From the March, 2012 Gourmet

Happy New Year everyone! I’m writing this from the west Coast—Malibu to be precise—one of the few places in the country where it’s above freezing (well above, in fact; it’s 70˚ today and the skies are clear if a little hazy). I feel almost guilty sharing that information, knowing the miserable conditions so many of you are enduring back east. I can’t imagine what New York City feels like at 6˚, to say nothing of the bone shattering temperatures in places like Chicago and Minnesota (where it was -15˚ yesterday!), though that doesn’t lessen my empathy for what you’re all going through. I guess what I’m trying to say is I feel for you, even if I can’t imagine what you’re actually feeling. Still—and I hope you’ll forgive me for saying this—I’m mighty glad to be where I am. Though we didn’t plan this as a vacation (something I’ve been reminding myself all week as I drag myself over to the keyboard) our timing couldn’t have been better. And while we’re not exactly kicking up our feet, it’s definitely been a “get-away,” with all of the restorative connotations that phrase carries with it.

There’s a lot for Alfredo and me to be grateful for as we march into this new year, among them the gift of this Malibu beach house, which was offered to us for the month by two very generous friends. To say that this place is idyllic hardly does it justice—we’re just feet from the beach, so the sound of the thundering surf is our constant soundtrack. And each morning we awaken to the most incredible light show, the sky streaked with shades of pink, and orange, until it all fades away to a majestic cerulean blue, with maybe a cloud or two thrown in to break up the monotony. That and the electric orange sunsets function as exclamation points for the start and “finish” (or mid-point really; the sun sets at 5:30) of each day—a reminder that sometimes your only job is to stop and let your jaw drop in wonder and appreciation.

Of course, wonder and appreciation (and gratitude!) are things we’re experiencing a lot of at the moment, since the real reason we’re out here is for the birth of our daughter. As I may have mentioned previously, her due date is January 17th, so to protect against the possibility of an early arrival and our still being in New York (something we would have been very worried about had we been in town for last week’s snow storm), we decided to come out on the 29th—which had the added advantage of putting us here for New Year’s Eve (which we spent with two of our oldest, dearest friends). As it turns out the baby has not come early, and in fact shows no signs of doing so anytime soon, so we all agreed (“all” being the obstetrician, our wonderful surrogate, and Alfredo and me) that we would induce delivery next Tuesday, the 14th. Obviously there’s still a possibility that she could arrive without any medical assistance—something I think all of us would prefer—but in the interest of our surrogate being able to coordinate childcare for her two daughters, not to mention our making sure that various members of our family would be here for the big event, it just seemed to make sense to schedule a date everyone could plan around.

Do I sound calm, cool, and collected around all this? I think I am, sort of, which is as much a surprise to me as it is to all of our friends who assumed I would be a nervous wreck by this point. Perhaps that will come later—for now I’m just excited, a little overwhelmed, and super focused on being as prepared as possible. So that’s the big news here: we’re about to be dads (!), a concept that gives ordinary questions like: What should we do on Saturday night? a whole new meaning, since IT’S THE LAST SATURDAY OF OUR LIVES THAT WE WON’T BE PARENTS! Wow. Like I said: wonder and appreciation.

In the meantime, it’s pretty much business as usual—preparing for our lives to be turned upside down, but otherwise functioning much as we always have: working, trying to exercise (I took a brief run along Zuma Beach yesterday, my first such outing since my surgery, and another thing for which I am profoundly grateful), and, of course, eating. Admittedly, a lot of this has been at restaurants, though we’ve also made a few meals at home, taking advantage of this glorious location, our incredibly well outfitted kitchen (including a huge Wolf range), and the amazing produce available at what is otherwise your standard issue, football field-sized, suburban supermarket. I’m not exaggerating when I say that in the last two days I’ve eaten possibly the single best tomato, and undoubtedly the best, perfectly ripe avocado, of my entire life—both drizzled with merely average olive oil and some sea salt. The flavors were so sharp and crystal clear that I was practically doing somersaults around the kitchen.

And then there are the artichokes—a small tower of which presided over the happy corner of the market known as the produce section, and a reminder of why life here is so enticing. They presented an opportunity I didn’t want to miss so I decided to make a version of the shaved artichoke salad I’d eaten (and loved) a few nights earlier. That salad was made with baby artichokes, one of the few items the market did not have, but somewhere in the recesses of my memory I recalled a recipe for a similar salad using the larger variety, something I ultimately found on Epicurious. The recipe originally ran in an edition of Gourmet from 2002 and has likely been languishing in my clippings file since then. I can’t imagine why: it couldn’t be easier (making me wonder why I have always been so intimidated by preparing this favorite vegetable), and it’s delicious—the naturally metallic flavor of the artichoke perfectly offset with the tang of lemon juice, the nutty flavor of olive oil, and the kick of salty cheese (the recipe calls for Parmigiano, which I swapped out for Pecorino because it’s what I had in the fridge, and because I liked its slightly more concentrated saltiness here).

I suppose one source of my artichoke anxiety has stemmed from how to deal all those rubbery leaves and the weird, fuzzy stuff at the center. This recipe makes such simple work of the process, however, that it’s given me a whole new confidence where this strange little vegetable is concerned. Literally, a scissor, a paring knife, and a melon baller (or strong teaspoon, which is what I used) is all you need to carve the artichoke down to the heart of the matter—the heart of the artichoke. Next, you shave the heart as thin as you can with a mandoline or other adjustable slicer (thinner than what you see pictured here, if possible; I found these slices a little too thick but could not get my slicer to cooperate), toss with a small amount of lemon juice, then mix with a similarly slivered mushroom, a small amount of chopped parsley, a few splashes of olive oil, and some salt and pepper. Top with a few curls of salty cheese and a little more of that olive oil and you have the sort of bright, simple combination of flavors that can render you speechless.

That said the one thing that perplexes me about this recipe is the serving size, since as written the yield is supposedly enough for two. Personally, I recommend doubling the recipe, because even with an appetite considerably smaller than mine, I can’t imagine that would be enough. Plus, this is the sort of lip-smacking combination you want to make sure you have plenty of. That’s achieved easily enough with this recipe—simply consider the ingredients listed as good for one and expand from there.

Anyway, this will likely be the last you hear from me for at least the next few weeks, though I’ll certainly keep you posted on things as they develop. In the meantime, stay warm, and well, everyone!

Ingredients:
—1 large artichoke (tightly closed with no brown edges)
—1 lemon, halved
—1 very large (2-inches wide) cremini or white mushroom
—1½ tsp mild extra-virgin olive oil (plus more for drizzling)
—1 tsp chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
—1/4 tsp kosher salt
—1/8 tsp black pepper
—Shavings from a wedge of Pramigiano-Reggiano (TRG note: I prefer Pecorino, which is used here)

Special equipment:
—A melon ball-cutter (a teaspoon and some elbow grease will also do the trick)
—A mandoline or other adjustable slicer

Directions:
—Cut off artichoke stem and discard. Cut off top inch of artichoke with a serrated knife. Bend back outer leaves until they snap off close to base, then discard several more layers of leaves in same manner until you reach pale yellow leaves with pale green tips.
—Cut remaining leaves flush with top of artichoke bottom with a sharp knife, then pull out purple (TRG note: or green, not all artichokes will have purple leaves) and scoop out fuzzy choke with melon-baller (TRG note: a strong teaspoon will also work). Rub cut surfaces with a lemon half. Trim remaining dark green fibrous parts from base and sides of artichoke with a sharp paring knife, then rub cut surfaces with same lemon half.
—Trim mushroom stem flush with cap, then rub mushroom with same lemon half. Squeeze ½ teaspoon juice from remaining lemon half into a bowl.
—Shave artichoke and mushroom as thinly as possible with slicer and toss immediately with lemon juice, then with the oil, parsley, salt, and pepper.
—Shave several pieces of cheese on top of salads with a slicer or vegetable peeler, drizzle with olive oil, and serve immediately.

Note: Do all prep-work right before serving to avoid discoloration.

Serves two (according to the recipe; I recommend doubling for that number)

The post 01/09/13 • SHAVED ARTICHOKE SALAD appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.

From Julia and Jacques: Cooking at Home

I’ve gone back-and-forth about sharing this particular recipe with all of you—not because I don’t believe it’s one everyone should know about, but because it’s for salad dressing… and somehow that just seemed too minor to warrant its own posting. Except I know from experience how valuable the right salad dressing recipe can be. One or two good ones are all you need for a lifetime of cooking, and once you find the formula that suits you, it’s a little like inheriting your grandmother’s cast-iron skillet; you guard it with your life and give it lots of love. At least that’s how I feel about this recipe, one I’ve come to view as my secret meal-planning weapon, since no matter how uncertain I may be about the success of whatever else I’m cooking, I always know the salad will be a hit. And by “hit,” I don’t just mean devoured, but singled out (this as recently as last night, when completely unprompted and after having eaten it for years, Alfredo announced, “God, your salad dressing is good!”). Little surprise then that the recipe request I get most often from those seated around our table is for my salad dressing. So here it is: a minor player, perhaps, but a critical one in the planning of any meal.

But don’t just take my word for it—Jacques Pepin himself has given the recipe his seal of approval, presenting it as his own go-to vinaigrette in Julia and Jacques: Cooking at Home (one of my all-time favorite cookbooks). And, like any salad dressing recipe, the formula is there for you to experiment with as you like, dialing up or down the acidity and swapping out vinegars and oils with different flavor profiles. (Pepin cautions, however, that if you’re adding an oil or vinegar with a particularly strong flavor, like balsamic vinegar, you’ll want to use only a small amount, mixing it with the standard vinegar or oil listed in the recipe so as to avoid overpowering the greens). That said, in my many years of making this dressing I’ve never found any reason to alter it, unless I suddenly discovered I’d run out of red wine vinegar and was forced to use one of the alternatives lurking in the cabinet. In other words, from my perspective it’s the perfect combination of flavors, just as is.

One reason for that is the presence of two tablespoons of Dijon mustard, which gives the vinaigrette the ideal acidic kick (you can also use white-wine vinegar, though I generally go for the red-wine variety). And, of course, it’s simple (this is salad dressing, after all), requiring nothing more than placing the above two ingredients in a re-sealable glass jar along with 2 teaspoons of chopped garlic, a ½ teaspoon salt, a ¼ teaspoon of freshly ground black pepper, and a cup of olive oil, giving the mixture a vigorous shake, and presto: the answer to your salad dressing dreams. And for those of you made anxious by the presence of garlic here, have no fear. The tang of the various other ingredients present in the mixture has a way of mellowing the sharp (and to some, unpleasant) quality of the garlic—you can taste it, but it’s subtle. Mellow, too.

The other thing worth mentioning about this vinaigrette is that its big flavor makes it the ideal accompaniment for meat or other hearty dishes. As such, it’s one I tend to use frequently in cold weather months, as opposed to the warmer ones when I typically want something lighter. And the recipe produces about 1½ cups of dressing, which in my experience is enough to get me through at least three big salads. (The dressing will keep in the fridge for up to two weeks, though if you plan to store it that long consider adding the garlic as you go, since it can lose some of its zip and turn bitter over time.) All of which is good news for the holiday season, as well as for the weeks following, when so many of us will be atoning for our culinary sins with a salad-only diet. Thanks to this dressing, that’s something you can look forward to.

Ingredients:
—2 tsp chopped garlic (shallot can be substituted)
—2 tbs Dijon-style mustard
—1/2 tsp salt
—1/4 tsp freshly ground black pepper
—1/4 cup red- or white-wine vinegar
—1 cup extra-virgin olive oil or peanut oil, or a mixture of the two

Special equipment:
—A 12-ounce glass jar with a screw-top lid

Note #1: Other oils or vinegars can be substituted, though if you’re using a powerfully flvored one like balsamic vinegar, it’s recommended to mix a small amount with the standard vinegar or oil option listed in the recipe.

Note #2: The vinegar will keep in the fridge for up to two-weeks, though if you’re planning to store it that long, it’s best to add the garlic (or shallot, if using) as you go, as both can lose their flavor and turn bitter over time.

Directions:
—Put all of the ingredients in the jar, screw on the lid, and shake well. Taste and adjust seasoning, adding more oil or vinegar, as you like.
—Store in refrigerator up to 2 weeks, and shake to blend before using.

Makes about 1½ cups

The post 12/05/13 • MUSTARD VINAIGRETTE appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.

From the Oct., 2013 Food and Wine

Mushrooms can be a tough sell for a kid, particularly in their uncooked form when they’re just a little too spongy and strange for any but the most adventurous eater. I can remember the moment when that changed for me. It was around the big dining table at the house in northern Maine where my stepmother’s extensive family assembled every summer—one of those imposing old places facing the sea that’s quaintly called a “cottage,” even though it seems to ramble aimlessly over a multitude of floors and wings, including one dedicated just to staff. This would have been during my first visit to the house, and as an eleven year old from the gritty neighborhood of West Philadelphia, the experience that summer (and the many that followed) was a little like being transported to a fairytale, or a gothic romance, or a combination of the two. For a boy with an imagination it was Heaven. But back to those mushrooms: at the meal in question one of the adults had sautéed a few handfuls of mushrooms that she’d foraged from the extensive Pine-y woods nearby, and which she clearly intended to make her own small supper. Maybe because everything in this place was so enticingly foreign, I was intrigued by the look and smell of the dish and asked to give it a try. It was like nothing I’d ever tasted—rich and earthy, but also sweet and a little delicate. I was hooked, and immediately moved in for a second helping, stopped only by a sharp look from my Dad.

Since that time, sautéed mushrooms have held a particular allure for me—a relationship that means I’ll order them whenever I see the dish listed on a menu, but that for some reason never included actually making them myself. Happily I finally put an end to this culinary blind spot when I came across the attached recipe for sautéed mushrooms in red wine in the October issue of Food and Wine. Although the recipe doesn’t call for the wild variety of that first, eye-opening mushroom-eating experience—instead using standard issue white button and cremini mushrooms, as well as portobellos, which have never been a favorite of mine—there was something about the various other ingredients called for by the recipe that made me think I should give it a try. These additions include red wine, lemon juice, dry Marsala, and butter (added in the final moments of cooking to enrich the sauce)—enhancements I felt had the potential to elevate the supermarket mushroom combination to the status of something truly special.

The cooking process can be broken down into four distinct, equally simple steps. The first involves baking the portobellos (brushed with olive oil and sprinkled with salt) for 25 minutes in a 350˚ oven, and once cool, cutting them into ½-inch thick slices. While the portobellos are cooking, begin step two—a process that involves sautéing a quantity of leeks and garlic in olive oil until softened, and a mixture that functions as a kind of flavor base for the finished dish. The third step requires sautéing the cremini/white button mixture in olive oil along with some salt and a few sprigs of thyme (do this in two batches) until browned and tender. According to the recipe, this sautéing of the mushrooms should take about 8 minutes, though I found it to need more like twelve to fifteen, so be sure to test for doneness as you go.

Either way, once the mushrooms have been cooked to your satisfaction, it’s time for step four, which calls for returning the cremini along with the leeks and the portobellos to your pan, adding the red wine, and sautéing the mixture until the liquid is just evaporated. Allowing the wine sufficient time to boil down is important, as it ensures that the tang of the wine will have a chance to deepen and become concentrated, while also giving the mushrooms a chance to absorb this rich flavor. That said, it can be tricky to determine when all the wine has boiled off, since the mushrooms (particularly the portobellos) are likely to continue releasing moisture as they cook, making for a confluence of liquids. To adjust for any potential confusion this may cause, note the level of the wine when it’s added to the pan so you can estimate at which point it’s no longer present (and if all else fails, five to eight minutes should probably do the trick). In any case, once the wine has been reduced, add the vegetable broth, the lemon juice, and the lemon zest, and allow the mixture to simmer together for four minutes or so until the mushrooms start to look nicely sauced, and the tang of the citrus has had a chance to merge with the other flavors in the pan. It’s a heavenly combination, made all the more enticing by the addition of a small amount of Marsala, which gently nudges up the flavor quotient.

All that remains is to remove the pan from the heat, stir in a tablespoon of butter (I doubled this as the finished product didn’t look quite silken enough to me), the cup of arugula (for a peppery contrast), and a little seasoning in the form of salt and pepper. While the mixture doesn’t have the subtle delicacy of the wild mushrooms I sampled all those years ago, it is rich, earthy, and full of wonderful flavor—perfect all on its own or as an accompaniment to grilled meat, or even a few fried eggs.

Magic mushrooms indeed.

Ingredients:
—1 lb. portobello mushrooms
—6 tbs extra-virgin olive oil
—Kosher salt
—Freshly ground black pepper
—2 leeks, white and light green parts only, halved and thinly sliced crosswise
—2 garlic cloves, minced
—2 lbs mixed white button and cremini mushrooms, halved
—2 thyme sprigs
—1/2 cup dry red wine
—1¼ cups vegetable broth
—1/2 tsp finely grated lemon zest
—1 tbs fresh lemon juice
—1 tbs dry Marsala
—1 tbs unsalted butter (TRG note: I doubled this to make the sauce a little richer)
—1 cup packed baby arugula

Directions:
—Preheat oven to 350˚.
—On a baking sheet, brush the portobellos with 1 tbs of the olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Bake for about 25 minutes, until tender; let cool slightly, then slice ½-inch thick.
—Meanwhile, in a large, deep skillet, heat 1 tbs of the oil. Add the leeks, garlic and a big pinch of salt and pepper. Cook over moderate heat until the leeks are just starting to brown, 7 minutes; transfer to a bowl.
—Heat 2 tbs of oil in the skillet. Add half of the button and cremini mushrooms and a thyme sprig, season with salt and pepper and cook over moderately high heat, stirring occasionally, until tender and browned, 8 minutes. Transfer to the bowl. Repeat with the remaining 2 tbs of oil, mushrooms and thyme sprig.
—Return all of the cooked mushrooms to the skillet. Add the red wine and cook until evaporated. Add the broth, lemon zest, and lemon juice and cook over moderate heat, stirring, until the mushrooms are coated in a light sauce, 4 minutes. Stir in the Marsala and cook for 1 minute. Off the heat, stir in the butter and arugula and season with salt and pepper.

Makes 6 servings

The post 09/25/13 • SAUTEED MUSHROOMS appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.

From the Aug./Sept., 2013 Garden & Gun

Every year around this time I begin to recognize with an internal thud that the season of fun is fast coming to an end. I seem to arrive at this realization later than most (many of my friends and family have been wringing their hands over this indisputable fact for weeks already) but eventually the truth creeps in, even for me. And so once again only a few more weekends to be enjoyed before the arrival of Labor Day. Of course, it’s a recognition that brings with it a certain kind of pressure—to do, see, and savor all the things I love most about summer before the window slams shut for another nine months. And being a food-fixated sort of person, by “savor” I mean eat, so lately I’ve been zeroing in on the fresh fruits and vegetables that won’t be easy to find in a few months’ (or even weeks’) time. All of which is a long-winded way of saying in the last few weeks I’ve been eating as many tomatoes as possible, prepared in as many different ways as I can identify.

Of course, a really good tomato requires no preparation—simply slice it, sprinkle it with a little salt and pepper, and you’re good to go. Nevertheless, even the most beautiful specimen of tomato-hood can benefit from some culinary intervention now and again. Just consider this recipe for tomato salad, which is a simple enough preparation to allow the glories of a ripe tomato to come shining through, but that thanks to the addition of basil, capers, and a shallot vinaigrette is given just enough something extra to make it truly revelatory. This is a new recipe discovery for me and already it’s a favorite—one I intend to make again and again (though as with most recipes calling for fresh tomatoes, I wouldn’t bother if the produce isn’t truly something special).

Slightly more involved is this recipe for tomato pie. I love savory pies, and I love that this one is essentially a delicious tomato salad (in addition to a pound of sliced heirloom tomatoes the filling calls for vinegar, olive oil, goat cheese, and basil) baked in a pie shell. What’s more, the recipe allows for a frozen (i.e. store bought) piecrust, so this is one of those impressive dishes you can throw together at a moment’s notice. In fact, if you want to fast track it even further, skip the fresh breadcrumbs called for by the recipe (and which serve as the pie’s topping), swapping them out for Panko, which has the added benefit of providing a little additional crunch.

One of the wonderful surprises of this recipe is the way the tomatoes break down during the baking to infuse the savory/salty flavor combination with a hint of sweetness. In the company of the flaky, buttery pastry dough it’s something truly special indeed—the perfect way to hold on to summer just a little longer.

Ingredients:
—4 shallots, minced
—3 garlic cloves, minced
—4 tbs extra virgin olive oil, divided
—1 tbs Dijon mustard
—9-inch frozen pie shell
—1 lb assorted heirloom tomatoes, sliced ¼-inch thick
—3 oz goat cheese, crumbled
—1/2 oz. fresh basil, chiffonade (see note below for explanation)
—1 tbs Grenache vinegar (TRG note: If you can’t find Grenache vinegar, red wine vinegar is also fine)
—1/2 cup fresh bread crumbs (TRG note: Try Panko if you want a crunchier topping)
—1 oz. Parmesan cheese, grated (TRG note: about a ½ cup)
—Salt and pepper to taste

TRG note: Although “chiffonade” sounds like something requiring a standing mixer, in fact it’s a chopping technique used to produce long, thin strips of herbs or leafy green vegetables. In the case of this recipe, make a small pile of leaves, roll it like a cigarette, and then cut crosswise.

Directions:
—Preheat oven to 400˚.
—In a small pan, sauté shallots and garlic in 1 tbs of olive oil until tender, about 3 minutes. Stir in mustard and set aside.
—Place pastry shell in a 9-inch pie dish (TRG note: following instructions on packaging about whether to thaw first or not). Layer in half of the tomatoes, and season with salt and pepper; spread shallot mixture over top. Add goat cheese and half of the basil, distributing evenly. Layer in remaining tomatoes, and season with salt and pepper. Drizzle 1 tbs each of olive oil and vinegar over the tomatoes; top with remaining basil.
—In a small bowl, combine breadcrumbs, remaining 2 tbs of olive oil, and Parmesan cheese. Sprinkle evenly over filling.
—Bake 30 minutes or until topping an crust are golden brown (TRG note: I needed more like 40 minutes to achieve the desired doneness).

Serves 8

The post 08/21/13 • TOMATO PIE appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.

A few weeks ago my dear friend Scott joined me for a weekend in East Hampton. Actually, it would probably be more accurate to say that I joined him, since even though he was nominally my houseguest, in my handicapped condition (still crutched and booted, I’m afraid), and with Alfredo traveling for work, I needed Scott to help me with a variety of tasks, not least of which was the 100 or so mile drive from the city to the east end of Long Island. And then there was all the fetching, carrying, food shopping, and whatnot I couldn’t handle on my own. Honestly, before my accident I had no idea how challenging navigating the world with a disability was, so if nothing else the experience has given me a new perspective on things! And it’s forced me to rely on others in a way that I’ve tended to avoid—or at least used to. (It’s nothing to brag about, but in the past month I’ve actually gotten pretty good at directing my loved ones to bring me this or take care of that. In fact, my new favorite game—though probably no one else’s—is to sit in a chair and yell, “Nurse!” until I get some action, which is usually just a roll of the eyes or a thwack to the back of my head.) All of which is a long-winded way of saying that Scott worked his ass off while I sat around and drank iced coffee.

Among the myriad tasks he took on during our weekend was to fix a spectacular Saturday lunch, featuring a shrimp salad with celery and capers, a cold beet salad with goat cheese, and a wonderful haricot vert salad with salami, bacon, and pine nuts. This last item was one I had to share with you, both because it was so good, but also because it managed to transform something I rarely get excited about (green beans) into something I couldn’t get enough of.

First, though, a few words about haricots verts, which as some (many?) of you may know is not the same thing as standard green beans. If this subject is already one you covered in second grade, then please move on to the next paragraph. But as the difference is one I’ve never been completely clear about myself, I thought I’d devote a few sentences to the subject—as much for my own sake as for any of you who might be equally vague around the issue. As the name suggests haricots verts is a French variety of green bean (also known simply as French green beans, or filet beans). Of course, that doesn’t mean the bean is grown exclusively in France, but rather that it originated there. More importantly for our purposes, however, is the fact that it’s thinner, more delicately flavored, and cooks faster than the green bean standard (aka string beans, or snap beans), all qualities that are key to the pleasures of this dish.

Those first two qualities are ones that prove the perfect foil for the various other ingredients called into play here, since the mild taste and refined proportions of the bean make them the perfect match for the salt and crunch of the bacon, salami, and toasted pine nuts combination, not to mention the mustard vinaigrette that holds the entire mixture together. In fact, so appealing was the salt and crunch of the bacon component that I found myself wanting to amplify it somehow, a minor change I was able to achieve when I made the dish again a few days later (yes, it’s that good) by swapping out the crumbled bacon for a quantity of diced and fried pancetta. Both options are excellent, though I particularly like the chewy texture and more complex flavor of the pancetta in combination with the other ingredients here. Of course, if you prefer the taste of bacon over pancetta, the thick cut variety is another way to go—just dice and fry as you would the cured pork belly to achieve something akin to those little pork nuggets you’d find in a frisée aux lardons salad. As Scott would say, “Yummy, yummy, yummy!”

In other words, this is a great salad to dial up or down, according to your preferences, adding to (or subtracting from) the various ingredients to achieve the exact degree of zest or crunch or earthiness you’re after. And it comes together quickly. All of which makes this my candidate for the best salad of the summer. Enjoy!

Ingredients:
—1½ lbs fresh haricots verts, trimmed
—1 tsp salt
—3 oz salami (TRG note: I used Sopressata, but any will do), sliced thin (about ¼ inch thick) then cut into fat matchsticks
—4 bacon slices, cooked crisp, then drained and crumbled (TRG note: can be substituted with a ½ lb of pancetta, diced, cooked crisp, then drained)
—3 tbs pine nuts (lightly toasted in a dry skillet)
—1 tbs red wine vinegar
—Sea salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste
—2 tbs olive oil
—1 tbs Dijon mustard

Directions:
—Add the green beans to salted boiling water. Cook about 4 minutes, or until tender, then drain and run under cold water. Set aside.
—Pour the vinegar into a small bowl, add a dash of salt and a few grinds of pepper, and stir with a fork to emulsify. Add the olive and stir, then add the mustard and stir. Adjust seasoning as needed.
—Place the green beans in a large bowl, then add the sliced salami, the crumbled bacon (or diced pancetta), the pine nuts, and the vinaigrette. Toss well to incorporate.
—Adjust seasoning with sea salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Serves 4

The post 07/25/13 • FRENCH GREEN BEAN SALAD appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.

Adapted from the May, 2013 Bon Appétit

Have you noticed how some of the cooking magazines have a page or two each month devoted to reader requests for favorite restaurant dishes? Well this is the spot where I would have included one of those myself, except that the recipe I’ve been wanting to bring to you, or more precisely the restaurant associated with it, is not the sort that believes in sharing. I know this because on repeated occasions I’ve asked whether they (“they” being a little waterside operation on the vacation island of St. Bart’s) would be willing to pass along their recipe for Asian chicken salad, and each time my request has been met with a steely “no.” Given the tenor of their response and the fact that their portions are small and their prices are high, you might wonder why I continue to frequent this particular establishment. The answer, of course, is because I like the food… a lot—especially their coconut tart and the aforementioned chicken salad. And so each time I’ve visited the restaurant over the years I order both (if they’re on the menu) in the hopes that I’ll be able to break down the various components sufficiently to recreate the dishes myself at home, something I have so far been unable to accomplish.

But recently I was thrown a lifeline, in the form of this recipe for Asian chicken and cabbage salad, which I found in the May issue of Bon Appétit. While the dish is not an exact match to the restaurant version I love (for one thing it features red cabbage instead of white), it offers enough of those components that have kept me coming back for more—namely the tang of citrus and vinegar, the subtle heat of a finely diced pepper, the crunch of peanuts and sliced cabbage, and the mild sweetness of roast chicken—to be a reasonable facsimile. In fact, I’m not sure I don’t like this version even more, in part because it also includes a number of ingredients I’ve never noticed in the other, such as baby spinach, cilantro, and a small amount of fresh ginger, all terrific additions to this flavor-packed combo.

I also love how easy it is to assemble, though that probably comes as no surprise since this is a chicken salad we’re talking about and not—I don’t know—a soufflé or something more elaborate. You begin with the dressing, which consists of the chile (either a jalapeño or Fresno variety) and the ginger, some olive oil, the lime juice, and a small amount of soy sauce, brown sugar, and fish sauce, all of it whisked together in a large serving bowl until emulsified. Next you add 3 cups of shredded chicken (pulled from a rotisserie chicken to make your life even easier, though as the recipe points out leftover shrimp or sliced pork would also be great), along with the various vegetables—specifically, half of a small head of red cabbage (sliced), two shredded carrots, a handful of chopped scallions, a cup of slivered spinach, and 1/3 cup chopped fresh cilantro. In other words, all healthy stuff (okay, maybe not the brown sugar but there’s only a little) and taken together, seriously delicious!

As for those peanuts, these—along with some toasted sesame seeds—are sprinkled across the surface of each serving, providing a little visual interest, not to mention more of that all-important crunch. So clearly, there’s no shortage of things to love here. But perhaps best of all is the fact that unlike those tiny appetizer portions served up at the restaurant in St. Bart’s, if you make it at home you can eat all you want. In other words, forget treating this salad as a warm-up act and elevate it to entrée status. I can’t think of a better, more satisfying meal for a hot summer night.

Ingredients:
—1 red japapeño or Fresno chile with some seeds, chopped (Note: for a touch more heat, try adding a dash or two Sriracha, the Asian hot sauce made from ground chiles and garlic)
—1/3 cup vegetable oil
—1/4 cup fresh lime juice (or more if you prefer a bit more tang; I actually doubled the lime juice but taste as you go)
—2 tbs reduced-sodium soy sauce
—2 tsp light brown sugar
—1 tsp fish sauce (such as nam pla or nuoc nam)
—1 tsp grated peeled ginger
—Kosher salt
—1/2 small head of red cabbage, thinly sliced (about 5 cups)
—2 medium carrots, peeled, shredded
—6 scallions, whites and pale greens only, thinly sliced
—3 cups shredded rotisserie chicken
—1 cup baby spinach, thinly sliced
—1/3 cup chopped fresh cilantro
—1/4 cup chopped dry-roasted peanuts
—1/2 tsp toasted sesame seeds (Note: for a touch more sesame flavor, try adding a few dashes of toasted sesame oil to each serving)

Directions:
—Whisk chile, oil, lime juice, soy sauce, brown sugar fish sauce, and ginger in a large bowl; season with salt.
—Add cabbage, carrots, scallions, chicken, spinach, and cilantro; toss to coat.
—Top with peanuts and sesame seeds and serve.

4 servings

The post 07/11/13 • ASIAN CHICKEN SALAD appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.

Adapted from the Dec., 2012 Bon Appétit

Many years ago, when I was around 3 or 4 years old, my parents decorated the eating area in our house with a hilarious poster of a smiling, middle-aged Asian guy holding a sandwich he’d presumably just taken a bite out of. Above his head were the words, “You don’t have to be Jewish,” and below it the phrase’s now famous kicker: “to love Levy’s real Jewish rye.” Even as a little guy I was fascinated by that image, and forty plus years later I still find the language from that poster working its way into my head at random moments. Case in point—while I was making the popovers presented here. Now obviously unlike the rye bread from that Levy’s poster, popovers have no particular ethnic association. Still, in their very English, Downton Abbey-ness, popovers do call to mind a certain Anglican attitude that’s the very antithesis of a good deli sandwich. And because the batter they’re made from is essentially the same as the one called for in Yorkshire pudding, and because that dish is for me a key component to any Christmas feast worthy of the title, it naturally made me flash back to that poster’s copy. Or rather, to the copy’s flipside: you don’t have to be Christian to love Christmas dinner.

And that’s the truth, because no matter what you may think about the religious or material associations linked to the holiday, to my way of thinking there is nothing bad that can be said about the big meal that comes along with it. Or at least, the big meal as I have come to know and love it, featuring some sort of cheese- and cream-laden potato dish, sautéed spinach (to balance things out), and a standing rib roast paired with a horseradish infused crème fraîche. In the company of these items, but most especially that roast beef, the buttery, eggy-ness of a crisp/tender Yorkshire pudding is pure decadent perfection—the sort of thing best justified by the phrase, “Hey, it’s the holidays!”

Which is exactly why this recipe from the December issue of Bon Appétit grabbed me by the collar and wouldn’t let go. Years ago, when I was first attempting to prepare a Christmas dinner on my own, I learned that Yorkshire pudding is traditionally made using the fat drippings produced by that aforementioned roast—a rich, buttery payoff that can prove a drag on meal preparation since the making of the popovers must follow that of the meat. Enter the popover, Yorkshire pudding’s duplicate in all things except form, since the brioche shaped pastry is baked in a muffin or popover tin and not a casserole dish. It’s a difference that can lighten the cook’s load immeasurably, as the popover’s smaller shape seems to respond just as well to melted butter as it does to rendered beef fat (key, since without the warm fat to greet the batter the pudding won’t inflate as desired—an important component to the dish), which means you don’t have to wait until that roast is out of the oven to get things going. What’s more, it makes for a tidy, individually sized package on everyone’s plate—something that both looks nice and streamlines the serving process.

Now you might guess from all this rhapsodizing that popovers are something I’ve made before, and you’d be right. But what prompted me to put aside the more than serviceable recipe I’ve used in the past and give this one a try was its addition of three surprise ingredients: freshly ground black pepper, freshly grated nutmeg, and freshly chopped flat-leaf parsley. In other words, along with the signature flavors of butter, eggs, and flour, the dish now has a little something extra—a subtle bite of heat thanks to the pepper and the nutmeg, and a quiet grassy note delivered by the parsley. As such it’s just the thing to round out the buttery richness of the confection in its most basic state.

And it couldn’t be easier to make. To start you whisk together your various dry ingredients (the flour, the salt, the pepper, and the nutmeg), along with the freshly chopped parsley, and in a separate bowl do the same with your wet items (the milk, the eggs, and 3 tablespoons of the butter, melted). Into the egg mixture you gradually add the flour/parsley combo, and once combined you’re good to go—proceeding either directly to the muffin tins, or chilling and refrigerating the mixture for up to a day. This last detail bears underscoring as it’s one more way this recipe serves the harried chef, since any opportunity to get things done ahead of mealtime can obviously lighten the load immeasurably. Either way, once you are ready to start baking, douse each cup with a 1/2 teaspoon of melted butter (made from the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter), then fill the muffin tin three-quarters of the way full with the batter. That said depending on the capacity of your tin (although the recipe calls for “standard muffin cups,” and even if you’re using one described as such, there seems to be some variation as to how much it holds) you may find yourself with excess batter. If so, call a second tin into service and be grateful you have extra!

All that remains at this point is to bake the popovers in a 425˚ oven for 30 to 35 minutes, or until the dough is golden brown, crisped around the edges, and puffed up like a miniature hot air balloon. (For the record, on each occasion I’ve made these I’ve needed that additional five minutes to achieve the correct level of doneness.) What’s more, although it’s not suggested by the recipe, midway through the baking process you may want to rotate the pan if it looks as though the popovers are not browning or puffing up evenly. If you decide this extra step is called for, however, be sure to move quckly as you don’t want to lower your oven’s temperature and risk deflating the pastry—the source of much of its goodness. Similarly, once the popovers are out of the oven you’ll want to get them to the table immediately, so make sure everything else is ready to serve by the time they’re done.

Of course, even a cold, slightly deflated popover can be irresistible—something I tend to experience each Christmas when faced with the dilemma of what to do with the 2 or 3 that remain uneaten (I’ve been known to succumb to temptation and pop one more in my mouth, even after multiple servings of dessert). Still, it’s not a question I anticipate having to resolve this year; with the “secret” ingredients in these popovers, I fully expect they will all be devoured. Seriously, they’re that good.

Ingredients:
—2 cups all-purpose flour
—2 tbs finely chopped flat-leaf parsley
—1 tbs kosher salt
—1 tsp freshly ground black pepper
—1 tsp freshly grated nutmeg
—3 large eggs
—2½ cups whole milk
—5 tbs melted unsalted butter, divided

Directions:
—Preheat oven to 425˚.
—In a medium bowl whisk the flour, parsley, salt, pepper and nutmeg. Set aside.
—In a large bowl whisk the eggs and the milk until well blended. Gently whisk in the flour mixture, followed by 3 tbs of the melted butter (don’t overmix).
—Melt the remaining 2 tbs butter; grease 12 standard muffin cups with ½ tsp melted butter each. (See TRG note #1, below).
—Pour batter into prepared muffin tins, filling cups three-quarters full and dividing equally.
—Bake popovers until puffed, golden brown, and crispy around edges, 30 to 35 minutes. (See TRG note #2, below.) Using a thin knife or an offset spatula, remove popovers from pan. Serve immediately.

BA Note #1: The batter can be made 1 day ahead, covered and chilled, and poured into the prepared muffin tin just prior to baking.

BA note #2: For an intensified flavor, substitute melted duck fat for the melted butter.

TRG note #1: Although the recipe calls for 12 standard-sized muffin cups (which should each hold 1/4 to 1/3 cup batter) you may find you’re left with excess batter once the requisite amount has been poured into the cups. If so, call a second muffin tin into service and use the remaining batter to make as many additional popovers as you’re able.

TRG note #2: If the popovers look to be baking unevenly, try rotating the pan mid-way through the cooking process.

Makes 12 popovers (or more, depending on the size of your pan)

The post 12/06/12 • POPOVERS WITH A PLUS appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.

From Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking

When I was growing up in Philadelphia in the 1970s, the French/Mediterranean vegetable casserole known as ratatouille seemed to be everywhere—sort of the way kale salads or pot pies are today. Or maybe it’s just that my mom was heavy into Julia Child’s the Art of French Cooking at the time, and that particular dish quickly became a dinner-party favorite of hers. In any case, either because she was making a lot of it in those days, or because it was one of the dishes my 7th grade French class prepared for our end of year feast (we also made a bûche de Noël, as I recall), ratatouille has strong childhood associations for me. Come to think of it, that may well be why it’s a dish I tucked away in my memory bank, barely giving it another thought until the Pixar film of the same name came out a few years ago. Watching that movie’s animated, anthropomorphized rodent prepare the casserole at least got me thinking about the dish again, even if it would require several years more for it to make its way back into my own cooking rotation. Still, I have to give credit where it’s due—after all, how else to explain why driving past an East Hampton farm stand on my way back to the city recently would out-of-the-blue prompt the idea to make ratatouille for an upcoming dinner?

This happened just as we were all preparing for the curtain to come down on summer, so in the back of my mind was the knowledge that the opportunity to take advantage of all this bounty was fast disappearing. Short of canning, what could I whip up that would make the most of all this good stuff the late summer season has to offer? And then the answer hit me: ratatouille. But not ratatouille as it’s made in the animated film (that version, which features vegetables cut into rounds as opposed to slices, was created by Thomas Keller), but the version first introduced to American home chefs back in the 1960s, and the version my mom had in turn introduced to me—the one made famous by Julia Child. (Child, of course, would have celebrated her 100th birthday earlier this month, a fact widely covered in the press at the time, so perhaps that, too, played an unconscious role in my impulse here).

So the following weekend—which, with its blue skies and dry summer weather, was notably Provence-like—I made the short bike ride to the same farm stand I’d passed a week earlier, with the express intent of scooping up the various ingredients needed for making the famous eggplant casserole. Little surprise there was plenty to work with—so much so, in fact, that I immediately decided to double the recipe—though it’s worth noting that one of the nice things about ratatouille is that the various fruits and vegetables called for can be found pretty much any time of year. Still, one can’t underestimate the added flavor that comes from cooking with something that came off the vine just days earlier, or the pleasure of doing your food shopping from a wooden shack set up beside a cornfield.

That was how I felt, anyway, as I handed over my few dollars for what amounted to several bags of eggplant, zucchini, green peppers, and onions. Maybe it was the beauty of the day or the sense of satisfaction that comes with buying something you know hasn’t travelled half way across the country to reach you, but I was almost giddy with the excitement of getting started. That is, until I read the following line from Julia’s brief preamble to the recipe: “A really good ratatouille is not one of the quicker dishes to make, as each element is cooked separately . . .” Now normally, being told that a particular dish is time-consuming would not give me pause, but when it’s Julia Child sounding the alarm it tends to resonate a little deeper. Still, a quick scan of the various steps convinced me I didn’t need to be a graduate of the Cordon Bleu to complete the dish. Quite the opposite, in fact—there may be a number of steps involved, but none seemed particularly challenging. What’s more, as Julia herself points out, one of the great advantages of ratatouille is that it improves in flavor if made the day before it’s eaten, so whatever labor is required can be logged in long before the finished product is brought to the table. In other words, no one needs to see you sweat.

And as it turns out, the really time consuming part for me wasn’t so much the individual sautéing of the various vegetables—first the eggplant (alone), then the zucchini (alone), followed by the onions, which are joined in the pan by a few cloves of smashed garlic, and then the strips of pulped tomato. Rather it was the chopping, the pulping (Julia’s directions for this are included below), and most of all the individual toweling off the eggplant and zucchini spears, once they’ve been allowed a half hour or so to release some of their water content—a process aided by being tossed with a few tablespoons of salt and left to sit undisturbed in a large bowl. After that, the frying, the simmering, and finally the layering of the various ingredients to form the actual casserole, is a relatively speedy process.

The other interesting thing to note here is that unlike some ratatouille recipes I’ve seen, this one requires no involvement from your oven. Instead, everything is done in a large skillet (Julia calls for a 10- or 12-inch enameled variety, though I used a standard nonstick pan with no ill-affect), and a 2½ quart flameproof casserole that’s about 2½ inches deep. This last piece of equipment makes its appearance during the final stage of cooking, once the various ingredients have been layered into your dish (tomatoes, chopped parsley, half of the eggplant and zucchini, and so on, ending with the tomatoes and chopped parsley), and is done entirely on the stovetop. It’s a process that occurs first while covered at a low simmer for ten minutes, then uncovered and at slightly higher heat for 15 minutes, all of which allows the liquid to evaporate and the flavors to become that more concentrated. At the end, the only liquid that should be left is a bit of vegetable-infused olive oil; good stuff!

It’s also a step that underscores one of the things that’s most special about this recipe, namely that even though the various vegetables (and the tomato) are cooked together, it’s done in such a way that each is allowed to remain distinct and fully intact throughout the process. This would obviously not be the case if everything were simply thrown into the pan together and pushed around. No doubt it’s one of the reasons Julia Child chose the recipe in the first place, and why she stressed that it’s the only one she knew of that “produces a ratatouille in which each vegetable retains its own shape and character.” In other words, this is not some sort of fragrant vegetable mush, but rather a medley of tender/firm vegetables, each with its own bright flavor but one that stills manage to play off all the others.

One final note on serving: ratatouille can be enjoyed hot or cold (for what it’s worth I prefer it at room temperature, as the flavors seem to come through loudest at this stage). Still, if you prefer the dish a little warmer or even hot and have prepared it the day before, reheat it slowly on the stovetop, uncovered, until it reaches the desired temperature. Either way it’s a dish that can be counted on to transport you to warm sunny days on the Mediterranean—no matter what the time of year.

Ingredients:
—1 lb eggplant, peeled and cut into slices 3/8” thick, 3” long, and 1” wide
—1 lb zucchini, cut into slices similar in size to the eggplant
—1 tsp salt, plus more as needed
—Ground black pepper
—6 to 7 tbs olive oil, divided, more if needed
—1/2 lb yellow onions, thinly sliced (about 1½ cups)
—2 green bell peppers, sliced (about 1 cup)
—2 cloves garlic, mashed
—1 lb firm ripe red tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and juiced (about 1½ cups pulp), then sliced into 3/8” strips (See note, below)
—3 tbs minced flat leaf parsley

Note: To peel tomatoes, drop firm, ripe, red tomatoes on or two at a time in boiling water to cover, and boil for 10 seconds. Remove from the water, cut out the stem, and peel off the skin, starting at the stem hole. To seed and juice tomatoes, cut peeled or unpeeled tomatoes in half crosswise (not through the stem), then squeeze each half gently to extract the seeds and juices.

TRG’s modified directions:
—Place the peeled, sliced eggplant and sliced zucchini in a bowl and toss with a teaspoon salt. Let stand 30 minutes. Drain. Dry each slice in a towel.
—Place 4 tablespoons olive oil in a 10- to 12-inch non-reactive skillet and heat over medium high heat. Once the oil is hot and working in batches, sauté the eggplant and then the zucchini, one layer at a time, for about one minute on each side, to brown very lightly. Set aside.
—In the same skillet, cook the onions and peppers slowly in 2 to 3 tablespoons olive oil for about 10 minutes, or until tender but not browned. Stir in the mashed garlic and season to taste.
—Lay the sliced tomato pulp over the onion, pepper, and garlic mixture. Season with salt and pepper. Cover the skillet and cook over low heat for 5 minutes, or until tomatoes have begun to render their juice. Uncover, baste the tomatoes with the juices, raise heat, and boil for several minutes, until the juice has almost entirely evaporated.
—Place a third of the tomato and onion mixture in the bottom of a 2½-quart fireproof casserole about 2½- inches deep, and sprinkle over it 1 tablespoon of the minced parsley. Arrange half of the eggplant and zucchini on top, then half of the remaining tomatoes and parsley. Put in the rest of the eggplant and zucchini, and finish with the remaining tomatoes and parsley.
—Cover the casserole with aluminum foil and simmer over low heat for 10 minutes. Uncover, tip casserole, and baste with the rendered juices. Correct seasoning, if necessary.
—Raise heat slightly and cook uncovered for about 15 minutes more, basting several times, until juices have evaporated, leaving a spoonful or two of flavored olive oil. Be careful not to let the vegetables scorch in the bottom of the casserole.
—Set aside uncovered. Reheat slowly at serving time, or serve at room temperature. NOTE: Ratatouille gains in flavor when cooked the day before it’s served.

Serves 6 to 8

The post 09/20/12 • THE REAL-DEAL RATATOUILLE appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.

From the Sept., 2012 Elle Decor (click here to view the recipe)

If you’re the sort of person who reflexively slows down whenever a roadside farm-stand comes into view, then you’ve officially entered whiplash season. That was my conclusion last weekend, anyway, as I tooled around the East End of Long Island and found my head repeatedly swiveling right, then left, then right again. Farm-stands, of course, have been piled high with good stuff for months now, but in the last few weeks things seem to have taken a particularly distracting turn, with late summer tomatoes and corn vying for space alongside zucchini, squash, peaches, all manner of berries, and that ultimate (non-edible) attention grabber, sunflowers. For a food-minded individual like myself, it’s enough to make you start hyperventilating, wondering when, and how (!), you can possibly make the most of all this bounty before it withers away and it’s back to frozen pea-time. That “how” is a critical question, not just because there are only so many eating opportunities in a given week, but because (as addressed in my corn and tomato salad posting of a few weeks ago) no matter how spectacular the produce you’re working with, by this point in the season a certain sameness can set in. The challenge is landing on a preparation for those peaches, or zucchini, or what-have-you, that will keep things sufficiently exciting while still respecting what’s best about this direct from the farm goodness in the first place: its exceptionally vivid flavor.

Those two qualities (the excitement, the purity of flavor) were just a few of the things I liked about this recipe for a corn and heirloom tomato tart. It’s a preparation I pulled from the current issue of Elle Décor, a magazine I consistently find myself thumbing through each month both because there are few things more fun than checking out other people’s houses, but also because I’m a big fan of Daniel Boulud’s regular cooking column—especially when the featured recipe offers a twist on something traditionally French. Here that attitude comes in the way this dish echoes quiche (that onetime obsession of so many American cooks), not to mention the way the tart’s tomato topping is mixed with Parmesan cheese, breadcrumbs, and a variety of the other ingredients, all of which lends it a decidedly Provencal flavor. That said the tart’s corn pudding base is nothing if not American, making the entire combo an appealing kind of Franco-American mash-up I was drawn to. For those reasons, as well as the fact that I’m a fan of most any savory assortment that’s nestled within a tart shell, this was a recipe I couldn’t wait to try.

I’ve also recently become enamored of making pastry dough, something that for many years I had an irrational fear of tackling. If that’s an anxiety you can relate to—and even if it isn’t—this is a good recipe to add to your repertoire, as it’s so very simple. Boulud describes the version included here as a classic “pâte brisée”—a term that the website Cookthink defines as “shortcut pastry,” the pastry of choice for quiche and tarts, and one comprising equal parts fat (as in butter, lard, or shortening) and flour, merged and then bound with a bit of water or egg yolk. That one-to-one ratio does not exactly hold with the recipe presented here, but the idea is basically the same. So in the Boulud version, flour, butter, and a small amount of salt are combined (“pulsed”) in a food processor until crumbs form, at which point a lightly beaten egg is added to the mixture. This, too, is pulsed until the mixture starts to clump. When telltale curds start to appear, place the mixture onto a work surface, kneed a few times, wrap with cellophane, and refrigerate for at least an hour so the various ingredients have a chance to come together.

Once the dough has had a chance to chill, lightly dust a work surface, then roll the uncooked pastry into a circle that’s roughly ten inches in diameter and an eighth of an inch thick. Gently lift the dough (wrap it around a rolling pin if you’re worried about tearing), lay it across a nine-inch fluted tart pan (the kind with a removable base), and gently press it against the bottom and up the sides of the pan. Trim any excess that may have formed along the edges, puncture the base in a few spots with the tines of a fork, then cover the interior with a 10-inch round of wax or parchment paper, and fill with dried beans or rice. (As is probably clear, both the puncturing of the tart base and the covering of it with the dried beans is designed to keep the pastry shell from bubbling during the baking process, the goal, of course, being to end up with a perfectly flat receptacle for the good stuff to follow.) Bake in a 350-degree oven for 20 minutes or so, carefully remove the paper and the beans, then bake the shell for another 5 minutes, or until it’s lightly browned. (Note: this final baking process took me more like 15 minutes to achieve the desired color, so you may need to adjust accordingly).

Next up is the layering of the baked tart shell with its two farm stand fillings—first the corn mixture, then the heirloom tomatoes (both of which can be prepped while the shell is in the oven). For the corn component, sauté 1½ cups of corn (from 2 ears; see tip below for an easy method for shucking and de-silking) in a medium saucepan, along with a ¼ cup of onions and two cloves of chopped garlic (both given a 4 minute head-start so that the onion is already translucent when the corn is introduced). After 5 minutes or so, remove a ½ cup of the corn and onion mixture from the pan, set this aside, then add a cup of heavy cream to the corn still on the stove. Bring this to a simmer, transfer to a blender, puree until smooth, and add to the bowl containing the ½ cup of reserved corn. To this mixture you whisk in the eggs (including the one egg yolk), the scallions, the Tabasco, and a small amount of salt and pepper, pour into the prepared tart shell, and bake in a 300 degree oven for 30 minutes or so, or until the custard is just set. (Here again, my oven required an additional five minutes beyond Boulud’s instructions, so keep an eye on things and use your judgment. Remember, the goal is to end up with something that is no longer liquid, but that’s not so firm it won’t jiggle when you move it.)

While the corn custard bakes you can deal with the tomato topping, which involves little more than tossing a ½ pound of thinly sliced heirlooms (either the cherry or larger variety are fine), along with a ¼ cup of grated Parmesan cheese, a small amount of smoked paprika (which imbues the whole dish with a subtle bacon-y flavor), a 1/3 cup of panko bread crumbs (great for soaking up the tomato’s juices so that the tart doesn’t go all soggy on you), and a sprinkling of salt and freshly ground white pepper. Once the custard is set, the tomato mixture can be laid across its surface, and the whole thing is slipped back into the oven for another 15 minutes, or until the tomatoes begin to break down and the breadcrumbs turn golden. Let cool slightly (twenty minutes or so will do it) and dig in.

This may seem like a lot of steps—Hell, it is a lot of steps!—but none are particularly taxing or time consuming. And even if they were, I’d say it was a small price to pay for something this bright and summery. For me, it’s the perfect mix of rustic and refined, the crunch of the cheese and breadcrumbs giving way to the softness of the tomatoes, the smooth flan-like quality of the corn, and finally the buttery crumble of the tart base. What more could you want this time of year?

Ingredients for the tart shell:
—1¼ cups all-purpose flour
—8 tbs cold unsalted butter, cut into pieces
—1/8 tsp salt
—1 large egg, lightly beaten
—2 cups dried beans or rice, for baking shell

Ingredients for the filling:
—3 tbs unsalted butter
—1/4 cup chopped onion
—2 cloves garlic, chopped
—1½ cups uncooked corn kernels (about 2 ears); see note below
—1 cup heavy cream
—4 eggs: 3 whole eggs, plus the yolk from one
—3/4 cup sliced scallions
—Dash Tabasco sauce
—1/2 lb heirloom cherry tomatoes, halved, or 1 to 2 large heirloom tomatoes, cut in thin wedges
—1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
—1/2 tsp smoked paprika
—1/3 cup panko bread crumbs
—Salt and freshly ground white pepper

NOTE: To facilitate the husking and de-silking process (one of my least favorite cooking tasks), here’s a handy trick I found in a recent issue of Cook’s Illustrated: With a sharp chef’s knife, cut off the stalk end just above the first row of kernels. Place 3 or 4 ears on a microwave-safe plate and microwave on full power for 30 to 60 seconds. Hold each ear by its uncut end and shake up and down until the cob slips free of the husk and silk. The corn will have heated up enough to release the husk, but the kernels remain uncooked.

Directions for tart shell:
—Combine flour, butter, and salt in a food processor and pulse until crumbs form. Add egg and pulse until the mixture resembles moist curds. Turn the dough out onto a work surface, and knead once or twice to pull the dough together. Flatten into a disk, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least 1 hour. (At this point, the dough can be kept refrigerated for up to two days or frozen for up to a month.)
—Center a rack in the oven, and preheat to 350˚. Cut a 10” diameter round of waxed or parchment paper. Place a fluted 9” tart pan with a removable bottom on a baking sheet. Lightly dust a work surface and the top of the dough with flour. Roll the dough out into a round that is approximately 10” in diameter and 1/8” thick. Fit the dough into the bottom and up the sides of the pan. Trim excess dough even with the pan’s rim and, with the tines of a fork, poke a few holes on the bottom.
—Line the shell with the paper round and fill with dried beans or rice. Bake for 18 to 20 minutes. Take the pan out of the oven and carefully remove the paper and beans, then bake the shell for 3 to 5 minutes more, or until lightly browned. Remove and let cook in pan on a rack. (The shell can be kept covered at room temperature for up to 8 hours.)

Directions for filling and final assembly:
—Preheat oven to 300˚. Melt 1 tbs of the butter in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Add the onion and garlic and cook, stirring, for 4 minutes, or until the onions are translucent. Add the corn, with a sprinkle of salt and pepper, and cook, stirring, for 5 minutes. Reserve ½ cup of the corn mixture in a medium bowl. Add the cream to the saucepan, bring to a simmer, and then transfer to a blender. Puree until smooth and transfer to the bowl with the reserved corn. Whisk in whole eggs, egg yolk, ½ cup scallions, Tabasco, and another sprinkle of salt and pepper until well combined. Pour the mixture into the prepared tart shell, and bake for 25 to 30 minutes, or until the custard is set.
—Meanwhile, melt remaining butter, transfer to a medium bowl, and toss with the remaining scallions, tomatoes, Parmesan cheese, smoked paprika, bread crumbs, and salt and pepper to taste. Once custard is set, remove tart from oven, and arrange tomato mixture on top. Return tart to the oven and continue baking for 15 minutes more, or until tomatoes are soft and bread crumbs are golden. Let tart rest for 20 minutes before slicing.

Serves 6 to 8

The post 08/30/12 • SAVORY SUMMER TART appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.

From the Aug./Sept. Fine Cooking

One of the questions I’m constantly asking myself when deciding what to post each week is whether a particular recipe falls within that sweet spot that will make it either so ridiculously easy that you don’t need me to tell you about it, or so complex that you’ll immediately dismiss it as unrealistic. This recipe for corn salad falls squarely in the former category—so squarely, in fact, that even as I was taking the photos you see here, I still wasn’t convinced that they would make their way onto the site. Ultimately I changed my mind, though, and here’s why: it’s a recipe worth knowing about. And perhaps more importantly, it’s just the sort of recipe I seem to go looking for each August . . . and if I’m searching for it, I can only assume that some of you are as well. I should clarify that it’s not so much the ease I’m after this time of year (though the benefits are obvious when the weather gets warm and sticky), but rather one that will transform the corn I love but by mid-August have generally wearied of eating in the traditional way into something just a little bit more interesting—and that ideally won’t require an accompanying roll of dental floss.

In other words, what I’m looking for is some version of corn that doesn’t completely transform the starch into something else entirely, but that will gently nudge it in a new direction, and hopefully in the process do away with the cob altogether. Something like the corn salad I bring to you here. Many Augusts ago a friend made a similar dish for me, and though she promised to pass along the recipe, it never came through (or if it did I promptly lost it), and my subsequent searches and efforts at replication fell short—all of which meant that a good corn salad took on for me a kind of holy-grail-of-summer-cooking quality. So when I saw this recipe for corn and cherry tomato salad in the new issue of Fine Cooking it immediately caught my eye because it called into play the two key ingredients I recall from that earlier salad. But the fact that the whole mixture was tossed with a generous splash of fresh lemon juice and a sprinkling of chopped fresh tarragon had an undeniable appeal as well. (If I start sucking on the inside of my cheeks while reading a recipe as I did here, it’s generally only a matter of time before I’m assembling it in the kitchen.)

In any case, with the addition of a small amount of extra-virgin olive oil, a sprinkling of kosher salt, and a few grinds of black pepper, those four ingredients—the corn, the tomatoes, the lemon juice, and the tarragon—are essentially all there is to this recipe. Which in large part explains my hesitation in bringing this to you: there just didn’t seem to be enough to it. But then again, this is corn we’re talking about—an item that at its very freshest can be enjoyed unadorned (i.e. no salt or butter needed) and with minimal, if any, cooking—so maybe that light touch is exactly as it should be.

While this salad is a long way from naked, the cooking component is definitely a minimal one, limited as it is to a quick sauté (two minutes or until just softened) of those two cups of fresh corn kernels in the company of a single tablespoon of the extra-virgin olive oil. After that, you can switch off the stove and forget about it. In fact, all that remains is to transfer the corn to a medium-sized bowl, give it a chance to cool slightly (five or ten minutes will do it), toss with the remaining ingredients, and you’re ready to go.

There’s something about the combined flavors here—the sweetness of the corn, the acidity of the tomatoes and lemon juice, and the aromatic quality of the tarragon (which is always so good in the company of vinegar or lemon)—that makes this the perfect accompaniment for grilled steak, though the same argument could certainly be made for either chicken, or a meaty fish like salmon. Either way, it’s an easy, zippy salad to have in your summer cooking arsenal. I, for one, am glad to finally have it in mine.

On an unrelated note, many of you have been asking how Lily has been getting on—Lily, of course, being the new Lab-mix addition to our household discussed at length in last week’s posting. The short answer is fantastic!—she and Sid have hit it off and are constantly wrestling and playfully mouthing each other, and any anxiety she may have had about things like stairs, elevators, and car horns seems largely to have disappeared. And she’s recently discovered the comforts of our bed, which along with the sheepskin rug at the top of the stairs, has quickly become her favorite spot in the apartment. A few challenges remain, namely her tendency to go to the bathroom in her crate—due either to anxiety or the fact that for the first few years of her life this was status quo—but we’re getting there. And each day she seems happier and more at home!

Ingredients:
—3 tbs extra-virgin olive oil (divided)
—2 cups fresh corn kernels (from 3 to 4 medium ears)
—1 pint halved or quartered (depending on size) cherry tomatoes
—1½ tbs fresh lemon juice
—1 tbs chopped fresh tarragon
—1/4 tsp kosher salt
—Freshly ground black pepper

Directions:
—Heat 1 tablespoon of the oil in a 12-inch nonstick skillet over medium-high heat until shimmering. Add the corn and cook, stirring often, until softened, about 2 minutes.
—Transfer to a medium bowl to cool slightly. Add the halved or quartered cherry tomatoes, 2 tablespoons of the oil, the lemon juice, the tarragon, the kosher salt, and a few grinds of freshly ground black pepper. Toss and serve.

Serves 4

The post 08/16/12 • SIMPLE CORN SALAD appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.