Pick a Pepper

I'm usually not the biggest pepper fan, roasted they can become too slick and flimsy, and raw sometimes they are simply too pungent. But when I spotted these little peppers, sold for $1 a bag on a street near work, I grew nostalgic. So humor me while I take you on a journey through Nosheteria nostalgia.

My longtime readers know that I am married. I've been married to Brian for only a hair longer than the time I've had this blog. But Brian has actually been in existence for much longer than Nosheteria; before he was my husband, he was my forever boyfriend. Not high school sweethearts (considering our age difference of six years, that would have been sick and wrong), but we did meet while I was still in college.

I graduated and stuck around while Brian went back to graduate school. Years passed, anniversaries came and went, and then-- we got engaged. And this is where my little story begins. There was a popular tapas bar near our house that we would frequent for a delicious Pisco Canary (Brian), or an Andalusian Sidecar (me), and a little nibble. The nibbles were plentiful and always expertly prepared, from the crisp, herby fried potatoes, to the smooth salt cod cazuela, to the intermittently piquant pimientos de padron. The pimientos were always a favorite. At the table a plate would arrive, the little peppers glistening in an olive oil sheen, and the sea salt pebbling proudly on the surface. Each time you would take a pepper, it was like opening a neatly wrapped present on Christmas morning. You never quite knew what you would get. Some peppers were mellow and sweet, other would be fiery hot, but each was always delicious.

It was one evening, sharing a plate of these very peppers, that Brian and I decided that now was the time for us to get hitched. There was no bended knee, no teary nods (that's not our style), but Brian asked: calmly, succinctly, and altogether unplanned. We talked about it, and then by the end of our plate of pimientos, only the stiff stems remaining on the platter, I had agreed. And then Brian did the most romantic and quirky motion yet, he offered his hand for me to shake. Of course, I thought, people shake as they enter into a business transaction with one another, they shake when they buy a house, or even a car, why not when they enter a lifelong commitment with each other?

Six weeks later, Brian and I were married in the living room of our house in Berkeley. Our families were present, dear friends married us, and a select few attended. I wore grey. It was perfect. The way that Brian and I were married matches the way that Brian and I are to each other -- low-key, private, and personal.

And these peppers, though not the special pimientos de padron at the tapas bar in Berkeley, were a close second. Fried in some cloudy, flavorful olive oil until charred and beginning to soften, then sprinkled with sea salt, they did just the nostalgic trick.

A Popover Worth the Wait

For me, the hardest part of going away is not the planning (I guess I’m not really a planner), nor is it the packing (just take all of your clothes and stuff them in a suitcase). It is using up the contents of the fridge for that final week at home, that works me up. Because, yes, in the past I have left that solitary carton of milk on the shelf chilling, and let me tell you, after weeks of sitting alone in the refrigerator, that milk punished my olfactory senses heartily.

Going to the market and buying just a smattering of ingredients has never been one of my strong points. But sometimes, in using up what I already have, it is necessary to actually do a wee bit of grocery shopping, as counterintuitive as it may seem. So cruising up and down the grocery aisles, I must remind myself that my husband and I cannot consume an entire five pound watermelon in the two and a half days we are still at home, even if it is on sale.

This impending trip to California looming, and left with one recipe for galette dough, a small container of crème fraiche, and not much else, I knew a trip to the market was calling to me. So I put on my blinders, and walked out of the apartment. What I returned with was a small sack of cherries, just enough to bake with, and more than a few to chomp on unadorned while the baking was being completed.

What I decided to make was not a cherry galette, but neatly and sweetly folded over, cherries and cream (or crème as it were) pockets. Pitting all of the cherries was the most time-consuming, and finger-staining prospect about making these pockets. The rest was a snap.

Simply roll out the dough to 1/8 inch thick. Cut small-ish circles out with a biscuit cutter. Then spread half of the dough with a smooth covering of crème fraiche before topping with the cherries, which have been squeezed with lemon juice, and sweetened with a bit of sugar. Fold over, and crimp the edges. Brush with an egg, if you happen to have one lying around that also needs to be used. I did. Sprinkle with a bit more sugar. It will carmelize lightly through the baking process, then bake at 400 degrees for about 20 minutes.

These pockets were lovely. The crème melts into the cherries, the dough turns puffy and golden, and who doesn’t love a hand-held dessert? Truly, they need no excuse, even if they were a very delicious way to clean out the fridge.

You May Now Kiss the Zucchini

Hello?
Hello, is anyone out there?
Oh, there you are, tanned shoulders, sun-kissed locks, glaring right back at me through your monitor screen.
I know.
I have been remiss.
But you know how it is dear reader; sometimes life just gets in the way.
But I am back.

Well, after returning from my second wedding in California this summer, I think I can say that wedding season has officially ended. At least for me. Veils have been worn neatly covering tight chignons. Saris have been donned in a stunning array of jewel tones, making me feel like a child gazing hungrily at a giant lollipop. I have eaten my fare share of mediocre satay sticks dribbling peanut sauce on the ground, careful to avoid getting gobs on my summer dress. I have carried pomanders dutifully. I cut a rug, several in fact. Some would even say that I have cut enough rugs to carpet a large apartment.

I couldn't be happier for the brides and grooms. But all of this trekking back and forth to California, it's a bit dizzying. And I must say, it's good to be home. It was even nice to schlep my butt up the four flights of stairs to our tiny apartment, carefully unpack all of my wedding regalia, shove my suitcase under the already crammed-full bed, and tuck myself into bed. And the first meal made back in New York was this lunch.

Nestled under that slick of melted Gruyere cheese is some thinly sliced, grilled zucchini to add some interest to this simple, yet hardly boring, open-faced sandwich. Slices of Portuguese bread, a smattering of Dijon mustard, a few slices of grilled zuke, all happily coexisting under a respectable layer of Gruyere cheese. I topped the sandwich with a duo of sage leaves before popping the whole shebang under the broiler to melt the cheese, and to toast the bread to a golden brown hue.

There is just something so civilized about the open-faced sandwich. Maybe it is having all of the contents of a sandwich laid out in front of you, or maybe it is actually having to sit down and consume your lunch with a fork and a knife. Or maybe it was just that feeling of being home that was so satisfying. Who knows, but eating this sandwich was so enjoyable, that I don't think I should wait for next year's wedding season to have it again.