It was hot yesterday. Summer hot, and muggy. I did not love it. I don’t love the humid heat even in midsummer, and in mid-May it’s worse. In any case, the heat blunted ambition and appetite alike, but dinner was still served.

I cooked quinoa in whey and water until it was nice and soft. None of the gritty, flossy nonsense that is undercooked quinoa; I wanted this to be nice and gluey. While it cooked, I sautéed some bacon in a pan and added a bunch of onion and chopped ramp bulbs to soften, then a whole pile of greens from the garden—arugula, spinach, radish, fennel, and beet thinnings, chervil, the ramp greens, and probably some other things as well. I tossed it all together off the heat, with copious olive oil and wine vinegar, until the greens wilted a bit, and then pressed it into a ring mold on each plate. Sriracha on the side.

This concoction was half a meal, really; it wanted a protein on top—some river trout, for example, which is in season—and some brothy sauce type action, but for the purposes of filling stomachs with something both nourishing and damn tasty, it fit the bill. Being able to bring an armload of immaculate greens in on a moment’s notice makes “cooking” a relative term, anyway. And if you needed any further proof that a ring mold is the quickest way to turn a lackluster bowl of halfassery into something that’s all classy and shit, this should take . . . → Read More: Timbales Paresseuses]]>

It was hot yesterday. Summer hot, and muggy. I did not love it. I don’t love the humid heat even in midsummer, and in mid-May it’s worse. In any case, the heat blunted ambition and appetite alike, but dinner was still served.

I cooked quinoa in whey and water until it was nice and soft. None of the gritty, flossy nonsense that is undercooked quinoa; I wanted this to be nice and gluey. While it cooked, I sautéed some bacon in a pan and added a bunch of onion and chopped ramp bulbs to soften, then a whole pile of greens from the garden—arugula, spinach, radish, fennel, and beet thinnings, chervil, the ramp greens, and probably some other things as well. I tossed it all together off the heat, with copious olive oil and wine vinegar, until the greens wilted a bit, and then pressed it into a ring mold on each plate. Sriracha on the side.

This concoction was half a meal, really; it wanted a protein on top—some river trout, for example, which is in season—and some brothy sauce type action, but for the purposes of filling stomachs with something both nourishing and damn tasty, it fit the bill. Being able to bring an armload of immaculate greens in on a moment’s notice makes “cooking” a relative term, anyway. And if you needed any further proof that a ring mold is the quickest way to turn a lackluster bowl of halfassery into something that’s all classy and shit, this should take care of that. I wish this had an egg yolk on top of it. That’s what I should have done, dammit.

There are a million grain salads to be found all over the world. This one was heavier on the grain, and designed to stick together. Add more greens and drier grain and you’ve got more of a tabouli thing happening. Anywhere along that spectrum serves equally well as a garden delivery system. The leftovers from this will make wicked arancini after the heat breaks.

When the garden gets going, cooking becomes simpler. It becomes less of a process, and more of a brief intervention with a bit of heat or a nice bright vinaigrette to flatter the plants on their way from soil to plate.

I have a special love for asparagus because it’s the first thing (along with radishes) that comes out of the ground and is not a leaf. A vegetable! Something substantial!

This is just-picked, sautéed with garlic in a little oil until they began to take on some color, then deglazed with say a tablespoon each of sherry and yogurt whey and cooked a bit more until the pan was just about dry. I grated a stale heel of sourdough over the top.

The liquids could be different, and the breadcrumbs could be cheese or bonito flakes or bottarga or shavings of salt-cured egg yolk. They’re all just embellishments, the judicious addition of a little salt, a little acid, a little umami, throwing the details of the main attraction into sharp relief. Three or four different plates like this would make a brilliant dinner, or with an egg and some cured meat it could be a meal by itself. This was just . . . → Read More: Cast No Aspersions]]>

When the garden gets going, cooking becomes simpler. It becomes less of a process, and more of a brief intervention with a bit of heat or a nice bright vinaigrette to flatter the plants on their way from soil to plate.

I have a special love for asparagus because it’s the first thing (along with radishes) that comes out of the ground and is not a leaf. A vegetable! Something substantial!

This is just-picked, sautéed with garlic in a little oil until they began to take on some color, then deglazed with say a tablespoon each of sherry and yogurt whey and cooked a bit more until the pan was just about dry. I grated a stale heel of sourdough over the top.

The liquids could be different, and the breadcrumbs could be cheese or bonito flakes or bottarga or shavings of salt-cured egg yolk. They’re all just embellishments, the judicious addition of a little salt, a little acid, a little umami, throwing the details of the main attraction into sharp relief. Three or four different plates like this would make a brilliant dinner, or with an egg and some cured meat it could be a meal by itself. This was just an appetizer.

Sloppy Joes are usually a pretty lowbrow punt of a dinner, but they can hit the spot. And when they’re made like this, they become a different sort of animal altogether.

Here’s what went in to their fabrication:

Plus sautéed spinach and a huge salad. Provençal rosé. So . . . → Read More: Sloppy Smokey]]>

Sloppy Joes are usually a pretty lowbrow punt of a dinner, but they can hit the spot. And when they’re made like this, they become a different sort of animal altogether.

Here’s what went in to their fabrication:

• Ground bear meat, shot about 5 miles down the road
• Ramps, foraged from the same area
• A little homemade miso-cured bacon for fat
• Yogurt whey from the most recent batch
• Homemade ketchup made from homegrown tomatoes
• Spices, etc.
• On homemade herbed rolls brushed with more of the whey to get nice and brown on top

Plus sautéed spinach and a huge salad. Provençal rosé. So very enjoyable.

It’s been all about the transitional meals around here lately: dishes that look like colder weather fare, but are actually perfect for the truly lovely weather we have had for the last few weeks. It’s been positively Californian, really; sunny and warm, but cool in the shade and a bit nippy at night. Only without all the Californians everywhere, obviously, which is nice.

This stuffed cabbage took advantage of several different leftovers, and the result was a lovely multicultural mashup of greens and umami. The making was absurdly simple, which only made them more enjoyable to eat. They looked like Eastern European comfort food gut bombs, but were delightfully light and springy.

It’s good to remember that there’s a reason why so many cultures have traditional recipes for stuffed cabbage: cabbage leaves make really good rolling papers for whatever filling you have on hand. You may want to recreate your Grandma’s version, but this ain’t that. This is just a reminder that you can transform leftover things of all sorts, from chick pea tagines to mashed potatoes, simply by rolling them up in blanched leaves. The fine tuning is just a matter of making the other ingredients (stock, garnish) play well with the main flavors.

First, I removed the largest leaves from a head of cabbage and steamed them until tender and rollable but not flaccid. I wanted the to offer a little resistance to a knife. The filling was some fresh cheese I made recently—raw milk curdled with rennet, curds ladled into a . . . → Read More: Roll Playing]]>

It’s been all about the transitional meals around here lately: dishes that look like colder weather fare, but are actually perfect for the truly lovely weather we have had for the last few weeks. It’s been positively Californian, really; sunny and warm, but cool in the shade and a bit nippy at night. Only without all the Californians everywhere, obviously, which is nice.

This stuffed cabbage took advantage of several different leftovers, and the result was a lovely multicultural mashup of greens and umami. The making was absurdly simple, which only made them more enjoyable to eat. They looked like Eastern European comfort food gut bombs, but were delightfully light and springy.

It’s good to remember that there’s a reason why so many cultures have traditional recipes for stuffed cabbage: cabbage leaves make really good rolling papers for whatever filling you have on hand. You may want to recreate your Grandma’s version, but this ain’t that. This is just a reminder that you can transform leftover things of all sorts, from chick pea tagines to mashed potatoes, simply by rolling them up in blanched leaves. The fine tuning is just a matter of making the other ingredients (stock, garnish) play well with the main flavors.

First, I removed the largest leaves from a head of cabbage and steamed them until tender and rollable but not flaccid. I wanted the to offer a little resistance to a knife. The filling was some fresh cheese I made recently—raw milk curdled with rennet, curds ladled into a muslin bag to drain—mashed in a big bowl with ramp pesto and dandelion pesto (from two different meals) and the leftover whey-braised cabbage from the pork in the previous post plus the rest of said pork chopped into small pieces. That whey resulted from the making of this selfsame cheese, so there’s some poetic closure for you. I threw a little salt and pepper in there for good measure because the cheese was unseasoned.

I rolled them all up and tucked them in a baking dish, then poured some dashi over them for moisture and savory flavor. The dashi was niban-dashi (second dashi) made from kombu and bonito that had already made one batch of stock the day before. This lesser stock, still very flavorful, is traditionally used for stews and such where the clarity of the ichiban-dashi is not required. Properly made, dashi is essence of umami. It doesn’t draw attention to itself, but amplifies the flavors of everything it touches. I baked them for about half an hour, basting them once or twice with the stock.

If you want to reproduce this, make a filling of some soft cheese (cottage, feta, etc.) blended with the pesto of your choice (or just a bunch of fresh herbs or greens) and a little charcuterie or leftover meat if you have some on hand. Add an egg if you want them a little sturdier. The stock could be anything, though if you’re using feta (which would kill) then lamb stock would be a home run. Try using spiced mustard greens in the filling, with some paneer (another super-easy fresh cheese) and then use a curried coconut milk or chicken stock for the liquid. That idea sounds so good that I want to make it tonight.

I don’t normally cook pork loin, because it has no fat and is expensive. But I had a hankering recently to make lomo/lonzino, and when I saw a nice one for not too much I bought it.

Sorry, sourced it. I forgot myself there for a minute.

Most of it sat in a cure for a few days, and I’m going to hang it tomorrow. The rest of it became dinner, and I came up with a rather neat way to avoid overcooking a lean cut such as this, which can turn to cardboard misery in a matter of minutes if you’re not careful, wasting all that money you spent.

I rubbed it all over with a coarse paste of garlic, fresh herbs from outside, salt, and pepper and let it sit for a while while I prepped other things. Then I rubbed off the paste and browned the loin all over in some duck fat until it was good and caramelized and there was some serious fond going on in the pan. Then I spatulated the herb paste back on top, put the lid on the pan, and shut off the heat.

That was it; over the next ten or so minutes the meat slowly rose to a perfect pink doneness without going past it at all. Lots of recipes call for browning and then finishing in the oven. Putting a lid on a pan makes it into an oven, saves energy, and is much harder to forget about. Turning the heat off adds . . . → Read More: Gird Your Loins]]>

I don’t normally cook pork loin, because it has no fat and is expensive. But I had a hankering recently to make lomo/lonzino, and when I saw a nice one for not too much I bought it.

Sorry, sourced it. I forgot myself there for a minute.

Most of it sat in a cure for a few days, and I’m going to hang it tomorrow. The rest of it became dinner, and I came up with a rather neat way to avoid overcooking a lean cut such as this, which can turn to cardboard misery in a matter of minutes if you’re not careful, wasting all that money you spent.

I rubbed it all over with a coarse paste of garlic, fresh herbs from outside, salt, and pepper and let it sit for a while while I prepped other things. Then I rubbed off the paste and browned the loin all over in some duck fat until it was good and caramelized and there was some serious fond going on in the pan. Then I spatulated the herb paste back on top, put the lid on the pan, and shut off the heat.

That was it; over the next ten or so minutes the meat slowly rose to a perfect pink doneness without going past it at all. Lots of recipes call for browning and then finishing in the oven. Putting a lid on a pan makes it into an oven, saves energy, and is much harder to forget about. Turning the heat off adds another layer of security against ruining your dinner. You can always fire it up again for a minute if it’s too pink. This wasn’t, so I removed it and lit the burner again, deglazing the fond with some blackberry wine and a little whey.

I had used the rest of the whey to slowly braise some fennel and cabbage until it was all tender and luscious. The dark orange tangle is a fennel mostarda I made with mustard oil, maple syrup, clementine juice, and still more of that blackberry wine. It killed with the pork, and picked up the fennel flavor in the cabbage and the fruit in the pan sauce (not to mention the whey in both sauce and cabbage) to tie everything together most handsomely.

Initially, this plate—like the chicken in the previous post—might look more like fall or winter fare, but it wasn’t. First off, no starch, which kept it nimble, and second, the freshness of the herbs and overall clean tone of the combination made it just right for another grayish but not too chilly spring evening. Slices of this pork killed for lunch the next day, and the rest of the leftovers became another dinner which I’ll tell you about tomorrow.

When I imagined this meal, it was rather a lot like the poulet fermier aux morilles I had back in Paris on the night I got plowed tasting Burgundies at the huge agricultural fair. While that meal was a perfect drunk-thirty chilly March comfort food home run, this iteration ended up being a pretty perfect conclusion to a rainy yet balmy May Saturday.

I have already written several times about the profound pleasures to be found in a pan of morels cooked with garlic and cream, and this batch—supplemented with a couple of ramps from the patch out back and a generous pour of sherry—was particularly transportive. After I dredged the chicken in seasoned flour and got it all crispy, it seemed a shame to ruin that lovely crust, even with a luscious cream sauce, so I let it cook separately while I used a bit of the rendered fat to cook the mushrooms and make the sauce.

The sweet potatoes were previously baked, and had been sitting in the fridge, so I mashed them up with some buttermilk (the kid made butter yesterday) and heated the purée. There was also another perfect salad; we’re in the thick of salad season right now, and I couldn’t be happier. The greens I planted under protection in March are peaking right now, and the rain has made them explode. We can’t cut them fast enough.

To drink, of course, a bottle of Provençal rosé. It’s just about all I drink from the point in April when . . . → Read More: The Pleasure Principle]]>

When I imagined this meal, it was rather a lot like the poulet fermier aux morilles I had back in Paris on the night I got plowed tasting Burgundies at the huge agricultural fair. While that meal was a perfect drunk-thirty chilly March comfort food home run, this iteration ended up being a pretty perfect conclusion to a rainy yet balmy May Saturday.

I have already written several times about the profound pleasures to be found in a pan of morels cooked with garlic and cream, and this batch—supplemented with a couple of ramps from the patch out back and a generous pour of sherry—was particularly transportive. After I dredged the chicken in seasoned flour and got it all crispy, it seemed a shame to ruin that lovely crust, even with a luscious cream sauce, so I let it cook separately while I used a bit of the rendered fat to cook the mushrooms and make the sauce.

The sweet potatoes were previously baked, and had been sitting in the fridge, so I mashed them up with some buttermilk (the kid made butter yesterday) and heated the purée. There was also another perfect salad; we’re in the thick of salad season right now, and I couldn’t be happier. The greens I planted under protection in March are peaking right now, and the rain has made them explode. We can’t cut them fast enough.

To drink, of course, a bottle of Provençal rosé. It’s just about all I drink from the point in April when it feels like spring to the point in October when it feels like fall. I don’t remember which one it was; I bought a mixed case and they’re all good. While there is plenty of detail in a good rosé, quibbling about particular facets or food pairings is a total waste of time. It goes with everything, and it’s about twelve bucks a bottle: exactly the right match for food like this, which privileges pleasure above all other concerns.

By the end of the last post, I had figured out that one of the prominent flavor notes in lovage is quite similar to fenugreek. If you cut some, or, better, tear it, your hands will become insistently perfumed with the persistent aroma of the plant. When people dismiss it with variations of the “it’s like celery” line, that’s a cop-out on par with the “tastes like chicken” descriptor so loosely applied to things as different as mushrooms and alligator. Lovage doesn’t taste like celery, though it approximates it visually, up to a point. It’s much closer to fenugreek, with a whiff of caraway and a citrusy tang.

So, with hands thus contaminated, I made the rounds of the garden and gathered other things. The early planting of tatsoi was done, fixing to bolt, so I pulled it all, cutting the roots right into the compost pile. I try to leave as much dirt in the garden as possible; the outdoor sink is a boon, but needs some tinkering to fix a leak, and now there are wasps building a nest under it so there’s more to it than just turning it over and reconnecting the hose. It will likely wait until winter, knowing me.

I did get some asparagus, the first of the year, which is coming in fast now that we finally got some rain. There’s a profound difference between watering with a hose and rain; the long, cool days with steady drizzle interrupted with hard pours penetrates the soil in . . . → Read More: A Zoo In My Lovage]]>

By the end of the last post, I had figured out that one of the prominent flavor notes in lovage is quite similar to fenugreek. If you cut some, or, better, tear it, your hands will become insistently perfumed with the persistent aroma of the plant. When people dismiss it with variations of the “it’s like celery” line, that’s a cop-out on par with the “tastes like chicken” descriptor so loosely applied to things as different as mushrooms and alligator. Lovage doesn’t taste like celery, though it approximates it visually, up to a point. It’s much closer to fenugreek, with a whiff of caraway and a citrusy tang.

So, with hands thus contaminated, I made the rounds of the garden and gathered other things. The early planting of tatsoi was done, fixing to bolt, so I pulled it all, cutting the roots right into the compost pile. I try to leave as much dirt in the garden as possible; the outdoor sink is a boon, but needs some tinkering to fix a leak, and now there are wasps building a nest under it so there’s more to it than just turning it over and reconnecting the hose. It will likely wait until winter, knowing me.

I did get some asparagus, the first of the year, which is coming in fast now that we finally got some rain. There’s a profound difference between watering with a hose and rain; the long, cool days with steady drizzle interrupted with hard pours penetrates the soil in a way that a sprinkler can’t. The seeds can tell the difference; they leap up with a day or two of rain even after diligent hand-watering throughout the drought. Fuckers.

Anyway, this soup. Another frugal masterpiece, it had a precociously short list of ingredients. Some chicken bones, simmered with bacon rind, lovage, and onion to make a fragrant stock. About a cup of basmati rice lurking in back of the pantry drawer. A couple of carrots, some leftover lentil salad that people brought over for a dinner and we didn’t finish, sliced duck prosciutto, the asparagus, the tatsoi, some fish sauce for umami, and a chiffonade of lovage leaves for a reinforcing garnish.

The curry-adjacent odor of lovage has inspired me to come up with a couple of uses for it in the near future, before it all goes to seed (and I harvest the seed to use as a spice). A curry-type application, for sure, and a vinegar because it’s so aromatic and sharp. This time around, it was just a flavor for the soup. A glorious, one-off, random soup that meshed lovingly with the cool of a suddenly sunny spring evening. The transitional meals, they are the best.

The new Edible Manhattan is out, and in it is my reworked profile of Fish & Game in Hudson (where I’ll be dining this very evening, in fact) updated for spring and with some pictures of plated food. This is my first of what I hope will be many articles for them. If you live in the borough, pick up a copy since they only used one picture on their website.

This one was almost the cover (thanks to everyone who voted in the comments on their blog) and there’s another one I’m partial to after the jump.

Salsify, brown butter, hazelnuts, and . . . → Read More: If I Can Make It There, I’ll Make It Anywhere]]>

Olive oil cake, candies carrots, fresh cheese, and sunflower sprouts.

The new Edible Manhattan is out, and in it is my reworked profile of Fish & Game in Hudson (where I’ll be dining this very evening, in fact) updated for spring and with some pictures of plated food. This is my first of what I hope will be many articles for them. If you live in the borough, pick up a copy since they only used one picture on their website.

This one was almost the cover (thanks to everyone who voted in the comments on their blog) and there’s another one I’m partial to after the jump.

Salsify, brown butter, hazelnuts, and baby greens.

Lovage is a new favorite of mine in the garden. Apart from the fact that it’s a perennial, roaring back in early spring for some of the first new domestic greens, it has a beguiling aroma that’s like celery and citrus and fenugreek all rolled into one. As it’s peaking right now, ready to flower, I cut some stalks thinking that since they’re so fat they might take well to being treated like a vegetable. Cutting them released their perfume, which combined with the scintillating sunlight and the parch in my throat to unleash a savage hankering for an icy gin-based beverage featuring lovage.

I muddles a few slices of lovage stalks (leaves would work well, too) and then added gin and sake in about equal measure. This I shook hard with ice and strained into a glass. It was every bit as refreshing as it looks. A subsequent version involved the juice from a clementine, and it did not suck either. An absinthe rinse for the clear version would also be a welcome addition. Lovage would also work very well in a spicy bloody Mary, though it’s not a drink I like very much.

The herb also featured prominently in dinner, which I made for some friends who are moving away soon. With nettles and ramps at their peak, I decided to make colcannon, and to use the lovage in some braised cabbage so we’d have greens on both ends of the cooked spectrum: pale and yielding, vivid and fresh. Both of . . . → Read More: Love-Ache]]>

Lovage is a new favorite of mine in the garden. Apart from the fact that it’s a perennial, roaring back in early spring for some of the first new domestic greens, it has a beguiling aroma that’s like celery and citrus and fenugreek all rolled into one. As it’s peaking right now, ready to flower, I cut some stalks thinking that since they’re so fat they might take well to being treated like a vegetable. Cutting them released their perfume, which combined with the scintillating sunlight and the parch in my throat to unleash a savage hankering for an icy gin-based beverage featuring lovage.

I muddles a few slices of lovage stalks (leaves would work well, too) and then added gin and sake in about equal measure. This I shook hard with ice and strained into a glass. It was every bit as refreshing as it looks. A subsequent version involved the juice from a clementine, and it did not suck either. An absinthe rinse for the clear version would also be a welcome addition. Lovage would also work very well in a spicy bloody Mary, though it’s not a drink I like very much.

The herb also featured prominently in dinner, which I made for some friends who are moving away soon. With nettles and ramps at their peak, I decided to make colcannon, and to use the lovage in some braised cabbage so we’d have greens on both ends of the cooked spectrum: pale and yielding, vivid and fresh. Both of these preparations served as a verdant pedestal for some seared duck breast.

I steamed the nettles before mashing them into the spuds, though the heat from freshly-boiled potatoes is sufficient to destroy the stingers, because I was steaming the potatoes anyway and it was ever so easy to do the nettles first and then fill the basket with cubes of tuber. I didn’t cook the ramps, so they were nice and sharp and played beautifully off the earthy nettliciousness. Instead of the traditional butter or cream, I used olive oil, so they had a nice pommes écrasées vibe to them, and the result was simply wonderful eating.

The cabbage I just shredded thinly and cooked low and slow with slices of lovage stalk and copious lamb pho for about two hours. A little salt an vinegar at the end to brighten up the flavors, and we were good to go. Beverages included the above cocktail (clementine version) followed by a bottle of Gosset Champagne and then a 2007 Orion, which was peaking. A treat.

We ate it outside, while the kids did other things, and for a couple of hours it was just like the pre-child era, when we could hang out and stay up late and drink and enjoy our lives like normal people.

For Chronogram’s weekly podcast, this week I spoke with assistant editor Jennifer Gutman about the films I covered in my recent article, ramps, and how it’s possible that someone with a voice as sexy as mine is not already a media superstar. See those kittens up there? That’s some sterling new media savvy right there, and yet I labor in obscurity. They did use my ramp photo, though, so if you click and go listen you’ll get to see it for the . . . → Read More: Pod People]]>

For Chronogram’s weekly podcast, this week I spoke with assistant editor Jennifer Gutman about the films I covered in my recent article, ramps, and how it’s possible that someone with a voice as sexy as mine is not already a media superstar. See those kittens up there? That’s some sterling new media savvy right there, and yet I labor in obscurity. They did use my ramp photo, though, so if you click and go listen you’ll get to see it for the third time.