Parsnip Soup

Parsnip Soup

We moved last Tuesday. I’m going to repeat that, because it sounds so unlikely, so inadvisable, that I know you might not believe me. I hardly believe me. But we did. We moved. Brandon is starting a second business, and I’m trying to start a second book, so, you know, la la la, let’s move. We’ve had worse ideas, but I can’t think of them right now.

This is the last picture taken in our old kitchen. Our old kitchen, our old place, our old duplex, where we lived for almost five years, on a noisy street with the nocturnal neighbor who does outdoor home improvement projects by flashlight. I will miss that place, but only a little, and never at night.



I don’t know where this white table is going to live in our new place. Right now, it’s in the living room, looking out of sorts, trying to seem relevant by holding up a vase with a couple of wilting ranunculus. The saddest table in the world. But I love this new-to-us house, even the red carpet and wood paneling downstairs, sort of. I hope we stay here for a long time. The dishwasher is a model called the Quiet Partner. The Quiet Partner! YES.

The kitchen is hardly set up, and I feel like an alien in there, like I’m trying to find my way on a new planet, one with banana-colored formica and a mauve oven and stove. The only thing I’ve cooked so far is spaghetti with braised kale, and then I’ve been microwaving leftovers, which is easy enough, even if you come from outer space. But tomorrow I plan to unpack the blender, and maybe I’ll find the mesh strainer with it, and then I can make parsnip soup. That’s what I want for lunch this week. Parsnip soup, toast and sharp cheddar, and an orange.

This soup is adapted from a parsnip puree that my friend Matthew taught me to make. Matthew and I co-host the podcast Spilled Milk, and recently, when we did an episode on parsnips, he made this puree. We ate it on crostini, which was terrific, but it was so nice on its own that I really wanted to eat it just like that, from the serving bowl, with the serving spoon. Matthew mentioned that with a little thinning, the recipe also makes a good soup, so when I got home, I tried it. There’s barely anything to it: a bag of parsnips, some vegetable stock, a little butter, a little cream, a little salt, a little pass through the mesh strainer. But what you get is something that you, or at least I, can be very pleased with: a perfectly smooth soup in a shade some call Cosmic Latte(!!!), subtle but gutsy, with that sweet vegetal funk and enough fragrance to fill your whole head. The key, I think, is the vegetable stock. Matthew says that the natural sweetness of vegetable stock plays up the natural sweetness of parsnips, and I’m a believer.

Have a good lunch.


Parsnip Soup
Adapted from Spilled Milk and Matthew Amster-Burton

It doesn’t get simpler than this, so be sure you start with fresh, firm parsnips and decent-tasting vegetable stock. Homemade is nice, but honestly, I use Better Than Bouillon No Chicken Base, and the results are great.

3 to 3 ½ lb. parsnips
2 quarts vegetable stock
2 Tbsp. unsalted butter, dicedWater or additional stock, as needed
½ cup heavy cream
Salt, to taste
Peel the parsnips, trim and discard the ends, and cut into ½-inch pieces. Put in a large pot, and add the vegetable stock. Bring to a simmer, and cook, uncovered, until the parsnips can be easily pierced with a fork, about 20 to 25 minutes.

Set a fine-mesh strainer over another large pot. Working in batches, puree the parsnips and stock in a blender, tossing in a couple of pieces of butter with each batch. (And remember that hot liquids expand, so never fill the blender more than a third.) This amount of stock should yield a somewhat thick soup, and you will likely need to add a little additional water or stock as you blend, until the soup reaches your desired consistency. As you finish pureeing each batch, pour the soup through the strainer into the pot, stirring and scraping as needed with a rubber spatula to push the puree through the mesh.

When the soup is entirely pureed, stir in the cream. Rewarm gently over low heat. Taste for salt, and serve hot.

Ham Bone, Greens, and Bean Soup

Ham Bone, Greens, and Bean Soup

So, how bored will you be if we talk about soup again? Ham Bone, Greens, and Bean Soup? I didn’t set out to write about this one - I made it mostly as a vehicle for a ham bone that I put in our freezer last April, forgot, and then triumphantly unearthed the week before last - but June liked it so much that she did her special high chair "dance," swaying from side to side and grunting, so I changed my mind. Swaying and grunting: strong praise from young June E. A. Pettit! (Also, Swaying and Grunting: what I will call my debut album when I launch my third career as a down-and-out country singer.)

I know that it’s almost Thanksgiving, and that I’m supposed to be talking about cranberries or what to eat with your turkey, and that you and I both have planes to catch and grocery lists to write, but please consider filing away this recipe for the future, a future after the holidays, when you may find yourself with a couple of free hours and a defrosted ham bone that was once lost beneath some frozen bananas. This soup is for a day like that, a cold day when soup is what a person wants to eat, a nice ordinary day. June and I shared a bowl of it one Sunday night, and I ate another bowl while I did payroll on Monday afternoon, and it was so good, so right for right now, that I considered hoarding the rest of the batch. But because no expense is too great for the opportunity to watch June "dance," I let her have it.

The recipe for this soup comes from Melissa Clark and her wonderful book Cook This Now. I was flipping through it recently, and I don’t know what it is, but every recipe she writes sounds fantastic. She’s... bewitching. That’s the word for it.  I read one of her recipe titles, any one of her recipe titles, and I come to a few minutes later, standing in front of the refrigerator. Buckwheat Pancakes with Sliced Peaches and Cardamom Cream Syrup! I don’t like anything but maple syrup on my pancakes - the truth, revealed - but because of Melissa, I will make that damned cardamom cream syrup. And Seared Wild Salmon with Brown Butter Cucumbers!   Fragrant Lentil Rice Soup with Spinach and Crispy Onions!  Ham Bone, Greens, and Bean Soup!!!!!!  My tea this morning might have been stronger than I thought.

This soup is one of those full-meal-in-one-bowl numbers, thick with beans, carrots, celery, onion, cabbage, and kale, with big flavor from the ham bone and some bacon fat.  (You start the recipe by cooking chopped bacon, which you then scoop out and reserve for a garnish while you cook the vegetables in the fat.  As you can imagine, the bacon fat contributes a nice, meaty richness. But if you’d rather skip the bacon step for some reason, I’ll bet you could use olive oil or butter. I should also mention that I forgot to use the bacon garnish and didn’t miss it, possibly because the bacon fat and ham bone were so flavorful.)  The beans wind up tender and creamy, and the broth is sweet and smoky and deeply hammy, but the best part might be the cabbage, which softens until it nearly melts.  I ate mine with a dash of hot sauce, because pork likes a little vinegary heat. If you find yourself with a ham bone, you know what to do.

P.S. Yesterday, Brandon and I shared a bunch of tips for making mashed potatoes over at Food52. Hop to it! And while you’re there, check out the other Thanksgiving tips, too, from Rose Levy Beranbaum, Adam Rapoport, and Andrew Knowlton. Pretty great.
P.P.S. If you need a Thanksgiving cocktail idea, how about, ahem, a Nardini Spritz?


Ham Bone, Greens, and Bean Soup

What makes this soup different from one that uses, say, ham hocks, is that the marrow in the ham bone melts into the soup, bringing extra richness and body. So if you have a ham bone, use it! You will be rewarded. If not, a ham hock will also be good. My ham bone fit easily into the pot I used, but Melissa Clark suggests that, in general, you ask your butcher to cut it in half or thirds for you, so that it’s guaranteed to fit and also has some marrow exposed.

As for beans, you could probably use any light-colored bean you like. I had a bag of Rancho Gordo’s yellow eye beans in the cupboard, so I used those. (Rancho Gordo beans make a great holiday present, by the way.)  Also, I find that adding a little salt when I soak dried beans makes them turn out better when I cook them, and here’s a video from America’s Test Kitchen that explains why.  I don’t tend to use the full amount of salt that’s called for in the video, but I have, and it worked beautifully.  (I don’t use that much because I tend to forget to rinse the beans after soaking, and then I wind up with salty beans. Using less salt still seems to help, and then there’s no need to rinse.)

1 cup (175 grams) dried pinto beans, or another bean you like
4 strips bacon, cut into ½-inch pieces
3 large carrots, diced
2 celery stalks, diced
1 large yellow onion, diced
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 ham bone (about 1 ¼ lb. / 565 grams)
1 bay leaf
2 teaspoons kosher salt, or to taste
½ head (about ¾ lb. / 340 grams) green cabbage, cored and thinly sliced
1 bunch kale (about ½ lb. / 225 grams), stems removed and leaves chopped into bite-size pieces
Freshly ground black pepper, for serving
Hot sauce, for serving

Twelve to 24 hours before you plan to start the soup, put the beans in a bowl and cover with plenty of cold water. Add a generous pinch of salt. Set aside at room temperature. (Or, if you don’t have that much time, you can instead use a quick-soak method: put the beans, lots of cold water, and a generous pinch of salt in a pot, bring it to a boil, turn off the heat, cover the pot, and let stand for 1 hour. Drain, and then proceed with the recipe.)

Warm a large (about 5-quart) pot over medium-high heat. Add the bacon, and cook until crisp, about 5 to 7 minutes. Remove the bacon with a slotted spoon to a paper towel-lined plate, and save for garnishing the soup. Add the carrots, celery, and onion to the bacon fat in the pan. Cook, stirring, until softened, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic, and cook for 1 minute more.

Put the ham bone and bay leaf into the pot, and add 8 cups water and 2 teaspoons kosher salt. Bring the mixture to a boil over high heat; then add the beans, reduce the heat to medium-low, and simmer for 30 minutes. Stir in the cabbage and simmer for 30 minutes more. At this point, fish out a bean and taste it: it should be nearly done. If it’s still pretty firm, let the soup simmer a bit longer before continuing. Then stir in the kale and simmer until the kale is soft but still bright green, about 15 minutes. Remove the ham bone and bay leaf. If you’d like, you can pull the meat from the ham bone, chop it up, and stir it back into the soup.

 Serve with freshly ground black pepper and a dash of hot sauce, and more salt, if needed. (Oh, and crumbled bacon, if you want.)

Fretwell (Italian Vegetable) Soup

Fretwell (Italian Vegetable) Soup

Every now and then, something comes over me, and I produce. With no real hunger or purpose, I make, say, three mini-loaves of fancy banana bread, a batch of strawberry scones, a loaf of sourdough, and barrelfuls of Italian vegetable soup—all in less than twenty-four hours, and mostly on a Friday night, no less. Behold the pinnacle of geekiness! But because a girl’s got to keep these things in check, I usually make sure that my bouts of industriousness are immediately followed by a good dose of sloth, generally in the company of someone upon whom I can foist some of the products of my labor. Hence Saturday night’s languorous session on the couch, spooning whipped cream and sipping wine, wearing unusually wavy bedroom hair, and snorting and guffawing in intentionally bad French with Kate. Whoever said that sloth is a deadly sin has obviously never spent an evening with us.

I arrived at Kate’s with a heavy bag of loot: a crusty homemade sourdough boule, my jagged-toothed Wüsthof bread knife, a wedge of bleu d’Auvergne from my personal ripening cellar (a.k.a. the refrigerator), a baggie of scones, and a Tupperware full of still-warm soup. Taking stock of our wares and coming up short, we ran down to DeLaurenti’s, barraged the poor wine saleswoman with inarticulate questions about Italian reds, and returned to Kate's with a bottle of Argiolas Perdera Isola dei Nuraghi 2002, jammy, spicy, and as fun to pronounce as it is to drink. I set the table—complete with the few napkins I didn’t set on fire at my birthday dinner—while she washed lettuce and handfuls of peppery watercress. With rain falling on the cold streets outside, we sat down to a warming winter dinner: steaming bowls of soup, hearty with carrots, cabbage, zucchini, Swiss chard, and sweet white beans,
and, on the side, greens with vinaigrette, creamy bleu d’Auvergne, and chewy bread.

And, because we needed to meet our regular whipped-cream quota, we collaborated on a now-routine-but-still-exhilarating gâteau au chocolat fondant, which, incidentally, gave me a chance to show off my natural grace in the kitchen. Not only did I drop a chocolate-batter-covered spoon on the floor and nearly knock over a pitcher of kitchen utensils while making the thing, but, once it was out of the oven and cool, I shot a knife across the kitchen trying to serve it. I just get so eager.

Kate, on the other hand, whipped the cream with uncommon elegance.
We collapsed onto the couch and, wine glasses and bowl of cream nearby, made fast work of the cake. Then, in only a couple of hours, we planned our entire lives and a cocktail party. Even in times of slothfulness, we can’t help but be productive.

And what’s more, before I left, we even took out the trash.
The rubbish chute is the highlight of every visit chez Kate. I adore it, and, knowing this, Kate saves her very best trash just for me. I’ve thrown into the chute's greedy mouth everything from a candy-coated apple to a bag full of mussel shells, and I can’t get enough of the clicketty-clacketty-THUMP! of trash tumbling down through the darkness. It’s pure heaven. Someday I’ll have a rubbish chute of my own, and I’ll fulfill my dream of sliding down it. I’ve long had visions of putting myself in small, confined spaces: cabinets, the space under airplane seats, and so on. When I was moving into my current apartment, I crawled into a corner cabinet in the kitchen and had my mother close the door behind me. It was strangely satisfying, if only for a few seconds. A rubbish-chute ride would surely be divine, if painful.

Coming home and sighing contentedly, I gave thanks for so much industry and indolence by turning out the light and tumbling down through the darkness to my bed.

Fretwell (Italian Vegetable) Soup

This soup recipe comes from the Fretwell family, longtime friends in Oklahoma, and they in turn discovered it somewhere in Italy. I have only a blurry Xeroxed copy of the recipe (which the Fretwells had faxed to them from wherever they first ate it), and so I thus cannot give credit here to its original author. That’s a true shame, because this is one of the most delicious vegetable soups I’ve ever tasted. The Fretwells brought us many meals while my father was ill, and this was one we requested repeatedly. But consider yourself warned: this recipe makes a veritable cauldron of soup. If you don’t have a stockpot that can hold twelve quarts or so, do this in two batches, or halve the recipe.


1 ½ lbs. dried cannellini or Great Northern beans
Olive oil
Salt
2 or 3 fresh sage leaves
1 or 2 garlic cloves, peeled and left whole
2 or 3 medium yellow onions, chopped
8 medium carrots, sliced into ¼-inch coins
5 celery stalks, trimmed and sliced into ¼-inch crescents
2 medium zucchini, halved lengthwise and sliced into ¼-inch half-circles
1 bunch red Swiss chard, washed, dried, and sliced
½ head green cabbage, cored and chopped roughly
1 quart vegetable broth (I used Imagine brand)
1 28-oz can whole peeled tomatoes, juices reserved and tomatoes chopped roughly


Soak the beans overnight. The next day, drain them, put them into a large pot, add water to cover by 2 inches, and cook, with sage and garlic, for about one hour. As the beans cook, skim off any white foam that rises to the surface, and halfway through their cooking time, add ½ Tbs salt.

Heat 2 or 3 Tbs olive oil in a large soup pot, add onions, carrots, and celery, and sauté for 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally, salting lightly, and adding more oil if necessary. Add the zucchini and the vegetable broth, cover, and bring mixture to a simmer. Then add Swiss chard, cabbage, tomatoes, and tomato juices. Cover the pot, and simmer over low heat for half an hour or so. Add the beans and their cooking water, salt to taste, and simmer, covered, over low heat for one hour, stirring occasionally. Taste and adjust seasoning as needed. Serve over slices of day-old crusty bread, and garnish with a drizzle of olive oil if you like.

Serves scads—but scads!—of people.

Fennel-Potato Soup with Dilled Crème Fraîche

Fennel-Potato Soup with Dilled Crème Fraîche

Hi, everybody.

A few of you asked, in the comments last week, if I might tell you a little more about my book, the project that’s been eating up a large portion - wait, did I say large? I meant all, or darn near all - of my thoughts for the past several months. I really haven’t told you much about it, have I? I guess I didn’t really think to until now. I’m so glad you gave me a nudge. I just got swept up in the wedding for a while there, and then, when it was over, I dove so deep into writing that it never really occurred to me to climb out, grab a dry towel, and tell you what I saw down there.

To tell you the truth, it’s pretty murky sometimes. It’s kind of hard to see where I’m going. It reminds me of a quote I read a while ago, an E.L. Doctorow line that goes something like this: “Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” I’m not writing a novel, mind you, but I know what he means. Most of the time, I just try to write, to follow the headlights, to not think too hard. That’s all I can do, anyway, and it’s hard enough, just that. When things are going well, I feel like a million bucks, like I just discovered a new planet, or the cure for AIDS, or a lifetime supply of chocolate hidden under the bed. Then again, sometimes - like, oh, yesterday - I cry a lot, over things like French toast.




(While we’re at it, let me tell you that nothing, nothing, is worse than recipe testing on Sunday mornings. Listen: if you ever write a cookbook, or any sort of book with recipes, and if you need to test breakfast foods, DO NOT test them at breakfast time, or on weekend mornings when you should really be sleeping. You and your husband will wind up hungry, and then you’ll give him the silent treatment when he tries to make you feel better, because you desperately need to pout for a while, just to get it out of your system, and so it goes until lunchtime, when you’re too starved to be mad anymore. Like I said, don’t.)

Writing a book is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But when it works, it’s so fun. I used to write poetry as a teenager - I know, I know; who didn’t, right? - and one of my teachers, a poet named Peter Fortunato, once told me something that I’ve been thinking about a lot. He was talking about writing, and about how utterly free we are when we write, about the worlds we can imagine and create for ourselves, about how rip-roaring fun it can be. He said, and I wrote in big letters in my spiral notebook: “You’re riding Pegasus! Isn’t it amazing?” He was just trying to cheer us brooding teenage poets, I’m sure, but I still remember it, after all these years. I’m riding Pegasus! This is amazing! Of course, Pegasus ain’t no carousel pony, people. He bucks and skitters all over the place. But some days, I never want to come down.




Speaking of which, before he carries me away again, let me give you a few nitty-gritties.

My book’s tentative title is Orangette: The Stories My Kitchen Tells Me. The title may be entirely different by the time it shows up in bookstores next fall, but that’s what I’m working with for now. It’s what feels right. The book grows out of the format and style of this blog, meaning that it’s a collection of recipes and the stories that go with them, sixty-some-odd in all. Roughly two-thirds of the book will be new material. I want to give you as much new writing and as many new recipes as I can, but some old stories and dishes feel like classics now, and they belong in there too. Plus, even the more familiar recipes have been tweaked and retested, made to work better and tastier than before. (Remember this banana bread, for example, with chocolate and crystallized ginger? I reworked it, using a different banana bread base, and it’s even better. I can’t wait for you to try it.)




Each recipe will have been tested by a minimum of three people, or four, if you count me. The way it works is this: first I work on a recipe in my own kitchen - often with Brandon’s help; if you like something, be sure to thank him too - and then, when I’ve got a handful of recipes ready, I send them to my team of testers. They have a month to try them, during which time I get the next handful ready, and then we start again. I have 12 testers, all of them volunteers, working for nothing but my gratitude. (There’s lots of that to go around, thank goodness.) Some of them are family (my sister Lisa and my mother, namely, both wonderfully precise cooks), and some are friends. Some live in Texas, and some live in Sweden. Some are readers of this blog, some are bloggers themselves, and some I have never met. I have been stunned by their generosity and energy, and by their willingness to buy expensive vanilla beans, port, and Parmigiano Reggiano on my behalf. You’ll hear a lot about them in the acknowledgments section, which is, so far, my very favorite part of the book to write. When all else fails, I work on the acknowledgments. Thanking people is easy.




I’m learning all the time. Writing is such a strange, mysterious process. I say that even now, as I sit here, doing just that. In writing this book, I’ve remembered some of the weirdest, most wonderful things. Like my first kiss, for example - which, let me tell you, was pretty weird. Or that my mother and her siblings went to school with John Waters and Divine. (Weird and wonderful, right?) Or how much my father loved mayonnaise. I’d forgotten all that. It feels so good to remember. It’s what keeps me going, what keeps me from freaking out entirely, with only eight weeks left to finish this manuscript. December 15 is coming up awfully soon.

Hopefully, next fall, the date when it hits the shelves, will come even faster.

I can’t wait to share it with you.



Fennel-Potato Soup with Dilled Crème Fraîche
I didn’t want to leave you without a recipe this week, because heavens knows we all have to eat, even when we’re on a deadline, right? I made this soup last Friday and have been eating it for lunch ever since. It’s a terrifically easy one, just the thing for a filling-but-healthy fall lunch. It’s subtle and soothing, a blend of sweet leeks, perfumed fennel, and rich, earthy potatoes. As flavors go, this one is utterly reassuring. And with a dollop of cool, green-flecked crème fraîche on top, it feels a little fancy too.




The original version of this soup calls for chopped smoked salmon as a garnish, rather than the dilled crème fraîche I use here. Though I love the flavor of smoked salmon, I didn’t like the idea of its chewy, flaky texture in soup. And, as it happened, I had some crème fraîche kicking around the fridge, along with some fresh dill left over from a recipe test (my dad’s potato salad; wait till you see, it’s really delicious). This soup seemed like a fitting use for both. Plus, I love the way it looks and tastes with a spoonful of tangy, herbed cream.

For soup:
3 Tbsp. unsalted butter
2 medium (or 1 large) fennel bulbs, trimmed and sliced
1 large leek (white and pale green parts only), halved lengthwise and thinly sliced crosswise
1 tsp. fennel seeds
1 ½ lb. russet potatoes (about 2 large), peeled and cut into coarse cubes
5 ½ cups chicken or vegetable broth (such as this one), plus more to taste
Salt, to taste

For serving:
Crème fraîche
Finely chopped fresh dill
Salt

In a heavy large pot or Dutch oven, melt the butter over medium-high heat. Add the fennel, leek, and fennel seeds, and cook, stirring often, until the vegetables begin to soften, about 8 minutes. Add the potatoes and 5 ½ cups broth, and stir to combine. Bring to a boil; then reduce heat to medium and simmer, partially covered, until potatoes are tender, about 12-15 minutes.

Working in batches, puree the soup in a blender. (When working with hot liquids like this, never fill the blender more than 1/3 full, as the liquid can expand and cause some nasty burns. Brandon currently has a scab over his eyebrow from just this sort of soup-explosion accident.) It should be very smooth and creamy. Return the pureed soup to the pot and rewarm over medium-low heat, stirring regularly and thinning with more broth by ¼-cupfuls to reach your desired consistency. (I added an additional ½ cup.) Season with salt to taste. It’ll need a pretty good amount.

Just before serving, spoon some crème fraîche into a small bowl, and stir in finely chopped dill to taste. This sort of thing can take as much or as little dill as you like. Taste, and add a pinch of salt. Stir well.

Divide soup between bowls, and serve dilled crème fraîche on the side, so that each eater can dollop a bit into their soup.

Chickpea-Tomato Soup with Fresh Rosemary

Chickpea-Tomato Soup with Fresh Rosemary

I love routine. I’ve never been good at change—which is to say that I’m actually rather bad at it. My poor, long-suffering mother can attest to this: during college, I called her at the beginning of each and every quarter, sobbing and sniveling incoherently about my new schedule and new classes and the end of life as I knew it. I’m also the girl who took the same brown-bag lunch to school every single day for the first fourteen years of her life: Peter Pan creamy peanut butter on mushy Home Pride whole wheat bread (no jam, jelly, or other gelatinousness; no crunchy peanut butter; no natural peanut butter; no white bread; no seeded bread; and no change). My taste buds may well be the eighth wonder of the world: how they managed to survive such monotony is one of the greatest mysteries of all time.
Though I’ve lately gotten more friendly with change and spontaneity in general—ah, the wisdom that comes with (ahem) maturity!—even today, I regularly put my taste buds to the test of boredom. Nearly every morning, I sit down to the same breakfast in the same crimson bowl, and nearly every morning, it makes me ridiculously happy. Thus sated, I flounce down to the bus with roughly the same formulaic lunch: slices of bread A; slices of cheese B; a Tupperware of soup C or vegetable D; and a piece of fruit E, according to the season. Today it was honey oatmeal bread, cave-aged gruyère and Cabot cheddar, chickpea-tomato soup, and an heirloom navel orange. I may be boring, but they were eyeing my lunch covetously at the bus stop. Who knows what could happen if I gave up the routine now: a bus operator strike, riots, revolution, the end of life as we know it.


Chickpea-Tomato Soup with Fresh RosemaryAdapted from Once Upon a Tart…: Soups, Salads, Muffins, and More from New York City’s Favorite Bakeshop and Café, by Frank Mentesana and Jerome Audureau


I first tasted this soup a few years ago, on a cold, windy December day in New York City. Each spoonful unites the fruity acidity of ripe tomatoes with the earthy sweetness of chickpeas, rounding out the whole with a subtle undertone of rosemary. This soup is a breeze to make, especially if you have an immersion blender, and keeps well for several days in the refrigerator.

2 15-ounce cans chickpeas
3 Tbs olive oil
2 garlic cloves, peeled and coarsely chopped
2 3-inch sprigs fresh rosemary, needles removed from stem and finely chopped
2 cans diced tomatoes, one 28-ounce and one 14.5-ounce
A pinch of sugar
1 teaspoon salt
Freshly ground black pepper
4 cups vegetable stock (I used Imagine brand)

Drain the canned chickpeas in a colander, and rinse them well.

Warm the olive oil in a large soup pot over medium-low heat, and add the garlic and rosemary. Cook for a minute or two, and then add the tomatoes, sugar, salt, a few grinds of pepper, roughly half of the chickpeas, and the stock. Bring to a boil over high heat; then reduce the heat to low and simmer, partially covered, for 20 minutes.

Remove the soup from the heat to purée. If using an immersion blender, purée the soup directly in the pot. Otherwise, wait a few minutes, until the soup cools; then purée it in batches in a blender or food processor and return it to the pot. Add the remaining chickpeas, and warm the soup over medium heat. Serve warm.

Broccoli Soup with Lemon-Chive Cream

Broccoli Soup with Lemon-Chive Cream

I have a confession to make. It probably seems like I live and breathe to cook, right? It probably seems like I never get tired of stirring and whisking and chopping, like I go to sleep at night spooning the refrigerator and wake up each morning to find a skillet under my pillow and a rainbow arcing gently, benevolently, over the stove. But the truth is, there are many days when I would rather do anything than cook. ANYTHING. Like, hit-myself-over-the-head-with-the-aforementioned-skillet anything. Anything.

Lately, I’ve been having a lot of those days. At first, I thought it was because of my recent run of bad recipes. It’s hard to feel terribly excited about spending time in the kitchen after you’ve botched a number of meals in a row. Remember that Great White song, “Once Bitten, Twice Shy?” I sort of feel like that. I am also so overdue for a haircut that I’m starting to look like the lead singer in that video. This can’t lead anywhere good, I fear, especially because I don’t have a pair of leather chaps to complete the look.

But really, I think my problem is even bigger than that. I think my problem is peanut butter. I lose all motivation when there is a jar of peanut butter around. Given an adequate supply of sandwich bread, I will eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches indefinitely, to the near-complete exclusion of other foods. I might bake something sweet now and then - the occasional cookie or cake, maybe - but otherwise, it’s all peanut butter, all the time. I know this because it’s what my life has been like for approximately a month. I am a sick, sick woman. Now you know.


But Brandon, bless his optimistic heart, apparently believes that I am still capable of redemption, because he staged an intervention last week. He told me, quite simply, that I had to stop buying sandwich bread. I nodded solemnly. Not long after, I successfully made a salad. And yesterday, I made soup, a puréed broccoli soup with a lemony, chive-spiked sour cream to spoon on top. I feel better already. Good enough, even, to foresee another batch in my near future. And after that, I might get my hair cut.

The soup in question is something that I had once intended to include in the book, but I worried that it sounded too boring. I don’t know. Broccoli soup isn’t an easy sell. I had a friend try the recipe, and she loved it - so much so, she reported, that she had to stop herself from eating the lemon-chive sour cream by the spoonful - but still, I was worried. So I yanked it. I moved on. I made other soups, and I sort of forgot about it. But the other day, while leafing through some photographs from a couple of years ago, I found a shot of this soup, and I realized that I missed it. So yesterday, I made it again, and now I don’t know why I ever doubted it. It was delicious.

It’s a pretty quick, simple soup, as these things go. It was inspired by a couple of different recipes: one that I read somewhere for a fairly basic broccoli soup, and one that Brandon found in college, a recipe for a puréed broccoli soup with leek, served with an herbed sour cream. He tells me, incidentally, that it was the first soup he ever puréed. I don’t know how he remembers this kind of stuff. Obviously, the part of my brain that was made to store such things is filled with song lyrics by Great White.

Our joint version starts with some onion and leek and garlic softening in a pot, and then into that goes a decent amount of chopped broccoli, some stock, and the rind from a small piece of Parmesan cheese. It all simmers together for about twenty minutes, during which time you slice some scallions and chives and zest a small lemon. Then you take out a small bowl and stir the scallions and chives and lemon zest into some sour cream, along with a little lemon juice, grated Parmesan, and garlic. By this point, the broccoli should be tender, and the cheese rind should be soft and sticky, and the whole pot should smell fantastic, very savory and fragrant with Parmesan. You pull out the rind, purée the soup, stir in some of the sour cream mixture, and then you serve it with another spoonful of sour cream on top. It’s both mellow and bright, light and rich, soothing in parts and punchy in others, and, I think, ideal lunch material. It’s not peanut butter, but I almost don’t mind.

P.S. I built a little page to list my book signings, and if you haven’t yet seen it, The book comes out next(!) Tuesday(!), and I’ll be at the University Book Store in Seattle that night.

Broccoli Soup with Lemon-Chive Cream

I like this “cream” best when made with sour cream, but I’ve also used plain whole-milk yogurt, and it’s very good that way too. If you do use yogurt, keep in mind that it has less fat than sour cream, so you’ll probably need to add some olive oil to balance the acidity of the lemon. (Or just use less lemon!) I also found that the yogurt-based “cream” needed a pinch of sugar to balance it.

Oh, and should you have some of the sour cream mixture left over, it makes a great dip for potato chips.

For the soup:
1 Tbsp. unsalted butter
1 Tbsp. olive oil
2 medium leeks, white and tender green parts only, sliced
1 small yellow onion, coarsely chopped
3 cloves garlic, coarsely chopped
1 ½ lb. broccoli, both crowns and stems, trimmed and coarsely chopped
5 cups chicken or vegetable stock
1 rind (about 2 inches square) from a piece of Parmesan cheese
¾ tsp. kosher salt, or less if your broth is well salted

For the sour cream:
1 cup sour cream (not low-fat or nonfat)
2 scallions, white and pale green parts only, very thinly sliced
¼ cup minced chives
1 tsp. grated lemon zest
2 Tbsp. fresh lemon juice
½ cup finely grated Parmesan cheese
½ tsp. kosher salt
¼ tsp. pressed or minced garlic

In a small stockpot or Dutch oven, warm the butter and oil over medium heat. Add the leeks and onion, and cook, stirring occasionally, until they have softened and the onion is translucent, about 10 minutes. Add the garlic, and cook for one minute. Add the broccoli, stock, Parmesan rind, and salt, and stir to mix. Bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer, and cook, partially covered, until the broccoli is tender, about 20 minutes.

While the soup cooks, prepare the cream. In a medium bowl, stir together the sour cream, scallions, chives, lemon zest, lemon juice, grated Parmesan, salt, and garlic, mixing until fully combined. Taste, and adjust as necessary.

To finish the soup, remove the Parmesan rind. Using a blender and working in small batches – when puréeing hot liquids, never fill the blender more than one-third full – purée until very smooth. (Alternatively, purée it in the pot with an immersion blender.) Return the soup to the pot, add a few dollops of the cream mixture – I add about 1/3 cup – and stir to incorporate. Taste for seasoning, and adjust as necessary. If needed, rewarm the soup gently over low heat.

Serve the soup with a spoonful or two of the remaining cream on top.

Apple and Butternut Squash Soup

Apple and Butternut Squash Soup

A week in the Bay Area has come and gone, and I’m back in my long black Neo-esque wool coat, lugging groceries home in the Seattle rain, fingers numb in my gloves. But no matter. Though it was delicious to have a full seven days with people I adore in what may well be the best part of this enormous country, nothing could match my contentment last night upon returning to my cold little apartment after midnight, cranking up the heat and a gritty old Rolling Stones album, unpacking my suitcase, putting everything in its place, and folding myself into my poofy white bed. This is how vacation should feel.

But as promised, you, dear reader, get the two-dimensional dregs of my San Francisco stay. From Arizmendi Bakery’s eggy brioche knot flecked with cinnamon and golden raisins to Max’s obscenely huge dark-chocolate-dipped macaroons (approximately one pound each and best if bought at the to-go counter and brought home for quartering and sharing), Dungeness crabs, and the Acme pain au levain and olive bread, it was a delicious week indeed.

And the holidays would be nothing without a few little adventures and last-minute errands for crafty present-related odds and ends, such as 9” red zippers at JoAnn Fabrics, where my very petite cousin Katie found the wall of cheap fake flowers very appealing.


And while a snowy white Christmas is appropriate every now and then, I never object to a Christmas Eve walk at Tennessee Valley and out to the beach with the twins, all of us bundled ever-so-lightly in hooded sweatshirts and scarves.



And as for Christmas morning, there was the requisite wearing of gift bows around our heads, and there were the oddly perfect gag gifts, such as my mother’s legwarmers, carefully selected by Sarah and Jim. After all, every Pilates instructor needs pink-and-gray legwarmers to wear with her high-heeled boots (aptly and unabashedly called “fuck-me heels” in this family).

Best of all, my kitchen reeled in quite a load of gifts, such as a long-awaited pair of poultry shears (no more standing on my tip-toes for knife-handling leverage; no more breaking a sweat!); a sparkling white 9- by 13-inch French porcelain baking dish; Katie, Sarah, and Jim’s The Little Family Cookbook; and an instant-read thermometer. There were also gifts for my geeky brain, such as Women Who Eat and Edward Tufte’s The Visual Display of Quantitative Information. And there were gifts that shocked and awed in the best possible way, such as the twelve-quart stainless-steel All-Clad Multipot picked out for me by my half-brother David and his fiancée.


I’d always thought I’d have to wait for a wedding gift registry to get one of these heavy, gleaming beauties, but I apparently underestimated the generosity of my relatives. This may be the most luscious piece of steel I’ve ever seen. I held it and stroked its every curve and ridge. I’ll be with this pot for the rest of my life, and that’s a long time. Between me and this pot, it’s till death do us part.

So it was only appropriate that I get it down and dirty that very night and put it, naturally, to the old trial by fire. Indeed, my new stockpot was perfect for whipping up the evening’s first course, a double batch of apple and butternut squash soup with curry, cardamom, and mace. It’s a recipe my mother has been making for years, and it’s well-traveled, having led off a very raucous, drink- and dancing-filled French-style Thanksgiving dinner in Paris in 1999. Also in its favor is the fact that it’s very, very simple to make, assuming that you’re not averse to a bit of chopping and have some sort of blending apparatus handy. Smooth and warming with an undertone of curry, it’s just the thing for a San Francisco Christmas dinner, or Seattle winter nights with young Mick Jagger.


Apple and Butternut Squash Soup

If possible, make this soup a day or two ahead; its flavors meld and deepen after a day or so of sitting the fridge.


¼ cup olive oil
1 2-lb butternut squash, peeled, seeded, and cut into 2-inch pieces (about 4 cups)
2 flavorful apples, preferably Gala, peeled, cored, and cut into 2-inch pieces (about 2 cups)
1 large onion, peeled and coarsely chopped (about 1 cup)
¾ tsp curry powder
¾ tsp ground mace
½ tsp ground cardamom
1 cup good-quality apple cider
1 quart chicken stock (vegetable works fine as well)
½ tsp salt
¼ freshly ground pepper, preferably white

Heat oil in a large stockpot over medium-low heat. Add the squash, apples, and onion, and stir to coat with oil.


Sauté uncovered, stirring occasionally, for ten to fifteen minutes, or until onion is transparent.

Stir in the mace, curry, and cardamom, and continue cooking until the onion begins to brown.

Add the cider. Bring the mixture to a boil over medium-high heat, and cook for three minutes. Add the stock, lower the heat to medium-low, and simmer the mixture, partially covered, for another 35 minutes, or until squash is tender.

Working in batches, blend mixture in a food processor or blender until smooth (be careful to not overfill, as hot liquid could expand when machine is switched on, making a huge, burning-hot mess). Return soup to the stockpot. Reduce the soup, uncovered, over medium-low heat, to about one-fourth. Stir occasionally. Stir in salt and pepper, and serve hot.

Boiled Kale with a Fried Egg and Toast

Boiled Kale with a Fried Egg and Toast

I never thought I would say these words, but I like boiled kale. Kind of a lot.

This may not be the most exciting confession I have ever made, but please bear with me. Or, at least, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Boiled kale, I mean. I don’t usually like boiled anything - except, of course, pasta - but boiled kale, yes. It’s the wool sock of winter vegetables: warming, soothing, completely unglamorous, as cozy as a bunch of green leaves can be. If I could climb into a bowl of anything right now, I think I would choose kale. That’s the ultimate measure, you know, of a cool-weather food: would you want to lie down in a vat of it? Creamy polenta is a top contender, as is rice pudding, but, for me, for now, boiled kale is the winner. It’s soft; it’s silky; and if your shoulders get cold, you can grab a few slivered leaves and drape them over you like a shawl.


I always eat a lot of kale during the colder months, but boiling it is new to me. Usually, I toss it in a hot skillet with some butter or olive oil, knock it around for a couple of minutes, just until it turns bright green, and then drizzle it with lemon juice and turn it out onto a plate. Or I braise it with some chickpeas, like this. I had never even thought to boil it until a little over a year ago, I think it was, on a trip to San Francisco, when we had lunch at Zuni Café. Every time I go there, I seem to come away inspired somehow, and this lunch was no exception. I was in the mood for something healthy that day, and as I read down the menu, the first item to catch my eye was cavolo nero, or Tuscan kale, boiled and served on toast with a fried egg. Oh, I know. Listen, I know. It’s criminal to pass up the famous Zuni hamburger. But I couldn’t help it. I ordered the humble kale, and I am not sorry.

In fact, what the waiter set down in front of me a few minutes later was the closest I have ever come, in a restaurant, to my ideal lunch. It was a wide soup bowl - the type my mother calls a cream soup bowl - and in it was a beautifully sloppy pile of kale, stewed into tenderness in a clear, fragrant broth. Beneath the kale was a generous slice of country bread, happily soaking up the aforementioned broth, and atop it all sat a fried egg, waiting to loose its yolk onto the greens below. It wasn’t rocket science, but it was everything I love about Zuni Café: unpretentious, perfectly pitched, and utterly ballsy in its plainness. The best part was, of course, that it was delicious. The kale was sweet and earthy, the egg mellow and rich, and the bread soft, comforting, pleasantly sogged.


So, this past week, the week when I pulled my wool jacket out of the closet and put on my new wrist worms, I decided to boil some kale. Or, rather, I asked Brandon to do it while I did a load of laundry and cleaned the bathroom. I think he got the better end of the deal. But it doesn’t really matter, because 45 minutes later, I got some kale either way - and on toast, to boot, with an olive oil-fried egg, my favorite kind. And though I know I’ve been complaining about fall lately, I have to admit, I was happy to see kale again. I almost couldn’t believe it - especially since I got so tired of the stuff last winter - but I really was happy. Isn’t it great how that works? It’s kind of magical, to tell you the truth, like some sort of benevolent strain of amnesia. Hello, kale. It’s nice to know you again. For now.

Boiled Kale with a Fried Egg and Toast
Adapted from The Zuni Café Cookbook

I like to use cavolo nero - also sold as Tuscan kale, lacinato kale, or dinosaur kale - for this, but you could also use curly kale. And while you could use just water for this, I prefer to make it with chicken stock, preferably homemade.

Here’s a good, quick chicken stock: take 2 pounds of chicken parts (I like legs, or a mix of legs and wings) and dump them into a large saucepan with the following: 3 sprigs of fresh thyme; 1 small carrot, cut into a few pieces; 1 celery stalk, cut into a few pieces; and half of a yellow onion. Add 2 quarts of water. Bring to a simmer, and cook gently for 45 minutes, skimming away any foam that rises to the surface. Salt to taste. Strain through a colander to remove large solids; then strain again through cheesecloth. It’s ready to go.

About 8 ounces kale
5 Tbsp. olive oil
1 medium yellow onion, diced
A pinch of dried red pepper flakes
2 large garlic cloves, thinly sliced
3 to 4 cups mild chicken stock, or water, or a combination of the two

To serve:
Thick slices of country bread
Eggs
Olive oil
Prosciutto, torn into bite-sized bits (optional)
Parmigiano Reggiano or Pecorino Romano


First, prepare the kale: trim away any discolored spots, and then remove and discard the ribs and stems, if they are thick or woody. Stack a few leaves at a time; then slice them into ¼-inch-thick ribbons. Dump the sliced kale into a salad spinner, and add plenty of cold water. Swish the kale around to free any trapped dirt. Let stand for a minute or two – this lets the dirt fall to the bottom – and then lift the basket from the spinner. Pour out the dirty water. Replace the basket, add fresh water, and repeat. Spin dry.

In a large (4-quart) saucepan, warm the oil over medium-low heat. Add the onions, and cook, stirring occasionally, until they are translucent but still firm. Add the red pepper flakes and garlic and the kale, and stir until the kale is fully wilted. Add stock to cover by about ½ inch. Bring to a simmer. Cover, and continue to simmer until the kale is tender but not mushy, about 30 minutes. Taste, and salt as needed. This dish needs quite a bit of salt, so don’t be shy.

To serve, toast one slice of bread per person. While still hot, lightly rub both sides of the toast with raw garlic. Place the toast in the bottom of a wide soup bowl. Now, fry some eggs – one per person, probably – in olive oil. Pile some kale onto the toast in each bowl, drizzle with a little bit of olive oil, and top with a fried egg. Strew with prosciutto, if you want. Grate some cheese over the whole thing, and serve.

Yield: about 4 servings

Asparagus Vinaigrette

Asparagus Vinaigrette

A safe bet

I thought it was over. I really did. After the disappointment of that coconut pie, it would have only been fair. With all the work that thing took – not to mention the woe that came with eating it – I figured I’d more than filled my monthly quota of culinary downers. Unfortunately, I was wrong. It was only the start of what turned out to be a very, very sub-par week. I don’t usually like to air my dirty kitchen laundry around here, but it’s piling up so high and fast that I’ve got nowhere else to put it. It would be comical, if only it weren’t quite so sad. I can hardly even muster the energy to write about it in complete sentences. Witness:

Monday: Made lunch for two friends, one being the co-owner of a favorite local restaurant. Failed to properly puree the carrot soup, leaving it oddly lumpy, like a vegetal oatmeal, and overbaked the lemon cake. Cringed while my companions dutifully ate.

Tuesday: Gave leftovers of aforementioned lemon cake to Brandon for breakfast. Nearly choked him with a dried-out crumb. Had a friend to dinner. Made a rhubarb clafoutis with the texture and appearance of a kitchen sponge. Ate it anyway.

Wednesday: Sought refuge in dinner out with a girlfriend. Got a little weepy.

Thursday: Tried again with my comrades from Monday’s lunch, this time at the restaurant. Had a delicious meal, along with, unfortunately, a glass of prosecco, two types of red wine, and three varieties of dessert wine. Closed the restaurant, danced to Blondie and the Rolling Stones, ate ice cubes in a futile attempt to sober up. Began to suffer.

Friday: Hung over. Managed, with some bad curly endive and Brandon’s help, to make a truly awful salad, something I had previously thought impossible. For dessert, tried a madeleine recipe from a favorite cookbook. Nothing special. Not even worth eating. Let the leftovers sit on the counter and go stale.

Saturday: Went to dinner at the home of a friend. Distracted her so thoroughly with my chatter that her Persian rice, with its many types of expensive fresh herbs, wound up irreparably scorched.

Sunday: Tried a recipe for milk chocolate brownies from a recent issue of Gourmet. Hovered excitedly over the oven, only to find them completely mediocre. Worse than boxed brownie mix, tasting neither of chocolate nor, really, of anything else. Ate two, because I was desperate. Set the rest out for the trash collectors.

See what I mean? So sub-par, and so sad. By the middle of the week, I was sufficiently wigged out that I made Brandon look up the lunar calendar. I was desperate. I’ve never bought into the folklore about full moons – that they bring insanity and crime and disasters and what not – but after last week, I’m not so sure. Monday, it turns out, was a full moon. It would be awfully nice if that explained all this. That way, in the future, at least, I might know when to stay away from the kitchen, if not food as a general category.

But anyway, all this is not to say that there weren’t at least a couple of decent moments in the last seven days. I don’t mean to be a total downer. There were some high points, in fact, and both of them involved asparagus.



This is yet another of those situations when I worry that I’m giving you a recipe that’s entirely too simple and old-hat, but seeing as I love it – and given that it was one of the few good things I got my teeth around last week – I’m going to do it anyway. The inspiration for this dish comes from a classic French preparation: poireaux vinaigrette, an elegant salad-of-sorts composed of cooked leeks and a mustardy dressing, smattered with a hard-boiled egg chopped fine as snow. It’s a dish I first learned from my host mother in Paris, and one that’s made a home on my table in the many years since. Sometimes, in the spring, I like to trade the leeks for asparagus – the fat spears, preferably, blanched to emerald green. That’s what we did this week, in fact, and it was so good that we ate it twice.

To best complement the asparagus, we mixed things up a little, trading my usual dressing for a lemon vinaigrette with a dab of garlic. The key is to serve it all with the spears still warm, when their flavor is mellow and sweet and their flesh still porous to the citrus and oil. It’s the perfect way to send up spring’s newest crop – casual, unfussy, and clean-the-plate good, and with its longtime comrade, the lemon. It’s what we’ll be eating for the next little while around here. Because, you know, no matter what, it’s a safe bet.

___


I hope this will keep your bellies full for a while, friends, because I’m leaving town for a few weeks. (It has nothing to do with escaping the disasters of last week, I swear. It was in the works long before then.) First, on Wednesday, I’m headed to the IACP conference in Chicago. Then, on Sunday, I’ll catch a plane to Paris with my mom for a pre-wedding mother-daughter bonanza, wherein we eat loads of chocolate and chaussons aux pommes and pâté and cheese, walk until our feet are sore, sit in cafés, visit old friends, say hello to David and Clotilde, and more generally spend some time ensemble before I become a Mrs. in July. I’m so excited, I can hardly sit still.

I’ll be back in three weeks. Until then, I hope you’ll content yourselves with asparagus. It’s not much, but it’s the best I could do.

Asparagus vinaigrette

This dish can be as simple or as frilly as you want it to be. I’ve called below for a hard-boiled egg and lemon zest as garnish, but just as often, we eat it without. In fact, we’re usually pretty low-key about it, eating the asparagus plain, with our fingers, and dipping it in the vinaigrette as we go. Whatever you do, be sure to choose asparagus with plump, firm spears. I like to use somewhat fat ones here, but any will work, so long as they’re flavorful and in season. To prepare them for cooking, trim or snap off their woody ends, and give the spears a quick rinse in cool water.

As for the hard-boiled egg, I have a new favorite method to share. (I can’t remember where I learned it, though - somewhere on the Internet - so if it’s yours, please accept my apologies.) I put the egg in a small saucepan, covered it with cold water, and brought it to a boil over medium-high heat. When it began to boil, I pulled it off the burner, covered it, and let it sit for 12 minutes. Then I rinsed it in plenty of cold water. The white was tender and the yolk bright yellow, with not one single nasty bit of gray in sight.

1 bunch asparagus
Salt
2 Tbsp. lemon juice
1 Tbsp. white wine or champagne vinegar
1 Tbsp. Dijon mustard
½ tsp. fine sea salt
5 Tbsp. olive oil
Scant 1/8 tsp. pressed garlic
1 hard-boiled egg, finely chopped (optional)
Zest of half a lemon (optional)

Fill a 12-inch skillet with water to a depth of about 1 inch. Add a good dose of salt, and bring the pan to a boil over high heat. Add the asparagus, spreading them out in a single layer, and cook just until they turn bright green and yield to the tooth, about 1 ½ to 2 minutes. Drain into a colander, and briefly run cool water over the asparagus to stop them from cooking. They should still be warm. Dry them gently on a paper towel, and transfer them to a serving platter. Set aside.

In a small bowl or jar, whisk together the lemon juice, vinegar, mustard, and salt. Add the oil, and whisk well to emulsify. Taste, and if necessary, add a bit more oil. Depending on the flavor of the oil and vinegar you use, you might need a teaspoon or so more oil. Add the garlic, and whisk to combine.

To serve, drizzle the vinaigrette over the asparagus, and top, if you like, with hard-boiled egg. If you choose to use the lemon zest, sprinkle a couple of pinches on top. Alternatively, serve the asparagus plain, with the vinaigrette and other optional toppings on the side, so each eater can dress it to their liking.

Yield: 4 side-dish or starter-size servings, or 2, if you’re us

Asparagus Flan

Asparagus Flan

There, I said it: four little letters, a word that once furrowed my brow and spelled a long, sharp shiver down my spine. Most kids love to try a new four-letter word, but in this mouth, f-l-a-n was far too foul.
It was, as most important things are, a textural issue. For the better part of my childhood and adolescence, I lived by a simple mandate: nothing that jiggles shall cross the threshold of my jaw. Yogurt would be smooth and well stirred. Aspics, custards, and crèmes brûlée and caramel would be kept well out of sight. Jell-O would forever remain boxed and safe, in a powdery, potential state. There would be no squirting or squelching between the teeth; no skidding, slipping or sliding on the tongue. Such were the rules: hard and fast, and anti-flan.
 
But sometime around age seventeen, I was tricked, seduced, and brought under the sway of custard’s French cousin, the pot de crème. It hid in broad daylight on a dessert menu, three simple words conjuring up something cold and creamy, maybe—even ice-creamy, I imagined. I was young and pleasantly naïve, and I never saw it coming: this wolf in custard’s clothing, this sweet-faced thing promising a so-called pot of cream. When it arrived, I grimaced at its smooth, taut, shiny surface, but one vanilla bean-flecked bite later, I succumbed, licking the spoon and scraping the ramekin clean. For as hard and fast as I had set the rules, they fell with surprisingly little fanfare. I’d been confusing gelatin with a good, creamy custard—a terrible wrong that I’ve since worked hard to right.

I still like my yogurt stirred to smooth, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let a little jiggle get in the way of dessert—or dinner. Sweet custards and pots of cream are fine, but a recent foray into my collection of recipe clippings yielded something savory instead, and every bit as seductive: an asparagus flan.

Under most circumstances, I am strictly of the belief that fresh, springtime asparagus needs no embellishments—simple roasting is just right—but this case is an exception. Steamed to bright green and puréed to velvet, baked with milk, eggs, and little more, asparagus gets dressed up, but it somehow tastes simple, intense, even more like itself: clean, delicate, and verdant. It melts seamlessly into a light custard, morphing into a smooth, silky thing that slices under the knife like softened butter, all glide and no jiggle.

It goes down easy enough for a sweet shiver and a sigh, easy enough to step up—if only while the season lasts—as my favorite four-letter word.
Asparagus FlanAccording to the original recipe, this Italian-inspired flan is to be served with a rich, creamy Fontina sauce. I found, however, that so much cheese quickly overshadowed the flavor of the asparagus—a near-perfect thing that, quite frankly, shouldn’t be messed with. I prefer this flan sans sauce, served as a light lunch with, say, a pile of roasted fennel and potatoes. If you can find decent Roma tomatoes—in season or not—and slow-roast them, they would also be a perfect, sweet-tart side. This flan would also be an elegant accompaniment to a festive springtime supper of roasted lamb or chicken, or a few slices of grilled flank steak.

2 pounds fresh asparagus
4 large eggs
1 1/3 cups whole milk
2 Tbs freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano
1 ¼ tsp salt
A pinch or two of freshly ground black pepper
A pinch or two of freshly grated nutmeg

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit, and set a rack to the middle position. Butter an 8” x 2” round cake pan, line the bottom of the pan with wax paper, and butter the paper.

Prepare the equipment for the hot water bath. You will need a baking dish large enough to hold the cake pan and deep enough to safely hold at least an inch of water; I used a 10” by 15” Pyrex pan. Place a cooling rack or folded dish towel in the bottom of the baking dish; this will keep the cake pan from touching the hot pan underneath it and further protect the flan from direct heat. Fill a large pot with water, and bring it to a boil: this water will be used in the water bath.

Place a steamer basket in the bottom of a Dutch oven, and fill the pan with water to about ½” deep. Bring the water to a boil while you snap the woody ends from the asparagus and gently rinse the stalks. Place the asparagus in the steamer basket, and steam it, covered, until the stalks are bright green and very tender, about 6-8 minutes. Transfer half of the asparagus to the bowl of a food processor, and process to make a smooth purée. Scrape the purée into a large sieve set over a bowl, and then repeat with the remaining asparagus. Using a rubber spatula, press and stir the purée through the sieve into the bowl. This takes a bit of time, but it is well worth it: when you are finished, you will have a small, thick mass of woody bits and fibrous asparagus skins in the sieve, and about 1 ¾ to 2 cups of very smooth purée in the bowl. Discard the contents of the sieve, and set the purée aside.

In a large bowl, whisk the eggs to break them up. Add the milk, cheese, salt, pepper, and nutmeg, whisking to blend. Add the asparagus purée, and whisk to thoroughly combine.

Pour the asparagus mixture into the prepared cake pan. Place the cake pan on top of the rack or towel in the larger pan. Gently slide the pans into the oven, and, taking care not to splash, pour the boiling water into the larger pan until it comes about halfway up the cake pan. Bake until the flan is set and beginning to pull away from the sides and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, 50 minutes to 1 hour. Transfer the cake pan to a rack to cool slightly, about 10-15 minutes.

Run a thin knife around the edge of the flan to loosen it. Invert a serving plate over the pan, and invert the pan onto the plate. Remove the pan, and discard the wax paper. Cut the flan into wedges, and serve.

Yield: 6-8 servings

Celery Root and Potato Puree – How can a vegetable this ugly taste so good?

Celery Root and Potato Puree – How can a vegetable this ugly taste so good?

 In today’s clip you’ll see a delicious low-carb way to trick out your standard mashed potatoes. By using half celery root, we’ll not only save a bunch of carbs, but more importantly we’ll create something very delicious and unique.

Celery root, also known as Celeriac, is not the root of the common celery plant that you used to garnish your last Bloody Mary, but a special variety cultivated for it extra large and flavorful taproot.

We served this with the Braised Short Ribs and it was sublime! Because of its subtle aromatic character this is the perfect partner to any rich meat dish.

This is one of those vegetable that you didn’t even know they had at your super market… but they do! It’s
over by the turnips and rutabagas. They do very in size, but try to make the proportions in this dish about 50% potato to 50% celery root. The small splash of cream I added is optional of course, but the butter
is a must!

You know that I’m always telling you to use high-quality whole spices when possible, and the fresh nutmeg I grate on top of this earthy blend really makes the dish. Get some whole nutmeg, and a spice grinder, and
see what the big deal is all about.

Ingredients:

1 large celery root
2 russet potatoes
1/4 cup butter
1/4 cup cream or milk
fresh nutmeg
salt and pepper to taste

Spicy Chicken Thai Soup – Exploring the boundaries between culinary pleasure and pain

Spicy Chicken Thai Soup – Exploring the boundaries between culinary pleasure and pain

I
almost called this “Cream of Endorphin-releasing” soup, but it didn’t
quite have the same ring to it. Endorphins are those mysterious
pain-relieving, pleasure-giving chemicals released by your brain when
the body comes under some type of trauma. While intended as a support
mechanism when the body is seriously injured, two groups of people have
figured out how to intentionally induce the release of these precious
substances; athletes and spicy-food aficionados (actually there is a
third group that we really can’t discuss here). The “natural high” that
you hear athletes talk about is a result of these endorphins. Today’s
clip is in honor of the second group.
Most
fans of spicy foods know exactly what I’m talking about, that post-meal
euphoria that makes it worth every tear and bead of sweat. If you’ve
never experienced these feelings, today’s recipe is a great one for you
to try. By controlling the amount of red curry paste you add, you can
tailor this to your own threshold of pain. I used 2 full teaspoons of
this explosive paste. But, you can start slow, and add a bit more each
time you make it until you reach that perfect, beautiful, burning bliss.
The
only exotic ingredient would be the fresh lemongrass. I’ve found most
large grocery stores do carry it, but if not, you can substitute a few
tablespoons of lemon zest, or even some lemon verbena.

IIngredients:
2 1/2 pounds boneless skinless chicken thighs (about 10)
12 oz white mushrooms
1 red onion
3 tbl fish sauce
1/2 bunch cilantro
2 limes
2 14-oz cans coconut milk
2 tsp red curry paste (you’ve been warned)
4 clove garlic
4 inch piece ginger
3 stalks lemongrass (or lemon zest)
1 tbl vegetable oil

1 quart chicken stock

note: traditionally this soup is served with a side plate of sliced jalapenos, cilantro leaves, and lime wedges

Roasted Apple and Parsnip Soup – A Creamy Lesson in Seasoning

Roasted Apple and Parsnip Soup – A Creamy Lesson in Seasoning

 Besides being a delicious and comforting winter meal, this
roasted apple and parsnip soup is great for honing your seasoning skills. With
its mild, earthy, slightly sweet, gently aromatic flavor, it’s the perfect
vehicle for tasting the effects of salt on food.

As I mentioned in the video, most “bad” soups are the result
of under-seasoning. Nothing makes me sadder than reading an online recipe
review, where someone is complaining that a soup recipe was too bland. Hey,
Captain “Two Stars,” did ya' ever think about putting a little more salt in?

When you make this, salt the vegetables when you roast them,
but then wait until the soup is done before adding any more. Once the soup is finished, and you’ve
achieved your desired texture, then taste and add salt, a pinch at a time. As
you do, take a minute in between samples, along with a sip of water, and you’ll
really notice how small additions of salt amplify the flavors. Continue until
it sings.

Speaking of seasoning, one reason I chose blue cheese
croutons for the garnish was their sharp, salty finish, and it was a beautiful
combination. I look forward to showing you how to make those in the next video.
Stay tuned for that, and in the meantime, I hope you give this delicious
roasted apple and parsnip soup try soon.
Enjoy!

Ingredients for 6 Portions:

2 lbs parsnips, peeled, cut into 1/2-inch sticks

2 green apples, peeled, cut in thick slices

Note: a diced yellow onion could be added to the roasted
vegetables. I didn’t want this too sweet, so I tried without one, and it was amazing, but I'll
try the next batch with that addition.

2 tbsp olive oil

salt to taste

1 russet potato, peeled, cut in 8 pieces

6 cups chicken broth (or combo with water)

1/2 cup heavy cream

pinch of cayenne

- Garnish with croutons, crumbled blue cheese, and chives

Creamy Potato Salad With Bacon

Creamy Potato Salad With Bacon

preparation 20 minutes

cooking 30 minutes 

Serves 8

Ingredients

3 pounds small red new potatoes (about 24)

kosher salt and black pepper

8 slices bacon

1/2 cup mayonnaise

1/4 cup sour cream

3 tablespoons white wine vinegar

4 stalks celery, thinly sliced

1/2 cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley

1/4 cup chopped fresh tarragon

Directions

1. Place the potatoes in a large pot. Add enough cold water to cover and bring to a boil. Add 1 teaspoon salt, reduce heat, and simmer until tender, 15 to 18 minutes. Drain and run under cold water to cool. Cut into quarters.
2. Meanwhile, cook the bacon in a large skillet over medium heat until crisp, 6 to 8 minutes. Transfer to a paper towel-lined plate. Let cool, then break into pieces.
3. In a large bowl, whisk together the mayonnaise, sour cream, vinegar, ¾ teaspoon salt, and ½ teaspoon pepper. Add the potatoes and celery and toss to coat. Fold in the parsley, tarragon, and bacon before serving.

Nutritional Information

• Per Serving
• Calories 269

• Fat 15 g
• Sat Fat 3 g
• Cholesterol 16 mg
• Sodium 473 mg
• Protein 6 g
• Carbohydrate 29 g
• Sugar 2 g
• Fiber 3 g
• Iron 2 mg
• Calcium 41 mg

Whiskey Sour

Whiskey Sour

Description

This whisky sour uses a fresh tasting sour mix and egg whites to produce a frothy, refreshing drink.

Ingredients

2 ozs whiskey
4 ozs sour mix
1 oz egg white

Details

Prep Time: 5 Minutes
Servings: 1 Cocktail

Instructions

Pour the whiskey, sour mix, and egg white into a cocktail shaker and shake vigorously
Pour into a whiskey glass with ice
Making the Sour
Good homemade sour mix is easy to make, just use a two to one to one ratio of water, sugar, and lemon juice

Notes

A trick we use to make these an everyday drink is to keep a carton of the egg whites you can buy in the grocery store on hand, which is a lot easier than trying to separate an egg for every couple of drinks.  The store bought egg whites also last longer.

Apple Cider Soaked Pork Shoulder

Apple Cider Soaked Pork Shoulder

Description

Using apple cider vinegar as a brine deepens the flavor of the pork while helping to create an amazingly tender pork shoulder.

Instructions

Create a dry rub by mincing the garlic cloves and mixing them with the smoked paprika, granulated onion, brown sugar, Ancho chili powder, cumin, salt, and pepper.  In a small bowl mix the apple cider vinegar, lemon juice, and lime juice together.
Spread the dry rub across the pork shoulder, making sure to get the rub everywhere.  Let the shoulder sit for a few minutes before putting the pork into a pan or large plastic bag.  Gently pour the vinegar mixture over the meat, moving it around to get it everywhere, without washing off the dry rub.  Let the pork soak in the cider mixture for 40 to 50 minutes, depending on how much you want the vinegar flavor to come through.
The pork shoulder is best cooked in a smoker at around 200 to 220 degrees for five to six hours.  It can be done quicker at a higher temperature or in an oven, but the texture won't be as good.

Ingredients

4 pound pork shoulder
1/4 cup apple cider vinegar
2 tbsps lemon juice
2 tbsps lime juice
3 garlic cloves
1 tsp smoked paprika
1/2 tsp granulated onion
2 tbsps brown sugar
1/2 tsp Ancho chili powder
1/2 tsp cumin
1 tsp salt
1 tsp pepper

Details

Prep Time: 1 hour
Cooking Time: 5 to 6 hours
Servings: 6 to 8 servings

Education: TYPES OF CURRICULUM

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Education: TYPES OF CURRICULUM: TYPES OF CURRICULUM There are many types of curriculum design, but here we will discuss only the few. Types or patterns are being f...

Beet and Goat Cheese Salad

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