Price is Right Pepper Soup

It was during that curious year as a college freshman that I developed some habits of questionable taste. Midnight dinners of Papa John's pineapple pizza, non-stop play of David Bowie CD's, and an affinity for a certain pair of acid washed jeans were among them, some of which I can barely think of without a shudder, and most of which I happily abandoned in the halls of Joyner Dorm. One habit, though now gone, continues to conjure up a twinge of nostalgia nearly every time I push my cart down a grocery store aisle. And that, I here confess, was a daily viewing of The Price is Right.

Unwilling to give up late night hours and doomed to early morning classes, my roommate and I would haul ourselves out the door at 7:50 am, pinch ourselves awake through two and a half hours of classes, and return to our beds midmorning to recover from this daily exertion. During this very time slot, our little metal-hanger-clad TV happened to broadcast The Price is Right on one of its three channels. And so we became practiced in the art of bidding to the nearest price without going over. We even made a vow to make it to a show taping one day, but changes in our class schedules in the following semesters made it impossible to continue our viewing routine. And so, that thrilling imperative, "Come on Down!" and the shiny toasters, dining room sets, and new cars that it promised faded from our fantasies.

But the shopper in me has never fully given up The Price is Right game, especially in the produce section where prices seem to wax and wane not only by season, but by day. I'll make bids up to $1.99 for ripe avocados, but after that, even in the face of a guacamole hankering, I can't bring myself to go higher. The sight of fresh figs makes me giddy, but, at least in the places I've had the fortune of living, taking them home almost always requires overbidding. Green bell peppers rarely pose such a risk, but recipes that require their candy-colored cousins often have me feeling like a nervous freshman on contestant's row.

Well, this weekend I surprised myself by winning my own little bell pepper Showcase Showdown. In the stalls of the Strip district, I found what seemed like hundreds of them sorted by color and packaged in threes. The electric yellow ones were going for the winning bid of $1.50 per pound. I casually tossed three packages into my basket, making every effort to refrain from becoming one of those bouncing, whooping contestants whom Bob Barker, a man of exceeding patience, allows to tackle him with bear hugs and smack his cheeks with kisses.

I chose this chilled soup to feature these peppers because I didn't want their flavor dulled by too much cooking or overwhelmed by cheese or tomato sauce or vinaigrette. Aside from the kick of hot pepper flakes, this soup tastes just like yellow peppers, smoothed out to a creamy, velvet-like consistency. A pureed soup is one of the best dishes for featuring the flavors of a particular vegetable. That, together with joy that opportunities to use my immersion blender give me, is why I love them. But the electric colors of these soups are addictive in themselves. Today, I add a bowl full of yellow to the roster of color-saturated soups I've blended up in recent months. I've made my way through R, O, Y, and G of the Roy G. Biv array of soups. If the price is right, I just might complete the rainbow with a soup of blueberries or a purple beet borscht.

The basil croutons are not just an afterthought here. As with many soups of a certain consistency, something crunchy and savory adds a dimension without which a slight boredom might settle on the tongue before one's bowl is empty. These croutons would be as nice with a gazpacho as they are here.

Chilled Yellow Pepper Soup with Basil Croutons
adapted from Gourmet magazine, September 1996. Serves 4


2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 medium onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/4 teaspoon hot pepper flakes
3 pounds yellow bell peppers, cut into 1 inch pieces
2 cups chicken stock, or vegetable stock
1/2 cup low fat sour cream
coarse salt and pepper
basil leaves for garnish
basil croutons, recipe follows

1. Melt butter in a large stock pot over medium heat. Add onions and saute, stirring occasionally until translucent, about 5 minutes. Add garlic and pepper flakes, and cook for 2 minutes. Add peppers and chicken stock. Cover and simmer until peppers are tender, about 25 minutes.
2. Carefully puree soup with an immersion blender. Cool to room temperature. Season with salt and pepper to taste, and refrigerate until cool. When ready to serve, stir in sour cream, add more salt and pepper if needed. Garnish with chopped basil leaves and basil croutons.


Basil Croutons
adapted from Gourmet magazine, July 1996. Makes about 2 cups.

1 cup packed fresh basil leaves
4 tablespoons olive oil
coarse salt and pepper
4 slices white sandwich bread, cut into 1 inch cubes

1. Puree basil and olive oil in a small food processor. Season to taste with salt and pepper.
2. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. On a baking sheet, toss bread cubes with basil oil and bake in the middle of the oven , shaking sheet occasionally for 10-15 minutes, or until croutons are golden brown and crisp. Season croutons with salt and pepper. These can be made a few days in advance and kept sealed in a plastic bag.

Cookie Consolation

Every now and then, one looks around to discover that one's hopes have been dashed and scattered about. Under such circumstances, I have been known to exclaim a mantra familiar to four year olds everywhere, "But it isn't fair!!," and dramatically retire to mope, tears welling up as I go. Although breath holding, kicking, and screaming have faded from my childhood repertoire, it could still be called a temper tantrum, aimed as it is at the cruel injustice of the world. I am not particularly proud of this habit, nor do I think it an effective strategy for ameliorating matters. But I have never really been able to effect that jaded indifference adopted by so many adults in response to disappointments.

In recent years, however, I have discovered another strategy for coping with the raw deals of life. Dashed hopes, when combined with some flour, sugar, a few eggs, and whipped up by a certain trusty Kitchenaid mixer, make the most therapeutic cookies and cakes. "But it isn't fair!!" still wells up from time to time, but I can sometimes manage to exclaim it silently to myself, and retire to the kitchen for something more productive, and so much more tasty, than moping.

It was under such circumstances that I recently found myself baking these buttery cookies. The requisite disappointment: the kitchen renovation is on hold. It's not that I was naive about the cost of such things. Considering that the purchase of this house hung on the hopes of a timely renovation of its kitchen, I did my homework. But the official estimates were many thousands of dollars higher than a few contractors had casually led us to believe they would be. And so it will all have to wait. Not for long, and perhaps only until late spring, but those sugarplum appliances have for the time being ceased to dance in my head. Sigh.

To engage in therapeutic baking in the very kitchen whose inadequacies precipitated the dashing of hopes may seem like hugging the enemy, and perhaps it is. But I am inclined to believe that this is precisely why making these cookies proved so effective. My kitchen and I have made a temporary peace. We both have our shortcomings. Mine in the form of an acute sense of injustice, its in the form of flowery pink wall paper, a clanking oven, and white plastic cabinets. I could go on, but for the sake of household harmony, I won't.

The kind of cookie baking I usually do involves mixing up a dough and dropping it in messy clumps on a cookie sheet. But the slight fussiness of these cookies--the rolling, chilling, cutting, and scoring--contributed to their power to soothe. The finished product is really quite pretty: a perfect golden disk, its geometric patterned surface set agleam by a few quick swipes of egg wash. As I set them out to cool, each one looked almost like a shortbread sun shining brightly in my kitchen.


Short Bread Cookies (or, Breton Biscuits)
adapted from Ms. Stewart's Baking Handbook
makes about 2 dozen

Paired with morning coffee, these cookies make a simple, yet extravagant tasting breakfast. We also had a few with vanilla ice cream and cherry compote for dessert.



1 1/2 cup all purpose flour, plus more for dusting
1 cup cake flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 large whole egg, plus 4 large egg yolks
1 cup sugar
2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, room temperature

1. Sift both flours, baking powder, and salt into a large bowl; set aside.
2. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat the egg yolks and sugar on medium-high speed until doubled in volume and pale yellow, 2-3 minutes, scraping down bowl as needed. Add butter in four parts, beating until completely combined after each, 1-2 minutes total. With mixer on low speed, add flour mixture, beating until combined.
3. Turn out dough onto a lightly floured surface. Divide in half, and flatten into disks; wrap each in plastic and refrigerate at least 30 minutes or up to 1 day.
4. Preheat the oven to 325 degrees, with racks in the upper and lower thirds. Line two large baking sheets with parchment paper; set aside. Generously dust another large sheet of parchment paper with flour. Place one disk of dough in the center. Dimple in edges of the disk with your fingers to prevent it from splitting as you roll it out. Roll dough to slightly thicker than 1/4 inch, adding more flour to top of dough as necessary to prevent sticking. Transfer parchment and dough to the freezer and chill until firm, about 15 minutes. Repeat with remaining disk. (You can stack sheets of dough in the freezer).
5. Remove one sheet of dough from freezer. Using a 2 1/2 round cookie cutter, cut out rounds and place them 1 1/2 inches apart on prepared baking sheets. Repeat with remaining disk. Gather up scraps, roll them out again, and cut out more rounds.
6. In a small bowl, whisk together the whole egg and 1 tablespoon water. Brush mixture over top of rounds. Let stand 5 minutes and brush again. Using a paring knife, score each round in a shallow lattice pattern, making sure not to cut all the way through the dough.
7. Bake, rotating sheets halfway through, until cookies are golden on top and darker around the edges. This could take anywhere from 10 to 20 minutes. Transfer parchment and cookies to a wire rack to cool. Cookies can be kept in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 4 days.

Fitness Food

As I have mentioned in these pages before, my dear husband rarely has much to offer in the way of suggestions for dinner. As I have also mentioned, his reticence is generally welcome as I like to be the lone cook in the kitchen. But every now and then he will gingerly divulge the only food hankering that ever seems to stir him. That hankering takes the shape of one four letter word: meat.

That word, uttered by a husband looking hollow about the eyes and pallid about the cheeks can only mean one thing: we've eaten vegetarian for the last three days.

I emerged from a two year stint with vegetarianism, one of those "experimental" college things, with a few observations. First, vegetarianism is not a bad idea. I'll here pass over the various reasons I touted for foregoing meat other than to say that pleasant memories of growing up on a tiny farm made my visions of factory farming and the meat it produces particularly nightmarish. Although I've now gone over to the other side, I still feel strongly about organic meat, and would rather go without when it is not available, or, alas, I can't afford it.

Second, I like eating meat. I like the taste of meat, but, more importantly, I like having the choice of tasting meat. When I have the opportunity to go out to a nice restaurant, choosing my meal from the countless possible combinations of starters, entrees, and desserts is almost as enjoyable for me as eating it. Although there are plenty of good restaurants out there with plenty of vegetarian options, I have learned that plenty is just not enough.

Third, my body does not need meat. I never felt deprived of protein or weak in the knees for want of flesh. My vigilant vegetarian unconscious produced a few disturbing dreams about accidentally eating hotdogs, but other than that I had no trouble--mental or physical-- introducing meat back into my diet. My body's seeming indifference to its meat intake is what allows me to overlook the effects of even a few meat-free days on the man whom I feed. I routinely ignore the subtle signs that he is beginning to waste away as I casually plan another dinner of grilled veggie kabobs, pizza margherita, or bean stew. He's getting his protein. But protein, his wan face tells me, is not enough. It must be meat.

Not only were we in the midst of a three-day meatless span (this time, fried squash blossoms, grilled endive and mushrooms with mustard tarragon dressing, and, the final straw, rigatoni with basil and ricotta), but Patrick is training for a 5K race to be held on this Saturday's Community Day. When the losing combination of vegetarian streak plus soon approaching 5K race came to my attention, I knew that drastic measures were required.

This is where a gargantuan burger comes in handy.


The aura that appears to surround this burger makes it look like it's been beamed down from some carnivore's paradise where mouths are wide enough to bite into something piled this high. Here on earth, a burger this size must be tackled with smaller bites around the sides with the inevitable eventuality that the whole thing will lose its carefully balanced proportion and turn into a drippy clump of a sandwich. Cutting the whole thing in half makes things easier for awhile, but those identical halves will eventually turn into drippy clumps too. And, boy, will they be good.

While I would never serve something this monstrous to a humanly proportioned dinner guest, I happily shaped together a half pound pattie for a certain meat-deprived contender. Other than this emergency size modification, I kept my favorite burger recipe intact. Burger purists may wince at such stuff, but the addition of chipotle chilies, shallots, and parsley makes for a robustly flavored and moist result. I am especially enamored of burgers filled with minced shallots infusing the whole patty with onion flavor, while raw sliced onions piled on a cooked burger tend to overwhelm it with their bite.


Chipotle Burgers
prudently serves 4

1 pound ground sirloin
2-3 tablespoons minced chipotle chilies with sauce
2 tablespoons minced shallots
2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
salt and fresh ground pepper
trimmings: cheddar cheese, lettuce, tomato, mayo


1. Gently combine beef, chipotle chilies, shallots, and parsley with hands. Form into 4 patties while trying not to overwork the meat. I am told that overworking results in denser, tougher burgers, but have not ever tested this theory. I suppose it's best to err on the side of tender burgers. Let patties rest in the fridge covered with plastic wrap for an hour or so before grilling.
2. Clean and oil grill. We have a gas grill, so my grilling preparations simply require turning one burner up to high and the other to medium. Those hardcore grillers of the charcoal persuasion surely know the best method for readying their instruments for burgers.
3. Grill burgers on the hotter side of the grill to form a crust, and then transfer them to the cooler side until they are done enough for you. Rarer burgers are more springy to the touch and leak out pink juices. Since my burgers are removed before they pass that threshold into "medium," I can't really describe the signs that a burger is medium-well or well-done. Peaking inside with the tip of a knife, though eschewed by grilling experts, should not be overlooked as a reliable method of doneness testing. I usually end up taking that route. For the sake of juiciness, try to resist the temptation to press down on the burgers while they're cooking.
4. When your burgers are a few minutes from done, pile some cheese on them. This is also a good time to throw some buttered buns face down on the grill.
5. Heap on trimmings according to your whim, cut the monster in half, and envision yourself as you race first-place over the finish line.

Pittsburgh Flora

A Saturday morning stroll through the produce stands on the Strip turned up an edible treasure. Against the backdrop of downtown highrises and red brick buildings once bustling with the steel trade, there rested on a farmer's market table: squash blossoms. They were just sitting there among the heirloom tomatoes, sweet corn, and red bell peppers as if they were just another summer vegetable. Squash blossoms have an air of the exotic about them, perhaps because most of us are not in the habit of eating flowers on a regular basis. But the simplicity of those little green and melon colored pods, their petal tips artfully twisted shut, makes nature herself seem practiced in perfection.

Needless to say, the asking price of $1.50 for twenty or so pretty little blossoms won me over to Pittsburgh farmers' markets.

By the time I had my blossoms in hand, I knew they were destined to be stuffed with cheese, battered, and fried. An hour or so of contemplation failed to produce a decision about the precise nature of that cheese filling, so I made two different types. Half I stuffed with mozzarella and anchovy, and the other with ricotta, garlic, and basil. Both, I think, are relatively authentic Italian recipes. Patrick favored the former and I the latter.

Unwilling to have these squash blossoms relegated to a supporting role, we made them the stars of an al fresco summer dinner made possible by our new patio furniture. In between bites of crisp squash blossoms filled with hot cheese, we nibbled some olives and roasted red peppers, and washed it all down with cold white wine. The night air was fresh. The grass was green. Pittsburgh was almost like heaven.

A Pair of Squash Blossoms
serves 4

20 squash blossoms
1 cup flour
1 cup beer
1 teaspoon coarse salt

3/4 cup ricotta cheese
1 garlic clove, minced
1/4 cup chopped fresh basil
salt and fresh ground pepper

10 mozzarella bocconcini
5 anchovy filets, rinsed, patted dry and cut in half

enough canola or light olive oil to fill frying pan to one inch depth

1. Stir together ricotta, garlic, and basil. Season with salt and pepper. Fill 10 squash blossoms with mixture. Twist the tops of squash blossoms together to seal.
2. Fill remaining 10 squash blossoms with 1 or 1/2 mozzarella ball (depending on size) and 1/2 anchovy filet. Twist to seal. Cover and refrigerate stuffed squash blossoms until ready to fry.
3. Make batter. Combine flour, beer, and salt with whisk. Add extra flour or beer to achieve a thick, gravy-like consistency.
4. Heat olive oil in skillet over medium high heat until it reaches about 350 degrees. You can use a thermometer to measure temperature; or you can judge by dropping a bread crumb into the hot liquid (when it sizzles and quickly browns, your oil is ready).
5. Dip squash blossoms in batter, allow excess batter to drip off, and gently submerge them into hot oil. Fry until golden brown, turning once (about 2 minutes). Remove with slotted spoon and drain on paper towels. Season with salt. Enjoy them while they're hot.

A City Great for Cooking

Despite what readers of these pages may have begun to imagine, a hulking slice of chocolate torte was not Food and Paper's last meal. The deathly silence of recent days has not marked its move into that ghost land of abandoned blogs. It has marked its move to Pittsburgh. For now, and for the near future, comforting pastimes of chopping herbs, boiling pasta, and even near failures at pastry making have given way to packing and unpacking boxes, painting rooms, refinishing furniture, and sweating it out in a lovely but unairconditioned Arts and Crafts style house on the east side of the Steel City.

It was not without a few tears that I ordered my last latte at Chapel Hill's finest espresso bar, bid farewell to my miniscule kitchen, and headed north. The family, friends, and food of North Carolina will be sorely missed. But those tears have been dried by Pittsburgh's promise of countless adventures, culinary and otherwise. I have been informed that Pittsburgh is a city "great for cooking" (as in, "not great for dining out.") A stroll through the Strip District and its many butchers, fishmongers, bakeries, and ethnic grocery stores has confirmed that I'll not want for fresh and novel ingredients to bring home to my kitchen. But the kitchen. It is, at best, a poor little kitchen.

Which brings me to an important matter for the writer of a food blog and its few--God bless you--readers. This great Pittsburgh cooking will have to wait. Because...I am renovating my kitchen! What may prove a temporary hardship for the livelihood of Food and Paper as well as for the order of this home will result in a bright and shiny new kitchen. It goes without saying that I am happily entangled in renovation details. Which countertops? Range? Flooring? Single or double basin sink? Can I fit in a dishwasher? What colors? Can I afford this?! I feel like a sweet-toothed kid whose been told she can build her very own candyshop in her bedroom. Stainless steel applilances, subway tiles, and shiny black countertops are dancing like sugar plum fairies in my head.

For many weeks to come in this city great for cooking, however, I'll be banished from my kitchen. I've unpacked some cooking essentials to keep us fed until the demolition begins. A cutting board, a knife, a skillet, a strainer, two wine glasses, two plates, two bowls, and two forks. I've managed to turn out a few meals, but more evenings than not we've been testing Pittsburgh's potential as a city for dining out. I must admit that I'm not yet ready to experience the gastronomic pride of Pittsburgh. Maybe I'll venture it some day when the weather is cooler and I haven't eaten for a few days. I am pleased to say that we have discovered a few very good restaurants here, this one and this one in particular. Pittsburgh, it seems, does have some solace to offer the kitchenless.

A simple spinach salad graces Food and Paper's first pittsburgh post. At the end of a long, hot day of rearranging furniture, fatigue settled in the arms and legs and hunger settled in the belly, this is just the thing to savor before climbing into bed. Add what you will to it. I had a peach and some feta cheese on hand. Consider olives, roasted red peppers, artichokes, or a boiled egg. I don't usually make croutons for salads, but these generously sized specimens, salvaged from a day old piece of bread, transformed this light dish into something a little more substantial. Their buttery crunchiness pairs nicely with the tang of feta and lemon dressing.

Spinach Salad with Peaches
makes 2 large, or 4 small, servings

juice from one lemon, or 3 tablespoons red wine vinegar
1/4 cup olive oil
salt and fresh ground pepper
1 pound of spinach, prewashed and packaged if you like (and I do)
1 ripe but firm peach, cut into slices
a good sized hunk of feta cheese
homeade croutons, recipe below

1. Make dressing: Pour lemon juice (or vinegar) into a large serving bowl. Slowly drizzle in olive oil while whisking quickly. Add salt and pepper to taste.
2. Add spinach and peaches. Toss. Crumble feta on top. Sprinkle with croutons. Top it off with a dusting of fresh ground pepper.

Homeade Croutons

a couple tablespoons butter
1 teaspoon olive oil
a large hunk of stale bread, cut into crouton-sized pieces
1 tablespoon dried green herb of choice (oregano, sage, basil)
salt and pepper

Melt butter and olive oil over medium heat. Add bread. Stir to coat. Cook, stirring occasionally until bread turns golden brown, 10-20 minutes depending on amount of croutons and size of skillet. Stir in dried herbs, salt, and pepper. Cook for a minute more.