FOOD ON THE FOOD

Sauerkraut

Today marks a return to my sauerkraut obsession, which has been neglected for far too long.  Oh, you thought I had given up?  Never!  I will not rest until sauerkraut perfection is achieved once again as it was the very first time I attempted it in 2008 when I had no idea what I was doing.

Feel free to play along with your own cabbage.  In 3-5 weeks, when our sauerkraut is ready, we can compare notes/swear words and if you blog about it, I’ll do a sauerkraut roundup linking over to your posts.  Okay?  Here ya go:

 

Sauerkraut

The technique is from Sandor Ellix Katz’s book Wild Fermentation.  A similarly good method can be found in The Joy of Pickling by Linda Ziedrich.  I like to add garlic and other flavorings, but using only cabbage and salt is great, too.

5 lbs. cabbage, cored, shredded thinly
3 Tbsp. sea salt
3 cloves garlic, peeled, crushed
1 Tbsp. juniper berries
2 tsp. caraway seeds
1 tsp. fennel seeds
1 tsp. celery seeds
1 bay leaf

In a large bowl, mix the cabbage with the salt and other flavorings with your hands.  The salt draws the water out of the cabbage and creates a protective brine in which the cabbage can ferment and sour.   Pack it all into a large crock as tight as you can, a little at a time, with your fists or a potato masher.  Set a plate on top of the cabbage.  It should fit snugly inside the crock without getting stuck.  Set a clean jug of water on top.  The weight will help force more water out of the cabbage as well as keep the cabbage submerged as the water level rises.  Cover the whole crock with an old pillowcase to keep out flies and dust.  Check the cabbage over the next 24 hours to make sure it has released enough water to be completely submerged.  If not, add more liquid in a ratio of 1 Tbsp. salt to 1 cup of water (stirred until salt is completely dissolved) until the cabbage is completely covered. 

Let crock sit in a cool dark corner for 3-5 weeks, checking every couple of days to skim off any foam and rinse the plate.  Check the brine level.  Water will evaporate over time, so you may need to add some fresh water to keep the cabbage submerged and prevent it from rotting.  During the fermentation period, do NOT add salt water—only fresh.  To find out why, read here.  When sauerkraut, reaches the desired flavor, use on reubens, make bacon and sauerkraut strudels, bake with bratwurst or pork chops, or eat it all by itself.  Get it right and it's worth the wait!

Local Ingredient Sources:
Cabbage, garlic: Waltham Fields Community Farm, Waltham, MA

Simple Salsa Verde

One thing I love about CSAs is the exposure you get to vegetables you maybe don’t think to buy.  Take tomatillos, for instance.  Do I love those fresh-tasting Mexican green sauces often found gracing enchilada plates?  Yes.  Do I suspect that tomatillos play a vital role in their deliciousness?  Yes.  Have I ever bought a tomatillo in my life?  No! 

Well, why the hell not?  That seems to be the question posed by my neighborhood farmers judging from the pint after pint after pint of tomatillos we’ve been offered this summer.  I can’t ever say no.  The result is I’ve gotten a little more comfortable with tomatillos.  Now I know to wait until the yellowish-green fruits fill up their husks and split the seams before picking them.  I know that you can make salsas out of either raw or cooked tomatillos, but that I prefer cooked.  That the resulting salsa is absolutely fantastic for both scooping up with tortilla chips and spooning over roasted fish (or, as we had last night, pan-fried dabs—a flatfish related to the flounder).  For a smoother sauce for those chicken enchiladas I mentioned, just run the salsa through the food processor or blender, thinning with some water if necessary.

Who knows, maybe one day I'll attain a similar comfort level with all of these millions of exotic hot peppers that keep ending up in my refrigerator!

 

Roasted Tomatillo Salsa

For the love of god, don’t touch your eyes (or any other sensitive part of yourself or anyone else) with your chile pepper fingers.  Scrub your hands WELL.  Trust me.

1-1½ lbs. tomatillos (about two pints)
1-2 chiles, like serranos or jalapeños
1 medium onion, finely chopped
1-2 Tbsp. cilantro, chopped
Lime juice, to taste
Salt, to taste

Preheat oven to 375°F.  Remove husks from tomatillos and rinse off the sticky resin in warm water.  Cut them in half and place cut-side down in baking dish along with whole chiles.  Roast until soft, 20-30 minutes.  Let cool slightly so you can handle them comfortably.

Coarsely chop the tomatillos and put into a small bowl.  Finely chop the roasted chiles and add as much as you think you can handle.  Chiles vary in how much heat they deliver, both between all the different varieties and within their own ranks.  For a very mild salsa, add only the flesh of the chile (slice the four sides from the pepper, scrape off and discard the seeds and inner ribs, and mince).  For more heat, add some seeds.  Not all the seeds!  The number of seeds you should add is directly proportional to how convincingly you can roll your r’s.  Here’s a good test—say this:

Un burro comía berros y el perro se los robó, el burro lanzó un rebuzno, y el perro al barro cayó.

If that doesn’t roll off the tongue, I’d lay off the seeds.

Add the onion, cilantro, lime juice, and salt (be generous with the salt, though).  Serve with tortilla chips or mounded over roasted fish.  For a less chunky, more uniform sauce for, say, those chicken enchiladas I mentioned, purée in food processor and thin with water to desired consistency.

 

Local Ingredients:

Tomatillos, onion, chiles: Waltham Fields Community Farms, Waltham, MA

Simple End-of-Summer Pasta

We were lucky to have been invited by friends to their family lake house in New York at the tail end of summer vacation.  Located in the foothills between the Catskills and the Poconos, it’s a really cool old house with porches and a fireplace and bats in the attic, and you walk right out the back door onto a dock overlooking a beautiful spring-fed lake.

A total media blackout was enacted for the entire stay.  Fishing poles replaced TV, computer games were traded for a kayak, and nature walks were conducted rain or shine.  Six kids under age 8 shared beds and sleeping bags while Husband and I slept in a tent on the porch.  After the first chilly night, I stole all the blankets off of everyone else’s bed and stacked them up in the tent like The Princess and the Pea, wherein I played the role of both princess and pea.  Books were read and many bowls of ice cream were consumed.  Contentious Scrabble games, inflamed by questionable scorekeeping, were eventually tempered by wine and exhaustion.

All three couples brought our CSA shares from Waltham Fields and Lindentree Farm, and we somehow managed to consume all 19 pounds of tomatoes by way of pasta sauce, ratatouille, gazpacho, BLTs, salads, and countless tomato sandwiches of toasted Italian bread, warm mayo, slabs of ripe heirlooms, salt, pepper, and nothing more.  But here’s the other dish that made us swoon: Angel hair pasta tossed with raw cherry tomatoes macerated in a garlic and basil slurry.  It’s a lake house tradition that I daresay should extend beyond the lake.  Not only is it virtually no effort at all, but it’s a great way to enjoy the last of the season’s sungolds.

 

Angel Hair Pasta with Cherry Tomatoes, Garlic, and Basil

So good you could even skip the cheese!

1 lb. angel hair pasta
4 pints cherry tomatoes, halved
½ cup extra-virgin olive oil
6 cloves garlic, pressed or minced
¼ cup fresh basil, chopped
Red pepper flakes to taste
Salt and pepper to taste
½ cup grated Parmesan cheese

Marinate tomatoes in olive oil, garlic, basil, red pepper flakes, salt, and pepper for 4-6 hours.  Boil angel hair in salted water until al dente.  Drain, then toss with tomato mixture and as much Parmesan as desired.

Source: Adapted from The New York Times and Jean Halberstam of Nantucket.

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. 

Gazpacho

Did I mention that a certain someone starts school this week?  Free school.  FREE.  All day, five days a week. 

Yes, this is the time when the Preschooler becomes a kindergartener, the Toddler becomes a preschooler, and I curse myself for thinking up names for the kids that would change every goddamned year.  (To be fair, I thought I’d quit blogging after two weeks, but haven’t I caught on by now that nothing happens like you plan?)

I was thinking of just calling the Preschooler the Kindergartener, and the Toddler the Preschooler.  Creativity isn’t my strong suit, as you well know.  But that nomenclature is likely to be confusing.  Like, how did the Preschooler go from being a sweet and gentle boy to a noisy brute practically overnight?  (Public school, that’s how.  We must all lose our innocence someday.)  So, if anyone has a better idea, let’s hear it.

Anyway, given the new, freeing kindergarten schedule, you may be wondering how I plan to spend my time?  Rather than doing the work needed to sustain a freelance career, I think I’ll start by acting out scenes from Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown instead. 

Yes, that is a fantastic idea.  I’ll start with gazpacho.  Lots of gazpacho.  Then I’ll mope around as if I’m despondent about the recent turn of events.  Why does he have to go to kindergarten?  Why, why, WHY?  There will be much pacing and hand-wringing, not to mention checking voicemail every two minutes.  Oh, and throwing things just to be dramatic.  I really don’t do enough of that.  I don’t want to die having never thrown anything through a plate glass window in a fit of rage.  That would be a waste.

I just hope that after all of the lighting things on fire, high-speed scooter chases, gazpacho at gunpoint, and dancing half-naked in windows play out, Husband doesn’t make me go out and get a real job.

Gazpacho

This recipe is straight from Spain and is my absolute favorite.  You can thicken it up with bread soaked in water if you like.  Adding garlic is also fair game.  Sleeping pills are optional.

4 large tomatoes
1 cucumber
1 bell pepper (green is traditional, but I prefer red)
¼ medium onion
6 Tbsp. olive oil
2 Tbsp. red wine vinegar
1 tsp. salt
Black pepper
Cayenne pepper to taste

In a large pot of boiling water, dunk tomatoes for 20 seconds or so, then submerge in ice water until cool.  The skins should slip right off.  Core tomatoes, then cut in half across the equator and squeeze out the seeds.  Cut into quarters and place tomatoes in blender.

Peel cucumber and cut in half lengthwise.  Holding a spoon upside-down by the handle, dig a trough along the length of the cut side of the cucumber to remove the seeds.  Cut into pieces and put into blender, reserving one piece to chop for garnish.  Core and remove seeds from pepper.  Reserve one piece to chop for garnish and add the rest to the blender.  Add onion (chop some extra for garnish), olive oil, red wine vinegar, salt, pepper, and cayenne.  Purée until smooth.  Taste and adjust seasonings if necessary.  Refrigerate.  Serve chilled topped with chopped red pepper, cucumber, and onion.

Cookbook Friday: Stuffed Mushrooms

Let’s talk about mushrooms!

I have a love/hate relationship with mushrooms.  I love to eat them, but sometimes they make me vomit.  Same with wine (why, God, why?) and, in an unexpected twist this week, sometimes summer squash.  But, like I said, I LOVE mushrooms and will choose to eat them based on how convenient it might be at that moment to vomit spontaneously.

What’s that you say?  It’s never convenient to vomit?  Well, you would be right, sir, but have you ever tasted mushrooms?  They’re delicious.  This is the dilemma of my life.

On the other hand, my dad, Freddie Donroe, has a hate/hate relationship with mushrooms.  Unlike all of the other things my dad claims to hate when he really just doesn’t realize he likes them, my dad really does hate mushrooms.  Here’s why.

When my dad was much, much younger, his father, Albert Donroe (my Poppi), used to take him to forage for mushrooms.  I assume, since Poppi’s family was from Naples, that this was in his blood, or, at the very least, he had some tutelage.  Poppi had a special place they always went, some woods near a quarry in Hamden, Connecticut (maybe East Rock, maybe Sleeping Giant).  There, according to my dad, Poppi would go over every rotting stump he could find and gather mushrooms of every shape and size.  To hear my dad tell the story, Poppi never turned one down, food poisoning be damned. 

After about 45 minutes, and what I can only imagine was my dad’s constant whining, they returned home so Poppi could cook them.  And this is where things got really ugly.  Sometimes, he cooked them in a sauce for spaghetti, but usually they were just sautéed.  The smell was so bad, my dad remembers, he’d completely lose his appetite.  I believe “hellacious” was the word he used to describe it.  Nobody else in the house would touch the stuff, so Poppi just cooked them for himself.  Meanwhile, my dad would make himself scarce for as long as the smell lingered.  To this day, he can’t stomach them.

Now, the question I have is, was Poppi really that bad of a cook?  Perhaps, not a very discriminating hunter/gatherer?  Or were they, in fact, delicious, but my dad just hates mushrooms?  Anyone else ever taste them?  Because I’m willing to bet I would have been smacking my lips, even as they were wheeling me to the ER.  (Poppi, by the way, is a whopping 93.)

The following recipe is Nonni’s Marchigiano recipe for stuffed mushrooms.  They have never made me vomit. 

 

Stuffed Mushrooms

The secret to these is long, slow cooking in a cool oven.  Don’t rush them.

10 oz. package button mushrooms
3 Tbsp. olive oil
1 Tbsp. garlic, minced
¼ cup fresh bread crumbs
½ cup grated Parmesan cheese
Salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 300°F.  To the bottom of an 8”x8” pan, add 1 Tbsp. of the oil. 

Using a damp towel, wipe dirt off of mushrooms.  Gently, pull out the stems and chop them finely.  In a medium bowl, combine chopped stems with garlic, bread crumbs, cheese, salt, and pepper.  Working over the bowl, mound stuffing into hollowed out mushrooms.  Set in oiled pan.  Drizzle with remaining 2 Tbsp. of oil.  Bake uncovered for 1 hour or longer (Nonni cooks the hell out of them and that’s how I like them). 

Dora [Barbaresi] Donroe
Hamden, Connecticut
1918 -

 

Next: Baseball Cards

     (Previously: Squirrel Surprise)

Cookbook Friday: Stuffed Artichokes

This photo was taken in 1954 at the Horace Day School in New Haven, Connecticut.  Freddie Donroe, my dad, is on the far left in the second row from the bottom.

Cute as he was, he was known far and wide as a brat.  Not only did he steal anything with silver paper, but also, according to his aunts and uncles, he always had to have his way.  One day, the whole family was planning a trip to the Bronx Zoo.  No one wanted to bring Freddie.  His Uncle Gerry summed it up best: “He’ll end up wanting a giraffe, and I’m not cutting a hole in the roof of my car for his pet giraffe.”  (He did eventually get to the zoo, and no giraffes went missing.)

In honor of my dad, here’s one of his favorite recipes.  Happy Father’s Day!

 

Stuffed Artichokes

The heart is usually considered the best part of the artichoke, but this tasty stuffing will make you appreciate the leaves, too.

6 large artichokes
3 or 4 cloves of garlic, chopped
¾ cup breadcrumbs
¾ cup Parmesan cheese
¾ cup olive oil

Cut off stems of artichokes so they will sit flat.  Cut off top third of artichokes to remove the sharp thistles.  Remove and discard the tough leaves from the bottom two layers.  Using kitchen scissors, cut off any remaining sharp tips from the leaves.  Holding the bottom of the artichoke, bang it upside-down to open the leaves for easier stuffing.

Fill bottom of pan with 1½ inches of water.  Place artichokes in pan.  Divide garlic equally between the six artichokes and rub into the crevices between the leaves.  Sprinkle 2 Tbsp. breadcrumbs and 2 Tbsp. Parmesan cheese over each artichoke, then drizzle each with 2 Tbsp. olive oil.  Cover pan with foil and bake at 300°F for 2 hours. 

To eat, pull off leaves one at a time and holding the tough, upper part of the leaf, use your teeth to scrape the stuffing and tender artichoke meat into your mouth.  Continue, making a pile of leaves on your plate, until you reach the heart.  With a spoon, gently scrape away the fuzzy choke.  The heart is what’s left.  Enjoy.

Dora [Barbaresi] Donroe
New Haven, Connecticut
1918 –

 

Next: Italian Bread

     (Previous Recipe: Italian Cream Pie)

Cookbook Friday: Fried Artichokes

               

This is my grandmother, Dora Barbaresi, posing on her wedding day with her mother-in-law, Margarite Donarumo.  I like the contrast between the New World and Old World in this picture, and the way Nonni has scooped up her veil so casually. 

Dora remembers how different the Italian cooking was between her northern Italian family and that of her Neapolitan husband.  She especially remembers the fried artichokes.  Margarite used baby artichokes.  Old, dried out ones were fine because you would only keep the hearts and throw away everything else (whereas, stuffed artichokes demand very fresh, large artichokes since eating the edible parts of the leaves is half the fun).  Though the recipe for fried artichoke hearts wasn’t written down, Dora watched Margarite make them many times.  This is how she remembers it.

 

Fried Artichoke Hearts

Prepare to eat all of these right away.  Restraint is utterly foolish.

8 baby artichokes, 4 regular artichokes, or a bag of frozen (or canned) artichoke         hearts (not marinated)
1 lemon
1 egg
½ cup flour
Salt, to taste
Vegetable oil for frying

Frozen or canned artichoke hearts are ready to use as is (you know, after defrosting or de-canning/draining them), so skip to the last paragraph.

To clean and trim fresh artichokes, snap off the dark, tough outer leaves at the base and trim the stem.  Cut artichoke in half and scrape out the fuzzy choke with a spoon, leaving just the heart and the tender inner leaves.  (Sam of Becks & Posh has a lovely pictorial guide that shows how to get to the heart of an artichoke).  Cut in half again so the baby artichoke heart is now in quarters (cut larger artichoke hearts into eighths).  Place the wedges into a bowl of water with the juice of one lemon. 

In a deep pot, pour oil to a depth of 2 inches.  Heat oil to 375°F.  Beat egg in a small bowl.  Mix flour and salt in another bowl.  Drain, rinse, and pat dry artichokes.  Dredge them in beaten egg and then flour.  Fry the artichokes, several at a time, and remove when golden brown.  Let drain on paper towels and season with salt.  Serve immediately.  And, now they're gone.

Margarite [Avallone] Donarumo
Naples, Italy - New Haven, Connecticut
1877 - 1956

 

Next Recipe: Clam Sauce

     (Previous Recipe: Zeppole)

Cookbook Friday: Eggplant Parmesan

Dora Barbaresi (my grandmother) and Freddie Donroe on their wedding day in September 1940. 

Freddie was the son of Francis Donarumo and Margherita Avallone who were both immigrants from Naples in southern Italy.  Freddie was the youngest (and, as Nonni is quick to point out, the tallest) of their nine children.  Once they were of age, Freddie and his brothers and sisters all anglicized their last name to Donroe, and that’s the name that Nonni took.  To my knowledge, this is the origin of all the Donroes in this country, for better or for worse.

 

Eggplant Parmesan

This is one of my favorites.  The eggplant is divine, but I also love finding morsels of Italian sausage, or Nonni’s meatballs, tucked within the layers.

1 large eggplant (or 2 smaller ones)
¼ cup canola oil, or more
3 eggs
2 cups flour (or bread crumbs)
1 recipe homemade tomato sauce, sausage included
½ cup Parmesan cheese, or more
Salt to taste

Cut eggplant into ¼-inch thick slices.  Heat oil in large frying pan.  Dip eggplant slices in egg and then flour.  Fry until golden brown on each side, adding more oil as necessary, and set on paper towels to drain.  Season with salt.

Preheat oven to 300°F.  In a 9x12-inch pan, put a thin layer of tomato sauce.  Add layers of fried eggplant, tomato sauce (with sausage cut into pieces), and Parmesan cheese, ending with cheese on top.  Bake for about half an hour, or until warmed through.

Dora [Barbaresi] Donroe
New Haven, Connecticut
1918 -

Stack of crispy, fried eggplant, pre-sauce.

Next Recipe: Zeppole

     (Previous Recipe: Tomato Sauce)

Time for Turnip

We had a great Thanksgiving dinner at the M’s: 34-lb. turkey with gravy, two kinds of stuffing, mashed potatoes, turnip, squash, cranberry sauce, apple pie, pumpkin pie.  The whole traditional spread, plus a terrific lobster pie brought by the Cape Cod contingent (this recipe, I'm told, is still under lock and key).

Turnip is probably the most underrated vegetable in the world.  When it’s done right, though, it can really be a standout.  Chris Douglass at Icarus makes a mean turnip gratin.  It’s great roasted.  Me, I like it mashed.

The town of Eastham on Cape Cod is famous (sort of) for its sweet, white turnip: the Eastham turnip.  They have a kitschy turnip festival every year before Thanksgiving, to which I drag my family quite unwillingly (see my article in December's Cape Cod Life, on newsstands now).  They offer turnip tasting, turnip decorating, turnip bowling.  The locals are crazy for their turnips and some incarnation of the root shows up on Thanksgiving tables in the area.  And if we’re very lucky, it will show up on ours. 

For me, it just wouldn’t quite be Thanksgiving without mashed turnip, the other white root.

 

Mashed Turnip

3 medium white turnips (Eastham or Macomber), peeled and chopped into chunks
2 Tbsp. butter
Dash fresh grated nutmeg
Salt and pepper

Bring large pot of water to boil.  Add salt and turnips and boil until chunks can be pierced easily with a fork (15-20 minutes).  Drain and mash with butter, nutmeg, salt, and pepper.