Figs, Bay & Wine

The November Harvest Calendar

2011-11-10T10:45:00.057-05:00

It feels as though we're standing at the edge of winter now. The harvest is almost done for the year - we're already starting to draw off cold storage for many of my favorite fall crops.

I love the scent of autumn, though really what is it other than the smell of decay? But there's still a mineral freshness to be found. Newly dug carrots.

Beets.

And a leafy crunch still to be found in cabbages.

And Brussels sprouts.

Even now there are still good grapes to be had.

The Romanesco is stunning.

The fennel too.

And the cauliflower, which roasts into a beautiful soup.

Other crops fresh from the field this month include shell beans, broccoli, collard greens, mesclun & parsnips. And the cold storage crops, apples, leeks, onions, pears, potatoes, pumpkins, winter squash & turnips are still new and full of flavor.

Crop notes are available in the sidebar harvest calendar over there on the right all month. The information comes from a guide published by the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. To familiarize yourself with what's in season where you live, I advise a visit to your own farmer's markets at least every couple of weeks. And ask lots of questions – no one knows which crops are at their peak quite like the people who grow them. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

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Artichokes Poached in Olive Oil with Lemon Anchovy Sauce - a Recipe

2011-10-25T12:41:00.001-04:00

I'm tinkering. My kitchen is packed with quinces, baby leeks, and the last of the plums. In the meantime, here's a treat I've been setting out with drinks at the end of the day since the baby artichokes arrived, complete with my favorite tale of culinary revenge.

There is a wonderful story my friend and former boss tells about her exceedingly genteel Provençal mother-in-law and World War II. That side of her family lives still in a large country mas or farmhouse near Arles, and during the war, their home was occupied by the Nazis. This French family and a number of German officers lived side by side for over a year in strained civility. And it fell to my friend’s mother-in-law, then a very young bride, to cook meals for the enemy.

Once the war was over, one of the officers was ordered to stay behind and repair any damage to the family’s home, and one night, our heroine served up a platter of large globe artichokes. It soon became clear that the houseguest had never eaten an artichoke before. He picked up his knife and fork and managed to spear a few of the tough outer leaves – thorns and all – before bringing them to his lips and chewing for what must have been a very long and painful time.

Of course, my friend’s mother-in-law maintains to this day that not one member of the family corrected him, because it would have been unthinkably rude to embarrass a guest. But when we learn that they sat in cordial silence and watched the officer eat every leaf in this manner and then the choke, it may occur to some of us that the family – and perhaps in particular the young girl who’d prepared the man’s meals those many months – may have taken some modicum of satisfaction from such a discrete yet publicly drawn out revenge.

History does not relate how the artichokes had been prepared that night over 60 years ago, but this is a recipe from Provence that’s almost as old as time itself. Whether you use the large globe variety, or the small, nutty violets or poivrades of the region, this method brings out the delicate flavor of artichokes better than any other I’ve found. I’ve used some of the cooking oil to make a warm dipping sauce – not quite as traditional, but deliciously saline and tangy when scooped up in the little hollows of the artichoke halves.

If you use small artichokes (these lovelies came from Norwich Meadows Farm), cut your largest one in half before you begin. If the choke has formed, you’ll need to halve and clean the artichokes before you cook them. Otherwise you can just trim the outer leaves and keep them whole – in which case they’ll bloom like the little flowers they are as they cook in the hot olive oil. Large globe artichokes need to cook for much longer. You may quarter them and then clean them as I describe for the smaller specimens, but, if you’re serving them at the table rather than as hors’deuvres, you can leave them whole and skip the cleaning altogether. Vive la Résistance!

Serves 4 as an appetizer

Special equipment: a splatter screen

5 lemons
10 small artichokes or 4 globe artichokes
extra virgin olive oil
6 anchovy fillets, roughly chopped
good sea salt

Fill a small bowl halfway with cold water and squeeze in the juice of 1 of the lemons. Cut 2 more lemons in half and keep next to your work surface.

Clean an artichoke by first trimming the stem and cutting off the top 1 – 3 inches of leaves, just until you’ve removed the tough, fibrous portion. Rub the cut surfaces with lemon juice. Now pull off the tough base leaves and rub the base of the artichoke with lemon juice. Now cut the artichoke in half lengthwise and rub the newly exposed portion with lemon juice. Use a small spoon to scoop out the choke, and rub the area with lemon juice. Place the artichoke halves in the acidulated water to prevent browning, and continue with the rest of the artichokes (see photo below).

When your artichokes are clean, arrange them in a pot, cut sides facing up. Pour in olive oil until it comes halfway up the artichokes, and then pour in water to just cover them completely. Place the pot over high heat, cover with the splatter screen, and bring to a boil over high heat. Boil small artichokes for 15 – 25 minutes and larger ones for up to 45 minutes until all the splattering has stopped and the water has evaporated. The outer leaves of the artichokes should be lightly golden.

Using a slotted spoon, remove the artichokes to paper towels to drain. Measure 6 tablespoons of the cooking oil into a small saucepan and add the chopped anchovies. Sizzle over medium heat until the anchovies have dissolved. Remove from the heat and add the juice of a lemon.

When ready to serve, arrange the artichokes on a serving board or platter, shower with the juice of the remaining lemon, and sprinkle with sea salt. Decant the warm anchovy and lemon mixture into a small bowl, and serve immediately.

Toad in the Hole

2011-10-17T09:46:00.013-04:00

Something about all the wind and rain we've had lately makes me long for comfort, warmth, and the food of my youth. Here's another of the pieces I wrote as part of a feature on British food for my friends Kelly and Katie over at PixiesDidIt!

Bubble and squeak. Spotted dick. Girdle sponges. It occurs to me that British food may have acquired its undeserved, unfortunate reputation thanks to some of its more regrettable recipe titles. Personally though I happen to like the colorful names.

Take toad in the hole, one of the most comforting and crave-able classic nursery food dishes the world has ever known. Savory British “bangers” are sizzled over heat until golden, then baked in a blanket of Yorkshire pudding batter. The batter rises and browns around the sausages, leaving them peaking out from the various pockets that form. Like toads peering out of their holes even. The Yorkshire pudding soaks up the flavor of the sausages, which keep it soft and aromatic within, but crusty on the outside. The sausages crisp and dry a little where they are exposed but stay moist and plump underneath the batter. It’s utterly simple, the best of both worlds, and consummately reassuring.

The trick to Yorkshire pudding, whether for toad in the hole or otherwise, is to start with very hot fat. That’s why you preheat the casserole dish and its oil along with the oven - otherwise the batter won’t puff. The dish is best eaten at home on a chill evening, when your bones are weary. Preferably after some grueling physical activity, field hockey practice in the rain, say, and a subsequent hot shower, and just before sliding your heavy limbs between cool, clean sheets for sleep.

Serves 3 - 4

olive oil
8 medium sized, banger-style sausages
7/8 cup flour
1 tsp kosher salt
½ cup milk
½ cup water
2 eggs
optional for serving: onion gravy (I come from a long line of purists and prefer this without, but you can click on the link for a good recipe).

Pour a generous amount of olive oil (about 1/8 inch or ½ cm deep) into a fairly deep 8 – 9 inch casserole dish. Place the dish in the center of a cold oven and preheat to 450 F (230 C, gas mark 8).

Use a sharp knife to prick the sausages in several places. Heat a large sauté pan over medium-high heat. Add a good glug of olive oil and then the sausages. Allow to brown deeply before turning and browning on the other side.

Meanwhile, whisk together the flour and salt in a mixing bowl. Add the milk, water, and eggs and whisk again until just combined. Do not overmix. Set aside to rest.

When the oven is preheated, remove the casserole dish from the oven and arrange the sausages in the hot oil. Working quickly to keep the oil hot, pour over the batter and immediately place back in the center of the oven. Bake until the batter is puffed and golden brown – about 25 – 35 minutes, but this can vary based on your oven.

Venetian Tagliatelle with Roasted Chicken, Fennel & Pine Nuts

2011-10-11T10:28:00.013-04:00

This is rainy day food. Bitterly damp, cold day food. What after all could provoke the desire to hunker, batten, and huddle more than the off-season in Venice, when the best days find the whole city shrouded in chill and mist? When you can circle, lost for hours in some remote corner of one of the comunes you hadn’t known existed before, knowing that at any turn, you might find yourself adrift in fog, or ankle-deep in water, or, rarest of all, at the edge of some tiny piazza lightly dusted with snow.

And this tagliatelle dish is classically Venetian, known as “frisinsal de tagiadele” in the local dialect and traditionally served on Friday nights for the Sabbath in the Jewish ghetto there. Though there are versions from Jewish communities all over Italy, the Venetian version with its roasted chicken and sauce made from the pan drippings is the one that I find particularly warming and crave-able. I like roast chicken more than just about anything, and this is essentially a celebration of what a glorious thing a well-seasoned, well-roasted chicken really is.

I learned from Claudia Roden’s The Book of Jewish Food that sage is traditionally used, but I’ve never had it that way, even in Venice, and I prefer it without. Then again, the fennel isn’t traditional either, and nor is the wine or the lemon juice, but I’ve added them over the years and love the dish all the more ever since. And fennel’s just coming into season, so it’s the perfect time to try the recipe out, especially as the weather cools.

This is one of those dishes, like risotto or bouillabaisse, where the quality of the stock makes a vast difference. Not like some chef telling you it’s better to always use homemade stock and to keep batches on hand in your freezer just like they do, but an actual, huge difference. If you’re out of homemade stock and want the full experience, roast the chicken earlier in the day, deglaze and reserve the cooking juices, remove the meat from the bones, and then use the carcass to make stock before proceeding. But then again, don’t let the absence of homemade stock or the will to make it stop you from trying this dish. I have friends who repeatedly request this dish for their birthdays, though I gladly make it for them on any other day too, just so I can have it, just so I can bear witness to their delight.

This dish is ultimately about intensifying the most soul-nourishing of flavors at every turn, with every opportunity. I’ve even, in moments of utter hedonism, taken the chicken’s skin and sizzled it in olive oil until crisp, to adorn the pasta with just before serving. There is no need to rinse the chicken – that just spreads bacteria to other parts of the kitchen. Make several slices in the thigh and leg meat though, to ensure it roasts at the same speed as the breast meat.

Serves 4 - 6

2 fennel bulbs, with fronds attached if possible
extra virgin olive oil
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper
1 chicken, neck reserved if possible
3 lemons
2 stalks fresh rosemary, plus 1 tsp minced fresh rosemary leaves
½ cup golden raisins
½ cup pine nuts
2 glasses white wine
2 cups (plus extra) good chicken stock, preferably homemade
1 lb tagliatelle or pappardelle (I prefer non-egg pasta here, but it's just personal taste)
a good handful of flat parsley leaves if your fennel didn't have its fronds attached

Preheat the oven to 425 F (220 C, gas mark 7)

Remove the fronds from the fennel stalks and reserve. Trim the stalks from the fennel bulbs and reserve. Trim the root ends from the fennel bulbs and then slice the bulbs in half. Using the center of the bulbs to keep the segments intact, slice into thin wedges – you’ll want them to be thin enough to caramelize and then toss with the pasta later. Place the fennel in a good sized, heavy-bottomed roasting tin (stove top safe), along with the chicken neck if they’ve included it with your chicken, and toss with a generous glug of olive oil and plenty of salt and pepper.

Clear an area in the center of the pan for the chicken. Pat dry the chicken with paper towels and use a sharp knife to slice through the thigh and leg meat in 3 – 4 places on each side. Season the cavity generously with salt and pepper. Quarter one on the lemons and place in the cavity along with the fennel stalks and 2 stalks of rosemary. Rub the skin with olive oil and season with plenty of salt and pepper, being sure to rub some into the cuts you’ve made in the thighs and legs.

Place the pan in the center of the oven. After 15 minutes, reduce the heat to 350 F (180 C, gas mark 4) and roast for an hour and 15 minutes more or until the legs move freely in their joints and the juices run clear.

Meanwhile, boil some water and pour it over the raisins. Allow them to soak for 30 minutes. Place a small sauté pan over very low heat and toast the pine nuts, stirring often. They burn very easily, so don’t walk away, and remove them from the metal pan as soon as they’re lightly golden and fragrant.

Lift the chicken from the pan and allow to rest and cool at least 15 minutes on a plate to catch the juices. Use a slotted spoon to lift the fennel out and reserve in a bowl. Leave the chicken neck in the pan and set it on the stove top. Add the wine, and turn the heat to high. Allow the wine to reduce by half, using a spoon or metal spatula to help loosen the fond – all those caramelized juices are where the best flavor is. Drain the raisins and add along with the minced rosemary, along with any juices that have collected in the plate the chicken is resting on. Then add 2 cups of best quality chicken stock. Reduce the heat to medium-low and allow to reduce by half again. Remove the chicken neck and discard. Check the seasoning with more salt and pepper. Then remove from the heat and reserve.

Meanwhile, use your hands, two forks, whatever works, to shred all of the chicken flesh and skin into bite-sized pieces. Be sure not to let any of the juices escape. Add to the juices in the pan. You can hold the sauce like this up to 3 days. Remember meat braises tend to develop better flavor overnight, and this is no bad thing.

When you’re ready to serve, bring a large pot of water to the boil and salt generously. Heat the chicken sauce in a large pan if it’s cooled. Be careful not to bubble too long and lose too much liquid. You can always top it up with more hot chicken stock if the sauce gets too dry (the pasta can soak up quite a bit of sauce) – just be sure to recheck the seasoning. Add the pasta to the water and cook until just al dente and then drain.

Meanwhile mince the fennel fronds or parsley.

When the pasta is done, add the juice of a lemon to the chicken, check the seasoning one more time with more salt, pepper, or lemon juice if necessary, and add the pasta to the chicken, tossing to combine. Add half the pine nuts and most of the minced herbs. Plate immediately (if the sauce sits too long on the pasta, too much will be absorbed and the pasta will dry out, though you can always freshen it with more stock). Garnish with the remaining pine nuts and herbs and serve immediately.

The October Harvest Calendar

2011-10-03T13:13:00.081-04:00

The seasons are finally shifting. The mornings have gone crisp. And the first of the chestnuts came in this week.

The grape harvest is in full swing.

And winter squash have arrived in gnarled, multicolored heaps.

It's hard to believe right now that most of these crops will be gone by next month. Especially when late summer treats like my favorite string beans are still in abundance.

There's eggplant.

Tomatoes.

Peppers.

And corn.

The cauliflower is peaking.

The potatoes are in their last month.

And there are even a few plums still to be found.

But it's the prunes and tiny seckel pears that I've been buying up by the pound.

And quinces. Positively nothing says autumn like the fresh, earthy-floral perfume of ripe quinces hanging in the air. Put out a bowl of them in your house and see.

Just don't wait too long. All the damage from Hurricane Irene means the harvest of these and so many other crops is going to be more fleeting than usual. Many of the farmers have had to cut back the number of days they come to market this fall. It makes what they bring in all the more precious.

The River Garden's rosehips - something I look forward to all year - can only be bought on Fridays and Saturdays now. The farm lost about 85% of its crops in the storm. To support farmers as they continue to recover, keep shopping the greenmarkets whenever you can and click on the link for information on the Greenmarket's Hurricane Irene Relief Fund.

Crop notes are available in the sidebar harvest calendar over there on the right all month. The information comes from a guide published by the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. To familiarize yourself with what's in season where you live, I advise a visit to your own farmer's markets at least every couple of weeks. And ask lots of questions – no one knows which crops are at their peak quite like the people who grow them. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

Spiced Plum & Fig Frangipane Tart - A Ghost Story

2011-09-25T19:31:00.040-04:00

The garden behind our house in Scotland seemed endless, though it wasn’t, of course, when I snuck back in a few years ago as an adult. It sat in the center of a small fishing village, after all, and the land stretched back towards the old graveyard. There were high stone walls, small apple orchards, a rose garden, gooseberry bushes, a great lawn that no one ever mowed so shortly as to stop its being comfortable to lie on, beds of bluebells that squeaked under your wellie boots in the spring, and a pergola, overgrown with ancient, prolific grapes and plums, that dropped heavy, purple fruit down onto the mossy flagstones below in the early autumn.

In the northeastern corner of the garden, just where the two banks of pergola met and the grapes and plums merged, was a dark, dank place inhabited by ghosts. I mean that quite literally, and I can think of several people who spent a significant amount of time in the garden and can corroborate. But even those who didn't see anything, who had no inclination to believe in beings so unscientific, could not refute that the corner was unsettling. A chill that wouldn't lift even on the sunniest of days, a certainty that one was being watched. We all felt it. Even the youngest of children would point to that shadowy place and name their fear. "A fox!" I remember one person almost too small to talk crying out.

The ghosts didn’t stop our friends from coming to play in droves, though, and to gorge themselves on our plums while the season lasted. The more friends that came, the more windfallen fruit was eaten, and the further towards this forbidding corner it was necessary to edge in the collection of the wine-dark, egg-shaped plums - daring just a few feet closer to the shadows, seizing as many as one could grasp before kicking out, bolting back to the safety of the central lawn. Many years later, an unrelated search through the village records revealed that the same part of our garden had once been encompassed by the 12th Century parish church's graveyard. A mass grave for criminals.

All this is to tell how entirely the scent of ripe plum flesh; a whiff of wood smoke on the air as my father burned great piles of prunings; icy, chill-blained feet (I was inevitably barefoot in the bitter sea air, on those cold, damp stones); and a growing whisper of fear as the safe, sunny stretches of walk were picked clean of sweet, bloom-dusted, gently bruised fruit - these will always be autumn to me.

And autumn it is. Needless to say, this tart is not nearly so sinister, but rather undeniably comforting, warming and irresistible as the harvest reaches its height and the days draw in. Ginger and star anise both set off plums and figs, enhancing their perfume in a smoky way I find evocative of and perfect for autumn. Success depends on the ripeness of the fruit you use. The sugar content in plums is at its peak around here right now, and you can tell figs are ripe when the tiny opening at their blossom end starts to weep a drop or two of syrupy liquid.

Serves 8

7 oz (200g) flour
pinch of kosher salt
1 stick (4 oz, 100g) unsalted butter, diced
1 egg yolk
a little ice water

3 ½ oz (100g) unsalted butter
4 oz (125g) granulated sugar
2 oz (60g) flour
1 tsp ginger
¾ tsp cinnamon
¼ tsp ground star anise
2 eggs
1 tsp vanilla extract
4 oz (125g) ground blanched almonds
½ lb (200g) smallish plums
½ lb (200g) ripe figs

Dry beans for baking blind

Lightly butter and flour a 9-inch tart tin that’s at least 1 ½ inches deep.

In a food processor, pulse together the flour, salt and butter until the texture of coarse breadcrumbs. (Alternately, you may use your fingertips to rub the butter into the dry ingredients). Add the egg yolk and pulse quickly, then only just enough ice water to bring the dough together – too much will cause your tart shell to shrink as it bakes.

Turn the dough onto a cool, lightly floured surface and roll out just large enough to line the tart tin. Gently press into the tin and trim to make sure the sides are an even height. Chill in the fridge for half an hour or cover with plastic wrap and chill longer if needed.

Place a baking sheet in the middle of the oven and preheat the oven to 400F (200C, gas mark 6)

Remove the plastic wrap, prick the dough in several places with the tip of a sharp knife, line the tart shell with aluminum foil or baking parchment, fill with dry beans, and place onto the hot baking sheet. Bake for 20 minutes, remove from the oven, and carefully remove the beans along with their parchment or foil. Return to the oven and bake for another 5 minutes until dry to the touch.

Meanwhile, use a kitchen mixer to beat together the butter and sugar until pale and fluffy. Reduce the speed to low and add the eggs one at a time and then the vanilla. Meanwhile sift together the flour, ginger, cinnamon, and star anise. Remove the bowl from the food processor and use a spatula to gently fold in the ground almonds and flour. Spoon the frangipane filling into the tart shell and smooth with the back of a spoon.

Cut the plums in half lengthwise and remove the stones. Trim the stems from the figs and cut crosses into the tops. Gently squeeze the bases of the figs to open the “petals” you’ve created. Arrange over the almond filling, plums cut-side down and figs cut-end up in whatever pattern or lack thereof that you like. Gently place the tart onto the hot baking sheet and bake for 40 – 50 minutes or until the frangipane is risen, golden, and just set in the middle. Remove from the oven and cool at least 15 – 20 minutes before serving.

Fresh Figs with Fleur de Sel, Aged Balsamic & Hazelnuts

2011-09-15T20:50:00.004-04:00

Nursery school just began, and I am proving even less adept at the transition than previous evidence had suggested I might be. I have a few things in the works, but in the meantime, can I just say that the figs are magnificent this year? Nary a tannic, dry disappointment in sight. I've been making this dish a lot - tonight actually as dinner in its entirety, along with a fresh wedge of Cantalet and a glass of Malbec. It was soul-restoring perfection.

Although Spanish and Portuguese missionaries brought figs to the New World in the 15th and 16th centuries, the fruit wasn’t really grown in Northeastern U.S. until the 1800s when Mediterranean families moving to the States nursed cuttings all the way across the Atlantic to plant in their new gardens. These days locally grown fruit is available for a small window each year, though it’s still rare to see figs at a farmer’s market here. The harvest tends to come a little later than in the northern Mediterranean – it usually starts towards the end of August or in early September.

I like my fresh figs with as little done to them as possible. In fact, I far prefer them raw to cooked. Though I’m often tempted to try new fig recipes, I have yet to be convinced that there is any way to improve on the light sweetness of a perfectly ripe fruit – perhaps slightly split by its own fecundity and often weeping a little honeyed nectar from its blossom end. Ferociously pink and very nearly liquid within, and with a floral fragrance reminiscent of both blossoms and earth, tree-ripened figs are something I dream of all year. And I can’t see why I’d want to mask their perfection with cooking.

Of course, when celebrating such a short and longed-for harvest, it’s only human nature to feel an urge to adorn. So I’ve come up with a number of preparations that make a platter of fresh figs seem more of an event – why isn’t this country more comfortable with serving a bowl of perfectly ripe seasonal fruit at the end of a meal? Why doesn’t it seem like enough to most of us?

I’m not sure, but this is my compromise. The syrupy twang of good aged balsamic vinegar and the gently floral flavor of fleur de sel meld with the juicy interior of the opened figs. And the toasted hazelnuts layer a faint autumnal smokiness over the whole thing. It’s one of my favorite late-summer/early-autumn desserts and a lovely way to end a meal.

Serves 4

¼ cup hazelnuts
1 lb ripe figs (I like to use green figs here, such as Calimyrna), rinsed and patted dry
good quality aged balsamic vinegar – should be thick and sweet
fleur de sel or other good sea salt

Preheat the oven to 300 F.

Spread the hazelnuts in a small baking tray or dish and roast for 15 – 20 minutes until lightly browned and fragrant. Be very careful not to burn them. Once slightly cooled, chop the hazelnuts or pulse them a few times in the food processor.

Trim any stems from the figs. With a sharp knife, gently score an “X” on the top of each fig, being careful not to cut more than ¾ of the way down the fruit. Press your fingers into the base of the fruit until the 4 “petals” you have created open to expose the pink center.

Arrange the figs on a platter. Drizzle with a little aged balsamic, sprinkle with a little fleur de sel, and finish by showering with some of the toasted hazelnuts – you may not need them all. Serve immediately.

Fennel Sausages Roasted with Herbs & Cherry Tomatoes

2011-09-09T20:51:00.007-04:00

It never ceases to amaze me how, towards the end of summer, my entire being seems to change course. I dream longingly of crisp mornings. I churn out baked goods at an irrational pace. I shop for corduroy. And most of all I hanker after richer flavors, ones that would never have appealed even a few weeks before. The market is filling with brassy, saturated colors, the flavors of harvest time, and unquestioningly my appetite follows suit.

This recipe - something I first had in the Arezzo province of Tuscany – is a perfect way to harness the more robust herbs and tomatoes of late summer. It offers up that jammy savor I’m suddenly craving, but with crops that are utterly of the moment.

The sausages in Tuscany tend to be bold, seasoned with garlic and plenty of the region’s wild fennel. Back in New York, I use the fennel sausages from Faicco’s Pork Store in the West Village for this dish. They’re sweet, flecked with earthy fennel seed, and are unfailingly fresh – one of the best deals in the city.

I like my sausages burnished brown, even crisp on the outside. If you prefer yours less well-done, remove them from the oven after 45 minutes and test to be sure they’re cooked through – they should be fine. These are lovely over some swiss chard or spinach that’s been sautéed in olive oil. The clean mineral quality of both leaves makes a pleasant note against the sticky, caramelized sausages and a twangy-sweet drizzle of aged balsamic added just before serving, but on nights when you’re in need of more sustenance, some white shell beans dressed in fruity olive oil are authentic and very good too. Drink with a Sangiovese to enjoy this as I did the first time. Last week I had it with a nice Ruffino, and the pairing was perfect.

Serves 4

12 sweet Italian sausages
2 cups ripe cherry, grape, or other small, sweet tomatoes
1 – 2 heads garlic, preferably rocambole, cloves separated but unpeeled
big handful fresh basil leaves
12 stems fresh thyme
1 tbsp fennel seeds
extra virgin olive oil
balsamic vinegar
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper
aged balsamic vinegar or balsamic reduction (optional)

Preheat the oven to 425 F (220 C, gas mark 7)

Prick the sausages in a couple of places on both sides and place in a roasting pan (no need to separate if they’re still linked), with the tomatoes, separated garlic cloves, basil leaves, thyme stems, and fennel seeds. Drizzle generously with olive oil and a healthy splash of balsamic vinegar. Season well with salt and pepper and then toss all the ingredients with your hands to combine. Rearrange in a single layer and roast on a rack in the upper third of the oven for 30 minutes. Turn the sausages over and then roast for another 30 minutes until the sausages are deeply golden and the garlic is soft inside its paper.

Serve hot over wilted greens and/or white beans with another drizzle of balsamic vinegar, or even better something more aged and syrupy.

The September Harvest Calendar

2011-09-01T18:55:00.005-04:00

An earthquake. A hurricane. Now what?

Hopefully autumn. A deepening of flavors, a richness to the light, a peaceful drawing in of days. It's not that I wish summer away, and we've had a lovely one without too much of the punishing heat the city usually musters, but I do look forward to autumn all year.

Most of September still belongs to summer, but the crops are bolder now, the colors and flavors a little brash in their intensity.

Think tomatoes.

Eggplants.

And peppers, peppers everywhere.

The herbs are at their sturdiest.

The rocambole garlic cured but still temptingly juicy.

And the fruit couldn't be more evocative of late summer. Blueberries, cantaloupes, peaches, and watermelon.

Apples are suddenly fresh, crisp, and early-season-tart rather than sickly and mealy from cold storage. And there are even a few pears about.

Other new harvests this month will include shell beans, brussels sprouts, lima beans, pumpkins and grapes. Plus the second pea and raspberry harvests are underway. Be sure to take advantage of beet greens, cucumbers, radishes, scallions, blueberries, cantaloupes, peaches, plums and prunes. This is the last month they’ll be available from the field.

Crop notes are available in the sidebar harvest calendar over there on the right all month. The information comes from a guide published by the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. To familiarize yourself with what's in season where you live, I advise a visit to your own farmer's markets at least every couple of weeks. And ask lots of questions – no one knows which crops are at their peak quite like the people who grow them. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

Happy summer and happy September!

Peach Crostata with Fennel Sugar

2011-08-25T16:41:00.021-04:00

The peach harvest is in full swing, and this crostata is something I’ve been making for years now to celebrate that delicious moment late in summer when the fruit’s flavor reaches its height. In fact we love high season peaches so much that I spend much of June and July prowling the farmer’s market with a surly expression, as though it’s the farmers’ fault the fruit isn’t ready yet. The first time you taste this crostata though, I hope you will understand why.

I’m always sort of perplexed as to why the peach and fennel combination isn’t seen more on this side of the Atlantic. It’s one of my most beloved flavors from both Provence and northern Italy, both of which happen to be ranked among the world’s leading peach producers. Jars of peach and fennel seed confiture or marmellata can be found all over the markets there.

The concept here is as simple as it gets: bash open some fennel seed to release the oils, sprinkle over the ripest peaches you can find, pile them onto a pastry circle to make a free-form, rustic tart, and bake until golden. The result is the most aromatic, intensified, peachiest peaches you can imagine. Something about the earthy fennel raises the peaches’ flavor and perfume to sublime heights, and the flaky, warm pastry is wonderful for soaking up the juices. You don’t even need a dollop of cream or a scoop of vanilla ice cream, though I’ve never known them to hurt.

Buy freestone peaches for this whenever you can. They make the job of halving, stoning, and slicing the peaches far easier obviously, but I also find I prefer the juicier texture of freestone peaches for baking and tend to keep my clingstone peaches for jam. And avoid the temptation of using slightly under-ripe fruit here. Baked peaches give as good as they get. In other words, they won’t miraculously ripen, sweeten, or juice-up in the oven.

The pastry here was inspired by a galette dough from an old favorite, Dorie Greenspan’s Baking with Julia. It’s a wonderful, buttery, flaky recipe that works for both sweet and savory tarts. The cornmeal gives it welcome crunch – enough to hold syrupy fillings like this one.

Serves 6 – 8

3 tbsp plain yogurt
1/3 cup (approximately) ice water
I cup all-purpose flour
¼ cup cornmeal
1 tsp granulated sugar
½ tsp salt
7 tbsp cold unsalted butter, diced

1 tbsp fennel seed
2 tbsp granulated sugar
6 - 7 large, ripe peaches (roughly 2lbs of fruit), halved, stoned, and sliced into wedges (about 10 wedges per large peach)
1 egg

Make the crostata dough:

Mix the yogurt and water together in a small bowl and set aside. Whisk together the flour, cornmeal, sugar and salt in a large bowl. Add the diced butter, and working just with the tips of your fingers, rub into the dry ingredients until the mixture is speckled with pieces of butter that vary in size from breadcrumbs to peas. (You can pulse it in a food processor if you prefer).

Use a fork to whisk in the yogurt and ice water mixture, a couple of tablespoons at a time, just until soft curds form. You want to avoid making the dough too wet or it’ll be difficult to handle later. Place the dough on some plastic wrap and press it down to form a disk. Wrap and chill at least two hours or overnight. The dough can be frozen at this point for up to one month if wrapped airtight. It will take about 20 minutes to thaw.

Assemble and bake the crostata:

Preheat the oven to 400 F. Line a baking sheet (with sides, not a flat cookie sheet) with baking parchment.

Use a mortar and pestle to bash up the fennel seeds, stir in the sugar, and set aside.

Roll the pastry dough out over a well-floured surface to a 12-inch circle, roll up around your rolling pin and transfer to the parchment-lined baking sheet. In a medium bowl, gently toss the sliced peaches with half of the fennel sugar. Heap them in the center of the pastry circle (see the photo above) and fold the sides of the dough up over the filling, working around the circle, so that each fold overlaps the last (see the photo below). If your dough is too sticky, use a floured bench scraper or the floured side of a chef’s knife to help you fold over the edges.

In a small bowl, whisk together the egg with a splash of water. Use a pastry brush to brush the top of the pastry with the egg mixture and then sprinkle over the rest of the fennel sugar.

Bake in the center of the oven until the pastry is golden and crisp – start checking at 50 minutes. Transfer the baking sheet to a cooling rack and allow to cool for 10 minutes. Use a wide spatula to help you lift the crostata off of the rack and onto the cooling rack. Serve warm or at room temperature – you’ll want to slice it with a large, sharp knife.

Homemade Raspberry Jam & a Trifle for Purists

2011-08-17T13:16:00.009-04:00

Even though trifle is usually the stuff of cooler months, I've been in a bit of a jam-making frenzy these past few weeks. I think I'm ready to pack up summer, hunker down a bit, put on a sweater and watch the days grow short. As I recently told someone, I'm ready to make the switch from Kirs to Communists. Plus I've been spending quite a bit of time this summer with some childhood friends from Scotland. There's nothing like old friends, or jam season for that matter, to bring on a wave of nostalgia. Here then is a piece I wrote on trifle, complete with plenty of my mother's raspberry jam, as part of a feature on British food for my friends Kelly and Katie over at PixiesDidIt!:

Though it’s essentially a dessert constructed of layers of various creams and confections, the subtleties of trifle have changed dramatically over the years and differ wildly from chef to chef, and house to house, even now. While many of the variations out there today are delectable, the truth is that trifle has suffered much over time. It started life quite humbly in the 18th century as sponge dipped into custard, covered with jam, and topped with various sweetmeats. But trifle enjoyed its real heyday in the mid 19th century, by which point it had evolved into a dessert constructed out of layers of sponge or macaroons, soaked in sherry or white wine, covered with custard and then citrus-flecked syllabub, and topped with whipped cream. So far, so good.

It wasn’t until the 50s and 60s that things began to unravel. Suddenly instant custard, texturally troubling layers of Jell-o, insipid, weeping canned pears, peaches, and apricots, and shamelessly camp garnishes like multi-colored sprinkles, maraschino cherries, and silver dragées entered the mix. As Nigel Slater noted in Eating for England, “Once gracing our tables like a favourite and slightly tiddly old aunt, our cherished party dessert now resembled nothing more than an old tart in a leopardskin coat.”

In other words, embrace your inner purist. In my family’s case the dish has always meant a simple construction — one layer per ingredient. First comes freshly baked sponge cake, bright with lemon and sandwiched with homemade, barely-set raspberry jam. The cake with its jam is cut into narrow wedges, which are arranged in the bottom of a deep trifle dish. Orange liqueur or sherry is sprinkled over the cake, and then a layer of fresh raspberries is added. Fresh custard, fragrant with vanilla, is poured over the top and left to set before being topped by whipped cream. The result is so indulgent, so pillowy, that it feels vaguely unchaste. We have trifle at Christmas, we have it for Easter, we even have it on Thanksgiving, though I’m sure that’s quite sacrilegious of us. But really, trifle — proper, honestly constructed trifle — is too sublime a treat to waste your time pondering any moral implications.

Getting a good custard together for trifle can be tricky. You want it to be thin enough to soak down into the sponge cake, but then it needs to set well enough that the trifle has at least a little structural integrity. I’ll admit I add a little cornstarch here. Consider it a safety net of sorts. You can make this custard a couple of days ahead of time in a pinch, and store it in the fridge with a layer of saran wrap covering the surface, but I far prefer to pour the custard over the berries and cake while it’s hot. It amalgamates with the cake so much better, and I love how it releases the juices from the raspberries and stains the sponge a deep, crimson red.

And feel free to improvise. With the jam, the liqueur, the berries, the flavor of the cake or the custard. Just no jello or silver balls, please.

My mother and grandmother's raspberry jam:

Up to 2lbs of raspberries - no more
Equal weight granulated sugar

Preheat oven to 250 F (130 C, gas mark 1/2)

Put clean jars into the oven for 10 minutes to sterilize. Put the raspberries in a medium pot over low heat until they start to give up their juice. Add the sugar and stir continuously until it dissolves.

Turn up the heat and boil for 2 - 3 minutes until the bubbles get a little smaller - almost foamy (or the surface goes "skittery" as Granny used to say). Place a drop of jam on a plate and put it in the freezer for 30 - 60 seconds. Push the blob of jam with your finger. Keep checking every minute or so. As soon as the surface wrinkles when pushed, the jam is ready. This is a very runny jam, which is how we like it.

Pour the jam into jars. Let it cool with the lids on to form a seal, tighten the rims, and store in a cool, dark place.

My mother and grandmother's trifle:

Serves 8

4 oz unsalted butter, plus extra for baking
4 oz granulated sugar
2 eggs
juice of 1 lemon
pinch of salt
4 oz all purpose flour
1 tsp baking powder
¾ cup raspberry jam (see recipe above if you prefer to make your own)
¼ cup Grand Marnier or orange liqueur
4 - 5 cups (about 16 - 20 oz.) raspberries (quantity depends on the width of your trifle bowl)
10 egg yolks
¾ cup granulated sugar
3 tbsp cornstarch
pinch of kosher salt
4 cups whole milk
1 vanilla bean
1 pint heavy cream

For the sponge cake:

Preheat the oven to 350 F (180 C, gas mark 4)

Butter an 8 inch cake pan. Cream together the butter and the sugar with an electric mixer until slightly lightened in color. Add the eggs one at a time, mixing well until combined. Add the lemon juice and salt and mix again. Add the flour and the baking powder and gently stir until just combined. Do not over mix. Spread the batter into the pan and bake in the center of the oven for 25 – 30 minutes until a wooden toothpick comes out clean. Cool on a rack for 15 minutes before turning the cake out of its pan.

Use a long, serrated knife to cut the cake in half across its equator. Spread the jam over one half and then sandwich the cake back together. Slice the cake into 1 inch wide strips. Then slice the cake in half the other way, to divide the strips in half lengthwise.

Line the bottom of the trifle bowl with these strips and then drizzle over the Grand Marnier. Next tumble over the raspberries and arrange in an even layer.

For the vanilla custard:

In a large bowl, whisk together the egg yolks and ½ cup of the sugar and set aside.

In a heavy-bottomed saucepan, whisk together the remaining ¼ cup of sugar, the cornstarch, and the salt. Whisk in ¼ cup of the milk until smooth. Split the vanilla bean lengthwise with a sharp knife and scrape out the seeds. Add the seeds and the vanilla pod to the saucepan and whisk in the rest of the milk. Bring to a boil over medium heat, stirring quite often to prevent the mixture from scalding.

Whisking the whole time, slowly drizzle some of the hot milk mixture into the egg yolks, gradually add a little more at a time until it’s completely incorporated. Transfer immediately back to the pot and cook, stirring constantly now, and being careful not to let the mixture boil, for 3 – 4 minutes until quite thick. You can take its temperature if you’re feeling precise – you’re looking for 170 F (76 C).

Immediately pour the custard through a sieve into a clean bowl. You may reserve it at this point, or do as I like to and pour it straight over the raspberries. Allow to cool completely, undisturbed.

To serve:

Just before serving, whip the cream. You want it to barely hold a soft, lazy peak. Top the custard with the cream and serve immediately.

Tuscan Kale Chips with Lemon & Sea Salt

2011-08-08T09:40:00.009-04:00

Kale is a primitive form of cabbage and seems to be native to the eastern Mediterranean. Varieties similar to the Lacinato shown were prized for their delicate flavor by both the Ancient Greeks and Romans, who brought them west to France and Britain.

The field-grown baby Lacinato or Tuscan kale is a treat right now. Young, sweet, and hardly a woody stem in sight. It's at its best both in mid-summer and in the early winter, when the frost has had a chance to up the sugar content in more mature and strongly flavored plants.

While the kale is still so small and tender though, I toss it with fruity olive oil and bake it whole just until crisp, giving it a quick shower of lemon juice and sea salt as it comes out of the oven. The long, slender leaves are far more elegant than normal kale chips, but every bit as addictive - particularly with an apéritif at that time, very early in the evening, when something revitalizing with salt and crunch and twang is called for.

Young Lacinato or Tuscan kale leaves, any thick stems and veins trimmed (or any other kale leaves, trimmed of stems and veins and torn into manageable pieces)
olive oil
fresh lemon juice
finely ground sea salt or kosher salt

Preheat the oven to 300 F (150 C, gas mark 2)

Rinse and pat dry the kale leaves, making sure that any thicker stems or veins have been trimmed. In a large bowl, toss the leaves with a drizzle of olive oil until evenly coated. Line baking sheets with parchment paper and, working in batches, arrange the leaves in a single layer, being sure not to have any overlap. Bake until dry and crisp - start checking at 20 minutes. Shower with lemon juice and sprinkle with salt before cooling slightly. Arrange standing upright in glasses as shown if desired and serve immediately.

The August Harvest Calendar

2011-08-01T06:38:00.001-04:00

I go to the market early now, before the white glare and scalding heat of high summer take hold for the day.

The rhubarb is long gone, and strawberries are thin on the ground, but the familiar players of late summer are starting to stack up.

Young eggplants, without any of their autumnal bitterness yet. Truly good tomatoes.

And peppers.

Tangles of sweet-smelling string beans.

And bunches of garlic, cured for the winter already.

There are fragrant mountains of lettuce, perfect for cutting through the heat in refreshingly cold little bowls of green gazpacho, laced with sherry vinegar.

The lemony twang of purslane cools and calms too.

And there are still peas, though they'll disappear soon before their second harvest in the early autumn.

Even the flowers are looking a little sultry these days. Pillowy beds of hydrangeas.

Lazy jumbles of sunflowers.

And carpets of chamomile. The scent alone leaves me ready for sleep.

But who am I kidding? August is about the fruit.

Tranquil.

And riotous.

The cherries are all but done now too, and there will be no more raspberries until the second harvest in September and October. New crops this month also include cauliflower, celery, leeks, winter squash, turnips, blackberries, cantaloupes, and prunes.

Crop notes are available in the sidebar harvest calendar over there on the right all month. The information comes from a guide published by the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. To familiarize yourself with what's in season where you live, I advise a visit to your own farmer's markets at least every couple of weeks. And ask lots of questions – no one knows which crops are at their peak quite like the people who grow them. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

Happy summer and happy August!

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Wild Bramble Cake with Beurre Noisette

2011-07-25T08:09:00.038-04:00

My parents live in New Hampshire at the edge of several hundred acres of woods. At the bottom of the garden here, for here is where I am on a visit this week, there grows a healthy, low hedge of wild brambles that has slowly advanced out of the woods and around one side of our sheltered, sunny lawn. The crop is never huge, but it lasts from around the beginning of August until the first frost.

Each morning we traipse down to the westerly-facing edge of the garden to collect whatever has ripened overnight before the birds can get to the glossy, black berries. And every evening before dusk, we pick a second harvest, those that weren’t quite ready that morning but are now juicy and sun-warm and worth rescuing from whatever night creatures might come nosing about.

The berries are similar to cultivated blackberries, only smaller and more tart, and they lighten to a rich red as they cook. Their harvest sets a rhythm to our warm-weather days and to the weeks as well. Every three or four days or so, and if we exert a reasonable level of self-control and provide adequate distraction for the smaller members of the family as we pick, we assemble enough brambles for a crumble or tart. A few summers ago I devised a third option that would frame the earthy-sweet twang of the wild fruit within the nutty warmth of beurre noisette. This cake is moist with olive oil, fragrant with vanilla and lemon, and only very subtly sweetened – an instant favorite for us.

I’ve been anxiously waiting since late September of last year to make it again, and the first few brambles have ripened earlier than normal, thanks to a sodden and, of late, excruciatingly hot summer. Don’t be put off if you don’t have brambles where you are. Blackberries, raspberries and currants of both the red and black variety are all wonderful here.

Butter and flour for the cake pan
4 tbsp (2 oz, 60g) unsalted butter
1 ½ cups (200g) all-purpose flour
¾ tsp baking powder
generous pinch of kosher salt
grated zest of 1 lemon
2 large eggs
2/3 cup (135g) granulated sugar
¼ cup extra virgin olive oil
1/3 cup whole milk
1 tsp good vanilla extract
1 ½ - 2 cups (you'll need the greater volume if your berries are larger in size) fresh brambles, blackberries, raspberries, red or black currants

Preheat the oven to 350 F (180 C, Gas Mark 4)

Butter and flour a 9-inch springform pan, being sure to tap out any excess flour.

Place the 4 oz. of butter in a small saucepan over medium low heat. The butter will melt, and then foam, and then the foam will subside. When light brown specks begin to form in the butter, test it for a nutty aroma. Remove from the heat as soon as this develops and place the pan on a cold surface to help stop the cooking. The difference between browned butter and burnt butter is just a few moments, so don’t walk away. Allow to cool for about 15 minutes before proceeding.

Sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt into a large bowl. Whisk in the lemon zest until evenly distributed. In an electric kitchen mixer, beat the eggs and sugar for 3 - 5 minutes, or until pale and thick. Add the browned butter, olive oil, milk, and vanilla extract. Beat until combined.

Fold in the flour mixture with a spatula until just combined. Be careful not to over-stir. Set the batter aside to rest for 10 minutes (a trick I learned from a Patricia Wells book that I find works wonders with all olive oil cakes). Gently stir ¾ of the brambles into the batter. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and spread evenly. Top with the remaining brambles.

Bake for 50 minutes or until the cake is golden and a wooden skewer inserted into the center comes out clean. Cool on a rack for 10 minutes. Remove the springform and continue to cool. Once the cake’s completely cool, store in an airtight container.

Cherry Sangria with Apple Mint & Basil

2011-07-17T18:16:00.012-04:00

As featured on WBUR Boston NPR's Public Radio Kitchen.

The sweet cherries are hopeless this year. As recently as two weeks ago, I could be heard muttering thinly veiled complaints regarding the inferiority of the fruit early in the season. But the joke’s on me, and it turns out that that was the cherry crop’s peak for the year. We had a couple of late frosts this spring, and now there are hardly any cherries to be found at all. Sour cherries, yes. Sweet cherries, apparently an earlier blossom, not so much. Early summer suddenly seems to be slipping away, but I can’t let go of cherry season. Not quite yet.

I always seem to forget how much I love good cherries during the eleven months they’re not available. Those magnetic first flats, which usually appear in the market just as June touches July, bring it all flooding back though. Cherries are distracting, maybe even a little wanton. There’s something almost animate in the way their skins catch on one another when you roll a few in the palm of your hand. And the flavor. Tart and fresh, then earthy and sweet. There's nothing else quite like it. So the prospect of skipping a full season, of waiting another year to enjoy cherries, is a sad one.

Fortunately there is a very good way of stretching a small harvest, not to mention prodding an inferior crop to act as proper cherries should, and that is by crushing the fruit into some well-constructed summer cocktails. I like my cherry-infused drinks a little rough-and-ready, unstrained, with some herbs from the greenmarket (cool mint, peppery basil) and a few wedges of lemon to help the fruit sit up and sing. Even though making simple syrup is possibly the least demanding thing in the world, I just can’t face it. I’d rather pour a good glass of wine. So my cherry cocktails in all their incarnations employ plain old granulated sugar (not even superfine), and an enthusiastic muddle with the less friendly end of a wooden spoon.

You can use 4 ounces of cachaça instead of the wine here, swap in lime for the lemon, and you’ll have yourself a seriously good cherry caipirinha. But this version is what I make most often. It’s more delicate and tranquil - approachable in the afternoon without threatening to turn the rest of your day on its ear. It’s a sangria of sorts, though lighter and with no brandy.

Any mint will do, but I am particularly fond of the floral, mild (and almost never apple-y) apple mint some of our farmers sell this time of year. Just be sure to get up early on market day, before the few sweet cherries still to be found have been snatched up. I've noticed it’s getting a little competitive out there.

Makes 2

12 sweet cherries, halved and pitted
6 fresh basil leaves
6 fresh mint leaves, plus 2 extra sprigs for garnish (I like applemint, but any mint you enjoy will do)
4 tsp granulated sugar
2 ½-inch thick rounds of lemon, halved
8 oz chilled white wine
ice

In the bottom of a cocktail shaker, muddle the cherries, basil, mint and sugar. Add the lemon slices and muddle again. Add the wine and fill the shaker with ice. Shake well and decant into two old-fashioned glasses, adding more ice if desired. Garnish with the mint sprigs and serve immediately.

Grilled Summer Squash Salad with Basil, Mint & Lemon

2011-07-08T14:16:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite things by far about the summertime is lunch. The meal seems to fall so effortlessly into place in a way it never can in cooler months. After all, it is intrinsically suited to sun-dappled tables, crisp, chilled wine, and a general, intoxicating feeling that one is living well. Especially now, when the heat here in the city hasn’t reached its soul-crushing height yet, and the flavors in the market are still young, floral, sweet, perfect.

During the summer, I keep a bunch of fresh herbs in a glass of water on the kitchen counter (most recently chervil, mint, basil, and a few springs of lavender), ready to adorn whatever I bring home from the greenmarket that day. All that’s really needed is some good, fruity olive oil and salt, maybe a spritz of lemon juice, and a simple midday feast is never more than a few moments away.

This summer squash recipe, infinitely adaptable depending on which herbs you have at hand and what squash looks best that day, is one of the cornerstones of my summer lunches. For preference, I like a mix of colors, shapes and flavors. Nutty pattypan. Floral, young zucchini. Crisp, fluted Romanesco. And a lemony dressing flecked with fresh basil and mint serves to underline the light char from the grill. My grill pan seems to stay on the stove top most of the summer anyway.

This salad makes a lovely lunch with some sliced tomatoes in olive oil and maybe a few velvety curls of prosciutto. If I have the time, I like to sauté some ricotta-filled squash blossoms too. The squash salad works just as well at room temperature as it does fresh off the grill – just be sure to dress the squash slices while they’re hot and can soak up the lemon and olive oil, but don’t add the basil and mint until just before serving.

Assorted fresh summer squash
Juice of 1 – 2 lemons, depending on the size of your salad
Good extra virgin olive oil
Kosher or sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Small handful of fresh basil leaves
A few fresh mint leaves

Heat a grill or grill pan to medium high heat – you want a quick, hot sear here so that your squash will soften and steam on the plate rather than on the grill. Slice your squash lengthwise into thick ¼ inch pieces. Grill in batches, a few minutes a side, just until you can see good grill marks, and remove to a serving platter.

When all your squash slices are done, sprinkle liberally with fresh lemon juice, drizzle with olive oil, and season generously with salt and pepper. Just before serving, roll your basil and mint leaves into a cigar shape and slice across as thinly as possible into a chiffonade. Sprinkle over the squash, check the seasoning with more lemon juice, salt and pepper, and serve immediately.

The July Harvest Calendar

2011-07-01T07:37:00.002-04:00

It's summer here.

Really, really.

The lavender harvest is at its height.

And there are summer flowers everywhere.

There is already barley. And winter wheat.

The herbs are suddenly more substantial.

As are the spring onions.

And the garlic.

There is summer squash, bursting with flavor.

And heirloom lemon pickles.

Great heaps of peas.

Whole walls of lettuce.

And my favorite string and wax beans have finally arrived.

Carrots too.

The radishes have a little more kick to them now.

And the strawberries, now in their last month, are jammy and fragrant.

The raspberries are ready too, as are the blueberries, collard greens, cucumbers and peppers.

There isn't an asparagus spear to be found - asparagus season is never long enough - but there are finally freshly dug potatoes, and in the next few weeks there will be corn and plums and apples. I had some spectacular tomatoes yesterday, and I even spied a small heap of peaches at the southwest corner of the market.

Crop notes are available in the sidebar harvest calendar over there on the right all month. The information comes from a guide published by the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. To familiarize yourself with what's in season where you live, I advise a visit to your own farmer's markets at least every couple of weeks. And ask lots of questions – no one knows which crops are at their peak quite like the people who grow them. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

Happy summer and happy July!

Cherries Roasted in Red Wine & Sea Salt

2011-06-22T10:50:00.043-04:00

As featured on WBUR Boston NPR's Public Radio Kitchen.

I think of cherries as the year's first big flavor. Scarlet, shiny and brash, cherries banish the quiet green flavors of spring. They only appeared at the market about a week ago here, which means they’re nowhere near their tangy-sweet height yet. Don’t get me wrong though. Early season or not, a bag of cherries is undeniably appealing, and therein lies the challenge to making this recipe. Cherry season is short, and when they show up, chances are I haven't had a locally grown cherry in eleven months. That's a long time.

Add to that the fact that I've lived in this neighborhood for long enough that I can’t seem to walk a block without seeing someone I know. That's rare for New York, and I like it a lot, but it also can make it highly difficult to negotiate the two minute stroll home from the greenmarket without losing half my cherries. People can't resist. Their eyebrows shoot up. Their mouths form round "ohs" of delight. "Is it cherry season already?" they ask breathlessly, smiling into my shopping bags.

Take Saturday morning. I snapped up three pounds (we'd have a bowl of them on the counter, I thought dreamily, plus some for the vanilla gelato I'd made, and maybe a clafoutis), and stopped to speak with my friend Luke at his River Garden stand. We nibbled goodnaturedly as we talked, and I left him with an extra handful before heading out of the market, over a narrow cobblestone street, and exchanging pleasantries and another fistful with the owner of a local wine store. Waving goodbye, I walked straight into a good (but chatty) friend, along with her husband and 2 year old son. When it became clear we had much catching up to do, we decided to retire to a nearby coffee place. I'd been sharing politely all the while - she's pregnant, it's bad form not to share your cherries with pregnant people - but I turned away for a moment to retrieve my cappuccino, trustingly stowing my cherries under the bar, only to return to this:

Shameless. A free-for-all. Does that look like three pounds of cherries to you? But it’s summer, and what’s the point of having something as intrinsically jolly as a bagful of the year’s first cherries if you can't share them with your friends? Plus I managed somehow to arrive home with enough left for dessert that night.

I roast my early-season cherries as I’ve eaten them in Tuscany, most memorably prepared by Chef Fabio Picchi: with a healthy dose of red wine, plenty of fruity olive oil, and a good sprinkling of sea salt. Their gentle sweetness intensifies, and the wine and cherry juice meld into a rich, jammy syrup that works as well with fresh ricotta or goat cheese as it does with ice cream. Don’t pit your cherries here – much as with eau de vie, you want that gentle almond flavor that the cherry stones impart during the cooking process. Just be sure to buy more than you think you’ll need. There’s no accounting for what may remain by the time you get home, but just think how happy your friends will be.

Cherries, pits in and stems still on if possible
extra virgin olive oil
a glass or two of red wine
sea salt

Preheat the oven to 350 F (180 C, Gas Mark 4).

Rinse and pat dry your cherries. Spread them out in a single layer over a sheet pan with sides. Toss with a generous glug of olive oil and then spread back out again. Splash over a generous amount of red wine and sprinkle with sea salt. Roast in the middle of the oven until the juices start to thicken and caramelize slightly – 30 to 45 minutes. Serve warm, preferably with good gelato or ice cream.

Herb Season Tea

2011-06-15T18:54:00.000-04:00

I've been in need of a little comfort of late. Fortunately it's herb season. Proper herbs from the field, I mean, with character and ugly bits and signs of having made it through a late frost or two. These herbs have weathered the storm that is early spring in these parts, and so, particularly in recent weeks, I feel a certain affinity with them.

During herb season, I keep bouquets of them in glasses on the kitchen counter. I use them for flavoring our food, of course, but I also prize them for making teas far more earthy and mellow than those we drink from store-bought blends the rest of the year. I especially turn to Maureen and Bridget Boland, those dowager empresses of comfort and Gardeners' Lore and all other things wise, for inspiration.

Above I show a simple tea made with some remarkably sturdy organic mint from Keith's Farm. Mint, prized for it's ability to soothe the nerves and refresh the body (yes please) is also touted by the Boland sisters as an addition to bath water for athletes. They hasten to urge that any Olympic competitors first ask permission of the "Committee" before indulging in the sinew-stregthening soak. That must have been some serious mint they were growing.

Other favorites I've gleaned from the series include borage steeped in wine, which they tell us "drives away all sadness and dullness." And on closer inspection I see that basil drunk in wine is recommended too - good to know my instincts are at least occasionally in line - for it's stimulating effect on the nerves and calming effect on the stomach. Tincture of chervil root should be given for courage, lavender soaked in hot water comforts the heart, and a tea made with marjoram "easeth such as are given to much sighing." Next on my list to try? Meadowsweet boiled in wine "to make the heart merry." Hopefully my sense of humor will be back intact in no time.

Rhubarb Clafoutis

2011-06-08T09:20:00.002-04:00

We're off to Cape Cod to celebrate the wedding of a dear school friend. But I couldn't leave town without sharing a recipe from the archives - one I still make with regularity during rhubarb season. And the rhubarb is magnificent right now. The stalks from Keith's Farm have grown to such monstrous proportions that it only took one to make our clafoutis the other night. I hope you enjoy as much as we do.

Though it’s technically a vegetable, I can’t help feeling that rhubarb is the first fruit of spring, and I was thrilled when I saw a great tub of the ruby and jade stalks at the PJ Hoeffner Plants and Produce stand this weekend.

The first recorded planting of rhubarb in the Mediterranean was in Italy in 1608 - though at that point the fruit was used for medicinal purposes (it’s been popular through the centuries as a diuretic and digestive). Rhubarb came to the region from China in the early 17th Century, courtesy of Marco Polo’s visits home to his native Venice. It didn’t really catch on as a food until the mid-1700s was when sugar became more widely available.

I like my rhubarb roasted. I toss it in a little olive oil and dust it with confectioners’ sugar before putting it in a moderate oven for 5 minutes or so. This way the wedges hold their shape even though they’re tender and sweet. They keep well in the fridge for a few days and make a great topping for morning yogurt and evening ice cream. Rhubarb also plays a regular role in our home’s clafoutis.

Clafoutis is a traditional dessert in the south of France. In it’s most original form, clafoutis is prepared with black cherries, which I encourage you to try as well. The sweetness of the dessert is subtle, and the recipe is about as simple as baking gets. I sometimes omit the ¼ cup of sugar and allow the only sweetness to come from the sugar coating the rhubarb. Clafoutis can be prepared a little ahead of time and served warm rather than hot.

Either way, this is true family food, essentially pancake batter poured over fruit. My father has long shunned birthday cake in favor of the more delicate clafoutis.

Serves 6 – 8

¼ cup plus 1 tbsp granulated sugar
1 cup milk
3 eggs
1 tbsp good vanilla extract
1 pinch salt
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
extra virgin olive oil
1 – 1 ½ cups fresh rhubarb stalks, sliced on the bias into ½ inch pieces
confectioners’ sugar

Preheat the oven to 350 F (180 C, gas mark 4).

Using an electric kitchen mixer or blender, pulse together the ¼ cup of sugar, milk, eggs, vanilla extract, salt, and flour.

Heat a shallow, stove-top-safe baking dish (about 7 to 8 cup capacity) over medium-high heat. Add a little olive oil and then pour 1/4 inch batter into the dish. Cook over medium heat for a minute or so until the bottom of the batter has just started to set. Remove from the heat.

Toss the rhubarb with 1 tbsp of the sugar and arrange in the baking dish. Pour on the rest of the batter and smooth. Bake in the center of the oven for 1 hour until puffed and golden brown. A wooden toothpick or skewer inserted into the center of the clafoutis should come out clean.

Just before serving, sprinkle the top of the clafoutis with a little confectioners’ sugar shaken through a sieve.

The June Harvest Calendar

2011-06-01T19:03:00.000-04:00

Things are picking up. I almost miss the quiet of May. Or at least I can feel the cool, green solace of spring ebbing away.

I haven't had a perfect strawberry yet, but they've appeared in the past couple of weeks, they're from the field, and they're getting sweeter.

The ramps are almost done. They're much plumper now - perfect for pickling.

The spring garlic has grown bulbs too, though inside it's mild, still undivided into cloves.

There are still a few fiddleheads to be found.

And there are great tangles of pea shoots.

And spinach.

The heaps of lettuce are getting higher. I'm always surprised to remember how fragrant freshly harvested lettuce can be.

And the chicory is still sweet enough for salads.

The asparagus is in abundance now, and the harvest is far more regular.

Chefs have been making off with great crates of the spears, along with a flat of the first strawberries here, to the local restaurants.

I bring home armfuls of the stuff along with fresh pheasant eggs for a perfect springtime tegamino.

Herbs are everywhere too. The chives are in bloom.

And the rhubarb is reaching its height.

Carciugga is lovely peeled and fried in thin stalks, much as they do in Italy with zucchini.

The first baby beets are being pulled from the field.

And the garlic scapes are ready too.

Spring flowers have always been my favorites.

The lilacs have sadly peaked.

But there's still lily of the valley.

And sweet peas.

The peonies are in wild abundance.

There are even a few foxgloves.

And though summer is still a couple of weeks away, the poppies are starting.

The parsnips are finished now until October, but new harvests this month will also include broccoli, cabbage, peas and swiss chard.

Crop notes are available in the sidebar harvest calendar over there on the right all month. The information comes from a guide published by the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. To familiarize yourself with what's in season where you live, I advise a visit to your own farmer's markets at least every couple of weeks. And ask lots of questions – no one knows which crops are at their peak quite like the people who grow them. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

Happy spring and happy June!

Calçots amb Romesco - Grilled Spring Onions with Romesco Sauce

2011-05-23T13:52:00.111-04:00

A calçotada is a Catalonian festival that celebrates the harvest of a variety of green onion known as the calçot. The festival is a major event, and with good reason. Not only are the calçots and their accompanying salsa romesco (locally salbitxada) spectacularly evocative of Catalan, and particularly Tarragonian cuisine, but the onions themselves are a year and a half in the making.

When onion seeds are planted, they grow or “set” a bulb, at which point we usually harvest and eat them fairly quickly. But if left in the ground, the onion bulb will enter a period of dormancy until the following season, at which point it sends up several new shoots to flower and seed. The cultivation of calçots interrupts this natural two-season lifecycle. Farmers dig up and then replant the sprouting onion bulbs, pile the earth up around them to elongate the white section of their shoots, and harvest them before they flower, when they are still mild, tender, and sweet.

The onions are grilled over a fire of vine cuttings until the outer layer of green leaves is charred black. Then they’re wrapped in bunches in newspaper to steam the rest of the way to savory sweetness. The long leaves are left on, but only as a handle. It’s the bulb, and the palest green portion of the leaves that are actually eaten.

You don’t take civilized bites here. The method is as follows: Hold your charred calçolt at the tip of its inner green shoot and peel away the blackened outer leaves (“calçot” means “sock” or “cover” in Catalan), immerse the whole in salsa romesco, a smoky, earthy sauce of peppers and nuts, tip your head back, and lower the whole into your mouth in one go. This isn’t date food, or at least not first date food, and the bibs traditionally worn at any calçotada are anything but superfluous. Consider yourselves warned.

And look, let’s just get this out of the way. There is almost no one on this earth who is capable of either peeling the charred outer layer down off of the translucent interior, nor tipping their head back, maw agape, and lowering the long, romesco-coated onion into their mouth without at least one suggestive grin, one roguish eyebrow wiggle. It’s like sausage-making class in culinary school, when the first 10 minutes saw a roomful of grown adults reduced to a helpless, convulsing, weeping heap on the floor. Deep down, when it comes to our baser appetites at least, we are all apparently children to the end.

Here’s an obliging fellow demonstrating the proper technique:

And another:

It’s a little late in the spring for a calçotada in Spain, where the harvest peaks in February or March, but here in New York the scallions, spring onions, and baby leeks are all just coming into their own. My favorite substitute for calçots stateside are young spring onions or large in-season scallions. Whichever you choose, serve with plenty of red wine – the local red Priorat is a perfect pairing – and for the full calçotada experience follow the onions with grilled meat, especially lamb or sausage, which is traditionally cooked over the embers while everyone devours the calçots. Dessert is often a crema catalana, eggy and redolent with citrus and cinnamon. Viva Cataluña!

Serves 4

8 dried ñora peppers (Ancho or New Mexican make fine substitutes)
½ cup blanched, slivered almonds or 3 oz (85 grams) hazelnuts (The natural smokiness of hazelnuts is particularly nice here).
2 medium tomatoes
2 red bell peppers
extra virgin olive oil
6 garlic cloves, roughly chopped
1 large slice country bread, toasted
1 pinch cayenne pepper
3 - 6 tbsp sherry vinegar, to taste
kosher salt
5 - 6 dozen calçots, spring onions, very large scallions, or young leeks

Preheat the oven to 300 F (150 C, gas mark 2). Unless you're making the sauce ahead of time, start to preheat your grill for the onions. If you're cooking indoors, a griddle pan, cast iron skillet, or broiler will suffice. Whichever you use, indoor or out, make it as hot as you can.

Pull the stems from the dried peppers, tear apart so you can shake out the seeds, and cover with boiling water to steep for half an hour.

Meanwhile place the nuts in a baking dish and roast for 15 minutes or until lightly browned and fragrant. If using hazelnuts, rub in a dry dishcloth after roasting to remove their skins and chop roughly. Meanwhile halve and de-seed the tomatoes, tear apart into several pieces, and roast until lightly caramelized, about 20 - 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, place the bell peppers directly onto gas burners to char black completely on all sides, or else turn the oven up to broil and blacken them under the grill, turning often for about 30 minutes. Immediately place them in a bowl and cover with plastic wrap to steam for 10 minutes. Then remove the blackened skin and stems, seed (resisting the urge to rinse them under running water, which washes away much of the flavor), and set aside.

Heat a small saucepan over medium heat, add a very generous glug of olive oil and then the chopped garlic. Sauté until just beginning to turn golden at the edges. Remove from the heat immediately and pour garlic and oil into a food processor (or a mortar and pestle, which is traditional). Add the toasted bread and pulse into breadcrumbs. Add the ñora peppers, nuts, tomatoes, bell peppers, cayenne pepper, 3 tbsp of sherry vinegar, and a generous pinch of salt, and pulse to a coarse consistency. Remove to a bowl so as not to over-purée and check the seasoning to taste with more vinegar and salt if desired. You may stir in more olive oil if the sauce seems too thick for dipping. Set aside.

Cut the roots off of the calçolts and trim the ends, leaving a long green portion to use as a handle. Be sure to have newspaper nearby for wrapping. Line the onions up over the hot coals, blacken on all sides, and immediately wrap in a thick layer of newspaper and set aside in a warm place to steam - about 20 minutes. Serve immediately with bowls of the romesco sauce for dipping.

Things I Love

2011-05-16T05:57:00.010-04:00

The Avenue. Early, empty on the way to the Saturday market. No memory of the chill. But no scent of heat yet either.

And the first day each spring of River Garden's lily of the valley crop. It's my favorite moment of May.

How lily of the valley always, like clockwork, seems to mean that the French breakfast radishes are ready too - mild, crisp and tipped with white.

And how they feel like a feast with fresh butter, fleur de sel and a floral glass of rosé.

Sharing them with my fellow radish addict and oldest friend in New York, Georg, whom I met here when we were very young indeed.

And the way my small daughter adores Georg just as much as I always have. We haven't sold her on the radishes yet though.

Asparagus Harvest Salad with Dijon Vinaigrette

2011-05-09T11:39:00.000-04:00

It’s sad but true that asparagus mimosa, or anything “mimosa” for that matter, feels woefully outdated. Dinner parties in sunken drawing rooms where food was served in frilly hostess aprons come to mind, as do 3 martini lunches, beehive updos, and the fare at my grandfather’s club, where the menu was about as fresh as the clouds of pipe smoke that hung heavy in the air.

Mimosa is a preparation in which some main player, usually a vegetable, is garnished with hard boiled egg that’s been pushed through a sieve until it resembles, roughly, the overflowing, frothy blossom of the mimosa tree. It was the height of chic about 60 years ago, but one doesn’t run into it too often anymore.

The problem is, of course, that “mimosa” initially caught on, and then stuck around for so long, with good reason. Despite its stodgy visual flourishes, it is inarguably delicious, especially on asparagus. The spears, blanched just to the point of sweetness, are tossed in a Dijon vinaigrette, laced with a touch of that spring-iest of herbs, tarragon. I’ve never been one for “mimosa-ing.” Instead I just slice my hardboiled eggs into rounds and lay them over the top of the warm green spears and season with good salt and plenty of coarsely ground black pepper.

Don’t be fooled by how simple it all sounds. The genius of asparagus mimosa is the sublime rubble that forms as you start to eat. The barely cooked egg yolk crumbles into the twangy mustard and tarragon vinaigrette to form a sunny dressing for the asparagus. Think of it as a wholly modern, deconstructed béarnaise sauce.

I keep hardboiled eggs in the fridge through asparagus season, just so I can make this on market days. We’ve got about 3 more weeks until the field herbs are in, but the dish makes a perfect celebration of spring even without the tarragon. Just remember that, as with all vegetables, the fresher your asparagus, the less cooking time it needs. And conversely, eggs are harder to peel the newer they are. If your eggs are farm fresh, and time (and asparagus season) allow, try keeping them in the fridge for three or four days before boiling them.

Serves 4 as a starter, 2 for a light lunch

Kosher salt
1½ lbs fresh asparagus
1 tsp Dijon mustard
fresh lemon juice
2 tbsp white balsamic vinegar (or slightly less of a less mellow vinegar)
a pinch or two of minced fresh tarragon (optional)
freshly ground black pepper
4 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
1 hardboiled egg per person (Here are good directions for how to make perfectly hard boiled eggs), sliced into rounds

Fill a medium-large pot with a few inches of water, salt well, and bring to the boil over high heat. Snap the ends off of the asparagus spears – they will break naturally where they go from tender to woody. In a bowl, whisk together the mustard, a spritz of fresh lemon juice, the vinegar, the tarragon, a generous grind of black pepper, and a good pinch of kosher salt. Now drizzle in the oil, whisking until combined. Set aside.

Blanch the asparagus until just tender – 2 - 3 minutes ought to do it, especially this time of year. Arrange in bundles on plates. Check the vinaigrette seasoning with salt if necessary and then drizzle as much or as little as you like over the asparagus. Arrange the egg rounds over the asparagus, season well with salt and pepper, and serve immediately.

The May Harvest Calendar

2011-05-03T06:45:00.053-04:00

It's still peaceful.

Don't get me wrong, the greenmarket's been crowded for a week or so already. But the crops, the flavors are still quiet.

Quince blossoms smell like a garden after the rain.

And the harvest has finally begun now too. Fresh, fragrant baby lettuces. Earthily green asparagus, though there will be far more later into the season.

Right now most farmers are getting about a harvest a week, but, as the weather warms and spears grow up to 10 inches a day, an asparagus field might be harvested every 24 hours.

And there are emerald scallions, still young and mild enough to touch to the grill and toss in vinaigrette.

The ramps are suddenly at their height, piled in great velvety heaps that sell all day.

And a few stalks of rhubarb have appeared. Jade.

And blushing into rose too.

Plus some hints of heat and color and things to come.

The field radishes have started to pop up, though not in as much varied abundance as they will be in another week or two.

The world is awash in green.

Also coming into their own right now are beet and turnip greens, mesclun, parnips, spinach and summer squash. And as always from cold storage, we have last year's shell beans, onions, potatoes and apples. The potatoes are wilted but still roast up decently, though I haven't had a respectable apple in months now. And you know my feelings on those old onions. I stick to the scallions, the ramps and the chives in May.

Crop notes are available in the sidebar harvest calendar over there on the right all month. The information comes from a guide published by the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. To familiarize yourself with what's in season where you live, I advise a visit to your own farmer's markets at least every couple of weeks. And ask lots of questions – no one knows which crops are at their peak quite like the people who grow them. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

Happy spring and happy May!

A Proper High Tea & the Recipe for My Granny's Scones

2011-04-26T09:54:00.010-04:00

A quick break from the Mediterranean. My series on British food is being featured all week on PixiesDidIt! Below are my memories of my first ever high tea, not to mention the recipe for my grandmother's scones:

High tea, so named because it is eaten at a dining table rather than in a living room at a tea or coffee table, is a term much bandied about in the States. Visions of sterling, doily draped serving trays and raised pinkies poised over porcelain tea cups come to mind at the first mention of the phrase. But be wary, high tea is no light, lady-like pause for refreshment. The meal, for that is what it is, is a far cry from the lighter afternoon or low tea we tend to replicate on this side of the pond. High tea takes fortitude and self-possession. It is a commitment, a mission you accept, and you should come apprised of what you are entering into. Sound daunting? Press on. High tea is, at its best, one of the world’s great feasts.

My favorite high tea was quite possibly my first - or the first I was old enough to remember. It was an impromptu meal I enjoyed one damp, chilly summer as a child when my family stopped in the very late afternoon to break up a long, increasingly ravenous drive back down from the far reaches of the Highlands. We pulled up short at the chalkboard standing at the side of the road. “High Tea” it simply read.

The place was stately, an old stone grange set right on the narrow, twisting road. It resonated with the details and bustle of another life and another era. There were worn tartan carpets everywhere in faded blue and beige, and heavy velvet drapes trimmed in brocade. The menu was as succinct as the sign outside had been:

Gammon
Lamb chops

The rest was up to the good judgment and experience of the house.

We sat in a small front room with ceilings high enough to ensure one could never be warm. Several needlepoint stools were drawn up to a gas heater. My sister and I perched there to warm our fingers until the first course came, brought by a kindly matron with a low bun, thick, muscular legs and a sensible gait that held out her tweed walking skirt as she shooed us back to our chairs with an arched brow.

She brought tea sandwiches, which was to be expected. Ham, cucumber, and smoked salmon. We tasted each, especially enjoying the combination of Scottish salmon, fresh butter, and brown country bread, and settled back to wait for our lamb chops, but they were nowhere in sight. Shallow bowls of cock-a-leekie soup came next, rich broth, tender strips of chicken, silken rounds of leek, and a scattering of pleasantly chewy barley. Now we were warm, and I believe my mother may have made some comment about how soup and a sandwich makes such a nice, cozy supper.

The next thing I recall clearly is an intriguing waft of garlic in the air. Moments later
deep crocks of tiny shrimp in garlic butter came sizzling to the table along with more country bread for dipping. The shrimp were plump, sweet, and scaldingly hot, and there was a bowl of lemon halves for showering into their buttery juices.

I’ll admit we were broadsided by the vast platter of sausages and chips. The sausages burnished deep brown and crisp, their interiors juicy and fragrant, and the chips thick, crisp, sandy with salt, and fragrant with malt vinegar.

When 3 plates piled high with lamb chops and roast potatoes reached the table, along with a thick gammon steak crowned with pineapple and a maraschino cherry for my father, my parents collapsed into fits of hysterical laughter, weeping with the weakness that comes from having eaten heroic amounts only to realize that the end is nowhere in sight.

Back and forth between our little room and the grange kitchens trod our sturdy host’s moor-weathered shoes. She was stony-faced, relentless, and utterly inured to our frenzied giggles and groans of pain. Next, incomprehensibly, came scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream. Oh yes, this was still “tea” we were having after all. There were no raisins in the scones – something I heartily approve of to this day. I think I took one bite. My little sister lay down on the floor under the table, sensing that no one had the strength to reprimand her for it. But she picked her flushed cheek off the rough woolen carpeting at the sight of an entire Victoria Sponge, filled with cream and jam and blanketed with icing sugar.

Halfway through the trowel-sized wedge on my plate, I flopped my head to the side and gave a small sob at the injustice of not being physically capable of eating cake when it was on offer. I did however finish an entire chocolate éclair, bursting with freshly whipped cream, a salver of which was brought as the final flourish. One doesn’t quibble with éclairs.

Though the sky stayed light until what must have been 10 – as it does in Scotland at midsummer - the drive home was silent. The road signs grew gradually more familiar: Fort William, Killin, Perth, as we settled back, smiling at the occasional remnant burst of laughter from my parents in the front seat, and waited for home.

If you want to create your own high tea experience, be assured that the meal has no set menu or number of courses. Countless versions include steak and kidney pie, shepherd’s pie, poached salmon, even kippers. Trifle can be served for a particularly celebratory finish.

In the meantime, here are my grandmother’s magnificent scones. That’s pronounced, “skonn.” It rhymes with John. If you mean business, cool the tips of your fingers in ice water and dry thoroughly before starting.

Granny’s Scones

8 oz (227g) self-raising flour
1 tbsp sugar
pinch of salt
2 oz (57g) unsalted butter
whole milk

Preheat the oven to 425 F (218 C, gas mark 7)

Using only your fingertips, rub the butter into flour/sugar/salt mixture until it forms light crumbs. Mix with cold water, a tablespoon at a time, until it holds together. Turn onto a floured board and knead gently until just smooth. Do not overwork.

Roll out to a thickness of ½ inch and cut into 2 inch rounds. (Note: Reader Toffeeapple kindly reminded me to say to be sure to press your scone cutter straight down into the dough and pull it straight back out - no twisting). Place on a lightly floured baking sheet. Brush the tops with a little milk and bake towards the top of the oven for 12 – 15 minutes. Cool on a rack for at least 10 minutes before serving.

Serve with good fresh butter and jam, and for a treat with clotted cream as well.

Braised Lamb Shoulder with Herbs & Flageolets with White Balsamic & Mint

2011-04-19T10:54:00.004-04:00

The first time I had pasture-raised Mediterranean lamb, I was in Provence, near Carpentras. The restaurant, nestled at the foot of Mont Ventoux, had left the lamb blissfully unadorned, simply rubbing the meat with garlic, olive oil and sea salt and then braising it in a little white wine. The result was aromatic, perfect, burnished a rich brown. But the flavor was surprisingly complex. When I asked which herbs had been used, the answer was "Pas un." Not one. Why then could I taste so many? Thyme and rosemary were particularly perceptible. “Of course,” came the reply. “C'est que l'agneau a mangé.” That's what the lamb ate.

Since then I’ve had lamb prepared just as simply all along the northern Mediterranean, and I’m unfailingly delighted by the variation in flavor from region to region, sometimes even from town to town. What might have been redolent with wild fennel in Andalusia, has been musky and floral with oregano and marjoram in the Greek islands, or peppery with young garlic and chives in Piemonte. It’s something I can’t help but try to replicate at home. Though I get beautiful lamb at the greenmarket, the natural infusion of indigenous wild herbs is tough to come by.

This dish is inspired by that first experience in Provence, and it comes pretty close to the mark actually. The classic pairing for braised lamb, particularly in France, is earthily creamy flageolets beans. They’re rare in the States, but navy beans make a fine substitute. With lamb I like my beans flecked with mint and gently dressed in white balsamic vinegar, a welcome twang against the richness of the meat. And don't forget to serve the wine-sweet garlic cloves in their paper alongside the lamb too.

When Easter falls late, as it has this year, I pounce on the chance to have this with the season’s first asparagus, roasted in olive oil and showered with lemon juice and good sea salt. Expect to be ravenous by the time it all finishes cooking - the aroma from the oven is particularly tempting.

Joyeuses Pâques!

Serves 4

1 4lb (1.8 kg) bone in lamb shoulder
extra virgin olive oil
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper
2 – 3 stalks fresh rosemary
small handful fresh thyme sprigs
4 cloves of garlic, plus one head of garlic
2 bay leaves, fresh if possible
½ bottle white wine
1 lb (½ kg) dried flageolets beans (navy beans or any other very small white bean are fine)
3 – 4 shallots, peeled and sliced into half moons
hot chicken or vegetable stock
small handful fresh mint leaves
white balsamic vinegar

Preheat the oven to 325 F (170 C, gas mark 3)

Rinse and pat dry your lamb. Use a small pairing knife to pierce holes here and there. Rub the lamb all over with olive oil and then season generously with salt and pepper, being sure to work the seasoning into the holes. Next push stalks of rosemary and thyme into the holes. Crush and peel the 4 extra garlic cloves and work pieces of those in too. Place the lamb in a heavy, ovenproof pot. Separate the cloves from the full head of garlic, but do not peel. Put them in the pot in their paper with the bay leaves and the wine. Cover and bake in the center of the oven for 4 hours, checking occasionally to be sure the pot isn’t dry. You may top up with more wine if necessary.

Meanwhile pour your beans onto a baking sheet or table and rake through to pick out any stones or discolored beans. Place the beans in a colander and rinse thoroughly under cold, running water. Place the beans in a very large, heavy-bottomed casserole and cover with lots of cold water. Place over medium heat and bring to a boil, stirring often and skimming off any foam with a large spoon. Boil for 2 minutes and then drain, rinsing the beans again thoroughly under cold, running water. Give the large casserole a quick rinse too. Pour the beans back into the pot and cover with cold water. Soak off the heat for 1 hour, then drain and rinse the beans.

Heat the pot over medium heat and add some olive oil. Brown your shallots gently, turning occasionally. Add the beans and cover generously with hot stock. Bring to a boil, reduce to a very gentle simmer, and cook partially covered for 1 hour or until tender but not falling apart, skimming off any foam or scum that rises to the surface and topping up with boiling water or stock whenever necessary to keep the beans well covered.

Drain the beans, return to the pot, and season generously with extra virgin olive oil, salt, and pepper. Just before serving, dress with a good glug of white balsamic vinegar to taste, add more salt or pepper if necessary, and then roll up the mint leaves like a cigar and slice or chiffonade as thinly as possible. Toss the mint into the beans and serve alongside the lamb, which should be tender enough to pull apart rather than carve, and don't forget the garlic cloves in their paper, which make a wonderful accompaniment to the meat.

Grilled Squid & Ramp Salad with Chili & Lemon

2011-04-12T19:45:00.008-04:00

The ramps are here. I spied a small but impossibly lush heap of them yesterday morning at the northwest end of the market. I think a small “Oh!” actually escaped my lips at the sight. It’s one of my favorite moments of the year, I’ll confess, and this is one of my most beloved ramp recipes, inspired by my time in the Greek islands. I thought I’d excavate it from the archives for those of you who are new to the blog or who may have missed it the first time around:

When I was last in the Greek islands, most of the restaurants and hotels had already closed for the winter. It was late autumn, and the rhythm of life had finally slowed back to normal.

Strolling the near-deserted streets, it was hard to believe that a few weeks before the beaches had been packed and the nightclubs throbbing. In fact the only evidence of the now absent tourists was the pack of lonely, love-starved dogs that followed us wherever we went – sad cast-offs of travelers gone to sunnier shores.

Eating was a quandary. The focus of life had turned from keeping restaurant inventory stocked to finishing the olive and potato harvests and hunkering down for the often-bitter winter. When we found an open taverna, the proprietor would usually shrug at the sight of us. But perhaps he could rustle us up a plate of spaghetti Bolognese or a couple of cheese sandwiches, drizzled with the ubiquitous (and heavenly) lemon juice and olive oil. In other words, we ate what they ate, which is just one of the reasons I love off-season travel.

One outdoor establishment, situated at the base of a cliff that plunged into the Aegean, told us they had just caught some kalamari, or squid. Someone fired up the grill at the end of the seating area, and the kitchen staff stood by the bar, smoking their cigarettes and shaking their heads at us. It was high tide, and waves driven by the November winds slapped up onto the floor of the taverna, sending small but regular surges of seawater under the plastic tables, one of which occasionally hydroplaned past.

We put our feet up on chairs and stared in amazement as a lone squid, it's body the size of a football, was laid out in front of us. Lightly charred where the grill had seared the flesh, this creature from the deep was substantial and meaty, a completely different prospect from the petite, tender miniatures we buy at home. Eating that exceptionally unadulterated meal was an oddly visceral experience. Delicious, but one hell of a lot of squid.

We doused the plate with fruity olive oil, lemon juice, and sea salt, and I’ve never forgotten the warm, briny sauce that formed as the squid juice mingled with that simple vinaigrette.

Ramps have arrived, thanks to the Bishops at Mountain Sweet Berry Farm. Not just one lone basket, but a whole table piled high at the greenmarket. If you can’t find ramps near you, or if they’re not in season where you live, scallions will make a fine substitute – just grill them a little longer before you start the squid. Or in the States, you can search for potential vendors at Pure Food.

Serves 4 as an appetizer.

1 lb squid, cleaned, patted dry, and slit down one side so they can open out in one flat piece
1 lb fresh ramps or scallions, root end trimmed, rinsed and patted dry
1 fresh red chili, seeded and minced
extra virgin olive oil
juice of 1 or 2 lemons (depending on juiciness)
good sea salt

Heat your grill on high or your grill pan over high heat, and have ready a large bowl. With a sharp knife, score one side of the opened squid in a crosshatch pattern being careful not to cut all the way through. Lay the squid and ramps on the grill. The squid may curl up on their own, or you may need to loosen and flip them. They are ready as soon as they’re lightly browned where the grill has touched them – 1 or 2 minutes at most. The ramps will be ready in the same amount of time – just flip them once during the cooking process. Work in batches if necessary until all the squid and ramps are grilled. Reserve in the bowl.

Sprinkle in the minced chili. Douse the grilled squid and ramps with a good amount of the olive oil, the lemon juice, and a generous pinch of sea salt. Toss and arrange on 4 plates. Sprinkle with a little more sea salt and serve hot.

The April Harvest Calendar

2011-04-04T06:22:00.001-04:00

Dogwood. And cherry blossom.

It must be spring.

This is the cool, green calm before the deluge of May.

Not much to eat yet, except for the old standbys. My talented friend Lucy told me this waiting period between the end of winter and the first harvest is known as The Hungry Gap.

You can feel the anticipation in the air though.

"Any rhubarb yet?"

The world seems to be generally unrumpling itself, shrugging off the cold and remembering how to play nicely.

For the most part anyway. I was speaking with a farmer about his burdock crop the other day. We'd never officially met before.

"Are you a food writer?" he asked.

"I'm Amanda," I extended a hand.

"Not Amanda Hesser."

"No, but I'm a big fan of hers."

"No. I was going to say, you aged really fast."

Here John. Here's a shot of your five damned bunches of wintered-over arugula.

Still, it's spring. And it's hard not to like a man that into growing burdock, even on his less charming days.

Mesclun and parsnips should be available within the next couple of weeks, and last year's shell beans, onions, potatoes, and apples are still available from cold storage. While we wait for the first field crops of the season to grow there are still greens from the tents to tide us over.

And so much more besides.

As always, crop information is available in the sidebar harvest calendar over there on the right all month. The information comes from a guide published by the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

Happy spring and happy April!

Robiola Crostini with Pine Nuts, Honey & Sea Salt

2011-03-29T12:43:00.018-04:00

Spring is here in New York. Well allegedly. The sun is a little higher and the crocuses are out, though the wind off the Hudson still verges on arctic at times. There are always a couple of weeks at the end of winter where the world feels uncertain, faltering, reluctant. Not quite sure it can rev itself up again for the big push.

Possibly I’m projecting.

At any rate, ready or not, come spring must, and when it does, it will be inevitably glorious. But every year there is a lesson I have to learn anew. Just when spring fever finally takes hold, and just when cold weather lovers like me start to yearn in earnest for the warmth and ease they didn’t know they missed, horror will strike. Though we are suddenly, urgently hungry for them, new crops will be nowhere to be found. For an age.

Spring has to get underway before crops can start to grow out in the field, and it takes a good while of course for any crop to be ready for harvest. When eager forays to the farmer’s market begin to feel like a waiting game, it’s best for our poor, snowed-under morales if we can look beneath the surface for signs of hope. Small changes will be in evidence, I promise.

Take milk. As soon as there is even a scattering of green shoots for livestock to graze on, their milk starts to taste floral, sweeter, greener. You will actually notice a darker cream line if you’re lucky enough to buy your spring milk unhomogenized. It’ll be a little longer before we’ll start to taste the difference in cheeses, but they’ll be sweeter, grassier, and more herbal too.

The younger cheeses of northern Italy make a magnificent celebration of spring. There’s the late May/early June pecorino dolce in Tuscany, the Friulian formaggi di malga or mountain cheeses, and the softer, taleggio-type cheeses of Lombardy – all much loved ways to mark the return of growing season.

This dish is a mainstay at my house – one it's good to have on hand as soon as the early season cheeses hit the market. It’s traditionally prepared with robiola lombardia, which is aged in caves in the Valsassina. The full, nutty, fruit-tinged cheese is served in the traditional way – on crostini with a drizzle of honey, sharp, brightly-flavored sea salt, and a scattering of richly-toasted pignoli. There is truly no recipe necessary.

Beth Bischoff, a photographer friend of mine whom I’ve worked with for years, took the top picture at a dinner party I gave in my roof garden, back when I had a roof garden. Which was a long time ago, so you can tell this has been a spring favorite of mine for quite a while.

So long winter.

Gâteau Basque with Cherry Eau de Vie

2011-03-21T08:27:00.011-04:00

I have a neighbor here in New York who spends half of every year living in a small village near Tours in France. I dread her going each year. (That’s a rarity by the way. New Yorkers are not known for being friends with their neighbors, even though, or perhaps because, we live in such close quarters with one other). Plus there’s the categorical envy we all suffer as she jets off each spring and we gird ourselves for another withering summer in the city.

But our friend eases the pain as best she can. First there are the care packages, little boxes that arrive now and then while she’s gone with some deliciously scented bars of olive oil soap from the market near her home, a tin of foie gras pâté with some fig confitures and a small sack of fleur de sel, and once a miniature set of antique silver teaspoons from the brocante.

Second are the preserved treasures from her kitchen garden she ships back when she returns. There are jams, and tomato sauces, and most prized of all, the eau de vie she makes each year. In France, producing your own eaux de vie as the fruit crops come in is still quite common. Supermarkets there sell the bottles of Alcool pour Fruits during harvest season. It’s worlds apart – tastier and less harsh than the grain alcohol we buy in the States.

My friend has a white cherry tree, and when the fruit ripens, she makes massive batches of confitures, plenty of clafoutis, and eau de vie de cerise. She puts the carefully rinsed and picked over cherries straight into the bottle unpitted, sets the bottle in a dark, cool place turning it every day for a month, and then leaves it to sit for 5 more months. Then she flavors the eau de vie with a scant amount of granulated sugar, allows it to dissolve for a few days, and ships the rosy liqueur back to New York to see us all through the long, hard winter. Her cherry eau de vie is miraculous – mellow and musky, barely sweet, and heady with the scent of summer and freshly cracked almonds, a perfume that comes from the cherry pits themselves. We sip it at the end of special dinners of course, but every now and then my friend gifts me a generous dram for baking Gâteau Basque.

Gâteau Basque is a much beloved and, needless to say, hotly debated pastry from the French side of the Basque country. There are as many variations as there are cooks, but the basic idea is that two layers of pastry, the texture of which I think should ideally fall somewhere between cake and chewy cookie, encase a filling – sometimes a pastry cream, but far more interestingly, black cherry preserves. The cherry-filled version comes from Labourd (Lapurdi in Basque), where the black cherries are sweet, meaty, and impossibly fragrant. Traditionally whole cherries preserved in syrup would be used, similar to a Greek cherry spoon sweet, but by March our store from last summer is long gone, and so I use black cherry jam instead.

Perhaps my favorite thing about Gâteau Basque, other than eating it of course, is that you can traditionally tell which filling the chef has chosen by the decoration on the top of the tart. A Basque cross, sort of two “s” shapes laid over one another, indicates that black cherries lie within. You can see a clear drawing of a Basque cross here. A crosshatch pattern indicates a pastry cream filled version, or alternately that the cook has not left enough dough to make a Basque cross, ahem.

Kirsch works well if you haven’t any homemade cherry eau de vie lying about. Both combine with the exotic perfume of orange flower water to bring out a heady freshness in the cherries. There is another version I like where a drop of pastis is added to the pastry dough. It makes for a more complex flavor profile, but anise has always worked well with both cherry and orange in my book. I’ve provided provisions for both versions below.

Makes one 9 inch tart (8 servings) or 4 individual tarts

4 oz (1 stick) unsalted butter at room temperature, plus extra for the tart pan
1 cup demerara sugar (or ½ cup granulated sugar and ½ cup light brown sugar)
pinch of kosher salt
2 egg yolks
1 tbsp plus 1 tsp cherry eau de vie or kirsch (or substitute one tsp with an equal amount of pastis)
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 tsp orange flower water
seeds of one vanilla bean
1 ½ cups of all-purpose flour, plus extra for the tart pan
1/3 cup ground almond flour
1 tsp baking powder
1 cup black cherry jam or an equal amount of pastry cream
1 egg
splash of milk

In the bowl of a standing mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, blend together the butter, sugar, and salt. Add the egg yolks one at a time, blending thoroughly after each addition. Add the cherry eau de vie, vanilla extract, orange flower water, and vanilla seeds and blend again. Add the flour, almond flour and baking powder. Mix on low speed until just combined into a firm dough. Form the dough into 2 flat disks, cover in plastic wrap, and refrigerate for an hour or up to 2 days.

Preheat the oven to 350 F (180 Celsius, Gas Mark 4).

Butter and flour a 9 inch (23 cm) round tart pan or 4 4½ inch (11.5 cm) individual round tart pans. Roll or press out one of the disks into approximately a 10 inch (25 ½ cm) circle or 4 5½ inch (14cm) circles. I find it helps to do this on a sheet of plastic wrap as the dough falls apart quite easily. Transfer the dough to the tart pan and press in to the sides, removing any excess dough – any tears or holes are easily patched. Fill the tart or tarts with the black cherry jam or pastry cream.

If you wish to make a Basque cross for your tart or tarts, remove a piece of dough from the second disk, then roll the remainder out into a 9 inch (23cm) circle or 4 4½ inch (11.5 cm) circles, using plastic wrap as a base if you prefer. Transfer to the tarts and pinch the sides of the base and top to seal, removing any excess dough. Use a sharp knife to score a crosshatch pattern on the surface of the tart or take your extra dough and shape a Basque cross for the top. This is best achieved by dividing the dough into two pieces, rolling each into a long thin snake, and then creating an “s” shape before rolling or spiraling the ends back in on themselves and pressing down to smooth to create the signature thickened ends of the cross (see photo below).

Briefly whisk together the egg with a splash of milk and brush over the surface. Place your tart on a baking sheet and into the middle of the oven and bake until golden brown (30 -35 minutes for the individual tarts and 40 – 45 minutes for the 9-inch version). Remove from the oven and cool on a rack before removing the tarts from their shells.

If you would like to help

2011-03-16T05:15:00.000-04:00

To contribute to the earthquake and tsunami relief efforts in Japan:

The Red Cross or text REDCROSS to 90999 to donate $10 from your phone.

Doctors Without Borders/Médecins Sans Frontières

Save the Children's Emergency Relief Fund

The Salvation Army or text 'JAPAN' or 'QUAKE' to 80888 to make a $10 donation.

Tarte aux Oignons – Caramelized Onion Tart with Black Olives

2011-03-10T18:01:00.000-05:00

Peg Bracken, who penned guides on cooking, housekeeping, and etiquette in the 60s and 70s, advised quite firmly against ironing of any kind. She felt it led to a surplus of introspection. In that same vein I would counsel entirely against slicing onions by hand at the end of winter. An old onion is what’s known as a “cryer”, and by the beginning of March, they’re all getting rather vicious.

It’s been 4 months after all, since the end of the onion field harvest. Now that’s not to say I’m suggesting you wait until they’re back in season in August to cook with onions. There are way too many important things to eat between now and then – this tart for example. But if you’re going to set out to make something that involves slicing four or five cold storage onions into half moons, particularly on a dreary day in March, then you might want to proceed with caution.

Let’s say, just for example, that you’re wrapping up the process of applying to New York City nursery schools. You’ve written your essays (I am not kidding) and procured references from your most plausible friends and fumbled through parent interviews that opened with a question about your parenting philosophy (What? My what?). And suppose that all your ducks finally seem to be neatly in a row, and that you’ve made it to the final step, which is your child’s “playdate” or “observation.”

Now let’s just say that your impeccably bathed and dressed 2 year old chooses this exceptionally delicate moment to completely and utterly lose her mind. She steals toys and hurls blocks and pronounces the word “no” in increasingly shrill tones. "Mom!" she calls over her shoulder at one point, brandishing a wooden spatula, "I hit that boy with this spoon!" And just when you think that all your darkest fears have been realized, and that it can’t possibly get any worse, your child marches up to the director of admissions, who is perched in a toddler-sized school chair, and with remarkable force and accuracy, gives her a kick in the shins.

“Hey lady!” she screams, “Don’t talk!”

Hours later your 2 year old has long forgotten her transgressions and the ensuing chaos and admonishments. You on the other hand are still having exactly the sort of day where, upon finding yourself faced with a bowl full of late season onions, you should reach for the food processor.

“Why are you crying Mommy?”

“Oh, I’m just happy honey,” you beam out over your chopping board of hand-slivered onions.

So, so happy.

Sure it’s probably just old onions. You don't cry about nursery schools. You know how to butcher half a cow. But life is full of blurred lines and gray areas too.

Do you know anything about applying to nursery schools in Manhattan? It’s another story for another blog, but suffice to say that when one of you turned to the other and said “Let’s have a baby,” applying to nursery schools in Manhattan was precisely the opposite of what you meant. And when they first handed you this baby, you did not, could not even conceive of the way in which she might hit her “terrible twos” with all the subtlety of a 30-pound wrecking ball. Or synchronize her “hitting phase” (read: “relentless, socially-isolating thirst for blood”) so flawlessly with nursery school interview month.

Fortunately friends come over. To cringe. To laugh. To compare tales of public humiliation. And friends have to be fed. You don’t have the wherewithal for actual cooking, of course, but this is scarcely a recipe. It’s like the less refined, rustic cousin of the classic Alsatian onion tart that uses pâte brisée and a custard filling. Tarte aux oignons is scrappy and crave-able and fragrant, rather like your two year old.

There’s hardly a bit of work involved, especially if you take my advice and let the thinnest slicing blade on your food processor do the labor. In fact it’s your job to leave the onions alone as they cook. That’s the only way they’ll caramelize and build up all the jammy savor that makes this tart so perfect for late winter. I’ve added some black oil cured olives, much like a Provençal pissaladière, though I’ve skipped the anchovies. I find the olives add an earthy salinity that enhances the sweet, floral flavor of caramelized onions deglazed in wine. The white wine is the trick here – it adds an extra depth that sets this apart from other onion tarts.

This is just as good cold as it is warm, and cut into small wedges it makes a wonderful accompaniment to apéritifs. If you want your tarte aux oignons to be the main event though, all you really need with it is a little green salad vinaigrette (I like mâche this time of year) and a glass of whatever you have open. Which frankly ought to be plenty if you’re even contemplating applying to nursery schools. If you require more sustenance, tapenade makes an ideal accompaniment, as do some thinly sliced rounds of sauçisson sec.

Serves 4 – 6

Extra virgin olive oil
4 – 5 large yellow onions, peeled and sliced into thin half moons
1 clove of garlic, peeled and minced,
6 stems thyme
large pinch minced rosemary
1 glass dry white wine
kosher salt
black pepper
flour for dusting
1 sheet frozen puff pastry, thawed
1 egg
splash of milk
small handful oil-cured black olives

Preheat the oven to 425 F (220 C, gas mark 7).

Heat a large sauté pan over medium heat. Give it a generous glug of olive oil and then add your onions. Do not stir. Do not add any salt. You want these onions to caramelize. Check them often so they don’t burn, and when you see some color beginning to form, give them a good stir and allow to sit still until color forms again. Refresh the oil if the pan gets dry. Make sure the fond in the bottom of the pan doesn’t burn and continue until the onions are golden brown (see photo below).

Add the garlic, the leaves from 4 stems of thyme, the minced rosemary, and stir again. Allow to cook until quite dark and then remove from the heat. Add the glass of wine and season generously with salt and pepper. Return to medium-high heat and allow to bubble, scraping the bottom of the pan to lift up the fond, until the wine has evaporated.

Meanwhile flour a work surface and roll out your puff pastry. Trim to a rectangle of about 10 x 16 inches (about 25 x 40 cm). Line a baking sheet with parchment and then arrange your pastry sheet over the paper. With the tip of a sharp knife, lightly score an inch-wide border around the outer edge of your pastry – this helps the crust to rise. Prick the inner rectangle all over with a fork.

When the wine has evaporated and the onions are dark brown, check the seasoning with more salt and pepper if necessary, and arrange them on the center of the pastry (see photo below), and then sprinkle over the olives.

Whisk together the egg and the milk and brush over the outer border of the pastry. Place the tart in the center of the oven and immediately reduce the heat to 375 F (190 C, gas mark 5). Bake until the crust is puffed and golden (30 – 45 minutes). If your crust gets too dark before 30 minutes has passed, you may tent the tart loosely with tinfoil while it finishes baking. Remove the tart from the oven and allow to sit uncovered for 10 minutes before serving. Just before serving sprinkle over the leaves of one or two more stems of thyme.

The March Harvest Calendar

2011-03-01T00:01:00.000-05:00

Now let's not get ahead of ourselves.

It isn't spring. Let's just take that off the table from the outset. Positively nothing has changed since February, I assure you.

Only suddenly there seems to be a lot more color.

From the greenhouses.

From cold storage.

Maybe I just didn't see it before.

Or maybe it's all the rain.

But it definitely isn’t spring. For one thing the crops are still decidedly late winter. Shell beans, cabbage, carrots, onions, parsnips, potatoes, and apples make up the last remnants of the field harvest. Even decent pears are pretty thin on the ground at this point. There is absolutely nothing new to eat. And it's still cold. Until I saw those tulips, we were half-heartedly tossing around the idea of a second cassoulet party.

I love the winter. I can even cozy up to the monotony of the food this late in the season. But how can you not prick up your ears at a sight like this?

As always, crop information is available in the sidebar harvest calendar over there on the right all month. The information comes from a guide published by the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

Happy winter and happy March!

Moroccan Blood Orange Salad with Black Olives

2011-02-21T06:27:00.000-05:00

It’s snowing again. Again! Sadly it’s too soon for another cassoulet, so I chose a different tack and decided to prepare some Moroccan food, which never fails to bring sun and warmth to mind.

Vegetables haven’t traditionally been a major part of the southern Berber diet, but in Fez and Meknes, and along the coast, they have a rich history. Salads there are usually served at the start of the meal, and, as Paula Wolfert observed, they tend to more closely resemble Italian antipasti platters both in form and in function than the dressed green salads we serve in the States. Moroccan salads can be savory or sweet and feature meat as well as fruits and vegetables. It is common to see several served at a time, and I especially like when they are left on the table throughout the meal as a refreshing, sometimes spicy counterpoint to a tagine.

I imagine this particular salad might have originated around the famous citrus groves of Fez or Agadir. It’s a favorite of mine – I can’t resist the colors. Plus there’s something comforting about slices of orange arranged on a platter that reminds me of my mother’s dinner parties in the eighties (when they were usually drizzled with raspberry purée for dessert).

Citrus and olives are a classic flavor combination throughout the Mediterranean, and I love them here with the added earthiness and heat of the spices. The whole is balanced in a lightly garlic-flecked dressing that brings out the best in the herbal parsley. You can add a small amount of cinnamon to the dressing, but there’s so often cinnamon in tagine that I like this vinaigrette “clean.” You can also mix up the citrus, maybe blending sour oranges like bergamots or Sevilles with the sweet, or adding fresh or preserved lemons. And when blood oranges are in season – they seem to be everywhere in New York right now – I relish the chance to use them.

Whichever version you prefer, it works nicely as part of a salad course alongside a twangy cucumber salad and maybe some slivered radishes in orange blossom water or spiced fava beans. The spiced oranges pair well with many tagines, including my kdra style Chicken, Carrot & Chickpea Tagine and my Beef Tagine with Olives & Dates. But even enjoyed alone as a simple lunch, along with perhaps some grilled flatbread and a nice piece of sheep’s milk cheese, this dish packs a punch against the gray endlessness of February.

Serves 6 - 8 as part of a larger meal or 2 - 3 as a light lunch with flatbread and cheese

3 lbs blood oranges, navel oranges, or other mixed citrus
1 cup black oil-cured olives, pitted
Juice of 1 lemon
1 small garlic clove, peeled and minced
½ tsp paprika
pinch of cumin
pinch of cayenne pepper (or to taste)
pinch of granulated sugar
kosher salt
Extra virgin olive oil
Small handful of flat leaf parsley (or more if preferred), torn or roughly chopped

Slice the ends off of the oranges and then use a knife to cut off the rest of the skin from top to bottom in sections. Turn the oranges on their sides and gently slice into disks across their equators. Arrange on a platter with the olives.

In a small bowl, whisk together the lemon juice, garlic, paprika, cumin, cayenne, and sugar. Season with salt to taste and then whisk in about twice as much olive oil as there is lemon juice. Check the seasoning with a little more salt if necessary and then drizzle as much over the oranges and olives as you like. Sprinkle over the parsley and serve immediately.

Holy Ghost Cassoulet

2011-02-14T07:20:00.002-05:00

Prosper Montagné, the Carcassonian chef, author, and creator of the "Larousse Gastronomique", used to introduce cassoulet with a story about going to the local shoemaker’s in his native Castelnaudry only to find the place locked and shuttered. For a moment he feared tragedy until he saw the note pinned to the door: "Fermé pour cause de cassoulet.”

Cassoulet is indeed an event, a holiday unto itself, and I’ve long felt it was almost worth having February exist in the calendar year just to provide an opportunity for a proper cassoulet party. In fact cassoulet calls precisely for just what we tend to detest most about February: arctic winds, freezing rain, snowstorms. Ok our wind’s not the mistral, but have any of my fellow New Yorkers felt what’s been blowing in off the Hudson this past week? It’s certainly made me wish I had several feet of Languedocian stone farmhouse wall between me and the elements rather than the measly window panes of a New York City apartment. But a cassoulet? Well it was designed for this weather. It fortifies against the gloom, stokes the proverbial kitchen fires, enables, nay, necessitates a long winter’s nap, and generally laughs in the face of February.

There is a sense of occasion and deep conviviality to the whole thing, and there are certain steps that you follow, both in the cooking and in the eating of it. Begin hungry. I suppose that goes without saying, but you really should be quite hungry, because this is a true feast.

The wisest way to start is with a palate opening aperitif – champagne or kir royals work well – and possibly some very light hors d’oeuvres – radishes with cold little curls of fresh butter and some fleur de sel for example, or even some tapenade and winter vegetables.

Next comes the solitary cassoulet with its gratin crust, herb infused and fragrant, beneath which lie some of the greatest treasures of French farmhouse life: rich duck leg confit, simply seasoned pork sausage, and fresh lamb shoulder, all braised for hours and enrobed in creamy, garlicky, thyme and pancetta-infused haricot beans.

A mâche salad vinaigrette is lovely right afterwards, along with some little cheeses to sample if you think you can manage them. And to follow, I personally think anything with apple is hard to beat. Apple tart, tarte tatin, even simply roasted apples – you get the picture. This weekend a gift of homemade chocolate covered strawberries actually made the perfect end to the meal. Or at least the perfect pause before we brought out the calvados. Whatever you choose to serve before and after your cassoulet, I don’t think it’s possible for any other dish to impart such warmth. And yes, rabble at the back, I said pancetta. More on that later though – I’ve gotten ahead of myself.

Named for the cassole, an earthenware pot glazed on the inside and traditionally used for the dish, cassoulet is said by some to have been invented out of pure necessity during the siege of Castelnaudary in 1355, when the townspeople pooled together their remaining food to create a communal stew. Regardless of provenance, back then a cassoulet would have most likely closely resembled the Arabian fava bean and mutton stews. Haricots didn’t arrive from Spain until the 19th century.

As for the cassoulet we know, the Languedocian towns of Castelnaudry, Carcassone, and Toulouse all claim credit for having created le cassoulet officiel. There are certain parameters that are agreed upon though: a cassoulet must be at least 30% pork, mutton or preserved goose, with the rest comprised of haricot beans and stock, fresh pork rinds, herbs, and flavorings. Remember my summer version, designed specifically to placate a yen for colder, cozier months? At the time I mentioned that, within these restrictions, cassoulet is still a recipe whose ingredients vary spectacularly from town to town, and of course from house to house too. In short it is a dish that inspires rivalry and pride in equal measure.

In fact Chef Montagné, clearly taking as fact that cassoulet comprises a religious experience (and I hope you’ll understand that stance after trying it), defined the three major versions of the dish as a holy Trinity:

1. The “Father,” and by many approximations the oldest of the 3, is the version from Castelnaudry, comprised of pork (loin, ham, leg, sausages, fresh rinds) & often preserved goose.

2. The “Son” is from Carcassone and uses leg of mutton and, during the hunting season, partridge.

3. The “Holy Ghost” is the cassoulet prepared in Toulouse, and this past weekend in rough approximation at a certain Manhattan address not too far from one of the city’s main greenmarkets. The Toulousain recipe incorporates the same ingredients as Castelnaudry’s only in smaller amounts, the difference being made up with fresh lard, saucisse de Toulouse or Toulouse sausage, mutton and duck or goose.

As you might expect, there are a couple of limitations to cooking cassoulet Toulousain in New York rather than Toulouse. Certain items have to be streamlined. In absence of petit salé, a lean salt pork, I use pancetta, which I’ve always felt slightly sacrilegious doing until I saw that Clifford Wright does the same thing. You know what? It works. And it tastes divine. He also sometimes substitutes mild Italian pork sausage for the saucisse de Toulouse, a straightforward, robust, coarsely ground, fairly fatty, pure pork sausage. Again, I’ve never seen the Toulousain saucisse in New York, but Julia Child came up with a few extra seasonings to make up the difference. I’m assuming you don’t have access to the Toulousain version either, but if you do, then you can omit the cognac, allspice, one of the bay leaves, and two of the garlic cloves.

Here then is my New Yorker’s locavore version of cassoulet Toulousain, something that’s been researched and tinkered with for years. The recipe below includes many meats sourced from the greenmarket: duck confit from Hudson Valley Duck Farm, sweet Italian sausage, ham hocks, and spare ribs from Flying Pigs Farm, and lamb shoulder from Catskill Merino Lamb. In case you would like to play around a bit but still stay true to tradition, you can boil (and then discard) a pound of fresh pork skin with the beans (a step considered by many to be of the utmost importance, though I’ve skipped it the past few years to no great loss), or add a little pork lard or swap out some of the lamb for pork shoulder when you braise the meats. Also feel free to substitute goose confit for the duck if you’d rather.

I suppose it might theoretically be possible to prepare this dish in one day, as long as you salt the ham hocks two nights before that is, but I like to stretch it out more leisurely over two or three days and really enjoy layering all the flavors. It makes it feel more like a celebration and less like going into battle. Plus don’t forget that all meat braises develop better flavor over a couple of days. I often soak and boil my beans on day one, brown and braise my meat on day two, and then assemble and cook my cassoulet on day three.

Oh and purists insist on breaking the gratin crust a certain number of times during the cooking process (seven in Castelnaudry and eight in Toulouse), which is something most locals would rarely get hung up on. The breadcrumbs do help all that pork and duck fat to thicken the sauce – just try to crack the crust several times during the cooking process before allowing a final crust to form.

Serves 10 – 12

2lbs ham hocks, I prefer unsmoked
kosher salt
2 lbs dried haricot beans or medium sized navy beans
olive oil
2 lbs mild, fresh Italian pork sausage
1 lb well-trimmed lamb shoulder, cut into large cubes
6 pork spare ribs, separated
½ lb pancetta, sliced as thinly as possible
2 ½ lbs duck leg confit (about 6 legs)
2 medium onions, peeled and diced
4 cloves
1 bunch of carrots, ends trimmed (roughly half a pound)
14 cloves of garlic, crushed and peeled
1/3 cup cognac or armagnac
1 bottle dry white wine
2 cups or 1 lb canned crushed tomatoes
3 tbsp tomato paste
3 bay leaves
large pinch allspice
large pinch granulated sugar
freshly ground black pepper
10 stems of thyme
1 large bunch flat leaf parsley
good quality veal or chicken stock, preferably homemade
4 cups very coarse fresh breadcrumbs

Two nights before you begin, salt your ham hocks:
Two nights before you want to cook your beans, roll the ham hocks in kosher or other coarse salt and place in a bowl in the fridge.

Soak and boil your beans:
Pour your beans onto a baking sheet or table and rake through to pick out any stones or discolored beans. Place the beans in a colander and rinse thoroughly under cold, running water. Place the beans in a very large, heavy-bottomed casserole and cover with lots of cold water. Place over medium heat and bring to a boil, stirring often and skimming off any foam with a large spoon. Boil for 2 minutes and then drain, rinsing the beans again thoroughly under cold, running water. Give the large casserole a quick rinse too. Pour the beans back into the pot and cover with cold water. Soak off the heat for 1 hour, then drain and rinse the beans and pot again.
(As an aside, I love that Elizabeth David notes in her discussion of cassoulet that the water from the first boil of the beans was traditionally saved by housewives from the Languedoc to remove difficult stains from linens.)

Rinse your ham hocks well and pat dry. Heat a large heavy pot over medium heat and add some olive oil. Brown your ham hocks, turning occasionally. Add your beans and cover generously with hot water. Bring to a boil, reduce to a very gentle simmer, and cook partially covered for 2 hours, skimming off any foam or scum that rises to the surface and topping up with boiling water whenever necessary to keep the beans well covered.

Towards the end of the cooking, check the seasoning of the cooking liquid with salt and pepper. Store the beans in this cooking liquid (which will be reserved for later) until you’re ready to assemble the cassoulet. Remove the ham hocks and remove the meat from the bones. Reserve the meat for later.

Brown and braise the meats:
You may do this at the same time that you boil your beans if you wish. This browning and braising step though should not be divided into different days or else you’ll lose your lovely pan juices and fond, both of which are key to building the flavor of the dish. The trick to successful searing is to start with dry meat and to never overcrowd the pan – it’s best to work in batches, removing browned pieces to a large bowl to catch all the drippings. Also it’s important not to burn the fond that will accumulate on the bottom of the pan, so watch carefully and be ready to lower the heat, add more oil, and take more time to brown your meat.

Heat a large cast iron casserole over medium heat. Add a glug of olive oil. Prick the sausages all over and when the oil is hot, place some of them into the pot. You want the sausages very brown. Flip them once the first side is deeply caramelized and brown the other side. Remove to a bowl.

Brown the lamb shoulder pieces in the same way and then the pork spareribs, removing them to the bowl as they finish. Your pot will likely be quite full of fat now, mostly from the sausages. You should feel free to pour off some or most of it if you wish and replenish with more olive oil. Do it now though because you won’t want to lose the pancetta fat or any duck fat that renders out of the confit.

Once the oil in the pot is hot again, lay pancetta slices out across the pan. You want these to be very crisp with all the fat rendered out. Once they’re cooked on both sides, like well-done bacon, remove them to a paper towel to cool and crisp up.

Next add a few of the duck legs at a time. Brown well on both sides and remove to the bowl.

Add more oil if necessary and then add the whole onions and carrots to the pot, cooking until the onion is well browned on a few sides and being very careful that the fond on the bottom of the pan isn’t burning. Add 12 of the garlic cloves and sizzle for one minute more.

Remove from the heat and immediately add the cognac. Return to medium high heat and allow the cognac to reduce for a minute or two, scraping the bottom of the pan with a spatula to help lift up that beautiful fond you’ve been building. Next add the bottle of white wine, the crushed tomatoes, tomato paste, and bay leaves. Add the allspice and sugar. Season with a little salt and more black pepper. Stir well. Tie some butcher’s twine around the 10 thyme stems and 10 of the parsley stems to create a bouquet garni and throw that into the pot.

Use your hands to crumble the pancetta into very small pieces, almost into a powder, and mix into the cooking liquid. (The texture will much nicer this way than having cubes of softened pancetta fat in your finished cassoulet). Now add the sausages, lamb, spareribs and duck legs back into the pot and try to have as much of the meat covered with the cooking liquid as possible. You can top up with cooking liquid from the beans or stock if necessary.

Bring the cooking liquid to a simmer over medium heat and then stir down to the bottom once to prevent sticking before reducing the heat to very low and covering. Braise the meat for 2 hours or until very tender, stirring down to the bottom occasionally and adding more cooking liquid (or stock if you run out) if necessary. Once the meat is done, remove from the heat. If you aren’t trying to finish in one day, you can let the whole thing cool and then stick it in the fridge overnight at this point, or you can go ahead and remove the meat from the bones and chill it and the cooking liquid separately overnight too.

When you are ready to proceed, and when the meat is cool enough to handle, remove the meat from the cooking liquid and vegetables (which you reserve). Remove the sparerib meat from the bones, discarding the sinew, and the duck meat from the bones, discarding all skin and allowing the meat to fall into very large pieces – it will break up more as it cooks, and I like my meats vaguely identifiable in cassoulet. Slice the sausages into large rounds (it looks nicer if you do this on the bias. I get 3 – 4 slices per sausage). Make sure you transfer out and reserve all of the pieces of lamb too. Discard the bay leaves and the bouquet garni. Discard the onions and use your hands to break up the carrots and put them with the meat. Check to make sure there are no pieces of bone or duck skin in the cooking liquid and reserve.

Assemble and cook the cassoulet:
Preheat the oven to 375 F

You will really need an extremely large cast iron or earthenware pot for this. 8 to 12 quarts is ideal.

Grate or mince the remaining 2 garlic cloves and mix them into the beans. Arrange half the beans on the bottom of the pot. Now arrange your meat on top of that, including the ham hock meat and finishing with the sausage rounds. Now cover the meat with the rest of the beans. Pour over the meat braising liquid and then any remaining beans’ cooking liquid (or stock if you’re out) until the top layer of beans is just covered.

In a large bowl mix your breadcrumbs with a large handful of chopped parsley. Season generously with salt and pepper. Sprinkle the breadcrumb mixture over the top layer of beans and drizzle with olive oil.

Place the cassoulet in the middle of the oven. After 20 minutes reduce the heat to 350 F. Bake for 2 more hours, topping up the cooking liquid if the pot becomes too dry with more of the beans’ cooking liquid or, if you run out of that, good homemade stock. Use the back of a cooking spoon or ladle to gently crack the breadcrumb crust several times during the cooking process and then allow it to form one last final time before serving.

When the cassoulet is finished, let it sit for 20 minutes before serving.

Tuscan Kale Salad with Beurre Noisette & Sherry Vinaigrette

2011-02-07T06:03:00.000-05:00

The kale in the greenmarket, when there’s any to be found at all that is, has gone pale at the edges, almost like it’s been dipped a scant millimeter or two into something white. Not the Tuscan kale above, which is magnificent. This lightening was quite distinct, and when I saw it on Friday, I thought there must be some new heirloom variety making the rounds. A quick discussion with the farmers though revealed the truth: that discoloration is from the heat of the greenhouses the kale’s grown in this time of year.

Oddly unappealing.

Perhaps you remember the kale I was so excited about back in January? They’d just dug it out from under the snow.

Kale is resistant to frost, and it actually has a higher sugar content, and therefore a finer, sweeter flavor, the colder the climate is in which it’s grown. I knew that day in January at the Rogowski Farm stand that I had the makings of one of my favorite salads, and we’ve been eating it regularly ever since. The nutty warmth and slight sweetness of beurre noisette (literally “hazelnut butter,” but really browned butter) is wonderful here with the dark, mineral leaves, the earthy edge of dry sherry vinegar, and the creamy, cool ricotta salata. It makes for a satisfying, winter lunch whenever you have a craving for savor, twang, and crunch.

I’ll confess though, this morning in the market I was struck with just such a craving, and there was nary a kale leaf in sight, white-tipped or otherwise. That's when I hightailed it to the supermarket for some organic Lacinato or Tuscan kale, and the flavor has been quite satisfactory. But I will try that greenhouse stuff, I will.

The trick to using beurre noisette in salads is that you don’t actually want the full hit of fat that comes with drenching your food in melted butter. Fortunately the answer is simple. After browning the butter, pour off most of the clarified portion and reserve for future use – it freezes well if you want to save it for the next time you make pommes anna or lobster or some such. Then deglaze the fond from the bottom of the pan with the sherry vinegar and use good olive oil to finish. You’ll have all of that rich, nutty flavor without any of the grease.

Toasted hazelnuts make a great addition to this salad, but my daughter’s so allergic that we can’t even have them in the house. That’s why I came up with the idea of adding some pangrattato, which lends a welcome toasted, garlicky note to the mix. But if you want to use the nuts too, they really are delicious.

And one last tip: get the vinaigrette onto the salad before tossing in the pangrattato. You want to coat the leaves thoroughly before the breadcrumbs have a chance to soak up all those savory, sherry vinegar-redolent juices.

Serves 2 - 3 for lunch or 4 – 6 as part of a larger meal

Extra virgin olive oil
1 garlic clove, crushed and peeled
1 ½ cups cups very coarse fresh bread crumbs
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper
2 large bunches Tuscan (Lacinato) or other kale, large stems removed and leaves torn into bite sized pieces
6 oz ricotta salata cheese
a couple of small handfuls of toasted hazelnuts (optional, peeled if desired)
6 tbsp unsalted butter, cubed so it melts and browns evenly
3 tbsp dry sherry vinegar
4 – 5 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
freshly squeezed lemon juice to taste

Heat a large sauté pan over low heat. Add a couple of glugs of olive oil to the pan and then the crushed garlic clove. Allow the garlic to sizzle for 30 seconds or so, and then add the breadcrumbs and season well with kosher salt and black pepper. Sauté, stirring constantly, until the breadcrumbs are lightly golden and fragrant – you may need to add more olive oil if they absorb it all along the way. Remove from the heat before they're completely done - the carry over will continue to brown them for a while once they're off the heat, and they crisp up as they cool. Remove the garlic clove and reserve the bread crumbs.

Put your kale leaves in a large serving bowl. Shave your ricotta salata cheese with a “Y” or speed peeler and set aside separately. Give your hazelnuts a rough chop if using and set aside.

When you’re ready to serve the salad, place the butter in a small saucepan over medium low heat. The butter will melt, and then foam, and then the foam will subside. When light brown specks begin to form in the butter, test it for a nutty aroma. Remove from the heat as soon as this develops and place the pan on a cold surface to help stop the cooking. The difference between browned butter and burnt is just a few moments, so don’t walk away, and resist any urge to put your laptop on the kitchen counter and check who’s commented on that hilarious grade school photo you just posted to Facebook.

Tip the pan gently, wait a few moments for the sediment to settle, and use a spoon to lift away as much of the clarified butter as you can without losing the grainy, browned portion. A little clarified butter will remain, and that's a good thing. Put the pan back over low heat and add the sherry vinegar. Allow to bubble over the heat for a scant 20 seconds, scraping the toasted milk solids from the bottom of the pan with a spatula. Remove from the heat and whisk in the olive oil. Season generously with salt and pepper and check the flavor with a little spritz of lemon if desired.

Pour the warm dressing over the kale leaves and toss well. Add the ricotta salata, hazelnuts, and half the bread crumbs, and toss again. Check the seasoning with more salt and pepper if necessary, garnish with the remaining breadcrumbs, and serve immediately.

The February Harvest Calendar

2011-02-01T07:40:00.005-05:00

Thank you so much for all your lovely messages welcoming me back to the blogosphere. I've been overwhelmed by your kindness. As some of you know, I've been peeking in from time to time, but now I'm relishing a real catch up on all that I've missed over the past months. Actually years. That was quite a baby break! But having a baby is a big deal, there's just no way around it. And I can't tell you how cheering it's been to hear from you all and to read up on your beautiful sites as I ease back in.

It's been cold here. Lots of snow too. But I'm not complaining. I love the snow. The farmers at the market though, they're looking pretty frozen.

Though those girls from Hudson Valley Duck Farm put a good face on it. They have some nice looking duck sausage with cherries and some confit I've been eyeing for a proper cassoulet. Only 7 weeks until spring after all, so I'd better make the most of what's left of winter.

The market's quiet now, especially on Mondays, which are always the slowest day.

Of course there are some vegetables from the farmers who have hydro tents, but there haven't been any open field harvests for quite some time. I do love the great tangles of mushrooms from John D. Madura Farms.

What's left from storage - think beets, parsley root, celeriac, and carrots - is starting to look almost as though it came from some alien world.

There’s still good flavor there though.

Plus, if you look carefully, there's some color to be found. Intense, wintery jewel tones like jarred homemade tomato soup, gleaming red onions and cipollini, and of course all those glorious preserves to perk up pan sauces, cheese boards, or even just your morning toast.

After this month there will be no beets until June, pears will practically disappear until September, and we won't be seeing winter squash or turnips until November, so take advantage while you can.

As always, crop information is available in the sidebar harvest calendar over there on the right all month. The information comes from a guide published by the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. Of course, the best way to familiarize yourself with what's in season where you live is to visit farmer's markets in your area at least every couple of weeks. I truly learn the most of all from the farmers themselves. So ask questions at the market – it’s the best way to find out which crops are not only available, but at their peak. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

Happy winter, and happy February!

Meyer Lemon Limoncello

2011-01-24T07:35:00.000-05:00

I wish I had some poetic, evocative, feast-of-the-senses type limoncello story to tell you, I really do. Maybe something involving a breezy terrace shaded by an arbor of lemon trees, possibly overlooking the sea in Amalfi or the like, in which refreshing little sips of unbelievably fresh liqueur, like bottled sunshine itself and made, of course, with local Sorrento lemons and to the specifications of the proprietor’s ancestors reaching back into time in memoriam, were brought at the end of the most sumptuously gratifying meal to refresh me body and soul.

Unfortunately most of my memories of limoncello involve forcing down complimentary, headache-inducing cordial glasses full of sickly, syrupy, lurid liquid (“so as not to be rude” I tell myself blearily) when I’ve already eaten and drank far too much, brought by well-meaning Italian waiters before they pour me into some long-awaited taxi to trundle home, head propped against the window, and sweat it out alone in misery wherever in that foreign city I’m camping out for the night. “L-cello” my notes from the meal usually trail off in some desperate scrawl.

And yet in theory Limoncello seems like such a good idea, doesn’t it? I mean digestivos can make a wonderfully restorative, even medicinal, end to a special meal, and lemon has to be one of my all-time favorite flavors. It’s so naturally uplifting, so mouth-puckering, so cooling, so fresh. So why does limoncello so often end up tasting like discount cough syrup? Well I’m determined to fix all that. There must be a reason a whole nation of Italians still prepares and serves limoncello. It can’t just be for the tourist restaurants and duty free. I mean no one knows unadulterated, fresh-tasting food like Italians, right?

Just like when I made crème de cassis for the first time, this is an experiment and an invitation to join me in it. I’ve chosen meyer lemons because their flavor is so heavenly, maybe even possibly a step closer to that of the glorious Sorrento lemon originally used for limoncello. Plus meyer lemons are available here for such a short season - they’ve just started arriving in stores in the northeast over the past 10 days - and they're worth celebrating. If this recipe is a success, I’ll have a wonderful new way of keeping their beautiful essence with me throughout the year. But please use regular lemons if that’s all you have on hand – I’m running a test on those too. And take heart in the fact that, just like with the crème de cassis, now a yearly tradition in our house and something friends eagerly request at the end of dinners here, this limoncello has been exhaustively researched before go-time.

I’m using vodka. To capture the delicate, honeyed, floral quality of meyer lemons, you really need a flavorless vodka like Kettle One. Vodka does take longer to infuse than something like grain alcohol, which is so often recommended in online recipes, but the flavor vodka yields is really much better, and that’s the point after all. In Italy they use pure spirits, but the resulting flavor is different than that you get with the grain alcohol we can buy here. Plus the reason so many online recipes call for grain alcohol is that it supposedly infuses in a week or so. But rest assured that in Italy they tend to take a couple of months to steep their lemons in spirits, regardless of alcohol content.

And also be warned I’m planning on cutting the usual sugar by quite a bit, though we don’t need to worry about that step until the peels have steeped in the vodka for a good 8 weeks. Be sure to check back in mid-March for the tasting and to report your own results, and in the meantime I’ll be thinking of some uses for all this seriously good meyer lemon juice. Suggestions please!

So, to begin:

24 lemons, meyer if desired, preferably organic
1 ½ liters (just over 3 pints or 6 cups) good quality, favorless vodka (I’m using Kettle One for the meyer lemons and, in the name of economy, Skyy for the normal lemons, whose flavor is stronger and less complex).

Wash the lemons thoroughly and dry well, discarding any damaged fruit. Zest the lemons with a microplane to remove as much of the zest as possible without including any of the white pith, which will make your liqueur bitter. Put into clean jam or mason jars and let steep in a cool, dry, dark place for 8 weeks.

I'll meet you back here in a couple of months for the next step.

Pork Tenderloin Roasted in Mustard & Thyme with Roast Carrots & Brussel Sprouts

2011-01-18T12:07:00.014-05:00

It's pouring down rain here in New York. Bitter, icy sheets of the stuff. It's not pretty, but there is a silver lining. It's perfect roasting weather.

There is something about having a roast in the oven that makes me feel all is right with the world. There’s real victory in that moment when you close the oven door and realize that your work is done and all that’s left to do is wait for the delicious aroma of Sunday Lunch to fill the house.

The thing about roasting is that it takes almost no work on the part of the cook and results in intensified, caramelized flavors that I find immensely comforting. Plus let’s face it, roasting is one-pan cooking, and the less dishes you have to wash, the better. I’ve mentioned how much I like to roast chicken for dinner. Pork tenderloin is a wonderful option to consider at the end of a long day because, unlike said chicken, it only takes 45 minutes to cook.

This is a recipe I grew up eating, prepared by my English mother who is an expert roaster, as was her mother before her. Here I’ve chosen carrots and brussel sprouts to roast with the meat – both because they’re a great seasonal match for the twang of the mustard, and also because they’ll cook in the same amount of time as the pork. If I have more time on my hands, I might add some classic roast potatoes, peeled, parboiled, roughed up to create just the right sort of crisp exterior, and then roasted alone for 45 minutes before the meat joins them in the oven.

Have your butcher trim the fat and silverskin from the tenderloins. It’s not difficult work, but it's still nice when somebody else does it for you.

Serves 6

2 pork tenderloins (approximately 3 – 3½ lbs each), fat and silverskin trimmed
4 tbsp Dijon mustard, plus another teaspoon or so for the pan sauce
olive oil
9 stems fresh thyme
kosher salt
1 large or 2 small bunches of carrots, scrubbed (no need to peel unless their quite mature), quartered or halved lengthwise depending on width, and cut into lengths
3 cups brussel sprouts, bases trimmed and outer leaves removed
freshly ground black pepper
2 glasses red wine
freshly squeezed lemon juice

Preheat the oven to 425 F

Rinse and pat dry the pork. Mix together the mustard, 4 tbsp of olive oil, the leaves from 4 – 5 stems of thyme, and a generous sprinkling of kosher salt. Coat the tenderloins all over with the mustard mixture and set aside.

Put the carrots and brussel sprouts into a medium, stove top safe roasting pan. Drizzle with olive oil and season generously with salt and pepper. Sprinkle with the leaves from 3 – 4 more stems of thyme and toss all the ingredients together to combine. Spread the vegetables out evenly on the bottom of the pan and then arrange the two tenderloins on the bottom of the pan as well. Put the pan on the center rack of the oven and roast for 5 minutes, then reduce the heat to 350 F and roast for 40 minutes more. When finished, the pork should be firm to the touch and ever so slightly pink in the center, but I never cut into it to check – that’s how meat dries out. Unless the meat was almost frozen when you put it in, or unless your oven runs spectacularly low, 45 minutes will do the trick.

Remove the pan from the oven, transfer the two tenderloins to a plate to rest for 10 minutes before carving and tent loosely with tin foil. Remove the vegetables to a bowl and tent with tinfoil. Place the roasting pan on top of the stove. Add the wine and then turn the heat onto medium. Use a spatula to scrape up any caramelized pieces from the bottom and sides of the pan. You need these to flavor the reduction sauce. If juices accumulate in the plate the pork is resting on, add those too. When the wine has reduced by at least two thirds, remove from the heat and check the seasoning with more salt and pepper. You may whisk in a little more Dijon mustard for flavor if you wish, and I usually like to brighten the sauce with a spritz of lemon juice.

Slice the tenderloin fairly thickly (somewhere between ¼ and ½ inch thickness is what I like). Serve with the roasted vegetables and spoon over the pan sauce.

Flounder en Papillote with Fennel, Olives, & Lemon

2011-01-12T00:01:00.006-05:00

Cooking en papillote is way simpler and less precious than it sounds, and it’s one of the best ways I know to enhance the flavor of fresh fish. Steamed in parchment, all the juices and flavors permeate the fish, leaving it beautifully moist and melding into a light, delicate sauce. I’ve never known a dinner guest who didn’t enjoy the flourish of opening their own parchment bag. And of course the possibilities for flavor variations are endless.

Here I’ve followed a simple Mediterranean theme – the combination of fennel, olives, lemon, oregano, and tomato is one you’ll find all over Greece, and it goes beautifully with the sweet, clean flavor of white, flaky fish. But feel free to vary the herbs as much as your imagination and the season will allow. Try some capers. Try some butter. For a slightly meatier fish, something a little more intense like orange zest, fennel seed, black olive, and red chile is delicious too. Or go a completely different route and try some sea bass with a Southeast Asian bent - maybe some lemongrass, fresh ginger, chile, and lime.

If you’re out of baking parchment, aluminum foil will do in a pinch, but then be sure to omit any acidic ingredients like the lemon and tomatoes, or you’ll end up with a metallic flavor. If you’re in need of extra fortification, rice or new potatoes are a nice way to round out the meal, as are those French, dark green Puy lentils. You can boil them with some bay leaf and dress them with good olive oil and plenty of salt and pepper.

Serves 4

Baking parchment

2 large flounder fillets or other flat, white, flaky fish fillets (about ¾ lb each)
1 bulb fennel, sliced thinly, fronds reserved
extra virgin olive oil
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper
leaves from 1 or 2 stems of fresh oregano
2 lemons, sliced thinly across into circles
1 pint cherry tomatoes
big handful good olives

Preheat the oven to 350 F.

Cut 4 lengths of baking parchment, each about 18 inches in length (there’s no need to measure – just be sure you have enough room for the fish and vegetables, plus extra for folding. Fold each length in half with a sharp crease. Arrange on two baking sheets.

Rinse the flounder and pat dry. Using a sharp knife, divide each fillet into two portions lengthwise down the natural seam in the center.

Open each piece of parchment as you would a book. Divide the fennel between the four pieces, placing it on the right hand side of the parchment. Season generously with olive oil, salt, and black pepper. Arrange a flounder fillet on top of each pile of fennel, tucking under the thinner end of the fillet to create a more uniform thickness – this way the fish will cook evenly. Drizzle the fish with a little more olive oil and season again with salt and pepper. Tear over some fennel fronds and oregano leaves. Next arrange three lemon slices on each fillet. Finally add the tomatoes and olives.

To seal the parchment packets, make one fold on the diagonal at the bottom left hand corner, creasing it sharply by pressing with your finger, as you would when you fold paper (see photo below).

Add a second fold following a curve so that your packet will eventually form a half moon (see photo below).

Continue adding sharply creased folds, following a curve up and around the ingredients. When you reach the top, twist the remaining paper to seal, (see the completed packet in the close up below).

Repeat the process with the other 3 packets. Place both baking sheets in the oven and bake for 20 minutes, trading the sheets top to bottom after the first 10 minutes so that they cook evenly.

When they’re finished the fish will just be flaky. Gently slide each packet onto a plate and serve immediately, allowing each diner to open his or her own packet.

The January Harvest Calendar

2011-01-06T03:32:00.027-05:00

There’s really not much in the greenmarkets right now. Well that’s not true, it’s just that there’s much less variety than there was even a month ago. There won’t be any new major field harvests until April at the earliest.

Bins of apples in every color and variety always seem to comprise the majority of what’s on offer from now until May. They really are beautiful, but while they were overwhelmingly fragrant and enticing when they first appeared in July, by midwinter they can start to feel like white noise.

But if you take a more careful look around, past the teams of gardeners clearing out the evergreen decorations, other less flashy treasures jump into view. There are baked goods galore, and honeys and preserves, dried lavender, even lambswool.

Still fresh from cold storage are shell beans, beets, cabbage, carrots, onions, parsnips, potatoes, winter squash, and turnips.

There are still some nice pears to be had, and there’s always the hydro tent-grown salad greens, though they pack less of a punch than something grown out in the field.

Thankfully yesterday I spied a small, wooden box of deep, vibrantly green kale all the way at the north end of the market.

Cheryl from Rogowski Farm, at Union Square on Wednesdays from now until March, told me they’d just dug the leaves out of the snow. My kind of greens. They also had some newly dug Jerusalem artichokes and the freshest looking onions around, plus some small, plump pumpkins and winter squash, and even some beautifully delicate green garlic from their tents.

I’m always ready for a return to balance and even a little quiet austerity after the excesses of the holidays, but I’ll admit I was thrilled by my little discovery. Rogowski Farm also has a gourmet supper club that sounds divine for anyone who lives near Pine Island, New York or feels like a field trip.

As always, crop information is available in the sidebar harvest calendar over there on the right all month. The information comes from a guide published by the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. Of course, the best way to familiarize yourself with what's in season where you live is to visit farmer's markets in your area at least every couple of weeks. I truly learn the most of all from the farmers themselves. So ask questions at the market – it’s the best way to find out which crops are not only available, but at their peak. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

Happy winter, and happy New Year!

Moules Marinières & a Simple Salad

2011-01-03T18:16:00.014-05:00

Why don’t we all cook mussels more? They’re so easy to make delicious and so incredibly fast to prepare. I think in this country we all get a little jumpy around shellfish. Maybe we tend to think of them as restaurant food. I suppose we’ve all heard horror stories of food poisoning from one not-so-fresh mollusk, or perhaps we once were sold a batch of spectacularly dirty shellfish that took hours of scrubbing to clean and were filled with grit. But these days none of the nightmare scenarios should be a factor as long as you source your shellfish from a reputable supplier. I’ve had consistently good experiences here in New York at Whole Foods and Citarella.

Once you’ve acquired good quality mussels, keep them well chilled in the fridge in a ventilated bag on ice, and just remember these two rules: 1. If you rap any open mussels with your knuckles, they should close tightly. If they don’t, they’re dead, and you should discard them. 2. Once the mussels are cooked, if any of them haven’t opened, then they should not be eaten either. Live mussels should be closed, cooked mussels should be open. It really is as simple as that, I promise.

And just think what awaits once you take the plunge. Big bowls heaped with blue-black shells, each holding a sweet, tender bite, all sitting in a fragrant, briny, soul-reviving broth of white wine, shallots, and parsley, ready for mopping up with plenty of French bread. It’s absolutely miraculous that it could be so quick and simple to produce. Make this once, and you’ll realize how easy (and affordable) it is to incorporate into your dinner roster.

Serve with a green salad – I’ve included a basic vinaigrette recipe here because meals rarely feel whole to me unless there’s something green involved, and simple salads are often so much easier to contemplate making than a cooked green vegetable. Put out some cold butter for the bread. When you start soaking up the wonderful white wine broth, and the cold butter on the bread melts a little bit…well just trust me on this. And don’t forget a glass of wine. Muscadet, crisp and mineral, is a good place to start, but don’t get hung up on the particulars.

Serves 4

For the mussels:
4 lbs fresh mussels
extra virgin olive oil
4 shallots, peeled, halved lengthwise and sliced in half moons (or one white onion in a pinch)
kosher salt
1 clove garlic, crushed, peeled and sliced
half a bottle of dry white wine
freshly ground black pepper
juice of 1 lemon
handful fresh parsley leaves
Plenty of French bread for serving, split and toasted if you’re feeling motivated
Cold butter, for the bread

For a classic salad vinaigrette:
2 tbsp good vinegar (white balsamic is my favorite lately, also try sherry vinegar and regular balsamic)
freshly squeezed lemon juice
½ tsp Dijon mustard
1 garlic clove, lightly crushed and peeled (optional)
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper
6 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
Fresh salad greens, rinsed and dried

Start with the vinaigrette, because once the mussels are in the pot, they’re done very quickly and need to be eaten right away before the residual heat overcooks them. In a medium bowl, whisk together the vinegar, a spritz of lemon juice, the mustard, the garlic if using, and a generous pinch of salt and pepper. Then slowly drizzle in the olive oil, whisking steadily until the whole is well combined. Alternately you can shake everything up in a jar with a tightly-fitting lid. The extra keeps well in the fridge, and I personally think vinaigrette tastes better if you just keep adding to that same jar without rinsing in between. Either way, check the seasoning with more salt, pepper, and lemon juice as desired. Put the greens into a serving bowl and set aside. You’ll add the dressing at the last moment so the leaves don’t wilt.

Clean and debeard the mussels (by pulling out any little fibers left from the side of the shell) under cold running water. Any shells that don’t close when rapped with your knuckles should be discarded, as should any that are cracked or broken. Set aside. Put in the fridge uncovered if not using within 15 minutes or so.

Heat a large pot with a lid over medium heat. Add a glug of olive oil to coat the bottom and then the shallots. Sprinkle with kosher salt and sizzle, stirring occasionally, until just transparent. Add the garlic and sauté 1 minute more. Add the white wine, and season with plenty of black pepper. Raise the heat to high and bring to the boil.

Stir in the mussels, clamp on the lid, and cook over high heat for 2 to 5 minutes, stirring once to bring the bottom shells to the top and vice versa, until the shells have opened. Drizzle with the lemon juice and tear in the parsley. Check the seasoning with more salt if necessary. Pile the mussels into big bowls and divide the broth between them. Drizzle some vinaigrette over the salad greens (you will have leftover vinaigrette – just use enough to lightly dress them) and toss to combine. Serve immediately – there is no substitute for a freshly opened mussel – and be sure not to eat any of mussels that haven’t opened during cooking.

For another way to serve mussels, try this spicier, richer Spanish version with Chorizo, Chili, and Bay.

See the original post on Pixies Did It!

Orecchiette with Sausage, Broccoli Rabe & Tomato

2010-12-31T07:59:00.007-05:00

In the States, we tend to think of broccoli rabe and sausage with orecchiette as a dry or “unsauced” dish, but this version binds the ingredients together in a hearty tomato sauce, and I much prefer it this way. There’s something about the combination of sausage meat and broccoli rabe thrown against pasta that often falls flat for me. Here though, there is a deep savor and twang that I absolutely crave.

The beauty of this recipe is that if you buy good sausages, most of the flavor base is already built for you, and that means no chopping. I actually like to go one step further and use the sublime fennel sausages from Faicco’s Pork Store down in the West Village — one of the best deals in New York, if you ask my humble opinion — and then I don’t even have to include the fennel seeds.

This is what I make when I’m chilled to the bone and need something that will stick to my ribs and generally restore my faith in the world. The prep work is almost non-existent, which means that you can theoretically sit down and have a sip of something reviving while the sauce bubbles away on the stove.

If you ever make the sauce ahead of time (something I rarely have the foresight to do, but these sorts of ragus really do improve in the fridge over a couple of days and freeze well for a month) do yourself a favor and don’t add the broccoli rabe until just before serving. You want it bright green and fresh against the rich red of the sauce, and as soon as green vegetables come into contact with the acid in the tomatoes and wine, not to mention the prolonged exposure to the heat of the sauce, they start to brown. Another tip my friend Dana swears by comes from her Italian mother-in-law: cooking the broccoli rabe in chicken stock tempers the vegetable’s bitterness if it’s not something you care for.

Serves 4 - 6

* Extra virgin olive oil
* 4 fresh Italian sausages, skins removed
* 2 garlic cloves, crushed and peeled
* 1 tsp fennel seeds
* crushed red pepper flakes to taste (they vary so much in heat – I’d start at 2 small pinches)
* 1 28 oz. can crushed tomatoes
* 2 bay leaves, preferably fresh
* ¼ tsp granulated sugar
* 1 glass red wine
* kosher salt
* freshly ground black pepper
* freshly squeezed lemon juice (optional)
* chicken stock for cooking the broccoli rabe (optional)
* 1 lb dry orecchiette
* 1 lb bunch broccoli rabe, bottom stalks trimmed and discarded, outer leaves removed, and remaining rabe cut into 3 inch lengths
* 2 handfuls freshly grated parmigiano reggiano cheese plus more for serving

Heat a large pan over high heat. Add a glug of extra virgin olive oil to coat and then crumble in the sausage meat. Reduce the heat to medium and use a spatula or wooden spoon to break up the meat as it browns, turning once or twice. Remove the meat from the pan with a slotted spoon or spatula and pour off the excess grease. Add a little more olive oil and then the crushed garlic cloves, fennel seed, and crushed red pepper flakes and cook a minute or two until the garlic has softened. Add back the sausage and stir in the tomatoes, bay leaves, sugar, and wine and return to the heat. Season with a little kosher salt (bear in mind that the parmigiano reggiano cheese you’ll add at the end is very salty), and some black pepper, bring to a gentle simmer, reduce the heat to low and allow to bubble away uncovered for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally. If the sauce gets too dry, add more wine or a little stock or water.

After 30 minutes, taste the sauce and adjust the seasoning with salt, pepper, crushed red pepper flakes, a little more sugar if the acid is too high, or even a spritz of lemon juice if you feel the flavor needs brightening. Continue to simmer uncovered over low heat partially covered.

Meanwhile boil some well-salted water for the pasta in a large pot and some more (or well-seasoned chicken stock) for the broccoli rabe in a medium pot. Toss in the orecchiette and boil, stirring occasionally, until par-cooked (about half-done). Drain and reserve. (Note: My orecchiette took about 4 minutes, but cooking time always varies according to brand). At the same time toss in the broccoli rabe and boil for 8 minutes or until just tender. Drain and immediately rinse in cold water to stop the cooking process and preserve the beautiful green color. Remove the bay leaves and garlic cloves from the sausage ragu.

Heat the large pasta pot over medium heat. Add a generous glug of olive oil to coat the bottom and then the pasta. Add the sausage ragu and stir. Reduce the heat to low and cook, stirring often until the pasta is al dente and has absorbed some of the sauce. Press the cooked broccoli rabe against the side of a colander or sieve with the back of a cooking spoon to remove excess water. Stir into the pasta. Remove from the heat and stir in a couple of handfuls of grated parmigiano reggiano. Check the seasoning one last time with salt and pepper and maybe more lemon juice, and serve right away sprinkled with a little more cheese.

See the original post on Pixies Did It!

Poached Eggs with Winter Greens & Pancetta

2010-12-29T14:17:00.021-05:00

My brilliant friends, sisters Kelly & Katie McMenamin, run a home organization company based on personality type. You'd be amazed how well it works. I mean these girls get you, no matter who you are and how weird you think your foibles might be.

This year they launched a website, PixiesDidIt!, offering personalized home and life advice. You can sign up for daily or weekly PixieTips - ideas for how to make your life easier here.

For some time now they've been giving me a much needed prod to start back to work post-baby (well really post-toddler at this point), and it finally worked. This week they're featuring my ideas for fast, easy dinners, the first of which is my Poached Eggs with Winter Greens & Pancetta, posted below. I hope you enjoy - it's nice to be back.

I think eggs are the most underused ingredients of the weeknight dinner menu. They’re quick, affordable, delicious, and offer near limitless possibilities. In fact I could honestly fill this entire week with eggs-for-dinner recipes. But what I might love most about eggs is how easy it is to make them feel elegant, chic, and (I’ll admit it) just that little bit French. One of my favorite food writers of all time Elizabeth David actually named one of her books An Omelette and a Glass of Wine. That is exactly where I’m coming from here: simple flavors, simple preparation, and yet you still can so easily create an almost escapist experience. Eating this dish is a comfort not least because it makes you feel you’re living well.

Picture a little green salad, or in the winter, some lightly wilted, peppery greens, fragrant with good olive oil and touched with the merest hint of mustard or garlic. Add a glass of something crisp and light or red and robust, depending on your mood, plus maybe some crusty baguette for mopping up the juices. And then the eggs – in this case poached so that the yolks can meld with the simple vinaigrette and crisp pancetta or bacon to create an unctuous, soul-reviving sauce. It’s the work of 20 minutes, tops, but truly one of my favorite dinners. The meal is quiet, minimalist, and makes it awfully easy to pretend you’re sitting at some rustic wooden table in a little bistro somewhere, watching the windows fog up and plotting out how many vineyards you might be able to get to the next day before lunch.

And remember, practice is what makes any recipe familiar and approachable. Cook this a couple of times, and you’ll have the shopping, the timing, and the serving down pat. Read through the instructions before starting and finish the (very light) prep work before you begin. It’ll soon be second nature and a wonderful fall-back to add to your arsenal.

Serves 3 - 4

Extra virgin olive oil
½ lb thick-cut pancetta or bacon, cubed to medium size
3 tbsp vinegar (any kind)
8 good quality eggs, the fresher, the better
2 tbsp white balsamic or sherry vinegar
1 tsp Dijon mustard
1 clove of garlic, crushed, paper removed
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper
fresh lemon juice to taste
large bunch of young mustard greens, kale, escarole, or other winter greens that appeal, (spinach and swiss chard won’t offer the same texture but will taste just as delicious), large ribs and stems removed and leaves rinsed, dried, and torn into pieces.

French baguette, sliced thickly to serve

Heat a sauté pan over medium heat. Add a small drizzle of olive oil and then the pancetta cubes. Stir occasionally until brown and crisp.

As the pancetta cooks, put the white balsamic or sherry vinegar, mustard, garlic, and salt and pepper to taste in a medium bowl. Whisk in 6 tbsp of the olive oil. Check the seasoning with the lemon juice and more salt and pepper as desired. Set aside.

Meanwhile fill a large saucepan with 3 inches of hot tap water. Add the 3 tbsp of vinegar (this helps the egg whites to stay together), and bring up to a simmer over high heat.

Once the pancetta is browned, remove to a paper towel to drain and pour off the fat from the sauté pan. Add a healthy glug of olive oil to the same pan and then the winter greens you’ve chosen. Season with a little kosher salt and then cook over medium heat, adding more oil if the pan becomes dry, until the greens have wilted and softened. Obviously the tougher your leaves, the longer it takes. Spinach will cook the most quickly. Something like kale needs more time. Once the greens are done, divide and arrange them in the center of each plate. Pour over a little of the vinaigrette. You may have left over, and it keeps very well covered in the fridge.

By now the water and vinegar should have reached a simmer. Gently tip each of the eggs into the mixture. If they stick to the bottom of the pan, wait until they are set to free them. Simmer over low heat very gently for 2 – 3 minutes until the whites are just set but the yolks are still runny.

When the eggs are done, gently remove them from the water with a slotted spoon and pat off extra moisture with a paper towel. Arrange the eggs on top of the greens and sprinkle over the pancetta cubes. Season with a little more kosher salt and black pepper, and serve immediately with a glass of wine and plenty of crusty baguette.

Celeriac & Parsley Soup - a Soothing Recipe

2007-12-14T11:13:00.000-05:00

Celery is believed to have originated in the Mediterranean, and it still grows wild there in wetter areas. Not the celery you’ll find in your Waldorf salad, that is, but a leafier, blossom-covered variety, sometimes known as smallage, whose seeds have long been used medicinally and as a flavoring agent.

Celery as we now know it was being eaten in France by the early 17th century, and celery root – or celeriac – showed up about the same time.

I love celeriac this time of year for its cooling, clean flavor. Grated raw for salads or simmered down into simple soups, it makes a soothing remedy for the excesses of the season. Here I add a generous amount of parsley, which belongs to the same family as celery and was believed by the ancient Greeks and Romans to prevent intoxication. Very useful indeed if you’re feeling a bit woozy from the previous night’s revels!

I like this soup with a dollop of Greek yogurt and a drizzle of good olive oil, but you can dress it up for company by swirling a little white truffle oil over each bowl instead. A few shavings of fresh truffle over the top would be exquisite, if you happen to have some about.

Serves 6

extra virgin olive oil
1 yellow onion, halved and sliced into half-moons
kosher salt
1 clove garlic, peeled and sliced
2 ½ lbs celery root, peeled and sliced no thicker than ½ inch slices
6 cups chicken stock
1 large bunch fresh flat-leaf parsley, rinsed well, stems trimmed
juice of 1 lemon
freshly ground black pepper

Heat a large pot over medium heat and add a glug of olive oil. Add the onion and sprinkle with salt. Sauté, stirring occasionally, until the onion is transluscent. Add the garlic and stir for another minute. Add the celery root slices and the chicken stock and bring to a simmer. Cover partially, reduce the heat to low, and simmer gently for 45 minutes or until the celery root is very tender.

Strain the soup into a large bowl and place the solids in a food processor. Add the parsley and pulse until a smooth purée forms – you may need to ladle in some of the cooking liquid to help along the process here.

Put the purée back in the cooking pot and ladle in the cooking liquid until the desired consistency is reached – you may want to use all the liquid, but go slowly just incase. Reheat the soup over medium-low heat, stirring often. Season with lemon juice, black pepper, and plenty of salt. Serve hot with yogurt and olive oil or truffle oil and truffle slices.

Wild Mushrooms with Sherry, Shallots, & Parsley - Setas

2007-12-11T14:40:00.000-05:00

Setas, or wild mushrooms, are a tapas bar classic in Spain. The term refers to any mushrooms other than the cultivated white champiñón, and you should feel free to use whichever varieties look and smell the most fresh right now where you live. The dish has infinite possibilities depending on the time of year, and our markets here in New York still offer plenty of choices. This time I've used a mixture of oyster, shitake, and hen of the woods.

During wild mushroom season in Spain, setas would typically be prepared with cured ham, but I often omit the meat to keep the flavor lighter and cleaner. The shallots, garlic, sherry, and lemon meld to form an incredibly bright, earthy tang, making this one of my favorite cool weather tapas dishes. And setas also make a fantastic light supper over some toasted bread - especially paired with a glass of crisp white wine or fino.

Charlotte of The Great Big Vegetable Challenge is working on Q is for the Quick Vegetable Quest right now, and these are my contribution to the cause. If you visit her site, you'll find a list of vegetable recipes that take ten minutes or less to prepare. I clocked these setas at 9 minutes, by the way. Charlotte was just nominated for Best Food Blog (Family & Kids) by the Well Fed Network’s 2007 Food Blog Awards judges. Stop by to vote for all your favorite food blogs as often as you like anytime before 11:59pm on December 14th. Congratulations and best of luck to Charlotte and to all the other nominees.

Serves 6 as tapas

extra virgin olive oil
2 shallots, minced
kosher salt
1 clove garlic, minced
6 cups assorted mushrooms, brushed clean and torn into bite-size pieces
1/2 cup dry sherry
juice of one lemon
handful of parsley, roughly chopped
freshly ground black pepper
toasted or grilled bread for serving (optional)

Heat a large saucepan over medium heat. Add a glug of olive oil and the shallots. Sprinkle with salt and sauté until transluscent. Add the garlic and sauté, stirring often, for one more minute, Toss in the mushrooms and sprinkle with more salt to release their liquids. Sauté the mixture for 5 more minutes.

Remove the pan from the heat and add the sherry. Return to a high heat and cook until the liquid is gone. Toss in the lemon juice and parsley and sauté one minute more until the mushrooms begin to caramelize. Adjust the seasoning with more salt and freshly ground black pepper. Serve immediately.

Trummsbury Farm Christmas Trees

2007-12-07T20:42:00.001-05:00

I’m always so pleased when farmers at the market share tips with me. After all, they not only know their crops better than anyone else could, but they also get to know each other’s products in a way no casual shopper ever can. So when Luke from the River Garden flower farm (whose flowers are by far the most fresh and extravagantly beautiful you’ll see at the city’s greenmarkets) told me that the best Christmas trees are brought to market from the Adirondacks by Trummsbury Tree Farm, I knew I would look no further.

There’s nothing worse than bringing home a Christmas tree and watching it dry up and droop before the holiday even arrives – who knows how long it’s been cut by the time it reaches the corner deli. And yes, our delis sell Christmas trees in New York! But this morning, when my husband and I went to choose one from the Trummsbury stand in Union Square, some of the trees still had a powdery snow frozen in their branches.

The fragrance and variety were magnificent: Frasers and Douglases stood in towering rows along with rarer species I didn’t know. One in particular had needles that smelled of oranges when we crushed them in our hands. You must tell me if you know what kind of tree that was.

We chose a particularly bushy Douglas – I have a penchant for chubby Christmas trees – and, as my husband headed for the subway, Kevin of Trummsbury Farm gave me some sage advice for keeping the tree alive as long as possible. His directions were utter simplicity:

1) Use room temperature water – warm water and cold water are both going to turn room temperature in a few minutes anyway.
2) Water the tree copiously during its first few days at home – that’s when it drinks the most. Afterwards, make sure it has plenty of fresh water so it can drink whatever it needs.
3) Keep the tree next to an open window or a cool mist humidifier – heating dries it out.

That’s it! No sugar water, no 7 UP, nothing. And the Trummsbury Tree Farm makes it a point to plant more trees than they cut, so supporting them helps the environment too. They can be found at the Union Square Greenmarket on Mondays, Fridays, and Saturdays, they also sell fresh wreaths, swags, and garland, and they deliver for free.

Tonight our home finally smells like Christmas. Happy tree hunting!

Fig & Apricot Orange Cake with Spiced Wine Syrup for St. Nicholas’s Day

2007-12-05T09:02:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow December 6th is St. Nicholas’s Day. In Greece, St. Nicholas (or St. Nikolaos) does not bear gifts – rather he is the patron saint of sailors, travelers, and children – particularly orphans. In that region, he’s often depicted fresh from another ship rescue, drenched in seawater and covered with seaweed.

In fact traditionally, Christmas in Greece is not the apex of celebration that it is in English-speaking cultures. Instead, the day is marked with religious services and a feast to end a 40-day Lent. The real flurry of preparation, and gift shopping occurs in the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. That’s when homes are decorated, presents are wrapped, bonfires are lit, and when more Westernized homes put up their Christmas tree. And it’s St. Basil who brings the gifts to open on New Year’s Day.

But St. Nicholas’s feast day is still a joyous occasion that’s happily anticipated by children across the country for its name-day parties. Nicholas is a popular name, and any child named in the saint’s honor is celebrated with something akin to a birthday party.

The rounds made from house to house can become Bacchanalian for young and old alike. Adults are served brandy, wine, and seasonal sweets – somewhat grueling when you consider how many Nicholas’s they may have to visit. This cake, scented with the season’s fresh oranges, studded with the region’s walnuts, dried grapes, figs, and apricots, and drizzled with fragrant spiced wine syrup, is just the sort of thing you might be served.

This is a traditional preparation, but it’s just as often seasoned with the Greeks’ beloved mastic as with cinnamon and cloves, and you should feel free to experiment if you have any handy. The olive oil adds an unexpected fruity punch, and I think you’ll agree that this is a delightfully Mediterranean twist on the classic Christmas fruitcakes we prepare in the States and Britain. This one’s better the next day, which makes it perfect for the feast tomorrow. Happy St. Nicholas’s Day!

olive oil
3 cups all-purpose flour
½ cup almond flour
1 tbsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1 large pinch kosher salt
1 ½ tsp ground cinnamon
½ tsp ground cloves
2 ½ tbsp orange zest
1 cup extra virgin olive oil
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1 ½ cups orange juice (preferably freshly squeezed)
½ cup brandy
½ cup coarsely chopped walnuts
½ cup black raisins
½ cup chopped dried figs
½ cup chopped dried apricots
2 cups red wine
1 cup granulated sugar
4 whole cloves
2 cinnamon sticks
1 star anise pod
zest of 1 orange
zest of 1 lemon
confectioner's sugar for dusting
extra orange zest for serving, in narrow strips

Preheat the oven to 350 F.

Brush a deep loaf pan with olive oil and line with parchment paper that comes up out of the sides of the pan by at least 2 inches.

Sift together the flour, almond flour, baking powder, baking soda, kosher salt, cinnamon, and cloves. Sprinkle in the orange zest and stir to distribute evenly.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the olive oil and sugar. Add to the dry ingredients with the orange juice and brandy and stir until only just combined. Add the walnuts and dried fruit and stir briefly to combine.

Pour the batter into the loaf pan, place the loaf pan onto a sheet pan to protect your oven against overflow, and bake in the center of the oven for 1 hour to 1 hour and 20 minutes, or until a wooden skewer comes out of the center almost clean.

Meanwhile, make the spiced wine syrup. In a medium pan, combine the wine, sugar, spices, and citrus zest. Place over low heat and stir until the sugar’s dissolved. Simmer over low heat until the liquid is reduced by half. Strain and reserve.

Cool the cake on a rack for at least 30 minutes before removing from its pan. Just before serving, dust with confectioner's sugar through a sieve. Slice and serve drizzled with warm wine syrup and topped with a few slivers of orange zest.

The December Harvest Calendar

2007-12-01T07:00:00.000-05:00

It’s funny how the excitement of a December farmer’s market can match the height of the harvest in August or September. The sun shines low and pale now, and it’s gone altogether by 4:30. And the vibrant colors of late summer and early autumn have been replaced by the staid deep green of kale and collard, the quiet buff of parsnips, and the often-drab pods of fully matured shell beans.

But in spite of the change in season, farmers, chefs, and shoppers still crowd the Union Square greenmarket, stamping their feet and puffing great clouds of breath into the chilly air. There’s an atmosphere of expectation, though it’s hard to tell how much of it is the invigorating end of the heat and how much is the bracing perfume of evergreen that suddenly envelops the market.

The first time each year that I see those stacks of wreaths, coils of garland, and miniature forests of fir trees, I can't help but smile. And the amaryllis bulbs, cyclamen, and poinsettias are all out in full force now too. Plus the annual Union Square Holiday Market opened the day after Thanksgiving, and it’s been wonderful to buy a cup of hot cider from one of the apple vendors and wander to the south end of the square to browse through the stalls of ornaments, toys, and gifts.

Make the most of those apples, by the way. They’re still crisp and fragrant, but they’ll loose their fresh crunch before too long. And though the beet, cabbage, carrot, leek, onion, potato, winter squash, turnip, and pear harvests are all officially over now too, these crops are available from cold storage and are still full of flavor.

Still being harvested this December are the parsnips and shell beans, plus collard greens, kale, and other hardy greens until the first snow. Enjoy these crops while they’re fresh from the field – there won’t be any new harvests now until April.

Find a guide to New York’s holiday markets here. And, as always, the harvest calendar is available in the sidebar over there on the right all month. The information comes from the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

Happy December, happy winter, and happy holidays!