Recettes

Parmesan turnip fries

April 7, 2015 by Ann

Turnips have their share of haters, but if I was ranking root vegetables they’d land near the top. I like their texture, dense yet juicy, and faint bitter savor. People say you should buy turnips small, snow white, and young, but the ones I picked up at the store were verging on middle aged, the size of softballs, tops stained with purple—and they were still perfectly fine, absolutely edible (though maybe I’m just seeing them as a metaphor for an upcoming big birthday—eek!).

You know what makes turnips really, really delicious? A blizzard of Parmagiano-Reggiano. Peel your turnips and slice them into sturdy strips, then shower them with cheese and spices. If you step lively, you can toss this together while your toddler is occupied with a cup of Cheerios. A blast of the oven will melt the root’s rock hard flesh tender while toasting the cheese golden brown and heat-blistered. I could have eaten the entire pan straight out of the oven, but managed to restrain myself and saved (most of) the “fries” for a quick, late-night, post-wine-class supper, paired with a mushroom-cheddar Boca burger. Later, I realized I misread the original recipe and used four times more cheese than actually called for—but, hey, that’s four times more delicious, right?

Parmesan turnip fries
Serves 3-4
Adapted from Martha Stewart

Note: The original recipe calls for 1/2 ounce of Parmesan cheese, so reduce as you prefer.

2 lbs turnips, peeled and cut into sturdy wedges
1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1/8 teaspoon nutmeg
1 tablespoon olive oil
Salt and pepper
2 oz Parmagiano-Reggiano, grated

Preheat the oven to 475ºF. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. In a large bowl, combine the turnips, cayenne pepper, nutmeg, and olive oil. Toss to combine and season generously with salt and pepper. Sprinkle the Parmesan cheese and toss gently to combine. Arrange the turnips on the baking sheet in a single layer. Roast for 12 minutes and flip the turnips. At this point, the melted cheese will appear oily and stringy. Continue roasting another 12-15 minutes, until the oil absorbs and the turnips turn golden brown.

Spinach soufflé

March 23, 2015 by Ann

At the risk of public flagellation, I’m going to make a confession: We don’t eat a family dinner. I know, I know, research and lifestyle bloggers regularly tell us how important it is to gather round the table once a day. Babies eat a bigger variety of healthy foods, they connect with their parents, and obesity, drug use, teen pregnancy, etc. are all avoided. But here’s the reality: Lucy eats dinner at 5:30pm. (I sit with her and appease her demand for stories. “Boook. Boook,” she says, reaching to touch pictures of dogs with avocado-smeared fingers.) Her father gets home at 8pm (or later), and I usually eat with him. Right now, while she’s still so little, Lucy’s dinner simply exists on a separate plane from ours.

I’m sure things will change once she gets older (e.g. stays up past 7pm). But for now I tamper my guilt by preparing one family meal of the week. On Saturday mornings while Lucy and her papa are out, I whirl around the kitchen like a madwoman. When they come home at noon, we sit down to lunch, the three of us all eating the same thing. I try not to dumb down the food too much, because part of the exercise is about community and expanding the palate. On the other hand, there’s always the fear that she won’t eat anything. I try to split the difference, which is how I found myself making spinach soufflé for a toddler.

Soufflé aux épinards sounds labor intensive and it does use its fair share of pots and bowls. But really, a soufflé is just a very thick, egg-yolk enhanced béchamel sauce, mixed with whipped egg whites—a simple concept that’s also a good way to eat spinach if you don’t have many teeth. I started with the recipe from Mastering the Art of French Cooking and adapted it to suit my needs. This meant frozen chopped spinach squeezed dry, and enough eggs to fill an 8-cup soufflé dish X 2 — because I made an extra for the freezer, to be defrosted for weeknight baby dinners.

Soufflés need an extra whipped white or two to give them lift, which means you’ll have yolks leftover. Here’s a thrifty tip: mix them with sugar (one teaspoon per yolk) and freeze for later use in homemade ice cream.

Use a light hand when folding the béchamel sauce and egg whites together—don’t worry if they’re not completely combined. I like to leave large dollops of whipped whites streaking through the thick sauce, which I think allows for a more extravagant rise.

I timed lunch perfectly that day, everyone seated at the table, salad dressed, baby bibbed, and baguette sliced, just as the timer dinged. I felt unusually smug as I surveyed my beautiful soufflé, which puffed gently over the rim of the dish, golden with toasted cheese. Parenting can sometimes feel like a relentless slog, but then there are moments like this: sitting down with your little pack, your family, to enjoy a home-cooked meal together.

And then there is reality. Don’t let this picture fool you—Lucy ate two bites of soufflé and I had to beg her to even put those in her mouth. Like most babies, she eats when she’s hungry (a novel concept!) and that afternoon she was not hungry. (She went on to scoff a huge portion at dinner the next day, so all is not lost.)

What are your favorite family meals?

Spinach soufflé

Spinach soufflé / Soufflé aux épinards
Adapted from Mastering the Art of French Cooking

Serves four (on its own) or six (with a salad)

Julia Child’s soufflé recipes use a 6-cup dish, but I increased the quantities for an 8-cup dish because I feel like if you’re going to make a soufflé, you might as well go big. Leftover soufflé is delicious, though no longer airy, I still enjoy the denser texture—and the taste remains the same, of course.

1 package frozen chopped spinach, defrosted
3 1/2 tablespoons butter
4 1/2 tablespoons flour
1 1/2 cups milk
6 egg yolks
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
Salt and pepper to taste
8 egg whites
1/2 cup grated Gruyère or Comté cheese
Butter to grease dish and 1-2 tablespoons fine bread crumbs

Special equipment: 8-cup soufflé dish, electric beaters

Preheat the oven to 400ºF.

Thoroughly squeeze the liquid from the chopped spinach. Butter the soufflé dish and sprinkle with enough breadcrumbs to generously coat the interior, tapping out the excess (this prevents sticking).

In a medium saucepan over medium heat, melt the butter. Add the flour and cook until it smells slightly toasty, about 2 minutes. Add the milk, whisking continuously until the mixture forms a very thick sauce, about 4 minutes. Remove from heat.

Separate the eggs, dropping the whites into a large, clean, dry mixing bowl. (Any trace of fat will cause failed whipped whites, so make sure your bowl is scrupulously sparkling clean.)

Whisk the egg yolks, one by one, into the hot béchamel sauce, until fully incorporated. Add the chopped spinach and stir until thoroughly combined. Season with salt, pepper, and nutmeg (the egg is raw, but I usually taste at this stage so I can adjust seasonings; sample at your own risk).

Add a pinch of salt to the egg whites and beat them until stiff. Stir one quarter of them into the sauce (this lightens the mixture). Add all but 1 tablespoon of the cheese. Gently fold the rest of the egg whites into the sauce and spoon the mixture into the prepared dish. Sprinkle with the remaining cheese and place on the middle rack of the preheated oven. Turn the oven down to 375ºF and bake for 30-35 minutes until the soufflé is puffed, golden, and slightly jiggly when you shake the dish. Serve immediately.

The Aftermath.

Croque monsieur / Croque madame

February 22, 2015 by Ann

A few months ago, a Facebook friend asked people to list their favorite books of all time. I was surprised to discover the number one novel on everyone’s shelf: The Count of Monte Cristo.

The Count of Monte Cristo?

But everyone raved so passionately about Alexandre Dumas’s gripping plot and deliberate pacing, that I immediately went and bought the novel on my Kindle. At first I was skeptical—the book takes at least a hundred pages to get its hooks into you—but all of a sudden, I found myself gripped by a tale of blood-thirsty revenge. The book tells the story of Edmond Dantès, a happy-go-lucky sailor who is framed by his frenemies—dangerous even in 19th-century France, who knew?—and wrongfully imprisoned. After escaping from jail, he vows to seek revenge—a quest that leads the story into many convoluted twists and turns, including hidden treasure, secret aliases, deserted islands, and more, all lavished with the trappings of bottomless wealth. As I read late into the night, I found myself pondering questions of justice, innocence, vengeance, mercy… and sandwiches. Surely the Monte Cristo sandwich would make an appearance in this literary classic?

Hélas, non. Le Comte de Monte Cristo scarcely eats at all, and he certainly does not indulge in ham-and-cheese sandwiches that are dipped in egg batter, fried in butter, and sprinkled with powdered sugar, strawberry jam, and/or maple syrup. Perhaps you’re wondering, who created this ~~monstrosity~~ marvel? A quick internet search revealed that the Monte Cristo sandwich became famous in the 1960s when it was served at Disneyland; the name is a tribute to its French croque monsieur roots, and (sadly) has nothing to do with the book.

Nevertheless, after wolfing down Alexandre Dumas’s masterpiece, I needed to chase it with a toasty, melty sandwich. The Monte Cristo seemed too decadent for even this intrepid cook to tackle, however, so I whipped up a couple of café classics: the Croque Monsieur, and his wife, Croque Madame .

Croque Madame, type A

Croque Madame, type B

In my mind, there are two types of croques. There’s the kind that starts with an oversized slice of country bread, heaps it with sliced ham and grated cheese, and achieves a golden crust in the broiler (see photo of “type A”). The other kind dabs béchamel sauce on square, white, sandwich slices, before topping with ham and cheese, and broiling (see photo “type B”). Both are delicious, but if forced to choose, I might admit a slight preference for type B, with its velvety, nutmeg-scented nappage marrying the elements. “B” stands for béchamel! Or best!

If you’re not careful, however, type B can quickly become soggy, with its sauce and floppy-crumbed bread. There are a few secrets to creating a pleasingly crunchy croque B. Toast the bread before assembling the sandwich. Prepare a thick béchamel. Allow it to cool before spreading. Be sparing.

Another benefit to preparing a small quantity of béchamel is that it’s surprisingly fast to make—one might say it even falls under the category of “easily whipped up.” After that, the sandwich is a snap to assemble, making this an achievable meal to cook (and even photograph) while wrangling a curious toddler.

A word of advice: Make sure you watch your broiling sandwich like a hawk, or you’ll wind up with extra toasty edges :)

The addition of a fried egg is optional, but a gooey, salty bite swirled in a pool of creamy yolk is pretty irresistible. If you’re keen on eating while reading, the eggless Croque monsieur is more easily enjoyed one-handed. Either way, this is a meal fit for a count! (Especially if you use Comté cheese, ba dum bum.)

Croque Monsieur
Adapted from Felicity Cloake and Elle à Table.

I think the amounts of sauce and cheese given here are perfect for exactly two sandwiches. For a Croque Madame, add a fried egg to the top of each sandwich.

Serves two

4 slices sturdy, white sandwich bread (I like Pepperidge Farm)
2 thin slices of ham
2/3 cup grated Comté or Gruyère cheese
1/2 cup béchamel sauce (recipe follows)

Béchamel sauce
1 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon flour
1/2 cup milk
Pinch of nutmeg
Salt and pepper

Make the béchamel sauce. In a small saucepan, melt the better over medium heat. Add the flour and cook, stirring, for 1-2 minutes. Add the milk and whisk over low heat, until the milk boils and the sauce thickens. Add the nutmeg, salt, and pepper. Taste and adjust seasonings. Allow to cool.

Preheat the broiler. Lightly toast the bread. Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil. Spread two slices of bread with a thin layer of béchamel. Add a layer of grated cheese and a slice of ham. Dab lightly with béchamel. Top each sandwich with the second slice of bread. Spread a thin layer of béchamel on the top of the second slice. Add a layer of grated cheese. Place both sandwiches on the baking sheet and broil under golden, about 5 minutes. (The edges will darken very quickly, so it’s a game of chicken between the golden center and rapidly blackening crusts.) Serve immediately with sharp mustard.

Celery salad with dates, almonds, and parmesan

February 10, 2015 by Ann

I grew up in the suburbs sprawling south of Los Angeles, but you could call me a bad Californian because I don’t like dates. I mean, does any other fruit so sharply evoke So Cal in the 1970s as the sugary date, blended into icy sweet milkshakes, the iconic treat of an arid desert corrupted by manmade oases? And yet, I find dates overly sweet and mealy—too sticky to be enjoyed as a fruit, too fruity to be enjoyed as a sweet.

I went decades without a date crossing my palate. But a few weeks ago, I made a Sticky Toffee Pudding for my book club and made three discoveries. 1) Sticky toffee pudding may sound quintessentially British, but it was invented in the 1970s and is really just a gussied up name for date cake. 2) You can’t taste the dates in Sticky Toffee Pudding, which makes it perfect for date haters. I’ll share my recipe soon. 3) You will have leftover dates after making Sticky Toffee Pudding.

Which begs the question: If you don’t like dates, what on earth do you do with the leftovers?

Hooray for my friend, Amy Thomas, who came to the rescue with this crunchy, bright, sweet and savory salad!

The recipe is simple and the ingredients might even be in your fridge right now! Take a bunch of celery, the fresher the better, and slice the stalks thinly on the bias. Pit and chop a handful of dates. Toast some chopped almonds in a pan, season them with a pinch of sea salt. Spritz on the lemon juice, drizzle over the olive oil, and lavish the whole with shavings of Parmagiano Reggiano. The lemon juice and dates create a lovely sweet-tart balance that’s offset by salty, soft bursts of cheese, and the golden, toasty crunch of almonds. It’s an elegant, unusual, perfectly seasonal salad. And the best part is, you’d never know there were dates in it :)

Celery salad with dates, almonds, and parmesan
Adapted from Bon Appétit

Serves two generously, or four modestly

1/3 cup raw almonds, roughly chopped
8 celery stalks, thinly sliced on a diagonal
6 dates, pitted and coarsely chopped
Juice of one lemon
2 1/2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil (separated)
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
Fleur de sel (or salt), pepper
2 oz Parmagiano Reggiano

In a small skillet, heat 1/2 tablespoon of olive oil. Add the almonds, stirring frequently until golden. Season with a generous pinch of fleur de sel (or salt).

In a large bowl, combine the celery and dates. Toss with the lemon juice, 2 tablespoons of olive oil, and crushed red pepper flakes. Taste and season with salt and pepper. Shave half of the Parmagiano Reggiano over the salad and toss gently to combine. Serve immediately, with the remaining half of the cheese shaved over the top.

Smoky Spanish chickpeas with spinach

January 28, 2015 by Ann

Back in my twenties, my drink of choice was a vodka soda, clean and crisp with a slice of lemon. My thirties witnessed a turn toward wine, as befits a stint in Paris. And now that I’m entering my forties—which, for the record, hasn’t happened yet, but is coming soon enough, EGADS—I have a new drink: dry sherry. Yes, it’s the favorite of vicars, old biddies, and the Crane brothers, scoff all you like. The true secret is that sherry is full of golden, nutty, caramel notes and it’s delicious. It’s also an ideal drink to accompany tapas, such as smoky Spanish chickpeas with spinach. AND it’s one of the few aperitifs that can be described as a tipple, which is really quite titillating.

Sherry is produced in the Jerez-Xérès-Sherry DO (Denominación de Origen) of Andalusia, Spain, which is reflected in its Spanish name, vino de Jerez. Unlike regular wine, it’s fortified: a strong distilled spirit is added to the cask after fermentation, and the alcohol content increases with aging. As I learned in Talia Baiocchi’s new book, Sherry: A Modern Guide to the Wine World’s Best-Kept Secret, sherries span a wide spectrum, from delicate—fino, dry and pale—to heavy—Oloroso, dark and rich (and my favorite). And, yes, sometimes they’re sweet—as in the case of Harvey’s Bristol Cream—though Baiocchi—who is a wine writer and editor-in-chief of the terrific online drinks magazine PUNCH—gives these blended sherries wide berth, generally filing them under the “Mistakes in Alcohol Consumption folder.”

With chapters on everything from production to consumption (e.g. cocktail recipes), Sherry offers an extremely detailed look at a very complex wine. It also includes a wealth of addresses for sherry towns and producers, and I suspect it would make an excellent travel guide to the region. I appreciated the practical advice on storing open sherry (best in the fridge), glassware (she recommends stemmed white wineglasses, though I love my vintage ware), and food pairings. Baoicchi offers an old Andalusian saying: “Fino and manzanilla if it swims, amontillado if it flies, and oloroso if it walks.”

Of course, no discussion of sherry would be complete without tapas, which allegedly originated in Andalusia’s taverns. The book offers a few recipes, but I was captured by the “garbanzos con espinacas”—a stew of chickpeas and spinach enrichened with breadcrumbs, smoked paprika, and the bitter bite of fine olive oil.

The recipe comes from New York City chef Alexandra Raij, who was inspired by a dish at El Rincóncillo, Sevilla’s oldest bar, founded in 1670. “This simple chickpea, spinach, and bread stew has long been one of the bar’s specialities,” writes Baiocchi, “and no matter whether it is hot outside, the long bartop is always littered with steaming plates of it.” The dish starts with dried chickpeas (making it a perfect candidate for a pantry cleanout); breadcrumbs are toasted in garlic-flavored olive oil, and then pounded into the chickpea broth, creating a thick, creamy sauce that’s heightened by a generous scoop of smoked paprika. The tender beans and chopped spinach are suspended in this luscious sauce.

It’s a simple meal and crusty bread is a great accompaniment—though one day I’d love to spoon it over garlic-rubbed toast. And to drink? Sherry, of course.

Smoky Spanish chickpeas with spinach
Adapted from Sherry by Talia Baiocchi

Serves eight

8 oz dried chickpeas, washed, sorted, and soaked overnight
1 onion, halved
1 carrot, peeled
1 head garlic, plus 3-4 smashed cloves
5 tablespoons olive oil
1 10-oz package frozen spinach, defrosted and squeezed dry
1/2 cup panko bread crumbs
1 tablespoon smoked Spanish paprika
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper

In a large pot, combine the chickpeas, onion, carrot, and head of garlic, then add enough cold water to cover everything by at least 4 inches. Bring to a boil and skim off any foam that arises. Reduce to a simmer and cook until the chickpeas are tender and creamy, about 2 hours. (I usually cover the pot and simmer in the oven at 325ºF.) Drain the chickpeas and reserve the liquid. Discard the vegetables.

In a large, clean pot, heat five tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat. Add the smashed garlic cloves and stir until the garlic turns golden and fragrant. Remove the garlic. Add the panko breadcrumbs to the hot oil, stirring until golden, about 4 minutes.

Add the paprika, cumin, and cayenne, then 2 cups of the chickpea cooking broth. Over a high flame, boil the mixture, stirring vigorously to break up the breadcrumbs. Cook until the liquid evaporates, the mixture is dry, and the breadcrumbs start to stick to the pan—about 10 minutes. Add another 2 cups of chickpea broth. Stir briskly, scraping up any browned bits at the bottom of the pot. Cook, stirring often, until the sauce is smooth and creamy, like a roux—about 10 minutes—adding dashes of fresh water if the sauce becomes too thick. Taste and adjust seasonings.

Add the chickpeas and spinach to the sauce and heat the mixture through. Taste again, and season if needed. Serve drizzled with high quality olive oil.

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