A Chicken In Every Granny Cart

I sometimes call myself The Head Hen. Why? Well, it’s nicer than calling myself The Granny (I’m only in my early 30s!), or The Chicken In The Cart (though that is my gmail alias). And why not just call myself Ann? Eh, who knows… Sometimes I call myself Simone too, like at places where I have to call a large coffee a venti, ya know? It all just seems so pretentious, why not play along with their game? (Some people do it for other reasons).

Everyone needs an alter-ego. I can picture my hen-ness as being all chic (kinda like this beauty from Ct) and urban, not at all Chicken Run biddy-like. Either way, if I’m The Head Hen, then I guess that makes the boy The Rooster.

This past Sunday we went out to Ikea. Here in NYC there’s no close one. The nearest one is out in New Jersey across the Turnpike from Newark Airport. Since most New Yorkers don’t own cars, or even have access to them, those crafty Swedes run a free bus to and from their emporium of all things cheap and Scandinavian.

I just love Ikea, especially that particular one. I love to cruise through the furniture, work up an appetite, pop into the cafe to get some Swedish meatballs and their delicious lingonberry sauce, sit at one of the window tables and watch the planes take off and land at Newark. I let my mind wander… I wonder where that plane’s going? Where did those lucky people just get back from… I hate flying, but I love planes. Go figure.

We picked up some new storage vessels, rugs and other fun stuff and then hopped back on the bus.

Of course it was time to talk about dinner. I had bought some la ratte potatoes earlier in the week,intending them for salt potatoes, and there were some Brussels sprouts leftover from the velouté. We decided that it would be fun to roast them with some of Dines Farms astoundingly good boneless chicken thighs.

It took a little longer than I thought it would, but OH! was it worth it! This dish entirely embodies the idea of a Q·E·2: Quick. Easy. For 2. dinner. Couldn’t be easier, was concocted entirely out of what was at hand and required almost no effort.

The Rooster has declared this “The Best Thing I’ve Ever Cooked” (I wonder if he’s already forgotten about the harissa glazed lamb).

The Brussels sprouts went all gooey and caramely. The la ratte potatoes are silky, waxy and buttery, and the chicken? Well, when it’s Dines’ its always perfect.

So, even though it sounds a little weird, I hereby dub this dish The Rooster’s Chicken. Can’t wait to chow down on the leftovers tonight!

Head below the break for The Rooster’s Chicken.
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I wrote about Roy Andries de Groot in an heirloom·modern piece a few months ago. I found him by accident back then, having stumbled upon his wonderful book Feasts For All Seasons. Among the amazing things I learned about Mr. de Groot include that he had been made mostly blind in the Blitz, that he died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head and that he wrote a book that some feel was one of the most influential food books of the last century, Recipes From The Auberge Of The Flowering Hearth.

A few weeks later, as seems to happen to me, I was scouring about in one of the little used bookstores that dot Manhattan, and et voila there she was, Mr. de Groot’s masterpiece, first edition, with a dust jacket and at a reasonable price. Thank you East Village Books!

Velouté de Tomates à la Provençal

(Adapted from Recipes From The Auberge Of The Flowering Hearth by Roy Andries de Groot)

Mr. de Groot had a thing for Green Chartreuse. He served it to all his guests and yet knew nothing about it. After years of deflecting questions he finally decided to look into the who, where and why of his favorite tipple. He learned that the liqueur is made by hermits high in the mountains of France, that they had been ejected from the country by the army, not once, but a few times, and that he needed to go there. It was on this trip to visit Les Peres Charteaux that Mr. de Groot stayed at the Auberge (or Inn) of the Flowering Hearth for the first time.

After many trips and many stays at the Auberge, Mr. de Groot finally decided to put his feelings on the place and the valley in which it sits down on paper. He agonized over this decision, “If the Auberge of the Flowering Hearth were to be invaded by thousands of tourists, almost everything that I write about it would cease to be true.” Whether or not the valley was ultimately overrun by yelping, yapping tourists he doesn’t say, but he does admit that changes were happening already, that the modern world was beginning to push in on the idealized rural existence within which the Auberge floated.

When the ladies who own and run the Auberge of the Flowering Hearth, Mademoiselle Vivette Artaud and Mademoiselle Ray Girard, set their table with the animals and birds of their valley and its surrounding mountains, with the fish caught by their friends in the nearby lakes, with the cheeses carefully made and the fruits and vegetables laboriously grown by their farmer neighbors, with the wild mushrooms they pick themselves in the woods, with the wines from the nearby mountain vineyards, they are fulfilling the unity of the way of life–a unity which seems to me to be of the deepest value but which the world seems to be rejecting.

Can you see how this guy influenced Alice Waters?

This time of year in the Northeast is possibly the most wonderful time for produce, hands down. Summer still has a hold on the produce, but autumn is beginning to make her presence known. There’s still tomatoes, even if they’re a little ugly, but there’s also apples and Brussels sprouts. It’s a vertiginous time at the Greenmarket, full of dizzying color and unbelievable bounty.

Mr. de Groot not only returned to New York with wonderful memories and a humdinger of a book, he also returned with a memento, “some of Mademoiselle Ray’s extraordinary recipes. I recorded them in her kitchen as she prepared each in the form of a lesson.” Some of the recipes are very French, complicated, using ingredients that are not readily available here in the States (chamois anyone?), but most exemplify that other side of French cooking, so easy, so basic and so good.

This velouté is a perfect example of the latter style of recipe. It highlights all the bounty of the season in such a complex interplay of smoky, sweet, surprisingly creamy and delightfully sour. The recipe comes from a chapter featuring the other Mademoiselle, Mme. Vivette who was in charge of the Auberge’s wine cellar. The chapter is wonderfully titled “A Proud Wine Cellar on a Low Budget,” a task seemingly made easier if you live in France, 75 miles from Burgundy, but there are tips that not only apply to buying wine, but also produce.

Her first lesson, then, is to get to know as many as possible of one’s local suppliers. It is almost ridiculous–except when buying a standard bottle of gin– to expect to get all one’s wines from the nearest liquor store on the next corner. Each shop after all, is a reflection of the personal opinions of its owner or manager. Each, in his way, has a special slant on buying wine.

The problem is the same with food. If you are even half a gourmet, you will shop around for your fancy foods. You will buy your olives from the Greek grocer. You will prefer the long French loaf of one baker over another. You will buy your veal from one butcher, your pork from another. It is just as important to shop around for your wine.

And the wine he suggested serving with this soup? “White Bordeaux, 1964, Château Laville Haut Brion, Talence, Graves.” I don’t know anything about this wine, but, I have a feeling, that even if I could find a bottle of it, I certainly couldn’t afford it!

Not only did I substitute a different wine (a 2003 pinot noir from Burgundy) I also substituted a sweet German Riesling for his suggested Sauternes, green and yellow tomatoes for red and Brussels sprouts for cabbage. As Mr. de Groot said:

This is no ordinary soup. It is touched with the aromas of smoky bacon and fried salt pork, enriched with the oils of leeks and onions, the fruitiness of soft white wine, with everything finally enveloped, in the true Provençal style, in an all-pervading mash of garlic. At the end, it is converted into a richly creamy velouté in a unique way–by being thickened with a whipped purée of rice.

This really is a unique, soul-satisfying end of summer treat. I hope you try it, and if you ever see a copy of Recipes From The Auberge of the Flowering Hearth grab it.

Head below the jump for my adaptaion of Mr. de Groot’s and Mme. Ray’s Velouté de Tomates à la Provençal.

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Update: I’m the one that doesn’t know pasta, apparently strozzapreti, can also mean a gnudi or gnocchi shaped pasta, or something that can get stuck in the throat and cut off breathing. There, I think we all (er, I) learned something today!

Or does New York Magazine not know their pasta?

They published an article today A Gno-Mistakes Pasta Primer and unless I’m sorely mistaken there’s quite the mistake in there.

The whole point is to teach people the difference between a gnocchi, gnocco fritto and a gnudi.

They say a gnudi can also be called a malfatti or a strozzapreti.

Unless I am sorely mistaken, strozzapreti means “priest strangler” and implies something long and skinny, not soft and mooshie like a gnudi.

To whit:

NY Mag’s piccie of a gnudi and reference to strozzapreti.

Pennsylvania Macaroni Co.’s strozzapeti.

Discuss.

That can mean the most.

In this case?

We have internet again.

This is huge.

So thanks to all for hanging around and putting up with the light posting.

And how to celebrate this last-day-of-Summer-minor-miracle?

Let’s all just ease into the weekend and dream of cheese.

Huge blocks of Cato Corner Vivace.

Giant crumbly mountains of Black Ledge Blue.

And creamy, stinky (in the good way) slabs of Hooligan.

Doesn’t the world just seem a whole lot more conquerable now?

Happy weekend all!

As S’kat said in the comments to my last post “Montauk is fun, golden, sunshiny, (and full of) seafood-filled times.

Man, that S’kat and her pals sure now how to describe a place and a time. I couldn’t have said it better.

The light is really, really different out there.

Everyone looks beautiful in it, the world looks beautiful, all cares drift off on a gorgeous sea breeze (and I’m not talking about the cocktail).

Is there anyplace in the world more perfect than a perfect seaside town after the “season” is over? I think not.

The wedding and reception were beach-side in full Tiki theme, replete with women (and men) in grass skirts and coconut bras.

But the highlight was for me, (after the vows of course) a whole spit-roasted pig (something I’d been hankerin’ for since the disaster at the Big Apple BBQ), and for the boy, the rosemary grilled, freshly caught, stripped bass.

The fantastic proprietress of Brooklyn’s coolest wine & liquor store totally beat me at my own game by cajoling the chef into giving her the pig’s head. I have no idea what she’s going to do with it. Me? Not sure either… But I would have relished the challenge!

The next day, slightly dazed and confused, I combed my little heart out on the pristine beach and worked up quite the appetite.

Luckily we found a place called Lenny’s that served exactly what I wanted: clams and lobster.

Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) they were out of steamers, so we got littlenecks instead. They steamed them in white wine and garlic, and served them with butter and lemon. Verdict?

Sublime.

I felt a wee seismic tremor down in my soul. Might this be better than steamers?

The jury will have to remain out, as I think a “trial” such as this calls for a head to head challenge!

The lobster was delicious but the clear star of the show was those clams…

Oh, and the guy that walked onto the dock with say, eight, of the largest stripped bass I’ve ever seen!

And then he let kids play with them! And then he gutted and fileted them… I’ve never wished for a car with a cooler in the trunk so much as at that moment…

Ah well, no loss. Someone had a fabulous meal that night (and we had a fabulous weekend). Montauk, ya did good.

Hi everyone!

Sorry for the silence… Tuesday evening, out internet connection died, for absolutely no reason. And Time Warner being what a huge corporate conglomerate is, they can’t come out to assess the situation until next Tuesday.

Sigh.

So, I’m typing this with my laptop teetering precariously on my knees while tapping into the gracious wifi of our local coffee place and hoping you’ll all stay tuned ’til next Tuesday.

We’re heading out to Montauk for a beach wedding this weekend, and lobster rolls! I’ll come back with pictures and hopefully a belly full of clams.

Until next week, tschuss and happy eating!

Oh, and I had to turn on comment moderation due to the disgusting comment spam I’ve been getting on my blog (and have obviously been unable to keep good tabs on) so for thosee that have commented in the past, your comments will show up post haste, for newbiws (yay!) you’ll have to wait until I can welcome you!!

Tata!!
Ann

On Sunday, after a huge Mexican brunch at my new favorite East Village restaurant we decided to explore the other end of the island. We walked up the Hudson, saw the Little Red Lighthouse, the place where the earth ate the cars and the grave of John James Audubon.

Eventually, we turned inland (which isn’t hard up there, the island gets very narrow) and headed north into the wilds of Ft. Tryon Park (best known as the home of The Cloisters). It’s very hard to believe you’re still in The City when you’re in that park. Look at that picture of the Cloisters. It almost looks like we spent the day in Tuscany. And that picture of the collonade? There’s a highway just on the other side of those arches. We rambled about looking at plants and the view until my legs began to give out and the boy got attacked by an acorn.

It was time to pack it in and think about dinner.

All day I had been quietly obsessing over what I wanted to make. I kept thinking back to a few posts I had read recently. Tiny Banquet Committee had exhorted us to remember that corn season is nearly over! Then there’s Sher who recently tossed out a Succotash and a rice, corn and bean salad, both of which made my heart go thumpity thump. Ilva made farro caprese, Gothamist pulled back the shell on fresh peas, Luisa’s gone corn crazy and Heidi made an, as usual, gorgeous and complicated gnocchi and shell bean salad.

You can see where this is going. I wanted corn. I wanted beans. And I wanted grains.

We finally made it back to our stomping grounds, the Tompkins’ Square Greenmarket, only to find all the stands were sold out of corn and beans. Dang. Well, at least I was able to score some of the teeniest, tiniest, tomatoes and some of Dines Farms insanely good bacon.

Having to settle for bodega corn and frozen edamame when you had your heart set on farm fresh goodness is kind of a bummer, but you know what? When the meal comes out this good, who cares? This was easy and seriously, seriously delicious. It was hearty, yet fresh, toothsome, yet elegant and has gone immediately to the head of the “do again!” recipe list!

Head below the jump for Flattery Farro Salad.

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Ernesto blew through the City last weekend, but unlike the hurricanes of yore, he did not bring tropical heat and torrents of rain. He made the world grey, windy and a little chilly. Rather than being a remnant of summer, Ernesto seemed to be a harbinger of fall, of warm, comforting and seasonal cooking. It was time to get down to some chili making.

While I was contemplating my list of five things to eat before you die, the boy contemplated his own. I think there was a breakfast to cure all hangovers, cheese (natch), Colorado peaches, chicken pot pie (I think) and green chili. Being a good gringa from New England, I’ve never had green chili, actually, I’d never even heard of green chili.

To me, all chili has beans and is red. He told me all about it, I did a little research and we decided this was an adventure that must be undertaken, and, since I have no vacation days left, we’d have to have this adventure at home on the first chilly (heh) day of fall.

For those (like me) that had never heard of green chili before, it’s a stew based on chiles and pork with some tomatoes and tomatillios thrown in for texture. I was in a sixes kinda mood at the Essex Market so I picked up 6 Italian roaster peppers, 6 poblanos, 3 green bell peppers (mainly because I don’t like them), 6 jalapenos, 3 serranos (I was afraid of the heat), 6 tomatillos and 6 tomatoes (some might call this a bit obsessive compulsive), oh, and a package of cute little yellow chiles. More on those later….

I had to split up the big peppers and little peppers, not because they were fighting, but so that I could roast them. My first indication that I had maybe been duped by the cuteness of the little yellow chiles was the tickle in my nose while everything was roasting. My nose itched, my ears itched, my throat tickled and my eyes burned. This was a very bad sign…

I finally pulled all the little jobbers out of the oven, threw them in a bowl, covered the bowl with cling film and waited for them to cool while looking for a pair of gloves to wear while pulling the skin off and chopping. Alas, there was only one left, and for some reason, I put it on my right hand, the hand I hold my knife with…

Seriously, I have no idea what these yellow guys were, they were a bit bigger than a habanero or scotch bonnet, and the wrong shape, more banana shaped, but dear GOD, they were H.O.T. One little taste sent me into fits of coughing. They even made the boy sweat, and he can take anything. My left hand burned for about 6 hours. And, to top it all off, I put too much of them into the chili.

I had to use every evasive maneuver in the book to tone down the heat. I added honey, molasses, sugar, lime, diluted the chili with water. It all kinda worked, but, in the end, that was still some hot ass chili! Even when served over my ragout of elotes & hongos (I wanted to add mushrooms and hominy to the chili, but I was told that was not kosher in Colorado) and with sour cream and white rice, it still brought a wee tear to my eye.

So, the moral of this story is, green chili is not hard to make, and it’s delicious, but always (always) add the chiles slowly, very slowly, and with caution!

Oh, and another thing, green chili is also not photogenic. Sorry about the photos. The one that looks black & white was taken with my cellphone because I broke the screen on my old camera. The other ugly photos were taken with my new camera that while awesome, cannot make a prince out of a frog.

Head below the jump for the recipe for Colorado Green Chili & Ragout of Elote & Hongos.

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Manhattan is an island. It’s very easy to forget this. Even for someone (like me) that loves the water, I forget.

There’s no one thing that presses in daily on my consciousness to remind me that there’s tidal rivers and ocean out there. No briney breezes wafting in to make the air smell of iodine and fresh, open water. No ships horns echoing through the canyons of buildings like ghosts from another era. No fresh seafood plucked out of the water just minutes ago beckoning from little shacks to be slurped down in utter joy. None of these things exist, and yet, every now and then, I remember, and that means it’s time for a walk!

Recently I got it in my head that we should perambulate from 14th Street to 14th Street on the water.

Click on each photo to see what we saw.

Monterrey Bay?

Escape Boat?

The Irish Countryside?

Check Mate?

It may sound like a nice easy promenade, but somewhere around the 4th hour my feet started complaining and I realised, this was a walk that should not be undertaken on a whim.

A sad, chicken-less granny cart.

Isn’t she beautiful?

Not dinner.

Also not dinner.

Two hours later, having stopped at the Union Square Greenmarket for some sustenance, we finally arrived home. About 15 seconds later I was firmly ensconced on the couch with a bag of frozen peas slaking the ache in my complaining ankles. Am I getting old? It was just a walk. But no, it was not just a walk, after a quick check of the gmaps pedometer it became clear that we had walked just over 10.5 miles and burned over 1,600 calories a piece. Who needs a gym when you have a huge city to explore!

And since there was no fish or duck for dinner we had to eat something. And something we did! One of my five foods to eat before you die: Salt Potatoes.

Yum!

Salty, starchy, fatty, eaten with some olive tapenade and olive oil, the perfect way to put some calories back on after an epic walk.