5 second rule

Wrinkled

I can't think of a lot of things that are better after they collapse, shrivel up, and leak, but roasted tomatoes give fresh ones a run for their money.  Don't worry -- I won't write about pus-filled tomatoes again.  That didn't go over so well the last time and I have, for the time being at least, learned my lesson.

You're all a bunch of wimps.

Seriously, I know this is a food blog, but can't we have a little fun?  If I have to write about everything being plump and gorgeous and perfect, and airbrush all my photos so they glisten and shine, I might as well give up blogging altogether.  There's raw content here, friends, and I suggest you buck up and deal with it.

I think I need some coffee.

Anyway, roasted tomatoes are not all that pretty.  They drool everywhere, and if you forget to line your baking sheet with a piece of parchment you'll be sorry come washing-time.  But I can't think of a better way to preserve your summer tomato crop for at least a week or two than to concentrate their flavor through roasting, and to layer the floppy, shriveled rounds in an olive-oil-topped jar.  Oh, and if you roast them with garlic, all the better.  Want pasta?  Boil it up, slap on a few garlic-roasted tomatoes and a spoonful of oil from the jar, and you're done.  Instant sauce.

Three cheers for what's real, even if it's ugly.  No Botox here.  They're wrinkled.  They're proud.  Get used to it.

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Recipe for Garlicky Roasted Tomatoes

The following technique was inspired by the Oven-Roasted Fresh Plum Tomatoes in Mark Bittman's excellent book, How to Cook Everything Vegetarian.  In my version, I fill the cavities with a shocking amount of garlic and don't bother to slip off the tomato skins post-roasting.  These are terrific in countless ways: with pastas or other grains, in sandwiches, or even, might I suggest, as a savory crepe filling with scrambled eggs.

Yields about 30 roasted tomato halves

2 pounds small-medium tomatoes (I used a mixture of San Marzanos and Romas), halved

3-4 cloves garlic, depending on how many vampires you hope to keep away

3/4 teaspoon kosher salt

1/4 cup olive oil

sprinkling of freshly ground black pepper

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.  Line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper.

Remove the core and seeds of each tomato half with a serrated grapefruit spoon or small knife.  Discard.  (This step isn't strictly necessary -- a few seeds can remain -- but it does give a nice deep cavity to fill with garlic and oil.)  Place tomato halves cut-side up on the lined baking sheet.

Mash garlic with salt in a mortar and pestle until completely crushed and combined.  Drizzle in the olive oil and continue mixing until evenly incorporated.

Use a small spoon to distribute the garlic-oil mixture evenly among the tomato cavities.  Sprinkle with black pepper.

Roast for 40 to 50 minutes, or until tomatoes shrivel up considerably, release their juices, and just begin to blacken at the edges.  Remove from the oven.  Serve warm, immediately, or let cool.

Once completely cooled, tomatoes can be layered in glass jars.  Fill jars with olive oil and keep refrigerated, tightly covered, for up to a week.

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Authenticity

I've never eaten at the French Laundry or the Inn at Little Washington.  I've read so much about both, though, that I wonder if either meal could ever meet my lofty expectations.

Earlier this month, Colin and I ate at Blue Hill at Stone Barns, a restaurant run by Dan Barber, a chef famous for his farm-to-table cuisine and staunch commitment to sustainability.  I'd heard Barber speak at a conference in Seattle in 2006 and was completely blown away by his passion, intelligence, humor, and storytelling ability.  He frequently writes about the farm bill and food politics for the New York Times.  I'm a big fan.

I'd made the reservation weeks in advance of our trip to New York.  I could only secure a table at 5:00pm on a Wednesday night, a strong indicator that the restaurant was always full.  The excitement built.

I don't want to write a full blown review of our shockingly expensive meal, but I will tell you that Colin and I were sorely disappointed.  Textures were uniformly soft, one pasta dish was horribly oversalted, a meaty hunk of lobster was translucent and undercooked, and the service lacked any warmth. In an idyllic setting with glorious stone buildings, a silo, lush gardens, an expansive greenhouse, and farm animals braying in the distance, it was inconceivable to me how little joy and down-to-earthness came through in that beautiful dining room. Why so stuffy, so formal, at a farm?

But there was a bright light: John, the tomato guy. He was the meal's saving grace.  He should have been greeting diners at the door, with his open smile and wooden plank overflowing with 11 varieties of tomatoes plucked from the restaurant's gardens.  During our meal, John walked table to table, stopping to chat with every diner.  This is an early girl, he'd point, that one there a plum lemon.  The one with black streaks?  It's called a Japanese black truffle.  When I asked if talking tomatoes was his full-time job, he acknowledged that he spent his days in the fields, not in the presence of the nattily-dressed.  I believed him, mostly, but he was suited up so formally he seemed to fit in with the slick, high-ceilinged decor.

And then I saw them. 

His fingernails.  They were horrid: caked with dirt, deep brown grime pushed way down to the cuticles from an afternoon spent digging in the earth.  Don't get me wrong: his hands were washed and clean, but his fingernails told the truth. And I finally felt comfortable.  This is what I had come here for.

Those dirty fingernails saved my night.

Reversal

Citrus desserts were never really my thing.  Sadly, my maternal grandmother always thought I adored lemon meringue pie, and I never had the heart to tell her otherwise.  I know hate is a strong word, but though I loved my sweet, gentle grandma, I truly, emphatically hated that pie. 

Ever afraid to hurt her feelings, I kept up the facade until she died in the mid-1990s:

"How about a nice lemon meringue pie for your birthday, sweetie?  It's your favorite." 

"Right, Grandma.  It is.  That would be so great."

Kill me.

(This was also the same grandma who used to send me brownies when I'd go away to summer camp.  She sent them, like, 5th class, so they'd arrive about a month and a half after she'd bake them.  This pattern continued when my brother and I went off to college.)  

Given that context, I didn't pay the key lime tarts much notice when I worked in a bakery a few years ago.  Another citrusy dessert?  Thanks, but Grandma's dead, so I'll pass.  My eyes would drift toward the cheesecake bombes and opera cakes instead. 

Eventually, though, I tried one. 

And did a reversal.

This was why people love citrus desserts.  Memories of Grandma's pie vanished in an instant, and I was transported somewhere utterly new.  To a land where grandmas never died, bakery bosses never yelled, and lime, coconut, and sweet cream joined together in a passionate embrace.  A land where homemade brownies were mailed 2-day air, or, at the very least, parcel post.

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Recipe for Key Lime Tart in a Chocolate-Coconut Crust

Some people get crazed about key lime pie, but I'd never tasted one until I was an adult.  I now understand what all the fuss is about.  This simple crust is similar to the one in my raspberry-cardamom tart, which itself is a variation of a crust recipe in Alice Medrich's Bittersweet.  The filling (without the garnishes) comes straight from the back of the Nellie and Joe's Key Lime Juice bottle, which you can find anywhere with a large selection of drink mixers.  I wouldn't squeeze fresh key limes unless you have a lot of time on your hands.

For the crust:

1 stick (8 tablespoons) unsalted butter, melted
1/4 cup sugar
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup flour
1 tablespoon (unsweetened) cocoa powder
2 tablespoons sweetened, flaked coconut, toasted in a dry skillet (plus extra for garnish)

For the filling:

One 14-ounce can sweetened condensed milk
3 egg yolks
1/2 cup key lime juice (I use Nellie & Joe's)

To serve:

1 cup very cold heavy cream
2 teaspoons sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
strips of lime zest (green part only, no white pith)
additional toasted or shaved coconut

One 9-inch fluted tart pan with removable bottom

To make the crust:  Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Mix the melted butter, sugar, salt, and vanilla together in a medium mixing bowl.  Lightly stir in the flour, cocoa, and coconut.  Do not overmix.  (The dough will look and feel very soft.)  Dump the dough into the tart pan and, using the pads of your fingers, press it smoothly across the bottom and up the sides of the pan, into the little flutes.  Try to press it as evenly as possible.  Thin spots will turn brittle and burn, so work slowly and deliberately.

Bake for about 25 minutes, until the crust feels firm to the touch.  (Do not turn off the oven.)  Cool completely in the tart pan on a wire rack (about 20 minutes) before starting the filling.

To make the filling: In a large bowl, whisk together the condensed milk, yolks, and lime juice until smooth.  Pour into the cooled tart shell.  If air bubbles appear on the surface, take a skewer or toothpick and carefully pop them without the marring the smooth surface.  Bake at 350 degrees for about 15 minutes, or until the filling has set.  Let cool 10 minutes, then refrigerate until very cold.

To serve: Whip heavy cream with sugar and vanilla until soft peaks form.  Spread over tart, leaving a half-inch border.  Garnish with additional toasted coconut and lime zest.  Serve cold.

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Lunchbox

As of yesterday, the pitter-patter of little feet has left the house, unless you count the sound of the 11-year old pug dragging his dysplastic paws across the tile floor.

Yes, folks, it's that time of year again.  The time some refer to as back-to-school, but which I lovingly call the make-a-tasty-and-creative-lunch-everyday-for two-kids,
pack-everything-in-little-tupperwares-since-the-school-has-gone-green,
don't-forget-the-ice-pack-or-imminent-death-may-result,
did-you-already-have-peanut-butter-and-jelly-this-week-and-if-so-who cares?
will-the-leftover-spaghetti-be-nasty-by-noon?
oh-crap-i-left-the-spoon-for-your-yogurt-at-home,
blech-this-water-bottle-stinks-to-high-heaven 
time of year.

We all need a little help in the creativity department, particularly those of us who eschew pre-packaged lunch conveniences.  I won't moralize because it's unbecoming, but I don't buy snack-size packs of chips or lunchables or plastic water bottles.  My boys get what I make at home, like it or not.  Sorry, kids, you'll have to complain about your lack of access to Pop Tarts and Doritos and Famous Amos to your therapist 20 years hence.

Last week my kids (now in fourth and second grades) helped me make a list from which I could draw throughout the year.  You'll notice that although they're not super-picky, their tastes tend to diverge.  Here's what we came up with:

leftover whole wheat pasta with: pesto, marinara, parmesan and olive oil, peas (kid #2 only), meatballs, or bolognese

nut butter sandwiches: PB&J, PB & banana or PB & apple (kid #1 only), sun butter, or almond butter

meat-based sandwiches: "French" ham (actually it's a Canadian ham, but it's called French ham); roast beef or corned beef (kid #1 only);  leftover chicken (kid #1 only)

Misc: hummus, chicken sausages (kid #1 only)

Bread options: whole wheat sandwich bread, ww tortillas, ww naan, crackers

Leftover soup (kid #2 only)

Hard-boiled eggs (kid #1 only)

Veggies: sliced carrots, bell peppers, and cucumbers (kid #2 only)

Fruit: bananas, stone fruit, dried fruit, grapes (kid #2 only), berries, pears (kid #1 only), apples

Crunchy things: honey-wheat pretzels,  granola bars (kid #2 only), breadsticks, nuts (kid #2 only)

dairy: cottage cheese (kid #1 only), yogurt, string cheese

baked goods: muffins, and occasionally, if I'm feeling especially mother-of-the-year, I'll throw in a homemade cookie (they get plenty after school)

I found this exercise really helpful and am BEGGING you to share your lunchbox secrets with the rest of us, especially me.  I've written about this issue before and magazines make everything sound easy, but, man, if you're in charge of making lunches every day for 10 months, it can wear

a person

down.

Let us know what your kids take to school, what you took to school when you were younger, or what, in your ideal world, you would pack for your charges if only they'd actually eat it.

This was what I gave birth to today, and I'm a very, very proud mother.  Isn't she cute?

Pasilla

 

When I was young, pepper meant one thing and one thing only: a spice bottle filled with tarry black powder, the kind that burned my tender kid-tongue and made Saturday morning cartoon characters sneeze up a big cloud of soot. 

I eventually tried bell peppers, first green, which didn't (and still don't) do anything for me, and eventually red, orange and yellow, which I could (and do) nibble unadorned all day long.

But Mexican peppers were a mystery until I moved to California four and a half years ago.  What was once a hard-to-find specialty item is now a produce aisle staple.  Jalapenos, pasillas, Anaheims, and habaneros raise no more eyebrows here than carrots, bananas or peas.  They've entered the popular culinary vernacular, too, and, judging by how much heat and pizzazz they add to Latin-inspired dishes, they've won legions of adoring fans, even those who don't know their tacos from their enchiladas.

Pasillas (called "poblanos" outside California) are my favorite, a surprise given my distaste for green bells.  (If you missed my accidental green pepper gardening mishap, click here.)  With a more nuanced flavor and less forward heat than their high decibel counterparts, pasillas add complexity to sauces, salads, soups, quesadillas, and pretty much anything else with a Mexican spin.

To mellow their flavor, always char them either under the broiler or directly over the burner of your gas range.  Once softened, slip off the skins and tuck them into your favorite preparations.

Here are two riffs on the same combo: roasted pasilla strips paired with fresh corn, cherry tomatoes, pinto beans, and cotija cheese.  Loose, they're a salad.  Sandwiched between two tortillas, they're quesadilla-bound.

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Recipe for Pasilla Cojita Quesadillas (or Salad)

Cotija is a crumbly Mexican cheese with a feta-like consistency and slightly milder flavor.  And please take my advice: although this is a handheld dish, you'll want to keep a fork handy when eating to make it easy to scoop up any filling that manages to escape.   If you like, you can even double the filling ingredients, serving the extra the following day as a simple salad, dressed only with olive oil and lime.

Serves 2 (1 quesadilla per person)

1 fresh pasilla pepper (called poblanos outside California)

1 ear fresh corn (or 1 cup frozen kernels, cooked)

1/4 cup canned pinto beans, rinsed and drained

4 corn tortillas, red chile flavor if available

1 tablespoon canola oil

3 tablespoons cotija cheese

8 grape tomatoes, halved

1 lime, quartered (for serving)

Roast the pepper directly over the flames of a gas burner, turning with tongs, until completely charred.  (Alternatively, char under the broiler, turning once or twice, 5 to 7 minutes total.)  Transfer to a deep bowl, cover bowl with plastic wrap, and allow to steam for 10 minutes.  Peel off and discard charred skin, core, and seeds, and slice flesh into thin strips.

Meanwhile, while pepper steams, bring a pot of water to a boil.  Boil corn for 3 minutes.  When cool, use a sharp knife to remove kernels from cob.  You should have about 1 cup.

On a small plate, mash beans with the back of a fork.  (If making a salad instead, keep beans whole.)

Heat an 8" skillet over medium-high heat.  Brush 1 tortilla with oil and place oiled-side down in hot skillet.  Top with half of beans, half of pepper strips, half of corn kernels, and half of cheese.  Brush a second tortilla with oil and place on top of filling, oiled-side up.

Cook 2 minutes, or until the underside begins to brown, then carefully flip and cook the other side 1 minute longer.  (Don't fret if the filling falls out.  It will.  Just  nudge it gently back in.) 

Repeat with the remaining tortillas and filling.

Cut each quesadilla into quarters, garnish with tomatoes, and serve with lime.

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Quickie

I hate to do much with peas, especially when they're baby fresh.  Ideal mode of consumption: the 2-second fingernail-slit followed by the 1 second mouth-pop.  Alternatively, when you want them hot: a quick saute followed by a salt sprinkle and a mint shower.  Sure, you can boil them, but if they're small and fresh I really wouldn't bother.

There.  Done. 

What other vegetable gives this much pleasure with so little effort?  I can't think of even one.

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Recipe for Minty Peas

There's really nothing to this recipe, assuming you use the freshest peas you can find.  If your peas are older, you may want to boil them for a minute or two first, but then you're pretty much defeating the purpose of this recipe, which is, obviously, its simplicity.  Don't even consider slicing the mint until a millisecond before you plan to serve or it will oxidize and blacken.

Yields 3/4 cup

3/4 cup fresh-shelled peas, from about 30 English pea pods

1 teaspoon olive oil

2 teaspoons butter

Kosher salt

Pinch sugar

2 fresh mint leaves, for serving

Heat skillet over medium-high heat.  Add oil and butter.  When butter melts, swirl the pan and add the peas.  Sprinkle with a bit of salt and the sugar, and saute about 2 minutes, or until the peas start to brown in spots. 

To serve, sprinkle with additional salt (to taste) and thinly sliced mint.

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Approach

I threw out a mess of produce the other day, and it just about killed me.  Sunday's perky tomatoes had adhered to the counter by Tuesday, and when I lifted them up to examine the undersides a torrent of fluid oozed out like pus from a wound.  Meanwhile, last week's neglected zucchini had gone soft, its cucumber cousin limp.  I mourned their passing and vowed never to overbuy again.

This week I was more careful, but I still took in an impressive haul.  I could say I don't know what possessed me, but I do: the chill in the air heralds fall's imminent approach. Soon, pumpkins and Christmas trees will work themselves into vacant lots, and late summer tomatoes will recede until they vanish, quietly, without warning or fanfare.  Then I'll be sweatered up, watching leaves flutter lazily to my shoes.

We're not there yet, though.  Not quite. 

Take full advantage while you can.

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Recipe for Roasted Vegetable Frittata with Fresh Ricotta

Look no further for a beautiful, low-effort egg dish ideal for entertaining.  If you roast the vegetables the night before you can seriously get this from stove to oven to table in about 12 minutes.  Fresh ricotta here makes a big difference, and the vegetables themselves are endlessly versatile.  When the weather cools, substitute roasted fall or winter veggies with ease.

Makes 4 large or 6 small portions

25 cherry tomatoes

1 large zucchini, cut into 1/2" half-moons

2  bell peppers (preferably a mix of red, yellow, or orange), cut into 1" pieces

2 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed

2 tablespoons olive oil

olive oil spray or nonstick cooking spray

6 eggs

2 tablespoons milk (I used whole)

3 tablespoons fresh ricotta

kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.  Arrange the tomatoes, zucchini, bell peppers, and garlic in a single layer on a rimmed baking sheet.  Drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle with 1/2 teaspoon salt and a grinding of black pepper.  Use clean hands to distribute oil and seasoning evenly.  Roast in the oven for about 25 to 30 minutes, or until vegetables are nicely browned, stirring once halfway through.  Cool.

[Once cool, you can refrigerate the vegetables overnight, but it's certainly not necessary.  Discard the garlic, if you like, before proceeding.]

Place an oven rack 6 inches from the top of your broiler.  Preheat broiler.

In a medium bowl, whisk eggs, milk, 1/2 teaspoon salt and a grinding of fresh pepper.

Heat a 9-1/2" oven-proof skillet (enameled ceramic or nonstick, preferably) over medium heat and coat the bottom and sides with olive oil spray or cooking spray.  Scrape in the vegetables.  Pour on the egg mixture and dot with the ricotta. Reduce the heat slightly, and cook, covered, for 4 minutes, or until the bottom is set but the top remains slightly wet.

Remove cover and slip the skillet under the broiler.  Keep the oven light on and pay close attention so the frittata doesn't burn.  Broil about 4 minutes, or until the top is deep golden brown.  Let cool slightly, and serve warm or at room temperature.

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Merge

I understand mocha: a little chocolate, a little coffee -- divine.  Chocolate and coconut, chocolate and caramel, chocolate and mint.  To my palate, these marriages all work for one very solid reason: the secondary flavor in each pairing is strong enough to hold its own against the dominant note of chocolate.

But chocolate and tea?  In all my years as a tea drinker, I never once thought of mixing cocoa into my tea, or mixing tea leaves into my chocolate chip cookies.  Tea, to me at least, is so nuanced and complex that even at its strongest I fear it would risk losing something elemental when mixed with anything chocolaty.

So I was intrigued when I was offered samples of a new line of chocolate bars, called Choclatea.  With 12 varieties straddling 4 categories (very dark, dark, milk, and white), the bars combine familiar tea types (white, green, black and herbal teas) with varying strengths of cacao, and cocoa butter in the white.

I tried four bars:

1. Pistachio green tea (37% cocoa butter).  This white chocolate square "laced with an earthy organic green tea enhanced with all natural pure pistachio" is tasty, but lacks that lovely mouthfeel you get with 'real' chocolate.  It's pretty, too -- pale green and speckled with faint bits of, I guess, tea, and sweet, but with an odd aftertaste and no complexity.  I'd hang the wrapper on a cork board but wouldn't buy it again.  Don't really taste the tea.

2.  Coconut green tea (64% cacao).  Lovely coconut aroma as I peel back the foil.  This one will be goooood.  Nice snap, great coconut flavor.  I'd buy it again because I love coconut and dark chocolate together.  Don't really taste the tea.

3.  Pomegranate white tea (72% cacao).  A little fruity, a touch tangy.  I like it though -- kind of like a jam-slicked layer cake. I can definitely taste something in this, but I can't put my finger on it.  Don't really taste the tea.

4.  Wild raspberry tea (37% cacao).  Milk chocolate-based, sweet, fruity, pleasant, creamy.  Lacking the depth and complexity of the darker chocolates, but that's to be expected.  It's very gentle.  One note, but a good one.  Don't really taste the tea.

Bottom line: a nice quality chocolate bar in pleasant flavors and beautiful, eye-catching packaging.  (My photos don't show the reverse side, sadly.)  If you want chocolate, and the antioxidants that come with both dark chocolate and tea, give it a try.  But if you want to actually taste the tea, get thee to a kettle.

Just for kicks, trend forecaster and fellow food blogger Dana McCauley and I agreed to taste the samples independently and to link to each other's posts without first discussing our impressions.  I'm a bit terrified to see what she wrote, but here it goes.  Click here to read for yourself.

When?

At some point between the time I moved out of suburban New York (20 years ago) and the date of my most recent visit (2 weeks ago), a new culinary trend took root.  I'm saying "new" like it happened yesterday, but quite frankly it could have begun in 1990.

Salad pizza.  Have you heard of this?  I seriously hadn't.  I had never heard of a pizzeria taking a perfectly good crust, slathering it with tomato sauce, and plopping on a gardenful of crunchy vegetation.  Yes, yes, I've heard of vegetarian pizza, but that's most definitely not what this is.  This is your basic pizza with a side salad, but it's not on the side.  Capiche?

When, pray tell, did this amalgamation take hold, and why didn't anyone ever tell me about it?  My entire family laughed at me, as did pretty much everyone else in New York state, when I responded to their "Let's get salad pizza" suggestion with a vacant stare.  They've been eating it for years, and not just in town.  Apparently it's everywhere.  I might as well have announced I'd never heard of sandwiches. 

"Okay, you mean salad? On top of pizza?"  Um, yes, Cheryl, you complete dolt.

In my defense, I did live abroad, and -- get this -- in Massachusetts for several years.  Could someone have slipped salad pizza under the radar while I was in absentia?  And has it spread like wildfire since, everywhere, that is, except my little hamlet of San Jose, Calif.?  (Please, if you live in San Jose, don't tell me that Pizza My Heart has been serving this since, like, 1950.)

Any hope I had of becoming a highly paid trend forecaster is now permanently in the toilet.

Better

Keep your Miracle Whip.  I'd say keep your mayo, too, but I do use it, sparingly, on tuna. And egg salad. 

Somehow, and I truly don't know how this happened, I ended up marrying a mayo guy.  Mayo on his turkey.  Mayo on his fries ("when I'm feeling Belgian," he says).  Even, back in the day when we'd go to Chili's, mayo on his hamburgers.  I know!  (I couldn't even begin to count the number of times I heard, "I'll take the Old-Timer with cheese.  Just meat, cheese, bread, and mayo.") 

That's love for you.

So mayo and I can co-exist but we're not, like, involved.  As a result, I've never been a fan of traditional deli-style potato salad.  Blech.  Cold potatoes slathered in mayo?  Makes me think of a wayward sneeze.  Sorry, just no.

Salading up the potatoes with other moisturizers -- say, olive oil -- yields a respectable result, but there's often still something missing for me.  If you really want me to eat potato salad, and enjoy it, I'm going to need more.

Caramelized shallots, for example.  And not just a few, but a whole tangled mess of them.  Preferably in a 2:1 ratio to the spuds.

See, certain foods -- pesto, sun-dried tomatoes, tapenade, roasted red peppers, and caramelized alliums --  always slay me.  Put me on a sandwich line and I'm guaranteed to pick the menu item with those sidekicks.  Grilled vegetables, rare roast beef, dry turkey, dirt -- whatever -- if you're putting caramelized shallots on it, I'm buying.

So here you go.  It's on me.
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Recipe for Mayo-Free Potato Salad with Caramelized Shallots

A picnic classic without the gloppy mayo, this closer-to-French-style potato salad gets its personality from an embarrassing quantity of caramelized shallots.  Give yourself time.  Browning the shallots takes a good 35 to 40 minutes of very little effort.  Rush things, and you'll be very sorry indeed.

5 tablespoons olive oil, divided

7 shallots, peeled and and sliced thinly

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

freshly ground black pepper

1 pound baby potatoes, scrubbed gently but unpeeled

1-1/2 tablespoons Champagne or white wine vinegar

1/2 teaspoon Dijon mustard

generous handful Italian (flat-leaf) parsley

coarse salt and additional pepper, for serving

Warm 2 tablespoons of the olive oil over medium heat and add the shallots.  Season with 1/2 teaspoon salt and a grinding of black pepper and cook, stirring occasionally, for 35 to 40 minutes, or until a uniform deep, golden brown.  Reduce the heat as necessary so shallots do not burn.

While the shallots cook, prepare the potatoes:  Place potatoes in a medium saucepan with cold water to cover by about one inch.  Bring to a boil.  Boil steadily for 8 to 10 minutes (or longer, depending on size), or until tender when pierced with a fork.  Drain, then return to the saucepan, uncovered and off-heat, to keep ever-so-slightly warm.

Prepare the vinaigrette:  In a large serving bowl, whisk together the vinegar, mustard, and a little salt and pepper.  Slowly stream in the remaining 3 tablespoons of olive oil.

Slice the potatoes into 1/4" thick disks.  Add potatoes, shallots, and parsley to the vinaigrette and give a nice stir.  Sprinkle generously with coarse salt, and serve warm or at room temperature.

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