After avidly perusing London-based Yotam Ottolenghi's contributions to The New Vegetarian on The Guardian's website, and reading various reviews of his cookbook (including this one) as it swept the latest Piglet cookbook contest on Food52, I finally pulled the trigger and ordered my own copy of Plenty. It looks like there's an American edition coming out in March, but it's not such a big deal to convert to metric if you have a handy kitchen scale like this one. (I use mine constantly, it takes up no space at all, and is so worth the $35.) Ottolenghi, who owns four eponymous restaurants in the UK, is not a vegetarian himself, but the book contains 120 vegetarian recipes that reflect his Mediterranean background, his original and exciting use of fresh ingredients, and his passionate approach to vegetables. I can't wait to get my hands on my copy. In the meantime, I made one of his recipes published in The Guardian and it came out great. This crisp, fresh salad of celeriac, apple, quinoa and poppy seeds is lightly dressed with a tangy sweet-sour dressing.
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I don't want to harsh your mellow, and I do know that Thanksgiving is a special day—a time to throw caution to the wind and loosen your belt—but I just read that "more than half of Americans will have diabetes or be prediabetic by 2020, at a cost to the US health care system of $3.35 trillion, if current trends continue unabated." Staggering, no? To what trends does this refer? Too much processed food, too much sugar, too much fat. So I'd like you to reconsider the cream-laden dips and greasy chips that seem to be so popular for snacking on before the big turkey feast. All those cheese plates and fistfuls of roasted nuts that go so well with the wine and cocktails you'll inevitably be knocking back. Look, I'm no killjoy. I want you to indulge! But I also want you alive and healthy and fitting into your skinny jeans. So ponder some of these options, starting with a plate of fresh, crunchy, spicy watermelon radishes—in season now!—irresistible when sprinkled with flaky Maldon sea salt and perhaps drizzled with a little green olive oil. It's the perfect way to really wake up your palate.
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Here come the holidays and, with them, your family. Bickering, sibling rivalry, old grudges and the rapid backslide into childhood habits are mitigated by unconditional love and unlimited quantities of sugar and fat. Both my parents are dead, so I have absolutely no chance of recreating that perfect Rockwellian moment. Because I went to college so far from home, I have been glomming onto other people's Thanksgiving celebrations since I was 17 anyway. Now I am a part of G's family, and this year, along with his chef-in-training sister, I am responsible for the turkey. His mother has passed the torch. It's a big responsibility, but not one that can totally distract from the issue of side dishes. I suppose there are some families out there who are wildly experimental with their Thanksgiving menu, trying that mole sauce with the turkey one year, stirring coconut milk and chiles into their sweet potatoes, maybe even passing a post-prandial doobie. But it seems that, for the most part, people really like to stick with TRADITION, even if it means that repellent green bean casserole topped with canned onions. Or having both sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes. The root vegetable is really very popular at this meal, and rightly so. Its earthy sweetness is the essence of comfort food. Try making these sweet and spicy garnet yams (no marshmallows, please), cubed and blitzed in the oven along with some pancetta, while the turkey is being carved. And keep reading to discover the very best mashed potatoes ever. Trust me on this.
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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.
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Although nori was originally a more generic word in Japanese, referring to a variety of seaweed types, it now refers only to the red alga Porphyra, sometimes known as laver. Nori is produced through a highly advanced form of agriculture, grown attached to nets suspended at the sea surface. It is processed in a method very similar to what was used for making paper in Japan, and the final product is a translucent, greenish-black dried sheet that's about 7"x8". As with most things Japanese, nori is available in several grades. At the high end is delicate shin-nori from the first of the year's several harvests, which can cost up to $50 per sheet. I buy the roasted yakishushi nori, which would be familiar to you from its use as a sushi wrap. It can also be toasted and flavored for use in other dishes or finely shredded and scattered on rice or stir fries. It is faintly saline with a distinctive marine flavor that is rich in umami. It toasts up quickly in the oven and, when brushed with a little sesame oil and sprinkled with sea salt and sesame seeds, it's crunchy and positively addictive. Oh, and virtually calorie-free.
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I woke up yesterday with an enormous zit on my chin. One of those under-the-skin whoppers that can really mess with your head—literally. Mine is practically tilted to one side. TMI? It was all because of a sudden influx of cheese into my life—starting with that truffled gratin at Eataly, followed by an aged gouda with cumin, then some extra sharp Sicilian pecorino and culminating with an unhealthy dose of cream cheese frosting while creating a birthday cake for the lovely Stephanie. Too much cheese—or dairy in general—inevitably leads to the dreaded blemish. It's my body's (humiliating and uncomfortable) way of letting me know it's had enough. I'm hoping that cutting out flour, sugar and dairy, while amping up the green juice and vegetables, will right my ship. Now, back to that cake. Stephanie has been losing weight by eating low-fat for the better part of a year, and weeks ago she put in her request for an appropriate carrot cake to be served at her birthday dinner. (The rest of the dinner featured this tasty bouillabaisse.) I was determined to bake something that lived up to my gold standard from the original Silver Palate cookbook, a divine confection made with corn oil, whole eggs, walnuts and coconut, and frosted with dreamy swirls of cream cheese-&-butter icing. Delicious, yes, but hardly low-fat. How then to replicate the rich texture and flavor without derailing my friend's diet?
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I met the impossibly dashing Albano through my friend Lisa when I visited her in Singapore several years ago. He's a dapper Australian designer of Italian extraction with impeccable taste in all things. Our friendship has been sustained mostly through Facebook, one of the very few reasons I can't be totally cynical about "social networking." He has been kind enough to share with me a couple of flawless recipes for what can best be described as tea cakes, those simple homey loaves you slice up and serve alongside a cup of something hot. Both of them allude ever-so-slightly to his Asian environs; one is made with kabocha squash, the other with Japanese sweet potato and seaweed. Toasted and buttered, with jam or just plain, a slice of these bread-like cakes hits the spot at breakfast, too.

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The great pumpkin returns, this time in the tender little dumplings known as gnocchi, meaning "lumps" in Italian. Probably of Middle Eastern origin, they were introduced by the Roman Legions during the enormous expansion of the empire. At that time, gnocchi were made from a porridge-like semolina dough mixed with eggs, which bears a resemblance to the saffron-infused basis for malloreddus, Sicily's signature dumpling. Although potato is what you'll see most often, pumpkin or any sort of squash also make a wonderful addition to these chubby nuggets. The key is to ensure their lightness by using as little flour as possible. If you can get your hands on a kabocha squash (sometimes called Japanese pumpkin), you'll find that their dense, dry flesh can make up the bulk.

 

The making of gnocchi is not an exact science. You take pumpkin or squash, flour, a little egg, some grated cheese and you mix it together to make a dough. You don't want to beat it or knead it a great deal as this can rob it of some of the quintessential lightness that makes gnocchi so irresistible. You roll the dough into long snake-like coils and chop these into the bite-sized pieces you will begin to recognize. Push a fork into each one to create the signature striations so adept at catching sauce and you're done. Simply plop them into boiling water until they float, then scoop them out and serve with brown butter and sage. Or, as I prefer, sear them next in a hot pan with a little olive oil or butter so they get a bit crisp, then top them with anything you like: roasted tomatoes, sauteed mushrooms, a scoop of ricotta, pesto, virtually anything goes.

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A surfeit of green tomatoes had me racking my brain—and scanning the web—for recipes that called for neither frying nor pickling. I came across one that looked pretty easy and interesting on Melissa Clark's blog. You've probably read her column in the Times, but may not know that she has collaborated with all the best chefs on a zillion cookbooks, including Daniel Boulud's Braise, a particular favorite of mine around this time of year. (It features fantastic recipes for short ribs; grouper with fennel and cashews; and carbonnade with Belgian beer and gingerbread, among many others.) So she knew what she was doing when she threw together this dish of country-style pork ribs slow-braised with green tomatoes, citrus and vermouth. And, if I do say so myself, I knew what I was doing by serving it with fresh, warm cornbread.
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We had tons of yellow cherry tomatoes from two plants this summer, and they continued to produce long after I could figure out what to do with them. They filled bowls and trays, rolled around our kitchen counter, and generally beamed up at me like small blonde children. In the end, I came up with a perfect way to preserve—and even intensify—their sunny sweetness. I simply roast them in the oven at a relatively low temperature and then pack them into jars with olive oil. Are you familiar with Craisins? They are Ocean Spray's attempt to make dried cranberries more palatable by piggybacking on the popularity of raisins. Well, in a stroke of pure marketing genius, I have dubbed mine Tomaisins. Although they aren't totally desiccated, and I don't especially foresee adding them to trail mix, I think they have a lot of potential.

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