Condimental

You don't have to be Irish to love corned beef. Eastern European Jews are great connoisseurs of all manner of boiled meat, and New York deli is renowned for its sandwiches piled high with thin slices of this pink, juicy meat. But St. Patrick's Day is coming up a week from Thursday, and that gives you plenty of time (you only need about 5 days, which means you should get started by Saturday at the latest), and the perfect reason, to make your own this year. In its original, peasanty guise, this traditional fodder is as much about the vegetables: turnips, rutabagas, carrots, onions, parsnips, cabbage and plenty of spuds, of course. Not to mention delicious mustards and horseradish sauce. It's a dish meant to usher in spring by using up all those roots stored for the winter. The date for celebrating St. Patrick—a 5th-century English missionary who converted a load of pagans to Christianity—fell during the fasting season of Lent, but prohibitions against eating meat were lifted so the Irish could celebrate their patron saint with dancing, drinking and feasting on the traditional meal of Irish bacon and cabbage. If you make a big hunk of meat, you can share it with lucky friends, or hoard it to make such delectable offshoots as red flannel hash (with beets) and Reuben sandwiches (with homemade sauerkraut).
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It's time to talk turkey. Even the most experienced cooks can get a little flustered when it come to roasting such a large creature. Confusion starts with what kind of bird to buy and proceeds through whether or not to brine, to stuff or not, what temp, how long to rest, etc. It's all in pursuit of that deep brown, lacquered skin and meat that is not hideously dry. Some say the sole purpose of gravy is to restore moisture to that breast. There really is no definitive technique for roasting a turkey, although most professional chefs do recommend you cook it until the breast is done, and then cut off the legs and thighs to finish roasting separately while the breast rests. In a neat twist on that, this recipe has you brine the bird whole, then break it down and roast the legs and wings on top of the stuffing. Food for thought.

But most people simply can't abandon the Norman Rockwell image of that intact turkey perched on the carving board in all its golden glory. And for those of you who wish to hew to tradition (my dining companions included), I've gathered a few recipes for success. I've rarely actually been in charge of a turkey, depending as I do on the kindness of others for my Thanksgiving dinner. But some years ago I did make Martha's version with the breast draped in wine-&-butter-soaked cheesecloth, and I recall it being quite delicious. I didn't brine it first—I'm actually not sure that I've ever eaten a Thanksgiving turkey that's been brined! Not everyone is prepared to take that extra step, but I understand it makes an enormous difference. I love to eat the dark meat—and to gob mayonnaise and cranberry sauce on a leftover turkey sandwich—so dryness is not my particular bugaboo, but it looks like we're going the brining route this year.
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There comes a time every summer when I fetishize plums. When I lived in Los Angeles, I got to know many different varieties: Santa Rosa, Greengage (Reine Claude), Damson, pluots and more. And somewhere tucked away, I still have a recipe for a lightly sweet and dry cake studded with juicy Italian plums I got from the Times more than 2 decades ago. I'll share it with you a bit later in the summer, when those plums are at their peak. I prefer plums when they are ice cold and rather firm, juicy but still a little tart. Still, I'm not opposed to popping a yielding little sugarplum into my mouth and licking its sweet syrup from my fingers. But before I go all Nigella on you, I want to tell you about a quick and easy way to make spicy plum pickles. Sometimes you buy a few too many, or you just can't eat one more right now and they're about to pass their prime, and that's when you might consider this recipe.

You know how biscotti means “twice cooked” in Italian? Well, ricotta means “re-cooked.” I never knew why until I decided to investigate this wonderful light cheese. We associate it with Italian cooking but it's also traditional around Hanukkah, used to stuff blintzes or in cheesecake. It turns turns out that ricotta is made from whey, the low-fat and nutritious liquid that is a by-product of cheese production. Once cheese is made from the curds, a second cooking of the whey results in ricotta. I’ve actually perused quite a few recipes for ricotta, and hardly any mention this. They all call for making it with whole milk, some even adding cream, but this is not the traditional way and results in something quite a bit richer, albeit delicious, that is more along the line of farmer's cheese or fromage blanc. Splitting hairs, you say. And you may be right. If you're not making fresh cheese you probably won't have whey availalbe, so go ahead and make your rich and delicious ricotta from whole milk. (Try the recipe below.) Or buy the sinful version from Salvatore Brooklyn. They also have a smoked one that will make your toes curl under.
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I adore chutneys, with their wonderfully complex mix of flavors: hot, sour, salty, sweet. They're like a perfect storm for your tastebuds. This one combines tart rhubarb with dark brown sugar, cider vinegar, sour cherries and a host of spices and aromatics: cumin, coriander, garlic, hot chiles, ginger and fresh turmeric. Look for this last in an Indian market, or substitute a teaspoon of ground dried turmeric. It has a wonderfully bitter bite and a rich saffron color that will stain everything in sight.
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I've had some positive feedback on my round-ups of ingredients, so here's a new one for you. This time it's vinegar, in some of its many permutations. As children, my sisters and I called each other "Vinegar Pig." This originated from our love of drinking glugs of white vinegar straight from the bottle while dyeing Easter eggs. I've never been one to shy away from sour pickles or throat-scratchingly tart salad dressings, and I'm still known to take a swig from the bottle of balsamic, but I think by now I've learned how to employ vinegar to slightly more subtle effect.
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Have you discovered colatura di alici, an amber elixir of anchovy made around Italy's Amalfi coast for the last 2,000 years? Slow Food International has officially declared it a "protected" ingredient. (I ordered my first bottle online here.) When anchovies are salted for curing, they’re layered in wooden barrels, then pressed and weighted down. From small holes in the barrels drips this salty, funky syrup—thus the word colatura, from colare, “to drip” in Italian. Somehow, although more concentrated, it’s a bit less overtly fishy than anchovies. And it’s not quite as rank or muddy (or old gym sock-y) as Asian fish sauce—an essential pantry item, by the way. It's the modern version of garum, a fermented fish liquid (sometimes made from just their blood and guts) that was a sort of salt substitute in ancient Rome. The process was so smelly that production was apparently limited to outside the city walls!
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I love this expression and its somewhat arcane origins. Salt once had such value that wages were paid in it. I, for one, could not live without the stuff. Having taken you through alternatives to sugar yesterday, I suppose the correct symmetry would have me talking about salt substitutes here, such as they are—soy sauce or even Mrs. Dash, I suppose. But instead I'm going to wax lyrical about my favorite salts. Oh, come off it, you're saying, right? Once it hits your tongue, one salt's the same as the next. Not so. Both texture and taste can vary quite a bit from one salt to another. There's always kosher on hand in my kitchen but it's relegated to the back of the cupboard. I cook with fine sea salt and use all types of flavored and finishing salts to accent dishes. Call me a salt snob, if you will. I'll take it as a compliment.
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I'm winding down from my juice fast. Three days seems like enough this time. My emotions were very front and center today. This can happen when you fast. You become a little vulnerable. Seriously, I'm not being a drama queen. (I'm no Saint Teresa of Ávila, performing devotions of ecstasy, but allow me my little musings, won't you?) I've been working hard on some advertising projects for Target and I may need a few more carbohydrates for brain power. But I have definitely noticed how easy it is to get by on a lot less food. A LOT less. I'm going to try and remember that the next time I'm packing in three squares. OK, yes, I am talking about calorie restriction. (Gasp!) Apparently, it helps you live longer. Not entirely sure that's what I'm striving for; I'll settle for fitting into some of my skinnier jeans. I've just made a pot of very simple vegetable soup: onion, cabbage, celery, carrot, spinach and parsley. Big hunks of everything simmered together in water with a little salt, until it all gets soft. This is the perfect way to break a fast and it's actually quite delicious, clean-tasting and a little sweet. (Also good for when you're sick as it delivers a lot of vital green nutrition and doesn't tax your system.) It's best to come off a fast gently, although I've also been known to cram a fried chicken drumstick doused with Tabasco sauce in my mouth. This time, I'll hopefully segue to a hot pot for tomorrow evening, using my new donabe and a bunch of ingredients G picked up at Mitsuwa, the mecca for Japanese cooking (and eating) in Edgewater, New Jersey.

 

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