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.