Saturday and Shortcakes

When I saw this recipe in August's issue of Martha Stewart Living, I thought it was one that I would have to try. Some of you may remember that Martha and I have a rather contentious relationship. As I thumb through the pages of the magazine, gazing at the beautifully styled food, and wondering just how one person is supposed to do it all, there is a voice inside my head, forcing me to remember that Martha's food, though beautiful to look at, never really works out for me. I think it's a case of a finicky recipe. But Saturday morning, a day sticky with summer rain here in New York, I decided to give it one more go, and tried these Nectarine Shortcakes.

And I'm glad that I did. I had purchased some less-than-ripe, nectarines at the market the day before, with the intention of letting them set and ripen on the windowsill. But come Saturday morning, I had the itch to do some baking, and so I made the decision to put those hard stone fruits to good use. When the nectarines were cut into chunks, macerated in lemon juice, and finally baked in the shortcake, they softened, to the perfect texture: chewy yet soft, with some body left to them.

Reading through the list of ingredients, I realized that the recipe called for very little sugar, and quite a healthy dose of butter. In fact, the recipe appeared to be a scone recipe more than a shortcake one. So I made the shortcakes as a decadent, fruity, morning treat. And they were perfect as that-- moist, with a tender, soft crumb, buttery, yet light, and gently flavored with taste of fresh nectarines.

I don't know if I would serve these baked treats plain for dessert, as they were shown in the magazine; but I would definitely make them again for a special breakfast treat. And I guess I'll have to thank Martha (or at the very least, her recipe developer) for the recipe.

Diary of a Reformed Tomato-Hater

Yes, it's true, as odd as it may seem, up until this year, tomatoes were not a friend of mine. I was very picky with my consumption. Cooked were fine, roasted even better, but sliced and put on a sandwich-- never! Wedges in a salad-- no way! And a caprese salad-- well you can forget about that too. But this year, it all changed for me, and it wasn't that I had finally tasted the perfect, heirloom variety tomato. It was just a test of wills.

In January, that blustery, no-good month, I made a resolution, and this from the girl who never makes New Year's resolutions. 2006 would be, amongst other things, the year of no more food taboos. Never again would I pick apart a sandwich, push a vegetable endlessly around my dinner plate, or ask a waiter or waitress for a substitution. Now I was not a horribly picky eater to begin with, but this was the year of equal opportunity food consumption. First thing to tackle was my mediocre feelings towards the innocuous tomato. It started out slowly, a slice of a ruby-red beefsteak on the perfect sandwich-- a BLT. No problem, it was juicy, ripe, and tasted like grass, like summer. And the very next week, I kid you not, I had a caprese salad, by choice-- for dinner.

So I can't really tell you what transpired over 27 years to make me think that I hated the tomato. Now I eat them along with the best of them, and with the eating comes the cooking, and a simple, luscious, just-right-for-summer, Pasta Pomodoro.

A basic pomodoro with a twist, a double whammy in the tomato department, this pomodoro has both a cooked and an uncooked component to it. Raw tomatoes are seeded, diced, salted, and placed in a serving bowl to exude, and collect their juices. Then a pint of cherry tomatoes, bursting at the skins with juice, are tossed in olive oil, salt and pepper, and placed in a baking dish in a 325 degree oven to bake. While these tomatoes are baking, I minced some garlic, and tossed it in with the raw tomatoes along with a few glugs of olive ol. After about 30 minutes, I retrieve the tomatoes from the oven. They are starting to brown, and have popped, allowing for their sweet juices to carmelize. The cooked tomatoes get added to the raw, along with some drained spaghetti, grated parmesan cheese, and some freshly torn basil-- and there you have it. Granted this recipe is hardly rocket science, but with stellar ingredients, it makes a delightful supper. And it may just get those other tomato-haters on the right track.

I'm over half-way through my year of no more food taboos, and I am surprised at how easy it is. I think that many of my reservations were simply childhood recollections. Now you still may not see me gobbling up some mayonnaise-soaked potato salad (I have yet to tackle the mayonnaise phobia), but you will see me ordering a BLT, no holds required.

There is Something Fishy Around Here

The Atlantic or the Pacific. Who knew that taters along the shores of one country could produce such different types of fish? Call it naivete, or maybe it was just lack of thought, but it wasn't until I arrived in New York that I realized the immense variety. Citarella, a lovely market, not far from where I live, has shown me the way. Citarella is known for it's seafood, and as I gazed at the vast array of countless fish and shellfish, I could see why.

Sure, Citarella had the basics, tuna, sea bass, swordfish, and salmon, but there were fish I had only read about: sablefish, bluefish, pompano, not only red snapper but a glossy pink snapper, scales iridescent and shining brightly. Each lay on slabs of ice, waiting to be filleted. I breathed in deeply and smelled...nothing-- just what you want from a fish market, no fishy smell, no disinfectant, just the sea. I took my time deciding what I would buy for that night's dinner, until I spotted them, next to the skate wings, and directly above the tilapia-- sardines.

Come in close, I have a secret for you-- until last week, I had never had a sardine. Blame the waters of the Pacific Ocean if you have to, but it wasn't for lack of trying. I simply had never seen them at the fish markets in the East Bay. But there they were, eyes clear and vacant, scales silvery and bright. I snapped up a half dozen or so, grabbed a lemon and headed home.

I knew that I wanted a simple preparation, something that would allow the fish to shine through. I consulted my cookbooks, and finally decided on broiling. Rubbed in olive oil, seasoned with sea salt and a bit of cracked pepper, I broiled the sardines briefly, about 4 minutes a side, before squeezing them with lemon. Now I will admit, eating, and preparing sardines are not for the meek, you are eating a whole fish. I imagine if you're the type of person who doesn't like to eat things with a face, eating a food with the head still intact, even if it remains uneaten, is definitely out. And then there are the bones-- while I found them to be a pleasant contrast to the meatiness of the fish, the thought of eating a fish, bones and all, might make the faint of heart squeamish.

But I am neither squeamish, nor faint of heart, so I loved them. The sardines were delicious, luscious, fatty, tender meat with the subtle crunch of the bones. Mmmm. Now my only dilemma is which fish to try next.

On Watermelon Salad and the Aged

Maybe it is just certain octogenarians I have run into, but most of them do two things: talk about their health, and talk about the weather. And now that I have moved to New York, a place that actually has weather and seasons, I find myself doing the same thing (at least the weather part). I mentioned before that it is HOT, but besides the heat there is the humidity, the sort of humidity that makes you want to run back indoors, to your small, air-conditioned apartment, peel off your sticky clothes, and take a cool shower. I'm from California, I mean: What is humidity anyways?

And so I have joined the ranks of those people, the one's that talk ad nauseum about the weather, and to me, it is endlessly fascinating. We are mostly unpacked, a household's worth of goods transplanted from California to New York. Newsprint packing has been scrubbed off pots and pans, baking sheets unearthed, knives carefully unwrapped, and what is the first thing that I "cook?" Watermelon salad, because it is so damn hot.

Now I did turn on the stove to make a sweet-tart balsamic reduction, but I am afraid dear readers that is where the cooking started and stopped. By simmering the balsamic vinegar on the stove, a deep, syrupy concoction is made, turning even the cheapest of condiments into a rich elixir that is meant to be savored. And that is it, some fresh, fragrant basil is torn into bite-sized pieces, cubes of crisp watermelon, a little salt to bring out the juice, a grinding of pepper, and there you have it.

The basil and watermelon are surprisingly similar, perfumey yet delicate, and the balsamic reduction mediates the salad with its pungency. It was perfect, light, summery, and crisp, just the remedy for this fragile, weather-weary transplant. Don't get me wrong. I look forward to actually having seasons, but I will admit, it is going to take some getting used to. Maybe next summer, the heat won't even affect me, and you may just be reading about some thick, hearty stew I have cooked in August... Somehow I doubt it.

Camping in NYC

Well, we are here. And we're camping. Sort of. No, we haven't pitched a tent in Central Park, (though it is only blocks away). But we are waiting, my husband much more patiently than myself, for all of our goodies (like our bed, who knew the bed was a luxury item?) to arrive from California. Until they do we are making due on our new click-clackin' sofa bed. So no, we are not exactly camping and no bits of plant debris must be plucked from my hair.

New York is great, lively, and busy, and HOT, because, well, it's August. I've already explored some markets up and down the West Side, and have been forced to restrain myself in terms of buying, reminding myself that buying Sand Dabs without having a saute pan in which to quickly pan fry them in, would just be a shame. Our computer access is still spotty, so I'm not quite sure when all of the regular postings will continue, so bear with me. I'm already dreaming about cooking something scrumptious.

But until that time, I will leave you with a photo of the last thing that I baked in the Bay Area: devil's food cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, each topped with the perfect cherry. Mmm, frosting...