FOOD ON THE FOOD

About Ground Cherries

Please bear with me—I’m trying desperately to maintain my vacation glow, and any demands, any demands at all, will restore me to my original pale, matte finish. 

In the interim, you can find me over at Culinate this week with an article on ground cherries (aka husk tomatoes, aka dwarf Cape gooseberries, not to be confused with tomatillos).  If you’ve ever seen them at the farmer's market and wondered what the heck those weirdo fruits are and what to do with them, now’s your chance to find out.  There’s also a recipe for a sweet and spicy relish to serve over grilled fish.  You know, if you like delicious things.

Now go away.  Shoo!!

Peach Ice Cream

According to my mother, the first words I learned to read were ‘ice cream.’  This makes all the sense in the world if you know me at all.  It may also explain the relish with which I learned to read additional words, only to discover that most of them were significantly less delicious than the first.  It was my earliest childhood disappointment, though I suppose literacy is a decent consolation prize.

As a kid, nothing brought me greater pleasure than going to an ice cream parlor and studying the flavors on display in the long, transparent cases, their muted, subtly different hues right there at eye-level.  It was like an edible artist’s palette, seemingly bottomless and filled with sweet promise.  Some had flecks of chocolate or nuts.  Bits of fruit.  Swirls of fudge.  I wanted to take a spoon, dip it into every pot, and paint the world with ice cream.

I loved to watch the people who worked there (the luckiest people on the face of the planet, in my young estimation) scooping out ice cream from the deep cylindrical tubs.  There is something about the texture of ice cream that still thrills me, the way the scoop digs and rolls across the surface.  How the resulting smooth crown and ruffled edges sit precariously atop the cone, defying (or not defying) gravity and clumsy children.  The way the frozen confection is both creamy and crystalline, temporarily suspended in a state somewhere between solid and liquid as you race to devour it before it seeps sloppily from the bottom of the cone.

It all began with strawberry.  What is it with little girls and pink?  But that flavor, to this day, represents all the pleasures and comfort of childhood.  Later I gravitated toward the artificial pale greens of pistachio and mint chocolate chip.  Strawberry ice cream was for babies, you see.  A cone of mint chocolate chip always required jimmies (Massachusetts-talk for chocolate sprinkles).  Brigham’s in the South Shore Plaza was a favorite source.  As I angled for adulthood, the teenage years brought an appreciation for coffee, maple walnut, butter pecan, and mocha in their frosty shades of beige.  I still favor them to this day.

It took years before I realized that the best and most versatile ice cream flavor of all was the white one in the corner with the barely-perceptible flecks of black.  It was hard, though, as a kid to choose Plain Jane vanilla when there were so many flashier options vying for attention, especially once Oreos and cookie dough entered the picture.  To this day, my least favorite ice cream flavor is chocolate.  Chocolate, which is one of my most favoritest things ever!  (Did I forget a superlative in there?)  What can I say, Chocolate Ice Cream, you’re a poor substitute for chocolate.  But the real thing is welcome to be poured, thick and fudge-like, over my vanilla ice cream anytime.

This history is why I’m compelled to make homemade ice cream even though we have about a million sources for quality ice cream in the Boston area, from old-school ice cream shops (J.P. Licks, Cabot’s), to inventive, boutique ice cream bars (Toscanini’s, Christina’s), to farm stands (Bedford Farms, Kimball Farm).  They’re hard to beat and thank goodness we don’t have to.  But for me, there will always be homemade ice cream in my freezer.  Peach ice cream.  Maple ice cream.  And other far more disgusting concoctions of which I have yet to conceive. 

Tammy + Ice Cream 4 Eva.

Peach Ice Cream

There’s nothing like peaches and cream in the summertime.  I kept the skins on this time and I liked it!

2 cups ripe peaches, washed, fuzz rubbed off under water, chopped
½ cup sugar, plus ¾ cup more (1¼ cup total)
Juice of ½ lemon
2 large eggs
2 cups heavy cream
1 cup milk

Combine peaches with ½ cup of the sugar, and stir in lemon juice.  Cover and refrigerate for 2 hours, stirring every half hour.  Pour peaches into a strainer fitted over a bowl and drain, reserving the peach juice.

Whisk the eggs in a large bowl until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes.  Whisk in the remaining ¾ cup sugar, a little at a time.  Pour in the cream, milk, and reserved peach juice, and whisk until sugar is dissolved.  Pour mixture into ice cream machine and freeze following the manufacturer’s instructions (usually spin for 25 minutes).  Add the peach pieces during the last 5 minutes of processing.  Spoon partially frozen mixture into a container, cover, and place in the freezer until firm. 

I tend to like it on the softer side rather than solid as a rock.  If it freezes too hard, let sit on the counter for five minutes before serving.

Source: Adapted from Ben & Jerry’s Homemade Ice Cream & Dessert Book by Ben Cohen, Jerry Greenfield, and Nancy J. Stevens.

Local Ingredients:
Peaches: Carver Hill Orchard, Stow, MA
Cream: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA
Milk: Our Family Farms of Massachusetts, Greenfield, MA

Shiitakes and Soup

Maybe it’s just the mushrooms talking, but that’s a lot of mushrooms! 

I harvested nearly a pound of shiitakes from one of my logs last week.  There was a little bit of slug damage, but they were remarkably bug-free.  Because the weather has been so dry lately, I had to trick my logs into thinking it was the rainy season by giving them a 24-hour soak in the kiddie pool (after the kids were done using it, of course).  Only one of the logs fell for the ruse with any enthusiasm.  Meanwhile, one of the other logs seems to have developed some kind of green mold on one side.  Which isn’t a good thing unless I’m planning on growing my own penicillin.  Apparently there’s a fine line between fungus and mold, and I’ll keep you posted on where exactly that line is.

Isn’t it weird how mushrooms grow out of logs like that?  They just grow right out of the logs!!

As I was slicing the shiitakes from the log, I accidentally dropped one of them into a pile of rotting leaves.  I quickly picked it up, fretting and wiping it off like an overprotective parent, until I realized my ridiculousness.  Protecting my precious fungal outgrowth, the fruit of boreal decomposition, from a little dirt and detritus?  There were slugs crawling all over it a minute ago!  It’ll be okay.

Speaking of slugs, I’ve never considered myself to be particularly fleet of foot, but I always fancied myself faster than a slug.  Apparently not.  I had to break up a mid-morning, slow-motion feeding frenzy by nudging a group of them off the logs with a stick and slingshotting them across the yard.  They may not be particularly fast, but they’re very determined.  As a secondary line of defense, I tried sprinkling a ring of salt around the log on the paver it was resting on.  That seemed to solve the problem, but maybe there's a more humane way to deal with slugs?

Anyway, these shiitakes went into a nice mushroom barley soup over the weekend. I chopped shallots, carrots, and garlic from Waltham Fields (as well as some limp celery I found) and sautéed them in a few tablespoons of Cabot butter until soft.  Then I added a bit more butter and my sliced shiitake caps, and cooked for five more minutes.  In went 6 cups of beef stock made from bones from Chestnut Farms last winter along with a few extra cups of water (but you could easily substitute vegetable broth and/or the tea left over from soaking dried mushrooms).  When it all came to a boil, I added ½ cup barley from Moraine Farm and let it simmer for about an hour.  I finished it off with a couple of tablespoons of cognac and a tablespoon of chopped fresh thyme.  Not exactly summer food, but think about it for the fall!

Tart Cherry Preserves

In the cookbook Put ‘Em Up that I raffled off last month, there is a recipe for preserved cherries, the intro to which says, “Cherry preserves are to strawberry jam what a red satin gown is to a puffy pink prom dress.”  That’s for sure.  Only the author forgot to mention the red lipstick.  Lipstick and cleavage.  This, my friends, is the Christina Hendricks of jams. 

If you’ve never cooked with sour cherries (and I hadn’t until this year), let’s just say that there’s a reason why everybody swoons over them.  Under no circumstances should you EVER pass them up.  And I know it’s cruel to mention sour cherries when their season is past, but now you have a whole year to nail down a local source and mark your calendars for late June/early July so you don’t miss their fleeting window.  Then you should set some of them aside to make this:

Classic Cherry Preserves

Original recipe was doubled.  I should have stuck with the original recipe.

1½ lbs. sour cherries (sometimes labeled tart cherries)
½ cup sugar
2 Tbsp. lemon juice

Stem and pit the cherries (they're so juicy you can just cut them in half and flick out the pit with the tip of a paring knife, no pitter required).  Combine the cherries with a splash of water in a medium nonreactive saucepan.  Bring to a boil, mashing with a potato masher to release the juice.  Add the sugar and lemon juice and stir to dissolve.  Continue to cook, stirring frequently, until the preserves reach the desired thickness, 15 to 20 minutes (stick a jam-coated spoon in the freezer for a minute to see if it gels).  Remove from heat and let rest for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.  Ladle into clean jars.  Cool, cover, label, and refrigerate for up to a month.  (Or, for longer lasting storage, can them using the boiling water method for 10 minutes).  Now just try to keep your hands off them!

Source: Adapted from Put ‘Em Up by Sherri Brooks Vinton.

Fish Tacos

Why has it taken me so long to embrace the fish taco?  It is nothing short of genius, especially when you’re a member of a local fishermen’s coop.  Basically how it works is this: whatever leftover fish you have, throw it into a taco with whatever vegetables you have.  Seriously.  Not only that, but it tastes fresh and healthy and not even a little bit lazy.  Here’s how we’ve been doing fish tacos lately, though I'd imagine there are about as many variations as there are fish in the sea.

Fish Tacos

1 package corn tortillas
½ lb. leftover fish or pieces for frying
¼ head of cabbage, finely shredded
¼ red onion, thinly sliced
Whole cilantro leaves
½ cup mayo
Juice of ½ lime
½ shallot, chopped
½ jalapeño, minced, seeds removed
1 Tbsp. fresh herbs like dill, oregano, parsley
¼ tsp. dried cumin
Dash cayenne
Salt and pepper to taste

First, I get my vegetables ready—in this case, shredded cabbage, thinly sliced red onion, and cilantro leaves.  I keep the cilantro leaves separate from the herbs in the dressing because people either love cilantro or hate it.  This way, you can either pile it on (yes, yes, yes!) or leave it out at your own discretion.  Then I make the sauce, which is similar to that creamy salad dressing recipe I gave you earlier this summer.  In fact, I’ll often just doctor that if I have some around.  If not, just whisk the mayo with lime juice and add the chopped shallot, jalapeño, herbs, spices, salt, and pepper.  I like it heavy on the dill.  Taste it and once you get the flavor you like, you can thin it with milk or buttermilk, thicken it with more mayo, or just leave it alone.  If you should find yourself with too much sauce, it also makes a great dressing for coleslaw.

Next, the fish.  We really like pollock in our tacos, though we’ve also enjoyed haddock and hake (aka merluza).  Sometimes we use leftover fish and other times I’ll deep fry some for the occasion and let the children have homemade fish sticks while the adults flake theirs into tacos.  (The children have yet to take to the taco, but I’ll break them down eventually.)  For batter, I either coat the fish pieces in buttermilk or plain yogurt thinned with milk and dredge them in cornmeal, or make a beer batter with ¾ cup flour, ¼ cup cornstarch, and enough beer to make a batter of a reasonable consistency.  Then I drink the remaining ¾ bottle of beer to make the frying go faster.  You want the oil hot (375°F) so the fish comes out light and crispy, not sodden.  Drain on paper towels and sprinkle with salt. 

When you’re on your last batch of fish, wrap a stack of corn tortillas in a damp paper towel and heat the whole thing in the microwave on medium-low for a minute.  Flake the fish into bite-sized pieces.  Assembly, to be done individually at the table, is just a matter of taking two tortillas, making a small pile of cabbage, onion, cilantro, and fish down the center, and applying sauce.  Don’t be too stingy with the sauce—you’ll want at least a tablespoon on there.  It’s a pretty healthy meal overall.

By the way, Cape Ann Fresh Catch is accepting new members, so if you’ve been eager to try out local delivery of fresh Gloucester-caught fish, now’s your chance.  They have a fillet option now so you don’t have to lug home a whole fish and fillet it yourself if you don’t want to.  I’ve opted for the pre-filleted share myself since I already have enough fish bones in my freezer to keep us in chowder for five years straight. 

Local Sources:
Cabbage, red onion, cilantro: Waltham Fields Community Farm, Waltham, MA
Dill, parsley, oregano: Neighbor’s garden, Waltham, MA
Fish: Cape Ann Fresh Catch, Gloucester, MA
Buttermilk: Kate’s Homemade Butter, Old Orchard Beach, ME
Corn tortillas: Cinco de Mayo, Lynn, MA (via Russo’s)

Constructing Pavlova

So now that you know (or don’t know) the history of pavlova, let’s make a pavlova!

If your experience with meringue is mostly marked by indifference, this pavlova will change all that.  It’s not chalky and tasteless the way some structured meringues can be.  Long, slow baking forms a thin, crisp shell on the outside while the middle stays soft and marshmallowy—a billowy, free-form cloud in the palest, purest shade of pink, like brand-new pointe shoes.  That outer shell is fragile enough that if you pile your fruit too high, as I did, the middle collapses slightly.  I suspect that’s why the whipped cream was introduced in the first place.  To cover up the fissures and sinkholes that arise when one of your major ingredients is just air.  That’s my theory, anyway. 

But the combination of sweet meringue, not-to-sweet whipped cream, and sweet-tart berries, along with the contrasting textures of crisp and yielding is absolutely delightful.  Which is why I ate all of the leftovers at 11 p.m. that night.  You know, because they wouldn’t taste as fresh and wholesome the next day!  Best of all—and I hope you’re reading this, Mom—pavlovas are gluten-free.  So, if you’re allergic to wheat, then consider this a very worthy substitute for strawberry shortcake.

Pavlova

Save the unused egg yolks for lemon curd or pasta dough or whatever else you make that could benefit from some extra richness.

4 egg whites
Pinch salt
1 cup sugar, whizzed in a food processor (or super-fine sugar)
1½ tsp. cornstarch
1 tsp. vinegar
1 cup heavy cream
1 Tbsp. sugar (optional)
Splash of vanilla
1 quart strawberries, raspberries, black raspberries, or other seasonal fruit

Preheat oven to 250°F.  Line a sheet pan with parchment paper and trace an 8-inch circle on it in pencil using a cake pan or bowl as a guide.  Turn the parchment paper over so you don’t get pencil on your meringue (but make sure you can still see the circle you just drew).

Using an electric mixer, whip the egg whites with a pinch of salt in a large, clean bowl.  It’s very important that your bowl is grease-free and that you separated your eggs cleanly, with no broken yolks mixed in with the whites.  Any fat will interfere with the whipping process.  When soft peaks form, begin adding the sugar 1 tablespoonful at a time with the mixer running.  Continue beating on medium-high speed until stiff, glossy peaks form, about 5 minutes.  Rub some meringue on your fingers to make sure all the sugar has dissolved.  Lightly but thoroughly fold in the cornstarch and vinegar.  These ingredients are not optional.  They are necessary for that magical texture I described.

Gently mound the meringue in the center of the parchment and lightly spread it to fill the circle you traced.  With the back of a spoon, shape it so that it’s higher on the sides and dipped like a well in the middle.  Don’t fuss with it too much, though, or you’ll lose air.  It’s meant to look free-form.  Bake in the preheated oven for 1 hour and 15 minutes, until it’s just starting to take on some color and crack slightly (cracks are totally fine).  Then turn off the heat and let the meringue sit inside with the oven door ajar for 30 minutes.  Take out and let cool.

Assemble just before serving.  Whip the cream in a clean bowl with a splash of vanilla and perhaps a bit of sugar (though the meringue is sweet enough that you don’t need much) until soft peaks form.  Mound the cream in the well and top with seasonal fruit of your choosing. 

Local Ingredients:

Eggs: Chip-In Farm, Bedford, MA
Cream: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA
Strawberries, raspberries, blueberries: Various local farms via Verrill Farm, Concord, MA

Back to the Farm

Our first CSA pickup of the season was this weekend, and so the summer cooking frenzy begins.  How exciting!  On Sunday, I defrosted some shrimp from my winter fish share from Cape Ann Fresh Catch and made a quick stir-fry with garlic scapes, bok choy, tatsoi, scallions, and snow peas, the latter of which we picked ourselves at Waltham Fields.  The simple sauce contained no soy.  Just two parts fish sauce to one part sugar.  Fabulous over rice. 

Then last night, I grilled chicken from Chestnut Farms and served it over salad with a lemony spinach pesto dressing (yes, the same one you made for me, Red—thanks for the inspiration).  My BFF provided the orzo pasta salad with feta and herbs.  Then came strawberry shortcake assembly.  When was the last time you had real strawberry shortcake?  Not the kind over those circular store-bought sponge cakes.  The kind over real buttermilk biscuits sliced in half so the berry juices soak in.  The kind with sweet, local strawberries not soaked in methyl iodide.  The kind with real whipped cream on top, lightly sweetened with a touch of vanilla.  If you’re not going to make my rhubarb pie, at least make my strawberry shortcake, for god’s sake.  Have you no soul? 

Sorry.  Didn’t mean to get so worked up.  It’s just that if you’re going to be eating all those delicious vegetables, I think it’s okay if you have a little dessert.

Spinach and Pine Nut Dressing

For those extra heads of lettuce you find yourself with at this time of year.  It's also a good use for your lemon verbena.

2 cups lightly packed baby spinach leaves (about 2 oz.)
¼ cup pine nuts
Juice from 1 lemon (about 2 Tbsp.)
Zest from 1 lemon (about 1 tsp.)
½ cup extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste

In a small frying pan with no oil, toast the pine nuts over medium-low heat for about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until fragrant and starting to get golden-brown in spots.  Let cool.  Combine the spinach, pine nuts, lemon juice, and lemon zest in a food processor.  Pulse until well-chopped.  With the machine running, gradually add the oil, blending until the mixture reaches a creamy dressing consistency.  Add salt and pepper to taste.  Great with a grilled chicken salad.

Source: Adapted from Everyday Italian by Giada De Laurentiis.

Rhubarb Pie

Oh, my god, you guys, I am obsessed with rhubarb pie.  Obsessed!  Do you know how many rhubarb pies I’ve made in the past two weeks?  Three.  Three pies and nary a strawberry to be found in any of them.  Strawberries have their time and place, don’t get me wrong, but that time is when they’re raw and right out of the garden, and that place is far away from my rhubarb pies. 

This recipe comes from my friend, Cathy, whom I stalked until she gave it to me.  Yes, I’m back to my stalking ways.  Get it?  Rhubarb?  Stalks?  Shut up.  Her recipe is tart, the way I like my rhubarb, with a touch of cream, which is how I like pretty much everything.  I had to add a little more sugar to appease Husband, and double the flour because my particular rhubarb seemed to have a high water content.  I also added a lattice crust so you wouldn’t be subjected to a photo of a pie that looked like someone just vomited into a pie shell.  Now it looks like someone vomited into a pie shell and I added a decorative lattice crust!  But you know I never discriminate against ugly food on this blog.  Ugly food is the best food.

Make this pie.  Make it early and often.  And I know one of you is going to ask me if you can leave out the cream, and my answer, as always, is that you could, but why would you want to do a silly thing like that?

Rhubarb Pie

Yes, you can use a premade crust, but I won’t stop nagging you to make your own at least once.  Below is a recipe for a homemade butter crust.  Using half butter, half shortening will give you extra flakiness (the tradeoff is transfats).  Or you could make a lard crust.

Crust
2 cups flour
12 Tbsp. cold butter, cut into pieces
1 Tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. salt
8-10 Tbsp. ice water (or more)

Filling
1 lb. rhubarb, cut into 3/4-inch pieces (3½-4 cups)
¾ cup sugar
¼ cup flour
¼ tsp. salt
½ cup heavy cream
1 Tbsp. lemon juice

For the crust, mix flour, sugar, and salt in food processor.  Add cold butter and pulse in 1-second beats until butter is the size of small peas (around 20 pulses).  Dump mixture into a large bowl and add ice water, a few tablespoons at a time, fluffing with a fork until gently absorbed.  You don’t want it wet and sticky, but if there’s too much dry flour, the dough won’t come together right.  It should just hold together when you press on it.  Don’t knead or it will become too tough.  Tear off two pieces of plastic wrap.  Dump a little over half of the dough mixture in the middle of one, and the rest in the middle of the other.  Folding over the sides of the plastic wrap, flatten the mixture into disks about an inch thick, then wrap them up, and refrigerate at least an hour or until ready to use.

Preheat oven to 450°F.  Have your 9-inch pie plate at the ready.  In a large bowl, toss rhubarb with sugar, flour, and salt.  In a small bowl, whisk together cream and lemon juice and set aside.  Retrieve your pie dough from the fridge.  Flour your counter and rolling pin well.  The dough shouldn’t stick at all.  Take the larger disk and roll it out about ¼-inch thick, about a foot in diameter.  Roll from the middle out in all directions.  Don’t grind the dough down into the counter—push it out to the sides.  If the dough sticks, sprinkle more flour.  Transfer to your pie dish by lifting the edge of the dough over the top of the rolling pin.  Gently lift and push until the dough is draped over the rolling pin (a bench scraper or even a spatula under the dough really helps).  Align dough over pie plate and gently unfurl.

Dump rhubarb mixture into pie shell.  There will be a small pile of sugar and flour in the middle.  Redistribute evenly.  Pour cream mixture over the top evenly.  Roll out the second pie crust the same way as the first, only slightly smaller.  Using a pastry wheel or sharp knife, cut thin strips for a lattice topping.  Arrange strips like so.  Fold over edges of bottom crust and crimp however you like.   Place in oven on top shelf with a baking sheet on the bottom shelf to catch any drips.  Bake 20 minutes.  Reduce heat to 350°F and bake until bubbly, puffed, and crust is richly caramelized, about 45 minutes more.  Keep an eye on the crust—if it starts to brown too much, cover with foil.

Let cool.  Serve with vanilla bean ice cream.

Local Sources:
Rhubarb: Verrill Farm, Concord, MA
Butter: Cabot, Cabot, VT
Cream: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA

Lemony Asparagus Hummus

 Have you gotten your hands on any local asparagus, yet?  I did.  At Verrill Farm.  Where else have you guys found it? 

Regardless of where your asparagus came from, have I got a treat for you.  I mean, besides roasting the spears with little more than olive oil and some salt and pepper.  Lemony asparagus hummus.  I can’t stop eating this stuff.  Luckily, I don’t have to because it’s just asparagus and chickpeas and a few other little things that aren’t bad for you at all. 

Just try and stop me.  I dare you.

 

Lemony Asparagus Hummus

Serve with simple olive-oil-brushed, salt-and-peppered pita chips.  Or try the dukkah-spiced pita chips that accompanied this recipe in Yankee Magazine.

2 cups fresh asparagus, cut into 1-inch pieces
1 15-oz. can chickpeas, drained and rinsed well
2 medium cloves garlic
2 Tbsp. tahini, sesame paste
Zest of 1 lemon
Juice of same lemon
1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil

Bring a large pot of water to a boil.  Meanwhile, fill a large bowl with ice water and set aside.  To the boiling water, add a generous pinch of salt and the asparagus.  Return water to a boil and cook about 4 minutes, until spears are tender and bright green.  Drain asparagus and submerge in the ice bath for a minute or two to stop the cooking.  Drain and set aside.

In a food processor, puree the chickpeas, garlic, tahini, lemon zest, lemon juice, and asparagus.  With the machine running, slowly pour in olive oil and process until combined.  Season with salt and pepper.  Serve with pita (bread or chips) and vegetables.

Source: Adapted from Yankee Magazine in an article by Annie Copps. 

And I'm Going to Eat As Many Cookies As I Want

Maybe you already heard my megaphone announcement yesterday, but the results of my MRI came back with an A++ circled in red ink.  I know they typically grade these tests pass/fail, but since “pass” doesn’t even begin to convey my feelings on the matter, I went ahead and assigned an appropriate letter grade that corresponded to my emotional state, then handed it back to them for them to hand back to me.  “Pass,” you see, implies a potentially small margin of victory, and I prefer to think of it as a more definitive blowout. 

It’s one thing to go through cancer treatment on blind faith, just assuming that it's all going along just fine.  It’s another thing entirely to have hypersensitive imaging confirm it.  It feels like they’re letting me out of prison, finally, and giving me back all of my personal belongings, and right there next to my keys and pocket lint is a little thing called my life.  Here’s your life back, Ms. Donroe.  Don’t fuck it up.

The other milestone I reached this month is that reconstruction is done.  The cherry on top, if you will.  Things are still looking a little brutalized, but I’m told everything will heal up just fine.  I can’t feel anything over there, so it’s not really a problem.  I still have three more months of intravenous Herceptin and then they can take this port out of my neck and chest.  Then, I’ll really be done.  But the hard part is over, so I’m calling it done.

I should tell you that I wear the “survivor” badge cautiously.  I am aware that the cancer could come back.  I am aware that this is a possibility and, in fact, given my young age, it’s likely that someday it will.  But a stretch of time has been presented to me during which I don’t need to worry about that.  A one-year furlough from the anxiety of all of the end-of-life-related issues, fears, and logistics—subjects you can’t easily talk about at a dinner party or a casual morning coffee with your friend if you don’t want her going off and killing herself before work.  But these morbid thoughts are a mandatory part of coming to terms with the whole experience.  And that burden was much bigger than I realized it was.  Like driving around for a whole year with the gas light on. 

Now that it’s off my shoulders, I feel so light and airy.  Should I start jogging again?  I think I should start jogging again.  Swimming?  Yeah, definitely swimming.  Lacrosse?  YES!  I’m going to do all the sports!!!

I give it a month.

[Since cookies have defined this whole ordeal, let’s close it out with more cookies.  Check out the recipe for peanut butter pretzel cookies by Hilary Koloski of Cow and Crumb Baking up at How2Heroes.  Salty and sweet, soft with crunchy bits, yin and yang.  Delicious, like life.]

Maple-Stout Marinated Brisket

Ever wish there was a cookbook out there with seasonal recipes and sprawling, high-quality photographs that pay homage to your favorite local growers?  I’m sure there are thousands of these kinds of cookbooks that revolve around California farms, at least one cookbook per farm I imagine, but not so here in Massachusetts.  Here, there’s just one.  (So far.)  (That I know of.)

I’m talking about Fresh & Honest, a beautiful collection of recipes and seasonal sources from Peter Davis, chef of Henrietta’s Table in Cambridge.  The focus is on simple, traditional New England fare with fresh, local ingredients, but he takes that a step further by introducing us to the fishermen, cheesemakers, and farmers that supply his restaurant, including Pat Woodbury of Wellfleet, Bob Stetson of Westfield Farm in Hubbardston, and Steve Verrill of Concord’s Verrill Farm, among others.  Recipes include roasted pumpkin soup, strawberry-rhubarb compote, lobster chowder, red flannel hash with poached eggs, and grit cakes with mushrooms.  It’s such a pretty book (it recently won a New England Book Festival award), that I kind of wish I wrote it myself.  But former Boston Magazine colleague Alex Hall wrote it with Davis, so that’s close enough.  The point is that such a book exists and is available for such greedy little hands as mine.

I’ve been agonizing over which recipe to share with you, and I’ve finally settled on one: maple-stout marinated brisket, one last hearty, meaty dish before we move into summer’s lighter fare.  I know I’m in a minority among the Boston-area, beer-loving public, but I don’t love drinking stout (I’ve discussed this before).  I find its meatiness offensive in a beverage.  But I do like to cook with it, so I planned to use Moody St. Stout from Waltham’s own Watch City brewery to continue the local theme.  But, of course, they ran out right before I got there, so I had to quickly formulate a backup plan.  Twenty minutes later, their Chocolate Thunder Porter caught my eye.  Come to find out, it’s made with local Taza chocolate!  And the fact that it’s a porter, which I do like, AND it contains chocolate, meant that I had no problem helping Husband polish off the rest of the growler alongside this rich, tender, dark-chocolatey brisket.  Win-win.  

Maple-Stout Marinated Brisket

This is not a weekday meal.  It requires marinating, browning, and long, slow cooking for 6 hours.  Start early the day before you need to eat it. 

1 4-lb. beef brisket
1/3 cup Dijon mustard
½ cup maple syrup (the darker, the better)
2 cups stout (or chocolate porter!)
½ cup red wine vinegar
2 Tbsp. Worcestershire sauce
4 bay leaves
2 tsp. Tabasco sauce (I used way less because that much Tabasco scares me!)
1 cup onion, finely diced

In a medium saucepan, whisk together the mustard and maple syrup.  Add the beer, vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, bay leaves, Tabasco, and onion, and mix well.  Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer 2-3 minutes.  Let cool completely.

Soak the brisket in the marinade for 24 hours in the fridge.  Heat grill and brown over low heat on all sides, being careful not to burn it.  This can also be done in a hot, oven-proof skillet with a thin film of oil.  Preheat oven to 275°F.  In a tightly covered pan, cook brisket in the oven for 6 hours or so, basting with the marinade every hour.  When tender, remove from the oven and let rest tented with foil for 30 minutes.  Slice brisket across the grain and drizzle with pan drippings.  Serve with mashed potatoes and, I don’t know, maybe something green!

Source: Adapted from Fresh & Honest by Peter Davis and Alexandra Hall.

Local Food Sources:
Beef brisket: Chestnut Farms, Hardwick, MA
Mustard: Raye’s Mustard, Eastport, ME
Maple syrup: Williams Farm Sugarhouse, Old Deerfield, MA
Beer: Watch City Brewing Company, Waltham, MA

Masala Fried Chicken

So, what do you think?  Is it time for another chicken recipe?  I think it’s time for another chicken recipe.

I know you liked the last one I did: lemon balsamic chicken.  Saveur did, too.  But that was a while ago, so here’s another chicken dish from that same cookbook, American Masala.  It’s fried chicken, but with an Indian twist.  Take your basic Southern fried chicken recipe and replace the basil, thyme, and sage (or whatever herbs you use) with coriander, turmeric, and garam masala.  This is a good example of how just a sprinkling of a few well-chosen spices can change the character of a dish entirely.  The rest of the technique is exactly the same.

I get the most succulent chickens from Chestnut Farms out in Hardwick, MA.  They don’t need any sort of brine to be tender and juicy, but I’m including the brine recipe anyway.  It’s simple enough and certainly doesn’t hurt anything.  Serve your fried chicken with aloo gobi (Indian cauliflower and potatoes) and garlicky greens, and you’ve got yourself a great meal.

Masala Fried Chicken

The cinnamon notes in garam masala seem to appeal to children, so if you want to entice your kids to eat chicken on the bone, this is a good contender.  Just ease up on the cayenne a bit if they’re not used to spice.

Brine
3 cups buttermilk
¼ kosher salt
2 Tbsp. sugar
1½ tsp. garam masala
1 tsp. ground coriander
1 tsp. ground peppercorns
½ tsp. ground ginger
½ tsp. paprika
¼ tsp. cayenne pepper

Batter and Fry
1 chicken (4 lbs.), cut into 8 serving pieces, or 2-3 lbs. of drumsticks, thighs, wings
Canola oil, for frying
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp. ground coriander
2 tsp. garam masala
2 tsp. ground peppercorns
1 tsp. turmeric
½ tsp. kosher salt
¼ tsp. cayenne pepper

For the brine, mix buttermilk with the eight spices in a large bowl.  Add the chicken and turn to coat.  Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight, or as many hours as you can spare.

Heat an inch of canola oil in a large, heavy-bottomed skillet over medium-high heat.  In a pie plate, whisk together the flour and remaining spices.  Add the brined chicken and turn to coat.  If you’re not brining, you can dip the chicken pieces in a little buttermilk or egg, even yogurt, before coating with flour.  Let the chicken pieces rest in the flour while the oil finishes heating to 375°F.  That’s the secret to a crunchy, flaky crust—gluten.  Shake off any excess flour then fry in batches until browned 5-8 minutes.  Don’t crowd the pan or the oil temperature will drop and the batter will absorb too much oil.  In short, you’ll be disappointed.  Turn the chicken over and fry until browned on the other side, 5-8 minutes.  Transfer chicken to paper towels to drain.  Enjoy.

Source: Adapted from American Masala by Suvir Saran and Raquel Pelzel.

Indian Pudding: A Recipe

It seems cruel to post a story about Indian pudding with no recipe, so here it is, the best Indian pudding in the world. 

I adapted this classic Yankee recipe from The Boston Cooking-School Cook Book by Fannie Merritt Farmer (originally published in 1896).  I think it’s even better than Durgin-Park’s famed Indian pudding, but don’t say anything because I don’t want to get yelled at.  (Do they still yell at people over there anymore?)  My version uses a combination of molasses and maple syrup as well as ginger, cinnamon, and nutmeg.  The consistency is very soft and is meant to whey a bit (meaning some liquid separates from the pudding—or, as I like to call it: sauce).  Serve warm with vanilla bean ice cream melting all over it in shallow, milky pools.  Dreamy!

Indian Pudding

No Indians were harmed in the making of this pudding.

4 cups milk
½ cup cornmeal
2 Tbsp. butter
½ cup molasses
½ cup maple syrup (preferably Grade B)
1 tsp. salt
½ tsp. cinnamon
½ tsp. ginger
Pinch nutmeg
2 eggs, well beaten

Preheat oven to 325°F.  Butter a 2-quart casserole dish.

In a medium pot, bring milk to a gentle simmer.  Very slowly whisk in cornmeal briskly to prevent clumping.  Cook for 20 minutes, adjusting heat to maintain a gentle simmer, until mixture has thickened and coats the back of a spoon well.  Remove from heat.  Stir in the butter, molasses, maple syrup, salt, and spices until well blended.  Temper the eggs, meaning slowly whisk in about ¼ cup of the hot pudding mixture to the beaten eggs, then return tempered mixture to the pot.  This prevents the eggs from scrambling.

Pour mixture into a buttered casserole dish and bake about 1½ hours, until center is set (the center will still be soft, but you don’t want it to look liquidy).  Some recipes call for a water bath (i.e., set the casserole dish in a larger pan, then pour boiling water into the outer pan until it reaches halfway up the sides of the pudding dish), but I’ll be honest, I don’t bother.  This right here is the Indian pudding of my childhood.  Let sit at least 20 minutes.  Serve warm with vanilla bean ice cream.

Local Sources:
Milk: Our Family Farms of Massachusetts, Greenfield, MA
Cornmeal: Winter Moon Organic Farm, Hadley, MA
Butter: Mendon Creamery, Mendon, MA
Maple syrup: Williams Farm Sugarhouse, Old Deerfield, MA
Eggs: Chip-In Farm, Bedford, MA

Salad Dressing Refresher

We haven't had a bottle of salad dressing in our refrigerator for more than 10 years.  True story.  Now, some of that time had to do with me not eating very much salad, I will confess.  I’ve always been more of a meat and potatoes and dessert kind of girl.  But, most of that time had to do with me not liking bottled salad dressing, and finding that I eat a lot more salad when I actually like the dressing. 

My younger, restaurant-going years were spent in part devouring wonderful tangles of micro-greens, tender lettuces, and pea tendrils and wondering how these little bistro salads could attain such a level of deliciousness while my own homemade lettuce piles remained so uninspired.  The thing to know about salads if you want to like them is that you need to use fresh vegetables.  Like really fresh.  Straight from the farm if you can get them.  They should talk back.

The second thing is to wash your greens and spin them dry, dry, dry if you want your dressing to cling to the leaves instead of sliding off into a puddle at the bottom of the salad bowl.  If you don’t have a salad spinner, toss them into an old pillowcase, then walk outside and whip your arm around real fast as if it were the sole windmill powering the entire Internet.  The people on the sidewalk might look at you funny.  Just aim the centrifugal stream of water at their faces and they’ll keep right on walking.  

Thirdly, you should make your own dressing.  Supermarket dressing sucks.  Most of it, anyway (if you have a favorite, you can put it in the comments).  I don’t even know what they put in those bottles half the time, but you don’t need more than five ingredients, which you probably already have.  Two, if you’re really short on time and patience.  It will only take 30 seconds to make your own and it makes everything go down so much better.

The final thing to remember about green salads is that you should never dress them ahead of time.  Do it approximately one second before you’re going to eat.  Everyone should already be sitting down and complaining about the fact that there's salad tonight.  Don't worry.  They'll shut up once they taste the dressing. 

30-Second Vinaigrette

Here’s my everyday vinaigrette technique.  There’s no recipe—just a basic ratio that you can scale up or down depending on how many people you’re feeding.  Store any extra in a jelly jar in the fridge.  The olive oil might congeal, but some time warming at room temperature and a brisk whisking will revive it.

1 part red wine vinegar, white wine vinegar, or apple cider vinegar
Touch of Dijon mustard (optional)
2-3 parts extra-virgin olive oil (I like my dressings tangy, so I use closer to 2)
Salt and pepper

Whisk together vinegar and mustard.  Add oil in a slow, steady stream until the mixture thickens and emulsifies.  Season with salt and pepper. 

To upgrade this to a 3-minute vinaigrette, juice a lemon instead of using vinegar, add the mustard along with some minced garlic or shallots and chopped herbs.  Then whisk in the oil, salt, and pepper.


Buttermilk Herb Dressing

When I get sick of vinaigrettes, here’s what I make instead.

2 parts buttermilk
2 parts mayonnaise
1 part minced shallots or onions
1 part chopped herbs like tarragon, parsley, and chives (but the seasonal variations are endless)
Salt and pepper

Whisk or shake together in a jar, adding more buttermilk if too thick, or more mayo if too thin.  Season with salt and pepper.  Store in the fridge.  Always shake before using.  This is also great for crudité platters.  Use extra mayo for a thicker consistency.

Digging Mussels

I’ve mentioned before that I’m a big fan of mussels. I think other people would be too if they knew how delicious they can be. And how easy they are to cook. Also, how cheap they are ($2-$3 per lb.). And that farmed mussels are on the Monterey Bay Aquarium’s Best Choices list, so you don’t have to be paralyzed by fear at the seafood counter trying to figure out what the hell is okay to cook for dinner.

I’m here to tell you that blue mussels are okay. More than okay. They’re sustainable and delicious. That is, if you can train your attention away from the particulars of their anatomy, just scoop the whole thing into your mouth no questions asked. That’s how I got the kids to like them. Told them to close their eyes and then I shoved a mussel into each of their mouths. Granted, it took years for them to trust me enough to go along with it, but now we have a pair of mussel-lovers on our hands and I claim full credit.

Mussels are filter-feeders, which means they strain plankton and other organic matter out of the water. Farmed mussels, mostly from Prince Edward Island in Canada but also Maine, are raised in waters that have met approved international water quality standards and the whole process is managed in an ecologically safe way. Most cultured mussels are grown on ropes raised off the bottom so there’s minimal habitat disruption when harvesting. Because mussels don’t require any additional feed and don’t produce any waste, they don’t pollute their environment the way that, say, farmed salmon can. In fact, they can actually improve water quality. (For more information about farmed mussels, go here (read text in blue).

Wild mussels, when you can get them, are also a treat, but you need to be aware of red tide, blooms of tiny algae-like microorganisms, which contain toxins that accumulate in mussels’ bodies and can make you pretty sick. A red tide warning was just announced yesterday for the Cape. By the way, blue mussels are not to be confused with the highly endangered fresh-water mussels, which have been prized for their use in pearl cultivation rather than human consumption.

But let’s go back to how easy they are to cook. Really easy. You clean them, dump them into a pot of liquid, cover, bring to a simmer, and steam them for five minutes. It’s literally as simple as that. A classic preparation is to steam them in a white wine and herb bath and serve them alongside a big basket of fries, preferably with a hearty Belgian beer nearby. I’ve also had them served in the North End in a light tomatoey broth with basil. But last week, since I had a half a can of coconut milk in the fridge, I turned to my favorite Indian cookbook (have you bought it, yet?) and we had curry instead. We served it over rice one night, and the next in a big bowl with some kale tucked in there, a baguette handy for mopping up any remaining sauce.

Mussels in a Green Curry

The other great thing about mussels (and clams) is that they trick you into thinking you’re eating more than you actually are. Your brain registers the size of the shells, but the meat is actually only half that volume. When I see the big pile of empty shells I’ve just created, I feel psychologically full.

2 lb. mussels
¼ tsp. cumin
1 small tomato, seeded, diced small
½ cup cilantro leaves
¼ cup mint leaves
1 Tbsp. minced fresh ginger
2 small green Serrano chiles, seeds removed
2 Tbsp. canola oil
1 cup onion, finely chopped
1 cup canned coconut milk
Water, if necessary
Salt

Scrub the mussels well in cold water and pull off any beards (they look like strands of steel wool hanging out of the shells). If using wild (non-farmed) mussels, check for any decoys filled with mud. They’ll be heavier than the others and should open up and expose themselves when manhandled. You’ll want to identify these and toss them out before they end up in the pot and ruin everything.

In a food processor, grind the cumin, tomato, cilantro, mint, ginger, and chiles to a smooth paste. Or finely chop and mash with the back of a spoon. Set aside. Over medium flame, heat the oil in a large, wide pot that has a lid. Sauté the onion until golden, about 5 minutes. Add the green curry paste and sauté about 5 minutes more. Add the coconut milk and salt to taste. You may also want to add some water if your coconut milk is on the thick side, as mine was. I added somewhere between ¼-½ cup of water. Bring to a boil, then add the mussels, and reduce heat to low. Toss well, cover, and cook until all the mussels are open, about 5 minutes. Discard any mussels that haven’t opened. Serve over rice or in a big bowl with some crusty bread for mopping up the sauce. Serves 4.

Source: Adapted from 5 Spices, 50 Dishes by Ruta Kahate. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: My quality of life has dramatically improved since I bought this book.

Like shellfish? Here's more:

Mussel and Chorizo Soup
New England Clam Chowder
Shrimp Bisque
Oyster Soup
Pasta with Clam Sauce

Easter at the Beach

I have to say that spending a cloudless, 70-degree Easter weekend at the beach was pretty sweet! I love having in-laws that live on the Cape. From the looks of the traffic trying to get back over the bridge on Sunday night with one lane closed, it appeared that everyone else has in-laws on the Cape, too. I think we’re going to need to get together and coordinate our visitation schedules on alternating years or something. Better yet, maybe you could just stay home!

The drive down on Saturday morning wasn’t too bad, though, and we spent a good part of the day on the bay side building sandcastles and kite-flying and generally grinning our shit-eating grins at each other all day long. It was disgusting. After a while, unaccustomed to so much sunlight, I starting having visions of an epic Easter egg hunt that I would organize on First Encounter Beach the next day. I mean, how many opportunities do you get to have an Easter egg hunt on the beach in Massachusetts without freezing your asses off?

There were a few logistical flaws in my mental plans, however, like all of the telltale footprints that would be left behind after I finished burying the eggs in the sand. And the way the eggs would crack as little feet, which aren’t so little anymore, would run right over the tops of them over and over again until they finally zeroed in on the buried treasure. And little hands, which aren’t so little anymore, that would start chipping away at them with plastic shovels. And the flocks of seagulls that would immediately become attracted to the area, dive-bombing the beachhead in droves, digging up broken, sandy eggs, beating the children with their frenzied wings.

So we just stuck to the original plan: Sunday brunch, an Easter egg hunt limited to the confines of the yard, and a second, separate beach trip where I steered clear of all birds.

As for the eggs, here are some better ideas for how to use your hard-boileds:

Deviled eggs with capers and parsley from Savour Fare
Scotch eggs from Al Dente
Curried egg salad from 101 Cookbooks
Moroccan-style egg salad from my archives

Macaroons: Not To Be Passed Up

I went to my first Passover Seder last week. I’m not sure how it is that I’ve never been to one before given how many of my friends and family are of the Jewish faith. I suppose it’s because I tend to shy away from religious celebrations of any kind with as much polite respect as possible. It’s just that I find religion to be extremely personal.

However, I’ve been thinking lately that maybe too much distance from something can bring you to the brink of closed-mindedness. Or maybe loosening some of my boundaries when it comes to religion is part of the whole process of confronting one’s own mortality. Who the hell knows? I heard there would be food. Maybe that was it.

As a newbie, I enjoyed the accessible, non-traditional format that our neighbors L and W embraced. Before eating, for example, everyone broke into groups of three or four and pantomimed the story of Passover in memorable fashion utilizing stuffed animals for props and the like. While a few of the songs were in Hebrew, most were humorous English interpretations, like the Exodus Rap: Well my name is Moses, you can call me Mo…. Suddenly, I realized what all of my years of after-school Catholic tutelage had been lacking: Rap. Oh, and food.

Dinner began with hard-boiled eggs, a symbol of spring, fertility, and the giving of life, which were dipped in salt water to represent the tears of the enslaved Jews. Parsley also received a dip in the salty brine to signify rebirth and renewal. Charoset, a tasty concoction of apples, nuts, and wine, represented the mortar that the Jewish slaves used to build the pyramids of Ancient Egypt. Sweet charoset combined with horseradish, the bitter flavor of which is analogous to slavery itself, was meant to remind one that there is sweetness in even the most bitter of times. Matzo, the unleavened bread that the Jews carried with them on their impromptu exodus out of Egypt, symbolized oppression and the importance of freedom. Did I get any of this wrong?

I was impressed with how important and symbolic the food was. We also had matzo-ball soup, chicken, vegetables, and extra helpings of charoset. I don’t know the story behind the four glasses of wine, but I know I like it. For dessert, there was chocolate- and toffee-covered matzo, which should be eaten year-round I declare. Our neighbor S also brought these amazingly rich chocolate-coconut macaroons. The recipe came from Clear Flour bakery in Brookline and they are the perfect treat for either Passover or Easter. You could even flatten the mounds into little nests and, once baked, set Cadbury mini-eggs or malted milk robin’s eggs in there. You know, if you’re into that sort of thing. They’re also gluten-free. Something for everyone.

Chocolate Coconut Macaroons

Don’t scrimp on the chocolate here. Skip Hershey’s and Nestle and go for Callebaut, Valrhona, even Ghirardelli. And, for the love of god, never use anything wrapped in Easter foil and marked as “chocolate” for baking. That stuff’s disgusting.

9¼ oz. semisweet chocolate, cut into ½-inch pieces
4½ oz. unsweetened chocolate, cut into ½-inch pieces
5 egg whites (save the yolks for pasta dough!!)
8 oz. granulated sugar (about 1 heaping cup)
1 Tbsp. vanilla extract
14 oz. sweetened shredded coconut

These cookies are meant to be frozen before baking to maintain a super-creamy center, so don’t preheat your oven just yet.*

Bring an inch of water in a medium saucepan to a boil then turn down the heat to maintain a gentle simmer. In a large metal bowl, combine the two types of chocolate. Set the bowl on top of the pan of water (the bowl shouldn’t touch the water—the steam provides the heat). Stir the chocolate until it is melted and remove from heat. If you have a double-boiler, use that instead.

In a large clean bowl, beat the egg whites with an electric mixer until foamy. Slowly add the sugar and keep beating until the mixture has the consistency of melted marshmallows. With a rubber spatula, fold in the vanilla, coconut, and melted chocolate until well blended.

Line 3-4 cookie sheets with parchment paper and scoop out batter into small mounds about 2 inches wide and an inch or two apart. Once they’re frozen, you can either store the macaroons in plastic containers to get your pans back into circulation, or bake them right on the pans. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Bake the frozen macaroons 16-20 minutes or until the outsides have developed a delicate crust and the tops are set. Slide the parchment paper (with the macaroons still on it) off the cookie sheets and onto a wire rack to cool. Makes 25.

*If you don’t have time for freezing the batter, you must have macaroons now, then preheat your oven to 425°F and bake on parchment-lined pans about 10 minutes until tops are set but centers are still soft. Let cool on pans several minutes more. The centers won’t be as creamy, but they’ll still be pretty damned good.

Source: Adapted from Boston.com. Original recipe from Abe Faber and Christy Timon, owners of Clear Flour Bread in Brookline.

Fancy Shrimp Bisque

As there is currently an ocean in our basement, let’s do a sea-based soup today. Just because your once-watertight dwelling has sprung a giant leak or twelve doesn’t mean you can’t indulge in fancy shrimp bisque. Remember the black-tie orchestra that continued to play as the Titanic sunk? It’s like that, only slightly less romantic because of the lack of music and empty litter boxes floating past.

We had so much shrimp in our freezer from our Cape Ann Fresh Catch seafood share that I began desperately searching for recipe ideas that used shrimp still in their shells, because, seriously, I can’t be peeling that many shrimp. Then I remembered a soup from my brief time at Cook’s Illustrated. It was a delicious shrimp bisque—one of the best bisques I’ve ever tasted if you disqualify the lobster bisque from the Brewster Fish House down the Cape, which is the best for sure, but really more of a chowder.

This version is just as rich as lobster bisque, but much more economical. It's saturated with shrimp flavor, but a hint of tarragon and three kinds of alcohol give it surprising complexity. Creamy and coral-colored, it would be a stunning appetizer for any kind of elegant dinner you might have planned as we wait with bated breath for spring vegetables and solid ground to arrive. The only problem I can foresee is that you really need a chinois to strain the soup and most normal people don’t have one. It’s a conical fine-mesh strainer that gives you a really smooth, silky texture in bisques (and crystal-clear broths). You could probably do okay with your finest strainer lined with a double-layer of damp cheesecloth. Or you could borrow mine. I’ll just float it down the river to your house. Bon voyage!

Shrimp Bisque

Here’s a time-saving tip: Instead of finely chopping the vegetables by hand, chop them all together in the food processor, set them aside, and then don’t bother cleaning the processor bowl before you grind up the shrimp mixture. It’s all going to get cooked together later anyway.

2 lbs. Maine shrimp, shells on
2 Tbsp. olive oil
1/3 cup brandy or cognac, warmed
2 Tbsp. unsalted butter
1 small carrot, chopped finely
1 small rib celery, chopped finely
1 small onion, minced
1 garlic clove, minced
½ cup all-purpose flour
1½ cups dry white wine
4 cups shrimp stock, fish stock, clam juice, or water, warmed if cold
14-oz. can diced tomatoes, drained
1 small sprig fresh tarragon
1 cup heavy cream
1 Tbsp. fresh lemon juice
Pinch or two of ground cayenne
2 Tbsp. dry sherry or Madeira

Set aside ½ lb. shrimp in a small bowl to peel later. Blot the rest dry with paper towels. Heat a 12-inch heavy-bottomed Dutch oven or other large pot over high heat until very hot. Add 1 Tbsp. olive oil and heat until shimmery. Add half of the big bowl of shrimp and sauté until pink and the shells are lightly browned, 3-4 minutes. Transfer to another bowl and repeat with the remaining oil and the rest of the big bowl of shrimp. Once the second batch is browning, return the first batch of cooked shrimp to the pot. Pour the warmed brandy over the top. Make sure all children are clear of the stove. Wave a lit match over the pot until the brandy ignites (Warning: the flame is huge!) When the inferno has subsided, transfer the shrimp to the bowl of a food processor and grind into a fine meal. Ten seconds should do it.

Wipe out the pan. Heat butter in Dutch oven over medium flame until hot. Add chopped carrots, celery, onion, garlic, and the ground shrimp. Cover and cook, stirring frequently, until the veggies are slightly softened, about 5 minutes. Add flour and cook, stirring constantly, for 1 minute. Slowly stir in the wine, then slowly stir in stock (or clam juice or water). Add the tomatoes. Cover and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer, stirring frequently, until thickened and flavors meld, about 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, peel the remaining ½-lb. of shrimp and cut them in half. You can add the shells to the pot (which I would recommend if you’re using water instead of stock) or save them in the freezer for future stock. Set the cut shrimp aside once again. Patience, my little shrimp. Your day will come.

Strain bisque through chinois or cheesecloth-lined strainer, into a large bowl, pressing on the solids with the back of a big spoon to extract all the liquid. Wash and dry the Dutch oven, then return the strained soup to the pot. Over medium-high heat, stir in tarragon sprig, cream, lemon juice, and cayenne. Bring to a simmer (but don’t boil), then add the cut shrimp and cook about 2 minutes until pink and tender. Discard tarragon sprig, stir in sherry, and season to taste with salt and pepper. Serves 6.

Source: Adapted from Cook’s Illustrated.

Local Ingredient Sources:
Shrimp: Cape Ann Fresh Catch, Gloucester, MA
Butter, cream: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA
Carrot, onion: Red Fire Farm, Granby, MA

United Statesian Honey Tarts for World Peace

One thing I learned last week is that if you want to see some Canadians get all opinionated, just try to muscle in on their butter tarts! And to think that diplomatic relations between our two countries hinged not on trade or other mutually beneficial economic factors, but on the enforcement of clear pastry boundaries. Sure, we can filch all of the Canadian comic talent and then fake a vacation in order to burden their generous healthcare system, but hands. off. the butter tarts.

Just kidding, Elisabeth et al! But I have to warn you that I did revisit the butter tarts. I couldn’t help it. I was sooooo close, and I had extra pie dough plus a couple of egg yolks I needed to use up. So I tinkered further with the recipe for what I think we can all agree wasn’t really a butter tart at all, aside from the butter. What I came up with will hopefully restore faith between the two nations and narrowly avert a third World War.

First item of business: lose the butter. Well, not all of the butter. I haven’t gone mad. Just half of it. I wanted the predominant flavor of the filling to be honey, not butter, and only enough to bind the nuts together. The answer: egg yolks. Next step: change the name. We like to do that over here. Change something nominally, then call it our own. It’s the American way.

Behold: American Honey Tarts. Wait, now I’m pissing off the Mexicans. North American Honey Tarts. Well, North American (But Not Canadian) Honey Tarts And Now The Nuts Are Mad. I’m still working on the name. But these homely little tarts made me insanely happy. I loved them. The next time I throw a wine and cheese party (in 2018, by my estimation), I’m breaking them out. Only maybe I’ll try them with maple syrup next time!

Honey Walnut Tartlets

If you have a favorite pie dough, feel free to use that instead. Or you could use store-bought, though I’ll deny I ever said that. One of these days I’ll make a video on how to make an awesome pie crust. That day is not today.

Dough
1 cup flour
½ tsp sugar
½ tsp. salt
6 tbsp. cold, unsalted butter, cut into pieces
4-6 Tbsp. ice water

Filling
1½ cups walnuts, whole or pieces, but not diced
2 Tbsp. softened, unsalted butter
¼ cup sugar
2 egg yolks (remaining whites can be put towards this recipe)
¼ cup wildflower honey (stronger, more complex flavor than clover honey)
Fleur de sel

To make the dough, mix flour, sugar, and salt. Cut cold butter into flour mixture by hand or in a food processor (pulse about 10 seconds or until butter pieces are pea-sized, then dump into bowl). Add ice water and fluff until starting to clump together in a raggedy mass. Gently squeeze a bit in your hand and see if it holds together at all. If not, add more water. Tear off a large swath of plastic wrap and dump the dough mixture into the middle. Gather up the sides of the plastic wrap, and press the dough into a flat disk, wrapping tightly. Refrigerate at least a half hour.

Preheat the oven to 425°F. Lightly grease mini-muffin tins. On a well-floured surface, roll out the dough to ¼-inch thickness. Better to have too much flour on the counter than not enough. You can always brush off any excess—you don’t want the dough to stick to the counter at all. A word on rolling: Don’t crush the dough into the countertop. This will make the finished crust tough. Basically, you want to push the pin across the dough to smear the butter between the layers of flour as you go. Imagine buttering a piece of bread. Like that, only rolling. This will result in a light, flaky texture.

Using a biscuit cutter, a sharp paring knife, or, I suppose, a glass, cut circles out of the dough that are a bit larger than the diameter or the muffin cups. Cut a Pac Man mouth out of the side, then fit dough into muffin cup, pressing the cut sides gently to seal. You’ll have to experiment to get the perfect size. Repeat until you run out of dough. You can reroll the dough once more, but the more you work it, the tougher it becomes. I usually end up gently pressing the scraps into the cups in a free-form way towards the end. When you finish a pan, put it in the refrigerator so the gluten in the dough can relax while you do the rest.

In a medium bowl, cream the soft butter with the sugar with the back of a spoon. Stir in yolks and honey. Fill pastry cups with walnuts, breaking up pieces that are too large. Spoon filling over walnuts to cover, but don’t overflow the tops of the crusts. Add a few more walnuts. Sprinkle lightly with fleur de sel. Bake 12 minutes or so until walnuts are toasty brown and filling is bubbly. Let cool in pans for 10 minutes, then remove to wire racks to cool completely. Makes about 20.

Local ingredients:
Honey: Warren Farm & Sugarhouse, North Brookfield, MA
Eggs: Red Fire Farm, Granby, MA
Butter: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA

Nuts, Part 2

I swore I’d never do it, but I did actually roast and peel chestnuts last Christmas. Not over an open-fire, but in the oven, as nature intended. Then I peeled them all until shell shards got jammed under my fingernails and I was all out of curse words.

I’m glad I tried it, though. It makes you appreciate how much hard work goes into shelling nuts. Plus, there are other sensory aspects of the process that are far more pleasurable than the aforementioned shards. The beautiful mahogany shells, for example, and the way the dry-roasting makes the whole house smell of shoes. Not stinky, old shoes. New shoes of the finest Italian leather. Then, of course, there are the sweet chestnut meats inside that can go into stuffings or cakes. But especially cakes.

Even though it feels like we’re on our way out of chestnut season, if it’s not already long gone, I have to mention this particular cake because it makes an elegant but manly dessert. Like if your dad, for example, has a winter-ish birthday. It’s super-easy to pull together, but makes a great impression. You can buy chestnut puree in a can at discerning markets (at Russo’s, it sits on a low shelf across from the eggs and cheese). The brand I bought was straight from France and contained chestnuts and water only, no surprising additives, so the recipe remains gluten-free. It makes for a somewhat expensive shopping list, but you will consider it money well spent when you’re sitting down eating cake instead of peeling a million goddamned chestnuts.

Chocolate Chestnut Torte

Unfortunately, the kids loved it, too.

1 15-oz. can chestnut puree
1 stick unsalted butter, softened
6 eggs
10 oz. semi-sweet chocolate (of the high-end variety), melted and cooled
1 tsp. vanilla extract
Two pinches of salt
¼ cup granulated sugar

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a 9- or 10-inch springform pan with a circle of parchment paper.

Add chestnut puree and softened butter to a large bowl and, using a mixer, beat until well blended. Separate the eggs using clean hands (crack an egg, pour contents into your hand, and let the whites fall through your fingers into a small bowl until only the yolk remains). One by one, add the yolks to the chestnut-butter mixture. One by one, dump the whites into a separate large bowl. (If the yolk breaks, set that egg aside for an omelet. Get another egg. A broken yolk will render the associated egg whites unwhippable). Set bowl of egg whites aside. Add melted chocolate and vanilla to chestnut-butter mixture along with the yolks, and mix well. Set aside.

With clean, dry beaters, whip the egg whites with the salt. Gradually add in the sugar. Continue whipping until stiff, glossy peaks form (but you don’t want them dry and Styrofoam-looking). Gently mix one third of the egg whites into the chocolate chestnut mixture to lighten. Then, add half of what’s left of the whites to the bowl and fold in until incorporated. Gently fold in the remaining egg whites. The idea is to deflate the egg whites as little as possible. Proper folding technique is important. Here’s a refresher.

Gently pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 35-45 minutes, until the top looks dry and slightly cracked. Cool in pan for 20 minutes, then remove to wire rack. Serve alone or with a dollop of whipped cream or crème fraiche.

Source: Adapted from A Treasury of Jewish Holiday Baking by Marcy Goldman, who adapted it from a recipe from Montreal’s Titanic Café.

Nuts, Part 1

I’m kind of a nut freak. No, not those kind of nuts. Tree nuts. I’m crazy about baklava and pignoli cookies. I love all the nut ice creams first and foremost (though, admittedly, this may have something to do with the ingredients with which nuts are usually paired, like butter, maple, and, er, grapes).

Lately, for a snack, I’ve taken to toasting walnuts in a dry pan, tossing them until fragrant and just thinking about browning, then removing them to a bowl, coiling thick ropes of honey over them, and raining the whole sticky thing with fleur de sel. Lordy. I was trying to think of a good way to present this potentially show-stopping dessert other than “Nuts in a Bowl.” Perhaps nuts encased in buttery pastry. Like pecan pie, but less goo, or little pecan tassies, but with walnuts and honey.

So, I started tinkering with a Canadian butter tart recipe. You know, in the spirit of the Olympics and all. Not that I’ve ever had a Canadian butter tart, mind you. Maybe I should actually try a Canadian butter tart before I go fucking around with the recipe, but it just seemed like a few teeny-tiny substitutions would get me exactly what I was craving. Changes like switching raisins to walnuts, corn syrup to honey, brown sugar to white (so that the molasses character wouldn’t compete with the honey’s floral undertones), losing the vanilla, and sprinkling with sea salt. The butter in the butter tarts remained as written.

The results were on the right track, but not quite the medal contenders I had hoped for. They ended up kind of greasy, truth be told. Whatever tenuous emulsion I had established between the butter, sugar, and honey wasn’t enough to keep the butter from leaching out under high heat conditions, soaking the muffin papers, and pooling in slick puddles at the bottoms of the muffin cups. Mmmmm. However, like baklava, they do seem to improve with age, and I’m having trouble keeping my hands off of them today, I must say.

I’ll perfect these eventually, but until then, I suggest you stick to the original Canadian butter tart recipe. Or, you know, just nuts in a bowl.

Zaleti

I don’t know if anybody else is going to like these. Not the best way to start a post, I realize, but this isn’t one of those guaranteed-crowd-pleaser types of recipes. It pleases the Preschooler and I, and that’s about all I can guarantee. There are cookies that will kill you with sweetness and there are cookies that won’t, and while there is definitely a place for both (right here in my stomach), these fall firmly in the latter category. However, after the Caramel deLite incident(s), this is a welcome departure.

Zaleti is the traditional name for these northern Italian cornmeal cookies, usually made with lemon rind and grappa-soaked raisins. I use dried cranberries plumped with brandy instead and a perky pinch of zested tangerine peel. Then I cut them into diamond shapes and, after they’ve baked and cooled, give them a February dusting of powdered sugar. They’re like a rustic tea cookie if tea parties took place in the woods instead of fancy hotels. With some tree stumps for tables and the woodland creatures and my mushroom log dolls sitting all around. What are you looking at?

The result is a snack I don’t feel guilty about when the Preschooler (or I) want more than one. But, for some mystical reason that I can’t explain, two is usually plenty.

Zaleti

Winter Moon Organic Farm of Hadley, MA sells local cornmeal ground on a bicycle-powered mill at the Wayland Winter Farmer’s Market.

¾ cup dried cranberries
¼ cup brandy
1½ cups all-purpose flour
1 cup cornmeal
½ tsp. salt
12 Tbsp. unsalted butter, softened (1½ sticks)
2/3 cup sugar
1 large egg
1 tsp. vanilla extract
Zest of one tangerine (or corresponding amount of orange or lemon)
Powdered sugar, for dusting

In a small bowl, soak the dried cranberries in brandy for about an hour or until plump. You can omit the brandy and use apple cider or even water to moisten the cranberries instead. The kids won’t miss it, though I might.

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Line two cookie sheets with parchment.

In a medium bowl, combine the flour, cornmeal, and salt. In a large bowl, cream the butter and sugar until smooth. Beat in the egg, vanilla, and tangerine zest. Stir in the dry ingredients along with the raisins and any remaining liquid. Cover and chill until firm enough to handle, about an hour.

On a floured surface, roll out the dough to a thickness somewhere between ¼- and ½-inch. Using a sharp paring knife or bench scraper, cut the dough into diamond shapes and set on cookie sheets. Bake about 15 minutes or until zaleti are lightly browned around the edges. Let cool on rack. Dust with powdered sugar just before serving.

Just Keeping It Real Around Here

I hear people are worried that I might actually bare a breast at some point in this sacred space we call my blog. Fear not. Given what I know about myself, I think the odds are highly stacked against that. A part of me still wants to believe I’m badass enough to do it, so if you could just continue to play along, I would appreciate it.

Things on the cooking front have been less than inspiring this week, with one kid recovering from strep and the other one coming down with it, and me only a week out of surgery. I never quite made it to the grocery store (save my trip to Codman for the fish delivery), so we were working with a barren pantry and the dregs of the crisper. Dinner one night consisted of fried rice made with some ratty old turnips and a hopeful heap of curry powder. The next night was pasta and salad. Then more pasta and salad, this time with a side of fresh fish. Words cannot express how very uninterested I was in gutting 5 grey sole that day, but the reward was a fish that tasted absolutely delicious when sautéed in nothing more than olive oil.

Last night’s dinner was pita pizza, my fallback when we’re out of hotdogs. I made the kids their favorite: cheese, no sauce, hold the toppings. It evolved through trial and error over several weeks with me coming up with various creative combinations and the kids eliminating at least one ingredient until there was nothing left but cheese melted on bread. Whatever. I’m too beaten down to care. Then I made one with sauce and sausage for Husband, and a sauceless version for me with caramelized onions, mozzarella, goat cheese, and rosemary.

Actually, the last one adds up to more than the sum of its parts, and I would recommend it for your winter pizza repertoire. Just sauté an onion in olive oil on low for about 20 minutes with a pinch of salt and sugar (2 onions for a regular-sized pizza). Sprinkle some mozzarella on the pita (often, I put a little cheddar on there, too), pile on the onions, dot with goat cheese, sprinkle with rosemary and black pepper. Bake 8 minutes or so in a hot oven. Drizzle with a tiny bit of extra virgin olive oil while it cools. Around here, you can make it with all local ingredients, too. I use the large pita pockets from Bay State Bakery in Worcester because they stay thin and crispy the way I can’t seem to make my own pizza crusts come out.

Ah well. Next week is another week.

But My Ribs Are Real

So everything went fine with my “procedure” last week, in case you were wondering. My expectations, admittedly, were pretty low. The initial conversation with the plastic surgeon went something like, "Can you just slap something up there that’s moderately convincing. Something that will stay put, instead of shimmying up and out of the neck hole of my shirt while I’m talking to my neighbors, Jesus Christ.”

But it turns out that the man has an artistic streak, a masterful grasp of subtlety and restraint that you don’t see too much evidence of on the market these days. It took me by surprise because I’m pretty sure we didn’t hit it off the first time we met. Probably because I just assumed he was surgically altering me with his eyes the minute he walked in the room, sowing potential seeds of self-doubt to ensure future business, causing me to become instantly hostile and defensive. Nevertheless, I’m willing to admit when I’m wrong and I may have been a little bit…you know, wrong about him. Maybe. Potentially.

Anyway, his good work isn't suitable for viewing, yet, so how about some ribs instead?

Sticky Asian Spareribs

Let marinate overnight for maximum flavor. Parboiling the ribs keeps the cooking time in the oven to under an hour.

3½ lbs. pork spareribs
½ cup hoisin sauce
3½ Tbsp. soy sauce
2 Tbsp. rice wine, white wine, or sake
1½ Tbsp. minced garlic
1½ Tbsp. minced fresh ginger
Pinch or two of dried red pepper flakes, more if you like them spicy
1 tsp. toasted sesame oil
½ Tbsp. sugar
2 Tbsp. sliced scallion greens

Bring a large pot of water to a boil. With a sharp knife or kitchen shears, separate the spareribs into 2½-inch-long pieces. Add the ribs to the pot and return to a boil. Reduce heat to medium and simmer 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a large bowl, whisk together hoisin sauce, soy sauce, wine, garlic, ginger, red pepper flakes, sesame oil, and sugar. Remove the ribs, let cool slightly, then add to the marinade. Toss lightly to coat and cover with plastic wrap. Let the ribs marinate in the fridge for at least 3 hours or overnight.

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Place the spareribs and marinade on a sheet pan lined with foil, and bake for 30 minutes. Flip the ribs and bake them another 15 minutes or so until the meat is tender and the glaze is sticky but not burnt. Sprinkle with sliced scallions. Original recipe says to serve with roasted winter squash, which you can bake alongside the ribs on a separate pan, cut-side down, until tender. Serves 4-6.

Source: Adapted from A Spoonful of Ginger by Nina Simonds.

Local Ingredients:
Ribs: Chestnut Farms, Hardwick, MA
Butternut squash: Waltham Fields, Waltham, MA

Boooooooooobs!

It’s very convenient that breasts are food-related. That way, when I feel like talking about mine, which is pretty much never, I can do so without breaking theme. In fact, this blog could have been 100% boobs all the time and no one could convict me of exploiting the female form. I really feel I’ve missed out on an important marketing opportunity, not to mention a chance to really connect with my male readership.

I only bring this up because I go for reconstructive surgery tomorrow and posting may be spotty for the next week. In layman’s terms, that means boob job. Yes, I know I’ve made fun of boob jobs several times on this blog that I can recall. Have you noticed that every time I make a joke about something, I then have to go and eat my words in a very humbling fashion? It’s almost like somebody’s trying to teach me a lesson. But that somebody is going to be very distracted from their lesson-teaching when they get a load of my giant new boob!!!

Just kidding. It’s not going to be giant (despite Husband’s enthusiastic lobbying). What the hell am I going to do with one giant boob? Sounds like an awful lot of unwanted attention if you ask me. I know the jury is still out on the long-term health implications of breast implants, and I don’t really consider them to be a fabulous idea, but do you know what I like even less? The constant reminder of cancer. What can I say? Life is just a series of justifications for your hypocritical behavior.

So, to welcome my new bionic boob, I made cookies. Special, celebratory cookies.

The nipples, of course, are optional.

This is a great cookie recipe I pulled from Molly Wizenberg’s A Homemade Life. It’s easy enough for kids to make, it rolls out perfectly for cookie cutters of all shapes and sizes, and the resulting buttery, shortbread-like texture is quite satisfying for all ages. The cream cheese frosting is barely cherry-scented with kirsch, and two drops of red food coloring give it the palest hint of pink, making it perfect for Valentine’s Day. Or, if you’re not the frosting type, roll out the cookies thinner, and sandwich a layer of dulce de leche in between for Argentinian-style alfajores.

And in a few weeks, depending on how things go, I’m thinking I might enact that 100% Boobs All The Time policy on this blog. There will still be food, of course, just food in the vicinity of boobs. Boobs with biscuits. Boobs with soup. Boobs giving away the temperature of all the outdoor shots. I think I’m going to be getting a lot more compliments on my photography. Let the traffic spike begin!

Pink Cookies

You can flavor and color the frosting however you like. Don’t feel limited to the most hideous color known to man.

Dough
3 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature
1 cup powdered sugar, sifted
3 cups all-purpose flour
½ tsp. salt
1 tsp. vanilla extract

Frosting
8 oz. cream cheese, room temperature
6 Tbsp. unsalted butter, room temperature
3 cups powdered sugar, sifted
1¼ tsp. kirsch, or more to taste
Red food coloring

For cookies, combine the butter and sifted powdered sugar in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment. Beat until light and fluffy, starting out very slowly so the sugar doesn’t fly everywhere, and gradually increasing speed. In a medium bowl, mix together the flour and salt. With the mixer on low, add the flour mixture to the butter mixture, beating until the flour is just absorbed. Add the vanilla and beat well to incorporate. Lay a large sheet of plastic wrap on the counter and turn the dough out onto it. Gather the dough into a ball and press into a thick disk. Wrap well and refrigerator for 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 325°F. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper. On a clean, floured surface, roll the dough to a thickness of ¼- to ½-inch. (Breaking the dough into two pieces makes it easier to manage.) Cut shapes with cookie cutters or drinking glass. Place the cookies on prepared baking sheets, spacing them an inch apart. Bake one sheet at a time for 16-20 minutes, or until the cookies are pale golden at the edge. Do not allow them to brown. Transfer pan to wire rack and allow cookies to cool completely on pan.

To make the frosting, wash your mixer bowl and paddle. Combine cream cheese and butter in the bowl and beat with the paddle on medium speed until smooth. Add the powdered sugar and beat on low to fully incorporate, then raise speed to medium, beating until there are no lumps, scraping down the sides of the bowl with a rubber scraper as needed. Add the kirsch and a few drops of red food coloring and beat well. I like the frosting barely pink, but feel free to add more food coloring and kirsch to taste. Spread thickly over cookies. They will keep in the refrigerator for 3 days, and can be frozen. Makes about 2 dozen.

Source: Adapted from Jimmy’s recipe in A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg. I hope he would approve of my interpretation.

Fish Three Ways, Part 3

Boy, my photography has really gone downhill. I thought it couldn’t sink any lower, but I was wrong. And speaking of sinking, here’s our last fish recipe of the series. We’ve explored Italian and Indian flavors, and now it’s time for Asian. This recipe is fresh and bright with bursts of ginger, lime, and cilantro. Served over rice with stir-fried snow peas, sticky green beans, or sesame carrots, it’s a nice dish that I’ve kept in rotation for years.

Oven-Roasted Fish with Ginger and Lime

1½ lbs. white fish fillets (haddock, pollock, cod, bass), cut into 4 to 6 portions
¼ cup fresh lime juice
3 Tbsp. soy sauce
2 Tbsp. shallot, minced
2 Tbsp. fresh ginger, peeled, finely chopped
2 Tbsp. fresh cilantro, chopped
3 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil

Preheat oven to 500°F. Brush large baking dish with 2 tsp. oil. Add fish to dish, turn to coat with oil, then arrange skin down. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Set aside.

In small bowl, mix lime juice, soy sauce, shallot, ginger, and cilantro. Whisk in the remaining olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Spoon a scant tablespoon of sauce over each fillet. Roast fish until opaque in the center, about 12 minutes. Top with remaining sauce. Serves 4.

Source: Adapted from a recipe in Bon Appetit many years ago.

Fish Three Ways, Part 2

So we’ve done fish Italian-style; now it’s time to do it Indian-style. Think tomatoes, garlic, fennel seed…wait that still sounds Italian. Okay, but then add some cumin, turmeric, cayenne, garam masala…. This takes things in an entirely different direction, making it hard to remember that it’s the exact same fish you just cooked last week.

You can skip the dry rub if you’re short on time. The sauce need only simmer for about 15 minutes, so you can fillet the fish at that point. Or, you know, buy it already filleted. I hear you can do that. Point is, it doesn’t take long. Serve the fish with ample sauce over basmati rice with some roasted cauliflower or stir-fried cabbage, and you will find yourself eating something on par with (or in some cases better) than what the local Indian restaurants serve.

Next up, roasted fish in a soy-ginger sauce.

Fish in an Indian-Spiced Tomato Sauce

Adjust the cayenne to your taste. I’ve reduced the amount here because my youngest complained, “My neck is spicing.”

1½ lbs. white fish fillets (cod, haddock, pollock, bass), cut into two-inch pieces
1¼ tsp. salt
¼ tsp. turmeric
2 pinches cayenne
3 Tbsp. vegetable oil
1 tsp. fennel seeds
1 tsp. mustard seeds
1 medium onion, peeled and finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, peeled and finely chopped
2 tsp. cumin
14 oz. tomatoes, canned is fine
¼ tsp. garam masala (if you don’t have this spice mix, add a pinch each of whatever of the following you have: cinnamon, black pepper, coriander, cardamom, and the tiniest pinch of cloves, and you’ll approximate it pretty well)

Pat the cod fillets dry and sprinkle with a mixture of ¼ tsp. salt, ¼ tsp. turmeric, and a pinch of cayenne. Set aside for 30 minutes.

In a large skillet with a lid, heat the oil over medium heat. When hot, add the fennel and mustard seeds. When the mustard seeds begin to pop, add the onion and garlic. Fry until the onion turns slightly brown, about 7 minutes. Add the cumin, remaining 1 tsp. salt, and the other pinch of cayenne, and stir. Add the tomatoes and their liquid as well as the garam masala. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium-low, and gently simmer uncovered for about 15 minutes, until sauce starts to thicken and darken.

Nestle fish fillets into the sauce, spooning additional sauce on top. Cover pan and simmer gently over medium-low heat until fish is cooked through, about 10 minutes for thin fillets. Serve over basmati rice.

Source: Adapted from Madhur Jaffrey’s Illustrated Indian Cookery (out of print).

Fish Three Ways, Part 1

As you know, we’ve been part of the Cape Ann Fresh Catch fish CSA and been very happy with it. We signed up again this winter for alternating shares of Maine shrimp one week, and whatever the daily catch is fish-wise the next (usually a white fish like cod, flounder, haddock, or pollock). We switched to the more manageable smaller-sized share (a 5-lb. bag of whole shrimp or one 5 lb. whole fish, which yields about 2 lbs. of fillets, per week). The children absolutely love it. Now that I’ve gotten faster at filleting, I’m able to process the fish and get dinner on the table in about an hour as long as I keep things simple. (The shrimp is another story.)

Husband caught me admiring last week’s cod, with its bright, shiny scales and clear, coppery eyes with a golden rim around the pupil.

Him: What? Do you want to make out with it?

Me: Maybe.

What can I say? It was a particularly beautiful fish that filleted cleanly. How could I possibly do it justice? I’ll tell you how: by pan-frying it gently, deglazing the pan with white wine, simmering in some capers, mounting with butter (get your mind out of the gutter, it's a FISH), and finishing it with the juice of a lemon and a sprinkling of parsley. Serve over buttered spaghetti with maybe some kale on the side, it’s like fish piccata. So simple and so good.

Next week, fish simmered in a fragrant Indian-spiced red sauce.

Cod with Lemon-Caper Butter

I like to keep the skin on thin fillets so the fish doesn’t fall apart too easily.
1½ lbs. cod, flounder, or sole fillets
2 Tbsp. olive oil
¼ cup flour
½ cup white wine
¼ cup capers, drained
3 Tbsp. butter, cut into pieces
3 Tbsp. fresh lemon juice
1 Tbsp. chopped fresh parsley

Heat oil in heavy, large skillet over medium-high heat. Meanwhile, spread flour on a plate. Sprinkle fish with salt and pepper and lightly coat with flour. Add fish to the hot pan and cook until opaque in the center, a few minutes per side for thin fillets. Transfer to plate and tent with foil to keep warm.

Add wine to skillet and deglaze, scraping up browned bits. Add capers and simmer until liquid is reduced by half, 2-3 minutes. Whisk in butter, one piece at a time, allowing each piece to melt before adding the next. Off the heat, whisk in lemon juice and parsley. Season with salt and pepper. Spoon sauce over fish to serve. Serves 4-6.

Source: Adapted from Legal Sea Foods.

Grapefruit Mimosas

Thank you all for coming to my New Year’s Eve potluck. It was awesome! I especially enjoyed the F*ck You Fondue, Why-Didn't-Anyone-Tell-Me-I-Had-Celiac-Disease French Toast, “Busted Knee” Leg o’ Goat, Menopause Hot & Cold Soup, Torturilla Chips and Guantanamole, and Crazy Momma Biscotti. See the comments for the rest of the offerings. Oh, and sorry I threw up in your car afterwards. That’s just my way.

In the unlikely event that you have any champagne leftover that I didn’t find and then drink, here’s a cocktail recipe for your brunchtime pleasure: grapefruit juice, tequila, elderflower liquor, topped off with a bit of bubbly. What’s wrong with a little cocktail first thing on a Monday morning? I hear companies are really loosening up about employees showing up plastered to work in 2010. All right, fine, I am trying to get you fired so I can take your job! Shhhhhh. A few more sips won’t hurt. You’re taking the train anyway.

Jalisco Flower
Since there’s no simple syrup in this, pick a grapefruit with a tartness you can tolerate. White grapefruit if you like things on the sharper side, ruby red if you prefer them sweeter, pink grapefruit for something in between.

1 oz. freshly squeezed grapefruit juice
¾ oz. elderflower liqueur (like St. Germain)
½ oz. reposado tequila
3 oz. champagne, prosecco, cava, or sparkling wine

Pour first three ingredients into an ice cube-filled cocktail shaker and shake vigorously. Strain into champagne flute (or travel mug) and then top with champagne. Serves 1.

Source: Adapted from Organic, Shaken and Stirred by Paul Abercrombie.

Scenes from Christmas

Christmas went without a hitch this year. No disasters to speak of, I’m sorry to report. St. Nick managed to cram himself down our tiny chimney right on schedule to deliver the goods to the children. He took some liberties with the fudge, I noticed, making short work of what we left for him on the mantle and then dipping into my secret stash in the refrigerator (he really is always watching, isn’t he?). You can imagine my reaction when I found the empty pans strewn about in the snow, reindeer footprints all around. I’m willing to let it slide, however, in the spirit of Christmas.

Husband and I kept our gifts to each other to a minimum. We didn’t want to end up in a Gift of the Magi-type situation wherein I relinquish my most precious asset, my gorgeous, flowing hair, only to find out that the measly ¾-inch growth I've accumulated will barely get you enough loose change to buy one and a half fishing lures to replace the dozens that have gotten caught in various trees over the years, not by Husband. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, he would have pawned off his fishing pole to buy me a truckload of barrettes or whatever you call those things that keep your hair out of your eyes. To which I would respond, in language befitting an O. Henry character, “WTF? You know I’m physically incapable of accessorizing.”

My in-laws came over Christmas morning bearing Hole-in-One doughnuts and other goodies. I didn’t knock myself out too much with the meal this year. Just a laid-back brunch with bacon from Chestnut Farms, fresh fruit, and a goat cheese-artichoke strata. Oh, and grapefruit mimosas, but that’s for another post. No spiral hams taking forever to cook or ducks to be trussed or husbands to make vomit. Nope, just a casserole made the night before and shoved into the oven amidst a flurry of wrapping paper (made only slightly more challenging by hastily deployed Lego minefields everywhere). Later on, once food coma set in and everyone cleared out, I took a three-and-a-half-hour nap. That was my Christmas present to myself. I thought baby Jesus would approve.

And that, my friends, was Christmas. How about you?

Goat Cheese-Artichoke Strata
This one’s for my mother-in-law. It’s a good use of leftover cheese from the cheese plate you might have served on Christmas Eve.

1 1-lb. loaf sourdough bread, crusts removed if thick
3 garlic cloves, unpeeled
18 oz. marinated artichoke hearts, drained, 3 Tbsp. or marinade reserved
2 tsp. minced fresh thyme
¾ lb. goat cheese, crumbled
¾ lb. freshly grated Parmesan cheese
8 large eggs
2½ cups half-and-half or milk
1 tsp. salt
¾ tsp. black pepper
3 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil

Preheat oven to 400°F. Butter a deep 9- to 10-inch baking dish.

Cut bread into 1-inch cubes. Transfer cubes to a baking sheet, along with cloves of garlic, and toast for about 25 minutes, stirring once or twice, until bread is golden brown and lightly crisp. (Or you could use stale bread and toast the garlic separately.) Peel the garlic, smash the cloves, and add to a medium bowl. Slice the artichoke hearts about ½-inch thick and add to the bowl. Mix in the thyme.

In the baking dish, arrange half of the bread, artichoke mixture, and cheeses, then finish with another layer of each. Whisk the eggs with the half-and-half, salt, pepper, and reserved artichoke marinade. Pour custard over the strata. Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours or overnight. In my case, I did this Christmas Eve so I could just pop it in the oven Christmas morning.

Remove the strata from the fridge a half hour before you plan to bake it. Preheat oven to 350°F. Drizzle olive oil over strata and bake for 50-55 minutes, until golden brown, puffed, and lightly set in the center. Serve hot.

Source: Adapted from A Real American Breakfast by the Jamisons.