5 second rule

Here's a no-brainer timesaver.

I can't tell you what's revolutionary for you. Maybe it's a new mascara (?), a new route to work, a book on string theory. I have no idea. But one thing has been revolutionary for me.

It's the rimmed sheet pan.

And it's not cause I'm cooking full meals on it. (Though sometimes I do.)

And it's not cause I'm making flat tarts and cakes. (Though I do that, too.)

It's cause they have raised sides and four walls and their very design, their very nature, tricks my brain into feeling calm, organized, and contained.

That containment's important.

Whatever chaos crashes in my head, whatever deadlines loom, whatever stresses snicker, and smirk, and jockey for position, the sight of that sheet pan in the corner of my kitchen gives me a sense of serenity and calm.

Here's why.

As soon as I know what I'm making for dinner at night -- sometimes I know this in the morning, sometimes 10 minutes before I start cooking -- I pull out all the dry ingredients I'll need. We're talking onions or garlic, pasta or rice, beans, salt, nuts, vinegar. All the nonperishable food that will go into whatever I'm making comes out of its home and finds a spot right on that baking sheet. I pull down a second sheet if I have to. 

Next, my tools: any tool that dish will require. Like you (perhaps?), I've got a tool drawer that's a reflection of, well, me: not pristine, but functional. Not perfect, but practical. So unearthing the carrot peeler, the microplane, the fish tweezers (I always lose those), the offset spatula... this takes time, and when I've got sauce simmering or onions sauteeing or a roast roasting and I need a tool quickly, I don't need to screw around in that drawer trying to find the meat thermometer. Because I already thought it through. I already took it out.

Then, pots and pans. 

My pots and pans -- separated from their lids, nestled on top of / in stacks of / underneath / wedged between one another -- all live in two slide-out drawers they call home. The one I need is always, without exception, the one at the bottom of the heap, the one I can only get by removing 3, 4, 5 other pans from the drawer. Getting the right pan during food prep is a chore. It results in dropped lids and a string of blue words.

Getting it a few hours, even a few minutes before I cook? Problem solved.

Finally, a post-it. A quick morning scribble of which fresh ingredients I'll need from the fridge allows me to grab them later on autopilot, no thinking required. 

Look, I didn't make up the idea of mise en place. And this is a far cry from a true mise en place anyway. I'm hardly doing all my slicing and dicing ahead of time or setting my prepped ingredients out in pretty little bowls. I'm just getting partway there. I'm setting myself up for success.

And success, it turns out, tastes really, really good.

A June night, here, now.

Summer starts slow, all languid strolls, swims, and easy meals on splayed-out quilts. 

The pace will quicken soon enough, but for now we clothe ourselves in quiet, in stillness, in blessed ease. 

One night we picnic at the local park, our entrée plucked from the farmers' market's rotisserie truck. The line's always long and the heat's intense, but a ten-minute wait for a free-range bird is a fine trade for not cooking on a sweat-drenched California evening. It's a cross I bear in one hand while the other wipes wet beads from my brow. 

I watch the muscled men man the spits. They move the chickens around -- this one here, that one there -- taking pains to ensure even cooking. The poultry spins, its glossy juice anointing potatoes underneath. The spuds accept this benediction like so much holy water.

When my order's ready, I grab the chicken, the warm potatoes, and make my way across the market. I move towards corn, towards spinach, bell peppers, and peas. Not for tonight, of course -- there will be no cooking on this torpid eve -- but for tomorrow, when I'll chop the leftover meat, toss it with shells, with veg, with a dressing that bathes it all in the sweet breath of early summer.

At the park the boys run, all stretchy limbs and teenage speed. 

Colin and I watch them from our perch on a yellow quilt, our food spread out in a haphazard jumble.

A dog sprints by.

Then another.

Brothers, too?

I move to protect the chicken, but there's no need. 

An hour later, a breeze blows in, just this side of cool.

We pack up our things, toss out our trash, and take our time on the short walk home.

Recipe for Early Summer Chicken Pasta Salad with Lemon Vinaigrette

This high-yield summer salad covers lunch and dinner for several days. I've given instructions for roasting bone-in chicken breasts, but if you have access to a high-quality rotisserie chicken, pull the meat from the bones and use that instead.

Makes 8 to 10 servings

3 skin-on, bone-in chicken breasts, preferably organic
Olive oil, salt, and pepper
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice, plus more for finishing
1 small shallot, minced
1-2 sprigs fresh tarragon or other soft herbs
1 pound small shell pasta
1 cup shucked English peas, raw or blanched for 1 minute
4 cups packed baby spinach (4 to 5 ounces), chopped
1 red pepper, diced
1/2 small red onion, diced
1 cup pea shoots, for garnish (optional)

Rub the chicken breasts with a bit of olive oil and sprinkle assertively with salt and pepper, easing the seasonings under the skin. Roast on a foil-lined baking sheet in a preheated 375°F oven until the skin is dark and crisp and the flesh is opaque, 35 to 40 minutes. Cool and shred.

Meanwhile, in the bottom of a large serving bowl, whisk lemon juice, shallot, tarragon, and a good pinch each salt and pepper; stream in 1/2 cup olive oil and whisk until emulsified.

Cook the pasta until al dente in well-salted boiling water; drain. Transfer the hot pasta to the lemon vinaigrette and toss to coat. 

Add the chicken, peas, spinach, red pepper, and red onion. Toss through and taste, adding additional salt, pepper, and/or lemon juice, if desired. Garnish with pea shoots. Serve warm or at room temperature.

printable pdf

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.