TheKitchenSinkRecipes.com

to fix that

Kristin at The Kitchen Sink — Wed, 12 Jun 2013 13:36:05 +0000

During the year or two when I wasn’t posting much here, I noticed a change in my cooking. It was less adventurous, which was likely at least in part a byproduct of the general life chaos that also required me to spend less time here. But it wasn’t just that—this site compels me to seek out new and different recipes, and that inspiration is one of my favorite things about having a blog. Without the site prodding me along, I stuck to a stable of tried-and-true recipes.

It wasn’t all bad while I was away, though. I tinkered with and perfected old favorites, and—overall—my cooking was much less recipe-driven. I often found myself cooking based on what was on hand, using the methods that I already knew, and striving for the flavors I know I love. They were straightforward dishes, and I didn’t record the recipes on paper or photograph the final product. Favorites would emerge, and I’d make those dishes over and over, a slow evolution unfolding over time, until they were just right.

More than once, someone has asked me for a recipe for one of those dishes, and I’ll look for a link from this site to send along, only to find that the recipe, born during the time when I wasn’t posting much here, never made it to the site. I plan to fix that.

Of course, many of our favorite dishes have been featured on this site, and we often find ourselves pulling up those recipes as we get ready to make dinner. When we moved, we decided to station a desktop that wasn’t getting much use on the breakfast bar in our new kitchen. So, these days, I pull up my recipes there, and tilt the monitor toward my cutting board. Before that, I’d fish out my iPhone and squint my way through the recipe on the small screen, smudging up my phone as I went along.

These options required a series of clicks to get to my favorite recipes, so I decided to pull my go-to recipes together on a single page to ease the process of hunting for them. A new Favorite Recipes page is now live (you can access it in the lefthand column), but I’ve got some work to do to add the lost recipes from the past year or two that haven’t yet made it here. I’m starting with my favorite roasted potatoes and chimichurri sauce.

These potatoes are a perfect example of a very simple recipe that becomes something really special by adhering to a few particulars—the right heat (high), vehicle (a piece of parchment paper makes a world of difference), method (it’s critical to arrange the potatoes cut-side down, and to avoid over-crowding), and amount of salt (a lot). As for the chimichurri, it’s not a classic version by any means, but it’s one I’ve settled on after many (many, many) batches. It’s zippy and fresh and assertively- (but not overwhelmingly-) garlicky. We spoon it atop grilled steaks, and set out a little bowl for dipping (a sure-fire way to improve the already wonderful roasted potatoes, which I often make along with some simply-dressed greens to round out the meal). The sauce is the ideal condiment, and it shows up at a good deal of our summer barbecues, so I’m so glad it’s finally found its way to this site now.

Best Roasted Potatoes
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Serves 4

8 cups small potatoes (like fingerlings or new potatoes), halved or quartered

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1 teaspoon kosher salt

freshly cracked pepper, to taste
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Preheat oven to 475 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
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Meanwhile, in a large zip-top bag, combine the potatoes, oil, salt and pepper; seal the bag and toss well to combine. Arrange the oiled potatoes on the lined baking sheet, taking care to ensure that the potatoes are all cut side down, in a single layer.

Roast the potatoes for 30-45 minutes (the time will depend on your oven’s heat, the size of the potatoes, etc.). Starting at the 30-minute mark, check on the potatoes every five minutes or so. They’re done when the skins are pleasantly wrinkled and the cut sides are well browned.

Chimichurri Sauce
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Yields about 1 cup of sauce

1 cup basil leaves

1/2 cilantro leaves

1 garlic clove, peeled

1 teaspoon red pepper flakes

2 tablespoons lime juice

kosher salt, to taste

about 1/4 cup olive oil (more ore less to achieve your desired consistency)
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Pulse the basil, cilantro, pepper flakes, lime juice and a big pinch of salt in a food processor until the herbs are well-minced. With the motor running, add the oil in a steady stream and process until a loose sauce forms. Taste and add additional salt if necessary. Serve alongside roasted potatoes (recipe above) and/or grilled steaks.

a place that you know

Kristin at The Kitchen Sink — Wed, 05 Jun 2013 19:51:19 +0000

I walked to the dry cleaners yesterday, which was a hot, sunny day in Seattle, a city that people say rarely sees the sun and never gets hot, so I may be breaking some kind of let’s-keep-this-our-little-secret Seattle code by even mentioning these pleasant conditions, but I’m new here, and I haven’t totally learned the code just yet. Anyway, a few stray, puffy clouds floated in the broad, blue sky and as I climbed the steep, narrow stairway that cuts a path out of our little neighborhood and out onto the main drag, I turned around to take it all in.

From those stairs, I can see all the way down the hill into Ballard, and, behind it, slices of the sparkling ship canal and the blue and red hulls of the big boats anchored there. I can see the slope up to Queen Anne on the other side of the water, and way off in the distance, I can see the jagged, still-snow-draped Olympics. The latest-blooming flowers (poppies and peonies and roses, at the moment!) edge the sidewalks, and succulents crawl up mossy rock walls. I can hear the bellow of shipping horns and the whisper of the tall, swaying pines, and power lines criss-cross overhead.

We live here!, I said to myself. I turned around, finished the climb up the steps, and continued on my walk, lost in thought, my feet carrying me where I needed to go, tracing the path by habit, which goes to show that while I’m still swept up in the awe of this new place, it’s really starting to become home, a place that we know. Yes, we live here. Before I knew it, I was headed back down those steps, my mind still meandering. And, then, my phone somehow slipped from my hands, clattered down the stairs, and bounced over the railing and into the bushes. This, of course, snapped me out of my reverie. I chased my phone down the stairs, hopped over the railing (oh, what a sight I must have been!) and foraged in the bushes for my phone (which, by some miracle, was as good as new!). I clambered back onto the staircase and brushed myself off. And there it was again—that big sweeping view—and I took it in again before I reached the bottom of the stairs and made my way home.

Seattle’s felt a lot like this lately, for me—a mix of still-new wonderment and the mindless, comforting familiar of a place that you know. We had a close friend, the best man at our wedding, visit us last weekend (it if seems like I’m always mentioning guests, it’s because we’re basically operating a B&B, which I love), and it was a treat to have favorite places to bring him and favorite things to do with him. When our first guests were here back in April, our sightseeing mainly involved the grocery store, and, if we were very lucky, the playground down the street.

On Saturday night, after the baby was asleep, Kevin and our friend went out for dinner, and I stayed behind with Avery, and made myself dinner. I had bought some shrimp and didn’t have much of a plan beyond that. I rummaged through the pantry, and settled on risotto.

I make risotto every couple weeks, so I made it as I normally do, but I planned to swirl in some chives and crushed San Marzano tomatoes and to top it with sauteed shrimp. I leaned my hip up against the counter as I mindlessly stirred and stirred the rice, ladling in spoonfuls of broth until the magic trick that is risotto was done. The addition of tomatoes provided a new rosey hue and some tang, and the speckle of snipped chives brought a faint garlic note. The fat, pink shrimp rounded it out into a meal—a risotto unlike any I’ve made before. Here, too, I found well-worn comfort, with enough new thrown in to make me stop and appreciate.

Risotto with Shrimp, Tomatoes & Chives

Serves 2

2 tablespoons olive oil, divided
1 yellow onion, diced
1 cup arborio rice
kosher salt, to taste
1/2 cup white wine
4 cups low-sodium chicken or vegetable broth (or, if you’ve got it, shrimp/seafood stock)
1/2 cup canned crushed tomatoes
1/2 cup shredded parmesan
1/4 cup minced chives
a dozen or so medium-sized shrimp, peeled and deveined
red pepper flakes, to taste

In a medium skillet with deep sides, heat 1 tablespoon of the olive oil over medium heat. Add the onion and cook until translucent (several minutes). Add the rice, season with salt, and cook for a minute or so, stirring to coat the rice with the oil. Add the wine, stirring and cooking until the wine is absorbed. Add 1 cup of the broth/stock, stirring and cooking until the broth/stock is absorbed. Continue to add the broth/stock, a half-cup at a time, stirring and cooking until the broth/stock is absorbed with each addition.

Meanwhile, heat the remaining tablespoon of oil in another skillet over medium-high heat. Add the shrimp, and season with salt and red pepper flakes. Cook until the shrimp has just turned pink, flipping once. Set aside.

Once the risotto has absorbed all the broth/stock, stir in the parmesan, chives, and shrimp and serve.

picnic provisions

Kristin at The Kitchen Sink — Thu, 30 May 2013 03:28:27 +0000

Ever since Kevin and I spread out a couple of beach towels at Golden Gardens, and unpacked our little feast of bread and cheese and cured meat and salads, I’ve been thinking a lot about picnics, and I’ve realized that picnicking is one of my favorite ways to eat. I’m not strictly referring to checked-blankets-in-a-grassy-clearing affairs, although those are quite lovely. I’ll basically take a picnic any which way, whether it’s under a big leafy tree, on the side of a hiking trail, beneath a canopy of fireworks, in an airplane seat, in the lawn seats at an outdoor concert, or on the living room floor on a rainy day.

Kevin and I were in Napa over the Memorial Day weekend (first post-baby trip (thank you grandma!)!), and we had a stellar picnic on Saturday. We picked up provisions at one of my favorite picnic-minded shops, the Oakville Grocery, and the picnic hit all the right notes. It inspired me to pull together some picnic-packing tips and recipes, which I’ve set out below.

Select Items that Travel Well

Picnic food must satisfy one fundamental criterion: it doesn’t need to be hot or cold, and it will hold up during the journey. The best choices are those foods that get better as they travel from your kitchen to your picnic blanket. Think quick-pickled items (like these); grain and/or produce-based salads that improve over time, as their flavors mingle (lots and lots of ideas for this component in the archives); and pressed sandwiches (like these) or hearty pasta salads. Be sure to also give some thought to ease of serving (lean toward single-servings and avoid things that require slicing) and eating (lean toward things that you can eat with your hands and avoid things that require utensils other than a fork). These rules apply to dessert, too—opt for slices of cake wrapped in paper, a tin of brownie squares or cookies, or hand pies.

Supplement At the Market
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Picnics are rarely an entirely made-from-scratch situation. Unless, of course, your make your own cheese and cure your own meat and bake your own baguettes (and, if you do, then please invite me to your picnic). So embrace this, and supplement several homemade items with a few purchased items, like a wheel of soft cheese or a few rounds of spicy salami or a bar of best-quality chocolate. Specialty food stores or good grocery stores will usually have what you need, but your local farmers’ market should provide plenty of fare, too (and you can pick up a little basket of perfectly-ripe, fresh, local fruit, to boot!).

Don’t Forget the Essentials

It’s the worst to pack an elaborate spread, tuck it into a basket, arrive at your picnic spot, and realize … you forgot the utensils. Or the napkins. Or a blanket to sit on. Solution: put together a quick picnic kit, so you’re picnic-ready all summer long. I’ve included a “recipe” for a picnic kit, below.

Pack a Flask

If it’s a pretty silver one, you might even feel classy doing so. But I have it on good authority (because, obviously, I’d never do such a thing) that a Nalgene bottle does the trick, too. Stick with whatever suits your fancy here, but some lovely choices include moscow mules or homemade lemonade straight-up or spiked with bourbon or vodka (shake up the cocktails before you go, so you can simply pour out drinks from the flask, or, um, Nalgene bottle). Sangria would be a natural, too.

Go Classic

For me, the classic picnic line-up is just like the one we assembled in Napa: bread (we chose a baguette, though crisp flatbreads or a seeded loaf work too), a couple of cheeses (typically something soft and something hard, like the Cowgirl Creamery Mt. Tam and aged cheddar we selected), cured meat (we tend to lean toward the spicy here, so it’s no surprise that we snapped up some slices of Oakville Grocery’s ghost pepper salami), some salads (grain salads are a favorite, and the snap pea-bulgur one we got on Saturday didn’t disappoint), and something cool to drink (no choice but a chilled Napa white (when in Napa …), but when we’re not in Napa, see above re: flask).

Or Don’t, And Consider A Theme Instead

If the classic picnic line up gets tired (ha), fear not! Vary your picnic menu by focusing on a certain cuisine: Southern (leftover fried chicken, biscuits, pimento cheese, a vinegar-y cucumber salad, watermelon slices); notalgic brown bag (pb&j sandwiches, potato chips, fruit salad, oatmeal cookies); an array of Spanish tapas. Or alter the selection to fit the time of day, because who could say no to a breakfast picnic before noon (breakfast burritos, wrapped in foil, fresh fruit, scones) or a dessert-only picnic after dark?

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I’ve added the links to the picnic recipes highlighted in this post to the “Picnic” section of the Summer Recipe Index. It’s cool and rainy and Seattle, but with Memorial Day behind us, I’m looking toward summer. I’ll be back with a new “real” recipe soon!

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Picnic Kit (for 4)

1 cheese knife

1 small cutting board

4 forks

4 cloth napkins

2 bottles sparkling water

4 small glasses or cups

4 sturdy plates (such as these)

1 large thin blanket, or several large beach towels

2 tea towels (for clean up)

1 trash bag (for clean up)

Place all items in the bottom of a large basket or a big canvas bag. Keep handy all summer long, so you can simply add picnic provisions and go.

xxx

left to my own devices

Kristin at The Kitchen Sink — Thu, 23 May 2013 15:22:55 +0000

Well—another Seattle first is in the books. Kevin’s first business trip. He’s in Los Angeles for the week, so Avery and I are on our own for a few days. In the evenings, I suppose that not much changes for Avery (aside from her missing out on the generally more hilarious and entertaining and handsome parent). Every night, she still dines in her high chair before a bath, some milk, and bedtime.

Once she’s down, though, the nights are pretty different for me. They’re more quiet and still, for one. At times, they can feel a bit empty and lonely, but I usually find a peaceful pleasure in them. I spend very little time alone these days, and it’s something that I miss.

Dinner is also different, and I try to find the silver lining there too. I migrate toward vegetables that I love, but that Kevin will only tolerate, and they typically wind up in a warm salad. The recipe tends goes something like this:

[insert vegetable], cooked simply + [insert grain of choice] +

baby greens + zippy dressing + feta.

It’s not rocket science, but it hits the spot every time. I sometimes wonder if, left to my own devices, I’d eat a variation of this meal every single night.

For the grain component, I most often go for quinoa, but farro is also in heavy rotation. Brown rice, barley, millet, or even pasta and the like would all stand in well, too. The dressing called for in my little equation is always the same—olive oil whisked into a coarse, grainy mustard that’s been thinned with some lemon juice or vinegar. For my tastes, the more pucker-y, the better. For the baby greens, I’ll toss in a handful of whatever I have on hand, letting the leaves wilt against the warmth of the just-cooked grains. You could use herbs instead of (or in addition to) baby greens, or heartier greens that have been sauteed, or you could skip the greens altogether. But I’m afraid that the feta is non-negotiable. It, too, will soften under the heat of the salad, just enough to lend a creamy cohesiveness to the whole thing, while also providing a salty tang.

The most variable component in this salad is the vegetable. My choice is usually guided by the season (this summer version was born during another one of Kevin’s business trips, and it’s a keeper), and this week’s version was no exception.

I had picked up a couple bunches of radishes at the market last Sunday—a mix of long and skinny ones with magenta midsections that fade into white ends, and tiny, jewel-colored ones, and the regular old red round ones. I halved most of the radishes (leaving the teeny ones whole, and quartering the big guys), and sliced a bundle of asparagus into small pieces, and roasted it all with olive oil, salt and red pepper flakes.

Under the blast of hot heat, the radishes’ harsh bite slips away and a faint sweetness replaces it. Meanwhile, the asparagus become nutty and crisped in spots. The result is wonderful as the final element in the equation. Tossed together, it was my ideal single gal meal.

Quinoa Salad with Roasted Radishes & Asparagus

This will make enough for dinner for one, with some leftovers for lunch the next day. When I ate the leftovers, I added a bit of snappy diced cucumber and I definitely appreciated the added crunch, so I’ve listed it below, as an optional element.

Serves 1-2

2 cups radishes, trimmed and halved (or whole, if tiny, or quartered, if large)

1 bundle asparagus, trimmed and sliced into 1-inch pieces

olive oil, to taste

salt, to taste

1/2 cup quinoa

1 tablespoon grainy mustard

juice of 1/2 lemon, plus additional wedges for serving

2 cups baby greens (such as baby arugula, spinach or kale)

1/2 cup chopped cucumber, optional

crumbled feta, to taste

Preheat the oven to 425 and line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Spread the sliced radishes and asparagus on the prepared baking sheet; drizzle with some olive oil (about a tablespoon), and sprinkle on a couple pinches of salt and a big pinch of red pepper flakes. Toss to coat. Roast the vegetables for 10-15 minutes, until blistered and browned in spots. Set aside.

Meanwhile, in a large saucepan, combine quinoa, 1 cup of water, and a healthy pinch of salt. Cover, bring to a boil, and reduce heat and simmer (with the lid on) until the liquid is absorbed—about 20 minutes. Set aside; keep covered.

Meanwhile, in the bottom of a large salad bowl, whisk the lemon juice into the mustard. Whisk in some olive oil (about a tablespoon). Add the baby greens, cucumber (optional), feta, roasted vegetables and cooked quinoa to the bowl with the dressing. Toss to combine. Serve, with lemon wedges (if desired).

that friday feeling

Kristin at The Kitchen Sink — Fri, 17 May 2013 16:10:43 +0000

Oh, my. Thank you, all of you, for being here, and thank you to the many of you who wrote such seriously nice things in response to my last post. If I felt re-energized and newly-inspired before I wrote that post, well, now I have that big, happy swelling in my chest—the one you get when you know something is right. So, thank you.

Moving on — Friday! That’s where are now, and isn’t it just glorious? Nothing beats that Friday feeling of possibility, when we’re right on the verge of very good things. The photo right below, which I took last fall, always evokes that feeling for me. I took this one Friday evening, when Avery was still brand new, as we walked to meet Kevin, who was on his way home from the train after work. As we met on the sidewalk, the stroller between us, I felt as excited as he looked—a whole weekend for the three of us stretching out ahead of us.

Fast forwarding, last Friday at around this time, I found a couple of bundles of ramps at the Market, and, as has become my annual tradition, I got a little swoon-y. Avery, on the other hand, was rather meh about the whole thing (see below).

Later that night, after we got Avery (freshly bathed and smelling better than anything else in the world) down to sleep and before we ate the gorgeous crabs we talked about last time, we grilled a flatbread that showcased the ramps. We used our go-to pizza dough recipe, which I stretched into an oblong shape a little longer than the ramps. Next, I spooned a bit of spicy Dijon mustard on top of the dough, sprinkled on some grated gruyere, and laid out the ramps—left whole, with only the root ends trimmed a bit—on top of the cheese. After a dusting of red pepper flakes and coarse salt, the whole thing went on the grill until the crust was golden and the ramp greens were just starting to char at the edges. Sliced into squares, it was the perfect start to our crab feast, along with a cold glass of white wine.

I hope your weekend holds lots of good things—produce-based and otherwise.

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If you’re lucky enough to get your hands on some ramps this spring, I highly recommend this flatbread. Other ideas for ramps: ramp pesto, ramp chimichurri, and springtime pasta.

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Flatbread with Ramps & Gruyere

Serves 4 (as a starter/side)

I know that ramps are elusive, and their season is fleeting, so I think you could use chives here, skinny scallions, or spring onions sliced lengthwise in place of the ramps. You’ll miss the ramps’ mild garlic-y note, though, so you might add a little roasted garlic (or maybe a bit of oil infused with a clove of garlic?) if you make one of these substitutions. We made our flatbread on the grill, but I think it would work well in a very hot oven, as well.

1 1/4 cups all purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more for topping
1/4 teaspoon instant yeast
1 1/2 teaspoons olive oil
1/2 cups room-temperature water

cornmeal, for dusting

2 tablespoons Dijon mustard

1 cup grated gruyere

1 bunch ramps (8-10 ramps), washed and root ends trimmed

pinch red pepper flakes

parchment paper

Whisk together the flour, sugar, salt and yeast in a medium mixing bowl. Add the oil and water; stir vigorously until the ingredients are combined. Set the dough aside to rest for 5 minutes. On a lightly floured counter, knead the dough for 3 to 5 minutes, adding more water or flour if necessary. Transfer the dough to an oil lined bowl; allow to rest for 1 hour.
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Place a pizza stone on the grill. Preheat the grill to high heat.
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Meanwhile, on a piece of parchment paper that’s been dusted with cornmeal, stretch the dough into an oblong oval, just a bit longer than the ramps. Smear the mustard on the dough, leaving a small border. Top the mustard with the grated cheese. Lay the ramps out on top of the cheese. Using a pair of scissors, trim the parchment paper so it’s just a bit larger than the flatbread (so the paper doesn’t burn on the grill).
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Transfer the flatbread (atop the parchment) to the pre-heated pizza stone. Grill until the crust and cheese are golden brown. The ramp greens may start to char a bit, and that’s okay. Remove from the grill and discard the parchment paper. Slice into squares and serve.

back here

Kristin at The Kitchen Sink — Wed, 15 May 2013 21:40:50 +0000

I’ve been meaning to write this post, but I haven’t been able to find the words. As I sit here, I still don’t have the words, but, then, I wonder if you ever do before you put fingers to keyboard, in an effort to pull sentences from that jumble of thoughts in your head and the pangs in your heart and the uneasiness in your gut. So, I suppose, here goes.

I started this site more than five years ago. Kevin and I were newly married and living in Chicago, where Kevin was working for a small company and I was finishing law school. In the hundreds and hundreds of days since then, so much has changed. We’ve now been married for almost six years, we have a beautiful baby girl, we live in Seattle, Kevin works for a large company, and I’ve been practicing law for nearly five years, though I now work out of our home. And this site has seen us through it all.

When I began writing here, it was because I had time on my hands and I wanted a challenge and a creative outlet. I posted almost daily (!) for a long time, and the happiest parts of my days (while Kevin was at work, at least) were those spent working on this site. After law school, I had less spare time, but for several years, this site still hummed along, in sync with the rhythms of our life. On the weekends, we happily cooked and ate meals, and I shared them here, offering a snapshot into the loveliest of our days, through photos and stories, and skipping right past the mundane, whirlwind week days. At other times, life was hard and messy and exhausting, as it sometimes is, and I wasn’t as thrilled to share those times here, so, for long stretches, this space would fall quiet.

And then Avery was born, and everything turned upside down. My heart felt split wide open, with more joy and love than I could have imagined. It also felt raw and exposed, laid bare to the fatigue and anxiety and emotion that also marked those early days and weeks (and, if I’m honest, months). Avery was the new axis on which our world was turning, and I didn’t feel like I had the bandwith to focus on something like this site. So I announced her arrival, and promptly stopped posting. Every once in a while, I’d make something that was pretty and the camera would be nearby (from Avery’s most recent photoshoot), so I’d pick it up and snap a few photos. A week would go by and I’d cobble together a couple of paragraphs, and hit “publish” on a post. I’d be re-energized by the exercise, and vow to come back again regularly. But, inevitably, days would slide into weeks and that would somehow snowball into months. Sigh.

I suppose I didn’t feel like I had the time (or that I should make the time) for a hobby. Of course, I didn’t let go of all of my hobbies when the baby was born. But those that I made time for all seemed to be serving as a means to an end. I still cooked (we have to eat), jogged and practiced yoga (good health, and all that), walked through the city (fresh air for Avery, in her stroller, too), read (I was in a book club that was one of my favorite social outings), took photos (Avery’s baby book), ate out (date nights, I’d decided, were a must, though we hued to our old standby restaurants so as not to squander the opportunity on a so-so meal), and traveled (since Avery arrived, exclusively to visit family). Everything else—watching sports, trying new restaurants, reading magazines, shopping for bargains, going to the movies—seemed to fall away.

When we moved to Seattle, I cut back on my hours at work and we started to settle into a groove. I felt like I had a little more time, and there was so much good stuff in my life that I really wanted to share here. So I started posting again. And, though it really shouldn’t have shocked me much, I realized that, even though I had returned, most of the readers had not.

And old blog friends had made new circles of friends. I’d been following those old friends on their sites and on Twitter and Instagram, cheering their successes as they launched small businesses or fell in love or published cookbooks or traveled the world or became freelancers or had babies. But I’d been doing it silently, from a distance. Who could blame them for moving on?

And then, after about a month of posting more regularly, my site started having maintenance issues. We had visitors in town, our sitter was about to go on vacation, work had become busy, and Avery was cutting her first tooth, with the crankiness to show for it. Dealing with the maintenance issue was the last thing I wanted to do.

I began to wonder, more and more: What’s the point?

What surprised me, though, was my ability to answer my own rhetorical question. There is a point, and it’s an important one. This site is not “just a hobby”—it’s a space for me to be creative, with words and food and photography. It’s something that challenges and inspires me, to become a better cook and a more adventurous baker, to try new things, and to take risks. It’s connected me to people in all corners of the world and in all stages of life. It’s been a place to document our days, no matter how (in)frequently. And it’s my personal recipe book, if nothing else.

Perhaps it isn’t a means to a well-defined end—a cookbook deal or a new career path, for instance—but it’s still very important to me. And perhaps it doesn’t directly benefit Avery, but it does make her mama happy, which trickles down, I’m sure of it.

All of this is to say that I’ll be back here more often, and I’ve got some ideas for sprucing up the place and breathing some new life into it. I hope you will be here, too. But if you’re not, that’s okay, too.

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On the topic of sprucing up, I’ve updated the About page. The full Recipe Index is up-to-date, now, too, along with the Spring Recipe index. In addition, there’s now a page that compiles my Travel posts. I’ve also got a couple more changes up my sleeve, and a few ideas for some new projects. If there’s anything you’d like to see here, please do speak up!

I’m also having a lot of fun with Instagram (you can find me at thekitchsink) and I’ll be sure to link to new blog posts on Twitter (@thekitchsink). I was sad to learn that Google Reader will soon be no longer. So, I’m all ears to other ideas for making sure I don’t miss posts on my favorite sites (and for helping you to make sure you don’t miss posts on this site).

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Dungeness Crab

The photos in this post are from a trip to Pike Place Market last week. We bought fresh Dungeness crab, just boiled in sea water. We ate them chilled, with melted butter, on the table out back. After an unfortunate crab-in-my-water-glass incident at Kevin’s (very delicious) birthday dinner, I vowed to learn to eat crab like a real Pacific Northwesterner, and I figured our backyard was a better training grounds than a lovely restaurant. During round two, it dawned on me that the mess is all part of the fun. Good words, I think, to live by.

There are good tips for buying and eating dungeness crab here. I’d also recommend that you take an all-in approach (everyone will be covered in a sheen of butter and bits of crab shell, so who’s to judge?), and a bowl of piping hot hand towels is most welcome.

find our stride

Kristin at The Kitchen Sink — Thu, 09 May 2013 21:45:24 +0000

Do you ever think that you might have a cooking guardian angel? One who sits on your shoulder, urging you to do this, and not to do that? I’ve got one, and I find it useful for the simple things (Salt your pasta water! Leave that piece of meat be if you’re going for a good sear!), and even more helpful in those times when you’re attempting a new recipe, and you come to a cross-roads. If you’re like me, and you’ve failed to read the recipe in advance, and you’ve neglected to assemble a perfectly-organized mise, such moments are rather urgent.

As in, you’re seven-eighth’s of the way through a recipe when you realize you don’t have one of the ingredients called for. You must locate a substitute or simply forge on without the ingredient—and you have only a few seconds to decide. Or you’ve followed the recipe to a tee, baking a cake for exactly 40 minutes at precisely the called-for temperature, only to find a resulting specimen that’s pale where it should be golden, or—perhaps worse—sunken when it should be domed.

It’s in those snap-decision moments that that wee angel perched on your shoulder comes in very handy. With authority, it provides direction and confidence, and—more often than not—it saves the dish.

I like to think that that little savior on my shoulder is my mother. An intuitive, confident cook, she always has the answer in these situations. I should know—when I took up cooking after college, I’d frequently call her from my tiny D.C. studio kitchen, when I was in the thick of a recipe and came to a crisis. What do I do?, I’d cry. After no more than a moment’s pause, she’d deliver her sure answer.

So it was such a treat to make the steaks you see here for the first time when my mom came out for her first visit to Seattle. When I came to one of those decision points, all I had to do was turn to my mom (who’d recommended the recipe, having made it before) and ask—Does the sauce seem to dry? (Answer: yes, add a splash of wine) Wait, we’ve only got smoked paprika—oh, no! (Reply: no problem, use that).

The other fun part about having one of these kitchen guardian angels is that you start to realize that, more often than not, you don’t really need to rely on them so much anymore. The wisdom they’ve imparted becomes engrained. You make your decisions without thinking, and your confidence is already there, without need for reassurance. And that’s how I felt the second time we grilled these steaks—over the (insanely warm and sunny) weekend, when my mom was no longer here.

We did, however, just happen to be on the verge of my mom’s next visit (she arrived yesterday!), and just as I felt like I had the steak recipe down cold, I got to thinking about how far we’ve come here in Seattle since her first visit. We’re starting to find our stride here, and it feels great.

Beef Sirloin with Piquillo Peppers & Capers
Adapted from Food & Wine

Serves 4

The thick steaks called for in this recipe benefit from a dry rub that’s equal parts sweet and smokey. Those steaks are grilled until rosy and sliced, before a punchy, briny piquillo pepper-caper sauce is spooned over top. It’s a dish I intend to grill all summer long. We made this along with some skinny asparagus and small carrots, which we grilled briefly after a roll in olive oil, red pepper flakes, and salt.

2 teaspoons smoked paprika
1 teaspoon dark brown sugar
Kosher salt
Freshly ground pepper
1 1/2 pounds sirloin steak (about 1 1/4 inches thick)
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
3 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
2 medium shallots, thinly sliced
1 tablespoon drained capers
1 teaspoon chopped fresh sage
8 piquillo peppers (Spanish roasted peppers), seeded and chopped
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1/2 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
1 to 4 tablespoons red wine (or water)

In a bowl, mix the paprika, brown sugar, 2 teaspoons of kosher salt and 1 teaspoon of pepper. Pat the mixture all over the meat.

In a small skillet, heat the olive oil over moderate heat. Add the garlic, shallots and capers and cook until softened, about 3 minutes. Stir in the sage and cook for 1 minute. Add the piquillos, mustard and Worcestershire; simmer over moderate heat for 15 minutes, stirring occasionally. If the sauce seems dry, add the wine (or water), 1 tablespoon at a time.

Meanwhile, light a grill or preheat a grill pan. Grill the steak over moderately high heat for about 12 minutes, turning once, until an instant-read thermometer inserted in the thickest part registers 130° for medium-rare meat. Let the steak rest for 5 minutes, then slice and serve with the piquillo-pepper sauce.

the where-we’ve-been

Kristin at The Kitchen Sink — Wed, 01 May 2013 04:14:30 +0000

When we last chatted, I jumped right in with the where-we’re-at, skipping right over the where-we’ve-been. So, let me back up a bit. When we got to Seattle, we had a brief stay in corporate housing before we could move into the house we are renting. While that temporary apartment was perfectly fine, we never really settled in. Avery had a cold, we were all adjusting to a new time zone, and the quarters were a little cramped. All-in-all, I wouldn’t call it the best of weeks.

Before we moved, I was comforted by the fact that we’d be in an apartment with a kitchen—as opposed to, say, a hotel—for our interim week. But the kitchen wasn’t the best, and the pots and pans and such were pretty abysmal (and don’t get me started on the knives). Nevertheless, we stocked up on some ingredients and I cooked a few meals. But I’d inevitably realize that we didn’t have something essential (you know, salt), or I’d burn something while trying (and failing) to get the hang of the electric stove. It just wasn’t that much fun.

So, for our last night in the temporary apartment, I threw in the towel, and we got take out from a nearby pizza place. And the pizza was lovely, as was the entertainment (thanks to Kevin managing to rig up some iPad/TV/Netflix situation). But the stunner of the meal was a kale salad.

Now, I love kale. Like worth-the-extra-Os loooooove kale. We eat it in pasta, on pizza, as a side dish, folded into breakfast eggs, in soup—and on and on. But it’s always sauteed or braised or stewed or grilled or roasted. In short, it’s always been cooked. Somehow, I’d never eaten it raw. So I was pleasantly surprised by the raw version—so vegetal and green; sturdy without being tough; the perfect canvas for a zippy dressing.

Well, what was a revelation to me turns out to be very old news, if the Internet is to be believed. Raw kale salad recipes abound. So, when I threw together my version of the salad, I hardly thought I’d post the recipe on this site.

My version attempted to mirror my favorite aspects of the Serious Pie version—a bright punch of acid (lots of lemon juice) and a tingling kick of heat (red pepper flakes, which should probably be my middle name, at this point) and the mellowing richness of cheese (grated parm). Beyond that, the keys to this super-simple recipe are very fresh Tuscan kale, a sharp knife to slice the kale ever so thinly, excellent olive oil, and a generous, yet careful, hand with coarse salt.

We ate this salad on a picnic last Thursday. We had a spread of all the usual picnic fixings, a thermos of cocktails poured into tiny glasses, and a rather stunning view set out before us. But I kept coming back to the kale salad. Once again, it stole the show. So, I’m adding my recipe to the already-crowded collection of raw kale salad recipes out there—perhaps more for my own use than anything else. And for a reminder of that night in corporate housing, this picnic on the beach, and of how far we’ve come in a month.

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In the spirit of remembering the good from that rather dreary first week in Seattle, here’s a photo of one of the finer moments from that week. Also pictured, above: the other night’s picnic, which was such a delight.

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Raw Kale Salad

Serves 2 as a large side dish or 4 as a small side dish

2 tablespoons freshly-squeezed lemon juice

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes

1 bunch Tuscan kale, trimmed and sliced very thinly

1/4 cup freshly-grated parmesan

coarse salt, to taste

In a large bowl, whisk the lemon juice, olive oil, and red pepper flakes. Add the kale and parmesan, and toss to combine. Season generously with salt, to taste.

new to me

Kristin at The Kitchen Sink — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 05:12:07 +0000

I’m guessing that this post would read differently if I’d written it any other day since we got to Seattle. That’s because every day has been so very different, and almost every single day has involved something—and more often many somethings—that are new to me. Today, though, as the sun shines brightly and the snow-capped mountains prick the horizon, I’m feeling rather smitten. I’m well on my way to getting to know our new city, and—while there have been some tough adjustments, to be sure—I’m really loving it.

I realized yesterday, as I walked the hills of our new neighborhood, pushing Avery in her stroller, that at some point over the past couple of weeks, I stopped comparing Seattle, and this new life that we’re building here, to Chicago, or to our life there. I’ve started to see Seattle for what it is, on its own, rather than for how it’s different from Chicago.

It’s a gorgeous city, for one. Perhaps if you’ve lived here for years, the rings of mountains, the water all around, and the vibrant, lush green don’t phase you. But it’s all still taking my breath away. In fact, the mirage-like sight of Mount Rainier, suddenly visible as I turn a corner or crest a hill, has stopped me dead in my tracks on several occasions. I hope that doesn’t end anytime soon.

It’s also a city that loves food, judging from the groceries and farmer’s markets and restaurants and even book stores. We’ve been giddy to explore the many gems and, while a few favorites have already emerged, I’m hesitant to return to anything twice, because there are just so many new places to try.

It’s a city that looks completely different, depending on the weather. It’s a city where it rains frequently, yes, but also a city that absolutely dazzles under a bright sun and blue sky. It’s a city where spring unfolds slowly, in stages and over the course of many weeks. When we arrived, yellow sprays of forsythia flanked the streets. Then came the flowering cherry trees. Next, the magnolia trees. Now tulips are lining our front steps, and asparagus and rhubarb are at the markets. I can’t wait to see what comes next.

Maybe best of all, it’s a city that is pushing us. We don’t know many people here, so I’ve been trying to make new connections here. That kind of putting-yourself-out-there is scary, no two ways about it. I’ve also been navigating all sorts of new neighborhoods, which isn’t exactly my strong suit. And I’m adjusting to a new work arrangement. All of these things have thrust me well out of my comfort zone, and—with a little bit of retrospect, at least—I can say I’m really grateful for that.

With all this change, you’d think I’d be seeking out comfort in my kitchen, returning to my favorite recipes. But the opposite has been true. I’ve been searching for and creating new recipes. And we’ve eaten a good chunk of these meals on our front deck, watching the sun set over the mountains.

In the spirit of all this new, I’ve got a new recipe today, one that was born in my new Seattle kitchen and made with ingredients from my new Seattle farmer’s market. I’ve also started an Instagram feed for this site: my username is thekitchsink. I hope to see you over there.

Swiss Chard Quesadillas

Serves 2 (for dinner) to 6 (as a snack)

2 bunches Swiss chard

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

kosher salt

1 garlic clove, minced

1 teaspoon ground cumin

1/4 – 1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes

juice of 1 to 2 limes

4 whole wheat tortillas

heaping 1/4 cup shredded sharp cheddar

Toppings (optional): pickled onions (see recipe below), yogurt or sour cream, salsa, guacamole, cilantro, etc.

Prepare the chard. If necessary, trim the rough/dried-out ends of the stems; discard. Then separate the stems and ribs from the leaves; reserve the stems and ribs. Slice the leaves into 1/2-inch thick ribbons. Slice the stems and ribs into roughly 1/4-inch pieces.

Heat the oil in a large skillet. Add the chopped chard stems and ribs; saute until slightly softened (several minutes or so). Season to taste with salt. Add the garlic, cumin and pepper flakes; cook until aromatic (30 seconds or so). Add the sliced chard leaves and the lime juice (you don’t want the pan to be dry; if the 2 limes don’t do the trick, add a bit of water). Cook until the chard leaves are wilted (5 minutes or so).

Prepare the quesadillas. Spread a heaping 2 tablespoons of cheese over two tortillas. Spoon the cooked chard mixture over those cheese-covered tortillas, dividing the chard mixture evenly between the two tortillas. Top the chard mixture with the remaining cheese, and then cover with the remaining two tortillas.

Heat the same skillet over medium heat. Grill the quesadillas one at a time, until browned on each side. Slice the quesadillas into quarters or sixths (a pizza wheel works like a charm here!) and serve with toppings.

Pickled Onions

1/4 cup cold water

1/4 cup red wine vinegar

1 teaspoon sugar

3/4 teaspoon kosher salt

big pinch red pepper flakes

1 red onion, peeled and sliced very thinly

In a medium bowl, whisk together the water, vinegar, sugar, salt and pepper flakes, whisking until the salt and sugar are dissolved. Add the red onion slices and let sit for at least 30 minutes, stirring the mixture occasionally to ensure all the onion slices are submerged in the pickling liquid. (A few hours is ideal, and overnight is even better. If you can swing the longer pickling time, cover the bowl with plastic wrap and chill.)

Store the onions, which will last at least a week, in an air-tight container in the fridge. They’re wonderful atop the quesadillas, above, but their uses are endless: spooned over eggs, threaded into crunchy salads, tucked into sandwiches—you get the idea.

westward move

Kristin at The Kitchen Sink — Fri, 15 Mar 2013 03:40:14 +0000

A big change has been approaching around here, ever so slowly. When we first learned about it, it felt significant and exciting and a little bit crazy and also right. Over the past weeks, pieces have been falling into place, one by one, and suddenly the final picture has all but come into focus. And, you know what? It still feels significant and exciting and a little bit crazy and also right, and each of those feelings are even more vivid. Friends, the big change is this: we’re moving to Seattle! One week from Monday. So, how’s that for news?

Eek!

Kevin will be starting a new job in April, which is the reason for our westward move. But, in all honesty, we’ve been ready for a change for some time. While this particular change is one that we never envisioned, we’re pretty thrilled about it. We can’t wait to explore the Pacific Northwest, and its mountains and water and markets and tulips and rain and green. We took a (very, very) short trip earlier this month to scout Seattle out, and we were smitten. We’ll be living in Fremont, and we welcome any and all suggestions and tips as we get settled.

Back home, there’s been a lot of preparation and the parade of “lasts” has officially begun. We’ll have a lot of relocation assistance through Kevin’s new employer. In light of the suddenly mobile third member of this moving party (who knew that rolling and army-crawling-in-reverse could be such efficient modes of transportation?!), all I can say about this assistance is thank goodness. But, still, we’re trying to organize and pare down, and we’ve been ticking off the items on our rather daunting to do list, one-by-one.

It’s felt a little disjointed to do all of this—all of these things that feel so momentous—against the backdrop of our everyday, normal lives. We’ve been grocery shopping as usual, feeding the baby, watching our normal TV shows (guilty), making dinner every night, heading into work in the mornings. Every now and again, we’ll stop to pinch ourselves, to remind ourselves that this adventure is real, and it’s almost here. Or we’ll clink little glasses of champagne to toast this new direction we’re headed in. Or we’ll bake up a pan of these brownies to celebrate.

These brownies fit the bill exactly during this time of new and old. I’ve been making them for years (they’re a mash up of this recipe and this one), and they keep changing, keep getting better. That’s precisely my hope for my family, too.

Best Brownies

Yield: About 16 brownies

1/4 cup chopped dried cherries
2 tablespoons bourbon
1/4 cup unsalted butter
1/4 cup heavy cream
1 12-ounce bag semisweet or bittersweet chocolate chips, divided
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 cup cocoa powder
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup sugar
3 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a small dish, soak dried cherries in bourbon; set aside. Grease a 9-inch square baking pan, line with parchment paper, and grease the parchment paper.

Combine butter and cream in a small saucepan; bring to a simmer until butter is melted. Add about 2/3 of the bag of chocolate chips; stir until the chips are melted. Remove from heat and allow to cool slightly.

In a medium bowl, whisk the flour, cocoa powder and salt. In another bowl, whisk the sugar, eggs and vanilla. Whisk the melted chocolate mixture into the sugar-egg mixture. Fold the flour mixture into the chocolate-egg mixture. Fold in the chocolate chips and soaked cherries.

Pour the batter into the prepared baking pan. Bake for 40 minutes. Allow to cool completely before slicing and serving.