I'm up to my eyeballs in greenery. We've had SO MUCH rain that the entire landscape is like a sopping chartreuse sponge. The bleeding hearts are blooming, the ferns have unfurled and the weeds are seriously out of control. I'm a little overwhelmed, frankly, what with G laid up in bed and the planting still ahead of me. The storm windows need to come out and the screened-in porch needs cleaning and repair from storms and raccoons... How will it all get done? There's been some mention of a handyman, and I'm looking forward to the moment one actually materializes. Up here in Sullivan County, much is promised and little delivered. Not that I'm complaining. The change in weather has also brought ramps, scallions, rhubarb, asparagus and the prospect of an excellent growing season. Until our own crops start to come in (ages from now, possiblynever), I'll continue to forage from the local farmers markets which are up and running. This past weekend I scooped up 10 bunches of ramps to pickle (recipe coming). Also 2 gorgeous bunches of scallions which I'll use to make Francis Lam's delicious scallion-ginger sauce (recipe also coming), great with dumplings, poached chicken or even as the basis of a salad dressing. The greens from both ramps and scallions I use for a divine, jade-colored pesto.
Read More...

It’s hot and rainy here in Indonesia, and so far I haven’t managed to do more than catch up on sleep and wander around the hotel. Any hopes I had of going sight-seeing with G were dashed the moment I clapped eyes on his leg: scarily mottled and swollen, his toes like little sausages. Not to mention the 8” incision through which they inserted two titanium plates and seven screws. I’ll venture out into the city on my own eventually but for today, the 5th of May, I'm content to do a little armchair traveling to another part of the globe: Mexico. It’s Cinco de Mayo, not Mexican Independence Day as so many seem to believe (that’s September 6th), but a date observed in the United States as a celebration of Mexican heritage and pride, and in one part of Mexico as a commemoration of the army’s unlikely 1862 victory over French forces at the Battle of Puebla. If you lack the time or inclination to make something like my mother’s chile relleno casserole or my green chicken enchiladas, but still want to skew south of the border, maybe you’ll try one of these salsa recipes from Saveur magazine. (This month's issue is devoted to Mexican cuisine.) Salsa simply means “sauce,” and variations extend well past the fresh-tomato-onion-chile-cilantro pico de gallo we all know (and love) so well. They’re quick and easy to throw together, pack a huge punch of flavor and are endlessly versatile. Beyond scooping them up with tortilla chips, you can serve them with grilled chicken or fish, stir them into scrambled eggs, spoon them into quesadillas, or whip them into mayonnaise to slather on fresh seafood or a steak sandwich.
Read More...

Certain foods just have a universal appeal. Consider the dumpling, for instance. It's found in so many cultures, this rose by any other name: knedlíky (Czech), kreplach (Jewish), pantrucas (Chile), manti (Armenia), ravioli (Italy), buuz (Mongolia), pangsit (Indonesia), dim sum (China), gyoza (Japan), mandu (Korea)...the list goes on and on. Yogurt—and soured milk of all kinds—may not be quite as common, especially given that many African and Asian countries don't do dairy, but among those that do it's a deeply-held tradition. From straight-up yogurt to crème fraîche to quark to ricotta to paneer to Mexico's indigenous Nahuatl jocoque árabe, people have long been introducing bacteria or acid to milk with delectable results. Greek yogurt has become hugely popular in this country over the last few years, thanks in no small part to the ubiquitous Fage (pronounced "fa-yeh") brand and now Chobani, too. It's simply yogurt which has been strained to remove the whey, giving it a much denser, creamier texture. Sometimes this style of yogurt is even enriched with extra butterfat or powdered milk.
Read More...

My passionate love of beets dates back to my early childhood. I can remember staring delightedly into the toilet as a lovely pink-tinged rinse circled the bowl. Their gorgeous color is a way of signaling how rich they are in minerals and antioxidants. (Beet juice, incidentally, makes a wonderful dye. Stay tuned for the transformation of my new white linen caftan!) The beets we know and eat are descended from the sea beet, Beta vulgaris subsp. maritima, which is native to the coasts of Europe, North Africa and southern Asia. Also known as wild spinach, it's the common ancestor of beetroot, sugar beet and Swiss chard.In my desire to help you squeeze the maximum out of your winter store of root vegetables, I can't forget to mention these wine-colored jewels. We don't eat them much in our house because G is not fond of them—something which is apparently rather common among men. I wonder why? He thinks they taste of dirt, which of course they do, but isn't that the whole point? I love them in all their guises—raw, steamed, roasted and pickled—and will often indulge when the cat's away.
Read More...

I arose this morning to the deep silence of new-fallen snow, a world blanketed white. Today is a holiday. An opportunity to putter about guilt-free, reading yesterday's paper, enjoying a leisurely cup of chai. Thoughts turn to the cubes of lamb I pulled from the freezer to defrost overnight. Something warming is in order, a comforting braise of some sort, but nothing that requires too much work. Perhaps a spicy vindaloo is just the thing. It can marinate for hours, and then G can stir it on the stovetop while I'm at yoga this evening. A group effort, and yet not much effort at all. Brown rice, sauteed spinach and a little raita. That's dinner on this Meaty Monday. A day off for you might mean ordering in, but it's actually much more indulgent to inhale the wonderful smells of aromatics and spices, knowing that a delicious curry is in your future.

I'm a sucker for citrus. It's such a relief when oranges, grapefruit and lemons begin flooding in from California and Florida at this time of year. Although I adore very tart lemons, I also love the lightly sweeter and more perfumey Meyer variety. Their smooth, thin skin is an electric golden yellow that seems to compensate, just a bit, for the lack of sunshine these days. I grabbed an armload at Fairway yesterday and, since they are a bit fragile and don't keep for so long, I'm going to immediately turn them into syrup and marmalade. The former will make wonderfully refreshing spritzers, especially with the addition of fresh rosemary. The latter will nicely cut through the rich fattiness of roasts or perhaps even our Christmas goose. And, of course, you can always preserve some lemons, as I've done again this year. Here's a recipe from last spring, along with one for chicken tagine, and a place to order organic Meyer lemons, if you're so inclined.
Read More...

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.
Read More...

Ever since I ate the carrot-and-avocado salad at ABC Kitchen, Jean-Georges Vongerichten's new Manhattan bastion of "farm-to-table" cuisine, I've rekindled my passion for this most common root vegetable. Fear not, I will soon be posting my interpretation of this salad, which involves coating the carrots in a light film of cumin, chile and lemon juice before roasting them to tender perfection. It's truly extraordinary how they become almost meaty. But this is about another carrot salad. It's not wholly unlike the one you'll be presented with at virtually every meal in Morocco, though that tends to be sweeter, more cumin-intensive and full of raisins. This carrot salad is bright with mint and cilantro and spiked with harissa, a wonderfully complex North African spice paste you can find in specialty grocers or online. Or you can whip up a batch yourself; it keeps for ages in the fridge. Either way, the point it to make this salad soon as it will become a new favorite.
Read More...

Scared you, didn't I? You thought this was going to be about some weird condiment made with offal. This chutney is definitely assertive in its own right, but it is strictly vegetarian. It is, however, from the original nose-to-tail chef, Fergus Henderson of St. John in London. I've never met Fergus, nor have I eaten in any of his restaurants, but I love the man. His seminal cookbook, Nose to Tail Eating: A Kind of British Cooking, is a window into his wonderfully warm, witty and ultimately quite sensible approach to food and life. (Did I mention he has Parkinsons?) You've never seen a less fussy cookbook. He doesn't get all bothered about quantities or times, but rather helps you to be an intuitive cook. Some choice phrases: "Do not be afraid of cooking, as your ingredients will know and misbehave." (As though an onion was a young horse feeling its oats!) Eating aoli "should be an emotional experience." And, with regard to this chutney, "There is nothing finer, after having a good stock up your sleeve, than having a reserve of chutney." I believe we've conquered the stock thing, and so are ready to proceed to this very British, quite rustic and highly addictive chutney.
Read More...

Having already waxed poetic about peaches, I feel I must give these luscious apricots their due. Seldom have I seen such perfect specimens, firm yet yielding, their golden hue tinged with a pink blush. I find that so often apricots can be mealy and tasteless, but these are a revelation: sweet-tart, juicy, with a delicate perfume all their own. I came away from the farmstand with 7 quarts and every intention of replicating the vanilla-scented jam my mother-in-law so enjoyed 2 years ago. If you've never made jam, let me just warn you that most recipes call for what seems like an obscene amount of sugar, but there is another way. This time I decided to make a batch using some powdered pectin and relatively small amounts of sugar and honey. Sadly, I wasn't totally thrilled with the results. I found the jam to be less crystalline; it seemed to have a slightly cloudy and over-gelled quality. I probably need to experiment a bit more, with quantities and timing, but I just haven't had the extra time lately. So for now, I'm going to put these up the old-fashioned, and use organic sugar. It's not like jam is something that gets eaten by the cupful anyway...
Read More...