When I cook, I try to use mostly seasonal, local ingredients. However, there are times, when say I’ve just come back from a trip where I’ve been eating mostly sausage and potatoes, when all I want to eat is the vegetable soup that my mom used to make from a recipe that came from Weight Watchers some 20 years ago. In such as a case as that I might just buy zucchini and some tomatoes that were grown in some far off place where it’s currently summer and call it a day. After the starchy excesses of Berlin I was craving this soup something awful. It’s super simple, easy to make but feels really good.
We touched down in Newark at 6:00 Saturday morning and were in our double-wide matchbox of an apartment in Brooklyn by 7:30. After a breakfast of turkey sandwiches we settled in for a long winter’s nap. . . . that lasted two hours.
I went through the rest of the day feeling like I had a hangover without having had any of the fun that usually leads to one (unless a red-eye flight from L.A. to New York is your idea of a good time). Both Amir and I agreed that we were in need of a detox.
I had bookmarked this recipe before we went away because it seemed like a perfect post-thanksgiving meal, and it was. It was worth dragging myself to the market to get kale and a big bottle of chestnuts. It was worth soaking the beans. It was worth chopping the onions that always make me cry. It is surprisingly creamy, tangy, rich, nutty and sweet. It will cure what ails you, even if it’s just too much turkey and too many tacos.
Yesterday morning we were leafing through the last issue of Gourmet (sigh) wondering what to make for dinner when these beautiful dishes jumped out at us. Healthy, quick, and tasty, it’s the perfect dinner to make at the end of a long day (and after the tedium of my Bilingual Exceptional Child class.)
I wish I had a nice glamor shot of the finished soup to show you. I wish I had more than just these images of of tomatoes ready to be roasted on baking pans, but that’s not the way it worked out.
It was cold. And rainy. We were hungry and tired. We’d been shopping for Bosnian food in Astoria all day (Klas flour!). What’s more, this soup was really, really good.
I’ve been on a tomato kick recently. It’s the end of summer (actually summer pretty much exited stage left the moment September came into view) and I’m trying to cram as many fresh tomatoes into our diet as I can.
I first made this pie over a month ago, and while we loved it then, it was so juicy that the pie plate was flooded the moment you cut into it. It wasn’t a huge problem, we just drained it off and continued eating, enjoying the bright taste of the fresh tomatoes and corn.
Yesterday, at the farmers market, I went to visit the pickle man, to try the pickled green beans and he said it was nice to finally talk to me because “he sees me there every day.” It’s true, I am there all the time. I love it, I don’t love the crowds in Union Square, but I do love meandering through picking out perfect fruits and vegetables.
I’m usually there by myself, I prefer it that way, it allows me to move at my own pace and go back and forth as many times as I like. I’m very picky about whom I buy from. There are only two farmers I buy tomatoes from, Tim Stark, (I call him heirloom Tim in my mind) who has some of the most beautiful tomatoes in the market (his are the little cherries pictured above) and Leni’s farm who are there Mondays, Fridays and Saturdays and are usually at the southern end of the market (theirs are the striped plums in the wooden bowl).
A few weeks ago Amir cheated on me with the cheese department at Whole Foods. I know it’s terrible, but I’ve forgiven him and we’ve managed to rebuild the trust in our dairy relationship.
Because of said cheating we had a quarter of a pound of Bleu d’Auvergne sitting in our fridge. Bleu d’Auvergne is my go-to blue that I recommend for people who want something slightly pungent but not overpowering. They don’t want a completely whimpy cheese but they also don’t want to be punched in the taste buds (not that that’s a bad thing). It’s a cow’s milk cheese, fairly creamy, not too salty, and a little spicy.
Now, I had a customer come in the shop who was buying Roquefort for a Roquefort and leek quiche from Bouchon by Thomas Keller. This got me to thinking about making a blue cheese quiche of my own. Rather than turning to Mr. Keller who seems a bit too militant a cook for me, I looked to the woman of the moment, Julia Child. I love her, as just about everyone does and Mastering the Art of French Cooking is a masterpiece. Every recipe I’ve ever tried has come out …]
Last summer, I sent my dad some heirloom tomato plants from an organic farm in southern California. This summer, I received a box from FedEx, opening it up as I climbed the stairs to my apartment, I used my keys to cut the tape.
It contained two tomatoes, swathed in bubble wrap, juicy and soft. This was the only plant that survived the winter, and it began taking over my parents’ backyard over a month ago. When the first fruit started to appear, we weren’t sure what color it would end up being: would the tomatoes be purple when ripe? Red? White? As it turns out, they remained green.
Thanks dad!
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I love my farmers market. I go to the big one in Union Square, and this time of year, it’s just bursting with fresh fruits and vegetables, milk and cheese, flowers, honey, and most everything I could possibly want. When I get home, I proudly take out each item and display it on the table for Amir to admire. Perhaps it is some latent gathering instinct passed down through generations of women who searched fields, farms, and now farmers markets for food for their families. Or perhaps I’m just mildly insane. Whichever.
I made this gratin for my parents when they visited at the end of June. They tore through it. It was bright and fresh. There was grated zucchini, and lots of fresh herbs, some spring onions, and a tomato added in because it’s summer, and they’re everywhere, and you have to use them whenever possible. Then the whole thing was topped with cheesy bechemel, what’s not to love?
Well, not a lot really. My parents, as I said, loved it. They continued to think about it for a good 48 hours. I felt, however good it was the first time around, that there were unexplored possibilities …]
You know what happens when you have an imaginary food processor and a dysfunctional blender and set out to make a recipe that calls for processing four cups of herbs into a near-paste? Well, you dutifully pluck all those little leaves, then shove them into the aforementioned blender, add some scallions, and an hour later you have a bowlful of hand-chopped herbs and scallions. At least, that’s what happened to me. You get a nice arm workout in the process (part one of the honey eater’s guide to fitness: chop ridiculous amounts of things by hand). That’s why I have guns like these. That there’s my custard-stirring, herb-chopping, cream-whipping arm, eat your heart out Michelle Obama.
Amir’s been away and I’ve been rattling about the apartment, doing as I please. (I’m not sure it’s large enough to rattle in, perhaps I’ve been jangling in it, like loose change in a pocket?) What I please is: a) making salads with raw apples, b) leaving closet doors open, c) eating peas.
I eat peas when he’s abandoned me for another continent. I’m not sure why, he doesn’t have anything against peas, he’s not even allergic to them. It could be …]
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