Because one lone plant was most prolific last summer, with
Multiple blossomed whorls gone to vigorous seed,
Because the winter was mild and the sprouts hardy
A great patch of dillweed, tall and feathery, took hold in my front yard.

This unexpected abundance has me both delighted and stumped. And while its beauty alone makes the little dillweed forest a welcome presence in our postage stamp garden, I’ve been seeking new ways to use this herb.

In pickling, certainly. Snipped into salads, baked onto a side of salmon, folded into a quickbread batter with cheddar cheese.

I welcome your suggestions.

One way I’ve been enjoying dillweed is in this sauce that uses lush Greek yogurt.

Simple–and versatile.

A quick whisk of herbs, coarse grain mustard, vinegar, and olive oil into a bowl of this plain creamy base readily transforms into a sauce, or dip, or dressing. You might relish a dollop of this on a falafel-pita sandwich, or as a cooling dip for a spicy grilled lamb kebab. It stands up nicely alongside a tray of crudites. Or potato chips!

Long ago, I would make something similar, using sour cream. Now, I prefer tangy and thick-bodied Greek yogurt in its stead. So accessible at the market, ( all the yogurt companies have added Greek to their repertoire) it makes a terrific substitute–healthier too.

Today, I used it to dress potato salad–a springtime variation that combines new potatoes and asparagus. So seasonal, both vegetables take well to dillweed, and both work together in this somewhat different dish.

You actually plunge the asparagus tips right in with the potatoes, in the final minute of cooking.

Drain and cool—just slightly. When still warm, the new potatoes tend to absorb the dressing better. That bit of heat blooms the herbs in the sauce. You can serve the salad immediately, if you like. Or serve it chilled.

It tastes fantastic, either way.

If you have any other of-the-moment garden veggies on hand, slice ‘em up and put ‘em in. The crisp bite of French radishes, for instance, would be exceptional in this dish. Cucumbers? Yes. Scallions, too.

And, remember–I’m on the lookout for more ways to use my dillweed forest. Please share!

NEW POTATO-ASPARAGUS SALAD with GREEK YOGURT DILL SAUCE

1 1/2 lbs. small New Potatoes, cleaned and quartered
1 bundle fresh Asparagus, cut on the diagonal into small pieces

1 1/2 cups Greek Yogurt
1 T. Coarse Grain Mustard
1 T. White Wine Vinegar
1 T. Extra Virgin Olive Oil
2 heaping T. fresh Dillweed, chopped
1 T. fresh Chives, chopped
1 1/2 t. Sea Salt
1/2 t. Black Pepper

Bring a large pot of lightly salted water to a boil and add new potatoes. Cover and simmer until potatoes are tender, about 12 minutes.
Add asparagus pieces and cook for another minute. Remove from heat and drain.

In a mixing bowl, whisk together all the remaining ingredients.

Place slightly cooled potatoes and asparagus into a serving bowl. Spoon yogurt-dill sauce over the vegetables.
Toss and fold until well coated.

Garnish with dillweed.

May serve warm, room temperature, or chilled.

Makes 6-8 servings.

Paris, from Two Sides

February 1973

The first time I visited Paris, I experienced it from its underbelly.

I was 18 years old, an exchange student living in Holland. My companion Jeff and I had planned to travel by train, making a two week loop through Germany and Switzerland before spending a week in the City of Lights. There, we were going to stay with a family, the Reliers, whom I had known in Nashville. At that time, they lived in Sevres, a Parisian suburb. I had mailed them a letter with details of our arrival. Impetuous youths, we embarked on our journey before getting confirmation from them.

Things went awry soon after we arrived at the Paris station, Gare de L’ Est. Immediately, we called the Reliers, but, alas, no answer. We made repeated calls–with the same empty result. It got late, and so we took a room at a youth hostel, simply called Auberge de Jeunesse. It was a cheap hotel, really. At 2 francs a night, it could be safely classified as a dump. We could stand it one night, we thought.

But, the next day proved to be more of the same: no Reliers. Where were they?

And, there was another problem. I had gotten a small burn on my index finger before we left Holland. As the trip wore on, that small burn showed signs of an infection. When I awoke that next morning in Paris, my hand looked angry and swollen. At the St. Louis General Hospital I was chided with a “Le petite boo-boo. C’est rien!” and given a prescription for antibiotics.

Days passed at the fleabag, with calls to the Reliers becoming a joke. My infection was worsening and money was getting tight. We spent our last francs at a doctor’s office, who took one look and immediately scheduled surgery. After my hand was lanced, drained, cleansed and wrapped, I was much better, but we were broke.

We wired home for extra cash. Jeff’s mom sent us a money order, via overnight air mail, to General Delivery at a Post Office near our humble quarters. In another twist, a strike by the French air controllers delayed the mail by several days.

Still, we managed during that bleak and strange week. We walked everywhere. We darted among the Notre Dame gargoyles. We sat on park benches, ate crusty baguettes and cheese. We cooked modest meals, and otherwise amused ourselves at the so-called Auberge de Jeunesse. Moreover, we discovered Travelers Aid, who lent us money until our special delivery arrived.

July 2004

When I traveled to Paris over thirty years later, I was curious to experience the city from the Up side of life.

Bill, Madeleine, and I had been visiting friends in Amsterdam. From there, we planned to take the bullet train to Paris, (3 hours, 18 minutes from Amsterdam Centraal to Paris Nord!) where I had booked our room at a respectable hotel in the 6th arrondisement.

It was an unseasonably cool July in Holland, blustery with rain. But as that sleek train sped towards France, the skies began to lighten. By the time we emerged onto the streets of Paris, the sun shone brightly. The wind had calmed. The city was golden.

Before we checked into our hotel, we stopped for a bite at one of the hundreds of lovely sidewalk cafes.

I ordered a salad of mixed garden lettuces, scattered with sliced strawberries, dressed in a sharp shallot vinaigrette. Placed on top of the salad was this crisp disc of goat cheese, still hot from the skillet, beginning to collapse and melt onto the greens. The simple combination of sweet and tart, chilled and hot, creamy and crisp, left me speechless.

The sun warmed the air where we sat. Summer in Paris. A spectacular salad. Another adventure. Life’s sweet balance.

With strawberries and young lettuces aplenty at the market, it’s a perfect time to make the crispy goat cheese.

CRISPY HERBED GOAT CHEESE CROQUETTES
1 lb. Plain Goat Cheese/Chevre Log
1 Egg
1/2 c. All Purpose Flour
1/2 c. Panko crumbs
2 T. fresh Thyme leaves
1/4 t. Salt
1/4 t. Black Pepper

Olive Oil—for frying
Heavy duty Skillet

Cut chevre log into 16 pieces. Form each into a disc shape.
Place flour into one bowl, and egg beaten with a little water into another bowl. In a third bowl, mix panko with salt, pepper, and fresh thyme leaves.

Dust each disc in flour, then dip into egg, then dip into seasoned panko, pressing the crumbs lightly onto the goat cheese. Use the “wet hand-dry hand” technique. Use one hand to dip into flour, egg, and place in the bowl of panko—use the other hand to press the panko and remove.

Heat skillet on medium and coat bottom with olive oil. Cook goat cheese discs until brown (about 3 minutes) and turn over to brown on the other side.

Best served immediately over your assembled salad. Spoon over some Shallot-Honey Vinaigrette. Pretend that you are in Paris. On the Up side.

SHALLOT-HONEY VINAIGRETTE
1/4 c. Shallots, cut into pieces
2 T. Honey
1/4 c. White Balsamic Vinegar
1/2 c. Extra Virgin Olive Oil
1/2 c. Canola Oil
1/4 t. Black Pepper
1/4 t. Salt

Hand-held immersion blender

Place shallots, honey, vinegar, salt and pepper into immersion blender and pulse until smooth. Slowly drizzle in the olive and canola oils. Vinaigrette will become a smooth thick emulsion.

If someone were to ask you to name your earliest food memory, what would it be?

Don’t think long on it. In fact, try not to think at all. Go with what first comes to mind. See where that takes you.

This intriguing prompt at a food writing workshop I attended stirred up an unexpected taste and memory for me: Ginger Ale.

As a young child, I loved Ginger Ale. No matter how I felt, a glass of it always embodied something good. It could have been served over ice in a pretty glass with a maraschino cherry, aka The Shirley Temple, marking a festive occasion. It could have been my birthday or a holiday gathering.

Or it could have been as simple as a visit to my grandparents in Queens, New York.

If I ate a good dinner, and the weather was nice, we’d go up onto the flat tarred rooftop of their apartment, a 5 story walk-up. Nana would gather ice, glasses, and the jar of maraschino cherries. Poppop would grab a bottle of White Rock or Canada Dry and the dessert of the moment. That could have been chocolate chip cookies, or brownies, or a quivery Jello with whipped cream. I’d bring along my beloved stuffed animal, a big curly haired silver-grey poodle that I had named, not surprisingly, Ginger Ale.

We’d sit around a card table on folding chairs amid the upper private world of chimney stacks, pipe vents, and t.v. antennas. We’d drink our special beverages, eat our dessert, and listen to the sounds of cars and people below. I’d ask about the neighbors in other apartments; had they ever used the fire escape? did they have poodle dogs, or parties on the roof?

We’d linger until just past dusk, watching as distant bridges became strands of lights .

It was the best party ever.

But if I was sick and feverish, holed up in my bedroom, Ginger Ale took on another meaning. Mother would bring me a small lukewarm glass, along with a triangle of dry toast. She’d carry this remedy on a tray, and place it on my bed. She’d caution me to sip very slowly. And take tiny bites of toast. Which I did, with diligence.

It always made me feel better.

As an adult, I rarely drink Ginger Ale. But recently, I was asked to make a special cocktail for a Farm Dinner/Wedding Celebration I was catering. I concocted this fresh ginger-grapefruit zest syrup.

Crisp, citric, with refreshing bite, a splash in an inexpensive champagne elevated it to an ooh-la-la cocktail. Stirred into a glass of Perrier transformed it into a sophisticated version of my childhood delight. Worthy of a wedding celebration,

Or of one of those rooftop parties.

GINGER-GRAPEFRUIT SIMPLE SYRUP
2 cups Water
2 cups Sugar
Zest of one large Ruby Grapefruit
2″ piece of Ginger root, peeled and sliced
a few whole Peppercorns

In a saucepan on medium heat, add water and sugar. Stir well.
Add grapefruit zest, slices of peeled ginger, and a few peppercorns.
Bring to a boil, stirring so that sugar is well dissolved.
Remove from heat, and allow ingredients to steep into the simple syrup.
Chill.

To Serve:
Splash 2-3 Tablespoons into icy fizzy mineral water, like Pelligrino. Garnish with strip of ginger, or slice of grapefruit.

OR

Pour 1-2 T. into the bottom of a fluted champagne glass. Add champagne, garnish and serve.

Bill claims he doesn’t have a sweet tooth,
because in reality he has Sweet Teeth.
The man has an undeniable weakness for a range of creamy confections.

You have to watch him.

He has the best of intentions.
He means to exert willpower.
He makes bold pronouncements about his indulgence.

“Just a small piece for me, please.”

And that’s how it starts. The gateway bite. A slippery slope. A cycle of eternal returns.

You know the thinking.

“That wasn’t a very big serving. Maybe I’ll have one more. A sliver. And that’s it.”

Or, “I’m just going to even up the edges. Clean it up. The cake looks ragged.”

I try to remove temptation. I’ll wrap up the remaining cake, and tuck it into the back of the fridge, out of sight.

To no avail.

Because what occurs are the man’s repeated surreptitious visitations to the refrigerator, knife in hand, a steady whittling away of the dessert.

The next day, I’ll find that half of a cake or pie reduced to a mere wedge.

But very neat.

This routine is predictable, especially when it comes to my Banana Boston Cream Pie.

For Bill, whose fondness for bananas equals–or exceeds—his fondness for sweets, this dessert presents the double-whammy of temptations. Knowing this penchant, I years ago started adding layers of sliced bananas to this classic.

That unexpected element makes it one of his absolute favorites.

There’s another surprise: a hint of citrus—grapefruit zest—in the pastry cream. As the bananas and creamy filling merge and meld into the softening cake, the resulting subtle tang becomes especially alluring.

That secondary fruit note gives him yet another reason to carve “just another little piece.”

Who can blame him?

BANANA-BOSTON CREAM PIE

Grapefruit-Scented Pastry Cream

1/2 c. Sugar
1 T. Butter
3 T. All -purpose Flour
2 c. Milk
1 t. Vanilla
1 1/2 t. Grapefruit zest
3 Eggs

In a medium non-reactive saucepan on low heat, melt butter, and mix in sugar and flour. Add half of the milk (one cup) Stir in vanilla and zest.

Whisk eggs with remaining milk until well homogenized–no streaks of yolk.

Pour into the saucepan and stir well. Increase heat to medium. Cook until thickened.

Cool; cover and refrigerate.

Cake

4 Eggs, room temperature
3/4 c. Sugar
8 T. (one stick) soft Butter
1 cup Cake Flour, sifted
2 t. Baking Powder
1/4 t. Salt
1/2 c. Milk
1 T. Vanilla

Using a stand mixer, beat eggs, sugar and softened butter together on medium high speed, until the mixture becomes thick, creamy, and light-lemon colored. Beat for a 5-7 minutes.

Sift flour baking powder, and salt together. Beat into the egg mixture.

Beat in milk and vanilla.

Pour into 1 parchment lined, buttered 8″ or 9″ cake pan.

Bake in preheated 350 degree oven for 35 minutes. Test for doneness.

Remove and allow to cool on racks.

Note: To make an extra big cake, double the recipe and use 10″ cake pans. You can make it a triple or quadruple layer.

Ganache

1 1/2 c. Heavy Cream
12 oz. chopped Bittersweet Chocolate (or combination of bitter and semi-sweets)
2 T. Vanilla

In a heavy duty saucepan, bring cream to a simmer. Add chopped chocolate and stir until melted throughout. Turn down heat. Add vanilla. Stir and continue cook until chocolate ganache is thick, smooth, and shiny.

Remove from heat and allow to cool to room temperature before pouring over the layered cake.

3-5 Bananas

ASSEMBLY
Split Cake in half. (thirds, if you want to get really fancy-rich)
Spread with pastry cream
Cover with sliced bananas
Top with next cake layer
Repeat–if split into thirds

Pour cooled ganache over the layers

Garnish with pecan halves—optional

It’s fine to refrigerate–to let the ganache really set up.

When serving, keep a glass of warm water handy to clean the knife between cuts. This will insure neat-easy slicing.

When I was experimenting with mustards last month, Barbara over at Moveable Feasts wisely pointed out the timeliness of my post: just weeks from baking those Easter hams.

And that’s when I realized that any of my zesty trio–but especially the Apricot Mostarda–could be a key ingredient in the glaze.

I had also been working on a story about Cane Syrup for Relish Magazine.

In Abbeville, Louisiana, the Steen family has been making this deep amber delicacy for over 100 years. Now they are the only producing mill in the country, garnering them recognition in Slow Food’s Ark of Taste, a catalog of over 200 foods in danger of extinction.

If you have the chance to cook with this syrup, I encourage you to do so. The taste is distinctive. Cooking-wise, it is interchangeable with other syrups, such as molasses, sorghum, or honey. Steen’s has a prompt, reliable mail order service, and an easy-to-navigate website.

Lighter than molasses, Steen’s lends a deep bittersweet caramel note to foods.

And, mixed with my fruity mustard, sparked with a bit of allspice, it made a simple, yet spectacular ham glaze, with a slightly sweet nod to the South.

I took that southerly turn just a tetch further, and dusted a top-coat of pecan pieces, which readily adhered to the sticky glaze.

What a wonderful combination!

The pecans toasted onto the ham as it baked, making a nice crunchy layer. Bolstered with piquant mustard, it sealed in the meat’s juices.

I baked this ham for our Third Thursday Community Potluck, and wanted to serve something alongside that fit this Southern-style theme.

Sweet potato biscuits seemed like a perfect accompaniment, and are no more difficult to make than regular biscuits–just a few more ingredients.

You can bake the sweet potatoes well ahead of time–the day before, if need be.

I used self-rising flour (still trying to use up that mispick that worked so well for this other biscuit recipe.)

For their slap-dash, hands-on method—the less you work the dough, the better—biscuits are fun to make. This batch makes three dozen, which isn’t too many, when you have a big group, and a ham to match. The recipe I’ve given can cut in half without any problem.

I love the color. And the smell!

As biscuits bake, your kitchen will fill with the aromas of ginger and clove.

Stuffed with slices of this ham, dabbed with fruity mustard, such a biscuit is a real springtime treat.

PECAN-CRUSTED GLAZED BAKED HAM
1/2 cup Apricot Mustard
1/2 cup Steen’s Cane Syrup
2 t. Allspice
1/2 cup Pecans finely chopped

Sugar Cured Ham—shank or butt portion

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Trim ham–removing tough outer hide pieces, and any excess fat. Do leave a thin layer of fat–important to sealing in the juices of the meat.

Score the ham in crisscross fashion, cutting into that thin layer of fat–but Not all the way through to the meat layer.

In a small mixing ball, whisk the mustard, syrup, and allspice together.
Liberally coat the entire ham–all surfaces—with this glaze.
Place ham in baking dish. Pour 1 cup of water into the bottom.
Coat the upper glazed surface with finely chopped pecans.

Bake, uncovered, allowing 15 minutes per pound. An 8 lb. ham will take 2 hours.
Check periodically, adding a little more liquid so that the sugars don’t burn.

Allow the meat to rest at least 15 minutes before carving. The ham can be baked in advance and kept warm. It is also great served room temperature.

SWEET POTATO BISCUITS
2 cups cooked Sweet Potatoes
4 c. Self-Rising Flour
1/3 c. Turbinado Sugar
1 t. Ginger
1 t. Nutmeg
1/2 t. ground Cloves
1/2 c. Milk, “soured” with 1 T. Lemon Juice
10 T. cold Butter, cut into pieces

1/4 cup ground pecans and turbinado sugar blend (optional)

Ahead of Time: Bake Sweet Potatoes (2 medium sized) in 425 degree oven until done. Allow to cool, and scoop out filling.

In a large work bowl, add dry ingredients: self-rising flour, spices, sugar. Add sweet potatoes, lemon-soured milk (or buttermilk) and butter pieces.

Working with your hands, mix all the ingredients, rubbing the butter pieces into the flour. Work quickly; soon it will all come together in a mass. If it is too sticky, add a bit more flour. Beware of overworking the dough–it will toughen.

Dust the work surface with flour. Roll out dough about 1/2″ thick and cut into rounds. Place on parchment-lined baking sheet, close-set, (sides touching is fine).
Sprinkle the tops with ground pecan-brown sugar mixture.

Bake at 425 degrees for 10-12 minutes.

Makes 3 dozen 2″ round biscuits.

There’s been quite a bit of buzz in our local food community about Whispering Creek Mushroom Farm. We’ve had limited access to exotic mushrooms, locally raised. Now and then, a few farms devoted primarily to raising vegetables have inoculated logs with shiitake mushroom spores, and sold the tasty results at the market. Even rarer, friends have foraged and found chanterelles they’ve been willing to share.

Now, we have great and frequent options.

Whispering Creek is our first Mushroom Only farm, located in Gallatin Tennessee, just north of Nashville. Back in the fall, I learned about their project. Over the winter, they began selling their goods to area chefs. Now, they are ramped up enough to sell to the public.

For the past two weeks, I’ve had the good fortune to buy their gorgeous Oyster Mushrooms through our Fresh Harvest Co-op.

Don’t these look amazing? Within the oyster mushroom family, Pleutorus ostreatus, there are many members–Blue, Golden, Phoenix, Italian, Pearl…

Each cluster is like a little village, with its own personality.

The elongated scallop shape of its cap, rather than its taste, gives the oyster mushroom its name. Although, preparing in butter with a little lemon and wine, releases a sweet, subtle anise essence and silkiness that you associate with the bivalve.

Most of the mushroom is edible, and I like to tear it into pieces, rather than use a knife. The woody bits can be made into a stock.

I should note that oyster mushrooms are packed with nutrients: zinc, iron, potassium, calcium, phosphorus, folic acid, Vitamins B-1, B-2, C, and niacin.

Plus ergothioneine, a unique immune-boosting antioxidant.

There are so many good ways to showcase these beauties–in a risotto, entwined in ribbon pasta, scrambled into eggs, or sauteed and piled onto buttery toast. These mushrooms like stocks, fortified wines, and dairy. It’s an easy temptation to give over to dousing them in a pan of heavy cream.

For our Sunday brunch, I decided they’d be perfect cooked then rolled into a crepe.

I sauteed our oyster ’shrooms in butter, with some green onions, lemon zest, Marsala, and thyme. In the end, I tossed in a few knobs of cream cheese–a small but concentrated amount of dairy. It was just enough to melt into the mass and give it more body.

I resisted the temptation to make a sauce to top them. The mushroom saute was rich enough. In fact, it was hard not to grab a fork and just eat them out of the skillet!

Instead, I braised an array of greens, as a bed or base for the filled crepe. That slight bitterness brought balance, and another healthful element.

OYSTER MUSHROOMS IN BUTTER, LEMON, AND MARSALA
1/2 lb. Oyster Mushrooms, brushed clean and torn (or sliced into chunky pieces)
3 Green Onions, sliced
3 T. Butter
1 T. Lemon Zest
Juice of one Lemon
1/2 cup Marsala wine (cooking wine or sherry is acceptable)
1 T. fresh Thyme leaves
Salt
Black Pepper
2-3 T. Cream Cheese

Melt butter in skillet on medium heat. Add mushrooms and green onions. Saute for 5 minutes–mushrooms will soften and brown on the edges. Stir in lemon zest and juice.
Season with salt and black pepper. Pour in marsala wine and stir well. Mixture will reduce. Sprinkle in fresh thyme leaves. Add the cream cheese, in small knobs, into the mixture. Stir and fold, so that the cream cheese melts away into a creamy mushroomy mass. Add more marsala, or water, if mixture gets too thick.

Remove from heat.

SAVORY CREPE MIXTURE
3/4 cup All Purpose Flour
3 Eggs
3 T. Unsalted Butter, melted and slightly cooled
1 c. Milk
1 t. Salt

1 T. Butter–to grease the skillet

Place all the ingredients in a mixing bowl, or immersion blender container, and blend very well, for 3-5 minutes. The mixture will seem like cream. Cover and refrigerated for at least 30 minutes–although you can make this batter a day in advance.

Heat your skillet–a 6″ sized pan is ideal. Brush with butter. Ladle a small quantity-3 Tablespoons–into the center, and tip the skillet so it spreads thinly over the surface. The crepe should be thin-thin! It will set up quickly. When the edges are browned, flip the crepe and cook for a minute more. Slide out onto a plate and repeat the process.

if the batter gets too thick, dilute it with a little water–beat well.

This recipe made 10 large crepes (I used a 9″ pan) , but would make 16 small (from 6″ pan)

BRAISED SAVORY GREENS a bed for the mushroom crepes
1 cup Kale, deribbed and chopped
1 cup Baby Spinach, chopped
1 cup Swiss Chard, coarsely chopped
3 cloves minced Garlic
3 T. Olive Oil
1 t. Sea Salt
Red Pepper Flakes–a few pinches

Place all cleaned and chopped greens into a deep pot, along with garlic, olive oil, salt and red pepper flakes. Bring up heat to just under medium. Cover and simmer until greens are collapsed and tender, about 12 minutes.

ASSEMBLY
Lay out cooked crepes onto a work surface. Place a few spoonfuls of mushroom mix at one end and roll. Place into a skillet or casserole dish. Repeat until you’ve used up all the mushrooms. Gently heat crepes in the skillet or in the oven.

Serve over warm bed of braised greens. Garnish with shredded pecorino romano.

Allium
The Onion Family
garlic, scallions, onions, leeks, shallots, chives

I credit this humble tribe for waking me up, turning me around, and nudging me in the right culinary direction, oh-so many years ago. Once an affirmed picky eater, I had disliked ‘most everything. I had heaped onions and their ilk into my big pile of things never-ever to eat.

It wasn’t until I lived in Holland that I became enlightened to their beneficent ways.

I was an exchange student, just out of high school. Gert, my Dutch mother, was a kind and patient woman who allowed me to accompany her on her daily round of shopping for the meals. Together we’d choose vegetables, a bit of meat, potatoes–of course!–and a hearty loaf of bread. I would help her wash and cut carrots, peel the spuds, trim the white endive.

She understood that I was picky, and that I was trying to push past the barriers I’d long entrenched for myself. Working together on the meals not only helped me to better learn the language and culture, indeed it forged a loving bond, easing me into the fold of her family.

Maybe she sensed that, deep inside me, there was a burgeoning chef, the anti-picky eater.

In any case, it was her skillet thick with sliced onions, simmering in butter, softening, then gaining that rich caramel glaze that I recognize as my revelatory moment: what my writing teacher calls a “Shimmering Image.”

I had come home from a class late one afternoon, and Gert had already done most of the dinner preparations. I don’t remember what the skillet of caramelized onions was for–could have been a base for a soup or stew. It doesn’t–and didn’t– matter. What mattered was the smell. It filled the kitchen with a pungency that was heady and earthy and sweet and compelling. It touched on something–a memory? a desire?

I wasn’t sure. It was nothing I would ever have attributed to onions. I had to have a taste, pickyness be damned!

I grabbed a spoon and dug in. Mercy, what had I been missing?

It’s funny how change occurs. Often it is slow, almost imperceptible in its unfolding. And then there are those Great A-Ha’s! A dramatic turn, where nothing is the same as before. After my indulgent spoonful of sweet sauteed onions, I opened my senses to the world of food.

In no time, the disdained became the embraced.

This simple hearty soup is a celebration of that first skillet of Genus Allium. I’ve put in most of the family—I love ‘em all—each contributing a lush layer of savory-sweet bite. It’s vegetarian, although you could make it with chicken or beef stock, if you like. I prefer the straightforward vegetable. Delete the butter, and it becomes vegan.

Farro, that wonderful nutritious and nutlike grain, cooks up beautifully in the soup. It adds body, and a pleasant chewiness. Serve the soup with crusty bread—or try this easy, airy spoonbread. Essentially, it’s a cornmeal mush souffle—and it is divine.

FIVE ALLIUM FARRO SOUP
2 medium Yellow Onions, sliced “pole to pole”
2 Leeks, cleaned, cut into 1/2″ pieces
2 large Green Onions or 1 bundle thin green onions, cut into 1/4″ pieces
1 large or 2 medium Shallots, diced
5-6 cloves Garlic, chopped
2-3 T. Olive Oil
1 T. Butter
Sea Salt
Black Pepper
Red Pepper Flakes (optional)
a few sprigs fresh Thyme (optional)
a few sprigs of Chives, finely chopped
1 quart Vegetable Stock
1 cup Farro, briefly soaked in water and drained

Heat a stockpot and add olive oil and butter. Add your cut onions, leeks, shallots, and garlic. Stir well to coat the pieces. Sprinkle with salt and black pepper. Cook on medium heat, stirring occasionally. After 15 minutes (or so), the onions will begin to release their natural sugars and caramelize.

Pour in vegetable stock and stir well, scraping any browned bits on the bottom and sides of the pot. Add the farro. Cover and simmer for 30-40 minutes.

If the soup get too thick, add water–2 cups–to thin. You will not sacrifice flavor. Check seasoning—add some red pepper flakes, and fresh thyme at the end of the cooking cycle, if you like.

Spoon into bowls. Garnish with chives and serve.

Serves 4

Have you ever eaten spoonbread?

It is a Southern delicacy, light–airy—so like a souffle.

Some recipes call for separating the eggs, beating the whites and yolks separately, and folding into the mix, just as you would for a souffle. This recipe, based on the famous one served at Boone Tavern in Berea, Kentucky, calls for whole eggs, beaten into the cornmeal mush for a long time.

It, too, results in a Grand Puff.

You’ll enjoy dipping your spoon into this special treat–a bit elegant, but rustic at its roots.

SPOONBREAD, SIMPLY

2 cups Lowfat MIlk
1 cup Yellow Corn Meal
1 t. Salt
3 T. Unsalted Butter, plus 1 T. for coating baking dish
3 lightly beaten Eggs
1 t. Baking Powder

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

In a saucepan, heat milk. Stir in cornmeal and salt. Cook on medium heat, stirring continuously, until mixture thickens, but becomes smooth—corn meal mush. Stir in butter until it is melted. Remove from heat.

Place eggs into a stand mixing bowl. Add baking powder. Begin beating. Gradually add cornmeal mush. Keep beating—up to 15 minutes total. This seems long—but it beats sufficient air into the batter, which will make a delectably light spoonbread.

Pour batter into buttered baking dish or casserole.

Bake for 25-30 minutes, until spoonbread has risen, with a browned top, and a toothpick, once insert, removes clean.

Serve immediately. Serves 3-4.

Decisions, decisions!

Dijon Country Mustard, Stout Ale Mustard, or Honeyed Apricot Mustard

Which would you like slathered on your ham sandwich today?

How about a little swipe of each?

I was so pleased when I churned up this sunny trio yesterday. Each with a different hue, texture, and bite! Have you ever made your own mustard? I’d been wanting to for quite some time. Now that I know how ridiculously easy the process is, I am chagrined that I waited so long to do so.

What’s amazing is that these mustards, each with a distinct and delicious flavor profile, began with these three basic ingredients:

Yellow Mustard Seeds
Brown (or Black) Mustard Seeds
Powdered (Dry) Mustard

Plus, an array of pantry staples: Vinegars, brown sugar, honey, dried apricots, allspice, kosher salt…

In short order, your kitchen counter becomes a mustard laboratory. You’ve got a lot of creative license here. Maybe you’d like to add tarragon to one of your batches. Or lemon juice instead of vinegar. Or habanero peppers (whoa!) Or peach preserves.

Check your fridge for a stray bottle of beer or the last few swallows of Sauvignon Blanc. White wine mellows in the Dijon style mustard. A bit of Guinness enlivens the Stout brown.

The beauty is that THERE IS NO COOKING REQUIRED!

No! In fact, heating the mustard can destroy its heady properties.

Instead, a lengthy soaking time—48 hours—-in whatever compelling acid and spice infused liquid you create is what coaxes out the intense flavors. Yep, that’s what ultimately “cuts the mustard.”

Mustard-making harkens to ancient Roman times.

My online research led me to two terrific sites: Hunter Angler Gardner Cook and Kiss My Spatula. Hunter Angler includes the condiment’s fascinating history with some essential recipes. Kiss My Spatula has beautiful photographs with the tutorial. I think you’ll enjoy visiting these blogs.

I derived my inspiration from both places.

After you assemble your ingredients, you simply mix them together in a bowl. Cover, and let the acids go to work on the seeds–softening and plumping them. Over the two day period, you’ll notice changes–a natural thickening. (If it gets too thick, you can always add more liquid–even plain water—-before you process it.)

Mustard, especially when vinegar-soaked, has anti-bacterial properties. It is its own natural preservative. It can keep indefinitely in the refrigerator after you make it. It may, over time, dry out or get bitter—but that takes a while. Likely you’ll use it all before that happens.

It feels like magic when you churn that mixture with an immersion blender. (Of course, you can use your food processor, or go old school with a mortar and pestle!)

It all comes together in a savory coarse-grain kind of way.

But the real magic is when you spread your homemade mustard on a ham sandwich, or over a grilled sausage. Or whisk it in a vinagrette, dollop into deviled eggs. Or glaze a pork roast, or a warm salty pretzel! Not only will you think, “Why did I wait so long?” but “Wow. There’s no need to buy mustard ever again.”

COARSE GRAIN DIJON MUSTARD
1/2 cup White Wine
3 T. White Wine Vinegar
4 T. Yellow Mustard Seeds
2 T. Black Mustard Seeds
4 T. Powdered Mustard
2 t. Salt

Place all the ingredients in a non-reactive (such as glass, ceramic) bowl. Stir well and cover with plastic wrap. Keep at room temperature, and allow the liquid to soften the mustard seeds for 48 hours.

Uncover, and churn with an immersion blender until a smoother (but not entirely smooth) mustard. Taste for salt and spice. Place in a clean jar and refrigerate.

STOUT MUSTARD
1/2 cup Guinness Stout Ale
1/3 cup Red Wine Vinegar
5 T. Black Mustard Seeds
2 T. Yellow Mustard Seeds
1 T. Turbinado Sugar
1/4 t. Allspice
2 t. Kosher Salt

Mix all these ingredients in a non-reactive bowl. Cover with plastic wrap and let it sit out, room temperature, for 48 hours.

Stir. Using an immersion blender, blend until fairly smooth. Place in clean jar and refrigerate.

APRICOT MOSTARDA
1/2 c. Dried Apricots
2 T. Honey
2 T. Turbinado Sugar
4 T. White Balsamic Vinegar
1/4 c. Water

5 T. Yellow Mustard Seeds
3 T. Powdered Yellow Mustard
1/2 cup White Wine
2 T. White Balsamic Vinegar
2 t. Salt

In one non-reactive bowl, soak dried apricots in honey-sugar-vinegar-water solution for 2 days, covered, room temperature.

In another non-reactive bowl, soak mustard seeds and powdered mustard in wine-vinegar solution for 2 days, covered, room temperature.

After two days, combine the ingredients of both bowls. Using and immersion blender, churn the apricots into the mustard. Taste for salt and desired sweetness.

Place into clean jar and refrigerate.

Today’s post is a bit of a departure. It is not focused on food or drink. There’s no stunning roast or plate of pasta. No cooling beverage. No beguiling dessert.

And yet, there is a recipe.

An easy one, too, using four items found in most pantries:

Apple Cider Vinegar,
Honey,
Ginger,
and Cayenne…

plus some water.

And, so quick to put together, so beneficial,
I had to share it with you. Pronto!

Combined, I learned from Maggie, that quartet of pantry ingredients creates a potent remedy to some of the ails of winter: Sore throat, hacking cough, tight congestion.

Combined, they turn into a curious orange syrup that can cut through the croup.

And, the taste is really good!

Like you, we’ve been trying to duck the dreaded cold germs: wash our hands, eat well, get enough sleep, stay warm. Sometimes even the most valiant efforts get foiled.

I first mixed up a batch for Bill over the holidays, when he caught a cold accompanied by a strangling cough. The Remedy went right to work, acting as both a calming agent and expectorant.

So, last month, when I felt run down, tight with a tickle in the throat, I shook up a little Remedy. A spoonful or two seemed to break its hold, suppress the devilish tickle.

Just last night, Bill came home after a long workday. His voice was spent, and he had that dull, woozy feeling you get when the onset of a cold is trying to make its way into your head. He snatched up the little bottle, gave it a vigorous shake, and poured a tablespoonful. “Ahhhh. This is the Good Stuff,” he said.

I’m not saying it’s a cure-all, or some homeopathic miracle drug. But it did a mighty fine job taking the place of store-bought cough suppressants, expectorants, decongestants…

Wouldn’t you rather have a dose of spicy honey-cider syrup from a little jar mixed up in the kitchen than any of those bottles lurking in the medicine cabinet?

I thought so.

Stay warm. Stay healthy.
Take good care. And, if need be, take your remedy.

MAGGIE’S COUGH REMEDY
¼ t. Cayenne
¼ t. Ginger
1 T. Cider Vinegar (an organic one, like Bragg’s, is preferred.)
2 T. Water
1 T. Honey (use a locally produced raw honey, if possible.)

Dissolve cayenne and ginger in cider vinegar and water. Add honey and shake well. Take 1 T. as needed for cough. Hoo-wee.

Blooming Daffodil, photographed Sunday, February 5, 2012. Beautiful, and the earliest I have ever had this flower bloom in my yard.

My friend Allison confessed that she was becoming a hoarder. Not in the Crazy Reality TV way–thank goodness. More like in the Fill the Pantry with Good Food way. She had been buying big crates of citrus–Cara Cara oranges, and organic lemons—and making batches of marmalades, limoncello, lemon curd, preserved lemons, and the like. And, she still hadn’t made much of a dent in her purchase. So I was very happy to be the recipient of a bag of these luscious fruits, along with a pretty jar of her Cara Cara marmalade.

There’s nothing to match the power and versatility of the mighty lemon, whose juice and fragrant zest elevate all manner of sweet and savory things. And, as my initial foray into 2012 has been marked with a little slump in the kitchen, a gaze at the cooktop and cutting board with a world-weary eye, I recognized Allison’s kind gift as more than a bag of excess citrus trying find a home. No.

It was lemons to the rescue.

Just seeing them in the welcome sunlight this afternoon was a lift alone.
Lemons for Dinner? You bet.

My cousin Cathy and her husband John are both avid cooks. Whenever we get together, we love to share recipes and cook. Last visit, Cathy brought a lemon-based pasta recipe from her collection to prepare. “Capelli d’Angelo Olio e Limone” or Olive Oil and Lemon Angel Hair, from the 1997 cookbook Pastissima! Pasta the Italian Way was simple–deceptively so. There were few ingredients—a sauce comprised of onion cooked in a fair amount of olive oil, mixed with a lot of lemon juice, tossed throughout pasta, and dusted with parmesan.

It took mere minutes to make—and was truly delicious.

The lemons today inspired my to recreate the dish—with a few modifications. Rather than using onion, I substituted a leek. Lemon and leek are terrific together, and the strips of light green tangled throughout the pasta bring welcome color.

Other change-ups include red pepper flakes for bite, over black pepper, and pecorino-romano for pungency, over parmesan.

Without question, this pasta would be a fine foundation for a plank of grilled fish, a tender fillet of trout, even a scatter of lump crabmeat. But solo, it is exceptional, light yet rich, with a pleasant tang. It’s the kind of toss that accentuates the angel hair, rather than masking it with a complex sauce. So use your best here–DeCecco’s Capellini No.9 has been a constant favorite.

This romaine salad is one that I refer to as a “Mock Caesar”—it lacks the depth that anchovies bring to the traditional version, but is just right for the Vegetarian in my household.

Here lemon juice, roasted garlic cloves, and extra virgin olive oil cream up together into a vibrant dressing, generously tossed on chopped romaine leaves mixed with some finely sliced red cabbage.

Again, simple ingredients—simply assembled. It’s more a matter of using your best. Roasting the garlic brings out an inherent sweetness, and the softened cloves act as an emulsifier in the lemon-forward dressing. A crusty piece of ciabatta transforms readily into croutons. Sprinkle some fresh thyme over the cubed bread before toasting for an welcome herbal note.

With this salad and pasta, you can let the lemony sunshine in.

CAPELLINI WITH LEMON, LEEKS, AND OLIVE OIL (adapted from Pastissima! Pasta the Italian Way by Leonardo Castellucci
1 Leek, finely sliced
1/3 cup Olive Oil
Juice of 1 1/2 large Lemons
Sea Salt
Red Pepper Flakes
1/2 cup shedded Pecorino-Romano
6 ounces Capellini (DeCecco is excellent)

Heat olive oil on medium in a skillet or cast-iron pot. Add the leeks, and cook for about 5 minutes, until they become soft. Cook the capellini according to package directions–about 2 minutes in a large pot of salted boiling water. Drain well.

Place pasta in the pot with the leeks and olive oil. Sprinkle with sea salt, red pepper flakes (a couple of pinches) and pour lemon juice over all. Add most of the shredded cheese, reserving some to garnish the top of the pasta after it is served. Toss well, so that the lemon, olive oil, and leeks coat all the strands of pasta.

Serve in warm bowls. Dust with more pecorino. Enjoy!

Makes 2 generous servings.

ROMAINE SALAD WITH ROASTED GARLIC-LEMON DRESSING
1 head Romaine lettuce, washed, dried, and chopped
1 cup Red Cabbage, very finely sliced
2 cups homemade Croutons (cubed from a good crusty loaf, tossed in olive oil, seasoned with salt, black pepper, fresh thyme–toasted in a 300 degree oven for 15 minutes, or until lightly browned)
1 cup shredded Pecorino-Romano

Juice from 1/2 large Lemon
3 Garlic Cloves, oven-roasted
1/2 cup Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Sea Salt
Cracked Black Pepper

immersion blender

In a salad bowl, assemble romaine, red cabbage, croutons and shredded pecorino.

In a measuring cup or small mixing bowl, place lemon juice, roasted garlic cloves, salt and pepper. Using the immersion blender, begin mixing. The garlic will cream into the lemon juice. Add the olive oil slowly, and continue blending. Taste for seasoning.

Pour over salad greens and toss well. Serves 4