Once upon a time, I made the mistake of trying to persuade a fellow I was dating to rethink something. Girls, don’t try this at home. Or out. Or in the car.
Important news bulletin; please sit down: Men do not like being told what to do.
Well, no one does, right? But where a woman will tell you--and men, you can attest to this--just exactly what you did in 1992 that so troubled her, men do not do that. They simply go back to that planet they come from.
My friend David, rest in peace, once told me that when he was annoyed at someone and the person would call him to suggest a get-together, “I think, ‘No, I don’t want to have lunch with you. I want to kill you slowly.’ But what I say is, ‘Gosh, I’d love to, but I’m just real busy.’”
Men keep you guessing.
When I dated Prince Food Chain, I didn’t know what I know now. Because now I am old. I am 212 years old, but I am well-preserved because I ate so much herring in my formative years. (Which are still going on. Pass the herring, wouldya?)
The Prince made a point of saying that he didn’t eat small fish because they were eaten by large fish. (Or was it that he didn't eat large fish because they ate small fish? Once you get south of 100 years, memory fades--except for that guy in seventh grade.)
Now, one might think that every self-respecting fish probably had its eye on something smaller when it came to dinner. One might eat chicken, too. He didn't, and he wouldn't--I think it was the bones--though he said he didn't mind if I did. Luckily, bread and wine presented not a single problem. Holy communion, Batman! We were also soulmates when it came to dessert.
“Why are men so strange?” I sometimes ask my brother, as I tell him the latest.
“We feel the same way about you,” he replies.
Other news you can use: Borage flowers showed up at Heirloom Organics at the Ferry Plaza Farmers’ Market last week. They look like something from outer space (always a good sign, unless lights are flashing and you are being motioned toward a vehicle--in which case, it's your call). I took one taste and said, “I’m going to use this with fish.” Dave smiled. “Anchovies,” I said, “or maybe sardines.” He said, “I put it on pasta.” That sounds good, too. Hey, I’d eat this pesto off my boyfriend’s arm--as long as the boyfriend in question wasn’t Prince Food Chain. No, the Prince wouldn’t have liked this sandwich at all. So if you see him, don’t mention it.
Sardines a la Monday:
½ can sardines in spring water
2 slices sprouted rye bread
For the pesto:
Handful borage flowers (or use thyme)
1 stalk green garlic
1 stalk green shallot (or use a small shallot and some chives or the green part of a scallion)
Juice and zest of ½ lemon
2 anchovies
Drizzle really good extra virgin olive oil (I used LA)
Healthy sprinkle of fresh-ground black pepper
Pound the green garlic a bit, then chop with green shallot and borage flowers. Add the lemon juice and zest and the anchovies. Blend in the food processor. Drizzle in olive oil, add pepper, and taste.
Spread pesto on one slice of bread, place a couple of sardines on the other, combine, and enjoy. Tonight that sandwich had some great company: asparagus and fresh orange bergamot mint tea.
©2011, 2015 Laynie Tzena.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Tuxedo Under Raincoat, or Listen to Jim: Anthropology for Foodies
I was at the Farmers' Market the other day, eyeing some especially good-looking Lisbon lemons Twin Girls Farms had on offer.
"Do you have any Meyer lemons?" somebody asked.
"Sorry, no," came the reply.
And she passed right over those Lisbons.
Now, I think Meyer lemons are out of this world. Some people have Meyer lemon trees in their very own backyards. Lucky ducks. I have a fruit tree, too, with figs so beautiful they could make you cry, so full you know they will burst any minute. But those figs, like the tree that is their very own display rack, belong to my landlord, and I wouldn't dream of touching them.
Because once upon a time I had a (fill in adjective here) neighbor who was growing something I have blocked out of memory. (I was growing black peppermint and perpendicular carrots* at the time, since you asked, and rosemary that is now approximately the size of those items so popular during the month of December.)
I mentioned to my neighbor, in passing, that I had tasted a strawberry or whatever it was and he should feel free to have some mint and rosemary and perhaps a perpendicular carrot, too, and next thing you know Mr. Wonderful had written in red, on a piece of wood that he had thoughtfully nailed to the garden wall, a note informing me that he had taken something of mine from the garden in restitution, and then I believe he shared with me and whomever else happened to be reading the garden wall at the time some actions he was considering.
Fortunately, our paths never crossed after that because a) he was on another floor; and b) I avoided him like the plague. And then one day he moved to another state and I could go into the backyard again.**
Praise the Lord.
At any rate: I was tempted to ask the nice lady shopping at the Farmers' Market if she had ever heard of oranges or mandarins (which we in New Jersey always called "tangerines," but I digress). Because I wanted to tell her what I realized sometime last year: a lemon--say, one of those fine Lisbon lemons that was languishing right in front of her very eyes) + an orange or an orange relative = (pretty much) 1 Meyer lemon.
I kept my mouth shut.
Reminded me of the times I've been at Whole Foods and they've had one of their fabulous half- or whole salmon sales. We're talking beautiful fish here. And someone comes up to the counter and asks for the $49/lb. salmon filet. And I ask what they're planning to do with the fish.
They are putting a sauce on it.
This is a bit like putting a raincoat on a tuxedo and not removing it for the entire evening. (The raincoat. If you are in the habit of taking off your tuxedo in the middle of the festivities, I cannot help you.)
But as my mother likes to say, "As long as they're happy."
While I am at the fish counter I do (gently) lobby for people to split the half- or whole salmon with me, though. That's a lotta salmon.
And now, back to Pesach.
Maroo-Cashew Charoset:
¼ cup Maroo raisins (or pour boiling water over Thompson raisins and plump for about 10 minutes)
2-3 dates (at least one Medjool and one Deglet, which is a bit dryer)
3 kumquats
2 tablespoons raw cashews
1 blood orange
1 lemon
1 slice ginger root, peeled and minced; or a pinch of ground ginger
Sesame seeds (unless you’re off kitniyot*** this week)
Preheat oven to 250 degrees. Plump raisins, if not Maroo. Place cashews on cookie sheet and toast (or dry roast them in a cast iron skillet), then chop. Chop dates into small pieces. Slice kumquats in half and remove seeds, chop without removing rind, and add to dates and raisins. Cut blood orange and lemon in half. (Reserve the unused half of each.) Juice the half-blood orange and half-lemon, then remove the zest from them. Add the toasted cashews and zest to the fruit mixture, along with the fresh or ground ginger. Now add the blood orange and lemon juice, toss, and taste. If needed, juice the remaining blood orange and lemon and add to the charoset. Toast sesame seeds, place atop charoset, and serve.
*There is nothing like growing your own carrots to give you enormous respect for the well-formed versions found at the Farmers' Markets and the store.
**I've had lots of neighbors in the 20-plus years I've lived here. Many have become friends. Some have been memorable: a couple that seemed to be practicing modern dance--until the police came; the woman who audibly enjoyed her boyfriend. But Mr. Wonderful does stand out. Rumor has it he is now in the South. I imagine him living in Flannery O'Connor's old neighborhood.
***What’s “kitniyot”? Among other things, sesame seeds. Honey, you could always look it up, you know.
Wait. What do you mean "Listen to Jim"?
I asked my friend Jim at the Farmers' Market if he thought it was funny when people would tell him their orders each time, week after week, given that they usually ordered the same exact thing.
He said, "You really want to know what I think?"
"Yeah," I said.
Somebody else might have looked around to see if anybody else could hear him. Not Jim. He just smiled and said, "People are weird about food."
©2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015 Laynie Tzena.
"Do you have any Meyer lemons?" somebody asked.
"Sorry, no," came the reply.
And she passed right over those Lisbons.
Now, I think Meyer lemons are out of this world. Some people have Meyer lemon trees in their very own backyards. Lucky ducks. I have a fruit tree, too, with figs so beautiful they could make you cry, so full you know they will burst any minute. But those figs, like the tree that is their very own display rack, belong to my landlord, and I wouldn't dream of touching them.
Because once upon a time I had a (fill in adjective here) neighbor who was growing something I have blocked out of memory. (I was growing black peppermint and perpendicular carrots* at the time, since you asked, and rosemary that is now approximately the size of those items so popular during the month of December.)
I mentioned to my neighbor, in passing, that I had tasted a strawberry or whatever it was and he should feel free to have some mint and rosemary and perhaps a perpendicular carrot, too, and next thing you know Mr. Wonderful had written in red, on a piece of wood that he had thoughtfully nailed to the garden wall, a note informing me that he had taken something of mine from the garden in restitution, and then I believe he shared with me and whomever else happened to be reading the garden wall at the time some actions he was considering.
Fortunately, our paths never crossed after that because a) he was on another floor; and b) I avoided him like the plague. And then one day he moved to another state and I could go into the backyard again.**
Praise the Lord.
At any rate: I was tempted to ask the nice lady shopping at the Farmers' Market if she had ever heard of oranges or mandarins (which we in New Jersey always called "tangerines," but I digress). Because I wanted to tell her what I realized sometime last year: a lemon--say, one of those fine Lisbon lemons that was languishing right in front of her very eyes) + an orange or an orange relative = (pretty much) 1 Meyer lemon.
I kept my mouth shut.
Reminded me of the times I've been at Whole Foods and they've had one of their fabulous half- or whole salmon sales. We're talking beautiful fish here. And someone comes up to the counter and asks for the $49/lb. salmon filet. And I ask what they're planning to do with the fish.
They are putting a sauce on it.
This is a bit like putting a raincoat on a tuxedo and not removing it for the entire evening. (The raincoat. If you are in the habit of taking off your tuxedo in the middle of the festivities, I cannot help you.)
But as my mother likes to say, "As long as they're happy."
While I am at the fish counter I do (gently) lobby for people to split the half- or whole salmon with me, though. That's a lotta salmon.
And now, back to Pesach.
Maroo-Cashew Charoset:
¼ cup Maroo raisins (or pour boiling water over Thompson raisins and plump for about 10 minutes)
2-3 dates (at least one Medjool and one Deglet, which is a bit dryer)
3 kumquats
2 tablespoons raw cashews
1 blood orange
1 lemon
1 slice ginger root, peeled and minced; or a pinch of ground ginger
Sesame seeds (unless you’re off kitniyot*** this week)
Preheat oven to 250 degrees. Plump raisins, if not Maroo. Place cashews on cookie sheet and toast (or dry roast them in a cast iron skillet), then chop. Chop dates into small pieces. Slice kumquats in half and remove seeds, chop without removing rind, and add to dates and raisins. Cut blood orange and lemon in half. (Reserve the unused half of each.) Juice the half-blood orange and half-lemon, then remove the zest from them. Add the toasted cashews and zest to the fruit mixture, along with the fresh or ground ginger. Now add the blood orange and lemon juice, toss, and taste. If needed, juice the remaining blood orange and lemon and add to the charoset. Toast sesame seeds, place atop charoset, and serve.
*There is nothing like growing your own carrots to give you enormous respect for the well-formed versions found at the Farmers' Markets and the store.
**I've had lots of neighbors in the 20-plus years I've lived here. Many have become friends. Some have been memorable: a couple that seemed to be practicing modern dance--until the police came; the woman who audibly enjoyed her boyfriend. But Mr. Wonderful does stand out. Rumor has it he is now in the South. I imagine him living in Flannery O'Connor's old neighborhood.
***What’s “kitniyot”? Among other things, sesame seeds. Honey, you could always look it up, you know.
Wait. What do you mean "Listen to Jim"?
I asked my friend Jim at the Farmers' Market if he thought it was funny when people would tell him their orders each time, week after week, given that they usually ordered the same exact thing.
He said, "You really want to know what I think?"
"Yeah," I said.
Somebody else might have looked around to see if anybody else could hear him. Not Jim. He just smiled and said, "People are weird about food."
©2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015 Laynie Tzena.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Do Your Own Dance
So it's Pesach ("Passover," in English), and that means letting go of the usual food. For those of us who start our days with hot cereal, half the time (steel cut oats, for me; look for my favorite version at "It's All About Ed and Mollie" on this very blog), it's quite a ride. It really is something to see how you feel when your favorite foods are suddenly gone. It can throw you a bit, but it's also very freeing.
More good news. There is something called charoset that was apparently invented not just to symbolize the bricks and mortar from way back when we were in the construction business, but also to help people today get through this particular week.
Here's a version of charoset I came up with in my kitchen. Try this once, and then do your own dance. Maybe you'll use apricots instead of the persimmons, almonds or pistachios instead of the hazelnuts. Whatever you do, make it delicious, and make it yours.
Cinnamon Orange Persimmon Charoset:
2 dried whole persimmons
2 Medjool or 4 Derrie dates
1 navel orange*
¼ cup walnuts
¼ cup hazelnuts
1 lime
½ teaspoon Vietnamese cinnamon**
Cocoa powder
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Place walnuts and hazelnuts on cookie sheet and toast (or dry roast them in a cast iron skillet), then chop them. Chop persimmons and dates. Slice orange in half; remove white pith and membrane, so you have sections.
Now cut those orange sections into little, tiny pieces, squeezing them a little as you go, so they dissolve a bit. Place oranges in bowl with persimmons and dates. Using a microplane or a zester (or you could always use a grater; just keep those Band-Aids handy), remove outer peel (called zest) from orange and lime, and add to the oranges, persimmons, and dates. Add the chopped nuts, Vietnamese cinnamon, and a pinch of cocoa powder. Juice the lime, add to the charoset, toss and serve.
*If the navel orange is dry, just add a bit of fresh orange juice or red wine to the charoset at the end. You could also use a Murcott or even a Minneola.
**If you don't have Vietnamese cinnamon, use either really fresh cinnamon or heat the one that's been sitting in the cupboard in a dry skillet for a few minutes to add more flavor.
©2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015 Laynie Tzena.
More good news. There is something called charoset that was apparently invented not just to symbolize the bricks and mortar from way back when we were in the construction business, but also to help people today get through this particular week.
Here's a version of charoset I came up with in my kitchen. Try this once, and then do your own dance. Maybe you'll use apricots instead of the persimmons, almonds or pistachios instead of the hazelnuts. Whatever you do, make it delicious, and make it yours.
Cinnamon Orange Persimmon Charoset:
2 dried whole persimmons
2 Medjool or 4 Derrie dates
1 navel orange*
¼ cup walnuts
¼ cup hazelnuts
1 lime
½ teaspoon Vietnamese cinnamon**
Cocoa powder
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Place walnuts and hazelnuts on cookie sheet and toast (or dry roast them in a cast iron skillet), then chop them. Chop persimmons and dates. Slice orange in half; remove white pith and membrane, so you have sections.
Now cut those orange sections into little, tiny pieces, squeezing them a little as you go, so they dissolve a bit. Place oranges in bowl with persimmons and dates. Using a microplane or a zester (or you could always use a grater; just keep those Band-Aids handy), remove outer peel (called zest) from orange and lime, and add to the oranges, persimmons, and dates. Add the chopped nuts, Vietnamese cinnamon, and a pinch of cocoa powder. Juice the lime, add to the charoset, toss and serve.
*If the navel orange is dry, just add a bit of fresh orange juice or red wine to the charoset at the end. You could also use a Murcott or even a Minneola.
**If you don't have Vietnamese cinnamon, use either really fresh cinnamon or heat the one that's been sitting in the cupboard in a dry skillet for a few minutes to add more flavor.
©2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015 Laynie Tzena.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Save That Daylight, or Better Than Fine
Welcome back! (I know, that's your line.)
So: My new illustrated story, "Mirror, Mirror on the Floor, or The Evolution of the Feminine," which I spent the last two months creating for the BJE show (bjesf.org, ask me about it sometime) is now up at the Jewish Library. And no, you don't have to be Jewish to go and see it. You do have to be in San Francisco, though. But hey, it's everybody's favorite city, right?
What? Food, you say? Oh, honey, do I have recipes for you. Let's start with "Hickory Dickory Chicory," from here:
http://cookwithlaynie.blogspot.com/2010/06/identical-cousins-or-that-reminds-me-in.html
You know, I have really been missing that salad and trying to think of what to use until cherries come back into season.
Yeah, sure, dried cherries, but no. They just weren't right for this.
I kept asking people, "So what do you think would be a good substitute for fresh cherries in a salad?" and they kept looking at me funny.
Then one day I thought, "Turkish apricots!"
Now, I often think of Turkish apricots. But this time it was because of their luscious texture, which seemed closer to a fresh cherry than a dried cherry would be (families are like that) and a sweetness that's not over-the-top and might provide a nice balance to the slight bitterness of the radicchio.
And the verdict? They were just fine. In fact, better than fine.
So here, for our dining pleasure, is the tail-end-of-winter version.
Hickory Dickory Save-That-Daylight Chicory:
For the salad:
1 head radicchio di Chioggia (the roundish red one)
Healthy handful (say 1/4 lb. or so) dried Turkish apricots
For the dressing:
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon canola oil
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon toasted walnut oil
1 tablespoon port vinegar (I love O vinegar for this)
Smidgen of Dijon mustard
Healthy pinch of freshly-ground black pepper
Tiny pinch of salt
Cut off the very bottom of the radicchio, and pull the leaves off the base. Rinse and pat dry, then pile the leaves one on top of the other and slice into strips. Slice strips in half and set aside.
Chop the apricots into half-inch pieces, then gently pull those pieces open so the fleshy part of the apricot soaks up the vinaigrette. Be sure to eat a couple of pieces as you go, in the interest of science.
Whisk the oils, vinegar, mustard, and pepper together, and taste the dressing. Add salt as needed. Now add the radicchio and toss; add the apricots, toss again, and serve.
And yes, I think extra daylight is a fine idea. I am past the days of thinking, "Maybe I won't switch," which is a great approach until you realize the rest of the world will view you not as brave and independent, but simply late.
©2011, 2013, 2014 Laynie Tzena.
So: My new illustrated story, "Mirror, Mirror on the Floor, or The Evolution of the Feminine," which I spent the last two months creating for the BJE show (bjesf.org, ask me about it sometime) is now up at the Jewish Library. And no, you don't have to be Jewish to go and see it. You do have to be in San Francisco, though. But hey, it's everybody's favorite city, right?
What? Food, you say? Oh, honey, do I have recipes for you. Let's start with "Hickory Dickory Chicory," from here:
http://cookwithlaynie.blogspot.com/2010/06/identical-cousins-or-that-reminds-me-in.html
You know, I have really been missing that salad and trying to think of what to use until cherries come back into season.
Yeah, sure, dried cherries, but no. They just weren't right for this.
I kept asking people, "So what do you think would be a good substitute for fresh cherries in a salad?" and they kept looking at me funny.
Then one day I thought, "Turkish apricots!"
Now, I often think of Turkish apricots. But this time it was because of their luscious texture, which seemed closer to a fresh cherry than a dried cherry would be (families are like that) and a sweetness that's not over-the-top and might provide a nice balance to the slight bitterness of the radicchio.
And the verdict? They were just fine. In fact, better than fine.
So here, for our dining pleasure, is the tail-end-of-winter version.
Hickory Dickory Save-That-Daylight Chicory:
For the salad:
1 head radicchio di Chioggia (the roundish red one)
Healthy handful (say 1/4 lb. or so) dried Turkish apricots
For the dressing:
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon canola oil
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon toasted walnut oil
1 tablespoon port vinegar (I love O vinegar for this)
Smidgen of Dijon mustard
Healthy pinch of freshly-ground black pepper
Tiny pinch of salt
Cut off the very bottom of the radicchio, and pull the leaves off the base. Rinse and pat dry, then pile the leaves one on top of the other and slice into strips. Slice strips in half and set aside.
Chop the apricots into half-inch pieces, then gently pull those pieces open so the fleshy part of the apricot soaks up the vinaigrette. Be sure to eat a couple of pieces as you go, in the interest of science.
Whisk the oils, vinegar, mustard, and pepper together, and taste the dressing. Add salt as needed. Now add the radicchio and toss; add the apricots, toss again, and serve.
And yes, I think extra daylight is a fine idea. I am past the days of thinking, "Maybe I won't switch," which is a great approach until you realize the rest of the world will view you not as brave and independent, but simply late.
©2011, 2013, 2014 Laynie Tzena.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Fancy That!
Talk about a Fancy Food show: A great turnout, real engagement, the kind of energy we haven't seen in a couple of years. A lot of promise. One of my customers said, "I've met people I've been dreaming about for years."
Hooray for everybody who worked so hard to make it happen.
Now let's build on it.
Hooray for everybody who worked so hard to make it happen.
Now let's build on it.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Have It Your Way
Dear Love at First Bite:
You must be joking. You're not serious about putting $35/lb. pine nuts in that salad, are you? Yes, it's delicious--mesclun lettuce, Fuji apples, a balsamic vinaigrette, goat cheese. But it's January, honey. How about something a little less pricey?
The Penny-Pincher
Dear Penny:
Happy New Year. Honey, promise me you didn't leave your imagination under the bed again.
Now, we could reflect on some simple facts:
a. The salad in question requires merely two tablespoons of pine nuts (which translates to a bit more than two bucks, especially if you comparison-shop).
b. That coffee you're so fond of puts the pine nut prices to shame.
c. Life is short.
But why spoil the fun? Instead, let's look at the basics of the ingredients in the original salad from the dinner party: lettuce, apples (well, sweet and slighly crunchy fruit), nuts, a vinaigrette. Let's leave out the cheese for now.
As we know, the key to eating well without spending a fortune is--say it with me--a well-stocked pantry. See "What a Little Minneola Can Do, Part Three," then try this:
Healthy, Wealthy, and Wise Salad:
For the salad:
1 Arkansas Black apple or Bosc pear
2 tablespoons raw cashews
Mesclun lettuce
For the dressing:
2 teaspoons toasted sesame oil
1 teaspoon sherry vinegar
Smidgen stoneground mustard
Pinch grated ginger
Pinch tangerine zest
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. On a baking sheet, toast raw cashers until slightly darkened.
Slice apple or pear, divide slices in four.
Why four?
Because they look like little pieces of pie. Feel free to slice, chop, dice--it's your salad, Toots.
Rinse greens and place in bowl with sliced apple or pear. Whisk together dressing ingredients and add to apples and greens, toss, add toasted cashews, toss again, and serve.
Very nice. But that's not the same salad.
Fine. Here's a closer approximation.
Healthy, Wealthy, and Wise Salad #2:
For the salad:
1 D'Anjou pear (or, if you prefer, a Fuji apple)
2 tablespoons raw walnuts
Mesclun lettuce
For the dressing:
2 teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 teaspoon balsamic vinegar
Smidgen Dijon mustard
Pinch fresh or dried basil
Pinch orange zest
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. On a baking sheet, toast raw walnuts until slightly darkened.
Slice pear.
Rinse greens and place in bowl with sliced pears. Whisk together dressing ingredients and add to pear and greens, toss, add toasted walnuts, toss again, and serve.
Spread some chevre on your favorite bread and start the year.
©2011, 2012, 2013. 2014 Laynie Tzena.
You must be joking. You're not serious about putting $35/lb. pine nuts in that salad, are you? Yes, it's delicious--mesclun lettuce, Fuji apples, a balsamic vinaigrette, goat cheese. But it's January, honey. How about something a little less pricey?
The Penny-Pincher
Dear Penny:
Happy New Year. Honey, promise me you didn't leave your imagination under the bed again.
Now, we could reflect on some simple facts:
a. The salad in question requires merely two tablespoons of pine nuts (which translates to a bit more than two bucks, especially if you comparison-shop).
b. That coffee you're so fond of puts the pine nut prices to shame.
c. Life is short.
But why spoil the fun? Instead, let's look at the basics of the ingredients in the original salad from the dinner party: lettuce, apples (well, sweet and slighly crunchy fruit), nuts, a vinaigrette. Let's leave out the cheese for now.
As we know, the key to eating well without spending a fortune is--say it with me--a well-stocked pantry. See "What a Little Minneola Can Do, Part Three," then try this:
Healthy, Wealthy, and Wise Salad:
For the salad:
1 Arkansas Black apple or Bosc pear
2 tablespoons raw cashews
Mesclun lettuce
For the dressing:
2 teaspoons toasted sesame oil
1 teaspoon sherry vinegar
Smidgen stoneground mustard
Pinch grated ginger
Pinch tangerine zest
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. On a baking sheet, toast raw cashers until slightly darkened.
Slice apple or pear, divide slices in four.
Why four?
Because they look like little pieces of pie. Feel free to slice, chop, dice--it's your salad, Toots.
Rinse greens and place in bowl with sliced apple or pear. Whisk together dressing ingredients and add to apples and greens, toss, add toasted cashews, toss again, and serve.
Very nice. But that's not the same salad.
Fine. Here's a closer approximation.
Healthy, Wealthy, and Wise Salad #2:
For the salad:
1 D'Anjou pear (or, if you prefer, a Fuji apple)
2 tablespoons raw walnuts
Mesclun lettuce
For the dressing:
2 teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 teaspoon balsamic vinegar
Smidgen Dijon mustard
Pinch fresh or dried basil
Pinch orange zest
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. On a baking sheet, toast raw walnuts until slightly darkened.
Slice pear.
Rinse greens and place in bowl with sliced pears. Whisk together dressing ingredients and add to pear and greens, toss, add toasted walnuts, toss again, and serve.
Spread some chevre on your favorite bread and start the year.
©2011, 2012, 2013. 2014 Laynie Tzena.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Luck
Some people say luck is just what arrives on the plate of your life. I say you can make some of it happen. And here it is, a brand new year, and I'm enlisting the help of tradition. I want a better year than the last one. There was a lot of good, to be sure--some great creative projects with some fine people--but there was also a lot of loss: a beloved college friend, one of my favorite customers, and a man who did gorgeous work for me for the past ten years. Not to mention a few friends with sudden dramatic changes to their health.
So I'm making black-eyed peas.
I was never a bean girl when I was a vegetarian, or in the years afterward. Oy. What a production. The sorting always threw me, for starters. I was always positive I was taking too many out, or a stray one I missed would turn out to be a stone and crack my tooth. And let's not even go into soaking (you have to plan!).
But I've become a bit more teachable, I suppose. A few years ago I realized I really could stir the cereal into the boiling water, rather than having to plop it in all at once because why should you have to stir it in? "Who says?" had been my mantra. (One year I also realized traffic lights take two minutes. I hardly ever stress at a light anymore.)
So I tried rinsing the beans and then spreading them out on one of my favorite plates, and what do you know? It was easy. And I had also made the acquaintance of one Harold McGee via Terry Gross' "Fresh Air," and so had learned that you could cook the beans slowly--in the oven, even--and never have to soak them. Hello, bean family!
In addition to their absolute beauty, black-eyed peas are said to bring luck at the start of the year. But this soup was actually inspired by the leafy celery Swanton had at the Farmers' Market several Saturdays ago. In the past, I'd always avoided leafy celery, but this time I thought, "That's gorgeous! I'm gonna make something with those leaves." Soon came the idea for the pesto, which I realized would give the black-eyed peas a lot of punch. Some folks think you need to get that from ham hocks, but that's pretty much just straight salt. This is a lot more interesting, if you ask me.
So here is my new favorite soup. And here's to a great new year.
Black-Eyed Pea Soup with Celery Leaf Pesto*:
For the soup:
1 cup black-eyed peas
1 medium onion
1 clove garlic
Stems of 1 bunch of Swiss chard**
1 stalk celery
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
3 cups water
1 inch-long piece of kombu (optional)
For the pesto:
1/4 cup sunflower seeds
1/2 cup celery leaves
1/2 cup Italian parsley
1-2 cloves garlic
1-2 lemons
1 Meyer lemon
Extra-virgin olive oil to taste
Salt and pepper to taste
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Put on music of choice. Toast sunflower seeds and remove from oven. Chop fine in the food processor while still warm. Lower oven temperature to 250.
Rinse black-eyed peas and remove bad guys. Place kombu in the pan, then beans, and then water. Bring to a boil. Simmer for five minutes. Then place in the oven and cook until done (beans should mash on the roof of your mouth, skins should be intact).
Chop the onion. Cut the chard stems into litle squares, and slice the celery into half-moons.
Now here comes the pesto. Add the garlic to the sunflower seeds, chop. Remove sunflower-garlic mixture from food processor and place in a bowl. Now add the celery leaves and parsley, chop, and let them go a little longer--they'll start to give up more liquid, which means less oil needed later. Juice and zest lemon and Meyer lemon, add zest and pulp of both, plus juice to taste. Now start adding** olive oil, one tablespoon at a time until it reaches the desired consistency. Pulse, taste, and make any necessary changes.
Heat the skillet, add the olive oil and chopped onion. Put a lid on the pan and cook slowly until the onions are transparent, then add the garlic and cook for another minute or two. Now add the chard and celery and cook, covered, until the vegetables are cooked to your taste (I like the chard on the softer side and the celery a little crisp). Add to cooked black-eyed peas.
*You call this pesto? Where's the cheese?
Actually, "pesto" just means sauce. This is a cross between a pesto and pistou, and of course I love cheese but I find it often takes over and masks other flavors. I'd rather have it on the side. The lemon zest provides some of the same function in binding the pesto.
**Where did the chard leaves go? Into the Lentil-Chard soup. http://cookwithlaynie.blogspot.com/2009/05/great-apricot-or-we-like-him-again.html
**Doesn't all this adding make you think we should subtract something? We did. We left out the ham. My rabbi is smiling.
©2011, 2014,2015 Laynie Tzena.
So I'm making black-eyed peas.
I was never a bean girl when I was a vegetarian, or in the years afterward. Oy. What a production. The sorting always threw me, for starters. I was always positive I was taking too many out, or a stray one I missed would turn out to be a stone and crack my tooth. And let's not even go into soaking (you have to plan!).
But I've become a bit more teachable, I suppose. A few years ago I realized I really could stir the cereal into the boiling water, rather than having to plop it in all at once because why should you have to stir it in? "Who says?" had been my mantra. (One year I also realized traffic lights take two minutes. I hardly ever stress at a light anymore.)
So I tried rinsing the beans and then spreading them out on one of my favorite plates, and what do you know? It was easy. And I had also made the acquaintance of one Harold McGee via Terry Gross' "Fresh Air," and so had learned that you could cook the beans slowly--in the oven, even--and never have to soak them. Hello, bean family!
In addition to their absolute beauty, black-eyed peas are said to bring luck at the start of the year. But this soup was actually inspired by the leafy celery Swanton had at the Farmers' Market several Saturdays ago. In the past, I'd always avoided leafy celery, but this time I thought, "That's gorgeous! I'm gonna make something with those leaves." Soon came the idea for the pesto, which I realized would give the black-eyed peas a lot of punch. Some folks think you need to get that from ham hocks, but that's pretty much just straight salt. This is a lot more interesting, if you ask me.
So here is my new favorite soup. And here's to a great new year.
Black-Eyed Pea Soup with Celery Leaf Pesto*:
For the soup:
1 cup black-eyed peas
1 medium onion
1 clove garlic
Stems of 1 bunch of Swiss chard**
1 stalk celery
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
3 cups water
1 inch-long piece of kombu (optional)
For the pesto:
1/4 cup sunflower seeds
1/2 cup celery leaves
1/2 cup Italian parsley
1-2 cloves garlic
1-2 lemons
1 Meyer lemon
Extra-virgin olive oil to taste
Salt and pepper to taste
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Put on music of choice. Toast sunflower seeds and remove from oven. Chop fine in the food processor while still warm. Lower oven temperature to 250.
Rinse black-eyed peas and remove bad guys. Place kombu in the pan, then beans, and then water. Bring to a boil. Simmer for five minutes. Then place in the oven and cook until done (beans should mash on the roof of your mouth, skins should be intact).
Chop the onion. Cut the chard stems into litle squares, and slice the celery into half-moons.
Now here comes the pesto. Add the garlic to the sunflower seeds, chop. Remove sunflower-garlic mixture from food processor and place in a bowl. Now add the celery leaves and parsley, chop, and let them go a little longer--they'll start to give up more liquid, which means less oil needed later. Juice and zest lemon and Meyer lemon, add zest and pulp of both, plus juice to taste. Now start adding** olive oil, one tablespoon at a time until it reaches the desired consistency. Pulse, taste, and make any necessary changes.
Heat the skillet, add the olive oil and chopped onion. Put a lid on the pan and cook slowly until the onions are transparent, then add the garlic and cook for another minute or two. Now add the chard and celery and cook, covered, until the vegetables are cooked to your taste (I like the chard on the softer side and the celery a little crisp). Add to cooked black-eyed peas.
*You call this pesto? Where's the cheese?
Actually, "pesto" just means sauce. This is a cross between a pesto and pistou, and of course I love cheese but I find it often takes over and masks other flavors. I'd rather have it on the side. The lemon zest provides some of the same function in binding the pesto.
**Where did the chard leaves go? Into the Lentil-Chard soup. http://cookwithlaynie.blogspot.com/2009/05/great-apricot-or-we-like-him-again.html
**Doesn't all this adding make you think we should subtract something? We did. We left out the ham. My rabbi is smiling.
©2011, 2014,2015 Laynie Tzena.
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