Put your Heart (of Palm) Into It.

I get a lot of food magazines. I actually get way too many food magazines. The problem, the reason why I say way too many, is that I insist on reading every word and staring at every detail of every photograph – and all in one sitting. Maybe everyone does that, but I feel like magazines, except for the literary ones, are more often enjoyed in a leaf-through-it-casually-and-pick-it-up-and-down-over-time sort of way. But me, once I pick it up and open the cover, I'm in it to win it until I flip that very last page. Kind of like me and a bag of chips.

Oh, and that's not all. Not by a long shot. I save them. I keep them all in a pile for a larger project. And once the pile reaches a certain height, about two or three times a year, I go back through every single page of every single magazine and rip out the pages that have recipes I want to play with and images that inspire me. After I tear them all out, I sort through them and file them into binders assigned to different categories; soups, breakfast, vegetables, poultry, holidays, and so on. The photographic inspired pages go into their own binder. It's like my own private Pinterest.

I can understand why Fred always tells me, 'It must be exhausting to be you'.

So now you see why perhaps I ought to cut back on the magazines.

And now that I'm moving across the country in less than two months (!), this all seems really idiotic. Especially considering if I ever want to find one of the recipes I can just Google them. But I can't stop myself. It's as if I am compelled. Which is scary since I just saw The Conjuring last weekend.

But, fairly often, I do refer to my binders of recipes to get dinner ideas. And just as often I refer to my binder of inspirational photos as a reference of how I'd like to visually capture said dinners.

So as I was poking around in the cupboard the other day I found a jar of hearts of palm. I honestly do not recall buying them and have no idea how long they had been living with me. I've always been fond of hearts of palm, but it totally reminds me of the early nineties. It lives in my memories with sun dried tomatoes, tuna tartare with mango, Dippin' Dots and Zima. I even vaguely recall a rumor going around that hearts of palm was bad for the world, kind of like the whole shrimp thing right now.

As I was holding the jar of hearts of palm and noodling down memory lane, reminiscing about white zin and baked brie, I remembered that very recently I saved and filed away a recipe for what else, hearts of palm. And I just so happened to have most of the ingredients. And what I did not have was easy to change out with other things, to make it my own. That's just kismet.

Heart of palm is an interesting thing. It is a vegetable. It's harvested from the inner core of certain palm trees. And yes, harvesting of many non-cultivated palms results in palm tree death. However, other palm species are clonal and moderate harvesting will not kill the entire clonal palm. Moreover, an alternative to wild hearts of palm are palm varieties which have undergone a process of adaptation to become a domesticated farm species. This variety is the most widely used for canning. And this very farmed variety is what we are buying at the market. But since harvesting is still a labor intensive task, palm hearts are regarded as a delicacy.

Move over foie gras, here comes something leaner?

Heart of palm does actually seem like a delicacy. It is delicate. It's soft in color and texture and has a subtle, muted taste. A taste that could be described as, well, delicate. Though I like to snack on one or two, straight up, no chaser, you will almost always find them in salads.

And here is no different.

I love this salad. It is bright and fresh and zippy. It's colorful and covers the entire texture spectrum, from super soft all the way over to super crunchy with everything in between. The original recipe called for parsley where I used cilantro. But I think any number of fresh herbs could and should be folded in as well; basil chives, shiso, mint, you name it. 

I will tell you now that once the hearts of palm jumped into that salad, they also jumped into a new memory category. One that is very much in the present. It was so simple to make and so fun to eat, that I bet once you try it, this is one of those recipes that will end up in your binder as well.

Hearts of Palm, Heirloom Tomato and Avocado Salad

Serves 2-4

1 cup mixed color heirloom tomatoes, chopped into ½-inch pieces

1/2 small sweet onion, cut into thin slivers

1 14-ounce cans hearts of palm, drained and sliced 1/2 inch thick

1 avocado, cut into 1/2-inch pieces

1/4 cup coarsely chopped cilantro

1/2 teaspoon finely grated lime zest

2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice

2 tablespoons mayonnaise

2 tablespoons canola oil

Salt

Freshly ground pepper

In a medium bowl, toss the tomatoes with the onion slivers, hearts of palm, avocado and chopped cilantro. In a small bowl, whisk the lime zest and lime juice with the mayonnaise and oil; season the dressing with salt and pepper. Pour the dressing over the salad, toss gently and serve right away.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Zucchini Fries with Poblano Cream

Two years ago: Bourbon-Vanilla Bean Banana Bread with Candied Walnuts

Three years ago: Classic Southern Deviled Eggs

Four years ago: Baked Tomatoes with Goat Cheese, Fresh Herbs & Hazelnut Breadcrumbs

Pucker Up.

I've been thinking about the handful of fruits and vegetables that we use in cooking but would never just pop into our mouths, fresh. I mean to say, foods that require a significant transformation for them to be edible, like olives, rhubarb and cranberries. Olives have to be fermented or cured, rhubarb has toxic leaves and is almost always macerated then baked. And cranberries, have you ever tried to just eat a cranberry? Not pleasant. And acorns. It has never even occurred to me to eat an acorn. Yet, it is a nut. Squirrels eat acorns. And throughout history acorns have been used, ground up to make grain flours and even used as a coffee substitute for soldiers in both the Civil War and World War II.

It fascinates me to no end to think of the trajectory of how we, the people, figured out how to make these things (and all things) edible. 'Well, Hyram there died when he ate that acorn. So let's try and soak it in another poisonous substance, LYE, and give it another go. Yes? Rodney's okay? Alright, good to hear because this would make a lovely flour with which to create a noodle.'

Rhubarb. It comes into season in the Spring and everyone gets all aflutter about it. I'd say about ninety percent of the time you'll find rhubarb paired with strawberries and baked into a pie or a crumble. It's bright, tart and guaranteed to make you pucker up. My favorite bit of information I stumbled across in my rhubarb research: In British theatre and early radio drama, the words "rhubarb rhubarb" were repeated for the effect of unintelligible conversation in the background. This usage lent its title to the 1969 film Rhubarb and its 1980 remake Rhubarb Rhubarb. I guess it's just about time for someone to make Rhubarb, Rhubarb, Rhubarb.

I haven't played with much rhubarb in my day. I could probably count on one hand, the number of times I've purchased any. And so, last time I found myself staring at produce at the market looking for inspiration, I grabbed a handful of those awkward, glossy, orangey, reddish-pinkish stalks and got to thinking. Even though I entertained some compelling arguments to go the savory route, which is generally more apropos for me, I knew pretty quickly that I was going to go sweet.

But a muted, subtle sweet.

Time to bake.

Though I am no cake connoisseur, I have always really loved coffee cakes and pound cakes. They are less cake-like and more akin to very sweet breads (not sweetbreads, mind you – wildly different things). Interestingly, both are also Southern. To this day, I would eat the Tasty Cake version of a coffee cake or the Sarah Lee version of a pound cake in a hot minute. The most beguiling part of coffee cake is the crumb on top. Those brown sugary, buttery grape-sized chunks on top of the cake that are toothachingly, cloyingly sweet – that almost requires a swallow of coffee to allay the sweetness – that's my jam.

And what better an element to cut that sweetness than the tartness of rhubarb?

I was right. When my cake cooled, we all dug in. The rhubarb, which had been macerated prior to baking, was mellow and gently sweet, but maintained it's pert zing, adding an ideal offset to the sugar bomb crumby coffee cake. Well, that and a cup of hot coffee.

And no one even had to die in the process. But Hyram, we certainly do thank you.

Rhubarb Crumb Coffee Cake

Serves 8

For the rhubarb filling:


1/2 pound rhubarb, trimmed


1/4 cup sugar


2 teaspoons cornstarch


1/2 teaspoon fresh, grated ginger

For the crumbs:


1/3 cup dark brown sugar


1/3 cup granulated sugar


1 teaspoon ground cinnamon


1/2 teaspoon fresh, grated ginger


1/8 teaspoon salt


1/2 cup (1 stick or 4 ounces) butter, melted


1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour

For the cake:


1/3 cup plain greek yogurt


1 large egg


1 large egg yolk


2 teaspoons vanilla extract


1 cup all-purpose flour


1/2 cup sugar


1/2 teaspoon baking soda


1/2 teaspoon baking powder


1/4 teaspoon salt


6 tablespoons softened butter, cut into 8 pieces.

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Grease an 8-inch baking pan. For filling, slice rhubarb 1/2 inch thick and toss with sugar, cornstarch and ginger. Set aside.

To make crumbs, in a large bowl, whisk sugars, spices and salt into melted butter until smooth. Then, add flour with a spatula or wooden spoon. It will look and feel like a solid dough. Leave it pressed together in the bottom of the bowl and set aside.

To prepare cake, in a small bowl, stir together the yogurt, egg, egg yolk and vanilla. Using a mixer fitted with paddle attachment, mix together flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder and salt. Add butter and a spoonful of sour cream mixture and mix on medium speed until flour is moistened. Increase speed and beat for 30 seconds. Add remaining sour cream mixture in two batches, beating for 20 seconds after each addition, and scraping down the sides of bowl with a spatula. Scoop out about 1/2 cup batter and set aside.

Scrape remaining batter into prepared pan. Spoon rhubarb over batter. Dollop set-aside batter over rhubarb; it does not have to be even.

Using your fingers, break topping mixture into big crumbs, about 1/2 inch to 3/4 inch in size. They do not have to be uniform, but make sure most are around that size. Sprinkle over cake. Bake cake until a toothpick inserted into center comes out clean of batter (it might be moist from rhubarb), 45 to 55 minutes. Cool completely before serving.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Classic Shad Roe with Bacon & Fresh Herbs

Two years ago: Yerp: Part 1 (of many).

Three years ago: Sautéed Baby Artichokes with Olive Oil, Garlic & Lemon

Cookin' It. Livin' It. Lovin' It.

Even though we have a very, very long history of written correspondence via the good old post office, for the past few years Paz and I have been taking turns sending each other 'care packages'. They are kind of, but not necessarily, for birthdays, Christmas, and the like. The ones from me show up on time – unless I accidentally send one to her childhood address where a bunch of frat boys now live, or I mess up the postage, for no good reason at all. The ones from Paz, well, they show up when they show up. I received my last birthday package on the first day of Fall. My birthday is in mid-June. And so, fittingly, she gave me my Christmas package while I was visiting home last month. In April.

From my end the packages are not what most people would describe as important or precious. Often I go through my house and find an odd mish-mash of tchotchkes, randoms and play pretties. Anything from old pictures, to stickers, to a Ryan Gosling coloring book, to old CDs, to clothes that no longer fit, to Chanel nail polish. The very Chanel nail polish she was oohing and ahhing over in some fashion magazine the last time she visited me in LA. To her credit, her packages do seem a little more thought out than mine. It certainly doesn't seem that she is ambling through her house grabbing this and that off of the shelves.

My recent April Christmas package was really kicky, actually. She had been back to visit her 'people' in the Dominican Republic very recently, and snagged some pretty great stuff for me during her stay. There were two types of rum (rhum?), white and black. I don't drink rum (rhum?), but fortuitously my dad does. So I left that behind for him. There was nail polish (not Chanel), a cowbell (no clue), a Guy Fieri spatula that reads, “Cookin' It, Livin' It, Lovin' It”, and a huge wad of straight-from-the-DR, dulce de leche. Paz knows me well. She knows I don't have a sweet tooth, per se, but I love the more savory, more muted versions of sweets: dulce de leche being a prime ejemplo.

And so from the Dominican Republic, to Richmond, Virginia, to Los Angeles, California, traveled this dulce de leche. And the Guy Fieri spatula. Of course. Funny thing about the Guy Fieri spatula; I know she gave it to me as a gag (we shared massive giggles over the, now-infamous, Pete Welle's scathing review of Guy's American Kitchen & Bar this past November). But, I have to admit, it is actually a really good spatula. Who knew Guy Fieri would ever be so prominent in my own Flavor Town; my kitchen.

Back to the dulce de leche, which is literally translated as candy of milk, or milk candy. The Dominican Republic version is made with equal parts milk and sugar with cinnamon, and the texture is a lot like fudge. Now. What was I going to do with it? I know that it is often used to flavor cakes and cookies. I've also seen toffee-like dulce de leche candies. But the weather is warm, the flowers are blooming, the tank tops are out, and when Fred and I looked at one another we knew. It's ice cream time.

Which is great, because that is all Fred. Fred is the ice cream man, and everyone who has eaten his ice cream will agree. He has a way. And when I say he has a way, I mean to say he has a French (or sometimes Italian) way. Fred is not afraid of the egg yolk. And considering eggs are so the new bacon, which is to say, wicked hip, why should he be? I guess my Fred is wicked hip.

To elaborate, French ice cream is made with egg yolks, so it's thick and custardy. Both French and Italian ice creams are made this way, while the French use a bit more cream to milk and Italy more milk to cream. Whereas American ice cream (also called Philadelphia-style) is made with sugar, milk and cream. No eggs. European ice cream is richer, silkier and it doesn't develop nearly as many ice crystals as its lighter cousin. And when I say cousin, I mean to say the kind of cousins that don't much care for one another. The French hate American ice cream.

Fred's ice cream is no joke – sweet, decadent, thick and velvety. For his dulce de leche ice cream he also added some toasty, salty almond chunks for texture. For a small dinner party coming up he is making a pine nut ice cream with fresh strawberries and honey. I mean, come on.

And yes, he makes the ice cream with our new Guy Fieri spatula. Because we, in fact, are “Cookin' It, Livin' It, Lovin' It”.

And Eatin' It.

Dulce de Leche Helado

Makes 2 pints

1 lb. Or 1 2/3 cup dulce de leche (purchased, or homemade)

2 cups whole milk

1 cup heavy cream

4 egg yolks

2 tablespoons sugar

¾ cup chopped toasted (and lightly salted) almonds

Pinch of salt

Whisk together dulce de leche and the whole milk in a medium saucepan. Heat gently over medium heat until very hot, but not boiling. Meanwhile, whisk the egg yolks and sugar until light in color.

Slowly add the hot milk mixture to the eggs while whisking. Pour back into the pan. Gently cook over low to medium heat, until it starts to thicken and reaches 160 degrees F on an instant read thermometer. (Don't let it exceed 180 degrees, or it will curdle. If you don't have a thermometer, cook until the custard is thick enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon.) Strain the cooked custard through a fine mesh sieve into a clean bowl and add the cream.

When mixture is thoroughly cold, churn using your method of choice. Add almond chunklets to the ice cream when there are about 5 minutes left in the churning process. Transfer to a freezer safer container and freeze for several hours before serving.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Classic Shad Roe with Bacon & Fresh Herbs

Three years ago: Lima Beans in Cream & Butter

Back to the Future

Prohibition Era Vibe Meets Post Modern Cuisine at Belmont Food Shop

I was back in my old stomping grounds last week. Spring in Richmond is breathtaking. Dogwoods, daffodils, azaleas, and zillions of tiny inchworms falling from the sky onto everything. Falling onto everything. That was a new one for me. I thought they were sort of cute and endearing and the whole thing seemed very biblical, or like the end of Magnolia, but with inchworms not frogs. Then I Googled 'inchworm' and changed my tune. Take a macro look at one of those bad boys and then see how cute one is inching its way up your sleeve. But still, Fred was way girlier about it than I was.

On our first night in town, my dad booked reservations (for three, of course) at the Belmont Food Shop. From my research in the world of social media, and hungrily reading everything food and drink related coming out of Richmond Magazine and Style Weekly, and whatever else I could get my eyeballs on months in advance, this was the restaurant I was most anticipating. Plus it is smack dab in my old neighborhood, literally one block from Dad's house. And since our flight had just arrived a few hours prior, it seemed perfect to be able to walk to and from dinner on a beautiful, warm evening.

Well, first off, this place is precious. Richmond has and always has had the market cornered on charming, intimate bistro environments, but this one takes the cake. A ye olde, prohibition-era looking cake that houses a mere five tables. And a sweet little bar with a handful of seats. At the sweet little bar a sweet little mixologizing is going on – with house made sodas. Just opened this past September; owner-chef Mike Yavorsky has created an enchanting atmosphere.

A few non-palate related things I like a lot about Belmont Food Shop:

They have three seatings each night – five o'clock, seven o'clock and nine o'clock. Simple. Makes sense. Everyone can own their table for two solid hours. And whomever deals with the reservations has a pretty straightforward system to work with.

The seasonal chalkboard menu's pricing is structured very intelligently – appetizers are $8, entrees are $20 and desserts are $6 (there are a few exceptions here and there (like foie gras(!))). And there is also the crowning glory of an option: the prix fixe. $36 will get you all three-courses plus a glass of wine, or one of those house-made sodas, or a beer. This pricing structure forces the diner to select what they really want to eat, not based on the dollar amount. 

As we sipped our bubbles/martini/artisanal cocktail, an amuse bouche, of sorts, appeared: a trio of gougéres. My dad will not put a bite of food into his mouth during martini o'clock. He will not do it. So Fred and I ate ours and his. They were a lovely touch, a beautiful, ephemeral texture, but a skoch under seasoned and/or under cheesed.

They boast a confident selection of Virginia wines that I was very curious to try. Dad wanted a Pinot Noir. The bartender let us taste the Virginia malbec which Dad quite liked, so we ordered a bottle. That's when he realized he thought he was tasting the Pinot Noir. I felt like we pulled the old smell the apple bite the onion trick from science class. And hopefully it opened up my dad's eyes a little about his wine options.

We started with the Crab and Avocado with Orange Gelée and Black Pepper, the Duck Confit with Orange and Fennel and the Foie Gras with Sally Lunn and Rhubarb Chutney. When our server arrived with our starters I was slightly surprised by the plating. And the plates. I was expecting modest, confident, simple, almost rustic looking food, but was presented with the whole small food, big plate thing. With lots of smears, droplets, and tweezer-placed elements. I was expecting far less composed dishes. I guess I'm just a little bit over that food aesthetic.

Coming from California, which now has the foie gras ban, I was elated to look down at that plate of foie. I found it so, so very, very clever that he made it Southern with the Sally Lunn roll, and I also appreciated the play on the varying levels of pedestrian and fancy pants by having them on the plate together. My dad was so pleased with the crab and avocado that Fred and I barely got our tastes in. It was bright, cool, colorful and refreshing. The confit came at us in salad form, and admittedly, we pretty much cherry picked the rich, succulent shreds of duck meat out and left the greens behind. And the dollops. There were dollops artfully dolloped across the plate reminiscent of a Man Ray photograph. Chestnut, perhaps?

Next up came Tuckahoe Veal with Bok Choy and White Beans. This was like a giant veal steak, and it had been thoughtfully braised for some generous amount of time. My dad was very impressed and said, more than once, that he had never had veal prepared in that style before. Fred's order of Seared Scallops with Peas, Mushrooms and Parsnips was simply beautiful. The colors were so saturated and lustrous it hardly looked real. This was an inspired dish with bold flavors and topped with beautifully, carmelizey-browned-to-a-crisp-on-the-outside, scallops. Me, I ordered the Chicken with Mushrooms, Greens & Fingerlings. I almost always order the chicken when dining out. It's my litmus test. Some folks think it's the throwaway dish. I think it can be the star. And my reasoning is, if the chef pays as much attention to the chicken as the more, shall we say, elevated dishes, then you'll end up eating some of the best chicken you've ever had. My chicken tastedgood. The skin was crisp and seasoned well. It was white meat, which is not my favorite, and was a little overcooked. I found myself taking each bite and dredging it through the pan sauce to bring some moisture back into the meat.

The service was attentive and kind, the food came out at a nice, leisurely pace, allowing us to really enjoy and savor those two hours during which the little table by the window was ours, all ours.

Chef Yavorsky clearly has a way with food. It's obvious he is putting forth a great deal of effort and thought into what he is serving. The space is beautiful, the cocktails are solid, the pricing is smart, the food is nice and I dig the wine list. I personally look forward to walking in again, bellying up to the bar, sampling the wines by the glass and having a couple of small plates.

One year ago: Zebra Tomato, Pistou Basil & Burrata Crostini

Two years ago: Classic Tuna Salad

Three years ago: Orzo Salad with Tomatoes, Feta, Spinach & Mint

A Project, of the Sweetest Kind.

My word! Everything is so crazy right now. Work has hit some random fever pitch, my chores have stacked up and are looming, I haven't had any time to make my weekly batches of pimiento cheese or deviled ham salad for Lindy & Grundy, Fred and I are going on a vacation tomorrow, which means my packing agita began days ago, and, oh my GAWD - I had to remove a large tick from a dog (ticks are one of THE scariest things in the whole world to me). 

Mercifully, there is always light and growth. Right now those very elements are springing forth in the literal sense: the sun is bright and strong, and all things produce are exploding in my garden and at the market. The bounty of all of the new, and unusual produce, has helped to quell the lack of carbs allowed in my world. Because when things feel this funky, I really just want a big bowl of pasta served with a massive chunk of bread on the side. In their stead I have eaten many 'creative' salads, and an inordinate amount of cheese and almonds. The cheese and almonds are the closest snacky thing I have found to satisfy my salty, crunchy cravings (read potato chip desperation).

When in need of soothing I go grocery shopping; it is my therapy – it grounds me. Whenever I stumble across a brand new food anything, I buy it. And I rarely have a clue what I will do with my new Precious, even by the time I'm back in my kitchen. So last week, while aimlessly navigating each aisle of Whole Foods, mostly just to pick up some healthy lunch snack while out running around, I was suddenly face to spear with bright purple asparagus. And this, my friends, I had never seen before.

Thus, a project was born. Of the sweetest kind.

I raced home, put on my cozies, poured a glass of Moscato (needless to say, wine has been ushered back into diet headquarters) and sat down to poke through my brand new copy of Vegetable Literacy for an idea. I wanted something simple. I wanted something clean. I wanted something light and bright and fresh. And I wanted to incorporate the sixty-two degree egg that I have been besotted with of late. I read that purple asparagus (asparaguses? asparagi?) have less fiber and more sugar than other varieties. So I knew I wanted to bring an acid onto the palate with this dish. And things just all came together. As things tend to do. Or not.

This is a fun and versatile dish. You could serve this with brunch, lunch or dinner. It – at least the asparagus – could be served cool, with warm egg, to play on temperatures, or have the whole thing warm, depending on your whimsy. This arrangement creates a wonderful journey for the eyes, with the bright colors and textures. The aggressive spears of asparagus topped with the soft, sensual, gooey ephemeral egg. The little drizzle of the vinaigrette add that tiny pop of pink. That and the smattering of the bright green bits of basil keep your eyes busy for longer than you'd expect.

And theydo say, 'you first eat with your eyes', no?

Here, in the apex of Spring, I highly encourage everyone to plant something right now. Whether you are able to cultivate a garden in the ground, in containers, or you have a few little plants of basil, thyme or oregano on your kitchen windowsill – or how about Sea Monkeys? Remember them? Watch it (or them) grow and use it to enhance your day, your spirit and your food.

Roasted Purple Asparagus, Red Wine Vinaigrette, 62 Degree Egg

Serves 2

1 pound asparagus

3 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon olive oil, divided

Sea salt

Freshly ground black pepper

1 teaspoon coarse prepared mustard

1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

2 eggs 62 degree or soft poached

A few basil leaves, chiffonade

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. If the asparagus spears are thick, peel the stalks and cut off the tough stem ends. If thin, snap off the bottom where it breaks easily and trim the ends.

Toss the spears with 1 teaspoon olive oil to moisten, season well with salt and pepper, and lay them in a single layer in a baking dish or sheet pan. Roast the spears, turning them once every 10 minutes, until tender and colored in places, 20 to 30 minutes.

Make the vinaigrette. Combine mustard, vinegar and 1/4 teaspoon salt, then whisk in the oil. 

Lay the asparagus on two plates. Top with eggs. Spoon the vinaigrette over all and finish with freshly ground black pepper. Delicately scatter basil leaves across the plates.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: The Pikey

Two years ago: Meyer Lemon Relish

Three years ago: Let's Talk About Text, Baby

Out Like a Lamb.

The end of March is nigh, and thus is Easter. Passover is happening right now. It's a big time for a lot of people. And plants. Plants are having a blast right now. And people are having a blast with plants. Or, at least, Fred and I are.

When we last spoke, I had mentioned having chatted around to get a feel as to what food things meant to people with regard to Easter. I ended up settling on chocolate and lamb, though not necessarily together – which might not be a bad idea, come to think of it. So I shared a chocolate recipe.

So you probably know where we will be going with this. Lambville.

Coming from completely non-religious parents, other than the Easter Bunny covertly surprising me with an Easter basket each year at my mom's house, Easter meant little else. I don't even recall a special meal. So after sifting through people's responses to my query about what Easter represented, culinarily, to them, I went about figuring out what it meant to me. And I decided to embark on the most traditional Easter supper I have ever had. First order on the agenda: order a giant leg of lamb.

I like lamb just fine, now, but as a child it unnerved me a little. I think it was just the gamey-ness of the meat. It wasn't on the dinner table too often at home, but I know Dad loved it. He always ordered it at the Greek restaurant in our neighborhood. He loved their Lamb Guvetsi.

As I mentioned, years ago, like 2005, I heard Nigella Lawson interviewedon NPR around this time of year. She was promoting her then new book, Feast, a cookbook devoted primarily to celebrations, holidays and entertaining. I vividly recall her discussing her favorite Easter meal, and the great detail with which she described a saffron roasted leg of lamb and some sticky, crispy garlic potatoes. Obviously it stuck with me if eight years later that was the first thing to pop into my head when I decided to make my first, big Easter dinner. So I started planning the menu, the flowers, the dining room look, and called some friends.

Easter dinner was so happening.

Two days before the event I put the lamb in its marinade and refrigerated it. The day before, while Fred went out to get all of our groceries, flowers and the like, I poked around on the computer to find out why lamb in the Spring, and why lamb on Easter. Why throughout the entire world the most popular Easter symbol is the lamb. I'm sure, as usual in this department, everyone else already knows this stuff, but I'm new here.

The roast lamb dinner that many eat on Easter Sunday goes back earlier than Easter to the first Passover of the Jewish people. The sacrificial lamb was roasted and eaten, together with unleavened bread and bitter herbs (a Seder) in hopes that the angel of God would pass over their homes and bring no harm. As Hebrews converted to Christianity, they naturally brought along their traditions with them. The Christians often refer to Jesus as The Lamb of God. Thus, the traditions merged.

In the 7th century the Benedictine monks wrote a prayer for the blessing of lambs.

A few hundred years later the pope adopted it and a whole roasted lamb became the feature of the Pope's Easter Dinner, and has been ever since.

I wasn't going to roast a whole lamb, of course. Just one of its legs.

Now this lamb recipe involved saffron, which I absolutely love. I know a lot of people do not, however. It seems to be one of those ingredients like cilantro: people either love it or hate it. And I understand. Also, like cilantro, it has an unmistakable, very distinct aroma and taste. The thin, delicate, muted red hair-like strands are fragrant, floral, earthy, and honey-like with a bit of bitterness. Saffron also happens to be the most expensive spice in the world. Use too much and that will be the only thing you take away from that dish. With saffron, the words 'a little goes a long way' have never been more accurate. A little dab will do ya.

It's no surprise that you will find a wealth of recipes with saffron and lamb together. Kind of like chocolate and peanut butter, they just make sense. They are also both prominent elements in a lot of Middle-Eastern cuisine. Actually, it's funny, lamb takes me back to eating Greek food with my dad, and I used Greek saffron with my Easter lamb.

Yesterday, on the event of my Easter dinner celebration, once the lamb went into the oven after two days of marinating, I went about the décor of the dining room. I hand-picked each and every piece of silverware, plate and glass, dug through the linens to find the right napkins – I went for the fancies – and began meticulously arranging the bundles of daffodils and hyancinths into little vintage creamers and jelly jars while listening to my go-to soothing sounds: Explosions in the Sky. All the while the house was filling up with the entrancing smell of lamb, lemon and garlic fusing together in the oven. I dare say it was beginning to smell like Easter. Or, at least, really, really good. The air smelled like family and friends and the promise of festivity and future fond memories.

Everything was coming together perfectly. The food was on schedule, the room looked great, I had the perfect wines; some lovely rosés from a tasting the day before, and just moments before the guests arrived, as I was lighting the candles, Fred and I got our Easter baskets in the mail! I guess the Easter Bunny is trying to help out the US Post Office in their time of need... Nevertheless, that took care of dessert; Cadbury Creme Eggs!

As we all sat down to the table, we raised our glasses of rosé and toasted to a happy Easter. And as I looked around the room, I took stock. The smiling faces of my friends, the table looked beauteous, the food was delicious, the wine went perfectly with the saffrony lamb, the flowers smelled wonderful, and best of all we were all so happy to be with each other. Good friends, together, on our Easter, eating, drinking, smiling, talking, sharing Easter memories and laughter.

SAFFRON ROAST LAMB WITH STICKY GARLIC POTATOES

(recipe adapted from Nigella Lawson's book, Feast)

Serves 6

1 leg of lamb (4.5 lbs)

1/3 cup olive oil

3 cloves garlic, bruised

6 scallions

2 bay leaves

juice of 1 lemon

small bunch mint, 1 1/2 oz including stalks, torn roughly makes 1 cup

1/2 teaspoon saffron threads, steeped in 1 cup very hot water

1/3 cup rosé wine

 Put the lamb in a large freezer bag, pour over the olive oil and then throw in the garlic, trimmed scallions and bay leaves, squeeze in the lemon juice and throw in the squeezed-out lemon halves too, then add the torn-up bunch of mint. Seal the bag and marinate in the fridge overnight.

Bring the lamb to room temperature before you even think of putting it in the oven, and preheat that to 425 degrees F when you take the lamb out of the fridge.

Pour the entire contents of the freezer bag into a roasting pan and roast for about 20 minutes a pound, or until the lamb is cooked a perfect, à point pink; you will just have to pierce it with the knife to see. Just before the lamb is due to come out of the oven, put the saffron strands in a measuring cup and pour over the hot water so that it can get on with steeping.

Remove the lamb to a wooden carving board to rest. Pick out the lemon rinds, and then place the roasting pan on the stove over medium heat, and stir until it starts bubbling. Stir in the saffron in its water and add 1/3 cup rosé – tasting for seasoning as you go – as needed to let this bubble into a small amount of ungloopy gravy. 

Carve the lamb on to a large warmed plate and strain the saffrony juices, stirring in any liquid first from the carving board, over the pink meat.

Read the sticky garlic potato recipe now so that you can coordinate your movements. And, to go with, I'd want no more than a bowl of green peas, turned in some butter.

STICKY GARLIC POTATOES

Serves 6

1 1/2 lbs small fingerling potatoes

8 cloves garlic (more if you like)

1/2 cup olive or other vegetable oil 

Coarse salt & freshly cracked pepper to taste.

Bring a saucepan of water to the boil and add some salt, add the potatoes and cook for 30 minutes. Drain, and put back into the dry pan.

Peel the garlic cloves by squishing with the flat of a knife so that they bruise slightly and the skin slips off. Put them in the dry pan with the potatoes, and then bash potatoes and garlic  so they are cracked and split. You can do this ahead and leave them in the pan – though with the lid off, so that they don’t get watery – until you want to roast them.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees F and slip a roasting pan in to heat up at the same time. Once the oven’s hot, pour in the oil and let it, in turn, heat up for 10 minutes.

Carefully tip the potatoes and garlic into the hot oil and cook for 15 minutes. Turn the potatoes over and then give them another 15 minutes. 

Salt & pepper to taste.

Serve on a platter with the lamb.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Rustic Cremini Mushroom Soup with Chives & Basil Oil
Two years ago: Nutter Butter Cookies
Three years ago: The Grill 'Em All Truck

In Like a Lion...

Today is the first day of Spring. I love Spring. Who doesn't? What's not to love about Spring? But, in all honesty, if you stuck an ice pick at my temple and forced me to pick my favorite season, I'd have to come clean and say that Spring is not my absolute favorite season of all the glorious seasons. But I do love it.

What I love most about Spring, other than the extraordinary, floral scent in the air, the flowers blooming and making the landscape a rainbow of beautiful colors, the longer days, being able to show off a little skin again, the new produce at the market, getting back into the garden, rosé, getting back into the grilling, Fred's ice cream, or even the Lillet, is the promise of New. The promise of change, growth, new life, new chances, do-overs, new opportunities, and, I must confess, Lillet. I kid. Sort of.

Every Spring, I see those little blossoms bursting forth with new life, to become big, bold beautiful flowers, with gusto as though it's never been done before nor will ever be done again. And, realistically, for that flower, it has not and it will not. That naivete, that wholesome, honest, holistic and true naivete is what I love about Spring. The world is my oyster! Again!

And this Spring, I feel, holds extra promise. Some change is afoot. Something is brewing, but I'm not quite ready to spill the beans, yet. Soon... soon.

The onset of Spring also means Easter. Now, as I've mentioned before, Easter for me has never been about religion. Up until two or three years ago, all I knew was that it was when little baby Jesus came back to life. Then a friend illuminated me for the better part of Easter Sunday, over Bloody Marys and peel and eat shrimp, about the whole elaborate, biblical deal. Which I don't really recall. So many details. And, around Easter, I also think of Passover; my favorite Jewish holiday. 

As a small child, I recall Easter meaning waking up that Sunday morning and going through a very minor search of clues to discover my Easter basket. I just got in touch with my mom to find out if that was the case, to which she replied, “The Easter Bunny left the basket out for you. HE used to put the basket in unusual places. Are you implying I had something to do with it?” 

So there's that. 

Try as I may, I can only vividly remember one basket. It was filled with pastel-colored, plastic eggs stuffed with jelly beans, foil-covered, hollow chocolate bunnies, little plastic toys, Cadbury Cream Eggs (my favorite, favorite, favorite), all tucked into giant tufts of that neon green plastic grass inside of a stripey wicker basket with a handle.

If you think about it, the whole Easter basket thing is really cool. I think I want one this Easter. You hear that, Bunny?!

As an adult (with zero religious affiliations), Easter doesn't mean whole lot. It's on a Sunday, and that usually means brunch and a crossword. That's always special. But I was curious about what others, like me, think about in regards to Easter. In the food realm, of course.

I heard a lot about Peeps. A lot of folks were also all about the chocolate. Some jelly beans. One person said rosé (good on ya). And a lot of ham. I say Cadbury Cream Eggs. But then I remembered a radio interview with Nigella Lawson I heard years and years ago. You know what she said? Lamb. I like that. And come to think of it, though, it doesn't seem like it would make mountains of sense since I don't entertain on Easter, or go places where one is entertaining me, I get it. Somehow, I get the whole lamb thing.

So to sum it up, I'd say Easter makes me think of chocolate things and lamb things. It's funny, I have never been a chocoholic. I did not grow up with dessert as an option, and I never order dessert when I dine out. I have never had the sweet tooth. More of a potato chip tooth, I'd say. But for the past six months, I have really been enjoying a small, sweet treat a couple hours after dinner.

Whether it's a chunk of chocolate, a cookie, a couple of bites of pie or cake, a salted caramel (or twelve), I have relished that after dinner sweetness. And unlike the potato chip, I have absolutely no problem in the discretionary portion department.

This means there has been a sudden boost in the baking department of my kitchen. Come to think of it, the very last post was all about chocolatey cupcakes. It was my first chocolate. Dessert. Chocolate. Baking. See?

Maybe this Spring there will be a burst of baking in my kitchen. Maybe I'll finally master Bread. I know I've said that one before, but I can say it again, because it's Spring. And anything is possible. Do-overs, start overs, start agains, go forward, go back; it's all new.

And until I'm ready to let my cat out of its bag of intrigue of all things new brewing in this camp, I will leave you with this impossibly decadent, delicious, rich, sweet and salty, caramel-y, chocolate bomb of a dessert. Make it for yourself. Make it and give it to friends. Make it for Easter. Make it for Spring. After all, this is the time. The world is your oyster. Your salted-caramel-cocoa-brownie oyster.

Salted Caramel Cocoa Brownies with Walnuts

Makes 16 brownies

Caramel


1/2 cup granulated sugar


4 tablespoons unsalted butter (or salted, but then ease up on the sea salt)


Heaped 1/4 teaspoon flaky sea salt (or 1/8 teaspoon table salt, more to taste)


3 tablespoons heavy cream

Brownies

Nonstick vegetable oil spray

1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, cut into 1 inch pieces

1 1/4 cups sugar

3/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 large eggs

1/3 cup all-purpose flour

1/2 cup walnut pieces (optional)

Make caramel:

Set a square of parchment paper over a medium-sized plate. Lightly butter or coat the parchment with a spray oil, just as an added security measure.

In a medium, dry saucepan over medium-high heat, melt your sugar; this will take about 5 minutes, stirring if necessary to break up large chunks. By the time it is all melted, if should be a nice copper color; if not, cook until it is.

Remove from heat and stir in butter. It may not incorporate entirely but do your best. Stir in cream and salt and return saucepan to the stove over medium-high heat, bringing it back to a simmer and melted again any sugar that solidified. Cook bubbling caramel for a few minutes more, until it is a shade darker.

Pour out onto parchment-covered plate and transfer plate to your freezer. Freeze until solidified, which can take anywhere from 20 to 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, or when your caramel is almost firm, make your brownies:

Preheat oven to 325°.

Line an 8x8x2 inches glass baking dish with foil, pressing firmly into pan and leaving a 2 inches overhang. Coat foil with nonstick spray; set baking dish aside.

Melt butter in a small sauce-pan over medium heat. Let cool slightly.

Whisk sugar, cocoa, and salt in a medium bowl to combine. Pour butter in a steady stream into dry ingredients, whisking constantly to blend.

Whisk in vanilla. Add eggs one at a time, beating vigorously to blend after each addition. Add flour and stir until just combined (do not overmix). Stir in walnuts. 

Assemble brownies: When caramel is firm, remove it from the freezer and chop it into rough 1-inch squares. Gently fold all but a small amount of caramel bits into batter. Scrape batter into prepared pan, spreading until mostly even. Scatter remaining caramel bits on top. 

Bake until top begins to crack and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out with a few moist crumbs attached; about 30 minutes.

Transfer pan to a wire rack; let cool completely in pan. Using foil overhang, lift brownie out of pan; transfer to a cutting board. Cut into 16 squares.

Printable recipe.


One year ago: Rustic Cremini Mushroom Soup with Chives & Basil Oil
Two years ago: Nutter Butter Cookies
Three years ago: Fresh Mint & Pea Soup