Dextoxifying vegetables and fruit. Photo: Wendy Goodfriend

As the weather warms and the days get longer our bodies naturally gear up for a long-awaited cleanse. Traditional cultures around the globe use spring and summer as a time to shed excess weight and eliminate toxins that have built up during the winter. This can happen naturally as hearty stews are exchanged for fresh salads and cozy days on the couch are replaced with outdoors activities. But this cleansing process can also be gently encouraged with food choices. By selecting foods that support the liver and kidney, the primary detox organs, cleansing becomes part of a balanced and tasty diet.

Some people use extreme diets like fasting and juice cleanses. But these aren’t necessary for most people and may be dangerous without medical supervision. Take juice fasting as an example. The goal in this popular regime is to consume concentrated vitamins and minerals from fruit and vegetable juices and to supply the body with enough sugar to function without having to digest food. But the problem with consuming only juice for any extended length of time is that it lacks protein. All of the liver detox pathways require protein to function properly. In addition, fiber is necessary in order to adequately eliminate toxins from the gut. Liquid diets that eliminate fiber and protein may cause a lot of negative symptoms because toxins cannot be fully processed and excreted.

Below is a list of five foods that support the body while cleansing. Most of these foods have a direct benefit on the liver; chemicals need to be processed by the liver in order to be eliminated from the body. It is a huge job and it leaves the liver vulnerable to injury from numerous toxic substances. The good news is that there are many foods that protect the liver from harm. It is not necessary to consume these foods in excess to receive benefit. Normal consumption as part of a healthy diet is all that is needed.*

Garlic

The health benefits of garlic have been known for centuries and modern scientific studies support many of the traditional uses. Not only does garlic make food taste great is has the power to reduce fatty liver disease and improve the production of detox enzymes. In fact it is so protective to the liver that it can block the development of liver cancer even after exposure to cancer causing chemicals. The protective affects of garlic aren’t limited to the liver. It is such a potent antioxidant that it also protects the kidneys from the toxic effects of many drugs. Fortunately for people who are sensitive to the heat of raw garlic, most of its beneficial properties are also present in the cooked root.

Garlic. Photo: Wendy Goodfriend

Artichokes

Members of the thistle family (artichoke, blessed thistle, milk thistle, etc.) are traditionally used as liver tonics. But few of them are as tasty as the artichoke. Often thought of as a delicacy, artichokes are powerful medicine. They have the ability to protect the liver from injury even when exposed to chemicals known to cause liver cancer. Artichokes are often eaten with oily dips like melted butter or mayonnaise. It is a perfect combination because the artichokes help the body to break down the oil and use it appropriately. In fact artichoke extract was shown to work synergistically with omega-3 fatty acids from fish oil.

Artichokes. Photo: Wendy Goodfriend

Lemons

The tart refreshing juice of lemons is often used in cleansing protocols. However the bulk of research focuses on the benefits of citrus peels. The peels are extremely rich in flavinoid compounds, which reduce inflammation and help to repair damaged tissues. These flavinoids are also potent antioxidants and can protect the liver from oxidative stress. Damage from alcohol, toxic mold, and even excess exercise is blocked by the consumption of citrus peels. Citrus peels are often included in teas and candies, but the versatile zest adds a complex flavor to many dishes, both savory and sweet.

Meyer Lemons. Photo: Wendy Goodfriend

Beets

Table beets, beta vulgaris, have traditionally been used as both liver and gall bladder tonic and for good reason. Both the root and the leaves protect the liver from alcohol induced damage and extreme oxidative stress. They actually increase the major antioxidant enzymes of the liver glutathione and superoxide dismutase. Beets can be enjoyed in a variety of ways. They are delicious raw, roasted, steamed and marinated. They are naturally sweet so salty and sour flavors naturally complement them.

Beets. Photo: Wendy Goodfriend

Radishes

Spicy crunchy radishes are packed with antioxidants. These phytochemicals are even more concentrated in the radish sprouts than the mature root and are found in virtually all varieties tested. The black radish is particularly well known for its benefits on the liver and gall bladder. It has been shown to increase the production of detoxification enzymes and prevent gall stones from forming. Be forewarned though, black radishes are much hotter than the standard red and white globes you may be used to. Radishes are usually eaten raw and they lose all of their heat when cooked. Their satisfying, crisp texture makes them a welcome addition to salads and pickles.

Radishes. Photo: Wendy Goodfriend

Recipe: Quick and Easy Radish and Beet Pickle

Prepare this simple pickle about 2 hours before you intend to serve it. Pickled radishes can develop a strong odor if they sit for too long.

Makes: 1 1/2 cups

Ingredients:
• 1/2 cup of radishes (any variety you like) washed well and sliced thinly. Note that certain types with a thick skin may need to be peeled before using them.
• 1/2 cup of cooked beets (steamed or roasted until tender) sliced
• 1/2 teaspoon sea salt
• 4 tablespoons of apple cider vinegar or 3 tablespoons of lemon juice
• 1 teaspoon of lemon zest

Instructions:
Mix all of the ingredients together in a bowl. Let the mixture stand at room temperature covered for approximately 2 hours, stir it every 30 minutes. Serve the pickle immediately or refrigerate it until it is ready to serve. This is a lovely accent to salads, poultry or meat.

* Note: None of the information in this article is intended to diagnose, or treat any disease or health condition.

Illustrations by Lila Volkas (click on any image to view larger versions and activate slideshow)

Last summer, as my daughter Lila unpacked on her return from another year of college in Canada and a stint WWOOFING on an organic farm, she plucked from her backpack a large Ziplock bag encasing a strange, slimy, dripping pancake and held it up to my face, declaring proudly, “Look at my baby!”

I admit I recoiled with a gasp, as I managed, “What is that thing?”

“Oh, Mom, “ sighed Lila, like it was so obvious, “That’s my Kombucha SCOBY!”

Since I was uninitiated to the delights of the fermented, fizzy drink with a long history and the recent surge in popularity, Lila was eager to share her discovery from the organic farm of how easy (and cheap) it is to make your own kombucha with only water, tea and sugar. As we searched our shelves for a suitable jar and a cotton cloth, she raved about the health benefits (still in dispute) and how drinking some kombucha every day made her feel so good.

After brewing a gallon of tea, adding a cup of sugar and letting it cool completely, I watched Lila pour the sweetened tea into our largest mason jar and gently place the slippery SCOBY (Symbiotic Colony Of Bacteria and Yeast) to float on top of the liquid. She covered the mouth of the jar with a cotton dishcloth and secured with a rubber band. “Now we just have to wait for seven days.” Decanting the bubbling golden brew a week later, I sipped the earthy tang of a zingy, apple cider. Maybe I’m suggestible, but after a small glass, I felt re-energized.

A few weeks later, as Lila was packing for her job as an art instructor at a summer camp in Yosemite, she broke the news, “You’re going to have to take care of my SCOBYs while I’m gone for two months and whatever you do, don’t let them die!” As I surveyed the brood of SCOBYs (which, like rabbits, had multiplied and now occupied all of our glass pitchers) I was suddenly flooded with memories of the traumatic summer when I was nine and volunteered to feed my neighbor’s fish, while they were on vacation. One morning, to my horror, I discovered dead fishies floating atop a tank of black water. I don’t think my neighbors spoke to me again.

Luckily, Lila left me with detailed drawings and instructions and all went well during her absence. Seems my maternal instincts are still intact.

When she returned home, however, I pointed out a few worrisome threads hanging off the bottom of a SCOBY, but Lila reassured me they were a normal part of the yeast and not mold.

Last September, as Lila packed to go back to school, she offered me my own SCOBY, but I declined, because of impending trips away from home. (I know now could have set up a SCOBY hotel)

Meanwhile back at UBC in Vancouver, Lila became active in Sprouts, their volunteer-run, organic café and gave kombucha making workshops to curious Canadians, including lists of do’s and don’ts (e.g., only clean your bottles with hot water, never use soap). She had intentionally expanded her SCOBY family in the intervening months so she could give each of the 30 attendees their own baby SCOBY to take home.

While she was away at school, I missed the bubbly, revitalizing beverage and tried store-bought kombucha but nothing hit the spot like Lila’s brew.

Lila is back for the summer now and our fridge is once more full of her concoctions, this time, flavored with ginger and lemon or blueberries and chia seeds. Soon she’ll be leaving for her summer camp job and I’ll be in charge of the little rascals again. This time, I’m ready. Instead of regarding the jellyfish-like blobs with distaste, I now welcome them as a part of the family who inhabits half our pantry. And I thank my daughter for her willingness to let me mother her “kids.”

Mom’s Posh Porcini Popcorn stashed behind the cookbooks. Photo: T. Susan Chang for NPR

Post by T. Susan Chang, Kitchen Window, NPR Food

Get recipes for Slow-Roasted Butter Pecans, Matzo Candy With Caramel, Chocolate And Halvah, Rhubarb-Ginger Fool, Posh Porcini Popcorn and Curried Egg Salad Sandwich

My mother didn’t plant a great many spring bulbs. But over by the pachysandra patch, there was a single lovely pink tulip, and I kept my eye on it for two weeks before Mother’s Day. When that Sunday morning arrived, I rushed out, snipped it and ran inside to where she lay sleeping to present it to her. “Did you pick that outside?” she inquired, her expression shifting from sleepy surprise to something more complicated. I nodded proudly. “Oh … thank you, sweetie.”

Today, some 40 years later, I can read that image of my mother’s face like a book — chagrin for the flower-picking (she would rather have enjoyed it in the spot where she’d planted it), affection for her impetuous daughter and perhaps a bit of resignation. For it is traditionally the lot of mothers to receive, on their special day, clumsy, heartfelt versions of the domestic miracles they themselves pull off so adeptly the rest of the year.

Much has changed for mothers in the decades since. So many of us work that a day free of housekeeping chores really seems more like a right than a privilege. And being taken out for brunch is maybe a mixed blessing when what you really want is to sleep in. So I’d like to make a subversive sort of argument — for us moms to take charge, at least in part, of our own Mother’s Day.

Rather than passively waiting around for somebody to think of and give you a treat, why not make one of your favorites for yourself? Something you can snack on all week when no one’s around. Or, better yet, something you don’t have to share. Flowers are nice, perfume is nice, but what really makes me feel special is having a stash of slow-roasted butter pecans that nobody else knows about.

Some of us like it savory; some of us like sweet. Maybe we pack snacks every day for our kids, or we get dinner on the table every night, or we bring a Tupperware to microwave in the office. The point is that we rarely take the time to make a treat for ourselves. Little salty snacks like nuts and popcorn are satisfying, and really not all that bad for you. Custardy individual-sized sweets are irresistible, as are brittle sweets that go crunch. You could make spicy seaweed or chocolate bread or candied orange peel or dumplings or macaroons. Really, there are no rules to what makes a good secret stash food for Mother’s Day, as long as you like it and you have the time and energy to make it.

Where can you hide your treats? Well, the obvious place is at work, if you work outside the home. If you’re at home, seek out the places nobody else seems to know about — like the file cabinet that allows you to produce a months-old receipt from Target when you have to return a nonfunctioning toaster. Or the place where your daughter keeps her chorus folder, or where the button batteries are kept. Store them high (unless your spouse is 6 foot 3) or store them low. The idea is to keep them away from eye level.

Does this seem small-spirited? Somehow calculating? Then I suppose I should admit that deep down, I’m just as sentimental as anybody. When it comes right down to it, the sight of my children growing tall and strong and the sheltering embrace of my husband’s arms are all I really ask for as a mother and a wife. And in then end, I will probably end up sharing my treats anyhow.

But when everyone’s away or asleep and a mom’s left, once again, with her cares and dreams and never-ending lists, it doesn’t hurt to have a little something set aside. It’s a reminder that, even then, when Mom’s the last thing on everybody’s mind, there’s still one other person who cares enough to make you smile: you.

Recipe: Slow-Roasted Butter Pecans

These are a Southern specialty I first learned to make from Damon Lee Fowler’s The Savannah Cookbook (Gibbs Smith, 2008). The long, slow roasting brings out delicate, coffeelike undertones in the pecans. In the unlikely event that there are any left after you’re done snacking, you can mix them into or scatter them atop ice cream.

Slow-Roasted Butter Pecans. Photo: T. Susan Chang for NPR

Makes 6 to 8 servings

Ingredients:
1 pound shelled whole pecans
2 tablespoons unsalted butter

Instructions:
Preheat the oven to 200 degrees. Line a 9-by-13 pan with foil and place the pecans in it, shaking to level them. Cut the butter into 8 small chunks and scatter it over the pecans.

Roast the pecans in the center of the oven for 1 hour, tossing them well every 15 minutes (it’s particularly important after the first 15 minutes, when the butter has first melted). The pecans continue to cook after they come out of the oven, so don’t let them get too dark. To test them for doneness, cool a pecan slightly and break it in half. The center should be a delicate but distinct beige.

While the pecans are hot, salt them generously and toss until they are well-coated. Devour them immediately, wait until they’re cool, or store them (cooled) in an airtight container.

Recipe: Matzo Candy With Caramel, Chocolate And Halvah

This is adapted from Susan Feniger’s Street Food (Clarkson Potter, 2012). I like to use lightly salted matzo, which gives you a little bit of that salted-caramel effect. You can get halvah at most Middle Eastern groceries. You can break up the finished candy into very small, decorous pieces if you are concerned about gorging yourself. I have to warn you that it is terribly addictive.

Matzo Candy With Caramel, Chocolate And Halvah. Photo: T. Susan Chang for NPR

Makes 11 matzo candies

Ingredients:
Olive oil for spraying or filming
1 (11-ounce) box matzo crackers (11 crackers)
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter
1 cup packed dark brown sugar
1/4 cup light corn syrup
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 pound semisweet chocolate, roughly chopped
1/4 pound (1 cup) halvah, crumbled

Instructions:
Set the oven to 300 degrees. Spray 3 baking sheets with olive oil spray, or spread a small quantity of oil over the sheets with a basting brush. (You can line the sheets with foil if you don’t wish to scrub them so much later.) Lay the matzo out in a single layer on the prepared baking sheets.

Put the butter, brown sugar, corn syrup and salt in a small saucepan set over low heat. Cook, stirring occasionally, for 3 to 4 minutes, until the butter melts. Raise the heat to medium and cook until the mixture is bubbling rapidly, 3 minutes. Add the baking soda, turn off the heat and stir. The caramel mixture will be thick and bubbly.

Spread the caramel over the top of the matzo crackers, covering their entire surface. Put the baking sheets in the oven and bake for 10 to 15 minutes.

Remove the baking sheets from the oven and immediately sprinkle the chopped chocolate over the caramel-covered matzo. Using a rubber spatula or the back of a spoon, spread the chocolate pieces so that they melt and coat the caramel matzo evenly. Work quickly, to take advantage of the hot caramel, which cools rather fast. Then, while the chocolate is still warm, sprinkle with the halvah. Let the matzo cool in the refrigerator for 1 hour or longer.

Break the cooled matzo into smaller pieces, and serve. Store any extras in the refrigerator in an airtight container or plastic bags.

Recipe: Rhubarb-Ginger Fool

Creamy, cool, gently tart, pink and irresistible. The Beekeeper’s Bible (Stewart, Tabori & Chang, 2011), from which this recipe is liberally adapted, calls for “stem ginger,” “stem ginger syrup” and “acacia honey,” but there is no need to make things difficult. As long as you can find some candied or crystallized ginger, you’re in business. If you care for a more refined texture, you could puree the rhubarb-ginger mixture before folding in the cream.

Rhubarb-Ginger Fool. Photo: T. Susan Chang for NPR

Makes 4 servings

Ingredients:
1 pound rhubarb, trimmed and finely chopped
1 tablespoon water
2 tablespoons finely chopped candied ginger
1/4 cup turbinado sugar (“sugar in the raw”)
3 tablespoons honey
1 1/4 cups heavy cream

Instructions:
Combine the rhubarb, water, ginger, sugar and honey in a small saucepan and simmer over low heat for 10 to 15 minutes, until the rhubarb is soft. Allow the mixture to cool.

Whisk the cream until it achieves soft peaks, then fold in the rhubarb mixture. Spoon the mixture into glasses and chill for 2 hours.

Just before serving, drizzle with a little more honey. If you happen to have any ginger snaps on hand, serve them with the fool.

Recipe: Posh Porcini Popcorn

I wouldn’t try to make this with air-popped popcorn. Although the porcini salt is fine and powdery, it still needs the oil to make it stick. And as for the truffle oil, it is indispensable. Don’t feel bad if you polish this all off in one go — popcorn doesn’t keep anyway.

Makes 4 cups

Ingredients:
1/4 cup dried porcini (hard to measure, but just approximate without crushing the fungi into the measuring cup)
Salt
4 cups hot, freshly oil-popped popcorn
Truffle oil to taste

Instructions:
Grind the porcini in a coffee or spice grinder until it’s finely powdered — be careful lifting the lid, as it will release clouds of porcini dust. Add about a teaspoon of kosher salt (less, if you’re using table salt) and pulse just to combine.

Scatter over hot, freshly popped popcorn and drizzle with a few decadent drops of truffle oil. Take a moment to toss really well before scarfing down by the fistful.

Recipe: Curried Egg Salad Sandwich

As much fun as it is to have hoards of secret snacks on the premises, a mom still has to eat a good lunch sometime, and I don’t mean a pint of store-bought yogurt or a package of overpriced kale chips. Here’s a sandwich that comes together in a moment, but still feels like a special treat. Don’t skip buttering the bread — it makes all the difference.

Curried Egg Salad Sandwich. Photo: T. Susan Chang for NPR

Makes 1 sandwich, piled high

Ingredients:
1 tablespoon cooking oil
1 medium shallot, finely chopped
3/4 teaspoon curry powder
1 scant teaspoon apricot jam
2 hard-boiled eggs
2 tablespoons minced chives
A few cilantro sprigs, to taste
Small handful baby arugula or watercress
Salt, to taste
Multigrain bread
Butter

Instructions:
In a small, heavy saucepan, warm the oil. Over a low flame, sweat the shallot with a pinch of salt until tender and colored a pale gold (take care not to burn on the edges), about 5 minutes. Add the curry and stir in until well blended and fragrant. Add the jam and 2 to 3 tablespoons of water, stirring until a loose slurry is formed. Simmer gently until you have a thick, syrupy sauce that doesn’t run but holds together in the pan, like a chutney or salsa.

Pour the mixture into a shallow bowl to cool for a moment. Pop a couple of slices of multigrain bread in the toaster. If you can keep one side of each slice untoasted by placing the bread face down on a piece of foil or tray, so much the better.

While the bread is toasting, mash the hard-boiled eggs into the curry sauce with a fork, until the egg salad is as crumbly as you like it. Stir in the chopped chives.

When the toast is ready, take it out and butter the untoasted sides (if both sides are toasted, don’t worry — butter them anyway). Place one slice butter side up on your cutting board and pile on as much egg salad as you like, compressing it a bit to help it stay in. Add on the cilantro and arugula or cress. Top with the remaining slice of bread, butter side facing in.

Silence your cellphone. Eat in a warm patch of sunlight while reading a novel.

About The Author
T. Susan Chang regularly reviews cookbooks for The Boston Globe, NPR.org and the cookbook-indexing website Eat Your Books. She’s the author of A Spoonful of Promises: Recipes and Stories From a Well-Tempered Table and has just released the CookShelf cookbook-rating app, which is available on iPhone, iPad and Android devices. For more information, visit her blog, Cookbooks for Dinner.

Copyright 2013 NPR.

Peas. Photo: Sheri Castle for NPR

Post by Sheri Castle, Kitchen Window, NPR Food (4/24/13)

Get recipes for Chilled Garden Pea And Mint Soup, Peas And Parmesan Dip and Risi E Bisi (Rice And Peas).

Spring’s little green garden peas were nearly done in by the tin can. Their unfortunate incarceration rendered them drab, mush and bleak. They tasted of the tinny can, if anything at all. Brilliant, beautiful, garden peas deserve better.

Behold fresh peas straight from the pod: emerald green and tender, yet with a gentle crunch. They taste sweet, green and grassy, with hints of garden soil (in a good way). However, they are vulnerable and have no patience; their sugars quickly regress to starch from the moment they are picked. No spring vegetable is more delightful when fresh and more disappointing when not. As Winston Churchill recalled, “We lived very simply — but with all the essentials of life well understood and provided for — hot baths, cold champagne, new peas and old brandy.”

Perhaps the best recipe for garden peas is really no recipe at all, but more of a procedure. Go to a garden, position yourself at the start of a ready row of peas, pluck a pod from the vine, open it, spill the peas into your mouth, pitch the pod over your shoulder and enjoy the feast. Repeat to the end of the row.

Little round peas have numerous names: green peas, sweet peas, spring peas, English peas, petit pois and garden peas. Each name tells part of their story. They are green, the good ones are sweet, they come up in the spring, many varieties hailed from England and France, and at one time they were grown only in kitchen gardens (as opposed to field peas grown among crops in the field). Humans have cultivated peas for at least 12,000 years, making them one of the earliest crops, but it was centuries before gardeners developed peas that could be eaten fresh instead of only dried.

Garden peas were once so expensive and dear that only royalty and the very wealthy could enjoy them. In the late 17th century, eating freshly shelled peas was a daring food craze in the court of King Louis XIV, where the elite popped them like pills and nibbled them as candy. “This subject of peas continues to absorb all others, the anxiety to eat them, the pleasure of having eaten them and the desire to eat them again,” Madame de Maintenon, wife of Louis XIV, wrote in 1696. “It is both a fashion and a madness.”

Thomas Jefferson was similarly smitten by green garden peas, having discovered them during his time in France. He’s reported to have cataloged at least 50 varieties and grown at least 30 at Monticello. Jefferson’s meticulous records and correspondence reveal that he competed with fellow growers as to who could serve the first bowl of peas each spring, sometimes letting his competitors believe they had won just to keep the game interesting.

Our lesson is that we must eat fresh peas in their seasonal prime, which is fleeting and rare. Even now, only 5 percent of all peas are sold and eaten fresh. The consolation prize is frozen peas. Few vegetables are more amenable to freezing. If frozen quickly after harvest, before they have a chance to decline, garden peas are able to retain all their color and nutritional value, most of their flavor and much of their texture. When freshly picked and shelled peas aren’t available, frozen baby peas are almost always superior to so-called fresh peas that are several days old.

It’s springtime. Give peas a chance.

Recipe: Chilled Garden Pea And Mint Soup

Chilled Garden Pea And Mint Soup Photo: Sheri Castle for NPR

I created this soup to serve warm, and it was pretty good. The next day when I pulled the leftover soup out of the refrigerator to reheat, I licked a little cold soup off the spoon. What an improvement. The chilly overnight rest mingled the flavors. The brightness of the peas really came through, and the mint mellowed into a hint rather than a punch. The soup held its lovely emerald green color. Voila, a chilled soup was born.

Makes 4 servings

Ingredients:
2 tablespoons butter
1 cup chopped spring onions or baby leeks (white and tender green parts)
Salt
3 cups chicken or light-colored vegetable stock
4 cups freshly shelled garden peas (from about 4 pounds of pods) or frozen peas
1/2 cup half-and-half
3/4 cup lightly packed fresh mint leaves
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
Sour cream, for garnish

Instructions:
In a large saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat. Stir in the onions and a pinch of salt and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened, about 5 minutes. Add the stock and bring to a simmer. Add the peas and cook until they are barely tender, 5 to 8 minutes. Stir in the half-and-half, mint, salt, sugar and pepper and warm through.

Puree the soup in a blender (working in batches to not fill the blender more than half full) and return it to the pot, or puree it directly in the pot with an immersion blender.

Cool to room temperature, cover and refrigerate until well-chilled, at least 4 hours and preferably overnight. Stir well, check the seasoning and serve chilled, garnished with a dollop of sour cream.

Recipe: Peas And Parmesan Dip

Peas And Parmesan Dip. Photo: Sheri Castle for NPR

It’s a dip for potato chips. It’s a topping for crostini. It’s a side dish to serve with garlicky lamb or glazed ham. In any guise, it’s a bowl of bright green goodness. This dish needs a little lemon juice, but don’t add it until right before serving because the acidity quickly dulls the bright green color. When serving this as a crostini topping, I like to spread the bread with a little fresh ricotta cheese or quark before spooning on the pea mixture. The delicate, creamy sweetness of the cheese is delicious with the citrusy peas.

Makes about 2 cups

Ingredients:
2 cups freshly shelled garden peas (from about 2 pounds of pods) or frozen peas
1/2 cup chicken stock
1 garlic clove
1 teaspoon finely grated lemon zest
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil, preferably lemon-infused oil
1/2 cup lightly packed freshly grated Parmesan cheese, divided
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

Instructions:
In a small saucepan, simmer the peas and stock over medium heat until the peas are barely tender, 3 to 5 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to transfer the peas to the bowl of a food processor fitted with the metal blade and pulse to crush the peas, adding a little of the cooking liquid if needed to get them moving.

Add the garlic, zest, oil and 6 tablespoons of the Parmesan and pulse until the mixture is fairly smooth, but not pureed. It should be thick enough to serve as dip or eat with a fork. Add a little more cooking liquid or oil if needed. Season with salt and pepper. Transfer into a serving bowl.

Just before serving, stir in the lemon juice and sprinkle the remaining 2 tablespoons of Parmesan over the top. Serve at room temperature.

Recipe: Risi E Bisi (Rice And Peas)

Risi E Bisi (Rice And Peas). Photo: Sheri Castle for NPR

This is a revered classic Venetian recipe that dates back to the days of the Doges, when it was prepared only on spring feast days. Even now, the dish tastes best when made with freshly picked and shelled spring garden peas, preserving its status as celebration fare. To stay true to its Venetian roots, try to find Vialone Nana rice, a variety from Venice, although regular Arborio and carnaroli are good, too.

This simple yet sublime combination of rice and peas has Southern roots as well. During the formation of rice plantations in the Low Country sea islands of South Carolina and Georgia, Venetian rice farmers were brought in to design and manage the canals that irrigated the rice fields. Although many cultures contributed to the melting pot that would evolve into Southern cuisine, it’s not hard to imagine that the Venetians brought along their penchant for mixing rice with legumes, a practice perfected in the classic Southern melting pot dish known as Hoppin’ John. The rice they grew was named Carolina Gold and is still available in some stores and online.

When served, risi e bisi is brothy enough to warrant a spoon, landing it somewhere between Italian risotto or Southern purloo and a hearty soup. As is typical of much Italian and Southern home cooking, there are nearly as many techniques for making this dish as there are cooks. This is mine, although I often omit the ham.

Makes 8 servings

Ingredients:
6 to 8 cups chicken stock
1 short thyme sprig
1 bay leaf
2 tablespoons butter
1 cup very finely chopped onion or shallots
1/4 cup diced pancetta or baked Virginia ham (about 2 ounces)
2 cups Arborio, Carolina Gold or other medium-grain rice (about 14 ounces)
4 cups freshly shelled garden peas (from about 4 pounds of pods) or frozen peas
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 cup finely grated Parmesan
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Instructions:
In a medium saucepan, bring the stock to a very gentle simmer in. Drop in the thyme sprig and bay leaf. Keep warm over low heat.

In a large saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the onion and cook until softened, about 8 minutes. Stir in the pancetta and cook, stirring, until lightly browned, about 3 minutes. Add the rice and stir until each grain is coated and a little shiny, about 2 minutes.

Add 1 cup of the warm stock. Cook, stirring continuously, until the rice absorbs the stock. Continue adding stock in 1-cup increments, stirring continuously and waiting until the rice absorbs each addition before adding the next. After the third addition of stock, stir in the peas. As the rice cooks and swells, it will absorb the stock more slowly.

Continue adding stock and stirring until the rice is al dente and bathed in a little soupy broth. The entire process should take 20 to 25 minutes. You might have a little stock left over, but it is better for the dish to be a little too soupy than too dry. Discard the thyme and bay leaf.

Remove the pan from the heat. Stir in the olive oil, Parmesan and parsley. Season with salt and pepper and serve at once.

About The Author
Sheri Castle is an award-winning food writer, recipe developer, recipe tester and culinary instructor. She is known for melding storytelling, humor and culinary expertise. Sheri hails from the Blue Ridge Mountains but has lived in Chapel Hill, N.C., for many years with her husband, daughter and beloved dog. She is fueled by farmers market fare and excellent bourbon. Check her out at shericastle.com.

Copyright 2013 NPR.

First up are fava beans, those long, plump pods that stretch and swell at the first touch of spring warmth. Buy a big bag of favas. Many more than you think you need. Think of each fava pod as a Gulfstream jet–ample, cushy, and much too large for the three or four fat-cat beans reclining inside. Now, put a pot of water on to boil, and crank up something you really like to listen to. You’re going to be here a while. But not as long as you might think, thanks to the brilliance of food scientist and author Harold McGee.

Take your bag of favas and strip off all those foamy pods. Don’t worry about their pallid little raincoat skins yet.

Now, here’s the great trick: When the water boils, add about a tablespoon of baking soda per quart of water. According to McGee, “Acidity maintains the structure of plant cell walls, and alkalinity breaks it down.” So, adding something alkaline–like baking soda–to your blanching water “weakens the fava seed coats enough that many of them rupture on their own in a couple of minutes at the boil, and the remainder easily break between finger and thumb.” If you’ve ever sat around peeling favas for what can feel like hours at a time, you know what an amazing breakthrough this is. Thank you, Harold! (You can find more juicy details on McGee’s website, Curious Cook.)

Dump your de-podded favas into your alkalinized water. Let come back to a boil and simmer for a minute or two. Drain and rinse with cold water until cool enough to handle. If they haven’t already busted their coats, pinch off the now-slippery and grayish-pink outer skin and discard. (You may need to rinse the finished beans again to remove any remaining skin debris.) Drop the pretty bright-green bean halves inside into a little bowl. Yes, a little bowl. That’s all you’ll need, trust me, since your two pounds of favas will only net you about 1 1/3 cups of fully denuded beans. Slide your now double-peeled favas into a small skillet with a little olive oil, a few tablespoons of water and a pinch of sea salt.

Cook them, stirring, over low heat until tender and nutty tasting, probably around five minutes, maybe less. If you have one of those cute little mini-food-processors, scoop your favas (and whatever liquid might be around them) into the processor, add a squeeze of lemon juice, a little more olive oil and/or water, and pulse to a rough puree. Not too smooth; this isn’t hummus.

Otherwise, stamp them into a rough paste with one of those waffle-grid-headed potato mashers. (I think if you tried to chop them they’d just go slithering off in every direction all over the counter, and after all that work, you don’t have any to waste.)

Add some freshly ground pepper (preground pepper is as useless, and tasteless, as sand), and taste. Does it taste creamy and nutty and green? Good. Only add more salt and/or lemon if it tastes flat; lemon juice can really jump right out at you and that’s not what you want here. However, if you’re lucky enough to have some Moroccan-style preserved lemons sitting around, you could add a tiny bit of minced preserved-lemon rind to the fava-bean mixture, just to spark it up. Set aside.

Strip some mint leaves from their stems. Lay the leaves one on top of the other in a little leaf stack. Roll up like a cigar and cut into very fine strips. Ah, mint chiffonade. Two words like the tinkle of clear ice in a tall gin and tonic on a summer afternoon–the two words Henry James considered the most lovely in the English language. (No, not mint chiffonade, nor gin and tonic, more’s the pity, but summer afternoon. And this from a man wearing a high collar, waistcoat, suit and tie in the middle of July.)

Then you need a chunk of Pecorino Romano cheese, a firm, salty sheep’s milk cheese similar to Parmesan, and a vegetable peeler. You could use Parmesan instead, but in that case I’d look for a young Parmesan, one that’s still got a little sweetness and elasticity to it, rather than one gone all stark and aged and granular. You could also use a Spanish Manchengo, or my new favorite, an Italian Gran Cacio, a firm sheep’s milk cheese found on a quick trip to the Bi-Rite Market cheese display.

Now, cut some very thin slices of baguette. Toast lightly, which is best done on a baking sheet in the oven at around 350°F, for about 5 to 7 minutes. Rub the top side very lightly with a clove of garlic, or even better, with a juicy little chunk of green garlic.

But wait, green garlic? What is that, exactly? So glad you asked! It’s the bulb and stem of the garlic plant in its early stages, before the bulb swells and the cloves separate in the fat, familiar, papery-white bundle we know. At this moment, the bulb is barely a nubbin and the stalk is still flexible and edible. It has the texture of a young leek or extra-firm scallion and a taste that mixes the vegetal greenness of leek with a hint of the earthy warmth of the garlic to come. Basically, these are thinnings, pulled to give more elbow room to the bulbs ripening in the late summer and fall. They seem to be particularly relished (and sold) at farmers’ markets in Northern California, where they have a brief season as harbingers of spring, much like favas, pea shoots, and the first rhubarb and strawberries. Here’s a lovely green-garlic pesto recipe from Stephanie Stiavetti, my KQED colleague and fellow food-writing Stephanie.

Now, back to your baguette slices, waiting for you all garlicked up. Have you noticed how seasonal this little nibble is? How local? Everything, from bread to olive oil to favas, lemons, and mint, can come from some combination of backyard and farmer’s market. (For cheese, try Bellwether’s Pepato, a peppercorn-studded semi-firm sheep’s milk cheese made in Valley Ford.)

Drizzle or brush some good olive oil on your toasts. Return to the oven to continue crisping up and browning. You don’t want it much more than golden brown around the edges, but you do want it nice and crunchy all the way through. The oven is better for this kind of slow crisping than the toaster, which will give you fast brown edges but a chewy center.

Once your toasts are ready, spread a spoonful of fava mixture onto each toast. Don’t be stingy, baby! Swirl it on nice and thick, like icing on a cupcake. Strew a few mint shreds over the favas. Using your little vegetable peeler, add a couple sheer curls of Pecorino Romano cheese. Nicest served while the toasts are still warm, but that’s a frill.

All this work and you will probably end up with anywhere from 10 to 12 toasts, depending on how many favas you could bear to peel. What this means, of course, is that, as with fried zucchini blossoms, these should only be served to a small group of people you really, really like.

Best of all, really, is sitting in the back garden, lilacs on the table, something sparkling in your glass, toasting your good fortune with your one very favorite, most fava-worthy friend, whether sweetheart or pal. Happy Spring!

Recipe: Fava-Bean Crostini

A recipe-memory mash-up of snacks enjoyed in Tuscany and an appetizer served over the years at Delfina in San Francisco.

Ingredients
• Fava beans, about 2 lbs (in the pod)
• 1 tablespoon baking soda, for blanching
• 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for brushing toasts
• 1-2 garlic cloves or 1 stalk of green garlic
• Juice of 1 lemon
• A small handful of mint leaves, cut into thin chiffonade
• A small chunk of Pecorino Romano cheese
• Flaky sea salt, such as Maldon
• Freshly ground black pepper
• Half a sweet baguette, sliced thinly

Preparation
1. Preheat oven to 350°F. Spread baguette slices on a baking sheet. Let toast lightly in oven until just crisp, 5-7 minutes. Rub each piece, on the top side, lightly with a garlic clove or piece of green garlic. Brush with olive oil. Set aside.
2. Peel the outer pods from the favas. Discard pods. Bring 1 quart of water to a boil. Add baking soda to water. Add favas and blanch for 2 minutes. Drain and rinse with cold water to cool.
3. When favas are cool enough to handle, pinch off outer skins and discard. In a small saucepan, combine favas with a few tablespoons of water, a tablespoon or two of olive oil, and a pinch of sea salt. Cook over low heat, stirring frequently, until favas are tender, about 5 minutes. Add juice of half a lemon.
4. Using a small food processor or waffle-headed potato masher, break up the favas (and any liquid from the pot) into a rough paste. Add more lemon juice, salt, and freshly ground pepper to taste. Set aside.
5. Return baguette slices to the oven until crisp and just beginning to brown around the edges, 2-3 minutes.
6. Divide fava-bean mixture between baguette slices. Top with a few mint wisps, a few grains of sea salt, and a few curls of Pecorino Romano. Serve immediately, with a glass of Prosecco or Champagne.

Caitlin Freeman. Photo: Charles Villyard

Andy Warhol as Jell-O, Jeff Koons as a gilded white hot chocolate, and Cindy Sherman as a pink ice cream float dusted with glitter are just a few of the edible art concepts cooked up by Caitlin Freeman, an artist who creates confections and fancy snacks based on special exhibitions at SFMOMA. Her new book, “Modern Art Desserts,” details recipes and stories from her self-made dream job: responding to art through food.

Freeman co-owned Miette pastry shops before opening the Blue Bottle Coffee bar at SFMOMA’s rooftop garden with her husband James. From Miette, she brought along artist and pastry chef Leah Rosenberg, and assistant Tess Wilson. The team’s desserts are innovative, creative and sometimes controversial. A cookie plate inspired by Richard Serra’s massive steel sculptures is likely the first dessert to have ever received a cease and desist letter.

Click on any photo to view full-sized images and activate the slideshow

Freeman credits painter Wayne Thiebaud with inspiring her to become a baker, and says the book is a love letter to him. Her favorite cakes to bake are buttercream party cakes, and that’s exactly what Thiebaud is known for painting. The two cake-loving artists haven’t met yet, but Freeman throws a birthday party for him every year at the cafe. Besides her most popular cakes modeled after works by Thiebaud and Piet Mondrian, 70 modern art desserts have been created over the past four years. Textile artist Ruth Laskey’s two-color weavings became conceptual sodas where flavors were assigned to each color, creating combinations like lemon soda with bay ice cubes, and bubblegum soda (made from Dubble Bubble gum concentrate) with violet ice cubes. Freeman was interested in the overlap between colors and flavors, a concept that went through some trial and error when she focused on Andy Warhol’s self portrait in green, blue, red, and yellow. She tried to make a Bloody Mary gelée and explains, “I didn’t want to use food coloring but I figured we could use blue curacao. We made Campbell’s tomato soup Jell-O, celery, horseradish and Worcester Jell-O, and it was revolting. It shouldn’t be a surprise, but that was the one recipe that didn’t really work out.” Her aversion to food coloring had to be overcome for her Mondrian cake, a chocolate ganache grid with primary-colored cake blocks, but she’s not the only one who is wary of unnatural-looking cake dye. She says, “People easily gobble up the yellow and red, but often they’ll leave the blue square on the plate.”

Dessert is based on Garry Winogrand’s “Kerrville, Texas” (1977). Photo: Willa Koerner.

Freeman’s latest concoction, inspired by a Gary Winogrand photograph, is an ambitious multimedia project. As she describes it, “The piece we chose is these two people dancing on a platform that looks just like an ice cream cake. So we’re making this ridiculous multimedia cake that involves Stevie Wonder’s “Sir Duke” playing from an MP3 player inside the plate, which happened to be the number seventeen song the year the photo was taken, and looks exactly like the song they would’ve been dancing to. We’ll have two images laser-cut as cake toppers that will be dancing on the cake.” The desserts are often conceptual, and sometimes literal, like the Jasper Johns-inspired grilled cheese that looks like his piece, Bread. As Freeman describes the project, “The piece is a lead panel with a piece of bread on it, so we made a grilled cheese and served it on a to-scale board painted to look like lead. It was a giant, oversized board people would have to carry back to their table.” She likes that her creations can help make the art more accessible, and says that when she walks into a gallery of California painters, “especially Diebenkorn and Thiebaud,” she often wants to take the paintings home, and says:

“Making desserts is my way of owning something, of really pretending that I’m stealing it, and making it my own.”

“Modern Art Desserts” was released this month by Ten Speed Press. Freeman’s Mondrian cakes will soon be available for purchase online (available for delivery, packed in dry ice). Keep up with her projects at modernartdesserts.com.

Photos of desserts reprinted with permission from Modern Art Desserts: Recipes for Cakes, Cookies, Confections, and Frozen Treats Based on Iconic Works of Art, by Caitlin Freeman, copyright (c) 2013. Published by Ten Speed Press, a division of Random House, Inc. Photo credit: Clay McLachlan (c) 2013

Matt Lee (left) and Ted Lee (right) grew up in Charleston, S.C. After leaving the South as young adults, they founded a mail-order food company, The Lee Bros. Boiled Peanut Catalogue. They have written two previous cookbooks of Southern cuisine. Photo: Squire Fox/Clarkson Potter

Listen to the Story on All Things Considered

Post by NPR Staff, NPR Food (4/18/13)

A new cookbook by the Lee brothers just might inspire daydreams of a food-centric vacation to South Carolina. It’s called The Lee Bros. Charleston Kitchen, and in it, Matt and Ted Lee feature recipes and stories from the Southern port city they grew up in. The brothers joined NPR’s Melissa Block to talk about Charleston’s distinctive food culture, starting with the dishes that they’d put on a typical Charleston menu.

“I would start with kumquat sparklers, with the flavor of backyard kumquats, which are like tangerines,” Matt says. “Also, classic Charleston cheese biscuits with a single pecan pressed into it, and savory benne wafers — sesame seed wafers.”

For the second course, Ted says, “we’d do a she-crab soup, and then we’d do a shrimp and grits,” he says. “For vegetables, I think this is the perfect time to do chainey briar; it’s growing really well out on Sullivan’s Island. We’d do some Grilled Chainey Briar.”

“Chainey briar is a native weed or vine,” Ted explains. “It’s Smilax botanically. It’s something that grows on fence lines, it grows on sand dunes at the beaches and it has, in the spring right about now, a tender tip, a shoot that is delicious.”

It looks, quite frankly, like a weed, and might be a bit of an acquired taste — but the brothers say it’s worth acquiring. “It’s pretty rangy, and that’s the appeal, in terms of flavor,” Matt says. It tastes like asparagus but with this extra sort of reckless green thing. Sometimes we describe it as tasting like asparagus with olive oil already on it.”

For dessert, the brothers would serve Huguenot Torte, an iconic Charleston dish. “Hugeonot torte has this nice meringue-like crisp top, but then a sludgy caramel and apple and pecan bottom to it,” Matt says. “It’s got flour but tons of leavening — so it just puffs up in the oven, then collapses and creates this very interesting and uniquely Charleston dessert.”

Southern Food With Less Pork And More Loquats

The Lee brothers, who were born in New York but grew up in Charleston, have written two previous cookbooks highlighting Southern cuisine. This is their first to focus just on the city of their youth, and their choice is more than just hometown favoritism: Charleston’s culinary tradition is unusual, with dishes and traditions you won’t find in other parts of the South.

“It’s naturally about the seafood and also about the poultry,” Matt explains. “The much-heralded, like, ‘porkopolis’ of the South doesn’t really exist so much in Charleston, because it was never a place to raise cattle or pigs, being so marshy.”

It’s not just the meat that makes Charleston stand out; there’s also a rich variety of local produce. “I think another thing that visitors to Charleston are surprised by is just how close the farms are — the rural part of Charleston — to the city,” Ted says.

You might not even need to find a farmer to get fresh food. “Even downtown — we grew up downtown in the historic district — we’re surrounded by fruits of all kinds, like kumquats, loquats, mulberries, figs, pomegranates, bananas, citrus,” Ted says. “They all grow downtown, and you grow up sort of knowing where the trees are and which ones taste best.”

Call it “foraging” or call it “stealing,” snagging fruit off someone else’s tree is certainly possible in Charleston. “There are a lot of secrets in back alleys in Charleston that yield great fruits and herbs.” The trick to harvesting that bounty without ruining your neighborly relations? “Be very polite,” Ted says — and, Matt adds, be sure to smile. “That’s awfully disarming,” he says.

Taking Cues From The Past

In addition to highlighting Charleston’s current food culture, Matt and Ted Lee also looked to Charleston’s history to find old recipes that might have been forgotten. Cookbooks from the 19th century were particularly inspiring, Ted says. “They tell a story so diverse and varied about the different types of vegetables that were grown in the low country, some of which are rarely found, like salsify, tania — it’s a root vegetable,” he says. “It’s nice to be able to draw from the past to inform your kitchen in the present.”

One recipe in the new cookbook comes from an even more distant past — a dessert from the 1700s called Syllabub. “Despite the fact that it appears in all the old cookbooks, Matt and I have never been served it — either in a Charleston restaurant or a Charleston home,” Ted says. “So we just tried it ourselves. It’s basically very simple — it’s fortified wine that’s been seasoned with lemon juice and lemon peel, a little bit of sugar, sometimes spices, and whipped with cream until it’s sort of this airy, fluffy, alcoholic whipped cream that goes really well with fruit.”

If you want to follow Matt and Ted and take a stab at Syllabub, a recipe is below, as well as recipes for Huguenot Torte and Grilled Chainey Briar. But be warned: You might need to plan a trip to Charleston to enjoy that chainey briar. You won’t find it in grocery stores or farmers markets, and will have better luck harvesting it yourself. Like fresh kumquats off the tree or oysters from the ocean, it’s a location-bound delicacy. As Matt Lee, who lives in Charleston today, puts it, “it’s just one of those things that you have to live here to really appreciate.”

Recipe: Grilled Chainey Briar

Chainey briar grows wild around Charleston, S.C. Photo: Matt Lee and Ted Lee/Clarkson Potter

Most chainey briar found among the dunes or in metropolitan Charleston are thin, curly tendrils, although our friend Tom, who gentleman-farms on Johns Island, recently introduced us to “bull briar,” the thicker sprouts of mature smilax vines that grow in the forested areas of the sea islands. Bull briar, which truly resembles large asparagus, would seem to represent more vegetable for one’s effort, but it is found so high in the trees that a pole pruner is usually required to harvest it. We’re just as happy to spend the afternoon on a path to the beach, eating every third tendril we pick, until the basket is full.

Chainey briar almost never appears in the farmer’s markets, so you must forage for it yourself (or ingratiate yourself to farmer Sidi Limehouse [see page 94 of The Lee Bros. Charleston Kitchen], who will occasionally indulge good friends with a basketful). Its flavor is robust enough that it grills well, wilting and charring in places. Dressed with oil and lemon, it makes for an exciting side dish with pre-colonial roots.

1 pound chainey briar
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for the pan
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice

1. Thoroughly wash the chainey briar, removing any ants or foreign matter and pinching off the stem ends (which will toughen as they age) so only the tender parts remain. Toss the chainey briar in a large bowl with the olive oil to coat, scatter 1/2 teaspoon salt over the bowl, and toss again.

2. Lightly oil a grill pan, and place it over high heat. When a drop of water sizzles when dropped on the pan, spread the chainey briar in an even layer about 1/2 inch high (you may have to grill multiple batches, depending on the size of your pan). Allow the chainey briar to sizzle and pop for a minute or two, until the tips of some begin to blacken. Use tongs to shuffle the chainey briar on the grill pan and allow them to cook a minute or two more, until almost all the fronds show signs of wilting. Reserve the chainey briar in a large covered bowl as you move on to grill another batch.

3. When all the chainey briar is wilted and charred, dress it with the lemon juice, toss lightly, and season to taste with salt and black pepper. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Recipe: Huguenot Torte

Huguenot torte has gooey caramel beneath a crackly top Photo: Squire Fox/Clarkson Potter

Imagine that a blondie and an apple-pecan pie got into a crusty-gooey, sticky-delicious accident in a baking dish, and you’ll approximate the ultra-decadence of this dessert. Until relatively recently, Charlestonians believed that this confection, as the title might suggest, came to Charleston with the French Huguenots, who settled in the city in the eighteenth century, and that it was a rustic cousin of elegant pâtisseries. But in the 1990s, the culinary historian and Lowcountry native John Martin Taylor tracked down the woman to whom the recipe is attributed in Charleston Receipts, and learned that she’d encountered the dish as “Ozark Pudding” while visiting relatives in Arkansas in the 1940s. She had brought the recipe back to Charleston, and put the dessert on the menu of the Huguenot Tavern, where she was a cook.

The fact that this dessert has become as much an icon of Charleston home cooking as Charleston Okra Soup [see page 74 of The Lee Bros. Charleston Kitchen] and She-Crab Soup [page 77] seems odd — but it’s all part of “Charleston’s food pattern,” as May A. Pyatt wrote in a 1950 review of Charleston Receipts in the News and Courier. Another interesting note: not many Charleston restaurants these days offer the torte — or even variants upon it — but it is almost always offered on menus at the tea rooms [see page 79] that open in the spring throughout the area. You should master it yourself; it’s easy to make and easy to eat, and nice to have in your repertoire.

When we’re serving this dish for guests, we often temper its sweetness by whipping a small amount of buttermilk or sour cream into the whipped cream garnish.

unsalted butter for greasing the dish
2 large eggs
1 1/3 cups sugar
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1 Granny Smith or other tart apple, cored, peeled, and diced (1 cup)
1 cup chopped pecans
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/2 cup heavy cream
2 tablespoons whole buttermilk or sour cream

1. Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F. Grease a 2-quart baking dish.

2. In a large bowl, beat the eggs with a whisk until they’re creamy and frothy. Add the sugar, flour, baking powder, salt, apple, pecans, and vanilla, whisking to combine after each addition.

3. Pour the batter into the prepared baking dish and bake for 45 minutes, or until the top of the torte is crusty. Remove the torte from the oven and let cool for about 10 minutes.

4. Whip the cream with the buttermilk until stiff peaks form. Cut into individual portions — they will be lumpen and misshapen, with shards of crust and spoonfuls of ooze, but no matter — and serve with dollops of the whipped cream.

Recipe: Syllabub With Rosemary-Glazed Figs

Syllabub is a traditional dessert featuring sherry, cream and sugar. Photo: Squire Fox/Clarkson Potter

Serves: 4
Time: 1 hour 15 minutes, including chilling

Syllabub

1/2 cup Sercial Madeira or Amontillado sherry
Peel of 1/2 lemon
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 1/2 tablespoons sugar
Pinch of kosher salt
1 cup heavy cream, cold

Rosemary-glazed figs

1/2 cup sugar
2 (3-inch) long sprigs rosemary
Pinch of kosher salt
4 ounces fresh figs (about 4 large), stemmed and quartered

1. Make the syllabub: Put all syllabub ingredients except for the cream into a large bowl, and whisk until the sugar has dissolved, about a minute. Let stand in the fridge, about 1 hour.

2. Make the rosemary-glazed figs: Heat the sugar and 1/4 cup of water in a small saucepan over medium heat, stirring until the sugar dissolves. Add the rosemary and the salt, stir for about 30 seconds to dissolve the salt and bruise the rosemary, and turn off the heat. Cover and let cool to room temperature, about 20 minutes.

3. Put the figs in a small bowl, drizzle 2 to 3 tablespoons of the rosemary syrup over them, and toss gently to coat. (If the figs are less than ripe, let them stand in the syrup for 30 minutes to sweeten.) Reserve the remaining syrup for another use, such as sweetening lemonade.

4. Remove the lemon peel from the wine mixture. Pour the cream into the wine and whisk by hand until the cream is thick and holds its shape, about 2 minutes. Divide the syllabub among four wine glasses or sundae cups and spoon the rosemary-glazed figs over each serving.

Syllabub with Strawberries and Black Pepper

For a springtime variation on Syllabub with Rosemary-Glazed Figs, make Syllabub with Strawberries and Black Pepper. Simply substitute for the rosemary-glazed figs 4 ounces strawberries that have been quartered and tossed a few times with sugar to taste (a teaspoon or two) until the sugar has dissolved. (Add a few drops water, if needed, to dissolve). Spoon the strawberries over each serving of Syllabub, then grind a bit of black pepper over the top of each and serve.

Recipes from The Lee Bros. Charleston Cookbook by Matt Lee and Ted Lee. Copyright 2013 by Matt Lee and Ted Lee. Excerpted by permission of Clarkson Potter, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House.

More on the Lee Bros.
• Classic Southern Food Gets A Makeover (NPR Food)
• Recipes That Passed a Cookbook Critic’s Test (Kitchen Window, NPR Food)

Copyright 2013 NPR.

Nettles. Photo: Nicole Spiridakis for NPR

Post by Nicole Spiridakis, Kitchen Window at NPR Food

Get recipes for Nettle Soup, Nettle Tart, Nettle Pesto and Nettle-Lemon Risotto.

My in-laws live in a half-wild, magical place perched along the edge of the Northern California coastline about an hour from San Francisco. On nice days — and even when it rains — my husband and I will take their black Lab for a ramble up into the woods behind the house where banana slugs carpet the narrow trail, salamanders creep shyly through the trees alongside it, and the air is full of birdsong and the good, damp smells of the growing things.

It also is a place where you could almost eat off the land, particularly if you like your greens. Depending on the season, there are blackberries, thimbleberries, huckleberries, miner’s lettuce, fiddlehead ferns, wild fennel, nettles, mushrooms and probably more growing rampant in forest and field. Availing oneself of nature’s bounty can be as easy as pulling on a pair of gloves and heading out into the wild (or just pulling the stuff growing next to the road).

After years of avoiding nettles as much as possible, I decided it was time to address my loathing. Indeed, I have a long and rather frustrating history with the plant, and it’s not been pretty: backpacking trips in the Point Reyes Seashore, where I’ve unwittingly strode through an overgrown meadow pockmarked with the stuff, leaving me with an unpleasant, lingering sting for the remainder of the trip; or accidental brushing against their vibrant green leaves while on a run and painfully ruing my carelessness.

Still, I’ve wanted to do something in the kitchen with nettles for a long time. I had an inkling that despite their sting, nettles might be an overlooked bit of nature’s bounty, their prickly leaves couching a hidden secret: Not only are they good-tasting, but they are good for you.

And it’s true: Nettles are high in iron, potassium, manganese, calcium and vitamins A and C (and are also a decent source of protein). The word “nettle” describes more than 40 different flowering plant species from the Urtica genus, which comes from the Latin word “uro,” meaning, “I burn.” The plant is native to Europe, Asia, Africa and North America, and is found throughout the continental United States. Nettles are readily available in spring and summer.

Nettles are used as a medicinal herb and can help in treating arthritis, anemia, hay fever and kidney problems, among other ailments. Dried leaves may be used to make a tea that is useful in alleviating allergy symptoms.

Any vegetable that can provide a great nutritional bang for the effort to cook it is always appealing to me. Plus, nettles grow wild, and all I’d have to do is go pick them (after pulling on protective clothing first, of course).

As I also learned, picking nettles is a fairly simple endeavor (simpler still is a friendly farmer at the market who will sell you a bunch already bagged). Look for young plants in spring and summer when you are ready to forage.

The key is to pick the leaves while wearing thick gloves and a long-sleeved shirt (and pants) and then, as soon as possible, plunge the leaves into a pot of boiling water, and you’ll be left with a sleek, slick pile of vivid green leaves. After cooking, nettles produce an entirely sting-free eating experience.

Back in San Francisco, my nettles rested awhile in the refrigerator before I had time to fold them along with almonds and a bit of Parmesan cheese into a semi-traditional pesto recipe that tasted fresh and bright, with a subtle undertone of spring. It was delicious — slightly floral, slightly woodsy and slightly (but only just) reminiscent of spinach. I tossed it with whole-wheat spaghetti and chopped, steamed asparagus for a hearty and satisfying dinner.

I’ve also made a wonderful nettle tart and a creamy, leek-infused soup that had me regretting any earlier cursing of the plant. Look at nettles as a substitute for spinach, and you will have no trouble coming up with any number of ways to incorporate this unassuming wild plant into many favorite dishes.

This spring I have been able to bring the woods into my little urban kitchen because of those nettles, and that to me is argument enough that I should go out foraging again. Soon the blackberries will hang heavy on their thorny branches, ripe for jam, and I will tuck delicate miner’s lettuce into salads laced with a sprinkling of huckleberries. The days will stretch out long and longer still, and I will gather nettles as often as I am able.

Nettle Tips

To cook nettles, wash and drain, discarding stems. Place the leaves in a pot of boiling water and cook for 3 to 4 minutes until nettles are wilted. Drain through a colander and press out any excess water. Nettles may be stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 5 days.

When foraging, only pick the nettle tops (the top four leaves) and make sure the nettles are less than knee-high. Discard the stems. An annual plant, nettles are found in woodsy areas and forests, in natural grasslands, along fertile fields and riverbanks, and along shaded trails. Always be careful to wear thick gardening gloves and protective clothing when picking. Although being stung by a nettle or eating an uncooked nettle is not dangerous or poisonous, you will probably wish you hadn’t.

Recipe: Nettle Soup

Hearty and nourishing, this soup tastes like the woods and spring. A little heavy cream added at the end lends a touch of richness.

Nettle Soup. Photo: Nicole Spiridakis for NPR

Makes 4 servings

1 tablespoon olive oil, plus extra for drizzling

1 carrot, peeled and diced

3 leeks, white part only, washed and finely sliced

1 large potato, peeled and thinly sliced

8 cups vegetable stock

4 cups washed stinging nettles

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon pepper

1/4 cup heavy cream (optional)

In a large soup pot over medium heat, warm the olive oil. Add the carrot, leeks and potato and cook for about 10 minutes, until the vegetables start to soften. Add the stock, bring to a boil, then reduce heat to a simmer and cook for 10 to 15 minutes, or until the potato is soft.

Add the nettle leaves and simmer for about 1 minute to wilt. Remove from heat. With an immersion blender or in a food processor, blend the soup until very smooth. Return to the pot and season with the salt and pepper (add a little more to taste if necessary), then stir in the heavy cream if using. Serve the soup drizzled with olive oil.

Recipe: Nettle Tart

Spinach may be used here in a pinch, but try to use nettles if it’s at all possible. The tart may be made ahead and served warm or at room temperature.

Nettle Tart. Photo: Nicole Spiridakis for NPR

Makes 8 servings

Crust

1 1/4 cups whole-wheat pastry flour

1/4 cup olive oil

3 to 4 tablespoons ice-cold water

Filling

3 cups nettle leaves

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 shallots, chopped

2 large eggs

1 cup whole milk

1 cup heavy cream

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon black pepper

1 teaspoon dried thyme

4 ounces Gruyere cheese, grated

3 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese

Heat oven to 350 degrees.

To make the crust, place the whole-wheat pastry flour in a large bowl. Whisk and cut in the olive oil with a fork until the mixture resembles coarse meal. Whisk in the ice water a little at a time, until the dough just begins to hold together. Form into a ball, wrap in plastic wrap, and let rest in the refrigerator for 20 minutes.

Roll out the dough, fit into a 9-inch tart or pie pan and prick the bottom lightly with a fork. Place in the oven and bake for 15 minutes, until crust is slightly golden. Remove from oven and set aside.

Meanwhile, make the filling. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil and add the nettle leaves. Boil for 3 minutes. Drain and rinse with cold water. Drain again and set aside. When cool, chop the nettle tops into thin strips.

In a medium saucepan, heat the olive oil and add the shallots. Saute for about 4 minutes, until soft.

In a large bowl, whisk the eggs. Add the milk and cream, and whisk to combine. Stir in the cooked nettles, salt, pepper, thyme and Gruyere cheese.

Pour the filling into the tart shell and sprinkle evenly with the grated Parmesan cheese.

Place in the oven and bake for 30 to 40 minutes, until surface is golden and puffed. Remove tart from oven and let cool slightly before serving.

Recipe: Nettle Pesto

I like lots of garlic, so have included 4 cloves here, but adjust to your taste. For a vegan version, omit the cheese and try adding a bit of lemon zest for a flavorful, dairy-free boost. Pair this with pasta, drop dollops onto bowls of asparagus soup, or spread on little toasts and top with thinly sliced radishes and a sprinkling of sea salt.

Nettle Pesto with Pasta. Photo: Nicole Spiridakis for NPR

Makes about 1 1/2 cups

1 cup cooked nettles, about 5 cups uncooked nettles

4 tablespoons pine nuts

4 cloves garlic, sliced

1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil, plus more as needed

3/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese

Dash lemon juice

Salt and pepper to taste

To cook the nettles, place leaves in a pot of salted, boiling water for 3 minutes or so, drain and squeeze dry. Coarsely chop.

In a food processor, combine the pine nuts and garlic. Process to chop coarsely. Add about half the nettles and process to chop coarsely. Add the remaining nettles and olive oil and process until a thick green sauce forms. If the sauce is too thick, add a little more olive oil.

Add the cheese and dash of lemon juice, and season with salt and pepper. Process briefly. Pour into a glass jar or other container and top with a thin layer of olive oil to prevent the surface from discoloring. Cover tightly and refrigerate for up to 2 weeks.

Recipe: Nettle-Lemon Risotto

Simple and lovely, this risotto is bright with lemon zest and is punctuated with a floral note from the nettles. It makes a light and satisfying vegetarian main dish when served with a crisp salad, or pair it with poached wild salmon fillets.

Nettle Risotto. Photo: Nicole Spiridakis for NPR

Makes 4 servings

4 tablespoons olive oil

3 shallots, minced

2 cloves garlic, minced

4 cups arborio rice

1 cup dry white wine

6 to 7 cups vegetable broth

2 cups cooked nettles, finely chopped, about 10 cups uncooked nettles

1/3 cup grated Parmesan cheese

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon pepper

1 teaspoon dried herbs de Provence

Zest from 1 organic lemon

In a large saucepan, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat. Add the shallots and the garlic and cook for 3 to 4 minutes, until vegetables are slightly softened. Add the arborio rice and cook for another minute, until the rice is well coated with olive oil.

Pour in the white wine and bring the mixture to a boil, then lower heat to medium and simmer the rice, stirring frequently, until the wine is absorbed. Add 1 cup of vegetable broth and stir frequently until it is absorbed into the rice. Repeat with 5 more cups of broth. Rice should be tender and creamy (not dry). Reduce heat to low and stir in the nettles, stirring well to distribute evenly. Stir in the Parmesan cheese and a little more broth if the risotto seems dry. Cook for about 3 minutes until the cheese is melted.

Stir in the salt, pepper, dried herbs and lemon zest. Serve immediately.

About The Author
Nicole Spiridakis lives in San Francisco and writes about food, travel and her native state on her blog, cucinanicolina.com. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, chow.com and other publications.

Copyright 2013 NPR.

A precociously independent toddler packs a healthy homemade lunch and heads off to snack in Bernal Height’s Holly Park in San Francisco.

This seriously cute video is the promo for author and BAB blogger Kim Laidlaw‘s new book Baby & Toddler On The Go: fresh, homemade foods for a busy life.

The book will be available April 30 and offers up 75 simple-to-prepare and easy-to-transport recipes made with fresh ingredients for the busy 4-month to 3-year-old child.

Kim Laidlaw took some time out to share information about her new book.

The toddler in the video is your daughter. How have you introduced her to your world of cooking and food?
Laidlaw: She has been watching me cook and bake since she was born, and now that she’s a bit older she is starting to “help” me cook and bake, which is a lot of fun. I also take her to the farmers’ market every Saturday morning and we talk about all the seasonal fruits and veggies and we try lots of samples. Oh, and we set up a little play kitchen in the kitchen so we can cook together.

What motivated you to write this book?
Laidlaw: I had just started to feed her solid food when I started writing the book, so I “learned” how to feed her by doing all the research and writing all the recipes for the book. Plus lots and lots of input from my mom and friends.

The book is designed to feed 4-month to 3-year-old children. How did you tailor your recipes nutritionally and tastewise to this age group?
Laidlaw: I did quite a lot of research, and also used the sister book Baby & Toddler Cookbook as my starting point. Then I just tried to get as many age-appropriate veggies, fruits, meats and dairy into the recipes to keep them healthy but friendly.

Author Kim Laidlaw and her daughter

Economically speaking, how do costs compare preparing fresh foods for kids versus buying healthy store bought alternatives?
Laidlaw: Well, I think if you can buy seasonal fruits and veggies you will save a lot of money, and many of the purees and minis can be made in bulk and frozen. Making your own food is definitely cheaper than buying individually-sized pre-packaged foods.

Sometimes kids are picky about eating diverse types of healthy food. What are 3 tips you can share with parents about teaching kids to be food-curious.

Laidlaw:
• Take your kids to the farmers’ market or the grocery store and let them help you pick things out that look good to them.
• Then, let them help you cook so they can see you making the things you picked out together.
• Finally, eat together at the table as much as you can (my daughter always wants to eat what I’m eating).

Take a Sneak Peek and Get Recipes

Disclosure: In addition to Kim Laidlaw being a BAB blogger she and her daughter are personal friends.

All you need for preserving lemons is a jar with a tight-fitting lid, lemons and salt — and time.
Photo: T. Susan Chang for NPR

Post by T. Susan Chang, Kitchen Window, NPR Food (4/10/13)

Get recipes for Preserved Lemons, Chicken With Preserved Lemon And Green Olives, Root Vegetable Couscous With Preserved Lemon and Preserved Lemon Vinaigrette.

On many occasions in my longtime relationship with cookbooks, I have had this experience (which will sound familiar, if you like Middle Eastern flavors as much as I do). I’m happily paging through my new Moroccan or Lebanese or Israeli book, lost in dreams of lamb and sumac, saffron and figs. “Mmmm,” I murmur over a glossy page, “that looks delicious.”

I trace my finger down the ingredients list. Shallots, check. Tomatoes, check. Cinnamon stick, check. And then there it is: Preserved lemon. “Drat,” I think. “Foiled again.”

Here’s the thing about preserved lemons: They’re not the sort of thing you can just pick up anywhere. And while they’re easy to make, it’s not like you can just say, “Oh, I’ll do them tomorrow afternoon, and then we’ll have the lamb Thursday.” Preserved lemons can take a month — certainly not less than two weeks. By that time, I’ve put aside my North African cookbooks and I’m on to an easy French or Hunan cookbook, or a book that’s all about ice cream or pickles. Preserved lemons are not great if you have a short attention span.

On the other hand, they keep practically forever. So if you can just make up your mind one afternoon to spend the 15 minutes it takes to cut, salt and jar them, afterward you can pretty much forget about them for as long as you like, or until you happen to think about Mediterranean citruses again.

The only real problem is that they might be taking up valuable real estate in the fridge, where someone not in the know might mistake them for a project gone wrong and toss them. If this is a habit among members of your family, I recommend that you train them out of it. (“Whoever throws something out has to taste it first” is an extremely effective rule.)

Once you’ve stashed away your very own golden hoard, you’re set. You can pair your preserved lemons with olives (is there any other cuisine which makes such magic with old, salty fruits?) in the traditional, braised fashion. You can dress them up with lashings of butter in potatoes or risottos or couscous. They stand up to garlic, and they cooperate with cilantro. They nicely balance sweet flavors, such as dried apricots or honey.

Once, the reason for preserving lemons was the usual one: It was a way of continuing to enjoy the fruit after its season had passed. But the flavor of a preserved lemon needs no justification. It’s mellow yet intensely lemony, with none of the nose-tickling bright, high notes of the fresh lemon. The peel — which is the part you use, usually — is soft to the touch and satiny in the mouth. It’s translucent, with a muted yellow luster when you hold it to the light, which I like to do just for fun after pulling out the pulp and rinsing off the salt. Sometimes, if the peel happens to be particularly thick, I laterally slice off another quarter-inch layer of pith from the inside, the better to taste and smell that shining cortex.

These days, of course, you can get adorable young lemons pretty much any time you want. (You can even get organic ones by the bag.) They’re firm, fresh and tart, and sometimes there really is nothing you want more. But give me my old lemons, mild and mellowed, a little soft and salty, making everything around them seem a little sweeter. They’re not the only ones, I hope, that grow more tender as they age.

Recipe: Preserved Lemons

You can find a recipe for preserved lemons just about anywhere, they’re that easy. Here’s an adaptation of one from Claudia Roden’s Arabesque (Knopf, 2005). I used kosher salt, and I can’t see that it did any harm.

4 lemons

4 tablespoons sea salt

Juice of 4 additional lemons, or more to taste

Wash and scrub the lemons. The classic Moroccan way is to cut each lemon in quarters but not right through, so that the pieces are still attached at the stem end, and to stuff each with a tablespoon of salt and squeeze it closed. Put them in a sterilized preserving jar, pressing them down so that they are squashed together, and close the jar.

Leave for 3 to 4 days, by which time the lemons will have disgorged some of their juices and the skins will have softened a little. Open the jar and press the lemons down as much as you can, then add fresh lemon juice to cover them entirely.

Close the jar and leave in a cool place for at least a month. The longer they are left, the better the flavor. (If a piece of lemon is not covered, it develops a white mold that is harmless and just needs to be washed off.)

Before using, scoop out and discard the pulp, and rinse the lemon peel under the tap to get rid of the salt.

Recipe: Chicken With Preserved Lemon And Green Olives

This is the absolute best-known way to eat preserved lemon, and for good reason. I have two-dozen recipes for chicken with preserved lemon and olives on my shelves, but Claudia Roden’s recipe from Arabesque (Knopf, 2005) is my choice for its sheer clarity and sure-footedness.

Chicken With Preserved Lemon And Green Olives. Photo: T. Susan Chang for NPR

Makes 4 servings

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

2 onions, grated or very finely chopped

2 to 3 garlic cloves, crushed

1/2 teaspoon crushed saffron threads or saffron powder

1/4 to 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger

1 chicken, cut up in 8 or 10 pieces

Salt and black pepper

Juice of 1/2 lemon

2 tablespoons chopped coriander

2 tablespoons chopped flat-leaf parsley

Peel of 1 large or 2 small preserved lemons

12 to 16 green olives

In a wide casserole or heavy-bottomed pan that can hold all the chicken pieces in one layer, heat the oil and put in the onions. Saute, stirring over low heat, until they soften, then stir in the garlic, saffron and ginger.

Put in the chicken pieces, season with salt and pepper, and pour in about 1 cup water. Simmer, covered, turning the pieces over a few times and adding a little more water if it becomes too dry. Lift out the breasts after about 15 minutes and put them to one side. Continue to cook the remaining pieces for another 25 minutes or so, after which time return the breasts to the pan.

Stir into the sauce the lemon juice, the chopped coriander and parsley, the preserved lemon peel cut into quarters or strips, and the olives. Simmer uncovered for 5 to 10 minutes, until the reduced sauce is thick and unctuous. If there is too much liquid, lift out the chicken pieces and set aside while you reduce the sauce further, then return the chicken to the pan and heat through.

Present the chicken on a serving dish with the olives and lemon peel on top of the meat.

Recipe: Root Vegetable Couscous With Preserved Lemon

I had my doubts at first about this recipe, which you can find in Yotam Ottolenghi’s Plenty (Chronicle, 2010), under the name “Ultimate Winter Couscous.” Could any such medley of starchy roots, I wondered, be made to sing? Well, sing they did, and so decisively that I hoarded the leftovers for lunch. I should also note that the day I made it, the refrigerator shelves were at high tide and I couldn’t find my harissa. Instead, I used a Turkish red pepper paste, and it was smashing.

Root Vegetable Couscous With Preserved Lemon. Photo: T. Susan Chang for NPR

Makes 4 servings (or more)

2 medium carrots, peeled and cut into 3/4-inch chunks

2 medium parsnips, peeled and cut into 3/4-inch chunks

8 shallots, peeled

2 cinnamon sticks

4 star anise

3 bay leaves

5 tablespoons olive oil

1 1/4 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon ground ginger

1/4 teaspoon ground turmeric

1/4 teaspoon hot paprika

1/4 teaspoon chili flakes

2 1/2 cups cubed pumpkin or butternut squash (from a 10-ounce squash)

1/2 cup dried apricots, roughly chopped

1 cup chickpeas (canned or freshly cooked)

1 1/2 cups chickpea cooking liquid and/or water

1 cup couscous

Large pinch saffron

1 cup boiling vegetable stock

3 tablespoons butter, broken into pieces

2 tablespoons harissa

1 ounce preserved lemon, finely chopped

2 cups cilantro leaves

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Place the carrots, parsnips and shallots in a large ovenproof dish. Add the cinnamon sticks, star anise, bay leaves, 4 tablespoons of the oil, 3/4 teaspoon of salt and all the other spices and mix well. Place in the oven and cook for 15 minutes.

Add the pumpkin, stir and return to the oven. Continue cooking for about 35 minutes, by which time the vegetables should have softened while retaining a bite. Now add the dried apricots and the chickpeas with their cooking liquid and/or water. Return to the oven and cook for another 10 minutes, or until hot.

About 15 minutes before the vegetables are ready, put the couscous in a large heatproof bowl with the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil, the saffron and remaining 1/2 teaspoon salt. Pour the boiling stock over the couscous. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and leave for about 10 minutes. Then add the butter and fluff up the couscous with a fork until the butter melts in. Cover again and leave somewhere warm.

To serve, spoon couscous into a deep plate or bowl. Stir the harissa and preserved lemon into the vegetables; taste and add salt if needed. Spoon the vegetables onto the center of the couscous. Finish with plenty of cilantro leaves.

Recipe: Preserved Lemon Vinaigrette

I discovered the original of this one, unexpectedly, in the pages of Hot and Hot Fish Club, a Southern cookbook published by Perseus in 2009. I can’t think of a more perfect way to use it than drizzled thickly over a batch of crisp roast potatoes.

Preserved Lemon Vinaigrette. Photo: T. Susan Chang for NPR

Makes 1/2 cup dressing

1/4 of a whole preserved lemon peel

1 teaspoon very finely minced or grated shallot

2 tablespoons finely chopped parsley

2 tablespoons finely chopped chives

2 tablespoons finely chopped thyme

1/4 cup olive oil

1/4 cup lemon juice

If the lemon peel is thin, simply mince it as finely as you can. If it’s thick, divide the lemon peel quarter lengthwise and set each half peel-side down on the cutting board. Steadying the peel by flattening it with the tips of your fingertips, carefully make a lateral slice between the pith and peel and work your way across until you’ve removed a layer of soft pith. Repeat with the other half, and then you can mince the peels with ease.

Combine the preserved lemon with the other ingredients and give them a good whisk. You may not need to salt at all, given the saltiness of the lemon peel. Use at room temperature.

About The Author
T. Susan Chang regularly reviews cookbooks for The Boston Globe, NPR.org and the cookbook-indexing website Eat Your Books. She’s the author of A Spoonful of Promises: Recipes and Stories From a Well-Tempered Table. For more information, visit her blog, Cookbooks for Dinner.

Copyright 2013 NPR.