5 second rule

Just remember this one thing.

Pull in close.

I need to tell you something.

Closer.

I'm not going to bite. Come closer...

It's the pasta water.

The magic, that is.

Sure, the pasta itself should be good, the pesto fresh, the peas just-plucked, the cheese creamy, the night young, the kids cute, the house clean(ish), the weather warm, the table set, the lights dimmed, the mood high. But even if all those things weren't true, even if the pasta were cheap, the pesto old, the peas frozen, the cheese meh, the hour late, the kids homely, the house dusty, the weather cold, the table a mess, even if all that were true, even if all you remembered to do was to salt and save your pasta water, you'd still have a mighty fine meal.

When I forget, there's trouble. See, after I dump the cooked gemelli or shells or spaghetti or penne in the colander, my boys always appear within seconds and pluck out tubes or squiggly corkscrews or long noodly strands and suck them down the way kids do, with noise and fanfare and beaming boy-faces. And then they declare: You remembered to salt the pasta water! or You forgot to salt the pasta water!

I try not to forget.

This magic-water is especially important when making pesto. 

I didn't always know how to maximize its impact. I was naive. I'd pour the pesto from the food processor into the pasta pot as the cooked noodles relaxed in the colander, spitting up billowy poufs of steam. I'd then thin the pesto with a few spoons of pasta water and dump the pasta back into the pot. And, you know, it was fine, but this tactic also kind of thinned the pesto and muted its flavor in a way that wasn't altogether satisfying. The pesto and the pasta water never sucked face.

This time, though, I added some pasta water -- just a little, mind you -- directly to the pesto as it spun and whizzed in the Cuisinart. The starchy, salty water became one with the arugula! the basil! the walnuts! the olive oil! It emulsified into a single fluid, cohesive pool of green, herbaceous loveliness.

And then I mounded the pesto on the pasta, scooped a little (okay, big) mountain of ricotta alongside, and buried it under a torrential Parmesan rain.

It's the pasta water.

That's the secret.

...

Recipe for Pasta with Basil-Arugula Pesto, Peas, Ricotta, and Parmesan

This is a classic, quick-to-make weeknight meal. Do yourself a favor: don't make it more complicated than it is. Instead, when you finish making dinner, just celebrate your good luck, go outside, and stare at the horizon.

Serves about 8

1 pound gemelli, small shells, penne, or other mediumish pasta
1 cup (or more) fresh or frozen peas
Plenty of kosher or sea salt
1 cup (loosely packed) arugula leaves
1 cup (loosely packed) basil leaves
1/3 cup walnuts, toasted if you're feeling fancy
1-2 cloves garlic, smashed and rough-chopped
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for drizzling
1/2 cup Parmesan cheese, plus more for grating on top
1/3 cup whole milk ricotta cheese

Cook the pasta in plenty of generously salted water according to package directions. About 3 minutes before it's ready, scoop out and reserve a cup of water (you won't need it all) and add the peas to the pot. Drain when ready.

Meanwhile, make the pesto. In a food processor fitted with the metal blade, whirl the arugula, basil, walnuts, garlic, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and a pinch of black pepper until finely minced, scraping down the sides of the workbowl if necessary. With the machine on, add about 3 tablespoons of the pasta cooking water through the feed tube, then slowly add the oil in a steady stream, again, stopping and scraping if needed. Your pesto should be loose and completely emulsified. 

Remove the blade and stir in the Parmesan.

Had I thought of it, I would have returned the pasta to the pot and tossed it with the pesto before serving, adding a few extra drips of reserved pasta water just if it needed loosening. Serve with the ricotta, a glistening stream of olive oil, and an indelicate amount of Parmesan cheese.

printable pdf

 

 

Lasso the sun. Then eat it.

Nothing, nothing is more comforting, more satisfying, more likely to cure what ails you than a hot bowl of buttery, cheesy polenta, except perhaps a hot bowl of buttery, cheesy polenta that you can divide in two and turn into a completely separate meal the following day.

If you've never made polenta, or haven't made it in a while, let me assure you that it's not difficult. A nonstick saucepan helps, if you have one, plus an apron, because it can sputter. Beyond that, it's essentially cornmeal mush, which makes it about as unfussy as these things go. You stay close by, you keep the heat lowish, you let it bubble, gurgle, sigh, and undulate in the pan, and about 25 minutes later, you have polenta. (It actually threatens to be ready sooner, but I really try to wait to pull it until the 25 minute mark. This gentle, slow cooking ensures a creamier result.)

Then, when it's nice and relaxed, just porridgey and mellow and open to just about anything, I'm very naughty and dump a whole bunch of cheddar cheese on it. I may also accidentally fold in a pat (or two) of butter. And dust it with black pepper. And toss in some spinach. And scallions. And you know what? If you happen to have some leftover pot roast (I did), it's just lovely hanging out on top. If not, the polenta's still great.

But here's the key. To extend the euphoria, you want to divide it in half right away, right now, because otherwise I swear you'll eat the whole thing in one swoop. (I know you.)  Scrape half of it into a greased square brownie pan. Tomorrow, you shall fry up this second batch, and you shall eat it with eggs.

But today, today is for you. Grab a spoon. Sink it in the still-soft polenta. Isn't that nice?

Look!

The sun, shining outside until moments ago, is suddenly here. First in your saucepan, then on your spoon, and now, finally, in you.

Good job, cowboy.

...

Cheddar Scallion Polenta, two ways

I love the combination of cheese, scallions, spinach, and black pepper here, flavorings that work equally well in the soft-style polenta as they do when you fry up the firmer squares the following day. On day two, prepare your eggs however you like, but a nice loose yolk oozing over the crispy patties? Magical.

Makes about 10 servings over 2 meals (4 servings soft polenta, 6 servings crisp)

1-1/2 cups polenta (coarse cornmeal)
1 bunch scallions, trimmed, thinly sliced into rings
6 ounces sharp white Cheddar, grated (about 1-1/4 cups) 
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 cup baby spinach, rough-chopped
7 big grinds freshly cracked black pepper 
Olive oil
6 eggs

In a large, preferably nonstick saucepan, bring 6 cups generously salted water to a boil. Stream in the polenta, reduce the heat, and cook uncovered at a gentle gurgle until thick, stirring frequently. This will take about 20 to 25 minutes. Meanwhile, coat a 9" square baking pan with nonstick spray and set aside.

When the polenta is ready, remove from the heat. Fold in half the scallions, the cheese, butter, spinach, and black pepper. Scrape half of this mixture into the prepared baking sheet and smooth the top. Let cool to room temperature (about 15 minutes). Then cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight.

Meanwhile, eat the soft polenta that remains in the saucepan, sprinkled with the remaining scallions.

The next day, cut the firm polenta into 6 large squares. Shallow-fry the squares until very crisp on both sides in a generous glug of olive oil. Nudge the squares aside, and fry a few eggs while you're at it. Drape the eggs over the polenta. There. Heaven and earth and the bright yellow sun, all in happy harmony.

printable pdf

A lasting influence.

My eighth grade son recently wrote an essay about his fourth grade teacher.

About Mr. B, and how Mr. B had inspired him both inside the classroom and out. About Mr. B's running program, which entailed sending the kids outside to jog the track, first a little, logging each lap as they went. Eventually, over time, the kids would run longer, and faster, and by the end of the program, kids like my son were running seven, eight, nine laps, ten laps, pushing themselves to achieve their own personal bests. 

The essay recounted how this teacher, and this program, encouraged my son to love running, to view it as a point of pride and self-motivation. How it inspired him to join his middle school cross country team, and to run with his dad, my husband, at every possible opportunity. They run weekends together, long runs, the warm sun flooding their faces for one hour, sometimes two. 

My son is a runner.

He emailed the essay to Mr. B.

And Mr. B. emailed back, saying the essay "made his year" and reminded him of why he went into teaching in the first place. Saying he read it aloud to his wife.

This is what teaching does.

It connects people, sometimes long after their initial point of contact.

I was a teacher, once. And every now and then I still pine for those moments, those moments when a student looks at you and tells you that you've made a difference. But teaching is hard work. The preparation, the organization, the logistics of lesson-planning... those are things I don't miss. Those things are wholly undervalued, though they take up the lion's share of a teacher's time.

Several weeks ago, my friend Beth invited me to co-teach a cooking class with her. Sure, I told her, so long as you do all the work. (I really said this.) She was fine with that, and it's a good thing. I honestly wouldn't have -- couldn't have -- said yes to her otherwise, not at that time, not with other stuff I had going on. 

I'm so grateful for her planning, her logistics, her hard work getting us ready. And then the class came, and we killed it. Her efforts paid off, and things went smoothly, and at the end of the morning, one of the people there took me aside, quietly thanking me.

Thank you for teaching me about these foods, he said.

Where can I find wheat berries?

Can I freeze roasted grapes?

Is this food healthy for me?

I answered his questions, one by one, grateful to Beth, and the universe, for making me -- just for a morning -- into someone else's Mr. B.

...

Recipe for Wheat Berry Salad with roasted grapes and caramelized shallots

This hearty salad contains wheat, grapes, olives, and caramelized shallots, which add a gentle sweetness. I advise starting the wheat berries ahead. Soak them overnight (if you want to -- it isn't strictly necessary), then boil, cool, and refrigerate. When you’re ready to make the salad, they’ll be all set to go.

Makes 7 cups (will serve 8 people easily, as a side)

1-1/2 pounds small seedless red grapes (about 5 cups)
8 tablespoons olive oil (1/2 cup total), divided
Sea salt and black pepper
3 branches rosemary
1 pound shallots (about 6 good-sized bulbs), peeled & sliced
3-1/2 to 4-1/2 cups cooked wheat berries* (recipe follows)
1 tablespoon fig balsamic vinegar
1/4 cup pitted kalamata olives, slivered

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.  Line two rimmed baking sheets with parchment or silicone liners.

Dump the grapes all onto one baking sheet and pat very dry if they’re at all moist. Drizzle with 3 tablespoons olive oil. Sprinkle with 1 teaspoon sea salt and 1/4 teaspoon black pepper. Rub in the seasonings with your fingers. Now transfer half of the seasoned, oiled grapes to the 2^nd lined baking sheet. Nestle a rosemary sprig under the grapes on each sheet pan, getting it a bit oily, too. (Save the 3^rd sprig of rosemary for garnish.)

Transfer to the oven. Roast for 30 minutes, stirring gently and reversing the sheet pans once or twice. Remove when the grapes have burst and the juices are syrupy. Let cool.

Meanwhile, while the grapes are in the oven, caramelize the shallots. Place a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add 3 tablespoons olive oil and the shallots. Sauté a few minutes just to get them going, until they’re really sizzling. Then drop the heat down to medium-low and cook more gently, stirring frequently, until deeply browned and very soft, 20 to 25 minutes. You may cool them, or incorporate them into the salad while still warm. 

In the bottom of a large serving bowl, whisk the final 2 tablespoons olive oil with the fig balsamic.  Season lightly with salt and pepper. Add 3-1/2 cups cooked wheat berries and toss to coat. Gently fold in the grapes with their juices, shallots, and olives. Taste, adding up to one cup more wheat berries if the flavors are too intense. Strip the final rosemary branch and let the needles float over the salad, for garnish.

*To cook wheat berries. Wheat berries do not need to be soaked, but some people find that soaking makes them more digestible. Soak 3 cups hard red winter wheat berries (found in the bulk aisle of Whole Foods) in plenty of cold water overnight. Drain, and transfer to a large pot. Cover with fresh cold water and salt generously. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer at a gentle bubble, partly covered, for about 50 minutes, until tender but with a pleasant chew. Drain. Spread out on a rimmed baking sheet to speed cooling. Once cool, transfer to a zip top bag or covered container in the refrigerator. You’ll have 8 cups cooked wheat berries, which is twice as much as you’ll need for the salad. I always advise making a large batch like this because you can freeze extras.

printable pdf

...

Want to read more about Mr. B? I interviewed him about his running program back in 2009.

Ask, and ye shall receive.

So, there's a book that's currently blowing my mind.

My friend Anita recommended it to me when I was in Seattle, and now I'm devouring it. As I read, I nod my head so hard that it hurts. 

It's not new. It's not a cookbook. It's not even a food book. I know, I have gone insane, but stick with me, especially if you have a vagina. (Censor me! I dare you.)

The book is called Women Don't Ask: Negotiation and the Gender Divide by Linda Babcock and Sara Laschever. Published back in 2003, it examines the cultural forces that impede women from negotiating for their interests. In a nutshell, it provides both hard data and plentiful case studies showing the shocking frequency with which women fail to ask for what they want. Then the authors explain why, by delving deep into our cultural and societal psyche. 

Many of us, myself included, avoid asking for more money, or for more favorable terms and conditions in contracts or in the workplace. Why? Because we're afraid of appearing aggressive. We think we'll be viewed more favorably if we accept what's initially offered.

In fact, the opposite is often true. The authors write:

In many cases, employers actually respect candidates more for pushing to get paid what they're worth. This means that women don't merely sacrifice additional income when they don't push to be paid more, they may sacrifice some of their employers' regard, too. (p.8)

Look, I'm writing about this here because I've gotten quite a few emails from young women in response to my posts about my early struggles -- with my professional identity, and with my efforts to balance my ambition with my early years of motherhood. Anne-Marie Slaughter's recent piece in The Atlantic, Nora Ephron's untimely death just yesterday, and now Women Don't Ask all have me thinking about what it means to be a working woman in 2012. 

How can we feel more confident in asking for what we want? We can't always wait for other people to figure out our needs. Being direct is best. 

To that end, I'm taking a risk. I haven't wanted to ask you these things, but I'm feeling emboldened.

Me first, then you...

Here goes.

1. If you purchased Ripe through Amazon, please share your feedback with other readers by leaving a review here. Reviews and "likes" help authors by creating a critical mass of feedback, which potential buyers consider when deciding whether or not to make a purchase. You can also leave feedback on Good Reads (if you're a member) and on other online sites if you purchased the book that way. If you buy from independent bookstores, share your feedback with the store manager. This goes for all books, not just ours (obviously).

2. I'm considering starting a weekly or monthly e-newsletter. Good idea? Not a good idea? Should plans for this move forward, go ahead and let me know below if you'd like to subscribe. 

3. In addition to encouraging you to get Women Don't Ask from your local library or bookseller, I'm also going to ask you to make a beautiful plate of food for yourself, or for people who are not you. A recipe follows.

Now, you. Practice asking for something below. Of me, of each other, or of someone (your boss? a neighbor?) who won't even see your comment.

You may not get what you ask for, but you won't get anything -- I assure you -- if you don't ask.

Go on.

...

Recipe for Seared Scallops, Favas, Potatoes, and Garlic

This recipe took 3 days, but not because it's hard. Truth is, in the summertime, I tend to cook in components because I don't always know in advance how I want to fit different items together. Once everything's made, I just play.

You'll need:

Small Potatoes
Olive oil
Garlic, peeled
Favas
Salt and pepper
Large scallops
Good bread 

Day 1.

Boil some small potatoes until tender when pierced. That's it. Just boil them, drain them, and let them cool. Then refrigerate them, covered. They'll keep just fine for several days. 

Day 2.

Dump a bag of fava beans in the center of the table and de-pod them. If you live with someone, ask them (ask them!) to join you. Talk about something good, because you'll be sitting there for a solid 15 minutes.

Boil the favas for 2 minutes, drain, run under cool water, and ease off their skins.

In a large, wide skillet, warm a nice layer of olive oil, add 3 or 4 whole, peeled garlic cloves, and let the garlic warm slowly in the oil for about 10 minutes over very low heat. Give it a nudge onto its flip-side halfway through. Add the favas and cook them a few minutes longer, until the beans and garlic are nice and tender.

Transfer the favas and garlic to a small covered container or jar. Top off with garlic oil. Refrigerate.

Day 3.

Blot some large scallops dry with a paper towel. Salt and pepper them. Sear them, hard and fast, in a hot, olive oily skillet for a few minutes per side, until they color deeply and a crust forms. Check one to make sure it's cooked to your liking. (Leave them in the hot skillet for a few extra minutes if they're undone.) Do not overcook.

To serve, set out a platter with your favas, sliced cold potatoes, and freshly-seared scallops. Drizzle the lot with garlic oil, passing bread alongside.

Ripe Party at the Rustic Garden Bistro

Join us.

Outside.

In the garden.

Under the stars.

We will be serving a complete, 5 course meal from Ripe, followed by a potluck dessert buffet. 

We will drink festive libations. Talk about fruit. Commune with vegetables. Discuss life. Get to know each other. Share stories while we share a meal. Then I will do a reading and sign some books with the neatest handwriting I can muster. But please: make sure I don't drink more than one glass of wine. I am a Notorious Lightweight. Note the capital N and capital L. Now imagine them highlighted. And in 34 point.

Many thanks to my friend Kim Burnell, hostess for the evening. She's the owner of a home with what I understand to be a stunning edible garden in Orange County, California. And she's generously opening her garden for this special event on Saturday, July 21. 

If you live in the LA / Orange County area, or know folks who do, please pass along this invitation. While anyone may attend, you get first dibs. Bring a friend, or three.

Click the EventBrite link to get all the details and snag your ticket before they're gone. (Space is limited.) http://ripeinthegarden.eventbrite.com/

And if you don't live in Southern California, but you do like the idea of hosting a Ripe party sometime in the future, please let me know. I'm game to exploring similar parties in other cities. 

Let's talk.

Stuff it.

Spending time online has real hazards. You can get spammed, hacked, unfriended, and cyber-stalked, all in a single afternoon. And that's just on the regular internet. On the food internet, you might encounter something far scarier: an endless barrage of photos showing foods shoved unceremoniously inside other foods.

I suppose it all started with the turducken, but soon even that became tired. Like, really, is a chicken stuffed inside a duck stuffed inside a turkey all you've got? The internet responded by wrapping the turducken in bacon, creating the turbaconducken.  Because that's what we as a society apparently needed. We needed a turbaconducken. 

Let's also not forget the Cherpumple -- a three-layer cake stuffed with an apple pie, cherry pie, and pumpkin pie. For those who need a sweet nibble after finishing their turbaconducken.

The problem is, since those illustrious items were invented, the bar has been reset quite high, and now people everywhere are trying to scale it. Apparently no food makes sense anymore unless it's cooked inside the cavity of another food. This is where we now find ourselves.

Happily, major food companies are right on trend. Kraft, for example, offers up a recipe on its website for an Oreo baked inside a cupcake. Why? I have no idea. Can't we just eat a cupcake, and THEN eat an Oreo, and then go about our business? Can't we carboload sequentially?

No, we can't. Fortunately, when we get bored with that -- it will happen! -- we can then enjoy Oreos crammed inside chocolate chip cookies or hidden inside peanut butter blondies. For some reason, Oreos are prime candidates for being thrust inside other edibles.

.

Honestly, I was going to end this diatribe with a plea for my fellow citizens to get back to eating foods consecutively, or at least side-by-side. But then, just for kicks, I stuffed a roasted squash half with some leftover chili, sprinkled it with cheese, and broiled it until bubbly.

And you know what? 

Right. It was awesome.

Suddenly, things look different. I get it now. There's a beautiful efficiency to eating a food and its vessel simultaneously. It just feels good.

I challenge you all to predict the next big stuffed thing.

Obviously, it has to include Oreos.

...

Recipe for Chili-Stuffed Carnival Squash

First off, people tend to have a favorite chili recipe, so I encourage you to use whatever recipe you like.* And second, I'm not giving specific quantities for the remaining ingredients as they’re completely flexible.  Scale up or down, depending on how many you’re serving. Serve with cornbread. 

A few Carnival squashes (count on 1/2 to 1 whole squash per person)
Vegetable oil
Salt and pepper
Your favorite chili, prepared to your liking*
Cheddar cheese
Cilantro 

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Line a rimmed baking sheet with foil.

Carefully slice each squash end to end. (Use caution.) Scrape out the seeds and strings. Rub the cut sides and cavities with a bit of vegetable oil. Season the flesh with salt and pepper.

Roast cut-side down until tender and nicely browned, about 40 to 50 minutes, or longer, depending on the size and weight. 

Fill the cavity with your favorite chili. Sprinkle with cheese. Return to the baking sheet and broil, face-up, watching carefully, until the cheese melts and bubbles. Garnish with chopped cilantro, and serve.

*For this recipe, I made the Beefed Up Bean Chili from Almost Meatless, which continues to be one of my favorite cookbooks. It was terrific. If you don't have the book, or a chili recipe in your repertoire, I'd suggest trying Susan Russo's boozy beef chili (for you meat-eaters) or this vegetarian chili from my archive.

printable pdf

Down the block, and around the world.

It took an American-born, Guatemela-raised North Carolinian and a grocery clerk with a Puerto Rican dad to lead me to a Mexican tienda twelve blocks from my California house.

What the?

Sandra Gutierrez and I met a few years ago at a food writing conference, and her smile stayed with me even after I'd crawled into bed, shut the light, and closed my eyes that first night. Hers is a big, warm, sincere smile, the kind that lingers and makes the world a sweeter place.

Sandra's first cookbook, The New Southern-Latino Table, fuses her Latin American roots with her Southern sensibilities, and the results are steeped deeply, and equally, in both traditions. Biscuits meet chiles, grits meet loroco (an "edible vine flower" common in Central America), and peach cobbler meets mango and tequila.

You'll find a solid introduction to ingredients with which you may be unfamiliar -- from chayote (a squash) to chiltepan (a fiery pepper) to yuca (a popular tuber). I'm game to try them all. That said, Sandra also seems quite fond of the Southern staple pimiento cheese, and I'm afraid I need to draw the line somewhere. Lo siento.

Happily, however, the two recipes I've made so far were wonderful. Sandra's Chile-Cheese Biscuits with avocado butter were rich, flaky affairs. I served them with a potful of her Nuevo Red Beans and Rice, thick with andouille sausage and meaty pork ribs. My Texas-bred husband -- a man who knows a thing or two about biscuits -- and my children, who enthusiastically welcomed all the bold flavors -- gave firm seals of approval to both.

The biscuits call for queso seco and the stew called for achiote oil, a mixture of achiote seeds steeped in olive oil.  My local supermarket had neither the cheese nor the seeds, but the young clerk whispered that his Puerto Rican father shopped at a small Mexican market that -- it turned out -- was just a few blocks from my house. I'd driven by it a thousand times without noticing it.

Later that evening, I had everything I needed.

Thanks to him -- and thanks, too, to Sandra, Puerto Rico, Mexico, Guatemala, and North Carolina.

It takes a village, and sometimes the whole world really is right outside your doorstep.

...

For the past several weeks, Sandra's friends and colleagues have been helping her spread the word about her book. More recipes from The New Southern-Latino Table are aggregated on Sandra's blog and on the website of her publisher, The University of North Carolina Press.

...

Recipe for Chile-Cheese Biscuits with Avocado Butter
from The New Southern Latino Table by Sandra Gutierrez

[[csr notes: This recipe yielded 17 biscuits for me, rather than the 12 indicated in the recipe. They freeze beautifully. If you have trouble finding the queso seco, take the time to look for a Latin or Mexican market in your neighborhood. You'll love knowing where it is. Also, if you don't have self-rising flour, simply add 1 tablespoon of baking powder and 1 teaspoon salt to 2 cups of all-purpose flour and proceed as directed.]]

Excerpted with permission of the University of North Carolina Press (2011).

For the biscuits:

2 cups self-rising flour
1 cup grated queso seco (use Parmesan cheese in a bind)
1 teaspoon ancho (or pasilla) chile powder
1/4 cup chilled lard, bacon fat, or shortening
1 poblano chile, roasted, peeled, seeded, deveined, and finely chopped
1 to 1-1/4 cups buttermilk
3 tablespoons heavy whipping cream

For the avocado butter:

2 Hass avocados
2 teaspoons lime juice
1/2 teaspoon salt, or to taste
Pinch freshly ground black pepper
Pinch dried Mexican oregano (optional)

Preheat the oven to 475°F. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, cheese, and chile powder. Using a pastry blender (or two knives), cut the lard into the flour mixture until it resembles coarse sand. Stir in the chiles.

Gradually add the buttermilk, mixing the dough with a wooden spoon or your hands just until it holds together (you may not need all of the buttermilk). Turn out the dough onto a lightly floured surface and knead it gently a couple of times.

Pat it into an 8-inch circle (about 1/2 inch thick). Using a well-floured 2 1/8-inch biscuit cutter, cut out 12 biscuits (you'll need to gather up the dough and pat it down again lightly after the first biscuits are cut to get all 12).

Place the biscuits, with sides touching, in a 10-inch springform or cake pan. With your knuckle, make a small indentation in the center of each biscuit; brush the tops of the biscuits with the cream. Bake for 18-22 minutes, or until the tops are golden brown.

To make the avocado butter, halve and pit the avocados; scoop out the flesh with a spoon into a medium bowl and mash into a smooth paste. Add the lime juice, salt, pepper, and oregano (if using) and stir until combined.  Serve the hot biscuits with avocado butter.

printable pdf

Tasting Oregon: land of freekeh, cow parsnips, and verjusette (pt. 1 of 2)

Last weekend, Travel Oregon invited me and about 20 others to experience the culinary scene both within and beyond Portland's borders. Disclosure: they paid for everything.

My hope is that even though my expenses were paid, I can still provide meaningful, informative food coverage of some locales worth visiting. I try to be thoughtful. I try to approach these experiences with a critical eye. But whether I've succeeded is ultimately for you to determine yourselves.

Below is a key to my photos, which appear in the slide show above. In a follow-up post, I'll introduce you to some local artisans and their food crafts, and give you my sense of this changing, growing, youthful, and very quirky city -- warts and all.

Frame 1. Lovely Mt. Hood on a clear September day. Kayaks drifted. Trillium Lake sparkled. Flowers flowered.

Frame 2. A picnic bench at Penner-Ash Winery (15771 NE Ribbon Ridge Road, Newberg, OR). Dusk. I wanted to lie on that table, flat on my back, and gaze at the sky.

Frame 3. Powell's (flagship: 1005 W Burnside, Portland). I wandered the 68,000 square-foot bookstore, then got lost walking back to the hotel even while using the turn-by-turn on my phone's GPS. This is not unusual for me.

Frame 4. Dinner at St. Jack (2039 SE Clinton Street, Portland), named 2011 Rising Star of the Year by the The Oregonion. Highlights included the crispy-salty frites, chicken liver mousse, and...

Frame 5. ...a dessert of plums and vanilla poached pluots.

Frame 6. I like tea. This is no surprise. Portland is home to a fine little shop called Steven Smith Teamaker (1626 NW Thurman Street, Portland), which I'd toured back in 2010. Pictured is one of their herbal bags (Meadow?). I'd like to tape it above my desk, for art. It's prettier than what's up there now, which are some crappily framed postcards I bought when I was 17.

Frame 7. Dr. John Kallas led us on a leisurely forage through the woods and took care to point out several leaves and berries that would cause hemorrhaging and instant death should we consume them. I'd had romantic visions of piling a wicker basket high with chanterelles, or pretty twigs, but there was something equally pleasant, and less taxing, about listening to him speak knowledgeably about huckleberries, thimbleberries, baneberries, and cow parsnips, the lower stem of which can be peeled and eaten like a banana. I bet you did not know this.

Frame 8. A foraged salad at Timberline Lodge (27500 E Timberline Road), a ski lodge founded in the 1930s in the throes of the Great Depression under Roosevelt's New Deal. If you're an architecture buff, you'll enjoy this place and its historical importance. There were a lot of old people milling about, but that didn't faze me because a) I enjoy old people, and b) I was fed a salad of smooth yellow violet, indian paintbrush, wild ginger, tiny tomatoes, bush berries, huckleberries, and verjusette. I swear I did make any of that up. Executive Chef Jason Stoller Smith knows how to make food plucked from the forest taste like it came right from the earth. Oh, wait.

Frame 9. He also knows how to make ice cream threaded with pineapple weed, which pairs especially well with peaches and something he casually refers to as vanilla-olive oil powder.

Frame 10. Picturesque McCurdy Farms orchard (2080 Tucker Road, Hood River). The pears here grow in bottles. I'm not kidding. They grow inside bottles. More on that next time.

Frame 11. Here is a pear. I do recognize that this one is not, in fact, growing inside a bottle.

Frame 12. This man is making burgers on the roof-deck of the Wieden+Kennedy Ad Agency, which  handles accounts for Nike, Kraft, Target, and (dingdingding) Travel Oregon. The building itself is crazy-ridiculous and security guards about the same age as my kids are apparently keeping all kinds of corporate secrets very safe. I'm glad they were there protecting me, too, since I was very busy eating sliders.

Frame 13. Sliders! These are the beef ones from Chef Gregory Denton of Metrovino (1139 NW 11th, Portland). They had a fancy sauce. (The menu actually said "fancy sauce.")

Frame 14. A close-in, mildly disorienting look at a gorgeous freekeh salad with toasted hazelnuts, pickled cherries (!), and borage flowers (!) from Chef Scott Dolich of Park Kitchen (422 NW 8th, Portland). Freekeh is a grain. Borage is a flower. They are both real things.

Frame 15. Dark chocolate-dipped caramels with sea salt. I dipped them myself. More on those next time.

Frame 16. And this is the real spirit of Oregon right here. There were 3 unscripted moments in the trip, all on the last day. Passing this sign while boarding my flight home was one of them. You'll have to wait for the other two.

Go on now.

Get out of here.

If aliens invade, I shall sleep well.

Let's start with the recipes in Yotam Ottolenghi's Plenty that I have no interest in. This will prove that I have a critical eye and don't always give a ringing endorsement to everything in my possession. Of course, this criticism has never actually been leveled at me, but given my generally paranoid personality I'd like to prepare a preemptive defense.

Resolved: I will not make the following four dishes.

Cabbage and kohlrabi salad
Okra with tomato, lemon and cilantro
Stuffed onions
Scrambled smoky duck eggs on sourdough

I think that's pretty much it. The remaining recipes in this stunning 287 page book I will probably make, eat, and hyperventilate about at some point, which is why I plunked down $35 (full price!) at an actual, physical bookstore just over a month ago. Locals who have never been to Books Inc. on Castro Street in Mountain View should really get some shabu-shabu and then walk over to show this indie bookshop some love. If you invite me to join you, I probably will. Let's shabu!

Also, did I mention that Plenty has a pillow-top cover, like a mattress? I would totally fall asleep on it should aliens invade the Earth and steal my bedding.

Several recipes speak to me in seductive, come-hither tones, including the Very Full Tart (with red and yellow peppers, tomatoes, eggplant, feta, and ricotta), the Artichoke Gratin, the Cardamom Rice with Poached Eggs and Yogurt, and the Figs with Basil, Goat Cheese, and Pomegranate Vinaigrette. Add to that list about 50 more.

I recently commandeered the book's Green Couscous to make this huge salad, which I brought to a pool party at my friend Becky's. The dish is quite substantial, plus I tripled it, so it fed about 60 million people. The spray of summer vegetables elicited oohs and ahhs, and since I used whole wheat couscous, I also earned a perfect 10 on the whole grain richter scale. Take that, Nadia Comăneci.

But the real reason you should give this book a look is the lusciousness of the photographs and the sheer splendiferousness of the recipes. This is a book I am very thankful came out a year before my own. I hope it will prime the pump so that when RIPE hits, people are all, YES! WE LOVE VEGETARIAN COOKBOOKS WRITTEN BY PEOPLE WHO ALSO LOVE SHABU-SHABU!

Not that I know whether Yotam Ottolenghi even eats shabu-shabu. But if he does, and he invites me to join him, I probably will.

...

Recipe for Big Couscous Potluck Salad with corn, feta, and herbs

This salad would make an ideal contribution to a Labor Day potluck. Go ahead and swap in any vegetables that are abundant near you. The herb paste makes it green, and beautiful, and special.

Inspired by Yotam Ottolenghi's Plenty (Chronicle Books, 2011)

Serves 12 (may be halved)

6 ears corn, husks and silks stripped and discarded
1/2 pound green beans, trimmed
3 cups whole wheat couscous
2-1/4 cups boiling water (I use a tea kettle)
1/3 cup (loosely packed) flat-leaf parsley
1 small bunch cilantro, leaves and upper (tender) stems only
1 cup (loosely packed) mint leaves
1/2 cup (loosely packed) basil leaves
2/3 cup olive oil, plus more for drizzling
4 to 8 small ripe orange, red, or yellow tomatoes, quartered
4 to 6 ounces crumbled feta

Prepare an ice bath and set aside.

Bring a tea kettle and a large pot of water to a boil. Boil the corn in the pot until tender, about 4 minutes (more or less), assuming it's very fresh. Work in two batches, if necessary. Remove the corn with tongs and set aside to cool. Before dumping the water, drop in the green beans and boil for 2 to 3 minutes, until al dente. Drain the beans and transfer to the ice bath. Drain again and pat dry.

Set the couscous in a large serving bowl. Pour 2-1/4 cups boiling water from the tea kettle over the couscous, cover, and set aside for 10 minutes. Fluff with a fork.

Meanwhile, make the herb paste. Drop all the herbs into a food processor and pulse until finely chopped. Drizzle in the olive oil and whirl until blended and emulsified. Scrape over the couscous and fork through. Cut the corn kernels from the cobs. Fork half of the corn through the couscous.  Taste, and season with salt and pepper, if desired. Transfer to your widest, largest serving bowl.

Sprinkle the remaining corn on top. Mound the tomatoes and green beans in the center of the bowl. Sprinkle the entire lot with the feta. Just before serving, drizzle generously with additional olive oil. Serve at room temperature.

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Crack some eggs, and fold your pants along the inseam.

There was a time, not so long ago, when they could do nothing.

My kids, I mean. They could do nothing.

They couldn't sit, stand, or walk. They couldn't dress themselves, or take a bath alone. They couldn't run, swim, ride a bike, or speak in grammatically correct sentences. They couldn't do crap.

And then, kaboom.

They could.

Now they can read 600 page books, write elaborate stories about mythical lands, and name more Beatles songs than I'll ever know. (I mean, come on. Who the hell has ever heard of Savoy Truffle?) They can whoop me at ping pong and often at Scrabble, and their command of international coins far exceeds my own. They can get their clothes on, and off, and wash them, and dry them, and fold them up, and put them away in square little piles. (Haha! Just kidding. But they can get them on, and off, and then squish their pants into a ball and heave them towards the closet, where they fall on the floor.)

The one thing they really couldn't do, at all, I just recently realized, with a mixture of shame and embarrassment, was cook.

Ooops.

But I'm rectifying that.

We've just completed Part 1, Lesson 4 of You'd-Better-Listen-to-Me-And-Pay-Attention-Because-I've Got Things-To-Do Summer Cooking Boot Camp. Part 1 is egg cookery. We've covered scrambled (lesson 1), fried (lesson 2), omelettes (lesson 3), and poached (lesson 4, this morning).

I even started making them type up the recipes after they cook them, so they can refer to them later, and so they'll have a little cookbook to print out when the summer's over.

Tomorrow's lesson? Frittata.

Followed by a remedial laundry folding seminar.

Bring your sons by. Door opens at 8am.

...

Recipe for Three Meat and Goat Cheese Frittata

When you want a light dinner that comes together quickly, and you've got some scraps of cheese and meat lying around, crack a few eggs and grab a skillet. Frittatas are infinitely variable, and while I usually stuff mine with vegetables, this time I went for the bacon, sausage, and prosciutto.

Serves 4

5 strips bacon, cooked, blotted of excess oil, and crumbled
1/2 to 1 chicken (or pork) sausage, cooked and diced
1 to 2 pieces prosciutto (or ham), torn to bits
6 large eggs
2 tablespoons cream
Salt and pepper
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
1/2 yellow onion, diced
2 to 3 cloves garlic, smashed and minced
Goat cheese (as much as you like)

Preheat the broiler, with one rack towards the top of the oven and a second rack in the center.

Toss the 3 meats in a bowl and set aside.  In a separate bowl, whisk the eggs and cream, and season generously with salt and pepper.

In a 9-1/2" to 10-1/2" ovenproof, nonstick skillet, heat the oil and butter over medium heat. Add the onion and garlic and saute gently until soft and translucent.  Sprinkle the meats on top and pour in the egg mixture.  Dot the goat cheese on top in little blobs.

Cover and cook over medium-low heat for a few minutes, until the bottom sets but the top is still runny. Pop under the broiler, on the top rack, until the frittata starts to brown and looks set, about 4 minutes, then move to the center rack and cook another 2 to 3 minutes longer to get the inside cooked through.

Serve immediately, or at room temperature.
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