Farm To Table Geek

Désolé

2011-12-14T15:35:00.000-08:00

I wish I could say I've been traveling. I haven't been. But I have been busy, and I have not posted in exactly four weeks. And now I feel sort of dirty inside. I'm usually never too busy for my blog, but there is a first for just about everything that you can imagine. Whatever the case, I was M.I.A., and for that I apologize.

This morning turned out to be the perfect day to snatch up the baton once again, because when I opened my eyes a hard winter storm was busily clouting my windows and the soft gray light that seeped into my bedroom suggested that today might be a good day for my favorite stew: Ribollita.

Just to be clear, I take my ribollita seriously. It's not just a stew, no, and it's definitely not a soup. Preparing ribollita is an art form, and eating it takes some serious planning. One does not simmer ribollita like a cheap afterthought to a half sandwich. Ribollita must be respected, and in order to truly appreciate it, it must be allowed to come to fruition for two days. Two. Days.

...Ribollita ain't no joke.

Ribollita is an Italian dish, Tuscan, exactly, peasant, to be sure. There are as many variations of ribollita as yada yada. But it always contains stale bread (toasted), various cruciferae, cannellini beans (not canned, please) and copious amounts of olive oil.

Ribollita translates as 'reboiled', specifically the next day, so the flavors have a chance to meld before you reduce the liquid so that it transmogrifies from a really good soup, to a friggin sumptuous stew. DISCLAIMER: If you have commitment issues, ribollita is not for you.

I began my ribollita with three different types of greens: cavolo, savoy, and Swiss chard, which is in the amaranth family. They are the backbone of this affair. I am fortunate that I bake bread (oi, that reminds me, I need to make a few loaves for my other blog to catch up over there too), because day old is a necessary component to arrive at your acceptable stew. I add pancetta to mine, though ribollita is typically made without. I've made it both ways for years, and either recipe satisfies to the hilt.

Yes, you can eat your ribollita the same day that you make it, and it will be delicious. The leftovers tomorrow, trust, will be heavenly.

Here's your larder:

1 pound dried cannellini beans
1 large bunch Swiss chard, cleaned and chopped
1 large bunch cavolo nero, cleaned and chopped
1/2 medium head savoy cabbage, cleaned and chopped
1/2 pound pancetta
2 large carrots, peeled and diced
2 stalks celery, diced
2 medium russets, peeled and diced
1 medium onion, diced
7 cloves garlic; 3 whole for the beans, 4 crushed
1 14.5 oz. can of diced or whole tomato
Reggiano parm, however much
Tons of olive oil
4 thick slices day old sourdough bread
3 fresh bay leaves
Fresh thyme
Fresh marjoram
Fresh sage

1) Cook the cannellini with 3 whole cloves garlic and a bay leaf till tender. Drain, reserving the liquid. Mash half the beans. Set the whole and mashed beans aside.

2) Slice the pancetta into thick batons and Saute in a large dutch oven. Don't let it get too crisp. With a slotted spoon, scoop out the batons and set them aside. Discard the pancetta fat.

3) Add a good glug of olive oil to the pot. Add the onion, celery, garlic and carrots and sweat till soft. Add the tomato and cook until it becomes caramelized and sweet smelling.

4) Add the pancetta to the pot, the bean liquid, the cruciferae and amaranth, and some water. I don't know how much. Enough to wilt the greens. Enough so that it looks like soup, yeah?

5) When the greens are wilted, add the mashed beans, potatoes, and the remaining bay leaves to the pot, and simmer this for about an hour, covered.

6) Just before the hour is up, toast your bread and rough chop. Add it along with the whole beans and a glug of olive oil to the pot. Rough chop a gang of fresh herbs and add to the pot. Simmer for another 30 minutes, uncovered. After 30 minutes, using a fine rasp, grate some parm into the pot. However much you want.

7) Serve some now. Of course. It's delish. Refrigerate the rest. And tomorrow....

8) Fill your best cazuela with the ribollita. Slide it into the oven, covered, and turn it on. 375 degrees is cool. Bake for 30 minutes covered. Then remove the cover and bake for another hour (or so) uncovered, until the liquid reduces and the soup become a delicious, savory stew as pictured just above.

9) To serve, drizzle with olive oil, and if you are a truly decadent beast, rasp a little more parm over the top. I know I did.

Mangia bene, vivi felice!

autumn, composed

2011-11-08T21:53:00.000-08:00

roasted root vegetable composé with cipollini onion vinaigrette

yay. autumn. it's my season, but i'll share it. lots of things to roast, things that taste a little like dirt, yeah? to remind us from where we've come. autumn. warm fires (well, i don't have a fireplace, but you know what i mean), orange leaves. orange for cryin' out loud! hot chocolate, warm fuzzy things to wrap all around us and melt within. rain. more rain!

everyone loves summer, so i'm going to be a rebel and love something else. i will love autumn.

these are the things of autumn. the best season. the burnt season where the sun goes way down low and stays there. in the dirt. with the dirty things of autumn. beets and parsnips.

rooty things that dig down deep and scoop up invisible goodies that our bodies need. minerals and stuff. good things that keep our blood strong.

autumn.

cinderella pumpkin

the season of squashes and pumpkins and smoldery-red colored food.

today i decided to tow in my favorite season with this, a composé of loverly things: buttercup squash, it looks like a kabocha, but with a mint green hat, and i think it's sweeter too.

parsnips, fennel bulb, and a scattering of ruby jewels mined from a pomegranate that i got from my friend nona's tree.

a handful of sturdy dandelion spears courted the half-moons of sweet squash, and a cipollini onion vinaigrette pulled the whole thing together. it was a marriage made in heaven. this.

use whatever autumny things you brought home from the market this week, keeping a balance of flavors and aromas in mind: sweet (squash), fragrant (fennel), soily-flavored (and scary) (parsnips), bitter (dandies), tart (pomegranate).

the method to my autumn madness went something like this:

preheat the oven to 425 degrees. while you are preparing your vegetables, your cipollinis should get a head start since they take the longest (about 45 minutes) to make it to the finish line. just toss them in a little olive oil, lay them flat in a cast iron pan and roast.

now slice/chop your vegetables into similar-sized pieces: for the squash, use a large workhorse of a knife. first, slice it in half. then scoop out the seeds, and chop off the head and tail of the thing. carefully carve off the green peel. take your time. and keep the blade moving away from your body and hands. the skin is a bit tough and it does not make for a smooth effort. vigilance, friends, vigilance. when it's expertly peeled, slice the naked orange flesh into 1/2" thick 1/2 moons, toss in olive oil and scatter over a sheet pan covered with parchment (NOTE: the sugars in your rooty things will make them stick when you roast them, and you will lose the lovely, sugary crust to the pan if you do not properly plan things out. parchment allows things to brown, but gives back the crust so you can enjoy it yourself).

peel, halve, then quarter your parsnip lengthwise. toss in olive oil. arrange on a sheet tray.

top and tail your fennel bulb. pull off the tough outer coat, then halve and quarter. toss with a bit of olive oil. arrange on a cast iron pan that has been fitted with parchment.

now sprinkle the veggies with a little salt. make sure that there is ample space between the veggies or they will steam (blech) instead of caramelizing like this:

i was able to roast all of my veggies and the onions at the same time. it just takes some strategizing. have a look: two sheet pans arranged lengthwise in the oven held the parsnips and the squash, and two cast iron pans fit beside them, one held the cipollini onions and one held the fennel slices.

onward.

be sure to cool the veggies completely before composing your salad or your dandies will lose their snap.

while the veggies are cooling, you can make the cipollini vinaigrette. you don't have to wait for the flying saucer-shaped allium to cool either. working with them while they are warm is just fine.

here's the how:

cooled veg, check. cipollini vinaigrette, check. washed and spin-dried dandelion greens, check. a few pomegranate seeds plucked from the blushing bulb, check.

toss the veggies with a bit of vinaigrette, a pinch of salt and a pinch of pepper, working with one type at a time, using a delicate hand, and a sparing one with the vinaigrette. if you toss 'em all together you will wind up with a disgusting looking train wreck. take your time, pretend like you're renoir, and arrange the veggies on a plate. now toss the dandies in some of the vin, sprinkle with salt and pepper, arrange over the veggies. pretty it all up, like. scatter with a few pomegranate seeds. enjoy by the fire (if you have one. if you don't, well, consider moving into a more attractive income bracket).

mangia bene, vivi felice!

a pistachio cake for evan

2011-10-24T13:09:00.000-07:00

do you remember old school pistachios? i do. their red shells would stain our fingers when we ate them, mom and me, the glorious ceremony of it all. im sure they were colored with red dye #2, and our lives were probably at stake as we devoured them by the bagful. alas, the world is wiser now, no more cancerous dyes, and who can be bothered with shells when trader joes pulls them off for you and roasts them to boot.

olive oil pistachio cake with orange flower water

i've been wanting to make this pistachio cake for a while now. i got the idea from my friend valeria, who is italian, and thus knows the virtues of the little green nut that most everyone reveres. have you been to italy? they toss pistachios around, devil-may-care, like they grow on trees.

just a quick bit of trivia, the pistachio is one of two nuts mentioned in the bible, so that makes them holy, yeah? maybe judas stuffed himself with them before he brought the axe down on his good friend, the one who made a living sanding tables and dispensing miracles on the side.

and evidently bags of this praiseworthy nut are given as gifts to parting house guests in syria, such a beautiful bestowal, so when evan's birthday arrived in full stealth mode (he tried to keep it secret, to no avail), it was settled: orange blossom water would need to be procured, and the cake would be made without further hesitation.

i loved valeria's recipe, but i wanted something a little citrusy, a little floral, and besides, i'm not afraid of the downside of creme fraiche (valeria uses yogurt in her recipe, how lovely and health-minded). can i just tell you, what came of my afternoon experiment was nothing short of a miracle. earthy and fragrant, yes, just sweet enough, really, the cake of my dreams.

the best thing is that it comes together quickly with virtually zero effort. and once you've had it, i venture that this little joy will make it into your repertoire of regulars tout de suite. lets just hope that judas doesn't get wind of our plan and put an end to the dispensation of our little miracles.

here's your larder and the method:

-100g all purpose flour
-50g whole grain pastry flour, i used arrowhead mills
-2 eggs, yolks & whites separated
-120g roasted pistachio nuts
-125g creme fraiche
-125g granulated sugar, i used organic evaporated cane
-50g good fruity olive oil
-10g baking powder
-1/2 tsp vanilla extract
-1/2 tsp orange blossom water (don't be tempted to use more, it will overwhelm and embitter the cake)
-zest of one large, darkly hued orange

Preheat the oven to 360 degrees and line an 8.5" x 4.5" x 2" loaf pan with parchment paper.

1) mortar the pistachio nuts until they arrive at a coarse consistency, set aside

2) whisk together the egg yolks, the sugar, the extracts and the zest, then add in the creme fraiche and olive oil, set aside

3) sift both flours and the baking powder, set aside

4) whisk the egg whites until they form soft peaks

5) fold 100g of the nuts into the yolk mixture

6) with a wide spatula, fold the flour into the yolk mixture in 3 passes, careful not to overwork the mixture or the cake will be tough. streaks of flour can remain after each pass

7) fold the egg whites into this mixture in two passes, carefully now, you don't want to deflate the whites or overwork the flour. streaks of the whites can remain after the final pass

8) pour into the prepared loaf pan. the mixture will be quite thick, so you will have to spread it out into the corners of the pan. sprinkle with the remaining 20g of nuts

9) bake for 38 - 45 minutes, checking at 38 minutes. check the cake by inserting a thin knife into the center, it should come out relatively clean, but if a few bits of the moist cake adhere to it, its fine. just be sure that there are no streaks of raw cake batter on the blade

mangia bene, vivi felice

This post was sent off to Wild Yeast Bread's Yeast Spottin'

sbrisolona

2011-10-18T20:32:00.000-07:00

I don't have a terrifying sweet tooth, well, except for certain things. Scharffenberger extra rich milk chocolate bars with cocoa nibs? Fugget about it. I will bite your hand if you try to steal a piece.

What I mean is, I'm not a girl who likes gooey/syrupy/cloying desserts. I prefer mine crumbly, buttery, earthy. For example, I'm a sucker for anything sweet made with oats or cornmeal, fregolotta is my favorite cookie, and I can happily eat Jenny Raven's buttery (heavenly) tart dough without any adornment at all (Jenny Raven works at Oliveto, and is one of the best pastry chefs in the Bay Area).

You can imagine then how I nearly gave up the ghost when I saw a recipe for sbrisolona, a large Italian cookie that reminds me of fregolotta. In fact, I think the difference between the two is miniscule, perhaps merely regional and vernacular. In both cases, what you arrive at is a buttery, crumbly, cornmealy cookie that you break into pieces and share, but only with the most deserving of friends.

This sbrisolona is an adaptation of Suzanne Goin's recipe from her book Sunday Suppers at Lucques, one of my fave cookbooks, and one of my fave chefs who happens to own three of the best restaurants here in Los Angeles (rumor has it that a cookbook for AOC is in the works, which is a good thing since it's my favorite restaurant). In case you've not leafed through Sunday Suppers, I suggest picking up a copy at once. It's truly an inspiring work, and worth the coin indeed.

But without further ado, here is the larder and method for your ambrosial cookie.

4 oz raw almonds
1 egg yolk
1/4 tsp vanilla extract
1/4 tsp almond extract
1 cup + 2 T all purpose flour
6 T organic cornmeal, I use arrowhead mills
1/2 tsp sea salt
4 oz cold butter, cut into 1/2" pieces
1/3 cup evaporated cane juice sugar
3 T brown sugar

1) preheat the oven to 350 degrees and butter an 8" round springform pan, set aside.

2) toast your almonds until golden, about 10 minutes, then coarsely chop. set aside.

3) combine the egg yolk and extracts, set aside.

4) combine the flour, cornmeal and salt, then cut the butter into this mixture using your fingers and working quickly so that you do not melt the butter. Do not over mix, it should resemble coarse meal.

5) stir in both of the sugars then add the almonds.

6) pour the egg yolk mixture over the top of this and incorporate with your fingers. Do not overmix. The end result should look like streusel.

7) pour the mixture into your prepared pan and spread it out evenly, very gently pressing it into the pan with the tips of your fingers. Use very light pressure. Your goal is not to make a compact pie, only to ensure that the mixture is even and will bake cohesively. Don't worry, it might look loose, but it will turn into a cohesive cookie once fully baked.

8) bake for 40 minutes or so (mine took 45), or until the cookie is golden brown.

9) cool in the pan on a wire rack before unearthing.

10) break into pieces and enjoy with a glass of vin santo.

Mangia bene, vivi felice!

Truffled Cauliflower Puree

2011-10-07T09:08:00.000-07:00

The other day I had nothing in the fridge but a head of cauliflower, a small tub of truffle butter, and a wedge of Époisses, you know, the wash rind cheese that affords the assurance that there truly is a God, and this God hath imbued mankind with an intellect steep enough to devise such ambrosia.

I was a staunch atheist until I tasted my first wheel of Époisses.

But this day la fromage was just a sidebar, if you can imagine, because what resulted from my culinary dearth was something that I don't think I can from here forth live without, and I'm certain you will take up residence with the same belief once you make it yourself.

Truffled cauliflower puree has come into my life by sheer happenstance. This is what comes of seeing the glass half full, Dear Reader, making lemonade out of the sour fruit, walking on the refulgent side of the street... I could go on with countless silly (but wise) aphorisms that are supposed to make you feel better when you know the glass is really bone dry, and not only are your lemons too sour, but they're also more pithy than juicy, and filled with bugs to boot.

This lovely dish is bound to brighten your day, if not make you feel a little genius. It takes but two main ingredients, which you may already have on hand. And I have a feeling it will be turning up on the holiday table because the most difficult thing about it is waiting for the cauliflower to soften before you stir in the truffle butter.

Here's your larder.

truffled cauliflower puree

- 1 large head of cauliflower
- 4 TB white truffle butter (be sure the ingredients listed are only truffles, butter & salt)
- 1.5 cups chicken stock, preferably homemade
- Salt & pepper

1) Carve the green leaves and the stem from the head of cauliflower, then break the head into florets.

2) Add the florets and the stock to a pot, cover, bring to a boil, then lower the flame so that the stock is simmering. Cook the cauliflower until it is meltingly tender.

3) Drain the stock from the cauliflower.

4) Mash the cauliflower well with a potato masher, then stir in the truffle butter.

5) Adjust the seasoning with salt and a twist or two of fresh cracked pepper, white or black, dependent upon your aesthetic inclination.

Mangia bene, vivi felice!

Aubergine

2011-10-01T11:00:00.000-07:00

I'm not an eggplant groupie.

Hear me out.

I adore its lead role in baba ganoush, but my interest wanes when I hear suggestions for its use in dishes like caponata, parmigiana, ratatouille, and worse, that horrible Chinese takeout where chunks of the slimy fruit wade around in volumes of cheap oil.

Did you know that the aubergine is a fruit, and what's more, that it's botanically classified as a berry? That's some news, now isn't it?

Yet, sometimes at the market when I see the lovely nightshade in multitudinous shades from lavender to the deepest black, and even some whose orbs are as white as alabaster, I snatch one up with the hope that she will whisper ideas for which to employ her so that I'm not resigned to tucking her between sheets of zucchini in some boring tian.

Grimace.

As my love affair with Slater's Tender grows, I am willing to try just about anything that this chef suggests. After all, you saw that the carrot browns idea just one post prior yielded a beautiful focal point for a lunch of salad and a bright orange tangle of the root. Brilliant.

So today I set out to give my aubergine fantasy another shot, and as luck would have it, Slater conjured this fabulous idea for a Japanese inspired dish that heralds the fruit's attributes.

What I arrived at was sheer divinity as well as simplicity. It was sweet and savory, and I imagined no less than one million things that it would happily pair with: grilled black cod, roasted chicken, a bowl of simple steamed rice.

I'm happy to submit that there may be a place for Ms. Aubergine in my repertoire after all. As you can see, I never did bother to pair it with anything today, I ate it right from the pan with a pair of chopsticks, and all too happily indeed.

You will find the inspirational recipe on page 223 of Nigel Slater's Tender, below is my bastardization of it.

Here's your larder:

425g Japanese eggplant, or other small variety
1/4 cup mirin
2 TB + 1 tsp highest quality peanut oil
2 TB white miso paste
1 medium-sized Thai chili
5 gram nugget of fresh ginger
2 tsp roasted sesame oil
White sesame seeds, enough for a scattering
Coconut sugar for sprinkling

1) Preheat the oven to 350 degrees, and fit a baking sheet with a piece of parchment.

2) Next, halve the eggplant and score the flesh, being careful not to pierce the skin.

3) Whisk together 2 TB of the peanut oil with 2 TB of the Mirin and brush this mixture over the scored eggplant, going over it in two or more passes until all of it is used. Sprinkle with salt.

4) Roast the eggplant until it is meltingly tender. While this little miracle is happening, in your mortar and pestle, pulverize the ginger nugget along with the chili to a fine paste. Mix in the miso, the remaining 2 TB of mirin, 1 tsp of peanut oil and 2 tsp of sesame oil.

5) Using a flat spatula, carefully flip the roasted eggplant over and liberally brush with this mixture. Sprinkle with the coconut sugar, then disseminate the sesame seeds over the whole shebang. Pop under a broiler until the sugar bubbles and the faces of the eggplant brown.

6) Try not to eat the entire panful before the rice is steamed.

Mangia bene, vivi felice!

Zanahoria

2011-09-21T15:41:00.000-07:00

Ahhhh, the humble carrot. Who doesn't have a bag in the fridge at all times? We take them for granted, dirty slender things, because they're cheap (unless you get them at Whole Foods), ubiquitous and oftentimes caked with the mud in which they've grown. The thing about carrots is that they do have their own unique flare. They taste of warm spices and earth, and when tended to in the garden properly, their sweetness is incomparable.

The erroneous belief that carrots are a thing that should be bought in bulk and forgotten, an afterthought, really, has probably contributed to their reputed ill-worth. Yes, they can suffer the beating of prolonged time in the crisper, but the truth is, carrots are best when used fairly immediately or they begin to lose their subtle charms and toothsome snap.

I've been thinking of things to make with this sweet little root, because I think it's high time she received her 15 minutes of fame. I created a recipe for carrot granita a while back which praises her attributes, and now with this dish today, she is once again elevated unto the highest echalon. May she never be relegated to the back of the veggie bin again.

Here's your (not so) humble larder:

- Fresh carrots, 225g

(Please don't ever purchase those sad 1 pound cello bags of carrots. Those old things have not seen ground for months. Grab a fresh bunch at the farmer's market with their fuzzy tops still attached, and be sure they're vibrant green, any hint of brown means that they were uprooted a long time prior. A carrot is like any other veg, fresh is best. Finally, be sure to remove their greens as soon as you get them home. The longer the greens are allowed to linger, the more limp the root becomes)

- 1 small onion

- 2 cloves of garlic

- 1/2 cup of Greek yogurt, full fat

- 2 eggs

- 4 stems of tarragon

- 2 mounded TB flour
- Salt, to taste

1) With a veggie peeler, peel long, thin strips of carrot, striving to peel the full length of the root, get all this into a bowl.

2) Pull the leaves from the tarragon stems, add to the carrots.

3) Mortar up the garlic, adding a pinch of salt to the mortar for friction.

4) Grate the onion, you will need 95g.

5) Beat the eggs.

6) Add the garlic, onion, eggs and yogurt to the bowl of carrots, add a fat pinch of salt and sprinkle the flour over the mess. Mix it all up.

7) Heat a cast iron pan with olive oil, not too much, a couple of TB is fine, or the carrot cakes won't brown.

8) Add dollops of the carrot mixture to the pan and fry till golden. About 3 or 4 minutes per side.

9) Drain on paper towels.

Notes: Use medium heat when frying, mash the cakes from time to time, pull in the ragged edges, and tilt the pan periodically to make sure enough oil is getting under the cakes. When done, the cakes will be tender and fragile, so when you transfer them to paper towels do it carefully.

These carrot cakes are a perfect alternative to your Sunday morning hash browns, a lovely side dish to roasted chicken, or aligned with a green salad, they make a unique main dish.

This dish was adapted from Slater's Tender. Full of inspired veggie ideas, it's one of those books that feels divine in your hands - matte pages, tight binding, a lovely little ribbon bookmark at its spine. A darling of a book that should be in every serious cook's repertoire. Check out page 130 for this recipe.

salted fish

2011-09-11T21:30:00.000-07:00

cavolo nero with figs, ricotta salata, toasted almonds & anchovy vinaigrette

i woke up this morning with a hankerin' for anchovies. and i'm the type of person who has to fulfill a craving whenever one arises, johnny on the spot. it does no one a modicum of good to try to compromise with my belly once it has decided that something like salted fish is the ticket to satisfaction, even if it's seven in the morning and the coffee has not yet been poured. it's a good thing that it's market day.

speaking of, the market was quiet for some reason. vendors peddling the last of their late season fruits with surreptitious glances as though their goods were a sham. and they kind of are. you could knock autumn in the head with a pebble, and here this woman is pedaling a tent full of peaches, beside them a mountain of hard, green apples that the insects hadn't even had a chance to think about munching on.

the market is an awkward place between the warm seasons and those that bring on the cold. spring to summer is a slippery transition, and the autumn to winter market marches on with such haste that the line betwixt is almost undecipherable. but summer to autumn is like a kid who awakens to the pimply face of puberty. its arrival is expected, but one can never prepare enough to have those bright and bubbly days replaced by those that demand a little more maturity, a little more introspection. regardless the preparation, its advent is always a shock, and we need a moment, yeah? to get our wits about us so that we can figure out exactly how to handle the whole ambiguous affair. this market-in-limbo just never seems 'right', and i'm not certain that it's always welcome either.

fixin's

alas, summer is taking her final bow and making way for my favorite season. autumn. she has the prettiest name of the bunch, and i love the cold-weather things that we yank from her ground: hard, orange squashes and marbles of brussels sprouts like barnacles on tough, green stalks, greens with leaves so black they could be mistaken for carbon paper. it is the season where a perpetual dew films my windows from mad braising and an oven that seems never to go cold.

i can't say that i'm going to miss summer. i don't know why, but this one did not resonate with me at all. autumn is my nostalgic season, it's a long, happy three months when i get to dredge up all the things that i loved way back when. the air is peaceful, yes, and we are all indoors with fires and friends, sipping warm things and just loving her. autumn. our sentimental girl.

i bid adieu to summer with a group of beautiful figs whose soft bellies were evidence that by midnight they would no longer be delicious, rather, gelatinous balls of gross, covered with fruit flies and mold. i set out to appreciate their beauty early today with a salad of kale, toasted almonds, ricotta salata and anchovy vinaigrette. i also baked a loaf of sourdough bread, and toasted up some chunks of it for garlicky croutons. the result was a lovely mix of indian summer, a nod to incoming autumn, and bit of salted fish to satisfy my morning craving. im glad i didn't eat them out of the jar with my coffee at seven a.m., for this salad was worth the wait.

here's your larder, this salad will feed the lot of four as a starter:

-half a bunch of cavolo nero
-a good handful of almonds
-8 figs
-8 anchovies
-1 large lemon, whose zest you will also need
-1 rather large clove of garlic
-olive oil
-a chunk of ricotta salata (pressed, salted and aged ricotta cheese)
-2 fat slices of your best artisan bread, about 1" thick, day old is fine

1) preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

2) spread the almonds on a sheet tray and toast. pull out and set aside when they're golden brown.

3) tear the artisan bread into chunks, toss with olive oil and pop into the oven. check on them every 7 minutes or so (they will take about 20 minutes), and turn them with a pair of tongs if they are browning unevenly.

4) while the croutons are toasting, make the anchovy vinaigrette: mortar the clove of garlic until you reach a smooth paste, adding a bit of salt for friction will make things easier to get started, but don't add too much. the anchovies add quite a bit of salt themselves. when the garlic is smooth, pull about 1/4 tsp. and set aside. you will see why later.

5) add the anchovy fillets to the mortar and pound until chunky. zest the lemon into the mortar, then squeeze the juice of it into the bowl as well. whisk in enough olive oil until the vinaigrette is sufficiently emulsified.

6) clean and trim your cavolo by cutting out the center stalk. leave it in tact if you have really good jaw muscles and feel like chewing your supper like bovine. chop the leaves into medium-sized flags and spin dry in a salad spinner.

7) quarter the figs and rough chop the almonds.

8) when the croutons are done, rub the garlic that you set aside into the belly of a small bowl, then toss the croutons in the bowl and swish around to pick up the garlic.

9) pepper the greens with coarse milled black pepper and toss with some of the vinaigrette, add the almonds and croutons, toss, and shave the ricotta salata over all of this. add the figs last so they don't get damaged with all the tossing. serve.

here's to the advent of autumn. she cannot come too soon for me!

mangia bene, vivi felice!

This post was sent off to Wild Yeast Blog's Yeast Spotting.

you never told me

2011-09-08T21:51:00.000-07:00

oh no. i just discovered oyster sauce. i know, i know. i've got one wheel in the sand with this, but let's get past my lack of worldliness and deal with the issue on the table. seriously, i think i want to bathe in it, the oyster sauce, not my lack of worldliness. why has no one ever told me about this joy disguised as brown? i'm beginning to question how solid my friendships really are, because i'm pretty sure i've seen oyster sauce in all of my friend's refrigerators.

you know there's always a back story. here's mine:

if you don't already have tender by nigel slater, i will unfriend you on facebook, plus, you're just really missing out on one of the most worthy (cook)books ever written. its quickly become on of my five deserted island cookbooks, because i just know my deserted island experience will include cavolo nero and baby lambs so i can stew them down and eat them.

nigel slater is a little piece of heaven, this beautiful chef. he has his very own own private eden, one so prolific and colorful that he's dedicated this truly lovely ode to it. to boot, he's scared up a superhero of a photographer to drive the point home just. how. much. he really, really loves his five-a-day.

today, one of my five was inspired by tender, which brings this conversation full circle: why has no one ever told me about oyster sauce. the sheer joy of it, i say.

i must divulge, i was free with the liberties in this, chef nigel's instruction, because that's what we are supposed to be with our books. we are supposed to let ourselves be inspired by them. i don't think an author has ever written a cookbook expecting that the recipes will be followed to a T, well, except our baking gurus. don't mess around with that arena. but in cooking, there are too many variables that ask us to be flexible. for instance, perhaps you don't have oyster sauce (you poor soul), so then you could probably use something else in its stead, like, oh, i don't know, that "other" bottle of magic that's squished between your sweating pickles and whole grain mustard?

you get the picture.

be sure to have all of your ingredients ready to go with this one, it comes together really fast. this dish will feed 2 hungries with brown rice.

here's your larder:

- 4 baby bok choy, or so, you know
- 80g oyster mushrooms, you know, a fat handful
- 60g shiitake mushrooms, i know, i know, i'm being fancy because i have a scale, another fat handful
- 3 shallots
- 3 cloves garlic
- 3 TB oyster sauce
- 3 TB mirin or dry sake
- 1 birdseye chili
- 1 scallion
- a piece of ginger about yay big, peeled

here's the skinny:

1) get a pot of water boiling, fitted with a steamer basket.

2) meanwhile, rinse your bok choy well. make sure you gently pull the leaves apart and rinse the base in case there is any dirt hiding.

3) slice the mushrooms in half.

3) thinly slice the shallots and garlic.

4) thinly slice the chili & half of the white part / half of the green part of your scallion.

5) heat a cast iron pan or wok with oil. i used olive, but if you have peanut, it might be more apropos. when it's smokin' hot, get the mushrooms in there and saute until browned. remove from the pan and set aside.

6) get the shallot and garlic into the same pan/wok, and saute, moving constantly so the garlic does not burn, until they begin to turn golden. When they get to this point...

7) get the sake in the pan to stop the cooking, then immediately follow with the oyster sauce. let it boil for a minute or two then kill the flame. toss the scallion and chili in the pan, and grate the nug of ginger in there too with a rasp or a ginger grater. toss the mushrooms in, and stir all of this around. if the sauce looks too thick, add a little water to the pan.

8) the water for the bok is probably boiling. steam the bok choy for about a minute and a half or so. sorry. i didn't time it.

9) throw down the baby bok on a plate and get the sauce over them pronto.

10) oh my god, so good.

by the way, you can find the recipe that inspired this dish in tender, page 200.

mangia bene, vivi felice!

212

2011-09-01T01:36:00.000-07:00

When was the last time you calibrated your kitchen thermometer? Wait, let me ask, do you know what it means to calibrate your thermometer? Well, in order to get an exact reading from whatever it is that you are cooking, your thermometer must be calibrated. And it's easy to do. Just boil a pot of water and dip the tip of the thermometer in it. The red arrow should spin around and land on 212 degrees, if its calibrated properly. 212 is the boiling point for water. If the red arrow spins higher or lands lower than that temperature, you must recalibrate your thermometer and here's how: There is a small nut under the thermometer's head that you can spin to adjust the temperature. See how I'm holding the thermometer with the pliers? I'm actually gripping that little nut (yes, I am aware of how this all sounds, but try to keep it together over there). Just hold the nut tight, and spin the head of the thermometer (while the tip is plunged in the water) until the arrow rests on 212 degrees. And to be sure, you should do this regularly. If you don't, you will get false readings from your thermometer, a detriment if you are trying to make things like roasted lamb.

Pastured demi-leg of lamb with whole roasted carrots & jus

Today I made a leg of lamb. Half, really, pastured meat, organic. I consulted a couple of cookbooks to clarify the temp of a leg. One said that I should take it to 135 degrees, another said 140. Hm. Really? This would presumably lead to rare. I have not been in a professional kitchen for a long time, but that sounded a little off the mark. When I was cooking professionally, I was a serious force to be reckoned with on the spit. But these days, at home, I eat largely vegetarian, not for political reason but because I adore fresh market produce and I can happily live on it, plus I'm a little lazy, and I'm always poor. Alas, today my leg of lamb suffered because my memory is shadowy in the area of meat temps, when my heart of hearts told me to take that leg to 120, and not one degree more.

When I pulled the roast at exactly 135 degrees today, it came out medium at best, that was after I calibrated two thermometers just to be safe. When I do eat meat, I like it 'blue', or, very rare. As rare as a given piece of meat will allow anyway. I like my pork and chicken pink at the bone. Anything more than that is a serious disappointment. Sawdust, even, if I'm allowed to be dramatic.

I was going to wait until next week to do this post, since I plan to do another lamb roast then. I would pull the roast at 120, photograph it, and no one would be the wiser my little snafu. But then I thought, 'wait a minute, this blog is not about being perfect, it's about sharing my experience, what I'm learning, what I know'. Today, what I know is that 135 is NOT rare. It's the higher end of medium in the very least. You should know that. Sometimes things don't go as planned. Despite all that, the roast was meltingly tender, amazingly fragrant (I rubbed it with pimenton), and indisputably delicious. My friend and I killed the better part of it, and it was hard to stop eating just one more slice even after we were starting to feel full. My happy dog did some damage to it as well.

This is also the perfect time to point out that while I have many cookbooks, cookbooks are suggestions, not bibles. I don't believe in following recipes, in fact, I don't think I ever have, except with baking. That's a science that you don't want to tamper with. As a chef, you learn to cook by instinct, and cookbooks, for me, are really like novels. There are some authors who have the most beautiful voices, Slater, Greenspan, Psilakis, Robertson. It's up to you to tailor cookbook specs to the kitchen that you are working with and all of the variable that lie therein. So, let this post also be a guide, not an absolute. I've been out of the professional kitchen for far too long. My knives are a little rusty, and it's time to get them into shape again. My foibles remind me that I have to be present with my work. No chef worth their salt has ever sleepwalked through the kitchen, well, maybe not figuratively, but I think that most of us have quite literally. Professional cooking is a job that demands abbreviated nights, relationships, outside lives, and being committed to a life of food is a lot like being in a marriage. You have to put in the time to understand your partner. But when you do, as trying as it sometimes may be, the rewards could not be sweeter.

Aside from roasting the lamb this day, I boned and tied it as well, which I really wanted to share. I also roasted some locally grown carrots, whole with their skins, which were so sweet and earthy, especially their crispy roots. These two things, I believe, are worthy of posts of their own, and the roast, well, it's a roast, if you like it rare, pull it a little earlier than I did, but I would bet anything that you would be happy with the temp that I pulled it at today just the same.

Here's your larder:

2.5 pound half leg of lamb. Request the top half.
1 TB olive oil
2 tsp pimenton
2 tsp salt
3 cloves of garlic
A bundle of mature carrots with their tops trimmed to about 2 inches

BONE THE HALF LEG

Just a note on sustainable meat. Please purchase grass fed beef and pastured chickens, lamb and pig. This is the only worthy and sustainable option we have to keep our planet and ourselves healthy, and to ensure that the lives of the animals we eat are respected. If we all use the power of choice to do so, the commercial meat industry will dwindle. (Read Good Meat by Deborah Krasner for an inspirational story that will convert you and drive this point home). It is not enough to simply eat organic. Organic does not ensure sustainable farming practices. All it means is that the animal you are eating was raised on organic food. It says nothing about how it was treated while it was alive. Do you really want to eat the meat of animals who have never seen the light of day? Or worse, could not move around in their stalls until they were slaughtered for consumption? I don't like the reality that the longest walk the animals I eat are from dirty, cramped stalls to some filthy room where they are stunned, drained and split in half without any consideration for the animal as a living being. It's bad enough that they get eaten after a very short life, the least we can do is make it a happy one. If you can't afford to eat meat from farmers who practice humane methods for their animals, then vegetarianism is a heroic effort.

Stepping off the soapbox. Let's bone our leg.

Demi-leg of lamb, bone in

Using a sharp boning knife, cut alongside the bone using long, thin, clean swipes. Whenever working with meat, you want to use long, clean cuts so that the finished piece is polished and perfect. Short, uncertain cuts create a choppy and uncertain piece of meat.

Keep slicing close to the bone, all the way around it until it's released.

You want the finished piece to be completely flat so that it rolls up smoothly and cooks evenly. This fleshy piece here needs to be flattened. You can pound it out with a meat pounder, or use your knife to butterfly this little piece by slicing into the meat and rolling it outward as pictured below.

Remember, long, clean slicing. You can see here that the piece has been successfully butterflied.

Gather together the pimenton, salt and olive oil. Rough chop your garlic. Put the lamb in a bowl, and massage the above ingredients into it. Cover it with plastic wrap, pressing the wrap directly on top of the meat. Refrigerate for 24 hours.

Next day.

Bring the lamb to room temp, this will take about an hour. After an hour, preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Now lets tie the roast.

Scrape the garlic from the roast and discard. Roll the roast up into a tight cylinder, trying to get it as even from end to end as possible, meaning, not tapered. A roast that is even from end to end roasts more evenly.

Working with a piece of cotton kitchen twine roughly 4 or 5x the length of the roast, tie the end around one end of the roast like this. Knot it.

Pull the long end of the string around the roast.

When you arrive back at the top, thread the long end of the string underneath the the top of the loop you just made, just below the knot.

Pull it tight like this. You will be making a series of "t's" in the middle of the roast. Repeat until you reach the end of the roast, pulling tightly with each "t" that you make.

Flip the roast over. Take the long end of the string, and begin to thread it beneath the loops that you see.

In order to secure it, back track under the loop, pulling tightly, to create the little "t" again that you made on the top of the roast.

Keep doing this all the way down, pulling tightly as you go.

Flip the roast over, take the long end of the string and bring it back up over the top edge of the roast, then tie it to the little tail piece of string that you began with, the one dangling from the knot.

Heat a heavy cast iron pan on the stove, high heat, no oil. Lay the roast in the pan and sear on all sides. It should sizzle immediately when you lay in the roast. From here on out, manage the heat to maintain this sizzle, but not so high that the meat burns.

Use the upslope of the pan's side to prop the roast up so that you can successfully sear the sides, as it has a tendency to roll about.

Drain the fat from the pan. Pop the pan in the oven, turn the oven down to 375 and keep a watchful eye. You are going to want to check the temp in about 25 minutes. Try it at 120 for rare, and 130 for medium. I would not go any higher than this, unless you love lamb jerky. I will post my results next week with pictures of the leg cooked at 120.

WORK YOUR CARROTS.

Scrub the carrots, then get them into a cast iron pan. Drizzle with a little olive oil, sprinkle with salt and roll around until they are finely coated. Pop them into the oven and roast, shaking the pan every so often to keep the carrots lubricated and prevent them from burning on one side.

The carrots will take about 30 minutes. Test their doneness with a thin, sharp blade. They should be tender, but not mushy.

When the roast is done, pull it out of the oven and put it on a plate to catch the juices. Do not slice it now. It must rest for at least 15 minutes so that the juices have a chance to redistribute from the core of the roast.

Meanwhile, put the cast iron pan on the stove, get a splash of vermouth in there and deglaze the pan, scraping up any crusty bits on the bottom. Reduce the vermouth a bit, then add the accumulated juices from the resting roast. Turn off the flame.

When the roast is fully rested, add whatever further juices have collected on the plate to the awaiting pan with the jus. Slice the roast thinly, plate, and pour the jus over the slices. Serve alongside the carrots.

Pastured demi-leg of lamb with roasted carrots & jus

Mangia bene, vivi felice!

Verbena & Thyme

2011-08-28T15:11:00.000-07:00

Simplicity, the achievement of it, it's an underrated art. Our culture, we are bent on big splashes, whistles and what's more, bells. More is better and too much is absolutely fine. Sometimes I can actually feel the world spin beneath my feet. Sometimes I just want everything to go quiet, to stop moving, sometimes I just want to catch my breath. I wonder if I am allowed.

I marketed early today, just past seven, and the swelter of Los Angeles had not yet arrived, the streets were quiet and gray. It was still, as this city rarely is, and for a moment I thought I had finally anchored myself on usually bustling ground.

Lemon Verbena & Thyme

The costermongers were setting up the fruits of their labors, leafy jewels whose freshly cut ends were still damp, whose lush green was firmly settled in. I was absolute in my pursuit of but a few things - lemon verbena, a parchment of mushrooms, a handful of dark figs the color of asphalt, freshly lain. For I could see the sun revolve overhead, she, believing that everyone welcomes her advent. This, it's just not true. Sometimes, for some of us, the sun is an affliction, and our lives stop under her glorious blaze: no one enjoys when it's too hot to move.

Home again.

I wanted to share one of my simplest and most private engagements. It's one that requires the slightest few things, and forever reminds me that when the world rushes by at alarming velocity, I can simply let it go by. Simplicity is an art form, the pursuit of it, to be sure. And it's moments like this that I feel accomplished, just me, but a few leaves, the quiet of the early morn that relies upon the the crisp tail of the prior night's eve to catch its breath before unfolding once again.

Lemon Verbena & Thyme Teas

For 4 ounces of water, you will need no more than 6 newly cut verbena leaves or two twigs of the freshest thyme. Just pour boiling water over the herbs, they require about 4 minutes to steep.

a pound of figs

2011-08-23T11:04:00.000-07:00

Impromptu fig jam

I woke up with a hankering for toast and jam, and lucky me, I had just made a lovely semolina boule. But travesty struck, as it does so often in innocent households: I found that I was sans les confitures.

I could have been devastated, because you know, a jamless house can render a poor soul to that lot. But I circumvented such despair in view of an awaiting pound of perfectly ripe figs.

Lemons, cardamom, a pound of sticky fruit; no sooner were the grounds in my french press steeped that my brainstorm was nearing the finish line.

And then, behold, there was jam.

Impromptu fig jam with cardamon & red wine

MARKET LIST

1 pound of fresh, ripe figs
1/4 cup + 1 TB red wine
1/2 cup water

2 TB + 2 tsp fresh lemon juice

1 strip of zest from the lemon

1 1/2 tsp vanilla extract
2 TB + 1 tsp organic turbinado sugar

1 1/2 tsp ground cardamom
1 stick of cinnamon

A couple of rasps of nutmeg
1 pinch ground cloves

1) Slice the lids off of the figs and cut them in half.

2) Add them along with the rest of the ingredients to an awaiting pot, reserving 1/2 tsp of vanilla and 2 tsp of lemon juice.

3) Bring to a boil, then turn down to a simmer. Let this cook for 45 minutes over a very low flame, or until it's thick and jammy, stirring frequently to keep it from scorching. Sprinkle some water into the pot if it looks like it's about to scorch, or if it's cooking too quickly and the figs have not broken down yet.

4) When the jam has adequately thickened, add the last 1/2 teaspoon of vanilla and 1 tsp of the reserved lemon juice to brighten it. Stir and taste, adding the last tsp of lemon if necessary.

A note on working with fresh fruit: At this point of the jam making process, this is your opportunity to balance the tart and sweet, since the sugar level in fruit can vary widely. Your figs might be sweeter than another's, and you may need more or less lemon juice to balance out the finished jam. The discerning power of your palate is important here. I find that all jam recipes need to be tweaked according to how much sugar and acid is in the fruit to begin with. Don't be afraid to add a bit more sugar if necessary either. It won't hurt to stir in a few pinches at the end of the cooking process. The proper thing to do is taste the finished jam, and add sweet or sour elements in small increments until it tastes balanced.

5) Once you've successfully balanced the sweet/sour, remove the jam from the heat and allow to cool a bit before transferring to small Mason jars fitted with lids. Store in the refrigerator.

Mangia bene, vivi felice!

gazpacho, no planning required

2011-08-21T17:00:00.000-07:00

no planning required gazpacho

summertime, when the living is easy...

don't you love the tail end of summer? when fruit is at its sweetest and plump, ripe tomatoes are just begging to be made into something. ANYTHING.

tomato season is so short, it's like a race to make as many things from them as i can. one of these summers i'm actually going to do some planning before season's end and can them like my mother did when i was young. our garden overflowed with sweet tomatoes, and because the ladies of the midwest love to can and pickle things, we enjoyed the glorious fruit through the winter. thanks mom.

truth be told, canning is one of those things that sounds more romantic than it actually is. its messy and hot, with gallons of water boiling at your back while you prepare mountains of produce. it requires a fair amount of planning as well, what with all of the lids and jars and tools required for a successful outcome. to boot, these days it can also be quite expensive, because the cost of heirloom tomatoes ain't no joke. one would have to spend some serious coin for the whole messy affair to be worth it.

see what i mean? honeymoon over.

well, i might not be as rich or as organized as i would like, but that doesn't mean that i cant enjoy this seasons tomatoes all the same. in part iv of our vegetable series, i thought i might include this satisfying and super quick gazpacho that can be made with what you probably already have on hand. no planning required.

here's all you gotta do:

MARKET LIST

3 pounds tomatoes
1 large red bell pepper
1 cherry bomb pepper (optional)
1/2 large jalapeno
1 fatty cucumber, or about 4 Persians, peeled
4 cloves garlic
12 large leaves of basil
1/2 cup olive oil
3 TB sherry vinegar
1 tsp pimenton (smoky spanish paprika)

FIRST THINGS FIRST

1) core your toms

2) mortar the garlic cloves until you arrive at a very smooth paste, like this...

3) roast your peppers on the stove top like this...

till they're totally charred like this...

get them into a paper bag to steam. it helps the skins to release.

4) peel the peppers and discard the seeds.

5) i add the seeds of my jalapeno to the gazpacho because i want a little kick. but if you don't want yours to be that spicy, go ahead and scrape them out now.

6) working in two batches, because no one's blender is that big, get half of everything into the blender. that means:

1.5 pounds tomatoes
1/2 of a peeled cucumber
1/2 of both the roasted peppers
1/4 of a jalapeno
1/4 cup of olive oil
1/2 of the mortared garlic
1 TB + 1.5 tsp. sherry vinegar
1/2 tsp pimenton
salt to taste.

7) blend until it emulsifies. taste. adjust seasoning with salt. don't be alarmed, it will take quite a bit of salt. you will see. the right amount of salt will make this gazpacho sing.

8) now add 6 of the basil leaves to the blender. blend for a few seconds. transfer to a clean jar fitted with a lid.

9) repeat with the remaining ingredients, then refrigerate for at least an hour and a half before serving. this soup should be thoroughly chilled. oh, if it separates, no worries, just give it a good hard shake and it will re-emulsify.

et voila! no planning required gazpacho!

mangia bene, vivi felice!

Urban Stew

2011-08-17T21:44:00.000-07:00

Imagine: Your farmhouse, oceanside, surrounded by efflorescent lavender shrubs, brazen in the way they pump their perfumes into the currents of sunlight and the streaming mid-summer breezes. Fat, yellow bees collecting pollen from the silvery buds, the main ingredient in the manufacture of their balmy honeys, some golden and some so thick that it crawls like burnished amber from their indefatigable hives. Imagine the blue skies or gray, doesn't matter, the bramble dense with rabbits and stealthy serpents winding in and out of their earthy burrows. And there's a quietude so thorough that your thoughts are easily shuffled into their proper places and wholly free from the entanglement of urban hullabaloo.

Imagine that you, in your farmhouse, get to be exactly who you are, and you don't have to edit a thing.

Hind quarters of hen, graced with a plethora of lovely things

If I had a farmhouse I would make a lot of country stews, because they fit effortlessly with the landscape of coursing brooks and the trees that sway under the bellies of gliding black birds. Simmered things and slow food things remind me how I want to be, secretly, if I wasn't so thoroughly invested in my metropolitan ways. Alas, the only farmhouse I have is one in my mind, heavy stone the color of cockle shells, simple and small. The kitchen, oh, the kitchen... its windows, flanked by flaking, blanched shutters, like alert eyes they are, blinking into the tranquil mornings powdered by mists dragged in from the edges of the sea.

Today I decided to vacation at my farmhouse, escape, if you will, from the thickly peopled thoroughfares of L.A. proper, the sound of their honking horns. Already the lavender brushes away this hurried feeling, feelings of want so evident in a sea of plenty, and quite possibly too much. I know that we are supposed to be working with vegetables these few weeks, but I needed something comforting today and was compelled to deviate from the plan. It is a fine art, to be yielding, especially to the requirements of the soul.

Hence my urban stew.

This lovely dish is a snap to prepare, plus you get the added joy of pulling out your favorite clay pot. And as simmers away, promise that you'll take a moment to close your eyes and meditate your way back to your little house macerating in gusts of briny brume, peopled thickly with poppy blossoms and vigorous ants, a prolific copse of trees.

The best part of about our daydreams is that we can paint them any way we like. Here is how I painted mine.

Urban stew with sautéed chard & toasty almond slices

This dish will serve three, two if you have very good appetites. For the first order of business, gather together these few things:

For the Braise

- 6 chicken legs or thighs
- 5 or 6 shallots, enough that when sliced thin equals 1.5 cups
- 1/2 of a large fennel bulb, so that when sliced thin equals 1 cup
- Plump prunes, about 12
- Black oil cured olives, about 6
- 2 large garlic cloves
- Dry vermouth, a bit
- 1 cup rich chicken stock, preferably homemade
- Fresh tarragon, about 3 stems
- Fresh thyme, about 3 stems
- Fresh fennel frond, about 3 stems
- 2 fresh bay leaves
- 1 cup Fregola Sarda
- Sliced almonds, about 1/2 a cup
- A bit of flour, I used rye
- Salt and Pepper
- Olive oil, of course

For the chard

- 1 bundle of chard

- 1 clove of garlic, crushed

- Olive oil

- Dry vermouth

Directions

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Heat a bit of olive oil in your finest cazuela, or cast iron pan. Be sure that whatever vessel you use can be fitted with a proper lid.

Meanwhile, pat your chicken legs with paper towels so that they are very dry, then sprinkle with salt and pepper and give them a light dusting of flour.

When the oil is hot, add them to your cooking vessel and brown. Avoid crowding the pan at all costs or your legs will not caramelize. Accomplish this in batches if you must, and turn the legs as they brown, so that you achieve as much color as possible on all sides. If you are using a cazuela, there is no rush. Cranking the heat might crack it, so be patient. They will brown, I promise.

While the legs are braising, boil the fregola. Add 1 cup of fregola to amply salted boiling water. Fregola takes an ungodly amount of time to cook. Mine took 20 minutes. So, start yours now.

Meanwhile, slice the ribs from the chard leaves.

Slice the leaves into ribbons, set aside. Now slice the ribs into neat pieces about 1/4" thick. Get into a pan with olive oil and sauté.

When they become half-tender, add the garlic and sauté for a minute more. Deglaze the pan with dry vermouth. When the vermouth cooks out, add the chard leaves with a splash of water and a spritz of olive oil. It will wilt in a couple of minutes. When it's just wilted, sprinkle with salt, remove from the heat and set aside.

Check your hen.

During the 45 minutes that your cazuela was in the oven, lovely things happened. The flavors amalgamated, the hen became meltingly tender, the prunes and olives began to dissolve into the stock, happily on it's way to becoming an unctuous sauce.

Turn the hen legs over, give the broth a bit of a stir. Now add your cooked fregola to the cazuela, nestling it into the broth. Pop back into the oven uncovered for 15 more minutes so that the fregola has a chance to absorb some of the broth, and the broth begins to reduce into a sauce.

When it's done, divide the chard between the awaiting bowls. Spoon some of the fregola and sauce over the wilted leaves, and arrange the hen legs over that.

Finally, sprinkle a handful of toasted almonds over the dish, and enjoy your urban stew!

Mangia bene, vivi felice!

بابا غنوج

2011-08-09T23:08:00.000-07:00

You read that right, baba ghanoug!

Before I get ahead of myself, I must apologize for my brief hiatus. A few days ago, whilst running out to greet the post who was armed with a boatload of books bearing my name, I kicked the grill and broke my toe. My excitement for anything requiring movement has been dampened, and even the thought of going to the farmer's market ranked right up there with eating a bar of soap.

I've not been a happy girl.

In effort to make peace with my abuser, I fired up the Weber today to work on the third installation of our vegetable series and wound up with this smoky baba G. I also created a lovely recipe for buckwheat olive oil crackers and I must confess, they came out rather swell. Tender and flaky, a beautiful, nutty flavor from the buckwheat, and a delightful richness from the olive oil. I ended up making three varieties: plain, sesame, and cracked black pepper. My Greek-Armenian-Egyptian friend confided that they were the best, most tender crackers that she had ever had, and that she was as impressed with this baba as she is with her mother's. That, dear Reader, says it all.

Buckwheat Olive Oil Crackers & Smoky بابا غنوج

Oh, in case you're wondering, there is nothing that one can do for a broken toe except wear hard-soled shoes to keep your foot stabilized as you move about your day. So today I exercised in my Army issue combat boots, and believe it or not I had one of the best workouts that I can remember, broken toe and all.

When life hands you lemons (or at least one), dear Reader, you must, I implore, make this bana ghanoug!

Here's your larder:

For the بابا غنوج:

2 medium to medium large eggplants
1/4 cup plus 1 TB toasted tahini
2 TB lemon juice
1 TB olive oil
1 large garlic clove
1 tsp cumin seeds, toasted & ground fine
A few pinches of salt

For the buckwheat olive oil crackers:

175g all purpose flour
75g buckwheat flour
120g water
1 tsp. baking powder
55g extra virgin olive oil
1 tsp kosher salt
1 tsp pimenton (*pimenton is smoked Spanish paprika)

Make the baba:

Make a small fire in the grill. When the coals have turned to ashy, glowing embers, plunge the eggplants right in the center of them. No grate. Just directly on the coals.

I know, sounds all wrong. But this is how our primitive ancestors cooked, and so today shall we. Now, when the eggplants have wrinkled and collapsed into a soft, blistery mass like this:

They're done. Don't fret. The outside SHOULD be completely charred. Set them in a colander in the sink to drain and cool. When they are cool enough to handle, peel the black skins off as carefully as you can. Don't worry if you can't scrape off all of the char, this is rustic cooking. Plus the black flecks in the finished baba will add charm and your friends will know that you didn't buy it from the supermarket.

Back to the task at hand.

Your squashed eggplant should yield about 1 cup. Get this into the bowl of your food processor fitted with the regular blade.

Now, mortar up a clove of garlic with a pinch of salt (for friction) to a very smooth paste like this:

Get 2 tsp. of this garlic into the food processor bowl, along with the tahini, the lemon juice, the cumin, the olive oil and a couple of good pinches of salt. Whir. Test for seasoning, and adjust the salt and maybe the lemon juice if need be.

Spoon the baba into your best bowl and get started on the crackers.

Smoky Baba Ghanoug

Make the buckwheat olive oil crackers:

Preheat the oven to 420 degrees, and line a couple of baking sheets with parchment paper. This is one of those rare occasions where I would say use your convection oven if you have one, to ensure even baking. If you don't have one, don't worry, there are directions to ensure even baking below.

Pour the flours, baking powder, salt and pimenton in the center of your work table.

Make a well in the center and pour in the water and olive oil in increments, working the liquids in with one hand and a bench scraper.

When the wet and dry mixtures have come together, knead for a minute, and form into a ball.

Divide the dough into four equal parts, smear a thin layer of olive oil over your work space so that the rolled dough does not stick (don't worry, this is an easy dough that is not really prone to sticking. The olive oil is a 'just in case'), then roll one part out into a thin, even sheet, letting the weight of the rolling pin do the work.

Be sure to rub a bit of olive oil over the other 3 balls of dough and cover them so they don't form a hard skin.

At this point you can bake the cracker as a whole sheet as I did, then break it up into pieces when it cools, or cut it into neat shapes before baking them.

You might want to add fun elements to the surface of the cracker like herbs, nuts, coarse sea salt, seeds... I added sesame seeds to one, black pepper to another, and I left two of them plain.

Bake as follows:

PLAIN: Brush the dough with olive oil and lay it as flat as you can over the parchmented sheet pan. If you are going to work with cut crackers, cut into the desired shape and lay them over the parchment. Bake 4 minutes, rotate the pan and flip the cracker over to ensure even baking (if working with individual crackers, there is no need to flip them all, but do rotate the pan). Bake until JUST golden. When done, cool on a wire rack before breaking or eating. They will crisp further as they cool, so don't be worried if they seem a little pliable when you take them out of the oven. Just be sure not to overbake.

TOPPINGS: Sprinkle the rolled out dough with your topping of choice, I used pepper and sesame seeds. Once the topping is scattered over the top, gently press it into the dough with the rolling pin or it will slide right off when it comes out of the oven. Avoid adding pressure. The weight of the rolling pin itself is plenty. Brush the dough with olive oil and lay it as flat as you can over the parchmented sheet pan. If you are going to work with cut crackers, cut into the desired shape and lay them over the parchment. Bake 4 minutes, rotate the pan and flip the cracker over to ensure even baking (if working with individual crackers, there is no need to flip them all, but do rotate the pan). Bake until JUST golden. When done, cool on a wire rack before breaking or eating. They will crisp further as they cool, so don't be worried if they seem a little pliable when you take them out of the oven. Just be sure not to overbake.

Buckwheat Olive Oil Crackers

Mangia bene, vivi felice!

This post was spirited off to Wild Yeast Blog's Yeast Spotting.

Please Welcome Farm To Table Geek!

2011-08-05T10:43:00.000-07:00

Change is difficult sometimes, I know. But this change, I think, is a good one. I have been, for some time now, wanting to change the name of my blog to something that more closely exemplifies the content herein. But because I'm technically challenged, I didn't know how to go about setting it all up. Well, I have since figured it out, and I bring to you the new name of Mangia Tutta Di Maiale:

Farm To Table Geek

Because I am a total geek when it comes to farmer's markets and from-the-dirt eating.
Farmer's marketing and cooking it all up is where all of my time and money is spent. Who wants to go out dancing when you can stay home and roast things?

You can find me at my new home, farmtotablegeek.com starting now. Same content, just an easier name to remember (and pronounce, and spell...), and one that affirms my commitment to eating as close to the land as possible. You will still be able to find me at the old Mangia Tutta Di Maiale blog addy as well.

May the spirit of Mangia Tutta Di Maiale live on in our hearts, our memories, and in the farm to table movement that we all adore!

Manga bene, vivi felice!

vegetables: a series (part ii): show food

2011-08-01T20:28:00.000-07:00

Show Beans

I was once a fill-in private chef for a family in Ohio while the real chef was back in England securing a green card. Their ambition and congruous fortune made Martha Stewart look like a failure. Poor soul. A pauper in comparison.

The estate was sprawling, and the mansion, surrounded by several servants quarters that were mansions in their own right, boasted a marble foyer with alpine ceilings that would have thrilled airborne creatures with impressive wing span. Of course there were riding stables, heated, that housed a dozen glistening stallions whose superlative coats and haughty glances made me feel inferior. It was as though they knew they were rich.

The misses of the house was driven to her sorrel steeds in a golf cart every bright, snow-covered morn, because the estate was so far from the stables that it would have taken a good portion of an hour to walk the distance between. Off she would scoot, crop in hand, her thousand-dollar hairdo fluttering in the breeze kicked up by that little, hooded buggy.

The kitchen of the estate was outfitted with two refrigerators: a working Traulsen used by the private chef to house all of his crap, and a sleek black model that was required to be stuffed to the gills with pretty food that the richies could look in on, but which they would never eat. Never. Ever.

Show food, this was. Every day I would make a magazine spread's worth of dishes, arrange their porcelain plates on the shelves, and watch the family meander into the kitchen to have a look at this food here and again. It was as though they were panicked that they might one day go broke and starve, and required the excess as a visual reminder that they would, indeed, not.

I got hip early on and made food that I personally enjoyed for the show fridge, because it was I and the staff who would eat everything at day's end. Like these lovely beans, which I had almost forgotten about, which were a beautiful accompaniment to a cazuela of hunter's chicken that I also prepared. For display purposes.

We ate well that night, I remember, while the misses and her elderly mate dined on egg white omelets because they were starving themselves to maintain their figures. Deliberately, of course.

Have a look:

Show Beans

THE LARDER:

I had roughly 330g for my show beans, and thereabout 35g of walnuts. This is one of those recipes whose quantity you will just wing, according to whom you will be feeding and the degree of their hunger, whether this will be a side, or slated as a lunchtime main. Listed below is a starting point for quantities.

- 330g green beans - Why not try Heirloom French, purple or Blue Lake, or even yellow wax?

- 35g walnuts, toasted

- 5 - 6 stems of fresh oregano, maybe more, perhaps fewer, depending upon their maturity. You be the judge.

- 5 TB very good quality walnut oil

- 1 clove garlic

- 1 small lemon, for use of half of its juice, and the zest of this fruit in its entirety

- 1/4 tsp olive oil

- Salt, I prefer kosher

i) Set the oven's thermostat to 450 degrees. Place a cast iron skillet inside.

ii) Snip the ends of the beans. Toss with as little olive oil as you can. I used 1/4 tsp. Don't be tempted to use more, because you will be finishing the beans with the walnut oil. Sprinkle with salt.

iii) Toss the beans into the hot skillet and roast, turning periodically, till they begin to brown.

iv) Make the walnut schmoo.

v) Mortar your clove of garlic to a fine paste. Fine. Throw your walnuts in the bowl of the mortar and pound, but not too fine. You want it to be chunky.

vi) Chop up the oregano coarsely, just the leaves, no stems. Get the herbs into the bowl.

vi) Mix 5 TB of flavorful walnut oil into the walnut/herb mixture.

viii) When the beans are done, spoon this nut mixture into the hot beans. The heat from the beans will cook the garlic just enough.

ix) Zest the whole of the lemon over the beans, then drizzle the juice from 1/2 of it over them as well. Adjust with salt and a few twists of course black pepper. Toss.

x) Mangia bene, vivi felice!

vegetables: a series (part i): sambal

2011-07-29T20:02:00.000-07:00

roasted cauliflower with indianish mint sambal

there is absolutely nothing better than being serenaded by sarah vaughan whilst cooking. when i listen to her, i regret that i never became a lounge singer with a tobacco-tormented voice, singing in the musty underground hollows of new york and hooking up with all the wrong men just to add depth to my lachrymose tunes.

fresh tamarind pods

les chanteuses of yore had a way of making it seem like their cheatin' men were doing them a favor. these tormented women, pouring their hearts and souls out over barrels of black coffee and veritable cartons of cigarettes. alas, if it was not for these good for nothing men with their shifty ways, what on earth would they sing about? and who in the world would lull me into romantic bliss while i was cooking up this post for you?

indianish mint-coriander sambal

speaking of, today while noodling around the kitchen, ms. vaughn sobbing like a beautiful songbird all around, i realized that i might be getting a tad boring in my eating life. nary a chili to be found, and there were actually cobwebs draped like dingy streamers over the spice drawer.

off to the market.

when i got to WF, i decided to jazz things up a notch and gathered a few ingredients that i rarely procure. i'm a little midwestern when it comes to asian and indian food. my pedigree is definitively italian and my larder glaringly californian. but i'm turning turtle many a new leaf in my life, and pedestrian cooking will simply no longer do.

fresh turmeric rhizome

some tamarind pods, turmeric rhizomes fat, like golden fingers, a few mouse dropping chilis later, and i had the makings for an experiment whose outcome was a serendipitous combination of flavors that from this day forward, like sarah vaughan, my kitchen will never be without.

mouse dropping chilis, a.k.a. 'birdseye'

here's your larder:

for the roasted cauliflower
1 head cauliflower
olive oil
sea salt

for the indianish sambal

1 cup mint leaves
1 cup coriander leaves and stems
1/2 tsp whole cumin seeds
1/4 tsp ground cardamom
3/4" piece of fresh ginger
1 good-sized clove of garlic
1 coin fresh turmeric, about the diameter and thickness of a dime
3 mouse dropping chilis (birdseye chilis)
2 large, fresh tamarind pods, or 1 TB pure tamarind paste
2 heaping TB toasted, unsalted pistachio nuts
4 TB pistachio nut oil
4 TB extra virgin olive oil
2 TB fresh lemon or lime juice

special equipment

sheet tray

mortar and pestle with a large bowl

directions

1) preheat the ov to 350 degrees.

2) slice the cauli or break it up into smallish florets. in a bowl, toss with olive oil and sprinkle with salt. spread the cauli over a sheetpan, pop it in the oven and roast till golden, checking periodically and turning the florets with tongs if they are browning on the bottom faster than the top.

3) onto the sambal. toast the cumin seeds till they begin to brown and smell quite fragrant. pop them into the mortar and grind into a powder, then add the ground cardamom.

4) slice the skins off of both the ginger and the turmeric. slice the ginger into 1/8" thick coins

pop them into the mortar and grind to a paste. add the garlic and do the same, and finally the chili, again, grinding well to ensure that the paste is quite smooth.

5) add the pistachio nuts and pulverize

6) begin adding the coriander bits at at time, and pulverize to a fine paste. be sure that you pound this well so that the fibrous stems are completely broken down. add a pinch of salt to facilitate this. but just a pinch. it's very easy to overestimate the amount of salt that you need. you just need a bit for friction.

when all the coriander is pulverized, begin adding and pulverizing the mint leaves in the same way. stopping when it's completely broken down into a fine paste.

7) break open your tamarind, gingerly, if you're too rough, the tough skins will cling to the fruit and make for a huge headache.

squeeze the seeds from the tamarind pulp, and peel away the fibrous part that you see photographed above. collect 1 TB of smooth, sticky pulp from the pods, making sure that it is free from seeds and fiber. you can also use a jar of tamarind paste. just be sure that it is 100% pure tamarind, and not a bottle of 'tamarind sauce', which has other ingredients added to it.

8) add the tamarind to the mortar and smoosh into the mixture.

9) squeeze 2 TB fresh lemon or lime juice into the bowl. blend. now stir in the oils.

10) when the cauliflower is fully roasted, remove from the oven. i like to eat my cauliflower at room temp, but it's great if you eat it hot too.

plate up the cauli, and spoon some of the sambal over the top.

yay! new flavors!

mangia bene, vivi felice!