The Hungry Tiger

Take your salads to the next level, as your SEO consultant would have you put it.

This recipe here, from Yotam Ottolenghi's "New Vegetarian" column, has a trick in it that I have been using in all sorts of grain salads, pilafs, mixed roast vegetables, and other things of that room-temperature party dish variety. It is a fantastic secret-ingredient sort of thing that will make you feel like a wizard, it is highly generalizable, and I am drawing your attention to it because I love you.

The conditions: You have some dish of this sort, anything from the broad range of things you might call a "salad," or maybe something that would stretch the definition a bit too far. The main qualifying factors are (a) that it involves some non-homogenous stuff tossed or mixed together, (b) it is not to be served piping hot, and (c) you might conceivably want to squeeze some lemon or lime over it before serving.

The thing to do, and here I am partially quoting and partially paraphrasing from that linked recipe: Instead of just adding juice, take one or two or three lemons or limes (as you prefer). Use a small, sharp knife and trim off both ends. Then cut down the sides of the fruit, along their round curves, to remove the skin and white pith. Over a small bowl, remove the segments by slicing between the membranes. Squeeze any remaining juice over the segments. Poke your sharp knife in among the segment and cut them into small pieces -- say, thirds. Then add the segments and the juice to your whatever it is.

YES, this is more work than just squeezing a lime or two. But it is not much more work, if you have a suitable knife (it must be SHARP or you will be sad. I have a lethal little serrated fruit knife with a curved tip that works very well) and holy crow does it make things taste just like they would otherwise only magically extra amazing.

Fennel

I get infatuated with this; we go on a kick of that; suddenly four meals out of every five feature this thing or the other, where the month before it never crossed my mind at all. So we live in a succession of food eras, each characterized by a couple of distinctive flavors that run through everything, until they disappear from the market or we get distracted again. 

 

We are currently in a Fennel Period and a Grilled Lettuce Period. Grilled romaine is so two years ago, but it really is a pleasant way to fulfill simultaneously the desire for something warm and cosy and the desire for something light and salady, without faffing about with a pile of different ingredients. (You know how to make it already, but here's how I've been doing it lately: big head of romaine lettuce, cut in half lengthwise, rinsed, and shaken dry, cut side brushed with olive oil and sprinkled with salt, on a very hot pan for two minutes or so each side, until lightly charred and wilting -- then roughly chopped and piled on a plate with a little of the aged, thick sort of balsamic vinegar drizzled (vile word) on top.)

Fennel: also perfect for that late winter pushmi-pullyu of fresh springy things on the one side and warm roasty things on the other. The bulbs you know about. I made this Ottolenghi quinoa salad for a potluck last week, with quartered brussels sprouts in the place of the fava beans, and it was very good. Sliced very thin, it makes a swell winter salad, especially with apples; or you can slice it thicker, then steam it and dress it with lemon and red pepper oil a la David Tanis.

The new trick at our house, though, is making full use of the stems. Fennel is too big and awkward to fit in the fridge as it comes. So I lop the bulbs off and put them away separately, then trim off the frondy bits for garnishes or the compost bin. The stems, then, I chop up and keep in a container to toss in with everything. They are lovely. They may look a lot like celery, but I think their texture and flavor are much nicer and more interesting. I have been tossing a half-handful in with any pan of roasting vegetables, or stirring them into a pilaf, and it makes everything taste a little springier and a little different from the way it did last month.

If you really want to enjoy chopped fennel on its own merits, though, try Fennel Rice or Fennel and Eggs:

FENNEL AND EGGS

For two.

At least half a cup chopped fennel, mostly or entirely stems, as pictured above
About a quarter cup finely chopped onion  
Butter
3 or 4 eggs
salt and pepper

Beat the eggs lightly and season with salt and pepper. Saute the fennel and onion slowly in butter until transluscent and tender. Pour the eggs into the pan. Scramble until they are set the way you like them. Serve immediately. Hot buttered toast would not go amiss. 

--

FENNEL RICE

There is no reason why fried rice, which is ultimately a very basic and versatile approach to a very basic and versatile grain, has to be, or pretend to be, Asian. This makes a pretty, green rice dish that goes well with Italian, Spanish, or California-ish flavors.

I think it would be good as a side with salmon, but what do I know?

1-2 Tbsp. light-flavored oil for frying 
3/4 cup chopped fennel, mostly or entirely stems, as pictured above 
2 tsp. minced ginger 
2 cups leftover, cold rice, preferably long-grain   
1 egg, lightly beaten with 1 tsp. ground cumin
2 Tbsp. chopped flat leaf parsley  
Salt and pepper 

Put your large stir-fry pan over high heat. When it's hot, add the oil and swirl it around.

Keep the heat high and the food moving in the pan. Put the fennel in and cook for about two minutes, then add the ginger and cook for just a moment before adding the rice. Fry, stirring/tossing constantly, until the rice is heated through. Add the egg and cumin mixture. Keep things moving, so the egg just coats the rice and more or less disappears.

Remove from heat and add parsley plus salt & pepper to taste. My own taste says that you want to err on the side of more pepper, but maybe you disagree! If you have some of your fennel fronds around, you may as well chop them up and toss them in there, too: it's pretty. 

Behold, a sandwich.

It's the fifth annual Sandwich Party! We have been eating variations on this sandwich four or five days out of seven since we moved to southern California.

The version you see before you is a little duded up, with those sprigs of cilantro. Occasionally it might instead be topped with a very few slivers of thinly sliced red onion, or slices of tomato. But the basic scheme is:

• Slice of kalamata sourdough bread
• Butter
• Avocado
• A tiny sprinkle of salt
• A drizzle of this here chile oil

That oil is really, really good. (So are these avocados, I tell you what.) I was thinking of making little bottles of it for christmas presents. Is that too weird, do you think? It depends on the recipient, I suppose, as with so many things.

Spinach salad, but not the kind you're thinking of.

The weather is hot and my desire for fresh light cool vegetables is, once again, running face-first into local reality. Tomatoes are approximately one million years away and even spring lettuces are still about three inches tall. And leafy green salads are all very well and good, anyway, but sometimes I just don't want one. (Here you can imagine me stamping my foot petulantly.)

This cold spinach fills roughly the same niche as a green salad but is not one. It's fresh, it's cool, it's green, it's even leafy. It makes a nice contrast to a hot entree or a hot day, or both. It's incidentally even quicker to put together than salad, at least if you follow my habit of washing and parboiling or steaming your spinach as soon as you bring it home from the store. Even if you don't cook the spinach until you're getting dinner ready, it's just not all that time consuming.

Super simple, delicious enough to eat multiple days in a row, suitable to the weather, novel yet not weird: what more could you ask?

Well, you might conceivably ask for it not to include preserved lemons, which I recognize are not the staple of everyone's cupboard that they are of ours, and no one is going to make or buy them just for the sake of putting a tablespoon's worth into a plate of spinach. I don't know that I can really advocate a substitute in this case, either--the soft briny lemon is what brings out the fruit in the olive oil, the vinegar, and even the onions, making the whole thing so well balanced and delicious. Maybe if you had Meyer lemons, you could get a similar effect with their juice in place of the vinegar, and plenty of grated zest?

If you're looking for inspiration for things to do with the preserved lemons you already have, though, or for an excuse to get some or make some, this is just the thing.

Chopped salad of mock summer

It certainly is the time of year when I get fed up with being remotely seasonal in my food purchases. Cabbage is a wonderful comfort and succor in late winter, but it is not enough. I want something BRIGHT and FRESH and MADE OF RAW VEGETABLES, goddammit. 

This chopped salad tastes just dandy with out-of-season vegetables. Of course those same vegetables are irresponsibly shipped from far away, and cost a premium, to boot. If you live somewhere where they are in season, or if you can wait until their season arrives, more power to you. But right now I can't bear it, and so here we are.

Another nice feature of this kind of salad is that you can make it in quantity and keep it in the refrigerator, having a scoop here and there over the next few days at a moment's notice. The vegetables will get lightly pickled in the interim, but if anything that just makes them taste better.

Spicy happy healthy bok choi and broth

When it is cold and dark outside, my insides want something warm. Traditionally, this means thick soups and sturdy stews and substantial braises. But sometimes, I find the pendulum swings the other way. On those days, I have been making a concoction recommended to me by my genius friend C.

Eating this makes me both warm and full. But it also makes me feel quick and light and keen, rather than like a cozy fat hamster ready to hibernate (which is a fine sensation in its place, just not always what I want).

Like this avocado and quinoa bowl, it is a magic medicinal food that tastes good, feels good while you eat it, and makes you feel good for hours afterward. Steve and I are both besotted. It is in heavy rotation. It is also practically instant to make, which I appreciate on the particularly cold, dark nights when I get home from teaching at eight-thirty or nine.

Long-cooked broccoli and a grain and nut pilaf

This broccoli, from a recipe by Alice Waters, is not very photogenic, but it is a delicious new staple in our kitchen. We have been eating it once a week for the past month at least. It is easy to make out of a few ingredients, when you don't want to think too hard or do anything too elaborate, and when the vegetable options are limited -- say, in January. The texture is soft and pillowy without descending to pap, and even after being cooked all that time, it still tastes vivid and green (even if it looks rather pale and feeble).

Fresh lemon is absolutely required; don't bother if you don't have one on hand. 

We like it over a mixed grain pilaf, as you can see, and I've included a description of how I usually put these grains and nuts together, but it should be obvious that any number of things would do nicely in the same role: plain rice, noodles, couscous, kasha, farro, grilled bread... Not polenta, I think, unless you're recovering from dental surgery. It could also serve as a bed for something more substantial, like chicken or shrimp, if you eat those, or some kind of croquette.

Creamy, lemony brussels sprouts

Brussels sprouts are the vegetable everyone likes to rehabilitate. Once upon a time, you loathed them, you say -- but this recipe should convert even the most recalcitrant sprout-hater!

I too had my conversion experience, once upon a time. There was nothing about the recipe that did it; I'd tried any number of much more luxurious preparations earlier and been unable to appreciate them. When I finally changed my mind, it was over a little pile that had been only steamed and buttered.

Since then, of course, I've happily embraced all these other preparations people like so much. I'm still very fond of this vinegary recipe, though I now cook it more quickly (just five minutes in the first stage, and add a little less water, so that the liquid takes less time to reduce).

Cream, cheese, nuts, and butter are all natural complements to brussels sprouts, acting as they do to mellow the bitter flavor. This is a fine idea, but I feel that there can, in fact, be too much of a good thing, and like some sort of acidic zing! to round things out. These braised sprouts with lemon juice and sour cream are mild without being claggy.

Pumpkin bread

Here in America, November marks the time when canned pumpkin appears in profusion in every store. I myself am extremely fond of pumpkin pie, and especially like a slice the morning after Thanksgiving, chilly from the refrigerator. But what about times other than Thanksgiving, and what about sources other than the can?

Apparently there is a shortage of the canned stuff this season, brought on by bad weather a year ago. Fortunately producing your own is a snap, provided you don't use the pumpkins sold for jack-o-lanterns, which are weak and watery. Sugar or pie pumpkins are dandy, but my favorite is the good old reliable butternut, so smooth and easy to cut in half. In fact, the "pumpkins" that fill all those Libby's cans are a varietal that's more closely related to butternut squash than it is to the usual Halloween specimen. 

Just remove the seeds and roast until soft. Then scoop out the flesh, and send it through a food mill, ricer, or a trip in the food processor. The results freeze just fine. I often turn the bulb end of a butternut into puree this way while I'm using the neck for something else, and build up a nice little stock with hardly any trouble.

Then whenever you feel the need for a slice of reliable, unpretentious, autumnal cake, you can use a cup from your reserves to make pumpkin bread. I like good old Fannie Farmer for this sort of thing (especially with a couple of adjustments penciled in the margin) and I am always impressed at just how mindless it is to put a batch together. Before you have fully registered that you're engaged in an act of baking, you have put something delicious in the oven that will go admirably with a cup of tea or coffee, or that your child might hold in her tiny fist as she runs off to jump in the neighbor's pile of leaves.

Buttery green beans in a saffron yogurt sauce

Many recipes for green beans exhort you not to overcook them, lest you lose their lovely crunch and bright green color.

It is true that a lightly cooked green bean is a delightsome thing and that a middlingly cooked green bean is generally less so. A number of delicious recipes from Paula Wolfert, however, have convinced me that cooking green beans for a long time is also a good idea. I suppose that green beans are like squid in this way. Cook them quickly or stew them forever; in between lies sadness.

I have noticed that Wolfert often speaks of long-cooked green beans as "putty colored," perhaps as a scheme to preempt confusion and disappointment. These, inspired heavily by a recipe in her book The Cooking of the Eastern Mediterranean, are not quite that far gone. Though I have made them several times, I have perhaps not yet ever truly cooked them long enough. Even so, they will not be winning any contests for vividness or crunch. They have other qualities to recommend them. The yogurt (which I add later than the original recipe suggests, because I found that I had trouble with curdling when I made it as written) makes a luscious sauce. Saffron is not commonly paired with the humble green bean. That gives this dish a little thrill of the not-ordinary, and in fact the combination works very well.

These are served at room temperature, which is nice because you can make them ahead and pull them out as an accompaniment to a simple light supper or hot lunch, an omelet for example.

Kasha and roast vegetables with lemon and spices

I wouldn't roast vegetables ahead of time week after week if I only had one meal I liked to make with them them. Here is another favorite, again good for using up leftovers or the sort of intentional "leftovers" I often produce on the weekends.

This warm sort-of-salad combines the cozy autumnal browns of roast vegetables and nutty kasha with bright flavors that ensure that you don't wind up with a plate of stodgy dullness. Even if you make it with the exact same set of vegetables you've used in the gratin I wrote about last week, I promise that it will taste very different; I would (and do!) happily eat both in the same week without feeling monotonous.

It has one specialty ingredient, preserved lemons. They are crucial to the lively, zingy effect. I recognize that not everyone has them in the house, but they're easy to make and not like anything else. That said, I suspect you could make a different, but equally distinctive, dish by using chopped green olives and plenty of lemon juice instead.

Roasted vegetable and grain gratin

Roast vegetables are good in themselves, and a surprising number of vegetables respond pleasingly to the treatment. Broccoli, cauliflower, parsnips, peppers, sweet potatoes, fennel, asparagus, carrots, green beans, onions, summer or winter squash, mushrooms -- any and all are delicious hot out of the oven, dressed only in olive oil, salt, and pepper. Roasted garlic scapes are outrageously good, and next spring you should be sure to make them in vast quantities. Roast eggplant is so delicious that I have pretty much given up on cooking it any other way; when I make dishes that call for fried or sauteed eggplant, I roast it instead (with plenty of oil - it's still usually less than it would soak up in a hot pan) and am never disappointed.



This last point raises the question: yes, what about roast vegetables as ingredients in more complicated dishes? When it is seven in the evening on a Wednesday, who wants to peel, cut, and roast several vegetables first, and then assemble them into something else? Not I. I do, however, very much like to reach into the refrigerator and mix and match from containers of several different vegetables that I thoughtfully roasted on the previous Sunday.

This gratin is good with nearly any combination of grains and vegetables that suit your fancy, though I would strongly urge you to include roast onions among them. What pleases your tastes and looks good to you at the market should be your guide otherwise. Add some greens, too, if you like, as I did in the batch shown in the photo. Cheese on top is good as well, though for some reason I seem to have skipped it in the photographed batch (foolish me), and it was still delicious.

Leftover grains work nicely here, and go with the theme of assembling pre-cooked elements into something else, though of course you can make something fresh for the occasion. I like using quinoa -- especially since I've started cooking it in the rice cooker -- or brown rice, or a mix of the two. Aside from the white sauce, which is the same one I use for baked pasta, quantities are very flexible.

Beets, pickled

Beets are a divisive vegetable. On the one hand, they are beautiful and delicious. On the other, they dye everything in their path, including your fingernails if you are not careful, and some people are of the opinion that they taste exactly like a big clod of dirt.

Both undercooking and the absence of acid tend to make beets taste less pleasantly "earthy" and more unpleasantly "like dirt," and so one of the nicest things you can do with a beet is to pickle it. Indeed I think it is a mistake under almost any circumstances to serve a beet without including a little something acidic to raise it up. A squeeze of lemon or splash of vinegar will pull together a plate of roast beets, a pink risotto, or a beet rösti the way that butter finishes a sauce. As the Dude's rug is to his room, so is a touch of acid to a beet-oriented meal.

Okra lunch

Brown rice on one side, delicious okra on the other. You know, don't you, that there is a pretty simple trick for preventing okra from getting slimy? The key is that no water (or anything with a high water content) should touch any cut surface of the okra until it has been seared, generally in hot oil and spices. This means that you must dry your okra VERY VERY thoroughly after you wash it. Very! Dry them as well as you can and then let them lie on a fresh dry towel or cooling rack to airdry some more.

Don't use a wet knife, either; even if your knife is just damp from cutting up another, wetter, ingredient, strings of mucilage will begin to multiply. Similarly, if you are pickling okra, do not prick it with a fork! It is also best to ensure that the wet ingredients in your recipe, which you add later, are acidic: use plenty of tomatoes, vinegar, lemon juice.

This new bento/lunch box, made by my favorite purveyors of plastic food storage containers, Lock&Lock, is just right for me. The Lock&Lock lids are easy to open and close and have an excellent seal, thanks to their gasket. I usually don't have it in me to make lunches that combine more than two or three elements, but often like to bring exactly two, so the divider configuration suits me very well, and the amount of food that fits inside is also just about right. I'd also be delighted to have some of these for three-item days, but they're hard to find. In the meantime, of course, I can always bring a second little container when I need one, or nestle two things on one side. In other news, ugh! The most recent photos I've taken have all been horrendously lit and therefore generally horrendous. Hélas.

Pozole verde

This is one of the things you can do with all that salsa verde you just made. (Didn't you?) It's unfussy, lively-tasting but substantial, texturally pleasing, and most likely not something you can get just as easily at a nearby restaurant.

Posole or pozole is, I have been given to understand, the name of both dried, slaked corn (aka hominy, the same stuff that is ground up to make hominy grits) and of soup or stew made of that corn. You can get hominy ready-cooked in a can, or buy it dried and simmer it yourself, which takes some time but hardly any work, and the results are more delightfully toothsome and less can-tasting than the canned kind.

This recipe will make six servings of pozole verde on the more soup-ish end of the spectrum. As you can see from the picture, I opted for fewer servings of something more towards the stew end of the spectrum--easily achievable by the simple method of adding less broth--with plenty of cheese on top. I also threw in some chopped leftover kale, because we had it around. This was a success.

If you already have some cooked hominy and a batch of salsa verde, you can wing it, like so: Use about a cup of salsa for every four to six ounces (in weight, that is) of cooked hominy. You'll also want a splash or two of olive oil; some quantity of additional hot pepper, minced; broth; salt and pepper; and garnishes, which is to say cheese. Then it's all very simple: heat the oil and add the salsa, plus the extra minced pepper. Cook for about ten minutes, then thin with broth. Add the hominy and simmer at least until heated through. You can add leftover greens, or shredded leftover chicken, at this point, too. Add more broth if you want it soupier, cook longer if you want it to be thicker. Add salt and pepper to taste. See, simple!