Something old and something blue

Before I loved to cook, I loved to thrift. (Those without the thrift-store itch will forgive my use of the verb.) My entire high school wardrobe, and much of my college one was hunted and gathered from various North Carolina Goodwills and American Ways. If you're from the Triangle and have ever donated a velvet jacket or thin-waled pair of cords, it's likely your clothes have lived in my closet. I still scavenge for summer dresses and vintage slips, but these days when I pop into the local thrift store--which goes by the shabby-chic name Thriftique--I tend to gravitate toward the kitchen wares section.

I've accumulated a little aluminum collection of old tart tins and cake pans. Some are tiny molds whose proper use I've yet to figure out...but, they may just become tortilla bowl molds considering how well they recently performed as such.


As I'm not in the habit of making mini-muffins, these tins are stashed away for a future cocktail party I occasionally fantasize hosting. So many possibilities in a couple of somethings worth nothing to someone else and about 50 cents to me: miniature strawberry cheesecakes...tiny tortilla cups filled with pulled pork and cilantro...baby spinach quiches.


I haven't a clue what this stainless steel bowl was meant to hold. It sort of reminds me of a mess-kit container, but it's far too heavy for hiking. It'll keep a couple of scoops of homemade ice cream cool in July, though, and that's how I plan to use it and its three siblings, all mine for a dollar a piece.

Every time I reach for one of these dry good containers--and I groggily reach for the third one from the left every single morning--I get a thrift-thrill. I grabbed these, along with a few wooden-handled spatulas and some copper-colored measuring cups, from the basement of Red Door Antiques and Interiors in Wake Forest, NC, a treasure trove of vintage kitchen wares.


My latest find: a couple of aluminum tart tins. Since my existing tart tin collection lacked right angles, I felt giddy when I scooped up the rectangular one. Then, I added the round one because I hated to separate the pair just to save a buck.

Sometimes, and I can't say just when those times occur, one wants a tart with corners. Recently, I did. And I wanted it sweet and sour with a shortbread crust and a bed of shiny blueberries on top.

If I had a picnic to attend this 4th of July, I would bring this tart. The crust is a simple, shortbread-like thing, and the blueberries are virtually naked save for a thin glaze of blueberry coulis. Baked in an old aluminum tin, this tart could be an immediate family tradition.
If I didn't have a picnic invitation, and I don't, I would eat it for dessert while watching Alfred Hitchcock movies, and I have. Mrs. Bates death-maw is even more electrifying accompanied by a bite of tangy lime curd.

Blueberry and Lime Curd Tart
Adapted from Bon Appetit, June 2002. The original recipe makes 8 3-inch tartlets, and can be found here at epicurious.com. This recipe is modified for a 6 by 10-inch rectangular tin, but will work in other dimensions, including round ones with 8-9-inch diameters.


For curd:
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 cup fresh lime juice
6 large egg yolks
7 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
2 teaspoons grated lime peel

For crust:
1 1/2 cups all purpose flour
3 tablespoons sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) chilled unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
3 tablespoons (about) chilled whipping cream
1 large egg yolk

For blueberry topping:
3 1/2-pint baskets blueberries
1 tablespoon sugar

To make the curd:

1. Whisk sugar and lime juice in heavy medium saucepan. Whisk in yolks, then butter.

2. Cook over medium-low heat until thick, smooth, and just beginning to bubble, stirring constantly, about 12 minutes. Remove from heat. Mix in lime peel.

3. Transfer to small bowl. Press plastic wrap onto surface of curd. Refrigerate until cold, at least 4 hours. (Can be made 4 days ahead. Keep refrigerated.)

To make the crust:
4. Blend flour, sugar, and salt in food processor for 5 seconds. Add butter and cut in, using on/off turns, until mixture resembles coarse meal. Add 2 tablespoons cream and egg yolk. Using on/off turns, blend until moist clumps form, adding more cream by teaspoonfuls if dough is dry. Shape dough into a shape roughly the dimensions of your tart pan. Press dough into bottom and up sides of tart pan with removable bottom. Pierce crust with fork. Chill, wrapped in plastic, at least 1 hour and up to 1 day.

To make the topping:
5. Place 1/2 cup berries and sugar in heavy small saucepan. Using fork, mash berries coarsely. Cook mixture over medium heat until beginning to simmer, stirring often, about 5 minutes. Using rubber spatula, push as much of mixture as possible through strainer set over medium bowl. Mix remaining blueberries into strained berries. Set topping aside.

6. Preheat oven to 375°F. Bake tart crust until lightly golden, pressing any bubbles with back of fork, about 20 minutes. Cool crust completely on a rack.

7. Using a spatula, spread curd in crust. Arrange blueberry topping over curd. (Let stand at room temperature up to 2 hours or refrigerate up to 1 day.)

Chill Out: Red Snapper Ceviche

I've just woken up from a heat-induced coma, and I'm primed to sing the praises of ceviche, fish "cooked" in a heatless citrus bath. It may be the season for burgers and apple pies, but I'm avoiding lighting a fire anywhere within my immediate vicinity. It's enough that my portable computer heats up my personal space.

Did I mention it's been hot? Thank heavens for my CSA box with its greens and shelled peas and strawberries, foodstuffs which can do very well, thank you, with little to no help from the kitchen stove. But, we had friends coming, and I thought they deserved more than the variations on a simple spinach salad that has sustained us in recent weeks.

A disappointing, but ultimately inspiring visit to Pittsburgh's latest happening bar scene at Seviche got me thinking about tossing together my own special blend of fish and citrus juice. I had a fillet of red snapper and a red bell pepper handy. I improvised the rest of the recipe, with an eye to color and a quick tutorial from Williams and Sonoma. Sweetened with diced mango, freshened up with cilantro, and served in a crunchy tortilla bowl, this ceviche proved a true "appetizer." It gave my mouth a little refreshing jolt. If your kitchen transforms into a hellish sauna come mid-June, let me suggest this recipe. Make the tortilla bowls in the early morning and relish the heatless evening hours. Turns out oranges and limes are perfectly willing to cook for you if you give them the chance.

Red Snapper Ceviche in Spinach Tortilla Cups
Serves 6 as a first course. These would also make great hors d'oeuvres. Just cut the tortilla bowls down to mini tortilla cups by using a mini-muffin tin: see note below.



6 spinach flour tortillas (or any other flavor you like)
canola or vegetable oil for brushing tortillas

3/4 pound skinned and boned red snapper
1/2 cup fresh squeezed orange juice
1/2 cup fresh squeezed lime juice
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt
1 red bell pepper
1/2 red onion, finely chopped
1 large, or two medium mangoes, diced
1 jalapeno pepper, ribs and seeds removed if you want less heat, finely chopped
1 seedless (English) cucumber, diced
4 basil leaves, chopped
1/2 cup cilantro, chopped; divided in half
2 tablespoons olive oil
coarse salt and fresh ground pepper
2 limes, cut into quarters for serving

For tortilla bowls:

To make these bowls, I used some aluminum 4-inch wide tart tins I found at my local thrift store. Muffins pans will work just as well, and if you want to make tiny tortilla cups, you could use a mini-muffin pan. Cut your tortillas into rounds according to the size of your baking tins. For tiny ones, you can use a biscuit or cookie cutter. For these larger ones, I used scissors.

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

2. Brush 6 individual tart tins (or a jumbo muffin pan) with canola oil.

3. Cut tortilla shells to fit tins. I cut mine into circles large enough so that when I arranged one in a tart tin, it bunched up around the sides and stuck out above the top edge by an inch. [I realize that probably sounds confusing...the important thing to remember is that these shells are free form, so all you have to worry about is getting them to stick inside their baking tins.]

4. Lay tortillas on a work surface, and brush both sides of each one with canola oil. Sprinkle with coarse salt and place in tins. Place tins on a baking sheet, and bake, rotating once, until shells are crispy and golden around the edges, about 8 minutes. Cool completely on a wire rack. These shells will keep for a day or two in an airtight container.

For ceviche:

1. In a non-reactive (i.e. not aluminum) bowl, combine orange and lime juices. Add 1/2 teaspoon coarse salt.

2. Cut fish into 1/2 inch cubes, add to bowl, and refrigerate for 1 hour. The fish should be emerged in the juice.

3. In a bowl, combine the red pepper, mango, onion, jalapeno pepper, cucumber, basil, and half (1/4 cup) the cilantro. Stir gently.

4. Right before serving, pour fish into a colander to drain. Then, add fish to fruit mixture, add oil, and season to taste with salt and pepper.

5. Divide ceviche among tortilla bowls, garnish with remaining cilantro, and serve with lime wedges.

Peas for Picky Eaters

I won't mince words: Picky eaters make me cranky. By picky eaters, I don't mean those who refuse certain foods because of shellfish allergies, lactose intolerance, or ethical vegetarianism. I mean those who won't eat raw fruit, or soft cheeses, or meat when it's on the bone. When I feel this crankiness setting in, I imagine my picky interlocutor demanding, "What's it to you?" Noting to myself the lack of an answer to that question, I smile politely as my lunch companion systematically picks every bit of tomato and green pepper out of her salad.

I know that there are certain tastes and textures more challenging to appreciate than others. The chalkiness of liver. The burn of wasabi. The bitterness of salt-cured olives. Let's say you've sampled brussels sprouts on three separate occasions, each time prepared differently by different people, and each time struggled to get them down. I won't fault you for refusing them the fourth time. But if you're a thirty-something adult who has never, at least to his knowledge, eaten a raw apple because of its <shiver at the thought> "crunchiness," you will likely make me cranky. It so happens that I am married to just such a man, who, in addition to several other fruits, cannot bring himself to eat anything white, cold, and non-sweet. (Vanilla ice cream: Good. Sour Cream: Very bad).

My marriage survives when I remind myself that I wasn't always such an omnivore. My parents endlessly find occasion to recount a certain mantra I adopted as a five-year old:

"I don't like meat. I don't like onions [pronounced ongyons]. I don't like to go to bed early. I'm just a different person."

Considering that two-thirds of this first effort to articulate my own identity as an autonomous person centered on my own food pickiness, I should really be more tolerant. I remember fishing cooked onions out of spaghetti sauces and soups...not an easy task, considering that they're virtually transparent. I wrinkled my nose at slabs of meat, unless doused with copious amounts of Worcestershire sauce and--I can't explain this one--sprinkled with Butter Buds (a butter-flavored powder that came in a shaker). I was also a child insomniac, hence the abhorrence of bed time, but that subject is beyond the realm of food neuroses.

I also hated peas. In my defense, many children do, and it's understandable, considering that they almost always emerge from a can. My mom didn't serve peas enough for them to feature on my short list of abject food, but I do recall, having been forbidden to leave the table while my peas went untouched, swallowing the little green pills whole among gulps of milk.

It wasn't until the summer of 2002 that this pea-aversion was overturned. Shopping for produce in Rome's Campo de Fiori isn't easy for a sometimes shy newlywed who knows practically no Italian. I pointed and nodded and smiled and went home laden with vegetables in strange quantities. One evening, I found myself toting home a small bag of pea pods. I wasn't even sure what to do with them, they seemed so different from the peas I had pushed around on my plate as a child. In the end, I didn't do anything with them, but munched them raw, plucked straight from the pod.

I emitted a little squeal when I saw that my most recent Kretschmann's farm box contained a bag full of peas. As soon as I got them home, I started shelling, mulling over possible preparations and munching a pea from every third or fourth pod. What I came up with is really too simple to be called a recipe, and that's precisely why I knew it wouldn't do me or my peas wrong. Sauteed in olive oil for a few quick minutes, these peas don't forsake their fresh, grassy crunch. Add a green onion or two, a splash of lemon juice, a few shavings of parmesan, some torn basil, and a generous pinch of salt and pepper. What you get is a bowl of peas that do not in any way resemble their canned or frozen kin. These are peas for pea-haters. I could have easily eaten the whole lot myself, but Patrick, who had never tried sauteed fresh peas, demanded his fair half. Picky eaters unite.

Fresh Peas with Green Onions and Basil
Serves 2 as a side dish, or as a light lunch.


2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 1/2 cups fresh shelled peas
2 green onions, white and light green parts, chopped into 1/4 inch pieces
a pinch of dried pepper flakes
1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice
1/4 cup basil leaves, torn into pieces
parmesan cheese, shaved with a vegetable peeler
coarse salt and fresh ground pepper

Have all of your ingredients ready when you start...everything comes together fast, and you don't want to overcook your peas.

1. In a medium skillet, heat olive oil and pepper flakes over medium heat.
2. Add peas and cook, stirring, for about 2 minutes.
3. Add chopped green onions and cook, stirring, for an additional 2 minutes.
4. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Add lemon juice and basil. Remove from heat, and stir to combine.
5. Divide between two bowls. Top with shaved parmesan cheese, and serve.

Color Rescued: Fresh Spinach Linguine

A week or so back, I took a few revelations I received while preparing for a dinner party and applied them to my continuing efforts to speak coherently in response to the question, "So, what do you cook?" Thanks are in order to those of you who left comments encouraging me to consider my working response--"I cook colors"--as something more than a cop-out. The human appetite, you told me, will seek out foods of a certain hue in order to insure that certain vitamin and mineral needs be satisfied. Turns out my cooking philosophy is less neurosis and more science than I had imagined. A recent celebrity diet trend (the mononymous 80's singer, Tiffany, is a devotee) promises dramatic weight loss to those poor souls who swear off all white foods in favor of the color spectrum. It's sad to think that Tiffany never gets to enjoy the healthy pleasures of egg-white omelets or bowls of whipped cauliflower, but I can imagine how such a diet might work.

There is an entire niche of diet books dedicated to eating by color. Although I feel like bursting into tears at the prospect of giving up white foods ["Hello, my name is Sarah, and I am addicted to bread"], there is something to the idea that color is good for you. The more colorful the food--as long as it has not been doused with artificial coloring--the fresher, less processed, more nutritious, and flavorful it will be.

It was in a moment of color-earnestness that I decided to make my own fresh spinach pasta for a recent dinner party. Sure, the radish crostini and mango-cucumber gazpacho promised color enough, but I had been wooed by a series of photographs that accompanied an article in Martha Stewart's May issue of Living called "Pasta Outside the Box." Beet pasta, yellow pepper pasta, carrot pasta, spinach pasta: so easy to make, Ms. Stewart promised, and so colorful. If I could make simple, blandly-hued egg pasta, I could make exotic jewel-toned vegetable pasta...right?

It was the hottest day yet this summer, and there I was, roasting beets for beet linguine at 375 degrees for nearly two hours. I peeled them, processed them, mixed in a few eggs, and kneaded in flour. The resulting blob was satisfyingly neon-pink, but its texture was nothing like pasta dough. Gummy, gooey, one heaping tablespoon of flour added after another. Too many beets, I think. So, I gritted my teeth, tossed the blob into the trash, wiped the sweat from my brow, and steamed some spinach. Plan B: spinach linguine. Green would be the new pink.

I'm not sure what went wrong. I blame it on the weather, but it could have been my increasingly dampened attitude. The dough came together nicely. It rolled out nicely, too. Wary of the humidity, I draped the sheets of dough over a clothes-drying rack to let them firm up a bit before cutting them. When I took this picture, I was still happy:


After this picture was taken, everything started to fall apart. The pasta cutter failed to separate the sheets into strands of linguine. I tried to tease apart the individual strands of pasta following the indentations made by the cutter as the dough stretched and expanded in my hot hands. I kept at it, though, tossing the deformed strands in flour and leaving them to "dry" a bit on baking sheets. Instead of drying, they started to stick to each other. I left off my efforts to cut the dough, and set to teasing apart once again the strands which had now gathered themselves into a gummy green nest. No use. I started to cry a little.

Patrick wandered into the kitchen just as I was about to chuck the whole batch. Mesmerized by the color, I think, he blocked my path to the trashcan. Then, I (grumpy) and he (ever optimistic) commenced to re-knead the tangled masses into workable dough, run them through the pasta roller, and cut them once again into linguine. Drier by this point, the dough separated more easily, but we hung it to dry a bit longer just to keep the stands from sticking to each other. When I took this picture, I was cranky, but hopeful:


When I went to remove the linguine from the rack, they were so dry that they broke into pieces. I would have started to cry a little again, but I had, by this point, sent Patrick out to buy some fresh pasta. Plan C: Whole Foods Egg Pasta. He wouldn't leave before I promised to freeze the fruits of our labor. Dinner was nice, and colorful enough, even with hum-drum pale-yellow pasta. A few nights later, Patrick and I sat down to what he, who is prone to superlatives, called "the best pasta ever."


The pasta was good...not, to my mind, the "best ever," but satisfying in the way that hard-won meals tend to be, and certainly aesthetically pleasing. This stuff is green. And, in this case, the color packs a nutrition-punch. With almost a pound of spinach in it, this pasta is half salad. That means, Tiffany, this pasta is a safe food. I'm inclined to think that Patrick's exuberant praise came from his personal investment in the meal. Food tastes better, I think, when you've been exposed to the intricacies of its production.

Once you have the pasta, this particular dish is easy and fast. Have everything chopped in advance so that your cooked pasta doesn't sit around getting soggy. Fresh tomatoes would be nice, too. I happened to have some good sun-dried ones. If your mozzarella is packaged in liquid, squeeze out the excess with paper towels before you chop it. Otherwise, it will leak unattractively onto your pasta.

Fresh (Spinach) Linguine with Sun-Dried Tomatoes and Pan-Roasted Garlic
Serves 4.

1 pound fresh (spinach) linguine: I'm still in search of the best recipe. You can find Ms. Stewart's recipe here. Williams-Sonoma gives an online version here. You can sometimes find fresh spinach pasta at Whole Foods. You can also substitute any fresh pasta, homemade or store bought.

Coarse salt and fresh ground pepper
8 cloves garlic, cut into quarters
1 cup extra virgin olive oil, plus some for drizzling
1/2 cup sun-dried tomatoes packed in oil, coarsely chopped
1/2 cup fresh mozzarella, coarsely chopped
1/2 cup fresh basil leaves, torn
1 tablespoon finely grated lemon zest

1. Over high heat, bring large pot of salted water to boil for pasta.

2. Meanwhile, heat olive oil over medium-low heat in a small skillet. Add garlic, and roast, stirring occasionally, until soft and golden brown, about 10 minutes.

3. Cook pasta in salted water until just tender, stirring occasionally, about 3 minutes.

4. Reserve 1/2 cup pasta water. Drain pasta and return to pot.

5. Add garlic, oil, and reserved water to pasta. Using tongs, toss until excess liquid is absorbed, about 1 minute. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

6. Divide pasta among 4 plates. Top with sun-dried tomatoes, mozzarella, basil, and lemon zest. Drizzle with a bit of olive oil, and serve.

Cooking Colors

The conversation usually goes like this:

Nice Person: "So, I heard you...
a) like to cook. What do you cook?"
b) write a blog about food. What do you cook?"
c) spending your spare time cooking instead of writing your dissertation. What do you cook?"

Me: "Oh, well, yeah, I like to cook...oh, all sorts of things, really...I sort of, you know, like to experiment with new recipes... [Nice Person continues to smile nicely]...Well, and I like to use seasonal fruits and vegetables when I can, and, ummm...I guess I just like to fiddle around in the kitchen."

That answer is generally a conversation-ender. I guess it comes across as some sort of lame excuse for an answer to a question that, though completely reasonable, seems to lack a satisfying response--at least from my mouth. There's the cuisine-centric option: I cook Italian. Or, the diet-focused one: I cook low-carb and no red meat. Maybe a technique-driven answer would work: I cook with a wok. Sometimes I braise.

I cook omelets. I cook from Bon Appetit magazine. I cook pork. What's a girl to say?

Just this week the answer hit me...not necessarily the answer that will satisfy my interlocuters (I haven't had the occasion to try it out yet), but the answer that reflects why I choose one recipe over another. Luckily, it's short, and easy to memorize: "I cook colors. And occasionally textures." There you have it.

You'd think I would have come to this realization earlier, considering that, once I figured out how to arrange my posts by category in Blogger, I labeled them according to color and texture. [See right-hand column of this page]. I didn't think for a moment that this particular organization choice would be as user-friendly as one that arranged recipes according to main ingredient or preparation technique or dinner course. But, I thought, it's not like droves of time-pressed and hungry internet-surfers are daily clicking over to Food and Paper in search of culinary inspiration. So I labeled my posts as red, yellow, green, creamy, crunchy, and squishy without realizing that the answer to the question, "So, what do you cook?," has been right there in my side bar for months.

It was only when I found myself on the brink of tears, wrestling with a ruined batch of beet pasta dough in a 90 degree kitchen that I realized the lengths I would go for a plate full of color. After I chucked the beet dough blob that refused to firm up into anything remotely capable of being rolled through a pasta maker, I immediately started steaming a pound of spinach, my heart set on bright green pasta instead of bright pink. It wasn't to be. The report on that batch will have to wait for another day... let's just say that, later that evening, my dinner guests dined on pale yellow pasta bought at the eleventh hour from Whole Foods. Fortunately, I had a few more colors up my sleeve.

For the past few weeks, my Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) box from the Kretchmanns' farm has included a bag of radishes, a pretty little vegetable that I fear I have gravely neglected. With this steady supply, I've been slicing them over salads, salsas, and now crostini. Here, they do double duty--layered in paper-thin slices over a slathering of ricotta cheese and grated radish. Dressed up with flecks of green herbs and a dainty branch of dill, these nibbles seem more like art than appetizer.

Radish Crostini
inspired by an epicurious recipe from Gourmet, April 1997.
Makes about 16 crostini.


1 baguette, sliced at an angle into 1/2 inch thick slices
extra virgin olive oil
coarse salt and fresh ground pepper
1 garlic clove
1 cup ricotta cheese
4 ounces goat cheese, softened
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon lemon zest
12 large radishes
1 tablespoon finely chopped parsley
1 tablespoon finely chopped chives
1 tablespoon finely chopped dill
dill leaves for garnish

1. Make crostini: Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Arrange bread slices in one layer on baking sheets. Brush bread slices on both sides with extra virgin olive oil. Sprinkle with a bit of salt and pepper. Bake for about 15 minutes, until golden brown. Rub toasts with garlic clove.

2. Make ricotta-radish topping: In a bowl, finely shred 6 radishes, and squeeze out as much liquid as you can from the pulp. In another bowl, stir together ricotta and goat cheese. Add lemon juice, zest, and herbs. Stir in grated radishes and salt and pepper to taste. Radish mixture can be made one day ahead, covered, and chilled.

3. Assemble crostini: Just before serving, spread radish mixture on toasts. Thinly slice remaining radishes with a mandolin (or, if you have better knife skills than me, by hand). Arrange a few radish slices on top of each crostini. Drizzle a bit of olive oil onto each one, and top with a small piece of dill. Sprinkle with coarse salt.


Mango-Cucumber Gazpacho with Harissa-Glazed Shrimp
Serves 6 as an appetizer, 4 as main course.

Ripe mangoes have been plentiful and cheap for the last month or so. For this recipe, I took bits and pieces from two other recent mango success stories: grilled salmon with mango salsa and mango ice cream. The salmon dish had won me over with its sweet-fruit and sweet-fish combination and its zip of cilantro and lime. The ice cream had reminded me that mangoes manage to be both refreshing and creamy. I tossed those qualities into a food processor, blended, and ladled into bowls. The result: Mango-Cucumber Gazpacho. This is a sweet gazpacho, best enjoyed is small portions with a glass of Prosecco on the back patio.

As for the shrimp: I recently discovered the marinating potential of harissa, a Tunisian smoked-chili paste made with garlic and cumin. It's good on baby back ribs, better on grilled shrimp. As for color and texture, you can't beat fiery-orange shrimp floating on a pool of neon-green gazpacho.


for gazpacho:
4 ripe mangoes, peeled and pitted
2 cucumbers, peeled and seeded
1/2 green pepper, seeds removed
1 medium jalapeno, with seeds and ribs
1 teaspoon lime zest
juice of 1 lime
1/2 cup orange juice
1 cup chicken stock, vegetable stock, or water
1/2 cup finely chopped cilantro, divided
1 teaspoon coarse salt
1/4 teaspoon ground cumin
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

for shrimp:
2-3 large shrimp per person, shelled and deveined
1/4 cup harissa
1/4 cup molasses
1/4 cup soy sauce
2 tablespoons maple syrup
1 teaspoon fresh black pepper

1. Make marinade for shrimp: Mix harissa, molasses, soy sauce, maple syrup. and black pepper in a medium bowl. Add shrimp. Cover, and refrigerate for 1-2 hours.

2. Make gazpacho: Puree mango, cucumber, jalapeno and green peppers, lime zest and juice in food processor or blender. Add orange juice, stock (or water), 1/4 cup cilantro, salt, and pepper and puree until combined. With machine running, add olive oil in a steady stream and blend until emulsified. Thin with additional stock (or water) to reach desired consistency.

3. Grill shrimp: Heat a grill to high. Remove shrimp from marinade, allowing excess to drip off. Discard remaining marinade. Grill shrimp, turning once, just until cooked through, about 2 minutes per side.

4. Assemble: Ladle gazpacho into bowls, top with 2-3 shrimp, and garnish with remaining 1/4 cup cilantro.

A Soup for Global Warming

The month of May knows how to please. For those of us who still operate according to the secondary education schedule, school's out. Azaleas bloom, peas shoot, and, at least in our house, years of marriage are tallied up. May 25 of 2002 was hot, a good day for professing one's vows in cotton and seersucker. This past week, we celebrated our fifth year of matrimony strolling the muggy streets of New York, ducking into museums, drinking good chardonnay and dirty martinis. And eating. And drinking. And eating some more. Crunchy calamari. Fried olives stuffed with pork. Cheese plate after blessed cheese plate.

Back in a prematurely hot Pittsburgh, I found myself craving cool soups and salads. Four days into this health food bender, the word gazpacho rang out from a pile of tomatoes like a voice from heaven. On the subject of chilled soups, God has spoken to me in recent weeks in the voice of Martha Stewart.

I know what you're thinking.

Although I tend to trust her recipes, I am not convinced that Martha can channel the Almighty One himself. But, I'm inclined to identify this voice as a heavenly rather than demonic one, seeing as it has been recommending vegetables rather than french fries or donuts. Then again, Satan may fancy a chilled soup in hell every now and then. This will require further discernment.

On the soup itself:

Gazpacho is a Spanish soup that traditionally contains stale bread and vinegar. Today's versions usually omit the bread and cut down on the vinegar. That's fine with me. I'll save such things for panzanella, and keep my gazpacho fresh and innocent. If the experience of picking a ripe tomato straight from the stalk and holding it to my nose could be liquefied and served in a bowl, I think it would be called gazpacho.

Given the simplicity of this soup, you might be inclined to belittle the variations in recipes. But, precisely because most gazpacho is nothing more than chopped and pureed raw vegetables, the difference between good gazpacho and Oh-My-God-So-Good gazpacho lies in the details.

OMG Gazpacho tip #1: Use good, ripe tomatoes. If all you have are pinkish, mealy specimens, step slowly away from this recipe. Your sore wrists and achy back will not forgive you all that chopping unless your tomatoes are worthy.

OMG Gazpacho tip #2: Do not succumb to the temptation of tomato juice. Some gazpacho recipes--but, of course, not Ms. Stewart's--call for a tomato juice base. Open up a can of V-8, chop some vegetables, mix it all together and viola! From what I can gather, this is meant to save you some chopping and pureeing, because it's certainly not meant to enhance the flavor of your gazpacho. Alternatively, Oh-My-God gazpacho is made by pureeing half of your vegetables, drizzling olive oil into the food processor as you do so, to make an emulsified liquid base that tastes like fresh vegetables rather than a virgin Bloody Mary. To this liquid base, you add the remaining half of your chopped vegetables, and voila! OMG!

OMG Gazpacho tip #3: This tip is more of a personal preference than #1 and #2: add a bit of heat and a lot of cilantro. Or a lot of heat and a bit of cilantro. Just don't skip them altogether. The heat, whether from chili peppers or hot sauce, deepens the soup, and the cilantro adds its characteristic zip. I am aware that there are plenty of cilantro-haters out there; but, having come to the firm conclusion that its omission has robbed many a pico de gallo and gazpacho of their excellence, I have stopped worrying over whether or not cilantro-laced dishes will be refused on the grounds that the stuff tastes like soap. If you or yours are of this ilk, try parsley instead.

Cilantro Gazpacho
Adapted from Martha Stewart Living Annual Recipes 2002. Serves 8.

If you should like to serve this soup in small glasses to be sipped rather than in largish bowls like those pictured below, this recipe will serve more people: 12 or so.


5 pounds ripe tomatoes, seeds removed
2 1/2 pounds cucumbers, peeled and seeds removed
2 red bell peppers (green peppers are fine, but the red ones will not compromise your gazpacho's pretty hue)
2 medium jalapeno peppers, seeds and ribs removed if you want less heat
4 scallions, white and light green parts only
1 large garlic clove, peeled
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil, divided
1 cup fresh cilantro, coarsely chopped, divided
5 tablespoons fresh lime juice
coarse salt and freshly ground pepper
1 avocado, for garnish
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

1. Chop tomatoes, cucumber, red and jalapeno peppers, scallions, and garlic. Place in large bowl and toss with 1/4 cup olive oil, 1/2 cup cilantro, and lime juice.

2. In a food processor, puree half the vegetables until smooth. With the motor running, slowly add the remaining 1/4 cup olive oil to the puree in a steady stream until, and blend for 10 seconds longer. Pour puree into a large bowl.

3. Add remaining half of chopped vegetables to the puree. Stir in remaining 1/2 cup cilantro, and season to taste with salt and pepper. Don't skimp on the salt.

4. Chill at least 1 hour. Ladle gazpacho into bowls. Cut avocado into cubes and sprinkle with lemon juice to keep it from turning brownish. Top gazpacho with avocado and serve.