Odds and Ends

This summer my time in New York has largely been spent indoors, avoiding the wall of heat just beyond my front door.  Rather than skipping through the streets in sundresses and kicky sandals in the pure bright sun, my activities have resembled those I might undertake in the deep of winter more than in the height of summer.  So to that end, I have spent most of the last week immersed in DVDs of Season 1 of Friday Night Lights, which is my excuse for the light posting this week.

I came to this show late...Season 4 I believe...but became instantly obsessed.  A friend of mine from Texas turned me onto it, promising that the show resembled his adolescent experience in the great republic to a frightening degree.  Watching Season 1, seeing where it all began for the cast of characters I've come to know and love, is like listening to a successful yet enigmatic acquaintance with a knack for storytelling reveal to you how they got to where they are today.  Engrossing and illuminating in equal measures.

But that said, the crippling heat has broken, which means that I can tear myself away from the TV and once again face cooking.  This time of year makes me yearn for full vegetable drawers, counters piled with delicate summer fruit but oddly, a relatively empty freezer and pantry.  I like to stock up when the cold weather is approaching, and I like a clean slate against which to do it.  Which means that I spend a lot of time over the summer months trying to figure out how to use odds and ends in creative and delicious ways.

There aren't too many food traditions in my family...everyone has always like to experiment so repeated dishes were few and far between.  But I have inherited the delicious poppyseed bread recipe, a love of farmers markets and the inability to throw out a banana.  The majority of my family members have almost always got a bunch of blackened overripe bananas in the freezer.  I am of course no different, so the other day set out to figure out a home for a bunch of my own.

 
I was also trying to figure out a use for a stray bit of quinoa, so turned to my favorite source of whole grain quickbread recipes, Deborah Madison.  She of course had the perfect recipe...quinoa muffins.  I made a loaf rather than muffins and threw in some bananas in place of some of the yogurt.  Perfectly crunchy exterior, golden (in look and taste) interior, I was very pleased with the home I'd found for my dwindling supplies.

Quinoa Banana Bread
adapted from Deborah Madison's Quinoa Muffin recipe


1 cup cooked or 1/2 cup raw quinoa
1 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1 cup quinoa flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
1 egg
1/4 cup butter, melted, or vegetable oil
3/4 cup yogurt or buttermilk
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 ripe bananas, mashed

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.  Spray or oil one loaf pan.

If cooking quinoa, rinse it well, put it in a small saucepan with 1 cup of water, and bring to a boil.  Simmer, covered, until the water is absorbed, about 15 minutes, then drain.

Meanwhile, combine the flours, salt, soda and sugar in a mixing bowl (sift if you so desire).  Beat the egg with the oil, buttermilk and vanilla, and then mix in the mashed banana.  Stir the wet ingredients into the dry, add the quinoa, and mix with a spatula, scraping up from the bottom so that the flour is mixed in thoroughly.  Pour the batter into the loaf pan and bake until firm and light brown on top, 50-60 minutes.

A Lull

After the initial euphoria that comes with the dawning of spring, there comes a lull.  The novelty of asparagus and peonies has worn off, and as welcome a sight as the arugula, chard and mustard greens are, they cannot stand up to the sexiness of the coming summer fruits and vegetables.  So it is at this time of year that I always turn to rhubarb for a little pick-me-up.

Is it a fruit, is it a vegetable?  Who knows, who really cares in the end.  It's the oddity of it that I like, the bracing tartness disguised as a rosy celery.

In past years I've always stuck to roasting or slow cooking it to make a compote, to be eaten with yogurt for breakfast or for a particularly austere dessert.  And this year I did allocate a bit of my stash to that use, as I find it comforting to have a jar of this astringent mush in the refrigerator.  A bit of white wine (perfect way to use up that last bit of a bottle that's been in the fridge a smidge too long), sugar and orange zest mixed together and then a half hour in a 350 degree oven and I had some gorgeous, restorative spoon food.

But I had gone a bit overboard at the farmer's market and had armloads of rhubarb stalks in my refrigerator.  With the sparkling, warm weather of late I've had summery cocktails on the brain, so it seemed only appropriate to make a bit of rhubarb syrup that might be added to prosecco, gin rickeys or whatever else strikes your fancy.  Perhaps a rhubarb Italian soda would be nice for those non-imbibers?

I simmered pieces of rhubarb with enough water to nearly cover the stalks, some orange rind and a sprinkling of sugar until all of the pink had been leached from the rhubarb.  Once the mixture had been strained I added a bit more sweetness via my favorite new discovery, agave syrup (I know I'm late to the party on this one but I do love it just the same) and decanted into a cute little bottle I picked up at the Container Store.  I think this may be my obsession for the summer...fruity syrups.  Hibiscus syrup is next on my list.

And lastly, more to use up some tart dough I had in the refrigerator from this recipe over at 101 Cookbooks than anything else, I made a rhubarb and ricotta crostata.  And just because I was feeling my domestic goddess bones at the time, I made the ricotta.  The undertaking was not particularly hard (I have to say the lemon juice method you may find online did not work at all for me, but the buttermilk method was a breeze), and is most certainly worth the effort if you don't have access to outstanding ricotta, but frankly Di Palo's ricotta was better than mine.  But at least my curiosity about the matter has now been satisfied.      

So after a bit of rolling, stirring, chopping and baking, I was left with this, to be enjoyed morning noon and night, whenever the mood might strike.

Perhaps onto Jamie Oliver's rhubarb-stuffed duck next?


Rhubarb Crostata

1 batch of tart dough (I often use Martha Stewart's incomparable pate brisee recipe, but I love the whole grains in this recipe as well)

Ricotta Filling

7 oz fresh ricotta, drained in a colander lined with a paper towel or cheesecloth unless your ricotta is already quite dry

2 teaspoons sugar

zest of 1/2 of an orange

Rhubarb Filling

9 oz rhubarb (1 1/2 stalks, about 2 cups), sliced into 1/4 inch slices

3 tablespoons sugar

zest of 1/2 of an orange

pinch of salt

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Stir together the rhubarb filling ingredients and leave to macerate.  Stir together the ricotta filling ingredients, making sure to smooth the ricotta as you do so.

Roll dough into a circle of about 1/4 inch in thickness, and transfer to a parchment lined baking sheet.  

Spread the ricotta in a circle in the center of the dough, leaving an approximately 2-inch border on all edges.  Then pile the rhubarb on top of the ricotta, including any juice that may have accumulated.  Fold edges of the dough over the side, partially covering the fruit.

Bake for approximately 40 minutes, until the fruit is bubbling and tender.

In the Raw

I spent many years feeling ambivalent towards asparagus.  It may have had something to do with the fact that I grew up in California and therefore had little sense of the seasons.  Near perfect weather year round (and access to great produce year round) makes the idea of a spring awakening seem absurd.

But now that I've been on the east coast long enough to have internalized the rhythms of a more extreme weather zone, spring and I have become very close friends indeed.  And as asparagus is one of the first harbingers of spring (and is considerably more delicious than ramps, another of the main indicators of spring), it has become one of my favorite vegetables.

In an effort to take full advantage of the asparagus season I have gotten in the habit of picking up a bunch of two at the Greenmarket each week, which means I have quite a few spears to contend with at any given time.  I've steamed them, poached them, blanched them, roasted them and thrown them in no end of pasta and risotto dishes.

But one evening as I was preparing the asparagus for dinner, washing the bunch and snapping off the tough ends, I noticed myself employing a "one for me, one for the pot" philosophy.  Crunching away on the raw asparagus I wondered why on earth I'd been bothering to cook it...asparagus is so delicious raw!  Assuming, I guess, that you have good farm fresh asparagus that is.

So I decided to take advantage of my access to such enviable asparagus and make a salad featuring the stuff.  Arugula (adult please, I can't take any more baby greens), a lemon vinaigrette and loads of parmesan cheese are, as it turns out, gorgeous accompaniments to my favorite vegetable of the season.

Arugula and Asparagus Salad

Vinaigrette

(I always make this in the bowl that I plan to serve the salad in to save washing up)

Juice of half of a lemon

Good pinch of salt

Olive oil to taste (I like it quite tart, but find the dressing is right once it becomes translucent assuming you are whisking consistently as the oil is added)

half a bunch of asparagus, tough ends snipped off, sliced in half inch intervals
a few handfuls of arugula, roughly chopped
a handful of grated parmesan

Whisk together vinaigrette in a good sized salad bowl.  Toss in asparagus and arugula, toss in vinaigrette.  Throw in parmesan and toss thoroughly.

Honor Thy Ancestors

When I was in grade school, I had a fascination with my family history. I suppose Paul, coming from a country with a considerably longer history than America, would say that was me searching for a past. Perhaps. But regardless, I loved learning about where I came from.


As it turns out I'm a European mutt, drawing an identity from no one particular country. Which I suppose makes sense. Whenever I travel in Europe people seem to think that I am from whatever country I happen to be in (until I open my mouth of course).


My sheepherding German relatives (who abandoned animal husbandry in the mid 19th century for the land of the free) gave me my last name but I don't consider myself "a German". I have Norwegian blood from my seafaring great grandfather, but am the least Scandinavian looking person you could ever find. I don't particularly identify with my Scottish ancestors (minor nobility who left for America once it became clear the family money wouldn't trickle down far enough to reach them) either.


But I do have a certain affection for the idea of my hardscrabble Polish (or Ukranian, depending on who you talk to) great grandmother who was sent to America as a young adolescent to live with family, presumably to avoid the poverty of her homeland. My sister once visited Poland and said she felt that she had somehow come home...everyone looked just like her.


So perhaps that is why at the age of eleven or so, at Christmas I absolutely insisted on making cabbage rolls, the food of my ancestors. After much blanching and rolling and braising, the result was...eh. Not exciting. I was disappointed in the food of my ancestors.


So when I received the latest issue of Martha Stewart Living, one of the many magazines I just signed up for using air miles I figure I will never get to use for an actual flight, I didn't focus too sharply on her recipe for Stuffed Savoy Cabbage initially. But something about it lodged in my mind, so I eventually felt compelled to come back to it and made a batch.


And it was a true revelation. I should probably mention as a disclaimer that I used some insanely expensive outrageously good meat from Dickinson's Farmstead Meat at Chelsea Market, but the flavors were bright and clear and really made me sit up and take notice. I can now take pride in the food of my eastern european predecessors...or at least in Martha Stewart's version of it.

Stuffed Savoy Cabbage With Beef, Pork and Rice in a Spicey Tomato Sauce
From Martha Stewart Living, January 2010


Serves 12


Tomato Sauce


28 ounces of whole peeled plum tomatoes
2 tablespoons olive oil
1/2 medium onion, chopped (1 cup)
2 garlic cloves, minced
1/8 teaspoon red pepper flakes
coarse salt


For the Stuffed Cabbage


coarse salt
1 large head Savoy cabbage
12 ounces ground chuck
12 ounces ground pork
2 cups cooked brown rice (from 1 cup)
1/2 medium onion, chopped (1 cup)
1/4 cup flat leafed parsley, chopped
1 tablespoons hot paprika (I used regular and threw in a pinch of cayenne)


1. Make tomato sauce: Pulse tomatoes with juice in tomatoes in food processor until finely chopped. Heat oil in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Add onion, garlic, and red pepper flakes. Cook, stirring constantly, until onion is tender, about 6 minutes. Add chopped tomatoes and juice. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, stirring occasionally, until slightly thick, about 20 minutes. Season with salt. Let cool completely.


2. Make the stuffed cabbage: Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add cabbage head, and cook until outer leaves are just tender, 3 to 4 minutes. Remove with a slotted spoon. Peel outer layers of leaves, and drain. Return remaining cabbage to water, and repeat until all leaves are cooked and removed. (I just peeled off a few leaves and blanched them independently of the remaining cabbage head). Pat each leaf dry with a kitchen towel. Select 12 large light-green leaves. Reserve remaining leaves for another use.


3. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Using 2 forks, gently stir together beef, pork, rice, onion, parsley, paprika, and 1 tablespoon salt.


4. Working with 1 leaf at a time, trim thick part of rib with a paring knife, leaving leaf intact. Arrange about 1/2 cup filling (less for smaller leaves) in center of each leaf. Fold stem end of cabbage over filling. Fold in sides of cabbage. Carefully roll cabbage over to form a package, overlapping ends to seal. Transfer each, seam side down, to a large, shallow baking dish.


5. Spread sauce over stuffed cabbage leaves. Cover with parchment-lined foil, and bake until cooked through and cabbage is tender, about 1 hour.

The Beginning of a Long Friendship

I confessed to a new obsession with tahini last week, and I assure you that it is not a fleeting affair. After making some absolutely addictive tahini sauce with which to anoint any and all meats, vegetables and grains, I simply could not get that jar of sesame paste out of my mind.

I pored over my cookbooks, searching for a dish showcasing tahini that wasn't a sauce. Despite my obscenely extensive collection, a fair few of which are books devoted to Middle Eastern cooking, I could not find one recipe that fit the bill. I was momentarily stumped. Clearly I would have to forge a new path on my own.

I started small...at breakfast, my favorite meal now and forever. I took a page from my dad's book to begin. He brilliantly pairs toast and peanut butter in the early hours, so I replaced one nut butter (or seed butter?) for the other. But tahini alone seemed overly austere, so I paired it with marmalade for tiny bit of luxury.

But even that was perhaps not enough of a counterbalance? Ah yes, honey.

Honey was it. Perfection. The marmalade was not bad, but the honey and tahini combination was utterly delicious.

I had dipped my toe in, and was ready to take the plunge. Tahini had worked so well in place of peanut butter in one instance, I had to assume that it would work in another. So I set about making tahini cookies.

After much googling and page flipping, I had settled upon a proportion of tahini, butter, sugar and flour that I felt confident in. I was then free to play around with the flavorings. Orange appealed, but I came across some lovely Meyer lemons at Chelsea Market so could hardly resist those. And after some very dedicated dough-tasting, I deemed the cookies in need of some spice, so a bit of cinnamon was enlisted for duty. After a bit of stirring and rolling and baking, I ended up with a stash of light, nearly flakey, tahini cookies.

A successful experiment indeed.

Tahini Cookies

yields 18 cookies

1/2 cup (100 grams) sugar

1/3 cup + 2 tablespoons (100 grams) tahini

7 tablespoons (100 grams) softened unsalted butter

zest of 1 Meyer lemon (or mix lemon and orange zest)

juice of 1/3 Meyer lemon (substitute orange or lemon or some combination)

3/4 teaspoon baking powder

pinch of kosher salt

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 1/2 cups (200 grams) whole wheat pastry flour

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. With an electric mixer combine sugar, tahini, butter, lemon juice and lemon zest until smooth. Sift together remaining ingredients, and add to tahini mixture. Once combined, the mixture will look a bit crumbly.

Roll the dough into balls approximately 1 inch in diameter. Place on a parchment-lined baking sheet and flatten slightly. These cookies will spread out a bit, so leave some room between them.

Bake for 15-18 minutes, until the cookies are slightly browned at the edges. Let cool for a bit on the sheet, then transfer to a cooling rack.

Home Fries

The "silly season" seems to have materialized this year suddenly and with a vengeance. I had nary a moment at home last week which, for one who appreciates the draw of the hearth as much as I do, was a bit discombobulating. Now don't get me wrong, I love a good party just as much as the next girl, but to go an entire week without eating at home is rare for me indeed.

Last Monday Paul and I attended, along with a couple of friends, a dress rehearsal of Sting's concert at St. John the Divine (the cathedral, which embarrassingly I had never set foot in before, was indeed divine). Our host had warned us ahead of time that there would be no hits played, and a sneak peek at the set list revealed that not only would there be no hits, but there would not be one song any of us recognized played that evening. I won't lie, I was nervous.

It turned out to be a delightful evening of wintry folkish songs in the end. Some sort of baby bagpipes were played by a fetching young woman who doubled as a extremely able fiddler, a lute made more than one appearance, and we were even serenaded by an adorable boy's choir from Newark. And Sting, decked out in a sexy version of Victorian men's garb, conversed with the audience. A very different vibe than I recalled from the Police tour a year or two ago.

Anyway, in his introduction, which the New York Times appropriately dubbed PBS-like, he described the draw of winter as being the idea of a cozy home serving as a oasis amidst the inclimate winter weather. Now when I think of cozy I think of fires in fireplaces. Tragically I do not have a fireplace. So my thoughts meandered to the warm spot in my apartment...the oven, which is quite heavily used in the winter months, and by extension the kitchen. And then obviously, my train of thought, as it so often does, settled on food as an endpoint.

As were were uptown, quite far from home, our need for food ended up being satisfied with some of Charles Gabriel's fabulous fried chicken even farther uptown. Mr. Gabriel's talent with a fry pan and extraordinary hospitality went quite a long way towards replicating the pleasures of home, but I was still craving something from my own stove.

So in a brief stolen moment at home I, thinking back to Sting's wise words, opted for something warm, unchallenging and fortifying. Potatoes are by far the most inspiring item at the farmer's market at the moment (I am not being sarcastic here, the varieties that Paffenroth brings week after week boggle the mind) so I had (and actually, still have) massive quantities of them on the kitchen counter. Home fries seemed the obvious choice. With such fabulous potato specimens why not let them shine, relatively unobscured?

I started with an onion sliced in half moons, and fried it slowly in olive oil until the pieces were meltingly tender. Next, after a bit more olive oil, I threw in some boiled potatoes, cut into healthy sized pieces, to fry away. After a few crusts began to form, I sprinkled over half teaspoon or so of smoked paprika...a spice I have to admit I still haven't gotten all that into but which I love with potatoes...and tossed in some chopped parsley for freshness.

And then I defiled the whole carefully calibrated endeavor with ketchup. It was perfection.

Cleaning House

Spring cleaning seems to get all of the attention but I have an equally strong desire to clean house just as winter is falling as well. Last weekend, fueled by leeks, I went on a deep cleaning rampage. Rummaging through my cabinets and freezer only served to remind me of how sad a state my kitchen is in. Supplies (although now very well organized) are running low, and any impromptu guests who might stop by would be distinctly out of luck in the food and drink department. During the holidays this just seems pathetic.

Exhibit 1, my usually stuffed but now terribly vacant freezer:

Before replenishing my stocks I feel a burning desire to purge myself of the old foodstuffs. I want a blank slate for the new arrivals, so I'm on a mission to devise ways to use up the motley crew of edibles I've collected over the past few months.

Odd edible #1: fava bean cream. I was getting a massive amount of fava beans in my CSA box in the spring and early summer and as much as I love them mashed with olive oil and mint and spread on toast, even the best of dishes can become a tad old after the twentieth tasting in a month. So I turned to Eugenia Bone's excellent book Well Preserved for advice. And she advised fava bean cream. Pureed favas with stock, pine nuts, garlic, salt...and frozen for future use. And of course I forgot to use it. Until now.

I went back to Ms. Bone and she suggested fava bean cream risotto. I do as I'm told.

I liberated the fava cream from the freezer and set it on the counter to defrost.

And I dug into the freezer for a container of shrimp stock I had made ages ago from some shrimp shells and the remnants of a fennel bulb. Again, totally forgot about it. I mean, what does one use shrimp stock for anyway? Risotto, that's what. Into a pot to warm it went.

I gently sauteed an onion in olive oil, threw in some arborio rice (which I'm also trying to use up as I'm told that carnaroli rice is the risotto rice to use...I wonder if I'll be able to tell the difference?), tossed in the last bit of a bottle of sake in place of white wine (one random container of consumables down!), and let it bubble away.

Then I did the whole add a little stock, stir, let it evaporate, repeat thing a few times until I had a lovely creamy mass. Handfuls of parmesan were added (the parmesan is now gone as well!), salt and pepper and a bit of chopped parsley and then, after a copious drizzle of delicious olive oil dinner was served. On the couch. With a glass of wine. In front of 30 Rock.

Bliss defined.

Grown Round

Spherical fruits and vegetables seem to be having a moment right now. Winter squash of all sorts are in abundance...acorn squash, turban squash, hubbard squash and of course the iconic pumpkin...they're all spilling out of crates left and right, one last gasp of bounty before the chill sets in. Lovely apples hold the promise of autumnal tarts, crisps and pies, as do those last Italian plums that have stuck around so tenaciously this year.


But I have to admit, as odd as it might sound, that it was the cauliflower that caught my eye most recently. At the market this weekend there were buckets and buckets of what may have been the largest specimens I have ever come across. For reference (and I suppose I should mention that I have quite big feet):



I commented on their heft to the friendly vendor and he proudly replied "They're lookers aren't they!" I couldn't help but bring one home, what with Paul's intense love for all vegetables cruciferous.


It almost looks like an Old Master still life, doesn't it?



Now the first thought that I generally have when I bring produce home is "What dish shall I make?" But with this monstrosity the question is not which dish, but which dishes.


A bit less than half of the hulking head went to a batch of Insalata di Rinforzo,


a few handfuls went to diversify the mix in my favorite green Thai curry, and the rest...well, the rest is currently on standby in my refrigerator. Any ideas for the remnants of the great beast?

Les Mouclades

I used to watch quite a bit of PBS. First Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers, then the cooking series from the 80s like the Frugal Gourmet and Jacques Pepin, and then those wonderful David Suchet Poirot episodes and other assorted Masterpiece Theater shows. I adored Diana Rigg's Masterpiece Theater introductions almost as much as my parents enjoyed Cookie Monster's (or rather Alistair Cookie's) Monsterpiece Theater skits.


But then for a good ten years I all but abandoned the network. I suppose this coincided with the rise of bad reality TV, to which I am tragically addicted. But recently, inspired by Terry over at Blue Kitchen's enthusiasm for the current crop of cooking shows on PBS, I've become a bit of a public broadcasting devotee.


First I began to DVR Lidia Bastianich's show and now as a result know more about the starch content of carnaroli rice (better than arborio apparently) than I ever thought I'd care to. The latest Ken Burns mini-series appeared (although I've been to Yosemite countless times the national parks special has ignited in me a great desire to go back again), and Eric Ripert's show Avec Eric has got me all concerned about the seasonal nuances of my olive oil.


But perhaps my favorite PBS discovery is Ruth Reichl's new show Gourmet Adventures With Ruth. In each episode she visits some fabulously informative food person with a famous, but not too famous food-oriented friend of hers. The amount of entirely new information (to me at least) that is conveyed in these shows is unbelievable, and quite heartening really. There's so much to learn!


On her seafood show, set in Seattle with Tom Skerritt and an unbelievably knowledgeable fisherman whose name currently escapes me, she and her gang demonstrated a mussel cooking method that intrigued me...just throw them in a dry hot pan and wait for them to pop open!


Faced with one of those delicious evenings where I had no plans to go out, the apartment to myself, no errands or household tasks planned and sufficient energy to cook a relatively involved meal for myself, I opted to give the mussels a try.


After scrubbing a pound and a half of Prince Edward Island mussels, I threw them in a screaming hot cast iron skillet.



As each mussel popped open, I removed it to a large bowl with a pair of tongs.


There were a few holdouts...



...but eventually, after much sizzling, they relented.


I took Alex Guarnaschelli's very good advice to throw in a little crunch in the form of toasted bread crumbs (I have been loving panko lately...irrationally I find making breadcrumbs to be totally onerous) and some freshness in the form of parsley and mint.


By the way, I would never have considered mint as a good pairing with mussels but the idea is genius.

I've eaten a lot of mussels in my day, but these were special. Delicate but just a tad smoky from all of the scorching. And tender beyond belief...perhaps because I plucked eat one out just as it was done so there was no overcooking?


I was in an oddly European mood so I followed my wine, mussels and buttered baguette with a bit of salad and Tomme de Savoie. And then blew the whole thing with a Whippet at the end...the Canadian version of a Mallomar in case you are not familiar, as I was not until I saw them on the shelf at Citarella. Why Canadian cookies are being sold in New York I know not, but regardless they are delightful, both alone and as the cap to a lengthy meal.

Give Us This Day...Again

My love of homemade bread is no secret. I've been through Dan Lepard's genius book of artisan loaves, I've messed around with Michael Ruhlman's ratio, and I've occasionally even dipped into Deborah Madison's bread chapters for inspiration. I feel pretty happy with my repertoire at this point...a bread for every mood if you will.

So when my mother claimed that she had the end all be all recipe that I simply had to try, I was skeptical. And I was even more skeptical when she told me that the origin of the recipe was a book she had picked up on a bargain table in some big box retail store, the name of which she could not recall.

Therefore when the recipe arrived in the mail (yes, the actual mail, envelope, stamp the whole thing...to be fair my parents' scanner was broken...they are not normally quite so traditional) it sat around on a tabletop for many weeks before I formed the loaves. Which as it turns out, was my loss.

The bread is dense and chewy in the most satisfying way possible and ever so slightly sweet. Do not be fooled by the very Berkley-esque list of ingredients, the bread is the farthest thing from one of those "healthy obligations" that seems to hang over your head the longer it stays in your kitchen (yes, CSA box, I'm looking at you). And do not be intimidated by the ingredient list either. I have no idea what malted wheat flakes are. I found something flakey in my refrigerator that looked like it could be wheat based...in retrospect I think it could have been wheat bran, but frankly I couldn't tell the difference. Throw whatever grainy/flakey/wheaty items you've got and I can virtually guarantee a phenomenal outcome.

Anthony's Grain Bread

My mother's adaption of the recipe from Linda Collister and Anthony Blake's Country Bread

Makes 3 loaves

To start:

1 cup (100g) malted wheat flakes (or whatever approximation you can find)

5 tablespoons (50g) chopped rye berries (I didn't chop them, and actually may have accidentally used kamut instead of rye now that I think about it)

1/2 cup (50g) cracked wheat

1/4 cup (50g) steel-cut oats, roughly chopped

1/4 cup (40g) rye berries

1 tablespoon (10g) pearl barley

4-5 tablespoons molasses, depending on your taste

4 cups boiling water

To finish:

2 cups (200g) dark rye flour

1 3/4 cups (200g) coarse whole-wheat flour, preferably stoneground

4 cups (500g) unbleached white bread flour

3 teaspoons fine sea salt

3 0.6-oz cakes fresh yeast (50g), or three envelopes of dry yeast

2/3 cup (150ml) lukewarm water

2/3 cup (150ml) stout, at room temperature

1 tablespoon sunflower or light olive oil

3 loaf pans, well greased

Start by combining the first six ingredients in a large bowl. Add the molasses to the measured boiling water and stir until dispersed, then add to the dry ingredients and mix well. Cover with plastic wrap and leave for 24 hours.

The next day, the soaked mixture should resemble coarse, sloppy porridge. Add the rye, whole-wheat, and white flours and the salt. Crumble the yeast into the luke-warm water and stir until dispersed, then add the stout. Pour the liquid into the grain and flour mixture, and mix thoroughly to make a firm but not stiff dough. Add a little more water if necessary, or, if the dough feels very sticky, work in a little extra white flour.

Turn the dough out onto a work surface and knead thoroughly for 10 minutes (dust your hands and the work surface with flour only if the dough is sticky). Shape the dough into a ball. Put the oil into a clean, large bowl, add the ball of dough, and flip it over so it is coated with oil. Cover with plastic wrap and leave at room temperature until doubled in size--about 2 hours, but add more time in cold weather, less in hot.

Punch down the risen dough and divide it into three equal portions. Shape each into an oblong to fit the pans, then put the dough neatly into the pans. Cover and leave as before until doubled in size--allow 1 1/2 hours.

Toward the end of the rising time, preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

Uncover the loaves and dust with a little rye or whole-wheat flour. Bake for 30-35 minutes until the loaves sound hollow when unmolded and tapped underneath. Turn out and cool on a wire rack.

The bread is best if left for a day before slicing, and will keep for 5 days, or can be toasted. Once thoroughly cooled, it can be frozen for up to a month.

How Do You Solve A Problem Like Kale?

In theory I am a big fan of kale.

I always associate it with a wonderful soup that my Aunt Felicity used to make on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.


I have a very clear memory of my first brush with it. I recall driving up the path to her family's summer home on Martha's Vineyard one Wednesday before Thanksgiving, delighting in the candles twinkling cozily in each window (the house does not have electricity...these things were I'm sure very charming in the 1920s when the property was initially purchased, and I suppose still are for short stays), luxuriating in the laughter of her many siblings and nieces and nephews emanating from the open doorway, and relishing the fact that she met me at the threshold with a heavenly bowl of meat and kale and rich broth spooned over a toasted piece of bread.


I ate it inside by the fire, drinking in the warm, familial atmosphere. I smiled when my Aunt then asked if I fancied going for a canoe ride on the pond in the moonlight, until my cousin informed me that the offer was in fact serious and my smile widened to a grin.


Sadly, this is not the scene that tends to meet me on the average evening in New York when I am trying to figure out what on earth to do with the bushels of kale that end up in my CSA box. Upon my return from work there is no soup that has been simmering away for hours with delectable marrow bones on my stove. No roaring fire, no pond, no canoe. Just kale.


So for a while I braised it, occasionally throwing in a bit of chorizo and potato, but frankly I could never get the leaves to be tender enough to enjoy. I suppose several hours would be required to achieve true tenderness. Plus which I was not coming even remotely close to using up my allotted weekly amount.


But then I discovered the most wonderful thing...kale chips! I have of late been thoroughly engrossed in food52.com, a website run by Amanda Hesser and Merrill Stubbs. Kale was a theme of the week a bit ago, and several people submitted recipes for crispy kale chips. Intrigued, and with copious quantities of kale on my hands, I gave the idea a try.


I ripped the leaves apart from the stems. I mashed a couple of garlic cloves with a generous amount of olive oil in my mortar and pestle (although I suppose there is no reason that you could not just chop the garlic and throw it in with the oil), and tossed the kale leaves with the oil mixture. Once spread reasonably flat and in one layer on a baking sheet, I rained a layer of Maldon salt down over the kale and threw it in a 400 degree oven for about ten minutes, tossing the leaves about with a spatula at the five minute mark. Et voila, crispy leaves to accompany cocktails.


Of course you could I suppose get fancy and throw some parmesan cheese or paprika or vinegar into the mix, but why mess with such a good thing? And in case you're wondering, I am, for the first time in months, completely out of kale! Two days early!

Green Shoots

I am much happier when I feel that my living space is clean and organized than when it is disorderly. I like my bathtub gleaming, my carpets vacuumed, my surfaces free from clutter and my laundry hamper empty. But most importantly, I like my pantry, refrigerator and freezer to be not only clean but also well-stocked. And by well-stocked I mean prepared to feed me and whoever else might be stopping by well during the week ahead.


So when I return from traveling, no matter how clean I have left my apartment before my departure, I always feel that work needs to be done in the kitchen. Of course my staples must be replenished (eggs to poach for breakfast, good butter for my toast and milk for my daily cup of PG Tips), but I never feel like my house is completely in order until I've been to the Greenmarket and gathered some of the latest season's bounty.


This past Saturday may have represented the beginning of the zenith of summer as far as fruit and vegetables are concerned. For those in New York who are not familiar with the glory that is the Union Square Greenmarket, I simply must insist that you go next Saturday and purchase peaches from Oakgrove Plantation's stand at the northern end of the square and dark cherries from The Cheerful Cherry on the western side of the square. Once you eat them, you will have found bliss.


Perhaps less sexy but just as special as summer fruit are the summer vegetables. And last Saturday it was the ephemeral fava beans that were the object of my affection.


Fava beans are spectacularly labor intensive to cook with, but I love their vaguely grassy, delicate flavor so much that I can overlook the extra work. They strike me as somewhat rich tasting, or as rich perhaps as a bean can be, and in that there is something luxurious. And as the season is so short, I'm happy to put up with the finicky preparation for as long as the favas are around.


In the past I've always seen them in salads or succotash, both of which are wonderful ways to showcase the favas. However, as the beans themselves are a fair amount of work I'm always looking for low effort recipes in which to employ them. Smashing them up and spreading them on toast is about as easy as it gets. And, paired with a toast topped with fromage blanc, olive oil and salt, it makes for a perfect afternoon snack. Or light lunch, if you are feeling particularly virtuous.


Fava Bean Spread Makes enough for 4 large toasts


1 1/4 pounds of fava beans (approximately 6 ounces shelled)
2 teaspoons chopped fresh mint
1/2 teaspoon of Maldon salt (if using kosher or table salt, reduce amount, add to taste)
3 tablespoons olive oil


Bring approximately two quarts of water to a boil. Shell fava beans and boil them until tender, 30 seconds or so. Either run cold water over the beans or wait until they are cool enough to handle and then remove the outer skins (I knick a hole at one end with my fingernail and then pop the beans out, but everyone has their own method). Add beans to a mortar (or bowl of a food processor if you prefer) and add mint and olive oil. Bash with a pestle or process until a coarse paste has developed. Salt to taste, and serve, spread on toast or crackers.