As I write this, I can hear the steady thud of logs being stacked in our screened-in porch. We're expecting a major snowstorm in these parts and that requires preparation. With a fire in the hearth and soup on the stove, coziness is assured. G does firewood; I do soup. Between us, we get it done. A few warmer days last week and, despite an ensuing freeze, the butterburs emerged from beneath their blanket of pine needles. These common plants, known as petasites, belong to a genus of the sunflower family that also includes coltsfoots. Perennials with thick, creeping underground rhizomes, they spread over the years and their large, rhubarb-like leaves are fodder for slugs in the summer. But their beautiful, cold-hardy buds are a late-winter/early-spring delicacy in Japan, where Petasites japonicus, also known as fuki, grows like a weed. I was lucky enough to receive some of these plants a few years ago from my Japanese friend Tomo and they have adapted well to my garden (lots of shade and pine). 

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I guess the photo tips you off that isn't a typo. And the gardeners out there are probably familiar with a corm. Also known as a bulbotuber, it's a short, swollen underground plant stem that's like a bulb, though when cut in half it appears solid rather than layered. That's what a water chestnut is—the corm of a grass-like sedge that grows in marshes, underwater in the mud. Eleocharis dulcis is native to China and cultivated in flooded paddy fields all over Asia, as well as in warmer stateside climates like California and Florida. You've undoubtedly eaten them at your local Chinese restaurant, maybe even opened a can of them to add to your stir-fries. I've always enjoyed their satisfyingly juicy crunch and slightly bland, sweet flavor, not unlike jícama. But only recently did I try fresh water chestnuts and the scales fell from my eyes. 

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Before I move on to telling you about the best baked beans on the planet, a few words of business. The new print feature, which allows you to print a formatted pdf of recipes, is up and running, but only works on recipes that have been coded. For now, that is only new recipes, but I am working furiously to get the rest done. As they are coded, they will also begin to appear in my new recipe archive (on the right hand side), which you'll be able to use to scan through content. Make sense? All in good time, my lovelies, all in good time.And now, to the beans. I debated calling these "Bean Candy," because they are so sweet, sticky and luscious. They are the ultimate summer side dish but so substantial I prefer to think of them as the centerpiece. These beans are a great example of how you can use just a bit of meat as flavoring while having a high-fiber, nutritious meal. We recently enjoyed them with a pan of hot cornbread and some spicy red cabbage slaw. It definitely did not feel like anything was missing.
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G is wild about octopus. At Fairway, he'll often grab a container of vinegary octopus salad that makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck when I come across it in the fridge. OK, I admit it, I'm a bit of an octopussy. I find its alien appearance—the purply sheen, the suction cups, the encephalitic head—rather unnverving. I've sampled some delicious octopus dishes in my time, usually by taking a bite from G's plate. It's almost always served  grilled: in a salad with bamboo shoots and pickled chiles at Momofuku; with discs of buttery potato and smoky chorizo at Colicchio & Sons; and, recently, in a tasty salad at Eataly. But it's not really something I order (I still pick around the tentacles on a plate of calamari, and I can't abide the spidery crackle of a soft shell crab), and certainly not a food I have ever welcomed into my kitchen.

So when G brought home two enormous, slimy purple tentacles and announced his intent to cook them up, I was something between horrified and awe-struck. But soon I was googling away, and read about an octopus dish made at Le Bernardin, that temple of all things from the sea. It called for first braising the octopus in a rich chorizo broth, then marinating it in miso before being charring it to order. I don't know about you, but you could do that to a shoe and I would eat it.
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Although there's a lot to be said for a chicken roasted in the classic manner, and I'm quite pleased with my own herb-laden, butter-smeared Scarborough Fair version, I may never make it again. Why? Because that gorgeously bronzed, deceptively simple chicken pictured above is quite possibly The Best Chicken Ever. At least that's what my guests claimed as they scarfed it down the other night.  And you'll probably concur. I strongly urge you to make it right away. The recipe is from Tim Wu who shoots the videos for Food52, where it was an editor's pick and garnered quite an impressive number of fans. (Misoyaki means grill in Japanese.) He has you marinate the bird in a paste of red miso and sweet mirin before popping it in a hot oven. As it roasts, you make a sauce of onions, garlic, soy sauce and mirin that is finished with a little butter and more miso. It's incredibly easy and the chicken emerges so juicy and full of flavor, with a crisp, salty, caramelized skin that's truly delectable. The onion sauce would seem like gilding the lily if it didn't go so perfectly with the rice you'll be serving alongside. I like a Japanese short grain, preferably the brown kind, if you can find it. Cook up some greens (we had quick-sauteed collards) and you've got a simple meal that's impressive enough for company but easy enough to make all the time. Which you will want to.
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Not sure how many of you read New York magazine, but I wanted to point out that we scooped them this week! (Did I say "we"? I guess I mean me, and of course, you, gentle reader.) They featured a round-up of salts that followed on the heels of mine, and I was pleased to note that food critic Adam Platt's favorite is the same: Maldon sea salt. This whole round-up idea seems to be a hit around here, so I will plan to offer more. Next up, sometime in the near future: vinegars.Of late I have been obsessed with the notion of creating a miso-butterscotch pudding. You can imagine just by looking at that photo of miso, above, how these two luscious flavors might go well together, right? I need an afternoon to putter around in the kitchen and develop this recipe; hopefully some time will free up soon. I'm betting most of you don't eat much miso, but I think you'd really like it. It's produced by fermenting soy beans (or rice, barley, buckwheat and even hemp) with salt and a fungus (koji), and the resulting flavor is variously described as salty, sweet, earthy, fruity and savory. (Hello, umami?) There are different types of miso—red, white, yellow, mixed—and they are all subtly different. Generally, yellow miso is slightly sweete; red miso is stronger and saltier; and white, commonly used for miso soup, is the most delicate. Apparently some of the nutrition in miso—including zinc, phosphorus, manganese, protein and copper—is destroyed through cooking, so it's often stirred into dishes late in the game. I'm sure you've had miso soup, right? A dashi broth with the paste stirred in at the end. Recently on Food52, someone submitted a recipe for oatmeal with miso stirred in after cooking. There are quite a few ways to incorporate this versatile seasoning—spread it on a sandwich, mix it into salad dressing, into rice, even into mashed potatoes. I recently posted a recipe for short ribs with miso. It's actually quite versatile, and can lend its earthy, salty goodness to many foods beyond Asian cuisine. Stay tuned for the miso-butterscotch pudding, but meanwhile here are a couple of easy ways for you to try it.

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