iron grill pan or a bbq grill

To make the marinade, put the chiles, garlic, shredded coconut and spices in a food processor and mix at full speed until they start to form a paste. Add the coconut milk, kejap manis and fish paste and mix until thoroughly combined. Put the chicken pieces in a large ziploc bag or shallow dish and pour the marinade over them. Marinate, tightly covered, in the refrigerator for at least 5-6 hours.

For the peanut sauce, heat the peanut oil in a small sauce pan over medium-high heat and sauté the garlic, the coriander, and the coconut until the garlic softens and the coriander and coconut are browned and very fragrant. (This will take just a minute or less). Add the coconut milk and bring to a boil. Stir in the peanut butter and the kejap manis until the sauce is smooth and remove the pan from the heat. Once the sauce has cooled down a bit, stir in the juice of half a lime and season to taste with the fish sauce. (I was happy with just a sprinkle of fish sauce, and added a pinch of salt as well; keep in mind that you won't be able to accurately taste for seasoning while the sauce is still very warm, and you can always add more later). The sauce is best made ahead of time and refrigerated; bring it to room temperature before serving.

Take the chicken out of the refrigerator approximately 15 min. before cooking. Take the skewers out of the water, pat them dry, and thread the chicken on the skewers. Brush a broiler pan, grill pan or bbq grill with peanut oil and broil or grill the chicken approximately 6-10 minutes, turning once during cooking. (The cooking time will depend on the thickness of your pieces of chicken; the juices should run clear, and if you're in doubt about whether the chicken is cooked through, cut into one of the thicker pieces and have a look at the inside).

Serve the skewers warm or at room temperature on plates lined with lettuce leaves, and sprinkled with chopped cilantro and chopped dry-roasted peanuts if you like. The sauce is most flavorful served at room temperature and can be either drizzled over the chicken or served in cups alongside it.

The peanut sauce is unphotogenic, as is the red cabbage, carrot and radish slaw I made. The delicate little cucumbers I picked up at the farmers' market yesterday morning, however, were gorgeous and needed nothing more than a sprinkle of coarse salt.

Lemon cucumbers and young Persian cucumbers.

The interior of a lemon cucumber.

The recipe for the slaw needs to be refined, I think, but I'm posting the recipe anyhow because I think it's worth experimenting with. Most coleslaw recipes contain sugar and I think using kejap manis in its place is worth a try; it adds a subtle sweetness and it has a depth of flavor that white sugar lacks, almost like a savory, salty caramel. I used only red cabbage because that's what I had, but I think a mixture of green and red would look nicer and would have a more pleasing mix of textures. The recipe below makes more dressing than needed; the excess will keep in the refrigerator for a couple days in a tightly-covered container.

Red cabbage, carrot and radish slaw

2 tablespoons toasted sesame oil
juice of 1 lime
1/2 tsp. Sriracha sauce (red chile and garlic sauce), or more to taste
1 tbsp. kejap manis
1 tbsp. mayonnaise (recommended: Japanese brand Kewpie)
12 oz. red cabbage, shredded (see comments above)
1 carrot, peeled and shredded or sliced paper-thin
2 large red radishes, sliced paper-thin
2 tablespoons dry roasted salted peanuts, coarsely chopped

Whisk together the sesame oil and lime juice until emulsified and then whisk in the Sriracha sauce, the kejap manis and the mayonnaise. (Dressing can be made ahead of time and stored in the refrigerator in a tightly-sealed container).

Just before you're ready to serve the meal, toss together the cabbage, carrot and radishes with enough dressing to moisten them. Toss in the chopped peanuts, if using, and serve at once.

There was a dessert too, and it didn't quite work out. I thought it would be clever to make a sort of dessert spring rolls with blueberries and the filo dough I had left over from another recipe (coming soon in its own post), and I also thought it was quite possible that the filling would leak out during baking. I tried to prevent this by stirring a mixture of cornstarch and lime juice into the blueberries, with hopes that the juices would thicken and stay put, but I ended up with a bubbling blueberry puddle on my baking sheet. Fortunately I lined the baking sheet with parchment paper rather than a Silpat (I didn't want to have to scrub a sticky mess), and fortunately the results were quite edible anyhow. They just didn't have much filling on the inside.

What was left of the filling had a terrific flavor, and I'm going to use it again to fill something a little more sturdy before the summer's over: 1 pint of blueberries tossed with 2 tablespoons of turbinado sugar, plus 1 tablespoon of cornstarch that had been whisked together with the juice of half a lime until smooth, plus a generous pinch of cinnamon. It deserves a decent pastry shell.

a new favorite cooking show

2007-06-18T08:23:00.000-04:00

I learned of Andreas and Christina Theodoulou on Ananova, which reported that "[a]n elderly Cypriot couple from London have become an unlikely internet hit with their cookery videos," which are shot, edited and uploaded by their son, Orthodoxos.

You can watch more of their videos here.

If you are not familiar with Ananova, by the way, it's handy for catching up on news about sulking old Serbian ladies, cannabis-munching Swiss cows, and the latest trendy pets in Japan.

Committee descends into frittata madness

2007-06-12T13:54:00.000-04:00

Frittata, constantly cooking in my cast iron pan, clarifier of my conscience. My kitchen guilt, my reluctance to rid my refrigerator of the remains of last week's farmers' market reverie. Free-tah-ta: the ragged, rapidly decomposing tops of radishes will make themselves at home in a radial swirl on your surface, a relief map of greens I brought home in a rather more fresh state, oh when? Could it have been a week ago? They'll be resuscitated with a rounded spoonful of ricotta cheese. Free. Tah. Ta. Ready recipient of any resourceful cook's remnants.

My apologies to Mr. Nabokov, who hopefully would have laughed at the sight of his prose — an enthusiastically scrambled tribute to it, at least — being retrogressively used to prod readers into cooking more rustic egg dishes. On a blog, at that.

There are several reasons to appreciate the frittata, the first being its ability to accommodate disparate vegetables hiding in corners of the refrigerator, an end of cheese reduced to a small pile of gratings, a single cold steamed potato, even half a cup of cold pasta that would otherwise be thrown away. In my experience, the longer one cooks, the greater one's pleasure in being thrifty, in not letting things go to waste. Particularly if one had plans for the produce in question — a bag of mixed lettuces that had been destined for a soufflé, until the Gruyère that was to stand in for the Cheddar accidentally got eaten, or a prodigious bundle of parsley that was to be used for a pot of green butter, which was in turn to be used to make little sandwiches. All of these things can go into a frittata, and the end result may be as harmonious as if you'd planned to use them for that purpose all along.

The second reason to appreciate the frittata is its versatility. It's great served warm from the oven, but just as nice at room temperature or even cold the next day. It can be cut into bite-size cubes and served as a snack with drinks, or it can be sliced and draped over a salad, or made into a sandwich.

The Silver Spoon, which has been referred to as "the Bible of Italian cooking" so often that my fingers type those words on their own, has, of course, instructive advice on frittatas. For starters, I had the plural wrong:

Italian omelets — frittate — are economical and quick and are among the tastiest dishes that can be made with eggs. They are also very versatile, as the basic recipe may be enriched and flavored with a wide range of other ingredients, including herbs, vegetables, fish, cheeses, salami, ham and fruit. As regards quantities, in general allow two eggs per person if the frittata is served as a main course and one if it is an antipasto. As a general rule, 1 1/2 teaspoons butter or olive oil is required to cook every two eggs.

The Spoon contemplates frittate thin enough to be flipped in the pan, and cooked on each side for just 1-2 minutes (or "2-3 minutes if there are more than four eggs"), but there are as many ways to prepare a frittata as there are cooks. If you are only using a few eggs, sure, flip it over in the pan, but if you are making a frittata that is more substantial, with half a dozen eggs or more and a pile of greens or who-knows-what, you must decide how to cook it through: Do you want to begin cooking it on the stove top and end with baking it in the oven, or do you want to mostly cook it on the stove top and just brown the top under the broiler? Are you determined to bake it in the oven for the duration of cooking? I've never tried the latter method and would be afraid it would dry out, since a frittata lacks the rich measure of cream that allows quiche to survive a long baking. I tend to make large frittate with 6-7 eggs and my method of choice depends both on what else I have cooking and what I've stirred into the eggs: If I have the oven heated up to 350-400°F for some other dish, I'll likely cook the frittata for 5-10 minutes on the stove, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon or silicone spatula during the first two minutes to evenly distribute the ingredients, and then put it in the oven for approximately 10 minutes, or until it's set (i.e., no longer liquid in the center). If my frittata has grated cheese on top rather than stirred in with the other ingredients, I'll likely cook until it's almost set on the stove top, scatter the cheese on top, and put it under the broiler for just a minute. More often than not I use a method very similar to the scramble-and-broil method described by Pim (of Chez Pim) in this post, but I heat the olive oil over high heat and then do my almost-scrambling over medium or low heat, particularly if my ingredients are already warm or hot — adding just-sautéed greens, or crumbled and browned sausage, or any other ingredients that haven't cooled down will speed up the cooking time by a minute or two, and it's better to err on the side of undercooking rather than overcooking the eggs. You can always put the frittata into the oven for more cooking if you go to cut it and find that it's disconcertingly squishy under your knife. It should be firm but springy when it's done.

There's a way of flipping the frittata by inverting it on to a plate, but you've got to be sure that you have just the right size sturdy plate clean and ready to go at the crucial moment, and that you have two oven mitts handy, and what will you have gained? A cold oven. Useful on a hot summer afternoon, or if you are cultivating the carbon footprint of a saint, but otherwise it's hard to see what the advantage of that method is.

I was going to give four or five recipes for some of the best frittate we've had recently, but I didn't measure the ingredients for any of them. I never do. So, I'm just going to give you suggested combinations, followed by one recipe for what would be my favorite frittata of all, if it were a frittata and not a kuku.

Ramps, spring garlic, scallions, feta cheese Despite my remarks above about the virtues of ransacking the refrigerator for bits of this and that, the best frittate are premeditated to some degree, hopefully while buying the eggs at the farmers' market. I wanted something special for a frittata made with the Araucana eggs I'd picked up, and I set aside bundles of the last ramps of the season, green spring garlic, and a few scallions (green onions), and 3-4 ounces of crumbled sheep and goats' milk feta cheese. I chopped the bulbs of the ramps and the spring garlic and sautéed them in a couple tablespoons of olive oil until they softened, added the chopped greens from all three alliums and sautéed them until they wilted, then added six eggs beaten with the cheese, salt, pepper and a bit of freshly grated nutmeg, and cooked as described above. The result was a golden frittata filled with a fragrant tangle of greens and soft, flavorful cheese.

Asparagus, mint and tarragon There is something about the combination of eggs and mint that I can't imagine tiring of. Both mint and tarragon are strong flavors but somehow this worked. The asparagus can be steamed, blanched, or roasted as long as it is tender but still crisp. I chopped the asparagus into bite-sized pieces but if you have more patience for adorning your frittata you could neatly arrange the whole spears on the surface before it sets in the center.

Artichoke hearts, red onion and rosemary I used artichoke hearts canned in water, which I rinsed under cold water and patted dry. You've got to be mindful about not adding too many wet ingredients to a frittata; otherwise it won't cook properly. For this reason, I tend to stay away from tomatoes unless they've been slow-roasted or otherwise dried out, or unless they're firm plum tomatoes. Once the artichoke hearts were reasonably drained, I chopped them into bite-size pieces and sautéed them, with chopped red onion, in a few tablespoons of olive oil until they started to brown. I added a tablespoon or so of chopped rosemary, then the beaten eggs, and cooked as described above.

Aburana with grated Kashkaval cheese Kashkaval is a Bulgarian sheeps' milk cheese with a mildly tangy flavor. I thought it would pair nicely with the greens, which I found at the Japanese grocery in a bag labelled "Aburana." I thought they were dandelion greens but my Googling thus far indicates only that they might have been some type of rapini. I sautéed the greens in olive oil (with a sliced shallot and some red pepper flakes, if my memory is correct), added the eggs, and then added the grated cheese on top when the eggs were almost set; it melted nicely, and fast became crisp and browned under the broiler.

Kuku-ye Sabsi (pictured below) is an Iranian frittata-like dish traditionally made on New Years' Day. It's loaded with herbs, and the vibrant green color reflects hope that the year ahead will be a prosperous, happy, healthy one. I'm crazy about it and make it throughout the year, in the spring and summer with as varied a mix of herbs as possible, and in the winter with spinach and parsley and cilantro. The recipe below is from Claudia Roden's New Book of Middle Eastern Food. There's a similar recipe in the Boston Post which calls for currants rather than raisins; my guess is that in Iran it would be made with currants but they're not always easy to find, and it's great with raisins too. Roden indicates that the walnuts and the raisins are optional but I urge you to try the recipe with both, even if you are not a raisin person. I'm not, but the frittata that set me on the path to my frittata-enamored madness, years ago, was made with tuna and golden raisins and who-knows-what-else. I ate it at a tiny café in Lisbon on my way to Saint George's Castle, and I probably never would have ordered it had they had anything else to serve me but it turned out to be one of the most memorable lunches I've ever had.

Kuku-ye Sabsi
serves 6

6-8 eggs
4 ounces spinach, shredded
8 scallions, chopped
1/2-2/3 cup mixed chopped fresh herbs [In the note preceding the recipe Roden says "Any favored herbs, such as flat-leaf parsley, dill, chervil, tarragon, chives and cilantro, may be used."]
3 tablespoons chopped walnuts (optional)
2 tablespoons raisins (optional)
Salt and pepper
2 tablespoons butter or vegetable oil

Lightly beat the eggs with the rest of the ingredients except the butter or oil.

Grease an ovenproof dish (about 10 inches) with butter or oil and pour in the egg mixture. Bake in a preheated 325°F oven for 45 minutes, covering the dish for the first 25 minutes, until the eggs are firm with a golden crust on top. Alternatively, cook the kuku in a large preferably nonstick skillet. When the eggs have set on the bottom, brown the top under a hot broiler. [See my comments above for more details on this method of cooking. - TBC]

Serve hot or cold as a first course, accompanied by yogurt.

The best way to prepare the yogurt, in my opinion, is to start with good yogurt and set it to thicken in a sieve lined with a coffee filter, perched inside a bowl to catch the drips. (If you're doing this several hours ahead of time, cover the whole set-up with plastic wrap and put it in the refrigerator). Once the yogurt is nice and thick, blend in some chopped mint or cilantro and a pinch of salt, and maybe a tiny bit of minced garlic. Very good on leftover frittata or with toasted pita.

The frittata pictured at the top of the post was made with puntarelle, turkey sausage and ricotta cheese. I posted a recipe for it last August, which you can read here.

a few words on scallops

2007-06-06T15:22:00.001-04:00

Is there a season for sea scallops? Twice in the past couple weeks I've found terrific local ones from Long Island fisheries, first from from P.E. & D.D. Seafood (which I bought at the Union Square greenmarket), and then from Pura Vida Fishery, which started selling their catch at the Tompkins Square greenmarket for the first time (I think!) last Sunday. I linked to some photos of the P.E. & D.D. Seafood crew in my Memorial Day post but I couldn't find much information on the latter aside from a podcast interview with the captain and a few photos of their stand at another greenmarket last summer, and I was so excited to see seafood at the Tompkins Square market that I didn't think to ask whether they'd be regulars until I was nearly home with my bag of scallops. We are sorely lacking decent fish markets in the neighborhood, and the thought of being able to buy fresh local seafood a couple blocks from my apartment makes me very happy.

The natural habitat of sea scallops looks something like this.

According to the Monterey Bay Aquarium Seafood Watch guide, bay scallops* and sea scallops are both generally fine choices in terms of sustainability and health. There are plenty of websites warning that "most scallops sold in the US" are treated with additives — specifically, with STP (sodium tripolyphosphate), which plumps them up and keeps them looking moist long after they would otherwise — but treated scallops are easy to spot and I haven't seen them sold that way in years. Then again, I live in the northeast, where both bay scallops and sea scallops are well-known and much appreciated. Let's have a brief tutorial, then, so you can take the appropriate course of action if you discover that a merchant in your area sells treated scallops: run them out of town, and agitate for them to be replaced with someone who cares about seafood.

The first tip-off that scallops have been treated with additives is if they're sitting in water. Both bay and sea scallops should be moist-looking and not the slightest bit dried out around the edges, but they should NOT be sitting in an inch or more of water. Or even half an inch. Aside from indicating that the scallops may have been treated with additives, a watery container means that a good portion of the price per pound would be, of course, water. Pan-seared scallops are good for dinner; pan-seared water, not so much.

The second (and equally-important) tip-off is the color of the scallops. Neither bay or sea scallops should be snowy white. They should be a creamy beige, or slightly pinkish, or tan, but never white. Look, I made you a visual aid:

The colors are a little washed-out thanks to my bargain-basement scanner, but you get the idea.

Scallops have a reputation for being somewhat expensive but both of my purchases were $14/pound, roughly the same price or lower than the most in-demand types of fish, and roughly the same price as the ones I see in grocery stores, and who knows where those are from? Also, there's almost no waste with scallops; 99% of the ones sold in the U.S., whether at farmers' markets, fishmongers or grocery stores, need only to have the tiny, chewy ligament attached to their side removed before they are ready to cook.

Don't eat this part; it's tough and chewy. Gently pull it off and throw it away. Don't freak out if your scallops are missing this part; your nice fishmonger already pulled it off for you.

I ended up pan-searing both of my recent scallop purchases, but other than that the two meals were very different; the first featured a beurre blanc lightened by the addition of plenty of tart sliced sorrel, and in the second the scallops were given a Middle Eastern flavor with a garnish of the spice blend za'atar. Here are the recipes:

Scallops with sorrel beurre blanc
Serves 2-4.

This recipe is an adaptation of this one from Food & Wine. The fact that the original recipe calls for bay scallops necessitated a couple of rather obvious changes: sea scallops are larger and need to cook longer than bay scallops, and because of their size it is easier to cook them evenly if they are seared on each side rather than stirred around to cook on all sides. And because I would be searing my scallops and turning them only once, it would not do to add the sorrel to their pan, where it might interfere with the browning process; better to add it to the beurre blanc instead.

I was planning to otherwise follow the recipe, but at the very last minute I realized that not only did I not have Champagne vinegar, I didn't even have 1/2 cup of white wine vinegar remaining in the house. I did, however, have 1/4 cup, and I had enough Grüner Veltliner in the refrigerator to keep the Tiny Banquet household happy for at least a couple evenings, so I used a mixture of the two. The resulting sauce was deliciously well-balanced and I'd proudly serve it to anyone.
A note on the portion sizes: Chef Vongerichten recommends 1 pound of bay scallops to serve 4. We had not eaten lunch and we ate an entire pound of sea scallops between the two of us. Obviously we are little piggies, although in our defense the rest of the meal consisted only of the fiddleheads I picked up at the greenmarket. If you are serving a first course you can certainly serve more than 2 people with these scallops. Unless they are hungry pigs.

Don't be discouraged by the fact that you'll have to clarify some of the butter; it only takes a few moments, and as I've mentioned in the past, there are important reasons for using it.

3 to 4 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into tablespoons, plus 1 to 2 tablespoons clarified butter
1 medium shallot, minced
fine sea salt and freshly ground pepper
1/4 cup white wine vinegar
1/4 cup good white wine, preferably Grüner Veltliner (or something similarly mineral and citrus-y in flavor)
1/4 cup heavy cream
a pinch of cayenne pepper
1 pound sea scallops, tough ligament removed
1/2 cup tightly packed sorrel leaves, tough stems removed and finely shredded

Melt 1 tablespoon of the butter in a medium-sized skillet or shallow sauce pan over moderate heat. Add the shallot, season it lightly with salt and pepper, and cook, stirring, until it just begins to brown, about 1 minute. Add the vinegar and the white wine and cook, swirling the skillet over the heat, until the liquid is reduced to a couple tablespoons. Add the cream and bring it just to a boil. Add the remaining 2 to 3 tablespoons of butter, one piece at a time, while stirring the mixture with a wooden spoon; the sauce will thicken. (It will taste best if you add 3 tablespoons of butter, but if the thought horrifies you, you can get away with only adding 2). Stir in half of the sorrel and season the sauce to taste with the cayenne pepper and a bit more salt if necessary.

Meanwhile, heat the clarified butter in a heavy skillet (preferably cast iron) over moderately high heat. Add the scallops in one layer and cook approximately 10 minutes per inch of thickness, flipping them once during the middle of cooking. (It will be easiest to turn them if they are not crowded too closely together in the pan). Transfer the scallops to plates, spoon the sauce over them, garnish them with the remaining sorrel, and serve at once.

Scallops with sorrel beurre blanc.

The other recipe is very different but no less delicious. I first discovered the spice blend za'atar a few years ago in my beloved copy of Madhur Jaffrey's World Vegetarian; I'm not sure what drew my attention to such a brief recipe in such a big book, but somehow I decided I had to try it, and I fell in love with the flavor. There's a similar recipe for it in Claudia Roden's New Book of Middle Eastern Food because, unlike other Middle Eastern spice blends, za'atar (sometimes spelled zaatar or zahtar) is simple: it's only got four ingredients, maybe just three if you want it unsalted. According to Roden, za'atar is "wild thyme. It is also the name of the mixture of this herb with sumac, salt, and toasted sesame seeds. The mix, which is popular in Syria, Lebanon, Israel, and Jordan, is sold in little paper cornets to dip into with bread." It's great on all sorts of other foods, though; sumac is made of ground tart, red berries and like lemon, it brightens every dish it goes into. In colder weather I particularly like za'atar on roasted sweet potatoes. Now I know I love it on scallops, too.

Any decent spice store will sell a pre-mixed version made with dried thyme, but it only takes a couple minutes to make your own with fresh thyme and the result is much more flavorful than any blend commercially available here.

Seared sea scallops with za'atar
Serves 2-4 (see comments above regarding portion size).

This recipe makes more za'atar than you'll need but it's not practical to make a smaller quantity, and it will keep well for a few days in a tightly-sealed container.

1 rounded tablespoon thyme, leaves only
2 rounded teaspoons sumac
2 rounded teaspoons toasted sesame seeds
coarse salt, to taste
1 to 2 tablespoons clarified butter
1 pound sea scallops, tough ligaments removed

Stir the first four ingredients together in a small bowl and set aside.

Heat the clarified butter in a heavy skillet (preferably cast iron) over moderately high heat. Add the scallops in one layer and cook approximately 10 minutes per inch of thickness, flipping them once during the middle of cooking. (It will be easiest to turn them if they are not crowded too closely together in the pan). Transfer the scallops to plates and sprinkle them generously with the za'atar. Serve at once.

Sea scallops with za'atar. We ate these with some chickpeas flavored with a Yemeni spice blend called zhough, which is getting it's own post here soon.

* I don't see bay scallops around Manhattan often, but if you have an opportunity to buy them there is no reason to be snobbish about their comparatively diminutive size; some people prefer their flavor over sea scallops, believing them to be slightly sweeter.

for your reading pleasure

2007-05-31T14:25:00.000-04:00

There's nothing like a little tidying-up to lift one's blog depression.

You may have noticed that I added a customized Google search feature over on the right hand side there. Remember when I made that big pot of pink pudding? Or the shortbread barnyard? You can now search for those posts instead of trying to remember which month they were in.

You may also have noticed that my e-mail address (located near the upper-right corner) has changed: it is now tinybanquet [at] gmail dot com. Personally I find this refreshing; handing out a Yahoo address was a bit like walking around in petticoats and a monocle.

There will be a few more little changes during the next week or two and I want to apologize in advance to those of you who read my RSS feed: I am going to be adding labels to some of my older posts and will also be enlarging some of the photos to match the size I currently use, and as a result these posts may show up as new in your RSS reader. Hopefully that won't happen, but it's a possibility.

I'm planning to use the labels on the posts to create a menu from which someone can choose to view, say, only soup recipes, or only vegetarian recipes, etcetera, etcetera. As for the photo sizes, the template I started out using was a little cramped, and some of the photos were smaller than they need to be. If you spot a dog hair in any of the newly-enlarged photos, e-mail me and I'll send you a suitably cheap trinket.

Not sure what an RSS reader is? I will explain to save you the embarrassment of asking someone snottier about these things than I am: it is a technology that allows you to smell the aromas from food blog photos right through your monitor.

Ha, ha! No. But it's really useful. It is a technology that collects the most recent posts from blogs and news feeds that you subscribe to, so that you can go to one place to see what's new, rather than visiting all your bookmarked sites. There's a decent guide to them here.

Don't be shy about inviting lactarded people to your next party

2007-05-31T10:47:00.000-04:00

So that your guests who have issues with cows' milk will know what they can eat, porcelain sheep, cow and goat heads for your cheese. $9.99 from Fante's Kitchen Wares Shop.