Food and Paper

A hungry silence

2008-12-15T20:02:00.002-05:00

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

2008-08-01T10:04:00.010-05:00

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

2008-07-15T11:41:00.012-05:00

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

2008-07-13T12:28:00.002-05:00

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

2008-06-27T14:05:00.002-05:00

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

2008-06-13T16:55:00.008-05:00

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

2008-05-30T17:02:00.010-05:00

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.

Savoring Panna Cotta

2008-05-26T09:49:00.008-05:00

I've been a bad, bad blogger. First it was the dissertation, then the dissertation defense, then graduation, then a much-needed vacation on the North Carolina coast. But now that I've been hooded, and feted, and rested, I'm heading back into the kitchen armed with a reformed blogger's resolve and a few new cookbooks (thanks Aunt Billie and Uncle Rock!). Today's recipe comes from one of those new books, Bite Size, by Francoise Payard. It's a small book packed with stunning photos of small bites of food. For last night's dinner celebrating our 6th wedding anniversary, I translated a recipe for 20 itty-bitty servings of cauliflower panna cotta into a recipe for six servings by pouring it into bigger glasses. Magic. This savory panna cotta is both elegant and simple. Preparing it will dirty a few pots and a food processor, and it will require the slightly fussy step of straining through a sieve, but all of this can be done hours in advance of serving. That means more time for sipping sparkling wine on the back patio.

Panna cotta, which means "cooked cream" in Italian, is a custard that owes its consistency to gelatin rather than eggs. I've enjoyed several fruit-topped variations of panna cotta for dessert (though I had never made it myself). The thing I love about this version is that it retains the simple color and texture of traditional panna cotta, but the flavor is pure, unadulterated cauliflower, rendered subtle and novel in this delicate, chilled incarnation.

The original recipe called for each panna cotta to be topped with a tiny spoonful of salmon roe. Mmmmm. Salmon roe. I understand that Thomas Keller offers a recipe for a cauliflower panna cotta topped with beluga caviar in The French Laundry Cookbook. Mmmmmmm. Beluga caviar. It seemed like fish eggs were the way to go. Fish eggs, it seems, are not to be found in the great metropolis of Pittsburgh. Is there anyone out there who knows otherwise? I checked Whole Foods ("We sometimes have caviar around the holidays."), Trader Joe's ("Nope."), Wholey's ("Yeah, we got fish eggs, but you're going to have to get them out of the fish yourself."), and the Market District Giant Eagle ("Salmon roe? Uhhh, is that like a kind of fish soup?").

I switched the salmon roe out for baked prosciutto strips, a few sprinkles of nutmeg, and some chives. These are flavors which I think have paired well with cauliflower in other recipes, and this one wasn't an exception. If I give cauliflower panna cotta another go, and if I still can't get my hands on any fish eggs, I might try topping it with a splash of truffle oil and a thin shaving of Pecorino Romano cheese.

Cauliflower Panna Cotta with Prosciutto and Chives
Adapted from Bite Size by Francoise Payard. Makes 6 small servings.

14 ounces (about 1 small head) cauliflower
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
2 cups heavy cream
2 teaspoons (1 envelope) unflavored gelatin
sea salt
freshly ground white pepper
2 thin slices prosciutto
freshly grated nutmeg
chives for garnish

1. Cut cauliflower into small pieces and place them in a pot. Add butter, a pinch of salt, and just enough water to cover about one third of the cauliflower. Cover pot and bring to simmer over medium heat. Simmer until cauliflower is very tender, 6-10 minutes. Drain off any excess water and puree the cauliflower until completely smooth in a food processor.

2. Place the cream in a small pot and sprinkle the gelatin over it. Let it sit for 4 minutes and then bring it to a simmer, stirring, over medium-low heat to dissolve the gelatin. Remove the pot from the heat and let the cream cool to room temperature. Then, gently mix it into the cauliflower puree (do not whip it). Pass the mixture through a fine-mesh sieve into a bowl. (Next I will pass it through the sieve once more to further refine the texture, but this extra step is certainly not necessary.) Season to taste with salt and pepper. Don't skimp on the salt.

3. Place 6 small glasses on a baking sheet (this makes it easier to transfer them in and out of the refrigerator). Fill each glass with the panna cotta. Cover the top of the glasses with plastic wrap and refrigerate until completely chilled, about 1 hour. This can be done up to a day ahead.

4. For the garnish: Heat oven to 350 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Place the slices of prosciutto on the parchment paper, layer another sheet of parchment paper on top, and set a second baking sheet on top (this keeps the prosciutto flat as it cooks). Bake for 8-10 minutes, or until the prosciutto is crispy. Allow prosciutto to cool, and then cut it into thin strips.

5. Remove glasses from refrigerator a few minutes before serving. Garnish each glass with a bit of nutmeg, a few strips of prosciutto, and a scattering of chives.

A Win for the Challenger

2008-04-28T17:51:00.008-05:00

I collect anchovy recipes. It's not really a deliberate act, but an unconscious hoarding. The collection means I'll never want for ways to go through the anchovy tins that sit patiently next to my cans of whole tomatoes and garbanzo beans. It also means that I'll never want for a salty-fishy fix.

When I can't be bothered to browse the collection, I open up a tin, blot the oil from one flat body, positio it atop a saltine cracker, and pop the whole thing in my mouth, overhanging fish ends and all. Please do grimace and wrinkle your nose. The anchovy is a divisive little fish. And I wouldn't perform this particular act in the presence of company, anyway. But the truth is that I don't just collect anchovy recipes. I love anchovy recipes, and I love the foods and drinks that I consider--in some fundamental but unjustifiable way--as the anchovy's kin. Sardines, oil-cured olives, smoked trout, radicchio, gin martinis (dirty, please), stinky cheese, Campari, Pernod, dark chocolate, dandelion greens, the hoppiest beers, and--need I even say so--caviar of any size and color. Meet my favorite food group: the salty, the bitter, the sturdy.

I have been adding anchovies to my pasta sauces for a few years now. Not just puttanesca, but tomato-less pastas featuring broccoli rabe, radicchio, or arugula livened up with with a heavy dose of red pepper flakes, and those anchovies. These pasta dishes don't apologize for their salted fish, and neither does the one that graced the cover of Gourmet's April edition. Bucatini with spicy anchovy sauce and dill bread crumbs. Passing up Vogue's dewy Drew Barrymore, I bought the issue for its cover recipe as I searched for something to get me through the flight from Raleigh to Pittsburgh after my dissertation defense.

Let me tell you why I love this recipe. The dill, anchovies, and red pepper flakes--all assertive flavors--somehow melt into a pleasant and mellow pasta sauce. Bread crumbs bring a crunch to each bite of bucatini. But this seems not to be a recipe for everyone. I clicked over to epicurious.com and found a substantial number of dissenters including this one:

"I made this recipe last night, and it prompted me to post a review for the first time. Unfortunately it's because it is so very disgusting!!! I've been cooking for my husband for 10 years, and this was the first and only time he actually would not eat what I made. I don't blame him, I couldn't stomach it either. I even read the other reviews and put in a little extra anchovy and red pepper, and it was still terrible. I rate this recipe One Spoon, to gag myself with. GROSS!"

To each her own. But I would rate this recipe 4 forks, and my husband liked it too. You might, but probably not if you hate anchovies. I don't think I'll be able to do without it.

Bucatini with Anchovy Sauce, and Dill Bread Crumbs
Serves 4. Adapted from Gourmet magazine, April 2008.

Bucatini are thick, hollow noodles that otherwise look like spaghetti. They're particularly nice here because they stand up to the robust flavors in this sauce and are not overwhelmed by the breadcrumbs. Other pastas, especially regular spaghetti, would be fine substitutes.

1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 cups fresh bread crumbs
1/3 cup chopped dill
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
4 shallots, thinly sliced
1 (2-ounce) can flat anchovy fillets, drained and chopped
1 pound bucatini
1 teaspoon dried hot red-pepper flakes
coarse salt and fresh ground pepper

1. Heat 1/4 cup oil in a 12-inch heavy skillet over medium heat until it shimmers, then cook bread crumbs, stirring constantly, until deep golden and crisp, 6 to 8 minutes. Transfer bread crumbs to a bowl and toss with dill and 1/4 teaspoon each of salt and black pepper.

2. Wipe out skillet, then cook shallots with 1/4 teaspoon salt in remaining 1/2 cup oil over medium heat, stirring frequently, until very soft, 6 to 8 minutes. Add anchovies and cook, mashing anchovies into shallots, until dissolved.

3. Meanwhile, cook bucatini in a pasta pot of boiling salted water until al dente. Reserve 1/2 cup cooking water, then drain pasta.

4. Stir red-pepper flakes and reserved water into anchovy sauce, then add pasta and toss to combine. Add about half of bread crumbs and toss to coat. Serve sprinkled with remaining bread crumbs. Season with salt and pepper.

Milestones and Cheesecake

2008-04-20T10:12:00.006-05:00

Well, how do you do? An interlude of over two months has a way of making a blog seem shiny and new all over. Although I didn't realize it at the time, my last post announcing this lull was the 100th post on Food and Paper. Disappearing for two months doesn't seem the way to mark any milestone, but I have been busy trying to make my way past another one. And I did it. I completed my Ph.D, and I'll be a professor in Duquesne's Classics department beginning in the fall. So, my life is looking sort of shiny and new, too.

Milestones are supposed to assure travelers that they're on the right path, that they've made it a certain distance, and have a certain distance yet to travel. I can't recall ever having come across a milestone made of stone that actually marked miles. These days they seem more ephemeral, made of paper or a handshake or a meal shared, and they tend to mark ephemeral paths like the one that winds through graduate school.

If I had my choice in the matter, milestones marking anniversaries and dissertation defenses would be made of cheese. A cheese plate. Or a pot of fondue. Or a wheel of Camembert, wrapped in grape leaves and charred over a fire. Or--finally getting to the recipe at hand--cheesecake. And the five packages of cream cheese in the milestone I'm bringing to you today make it anything but ephemeral. It's big, heavy, extra-cheesy, and a fine way to mark the 101st post on a blog that began in April of 2006 with a cheesecake recipe.

That first cheesecake was a fresh, light, strawberry-laced, and rather naive thing. It was good, but this one is better. The shortbread crust provides a nice, sturdy ground for this cheesecake's heft without competing with the flavor of the cake, and the browned top suggests a certain sophistication without adornment. Sort of what I wanted my dissertation to be like, but with the addition of a few wandering wombs, a pregnant Christ, and a thirteenth-century Ovid impersonator.

Writing that sentence almost made me miss working on the thing. Almost.

I think I need another piece of cheesecake.

New York-Style Cheesecake
Adapted from The New Joy of Baking

The baking method for this cheesecake is quite similar to the one suggested by the folks at Cooks' Illustrated which I posted in April, 2006. The initial high temperature browns the top and allowing the cake to cool in the oven prevents it from cracking. Many cheesecake recipes call for a water bath to prevent cracking, but this method seems better to me because crusts baked in a water bath sometimes emerge soggy from exposure to steam. Having all of the ingredients at room temperature will create a creamier cake without cream cheese clumps.

1 recipe shortbread crust (see below)
1 egg white, well beaten

The following ingredients should be at room temperature:
2 1/2 pounds (five 8-oz. packages) cream cheese
1 3/4 cups sugar
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
1 teaspoon vanilla
5 large eggs
2 large egg yolks
1/2 cup heavy cream

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Lightly butter a 9-inch spring-form pan with removable bottom.

2. Press about 1/3 of the shortbread dough over the bottom of the pan as evenly as possible. Prick the dough all over with a fork and then bake until the crust is golden brown, 10-12 minutes. Let cool completely on wire rack. Press the remaining dough about 1/8 inch thick around the sides of the pan, making sure that it is attached to the bottom crust all around. Brush the bottom and sides of crust with egg white. Refrigerate crust while you prepare the filling.

3. Preheat oven to 500 degrees F. In the bowl of a stand mixer (fitted with the paddle attachment, if you have one), beat cream cheese until smooth and creamy, about 1 minute (this may take longer if the cream cheese is not yet at room temperature). Scrape down sides of the bowl and paddle. Gradually add sugar, beating until smooth and creamy, about 2 minutes. Add flour and beat until combined. Beat in lemon zest and vanilla. Scrape down sides of bowl and paddle.

4. Beat in eggs and yolks one at a time just until incorporated, scraping sides of bowl and paddle after each addition (make sure you don't leave any cream cheese around the upper edges of the bowl or you'll have lumps in your cheesecake, yikes!). On low speed, beat in cream.

5. Scrape the batter into the prepared crust and smooth the top with a spatula. Bake for 15 minutes at 500 degrees, then reduce the oven temperature to 200 degrees F, and bake for 60-70 minutes more. The cake should still looks a bit jiggly in the center. Turn the oven off and prop the oven door ajar with the handle of a wooden spoon. Let the cake cool in the oven for at least 30 minutes, and up to 1 hour. Remove to a rack and let cool completely before unmolding. Cover and refrigerate for at least 6 hours. Refrigerating overnight will allow the cake to firm up and the flavors to develop.

Pat-in-the-Pan Shortbread Crust
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/3 cup sugar
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, cut into 8 pieces
1-2 large egg yolks

1. In a food processor, mix flour, sugar, lemon zest, and salt for 10 seconds. Add butter and pulse until mixture resembles coarse crumbs.

2. Add 1 egg yolk and pulse just until dough comes together. If the mixture looks too dry, add second yolk and pulse again.

3. Wrap dough in plastic wrap and chill in refrigerator for 30 minutes (or up to 2 days) before working with it.

An interlude

2008-02-04T11:50:00.000-05:00

Dear readers,

You may have noticed that Food and Paper is looking a little slim these days. That's because the Paper part of my life is currently edging out the the Food part. Scribbling and typing and editing have encroached upon my kitchen time, and the subject is not particularly photogenic and not at all tasty: Virgins, Mothers, Monsters: Late-Medieval Readings of the Female Body Out of Bounds. I've been cooking up this dissertation for years now, and it's time to garnish it and serve it forth. To that end, this blog is going to remain on the skinny side for the next month or so. If all goes as planned, there will be much feting and feasting to do come mid-April, so do check in for celebratory recipes.

In the meantime, good appetite and good eating,

~Sarah

Fleur de Sel and Caramel

2008-01-11T18:36:00.000-05:00

For all of you whose New Year's resolution was to eat more candy in 2008, this recipe is for you.

Yes, while the rest of the world has puckered its lips in the direction of dessert and sworn to monitor sodium for the foreseeable future, I offer you this timely little morsel, smelling of burnt sugar and dusted with sea salt. Happy January... make yourself some salted caramels.

In the interest of honesty, I made these as Christmas gifts, but I'm here to convince you that these candies are easy enough and good enough to stock candy stashes of kin and co-worker throughout the year. All you need is some parchment paper, a candy thermometer, and some decent sea salt. Then, with a little patience for repetitive candy-wrapping, you'll have a batch of velvety caramels studded with bits of crunchy salt. This recipe scores a perfect 10 on Sarah's salty-sweet scale of goodness, which, in case you're keeping score, beats bacon brittle, but finishes neck and neck with burnt caramel ice cream with black Hawaiian sea salt.

These caramels hold their shape without threatening to pull out your fillings. That means they're both better tasting and safer than the beloved Sugar Daddy, a candy I loved to lick, and dared to chew, as a grade-schooler with wobbly teeth. I suppose I wasn't as enterprising as a certain "Jason from New York" who had this to say about the subject of Sugar Daddies and molars on oldtimecandy.com:

Back in the late 70's, when I was 7 or 8 years old, my molars were taking a long time to come out. they'd get loose, but I couldn't extract them myself. so I bought a sugar daddy. I'd sink my teeth into it, wait a few seconds, and rip open my jaw! 9 out of 10 times there'd be a tooth stuck to it. it would also gross out other kids (especially the girls). ironically, I'd use the money I got for my tooth to buy more sugar daddies!

Should the fleur de sel caramel strike your fancy, and should next December's holidays seem simply too far off to warrant dusting off your candy thermometer, please think of St. Valentine. Your sweetheart will be charmed by your homemade confections, but, more importantly, you will have done your part to encourage lovers everywhere to renounce the Whitman's Sampler box. If you're inclined to think that salted caramels won't muster that whiff of romanticism, chill your candies in the fridge, dip them in melted dark chocolate, and then sprinkle with sea salt. Sexy, no?

On the subject of salt: I tend to favor Morton's Kosher salt for cooking. It's inexpensive, stocked in every grocery store, and fine tasting. But a candy like this which features salt as a primary ingredient requires good fleur de sel, the "flower of salt" hand-harvested from the top layers of sea salt pans. These salts can be pricey, but I've recently tried without disappointment two inexpensive brands: Baleine Sea Salt (from Whole Foods) and Trader Joe's Salt of the Sea, which is harvested from South Africa. In the end, price may not be a necessary condition of salt's flavor. In a taste test conducted by Dan Crane of slate.com Morton's kosher salt and Maldon sea salt--both of which are easy on the wallet-- outperformed all but one of the other contestants. I'm glad to know my everyday salt stands up to fancier brands, but I would still opt for a coarser sea salt for this recipe. Mr. Crane's salt testers were wowed by the "giant pyramid-shaped flakes" and "extreme texture" of Maldon sea salt. Sounds like a winner to me...I'll try to get some in my kitchen before I sprinkle any more salt on my candies or ice cream.

Fleur De Sel Caramels
Adapted from Gourmet, October 2004. Makes about 40 (1-inch square) candies.

canola or vegetable oil for pan
1 cup heavy cream
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into pieces
2 teaspoons fleur de sel, plus more for sprinkling
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/4 cup light corn syrup
1/4 cup water

1. Line bottom and sides of an 8-inch square baking pan with parchment paper, then brush parchment lightly with canola or vegetable oil.

2. Bring cream, butter, and 2 teaspoons fleur de sel to a boil in a small saucepan, then remove from heat and set aside.

3. Boil sugar, corn syrup, and water in a 3- to 4-quart heavy saucepan, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Boil, without stirring but gently swirling pan, until mixture is a light golden caramel.

4. Carefully stir in cream mixture (mixture will bubble up) and simmer, stirring frequently, until caramel registers 248 degrees F on thermometer, 10 to 15 minutes. Pour into baking pan, sprinkle generously with sea salt, and cool 2 hours. Cut into 1-inch pieces, then wrap each piece in a 4-inch square of wax paper, twisting the ends to close.

New Year's Nibbles

2007-12-30T12:00:00.001-05:00

Excuse me, but have you seen the month of December? I seem to have misplaced mine.

I started to write this post about festive snacks on December 1st. I wanted to tell a little story about discovering two crazy-easy recipes, talk you into trying them yourselves, and rest in the warm glow of my computer screen, knowing that I had done my part to populate a potluck, office party, or gift swap with yummy nibbles. Then, December somehow went missing and has just surfaced, 29 days late. So, I'm re-purposing these recipes for New Year's Eve, and, in all honesty, I think they're better suited for party dresses and champagne flutes than Christmas sweaters and eggnog.

If I were going to be anywhere near my kitchen on New Year's Eve, I'd be turning out these spiced nuts and gougeres, filling champagne flutes to the brim, and showing off my new pair of heels.

There are so many good things about these recipes, I almost don't know where to start. But in the spirit of party hosting, there are two qualities that will bring me back to these recipes in years to come.

First of all, they are perfect make-ahead party food. The nuts will keep for several days in a sealed container, and the dough for the gougeres can be mixed, spooned onto baking sheets, and stored in the refrigerator until it's time to pop them in the oven.

Second, these recipes are fool-proof. Some of the other spiced nuts recipes I've tried have resulted in sticky or soft nuts, but the whipped egg whites in this version coat every single nut with a spicy-sweet crust. You could do all sorts of variations on the spices, but I fell for the combination of smoky Hungarian paprika, cumin, allspice, and enough cayenne pepper to entice a long sip of champagne. As for the gougeres, don't be fooled by the fancy-schmancy French. I think of gougeres as mini biscuit and souffle hybrids, but they're easier to make than either. You whip up a pate choux (which is French for a quickly cooked butter and flour combination), add eggs, cheese and the herbs and spices of your choice. This batter isn't fragile or finicky...it's a sturdy, forgiving thing that, when baked, transforms into refined, fluffy hors d'oeuvres.

This may be the eleventh hour for posting recipes for New Year's Eve, so these recipes may be more idealistic than practical. But isn't New Year's the season for idealists? So, whatever you're nibbling as midnight rolls around, I hope you'll raise a toast to good food and drink in mind and mouth in 2008.

Spiced Nuts
This recipe is adapted from one which originally appeared in Martha Stewart's Living.
Makes 2 1/2 cups.

1 large egg white
1/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon Hungarian paprika
1/4 teaspoon allspice
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
2 teaspoons cayenne pepper
2 1/2 cups assorted nuts (I chose pecans, cashews, and almonds.)

1. Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Beat egg white with mixer until soft and foamy (and no clear liquid remains at the bottom of the bowl). Combine the remaining ingredients (except the nuts), and whisk into the egg whites. Stir in nuts and fold with a rubber spatula until evenly coated. Spread mixture in a single layer onto an ungreased baking sheet.

2. Bake nuts for 15 minutes, then remove from oven. Using a metal spatula, toss, stir, and separate nuts. Reduce oven to 250 degrees, and return nuts to bake until medium brown, about 10 minutes. Remove from oven, toss and stir again. Place baking pan on a wire rack to cool. The nuts will crisp as they cool. Break up any that stick together; store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 2 weeks.

Cumin Gougeres
Adapted from Clotilde Dusoulier's Chocolate & Zucchini: Daily Adventures in a Parisian Kitchen.
Makes between 20 and 40 gougeres, depending on how big you form them.

6 tablespoons unsalted butter, diced
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt
1 cup flour
4 large eggs
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
1 1/2 cups grated Gruyere (about 5 ounces)

1. Combine butter, salt, and 1 cup water in a medium saucepan and bring to simmer over medium-low heat. Remove from heat, add flour all at once, and stir quickly with a wooden spoon until well blended. Return pan to medium-low heat and keep stirring until the mixture forms a ball and pulls away from the sides of the pan.

2. Let cool for three minutes. Add eggs one by one, stirring well between each addition until incorporated. (I used an electric mixer for this.) Sprinkle with cumin and pepper and fold in the cheese. Cover and refrigerate for 30 minutes, or up to a day.

3. Preheat oven to 400 degrees, and line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper. Using two spoons or an ice cream scooper, shape small balls of batter (1-1 1/2 inches in diameter), and drop onto baking sheets, leaving 1 inch of space between each one. At this point you can cover the baking sheets with plastic wrap and refrigerate for a few hours until you are ready to bake.

4. Cover one baking sheet with plastic wrap and return to refrigerator. Bake other sheet for 20 minutes until puffy and golden. Do not open the oven door during the first 10 minutes of baking or the gougeres will not rise well. Turn off the oven, open the over door a crack, and leave the gougeres in for another 5 minutes. (This will help prevent them from deflating.) Transfer gougeres to a cooling rack for 5 minutes, and then serve warm or at room temperature. Personally, I find these much better warm.

You can freeze the gougeres for up to 1 month and reheat them (no thawing necessary) in a 350 degree oven for 8 minutes.

Ice Cream Rewind

2007-11-18T16:47:00.000-05:00

It snowed briefly on Friday. I'm dusting off my winter hats and scarves. I'm also dusting off the to-do list, and guess what I found? Ice cream. Lots of it. My food photo files are clogged up with scoops dating back to June, and the colors show their age:

Summery pink strawberry:

Neon-purple blueberry:

I thought I'd rescue them from oblivion in one final goodbye to ice cream weather. Adieu!

Just kidding. There is no ice cream weather in this house, occupied as it is by a certain spouse who insists that ice cream is its own food group (I don't complain...at least he's given up this notion about bacon). But fall and winter ice creams do tend to differ from their fair weather cousins. In recent months, my ice cream maker has been turning out flavors like maple walnut...

and pistachio-fig...

I trolled these fall flavors from the pages of David Lebovitz's ice cream book. Mr. Lebovitz suggested dried apricots and pistachios, but I thought I'd substitute figs. The results weren't bad, but not good enough to revisit. Lesson: Mr. Lebovitz's recipes are better than my improvisations. That's why his book is called The *Perfect* Scoop. It's also why this is my favorite dessert-focused cook book, and why, unless you own stock in supermarket ice cream, you should probably have it on your own shelf.

There have been a few ice cream blunders, none of which can be blamed on anyone other than me. I had this idea of pairing a salted caramel ice cream with a white peppercorn ice cream. This was one of those food ideas that seem so fetching, so edgy -- why hasn't anyone else thought of this? salt and pepper? come on, they go together! Well, there's a reason why you've never been served salt and pepper ice cream. Turns out, they don't taste so good. The peppercorn ice cream was the spoiler. I wouldn't call it offensive, but I think the person to whom I served it did. I went overboard with the peppercorns, soaked too many of them too long in the cream. The result was a plain-looking white ice cream that started to burn the moment it hit the back of your tongue, and then kept burning, only to fade into an acrid aftertaste. Paired with the salted caramel ice cream (which is not my recipe and is very good), it tasted even weirder. I am still entertaining the idea that a dainty scoop of the stuff served with a bitter chocolate cake might redeem the whole project. But I had Patrick try a spoonful of the stuff and then nibble a piece of dark chocolate. Didn't do it for him. I have a quart of it growing freezer burn, and ice cream never grows freezer burn in this house...except for that Dirty Mint ice cream I made a while back.

For those of you who have pushed it out of your memory, Dirty Mint ice cream happened in May of this year. This is how it went:

"At this very moment, a mint patch is creeping across my back yard. This being the first spring we've lived in this house, I didn't even know we had a mint patch. Then, one day, it was there, and it was big. Dreaming of a sustainable ice cream, I waded into my sea of mint, steeped my harvest in cream, poured it in my ice cream maker, tossed in a few handfuls of chopped dark chocolate, and waited. The result was yucky. To put it more precisely, it tasted like dirty grass (with chocolate chips). My guess is that my variety of mint is not the best for imparting flavor to food and drink (the mint juleps turned out yucky, too). No, mine is an ornamental sort of mint, which is spreading like wildfire in my backyard while my basil and rosemary are barely hanging on."

Well, I have since discovered that my mint patch is catnip. Yep, not only did this backyard hallucinogen do nothing for my pheromonic receptors, it ruined several cocktails. This I can tell you from experience: unless you're a cat on a bender, catnip juleps just aren't worth the trouble.

I'm looking forward to trying out some December ice creams. Eggnog seems a likely candidate. Pomegranate, perhaps. For now, here are two ice cream recipes, one for fall and one for summer. The seasons always manage to come round again.

Maple Walnut Ice Cream with Wet Walnuts
Makes about 1 quart. Adapted from David Lebovitz's The Perfect Scoop.

This ice cream is nutty and sweet, with a clean maple syrup flavor. It's just the thing with a mug of black tea, a down comforter, and a textbook on psychoanalysis, which is precisely how it was enjoyed this very afternoon.

1 1/2 cups whole milk
2 tablespoons sugar
1 1/2 cups heavy cream
5 large egg yolks
3/4 cup dark maple syrup
1/4 teaspoon coarse salt
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
Wet Walnuts (recipe follows)

Warm milk and sugar in medium saucepan. Pour cream into a large bowl and set a mesh strainer on top. Turn heat down to medium-low.

In a separate medium bowl, whisk together the egg yolks. Slowly pour the warm mixture into the egg yolks, whisking constantly, then scrape the warmed egg yolks back into the saucepan.

Stir the mixture constantly over medium-low heat with a heatproof spatula, scraping the bottom as you stir, until the mixture thickens and coats the spatula. Pour the custard through the strainer and stir it into the cream to cool. Add the maple syrup, salt, and vanilla, and stir over ice bath until cool.

Freeze according to your ice cream maker's instructions. During the last few minutes of churning, add the Wet Walnuts.

Wet Walnuts
Makes 1 1/2 cups.

1/2 cup, plus 1 tablespoon dark maple syrup
1 1/2 cup walnuts, toasted and very coarsely chopped
1/4 teaspoon coarse salt

Heat the maple syrup in a small skillet or saucepan until it just begins to come to a full boil. Stir in the walnuts, and cook until the liquid comes to a full boil once more. Stir the nuts for 10 seconds, then remove them from the heat and let cool completely. The nuts will still be wet and sticky when cooled.

Fresh Blueberry Ice Cream
Makes 1 quart. Adapted from Gourmet, August 1997

I made several batches of this technicolored ice cream this summer. Fresh blueberries, when they're not overwhelmed with sugar, make a very mellow ice cream, which would be nice served with pound cake or shortbread cookies. It's also nice double-scooped into a bright green bowl. You can strain out the blueberry skins, if you like. I left them in for the slight texture and speckled color that came with them. The skins are good for you too.

2 cups blueberries
3/4 cup sugar
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 cup milk
1 1/2 cups heavy cream

In a saucepan, bring blueberries, sugar, and salt to boil over moderate heat, mashing berries and stirring with a fork. Simmer mixture, stirring frequently, 5 minutes; cool slightly. In a blender, puree mixture with milk just until smooth and stir in cream. Chill and freeze in ice cream maker.

Falling Back

2007-11-06T21:39:00.001-05:00

Spring Forward. Fall Back. I'm never quite sure whether I'm returning to Standard Time or entering Day Light Saving Time, but this mnemonic device tells me in which direction to turn my watch. I breathed a little sigh of relief this weekend, as I turned back those dials, repeating "fall back, fall back, fall back" to myself all the while. After running headlong through October, November is looking like a good month for falling back. And I'm hoping to land in the kitchen.

Let me tell you a little story about mnemonic devices, Greek etymology, Latin poetry, and swiss chard ravioli. Mnemonic devices are, according to Greek etymology, matters "of memory" (mnemonikos), but according to a certain Greek mythographer they also devices of forgetfulness.

Bear with me. The story winds a bit.

Hesiod has us believe that he met the Muses, those nine daughters of the goddess Mnemosyne (Memory) who inspire poetry, on the slopes of Mt. Helikon. There, they sang to him of the births of the gods, a song to preserve ancient tales in the minds of future generations, but also, they told him, a song to make the grief-stricken forgetful. This song Hesiod dutifully recorded in his Theogony.

During the past months, I've been inspiring both memory and forgetfulness in undergraduate students of classical mythology, though none, I expect, would deem me a Muse. Hesiod's gods now faint early-semester ghosts, the fall of Troy is the song I'm presently singing. This week it was unlucky Dido and her funeral pyre. Heavy stuff. And this after marching though the rape of Persephone, the mangling of Hippolytus, the infanticide of Medea, the blinding of Oedipus, and the rage of Achilles.

The stuff of classical mythology has been cutting into my kitchen time, and that's a tragedy in itself as there's no better antidote to suffering, death, and undergraduates than chopping, mixing, and kneading. Fall back...it's a mnemonic device good for forgetting.

Haunted by Dido's hissing wound and glaring shade, I wandered into the kitchen, hauled out my pasta rollers, and started chopping through a few pounds of greens. Within an hour, I was tucking into a plateful of over-sized swiss chard ravioli tossed in browned butter sauce. They weren't much to look at, but homemade pasta doesn't have to be photogenic. Many comfy things aren't.

The beauty of this recipe is in the play between the soft, familiar pasta exterior and the dark, savory-sweet filling. The combination of swiss chard, pine nuts, raisins, and kalamata olives is an old Catalan formula, and I have to say, there's something about this recipe that tasted old, as in ancient...like something that could have been lost in the annals of culinary history. But it wasn't, bless the gods. Of this, I am sure: I won't forget it.

Swiss Chard Ravioli in Rosemary Butter Sauce
Adapted from a recipe that appeared in the February 1997 issue of Gourmet.
Makes 4 servings.

For filling:
2 pounds Swiss chard, stems and ribs discarded and leaves washed and drained
4 tablespoons finely chopped onion
2 garlic clove, chopped fine
3 tablespoons pine nuts, chopped coarse
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
6 Kalamata olives, pitted and chopped fine
4 tablespoons golden raisins, chopped fine
1 teaspoon lemon zest
1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg
salt and pepper to taste

For pasta dough:
2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour plus additional for kneading
3 large eggs
1 teaspoon water
1 teaspoon olive oil
1 teaspoon salt

For Browned Butter Sauce:
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
4 tablespoons pine nuts
1/4 cup white wine
1 tablespoon finely minced fresh rosemary
a few pinches of coarse salt

Make filling:
Finely chop Swiss chard (you should have about 6 packed cups). In a large non-stick skillet sauté onions, garlic, and pine nuts in oil over moderately high heat until onion is softened and pine nuts are a few shades darker. Stir in olives, raisins, and half of Swiss chard and cook, stirring, until chard is slightly wilted. Stir in remaining chard and season with salt and pepper. Cook filling, covered, over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, until chard is tender, about 5 minutes. Add lemon zest, Parmesan cheese, and nutmeg. Cool. Chill filling, up to 1 day.

Make ravioli:
In a food processor blend all ingredients except for additional flour until mixture just begins to form a ball. On a lightly floured surface (or in a mixer fitted with a dough hook) knead dough, incorporating additional flour as necessary, until smooth and elastic, about 8 minutes. Dough is best used immediately but may be made 1 day ahead and chilled, wrapped in plastic wrap.

Set smooth rollers of pasta machine on widest setting. Cut dough into 4 pieces and wrap 3 of them separately in plastic wrap. Flatten unwrapped piece of dough into rectangle and feed through rollers. Fold rectangle in half and feed through rollers several more times, folding in half each time. Dust with flour if necessary to prevent sticking.

Turn dial down to next (smaller) setting and feed dough through rollers without folding. Continue to feed dough through, without folding, making space between rollers narrower each time, until narrowest setting is reached and pasta is about 4 inches wide.

Put pasta sheet on work surface with long side facing you and mound filling 2 inches apart lengthwise along half of the pasta sheet (you should have 4-5 mounds). Around each mound of filling brush dough very lightly with water. Fold dough lengthwise in half over mounds of filling, gently pressing around mounds to force out any air, and seal edges well. Trim edges with a fluted pastry wheel or knife, and cut between mounds of filling to separate ravioli.

Line a large tray with a dry kitchen towel and arrange ravioli in one layer. Make more ravioli with remaining 3 pieces of dough and remaining filling in same manner, transferring to kitchen-towel-lined tray and arranging in one layer. Ravioli may be made 8 hours ahead and chilled on towel-lined tray, covered loosely with plastic wrap.

In a large pot, bring salted water to a boil. Cook ravioli until tender, 5 to 6 minutes, and drain in a colander. Add ravioli to browned butter sauce, toss gently to coat, and top with grated Parmesan cheese.

For browned butter sauce:
While water is coming to a boil, heat 4 tablespoons butter over medium heat. Add wine and pine nuts and cook until sauce is golden-brown and pine nuts are toasted. Add rosemary and salt to taste.

Putting together the pieces

2007-10-29T20:39:00.000-05:00

This month, the cooking and eating routines to which I cling when all else turns helter-skelter fell apart and scattered. I'm eating olives for lunch, salted popcorn for dinner, and, owing to a glut of apples in my CSA farmbox, lots...

and lots...

... of apple pie.

I love a good, simple pie, and this is an excellent recipe for just such a thing. My trust in Ms. Stewart's pastries continues to grow, but my taste for good, simple apple pie is now on the wane. The fourth pie in four weeks did it. I suppose I have nothing to blame other than my own lack of improvisation in the apple recipe category. I did make a whole pot of apple chutney, but that was about all I could muster. October has not been a month for cooking. And now, while my ramshackle diet could certainly use a daily apple to keep the doctor away, I'm foisting bags of them on my neighbors.

It seems like more than a stroke of good fortune that in this time of culinary stagnation, I stumbled upon a lively bunch of cooking and blogging adventurers. The Daring Bakers took me in, and I hope they'll keep me. This month's secret challenge recipe, chosen by Mary of Alpineberry, helped me break out of the October apple funk. Let me introduce you to the Bostoni Cream Pie.

Borrowing its name from its larger, more popular cousin, the Boston Cream Pie, these little desserts are testimonies to the good things that come when a tried and true dessert is taken apart, shaken up a bit, and put back together. Rounds of orange-chiffon cake rest on a bed of vanilla custard, and, on top, a slick of dark chocolate. The result is rich (count those eggs!), and sweet, and--as triple layered desserts often are--a tad fancy.

When I received my October baking mission, I was relieved to find that this pie had been denuded of its crust, but despite all those apple pies, I missed it. And, while I appreciated the sophisticated pairing of citrus and chocolate, the chiffon cake was a tad too orange-y for me. Having sworn to stick strictly to the recipe (this being a part of the Daring Bakers' canon), I'll tweak future incarnations accordingly.

The best part about the Bostoni cream pie is that I would never have made one without the enthusiasm of a gaggle of other bakers whisking, stirring, and assembling along with me. I'm a day late posting my results (Mea culpa Daring Bakers!!!), but I'm hoping for a touch of mercy from the veterans.

Bostini Cream Pie
(from Donna Scala & Kurtis Baguley of Bistro Don Giovanni and Scala's Bistro)
Makes 8 generous servings

Ingredients:

Custard

3/4 cup whole milk
2 3/4 tablespoons cornstarch
1 whole egg, beaten
9 egg yolks, beaten
3 3/4 cups heavy whipping cream
1/2 vanilla bean
1/2 cup + 1 tablespoon sugar

Chiffon Cake

1 1/2 cups cake flour
3/4 cup superfine sugar
1 1/3 teaspoons baking powder
1/3 teaspoon salt
1/3 cup canola oil
1/3 cup beaten egg yolks (3 to 4 yolks)
3/4 cup fresh orange juice
1 1/2 tablespoons grated orange zest
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 cup egg whites (about 8 large)
1 teaspoon cream of tartar

Chocolate Glaze

8 ounces semi or bittersweet chocolate
8 ounces unsalted butter

Instructions

To prepare the custard:

Combine the milk and cornstarch in a bowl; blend until smooth. Whisk in the whole egg and yolks, beating until smooth. Combine the cream, vanilla bean and sugar in a saucepan and carefully bring to a boil. When the mixture just boils, whisk a ladleful into the egg mixture to temper it, then whisk this back into the cream mixture. Cook, stirring constantly, until the mixture is thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. Strain the custard and pour into 8 large custard cups. Refrigerate to chill.

To prepare the chiffon cakes:

Preheat the oven to 325°F. Spray 8 molds with nonstick cooking spray. You may use 7-ounce custard cups, ovenproof wide mugs or even large foil cups. Whatever you use should be the same size as the custard cups.

Sift the cake flour, sugar, baking powder and salt into a large bowl. Add the oil, egg yolks, orange juice, zest and vanilla. Stir until smooth, but do not overbeat.

Beat the egg whites until frothy. Add the cream of tartar and beat until soft peaks form. Gently fold the beaten whites into the orange batter. Fill the sprayed molds nearly to the top with the batter.

Bake approximately 25 minutes, until the cakes bounce back when lightly pressed with your fingertip. Do not overbake. Remove from the oven and let cool on a wire rack. When completely cool, remove the cakes from the molds. Cover the cakes to keep them moist.

To prepare the glaze:

Chop the chocolate into small pieces. Place the butter in a saucepan and heat until it is just about to bubble. Remove from the heat; add the chocolate and stir to melt. Pour through a strainer and keep warm.

To assemble:

Cut a thin slice from the top of each cake to create a flat surface. Place a cake flat-side down on top of each custard. Cover the tops with warm chocolate glaze. Serve immediately.

Finger Food

2007-09-18T17:30:00.000-05:00

A party for forty with nary a fork or spoon in sight. That was the plan: a finger food smorgasbord. And, no, I don't mean finger food of this sort, but platters of pretty edibles, to be plucked up by hand and relished in a bite or two. Practicality, environmentalism and aesthetics came together in this regard. I don't own forty sets of silver ware; plastic utensils manage to look both tacky to the aesthete and extravagant to the greenie; and I've always thought the best parties those whose guests are unencumbered by plates and utensils, hands free to hold glasses of wine, cigarettes, or shake other hands.

In hopes of boosting the RSVPs, I sent out the following list of finger foods with the invitations:

~Menu~

Sips
Tomato Water with Basil Oil
Chilled Cumin Carrot Soup

Nibbles
Homemade Parmesan-Rosemary Crackers
Homemade Blue Cheese-Pecan Crackers
Assorted Cheeses
Mixed Olives with Caper Berries

Bites
Tartlets with Ricotta and Oven Roasted Tomato
Phyllo Cups of Mango-Curry Shrimp
Honey Glazed Goat Cheese Tartlets with Pecans and Rosemary
Hoisin and Honey Pork Riblets
Spinach Tortellini Skewers with Sun Dried Tomato and Mozzarella
Dill-Cured Pork Crostini, topped with Mustard and Chutney
Broiled Fig and Gorgonzola Crostini with Balsamic Drizzle

Sweets
Chocolate Covered Nuts and Fruits

The guest list was comprised almost exclusively of scholarly types, each with more than a passing interest in philosophy. This was a party in honor of C.D.C. Reeve, a scholar of Plato and love, but not necessarily in that order. I wasn't sure such shameless food bait would attract these consumers of p's and q's. I knew, though, having fed and feted a number of philosophers, arguments and objections sound better among nibbles and sips of good foodstuffs.

Throwing a party is a lot easier than documenting a party. It's awkward enough to wave a camera in the faces of your guests, but it's just weird to point a camera at the food in their hands. The technical challenges of photography by candlelight pose inconveniences of their own. There might not have been finger food photos to post had Patrick not set up an impromptu picture studio in one corner of the dining room. Disregarding the quizzical looks of philosophers and plenty of blushing and eye-rolling from me, he prudently set about securing fodder for the hostess' blog.

The photo shoot complete, the partying commenced. The verdict: Not a single guest asked for a fork. And, it's more than possible to chew over Plato and Freud between morsels of cheese and olives.

The party menu was not just a study in small bites, but in advanced preparation. Just about everything I served was at least partially prepared days, and sometimes weeks, before the party date. In the following recipes, I've tried to note what can be done in advance.

Hoisin and Honey Pork Riblets
Makes about 50 hor d'oeuvres. From Gourmet, June 1992.

These ribs were so popular among the philosophy crowd that I must testify to their goodness based only on hearsay. They were gone before I had a chance to chew into one. As these ribs are boiled, and then marinated overnight, they require little more than five minutes under the broiler to emerge crispy around the edges. Not only are they great party food, they go upscale once they're resting on a platter of nasturtium leaves and flowers.

3 1/2 pounds pork of spareribs, halved crosswise, preferably by a butcher, and cut into individual ribs
1/3 cup honey
1/4 cup soy sauce
2 large garlic cloves, minced and mashed to a paste with 1/4 teaspoon salt
1/3 cup hoisin sauce
1/2 teaspoon English-style dry mustard
1/4 cup distilled white vinegar

1. In a kettle of boiling salted water simmer the ribs, covered, for 30 minutes and drain them well. In a large bowl whisk together the honey, the soy sauce, the garlic paste, the hoisin sauce, the mustard, the vinegar, and black pepper to taste, add the ribs, and toss the mixture well, coating the ribs thoroughly. Let the ribs marinate, chilled, for at least 2 hours or overnight.

2. Remove the ribs from the marinade, arrange them in one layer on the oiled rack of a foil-lined broiler pan, and broil them under a preheated broiler about 4 inches from the heat, basting them with the marinade, for 3 minutes. Turn the ribs with tongs and broil them, basting them with the marinade, for 2 to 3 minutes more, or until they are browned well and glazed. Discard the marinade.

Dill-Cured Pork Crostini, topped with Mustard and Chutney

Makes about 50. Adapted from Bon Appetit, June 2003.

These crostini are like mini open-faced pork sandwiches. The curing method is like the one used to make gravlax, substituting pork tenderloin for the salmon. And then, of course, you cook the pork. A deep pink color and perfumed with dill, the tenderloin tastes more like pate than pork. I love this recipe, not only for its taste, but for its ease. The pork can be cured, roasted, and cooled in the refrigerator in advance. Crostini won't suffer for being stored a few days in an airtight container. When it's party time, you need only a dab of mustard and a dill frond, and that's if you like your pork fancy. I should say that the pork becomes quite salty from the curing process...not at all a bad thing, but it is best served in thin slices. Should you want to double the recipe (100 crostini!), don't double the salt.

1/4 cup coarse kosher salt
3 tablespoons plus 1/2 cup sugar
1 teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper
2 18-ounce pork tenderloins
2 large garlic cloves, minced
3/4 cup chopped plus several branches fresh dill
mango chutney
country style mustard
1-2 sourdough baguettes, cut into 1/4-inch-thick rounds (at least 50)
olive oil
salt and pepper

1. Mix salt, 3 tablespoons sugar, and pepper in small bowl to blend. Place each pork tenderloin atop sheet of plastic wrap. Rub garlic all over pork tenderloins. Pat all of salt mixture over pork, coating generously. Sprinkle with 3/4 cup dill, patting to adhere. Wrap pork with 2 layers of plastic. Place in baking dish. Chill 6 hours or overnight.

2. Preheat oven to 400°F. Scrape off most of dill coating from tenderloins. Pat pork dry with paper towels. Place pork on heavy large baking sheet covered with aluminum foil. Roast until meat thermometer registers 150°F when inserted into center of pork, turning after 10 minutes, 20-25 minutes total. Cool pork completely. Cover and chill until cold, at least 6 hours.

3. 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 a garlic clove, and allow to cool.

4. Assemble: Slice pork tenderloins into 1/4-inch slices. Top each crostini with 1-2 pork slices. Dollop a bit of mango chutney or mustard on top, and garnish with a small piece of dill.

Mixed Olives with Caper Berries
Makes 2 1/2 cups, from Ms. Stewart's Hors D'Oeuvres Handbook.

I let these olives sit for two days in the fridge before serving, which allowed the roasted garlic to permeate the olive flesh. Use large, stem-on caper berries, if you can find them. They're sort of exotic looking, and much easier to pick up than the smaller type.

2 cups assorted olives such as nicoise, kalamata, picholine, and cerignola
1/2 cup large caper berries
1 teaspoon dried red pepper flakes
1 head roasted garlic, cloves peeled and left intact
1 sprig fresh thyme, picked
1 sprig fresh rosemary, picked

In a large bowl, combine olives, caper berries, red pepper flakes, and garlic, thyme, and rosemary. Cover and refrigerate for a few hours or up to a day. Transfer to a serving bowl, and allow to come to room temperature.

Rosemary-Parmesan Ice Box Crackers

I've made these crackers from Ms. Stewart's Hors D'Oeuvres Handbook once before. I sliced them thinner this time, and liked them better. The dough for these can be made and frozen in advance, which makes them convenient, at least within the realm of homemade cracker making. They're about a zillion times better than any cracker you can buy in the grocery aisle, and make such nice nibbles with a glass of red wine that you'll rethink the ubiquitous cheese and cracker pairing. With these, the cheese is in the cracker.

Savory Tartlet Rounds
From Ms. Stewart's Hors D'Oeuvres Handbook, makes about 2 dozen 2 1/2-inch round tartlets.

For the savory tartlets, I cut out rounds of rolled out pastry dough with a biscuit cutter, parbaked them, and froze them. Before the guests arrived, I crowned them with a few of my favorite crostini toppings, and then warmed them in the oven for a few minutes before setting them out. The dough is easy to work with and can also be frozen for weeks in advance.

[For rosemary tartlet dough, add 2 tablespoons finely chopped rosemary to the flour and salt.]

2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
12 tablespoons (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, chilled and cut into small pieces
1/3 cup ice water

1. Place flour and salt in bowl of a food processor, and pulse to combine. Add the cold butter and pulse until the mixture resembles coarse meal. Slowly add ice water, pulsing to combine, until dough comes together. Transfer dough to a sheet of plastic wrap and form into a flat disk. Chill in the refrigerator for 1 hour or overnight. [Dough can be wrapped in a double layer of plastic wrap and frozen for up to three weeks. Allow to thaw in fridge overnight before rolling out.]

2. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper or non-stick liners. Transfer dough to a lightly floured surface, and cut it into two equal pieces. Wrap one piece in plastic wrap and return it to the refrigerator. Roll out the other half to 1/8-inch thickness. Using a 2 1/2-inch diameter biscuit butter, cut out as many rounds as you can. Roll out the remaining dough and repeat. Arrange the cut rounds of dough on prepared baking sheets. Prick each round several times with the tines of a fork. Cover the sheet pans with plastic wrap and chill until firm, about 15 minutes.

3. Bake tartlets until set and dry (but not yet brown), 12-14 minutes, rotating pans halfway through for even cooking. Transfer tarlets to a wire rack to cool. [Baked tartlet crusts can be stored, arranged in single layers separated by wax paper in a rigid container for up to 1 week or in the freezer for up to 1 month.]

For Honey Glazed Goat Cheese Tartlets with Pecans and Rosemary, arrange baked rosemary tartlet crusts on a baking sheet. Top each tartlet with a slice of goat cheese. Heat tarlets in an oven warmed to 350 degrees F. until cheese is soft. Drizzle with honey, sprinkle with toasted pecans and finely chopped rosemary.

For Tartlets with Ricotta and Oven Roasted Tomato, arrange baked tartlet crusts on a baking sheet. Heat over to 350 degrees F. In a small bowl, mix a container of good ricotta cheese with a tablespoon of finely grated orange zest, a tablespoon of olive oil, and salt and pepper to taste. Top each tartlet with ricotta mixture, and a few oven-roasted tomatoes. Garnish with a mint leaf.

Phyllo Cups of Mango-Curry Shrimp
Makes 45 bite-size cups. Adapted from Bon Appetit, November 2001.

With frozen phyllo cups, you can make finger food out of almost anything. This recipe is crazy-easy. It doesn't even require any cooking beyond toasting the phyllo cups in the oven before filling, and this can be done hours in advance. In every bite, you get a zing from the chutney and green curry, but the dressing doesn't overwhelm the shrimp. Next time I make these, I'm going to try adding some diced mango or red bell pepper.

45 frozen phyllo dough cups
16 ounces peeled cooked medium shrimp, coarsely chopped
2 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro
2 tablespoons chopped chives
5 teaspoons fresh lime juice
1 tablespoon mango chutney
2 tablespoons Thai green curry paste
1 teaspoon hot sauce
kosher salt and pepper
1-inch pieces of chopped chives for garnish

Preheat oven to 325°F. Place phyllo cups on baking sheet(s) and bake until crispy, 5-7 minutes. Allow to cool.

Whisk lime juice, cilantro, chives, chutney, and curry paste in medium bowl to blend. Stir in shrimp. Season salad to taste with salt and pepper. (Salad can be prepared up to 1 day ahead. Cover and refrigerate.)

Spoon 1 teaspoon shrimp salad into each cup. Garnish with chives.

Beets of Burden

2007-09-07T14:12:00.000-05:00

When I see beets on a menu, I order them. Beet ravioli -- Yes, please. Beet risotto -- I think I will. I don't know if I've ever turned down a beet salad, and certainly not when goat cheese or gorgonzola is in the mix. I like the taste of beets just fine...I like the look of them even more. But the real reason I order beets at restaurants is because I like when someone else cooks them for me. I sort of hate roasting beets.

This is the only way I can explain my weekly reaction to finding yet another bunch of beets in the bottom of my CSA Farm Box. At first, I think, "Beets!" I start mentally rummaging through the variations on beet salad I could make: "Arugula and sunflower seeds ... mache with black olives and ricotta salata ... green beans and feta ... carrot and cumin vinaigrette... Beets!" Then, a few days pass while my beets sit quietly in the crisper drawer. Every time I open the refrigerator, I know they're there, just waiting. I start to resent them. My bag of beets starts to feel like a burden. I knew these vegetables were weighing on me when I began to think of them as bodies in need of being disposed. It's hard work, messy, likely to stain your cutting surfaces, and might even require a little bleach to remove all its traces. But its necessary work, and what a sense of relief once its done.

In search of recipes to make a dent in my growing beet collection before the arrival of another bunch in next week's Farm Box, I focused on techniques other than roasting. What I found still involved heating my kitchen a bit, but a good raw beet recipe is hard to find. I came up with two successes, both trolled from epicurious.com.

I've often had intentions of making chips out of non-potato vegetables, but it took a beet burden to make it happen. I was happy to find a recipe that didn't involve deep frying, which is not at all a late summer cooking technique. These beet chips are soaked in sugar water, which helps them crisp in the oven. The result is a sweet, crunchy chip, deep red in color, and very light. There's not a speck of oil in these munchies. They're quite sweet ... sort of like candy-coated potato chips. I sprinkled mine with plenty of salt and pepper. Next time, I might add a dusting of cumin.

Beet latkes don't require any oven heating at all, but they might splatter your dress with hot oil. I may have cussed a bit, but I couldn't stay cranky once I bit into a hot latke: crispy on the outside and fluffy in the middle, with a whiff of the exotic. The sweet flesh of the beets becomes rich, almost meaty tasting, when muscled up with a bit of flour and eggs, and fried in a cast iron skillet.

So, I'm beet-free for the moment, and without giving into the foil-wrapping, roasting, and peeling routine. Beets are messy things, though, and both of these recipes are likely to leave you spattered with red juice. Wear an apron when you grate the beets for the latkes. My kitchen looked like a scene from Sweeney Todd by the time I'd finished shredding.

Baked Beet Chips
Makes a snack for four people. From Gourmet, June 2004.

4 large beets
1 1/2 cups water
1 cup sugar
coarse salt and pepper

1. Peel beets with a vegetable peeler, then slice paper-thin with a mandoline. [Some of the epicurious user comments about this recipe complain that the chips don't become crisp enough. I think that problem comes from slicing the beets too thickly. I wouldn't make these unless I had a mandoline ... I just wouldn't be able to slice the beets thin enough.]

2. Bring water and sugar to a boil in a 3-quart heavy saucepan, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Add beets, then remove pan from heat and let stand15 minutes. Drain beets in a colander, discarding liquid, then let stand in colander 15 minutes more.

3. Preheat oven to 225°F.

4. Line two baking sheets a nonstick (Silpat-type) liner. Place a sheet of parchment paper on top of liners. This will keep your chips from sticking to the baking sheets or burning. Arrange beet slices snugly in 1 layer. Sprinkle with coarse salt and pepper. [You'll likely have many partial or broken slices. Once baked, they'll taste just as good as the pretty ones, but you can toss them if you fancy your beet chips nice and round.]

5. Bake beets until dry, about 1 hour. Using a thin spatula, immediately transfer chips to a rack to cool (chips will crisp more as they cool).

Note: Gourmet's recipe claims you can make these up to five days in advance and store them, once cool, in an airtight container. This didn't work for me. It may be the humidity in Pittsburgh, but my chips quickly wilted. In fact, I would recommend eating these at their most crispy -- right after they've cooled.

Beet Latkes
Makes about 12. From Bon Appetit, December 2004.

6 cups coarsely shredded peeled beets (about 6 medium)
3 scallions, white and light green parts, chopped
6 tablespoons all purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground coriander
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper
3 large eggs, beaten to blend
Canola oil (for frying)

1. Place beets in large bowl, and press with paper towels to absorb any moisture. In another large bowl, whisk flour and next 5 ingredients. Mix in beets, scallions, then eggs.

2. Pour enough oil into large skillet to cover bottom; heat over medium heat. Working in batches, drop beet mixture by 1/4 cupfuls into skillet. Spread to 3 1/2-inch rounds. Fry until golden, 4-5 minutes per side. Transfer latkes to baking sheet.

Can be made 6 hours ahead. Let stand at room temperature. Rewarm in 350°F oven until crisp, about 10 minutes.

Celery and Cilantro Relish
Makes about 2 cups.

I made this accompanying celery relish because I had all of the ingredients, and I'm glad I did. To the original recipe, I added some lemon juice and a handful of raisins. It proved a fine way to freshen up a plateful of latkes.

2 cups finely diced celery
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon fresh squeezed lemon juice
3 tablespoons minced fresh cilantro
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1/4 cup raisins

Combine all ingredients in medium bowl. Season relish with salt and pepper. Let stand at least 30 minutes. (Can be made 6 hours ahead. Cover and chill.) Makes about 2 cups.

My Tomatoes, Mea Culpa

2007-08-22T21:59:00.001-05:00

In a recent article for the New York Times, Melissa Clark offered a belly-full of ideas for making the best of the late-summer tomato bounty. I've tried to link the article, but it is now available only to those willing to shell out $4.95. Her recipes might just be worth the asking price, especially for anyone laboring under a pound or two of quickly softening tomatoes. Ms. Clark's recipes are simple, but sparkle with more imagination than I can muster myself these days come 6:30 when I wander into my hot kitchen, rummage through the vegetables spilling out of the refrigerator crisper drawer, and set to making yet another grilled veggie pasta salad. This article might just be worth the asking price, especially for anyone laboring under a pound or two of quickly softening tomatoes.

A tomato bounty is the last thing a tomato lover would complain about. And, my caprese-salad eating lips are not complaining. But, I have found myself thumbing cookbooks and trolling websites in search of tomato recipes to make me feel like I celebrated -- rather than simply managed to consume -- this season's crop. Ms. Clark's recipe for tomato confit, a more summery moniker for oven-roasted tomatoes, roused me from my tomato routine. Her suggestions for how to serve them -- over warm polenta, or ricotta-smeared crostini -- had me raiding my own plants, my CSA farm box, and eventually produce section of Giant Eagle. I think I've roasted 8 pounds of cherry tomatoes over the last two weeks. Is this late-summer sacrilege? Isn't this the season for hymning the simple perfection of a raw tomato?

Well, I'm shaking off my scruples. Heaven may taste like a ruby-ripe tomato plucked from the vine, but it's no sin to cook summer tomatoes. In fact, I'm starting to think heaven tastes like a small pizza, its crust so thin it shatters when bitten, topped with a scattering of charred cherry tomatoes. There are more ways than one to honor the tomato season and keep it holy.

My bounty of oven roasted tomatoes gave me the initiative to shake up the margherita pizza cycle I'd been happily perpetuating all summer. I switched out the mozzarella for ricotta, the basil for mint, and tossed on a few pine nuts.

And for the crust ... There was a time when I made my own pizza dough. Then, during a heatwave, I discovered the convenience of store-bought pizza dough and have rarely looked back. Guided by a recent edition of Lynn Rossetto Kasper's Splendid Table newsletter, I found a stash of thin crusts in my refrigerator packaged under the label,"flour tortillas." Cook your summer tomatoes. Borrow your pizza crusts from burrito parts. This might be gastronomic sacrilege, but I made it, I tasted it, and it was good.

Oven Roasted Tomatoes
Makes more than enough for four pizzas. Any extra tomatoes (I somehow never have any) can be refrigerated for a few days. Adapted from Melissa Clark's article in the New York Times.

For roasted tomatoes:
3 cups ripe cherry or grape tomatoes
5 garlic cloves, smashed and peeled
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
generous pinch crushed red pepper flakes
coarse salt and fresh ground pepper

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Spread tomatoes and garlic out on baking sheet. Drizzle with 1/4 cup oil, add crushed red pepper, a large pinch of salt and several grinds of pepper. Bake until tomatoes are wrinkled, fragrant, and a bit blackened, about 35 minutes, shaking pan once or twice. Transfer tomato pan to a rack to cool. Discard garlic.

Roasted Cherry Tomato Tortilla Pizzas
Makes 4 8-inch pizzas. Recipe inspired by Jacques Pepin via Lynn Rossetto Kasper's weekly newsletter from The Splendid Table.

For pizzas:
4 8-inch flour tortillas
extra virgin olive oil
coarse salt and fresh ground pepper
1 container good quality ricotta cheese
1/4 cup mint leaves, finely torn
fine zest of 1 lemon
1/4 cup toasted pine nuts

Preheat the oven to 500°F. Line two large baking sheets with parchment paper. Drizzle some olive oil on parchment paper, and press tortillas in the oil to coat them well on one side, and then turn them over, so they are oiled on the other side.

In a small bowl, mix ricotta with a few drizzles of olive oil, coarse salt and pepper. Divide ricotta among the 4 tortillas and spread it thinly with a spatula.

Bake for 6-8 minutes, or until puffed and crisp. Divide roasted tomatoes among tortillas and continue to bake for a few minutes until tomatoes are heated through. Let the pizzas rest out of the oven for a couple of minutes, and then sprinkle with 1/4 cup mint. Scatter some pine nuts and lemon zest over each pizza. Cut into quarters and serve.

Encountering the Monster in the Cake

2007-08-19T10:55:00.000-05:00

Strange creatures are popping up everywhere. Late October might be the season when half-human forms with abnormally shaped body parts enjoy their haunting hour, but monsters tend to flock around me throughout the year. No matter what I happen to be reading, writing, or studying, they come in ungainly flocks and droves. And I don't mean the students, or even the professors, but bona fide monsters.

This semester, I've set aside the medieval monsters that populate my dissertation for their better known ancestors of Classical Mythology: There's the Minotaur devouring Athenian youths, the Sphinx riddling Oedipus, and the Cyclops, blind and hurling stones at Odysseus as he sails away. Briareus, Scylla, Charybdis, the Centaurs and Satyrs, Medusa ... it's a wonder I can sleep at night.

The monster has been defined variously in antiquity and more recently as an affront to ontological categories, an aberration of the natural order, a portent, and a marvel. Decked out with extra limbs, double faces, and hybrid silhouettes, monsters exasperate and intimidate, but they also attract.

In other words, encountering the monstrous is no cake-walk, but the monstrous just might be encountered through a cake. Or, so I began to think when I recently found myself elbow-deep in lemon curd, crafting my own edible boundary violation -- a cake whose parts I cobbled together from multiple recipes, hoping that the sum of its fragments would be more marvel than aberration of nature.

The shortbread crust and egg-white mousse I borrowed from epicurious.com. I chose the lemon curd formula from a long list of curd recipes on Martha Stewart's site. The glaze I pillaged from a blood-orange cheesecake recipe in Ms. Stewart's Desserts. I switched the juice flavor from orange to cranberry and doubled the quantity.

Not only was this cake a monstrous jumble of parts, it was a monster to make. As it emerged from pools of egg yolks, lemon juice, and cream, it left a trail of dirty bowls in its wake. Its birth was indeed exasperating, but -- as befits a monster -- strangely attractive.

This cake's cobbled-together parts were, in the end, a marvel: buttery shortbread feet; fluffy lemon mousse belly; mirror-slick cranberry head; nasturtium hair.

Monsters are, according to the Latin, "things that show" (monstra). They're able to show, I think, because they attract our gaze. When we look at their strange shapes, we sometimes see reflections of ourselves. This, at least, I learned as I peered into the shiny surface of this monster cake.

Lemon Mousse Cake with Cranberry Glaze
Makes 10-12 servings.

For Curd (makes about 3 cups):
12 large egg yolks
1 1/2 cup sugar
1 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (about 6 lemons)
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, chilled and cut into pieces

For Crust:
Nonstick vegetable oil spray
2 cups shortbread cookie crumbs (about 7 1/2 ounces)
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, melted

For Mousse:
5 tablespoons water
4 teaspoons unflavored gelatin
6 large egg whites
1/2 cup sugar
1 1/2 cups chilled heavy whipping cream

For Cranberry Glaze:
12 tablespoons cranberry juice
2 teaspoons unflavored gelatin
4 tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon corn starch

1. Make curd: In a heavy saucepan, combine yolks, lemon zest, lemon juice, and sugar. Whisk to combine. Set over medium heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon or heat-safe rubber spatula. Make sure to stir all the sides and edges of the saucepan to keep curd from sticking. Cook until mixture is thick enough to coat a wooden spoon, about 20 minutes. Remove saucepan from heat and add the butter, a few pieces at a time, stirring into the smooth mixture. Transfer curd to a medium bowl. Lay plastic wrap directly onto surface of curd to prevent a skin from forming. Chill until firm, at least 1 hour.

2. Make crust: Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Spray bottom of an 8-inch-diameter springform pan with nonstick spray. Stir together cookie crumbs and butter is a small bowl. Press onto bottom of pan. Bake until golden, about 12 minutes. Set aside to cool.

3. Make mousse. Pour 5 tablespoons water into a small saucepan. Sprinkle gelatin evenly over, and let stand until it softens, about 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, place 2 cups of lemon curd in a large bowl. Stir remaining 1 cup curd in another small saucepan over medium-low heat until very warm.

Stir gelatin mixture over medium-low heat until dissolved and liquid is clear (do not boil). Whisk warm gelatin mixture into 1 cup warm curd. Gradually whisk gelatin-curd mixture into the 2 cups curd in large bowl.

Using an electric mixer, beat egg whites in a medium bowl until soft peaks form. Gradually add sugar, beating until whites are think and glossy, about 5 minutes. Fold whites into curd mixture in 3 additions. Rinse medium bowl and beaters. Beat cream in rinsed bowl until peaks form. Fold into egg white-curd mixture in 3 additions. Pour mousse over cooled crust to fill pan almost completely. Cover and chill mousse-cake overnight.

4. Make cranberry glaze: Place 4 tablespoons cranberry juice in bowl. Sprinkle gelatin over top. Let stand until soft, about 10 minutes.

Combine the sugar and 6 tablespoons cranberry juice in a small saucepan, and bring to a boil. Combine the remaining 2 tablespoons cranberry juice and cornstarch in small bowl. Stir until dissolved, and then whisk into boiling cranberry juice. Remove from heat. Stir in softened gelatin-mixture. Cool glaze until lukewarm. Then, pour glaze over top of chilled mousse cake, tipping cake pan to cover completely. Chill until glaze has set, about 1 hour. Note: if the top of mousse-cake is not level, prop up the "low" side with a folded piece of paper as the glaze sets in the fridge.

Solitary Salad

2007-08-08T19:11:00.000-05:00

Whew! The last month has been a doozy ... Food and Paper hosted and recently posted the results of the monthly food photography contest, Does My Blog Look Good in This?. If you haven't taken a taste of the entries, pop over to the gallery. And, for dessert, linger over the outstanding winners.

There have been visitors and vacations, backyard and beach dining. On one July night, I found myself, together with 30 of my closest family members, tearing at the flesh of a suckling pig. Happy birthday, Granny.

In other news, we've welcomed into our household a rambunctious little Wheaten Terrier pup, who (sometimes) comes to calls of "Sadie." She may not be fodder for a food blog, but she has certainly made her home in the kitchen where she chews her stuffed woodchuck, digs in her water dish, and pees on the floor. When she does the latter, I threaten to cook her up in the crock pot, but it's all bluster... she'd be a monster to skin. These dogs are furry.

It's also been hotter than a habanero in Pittsburgh...too hot to hover over a stove, too hot to set the table, too hot to carry on a civilized conversation.

Whew!, I say.

When that's about all I can say, the time is right for solitary salad.

Solitary salad is my dinner choice when I have only my own belly to nourish and my own taste buds to please. It's a simple thing, ready in a jiffy, and capable of endless variation. What follows, then, is less a recipe than a record of what I ate on a steamy evening in early August, a book on Greek Archeology my only table guest.

It all starts with fresh greens, romaine when I have it, as I did in this case, scored from my CSA farm box. Avocado is an absolute. If the opportunity for a solitary salad presents itself, I'll make a run to the grocery, filling my shopping basket with nothing more than a single avocado. To this crunchy and creamy combo, I add something sweet (strawberries) or crisp (radishes). This particular incarnation features cherry tomatoes, the first few specimens from my garden, and the first tomatoes I've ever grown. Thanks, Mom, for wiggling your green thumb in my direction! Sliced gorgonzola, a cheese deemed by my daily dinner companion too stinky to be food, lends an whiff of indulgence to the salad bowl.

Stinky cheese often graces my table when it's set for one.

So do smoked sardines, layered on a bed of sticky rice and nori.

And, so does butter, lots of it, melted into a pile of egg noodles sprinkled with nutmeg.

M.F.K. Fisher opens An Alphabet for Gourmets with "A is for dining Alone," wherein she describes her own solitary suppers:

"I always ate slowly, from a big tray set with a mixture of Woolworth and Spode; and I soothed my spirits beforehand with a glass of sherry or vermouth, subscribing to the ancient truth that only a relaxed throat can make a swallow. More often than not I drank a glass or two of light wine with the hot food: a big bowl of soup, with a fine pear and some Teleme jack cheese; or two very round eggs, from a misnamed "poacher," on sourdough toast with browned butter poured over and a celery heart alongside for something crisp; or a can of bean sprouts, tossed with sweet butter and some soy and lemon juice, and a big glass of milk. Things tasted good..."

Ms. Fisher, as usual, tells the story of sensual pleasures in a matter-of-fact voice. Dining alone does taste good, at least when seen as gastronomic opportunity rather than social disappointment.

What, dear readers, do you make for yourself when dining alone? Do you have a particular hankering you indulge when you don't have other palates to please?

Solitary Salad
Makes a huge salad for one hungry person without dinner companions; otherwise, serves 2.

For dressing:
2 tablespoons shallot, finely diced
juice of 1/2 lemon
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
coarse salt and fresh ground pepper

For salad:
1 large head romaine lettuce, shredded
10 cherry tomatoes, cut in half
1 avocado, diced into large chunks
a good hunk of gorgonzola cheese, sliced into manageable hunks

1. Make dressing: Combine shallot and lemon juice in the bottom of a large, non-reactive bowl. Allow shallot to sit in lemon juice for a few minutes to mellow out. You can prepare the salad ingredients while this happens. Then, pouring in a steady stream, add olive oil to lemon and shallot mixture, whisking continuously until well blended. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

2. Assemble salad: Combine lettuce, tomatoes, avocado, and gorgonzola in the bowl holding the dressing. Toss thoroughly. Eat directly from bowl; or, if sharing, divide between two more reasonably sized bowls, and serve.

DMBLGiT results...

2007-08-07T08:55:00.000-05:00

A big thank you to all who sent in entries for July's round of Does My Blog Look Good in This. With squinty eyes and growling stomachs, your judges have scored all 88 photos, and I am pleased to announce the following winners:

Overall 1st Place:

La Tartine Gourmande

Saint Maure, Eggplant, Thyme, and Honey Tartlets
Canon 30D

Overall 2nd Place:

Rasa Malaysia
Bacon Wrapped Cherry Tomatoes
Canon EOS Digital Rebel XT

Overall 3rd Place:

Burnt Mouth
Dal with Crispy Fried Herbs
Olympus FE-170, 6.0

Winner in Aesthetics:

Bonappegeek
Be One with Peas

Winner in Edibility:

Cafe Fernando
Cherry Tomato and Feta Cheese Tart with Fresh Thyme
Kodak P880

Winners in Originality:

In this category, there was an unlikely four-way tie. In no particular order:

Ms. Adventures in Italy
Watermelon Sorbetto Granita

Cherrapeno
Raspberry Truffles
Canon PowerShot A640

Cook Almost Anything
Hazelnut Heart Doughnuts with Chocolate Sauce
Nikon D50

Tasty Palettes
Vegetarian Dumplings with Dipping Sauce
Canon Proshot Pro1 with color splash

Congratulations to the winners! You have earned the Good Looking Blog badge for your sites. You may choose from the following colors...thanks to Bea of La Tartine Gourmande and Suganya from Tasty Palettes for helping me figure out how to offer these badges.

Best of luck to next month's entries!

Dressing Up Tomato Tarts

2007-07-16T21:25:00.001-05:00

Recipes are sort of like outfits. The good ones bring together elements that enhance each other through a play of similarity and contrast so that the sum is greater than its parts. The bad ones fail because their elements either bore or clash...nothing to remember or something to forget. I find it's usually an accessory or two that pull an outfit together. A white sun dress is nice, but with a strand of thrift store wooden beads and a pair of skull-printed pointy flats, viola! That's gourmet dressing.

Good recipes tend to be well accessorized, too. A drizzle of fruity olive oil, a generous pinch of sea salt, a scattering of basil leaves...these are tried and true ways to freshen up many a dish, especially one made of a pastry crust filled with a cheese custard and topped with fresh tomatoes. I've done it before and I'd do it again. But I'm not sure I'd do it again any time soon without adding a certain accessory I picked up from Mr. Tyler Florence. Orange zest. And not just a little. A whole orange's worth. I never knew it before, but orange zest and tomatoes make a chic ensemble.

And then there's the roasted garlic, which permeates the ricotta filling. So, this ensemble is really garlic, orange, and tomato--a trio I never would have put together on my own, but now I'll never forget it. Roasting and squeezing out the garlic adds an extra step to an already involved recipe (where making and par-baking individual tart crusts = involved), but it would be a real shame to leave it out. The tart crust, by the way, is simple, but excellent--tender, crisp, a flaky container that won't go out of date or clash with its contents. Resist the temptation to add more ice water to the dough ... just pulse for a few more seconds without worrying too much about the dough becoming tough. It won't.

These tarts, paired with a light salad, make for a substantial first course, and might do better for a vegetarian main course. They would be lovely for brunch, and by fiddling a little with the baking time they would be quite nice transformed into mini-muffin sized hors d'oeuvres. The crusts can be par-baked in advance; the filling and topping come together quickly.

Ricotta Tartlets with Orange-Zested Tomato Salad
Adapted from Tyler Florence's Real Kitchen. Makes 4 4-inch individual tarts.

For crust:
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, cold, cut into chunks
1 egg, separated
1 tablespoon ice water

1. Pulse flour, salt and sugar together in food processor. Put in chunks of butter, and pulse just until dough resembles cornmeal. Add egg yolk and ice water; pulse again for a a few seconds until dough comes together.

2. Lightly dust counter with flour. Dump dough out and form into a ball. Wrap tightly in plastic and let rest and chill in refrigerator 30 minutes or overnight. Cut dough into four pieces and flatten each one into a disk. Keep remaining disks under plastic as your form each crust.

3. Using a rolling pin, roll out one disk of dough on a on a lightly floured surface to a 6-inch circle. Roll dough onto pin and lay inside a 4-inch tart pan with removable bottom. Press edges into sides of pan, and fold excess dough inside edges. Repeat with remaining dough disks. At this point, tart shells may be wrapped in plastic and frozen for later use. If baking immediately, refrigerate shells for 15 minutes.

4. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Prick bottom of shells with a fork. Lay a piece of foil on bottom of tart shells and fill with 1/4 cup dried beans. Bake tart shells for 20 minutes. Lift out beans in foil, and return tart shells to oven and bake an additional 10 minutes, or until lightly golden.

5. Beat egg white with 1 tablespoon water. Brush bottom and sides of pastry with egg glaze to seal any tiny holes. Tart shell is ready for filling.

For ricotta filling:
1 head roasted garlic*
4 eggs
1 (15-ounce) container ricotta cheese
1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1 teaspoon sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper

1. Squeeze roasted garlic cloves out of skins into a large bowl. Beat in eggs and ricotta and Parmesan cheeses; season with salt and pepper.

2. Place tart shells on a cookie sheet. Pour egg mixture into shells, filling 3/4 full. Carefully transfer to oven and bake 30 minutes. Tart should still jiggle slightly in center; it will set up as it cools.

*To roast a head of garlic, cut off the top (pointy) part so that the tops of the cloves are exposed. Drizzle with a bit of olive oil, sprinkle with coarse salt, and roast in an oven preheated to 350 degrees for about 30 minutes. Let head cool down enough to handle, and then squeeze the roasted garlic out of the cloves.

For orange-zested tomato topping:
3/4 pound small, ripe tomatoes, cut into halves
5 fresh basil leaves, cut into chiffonade
Peel of 1 orange, finely grated
Extra-virgin olive oil
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

1. In a small bowl, mix tomatoes, orange peel, and basil (reserving a bit for garnish). Drizzle with a little oil; season with salt and pepper and fold everything together.

2. Once cool enough to handle, carefully lift tarts out of rings and slide tarts off bases onto plates. Spoon some of tomato salad onto each tart. Season with salt and pepper. Garnish with reserved basil.

Announcing...

2007-07-06T14:13:00.000-05:00

Update: A big thank you to all of you who have submitted entries to Food & Paper for DMBLGiT. I have enjoyed receiving your photos in my mailbox every day... little doses of yum. The contest has now closed and the judging will soon be underway. Please check back here during the first few days of August for the winning photos! ~SM.

It is my pleasure to announce that Food and Paper will be hosting this month's food photography contest, Does My Blog Look Good In This? [DMBLGiT]. So, take a gander at the photos you posted on your blog in the month of June and pick a winner.

I am excited to have a panel of Pittsburgh food bloggers joining me to serve as this month's judges: Rebecca and Leland of Eat (Leland is actually a Pittsburgh transplant to New York), Lindy of Toast, and Jesse of Corduroy Orange.

Contest rules:

1. You may only submit one photograph.
2. The photograph must have been taken by you.
3. The photograph must have been posted on your blog in June of 2007.
4. Photos will be accepted until Wednesday, July 25 at midnight EST.
5. A panel of five judges will drool over the photographs until they have chosen winners based on the following categories:
-- aesthetics: how well is the photo composed? how does the styling of the photo contribute to its overall impact? how well is the photo lit and focused?
-- edibility: how much does the photo tempt the judges to lick their computer screens?
-- originality: how much does the photo elicit responses like, "Golly!" "Wow!" and "I never would have thought of that!"

If you would like to participate in this event:
1. Send an e-mail with DMBLGIT in the subject line to sarahalisonmiller [at] gmail [dot] com.
2. Attach your photo.
3. In the body of the email, include the following information:

-- your name
-- the url of your blog
-- the url of the post where your blog appears
-- any information you would like to share about the equipment you used to take your photo

Good Luck!!

Click here to browse the gallery of this month's entries.

Something old and something blue

2007-06-27T19:02:00.001-05:00

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

2007-06-24T19:44:00.001-05:00

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

2007-06-24T17:05:00.000-05:00

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

2007-06-17T15:15:00.000-05:00

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

2007-06-08T15:58:00.000-05:00

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

2007-06-03T13:40:00.002-05:00

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.

Mangoes and Cream

2007-05-21T17:48:00.000-05:00

This week's ice cream was a winner. Oh yes, the ice cream trials have been ongoing. That bowl of burnt caramel ice cream dusted with black sea salt was simply the last effort worthy of a public airing.

I can't say as much for the stuff my ice cream maker has churned out in recent weeks. One batch, it turned out, was suited better for breakfast. Following the gushing praise of a certain Haverchuck (who, for many weeks, conducted his own ice cream project), I poured a batch of sweet oatmeal into my Cuisinart compressor, and hoped for the best. And, really it wasn't bad. Who doesn't like the idea of warm oatmeal-raisin cookies topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a dash of cinnamon? This was, though, a hefty ice cream: oatmeal, cream, and--let's not forget--several egg yolks. Oatmeal ice cream, it turns out, is not really meant to follow food. Only after a fast of, say, 8-10 hours is it a sane option, and that is why it is best eaten with a cup of joe and a side order of bacon. Never opposed to breakfast sweets, Patrick tried it scooped on a pancake and topped with maple syrup. Then he moaned and climbed back into bed.

Ice cream mishap #2 soon followed. I was excited about this one: mint chocolate chip. This was the most popular flavor, after chocolate and vanilla, that I scooped during my time as a North Carolina ice cream counter girl in the mid-nineties. Armed with nostalgia, I read Orangette's recent praise of David Lebovitz's mint ice cream recipe; but there was also a practical factor. At this very moment, a mint patch is creeping across my back yard. This being the first spring we've lived in this house, I didn't even know we had a mint patch. Then, one day, it was there, and it was big. Dreaming of a sustainable ice cream, I waded into my sea of mint, steeped my harvest in cream, poured it in my ice cream maker, tossed in a few handfuls of chopped dark chocolate, and waited. The result was yucky. To put it more precisely, it tasted like dirty grass (with chocolate chips). My guess is that my variety of mint is not the best for imparting flavor to food and drink (the mint juleps turned out yucky, too). No, mine is an ornamental sort of mint, which is spreading like wildfire in my backyard while my basil and rosemary are barely hanging on.

Well, after wasting all of those yolks, this egg-less mango ice cream seemed the way to go. Relatively new to the homemade ice cream scene, I had fallen under the impression that all good ice creams start with custard bases. I was wrong. This mango ice cream, made with a no-cook base of pureed mangoes and cream, is the silkiest, creamiest ice cream I've had in a long time. Far from being heavy, though, it's, well, refreshing. Pale orange and flecked with lime zest, this is a pretty dessert, perfect for hot summer nights. Needless to say, the mango ice cream is long gone, while the oatmeal and dirt flavors are still lingering, sprouting freezer burn.

Caramelized Mango Ice Cream
Makes about 1 quart. Adapted from Roy Finamore's Tasty: Get Great Food on the Table Every Day. Recipe appeared on Chow.com.

For tips on how to dice a mango, go here.

For the caramelized mango:
1/3 cup sugar
1 mango, peeled, pitted and cut into large dice

For the mango ice cream:
2 large (or 3 medium) ripe mangoes, peeled, pitted, and coarsely chopped
grated zest and juice of 1 lime
1/3 cup sugar
1 tablespoon molasses
pinch of coarse salt
2 cups heavy cream

1. For the caramelized mango: Pour the sugar into a heavy medium skillet. Cook over medium heat, swirling the sugar around in the pan often, until it is dark amber. Add the diced mango. The caramel will sputter and seize up. Cook, stirring, just until the caramel dissolves. Scrape the caramelized mango into a bowl, cover, and chill thoroughly.

2. For the mango ice cream: Process the mangoes in a food processor until you’ve made a smooth puree. Add the lime zest and juice, sugar, molasses, and salt. Process for a minute or so to dissolve the sugar. Scrape the puree out a bowl, whisk in the cream, cover, and refrigerate for at least 4 hours.

3. Freeze the ice cream base according to the instructions for your ice cream maker. When it’s just about frozen, add the caramelized mango. Continue to freeze until ice cream is firm. Transfer to a container with a lid, and let the ice cream cure in the freezer for at least 2 hours before serving.

Dissertations and Dinner Plates

2007-05-13T19:16:00.000-05:00

I recently had the opportunity to wine and dine a friend whom I met through Food and Paper. This gastronomic twist, combined with the fact that I had once witnessed said friend happily munch a handful of dried and sugared anchovies we had hunted down in the Strip District, told me an extra-special menu was in order...one that would suggest all my online talk of cooking is more than internet smoke and mirrors, and one that would be memorable in that anchovy-candy sort of way.

Although I didn't become aware of it until the dinner day had arrived, a certain something--not really worthy to be called a dinner party "theme"--seemed to connect the courses I had planned to serve. I haven't quite come up with a way to name this theme, but something along the lines of "Sarah's preoccupation with bones, raw meat, medieval medicine, and instruments of torture" is the closest approximation I've found thus far.

In full personal-oddity disclosure, I realize that this theme does not sound particularly culinary. But it does represent the sort of stuff I spend my days thinking and writing about when I'm not thinking and writing about food. Can a girl help it if her dissertation interferes with her dinner plates? I should say that I didn't bring up medieval gynecology, Christ's wounds, or saints' relics--not even once--during dinner, and it wasn't entirely easy considering what was on the table: marrow bones, followed by a spinach and pea potage worthy of a medieval apothecary's repertoire, followed by a bright pink mound of raw fish flesh, all topped off with a creme brulee I had scorched with a blow torch. My table-mates didn't even know they were dining on a theme; but, then again, when I brought out the ankle bones, they probably had an inkling that something weird was afoot. So, I suppose the menu was special, but in that self-referential academic sort of way. Fortunately, arcane scholarship about crucifixion and resurrected bodies tastes pretty good when translated into something edible.

Beef Marrow Bones with Sea Salt and Parsley-Caper Salad
from Bones by Jennifer McLagan

I've made no secret of my love of bones. I like to gnaw meat from bones (mmmm, short ribs). I like to gaze at bones, especially when they're displayed in precious metals and revered as the the index finger of doubting Thomas. And, as a child, I liked to carry them around as good luck charms.

I am thrilled to have acquired a copy of Bones, by Jennifer McLagan. I had to try the roasted marrow bones first, pictured as they were on the cover of her book. This recipe, Ms. McLagan says, was what got her thinking seriously about bones in the first place. I love the idea of eating what's inside as well as what's outside the bone. In the case of these bones, though, I didn't eat what was outside, but bought them naked and packed to the brim with pink marrow. Bones, by the way, are cheap. Marrow is sometimes called the poor man's foie gras.

I'm not giving a recipe for this dish because I think my technique still needs some work. I overcooked the bones a bit...a good portion of marrow melted out of them, and what was left inside, though rich and enjoyable, had a burnt flavor about it. There are many bones in my future...I plan to work my way through as many of Ms. McLagan's recipes as the ostiary will allow.

Tuna Tartare with Wasabi Ice Cream and Infused Oils

I tasted my first tartare, which happened to be beef, in Paris, 2002. Though I ordered it with a bit of trepidation, I just couldn't pass up that mixture of local gastronomic tradition and personal gastronomic novelty. I admit, I didn't finish all of it (we're talking a mound of raw beef that covered the expanse of my entire dinner plate), but I've looked for tartare on menus since then...In the States, for better or worse, it's almost exclusively tuna.

There are some good tuna tartares out there, and there are some bad ones too. The bad ones are not bad because the fish is old or fishy; they're bad because they're either "overcooked" with citrus juices or simply not flavorful enough. I've taken to making my own, using ruby-red tuna from Whole Foods, lots of ginger, chives, scallions, jalapeno, cilantro, lime zest, toasted sesame oil, soy sauce, and a bit of honey. This time, I made some oils infused with chives and dried chilis to drizzle along the plate. I served the tartare with crackers made from spring roll wrappers and a little scoop of wasabi ice cream. This was my first attempt at this particular ice cream flavor, and it was an almost-success. The flavor was good and strong, but the texture was sort of mushy, and the ice cream didn't want to form a proper little scoop. Because I wanted something light, more like a sorbet than an ice cream, I made the base out of milk. Next time, I'll add some cream, and perhaps one egg yolk.

Chilled Spinach and Pea Soup with Parmesan Baskets
adapted from Martha Stewart's Living, serves 4.

The favorite dish of the evening was this emerald-colored soup topped with Parmesan baskets filled with baby greens from my own tiny garden and sliced radishes. This is a nice choice for a dinner party because you can make both the soup and the baskets a full day in advance. The soup is so (so!) much more than the sum of its humble parts. I was completely impressed with its velvety texture and rich flavor. And, with all that spinach, I felt my muscles growing with every slurp. Yep, it's health food.

I am now enamored of Parmesan baskets. These little numbers transformed a good-looking soup into something striking. They're like jewelry for blended soups...and they're versatile accessories at that. You could fill a basket like this with any number of things, as long as they're light-weight. Imagine a basket filled with a cucumber salsa and a little spoonful of crab meat floating on a tomato gazpacho. Floated on a hot soup, any structure made of Parmesan will melt after a minute or so, but that is not necessarily a bad thing.

5 teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 medium onion, finely chopped
1 garlic clove, minced
coarse salt and freshly ground pepper
2 cups good quality chicken stock or vegetable stock
1 pound fresh peas, shelled (about 1 cup)
10 ounces fresh spinach, tough stems removed (about 6 cups packed leaves)
1 tablespoon, plus 1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice, divided
1 cup micro greens or mache
2 small radishes, thinly sliced
4 Parmesan baskets (recipe below)

1. Heat 4 teaspoons oil in a medium or large saucepan over medium-high heat. Add onion, garlic, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and a couple grinds of black pepper. Cook, stirring, 3 minutes. Add stock, and bring to a boil.

2. Add peas, and return to a boil. Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer, stirring occasionally, until peas are tender and bright green, 2-3 minutes. Stir in spinach. Cover and cook, stirring occasionally, until spinach wilts, 2-3 minutes.

3. Using an immersion blender, puree soup. Alternatively, blend in batches in a standing blender. Add a few tablespoons of water to achieve desired consistency. Stir in 1 tablespoon lemon juice. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Transfer soup to a bowl, cover, and refrigerate, stirring occasionally, until chilled, at least 3 hours. Soup can be kept covered and refrigerated for a day or so before serving.

4. Divide soup among 4 bowls. Toss greens and radish slices with remaining teaspoon of oil and 1/2 teaspoon lemon juice. Season greens with salt and pepper. Divide salad among Parmesan baskets, and float one on top of each bowl of soup.

Parmesan Baskets
Makes 4.

3 ounces Parmesan cheese (about 3/4 cup), grated on the medium holes of a box grater

Heat a medium nonstick skillet over medium heat. Sprinkle about 3 tablespoons Parmesan on the skillet to form a 4-inch round. Cook until cheese is somewhat melted and starting to firm, 3-4 minutes. Using a thin spatula, carefully flip Parmesan and cook until firm but not browned, 20-30 seconds longer. Transfer round to a small bowl (about 2 1/2 inches in diameter) and press around the edges of the bowl. Continue to press lightly, shaping as needed, until Parmesan cools, 10-15 seconds. Repeat with remaining cheese, and transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.

The next time I make these baskets, I think I'll try heating the Parmesan in the oven on a Silpat mat. I found the flipping part of Ms. Stewart's protocol a bit difficult. If anyone has had any experience with this technique, please let me know what you think.

Parmesan baskets can be made in advance and stored in a covered container for a day or two.

A Pie in the Sky

2007-05-09T09:28:00.000-05:00

From the beginning, let me just say, pizza is personal. And more than just topping combinations and crust dimensions can make or break the perfect slice. Just consider: Pizza bones...do you eat them? Do you dip them in garlicky butter or ranch dressing? Eating strategy...do you fold your slice in half and eat it like a taco? Cut it up with a knife and fork? Sprinkle on dried red pepper flakes or parmesan cheese? Well, the recipe I'm sharing is a boneless one that can be eaten by hand or with fork and knife (but not folded like a taco), and can be tricked out with the toppings of your choice, within certain parameters (see point C below). It is my own personal, best as of yet, homemade pizza recipe.

As the daughter of a woman who grew her own tomatoes, milked her own goats, and made her own girls' Easter dresses by hand, I was reared on homemade pizza: a pale-golden and slightly sweet crusted pie, most often topped with sausage and mushrooms. Friday night was pizza night in the Rogers' household, and I was thrilled when, a few weeks into my first year at college, I discovered that virtually any night was a potential pizza night. Papa John's pizza + garlic butter dipping sauce + Golden Girls reruns = Bliss.

I experienced several pizza revelations as a newly-wed studying Latin in Rome the summer of 2002. The most significant of these revelations, which took the form of a certain pizza melanzane, returned me to my homemade roots. It was nothing more and nothing less than a crackly-thin crust topped with slices of roasted eggplant, fresh mozzarella, garlic, a few sloshes of olive oil, and it promptly erased the hankerings for Papa John's and Domino's that had animated the pizza cravings of my adult years. Patrick and I dragged a table and two chairs onto the minuscule deck of our sixth-floor apartment, downed glasses of red wine, and nibbled slices as we looked out onto the mammoth facade of Santa Maria Maggiore. My life in pizza has since been divided into two chapters: pre- and post-Italy.

Soon after moving to Pittsburgh, we were pointed in the direction of Mineo's Pizza in Squirrel Hill--the best pizza this side of the Mississippi, so Pittsburghers say; but post-Italy, I just couldn't appreciate the qualities for which Mineo's pizza is praised: tons of gooey cheese, and plenty of sweet tomato sauce. I am counting my lucky stars, however, that I found my way to Il Piccolo Forno in Lawrenceville. Their pizza rivals Rome's ... Really. Pittsburgh reader, go there. Get the pizza. Black blistered crust, super-fresh stuff on top, the right crust-to-topping ratio. And, at least for the moment, I won't complain about Pittsburgh liquor laws. Il Piccolo Forno is BYOB, and it's easy to find a good wine for washing down pizza, even at your local Wine and Spirits.

I've been crafting my own pizza recipe for a while now. It's still a work in progress, but this last round proved successful enough to share. Here are some of the ingredients I've thus far identified for good homemade pizza:

A. A thin crust. Don't get me wrong, there is nothing inherently objectionable to a deep-dish pizza. It's just not the sort of pizza I'm currently after. When I want thick slabs of bread, and I often do, I prefer to reach for, well, bread.

B. Heat. If you have any hopes of achieving the crisp, thin crust served in Roman pizzerias, you need heat, the burn-your-eyebrows-off heat of a wood-fired, brick-lined pizza oven. Most household kitchens are not equipped with such things. For those of us with rather cheap, run-of-the-mill electric ovens, this means cranking your oven as high as it will go. For me, that means heating my oven at 500 degrees F. for a good half hour before I slide in the pizza. I've read some online advice about running your oven on the self-cleaning mode, but since this technique brings images of combustion and incineration to mind, I have not tried it. Do so at your own risk (but, if you do, write to me about what happens once your burns have sufficiently healed). To economize on oven heat, pizza stones, oven tiles, and pre-heated cast iron skillets are routinely suggested. My (expensive) pizza stone recently cracked in half (because it overheated, I think), and so I have given up on these shenanigans. This recipe requires nothing more than a baking sheet and some parchment paper.

C. Spare toppings. This really has more to do with the crust than the toppings. If you've worked hard to get that perfectly crisp crust, then loading it down with 10 toppings is only going to transform it into a flabby disappointment. Don't get me wrong, I love a pizza with everything, especially if that everything includes anchovies, but there really is no better pizza than a simple, classic pizza margherita.

Pizza Margherita
Makes 2 pizzas. Serves 2-4.

There are tons of pizza dough recipes out there. Most of them will make a fine pizza. But, I've taken to using a Martha Stewart recipe for flat bread dough. This recipe produces a very thin, almost cracker-like crust. You can also make a fine pizza using a pre-packaged dough...not the kind that is par-baked or comes from a can, but the kind that is simply bagged and sold in the refrigerator or freezer sections of grocery stores like Whole Foods and Trader Joe's. The pizza pictured here was made with Trader Joe's dough, which is not quite as good as the stuff sold by Whole Foods, which is not quite as good as Ms. Stewart's flat bread dough.

I've included a step for squeezing the excess moisture out of the mozzarella and tomato slices. This step insures that the crispness of your crust will not be compromised.

1 bag prepared Pizza Dough, or 1 recipe for Ms. Stewart's flat bread dough, below
1 clove garlic, minced
4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, 2 for parchment paper and 2 for dough
coarse salt and fresh-ground pepper
2 large tomatoes, sliced into 1/4-inch thick rounds
1 medium ball fresh mozzarella, sliced into 1/4-inch thick rounds
10 basil leaves, thinly sliced
extra virgin olive oil, coarse salt, and pepper, to taste

1. Preheat oven for at least 30 minutes on highest setting (500-550 degrees F.) Line two baking sheets with parchment paper. Rub 1 tablespoon olive oil onto each sheet of parchment paper.

2. If dough has been refrigerated, allow it to sit at room temperature for 15-20 minutes. Divide dough into two pieces. On a lightly floured surface, roll one piece of dough as thin as you can manage with a floured rolling pin, no more than 1/4-inch thick. Or, hold the pizza dough in the air and stretch it by hand. Transfer dough to prepared baking sheet. Repeat with other piece of dough. Allow the dough to rest for about 10 minutes.

3. While dough is resting, wrap mozzarella slices in a few layers of paper towels and press to squeeze out excess moisture. Wrap tomato slices in paper towels and press them firmly enough to remove some of their moisture without tearing the flesh.

4. Drizzle 1 tablespoon olive oil onto each pizza. Sprinkle with minced garlic, salt and pepper. Par-bake crusts until they are browned and bubbled, 8-10 minutes, rotating baking sheets once during cooking. Open and close the oven door as quickly as possible to maintain heat.

5. Remove baking sheets and turn oven to broil. Carefully slide parchment paper out from beneath the pizzas (it will burn under the broiler). Divide tomatoes and mozzarella between pizzas. Season with coarse salt and freshly ground pepper.

6. Broil pizzas, one at a time if both won't fit under the broiler at once, until mozzarella is melted and the crust is blackened in spots. Remove pizzas from oven and top each one with half of the sliced basil.

Ms. Stewart's Flat Bread Dough
Serves 4.

This recipe works better if you make 4 smaller pizzas rather than 2 large ones.

1 tsp. active dry yeast
1 1/2 cup warm water
pinch of sugar
3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
coarse salt and fresh-ground pepper
2 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for oiling bowl

Stir together yeast, water, and sugar in a large bowl, and let stand until foamy, about 5 minutes. Stir in flour, 1/2 tsp. salt, and the oil until combined. Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead with floured hands until smooth, about 2 minutes. Transfer dough to a large, oiled bowl, and cover with plastic wrap. Let stand in warm spot for about 30 minutes.

It Ain't So Easy in the Post No-Knead World: A Breadless Dinner

2007-05-06T20:32:00.000-05:00

I'm not one to keep secrets about the amount of bread eaten in my house. For many years now, every dinner that promised any sort of sop-able liquid required a baguette, usually bought from Whole Foods, or Weaver Street Market when I lived in Carrboro, or even the local Giant Eagle, once I learned it sold fresh loaves from a local Pittsburgh bakery. Under these circumstances, Patrick and I probably worked through a loaf or two a week ... not a worrisome amount, but not the sort of habit that would win us any nutritional clout in the low-carb crowd. I've read the advice of dietitians that sometimes shows up in popular magazines: step away from the white bread.

Well, I admit it. I've been on a bread bender. The No-Knead Bread Phenomenon has transformed a habit into an addiction. I have become a slave to the flour bag, a bread glutton, a carbo-fiend spiraling out of control. All meals are now potentially no-kneed bread meals. Pasta for dinner? How about a loaf of bread with that? Soup? Sounds like the perfect occasion for bread. Why not dip a few hunks of bread into that bowl of meat and lentils ? A salad? Sounds better piled on a thick slice of bread. Why bother with anything else? How about a big fat loaf of bread for dinner? With a dish of olive oil and a glass of wine, you have a balanced meal, right? Just make sure you leave a few slices for tomorrow's breakfast of toast slathered with butter and raspberry jam. Under the bread spell, I didn't even care that my overpriced cereal was going stale, or that my grapefruit was turning spotty. I had given up on fiber and vitamin C.

When I hit the four-loaves-a-week point, I knew I needed an intervention. Woman may be able to live on bread alone, but, really, should she? Waist lines aside, I've fancied myself a sometimes adventurous cook. Dinner plates piled high with white bread fail to substantiate such fantasies.

I knew I had to come up with some addictive recipes to take my mind off of bubbly dough and crackly crust. I needed something fresh, packed with flavor, and free of bread-friendly sauces. Grilled fish and salsa seemed likely to do the trick. Tucking into a heap of mango and avocado topped with a bright slab of salmon, I felt Mr. Sullivan's bread loosen its grip on my dinner plate. I just wish I had a few slices stashed away for breakfast tomorrow. Left-over salmon does not pair well with morning coffee.

Grilled Salmon with Mango-Avocado Salsa
Serves 2 quite hungry people. For 4, add two additional salmon fillets, and divide the salsa among four plates.

2 salmon fillets with skin, 6 oz. each, 1-1 1/2 inches thick
2 tablespoons olive oil
coarse salt and fresh ground pepper

For salsa:
1 large, or 2 smaller Haas avocados, diced
1 large, or 2 smaller mangoes, diced
1/2 medium-sized white onion, diced
15 cherry tomatoes, cut into quarters
1 medium jalapeno, minced
1 clove garlic, minced or pressed
1/2 teaspoon fresh lime zest
juice of 1 lime
1/4 cup cilantro leaves, finely chopped; a few leaves reserves for garnish, if you like
coarse salt and fresh ground pepper to taste

1. Prepare salsa: mix all salsa ingredients in medium bowl. Allow flavors to mingle as grill heats.

2. Heat grill to high. Brush both sides of salmon with olive oil, season generously with salt and pepper. Grill skin side down (with grill lid closed if using gas grill) until skin is crispy, about 3 minutes. Flip fillets over and transfer to a cooler part of the grill. Cook for a minute or two more, until salmon is nearly opaque, but still pink in the very center. Remove from grill.

3. Divide salsa between two plates and place a salmon fillet on top of the salsa. Garnish with a few cilantro leaves, and serve.

How to wine and dine your friends and neighbors

2007-04-20T08:49:00.000-05:00

If I could host dinner guests for a living, I probably would. Come Wednesday afternoon of any given week, I start thumbing through my recipe files, surfing the internet, and hoping we might be able to drum up a few hungry people for dinner on Saturday night. With lots of practice over the past few years, I've come up with a pretty good dinner party method...good enough, at least, to keep entertaining fun, and the food tasty enough to garner a compliment or two.

The aforementioned thumbing and surfing could go on indefinitely. I usually have multiple menus sketched out by the time I can back away slowly from the computer and make up a grocery list. I am a big fan of the recipe database on epicurious.com. Its search function is better than any other recipe site I know. For those folks like me who like to see a version of the final product, there are lots of pretty pictures to boot. Best of all, epicurious readers submit helpful reviews of the recipes they've tried, many with precise information about what went right and what went wrong for them. The test kitchens of Gourmet and Bon Appetit may have tinkered with every recipe on the site, but when six out of ten reviewers report that the suggested baking time turned out a dry cake, you know to keep a close eye on yours during the last few minutes in the oven. Since the idea of preparing only "tried and true" recipes for dinner parties makes me feel tired and cranky, these tips are pretty darn handy.

When it comes to putting together a menu, I usually choose three--or, if I'm feeling adventurous, four--separate courses. I've noticed that such shenanigans have become unpopular in entertaining advice columns, where they are poo-pooed as fussy and prone to make your guests uncomfortable. I have a feeling though, that it's not the separate courses that make for an awkward dinner party, but the frantic host who can be heard cursing in the kitchen as she struggles to churn out the next course for her hungry guests. I've learned, though, with a little planning and chopping in advance, a dinner of several small courses makes the evening special for guest and host alike. And, anyway, who in her right mind wouldn't want her own almond tart or chocolate pot de creme?

Things I've learned about putting together a dinner menu:

- If you're doing multiple courses, keep the portions small. You don't want your guests loosening their belts under the table just so they can politely clean their plates.
- Try to vary the textures and flavors from course to course. If you're serving risotto as a first course, you probably wouldn't want to follow it with pasta.
- Think about how the food will look on the plate. Yellow beets or blood oranges brighten up salads. Herb garnishes, even just a few pinches of chopped parsley, make stews and braises look fresher. A small cup of brightly colored soup--say, carrot or asparagus--is a favorite of mine for a first course.
- Choose courses that you can either make ahead or assemble relatively quickly. I almost always make the dessert the day before the dinner. If a recipe requires more than whipping cream at the last minute, I pass it up for something else. I try to avoid choosing any recipe that will require more than 10 minutes of preparation between courses.

Once I have my menu planned, I make a shopping list. From experience, I've learned that it's a good idea to include ingredients for a few alternate recipes, marked as such, on your list. That way, if you had stuffed artichokes in mind, but find all of the specimens looking sickly, you won't have to stand in the vegetable section racking your brains for a plan B. You'll already have one. I always try to do the shopping a few days before the dinner because I'm usually not in the best mood for wielding knives right after I've fought my way out of the Whole Foods parking lot.

Things I've learned to do before guests arrive:

-Spend a few afternoon hours chopping, dicing, and slicing your ingredients. Put them into containers and refrigerate them until you need them. I use ramekins for this. If a ramekin could be considered a "kitchen gadget," it might just be the most handy gadget in my kitchen. Oven to table to freezer versatility aside, it is excellent at holding chopped ingredients.
- Read over your recipes several times, and make sure you fully understand all of the steps you'll have to complete once your guests have arrived. You don't want to have to be puzzling over some technique while trying to hold up your half of a conversation from the kitchen.
- Set the table. It will look pretty and mean one less thing you'll have to do later.
- Have the tableware you'll be needing for later courses (extra wine glasses, dessert plates, coffee cups) set out somewhere so you won't have to dig through cabinets when you need them.

When guests do arrive, I like to have a bottle of Prosecco or other sparkling wine ready to pour. Sometimes I serve munchies like olives or nuts, and sometimes I don't. It depends on how heavy the rest of the meal will be and how soon I plan to have the first course on the table. Mix bubbly, music, a few candles, and you have a recipe for dinner party success.

The most recent small gathering at our house began with gin and tonics, followed by a few glasses of a California sparkling wine, followed by a few glasses of a good Chardonnay. This is what we washed down with all the booze:

Mache and Ricotta Salata on Grilled Garlic Toasts
Adapted from Gourmet, June 2002. Makes 4 servings.

I was attracted to the sophisticated simplicity of this little salad / bruschetta hybrid. The grilled garlic toast makes a crunchy, savory foundation for the airy little pile of sour-sweet mache. I am ga-ga for the tangy flavor of ricotta salata, which is a salted cheese made from Italian sheep's milk. It's milder than feta, which it resembles in color and texture--bright white, compact, and spongy. It holds its shape when diced, so it does well in salads. Here, the ricotta is sliced thinly and layered throughout the mache.

One doesn't say this that often about salads, but this one smells as good as it tastes. When the dressing on the mache meets the heat of the bread fresh off the grill, you get this bright aroma of honey and lemon. Okay, time to move on...I'm starting to drool on my keyboard. Grow my little lettuces and tomatoes, grow!!!

juice and grated zest of 1 lemon
2 teaspoons honey
1/8 teaspoon salt, or to taste
1/8 teaspoon black pepper, or to taste
1/3 cup olive oil
4 (1/2-inch-thick) slices country-style bread
1 large garlic clove
4 cups mache
1 cup grape tomatoes, halved
4 oz. ricotta salata, thinly sliced

1. Whisk together lemon juice, honey, salt, and pepper, then add 1/4 cup oil in a slow stream, whisking until emulsified.

2. Prepare charcoal or gas grill for cooking. (You could broil the bread in your oven, but you'll have to do without the smoky flavor of the grill, and that would be a shame.)

3. Brush both sides of bread slices with remaining oil and season with coarse salt and pepper.

4. When fire is hot (you can hold your hand 5 inches above rack for 1 to 2 seconds), grill bread on lightly oiled grill rack, turning once, until golden, about 3 minutes total. Immediately rub 1 side of each slice with garlic clove.

5. Toss mache with tomatoes, half the lemon zest, and enough dressing to coat, then season with salt and pepper.

6. Place toasts on salad plates. Layer salad and cheese slices alternately on each toast and spoon remaining dressing over top. Sprinkle with remaining lemon zest.

Scallops with Garlic Chips and Arugula-Mint Cream
from Francine Segan's The Philosopher's Kitchen, serves 4.

This is a dish I have made a few times, and, let me tell you folks, it is a winner. It's the sort of dish that will have you saying to yourself, why, I have been a fancy-schmancy gourmet all this time, and never knew it! In her cookbook, The Philosopher's Kitchen, Ms. Segan reinterprets recipes from ancient Greece and Rome. Such attempts at rescuing recipes from thousands of years ago often result in something interesting, and perhaps enjoyable for the food historian, but not so tasty. Ms. Segan's recipes taste very good. I have already heaped praise on her assorted fig appetizer and smoked trout custard.

The scallop was held to be an aphrodisiac in antiquity. Sure, it could have something to do with the fact that the goddess of love herself emerged from the foam of the sea. But I find the briny sweetness of scallops sort of sexy even without images of Aphrodite stepping naked onto the sand and wringing out her dripping hair. Here, creamy arugula-mint sauce and fried garlic chips pack an intense flavor wallop without overwhelming the sexy shellfish. The color of the sauce is so pretty, you'll want to paint your walls with it. In short, I haven't found a way of preparing scallops that I like more than this one.

2 cups baby arugula leaves
1 cup fresh mint leaves
5 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1/4 cup grated parmesan cheese
1/4 cup cream
coarse salt and fresh ground pepper
5 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1 pound large scallops
grated zest of 1 lemon

1. Reserve one arugula leaf for garnish. Puree remaining arugula, the mint, and 3 tablespoons of the oil in a food processor until smooth. Add the cheese and blend. Simmer cream in a small saucepan over medium heat until it begins to boil. With processor running, drizzle cream into the arugula puree in a slow stream. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Pour into saucepan used for heating cream. Cover and keep warm while you cook the scallops.

2. In a large nonstick skillet, warm remaining 2 tablespoons oil over medium-high heat. Add the garlic and fry until golden. Transfer garlic crisps to a paper towel to drain.

3. Raise the heat to high. Pat scallops dry with a paper towel, and season with salt an pepper. Saute scallops, turning once, until golden brown around edges, but barely cooked in the center, 1-2 minutes. It is better to under cook than over cook these guys.

4. Slice the reserved arugula leaf into thin ribbons. To serve, spoon arugula puree on 4 serving plates and top with scallops. Garnish with garlic crisps, arugula ribbons, and lemon zest.

Frozen Lemon Mousse with Candied Zest
Adapted from Martha Stewart Living Annual Recipes 2002, serves 4.

This dessert takes some time to prepare, but you can do everything in advance, and the result is worth the effort ten times over. After one bite, the words, "I think this is the best dessert I've ever tasted," spilled out of the mouth of my chocolate-fanatic husband. He has a relatively short culinary memory, but still, the look of rapture in his eyes didn't lie. When used to describe mousses, the word ethereal may be trite, but if ever a mousse deserved the designation, it's this one.

I am quite fond of tart, lemon-flavored desserts, and the curd that forms the base of this mousse doesn't disappoint. Because it incorporates three different lemony components (the mouse, the sauce, and the candied zest), it proves an intense lemon experience. Cool and creamy, it would make a refreshing end to a special summer-weather dinner.

4-5 lemons (zest removed in large strips from 2 lemons and reserved for candied lemon zest recipe)
1 cup sugar
4 large egg yolks
1 large whole egg
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, cut into pieces
3/4 cup, plus 1 tablespoon heavy cream, chilled
Candied Lemon Zest (recipe follows)
4 oz. creme fraiche

1. Fill a large bowl with ice and water, set aside. Juice 1 lemon and reserve juice. Juice the additional lemons to yield 1/2 cup.

2. To make the lemon curd, place 1/2 cup lemon juice, sugar, egg yolks, whole egg, and butter in a saucepan; whisk to combine. Cook over medium heat, whisking constantly until mixture begins to boil, about 10 minutes.

3. Strain the curd through a fine sieve into a bowl set in the ice bath. Stir periodically until cool; remove from bowl of curd from the ice bath, and cover it with plastic wrap, pressing it directly onto the surface of the curd to keep a skin from forming. Refrigerate at least 1 hour and up to 3 days.

4. Place 3/4 cup chilled heavy cream in a large mixing bowl, and whisk until soft peaks form (alternatively, use hand or stand mixer). Reserve 1/3 cup of the lemon curd for the sauce; add the remaining curd to the whipped cream. Fold gently until combined.

5. Place 4 ring molds, 3 inches in diameter on a baking sheet lined with parchment. Divide the mousse among the molds. Place in freezer on the baking sheet until firm, at least 4 hours.

6. Drain the candied lemon zest, reserve the syrup. Whisk 1/3 cup syrup and the reserved 1/3 cup curd and reserved juice of 1 lemon in a small bowl. Place the frozen mousse on plates, let rest 4-5 minutes before removing the molds.

7. Meanwhile, whisk the creme fraiche and the remaining 1 tablespoon cream in a medium bowl. Spoon the lemon sauce around the mousse, and top with the creme fraiche mixture. Garnish with candied zest.

Candied Lemon Zest

2 lemons, well scrubbed (from lemon mousse recipe)
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup cool water

1. Remove the zest from lemons with a vegetable peeler, keeping the pieces long. Remove any white pith with a paring knife. Using a very sharp knife, cut zest into fine julienne; place is a small bowl and cover with boiling water. Let stand 30 minutes.

2. Place the sugar and water in a small saucepan, cover, and bring to a boil over medium-high heat. When the sugar is completely dissolved, add the julienned lemon zest. reduce heat to medium-low, and cook, uncovered, for 10 minutes more. Remove from heat, cover, and let stand for at least 6 hours or overnight. Store the zest in the syrup in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 2 weeks.

Root Vegetable Rewind: It's Parsnip Weather (Again)

2007-04-16T14:55:00.000-05:00

I suppose I am a little naive when it comes to the changing of seasons. I was convinced that Spring had arrived in Pittsburgh. I even welcomed it with a big hot bowl of pasta and chives. Heck, I was even starting to look forward to summer, revving up my ice cream machine in preparation for afternoons without air conditioning. Now I've found myself back squarely in winter, clutching root vegetables in my shivering hands ... clutching pale parsnips in my pale, shivering hands, to be precise.

At the end of a recent wet and gusty day, Patrick and I tucked into bowls of steamy, creamy parsnip soup, spoons in one hand and slices of hot no-knead bread in the other. If I weren't so eager for my herb garden to grow, this soup just may have had me asking, "Winter, won't you be staying awhile?"

There are, to my mind, three steps to good vegetable-based soups, and this recipe is no exception:

1. Roast the vegetables. Time in a hot oven evaporates some of the veggies' moisture, so that their flavors intensify. The moisture won't be missed because the vegetables are headed for step 2.

2. Simmer the vegetables in good stock. Now I am not doctrinaire about homemade stocks. There are supermarket versions out there that taste just fine. But, I do try to save up chicken carcasses, and wilty stalks of celery and carrots for rainy Sundays when I feel like stirring a warm pot every now and then. Making stock is like foodie aromatherapy. It smells good and makes you feel good too.

3. Puree. I used to get a sinking feeling in my chest every time I ran across the injunction "puree in batches in a blender." Having experienced a few spatter burns and one terrible exploding blender incident, I talked myself into thinking that pureeing soups was simply snooty. I could do without this gratuitous step ballyhooed by cookbook writers accustomed to sipping vichyssoise in stuffy, overpriced restaurants. Well, my immersion blender* changed all that. It has, I must say, snootified me. My hunch is that blending soups encourages the flavors of the various vegetables to meld more thoroughly. But, more importantly, I like the mouthfeel of blended soups. And I like to pretend I'm eating at a fancy French restaurant.

And that's just how I felt with a bowl of parsnip soup on the dinner table. You'd never guess that this soup contains a measly 1/2 cup of cream. The parsnips themselves, packed full of starch, give the soup a velvety texture. Fused with that richness, though, are flavors that won't let you forget parsnips are vegetables: the sweetness of carrots, the clean pungency of celery, and a mild peppery bite at the end.

If you're not sure whether you like parsnips, this may not be the best recipe to give them a try. This soup is packed full of parsnips and other vegetables that intensify, rather than weaken, their sweet and savory punch. This root vegetable mash, on the other hand, is a lovely way to ease into this lovely vegetable.

Parsnip Soup
Adapted from a recipe that appeared in Gourmet in December 1996. Serves 6-8.

The original recipe for this soup called for the addition of a tablespoon or so of brown sugar after it has been pureed. I have omitted the sugar here because my batch was quite sweet without it. I suppose this will depend on the sweetness of your parsnips, so do take a sip and judge for yourself whether your batch could use a spoonful of sugar.

2 pound parsnips, peeled and chopped into 2-inch pieces
2 tablespoons olive oil, divided
4 celery stalks, chopped into 1-inch pieces
1 onion, coarsely chopped
2 leeks, chopped into 1-inch pieces, and soaked in cool water to remove grit
8 cups chicken stock or vegetable stock
1/2 cup cream or half and half
salt and pepper to taste
chopped scallion for garnish (optional)

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.

2. Cover a shallow baking pan with aluminum foil, toss parsnips in pan with 1 tablespoon olive oil, sprinkle lightly with salt and pepper, and roast in oven, turning occasionally for about 30 minutes.

3. In a bowl toss onion, celery, and leek with remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil and add to pan. Return pan to oven and roast vegetables, stirring occasionally, 30 minutes, or until golden.

4. In a large saucepan simmer chicken broth with vegetables, covered, for about 30 minutes. Add cream (or half and half). Puree in a blender in batches. If you have an immersion blender that can handle fibrous vegetables, then, by all means, use it instead. Season soup with salt and pepper to taste.

5. Ladle soup into bowls, and garnish with chopped scallions, if you want. Serve it up.

*My immersion blender is made by Cuisinart. It is a very good one, should you ever be in the market.

Burnt Sugar and Black Salt

2007-04-11T20:53:00.000-05:00

Yes, I have been doing things other than making ice cream. I've even been cooking things other than ice cream bases. But I'm here with another ice cream recipe, and, let me tell you, it has me wanting to kiss my ice cream maker and the person who gave it to me. As of now, the ice cream maker is 50% off at amazon.com. The gift-giver, however, is not for sale.

The first time I tasted burnt caramel ice cream was at the dinner table of Will and Leah in Massachusetts. Since then, I've scanned freezer cases all over the east coast for ice cream labels promising the flavor that haunted my taste buds. This search turned up a few decent caramel ice creams and a memorable dulche de leche, but nothing that even approached burnt caramel.

Now, those of you whose tongues have never tasted this best-of-all ice cream flavor may be saying to yourselves, "Burnt? Isn't burnt caramel ruined caramel? Don't caramel recipes always urge you to be super-vigilant so as not to let the sugar burn?" True...all true. In the spirit of truth, burnt caramel ice cream might more aptly be named slightly scorched caramel ice cream. Scorched caramel ice cream tastes like butterscotch with a curious bitter kick at the finish that lures you to have another taste. Truly burnt caramel ice cream would taste like a terrible, terrible mistake.

The margin between the former and the latter is, unfortunately, slim. But if you truly burn your caramel, you'll know it before you sacrifice any cream or eggs. At that point, all you have to do is toss it and try again, your only losses being a cup of sugar and a few tablespoons of water. I knew I was gambling with my batch when it turned in a flash from amber to brown, but I didn't want to forgo any of that scorched flavor. Five more seconds and I would have had to start over. But don't let this discourage you. I'd burn my way through a whole bag of sugar for this ice cream.

A recipe for candied bacon appeared in the same Bon Appetit issue that featured this ice cream. Burnt caramel ice cream with a side of salty-sugary pork was hard to pass up. Had I not recently pawned off batches of bacon peanut brittle (Patrick wouldn't eat it), I would have tried it. But I will...dinner guests be forewarned. I couldn't, however, eschew the temptation to add a bit more salt than the recipe specified...Kosher salt in the custard base and Black lava sea salt on top.

I've been looking for an application for this salt since I spied a bag of it in Pittsburgh Trader Joe's. With a bit of googling, I learned that this salt, harvested in Hawaii, contains black lava rock and charcoal. The crystals are large, slightly damp, and quite salty. As a finishing salt, it is often sprinkled on fish, both cooked and raw. It will definitely be making another appearance the next time I venture into tuna tartare or scallop ceviche.

Burnt Caramel Ice Cream with Hawaiian Black Lava Salt
Adapted from Bon Appetit, February 2007.
Makes 5 cups.

This ice cream is certainly rich enough to stand on its own, but it would make a lovely partner with apple pie, dark chocolate torte, or candied bacon. I've come across burnt caramel paired with lemon-flavored tarts and souffles, but have yet to try the two together.

1 cup sugar, divided
3 tablespoons water
2 cups whole milk
2 cups heavy whipping cream
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
5 large egg yolks
a few pinches of Hawaiian black lava sea salt

1. Stir 3/4 cup sugar and 3 tablespoons water in medium saucepan over medium heat until sugar melts.

2. Increase heat to medium-high and boil without stirring until mixture turns dark amber, occasionally swirling pan and brushing down sides with wet pastry brush, anywhere from 4-7 minutes. Try to avoid entering the bitterly burnt sugar stage. This stuff does burn quickly. But, don't be tempted to take the sugar off the heat too soon, or you won't get the burnt flavor that is the glory of this dish. Immediately add milk (watch out: mixture will bubble up).

3. Add cream, salt, and vanilla. Bring mixture to boil, stirring to dissolve any caramel bits. Let cool 10 minutes.

4. While you're waiting, whisk yolks and remaining 1/4 cup sugar in medium bowl. Gradually whisk in hot milk mixture. Return mixture to same saucepan. Stir over medium heat until slightly thickened, coats the back of a wooden spoon, or registers at 180 degrees F on a candy thermometer, about 6 minutes (do not boil).

5. Strain custard into medium bowl. I wouldn't skip this step. These eggy custard bases inevitably curdle in patches. The straining takes only a few seconds, and you'll be guaranteed a super-smooth ice cream for your effort. Cover with plastic wrap pressed down onto surface of custard, and chill until cold, at least 4 hours. Custard can be made 1 day ahead. Keep chilled.

6. Process custard in ice cream maker according to manufacturer's instructions. Transfer to container; cover and freeze.

7. Sprinkle with a bit of sea salt before serving.

Birthday Ice Cream with Cherries

2007-03-31T19:06:00.000-05:00

Nice things arrive with Spring, many of them edible. I'm roasting asparagus for the second time in three days. Bright artichokes peeked out at me from a cardboard box at the Squirrel Hill Giant Eagle today. And the chives. Chives are sprouting up in my gastronomic fantasies like never before.

Yep, fresh, young things are wiggling their way into the world...it happens every March just as I shoulder another year on my way out of this world. I was a Spring baby. I am older <sigh> than I feel. Just when do we cease feeling older than we are and start being older than we feel? For me, I guess it happened around year 24. Hmmm...what a coincidence...the year I got married.

Yet, these very milestones, marriage among them, which seem to age us also ease the burdens of maturity. There's love, there's stability, there's security from weirdo dates and messy break ups. But today, folks, I'm talking about presents. Husbands give you presents, especially on occasions that mark the march of time, like anniversaries, and (we're coming to the point, here) birthdays. I have been given a birthday present with a powerful anti-aging capability.

To all who have found their way to this site by will, by fate, or by mistake, I here announce: I now own an ice cream maker. A pretty, shiny one. And, whoa boy, a noisy one. It was banished to the basement on its first day out of the box where it has added to the din of the washing machine, furnace, and water pump. Conversation and ice cream making apparently do not mix. This, by the way, makes ice cream making a perfect summer task--for those afternoons when it's just too hot to converse. While Patrick and I are sitting silent in our sweat on the back deck come August, there will be a sweet mechanical buzz in our basement, auguring refreshment for steamy lips and tongues.

I'm on my fourth practice batch. This is not a complicated machine, but I am a demanding ice cream epicure. And Patrick is even more exacting. The man eats ice cream for breakfast. The following recipe has been my greatest success to date, but I foresee quite a bit of ice cream experimentation in my future. Pink peppercorn, honey and thyme, Meyer lemon, peach, ginger and dark chocolate, burnt caramel...these are the future flavors of my strepitous little machine.

It was a combination of curiosity over a bag of frozen cherries at Trader Joe's and memories of a certain cherry ice cream I used to scoop for pay in high school that got me drafting a recipe for this cherry-studded vanilla ice cream.

Every member of my immediate family once worked in a certain ice cream parlor in Wake Forest, North Carolina. My dad, the only one who never scooped, ran a coin shop in the room neighboring it. This ice cream institution which went by the name, The Corner, and was run by Ms. Chandley, has recently abandoned its brick facade for a place in the memories of Southeastern Baptist seminarians, adolescent bike gangs, and us--the Rogers' family. During slow spells, I used to sneak a scoop of cherry ice cream drizzled with hot fudge...my favorite combination for a full year, and that's saying a lot for a fickle ice cream lover.

This recipe produces a velvety ice cream with a custardy mouth feel and an intense vanilla flavor. The cherries offer bursts of tangy iciness to balance this richness. I've always liked the paired flavors of almonds and cherries, so I made some almond tuiles to perch in my mounds of cherry ice cream. Crunchy, but delicate...these are the good cookies that good ice cream deserves. Tuile, by the way, means "tile" in French. This ice cream, I suppose, is the grout.

This was my first experiment with tuiles. They were really easy to make, despite all the injunctions to "work quickly before the cookies cool" which you find in tuile recipes. Because my cookies cooked rather unevenly, I had time to bend each one around a rolling pin as it was ready without feeling frantic. If your oven cooks evenly, you may find yourself more pressed for time. Who knew? Rickety ovens are good for paper-thin French cookies?

Vanilla Cherry Ice Cream
Serves 8. Adapted from Bon Appetit, June 1999.

I have been experimenting with combinations of half and half and whole cream for my ice cream. For this recipe, I went with the full-fat version, just to see how it compared with my other trials. The texture was noticeably smoother, but the flavor did not differ enough to steer me away from half and half for all future batches. If you would prefer a slightly lighter version, substitute a good (i.e. not non fat) half and half for the first two cups of cream in this recipe.

I'm guessing that fresh cherries would taste better than their frozen variety, so use them if you have them. Trader Joe's cherries were good, but a little watery.

3 cups heavy cream, divided (or 2 cups half and half and 1 cup heavy cream)
1 vanilla bean
6 egg yolks (save 2 whites if you want to make the tuiles!)
1/4 cup white sugar
1/4 cup light brown sugar
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups cherries, cut into halves

1. Place 2 cups cream in a heavy sauce pan. Split vanilla bean and scrape out seeds with a knife into the cream. Add vanilla pod, and bring to a boil. Remove from heat and allow to steep for 20 minutes.

2. In medium bowl, whisk together egg yolks and sugars until combined.

3. Bring vanilla-cream to a simmer, and then pour it in a steady stream into egg yolk mixture, whisking constantly. Return mixture to the same saucepan and stir over medium-low heat until custard thickens and coats the back of a wooden spoon, 4-7 minutes. Do not allow the custard to boil.

4.Remove from heat. Mix in remaining cream and vanilla extract. Strain through a fine mesh colander into a bowl, cover with plastic wrap pressed down directly onto custard, and refrigerate until chilled.

5. Process custard in ice cream maker according to the manufacturer's directions. While ice cream is still relatively soft, add cherries. Continue to process until ice cream has achieved the consistency you want. Transfer to a covered container and freeze.

Almond Tuiles
Adapted from Ms. Stewart's recipe, makes 18 or so cookies.

I tried using both parchment paper and a silpat liner for these cookies. The silpat liner out-performed the parchment paper in every way. The cookies baked more evenly and more slowly. I have recommended scant 1/4 cup of flour because I found a full 1/4 cup to produce a thicker batter than I wanted. I imagine that the size of your egg whites will affect the amount of dry ingredients you'll need. The batter should be thin enough to spread easily with the back of a spoon.

vegetable-oil cooking spray or parchment paper
1/2 cup almonds, ground fine
scant 1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 large egg whites
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
about 2/3 cup sliced blanched almonds, toasted

1. Preheat oven to 325° F. Line a baking sheet with a silpat liner or parchment paper.

2. In a bowl whisk together ground almonds, flour, sugar, and salt. Then, whisk in whites, butter, and almond extract until combined well.

3. Drop rounded teaspoons batter about 4 inches apart onto baking sheet and with back of a spoon spread into 3 1/2-inch rounds. Sprinkle each cookie with about 1/2 tablespoon sliced almonds.

4. Bake in middle of oven 8 minutes, or until golden.

5. As cookies become done, remove them from baking sheet, 1 at a time, with a thin spatula and drape over a rolling pin to create a curved shape. (If the cookies become too brittle to form on the rolling pin, return baking sheet to oven a few seconds to allow cookies to soften.) Cool cookies completely on rolling pin and transfer to an airtight container.

6. Make more cookies with remaining batter in same manner, replacing parchment paper with fresh sheet for each batch (if you're using parchment paper instead of a silpat liner). Tuiles may be made 2 days ahead and kept in an airtight container at room temperature.

Spring Fever: Tagliatelle with Chive Oil

2007-03-24T20:47:00.000-05:00

The snow has melted and crocuses are sprouting up all over the east end of Pittsburgh. Maybe it's been the sight of these lavender and yellow lovelies that has me wrinkling my nose at brussels sprouts, beets, and even the rutabagas which, mashed up with carrots and doused with sage scented milk, I so recently eulogized. Perhaps I am a foul-weather friend, but these wintry vegetables and their ilk are starting to look a little, well, dour. They've been delightful guests in my kitchen, but I can't have them over-staying their welcome when I'm making room for new peas, vidalia onions, and bunches of pencil-thin asparagus. The root vegetable spark is losing its luster. My affections are being pulled in the direction of spring green.

All this to say, I was primed to fall in love with this recipe. It was a culinary coup de foudre unlike any I've experienced in recent months, Valentine's tarts included. My first glance at the slick photo of chive-speckled tagliatelle in Saveur turned into a double-take, followed by a slow perusal. My stomach fluttered with hunger. My lips would not be satisfied until they met this dish.

The article by Molly Stevens that accompanied this and other chive-filled recipes in the April issue of Saveur left me longing for a backyard plot of freshly sprouted herbs. She waxed rhapsodic about her own love affair with early spring chives, and the recipes she included made me believe it. Seared steaks topped with bright green pats of chive butter. Crumbly chive and cheddar biscuits. They all struck my fancy, but it was this one that had me wanting to munch a bunch of freshly sprouted chives straight from the earth...to just bend over like some ruminating animal and take my fill of the taste of spring. This moment, I feel compelled to add, is unique as far as heifer transformation fantasies go. And, it didn't last long. I don't even have a chive patch on which to graze. The prepackaged sort would simply have to do.

My crush on this recipe deepened into something like awe-filled admiration after the first taste. Ms. Stevens has wisely called for a significant amount of chives, reminding us that this herb wants to be so much more than an omelet garnish. She has also wisely constructed a recipe that will not overwhelm the delicate flavor of her signature ingredient. There is the slight tartness of lemon, the slow bloom of pepper flake spice. This chive sauce soaks into every millimeter of tagliatelle, and made me thank the gods of the table, once again, for the miracle that is pasta.

Tagliatelle with Chive Oil and Cremini Mushrooms
Adapted from Saveur magazine, April 2007. Serves 4.

I heartily recommend a good tagliatelle for the pasta here. Fettuccine would do, but you certainly want a broad, toothsome pasta, one that will soak up the chive sauce and stand up to the heft of the mushrooms. Don't forget to save a cup of pasta water to mix in with the sauce. I'm always a little saddened to see my pasta water go down the drain with all of its sauce-perfecting starches. Since I'm prone to forgetting it, I put a measuring cup inside of my colander when I sit it in the sink to remind me to reserve some cooking water before I drain my pasta. Almost any sauce, but especially an oil-based one, benefits from a half cup or so.

I used the mini-processor attachment to my immersion blender to make the chive emulsion. This worked fine, just in case you find it a hassle to clean your stand blender as much as I do.

I wouldn't recommend substituting bland white mushrooms for the cremini ones here. They're perfectly delicious sliced thin on garden salads, but they just don't develop a rich, roasted flavor when they're cooked. Since creminis are immature portobello mushrooms (that's why they're sometimes called "Baby Bellas"), it would be fine to substitute for the baby type the adult type, cut down into bite-size chunks.

2 pounds cremini mushrooms, small ones left whole, large ones cut into halves
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 teaspoon red pepper flakes
coarse salt and fresh ground pepper
3/4 pound dried tagliatelle
2 large bunches chives, roughly chopped (about 2 cups)
3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1/2 cup finely grated Parmesan cheese

1. Heat oven to 475 degrees. Toss together mushrooms with 1/4 cup olive oil, 1/2 teaspoon pepper flakes, and 1/2 teaspoon coarse salt on a baking sheet. Spread mushrooms out in a single layer, and roast in oven, turning a few times, until browned, about 10 minutes.

2. Meanwhile, bring large pot of salted water to boil. Add tagliatelle and cook until al dente, 8-10 minutes. Reserve 1/2 cup cooking water. Drain pasta and transfer it to a large bowl.

3. Put remaining 1/4 cup olive oil, 1/2 teaspoon pepper flakes, 1 3/4 cups chives, lemon juice, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and several grinds of pepper into a blender. Puree until emulsified, about 30 seconds. Make the chive oil as close as possible to serving time as its greenness diminishes as it sits.

4. Transfer chive oil to bowl with tagliatelle, add mushrooms, reserved pasta water, and parmigiana. Toss well. Adjust salt and pepper to taste. Serve immediately, garnished with remaining 1/4 cup of chopped chives.

Freezer Friendly Chocolate-Whiskey Souffle Tarts

2007-03-19T21:36:00.000-05:00

I once had a barren freezer. A bag of chopped spinach. Two ice cubes in a tray. A half empty can of tomato paste. A year-old Lean Cuisine. A few microwavable bean and cheese burritos. That was about it.

Now, my freezer runneth over. Opening the freezer door goes like this: take deep breath; with right hand on handle and left hand raised, fingers splayed and slightly bent to apprehend any thing making a sudden move, slowly perform two-inch safety-open; if movement is detected, move feet out of the field of falling frozen objects, and either shout for help or swiftly close freezer; if no movement is detected, continue with full-open, keeping left hand raised against sudden shifts. Really. I do this many times a day.

It's not like my freezer is some sort of disaster area. I routinely have to re-organize it in order to close the door. It's just chock-full of carefully arranged stuff.

Two tall stacks of dinner left-overs packaged into plastic containers for Patrick's lunches occupy more than their fair share of space. But I can't complain about my husband's total willingness--no, downright enthusiasm--for left-overs. I recognize this as a noble quality, particularly since I become mopey---no, utterly downcast--at the idea of eating Monday's braised chicken for lunch on Thursday. That is, though, the cook's prerogative.

Crowded around the left-over towers are several bags of edamame, at least three different sorts of fish fillets, ground beef, ground pork, plastic baggies of nuts, cardamom pods, whole cloves, and--the sign of stock procrastination--bits and pieces of chicken carcasses.

Into the nooks and crannies between bags of coffee beans and cans of orange juice, I've recently wedged several plastic-wrapped little disks. Yes, in my freezer right now are five tartlet crusts filled with whiskey-spiked chocolate souffle.

Little does my chicken carcass know that nestled up against his rib cage are diamonds in the freezer-burn rough. From freezer company to haute confections, these tarts want nothing but a 15-minute visit to the oven. They emerge all golden-crusted and poofed up, with crackled surfaces and interiors like brownie batter. Four egg whites, whipped up to stiff peaks and folded into the chocolate impart an airiness that perfectly tempers the chocolaty gooiness.

Adopting the premise that anything whiskey-laced counts as traditional Irish fare, I made these tarts for St. Patrick's Day. I prepared them the evening before, froze them, popped a few straight from the freezer into the oven right before dessert, and saved the rest for later to satisfy my own hankerings for chocolate and booze.

The recipe is from Bon Appetit magazine, and as I didn't make a single change to it, save maybe for an extra dash of whiskey, I'll simply link to it here.

A few bits of advice:
The crust is a lovely, crumbly, short-bread flavored thing. My dough would not hold together long enough to be rolled into a log, as the recipe asks. So, I divided it among the tins and pressed it in as I would a cookie crumble crust. Fine.

My tarts were crackly and ready to be eaten after about 15 minutes, whereas the recipe calls for 20.

Several of the cooks who have reviewed the recipe were successful with making one big tart instead of 8 small ones. I didn't have any trouble with my crusts over-browning, but since a big tart will require a longer cooking time, you'll probably have to place aluminum foil over the edges of the crust during its last few minutes in the oven.

I used 70% cocoa Ghirardelli chocolate. Unfortunately, I forgot that I already had several left over bits of it in my freezer. But, nibbles of these chased with swigs of whiskey might ease me through the withdrawal stage once my stash of tarts runs out.

Rooting Around in Gardens

2007-03-12T07:17:00.000-05:00

Back in the West Virginia years, my family owned a small video collection of made-for-TV specials and (once my dad splurged on the second machine) dubbed video rentals. I watched certain videos in this collection until I wore them out.

There was the "Wizard of Oz" phase, which was accompanied by the "fear of tornadoes" phase. Somewhat later, there was the "Desperately Seeking Susan" phase, which ushered in the "Mom, can I please buy this Madonna tape, please?" phase, and which coincided with the slightly embarrassing "Miss America 1989" phase. In this period, I obsessively watched the grainy recording I had made of Gretchen Elizabeth Carlson playing her violin so hard that her hair ornament fell off, and later donning the crown in a flood of mascara. [I just googled her name to make sure I had remembered it correctly, and--who knew?--she's working as a Fox news anchor.]

But between the stretches of time I spent marveling at the gowns of Glenda the Good Witch and Miss Minnesota, there was the "Secret Garden" phase circa 1987. This phase involved lots of hunting around in the forest and practicing my English accent by reciting lines from the movie.

Orphan Mary: "Could I have a bit of earth...to make a gah-den? I love gah-dens."

Volatile Guardian: "There was once someone...someone very, very dear to me, who loved gah-dens too. [Cue dramatic music; then, emotionally:] Take your bit of earth wheh-eveh you may find it, and do with it what you please...Leave me now!"

All of this is leading, oh-so-circuitously, to the announcement of a new phase, one that has its roots in 1987:

I have a bit of earth, and I love gah-dens. With some luck and some good manure, I'll soon have herbs, a lettuce bed, tomatoes, and a row of root vegetables where now I have scraggly bushes and brownish clumps of grass. I've sketched out a plan. I've ordered the seeds. I've interviewed my mother (who has at least three green thumbs), and taken copious notes. Now, I foresee in 2007 a raking, weeding, and watering phase, to be followed by a rooting, pinching, and picking phase.

Unless I manage to kill everything, I'll eventually be making a certain root mash with parsnips and carrots dug up from my own little backyard row instead of hermetically sealed Trader Joe's bags. And I'll be making this mash a lot, as this is, to date, my favorite parsnip recipe. With hardly any effort, especially if you have a good vegetable peeler, it can be yours too.

You can substitute any combination of rutabagas, sweet potatoes, celery root, or turnips for the parsnips, carrots, and baking potatoes to create your own signature root mash. It's a good idea to throw in a few potatoes of some sort, though, to keep the mash from becoming gloopy. Parsnips and carrots make a sweetish mash, but the garlic, which takes on an almost roasted flavor, mellows it out. Blended with a bit of herb-infused cream, humble root vegetables suddenly become, well...sexy. And because mashed parsnips are naturally silky, they don't require a lot of fat. Sexy and healthy: a bit of Madonna and Glenda the Good Witch. What you get is a rich-tasting, comfy, vitamin-packed dish good enough to edge mashed potatoes out of their Sunday-side-dish monopoly.

Any sort of roasted or grilled meats, including this chicken, would do well by this vegetable dish. I can attest to its goodness when spooned alongside barbecued short ribs, and so can my table-mate, who will never outgrow his rib phase.

Herb Infused Root Mash
Serves 4-6. Adapted from a Tyler Florence recipe.

1/2 pound carrots
1/2 pound parsnips
2 large baking potatoes (Russet, Idaho, Yukon Gold)
4 cloves garlic
coarse salt and fresh ground black pepper
1/4 cup cream or half and half
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
two bunches fresh thyme
2 fresh sage leaves
dash of nutmeg

1. Peel vegetables and chop into 1- to 2- inch pieces. Place them (including garlic) in a pot, cover with cool water. Add 1 tablespoon salt. Bring to a boil over medium heat and continue to boil until vegetables are tender, about 30 minutes.

2. While vegetables are boiling, place butter, cream (or half and half), and herbs in a small pot and warm over low heat. Before mixture begins to boil, turn off heat and cover pot. Allow the herbs to infuse the cream mixture while you finish preparing the vegetables.

3. Drain vegetables, and return them to the same pot. Mash with a large fork or potato masher until there are no longer any big clumps.

4. Remove the herbs from the cream mixture, and pour it over the mash. Add a dash of nutmeg. Stir to combine. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

What to Eat with your Morning Coffee

2007-03-04T18:30:00.000-05:00

I am the first to acknowledge that breakfast is personal. It's not a meal for socializing or trying new and interesting flavors. Breakfast is about making the transition from groggy zombie to human being in whatever way works for you. For me, that means coffee. Forget the food...it just interferes with my veins' caffeine absorption rate. Yet, because ravenous attacks of hunger at around 10:30 am tend to interfere with productivity, I've tried to make more of a breakfast effort. Still, I find myself shuffling towards buttered toast or a couple of graham crackers instead of the "balanced" breakfasts de rigeur among the health conscious. I like a banana or grapefruit just as well as the next person, but they make my coffee taste funny.

Patrick's favorite breakfast was once a half pound of bacon and a donut, but citing concerns for his blood pressure, he gave up this combination in favor of pumpkin pie and whipped cream or chocolate cake topped with vanilla ice cream. Should the kitchen be empty of dinner party and holiday leftovers such as these, he makes do with a spartan breakfast of two chocolate croissants from Sweetie Sweetie bakery or a stack of blueberry pancakes. My sister, on the other hand, has taken to early morning tamales with tomatillo sauce purchased from a van that sits outside her apartment building from around 5 - 6 am.

So, breakfast is personal. Although I tend to like to drink my breakfast from a green Fiestaware mug, I've dabbled in danishes and sticky buns, mostly to satisfy my husband's sweet tooth while trying my hand at some of the scarier recipes in Martha Stewart's Baking Handbook. But today, I'm offering you my personal favorite, the breakfast that makes my morning coffee taste better and my newspaper less bitter. When I have good butter in the house, I can hardly keep from making up a large batch of shortbread. It's super easy to make, keeps for a week or more, and turns any cup of coffee or tea into a moan-worthy occasion.

Generally speaking, I prefer my shortbread plain, on the thin side, and cut into wedges. I never really wanted to risk muddling up all that buttery goodness with superfluous additions. This time, I gave into the experimental itch, and the results were not bad at all. I have to admit that, dunked in dark chocolate and sprinkled with salted cashews, these short breads become something altogether different than their simpler, naked kin. Given the option, I might prefer my plain shortbread wedges over these treats at 7 am, but this is coming from someone who is perfectly happy eating a stack of saltine crackers for breakfast.

Short Bread (Chocolate-Dipped and Cashew Sprinkled)
shortbread recipe from Ms. Stewart's Desserts, makes one 9x13 pan, about 27 cookies

You could add all kinds of stuff to this shortbread. Orange zest, candied ginger, chopped dried fruit. I have plans in the works for a savory batch with rosemary and toasted walnuts.

The butter really is important, so use a good one. I have been very impressed with Trader Joe's butter, but, as far as your average supermarket varieties go, Land-O-Lakes hasn't failed me.

1 pound (4 sticks) good butter, cut into small cubes
1 cup packed light brown sugar
5 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt
16 oz. bittersweet chocolate
1/2 cup roasted and salted cashews, finely chopped

1. Preheat oven to 275 degrees F. Butter a 9x13 baking pan (metal or glass) and line with parchment paper.

2. In the bowl of a blender fitted with a paddle, blend butter and sugar on high until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes.

3. Add flour, 1 cup at a time, blending on low speed in between each cup just until flour is incorporated.

4. Add salt and blend until no more flour is visible.

5. Turn out cookie dough onto prepared pan and press down with fingers until relatively even and smooth.

6. Using the back of a knife blade, score shortbread dough into the shapes you desire. (I usually use round pans and cut the shortbread into wedges, but here I've used a rectangular pan and cut the shortbread into strips). With a fork or toothpick, prick shortbread all over at even intervals.

7. Bake 45-50 minutes. Allow to cool. Cut shortbread along scoring lines.

8. Melt chocolate in a double broiler. Dip shortbread into chocolate, allowing excess to drip off. Sprinkle with cashews, and then allow to cool on a cookie rack set above a baking sheet.

Something Borrowed and Something New

2007-02-27T21:13:00.000-05:00

Readers of this blog (bless you!) know that I don't often post recipes that I have made up myself. I do contrive certain dishes, even on a regular basis, but the results are usually (a) uninspiring and (b) unphotogenic. I attribute these shortcomings to the fact that these recipes are usually based loosely around the following ingredients: canned chick peas, kalamata olives, parsley, lemon, sardines, and parmesan cheese. Those are the ingredients I inevitably turn up when it's 7:30, I'm hungry, alone, and peering into the nooks and crannies of my kitchen. But when there are so many excellent recipes out there, and, on top of that, so many that have been tested, endorsed, and tweeked by cooks more ambitious than I, slight variation usually wins out over sheer creation, especially when I have other mouths to feed.

It was just that sentiment that drew me toward a miso-glazed fish recipe passionately endorsed online. There is a reason, I suppose, why variations on this dish were on the menu of several swanky restaurants in recent years including Nobu, Morimoto, and Aqua. It's good. But, who needs fine dining in New York when you can cook up your own gourmet, slightly passe, but entirely delicious miso-glazed fish at home? Why get all dolled up, glide into Nobu, and sip a gin martini while waiting for my miso-glazed cod when I can throw my own version together in Pittsburgh on a Wednesday night? Right? Right? It's not so different when you have someone to do your dishes, and I do. At least that's what a budget-conscious food aficionado who obsessively reads the restaurant reviews in the New York Times tells herself every now and then.

And what did I serve with the aforementioned fish but a salad that I dreamed up while gazing at a pink grapefruit in the local Giant Eagle. I daresay that this melange of fruit, scallions, and toasty sesame seeds outdid the fancy fish, though it was fine and all. Its tanginess certainly paired nicely with the musky sweetness of the miso-clad cod. Evidence: My table mate said, "Yum" as he bit into the fish. Fine. But, when he tasted the salad, he set down his fork, looked me in the eyes, and said, "Whoa, I've never tasted these flavors all mixed together before." Since he wasn't wearing a grimace on his face as he spoke and since he cleared his plate, I took that as a compliment.

So, Mr. Morimoto, in case you're reading this (and you just might be if you like to google yourself and then skip to the fiftieth or so page of results), please give my recipe a look. I know you still have the Black Cod with Miso on your menu (I just checked). I don't know what sort of fruit or vegetable you usually serve with it, but this pink grapefruit thing I threw together works pretty well. I think New Yorkers might like it, maybe even Frank Bruni himself.

Pink Grapefruit Salad with Scallions and Sesame Seeds
Serves 2.

1 pink grapefruit
1 scallion, white and light green parts chopped on the bias
1 teaspoon toasted sesame oil
1 teaspoon toasted sesame seeds
coarse salt

1. Positioned over a bowl, slice the skin and pith away from the grapefruit. Then cut along the interior membranes with a paring knife to release fruit wedges. Drain off most of the juice gathered in the bowl and discard (or drink!).
2. Toss grapefruit wedges with sesame seed oil and scallions. Sprinkle in sesame seeds and season generously with coarse salt.

A Life in Crackers

2007-02-16T20:23:00.000-05:00

Food (or the lack thereof) has probably shaped the history of this planet more than anything else. There's war, of course, but what would war be without the human need to consume calories. Most of this history goes untold, despite every public school child's exposure to The First Thanksgiving and The Potato Famine. Today, though, I'm thinking on a smaller scale. Personal histories have their food chapters, too.

I suppose I could recount my life in chocolate (chocolate peanut butter balls made by mom, Easter Cadbury Creme Eggs, the countless milkshakes I blended for pay in high school, flourless chocolate cake, Christmas truffles).

I could give you a history of my life in beer (sips sneaked from my dad's Bud, a few too many Michelob Lites around age 20, Pale Ale revelation in grad school, the 2005 legalization of soupy Belgian beers in North Carolina).

And there are so many other possibilities: meat (didn't like it, liked it, vegetarian, not vegetarian); coffee (lots of milk and sugar, weak with skim milk, strong with creamer, latte, skim latte, double espresso); cereal (Cheerios, Honey Nut Cheerios, Chex, Frosted Mini-Wheats, Grape-Nuts loaded with sugar, Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, granola, oatmeal, Grape-Nuts with no sugar).

But today, a life in crackers:

*sweet-tasting crackers gummed down in the early years
*peanut butter sandwiched between two Saltines
*Mt. View cafeteria: two packets of Saltines per child...crush, tear, and sprinkle into chicken noodle soup
*after school Ritz crackers with cream cheese
*late night snack of Saltines and butter
*fish crackers doled out to after-school day care kids
*stomach flu: saltines and ginger ale
*party cheese balls: blue cheese rolled in walnuts; neon-colored port wine cheese; cream cheese with green onions, Worcestershire sauce, and a dash of tobasco
*every Christmas: triscuits loaded with crab dip and fist fulls of an oh-so-addictive oyster cracker and ranch seasoning snack
*high school lunch: "Cheese on Wheat" Lance snacks and a can of apple-grape juice
*in Joyner Dorm: breakfasts of graham crackers and coffee, lunches of microwaved triscuits and cheddar
*in a sudden jump of refinement: water crackers and brie
*parties: wine, cheese, and cracker samplers
*a hard fall for Whole Foods' crostini with aged gouda in graduate school

Of late, crackers have sort of retreated from their once essential position. In this post no-knead bread world, I've been spreading my Camembert on hunks of the stuff, and dipping end-pieces into my soups.

Well, this life in crackers has a new chapter:
*February, 2007: homemade icebox crackers

Now, you might be thinking, why would anyone make crackers? Aren't there plenty of perfectly good crackers out there? Doesn't this life in crackers itself not only testify to their ubiquity, but suggest that a well-stocked grocery store can satisfy every cracker need? I might have once conceded these points. But now that I have experienced the crunchy, cheesy, salty perfection that is these crackers, a Cheez-it just won't do.

These crackers trump all party nibbles to date. Spiced nuts, olives, chips and salsa...I'll pass. Should you ever find yourself with a glass of sparkling wine in one hand, one of these crackers should be in the other. And you needn't even set your glass down to manage the cheese tray. The cheese is in the cracker. And, believe you me, these crackers are cheesy. Rich, but not greasy. Festive, but not fancy. And easy, easy, easy to make. If you've made ice-box cookies, you know what I mean.

You just pulse up the ingredients in a food processor, roll the mixture into a log, wrap it up, stash it in the fridge. Then, when you want some tasty crackers, slice the log into rounds. Bake. And munch.

There are many possible variations on these flavors. Ms. Stewart's book also showcases a Gruyere and thyme cracker. I'd like to try something with lots of cracked black pepper, but I haven't decided what sort of cheese would work best. Suggestions welcome!

Parmesan Rosemary Crackers
makes 20 crackers, adapted from Martha Stewart's Hors d'Oeuvres Handbook

3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon coarse salt
1/4 teaspoon fresh ground pepper
2 teaspoons finely chopped fresh rosemary, plus 20 full leaves for decoration
3 tablespoons chilled unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
1 cup (2 1/2 ounces) finely grated Parmesan cheese
5 tablespoons sour cream
1 egg white, lightly beaten

1.Pulse flour, salt, pepper, and rosemary in the bowl of a food processor to combine. Add butter and pulse until mixture resembles coarse meal. Add cheese and pulse to combine.Add 1 tablespoon of sour cream at a time, pulsing after each addition, until a well-combined dough comes together.

2.Transfer dough to a work surface and shape into a 2-inch-diameter-wide log. Wrap with plastic wrap and refrigerate over night.

3. Heat oven to 325 degrees F. Slice log into 1/4-inch slices and place them on a parchment- or silpat-lined baking sheet. Dip a rosemary leaf in egg white, and place in the center of each cracker. Bake immediately, rotating sheet once, until crackers are golden brown, 25-35 minutes. Transfer to a rack to cool. Crackers can be made a day ahead and kept in an airtight container at room temperature.

Spicy Cheddar Crackers
makes 20 crackers, adapted from Martha Stewart's Hors d'Oeuvres Handbook

1 cup all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons yellow cornmeal
1 1/4 teaspoons coarse salt
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
pinch of nutmeg
2 tablespoons chilled unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
1 cup (2 1/2 ounces) finely grated cheddar cheese
1/4 cup plus 1 tablespoon milk

1. Pulse flour, cornmeal, salt, cayenne, and nutmeg in bowl of a food processor until combined. Add butter and pulse until mixture looks like coarse meal. Add cheese, and pulse. With machine running, add milk until dough comes together and is well combined.

2. Follow steps 2 and 3 for Parmesan Rosemary Crackers.

A Sweet and Sour Valentine

2007-02-06T19:06:00.000-05:00

I won't argue that Thanksgiving and Christmas are the most food-centered holidays of the year. This Thanksgiving, the first I hosted at my own house, I not only cooked my first Thanksgiving turkey, I also managed to come up with a vegetable dish worthy of second helpings. Considering my Thanksgiving vegetable track record, that is no small feat. Advent came and went in a flurry of chopped, rolled, and dipped chocolate gifts. On Christmas Eve, as tradition demanded, I stuffed myself with Granny's crab dip. Despite all of this, my favorite holidays food-wise are the meeker, but oh so craftier, Halloween and Valentine's Day. As these holidays approach, I find myself dreaming up elaborate cocktail party menus full of kitschy nibbles and over-the-top cocktails. No matter that these cocktail parties have yet to materialize. They will someday, and, let me tell you, I will be one ecstatic and exhausted host.

In past years, my fantasy Valentine's Day treats tended toward the dark and chocolaty: individual molten chocolate cakes with rose-scented whipped cream, a heart shaped chocolate-hazelnut layer cake wearing a shiny coat of ganache, a flourless chocolate torte floating on a lake of raspberry coulis. But with February 14, 2007 right around the corner, I seem to have set all things chocolate aside and developed a sweet tooth for something sour. Well, sweet and sour. The taste of love.

It is no mere coincidence, I think, that pink grapefruits and blood oranges start parading their blushing rinds around Valentine's Day.

First off, what could be more refreshing on a gray February morning than a plump grapefruit or a glass of scarlet-hued orange juice? And, while boxed chocolates, red roses, and doilies may have a monopoly on Valentine's Day symbolism, do pink grapefruits not bring lips to pucker? Do blood oranges not call hearts to beat? These revelations fashioned a fantasy Valentine's Day spread featuring pink grapefruit mini-cheesecakes, blood orange sorbet, pink grapefruit and campari cocktails, and blood orange and pink grapefruit tarts topped with fresh raspberries. Well, I'm here to tell you, sometimes, some Valentine's fantasies come true.

I can vouch that these tarts marry excellently with a hot mug of black tea. I will wager that they would dress up real nice with a glass of champagne. I like them most of all, though, for how pretty they look lined up on my windowsill. And pretty is something all Valentine's Day treats, fantasized or otherwise, should be.

About the curd color: My heart sunk a bit when I realized that my blazing red blood orange juice was yielding a homely brownish-orange curd, but this is what egg yolks and butter do. Red and yellow make orange. The raspberries, however, bring out the red flecks of the zest, which makes for a sort of smashing color combination.

As for the pink grapefruit: Grapefruit juice tends to go more than a little wan when cooked up into a curd. Once I took mine off the stove, its pinkness has all but faded, leaving in its place a very pale orange. Not willing to forgo my Valentine's Day hue, I added a drop of red food coloring. I suppose my drop was on the hefty side because my curd promptly turned a garish pink. But this color, too, grew on me. What Valentine's Day is without a dose of the artificial?

Blood Orange Curd and Pink Grapefruit Curd Tarts with Fresh Raspberries

1 recipe blood orange curd (see below)
1 recipe pink grapefruit curd (see below)
1 recipe tart dough (see below)
1 container fresh raspberries

1. For individual tarts: Cut each log of tart dough into 5 slices. On a lightly floured surface, roll each slice into a round. Press each round over the bottom and up the sides of a tart tin.

For two full-size tarts: On a lightly floured surface, roll each disk of dough into a circle large enough to fit your tart pans with a slight overhang. Press dough over the bottom and up the sides of tart tins.

2. Prick the bottoms of the dough with a fork. Set tart tins on a baking sheet and chill for at least 1 hour, and up to 1 day.

3. Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Bake tart crusts until golden, about 15 minutes. If they start to bubble up, press them back down with the back of a fork. Cool crusts to room temperature.

4. Spoon curd into tart crusts, smoothing it evenly with the back of a spoon. Top each tart with a few raspberries. Give one to your valentine.

Valentine's Citrus Curd
makes enough for 10 4-inch tarts or two full-size tarts

This recipe produces a robustly flavored curd. Because pink grapefruits and blood oranges tend to be milder and sweeter than your usual curd fruit (lemons and limes), I upped the usual juice and zest measures a bit.

1/2 cup sugar
1/3 cup, plus 1 tablespoon pink grapefruit or blood orange juice
4 large egg yolks
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small cubes
1 1/2 tablespoons pink grapefruit or blood orange zest

1. Whisk sugar and juice in medium sauce pan to blend. Whisk in yolks, butter, and half of zest. Cook over medium-low heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, until the curd is thick enough to coat the back of the spoon, about 10 minutes. This will happen around 160 degrees F. if you happen to have a candy thermometer in your arsenal. Mix in the rest of the zest.

2. Pour curd into a small bowl. Cover with plastic wrap, pressing it directly onto the surface of the curd so that it won't form a skin. Chill in refrigerator for 3-4 hours. Curd can be made 4 days ahead and kept refrigerated.

Martha's Tart Dough, adapted from Martha Stewart's Baking Handbook
makes enough for 10 4-inch tarts or two full-size tarts (this is double Ms. Stewart's recipe).

This is, to date, my favorite dough recipe for sweet tarts. It is easy to work with and it yields a crispy, but firm, and just sweet enough crust. I overworked this batch quite a bit due to a miscalculation about the size of my tart tins, and the crust still turned out very nice.

12 tablespoons unsalted butter, room temperature
**(Let me take this moment to say that, although I have expressed a few doubts about the produce and the employees of Trader Joe's stores, I love Mr. Joe's butter. It's cheap and tastes like that expensive European stuff. Buy it, if you can.)**
1 cup confectioner's sugar
4 large egg yolks
3 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
4 teaspoons heavy cream

1. Arm your electric mixer with the paddle attachment. Combine butter and confectioner's sugar, mixing on low speed for about 2 minutes.

2. Add the egg yolks, and mix until incorporated, about 1 minute, scraping down the sides as needed. Add 1 cup flour, and mix on low speed just until the flour is incorporated, about 30 seconds. Repeat with second cup of flour. Add remaining cup of flour along with salt and cream, and mix just until flour is no longer visible, about 1 minute.

3. For individual tarts: Divide dough between two pieces of plastic wrap, and shape each one into a log with a diameter of about 2 1/2 inches.

For two full-sized tarts, divide dough between two pieces of plastic wrap, and shape each one into a flattened disk.

4. Refrigerate dough for at least 2 hours. Dough can be frozen for up to a month; in that case, thaw it in the refrigerator overnight before using.

Sweet Honeycomb Tripe

2007-02-05T16:28:00.000-05:00

What sort of dish would you prepare with this?

Or, perhaps, this?

I still don't have answers to those questions, because I didn't cook this.

But I ate this, and it was good.

I spent the last week in January back in North Carolina where I downed cups of coffee and wrote furiously against a deadline by day, and downed margaritas and ate heaps of home cooked mexican food by night. This food was cooked in the home of my sister by her roommate, Luis, who chops a fine pico de gallo, pours good tequila, and, when he can find someone willing to eat it, cooks up a mean pot of cow belly.

Luis' take on Menudo--Mexican beef tripe stew--is heavy on the garlic and black pepper. After being cooked down for hours and hours, the tripe relinquishes its rubberiness and unfolds into tender, meaty tasting morsels that soak up the spicy broth. From what I can gather, hominy is often a principle ingredient in menudo, but not Luis' menudo. Perhaps he didn't want any starchy filler taking the place of all that offal goodness.

He bought his tripe from a Mexican meat market in Durham, where it was piled high among the beef cheeks, pig's feet, chicken claws, and several unidentifiable parts. Cows have four stomachs. Luis chose slabs from stomach number 1 (smooth tripe) and stomach number 2 (honeycomb tripe), along with a few beef feet. He looked very happy. My sister looked a little green. And I couldn't stop staring at the cows' tongues, sprawled out in a row, each one as long as my forearm. Cow tongue, I was relieved to learn, is not a traditional menudo ingredient.

Back in Pittsburgh, perusing the meat section of the neighborhood Giant Eagle Grocery, I lingered a bit over the beef tripe and pig's feet. Apparently Pittsburghers eat offal too. I sort of have a hard time picturing a Pittsburgher cheering on the Steelers over a hot bowl of tripe stew, but perhaps I have lots more to learn about my local cuisine.

Eating My Crispy Skinned Words

2007-01-17T17:36:00.000-05:00

Yes, I'm eating my words...and, boy, do they taste good. I'm not too proud to admit my mistakes, especially with chicken greased lips. So here's a conversion story that begins with a confession.

The one or two readers of this blog might recall that its author has publicly aired her on and off again relationship with a certain fowl. For a girl who grew up with a chicken pen in the backyard, it was a relationship worth working for. Determined to do my part, I put a few braised chicken thigh dishes in the dinner rotation, congratulating myself for working with my chicken's shortcomings. Well, in full disclosure, I really hadn't done my part...

Deep breath.

Crack knuckles.

I have never, ever cooked.......a whole chicken.

Whew. I said it...typed it...There it is, common knowledge for anyone who cares to google Sarah Miller chicken living a lie.

It never really seemed worth it to me. You know, you've got to brine it, baste it, hover over it, and all for something that is likely to turn out stringy and bland. When I first came across this roast chicken recipe recommended by Thomas Keller, I thought, Come on. No way chicken, salt, and pepper counts as a recipe at Bouchon. Nope. Not buying it.

But Mr. Keller's enthusiasm must have been picking away at my stony resolve because I found myself doing a double-take at a cute little Trader Joe's free range chicken. Okay, Mr. Bouchon. I'll play your little game.

Well, folks, I'm here to say, "Well played, Mr. Bouchon. Well played, indeed."

This is the roast chicken recipe you've wanted all your life. It's the one I swore I didn't want, and the one that has me now smitten for chicken. The cooking method produces a skin so crispy, so light, you might think you're biting into an airy puff pastry. But there's more to this bird than its lovely golden shell. The meat is juicy, delicate, almost buttery-tasting.

I've been thumbing through Harold McGee's On Food and Cooking: The Science and Lore of the Kitchen at bedtime for a few months now, but I can't promise the explanation I'm about to give could stand up to the scientific method. It seems to me sort of like this chicken poaches itself within its own skin. And this, I think, is why the skin must be absolutely dry. No basting, no buttering, no squeezed lemons. You pat this chicken down nice and dry, throw him in the oven, and leave him there until he's done. Less moisture means less steam which means no more pasty chicken skin. Turns out chicken isn't so needy after all.

Well, that's not entirely true. There is a, shall we say, dark side to Mr. Bouchon's chicken. A billowing, suffocating, dark side. The smoke. My chicken skin's snap, crackle, and popping rained so much hot grease onto my oven elements so that by the time I pulled this bird out of the oven, I had dismantled all my smoke detectors, opened my kitchen windows, and cranked my makeshift ventilation system to over-drive (read: turned my industrial strength fan to high and pointed it toward an open door).

Now, I admit, I have a smoky oven. Push it past 375, and I'm going to pay for it with teary eyes, and clothes that smell like I spent the night passed out on the floor of D's Six Pax and Dogz. But this was a different genre of oven smoke altogether. I've amended Mr. Bouchon's recipe with a few tips that, in retrospect, may...may have improved the ugly side of an otherwise beautiful dish. Please, though, if you live in a small, poorly ventilated apartment, do not attempt this recipe. Find a friend with an open kitchen and a smoking habit, and suggest a nice chicken dinner chez toi.

Crispiest Crispy Roast Chicken
Recipe by Thomas Keller, Bouchon. Serves 4.

1 chicken, 3-4 pounds
coarse salt
fresh cracked pepper
thyme, optional

a roasting pan with a rack
butcher's twine
safety goggles, recommended

1. In a futile attempt to keep your oven from smoking, line its bottom rack with aluminum foil. I can't tell if this made any difference, but it's worth a try.

2. Rinse off your chicken and pat it very dry, inside and out, with paper towels.

3. Preheat your oven to 450 degrees F.

4. Salt and pepper the inside of your bird. Toss in several sprigs of thyme if you have some handy.

5. Truss that baby up. Trussing, so the experts tell me, make for more even cooking and a more "attractive" bird. For trussing know-how (which I definitely needed), see this video.

6. Sprinkle lots of salt over your chicken, a good tablespoon or so. Crack some pepper over it.

7. Put the chicken in a roasting pan, and when your oven is at 450, throw it in.

8. Open your kitchen windows. Take the batteries out of any nearby smoke detectors. Get out of the kitchen.

9. Roast your chicken until its done, 65-75 minutes. Should you feel the need to check in on your bird, I highly recommend you don some sort of protective eye gear. Avoid inhaling as you open the oven door.

10. Don aforementioned goggles. Remove your cooked chicken, refusing to drop it as hot oil sputters up onto your forearms. Marvel at its crispy glory. Let it rest for 15 minutes or so before carving it. Cut off the twine.

11. Paraphrasing Mr. Keller's carving advice would do him a disservice, so I quote: " Separate the middle wing joint and eat that immediately. Remove the legs and thighs. I like to take off the backbone and eat one of the oysters, the two succulent morsels of meat embedded here, and give the other to the person I'm cooking with. But I take the chicken butt for myself. I could never understand why my brothers always fought over that triangular tip Â until one day I got the crispy, juicy fat myself. These are the cook's rewards. Cut the breast down the middle and serve it on the bone, with one wing joint still attached to each. The preparation is not meant to be super elegant."

12.Slather the meat with butter, if you want to to experience raptures of excess. Slather it with mustard if you simply want perfection.

Don't forget to put the batteries back in your smoke detectors.

Beer, Brittle, and Bacon

2007-01-12T17:50:00.000-05:00

Pittsburgh has treated me well in the five or so months I've been here. Its bubble-less real estate market made it possible to buy a little house. Its friendly folk have kept me from pining for the home state. Its Steelers' jersey wearing populus has made me aware of the rhythms of the football season (this from a girl reared on UNC-Duke basketball). Its expansive parks have lured me into my running clothes and out of the house. Despite all of this, I must register a complaint with Pittsburgh...well, more accurately with the state of Pennsylvania, and this complaint that has to do with something dear to me. Pennsylvania has something against wine.

Skipping over the legislative details (about which I know very little), I will say this to those of you unfamiliar with Pennsylvania liquor laws: wine must be bought in state-run liquor stores. There are no wine shops in Pittsburgh, no wine to be found in grocery stores. Sure, we have a Whole Foods and a Trader Joe's, but sans wine, they're just not the same. I have found a few of my regulars bottled next to the Jim Beam and Seagram's, but pricier by two or three dollars, and that's quite a difference for a struggling graduate student who prefers her wine in the 7-9 dollar range.

All this has been a bit depressing for an oenophile from North Carolina. But then, I discovered, there's Pittsburgh beer. And by Pittsburgh beer, I don't mean the various incarnations of Iron City...I mean really good locally brewed beer. A beer-savvy neighbor recently led me to the East End Brewing Company where thirsty Pittsburghers clutch their empty glass "Growlers," and wait in line to have them refilled again with Big Hop IPA, Black Strap Stout, or maybe a limited seasonal brew...my favorite: the supremely bitter The Bitter End.

Well, these beers may have slaked my thirst, but they have planted in me a hunger for something crunchy and salty. Something more upscale, dare I say, than french fries or pretzels. Something worthy of The Bitter End. I have discovered: peanut brittle was made to be eaten with beer.

Peanut brittle may not merit the name "dessert," but it is so much more than a "snack." I once thought that I had discovered the perfectly balanced equation of salty and sweet when I tossed a bag of peanut M&M's into my buttered popcorn at a discount movie theater in 1994. But this peanut brittle has called me to abandon that perfect combination for one that may not be available in movie theatre concession stands, but eminently capable of being stuffed in ziploc bags and smuggled into virtually any munch-inducing establishment. This is why I've been sneaking peanut brittle into local Pittsburgh bars. Alternating sips of Big Hop with nibbles of peanut and macadamia nut brittle, I can hardly muster what once seemed so attractive about a glass of pinot noir and a dish of olives.

I've introduced a few fellow beer drinkers to the pleasures of this combination. After a taste or two, a certain ambivalent reader of The New Yorker magazine formulated a description of my brittle that sent me back to the kitchen, this time armed with a pound of cured pork. In a moment of culinary abandon, I concocted my own brittle brew. For those of you who like a dollop of maple syrup on your bacon, and those of you who have been known to request peanut butter with your pancake and bacon breakfast, I have for you a culinary curiosity certain to please: peanut bacon brittle.

Doubts aside, this is a candy meant for grown-ups--or aspiring grown-ups, as the case may be. The vegetarian version of this brittle is excellent, each bite affording an addictive ratio of maple flavored crunch and salted nut heft. It may seem counterintuitive that, with bacon, this brittle takes on an air of sophistication, like popcorn sprinkled with truffle oil or deviled eggs topped with caviar; but this is what my initial sampling has led me to conclude. A guilded lily never tasted so good.

Oh yes, and it's easy to make. You will have to dust off your candy thermometer. Peanut brittle made without one is likely to turn from sweet and golden to blackish and bitter in a heartbeat. Brittle not heated enough, on the other hand, will pull the fillings out of your teeth.

Peanut and Macadamia Nut Brittle, bacon optional
Makes a bit less than 2 sheet pans of brittle.
Recipe adapted from one that appeared in Bon Appetit, November 1992, submitted by Lisa Mayfield of Raleigh, NC.

vegetable cooking spray
3 cups sugar
2 cups water
3/4 cup light corn syrup
3/4 cup dark corn syrup
2 cups salted roasted peanuts
2 cups salted macadamia nuts
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 tablespoon baking soda
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1. Put two sheet pans in the oven and heat at 200 degrees.

2. Stir first 4 ingredients in heavy large saucepan over medium heat until sugar dissolves. Increase heat to high and boil without stirring until candy thermometer registers 260 degrees, about 20 minutes. (The time your sugar will take to reach this temperature may be much different. This is why you have to rely on a thermometer).

3. Reduce heat to medium-low. Mix in nuts and butter and cook until thermometer registers 295 degrees, stirring constantly, about 15 minutes. All this stirring will make you tired. Persevere. You will soon be munching yummy brittle.

4. As your brittle reaches 295 degrees, quickly pull out your warmed sheet pans and spray them thoroughly with vegetable cooking oil. Set them nearby.

5. Add baking soda and vanilla and stir briskly while the mixture foams up like some sort of chemistry project. Immediately pour out onto sheet pans, dividing evenly. Spread out brittle as thinly as possible. It probably will not cover the surface of the entire pan...this is ok. Let stand until cold and hard.

6. Break brittle into pieces. Store in airtight containers at room temperature. (Can be prepared 1 month ahead.)

Bacon Option

In place of the macadamia nuts, add 1 pound cooked, coarsely chopped bacon. Substitute 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper for coarse salt.

Mixing it up on New Year's

2007-01-02T20:03:00.000-05:00

Seeing as the new year is well underway, this bit about New Year's Eve dinner is not entirely breaking news. Luckily, improved punctuality was not among my New Year's resolutions. I promise I will eventually get around to the food, but by way of an initial detour through a phenomenon that occurs in the gap between December 31 of one year and January 1 of the next: in a half-second's space of time, new year's resolutions go into effect. The promise of a fresh start, the opportunity for a clean break...a new calendar can buttress all sorts of intentions with an extra shot of determination. Some of my resolutions of past years: to exercise more often, to eat a more healthy breakfast (or even any breakfast), to be more thrifty, to correspond more often with my friends. More, more, more. I can't ever remember resolving to do less of something, much less to keep doing what I'm doing.

Well, this year, several familiar resolutions presented themselves. In addition to those of previous years (is there ever complete success with a New Year's resolution?), I could have added: to finish my degree, to read more novels, and to spend a little less time surfing food blogs.

But then I got to thinking, why must beginning the new year be so much about buckling down, becoming more disciplined, and putting things in order when it could be about becoming more flexible, experimenting, mixing things up a little? Resolving to eat a better breakfast seems like forcing myself to adopt a painful regimen. Why not happily choose to try something new, expand my early morning experience, mix a little indulgence in with my coffee?

I'm naming 2007 The Year of the Mix. I might mix up my exercise routine, mix some novels into my "to read" pile, mix up some original recipes, maybe even mix a new puppy in with our little family.

The Year of the Mix began on New Year's Eve. We decided to forego New Year's on the town for a New Year's night in "Casino-Royale Style" with some friends in Washington DC. We dressed to the nines, lapped at a spring of freely flowing prosecco, and played Texas Hold 'Em poker with fancy clay-filled chips: blues at 5 million, reds at 10 million, blacks at a whopping 20 million. We mixed the poker with some Karaoke Revolution--a video game that allows you to choose a character (complete with your choice of body type, hair color, clothing, and accessories), and guides your pitch as you sing competitively against the characters chosen by the rest of the players.

It struck me, though, that we didn't really need the alter egos, as we were nearly in costume already. Norman and Kimberly were a mixture of black velvet and purple fishnet with a smatter of crimson lipstick. Patrick and I were a mixture of black silk, suspenders, and costume diamonds. To the tune of music from half a dozen Bond movies, we plunked down chips, and nibbled on panko-crusted shrimp balls.

Martinis were shaken. We became characters comfortable with betting 40 million on a pair of fives. Cigarillos were smoked. Bluffs filled the air. Patrick had the best luck and, I imagine, the best bluff. Armed with this potent combination, he raked in the chips. Philosophers, it seems, may seek the truth, but will gladly forsake it should the payoff be large enough.

As midnight approached, we enjoyed the final dish of the year. A lamb chop with kiwi salsa proved a fitting way to start the Year of the Mix. There are those people out there who don't like to mix their foods. "Salty should not be combined with sweet. Keep savory flavors away from the dessert course. And please don't put fruit in my meat dish." I could beg to differ with them all, but the latter prohibition is a real shame. Pork and apples love each other. Poached tilapia never tasted better than with avocado and grapefruit. And lamb...lamb is oh so good with a whole string of fruits: apricots, prunes, raisins.

Here, both fresh and dried fruit are mixed together into a salsa. The kiwi and cranberries bring a bright, citrusy note that cuts through the slightly musky flavor of lamb. The pear gives it a bit of a crunch, and the scallions some savory depth. With each little bite of warm lamb, you get a minty sweet and sour kick. It's a combination I'm planning on mixing up again in the near future--on a night, perhaps, when my husband hasn't robbed me out of more than a billion dollars.

Lamb Chops with Cranberry-Kiwi Salsa
Adapted from Bon Appetit, April, 1999. Serves 2 as main course, 4 as starter course.

2 small (not too ripe) pears, diced
2 kiwis, peeled and diced
4 tablespoons dried cranberries
3 tablespoons chopped scallions
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons honey
1 tablespoon chopped fresh mint
salt and pepper
4 1-inch-thick lamb chops, rib or loin, trimmed of excess fat
mint leaves for garnish

1. Combine pears, kiwis, cranberries, scallions and lemon juice in medium bowl. Mix in 1 tablespoon honey and chopped mint. Season salsa to taste with salt and pepper. Let stand 30 minutes, tossing occasionally.

2. Preheat broiler. Brush chops lightly on both sides with remaining 1 tablespoon honey; sprinkle with salt and pepper. Broil chops until cooked to desired doneness, about 5 minutes per side for medium-rare. Be careful not to overcook your little chops.

3. Transfer lamb to each plate (two per plate for main course, one per plate for starter course); spoon salsa on top, garnish with mint, and serve.

Happy New Year!

Six Truffles

2006-12-21T16:20:00.000-05:00

I've been doing so much chopping, warming, stirring, rolling, and dipping of chocolate in recent days that I've developed symptoms of the carpal tunnel sort. Since I've been making sweets rather than making progress on the dissertation, I should probably avoid confusing the swelling and stiffness in my hands with any injury incurred from hours of furious typing. I'm suffering the consequences of of an activity so much sweeter than forming senteces on an electronic keyboard. I've been making Christmas gifts...pretty little edible things. It's truffle-maker's repetitive motion stress that's ailing me, and I couldn't be happier.

Aiming to spend responsibly and give richly this Christmas season, I tried to make and bake as many gifts as I could. In a moment of presumptuousness, I passed over all of those gift-worthy cookie and fudge recipes, girded my loins with a checkered apron, and embarked on a truffle making extravaganza. The recent arrival of Trader Joe's--and their inexpensive "pound plus" Belgian chocolate bars--made my plan seem so simple, so reasonable.* Come on, I thought, what's a box of plain old truffles compared to a box of six different truffles. That's almost a week's truffles for those of herculean will, twenty minutes' worth for those more inclined to an all out chocolate binge.

Food and Paper Truffles, clockwise from top left:
-chocolate covered macadamia nut truffle rolled in toasted coconut
-white chocolate ginger bread truffle with candied ginger
-dark chocolate covered caramel dusted with fleur de sel
-dark chocolate covered peanut butter truffle topped with salted peanuts
-dark chocolate truffle dusted with cocoa powder
-milk chocolate espresso truffle with chocolate covered coffee bean

For all their associations with decadence, truffles are simple things: (1) Melt chocolate in hot cream; (2) add your choice of flavorings; (3) chill; (4) form into balls; (5) chill; (6) dip, roll, or sprinkle; (7) and chill. I started with a few recipes from epicurious.com, and added some nuts here, some white chocolate there, until I had six tasty sounding varieties. Truffles don't test your baking smarts; they test your finger joints and your patience. A sharp knife for cutting chocolate bars and a decent double boiler will help preserve your hands. To preserve your patience? Well, this advice I can give rather confidently: pacing before the closed door of your refrigerator will not encourage your chocolate to stiffen up any faster, and neither will opening that closed door and poking the chilling chocolate with your finger. Out of all those repetitive tasks involved in truffle making, the only really onerous one is the waiting. But you know what they say comes to those who wait.

After a week of pacing and poking, I had a freezer full of truffles resting in tupper ware containers. When the gift-giving hour arrived, I plopped six truffles in candy papers, wrapped them in tissue paper, and closed them in boxes tied with twine. Those brown squirrels are eating acorns, I'm pretty sure, but they could almost be cradling truffles.

* I used Trader Joe's "pound plus" semisweet (53%) and dark (70%) chocolate bars for these truffles. I liked the flavor of this chocolate, and will use it in the future. I don't doubt that some more expensive chocolates are better, but they are also more expensive. This chocolate is a real deal at around $3 for 17.6 ounces. I do not recommend, however, Trader Joe's white chocolate chips. They are too sweet, and do not melt well. In fact, in the middle of dipping the ginger bread truffles, I chucked a whole pound of the stuff into the trash and went out to Whole Foods for several bars of Ghiradelli white chocolate. They melted very nicely and tasted good too.

Consider the Cauliflower

2006-12-19T19:18:00.000-05:00

If you were asked to make a list of the top five vegetables available in virtually any grocery store, but continually overlooked by even foodish types, you would probably include that hefty, bumpy, yet attractively named cauliflower. It would fall on your list among the maligned but rebounding brussels sprout, the gem-hued but unpopular beet, and cauliflower's own ugly stepsister, broccoli. For years I looked blithely past these veggies, fixing my eyes on more simple, more obvious specimens, like bell peppers, carrots, even eggplant. I always thought that cauliflower looked nice, its bright buds encircled in a ring of pale green. It seemed like a vegetable that deserved to have its portrait painted, but not necessarily something to be taken home and eaten. Well, things have changed. Allow me to counsel you, dear reader, take it home.

But when you get home, don't, please don't, type "how to cook cauliflower" into your Google bar. I know, this tactic may have served you well in the past ("how to remove red wine stains," "how to tie a bow tie," "how to dice an onion"--I recommend all of these inquiries); but the world wide web is not, generally speaking, cauliflower-friendly. One site after another urges its readers to submit their cauliflower to hot water or steam. The result: pale, flaccid, waterlogged vegetables. As my youngest sister and her friends would say, "like, eewww." I may be going overboard here, but this culinary advice amounts to nothing less than vegetable hate speech. The hate you've felt towards certain vegetables--broccoli, brussels sprouts, rutabagas, and our dear cauliflower--has been displaced. We should be wrinkling our noses at boiling and steaming, not at the poor vegetables that emerge from these procedures.

No one, no four star restaurant chef, no opinionated food blogger, has undertaken the task of emending Wikipedia's cooking suggestions for this particular vegetable: "Cauliflower can be boiled, steamed or eaten raw." This bit of info would more accurately read: "Cauliflower becomes nearly unpalatable when boiled or steamed. Eaten raw, it's ok for starvation dieters. But roasted with garlic, it is just plain delicious."

Tossed with olive oil, garlic, and plenty of salt, then roasted in a blazing oven, cauliflower comes out all nice and toasty, tender in the middle and crisp around the edges. Dressed up with a sprinkling of chili flakes and a squirt of lemon juice, cauliflower tastes down right fancy...a side dish to dress up roasted chicken...maybe even outshine the chicken altogether. Heck, do without the chicken. It's already had its fifteen minutes of fame.

Roasted Cauliflower with Garlic and Parsley
Serves 4.

1 head cauliflower, cut into florets
three tablespoons minced garlic
1/4 cup olive oil
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
1/4 teaspoon hot chili flakes, or more if you're spicy
3 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
1 lemon, cut into 4 wedges

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Toss cauliflower with olive oil, garlic, salt, and pepper.
2. Spread mixture evenly on baking sheet and roast 25-30 minutes, stirring every so often, until cauliflower is nice and brown around the edges. Don't take it out of the oven too soon.
3. Toss with parsley; season with salt and pepper to taste; serve with lemon wedges.

Be Prepared: Training for End-of-Year Gluttony

2006-12-12T16:48:00.000-05:00

I admit it, my views about health food might not be altogether sound. I've praised the freshness of deep fried dishes. On the night before the big 5 K race, I served huge patties of red meat to a certain runner in training. My solitary dinners look like a carbo-fetishist's dream fulfillment. I'm not trying to hide anything. Really. It's just that other people don't seem to salivate at the prospect of munching through a lap-sized bowl of popcorn for dinner.

But come this time of year, even I blanch a bit at the holiday eating habits on the horizon, the ones against which I'll brace myself, only to give in the moment I meet my first array of holiday spreads and dips (Oh...my granny's crab dip!). Then, there are the tins of homemade candies and cookies: seven layer bars, peanut butter fudge, peanut brittle, peanut butter cookies topped with Hershey's kisses...

Hmmm. I never realized how peanut-buttery the Christmas season is until now. I should have, though. During the months of December and January, a plastic gum ball dispenser filled with red and green peanut M&M's sits on my grandparents' kitchen counter. I don't know what it is about those little candies that I find so irresistible, but I can't pass by that damn dispenser without pushing the lever, holding out my hand for a few M&M's, and greedily popping them into my mouth. I just can't help it...those M&M's sit in that little plastic globe, just waiting to tempt someone to push the lever..."Sarah, push the lever... Push it!!!!" And I don't really even like candy.

To get to the point--and, yes, there is one: now is the time for prophylactic dining...healthy eating to counterbalance, in advance, the many peanut-laced delights I am soon to gobble up. Nothing says healthy to me like tofu, seaweed, and buckwheat.

No, these are not the components of some bitter-tasting health tonic to be downed with a grimace. They are the ingredients of my favorite mid-week dinners, and not just when I'm preparing for Christmas gluttony. Slurping up thick noodles from a bowl of broth that smells like the sea, alternating bites of tofu and chewy strands of wakame, tossing in a dash of chili oil and a pinch of sesame seeds when I can make myself set down my chopsticks, I congratulate myself on my salubrious diet. There is nothing like seaweed to make one feel all bright-eyed and pink-cheeked. With a few more rotations of this dish before the 23rd, I just know I'll be ready for hours of lever-pushing and M&M-chomping.

Buckwheat Noodle Soup with Tofu and a Taste of the Sea
Serves 4. In her Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone, Deborah Madison gives a recipe for a similar soup. I think it was her version that got me started tinkering.

Sometimes I like a milder broth, sometimes a spicier one, or with a deeper miso flavor. I just keep layering soy sauce, miso, sesame oil, and mirin into the broth, tasting until it seems right. These measurements of ingredients are estimates.

Now, you may protest: my week-night pantry isn't stocked with bonito flakes; I don't even know what wakame looks like. But this stuff is increasingly stocked on mainstream grocery shelves, and once you've bought your little seaweed packets, shrimp flakes, and silken tofu, they'll sit in your pantry, never threatening to go bad, until you want your next bowl of healthy victuals. One kombu packet will see you through this dish time and time again.

For stock:
6 cups water
2 3-to 4-inch pieces of dried kombu seaweed
1/4 cup bonito flakes

For soup:
1/4 cup dried wakame seaweed, plus 1 cup warm water for soaking
1/2 pound firm silken tofu, cut into small cubes
1/2 cup tamari or soy sauce
1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil
1/4 cup mirin
1 teaspoon hot chili-infused sesame oil
1/2 pound buckwheat soba noodles
2 tablespoons miso, color of your choosing

necessary garnishes:
green onions sliced into 1/2 inch pieces
toasted sesame seeds
hot chili-infused sesame oil

non-necessary garnishes:
thinly sliced mushrooms
fresh cilantro leaves, roughly chopped

1. Make the stock. Wipe off any salt or grit on the kombu with a damp cloth. Place kombu into a good sized pot and add about 6 cups of water. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, then cover and simmer on lower heat for about 10 minutes. Sprinkle bonito flakes over water and remove from heat. Let sit for five minutes or so and then strain the liquid into a bowl through a fine mesh colander or cheesecloth-lined not-so-fine colander. At this point, you can let the stock cool and keep it refrigerated for a few days until you want it, or proceed with the soup making.

2. Proceed with the soup making. Cover dried wakame with warm water and let sit for 10 minutes until softened.

3. Set a large pot of water to boil for noodles. Bring stock to slow simmer in another pot over medium heat. Add soy sauce, sesame oil, and mirin to stock. Taste and adjust for saltiness and sweetness. Add more of anything you see fit. Reduce heat to low.

4. Boil soba noodles according to package directions (I usually dispense with the slow additions of cold water method, and boil them like flour pasta...but just don't overboil. They should still be firm to the bite when you take them off the heat.) Drain noodles and rinse them in colander with cold water to stop them cooking. Toss with a bit of sesame or peanut oil if it looks like they're sticking together.

5. Dissolve miso into soup. Add noodles and tofu and warm until heated through. Ladle into bowls. Garnish with necessary garnishes. Garnish with all, a few, or none of the non-necessary garnishes.