Figs, Bay & Wine

The November Harvest Calendar

2011-11-10T10:45:00.057-05:00

It feels as though we're standing at the edge of winter now. The harvest is almost done for the year - we're already starting to draw off cold storage for many of my favorite fall crops.

I love the scent of autumn, though really what is it other than the smell of decay? But there's still a mineral freshness to be found. Newly dug carrots.

Beets.

And a leafy crunch still to be found in cabbages.

And Brussels sprouts.

Even now there are still good grapes to be had.

The Romanesco is stunning.

The fennel too.

And the cauliflower, which roasts into a beautiful soup.

Other crops fresh from the field this month include shell beans, broccoli, collard greens, mesclun & parsnips. And the cold storage crops, apples, leeks, onions, pears, potatoes, pumpkins, winter squash & turnips are still new and full of flavor.

Crop notes are available in the sidebar harvest calendar over there on the right all month. The information comes from a guide published by the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. To familiarize yourself with what's in season where you live, I advise a visit to your own farmer's markets at least every couple of weeks. And ask lots of questions – no one knows which crops are at their peak quite like the people who grow them. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

g

Artichokes Poached in Olive Oil with Lemon Anchovy Sauce - a Recipe

2011-10-25T12:41:00.001-04:00

I'm tinkering. My kitchen is packed with quinces, baby leeks, and the last of the plums. In the meantime, here's a treat I've been setting out with drinks at the end of the day since the baby artichokes arrived, complete with my favorite tale of culinary revenge.

There is a wonderful story my friend and former boss tells about her exceedingly genteel Provençal mother-in-law and World War II. That side of her family lives still in a large country mas or farmhouse near Arles, and during the war, their home was occupied by the Nazis. This French family and a number of German officers lived side by side for over a year in strained civility. And it fell to my friend’s mother-in-law, then a very young bride, to cook meals for the enemy.

Once the war was over, one of the officers was ordered to stay behind and repair any damage to the family’s home, and one night, our heroine served up a platter of large globe artichokes. It soon became clear that the houseguest had never eaten an artichoke before. He picked up his knife and fork and managed to spear a few of the tough outer leaves – thorns and all – before bringing them to his lips and chewing for what must have been a very long and painful time.

Of course, my friend’s mother-in-law maintains to this day that not one member of the family corrected him, because it would have been unthinkably rude to embarrass a guest. But when we learn that they sat in cordial silence and watched the officer eat every leaf in this manner and then the choke, it may occur to some of us that the family – and perhaps in particular the young girl who’d prepared the man’s meals those many months – may have taken some modicum of satisfaction from such a discrete yet publicly drawn out revenge.

History does not relate how the artichokes had been prepared that night over 60 years ago, but this is a recipe from Provence that’s almost as old as time itself. Whether you use the large globe variety, or the small, nutty violets or poivrades of the region, this method brings out the delicate flavor of artichokes better than any other I’ve found. I’ve used some of the cooking oil to make a warm dipping sauce – not quite as traditional, but deliciously saline and tangy when scooped up in the little hollows of the artichoke halves.

If you use small artichokes (these lovelies came from Norwich Meadows Farm), cut your largest one in half before you begin. If the choke has formed, you’ll need to halve and clean the artichokes before you cook them. Otherwise you can just trim the outer leaves and keep them whole – in which case they’ll bloom like the little flowers they are as they cook in the hot olive oil. Large globe artichokes need to cook for much longer. You may quarter them and then clean them as I describe for the smaller specimens, but, if you’re serving them at the table rather than as hors’deuvres, you can leave them whole and skip the cleaning altogether. Vive la Résistance!

Serves 4 as an appetizer

Special equipment: a splatter screen

5 lemons
10 small artichokes or 4 globe artichokes
extra virgin olive oil
6 anchovy fillets, roughly chopped
good sea salt

Fill a small bowl halfway with cold water and squeeze in the juice of 1 of the lemons. Cut 2 more lemons in half and keep next to your work surface.

Clean an artichoke by first trimming the stem and cutting off the top 1 – 3 inches of leaves, just until you’ve removed the tough, fibrous portion. Rub the cut surfaces with lemon juice. Now pull off the tough base leaves and rub the base of the artichoke with lemon juice. Now cut the artichoke in half lengthwise and rub the newly exposed portion with lemon juice. Use a small spoon to scoop out the choke, and rub the area with lemon juice. Place the artichoke halves in the acidulated water to prevent browning, and continue with the rest of the artichokes (see photo below).

When your artichokes are clean, arrange them in a pot, cut sides facing up. Pour in olive oil until it comes halfway up the artichokes, and then pour in water to just cover them completely. Place the pot over high heat, cover with the splatter screen, and bring to a boil over high heat. Boil small artichokes for 15 – 25 minutes and larger ones for up to 45 minutes until all the splattering has stopped and the water has evaporated. The outer leaves of the artichokes should be lightly golden.

Using a slotted spoon, remove the artichokes to paper towels to drain. Measure 6 tablespoons of the cooking oil into a small saucepan and add the chopped anchovies. Sizzle over medium heat until the anchovies have dissolved. Remove from the heat and add the juice of a lemon.

When ready to serve, arrange the artichokes on a serving board or platter, shower with the juice of the remaining lemon, and sprinkle with sea salt. Decant the warm anchovy and lemon mixture into a small bowl, and serve immediately.

Toad in the Hole

2011-10-17T09:46:00.013-04:00

Something about all the wind and rain we've had lately makes me long for comfort, warmth, and the food of my youth. Here's another of the pieces I wrote as part of a feature on British food for my friends Kelly and Katie over at PixiesDidIt!

Bubble and squeak. Spotted dick. Girdle sponges. It occurs to me that British food may have acquired its undeserved, unfortunate reputation thanks to some of its more regrettable recipe titles. Personally though I happen to like the colorful names.

Take toad in the hole, one of the most comforting and crave-able classic nursery food dishes the world has ever known. Savory British “bangers” are sizzled over heat until golden, then baked in a blanket of Yorkshire pudding batter. The batter rises and browns around the sausages, leaving them peaking out from the various pockets that form. Like toads peering out of their holes even. The Yorkshire pudding soaks up the flavor of the sausages, which keep it soft and aromatic within, but crusty on the outside. The sausages crisp and dry a little where they are exposed but stay moist and plump underneath the batter. It’s utterly simple, the best of both worlds, and consummately reassuring.

The trick to Yorkshire pudding, whether for toad in the hole or otherwise, is to start with very hot fat. That’s why you preheat the casserole dish and its oil along with the oven - otherwise the batter won’t puff. The dish is best eaten at home on a chill evening, when your bones are weary. Preferably after some grueling physical activity, field hockey practice in the rain, say, and a subsequent hot shower, and just before sliding your heavy limbs between cool, clean sheets for sleep.

Serves 3 - 4

olive oil
8 medium sized, banger-style sausages
7/8 cup flour
1 tsp kosher salt
½ cup milk
½ cup water
2 eggs
optional for serving: onion gravy (I come from a long line of purists and prefer this without, but you can click on the link for a good recipe).

Pour a generous amount of olive oil (about 1/8 inch or ½ cm deep) into a fairly deep 8 – 9 inch casserole dish. Place the dish in the center of a cold oven and preheat to 450 F (230 C, gas mark 8).

Use a sharp knife to prick the sausages in several places. Heat a large sauté pan over medium-high heat. Add a good glug of olive oil and then the sausages. Allow to brown deeply before turning and browning on the other side.

Meanwhile, whisk together the flour and salt in a mixing bowl. Add the milk, water, and eggs and whisk again until just combined. Do not overmix. Set aside to rest.

When the oven is preheated, remove the casserole dish from the oven and arrange the sausages in the hot oil. Working quickly to keep the oil hot, pour over the batter and immediately place back in the center of the oven. Bake until the batter is puffed and golden brown – about 25 – 35 minutes, but this can vary based on your oven.

Venetian Tagliatelle with Roasted Chicken, Fennel & Pine Nuts

2011-10-11T10:28:00.013-04:00

This is rainy day food. Bitterly damp, cold day food. What after all could provoke the desire to hunker, batten, and huddle more than the off-season in Venice, when the best days find the whole city shrouded in chill and mist? When you can circle, lost for hours in some remote corner of one of the comunes you hadn’t known existed before, knowing that at any turn, you might find yourself adrift in fog, or ankle-deep in water, or, rarest of all, at the edge of some tiny piazza lightly dusted with snow.

And this tagliatelle dish is classically Venetian, known as “frisinsal de tagiadele” in the local dialect and traditionally served on Friday nights for the Sabbath in the Jewish ghetto there. Though there are versions from Jewish communities all over Italy, the Venetian version with its roasted chicken and sauce made from the pan drippings is the one that I find particularly warming and crave-able. I like roast chicken more than just about anything, and this is essentially a celebration of what a glorious thing a well-seasoned, well-roasted chicken really is.

I learned from Claudia Roden’s The Book of Jewish Food that sage is traditionally used, but I’ve never had it that way, even in Venice, and I prefer it without. Then again, the fennel isn’t traditional either, and nor is the wine or the lemon juice, but I’ve added them over the years and love the dish all the more ever since. And fennel’s just coming into season, so it’s the perfect time to try the recipe out, especially as the weather cools.

This is one of those dishes, like risotto or bouillabaisse, where the quality of the stock makes a vast difference. Not like some chef telling you it’s better to always use homemade stock and to keep batches on hand in your freezer just like they do, but an actual, huge difference. If you’re out of homemade stock and want the full experience, roast the chicken earlier in the day, deglaze and reserve the cooking juices, remove the meat from the bones, and then use the carcass to make stock before proceeding. But then again, don’t let the absence of homemade stock or the will to make it stop you from trying this dish. I have friends who repeatedly request this dish for their birthdays, though I gladly make it for them on any other day too, just so I can have it, just so I can bear witness to their delight.

This dish is ultimately about intensifying the most soul-nourishing of flavors at every turn, with every opportunity. I’ve even, in moments of utter hedonism, taken the chicken’s skin and sizzled it in olive oil until crisp, to adorn the pasta with just before serving. There is no need to rinse the chicken – that just spreads bacteria to other parts of the kitchen. Make several slices in the thigh and leg meat though, to ensure it roasts at the same speed as the breast meat.

Serves 4 - 6

2 fennel bulbs, with fronds attached if possible
extra virgin olive oil
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper
1 chicken, neck reserved if possible
3 lemons
2 stalks fresh rosemary, plus 1 tsp minced fresh rosemary leaves
½ cup golden raisins
½ cup pine nuts
2 glasses white wine
2 cups (plus extra) good chicken stock, preferably homemade
1 lb tagliatelle or pappardelle (I prefer non-egg pasta here, but it's just personal taste)
a good handful of flat parsley leaves if your fennel didn't have its fronds attached

Preheat the oven to 425 F (220 C, gas mark 7)

Remove the fronds from the fennel stalks and reserve. Trim the stalks from the fennel bulbs and reserve. Trim the root ends from the fennel bulbs and then slice the bulbs in half. Using the center of the bulbs to keep the segments intact, slice into thin wedges – you’ll want them to be thin enough to caramelize and then toss with the pasta later. Place the fennel in a good sized, heavy-bottomed roasting tin (stove top safe), along with the chicken neck if they’ve included it with your chicken, and toss with a generous glug of olive oil and plenty of salt and pepper.

Clear an area in the center of the pan for the chicken. Pat dry the chicken with paper towels and use a sharp knife to slice through the thigh and leg meat in 3 – 4 places on each side. Season the cavity generously with salt and pepper. Quarter one on the lemons and place in the cavity along with the fennel stalks and 2 stalks of rosemary. Rub the skin with olive oil and season with plenty of salt and pepper, being sure to rub some into the cuts you’ve made in the thighs and legs.

Place the pan in the center of the oven. After 15 minutes, reduce the heat to 350 F (180 C, gas mark 4) and roast for an hour and 15 minutes more or until the legs move freely in their joints and the juices run clear.

Meanwhile, boil some water and pour it over the raisins. Allow them to soak for 30 minutes. Place a small sauté pan over very low heat and toast the pine nuts, stirring often. They burn very easily, so don’t walk away, and remove them from the metal pan as soon as they’re lightly golden and fragrant.

Lift the chicken from the pan and allow to rest and cool at least 15 minutes on a plate to catch the juices. Use a slotted spoon to lift the fennel out and reserve in a bowl. Leave the chicken neck in the pan and set it on the stove top. Add the wine, and turn the heat to high. Allow the wine to reduce by half, using a spoon or metal spatula to help loosen the fond – all those caramelized juices are where the best flavor is. Drain the raisins and add along with the minced rosemary, along with any juices that have collected in the plate the chicken is resting on. Then add 2 cups of best quality chicken stock. Reduce the heat to medium-low and allow to reduce by half again. Remove the chicken neck and discard. Check the seasoning with more salt and pepper. Then remove from the heat and reserve.

Meanwhile, use your hands, two forks, whatever works, to shred all of the chicken flesh and skin into bite-sized pieces. Be sure not to let any of the juices escape. Add to the juices in the pan. You can hold the sauce like this up to 3 days. Remember meat braises tend to develop better flavor overnight, and this is no bad thing.

When you’re ready to serve, bring a large pot of water to the boil and salt generously. Heat the chicken sauce in a large pan if it’s cooled. Be careful not to bubble too long and lose too much liquid. You can always top it up with more hot chicken stock if the sauce gets too dry (the pasta can soak up quite a bit of sauce) – just be sure to recheck the seasoning. Add the pasta to the water and cook until just al dente and then drain.

Meanwhile mince the fennel fronds or parsley.

When the pasta is done, add the juice of a lemon to the chicken, check the seasoning one more time with more salt, pepper, or lemon juice if necessary, and add the pasta to the chicken, tossing to combine. Add half the pine nuts and most of the minced herbs. Plate immediately (if the sauce sits too long on the pasta, too much will be absorbed and the pasta will dry out, though you can always freshen it with more stock). Garnish with the remaining pine nuts and herbs and serve immediately.

The October Harvest Calendar

2011-10-03T13:13:00.081-04:00

The seasons are finally shifting. The mornings have gone crisp. And the first of the chestnuts came in this week.

The grape harvest is in full swing.

And winter squash have arrived in gnarled, multicolored heaps.

It's hard to believe right now that most of these crops will be gone by next month. Especially when late summer treats like my favorite string beans are still in abundance.

There's eggplant.

Tomatoes.

Peppers.

And corn.

The cauliflower is peaking.

The potatoes are in their last month.

And there are even a few plums still to be found.

But it's the prunes and tiny seckel pears that I've been buying up by the pound.

And quinces. Positively nothing says autumn like the fresh, earthy-floral perfume of ripe quinces hanging in the air. Put out a bowl of them in your house and see.

Just don't wait too long. All the damage from Hurricane Irene means the harvest of these and so many other crops is going to be more fleeting than usual. Many of the farmers have had to cut back the number of days they come to market this fall. It makes what they bring in all the more precious.

The River Garden's rosehips - something I look forward to all year - can only be bought on Fridays and Saturdays now. The farm lost about 85% of its crops in the storm. To support farmers as they continue to recover, keep shopping the greenmarkets whenever you can and click on the link for information on the Greenmarket's Hurricane Irene Relief Fund.

Crop notes are available in the sidebar harvest calendar over there on the right all month. The information comes from a guide published by the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. To familiarize yourself with what's in season where you live, I advise a visit to your own farmer's markets at least every couple of weeks. And ask lots of questions – no one knows which crops are at their peak quite like the people who grow them. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

Spiced Plum & Fig Frangipane Tart - A Ghost Story

2011-09-25T19:31:00.040-04:00

The garden behind our house in Scotland seemed endless, though it wasn’t, of course, when I snuck back in a few years ago as an adult. It sat in the center of a small fishing village, after all, and the land stretched back towards the old graveyard. There were high stone walls, small apple orchards, a rose garden, gooseberry bushes, a great lawn that no one ever mowed so shortly as to stop its being comfortable to lie on, beds of bluebells that squeaked under your wellie boots in the spring, and a pergola, overgrown with ancient, prolific grapes and plums, that dropped heavy, purple fruit down onto the mossy flagstones below in the early autumn.

In the northeastern corner of the garden, just where the two banks of pergola met and the grapes and plums merged, was a dark, dank place inhabited by ghosts. I mean that quite literally, and I can think of several people who spent a significant amount of time in the garden and can corroborate. But even those who didn't see anything, who had no inclination to believe in beings so unscientific, could not refute that the corner was unsettling. A chill that wouldn't lift even on the sunniest of days, a certainty that one was being watched. We all felt it. Even the youngest of children would point to that shadowy place and name their fear. "A fox!" I remember one person almost too small to talk crying out.

The ghosts didn’t stop our friends from coming to play in droves, though, and to gorge themselves on our plums while the season lasted. The more friends that came, the more windfallen fruit was eaten, and the further towards this forbidding corner it was necessary to edge in the collection of the wine-dark, egg-shaped plums - daring just a few feet closer to the shadows, seizing as many as one could grasp before kicking out, bolting back to the safety of the central lawn. Many years later, an unrelated search through the village records revealed that the same part of our garden had once been encompassed by the 12th Century parish church's graveyard. A mass grave for criminals.

All this is to tell how entirely the scent of ripe plum flesh; a whiff of wood smoke on the air as my father burned great piles of prunings; icy, chill-blained feet (I was inevitably barefoot in the bitter sea air, on those cold, damp stones); and a growing whisper of fear as the safe, sunny stretches of walk were picked clean of sweet, bloom-dusted, gently bruised fruit - these will always be autumn to me.

And autumn it is. Needless to say, this tart is not nearly so sinister, but rather undeniably comforting, warming and irresistible as the harvest reaches its height and the days draw in. Ginger and star anise both set off plums and figs, enhancing their perfume in a smoky way I find evocative of and perfect for autumn. Success depends on the ripeness of the fruit you use. The sugar content in plums is at its peak around here right now, and you can tell figs are ripe when the tiny opening at their blossom end starts to weep a drop or two of syrupy liquid.

Serves 8

7 oz (200g) flour
pinch of kosher salt
1 stick (4 oz, 100g) unsalted butter, diced
1 egg yolk
a little ice water

3 ½ oz (100g) unsalted butter
4 oz (125g) granulated sugar
2 oz (60g) flour
1 tsp ginger
¾ tsp cinnamon
¼ tsp ground star anise
2 eggs
1 tsp vanilla extract
4 oz (125g) ground blanched almonds
½ lb (200g) smallish plums
½ lb (200g) ripe figs

Dry beans for baking blind

Lightly butter and flour a 9-inch tart tin that’s at least 1 ½ inches deep.

In a food processor, pulse together the flour, salt and butter until the texture of coarse breadcrumbs. (Alternately, you may use your fingertips to rub the butter into the dry ingredients). Add the egg yolk and pulse quickly, then only just enough ice water to bring the dough together – too much will cause your tart shell to shrink as it bakes.

Turn the dough onto a cool, lightly floured surface and roll out just large enough to line the tart tin. Gently press into the tin and trim to make sure the sides are an even height. Chill in the fridge for half an hour or cover with plastic wrap and chill longer if needed.

Place a baking sheet in the middle of the oven and preheat the oven to 400F (200C, gas mark 6)

Remove the plastic wrap, prick the dough in several places with the tip of a sharp knife, line the tart shell with aluminum foil or baking parchment, fill with dry beans, and place onto the hot baking sheet. Bake for 20 minutes, remove from the oven, and carefully remove the beans along with their parchment or foil. Return to the oven and bake for another 5 minutes until dry to the touch.

Meanwhile, use a kitchen mixer to beat together the butter and sugar until pale and fluffy. Reduce the speed to low and add the eggs one at a time and then the vanilla. Meanwhile sift together the flour, ginger, cinnamon, and star anise. Remove the bowl from the food processor and use a spatula to gently fold in the ground almonds and flour. Spoon the frangipane filling into the tart shell and smooth with the back of a spoon.

Cut the plums in half lengthwise and remove the stones. Trim the stems from the figs and cut crosses into the tops. Gently squeeze the bases of the figs to open the “petals” you’ve created. Arrange over the almond filling, plums cut-side down and figs cut-end up in whatever pattern or lack thereof that you like. Gently place the tart onto the hot baking sheet and bake for 40 – 50 minutes or until the frangipane is risen, golden, and just set in the middle. Remove from the oven and cool at least 15 – 20 minutes before serving.

Fresh Figs with Fleur de Sel, Aged Balsamic & Hazelnuts

2011-09-15T20:50:00.004-04:00

Nursery school just began, and I am proving even less adept at the transition than previous evidence had suggested I might be. I have a few things in the works, but in the meantime, can I just say that the figs are magnificent this year? Nary a tannic, dry disappointment in sight. I've been making this dish a lot - tonight actually as dinner in its entirety, along with a fresh wedge of Cantalet and a glass of Malbec. It was soul-restoring perfection.

Although Spanish and Portuguese missionaries brought figs to the New World in the 15th and 16th centuries, the fruit wasn’t really grown in Northeastern U.S. until the 1800s when Mediterranean families moving to the States nursed cuttings all the way across the Atlantic to plant in their new gardens. These days locally grown fruit is available for a small window each year, though it’s still rare to see figs at a farmer’s market here. The harvest tends to come a little later than in the northern Mediterranean – it usually starts towards the end of August or in early September.

I like my fresh figs with as little done to them as possible. In fact, I far prefer them raw to cooked. Though I’m often tempted to try new fig recipes, I have yet to be convinced that there is any way to improve on the light sweetness of a perfectly ripe fruit – perhaps slightly split by its own fecundity and often weeping a little honeyed nectar from its blossom end. Ferociously pink and very nearly liquid within, and with a floral fragrance reminiscent of both blossoms and earth, tree-ripened figs are something I dream of all year. And I can’t see why I’d want to mask their perfection with cooking.

Of course, when celebrating such a short and longed-for harvest, it’s only human nature to feel an urge to adorn. So I’ve come up with a number of preparations that make a platter of fresh figs seem more of an event – why isn’t this country more comfortable with serving a bowl of perfectly ripe seasonal fruit at the end of a meal? Why doesn’t it seem like enough to most of us?

I’m not sure, but this is my compromise. The syrupy twang of good aged balsamic vinegar and the gently floral flavor of fleur de sel meld with the juicy interior of the opened figs. And the toasted hazelnuts layer a faint autumnal smokiness over the whole thing. It’s one of my favorite late-summer/early-autumn desserts and a lovely way to end a meal.

Serves 4

¼ cup hazelnuts
1 lb ripe figs (I like to use green figs here, such as Calimyrna), rinsed and patted dry
good quality aged balsamic vinegar – should be thick and sweet
fleur de sel or other good sea salt

Preheat the oven to 300 F.

Spread the hazelnuts in a small baking tray or dish and roast for 15 – 20 minutes until lightly browned and fragrant. Be very careful not to burn them. Once slightly cooled, chop the hazelnuts or pulse them a few times in the food processor.

Trim any stems from the figs. With a sharp knife, gently score an “X” on the top of each fig, being careful not to cut more than ¾ of the way down the fruit. Press your fingers into the base of the fruit until the 4 “petals” you have created open to expose the pink center.

Arrange the figs on a platter. Drizzle with a little aged balsamic, sprinkle with a little fleur de sel, and finish by showering with some of the toasted hazelnuts – you may not need them all. Serve immediately.

Fennel Sausages Roasted with Herbs & Cherry Tomatoes

2011-09-09T20:51:00.007-04:00

It never ceases to amaze me how, towards the end of summer, my entire being seems to change course. I dream longingly of crisp mornings. I churn out baked goods at an irrational pace. I shop for corduroy. And most of all I hanker after richer flavors, ones that would never have appealed even a few weeks before. The market is filling with brassy, saturated colors, the flavors of harvest time, and unquestioningly my appetite follows suit.

This recipe - something I first had in the Arezzo province of Tuscany – is a perfect way to harness the more robust herbs and tomatoes of late summer. It offers up that jammy savor I’m suddenly craving, but with crops that are utterly of the moment.

The sausages in Tuscany tend to be bold, seasoned with garlic and plenty of the region’s wild fennel. Back in New York, I use the fennel sausages from Faicco’s Pork Store in the West Village for this dish. They’re sweet, flecked with earthy fennel seed, and are unfailingly fresh – one of the best deals in the city.

I like my sausages burnished brown, even crisp on the outside. If you prefer yours less well-done, remove them from the oven after 45 minutes and test to be sure they’re cooked through – they should be fine. These are lovely over some swiss chard or spinach that’s been sautéed in olive oil. The clean mineral quality of both leaves makes a pleasant note against the sticky, caramelized sausages and a twangy-sweet drizzle of aged balsamic added just before serving, but on nights when you’re in need of more sustenance, some white shell beans dressed in fruity olive oil are authentic and very good too. Drink with a Sangiovese to enjoy this as I did the first time. Last week I had it with a nice Ruffino, and the pairing was perfect.

Serves 4

12 sweet Italian sausages
2 cups ripe cherry, grape, or other small, sweet tomatoes
1 – 2 heads garlic, preferably rocambole, cloves separated but unpeeled
big handful fresh basil leaves
12 stems fresh thyme
1 tbsp fennel seeds
extra virgin olive oil
balsamic vinegar
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper
aged balsamic vinegar or balsamic reduction (optional)

Preheat the oven to 425 F (220 C, gas mark 7)

Prick the sausages in a couple of places on both sides and place in a roasting pan (no need to separate if they’re still linked), with the tomatoes, separated garlic cloves, basil leaves, thyme stems, and fennel seeds. Drizzle generously with olive oil and a healthy splash of balsamic vinegar. Season well with salt and pepper and then toss all the ingredients with your hands to combine. Rearrange in a single layer and roast on a rack in the upper third of the oven for 30 minutes. Turn the sausages over and then roast for another 30 minutes until the sausages are deeply golden and the garlic is soft inside its paper.

Serve hot over wilted greens and/or white beans with another drizzle of balsamic vinegar, or even better something more aged and syrupy.

The September Harvest Calendar

2011-09-01T18:55:00.005-04:00

An earthquake. A hurricane. Now what?

Hopefully autumn. A deepening of flavors, a richness to the light, a peaceful drawing in of days. It's not that I wish summer away, and we've had a lovely one without too much of the punishing heat the city usually musters, but I do look forward to autumn all year.

Most of September still belongs to summer, but the crops are bolder now, the colors and flavors a little brash in their intensity.

Think tomatoes.

Eggplants.

And peppers, peppers everywhere.

The herbs are at their sturdiest.

The rocambole garlic cured but still temptingly juicy.

And the fruit couldn't be more evocative of late summer. Blueberries, cantaloupes, peaches, and watermelon.

Apples are suddenly fresh, crisp, and early-season-tart rather than sickly and mealy from cold storage. And there are even a few pears about.

Other new harvests this month will include shell beans, brussels sprouts, lima beans, pumpkins and grapes. Plus the second pea and raspberry harvests are underway. Be sure to take advantage of beet greens, cucumbers, radishes, scallions, blueberries, cantaloupes, peaches, plums and prunes. This is the last month they’ll be available from the field.

Crop notes are available in the sidebar harvest calendar over there on the right all month. The information comes from a guide published by the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. To familiarize yourself with what's in season where you live, I advise a visit to your own farmer's markets at least every couple of weeks. And ask lots of questions – no one knows which crops are at their peak quite like the people who grow them. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

Happy summer and happy September!

Peach Crostata with Fennel Sugar

2011-08-25T16:41:00.021-04:00

The peach harvest is in full swing, and this crostata is something I’ve been making for years now to celebrate that delicious moment late in summer when the fruit’s flavor reaches its height. In fact we love high season peaches so much that I spend much of June and July prowling the farmer’s market with a surly expression, as though it’s the farmers’ fault the fruit isn’t ready yet. The first time you taste this crostata though, I hope you will understand why.

I’m always sort of perplexed as to why the peach and fennel combination isn’t seen more on this side of the Atlantic. It’s one of my most beloved flavors from both Provence and northern Italy, both of which happen to be ranked among the world’s leading peach producers. Jars of peach and fennel seed confiture or marmellata can be found all over the markets there.

The concept here is as simple as it gets: bash open some fennel seed to release the oils, sprinkle over the ripest peaches you can find, pile them onto a pastry circle to make a free-form, rustic tart, and bake until golden. The result is the most aromatic, intensified, peachiest peaches you can imagine. Something about the earthy fennel raises the peaches’ flavor and perfume to sublime heights, and the flaky, warm pastry is wonderful for soaking up the juices. You don’t even need a dollop of cream or a scoop of vanilla ice cream, though I’ve never known them to hurt.

Buy freestone peaches for this whenever you can. They make the job of halving, stoning, and slicing the peaches far easier obviously, but I also find I prefer the juicier texture of freestone peaches for baking and tend to keep my clingstone peaches for jam. And avoid the temptation of using slightly under-ripe fruit here. Baked peaches give as good as they get. In other words, they won’t miraculously ripen, sweeten, or juice-up in the oven.

The pastry here was inspired by a galette dough from an old favorite, Dorie Greenspan’s Baking with Julia. It’s a wonderful, buttery, flaky recipe that works for both sweet and savory tarts. The cornmeal gives it welcome crunch – enough to hold syrupy fillings like this one.

Serves 6 – 8

3 tbsp plain yogurt
1/3 cup (approximately) ice water
I cup all-purpose flour
¼ cup cornmeal
1 tsp granulated sugar
½ tsp salt
7 tbsp cold unsalted butter, diced

1 tbsp fennel seed
2 tbsp granulated sugar
6 - 7 large, ripe peaches (roughly 2lbs of fruit), halved, stoned, and sliced into wedges (about 10 wedges per large peach)
1 egg

Make the crostata dough:

Mix the yogurt and water together in a small bowl and set aside. Whisk together the flour, cornmeal, sugar and salt in a large bowl. Add the diced butter, and working just with the tips of your fingers, rub into the dry ingredients until the mixture is speckled with pieces of butter that vary in size from breadcrumbs to peas. (You can pulse it in a food processor if you prefer).

Use a fork to whisk in the yogurt and ice water mixture, a couple of tablespoons at a time, just until soft curds form. You want to avoid making the dough too wet or it’ll be difficult to handle later. Place the dough on some plastic wrap and press it down to form a disk. Wrap and chill at least two hours or overnight. The dough can be frozen at this point for up to one month if wrapped airtight. It will take about 20 minutes to thaw.

Assemble and bake the crostata:

Preheat the oven to 400 F. Line a baking sheet (with sides, not a flat cookie sheet) with baking parchment.

Use a mortar and pestle to bash up the fennel seeds, stir in the sugar, and set aside.

Roll the pastry dough out over a well-floured surface to a 12-inch circle, roll up around your rolling pin and transfer to the parchment-lined baking sheet. In a medium bowl, gently toss the sliced peaches with half of the fennel sugar. Heap them in the center of the pastry circle (see the photo above) and fold the sides of the dough up over the filling, working around the circle, so that each fold overlaps the last (see the photo below). If your dough is too sticky, use a floured bench scraper or the floured side of a chef’s knife to help you fold over the edges.

In a small bowl, whisk together the egg with a splash of water. Use a pastry brush to brush the top of the pastry with the egg mixture and then sprinkle over the rest of the fennel sugar.

Bake in the center of the oven until the pastry is golden and crisp – start checking at 50 minutes. Transfer the baking sheet to a cooling rack and allow to cool for 10 minutes. Use a wide spatula to help you lift the crostata off of the rack and onto the cooling rack. Serve warm or at room temperature – you’ll want to slice it with a large, sharp knife.

Homemade Raspberry Jam & a Trifle for Purists

2011-08-17T13:16:00.009-04:00

Even though trifle is usually the stuff of cooler months, I've been in a bit of a jam-making frenzy these past few weeks. I think I'm ready to pack up summer, hunker down a bit, put on a sweater and watch the days grow short. As I recently told someone, I'm ready to make the switch from Kirs to Communists. Plus I've been spending quite a bit of time this summer with some childhood friends from Scotland. There's nothing like old friends, or jam season for that matter, to bring on a wave of nostalgia. Here then is a piece I wrote on trifle, complete with plenty of my mother's raspberry jam, as part of a feature on British food for my friends Kelly and Katie over at PixiesDidIt!:

Though it’s essentially a dessert constructed of layers of various creams and confections, the subtleties of trifle have changed dramatically over the years and differ wildly from chef to chef, and house to house, even now. While many of the variations out there today are delectable, the truth is that trifle has suffered much over time. It started life quite humbly in the 18th century as sponge dipped into custard, covered with jam, and topped with various sweetmeats. But trifle enjoyed its real heyday in the mid 19th century, by which point it had evolved into a dessert constructed out of layers of sponge or macaroons, soaked in sherry or white wine, covered with custard and then citrus-flecked syllabub, and topped with whipped cream. So far, so good.

It wasn’t until the 50s and 60s that things began to unravel. Suddenly instant custard, texturally troubling layers of Jell-o, insipid, weeping canned pears, peaches, and apricots, and shamelessly camp garnishes like multi-colored sprinkles, maraschino cherries, and silver dragées entered the mix. As Nigel Slater noted in Eating for England, “Once gracing our tables like a favourite and slightly tiddly old aunt, our cherished party dessert now resembled nothing more than an old tart in a leopardskin coat.”

In other words, embrace your inner purist. In my family’s case the dish has always meant a simple construction — one layer per ingredient. First comes freshly baked sponge cake, bright with lemon and sandwiched with homemade, barely-set raspberry jam. The cake with its jam is cut into narrow wedges, which are arranged in the bottom of a deep trifle dish. Orange liqueur or sherry is sprinkled over the cake, and then a layer of fresh raspberries is added. Fresh custard, fragrant with vanilla, is poured over the top and left to set before being topped by whipped cream. The result is so indulgent, so pillowy, that it feels vaguely unchaste. We have trifle at Christmas, we have it for Easter, we even have it on Thanksgiving, though I’m sure that’s quite sacrilegious of us. But really, trifle — proper, honestly constructed trifle — is too sublime a treat to waste your time pondering any moral implications.

Getting a good custard together for trifle can be tricky. You want it to be thin enough to soak down into the sponge cake, but then it needs to set well enough that the trifle has at least a little structural integrity. I’ll admit I add a little cornstarch here. Consider it a safety net of sorts. You can make this custard a couple of days ahead of time in a pinch, and store it in the fridge with a layer of saran wrap covering the surface, but I far prefer to pour the custard over the berries and cake while it’s hot. It amalgamates with the cake so much better, and I love how it releases the juices from the raspberries and stains the sponge a deep, crimson red.

And feel free to improvise. With the jam, the liqueur, the berries, the flavor of the cake or the custard. Just no jello or silver balls, please.

My mother and grandmother's raspberry jam:

Up to 2lbs of raspberries - no more
Equal weight granulated sugar

Preheat oven to 250 F (130 C, gas mark 1/2)

Put clean jars into the oven for 10 minutes to sterilize. Put the raspberries in a medium pot over low heat until they start to give up their juice. Add the sugar and stir continuously until it dissolves.

Turn up the heat and boil for 2 - 3 minutes until the bubbles get a little smaller - almost foamy (or the surface goes "skittery" as Granny used to say). Place a drop of jam on a plate and put it in the freezer for 30 - 60 seconds. Push the blob of jam with your finger. Keep checking every minute or so. As soon as the surface wrinkles when pushed, the jam is ready. This is a very runny jam, which is how we like it.

Pour the jam into jars. Let it cool with the lids on to form a seal, tighten the rims, and store in a cool, dark place.

My mother and grandmother's trifle:

Serves 8

4 oz unsalted butter, plus extra for baking
4 oz granulated sugar
2 eggs
juice of 1 lemon
pinch of salt
4 oz all purpose flour
1 tsp baking powder
¾ cup raspberry jam (see recipe above if you prefer to make your own)
¼ cup Grand Marnier or orange liqueur
4 - 5 cups (about 16 - 20 oz.) raspberries (quantity depends on the width of your trifle bowl)
10 egg yolks
¾ cup granulated sugar
3 tbsp cornstarch
pinch of kosher salt
4 cups whole milk
1 vanilla bean
1 pint heavy cream

For the sponge cake:

Preheat the oven to 350 F (180 C, gas mark 4)

Butter an 8 inch cake pan. Cream together the butter and the sugar with an electric mixer until slightly lightened in color. Add the eggs one at a time, mixing well until combined. Add the lemon juice and salt and mix again. Add the flour and the baking powder and gently stir until just combined. Do not over mix. Spread the batter into the pan and bake in the center of the oven for 25 – 30 minutes until a wooden toothpick comes out clean. Cool on a rack for 15 minutes before turning the cake out of its pan.

Use a long, serrated knife to cut the cake in half across its equator. Spread the jam over one half and then sandwich the cake back together. Slice the cake into 1 inch wide strips. Then slice the cake in half the other way, to divide the strips in half lengthwise.

Line the bottom of the trifle bowl with these strips and then drizzle over the Grand Marnier. Next tumble over the raspberries and arrange in an even layer.

For the vanilla custard:

In a large bowl, whisk together the egg yolks and ½ cup of the sugar and set aside.

In a heavy-bottomed saucepan, whisk together the remaining ¼ cup of sugar, the cornstarch, and the salt. Whisk in ¼ cup of the milk until smooth. Split the vanilla bean lengthwise with a sharp knife and scrape out the seeds. Add the seeds and the vanilla pod to the saucepan and whisk in the rest of the milk. Bring to a boil over medium heat, stirring quite often to prevent the mixture from scalding.

Whisking the whole time, slowly drizzle some of the hot milk mixture into the egg yolks, gradually add a little more at a time until it’s completely incorporated. Transfer immediately back to the pot and cook, stirring constantly now, and being careful not to let the mixture boil, for 3 – 4 minutes until quite thick. You can take its temperature if you’re feeling precise – you’re looking for 170 F (76 C).

Immediately pour the custard through a sieve into a clean bowl. You may reserve it at this point, or do as I like to and pour it straight over the raspberries. Allow to cool completely, undisturbed.

To serve:

Just before serving, whip the cream. You want it to barely hold a soft, lazy peak. Top the custard with the cream and serve immediately.

Tuscan Kale Chips with Lemon & Sea Salt

2011-08-08T09:40:00.009-04:00

Kale is a primitive form of cabbage and seems to be native to the eastern Mediterranean. Varieties similar to the Lacinato shown were prized for their delicate flavor by both the Ancient Greeks and Romans, who brought them west to France and Britain.

The field-grown baby Lacinato or Tuscan kale is a treat right now. Young, sweet, and hardly a woody stem in sight. It's at its best both in mid-summer and in the early winter, when the frost has had a chance to up the sugar content in more mature and strongly flavored plants.

While the kale is still so small and tender though, I toss it with fruity olive oil and bake it whole just until crisp, giving it a quick shower of lemon juice and sea salt as it comes out of the oven. The long, slender leaves are far more elegant than normal kale chips, but every bit as addictive - particularly with an apéritif at that time, very early in the evening, when something revitalizing with salt and crunch and twang is called for.

Young Lacinato or Tuscan kale leaves, any thick stems and veins trimmed (or any other kale leaves, trimmed of stems and veins and torn into manageable pieces)
olive oil
fresh lemon juice
finely ground sea salt or kosher salt

Preheat the oven to 300 F (150 C, gas mark 2)

Rinse and pat dry the kale leaves, making sure that any thicker stems or veins have been trimmed. In a large bowl, toss the leaves with a drizzle of olive oil until evenly coated. Line baking sheets with parchment paper and, working in batches, arrange the leaves in a single layer, being sure not to have any overlap. Bake until dry and crisp - start checking at 20 minutes. Shower with lemon juice and sprinkle with salt before cooling slightly. Arrange standing upright in glasses as shown if desired and serve immediately.

The August Harvest Calendar

2011-08-01T06:38:00.001-04:00

I go to the market early now, before the white glare and scalding heat of high summer take hold for the day.

The rhubarb is long gone, and strawberries are thin on the ground, but the familiar players of late summer are starting to stack up.

Young eggplants, without any of their autumnal bitterness yet. Truly good tomatoes.

And peppers.

Tangles of sweet-smelling string beans.

And bunches of garlic, cured for the winter already.

There are fragrant mountains of lettuce, perfect for cutting through the heat in refreshingly cold little bowls of green gazpacho, laced with sherry vinegar.

The lemony twang of purslane cools and calms too.

And there are still peas, though they'll disappear soon before their second harvest in the early autumn.

Even the flowers are looking a little sultry these days. Pillowy beds of hydrangeas.

Lazy jumbles of sunflowers.

And carpets of chamomile. The scent alone leaves me ready for sleep.

But who am I kidding? August is about the fruit.

Tranquil.

And riotous.

The cherries are all but done now too, and there will be no more raspberries until the second harvest in September and October. New crops this month also include cauliflower, celery, leeks, winter squash, turnips, blackberries, cantaloupes, and prunes.

Crop notes are available in the sidebar harvest calendar over there on the right all month. The information comes from a guide published by the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. To familiarize yourself with what's in season where you live, I advise a visit to your own farmer's markets at least every couple of weeks. And ask lots of questions – no one knows which crops are at their peak quite like the people who grow them. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

Happy summer and happy August!

\

Wild Bramble Cake with Beurre Noisette

2011-07-25T08:09:00.038-04:00

My parents live in New Hampshire at the edge of several hundred acres of woods. At the bottom of the garden here, for here is where I am on a visit this week, there grows a healthy, low hedge of wild brambles that has slowly advanced out of the woods and around one side of our sheltered, sunny lawn. The crop is never huge, but it lasts from around the beginning of August until the first frost.

Each morning we traipse down to the westerly-facing edge of the garden to collect whatever has ripened overnight before the birds can get to the glossy, black berries. And every evening before dusk, we pick a second harvest, those that weren’t quite ready that morning but are now juicy and sun-warm and worth rescuing from whatever night creatures might come nosing about.

The berries are similar to cultivated blackberries, only smaller and more tart, and they lighten to a rich red as they cook. Their harvest sets a rhythm to our warm-weather days and to the weeks as well. Every three or four days or so, and if we exert a reasonable level of self-control and provide adequate distraction for the smaller members of the family as we pick, we assemble enough brambles for a crumble or tart. A few summers ago I devised a third option that would frame the earthy-sweet twang of the wild fruit within the nutty warmth of beurre noisette. This cake is moist with olive oil, fragrant with vanilla and lemon, and only very subtly sweetened – an instant favorite for us.

I’ve been anxiously waiting since late September of last year to make it again, and the first few brambles have ripened earlier than normal, thanks to a sodden and, of late, excruciatingly hot summer. Don’t be put off if you don’t have brambles where you are. Blackberries, raspberries and currants of both the red and black variety are all wonderful here.

Butter and flour for the cake pan
4 tbsp (2 oz, 60g) unsalted butter
1 ½ cups (200g) all-purpose flour
¾ tsp baking powder
generous pinch of kosher salt
grated zest of 1 lemon
2 large eggs
2/3 cup (135g) granulated sugar
¼ cup extra virgin olive oil
1/3 cup whole milk
1 tsp good vanilla extract
1 ½ - 2 cups (you'll need the greater volume if your berries are larger in size) fresh brambles, blackberries, raspberries, red or black currants

Preheat the oven to 350 F (180 C, Gas Mark 4)

Butter and flour a 9-inch springform pan, being sure to tap out any excess flour.

Place the 4 oz. of butter in a small saucepan over medium low heat. The butter will melt, and then foam, and then the foam will subside. When light brown specks begin to form in the butter, test it for a nutty aroma. Remove from the heat as soon as this develops and place the pan on a cold surface to help stop the cooking. The difference between browned butter and burnt butter is just a few moments, so don’t walk away. Allow to cool for about 15 minutes before proceeding.

Sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt into a large bowl. Whisk in the lemon zest until evenly distributed. In an electric kitchen mixer, beat the eggs and sugar for 3 - 5 minutes, or until pale and thick. Add the browned butter, olive oil, milk, and vanilla extract. Beat until combined.

Fold in the flour mixture with a spatula until just combined. Be careful not to over-stir. Set the batter aside to rest for 10 minutes (a trick I learned from a Patricia Wells book that I find works wonders with all olive oil cakes). Gently stir ¾ of the brambles into the batter. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and spread evenly. Top with the remaining brambles.

Bake for 50 minutes or until the cake is golden and a wooden skewer inserted into the center comes out clean. Cool on a rack for 10 minutes. Remove the springform and continue to cool. Once the cake’s completely cool, store in an airtight container.

Cherry Sangria with Apple Mint & Basil

2011-07-17T18:16:00.012-04:00

As featured on WBUR Boston NPR's Public Radio Kitchen.

The sweet cherries are hopeless this year. As recently as two weeks ago, I could be heard muttering thinly veiled complaints regarding the inferiority of the fruit early in the season. But the joke’s on me, and it turns out that that was the cherry crop’s peak for the year. We had a couple of late frosts this spring, and now there are hardly any cherries to be found at all. Sour cherries, yes. Sweet cherries, apparently an earlier blossom, not so much. Early summer suddenly seems to be slipping away, but I can’t let go of cherry season. Not quite yet.

I always seem to forget how much I love good cherries during the eleven months they’re not available. Those magnetic first flats, which usually appear in the market just as June touches July, bring it all flooding back though. Cherries are distracting, maybe even a little wanton. There’s something almost animate in the way their skins catch on one another when you roll a few in the palm of your hand. And the flavor. Tart and fresh, then earthy and sweet. There's nothing else quite like it. So the prospect of skipping a full season, of waiting another year to enjoy cherries, is a sad one.

Fortunately there is a very good way of stretching a small harvest, not to mention prodding an inferior crop to act as proper cherries should, and that is by crushing the fruit into some well-constructed summer cocktails. I like my cherry-infused drinks a little rough-and-ready, unstrained, with some herbs from the greenmarket (cool mint, peppery basil) and a few wedges of lemon to help the fruit sit up and sing. Even though making simple syrup is possibly the least demanding thing in the world, I just can’t face it. I’d rather pour a good glass of wine. So my cherry cocktails in all their incarnations employ plain old granulated sugar (not even superfine), and an enthusiastic muddle with the less friendly end of a wooden spoon.

You can use 4 ounces of cachaça instead of the wine here, swap in lime for the lemon, and you’ll have yourself a seriously good cherry caipirinha. But this version is what I make most often. It’s more delicate and tranquil - approachable in the afternoon without threatening to turn the rest of your day on its ear. It’s a sangria of sorts, though lighter and with no brandy.

Any mint will do, but I am particularly fond of the floral, mild (and almost never apple-y) apple mint some of our farmers sell this time of year. Just be sure to get up early on market day, before the few sweet cherries still to be found have been snatched up. I've noticed it’s getting a little competitive out there.

Makes 2

12 sweet cherries, halved and pitted
6 fresh basil leaves
6 fresh mint leaves, plus 2 extra sprigs for garnish (I like applemint, but any mint you enjoy will do)
4 tsp granulated sugar
2 ½-inch thick rounds of lemon, halved
8 oz chilled white wine
ice

In the bottom of a cocktail shaker, muddle the cherries, basil, mint and sugar. Add the lemon slices and muddle again. Add the wine and fill the shaker with ice. Shake well and decant into two old-fashioned glasses, adding more ice if desired. Garnish with the mint sprigs and serve immediately.

Grilled Summer Squash Salad with Basil, Mint & Lemon

2011-07-08T14:16:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite things by far about the summertime is lunch. The meal seems to fall so effortlessly into place in a way it never can in cooler months. After all, it is intrinsically suited to sun-dappled tables, crisp, chilled wine, and a general, intoxicating feeling that one is living well. Especially now, when the heat here in the city hasn’t reached its soul-crushing height yet, and the flavors in the market are still young, floral, sweet, perfect.

During the summer, I keep a bunch of fresh herbs in a glass of water on the kitchen counter (most recently chervil, mint, basil, and a few springs of lavender), ready to adorn whatever I bring home from the greenmarket that day. All that’s really needed is some good, fruity olive oil and salt, maybe a spritz of lemon juice, and a simple midday feast is never more than a few moments away.

This summer squash recipe, infinitely adaptable depending on which herbs you have at hand and what squash looks best that day, is one of the cornerstones of my summer lunches. For preference, I like a mix of colors, shapes and flavors. Nutty pattypan. Floral, young zucchini. Crisp, fluted Romanesco. And a lemony dressing flecked with fresh basil and mint serves to underline the light char from the grill. My grill pan seems to stay on the stove top most of the summer anyway.

This salad makes a lovely lunch with some sliced tomatoes in olive oil and maybe a few velvety curls of prosciutto. If I have the time, I like to sauté some ricotta-filled squash blossoms too. The squash salad works just as well at room temperature as it does fresh off the grill – just be sure to dress the squash slices while they’re hot and can soak up the lemon and olive oil, but don’t add the basil and mint until just before serving.

Assorted fresh summer squash
Juice of 1 – 2 lemons, depending on the size of your salad
Good extra virgin olive oil
Kosher or sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Small handful of fresh basil leaves
A few fresh mint leaves

Heat a grill or grill pan to medium high heat – you want a quick, hot sear here so that your squash will soften and steam on the plate rather than on the grill. Slice your squash lengthwise into thick ¼ inch pieces. Grill in batches, a few minutes a side, just until you can see good grill marks, and remove to a serving platter.

When all your squash slices are done, sprinkle liberally with fresh lemon juice, drizzle with olive oil, and season generously with salt and pepper. Just before serving, roll your basil and mint leaves into a cigar shape and slice across as thinly as possible into a chiffonade. Sprinkle over the squash, check the seasoning with more lemon juice, salt and pepper, and serve immediately.

The July Harvest Calendar

2011-07-01T07:37:00.002-04:00

It's summer here.

Really, really.

The lavender harvest is at its height.

And there are summer flowers everywhere.

There is already barley. And winter wheat.

The herbs are suddenly more substantial.

As are the spring onions.

And the garlic.

There is summer squash, bursting with flavor.

And heirloom lemon pickles.

Great heaps of peas.

Whole walls of lettuce.

And my favorite string and wax beans have finally arrived.

Carrots too.

The radishes have a little more kick to them now.

And the strawberries, now in their last month, are jammy and fragrant.

The raspberries are ready too, as are the blueberries, collard greens, cucumbers and peppers.

There isn't an asparagus spear to be found - asparagus season is never long enough - but there are finally freshly dug potatoes, and in the next few weeks there will be corn and plums and apples. I had some spectacular tomatoes yesterday, and I even spied a small heap of peaches at the southwest corner of the market.

Crop notes are available in the sidebar harvest calendar over there on the right all month. The information comes from a guide published by the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. To familiarize yourself with what's in season where you live, I advise a visit to your own farmer's markets at least every couple of weeks. And ask lots of questions – no one knows which crops are at their peak quite like the people who grow them. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

Happy summer and happy July!

Cherries Roasted in Red Wine & Sea Salt

2011-06-22T10:50:00.043-04:00

As featured on WBUR Boston NPR's Public Radio Kitchen.

I think of cherries as the year's first big flavor. Scarlet, shiny and brash, cherries banish the quiet green flavors of spring. They only appeared at the market about a week ago here, which means they’re nowhere near their tangy-sweet height yet. Don’t get me wrong though. Early season or not, a bag of cherries is undeniably appealing, and therein lies the challenge to making this recipe. Cherry season is short, and when they show up, chances are I haven't had a locally grown cherry in eleven months. That's a long time.

Add to that the fact that I've lived in this neighborhood for long enough that I can’t seem to walk a block without seeing someone I know. That's rare for New York, and I like it a lot, but it also can make it highly difficult to negotiate the two minute stroll home from the greenmarket without losing half my cherries. People can't resist. Their eyebrows shoot up. Their mouths form round "ohs" of delight. "Is it cherry season already?" they ask breathlessly, smiling into my shopping bags.

Take Saturday morning. I snapped up three pounds (we'd have a bowl of them on the counter, I thought dreamily, plus some for the vanilla gelato I'd made, and maybe a clafoutis), and stopped to speak with my friend Luke at his River Garden stand. We nibbled goodnaturedly as we talked, and I left him with an extra handful before heading out of the market, over a narrow cobblestone street, and exchanging pleasantries and another fistful with the owner of a local wine store. Waving goodbye, I walked straight into a good (but chatty) friend, along with her husband and 2 year old son. When it became clear we had much catching up to do, we decided to retire to a nearby coffee place. I'd been sharing politely all the while - she's pregnant, it's bad form not to share your cherries with pregnant people - but I turned away for a moment to retrieve my cappuccino, trustingly stowing my cherries under the bar, only to return to this:

Shameless. A free-for-all. Does that look like three pounds of cherries to you? But it’s summer, and what’s the point of having something as intrinsically jolly as a bagful of the year’s first cherries if you can't share them with your friends? Plus I managed somehow to arrive home with enough left for dessert that night.

I roast my early-season cherries as I’ve eaten them in Tuscany, most memorably prepared by Chef Fabio Picchi: with a healthy dose of red wine, plenty of fruity olive oil, and a good sprinkling of sea salt. Their gentle sweetness intensifies, and the wine and cherry juice meld into a rich, jammy syrup that works as well with fresh ricotta or goat cheese as it does with ice cream. Don’t pit your cherries here – much as with eau de vie, you want that gentle almond flavor that the cherry stones impart during the cooking process. Just be sure to buy more than you think you’ll need. There’s no accounting for what may remain by the time you get home, but just think how happy your friends will be.

Cherries, pits in and stems still on if possible
extra virgin olive oil
a glass or two of red wine
sea salt

Preheat the oven to 350 F (180 C, Gas Mark 4).

Rinse and pat dry your cherries. Spread them out in a single layer over a sheet pan with sides. Toss with a generous glug of olive oil and then spread back out again. Splash over a generous amount of red wine and sprinkle with sea salt. Roast in the middle of the oven until the juices start to thicken and caramelize slightly – 30 to 45 minutes. Serve warm, preferably with good gelato or ice cream.

Herb Season Tea

2011-06-15T18:54:00.000-04:00

I've been in need of a little comfort of late. Fortunately it's herb season. Proper herbs from the field, I mean, with character and ugly bits and signs of having made it through a late frost or two. These herbs have weathered the storm that is early spring in these parts, and so, particularly in recent weeks, I feel a certain affinity with them.

During herb season, I keep bouquets of them in glasses on the kitchen counter. I use them for flavoring our food, of course, but I also prize them for making teas far more earthy and mellow than those we drink from store-bought blends the rest of the year. I especially turn to Maureen and Bridget Boland, those dowager empresses of comfort and Gardeners' Lore and all other things wise, for inspiration.

Above I show a simple tea made with some remarkably sturdy organic mint from Keith's Farm. Mint, prized for it's ability to soothe the nerves and refresh the body (yes please) is also touted by the Boland sisters as an addition to bath water for athletes. They hasten to urge that any Olympic competitors first ask permission of the "Committee" before indulging in the sinew-stregthening soak. That must have been some serious mint they were growing.

Other favorites I've gleaned from the series include borage steeped in wine, which they tell us "drives away all sadness and dullness." And on closer inspection I see that basil drunk in wine is recommended too - good to know my instincts are at least occasionally in line - for it's stimulating effect on the nerves and calming effect on the stomach. Tincture of chervil root should be given for courage, lavender soaked in hot water comforts the heart, and a tea made with marjoram "easeth such as are given to much sighing." Next on my list to try? Meadowsweet boiled in wine "to make the heart merry." Hopefully my sense of humor will be back intact in no time.

Rhubarb Clafoutis

2011-06-08T09:20:00.002-04:00

We're off to Cape Cod to celebrate the wedding of a dear school friend. But I couldn't leave town without sharing a recipe from the archives - one I still make with regularity during rhubarb season. And the rhubarb is magnificent right now. The stalks from Keith's Farm have grown to such monstrous proportions that it only took one to make our clafoutis the other night. I hope you enjoy as much as we do.

Though it’s technically a vegetable, I can’t help feeling that rhubarb is the first fruit of spring, and I was thrilled when I saw a great tub of the ruby and jade stalks at the PJ Hoeffner Plants and Produce stand this weekend.

The first recorded planting of rhubarb in the Mediterranean was in Italy in 1608 - though at that point the fruit was used for medicinal purposes (it’s been popular through the centuries as a diuretic and digestive). Rhubarb came to the region from China in the early 17th Century, courtesy of Marco Polo’s visits home to his native Venice. It didn’t really catch on as a food until the mid-1700s was when sugar became more widely available.

I like my rhubarb roasted. I toss it in a little olive oil and dust it with confectioners’ sugar before putting it in a moderate oven for 5 minutes or so. This way the wedges hold their shape even though they’re tender and sweet. They keep well in the fridge for a few days and make a great topping for morning yogurt and evening ice cream. Rhubarb also plays a regular role in our home’s clafoutis.

Clafoutis is a traditional dessert in the south of France. In it’s most original form, clafoutis is prepared with black cherries, which I encourage you to try as well. The sweetness of the dessert is subtle, and the recipe is about as simple as baking gets. I sometimes omit the ¼ cup of sugar and allow the only sweetness to come from the sugar coating the rhubarb. Clafoutis can be prepared a little ahead of time and served warm rather than hot.

Either way, this is true family food, essentially pancake batter poured over fruit. My father has long shunned birthday cake in favor of the more delicate clafoutis.

Serves 6 – 8

¼ cup plus 1 tbsp granulated sugar
1 cup milk
3 eggs
1 tbsp good vanilla extract
1 pinch salt
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
extra virgin olive oil
1 – 1 ½ cups fresh rhubarb stalks, sliced on the bias into ½ inch pieces
confectioners’ sugar

Preheat the oven to 350 F (180 C, gas mark 4).

Using an electric kitchen mixer or blender, pulse together the ¼ cup of sugar, milk, eggs, vanilla extract, salt, and flour.

Heat a shallow, stove-top-safe baking dish (about 7 to 8 cup capacity) over medium-high heat. Add a little olive oil and then pour 1/4 inch batter into the dish. Cook over medium heat for a minute or so until the bottom of the batter has just started to set. Remove from the heat.

Toss the rhubarb with 1 tbsp of the sugar and arrange in the baking dish. Pour on the rest of the batter and smooth. Bake in the center of the oven for 1 hour until puffed and golden brown. A wooden toothpick or skewer inserted into the center of the clafoutis should come out clean.

Just before serving, sprinkle the top of the clafoutis with a little confectioners’ sugar shaken through a sieve.

The June Harvest Calendar

2011-06-01T19:03:00.000-04:00

Things are picking up. I almost miss the quiet of May. Or at least I can feel the cool, green solace of spring ebbing away.

I haven't had a perfect strawberry yet, but they've appeared in the past couple of weeks, they're from the field, and they're getting sweeter.

The ramps are almost done. They're much plumper now - perfect for pickling.

The spring garlic has grown bulbs too, though inside it's mild, still undivided into cloves.

There are still a few fiddleheads to be found.

And there are great tangles of pea shoots.

And spinach.

The heaps of lettuce are getting higher. I'm always surprised to remember how fragrant freshly harvested lettuce can be.

And the chicory is still sweet enough for salads.

The asparagus is in abundance now, and the harvest is far more regular.

Chefs have been making off with great crates of the spears, along with a flat of the first strawberries here, to the local restaurants.

I bring home armfuls of the stuff along with fresh pheasant eggs for a perfect springtime tegamino.

Herbs are everywhere too. The chives are in bloom.

And the rhubarb is reaching its height.

Carciugga is lovely peeled and fried in thin stalks, much as they do in Italy with zucchini.

The first baby beets are being pulled from the field.

And the garlic scapes are ready too.

Spring flowers have always been my favorites.

The lilacs have sadly peaked.

But there's still lily of the valley.

And sweet peas.

The peonies are in wild abundance.

There are even a few foxgloves.

And though summer is still a couple of weeks away, the poppies are starting.

The parsnips are finished now until October, but new harvests this month will also include broccoli, cabbage, peas and swiss chard.

Crop notes are available in the sidebar harvest calendar over there on the right all month. The information comes from a guide published by the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. To familiarize yourself with what's in season where you live, I advise a visit to your own farmer's markets at least every couple of weeks. And ask lots of questions – no one knows which crops are at their peak quite like the people who grow them. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

Happy spring and happy June!

Calçots amb Romesco - Grilled Spring Onions with Romesco Sauce

2011-05-23T13:52:00.111-04:00

A calçotada is a Catalonian festival that celebrates the harvest of a variety of green onion known as the calçot. The festival is a major event, and with good reason. Not only are the calçots and their accompanying salsa romesco (locally salbitxada) spectacularly evocative of Catalan, and particularly Tarragonian cuisine, but the onions themselves are a year and a half in the making.

When onion seeds are planted, they grow or “set” a bulb, at which point we usually harvest and eat them fairly quickly. But if left in the ground, the onion bulb will enter a period of dormancy until the following season, at which point it sends up several new shoots to flower and seed. The cultivation of calçots interrupts this natural two-season lifecycle. Farmers dig up and then replant the sprouting onion bulbs, pile the earth up around them to elongate the white section of their shoots, and harvest them before they flower, when they are still mild, tender, and sweet.

The onions are grilled over a fire of vine cuttings until the outer layer of green leaves is charred black. Then they’re wrapped in bunches in newspaper to steam the rest of the way to savory sweetness. The long leaves are left on, but only as a handle. It’s the bulb, and the palest green portion of the leaves that are actually eaten.

You don’t take civilized bites here. The method is as follows: Hold your charred calçolt at the tip of its inner green shoot and peel away the blackened outer leaves (“calçot” means “sock” or “cover” in Catalan), immerse the whole in salsa romesco, a smoky, earthy sauce of peppers and nuts, tip your head back, and lower the whole into your mouth in one go. This isn’t date food, or at least not first date food, and the bibs traditionally worn at any calçotada are anything but superfluous. Consider yourselves warned.

And look, let’s just get this out of the way. There is almost no one on this earth who is capable of either peeling the charred outer layer down off of the translucent interior, nor tipping their head back, maw agape, and lowering the long, romesco-coated onion into their mouth without at least one suggestive grin, one roguish eyebrow wiggle. It’s like sausage-making class in culinary school, when the first 10 minutes saw a roomful of grown adults reduced to a helpless, convulsing, weeping heap on the floor. Deep down, when it comes to our baser appetites at least, we are all apparently children to the end.

Here’s an obliging fellow demonstrating the proper technique:

And another:

It’s a little late in the spring for a calçotada in Spain, where the harvest peaks in February or March, but here in New York the scallions, spring onions, and baby leeks are all just coming into their own. My favorite substitute for calçots stateside are young spring onions or large in-season scallions. Whichever you choose, serve with plenty of red wine – the local red Priorat is a perfect pairing – and for the full calçotada experience follow the onions with grilled meat, especially lamb or sausage, which is traditionally cooked over the embers while everyone devours the calçots. Dessert is often a crema catalana, eggy and redolent with citrus and cinnamon. Viva Cataluña!

Serves 4

8 dried ñora peppers (Ancho or New Mexican make fine substitutes)
½ cup blanched, slivered almonds or 3 oz (85 grams) hazelnuts (The natural smokiness of hazelnuts is particularly nice here).
2 medium tomatoes
2 red bell peppers
extra virgin olive oil
6 garlic cloves, roughly chopped
1 large slice country bread, toasted
1 pinch cayenne pepper
3 - 6 tbsp sherry vinegar, to taste
kosher salt
5 - 6 dozen calçots, spring onions, very large scallions, or young leeks

Preheat the oven to 300 F (150 C, gas mark 2). Unless you're making the sauce ahead of time, start to preheat your grill for the onions. If you're cooking indoors, a griddle pan, cast iron skillet, or broiler will suffice. Whichever you use, indoor or out, make it as hot as you can.

Pull the stems from the dried peppers, tear apart so you can shake out the seeds, and cover with boiling water to steep for half an hour.

Meanwhile place the nuts in a baking dish and roast for 15 minutes or until lightly browned and fragrant. If using hazelnuts, rub in a dry dishcloth after roasting to remove their skins and chop roughly. Meanwhile halve and de-seed the tomatoes, tear apart into several pieces, and roast until lightly caramelized, about 20 - 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, place the bell peppers directly onto gas burners to char black completely on all sides, or else turn the oven up to broil and blacken them under the grill, turning often for about 30 minutes. Immediately place them in a bowl and cover with plastic wrap to steam for 10 minutes. Then remove the blackened skin and stems, seed (resisting the urge to rinse them under running water, which washes away much of the flavor), and set aside.

Heat a small saucepan over medium heat, add a very generous glug of olive oil and then the chopped garlic. Sauté until just beginning to turn golden at the edges. Remove from the heat immediately and pour garlic and oil into a food processor (or a mortar and pestle, which is traditional). Add the toasted bread and pulse into breadcrumbs. Add the ñora peppers, nuts, tomatoes, bell peppers, cayenne pepper, 3 tbsp of sherry vinegar, and a generous pinch of salt, and pulse to a coarse consistency. Remove to a bowl so as not to over-purée and check the seasoning to taste with more vinegar and salt if desired. You may stir in more olive oil if the sauce seems too thick for dipping. Set aside.

Cut the roots off of the calçolts and trim the ends, leaving a long green portion to use as a handle. Be sure to have newspaper nearby for wrapping. Line the onions up over the hot coals, blacken on all sides, and immediately wrap in a thick layer of newspaper and set aside in a warm place to steam - about 20 minutes. Serve immediately with bowls of the romesco sauce for dipping.

Things I Love

2011-05-16T05:57:00.010-04:00

The Avenue. Early, empty on the way to the Saturday market. No memory of the chill. But no scent of heat yet either.

And the first day each spring of River Garden's lily of the valley crop. It's my favorite moment of May.

How lily of the valley always, like clockwork, seems to mean that the French breakfast radishes are ready too - mild, crisp and tipped with white.

And how they feel like a feast with fresh butter, fleur de sel and a floral glass of rosé.

Sharing them with my fellow radish addict and oldest friend in New York, Georg, whom I met here when we were very young indeed.

And the way my small daughter adores Georg just as much as I always have. We haven't sold her on the radishes yet though.

Asparagus Harvest Salad with Dijon Vinaigrette

2011-05-09T11:39:00.000-04:00

It’s sad but true that asparagus mimosa, or anything “mimosa” for that matter, feels woefully outdated. Dinner parties in sunken drawing rooms where food was served in frilly hostess aprons come to mind, as do 3 martini lunches, beehive updos, and the fare at my grandfather’s club, where the menu was about as fresh as the clouds of pipe smoke that hung heavy in the air.

Mimosa is a preparation in which some main player, usually a vegetable, is garnished with hard boiled egg that’s been pushed through a sieve until it resembles, roughly, the overflowing, frothy blossom of the mimosa tree. It was the height of chic about 60 years ago, but one doesn’t run into it too often anymore.

The problem is, of course, that “mimosa” initially caught on, and then stuck around for so long, with good reason. Despite its stodgy visual flourishes, it is inarguably delicious, especially on asparagus. The spears, blanched just to the point of sweetness, are tossed in a Dijon vinaigrette, laced with a touch of that spring-iest of herbs, tarragon. I’ve never been one for “mimosa-ing.” Instead I just slice my hardboiled eggs into rounds and lay them over the top of the warm green spears and season with good salt and plenty of coarsely ground black pepper.

Don’t be fooled by how simple it all sounds. The genius of asparagus mimosa is the sublime rubble that forms as you start to eat. The barely cooked egg yolk crumbles into the twangy mustard and tarragon vinaigrette to form a sunny dressing for the asparagus. Think of it as a wholly modern, deconstructed béarnaise sauce.

I keep hardboiled eggs in the fridge through asparagus season, just so I can make this on market days. We’ve got about 3 more weeks until the field herbs are in, but the dish makes a perfect celebration of spring even without the tarragon. Just remember that, as with all vegetables, the fresher your asparagus, the less cooking time it needs. And conversely, eggs are harder to peel the newer they are. If your eggs are farm fresh, and time (and asparagus season) allow, try keeping them in the fridge for three or four days before boiling them.

Serves 4 as a starter, 2 for a light lunch

Kosher salt
1½ lbs fresh asparagus
1 tsp Dijon mustard
fresh lemon juice
2 tbsp white balsamic vinegar (or slightly less of a less mellow vinegar)
a pinch or two of minced fresh tarragon (optional)
freshly ground black pepper
4 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
1 hardboiled egg per person (Here are good directions for how to make perfectly hard boiled eggs), sliced into rounds

Fill a medium-large pot with a few inches of water, salt well, and bring to the boil over high heat. Snap the ends off of the asparagus spears – they will break naturally where they go from tender to woody. In a bowl, whisk together the mustard, a spritz of fresh lemon juice, the vinegar, the tarragon, a generous grind of black pepper, and a good pinch of kosher salt. Now drizzle in the oil, whisking until combined. Set aside.

Blanch the asparagus until just tender – 2 - 3 minutes ought to do it, especially this time of year. Arrange in bundles on plates. Check the vinaigrette seasoning with salt if necessary and then drizzle as much or as little as you like over the asparagus. Arrange the egg rounds over the asparagus, season well with salt and pepper, and serve immediately.

The May Harvest Calendar

2011-05-03T06:45:00.053-04:00

It's still peaceful.

Don't get me wrong, the greenmarket's been crowded for a week or so already. But the crops, the flavors are still quiet.

Quince blossoms smell like a garden after the rain.

And the harvest has finally begun now too. Fresh, fragrant baby lettuces. Earthily green asparagus, though there will be far more later into the season.

Right now most farmers are getting about a harvest a week, but, as the weather warms and spears grow up to 10 inches a day, an asparagus field might be harvested every 24 hours.

And there are emerald scallions, still young and mild enough to touch to the grill and toss in vinaigrette.

The ramps are suddenly at their height, piled in great velvety heaps that sell all day.

And a few stalks of rhubarb have appeared. Jade.

And blushing into rose too.

Plus some hints of heat and color and things to come.

The field radishes have started to pop up, though not in as much varied abundance as they will be in another week or two.

The world is awash in green.

Also coming into their own right now are beet and turnip greens, mesclun, parnips, spinach and summer squash. And as always from cold storage, we have last year's shell beans, onions, potatoes and apples. The potatoes are wilted but still roast up decently, though I haven't had a respectable apple in months now. And you know my feelings on those old onions. I stick to the scallions, the ramps and the chives in May.

Crop notes are available in the sidebar harvest calendar over there on the right all month. The information comes from a guide published by the CENYC, which runs the Greenmarket & New Farmer Development Project. To familiarize yourself with what's in season where you live, I advise a visit to your own farmer's markets at least every couple of weeks. And ask lots of questions – no one knows which crops are at their peak quite like the people who grow them. To locate markets near you in the US, check the Zip or City Quick Search at Local Harvest.

Happy spring and happy May!