All sorts of keepers

You know where's a good place to find recipes? The Williams Sonoma catalog. Honestly. I find all sorts of keepers in there. The gadgets that go with them—banana slicers and salad dressing emulsifiers—get a little ridiculous, but the recipes are terrific.

Take, for instance, the roasted beet salad recipe I tried the other day. The base ingredients are pretty standard—watercress, roasted beets, toasted walnuts, goat cheese—but the dressing is something else altogether. Basically you take lemon juice and a little bit of crème fraîche and add oil and shallots and a big handful of dill. The dairy makes it creamy, the lemon juice gives it kick, and the shallots and dill make it feel big and zippy. When you pour it over the greens and beets, a sort of magic happens, and everything feels at the same time rich and fresh.

We've made it about three times this week, and today, I'm thinking of having it for lunch again. It's just the thing for a hot day—filling but not heavy, satisfying in a very summer sort of way. Enjoy the sunshine, friends.

ROASTED BEET SALAD

I made a few changes to the Williams Sonoma original of this recipe. For starters, I used arugula and spinach from our garden in place of the watercress. I also added homemade croutons (rustic bread seared in olive oil on our cast iron griddle) and swapped out the crème fraîche for whole milk plain yogurt and Cloumage cheese.

(Cloumage, for those of you who have never had it, is the newest cheese from the Shy Brothers. It tastes sort of like a cross between ricotta and crème fraîche, and they sell it at the Provincetown and Falmouth farmers markets.)

Finally, I upped the dill. I don't know about you, but I can't get enough of that green.

2 tablespoons lemon juice

2 and 1/2 tablespoons Cloumage

2 and 1/2 tablespoons whole milk plain yogurt

5 tablespoons olive oil

2 tablespoons chopped fresh dill

2 teaspoons minced shallot

salt and pepper

4 cups arugula or watercress

2 large beets, roasted, peeled, and cut into wedges (for a roasting tutorial, click here)

1/3 cup toasted walnuts

4 ounces crumbled goat cheese

2 slices good rustic bread, toasted in olive oil in a cast iron skillet or griddle and cut into croutons

Combine the lemon juice, Cloumage, yogurt, olive oil, dill, shallot, and salt and pepper in a Mason jar or salad dressing container. Shake vigorously to emulsify and set aside.

You can plate the salads either individually or on a large shallow platter. Arrange the greens on the bottom, then layer on the roasted beet wedges, toasted walnuts, crumbled goat cheese, and homemade croutons. Drizzle with dressing and toss just before serving.

Of another Sunday

Picture this:

You're sitting on your porch, in cotton shorts and a t-shirt, curled up at the blue iron table with a glass of Muscadel. Your husband is sitting across from you, in his white undershirt and plaid pajama bottoms, piling up bow tie pasta with melted Hannahbells and basil from the garden and Dorris's big heirloom tomatoes on toast. The pasta is tossed with olive oil, salt, and pepper, and it's still hot, fresh from the pot.

Arts & Ideas wafts in through the screens: Eygptian youth, bad banking, Roosevelt. You take a bite and the basil breaks, suddenly fragrant. The tomato is still warm from its spot on the window sill—it has never seen a fridge, cold weather, the inside of a store. The cheese is sharp, gooey, distinctive—all muddled together with oil and starch.

The recipe is one you pulled out from a Martha Stewart magazine—the one you were reading at twilight, drinking iced tea, your legs draped over the leather arm rest of the couch. No one had volunteered to make dinner yet—after the beach, the sun, the salt. All either one of you wanted to do was read—first books, then magazines, then newspapers. When the energy for that ran out, it was just the radio.

When you came across the recipe—tomato and basil pasta—it was more of a reminder than a jolt. You'd been to the farmers' market yesterday where the tomatoes were ripe, and the basil was ready in the garden. Someone had brought bow tie pasta home from the marketplace the other day, and there were all sorts of cheeses still in the fridge from last week. All that was left to do was pick and chop and boil, season with salt and pepper, pour the wine, cut a few slices of toast.

So you did and now dinner is done. Your plates are clean and the sky is pink, blue, then dark. You sit for a while, silent, then finish your wine, walk inside, turn the kitchen lights out. It's time for more books—another chapter of The Time Traveler's Wife, maybe, or The Food of a Younger Land—then the end of another Sunday, and bed.

TOMATO AND BASIL PASTA

This is so simple, it's more of a recommendation than a recipe. So do this: get some good tomatoes, some fresh basil, and some good cheese (I recommend either Hannahbells from Shy Brothers Farm or the mozzarella with gorgonzola dolce from Fromage à Trois), and toss them together with some hot pasta, olive oil, and salt. Crack black pepper on top, pour yourself a glass of white wine or iced tea, and sit down to one of the easiest—and tastiest—summer meals around.

1/2 pound cooked pasta—something small like Penne or bow tie—still hot
2 large heirloom tomatoes, cut into bite size chunks
1/2 cup basil leaves, packed
8 ounces soft cheese—such as Hannahbells or mozzarella
1/8 cup olive oil
salt and pepper to taste
optional: balsamic glaze, for drizzling

Toss together the warm pasta, tomatoes, basil leaves, cheese, and olive oil in a large bowl. Continue mixing until the cheese melts into the pasta, then season with salt and pepper to taste. Serve warm—and if you like, drizzle each serving with a tiny bit of balsamic glaze.

The Local Food Report: have your cake

You know that saying—you can have your cake, and eat it too? Well, with Marissa Ferry, it's true.

You can have your cupcake, or your rhubarb ginger stout cake, or your panna cotta, and you can know that it was made by an up-and-coming Wellfleet pastry chef who uses as many local ingredients as possible. That way, you can feel good about dessert, and she can too.

Marissa grew up around here—she started baking at Nauset and then went on to the Baking & Pastry Arts program at Johnson and Wales—but she did plenty of traveling before coming home. She's worked under bakers and chefs all over the place—in Rhode Island, Massachusetts, even Orlando. But she's been back on the Cape for a few years now, turning out cupcakes and ice creams and all sorts of other goodies from a space in the basement of the Flying Fish in Wellfleet. She says it's good to be home—that it feels like closing a loop.


Since she arrived, she's been building her foodshed—networking with local farmers, asking for lists of when they'll have rhubarb and blueberries and exactly how long the peaches last. Recently, she even started working with the cheesemakers over at Shy Brothers Farm. They're making this new curd—cloumage—which is sort of like a ricotta/cream cheese/yogurt blend. It's a soft cheese, and it has the same unique tang and creaminess of crème frâiche. Marissa's putting it into panna cotta, and after trying out her recipe for you all last night, I can say without reservation that it's divine.

Of course, that's partially the cheese, but it's also partially Marissa. We serve her desserts where I work at Blackfish, in Truro, and her other creations—things like a ginger stout cake made with Ipswich Stout and served over a local rhubarb compote with a spiced honey ice cream—will also stop you in your tracks. She's always coming up with new combinations—things like this spring's hot honey cake, made with honey from E & T farms and served with lemon confit and chamomile tea ice cream—to fit the seasons. Pretty soon, she'll swap out the spring fruits—strawberries and rhubarb—for the raspberries and blueberries as they get ripe. After that it will be apples and stone fruits, and with any luck, she'll be able to get her hands on some local cherries to make clafouti for the first time this year.

If you're looking for her, look for the Wildflour Bakery sign that will be going up in a few days beside the Flying Fish. Right now, she does all the desserts for them and for Blackfish, and a few catering events and special orders, too. She's good at everything from tarts to ice creams to cupcakes, and of course, panna cotta, too.

CLOUMAGE PANNA COTTA

This dessert is about as easy and as elegant as they get. It takes maybe 10-15 minutes from start to finish, and there's no baking. Just stir, whisk, and pour. After trying it once, I can't wait to start playing with flavors—maybe almond-raspberry? Blueberry-lemon? Coffee? Peaches with thyme? Of course, the cheese is important; there's a list of local places where you can find Cloumage over here. If you can't get that, crème frâiche will work, but you will need to play around with the amount of gelatin to get the consistency just right.

1 pound Cloumage
1/2 ounce gelatin
1/2 cup cold water
2 cups heavy cream
1/4 teaspoon orange zest
1/4 teaspoon lemon zest
3/4 cup granulated sugar plus 1 tablespoon, divided
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
sliced fresh strawberries and a few torn basil leaves, for topping

Arrange 8 small ramekins on a baking sheet and spoon the cloumage into a large mixing bowl.

Bloom the gelatin. (This is pastry-chef speak for pouring the packet of gelatin into the cold water, stirring, and waiting a bit.)

Pour the cream, orange and lemon zests, sugar, and salt into a medium-size, heavy-bottomed pot. Stir until the sugar dissolves and bring to a simmer. (Do not boil.) Turn the heat off, add the vanilla, and pour this mixture over the cloumage. Add the gelatin and whisk until smooth.

Divide the mixture evenly between the ramekins and put them on the baking sheet into the fridge to set for three hours. About an hour before you're ready to serve, mix the strawberries, remaining tablespoon of sugar, and basil, and leave at room temperature to juice. Serve the panna cotta chilled, with a spoonful of fresh strawberries and basil on top.

Onion soup without tears

When there is a new president, it is important to host a luncheon.

Even if it's only you, and your fiancé, and his cousin and his cousin's girlfriend who can attend. And even if you're cooking frantically, on a break from writing at your office across the street, just as the speech begins. Even if you've broken into his other cousin's kitchen to cook without consent; it doesn't matter the circumstance.


There is a new president, and so there ought to be a new recipe for lunch.

Also, it helps to use a new book. We're starting over, you see. From my Christmas pile, I picked Nigel Slater's latest cookbook to start the new term with. It's a kitchen diary, sort of like this one, except he wrote down everything he cooked, every meal, every day, for a year. The photographs are spectacular, and the text enchanting. The only trouble is, the seasons are a bit adrift. For instance, he starts the year like this:

January 8
The first rhubarb

Clearly, he lives in a much friendlier place. Around here, the first rhubarb appears in oh—say, April, probably May. Fat chance of digging any up today. Luckily, his January 11th entry offered something a little more realistic: namely, French onion soup.

I adore French onion soup. It is the absolute perfect evening winter meal: simple, warm, and just substantial enough to get you through the night. It can be made vegetarian, or carnivorous, and it is salty as the sea. Also, at the same time, it is sweet.

Slater's version is simple. It starts with roasting the onions with butter and salt and pepper in the oven, so that the whole experience is pleasantly tear-free. It then requires you to burn off a little white wine, simmer some vegetable stock, and keep the pot of soup warm while toast and Gruyére melt beneath the broiler. It's so easy that all of this can easily be accomplished, even while you are watching a speech on t.v.

I made a few changes—swapping vegetable stock for beef, and Shy Brother's cheese for Gruyére—but mainly, I stuck with his pot. I feel quite sure we'll be making it again.



ONION SOUP WITHOUT TEARS

adapted from The Kitchen Diaries, by Nigel Slater

5 medium onions
3 tablespoons butter
4 ounces (one glass) white wine
6 cups beef or vegetable stock
a loaf of crusty French-style bread
several ounces good melting cheese

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Peel the onions and cut them in half from tip to root, then lay them in a large, heavy-bottomed pot and add the butter, and salt and pepper to taste. Roast about 30 minutes, or until they are golden and tender. You may want to check on them a few times to see if they need turning.

Put the pot, with the onions, on the stove. Add the wine, and reduce it until the liquid nearly disappears. (As Slater explains, this is because you want the flavor, not the alcohol.) Pour in the stock, bring to a boil, and simmer about 20 minutes.

Just before you're ready to eat, put several slices of French bread beneath the broiler, or in the toaster oven (one slice per bowl of soup). Toast one side, then flip them and toast the other, layering several slices of cheese on top. When the cheese is bubbling and hot, ladle the soup into bowls and rest the cheese toasts on top. Serve immediately, with a spoon and a knife.

Plum season

Plums have always held a special power over me. As a child, our family friend had low, branching plum tree, stretching with strong limbs towards the root cellar door with one arm and a set of creaky wooden swings with another.

Each fall, laden with fruit, it would hold out its hands to us with an offering. The plump, tender purple fruits would fall into our baskets, splattering sticky juice across our fingers as we fought for that first ripe orb.

I haven't visited the tree in season in years. I've seen it at Christmas, stark and bare, and perhaps in early spring, just breaking buds in the crisp air. But this week at the Cohasset farmers' market, it appeared again in my memory at the sight of the first homegrown plum of the season. They were prune plums, the busy seller told me, tart and firm—not the thick, succulent fruit of my childhood—but I bought a bag anyway, and headed home.

I left them to sit in the kitchen bowl for a few days, to let them ripen and soften. But eventually, I could no longer resist. I pulled out a baguette and tip-toed out to the porch to pick a handful of basil. The sandwich I had in mind would cut the tartness with a thick hunk of melted brie, the soft insides of the bread replaced by chopped plums and basil and a sprinkling of sea salt.

When the oven began to steam hot, I placed the stuffed loaf inside, plum and cheese teetering dangerously over the crust, and slipped shut the door. As I waited, dishpan hands scrubbing knife and board, the smell of roasting fruit and fresh bread overwhelmed the kitchen. I pulled it out, cheese bubbling, to find the tart plums finally tender.

PLUM, BASIL, & BRIE BRUSCHETTA

Serves 4-6

Cut one baguette down the middle, scooping out some of inside bread if necessary. Stuff with 1 cup basil leaves, 2 cups chopped plums, and brie or other soft cheese to taste (Shy Brothers Hannahbells would work quite nicely). Preheat the oven to 350, place sandwich in baking pan, and bake until bread is crisp, plums tender, and cheese melted. Enjoy hot.

Pizza bianca

Last night we reaped the first meager harvest from our garden rows. Five violet streaked leaves of romaine, a handful of basil leaves, and one spring onion sat strewn across the cutting board, waiting in limbo for the calamitous clang of the dinner bell.

When the clock struck eight, down came the blade. Swiftly, silently, the green harvest heralds resigned to their fate. Tonight, they would provide the toppings for an impromptu pizza bianca.

I had heard about the dish on NPR. Driving lazily along the bayside on Saturday afternoon, the wavering voice of Lynne Rossetto Kasper drifted over the airwaves, bringing with it the tastes and smells of a Roman artisanal favorite. Pizza bianca, as Kasper and her guest Anya Von Bremzen (travel writer for Travel + Leisure; check out her article on eating on the cheap in Europe) explain, is the antithesis of American pizza. In other words, it lacks tomatoes and and cheese.

The Roman variation focuses instead on simplicity. A good dough, fine olive oil, and sprinkling of coarse salt are the key ingredients. Often ricotta and fresh vegetables serve as toppings, dotted across the crust as tiny accents rather than layered in the thick tradition of a New York pizza.

Following the season, we topped ours with our first tiny basil, a smattering of bok choy and romaine, sautéed spring onion rounds, the leaves of our burgeoning potted rosemary, and a few scattered dollops of Shy Brother's lavender cheese. A sprinkling of oats over the pan allowed the crust to crisp up in the oven, and we sat down to a meal that—at least in the vegetable department—was entirely the work of our own earthen hands.

PIZZA BIANCA for June

Serves 8

Let 2 and 1/4 teaspoons yeast dissolve in 1 and 1/3 cups very warm water for 5 minutes, or until bubbly. Add 1 tablespoon salt, 2 tablespoons olive oil, and 3 and 1/2 cups whole wheat flour. Mix well and knead 8-10 minutes or until elastic. Set aside to rise for 1 hour or until dough has doubled in size.

Punch dough down and divide into two balls. Preheat oven to 475 and set dough aside to rest. In a heavy frying pan, sauté one large chopped spring onion or scallion until tender. Add several sprigs of chopped rosemary, sauté for a minute longer, and turn off heat. Add several chopped lettuce, bok choy, or other spring green leaves to hot pan to quickly coat in oil (to keep moist in oven).

Roll out dough and place on cookie sheet sprinkled with oats (this will prevent dough sticking to pan and burning). Brush dough with several tablespoons olive oil and top with sautéed veggies. Add a handful of basil leaves and several dollops of soft cheese as desired. Crank sea salt and pepper over top to season, and cook for 10-12 minutes.

Enjoy hot or cold as leftovers.

Quail eggs, toast rounds, and broccoli rabe

It is the season of gourmet breakfasts. As afternoons and evenings are turned over to the clamor and bustle of a restaurant kitchen and harried snatches of a midnight meal, the morning spread appears a peaceful, deliberate treasure.

This morning, I awoke early to see what pleasures a hungry riser might steal from the depths of the fridge. I began with quail eggs, an epicurean item by any measure. From there, I worked my way down; what began with tiny, speckled gold moved from a box of soft artisan cheese to a bunch of broccoli rabe to a pat of butter and finally to the utterly mundane: a slab of stale toast.

Nevertheless, it only took those first few finds to make a feast. I lit the stove, heated up a skillet, and dropped in a pat of butter to coat its cast iron flat. Next I spread a handful of the long, leafy broccoli rabe across the pan and covered it tightly to steam and sizzle. Stale bread became toast rounds, cut to the size of a tiny coaster and spread with a thimble of classic French cheese from Shy Brothers' Farm in Westport. With the rabe nearly tender, I pushed it to the side of the iron and cracked two quail eggs onto a layer of butter. In seconds, they were firming up, and I slid the over easy pair into a layered tower of toast and egg.

The rich, miniature yolk soaked down through the bread as I sliced and toppled the cheese laden spire. Broccoli rabe lent a bitter cut, while a few scattered strawberries sweetened the plate. Slowly, quietly, I sat back to enjoy the simple elegance of the meal, before giving way to the hurry of the day.

QUAIL EGGS, TOAST ROUNDS, AND RAPINI

Serves 1

In a heavy frying pan, melt 1 tablespoon butter. Spread 5-10 stalks broccoli rabe (rapini) across pan and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Cover and let steam for 2-4 minutes. Push to side and add tiny dab of butter where eggs will cook; crack 2 quail eggs into pan and cook as desired.

Toast one piece stale bread and cut into two rounds slightly smaller than the size of the eggs in the pan. Spread each with 1/2 Hannahbell Classic French thimble or 1 teaspoon other soft cheese. Layer toast and eggs into two tier tower and serve alongside rapini and several strawberries.

Truro hot house beets make a savory spring tartlet

At the Wellfleet Marketplace the other day, the produce special caught my eye. "Golden beets," it read. "Local, organic." I asked Paul for an explanation.

"A woman grows them in her hot-house in Truro," he said. I started to ask for a name, but he was already on to the next task in preparation for the upcoming weekend.

For $2.99, I took home nine of the gnarled yellow roots, each about the size of a kiwi. The fridge offered up a leftover ball of flaky pastry dough, and I set to work making a tartlet. With the beets boiling and the dough rolled out, I hand-pressed the crust into a flat-bottomed basin with a thick, short hem. I turned the oven up to 425, and put the shell in to pre-bake.

A quarter hour later a bite size savory tartlet sat on the table. Thinly sliced beets, a topping of caramelized onions, and a dollop of soft rosemary cheese from Shy Brothers' Farm filled the flaky crust to the brim. I cut a wedge, and sunk my teeth in for a taste of Truro earth.

SAVORY BEET TARTLET

Serves 1

Preheat oven to 425. Boil 2 small golden beets for 45 minutes.

Roll out a fist-sized ball of simple pastry dough. Place on a baking sheet and roll sides to make 1/3 inch rim. Pre-bake until barely golden, about 8 minutes.

While the crust bakes, caramelize several slices yellow onion. Peel beets and slice very thinly. Remove crust from oven and layer beets to top of rim. Top with caramelized onions, sliced thinly, and two crumbled thimbles of rosemary cheese from Shy Brothers' Farm, or local goat cheese. Return to oven to melt cheese, 2-3 minutes, and drizzle with balsamic vinegar. Serve hot or chilled.

Pea tendrils: Silverbrook Farm yields the first greens of the season

Today marked the end of my winter countdown. The first farmers' market of the season is always a turning point—the day when the first leafy edibles emerge and our waning faith in summer becomes tangible once again.

So when the morning of the first two markets of the season dawned cool and rainy early today, my mood sank. I had eaten the last of the butternut squash, the last gnarled hunk of celeriac, even the last cranberry. I couldn't wait much longer.

A phone call to the Chocolate Sparrow in Orleans confirmed my disappointment; no white tents were to dot the mid-Cape parking lot this morning. By noon, however, the clouds had scattered. I jumped into the Volvo hell bent on an afternoon trip to Provincetown's Ryder Square.

A quarter hour later I stood beneath a white plastic canopy listening to Silverbrook Farm representative Andy Pollock extol on the virtues of a strong-yolked egg. "A really dark orange means the chickens are eating well," he explains. "Plenty of organic matter."

One woman is searching through the cartoons in hopes of finding a "double." Pollock points her in the direction of his jumbo brown eggs, which he says are more likely to have the double yolk she is hoping for. Some attribute the tendency to lay the long, thin double yolks to genetics, some to good health, and others to a unsynchronized production cycles. Pollock attributes his lucky finds to the hens' good health. "If you find one," he adds, "let us know."

The other producers at the market are equally full of farm-tales and tidbits. I taste a cheese made by two very shy brothers whose mother sent them to France learn to make this one sought-after variety, a handful of pea greens, and a scoop of smoked bluefish dip.

By the time I have made my way through the ten odd stands, my belly is full with local foods and my bags heavy with the week's menu. It has taken me longer to complete my shopping in the square than at the grocer's, perhaps, and I have likely spent more per item. But I have picked up more, too; I learned the lore behind a double-yolked egg, buried my nose in a barrel of Cape grown lavender, and chatted with a dozen friends and neighbors.

This, I remember, is what food shopping should be: a cacophony of tastes and voices open to the air and the sway of the season. It's good to be back.

SIX GRAIN CROSTINIS WITH PEA TENDRILS, THIMBLE CHEESE, AND AGED BALSAMIC

Makes 4 small crostini

Toast 2 slices Danish Pastry House six grain bread; cut in half diagonally. Spread each triangle with one Rosemary Hannahbell from Shy Brothers' Farm (about one tablespoon of soft, briny cheese). Top with pea tendrils and several drops of sweet aged balsamic vinegar. Enjoy immediately as an appetizer or light lunch.