We grew a cabbage this year. It may not sound that impressive, but it is. For years, our attempts at growing cabbages were foiled by one thing or another. Worms. Heat. Destiny. But this year one perfect dusky purple specimen prevailed. We haven't picked it yet. It sits there in its corner next to the collards as silent and perfect as the Buddha. Eating it will feel like a sacrificial act, so it must be prepared with reverence. This roasted version of a classic German dish is one possibility. Its sweet-sour balance is lovely. Stuffed cabbage also comes to mind at this time of year. Fall is in the air, my friends. A squirrel with the energy and determination of a Jack Russel terrier has been running back and forth across the yard all day, ferrying pine cones to his hiding spot. Good thing our cabbage is too big for him.
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I have a culinary crush on Alison Roman. She's an editor at Bon Appétit and, lately, so many of the recipes I grativate toward there are created by her. The magazine has a one-page feature towards the front that always showcases a single ingredient—like grapefruit or peanut butter or pomegranate—and several interesting ways to cook with it. In the March issue, it's cabbage and, though all three recipes look great, it was Alison's that really jumped out at me. It's for cabbage chips, an unusual idea and especially timely now that kale chips are wearing a bit thin. (Blasphemy, I know.) Pieces of tender cabbage—you're instructed to use the inner leaves—are roasted in a low oven for a couple of hours. They pass through a slightly stinky phase, when the cabbage wafts a bit of sulphur, and wind up with a sweet, concentrated vegetal flavor and a nice crispy crunch. I devoured these and felt positively virtuous.
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I have always had a passion for beets. Never a picky eater, I enjoyed these somewhat polarizing purple root vegetables from an early age. I can still remember the thrill of seeing my pee, subtly pink, circling the bowl. In college, I seemed to be the only one helping myself to Harvard beets, a sweet-tart staple of the dining hall salad bar. Although beets are now widely embraced as part of the unavoidable farm-to-table syndrome, they rarely make an appearance in our home as they are one of the few things for which my husband simply does not care. With their assertive color and distinctive earthy sweetness, they're not exactly the sort of thing you can just slip into a dish. Although I may roast a few on occasion for my own consumption, I am not in the habit of adding them to our morning juice or recreating the divine beet crumble from The Fat Radish. So you can imagine my delight when G urged me to go ahead and make that borscht I was daydreaming about. Not that I needed his permission, but it's kind of lonely to cook up a whole pot of soup and then have to eat it alone. Cooking for one is a very specific thing that lends itself more to simple pastas, elaborate salads and the occasional pot pie, don't you think?
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There are days when you wander into the kitchen feeling vague and slightly grumpy, with no particular plan in mind and the dinner hour approaching. You haven't made it to the market, you haven't defrosted anything. You throw open the fridge and gaze into the frozen tundra. The forlorn assembly of half-empty containers and shrunken, foil-wrapped leftovers seems to offer no hope. You root around in the pantry, coming across dusty bags of dried porcini and mystifying jars of grains. And then, inspiration strikes: I'll order takeout! Lucky you. Those of us who live far from the madding crowds (and from any semblance of civilization) cannot simply pick up the phone one minute and be sitting down to world-class dan dan noodles the next. Instead, we must dig down deep and practice the art of fridge foraging. This special ability, a sort of sophisticated version of dumpster diving, is what separates the dames from the ditzes—in the kitchen at least.
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I'm a terrible friend. I've been horribly remiss in preparing you for the grand holiday feast. I'm (sort of) ashamed to admit that I don't have a backlog of my own recipes and accompanying photos to offer you here, so I'm going to do another of my motley compendiums. Above is the roast leg of lamb with garlic sauce that I will be serving my sister and niece on the first night of their visit. Here's the recipe. It looks pretty easy and, as a recent convert to lamb, I'll be sticking my thermometer in and not trusting my own instincts. I recommend you do the same. On the side there will be a rich and buttery puree of celeriac and potato—do you really need a recipe? Oh hell, here's one. (I think I'll use buttermilk instead of the cream, though.) Also a simple arugula salad with a light champagne vinaigrette. For Christmas Eve dinner, we're invited to some friends' home for paella. I'm in charge of dessert; more on that another day. Inspired? Here's a slew of good-looking paella recipes.
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This is not about that traditional English dish of fried leftover vegetables. I'm actually referring to the lovely sounds that emerge from the jar when you make your own sauerkraut. More broadly, in fact, I want to tell you about the joys of lacto-fermentation. WTF?! you cry. What is she going on about now?! Yes, it's more of my kooky DIY. But you can't tell me that you don't love pickles. And this is one way to make them that doesn't require all that boiling and canning hassle. This is just you, your vegetables and some free-floating healthy bacteria! Lactobacilli are lurking everywhere, on the surface of all living things, especially anything growing on or near the ground. Put them to your own use and you've got all manner of delectable pickles like kimchi, sauerkraut and half-sour dills. Make no mistake: lacto-fermentation is not the same as pickling in a vinegar brine. I was amazed to see that my sauerkraut was simply salt, caraway seeds and cabbage; a dry mixture that, over a period of days, became juicy and sour and fragrant.
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If you want to make corned beef and cabbage for St. Patrick's Day, you're already too late! Sheesh. I went to investigate some recipes and saw that most call for brining the meat for 8 days. We've got 4. My brisket is very small (about 2 pounds), since it's just for G and me, but this is a great meal to feed a bunch of people—like a family with 6 kids perhaps? I wanted to get this post up quickly, in case you'd like to go to the market today and get your supplies. This recipe looks long and involved but it's actually pretty simple. I just made the pickling spices and the brine and got my meat squared away in about 12 minutes. There are hurricane warnings and flood alerts in effect today in Sullivan Country, but for some reason we're still determined to hit the road for a pilgrimage north to Delicacies of the Delaware—a fantastic smokehouse where we like to stock up on wonderful things from time to time. Hopefully we won't float away...
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