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  • Sweet Savory Cafe’s Bagels

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    Things that have made me happy in the past few days:

    1. Molly Stevens’ book about braising, which I’d requested from the library, oh, six months ago, was finally released to me this week. (Granted, in June hot June, so the idea of braising seems entirely perverted at this moment, but still! I can ogle the book and that’s enough.)

    2. My CSA started deliveries again, so I now have bok choy, mizuna (help, readers, help!) and summer savory sitting in my fridge. Red sails lettuce was my dinner last night. Do you belong to a CSA yet? Get cracking! (Last night I heard talk of some mythical-sounding CSA not far from here that not only delivers vegetables, but fruit and yogurt and honey, too! I’m on the case.)

    3. I made bagels.

    What?

    Yes! You heard that correctly! You might ask yourself what on earth could possess a self-respecting New Yorker like myself to make her own bagels, when she has plenty of worthy, nay, superior specimens all around her. And I would answer, this blog, that’s what. I mean, what kind of question is that, anyway?

    Susan LaTempa     discovered these unboiled bagels in California while I was away, making me as intrigued as she was. After all, I’ve always wanted to make my own bagels, but the aforementioned ubiquity of good ones here and the fact that making your own involves boiling and baking and malt syrup and god knows what else just discouraged me in the end.

    But not this time.

    I brought home a sack of Gold Medal’s new Harvest King flour (endorsed on the back by none other than Rose Levy Beranbaum), pulled my instant yeast out of the fridge (I’ll be honest, since No-Knead, it’s been sitting rather dormant there), stuck the dough blade into my food processor, and got to work.

    My first observation? This recipe makes what seems like an enormous amount of dough. If you’ve got a stand mixer, bless your heart, then use it. My Robot Coupe is a hardy fellow and managed with the dough, but I’ll admit we had a few dicey moments. With stalled motors and funny smells and other frightening stuff.

    My second observation? Making bagels is easy, folks. Really. You bang the dough together in a matter of minutes, let it rise (and, oh, does it rise. I love instant yeast), punch it down (best part of the process, really) and form it into bagels. That’s it! I picked up my farm loot and caught up on Big Love in the process.

    And as for the results, I was pleasantly surprised. The bagels have an appealing chew to them, a nice crunchy bottom and a good crumb. They don’t have the heft of traditional boiled bagels and lack that toasty flavor that only malt can supply, but they are pretty delicious for what they are. Plus, they’ll impress the heck out of most people you’ll serve them to. Spread with cream cheese or a little butter, they might even comfort a homesick New Yorker, stuck in foreign lands.

    I’ll be spreading mine with my mother’s sour cherry jam – my own Italian-American version of breakfast this morning.

    (Oh, and don’t forget the poppy or sesame seeds – sprinkle them on after the egg wash. I wish I had.)

    Bagels
    Makes 12 bagels

    6 tablespoons sugar
    1 1/2 teaspoons vegetable oil
    2 1/4 pounds (between 7 1/2 and 9 cups) bread flour, divided, plus additional if needed to work with dough
    2 1/4 teaspoons instant yeast
    1 teaspoon salt
    1 egg

    1. In as stand mixer fitted with
    the dough hook attachment, combine 3 cups water with the sugar,
    vegetable oil and 3 cups of the flour. Mix it at low speed until
    combined.

    2. Add the yeast and another 3 cups flour and continue to knead the dough at low speed until all of the flour has been incorporated.

    3. Add the salt and
    the remaining flour. Knead the dough at medium speed until it’s soft
    and smooth and it comes away from the sides of the bowl. If the dough
    is sticky add 1 tablespoon of flour at a time, until smooth and no
    longer sticky.

    4. Roll the dough into a ball.
    Place the dough in a lightly greased bowl, cover with a lightweight
    cloth or loosely with plastic wrap. Leave the dough for about 30
    minutes to 1 hour, depending on room temperature, until it doubles in
    volume.

    5. Punch down the dough. On a lightly
    floured surface, divide the dough into 12 even balls. (If dough is
    reverting when shaping, let it rest for a minute and start the process
    again.) To keep the dough from drying out, place a damp towel on top.

    6. Roll each ball to about 15 inches in length. Press and roll the ends together to form a bagel.

    7. Heat the oven to
    425 degrees. Place 4 to 6 bagels on a parchment-lined cookie sheet,
    leaving 1 to 1 1/2 inches between each bagel as they will spread. Cover
    the bagels with a cloth. Allow them to grow by half again in size,
    about 15 minutes. They should be light and fluffy. Widen the holes in
    the bagels to 1 1/2 inches each, as they will shrink while baking.

    8. In a small bowl, beat the eggs, then brush bagels with the egg wash. Bake until golden, about 20 to 22 minutes.

  • Abuela Margarita’s Flan

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    It's always so difficult, isn't it? To find yourself on the wrong end of a holiday, trying desperately to remember the sight and texture of everything that had been in front of you just hours before: the glint of sun on the acacia leaves, the tiny lizard shimmying along the terracotta patio, the sweet-smelling breeze brushing up against your skin, salty from a morning at the beach.

    On the drive to the train station yesterday morning, I told myself sternly to memorize every bump in the road, every burnished field we passed, every not-yet-entirely-unfurled sunflower head, every quiet farm stand selling peaches, every putt-putting motorcycle, every touch from my mother's hand. Like pearls on a broken string, I can feel the sensation of these things falling away in little pops. It's funny what distance does – makes everything you had so clearly in front of you turn blurry. Sharp edges turn soft, warmth fades to cool, the storm that is love and grief at taking leave becomes a gentle lump somewhere in your chest that you try your best to ignore.

    I sat in my bed this morning, the window pulled open and New York City trucks rattling the frame as they drove by. Suddenly, a whiff of linden blossoms blew in, the very smell that had been hanging in the air all week in Italy. There I sat, very much in one place, when the scent of another came in. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I could see my grandfather sitting on the top stoop of his house in his slippers, my mother with the garden hose by the roses, my aunt waving from the gate, the tree tops rippling in the wind. Then I breathed out and they were gone.

    Sometimes, I wonder at my life. Is this how it will always be? Being in one place and wanting another, not knowing how to accept that a body cannot be divided and sent in diverging directions. Here and there, near and far. I think I am lucky to have both.

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    Lucky, too, to have spent a week eating milky-sweet ricotta, firm cherries from the orchard, stewy roast peppers with four generations of my family at the dinner table, boozy pistachio gelato in Urbino's main piazza before a warm afternoon thunderstorm, flaky crescia sfogliata filled with stewed chard after a few diligent hours in the Ducal palace, drippy, sun-warmed melons on the back patio.

    And with Ben's brother-in-law joining my aunt in the kitchen at times, we had paella and flan as well. Lucky us, indeed. One night, after a Marchigianian feast of homemade tagliatelle with pigeon ragu, tomatoes stuffed with wild fennel-scented bread crumbs, and rosemary-roasted rabbit, Francisco brought out his abuela Margarita's flan, eggy and cool and spiced just so with cinnamon and lemon. We ate slices of it, sauced with gently bitter caramel, under the starry night sky.

    Though all good things, maddeningly, must come to an end, at least the clothes in our suitcase still smell of the herbs my mother cut from my grandfather's garden, a jar of our neighbor's acacia honey fills my kitchen with sunshine, 903 photographs from the last ten days clog my computer and I've got a few prized recipes to recreate in my own kitchen. Best of all, when I close my eyes, I can still see red poppies lining the road and feel my mother hug me tightly. That'll have to do until next time. Which can't come soon enough. 

    Flan
    Serves 10-12

    200 grams of granulated sugar, plus 5 tablespoons
    1/2 liter of milk (whole is preferred, but 1% works)
    1 organic lemon
    1 cinnamon stick
    4 eggs

    1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Sprinkle 5 tablespoons of sugar at the bottom of a cake pan, and add a judicious squeeze of lemon juice. Place the pan over medium heat and swirl the pan occasionally, until the sugar melts and then caramelizes. Let the sugar turn a deep brown, then turn off the heat. Don't let the sugar burn, but do let it color substantially. Set aside

    2. Heat the milk in a heavy saucepan with a 1-inch piece of lemon peel and the cinnamon stick. When the milk comes to a boil, turn off the heat and let the milk sit for a few minutes. While the milk is steeping, whisk together the eggs and the remaining sugar until the mixture is frothy and pale.

    3. Discard the lemon peel and cinnamon stick and very slowly pour a thin stream of hot milk into the beaten egg mixture, taking care not to let the eggs curdle. When the milk has been entirely incorporated into the eggs, pour the custard through a strainer into the caramel-lined pan. Place the pan carefully on a rimmed cookie sheet. Pour water into the cookie sheet until it reaches halfway up the sides of the cake pan.

    4. Put the pan in the hot oven and bake for an hour, or until the top of the custard is burnished and the custard has set. (A cake tester inserted into the custard should come out clean.) Carefully remove the cake pan from the cookie sheet and let it cool on a rack. When the custard has cooled, store the pan in the fridge. Before serving, place a large plate over the cake pan, then flip the pan so that the caramel is on top of the custard. Cut into wedges and serve.

  • All My Bags Are Packed, I’m Ready To Go

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    Well. So. Hmm.

    I was going to tell you all about a peppery pineapple chutney that Florence Fabricant wrote about a few years ago that I made earlier this week as an homage to the deliciously fresh pineapple salsas we ate in Bermuda, but it turns out that’ll have to wait.

    I’ve got a plane to catch!

    Ben’s sister is getting married in Mataelpino this weekend and after we sing and dance at her wedding, we’re off to spend a week with my family. A week seems pitifully short. I don’t exactly know just how I’ll get back on that airplane at the end of the week, but what’s the point of thinking about that now? I’ve got to shine my dancing shoes, prepare to eat my weight in sun-ripened tomatoes, dream about naps on the beach, and look forward to holding my family so tight that my arms hurt.

    (Of course, this is the week that I want to cook every single thing published in the Dining section. I mean, tuna meatballs? Seriously, even with all the good stuff awaiting me, I am dying to make those now. If I was the kind of person who had time on her hands, I would’ve made those last night and thus had a delightful little meal to eat on the airplane tonight instead of the abomination I’m sure we’ll be served. But, you know, if I was the kind of person with time on her hands, I would also be posting more than once a week at this point, but I think I’ve beaten that horse to death lately, so here’s me letting that go. I Am Letting It Go.)

    (Though after reading the mango article over here, I suppose I should be grateful that it was published just as I’m leaving town, because now the urge to buy a case of Indian mangoes despite their exorbitant price tag is almost as strong as the urge to see my mother again. Well, I exaggerate a bit. Not much, though.)

  • Rose Gray’s and Ruth Rogers’s Roasted Rhubarb

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    Sometimes, the best recipes are really more instructions rather than recipes – instructions that manage to entirely change the way you think about food. Like when you learn that sprinkling flaky salt on a sliced tomato wedge will transform the taste of the tomato in your mouth. Or that a drizzle of good olive oil over a bowl of pureed soup will elevate it into something special. Or that a good stewing will give even the blandest supermarket apricot the tangy, warm flavor that a freshly picked one has.

    These revelations may not be earth-shattering, but they change the way we nourish ourselves, the way we approach the humble stuff in our crispers and pantries. They're the things that make a good cook great.

    Where and how do we learn these little trucs? Sometimes it's by accident or through experimentation. Often, I find that simple ideas about how to make food taste better crop up in the most unexpected of places. Would you believe that I learned how to poke holes into a leg of lamb for slivers of raw garlic in a book I read one summer when I was thirteen?

    Last week I bought my first rhubarb of the summer, planning to stew it with sugar on the stove top as I always do, turning it into a soft, sweet, puckery mess of greenish strands to be stirred into yogurt and eaten with a spoon. But then I remembered Amanda Hesser's recent article on rhurbarb and a recipe she'd excerpted from Ruth Rogers's and Rose Gray's book, Italian Two Easy. Now, some people find their cookbooks too simplistic, too easy. To me, those two ladies have just understood that good, humble food is about sourcing great ingredients and using the lightest touch necessary.

    But then again, my kitchen motto seems to be "The Easier, the Better". So they're preaching to the choir here.

    In their recipe, lengths of rhubarb roast briefly in a vanilla-bean-infused broth of orange juice and Demerara sugar. I had to improvise, with neither vanilla beans nor oranges in the house. I cut up my rhubarb, spread the lengths out in a glass baking dish, zested half a lemon over the rhubarb, squeezed in the juice, sprinkled a bit more sugar than called for to counterbalance the sour lemon and dribbled in some vanilla extract. I tossed the whole lot around, then slid the pan into the preheated oven.

    After 25 minutes, I pulled out the pan. The rhubarb was meltingly tender and bathed in a delicious vanilla-scented sauce. It was smart to have over-compensated with the sugar as the lemon had really punched up the already sour rhubarb. I ate a bowl, still warm, plain. And then, later, spooned the rhubarb lengths and the syrup into some yogurt. For a dinner party, I'd transform this into a classic English fool by gently stirring the rhubarb into some lightly sweetened whipped cream. You could even pile the fruit onto a meringue base topped with whipped cream for a twist on the classic berry pavlova.

    But all these delicious possibilities aside, what really made me giddy was the fact that I'd finally stumbled on a way of cooking rhubarb that didn't reduce it to the usual muddy puddle of cellulose. Instead, the lengths kept their rosy integrity intact and were as pretty to the eye as they were to my palate. This trick is going into my kitchen arsenal. I don't know that I'll ever cook rhubarb any other way again.

    So, tell me, dear readers: what are the simple kitchen tips and tricks you've learned over the years and how did you learn them? What has become so much a part of your cooking repertoire that you can't imagine living without it?

    Roasted Rhubarb
    Serves 4

    14 ounces rhubarb
    1 blood or navel orange (or 1 lemon)
    2 vanilla beans or 1 teaspoon of pure vanilla extract (or more to taste)
    3 tablespoons Demerara sugar (more if you're using the lemon)
    2/3 cup creme fraiche (optional)

    1. Preheat the oven to 300 degrees. Cut the rhubarb into 2-to-2 1/2-inch pieces and place in a medium bowl. Finely grate the zest of half the orange over the rhubarb and then squeeze the juice of the whole orange into the bowl. Split the vanilla beans and scrape out the seeds and place both in the bowl. Add the sugar and stir to combine.

    2. Pour the rhubarb into a baking dish and arrange the pieces so that they lie flat. Bake for 15 to 20 minutes. Remove the vanilla pods. Serve with creme fraiche. 

  • Marian Burros’s Farro Salad with Tomatoes and Corn

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    There's nothing quite like escaping to a peaceful island that's bursting with colorful blooms, edged with turquoise coves and populated by a night-time chorus of frogs that sing as cheerfully as birds do. Bermuda was glorious and entirely different from what I expected. Mostly unspoiled and cooled by the ocean air, it was a dreamy place for a wedding.

    And so we saw Betsy – my first roommate in New York and the woman who introduced me to late-night fries at Big Nick's on the Upper West Side, joined me for weekly French Kiss dates on the couch, left used tea bags in the sink on a daily basis, held my hand and dried my tears through the worst break-up of my life, cleaned the apartment when it was her turn whilst listening to Les contes d'Hoffman, tirelessly counseled me into better jobs and better relationships, and was one of the best friends I could have ever dreamed of – marry her Scottish sweetheart.

    (Funny how those tea bags used to drive me batty. Now that Betsy lives in London, I kind of miss their reliable appearance in my sink.)

    Our main source of calories this weekend were far too many rum swizzles and Dark 'n' Stormies, with a few French fries, some conch fritters and wedding cake thrown in for ballast. Oh sure, the ceilidh dancing might have burned through a bit of it, but since we fueled our way back to the dance floor with even more of that delicious Gosling's rum, Ben and I teetered back to New York, swearing up and down to fast our way to purification as soon as possible. Never mind the fact that I find those kinds of hysterical promises entirely impossible to keep.

    Luckily, I never find it a chore to eat whole grains and vegetables – in fact, it's often a relief when I'm not feeling pressured to put a "square meal" on the table with a meat and starch aligned just so on the plate. Then I can get away with a meal cobbled together from the various greens and grains nestled away in my fridge and cabinets, as Molly so beautifully described the other day. And if I'm lucky, some inspired combination will find its way into my heart and become a total, full-blown addiction.

    Last night? I was very, very lucky indeed.

    In my clippings stash, I found a gem of a recipe from a Marian Burros article about whole grains that was published almost three years ago. Deceptively simple, it calls for cooked farro studded with corn and tomatoes, then tossed with a deliciously acidic dressing and a medley of of springtime herbs. Trust me when I tell you that you when you start eating this stuff, you most definitely will not be able to stop. Lukewarm or chilled, eaten at the dinner table or on a picnic blanket, as a meal all on its own or as a supporting actor in a potluck – this dish is going to become your best friend this summer.

    Instead of soaking my farro overnight, as Marian instructs, I soaked it for 30 minutes, drained the grains, put them in a pot with cold water, brought the pot to a boil, lowered the heat and let the farro simmer for 30 minutes, uncovered, until it was tender. In the meantime, I quartered cherry tomatoes, drained a can of corn (I'm not buying cobs until they're for sale at the Greenmarket – it's my motto), chopped herbs, and whisked together the dressing. Then I drained the farro and let it cool for a bit before stirring it into the bowl of corn and tomatoes.

    The still-warm farro bloomed open the flavor of the herbs, while the vinaigrette mellowed the toothsome grains. The corn popped sweetly under my teeth and the slivered almonds added a toasty crunch. Piled into a bowl and eaten with a fork, the salad was chewy and sweet, herbal and acidic. The fresh, bright flavors were a revelation. So good that I felt my alcohol-soaked veins wilt with gratitude. So good that I found myself nibbling surreptitiously at the serving bowl after I finished dinner. So good that I hid the leftovers from Ben so I could eat them for lunch today.

    Maybe I have a problem? I don't care. You won't either, once you start eating. My name is Luisa and I'm a farro salad addict.

    Farro Salad with Tomatoes and Corn
    Yields 3 or 4 servings as a side dish

    1 cup farro
    2 ears cooked corn or a can of corn niblets
    16 cherry tomatoes, quartered
    4 teaspoons chopped fresh oregano
    4 teaspoons chopped fresh thyme
    2 tablespoons chopped fresh chives
    1/4 cup toasted slivered almonds
    2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
    4 teaspoons white wine vinegar
    Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

    1. Place farro in a small bowl with water to cover. Cover with plastic wrap, and let rest overnight on countertop. When ready to cook, drain farro, and place in a small pan with water to cover. Bring to boil, and cook for about 10 minutes, until tender.

    2. Scrape kernels from corn, and place in a bowl large enough to hold all ingredients. Add remaining ingredients, and mix well. When farro is cooked, drain well, and toss with other ingredients. It is best served at room temperature but can be chilled.

  • Cherries and Rice

    I broke down yesterday and, sustainability be damned, bought a pound of California cherries. I couldn’t help myself, really. The cherries were piled high on the fruit stand, taunting me with their ruby glow, and I knew it’d be a while yet before our local cherries hit the markets. I’d been walking under the midday sun for a while and all I could think of, as I gazed at the display, was that cold, clear flavor that cherries have when they pop in your mouth.

    (Eating cherries makes me think of sitting at my mother’s kitchen table in our old apartment in Berlin. My memory says that it has to be warm out, because that’s when the local cherries are always for sale, and it should be late – way past dinner, because cherries are such a good late-night snack – but the sky is still light. Northern Europe is nice that way. As long as it’s still light out, the birds stay awake and sing in the trees. So I sit at the table and crunch my way through a handful of just-chilled cherries while the birds chirp away and the light filters through the leaves of the tree outside our long kitchen windows. I guess that’s how cherries are meant to be eaten. There’ s just no other way.)

    Back in New York, I brought my three dollar sack of cherries to the office and popped one, then another in my mouth. I closed my eyes as I chewed and imagined myself back in our old kitchen, listening to the birds, with cherry juice squirting inside my cheek and my mother at the counter. Just then, as these things are wont to happen, the phone went and my mother’s voice rang out on the other end of the line. We hadn’t spoken in almost a week. As I listened to her say hello from her balcony, my mouth full of cherries, I could hear the Berlin birds chirp in the background. Just as they were supposed to.

    It was such a silly little moment and it felt like pure magic.

    **************************************************************************

    It’s been another quiet week in my kitchen and it’s kind of making me crazy. I’m dying to try Amy’s pavlova and Florence’s rillette sandwich and I’m flirting dangerously with buying an ice-cream machine and soon enough my CSA will start up again and I’ll have vegetables coming out of my ears (I can’t wait), but right now I’m struggling to even get an egg fried for dinner. And I know you don’t want to read about that.

    But I do have to tell you that I’m currently reading Nigel Slater’s genius book, Real Fast Food. Do you know why Slater’s such a genius? Two reasons:

    1. Because, as a food writer, he manages to make everything he writes about sound delicious and perfect and exactly what you should be eating for dinner. Whether he’s writing about fish stick sandwiches or broiled chicken breasts, Slater whets my appetite like no other person I know.

    2. He legitimizes almost anything for dinner. Sauteed mushrooms on toast? That’s dinner. Melted Gruyere cheese spooned over boiled potatoes? That’s dinner. Canned sardines, brown bread and mustard? That’s all there is for dinner, and it’s perfect. Your larder is a veritable treasure trove when Nigel’s telling you what to cook.

    And so, as I read tonight that sometimes plain white rice can be served as a main course "if you are feeling decidedly delicate", I realized that the half-empty pot of day-old rice in my fridge actually could serve a purpose, instead of just taking up space there until I felt strong enough to throw out the leftovers and use the pot for something useful again. I wasn’t feeling decidedly delicate, rather robust to tell you the truth, but I didn’t have time to cook and there was very little else in the house otherwise. With Nigel’s wise instructions in my head, I forked the cold rice into a bowl, ate the still-fragrant, tender grains and felt very happy and nourished indeed.

    ***************************************************************************

    Tomorrow morning we’re off to Bermuda for my friend Betsy’s wedding, where there will be kilt-clad Scots, a lot of men in knee-length shorts, and a very beautiful bride. I can’t wait. Happy Memorial Day, everyone! May your barbecues be smoky and your beers cold.

  • Donna Deane’s Curried Chicken Salad on Naan

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    Subpar curried chicken salads have practically become a bad dining cliche. Texturally questionable meat, possibly some raisins (truly a horror), all bound up in loathsome mayonnaise and then folded into a cold, inflexible flatbread wrap (tomato-flavored! or perhaps spinach, for health. Am I the only person on this planet who thinks those things should be abolished forever?). What you're left with is a gloopy, chewy nightmare of a lunch. Just thinking about it makes me a little queasy.

    So why would I even entertain the thought of making something like that for dinner?

    I'll tell you: the L.A. Times Encore feature. I'm totally in love. The editors find older recipes in the archives and put them back online for a repeat. Something about being featured a second time convinces me that the recipe must have really been good, that it's important I pay attention this time around, and not dismiss something as grody as a curried chicken salad sandwich with a wrinkled nose and an impatient click of the mouse. Would Donna Deane lead me astray, twice? I should think not.

    So after cuddling a delicious little baby for a few hours after work, I headed to the grocery store, head awash in a fog of happy hormones (what is it about those little feet and fuzzy heads?), and bought chicken legs, lemon grass, fresh naan (now available at Whole Foods!) and limes. A promising start to the meal, I thought. At home, chicken legs poached in boxed chicken stock doctored up with chopped lemon grass, while I stirred together plain Liberte yogurt with lime zest, juice and curry powder, and tiny dice of red pepper, celery and scallions.

    When the chicken had cooled, I pulled the meat off the bones, folded it into the tangy yogurt sauce and piled the salad onto the warmed naan. A few chopped peanuts went on top (I eschewed the cilantro, oh, and the sliced lime for garnish – it was a plain old weeknight, after all) and the soft, warm naan rolled easily around the cool, faintly spicy filling. It was a bit of a mess to eat, but the pillowy bread was a lovely counterpoint to the silken salad and the occasional crunch of peanut or pepper. Ben ate two of the sandwiches, stopping only to say happily, "this is exactly what I wanted for dinner".

    Sometimes, satisfaction comes so easily.

    Curried Chicken Salad on Naan
    Serves 4

    2 whole chicken legs, about 1 3/4 pounds
    4 cups chicken stock
    1/4 cup chopped lemon grass
    8 ounces low-fat plain yogurt
    2 teaspoons chopped lime zest
    2 teaspoons fresh lime juice
    1 teaspoon curry powder
    1/4 cup sliced green onions
    1/4 cup diced red bell pepper
    1/4 cup diced celery
    2 tablespoons chopped cilantro plus 8 whole sprigs
    1 teaspoon salt
    4 pieces naan
    1/4 cup chopped salted peanuts
    1 lime cut into wedges for garnish

    1. Place chicken legs, chicken stock and chopped lemon grass in a medium saucepan. Bring the stock to a gentle simmer over low heat. Poach the chicken for 30 to 40 minutes until cooked through. Remove from the stock and cool. Remove the skin and bones and shred the meat into bite-sized pieces.

    2. While the chicken is cooking, stir together the yogurt, lime zest, lime juice and curry powder. Add the green onions, red pepper, celery, chopped cilantro and salt. Gently stir in the shredded chicken.

    3. Place the naan in a 350-degree oven on the rack and heat until warm but still flexible, 1 to 2 minutes. Do not allow it to crisp.

    4. Place each piece of naan on a plate and spoon one-half cup of chicken salad on top. Sprinkle with 1 tablespoon chopped peanuts and lay 2 sprigs cilantro on top, extending out the sides. Roll the naan around the filling.

  • Where I’ve Been

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    I’ll tell you where: on the inside of a karaoke bar in Koreatown and in the company of some mighty fine women, one of whom is getting married in a few weeks, requiring an entire weekend of hijinks all over town and far too much alcohol so we could send her off in style.

    (It’s not a proper bachelorette if someone doesn’t end up on the floor of a BYOB karaoke bar, or? I didn’t think so.) (For the record, that someone wasn’t me. I swear!)

    There was also a delectable birthday brunch at Pylos in the East Village (cheap, cheerful and very cool to boot) for my sweet Gemma, who is preparing for the arrival of one very small child, some might call it a baby even, into her own home in a matter of (gulp) days.

    So, in between afternoon champagne and (DAD! Don’t click on that) Ducky Doolittle, there was a pregnant belly to be petted and padded laundry baskets to be discussed. You know it’s been a good weekend when you cover both crotchless panties and nursing bras.

    In the course of the weekend, I spent time with many of my girlfriends here – women I met in college freshman year and women I’ve met along the way since arriving in New York six years ago. In the four minutes of (relatively) sober solitude I had this weekend, all I could do was marvel at just how fantastic they all are.

    I’m so lucky to have them in my life.

    (Pardon the long silence. It’s hard to believe, I know, but there was precious little cooking in between all of this madness. Pouring myself a bowl of cereal while breathing through the DT’s was as close as I got. And though I cooked us a square meal last night, the only thrilling thing about it – well, other than the taste – was that it came entirely from the Greenmarket. Am I a total food geek for being kind of excited about that? Meat, starch, veg – it was all local. And delicious!)

  • Sara Jenkins’ Penne with Sheep’s Milk Ricotta and Mustard Greens

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    Family is everything, isn't it? After all, I'd be nothing without my mother's love and my father's devotion, that's for sure. And I'd go very hungry indeed if it wasn't for the presence of my Sicilian uncle in my life.

    Without him, I would have never known the pleasure of tiny cockles stewed in tomato sauce and eaten with a toothpick on New Year's Eve, or the glory that is a perfectly stuffed and battered fried zucchini flower. I ate my first raw oyster at his behest (though it didn't exactly – er – go down as it should have, and the humiliation of that moment still stings a bit), consider my best spaghetti dinners to be the ones that I learned by watching him (and, by extension, my aunt – who is no Sicilian, it's true, but a gifted cook and exacting taster nonetheless), and I still know absolutely no one who can clean artichokes as well as he can and perform the kind of culinary magic with them that he's capable of (fried, braised or stewed – they are incredible).

    Now that the rigors of adulthood and certain geographical realities prohibit me from seeing my family as often as I'd like, the wonder of email and the Internet keeps us linked even when we cannot be together. So when my Sicilian uncle read that I'd finally found Giovanni Rana's pasta around the corner here, it reminded him to tell me about his latest discovery.

    Aren't you glad I'm the generous, information-sharing type? It was Pasta Setaro – an artisanal pasta made in Campania and sold (oh so luckily!) right around the other corner here, at Buon Italia. I hided myself over to get a kilo of penne and a wedge of imported ricotta Romana for the dish I'd been eager to make for years, since I first spied it in the New York Times Magazine, in a profile of Sara Jenkins (chef and daughter of Nancy Harmon Jenkins).

    Sara has you boil pasta while you wilt pungent mustard greens in olive oil and slivered garlic. When the pasta is cooked and the greens are sufficiently wilted, you stir a goodly amount of ricotta into the greens, off the heat, and add the drained pasta. A plentiful shower of Parmigiano tops the dish. If you've never had sheep's-milk ricotta, trust me when I tell you that there is absolutely no way you can substitute the supermarket version here. You'd be disappointed in the mediocrity of the dish and you'd resent me. Do your best to find imported ricotta from Italy for this recipe. I'm not sure it's worth trying with anything less.

    (An aside for those of you who live in New York: I recommend a visit to A Voce where Andrew Carmellini serves Sardinian ricotta as an appetizer. It's worth the trip, the expense, the everything.)

    (Oh wait, and another aside: my absolute favorite spaghetti-with-ricotta dish is even more delicious than this one and is quite easy to make. Make a simple tomato sauce (by browning a clove of garlic lightly in olive oil, then adding pureed tomatoes of the highest quality possible and simmering them until the flavors meld, adding a pinch of salt and a few leaves of fresh basil – that's it). When you dress your cooked pasta with the tomato sauce, add a dollop of good ricotta, the best you can find. Mix the whole thing together, and top, if desired, with grated Parmigiano. It's bliss, this dish, I guarantee it.)

    I loved Sara's mustard-green pasta, not just because it was light and healthy and flavorful and just plain good, but because it reminded me of my family and, by extension, the happy summers of my childhood. My taste memories are among the strongest ones I have, and yet it always surprises me just how instantly a mouthful of soft cheese can catapult me into my grandfather's dining room, thousands of miles away. (When we were little, my cousins and I were allowed to sprinkle sugar on the spoonfuls of ricotta on our plates. The crunch of the sugar crystals under my teeth along with the faintly chalky texture of the pale, smooth ricotta was total sensory bliss. Now that we're grown-ups, we eat the ricotta plain and savor its delicate complexity. But I cannot wait to teach my children to eat their ricotta the way I used to.)

    Living so far away from people I love is no picnic. But it is a deep, abiding comfort to find their presence so readily in my home when I get into the kitchen to cook the way they taught me to, with the ingredients that flavor their lives and my own. In a month, I'm taking Ben with me to Italy to see my family and show him the (real) tastes of home. I am counting the days and I know he is, too.

    Penne with Sheep's Milk Ricotta and Mustard Greens
    Serves 4

    Sea salt
    1 pound penne or maccheroni
    3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
    1 clove garlic
    2 large bunches mustard greens (about 12 ounces each), stems removed, cut into 2-inch strips
    6 to 7 ounces sheep's milk ricotta, run through a food mill (about 1 3/4 cups)
    Parmigiano-Reggiano
    Freshly ground black pepper

    1. Bring a large pot of generously salted water to a rolling boil. Add the pasta and cook until tender but firm at the core, about 8 minutes. Meanwhile, heat the olive oil in a large saute pan. Add the garlic and cook until golden.

    2. Add the mustard greens and about 1/4 cup of the pasta cooking water, just enough to steam the greens. When only a little liquid is left in the pan and the greens have wilted, remove the pan from the heat and add the ricotta, stirring with a wooden spoon until the cooking liquid is removed.

    3. When the pasta is done, drain it, add it to the sauce and fold everything together. Sprinkle with a handful of grated cheese and fold together again. Season to taste. Serve with more grated cheese on the side.

  • Paula Wolfert’s Moroccan Chicken Smothered in Olives

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    I've got ants. There's no way to beat around the bush here. I've got a thin and irritating line of small, black ants marching their way in and out of my apartment and getting perilously close to my food supply. I know they're not dirty, like roaches, or pesky (and dirty) like mice, but I prefer my ants outside in nature, thank you very much, and not disturbing the gentleman's agreement we humans have with bugs: you stay outside in the field and we'll stay inside where it's warm and cozy. If we break the agreement, the ants have every right to march into our picnic baskets or even bite us, if they are of the angry, red variety. If they break the agreement, I reserve the right to annihilate them with every kind of spray, poison, and sheer brute force available to me (the palm of my hand being quite potent in these moments).

    A result, obviously, of all this activity, is that being in the kitchen has become a bit less attractive as of late – I'm sick of seeing black specks moving about with impunity and I don't want to eat anything near the vaporous fumes I've unleashed on those little specks. Hence some of the… reticence around these parts. But this self-imposed (arguable!) exile had to come to an end eventually and so tonight, I made my way back to the stove again.

    After our great success with exotically-spiced chicken thighs a few weekends ago, I was happy to find an old New York Times clipping for a dish from Paula Wolfert's Mediterranean Cooking in my tattered notebook. All it required was a pot filled with sliced onions, skinless chicken thighs laid on top, a generous dusting of cumin, sweet paprika, turmeric and ground ginger, and a chicken-broth bath. The pot simmered away quietly (while I had to boil olives, which seemed on par with the craziness of boiling bacon) until the gravy turned a rich, rusty red. The boiled olives and the juice of one lemon went in at the end to brighten the flavor of the sauce while it reduced.

    We ate our parsley-strewn stew over plain white rice (and boiled peas). It made for a good enough Sunday dinner, but there was something missing from our plates. Was it salt? Not with all those luscious olives. We couldn't figure it out and anyway, the stew was tasty enough. It nourished us well and that's all that really mattered.

    But when I got around to typing up this post, I found the original recipe online. Strangely enough, it was totally different from the one I was working from. Far more labor-intensive (grated onions! spice pastes! stove-top and oven time!), the recipe also called for different amounts of ingredients (two pounds of olives! two entire chickens!). With all these changes, it seemed rather obvious that the original version would have made for a more deeply-flavored result than The Times version.

    Who knows why The Times changed the recipe for their publication? Who knows if Paula's original version would have tasted much differently? I leave you with all these questions and no answers. Because I think I see another ant I need to eliminate.

    Paula Wolfert's Moroccan Chicken Smothered in Olives
    Serves 4

    8 skinless chicken thighs with bone
    2 onions, peeled, halved and sliced
    1 teaspoon ground ginger
    2 teaspoons ground turmeric
    2 teaspoons ground cumin
    1 tablespoons Spanish sweet paprika
    4 cloves garlic, peeled and chopped
    3/4 cup cilantro leaves, chopped (I used parsley, and only as a garnish)
    2 cups low-sodium chicken broth
    11 ounces pitted green olives in brine
    Juice of 1 lemon

    1. In the bottom of a large, flameproof casserole, arrange onions and top with chicken pieces. Sprinkle with ginger, turmeric, cumin, paprika, garlic, and cilantro (if using). Pour chicken broth over all.

    2. Place over high heat to bring to a boil, then reduce heat to medium-low. Cover and simmer for 30 minutes, turning once. Meanwhile, in a small saucepan, combine olives with several cups of water and bring to a boil. Boil 2 minutes, drain well and set aside.

    3. Add olives and lemon juice to chicken, and simmer uncovered for 10 minutes. If desired, simmer for additional time to reduce and thicken sauce. Serve hot.