Monday, September 01, 2014

Late Summer Matzoh Ball Soup



There are so many little niceties that fall by the wayside of modern life. But really, they only take a few minutes, and they can turn someone's day around. Get-well cards. Sickbed food deliveries. And don't get me started on thank-you notes. Do I sound like a grandma? Well, let me make you a pot of soup.

I can get as wrapped up in my busy life as the next person. But lately, I've been trying to step up in these little ways. I happened to have a get-well card on hand the other day (because I could not resist a letterpressed illustration of a dog in the Cone of Shame), and so it just took a few minutes to write a note to a friend who broke her ankle (also, Portland has overnight local mail delivery, which always seems like something of a modern miracle). Then the other day, a friend posted that he had a miserably high fever (he described his state as 'writhing'). And since this is a friend who's helped me out many times, I couldn't sit back. So I channeled my inner grandmother, and made up some matzoh ball soup.

But there was one complication — despite what the calendar may say, summer is still kind of in effect. And, in the midst of hot, sunny days, a bowl full of my usual dill-and-garlic, parsnip-filled standard just seemed a bit too much. So when sickbed duty called, I gave matzoh ball soup a summer update. And it turns out to be delicious.

I threw my frozen bag of vegetable trimmings in the stockpot, with a few additions and subtractions to create a sunny broth heavy on the carrots, garlic and parsley. Then I shaved the kernels off a few ears of corn, and threw the cobs in to simmer as well. I used my standard matzoh ball recipe (also grandparental in origin), but gave it a similar summer update with a mix of chopped fresh parsley, dill and basil. I kept the simmered carrots for a bit of depth, but rounded the soup out with those oh-so-summer corn kernels, and a few halved sungold tomatoes, both floated in the soup right before serving. And then topped the whole summery mess with another dose of those fresh herbs.

The resulting hybrid is clearly matzoh ball soup, full of all that healing goodness. But it's lighter and brighter, perfect for a warm sickbed evening. My grandmother would be proud.

And speaking of trying to be half the people our grandparents were, I recently produced a radio story about learning to be a man in prison (and beyond). You can take a listen over at NPR.


Late Summer Matzoh Ball Soup

yields 1 generous sickbed delivery, plus a few bowls for yourself

Matzoh Balls:
5 eggs
1/2 cup neutral oil, like canola
~3/4-1+ cups matzoh meal
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
~2 teaspoons salt
pepper
a handful each chopped fresh parsley, dill, and basil








To Finish:
~2 quarts broth (homemade is nice, but if you've got a premade broth you can simmer it with the peelings from your carrots, a few garlic cloves, and the corncobs)
3 carrots, peeled and sliced into coins
corn shaved off of 2 ears
~12 sungold tomatoes, halved
a handful each chopped fresh parsley, dill and basil, mixed together

To make the matzoh balls: Whisk together the eggs and oil. Add as much matzoh meal as needed to make a texture somewhat like thick mud — you want it to have some body, but not thick enough to even mound on a spoon (the mixture will firm up upon standing). Stir in the baking powder, salt, pepper, and chopped herbs. Taste, and adjust seasonings as needed (it should be fairly salty). Chill for at least 10-15 minutes.

While the matzoh ball mixture is chilling, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Check the chilled mixture — if it's not firm enough to just scoop after resting, add more matzoh meal, and let rest a bit longer. Shape matzoh balls of your desired size with a small ice-cream scoop, two oiled spoons, or oiled hands, and plop them directly in the simmering water. Turn the heat down just enough to maintain a simmer. Cook, stirring occasionally to rotate, for at least 30 minutes. They're done when you can cut them open to reveal a ball that's fully cooked through. When done, turn off the pot, and let them cool in the water.

While the balls are resting/cooking, pot the carrot coins in a small pot, and add water to cover by a few inches. Bring to a boil, and reduce heat until it's just high enough to maintain a simmer. Cook until fully tender, ~20 minutes. Let cool.

To serve, add the carrots (and their delicious cooking liquid!) to the broth. Remove the matzah balls with a slotted spoon, and add to the broth. Heat everything up, and add the corn and tomatoes (just a small bit for each person) for the final minute or so, until just heated through. Ladle into bowls, and top each serving with a smattering of fresh herbs. If you're bringing this as a sickbed delivery, it's best to package the tomatoes and corn together, and the fresh herbs in a separate parcel as well, so that they each can be added later to preserve their fresh taste.

Monday, August 25, 2014

Green Rice Salad with Nectarines and Corn



This salad. Oh, this salad. It's substantial, light, and totally summer. It's the salad that was demolished — but demolished — at a recent party, causing a friend to declare that I had "won the potluck."  It's the salad you should make right now.

This comes from the cookbook Vibrant Food, and it more than lives up to the title. Cooked rice (brown basmati in this case, so it's even all fiber-ful and healthy) is tossed with a spicy-tangy puree of cilantro, parsley, fresh green chile and lime (juice and zest, for even more zip). Then topped with fresh corn — the recipe called for grilled, which would go with the salsa verde flavors, but I can't resist the juicy pop of just shaving the stuff right from the cob. Also, I am lazy. Then add some sliced sweet nectarines, and crumble of creamy-salty cheese.

I have seen this on several blogs recently, and each time the picture looks just as delicious as in the cookbook. Even my lousy cellphone pic of a half-eaten platter still looks tasty. And it tastes even better than it looks. It's easily doubled for potlucks, and makes an amazing packed lunch. And yes, I know the food of every season has its charms. But this salad, all zippy and tangy and sweet and juicy? It's a taste of summer that will be a bit hard to leave behind.


Green Rice Salad with Nectarines and Corn

adapted from Vibrant Food: Celebrating the Ingredients, Recipes and Colors of Each Season, by Kimberley Hasselbrink
serves 4-6 (double for a potluck)

1 cup brown basmati rice
1 2/3 cups salted water
heaping 1/2 cup coarsely chopped fresh cilantro, plus additional leaves for garnishing
heaping 1/4 cup loosely packed fresh flat-leaf parsley, plus additional leaves for garnishing
1 small jalapeƱo or serrano pepper, seeded and chopped
zest and juice of 1 good-sized lime
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 ears fresh corn, shaved from the cob
2 medium-ripe nectarines, pitted and thinly sliced lengthwise
1/2 cup crumbled feta cheese

In a small pot, combine the rice and water, cover, and bring to a boil. Lower the heat until it's just high enough to maintain a simmer. Simmer, covered, until the liquid has been absorbed and the rice is tender, about 30 minutes. Let the rice stand for a few minutes, then fluff. Set aside to cool to room temperature.

When the rice has cooled, transfer it to large bowl. In a blender, combine the cilantro, parsley, hot pepper, lime zest and juice, olive oil, and a pinch of salt. Blitz, scraping down as needed, until it makes a smooth mixture (if you can't get things to liquify, add a spoonful of water as needed to get things to catch). Plop this salsa over the rice, scraping out every last delicious bit, and mix to coat evenly. Taste and adjust seasonings as needed (the feta will add some salt, but you want it to be flavorful). If you're making the dish in advance, refrigerate the rice at this point, and then let it come to room temperature before serving.

To finish, transfer the rice to a serving dish. Top with the corn, then the nectarines and feta, and garnish with the additional parsley and cilantro leaves if desired. Serve.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Pistachio Piecrust Pinwheels



These cookies started out as one of those delicious little accidents. I was slated to get together with a new friend, and both of us, short on weekday inspiration, listed off some of our neighborhood go-tos. Pleasant walks and dinners and parks, to be sure, but a bit of the usual rut. And then, in a last-minute burst of inspiration, we decided to drive out for a sunset picnic in the Columbia River Gorge.

Portland proper has many undeniable charms and green spaces. But the gorge, cutting between Oregon and Washington, is just ridiculously breathtaking. And I easily forget that in just a half hour or so, you can be taking in a scene so dramatically, panoramically staggering it makes your heart explode a little bit.

The Vista House is a little turban of a building on a summit of the gorge, intended by its builders to be “an observatory from which the view both up and down the Columbia could be viewed in silent communion with the infinite.” Sounds about right. But with the destination set, and just a few workday hours remaining before we set out, I needed to figure out what to bring.

My friend Adrian did the heavy lifting, promising some leftover pizza, smoked salmon, and a bottle of wine that we ended up bashing the cork into due to our failure to remember a bottle opener (leaving us with some fibrous bits and an overwhelming feeling of accomplishment). I didn't have enough time to hit the store, so I shopped in my kitchen. I grabbed a couple of carrots, a bag of cherries, a jar of pickles fermented by a friend, and a few squares of chocolate. But it didn't seem like I was quite pulling my weight. And then I remembered the small lump of pastry dough, left over from my recent spate of tart-making.

So I rolled out the dough, and sprinkled it with a generous sanding of coarse sugar, and some roughly-bashed cardamom seeds and finely-chopped pistachios. Because I only had a small lump of dough, I ended up with delicate little cookies, just an inch-plus in diameter. But they're actually kind of fun that way. Just teensy little spirals, a lovely match for a saucer of tea.

Or, in this case, a picnic. These perfect little rounds capped off a perfect little evening, full of open-hearted talks and breathtaking beauty and a reminder of how open the world can be. The unexpectedness of these cookies — and of the shape of the evening itself — made everything all the sweeter. 


Pistachio Piecrust Pinwheels

As you can see, this is more of a template than a recipe (as seems to be a trend lately), easily adapted to whatever amount of pastry you have on hand.

leftover pie/tart dough (I used the cookie-like pate brisee, but standard piecrust will make for a nicely flaky variation)
coarse sugar
cardamom seeds, pounded to not-too-big bits in a mortar and pestle
pistachios, finely chopped
egg, beaten with a pinch of salt and splash of water/milk (optional)

On a lightly floured countertop, roll out your leftover dough to a rectangle that is about 5 inches high, and 1/4-inch thick (the length needed to achieve these dimensions will vary based upon how much dough you've got). Sprinkle the dough with a generous sanding of sugar, then the cardamom seeds and pistachios to your taste (the cardamom seeds are fairly strong, so don't go too nuts with those). Then roll up the dough like a jelly roll, tightly, making sure the end seals. Wrap the dough tightly in waxed paper or plastic wrap, and place in the refrigerator to chill for about half an hour.

When the dough is almost finished chilling, preheat your oven to 400° degrees Fahrenheit. Line a cookie sheet with parchment paper, or just grease it, and set aside.

Take your chilled log of dough, and place it on a cutting board. With a sharp knife, slice the dough into 1/4-inch pinwheels. Transfer to your prepared cookie sheet, and repeat with remaining dough. If desired, brush with the egg wash, and sprinkle with additional sugar. Bake until lightly golden, ~10-12 minutes. Let cool, then pack for your picnic.

Friday, August 15, 2014

Fresh Fruit Tart



There's nothing like making a recipe over and over (and over and over) until you get it down. Grandmothers who bake biscuits every Sunday or challah every Friday don't have to think about recipes — they have the technique in their fingers. They sprinkle in extra flour if it's damp, or less if the eggs were large, knowing without even thinking how things should feel. I once read a story about culinary school in a sweet little now-defunct food zine, where the author mentioned her terror at the beginning of egg-poaching day. "I don't really know how to do that well," she admitted. "Just think," her instructor enthused, rolling out a rack with dozens upon dozens upon dozens of eggs, "after today, you're never going to be able to say that again."

This mastery can sometimes be out of reach, for those of us who didn't go to culinary school, or are enthusiastic generalists rather than single-minded specialists. But, if I do say so myself, after a rather deep-diving month, I must say that I feel I know the fresh fruit tart backwards and forwards.

The inspiration for this obsession was a friends' wedding. The couple asked if I'd be willing to make up six fruit tarts, to round out a dessert table that ended up including 3 delicious half-sheet cakes, and a small vegan and gluten-free layer cake (adorably iced with the words "vegan and gluten-free"). These are good people, with an appreciation for good food (and good stories — the bride and I co-produced this piece last year), and a love that deserves a beautiful fruit tart. Or six of them. But in order to make desserts worthy of the occasion, I needed to call in some advice.

My friend Olga coached me through my initially slumping crusts, and Adrian provided additional advice (and even offered to let me break into her home while she was on vacation to borrow some tart pans). The former pastry chef who teaches my Women on Weights class fielded far, far too many questions in the 60-second bursts allotted each station, and shared a pastry cream recipe using some whole eggs (meaning I was only left with two- rather than three-dozen leftover yolks at the end). Multiple friends (bride included) loaned tart pans, and tasted versions along the way. And then, the night before, when I realized holycrap I've been focusing on recipes and don't even know how these things should look, Leela and Rebecca graciously responded to my last-minute freak-out ("Abundance is key to a beautiful tart. Some pics to describe my philosophy are attached. Almost no pattern is needed, just go MORE xoxo"). Mastering the fruit tart clearly takes a village.

With this mountain of input, and tart after tart, I just got good at things. These were lessons that came from other people's hard work and wisdom, a few failures, and, more than anything else, a mountain of butter and milk and eggs that let me just go at it until it was in my bones. And, while it's still tart season, I wanted to share some of the overall delicious lessons I've learned:

  • Freeze your rolled-out tart dough. I used to make tarts in a ceramic pan, which works well enough (especially for tarts that are filled prior to baking). But if you want wedding-worthy perfection, you need a metal pan that you can freeze. Not refrigerate. Not freeze "until firm." Freeze for an hour, at least.
  • Weigh down your tart dough. Yes, some of the magic recipes don't need to be baked with pie weights. But again, we're going for wedding perfection, sans slumping. Butter up some foil, line the dough (pushing down into the edges), and weigh it down. And use pennies! They're heavy, and they conduct (thanks, Olga!).
  • Do not use a nonstick pan. Aside from the perflourinated chemicals that just might kill you, these also shrink/slump much, much more than your standard metal pan.
  • Keep your dough from getting soggy. This takes two forms: don't actually assemble the tarts that far in advance, and brush the crust with some sort of barrier — you can use white chocolate (props to Gillian for that professional trick), or an egg wash brushed on the last few minutes of baking.
  • Fully cook your pastry cream. In the fear of curdling (which, if you're careful in integrating your ingredients, shouldn't be a problem), many bakers snatch their pastry cream off the stove before it's fully cooked through. You need things to bubble (while furiously whisking) for a good solid minute or two, allowing the cream to thicken and the starch to cook off any remaining raw taste.
  • Abundance! Leela is so right on this one. Summer (and weddings) are about love and bounty bursting forth, and you want your tarts to show the same. You really can't go too far. Fan out cut fruit to show its beauty, but this isn't the time for perfect spirals. You should have fans of fruit bumping up  against each other, going beautifully in multiple directions, covered over or propped up by other fruits, because the days are not full enough and the nights are not full enough and we are gathering the rosebuds while we may and all that. I took the Tartine trick of glazing the cut fruit (in this case, an assortment of peaches, nectarines and plums), but then tumbling the berries just as they are, which gave a nice mix of messy and polished.
  • Repeat, repeat, repeat. These tips, a distillation of all the good advice I received, will put you in a fine starting place. But there really is no substitute for getting it down, and the sixth tart will undoubtedly be a different animal than the first. The wedding definitely gave me a crash course, and I'm happy that I could add some additional sweetness to a truly beautiful night. But I'm going to keep at it. This may be some lifelong learning here. Which is fine with me.



Fresh Fruit Tart

crust adapted from Dorie Greenspan's Baking: From My Home to Yours, pastry cream from Martha Stewart's Baking Handbook (I ended up using a different one for the tarts, which used weights, which was better for my mass quantities and irregularly-sized farmer's market eggs, but this one is also delicious and great for the single tart), and a hundred other assists from the lovely folks listed above.

Crust:
1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 cup confectioner’s sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 stick plus 1 tablespoon (9 tablespoons; 4 1/2 ounces) cold unsalted butter, cut into pats
1 large egg yolk (since my eggs were on the smaller side, I used 1 yolk and 1 full egg per double batch, which worked well)
1 egg, beaten with a pinch of salt and splash of milk/water, for glazing

To make the crust: Put the flour, sugar and salt in the bowl of a food processor, and pulse a few times to combine. Scatter the pieces of butter over the dry ingredients, and pulse until the butter is coarsely cut in (you want pieces between the size of oatmeal and peas). Add the yolk, and pulse in long pulses until it forms clumps and curds (just before this happens, the sound of the machine will change — head's up!).

When the dough clumps, turn it out onto a clean work surface or bowl, and, very lightly and sparingly, knead the dough just to incorporate any dry ingredients that might have escaped mixing. Wrap the dough ball in plastic or parchment, and refrigerate for about two hours (and up to two days).

When the dough is chilled, butter a 9-inch tart metal tart pan with a removable bottom. Roll out the dough to about an inch larger than your pan — it's easiest to do this between two sheets of plastic wrap or parchment, peeling them back frequently so they don't get rolled into the dough. Press the rolled-out dough into your pan, folding over the sides to a double thickness and making sure everything is smooth and even. Freeze the crust for at least an hour.


When the crust is frozen, preheat the oven to 375° Fahrenheit.

Butter the shiny side of a piece of aluminum foil, and place it, buttered side down, tightly against the crust. Fill it with pie weights (pennies!). Place on a baking sheet (because the butter, it will drip out a bit), and bake for ~20-25 minutes, until lightly golden. Carefully remove the foil and weights. If the crust has puffed, press it down gently with the back of a spoon (or prick it with the tip of a small knife — not all the tines of a fork, or you may end up with a bigger hole). Bake the crust for another 5 minutes, then brush with an egg wash. Bake another few minutes, until firm and golden brown (color = flavor). Transfer the pan to a rack and cool the crust to room temperature. If making a day in advance, wrap the crust in plastic wrap or slip into a bag once fully (and I mean fully) cool.

Pastry Cream:
2 cups whole milk
1/2 cup sugar, divided in half
pinch salt
1/2 vanilla bean (if you prefer, you can use 1 1/2 teaspoons of vanilla extract instead, stirred in with the butter, or a combination of the two)
1/4 cup cornstarch
4 large egg yolks
2 tablespoons butter, cut into small pieces

In a medium saucepan, combine the milk, 1/4 cup of the sugar, and the salt. Split the vanilla bean in half, scrape out the seeds, and place both the bean and seeds in the saucepan. Cook over a medium heat, until the mixture just begins to steam.

While the milk is heating, in a large bowl whisk together the remaining 1/4 cup sugar and cornstarch, then the yolks, mixing until smooth.

When the milk mixture is steaming, take about 1/2 cup of it, and, whisking constantly, slowly pour it into the egg yolk mixture, whisk-whisk-whisking until incorporated. Tempering! Repeat with remaining milk mixture, then transfer everything back into the saucepan. Raise the heat to medium-high, and, whisking constantly (notice a theme?), bring it just to a simmer. The mixture will thicken, but continue to cook 1-2 minutes when it's at the bubbling point. Remove from heat, stir in the butter, and fish out the vanilla bean. Transfer immediately to a bowl, and cover with plastic wrap or parchment, pressed directly on the surface to prevent a skin from forming. Refrigerate until chilled, at least 2 hours, and up to 2 days.

To Finish:
lots and lots of fruit!
a relatively neutral jam or jelly (I used quince)
a few sprigs of mint or other fresh herbs

To finish the tart, take your chilled pastry cream, and whisk it until it becomes smooth again. Spread it evenly in your prepared tart shell. If you're using fruit that you're going to slice (stone fruits, pomes, supremed citrus segments, etc.), heat up 1/4 cup jam or jelly in a saucepan over a low heat, until it gets runny. Jam needs to be strained, but jelly is fine as it is.

Slice any fruits you're going to slice, and fan them on top of the tart in any patterns to your liking. Dip a pastry brush in the heated jelly/jam, and gently brush the cut fruit to keep it beautiful. Take any remaining fruit that doesn't need glazing (berries, cherries, currants, pomegranate arils, etc.), and scatter them generously in overflowing clusters. Tuck a few fresh herb sprigs here and there, and return everything to the refrigerator for an hour or so to set. Serve.

Monday, August 04, 2014

Chilled Cantaloupe Soup with Poached Shrimp



The heat continues! Temperate Portland has been in the 90s for weeks. Weeks! Yes, there are hotter places in the world. But for us, this is far from our usual no-need-for-air-conditioning state of affairs. I realize that even a functional planet has cycles and oscillations and all that, but it's hard not to feel like we're on a march toward some sweaty inevitable crash course with the sun. Or perhaps I'm being dramatic? I can't tell. It's hard to think straight, what with all this heat.

So yes, the world does seem to be on a path that ends in fire. But, on the bright side, I've rediscovered cold soups.

Now this may seem a strange combination. But it's not too far from gazpacho, a similarly sweet-savory blend of cooling summer produce. Also, it's dead simple, one of those dishes whose flavor and wow factor far exceeds the effort involved. Basically it looks like this: cantaloupe, cucumber, and a touch of onion get tossed in the blender, seasoned and smoothed with olive oil and vinegar. Then poached shrimp are tossed on top, and the whole thing is finished with a sprinkling of olive oil and chives. What more do you need? And, more importantly, on these tropical days, what more do you have the energy for?


Chilled Cantaloupe Soup with Poached Shrimp

adapted from A Day That is Dessert (thanks!)
yields ~4 cups, as small appetizer-y servings

1 small cantaloupe melon (or one large one, with about 1/3 reserved for snacking), ripe and fragrant
1 small cucumber or 1/2 large cucumber, peeled and roughly chopped
1-2 tablespoons chopped onion
2 tablespoons olive oil, plus more for drizzling
1 tablespoon sherry vinegar
salt and white pepper
~12 small or medium-sized shrimp (either standard or salad shrimp will work — I used a small bag of frozen spot prawns)
a small handful of chives, minced

To make the soup: Place the melon, cucumber, the smaller amount of onion, olive oil, and vinegar in a blender, along with a splash of water. Process until smooth. Add salt and pepper to taste, and adjust seasonings as needed, adding remaining onion if desired. Process again to blend, and add additional water if needed to create a smooth soup. Set aside in the refrigerator to chill while you prepare the shrimp.

To poach the shrimp: Bring a small pot of heavily salted water to a boil (I also like to throw in a pinch of sugar as well). When it's boiling, add the shrimp, then turn off the heat and cover the pot. Let sit until the shrimp turn opaque and pink, ~5 minutes (it will be more or less depending upon the size). While they're sitting, prepare a bowl of ice water, and when they're ready, drain the shrimp, and slip them in the ice water to stop the cooking. Peel the shrimp from their shells. If the shrimp are large, you can chop them, but if they're smaller you can leave them whole.

To serve, pour out a small cup of soup, and top with a portion of shrimp. Scatter on a drizzle of olive oil and some chives, and serve.

Thursday, July 31, 2014

Belarussian Bruschetta



I once read a line in a story about a sink that was filled with "summer dishes" — the detritus of 90+ degree days that is free of pots and pans and spatulas. Instead, it's the clink of water glass and iced tea glass, the puddle of melted ice cubes, and the drippy-sticky knives and boards and bowls left over from preparing fruit and salad.

That's pretty much what my sink looks like in these spate of summer days. And I have no regrets. It's been cold yogurt and jam for breakfast, and "meal" means salads full of butter lettuces and basil leaves and raw corn and peaches picked from over the office door. Sometimes there's a handful of chips of spoonful of ice cream, but that's pretty much it. Oh, and these Belarussian bruschetta.


I know, Russian food isn't most people's idea of summer dining. But, as I've argued before, it really should be. Yes, Russia is cold. But it also has hot, sticky summers. And people know how to make the best of them, with summer cabins and juicy-sour pickles and fresh sour cream. This tartine is my homage to that, an iteration of an open-faced sandwich that may never have been eaten in the motherland, but captures some of the best of its spirit.

My Brooklyn-Belarussian grandfather relished summertime meals, usually involving the tomatoes grown in his backyard buckets (after he ate the last one of the season, he would proclaim that he would not touch another tomato until the next harvest, which was a rather radical seasonal-dining manifesto in the 1980s). And on the hottest days, he would chop up a smattering of fresh herbs, mix them in with cottage cheese, and spread the mixture on some dark rye or pumpernickel bread. What more do you need?

As a good granddaughter, I've followed his example. I grabbed some farmer cheese instead of cottage cheese, though either would do fine. Instead of mixing everything together, I just lay a swipe of the cold cheese on toasted bread, then top with a few tomatoes, and sprinkle on the chopped herbs right before enjoying. The end result is a perfect Ruskie tartine, all sour bread and punchy herbs and mild cheese, tasting fresh and summery, but refreshing as a juicy dill pickle. It doesn't dirty much more than your cutting board, and it's just about perfect for a hot summer night.


Belarussian Bruschetta

makes as many as you'd like

sliced bread, preferably a nice dense rye or brown bread
farmer cheese
fresh tomatoes (halved, quartered or sliced, depending upon the size)
fresh scallions, thinly sliced
fresh dill, finely chopped
coarse salt and black pepper

Toast or (even better) grill your bread (if grilling, you can brush first with oil or melted butter). Spread with a generous swipe of farmer cheese, then pave with fresh tomatoes. Sprinkle on a generous dusting of fresh herbs, then season with salt and pepper. Enjoy.

Saturday, July 19, 2014

Purslane Salad with Cherries and Feta



My small backyard has fences cordoning off the south and west sides. But the third side is open, separated from the neighbor's house only by our shared driveway. Although his off-leash time was initially highly supervised, these days my dog is generally allowed to backyard trips on his own recognizance. He's a fairly quiet older dog, and unless the next-door barbecue is in use, or a cat wanders by, he'll just do his business, then nose his way back inside. And in the summer, he'll sprawl out on the porch, yard or driveway (depending upon the sun's angle), tanning until he needs to come inside, panting, and collapse on the cool floor in a dramatic clatter of elbows. For the most part, this works out fine. Except in cherry season.

The yard next door features a dramatically large cherry tree, and in the summer it's absolutely dripping. They are the favorite of loud-yelling crows, and the occasional raccoon. And, it turns out, my dog.

After giving a nominal check that the coast is clear, the dog pads across the driveway and begins chowing down. He eats the fresh bright red ones, and the raisined shriveled ones. If you catch him in the act, he'll slink back home with tail-tucked contrition. But then he'll be right back. Even when the resulting gas literally drives him from his own bed later that day (with a wide-eyed ohmygod what just bit my butt? look of horror), he cannot be stopped.

And I understand. Cherries are delicious. Although the next-door tree is a bit too high up for regular harvest (given that I don't share the same fresh-from-the-ground tastes as my dog), I've been picking up helping after helping at the stores and farmers' markets. Huge yellow-red Raniers, and Bings that stain everything (myself included) with rich wine-dark juice. For the most part, I'm happy to just eat them out of hand. But recently I discovered they're delicious in salad.

I happened upon this particular combination when I was looking for something to do with purslane. This succulent green is not that common, but I've seen it show up the last several summers and highly recommend it — in addition to being a healthy omega-packed powerhouse, it's got a refreshing lemony taste and water-filled pop. I've turned it into a sort of Greek salad before, but our tomatoes were still a few weeks away. And it was too hot to try the cooked Mexican and Mediterranean preparations I've bookmarked. So instead, I tried a salad.

The recipe originally comes from The New York Times, inspired by the author's Greek vacation. I omitted the olives to keep things simple (and, um, because I didn't have any), and instead just tossed the punchy purslane with briny, creamy feta, and these drippy-sweet cherries. I dressed everything with a light touch of olive oil and lemon, and sprinkled on a bit of sumac I happened to find for another touch of sour (and color). The combination is simple, summery, well-balanced and perfect. Just ask my dog.


Purslane Salad with Cherries and Feta

adapted, heavily from The New York Times
serves ~4 as a small first course

Dressing:
juice of 1/2 lemon
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
1 clove garlic, thwacked with a knife
dollop of honey
salt and pepper to taste

Salad:
1 generous bunch purslane, thick stems cut away (about 4 cups)
a few leaves fresh mint, roughly torn (I was too hot/lazy to walk out and harvest/steal these, but I think they'd make a lovely addition)
a few handfuls cherries, pitted and halved
1 to 2 ounces feta, crumbled
 a few pinches sumac (optional)

Place all of the dressing ingredients together in a jar with a leak-proof lid, and shake-shake-shake to emulsify. Taste, and adjust seasonings as needed. Set aside.

Tumble together the purslane and mint on a serving platter or individual plates. Scatter the cherries and feta on top, and scatter on a few pinches sumac (if desired). Give the dressing another shake, and lightly dress the salad. Serve.