Food and Purgatory

It’s Lent. It’s March. We are officially between. We are at the brink of Daylight savings. We are at the brink of springtime. We are ready to come out of our dusky winter shells, but alas, like a cocoon unready to hatch, they will not let us go. We are ready to put our shearling coats and boots away, ready for the farmer’s markets to open, ready to exercise outside, and perhaps eat a fresh vegetable or two. And yet, here we are, in a type of culinary purgatory.

Spring vegetables from California are starting to arrive in our grocery stores. Bright and blooming, they declare, it’s the season! Time for artichokes and spinach and peas, at least, for our West coast companions. For us in the East, we cannot see the ground we wish to till. Optimistic ones have begun their sprouting. Die hards-have eaten raw food even on endless bitter-cold days. But most of us in the kitchen are still eating for winter--pasta, casoulet, and stews (if we’re lucky).

Sometimes it is thrilling to think up a dish that suits your mood. Other times, it is a lifesaver to find the dish that meets the times. Jill Santopietro, ironically my former swim teammate, posted a terrific video on the New York Times’ website about a month ago on how to make eggs in purgatory, a Southern Italian dish in which eggs are poached in a rich ragu made with a mix of pork, pork fat, and more pork. Yum.

This past Sunday, March snow looming in the gathering clouds, I simmered the pork shoulder, pork belly, and prosciutto in tomatoes for hours and hours. The smell did seem to fill the house with a haze of temptation—a question of doing bad, trying to do better—a true purgatory of the mind.

I tried to think of why the dish would be named “eggs in purgatory.” My best interpretation is the fact that the eggs when cracked into the sauce sit on top, as opposed to plunging into simmering water. The eggs sat there, not floating, not flying and away into some long awaited heaven.

While we wait for spring and the sun-drenched summer that will hopefully follow, comfort yourself with this delicious dish. Enjoy Jill’s hilarious culinary, digital experiment and cooking class before attempting the recipe—she gives some important tips to help you make the uovo al purgatorio as interesting and tasty as purgatory might actually be.

Latest Tiny Kitchen: http://video.nytimes.com/video/2009/01/30/magazine/1231546682657/tiny-kitchen-eggs-in-purgatory.html

A Return to Kale

As many people know, I love kale. I love it so much that I named my blog after it, even when I don't write that frequently about the vegetable itself. Opening my newest issue of Bon Appetit the other day, I was taken aback by the product featured in their newish section, "At the Market." You guessed it--kale. Kale, being tastiest in the colder winter months (one of the only vegetables that can make this claim), stood in all its glossy glory and varieties--tuscan, curly, red! This spread had to be the most glamorous and high ranking treatment I had ever seen of a vegetable you can cook to death and never ruin.

However, instead of celebrating the fact that perhaps a wider than usual audience would begin to delight in a vegetable that brings me so much pleasure and health, I filled with resentment, as if I had lost a long-prized colony, a private dominion over a common, hardy vegetable that grows all winter long over many many acres of California's valleys.

This colony, while claimed, never truly existed. Any ingenuity or pride I might have taken in raw kale salads, toasted kale, the perfect kale soup, or sauteed kale with garlic vanished. Think, think hard, I told myself. You must know something about kale that this writer failed to put down in glossy print. Sooner than later, a few things came to mind.

Kale Hash  Boil quartered yukon or red potatoes in water until tender. Meanwhile, saute chopped kale with garlic in olive oil. (For extra flavor, add some broken up Italian sausage removed from the casing.) When potatoes are finished cooking, drain and add to the frying pan. Smash into the kale and sausage. Sprinkle with red pepper flakes and salt.

Kale Pizza  Try raw rubbed olive oil in place of arugula on your "salad pizza" or sauteed sprinkled over red sauce and topped with parmesan. Who said pizza wouldn't make a healthy dinner?

Jasmine Kale I first tried this dish at the Cha Fun tea shop, now closed, in Jamaica Plain, Boston. I never got the actual recipe but tried to recreate the dish at home--I think I got close. Boil water and add 1/2 cup to several (2-3) bags of jasmine tea. Let the tea steep to a deep brown. Mix the steeped tea with 1/8 cup of soy sauce, 1 teaspoon maple syrup, and some chopped scallions (optional). After sauteeing kale in a light oil such as grapeseed or safflower, pour the jasmine soy mixture into the pan and let it warm. Turn off the heat and serve before too much liquid evaporates. Serve kale with plenty of liquid in a bowl or on a plate with rice.

Finally--some Kale Tips:

1. Instead of wasting your time slicing each leaf of kale along the center rib to remove the leaves, hold the stem in one hand while you wrap your other hand loosely around the base of the leaf. Swipe your hand toward the tip pulling the leafy part quickly off the step.

2. When serving kale raw, massage the kale leaves with oil to soften. This action turns the kale to a texture in between cooked and raw.

3. If you are truly seeking calcium, don't toss the stems--chop them small and sautee first before adding the kale leaves to allow them plenty of time to get tender (similar to broccoli stalks.)

Again, We Harvest

No one would deny that life is unpredictable. From climate change to Election 08, we trek through time to meet challenges and celebrations we never before imagined. And yet against forces of change, the seeds sprout. The stalks grow upward toward the light. They fatten with nutrients, and rain, and more light until the day we come to eat. To lose our seasons, to lose the progression of bountiful crops that the year’s calendar delivers—this would be unimaginable travesty. In the tight corner of my Northeast American world, it remains unimaginable. But when I get frustrated one day at the farmer’s market with the dearth of fresh cauliflower, I have to remember that just over a thousand miles away a food crisis rages, and within a mile from my house, people search for food.

This year was the second year I gathered friends on Cape Cod for a celebration of the season’s harvest, and, trite as it may sound, the chance to show gratitude for each other and for food. Yes, I know, Thanksgiving was not last Saturday, but is sixteen days away. However, it is not common among my friends to celebrate this feast together instead of with our families, scattered across the region and beyond. I also have yet to receive the honorable post of chef on Thanksgiving Day, so the annual banquet serves as a sort of a practicing ground.

In planning the meal, I made a risky choice (chefs everywhere would gawk, but I am not yet one of them.) I chose to have no main course! When I thought about all the exciting fall foods to prepare—sweet potatoes, Brussels sprouts, chestnuts, butternut squash, cauliflower—I wasn’t as convinced that it was THE time to slaughter a particular animal. The emphasis felt better placed upon the fruits of the earth than the fruits of animal husbandry. Admittedly, financial worries also factored into the realization that to buy ethical or sustainable animal protein for a large group would be no small sum. Pork seems to be the cure-all to sustainability and finances these days, so what I decided to do was this: pâté de campagne and raw Wellfleet oysters (gathered by Megan and me) would start off the meal, while delicious grains, bread pudding and spectacular vegetable sides would make up the “main course.” Thankfully, my friends were indulgent enough to delight in the pâté and raw oysters while conscientious enough love every bite of an essentially vegetarian meal.

Here’s the menu and links to the recipes:

Starters

Pâté de Campagne (with Figs and Pistachios—1/2 cup of each)
Wellfleet Oysters on the Half Shell

“Nothing’s Main, Everything’s Main” Dishes
Wild Rice with Butternut Squash, Leeks and Corn
Mushroom Bread Pudding
Sweet Potato and Yam Galette
Shaved Brussels Sprouts with Currants and Chestnuts
Sautéed Kale with Roasted Cauliflower Florets and Red-Pepper Oil

Dessert
Pumpkin and Brown-Sugar Crème Brûlée


The report card? Highest recommendations—the pâté and the crème brûlée. This was my first attempt in the field of charcuterie and I could not have been more pleased. I fall every time for the rustic texture of pâté de campagne that I have purchased at markets, and this recipe resulted in a perfect balance of textures. The chopped pistachios, minced dried figs, and eastern spices gave this cool appetizer a warmth and intrigue that welcomed everyone to the party.

A devotee of crème brûlée in the classic sense and some variations, I thought this variation, with added pumpkin and spices, passed the test. The consistency was silky and the pumpkin flavor just subtle enough to let the crème itself shine through. It was all the talk at breakfast.

The bread pudding and the yam galette by this point are stand-bys, but they never fail to knock people over with their sensuous, homey flavors of earthy mushrooms and gingery sweet potatoes. The chewy, nutty wild rice paired lovingly with the softer sweeter foods like the galette and the pudding while the Brussels sprouts were slightly too cloying (I would soak the currants in wine or warm water, not cider) for our sensible plates.

Kale is my brassica signature (it’s my if I were the tattoo-type story), so I could not leave this green goddess standing outside the door of the celebration. If I were most grateful for any vegetable it would be kale, and not only because it looks good in the fall, but because it looks good in winter too, and around these parts, winter’s got the fair share of the year.

My Recipe: Sautéed Kale with Roasted Cauliflower Florets and Red-Pepper Oil

1 large bunch of kale, rinsed and chopped into bite sized pieces
1 small head of cauliflower, stems and core removed, cut into small florets
3-4 cloves of garlic, minced
1/2 teaspoon of crushed red pepper
4 tablespoons of olive oil
salt and pepper to taste

Do ahead: place garlic and red pepper in a small bowl with 3 tablespoons of olive oil. Let mixture sit on the counter for 2-3 hours to infuse the oil with flavor. Preheat the oven to 400, and toss cauliflower florets in a bowl with 1 tablespoon of oil. Spread on a baking sheet. Sprinkle with salt and fresh ground pepper. Let bake until cauliflower is slightly tender and begins to brown, about 25 minutes. About 5 minutes before the cauliflower will finish, heat a large skillet on medium high. When heated, add the flavored oil, and gradually add kale, moving it around the pan until completely wilted (add a pinch of salt to hasten wilting). Remove tray of cauliflower from the oven and add to the kale. Stir well to distribute oil and spices. Cook sauté together for about 3 minutes. Serves 4.


While you might be biting with your nails at night with insecurity about the future of almost anything in your life, try to take pleasure in the incredible fall harvest. Thanks to farmers, water, seeds, light, and dirt, what you thought would happen, did happen—it grew! This is one cycle we should celebrate.

Not Red State but Red Pepper

On the tail ends of October, I am fretting already. It has little do with Christmas shopping or pies for Thanksgiving or even my annual Harvest Banquet (kind of a Thanksgiving redux with friends) menu which I have yet to decide upon. It is the approaching end of the farmer’s markets and the brimming harvest that will, as fast as it came, disappear into bare-bottomed buckets.

In August we all should have been canning and few of us did. Now we should be storing onions and garlic and potatoes. If you are adventurous you might try jarring your own roasted red peppers—the late bloomer and older sister of the fresh green pepper. Don’t tell me it doesn’t drive you mad when they are rarely less than $5 a pound all winter and all your want is some red pepper to dip into your hummus. Delight in them now! I personally find little reason to fool around with green peppers but plenty of reasons to sauté, roast, grill and eat fresh the darling red.

Try this recipe over swordfish on Election Night.

Red Pepper Cilantro Pesto
Serves 4

1 red pepper
1 medium-large clove of garlic
1 tablespoon toasted pine nuts
1/4 cut packed chopped cilantro
2 tablespoons olive oil
juice from 1/2 lemon
salt and pepper to taste

Roast the pepper on a baking sheet in the oven at 450 or over a gas burner (this is faster) until the pepper is well-charred on the outside and tender. Peel away the bubbly, burnt skin. Break into large pieces, remove seeds, place in a food-processor and puree with olive oil. Add pine nuts. Blend until smooth. Add cilantro and garlic pressed through a garlic press. Blend again. Transfer to a bowl and stir in lemon juice, salt and pepper. Top fish with sauce or serve on the side.

A Taste of Where I Live, A Taste of Roslindale

What happens when a neighborhood sets out to make itself the foodie’s neighborhood? To brand itself in just a way that lovers of ethnic markets and fresh bread and haute cuisine would find you, even if you were at the far end of the orange line and a bus ride away? To further the challenge—what happens when the only people on your marketing team are volunteers for a non-profit called Main Streets Roslindale, part of the mayor’s broad efforts to boost the growth of strong neighborhoods and small businesses?

What happens is Roslindale. What happens is a kid who refused to eat red sauce her whole childhood when offered from a kitchen on Cornell Street from her Sicilian grandmother also refuses to move into an almost free apartment when her house is up for sale. “Roslindale?” was the common rebuke. A hipster addict, a JP lesbian, she declared would never live a bus ride from the T.


But what happens when you learn to taste? When you finally learn how to eat? When you grow disenchanted with big supermarkets, the expiration dates, the trick sales, even Whole Foods? What happens when you wish you lived in an old European village but an Italian visa is a lofty dream? What happens is Roslindale.

I moved to Roslindale glad to have found a spacious affordable apartment. Then as a cook and a foodie, I fell in love. I was thrilled to be able to attend this year’s Taste of Roslindale, an annual celebration of local restaurants, markets, bakeries, and caterers. Some were there for the food. Others for the community. With unique ethnic enclaves, Victorian architecture, and declious food, people are proud of their zipcode. Mayor Menino was there to promote this pride, joining in a cook-off and acting as auctioneer. The event supported several local charities: Jason Roberts Challenger League Baseball Field for disabled youth, Roslindale Main Streets for local business, and Babes Making Strides Against Breast Cancer.


From low-end pub to high-end trattoria to independent caterer, Roslindale put forth astronomic gastronomic force, especially for such a small enclave of what has become a leading culinary city. There was the expected—pretty and perfect sushi from Village Sushi, the freshest saag paneer from Himalayan Bistro, and hearty fresh bread from Fornax. There were also surprises—mouth-watering ribs from Robyn’s, pistachio encrusted chocolate truffles from Delfino’s, and home-smoked bluefish pate from West on Centre. My parents joined me, walking the tricky line between tasting and gorging.

Gratified that so much great food is always within a mile of my home on any given night of the week, I started talking up the chefs. They ran the gamut of nationality and specialty. Jose of Yucatan Mexican Grill had little to say but smiled proudly when I raved about his salsa and fish burritos. Amir of Amir’s Carterers and maker of Laria Foods (the BEST hummus in Boston) was fascinating to speak with, giving his perspective on relations between himself, an Egyptian, and other Arab business owners in the neighborhood. Max told me all about his smoking operations in the back of house at West on Centre—no secrets of course, but his enthusiasm for home smoking read well through the subtly smokey, velvety smooth bluefish pate.

Sometimes I wonder if I found this neighborhood or if it found me. My memories of eating in Roslindale are strictly limited to taking the bus with my nana Lepri from her house on Cornell Street down to the Burger King on Washington Street, the one still standing beside Rite Aid. If she had offered me anything better from her kitchen—a meatball, some pasta—surely I would have refused. Now over twenty years later, I find myself a gourmand come home—one hand bearing a fruit tart from Boschetto’s, the other a cupcake from Jeffrey’s. I guess few things truly never change—up on Cornell Street, whenever Nana offered cookies, I was out of my seat in a second, palm outstretched.

Hunting and Gathering

Sometimes it takes a stranger from far away, unfamiliar with what is familiar to you, to show you the true use or value of what is all around you. So was the case a misty evening at Chipman’s Cove in Wellfleet, Massachusetts, when an enthusiastic visitor from Canada initiated our search for food.

Allergic to fish, but a lover of shellfish, our guest had been downing oysters like a desert traveler come upon a wellspring. When we mentioned how easy it is to find oysters, provided the right phase of moon and direction of the wind, she was determined to make her bounty. We explained the strict recreational licensing system and told a few tales of fiercely salty wardens, but she insisted we go, even if she could only watch.

Prowling around Chipman’s Cove without a license during a low tide like we found that evening is like working in a candy shop and being told not to eat. While we licensed scavengers led the way, our visitor and her son helped as we crouched and flicked and measured and tossed. With a quahog rake, we dug up a few cherrystones to add to our oyster feast too.

After a short while, the Canadian walked up with a fistful of periwinkles. I thought she wanted them for their shells, so I didn’t think anything of it. Her son then ran up with a relatively large conch in a perfect spiral shell and asked if we could keep it. "Eat it?" I replied. “Certainly,” his mom cut in, “Right?” she said turning to me for affirmation. I had heard of conch fritters in Caribbean cuisine and couldn’t really imagine why a conch had any higher risk of contamination than an oyster or a clam, so I said sure, throw it in the basket.

The sun was setting faster than it had earlier in summer, one of many reminders that the days we could shellfish in only flip flops were numbered. Soon we would be out here in wool socks and tall rubber boots, our hands icy trying to wrip grouped oysters apart. We were all standing together admiring the quality of light at the horizon and the dark silhouettes of Great Island when her son jumped aside shouting, “What’s THAT?” With the shovel, I flicked some sand aside only to find a giant crab clinging to the prongs!

It was exactly the size crab that instills fear in my heart whenever I swim in a harbor or murky water. Google image searches have yet to lead to species identification, but when I saw it, I was gripped with hunter instinct. Lacking proper crabbing equipment, we bagged it and added it to our catch: oyster, clam, periwinkle, conch, crab, and a stray razor clam that the Canadians insisted we bring home.


After resting briefly with beers, chips, and an anxious Boston terrier, we headed home to begin the true test of our bounty—how would it taste? I was officially put in charge of opening a few oysters and cherrystones to have raw and prepping a topping for baking the rest. Despite being a true aficionado of raw oysters, I also adore baking them with all kinds of different toppings, usually starting with a base of sautéed shallots. This time I added what we had in the kitchen, some tomato, basil and goat cheese.
***
Baked Oysters and Clams with Tomato and Basil

Approximately 12 oysters or quahog, scrubbed and rinsed
1 medium to large shallot, diced small
1 tbsp. olive oil or butter
2 medium tomatoes chopped
1/4 cup chopped fresh basil
1 oz. crumbled goat cheese
salt
pepper
1/2 cup panko breadcrumbs
lemon wedges

Preheat oven to 500 degrees. Heat oil in a medium skillet over medium heat. Add shallot and sauté until tender. Add tomatoes and let cook for about 3 minutes, until just softened. Scrape skillet contents into a bowl. Stir in goat cheese, basil, a few dashes of salt, and a few grinds of fresh pepper. Place oysters and clams on a baking sheet. Once the oven is heated, place tray of shellfish on the top rack and cook for about 5 minutes or until the shells pop open. Remove from the oven immediately once open. Tear off the top shells. Spoon topping onto just cooked oyster or clam, trying to preserve juices in the bottom half of the shell. Press a small amount of bread crumbs over the vegetable cheese topping. Place once again in the oven for about 3 minutes, or until the topping is just browned. Serve sprinkled with lemon juice.
***
While I was busy with the oysters and clams, our guest had prepared garlic butter and steamed both the periwinkles and the crab in separate saucepans. As the crab passed, she noticed its front claws slowly come to cross before its eyes. This humanity struck her, and she grabbed my attention to pause for a moment in it honor. Once they were done, she strained the periwinkles and we removed the crab's legs, top shell, organs and guts.

Using a pin, we scraped off the small shell that coats the outer edge of the snail and then used the pin to grab the tiny body, pull it out, dip in the garlic butter, and eat. They were divine! They had a savory, subtle flavor and pleasant, tender texture, like small calamari. We slowly ate the periwinkles while alternately picking away at the small amounts of flesh on the crab—the sweetest, freshest crabmeat I have ever tasted in my life.

In all, the periwinkles took about 5 minutes to steam while the crab took more like 12 minutes. The legs took much longer than the body, but they were worth the wait.

And the conch? You must be wondering. We also used the steaming approach to get the snail out of its shell, but we knew we would have to tenderize and flavor its meat more than the young periwinkles. We placed the snail in the bottom of a covered roasting dish (a la Le Crusset) with some vermouth, lemon juice, garlic, salt, and white wine. We roasted it at about 300 degrees for around 30 minutes. The hope was that the flavors in the pan would infuse the meat via the added liquids, also tenderizing toughness and mellowing any gamey aspect.

We ate it. At least two of us did. It was most similar in texture to a roasted octopus appetizer I had earlier this summer, but it also presented a stronger flavor of its own. I found the flavor exciting largely due to the new experience and the nice braising liquids we exposed it to. I recognized, however, in eating it, that it is not for everyone.

Thinking back on our meal, having found and collected at times ignored items along the coast, particularly the snails, I could not help but wonder about the lobster’s notorious climb from “cockroach of the sea” to the one of the most sought after delicacies of global cusine. Many people lately espousing doctrines of local eating look around them and wonder what exactly can we eat. On Cape Cod, a yearlong diet of seaweed, clams, and cranberries seems less than promising, making eating locally a challenge to say the least. I was bemused and grateful to our guest from over the border who instilled new excitement and appreciation in me for the bounty that is at our shores and at our fingertips. Who knows if the periwinkle of today will become the lobster of tomorrow?

The Law of the Fig

Newton didn’t claim this one, so I will. The law of the fig is actually quite simple—get it while the getting’s good, a.k.a. live each moment like it’s the last, a.k.a. seize the day, a.k.a live in the present. Some of us find living this way quite a challenge. We are already planning for Thanksgiving, outfitting turkey fryers in the backyard while it’s still warm in the evening. We are worried about how we might someday go from food blogger to food columnist. Slowing down enough to enjoy lunch can be a challenge even to the foodiest of us.

For these philosophical reasons and the essence of the fig itself, I say: go get them. You have maybe 6 weeks to take my advice. Eat them whole to feel the sumptuous texture in your mouth. Quarter them to take in the spectacle of dappled color and white lines. If you are lucky enough, you will find raspberry figs, named for the ruby red fleshy surprise you get when you slice into them. Throw them into your salad with your favorite chèvre. Roast them onto a pizza with gorgonzola and balsamic caramelized onions. Reduce them with shallots and vinegar to make a sauce for grilled lamb chops. And if try as you might to live in the moment, you can’t accept they won’t be around come the holidays, find some sterile jars and make fig jam.

If their very short season is not enough to get you to throw some fresh figs into your diet soon, consider their long history. They were calorie-packed snacks for ancient Olympians. Demeter gave them to Dionysus as a gift according to myth. In the Bible, Jesus is so mad a fig tree has no fruit for him that he curses the tree to kill it. Clearly, he did not realize how limited the fig season is! Now if there’s a lesson…

When buying figs, look for ones that are soft to touch but not wrinkled. If they are too firm, it means they were picked under-ripe, and figs will not ripen off the branch. Better to go for slightly damaged figs than under-ripe.

Of course, don’t over do it—figs are 50% sugar. Alas, the other law—moderation.