When last I saw Stokes Farm's Italian Heirloom Eggplant of Unknown Proper Name, I was picking out the last four edible looking ones from a dozen or so stragglers at what, I presumed at 11 am on a Saturday, was the tail end of their season.
Not so. Another whole bin of magnificent specimens greeted me this Saturday. A got a different woman at checkout this time, so I thought I'd ask again if they had a more specific name. She looked blank, but asked a guy (if I were friendlier or chattier or something, I guess I could supply names for these nice people, but we all work with what God gave us.), who had the goods.
"Bitter Balls". (I instinctively went with the wide eyes, forward head tilt thing; but don't be ashamed to snicker.)
I felt like Woodward and/or Bernstein! The Goods! The Dirt! The Dish! I had it!
But it was after I took a whim to not rest on those majestic laurels and Googled "bitter ball" eggplant, and subsequently "orange eggplant" that I got the real scoop. From web pages like this and this and this, I eventually came to the conclusion that IHEOUPN isn't Italian at all, but African. Although the photo on this site looks even more like the ones I have (or would if the Brazilians would let them ripen all the way) so maybe Afro-Brazilian. How festive!
I hope you're ok with this startling revelation.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Kale and Cress and Eggs--Oh My!
Going to the Greenmarket this time of year always inspires a certain ambivalence of feeling in me. Ordinarily, by the second week of October I'm saddened by the recent finale of tomato season, but amped up at the expected debut of Romanesco broccoli; energized by the need for a sweater, but enervated by the thought of months of chilly dark just around the corner. This year, I've been thrilled that tomatoes are still abundant, but annoyed--and mildly alarmed--that it's still So. Freaking. Hot.
No matter. This week I embraced two new-to-me varieties of something I consider a fall veggie with a visit to the International House of Kale. Red Russian Kale is flatter then regular kale, with jagged edges that make it look a lot like crazily overgrown dandelion leaves (which I didn't get a decent picture of because I'm a terrible photographer and they were all too blurry to use, so thank you to Amy Albert for not suing me for lifting the following from the Fine Cooking website) .
It doesn't take as long to cook as regular kale, but is incredibly pungent. It would, I think, overwhelm most dishes, and be a bit much on its own. I parboiled it, then did a rough chop before a quick saute with some garlic and red pepper flakes in olive oil. I served it piled on toast that had been spread with a garlicky cranberry bean puree, then topped each toast with a grind of fresh pepper and a splash of red wine vinegar.
Black Tuscan Kale (not too-terrible picture below) was as relatively quick cooking as the Red Russian, but not nearly so strongly flavored. Ultimately, the most interesting thing about it was how hypnotically beautiful the wash water was dancing and beading over its alligator skin surface. Yes, I spent almost half an hour washing one more or less already clean bunch of greens. No, I wasn't high.
Another thing I ran into this week that I hadn't noticed before that bears just a quick mention is Upland Cress.
The sign (at Paffenroth's, natch) indicated that it was like a slightly spicier watercress, and could be used interchangeably. I disagree. It's not so much spici-er as spicy-different. It tastes just like horseradish. It added a nice little pep to a salad, but I usually eat watercress as a tea sandwich on heavily buttered white bread, and this stuff was NOT working for me in that capacity. Maybe as part of a zakuski spread to go with chilled vodka instead of a tea tray. Hmmm, now that I think about it, I just might have more to say about Upland Cress, later, after all.
Finally this week, I could no longer resist the quail eggs. They were $3 a dozen. I had $3 left in my pocket. It seemed like kismet, no? In the interest of full disclosure, I have prepared quail eggs before, but I don't think it counts. I bought a can of hard boiled ones at a Chinese market because they were so cute and, not really having any other idea what to do with them, made itsy bitsy deviled eggs out of them for a party. A bit twee perhaps, but I liked them. But I've never started with raw ones, so they still fall under the rubric of this experiment.
N.B.: They are tiny. One recipe for a quail egg omelet gave the equivalency of five quail eggs to one hen egg. That seems about right.
Second note: Priiiiiitty! As it turns out, "brown speckled" covers a rather wide range.
Be aware that tiny literally translates to pain in the ass to crack without breaking the yolk. It's important to know what you're getting yourself into. I'm here to help.
The ideal way to crack a quail egg without breaking the yolk would be to have big, sharp acrylic nails put on just your thumbs. Presuming you won't be using enough quail eggs in your daily life to make that a feasible option, I suggest employing a paring knife. Tap a seam down one side of the egg, breaking the shell but not penetrating the membrane. Go back along the seam with the (well sharpened) tip of your knife to open up the membrane. Thumbs on wither side of the seam, pull halves apart.
Tiny also translates to pain in the ass to peel when boiled. Your only hope is to follow these directions explicitly. This is actually the best way to peel any boiled egg, but for larger eggs it just makes thing easier, whereas for quail it's crucial if you don't want a thimbleful of mush.
1. You must have prepared an ice bath--not cold water, actual ice in water--sitting near the pot you're boiling your eggs in. When they have been in as long as you want (depending on how hard you want the yolk) scoop them out of the hot water and immediately submerge in the ice water. Swirl around in the ice for a couple of minutes until the eggs cool off noticeably. This both stops (or at least retards) the cooking process and causes the egg flesh to shrink away from the shell resulting in easier peeling.
2. Once the eggs are cool enough to handle comfortably, smash the fat end, where the air bubble is, hard enough to crack the shell but not so hard as to damage the egg. Cracking the egg at the air bubble end will allow you to break through the membrane without mutilating the egg itself.
Another challenge I encountered with these little cuties was how exactly to cook them. I found lots of recipes on the net using boiled quail eggs, but only one reference to how long one should boil them. Given that I don't care for eating Superballs, I disregarded that advice--to boil them for seven minutes. Much trial and error revealed that it is best to put eggs in cold water over medium high heat, bring water just to a boil, then turn off the heat.
For soft but not runny yolks, remove eggs to ice bath immediately.
For still translucent but fairly firm yolks, leave, covered, in hot water for 1 minute.
For quite firm yolks, leave, covered, in hot water for two minutes.
Any longer then two minutes, the yolks might still be fine but the whites will turn rubbery.
Frying was equally. . .interesting. Over easy wasn't that hard to get right, just be extra careful when flipping, but you really have to go with the super-cute sunny side up presentation for Barbie eggs, right? Ok, so. . .
Ok, clockwise from top left:
1. Fugly chewy. The yolk was a good consistency, but broken. And the whites were rubbery.
2. Yucky slime. The whites were good, but the yolk was barely warm.
At this point it occurred to me that a mold of some sort might be useful. And I was right, it confined everything enough that the yolk and the white at least had a fighting chance of being ready at the same time. Of course the flower shape provides continuity for The Curse of the Twee Quail Egg, but it was all I had small enough, and I think it's cute anyway. So there.
3. Much better, but I missed the target with the yolk, so it's all cockeyed.
4. Yahtzee! Perhaps not Thomas Keller perfection, but the white is just done, and the yolk is just oozy without being really messy. Perfect enough for me!
Oh, how do they taste? A lot like eggs. But really rich, eggy eggs. In fact, they stand up for themselves quite well to Amy's Prosciutto and Black Pepper Bread--a pairing to which even the best hen eggs bring nothing but texture.
So, overall, I would have to say that, a little like our new puppy, quail eggs are a bit of work, but cute and nummylicious enough to make it worth the effort.
No matter. This week I embraced two new-to-me varieties of something I consider a fall veggie with a visit to the International House of Kale. Red Russian Kale is flatter then regular kale, with jagged edges that make it look a lot like crazily overgrown dandelion leaves (which I didn't get a decent picture of because I'm a terrible photographer and they were all too blurry to use, so thank you to Amy Albert for not suing me for lifting the following from the Fine Cooking website) .
It doesn't take as long to cook as regular kale, but is incredibly pungent. It would, I think, overwhelm most dishes, and be a bit much on its own. I parboiled it, then did a rough chop before a quick saute with some garlic and red pepper flakes in olive oil. I served it piled on toast that had been spread with a garlicky cranberry bean puree, then topped each toast with a grind of fresh pepper and a splash of red wine vinegar.
Black Tuscan Kale (not too-terrible picture below) was as relatively quick cooking as the Red Russian, but not nearly so strongly flavored. Ultimately, the most interesting thing about it was how hypnotically beautiful the wash water was dancing and beading over its alligator skin surface. Yes, I spent almost half an hour washing one more or less already clean bunch of greens. No, I wasn't high.
Another thing I ran into this week that I hadn't noticed before that bears just a quick mention is Upland Cress.
The sign (at Paffenroth's, natch) indicated that it was like a slightly spicier watercress, and could be used interchangeably. I disagree. It's not so much spici-er as spicy-different. It tastes just like horseradish. It added a nice little pep to a salad, but I usually eat watercress as a tea sandwich on heavily buttered white bread, and this stuff was NOT working for me in that capacity. Maybe as part of a zakuski spread to go with chilled vodka instead of a tea tray. Hmmm, now that I think about it, I just might have more to say about Upland Cress, later, after all.
Finally this week, I could no longer resist the quail eggs. They were $3 a dozen. I had $3 left in my pocket. It seemed like kismet, no? In the interest of full disclosure, I have prepared quail eggs before, but I don't think it counts. I bought a can of hard boiled ones at a Chinese market because they were so cute and, not really having any other idea what to do with them, made itsy bitsy deviled eggs out of them for a party. A bit twee perhaps, but I liked them. But I've never started with raw ones, so they still fall under the rubric of this experiment.
N.B.: They are tiny. One recipe for a quail egg omelet gave the equivalency of five quail eggs to one hen egg. That seems about right.
Second note: Priiiiiitty! As it turns out, "brown speckled" covers a rather wide range.
Be aware that tiny literally translates to pain in the ass to crack without breaking the yolk. It's important to know what you're getting yourself into. I'm here to help.
The ideal way to crack a quail egg without breaking the yolk would be to have big, sharp acrylic nails put on just your thumbs. Presuming you won't be using enough quail eggs in your daily life to make that a feasible option, I suggest employing a paring knife. Tap a seam down one side of the egg, breaking the shell but not penetrating the membrane. Go back along the seam with the (well sharpened) tip of your knife to open up the membrane. Thumbs on wither side of the seam, pull halves apart.
Tiny also translates to pain in the ass to peel when boiled. Your only hope is to follow these directions explicitly. This is actually the best way to peel any boiled egg, but for larger eggs it just makes thing easier, whereas for quail it's crucial if you don't want a thimbleful of mush.
1. You must have prepared an ice bath--not cold water, actual ice in water--sitting near the pot you're boiling your eggs in. When they have been in as long as you want (depending on how hard you want the yolk) scoop them out of the hot water and immediately submerge in the ice water. Swirl around in the ice for a couple of minutes until the eggs cool off noticeably. This both stops (or at least retards) the cooking process and causes the egg flesh to shrink away from the shell resulting in easier peeling.
2. Once the eggs are cool enough to handle comfortably, smash the fat end, where the air bubble is, hard enough to crack the shell but not so hard as to damage the egg. Cracking the egg at the air bubble end will allow you to break through the membrane without mutilating the egg itself.
Another challenge I encountered with these little cuties was how exactly to cook them. I found lots of recipes on the net using boiled quail eggs, but only one reference to how long one should boil them. Given that I don't care for eating Superballs, I disregarded that advice--to boil them for seven minutes. Much trial and error revealed that it is best to put eggs in cold water over medium high heat, bring water just to a boil, then turn off the heat.
For soft but not runny yolks, remove eggs to ice bath immediately.
For still translucent but fairly firm yolks, leave, covered, in hot water for 1 minute.
For quite firm yolks, leave, covered, in hot water for two minutes.
Any longer then two minutes, the yolks might still be fine but the whites will turn rubbery.
Frying was equally. . .interesting. Over easy wasn't that hard to get right, just be extra careful when flipping, but you really have to go with the super-cute sunny side up presentation for Barbie eggs, right? Ok, so. . .
Ok, clockwise from top left:
1. Fugly chewy. The yolk was a good consistency, but broken. And the whites were rubbery.
2. Yucky slime. The whites were good, but the yolk was barely warm.
At this point it occurred to me that a mold of some sort might be useful. And I was right, it confined everything enough that the yolk and the white at least had a fighting chance of being ready at the same time. Of course the flower shape provides continuity for The Curse of the Twee Quail Egg, but it was all I had small enough, and I think it's cute anyway. So there.
3. Much better, but I missed the target with the yolk, so it's all cockeyed.
4. Yahtzee! Perhaps not Thomas Keller perfection, but the white is just done, and the yolk is just oozy without being really messy. Perfect enough for me!
Oh, how do they taste? A lot like eggs. But really rich, eggy eggs. In fact, they stand up for themselves quite well to Amy's Prosciutto and Black Pepper Bread--a pairing to which even the best hen eggs bring nothing but texture.
So, overall, I would have to say that, a little like our new puppy, quail eggs are a bit of work, but cute and nummylicious enough to make it worth the effort.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
We now resume our regularly scheduled programming.
Yet another great thing about the Greenmarket is that it's probably the best place in the City to strike up a conversation with a complete stranger without their thinking you are
a) insane and possibly dangerous,
b) running a con, or
c) sexually available.
So when the woman next to me at Paffenroth Gardens told the guy bagging her stuff that the stinging nettles were also hers, I just had to ask. As it happened, she was captain of the Stinging Nettle Cheerleading Squad, so she was a good person to ask.
"Oh it's fantastic. You cook it just like spinach and it's loaded with nutrients. It strengthens your hair and nails, it boosts the immune system, it's a blood and liver cleaner, . . ." She went on about its virtues for a while, but honestly she had me at liver cleaner (Cheers!). Besides, stinging nettles. It just sounds so delightfully Hogwartian.
And as it turned out, they are definitely from Advanced Herbology.
I want to be very clear on this point, so in case you can't make out the sign hastily snapped with my cell phone camera, the highlighted bit reads, Be careful when handling - can cause ITCHING.
Hungry yet?
Anyone?
At least two really important factors distinguish stinging nettles from spinach:
a) A tidy bundle purchased at an urban farmer's market stand can, in fact, cause itching. Running into a patch of them in the wild could, conceivably, result in modest blood loss.
b) They contain little moisture and retain less, so should therefore be prepared as quickly as possible after harvesting. After three days in the fridge, they were heading closer toward dried herb than leafy green.
Regarding a, use gloves when handling raw nettles. Seriously.
Regarding b, well, yeah. That was kind of a shame. Sauteeing and steaming were just ghastly--the worlds thinnest show leather. The scary spiny bits had cooked down (away?) so it was no longer dangerous, but tough and weirdly fishy smelling--like spirulina. Dis. Gus. Ting. Corey, my puppy daddy, physically recoiled when I shoved it under his nose.
But, thanks to Julia Child, all was not lost. I've recently discovered that it's rather useful to keep some of her potage parmentier base (the slurry of potatoes and leeks, before the cream is added) in the fridge. Mine isn't religiously adherent to hers, I use Vegeta instead of salt and a bit less water, but still. Delightful on it's own--once the cream is added, of course--it's also handy for absorbing any extra crisper items that might be on the train for Funkytown. Particularly those few too many mushrooms I always end up with. And now those dried out nettles.
Coupla pints of potage, coupla hands full of nettle leaves, simmer 10 minutes, hit it with the immersion blender (sorry again, Mrs. Child), and add cream. Hmm, still a little fishy. No! I can make this work, goddamit!
Actually, after a bit of tinkering, it wasn't that hard. Big knob of butter, tad more cream, several vigorous turns of the pepper grinder, and--crucially--a big splash of white wine vinegar. And just like that, magically delicious!
Blast from the Past: After several weeks of non-appearance on their part, I got what seem to be the four very last Italian Heirloom Eggplant of Undetermined Proper Name of the season from Stokes Farm last week. As I suspected last time, stuffing them was the way to go. The skins are inedibly tough, but a stunning color, so perfect for presentation.
I pricked their circumference with a skewer just below the stem then baked them whole. In retrospect, 15 - 20 minutes would have been plenty, but I was keeping one eyeball on several things I was cooking at once and the other eyeball on a rather sprightly puppy, so these specimens were perhaps a moment or two past ideal, though I don't think you could tell it by the finished dish.
After they cooled a bit, I cut off the stem end at the perforations and used a demitasse spoon to scrape out the meat. If you do this carefully, you can get out every last molecule of edible matter and have a perfect skin to stuff. I pulsed the eggplant pulp with some fresh bread crumbs, and dried basil and savory in the Cuisinart till gooey then stirred in two chopped leftover fried green tomato slices. Then I stuffed the skins and put them back in the oven long enough to boil, drain, and toss spaghetti with homemade pesto, about 12 minutes. Voila.
Finally, if I may, I'd like to give a well deserved shout out to my fantastically talented friend Carla. Actors, singers, executive directors, and all other performing artists--your attention please. If she can present a spastic, squirmy 11 week old as this noble beast,
just imagine what she could do with your headshot.
a) insane and possibly dangerous,
b) running a con, or
c) sexually available.
So when the woman next to me at Paffenroth Gardens told the guy bagging her stuff that the stinging nettles were also hers, I just had to ask. As it happened, she was captain of the Stinging Nettle Cheerleading Squad, so she was a good person to ask.
"Oh it's fantastic. You cook it just like spinach and it's loaded with nutrients. It strengthens your hair and nails, it boosts the immune system, it's a blood and liver cleaner, . . ." She went on about its virtues for a while, but honestly she had me at liver cleaner (Cheers!). Besides, stinging nettles. It just sounds so delightfully Hogwartian.
And as it turned out, they are definitely from Advanced Herbology.
I want to be very clear on this point, so in case you can't make out the sign hastily snapped with my cell phone camera, the highlighted bit reads, Be careful when handling - can cause ITCHING.
Hungry yet?
Anyone?
At least two really important factors distinguish stinging nettles from spinach:
a) A tidy bundle purchased at an urban farmer's market stand can, in fact, cause itching. Running into a patch of them in the wild could, conceivably, result in modest blood loss.
b) They contain little moisture and retain less, so should therefore be prepared as quickly as possible after harvesting. After three days in the fridge, they were heading closer toward dried herb than leafy green.
Regarding a, use gloves when handling raw nettles. Seriously.
Regarding b, well, yeah. That was kind of a shame. Sauteeing and steaming were just ghastly--the worlds thinnest show leather. The scary spiny bits had cooked down (away?) so it was no longer dangerous, but tough and weirdly fishy smelling--like spirulina. Dis. Gus. Ting. Corey, my puppy daddy, physically recoiled when I shoved it under his nose.
But, thanks to Julia Child, all was not lost. I've recently discovered that it's rather useful to keep some of her potage parmentier base (the slurry of potatoes and leeks, before the cream is added) in the fridge. Mine isn't religiously adherent to hers, I use Vegeta instead of salt and a bit less water, but still. Delightful on it's own--once the cream is added, of course--it's also handy for absorbing any extra crisper items that might be on the train for Funkytown. Particularly those few too many mushrooms I always end up with. And now those dried out nettles.
Coupla pints of potage, coupla hands full of nettle leaves, simmer 10 minutes, hit it with the immersion blender (sorry again, Mrs. Child), and add cream. Hmm, still a little fishy. No! I can make this work, goddamit!
Actually, after a bit of tinkering, it wasn't that hard. Big knob of butter, tad more cream, several vigorous turns of the pepper grinder, and--crucially--a big splash of white wine vinegar. And just like that, magically delicious!
Blast from the Past: After several weeks of non-appearance on their part, I got what seem to be the four very last Italian Heirloom Eggplant of Undetermined Proper Name of the season from Stokes Farm last week. As I suspected last time, stuffing them was the way to go. The skins are inedibly tough, but a stunning color, so perfect for presentation.
I pricked their circumference with a skewer just below the stem then baked them whole. In retrospect, 15 - 20 minutes would have been plenty, but I was keeping one eyeball on several things I was cooking at once and the other eyeball on a rather sprightly puppy, so these specimens were perhaps a moment or two past ideal, though I don't think you could tell it by the finished dish.
After they cooled a bit, I cut off the stem end at the perforations and used a demitasse spoon to scrape out the meat. If you do this carefully, you can get out every last molecule of edible matter and have a perfect skin to stuff. I pulsed the eggplant pulp with some fresh bread crumbs, and dried basil and savory in the Cuisinart till gooey then stirred in two chopped leftover fried green tomato slices. Then I stuffed the skins and put them back in the oven long enough to boil, drain, and toss spaghetti with homemade pesto, about 12 minutes. Voila.
Finally, if I may, I'd like to give a well deserved shout out to my fantastically talented friend Carla. Actors, singers, executive directors, and all other performing artists--your attention please. If she can present a spastic, squirmy 11 week old as this noble beast,
just imagine what she could do with your headshot.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Bloggus Interruptus
We interrupt the regularly scheduled blog post for this important announcement.
(And I'm really sorry too, because it was going to be a good one. The star was going to be stinging nettle, and Heirloom Italian Eggplant of Unknown Proper Name was going to make a special return appearance. Julia Child's name was to have been evoked. We hope to have that for you by Friday. Or possibly Saturday, as the stinging nettles resting on the stove right now deserved to have been attended to a couple of days ago, so I might try to get back to Paffenroth's stand Saturday morning for a fresher batch to cook off before opining, though my results thus far are not entirely disappointing.)
So produce withers in the fridge and the stove lies mostly fallow. What could have lead to such a dire circumstance?
Meet Max. King of Cute. Liege of Levity. Prince of Pug-naciousness. And Appropriator of Attention. He's been keeping me and my puppy daddy pretty occupied of late.
Until my next substantive post, enjoy this evidentiary video of those electrically anomalous black dragon tongue beans. (And don't think I've forgotten the spaghetti squash cliffhanger. We will catch up with that over the next week as well.)
(And I'm really sorry too, because it was going to be a good one. The star was going to be stinging nettle, and Heirloom Italian Eggplant of Unknown Proper Name was going to make a special return appearance. Julia Child's name was to have been evoked. We hope to have that for you by Friday. Or possibly Saturday, as the stinging nettles resting on the stove right now deserved to have been attended to a couple of days ago, so I might try to get back to Paffenroth's stand Saturday morning for a fresher batch to cook off before opining, though my results thus far are not entirely disappointing.)
So produce withers in the fridge and the stove lies mostly fallow. What could have lead to such a dire circumstance?
Meet Max. King of Cute. Liege of Levity. Prince of Pug-naciousness. And Appropriator of Attention. He's been keeping me and my puppy daddy pretty occupied of late.
Until my next substantive post, enjoy this evidentiary video of those electrically anomalous black dragon tongue beans. (And don't think I've forgotten the spaghetti squash cliffhanger. We will catch up with that over the next week as well.)
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Fear and Loathing at the Greenmarket: Bad Craziness with Dragon Tongues
So the craziest thing happened on the way to this week's post.
I was absolutely walking on clouds with little birdies tweeting around my head after weeks of travel, weddings, guests in from out of town, etc. to get to wallow wholeheartedly in the Union Square Greenmarket on Saturday morning, knowing I was actually going to be home and have time to enjoy playing around with stuff I found there.
I was ready to wax poetic about the perfect cusp-of-fall day--a refreshing new briskness in the air, corn and tomatoes still at their peak but winter squashes and new apples starting to appear--a veritable paradise on urban earth. And I surely would have held forth with lengthy treatments of numerous products I, once again, couldn't help but bring home, despite my new Stop Eating So Much Already, Dammit! campaign.
I was excited to get into pornographically detailed descriptions of my highly successful experiments with zucchini blossoms,
which I had eaten for the first and only time on our aforementioned trip to Rome this summer, but had never prepared myself. I couldn't wait to yammer about my super exciting discovery about them (1), and show off my cool new cast iron tortilla press in the context of talking about the faaaabulous squash blossom quesadillas I made--and ate so fast I didn't even get a picture (2). So much for the campaign.
I very likely would have employed the adjective 'unctuous' in describing the risotto I made with the remaining blossoms (3). Thank heaven we were all spared that.
I also bought a spaghetti squash--a big thing for me. There would have been a charming story of contrasts, how I used to long for such a whimsical, exotic prize when amusing myself by pouring over Burpee's catalogues while visiting my grandparents, whereas my dear SigOth was being taught to hate them by a mother who insisted on dressing them as if they were actually pasta. Possibly, there would have followed a tale of triumph wherein I devised a recipe that won him back over (or a tale of woe wherein I discovered that they are actually as nasty as he claims). Alas, we know not yet, as various circumstances (not the least of which my being a bachelorette this week and having to consume everything I cooked by myself) leave the controversial squash unmolested on the counter at date of writing.
But all of that was thrown aside (and thank God too, given how long this has turned out already!!) by the Curse of the Black Dragon.
No, seriously.
I gave my very last $3 to the lady at Berried Treasures (No, seriously.) for half a pound of bewitching purple-black string beans.
"What are these called?"
"Black Dragons. Or Dragon Tongues. Or Something. They turn green when you cook ‘em."
Well, how's that for a whole emotional roller coaster in a few succinct lines? What could be more exciting sounding than Black Dragons? Unless it's Dragon Tongues? But what could be more deflating than they turn green when you cook them? In the face of the blackberry bean disappointment, I took it as a challenge to see if I could manage to cook them while retaining the color that is clearly the only reason anyone would pay a premium for them in the first place.
**Spoiler Alert**
In a word, no. But stick with me, ‘cause we're getting to the crazy.
Ok, so I haven't read McGee (or I probably wouldn't have felt the need to embark on this little adventure at all, but whatever), but I don't imagine I can do anything about regulating temperature or acidity to keep them from turning green while being cooked in hot liquid, so I decide to try the microwave. While snapping them into one inch lengths, I can't help but be a tad discouraged by the fact that these babies are clearly bright green in cross section. Oh well, what the heck.
I put them in a little deli container with only clinging rinse water for moisture, just set the lid on top to let steam escape, and set the micro for one minute. After about three seconds I hear BiiiiZZZIRT. Crackle. You know--that sound right before Colin Clive starts screaming It's Alive! It's Alive!? Exactly. I whirl back around and the little deli container is--I swear on my half empty pack of Frank Sinatra’s unfiltered Camels--Filled. With. Lightening. I dive for it and yank the door handle open--a choice I probably wouldn't have made had I been thinking at all.
Wow. Ok. Weird! I examine the little deli container. It looks like all 80 other little deli containers under the counter. But who knows, maybe in this age of enhanced security, perhaps this one has some kind of invisible anti-shoplifting metal wires embedded in it. That the TSA confiscated my cannoli at airport security because the cream qualified as a liquid is a far stranger true story than the possibility of an anti-theft wonton soup tub, right?
So I dump the beans into a bowl I know for a fact has been in the microwave without incident a million times. I put the bowl in the microwave. I hit start. BiiiiZZZIRT. Crackle. Lightening shoots out the top of the bowl. This time I prudently hit the stop button. And back away slowly. And mix a Tanqueray and tonic.
I've kept the rest of the beans that didn't go into the machine. I'm going to try to reproduce my results and post video. Because typing it now, it sounds too far-fetched, even to myself.
Much later, when I was able to talk myself into opening the door, I got an interesting visual of how microwaves impact food. Mostly the beans were still purple black, but they were covered sporadically with some rather leperous looking green spots--presumably where the waves hit and cooked the beans. I count it as a battle lost in the War on Green-turning.
At this point I was feeling gin brave, figuring I'd already contracted heirloom bean related radiation sickness if I was going to, and proceeded with the next step in my experiment as previously planned. I dumped a bunch of vinegar on them to see if they would stay purple when pickled--which would have been so great from an alliterative marketing standpoint if nothing else. Again, no. Though by the next morning they had leached a charming lavender hue into the vinegar, which I think would make simply darling Easter eggs.
--NOTES--
1. While eating stuffed fried blossoms--at the very restaurant on the Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere from which diners watch hippies getting a beat down from the cops in Fellini's Roma--I thought "Slimeylicious! I bet these would be AWESOME in quesadillas!" After picking up some blossoms from (I knew I should have written it down, or remembered it by now since I shop there every time I go to the market, but that really nice guy on the park side of the west side of the market who always has those cute bitsy baby potatoes? And the stunningly gorgeous wreaths and garlands at Christmas time? Sweet Mountain Something? Sweet Something Mountain?) the market, I did a little Google when I got home. I was semi stunned and satisfyingly validated to discover that far from being an Italian monopoly, zucchini blossoms are like kudzu in Mexico, and putting them in quesadillas is pretty much a no brainer to millions of people. Score one for my palate!
2. RE: Tortilla Press: Get one NOW! Easy to use and store, fun, cheap, more delicious and healthy tortillas, etc. etc. Quesadillas: blossoms aren't intensely flavored, so don't be stingy. At least two, torn apart, per quesadilla. A few very thinly sliced crimini mushrooms nicely underscore the flavor of the blossoms. Paper thin slices of red onion, separated, contrast beautifully. Nonstick or cast iron griddle, do not grease.
3. No excuse, but in explanation, I would have only used such purple prose out of sincere shock that the risotto turned out so beautifully under. . .difficult circumstances. I urge you to not attempt a dish that requires near constant attention while also attending your Resident Evil 4 addiction. You will do Leon, your food, and your nerves no favors.
I was absolutely walking on clouds with little birdies tweeting around my head after weeks of travel, weddings, guests in from out of town, etc. to get to wallow wholeheartedly in the Union Square Greenmarket on Saturday morning, knowing I was actually going to be home and have time to enjoy playing around with stuff I found there.
I was ready to wax poetic about the perfect cusp-of-fall day--a refreshing new briskness in the air, corn and tomatoes still at their peak but winter squashes and new apples starting to appear--a veritable paradise on urban earth. And I surely would have held forth with lengthy treatments of numerous products I, once again, couldn't help but bring home, despite my new Stop Eating So Much Already, Dammit! campaign.
I was excited to get into pornographically detailed descriptions of my highly successful experiments with zucchini blossoms,
which I had eaten for the first and only time on our aforementioned trip to Rome this summer, but had never prepared myself. I couldn't wait to yammer about my super exciting discovery about them (1), and show off my cool new cast iron tortilla press in the context of talking about the faaaabulous squash blossom quesadillas I made--and ate so fast I didn't even get a picture (2). So much for the campaign.
I very likely would have employed the adjective 'unctuous' in describing the risotto I made with the remaining blossoms (3). Thank heaven we were all spared that.
I also bought a spaghetti squash--a big thing for me. There would have been a charming story of contrasts, how I used to long for such a whimsical, exotic prize when amusing myself by pouring over Burpee's catalogues while visiting my grandparents, whereas my dear SigOth was being taught to hate them by a mother who insisted on dressing them as if they were actually pasta. Possibly, there would have followed a tale of triumph wherein I devised a recipe that won him back over (or a tale of woe wherein I discovered that they are actually as nasty as he claims). Alas, we know not yet, as various circumstances (not the least of which my being a bachelorette this week and having to consume everything I cooked by myself) leave the controversial squash unmolested on the counter at date of writing.
But all of that was thrown aside (and thank God too, given how long this has turned out already!!) by the Curse of the Black Dragon.
No, seriously.
I gave my very last $3 to the lady at Berried Treasures (No, seriously.) for half a pound of bewitching purple-black string beans.
"What are these called?"
"Black Dragons. Or Dragon Tongues. Or Something. They turn green when you cook ‘em."
Well, how's that for a whole emotional roller coaster in a few succinct lines? What could be more exciting sounding than Black Dragons? Unless it's Dragon Tongues? But what could be more deflating than they turn green when you cook them? In the face of the blackberry bean disappointment, I took it as a challenge to see if I could manage to cook them while retaining the color that is clearly the only reason anyone would pay a premium for them in the first place.
**Spoiler Alert**
In a word, no. But stick with me, ‘cause we're getting to the crazy.
Ok, so I haven't read McGee (or I probably wouldn't have felt the need to embark on this little adventure at all, but whatever), but I don't imagine I can do anything about regulating temperature or acidity to keep them from turning green while being cooked in hot liquid, so I decide to try the microwave. While snapping them into one inch lengths, I can't help but be a tad discouraged by the fact that these babies are clearly bright green in cross section. Oh well, what the heck.
I put them in a little deli container with only clinging rinse water for moisture, just set the lid on top to let steam escape, and set the micro for one minute. After about three seconds I hear BiiiiZZZIRT. Crackle. You know--that sound right before Colin Clive starts screaming It's Alive! It's Alive!? Exactly. I whirl back around and the little deli container is--I swear on my half empty pack of Frank Sinatra’s unfiltered Camels--Filled. With. Lightening. I dive for it and yank the door handle open--a choice I probably wouldn't have made had I been thinking at all.
Wow. Ok. Weird! I examine the little deli container. It looks like all 80 other little deli containers under the counter. But who knows, maybe in this age of enhanced security, perhaps this one has some kind of invisible anti-shoplifting metal wires embedded in it. That the TSA confiscated my cannoli at airport security because the cream qualified as a liquid is a far stranger true story than the possibility of an anti-theft wonton soup tub, right?
So I dump the beans into a bowl I know for a fact has been in the microwave without incident a million times. I put the bowl in the microwave. I hit start. BiiiiZZZIRT. Crackle. Lightening shoots out the top of the bowl. This time I prudently hit the stop button. And back away slowly. And mix a Tanqueray and tonic.
I've kept the rest of the beans that didn't go into the machine. I'm going to try to reproduce my results and post video. Because typing it now, it sounds too far-fetched, even to myself.
Much later, when I was able to talk myself into opening the door, I got an interesting visual of how microwaves impact food. Mostly the beans were still purple black, but they were covered sporadically with some rather leperous looking green spots--presumably where the waves hit and cooked the beans. I count it as a battle lost in the War on Green-turning.
At this point I was feeling gin brave, figuring I'd already contracted heirloom bean related radiation sickness if I was going to, and proceeded with the next step in my experiment as previously planned. I dumped a bunch of vinegar on them to see if they would stay purple when pickled--which would have been so great from an alliterative marketing standpoint if nothing else. Again, no. Though by the next morning they had leached a charming lavender hue into the vinegar, which I think would make simply darling Easter eggs.
--NOTES--
1. While eating stuffed fried blossoms--at the very restaurant on the Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere from which diners watch hippies getting a beat down from the cops in Fellini's Roma--I thought "Slimeylicious! I bet these would be AWESOME in quesadillas!" After picking up some blossoms from (I knew I should have written it down, or remembered it by now since I shop there every time I go to the market, but that really nice guy on the park side of the west side of the market who always has those cute bitsy baby potatoes? And the stunningly gorgeous wreaths and garlands at Christmas time? Sweet Mountain Something? Sweet Something Mountain?) the market, I did a little Google when I got home. I was semi stunned and satisfyingly validated to discover that far from being an Italian monopoly, zucchini blossoms are like kudzu in Mexico, and putting them in quesadillas is pretty much a no brainer to millions of people. Score one for my palate!
2. RE: Tortilla Press: Get one NOW! Easy to use and store, fun, cheap, more delicious and healthy tortillas, etc. etc. Quesadillas: blossoms aren't intensely flavored, so don't be stingy. At least two, torn apart, per quesadilla. A few very thinly sliced crimini mushrooms nicely underscore the flavor of the blossoms. Paper thin slices of red onion, separated, contrast beautifully. Nonstick or cast iron griddle, do not grease.
3. No excuse, but in explanation, I would have only used such purple prose out of sincere shock that the risotto turned out so beautifully under. . .difficult circumstances. I urge you to not attempt a dish that requires near constant attention while also attending your Resident Evil 4 addiction. You will do Leon, your food, and your nerves no favors.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Bottarga: Yeah, but really good gourmet cat food.
"You know what that is?"
"Um, I think so."
I've ordered the only remotely interesting sounding thing on the predictably predictable menu at the touristy place our quartet ended up in near the Colosseum. Spaghetti alla Bottarga, translated for our English speaking convenience as "spaghetti with fish eggs". The hairy eyeball the waitress is giving me telegraphs that she's been burned before. Clearly she doesn't think the kind of people who show up for dinner at the ungodly hour of 5 pm will appreciate whatever this is. I'm doubting there will be anything to appreciate about anyplace in Rome that's actually open for service at said hour, so we're kind of even.
"Wait, I show you."
I had been anticipating some kind of roe, but with all this buildup, I'm starting to think something really interesting might be about to happen. I'm pretty fish-ignorant, so maybe there's a crazy Mediterranean fish with sparkling blue eggs, or exploding eggs, or blood eggs. Not so much. She comes back with a diner-style sugar jar and shakes some of what looks like tan salt all over my plate.
"Taste. See if you like." This lady is taking no chances.
A little let down, I run my finger through the grains and have a lick. Salty, definitely, but also. . .I don't want to say fishy because of the negative connotations, so let's say oceany. Now, let's be clear, I probably would have stuck by my order at that point if she had sprinkled fish scales on my plate because I felt challenged. Happily, it was magically delicious so I could say "Si, grazie!" with complete sincerity, before going back to lick my plate clean. She still looked suspicious, but she took the order.
Spaghetti alla Bottarga was just that, spaghetti, olive oil, a sprinkling of bottarga, and the shaker on the side in case you wanted more. Our waitress only seemed to relax once I used the shaker, and seemed positively friendly once she saw that I Could. Not. Stop. Eating. I'm not going to lie, it smells a bit like cat food, but this stuff is just addictive, purified essence of umami.
After an exhaustive search through what felt like every grocery store in Trastevere, I finally found a jar to bring home in the refrigerated section of a specialty food store on a side street off San Giovanni a Ripa (heading toward the piazza, take a left at the bar with the GINORMOUS gintonicas. Anyone who has had occasion to stay in this neighborhood with family members and retains their sanity will surely know the place I mean.) It's a good store to know about if you're going to spend an extended time in Rome, as it's the only one I saw that had such exotic items as soy sauce and Thai curry paste, and I suppose Italian food must get tiresome. Eventually.
I was entirely unsurprised to discover that it's a Sardinian product. Back in the salad days when I didn't have such tedious concerns as making a living (read: college) I spent a couple of months on an archaeological dig on Sardinia. Consistently astonishingly good food--of the rustic, robust, and hearty variety. I've had a predilection for all things Sardinian ever since.
As it turns out, I didn't need to work so very hard to import/smuggle (Is it meat? Is it fresh? Even if it's legal, will the customs agent know that? Please God, just don't open my bag!) my possibly contraband fish eggs into the US after all, since several varieties are available for order on Amazon (though I'm glad I did as it was about half price in Rome). I've also heard rumors it's for sale retail here in NYC, but I'll have to do the legwork on that and get back to you.
It also turns out that I did not experience the "essence of umami", as this granulated stuff is supposed to be kind of crap and what you really want is the compressed whole roe. Though mine is the superior muggine (gray mullet) variety, better than the common tonno (tuna). I liked the granular perfectly well, thank you very much, but can't wait to try the 'good stuff' when I'm feeling flush.
So anyway, after playing around with it for a couple of months (a little goes a long way), I've determined:
"Um, I think so."
I've ordered the only remotely interesting sounding thing on the predictably predictable menu at the touristy place our quartet ended up in near the Colosseum. Spaghetti alla Bottarga, translated for our English speaking convenience as "spaghetti with fish eggs". The hairy eyeball the waitress is giving me telegraphs that she's been burned before. Clearly she doesn't think the kind of people who show up for dinner at the ungodly hour of 5 pm will appreciate whatever this is. I'm doubting there will be anything to appreciate about anyplace in Rome that's actually open for service at said hour, so we're kind of even.
"Wait, I show you."
I had been anticipating some kind of roe, but with all this buildup, I'm starting to think something really interesting might be about to happen. I'm pretty fish-ignorant, so maybe there's a crazy Mediterranean fish with sparkling blue eggs, or exploding eggs, or blood eggs. Not so much. She comes back with a diner-style sugar jar and shakes some of what looks like tan salt all over my plate.
"Taste. See if you like." This lady is taking no chances.
A little let down, I run my finger through the grains and have a lick. Salty, definitely, but also. . .I don't want to say fishy because of the negative connotations, so let's say oceany. Now, let's be clear, I probably would have stuck by my order at that point if she had sprinkled fish scales on my plate because I felt challenged. Happily, it was magically delicious so I could say "Si, grazie!" with complete sincerity, before going back to lick my plate clean. She still looked suspicious, but she took the order.
Spaghetti alla Bottarga was just that, spaghetti, olive oil, a sprinkling of bottarga, and the shaker on the side in case you wanted more. Our waitress only seemed to relax once I used the shaker, and seemed positively friendly once she saw that I Could. Not. Stop. Eating. I'm not going to lie, it smells a bit like cat food, but this stuff is just addictive, purified essence of umami.
After an exhaustive search through what felt like every grocery store in Trastevere, I finally found a jar to bring home in the refrigerated section of a specialty food store on a side street off San Giovanni a Ripa (heading toward the piazza, take a left at the bar with the GINORMOUS gintonicas. Anyone who has had occasion to stay in this neighborhood with family members and retains their sanity will surely know the place I mean.) It's a good store to know about if you're going to spend an extended time in Rome, as it's the only one I saw that had such exotic items as soy sauce and Thai curry paste, and I suppose Italian food must get tiresome. Eventually.
I was entirely unsurprised to discover that it's a Sardinian product. Back in the salad days when I didn't have such tedious concerns as making a living (read: college) I spent a couple of months on an archaeological dig on Sardinia. Consistently astonishingly good food--of the rustic, robust, and hearty variety. I've had a predilection for all things Sardinian ever since.
As it turns out, I didn't need to work so very hard to import/smuggle (Is it meat? Is it fresh? Even if it's legal, will the customs agent know that? Please God, just don't open my bag!) my possibly contraband fish eggs into the US after all, since several varieties are available for order on Amazon (though I'm glad I did as it was about half price in Rome). I've also heard rumors it's for sale retail here in NYC, but I'll have to do the legwork on that and get back to you.
It also turns out that I did not experience the "essence of umami", as this granulated stuff is supposed to be kind of crap and what you really want is the compressed whole roe. Though mine is the superior muggine (gray mullet) variety, better than the common tonno (tuna). I liked the granular perfectly well, thank you very much, but can't wait to try the 'good stuff' when I'm feeling flush.
So anyway, after playing around with it for a couple of months (a little goes a long way), I've determined:
- It's fantastic on long skinny pastas, but strangely disgusting on short fat pastas. Like two bites of penne, scrape it into the trash, get out the delivery menu file disgusting.
- It's good with eggs.
- It's good with tomatoes.
- It's just too much with Parmesan or Romano.
- I wasn't really feeling it on chard, but wouldn't rule it out with some other greens. Maybe something more bitter? Or raw?
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Labor Day Special: Husk Cherries and Blackberry Beans
So here's the kind of miraculous thing. I'm shambling around Union Square Greenmarket on Labor Day Monday in that particularly listless fugue state brought on by an over-active "vacation", mixed with a touch of jet lag, and gently kissed by a soupcon of too many gin and tonics, trying in vain to pass the hell out already on the return flight. In short, I was definitely more in the head space to lay in bed and order in Thai food than walk to get stuff I would have to process myself.
But just a couple of minutes poking around the few stalls that were there (who knew local farmers were such commies as to actually take Labor Day off?!), the old synapses were firing and Holy Crap! was I hungry!
Even more miraculous, on a holiday when there were 10 or fewer stalls set up, I still came across 2 items that were both extremely photogenic and almost entirely unknown to me.
Gleaming piles of organic produce initially beckoned me over to Norwich Meadows Farm's stand. Among the multitude of varieties of heirloom tomatoes and eggplants, I spied one of those products I've seen but never asked about. HUSK CHERRIES! the sign screams.
I pick up one of the darling wee tomatillo-looking things and the guy doing the restocking is immediately at my side. "That one's no good. You want this one."
Honestly, the miniature Japanese paper lanterns all piled together were so pretty and dainty it took some coaching on his part before I was able to see the differences between good ones and bad ones.
I think these somewhat more clinical photos (the colors are way more vivid than you will see in real life) will cut you to the chase. The green ones are underripe. Still edible, but rather tart. The pinkish-beige ones are good to go. The grey ones are over. Not just overripe, but covered with mold. And while I'm ok with some molds--cheese for instance--if the guy selling it says don't go there, guess where I'm not going?
I get them home and do a quick Google. Husk Cherries are also known as ground cherries or cape gooseberries. The extremely nice man at Norwich Meadows recommended just eating them out of hand or adding them to a salad. Very logical, given their delightful texture--juicy flesh held together by skin substantial enough to have a peppy little snap, but not so thick that it sets my teeth on edge like grapes do.
Their flavor is strangely complex, almost befuddling. Smoky grape, melon, apple, fresh hay+cherry, and, weirdly, buttered toast are some of the thoughts I had while trying to suss out what these things taste like.
I think they would be a good addition to a raw salsa intended to go with fish or a reduction to go over game (duck!), in fruit tarts, or preserved and spread on toast. I also suspect they would do well dried as a snack, or a substitute in any recipe calling for dried figs. I really couldn't say though, as I ate every last one, and actually turned the bag inside out to make absolutely positive there were no more hiding in the seams. The verdict: odd, but addictive. I hope they have more next week.
Next I was absolutely beguiled by the blackberry beans from Race Farm, Blairsville, NJ. Just stunning beans, sexier than Padma's Scar (is that a band name yet?), pure white with somewhat lurid splashes of crimson.
I have to confess, to me, beans are kind of beans. They're fresh or dried, eaten shelled or in the pod, but other than that they can be used to a certain extent interchangeably. That's of course an exaggeration, written mostly to justify my primary interest in the Blackberry Beans: would they retain their color through cooking? Well, in a word, no. Less than five minutes at a simmer they were a uniform dull grey. I had been trying to stay pure, cooking them in salt water only, but as soon as I saw the crimson splotches fade, I said to hell with it and dived for the Really Good Bacon.
Twenty minutes later, oh yeah. The beans melted to creaminess itself and oozed the bacon and salt they had absorbed at a really fundamentally delish level. Nummy eaten too hot out of the cooking pot, niiice blended into faux hummus. Oh! I wish I had these beans to go with the mohea a couple of weeks ago!
But just a couple of minutes poking around the few stalls that were there (who knew local farmers were such commies as to actually take Labor Day off?!), the old synapses were firing and Holy Crap! was I hungry!
Even more miraculous, on a holiday when there were 10 or fewer stalls set up, I still came across 2 items that were both extremely photogenic and almost entirely unknown to me.
Gleaming piles of organic produce initially beckoned me over to Norwich Meadows Farm's stand. Among the multitude of varieties of heirloom tomatoes and eggplants, I spied one of those products I've seen but never asked about. HUSK CHERRIES! the sign screams.
I pick up one of the darling wee tomatillo-looking things and the guy doing the restocking is immediately at my side. "That one's no good. You want this one."
Honestly, the miniature Japanese paper lanterns all piled together were so pretty and dainty it took some coaching on his part before I was able to see the differences between good ones and bad ones.
I think these somewhat more clinical photos (the colors are way more vivid than you will see in real life) will cut you to the chase. The green ones are underripe. Still edible, but rather tart. The pinkish-beige ones are good to go. The grey ones are over. Not just overripe, but covered with mold. And while I'm ok with some molds--cheese for instance--if the guy selling it says don't go there, guess where I'm not going?
I get them home and do a quick Google. Husk Cherries are also known as ground cherries or cape gooseberries. The extremely nice man at Norwich Meadows recommended just eating them out of hand or adding them to a salad. Very logical, given their delightful texture--juicy flesh held together by skin substantial enough to have a peppy little snap, but not so thick that it sets my teeth on edge like grapes do.
Their flavor is strangely complex, almost befuddling. Smoky grape, melon, apple, fresh hay+cherry, and, weirdly, buttered toast are some of the thoughts I had while trying to suss out what these things taste like.
I think they would be a good addition to a raw salsa intended to go with fish or a reduction to go over game (duck!), in fruit tarts, or preserved and spread on toast. I also suspect they would do well dried as a snack, or a substitute in any recipe calling for dried figs. I really couldn't say though, as I ate every last one, and actually turned the bag inside out to make absolutely positive there were no more hiding in the seams. The verdict: odd, but addictive. I hope they have more next week.
Next I was absolutely beguiled by the blackberry beans from Race Farm, Blairsville, NJ. Just stunning beans, sexier than Padma's Scar (is that a band name yet?), pure white with somewhat lurid splashes of crimson.
I have to confess, to me, beans are kind of beans. They're fresh or dried, eaten shelled or in the pod, but other than that they can be used to a certain extent interchangeably. That's of course an exaggeration, written mostly to justify my primary interest in the Blackberry Beans: would they retain their color through cooking? Well, in a word, no. Less than five minutes at a simmer they were a uniform dull grey. I had been trying to stay pure, cooking them in salt water only, but as soon as I saw the crimson splotches fade, I said to hell with it and dived for the Really Good Bacon.
Twenty minutes later, oh yeah. The beans melted to creaminess itself and oozed the bacon and salt they had absorbed at a really fundamentally delish level. Nummy eaten too hot out of the cooking pot, niiice blended into faux hummus. Oh! I wish I had these beans to go with the mohea a couple of weeks ago!
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