Zucchini season won't be here for awhile, but I like to start planning early. You know, zucchini strategy. Very important. In fact, it's during times like this that we need to squirrel away recipes and ideas so when that nervewracking zucchini explosion comes this summer, we'll be prepared. (Speaking of squirrels, I have recently learned a marvelous animal fact, which is this: squirrels, as we know, bury lots of nuts, and dig up lots of nuts. BUT, listen here! They don't dig up their OWN nuts. All the squirrels frantically bury their little nuts all over the place, and then, when it's time to dig them up, they don't have the memory to recall where their own nuts are, so they scratch around until they find other squirrels' buried nuts. Crazy, right? Oh, you squirrels. Honestly!)
I love this zucchini recipe because it's seriously delicious, really simple, astoundingly healthy, and it makes zucchini shrink, so you can plow through even more of that bumper crop this summer. The chips aren't really "chips" as we know them -- they are sort of crisp, but they are more like fried zucchini without the frying or the grease. And, really, who can deal with deep-fried vegetables, anyway? What is the point? It's sort of like gluing sharp rocks all over a pillow and then throwing it at someone's head. There's something innocent inside, but the fact is, it's still going to hurt. A lot. And, honestly, if I am going to go through the emotional guilt and physical aftermath of eating something fried, I'm going to go all the way. It's gotta be something painfully artery-wrenching in there, like cheese, or at least cheese inside a jalapeño pepper. A real, actual vegetable (like zucchini) inside that fried shell just makes you feel even more guilty! It taunts you! You thought vegetables were always healthy, but no! Ha ha! Not when we're wearing a crispy, crunchy cape of grease!Sucker!
Anyway, you get the idea. (And, no, I had no idea I felt so passionately about this whole topic until right now.) Quelle surprise.
Your-Arteries-Will-Love-You Zucchini Chips sort of adapted from both Cooking Light magazine and a mystery newspaper clipping makes enough for two as a substantial side dish, or four smaller side servings
2 medium or 4 small zucchini, sliced at an angle in 1/4" slices 2 T milk (you can use skim or 1% or 2% or whole) 1/4 C good quality (preferably homemade) seasoned breadcrumbs* 1/4 C fresh grated Parmesan cheese 1/4 t garlic powder 1/4 t seasoned salt (or regular salt plus a few dashes of dried herbs) 1/4 t ground black pepper 1/8 t red pepper flakes
*The fine breadcrumbs are important. As you will see from my picture, I only had coarse breadcrumbs and was feeling to lazy to whiz them up in the food processor again. When they are more fine, more breadcrumbs will stick to the zucchini, and the chips will be a much better consistency. And you'll be a happier camper.
Preheat oven to 425 F.
Combine dry ingredients in a medium bowl. Pour milk into a shallow bowl. Dip zucchini slices in milk and dredge in breadcrumb mixture. Place coated slices on a ovenproof wire rack coated with cooking spray and place rack on a cookie sheet. You can also put them on a vented pizza pan or a pizza stone -- you just want to make sure that they are able to receive heat on both sides. Bake for 30 minutes or until brown and crisp. Serve immediately with marinara sauce for dipping. They will definitely lose their oomph very quickly as they lose their heat, and they just aren't as delicious when they are cold and limp. (Honestly, is anything delicious when it's cold and limp?)
If there is a food that speaks the true language of weekend, it's pizza.
I'm pretty sure that pizza is part of the American dream. It seems that we, as Americans, simply cannot get enough of this stuff, especially on Fridays and Saturdays, which we have collectively deemed two very good days for consumption of this wonder, this (potentially) all-food-groups-inclusive marvel. And the thing is, no food has memories like pizza does -- at least for me. There have been many pizzas in my life. They've all been so, so different and many of them have been so, so heavenly. There have also been some really lousy pizzas, of course, and some really mediocre ones. There were the one time I ate the pizza in a school lunch (which, honestly, doesn't even deserve to be called pizza -- thank you eternally Jamie Oliver, for working so hard to fix this), and the pizza at parties, and the pizzas eaten in college and the pizzas my family has eaten every Christmas Eve. There are the pizza I've made, the pizzeria pizzas, the take-out pizzas, the flatbreads and pitas parading as pizzas. I do wonder how many pieces of pizza I've eaten in my lifetime (well, I sort of wonder -- maybe it's better to not know something like this). When I set out thinking about pizza, I ran headfirst into dozens of memories, complete with tales of freshly-birthed independence, stressful sleepovers, a dead mouse, and, yes, a bloody lip. Ah, pizza. You've shaped me well.
I'll explain to you how it began. You might like to know that there was some real, live pizza making going on when I was growing up. It may have to do with the fact that those super-fancy frozen pizzas hadn't really hit their peak yet, but, more likely, it just was because my mother was a purist of sorts, and really didn't see any sense in fooling around with some frozen disk when we could make much better pizzas ourselves and, of course, spend time together, doing family stuff like nearly losing fingers in the cheese grater and bickering about the placement of the pepperoni. (Okay, so there wasn't any bickering. I must mean my own bickering inside my own head as I focused intently on trying to align said pepperoni in a perfectly symmetrical pattern. I've moved beyond this meat-placing perfectionism since then, I promise.) I imagine that I love to make pizza now because I learned to love the process (and its ease) when I was young, but I must say that it's a process that is, by nature, terribly easy to fall in love with.
We've made many a pizza with friends, and the process always seems to morph into more of an art-making contest. Seriously, this kind of stuff makes adults giddy. (Well, at least the kind of adults that we run around with.) It's interactive, it's really quite a lot of fun, and it makes people feel a whir of unexpectedly exciting control. How many things can I put on it? What's the weirdest thing I can put on it? What about mustard? Blueberries? Can I use this leftover meatloaf?This moldy hunk of brie?
Nowadays, it's really not all that weird for "weird" ingredients to end up on pizza. When you look at this pizza frenzy that's been sweeping us off our simple little pizza feet, nothing is really all that strange anymore. It's become sort of a means of outdoing the next guy, almost. I went to a restaurant a few weekends ago that had seventy toppings for pizza. Seventy. What? Why? How? Huh? And, more importantly, is this really necessary? Imagine trying to come up with seventy toppings, all of which are run-of-the-mill sorts of ingredients. (This place was not fancy and/or artisanal, thus kale and microgreens needed not apply.) What we're left with is things like, um, I don't know, Trix cereal? Seriously, pizza guys. Ease up. We won't be upset if you only have ten toppings. Pizza gets nervous when it has to support things like clams, turkey, and bananas.
Pizza also gets nervous and very, very angry when it is called "za'." Okay, really, folks? Just stop this. Pizza is not a long word to say. It has (count 'em) a mere two syllables. You really won't waste that much energy saying that extra syllable, will you? I simply cringe when I hear it, or read it -- it doesn't feel good to say it! And what's the thing, here? And people afraid or worried about saying the real word? If saying "pizza" is too much of an embarrassment for you, then you shouldn't be talking about it or eating it, anyway. I suppose the whole thing is just an attempt at being linguistically stylish, but it makes the speaker (or writer) just sound lazy. Unfortunately, I think we have texting to accuse here. This whole thing might never have happened if we weren't all too lazy to push enough buttons to make whole words. We must have been too busy eating that cereal while driving, walking out in front of cars while we were on our cell phones with our dogs and babies in tow, eating fast food, and reading books on a tiny screen. Watch out, America, our language is about to suffer some real downsizing! Wch o Am, r lng z bt 2 sf sm rl dn-szg! We don't need those lousy vowels anymore!
Since I am apparently on a roll right now, I would take a moment here to bash the whole pineapple-on-pizza thing, but I happen to like it. A lot. Especially if it is combined with mushrooms. Not every day, mind you, but every once in a while, I love it. Matthew hates it with all his heart (and he, as you might recall, is anything but a hater, especially when it comes to food) and it is pretty much the only thing that he will not eat on pizza. And keep in mind, he loves pizza so much that it is number one on his stranded-on-a-desert-island-with-only-three-foods food list. (Hence the heart-shaped pizza. There's this pizza place in town that makes heart-shaped pizzas for Valentine's Day, and the special shape + Valentine's Day scam system = very expensive pizzas. I've never gotten one, because it seems ridiculous to spend $30 plus tip on a pizza when I can make one for $5 at home.)
Let's let the pizza saga continue, though. Our babysitter's name was Mindy. It was me and my brother, who is three years older than me. Our parents didn't go out by themselves very often, but Mindy would come over every once in a while on a Saturday night to spend the evening with us. I remember her with short hair in big brown curls. She was stylish (well, who wasn't stylish in the 80s?) and she brought her sticker albums over to show us. She would even trade stickers with us, which I thought was especially cool, that she would want to trade stickers with kids. She had so many good smelly stickers, and so many good puffy stickers.
Mindy would make us dinner while we played, and one night she had put in a frozen pizza (Tombstone, of course) to bake. When it was ready, she called for us and I ran to the kitchen. Halfway there (the entire distance was probably, um, sixteen feet, tops) I crashed face-first into the door jamb, thereby splitting my lip open and wailing out in, I'm sure, a cry so loud it put sirens to shame. As I sat there on the hardwood floor of the small hallway, bleeding into a wad of kleenex, all I could think was the pizza's getting cold. Eventually my bottom lip went from bloody and swollen to just swollen, and I trudged my way into the kitchen, my hand in Mindy's. The pizza sauce made my lip burn, but I was a tough cookie, and I forged through. Pizza was worth suffering for.
Our times with Mindy were fantastic, but one of the first times I ever felt a true, solid streak of independence was when my brother was allowed to start babysitting me. We had finally outgrown The Babysitter! We were on our own! It was liberating in a way that nothing had ever been. We could watch TV! We could order pizza! We could watch TV while eating the pizza! It was as though freedom had just been invented. We were responsible for our own selves, and we were responsible for something even more important than that -- we were in charge of ordering our own pizza. Imagine that! We (well, my brother) could call and it would be delivered to us and it would be all ours! Freedom rang in our little ears as we forged our way into this very exciting world.
He would always get pepperoni and I would like to have sausage best. We would order from Domino's, which we both adored (I haven't had that stuff in so long -- it seems to gross me out now), and I remember feeling really special when the Domino's commercial came on while we were eating our Domino's pizza. Ha ha, villainous little Noid, you don't need to tell US to order your pizza! We already have it! We would also get breadsticks, with their powdery parmesan and the tiny plastic cup of red sauce. In my ideal world, those evenings would have gone on and on forever, and I tried to eat slowly so that my happiness would last, so that I could taste the happiness for as long as I could.
The pizza, it seemed, was a tool for congregation. Pizza was the absolute highlight of all slumber parties -- in fact, I don't think anyone would have even gone to a slumber party if there wasn't the promise of pizza. This would always be the most exciting part of the sleepover event, and there is nothing that makes eight year-old girls giddier than pizza, nail polish, and sleeping bags. Some sleepover parents would buy the Little Caesar's pizza, which has always been disgusting (in my humble pizza opinion). It was pretty cheap, so it was economically practical for a gaggle of girls. You could, I think, get a four-hundred-foot sleeve of that pizza for four dollars or something. And it was just not delicious to me.
There were tomato skins in the sauce and it made me uncomfortable. It is only fair, though, if I mention that there were some people who actually liked that pizza and actually gushed over it. At the sleepover parties I attended, there seemed to be a theme of tomato-skin pizzas. Another pizza place in town, Bernie and Betty's, had pizza with tomato skin, and I just remember thinking, why can't they just look at this sauce and take out these godforsaken skins?! Maybe I wasn't a child who made a habit of saying "godforsaken," but you get the idea. I'd run into all sorts of strange tomato bits in that pizza, and after I found a stem, it was all over. I couldn't face that pizza! I was way too embarrassed (or maybe just too polite) to pick at the pizza, so I'd feign an I just ate and I'm stuffed comment, and the adults would look at me like I was crazy. What sort of kid would fill up on dinner at home when they knew pizza was in the near future?
You've been anxious to hear about the rodent, I know. It's gross, so I'll keep it short. One evening (I believe that it was after my brother's t-ball game), my family went out for pizza. Generally speaking, when people go to a restaurant, they hope to spend time with 1.) the humans they came with, 2.) the food they ordered, and 3.) no wildlife. Just as I started eating my darling pizza, I took pause, as they say, to glance up to the ledge of the booth behind my brother, and I saw a little something that was inappropriately furry. And brown. A living, breathing creature, an animal! (Okay, so it might have been dead. I honestly don't recall. Either way, it was extremely disconcerting and somewhat nauseating.) I do believe we stopped eating at that moment when I pointed out that tiny beast, and the mouse was removed, and the rest is sort of a blur. Indeed, it makes for a terrific story, but I always glance up and around anytime I am seated in a booth at a restaurant.
After visiting our tax preparer and running a few errands last night, we stopped for pizza at this little pizzeria in Lakeview and were surrounded by the most motley crew of pizza-eating folks. It was a super-casual place, without servers, just bussers. Everyone was there. It was great. A dad with two kids, a double date, two 20-something guys, a huge group of teenagers, two groups of people my parents' age, several couples, cab drivers, a high-school aged couple, a couple with a baby, and, my favorite, an ancient man (age 130 at least) with a box cutter and a gigantic stack of newspapers. He'd go through each page carefully, cutting out the important bits with his green knife. He looked like he might have woken up there this morning, in fact. He was almost too comfortable there for sure. Anyway, this pizza place completely typified the pizza-eating experience in America (or at least in Chicago). I love that you will always find such diversity in pizza places here. It's a food that makes for a common thread amongst us, and microgreens or not, it's still the ultimate, perfect convenience food. That is, unless it's got tomato skins all over it.
For so long, I was convinced that this food was for animals only. It all stems from this one particular guinea pig, the class pet. I was little, but apparently quite invested in the dietary pleasures of animals, and this animal in particular. I knew it liked red cabbage, and this information, I recall, constantly swept around the classroom with the fire of a recess announcement. We loved to feed it cabbage.
When my mother granted permission, the two of us would shop for the smallest head of red cabbage we could find, one that was the perfect size for a small, cabbage-loving animal. When I say that I loved shopping for that head of cabbage, I do not exaggerate. In fact, it was one of the many highlights of my childhood. I would revel in the thought of choosing the perfect head (because guinea pigs keep track of this kind of thing, you know) and I'd anxiously await my mother's go-ahead for the purchase. Every time we went to the grocery store, I'd wonder if it would be the time that we would buy a tiny head of red cabbage. I'd gaze at the red cabbage lovingly, trying to choose the one that I'd select if it did become a cabbage day. Oh, royal guinea pig, you were loved!
Here's the thing. We never bought cabbage for any purpose other than the guinea pig luncheon special, and, as a result, I naturally concluded that cabbage was not for humans. Okay, okay, I am not quite telling the truth. There was cooked cabbage (green cabbage) at home on St. Patrick's Day, accompanied by corned beef and maybe potatoes. I was not interested in eating any of those items. I did not want corned anything, and I did not want to eat guinea pig snacks. Of course, I've (sort of) come to my senses now, but that meal truly frightened me for some reason. (I will intentionally leave out the bit about me not having eaten corned beef ever since then, maybe or maybe not because I am still feeling weird about it.) Anyway, that was, I believe, the only cabbage that ever hit our plates. I didn't miss it because I didn't know it yet.
Enter adulthood. (Well, two years ago in my adulthood.) I discover that cabbage is one of my favorite things on earth. Raw! Cooked! Red! Green! Cut into wedges and placed in my cage! I like it any way I can get it, and I am just enamored. I love to slice the head in half and examine its swirling patterns, and I love to peel off a leaf and hold it like a cup, examining its strength. I like that it is practically waterproof, and I like that, in a pinch, it could become a terrific weapon (if you were, um, into that sort of thing). I love to feel the weight of it in my hands, and I love the way the outer leaves protect all its other leaves, like a rubber slicker, like its very own jacket, like its very own tupperware. I love that a little bit goes a long way. I'll cut off a small wedge, slice it, and, all of a sudden, it's enough for sixty tacos.
I am interested in the sheer brilliance of its role in Thai cuisine, both raw and cooked. I love it in Jamaican form, cooked with carrots and coconut milk, and I love it in salads and slaws. I like to put it in those aforementioned tacos and mix it with lentils or noodles, beans or rice. I like it it in soups and did I mention I love it in salads? Any salad! And if there is blue cheese in that salad, then I am particularly pleased. I have been known to cut up a wedge of cabbage and eat it all from the cutting board before it actually has a chance to enter a dish. Oh, cabbage!
I like the way red cabbage dyes its surroundings, and I like the way green cabbage does not. I like to slice it as thin as I can, and I like to cut it into small squares. I like its solidity, its durability, the way it lasts for weeks in my refrigerator. It is crunchy but substantial, and it makes lettuce look like such a wimp! I like that it is so commonplace (it's in every slaw ever made) but also so misunderstood. Maybe not even misunderstood, just not understood, not really considered. It's common, I suppose, so as a result, it's just not thought about very much. This makes me want to get to know it, to be the confidante it never had. This makes me want to hold cabbage up to the light. I think the guinea pig would be really very pleased about that, about the fame that cabbage will have one day. The fame will be good, I think, as long as humans don't eat all of the cabbage. I mean, they need to leave something for the guinea pigs. It's only fair.
The other day, I swear to God, I saw a woman eating cereal while she was driving. We're talking about dry cereal, in a bowl, covered with milk, and eaten with a spoon. While driving. While driving! I suppose she did not know about these cookies that I am going to tell you about. If she had, she might have been able to avoid looking so utterly absurd. After all, unless she was actually an octopus and had 6 other arms that were all arranged below my vision line, then this could officially be deemed a dangerous activity.
With my calculations, humans usually have two arms and two legs. At least one arm is needed for steering (at least this is what I learned in drivers ed) and either one or two feet are needed to control the pedals, depending on the type of transmission you have. So, the answer to this equation is: there were no body parts left for driving with. I wondered if this was something she did daily (I pictured her balancing her bowl of cereal in one hand while putting her bag and kids in the car with the other) or if perhaps (hopefully) it was a one-time affair and she was praying the whole time that A.) no one saw her doing it and B.) someone didn't end up dead as a result of it. I will pretend for one moment that I have a great deal of hope for, and belief in, humankind and I will therefore tell myself that it was her first and last time making such an inane judgment call.
Now then, since we have that story out of the way, let's talk about me, shall we? You may remember that I enjoy a non-packaged breakfast snack that I can eat while I'm moving. Not while driving necessarily, but when my feet are in motion. You know, on land. I have a hard time sitting down at home in the morning because I am so focused on getting my body out the door, so I need something that likes to travel. I like for it to be not very sweet, and I like for it to be substantial. A muffin can be good, but it can also be sort of crumbly. A granola bar can be delicious, but I am exhausted with all the store-bought granola bars that are expensive, strangely tiny, and full of junk that I don't want to put into my body.
If you feel this way, or if you are just tired of trying to figure out breakfast in the morning, then I think you will like these cookies. They are sort of like a chewy granola bar meets a muffin top, and they are perfect to grab on your way out the door in the morning. Plus, they are packed to the gills with really great stuff that your body likes. You can alter the ingredient list based on what you feel like and the recipe doesn't make tons, so you don't have to commit to one flavor and then eat them grudgingly for weeks and weeks. I used to make loads of these in my college days because they are an outstanding snack anytime of day, and they are so easy to tote around in your bag. They aren't very sweet, which makes you actually feel like you are eating something healthy. And, actually, you are!
Sivananda Cookies aka Breakfast Cookies adapted from The Yoga Cookbook (many Sivananda yoga centers around the world offer these cookies to their students after class, so see? They will make you feel as pure as a white stallion dashing down the beach.)
makes 12-16
3 (slightly heaping) cups rolled oats
3/4 (slightly heaping) cup whole wheat flour
3/4 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 C ground flaxseed
1/3 cup raisins or golden raisins (or a combo)
1/3 cup raw unsalted peanuts
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
2 teaspoons ground ginger
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 t salt
3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons vegetable oil (Smart Balance makes a great, versatile cooking oil)
water
(You can also add anything else that you think might work! I like to add dried cherries or cranberries, coconut, sunflower seeds, and sliced almonds. In the past, I've tried various kinds of nuts and other dried fruits. They are also good with chopped crystallized ginger. I tried dried figs once and they were way to sweet, so you might want to avoid those. I suppose you could add a bit of chocolate, if you wanted them to be a little less breakfast-y. I think they'd be great with dried cherries, coconut, and dark chocolate together.)
Heat the oven to 400 degrees F. Combine all of the dry ingredients in a large mixing bowl. Add the oil and mix thoroughly. Stir in just enough water, tablespoon by tablespoon, to make a firm dough -- you might not need very much!
Take heaping spoonfuls of dough, each about the size of a ping-pong ball. Roll each into a ball, place on baking sheets, and flatten to a circle about 4 inches in diameter. Bake in the oven for 12 to 15 minutes, until golden at the edges. Cool on a wire rack.Store in an airtight container and take some with you in the morning. If you want to eat them while driving, you can, um, go ahead. But you did not get the idea from me.
You know, a nickel for every banana I buy that ends up looking like this.
On the agenda for tomorrow: find/join a banana-rotters support group and then force myself to eat (okay, let's be reasonable: cook with) the two black, cold bananas in the refrigerator and the three black, warm bananas on my counter. Ugh. If I were a monkey, I'd NEVER have this problem.
This winter, I fell in love with dinner rolls. I've been experimenting since then, and I've tried so many kinds. I've baked them in muffin tins, square pans, round pans, and on cookie sheets. I've made dense rolls and airy rolls. I've made rolls that were like clouds, and rolls that were like bricks. I've spent a lot of time kneading and shaping and baking these little little devils, but, well, mainly I've spent a lot of time kneading. And while kneading is sort of a required part of the bread-making process, and I love to get up to my elbows in that stuff, I really only love to do it if I have the time, you know?
When I'm trying to crank out dinner on a weeknight, though, I yearn for a shorter process. I yearn for a roll that is simpler, yet still delicious. I yearn for a roll that is light, yet perfectly dense, and, most of all, I yearn for a roll that isn't so, well, needy. The thing I want, and the thing you want, is this recipe. These rolls need no kneading and, somehow, miraculously, they are the lightest, most incredible rolls ever. Think Parker House roll meets a soft little lamb. A very delicious lamb, that is.
No-Need-To-Knead Dinner Rolls makes one dozen rolls (but can be very easily doubled!) adapted from Art Smith's grandmother Mabel's recipe in Back to the Table: The Reunion of Food and Family
1 C warm water 1 package active dry yeast 1/4 C sugar 1 large egg, beaten 1 1/2 T vegetable oil 1 t salt* 3 C AP flour 1 1/2 T salted butter, melted
*Experiment with the salt amount in these. The original recipe calls for half this amount of salt, but it just didn't see like enough to me, so I added more. The original recipe also calls for unsalted butter, and while I am a huge fan of unsalted butter in general, I thought these rolls really benefited from the salted variety.
Pour water into a large bowl and sprinkle in yeast. Let stand until yeast softens, about 5 minutes. Add sugar, egg, oil and salt and whisk to dissolve yeast. Gradually stir in enough flour to make a soft dough. Work dough in bowl to make a smooth ball. (The dough will probably be a little sticky -- this is okay! If you need to add a little more flour to your hands in order to keep the dough from sticking when you're working it in the bowl, go ahead.)
Spray the bottom and sides of another bowl. Place the dough in the new bowl and spray top of dough with cooking spray. Cover bowl tightly with plastic wrap. Let stand in a warm, draft-free place until doubled in volume, about 1 hour.
Brush a 9 or 10-inch round cake pan lightly with melted butter. Punch down dough and cut into 12 pieces. With floured hands, form each piece of dough into as much of a ball as you can (it'll still be a little sticky). Arrange 12 balls of dough in the pan. Cover loosely with plastic wrap and let stand in a warm, draft-free place until almost doubled in volume, about 35 minutes.
Meanwhile, position a rack in the center of oven and preheat to 400 degrees F. Bake until tops just start to turn golden brown, about 14 minutes. (Watch them carefully! They will dry out if they are allowed to bake until the tops are brown.) Remove from oven and let stand for 3-5 minutes in the pan. Remove rolls to a plate and brush tops of rolls with remaining melted butter. Serve warm with, ahem, more butter on the side. Try not to eat them all in one sitting.
When you listen, you'll hear the world creaking its way back to spring. I know. I was there. The ice was breaking up at the shoreline this weekend, and all the pieces were stacked in piles of thin, sharp triangles that looked like shards of glass from a huge broken window. You could hold a piece up to the light and you'd see intricate swirls of white, like thin, careful loops of glue. Each piece was the exact same thickness of about a quarter of an inch, and could hold its shape if you held it vertically, but would fall apart if you held its weight horizontally. I tested dozens of pieces, and they all fell to the same fate when I held them like this. As the water rolled in, heavy with broken sheets of shifting ice, the shoreline would groan and sigh, making such human-like sounds. You couldn't hear water sounds, only ice sounds, creaking, creaking, sighing.
The walls of ice, those cliffs built of frozen waves, were melting and dripping in the background, carving out their own undersides to that they became tiny caves, perfect for a fox or a small bear, were the latter to lose his mind and decide to spend some time in the city. There were fewer dangerous spots now that things were melting. Fewer spots to wonder, am I standing on the sand or the water? and, more importantly, am I standing on land that will support my body? Ah, to spring from ice cliff to ice cliff, just like Bear Grylls, that rugged, brave creature from Man Vs. Wild (but I might be a little less equipped in both mind and body -- just a little). Something tells me, though, that he doesn't stop every three inches to pick up beach glass and smooth stones, eventually becoming so weighted down from pocketed treasures that he can't even leap between glaciers anymore.
You may be wondering by this point what all this has to do with food. I, frankly, am sort of wondering the same thing myself. Perhaps it was that those clean-edged triangles of ice reminded me of toffee -- you know, the kind you make in a jelly roll pan, then stab at until it breaks into sharp, unpredictable pieces (that are, consequently, quite dangerous to eat). This, and I was reminded of onions, too. Something about the translucence, I suppose, or the infrastructure. The crispness, maybe? The layers?
When I got home from this adventure, I thought about making toffee for about two seconds, and then came to my senses. I decided instead to make some iced tea and then slice an onion to confirm its similarity to an icy shoreline. The onion soon became caramelized, and ended up in a meatloaf. And that was that. Although, the best part was certainly the dream I had that night, in which my brother was sitting at a kitchen table, carefully making a meatloaf, but it was (this is the nightmare part) made out of only onions, finely diced and shaped together. When it came out of the oven, it was cold, like the triangles of ice at the beach, and it looked completely white and very elegant. He announced then that he had gone into the wedding cake business, and this was his first creation. I sank into a chair, so relieved that I wouldn't have to eat the onion loaf and, more importantly, wondering if the happy couple really knew what they had gotten themselves into with this one.
I'm not sure why it took me so long to learn this. Green things (as in, formerly living green things) need very specific housing conditions. Even though I've known this, I've still seen so many vegetables and herbs suffer a painful and early death (well, second death) due to my own negligence. For way too many years, I've stuffed these poor, helpless collections of produce into the refrigerator (the whole "crisper drawer" thing is, I'm finally learning, a bunch of baloney) and then been both surprised and cross every single time I pulled them out, so limp, smelly, and slimy. I suppose I just opted to suffer for all this time. Or maybe I didn't know how to fix this problem. That is, until last week, when I actually (gasp!) did some research to figure out how to keep these things fresh until they could be used. Here's what I learned:
One, asparagus needs to have its ends trimmed immediately, then it should be whisked out of its binding of rubberbands and placed upright in an inch and half of water in the refrigerator. I know it's a total pain, but if you change the water every other day, it will last even longer. Luckily, I use asparagus like it's on its way to extinction, so my asparagus is rarely around for long enough to need many water changes.
Two, drawers are too cold for most produce, especially delicate, leafy things. Put parsley and cilantro in glasses or jars with a little bit of water in the bottom. Trim these ends, too, and remove all binding of twist-ties or rubberbands. The front of the top shelf of the fridge is the least cold, so that is where herbs and things should go. These herbs might also like to be in glasses of water on your countertop. You might like them on your counter because they look so lovely, but you'll also like that you'll be much more likely to use them if they are sitting right there by your cutting board. Change the water every day if you can.
Three, don't even let that basil get NEAR the refrigerator. Don't let it even SEE the refrigerator with its little basil eyes, or smell the refrigerator with its little basil nose. Basil hates the cold. Trim its ends, unbind its stems, and put it in a shallow glass of water on the counter. I kid you not when I tell you that your basil will last for weeks this way. It will even start to root, and you will be so proud of it.
Four, there's nothing you can do for mint. My sources told me, countertop, in water. That didn't work. My sources told me top shelf fridge, in water, covered with plastic wrap. That didn't work. My sources told me, placed in a ziploc bag. That didn't work. After ending up with lots of heartbreakingly limp mint, I resorted back to my tried-and-true, all-time favorite method, which has now become my advice to you: make a pitcher of mint juleps as soon as you get home from the store and you won't need to store that mint at all. A-ha!
Fusilli keeps stepping into my life. I came across five fusilli recipes yesterday when I was attempting to reorganize my binders (and binders, and binders) of recipe ideas. Then, my favorite kind of fusilli was on sale at the grocery store today and I came home from the store, turned the TV on, and saw the Seinfeld episode in which Kramer makes the "fusilli Jerry." Incredible! Ah, fusilli. Welcome.
Quick and Lovely Dreamboat Fusilli Takes 15 minutes! Serves 4! It's a miracle!
16 0z. fusilli (the long strands if you can find them, otherwise the short pieces are fine) 10 oz. frozen peas 3/4 C walnut pieces 2/3 C half & half or light cream (or milk could work, too) 1 C crumbled blue cheese 1/4 C chopped fresh basil or flat leaf parsley (or a combination of both) 1 t red pepper flakes salt & pepper
Heat a pot of water to boiling. Add 1 t salt and fusilli; cook as directed.
Meanwhile, in a saucepan, heat half & half, 1/4 t salt, and 1/3 C water over medium heat. (If you are using milk, I'd say to omit the water and increase milk amount to 1 cup.) Bring to a simmer and add the blue cheese. Heat and continue to cook for another minute or two, or until sauce has thickened. Add 1 t black pepper, red pepper flakes, and a little bit more salt to taste.
Pour the peas in a colander and drain the fusilli over them.
Toss pasta, peas, sauce, walnuts, and basil.
If you have a little bit of fusilli left, I'd recommend making a tiny sculpture of yourself! You know, as a gift. For your mom.
The cauliflower wants you to love it. It also wants to be a little flashier, a little more outrageous, a little more of a wild child. It just wants a little bit of attention, that's all.
Cauliflower is one of those vegetables that people love to hate. Kids love to shriek, Ugh! Cauliflower is disgusting! And, actually, a lot of adults like to also fitfully howl about the ways that cauliflower will most certainly bring suffering and death to everything it touches. It tends to fall into the same love-to-hate category as brussels sprouts and broccoli, and I suppose it makes sense, since they are in the same family, after all. Honestly, that poor, poor family is just trying to get noticed. It's just trying to prove that it's worthy of that space in your cart, that spot in your refrigerator drawer, that bit of your dinner plate, and, the most ideal venue, that space in your belly.
It's also one of those vegetables that lacks color, so adults tend to rationalize not eating it because it's white (and therefore, of course, not nutritious). At least brussels sprouts look healthy, and that can be inspiring in both eating and cooking. Cauliflower, though -- cauliflower looks like, well, not much. It's kind of like a brain that ended up in the bleach. Which is to say, not all that appetizing. Sometimes it turns up on crudité trays, and I've often even seen it all alone on that tray, once the carrots and peapods and red peppers have all been eaten. If vegetables could cry, cauliflower would sob.
We ate cauliflowergrowing up, but it would be dressed in its evening wear, a smooth gown of silky cheese sauce. If there's a way to make something look more appealing, you simply must dress it in cheese sauce. This technique is perfect for something that is regularly quite dull looking, like cauliflower, but also useful for other things that you wish to feel more attracted to, like another human, or a vitamin, or those outfits that dog show handlers wear.
The cheese sauce approach is a good one, although I must admit that I didn't become all that familiar with undressed cauliflower until years later. I tried it raw, and it was okay (certainly less like an ocean creature than raw broccoli), and I had it in stir-fries and Indian dishes, but I still just wanted to be blown away by cauliflower. After all, it possesses loads of nutritional content, and is practically a blank canvas in every way. I just wanted it to not taste like a blank canvas, you know?
I've been on a mission lately to succeed with cauliflower, and I've come pretty close, I think. Granted, this dish involves plenty of cheese and some other cauliflower-masking ingredients, but the true flavor of the cauliflower is still really able to shine. Beneath the cheese blanket, you can taste the nuttiness of the cauliflower, and you can still access its sturdy, smooth texture. It's a rich and phenomenal dish, the kind that is easy enough to whip up on a weeknight for dinner, but even the kind you might like to have at a dinner party. It is wonderful because it is satisfying in the way potatoes are, but (gasp!) it's actually a vegetable! Oh, and cheese is a vegetable too, right? Best of all, it's the kind of dish that just might convert anti-cauliflower folks into pro-cauliflower folks. And that, my friends, is quite a feat for a vegetable that has spent a lifetime being pushed around on a plate.
Change-Your-Mind Cauliflower Gratin adapted from a Barefoot Contessa recipe
1 (3-pound) head cauliflower, cut into large florets 4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) unsalted butter 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour 2 cups hot milk 1/8 teaspoon grated nutmeg 1/8 C chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley 3/4 cup grated smooth-melting cheese, like gouda or gruyere, at room temperature 1/2 cup grated parmesan 1/4 cup fresh bread crumbs 1 t salt 1 t pepper 1/2 t red pepper flakes
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Cook the cauliflower florets in a large pot of boiling salted water for 3 or 4 minutes, until slightly tender but still firm. Drain.
Melt 2 tablespoons of the butter in a medium saucepan over low heat. Add the flour, stirring constantly with a whisk until it thickens -- for about 2 minutes. Heat the milk and pour it into the butter-flour mixture. (Hot milk is important because cold milk will shock the mixture and cause it to get lumpy.) Whisk until it comes almost to a boil. Cook, whisking constantly, for 1 minute, or until thickened. Off the heat, add 1 teaspoon of salt, the pepper, red pepper flakes, nutmeg, half of the parsley, 1/2 cup of the first cheese (gouda or gruyere), and the parmesan. (The cheese doesn't have to be brought to room temperature first (as suggested), but it helps keep the sauce smooth.)
Pour 1/3 of the sauce on the bottom of an 8" x 11" x 2" (or similarly sized) baking dish. Place the drained cauliflower on top and then spread the rest of the sauce evenly on top. Combine the bread crumbs with the remaining 1/4 cup of gruyere (or gouda) and sprinkle on top. Melt the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter and drizzle over the gratin. Sprinkle with a little salt and pepper. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, until the top is browned. Top with remaining parsley. Serve hot or warm.
There! It's done! Now your cauliflower opinion has been changed forever.
Zucchini season won't be here for awhile, but I like to start planning early. You know, zucchini strategy. Very important. In fact, it's during times like this that we need to squirrel away recipes and ideas so when that nervewracking zucchini explosion comes this summer, we'll be prepared. (Speaking of squirrels, I have recently learned a marvelous animal fact, which is this: squirrels, as we know, bury lots of nuts, and dig up lots of nuts. BUT, listen here! They don't dig up their OWN nuts. All the squirrels frantically bury their little nuts all over the place, and then, when it's time to dig them up, they don't have the memory to recall where their own nuts are, so they scratch around until they find other squirrels' buried nuts. Crazy, right? Oh, you squirrels. Honestly!)
