I’m back, in the nick of time, with one last side dish to grace your Thanksgiving table (because really, can you ever have enough sides?) By now, you’re probably squared away with your stuffing, your Turkey, and those pies. So here’s an idea for what to do with all those sweet potatoes. I wouldn’t call it a traditional dish, but it’s certainly a play on tradition.

I’ve always loved twice-baked potatoes, with their crisp skin and just enough potato inside to cushion the cheesy filling. So why not twice-bake sweet potatoes? Yes, their flesh is less starchy, and their skins are harder to crisp up. But when you succeed — and you will succeed – you will reap the rewards of hot, sweet, crunchy, soft, sweet ‘taters like you’ve never had’em before.

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We spent this morning at a birthday brunch for our friend Matt. I’ve dubbed his wife “the hostess with the mostess plus,” because she’s simply the best hostess around. She welcoms friends and strangers alike into their home, and makes everyone feel like family. She and Matt even open their home to the community, year after year. But at the heart of the matter, “the hostess with the mostess plus” knows how to throw a party. When she received her doctorate, she threw a soiree that involved a live jazz ensemble, a chocolate fountain, and crepes to order, made by her late father, whom we all miss very much.

I was asked to bring an egg dish, which usually means a frittata. But when you go to brunch at the home of the hostess with the mostess plus, you best bring something real nice. So I went all fancy on you: I tucked my frittata recipe into mini-muffin cups. Whoa! Stop the presses.

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This past week, we had the first day of what actually felt like fall in DC. Went for a run through Rock Creek Park with a friend, and barely broke a sweat, the air was so crisp. Walked out of the house in a sweater, and boots, and a scarf. All three! At once! We’ll pretend this week wasn’t 80 degrees and humid: Fall has fallen.

Apples have exploded at the farmers’ markets, and everyone’s talking about pie. But I still haven’t finished the last of my peach and nectarine store, and admittedly, I’m savoring them. I’m not quite ready to say goodbye. But I’ll split the difference: I’m ready, very very ready, for concord grapes.

In years past, puzzlingly enough, I’ve watched the two fleeting weeks of grape season pass me by. The fruit seemed prohibitively expensive, and I’ve worried that if I forked over the cash and bought them, I wouldn’t be able to figure out a way to use them that’d rationalize the expense in my mind. It’s all very psychological (and kind of ridiculous), but this year, I’ve come to my senses. Grapes were $5/quart at my local market, so I bought them, ate a bunch on the way home from the market, and baked the rest into this fantastic focaccia.

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Initially posted on The Jew and the Carrot: www.jcarrot.org.

Walk into any Jewish household on a Friday night, and you’ll have an instant window into that family’s food legacy. The Syrian table is piled high with ka’aks, zucchinis and eggplants stuffed with lamb and beef, beautiful molded rice with blanched almonds, and my favorite, lahmacun, those wonderful flatbreads topped with tamarind-and-tomato drenched ground meat. The Eastern Europeans have lokshen and cabbage, noodle kugel, gefilte fish, and of course, cholent. But come over to my house, and you might be confused: we’ll start with, say, a Moroccan soup called harira. The pièce de résistance, if I’m lucky, is huachinango a la Veracruzana, my favorite preparation of red snapper in a Mexican tomato sauce with onions, olives, currants, hot peppers, and cinnamon. A side of the Indian eggplant curry baingan bartha might round out the meal, and for dessert, my mother’s homemade chocolate croissants. If you’re following along, that makes one American Jew, born and raised in Washington, DC, with relatives from across Eastern Europe, who, along with her mother, is building a cooking legacy on Indian curry, Mexican fish, Moroccan soup, and French pastry.

I don’t come from a strong cooking tradition. It’s possible my great grandmothers slaved over some top-notch borscht, or — in the case of the piece of my family that’s been in the US for seven generations — some excellent apple pie. But I wouldn’t know. My grandmother, who grew up in Chicago, didn’t cook much at all. My Bubby, who grew up in New York and has spent most of her life in Richmond, VA, used to make an excellent Thanksgiving dinner, but her cooking didn’t have a particular perspective or core list of key ingredients.

Color me jealous: I’ve always wanted to come from one of those families with a strong culinary tradition. I’ve longed for native staples – the sorts of ingredients you always have on hand in multiple forms and in massive quantities, that find their way into everything: the Italians’ olive oil and tomatoes; the Indians’ garlic, ginger, and chilies; and so on.

So we weren’t bequeathed a strong culinary heritage by our relatives or our culture; that hasn’t stopped us from building our own. My mother has spent years accruing knowledge of different cultures’ cuisines, acquiring a taste for spice, learning to achieve that balance of spicy, sour, salty, and sweet that makes food — of any origin — great. And ever since I learned to cook, I’ve been trying to follow in her footsteps. Yes, we’re creating our own culinary legacy. Our legacy uses lemon in copious quantities; it doesn’t skimp on the chile; it favors things with pools of zesty tomato-based sauces to be sopped up with good bread; and it always includes something sweet to finish things off.

But there’s more. We love olives, capers, and anchovies, individually or all together in a tapenade that’d make a cook in Provence swoon. And we love Indian flavors; we’ve spent many a meal tasting curries two, three, four times in a row, to decipher their ingredients one by one. As I served an Indian-spiced chilled mango soup to my guests on Friday night — its pale orange surface flecked with black mustard seeds and buoying a dollop of spicy green chutney — I felt connected to a cooking heritage. The people may not be my own people, but the legacy of Indian cooking — the boldness with flavors, the embrace of real, sweat-inducing spice, the mixing of hot and cold together in the same dish — is one I have come to love, and to take as my own. Not being born into a strong cooking tradition may be a blessing in disguise, after all.

Gujarati Mango Soup with Green Chutney
Adapted from a recipe in Amanda Hesser’s The New York Times Essential Cookbook

After initially making this soup, I was concerned it would be cloying, even in small doses. I’d added some lime juice, but it still tasted quite sweet. On a whim, I made this green chutney (below), and its fresh, green heat complements the soup perfectly.

2 tablespoons chickpea flour
1/8 teaspoon ground turmeric
3/4 teaspoon ground cumin
3/4 teaspoon ground coriander
1/2 cup plain whole milk yogurt (Greek is best)
3 cups canned mango pulp or mashed fresh mango pulp (1 mango yields between 3/4 and 1 cup of pulp)
1 1/4 teaspoons salt
1/2 teaspoon sugar (may need more if using fresh mangos)
1 jalapeno pepper, chopped (I used all the seeds. If you prefer less spice, omit seeds and membrane)
2 tablespoons peanut or corn oil
Generous pinch ground asafoetida
1/2 teaspoon whole brown mustard seeds
1/2 teaspoon whole cumin seeds
2 whole hot dried red chilies
1/8 teaspoon whole fenugreek seeds
10 fresh curry leaves (optional)
Juice of 1 lime

Put the chickpea flour, turmeric, and ground cumin in a bowl. Fill a measuring cup with 1/2 cup of water, and add a couple tablespoons to the flour mixture, stirring carefully until the flour is a smooth paste with no clumps.

Add more water very slowly, ensuring an even consistency as you stir.

Once enough water has been added that the chickpea flour has been fully incorporated into the liquid with no lumps, add the rest of the water and stir to combine. Whisk in yogurt, mango, and 2 more cups water. Add salt, sugar, and fresh chilies. Mix well.

Put oil in a heavy-bottomed medium pot over medium heat. When oil is very hot, add the asafoetida, and then — in quick succession — the mustard seeds, cumin seeds, dried chilies, fenugreek seeds, and curry leaves (if using). Have a splatter screen on hand: the mustard seeds will pop almost immediately after being added.

As soon as you have added the above ingredients, remove from heat and add mango mixture. Stir to combine, return to medium heat, and simmer for 5 minutes, stirring. Then remove from heat, cover, and allow to steep for 30 minutes.

At this point, you can either reheat the soup to serve warm, or do as I did, and refrigerate it to be served cold. Either way, strain the soup through a coarse sieve, then spoon some of the smaller seeds from the strainer back into the soup. Immediately before serving, stir the lime juice into the soup.

Serve soup in small bowls, with a spoonful of the chutney in each.

Spicy Green Chutney
Adapted from a recipe by Madhur Jaffrey

2 tablespoons lemon or lime juice (lime is preferable)
1 small tomato, diced
3/4 teaspoon salt
3 fresh hot green chilies, such as bird’s eye or jalapeno (can start with 2 and add to taste)
2/3 cup fresh chopped cilantro
1/3 cup fresh chopped mint
1/2 cup grated coconut, fresh or frozen and defrosted

This chutney can be made rustic in a mortar and pestle, or smooth in a blender.

Combine 3 tablespoons water, lime juice, tomatoes, salt, and chilies. Mash or blend until combined or smooth.

Add cilantro and mint; mash together or blend until smooth.

Finally, add coconut and blend or mix more, until chutney is fully mixed or completely smooth. Serve cold.

Chutney will keep in the refrigerator for a few days, but will keep for months in the freezer.

Many of the ingredients in each of these recipes are available online at Kalustyans.com.

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I may seem delicate, with my ginger-infused biscuits and meyer lemon streusel muffins, and you know what? Maybe I am. But boy, do I love a good chicken wing. Whether battered and fried or sauced and crisped, great wings have become something of an interest. The crunchy skin and juicy meat, the sheer mess of it all, allures me.

I make wings on the rarest of occasions, so I get quite picky about which recipes to try. Last time, I made David Chang’s Momofuku wings. They might have been the best chicken wings I’ve ever made. But they also were the most work-intensive wings I’ve ever made, requiring all manner of pots and pans and way too much time. Frankly, they were too complex to post.

Back to the drawing board I went, in search of savory, juicy, flavorful wings without so much effort. I found one from none other than Cathy Barrow, aka Mrs. Wheelbarrow, a core member and anchor of the DC Food52 crowd and one of my favorite new friends. Cathy has a fantastic blog, and is also at the helm of Charcutepalooza, a yearlong charcuterie-making project. Needless to say, she’s a force.

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Behold the strangeness of za’atar.

Za’atar is an herb. Sorry – it’s not a specific herb, but one of any number of herbs in the hyssop family. Scratch that: it’s a combination of herbs. But wait, sometimes there are sesame seeds. Actually, it’s a paste made with some type or type of herbs, sesame seeds, and lots of olive oil.

Confused? Join the club.

In reality, za’atar is all of these things. There is a bush that grows in the deserts of Israel known as za’atar. The bush is most likely a member of the hyssop family, though some call it savory or wild oregano. Za’atar leaves are small and somewhat rough, and their flavor is a fusion of wild oregano and thyme. 

The za’atar you buy in the supermarket is most likely a blend of different herbs. According to Lior Lev Sercarz, owner and spice blender behind the New York-based spice shop La Boîte à Epice, the most traditional elements of a za’atar blend are za’atar leaves, sumac, sesame seeds, and thyme. The color of these blends varies
from forest green to dark, deep red-brown, and the flavor ranges from woodsy and deep to tangy and a bit nutty. It all depends on the balance of herbs in the blend, and every country — nay, every spice blender — makes it a bit differently.

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Yes, yes, yes. I love pickles. Pickle anything, and I’ll eat it. Cucumbers. Tomatoes. Green beans. Grapes. Cherries. Watermelon rind. Cauliflower. Beets. Eggplant. Are you bored yet? I could keep going.

If you ask my fiancee how she feels about pickles, she’ll tell you she’s crazy for the sweet bread-and-butter variety, that she slaps ‘em on every burger or dog she eats. She’ll also tell you that I’ve gone mad, and that our house is turning into one big canning jar. Really. And you know what? She’s kind of right. I have gone a bit nuts. We’ve got five quarts of pickles so far, and I’m not done yet. How could I be, when only cucs have been bottled? I’ve got three green tomatoes waiting to meet a similar fate, and two heads of cauliflower, some beets, and a bag of baby eggplants aren’t far behind. Think this process too complicated or confusing? I’m here to set you straight.

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Sometimes, a post writes itself. As I was piling the big heap of pickled cabbage into my largest mason jar, I thought of all the times I’d pigged out on Kimchi in the past, all those times I’d been absolutely sure there was no way to make this stuff at home. I remembered the moment I’d received David Chang’s Momofuku cookbook, how excited I was to discover that there was a recipe for kimchi — a very easy, very doable recipe, involving no more than ten minutes of active prep time. I recalled how few recipes on this site are inspired by East Asia, how frustrated that’s made me over the years, considering how prominently East Asian flavors figure into my home cooking and, to an even greater extent, my eating out. And I knew that as soon as work calmed down and Rosh Hashana had passed, I’d be telling you about this one-bowl dish that’s quickly become a staple in my kitchen.

Like lacto-fermented pickles, the things that make kimchi so delicious are (mostly) environmental. Exposure to air and time turn the mixture of cabbage, chili, fish sauce, salt, and sugar into something much more intriguing than the individual components might suggest. Some of the kimchi I’ve had at restaurants has been overly pungent or funky, too sharply salty or sour, without proper balance. My favorite kimchi in the DC metro area, from the Annandale restaurant Ye Chon, is very good, but it sometimes lacks that hint of sweetness that balances the sour, salty, and spicy flavors and keeps your chopsticks coming back for more. Chang’s kimchi gets that balance just right.

The most time-intensive part of this recipe is the shopping. If you don’t already have fish sauce, you’ll need to buy some. Don’t be seduced by the tiny bottles they sell at Whole Foods; to make this properly, you’ll need the stuff that comes in the big bottle (a bottle usually has between 3-6 cups worth). Yes, it’s another thing to store in the fridge, and I get that that’s a turn-off. And yes, I’m aware that fish sauce can smell like dirty socks. Have you already clicked away? No? I promise that kimchi reins in the funk of the fish sauce, and that the result will smell nothing like the locker room. My favorite fish sauce brands are Squid and Three Crabs, but anything you find at Hmart or an Asian grocer will be totally fine.

Another key ingredient is Korean chili powder, also called Kochukaru. I went to Hmart (the Asian grocery) in search of something by that name, and saw only pounds and pounds of “chili powder.” Turns out, all the chili powder in the Korean aisle at Hmart is kochukaru. If you ask, the ladies behind the register will tell you it’s what they use to make kimchi. You want the coarsely ground stuff. The last special ingredient is jarred salted shrimp, which I didn’t use (I keep a kosher home, which means no shellfish). My kimchi was still delicious.

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Readers, meet my new favorite side dish.

We spent the morning of our first full day in Santa Fe downtown, at a farmers’ market adjacent to an artists’ market (a lethal concoction as far as my wallet was concerned). At the tail end of our stroll through the farm stands, I caught a glimpse of an overall-clad gentelman manning a fry pan set over a camping stove. I headed over to see what he was cooking, and before I could see any of the wiry, bright green snowpeas bouncing around the frying pan, I hear the crackle-snap of their dip in the hot oil and knew the end result would be mighty tasty. I stuck around. Sure enough, after a few flips of the pan, the blistered snowpeas landed on top, giving their still-green comrades a turn over the heat. Once all the peas were glistening with oil and many were blackened in spots, the gentleman tossed a generous pinch of flaky salt over the vegetables, poured them onto a plate, and shouted for customers and neighboring farmers to get one while they’re hot. I wasted no time popping one of the smoking-hot snowpeas into my mouth.

Their crunch was what caught me first: blackened where their bumpy surfaces had touched the scalding pan, much of the flesh managed to remain crisp, striking just the right balance of doneness. The snowpeas were vivid green, their juices gathering at the bottom of the plate and mixing with that lovely salt. I could’ve eaten the whole lot myself. Naturally, I bought a couple pounds of his bounty, determined to wow D’s family with this surprising treat.

This isn’t one of those stories that ends in failure. I’ll spoil the punch-line right now: for an addictive appetizer or side, it just doesn’t get more foolproof than this. You need only the most modest mis en place: a hot pan, a glug of oil, a couple pinches of salt, and the freshest, crispest snowpeas you can find. The dish practically makes itself. If you want to put them over the edge, squeeze some lemon over the peas just before serving.

If you’re making these for a crowd and don’t have a very large (15-inch) pan, make them in batches. You want these guys to really blister, and they won’t if the pan is crowded. Let the snap-crackle of the peas be your guide: when the vegetables first hit the pan, they’ll really sizzle (watch those forearms — the oil will spatter). After a while, the sound will let up. If the next time you flip the peas, none have browned on the bottom, add a splash more oil: let the sizzling resume. I’ve made these twice, and each time, the peas have needed about four pan-flips, maybe a total of 7-8 minutes in the pan. Don’t stress if yours seem done after 5 minutes or need a bit extra time — they’ll be done when they’re done.

Last night, I served a dish of these snow peas as a side dish to complement seared tuna. But the first time I made them, I served them up right out of the frying pan, smoking hot, to a crowd of hungry bellies waiting on barbequed chicken. These were the perfect low-key appetizer, just the sort of thing you want to absentmindedly munch on while waiting for dinner to hit the table.

Simple Sauteed Snow Peas
serves 6

2 lbs. snow peas, as fresh and crunchy as you can find ‘em, rinsed and thoroughly dried
olive oil
2 pinches salt
wedge of lemon

Heat 2-3 tablespoons olive oil on medium-high in a large stainless steel pan, not a nonstick one. When the oil shimmers on the surface, add 1/3 of the snow peas (careful! oil will splatter). Leave the pan alone for a minute or two, and the peas on the bottom will begin to blister. After about 2 minutes, give the pan a big toss. Blistered peas should rise to the top, and less cooked ones should descend to the bottom of the pan, close to the heat. Again, let the pan be for about 2 minutes. Toss again, to redistribute peas. If peas haven’t blistered, add a tablespoon more olive oil to the pan.

After about 7-8 minutes, peas should be cooked through but still crispy, and some should have darkened or blistered spots. At this point, sprinkle a pinch of salt over the peas, and transfer to a serving bowl or platter. Repeat this process twice more, cooking 1/3 of total peas each time. After all peas have been cooked and transfered to serving dish, squeeze wedge of lemon over peas, use large wide spoon to distribute lemon juice, and serve immediately. (Peas will also be delicious at room temperature, so if you’re not serving as an appetizer to some hungry folks, don’t sweat it; set them aside, and serve when everything else is ready.)

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Please welcome my good friend Jeremy, who’s going at ‘em again with his second guest post on NDP. I’m off to Santa Fe, NM for the long weekend, and Jeremy’s babysitting the blog (because 4 kids isn’t enough!) while I’m gone. Behave now…and get thee some squash blossoms!

I’m not one for begging, but I’m begging you, dear reader, not to miss out on the squash blossom.

For some reason, this extraordinary harbinger of summer seems to scare the bejeezus out of people. For the past month or so of Sundays, I’ve found myself lingering at a table covered with little wooden baskets filled with these delicate, delicious flowers. And without fail, I’ve overheard conversations like this one, between two veteran denizens of DC’s biggest farmers’ market:

“What would I do with them?”
-”I don’t know.”
“I mean, I love squash, but the blossom… whatever.”
-”I know. There must be a reason you never see them on a menu anywhere.”
“Exactly.”

Verbatim? No. But you get the idea. So let’s set the record straight, shall we?

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One of the first cookbooks I owned was Nigella Lawson’s Nigella Bites. I bought it at Anthropologie, back when Nigella was a Travel Channel sensation. The Food Network had already gone the way of the dodo, its cleavage-showing hostesses flashing smiles as they tasted “delicious” homemade tarts filled with the scooped-out innards of a store-bought pumpkin pie. No thanks. Nigella’s show was where the fun was at. You could catch the gorgeous broad sneaking downstairs at 1 am in adorable pink PJs, in search of a late-night snack. The camera would zoom really close as she opened the fridge, stuck a finger into a big bowl of chocolate mousse, and licked her finger clean. A dip into the chocolate mousse, pudding, anything, at 1 am is a classic Friedman move. When I saw Nigella do it, I was hooked. She seemed real.

Her cookbook conveyed that same honesty. There were pictures of her with curlers in, wearing a bathrobe. There were sweet ramblings about her favorite suppers, and a mouthwatering picture of homemade pasta and meatballs. And it didn’t stop there. Nigella devoted a chapter of the book to what she called “Legacy.” The section contained humble recipes that were the hallmark of her childhood, things like “Granny Lawson’s Lunch Dish” (a slab-pie of sorts, filled with hard boiled eggs, ground beef, and olives) and “Soft Boiled Eggs with Asparagus Soldiers.” I loved this section because even though I’m pretty sure I never made any of the recipes contained within, it provided the most sincere picture of where Nigella came from.

If I had a cookbook (to dream!), and it had a legacy section, this recipe for cheese puffs would certainly make the cut. It’s a humble recipe; if you saw cheese puffs at a party, you’d probably pass over them in favor of the the rhubarb curd. But to do so would be quite a mistake. A cross between pancakes and biscuits, cheese puffs are crispy and golden around the edges, soft and chewy within. They’re a bit sweet, but unexpectedly, refreshingly, tangy. My father likes them with just sour cream, but I prefer a bit of mascarpone cheese or greek yogurt, and fresh strawberries. But however you eat them — with sour cream, with greek yogurt, with berries, with nothing at all — once you start, you kinda can’t stop.

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While I’ve usually thought of May as the true spring-to-summer transition month, these days, June seems to be taking on that role. One day the weather’s as hot and sticky as boiling caramel, the next it’s as cold and damp as the dish towel. But the erratic weather carries with it the promise of vegetable bounty. I may be mourning the end of asparagus season (how did I not realize until now that asparagus are the best vegetable on earth?) but I’m ramping up for my full-blown annual tomato courtship. And it’s just tomatoes that roll around in June — peas, snap and shelling varieties, have finally made their debut. Few things make me happier than bright green peas and tender, juicy tomatoes: there, I’ve exposed myself in all my nerdiness.

Over the past few years, I’ve settled into something of a routine when it comes to tomatoes and peas. I love tomatoes raw in salad, or simply sliced with a little flaky salt and olive oil. I get thrills from popping peas out of their pods and into blanching water, or tossing them with asparagus into pasta primavera. These bruschette are every bit a part of that routine. The tomato bruschetta occupies that middle ground between unadulterated raw tomato slices and a good, rich, labored tomato sauce, concentrating the flavor of the tomato without sacrificing its essential texture. Ditto the pea bruschetta, which celebrates the freshness of the peas’ by adding complementary flavors, but retaining their plump firmness. I suppose by now it’s pretty clear: I’m totally hooked on pea and tomato bruschette.

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It’s officially sour cherry season! I got my first quart at the market today, and I simply can’t wait to turn them into this lovely aperitif. Originally posted last July, sour cherry liqueur is back!

Want to do something awesomely cool and really flippin’ easy along with me? Make sour cherry liqueur. It’s the height of sour cherry season, and markets are bursting with those tart little bubbles of juice. The season’s pretty short: I was thinking of hitting up a u-pick next week to get some sour cherries out in the countryside for cheap, but they said they’ll be gone by Sunday. So grab some now, like, now now, and put them to use in a way that’ll keep well into the fall.

My dear friend Dellie had D and me over for an early Thanksgiving dinner last November, and her mother served this liqueur as an aperitif. I was totally blown away: it was sweet, very sweet, but also tart and zingy. It tasted strongly and distinctly of sour cherries, and sipping it sent waves of summer nostalgia down my spine. I sauntered into the kitchen where I found the always-graceful Mrs. S pulling a whole turkey out of the oven to rest. What better time to bother someone for a recipe? She said to come knocking again when it was sour cherry season, and she’d give me the rundown. Unlike most other things, I didn’t forget this promise, and last week, I emailed Mrs. S begging her recipe. She graciously obliged, and her instructions were so thorough that I can easily share them with you. Granted, you won’t be tasting the fruits of your labor until the fall — but if you feel like preserving some of summer’s bounty in this unusual way, I can promise that your patience will be well-rewarded.

That's a knife jutting out of the pitcher -- I used it to stir the stuff, and I did fill it to the top after taking the pic.

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At some point last year, I fell off the puff pastry cliff. It all started with this onion-date tart, one of the best and easiest recipes I’ve ever written. I made it once, twice, three times, and more; I couldn’t stop. I’d tweak a thing or two every time: I’d add mushrooms, swap the goat cheese for feta, add some roasted red peppers, etc. The tart never failed to please, so I just didn’t stop making it.

From there, I branched out to other similar tarts, like this one with zucchini and olives. Why hadn’t I thought of this sooner? Why had it taken so long to realize that when you pile delicious stuff on a buttery piece of dough and bake it off, the results are…delicious?

Just when I thought I’d had my revelation, D had had just about enough. She finally confessed that she hated all these tarts — these big pieces of flaky dough meant to pose as entrees — and that if I could stop making them, forever, that’dbegreatthanks. I was bummed: had I reached the end of puff pastry heaven so quickly? Without it, what else would I make? There was NOTHING else to make! Nothing but puff pastry! AACK!

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During a recent stop at the bookstore on my street, Idle Time Books (which, btw, had a cameo in A Few Good Men), I was thumbing through cookbook author Deborah Madison’s latest book, What We Eat When We Eat Alone, which she co-wrote with her artist-partner Patrick McFarlin. WWEWWEA (liberally abbreviating the long title here…) is a funny and shockingly intimate account of the ways in which, in the absence of others, food becomes our animated companion. It’s a book that draws you in, and before I knew it, I had plopped down on the floor to dig in, and was reading about pouring sardine juice onto cottage cheese and eating it on one foot at the open refrigerator. I laughed out loud as I thought about similar moments I’ve had, grabbing a bite standing up while I peer into the fridge for my next little nibble.

In the spirit of celebrating this wonderful little book, I’ll tell you about one thing I invariably eat lots of when it’s just me in the house: crostini.

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Folks, I’m finding it hard to contain my excitement about NDP’s second-ever guest post. Guess who wrote it? MY MOM!

That’s right: in the post below, NDP Ima tells you all about easy-to-make, hard-to-stop-eating pickles. You’ll see from her intro paragraph where I got my taste buds. These pickles are salty, tangy, and really bright from the addition of fresh dill. So read up — then go make some pickles!

I am really not a salt lover. I don’t use much when I cook, and in restaurants great food that’s well-seasoned is often too salty for my taste. I don’t care for chips or french fries, and I prefer nuts spicy or au naturel. Nonetheless, I do love briny salty things – olives, capers, and sour pickles. So when I was leaving town for a long weekend and had a lot of small cucumbers that wouldn’t last until my return, I decided to try my hand at some pickles. I wanted spicy, garlicky, dill pickles that would make themselves in the refrigerator while I was gone. I remembered the ones a family friend used to make with cucumbers from his garden and my dad’s. He didn’t use shortcuts, though – he put his pickles in huge crocks of brine and alum in the basement for weeks.

I cut the cukes into thick, chunky slices and placed them in a quart jar with pickling spices and garlic. I didn’t have any fresh dill, so my first batch just had dill seed from the pickling spice, but it still tasted authentic. I prepared the vinegar brine and filled the jar, leaving it upside down on the counter overnight. The next morning, before rushing to the airport, I put the jar in the frig. When I returned four nights later, the pickles were done to perfection!
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I can’t remember if I’ve ever written a love song to favas on this blog. I mean, I’ve written about them, but I probably haven’t sung their praises as much as they deserve. Starting in late May, I bother the farmers at my local market every Sunday, trying to subtly nudge them to pick their favas as soon as they’re ready so I can dig in. The first few weeks, I’m met with transparently frustrated replies of “they’re not ready, lady!” but around the second week in June, out they come. From them on, you’ll find me and my tote bags by the fava bin. That’s right.

Favas come double-wrapped, so to speak; they’re tucked in a waxy coating that’s nestled inside a pod. To eat favas, you pop open the pods, scoop out and blanch the beans, and then remove the outer shell. Work intensive? Yea, but you won’t find me complainin’. Favas are sweet and green and, with a little salt and not much else, the delicious essence of early summer.

While I usually just toss my favas in a salad or mix them with some pasta and other vegetables, I also really like fava bean spread. Mine is smooth enough to spread but still quite chunky, and laced with a whole lot of garlic and a squeeze of lemon. If I don’t finish it all before using it, I’ll spread it on a baguette and eat it just so. Or, if I’m really feelin’ it, I’ll top my bruschetta with some vinegar-and-oil-cured sardine fillets. The idea came to me from an Epicurious recipe for cannellini and sardine bruschetta. I love cannellini, but I don’t stock my pantry with dry or canned beans when fresh ones are so readily available during the summer, so I subbed in favas for the cannellini the recipe called for. The combination worked perfectly: the headiness of the garlicy fava spread stood up well to the sardines, which added just the right amount of richness and tang. Toasted baguette, more than a vehicle, was crunchy and light, a fine contrast for the favas and sardines perched atop it. I finished off the bruschetta simply, with a bit of olive oil and a grind of the pepper mill. It didn’t need much else.
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When summer rolls around, the heat in Washington DC can be rather prohibitive. Almost nothing is worth touching that oven dial, especially in our loft apartment that gets a whole lot of hot air and nary a breeze. Dinner most frequently comprises an easy salad like this broccoli slaw or this Mediterranean orzo salad, or maybe even a cold soup like this quick-and-easy zucchini number I made last summer. Tie that all together with some crusty bread and I’ve got an easy supper.

Salads and cold soups are definitely an antidote to the heat and humidity, but when the weather is so debilitating that I want to just crash when I get home, a cheeseplate is really the way to go. Cheeseplates are easy to assemble but elegant enough for company, and while people seem to think they go best with red wine, I’ve found (and had more authoritative sources corroborate) that a chilled (but not too chilled) glass of white wine makes even better company.

Recently, I was reading a great post from Mr. Amateur Gourmet, Adam Roberts, about his trip to the famed Murray’s Cheese in Greenwich Village and his quest for the perfect cheese plate. He asked the man behind the counter for help selecting his cheeses, and the man gave him a mild but interesting goat cheese, a sharper cow-and-sheep cheese, and a stinky washed rind cheese. Lost yet? Don’t despair. You can do as Adam did — and as I often do — and ask the advice of the person behind the counter. My favorite cheese spots here in DC are the wonderful Cowgirl Creamery, where cheese nerds come to play, and Calvert Woodley, which has a great selection and some really helpful folks behind the counter. That said, even the folks at Whole Foods can help steer you in the right direction. Meanwhile, whether you’re enlisting a team of advisers or going at this alone, there are a few basic things that are helpful to know before embarking on your cheeseplate expedition. This post will shed some light on how to build a cheese plate, how to cut and serve each of the cheeses, and what sorts of breads and spreads make the best vehicles and complements for enjoying the cheese.
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I absolutely love sour things. I’ve been known to suck on a lemon slice once in a while, just for kicks (though my dentist scolded me for doing it, so I reluctantly put the habit to rest). When it comes to pickles, I’m a full-sour kinda gal. None of that dill or bread-n-butter stuff; I like’em super super sour. I’m into cucumber pickles, but I can’t say that they’re my favorite — not by a long shot. No, my absolute favorite pickle is a pickled green tomato, especially if it’s from Guss’ Pickles on the Lower East Side. My first time at Guss’ was on an 8th grade class trip, when we stopped there very briefly on our way back from grabbing knishes, bialys, deli, and other LES specialties. I remember watching friends get themselves just one pickle, or two. When I looked deep into the plastic tub in front of me and saw green tomato quarters, bobbing up and down in the brine, I knew that’s what I had to have. Sadly, Guss didn’t sell the tomatoes by the single back then — only by the pound. Obviously, I bought myself a pound of pickled green tomatoes. Reluctant to waste, I ate them all. Boy were they good.

Not to dismiss cukes, but compared to the tomatoes and other exotic pickled things, they’re kind of ordinary. I can promise you that this cauliflower recipe is anything but. I originally published this recipe in an article I did for My Jewish Learning on Israeli Independence Day, but these sour, cardamom-spiked florets are great year-round.

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In recent years, a slew of upscale pizza places have sprouted up to sate the ever-growing yuppie appetite for $13 (or $15, or $20) pies. Just look at Manhattan and Brooklyn: they’re bursting with fancy pizza points, from the old-school Lombardi’s and my favorite Grimaldi’s to the newer Roberta’s and Co., dreamt up by the breadmaster Jim Lahey. Washington is following suit, in its own more muted way, and by now we’ve actually got a few great spots for the ultimate Neapolitan treat.

One such spot, Two Amys, is a standby in this house. We pop over there at least once a month, and by now we’re buddy-buddy with a waitress, we know our favorite wine on the menu, and we’ve even found a bus that takes us, literally, from door to door.

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Hard to believe it’s already Thursday and another Saturday is nearly upon us. I’m still thinking about last weekend’s 75-degree weather and super-chill Mediterranean style lunch. A trip to NYC will prevent me from repeating that meal this Saturday, but if I could, I would, in half a heartbeat. It’s the obvious way straight to my heart: breads, spreads, salad, and a glass of wine. Easy to please, no?

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D and I host Friday night dinner pretty regularly. Being the slight lunatic that I am, prep usually starts on Tuesday, if not earlier. I start thinking about themes, poking around online and in my cookbooks for possible main courses, and trying to decide what vibe I want to create. Is this an apps and wine crowd, or more of a straight-to-the-table kind of meal? Are we going meat or dairy? (Usually we do dairy; I simply can’t part with butter for dessert.) Is it cold enough for soup or even a one-pot-meal? Etc.

This past weekend, D and I were so pooped from the long week that we decided to do just the two of us for dinner. Our friends Kira and Dina also wanted something low key, so we decided to combine forces. K and D would bring salad and a vegetable side, I’d make soup, some sort of tart, and dessert. We had challah in the freezer and plenty of wine on the rack.
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I know I’ve posted caponata on the blog before, but it’s such a go-to recipe that I’m not surprised to see it up here again. Caponata is easy to make, very flavorful, and a true crowd-pleaser, even among the most carnivorous eaters. I made it this time as my contribution to a potluck lunch at work in honor of a colleague’s last day, and was quite surprised by how popular it was with the meat-lovin crowd. I promised them I’d post the recipe, so even though I’ve already got a caponata recipe on the blog, here’s one more.
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It’s not every day that a half-eaten fruit turns into something truly out-of-this-world. I suppose I should thank the odd confluence of events that brought about these treasures: one, I bought a mandoline last week. After reading oodles of reviews about the best mandolines on the market, I learned that the two cheapest models (the Benriner and the OXO) are actually the best. My waffling back and forth about whether the 75 bucks was worth it was for nothing: I threw restraint out the window and got my new toy guilt-free. That’s one.

Two, Sarina and Robbie had iron chef night this weekend. Each of us picked a course, they revealed the secret ingredient, and we had a couple hours to make a dish featuring that ingredient and bring it over for show and tell. Is it screamingly obvious that there’s nothing I’d rather do on Saturday night than play iron chef? I was thrilled. And the secret ingredient was cocoa. Awesome.

Three, iron chef awesomeness notwithstanding, my fridge was pretty empty this weekend. Having come down with an ugly cold last week, I didn’t do much cooking at all — and this weekend, we were off the hook again, so my supply was limited, which meant I needed to get pretty creative for the competition.

Four, I took a sliced pear to work, and had only eaten half of it — so I had three and a half pears, the half of which was desperately in need of being used. After poking around in vain on Martha and Epicurious for some good pear recipes, I found one for pear chips. They were meant to be sliced paper-thin, sprinkled with a ginger-cinnamon-sugar mixture, and baked/dried in a very low oven until golden and crispy. What would happen, I wonder, if I added some cocoa to the mix? I’ll tell you what — pure magic.

Truth be told, I went cocoa-happy. I wanted the chocolate flavor to be assertive, despite its supporting role. I added 2 Tbsp of it, and I’m glad I did. Pears and cocoa get along marvelously, and the final product was tangy and spicy and a bit rich and bitter from the cocoa, not to mention perfectly crisp and crunchy. Is your mouth watering, too?

I should mention that I also added galangal, a lovely spice I got from Penzeys earlier this year. It’s similar to ginger, prominent in Thai cuisine, and has spicy notes but is also an assertively fruity flavor. It’s truly something special. If you have it, definitely use it here. If you’ve got a mandoline, you MUST try this recipe. If not, get yourself to amazon and have a mandoline for the price of dinner tonight. It’s kinda totally worth it.

Cocoa Pear Crisps
adapted from Epicurious

1 tablespoon sugar
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon galangal, optional
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
2 tablespoons cocoa
20 paper-thin pear slices (from 1 pear)

Preheat oven to 275°F. Mix sugar and spices in small bowl. Place pear slices on rack set over baking sheet. Alternatively, place slices on silpat-lined baking sheet. Sprinkle with spiced sugar. Bake until almost dry, about 1 hour. I flip the slices half way through to ensure even baking. Cool on rack or sheet. Store airtight up to 2 days.

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If I may say so myself, tonight was a smashing success. A whole day into my challenge and I’m still thrilled that I took it on! On the menu this evening was kalamata olive sourdough bread from the market, homemade eggplant caponata, and greens with heirloom tomatoes, feta, and red onions that I pickled in fresh-squeezed lime juice till they turned a beautiful shade of purple.

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I have less than no time to write this post: work is suuuper crazy right now and I’ve hardly had time to cook, let alone write. But how’s this for a teaser: it’s taking me longer to write this post than it did to make the onion tart I’m sharing with you. Really.

As long as you don’t make your own puff pastry, this tart can be put together in no time with just a bit of advance prep work (read: caramelize onions). I had a bit of time one night last week so I caramelized down two whole white onions into a big sweet mush. They served as the main ingredient of this here tart, topped off with some goat cheese, quick-sauteed mushrooms, and a few snippings of chives. That’s it. And with such little effort, the whole thing still got polished off at Friday night dinner.
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Edamame rarely find their way into my kitchen, and I really don’t know why. They’re a perfect addition to salads, an easy and elegant appetizer, and a perfect snack, but I can’t think of the last time I bought them. No, really, I don’t think I’ve every bought them. The ones in these pictures were leftover from my birthday party. Dina, another one of the birthday girls, made this easy recipe and I’ve been trying to figure out how to recreate it ever since.
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In Italy, antipasti are meant to whet your appetite. (Granted, when I ate out in Italy, my appetite needs little whetting — what with all the whiffs of freshly-made pasta and roasted tomato sauce drifting from the kitchen to my table.) Nonetheless, in Italy, antipasti are simply appetizers, mere preludes to the main dish. In my house, they’re just part of the meal. After all, roasted vegetables with a splash of quality balsamic vinegar and just the right amount of good olive oil make a perfect accompaniment to whatever’s being served. In my humble opinion, they need not precede the main course — in fact, they do just fine right alongside it.(...)
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On last week’s episode of The Splendid Table podcast, actor and writer Michael Tucker spoke of his experience living as an American in Italy. Aside from the obvious challenges adapting to a foreign language and culture, he has learned an entirely different way of cooking since moving to the small town of Umbria. Something he said about cooking really struck me: he said that his cooking trajectory has been much like a bell curve. As he learned more about food and cooking and discovered his love for all things culinary, he acquainted himself with new, often obscure ingredients. He bought many a kitchen gadget. Basically, his cooking became more and more complicated. But being in Italy changed that. In Italy, Tucker and his wife eat mostly at home and in family-owned restaurants, where food is composed entirely of local, fresh ingredients, preparations are dead simple, and nothing is more delicious. He’s learned to focus less on how many ingredients go into a dish or how labor intensive the process is, and focus instead on using few but quality ingredients and precise but simple methods. The locals of Umbria, he says, consider these “rules” of good cooking nothing less than homage to long-time traditions.

I’m trying to go with the simple theme these days. It may not be evident from some of the recipes I’ve posted lately, which I admit are often more intricate and work-intensive than I intend. But I do usually find that simple is best; it allows me to have maximum control over what I put into my food and what it looks like when I serve it.

This was one of the dishes we served on Sunday. As I was rummaging through my vegetable drawer to make Ina Garten’s vegetable torte, I saw four cute baby yellow squash from last week’s CSA that I’d totally forgotten about. Never sure about how much food it takes to feed an army of guests, I figured I might as well use what I had. This squash antipasto is super quick to throw together, and as you can see, it looks really pretty.

Yellow Squash with Basil and Pine Nuts

four small yellow squash
good olive oil
good balsamic vinegar*
sea salt and freshly ground pepper
a handful of pine nuts
a few sprigs of fresh basil

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Slice squash lengthwise into 1/4-inch slices.
3. Spread squash in a single layer on a non-stick or sprayed baking sheet. Drizzle with olive oil, and sprinkle salt and pepper overtop.
4. Roast squash for about 20 minutes, until soft and golden but not burnt.
5. Fan out squash decoratively on a small plate. Top with pine nuts and basil, another drizzle of olive oil, and several spoonfuls or balsamic vinegar.

Serve warm or at room temperature.

*a note about balsamic vinegar: I don’t have the real stuff, which can cost 50 bucks for a teeny little bottle. Instead, I buy good regular balsamic from the grocery store, several bottles at a time, and then reduce it to about a third of its original volume. Real balsamic has a syrupy texture that’s much less liquidy than what’s sold here in grocery stores, and a balsamic reduction like the one described here mimics that thickness well. Danielle from Habeas Brulee will be the first to warn you, though — when you do this, it makes your whole house smoky and vinegar-smelling, so do it when you’re home alone!

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This southern treat is one of my favorites. It even works when (as here) your very green tomatoes turn more red than you care to admit overnight! People serve them with all sorts of condiments, but I like ‘em plain, with just a sprinkling of salt once they’re on the serving platter. They’re super easy to make, and I can’t think of a better way to celebrate the end of [green] tomato season.

Fried Green Tomatoes
serves 3 as an appetizer.

2 tomatoes
1/8 cup milk, cream, buttermilk, whatever
1 egg
1/2 cup flour
1 tsp. cayenne (more if desired)
1 1/2 tsp. salt
1 1/2 tsp. sugar
butter or oil for frying (not olive oil)

Cut ends off tomatoes; slice remaining flesh into 3 or 4 1/2-inch rounds.
Mix egg and milk in one bowl; mix dry ingredients in the other.
Dip each round into the milk-egg mixture, then coat with the flour mixture on both sides.
Place on a baking sheet.
Repeat with all the rounds.
Heat a medium castiron skillet containing 1/2 an inch of oil to medium heat.
When a splash of flour sizzles in the skillet, place rounds 1/2-inch apart in skillet.
Fry 2-4 minutes, depending on heat. If they start to smoke, turn down the heat.
Flip, and cook an additional 1-2 minutes until golden brown and crispy.
Serve immediately.

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This dish is a classic in our house: I love serving it to company or just popping a couple from the fridge into the microwave for a last-minute dinner alone. It’s a great alternative to lasagna, and gluten-free to boot.

Eggplant Involtini with Feta
adapted from Nigella Lawon

2-3 large eggplants, cut lengthwise in thin slices
3 cups (about 1 jar) tomato sauce
2 cups crumbled feta cheese plus extra for topping
1 cup grated parmesan plus extra for topping
1/2 cup walnuts, finely chopped
1/2 cup raisins, soaked in hot water for 10 minutes (optional)
1/2 cup black or kalamata olives, sliced
4 tbsp olive oil
1 garlic clove, crushed or finely chopped
zest from 1 lemon
a good pinch of dried mint
2 Tbsp parsley
1 egg

Brush the eggplant slices on both sides with olive oil and grill or roast them in a 400-degree oven until soft, about 10 minutes per side.

Mix all filling ingredients in a large bowl and stir to combine. Put about a tablespoon of filling on each eggplant slice and roll it up firmly. Use a toothpick to hold in place, or just ensure that the edge is tucked underneath the roll to prevent it from coming undone.

Layer the slices in a 9×13 dish, and cover with tomato sauce. Top with any remaining filling, or extra cheese if you have. Bake at 375 degrees for 25-30 minutes. The involtini should be served warm (lukewarm according to Nigella, but I prefer them warm).

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