Delancey

Is it just me, or is anyone else feeling sort of holiday food’ed out? I never thought I would say this, but if I see another cookie, cake, or slice of chocolate pecan pie, I am going to do something crazy, like look the other way. Today, after lunch, I stood in front of the last of the cranberry upside-down cake from Christmas dinner and, fork poised in mid-air, thought, Nah, nevermind. Sometimes I hardly know myself at all.

So let’s not talk about food right now. Instead, I thought we might have a Restaurant Day. Because a major detail has been decided since I first told you about the restaurant, and we want to share it with you. Namely, the name.



The restaurant is going to be called Delancey. We chose it because it reminds us of New York, and since Brandon’s pizza sensibility is so rooted there, it seems fitting. It’s the name of a street in Manhattan, as well as a subway stop, and though it’s not in a particularly glamorous part of town, when Brandon was living in New York, it was one of his favorite stations: always bustling, packed with all sorts of people going to all sorts of places. Plus, isn’t it a pretty word? To me, it feels kind of classy and old-fashioned, like dark wood and tarnished copper and old men in tweed suits smoking cigars. Not that the restaurant will necessarily include any of those things, but we like the idea.

Also, for those of you who asked and those who have speculated, Delancey will be in Ballard, on 70th Street NW, between 14th and Alonzo Avenues. There’s a sweet little strip of businesses there, and Brandon is thrilled to have snatched a spot among them. Number 1415, to be precise.



I went over to the space a couple of weeks ago, in the midst of the big snowstorm, and I took some photographs for you. The place doesn’t look anything like a restaurant yet, so don’t get too excited. I just thought you might like to see it in all its various stages, from ladders and dust (right now) to the day the doors open (in early spring, we hope). If you’d like to view any of the photographs in a larger size, just click on them.



Right now, Brandon is working on pretty boring things: picking out toilet fixtures, submitting applications for various permits, and scraping down the popcorn ceiling. But I think there’s often something beautiful about boring things, like light fixtures and painter’s tape.



Or a mural of two ships, sailing peacefully across the wall above the main door. Once we start painting, I have a feeling it won’t be there anymore.



There are also lots of buckets. Soon they won’t be there anymore either. I won’t miss them.




Here’s a prep table. It holds the all-important bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. And in the back there, you can see the three-compartment sink that will go in the kitchen. When Brandon brought it from the restaurant supply store, it fit into our friend Bonnie’s car by mere centimeters.



And here are Brandon’s new best friends, a surgical mask and a scraper, his tools for removing the gnarly popcorn ceiling. (He had it tested for asbestos, and it came back safe, so please don’t worry.) They’ve spent lots of hours together, that man, that mask, and that scraper. Personally, I like spending time with the boom box on the chair. While I took this photograph, it played Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days” for me.



I think that’s all for now, but when we have more to show and tell, we certainly will. There are more Restaurant Days to come, for sure.

In the meantime, here’s to a warm and bright New Year! I hope your 2009 is even better than you can imagine. Thank you, always, for being here.

Like winter and warmth

Hi, friends.

I’m writing this from Oklahoma City, from my old bedroom in my mother’s house, where I used to, as a teenager, write gushy poems about 18-year-old boys with sideburns. I had a real thing for 18-year-old boys with sideburns. I don’t anymore.


I now have a thing for whiskey-soaked dark chocolate Bundt cakes. They hold their liquor better. Among other things.


I can’t talk for long today, because we arrived in Oklahoma around ten o’clock last night and then stayed up too late talking, so I’m tired. I still can’t believe that we even got here, given how snowed-under Seattle is right now. The day before we left, we watched people snowboard down the hill on 65th Street in Ballard. On the way to the airport, we passed a guy on cross-country skis, making his way slowly, cheerfully, up the road. It was all pretty dreamy, really, so long as you didn’t have anywhere important to be. Like the airport, for example, or your mother’s house in Oklahoma. The fact that our flight even left SeaTac yesterday was, we decided, our Christmas miracle. So I think I should keep this short today, and get back to appreciating that miracle by crawling under the covers in my old bed.

But before I do that, I wanted to make sure that you had this Bundt cake recipe. If you haven’t yet had your Christmas miracle, well, ta daaa! Here it is.


I am not, under ordinary circumstances, a great fan of alcoholic desserts. Many of them seem to involve Amaretto, and I just don’t like it. This admission makes me sound sort of boring and unfun, I know, as though I sit around on Saturday nights and read the Oxford English Dictionary with a magnifying glass, but I say it so that you will understand how special this particular alcoholic dessert is. I am a great, great fan of this Bundt cake, or boozy cake, as I like to call it. You have to pronounce that as one word: not boozy cake, but boozycake. Just so you know.

The recipe comes from the New York Times, from an article by Melissa Clark that ran about three weeks ago. It’s a riff on an old Maida Heatter recipe, a rich, dark chocolate cake punched up with not only a quarter-cup of instant espresso, but an entire cup, a cup, ONE CUP, of whiskey. It has a soft, moist, tightly woven crumb, and it makes the kitchen smell very sophisticated, like winter and warmth and the dinner parties my parents used to throw when I was little, after they put me to bed. It smells very chocolatey and very boozy. Because it is very boozy. The night I made it, I cut a slice while it was still a bit warm, and eating it, standing over the kitchen counter, I actually felt a little woozy. And no, I did not intend to make that rhyme. Although once I saw it happening, I didn’t exactly stop it, either.

If you can, try to make this cake a day before you want to serve it, to allow the flavors to mellow and meld. On the first day, the flavor of the alcohol threatens to drown out the chocolate, but after a little overnight rest, they reach a sort of compromise, complementing each other instead of competing, the deep darkness of the chocolate rising to meet the heady afterburn of the whiskey. If you, like us, haven’t trimmed your tree yet, this would be just the kind of thing for that, for eating with one hand while you hang ornaments with the other. To add to the festive feeling, you could even turn on that old Mannheim Steamroller Christmas album, the one that came out in 1984 and that my family continues to trot out every single December. If you eat enough boozy cake, the synthesizers might actually sound kind of nice. Imagine that! What a cake.



Whiskey-Soaked Dark Chocolate Bundt Cake
Adapted from The New York Times

I used St. George whiskey for this recipe, but next time, I think I would use bourbon. Whatever you choose, be sure to use something that you like to drink on its own; its flavor is the real centerpiece here.

2 sticks (8 oz.) unsalted butter, softened, plus more for the pan
2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for the pan
5 oz. unsweetened chocolate
¼ cup instant espresso powder
2 Tbsp. unsweetened cocoa powder
1 cup bourbon, rye, or other whiskey, plus more for sprinkling
½ tsp. kosher salt
2 cups granulated sugar
3 large eggs
1 Tbsp. vanilla extract
1 tsp. baking soda
Confectioners’ sugar, for garnish (optional)

Preheat oven to 325°F. Grease and flour a 10-cup-capacity Bundt pan (or two 8- or 9-inch loaf pans).

In a heatproof bowl set over – but not touching – a saucepan of simmering water, melt the chocolate until just smooth, stirring occasionally. Let cool.

Put espresso and cocoa powders in a 2-cup (or larger) glass measuring cup. Add enough boiling water to come up to the 1 cup measuring line. Stir until the powders dissolve. Add the whiskey and salt. Let cool.

Using an electric mixer, beat the butter until fluffy. Add the sugar, and beat until well combined. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat in the vanilla extract, baking soda and melted chocolate, scraping down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula.

With the mixer on low speed, beat in a third of the whiskey mixture. When liquid is absorbed, beat in 1 cup flour. Repeat additions, ending with the whiskey mixture. It may seem like there is too much liquid, but don’t worry; it’s okay. Scrape the batter into the prepared pan, and smooth the top. Bake until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean, about 1 hour and 10 minutes for a Bundt pan. (Loaf pans will take less time; start checking them after 55 minutes.)

Transfer the cake, still in its pan, to a rack. Unmold after 15 minutes and sprinkle warm cake with more whiskey. (I did this by pouring a little bit into a teaspoon, and then shaking the teaspoon over the cake. I’m guessing that I used 3 teaspoons’ worth in all.) Cool completely before serving, garnished with confectioners’ sugar, if you like.

Note: This cake tastes even better on the second day, when the intensity of the alcohol mellows a little bit.

Yield: 10 to 12 servings.

Look at that

I’ve been sitting here for the past twenty minutes, trying to figure out how to start this post. I hate it when this happens. I have nightmares about it, even.

Well, let’s see. How about a photograph? Maybe it will jump-start something. One can hope.


One can also, while hoping, tiptoe over to the fridge and steal some of the peppermint bark in that photograph, even though it’s supposed to be saved for holiday gifts. That’s another option. Just don’t tell Brandon, because I told him earlier today that he couldn’t have any. Then again, he’s over at the restaurant space right now, drinking a beer and eating Cool(!) Ranch(!) Doritos(!) while he rips out the carpet, so it’s really only fair that I should have a snack here too. Like peppermint bark. Which is, for the record, very refreshing. And inspiring! Look at that. I just wrote a whole paragraph.

I was introduced to this particular peppermint bark by my sister Lisa, who always, always, finds the best recipes. For a few years now - or maybe even several; I can’t remember - she has made it for the holidays. She gives most of it away to friends, but she usually sets aside a tin for the family to eat during Christmas, when we’re all together. Last year, when we spent Christmas Eve at her house on Long Island, I’m pretty sure I ate more peppermint bark than dinner.


Lisa and I were on the phone the other day, having a marathon catch-up session, and while we talked, I made a batch of chocolate blocks. I happened to mention that I was working on my holiday gift-making, and Lisa confided that she was running behind on hers. She usually makes both peppermint bark and bittersweet almond bark, handing out small sachets of each, but this year, she told me, so many people have asked for the peppermint bark that she is thinking of skipping the almond one entirely. I was sad to hear that - last Christmas Eve, I also ate more almond bark than dinner - but I understand. That peppermint bark is special.


Before I tasted Lisa’s version, the words peppermint bark weren’t even in my vocabulary. I guess I thought of it as one of those cutesy things you get in a gift basket but never eat, like tiny jars of cheese spread or plastic-encased summer sausages. Most of the time, it was simply a sheet of pallid white chocolate with crushed-up peppermint candies mixed in - or, in a slightly fancier incarnation, a layer of dark chocolate topped with a layer of white chocolate with crushed-up peppermint candies mixed in. I know this will sound like sacrilege to some, but I couldn’t get excited about it.

But then, THEN, there was Lisa’s version, which is really Bon Appétit’s version, a recipe that ran in the magazine ten whole years ago, in 1998. It consists of not one layer, not two layers, but three layers. The top and bottom are white chocolate, onto which you sprinkle crushed peppermints, and the middle layer is a bittersweet ganache, ever so slightly soft and truffle-like, spiked with peppermint extract. It’s pretty, for one thing, but it’s also unusually delicious: heady with mint, only moderately sweet, and surprisingly sophisticated, crunchy in parts and smooth in others, like a proper chocolate confection. It’s Americana, yes, but Americana in a vintage designer dress. If the butter cookies I made last week bore a faint resemblance to my grandmother, this peppermint bark is my fantasy great-aunt: the one who lives in San Francisco, wears Jackie O. dresses and glasses with vermilion frames, makes hot chocolate from scratch, and always knows what’s showing at SFMOMA. What a lady she would be. I wish she actually existed. At least I have peppermint bark.

This recipe takes a bit more time than the average bark specimen, what with the layering of chocolates and the required chilling in between, but it’s worth the effort. Once you have your ingredients ready, it’s really very easy: you just chop, melt, smear, and repeat. And while it cools, you can do any number of important things, like washing dishes, or chiding your husband for eating Cool Ranch Doritos without you, or calling your sister to thank her for her brilliance.


Three-Layer Peppermint Bark
Adapted from Bon Appétit, December 1998

When you’re shopping for white chocolate, make sure that the words “cocoa butter” appear in the list of ingredients. When I went to buy mine, I was shocked by how many brands contain absolutely no cocoa butter. (Instead, you get only sugar, hydrogenated oil, artificial flavorings, and the like.) I wound up using Callebaut, which isn’t cheap, but it was a worthy splurge.

Also, to crush the peppermints coarsely, Bon Appétit advises tapping the wrapped candies firmly with the bottom edge of an unopened 15- to 16-ounce can. I used a heavy glass jar, and that worked fine too.

17 oz. white chocolate, such as Callebaut, finely chopped
30 red-and-white-striped hard peppermint candies, coarsely crushed
7 oz. bittersweet chocolate, such as Ghirardelli 60%, finely chopped
6 Tbsp. heavy cream
¾ tsp. peppermint extract

Turn a large baking sheet upside down, and cover it securely with aluminum foil. Measure out and mark a 9- by 12-inch rectangle on the foil.

Put the white chocolate in a metal (or other heatproof) bowl, and set it over a saucepan of barely simmering water. (Do not allow the bottom of the bowl to touch the water.) Stir occasionally until the chocolate is melted and smooth; if you take its temperature with a candy thermometer, it should register 110°F. Remove the chocolate from the heat. Pour 2/3 cup of it onto the rectangle on the foil. Using an icing spatula, spread the chocolate to fill the rectangle. Sprinkle with ¼ cup of the crushed peppermints. Chill until set, about 15 minutes.

Meanwhile, combine the bittersweet chocolate, cream, and peppermint extract in a heavy medium saucepan. Warm over medium-low heat, stirring frequently, until the mixture is just melted and smooth. Cool to barely lukewarm, about 5 minutes. Then remove the baking sheet from the refrigerator, and pour the bittersweet chocolate mixture over the white chocolate rectangle. Using an icing spatula – make sure you cleaned it after using it for the white chocolate, above! – spread the bittersweet chocolate in an even layer. Chill until very cold and firm, about 25 minutes.

Rewarm the remaining white chocolate over barely simmering water to 110°F. Working quickly, pour the white chocolate over the firm bittersweet layer, using your (again, clean) icing spatula to spread it to cover. Sprinkle with remaining crushed peppermints. Chill just until firm, about 20 minutes.

Carefully lift the foil from the baking sheet onto a large cutting board. Trim away any ragged edges of the rectangle. (These are yours to nibble at, a little prize for your efforts.) Cut the bark crosswise into 2-inch-wide strips. Using metal spatula, slip the bark off of the foil and onto the cutting board. Cut each strip crosswise into 3 sections, and then cut each section diagonally into 2 triangles. Or, alternatively, just cut each strip into smaller pieces of whatever size you like. That’s what I did.

Pack into an airtight container, with sheets of wax paper between layers of bark to prevent them from sticking to one another. Store in the refrigerator. Serve cold or, to emphasize the slight softness of the bittersweet layer, let stand at room temperature for 10 minutes before serving.

Note: This bark will keep for up to 2 weeks, if not more. If you plan to pack it in a tin or baggie with other holiday sweets, be sure to wrap it separately in plastic wrap. Or maybe wax paper and then plastic wrap, so that it doesn’t sweat. If you left it naked, so to speak, to mix and mingle with other cookies or candies, everything might wind up tasting and smelling like peppermint.

Yield: about 36 pieces, or more, if you cut them smaller

For that very reason

I don’t know where to begin. You people spoil me. Do you know that? Brandon and I cannot even dream of how to adequately thank you for the immensely kind and utterly galvanizing comments you left in response to The Big Restaurant Announcement. Some of you even sent e-mails, offering advice, encouragement, and hands-on(!) help(!). I’m still trying to pick my jaw up off the floor. Thank you. Or rather, I mean, THANK YOU. If I could hire a plane to write it in the sky, I would, because that would best capture the magnitude of the sentiment. But we have a budget to stay within, you understand.

So, onward we go, right? I will keep you posted, I promise, as the process moves along. This week, Brandon’s main project is to design the layout of the kitchen, which is a rather fraught endeavor, as you can imagine. And soon I’ll be spending some time over there with my cameras, documenting the construction process, which I’m pretty excited about. I like taking pictures of messes - it’s the neatnik in me, I think, trying perversely to impose order - and what we’ve got right now definitely qualifies as a mess.


As does, conveniently, this photograph. These Danish butter cookies are not only one of the most wonderful things I have eaten lately, but they are also among the most difficult items I have ever, ever, tried to photograph. For one thing, they’re plain and monochromatic, as butter cookies generally are. They’re lovely to eat, but sort of boring to look at. Also, I’m almost positive that while I was washing the dishes, they held a secret meeting on the cooling rack and decided, just for fun, to wiggle a little bit each time I tried to take their picture. I think they also got the sun in on the game, because the light today was awful. Don’t even ask about the close-up shots. If I had a dime for every time I cussed at these blurry naughties, I would have, well, like, a dollar. That may not seem like much, but it could buy me a first-rate bagel at Absolute Bagels. To punish the cookies for their disobedience, Brandon and I ate about a half dozen of them, and then, take that, I put the rest in the freezer. Something tells me they won’t act up again.

This weekend, and these cookies, marked the beginning of my annual holiday baking ritual. Those of you who have been reading for a while may remember that a cloud of powdered sugar generally hovers over this site each December, and this one is no exception. For the third year in a row, I’ve decided to give handmade gifts for the holidays. Mainly because it makes me feel good, but also because it keeps me out of the mall, which is good for everyone, I assure you. I’m making a number of candies and cookies, like this and this and this and the recalcitrant specimens above, and I’m also making a few non-food things that I won’t reveal here, because their recipients might be reading. And because handmade doesn’t necessarily mean homemade, I also bought a few things from this beautiful shop, and from this one too. If money were no object, I would also buy a ban.do for my cousin Sarah, who loves to wear tiaras, because ban.dos are sort of like tiaras, only better. Sadly, I think she will have to settle for something a little less impressive, but it’s the thought that counts, I hear.



But about the butter cookies. I hope I didn’t make them sound too maddening, because the truth is, so long as you don’t come after them with a camera, they are completely docile. And they’re very, very delicious, which is all that matters. They may be modest little ladies - yes, somehow, they seem female to me; I can’t explain it - but they’re beguiling: delicate and not too sweet, rich with the flavor of pure butter and tender enough to melt the second they meet your tongue. The first one I tasted made my eyes roll back in my head, and that doesn’t usually happen unless there is chocolate involved. I found the recipe in this month’s Gourmet, and it sounded so perfectly simple that I had to try it. It was sent to the magazine by a reader in New Jersey, who explained that it was a fifth-generation family recipe from Denmark. Having now tried it, I can well understand its longevity. It is, without a doubt, a keeper.


It begins with a pound of butter. The key, I think, is that it calls for Lurpak butter, a particularly delicious - if pricey - brand produced, of course, in Denmark. I know that sounds fussy, but it’s worth the trouble to seek it out and pay the extra pennies, because it really is a wonderful butter, and these cookies are all about the butter. If you’ve ever eaten store-bought Danish butter cookies, you will recognize the concept, only the homemade version is worlds - entire universes, even - more delicious. To make it, you start by creaming the butter in a mixer, and then you add flour, baking soda, and sugar. Like I said, perfectly simple. You roll out the dough between sheets of plastic wrap, and then you chill it briefly, until it feels firm to the touch. Then you cut it into rectangles, brush it with egg and sprinkle it with coarse sugar, and bake until the edges go barely golden.

The finished cookies are dainty as sand dollars, with the familiar, irresistible, and profoundly reassuring fragrance of warm butter. If these cookies wore clothes, I’m pretty sure they would wear roomy blouses and long, full skirts with pastel flowers and, underneath, flesh-colored pantyhose and white satin slips with fine lace trim. Actually, now that I’ve typed that, I notice that I have just, in essence, described my grandmother. But it fits, and it’s how I feel about these cookies. They’re not hip or flashy or even photogenic, but I sort of love them anyway, and maybe even for that very reason.



Real Danish Butter Cookies
Adapted from Gourmet, December 2008

These would be really, really wonderful with a cup of tea. If you plan to give them as gifts, be sure to package them carefully, since they’re so delicate.

4 cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1 lb. unsalted Lurpak butter, at room temperature for 1 hour
¾ cup granulated sugar
1 large egg, beaten
3 to 4 Tbsp. sanding or other coarse-grain sugar, such as Turbinado

Set racks in the upper and lower thirds of the oven, and preheat to 325°F. Line 2 large baking sheets with parchment.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour and baking soda.

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat the butter until fluffy. Then add the sugar and beat briefly to combine. Add the flour mixture, and beat on low speed until just combined. (Unless you have a plastic guard that sits around the rim of the bowl, this will make a big mess at first, with flour flying everywhere. I found that carefully holding a dish towel around the top of the bowl helped a lot.) The dough will appear crumbly, but if you squeeze a bit in your hand, it will cohere. Divide the dough in half.

Roll each half between large sheets of plastic wrap into a rectangle approximately 10 by 15 inches, about 1/8 inch thick. Transfer, still in plastic wrap, to a baking sheet, and refrigerate until firm, about 30 minutes. Then remove the top layer of plastic wrap and cut into
2-by-1 ½-inch rectangles. (I tried this with some of my dough, but I found that the finished, baked cookies were a little larger than I wanted, so I wound up cutting next batch of rectangles in half, and I liked that size better. You might want to play around and decide for yourself.) Arrange the rectangles 1 inch apart on the prepared baking sheets. If the dough becomes too soft, chill or freeze until it is again firm enough to handle.

Brush the tops of the cookies very lightly with the beaten egg, and then sprinkle with sanding sugar. Bake the cookies, 2 sheets at a time, switching positions of the pans halfway through baking, until they are very pale golden, 12 to 15 minutes. Cool on the baking sheets for 5 minutes; then carefully slide the cookies, still on the parchment, onto wire racks. Cool completely. Make more cookies with the remaining dough, baking on cooled, freshly lined baking sheets. Reroll scraps once.

Note: Cookies will keep at room temperature for up to a week. Because I don’t plan to give mine away to friends for a week or two, I froze mine, and I’ll bet they’d be just fine that for a month or two, easy.

Yield: about 9 dozen cookies

I can't wait

Hi, all.

I am writing this from an airplane somewhere between Seattle and Newark, en route to my in-law’s house for Thanksgiving. I’m afraid I don’t have a recipe for you today, but the view is very nice, and I can offer you that, at least. If you squint hard enough, the wing of the plane looks a little like a dolphin tail, so it’s really two pictures in one. I hope you will find it a fair exchange.


Or, if not, I can offer a little piece of news instead. Actually, it’s a huge piece of news, but calling it little makes it feel more manageable. Brandon is opening a restaurant.

My heart stopped for a second, just typing that.

When I met him about 3 ½ years ago, Brandon was a graduate student in music composition. Actually, if we’re getting down to the nitty-gritties, he was a graduate student in music composition until last March, when he went on leave to focus on the restaurant full-time. It may seem like a strange transition to make, but he has been working in restaurants since he was a teenager, and cooking isn’t all that different, conceptually, from writing music. The work itself is certainly not the same, but both are creative processes, ways of taking separate elements and arranging them, balancing and tweaking, to make something new. Anyway, those of us who know him – which, in a sense, includes all of you – know that he loves food. The man can run circles around me in the kitchen. I like to cook, yes, but he is a cook.


He is also obsessed with pizza. As a grade-schooler, he used to go to a pizzeria near his parents’ house in New Jersey and pepper the owner with questions about dough and mozzarella. When I met him, he lived on the Upper West Side, but he trekked out to the middle of Brooklyn at least once a week to wait patiently in line at DiFara. Last year, he agreed to drive a car from San Antonio to Los Angeles just so he could try the pizza at Mozza, and he took an overnight trip to Phoenix for the sole purpose of eating at Pizzeria Bianco. So when he told me that he wanted to make pizza, it didn’t exactly surprise me. It may have scared me a little, but it didn’t surprise me.


The wheels have been in motion for quite a while – over a year, I think – but he signed a lease on Friday, so we feel ready now to say something here. We wanted to go ahead and share it with you, because we’re excited. And also, you know, a little scared, which seems only sane. But mainly, we’re excited. I hesitate to say too much today, but I can tell you that the restaurant will be here in Seattle, in our neighborhood. The windows are covered with plastic right now, and the door is kind of garish and wonky, but it’ll be prettier soon, I promise. If you squint hard enough, you might get a sense of it. Or see a dolphin tail. You never know.


I say that the restaurant is Brandon’s, because it is: it’s his baby, his vision, his sweat. But I will be there too, helping where I can, and the menu, which I can’t wait to show you, is a real combination of his style and mine. It is inspired by two of our favorite restaurants: Zuni Café, in San Francisco, and Boat Street Café and Kitchen, where Brandon has worked for the past two and a half years, since he moved to Seattle. It happens, yes, that the emphasis will be on pizza, but there will also be wood-fired vegetables from local farmers, seasonal salads, charcuterie, and rustic desserts, the kind I like to make at home. I can’t wait.

There is a lot of work ahead, no doubt, but he plans to open in the springtime. Hopefully early spring, though we’ll see. My book comes out on March 3, so our heads are sort of exploding at the moment. But don’t worry! We have a lot of help. Susan Kaplan of Boat Street has been a hugely generous mentor, and our friend Carla Leonardi of Café Lago has spent hours with us at the oven and in the kitchen. And my brother David, who owns five(!) restaurants in the DC area, calls to check in and field questions and cheer, which makes me so happy that I feel kind of weepy right now.

I know there are a lot of details missing from this story, but I will tell you more as I can. In the meantime, thank you, always, for being here, and for believing in me, in him, and in us. I’ll see you back here on December 8, once we’ve had time to take some deep breaths, sleep in, cook Thanksgiving dinner, wander around New York and eat pizza, and get ready for what comes next.

A whole bowlful

I had intended to talk about dessert today. You’ve been extremely kind about the recent vegetable recipe bonanza around here, and to thank you, I wanted to bake you something especially nice. You deserve it. So I made a pan of gingerbread. The recipe was new to me, but it looked delicious: good and spicy, with rum-soaked raisins and crystallized ginger and orange zest and a pretty glaze. I just knew you would love it. I was very excited. To make sure it was worthy, I cut a couple of slices to eat after dinner the other night, while we sat on the couch with a DVD of Dog Whisperer, hoping that Cesar Millan might, god willing, help us understand why Jack is so weird sometimes. But unfortunately, it wasn’t very good. I mean, Cesar was fine - calm-assertive, as usual - but the gingerbread was only so-so. It tasted a little too strongly of molasses, and the glaze was too sweet. Actually, I think the first word that came to mind was meh.

I really am sorry. I tried.

But on the upside, the Parade of Underappreciated Vegetables marches on! Or rolls on! Or tumbles on! Or whatever it is that kohlrabi does.


Up until about a week ago, I did not expect to ever say the word kohlrabi on this site. I had eaten it three or four times, usually sliced thinly and dunked in aioli or vinaigrette, and though it was pleasant, I didn’t feel particularly inspired to buy it again. It has a very nice flavor - a cross between a cabbage and a broccoli stem, but milder and sweeter than both - but still, I was unmoved. It seemed unapproachable, difficult somehow. It always caught my eye at the farmers’ market, but more as a sort of vegetal artwork than anything else. To me, it was kind of like Damien Hirst’s dead shark in formaldehyde, the one that’s on display right now at the Met: interesting to look at, even beautiful to some, but at the end of the day, a little too weird. (Is that a bad comparison? Yes?)

But the weekend before last, I went to Wordstock, a literary festival in Portland, and while I was there, I met Ivy Manning, author of The Farm to Table Cookbook. Over the past few months, a couple of you have e-mailed me about her book, telling me how wonderful it is, and I thought she might like to know, so I told her. (Thank you, by the way, for giving me something to say to her; I am sometimes a little shy.) She was warm and funny and down-to-earth, and the two of us got chatting, and somehow we wound up on the subject of kohlrabi. I have no idea how it happened, but it did, and I am now forever indebted to her, because in the course of that conversation, she told me about a recipe in her book, a recipe for a kohlrabi salad that, as of lunchtime today, officially changed everything.


In fact, between Brandon and I, we ate almost a whole bowlful - normal yield: 6 servings - in a single sitting. I don’t know why it took me so long to warm to kohlrabi, but I think I made up for it today. Ivy’s recipe, which comes from Chef Fearn Smith of The Farm Café in Portland, makes a bright, refreshing salad that could win over any skeptic, myself included. Actually, when Ivy was describing it to me, she referred to it as “The Y Chromosome Salad,” because it has conquered, in particular, so many doubting men. You just peel and julienne a carrot and two kohlrabi - a slightly tricky venture, admittedly, since kohlrabi is quite hard, but it’s well worth the effort - and then you dress them with a mixture of rice vinegar, olive oil, toasted sesame oil, and ground toasted fennel seeds. What results is wonderfully cool and crunchy and light, a taste of high summer in the middle of fall. The dressing is gently Asian-inspired, but it gets a twist of intrigue from the sweet, fragrant fennel seeds, and the crispness of the kohlrabi is oddly addictive - a bit like water chestnuts or jicama, only less watery and with more flavor.

I ate mine with a peanut butter sandwich, if you really want to know, and though the pairing was not promising, it was somehow completely delicious. Brandon ate his portion with some chickpeas and slices of sharp cheddar, and he pronounced it especially tasty with the cheese. It would be terrific, I think, with roasted chicken or fish, or even with a grilled cheese sandwich. Or a turkey sandwich. Or absolutely anything.


P.S. If you’d like to take a peek, artist Stephanie Levy posted an interview with me on her site. (I had so much fun, Stephanie. Thank you.) And over at slow blogs, Monna said some very kind things about this site. (Thanks, Monna! What a sweet surprise.) And boiled kale had a day in the sun on nytimes.com. (Huzzah, kale!)



Kohlrabi Salad
Adapted from The Farm to Table Cookbook, by Ivy Manning, and Chef Fearn Smith of The Farm Café

Kohlrabi is available almost year-round, and lately my farmers’ market has some particularly gorgeous specimens. When choosing kohlrabi, be sure to look for nice, hard bulbs. If the leaves are still attached, all the better: they’re an indicator of freshness. (If the leaves are yellow or wilted, don’t buy it.) Oh, and try not to buy the huge ones: their flavor is often stronger and less sweet than the smaller or more moderate-sized specimens.

Also, note that I left out the pea shoots when I made this. And I added garlic. I’m sure it would be wonderful with the shoots, but they would have required a special trip to the Asian market downtown. So I went ahead without them, and I wasn’t the least bit sorry.

2 medium red or green kohlrabi bulbs
1 large carrot, peeled
1 tsp. fennel seed
2 Tbsp. rice wine vinegar
1/2 tsp. kosher salt, or more to taste
1/2 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
1 small garlic clove, pressed (optional)
2 Tbsp. olive oil
1 tsp. toasted sesame oil
2 cups pea shoots (optional)

Trim away any stems from the kohlrabi bulb. Using a sharp chef’s knife or a sharp vegetable peeler, cut and discard away its tough outer skin. Then julienne the kohlrabi, using either a mandolin or the same sharp knife. (Because kohlrabi is hard and dense, I found the mandolin to be a bit precarious, so I used a little of both.) Julienne the carrot too.

In a small dry skillet, toast the fennel seeds over medium heat until they begin to brown slightly and smell toasty. Transfer them to a mortar and pestle or spice grinder, and grind them into a coarse powder.

In a small bowl, combine the fennel seeds, vinegar, salt, pepper, and garlic, if using. Slowly whisk in the olive oil and sesame oil. Pour over the vegetables and toss to coat. Taste, and add more salt, if needed.

Chop the pea shoots, if using, into 1-inch pieces and toss into the salad immediately before serving.

Yield: 6 servings

Out of love

I am not trying to torture you, I promise. I know it must seem like I sit around all day, cackling evilly, stroking my black cat, scheming up ways to trick you into eating lima beans and kale, but I don’t. Cross my heart. I don’t even have a cat - although I do sometimes cackle, but never at your expense. Everything I do here, I do out of love. Which is also, coincidentally, why I am going to talk today about a Savoy cabbage gratin.


This, in case you wondered, is what love looks like. Isn’t it beautiful? In a vaguely Little Shop of Horrors way? Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t want anything to color my feelings for this cabbage.

Those of you who have been around here for a while may remember that I am quite fond of a book called All About Braising, by Molly Stevens. Actually, I’m so fond of it, and so nerdy, that I’ve plastered my copy with a pack of Post-It® flags left over from my half-hearted attempt at graduate school, one flag for each recipe that catches my eye. As of this writing, there are 16 flags in all, enough to make the poor thing look like it’s wearing one of those jackets with fringe that were all the rage in the eighties. I am a little bit crazy about this book. Even more so now that I’ve made the Savoy cabbage gratin on page 61.


It may not look particularly inspiring, but this gratin made me cry last Tuesday night. Our new(!) president(!) may have also had something to do with it, but for now, let’s focus on the gratin. Talking politics around here makes me nervous, but I am always happy to talk cabbage. Especially Savoy cabbage, the ruffly-collared beauty queen of the cold months. Until I tried this recipe, I didn’t know quite what to do with it, aside from putting it in the crisper drawer, forgetting about it, and cussing profusely when it started to rot. But now I most certainly do know what to do, and I think I will do it at least once every couple of weeks, or, who am I kidding, once a week, until the warm months come back from wherever they went.

Here’s how it works: you slice up a head of Savoy cabbage, along with a bunch of scallions. Then you melt some butter in a large skillet, toss in the cabbage and scallions, and let them cook until the cabbage wilts and starts, just barely, to brown. Then you add some stock and bring it to a simmer, and then you turn the whole mess into a gratin dish. Then you bake it for about an hour under a nice, snug blanket of foil - this is the braising part, just so you know - until it goes completely relaxed. Then, then, as though a dish of meltingly tender cabbage were not soothing enough for a cool night, you take a ration of soft, creamy, pungent cheese - Molly Stevens calls for Saint-Marcellin, but I used Delice de Bourgogne, a triple-cream - and cut it into bits and nubs, which you then scatter over the top. Then you return said cabbage to the oven for another ten minutes, just long enough to melt the cheese and make the kitchen smell outrageously savory and complex, causing everyone present, including you, to stare impatiently at the oven door.

Now, I know I said a lot of nice things about those lima beans last week. I know I compared them to cream-braised Brussels sprouts, a type of praise that is not to be toyed with. But I am tempted to say the same sort of thing about this gratin. This thing is a keeper. As Luisa would say, it’s lamination-worthy, even. We were with our friends Ben and Bonnie and Olaiya on election night, and I think Ben put it best. After he took his first mouthful, he looked up from his plate and said solemnly, proudly, “MOLLY.” To get the full effect, you really had to hear him say it, but you get the idea. He liked it a lot. This one is for him.


Savoy Cabbage Gratin
Adapted from All About Braising, by Molly Stevens

A couple of notes about ingredients:

- Good stock, either chicken or vegetable, is key here. The first time I made this gratin, I used a quick homemade chicken stock, and it was delicious. The second time, I used store-bought vegetable stock - Imagine brand No-Chicken Broth – and though I wasn’t sure what to expect, it was just as good. In general, though, be picky about store-bought stocks: often, I find, the chicken kind tastes too strong, too overwhelmingly chicken-y, while the vegetable kind tastes just plain gross. That particular Imagine broth is the only one I really like, because it actually tastes like vegetable stock.

- If you can’t find Saint-Marcellin, use a good triple-cream cheese, such as Delice de Bourgogne, Pierre Robert, or Brillat-Savarin. I used Delice de Bourgogne, and it was wonderful. Just remember not to use the rind: it’s too pungent. Also, don’t be tempted to use Brie. It isn’t quite right here.

3 Tbsp. unsalted butter
1 Savoy cabbage (about 1 ½ lb.), quartered, cored, and sliced into ½-inch-wide shreds
1 bunch scallions, white and green parts, sliced into ½-inch-wide pieces
Kosher salt
1 ¾ cups mild chicken or vegetable stock
1 ripe Saint-Marcellin cheese (about 3 oz.), or an equal amount of triple-cream cheese

Set a rack in the middle of the oven, and preheat the oven to 350°F. Lightly butter a large (roughly 10”x 14”) gratin dish, or another dish of similar size.

Melt the butter in a large (12-inch or bigger) skillet over medium-high heat. Add the cabbage and scallions, season generously with salt, and cook, stirring, until the cabbage is nicely wilted and just beginning to brown in spots, about 10 minutes. Add the stock, bring to a steady simmer, and cook, stirring occasionally, for 2 minutes.

Transfer the cabbage, scallions, and all the liquid into the prepared gratin dish. Cover tightly with foil, and bake for 45 minutes. Remove the foil, and continue to bake until the liquid is mostly evaporated, about 20 minutes more. Then remove the dish from the oven. Cut the cheese into small lumps and scatter it over the cabbage. Increase the oven temperature to 375°F, return the dish to the oven, and cook until the cheese is thoroughly melted, about 10 minutes.

Serve hot or warm, as a side dish for almost any meat. I’ll bet it would also be delicious with an egg. Or on its own, as a light meal, with a hunk of bread.

Yield: 4 to 6 servings

Certainly good

I’m feeling a little bit preoccupied by the election tomorrow, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to cut straight to the chase.

I have four words for you. Lima. Beans. In. Cream.


Still there? Yes? You won’t be sorry, I swear. They may not sound like much, but they’re right up there with cream-braised Brussels sprouts, and that is not something I say lightly. In fact, if it’s any indication, I rank those Brussels sprouts as one of my Top Ten Best Things Ever. Just so you know. I mean business about these lima beans.


When I decided to make these, I was mainly after something soothing to eat on election night. My first idea was a pan of brownies and some beer, and that’s still a viable plan, but I figured we should have some vegetables too. Even if they are in cream, which kind of cancels out the vegetable part. Anyway, the recipe was inspired by none other than Miss Edna Lewis, whose sweet face alone is miraculously soothing. I like to think that, were she alive today, she too might require a brownie, a beer, and some lima beans in cream on this most important, and most nerve-wracking, of nights.

Miss Lewis’s version of the recipe called for freshly shelled lima beans, but I took some liberties and used frozen instead. They get simmered in water for about 15 minutes, or until they are tender, and then you drain them, dump them back into the pan, and add a cupful of cream. Now, I know. It sounds like a lot. It is a lot. But listen: we are living in very uncertain times, and when something this certainly good comes along, you would be wise to not ask questions. You would probably also be wise to not eat it every single day, but that’s another issue.

So, yes, you add the cream and some salt and pepper, and then you set the pan on the heat just long enough to warm it through. During this time, you might take a minute to notice how pretty it looks, the lima beans peeking up out of the cream like cobblestones on an empty street. Actually, what it really called to mind for me was the Pebble Garden at Dumbarton Oaks, in Washington, DC. Have you ever been there? Remind me to tell you sometime about the afternoon I spent there with my mother, my sister, and my niece, and about how we accidentally got locked in the gardens at closing time, and how, as the sun started to set, we climbed our way to freedom over the brick wall that encloses the estate, giggling like schoolgirls until we were caught by a security guard. Or nevermind. I guess I just told you about it.

But about the cream and lima beans. It takes only a few minutes to warm them together, but in this short time, they do something sort of remarkable. Each brings with it a kind of sweetness - a green, starchy kind from the beans, and a rich, caramelly kind from the cream - and together, mingling and melding, they become unreally delicious. I mean, lima beans in cream. It even sounds delicious, a cute little near-rhyme. I can imagine this dish sitting beautifully alongside a piece of roasted chicken on a Sunday night. Or you could serve it as Miss Lewis did, on the holiday table. I think it would be spectacular with turkey, or with a roast of beef. I’m not entirely sure of how it will go with brownies and beer, but I’ve got my fingers crossed - about that and so much more.



Lima Beans in Cream
Inspired by The Taste of Country Cooking, by Edna Lewis

For this recipe, try to use the best, richest-tasting cream you can find. I am completely in love with Fresh Breeze Organic heavy cream, made in Lynden, Washington.

1 (16-ounce) bag frozen baby lima beans (about 3 cups)
Water
1 cup heavy cream
¾ tsp. kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper
2 tsp. unsalted butter

Dump the lima beans, still frozen, in a 2- to 3-quart saucepan, and add cold water to cover by about 1 inch. Place over medium-high heat, cover, and bring to a boil. Adjust the heat to maintain a brisk simmer, and cook for 15 to 20 minutes, or until the beans are tender. Drain into a colander, and then return the beans to the saucepan. Add the cream, salt, and a few grinds of black pepper. Stir gently. Warm over low heat, shaking and swirling the pan occasionally, until the cream is warmed through and slightly, ever so slightly, thickened. It will still look quite soupy. Do not allow to boil. Stir in the butter, and serve hot.

Yield: 4 to 6 servings

Your work is done

I’ve been a little wishy-washy, I know, about the coming of fall this year. One minute, I’m moaning about wool scarves and rain and the end of the world, and the next minute, I’m chirping giddily about kale and apples and flannel sheets. It must be hard to keep up, and I’m sorry about that. If it’s any consolation, know that I too have a hard time keeping up, and I’m the one doing the moaning and chirping. Fall makes my head feel spinny.


Fall also, incidentally, makes me absolutely crazy for soup. C-R-A-Z-Y. Does anyone else experience this phenomenon, or is it my own peculiar seasonal pathology? I mean, is it weird to set the table with only napkins and spoons for weeks on end? Is it sad to eat a diet composed entirely of soft foods if you are under the age of ninety and still have a full set of teeth? Because there is a lot of soup in my life right now, and I intend to keep it that way until sometime in early to mid-2009. No matter how I feel about other aspects of fall, I am consistent, at least, about soup, and I hope that counts for something.


I’ve written about a decent number of soups here in the past few years, but there is one that I seem to have, until now, completely forgotten to mention. It’s a tomato soup with red onion and cilantro stems, and it is the most effortless, biggest-bang-for-your-buck soup in my repertoire. There are, of course, a million recipes out there for tomato soup, but this one, I think, is worthy of note, both for its utter simplicity and its unusual seasoning. It’s bright and warming, and though it is nothing but good for you, it feels surprisingly hearty, which makes it perfect fall fare. It is also one of my mother’s favorite soups, and that’s a solid endorsement, because the lady is a very fine cook. She’s the one who found the recipe, actually, in the April 1995 issue of Martha Stewart Living, in that “What’s for Dinner?” section with the perforated, tear-out recipe cards. (I love that section.) I was in my sophomore year of high school at the time, and though I can’t entirely endorse my taste in that era - my wardrobe back then consisted largely of mouse-brown oversize men’s pants that I bought for 11 cents each at a thrift store in Edmond - I did know a good soup when I tasted it. In the years that followed my mother’s discovery of this recipe, we ate it on a regular basis, usually with a dab of sour cream on top. Even my father liked it, which says a lot, since I remember him mainly as a cream-soups-and-
clam-chowder kind of guy.

But recipes come and recipes go, and for a while, I kind of forgot about that old tomato soup. I am often distracted, I should admit, by the shiny lure of a new recipe, and sometimes, against my will, the older ones wind up ignored. I can’t help it. But this past weekend, my mother happened to mention the tomato soup, and I thought, Oh, right! That soup with the cilantro stems! No matter the time of year, tomato soup always sounds good, doesn’t it? Fresh tomato season may be over, but canned ones don’t care about the calendar. So I went to the store, and today, in a grand total of 40 minutes - 30 of which I spent sitting at the kitchen table, writing this - I made a potful. Basically, you start by warming some olive oil in a large saucepan, and then you dump in a diced red onion and one clove of garlic, minced. While they cook, you mince half of a jalapeño and chop up the stems from one bunch of cilantro. That’s my favorite part of the whole recipe, those cilantro stems. I don’t know about you, but ordinarily, when I buy cilantro, I use only the leaves. Until this recipe came along, I didn’t know that the stems could be used at all. But the truth is, they have loads of flavor, fresh and sprightly and clean, and their delicately crunchy texture is perfectly suited to a rustic, chunky soup like this one. So you add them, along with the jalapeño, to the softened onion and garlic, and then you pour in the juice from a can of tomatoes, the tomatoes themselves, and some water. Bring it to a simmer, and ba-ding! Your work is done. Now, go sit down with a glass of wine. Dinner will be ready in half an hour.

Thank you, Mom.


Tomato Soup with Red Onion and Cilantro Stems
Adapted from Martha Stewart Living, April 1995

For this recipe, I like Muir Glen canned tomatoes.

1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 medium red onion, diced
1 medium garlic clove, minced
½ tsp. kosher salt, or to taste
1/8 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
¼ cup cilantro stems, cut into ½-inch lengths
½ of a jalapeño pepper, seeded and minced
1 28-ounce can whole peeled tomatoes
1 Tbsp. fresh lime juice
Sour cream, for serving

Warm the oil in a large saucepan over medium-low heat. Add the onions and garlic, and cook until the onions are soft and translucent, about 5 to 7 minutes. Add the salt, pepper, cilantro stems, and jalapeño, and stir well. Strain the tomatoes, and add the juice to the saucepan. Then seed the tomatoes, chop them coarsely, and add them to the pan as well. Add 2 cups water, and stir to combine. Simmer for 30 minutes. Add the lime juice. Then taste, and adjust the seasoning, if needed.

Serve hot, with a dollop of sour cream.

Yield: 4 servings

This old thing

So, have you eaten your boiled kale yet? Because dessert is ready, but you have to finish your vegetables before you can have any. That’s how it works.


I would like to introduce my new favorite dessert. Which, conveniently, is also the most ridiculously easy apple tart I have ever made. Isn’t it charming? In a rustic, “oh, this old thing?” sort of way? It’s the edible equivalent of a dog-eared book: a little rough around the edges, rumpled here and there, but 100 percent lovable on the inside. It’s the kind of dessert that wants to be eaten in a red barn with a loft full of hay bales, or in a bed with flannel sheets, while the wind whistles outside. Unfortunately, I have neither a barn nor any flannel, but I’m working on it.

I came to this recipe in a roundabout way. Namely, via a desire to learn to cook to rabbit. I don’t quite know where I got the idea, but a few weeks ago, it took hold of me. Rabbit is not exactly a popular meat choice, I know, but I had eaten it once before, in a restaurant, and though I had to struggle to keep my thoughts from drifting toward Beatrix Potter, Peter Rabbit, and Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail, it was very, very delicious. I had been wanting to try it at home, but I was a little afraid. I needed a partner in crime, or in whatever sort of deviant activity rabbit cookery constitutes. I happened to mention this to my friend Carla, and much to my delight, her eyes lit up immediately. The wheels were officially in motion! Then, not long after, this beauty happened to glue itself to my hands at the bookstore - books can be so needy, especially the pretty ones - and lo and behold, it offered an entire menu built around roasted rabbit. Clearly, it was fate. The menu began with a spinach cake, a savory sort of custard-meets-frittata, and then moved on to rabbit rubbed with crème fraîche and mustard, parsnips roasted in olive oil, and, finally, a free-form apple tart. Hubba hubba.

So last Wednesday night, we gathered around Carla’s stove and put it all together, and it certainly looked promising. I was planning, actually, to tell you today about the spinach cake recipe, or maybe even the rabbit. But to be perfectly honest, neither turned out particularly well. The rabbit was just okay - a little dry, and with strangely curdled pan juices. I hate to admit this, but we gave most of the leftover meat to Jack. He was the only one who really liked it. And the spinach cake, too, wasn’t quite right. It was oddly watery, and I could hardly muster half a slice. The parsnips, however, were delicious. You can never go wrong with high heat, olive oil, and root vegetables. But the apple tart, the afterthought of the evening, wound up stealing the entire show. In fact, Carla’s son Lluc proclaimed it the best tart he’s ever had. He ought to know, too: he doesn’t like cake, but he loves tarts and pies, so he’s eaten plenty of them.

Anyway, it’s all just as well, right? In a contest between spinach cake, roasted rabbit, and apple tart, I think we all know who the winner would be.


I like my fruit tarts simple, as you know, and this one is just that. You begin by rolling a batch of buttery dough into a large rectangle. (I used my usual recipe, not the one Tanis proposes; I am becoming such a rebel.) It doesn’t matter if the rectangle is a little irregular. In fact, it probably will be. That’s what it’s all about. It’s rustic, bless it, and that word excuses all flaws. Anyway, yes, so you roll it out, and then you slide it onto a rimmed baking sheet. Then you peel some apples and slice them thinly. Don’t throw out the cores, though. Instead, chuck them into a saucepan, add some sugar and water, and boil the mixture down until to a thick syrup: later, once strained, this is going to be your glaze. (Smart, isn’t it? It’s reason enough, really, to love David Tanis, notwithstanding our disappointment with the iffy rabbit and wonky spinach cake.) You fan the sliced apples atop the dough like cards in a game of Solitaire, and then you dust them with sugar. Then you bake the tart until the crust is golden brown, at which point the apples should be tender and fragrant. Let it cool a little bit, brush it with warm glaze, and that’s it. Dessert is done: a little sweet, a little tart, perfectly understated, buttery to just the right degree. We served it that night with honey-sweetened whipped cream, which I strongly suggest. I might also suggest, while we’re at it, that you play a game of Ticket to Ride afterward. Do not, however, play against our friend Sam, because he will beat you every time. He will be nice about it, but he will beat you. Every. Time.

And should you have any of the tart left over at the end of the night, know that it’s just as good on its own - the next day, maybe, as an after-lunch sweet. So long, of course, as you eat your kale. Don’t forget that part.



Apple Tart
Adapted from A Platter of Figs and Other Recipes, by David Tanis

This is especially delicious with a little bit of honey-sweetened whipped cream.

For crust:
4 Tbsp. ice water, plus more as needed
3⁄4 tsp. apple cider vinegar
1 1⁄2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 Tbsp. sugar
3⁄4 tsp. salt
9 Tbsp. (4 1⁄2 oz.) cold unsalted butter, cut into cubes

For filling:
6 to 7 medium Granny Smith apples (about 2 1⁄2 pounds)
1 cup sugar, plus more for sprinkling
1 cup water


To prepare the crust:
In a small bowl or measuring cup, combine 4 Tbsp. ice water and the cider vinegar.

In the bowl of a food processor, combine the flour, sugar, and salt. Pulse to blend. Add the butter, and pulse until the mixture resembles a coarse meal; there should be no pieces of butter bigger than a large pea. With the motor running, slowly add the water-vinegar mixture, processing just until moist clumps form. If you pick up a handful of the dough and squeeze it in your fist, it should hold together. If the dough seems a bit dry, add more ice water by the teaspoon, pulsing to incorporate. I sometimes find that 1 additional teaspoon is perfect.

Turn the dough out onto a wooden board or clean countertop, and gather it, massaging and pressing, until it just holds together. Shape it into a ball, and press it into a disk about 1 1⁄2 inches thick. If the disk cracks a bit at the edges, don’t worry; just pinch the cracks together as well as you can. Wrap the dough in plastic wrap, and then press it a bit more, massaging away any cracks around the edges, allowing the constraint of the plastic wrap to help you form it into a smooth disk. Refrigerate the wrapped dough for at least 2 hours. (Dough can be kept in the refrigerator for up to 4 days or frozen for up to 1 month. Thaw it in refrigerator overnight before using.) Before rolling it out, allow the dough to soften slightly at room temperature.

To assemble:
Set an oven rack to the middle position, and preheat the oven to 375°F.

On a lightly floured surface, roll the dough into a rectangle measuring approximately 11 by 16 inches. Transfer the dough to a rimmed baking sheet. Cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate while you prepare the filling.

Peel the apples, and cut them into quarters. Cut out the cores, and toss them into a medium saucepan. To the cores, add 1 cup sugar and 1 cup water. Bring to a simmer over medium heat, stirring until the sugar dissolves. Simmer until the mixture has reduced to a thick syrup. Strain out and discard the solids, and set the syrup aside. Meanwhile, cut the apples into thin – roughly 1/8- to ¼-inch-thick – slices. Arrange the apple slices over the pastry in 5 rows, overlapping them like cards in solitaire. Sprinkle sugar generously over the apples. [I used a tablespoon – the eating kind, not the measuring kind – to do this, and I used about 1 slightly heaping spoonful for every 1 to 1 ½ rows of apple slices.] If you want to, fold up the edges of the dough a little bit, to form a small rim.

Bake the tart until the pastry is crisp and golden brown and the apples are beginning to color, about 35 to 45 minutes. [If your apples aren’t getting much color, don’t worry; if the pastry is looking right and the apples are at least tender, you should be fine. My apples stayed pretty pale.] Cool on the pan on a rack.

Just before serving, rewarm the glaze. Slide the tart from the pan onto a cutting board. Brush the apples with the warm glaze. Slice, and serve.

Yield: 6 to 8 servings

Pleasantly sogged

I never thought I would say these words, but I like boiled kale. Kind of a lot.


This may not be the most exciting confession I have ever made, but please bear with me. Or, at least, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Boiled kale, I mean. I don’t usually like boiled anything - except, of course, pasta - but boiled kale, yes. It’s the wool sock of winter vegetables: warming, soothing, completely unglamorous, as cozy as a bunch of green leaves can be. If I could climb into a bowl of anything right now, I think I would choose kale. That’s the ultimate measure, you know, of a cool-weather food: would you want to lie down in a vat of it? Creamy polenta is a top contender, as is rice pudding, but, for me, for now, boiled kale is the winner. It’s soft; it’s silky; and if your shoulders get cold, you can grab a few slivered leaves and drape them over you like a shawl.


I always eat a lot of kale during the colder months, but boiling it is new to me. Usually, I toss it in a hot skillet with some butter or olive oil, knock it around for a couple of minutes, just until it turns bright green, and then drizzle it with lemon juice and turn it out onto a plate. Or I braise it with some chickpeas, like this. I had never even thought to boil it until a little over a year ago, I think it was, on a trip to San Francisco, when we had lunch at Zuni Café. Every time I go there, I seem to come away inspired somehow, and this lunch was no exception. I was in the mood for something healthy that day, and as I read down the menu, the first item to catch my eye was cavolo nero, or Tuscan kale, boiled and served on toast with a fried egg. Oh, I know. Listen, I know. It’s criminal to pass up the famous Zuni hamburger. But I couldn’t help it. I ordered the humble kale, and I am not sorry.

In fact, what the waiter set down in front of me a few minutes later was the closest I have ever come, in a restaurant, to my ideal lunch. It was a wide soup bowl - the type my mother calls a cream soup bowl - and in it was a beautifully sloppy pile of kale, stewed into tenderness in a clear, fragrant broth. Beneath the kale was a generous slice of country bread, happily soaking up the aforementioned broth, and atop it all sat a fried egg, waiting to loose its yolk onto the greens below. It wasn’t rocket science, but it was everything I love about Zuni Café: unpretentious, perfectly pitched, and utterly ballsy in its plainness. The best part was, of course, that it was delicious. The kale was sweet and earthy, the egg mellow and rich, and the bread soft, comforting, pleasantly sogged.


So, this past week, the week when I pulled my wool jacket out of the closet and put on my new wrist worms, I decided to boil some kale. Or, rather, I asked Brandon to do it while I did a load of laundry and cleaned the bathroom. I think he got the better end of the deal. But it doesn’t really matter, because 45 minutes later, I got some kale either way - and on toast, to boot, with an olive oil-fried egg, my favorite kind. And though I know I’ve been complaining about fall lately, I have to admit, I was happy to see kale again. I almost couldn’t believe it - especially since I got so tired of the stuff last winter - but I really was happy. Isn’t it great how that works? It’s kind of magical, to tell you the truth, like some sort of benevolent strain of amnesia. Hello, kale. It’s nice to know you again. For now.



Boiled Kale with a Fried Egg and Toast
Adapted from The Zuni Café Cookbook

I like to use cavolo nero - also sold as Tuscan kale, lacinato kale, or dinosaur kale - for this, but you could also use curly kale. And while you could use just water for this, I prefer to make it with chicken stock, preferably homemade.

Here’s a good, quick chicken stock: take 2 pounds of chicken parts (I like legs, or a mix of legs and wings) and dump them into a large saucepan with the following: 3 sprigs of fresh thyme; 1 small carrot, cut into a few pieces; 1 celery stalk, cut into a few pieces; and half of a yellow onion. Add 2 quarts of water. Bring to a simmer, and cook gently for 45 minutes, skimming away any foam that rises to the surface. Salt to taste. Strain through a colander to remove large solids; then strain again through cheesecloth. It’s ready to go.

About 8 ounces kale
5 Tbsp. olive oil
1 medium yellow onion, diced
A pinch of dried red pepper flakes
2 large garlic cloves, thinly sliced
3 to 4 cups mild chicken stock, or water, or a combination of the two

To serve:
Thick slices of country bread
Eggs
Olive oil
Prosciutto, torn into bite-sized bits (optional)
Parmigiano Reggiano or Pecorino Romano


First, prepare the kale: trim away any discolored spots, and then remove and discard the ribs and stems, if they are thick or woody. Stack a few leaves at a time; then slice them into ¼-inch-thick ribbons. Dump the sliced kale into a salad spinner, and add plenty of cold water. Swish the kale around to free any trapped dirt. Let stand for a minute or two – this lets the dirt fall to the bottom – and then lift the basket from the spinner. Pour out the dirty water. Replace the basket, add fresh water, and repeat. Spin dry.

In a large (4-quart) saucepan, warm the oil over medium-low heat. Add the onions, and cook, stirring occasionally, until they are translucent but still firm. Add the red pepper flakes and garlic and the kale, and stir until the kale is fully wilted. Add stock to cover by about ½ inch. Bring to a simmer. Cover, and continue to simmer until the kale is tender but not mushy, about 30 minutes. Taste, and salt as needed. This dish needs quite a bit of salt, so don’t be shy.

To serve, toast one slice of bread per person. While still hot, lightly rub both sides of the toast with raw garlic. Place the toast in the bottom of a wide soup bowl. Now, fry some eggs – one per person, probably – in olive oil. Pile some kale onto the toast in each bowl, drizzle with a little bit of olive oil, and top with a fried egg. Strew with prosciutto, if you want. Grate some cheese over the whole thing, and serve.

Yield: about 4 servings