Adapted from the March, 2013 Food and Wine

I’m not really one to complain about the weather. I grew up in Philadelphia, so winters that are cold, damp, and gray strike me as being part of the natural rhythm of things—the bargain you make for those warmer, sunnier months. This is actually a source of some conflict between Alfredo and me. As a child of Miami’s sunshine he tends to take cold, dreary weather personally; it seems wrong to him, and it makes him angry. And the fact that it doesn’t elicit that reaction from me can make him angry too. “Brad doesn’t mind the weather,” he’ll tell people. “He likes putting on a sweater” (as though this were some weird personal tick). I can only laugh, because he’s right—I do like putting on a sweater (even a knit hat, which can provide me with the fleeting impression that I’ve got my head on straight!). But the thing is my impulse to bundle up is less about a love of the cold than it is a tendency to soldier on and make the best of a less-than-ideal situation. Because like most of the world, I’d way prefer warmth and sunshine to cold and freezing rain. That said, even I, the sweater-lover, can’t help but check the weather report this time of year for signs of a warm-up—you see, I, too, have had just about as much winter as I can handle. It’s a shift that’s invariably reflected in the foods I’m drawn to as we limp towards spring, recipes such as this one for black olive tapenade.

Is there any food that says sun and warmth as clearly as tapenade? Alright, I’m sure there are plenty, but tapenade—with its sunny, arid associations—is pretty high on the list. This version comes from none other than that maestro of French cooking, Jacques Pépin, who contributed the recipe to Food and Wine a number of years ago (the magazine reprinted it in their March issue, in honor of some anniversary or other). But here’s the thing that sets his version apart: in addition to all those brine-y black olives that are the mainstay of most tapenades, this recipe calls for the surprise appearance of dried figs and mint. That combination was too much for me to resist—because of its summery appeal for sure, but also because of the sweet/tangy flavor combination promised by the ingredients.

And, of course, this being a tapenade, there’s virtually no work involved in preparing it, unless you count measuring out a quantity of olives (a mix of kalamata and oil-cured black olives), mint leaves, and capers as work. Okay, there’s also a little bit of chopping involved (in the form of six small dried figs), and you do have to peel and crush two cloves of garlic. But beyond this all that’s required is placing the aforementioned ingredients into the bowl of a food processor along with some anchovy fillets and a quarter cup of olive oil, pressing the “pulse” button, and the “heavy lifting” is complete. Season with salt and pepper to taste, chill for half an hour, and you’re good to go—a concentrated shot of sunshine. And I mean that literally, as the individual flavors of the mint, the fig, and the olive come blasting through, even as they combine to produce a flavor all their own.

Having said that, depending on your fondness for garlic you might want to consider decreasing the number of cloves here from two to one; I’m a big garlic fan and I found the flavor a little too intense, though it’s possible I was working with a particularly strong variety. I would not, however, make the same recommendation for the anchovy. Even if you’re not a fan (and I know many aren’t), as with some salad dressings, in combination with the other ingredients the flavor here reads as salty/tangy and not fishy, so it’s an element you don’t want to eliminate or dial down.

And one final thought about serving: Pépin suggests spreading the tapenade onto bagel chips, and though their salty/crunchy quality offers a nice counterpoint to the sweetness delivered by the fig and the mint, my recommendation would be to go with homemade crostini instead. There’s a little more effort involved in this option, of course, but if you have the time and inclination, it’s an alternative that will offer the same crunch and salty satisfaction as the chips, but with that much more vibrant flavor. (A simple crostini recipe follows at the end of this posting). Still, go the easy route and tear open a bag if you must—truthfully, you can’t go wrong here.

Happy almost-spring everyone!

P.S. That’s Lily in the image near the bottom—as you can see, she likes the sun, too (almost as much as her bone).

Ingredients:
—3/4 cup pitted oil-cured black olives
—3/4 cup pitted kalamata olives
—6 small dried figs, coarsely chopped
—2 tbs capers, rinsed
—2 small garlic cloves, crushed
—1/4 cup packed mint leaves
—4 anchovy fillets
—1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
—Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
—Bagel chips, for serving (TRG note: Or serve with crostini; see recipe below)

Directions:
—In a food processor, pulse the olives, figs, capers, garlic, mint, anchovies, and olive oil until the tapenade is thick and somewhat chunky. Season with salt and pepper.
—Transfer the tapenade to a bowl, cover, and refrigerate until chilled.
—Serve with bagel chips. (TRG note: Crostini would also be good here—maybe better. See directions, below).

Makes about 1½ cups

Directions for crostini:
—Preheat oven to 350˚. Arrange baguette slices (about 1/4″ thick) on two large rimmed baking sheets; brush both sides generously with olive oil, and season with kosher salt and pepper.
—Bake until golden, about 15 to 20 minutes, rotating sheets halfway through.
—Serve immediately. (Store any leftovers in a resealable plastic bag; these are great even several days later… like a really good, thick-cut potato chip!)

The post 03/14/13 • FIG AND OLIVE TAPENADE appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.

Adapted from Jerusalem: A Cookbook by Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi

Last week a group of friends came over to watch the Golden Globes and the squash purée you see before you is one of the things I made. I’ve always loved hummus and thought this recently discovered recipe might offer a nice alternative to that Middle Eastern classic. Here the use of butternut squash and the date (or maple) syrup takes the place of the chickpeas and the lemon—a combination that makes for a sweeter experience overall, as opposed to the tart/tangy quality one associates with hummus. I love anything tart and lemony, of course, whereas I’m generally less drawn to the sweeter end of the spectrum. Still, I figured if there was any occasion that called for deviating from the standard fare, an(other) awards show dinner was it (though the Globe’s co-hosts, Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, more than did their part to keep things interesting). And upon further reflection, it also occurs to me that my recently completed journey through Morocco may have awakened in me an appetite for the exotic—something this spread satisfies in a way that hummus (widely available in most U.S. markets now) simply can’t. Which is not to say this dish approximates anything I sampled in Marrakesh, unless you count the way sweetness is featured in things other than dessert there (a phenomenon I encountered at nearly every meal). Whatever the case, this recipe spoke to me.

It’s one I found in Yotam Ottolenghi and Sam Tamimi’s new cookbook, Jerusalem. I’m sure many of you have heard of these two (or at least of Ottolenghi, who is the better known—he was the subject of a recent profile in The New Yorker), but for those who haven’t, this is the third cookbook from the pair (the others are Plenty and the eponymously named Ottolenghi). Either way, the two have understandably become a bona-fide culinary phenomenon in London where they own and operate several restaurants offering a mash-up of dishes inspired by ingredients and recipes featured in that broad swath of the planet known as “the Middle East.” They also do amazing things with vegetables, so if you’re looking for interesting vegetarian options, their books are a great resource (a side note: though Ottolenghi wrote the vegetarian cooking column in The Guardian for many years, he is, in fact, a meat eater, which is perhaps why I tend to find his vegetarian recipes so appealing).

That was certainly my reaction when I came across this recipe, and one I credit at least in part to the presence of the tahini, the Greek yogurt, the garlic, and the sesame seeds—all components I felt had the potential to produce something interesting when married with the natural sweetness of the squash. But I’m getting ahead of myself; before any of those ingredients are introduced, one must first tackle the peeling of the squash and the carving of it into chunks. Once that’s complete, the resulting one-inch (or so) pieces are tossed in a roasting pan with some salt and cinnamon before the whole mixture is slid into a 400˚ oven for 70 minutes, or until the squash is fork tender. Easy stuff, though if you’ve never peeled a butternut squash before (I had not) be prepared to lay down your vegetable peeler and pick up a paring knife instead. This bears mentioning because the shape and contours of the squash are such that much of it is simply not accessible by a peeler’s blade, and can only be reached with the aide of a sharp knife. That said, don’t worry if the knife inadvertently removes some of the vegetable’s flesh (which, unless you have the carving skills of Michelangelo, it probably will); if you’ve selected a very large squash as directed there will still be more than enough to work with.

I point this out because when I emptied the contents of the pan into my food processor (after allowing the squash to cool, something achieved in little more than half an hour), I found I had quite a lot of squash to work with—not so much that it wouldn’t all fit into the bowl, but close to it. And once I whirred it all together with the tahini, the yogurt, and the garlic I discovered I had considerably more than was needed for the ten people who’d be snacking on it. That said, if you were to serve it as a side dish (which, incidentally, is not one of the scenarios suggested by the recipe’s creators), the quantity produced would quite adequately feed four big-eaters. It’s an option I encourage you to consider as the mix of flavors—the sweetness of the squash, the tang of the tahini and the yogurt, and the concentrated hit of sugar delivered by the syrup drizzled across the surface of the spread just before serving (along with those sesame seeds and some chopped cilantro)—offer a welcome counterpoint to, say, a few thick slices of pork tenderloin.

Of course, the spread is also immensely satisfying in the context Tamimi and Ottolenghi propose: as an appetizer, served with bread. I offered it with warm pita slices, and while I acknowledge feeling a little anxious about how it would be received (in large part because of its sweetness) it was a big hit and largely devoured by the time the main course made its way to the table. For me, part of the appeal can be attributed to the liberal sprinkling of those sesame seeds in the final moments of preparation (use black as well as white if you can find them, for no other reason than they look so good!), along with a few tablespoons of freshly chopped cilantro, and it makes as warm and sunny a statement on the plate as it does when it reaches your mouth. In other words, it’s just the thing to brighten up these cold, gray days of winter.

Ingredients:
—1 very large butternut squash (about 2½ lbs), peeled and cut into chuncks (7 cups total)
—3 tbs olive oil
—1 tsp ground cinnamon
—5 tbs light tahini paste
—1/2 cup Greek yogurt
—2 small cloves garlic, crushed
—1 tsp mixed black and white sesame seeds (or just white if you don’t have black)
—1½ tsp date syrup (or maple syrup or molasses if you can’t find date syrup)
—2 tbs chopped cilantro (optional)
—Salt
—Pita or other bread (for serving)

Note: Date syrup can be found at many health food stores and Middle Eastern groceries.

Directions:
—Preheat the oven to 400˚F.
—Spread the squash out in a medium roasting pan. Pour over the olive oil and sprinkle on the cinnamon and ½ teaspoon salt. Mix together well, cover the pan tightly with aluminum foil, and roast in the oven for 70 minutes, stirring once during the cooking process. Remove from the oven and let cool.
—Transfer the squash to a food processor, along with the tahini, yogurt, and garlic. Roughly pulse so that everything is combined into a coarse paste, without the spread becoming smooth (you can also do this by hand using a fork or potato masher).
—Spread the squash purée in a wavy pattern over a plate and sprinkle with the sesame seeds, drizzle over the syrup, and finish with the cilantro, if using.
—Serve as an appetizer with bread (warm pita is ideal) or as part of a selection of small Middle Eastern dishes.

Serves 6 to 8

The post 01/24/13 • SUPER SQUASH SPREAD appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.

Adapted from the Nov., 2003 Gourmet

Since this is a posting in which the star ingredient is none other than chicken livers, I should probably start by acknowledging one important detail: I’m not much of a liver lover. In fact, “not much” is putting it mildly—it would be more accurate to say I have a powerful aversion to the stuff. As someone who’s always been happy to eat pretty much anything, it’s a reaction I’ve struggled to overcome for years, beginning with the time my mother fried up a pan of chicken livers for dinner. Something about the sight of those livers in their uncooked state immediately put my ten-year old self on edge, as if I’d just been told I would soon have to repel down the side of a mountain, or sing a solo in front of my entire elementary school. But as the tempting smell of the meat overtook the kitchen, I convinced myself it could not possibly be all that bad. I was wrong—it was awful, in large part because the texture of the meat was (and is) for me the gustatory equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard. After gagging through several mouthfuls and enduring menacing looks from my stepfather, I finally landed on the strategy of cutting the liver into pill-sized pieces and downing each one with a big gulp of water. Of course, it wasn’t long before my parents caught on, which was probably a good thing as there is only so much water a ten-year-old can hold. Long story short, I spent the rest of the evening alone at the dinner table, my plate of liver growing cold in front of me.

All of which is intended to serve as an illustration for just how miraculous this recipe for chicken liver pâté is. After all, it’s a dish that even I—an avowed liver hater—can’t get enough of. The recipe is one I first came across in the November, 2003 issue of Gourmet (my bible for all things Thanksgiving; seriously, many of my best Turkey Day moments have sprung from this one 230-page issue), and since then it’s found its way onto just about every Thanksgiving menu I’ve had a hand in creating, not to mention quite a few other memorable meals as well. As originally presented by the magazine, the pâté is meant to serve as an opening act to the main event—the perfect thing to distract your guests as you scramble to make the gravy and carve the turkey. And that’s exactly how I’ve employed it, though it has the added benefit of a weeklong shelf life (chilled and covered, of course) even after its butter seal has been broken. In other words, days later it still has the makings for a first-rate snack or even an easy dinner, the kind of meal you might have at a bistro somewhere, followed by a good bowl of soup.

So what exactly makes this pâté so enticing? Well for one thing, like a lot of pâtés—particularly those that are mousse-like in their consistency—the grainy texture I find so repellant in liver’s original form is completely eradicated here, replaced by something light, buttery, and utterly un-liver like. Here that transformation is achieved by puréeing the cooked livers (along with a variety of other tempting ingredients—more on those later) in a food processor until everything is smooth and creamy. It’s a process that completely eliminates the dry, chalky quality of the liver I find so unappealing, producing instead something that is light and almost feathery. I love this sort of culinary alchemy, particularly when the transformation is so dramatic and so easily achieved.

And then you have those other enticing ingredients added to the liver during cooking, and which ultimately merge into a smooth, creamy whole, courtesy of that spin through the food processor. These include a large quantity of butter and onions (though not as much as pictured here—as noted below, for the purposes of this outing I tripled the recipe, so only one stick of butter is needed to sauté the onions and not the three shown above!), as well as a little minced garlic and a sprinkling of seasonally appropriate aromatics, such as thyme, sage, marjoram, and allspice; just the flavors needed to brighten the intense earthiness of the livers. In fact, this pâté is one of those rare examples of a dish in which each of the ingredients strikes a harmonious balance, while still retaining their distinctive flavor. In other words, there is nothing muddled about the end result here.

To underscore this point, consider the 2 tablespoons of bourbon, which are added to the various other ingredients in the final moments of cooking, once the liver has achieved its desired degree of doneness (brown on the outside but still pink within). Although the bourbon combines seamlessly with the aromatics and the liver to create something that tastes bright with a just a hint of earthiness, listen closely and you can just make out the sweet, caramel-like note delivered by the liquor. It’s an addition that provides the perfect counterpoint to the richness of the liver, and is one more reason the finished product is near-impossible to stop eating.

If all this sounds decadent, that’s exactly the point (it’s Thanksgiving after all!). And yet there’s one last addition to make it richer still: a quantity of clarified butter. This is added in the final stages of assembly, after all of the ingredients have been cooked together, puréed in the food processor, and then transferred to a 2½ cup-sized crock or terrine, the surface of the mixture smoothed to a uniform consistency with a small spatula if you have one. Garnish the mixture with a sprig of thyme, sage, or marjoram, and presto—you’re ready to add the butter.

Clarified butter, of course, is simply melted butter that’s allowed a few minutes to cool—a period during which the milk solids will either float to the top or sink to the bottom. As you’ve probably guessed, the goal is to eliminate these, so skim the froth from the surface, then carefully spoon the clarified butter across the pâté (avoiding the white stuff at the bottom of the saucepan), until the surface is covered with about a 1/4-inch of butter. Allow this to set for a 1/2 hour or so and once firm, cover with plastic warp and transfer to the fridge, where it will happily keep for up to two weeks (or one week, once the butter seal has been broken)—making it a kind of Thanksgiving secret weapon since it’s one thing that can be made well in advance of the big meal.

Once hardened the butter serves as a kind of lid that seals in the liver’s freshness, though it also offers a counterpoint to the pâté itself—both texturally and in terms of flavor. So while the butter introduces a hint of creamy sweetness into the richness of the liver mixture, it provides a pleasing foil to the texture of the pâté as well, like biting through the hard shell of a chocolate to find something soft and nougat-y at its center. Spread across a cracker or a toasted baguette slice, the butter/liver combo provides pretty much everything you could want from a pre-meal warm-up, though for those who like their pâté in the company of something just a little sweeter, a dollop of fig jam might also be considered. Either way, it’s just the thing to get the most anticipated meal of the year off to the best start possible . . . And who knows, you may even change a few minds about liver along the way.

Ingredients:
—1½ sticks (3/4 cup) unsalted butter
—1 cup finely chopped onion
—1 large garlic clove, minced
—1 tsp minced fresh thyme or ¼ tsp dried
—1 tsp minced fresh marjoram or ¼ tsp dried
—1 tsp minced fresh sage or ¼ tsp dried
—3/4 tsp salt
—1/4 tsp black pepper
—1/8 tsp ground allspice
—1 lb chicken livers, trimmed
—2 tbs bourbon
—A fresh thyme, marjoram, or sage sprig (for garnish)
—Crackers or toasted baguette slices (for serving)

TRG Note: Don’t be confused by the quantities shown in these images; I tripled the recipe.

Special equipment:
—1 2½ cup crock or terrine, or several small ramekins

Directions:
—Melt 1 stick butter in a large nonstick skillet over moderately low heat, then cook onion and garlic, stirring, until softened, about 5 minutes.
—Add herbs, salt, pepper, allspice, and livers and cook, stirring, until livers are cooked outside but still pink when cut open, about 8 minutes. (Note from TRG: If doubling or tripling the recipe as I did here, this process will likely take longer—between 15 and 20 minutes.) Stir in bourbon and remove from heat.
—Purée mixture in a food processor until smooth, then transfer pâté to crock and smooth top.
—Melt remaining ½ stick butter in a very small saucepan over low heat, then remove pan from heat and let butter stand 3 minutes.
—If using herb garnish, put sprig on top of pâté. Skim froth from butter, then spoon enough clarified butter over pâté to cover its surface, leaving milky solids in bottom of pan.
—Chill pâté until butter is firm, about 30 minutes, then cover with plastic wrap and chill at least 2 hours more.

Note #1: Pâté can be chilled up to two weeks. Once butter seal has been broken, pâté keeps, its surface covered with plastic warp and chilled, 1 week.

Note #2: The pâté can be eaten the day it’s made but will be even better 1 or 2 days later.

The post 11/15/12 • PATÉ TO THE HIGHEST POWER! appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.

Adapted from the Oct., 2012 Bon Appétit

In the days leading up to last week’s big event, otherwise known as Hurricane Sandy, my big concern was the sort of food I’d need on hand once the storm blew in. Unsure whether the power would stay on, I doubled my money (or rather my outlay of it), filling the fridge with things like milk, cheese, eggs, and chicken parts, and the cupboards (and windowsills) with crackers, peanut butter, potato chips, and tuna. Of course, I also made certain we had extra batteries on hand, gas in the tank, and a wad of cash socked away, but the real focus of my attention was, per usual, my belly—and as the clock ticked down to Sandy’s landfall I made multiple trips to the corner deli to make sure food wouldn’t be an issue. The irony is that once the wind started screaming and the power clicked off, so too did my appetite; I guess I’m just not that interested in eating if I can’t also enjoy the TV!

I’m making light of things, of course, because even for those of us who got off relatively easy (in our 5th floor East Village apartment we had no power for five days—an inconvenience for sure, but not really a hardship given what others have endured) living through the aftermath was an eye-opening experience. Even now, a full eleven days later, one is keenly aware of the suffering people in areas like Staten Island and the Rockaways are living through. (If you’d like to help check out The American Red Cross, New York Cares, Food not Bombs, and Staten Island Recovers.) All of which makes my initial impulse to fill the freezer with multiple flavors of Ben and Jerry’s seem, well, a little clueless, particularly given that it all had to be thrown out the next day anyway.

In any case, had I made all the things I was intending to before the lights went out, they would have included the pistachio pesto I bring to you here—the various ingredients for which were among the first to be ferried to my kitchen in anticipation of Sandy’s arrival. The pesto is one I’d already made a couple of times (I pulled the recipe from the October issue of Bon Appétit) and it’s just the sort of thing you want on hand when the wind is howling and the lights go out . . . or so I imagined. Okay, so I was wrong there, but the minute the power returned, so did thoughts of this pesto. It has that effect.

The truth is I’d been on something of a quest for a good nut pesto recipe for several months when I stumbled across this one, having sampled a walnut variety (mounded atop freshly made crostini) at one of my favorite New York City haunts, Buvette, last spring. Months later I was still thinking about it—a sure sign it was something I needed to master myself. I suppose one of the reasons had to do with the surprising texture. Unlike the standard variety (which is made with pine nuts—a seed and not, in fact, a nut—as well as lots of basil), a nut-based pesto naturally produces something hardier and richer, not to mention more spreadable, but still with all of the signature pesto-ness, courtesy of the cheese, the garlic, and the olive oil. As such it’s the ideal accompaniment for one of cooking’s simplest, and most compulsively eatable creations: the crostini. That, anyway, was what I intended to do with the recipe when I came across it, though the recipe’s creator (Nate Hamilton, of the Madison, WI restaurant, Harvest) proposes it as a topping for pasta (also a winner), or as a spread for sandwiches (less appealing to me, particularly when compared to the pleasures of those crostini).

The thing about pesto is that even at its most demanding it’s a breeze to assemble, with all of the heavy lifting (if you can even call it that) coming in the form of plucking several cups worth of basil leaves from their stems. The version I bring to you here, however, does not even require that step, with the dish’s all-important earthiness delivered by a substantially smaller quantity of fresh mint leaves. That should come as no surprise, as the full-bodied pistachio needs less in the way of enhancement than the comparatively delicate pine-nut does, though it also points to the fact that this is more of a brown pesto experience than a green one, so think earthy versus herbal. In any case, all that remains in the way of actual work is the chopping of one medium tomato (for an important acidic component to round out the nuttiness of the pistachios), the grating of a ½ cup of Parmesan cheese, and that’s it—unless, of course, you purchased your nuts unshelled, in which case you can add ten minutes of shelling to your list of tasks.

All of the above ingredients are then whirred alongside a few cloves of garlic (fight the impulse to increase the quantity here; two is plenty), a pinch of red pepper flakes, a small amount of ground black pepper, and a couple tablespoons of olive oil (you may want to add a bit more later) in a food processor for thirty seconds or until it forms a coarse purée, and presto: pesto. If the resulting mixture is intended as a pasta topping, it may need the addition of some of the liquid the pasta was cooked in to loosen things up slightly (add by tablespoon increments so as to not overdo it). And if it’s planned for crostini just transfer to a bowl and serve—though as mentioned above, a splash or two more olive oil may be in order if the mixture seems a little dry.

Of course, even the most successful topping can only be expected to deliver so much—going the full distance calls for a first-rate companion. That’s where those crostini I mentioned earlier come in. Luckily, whipping up a batch requires nothing more than the carving of a baguette (into 1/4-inch slices), slathering both sides of each slice with olive oil, sprinkling with some coarse salt and pepper, then toasting in a 350 degree oven for 15 to 20 minutes. It’s that simple, which in a way is a mixed blessing since it’s a little like being given the secret to home-made potato chips and discovering that there’s nothing to it—the best snack food ever, right out of your own kitchen, and in minutes! In any case, should you manage some restraint and find you have a quantity of these crunchy, salty bread slices left over, they’ll keep in a resealable plastic bag for up to several days (and will also work well crumbled into salads; croutons anyone?). Chances are, though, once you put these out alongside a bowl of that pesto any fantasy of leftovers will quickly be replaced by the reality of empty dishes. In other words, it’s just the thing to have on hand as we move into the holiday season.

Ingredients for the pesto:
—1½ cups unsalted, shelled roasted natural pistachios
—1 cup chopped tomato (TRG note: about 1 medium sized tomato)
—2 garlic cloves
—A handful of fresh mint leaves (TRG note: about a ½ cup, heaping)
—A handful of grated Parmesan cheese (TRG note: about a ½ cup, heaping)
—A pinch of crushed red pepper flakes
—A pinch of freshly ground black pepper
—2 tbs olive oil (more as needed)
—Kosher salt to taste
—Crostini for serving (see TRG’s ingredients and directions, below)

Note: If you’re serving a large crowd, there’s more than enough pesto to accompany two baguette’s worth of crostini—if so, double the crostini ingredients below. Or chill the remainder and toss with freshly cooked pasta (about 1 cup of pesto to 1 lb of pasta).

Ingredients for TRG’s basic crostini:
—1 baguette, sliced ¼-inch thick
—3/4 cup olive oil
—Coarse salt and ground pepper

Directions for the pesto:
—Pulse the pistachios, chopped tomato, garlic, mint, cheese, red pepper flakes and pepper in a food processor until a coarse purée forms.
—Transfer to a bowl; stir in 2 tbs olive oil (or more, as needed) to form a thick, chunky sauce. Season with kosher salt and pepper.
—Serve alongside freshly made crostini, or toss 1 cup of pesto with 1 lb of freshly cooked pasta, adding pasta cooking liquid by the tablespoon until the sauce is glossy.

Note: Remaining pesto can be chilled for up to several days. Bring to room temperature and mix well before using.

Directions for TRG’s basic crostini:
—Preheat oven to 350˚. Arrange baguette slices on two large rimmed baking sheets; brush both sides generously with olive oil, and season with salt and pepper.
—Bake until golden, about 15 to 20 minutes, rotating sheets halfway through.
—Top and serve immediately.

The post 11/08/12 • CRACKING THE PESTO CEILING appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.

From the May, 2010 Cook’s Illustrated (click here to view the recipe)

It’s taken me a while to get this recipe to you, but it’s one that’s been on my mind since early summer. Remember those weeks in the beginning of June, when you still couldn’t quite believe it was light at 8:30 PM and it seemed like those long, warm days would stretch on forever? Well it was around that time that I was treated to a dinner with a Latin American theme—the highlight of which was a platter (or three) of homemade empanadas, filled with cheese and sweet corn, and passed around while everyone was having a pre-meal mojito. Those empanadas were a revelation. Sure, I’ve eaten my share of empanadas over the years, but none had been anything close to these, perhaps because none had found their way to my mouth so soon—or so directly—after exiting the oven. Or maybe it was simply the result of a talented chef, or an extra special recipe, or exceptional ingredients (the corn, as I recall, was particularly good). And it didn’t hurt that the individual making them (the gifted chef, Sebastian Picasso) was Argentine, or that the recipe is one he’s been making, and perfecting, for years. Suffice to say that I ended the meal with one clear directive: learning the art of empanada-making myself.

As it turns out, it’s a lot less intimidating than you might imagine. To start, of course, I asked Sebastian if he’d be willing to share his recipe with me—something he agreed to, but that I ultimately ended up not using, for the simple reason that it was written from the perspective of someone who generally follows his instincts versus a recipe. That wasn’t a luxury I could enjoy my first—or even second or third—time at bat, and so I went in search of a recipe that would spell things out for me more precisely. This I found in the Cook’s Illustrated archive—one I vaguely remembered pausing over (but never actually preparing) while flipping through a copy of the magazine several years back. The recipe was for a streamlined version of traditional beef empanadas (versus the slightly less common corn and cheese type Sebastian had prepared), which also seemed a good thing, as I was curious to see what impact a homemade approach would have on this variety as well. (I have, however, included Sebastian’s recipe for the corn and cheese filling below, as these instructions produced less head-scratching for me, not to mention a terrific alternative to the ground beef standard.)

So here’s the first thing you should know about making empanadas: although the process involves three distinct steps (the making of the dough, the making of the filling, and the marriage of these two elements), none are particularly time-consuming and all can be done well in advance of introducing them to the oven. This last detail is an important one as empanadas are ideal for feeding a crowd, but are not the sort of thing you want to be in the midst of preparing as your guests are milling around the kitchen (some concentration is required). In other words, the beef filling can be refrigerated for up to two days (the corn and cheese should probably be called into play the same day); the dough can be made several days in advance; and best of all, the assembled empanadas can be kept in the fridge for up to forty-eight hours before baking. All of which means you can get the heavy lifting out of the way well before your guests arrive, simply sliding the tray of assembled pockets into the oven 40 minutes or so before you want to serve them.

The other thing worth mentioning is that although empanadas are traditionally viewed as a snack or party food in Latin America, for North American tastes—and based on the size of the empanadas produced by this recipe—they work just as well (if not better) as the main event at mealtime. This is true whether you plan to pair the stuffed pockets with a salad and to turn it into a knife and fork event, or to consume them direct from hand to mouth—something for which their self-contained quality makes them ideally suited. Either way, you can pretty much be assured of an appreciative audience: no food seems to put a smile on peoples’ faces faster or more consistently than an empanada.

That’s especially true with this recipe for several reasons. First and foremost there’s the beef filling, which is a mouth-watering mix of ground beef, cooked alongside a quantity of sautéed onions, all of which is flavored with garlic and a variety of spices (cumin, cayenne pepper, ground cloves), and then simmered in the company of a ½ cup of chicken broth to increase the flavor quotient. And that’s just the beginning: once this mixture has had a chance to cool (about 10 minutes or so), you can then introduce the really good stuff—the cilantro, the chopped eggs, raisins, and olives, and the 4 teaspoons of cider vinegar, which along with those chopped olives lends the whole mixture a pleasing bite that also presents the perfect foil to the filling’s meaty richness.

And then there’s the dough, which is both foolproof (a result of CI’s meticulous tinkering and instructions) and pleasingly rustic—this thanks to the addition of the masa harina, a nutty, ground cornmeal typically used to make tortillas. What’s more, the addition of a ½ cup of cold vodka or tequila, sprinkled over the gloppy mixture resulting from the combination of the dry ingredients (the all-purpose and corn flours, the sugar, the salt) and the butter, assures the finished product a light, flakey quality (and no, the alcohol cannot be tasted).

Two quick tips, however, are in order: the first involves the instruction to roll out the dough into twelve 6-inch circles. After several tries, none of which produced anything remotely resembling a perfect circle, I discovered that by gently lifting the dough from my work surface and turning it clockwise a few degrees before once again attacking with my rolling pin, I was more likely to end up with the desired shape than if I simply left the dough in one spot and came at it from different directions. Also, while the recipe’s instructions for rotating the two empanada-filled baking sheets during cooking is designed to ensure even cooking, I still found that the pan located closest to the heat source during the final cooking phase browned faster than the one placed lower in the oven. So keep a close eye on things, or risk a tray of blackened empanadas. And one final note: as good as these empanadas are, I found a touch of added heat made them that much better—a void filled easily enough with just a few splashes of hot sauce. In fact, Alfredo tells me this is the way he grew up eating them in Miami, and if it’s good enough for the Cuban community in South Florida, it’s good enough for me.

Ingredients for beef filling:
—1 large slice hearty white sandwich bread, torn into quarters
—2 tbs plus ½ cup low-sodium chicken broth
—1 lb 85% lean ground chuck
—Table salt and ground black pepper
—1 tbs olive oil
—2 medium onions, chopped fine (about 2 cups)
—4 medium garlic cloves, minced or pressed through garlic press (about 4 tsp)
—1 teaspoon ground cumin
—1/4 teaspoon Cayenne
—1/8 tsp ground cloves
—1/2 cup packed cilantro leaves, coarsely chopped
—2 hard-cooked eggs, coarsely chopped
—1/3 cup raisins, coarsely chopped
—1/4 cup pitted green olives, coarsely chopped
—4 tsp cider vinegar

Ingredients for the corn and cheese filling (courtesy of Sebastian Picasso):
—8 ears of sweet corn, kernels removed from cob
—2 large Spanish onions, thinly sliced
—2 cloves garlic, chopped fine
—1½ balls fresh mozzarella (the drier the better), diced
—1/2 lb of Pawelet Cheese, diced
—24 tbs (3 sticks) unsalted butter
—1½ cups fresh basil, roughly chopped

Ingredients for the dough:
—3 cups unbleached all-purpose flour, plus extra for work surface
—1 cup masa harina (see note #1, below)
—1 tbs sugar
—2 tsp table salt
—12 tbs (1½ sticks) unsalted butter, cut into ½-inch cubes and chilled
—1/2 cup cold vodka or tequila (see note #2, below)
—1/2 cup cold water
—5 tbs olive oil (for baking empanadas)

Note #1: Masa harina—the ground and dehydrated cornmeal used to make Mexican tortillas and tamales—can be found in the international aisle with other Latin foods, or in the baking aisle with flour. If you cannot locate, replace with additional all-purpose flour (for a total of 4 cups).

Note #2: The alcohol in the dough is essential to the texture of the crust and imparts no flavor—do not substitute for it or omit.

Directions for the beef filling:
—Process bread and 2 tablespoons chicken broth in food processor until paste forms, about 5 seconds, scraping down sides of bowl as necessary. Add beef, ¾ teaspoon salt, and ½ teaspoon pepper and pulse until mixture is well-combined, six to eight 1-second pulses.
—Heat oil in a 12-inch nonstick skillet over medium-high heat until shimmering. Add onions and cook, stirring frequently, until beginning to brown, about 5 minutes. Stir in garlic, cumin, cayenne, and cloves; cook until fragrant, about 1 minute. Add beef mixture and cook, breaking meat into 1-inch pieces with wooden spoon, until browned, about 7 minutes. Add remaining ½ cup chicken broth and simmer until mixture is moist but not wet, 3 to 5 minutes.
—Transfer mixture to bowl and cool 10 minutes. Stir in cilantro, eggs, raisins, olives, and vinegar. Season with salt and pepper to taste and refrigerate until cool, about 1 hour. (Filling can be refrigerated for up to 2 days.)

Sebastian Picasso’s directions for corn and cheese filling:
—Saute onions over low heat with 2 tablespoons of butter until softened but still firm. Add the corn and cook briefly, then add the garlic and stir well. Set aside and let cool.
—Once the corn mixture is cool, add the cheese and mix well. Season with salt and more butter if needed. Add the basil, stir well, and let rest for one hour. NOTE: Make sure the filling is cool before placing in the dough rounds, as a warm mixture will cause the dough to fall apart.

Directions for the dough:
—Process 1 cup flour, masa harina, sugar, and salt in food processor until combined, about two 1-second pulses. Add butter and process until homogeneous and dough resembles wet sand, about 10 seconds. Add remaining 2 cups flour and pulse until mixture is evenly distributed around bowl, 4 to 6 quick pulses. Empty mixture into large bowl.
—Sprinkle vodka or tequila and water over mixture. Using hands, mix dough until it forms a tacky mass that sticks together. Divide dough in half, then divide each half into 6 equal pieces. Transfer dough pieces to plate, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate until firm, about 45 minutes or up to 2 days.

Directions for assembly:
—Adjust oven rack to upper- and lower-middle positions, place 1 baking sheet on each rack, and heat oven to 425˚.
—While baking sheets are preheating, remove dough from refrigerator. Roll each dough piece out on lightly floured work surface into a 6-inch circle about 1/8 inch thick, covering each dough round with plastic wrap while rolling remaining dough.
—Place about 1/3 cup filling (either the beef mixture or the corn and cheese) in center of each dough round. Brush edges of dough with water and fold dough over filling. Trim any ragged edges. Press edges to seal. Crimp edges using fork. (The formed empanadas can be covered tightly with plastic wrap and refrigerated for up to 2 days prior to cooking.)

Directions for baking:
—Drizzle 2 tablespoons oil over surface of each baking sheet, then return to oven for 2 minutes. Brush empanadas with remaining tablespoon oil.
—Carefully place 6 empanadas on each baking sheet and cook until well-browned and crisp, 25 to 30 minutes, rotating baking sheets front to back and top to bottom halfway through baking. Cool empanadas on wire rack 10 minutes and serve.

Makes 12 empanadas

The post 09/13/12 • DREAMING IN EMPANADAS appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.

Adapted from Baking Illustrated, published by the Cook’s Illustrated Cookbook Collection.

Granola bars have never really been a big thing for me. Sure, like most everybody on the planet I’ve eaten my fair share of them, but it’s pretty much been limited to occasions when I was traveling and everything else available at the airport kiosk or highway rest stop was out-of-the-question. For me, a granola bar is the thing to eat when I’m trying to be “good” or want to make sure I don’t end my journey with an MSG-induced headache or a stitch in my side; remove those concerns and you’ll find me wolfing down a Cinnabon or a bag of barbecue flavored corn nuts. Still, when I was preparing for a short road trip up to the Cape recently and began to consider what I might whip up for the journey, it was the granola bar that came to mind. I suppose the impulse came from the same place that has me bypassing those peanut butter-filled pretzels at the gas station, but there was also something else at play—a hunch that what I’ve known as a granola bar hasn’t come close to capitalizing on the snack’s true potential. And so a challenge was born: to produce a granola bar that wasn’t just a (sort of) healthy between-meal alternative, but also one that I might get genuinely excited about eating.

And so I started flipping through my cookbooks and combing the web in search of a path to something better, and where I landed was the recipe I bring to you here—or rather one fairly similar to the one I bring to you here, as I ultimately felt a few additions were in order. The original recipe comes from one of the cookbooks published by Cook’s Illustrated, (the volume titled Baking Illustrated), and appealed to me because it calls for first toasting the oats, something that promises to deepen the flavor of the finished product, and because it suggests mixing both chopped and finely ground nuts into the mixture (your choice of either almonds, pecans, or walnuts here)—an extra step that ensures a bit more textural interest than the norm. And rather than relying solely on honey or brown sugar to sweeten and bind the bars, CI suggests a combo of the two—a double header that imbues the snack with the best qualities of both (most notably the warm caramel flavor of cooked brown sugar), while safeguarding the finished bars against any potential sogginess (a common shortcoming when only using honey). What’s more, the recipe struck me as fairly simple and straight-ahead, which seemed only appropriate for something as simple and straight-ahead as a granola bar.

In short there was plenty to like about the recipe, but also at least one big element that was missing—namely chocolate. After all, if the goal was to create a snack that was genuinely satisfying, and not just the thing to grab when being guided by your conscience, then chocolate chips would have to receive a starring role.

So I set about following the CI instructions as written—combining the rolled oats with a ½ cup of vegetable oil and a small amount of salt, baking the mixture in a foil-wrapped baking sheet in a 375 degree oven for a half hour or so (or until pale golden), and stirring every ten minutes to make sure everything cooked evenly. And I did as directed when it came to the nuts (I chose almonds over walnuts or pecans because for me there’s just no contest—almonds always win), coarsely chopping three-fourths of the nuts, then finely grinding the remainder and mixing the two types together. And I folded the nut mixture into the oats as instructed, coating the contents with a honey and brown sugar combo that had been warmed over medium heat until the sugar had just dissolved (about 5 minutes), before adding a small amount of vanilla. (You can also stir in a few teaspoons of cinnamon at this point if you choose, though it’s ultimately something I decided against given the other additions I had up my sleeve.)

In other words, I followed the roadmap laid out by CI largely to its conclusion before handing the wheel over to instinct. My first detour involved adding a cup of bittersweet chocolate chips (60% cacao) to the oat/honey mixture—an addition I’d hoped would stud each bite of granola bar with little pockets of soft chocolate morsels, but that instead quickly melted into the mixture (the oats were still warm from the oven and the warmed honey), turning everything a light brown and distributing chocolate flavor throughout the mixture. Hmmmmm. I dipped my spoon in for a taste and liked what I found—distinctly chocolate-y, yet not overpowering. And I could still get the studded chocolate effect I was after later in the process. Okay, so maybe allowing the chocolate to melt at this point wasn’t such a bad thing; I decided to categorize it as a happy accident.

And just because I happened to have it in the cupboard—and, you know, why not?!—I added a ½ cup of shredded and sweetened coconut to the mixture, which brought some all-important moisture to the finished bar while also introducing just a hint of coconut flavor (i.e. nothing that would scare off the coconut-averse, something I’ve been known to be). So to recap, in one bowl is now contained the oats, the nuts, the honey/brown sugar mixture, the melted chocolate, and the coconut—an array of heavy, sticky ingredients that requires a bit of muscle to make sure is evenly distributed. (The recipe suggests using a big spatula for this task—a tip I abandoned in favor of a large metal spoon.)

In any case, once well combined it’s time to transfer the contents back into the foil lined baking sheet you used for the oats, making certain to press the mixture forcefully against the pan. This last tip is an important one, as a non-compacted mixture risks producing a bar that will fall apart when bitten. And, as mentioned earlier, once the granola mixture had been packed into the pan, I scattered a ½ cup more of the chocolate chips across the surface, using a spatula to press them into the soft batter (and this time they maintained their shape, even after forty-five minutes in a 300 degree oven). Of course, if chocolate isn’t your thing you can always skip this addition, or simply substitute raisins or dried cranberries. All of these options are good ones, though for what it’s worth having now made this with the chocolate I can’t imagine ever doing otherwise (and I include allowing that first cup to melt into the oat mixture here, as well).

For me, those chocolate morsels proved to be one of the real pleasures of these granola bars, along with the bars’ subtle caramel flavor, and the grandmotherly, oatmeal-cookie fragrance that overtakes the kitchen during baking. It’s a scent that makes it hard not to cut into the bars as soon as they exit the oven—something you’ll want to resist as the cooked oat/nut mixture, still in its baking sheet, needs ten minutes or so on a wire rack to firm up before being sliced. This firming up process happens quickly, though, so at the ten-minute mark be sure to have your chef’s knife at the ready, since waiting much longer could mean a baked mixture that’s too hard to slice. That would be a shame, since what’s held in the pan is something sweet, crunchy, a little healthy-tasting, and profoundly satisfying. In other words, no one gave corn nuts a second thought on that drive up to the Cape.

Ingredients:
—7 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
—1/2 cup vegetable oil
—1/2 tsp salt
—1½ cups whole almonds, pecans, or walnuts
—3/4 cup honey
—3/4 cup packed light or dark brown sugar
—1 tbs vanilla extract
—2 tsp ground cinnamon (optional)
—1½ cups bittersweet chocolate chips, divided, 60% cacao ideally (optional)
—1/2 cup sweetened shredded coconut (optional)

Directions:
—Adjust an oven rack to the middle position and heat the oven to 375 degrees. Line an 18” x 12” rimmed baking sheet with aluminum foil. Combine the oats, oil, and salt in a large bowl and mix until the oats are evenly coated. Transfer the mixture to the baking sheet and spread into an even layer. (Save the mixing bowl for use later in the baking process.) Bake, stirring every 10 minutes, until pale gold, about 30 minutes. Remove the oats and lower the oven temperature to 300 degrees.
—While the oats are baking, place the nuts in a food processor and pulse until coarsely chopped, about ten 1-second pulses. Place ¾ cup of the nuts in a small bowl and process the remaining nuts until finely ground, 20 to 30 seconds. Add the finely ground nuts to the bowl with the coarsely ground nuts and set aside.
—Combine the honey and brown sugar in a small saucepan over medium heat and cook, stirring frequently, until the sugar is fully dissolved, about 5 minutes. Stir in the vanilla and cinnamon (if using) and set aside.
—Combine the oats, nuts, and honey mixture in the large bowl used earlier and stir with a large rubber spatula or metal spoon until the oats are evenly coated with the honey mixture. Add 1 cup of the chocolate chips (if using) and the ½ cup of shredded coconut (if using), and mix well. (Note: the chocolate chips will melt at this stage, giving everything a chocolate flavor and darkening the color.)
—Transfer the mixture to the same prepared baking sheet used to bake the oats and spread in an even layer. Wet the spatula with water and forcefully pack the mixture in a flat, tight, even layer. Scatter the remaining ½ cup of chocolate chips (if using) across the surface of the granola and press them into the oat/nut mixture.
—Bake until golden, about 45 to 50 minutes.
—Cool, in the baking sheet, on a wire rack for 10 minutes, then immediately cut into 2” x 3” bars using a chef’s knife. Remove the foil from each bar before serving. Cool completely before wrapping and storing.

NOTE #1: The bars can be stored in the baking sheet, wrapped tightly in plastic wrap, or in an airtight container for up to 1 week.

NOTE #2: Grated nutmeg and/or ginger can also be added to the cinnamon.

Makes approximately 36 bars

The post 07/19/12 • RAISING THE GRANOLA BAR appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.

From Canal House Cooking, vol. no. 6

It’s still hard to believe that Spring is here already. And by “Spring” I don’t just mean the official, calendar-defined season, but rather the one marked by the appearance of small green buds on just about everything — even that sad little shrub I pass on my way to work each morning that I figured was surely destined for the trash heap. Here in NYC there’s new life everywhere (leaves! flowers! weeds!). The sun is out when I leave the office at the end of the day, and people are sneezing and complaining about their allergies. That’s the Spring I’m talking about, and in keeping with the winter-that-wasn’t that only just ended, it seems to have arrived earlier than usual.

I was reminded of just how much earlier this past Sunday, when our friends Anthony and Sarah (Podge, to those who know and love her) invited us for Easter lunch at their place in East Hampton — a meal we were able to enjoy outside, with the waves of Gardner’s Bay lapping at the shore beside us. That alone would have been enough to make the afternoon memorable, and I haven’t even mentioned Podge’s cooking! These are new friends, but it didn’t take me long to figure out that when Podge offers to cook you a meal, or a snack, or just about anything, you say “YES!” because she’s a natural in the kitchen. And by “natural” I mean she’s the kind of cook who’s so confident and intuitive where her skills are concerned that she doesn’t have to crack a cookbook to whip up something special. Instead, she goes to the market, sees what looks good, multiplies it by what she’s in the mood for, and presto: a meal you’re destined to still be thinking about many days after.

So here it is almost a week later, and I’m still thinking about Sunday’s meal — and not just how it tasted, but also the wonderful smell it produced, specifically one of roasting pork which wafted our way as we walked through the door. I don’t quite know how to describe that smell other than to say that it was intoxicating in the way that only the scent of sizzling fat mingled with herbs and other seasonings can be intoxicating. (Easier would be to describe the reaction it produced in our gang of five guys, as each of us was briefly transformed into a chest-beating Neanderthal, ready to fight each other for our share of the kill.) I am happy to report that we all managed to return our tongues to the interior of our mouths, and to conduct ourselves (more or less) like gentlemen. It was, after all, a meal that called for savoring . . . not to mention a knife and fork.

All of which is a (very) long way of saying that the early arrival of Spring has put me in mind of the sorts of sociable foods one is drawn to when the weather gets warm — things ideally suited for a picnic, or a drink with friends. Things like this pimiento cheese spread, which I stumbled upon recently while thumbing (and, yes, once again salivating) through vol. 6 of Canal House Cooking. As has already been well documented on these pages, I have a particular weakness for anything in the butter family, so the book’s section devoted to crackers and cheese naturally drew my attention. So, too, did the words “Southern classic,” which is how the authors, Christopher Hirsheimer and Melissa Hamilton, describe this little snack, and which immediately brought to mind memories of my grandmother’s kitchen in Virginia.

Like most everything I’ve cooked from Canal House, the recipe is fuss-free, with a logical focus on end results versus a complicated set of instructions designed to impress. (Both authors are working moms, and while they clearly know and love food, they also understand the need for getting things done with a minimum of drama). For the home chef, that translates to recipes that are short and sweet, ingredients that are easy to source, and a final product that delivers the maximum payoff with a minimum of sweat. I think of it as very sophisticated home cooking.

So in the case of this recipe, all of the ingredients can be found at your local grocery, and probably already reside in your refrigerator or pantry. Assembly, too, is just as user friendly. There’s a little grating (the Cheddar cheese, the yellow onion), a bit of chopping (the drained pimientos), and a small amount of mixing (the previous three ingredients, along with the cream cheese, the mayonnaise, and the various seasonings). To ensure that this last step is as easy as promised, though, be sure to let the cream cheese soften a bit before mixing — or prepare for a concentrated bicep workout. In any case, once blended, transfer the mixture to a small croc or ramekin and allow to chill for at least an hour.

As written, the recipe has a pleasant bite, with the chopped pimiento, the onion, and the cayenne pepper nicely rounding out the sharpness of the Cheddar and offering the perfect counterpoint to the combined flavors of the cream cheese and the mayo. Still, if you want a little extra kick (as I did) consider adding a teaspoon of prepared horseradish to the various ingredients listed below — for me it proved just the thing in the company of all that creamy richness. Either way serve the spread at room temperature, alongside old-school buttery crackers, such as a Ritz or Club Cracker, and accompanied by a glass of whatever you like, and you’ll have the makings for a perfect spring evening.

One final note about quantities: as written, the recipe makes 2 cups of cheese — which, based on my experience, is enough for 12 large appetites. On the day the photos shown here were taken, I was cooking for an army and doubled the recipe. For the record, I ended up with enough for two armies.

Ingredients:
—8 oz extra sharp cheddar, finely grated
—One 4 oz jar pimientos, drained and chopped
—1 tsp grated yellow onion
—1/2 cup mayonnaise
—1/3 cup cream cheese
—1/2 tsp salt
—1/4 tsp pepper
—Pinch of ground cayenne
—Club Crackers (or some such), for serving

Directions:
—Put the cheddar, pimientos, onions, mayonnaise, cream cheese, salt, pepper and cayenne in a medium bowl and mix with a wooden spoon until it is well blended and the cheddar becomes creamy. Refrigerate for about 1 hour before serving. It will keep in the refrigerator for up to 1 week.

Makes 2 cups

The post 04/12/12 • EASY CHEESE SPREAD appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.

With Thanksgiving still in the rearview mirror and the double header of Christmas/New Year’s looming on the horizon, food has been on my mind a lot lately. Actually, since food is pretty much always on my mind, perhaps I should say that it’s been on my mind more urgently lately. “Urgently” both because this is the time of year when I feel compelled to turn out somewhat more elaborate meals for somewhat larger numbers than usual, and also because I want to be certain to share with you the kinds of cooking suggestions that feel both seasonally appropriate and genuinely useful (I mean, does anyone really need another roast beef recipe at this point?).

Having said all that, I now feel obliged to confess that rather than turning out the usual multi-platter extravaganza for Thanksgiving this year, we decided to skip town — for a responsibility-free week in the decidedly un-home-for-the-holidays setting of St. Barts. So instead of brining an eighteen-pound bird in a bucket of salt water, I brined myself in the turquoise waters of Saline beach. Bliss… Though truthfully I kind of missed the ritual of two days of beat-the-clock cooking with my mom, just as I did the resulting meal — my favorite of the year. No complaints from me about eating dry, restaurant-produced turkey with my toes buried in the sand, but the French just don’t get Thanksgiving. Case in point: the cranberry sauce/gravy mixture that was served with our meal. Cool, I thought, some hot young chef’s been crushing our holiday playbook! And then I took a taste. Uh, no — some hot young chef simply made a mistake.

Anyway, even if I haven’t cooked that much in the last few weeks, the things I’d like to be eating (and that I’d like to be serving) are very much front and center in my cerebral cortex at the moment. I count this artichoke and Parmesan cheese dip high up on that list. Actually, “dip” here is a bit of a misnomer, since it’s really more of a spread — a compulsively eatable, can’t-stop-until-it’s-completely-gone spread. It’s also one of those dishes where it’s best not to give the actual ingredients much thought, since, with the exception of a good deal of Parmesan cheese, there’s nothing particularly impressive on the list, and even a few things that may make you wonder whether perhaps it might all be one great big mistake. (Two cups of mayonnaise? Really?) Yes, really — and really good, too.

The recipe comes from A Taste of Tradition: Favorite Recipes from the Petock Family, which is not a title you’ll find on Amazon. Rather, it’s a collection of family recipes that was put together by a distant relative in Norfolk, Virginia, who passed it on to my grandmother, who in turn bequeathed it to my mom. Now with all due respect to my many relatives in Norfolk, theirs is not a town known for its exceptional food tradition. (Though it is home to Doumar’s, which can rightfully lay claim to one of the best minced pork sandwiches in the country). Nor is there anything particularly southern about the recipe, with the possible exception of all that mayonnaise. In fact, the dish is one my mom was first introduced to through a French catering company in Philadelphia — a recipe she repeatedly tried, and failed, to replicate after they left town. Enter this slim volume of family recipes, which unaccountably, and serendipitously, included the very one she’d been searching for.

The first thing you need to know about the dish (other than its aforementioned addictive quality) is that it’s ridiculously easy to prepare — like ten-minutes-of-prep-and-a-half-hour-in-the-oven easy. A little chopping (the artichokes), a little grating (the cheese), a little measuring and mixing, and presto: ready for baking. In fact, the most challenging aspect of the entire process may well be resisting the siren-like call of the salty, cheesy fragrance emanating from your oven, which starts long before the requisite cooking time is up. Don’t give in to temptation, though — you’ll want to make sure the top is all golden brown and pizza-like before diving in.

The other thing you need to know is that the cheese is the dominant flavor here, so even if mayonnaise makes your skin crawl (I live on the stuff but many I know can’t abide it), and even if you think canned artichoke hearts have no redeeming qualities, you won’t be disappointed here. For starters the mayonnaise functions more as textural component than a flavoring one. This means that it takes on a kind of molten, cheesy deliciousness thanks to the Parmesan, all of which is brightened, and deepened, by the addition of the garlic powder, and the Worcestershire and Tobasco sauces. Just be sure to use a good quality Parmesan, and to grate it on the large openings of your grater (go too fine and you’ll forfeit the desired creaminess).

As for the artichoke hearts, these give the spread some all-important heft, while also imbuing the mixture with just the right acidic kick — critical in the company of all that cheese and mayo. And while you should obviously use the best canned-variety you can find, thanks to the various other ingredients present, even the blandest of artichokes is magically transformed into something bright and flavorful here. Who knew that the secret to achieving true artichoke flavor lay in the simple addition of Parmesan cheese and Worcestershire sauce?

Served on lightly toasted baguette slices along with a glass of something chilled and there can be no mistaking it — the holidays have arrived.

Ingredients:
—2 cans artichoke hearts, roughly chopped
—2 cups Hellman’s mayonnaise
—1 cup shredded Parmesan cheese (note: cheese should be grated using the large holes on your grater as too fine a grate will not deliver the desired creamy texture)
—1 tsp Worcestershire sauce
—1 tsp garlic powder
—2 dashes Tabasco sauce
—1 French baguette for serving

Special equipment:
—1 oven-safe mini-loaf pan suitable for serving, roughly 6”L x 4”W x 3”H

Directions:
—Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Gently combine ingredients in a large bowl, then pour into a bake and serve dish. Place on a cookie sheet (to catch any drips) and bake on middle rack of oven until golden brown and bubbling, about 30 to 35 minutes.
—Serve with lightly toasted baguette slices.

The post 12/01/11 • ARTICHOKE CHEESE SPREAD appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.

From the August, 2011 Food and Wine (click here to view the recipe)

I wish I could tell you that this recipe demanded my attention because I had a bumper crop of zucchini sitting in the fridge and here was a way to call all that late summer bounty into service. But no, I have not been trawling the local farm-stands or stocking up at the farmer’s market — the simple truth is much less admirable, and it’s this: I’m a sucker for anything fried. Of course, the fact that I’d be frying something with a degree of healthfulness associated with it made the endeavor that much easier to rationalize. But honestly, I’d probably have dived in here if the recipe had called for shredded potatoes, or globs of sugary batter, or cheese.

In fact, this recipe does call for cheese, or at least something close to it — a sheep’s milk ricotta, which only made the prospect of pulling out the frying pan that much more certain. And I liked the photo. Show me an image of some sort of fried savory anything, its golden brown exterior glistening with a light sheen of salt and oil, and you’ve got my attention. Add a lemon wedge as Food and Wine does here (the recipe can be found in their current issue), its juice already drizzled across the fritters’ craggy landscape, and I’m yours.

Now you might think from all this rhapsodizing that whipping up a batch of fritters (frittering?) is something I do with regularity. You’d be wrong. Prior to tackling this recipe, my fritter making experience has been nil, while my fritter eating experience has been limited to either clearing as many of these little golden disks from various cocktail trays as possible, or claiming more than my share on those occasions when a friend decided to make them. In other words, I haven’t been getting nearly enough. The attached recipe seemed easy, though, and the addition of the ricotta was an unexpected and enticing twist, so I figured it was time to take matters into my own hands.

Really, what had I been waiting for? In some vague way I’ve always assumed fritter-making to be somehow messy and labor intensive, but there was nothing to it. For these you simply shred 2 medium sized zucchini then mix the results with some sliced garlic and scallions, two large eggs, two teaspoons of lemon zest, a little salt and pepper, ½ a cup of ricotta cheese, and you’re nearly there. I wondered for a moment whether I shouldn’t be squeezing some of the liquid out of the zucchini, but as the recipe didn’t suggest this added move, and as the final step of the mixing process called for adding ¾ of a cup of flour, I decided to trust the instructions and assume that the binding quality of the flour would take care of things. It did.

The cooking process reminded me a little of making pancakes with my dad when I was a kid. As with pancakes, you drop a small amount of the batter (about 2-tablespoons’ worth) into a pan of hot oil, then hold your breath for a second, praying that your various dollops don’t collide, merging into one giant, unwieldy pancake. In fact, there’s no need to worry — the batter is more solid than liquid and only slides so far before its sides begin to take on a sturdy golden texture, which effectively stops it in its tracks. That’s when you know the perimeter of each pancake is safe, and that it’s nearly time to flip and fry the other side. Depending on how browned you want them (I like them dark) the total cooking time falls somewhere between three and four minutes, though as with pancakes, the anticipation can sometimes make that feel much longer. You do want to make sure not to overcrowd the pan (I found that my 12-inch skillet could safely handle about four fritters), so you’ll need to work in batches. This is good, as it allows the fritters a moment to cool and drain between batches, so have a few paper towel-lined cookie sheets at the ready to handle this.

Also, as I mentioned earlier, this recipe calls for a sheep-milk ricotta, which has a slightly richer taste than the easier to find cow-milk variety. I’ve made it with both types, and though using a cow-milk ricotta resulted in a fritter with a little less flavor, this shortcoming was remedied with some extra lemon juice (though go for the sheep-milk if you can). Regardless of what type of cheese you use, however, I found that a light sprinkling of sea salt, along with the lemon juice, gave the fritters just the flavor nudge they needed.

The fritters are best right out of the frying pan, when their crunchy exterior is slightly hot to the touch, and the soft, silky interior still holds a puff of steam. If you’re not able to serve them right away, though, the fritters can be kept at room temperature for a few hours, then recrisped in a 325-degree oven. Either way, you’ll find you have no shortage of grateful mouths to devour them — even if it’s only your own.

Zucchini-ricotta fritters:

Ingredients:
—2 medium zucchini (about 7 ounces each), coarsely shredded)
—2 garlic cloves, very thinly sliced
—3 large scallions, very thinly sliced
—1/2 cup fresh sheep-milk ricotta cheese
—2 large eggs
—2 teaspoons finely grated lemon zest
—Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
—3/4 cup all-purpose flour
—Olive oil, for frying
—Lemon wedges, for serving

Directions:
In a large bowl, combine the zucchini, garlic, scallions, ricotta, eggs, lemon zest and 1 teaspoon each of salt and pepper. Stir well, then stir in the flour just until incorporated.

Line a large baking sheet with paper towels. In a large skillet, heat ¼ inch of olive oil until shimmering. Working in batches, add 2-tablespoon mounds of the zucchini batter to the hot oil, spreading them to form 3-inch fritters. Fry over moderately high heat, turning once, until brown and crisp, about 3 minutes. Drain the fritters on the paper towels and serve right away, with lemon wedges.

NOTE: The fritters can be kept at room temperature for up to 2 hours and recrisped in a 325-degree oven.

The post 08/25/11 • ZUCCHINI FRITTERS appeared first on THE RECIPE GRINDER.

From the Jan./Feb., 2011 Saveur (click here to view the recipe)

Have you ever noticed the way dinner guests grow suddenly quiet when presented with a platter of deviled eggs? Just enter a crowded room carrying a tray loaded with these little flavor-packed egg cups and watch the way the buzz of conversation suddenly dims. It’s not necessarily that anyone is overwhelmed by your culinary prowess or ambition, but simply because they’re suddenly, ravenously, hungry, and those tiny snacks are looking awfully good. Even if no one makes an immediate move — and they may not, not wanting to appear too greedy by being the first to lunge — turn your back for just a moment and that platter will likely be wiped cleaned. Such is human nature when the devil’s in the room.

I know what I’m talking about here, having myself been guilty of eating more than my share of said item on multiple occasions. It’s the self-contained nature of the deviled egg that tends to do me in — the way one little egg saucer sits so precisely on my tongue and is then sent on its way so quickly, before the experience can properly be registered. It all happens so fast that it only seems right that I have another, and then another, just to be certain that I ever had one at all. And then there’s the fact that so many of the components called into play here are ones I have a particular weakness for — ingredients that almost always include mayonnaise and mustard, but that can also feature an endless array of tempting add-ons, such as pickles, crumbled bacon, capers, Worcestershire sauce, olives, caviar, cheese, and . . . Well, you get the idea.

In fact, when it comes to making deviled eggs there seems to be as many variations as there are mouths to eat them — which is to say it’s endless. I even have a friend from the south who insists on adding sugar to the yolk mixture, which made for one deviled egg experience I don’t want to repeat. Still, it’s this spirit of individuality that caught my eye in a story on deviled eggs that ran last winter in Saveur, and that I’ve been saving for just the right moment. The piece features four different approaches, from a traditional southern style (minus the sugar, happily), to a variety that moves smoked trout into a leading role.

Those all sounded better than good to me, but the one I kept rolling around in my head and that ultimately grabbed me by the apron strings and dragged me into the kitchen was a relatively simple one with a single exclamatory addition: pickled jalapeño (the recipe is based on one in Texas Home Cooking by Cheryl and Bill Jamison). As it turns out, this was just the thing my heat-seeking taste buds have been longing for during these dog days of summer. The cool of a mayonnaise-y egg is particularly appealing when the weather gets warm, and the experience seems to be bull-horned when paired with something that offers a little heat. I’m a big fan of heat where food is concerned, and especially so when it’s delivered on the back of vinegar. Which is to say that I’m a big fan of these eggs.

Even at their most ambitious a deviled egg is rarely a complicated thing to assemble, and this recipe is likely easier than most. The biggest challenge is getting the eggs cooked correctly, which in the end isn’t that challenging at all once you nail the timing (see instructions below for details). Beyond that it’s simply a matter of some chopping (flat-leaf parsley, a little onion, celery, the aforementioned jalapenos), some mixing (yolks together with mayonnaise, sour cream, mustard, spices, and the previously chopped items), then piping the yolk mixture back into the egg whites, which can be done with something as low tech as a plastic bag. In fact, my biggest hurdle in making these eggs was trying not to eat them all before my guests arrived.

That said, I did encounter one speed bump on my way to deviled egg delirium, and it came when it was time to remove the shells — a process that proved slow enough that my back started to hurt and which led to the somewhat nicked and battered look of the lineup you see before you. Now I have always understood that the freshest eggs are the easiest to peel, but after a little digging I learned that for best results you actually want to start with eggs that have been refrigerated for at least several days. Most likely that will include any that you buy at the supermarket, though perhaps not ones from the farmer’s market (the source for mine).

The other thing you want to be sure to do is to plunge the cooked eggs into a bowl of ice water and allow them to cool completely. This will help the papery membrane surrounding the egg to stick to the shell, thus making them easier to peel. Once the heat subsides, tap the large end of the egg against a hard surface until it cracks, then do the same with the other end. With any luck the shell will slip right off and your eggs will be pristine and photo ready.

Ingredients:
—12 eggs
—3 tbs mayonnaise
—3 tbs sour cream
—2 tbs minced flat-leaf parsley
—2 tbs minced pickled jalapenos, plus more for garnish
—2 tbs yellow mustard
—1 tbs minced celery
—1 tbs minced onion
—½ tsp paprika, plus more for garnish
—Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste.

Directions:
—Put eggs into a 4-qt. pot of water and bring to a boil. Remove pan from heat, cover, and let sit 15 minutes. Drain eggs and crack each shell slightly. Transfer eggs to a bowl of ice water and let cool.
—Peel eggs. Halve each egg; using a small spoon, transfer yolks to a medium bowl. Using a fork, mash yolks. —Add mayonnaise, sour cream, parsley, jalapenos, mustard, celery, onions, and paprika; season with salt and pepper. Stir vigorously with spatula until smooth.
—Transfer mixture to a plastic bag or a piping bag fitted with a smooth tip and pipe into egg whites.
—Garnish eggs with more paprika, if you like, and pickled jalapenos. Serve cold or at room temperature.

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