Archive for April, 2010

April 27th, 2010

Leeks braised in butter

When I first started cooking, “simple” turned me off. It seemed like everyone who was anyone was proclaiming that a simple, straight-forward approach to cooking was best. But, to me, simple felt elitist. Like Alice Waters cooking eggs on an iron spoon in her kitchen hearth. I don’t know about you, but my kitchen hearth takes such an unbearably long time to heat up.

Leeks

I was afraid of simple cooking, so I figured I could prove my prowess in the kitchen with complicated recipes. There were a lot of disasters. I never gave myself a break. The first time I used squid as an ingredient I insisted on cleaning it myself. Squid ink splattered everything in my kitchen. I almost had a heart attack when I found that plasticky skeleton in the squid. I had no clue. And I felt like a failure.

Around the same time I started cooking, Jim and I began spending his book advance (plus a few of my meager paychecks) in New York restaurants, where we ate many simply prepared meals that tasted simply amazing and heightened my fear of simple, because I couldn’t grasp how they did it. So I shook simple off, and tested myself with every multi-ingredient extravaganza I could find. I needed someone to put their hand on my shoulder and tell me to take it easy, but instead I went on for a few years with dogged insistence on fussy things, and finally came around to simple, the hard way.

Man, was I wrong about the whole simple thing. It just isn’t elitist. It’s anyone’s game.

parsley

There are only two things to learn to get simple cooking right. First, I needed to learn how to find good ingredients — to find artisans who create great products, and to learn when produce is at its prime (which is easy enough with all the handy guides out there) — and second, I had to learn how to season well. That last part proved a bit tricky: it takes practice, it meant I had to suffer through a few over-salted meals. But after a while I got it, and then I really understood this whole simple business.

These leeks are simple cooking and there’s nothing to them. Slice them into cute little rounds, wash them really well, and add them to a pan with lots of melted butter. Pour in a bit of water, about halfway up the sides of the leeks, and cover and cook for ten minutes. Then comes the tricky part: Uncover and season the leeks. Start with a little pinch of salt, a grinding of pepper, then add some more, then some more, until the leeks taste super good. If you don’t add the magic amount of salt, they’ll taste good; but at that point, when they are just good, try and add a tiny bit more salt, incrementally, until they go from tasting good to tasting super good, memorable, smile-making. That’s when you’re there. That’s when you’ve conquered simple cooking. You’ll know it when it happens, I promise. And once it does, it’ll change everything. It did for me. I went from cursing the simple cookery coterie to being here, turning this blog into my own personal simple cooking soapbox. Now excuse me, I need to find some logs for that hearth.

Leeks Braised in Butter

serves 3-4

Don’t be alarmed by the amount of butter in these leeks. This recipe is more of a garnish than a side dish, and a spoonful of the leeks is all you need per serving. Butter is what makes the leeks taste so delicious, so don’t skimp.

1 bunch of large leeks (about 4 individual leeks)
4 tablespoons butter
water
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper
small handful of fresh parsley and chives, for sprinkling

Cut the root and dark green tops from the leeks and peel the first layer of the leek away. Working with just the white and light green part of the leek, slice into rounds. Wash leek rounds thoroughly under running water, making sure to get rid of any dirt. (This may take a few washings.)

Heat butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Add leek rounds to the pan and add water to cover about halfway up the sides of the leek rounds. Cover the pan and cook for about 10-12 minutes, until the leeks are tender.

Uncover and season with salt and pepper, seasoning with a little bit at a time, adding more as you taste until the leeks taste perfectly seasoned. Once all the water has evaporated from the bottom of the pan, transfer leeks to a serving dish. Garnish with chopped parsley and chives, to taste. Serve a small portion of the leeks on the side of just about anything, though pork is especially nice.

April 20th, 2010

Soft-shell Crabs Over Creamed Spinach

Every Saturday morning I wake up, make coffee in my old French press, amble around the apartment for a while, then slip on some shoes and go across the street — to the farmers market. Do you hate me yet?

soft-shell crabs

That I feel lucky to have a weekend farmers market across the street is an understatement. I’m already lucky to live within a short drive of an apple orchard and berry bushes and  pastured beef, pork, and heritage breed chickens. There’s fresh eggs from someone’s backyard in every direction, including duck and goose eggs on the way to my favorite local restaurant. A farm market with Jersey produce is open every day of the week. I can find local butter, cheeses, and milk within a few miles.

local spinach

Saturdays and Sundays I don’t even have to start my car for the night’s dinner; I just walk across the street for fish, meat, cheese, spices, baked goods, coffee, and chocolate. It’s a pretty charmed life.

Especially when soft shell crabs are in season. As I’ve mentioned before, the guys at the Metropolitan Seafood stand sell amazing stuff. I buy their salmon to eat raw; their shrimp whenever I’m in the mood. Their smoked tuna makes an amazing lunch with a slice of Rise bakery bread. And though I know that every time I try something new from those guys I say the same thing, I’ll say it again: their soft shell crabs are the best I’ve ever tasted.

Tanner's Dairy Cream

I’m a new convert to soft shell crabs. The shells is still a little reminiscent of plastic to me, but if the crab is cooked just right (dredged in flour and fried in butter and oil), I’ll eat it up shell and all. Especially if it’s served atop local spinach, cooked with a bechamel sauce and minced onion. It’s spring, people, and I’m taking advantage.

Dredging

If you’ve never made creamed spinach this way, with a sauce thickened with flour (rather than cream added to the spinach), it’s time for you to get on it. Spinach creamed in a bechamel sauce is gooey, thick, deliciously creamy. Forgoing the onions would, to me, be sacrilegious, but I imagine you could if someone in your family doesn’t like them (I’m looking at you, Dad).

creamed spinach

If you can’t get soft shell crabs, you could use the spinach as a steak side, which is more traditional anyway. I cooked for a dinner party of four men, and made cowboy steaks, this spinach, and duck-fat roasted potatoes, and hoo-boy did it go over well.

fry

There are too many fussy recipes out there for soft-shell crabs, with heavy cornmeal crusts or sauces that steal the show. If your crabs are fresh, you don’t even need to soak them in milk. I merely passed mine through a bit of flour before throwing them in a hot pan sputtering with butter. Nothing simpler, and in spring, atop of bright green mound of spinach, nothing better.

Soft shell crab & spinach season is here!

Soft-shell Crabs over Creamed Spinach

Printable Recipe

serves 2 (but can easily be doubled)

1 1/2 pounds fresh spinach
3/4 cups whole milk
1/2 cup heavy cream
1 small onion, finely chopped
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
a few grinding of fresh nutmeg

2 soft-shell crabs
flour, salt, pepper
2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon high-heat oil

Wash spinach in a sinkful of cold water, agitating the spinach to remove grit. Carefully lift of the cleaned spinach and transfer it to a pot, letting any water that comes out with the spinach into the pot. There should be a some water in the bottom of the pot, if it doesn’t seem like enough add a little more. Cook spinach on the stovetop for a few minutes, or until it is wilted. Drain in a colander and, when it is cool enough to handle, squeeze small handfuls of spinach to remove as much moisture as possible, then coarsely chop.

Heat milk and cream in a small saucepan over moderate heat, stirring, until warm. Meanwhile, cook onion in butter in a 2-quart heavy saucepan over moderately low heat, stirring occasionally, until softened, about 10 minutes. Whisk in flour and cook roux, whisking, 3 minutes. Add warm milk mixture in a fast stream, whisking constantly to prevent lumps, and simmer, whisking, until thickened, 3 to 4 minutes. Stir in nutmeg, spinach, and salt and pepper to taste (it can take a good amount of both) and cook, stirring, until heated through.

Clean crabs if they aren’t already. Put flour, some salt, and pepper in a bowl. Carefully pat both sides of the crabs dry with a paper towel. Dredge in the flour and then lightly tap on them to remove any excess. Meanwhile, heat butter and oil in a cast-iron or nonstick pan until very hot. Add crabs to the pan top-shell side down and cook for 3 minutes. Flip and cook for another three. Transfer to paper towels and dab the top of the crabs to remove excess oil.

Place a mound of creamed spinach on warmed plates and top with one soft-shell crab. Serve with good, crusty bread and a wedge of lemon on each plate for squeezing over the crab.

April 14th, 2010

Pasta Puttanesca

In high school, I made pasta puttanesca for the first time. My teacher gave us a take-home assignment to cook an authentic Italian dish, and my team drew the puttanesca. All I really remember about the assignment was the name “Pasta Puttanesca” and just how funny it was, and the horrendous idea that we would have to eat capers (yuck!) and olives (double yuck!) and anchovies (too disgusting even to think about). I actually thought it turned out pretty good, though I imagine if I had to eat a meal prepared by three high school kids with no cooking experience, you might hear a few double yucks from me now.

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I haven’t made pasta puttanesca since high school, but every time I’ve thought about it since then I’ve laughed — “Whore’s Pasta!” — gufaww! I’m laughing now. I guess jokes from your childhood have a way of making you smile. I find the name so funny that it was actually hard to cook it. I made joke after joke to Jim, who didn’t find them as funny as I did, and I even called a bunch of people to tell them I was making pasta puttanesca, hardy har har. I’m obviously regressing in leaps and bounds.

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But if reverting to a fourteen-year-old is the price for pasta puttanesca, I’ll pay it. Capers, olives, and anchovies all seem so delicious now; briny, oily, fishy — the stuff of my dreams! I’m rather ashamed of my 14-year-old self, sticking out my tongue at those lovely ingredients. And the name, whore’s pasta or street-walker’s pasta, or whatever it actually translates to in Italian, only adds to the greatness of the dish, adding a little sex to the tomatoes and chilies and big fat shrimp.

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To make a pasta puttanesca special, parsley is key. Use lots and lots of it. It’ll be the foil to the spice, the fish flavor, and the sweet tomatoes. Parsley brings it all together.

IMG_2810

I’ve heard that people don’t traditionally put cheese on their puttanesca, so we tried it without first. But a good block of parmigianno was in my fridge, and a load of pasta on my plate, and the combination proved too hard to resist. And I don’t really know why you wouldn’t want cheese in there; it was delicious melding with the spices, coating the shrimp. A good glug of olive oil on top won’t hurt, either.

big bowl o' pasta

Spaghetti alla Puttanesca

Printable Recipe

adapted from Patricia Wells’ Trattoria cookbook (a lovely cookbook, indeed)

serves 6

1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
4 flat anchovy fillets cured in olive oil, minced
3 plump fresh garlic cloves, minced
1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes, or to taste
sea salt
1 (28-ounce) can Italian plum tomatoes in juice
15 salt-cured black olives, such as Italian Gaeta or French Nyons, pitted and halved
2 tablespoons capers, drained and rinsed
1 pound dried Italian imported spaghetti
1 cup flat leaf Italian parsley, coarsely chopped.
1/2 to 1 pound big, fat shrimp, peeled and deveined

In an unheated skillet large enough to hold the pasta later on, combine the oil, anchovies, garlic, crushed red peppers, and a pinch of salt, stirring to coat with the oil. Cook over moderate heat just until the garlic turns golden but does not brown, 2 to 3 minutes. Pour out a little of the juice from the can of tomatoes, maybe about half, then add the tomatoes with reserved juice into the pan, breaking up the tomatoes with a wooden spoon. Add the olives and capers. Stir to blend, and simmer, uncovered, until the sauce begins to thicken, about 15 minutes. Taste for seasoning.

Meanwhile, in a large pot bring 6 quarts of water to a rolling boil. Add 3 tablespoons of salt and the spaghetti, stirring to prevent the pasta from sticking. Cook until tender but firm to the bite. Drain.

Add the drained pasta to skillet with the sauce. Season the shrimp with salt and pepper and add the shrimp to the pasta and sauce. Toss, then tuck the shrimp into the pasta and let it cook for 2-3 minutes, or until the shrimp is mostly done. Turn off the heat and let the sauce absorb into the pasta for another minute or so.  Add the parsley and toss. Serve immediately, passing parmesan cheese and olive oil at the table.

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