A hungry silence

It pains me to admit that Food & Paper has been quiet since zucchini season, but the cookie has crumbled, the milk's been spilt, and I'm still tending to the other fish I've been frying. My first semester as a bona fide professor is drawing to a close. It's been rewarding, oh-so-busy, and pitiably low on preparing, eating, and writing about good food. And this blog's been suffering a further handicap. I've momentarily lost the hungry mouth I'm accustomed to feed to the fine chef at the Center for Hellenic Studies in DC. Patrick is on a fellowship for the academic year, writing about the soul and reason and god and other unsavory things. Turns out that cooking for one is not something I'm particularly good at, especially when there's always that next Roman Archeology lecture to prepare.

This hungry silence may well continue into the new year. But, for now, let this note wish a merry season of eating and drinking to the readers of Food & Paper.

xo,
Sarah

Summer illusions

Do you know that late-May feeling? I mean that comforting sense of summer stretching out like an ever-expanding horizon, that sense of countless days ahead, way more than enough days to recuperate and accomplish some of those things you meant to accomplish. I know that feeling. At least I think I remember feeling something like that a long three months ago. And then, through some cruel trick of time that continues to dupe me each year, that ever-expanding horizon suddenly met the concrete wall of August 1st.

I really need to get some stuff done. But I would also really like to cook the vegetables ripening in my little garden. How do you tell a bunch of zucchini that you have lectures on literacy in ancient Rome to write and Power Point presentations of Etruscan grave monuments to make. The zucchini are just gearing up for summer and I'm hunkering down for fall. This impasse made itself clear to me in the form of 8 zucchini resting in my refrigerator crisper drawer.

It may be that I was feeling nostalgic about the timelessness of early summer, or it may be that I was looking for ways to avoid accepting the responsibilities of early fall, but I decided to make a zucchini tart: pate brisee, par-baking, digging out the mandoline, layering one thinly-sliced zucchini round upon another. I chose something that would be a bit fussy, look pretty, and give the zucchini their fair due.

Because zucchini both fills and tops this tart, and because the other ingredients in it aren't overpowering, it really tastes like zucchini. It's definitely rich (butter crust, cheese, eggs, cream), but the mild vegetal flavor of the zucchini and the fresh herbs somehow unburden it of its heaviness.

If this tart looks like the sort of thing you might want to eat, and especially if it looks like the sort of thing you might want to make, let me give you a brief warning. As I was standing in my kitchen staring at a big pile of zucchini rounds, I had a moment of doubt. There were just so many of them, I thought, and it would just take so long to arrange them on paper towels to dry, and then arrange them (overlapping just-so) on the tart, and I had already spent half the afternoon slicing those zucchini rounds and fiddling with the crust. I had stuff to do. You probably have stuff to do, too. But here's the thing about this tart: it doesn't just taste like summer, it also simulates the illusion of summer. All those zucchini rounds--like all those summer days seen from the perspective of late-May-- seemed to fill an ever-expanding horizon of time. But once I settled down to work, those zucchini rounds just seemed to disappear. Now that it's August, I don't have much in the way of a final masterpiece to show for my vanished pile of summer days. In my kitchen at dinner time, though, I sort of did.


Zucchini Garden Herb Tart
Makes one 11"x8" or 14" by 4 1/2" tart (but, really, any average-sized tart tin will do ).
Adapted from this Martha Stewart recipe.


all-purpose flour for dusting
1/2 recipe Martha Stewart's pate brisee (freeze remaining dough for another tart)
4 medium green zucchini
coarse salt and fresh ground pepper
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 large leeks, white parts only, chopped into 1/2-inch pieces
a few handfuls of chopped fresh herbs (I used thyme, oregano, basil, and parsley, and chives)
1/2 cup shredded or thinly sliced cheese
**Ms Stewart's recipe calls for 1/2 cup grated Gruyere; I didn't have any Gruyere, so instead I covered the surface with a thinly sliced soft cheese from Iceland called Hofdingi Hvitmygluostur. I have no idea how to pronounce that, but it's good cheese. I discovered it while trying to find a Camembert wheel at Whole Foods. The nice cheesemonger told me that Camembert wheels were hard to come by at the moment, and suggested this instead. I find it a bit milder than Camembert, but it's texture is just about the same, and I like it quite a lot. This is what it looks like arranged on the tart.**


1 large whole egg
1 large egg yolk
1/4 cup heavy cream
extra-virgin olive oil for brushing zucchini

Instruments: rolling pin, baking sheet, tart tin, wire rack, mandoline, parchment paper, dry beans or pie weights, pastry brush, aluminum foil

1. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Have your tart tin sitting on a parchment-lined baking sheet. On a lightly floured surface, roll pate brisee dough into a shape large enough to drape slightly over the edges of your tart tin. Fit the dough into the tin and fold the edges back in to reinforce the sides of your tart shell. Transfer tart shell to the freezer and chill for 20 minutes.

2. Remove tart shell from freezer, prick bottom with a fork, line with parchment paper, and fill with dried beans or metal pie weights. Bake until the crust is beginning to brown, about 15 minutes. Remove from the oven and remove beans/weights. Return the crust to the oven, and bake until golden brown, about 10 minutes more. Remove from the oven and set aside on a wire rack.

3. Using a mandoline (or a vegetable peeler), thinly slice 2 zucchini into rounds. Spread slices out onto paper or cloth towels, and lightly sprinkle them with salt. Let sit for 20 minutes.

4. Cut the remaining zucchini into a 1/2-inch dice. In a large skillet, melt butter over high heat. Add garlic, leeks, and diced zucchini. Season with salt and pepper. Cook until golden, but still firm, about 8 minutes. Stir in fresh herbs. Evenly distribute vegetables into tart crust.

5. In a medium bowl, whisk together egg, egg yolk, and cream. Season mixture with salt and pepper. Pour egg mixture evenly over tart filling. Spread cheese over surface of tart filling.

6. Place another layer of paper towels (or another cloth towel) over salted zucchini rounds. Gently press down to remove excess moisture. Layer zucchini over the entire surface of the tart.

7. Using a pastry brush, coat the zucchini rounds with olive oil. Bake, loosely covered with aluminum foil, until the custard is set, 30-35 minutes. Remove tart from oven, place on a wire rack, and allow to cool slightly before serving.

A homemade bun for le burger

There are some things worth making and there are some things better made by someone else. It goes without saying that the borderline between these two categories is entirely objective and open to dispute. The Pittsburgh Post Gazette recently featured a mother who makes her own toilet paper and her kids' diapers. I admire this woman's initiative and determination to put her crafting talents to good use, but I will never, under any circumstances, make panty liners for my girlfriends. This anecdote may not be in good taste for a food blog, but you have to admit that it illustrates my point. Some things just don't seem worth it.

This truism holds, well, true in the world of comestibles, too. Sometimes it's a certain ingredient that will make me change the page in my cookbook. Sure, I can get away with substituting beef stock for veal stock, kosher salt for gray sea salt, black cod for sea bass; but there's no good substitute for (too expensive) leg of lamb. Ditto for lobster tails. More often, though, it's some complicated technique that's just not worth it. I won't stuff sausage casings. I won't make cherry-tomato cups. Don't even try to talk me into puff pastry. My first and last effort was laughable and cryable at the same time and not in the "I'm so happy, I feel like crying" way you get when your college roommate walks down the aisle in a poofy white dress.

On the other hand, recipes I once deemed too frou-frou, fussy, and a waste of good time sometimes quietly beg me to give them a chance only to worm their way into my good favor. Homemade crackers, it seems, are sometimes in order. I'm now proselytizing homemade ricotta. And I'll never buy carbonated water again. I have a penguin in my kitchen that makes it for me when I press its beak.

But hamburger buns? Really? Aren't hamburger buns meant to be the edible equivalent of book ends? They satisfactorily fulfill their structural function by lending support to what would otherwise become a messy pile, but that's about it. Right?

Well, I have been disburdened of this naivete. Homemade hamburger buns, it turns out, are worth it. And it sort of makes sense, doesn't it, especially when you've gone to the trouble of gently forming your patties, babysitting them at the grill, and dressing them with fresh lettuce, tomato, and onion. This especially goes for any of you out there who--in defiance of burger purists, but in line with certain fancy-schmancy French chefs--are concocting burger variations studded with pine nuts or topped with foie gras. Le burger, the Times this week proclaimed, is now Paris-chic. The recipes featured in the accompanying article call for "sesame-seed hamburger buns" (the Cafe Salle Pleyel burger), "whole wheat English muffins" (the Cocotte burger), and no bun at all (the Yves-Marie Boudonnec). There's nary a homemade bun in sight. I doubt I'll be sourcing foie gras for my burgers (which is one of those ingredients that will make me pass over a recipe, not, I must admit, for ethical but for financial reasons), but I'll be one-upping the French with my homemade buns this summer.

This recipe is super simple. The only hard part is sitting around and waiting for the dough to rise, and when you have central air conditioning, that's not very hard at all. The dough is easy to work with and rises with gusto. When baked, the buns come out glossy on the outside, chewy on the inside, with a flavor and crumb similar to challah bread. I like best that they're slightly misshapen, which is the badge of domestic ingenuity. But the mottled surface and rippled edges of these buns also make them sort of Paris-chic. They're the culinary equivalent of a messy ponytail and smudged eyeliner. We'll call them Pittsburgh-chic. I'm not sure what that means but, for me at least, that alone makes them worth it.


Hamburger Buns
Adapted from Joyce McClelland, Gourmet, June 2008, via epicurious.com.
Makes 14-16 buns.


2 cups whole milk 1/4 cup warm water (105-115 degrees F)
2 (1/4-oz) packages active dry yeast
1/4 cup plus 1/2 tsp sugar, divided
1/2 stick unsalted butter, cut into pieces and softened
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
1 tablespoon salt
6 cups all-purpose flour, divided
1 large egg mixed with 1 tablespoon water for egg wash

You'll need a stand mixer with paddle and dough-hook attachments, and a 3-inch round cookie/biscuit cutter.

1. Bring milk to a bare simmer in a small saucepan over medium heat. Remove from heat and cool to 105 to 115 degrees F.

2. Meanwhile, stir together warm water, yeast, and 1/2 teaspoon sugar in mixer bowl until yeast has dissolved. Let stand until foamy, about 5 minutes. (If mixture doesn't foam, start over with new yeast.)

3. Add butter, warm milk, and remaining 1/4 cup sugar to yeast mixture and mix with paddle attachment at low speed until butter has melted, then mix in eggs until combined well. Add salt and 4 cups flour and mix, scraping down side of bowl as necessary, until flour is incorporated. Beat at medium speed 1 minute.

4. Switch to dough hook and beat in remaining 2 cups flour at medium speed until dough pulls away from side of bowl, about 2 minutes; if necessary, add more flour, 1 tablespoon at a time. Beat 5 minutes more. (Dough will be sticky.)

5. Transfer dough to a lightly oiled large bowl and turn to coat. Cover tightly with plastic wrap and let rise in a warm draft-free place until doubled, about 2 1/2 hours.

6. Butter 2 large baking sheets. Punch down dough, then roll out on a lightly floured surface with a floured rolling pin into a 12-inch round (about 3/4 of an inch thick; take care not to roll the dough out too thin or your buns will be too flat...I suggest erring on the side of caution here). Cut out as many rounds as possible with floured cutter and arrange 3 inches apart on baking sheets. Gather and reroll scraps, then cut out more rounds.

7. Loosely cover buns with oiled plastic wrap and let rise in a draft-free place at warm room temperature until they hold a finger mark when gently poked, 1 1/2 to 2 hours.

8. Preheat oven to 375°F with racks in upper and lower thirds.

9. Brush buns with egg wash and bake, switching position of sheets halfway through baking, until tops are golden and undersides are golden brown and sound hollow when tapped, 14 to 20 minutes. Transfer to racks to cool completely.

Buns can be frozen, wrapped well, up to 1 month.

Of myth and milk

This is a story about goats, cheese, and a man named Lester.

The goats belonged to my parents. They cleared our plot of West Virginia land of wild rose bushes and produced thick milk that smelled like goat hair when it was warm, but tasted good when it was icy-cold and poured over a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats. My mom also turned that milk into some good cheese. Lots of children know the rhyme about Little Miss Muffet who, until she was startled by a spider, sat happily on a tuffet eating her curds and whey. To this day, I’m still not sure what a tuffet is, but as a five-year-old, I could clearly imagine the pain of an abandoned bowl of cheese curds.

As for the “Lester” part of the story: He attended college with my parents. In those days, he played football for WVU. Lester’s later pastimes included crank-calling our house as Freddy Kruger and hogtying us kids just to see how long it would take us to wriggle free from the ropes. We begged him to do it.

Lester was also a myth-maker. One of his favorite tales featured me as a nearly-bald toddler hovering beside my mom while she milked the goats. Every now and then--so his story went--she would aim a teat in my direction and squirt a warm stream of milk directly into my open mouth. My responses to this tale ran from shocked glee (at the age of 6) to mild horror (at the age of 23 when Lester narrated it to my fiance).

Lester’s myth doesn’t get told much these days, but it echoes a far older and far grander one that I’ve told more than a few times to variously interested students. This myth also happens to be memorialized in bronze.

Classical myth has it that the founder of Rome and his twin brother—Romulus and Remus—were nursed by a she-wolf after being abandoned as infants. I’m pretty sure Lester never had the opportunity to visit this statue in Rome's Capitoline Museum, but I like to think that if he had, he would have laughed his Lester-laugh and found some nearby tourist to tell about the mythic past of a certain West Virginia family.

For better or worse, there’s no bronze statue commemorating this family myth. But when I’m stirring a pot of milk on the stove, I sometimes think I can see glimpses of it as the ricotta curds separate from the whey. Lacking the barn full of milk-heavy goats, I make do with the pasteurized stuff I can find at the grocery store. Pittsburgh’s Whole Foods stocks goat’s milk. It doesn’t smell like goat hair, but it makes a darn good ricotta cheese. Run-of-the-mill whole milk does too. Regardless of what animal provides the milk, your homemade ricotta will trump the stuff sold in your local grocery.

Ricotta hasn't been often counted among the sexier cheeses, but, at least according to this New York Times article, it's slowly becoming a "big cheese." That means it's no longer simply a ravioli filler or the mortar of lasagna layers. But I don't need swanky restaurant menus to convince me that fresh ricotta cheese deserves more. If you have any doubt, this recipe for crostini with ricotta and chorizo will set you straight. Seriously, this is one of the best things I've ever eaten.

Homemade Ricotta Cheese
Makes about 2 cups. Can be doubled.

Adapted from Julian Moskin's New York Times article (May 28th, 2008), which was adapted from Michael Chiarello’s Casual Cooking.


This process really couldn't be much easier. The hardest part is finding the cheesecloth. Just make sure not to substitute low fat or skim milk for the full-fat stuff. You’ll end up with something white and creamy, and it will taste pretty good, but it won’t be ricotta cheese.

2 quarts whole milk
2 cups buttermilk

1. Line a wide colander with cheesecloth, folded so that it is at least 4 layers thick. Place colander in sink.

2. Pour milk and buttermilk into a heavy-bottomed pot. Cook over high heat, stirring frequently. Scrape the bottom of the pot occasionally to prevent scorching. As the milk heats, curds will begin to rise and clump on surface. Once mixture is steaming hot, stop stirring.

3.When mixture reaches 175 to 180 degrees on a candy thermometer, curds and whey will separate. (Whey will look like cloudy gray water underneath a mass of thick white curds.) Immediately turn off heat and gently ladle curds into sieve.

4.When all curds are in sieve and dripping has slowed (about 5 minutes), gently gather edges of cloth and twist to bring curds together; do not squeeze. Let drain 15 minutes more. Discard the whey.

5. Untie cloth and pack ricotta into an airtight container. Refrigerate and use within one week.

A Salad in Dishabille

While vacationing on the beaches of North Carolina, and spending as many hours watching the Food Network as dipping my feet in the ocean, I began to feel a little ... I suppose I could call it a foodcrush taking hold ... a foodcrush on, well ... a certain Jamie Oliver. Yep, that would be The Naked Chef.

This foodcrush isn't based on the winning power of his crooked smile or English accent (and I will never admit otherwise). The Jamie Oliver foodcrush has everything to do with the food I watched him make while wearing my pajamas in the hotel at noon while my husband (wearing a seer-sucker!) read Charles Taylor on the beach.

A food blogger deprived of the Food Network in her own home makes for a food blogger especially vulnerable to food celebrities and food porn. I admired Giada's breasts and tiramisu. I wanted to touch Paula Deen's hair and taste her fried chicken. I marveled at Rachel Ray's stamina. Iron Chef made me strangely nostalgic for Star Trek. As I watched the challenger break into a sweat, I could just hear Leonard "Bones" McCoy saying through clenched teeth, "I'm a doctor, not an Iron Chef."

And then there was Jamie. He made a leek and prosciutto pasta topped with porcini bread crumbs, which I promptly cooked once back in Pittsburgh, but didn't post--despite its tastiness--because it seemed to resemble this recipe too closely, and, considering the recent paucity of posts, I didn't want to seem like a one-trick pony. Then, Jamie grilled some octopus, tossed it with radicchio and chorizo sauteed in garlic. I had never imagined such a thing: simple, rustic, and--so it seemed to me at the time--a bit on the bawdy side. I suppose that's why Mr. Oliver fashions himself The Naked Chef, an infelicitous appellation, perhaps, read through foodcrush-tinted glasses, it seems not only not silly, but (at the risk of reader eye-rolling) earnest.

This recipe strikes me as naked indeed: juicy peaches, fresh mozzarella, greens lightly dressed in lemon and olive oil, mint to keep things cool, and pepper flakes to spice them up. It's a sweet, milky, tart, and piquant salad, just the thing for humid summer nights. I don't recall ever pairing mozzarella with peaches, but let me tell you now, this is a lovely marriage. I couldn't help but think that the pale and mild mozzarella was taking on the sweet peaches' blush. Cringe, if you will, but I can't help it. This salad is sentimental love poetry on a plate.

While writing this post I remembered that I had already posted a peach salad recipe. It was spinach-based, and featured feta instead of mozzarella. This was the first recipe I posted after moving to Pittsburgh. I was weary of unpacking boxes in the heat, but giddy about an imminent kitchen renovation which has yet to happen. This peach salad recipe may be less imbued with the sort of kitchen fantasies materialized in the form of stainless steel appliances and subway tile backsplashes; instead, it musters fantasies of simple summer dinners prepared in a cramped, ugly kitchen, and eaten in good company. These are fantasies stripped of finery. Thanks, Jamie.

Peach and Mozzarella Salad
Adapted from Jamie Oliver's The Naked Chef Takes Off. Serves 2.


If this recipe has a flaw--and I'm not saying it necessarily does--it would be that it can veer from moist toward soggy. It's a good idea to drain your mozzarella thoroughly, pat it dry, and maybe even press it between paper towels before tearing it into chunks. If your peaches are especially juicy, go easy on the lemon and olive oil dressing.

Good mozzarella doesn't come cheap, and this is not the place to skimp on quality because those rugged little hills of mozzarella are really what make the dish. I've been quite happy with the two brands I've found at Whole Foods, but I've sworn off the stuff sold by Trader Joe's. I've tried it quite a few times in the interest of saving a buck, but found it to be consistently flavorless and rubbery. And that makes for a sad mozzarella.

Jamie Oliver's recipe includes a few thin slices of prosciutto. Sounds good to me, but I didn't have any on hand, and I can't say I missed it.

2 ripe peaches, pitted, peeled (only if you like), and cut into wedges
4 oz. fresh mozzarella cheese, torn into chunks
2 cups salad greens
2 tablespoons lemon juice
5 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
salt and fresh ground pepper
1/4 teaspoon-1 teaspoon dried pepper flakes (some like it hot, some like it not)
a handful of fresh mint leaves

Whisk together lemon juice, olive oil, and salt and pepper to taste. Toss salad greens in this dressing and divide between two plates. Arrange peach slices and mozzarella on top of greens. Sprinkle with pepper flakes and mint leaves.

The final throes of spring

The weather may be telling me otherwise, but it's just not summer yet. It's not yet the season for fresh mozzarella and garden tomato salads. Hot corn cobs are not yet coming off the grill. But this swelter seems to call for fresh vegetables, not the sweet and juicy summer variety, but cooler, greener, spring-time vegetables like asparagus, peas, and green beans. Or, at least, that's the revelation that came to me when I sat down to a big bowl of farfalle, chock-full of crisp veggies, and slicked with pesto and a splash of cream.

Though you wouldn't know it from the photo I snapped, this is a green, green dish. For the last few weeks, dinner has been getting underway at around 9:00 in the evening which is not a particularly photogenic hour for foodstuffs of any hue. But it's a real shame when the camera transforms something so vibrant into something so wan. I assure you, this "eat your spring greens" pasta has precisely the opposite transforming power over hungry, feeble-feeling folks.


Eat Your Spring Greens Pasta
Inspired by this Bon Appetit recipe. Serves 4-6.


1 pound asparagus, cut into 1-inch pieces
1/2 pound small green beans, cut into 1-inch pieces
1 pound farfalle
2 tablespoons butter
a 10-ounce package frozen peas, thawed
1 1/2 cups homemade or purchased pesto sauce
3/4 cup cream
1 tablespoon lemon zest
a handful of fresh basil
1/2 cup toasted pine nuts
salt and pepper

1. Make an ice bath (a big bowl of ice and water).

2. Bring a large pot of salted water to boil. Add asparagus and green beans and cook until just crisp-tender, about 5 minutes. Using a slotted spoon (or some such instrument) transfer asparagus and green beans to the ice bath.

3. Cook farfalle until tender but still firm to bite, stirring pasta occasionally.

4. Meanwhile, melt 2 tablespoons butter in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add asparagus, green beans and peas. Season with plenty of salt and pepper. Stir until heated through and coated with butter, about 1 minute.

5. Drain pasta and return to skillet of vegetables. (If your skillet isn't big enough, use the large pot in which you cooked the pasta instead). Add pesto, cream and lemon zest and stir over low heat until pasta is coated with sauce. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Cut or tear up basil leaves and toss them, together with the pine nuts, on top of pasta.

A Salad, Medium Rare

Grilling season is finally upon us here in Pittsburgh. Come six o'clock, the smell of burgers drifts from the backyard of one neighbor or another. I ask Patrick to fire up the old grill. It's then that a certain twinkle appears in his eye and he begins rummaging around in the fridge for a celebratory Dogfish Head IPA. Then I hand him a platter full of romaine lettuce. He looks momentarily confused, and then it dawns on him. Sigh. Another night of grilling leaves. "Medium rare, I guess," he says to no one in particular as he heads out into the burger-perfumed air.

During our vacation to Atlantic Beach, we stayed in a room equipped with a TV (!), a TV which broadcast the Food Channel (!!). While Patrick trudged through a thick social history on the deck, I watched Giada De Larentiis grill up some heads of lettuce, and I don't think anything other than romaine has touched our grill since then.

It may be grilling season, but it is also the season of salads, hearty salads that can pass for more than a side dish. This salad's smoky greens and pungent dressing do the job. The romaine wilts slightly, but becomes crunchy around its charred edges. The sun dried tomatoes and toasted pine nuts lend an Italian twist to the traditional Caesar salad formula: romaine lettuce, garlicky anchovy dressing, Parmesan cheese. Giada's recipe includes fried polenta croutons, an addition that fully Italianizes this salad, but extends its prep-time beyond the five minutes to which I am now accustomed. Generally, I dispense with croutons altogether so that Patrick and I can round out this healthy meal with an entire loaf of (curse you, no-knead) bread.


Grilled Romaine Salad with Sun Dried Tomatoes and Pine Nuts
Serves 4-6. Adapted from this Giada De Laurentiis recipe.


For dressing:
2 garlic cloves
4 anchovy fillets, chopped
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
1/2 cup olive oil
salt and freshly ground black pepper

For salad:
3 small heads (or 2 large heads) romaine lettuce, halved lengthwise
a bit of olive oil
salt and freshly ground pepper
1/2 cup drained oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes, cut into thin strips
1/2 cup pine nuts, toasted
1 1/2 ounces Parmesan, thinly shaved with vegetable peeler

To make the dressing:
Finely chop the garlic and anchovies in a food processor. Blend in the lemon juice and mustard. With the machine running, gradually blend in the oil. Season the dressing, to taste, with salt and pepper.

To make the salad:
Prepare a grill (outdoor or grill pan) for high heat. Lightly brush the cut sides of romaine with a bit of olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Grill the lettuce until lightly charred, about 2 minutes per side. Cut the lettuce into bite-size pieces.

On a serving platter, mound the grilled chopped lettuce. Scatter over the sun-dried tomatoes and pine nuts. Drizzle with enough dressing to evenly coat. Add Parmesan and serve immediately. Pass around extra dressing.