Pizza with Cilantro Pesto, Roasted Broccoli, and Red Onion

I have been making (and eating) a lot of pizza. It tends to be a Friday night ritual, a sabbath of sorts, when you want to mark the end of the week but not leave the house, and linger over something delicious. It's a ritual I may love even more than challah, with a similar religious fervor. But, at the same time, it can get a little boring.

When you have pizza every week, there are a lot of benefits. There's the ritual of it all, the removal of the daily crap-what's-for-dinner scramble, and the fact that you (mostly) remember to set up dough the night before. Also, you get good at it. You learn how much yeast, which oven rack works best, what proportion of whole wheat flour you can get away with. But when you make pizza regularly, you also start to hunger for a bit of variation. Yes, I still love a classic red pie, with a pile of thinly-sliced mushrooms and a few green olives (and a good shake of the addictive pizza pizazz spice mix that came along with a tin of cookies in my Christmas package from a dear friend). And lately, I've been back on my seasonal spate of asparagus pies. But with pizza after pizza, I sometimes want to mix it up. Sometimes this does not go so well (okra curry pizza, I'm looking at you). But this pie was pretty great.

I don't know why, but this worked. Cilantro pesto is bright and bracing, and roasted broccoli has got that fusty caramelization. Add red onion (and, of course, lots of cheese), and it's surprisingly successful — a welcome little bit of variation within the comfortingly delicious ritual.

Pizza with Cilantro Pesto, Roasted Broccoli, and Red Onion

Pesto (enough for multiple pies):
1 bunch cilantro, washed and dried
1 garlic clove, roughly chopped
2-3 tablespoons pumpkin seeds
1 teaspoon mild vinegar, such as rice or cider
2-4 tablespoons olive oil

2-3 broccoli crowns (I tend to make a lot, as I end up eating a good amount of broccoli off the pan)
olive oil
1 ball of dough, ~10 ounces
1/4 - 1/3 pound mozarella, shredded
1/4 a small red onion, thinly sliced

To make the pesto: Place all ingredients in a blender or food processor, and blitz until a loose paste forms (you may need to scrape things down a few times until it gets going). Add more olive oil as/if needed, then add salt and additional vinegar to taste. Set aside.

Preheat your oven to 425° Fahrenheit. Place a pizza stone on the bottom to heat up, and a rack in the middle for your broccoli.

Break or cut the broccoli into bite-sized florets, and toss with olive oil. Place on a baking sheet, sprinkle with salt, and bake until beginning to soften/caramelize (it'll bake more on the pizza, so don't go nuts). Remove, and let cool somewhat. Turn the oven temperature up to 475.

To assemble the pizza:  Place the pizza dough on a lightly-floured counter top, and press outward into a thick disk (leaving a 1" unpressed area along the edge as the crust). Pick up the disk and let it drape over the backs of your hands, letting gravity help you stretch it into a 12-14" circle. If the dough resists, let it relax for a few minutes (covered), then try again. Place the stretched dough on a peel (or overturned cookie sheet or cutting board) that's lightly dusted with semolina or other type of flour.

Spread a generous portion of the pesto over the dough, up to within an inch of the crust (refrigerate any leftover pesto for another use, such as pasta). Sprinkle on the cheese, then scatter the roasted broccoli and red onions. Slide the pizza onto the preheated stone in your oven, reduce the heat to 450, and bake ~7-10 minutes, until the crust browns and the cheese melts and everything looks delicious. Remove the pizza from the oven, let cool for a moment, then slice and serve.

Fresh Pasta in Lemon Cream Sauce with Seared Scallops

Sometimes I make meals that transform humble, dare-I-say-cheap ingredients into something fancier. Roasting some carrots and dressing them up with sauce and garnish, or elevating potatoes with a pile of North African spices. All delicious. And then there are meals on the flip side — where I take fancy, indulgent, special occasion ingredients. And do almost nothing to them, and just let their simple deliciousness shine through. Like I did the other night.

I recently had a friend over for dinner, and did that lovely fake math wherein you decide well, since we're not eating out as we'd initially planned, I'm still actually saving money by buying these fancy ingredients, right? Perhaps you are familiar with these batshit calculations? Anyways, in this case, it involved a leisurely walk down pick up some fresh-made pasta, and a tub of creme fraiche. Then some scallops — which, admittedly are terrifyingly expensive, but luckily you only need a few per person for a transcendent meal. And this was transcendent.

This is one of those meals that's more about shopping than cooking. After we enjoyed a delicious salad (butter lettuce, leftover roasted cauliflower, kumquats and feta), I ducked back in the kitchen to pull this together in just minutes. The scallops seared, the pasta boiled, and a plop of creme fraiche, lemon, and arugula hit the pan. That's it. I took a hasty cellphone pic, and we ate in amazement.

Fresh Pasta in Lemon Cream Sauce with Seared Scallops

inspired by the pasta dish in Amanda Hesser's Cooking for Mr. Latte, but tweaked beyond recognition
serves 2

~6 large fresh scallops
high-heat oil, like grapeseed
1 pound
1 cup creme fraiche
zest and juice of a meyer lemon
a few handfuls arugula, washed and torn into bite-sized pieces

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil, and bring a large skillet to a screaming high heat. Set the scallops out to dry (I just set them out on a plate lined with a piece of a brown paper bag).

When your pan is very hot, pour in a bit of oil to slick the surface, and place in the scallops. Sear for a few minutes, until they develop a nice crust, then flip and sear on the other side. Remove from the pan, and set aside. Salt.

Place the pasta in the boiling water, and cook until done. Drain (I like to pour some of the pasta water into the serving plates to warm them, as this dish is best warm). Turn the scallop pan back on, and add the creme fraiche and lemon juice/zest. Stir to mix everything together (including that delicious flavor from the pan), then stir in the arugula and pasta, and toss everything together until the arugula is just wilted. Salt to taste. Drain your serving plates if you filled them with pasta water, then fill with pasta, and top with scallops. Serve. Moan. Enjoy.

Grain Bowl with Barley, Mustard Greens, Chickpeas and Tahini

I often speak disparagingly of my old favorite of "hippie dinner." Some whole grain, steamed or sauteed vegetables, maybe a bit of tofu, and tahini. It's a healthy standard, sure, but it also pegs you as a dated, stubbornly unstylish old hippie. And then I happened upon a few articles, in the space of a week, that made me realize I was branding it all wrong. It wasn't hippie dinner, see —it was a grain bowl! My cooking is so au courant.

Thus rebranded, my quinoa-tofu-broccoli grain bowl seemed due for a bit of an update. Or, to be honest, I was thinking that I should try to put a dent in the enormous vat of barley that seems to have landed in my pantry. And then there were the mustard greens I had bought because they were just so pretty, but I didn't have much of a destination for (as my initial suggestion of "mustards pizza?" was roundly dismissed for the bad idea it so clearly was). And so, revamped hippie dinner! Excuse me, I mean, grain bowl.

As with hippie dinner of the so-dated past, grain bowls can really be anything. I had the aforementioned greens and barley, and some leftover chickpeas I'd simmered up a few days prior for whatever. I made up a standard tahini, but also tossed in some ground turmeric and freshly grated ginger (which both added a bit of flavor that stood up to the bitter blanched mustards, as well as some psychological witch doctor immunity against whatever late-winter illnesses seem to be circulating out there), and topped everything with a few random fresh herbs. Being trendy turns out to be delicious. I had no idea.

Grain Bowl with Barley, Mustard Greens, Chickpeas and Tahini

yields 2 servings

Ginger-Turmeric Tahini Sauce:
1/3 cup tahini paste
juice of 1/2 lemon or lime
1 clove garlic, pressed or grated
1-inch piece of ginger, grated
1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric
pinch each sugar and salt

Grain Bowl:
1 bunch mustard greens, washed and torn/chopped into bite-sized pieces
2 cups cooked barley (I favor cooking mine like pasta in big pot of boiling water, as I'm less likely to scorch it)
~ 3/4 cup cooked chickpeas (warm to at least room temperature if they're coming out of the fridge)
handful of fresh herbs, if you've got (I had some scallions and cilantro)

To make the Tahini: mix together the tahini paste, lemon juice, garlic, ginger, turmeric, sugar and salt. Add a splash of water, and mix, adding more water (or, if it seems like it needs more bite, lemon juice) until you reach a thick-yet-pourable consistency. Set aside.

Bring a kettle of water to a boil while you wash and chop the mustard greens. Place the greens in a large heat-proof bowl, then pour the water over them. Let sit for a few minutes to soften, then drain (this both cooks the greens and leaches out some of the bitterness, and has the added benefit of making it harder to overcook).

While the greens are blanching, assemble your bowls. Divide the barley between two bowls, then top with the chickpeas. Add the blanched and drained mustard greens, top with a healthy dollop of tahini sauce, then sprinkle on the fresh herbs.

North African Oven Fries

Were we talking about comfort food? Well, the conversation cannot conclude until we mention potatoes. I mean really — who are we kidding here?

Oven-baked fries are something I seem to rediscover every few years. Buttery yellow potatoes, oil and heat and a mess of salt — instant deliciousness. And, you know, vaguely healthier than deep frying. Inspired by a sadly-no-longer-updated Algerian-American blog, I gave these potatoes a bit of a North African spin. They're tossed with a savory dose of cumin and paprika, and then given a bit of harissa for heat (optional, yet delicious). And then, after they roast up into soft, starchy, crisp-edged warmth, they're tossed with a bright hit of lemon juice, fresh herbs, and raw garlic (which gets just barely tempered by the hot potatoes). Pair with a pile of steamed greens, and it's a perfect dinner. Even the day after (apologies for my wan pictures), they make a fine lunch.

And if you're looking to learn a bit more about North Africa, I recently produced a story about the Berber New Year. I had only the most passing knowledge of the Berbers a few weeks ago, but had the good fortune to be able to dig into their history and culture, and how it all wraps up in a NYE blowout. In mid-January. You can listen over at NPR.

North African Oven Fries

adapted from 64 Square Foot Kitchen
serves ~3-4, especially  paired with a nice green vegetable

2 teaspoons sweet paprika
1 teaspoon ground cumin
~3 tablespoons olive oil
2 teaspoons harissa, or your favorite hot sauce (optional)
6 large waxy potatoes (or more smaller ones), scrubbed but not peeled
1/4 cup chopped cilantro
1 tablespoon lemon juice
2 garlic cloves, pressed or minced

Preheat the oven at 400° Fahrenheit.

While the oven is preheating, mix the paprka, cumin, olive oil and harissa together in a large bowl. Peel the potatoes, and slice into wedges or fries, and add them to the bowl. Toss to coat the potato wedges with the oil and seasoning, and a generous sprinkle of salt.


Spread the potatoes on a baking sheet in a single layer, and bake until golden brown and crisp on the outside, about 25-30 minutes (depending upon how thick you've cut them), turning once.

While the potatoes are cooking, place the cilantro, lemon juice, and garlic in a bowl (you can re-use the same bowl you used earlier). When the potatoes are baked, tip them into the bowl, and toss to coat. The hot potatoes will temper the garlic, and everything should smell amazing. Taste, add additional salt or harissa as needed, and serve.

Armenian Pilaf with Shrimp, Cilantro and Feta

For the record, I am a big fan a brown rice. Nubby, healthy, delicious. It's my weeknight staple. But I also love love LOVE white rice. A few months back I invested in a mega-sack of Basmati rice. How big is the sack? I don't know, as it's shoved out of the way on an inaccessible shelf, decanted into a more manageable jar as needed. I don't dip in very often, but when I do — oh man. It's aromatic, amazing, delicious. It's like a big warm good-smelling hug. Others may slide into a bowl of mac'n'cheese, or mashed potatoes. And I do so love the both of those. But a delicious pilaf with buttery white rice — that's my comfort food.

A few weeks back, I had some friends in need of a good comforting dinner. So I took my trusty rice, along with some delicious shrimp, and an Armenian cookbook I've had out from the library. I cooked up this easy dish, leashed up my dog, and hauled the cast iron pot through the neighborhood (along with a salad, and mason jar full of Mai Tais). And it did the trick.

This recipe is one of those simple, greater-than-the-sum-of-its-parts bits of magic. Shrimp shells are simmered in stock, to give an extra richness to the rice, which is further bolstered with saffron and tomato paste (the original recipe offered either, but I, in my wisdom, opted for both). The shrimp are stirred in at the last minute, so they stay nice and tender (I take the extra step of brining, which also helps), and then everything is topped with feta and cilantro. The end result is intriguing enough to keep you reaching for bite after bite — yet simple enough to wrap you up in starchy comfort. 

Armenian Pilaf with Shrimp, Cilantro and Feta

adapted from The Armenian Table by Victoria Jenanyan Wise
serves ~4

1 pound uncooked shrimp, in shell
3 cups broth (vegetable or chicken)
2 tablespoons butter or olive oil
1/4 cup finely diced onion
1 1/2 cups long grain white rice
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 hefty pinch saffron
1 large handful cilantro leaves, plus additional for serving
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt
1/4 teaspoon aleppo pepper, plus additional for serving
1/3 cup crumbled feta cheese

Shell the shrimp, leaving the tails intact (if you fancy, for dramatic effect), and reserving the shells. Place the shrimp in a small bowl of water, along with a hefty pinch of salt and a small bit of sugar (this brining is optional, but I feel improves the flavor and texture). Place in the refrigerator.

Place the reserved shrimp shells in a small saucepan along with the broth. Bring to a boil over high heat, then lower the heat until high enough to maintain a brisk simmer. Cook until the shells are pink, about 3 minutes. Turn off the heat and set aside.

To make the pilaf, melt the butter (or pour the oil) in a good-sized saucepan or pot over a medium-high heat. Add the onion and rice, and saute until the rice is translucent (but not colored), ~2 minutes. Strain the shrimp broth into the pot through a fine-mesh strainer. Add the tomato paste, saffron, cilantro, salt and aleppo pepper, and stir to combine. Bring to a boil over high heat, then reduce the heat to low, cover, and simmer for 22 minutes, until the rice is tender.

When the rice is done, turn off the heat, and take your shrimp from the refrigerator. Drain, and stir into the pilaf. Cover the pot again, and let sit for 5 minutes, until the residual heat cooks the shrimp until they're just barely pink. Serve warm, garnished with the feta cheese, and additional cilantro and aleppo pepper, if desired.

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 jalapeño 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.

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.

Russian Yeasted Blini

Oh, Russian yeasted blini. Why are you so, so much better than the standard American pancake? Let me count the ways:

1. With both an overnight fermentation and a healthy helping of half-and-half, these blini manage to be both rich and tangy. I heartily approve of this combination.

2. Unlike their chain-you-to-the-griddle brethren, blini are just as delicious a few hours — or even a full day — later, which means they're easily made in advance (even, say, the night or morning before, while you can still bear to turn on the stove, allowing you a cool meal later in the hot day).

3. Although the term is often used for those chunky little silver dollar-sized canape vehicles, a true blini is the a delicate whisper size of a dinner plate, all the better to wrap up the fillings (and you can set up a full smorgasboard of fillings, letting you play around from blini to blini).

I'm sure there are a few dozen other reasons as well. But basically: blini! So, so delicious! The impetus, again, was book club. We were reading Bulgakov, so it seemed only natural I take this as an excuse for a thematic snack. So I went to the Russian market, picked up some sour cream and frighteningly cheap caviar, and set to work.

The blini themselves, as with any pancake, start out as total straight-to-the-dog failures. And you think this is a terrible recipe and why did I ever come up with this idea and oh crap book club is in a few hours and what can I bring instead? But, amazingly, by the third blini or so, it all comes together. Your pan gets hot enough, and you figure out how much you need to thin out your batter (in my case: a lot), and then you're turning out blini after blini like the best Russian babushka.

And then, once you've got a nice butter-brushed stack, you get to fill them! I put out a spread including the sour cream and caviar, and a smattering of other non-traditional-yet-delicious additions — some cubes of cold-smoked salmon belly, minced onion, fresh dill, and whole lemons chopped into tiny wedges for a bracing (and addictive) sour pop. It's perfect for book club, it's perfect for a hot summer night, and it's perfect for reminding you just how crazy good Russian food can be.

Russian Yeasted Blini

adapted from Anya von Bremzen's recipe in Food & Wine
yields ~12-14 blini (I doubled it this — it takes some time to make a double batch, but they keep and they're delicious so you might as well)

1/2 cup warm water 
1 1/8 teaspoons active dry yeast
2 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon sugar 
1 1/4 cups plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour 
1 1/4 cups half-and-half, at room temperature
 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled, plus several more tablespoons for brushing 
1 large egg, separated 
1 1/4 teaspoons coarse salt
neutral oil, such as grapeseed or canola, for the pan

For serving: sour cream, fresh dill fronds, chopped lemon, caviar, smoked salmon, diced onion, etc etc etc

In a small bowl, whisk the water with the yeast and 1 teaspoon of the sugar and let stand at room temperature until foamy, about 5 minutes. In a medium bowl, whisk the yeast mixture with ¼ cup of the flour until smooth. Cover and let stand in a warm place until the batter has doubled in bulk, about 1 hour. 

After the batter has risen, add the remaining 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons of flour, along with the half-and-half, 2 tablespoons of melted butter, egg yolk, salt and remaining 2 tablespoons of sugar. Whisk until smooth. Cover and refrigerate the batter overnight, stirring once or twice. 

When you're ready to fry, bring the batter to room temperature. In a medium bowl, beat the egg white until soft peaks form. Fold the beaten white into the batter just until no streaks remain. Let the batter stand for 10 minutes. If the batter is too thick, whisk in water, 1 tablespoon at a time, until you have a thinner-than-pancake-batter mixture (I needed to add A LOT more water — maybe a half cup or so for the double batch — so don't be afraid if you need it).

Meanwhile, line a plate with parchment or waxed paper. Heat an 8-inch skillet over moderate heat and lightly brush with oil. For each blini, add ~1/4 cup of batter to the skillet and quickly swirl to coat the bottom with a thin layer of batter. Cook over moderate heat until small bubbles form on the surface and the underside is golden, about 2 minutes. Flip the blini and cook for 1 minute longer. Transfer the blini to the prepared plate and brush with melted butter. Don't be dismayed if your first few blini tear apart or don't spread out in time or what-have-you — just add more water as needed, let the pan fully heat up, and all will be well.

Repeat with the remaining batter, brushing the skillet with oil as needed. You should have 12 to 14 blini. Serve at room temperature, top with whatever you desire, then roll up and enjoy.

Halibut with Carrot Puree, Early Summer Vegetables, and Pistou

Apologies for this single, hasty, unfocused photo. I just snapped a quick record for my own documentation, figuring I'd never blog something that required such an insane amount of preparation. And then I tasted it. And oh my. I thought about going back and getting the camera for proper pictures, but really, I couldn't leave my plate.

This deliciousness came about because I was tasked the other day with bringing dinner (and moral support) to a friend who was spending a first day on solo infant duty. I thought about cooking up a big load of freezer-friendly food — perhaps spanakopita and tomato biryani, or a few pints of carrot coriander vinaigrette. But then I saw a new restaurant cookbook waiting for me at the library. And I thought about just going fancy instead.

A freezer full of food is a wonderful thing. But you know what? So is a little luxury. And the latter is in woefully short supply when you're waging a sleep-deprived battle to meet basic life needs. So I set aside my casserole plans, and went to the farmer's market for bushels of early summer bounty — fat carrots, curly green garlic scapes and pea shoots, juicy spring onions and the first fragrant basil. And then, after just a few insane hours of cooking, and washing nigh everything in the kitchen (steamer basket and Dutch oven and mortar and pestle and pot and frying pan and food processor), the elements were ready. And all that was left was to sear the fish, bring the dish over, and whisk the baby away for a miraculously tearless diaper change while this perfection was savored.

In some ways, this meal reminds me of my beloved butterscotch budino — multiple elements (each with significant levels of fuss), requiring more time than a usual few days' kitchen efforts combined. But the end result is just transformative. It's like the best restaurant meal you've ever had. It's like a dream about food.

In this case, the dream rests on a bed of carrot puree (carrots first steamed with basil stems before browning in olive oil, natch). The resulting smoothness has a clean flavor, but also a roasty sweetness from the caramelization. And the glug of olive oil doesn't hurt either. This is topped with a buttery saute of spring vegetables — the recipe called for asparagus, but since we're just past the season, some garlic scapes made for a nice substitute. And then pea shoots, lending their adorable tendrils and green flavor (plus a fun little play on peas and carrots, which is always a good time). On top of this saute rests a marinated and seared halibut fillet, and then a dollop of creme fraiche (or, in my case, the last little bit of sour cream mixed with a bit of yogurt), then, finally a simple pesto of basil, garlic and oil. Each element alone is perfect. And together, as they mix on the fork and plate? It's just beyond. It's a celebration of this early summer moment. It's something to helps you forget about those sleepless nights, and drink in how delicious it all can be.

Halibut with Carrot Puree, Spring Vegetables, and Pistou

adapted from The AOC Cookbook by Suzanne Goin
serves 4

As stated, this is an insane amount of work. But you can break it down — I'd recommend making the carrot puree and pistou the day before (the latter will darken, but it'll still be delicious). This would make a show-stopping dinner party dish, and could likely even be made vegan by swapping the seared fish for some seared cauliflower and omitting the dairy. Goin's original recipe pairs this amount of accompaniment with 6 fillets instead of 4, but it's so delicious that 4 seems a bit more accurate.

For the carrot puree:
2 pounds carrots, peeled, cut into 1/4-inch rounds
handful of basil stems (from the basil you're using for the pistou)
~1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil, divided
1 cup diced white onion
1 1/2 teaspoons coarse salt

For the pistou:
1/2 clove garlic
1/4 teaspoon coarse salt
1 cup tightly packed basil leaves
2 tablespoons chopped flat-leaf parsley
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil

For the fish:
4 Alaskan halibut fillets, 5 to 6 ounces each
zest of 1 lemon
1 tablespoon thyme leaves
2 tablespoons coarsely chopped parsley
salt and pepper
olive oil for cooking

For the spring vegetables:

1 1/2 cups sliced spring onions, plus 1/2 cup sliced spring onion tops

3/4 pound asparagus, sliced into pieces, or a handful of garlic scapes
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt

3 tablespoons butter

4 ounces pea shoots (a few big handfuls — they wilt down)

lemon juice to taste

To finish:
1/4 cup creme fraiche or sour cream
flaky salt

To make the carrot puree: Steam the carrots with the basil stems for about 20 minutes, until nice and tender.

When the carrots are almost done, heat a heavy pot over high heat for 1 minute. Pour in 1/4 cup of the olive oil onions, and season with the salt. Cook for about 5 minutes, stirring often, until the onions are translucent. Add the carrots, and continue to cook, stirring and scraping up the bottom, until the carrots are lightly caramelized, ~8 minutes.

Transfer the mixture to a food processor, and puree until very smooth, drizzling in a few additional spoonfuls of olive oil. Taste to adjust seasonings. Set aside.

To make the pistou: If using a food processor, press the garlic clove, then add that and 1/3 of the basil leaves. Pulse until well combined, then add the rest of the basil and parsley. Slowly add the olive oil as needed to make a pourable mixture, and season to taste with pepper and more salt if desired.

If using a mortar and pestle, start by pounding the whole garlic clove and salt until broken down. Add 1/3 of the basil, pound until well broken down, then add the remaining basil and parsley. Pound pound pound pound, then add the olive oil as needed to make a pourable mixture, and season to taste with pepper and more salt if desired. Set aside, making sure the mixture has enough oil on top to cover. Set aside.

To start the fish: In a small covered container, season the fish with the grated lemon zest, thyme, and parsley. Cover and refrigerate at least 4 hours or overnight.

To make the vegetables: Heat a large Dutch oven or enormous saute pan over medium heat for 1 minute. Add the 2 tablespoons olive oil, let heat for a minute, and then add the sliced spring onions, asparagus (or garlic scapes), salt, and a pinch of pepper. Cook over medium heat for 2 to 3 minutes, stirring, until onions are translucent.

When the onions have cooked, add the butter and 1 tablespoon water. Swirl the pan, and when the liquid comes to a simmer, toss in the pea shoots and onion tops. Immediately remove from the heat, stir, and squeeze a little lemon juice over everything. Taste and adjust seasoning.

To finish the fish and assemble the dish: Remove the fish from the refrigerator, and let it sit out for about 15 minutes to come to room temperature (one of the keys to even cooking).

Heat a large saute pan over high heat for 2 minutes. Swirl 2 tablespoons olive oil into the pan and wait 1 minute. It'll be hot!

Season the fish on both sides with salt and pepper. Carefully lay fish in the pan and cook for 3 to 4 minutes, until it’s got a nice lightly browned crust. Turn the fish over, lower the heat to medium low and cook for a few more minutes. When it’s done, the fish will *just* begin to flake and separate a little, and the center will still be slightly translucent (it will continue to cook as it rests, so err on the side of under-cooking). Remove from pan and let rest.

To assemble the whole thing, warm up the puree (if made in advance and refrigerated). Spoon plops of the warm puree onto 4 plates, forming a nice little bed. Tumble the vegetables over the puree, then place a fish fillet over the top. Top each fillet with a dollop of creme fraiche, then spoon the pistou over the creme fraiche and the fish and around the plate. Eat in rapturous pleasure.

Sopa Seca (aka Mexican Spaghetti)

It doesn't need saying that technology can connect us in big, profound ways. But it can also connect us in lovely little ways too. The other night, a friend posted that he was dealing with an unseasonably cold Philadelphia evening by cooking up some beans and pasta. And I was able to sort of collapse time and space and virtually join him, because, 3,000 miles away, I was doing the same thing. In Andrew's case, it was a delicious-looking bowl of pasta fagioli, with heirloom white beans and mixed-up Italian pasta. And in my house, it was a long-simmered pot of clean-out-the-pantry black and red beans (salt-soaked, of course). And, starring in the role of noodles, this sopa seca. Or, as I've been calling it, Mexican spaghetti.

This version of sopa seca, a beloved humble casserole, is from the great Diana Kennedy. And it is ridiculously satisfying. It's got all the things you want from a plate of pasta: comfort and carbs and sweet-tangy tomato sauce. But even better, the sauce is cooked down and oven-baked until it's an almost jammy backdrop, and — most importantly — spiked with smoky-hot chipotle pepper. And then things just get better, with a sprinkling of salty cheese, sour crema, and some bright leaves of cilantro.

I know I'll be coming back to this recipe again and again — especially on colder nights, when I need a bit of oven-baked comfort (and a bit of spice). It's one of those great dishes that manages to be both familiar and exciting. And it's one of those great dishes I'd like to share with all of my friends — whether it's at my table, or across the internet.

Sopa Seca (aka Mexican Spaghetti)

adapted from Diana Kennedy via Saveur, with thanks to Bon Appetempt for flagging
serves 4 

Pureeing and cooking down the tomato sauce takes some time, but yields a crazy delicious result. Next time (and lo, there will be a next time) I'm aiming to double the sauce, then freeze half after cooking it down, to have on hand to make this an even easier weeknight supper.

3-4 canned chipotle chiles in adobo, depending on your taste for heat
4 cloves garlic, peeled
1 (15-oz.) can whole peeled tomatoes in juice
1/2 small white onion, roughly chopped
3 tablespoons high-heat oil, such as canola or grapeseed
8 ounces fideos, or vermicelli noodles broken into 3-inch pieces (I tend to buy these short little noodles from the local Middle Eastern store, which work quite well)
2/3 cup chicken or vegetable stock (Kennedy calls for 1/2 cup, but I generally prefer fully cooked to al dente, so added a splash more and it worked quite well)
coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

crumbled cotija or feta cheese
sour cream or crema (or your current favorite yogurt)
handful cilantro, washed and roughly chopped
a side of beans and avocado (optional)

Purée the chipotles, garlic, tomatoes, and onion in a blender until very smooth, at least 2 minutes. Set aside.

Heat the oil in a big oven-proof skillet over medium-high heat. Add half of the pasta and cook, stirring, until lightly browned and toasted, ~2-3 minutes. Scoop out of the pan, set aside, and toast the remaining noodles. Scoop those out of the pan as well, and place with the others.

Return the skillet to heat, and pour in the tomato mixture. Beware the spatter! Cook, stirring occasionally, until almost all of the liquid has evaporated (~15-20 minutes). Add the stock, stir and cook another minute, then turn off the heat and add the noodles. Stir to combine, and season with salt and pepper to taste.

While the tomato mixture is cooking down, preheat your oven to 350° Fahrenheit. When the pasta has been added and seasoned, cover the pan with foil, and place in the oven. Bake until the pasta is tender and the sauce is absorbed, ~10 minutes. NOTE: If you don't have an oven-proof skillet, you can transfer the contents of an ordinary skillet to an oiled 8-inch casserole dish at this point, and cover/bake that (which is actually what Kennedy recommends, but I'm a one-pot gal myself whenever possible).

To serve, divide onto plates, and let diners top with cheese, drizzle with crema, and sprinkle with cilantro as desired. Enjoy hot, with beans, avocado, and/or salad on the side.

Pierogies

I tend to have a fairly predictable reaction to the food stories I cover, especially those with an emotional component. Namely, they make me hungry. When I recorded elderly women talking about their memories of Jewish food, I immediately went home and baked up a tearful batch of rugelach. And last week, when I recorded a family making a long-cooked, hearty Eastern European meal (more on that soon), and not too long after finishing a story on Russian drinking snacks, I went home, browned some onions, and made some pierogies.

Pierogies are one of those dishes that I generally buy rather than make (usually from the kind ladies at the local Ukrainian church). They were also one of my cheap post-collegiate meals, usually found at the Polish butchers (or corner bodegas) in my old Brooklyn neighborhood. But there's something lovely about taking the time to caramelize up some onions (and it does take time), and turn the cheapest of pantry staples into the same comforting dish that people have made for generations. These are dishes you want to keep alive, whether on the radio, or in the kitchen.

Pierogies

adapted from Oma & Bella — speaking of keeping stories alive....
yields ~30 pierogies (I used a smaller cutter, so I had more), ~4 servings

Filling:
1/2 cup vegetable or other neutral oil
2 large yellow onions, finely diced
1 1/2 pounds starchy potatoes (~3 medium-sized ones)
salt and pepper to taste

Dough:
1/2 cup water
2 large eggs
hefty pinch salt
3 cups (380 grams) flour

scallions or chives, thinly sliced
sour cream

Heat the oil in a heavy-bottomed skillet over a medium-low heat. Add the onions and fry, stirring and adjusting the heat as needed, until they color evenly a rich, dark brown, ~1 hour.

While the onions are caramelizing, peel the potatoes and simmer them in salted water until quite tender, ~25 minutes. Drain, then return to the pot and mash (the residual heat in the pot will help dry them out). When the onions are caramelized, transfer them to the potato pot with a slotted spoon, and mash them in as well (you can add enough of the fry oil as needed to make a smooth mixture, reserving any additional oil for frying the finished pierogies). Season to taste with salt and pepper.

To make the dough, mix together the water, eggs, salt and flour, and knead until a smooth dough forms (like pasta dough, this is fairly stiff, and easiest done in a mixer with a dough hook, of which our Eastern European matriarchs would approve).  Let sit covered at room temperature for 30 minutes to relax.

When the dough is relaxed, lightly flour a countertop, and gather up a biscuit cutter (or glass with a 3-inch diameter), lightly floured cookie sheet, and small dish of water.

Roll out to the dough make a nice, thin sheet — you don't need it as thin as a sheet of pasta, but a thin dough makes for a deliciously delicate pierogie. If it fights you and shrinks back, let it sit covered for another few minutes to relax further. Take a biscuit cutter, or a glass with about  3-inch diameter, and cut out circles. Dip your finger in the water and moisten the edges of the circles, then fill them with a spoonful of filling (as you work, you'll get a sense of how much filling each pierogie can take). Fold the dough around the filling to form a half-circle, and pinch shut the moistened edges. Transfer the filled dumpling to your floured cookie sheet, and repeat with the remaining dough and filling. Scraps of dough can be mushed back together into a ball, and, after relaxing, re-rolled.

When all of the pierogies are shaped, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Transfer the pierogies to the water, stirring once or twice at first to make sure they don't stick, and simmer until they float to the surface (this should just take a few minutes). Drain in a colander, giving a shake now and then so that they don't stick to each other.

Heat the reserved onion oil (or, if you don't have enough, additional oil) in a skillet over a medium-high heat. Fry the cooked pierogies until they brown, just a minute or two per side. Serve warm, with scallions/chives and sour cream.

Harissa Salmon with Lemony Herbed Couscous

Although it seems hard for me to imagine (as I shiver every time the temperature drops into the low 40s), I spent my college years in Minnesota. And for the most part, I stomached the arctic cold with good grace. I pulled on my long underwear, and layers upon layers, and trundled to class and library and work and coffeeshop without too much complaint. But there came a point — usually around late January/early February — when I was just done. Tired of being bundled into countless layers, tired of the fact that the very air itself would hurt my face. It felt personal, it felt painful, and I just wanted it to stop already.

These days, I live a somewhat more temperate existence, where the winds never bite into your skin and crush your soul. But culinarily, I go through a similar winter fatigue. This time of year, I eat my root vegetables, my kale, my roasted squash. And then I eat them again. And after a while, it can feel a bit tired and monotonous, a whole lot of muddy wintery brown, and I just want it to stop already.

When I hit my winter weather fatigue in Minnesota, I would usually take that as a sign to strip off my layers and go swimming (indoors, of course), to easily move without the weight of long johns, surrounded by welcoming warmth. And when I hit my winter culinary fatigue here in Oregon, I take it as a sign to put away my roasted squash and root vegetables, and surround myself with excitingly bright flavors. Like piles of fresh herbs and lemon juice. Like spicy North African harissa paste and floral saffron. Like this recipe.

This dish is like a bright shaft of sunlight in these heavy winter days. Salmon is rubbed with an exciting, fragrant (yet ridiculously easy) marinade, then simply baked and flaked atop a lemony, herb-packed couscous. It cuts through the heavy layers of winter roots, lets you move through warm, inviting flavors that you've missed for too long. Because even though long-cooked, stick-to-your-ribs meals do a fine job of fortifying you through the long slog of gray and brown, it's nice to be reminded that the bright and sunny world is still out there.

Harissa Salmon with Lemony Herbed Couscous

adapted from Lizzie Kamenetzky's Great British Bake Off: Winter Kitchen
serves 4-5

2 tablespoons harissa paste (this North African spice paste can usually be found at Middle Eastern markets and well-stocked grocery stores — they recommend rose harissa, which I cleverly faked with some regular old from-the-tube harissa combined with some dried rose petals)
1 tablespoon coriander seeds, lightly bashed in a mortar and pestle
salt and oil as needed
1 lemon, zested and juiced
1 pound salmon fillet
1 tablespoon olive oil, plus more as needed to finish
2 cups Israeli couscous
2 1/2 cups vegetable broth
hefty pinch saffron
several large handfuls herbs, roughly chopped (parsley, cilantro, mint, scallions)

In a small bowl, mix together the harissa, coriander seeds, and half the lemon zest (reserve the remaining zest and juice). If your harissa is particularly thick, you can drizzle in some oil to make it spreadable.

Lay the salmon fillet out on a baking sheet, and gently spread the harissa mixture over it. Let it marinate at room temperature while you preheat the oven to 350° Fahrenheit. Bake the salmon until it just barely begins to flake (or think about flaking), ~10 minutes or so, depending upon thickness. Remove, and let sit for a few minutes.

While the salmon is baking, prepare the couscous. Heat the olive oil over a medium heat in a medium pot, then add the couscous and stir for a minute to toast. Add the broth and saffron (and additional salt if your broth isn't terribly salty), and raise the heat to a boil. Lower until it's just high enough to maintain a simmer, and cook, covered, until the liquid is absorbed and the couscous is tender, ~10 minutes.

When the couscous is done, stir in the reserved lemon zest and juice, and the fresh herbs. Add an additional drizzle of olive oil if needed to moiston, and salt to taste. Turn out onto a serving platter or individual plates, and top with the salmon, flaked.

Greek Braised Cauliflower in Cinnamon-Scented Tomato Sauce

When I was young, my mother would often end up making something that we've jokingly come to think of as "the white meal" — mashed potatoes, some sort of baked flounder or sole fillet, and steamed cauliflower. Despite its ghostly nature, the meal was both healthy and tasty. In fact, I still get cravings for steamed-unto-softness cauliflower. But while I do love the subtlety of cauliflower's quiet background brassica notes (more on that sometime soon), I also find that it's perfect for pairing with other flavors. Like a cinnamon-scented tomato sauce.

Although this meal has a bit more color going on, it also has a similarly beautiful simplicity. The nearly melted grated onions and double hit of cinnamon (both stick and ground) in the tomato sauce manage to add both warm sweetness and savory depth, which the cauliflower gladly sops up. In some ways it's not all that different from a standard tomato sauce, but it's subtly so much more. I paired the flavorful braise with some garlicky lemony spinach and a briny wedge of feta, and scooped it all up with some crusty chunks of bread. Because if the world around you is cold and white (sorry, Midwest!), it's nice to have a warm bit of color on your plate.

Greek Braised Cauliflower in Cinnamon-Scented Tomato Sauce

adapted from the kounoupidi kapama on Souvlaki for the Soul
serves 2-4, as part of a larger meal

¼ cup olive oil (you can use less, but c'mon, it's Greek food)
1 onion, grated
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 cauliflower head, broken into florets
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 cup tomato puree
¼ cup water
1 small stick cinnamon
salt and pepper to taste

feta (optional)
crusty bread

Heat the olive oil in a pot over a medium-high heat. Add the onions and garlic, and saute, stirring occasionally, until translucent but not colored, ~5 minutes (adjust the heat as needed).

Add the cauliflower, and saute for a few minutes, until it takes on a bit of color. Add the cinnamon, tomato puree, water, cinnamon stick, and salt and pepper. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low and cook, covered, until the cauliflower becomes tender, ~15 minutes. Stir occasionally (and gently).

Serve with feta, if desired, and crusty bread (and garlickly lemony spinach isn't too bad either).

Eggplant Involtini

Having lived for years with someone who is lactose intolerant, I have a ridiculously low bar for excitement when it comes to dairy products. If a caterer lays out a boring old tray of econo-cheddar and crackers at a reception, my heart thrills. I recently attended a weekend full of gourmet food of all sorts, but what I remember more than anything is a simple buttery grilled cheese. It's possible I have a problem.

But I would wager that, despite the extenuating circumstances, my fascination is not all that unique. Because cheese? It is really, really good. And even though it's not usually put at the top of such lists, I'd argue that ricotta — good ricotta — is one of the best cheeses of all. And when that ricotta is wrapped in fried eggplant and baked in tomato sauce, well...

I had been lusting over this recipe for a while, and it seemed like the perfect time to give it a try. The last of the summer eggplants and tomatoes are still in the markets, and the rising autumnal chill calls out for just this sort of oven-baked, cheesy warmth (as making a long-baked dish is my favorite tactic for delaying turning on the furnace). I had my doubts about the lemon juice and zest— would it destroy the cheesy comfort with its sourness? But really, it's just perfect. There's no sourness, just a fresh flavor, that's a lovely match for the long-cooked tomato sauce and caramelized eggplant. And, of course, the cheese.

Eggplant Involtini

adapted from Tartine Bread
serves ~6 (~18 rolls)

2 globe eggplants
coarse salt
oil for frying (they recommend olive oil, but for those with tighter budgets, any other high-heat oil, or a mix of that and olive oil, will be fine)

2 cups whole milk ricotta
~1/3 cup dry, unseasoned breadcrumbs
juice and zest of 1 lemon
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt

~ 2 cups tomato sauce (I used the late great Marcella Hazan's tomato butter sauce)
~1/4 cup heavy cream
Parmesan (or a similar cheese) for serving

Slice the eggplant, using a mandoline or a sharp knife, the long way into 1/4-inch planks. Layer in a colander, salting generously with coarse salt between the layers. Let sit at least an hour, then give a good press to push out the liquid. Blot dry.

Pour about an inch of oil into a heavy skillet, and heat to temperature over a medium-high heat (if you have a thermometer, you want it to read 360° Fahrenheit). Fry the eggplant slices (without crowding the pan), until they begin to color, ~3-4 minutes. Remove the slices with tongs, and set on a paper-lined plate or a rack/colander to drain. Repeat with the remaining eggplant (if desired, you can do this step a day in advance). If the slices crisp up a bit, you can put them in a covered container, and they'll soften back up (another reason cooking them in advance works beautifully).

When all of the eggplant has been fried, heat the oven to 425° Fahrenheit. In a bowl, mix together the ricotta, breadcrumbs, lemon juice and zest, thyme and salt. Taste and adjust seasoning as needed.

To assemble the casserole, pour the tomato sauce down on the bottom of a mid-sized casserole dish (or a couple small ones). Take a slice of the fried eggplant, and place a lump of filling at the wide end (~1-2 tablespoons, depending on the size of your eggplant), and roll it up. Place in the casserole dish, seam side down. Repeat with the remaining eggplant and filling. When you're finished, pour a bit of cream over each of the rolls to moisten (it's fine if it runs into the sauce).

Bake, uncovered, until the sauce cooks down around the edges of the pan, and the rolls darken a bit, ~20—25 minutes. Serve warm, with a grating of cheese over the top.

Simple Stuffed Zucchini

There are so many zucchini recipes — especially as summer draws to a close, and fatigue sets in — that seek to sort of bury the squash. Shred it into a cake, where it's hidden behind chocolate, or perhaps a brown butter cornbread. And there's good reason to do this. Zucchini actually excels in these treatments, where it gives otherwise-starchy dishes a healthy dose of green, and some moisture to boot. Also: So! Much! Zucchini! But even in the midst of the onslaught, it's sometimes nice to have dishes that really let the zucchini shine. Like this stuffed zucchini.

There are versions of stuffed zucchini heaping with cups of breadcrumbs, or layered with gooey cheese, or spicy chorizo, or lord-knows-what. But this one is all about the zucchini. You scoop out the innards, and then cook them down with onion and tomato while the shells soften up a bit in the oven. You can add some basil (or not), and just the merest sprinkling of cheese (or not). Then a sprinkling of just enough breadcrumbs to bind the mixture, and the whole thing goes back in the oven. The end result doesn't have big bold flavors, or a magical where's-the-squash transformation. It tastes simple, rich and sweet. And a lot like zucchini.

Simple Stuffed Zucchini
serves 4

4 good-sized zucchini
2 tablespoons olive oil, plus additional for the pan and topping
1 onion, diced fine
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 good-sized tomatoes, diced
1 handful basil (optional), torn or chopped
scant 1/4 cup breadcrumbs (or as needed)
1 handful grated parmesan, optional
salt and pepper to taste

Preheat your oven to 400° Fahrenheit. Rinse the zucchini, and slice off the stems and any woody blossom scars on the ends. With a spoon, scoop out the innards (setting them aside), leaving a small rim around the end to keep things together. Drizzle a little olive oil in a large casserole dish, salt the insides of the zucchini, and lay them, cut side down, in the casserole. Drizzle a little more oil over the tops, and bake while you prepare the remaining ingredients (~half an hour).

Heat a large frypan or Dutch oven over a medium-high heat, and pour in the 2 tablespoons olive oil. Add the onions, along with a pinch of salt, and cook, stirring occasionally, until they are softened and translucent but haven't browned, ~5-7 minutes (adjust the heat as needed). While the onion is cooking, chop the reserved zucchini innards into a rough dice, and set aside. When the onion has softened, add the garlic, and cook for another minute to soften. Then add the zucchini innards and tomatoes, and basil if you've got it. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the zucchini is all cooked through (~10 minutes, give or take). It will give off a lot of liquid. Remove from heat, and add enough breadcrumbs to sop up the liquid into a moist stuffing-like consistency (the exact amount will vary depending upon how much liquid your particular zukes and tomatoes have given off, and how much of that has cooked away). Allow to cool slightly, then add parmesan, and season (rather aggressively) with salt and pepper to taste.

Remove the zucchini shells from the oven, and flip them back to boat position (being careful to avoid the steam!). Mound the filling back into the shells, and top with a drizzle of olive oil. Return to the oven and bake until everything is sizzly and delicious and just beginning to brown — about half an hour. Serve warm.

Corn, Cherry Tomato and Basil Pizza

I tend to like my pizza — my home-made pizza at least — topped with strong flavors. Kale, blue cheese and walnuts. Garlic scapes and potato. Asparagus, goat cheese and anchovies. But a hot, late summer night calls for a different kind of pizza. A more delicate pizza. A summer pizza. A corn, tomato and basil pizza.

I know that corn on pizza doesn't sound very Italian. And I know that I used a hippie whole wheat dough, that my crust is entirely devoid of char, and my mozzarella started to brown. It was just that kind of night. But even so — this pizza was delicious.

The sweet corn only gets sweeter in a hot oven, and the punchy bursts of tomato (I went with some never-disappointing Sungolds a friend was kind enough to share form her garden) and fresh basil come together in a way that just feels perfect. It's sweet and juicy (from both the corn and the tomatoes), but it's also savory and aromatic. And even though it's pizza, it's surprisingly light. It's summer.

Corn, Cherry Tomato and Basil Pizza

1 ball of pizza dough, ~10 oz
semolina or regular flour for dusting
1/4-1/3 lb mozarella, shredded
kernels shaved off 1 ear of corn
2 dozen small cherry tomatoes (preferably Sungold), sliced in half
olive oil
coarse salt
1 handful basil leaves, torn if large

Preheat your oven, with a pizza stone if you have, to 500 degrees for an hour. If your pizza dough has been refrigerated, let it come to room temperature for an hour.

Place the pizza dough on a lightly-floured counter top, and press outward into a thick disk (leaving a 1" unpressed area along the edge as the crust). Pick up the disk and let it drape over the backs of your hands, letting gravity help you stretch it into a 12-14" circle. If the dough resists, let it relax for a few minutes, then try again. Place the stretched dough on a peel (or overturned cookie sheet or cutting board) that's lightly dusted with semolina or other type of flour.

Scatter the mozzarella on top of the dough, then the corn and tomatoes. Drizzle the whole pizza with a small amount of olive oil, and a sprinkling of salt. Slide the pizza onto the preheated stone in your oven, and bake ~7-10 minutes, until the crust browns and the cheese melts.

Remove the pizza from the oven, and let cool for a moment (if you're making one pizza, you can leave it on the stone, otherwise I like to transfer to a rack, or just slide a knife or such between the peel/cutting board and the pie, to let the steam vent so it doesn't soften itself). Transfer to a cutting board if you haven't already, and scatter on the basil. Slice and serve.

Poached Salmon with Cucumber Sauce

Salmon and cucumber seems like a combination from a long time ago. I'm not sure if I come by this opinion from my own personal history, or obsessive reading of old cookbooks (it's hard to tease apart the two sometimes). Regardless, it pulls up thoughts of gelatin-set salmon molds, of cucumber slices made to look like fish scales, and other tropes that were the height of luncheon catering some twenty-five years past. But I clearly need to readjust my thinking. Because poached salmon with cucumber sauce is a timeless combination. It's what I had for dinner last night, and last week as well. And what I should be having once a week every summer.

The inspiration for this particular incarnation of the classic comes from the always-in-style Julia Child. And it couldn't be simpler. Salmon is slipped into a barely-simmering bath of water, where it manages to delicately set without overcooking (and, thanks to a generous helping of salt and vinegar, doesn't wash out but instead gains even more flavor). And then it is served with a cool, slippery sauce (if you could even call it that) of sour cream, Greek yogurt, cucumbers and dill. Pair it with a simple summer salad (I went with arugula, peaches and corn), maybe a chunk of leftover bread for sopping up the plate, and you've got a summer meal that's just about perfect. Timeless, even.

Poached Salmon with Cucumber Sauce

inspired by Julia Child's The Way to Cook
serves 4

Cucumber Sauce:
1/2 cup sour cream
1/2 cup Greek yogurt (not nonfat)
1/2 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt
1/2 teaspoon vinegar (cider or sherry work well)
1 cucumber, chopped in a 1/4-inch dice
~2-3 tablespoons chopped fresh dill

1 pound salmon, cut into 4 slices
salt and white vinegar (see below)

To make the cucumber sauce: In a bowl, stir together the sour cream, Greek yogurt, sugar, salt and vinegar until well combined. Taste, and adjust as needed. Stir in the cucumber and dill, and set aside to chill while you prepare the salmon.

To prepare the salmon: Pour water into a very deep-walled saucepan, or wide-bottomed pot, to a depth of three inches. For every quart of water this requires, add 2 teaspoons coarse salt, and 3 tablespoons vinegar. Bring to a boil, then slip in the salmon, and adjust the heat so that it is just barely about to simmer. Cook at this level until done, meaning it has a bit of internal firmness, and is thinking about flaking but not quite there yet — the exact time will vary depending upon the thickness of your fish, but start checking before 5 minutes are up. Remove with a slotted spoon (no need to rinse off), let drain a moment, and serve with cucumber sauce.

Salad Niçoise

There's something about a warm, summery evening (even if that summery evening happens the first week of May) that calls out for Salad Niçoise. And lest you think I am making Baseless Sweeping Culinary Pronouncements, I present empirical proof: a few days ago I ran out to the grocery store to get some last-minute Salad Niçoise ingredients, and ran into a friend shopping for the exact same thing. There you have it. It's Salad Niçoise season.

As I've mentioned several times before, I'm fond of salads that push the definition of the genre. Why settle for lettuce and cucumber and a crumble of cheese? The world is your salad bar! Salad Niçoise is another entry into the composed salad genre, an assemblage of substantial cooked (potatoes, eggs), raw (lettuce, radishes) and blanched (asparagus) elements, presented together with some piquant additions (olives, anchovies). As none other than Julia Child poetically attested, "A bountiful arrangement in bowl or platter is so handsome to behold that I think it a cruel shame to toss everything together into a big mess." I heartily agree.

Most Salad Niçoise variations feature tuna, either seared and sliced or simply flaked from the can. I chickened out at the last minute from cracking open a friend's jar of home-canned tuna, due to my own botulism phobia, but the salad was hearty enough without it. As you can see, Salad Niçoise is quite forgiving. I blanched a handful of yay-they're-finally-in-season asparagus, but you can easily substitute green beans, and capers add a piquant note if you don't fancy anchovies. You can even slice up some not-so-French-but-oh-so-delicious buttery chunks of avocado, or scatter some punchy little tomatoes if they're in season. Because a Salad Niçoise, — like a warm, sunny evening — is going to be fairly lovely, no matter what you make of it.

Salad Niçoise

serves 2-3

3 good-sized waxy potatoes, or several handfuls small new potatoes
3 eggs
~12 spears asparagus, tough ends snapped off
several handfuls butter lettuce, washed and dried
handful olives
~6 anchovies
a few radishes, thinly sliced

Dressing:
1 minced shallot, or 1 clove garlic, pressed
1 tablespoon vinegar, preferably a mild one, like sherry
 juice of 1/2 lemon (optional — you can add another splash vinegar instead)
~3 tablespoons olive oil
hefty dollop mustard
pinch sugar
pinch salt
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh herbs — tarragon is especially nice

crusty bread and cheese, to round out the meal

Place the potatoes in a large saucepan, cover with salted water, and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat until it's just high enough to maintain a simmer, and cook until the potatoes are tender but not mushy (~10-20 minutes, depending upon the size of your potatoes). Remove the potatoes with a slotted spoon (leaving the water in the pot), and let cool slightly.

While the potatoes are cooking, hard-boil the eggs: Place in a small saucepan and cover with water. Bring to a boil over high heat, then cover with a lid and turn off the heat. Let sit in the hot water for 10 minutes, then drain and cover with cold water too cool off.

When the potatoes are done, bring the pot of water back to a boil, and add the asparagus. Let cook just a minute or two, until bright green, then remove, drain, and shock with cold water.

To make the dressing: place the shallot or garlic, vinegar, and lemon juice in a small jar with a tight-fitting lid (canning jars work wonderfully). Let sit for a minute or two to mellow, then add the remaining ingredients. Shake until emulsified, then taste and adjust as needed.

To assemble the salad: Cut the potatoes into thick slices (or just halve them if they're new potatoes), and peel and halve the eggs. Lay the lettuce down on a serving platter, then top with all of the elements, each given its own neat little section of the platter. Give the dressing another good shake, then pour over the salad (the warm potatoes will do an especially good job of drinking it in), and season with salt and pepper as needed. Serve, ideally on a warm summer evening, with some crusty bread and cheese.