Category Archives: Food

Last month I had an amazing pizza in the North End of Boston. It had a crispy, thin crust, a spattering of goat cheese, some figs, and a topping of fresh arugula. Not traditional by any means, but all the better for it. It haunted me, as much for its taste as for its simple rustic charm, and when I found a few similar recipes online I decided to try my hand at it.

Now, I’m not good with dough, especially pizza dough. It’s so… messy. And sticky. And it doesn’t ever do what you want it to do. I’m not one of those people who likes to “play” in the kitchen either. Aside from the occasional piece of pasta thrown at the wall (for what purpose again?) I don’t really mess around. So, rolling out the pizza dough was my least favorite part of this whole pizza-making process, and one I did rather poorly. I wanted thin crust, but this thing just puffed up like the stay-puffed marshmallow man. It wasn’t pretty – at least, it wasn’t quite what I was after. But that was the only part that didn’t work.

I assembled this version with goat cheese, some mozzarella (we had to use it up), figs, and arugula, but I added some bacon as well, and finished it off with something that, in my humble opinion, surpassed the original: a balsamic honey reduction that was both sweet and savory, and a veritable orgasmic explosion for the taste-buds.

There’s something about a wine or vinegar reduction that is magical. I don’t know the science of it, or why it works so well, but it’s sublime. And on a pizza like this, well, it’s beyond good. Obviously, it couldn’t quite recapture the exact alchemy of the North End original (that was truly a special event), but it came close, and brought me back to the freshness of a summer day, when a weekend in Boston was laid out before me, and I had nothing to do but soak it all up.

This dish was an eye-opener and educator for me. With it, I learned that curry is not a spice unto itself – it’s actually a combination of several spices – coriander, turmeric and cumin. I always thought curry was, well, curry. (Told you I was a novice in the kitchen.) I also learned how good tamarind and coconut milk tasted together – particularly when topped by fresh cilantro – and how easy and quick it was to cook a piece of white fish (in this case tilapia) in such a simmering sauce.

Baby steps, folks. One day we’ll look back on this and laugh, like one might at mistaking cilantro for parsley.

If you’ve seen ‘The Drowsy Chaperone’ you know that I did not make up the title of this post – some drunken diva did, which only makes me love it more. It works here, when one needs a spicier name than ‘Plum Crumble’ for the deliciousness you see before you. Since plums have been in season, I gave in and bought a bunch of the prune variety, and did the only sort of baking I do, which means a crumble. (I’ll never be a baker or a candle-stick maker.)

Next time, if there is a next time, I would opt for using the larger plums in this recipe, as the smaller prune plums were more work to prepare. A crumble is very forgiving though, hence its favored (only) status in my baking repertoire. I also loved how the rather yucky and non-descript color of the flesh and skin turned into this gorgeous vermillion shade during the baking process.

The recipe is from Martha Stewart, bless her heart (and I mean that in the Southernmost way) and it works quite well. For someone more versed in baking, I’m sure a crumble (or in Martha’s words an ‘oatmeal crisp’ – I’m probably wrong about the whole name, actually) is a joke. For me, it was a triumph. Give it a whirl.

It figures that as soon as I start to get the hang of this cooking thing, our kitchen is about to undergo a major renovation, meaning it will be out of commission for the next few months. Oh well, it was good while it lasted, and I can bask in the glow of this sort of photographic evidence that I didn’t do half-badly.

Here is a dinner made up of grilled yellowtail tuna, grilled zucchini and red peppers, and steamed rice with black sesame seeds. We’ve got some time before the kitchen work begins in earnest, so there will be a few more posts culled from our sad kitchen, but its time is coming to a close.

Andy may be the best at making an omelet, pancakes, French toast, and any number of breakfast foods (which he doesn’t usually eat), but I’m the one who knows how to poach eggs. And assemble them nicely on a toasted slice of whole wheat bread, a bed of avocados, and some arugula. Hence this simple but surprisingly fancy bit of breakfast.

I buttered the toast, and added some salt and pepper to the top, but mostly this dish relies on the freshness of the ingredients, and the golden runny egg yolk, for its flavor. My favorite part is the avocado – a few slices of nature’s butter make all the difference. (Avocado hints: rub the skin with lemon to stop it from turning brown, and if you want to save half of it for a later time, leave the inner pit intact and refrigerate.)

The prune plums are in season now, so I bought a box of them from the local farmer’s market. As a kid, I loved eating them plain, skin and all, with their sticky sweetness running over my fingers and down my chin. By some oddly-unintentional coincidence, I’d often eat them while sitting in an actual plum tree, an old, gnarled one that never produced fruit, but that bloomed in pristine white every spring. It grew on the island in the middle of our street.

Its dark foliage shaded me from the sun, and from every wound or gash it bled sticky sap that hardened into amber-hued globules that added to the texture of the tree. If you caught the sap at just the right time, you could press your fingers into it and leave a fingerprint. Bees would swarm around the sap, but never bothered me.

Up on the second main trunk, the one that leaned low to the ground after years of growth, heavy snows, and climbing kids, I sat and ate my plum, gnawing the flesh and skin around the pit then tossing the latter to the grass below. It was the end of summer. School would start soon, but for that moment there was just a plum and a boy in a tree.

A few years ago, I documented a disastrous attempt at making pancakes from scratch. I thought that would be much more authentic and good than relying on pre-made mixes like Bisquick, so I printed out a well-reviewed recipe by the Barefoot Contessa, Ina Garten. No offense to the Contessa, and it was probably no fault of the recipe, but the results were, well, awful. Even with butter and non-stick spray, the batter stuck to the grill. When I did get the first pancake up and flipped, it ended up somehow both burnt and raw at the same time. Oh well, I thought, most people say you lose the first two to practice anyway.

Well, I managed to lose the first twelve (out of twelve) to this same scenario, and by that point the kitchen was so thick with the smoke of burnt butter, raw yet blackened batter, and one charred plastic spatula (my only real mistake), that Andy had been awakened from his slumber. At the frazzled end of my already-limited patience, and wanting nothing more than a simple freaking pancake, I begged him to take over.

Literally ten minutes later, a pile of perfect pancakes sat on a plate, awaiting butter and syrup. If I wasn’t so grateful for the sight, I’d have stormed off in a huff of shifted blame. As it were, I gratefully accepted the plate and ate them down, looking over at my dismal try with defeated eyes. I asked him how he did it and he pointed to the Bisquick.

“But that’s not from scratch,” I whined. He said he never heard of anyone making pancakes from scratch. “Umm, have you heard of the Barefoot Contessa? Do you think Martha Stewart uses Bisquick?!” He shook his head and left the room. I finished the pancakes.

Later on, I asked a few friends and it turns out the whole freaking world uses Bisquick, or a pre-made mix for pancakes. Apparently this is one of those things that everyone just knows, but that no one taught me ~ like how to pump gas, or how to tie a shoe without making bunny ears.

When I saw a container of ripe blueberries sitting on the counter a few weeks ago, and felt a hankering for pancakes, I checked to make sure that Andy was still asleep and gave it another try. This time I used the Bisquick recipe ~ and every single pancake, from the first to the last, came out perfectly edible. I was eating them by hand waiting for the next batch to start bubbling. It turns out that in matters of pancakes, Bisquick beats the Barefoot Contessa.

This fish-rice-vegetable (FRV) trio consists of rainbow trout and green beans (both in a fresh tarragon and lemon glaze) and some steamed rice (with black sesame seeds). The trout was sprinkled with a little paprika, then grilled in foil for a few minutes. It probably could have withstood a direct grilling, but the fishmonger said foil would be safer. When it comes to dinner, I won’t risk losing anything through the grill slats. (That’s a side of me that no one wants to see.)

The FRV has become a summer standard this year, in my wavering quest to eat a bit healthier. Come fall, I’ll need to find a new way to prepare all this fish – we’ve been spoiled with the grill. (And yes, I said the ‘F’ word – fall. It’s coming, whether we like it or not.)

First Fig

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends –
It gives a lovely light.

– Edna St. Vincent Millay

Apart from the wretched fig newton, or the occasional pizza-with-arugula-goat-cheese-and-fig, I’ve never had much experience with figs (other than the ornamental fig tree, Ficus benjamina). That changed when a friend alerted me to a bunch of fresh ones at Trader Joe’s. They were perfectly ripe – exceedingly soft, like the thickest velvet – so I picked up a small package and sought out help from another culinary expert. He advised me to try them plain, and also with goat cheese and honey.

Their taste is sweet, but not overly so. The texture is distinct, the seeds soft, and I love that you can eat the skin and all. They’re quite a sensual fruit – lovers in other lands must have fed them to each other while lounging in silk robes and whispering of conquests and legacies and a love to defy time and space.

These paired well with the goat cheese alone, but the light bite of the latter was much better when tempered with a coating of honey. It’s hard to imagine improving upon such a perfect product of nature, but honey lifts a lot of things.

I’m told that figs also pair well with prosciutto, which I can see. There’s a magical bond between sweet and savory if done correctly, but I’m saving that for another day.

Second Fig

Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

–  Edna St. Vincent Millay

All due apologies to the politically-correct among you who may object to the name of these sweet treats, but I didn’t come up with it, so don’t blame the messenger. My pal Peaches delivered a batch of these brownies all the way from Cape Cod a couple of weekends ago, and I was instantly hooked. She didn’t initially reveal what was in them, instead making me guess at what I was tasting. First off, they are aptly named, as you will feel like you just got hit by the best thing you’ve had in your mouth since you know what, and the explosion that results is far tastier too. Second, though some of the flavors sound impossibly disparate (peanut butter and mint?), they somehow come together for something miraculous.

The recipe is simple enough, with lots of room for variation, and the work consists mostly in the assembly. Line a baking pan (9″ x 11″) with parchment paper or non-stick cooking spray. Lay down a layer of chocolate chip cookie dough (use a boxed version for best results), then a layer of snack size peanut butter cups (not the mini size), then a layer of grasshopper cookies (or mint oreos), then in the spaces between fill in with a smaller chocolate items. (Peaches used dark-chocolate-covered pomegranates – I opted for simple chocolate chips.) On top of all this, pour a layer of brownie batter (again, a simple box version works best). Bake this at 350 degrees for about 40 to 45 minutes (under-bake when in doubt). The results are amazing. I literally could not eat less than two every time I passed the kitchen. Many thanks to Peaches for the recipe, and for ruining my waist line! (It was so worth it.)

Continuing on the poached egg kick, this was a breakfast sandwich I made using an English muffin, some smoked salmon, roasted asparagus, and a poached egg. When the ingredients are good, you don’t always need a fancy sauce to cover things up. A little salt and pepper, perhaps a pat of butter on the muffin, and you’re good to go.

Until last week I had never poached an egg in my life. I’ve certainly enjoyed them in quantity, but never personally done the whole poaching thing myself. I’d heard tales of what a pain it was to do correctly, how sometimes it was nothing short of disastrous, but nothing terrible befell me on my virgin attempt. I wanted it to top a radish and avocado salad – a light little summer dish that, with the egg, could double as an entree. (And to appease the impatient part of me, a plate of radishes and salt with a baguette until the assembly and poaching was complete.)

A friend advised the use of an egg poacher, but I was not about to get any additional kitchen paraphernalia (we have way too much stuff – the apple peeler-corer-slicer has not been seen in years). Luckily people have been poaching eggs without professional poachers for years. The directions I used called for softly boiling water – just barely bubbling – and a tablespoon or so of cider vinegar. I’m a big fan of vinegar, so the warnings of it affecting the flavor did not matter to me, and if it was going to help keep the egg together I was all for it. I swirled the water around a bit, cracked the egg into a small bowl, and then carefully deposited it in the center of the pot. It stayed pretty much put, and I spooned some water over it to help cook the top. After three minutes, I removed it with a slotted spoon and placed it carefully upon the salad.

Once cut, the yolk ran golden yellow and gooey, coating the salad and avocado with rich cholesterol. I don’t often have instantly successful kitchen stories (ask Andy about the pancakes sometime) but every now and then it all comes together like a perfectly poached egg.

And for those three minutes of poaching/lollygagging, don’t forget the baguette.

For someone who doesn’t eat or like breakfast all that much, Andy sure knows how to cook up a decent omelette. On decadent days he renders the grease from some bacon for the process, but for summer that’s a little too much stove-top action. On these days we go a little lighter, with some fresh herbs from the garden.

This is the first year where I’ve consciously planted a number of herbs for our culinary preparations, and it has certainly paid off. A collection of dill, flat-leaf parsley, and basil comprises the addendum to this omelette. (A garnish of curly parsley centers the dish.)

With a small sliced tomato and a couple of toast points, breakfast is served.

PS – How obnoxious is the term ‘toast points’? I think very, which I why I won’t stop using it.

Having gotten more comfortable with a simple vinaigrette (a lot of whisking goes a long way), I tried my hand at this easy salad recipe, utilizing a base of baby greens and thinly-sliced fennel, topped with a few slices of avocado. It’s the perfect choice to pair with a chicken or fish dish that utilizes lemon in some other fashion. To halt the avocado from turning brown once it’s sliced, rub with an extra lemon wedge – the acidic juice will prevent it from going brown (the same trick that is used for apples).

As for the dressing, this was a very good one – filled with flavor from the zest and the garlic, and given a different twist by the miracle elixir that is White Balsamic vinegar. I’ve seen it recommended to add the olive oil in a slow steady stream while whisking furiously. I’m not that coordinated, so I end up with everything added at one time, but the addition of the mustard starts the mixing process, and if you use enough arm action it should come together nicely. (Keep your sexual innuendoes out of my salad-preparation, please.)

Lemon Dijon Vinaigrette

– 2 Tbsp. lemon juice

– 1 tsp. lemon zest

– 2 Tbsp. white balsamic vinegar

– 1 Tbsp. Dijon mustard

– 6 Tbsp. olive oil

– 1 clove garlic (pressed through garlic press)

– Salt & pepper to taste