A Chicken In Every Granny Cart

I love eating in. And if you’re here, you probably like eating in, too.

But, I really only like eating dinner in. I’m not one of those people that enjoys rolling out of bed and brewing a pot of coffee while poaching eggs and toasting bread. Nope. And I’m not into crafting composed salads and delicate sandwiches for lunch either. Uhuh. That, my friends, is why god created restaurants!

The weekends are our time to explore all the culinary goodness New York City has to offer. Recently I’ve lunched on a Hangtown Fry at Stone Park Cafe, the most succulent and tender ginger-slicked cuttlefish at Lucky Eight, cheese bureks at Djerdan, thin, pliable waffles with salty butter and lingonberry jelly at Nordic Delicacies, kimchi-filled dumplings at Mandoo Bar, avgolemono and halloumi, cucumber soup and sauerkraut salad and mahogany-lacquered squid tentacles.

Our weekend lunches are often the highlight of my week. We’ll plan entire outings around them. But this world of food at our feet can sometimes cause trouble.

It is exceedingly rare that we both wake up craving the same food. And so a gentle negotiation must take place. Sometimes feelings get hurt or toes get stepped on, but the belly always wins, because no matter who’s cuisine reigns supreme, lunch is always delicious.

And so, on Sunday, when I woke up with a serious culinary itch that needed scratching, it was nice to realize that very little cajoling would be necessary to get Isaac to accompany me to Miriam in Park Slope for crispy dough, shakshuka and labneh. It must have been this ridiculous, hilarious short film full of silly songs about hummus we watched the night before that put the idea in my head. Israeli food is so good.

The problem is, it seems that all of Brooklyn has come to this conclusion as well. The place was packed. You couldn’t have wedged another body or Bugaboo in there. I was gutted. My head was stuffy and I had acquired a wicked, hacking cough somewhere and all I could think about was their addictive, mysteriously green harissa. But it was obvious it wasn’t meant to be. So we walked out, sadly, and wandered down the block for seriously mediocre “Mexican” food.

But all was not lost. After a stop at Bierkraft for cheese and beer, we went home, where Isaac made chicken stock from the chicken carcass I had pot-roasted the night before while I convalesced on the couch. He had gone to the store and picked up jalapenos, cilantro and limes. He was planning to use them to flavor the strained stock to make a Mexican chicken soup.

But, that’s what I’d had for lunch. Granted, it was impressively mediocre, but still, I was craving something with intense flavors, so I suggested he use them to make a bastardized pistou. That way we could each flavor our bowl to an appropriate degree and the flavors would be fresh and punchy.

So he did, and it was wonderful; a spicy, tart, zingy cross between salsa verde and Miriam’s fiery harissa. It was just what the doctor ordered and completely erased our unfortunate lunch from my memory.

There’s a multitude of reasons I prefer eating dinner at home. No need to make reservations, no waiting for an overbooked table at an overcrowded bar, no need to listen to another person’s conversation, no waitrons rushing dessert, but most importantly there’s the chance to make unintended culinary discoveries.

Oh, and the wine is cheaper.

Head below the jump for the recipe for Isaac’s MexiMoroccan Chicken Soup and a bit about Pot-Roasted Chicken.

Read the rest of this entry »

I was in SoHo yesterday.

Isaac was off shopping for books and wine while I was, theoretically, returning something, buying sweet things and foraging for dinner provisions. In reality I was wandering around looking for pictures to take with my new toy.

I took pictures of buildings, of architectural details, of old signs, the usual things. I was wandering, thinking. Perhaps I should start taking pictures of people, I thought. I found myself on the corner of Broadway and Spring, and there, just across Broadway was a family, striking the most perfect tableau. I prepared to shoot. Then something registered in my brain, I looked again. Something looked familiar about the father. I looked one more time.

Sacrebleu. It was Eric Ripert.

We New Yorkers have a problem with celebrities, real, personal or imagined. We’re New Yorkers. We walk amongst some of the richest, most famous, most talented people on the face of the earth every minute of every day. We’re supposed to be cool, unruffled and unfazed when rubbing shoulders with Lloyd Blankfein, Maggie Gyllenhaal or Mario Batali.

But sometimes we run into someone that gets us excited. It’s a very personal thing.

Parker Posey always seems to be at the Kmart in Astor Place when I’m there. I think its funny, but I would never walk up to her and say, “Ohmigod! I loved you in Party Girl and you were so ridiculously, neurotically perfect in Best In Show.” I just couldn’t.

But running into Eric Ripert? It made me pause.

A few years ago when my office was on another street in another neighborhood, I was leaving work very late one night when I found an uncorrected proof of A Return To Cooking (written with the estimable Ruhlman I might add) in the lobby. This was odd for two reasons: 1. There were no book publishers in that building and 2. The lobby of this building was not a “free” space.

“Free” spaces are one of the more magical spots a building can have. For no discernible reason they pop up in dorms, offices and apartment buildings around the world. Bits of counter become the place to leave the detritus that one no longer wants or needs. My office has one, hidden waaaay back by the printers that no one uses, where I once found a $190 bottle of sunscreen and a collection of “Classics In Half The Time” books. I took the cream, I left the books (and I am proud to say that 6 months on, the books are all still there).

I took Chef Ripert’s book home and leafed through it. There’s a few simple recipes, but on the whole, as one would expect from a three-Michelin starred chef, the bulk of the book is made up of complicated, daunting and futzy recipes. But, they are also tasty.

Each New Year’s Eve for the past four, Isaac and I have passed the evening cooking, drinking, eating, talking and laughing with the same couple. The first three years were at their place in Brooklyn, this year it was my turn to host. And so I turned to Chef Ripert for inspiration. And he provided amply.

Isaac made Chef Ripert’s cauliflower soup as our starter. It was utterly perfect. Sweet, creamy, silky, buttery, rustic yet sophisticated, it is wonderful. We couldn’t find smoked scallops so we used bacon instead, and decided to substitute goat’s milk for heavy cream. Tinkering with a celebrity chef’s recipe is fun! And so I did a doozie on the main course.

It was to be Pan-Seared Muscovy Duck with Cherries and Rhubarb Purée, but come on people! It’s winter! There’s no way the fresh cherries were going to be good, and even though I found frozen rhubarb, I decided not to use it. So we ended up with Pan-Seared Duck Breasts with Mixed Berry, Dried Cherry and Cognac Sauce.

Sounds delicious, doesn’t it? And it was. Partly because of my inventions, but a lot because of Chef Ripert’s exquisite techniques.

So it was all these things I was mulling as I stood on the corner of Broadway and Spring yesterday, asking myself, should I walk up to this man who’s just trying to enjoy a day out with his family and thank him for helping to make my New Year’s Eve dinner so spectacular and memorable?

The light changed, my heart beat a little faster. I started walking towards him. And then he ran into a friend and they all stopped in the middle of Broadway for hugs and kisses. My decision was made for me. As I passed them I smiled, and carried on.

Head below the jump for the recipe for Ann’s Berry Sauce for Duck, a la Ripert.

Read the rest of this entry »

“Welcome to Camp Chaos!” I chirped.

I was up to my elbows in dough and there was a halo of steam around my forehead. Isaac was home at least a half an hour earlier than I had expected him and I was running about a half an hour behind. The timing was actually perfect, I was able to finish up my kneading while he unpacked.

He was back from visiting his family for Western Orthodox Christmas. He’d given one of his sisters the New Book Of Middle Eastern Food by Claudia Roden and so, as a treat, he whipped up lamb in yoghurt sauce and basmati rice for a light, traditional Colorado Christmas dinner. It went over gangbusters but was a bit of a gutbuster and so he was quite relieved to learn that all of the bubbling and simmering and kneading was not in fact preparation for some arcane Medieval feast reenactment, but rather for a nice, light bean and kale soup with freshly baked bread.

I was at first tempted to try this absolutley ridiculously good looking pork loin Luisa whipped up last week, but alas, by the time I made it to my old greenmarket stomping grounds at Tompkins Square, the pork guy was all out of pork. “What have you got left?” I pleaded. “Welllllll… I’ve got a few chicken parts… Some livers, some wings, a few necks and quite a few feet!” “Ah, I guess you’ve made my decision for me,” I replied, “I’d been torn between making a roasted pork loin and chicken soup!” So I bought some feet and wings, a few onions and lots of kale and headed home.

I do some of my best thinking just before drifting off to sleep (I’m also a champ at brainstorming in the shower), the challenge is remembering my great idea the next morning. On Saturday night I was thinking about beans. But not just any beans. Christmas Limas. Big, beautiful speckled dried lima beans that Christina had sent me in trade a few months ago for a jar of Pepi Pep Peps. In the note she sent with the beans, Christina warned that they take quite a bit more time soaking and cooking than smaller dried beans, and so I was thinking about this while falling asleep, and just then, right on the edge, I thought of a solution. The yogotherm.

The yogotherm came into our house as part of the cheesemaking kit I bought Isaac for his birthday. It’s a little plastic bucket with a lid, that slides into a styrofoam sleeve which sits inside a pretty plastic container with cows on it. Not the most environmentally responsible thing I own, but unlike other yogurt makers, it doesn’t need electricity. In cheesemaking the yogotherm keeps cultured milk warm while the cultures do their thing and make cheese, yogurt, kefir and all manner of delightful things. And so I figured, if it can make me cheese, why on earth couldn’t it make me beans?

I rinsed my beans and popped them into a ziptop bag filled with warmish (probably around 100°F) water, stuck the bag in the bucket and closed up the contraption. By the time I got home 5 hours later, the beans were absolutely perfect. I have discovered something huge in bean cookery! Hear that Steve? My gigantic Christmas Limas only took an hour to cook after their yogotherm soaking. I feel like I’ve really contributed something to the culinary landscape with this.

To the beans I added lacinato kale and green mustard greens (thanks for the idea Toni) and a few ladles of stock. It’s the most aromatic stock I’ve ever made. I decided to forego my traditional recipe in favor of something a bit gutsier; a base of fennel, parsnips, bay leaves and thyme. I’ll definitely make this again, but there’s one thing I will not repeat.

Cooking with chicken feet. Ugh. Mine had some of the weird foamy skin still clinging to them, which skeeved me out, and then, as you’re cooking, they poke out of the liquid, looking like something that should be in the pot of Macbeth’s witches. Yes, they make good stock, but, oh man, no, not again. No more chicken feet.

So we sat down to nice, piping hot bowls of soup with a “baguette” I had baked. I say “baguette” because this loaf was as French as EuroDisney. I followed Judith Jones‘ recipe from The Tenth Muse, but, not having a stand mixer I kneaded the loaves by hand for, oh, maybe 30 minutes? The bread has a nice crumb, but teeny tiny holes. I was hoping that the long kneading would produce enough gluten to support nice big airy holes, but alas. I actually think I may have kneaded it too much. I guess this just means I’ll have to buy myself a stand mixer for Christmas (unless someone buys me one beforehand, hint, hint…).

The soup was delightful. Christmas Limas get their name because to some, they taste like chestnuts, and chestnuts are associated with, well, Christmas! If you cook them to just the right consistency, you can squish the bean against the roof of your mouth, and as Christina puts it the, “inside of the bean squirts out like mashed potatoes.”

Couldn’t have said it better myself.

Head below the jump for the recipes for Aromatic Stock and Western Orthodox Christmas Soup.

Read the rest of this entry »

Oh friends, have I got a treat to share with you.

I discovered a recipe this weekend that is so delicious, so sexy, so perfect, and yet so simple and rustic that it simply begs to be served at your very next dinner party, or for Christmas dinner, or for Saturday dinner. This is the kind of dish you can serve to your mother-in-law with absolutely no fear. You are guaranteed oohs and aahs, and that your guests will make happy little oinking noises while they’re sopping up the delicious sauce.

Have I piqued your interest? Are you just dying for me to tell you what this most perfect dish might be? Not just yet…

The Boy and I were doing some Western Orthodox Christmas shopping on Saturday at our favorite non-used bookstore when I spotted this gigantic, gorgeous volume, of rustic French cooking. We were having a glorious fall day. The weather was crisp and I was wearing my favorite scarf (the one that makes me feel like I’ve just gotten back from an assignment for National Geographic to Marrakesh to write the definitive work on camel’s milk cheese), NoLita wasn’t overrun by giddy European tourists taking advantage of their currency being worth two-times as much as the dollar, and we were planning to go out for an anniversary dinner that night, so there was no pressure to think about cooking.

But ever since I had put one toe out the door, all I could think about was cooking. It was so cool and delightful, the air was crystalline blue and held the promise of a chilly evening. I wanted to cook something warm and comforting, a dish as snuggly and delicious as my favorite cashmere sweater, so I promised myself that I’d bring it up only if I happened to think of something or happened to come across something.

And so, there i was thumbing through The Country Cooking of France while the Boy was nosing about in the serious literature when it jumped out at me.

Coq a la Bière.

The recipe sang to me of warmth and simplicity. I had to make it. So I called him over and asked if he’d like to stay in this evening rather than go out for a big fancy dinner, and then I sweetened the deal by promising to make mashed potatoes. It didn’t take long for him to agree.

I briefly contemplated buying the book, but I just couldn’t part with $50. I had a purse crisis recently and ended up dropping some serious dosh on a new bag. I felt the need to scrimp and so I tried my best to memorize the recipe, promising the book I’d come back for it on a more flush day.

We popped over to the Whole Foods on Houston Street to visit their new beer room. Serious suds people! They’ve got beers from around the world and lots of American microbrews too. Sure, they sell some beers that you can get at the very finest bodegas, like the Indian ones near 6th Street or heck, even my beloved Eagle Provisions, but what is exciting is that much like the good folk at Bierkraft, they sell growlers of locally brewed hoppy delicacies. I picked out a brown ale from France and a cider from Normandy, then we headed home.

I’d forgotten that cooking with beer is awesome. Unlike cooking with wine, where you can just recork the bottle and stash it in the fridge, once you open one of those fancy corked bottles of beer, well, there’s no way to save the fizz, so, well, you’ve got to drink the beer. Bummer, right?

I measured out my cup and a half of ale and then drank my half of the leftovers while pulling together dinner. It’s the easiest thing I’ve cooked in months. You brown the chicken, chop some vegetables and then let it stew for an hour or so. At the end you stir in a pat of butter, crème fraîche and brighten it up with a shot of vinegar.

The mashed potatoes were a happy accident. I took my eyes off the garlic for one minute, and when I turned back they were a nanosecond away from turning into tiny little lumps of char, so I threw in the lacinato kale (I never got my second salad) to stop that from happening. The resulting potatoes smelled a little like the very best of garlic bagels. The toasted garlic are delightful points of flavor amidst the silky purée made a little sour with crème fraîche.

The resulting meal is so French. It’s the food equivalent of that beautiful Parisian woman we all know, the one who can throw on a sweater, a skirt and a scarf and look more radiant and pulled together than I ever could, no matter how much time and money I had at my disposal. And, to top it all off, it’s so much simpler, and slightly more unusual, than its more famous cousin Coq au Vin. There’s no futzing about with cooking each vegetable separately, no marinating, no peeling pearl onions (does anyone enjoy that task?), and it may encourage you to go out and buy a nice bottle of gin.

Never having been to France, I’ve never thought much about the classics of French cooking. But between this Coq a la Bière and the Sole à la Meunière and the utterly delicious cherry clafouti from over the summer, I’m beginning to think I really should go back to the beginning, start boning up on my classic French technique.

I’ve got the weekend to myself while the Boy is away celebrating Western Orthodox Christmas and Ratatouille up next in my queue. Who knows where inspiration will strike next!

And, check it out! Abby, the assistant Web editor over at OrganicGardening.com did an interview with me, and she posted it today on her blog Good N Planty! If you’ve ever wanted to learn even more about me and the Granny Cart, hop on over there, or just go over and support her NaBlaPoMo efforts! And be sure to check out all the gardening knowledge on their site, these people are experts! Thanks Abby, my mom will be so proud!

Head below the jump for the recipe for Coq a la Bière and Garlic Bagel Mashed Potatoes.

Read the rest of this entry »

Did you know that Ace Frehely recorded a disco-era paean to New York City?

It’s a giddy, stompy, bizzarly addictive nugget of shuffling guitar-driven goodness. And some kid named Davey decided to load it onto his iPod and listen to it while dancing around on the Brooklyn Bridge on a heart-achingly beautiful New York city day, complete with backup dancers. Don’t believe me? Click here.

Why do I mention this? Because, well, much like Ace, I feel like I’m back in the N.Y. Groove.

I had a wonderful weekend with my aunt and cousin. We had a beer on Stone Street, walked over the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset (if you can’t stand the swarms may I recommend you try the other bridge) and ate dinner at La Maisson du Couscous, possibly the best restaurant in Bay Ridge, and definitely worth the trip from anywhere.

On Sunday morning, bright and early, I bounced around the house organizing and planning. We were heading to the Bronx to see the chrysanthemums and I had to get everyone rounded up and to Grand Central in time to catch the proper train. I sent text messages and left voice mails, I kissed the Boy and left him with a few minor errands to run and then I jumped on the train.

The MTA, for once, was voluminously accommodating in getting me to my destination. I got to Grand Central with almost half an hour to spare, so I got a coffee and wandered around taking pictures, relishing the opportunity to be a tourist in my own town for once. And then I waited, and waited, and waited.

The train had been gone for quite some time when I got the call, we weren’t going to the Bronx after all. Instead we strolled around lower Manhattan and laughed and ate and laughed some more. By the time they left I felt revived, revitalized, more in love with New York than ever and ready to get back into the groove.

When I got home the Boy had two quince roasting in the oven. The house smelled amazing: Flowery, delicate, perfumed with that aroma only a baking quince can release. After a quick kip on the couch I was back in the kitchen chopping and dicing and ecstatic to be there.

I roasted a huge bulb of fennel with a lemon. I pulled smoked turkey meat off of a slippery, cold leg. And then I squished and baked and tossed my way into one of the most exquisite dinners to come out of our kitchen in a very long time. The smoked turkey meat, mixed with golden onions and spices were stuffed into the quince, and the roasted fennel was tossed with radicchio, onions, chiles, mint and fennel fronds and dressed with the roasted lemon juice.

I never could have come up with these combinations on my own. The quince are supposed to be stuffed with lamb, but the Boy had picked up the turkey legs at the greenmarket. The combination of sweet and smoky sounded appealing, so I used them instead.

And the salad? A true team effort. He wanted the fennel thinly shaved and tossed with the radicchio and mint. I wanted it roasted. So we did both. An utterly perfect salad, born out of compromise.

And so I’m back, back in the N.Y. groove. It only took a little stepping outside of it to get back into it.

Head below the jump for the recipes for Smoky Stuffed Quince and Fall’s Perfect Salad.

Read the rest of this entry »

Do you remember way back in the balmy month of May, with much excitement, I announced the planting of my little fire escape container garden?

There were tomatoes and radishes and herbs and peppers and even strawberries, all tucked neatly into little containers, basking happily in the dappled Brooklyn sun.

Well, I hate to say it, but it’s been a dramatic summer and there were few survivors.

First there was summer’s refusal to get started. The plants wanted heat, but there wasn’t any. Then there was the tornado which uprooted a few and harmed many. Then there was the rain that kept beating my seedlings into pulp. And finally, there were the squirrels; those dumb, stupid baby squirrels who feel that my planters are the perfect place to hide all their bounty that I am positive they will never remember.

Tomatoes? Gone. The radishes and herbs? KOed by the weather. The strawberries managed to give me two really cute berries, and that was all. They were then hit by the double header of tornado and squirrels. As you can see, it wasn’t only this guy who had a rough summer of farming in Brooklyn!

But you’ll notice I haven’t said a thing about the peppers. Well, that’s because they survived! I feared for them. They were the hardest hit by the tornado. All six plants were torqued out by the wind into a very neat spiral and had many broken leaves and stems. So I gently gathered them up and tied them together and hoped that would be enough. It was. They kept growing, but wouldn’t flower.

Then we started making cheese. One of the recipes noted that leftover whey makes great plant food. So after our first cheesemaking foray I let the whey cool and then fed the peppers. I could almost hear them cheering! The next morning they looked so perky and happy, and then just a day or two later the first blossom bloomed. And then another day or two later, we had our first pepper, a Portugese hot.

This weekend, with prospects for at least another half-dozen peppers, the Boy and I decided it was time to harvest our first Brooklyn-grown produce. But it needed a proper end.

I recently bought Claudia Roden’s The New Book of Middle Eastern Food, the follow up, decades in the making, to her first book, and possibly my favorite cook book of all time. It has many of the same recipes as the book from the ’70s, updated and adapted for the modern home cook, plus hundreds of new ones. In one meal Ms. Roden made me think of this book as essential. She is genius.*

Over a year ago the Boy had printed out a recipe for Shakshuka from the Times and brought it home to me. When he does this, I know he really wants to try whatever it is, and that it’s probably something I might not be so fond of. Something about that recipe rubbed me the wrong way. It was so fussy and long and complicated. I kept hiding it and hoping he’d forget about it. But no.

I had said I wanted to make something with tomatoes. Shakshuka he said! I whimpered something about not being in the mood. I wanted a place to properly use my one pepper. Shakshuka he said! I mumbled something about it being too complicated. I wanted to coddle the beautiful free range eggs I’d picked up earlier in the week. Shakshuka he said! I murmured something about the pepper getting lost in all those flavors.

And then, finally, we were at the greenmarket, my patience was wearing very, very thin and there, at one of the stands were the world’s largest bell peppers and I agreed. Shakshouka I sighed.

Something was niggling at the back of my head. Hadn’t I seen a recipe in The New Book for shakshouka that looked really simple and clean and easy? Yes, I had. And so, this is where our brave little pepper ended his life, in a warm, molten, silky, sweet and spicy tangle of tomatoes and eggs. A fitting end? Incredibly so.

I paired the shakshouka with a Tunisian salad, supposed to be served cold, of mashed potatoes, shatta and capers that I served warm, and pomegranate and curry lamb sausages.

The tiniest whisper of spice from the sausage melded perfectly with the rest of the meal. Both dishes, though intensely flavorful and at least a little spicy, were devoid of any high seasoning. The light cinnamon aroma was the element that transformed the disparate elements and elevated them into a meal. It was delightful.

And so we sat and munched and oohed and aahed and discussed next years garden. First, I’ll start the seedlings inside. Second, I’m going to make sure my plants and dirt come from organic sources. Third, I will buy containers that are too high for squirrels to clamber into. Fourth, chicken wire will go over everything. Fifth, pray to god there are no more tornadoes!

*As an aside, did everyone read the profile the New Yorker did on Ms. Roden in the food issue? They’ve only got an abstract, a sidebar and some recipes online now, so it’s worth trying to track it down. It made me, even more, want to fly to London and hang out with her. I cannot wait for her volume on Spain to be published!

Head below the jump for the recipes for Claudia Roden’s Shakshouka and Slatit Batata Marfusa.

Read the rest of this entry »

I love Spain.

No, I’ve never been to Spain. I’d really like to go though, if only to wallow in the pork.

Since I’m about to use up the last of my vacation days for this year*, a trip to Spain in ‘07 is highly unlikely. Luckily, I live in New York, and wouldn’t you know it but there’s a next best thing?

Despaña.

There’s a giant bull’s head on the wall. They sell Iberico (when it’s in stock). They make drool-worthy bocadillos. They have an entire wall of tiny tinned fishes and tunas, piquillo peppers, rices, olive oils, white asparagus products, sherry vinegars, honeys, sweets, pickles and mayonnaises. It’s like walking into a physical manifestation of Ximena’s blog.

Oh, and they always offer tons of samples.

Sometimes when the boy and I are out walking around in Soho we’ll get a little hungry and want a snack. The snack options in this ‘hood are priced as stupidly as the rest of the merchandise on offer so we’ve come up with a far cheaper option. First we’ll hit up the olive bar at Gourmet Garage and then head over to Despaña to round out the graze.

After a lunch of tacos and tortas at Esquina (whoever invented the mushroom taco, I salute you sir!) we still had enough room in our stomachs for a light nosh. The Boy hit up the cheese (I know, you’re shocked) while I sampled the world of bizzaro alliolis. Spain, have I mentioned that I love you? I love any culture that can invent so many ways to flavor mayonnaise, and then takes the time to bottle them.

Grazing is good, but I had a real goal for being at Despaña. I’d had a random week at the Greenmarket. I impulse purchased some fresh chorizos from Tamarack Hollow Farm, avocado squash and more pimientos de padron from Yunos Farm, plus tiny cauliflowers and tons of tomatoes. I was at Despaña to find a way to tie them all together.

I bought some Bomba rice. I had no idea what to do with it, so when we got home I pulled a good dozen books from the collection and sat at the kitchen table, perusing, to no avail. My books had failed me. I was gutted. And so I turned to the internet. I typed in the query “recipe cauliflower chorizo” and on the second page of results was this. Sounds delicious doesn’t it? Until you actually read the instructions. Boil each vege on it’s own? Ugh, how fussy! But I had found a source. These La Tienda people sure have a lot of recipes!

I searched and combed and then I hit on the perfect recipe. It used rice. I had rice! It used egg. I had eggs! It used rabbit and chicken. I had chorizo! It used chickpeas. I had peppers, squash and cauliflower! It was a perfect match, possibly not in the real world, but in the recipe world of Ann’s head, it was.

And since I couldn’t get those alliolis out of my head I decided to make a sauce too. I was going to make this one, but it didn’t solve my tomato problem, so I settled on making a romesco. I’m sure I’ve had romesco before, I know I have, but it’s never made an impression on me. Well, no more!

Romesco is my new favorite sauce on the face of the earth.

I want to bathe in it, wallow in it, eat it on everything. It’s piquant, and smoky, and tomatoey and dear god, it’s just so damn good! If you’ve never had it before, I implore you, make some this weekend. It’s good on meat, and fish, and on vegetables, spread on bread, in salad dressings, and, yes, I’ll admit it, straight out of the Tupperware container while standing in front of the refrigerator while one is supposed to be asleep.

But man and woman cannot live on romesco alone (although I’m thinking of trying). So, about the rice… Good! Delicious! Fantastic even! But I don’t recommend making this in the summer. It just takes too damn long in the oven. Save this recipe for a nice dark, cold, snowy day when the saffron yellow rice and golden eggs will serve as a bolt of sunshine into a dreary grey day.

Te amo Espana indeed!

*P.S. — Slow walking San Franciscans beware!! The Boy and I are flying out to the Bay Area on Saturday for 3 days in San Fran, 3 days in Napa and then a wedding in Sonoma. If anyone has any suggestions as to things to do, places to eat, vineyards to visit, goats to pet, I would LOVE to hear them! Neither of us have spent any significant time in this neck of the woods so all advice would be heartily appreciated! And if anyone wants to meet up, well…

Head below the jump for the recipes for Romesco Sauce and Ann’s Arroz con Costra.

Read the rest of this entry »

I originally wanted to title this post The Unbearable Deliciousness Of Futzing.

But, it’s been a long time since I’ve read anything by Milan Kundera, let alone that book, and so my love of alliteration won out over literary witticisms.

Last weekend I had a craving. I had read in the Spring issue of Edible Brooklyn that a place over on 5th Ave. called Leskes has the best Half-Moon Cookies (aka Black & White Cookies) in the world. Now, there was a time in my life where I very nearly subsisted solely on these anomalous cookies. More cake than cookie, when properly executed they come dressed in an ooey gooey fudgy icing on one side with a crackly, sugary glaze on the other. I love, love, Half-Moon Cookies.

But alas. We got there too late. They were sold out. I got another cookie, something almondy with a sickly slick of chocolate “icing” in an attempt to compensate, but it failed.

However, lest you go playing tiny violins over the tragedy of my cookie travails, something good did come out of this fruitless trek. We discovered a little old man with a magical shop. Tucked into a tiny hole in the wall on the east side of 5th Avenue in the low 70s, dwells a display of short-lived, seasonal Middle Eastern fruits and vegetables.

Favas. Green Almonds. Sour Plums (aka Alu Bokhara). Sour Apricots. And a few other things I couldn’t recognize.

Since we already had a date with pork, I had to leave the goodies there. The man promised he’d still be there next weekend, and he was. He said the almonds were getting old. That didn’t bother me I said because I was going to crack them open. No! he said, you eat them like this! He grabbed one and popped the whole thing in his mouth, fuzzies and all. He insisted the boy and I try it. Wow! What a weird experience. They’re fuzzy, yes, but no more so than a peach. What’s surprising is the overwhelming taste of green. Raw, earthy, springy. Green. And juicy! Green almonds must be the most looked forward to culinary arrival in the year to desert dwellers.

He also made us try a plum. It was the sourest thing I’ve ever tried, and I love sour. I asked about the apricots. He said they were even more sour. I declined his invitation to try one.

I bought a few good handful of the almonds and what, at the time, seemed like an ungodly amount of fava beans, still in the pod.

Who was the first person to eat a fava bean, and why? I hope they weren’t starving.

I’ve had fresh fava beans at restaurants before, and love cooking with the dried ones, but this was my first attempt at taking them from pod to pot. I’ve long admired all of Sher’s recipes using the beans she picks from her amazing backyard garden. I must admit, there was a degree of “Well if she can do it, I can do it” in taking on the fava shelling challenge, and I’m woman enough to admit that I will not being doing that again until there’s a tribe of Berbers living in the garden level apartment to help out.

It took me nearly two hours to shell the contents of my smallish bag. The boy had to do almost all the cooking of the stew. I stopped only long enough to tend my grains! Dear readers, shelled fresh favas are as easy to come by in these parts as iceberg lettuce. I hope you won’t think any less of me if I never shell my own again.

And so what did we do with these futzy favas? Do I hear a collective groan? Is she really going to trot out Claudia Roden and couscous again? That was just two weeks ago!

Yes, yes I am, but with good reason. I had to find an excuse to use my birthday present from the boy, my new kitchen bling. Yep, for my birthday, I was given a couscoussiere!

And, let me tell you this. I think that this pot is the secret to amazing North African and Middle Eastern dinners. I feel like if I reveal this to you the Moroccan Secret Police are going to come knocking at my door this evening and haul me away for revealing deep, dark culinary secrets. But I’m willing to tempt fate!

The stew that the couscous steamed over had only 8 ingredients in it, and yet it was so perfect, so profoundly tasty, that I would present this to Gordon Ramsay as my signature dish with no fear in my soul.

I think, and here’s the root of the root and the bud of the bud of a tree called dinner, the secret to perfect Moroccan stews is… The couscous that fall through the holes in the steamer portion of the couscoussiere breakdown whilst cooking and thicken the sauce. Also, since the stew is technically covered by the couscous, and yet the steam is still leaving the pot, the liquid becomes beautifully concentrated. There. There it is. I’ve done it. I’ve let the secret out of the bag!

But seriously, the chicken only cooked for about an hour and a half, and that 2 3/4 cup of liquid boiled down to the most beautiful and perfect gravy I’ve ever seen, and that wasn’t even what I was trying for! It perfectly coated each futzy bean and wrapped its deliciousness around the green almonds which added an almost grape like texture to the stew.

Couscoussiere’s are big and a little bulky but if you love Middle Eastern cuisine, I highly recommend running out to buy one or ordering one online today.

I’m sure they have other uses. Maybe for steaming vegetables? Or fish? Or rice? I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Head below the jump for the recipe for Spring Chicken Stew with Couscous.

Read the rest of this entry »

Perhaps it started months ago, when all of us New Yorkers were, under our breaths, cursing winter… I wanted winter… I craved winter… I wanted thick hearty foods… Gooey, sticky braised meats… Grains… Soups… Roasts… Pastas… Breads.

It was during this time, when winter was shyly avoiding our fair coast (and this may seem silly) that we discovered polenta. Yes, that’s where the silly comes in. Discovering polenta? That’s like saying we discovered North America, yet, we (The Boy and I) had missed polenta. We were into grits, and risottos, and pastas cooked like risotto, and grains cooked liked risotto… but polenta had been but a momentary blip on the radar.

When I made the boar, the weirdness of the polenta having arrived in a shrink-wrapped sausage-like packaging totally outweighed my lust for creamy, delicious grains. It’s only been since moving, when I go grocery shopping on my lunch break that I discovered the utter, Nobel-deserving amazingess of 5-minute (and $2.49 a box!) instant polenta.

Seriously.

5 minutes. Perfect, creamy, tasty polenta.

And last night I did a comparison against pasta. For basically the same size serving, polenta has about half the calories and carbohydrates (if you’re into that kind of thing) and slightly less fat than regular white wheat pasta. This comparison came about  after dinner, The Boy asked me, “So why aren’t we eating polenta two or three-times a week?” I tried to make it about health concerns, and I was sorely beaten into submission.

So, what’s my point? Polenta is an incredibly delicious and elegant blank canvas.

On Sunday, coming back from a shopping mission in the city, The Boy and I got into a discussion on cooked radishes. We conjectured as to whether they’d be any good cooked and decided it might be worth trying. We roasted them with carrots because I thought their sweetness would offset the radish’s bitterness, but it was totally unnecessary.

Radishes, when roasted, loose all of their bite. All. None. I found on the Internet those that praise the taming of their bite, but, uh, excuse me, the beauty of radishes is their bite. They were still delicious, but I must admit, I was a wee bit disappointed. I planned the meal around their assumed acerbicness. The carrots for sweetness. The polenta for smoothness. The ricotta for creaminess. All that aside though, it was a nice meal. The mint added that something extra, the perfect interplay with all the earthiness (I promise that’s the last -ness).

Conversely however… Braised escarole and polenta.

The escarole had been purchased as supporting character in my Green & Gold soup, but had proved unnecessary. It sat in the crisper all week waiting for its turn as the star in a good after-work dinner. Finally, last night, it happened. The Boy minced garlic and washed and chopped the greens. When I got home all I had to do was brown the garlic in good olive oil, add the escarole and homemade stock and make the polenta.

The result? Something I hope Molly would approve of. She recently discovered escarole as a salad green, which was the only way I knew it until this past Christmas. My mom served it to us braised and I was gobsmacked. For thirty years she had served it to me as only a salad green. She’d been holding out on me.

Raw escarole is lovely, somewhere between romaine and radicchio, but the application of heat coaxes out a demure silkiness that I find tantalizing. The greens grasp the garlic and turn limpid in the hot oil yet retain a delightful crunchiness that is just so much more exciting than spinach.

Cooked for 7 minutes and served over creamy polenta with a dusting of pungent Romano cheese, it is the very best sort of weeknight dinner. Fast, healthy, utterly, seductively delicious.

So why haven’t we been eating this dish 2 or 3 times a week for the past 6 months? I don’t know, but it’s something I’m going to work hard at rectifying.

Head below the jump for the recipes for Roasty Toasty Radishes & Braised Escarole.

Read the rest of this entry »

I was (lightly) chastised last week for being a chicken blogger who had never made her own chicken stock. It was fair, I definitely portrayed myself as someone who had never made chicken stock before, which, I’m sorry to say, is a big, huge fat lie.

I have made chicken stock before, in fact, I’ve made so many hundreds of gallons of chicken stock that the volume probably rivals the amount made by all the home cooks who have ever blogged about making chicken stock. But, the stock I made wasn’t made in my teeny tiny kitchen and it was never consumed by me.

Years ago during a bout of endless unemployment I had a friend that was going to culinary school. She was doing her externship at a Kitchen that was in desperate need of help, so she called me up and asked if I wanted to get off my self-pitying, Harry Potter-reading, swimming miles and miles at the YMCA, eternally depressed ass and hone my cooking skills by working for free as a prep cook at a really good restaurant in The City. While it wasn’t the ideal situation for a seriously broke and jobless exile from the music industry, it was better than doing nothing, so I jumped at the opportunity.

Our most important tasks each day were: killing the lobsters, cutting salmon into teeeeeeny tiiiiiny perfect little cubes for tartar (the reason you will never see salmon on this site, the smell lingers for weeks and still to this day turns my stomach), roasting beets, washing greens, making sauces and dressings, peeling can after can of roasted red peppers, and yes, making chicken stock.

Our last task each day was to call Chef down to clarify the stock and then create the staff meal with stuff we could scrounge from the pantry and whatever was about to turn in the walk-in. Chef was amazing at helping us think creatively about the staff meal, to think around the globe and to re-imagine ingredients. Apple butter became mustard for duck croque-monsieurs, clam chowders were given a Moroccan twist and chicken wings were elevated far above game-time food with an elegant curry-flecked crust.

That staff meal was often the only meal I would eat each day. My unemployment checks had run out, I was living off my meagre savings, but I was happy. I applied for kitchen jobs but didn’t get them. At one place (which I am happy to say has since closed) the all male kitchen did not speak to me once. At another place I was told I was too pretty to be hidden in the kitchen and offered a position as a waitress. I needed the money so badly I agreed despite the fact that I am the world’s klutziest person. It was a disaster, but I had to do it. Finally a friend took pity on me and talked her boss into hiring me where I am now. I went from working with food, to working with words, to, on my free time, working with food and words. Aha! That’s how this story comes full circle!

And so it was with full confidence that I approached my stock yesterday. My stock. To be eaten by me. It was a good feeling. I remembered all the hints Chef had passed onto me years ago. Leave the skins on the onion. Don’t peel anything. Start with perfectly cold water. Let it go low and slow. If you want a darker stock, roast the chicken bones before making the stock.

I watched the pot go from murky chunks of nothingness to pure gold. Ah alchemy. Turning nothing into something precious.

For my final alchemical turn, I treated the stock simply. Just some onions, garlic and greens with a loaf of freshly baked bread. The stock was astounding, as I’m sure anyone that’s made their own stock can tell you. There’s so much depth and subtlety and comfort and love and care in one simple bowl. I’m not sure I can ever go back to canned again.

(And yes, I am such a child of the Empire State that I use a New York State tea towel as a makeshift table cloth).

Head below the jump for Ann’s Stock and Green & Gold Soup.

Read the rest of this entry »