A Colorful Cauliflower Confetti

I have a secret to tell. I've been in a bit of a food rut. Each week I go to the market, wondering if they will still be there, like jewels of crisp vegetal goodness. And I can let out a sigh of relief when I see them stacked helter-skelter, waiting to be brought home. So no, my fixation has not been cherries, tart berries, or cooling watermelon. It may seem blase to some, but I assure you these beauties are anything but.

How could you not scoop up these lovely cauliflower, and bring them home? No bigger than your fist, with the curly greenery still attached, you know they are fresh from the earth. Sometimes there is a purple head of cauliflower, other weeks I have bought the romanesco variety, with its tight ringlets of flowerets; but this week I bought the basic white, a glowing green, and a gentle, pale orange. In past weeks I have roasted the cauliflower, or made a pasta with chile flakes and bread crumbs, but this week I tried something much more simple.

Raw cauliflower, chopped into a confetti of texture and colors, bright and crisp, made the ideal salad for a warm summer's night. I dressed the salad very simply, just some fruity green olive oil, a splash of red wine vinegar, a handful of freshly minced Italian parsley, and a good dose of salt and ground pepper. The pungency of the red wine vinegar gave the cauliflower a sweetness, and the texture was rough, crunchy and crisp.

What was left of the salad I simply stored covered in the refrigerator, unsure of how it would taste the next day. And you know what? It was even better the second day. The salad had a moment to mellow, although it lost some of its crunch, the flavors were able to meld together so nicely. Who knows what I will do with my latest fixation for next week? Another pasta, or maybe I will try the cauliflower slow-cooked; let's hope I still have the opportunity to experiment.

A Tart of One's Own

There is just something about a tart...exemplifying the flavors of the season, homey, a delight to behold. And they are even better when you have it all to yourself, to savor or to share, to nibble or to hog. A diminutive bite, savory with vine-ripened tomatoes and sweet with yellow corn, made a sublime, hand-held lunch to enjoy on a warm summer's day.

By far the hardest part of making this tart is producing the dough, and that was really not so difficult. A few weeks ago, I made a peach pie; the pie turned out wonderfully, but getting there was almost a disaster. The dough was so short, so impossible to roll out, it had me crying in exasperation over my sliced peaches. So this time around, for my corn and tomato tartlettes, I scrapped the new recipes and went back to a tried and true one, a dough that rolls out like a dream, with a delicate, slightly sour flavor. I used this recipe, simply omitting the sugar, and adding an extra pinch of salt for my savory filling. The dough was then divided into six pieces for my tartlettes.

Summer is in full swing here. The tomatoes are getting tender and juicy, and the corn, though neatly self-contained in its husk, is bursting with sweet goodness; so it didn't take much to make a delicious tasting tart. Rolling the dough out is never a problem with this recipe, and the tarts were ready to be assembled in no time. I seeded the tomatoes, then thickly sliced them into rounds. I sprinkled the tomatoes with salt, and a bit of freshly chopped basil. Then corn kernels, cut straight from the cob were nestled on top of the tomatoes. Finally, after a grinding of black pepper, and the edges of the dough were brought onto the tart, and pressed to seal close.

After baking the tarts at 400 degrees for 20 minutes, I removed them from the oven just to give them a sprinkling of parmesan cheese. Then back into the oven to bake for an additional 20 minutes, permeating the house with the sweet aroma of baking dough. Finally I could wait no longer, and bit into a still-warm tartlette. It was perfect, the corn and tomatoes roasted a bit from baking, the tart dough tender yet flaky, and the parmesan added just the right amount of salt. And the best part of the tarlettes were of course the fact that I didn't have to share with anyone!

I've Been Slimed...and I Loved It!

Slippery, slimy, mucky. All these epithets have been used to describe okra by the haters of this innocuous green vegetable. And I actually can understand these descriptions. They can be rather apt if the okra is prepared incorrectly (and if you are not a fan of snot). But many of us love escargot and eat them with glee. Surely these monikers could also describe a snail, pre-cooking mind you; so let's give the same attention to preparing okra as we would those mollusks. For the novice, the okra-hater, I give you an okra salad in which to revel.

I have found that slicing the okra lengthwise, rather than the typical, flower-shaped round, and browning in a scorching hot pan mediates the slime quite nicely. I think okra is rather fascinating. It is like one of those before and after makeover pictures you see in women's magazines. Calm and self-contained when raw (before), you unleash the ooze upon first cut (during the makeover), then it transforms into a toasty brown and reaches glowing new heights (after). So it is true that upon slicing the okra into shards, you will get some of that omnipresent goo. But what's a little goo among friends?

You can do the slicing of the okra on a mandoline if you have one, or simply with a knife. Some olive oil in a skillet, heated HOT, and you're almost there. Saute the okra for about 5 minutes, moving them around often. You'll see some slime, webs of clear goo emitted from these tender stalks, but bear with it. Toss in a sliced red onion, and some thickly sliced garlic and continue sauteing for about 3-5 minutes. There is a grace period to be achieved, a moment when the slime has all but disappeared, and before the okra gets overcooked and slimy once again. So look for this moment.

When the ideal moment of anti-muck has arrived, turn off the stove. A squeeze of lime, a seasoning of salt and pepper, and you are ready to eat. This is a wonderful side dish even served at room temperature, perhaps with a thinly sliced tuna steak. Be brave dear readers, give the slime a try, you won't be sorry that you did.

That is so 1992!

Seared ahi. It may have you thinking back to the days in the early 90's when it seemed that every restaurant was going avant and serving a thick slice of almost raw tuna. We were all so amazed to be served this supremely rare piece of fish at a non-Japanese restaurant. Well the phenomenon has cooled a bit, but it seems that seared ahi is here to stay. Now home chefs, and restaurants of a lower caliber are serving up pieces of tuna, the breath barely being taken from the gills. And of course, I have something to say about it.

I have eaten one too many dry, overly meaty tuna steaks to let this behavior go on. It's the typical story: I order seared ahi and out comes a beautiful, thick steak, grill marks dark and emblazoned. But then I cut into it. It is desiccated, parched of any moisture, and the interior, though red and rare, is tepid and tasteless. It just seems to be a case of right fish, wrong cooking method. I love a piece of rare tuna, it just has to be good.

So I went to the fish monger and I requested one steak, rosy red, and smelling of the sea. My steak weighed about one pound, and was one and a quarter inches thick. I then requested that my steak be cut in half, horizontally. Is the bourgie getting cheap, you may be asking yourself? Two thin filets, rather than one thick steak...who is she trying to fool? My answer to you, is that I am trying to fool no one, just please my belly.

I went home, and seasoned my steak(s) simply, just a bit of salt and pepper. I set a skillet to heat on the stove, and got to making a delicate sauce. It was just a bit of browned butter, a touch of good, fruity olive oil, and some branches of marjoram simmered in a saucepan, letting the herb get crisp while infusing the mixture with its flavor. My pan was screaming hot by now. I added a bit of olive oil, to prevent sticking, and laid my steaks down in the pan with a sizzle. Now this alternative method of cooking is fast. You still want the steaks to be rare, so in order to do so, I cooked the steaks for only 20 seconds a side.

With the steaks done cooking, I spooned the buttery sauce on top, and dug in. The steaks were perfect, moist yet flaky, the interior warm yet rare, and the sauce a delicate dream. With a side dish of okra salad, (Okra-- isn't that just a slimy mess of vegetation? Wait until next post, fair readers.) my thin little tuna steaks were just the successful experiment, leading to the ideal dinnertime specialty, that made me say, "Bring back the 90's!"

Grease is the Word

I have always had a rather tumultuous relationship with chorizo sausage. It is not that I don't love the spicy flavor, the gentle kick you get from cooking it in any dish. Because I do. What I don't love is the grease, that slick of orange oil that seeps out of the chorizo and onto, say, your huevos rancheros, giving them a gleaming orange cast. Not good. But when I saw celebrity chef Rick Bayless, use chorizo sausage meat as a robust filling for tacos, I knew that I would have to give it a try-- grease be gone!

It turns out the taco filling was not greasy at all, and there were a few reasons for this. It wasn't simply chorizo that I was frying up for the tacos, it was a myriad of other things as well, giving the grease a purpose for being there. There were mushrooms (shitake and oyster), an onion thinly sliced, and the main soaker-upper, a grated Russet potato. The potato all but disappears upon frying, lending body and starch to the filling.

I began the filling by frying loose chorizo meat with the sliced onion, knowing that this would take the longest to cook. It sizzled in the skillet, and the flood of shiny grease began, but I labored on. Next I added the sliced mushrooms. The minute they hit the pan, they began to saute, and to soak up some of that omnipresent orange puddle. I let the filling saute for a moment, waiting for the slick to return...and it didn't! The grease was acting as the frying medium. Oh, happy, grease-free day! Lastly I added the grated potato, and slurp-- no more grease at all!

The chorizo filling was perfect for the tacos. Warm, steamed, corn tortillas acted as the base. Spooning in my taco filling, I knew I was in for a treat. A sprinkling of shredded cabbage, a squeeze of lime, and the whole taco topped off with a healthy dose of queso fresco, it was like I was having my own, private fiesta in celebration of the grease-free nature of my chorizo.

I guess that each ingredient has a good and bad way to be prepared. It just took being introduced to the good way with chorizo, to make me a enthusiastic convert. The answer to the problem of greasy, oily chorizo, is to just give the chorizo grease something to do. Sometimes even ingredients need to feel important...

PanzaNicoise?

How much do I love imported, canned tuna in olive oil? I will tell you, it's a lot. No single, other food that I can think of brings a meal to glowing, bourgie status with just a can opener and a little bit of creativity. But what do you do when confronted with the aforementioned can, a basket of new spring groceries, and a baguette that has seen its better days? Make a panzanella, or a nicoise, no-- a panzanella. Well which ever it was, it was delicious.

I had gone a little ga-ga at the market. With so much beautiful produce, how could I not? Peppery, bright green baby arugula, no plucking necessary, acted as my base. Juicy, red-ripe tomatoes, no larger than a golf ball, screaming for me to cook (or not to cook, as the case may be) with them. Shavings of crisp bulbs of fennel, their anisette fragrance delicately flavoring the mix, and smooth, buttery cannelini beans adding protein and a gentle bite to the salad.

For my golden croutons, I tore chunks of slightly stale baguette, tossed lightly in olive oil, added a bit of salt and pepper, then toasted them the oven. I could hardly stop eating them before they mingled with the entirety of my salad. There was no starring role in this panza-nicoise. Each element played cohesively together with the other members of this creation. No tuna vying for space against the greens, no cannelini beans getting jealous by the presence of a voluptuous tomato.

So panzanella, or nicoise, which was it? Well, I'm not really sure, and frankly I don't really care. I just gobbled the salad up, and even had room for another helping.

A Fourth C

Sunday morning, polenta and roasted cherries, what could be finer? I've said it before, I love polenta. It's versatility cannot be matched: served soft and flavored with mascarpone or parmesan cheese, made with chicken broth and a bit of fresh sage, or served firm and fried. The possibilities are both endless and delicious. One of my favorite ways to eat polenta is made with milk, and served with pure maple syrup as a breakfast porridge. But what is the summer time equivalent of this cold winter fare? Substitute the maple syrup for some warmed, roasted cherries, and there you have the perfect summertime breakfast.

Dying your fingers a sanguine shade is the only negative aspect to preparing this sumptuous sauce. Pitting juicy fresh cherries is a bit of bear in terms of mess, but well worth the disarray for the sake of flavor. A bit of booze (cognac to be exact), a touch of sugar, and a sprinkling of corn starch to thicken the sauce, all combined with the cherries and placed in a 400 degree oven, and roasted for 10 to 15 minutes. Sounds simple, and in fact it was. The alcohol cooks out of the cognac, leaving behind a subtle flavor. The sugar is there just to enrich the sauce, not to overpower and make cloyingly sweet. And the corn starch makes the sauce shiny and thick. (If you find the sauce is too thick after baking, simply add a bit of water, and stir to the desired consistency.

The sauce is rich and red, ideal as an ice cream topper, or an adornment to a cake, but it was truly delectable spooned, still warm, over a bowl of morning polenta. The polenta is so pleasantly neutral, so delightfully bland, it is the perfect complement to the robust nature of the roasted cherries. So go ahead and get your fingers bloody this weekend, you won't be sorry that you did!

The Three C's

Each summer in Oakland there is a large carnival that comes to town a few times during the season. Driving along the freeway you will see it in the distance; the outline of the rickety Ferris wheel, neon lights a-glow; the tilt-a-whirl spinning around at breakneck speeds. Each year I squeal with joy at its arrival, and remark to Brian that we will have to return when we have ample time to experience the three C's. What are the three C's you ask, scratching your chin inquisitively?They are Corn Dogs, Carnies, and Cotton Candy, of course.

And each year, no matter how much I diligently swear to make it over to the Alameda County Fair, I inevitably miss it. I can merely reflect on the halo of the ferris wheel, never having experienced it first-hand. (In fact, I don't think I would even go on the rides; there is just something monumentally unsettling about going on a ride that can be packed up, and journey to the next town on a moment's notice.) So, sad but true, it has been far too long since I have partaken of the three C's in concert. But I will take any one of the three C's any way I can get it; even if that means creating it myself.

When I saw this recipe for Curly Corn Dogs in last August's issue of Food and Wine, I knew it was one to keep. And it only took me just about a year to make these fried packages of greasy goodness. Slightly different from the standard corn dog, which are deep fried on a stick, these corn dog curls are sliced lengthwise, into hot dog batons, then dipped into a moderately sweet, cornbread batter. Then the batons are fried in a shallow pool of oil, where they achieve their moniker of curl by bending slightly, due to their stick-less nature.

These corn dogs were definitely odd, squirming around in a pool of oil, but they were pretty darn good. Crisp outside, with a greater, pleasing ratio of cornbread to hot dog, they did just the trick to curb my longing for a morsel from the fair. I will always miss the carnies, looking haggard from one too many years on the road, and one too many children crying that they want to go on the tilt-a-whirl one last time. And the cotton candy, spun into a pastel cloud, and plunked onto a cardboard cone, will sadly be missed. But it's nice to know that I can at least get a little taste of the county fair whenever I choose.