A Chicken In Every Granny Cart

No other word made me feel so cool, sophisticated and superior to my high school classmates.

I picked it up while doing college stays.  All the women used it, and it made them sound so worldly. “You’re from Upstate New York? So am I! Wow, that’s… so… random… that they had you stay with me.”

The more I heard it, the more intoxicating it became. I was already trying to curb my usage of “like” having been made aware that intelligent young women don’t use the word while debating post-modern anthropological theories unless Margaret Mead really was like Franz Boas. Adding ‘random’ whilst subtracting ‘like’ felt very grown-up.

I would drop it into conversations just to enjoy the effect it had on my red neck classmates and rural hick teachers. I felt like it was my connection to the world I wanted to be in, the world of high academia, while I was still trapped in the hateful morass of high school.

And then one day my English teacher pulled me aside and and asked if I knew the actual definition of the word I had become so fond of. I have no recollection of what I said to her, but I do remember the gist of her response; you’re not using the word correctly, it’s making you sound like an idiot and someday you’re going to regret it. I poopooed her, but of course, she was right.

I realize this story may not paint me in the prettiest of lights but I wanted to illustrate exactly why I have such a strong reaction to this word as it has been rearing its ugly head with alarming frequency in the blogosphere lately. There are currently at least two memes being passed around asking the tagee to tell the world 7 or 8 “random” things about his or herself. Here’s the rub… The things are not random.

What we’re really being asked to do is to reveal 7 or 8 intimate things, 7 or 8 unusual things, 7 or 8 silly things, but certainly not 7 or 8 random things. There’s a calculation, a process, a method, a choice the writer must make about how much she wants to reveal to a world of unknown people about herself. It’s a cold, thought out thing, most certainly not random.

And so to the people who have tagged me for this meme, thank you. Without the tag I wouldn’t have known you were out there. But, you’ll have to forgive me for not playing along in the strictest of rules. If read closely, I’m sure there’s at least 7 or 8 things in this post that would qualify as new or possibly interesting information about me without having to number them.

I think about my posts while I’m waking up in the morning. I formulate a thesis, or sometimes just a headline, then I plan a rough outline of how I want the text to flow, and then I get up to write while still half asleep.

Before I settled on this ‘random’ tangent this morning I was planning to write about how I’m not a movie person and that I only just saw Mostly Martha this Saturday evening after a dinner of amazing fried veggies and homemade pasta with fresh scarlet runner beans. I was going to plead with you to believe me that I had added the movie to our Netflix queue months ago, long before I knew they were remaking the film. I was going to lambaste the movie industry for not having figured out a way to deliver movies on demand in the way that eMusic has for, well, music. I was going to explain why I hate iPods and iTunes, and I was going to tie up all these divergent things in a witty and intelligent way with a story about the ‘random,’ no, I mean, unusual, vegetables I found at the Greenmarket last Friday.

But alas, I feel that I have already run on for far too many pixels and these things will have to wait. 700 or so words and only a dozen or less about food, on a foodblog no less. I hope that’s not too random.

Head below the jump for the recipes for Pimientos de Padron, Carciofi alla Giudia and Fettucini with Scarlet Runner Beans.

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And, we’re back!

What a nice little break. The Adirondacks were, as always, spectacular and relaxing, and if you can believe this, nearly bug free.

We didn’t have much time up there, only two days really, which is a short time when you factor in the 17 or so hours it takes to make the round trip, and the time was condensed by the need to climb a mountain and delve into the final Harry Potter.

Yes. I know. As my mother reminded me multiple times, it’s a children’s book. But you know what? I don’t care. I was simultaneously reading one of the modern world’s most gifted and controversial authors’ attempt at a children’s book, Salman Rushdie’s Haroun and the Sea of Stories, and I can honestly say, in this one throwdown, Ms. Rowling soundly kicks Sir Rushdie’s ass.

But I digress. Where were we? As yes, we were on the topic of ass kickings, and mountains.

After our trip to Colorado even I began to scoff a bit at “our” mountains. For a few years now I’ve felt the need to defend the ‘dacks against the boy’s insistence that the Rockies are more spectacular. I would insist that it didn’t matter! Ours are older! Ours have moose! Yes, but they also have mosquitoes, he would retort, and most of them top out at an elevation lower than Denver, he would add. And after actually seeing the Rockies and being up in them, I began to believe him.

But no more. We had originally wanted to climb Mt. Marcy but decided it was too far away from camp, so we settled on Mt. Ampersand. Settle might not be the proper word for this hike, actually, hike might not be the correct word for what we did either. I think, climbed, scrambled and flirted with grievous bodily harm might be some better phrases.

There is no settling when you chose to climb Ampersand after the trail has received many days of very hard rain. I’m no weathered mountain climber, or even a very accomplished hiker, but I feel secure in stating that if, like us, you didn’t bring hiking boots, don’t bother with this climb. You’re risking life and limb. Yes, the view is spectacular, but seriously, do yourself a favor and climb a different peak.

When we got back to camp (after rewarding myself with a Stewart’s Sweet Black Cherry cone) I was too busted up to cook. All I was good for was lying on the couch and groaning. My knees hurt, my arms hurt, my back hurt. God, am I getting old or what?

I had planned on whipping up a spectacular Middle Eastern feast, complete with harrisa marinated chicken, couscous and yogurty cucumber salad, but I was saved by the fact that it was Sunday and after 6pm. No groceries were open so we’d have to make do with produce from my mother’s garden and leftover filet mignon. It’s a rough life, I know.

And that was it. Just two short days of peace and quiet and nearly one whole day traveling back. It’s wonderful to be home, it always is, but I do wish we’d had more time to sit in the sun, swim and hang out with my mom. But alas, time marches on and I have to pay the bills somehow.

Since we’ve been back I finished The Deathly Hallows (if you’ve finished it too (and only if), head over to Slate and read their awesome, grownup discussion of all the twists and turns), cooked No. 21 on Bittman’s amazing and inspirational list (which I realised only after the fact) and contemplated making my new favorite cheaters “bread” at least once more.

Cheater’s “bread?” Oh yes. Before we left I was seduced by the siren call of fresh favas at the Greenmarket (and no, I had not woken up that morning with a tribe of Berbers in my apartment to help me shell them). I decided that since I knew what I was in for, this second time with favas couldn’t be nearly as bad as the first, and I was right. The boy and I shelled the favas while sitting on the stoop, and then I whipped up another variation of my new favorite dinner in the whole world using the favas, some fresh corn, peas and squash and adding a wee bit of tarragon to the pistou.

But I wanted bread, but I was too lazy to make bread, so I cheated. I trotted around the corner to the awesome grocery/bakery Cangiano’s, bought two balls of pizza dough (for a dollar no less), popped one into an oiled bowl, let it rise for a few hours, then rolled it out, folded it over once, inserted a layer of fresh herbs, folded it again to form a loaf, rolled it out once more, pushed my fingers into it to dock the dough, smooshed on some olive oil, sprinkled it with coarse sea salt and a few more fresh herbs, then baked it for 15 minutes at 450°.

The “bread” was delicious. Salty, herby, perfectly yeasty. I can’t recommend this method enough for quick, easy bread when you’re feeling too lazy or too time crunched to make your own loaf from scratch. Who says cheaters never win?

My feet have tread too much pavement.

It’s been too long since my hands have felt water that didn’t come from a pipe.

It’s time for a little escape from New York.

See you next week.

Where would I be without the Internet?

Obviously, this blog wouldn’t exist. I wouldn’t have a job. I’d have to glean useless knowledge from books and I probably wouldn’t laugh as much on a daily basis as I currently do.

My friends and I, like most people, enjoy a certain amount of, what shall we call it, the sending of links? Not to the annoying level (I hope) of say, my aunt who likes to send out those stupid emails that ask you to think of a number and concentrate really hard, blah, blah, blah.

No, I prefer to think that our link sending has a certain level of sophistication, that it serves an international purpose, that we’re trying to educate ourselves by drinking from the font of interweb knowledge and exploring new levels of social discourse. What? You’re not buying this? Okay. Fine. I’ll admit it. Yes, there is a lot of CO and LOLcatz. There. Are you happy now? So embarrassed…

Recently I sent a link to a food product I’m sure you will all be very shocked to hear I’d like to try, Pickle Sickles, to my pickle-loving (but not that much) friend and possible BBQ-crawl co-conspirator Dave. After he made several IM-speak icky noises he sent me back this link saying they’re his favorite and that the Boy and I should try them and that I’m demented for ever even thinking of eating frozen pickle brine. Some people will just never understand picklemania…

And so, with three bunches of baby carrots leftover from the Independence Day cookout that got rained out moldering away in the fridge the Boy and I made Firecrackers. Of course, I couldn’t stick to Alton’s recipe. I mean, who keeps onion powder, or for that matter, white sugar, around the house anyway?

I mixed and substituted and boiled and washed and packed and poured and cooled and then chilled our little carrots. And then we waited. And waited. Three or four whole days we waited. Finally, it was time. We cracked the lid and gingerly pulled one out.

And how were they? So good. So very, very good. Corgi puppy levels of good. Disapproving Rabbits levels of good. And yes, even Dramatic Chipmunk levels of good.

They’re spicy, tangy, crunchy and just ever so slightly sweet. So go on, make yourself some Firecrackers, or, better yet, some of my Summer Sparklers or if you prefer cucumbers, try some of Lisa’s Dilly Guys. Just get on it and bottle yourself some of this amazing summer produce.

Or, if you really must, you can pickle some sausages.

Wow.

That might be taking it just a little too far, even for me!

Head below the jump for the recipe for Ann’s Summer Sparklers.

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A real quick hit before the weekend.

Do try and get yourself up on a roof this weekend if at all possible. Or to a park. Or to a backyard.

And if the fruit where you live is as incredible as the fruit is here in New York this summer, go grab some, buy a little prosciutto, or jamon, or whatever cured pork product you can find, and wrap it around something!

We all know and love melon with prosciutto, but what about porky peaches? Possibly even better if you can believe that!

So I ask you… What’s your favorite thing to wrap prosciutto around?

Happy weekend ya’ll!

Be on the lookout for some “firecrackers” around here early next week.

The dog days of summer are upon us.

Sirius and the sun are rising in conjunction.

It’s too hot to run, too hot to sleep, too hot to do anything, really, but go to work and bask in the free air conditioning.

The arrival of the dog days when I was a kid meant that my mom’s garden was about to go bonkers. The tomatoes, which for so long had hung on their plants looking hard and acidly green, would suddenly soften, swell and turn luridly, enticingly bright.

The arrival of the dog days signaled endless weeks of tomato sandwiches and tomato salads, tomato snacks and long, hot hours standing over vats of bubbling tomato sauce for putting up in our un-air conditioned kitchen.

I’ve got a “thing” for tomatoes (some would call it an obsession), so I looked forward to this. What I didn’t look forward to, however, was the other relentless, unavoidable companion of Sirius.

Squash.

I hated squash. I hated their moist, uninspiring, spongy texture when raw, their slick, flavorless, flacid texture when cooked.

But all that’s changed. I now look forward to the Squash Days of Summer.

First the flowers arrive.

Then the tiny baby zukes and squashes arrive. Long and stripey, short and round, banded and UFO-shaped the babies can be used anywhichway one pleases.

Finally, the big honkers come onto the stage. You know, the zucchinis so large they need their own carseat? This was the time of year when my mom would begin to panic. We’d load up my Red Flyer wagon with squashes and then I would set off on a forced march around the neighborhood. I’d stop at each house imploring people to take some zucchini so I could go home and my mom would stop panicking.

I’d bring them into school to give away to the teachers and staff. She’d send them into work with my father.

She’d put them in baskets at the end of the road with a sign saying, “Free!” in the hopes that some day-tripping yuppies would see them and take them back to New York City with them. When I went away to college, she would send me boxes of them, despite the fact that I didn’t even have a kitchen.

All these efforts, and yet, it barely made a dent. We still ate them for dinner almost every night.

It’s taken years for me to come back around to squashes, but I’ve now gotten to a place where I can again appreciate that squash are a culinarily gregarious sort. They love to get pickled; live for grilling; will give their flowers to a bunch of carrots and truly appreciate a long bath in a pan of hot oil.

They also love to get stuffed and grated.

A few weekends ago the Boy decided we were going to explore the world of Mexican cheeses. When I stopped for a puffy taco he ducked his head inside the bodega and was entranced by their display of queso. He wanted to know more, to dig deeper, to fully get to know the soul of Cotija, to unravel the mystery of Oaxaqueno. And so I relented. I’m too smart to stand between a man and his cheese “thing.”

He bought the cheeses, but then it was up to me to figure out how to use them. My first thought was to buy some squash blossoms and to use the cheeses to stuff them, and then to fry them. I’ve always found this method to be very intimidating however, so I turned to the grande dame of Mexican cooking, Diana Kennedy, and she didn’t disappoint. I settled on her recipe for Calabacitas Rellenas de Flor or squash stuffed with their blossoms. There was just one problem, I had only bought 6 blossoms and her recipe called for one pound. Who can afford an entire pound of blossoms?

So I bent and adapted her recipe to use as many squashes as possible, creating a squash and blossom salmagundi to fill yet more squashes. I used baby summer squash and zucchini, but you certainly could use the full sized monsters for this recipe as well. Just expand the ratio of ingredients and parboil the squash before baking. This is a truly delicious dish with just the faintest whiff of Mexico. I cannot wait to make it again.

But that wasn’t enough. We had to take the squash/queso exploration further.

We picked up some bigger squash at our new neighborhood Greenmarket. I had no concrete plans for them, and while poking around in some boxes that I still haven’t unpacked (yes, it’s been 7 months since we moved in) I found a recipe the Boy had printed out in the hopes that he could convince me to overcome my hatred of vegetable pancakes.

I decided it looked simple enough, and since you can eat squash raw it avoided my biggest complaint with potato pancakes (seriously, is there nothing more disgusting than biting into a golden crusty latke only to find the inside raw and crunchy? The thought of it makes my skin crawl).

Some leftover Independence Day corn went into the mix, as did a few baby carrots. The mixture was so colorful and delicious we decided to save half of it (sans eggs) to toss with pasta later in the week, which turned out to be, in my humble opinion, the best use for this recipe.

The “pancakes” came out so badly. There was nothing “pan” nor “cake” about them. It was more of a hash (which I suppose is apt as that’s what I made of this recipe). While I am happy to say the pasta was delicious, I maintain that there is simply no reason in the world to ruin your wonderful seasonal vegetables by sending them to an ignominious death by pancake. It’s just wrong. (But then again, we just ate the leftover “pancakes” for dinner and they were incredibly delicious, so, I may be wrong on this one).

So, if like my mom, you’re about to hit the Curcurbita panic button, don’t. Just breathe, and then pickle, grate, grill, stuff and braise your squash blues away. There’s only a month or so of the Dog (and Squash) Days of Summer left. Lap them up.

*Summer Of Squash? Squash Overload Syndrome? Sticky Overcast Summer?

Head below the jump for the recipes for Squash Stuffed Squash, Squash Pancakes and Squash Pasta.

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I’ve got two horticultural mysteries that need solving. I’m flummoxed. So I turn them over to you guys!

Yesterday was the first day of the Sunset Park greenmarket on 4th Avenue at 59th Street.

This is a greenmarket aimed directly at the community. No shishi cheeses or froufrou produce here. Just simple, beautiful, freshly picked greens, veggies, fruits and herbs that can be bought with cash or food stamps. We talked to the market manager, a cool woman who thankfully can say cebolla in a way that gets across to the farmer that I’m looking for onions.

I picked up a bunch of long, thin green leaves and inhaled. The smell was intoxicating, somewhere between coriander and curry leaves. I asked the farmer what it was and he said something that I didn’t understand. He made a frustrated gesture and said, “Salads, good for salads.” I was sold.

But now I want to know what it is. Can anyone identify my mystery green?

In other news, a vine from my neighbors backyard is growing up the fire escape and trying to tendril itself around my tomatoes. It looks familiar and yet slightly dangerous. I keep trying to train it away from my ‘maters, which don’t seem to be in any hurry to flower or produce fruit.

Can anyone identify my mystery vine?

In other garden news, that pretty black kitty up there is one of the members of the Four Freds. That’s Black Fred. There’s also Original Fred, Fuzzy Fred and Tuxedo Fred (nee Black Fred). I love having them around, it’s like having my own personal anti-squirrel infantry.

Back with real posts and real cooking soon enough, but for now, I send my virtual thanks to anyone that can help me out!

I was involved in a long conversation yesterday about clichés.

We were discussing lazy journalism and it’s reliance on hackneyed phrases, bad puns and, yes, tired clichés.

Food writing, at any level, is especially prone to these journalistic foibles. Writing about food is simply difficult to do with an original voice, eschewing all the literary turns that have come before. As food writers, I feel we must pick our poison. Me? I like bad puns. So for this post, I’m pulling out all the stops!

There’s something about The Fourth of July that simply screams out for clichés. Hot dogs! Strawberry shortcake! Jello salads! Beer coozies! Inflatable wading pools! The 1812 Overture (with real canons)! And of course… Fireworks! My favorite Independence Day cliché of all.

The thing is, there shouldn’t be anything cliché about the holiday. It’s a serious one. But, it’s been decreed by the government that we have fun, and so fun we shall have!

Me? I’m planning on going to the Greenmarket to score some sweet corn, maybe some buffalo steaks, a few sausages and definitely tomatoes. Oh, and berries. Lots of them. Whatever’s available. I don’t know how berry season’s been where you are, but here? It’s been ridiculous.

Every time I walk amongst the farmers’ stalls, I’m seduced into impulse purchasing something. Strawberries. Blueberries. Sour cherries. Black cherries. And now the raspberries and blackberries are on their way!

(And just so you know I’m not crazy, yes I do know that cherries are technically not berries but are actually fruit, but in my mind they all belong together in one happy, berry fruity universe).

The problem is, I buy them with the intention of snacking on them at work, but inevitably I’m too lazy to take them to the kitchen for a rinse, and too grossed out by the thought of washing them in the ladies room sink. So they come home with me where the linger in the fridge until I feel guilty and come up with a way to eat them all at once.

That bowl of blueberries and strawberries? That’s not ice cream on top of them. That’s goat’s milk ricotta with a little fresh cracked black pepper and a light glaze of aged balsamic vinegar. That’s how sweet the berries are this year. They need no extra sugar and actually benefit from a bit of acid to draw out their lusciousness.

And that big fluffy pancake looking thing? Oh, that. That’s just my first attempt ever at making a clafouti!

I was cruising around Tastespotting on Sunday morning when this sour cherry clafouti caught my eye. The ingredients list had too much stuff in it (flax seed & soy milk do not belong in dessert) so I turned to my old pal Roy Andries de Groot. I figured if anyone would have a simple recipe for a seasonal French pastry it would be him. And I was right.

It couldn’t have been easier to knock together, and reminded me an awful lot of the Dutch Babies that my mom used to serve us for dinner when I was a kid. Soft and luscious, not too sweet with the surprising bits of candied ginger scattered about, the clafouti was both the perfect finish to an all-American meal of clams and biscuits and the perfect breakfast to bring into work.

And so I say unto you. Go forth and enjoy your Fourth! May your hot dogs be plump, your beers frosty and your fireworks spectacular. Oh, and don’t forget the berries. They’re berry delicious!

Head below the jump for the recipe for the recipe for Berry Cherry Clafouti.

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