The nitty-gritties

Hi, everybody.

A few of you asked, in the comments last week, if I might tell you a little more about my book, the project that’s been eating up a large portion - wait, did I say large? I meant all, or darn near all - of my thoughts for the past several months. I really haven’t told you much about it, have I? I guess I didn’t really think to until now. I’m so glad you gave me a nudge. I just got swept up in the wedding for a while there, and then, when it was over, I dove so deep into writing that it never really occurred to me to climb out, grab a dry towel, and tell you what I saw down there.

To tell you the truth, it’s pretty murky sometimes. It’s kind of hard to see where I’m going. It reminds me of a quote I read a while ago, an E.L. Doctorow line that goes something like this: “Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” I’m not writing a novel, mind you, but I know what he means. Most of the time, I just try to write, to follow the headlights, to not think too hard. That’s all I can do, anyway, and it’s hard enough, just that. When things are going well, I feel like a million bucks, like I just discovered a new planet, or the cure for AIDS, or a lifetime supply of chocolate hidden under the bed. Then again, sometimes - like, oh, yesterday - I cry a lot, over things like French toast.




(While we’re at it, let me tell you that nothing, nothing, is worse than recipe testing on Sunday mornings. Listen: if you ever write a cookbook, or any sort of book with recipes, and if you need to test breakfast foods, DO NOT test them at breakfast time, or on weekend mornings when you should really be sleeping. You and your husband will wind up hungry, and then you’ll give him the silent treatment when he tries to make you feel better, because you desperately need to pout for a while, just to get it out of your system, and so it goes until lunchtime, when you’re too starved to be mad anymore. Like I said, don’t.)

Writing a book is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But when it works, it’s so fun. I used to write poetry as a teenager - I know, I know; who didn’t, right? - and one of my teachers, a poet named Peter Fortunato, once told me something that I’ve been thinking about a lot. He was talking about writing, and about how utterly free we are when we write, about the worlds we can imagine and create for ourselves, about how rip-roaring fun it can be. He said, and I wrote in big letters in my spiral notebook: “You’re riding Pegasus! Isn’t it amazing?” He was just trying to cheer us brooding teenage poets, I’m sure, but I still remember it, after all these years. I’m riding Pegasus! This is amazing! Of course, Pegasus ain’t no carousel pony, people. He bucks and skitters all over the place. But some days, I never want to come down.




Speaking of which, before he carries me away again, let me give you a few nitty-gritties.

My book’s tentative title is Orangette: The Stories My Kitchen Tells Me. The title may be entirely different by the time it shows up in bookstores next fall, but that’s what I’m working with for now. It’s what feels right. The book grows out of the format and style of this blog, meaning that it’s a collection of recipes and the stories that go with them, sixty-some-odd in all. Roughly two-thirds of the book will be new material. I want to give you as much new writing and as many new recipes as I can, but some old stories and dishes feel like classics now, and they belong in there too. Plus, even the more familiar recipes have been tweaked and retested, made to work better and tastier than before. (Remember this banana bread, for example, with chocolate and crystallized ginger? I reworked it, using a different banana bread base, and it’s even better. I can’t wait for you to try it.)




Each recipe will have been tested by a minimum of three people, or four, if you count me. The way it works is this: first I work on a recipe in my own kitchen - often with Brandon’s help; if you like something, be sure to thank him too - and then, when I’ve got a handful of recipes ready, I send them to my team of testers. They have a month to try them, during which time I get the next handful ready, and then we start again. I have 12 testers, all of them volunteers, working for nothing but my gratitude. (There’s lots of that to go around, thank goodness.) Some of them are family (my sister Lisa and my mother, namely, both wonderfully precise cooks), and some are friends. Some live in Texas, and some live in Sweden. Some are readers of this blog, some are bloggers themselves, and some I have never met. I have been stunned by their generosity and energy, and by their willingness to buy expensive vanilla beans, port, and Parmigiano Reggiano on my behalf. You’ll hear a lot about them in the acknowledgments section, which is, so far, my very favorite part of the book to write. When all else fails, I work on the acknowledgments. Thanking people is easy.




I’m learning all the time. Writing is such a strange, mysterious process. I say that even now, as I sit here, doing just that. In writing this book, I’ve remembered some of the weirdest, most wonderful things. Like my first kiss, for example - which, let me tell you, was pretty weird. Or that my mother and her siblings went to school with John Waters and Divine. (Weird and wonderful, right?) Or how much my father loved mayonnaise. I’d forgotten all that. It feels so good to remember. It’s what keeps me going, what keeps me from freaking out entirely, with only eight weeks left to finish this manuscript. December 15 is coming up awfully soon.

Hopefully, next fall, the date when it hits the shelves, will come even faster.

I can’t wait to share it with you.



Fennel-Potato Soup with Dilled Crème Fraîche
Adapted from Bon Appétit, November 2007

I didn’t want to leave you without a recipe this week, because heavens knows we all have to eat, even when we’re on a deadline, right? I made this soup last Friday and have been eating it for lunch ever since. It’s a terrifically easy one, just the thing for a filling-but-healthy fall lunch. It’s subtle and soothing, a blend of sweet leeks, perfumed fennel, and rich, earthy potatoes. As flavors go, this one is utterly reassuring. And with a dollop of cool, green-flecked crème fraîche on top, it feels a little fancy too.




The original version of this soup calls for chopped smoked salmon as a garnish, rather than the dilled crème fraîche I use here. Though I love the flavor of smoked salmon, I didn’t like the idea of its chewy, flaky texture in soup. And, as it happened, I had some crème fraîche kicking around the fridge, along with some fresh dill left over from a recipe test (my dad’s potato salad; wait till you see, it’s really delicious). This soup seemed like a fitting use for both. Plus, I love the way it looks and tastes with a spoonful of tangy, herbed cream.

For soup:
3 Tbsp. unsalted butter
2 medium (or 1 large) fennel bulbs, trimmed and sliced
1 large leek (white and pale green parts only), halved lengthwise and thinly sliced crosswise
1 tsp. fennel seeds
1 ½ lb. russet potatoes (about 2 large), peeled and cut into coarse cubes
5 ½ cups chicken or vegetable broth (such as this one), plus more to taste
Salt, to taste

For serving:
Crème fraîche
Finely chopped fresh dill
Salt

In a heavy large pot or Dutch oven, melt the butter over medium-high heat. Add the fennel, leek, and fennel seeds, and cook, stirring often, until the vegetables begin to soften, about 8 minutes. Add the potatoes and 5 ½ cups broth, and stir to combine. Bring to a boil; then reduce heat to medium and simmer, partially covered, until potatoes are tender, about 12-15 minutes.

Working in batches, puree the soup in a blender. (When working with hot liquids like this, never fill the blender more than 1/3 full, as the liquid can expand and cause some nasty burns. Brandon currently has a scab over his eyebrow from just this sort of soup-explosion accident.) It should be very smooth and creamy. Return the pureed soup to the pot and rewarm over medium-low heat, stirring regularly and thinning with more broth by ¼-cupfuls to reach your desired consistency. (I added an additional ½ cup.) Season with salt to taste. It’ll need a pretty good amount.

Just before serving, spoon some crème fraîche into a small bowl, and stir in finely chopped dill to taste. This sort of thing can take as much or as little dill as you like. Taste, and add a pinch of salt. Stir well.

Divide soup between bowls, and serve dilled crème fraîche on the side, so that each eater can dollop a bit into their soup.

Yield: 6-8 servings

Lots of trouble

You already know by now, I’m sure, that I like the idea of a simple recipe. For whatever it’s worth, I like the notion that you can take a few well-chosen, high-quality ingredients, treat them kindly, and come out with a pretty nice meal. When I started this blog, I had no idea that this was a schtick of any sort, much less my schtick: it’s just sort of happened that way. It’s how I like to eat.

It also, however, gets me into lots of trouble sometimes. I am constantly – I mean constantly, people; it’s pathological – falling prey to cookbook and magazine recipes that are way too simple, with too few ingredients to taste like much of anything. I mean, it’s one thing to take a can of tomatoes, five tablespoons of butter, and one halved onion, bang them into a saucepan, and call it tomato sauce. That’s fine. That’s classic. But to take four pounds of thinly sliced tart apples, three measly tablespoons of sugar, and two even more measly tablespoons of butter, bake them together overnight in a low, low oven (while you toss and turn, I might add, waiting for the house to burn down), and expect a magical transformation, a delightful gâteau aux pommes, something that looks and tastes like the burnished, beautiful top of a tarte Tatin?




That’s silly. Like, stupid-silly. Like, thump-your-forehead-with-the-palm
-of-your-hand-silly. Like, I’m-going-to-throw-the-cookbook-that-inspired
-this-down-the-basement-stairs-and-I-just-might-go-with-it-silly. That’s the recipe I made last night. ARRRRGH.




That’s also the recipe I won’t be sharing with you today. I’ll just say this: that if you have a cookbook whose title rhymes with The Ban Brancisco Berry Blaza Barmers’ Barket Bookbook, please do not make the cake on page 173. That, and listen to your husband when he tells you to just stop, to stop cursing the apple corer, to stop it RIGHT NOW and come sit on the couch and end the weekend nicely, with an episode of Brothers and Sisters. Take it from me. I know these things.

On the upside, however, I do have a backup recipe for you, a little something that we made as part of dinner on Friday, when we didn’t have much in the house but felt too cheap to go out for groceries. It’s pretty darn simple, too, but unlike, ahem, some things, it actually worked. For every stupid, lumpy, watery-tasting gâteau aux pommes, may there be a radicchio salad with radishes and parmesan.

It happened the way most dinners do when we’re busy: with us digging in the fridge, dredging up scraps and drips, and throwing them together. In the crisper drawer we found a head of radicchio left from a recipe test a couple weeks back, along with some radishes - they’re a constant around here, always at the ready - and a raggedy-edged wedge of parmesan cheese. I sort of wrinkled my nose at the combination, worrying that the radicchio might be old and bitter, but Brandon forged on. He sliced the radicchio into thin strips and the radishes into wafers, and then, while we boiled water for some pasta, he tossed them in a bowl with a last of a jar of vinaigrette from the week before. Then he shaved some parmesan over the top, and while the pasta cooked - it would later be tossed with some pesto from the freezer - we sat down to a surprisingly pretty, fittingly fall-like salad.

The radicchio was crisp and wonderfully mellow, tamed by a good dose of vinaigrette and the rich, salty punch of parmesan. The radish, for its part, crunched pleasantly, sweet and cool. Brandon commented than a few slivers of pear would be nice too, and he’s right: their sweet, perfumed flavor would be perfect here, and perfectly in season too. I don’t have a photograph to show you, because we ate it all on the spot - so sorry! - but given the trauma I’ve detailed above, I hope you’ll let me off easy. Anyway, you can imagine it for yourself: a tangle of purple leaves dotted with red-edged disks of radish, big shards of parmesan, and couple slices of slivered pear, its green skin curved like a line drawing. (See? So pretty! You don’t need some stinking photograph.) It’s lovely; it’s s-i-m-p-l-e; and come to think of it, it might just be dinner again tonight.


Radicchio and Radish Salad with Pear and Parmesan

The dressing that we used on this was my standard vinaigrette, but made with Cognac vinegar. I know that not everyone lives with a vinegar fiend, as I do, so if you don’t happen to have a bottle of that fancy stuff lying around, know that you can use most any white wine-type vinegar.

6 radishes
1 medium head radicchio
½ firm-ripe pear, green or red or most any color (optional)
Parmigiano Reggiano

For vinaigrette:
1 Tbsp. Dijon mustard
3 Tbsp. Cognac vinegar (see note above)
½ tsp. salt
5 Tbsp. olive oil, plus more to taste

First, make the vinaigrette. In a small bowl, combine the mustard, vinegar, and salt, and whisk to blend. Add the olive oil, and whisk vigorously to emulsify. Taste, and adjust as needed. Depending on your vinegar, you made need more oil. (We often add an additional teaspoon.) This is a more acidic dressing than some, but it shouldn’t hit you over the head with vinegar. Set aside.

Prepare the salad. Trim the radishes, and slice them very thinly. Quarter the radicchio from stem end to tip, and peel away any ragged outer leaves. Working with one quarter at a time, slice crosswise into ¼-inch-thick strips. If you are using the pear, cut it into very thin slices. Combine the radishes and radicchio in a large bowl, and toss with vinaigrette to taste. Add the pear slices, and toss very gently, so as not to break them up.

Serve, using a vegetable peeler to shave a few shards of parmesan cheese onto each serving.

Yield: About 4 standard-size servings, or two Molly-and-Brandon-size servings


P.S. Does anyone besides me read the title of this post and want to yell “Lots of trouble! Lots of bubble!” à la Fred Schneider in “Rock Lobster”? I didn’t think so.

Sneaky, sneaky

I tried to hold it off. Really, I did. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t buy a winter squash until at least October 1, if not later. I mean, there are still a few nectarines to be had, for crying out loud, and Romano beans, and cherry tomatoes, and fat, pristine eggplant, fruits as big and heavy as my head, begging to roasted and mashed. There’s plenty to eat. There’s no need for winter squash. Nor potatoes, nor pears. No need at all.




But then, you know, there they were, the hard-shelled squash and the new potatoes and the Asian pears, at the farmers’ market on Saturday morning, and it was cloudy and cold, and they just looked so sad. So sad, really - bumping around in their big crates and bins, with no cushions or canopy, no shelter to speak of. Those pesky butternuts, too, they know how to get to you. They’ve got those long, curvy necks, and they know just how to hook them over the side of the bin so that you’ll see them there, peeking at you, giving you the eye. They’re trouble, those butternuts. Watch out. Trust me, I know. Because one of them wound up in my bag on Saturday morning, and it was only September 29.

(If it makes my willpower look any less weak, note this: that Brandon and I also made a pact to not turn on the heat before October 1, and by god, we made it. Keep in mind, too, that I’m the one at home most days, writing, with a scarf on, and wool socks, and my teeth chattering. Oh, I’ve got willpower, people. Our little place gets downright cold, even when it’s not that chilly outside.)

So yes, about that sneaky, sneaky squash. Well, I brought it home, and since I figured I should at least try to make the most of things, September 29 or no, I set to work. There was (and yeep!, still is) a teetering stack of cookbooks on my side of the bed, and in it was a little beauty called Casa Moro, the second cookbook by Sam and Sam Clark, chef-owners of the London restaurant Moro. I’ve never been to Moro, and some of you - ahem - know the place much, much better than I do, but it didn’t take long for me to feel right at home in the pages of that book. It’s beautiful, for one thing, a cookbook-meets-travelogue with lush, seemingly effortless photographs printed on uncoated stock - think The Kitchen Diaries, but set in Spain and North Africa, and with even more recipes. Needless to say, I pulled it from the pile, and before I knew it, I had folded down a half-dozen pages. And then, ta da!, there it was, on page 242, a pretty little vehicle for winter squash, a warm salad bulked out with chickpeas, red onion, and tahini.

So I flicked on the oven and set to work with the peeler, slipping the squash out of its skin. Then I chopped it into coarse hunks - so reassuring, I was reminded, the sound of the knife as it clears that dense, rich flesh to meet the cutting board again - and then tossed it in the oven with some olive oil, crushed garlic, and allspice. While it roasted, I whisked up a sauce of tahini, lemon, garlic, and olive oil, drained a can of chickpeas, and took a few whacks at a bunch of cilantro, and meanwhile, oh my, the house even warmed a little.

By the time I sat down to eat, with a glass of wine and another cookbook to read - Brandon was out for the evening - I was feeling almost pleased with that butternut squash, I have to say, for having pulled a fast one on me. Under a thin blanket of tahini sauce, with some crisp onion and cilantro to cheer things along, the spiced squash cozied up to the chickpeas as though the two were old pals. The salad was warm here, cool there, and everywhere earthy and restoring. I inhaled the whole plate in about five minutes flat, and to tell you the truth, I felt pretty chuffed, as the Brits would say, about it all.

I saved the leftovers for Brandon, and we shared them as a brunch of sorts the next morning, with Asian pears for dessert. He already wants to make it again. Thank goodness it’s now October 1, so we can.


Warm Butternut and Chickpea Salad with Tahini
Adapted from Casa Moro

This salad pretty much speaks for itself. It’s a little exotic but also pleasingly familiar, and it’s totally, totally delicious. It’ll be a standby in our kitchen until next summer, I’m quite certain. But just in case you want one last sales pitch, I should also tell you that it seems to have miraculous properties where sobriety is concerned. When I first ate it on Saturday night, I drank a glass of wine. (Though it pains me to say it, that alone should have been enough to get me a little tipsy. But it didn’t.) Then I went to a birthday party at the home of some friends nearby, and I drank three glasses of beer - !!! - and was completely and utterly fine. Fine. Like, talking-about-mortgages-and-number-crunching fine. Just so you know.

For salad:
1 medium butternut squash (about 2 to 2 ½ lb.), peeled, seeded, and cut into 1 ½-inch pieces
1 medium garlic clove, pressed
½ tsp. ground allspice
2 Tbsp. olive oil
Salt
One 15-ounce can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
¼ of a medium red onion, finely chopped
¼ cup coarsely chopped cilantro leaves

For tahini sauce:
1 medium garlic clove, finely minced with a pinch of salt
3 ½ Tbsp. lemon juice
3 Tbsp. well-stirred tahini
2 Tbsp. water
2 Tbsp. olive oil, plus more to taste

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees Fahrenheit.

In a large bowl, combine the butternut squash, garlic, allspice, olive oil, and a good pinch or two of salt. Using a large spoon or your hands, toss until the squash pieces are evenly coated. Turn them out onto a baking sheet, and bake for 15 to 25 minutes, or until soft. Remove from the oven and cool.

Meanwhile, make the tahini sauce. In a small bowl, whisk together the garlic and lemon juice. Add the tahini, and whisk to blend. Add the water and olive oil, whisk well, and taste for seasoning. The sauce should have plenty of nutty tahini flavor, but also a little kick of lemon. (I found that my tahini was a little bitter and that the lemon was a bit much, so I added additional olive oil to tame both.)

To assemble the salad, combine the squash, chickpeas, onion, and cilantro in a mixing bowl. Add tahini sauce to taste, and toss carefully. (Alternatively, you can also serve the salad undressed, with the tahini sauce on the side. That way, each person can use as much or as little as they want, and the individual ingredients taste a little brighter, too.) Serve, with additional salt for sprinkling.

Note: This salad, lightly dressed, keeps beautifully in the fridge. (Hold a little of the tahini sauce on the side, for dressing at the table.) Before serving, warm slightly with quick jolt in the microwave.

Yield: 4 servings