Romesco Sauce

I always think the sauce section of a cookbook gets short shrift. Everyone is always drawn to the big meats, the glistening shrimp, or the towering desserts. The poor little sauce section sits, crammed in the back of the book, unillustrated, hoping someone might notice or even use it. But I think sauces are often the best thing a cookbook has going for it. After all, a competent cook knows how to grill a steak or pan-roast a fish, and those techniques don't change, and they don't take hundreds of cookbooks to master. But what you do to that fish or meat, how you dress that salad, that's where the "wow" factor can lie.

Another reason I like sauce, particularly thick ones, is that they're just good to have a round. You can put them under shrimp or over chicken. You can drizzle them over vegetables. You can spread them over bread or in a sandwich, you can add them to part of a cheese plate.

I think of great sauces, like sauce gribiche, which make an excellent dressing for cauliflower. I think of Mexican mole, or Thai peanut sauce, or tzatziki, which I'd happily plop over any rice dish I encounter.

Today, we have romesco sauce, the Mediterranean cousin of muhammara and salvitxada and ajvar. It is a thick sauce made of roasted red peppers, tomatoes, spicy pepper, and thickened with bread and nuts. You can serve it as a dip, you can serve it as a sauce for shrimp, you can plop it over grilled leeks, or you can just sneak spoonfuls of it from the fridge, like I do.

P.S. We're going on vacation (sans internet and phones) for two whole weeks. We can't wait, but comments and posting around here will be a bit slower than usual. Don't worry though, we've got new posts ready to go up in our absence, so stay tuned!

Romesco Sauce

1 large red bell pepper
1/2 cup blanched whole almonds
1 small ancho chile, or other dried hot chile, seeds removed and soaked in hot water
1/2 cup cubed firm white bread
1/2 a garlic clove
2 small plum tomatoes, halved, seeds removed, and chopped
2 tbl sherry vinegar
olive oil, about 1/3 - 1/2 cup
salt

1. Roast pepper directly over a gas flame or under the broiler, turning frequently, until charred all over. Transfer to a bowl, cover with plastic wrap and let stand for 15 minutes. Peel, core and seed the pepper and cut it into thick strips.
2. Pulse almonds in a spice grinder to grind to a coarse grind.
3. Place all the ingredients (roasted pepper, almonds, chile, bread, garlic, tomato, vinegar, oil, salt). Pulse to form a paste, it should be fairly smooth, but still have some small chunks. Taste for seasoning. Refrigerate until ready to use.

Artichokes with Saffron, Orange, Olives, and Almonds

Orange salads are something unique to Moroccan cuisine, and though it may sound odd to Western ears, the sweet juicy, slightly chewy segments of orange make for a great basis for a salad. They are commonly paired with a sprinkling of hot pepper and salty chopped olives, but you'll also find orange, radish, and cinnamon salad, or oranges with dates and slivered almonds, the varieties go on and on. (For recipes, check out Paula Wolfert's "Couscous and Other Good Food from Morocco.")

This recipe for baby artichokes braised with saffron, oranges, olives, and almonds is one I cobbled together from many sources. It would be at home almost anywhere in the Mediterranean, from Sicily to Cyprus, where all these ingredients are native. I have to say, I hate prepping artichokes, so it has to be a pretty good recipe for me to even go to the trouble. But the nice thing about baby artichokes (besides the fact that they're so cute. Really, just look at those little things). The best part is that baby artichokes really cook all the way through, so you have less concern about tough chewy leaves or spiky centers.

Other than the time it takes to prep the artichokes and the oranges, the recipe is a snap. You do a quick braise of the artichokes with a bit or orange juice, water, and saffron, and when they are tender you sprinkle over them orange segments, olives, almonds, and mint. It's beautiful to serve and full of contrasting sweet/salty/soft/crunchy notes.

Artichokes with Saffron, Orange, Olives, and Almonds

1 lb baby artichokes
a splash of lemon or vinegar
1 large orange or 2 small (I used Mineola)
a pinch of saffron
2 tablespoons chopped black olives
2 tablespoons slivered almonds
a few leaves of mint, slivered

1. Prepare a large bowl of water with a splash of lemon or vinegar. Prep the artichokes (see tutorial here). First slice off about an inch of the top. Then, remove the tough outer leaves. Finally, trim the bottoms and slice the hearts in half. Place prepped artichokes in acidulated water to prevent discoloring.
2. Section the orange by removing the outer pith and then slicing between the membranes to remove the sections (see tutorial here). Squeeze the remaining membrane part over a bowl to extract the juice and set aside the sections.
3. Add the saffron and about 1/2 cup of warm water to the bowl with the orange juice.
4. Heat some olive oil in a pan, drain the artichokes, and saute them briefly over medium heat. After a minute or so, add in the saffron water. Make sure the liquid cover the artichokes halfway up their sides. Cover the pan and let simmer for 15 minutes, or until tender when pierced with a knife.
5. Uncover the pan and let simmer until the sauce reduces to just a glaze. Remove from heat.
6. Meanwhile toast the almonds.
7. Sprinkle orange segments, chopped olives, almonds, and mint over artichokes. Serve slightly warm or at room temperature.

Freezer Burn

I feel as if nothing is quite going my way at the moment, and I'm running after life just trying to keep up. It's as if my schedule is a giant hopscotch game constantly unfurling in front of me, and I'm trying to land on each meeting, class, and train as it appears, teetering on one foot then the other. Really, it's not that bad, I'm getting along just fine, but a few moments to catch my breath, outside my office, would be nice. I've only skimmed the cartoons in the past four New Yorkers and I just picked up the copy of February's Gourmet from my nightstand. I've barely been home enough to cook, and not cooking for me, is like not exercising or not talking. It's one of life's essentials, and without it I'm awash in a sea of cafeteria options and take out menus and things I could make much cheaper and tastier in my own kitchen.

Each day, as I rush off to this or that, I think guiltily about the groceries I bought with optimism last week, slowly wilting in the fridge. It seems my own eating schedule has gone out the window as well: those cookies someone brought into the office, they'd make the perfect morning snack. That annoying boy who didn't call you back, he convinced you to have ice cream at 7 p.m. (granted I don't need much convincing to eat ice cream, ever). And when you finally get an evening at home with nothing on your agenda, you find shriveled week-old bok choy, hummus, some moldy ricotta cheese, and a jar of salsa in your fridge.


This, my friends, is what the freezer is for. I am a strong advocate that the freezer is a cook's great friend. And even when you haven't had time to cook, and you have the urge for something tasty and completely-out-of-season spring-like because, damn it, you are really sick of wearing winter coats and getting up in the dark and bundling yourself in the cold every day; and you just want something bright and vibrant, and a little healthy too, for a quick dinner. Which is why I have a bag or artichoke bottoms, frozen peas, and edamame in my freezer. Don't you?

Well, you should. I've been making this recipe for many years, originally adapted from one by Claudia Roden I believe, though it fits into that pantheon of spring dishes like vignarola that can be found around the Mediterranean. Just make sure to get artichoke bottoms (not hearts, you can also get canned as opposed to frozen ones), and I find edamame make a great substitute for hard-to-find fava beans. Dressed up with a minty-lemon sauce and topped with a few toasted almonds, all those train-chasing, rush hour traffic- grating, cookie-guilt, boy-hating thoughts will fade right from your head. At least until tomorrow.


Artichokes, Peas, and Edamame
While Egyptian in origin, this is one of those bright spring dishes that can be found all over the Mediterranean. I often substitute edamame for the more expensive fava beans, and since all these ingredients are freezer-friendly it means you can have it any time of year. Which in that last stretch of winter, is a very welcome thing indeed.

6-8 artichoke bottoms, frozen, canned, or fresh
2 cups frozen baby peas
1 cup frozen shelled edamame or fava beans
3 tablespoons olive oil
juice of 1 lemon
1/2 teaspoon cornstarch dissolved in 1 tablespoon water
pinch salt
1 tablespoon slivered fresh mint
2 tablespoons slivered almonds, toasted

1. Heat a large pot of water to boil. Working in batches, cook the artichoke bottoms, peas, and edamame only until they are defrosted, do not over cook. Drain in a colander.
2. In a medium-sized pot place the olive oil, lemon and cornstarch mixture. Heat the mixture gently to warm. Add the vegetables and cook over medium heat for 3-5 minutes, until the sauce is slightly thickened and the vegetables are heated through. Stir in the mint.
3. Pile on a serving platter. For a fancier presentation, arrange each artichoke bottom on the plate and carefully spoons the pea mixture into each artichoke cup. Top with toasted almonds.

Squirrel 3, Me 1

All summer I watched our fig tree with baited anticipation. I adore figs and our nascent tree, though grown in a pot and only in its first year, was vigorous and healthy. With it, the promise of fresh-from the-tree-figs, budding heartily on its stems, tantalized me everytime I spied it by the back deck. It only had about five fruits, but I watched them ripen in painstaking slowness over August and then into September, peering at the fruits, practically drooling as as they slowly turned from bright green to deep brown.

All summer, we have also been plagued by drought-like conditions and by several crazy squirrels. I grew up hearing my mother curse the squirrels that dug up her garden and which would climb in through our chimney and run in the space between the walls on winter mornings, their scampering claws on the eaves above my head a six a.m. wake-up call. Now, a couple decades later, I am once again plagued by a crazy squirrel: one afternoon I watched as it literally turned flips in some sort of hyper-active fit. It systematically chewed the coleus plant, chewing one stalk each day until the plant was completely stripped. We've invested in several "squirrel proof" birdfeeders, only to find the squirrel has dismantled them, sending them smashing to the ground, and even prying the top off of them and climbing inside to feast glutinously in a sea of sunflower seeds.



"Squirrel-Proof" Bird Feeders, Coleus Plant Before and After

When watering our plants one day, I noticed our figs were ready: ripe, plump, brown figs!! A few hours later I returned, only to find a cruel surprise: the tree bore no hint of fruit. It seems the squirrel had beat me to it, stripping the tree and devouring its luscious fruits leaving not even a nubby stem behind. To say I was devastated would be an exaggeration, but I was truly saddened that I wouldn't get to taste the fruits of a long, hot summer's labor.


Determined to turn our fig tree into some sort of gustatory pleasure, I remembered a recipe that called for salmon wrapped in fig leaves. Wrapping fish in leaves, like grape leaves or chard leaves, is a common Mediterranean practice but using fig leaves is unusual because they are rather tough and inedible. I first read about the recipe in that lovely children's book Fanny at Chez Panisse, and if you remember a recipe you heard about when you were seven, it ought to be worth making. The salmon fillet at the shop was beautiful and I added a dose of lemon for good measure and wrapped it in the fig leaves, adding some beet greens on top to keep the unwieldy leaves in place.

As the fish roasted, the house started to fill with the most amazing aroma: the smell of coconut. Fig leaves, when cooked, give off the most tantalizing coconut-like smell, I wouldn't have been surprised if my neighbors had come knocking on my door in search of the glorious source. Thankfully, none did, because I don't think we would have wanted to share, the fish was knock-out good. Of course, a lovely fillet of salmon perfectly roasted is bound to be good, but I can't help think that coconutty fig leaf aroma had a lot to do with the magic. If you don't have access to fig leaves (and I am afraid of stripping our baby tree any further), give it a try with hearty leaves like beet or chard, it will still be delicious. And in the battle of me versus squirrel, the squirrel might still be ahead but I've got one very happy victory under my belt.


Salmon Roasted in Fig Leaves
Fig leaves give off the most amazing coconut-like smell when roasted, but if you don't have them substitute a firm leaf like beet, turnip, or chard greens. Serves 6. Adapted from The Chez Panisse Cafe Cookbook.

12 large fig leaves, or beet greens or chard
2 to 2 1/2 lb fillet of salmon
1 lemon
coarse salt, olive oil

1. Preheat the oven 400 F. Lightly oil a large casserole. Wash the leaves well and place enough fig leaves shiny-side up to cover the bottom of the dish. Place the salmon fillet over top. Grate a little of the lemon zest directly onto the salmon, then halve the lemon and squeeze half the juice over the fish. Sprinkle with salt. Fold the leaves up around the salmon fillet, and place several more leaves over top to hold the leaves in place. If your leaves are uncooperative, you can try and tie them in place with a bit of kitchen twine. Drizzle some olive oil over the outside of the fig leaves. Place in the oven and roast for 20-25 minutes, or until fragrant and the fish is plump.

For a fancier presentation: Cut the fillet into serving size pieces. Wrap each piece in a fig leaf and tie with twine to secure (it's ok if the fish isn't completely covered). Roast 15 minutes.
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August and It's Favorite Lunch

Whew, aren’t you glad that’s over? As much as I enjoyed exploring one item in depth, by dedicating August to ice cream, I unwittingly side-stepped all those other culinary joys of late summer. Contrary to popular belief, I do not subsist on sweets, and all through August I kept thinking about the other wonderful edible things I was enjoying and how I wished I could share them with you here. About the simple pleasures of August, the vase of sunflowers on your table, the late summer sun, the bowl of fresh-sliced fruit.

About how this was the absolute best peach of the summer:


Or about the watermelon that was so sweet and juicy, it was tender all the way to the rind:


Or the thousands of heirloom tomatoes consumed. One perfect Sunday we went on a picnic with friends and brought along an assortment of seven different types and had a tomato tasting. The large green heirloom won, and I’ve been loving the small Green zebra tomatoes. Somehow the green-when-fully-ripe varieties taste the most like tomatoes, perhaps because they are more vegetal and less sweet.



And of course, there are the tomatoes I grew in pots, four different varieties, along with eggplants and peppers and herbs. Speaking of which, I didn’t get to tell you about the conversation I had with the guy at the market about lovage (a celery-like herb), and how it’s often used in Romanian cuisine, and the differences between marjorum and thyme.

The good thing about all of this produce is there’s almost no cooking required. Summer food generally goes something like this: shop (preferably at a farmer’s market), slice, and enjoy. And true to form, I’ve barely done any cooking over the past month, and yet I’ve been eating fabulously. There has been, however, one dish that’s been making repeated visits to my lunch hour, when it’s not usurped by those tomatoes. Summer borscht, a twist on that Russian classic in the form of chilled beet and yogurt soup. I actually first made this soup back in the winter (it’s good in any season), and loved it, and since then I’ve made it at least six times, a near miracle around here.

It should be no surprise that I like this, since one of my favorite appetizers/mezzes is a beet and yogurt dip (to make it: combine grated cooked beets, plain yogurt, with garlic, lemon, and mint or dill to taste). This soup is full of crunchy cucumbers and beets and creamy yogurt, and though it has lots of ingredients, it will still be good should you happen to be out of sour cream, or accidentally omit the vinegar. Because you stir everything together and let it sit overnight, it’s perfect for your lunchbox, and I can attest to the fact that it travels well. It would also be a good make-ahead dish for company, with some salmon and nice slices of pumpernickel bread. Just don’t be alarmed by it’s shockingly pink color, which I have to say, brings me a bit of child-like glee.

So here’s to August. I’ve planted beets for fall and they’re already growing like crazy, so I have a feeling summer’s favorite lunch is here to stay.

Summer Borscht
I love this cool, creamy soup enough for any season. Please note that this is a large recipe and you'd be well-advised to halve it. Also, I usually use non-fat or low-fat yogurt and sour cream and find there's no harm done. Adapted from Ina Garten.

4 large or 5 medium beets
12 oz (1 1/2 cups) plain yogurt
8 oz (1 cup) sour cream
1 tbl sugar
2 tsp mild vinegar or lemon juice
water or chicken stock
salt and pepper
2 cups seeded and diced cucumber
1/2 cup diced scallions
2 tsp chopped fresh dill

1. Scrub your beets well to remove any traces of dirt from them. Place the beets in a large pot of boiling salted water and cook uncovered until the beets are tender, 30 to 40 minutes. Remove the beets to a bowl with a slotted spoon and set aside to cool. Strain the cooking liquid through a fine sieve and also set aside to cool.
2. Peel the cooled beets with a small paring knife or rub the skins off with your hands. Cut the beets in small to medium dice.
3. In a large bowl, whisk together 1 1/2 cups of the beet cooking liquid, yogurt, sour cream, sugar, vinegar, a pinch of salt and pepper. Add enough water or stock to the soup base to reach a thick-but-pourable consistency (you may not need any, or you may need up to 1 cup). Add the beets, cucumber, scallions, and dill to the soup. Cover with plastic wrap and chill for at least 4 hours or overnight. Season, to taste, and serve cold with an extra sprig of fresh dill.
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