I have so much to say, but no where to start.  When I’m at a loss, I usually retreat to the kitchen, so that’s what I’ll do now, and I’ll tell you that today, my kitchen was a hub of productivity.  We’re hosting Thanksgiving this (this?) Thursday (this Thursday?!), and I’m in full-on preparation mode.  Today alone, I dispatched several sticks of butter (pie crusts, resting in the fridge, awaiting their fillings; buttermilk biscuits, frozen hockey pucks at the moment, but flaky rounds, with any luck, come Thanksgiving), mixed together a batch of ice cream (bourbon-vanilla bean, of course), and baked up a thin pan of cornbread, destined for stuffing, after a nice few days of drying out.

Thanksgiving, I own you.

Nothing else seems much in control, though.  I look at my last post, and I absolutely cannot believe that it’s been over a month since we last talked.  For the most part, I’ve got good excuses—family and friends, and travels.  But, the truth is, there’s been a lot of work too, and a fall that slipped away in the blink of an eye.

Out of these busy weeks, a new weeknight staple has emerged—a quinoa salad that features roasted broccoli, the florets sweet and nutty, against a bright, sour dressing that softens beneath the creaminess of feta.  The whole thing is confetti-ed with diced red onion and red pepper flakes. And I cannot get enough.

We’ve been making it over and over.  And we’ll make it again tomorrow night, in fact, while the Thanksgiving preparations continue (turkey pick-up!  dry brine!  cashews!  ice cream churning!).

***

Looking for Thanksgiving inspiration? Check out the Thanksgiving recipe index.

***

Quinoa with Roasted Broccoli, Arugula & Feta

Yield: 2 main dish servings (or 4 side dish servings)

1 cup quinoa
2 cups water
kosher salt
1 head broccoli
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, divided
red pepper flakes
1 tablespoon grainy mustard, divided
1 lemon, freshly squeezed
2 cups baby arugula
1/4 cup crumbled feta

Preheat oven to 475.  Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and set aside.

Combine quinoa, water, and a big pinch of salt in a pot.  Cover and bring to a boil.  Reduce heat and cook for 20-25 minutes, until the quinoa has absorbed the water.  Remove from heat and set aside (keep covered).

Meanwhile, prepare the broccoli. Cut the florets into bite-sized pieces.  Trim the woody end from the stalks, and, using a vegetable peeler, trim the tough outside layer from the stalks.  Slice the stalks into coins.  Toss the florets and coins in 1 tablespoon oil, a pinch of salt, and a healthy pinch of red pepper flakes.  Roast in the preheated oven for 20-25 minutes, until the broccoli is browned in spots.

In a big bowl, whisk together the grainy mustard and lemon juice.  Whisk in the remaining olive oil.  Add the arugula.  Add the quinoa and broccoli, when they are cooked, and toss to wilt the arugula and coat the salad with dressing.

Top with feta and serve.

The kind of cooking that’s been happening in my kitchen lately is a summer kind of cooking.  Most of the time, it’s barely “cooking” at all.  It’s largely based on fresh produce—whatever has caught my eye.  Last weekend it was tomatoes, an heirloom variety that was deeply red and wonderfully misshapen.  They were sliced onto seeded bagels, under thin rounds of cucumbers and purple onions sliced into half moons.  They were stuffed into BLTs, mine doctored up with snipped chives, while Kevin’s gilded the lily with a fried egg.  They were diced into a salad—just the tomatoes, a crack of pepper, and crumbled feta.  Salt, too.  It’s the difference between a really great tomato and a transcendent one.  Yes, transcendent.  If there’s a cause for hyperbole, friends, it’s a ripe summer tomato.  It just is.

There’s been some more involved cooking and baking (a baked pasta for our friends who have a newborn; homemade burger buns for a BBQ last Saturday; a smoked pork butt; endless batches of my favorite ice cream), but even that has taken on summer’s rhythms.  I cook and bake in little pockets of time—when it’s raining, or after it’s dark, or before we set out on a giant walk.  I love that kitchen—I do—but it will be there in the fall and it will be there still in the (dare I say?) winter.

I can’t get enough blueberries, and wedges of watermelon have been calling to me.  Crisp white wine—as cold as possible—could not be more refreshing.

And corn, too.  Boiled, grilled, shaved from the cob—I’ll take it any which way.

But, with my back against the wall, I’d choose this warm corn chowder salad.  It’s quick and spicy and smoky and familiar.  It’s wonderful at any temperature, which makes it perfect for a picnic.  Picnic!  And, with that, I can guess my next summer cooking bender.

Warm Corn Chowder Salad
Adapted from Food & Wine

Serves 6-8

4 thick slices of bacon (4 ounces), chopped
1 pound Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch dice
1 jalapeno, minced
8 ears of corn, kernels removed
1 medium red onion, thinly sliced
1/4 cup cider vinegar
Salt
Snipped chives (optional)

In a large skillet, cook the bacon over moderately low heat, stirring a few times, until it is crisp, about 5 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the bacon to paper towels and let drain.

Pour off all but 3 tablespoons of the bacon fat in the skillet. Add the potatoes and cook over moderate heat until they start to brown, about 3 minutes. Stir and cook for about 2 minutes longer, until almost tender. Add the jalapenos and cook, stirring occasionally, until the potatoes and peppers are tender, about 5 minutes. Add the corn kernels and cook, stirring, until heated through, about 3 minutes.

Transfer the vegetables to a large bowl and stir in the onion, cider vinegar, and bacon. Season the salad with salt.  Garnish with chives (if desired) and serve.

We spent last weekend at Kevin’s grandmother’s house in Grand Beach—a little lakeside town just over the Indiana-Michigan border.  Grand Beach is only an hour’s drive or so from the Loop and it sits along the coastline of the same lake, but its tall, swishy, sunburned prairie grasses and its rolling hills and its fleet of golf carts, which commingle easily with cars on the roads, and its turreted vacation homes, many wrapped with wide porches, make it feel like it’s a world away from Chicago.

We’ve been going to the house for one weekend a summer for a while now—long enough to develop patterns and traditions.  Kevin’s parents usually drive out on Thursday or Friday, settling in and stocking the house with groceries.  Kevin and I usually jump in the car after work on Friday, arriving just in time for a quick cocktail on the deck as the big sun sends a brilliant twinkle across Lake Michigan as it dips below the horizon.  Then, it’s off to Timothy’s, a restaurant with screened windows and a piano player.  It’s always packed on summer weekend nights.

Dinner is followed by a visit to Oink’s, the local ice cream parlor, where the kitch-factor is very high (my favorite parking spot is called “Boss Hog,” while Kevin favors “Ham Radio”) and the ice cream is very good.  A scoop of butter pecan for me, please.  And by the time I pop the pointy tip of the sugar cone into my mouth, the work week feels miles away.

Saturday, everyone wanders into the kitchen as they wake up.  We cup mugs of coffee, discuss just how delicious Oink’s was, and—eventually—lace up our shoes and head out for a long walk.  Breakfast—this year, bagels picked up from Max & Benny’s on the way out of town the day before, along with a bowl of fruit, fresh from a Michigan fruit stand—is next and then it’s out to the pool.  A taxing afternoon ensues: reading, dozing, possibly sipping a beer, playing a few hands of cards.

After a day in the sun, there is nothing better than showering up and getting beautiful for dinner—and that’s what happens next.  This year, just before dinner, we took a walk down to the beach, which was basking in a lovely golden light.

Next up is dinner—probably my favorite part of the whole weekend.  The menu has been the same for a few years—and  that’s a good  thing.  Kevin’s dad ties a tenderloin of beef, into which he tucks thin slices of garlic just before putting it on the grill.  To the grill, he adds a wheel of brie, a brilliant idea that Kevin and I have adopted as our own, and foil-wrapped ears of sweet corn.

The rest of us set the table, pour  the wine, slice the bread, and pull the tomato-feta salad, assembled earlier that day, from the fridge.  Like the brie and the beef and the corn, the salad is a staple.  It also happens to be the perfect summer side—light and flavorful and colorful, each tiny tomato bursting with the taste of summer.  The sweetness of those tomatoes, alongside the sour of the vinegar and the salt of the feta, gives every bite a perfect balance of flavors.  I’m tempted to make it all the time at home, but you know what?  I think it’s best saved for that special weekend in Michigan.

More photos of the weekend here.

Tomato-Feta Salad
Ina Garten

Serves 12

4 pints grape tomatoes, red or mixed colors
1 1/2 cups small-diced red onion (2 onions)
1/4 cup good white wine vinegar
6 tablespoons good olive oil
1 tablespoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/4 cup chopped fresh basil leaves
1/4 cup chopped fresh parsley leaves
1 1/2 pounds feta cheese

Cut the tomatoes in half and place them in a large bowl. Add the onion, vinegar, olive oil, salt, pepper, basil, and parsley and toss well. Dice the feta in 1/2 to 3/4-inch cubes, crumbling it as little as possible. Gently fold it into the salad and serve at room temperature.

We’ve reached the point of the summer where I feel absolutely lavished by the season—its hot air and its sweeping, sun-singed blue skies and its meals taken outside and its swooping fireflies and its suddenly-full hydrangea bushes and its slow-paced strolls and its thwacking flip-flops and its long nights and its melting scoops of ice cream.

And then, as if this all weren’t enough, summer, as it stands now, has this: CORN.  The corn is here!  Man, I love corn.  It’s very possibly my favorite piece of summer produce—eaten straight off the cob (conjuring, every single time, that fantastic scene in What About Bob, where Bob mmmmmmm‘s his way through Fay’s corn), shaved off the cob and eaten straight up, charred by the grill, toasted in a skillet, decadently drenched in cream.  You could say that as Bubba is to shrimp, I am to corn.  That’s quite a claim, I know—but I think it fits.

And, really, corn’s the only the thing that drew me into the kitchen this week, when work has been crazy (which means my time for cooking adventures is limited) and when Kevin has been out of town (which means my normal (and favorite) dining partner is out of the mix).  I had a couple of ears, courtesy of Nichols Farm, in the bottom drawer of the fridge, rumbling around every time I opened the drawer, like a couple of fallen bowling pins.  With each clattering drawer-opening, I wondered what fate the corn would meet.

I found out on Wednesday night, when I got home too late, exhausted and hungry.  Without thinking much about it, I threw the dregs of a bag of farro into a deep skillet with some water.  Meanwhile, I cubed a couple of gorgeous tomatoes into our big wooden salad bowl.  Onto those I shaved the corn from the cobs, before tipping in a good amount of champagne vinegar, a few healthy grinds of pepper and a drizzle of olive oil.  There was something un-green about the whole thing, so, at the last minute, I tossed in a couple of handfuls of baby arugula.  When the farro had soaked up the water, becoming toothsome, I scraped it into the bowl, where its heat gently warmed the corn and wilted the arugula.

With a big bowl of the salad, I climbed the stairs to the roof, sank into my favorite deck chair and ate in the summer night—hot and still, quiet and glowy.  And, lo, was it ever good—all of it.  Summer, you spoil me.

Like I said, time was tight on Wednesday night, when I made this salad, so I don’t have any of the usual process photos.  But I loved the dish and wanted to share it with you even without the typical bevy of photos.  I threw in a few summer photos (from my Project 365 endeavor, which continues to chug along), for good measure.  To counter-balance his absence from the actual eating of this post’s recipe, you’ll notice that most of these photos feature Kevin.  It’s sappy, I know, but—hey—I like the guy.

Summer Farro Salad

Serves 1, generously (i.e., with leftovers)

As I said, I didn’t give this salad much thought when I was making it.  So the recipe that follows is loose and absolutely suited to my tastes; you should adjust it to fit your own.  In retrospect, I think I was drawing on this recipe, which I’ve made before, and this recipe, which caught my eye a while back, both of which were lodged somewhere in the subconscious, culinary corner of my brain.

olive oil, to taste
1/2 onion, diced finely
coarse salt, to taste
freshly-ground black pepper, to taste
1/2 cup farro
1 cup water
2 small, ripe tomatoes, chopped in large chunks
2 ears corn, husks removed and kernels shaved from the cob
2 handfuls baby arugula or other delicate green (alternatively, I bet a bunch of fresh herbs would be great)
a glug or so of champagne vinegar

Heat a couple teaspoons of olive oil in a pan over medium heat.  Add the onion, season with salt and pepper, and cook for several minutes, until the onions have softened and are becoming translucent.  Add the farro, stirring for a minute or so.  Add the water, cover the pan, and cook at a very gentle simmer, until the water is absorbed and the farro is soft (about 30 minutes).

Meanwhile, add the chopped tomatoes, shaved corn kernels and arugula to a large bowl.   Dress with vinegar and oil, using a bit more vinegar and oil than you would use for the tomatoes, corn and greens alone (so the farro can soak up the excess).

When the farro is cooked, scrape it into the bowl with the dressed tomato-corn mixture.  Toss to combine.  Season with salt and pepper, to taste.

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.