The Stats

Somehow I’ve managed to hit 5,000 views on this thing.  I’m not sure who reads this besides Jim and a few friends but I guess someone does.  Maybe 5,000 doesn't sound like a lot, but it does to me.  Apparently it has been viewed in 10 different countries with Google being the number 1 referring site, followed by Facebook.  I’m not bragging, I’m just baffled.  I can tell you my most popular recipes are the eggplant meatballs followed by the Vietnamese chicken and, bizarrely, rutabaga ribbons.  Don’t get me wrong, I love rutabaga ribbons, which is why they are here, but it seems like an odd recipe for the top 3.  My least popular posts:  my very first one, which is for mashed sweet potatoes with smoked paprika (it’s delicious), my butterscotch cookie recipe, and my salad dressing recipe.  I am forever making salad dressing.

So, like that rutabaga recipe I’m going to celebrate with something simple.  Jim suggested we have a party with dishes from this blog, but I informed him if we did, we’d have to blog about it, and it’s way too hot outside for a party.  The best part of summer is how simple it is to make a great dinner.  The grill, the produce and all the herbs make summer the most delicious time of the year.  Like most recipes, this salad came in to existence because it’s what we had in the house.

Tomato Salad with Dill, Capers and Lemon Vinaigrette  - Serves 6-8

1 pint grape tomatoes, cut in half

2 tablespoons dill, chopped

1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon capers, drained

sea salt, such as Maldon

Vinaigrette

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 tablespoons lemon juice

2 teaspoons honey

2 teaspoons dijon mustard

Place the tomatoes in a bowl, toss with the dressing.  Add in the dill and capers, lightly toss, sprinkle with salt and serve.

Going Green

Our friends Jessica and George like the things we do, which are mainly eating, drinking, and traveling.  When we see them several times a year it’s a time for epic food marathons.  George is a chef with 2 restaurants under his belt, training in Boston and a pedigree of growing up English and Spanish in Venezuela.  So he’s got a big set of crayons in the kitchen.

I can honestly say some of my favorite meals have been with them.  The day before they got married Jessica picked me up at the airport in with a pea coat in hand.  I had just moved to Atlanta from Texas and was not equipped for a February wedding in Boston.  From the airport we went to their home in Dorchester.  George made us lunch.  I remember it exactly, but I doubt he does.  George:  you made a porcini mushroom risotto with parsley; we drank a Sam Adams seasonal ale, it was you, me, Jess and your mom and it was great, perfect even.  A warm meal and a heavy beer on a snowy day.  I believe it’s the best risotto I’ve ever had based on that memory alone.  And it snowed and snowed all night and we have the wedding pictures to prove it.

George has continued to feed me and Jim over the years and introduce us to things we didn’t know we couldn’t live without, like smoked paprika and chimichurri sauce.  I’ll put those two things on almost anything.  The first time I had chimichurri was at their house in the ‘burbs.  They had just had their son and had left Dorchester for Main St. USA in the Boston suburbs.  It looked very much like the town in Vermont where I had attended college.  They lived on the actual Main St. and it had, stereotypically, one traffic light and a post office.  The house was white clapboard, as you would expect, with matching labrador retrievers in the yard.  

On that trip Jessica made her famous sangria with the very special addition of Southern Comfort (don’t knock it till you try it).  George made dinner, of course.  I don’t know what else the meal consisted of but I know for certain it was the first time I had ever had yucca and chimichurri.  Out of that dinner I have parlayed that chimichurri sauce onto most everything besides steak.  I use it as dip for shrimp cocktail, I marinade swordfish in it and I most famously make zucchini ribbons with it.  

This recipe is my own and I do things differently than George so don’t blame him because my recipe is not traditional.  These zucchini ribbons go well with a cedar planked fish.

Zucchini Ribbons with Chimichurri Sauce 

Chimichurri sauce - Makes 1 cup

1 bunch parsely

1 bunch cilantro

1/2 a cup of olive oil

Juice of 1 lime or lemon

2-3 garlic cloves, blanched

1 teaspoon cumin, toasted

1 teaspoon honey

large pinch red pepper flakes

sea salt to taste

Combine ingredients in a food processor and process until combined.

Zucchini Ribbons

With a peeling knife remove the outer green layer, then peel in to strips, creating 4 sides to the zucchini, stopping when you get to the seed layer, this should take about +/- 8 swipes of the knife.  Plan for 1 zucchini per person.  Bring a pot of water to a boil.  Meanwhile prepare and ice bath.  When the water boils turn it off and plunge the zucchini ribbons in for 30 seconds, remove and plunge in the ice bath.  When they have cooled drain and dry them well on paper towels or a dish towel.  The sauce and the blanching of the ribbons can be done a day ahead.  Do not dress them until you are ready to serve them.  Toss the zucchini with 2 teaspoons of sauce per zucchini.

Groupies

I am unclear how it made it almost 39 years without having a panisse.  They are a French french fry.  Our first encounter with them occurred earlier last summer. ‘What is it?‘ I asked Jim taking my second bite.  ‘I don’t know, what do you think?‘  ‘No clue.  But it’s delicious.’ ‘Mmmhmm.’  So, we asked the waiter.  Chick pea fries.  Had we simply read the menu or paid attention perhaps we would have known.  However, it was a revelation.  Chickpea fries.  A little research told me these were indigenous to Southern France and as common as waffles at The Waffle House.  How had we managed to live our lives without these?  

The restaurant that gave us these gems is the second for a local chef to whom we are devoted.  We were devoted to his first restaurant and thrilled to hear about a second.  I am not sure he knows about our devotion but I suspect, now, between these fries, the pork belly BLT with lardo mayo, the crab roll, some very special clams, seriously awesome oysters and a fried chicken that rivals Thomas Keller and the Colonel. He is starting to catch on because we show up at least once a week, sometimes twice for lunch.  Lunchtime is quiet and we stick out.  Well, Jim sticks out.  If you have never met my one and only he’s the 6’5” bald guy in the Buddy Holly by way of Brooklyn glasses.  Jim, by sheer cubic space, cannot be ignored, and I’m the much shorter person with him.  Dinner is busy with curious food trendsters and hungry neighbors, lunch has not been discovered.  While I appreciate having a cool secret, I don’t want the rest of this town to screw up my good thing, so here’s hoping more people show up for lunch and Jim and I melt into the background.  

The chef is turning out food with a nod, a French nod, or a New England nod, or a Spanish nod, or a Florida nod or whatever he feels like nodding. It’s just good food.  And nary a pimento cheese dip, deviled egg or red velvet anything on the menu. The fries had to be ours though.  They are made much like polenta.  Chickpea flour, plus water, heated and mixed together, placed in a pan to cool then sliced in to rectangles and fried in olive oil.  That’s it or so said Mark Bittman and David Leibovitz.  However, these tasted better than that ingredient list.  It’s not that easy in fact it has taken me a year to get this one right.

This is what I have come up with that gets close.  If you happen to live in Atlanta go to One Eared Stag in Inman Park for lunch and try Chef Phalen’s version.  Or try something more adventurous because there is a lot of fun stuff happening on that menu.  If you don’t live in Atlanta, well, then you have an excuse to try mine.  

Panisses - Serves 4

1 cup chickpea flour

1 cup veggie stock

1 cup water

1 teaspoon olive oil

1 tablespoon parsley, chopped

salt

Olive oil for frying

Put the stock and/or water and the teaspoon of olive oil in a pot and heat until shimmering, not boiling, whisk in the chickpea flour and the salt. Continue to whisk or stir while it cooks for about 5 minutes.  Add in the parsley and pour in to a greased small rectangular dish, mine is 5"x7".  Cool to room temperature and move to the fridge for at least 6 hours.  I usually do this step the day before I want to serve them.

Turn the molded dough out on to a paper towel and blot any condensation.  The top layer will be lumpy, slice it off and slice the remainder in to fries.  Heat about a 1/2” of oil in a wide pan.  Fry the fries for about 5 minutes until golden brown.  Sprinkle with sea salt.

My Very Best for Thanksgiving

I developed this dish for my friend Jayme’s birthday. Somehow we have gotten in the tradition of cooking a French bistro meal every year in celebration of her day of birth. Last year I attempted duck confit. Two auditions later I had a lot of duck fat and no main course. I punted and planned to make rack of lamb and daupinoise gratin. Escargot, as usual, were the appetizer and of course she was getting a pear clafoutis for her birthday cake. But what to serve as a vegetable? I exhaustively researched vegetable side dishes. I consulted Jaques, Julia, Tony, Thomas and numerous websites and blogs. Nothing, absolutely nothing, ‘went’ with the planned meal.

Now, this may sound like an exaggeration to you, but it was the truth. I had criteria. It could not be salad, we already had a first course. This dish could not contain cream or cheese, that would make the potatoes redundant. It had to be a fall vegetable. It had to be green. And it couldn't be too complicated. Because obviously I wasn’t complicating the matter at all. Artichokes, too messy. Asparagus, uninspired. Brussels sprouts, last year’s news. Spinach, wrong texture. Broccoli, yawn. Zucchini, bigger yawn. I wanted green beans but not just regular old green beans or even green beans almandine. Wait, green beans almandine, then it popped into my head ‘What about green beans with chestnuts?’ Then it grew ‘What about green beans with chestnuts sauteed in the leftover duck fat?’

When I had it worked out in my head I knew it was going to be good. How could it not be? I ran out and bought a jar of chestnuts and came home and made it for Jim that night. The green beans got the eye roll of approval from Jim. The chestnuts caramelize, the green beans remain crisp with a little char and the duck fat provides a sweet, earthy background. We have decided it is the perfect side dish for Thanksgiving. We served it last year and we are serving it again this year and I suspect the year after and the year after.

Green Beans & Chestnuts Sauteed in Duck Fat - Serves 6

1 lb. green beans, ends trimmed

2 tablespoons duck fat, rendered

12 chestnuts sliced in to 1/4” slices

salt

Heat a pot of salted water and bring to a simmer. Meanwhile prepare an ice bath. Blanch the green beans in the salted water for 1 minute. Plunge in the ice bath. Let cool in the ice bath for several minutes. Drain and dry the green beans. This step can be done the night before. Heat the duck in a heavy bottomed skillet over medium high heat until sizzling loudly (about 1 minute). Add the green beans and the chestnuts at the same time. Saute until green beans have taken on a slight char or patina and the chestnuts have caramelized, about 4 minutes. Finish with salt and serve.

Perfect Couple

Pie and ice cream, a grilled cheese and tomato soup, steamed crabs and beer, ice cold milk and an Oreo cookie, some things were meant to be and their marriage truly endures the test of time. Maybe we forget to celebrate the simplicity? Which brings me to this question? When was the last time you had prosciutto and melon? Been awhile? It’s a perfect combination. It is silly to print a recipe for such a thing, it’s ham and cantaloupe. But if you must know, I usually cut ours away from the rind, sprinkle it with a tiny bit of sea salt, drape it with two pieces of prosciutto and then I drizzle it with about a half a teaspoon of the very Italian agave nectar and half a teaspoon of extra virgin olive oil.

I remember my first prosciutto e melone. When I was 8 my Dad was involved with an Italian woman with the mutually exclusive large Italian family. She always hosted the family Christmas Eve dinner and the menu was always the same. We had antipasto, prosciutto and melon prosciutto and melon, French onion soup in copper pots topped with muenster cheese, ravioli, some sort of meat that obviously I was not interested in, a salad, dessert with coffee and anisette and After Eight mints. She was perennially teased about the salad, due to the number of guests she would run the lettuce through the rinse and spin cycles of the washing machine. Maybe the ham and melon seemed exotic, but mainly the appeal is that it is salty AND sweet, no different than the deliciousness that is a chocolate covered pretzel.

In all seriousness, I’m not just going to give you a recipe for prosciutto and melon, I’ve added a couple more items. This salad came from one of those stone soup moments that really many awesome dishes arise from. We had a delicious cantaloupe, the kind that you consume over the sink because you can’t wait to get it on a plate and it just tastes better when the juice runs down your chin. Also, we didn’t have enough ham for full blown prosciutto and melon and we had a heart of romaine that needed to be consumed and some goat cheese floating around in the meat drawer. I’ll admit goat cheese is cheating. Much like bacon or truffle oil, you could put any of them on a cardboard square and have a tasty, eco-friendly canape. But that’s what we had and mid-bite Jim said ‘Ummm, write this down on the list of things I like.’ So I did before I forgot what went in, which is what usually happens.

Prosciutto and Melon Salad with Goat Cheese and Agave Nectar - Serves 2

1 heart of romaine chopped thinly equal to about 2 cups

1 oz. prosciutto - chopped

1.5 oz. goat cheese - crumbled

1/2 cup chopped cantaloupe

1 teaspoon agave nectar

1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon olive oil

1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar

Chop the lettuce and dress with oil, vinegar and agave nectar, toss with remaining ingredients.

Watermelon Pickle

It’s amazing how things you have totally forgotten can come back instantly when someone puts the right words together. I immediately was transported straight to the 7th grade today when someone on a food website asked ‘Can you pickle watermelon?’ Yes, you can, and there is a wonderful poem by John Tobias that goes with it and you can’t do one without reading the other. I very much remember the first time I had watermelon pickle.

Miss Seidel was our 7th grade English teacher and she was from the South, Alabama I think, which was foreign enough to us. She was everything cool about the 80s. Our 7th grade class was her first year at our very strict private school. She was in her early twenties, she had an asymmetric haircut, she wore funky clothes and made jewelry. She was confident, educated and too hip for the burgh of Baltimore. She was everything my stodgy all girls school was not. Who hired her? The other teachers shopped from the LL Bean catalog and clearly only refreshed their wardrobes every decade. They looked like line backers in skirts. They had been there for 40 years and would be there for another 40. They lived and socialized in the same snobby, blue-blooded, wood paneled station wagon neighborhood that the school was and is located in.

Miss Seidel was like a beautiful bird in a burned out forest. She was friendly. She was one of those teachers. The ones that inspire you and make you want to work beyond what is required of you. We idolized her, even stalked her to her apartment one day for a surprise visit. She didn’t flinch; she buzzed us in and served us iced tea. Of course her apartment was cool, filled with awesome vintage finds that someone her age should not have had the time to collect just yet. She was like Molly Ringwald and Madonna, combined, only cooler and real.

One day Miss Seidel brought in a jar of watermelon pickle a family member had sent her. She said she had not had any in a while, maybe since she was a kid and was curious about it herself. None of us has ever seen a watermelon pickle before, let alone had any relatives that canned things. She explained its southern provenance, that It is the rind pickled, sour and sweet. She then read us John Tobias’ poem Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle from a Friend Called Felicity. I remember this clearly. Then she passed out chunks of the watermelon pickle on toothpicks. And instantly, John Tobias’ poem became my memory of watermelon pickle. Why hadn’t I had watermelon pickle for this beautiful memory? Well, I did now, and I was not going to let it go. To this day I’ll talk like I’ve been eating watermelon pickle my whole life.

Miss Seidel only lasted 1 year at our school. The bird had to fly. Every time I hear the words watermelon pickle I think of her. The poem she read us sums up how I feel about watermelon, summer and the childhood memories associated with both. Now, after all that, I have to admit, I do not have a watermelon pickle recipe to amaze you with, but, David Chang does. I can offer a you a watermelon salad recipe. But read the poem and pretend you’ve been eating watermelon pickle your whole life.

http://ellemay.wordpress.com/2007/09/07/reflections-on-a-gift-of-watermelon-pickle-received-from-a-friend-called-felicity/

Watermelon Salad (serves 12 as a side dish)

1/2 small watermelon, cubed

1 Kirby cucumber, chopped

1/2 a jicama, cubed

2 jalapenos, minced

2 limes

salt

3/4 cup herbs (I use basil, mint, cilantro and chives)

Combine the first four ingredients, squeeze lime juice on top and toss with herbs abd salt. Serve cold.

Pig Food

So summers in Maryland you could count on; crabs, tomatoes and corn. Two things were a given with the corn, it would be Silver Queen, from Maryland or New Jersey, and it would be served with, in addition to butter, salt and pepper, Old Bay.

This corn usually came from a truck on the side of the road. There would be several ratty homemade signs leading up to the improvised roadside produce stand advertising ‘Silver Queen’ and its provenance. My dad would get excited and announce that we were about to pull over (so get ready) and whatever vegetable had been planned for dinner was now scrapped for the corn. In spite of the signs stating what it was and where it came from my dad would still interrogate the people selling it. Sometimes followed by a threat, ‘Well if it’s not Silver Queen, I’ll be back tomorrow to let you know.’

My Dad won’t eat any other corn. When I was a kid and would (gasp) ask about other corns he would proclaim ‘PIG FOOD!’ Followed by a whisper, as if letting you in on a dirty secret, ‘That yellow corn is what they feed pigs.’ Yellow corn = bacon. Getting louder, ‘You don’t want to eat it! Good God! PIG FOOD I tell you! Shit!’ So the impression was made on me that eating yellow corn was the same kind of no-no as picking your nose.

There are two methods for cooking this corn. Number one: remove the silk, not the husk, wrap husk back around the cob, soak it for several hours and cook it on the grill. Number two: boil it. As much as my dad did not want to eat pig food he also didn’t want to eat over cooked Silver Queen corn. Typical corn boiling scenario: My Dad: ‘I’m afraid you’re going to overcook the corn.’ My step-mom: ‘Well, do you want to cook the corn?’ ‘No, but I don’t want over cooked corn. Please Anita!’ Pause. ‘Jesus Christ.’ Some hand wringing. ‘Jim, you take over the corn.’ ‘No, no, that’s OK. YOU do the corn.’ Then he’d start to break a sweat at the thought of over cooked corn. ‘Just don’t over cook it.’ More pacing. “Goddamn it Anita, you’re overcooking the corn!’ At this point someone would remove the corn from the stove before the corn had a chance to consider being overcooked and before my Dad’s behavior teetered over to obsessive-insane.

I moved to Texas after college. I had just finished my first grocery shopping trip and I stepped outside to see a hand painted yellow and green truck selling nothing but corn on the cob with something on it that looked like Old Bay . I was immediately excited, ditched my cart and ran over to the truck. It wasn’t Silver Queen and that wasn’t Old Bay . It was pig food, with mayo, cheese and cayenne, an elote. Which I found to be a delicacy once I got over my Dad’s imposed food prejudices.

The irony here is recently Jim (my spouse) and I went out to dinner with Jim (my Dad) and my step-mom at their favorite Baltimore restaurant. Oddly, I guess in a fit of fashionableness, those elotes were on the menu in Maryland. ‘What are they?’ my Dad asked. Jim explained the traditional Mexican street food to him and my Dad in rare form acquiesced to trying something new. He asked the waiter ‘Is it Silver Queen?’ ‘No, but it is heirloom, organic and from the Chef’s garden.’ Skeptically, ‘Ok we’ll try, ONE.’ Well it came, it was placed in front of Jim (my spouse) and it had been, obviously, over cooked and the kernels were all different colors and too big and uneven like teeth needing braces. My Dad looked at it leaned in and whispered in Jim’s ear ‘It's pig food isn’t it? I thought so.’

If you are not familiar with Silver Queen corn it is a very sweet white corn and you will have to taste it to believe me. Those who have no had it cannot believe a corn could have such an inspiring taste and those who have had it understand that it is a very special treat.

The fact is I’m still brain washed and usually buy white corn but I have been adding something more than Old Bay to it. Jim (my spouse) is thrilled about this combination; I’m not sure I could talk my dad into it. And I have perfected the cooking time so you and your family do not need to have an intervention about the cooking of corn.

Enjoy your summer.

White Corn with Basil Lime Butter

4 ears of white corn

4 tablespoons unsalted butter at room temperature

1.5 teaspoons lime zest

1.5 teaspoons chopped basil

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Combine the butter, basil and lime zest. Boil the corn for 7 minutes, no more, no less. Remove and serve immediately with the butter.

Baby Cabbage

Jim’s kids will eat almost anything. I am so thankful we are not entrenched in the world of chicken fingers or one void of vegetables. These children are food enthusiasts at ages 8 and 4. They will chant for Korean BBQ from the back seat of the car. When asked which popsicle flavor they want I have heard this world weary response; “I don’t know, I’m kind of over chocolate sea salt.” One night Jim was working late and the three of us were going out for a date; I gave them their dining options: BBQ, Mexican or sushi. I thought for sure this would lead to an argument. I was wrong, it was unanimous, sushi. They pigged out on eel and ikura. But they are kids, peanut butter and jelly, mac and cheese, pizza and fluorescent frozen oddities from the ice cream man are also big hits. We can all enjoy such things occasionally.

One day this summer Jim’s son hollered up to our bedroom; ‘Hey Morgan will you make us those green things.’ ‘Green things?’ ‘Yeah, green, you know, they are green and round, like a little green cake.’ ‘Green and round?’ ‘Yeah.’ Still struggling. ‘Is it something I make, like actually make in to a dish or a vegetable I cook?’ ‘Vegetable. A green flower.’ Pause. ‘Brussels sprouts?’ ‘Yeah, will you make us some brussels sprouts?’

I like brussels sprouts. I’ve always liked brussels sprouts. I cut my teeth on boil a bag brussels sprouts swimming in butter sauce. If you eat cole slaw you will like brussels sprouts. Brussels sprouts get a bad reputation because so often they are boiled to death. Not dissimilar from those crayon flavored gray things I was served in the cafeteria, you know them, canned green beans. Quite different than a fresh green bean. Over cooked brussels sprouts to a kid is slimy baby cabbage brain. The texture is off and overcooked so is the flavor.

I make these brussels sprouts all the time. And I get many compliments on them, from brussels sprouts lovers and the skeptics. Jim was a skeptic, he is a convert now. I’ve served them without asking people if they like them, because really I cannot imagine not liking them, and I’ve gotten surprised comments like ‘Wow I didn’t know brussels sprouts tasted good!’

Maybe if you call them baby cabbage you can slide them past the unknowing and the uninitiated.

Brussels Sprouts with Truffle Oil - Serves 4-6 as a side dish

1 pound brussels sprouts, end trimmed and cut in half

Olive oil

1 teaspoon truffle oil

Sea salt (preferably something fancy like Maldon)

Preheat oven to 375. Clean and dry the brussels sprouts, get off as much of the water as possible. Oil a baking sheet, place the brussels sprout halves face down on the baking sheets. Lightly brush the tops with a scant amount of olive oil. Bake for 20 minutes. Remove from oven, toss with the truffle and sea salt.