Saturday, July 25, 2009

You say "Tomato", I say "Oh yeah!"

Well, I am back in Brooklyn and back in the rut, in a major way. I managed to scrounge up the makings for more BLET sandwiches and green bean and cherry tomato salad at the greenmarket before dragging myself to the train, making it home just before a bout of oatmeal induced vomiting ensued . . . don't ask me, I don't know either.
The good news is I am once again feeling fine, though a little wary of the leftover oatmeal staring at me everytime I open the fridge, and feel inspired to share with you perhaps my most favorite summertime meal. The BLET. Sounds a lot like "blech", though I assure you that is NOT the sound you will be uttering as you eat this sandwich.
In order to assure an appropriately enjoyable sandwich eating experience I feel I must give you some guidelines.
First, the bread. The bread is simply a vehicle of transport for the sandwich filling; less is more. It is wise to choose a bread such as ciabatta, preferably one that has a nice chewy crust but soft, airy interior. This will give you the optimal bread to filling ratio. If you cannot find such a loaf (for those who live in NYC I highly recommend Bread Alone's ciabatta panini, available at their greenmarket stand) I think slices of a nice country loaf or perhaps even a soft centered baguette, split down the center may be appropriate.
Second, the tomato. This sandwich is highly seasonal. It is the mecca for homegrown tomatoes which taste pleasantly of the dirt and sunshine in which they were grown. It would be blasphemy to use a tomato that has travelled the world and is hard and pithy. You would be better off not eating anything at all. Sounds drastic, I know, but take my word on this one.
Next, the egg. The key to this sandwich's success is the egg. Fried until crispy on the bottom, yet maintaining a soft yolk is the secret. Unfortunately as I documented the making of a sandwich for this post I got so caught up snapping photos that I forgot I was cooking eggs on the stove, leaving me with borderline hard yolks. When done properly there should be a gush of egg yolk that runs onto the plate as you cut your sandwich in half, seconds before devouring it. This gives you a nice little sauce to mop up with each bite.
The last piece of advice is this: Before you begin, be prepared to eat. This may seem silly but it is sound advice. Once you have achieved the proper bread to filling ratio, have a nice juicy garden tomato and a runny egg you better be prepared to just let loose and dive in. If you happen to be looking for a recipe to serve a prospective other on your first date, I suggest you keep looking. This sandwich will leave you sighing with pleasure, but it will also leave you slurping up bits of cheese and bacon, draped in tomato seeds, as little rivulets of egg drip down your forearms. Enjoy!!
(I don't know why the format is so bad today, but I assure you it is the website and not me who does not know how to create proper paragraph structure!)
BLET (Bacon Lettuce Egg and Tomato Sandwich)
Yield 1 sandwich
1 ciabatta panini, 2 thin slices of country bread, or 1/3 baguette, split
1 garden fresh tomato
2 strips bacon (turkey bacon works well too)
1 leaf crispy lettuce
2 thin slices cheddar cheese
1 or 2 eggs
mayo
salt and pepper
Fry bacon in a small skillet. While it's frying, toast your bread and spread it with a very thin layer of mayo. Place a thick slice of tomato on the bottom piece of bread. Remove bacon from skillet, drain on paper towels and pour off all but 1 tsp. or so of fat. Crack eggs into the pan, return to heat, and season lightly with salt and pepper. When whites are just cooked and yolks are still runny remove eggs from skillet with a soft rubber spatula, place on tomato. (If using two eggs, fold them in half like an omelet so that it fits on your bread.) Top with cheese, bacon, and lettuce. Finish with top piece of bread. Give it a good squish down, cut in half, grab a couple napkins and get ready for a good time.


Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Christmas in July

Last week I had the pleasure of going home to Colorado to take in a bit of mountain air and spend some time with my family.

The air was perfect; lightly warmed by the sun and infused with the scent of pine trees, I'm pretty sure that's what heaven smells like. My family's appetite was just the inspiration I needed to get out of my BLET (Bacon, lettuce, egg, and tomato) sandwich (more on that later) and green bean cherry tomato salad rut. Although I made them eat both of those things while I was there, so I guess one foot is still firmly planted in that rut.

In Brooklyn I cook alot, though I tend to make lots of desserts and sweets which I neither can nor should eat all by myself. And unfortunately for me, my roommate has a sweet tooth the size of a pea. So it is with glee that I take any opportunity to use my family, and those who find themselves in the general vicinity of my oven, as guinea pigs and recipe testers.

Among the week's contenders were: Lemon Herb Chicken, Smitten Kitchen's Lemony Goat Cheese and Zucchini Pizza, a new and improved version of my Southwestern salad (to be discussed later), Blueberry Sorbet, Blueberry Scones, Brown Butter Cherry Bars, and Banana Bread, but the winner in my mind was the Rhubarb Crumble with Buttermilk Ice Cream.


One of the great things about living in a little town is that friends and neighbors bestow gifts of unwanted produce upon you. When I peered into my parents' refrigerator I spied a bag filled with rhubarb stocks given to my dad by a guy he bought a tractor from.
As stated in an earlier post, I am thoroughly opposed to using sub-par strawberries and thus was a little perplexed when it came to options for pairing with said rhubarb. Apple? Nah. Blueberries? Not feeling it. Peach? Maybe . . . Then it hit me. Why pair it with anything? Why do we all think of rhubarb as the underdog? Why do we try to couple it with a distracting mate?


And so it came to be. Rhubarb would be the star of my dessert. I thumbed through numerous cookbooks, seeking a simple recipe that would highlight and complement the natural tartness of these ruby red stalks, but to no avail. Next I turned to my new found recipe library, my fellow food bloggers. There were several delicious sounding recipes to be had and I settled upon a variaton on Molly's (of Orangette.blogspot.com) rhubarb crumble.


Next the quest for the perfect ice cream to top the crumble (or if you're me, to sit nicely beside the crumble). Don't get me wrong, I love vanilla. I advocate that it is it's own flavor, and is NOT the opposite of chocolate. But, alas, it is a little ordinary.
I browsed recipes for cream cheese ice cream, lavender honey ice cream, creme fraiche ice cream, and many more. As I ran the gamut of ice cream flavors I've been wanting to make I remembered the quart of buttermilk in the fridge leftover from making scones. If you're anything like me you buy a quart of buttermilk, use maybe a cup of it if you're lucky, and then let the rest sit in the fridge to mold so you don't feel so guilty when you throw it away.
With this I could kill two birds with one stone; tangy ice cream to pair with my crumble and no science experiments in the fridge. It was a win-win combination.

The crumble was quick, easy, and in the oven in a matter of minutes. As it baked the kitchen filled with the scent of orange and cinnamon sweetened with a kiss of brown sugar. It smelled delicious, but tasted even better. The tart rhubarb played nicely off the brightness of the orange zest and the comforting warmth of the cinnamon; it tasted like Christmas smells. The buttermilk ice cream was smooth and rich, with just the right amount of tang to make your taste buds wake up and say "howdy". The cool creaminess of the ice cream, the tang of rhubarb showered in buttery crumbles, for my mouth it was definitely Christmas in July.


I have to add that if at all possible, take your ice cream to a picnic in the mountains and churn it in an old fashioned hand crank ice cream maker just before you are ready to spoon a dollop over your crumble. I'm pretty sure this makes it taste at least 50% more delicious than it already does.

Rhubarb Crumble
1 1/4 c All Purpose Flour
3/4 c packed brown sugar
1/2 c rolled oats
6 Tbsp melted butter
pinch of salt
1# rhubarb, cut into 3/4" pieces
scant 3/4 c sugar
zest of 1/2 an orange
1/2 tsp cinnamon

Mix 1 c flour, brown sugar, oats, salt, and melted butter until combined and clumpy. Refrigerate for 30 minutes.

Combine 1/4 c flour, rhubarb, sugar, zest, and cinnamon. Pour into an 8x8 or slightly larger baking dish. Sprinkle crumble mixture evenly over top of the rhubarb and bake at 375 for 35 minutes or until crumbs are golden and fruit is bubbling. Allow to cool and serve warm or at room temperature.


Buttermilk Ice Cream
Yields approx. 1 1/2 Qt.

2 c heavy cream
1 1/4 c sugar
8 egg yolks
2 c buttermilk
2 tsp vanilla extract
pinch of salt

In a heavy bottom pot bring cream and 1 c sugar to a simmer. In a medium bowl whisk egg yolks and 1/4 c sugar until lightened in color and slightly fluffy. While whisking, slowly pour half of the hot cream into the yolk mixture. Pour yolk mixture back into the pot with the rest of the cream and whisk constantly over medium-low heat until it registers 180 on a thermometer or coats the back of a spoon. Take off the heat and strain into a clean bowl. Whisk in buttermilk, salt, and vanilla extract. Refrigerate until cold, preferably overnight. Freeze in ice cream maker according to manufacturer's instruction.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Multi-faceted Fruit



I must admit I've been lazy in the kitchen lately. Why is it that I feel least inspired to cook during the time when the most ingredients are available? Over the last few days I took a highly scientific poll and the results are overwhelming . . . I am not alone in this.


So, I've decided to take this laziness and turn it into an opportunity to take you on a tour of my beloved greenmarket. I figure you eat first with your eyes, so it can't hurt to start looking in the right direction.



I find that I'm a bit of an impulse shopper. No, not the kind of person who buys gum and trashy magazines while in line at the bodega. My impulse buys generally involve produce. (I am fully aware of the nerdiness contained in that statement.) I find myself wandering from end to end of the farmers market, peering to see who has the best tomatoes, the crunchiest cucumbers, the leafiest greens. I forget that there is only one of me and that all I really came to pick up today was a dozen eggs and some blueberries.



Each time I show up with only one bag, sure that it will be nearly empty when I leave, and later find myself hobbling awkwardly down the sidewalk so as not to crush the peaches, tomatoes, salad greens, blueberries, black raspberries, bread, and eggs in my now not-empty-at-all bag. My shoulders slump under the weight of the honey, maple syrup, new potatoes, fava beans, fresh squeezed juice, and compost. How does this happen to me?



How do I so easily get drawn in by the colors and shapes and forget that I am only one person, with one stomach? What am I going to do with all this food?! It's times like these that demand a little creativity. They say necessity is the mother of invention. I think they had my shopping trips in mind when they came up with that.

Last week I found myself overloaded with peaches and strawberries and nothing interesting to eat for dinner. In the freezer I had some salmon, and on the counter a few little new potatoes that hopped into my bag at the market, begging to be smashed with a bit of butter, salt, and pepper. I needed a way to liven this meal up.



As is often the case, I happened to have the food network on as I was preparing to cook. As luck would have it the host of the moment was making a mango salsa. I had no mango, but I did have berries, peaches, and some fresh cilantro. It was worth a shot.

I diced up the fruit, along with a shallot, threw in half a jalepeno, some cilantro and lime juice. Voila, the perfect acompaniment for fish, and (this is the best part) a clever way to disguise my impulse purchases!


Fruit Salsa

2 small peaches, peeled and diced
1/2 pint ripe strawberries, hulled and halved or quartered (depending on size)
1 good handful cilantro, chopped
juice of 1 lime
1 large shallot, minced
1/2 to 1 jalepeno, seeded, ribbed, and diced (vary amount depending on how spicy you want your salsa)
pinch of salt and pepper

Toss ingredients in a bowl. Taste for seasoning. This salsa lasts one day in the fridge; after that the fruit gets a little slimy. Don't hesitate to use whatever fruit you have on hand, such as pineapple, mango, kiwi, blackberries, etc. This recipe is just a little encouragement to get your creative juices flowing.
(I apologize to anyone who may have made this recipe in the last two days; I mistakenly wrote that I used a whole red onion, when in fact I used a shallot. Didn't mean to give you a recipe for onion salad with a little fruit mixed in!)

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Stuntman Strawberries

They lurk under shortcakes. They cloak themselves in chocolate. They stare up at you in the supermarket, screaming "Put me in your basket, take me home!" They try to convince you that you can't live without them, without their brilliant red costume and little green cap. They are the key to romance, decadent dessert, and fruit salad. They are . . . . Stuntman Strawberries!

Let's face it people, those things called strawberries in the supermarket are just giant, tasteless, albino-cored blobs masquerading as something much more desireable. Not only are they clever in their disguise, they also tend to be extremely talented.

When I lived in Vancouver I had the fortune of meeting a good friend, who doubled as a stuntman. In movies, the main actor is not the one you see flying through the air and hitting a wall with flames shooting out behind him. No, no, he is much too fragile and valuable for that. So, in his stead is a stuntman; a guy (or girl, of course) who generally resembles the actor, is tough, and trained to do crazy things and not be scared. The real actor would never survive being catapulted across the set and lit on fire; here is where the paths of actors, stuntmen, and strawberries cross.



The shiny red orbs we see in the supermarket, 2 for $5.00, are actually stuntmen. They look like a strawberry, they may even smell or taste faintly of a strawberry, but they are not the real thing. They have been plucked early, catapulted great distances, and endured many bumps and tumbles. Yet they remain perfect in their little plastic mobile homes. This is something a real strawberry could never survive.


Now don't go getting your back up about this. I, too, only recently discovered this hidden truth. I grew up eating stuntmen and have to admit I enjoyed them. And then I moved to the big apple. Ok back up a second. In all honesty, I was exposed to real strawberries as a child, thanks to my mom and her backyard garden. Though it is fair to say that I didn't gain a true appreciation of them until I was 25 and moved to New York City. It wasn't until I stumbled across the Union Square greenmarket on a hot July day and was intoxicated by a sweet perfume wafting on the breeze that I discovered what a real strawberry is.

A real strawberry is small, bright red throughout, soft to the point of being crushed by it's neighbor, and perhaps the sweetest natural thing you will ever taste. As you bite it, the thin skin gently bursts and juice fills your mouth. Your tastebuds scream "don't stop" and a little sigh of pleasure escapes your lips. Then you reach into the basket and grab another.

Fruit this good deserves to be the star. On most occasions I eat the better part of the basket before I even get on the train to go home. On a good day, the berries will travel the few minutes with me to Brooklyn and wind up as jewels adorning a bowl of granola or the swath of color across a dollop of thick greek yogurt. Once in a while though, dessert is in order.


In my opinion nothing frames a perfectly ripe berry quite as well as a custard or cream of sorts, with perhaps a bit of sponge cake thrown in on occasion. One of my favorite desserts of all time is the italian panna cotta, meaning cooked cream. It is basically cream, warmed, lightly sweetened, and set with a bit of gelatin.
The recipe I am including in this post is my twist on the version found in one of my favorite cookbooks, Sunday Suppers at Lucques, written by chef and co-owner of Lucques, Suzanne Goin. Though I have only eaten her food and briefly met her once, she is one of my mentors and icons in the world of food. In this version she includes a bit of creme fraiche, which lends a subtle tang that nicely compliments the sweetness of the berries.
Run to the nearest farmer's market, follow your nose, grab a spoon and let the good times roll.


Creme Fraiche Panna Cotta with Strawberries

yields 8 4-oz. servings

2 c. whole milk
1 1/4 oz. package unflavored gelatin
1 1/2 c. heavy cream
6 Tbsp. granulated sugar
1/2 c. plus 2 Tbsp. creme fraiche

1 1/2 pints fresh farmers market strawberries

In a small bowl place 1/2 c. of cold milk. Sprinkle gelatin over and stir to combine. In a medium sauce pan bring the cream, remaining 1 1/2 c. milk, and 5 Tbsp. sugar to a boil. Turn off the heat and allow to sit for a couple minutes. Whisk in your gelatin mixture and then the creme fraiche. Strain and divide among 8 4-oz. ramekins or pour into a large gratin dish if serving family style. Allow to cool to about room temperature then cover with plastic and refrigerate for at least 3 hours. A few minutes before serving, slice strawberries, and toss them with the remaining Tbsp. or so of sugar to taste.


If unmolding the panna cotta, run a hot knife around the edges or dip the bottom of the ramekin briefly in hot water to loosen, and invert it onto a chilled plate or platter. Serve with the strawberries and their juice.