See the full gallery on Posterous

by Cathy Erway

What a luxurious working-day lunch. It’s casual and uncomplicated to make — an open-faced sandwich — but on top of this bread lies slices of home-cured wild-caught red Alaska salmon surrounded by jewels from the garden. Funny to think that cured salmon (not smoked, but similar in texture and taste, sans smokiness) was once a common luncheon meat for the working man before it became a delicacy. It’s produced through a quick and easy process of rubbing salt, sugar and other seasonings into the fish, and letting it draw out moisture over a couple days. So, fishermen of Scandinavia, or Native Americans of the Pacific Northwest, would use this method to make their fresh catches keep longer over time. Overfishing led to the rarity of this fish and now most salmon is farmed (and, to the connoisseur, tastes nothing like its wild brethren). Now, wild-caught salmon from the only sustainable fishery left in the world, Alaska, commands more than tenderloin on the market. So how did I get my hands on this stuff, and why am I sharing it with everyone for lunch? I caught wind of a wild-caught Alaskan salmon CSA, and signed up as soon as I could.

Citrus-Cured Salmon 
(adapted from The Scandinavian Cookbook)

Because the sugar and salt was weighed in grams in the book, I went through a confusing process of conversion for this that I can now no longer remember. But it worked, and this is the simplified (in cups) solution.

1 lb piece of salmon fillet (preferably wild-caught Alaskan red) 
1/4 cup salt 
1/4 cup sugar 
zest of 1 lemon 
zest of 1 orange

Feel the salmon for any pin bones and carefully remove with tweezers. Coat the fleshy side (not the skin) with the zest. Combine the salt and sugar in a bowl and pour over the fillet. Cover in an airtight container and store in the refrigerator for 2 1/2-3 days. Drain juices and rinse off the cure. Pat dry with paper towels. Enjoy. Can be kept covered in the refrigerator for up to 3 weeks

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

See the full gallery on Posterous

It was so silly I had to do it. When I read that I would be getting a pint of donut peaches in the newsletter of my fruit CSA this week, the idea took hold of me: must make "donut peach donuts." I just saw Inception like the rest of our society has, it seems, so I know more than ever now that when an idea is planted, it can grow and grow to take over your rational thought. 

I dreamed and deliberated about how to make donut peach donuts. My first idea had been simple: make a peach jelly with the fresh fruit, and squeeze it in the middle of some sort of homemade donutty thing. Yeast-risen dough or cake-like dough? Both involved tons of steps, especially the yeast, which is actually my preferred donut type. Do I coat it with powdered sugar after it's been deep-fried and done? Yuck... I know it's classic, but I could never stand that fine dust of super-sweet. Maybe I don't really want to make donuts after all? I hesitated.

But I was egged on: Wen-Jay, who organizes the CSA for Red Jacket Orchards, said that she'd "dreamed about it" too. Others thought the idea was "brilliant," like Josh. Erin thought I should make "ice cream banana ice cream" next... not sure if she got that the peach was already called "donut" here... And Jennsaid she imagined "a big battered donut peach with a dollop of cream in its indent." Wait a minute, that sounded interesting, I thought. Why make jelly from these peaches when you can play off their already donut-looking shape?

So I bought a gallon of canola oil and went with the battered, deep-fried idea. I cored the peaches carefully using a paring knife. After eating a couple of them already, I found that their pits were fairly small, as far as peaches go, and that they were impossible to miss, since they were right in the buttoned-up center of the fruit.

"Donut peaches" are an heirloom variety that has recently picked up in popularity, due to their irresistibly cute shape. They also have white flesh, and white peaches have been well-embraced as of late, too. Their characteristics are just like that of a normal white peach -- fuzzy skin, mildly sweet and not very tart taste -- but instead of growing evenly around the pit, the fruit bulges from its sides like a pinched balloon, or, well, donut. This once-rare variety is purportedly easier to grow as they're more resistant to frost, pest and disease. I really like how they're easier to eat: not too big, and the flesh pulls away cleanly from the pit.

I went with a simple beer batter, not very different from my formula for pancakes, and it only needed a few ingredients readily on hand: egg, flour, beer, sugar and salt. As for beer, I'd say go for anything crisp and light-tasting like a pilsner or lager, something with a lot of carbonation to puff these things up. You're not really going to taste it anyway.

If you've ever made onion rings, this procedure is pretty much the same. Pour enough oil to fully submerge your peaches into the bottom of a tall pot. Get the oil to an sizzling 375 degrees (you can use a thermometer for this, or just test a dollop of batter in the hot oil to see how quickly it fries). Dunk the cored peaches into the batter to coat them, and drop them into the oil. A few seconds later, you should have a golden brown deep-fried ring of peach. It tastes great -- the flesh of the peach is still as fresh and juicy as it was to begin with, just lightly warmed up around the skins. The outside is blissfully crisp and savory, like a beignet. And it looks pretty much exactly like a donut. I am so happy I could jump out a window. 
 
Now, since another name for donut peaches is "Saturn" peaches, should my next quest be to make planets out of these things?

Beer-Battered, Deep-Fried Donut Peaches 
(makes 6)

6 donut peaches, carefully pitted without cutting the rest of the fruit 
1 egg 
1 cup all-purpose flour 
1 cup beer 
1 tablespoon sugar 
1/2 teaspoon salt 
about 4 cups canola oil (or enough to submerge)

Bring oil to about 375 degrees. It should be slightly sizzling. Whisk together the egg, flour, beer, salt and sugar. Dunk the pitted donuts into the batter to coat completely.

Test if oil is hot enough to deep-frying by dropping a dollop of batter in first. If it sizzles up and turns golden brown within a couple seconds, it's ready. Shake a little batter off each peach and deep-fry in batches of two or three at a time. (You'll want to keep the oil consistently hot, and adding more peaches will lower its temperature.) Once golden brown, after approximately 5-10 seconds, transfer to paper towels to drain. Serve with ice cream or whipped cream optional.

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

See the full gallery on Posterous

by Cathy Erway 

Perhaps it’s a maternal instinct of tucking things in, but I’m a fan of stuffing food inside other food. So when I signed up for the Great Hot Dog Cookoff for the third time this year, all I could think of was: what’s going to be the bun? 

Previous exploits in this cookoff, a benefit for City Harvest, had led me to roll up tofu dogs inside nori with sushi rice, bake a hot dog inside a flaky pastry with brie and raspberry jam, and steam Asian buns to put hoisin-slathered hot dogs inside. What was going to be the vessel for the almighty (and, in my opinion, otherwise boring) American barbecue food this year?  

A cucumber. It’s been a terrifically hot summer, and a cold, crunchy cucumber can’t be a bad thing for any food. Also, thanks in part to that heat, cucumbers have been proliferating in this region, particularly on my friend Annie Novak’s Eagle Street Rooftop Farm. Now, my little rooftop garden at Sixpoint has some interesting heirloom cucumbers, but not nearly as many as her roof has produced. Not knowing what to do with all the striped, slightly warted field cucumbers recently harvested, she asked if I could help take some off her hands. Sold. 

Halving and scooping out the tender seed pockets of these cucumbers didn’t take nearly as much time as I’d expected. The kitchen smelled wonderfully fresh the whole time, and I welcomed the cooling sensation of the occasional splatter of seed on my face. What was supposed to be an arduous task actually put me in a spa-like calm. 

For my hot dogs, I decided to go East once again, and visit Thailand for inspiration with a green curry paste-flavored mayonnaise to squiggle on top of the dog. Buying prepared green curry paste is a great way to shortcut to an incredible sauce, marinade, or even devilled egg. Mixed with some lime juice for a little freshness, the main topping for my dog was done, and poured into an easy-squeeze bottle. For a crunchy topping, I crushed some salted peanuts to sprinkle on top of the cucumber dogs. And to add a florid touch, separated fresh cilantro sprigs as a final garnish.  

All together, it made a delicious, cool contrast for a hot, greasy pork hot dog, grilled just before serving. But I don’t see why hollowed-out cucumbers can’t be used to hold more things than that. Lobster salad? Pulled pork? The possibilities are endless.  

The best part about performing the chore of coring cucumbers may just be the byproduct. Once all the seed pockets had been scooped out into a bowl, I strained the liquids and it produced the most refreshing beverage I’ve had to date. Slightly sweet on its own – thanks to the cucumbers’ good flavor – I added a touch of honey to the juice, and served it on ice. Hit the spot. Make only this by blending and straining cucumbers, or go for the double-whammy at your next barbecue.  

Green Curry Cucumber Dog 
(makes 6 hot dogs)

6 hot dogs (preferably pork and beef blend) 
6 6-inch cucumbers (or the length of your hot dogs) 
1/3 cup mayonnaise 
1 tablespoon Thai green curry paste (can be found at most Asian markets) 
6 long sprigs fresh cilantro 
1 tablespoon crushed salted peanuts 
juice of 1 lime

Halve the cucumbers lengthwise. Using a spoon, scoop out the seed pocket completely. Chill until use.

Combine the mayonnaise and green curry paste and about half the juice of the lime.

Assemble dog: place hot dog inside the cucumber. Squeeze the cury mayo on top as you would ketchup or mustard. Sprinkle with crushed peanuts, add the cilantro sprig, and squeeze a squirt of the lime. Enjoy!

Cucumber-Honey Cooler 
(makes about 16 oz., depending on cuke)

about 2 large cucumbers, rinsed 
1 teaspoon honey 
ice cubes 
fresh mint sprig (optional)

Chop cucumber coarsely and puree in a blender. Strain juices from pulp and skin (which you can compost). Stir in honey until completely dissolved. Serve with ice and optional mint.

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

See the full gallery on Posterous

by Cathy Erway

It was something I would have normally found awe-inspiring: a platter of freshly shucked oysters, placed ceremoniously on a chrome stand. The opened half shells dotted the perimeter of the dish, sunken into a bed of crushed ice. In the center lay lemon wedges and small cups of cocktail sauce, horseradish and vinaigrette, with spoons dug provocatively down in. In their pools of clear brine, the silver flesh of the oysters seemed to quiver gently even seconds after being set down, and their juices threatened to drip into the ice. These were served up at a well-heeled restaurant with much recent hype, no less, at a table that was the envy of every person waiting patiently outside. It was, by all standards, a real foodie’s dream. But it just wasn’t the same for me.  

You see, the day before, I had foraged for oysters on a calm and sandy beach. I wasn’t expecting to find them, nor the quahogs, hermit crabs and miniature shellfish that lay half-hidden at my feet. But I recognized the teardrop shape and craggy surface of the first oyster from afar, and spent the next hour or so peeling the beach for more. Once home, I shucked them open one by one, to enjoy with friends. I’d collected ten oysters in total, and they ranged wildly in stature: the smallest being the size of a baby’s ear and the largest one, a round and deep-bowled object that held a mouthful-sized mollusk. Some had translucent green strands of seaweed clinging to its shells, which I could never get off. One had another oyster shell impossibly stuck against it like a Siamese twin. Slipped into the mouth, some oysters gave with a subtle crunch, like a softened piece of cartilage, while others went down as a smooth, cold lobe of blubber. All of them were very easy to shuck. Perhaps it was this particular species, but the way the tiny crevice between the pointed ends of both shells – the sweet spot – gave so easily with the shove of a shucker made it seem as if they had been waiting to be opened, too.  

It just doesn’t get much better than the rare thrill of finding really good food from the wild.  

MFK Fisher devoted an entire book to considering the oyster, filled with enchanting essays that cemented the bivalve’s reputation as a food of many mysteries, and hidden thrill. She dwells on everything from the reproductive process of the indecisively sexed species, and the aphrodisiac allure for the mollusk of the Romans, or her own male suitors. She touches on different types of oyster-eaters (some like them raw and untouched, while others, elaborately prepared) and what they represent. But nowhere does she make mention of finding and shucking an oyster from the shore herself. I hunger for how haunting her book may have been then.   

Now, every time I'm served an oyster at restaurants, after slurping it down in good time, I flip the shell over to its pearlized side. Locate the little groove at its point, the hinge of the animal. Wonder who the lucky oyster shucker who found its weak spot was, and imagine the oyster alive, embedded in sand. They say anyone who eats meat should participate in a slaughter at least once, to acknowledge the suffering of these animals for your food. (It might just turn you away from the food.) I say if you eat oysters, try to shuck – and if you can, find – your own, just once. It might make you an even greater fan of eating the mollusk, in more ways than you even knew. 

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

By Cathy Erway

See the full gallery on Posterous

And I'm not saying don't make tub after tub of pesto, but maybe your freezer is full of those already. You could even make a tincture, or try your hand at homemade perfume. But if you like to make bread, or serve it at dinner, then it's fun to have a host of flavored butters on hand. And chopping up herbs, storing them in fat -- butter -- preserves their flavor, even stretches it, as it'll permeate the whole glob.

Assuming you're growing your own herbs now, you'll be stuck with this predicament of having too much. And the "how" part of this is actually stupidly easy. Pick much any herb you really like, or the most prolific ones you've got. You can choose to make single-herb butters or mix and match and come up with blends.

Spend an agonizing few minutes getting all the tiny leaves off the stems of your thyme, for example. Relax and enjoy separating bigger leaves and spindles like those of the lovely lavender plant off the stem. Finely chop your herbs next, and try placing both hands on the top of your knife and guiding it up and down with the hand that's on the handle like a seesaw. A fan-like pattern should appear on your cutting board. (Lifting the knife off the cutting board and hacking straight down seems to make these denser herbs fly across the counter.) Go back and forth until you've got nicely chopped, very fine bits. (Do we say "minced" for herbs? I would use the word only it seems like "mince" usually involves moisture. I'm not sure.)

While you're doing this, let your butter sit out. Actually, let it sit at room temperature for a good fifteen minutes, if you're using a one-pound block of butter. Use the best butter you can find; this could be organic, or from your favorite dairy farm. Here, I've used a block of Plugra European-style butter, because it's so creamy (I don't have any connection with Plugra, just saying). Also, I liked not having to unwrap four individual sticks. Be sure not to skip the sitting-out step and do something crazy like put the butter in the microwave, because any melting will break the emulsion and change the butter's texture forever. Just wait it out, and don't wait too too long, especially if you're doing this in a hottter-than-room-temperature kitchen, which you probably are. The butter should be somewhat firm when you start to blend in the herbs, and definitely still opaque.

For roughly one quarter of a pound of butter, the size of one stick, use roughly two tablespoons of finely chopped herbs. But you can adjust the amount of herbs as to your own liking. Plop the butter in a bowl and sprinkle the chopped herbs right on. Now start cutting up the butter and letting the herbs fall into the crevices. I like to use an (appropriately named) butter knife for this because it doesn't encourage as much smearing as a spatula, and hence possible melting. It should take all of a minute to somewhat "evenly" distribute the herbs around the entire quarter-pound. It doesn't have to be that even, and of course, it never will be perfectly so.

Store it in an airtight container and enjoy as long as you want. You can be reminded of your garden in full summer bloom all year 'round now. And, you've also found a much better vessel for your butter -- in a tightly sealed, airtight container in the fridge! Each time you open it, it should smell like newly clipped herbs.

Hint: drop a glob of this in the center of a hot bowl of soup.

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

See the full gallery on Posterous

by Cathy Erway 

[Cathy writes about Wonderberry Jam and much more on her new blog Lunch at Sixpoint. -mb]

One of the cool things about gardening is that you get to grow things that you didn't even know existed. Browsing the catalog at Baker's Creek, Seeds of Change or Seed Saver's Exchange, some of my favorite sites to find crazy heirloom seeds, is like opening the door to a third dimension of food, where cantaloupes come in fifteen distinct shapes and flavors, and eggplant can be ghost-white, green, golden or red. Or rather, welcome to agriculture, pre-monoculture, again. Eight-ball zucchini, anyone? 

I still don't know of anyone else who's heard of wonderberries. They seem to have slipped through the cracks of popular food culture, and that was what probably compelled my boyfriend, Shane, to order seeds for the plant. From the start, it was one of the most prolific growers, beating its neighboring brassicas and lettuces in its race to regenerate. Branches and leaves multiplied. Flowers blossomed and withered in early spring. Now, we're looking at three great bushes that seem to want to crawl out of their keg-containers and blanket the rooftop with berries. Maybe that's why they were regarded with "wonder." 

Not to be confused with "miracle fruit," which everyone who hears the name seems to immediately think of, the mature wonderberry is a very small, spheric berry. A nightshade, the berries turn from green to purple-black, and swell with sweet juice until too heavy to stay on its stem. Running a hand underneath clusters of them at this stage, they fall right off. The wonderberry doesn't have a very distinct flavor; it's only marginally sweet, and not very tart. It's not dissimilar to a tiny tomato, or ground cherry. So I didn't know what to do with these berries when they began falling from the bush onto the soil. Toss them into a fruit salad? Make a pie? I just snacked on them, straight up, until my curiosity got the better of me. 

Making preserves with no pectin -- just fruit and sugar -- is an easy feat, as long as you don't mind a slightly runny consistency. Some fruits just naturally create a thicker jam in the end than others. Wonderberries certainly make a thin one, as my first test-run would prove. But its flavor made it every bit worthy of its name. I grated fresh ginger and added it to the bubbling wonderberries and sugar, and finished it off with a good squeeze of lemon. This rendered the once benign-tasting berry spicy and bright, and its color a brilliant indigo.  

Jam-making was not a part of my upbringing; I've only taken it up in very recent years. So I asked my friend Laena, from Anarchy in a Jar, for advice on how to thicken it. "Macerate the berries by mixing them with sugar and leaving them overnight. Cook down just the liquids to reduce and thicken it," was her prescription. And then I promised to give her some wonderberries to try it out, too. I hope I'll be blogging about my next attempts at working with these fruits again, and I hope I'll get to try a jam by Laena to compare. In the meantime, here's a pretty good syrup for your pancakes.  

Wonderberry Ginger Jam

(makes 1 small mason jar) 

1 cup wonderberries

1/3 cup sugar

1 teaspoon fresh grated ginger

juice of half a lemon 

Cook wonderberries, sugar and ginger over a medium-high flame for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Meanwhile, sterilize the mason jar and lid by boiling completely submerged in water for at least 10 minutes. Taste wonderberry mixture and add lemon juice to taste. Remove from heat. Carefully remove jar and lid from boiling water, and fill with the wonderberries immediately. Tightly screw on lid, and place the jar upright in the pot of hot water and adjust water so that the water level almost reaches the lid. Boil for another 10 minutes to process. Remove carefully and let cool completely. Jar can be stored unrefrigerated until opening.

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

by Cathy Erway 

(I have cooked cucumbers, and Ms. Erway is right: it's kind of a mistake. - mb) 

Ever cooked a cucumber? Neither have I. I think it would resist heat, in fact, repelling hot droplets of oil like the incandescent aqua suit of Arnold Schwartzenegger’s Mr. Freeze in Batman & Robin. I don’t think it would appreciate this blatant disrespect to its most vital asset, nor would its eater. Because no food is as cool as a cucumber.  

How funny, then, that it only grows in considerable heat? My first cucumbers of the season have finally managed to push from the vine, after waiting out the spring in relative silence. As soon as seventy- and eighty-degree days burst onto the scene, elegant white blossoms appeared on the plants. And now, the stubs of what will be summer’s heatwave helpers.  

But in the meantime, it’s ridiculously hot already, so it's a good thing a few local farmers have chosen to grow their cukes in greenhouses, to sell at the Greenmarket already. I picked up a gangly, warted one a couple weeks ago in Union Square. It cost a handsome $2, but it was money well spent. With humidity creeping through the windows as I went to work on a salad, the smell of the just-cut cucumber quelled my stress. Along with this prize specimen I’d picked up a bunch of leafy watercress, another food known to carry excellent cooling powers in traditional Chinese, Ayurvedic, and most Eastern food thought. A drizzle of sesame oil and a splash of soy sauce went into the fresh mixture, and I grabbed at it with my hands a few times to toss. A welcome salad for hot days.  

For even hotter days, you might find that version a bit too savory. So stepping it up, I made an even cooler, yin-er, milder-tasting salad the next day when temperatures peaked around ninety degrees. This one had the remaining half of cucumber, bunch of watercress, and slices of an avocado, bought on the spur. A half lemon’s worth of juice whirled with olive oil and a speck of sea salt was all that would dress this enormous batch. (It’s fun eating huge portions of something, and when it’s mostly a tangled pile of watercress, you really can’t go wrong.)  

Of course, pickling is another way to enjoy cucumber's crisp bite - year 'round. But by then, it’s not really a cucumber anymore. It doesn’t have the same certain “chill pill” power as one, and that's something we all need sometimes.

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

See the full gallery on Posterous

Rhubarb came and went, flooding the farmers' markets and our food media (including this great savory application) for a few weeks of spring - like a sudden bout of hayfever, only more welcome. Then, it was gone, while new arrivals like strawberries took the spotlight. I had no reason to think that I'd see rhubarb again before next year, until an overnight package from an exceedingly generous acquaintance with a home garden in Massachusetts arrived at my door: Rhubarb: five or six pounds of the juicy, pinkish green stalks.  

Such an overload for a one-person dwelling requires swift action. That weekend, I made an enormous pie, piled inches deep with rhubarb -- just rhubarb, no room for strawberries here -- and covered with a crust that bowed like a circus tent. That used up about a fourth of them. A week rushed by and I worried that the rest of them would get claimed by the compost, but a rainy day proved to be their salvation.

Bumbling around in the kitchen for the good part of the afternoon, I made two jams, one with rhubarb with lots of fresh mint (which I'd given a test-run by putting some spearmint leaves in that pie), and a spicy rhubarb jam with red chile flakes and candied lemon peel. The peel had been worked in thinking that I'd need to purchase a lemon to add tartness to both jams; as it turned out, rhubarbs are perfect without. Both are uniquely delicious, and, on toast and pancakes, will let me savor rhubarb all year.   

Rhubarb & Mint Jam

(makes about 1 16 oz. jar) 

2 overflowing cups chopped rhubarb

3/4 cup sugar

1 large handfuls fresh mint leaves 

1. Cook rhubarb and sugar over medium heat 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally, until only very slightly chunky and no longer frothy. Add mint leaves. 

2. Meanwhile, sterilize jar and its lid by boiling completely submerged in water for 10 minutes. Remove carefully with tongs. Fill jar with jam and seal tightly. Place jar upright in the same pot of boiling water, adjusting water level so that it just reaches the bottom of the jar's lid. Boil for 10 minutes longer to process. Remove and let cool, and store unrefrigerated until opened. 
 

Rhubarb, Chili & Lemon Peel Jam

(makes about 1 16 oz. jar) 

2 overflowing cups chopped rhubarb

1 cup sugar

3 teaspoons red pepper flakes

1 lemon 

1. Cut lemon in half and squeeze juice to reserve for another use. Place squeezed halves in a pot with enough cold water to cover. Bring to a boil, and drain water. Fill again with cold water and repeat bringing to a boil and draining three times. Let lemon halves cool.  

2. Peel away pith and trim the peel to no more than 1/8 of an inch from the outer surface of the lemon. (Any white stuff will be bitter, the translucent yellow stuff is what you're aiming for.) Slice the trimmed peel into matchsticks.  

3. In a medium pot, combine the rhubarb, sugar, chile flakes and lemon peel and cook over medium or medium-low heat for 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally. Taste, adding extra sugar or more spice if desired.  

4. In a separate, large pot, sterilize a mason jar and its lid by boiling completely submerge in the water for 10 minutes. Remove carefully with tongs. Fill the jar with the jam and seal tightly. Place the jar upright in the pot of hot water (adjusting water level so that it just reaches the bottom of the jar's lid), and boil for another 10 minutes to process. Remove with tongs and let cool completely. Jar can be stored at room temperature until opened.

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

See the full gallery on Posterous

My brother recently celebrated his 30^th birthday. And just like his 29^th and 28^th, he celebrated with a dumpling party in his apartment. Friends showed up, having been told to bring any type of dumpling filling of their own, and after folding lessons and several rounds of pan-frying the party enjoyed “lasagna dumplings,” kielbasa and sauerkraut dumplings, and cream cheese, salmon and scallion dumplings, among other less-traditional varieties. We don’t think this is very strange at all: We toss out the books and invite any and all kinds of food combinations and cuisines inside a typical Chinese potsticker (guotie or jiaozi).

For us, there are no boundaries of taste when we’re making one of our favorite foods. We certainly didn’t inherit this inclination for unheard-of dumpling fillings from our Chinese mom, whose response to the latest creations was that they sounded “weird.” But I distinctly remember her squeezing out thawed, frozen spinach to chop into her pork dumpling filling, when she didn’t have the chance to get Napa cabbage from the Asian store. Nice one, mom. Now that I know to substitute with what’s available, I’ll make available everything. 

Last summer I taught a cooking class at an organic farm and made veggie dumplings with shredded zucchini, tarragon and Feta to serve with aioli. On New Year’s Eve, I held a dumpling party debuting the “cheeseburger” dumpling. Some experiments fall flat, like one guest’s too-soupy lentil filling. Others shine, like the leftover barbecued pulled pork someone once brought. At one of the first of my brother’s dumpling parties, a guest nonchalantly filled her dumpling skins with fresh apples and brown sugar, and brought caramel sauce to dip the finished, crispy-bottomed things in. It was a revelation--dessert dumplings! I’ve repeated it many times, and with other fruits like pears.  

To get the most varied and unexpected results, it’s important to do this with a big group of people. Dumpling-making parties are actually a beloved tradition in China; they make sense because filling and cooking all those dumplings is such a tedious and lonely task for one person (much more so if rolling out the skins from scratch, a preference I’ve adopted in recent years). At a party, a natural assembly line is formed, with some guests preferring to fill and fold, others, more interested in chopping or frying. The workload is buffered by conversation and lively instruction, and at our parties, there are always new dumpling skin crimping techniques invented by novices, or stodgy nonconformists. I love seeing how different they all appear on the pan.

There are hallmarks of good potsticker-making that I strongly advise: the skin should be thin, and the dumpling should be flat-bottomed so as to get the most surface area against the pan for a good crisp.

But when it comes to fillings, I’ll tell anyone to go crazy with it. Why waste life being a purist when there are so many flavors to tuck inside a sheet of fresh noodle?

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

See the full gallery on Posterous

 By Cathy Erway

[Cathy’s approach to early-season grilling. (I had to look up “appetant,” by the way.) – mb]

If your social calendar looks anything like mine, this weekend marks the debut of many appetent backyard owners’ barbecues. Seriously, don’t all shout at once! (Or do, but please stagger your times and locations conveniently, because I can’t wait to get to them all.)

So we all know and love to grill peppers, eggplant and corn on the cob, but since it’s still spring, our choices for local produce are more limited. Fear not, locavore: almost anything can be grilled. And better yet, slicked with a sweet-and-spicy sauce first. Just because spring and early summer vegetables don’t all have the vibrancy and flavor characteristic of those later on, with a little torching and some tweaking, they really shine. Here are some of my favorite, less-expected things to throw down. 

Bok choy: My Chinese relatives would find this utterly foolish, but I just love grilling these big leaves. Charred edges, watery stalks – it’s a great way to play up the plant’s stark contrasts. Baby bok choy, those little bundles of tender leaves, can be grilled too. Try splitting them down the middle lengthwise, and grilling them cut side-down first.

Sunchokes: After the first time I bit into a blackened, crispy-surfaced, banana-sweet and mushy-centered sunchoke hot off the grill, I’ve never looked at the tuber the same way. I want you to have this experience, too. (It’s kind of like a roasted marshmallow.) Best to parboil them first, to cook the centers through.

Spring onions: Grilling shoots of spring onions, scallions or other early alliums brings out their sugars and renders them to soft, stringy mush – the perfect burger fixin’. Coat with plenty of oil first.

Carrots: Carrots and parsnips are fantastic when parboiled, coated in a little marinade and tossed on the grill to finish. I’ve also skipped the parboiling step, in the case of Thumbelina carrots, or just for a more toothsome, raw carrot-like interior. Have fun with it - stuff ‘em in your hot dog bun.

Fava beans or fresh peas in the pod: My friend, who’s a chef at Mama Kim’s restaurant in Greenpoint, likes to do this with whole pods of beans: grill them, so that the pod gets some good black marks and breaks open a little, and then spoon some nuoc cham sauce over it to serve. Eat them like edamame in the pod.

Kale and radicchio: If you like roasted, frizzled, “chips” of kale, you can get the same effect in a few seconds by placing leaves in a single layer on a hot grill. Wedges of radicchio, grilled on each side, and sprinkled with salt and fresh lemon, makes a fun, piping-hot alternative to wedges of iceberg lettuce with dressing. 

Stale bread for croutons or crostini: There’s always some sort of dip at barbecues, and the obligatory bag of corn chips. Instead, take your day-old loaf of French bread, or whatever’s on head, and give it a new life streaked with olive oil, char marks and sea salt. Toss it in a salad to make it panzanella, or dip it in anything on the spread.

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

See the full gallery on Posterous

A little over a year ago I stood amidst a swarm of chickens at Queens County Farm Museum. They were attracted to my brass boot buckles, so I was told, and I was frankly a little frightened by them. Until then, the only time I had encountered chickens that closely they'd been on my plate. As they pecked relentlessly at my feet, a bobbing whirlpool of auburn, those Rhode Island Reds taught me my first lesson about the social science of chickens: the flashiest are often at the bottom of the pecking order.  

This year, on Mother's Day, I became a part-time mom to a small flock of heritage breed hens. There are four in total, and they were raised at a farm in upstate New York from chicks to the roughly one and one-and-a-half-year-olds they are now. One lays pastel blue-green eggs, one has iridescent black plumage. The flashiest one, a Silver Spangled hen named Yoko, seems to have found herself at the bottom of the pecking order, the poor dear. But there's plenty more drama to play out, which I just can't wait to see.  Firstly, how will they do, these girls who were raised in rural country and transplanted to New York City? It sounds like the classic fish out of water tale. Here in Brooklyn, they’ll live in the newly installed green roof garden at Sixpoint Craft Ales. Their diet will comprise organic feed, spent grains from the brewery, greenery from its garden, compost, shipped-in worms, and maybe – for calcium - some crushed oyster shells from neighboring restaurants.  

They have a generously sized coop, which was built by a small handful of staff and friends, quite sharply, I might say. But we're not in Kansas anymore. With a sleek, A-frame construction and four rooms in total, it's kind of a modern bungalow for the farm-dwelling bumpkins. Are they comfortable? Will they like the provisions we've painstakingly picked out for them? Are they ultimately better off elsewhere, without us? Are chickens the new chihuahua? Just a fashion accessory and little else? 

Now that I've gotten the worst of my concerns off my chest, I'll move on to what's inspiring about this. Bringing living animals into the small, contained ecosystem that we've created -- a roof -- is a huge responsibility. But I'm not playing around, and neither are the good-souled city chicken keepers who I've come to meet. Sure, it may seem stranger than keeping a dog or a cat. Like most pets, chickens provide companionship; but they come with big benefits. Fresh eggs are the foremost, and good laying hens should lay around four or five per week. There is the added advantage of seeing directly how certain feed affects the eggs' taste and quality. The chickens' poop and eggshells will accelerate the decomposition of and fix valuable nutrients in the compost, used in turn to feed the plants. All told, they're a major player in the game, and they're more winter-hardy than many plants to boot. And chickens are social creatures, with a social world of their own; unlike dogs, they don't need your attention.  

As I stood outside the coop after placing the birds inside for the first time, I watched them grappling with their new bearings. Nighttime was just setting in, so pretty soon I was just listening for any sounds up in the roost. It seemed as if they had made a huddle, low hums and twitters confined to the center of the enclosed house. A distinct sound of feathers brushing against one another could be heard.  

I'd be lying if I said that my maternal instinct took me by surprise that night. I'm ready. These girls are going to thrive. And much like the way they have formed a union to weather their adjustment, I feel lucky to have a strong support system in fellow urban raisers like Annie Novak from Eagle Street Rooftop Farm, Megan Paska from BKHomesteader, Stacy Murphy of BKFarmyards, all the folks at Just Food's City Chicken program and the resources they provide, and more acquaintances with a few layers in their yards, all making an honest and practical relationship with these birds as well as the food on their plates. Maybe we’ll inspire you to raise a few, too. Stay tuned.

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

[I’m a fan of Cathy Erway, the Brooklyn-based food writer who writes the blog, Not Eating Out in New York and is the author of The Art of Eating In: How I Learned to Stop Spending and Love the Stove. She hosts the weekly podcast, Let's Eat In, on Heritage Radio Network, and is the proud watchkeeper of many rooftop plants and some chickens. – mb]

A friend of mine is learning to play piano. As his left hand hesitated on the keys, I shared a quick method of reading the sheet music, recalled from childhood lessons: “All cows eat grass.” From the bottom up, the notes in between the spaces on the bass clef are A-C-E-G. Knowing the phrase, you could talk your way up the staff until you had identified the correct note to hit. Only, it struck me right then how incorrect the acronym has become.

Not all cows eat grass nowadays. More commonly, they eat corn. Cows have not been evolved to digest corn, but it’s become the basic feed of industrial agriculture livestock. And, most of that corn has been genetically modified. 

What else is new? I began to ponder the other folksy adages and expressions we have. Many of them have to do with nature (“there's a silver lining to every cloud”). Well, nature has changed abundantly over time, and our relationship with it has, too. So instead of “all cows eat grass,” what would a more current equation for that be? I thought I'd rework this, and some others. Here's a more twenty-first century reading of the bass clef: “All Cows Eat GMOs” (omit the M-O if you're trying to read music, of course).

Old saying: “The cream always rises to the top”

Hydrogenated vegetable oil-based products like CoolWhip, CoffeeMate, margarine and the stuff inside “creme” sandwich cookies have replaced a vast portion of our dairy foods over the last few decades. Why, I’m still not sure. But they’re factory-emulsified, so nothing rises to the top. They don’t even have any dairy in them, besides.

New saying: “Real cream sinks to the bottom in sales.”

Old saying: “And all this, for peanuts!”

Peanuts are no longer terribly cheap, as the saying would suggest. There was a moment in American history that catapulted the peanut to a commodity crop from its being virtually unheard-of. It’s pretty fascinating, and the man responsible for it was an ingenious scientist, George Washington Carver, whose work in seeking out alternative crops to soil-depleting monocultured cotton, and in leveraging farmers in the depressed South with them, might be remembered fondly today. In any case, this saying speaks to a time when the peanut was a popular cheap snack, but now it's touted as health food, and pretty pricey instead. Peanut oil is not as commonly used in foods as “vegetable oil” – which is mostly corn oil. Shelled or whole, roasted or raw, peanuts are plenty more expensive than corn oil-fried snack chips, even ones with extensive additives in their ingredients.

New saying: “And all this, for Cheetos!”

Old saying: “Out to lunch”

This re-imagining may be very specific to NYC, as I don’t know too many professionals who leave their desk for lunch break unless it’s for business, or it’s a sunny day in Bryant Park. Even then, these folks don’t seem like they’re very much “out to lunch” – meaning, slow, blissfully ignorant, a little dazed and confused. They’re talking on cellphones and chomping down salads as fast as they can.

But, we all need to space out sometimes. I have a feeling that’s what many people do when they sit in restaurants on the weekends getting drunk on bloody marys beside their toddlers.

New saying: “Out to brunch”

Old saying: “This device is a lemon!”

A lemon used to refer to a dud, inspired by the fact that it's too sour to eat, unlike other citrus fruits. But if the lemon is such a disappointment of a food, then how come it's so popular as a seasoning today? A quick search in Epicurious finds 4,420 matches for the word “lemon” amongst its recipes. Conversely, the apple, which we all know we should eat once a day, has 999. Granted, this is only in published recipes, and it's only one site in which to search those. But I think we get the point. Lemons stand a high place in the culinary palette, used in far more kitchens today now than ever. They're very desirable, even though they're pretty expensive at fifty cents a fruit in non-local (yet very lemon-loving) locales like New York.

New saying: “This device is a lemon... it works great!”

Old saying: “The meat of the matter”

Meaning, the substantial part. The most toothsome, meaningful, important bit. While many of us still feel that this is very true – that meat commands the highest place in any given course – I've been un-training my palate to think very differently. And I have a feeling I'm not alone here. Meat is great, don't get me wrong. But does it, necessarily, always need be on the plate? When there are less expensive and more agriculturally efficient alternatives, like beans, that are so often pushed to the side? Saved for a rainy day in a Tuscan peasant-style soup? Nearly forgotten about (I'm not sure the last time I saw a non-meat protein like beans on a menu of restaurant entrees)? On the other hand, “full of beans” is a folksy idiom meaning to be energetic and enthusiastic. That's the way I'd rather be to having a “meat-hangover,” a newer phenomenon.

New saying: “The beans of the matter”

I've only touched on some of these terms. What are some others that could be revamped?

Permalink | Leave a comment  »