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Peter Berley’s Leek Soup with Peas and Sauerkraut

January 21, 2010

I knew I could count on you, lovelies, for cheering me up and on, for sharing your wisdom on baking in faraway lands and for making me feel just a little less alone in my kitchen. Thank you! I've said it before and I'll say it again, and again, and again: I'm so happy you're here.

I'd like to repay you, if I may, with the kind of recipe that seems as if it'd be possibly the lamest, plainest thing you'd ever look at or eat, but that turns out, slyly, to be the kind of thing you find yourself thinking about at the strangest moments, like before lunchtime or perhaps even dinner, and far more often than you'd ever care to admit. It might even, possibly, for some of you, become the kind of thing you crave, even though it's nothing more than a soupy mixture of cheap vegetables and flavored water.

Oh, go on. Let me tell you more.

It comes from Peter Berley's Flexitarian Table, which has turned out to be one of my dark horse cookbooks, an unassuming little tome that I end up turning to again and again, staining pages and cracking spine. (Do you know what is deeply fantastic, today? My boxes arrived from the United States! Right now, as I type, all my earthly possessions are sitting meekly in their boxes in the room next door. This is more thrilling than I can fairly handle. I want to rip open the boxes, throw myself at my pots, my favorite dress, my books, oh, my books, my sharp knives, and my Kusmi tea, and murmur adoringly to them all. But first, patience! I am still apartment hunting. Eeep.)

I first made the soup last winter. It is the epitome of soothing warmth and nourishment. It's green and bright at a time when the winter gloom threatens to swallow Berlin up whole (though we had 20 minutes of sunshine today, in some kind of miraculous stunt, for the first time in 16 days, apparently a record even for this gray city). It requires nothing all that fresh, except for two leeks and maybe some mint, though I've made it with parsley to delicious results and could imagine this even without any herbs at all.

Basically, you sauté a bunch of sliced leeks in olive oil before cooking them in stock (Peter stipulates vegetable, I like chicken) for a few minutes. Then in go frozen peas, which cook in about 5 minutes, and a mess of fresh sauerkraut. Don't forget its juice, its deliciously sour juice. Three minutes later you have a pot full of hot, sweet, vegetal soup that is chewy and tangy and rather hard to stop eating.

This soup will not win any awards for comeliness. And I believe it works out to be worth pennies per serving. It's simple, peasant food at its very plainest. But it warms the belly and the heart, wakes up the mind with its sour zip, and is so easy to make you could find yourself doing it with one hand tied behind your back. I kind of love it.

And I hope you do, too. Who needs coffeecakes when you've got sauerkraut soup? Not me.

Leek Soup with Peas and Sauerkraut
Serves 4 to 6

2 tablespoons olive oil
2 large leeks, about 2 cups, cleaned and thinly sliced
1 tablespoon chopped mint or chopped parsley
4 cups vegetable or chicken stock
1 teaspoon salt, more to taste
1 pound frozen green peas
1 cup fresh sauerkraut (if there's something in your sauerkraut other than cabbage and salt, rinse it before adding it to the pot)

1. Add the oil to a large saucepan and heat it over medium heat. Add the leeks, mint, if using, and salt. Cook the leeks until tender, 5 to 8 minutes.

2. Add the stock. Simmer for a few minutes, then add the peas and cook until the peas are tender—just a couple of minutes. Add the sauerkraut and parsley and stir to combine. Taste for salt and adjust if necessary. Let the sauerkraut heat through, then turn off the heat and serve, drizzled with olive oil, if desired.
Buttermilk-Cinnamon Coffeecake

January 19, 2010

Readers, my mojo is off. I don't know how it happened, or how to get it back. But the mojo is askew. Possibly even temporarily missing in action. Is it the recipes I'm choosing? The German version of all the ingredients? The anticipation of the delivery of all my earthly possessions to my mother's apartment early Thursday morning and the fact that I still don't have a place of my own? I don't know, but it's bugging me. Deeply.

Spaghetti with tomato sauce I've got down. Salads, they are coming out of my ears! Cheese sandwiches, liverwurst toasts, I don't have any problems with either of those. Oh, and I've been doing some amazing things with rice lately. But newspaper recipes are shaping up to be my challenge of the week.

The universe seemed to be giving me a little gift when the editors at the Los Angeles Times threw open the doors onto a small sliver of their recipe vaults. Oooh, I clicked away, bookmarking a new collection of things to try. Georgian cheese bread! Calamari stew! A crazy-hideous Indian chicken in mango sauce! And a buttermilk coffeecake that just screamed to be made and brought to a Kaffeeklatsch I went to on Saturday afternoon.

(Well, they didn't call it that, no.)

I know from other Americans in Berlin that it's not an easy thing to simply make American baking recipes with German ingredients. The flour is different, the leaveners aren't exactly the same, and brown sugar, the squidgy, fudgy American kind, doesn't even exist here. Our light, fluffy cakes tend to result in somewhat leaden, dry specimens. Still, I thought, rather cockily, a simple, spiced buttermilk cake? I can do that.

Hrmph. Note to self: on next trip to the US, buy brown sugar. Also, some humility.

For this cake, you make a dryish dough that seems all wrong, then separate out some of it to be mixed with sliced almonds and more spices. This ends up a streusel topping of sorts. The rest of the dough is mixed with buttermilk and oil and egg, turning it into a buff-colored batter. That batter is poured into a buttered baking dish, then strewn with the almond streusel and baked until golden brown and fragrant and puffed, just as any good coffeecake should be.

Is there anything lovelier than a house filling with the scent of sweet baking? It's awfully reassuring, I find. Mixing together ingredients in a strange country, in a strange kitchen, baking them in a strange oven, then finding the fragrance just as it should be made me feel supremely capable at a moment in my life when I feel like most of what lies before me is out of my control. That was rather nice.

The cake baked up fine – from a flat little puddle into a nicely mounding cake, splintered and studded with almond slices and pockets of streusel. But it baked far faster than the recipe said (the conversion of Fahrenheit to gas marks is an inexact science and one I'm still trying to master as long as I'm without an oven thermometer), and once we tried to cut cooled pieces out of the pan, we realized the cake had fused rather maddeningly to the pan. I hate it when that happens.

Using granulated brown cane sugar instead of American brown sugar left the cake too dry and sweet and coarse-grained. It wasn't awful, especially when dolloped with a generous amount of freshly whipped cream to balance the sweetness (essential, this is, I can't stress it enough). And the men at the gathering were darling, eating great big pieces of it and murmuring approvingly. But I think they were just taking pity on me. I wouldn't make it again.

So here's my question. Or, rather, questions. Am I just being grumpy? Should I quit making American recipes with German ingredients? Should I be spending more time studying the different chemical compounds of German leaveners versus American ones? In my move from the US to Berlin, did I go from being a good cook to a mediocre one? Am I being a total drama queen? Should I give myself a break and just buy myself a piece of cake the next time I need it? Any thoughts you might have, especially from readers who live in Europe and regularly bake and cook American recipes, would be greatly appreciated.

Cinnamon-Buttermilk Coffeecake
Makes 8 to 12 servings

2 1/4 cups flour
1 cup brown sugar, packed
3/4 cup granulated sugar
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
3/4 cup corn oil
1 cup sliced almonds
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 egg
1 cup buttermilk

1. Mix flour, brown sugar, granulated sugar, 1 teaspoon cinnamon, salt and ginger. Blend in oil until smooth. Remove 3/4 cup mixture and combine with almonds and remaining 1 teaspoon cinnamon. Mix and set aside.

2. To remaining flour mixture, add baking powder, baking soda, egg and buttermilk. Blend until smooth. Pour into buttered 13×9-inch baking pan. Sprinkle reserved nut mixture evenly over surface of batter. Bake at 350 degrees 35 to 40 minutes. Place pan on wire rack to cool. Cut into squares to serve.
In The End, Haiti

January 15, 2010

Five days ago, I wrote this:

Today, in a fit of pique, I refused to put on pants. I've been wearing pants for a month straight, you see. Jeans, jeans and more jeans, sometimes alternating with a lone pair of cargo pants. And today I simply could not take any of them anymore. Wherefore my pretty skirts and tights? My New York City shoes, my dresses? I used to be so well-dressed, back in that other life I used to have. This morning, when I peered into my mother's closet and my pants stared out at me so sensibly, so responsibly, almost balefully from their perch, I just kind of wanted to pinch them where it hurts. Hard.

Instead, I closed the closet door and put on my favorite gray woolen tights, a nice denim pencil skirt (one of two skirts I dared take with me for these first few months) and my new pair of knee-high boots (happy new year to me!). Ooh, things were looking up already. I dabbed on makeup and put on my favorite earrings and felt almost womanly for the first time in a month.

Do you have a sense of where this is going? Because thusly clad (well, and wearing a jacket) I sashayed outside the house, got into my mother's car and, about 4 feet later, realized that the car was A) stuck on solid ice and B) had a flat tire. And there I was, defiantly under-dressed and freezing my…knuckles off. A kindly crew of garbage men and a good Samaritan took pity on me and helped with the car while I weakly shook my fist at the sky and at my vain self.

Universe, I salute your sense of humor. Also, I'm wearing pants again. You win.

I was going to tell you more, you know, about a Rachael Ray recipe I tried (and loved) a week before I left New York. There was a point to all that up there, is my point. But four days ago, I came down with a stomach flu and the thought of ever having eaten before or ever eating again became an impossibility. I will spend the rest of my life drinking fennel tea and eating Zwieback every other day, I thought solemnly as I lay in bed and contemplated my nausea. Too bad about that food blog, I thought. And all those recipes I never got to try.

Then, two days ago: Haiti. And though I may be able to eat breakfast again, the news from that country has struck me dumb. So all I've got for you today is this:

Partners in Health

International Rescue Committee

International Medical Corps

CARE

American Refugee Committee

Save the Children

Doctors Without Borders
Russ Parsons’s Cauliflower and Potato Gratin

January 4, 2010

Well. Let me tell you one thing. Berlin? Is cold. Very, very cold. There's this Arctic wind blowing down on us from the north, apparently, and it's not going to stop anytime soon. Did you know that Berlin is on the same latitude as Labrador? New York, in case you're wondering, is on the same latitude as Rome. That might help put the proximity of that Arctic wind in perspective for you. It is awfully, bone-chillingly close.

Then, the snow. The city has been blanketed in white since I arrived here almost three weeks ago. At first it was festive and clean! Now, I sort of want to kick all that snow in the teeth. I've been wearing the same waterproof, wool-lined hiking boots for weeks. Doesn't the weather know that a woman's happiness is bound up in her ability to alternate footwear at least once or twice a week? Or at least change out of the heavy duty socks purchased on one trip to the Rocky Mountains a few years ago.

Anyway, all of this complaining is actually to explain why on earth, after the absolute gluttony of the holidays, I made a cheese sauce-cloaked potato and cauliflower dish on New Year's Day. Delicate salads and gossamer soups, take your pretty little selves to warmer climes. Here in Berlin, I'm turning on the oven as often as I can. The more burners I can use, the better! And I need butterfat to help the cause.

Russ Parsons meant for this dish to be served as a side for a Christmas feast, but there was no such restraint in my kitchen. Between two mouths at dinner, one admittedly a little larger than the other, the whole thing was polished off in no time. Okay, fine, with a salad. And it was delicious. Honestly, I don't know that I'd ever serve this as a side dish – I need those usually to be simpler and plainer. But it is perfect as a vegetarian main course. Just right.

The Gruyère was restrained, the cauliflower practically sweet, the potatoes creamily yielding. Russ has you make a leek-studded, cheese-scented béchamel that would make a lovely blanket for any number of vegetables (endives! leeks! white asparagus!). It gets poured over and under a pile of boiled, cubed potatoes and cauliflower and then stuck in a hot oven for bubbling, crisping action. The gratin must be eaten straight out of the oven, never mind about your burned tongue. Hot, hot, hot, it does a wondrous job filling bellies and warming cold bodies. (Thank you, Russ!)

In other news, I have one small victory to report: I have a working cell phone! With a German number! It only took me three weeks, three missed delivery attempts, some minor computer hacking and a few chewed cuticles to get here. And it feels glorious. Like the first piece of my everyday life just shifted into place. Next up, an apartment of my own, pretty please.

I'm camping at my mother's apartment while I look for my own place. It's not half-bad, living rent-free, and in a gorgeous, art-filled, turn-of-the-century apartment with a lovely kitchen (the counter space! the dishwasher!) to boot. Cooking in her kitchen is a little weird – like walking in a pair of shoes that's a size too small or eating dinner at a table that's about 5 inches too high. You know what I mean? It's doable but feels a little off. Though the measuring cups and spoons that I brought with me from Queens are making me feel a little more settled.

Anyway, I'm still getting used to the light here, so please forgive the strange quality of the photos in my posts for now – they're all a little wonky. On the whole, though, I have to say, it is so nice to be here. Cold weather, weird lighting, longing for a space of my own, I can take it all. It's good to be home.

Cauliflower and Potato Gratin
Serves 6 to 8 as a side dish

1 (1 1/4-pound) head of cauliflower
1/2 pound small boiling potatoes
Salt
1 tablespoon vinegar
1/4 cup butter
1 leek, white part only, finely chopped (about 1/2 cup)
1/4 cup flour
1 1/2 cups milk
2 tablespoons crème fraiche or sour cream
3/4 cup grated Gruyère cheese, divided (about 1 1/2 ounces)
Freshly grated nutmeg
1/4 cup fresh bread crumbs

1. Heat the oven to 400 degrees. Cut the dried base and green leaves from the cauliflower and discard them. Separate the head into florets about the size of walnuts and chop the stem into similar size pieces. Cut the potatoes into similar-size pieces as well.

2. Bring a large pot of water to a boil over high head and salt liberally. Add 1 tablespoon of vinegar and the cauliflower and potatoes (the vinegar will help keep the cauliflower white). Cook until the cauliflower pieces are tender enough to be easily cut with a spoon, 10 to 15 minutes. Drain and set aside.

3. While the cauliflower is cooking, make a cheese sauce. In a medium, heavy-bottom saucepan, melt the butter over medium-low heat and stir in the leeks. Cook until they are soft, about 10 minutes. Add the flour and whisk to make a smooth paste. Add the milk a little at a time, cooking until it thickens. When all the milk has been added, reduce the heat and cook over medium-low heat for 5 to 10 minutes.

4. Stir in the crème fraîche, then one-half cup of the Gruyère, 1 teaspoon salt and a generous grating of nutmeg (a little less than one-quarter teaspoon). Whisk until smooth, then taste and add more salt or nutmeg if necessary.

5. Butter a 6-cup gratin dish and spread a thin layer of the sauce evenly over the bottom. Arrange the cooked cauliflower and potatoes in an even layer over the sauce. Pour the remaining sauce over the top and spread evenly with the back of a spoon. It should come about three-quarters of the way up the vegetables.

6. Scatter bread crumbs evenly over top and then scatter the remaining one-quarter cup Gruyère over that. Bake until the gratin is bubbling and the top is browned, 30 to 40 minutes. Serve immediately.
The Arrival

December 31, 2009

Well, hello there! Or should I say, Guten Tag! That's a little formal, though. How about just hallo? Hallo! I'm here! And I brought you two Pfannkuchen! It's New Year's Eve, after all, and that's what Germans eat on New Year's Eve. Jelly doughnuts, that is. Ooh, and these ones are the best. Handmade, filled with sticky plum jam or a tart berry jelly, and light as a feather. You can have both! Go on, then. I don't even mind.

Oh my goodness, I've missed you so much. Yes, you, dear reader. And you, and you, and you. I missed you! Oof, I cannot ever go that long without blogging again. But I have a good excuse, I do. Let me tell you, transatlantic moves? Not for the faint of heart. Not even for the sturdy of heart. Transatlantic moves are a kick in the pants. No, a kick in the head! I do not recommend them, no sirree bob, not unless you enjoy a little bit of existential torture.

In addition to being responsible for a million forms being signed and faxed and emailed and who-knows-what-else, you have to sell your furniture (well, most of it anyway), which can be a little gnarly if you're like me and attached to the pieces that you painstakingly bought over the course of many years and that seemed to fit just so into many apartments, then you have to watch two pleasant enough dudes come and pack up what remains of an entire life, let's face it, and you aren't even allowed to help because then the insurance wouldn't apply, and then after saying goodbye to your friends and your streets and your city and that life I just mentioned, you still have to arrive. You know? I mean, actually get off the plane, adjust to the new time zone and realize that you don't have a return ticket. Ahem.

So I guess that's where I've been. Adjusting, unpacking, looking for an apartment, dealing with the absolute hell that is understanding bureaucratic German, buying health insurance, opening bank accounts and trying to quell the heartache I feel for just a moment every single time Jay-Z and Alicia Keys start singing about New York on the radio, the jerks.

And now here we are, just a few hours, in Berlin anyway, from a new year. And before we leave this old one behind us, I just had to write, to check in and let you know that I'm still here and that I cannot wait to get back to work. For the one thing that remains constant in this incredible, wonderful upheaval is you and this space. And let me tell you, I could cry when I think about what joy and peace that gives me.

So, don't let me keep you too much for now. It's a big day, after all. Make sure you have enough Champagne or Prosecco chilling in your fridge and enough loved ones around you to squeeze tonight, and then at some point today or tomorrow, or a few days from now, whenever you have a chance, remember that there's a girl in Berlin who is very, very grateful indeed that you're in her life. Thank you. And Happy New Year!
Mary Ellen Rae’s Cardamom Pistachio Cookies

December 7, 2009

While others are feverishly making wax-paper wrapped caramels, soaking fruits for cake, stirring away lava-hot apple butter on the stove, or cooking glossy pots of fudge sauce to be jarred, beribboned, and gifted, I am up to my eyeballs in moving to-do lists for this final phase before I leave New York. Now is the time of administrative purgatory – endless hold times to change addresses, shut down bank accounts, and generally close up shop on the past nine years of a life here.

Let me tell you – I'd rather be making caramel.

Christmas baking and cooking have taken a major back seat. In fact, cooking in general has become rather elusive as of late. Yesterday I cooked together frozen spinach, a can of diced tomatoes and some frozen Rancho Gordo beans into a strange little stew of sorts, realizing as I ate that it was the first home-cooked meal I'd had in almost a week (and practically the first vegetables, too). But I'm not complaining. The reason I'm not at home cooking is that I'm out living this city, seeing friends as much as I possibly can, giving them far too many hugs and squeezing as much juice out of this apple as it will let me. It's delicious. The stove can wait.

But before I leave you to get back to packing and blowing my city big, wet kisses, I do have one little something to tell you about, something soft and crumbly, buttery and sweet, vaguely exotic and sparkling. A right little charmer, if I do say so myself.

What on earth am I doing baking Christmas cookies, you ask? Old habits die hard, I suppose. It can't be December if the oven hasn't been fired up at least once for cookies, after all, can it? And in any case, I'm participating in the gorgeous Lottie + Doof's 12 Days of Cookies, which was as fine an excuse as any to pull out a recipe I've been saving to try since 2003.

That recipe came from the Los Angeles Times and was for buttery spritz cookies, made using a cookie press. I used to have one of those things, a kind gift from birthdays past, but somewhere in my many moves the thing went missing. The recipe hung on tight, snug in its little folder, smug in the knowledge I'd make it, come cookie press or high water. The thing is, "buttery spritz cookie" is kind of misleading, makes you think I made something Danish-butter-cookie-like. When really what emerged from the oven was something different.

The truth is, I'm a little tired of the same old Christmas flavors, of cinnamon and hazelnuts, or chocolate and orange peel. There are moments when 2009 feels like the longest year of my life, and others when I realize last Christmas actually just happened last week. Last week! And people expect me to be in the mood for holiday cookies again? The nerve.

So when I saw that this cookie eschewed cinnamon and nutmeg, was austere and plain save for a gentle sprinkling of ground cardamom and a few green shards of pistachio, it became the only thing I wanted to bake. With a nice sparkle of salt to boot, this cookie is a belly-dancing rebuke to the standard brown gingerbread you might just be a little sick of. Between the cardamom and the pistachio, munching on these cookies made me feel like I was celebrating Advent in a souk somewhere, the scent of rosewater hanging heavily in the air, warm breezes blowing through a narrow window.

Instead of spritzing the dough through a cookie press, I rolled it into a log and chilled it until firm, then sliced it and topped the cookies with their sugary green décor. I made the mistake, though I hope you'll forgive me, of using regular sugar instead of the coarse decorating sugar. I just can't bear to buy anything else kitchen-wise, before the move. The thing is, you really do want that large-grained crunch on top. Regular sugar threatens to push these into saccharine territory. Also, I let them come to room temperature before baking, but I'm not sure why I did that. Don't bother, I'd say.

These cookies are delicate little things. Let them cool on the parchment-lined baking sheet before carefully removing them to a cooling rack. They shouldn't crumble too much, then, but these are definitely not the hardy types. They should be eaten, rather delicately, I'd say, alongside a cup of tea, rather than plunked lustily into the hot mug. Or packed gently between gossamer leaves of tissue paper in a box for presenting. They're an unexpected twist in a box of holiday cookies, an exotic little pop of flavor and crunch.

And with that, lovelies, I'm going to step away from the computer for a bit. I don't know if I'll post again before Berlin. I have a week left and an awful lot to do. I'll be updating my Twitter feed, if you want to follow along there, and my Flickr page, of course. I know you know that my heart is filled with the greatest jumble of emotions, exhilaration and sadness taking turns setting up shop. I think right now I'm firmly entrenched in I-can't-believe-this-is-happening territory, eyes wide and happy, eyes filled with tears.

This life, man. Who knew?

Cardamom Pistachio Cookies
Makes about five dozen 1.5 – 2-inch cookies

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, chilled
1/2 cup superfine sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 egg yolks
2 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cardamom seeds, crushed using a mortar and pestle
1/4 cup sparkling decorative sugar
1/4 cup chopped pistachio nuts

1. Heat the oven to 375 degrees. Using an electric mixer, cream the butter until smooth. Add the sugar and beat for one minute. Add the vanilla extract and egg yolks and beat an additional minute.

2. Sift together the flour and salt. Spoon the flour mixture into the butter mixture and add the cardamom. Beat on low speed, then increase to medium and mix until the batter is combined.

3. Spoon the dough into a cookie press and press out onto ungreased baking sheets. Or roll the dough into a log, wrap in parchment paper and chill for two hours before slicing into rounds and arranging evenly onto the cookie sheets. In a small bowl, combine the sparkling sugar and the pistachio nuts, then sprinkle some on each cookie.

4. Bake just until the edges of the cookies start to turn a pale golden color, about 8 to 10 minutes. Let the cookies cool on the baking sheet, then remove carefully to a wire rack. The cookies will firm up as they cool. When they are completely cool, store in an airtight container. They may be kept frozen up to two months.
Camino’s Egg Baked in Cream

December 2, 2009

Can a dinner be called adorable? If, say, it consists of one delicate little egg sitting sweetly atop a bed of herbed, tender leeks, bathed in a fillip of cream and gently dusted with salt and pepper, then I would say yes. Besides, anything served in a nice, white ramekin is just so cute. Did I just lose all my male readers with that? I'm sorry, don't leave. You'll want to eat this, too, I promise. Besides, the ramekin was my idea. If you have a cazuela, or other ceramic dish that's a little bigger than a twee little ramekin, you can turn this into a two-or-three egg meal in a flash.

The recipe comes from Camino in Oakland and is just right for those solo dinners at home, though it's also easily multiplied so that everyone at your table can have their own little ramekin. In fact, I recommend that no matter how many people you're cooking for, you make an extra pile of the herbed leeks. (1/4 cup of leeks just feels…unnecessarily fussy.) What do you do with extra cooked leeks? Oh ho ho. Do you have an hour? Stir them into pasta or leftover rice. Use them as sandwich filling or to give scrambled eggs an edge. Mixed with boiled potatoes and milk and puréed, then thinned as desired, you can have anything from leek mashed potatoes to shortcut potage Parmentier (not to mention vichyssoise). They keep well in the fridge for a bit and deepen their flavor as the hours go by and seem to be one of the most useful vegetables ever.

I love useful vegetables.

Anyway, that's about the hardest part of the recipe, cleaning the leeks, that is. I cooked them longer than the recipe called for, about ten minutes, because I like stewy leeks that grow sweeter with each passing minute. Cooking the leeks for just two minutes gives them a bit more bite. Do as you like best. I piled a small amount of the leeks into a ramekin, cracked an egg over the top, poured a few spoonfuls of half-and-half on top and did some artful pepper-cracking. After exactly 12 minutes in a hot oven, I pulled out a savory-sweet baked egg, cream bubbling at the edge, white set just so, and yolk still gorgeously runny.

Ooh, runny yolks. The best part, wouldn't you say?

Armed with a heel of crusty bread, I polished off my adorable dinner in minutes. Eyeing the remaining leeks in the pan, and the oven I'd serendipitously left on, it only took me a few seconds to decide to make a second helping.

Adorable, schmadorable. These are good.

Egg Baked in Cream
Serves 1 with leftover leeks for many uses

1 1/2 tablespoons butter
4 leeks, sliced, light green and white parts only
Salt
2 sprigs thyme, leaves roughly chopped
2 sprigs parsley, leaves roughly chopped
1 large farm-fresh egg
About 2 tablespoons half-and-half
Coarsely ground black pepper
Grilled or toasted bread slices

1. Set a rack in the middle of the oven and preheat to 400 degrees. In a small sauté pan, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the leeks, a splash of water and a pinch of salt and cook until the leeks are tender, about 2 minutes. Add the herbs and transfer to a 6-inch cazuela, cocotte or other ceramic dish, covering the bottom with the butter, leeks and herbs.

2. Crack the egg into the middle of the dish. Add enough half-and-half to barely cover the white. Sprinkle with salt and coarsely ground pepper. Cook until the white is set, 8 to 12 minutes. Serve with grilled or toasted bread.
Mark Bittman’s Bok Choy with Shiitakes and Oyster Sauce

November 25, 2009

The clock is ticking. In less than three weeks, I'll be on my way to the airport with a one-way ticket in my bag and my earthly possessions on the slow boat to China (well, or Hamburg, to be more accurate). I've gone from having a wobbly lip on every blessed New York sidewalk to becoming foot-tappingly impatient. I'm ready to say goodbye, I want to start writing, I need to do this thing, you know?

But patience is a virtue, toots. That's what I keep telling myself, when the butterflies in my stomach start whirling and I think of everything over there waiting for me, everyone over there waiting for me. And besides, there are still a few things I need to do while I'm here. I need to go to Kitchen Arts & Letters, though I am prohibited by cosmic law to buy anything, anything at all, while there (that international shipping bill isn't getting any smaller, is what I'm trying to say). I need to stroll in Central Park while drinking a hot chocolate with a big, puffy, homemade marshmallow melting oozily into it. I need to go to the Museum of Natural History one last time for that Silk Road exhibit. And I need to eat some Chinese food.

When I left Berlin, in 1995, there was one passable restaurant that we went to every once in a blue moon when the urge for Chinese food got rather overwhelming and there was no where else to turn. Apparently, things have gotten a little better there now – I've heard of a Sichuanese hole-in-the-wall and a dumpling place recommended by a friend's friend from Beijing – but good Chinese food, as ubiquitous as it is here, is still somewhat of a rarity.

Thrillingly, though, as long as I can find a grocery store selling bok choy, shiitakes and good-quality oyster sauce, I should be in pretty good shape. The Minimalist's recipe was a big hit in my kitchen on Sunday night: quick, delicious and fresh, and it practically tasted like take-out! I mean this as high praise, mind you. High, high praise indeed.

And with that, lovely people, I leave you to your brining, your salting, your traveling, and your feast-preparing. This year, I'm staying put for a real New York City Thanksgiving. My loved ones are coming to me and we are going out on the town, to a late lunch at Back Forty book-ended by long walks all around this beautiful town and pie with friends. I am thrilled. And full of excitement for my own Thanksgiving next year, a German-American feast that I cannot wait to plan. Until then, I'm giving thanks every day.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Bok Choy with Shiitakes and Oyster Sauce
Serves 4

1/4 cup dried shiitake mushrooms
1 1/2 pounds bok choy, trimmed
1/4 cup peanut oil
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 cup fresh shiitake mushrooms, cleaned, trimmed and sliced
1/2 to 3/4 cup commercial oyster sauce

1. Soak dried shiitakes in one cup of very hot water until tender, about 15 minutes. Drain, reserving liquid. Trim mushrooms and chop. Separate leaves and stems of bok choy; cut stems into 2-inch lengths and slice leaves into ribbons.

2. Heat 2 tablespoons oil in a wok or large skillet over high heat. When oil is hot, add bok choy stems, garlic if you are using it, reconstituted mushrooms, and about 1/4 cup reserved mushroom water. Cook, stirring frequently, until stems are crisp-tender, about 4 minutes.

3. Meanwhile, in a small skillet heat remaining 2 tablespoons oil; sauté fresh shiitake mushrooms over medium-high heat. Continue cooking until they begin to brown and crisp on edges.

4. Into the large skillet or wok, add bok choy leaves and oyster sauce and toss vegetables gently to combine; continue cooking until greens wilt, about 2 more minutes. Serve immediately, topped with crisp mushrooms.
Julia Moskin’s Caramelized Corn with Fresh Mint

November 17, 2009

I have started and stopped this entry about six times. Trying to find some lyrical way to get going. But you know what? Though lyrical can be all fine and good, sometimes, when you are simply itching to get something out just as loud and fast as you can, lyrical can be a real impediment to communication, a real thorn in the side of straight talk.

What on earth am I trying to say, you wonder?

What I'm trying to say is this:

OMG put down what you're doing this very instant NOW and get yourself to the store to buy a packet of frozen corn and a few sprigs of fresh mint and then get yourself home FAST FAST FAST cancel plans if you must I don't care for Pete's sake and get to work on this recipe which will take you all of ten minutes "active time" to make and will be the most wonderful ten-minute, four-ingredient recipe you've made all YEAR for crying out loud, maybe EVER, and though I used to think corn was something to be enjoyed solely in the few fleeting summer months each year when corn is found in green markets and on cobs, I shall now be very happily revising my list of acceptable frozen foods to be two in length (peas being number one) and cannot WAIT WAIT WAIT to make this dish over and over and over again and add it to the hall of fame, the list for lamination, it is that good oh yes it is YES IT IS GO!

Julia Moskin included the recipe in her Thanksgiving side dish story, but frankly, this is the kind of thing I will be making as part of a simply, easy, weeknight meal for eternity, or as long as I am ambulant and master of my own kitchen. Julia says this only works with frozen petite white corn, but my Key Foods had nothing but plain old yellow corn, which was – once thawed, then sautéed in unsalted butter until popping and caramelized and toasty and aromatic – still as delicious as could be. The chopped mint and the good hit of salt are essential, by the way. Obviously.

I rubbed two chicken legs with salt and red pepper flakes and sweet paprika and za'atar and mashed, minced garlic and olive oil, let them sit for a bit in a dish, then roasted them at high heat, meaning 500 smacking degrees Fahrenheit, for about half an hour. Juicy, crispy-skinned, and delicious, they were a nice thing to serve with that corn.

But that corn. That corn! It was the star, the bright and shining thing on my plate that actually made me smile as I ate, because it has been far too long since something as wonderful, as cheap and quick and as special as this unassuming little side dish came along, and in one fell swoop that corn made me fall in love – in love! with frozen corn! – and that, my friends, is all I have been trying to say.

Caramelized Corn with Fresh Mint
Serves 2

1 10-ounce package frozen premium corn
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
2 tablespoons minced fresh mint
Salt

1. Defrost the corn in a colander, tossing occasionally, for about 30 minutes.

2. In a wide skillet, melt the butter over high heat. Add the corn and cook, stirring often, until golden and browned (kernels may begin to pop), about 10 minutes. Stir in the mint and sprinkle with salt. Transfer to a serving bowl and serve while hot.
My New York Restaurant List

November 14, 2009

I was thinking the other day that with my days in New York drawing to a close (my heart literally just constricted as I typed that, like, spasmed) it might be nice to draw up a list of my very favorite places to eat, from the simple to the sublime, in this gem of a city. For me to remember. For those planning a trip to New York to mull over and crib. For you who live here a chance to compare with your own favorites. And then we can duke it out in the comments, all friendly-like. Doesn't that sound like fun?

I don't do it often here, but I am a list maker, a list lover. They make me feel all quiet and calm. And right now, while I'm switching madly back and forth between elation and a bit of a quivering lower lip, it feels like a good idea to order my thoughts. It's tough to narrow it down, of course, but these are the things at the very top of my list:

Sushi Yasuda – for the very best sushi I've ever had, but more than that, one of the best dining experiences I've ever had, seated at the bar for omakase, where the sushi chef behind the bar serves you piece after piece of incredible sushi, painted delicately with soy sauce, plated just so. It's expensive and special – a once-a-year kind of place, a celebration-worthy splurge.

Café Sabarsky – for the most refined cafe experience you'll find in New York in my very favorite New York City museum, Neue Galerie. Of course, this place has a special place in my heart because it always reminded me of Berlin, with its bent-wood chairs and its serious waiters. But the food is quietly spectacular, too. Delicate salads drizzled with vibrantly green pumpkin seed oil and flaky strudel with real whipped cream.

Back Forty – for simple summer meals in the back yard. Notice that I didn't write back garden. Because the space behind this Alphabet City restaurant almost feels like a yard, it's that generous. And with twinkling lights and a sky still tinged with light from the day, it can feel magical back there. The restaurant is simple and unpretentious and the food is just plain good. Not to mention the drinks. I've taken lots of international friends here, from English teachers who live in Beijing to French-Yugoslav accessory designers for Gucci, and they've all been impressed with its low-key, delicious vibe.

Indus Express – an Indian buffet on a glamourless Midtown West block. It looks like nothing special from the outside, but don't be deterred. In the hot chafing dishes you'll find quality Indian cooking that ranges widely from several different chicken and lamb dishes in gorgeously spiced sauces to a large assortment of delicious vegetable dishes, salads, chutneys and raitas. There's Indian beer, too, and best of all, once you've sat down with your filled metal plate (the first of many rounds, if you've got a cooperative belly), someone comes and brings you freshly baked naan, still hot from the oven, buttery and chewy and delicious.

Mary's Fish Camp – I like to come here on the weekends and sit at the bar alone for salad or maybe a sandwich. It's tiny and cramped, but from the bar you can watch the cooks in the kitchen and you can get in and out of the restaurant in a relatively humane amount of time. They used to have these roasted tomatoes in their salads which I loved, but the menu has changed, as it should, I suppose, and now I can't wait to try their Spicy Fried Sardine Sandwich with Pickled Vegetables.

Num Pang – I know, the banh mi craze is a little out-of-control. But where there's smoke there's fire: those crispy, crusty, multi-layered sandwiches are good. If you've not yet tried the Cambodian version of banh mi, head over to 12th and University and get yourself the num pang with veal meatballs. You will never look at a meatball sub sideways again. Spicy, drippy, crunchy, tart, and deeply, deeply delectable, it's one of the best sandwiches in the city. (Afterwards, walk across the street to Stand and order the homemade ginger ale for dessert.)

Safran – Do any of you remember the late, great Monsoon on the Upper West Side? When it closed, I thought I'd never eat good Vietnamese food again. The chef, Laura Lam, opened up her next place on 7th Avenue and 16th Street. Safran really shines at lunchtime, when there's a special menu that's not available in the evening (a fussier, more fusion-y menu takes over then). The one thing here I order over and over again is the traditional beef pho. The broth is incredible – fragrant with so many spices, the noodles chewy and perfect, the meat just as thin as can be, cooked delicately in the hot broth, and the herbs and sauces on the side bright and fresh. Pho perfection.

City Bakery – For the only breakfast pastries worth buying, especially the baker's muffin and the whole-wheat croissant. For the groaning lunch salad buffet. For inspiration with roasted vegetables, winter, spring, summer, and fall. For the addictive soups and the inside-out chocolate cookies. For the homemade marshmallows melting slowly into hot chocolate so think I can't even handle it (can you?). For, most importantly, the pretzel croissant. The hype is real, folks.

Chikalicious – I thought this was a gimmick if I ever saw one. But then I actually ate at Chikalicious, a dessert restaurant, and had my mind blown, wholly and completely. This is the kind of inventive, creative, totally original place I think most dessert chefs dream of when they decide to open their own place. The fromage blanc "cheese cake" still resonates, years later, as one of the most special and delicious things I've ever eaten. Interesting flavors, gorgeous plating, Chikalicious is inspired.

Vanessa's Dumplings – For cheap, hot, filling pork-and-chive dumplings doused in nose-wrinkling vinegar, you can't do better than this slightly expanded hole-in-the-wall staffed by efficient ladies who take orders and fry dumplings like masters. The night I gave my notice at work, I came here for dinner and almost cried because while watching the ladies work and the customers eat and the passers-by, well, pass by, I was just overcome with how totally awesome New York is. Yes, it's that kind of place.

Prune – In those awful, awful weeks after 9/11, my father drove down from Boston one weekend to spend the day with me. We went on one of our marathon walks around the city and ended up at Prune at five in the afternoon. We sat down for a strange, delicious dinner of fried chicken livers and salads and fish. I've eaten there many times since, but I'll never forget that combination of eating good food while still being shocked and scared to my core. It's a bittersweet memory, but I love Prune nonetheless. Gabrielle Hamilton's uncompromising taste and her wit are something special, plus she's the person who taught me to eat sardines on Triscuits with mustard, alone the reason to hold this restaurant high among my favorites.

Co. – Jim Lahey, of No-Knead Bread fame, opened his pizzeria in Chelsea and it's been packed ever since. I love the design of this place, and I love the Kelso beer, and I love some of the pizzas (the Boscaiola and the Cauliflower are two favorites). It's a wonderful place to eat at with friends, always warm and bustling and friendly.

Flushing's Chinatown – Take the 7 train out to Flushing's main street, then cobble together a walking meal from the various subterranean food malls and outdoor stands. My favorite menu would begin with slippery homemade rice crêpes with shrimp and a good squeeze of vinegar from Corner 28 at 42-08 Main Street, followed with a clutch of spicy, tender, cumin-dusted lamb skewers from the Xinjiang barbecue cart on 41st Avenue near Kissena Blvd, and finished with a plastic bowl of slippery, numbing dan dan noodles downstairs in the Golden Mall at the Chengdu Tianfu Small Dishes stall, 41-28 Main Street. (Use the map I linked to. You'll need it.)

Frankie's Spuntino – the one on the Lower East Side. The menu's a whole lot bigger than it was when I first fell in love with this place, but I don't let it distract me. I come here for a nice bowl of tender meatballs in sauce, very good bread, and those wine-stewed prunes with mascarpone. This sliver of a restaurant feels totally effortless and is adorably charming and pretty, plus you can walk around the Lower East Side afterwards to digest and feel all with-it. It's got a nice dose of romance, too.

Babbo, Blaue Gans, Peasant, Di Fara's, The Modern, Taam Tov, Sunset Park's Chinatown, the Red Hook ball fields, you're all going to have to wait until I come back. Please wait!

Okay, now it's your turn, readers, New York lovers, hungry ones. Go!

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