Me, and the Pea

I was not one of those kids whose mother made her eat peas. We were more of a baby carrot family with boiled broccoli florets and roasted red potatoes making an occasional appearance on the "veggie" portion of our plates. I imagine peas served as sides at a Sunday dinner or, dressed up in decorative bowl, at a Thanksgiving feast or two. But for everyday meals, my mother must have resigned herself to the fact that her girls were not pea people. We were a picky bunch, and this daughter in particular would have nothing mushy put on her plate. And peas, I'd been told, ranked high on the mushy scale.


Had my mother blitzed peas into pesto, however, my head would have snapped to attention. Pesto puts a bit of pea trickery into play. Plump English peas arrive at the table disguised as a spread so bright and inviting that no one (not even pea haters) can ignore invitations to try a bit.

The trick is to keep the peas as close to their fresh state as possible - this despite the fact that there's a quiet hum hinting the opposite, that this young legume benefits immensely from a long, slow boil. I'll bite that there's probably a place for slow-cooked peas at the table. But that's a taste test for another year. Any peas I'm making this spring need to retain their pop and integrity. The peas in this pesto succeed on that front. 

They bob around in a pot of boiling water, but only for a minute.  In this way, they retain their bite and springy character - even after you run them through the food processor. In the processor, they meet their partners in crime: glossy olive oil, sharp pecorino Romano, a whisper of tarragon, and just enough sea salt to heighten their appeal. Blitz everything long enough for the sauce to come together, but not long enough to puree the peas. You want a coarse-textured sauce with a pleasant mouthfeel, not a uniform spread.

The former is enlightening, the later what my childhood self called mush. 

English Pea Pesto
The pesto can serve as a sauce for pasta or gnocchi, a sandwich spread or even, I'd imagine, as a garnish for a fresh, spring soup like an asparagus vichyssoise. I prefer it spread thickly atop crunchy rounds of toasted bread, with or without garnishes like a shaving of pecorino romano or crisped piece of prosciutto. 

Makes about 3/4 cup pesto 

1 pound (about 1 cup) shucked English peas
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/4 cup finely grated pecorino Romano cheese
2 teaspoons finely chopped tarragon
Sea salt

Prepare an ice water bath. Bring a medium pot of salted water to a boil. Add the peas and cook over high heat for 1 minute. Drain the peas and immediately drop them in the ice water bath to cool. Drain the cooled peas.

In the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade attachment, blend the peas and olive oil until just combined, not pureed. The pesto should still be slightly coarse.

Remove the blade and stir in the cheese and tarragon with a rubber spatula. Season to taste with salt. Use immediately.

-Recipe from Chef Matthew Busetto of Firehouse Restaurant

Flying High

I am elated about chicken wings. If I was the kind of person who believed in emphasizing elation with a series of exuberant exclamation marks, I'd punctuate that sentence with at least seven of them, maybe eight.


We're talking your typical budget-friendly wings, battered and deep fried and slightly, just slightly, reminiscent of the "buffalo" wings from my childhood. So you might wonder what's the big deal - especially since I just compared these wings to that ubiquitous Red Robin staple.


Well, for one, these wings don't come with ranch sauce on the side or a dipping sauce at all. Instead, you serve them slicked with an addictive sweet-sour-spicy sauce made with honey, lime juice and ichimi togarashi (or red pepper flakes if, like me, you didn't make any effort to obtain the Japanese stuff). 


Then there's the rice flour batter, gone crispy and golden after a dip in hot, bubbly oil, and the impressively tender meat within. The final touch - and the one I think makes these wings so good is a garnish of cooling mint and cilantro. That bright finish, plus a crispy shell and swoon-worthy sauce, makes for wings worth getting excited about.


Honey-Lime Chicken Wings

I lucked out and got assigned a story on these wings for a publication called TastingTable.com. Otherwise, being a health-food fan, I probably wouldn't have given them a passing glance. Don't make the same mistake. 

Serves 4

Wings

2 1/2 pounds whole chicken wings, separated at the joint

2 cups buttermilk

1 cup rice flour, such as Bob's Red Mill brand

1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons cornstarch

1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon kosher salt

2 quarts vegetable oil, for frying

Sauce

3/4 cup honey

3/4 cup fresh lime juice

1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons fish sauce

1/4 cup scallion, white and light green parts only, thinly sliced

1/4 cup thinly sliced serrano chile, with or without seeds

1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon salt

1 1/2 teaspoons red pepper flakes or ichimi togarashi

1 1/2 teaspoons minced garlic

1/4 cup cilantro leaves, roughly chopped

1/4 cup mint leaves, torn

In a large bowl, mix the chicken wings with the buttermilk. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 12 hours.

Place the wings in a strainer and drain for 10 minutes. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and line 2 large rimmed baking sheets with parchment paper.

In a large bowl, whisk the rice flour with the cornstarch, flour and salt; toss the wings in the rice-flour mixture until well coated. Bake the wings on the prepared baking sheets until they are cooked through and the rice-flour breading is dry, about 20 to 25 minutes. Discard the remaining flour.

In a large bowl, whisk the honey with the lime juice, fish sauce, scallion, serrano chile, salt, red pepper flakes, and garlic. Set aside.

In a deep fryer or deep, heavy pot, heat the vegetable oil to 350 degrees. Working in batches, fry the wings until golden and crisp, about 3 minutes per batch. Transfer the wings to a paper-towel-lined plate and repeat with the remaining chicken.

Toss the wings in the honey-lime sauce and transfer to a serving dish. Garnish with the herbs and any sauce that remains in the bowl. Serve immediately.

-From Chef Nick Balla of Nombe and TastingTable.com

An Oft-Requested Vinaigrette

A sure sign you've found a good recipe is, I think, when a dinner guest pulls you aside toward an evening's end and whispers a request for a recipe you've just served them. And so too do I believe that when mothers and sisters and in-laws and family friends and party guest after party guest asks you to share a recipe, it's a keeper, a classic to tuck into your recipe box and tug out again and again and again.

This vinaigrette is such a recipe.

I'm ashamed to say that I've made nary another vinaigrette in the past three years. And I'm embarrassed to admit that because my track record will make you think this recipe is something really special, something that spins vinaigrette anew or, in the least, tips you off to a secret  ingredient that will make your next scratch-made salad dressing truly shine. 

This recipe is nothing of the sort. It is superbly simple, and made from ingredients you probably have sitting in your fridge right now. But lest it seem like I'm underselling my most-requested recipe, let me also say this: this vinaigrette is also extremely likable and, I believe, the only one you really need should you, like me, prefer to stand by one recipe for all time.

I discovered this humble vinaigrette during a morning date with Jamie Oliver, back when his show Jamie at Home ran around 7am. I don't recall what the show was about or what he did with the dressing but I do remember that by noon, I was mixing this mustard-spiked vinaigrette in a cast aside Mason jar and drizzling it over spring greens for lunch.

It was at once sweet and tangy, the tart lemon juice and bracing mustard made more likable by a splash of fruity olive oil and a drizzle of honey. The honey adds depth and a sweetness so subtle you wouldn't know it existed unless you spooned it in yourself. It is, I suppose, the secret ingredient in this oft-requested vinaigrette.

Lemon Mustard Vinaigrette
I like this zippy dressing best on a baby romaine salad tossed with homemade croutons, crumbled parmesan cheese and grilled asparagus. For the olive oil, choose something grassy and fruity; I like Trader Joe's Spanish olive oil. And please, use fresh lemon juice not something squeezed out of a bottle shaped like a lemon. Fresh juice makes all the difference here.

Makes about 1/2 cup  

6 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Juice from 1 lemon
1 tablespoon whole grain mustard
1 tablespoon honey
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper to taste 

Pour the olive oil, lemon juice, whole grain mustard and honey into a small jar. Place the lid on the jar and shake until well blended. Salt and pepper to taste. 

Use the dressing immediately or store it in the refrigerator until ready to use. Kept covered in the refrigerator, the dressing will last for about 1 week.

 -Adapted from Jamie Oliver

With Apologies to the French

I have heard that the French like their radishes with butter, and a bit of salt. That they halve them, then dredge them through soft butter and sprinkle them liberally with salt. Or that they trim a tiny wedge from those plump little bodies, stuff it with butter and scatter crunchy salt crystals over the top. You get the idea, and how could you not: this is the easiest recipe for radishes. Period. 

I'm all for doing things the French way (see eggs en cocotte or the name of this blog). But I have to say, with apologies to all the Pierres and Amelies and Maximos out there, I prefer to treat radishes in a way that subdues their bitter bite rather than mask it with butter; there's nothing wrong with using butter to make radishes - or anything really - more enticing but I'd rather employ a salad dressing that tames their flavor without dominating it.

How very American of me, you say? Yes, it's true that we Americans relegate radishes to the salad bowl. That we scatter little radish rounds atop our daily greens or toss matchsticks together with carrots and cabbages in a colorful slaw. Or maybe we get really precious with those blushing beauties and carve them into radish rosettes that we perch on the edge of our plate. In any form, it's clear we think radishes are best enjoyed as a crispy, crunchy garnish. 

I certainly fell into that school of thought (or worse yet, the one in which people ignore radishes entirely). But that was before I found a recipe that makes radishes the star of the salad course. Radish carpaccio starts with paper-thin slices of radishes, tossed gently in a simple oil-vinegar dressing, then layered elegantly atop a plate. To this you add crunchy toasted pumpkin seeds, a tall, tangly pile of microgreens, a scattering of snipped herbs, a drizzle of walnut oil and salt. Nothing more, nothing less.

It's not so simple as dragging radishes through butter and salt but what you're left with is so much more: a salad that turns the seductive, scarlet skinned radish into art on your plate.   

Radish Carpaccio
This striking salad takes radishes out of the garnish role and makes them the center of attention on the plate. The chef who shared this recipe with me, he being the talented Chris Israel of Gruner, uses multiple shades of farmers market radishes to create a colorful canvas that he then “paints” with his favorite herbs. If you can’t find the pumpkin seed oil he calls for, walnut oil is a suitable substitution and more widely available as well.

Serves 4

¼ cup canola oil
2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar

Salt and freshly ground pepper
16 radishes, washed and tops removed
Pumpkin seed oil

¼ cup fresh herbs such as dill, chives, savory, thyme, and tarragon, or any combination thereof

¼ cup pumpkin seeds, toasted
2 cups microgreens

Fleur de sel

In a small bowl, whisk the canola oil and apple cider vinegar together. Salt and pepper to taste and set aside.

Using a mandoline, thinly slice the radishes. In a medium bowl, toss the sliced radishes with approximately half the dressing. Divide the radishes among four salad plates, arranging them in an overlapping circular pattern starting with the outside edges and circling inward until you reach the center of the plate.

Drizzle the radishes with the pumpkin seed oil. Sprinkle the herbs and pumpkin seeds over the radishes.

Toss the microgreens with the remaining half of the dressing and mound the greens in the center of each plate. Garnish with the fleur de sel and serve immediately.

Weedy Greens

A friend once asked me why I enjoyed eating foods that, to him, looked like they'd taste like I was running through a field of weeds with my mouth open. I can only imagine then, how high he'd have raised his eyebrows if he saw me at the market last week, paying money for something that not only looks like a weed but is one.

And I have to admit that even I - unabashed lover of hearty kale, feathery frisee, tough turnip rabe, and the like - was feeling a bit skeptical when I snatched up that bag of nettles. There is something to be feared about these early spring greens, not only because they have that stinging nature but also because few people know what to do with them. Even the man at the market stand wanted to know what I was buying them for; as it turned out, he'd never toyed with nettles either. 

As it was, I had plans to make pasta with them, which in itself is quite remarkable for I've failed miserably at making pasta in the past. To be clear, I'm not talking about boiling noodles. I'm referencing pasta of the homemade sort, the kind I always imagine an Italian grandmother with thick arms kneading, then rolling out with the wooden rolling pin she keeps at her hip.  

Not being an Italian grandmother (or graced with very strong arms either), my last attempt at making fresh pasta failed. After following the recipe to a tee, all I got were dry, crumbly bits that, knead as hard and as long as I might, never formed the smooth dough I desired. I don't remember what we had for supper that night, but I know it wasn't pasta. 

Now that you know all this, you might wonder why I attempted nettle parpadelle at all. I can't really recall my reasoning but I can say this: I'm so glad I did.

Nettle pasta is much easier to make than you think and stunningly beautiful to boot. Those edible weeds turn the pasta an impossibly deep shade of green, something like the hue of a Christmas tree, only more striking. They do not, however, add a ton of flavor to the pasta, which is why I suggest packing the flavor into the accompaniments. I choose a spring lamb ragu; you can do as you wish. 

As for the stinging effects, once you blanch them, these weedy greens are actually quite harmless. Handle them with a pair of tongs before they hit the hot water and you'll have nothing to fear - I promise. 

Fresh Nettle Parpadelle

This recipe requires a scale, which I believe to be a worthwhile investment for this dish (and many more that require precision with weights and measures). If you don't have a scale, there are plenty of flavored pasta recipes that don't require a scale, such as these ones that my friend Louisa recommends. You will however need a pasta machine to make any of these recipes at home. 


Serves 4


8 ounces nettles

1 cup baby spinach leaves
10 ounces semolina flour
1 tablespoon (or more) water


Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Blanch the nettles and spinach in the water until wilted, about 10 seconds. (To avoid touching the raw stinging nettles directly use rubber gloves or kitchen tongs to move them until they've been blanched).


Drain the greens in a colander and rinse with cold water. Remove and discard any nettle stems, reserving the leaves. Squeeze the liquid out of the leaves using a clean kitchen towel or paper towels until you have a ball of greens that weighs 4 ounces. If the greens are too heavy, squeeze out more water until you hit the 4 ounce mark.


Puree the greens in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade attachment. Add the flour and 1 teaspoon of the water and blend until the dough just comes together, adding water by the teaspoonful if the dough appears too dry.


Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured work surface and knead until smooth (channeling those Italian grandmothers, please), about 5 minutes. Shape the dough into a ball and cover with plastic wrap. Let the dough rest at room temperature for 1 hour.


Divide the dough into eight pieces. Working with one piece at a time, flatten the dough into an oblong shape slightly thinner than the pasta machine's widest setting. Dust the dough lightly with semolina, then feed it through the machine five times. Continue to run the piece through the machine, adjusting it to a thinner setting every five passes, until the dough is thin enough for your liking. Using the machine or a knife, cut the pasta into wide noodles.


Bring a pot of salted water to boil. Cook the noodles until al dente, about 2 minutes. Drain and serve immediately with desired accompaniments.

-Recipe from Gathering Together Farm

TASTY!!!

I had a real TASTY LaLaLavendar grilled cheese today! It was TASTY!!! Then I had a chocolate bar. It was TASTY!!!

Cake Thief

The best way to explain how much I love carrot cake is to tell you about a horrible thing I did when I was 17. That summer, my mom married a man named Craig, and at their wedding I devoured slice after slice of the loveliest carrot cake I've ever tasted. 

At first glance, it looked like an everyday sheet cake, short and square with a snowy layer of frosting coating all sides. But it had a light, moist crumb, flecked with sweet strands of carrot and plump little raisins. There were also walnuts, I think, scattered throughout every slice. That cake kept me hovering by the dessert table all afternoon. 

The saddest part of the story, though, is that eating multiple slices of cake at the wedding was not enough to sate my appetite for the thing; in the months that followed, I continued to pick at the foil wrapped slab my mom had tucked away in our freezer. There was no harm, I reasoned, in taking a sliver here and a sliver there - except that there was. That slab I was nibbling away at was the piece she and my new stepdad were saving for their first anniversary. 

Yes, I am a cake thief of the worst sort.

Based on this evidence, you might think that the cake was the Best Carrot Cake I'd Ever Eaten. But truthfully, I just can't be trusted around carrot cake of any sort. It disappears just as quickly whether it's an elegant, multi-layerd cake or, as I learned recently, a basterdized version of the old classic that invites parsnips to the pastry party.

Parsnips, after all, are not so different from carrots. They are both spindly root vegetables that we're eager to ignore completely or serve solely in roasts and mashes and soups. In truth, their natural sweetness and delicate texture suggests they belong in baked goods; blend the two root veggies together and you'll capture the inherent flavors of each.

And since I've just, hopefully, convinced you to swap parsnips in for some of the carrots in your next cake, let's push this cake a little further in the obscure direction, away from the ubiquitous coconut-pineapple mix-ins toward boozy rum raisins. And icing? Yes please.

These cupcakes might not replace that stolen wedding cake but I think they'll remind my parents that I'm still very sorry. 

Iced Carrot-Parsnip Cupcakes

Though I adore carrot cake, I also like turning a classic recipe on its head by incorporating the humble parsnip into the batter. The rum raisins strewn through the batter give them adult appeal. 

Makes 18 cupcakes

For the cupcakes

1 cup raisins

3 tablespoon dark rum
2 cups whole wheat pastry flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
¾ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1 ¼ cups packed brown sugar
¾ cup grapeseed oil
4 eggs
½ cup unsweetened applesauce

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 ½ cups finely grated peeled carrots
1 ½ cups finely grated peeled parsnips
½ cup toasted pecans, roughly chopped

For the icing

4 ounces cream cheese

3 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature

1 ½ cups confectioners’ sugar

½ teaspoon vanilla extract

½ teaspoon grated orange zest

1–2 tablespoons fresh orange juice 

Make the cupcakes: Prepare two standard size muffin tins with paper liners and preheat the oven to 325 degrees.  

Place the raisins and rum in a microwave safe bowl and cover the bowl with plastic wrap. Microwave them on high for 1 minute. Uncover the raisins and set aside to cool. 

Whisk the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, and nutmeg together in a medium bowl. Set aside. Beat the brown sugar and oil together in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment on medium speed until combined. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating on medium speed and scraping down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula as needed. Mix in the applesauce and vanilla on medium speed. Mix in the flour mixture on medium speed, scraping down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula as needed.  

Fold in the carrots, parsnips, pecans, and ¾ cup of the raisins with a rubber spatula until just combined. Fill the prepared muffin tins approximately two-thirds full with the batter and bake for 20 minutes, until the cupcakes are golden brown and a wooden pick comes out clean. 

Remove the cupcakes from the oven and let them cool for 10 minutes before removing them from the tins. Cool them completely on a wire rack.

Make the frosting: When the cupcakes are cool, blend the cream cheese and butter with a handheld mixer on medium speed. Sift the confectioners’ sugar into the bowl and beat it into the cream cheese and butter on medium speed until incorporated. Mix in the vanilla, orange zest, and 1 tablespoon of the orange juice on medium speed. Add the remaining tablespoon of orange juice if needed to thin out the frosting.  

Spread the frosting on top of the cooled cupcakes. Top each cupcake with a few of the remaining rum-soaked raisins before serving.

The eggs stand alone

In one corner: a lemony, herb-laced fromage blanc, perfect for dredging a baton of bread through before popping the whole thing into your mouth. In the other corner: eggs en cocotte.

I know, I've made the fromage blanc spread sound far more addictive (and it is astoundingly good) but I have to say it's the eggs en cocotte that I want to make every evening of late. Can I be blamed for falling in love with a dish whose very name seems to coo softly, oh please make me every time I give it a glance? 

I didn't think so.

My good friend Louisa, she being the latest MIX cover girl and (as of tomorrow) my cooking instructor, sent this recipe over with a photo that was positively mouthwatering. That image made me believe this would be the golden child of a week's worth of meals, and I was right. These humble baked eggs have trumped everything I've made since we first met.  

Eggs en cocotte is a superbly simple sort of dish, one that's rich and creamy and belly warming at once without hitting you over the head with said richness. With the addition of bright green spinach, it even feels healthful and subtly spring-esque. I imagine it's just the sort of thing I'll want to serve around Easter with mimosas on the side.

Here's what I love best about this dish though: it has layers. Once I broke through the crust of the baked eggs, I found myself trying to concoct the perfect bite, one that included the slippery egg white and runny yolk, the crunchy-chewy croutons, the supple spinach and the sweet onions hidden way down beneath. That bite was pure, perfect bliss.

There's not much more I can say about this dish except to offer the thought that since this is a winning dish, you should take the chance to dress it up. Louisa's suggestion: set it atop a folded napkin on a small plate and serve it as the first course at a dinner party. The napkin, you see, gives the dish an elegant edge and hints that these aren't your average baked eggs. 

Eggs en Cocotte 
The name is fancy and yet this dish is nearly effortless to make. The one key to this recipe, says Louisa, is to fry the bread cubes in butter until they are golden on the outside but still give a little in the middle. 

4 servings

4 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus more for buttering the ramekins
3 slices (about 1 1/2 cups) artisan bread, diced into 1/4-inch pieces
1 small yellow onion (about 1 cup), diced
1 1/2 cups spinach, roughly chopped
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
4 eggs
2 ounces heavy cream
2 tablespoons flat leaf parsley, finely chopped

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Lightly butter the insides of four 8-ounce ramekins.

Melt 2 tablespoons of the butter in a small skillet over medium heat. Add the bread to the skillet and fry, stirring occasionally, until the bread is crispy and brown on the outside. Transfer the croutons to a small bowl.

Melt the remaining 2 tablespoons butter in the skillet and add the onions, cooking until they have softened slightly and are golden brown. Divide the onions between the ramekins, then layer the chopped spinach over the onions. Pile the croutons on top of the spinach and sprinkle with salt and pepper. 

Fill a large Dutch oven with 1 inch of water and place it on the stove top. Break an egg into each ramekin and spoon the cream over the eggs, dividing it equally between the ramekins. Set the ramekins in the pot and bring the water to a boil.

When the water begins to boil, place the pot in the oven. Bake the eggs for approximately 10 minutes, until the egg whites are set. The yolks should be soft and runny. Garnish with the chopped parsley and additional salt and pepper. Serve immediately.

-Recipe from Louisa Neumann

Granola Bar Remix

I do believe that everyone has a food that helps them forget, a comfort food if you will, one to turn to when your heart needs a little coddling or your busied mind a distraction in the form of something sweet on a plate. And I know this will seem odd, disappointing even, but the food I turn to in tough times is a granola bar.

I know, you were hoping for something more exciting. A triple tier cake perhaps? Or in the least a homestyle cobbler that looks and tastes just like the one mom used to make? Well, you're getting none of those things because though I'm sure my mom made cobbler, I mostly remember her making these bars. When I think of comfort food that's just like mom used to make, my mind turns to granola, and more specifically to these chewy, oat-strewn bars.

In my childhood home - and I expect the neighborhood I grew up in - my mom's granola bars were legendary but also utterly simple to make (recipes don't get much better than that). They are equal parts hearty and indulgent, all oaty and buttery at once, with subtle hints of molasses and cinnamon added for warmth. If I remember correctly, my mom served them on dainty glass plates with pretty scalloped edges; they were a snack time staple when we arrived home from school. 

I'm long past needing an after-school snack and yet I make these bars every week (I have to admit, I usually eat one at breakfast and another for dessert; these bars crossover between am and pm beautifully). 

In the last few years, I've tweaked the recipe again and again to keep things interesting. As I'm apt to do, I substituted applesauce for some of the butter to make them a tad healthier, and also to give them a hit of my favorite fruity flavor. And why we're on the subject of fruit: these bars make an excellent home for plump dried cranberries, golden raisins and apricots. 

This morning I gave the bars a bit of crunch with a handful of slivered almonds - tomorrow, they're traveling south to soothe the soul of a sister who needs a little taste of home. 

Mom's After-school Granola Bars

This isn't the original recipe (though I'll share it if you want it) but these are my version of my mom's granola bars. Think of this recipe as a blank template for your favorite mix-ins. Anything you'd toss in oatmeal cookies is fair game to swap for the dried fruit I call for here. 

Makes approximately 9 bars

1/2 cup unsweetened applesauce
1/4 cup unsalted butter, melted
1/4 cup honey
1 tablespoon molasses
1 scant cup dark brown sugar
2 scant cups white whole wheat flour
2 cups old fashioned rolled oats
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup dried fruit (I prefer equal amounts of cranberries, golden raisins and diced apricots)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Combine the applesauce, butter, honey, molasses and brown sugar in a large mixing bowl. Stir in the flour, oats, cinnamon, baking powder and salt. Add the dried fruit to the bowl and mix until it is evenly distributed.

Line a 9-by-9-inch baking pan with parchment paper. Press the oat mixture into the pan until it is level and evenly spread. Bake for approximately 25 to 30 minutes, until the bars are starting to turn golden brown around the edges. (The bars will look a bit soft in the center but will harden as they cool). 

Let the bars cool, then cut them into squares and serve with a glass of milk. The leftovers will keep in an airtight container left on the counter for a few days, or in the freezer for a few weeks.

Chef Crush

I cannot believe we've gotten this far along without addressing my, ahem, crush on Jamie Oliver. I think I can sum my admiration up like this: when Jake and I talk about moving to London, as we sometimes do, I always, always remind him that if we did transport our lives overseas, I could finally apply to work for my chef crush. Nothing spectacular mind you. I would sweep floors for a living if it meant I could pick that Brit's brain.

I bring this up tonight because I was having a bit of a blah day, with nothing much on the agenda and nothing at all simmering on the stove for dinner tonight. Because it is a Saturday and because I had time to spend hours in the kitchen, I supposed I should make something special. But by four o'clock I hadn't so much as picked up a spatula, much less made a grocery list or any real plans for dinner. Thank goodness I reached for my favorite Oliver tome just then; finally, I became inspired.

Many dishes caught my eye, among them cheat's pappardelle with slow-braised leeks and a quirky sounding, new-to-me dish called bubble and squeak. But what really interested me was the grilled squid salad with warm chorizo dressing that Jake and I made last summer. I'd forgotten how good it was. 

Obviously, the grill is tucked away for the rainy winter, and I'm not really one for grilling anyway. (When you marry a firefighter, you let them deal with the flames.) Nor was I in the mood for squid  - it seemed too chewy, too tough for my tender mood tonight. What I needed was an adaption, one that used a neutral fish fillet as the base for that warm, smoky chorizo dressing.

Within 30 minutes - including a trip to the store - I was spooning my twist on Oliver's dressing over the top of a thin strip of Dover sole. The dish on its own was impressive enough - all layers of sweet-spicy dressing balanced by the clean flavor of the fish. But because I'm the kind of girl who needs greens to consider a meal complete, I repurposed my favorite quick, pan-kissed kale as a side dish. Only this time, I tossed the kale with quartered artichoke hearts, crusty cubes of bread and slivers of Parmesan cheese. The plate was perfect, something I'd like to think Oliver might call "proper feel good food." 

Dover Sole with Warm Chorizo Dressing
You could use any type of white fish here, though I'm told halibut and chorizo don't play well together. I found sole fitting since the long, thin fillet was perfectly portioned for one. Be sure to get soft chorizo when shopping because if you mistakenly use the hard variety, you'll be sorely disappointed by this dish. 

Serves 1

1 white fish fillet, such as Dover sole
Olive oil
1 teaspoon red onion, finely chopped
1 ounce soft chorizo sausage
1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
2 sprigs thyme, leaves picked clean

Set the oven to broil. Place the fillet in an oven-safe baking dish and drizzle a bit of olive oil over it. Season it very lightly with salt and pepper, and slide it into the oven to cook. (The fish will take approximately 5 minutes, depending on the thickness of your fillet).

Saute the onion in a bit of olive oil in a small skillet over medium heat. When the bits are transulescent, add the chorizo to the pan. Using a spatula or wooden spoon, break the meat into pebble-sized pieces as it cooks. When the chorizo has released some of its fatty juices and is cooked through, turn off the heat. Stir in the thyme and balsamic vinegar.

Remove the fish from the oven and place it on a plate. Spoon the chorizo dressing over the fish and serve immediately.

-Adapted from Jamie at Home by Jamie Oliver

Trading Pastries for Produce

Pardon my pregnant pause but I have a good excuse...I was in Paris, land of buttery pastry, fluorescent macaroons and dozens upon dozens of those little raisin-studded artisan rolls that had me tramping about the city in search of the best one.

As you might guess, after eating all that and more chouquettes than I care to count (a rough estimate halfway through the trip suggested we were approaching triple digits), I entered my kitchen ready and willing to trade the pastries for produce, the cream for cabbage - literally. I was ready for Brussels sprouts.

For the sake of honesty, I have to admit that I haven't made these post-trip, yet. But I did make this dish multiple times before we departed and the memory of the dish is informing the way I'm cooking these days. It's January, after all, time for those New Year's resolutions to start eating well again. Part of that, for me, is embracing the much-maligned sprout. 

Before you start your diatribe against Brussels sprouts, let me say this: I know they are stinky and sulfurous. They are the red-headed step child of the produce aisle, an ingredient shrouded in many decade's worth of bad memories and misinformed opinions. I wasn't subjected to them as a child but I know they are the terror of the table for many of you.

But when you cook Brussels sprouts properly and pair them with equally bracing ingredients - say a biting coarse ground mustard - they shine. You'll forget the mushy sprouts of your past, those charred, overcooked little nobs that your relatives tried to pass off as food at Thanksgiving when you were ten, and find yourself craving the things.

Proper cooking, in my opinion, starts with proper prepping, so we're going to start this recipe off by hashing those little green spheres. Throw the strips in a smoking hot pan with a bit of white wine, olive oil and butter and they'll turn silky without loosing their delicate crunch. Then dress them with a bit of that aforementioned mustard and you'll develop a soft spot for sprouts. You might even find yourself trading them for pastry.  

Hashed Brussels Sprouts
You can, as my friend Amber did, eat these sprouts plain for dinner. But you could also toss in pine nuts or bacon to add some texture to the dish, serve it atop creamy polenta or try it for breakfast with corned beef hash. One thing to note: the hashing of these sprouts takes time. Your best bet is a mandoline slicer, food processor fitted with a slicing disk or, failing that, the help of a good, sprout-loving friend.  

4 Servings

1 pound Brussels sprouts
1 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
1 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
1/8 cup dry white wine such as a Sauvignon Blanc
1 tablespoon coarse ground Dijon mustard
Salt and pepper to taste

Rinse the Brussels sprouts and slice off the stem at the end of the sprout. Remove any blemished leaves and, using a sharp knife, half the sprouts. Slice each of the wedges into 1/8-inch strips. Alternatively, use a food processor fitted with the slicing disk attachment or a mandoline blade to hash the sprouts. Place the pieces in a large bowl and dress them with the apple cider vinegar.

Heat the butter and olive oil over high heat in a large skillet. When the skillet is very hot and the butter melted, but not browned, add the sprouts. Turn the heat down to medium and cook the sprouts, stirring occasionally, until they have wilted slightly but are still bright green and slightly crisp, or about 4 minutes.

Add the wine, and cook the sprouts for a minute longer, stirring occasionally. Turn off the heat and add the salt and pepper to taste. Stir in the Dijon mustard until well mixed. Serve immediately.