We’ve been home so infrequently this summer that it feels like a real treat to have a good old fashioned weeknight in.  It’s the mundane—a slow walk around the neighborhood, collecting our dry cleaning and grabbing a carton of eggs at the market; watering the flowers while the sun goes orange as it sets; sitting at the table on the deck long after we’re done eating dinner—that feels so good, so refreshing.  Since these nights have been few and far between, though, I’ve been relying on stand-by recipes: like this, this and this one.  Even where dessert for dinner guests is concerned, I’ve been—gasp—recycling recipes (for the record: you should make a batch of these, stuff them with excellent vanilla ice cream coated with mini chocolate chips and call it a chipwich … like, tonight).

But, this week, I’d had enough of the re-do’s.  We’d been through all of our old favorites once, twice, thrice this summer.  So I went hunting for new recipes.  On Monday, there were pork chops and halved plums grilled simply and served with a pile of greens—a meal inspired by The Publican’s current incarnation of its country ribs.  Tonight, we’re trying a new steak sandwich, which is generally a no-fail proposition.  We snuck in a dinner out on Tuesday night.  Which leaves us with Wednesday.

Oh, Wednesday.  It’s hard to be you, isn’t it?  You’re the calendar version of a middle child.  We adorn you with insulting names (Hump Day) and you are completely bereft of acronyms (TGIF) or catchy 80s tunes (Manic Monday).  And, to make matters worse, I assigned the most boring of this week’s new dinner recipes to you: a late summer spin on potato salad.  Bo-ring, right?

Well, actually, wrong.  This salad turned out to be quite beautiful and completely delicious.  I haven’t roasted anything in a while (it is August, after all, though you wouldn’t know it here in Chicago) and I forgot the magic it can work on a pile of vegetables—sending the potatoes into crisped outside-pillowy inside perfection and blistering the scallions and okra ever so slightly.   Into this, I folded quickly boiled kernels of fresh corn—which added a sparkle of color and sweetness.  This all got tossed in a rosemary-and-shallot-spiked vinaigrette and promptly became my go-to late summer dinner.  Good enough to render even a Wednesday memorable.

Roasted Potato & Okra Salad
Adapted from Gourmet

2 lb small potatoes such as fingerling, red, or yellow-fleshed
1 large bunch scallions, halved lengthwise and roughly chopped
2 large fresh rosemary sprigs, plus 1/2 teaspoon chopped
1/4 cup olive oil
2 1/4 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon black pepper
3/4 lb small (2- to 3-inch) okra
1 cup fresh corn (from 1 to 2 ears)
1 1/2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon finely chopped shallot

Roast potatoes and okra:

Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 450°F.

Halve potatoes lengthwise and toss with scallion pieces, rosemary sprigs, 2 tablespoons olive oil, 3/4 teaspoon salt, and 1/2 teaspoon pepper. Spread potato mixture in a large roasting pan and roast, stirring once, 20 minutes. Stir potatoes and add okra to pan, tossing to coat. Continue to roast until okra and potatoes are tender, about 30 minutes more.

Cook corn while potatoes roast:

Cook corn in 1 quart of salted boiling water for 3 minutes.  Drain and set aside.

Make dressing and assemble salad:

Whisk together lemon juice, shallot, chopped rosemary, and remaining 2 tablespoons oil, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and 1/2 teaspoon pepper in a large bowl until combined. Discard rosemary sprigs, then add hot potatoes and okra to dressing along with beans, corn, and salt to taste, tossing to combine.  Serve hot or warm.

As I made this salad, I remembered something I didn’t realize I had forgotten.  Sitting cross-legged, a bowl of shell peas in my lap, the memory came whooshing back to me, slipping over me and settling in like an old, worn-in sweatshirt: you might forget it’s stuffed in the corner of your closet, but once you find it, the comfort is undeniable.  You know, you just know, that you should take it out more often—wear it, appreciate it, savor it.

As I unzipped those peas, splitting open the pods, running my thumb along the pods’ spines, releasing the tiny peas one by one, I recalled the slow plink, ping, plink that a different bowl of peas used to make as they hit the emptied out Cool Whip container my grandma handed me when I was a girl, sitting on her back porch, just before dinner.  I could smell the pork chops, bone-in, on the grill, and could hear my grandpa’s gentle whistle, threading together a tune as he flipped the chops with a long, wood-handled spatula, and the sizzle each chop sent up when it hit the grill’s grates.  I could see the fireflies flickering around the garden—lush and full to the bursting.  It’s the same garden that produced those peas; they grew in a manner that made the child-size me think of the story of Jack and the Bean Stalk.  I could feel the first licks of a cool breeze creeping up off Lake Superior.  I could appreciate the stillness, the kind only found in tiny towns.

These peas, in other words, gave me back the memory of shelling peas on a regular old night spent at my grandparents’ house in Northern Minnesota in the summer.

I don’t remember how they cooked those peas, but I do remember eating at least as many as I shelled.  They were impossibly fresh and grassy, crunchy, sweet and a little starchy.  The taste was a shock at first: those peas bore no resemblance to the greyish-green contents of the cans that lined our cupboards.  These were something else altogether.

The 2009 peas went into a salad—bright and fresh and summery.  They sat atop a pile of baby arugula and ribbons of red-skinned carrots.  It all got doused in a lemony vinaigrette, spiked with smoked paprika, and topped with crumbled feta.  The forgotten memory might of have been a secret ingredient only I could taste, but the others at dinner that night quite liked the salad too.

Shell Pea, Carrot & Arugula Salad with Feta

1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1/4 teaspoon smoked paprika
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
sea or kosher salt, to taste
fresh-cracked pepper, to taste
3-4 cups baby arugula
4 carrots, shaved into ribbons with a vegetable peeler
1 1/2 cup freshly shelled peas
3/4 cup freshly-crumbled feta

Whisk together the lemon juice, mustard and paprika in the bottom of a large bowl.  Slowly whisk in the olive oil; season with salt and pepper.  Add the arugula, carrots and peas to the bowl; toss to combine.  Transfer the salad to a platter and top with feta.

Oh, dear.  It seems I’ve got a serious case of ants in my pants.  Or let’s call it wanderlust, maybe.  Yes, that’s better—more sophisticated, altogether grown up.  Wanderlust.  Whatever you call it, I’ve got it.  It all started in Boulder.  We were there last weekend for a wedding and, though I’d been there once before, the town thoroughly charmed me.

From the lively earthiness unfolding all day long on Pearl Street to the foothills that ring the town—punctuated by flat sheets of rock, jutting up into the sky (flatirons); from the stalls after stalls at the Saturday morning farmers’ market to the never ending games of croquet in my friends’ childhood backyards; from a serious commitment to beers to the little girl in the park asking her mom where she could compost the paper cup in her hands: it was my kind of town.  I could get used to this, I thought.

Which is trouble because, as you might recall, I’m headed to Sonoma and Napa in just a few hours.  If I’m already in a Boulder-addled state, I can only imagine what a punch the wine country will pack.  We might never come back.

But back to Boulder and the ants in my … er, wanderlust it’s unleashed in me.  If all those things I rattled off above weren’t enough, the town also proferred a restaurant that was truly meant for me.  It’s called The Kitchen and it sits on Pearl Street, a slim space that’s a mix of white and brick and black slate and weathered wood.  The menu is not large, but still it tempted me with at least a dozen options.  It was so good, dear readers, that we went there twice.  In two days.  It was that kind of perfect.  Of all the things we had there, the thing that stands out the most is the excellent use to which The Kitchen put chick peas, which were sprinkled throughout the menu.  So excellent, in fact, that even after two chick pea-laced meals at the restaurant, both Kevin and I came home hungering for more, which is how the salad below—a mish-mash if ever there was one—came to be.  We’re also hungering for more vacation—that wanderlust thing, again.   So we’ll see you on flip side.  If we come back, that is.

Chick Pea-Feta Salad

2 1/2 cups cooked chick peas
1/2 cup minced red onion
1/2 cup thinly sliced celery
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons sherry vinegar
1/4 cup crumbled feta
kosher or sea salt, to taste
fresh-cracked black pepper to taste

Combine all ingredients in a mixing bowl; stir to combine.  Serve at room temperature or chilled.

Potato salad is not a one-size-fits-all affair.   There are a lot of options out there.  Finding the right one is not unlike buying a new dress or a pair of jeans or (brace yourself) a bathing suit, in that you can’t just expect to breezily pluck the first one you see off the rack and expect it to fit like a glove.  You’ll need to try on various options for size and you’ll probably have to sift through dozens before finding one that suits you perfectly.

I suppose this is all on my mind because, with wedding season upon us, I’ve been on the hunt for a new dress.  I just got back from a shopping trip, in fact.  It’s a rainy, cold morning here in Chicago (more April than June, as has been the trend for the past two weeks running) and I figured shopping was as good a way to while away the gray day as any.  Sadly, I struck out in the dressing room: too short, too long, too casual, too formal, too clingy, too boring, too loud.  You name it, I tried it on this morning.  I will search the depths of my closet instead, I’ve decided.  I will find a dress already hanging in there that will work just fine.  I can’t take any more hangers, any more dressing rooms (even with the lure of their flattering light and deceptively-tilted mirrors), any more rainy shopping trips.

Though I seem to have failed in the dress department, I’m happy to report that I’ve had much better luck in the potato salad department lately.  I have finally found The One.  While others are too creamy, too mushy, too eggy, too bland, this was is none of those things.  It’s punchy and clean—and pretty, to boot.  It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for.

It employs tiny red potatoes, sliced thickly and boiled in salted water until they are just soft—the potato equivalent of pasta’s al dente.  The still-warm rounds go into a vinaigrette of sorts—heavy on the vinegar (sherry) and mustard (whole grain), bound up with your very best olive oil.

The kicker though is this: the salad is also flecked with tiny bits of bacon and bright green snipped chives.  They’re the final touch that sends this salad over the top—kind of like the effect the perfect bag or a smart pair of heels would would have on a  great dress.  Had I found a great dress, that is.

Potato Salad with Sherry Vinegar, Chives & Bacon

Printable Recipe

Serves 4-6

2 pounds baby red potatoes, scrubbed and sliced into 1/2-inch thick rounds
2 slices thick-cut bacon, minced
1 tablespoon whole grain mustard
1 tablespoon sherry vinegar
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1/4 cup snipped chives

Bring a pot of water to a boil.  Salt the water generously, add the potato rounds and cook until the potatoes are just tender.

Meanwhile, add the minced bacon to a dry skillet over medium heat; cook until the bacon is browned.  Transfer the bacon to a paper towel to drain.  In a large bowl, whisk together the mustard, vinegar, oil and bacon.

Drain the potatoes and add to the vinaigrette, along with almost all of the snipped chives.  Toss until the potatoes are well coated and have soaked up all the vinaigrette.  Transfer to a platter and scatter the remaining snipped chives on top.  Serve warm, at room temperature or cold (allow the salad to cool to room temperature before refrigerating it).

]]> http://thekitchensinkrecipes.com/2009/06/13/the-one/feed/ 21 http://thekitchensinkrecipes.com/2009/06/01/on-again/ http://thekitchensinkrecipes.com/2009/06/01/on-again/#comments Tue, 02 Jun 2009 03:31:50 +0000 Kristin at The Kitchen Sink http://thekitchensinkrecipes.com/?p=5514

For a long time, a restaurant was only suitable to me if the salad section of the menu included a caesar salad.  For those happy years, I’d crunch through caesar salads without a care in the world.  And then—somewhere around the early to midteen years—I was unfortunate enough to learn two facts: one about a certain caesar ingredient (anchovies) and the other about its nutritional data (specifically in the fat and calorie departments).

For my midteen-self these were dealbreakers both.  I felt duped: how could a salad be so sinful?  How could something so green be laced with hidden fish?  The caesar, it had forsaken me.

Fortunately, my stance on fish—even tiny canned ones—and fat grams has become more moderate over the years.  But I’ve just never felt the same about a caesar salad.  It’s fine in concept, but in practice, it is all too often over-dressed, gloppy and unsatisfying.

But a few weeks ago, my friend Brynn brought over a veritable garden patch worth of romaine, along with a freshly made batch of caesar dressing, creamy and flecked with cracked pepper.  Along with some golden croutons, it was the perfect salad.

Since then, I’ve been meaning to get the recipe from Brynn.  But before I got around to it, the June issue of Gourmet showed up, proffering a version of the salad shot through with basil—boasting freshness and herbalness.  Sold.

An egg and a garlic clove, some oil, the juice of a lemon and a palmful of basil sprigs later (and, fine, a squeeze from a tube of anchovy paste, but don’t tell anyone who doesn’t want to know), I am pleased to report that the caesar and I are back on again.  I anticipate making up for lost time all summer long.

Basil Caesar Salad
Gourmet

As promised, the addition of basil made this salad brighter and lighter-tasting than your traditional caesar.  But the traditional elements—the crunch of romaine, the kick of garlic, the richness of shredded parmesan, the deliciousness of caesar-swathed croutons—were all there too.

1 (10-inch) piece baguette, cut into 1-inch pieces
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil, divided
1 garlic clove
1 large egg
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon anchovy paste
1 cup basil leaves, coarsely chopped
1/2 cup flat-leaf parsley, coarsely chopped
1 package romaine hearts (1 pound), leaves separated and washed well, then halved crosswise
1 cup coarsely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

Preheat oven to 375°F with rack in middle.

Toss bread with 2 tablespoons oil and 1/4 teaspoon each of salt and pepper in a large 4-sided sheet pan, then spread out in 1 layer. Toast in oven, stirring halfway through, until golden, 12 to 15 minutes.

Meanwhile, with motor running, drop garlic into a food processor and finely chop. Add egg, lemon juice, anchovy paste, and 1/2 teaspoon pepper and pulse until combined. With motor running, add remaining 6 tablespoons oil in a slow stream, blending until emulsified. Add herbs and blend until dressing turns green and herbs are finely chopped.

Toss romaine with dressing, croutons, and half of cheese in a large bowl. Sprinkle with remaining cheese.

I’m well aware that this salad is unlikely to have the same appeal as that chocolate sheet cake I was fawning over a couple days ago, but I’m still going to try my best to convince you that the salad is every bit as a good as the sheet cake.  Better, even.  There, I said it.  I’ve probably either lost you or caught your attention—so farewell to the former and hello to the latter.

To be fair, I too questioned this recipe, which filled out the Mother’s Day brunch we hosted on Sunday.  The brunch otherwise consisted of tomato-feta strata, a giant platter of fruit, grilled breakfast sausages and a dozen or so members of Kevin’s immediate and extended family.   This line-up was almost perfect; all it needed was a salad and I had asparagus on the brain (don’t we all?).   Then I found this recipe, which looked promising, but my hang up was this: Dates?  Really?  I don’t love dates and before this salad I wasn’t even so sure I liked dates.  In fact, I’ve probably picked them out of salads and and baked goods many times before.  There may have been a bacon-wrapped exception to my no-dates policy, but that was it.   Then again, though, dates did seem kind of breakfast-y, so I went with it.

And I’m so thankful I did, because the dates are key to this salad.  They lend chew and sweetness—a perfect foil to the crunch of the asparagus, the meatiness of the walnuts, the salty nuttiness of the pecorino.  The salad was the undeniable hit of the brunch.  Don’t tell her I told you, but Kevin’s grandma stationed herself by the salad leftovers after brunch, as we tidied up the kitchen.  From her perch, she picked up stray pieces of asparagus and pecorino between her thumb and index finger and popped them in her mouth.   If I hadn’t been up to my elbows in dirty dishes, I would’ve joined her.

Grandma and others demanded the recipe.  So, without further ado …

Asparagus Salad with Walnuts, Dates & Pecorino
Adapted from Food & Wine

1 1/4 cups walnuts
1 small shallot, minced
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons walnut oil
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
2 pounds asparagus, thinly sliced on the bias and blanched for 2 minutes in salted, boiling water
3/4 cup dried pitted Medjool dates, quartered lengthwise
3 ounces dry pecorino cheese, shaved with a vegetable peeler

Preheat the oven to 350°. Spread the walnuts in a pie plate and toast for about 8 minutes, until lightly golden and fragrant. Let cool completely, then coarsely chop.

In a small bowl, combine the shallot with the lemon juice. Whisk in both oils and season with salt and pepper.

In a large bowl, toss the toasted walnuts, asparagus, dates and pecorino. Add the dressing and toss. Serve at once.

I had such high hopes for this salad.  It promised color and crunch and punchy flavors—all the things I’m yearning for these days.  And my sister, in town for a mere two weeks, had specially requested some type of salad featuring Asian flavors.  I was aiming to please—both Ali, and her request, and myself, with my springish tastes.  But, well, but.

I left the steak on the grill a minute or two too long (out of practice), the dressing was a bit sweet, the mint was overpowering.   But as Kevin, Ali and I tucked into it last week, none of us complained.  Not one little whine.

You see, it’s a treat to be together again—the Family Dinner Crew reunited.  Plus, that night, at least, it was warm and sunny and we were basking in Spring: sockless and smiling.  Oh, and there is the matter of the extended happy hour we partook in just before eating this salad.  I think that helped too.

Would I make it again?  Not without significant tweaks: slashing the amount of sugar, dialing back the mint, punching up the pepper flakes.  That said, I’m thrilled to have the same dinner company this week.   The weather has since taken a turn for the worst (snow?  really?), so I am hoping that the food will take a turn for the best.  It only seems fair.

The recipe for this Thai Steak Salad is here.

I recently realized that one of the main things lacking from my winter diet was a crunch.  Think about it.  So many classically winter foods are soft or creamy—either in their natural state (citrus; fresh pasta) or rendered that way by braising, roasting, mashing, simmering and pureeing.  Winter cooking has a way of transforming the most rock-hard of ingredients—rutabaga; butternut; dried beans—into creamy, velvety dishes.  And all that smooth, warm savoriness was lovely for the six months that are Chicago’s winter, but I’m ready to move on.  Forget al dente, I want a real crunch.

And that’s where this salad comes in.  It couldn’t be simpler and it involves spring vegetables—spindly carrots; magenta radishes; delicate scallions—that should be creeping into your market soon, if they haven’t already.  The scallions are slivered and the carrots and radishes are sliced into disks as thin and colorful as tulip petals.  These are tossed in the simplest of vinaigrettes: lime juice, excellent olive oil, kosher salt.  Finally, fold in a handful of minced cilantro, allowing it to distribute throughout the salad like green confetti.  Let it sit for ten minutes or so, to let the flavors mingle.

Then, eat it how you wish.  In the 36 hours after I invented the salad, I ate the salad (1) tucked into a warm tortilla, along with spice-rubbed slices of pork tenderloin; (2) straight up; (3) atop a pile of arugula, along with some crescents of buttery avocado.  With each helping, I reveled at the crunch, crunch, crunch—a robust workout for my previously-hibernating molars.

Really, this salad is the whole package in terms of things that winter food is not: crunchy, as I’ve mentioned; cool; bright; light; colorful.  I’d even go as far as to call it zingy.  I challenge you to find a zingy mashed potato, or a colorful, crunchy one.  Just try.

And all of this is precisely why I intend to make this salad over and over again in the next few weeks.  Even if there’s snow on the ground, I want spring in my mouth.

Carrot-Radish Salad with Lime & Cilantro

3 cups thinly sliced, trimmed and peeled carrots
1 cup thinly sliced, trimmed radishes
1 cup thinly sliced, trimmed scallions
1 lime, juiced
extra virgin olive oil, to taste (about 1 tablespoon)
kosher or sea salt, plus more for sprinkling
1/4 cup minced cilantro

Place the carrots, radishes and scallions in a large bowl.  In a small bowl, whisk together the lime juice, oil and salt.  Pour the lime mixture over the carrot mixture; toss to coat.  Fold in the cilantro.  Allow to sit, at room temperature or in the fridge, for at least 10 minutes before serving.  Serve cold or at room temperature, with a sprinkling of salt, if desired.

My girlfriends and I threw a bridal shower for our friend Emily on Saturday night. It wasn’t a run-of-the-mill shower, by any means. It was at night, for one thing. And we traded dainty cups of tea for icy blood orange margaritas. Oh, and one other thing: the bride was already married! (She went and had such a quick engagement that we didn’t have time to fête her before the nuptials; thankfully, we (and she) subscribe to the better late than never philosophy.) All in all, the tequila and the darkness and the married lady made for a great bridal shower.

Surprising no one, I jumped at the chance to cook for the shower. I’ll admit that the first item on the menu was the margaritas. But today’s recipe was the second thing I added to the menu. I knew Emily liked chickpeas and I did all sorts of brainstorming for a chickpea dish. Again and again, I came back to a chickpea salad that has become a staple for us since I discovered it on Orangette.

Not willing to relinquish my original margarita plan, I decided to give the chickpea salad a latin twist to fit our fiesta theme. I traded the lemon juice in the original recipe for lime juice and used grated manchego in place of grated parmesan. I also threw in some minced cilantro and finely chopped red onion. But I heeded Molly’s keys to the recipe: a good quality canned bean and excellent olive oil. Salt (I used kosher) is important too; taste as you go until you’ve got just enough to make all the flavors sing.

The original recipe is hard to beat, but this incarnation was pretty great too. The lime juice and olive oil melt the manchego into an almost creamy vinaigrette that wraps up the meaty beans. And the flecks of purple onion and grassy herbs give a little pop of brightness, both in terms of color and flavor. It was right at home with the margaritas and, even more importantly, it met the guest of honor’s high chickpea standards.

Chickpea Salad with Cilantro and Lime
Adapted from Orangette (original recipe here)

3 15-ounce can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
1 tablespoon fresh lime juice
1 1/2 tablespoons best quality olive oil
1/2 cup finely diced red onions
1/4 cup minced cilantro
1/4 cup loosely packed shredded manchego cheese
big pinch kosher salt, plus more to taste

Combine all ingredients in a bowl, and stir gently to mix. Taste, and adjust seasoning as necessary. Serve immediately, or chill, covered, until serving.

Yield: 6-8 servings

So.  This salad.  Well, hmmm, let’s see.  I’m not sure what to say about it.  For one thing, it’s not the gingerbread cake I made on Sunday and hoped to tell you about today, because that cratered while it baked and then refused to dislodge itself from its pan (still producing delicious crumbs, though, I assure you).  And it’s also not the newest soup to grace my Dutch oven twice in the last month, because while that soup is incredibly comforting and bright and hearty, it’s also incredibly un-photogenic.

And, while we’re at it, it wasn’t the Chicago-style deep dish we made the weekend before last,  either, because we ate that long after sundown and we hungrily ate it, flashless and thus photoless.   (Don’t worry, it will have an encore very soon.) Which, I suppose, brings me back to the salad.

You see, while the salad itself was just okay, there was something completely awesome about making it.  While we made it, we snapped photos of it using my new flash!  For my birthday-slash-blogoversary, Kevin surprised me with an external flash.  Yes, I am indeed the luckiest gal this side of the Mississippi.

These were the first photos we took with the flash and it probably shows.  And a couple weeks later, I’m still scaling the very steep learning curve, but I am so excited about the prospect of taking photos after the late, late hour of 4 p.m.  But, still, I’m not that excited about this salad.  I love all the components, but it just didn’t come together for me.  In the recipe’s defense, I did a lot of tweaking with it: swapping endive out in favor of arugula, trading dried cranberries for dried cherries, adding toasted walnuts, and so forth.  I should really give it another try, but I’m too busy getting to know the flash.  You understand, right?

The recipe is here.