February 2010

Here I am, still carrying on about citrus. Have you bought any of those gorgeous Cara Cara oranges yet? These juicy, low-acid, virtually seedless navels are an excellent source of Vitamins C and A, fiber, potassium, and Lycopene, a disease-fighting antioxidant. Plus their bright coral flesh is super-sweet and delicious. They're wonderful just peeled and eaten plain, or sliced with fennel for a simple salad, or squeezed for juice. But last night I used them to make a special treat: ice cream! I found a great recipe that Sheila Lukins (R.I.P.) managed to weasel out of Bill Gross, the former executive sous chef from Café Gray, Gray Kunz's now sadly defunct dining palace in the Time-Warner building. (I've been a huge fan of Kunz's since his glory days at Lespinasse in the St. Regis.) I really enjoyed making this ice cream. There are a couple of extra steps essential to its rich, complex taste, but the resulting adult creamsicle extravaganza (shades of Orange Julius if you grew up in California) is so worth it.
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G went hog wild in Dickson's this week. Came home with some grass-fed beef stew meat, these two humongous short ribs (the butcher said they would be better if he didn't cut them—why?), a couple of squabs, a red cockerel and a Boston butt. Most of it went into the freezer, to be doled out over many weeks, but the short ribs will be featured at dinner tomorrow night. We've got a couple of friends coming over. That's exciting stuff up here in the boonies. I'm trying a new preparation with red miso, mirin and daikon radish. I'll let you know how it turns out. Usually, I favor a more classic presentation, the one from Suzanne Goin's Sunday Suppers at Lucques. I first had these at her Los Angeles restaurant on my 40th birthday.

If you've never made short ribs, I suggest you start here. They are really quite simple: just a matter of assembling the ingredients, browning the meat and throwing it in the oven for 3 hours. Plan ahead, as these are at their best when you marinate them overnight, cook them, and then let them chill overnight again so you can easily remove all that fat from the pan juices. Trust me, it's worth a little forethought. So if you want to serve them on Saturday, begin the recipe on Thursday. (It's all part of my master plan to get you to start thinking about your meals in advance, planning, scheming, daydreaming, balancing your diet and getting into a rhythm of eating well...)
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Yet another reason why I want you to own a mortar and pestle: It's so much fun to make your own garlicky mayonnaise. The one above is flecked with saffron, but you can have fun creating exactly the flavors you like—lemony, salty, herbal, garlicky... Hellmann's certainly has its place but there's nothing like the wonderful, satiny texture and rich taste of real homemade.

What to do with it once you've got a cup of the glorious stuff? Make it the dipping sauce for a beautiful platter of fresh and lightly blanched seasonal vegetables. Stir it into boiled or roasted and chopped new potatoes. Dip your steamed artichoke leaves into it. Add chopped pickles, capers, parsley and a pinch of cayenne for a delicious adult tartar sauce. Pound some watercress or basil with it to make a green mayonnaise, great with cold roasted chicken or fish. Add mustard or horseradish and some pan juices and serve with a roast beef. Stir in a little anchovy paste and serve with cold roast veal. Add half a teaspoon of ground cumin and slather on your lamb burger. Beginning to get the idea? You don't really need a mortar and pestle to make this—it's great for pounding the garlic, but not everyone wants their mayonnaise garlicky, and a bowl and whisk or fork also work fine.
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One of the many nice things I've discovered in moving up to the country is that I can do a bit more ruminating. Not in the most literal sense, of course. I've only got one stomach (although sometimes it may look like two). And unlike cattle, goats, sheep, giraffes, bison, yaks, water buffalo, deer, camels, alpacas, llamas, wildebeest and antelope (I love lists), I am not required to chew my cud. But I do find that I now have time to tromp up an abandoned fire road in the rose-colored dusk, side-stepping slick patches of ice; or stare into the fire mesmerized as I absently stroke the cat's underfluff; or lie on the couch in a rare pool of afternoon sunshine, daydreaming of shallot-beef broth with cheese dumplings or buckwheat crepes or lemon soufflé (all three coming soon, I promise). And during those moments, I can turn a few thoughts over in my mind. Like common pebbles in a tumbler, they start to lose their rough edges, give off a greater luster. Maybe. Anyway, one of the things I've lately been runimating on, if you will, is my estrangement from cow's milk.
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