4/10: Spring salad, local style (bon appétit, April 2014)

After my recent jelly bean binge, well, praise everything for this month's issue of Bon Appetit: an entire month of appealing recipes featuring asparagus, and peas, and everything fresh and green. If you haven't looked at Bon Appetit, recently, I'd highly recommend taking at least a glance. Under Adam Rapoport's direction, the magazine has gotten a much needed facelift: recipes are more sophisticated without being complicated; there's a great mix of menus for daily meals, special occasions, brunch, and casual entertaining that might make a person feel, well, hell yeah, let's have some people over for dinner; the drinks recipes are fabulous; most of the recipes fall in the category of "pretty-darn-easy-to-prepare," and yet each month there's always a "project,"guaranteed to inspire and challenge your skills; and, overall, the magazine makes cooking look like fun for everyone.

And did I mention easy?

This recipe is an example: a bed of tender pea shoots, gently tossed with thin slices of spring onions and a little vinegar and oil, seasoned with salt and pepper, topped with thick pieces of smoked trout, and served with a dollop of fresh horseradish and sour cream... every single item fresh from the local markets.  Hardly seems like a recipe as much an assemblage of ingredients that work well together, and in fact, as we've discovered around here this week, the combination of horseradish, sour cream and smoked trout makes a terrific filling for omelets and an excellent topping for hashed brown potatos and an egg; and if we'd had any leftover pea shoots, they would have made a delicious garnish. Next time, I'll remember: more pea shoots.

Downfall

My annual indulgence. I've given up Skittles. I've given up Neccos. I've even given up malted milk balls. Jelly beans, though? Once a year, they are completely irresistible. I buy a bag and eat as many as I can between the grocery store and home. And then I throw away the remainder.

By then, quite honestly, all I want is a salad.

3/20: Rebellion, and cake

There's been a bit of a rebellion around here, in case you hadn't noticed: a conflict between commitments and yearnings triggered by a spate of social engagements, unexpected dinner guests, and the desire for more paella in our lives. There is also the fact that M. likes to cook, and I'm finding that when it is my turn to play in the kitchen, making a complicated side dish is not always at the top of my list of things I want to do.

For example, this week, the girl is home, and M. has been cooking. So far there's been shrimp étouffée and, between a binge session scored with Italian opera that resulted in a half dozen pizzas and three trays of homemade tortellini, more tomato sauce than I hope you can imagine. The competition for counter space has been mighty fierce. I snuck in my own version of tomato sauce later in the week -- mine mixed with chicken broth and seasoned with a pinch of cinnamon and a little cayenne --  to top some aushak (phyllo pastries stuffed with thinly sliced green onion and a little spinach) later on in the week. And I think there was one day where we made do without any tomato sauce at all and opted for steak fajitas instead. Salads have been sparse, and vegetables generally ignored. My ideas for trying mee goreng or gado gado were scorned. Scorned. Scoffed. Spurned. Dismissed.


It has taken a toll on my adventuring spirit, and I'm not sure what to make of my goal for the year. Do I revise the purpose of this blog, and simply write about whatever deliciousness captures my eye each week? Or do I continue to use this space to explore Ottolenghi's recipes as it seems reasonable or possible? I'm honestly not sure just how to proceed.

One thing is for certain: a chocolate cake is always an excellent companion for facing down life's perplexing dilemmas. And so I made a chocolate cake, this one based on Dorie Greenspan's Almost Fudge Gateau, with the minor additions of 1/3 cup almond meal, the grated zest from one orange, and a pinch of cayenne. It makes for an even chewier, more brownie-like cake, and I like the way the orange and cayenne perk up the flavor of the chocolate. Around here, everybody likes it that way, too, and that's a bonus. So while I think things over, let's everybody enjoy some cake.

#9: Dates and Turkish Sheep's Cheese Salad

I know. Another salad. How many of these do you have to see? Didn't I promise something more exciting this week? Aren't I already late on delivering on that promise?

Yes. I know.

Somehow when I set up this challenge for myself, I didn't foresee the weeks of winter where getting out of our neighborhood would be close to impossible. Where a trip into town to my usual haunts might entail a 45-minute detour that would exhaust any ambition I ever had to spend any time in the kitchen. Where just when I thought I might have SOME ambition to spend SOME time in the kitchen, both of us here were felled by the cold from hell, leaving us to crankily argue over whose turn it was to go out to the ducks. Where no one was healthy enough to make up the garlic soup we obviously needed. Where not much of anything got done for nearly a week.

That winter. This one. The one that needs to leave. Right away. Spit-spot, out-the-door, and be done with it. That one. Now.

Like wishing is going to make any difference, right?

So when I finally did make it out the door to get groceries, it was just to our local market, more a convenience store than anything else, where you are more likely to find the fixings for pigs in a blanket than you are to find an apple or lettuce still in its prime, so I felt lucky to walk out with anything fresh at all, much less the usual list of exotic ingredients called for in most of the recipes in Plenty.

So, yeah. A salad.

But don't yawn yet. Ottolenghi really knows what he's doing when he puts together greens, and this one proves to be a lovely combination as well.

Building from a bed of spicy arugula leaves, he adds mixed leaves of basil and red chard leaves, slivers of sweet Medjool dates, toasted almonds, and some "lightly salted Turkish sheep's cheese." If that's not available, Ottolenghi recommends buffalo ricotta or buffalo mozzarella, but nothing remotely like that was available, so I opted instead for something posing as Camembert. It worked. Topped with a dressing made from pomegranate molasses*-- a reduction of pomegranate juice and sugar that you can find in the sweetener section of your natural foods store -- and olive oil, it was that perfect mixture of sweetness, crunch, herbal notes, and creamy deliciousness that seems to define every Ottolenghi salad.

A couple of notes:

I'm constantly surprised by the apparently dissonant flavors that Ottolenghi uses in his recipes: here it's the arugula and basil, two strong personalities that I wouldn't have expected to work well together, but somehow do, no doubt thanks to the fruity dressing and the creamy cheese.

Herbs. Ottolenghi uses them generously and brilliantly. Makes me wish I could somehow keep my herb garden going through winter. We do OK with rosemary and occasionally chives, but I've never had much luck getting basil  or parsley to stick around throughout the winter, at least not in enough quantity to be worth cultivating.

Dressings. I've always been a vinegar & oil kind of girl, with the occasional smashed garlic or minced shallot thrown in for variety; when I'm feeling truly adventurous, I might substitute lemon juice for the vinegar. Ottolenghi hasn't yet lured me to the dark side of creamy dressings, but he has shown me the virtues of playing with the acidic components of a dressing. He frequently turns to citrus -- lemons, limes, oranges, and grapefruit -- as a base, toning their stridency with a generous amount of sugar, and sometimes even cooking the juice down into a syrup before adding the rest of the ingredients. It's a great technique for creating vibrant and exciting dressings, and even though I'm not a huge advocate of added sugar, I've got to admit that his dressings have made "that green stuff" an appealing part of the meal. Even for the carnivores in the house. So maybe it's true: a spoonful of sugar really does help the medicine go down.

Next week: Honestly, I don't know. I'm still kind of dragging here. Let me play it by ear for another week or so. Things will get better. I promise.

*BTW I am not advocating this store; just wanted to show you what it looks like -- I paid half this price for it at Whole Foods, and I suspect you could find it for even less at your local co-op or grocery store.

#8: Endive with Roquefort

Bleu-cheese lovers, rejoice ... this one's for you! Slather crisp leaves of bitter endive with an indulgent blend of creme fraiche and your favorite bleu cheese (Roquefort here). Top with warm pine nuts and walnuts freshly toasted in butter and a little salt. Arrange on a platter lined with pretty red leaves of radicchio. Enjoy.

Seriously. This was the easiest recipe yet, and if you are better organized than I, you could probably get this one from the refrigerator to the table in under 10 minutes.

Cautionary Note #1: Maybe this looks like a salad, but it's really just an excuse to eat a lot of bleu cheese with toasty nuts. If you're looking for something with a more amped-up nutritional profile, then plan on something else with dinner. Steamed broccoli, perhaps. Or a baked sweet potato. This recipe? This one is just for fun.

Cautionary Note #2: I made half the recipe (for two people), and if I had stacked the leaves in bundles of six as Ottolenghi describes, there would have been only two bundles to arrange on the plate. I stacked mine in bundles of two or three leaves each, and they seemed completely, utterly, perfectly satisfying. Totally undiminished.

Cautionary Note #3: It is entirely possible that you might not use all of the bleu cheese/creme fraiche mixture in the preparation of this recipe. I trust you all will find some way to avoid wasting even a spoonful of anything this luxurious.

Next week, something a little more complicated: gado-gado (p. 195).

#7: Swiss Chard, Chickpea, and Tamarind Stew

This one started off with so much promise:

Looks good, doesn't it? And really, how could you go wrong with chard and chickpeas, a little tomato, a little onion, some coriander? (The photo is missing the chickpeas, caraway, cilantro, and yogurt called for in the recipe, but they all showed up later and reasonably close to on time.) Ottolenghi recommended it as just the thing to brighten up a gloomy day, and lord knows, we've had some gloomy days around here lately. Seemed worth the try.

And even at the start of the braise, things still looked pretty... and pretty promising:

But what we ended up with looked nearly inedible (thus the tiny tiny monochrome picture):

So, yeah. Kind of meh. Healthy, though, and by the time I'd doctored it up, it was certainly worth eating. Maybe even a little interesting. But compared to the jazzy ensembles of exciting flavors that Ottolenghi has provided in past weeks, this one felt more like the kind of party where all the attendees are holding court in their separate corners... they're all making a lot of noise, but no one's having very much fun. After last week's extravagance, this was kind of a letdown.

Maybe it was the fault of the tamarind paste? Tamarind -- a tropical fruit grown mostly in Africa and South Asia -- is extremely tart. I'm used to it being paired with spicy curries, where its sour flavor brightens the heat and sweetness of the curry spices. Here, though, the very small amount of fragrant coriander that Ottolenghi includes was totally overwhelmed by the tart murkiness of the tamarind.

And those caraway seeds? They sure felt out of place, and it's not at all clear what Ottolenghi was aiming for by including two teaspoons of them. Instead of caraway, I'd add a tablespoon or two of my favorite curry powder (currently Penzey's), maybe a pinch or two of saffron, and possibly a tablespoon or two of Major Grey's Mango Chutney and go for something with a much more definite Indian/South Asian vibe.

As for that teaspoon of tomato paste that left an entire can of the stuff languishing in my refrigerator where it is likely to remain until mold begins to form? Can't see that it helped thicken the stew or boost the tomato flavor.  Next time I'd leave it out entirely.

It took a generous pour of olive oil at the end, as well as some extra help from my shaker of red pepper flakes, and every bit of the allegedly optional yogurt to bring the flavors together. You'll want LOTS of cilantro leaves, or sliced green onions as well.

The verdict: This one was easy to make (a 2 on the Ottolenghi Perceived Exertion Scale), quite serviceable as a weekday meal, not too expensive to try, but so dull that I am not likely to ever make it again.

Am hoping for better results next week when I attempt the nutty endive with Roquefort  (p. 160). See you then!

OT: great deal on A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg

When Gawker (or was it Buzzfeed) came out with its list of all-time favorite food memoirs, it was disappointing to see the omission of Molly Wizenberg's wonderful A Homemade Life, about her journey from graduate school student (French!) to finding her own writing voice, falling in love, starting a restaurant, and navigating the death of her father. Her writing is tender and affectionate, thoughtful and generous... and there are lots of fabulous recipes, as well. And you can get it today for your Kindle (or i-Pad) for just $1.99.

If you're uncertain about making the commitment, then perhaps this interview will inspire you to take the plunge ... you are least in for some interesting reading.

#6: Bittersweet Salad

♥

blood orange, bitter endive

sweet ricotta, pomegranate

purple pink passion bliss

♥

As we approach Valentine's Day, it has felt like a pleasant bit of serendipity to find myself reading The Orchid Thief. It's a story about many things: there's the story of John Laroche who was facing charges of having stolen protected orchids from the Fakahatchee Strand State Preserve in southern Florida, while claiming that it was all perfectly legal because he was working for the Seminole Indians to whom they rightly belonged; there's the story of the orchid industry in south Florida, which is one of the most dysfunctional family stories you may have ever heard; it's the story about the treatment of Native Americans in Florida; and in many ways, it is the story of Florida. But mostly, it is the story of love and desire, and the lengths people are willing to go to sustain their obsessions. ... and isn't that kind of the point of Valentine's Day?

People may complain about Valentine's Day. Flowers and fuss, boxes of chocolates, sonnets and soliloquies ... all that romantic nonsense: "That's not real love," they say. "That's not what carries people through the hard times. That's not what carries them through the long haul."

Maybe not. But nonetheless, mustering whatever heat and passion it might take to bring yourselves back together after finding yourselves wherever the long haul has taken you sure seems worth an extravagant gesture. How long has it been, after all,  since you faced down a dragon for your beloved or dove into the deepest waters in search of the silvery word that would reach the center of their dreams? We all need practice, and Valentine's Day offers an excellent opportunity to stretch the range of our romantic expressiveness. We should seize every opportunity we get.

And this salad? Well, you might not have to slay dragons or scavenge rare blooms from the garden of an evil witch by moonlight or be willing to kiss a homely toad, but, nonetheless, this salad is a little bit of a test. Are you willing to drive to six different specialty providers on the day after a major snowstorm when the roads have not been particularly well-plowed in search of just the right mix of purple and reddish greens, the sweetest, creamiest ricotta, the one last pomegranate? Do you have the patience to carefully remove the membrane from each segment of blood orange so that no remnant of the bitter pith remains? Will you tenderly nurse the maple syrup and citrus juice over low heat until it reduces into the perfect dressing for the bitter greens? Will you be certain that it never burns?

If so, then enjoy the rewards, because every tantalizing bite of the resulting salad is easy to enjoy. The crisp bitter radicchio is a perfect foil for the sweet creaminess of the ricotta and the crunch of the toasted pine nuts, while the carefully segmented sections of blood oranges and pomegranate seeds add bright flavors and jewel-like accents to a truly, madly, deeply, gorgeous salad. Even the member of our household who asks -- every time -- what that green stuff is on the table swooned. Yes, I got a swoon. And a request for seconds. Definitely worth the effort.

Notes:

• The base of the salad is radicchio mixed in with whatever purple or red lettuces you can find. Ottolenghi recommends treviso, which is apparently some kind of endive with reddish veining, and I wish I could have found it, but by the time I made my sixth grocery stop of the day, I was running out of options, so I ended up picking out every reddish leaf from a carton of spring mix: some kind of red-leaf spinach, red chard, and a purple-tinged lettuce. From what I could tell, they worked just fine. I bet violets would be lovely, though. And confetti-like tendrils of purple micro-greens would be magnificent. Something that if we started them next January might be ready by mid-February, perhaps?

• For the dressing, Ottolenghi employs a technique he used with the winter slaw: combining citrus juices and maple syrup with a little salt and then reducing it over low heat until it is thick and syrupy.  After you remove it from the burner, you then strain the mixture, allow it to cool, and then finish the syrup with a splash of orange blossom water, which you can find in the middle eastern foods section of many grocery stores. Yes, I'm often suspicious about adding this floral water to recipes, but in this case the fragrant perfume of the water simply underscores the frankly seductive appeal of the whole salad. Use it -- you'll be glad you did.

• As for the ricotta, you're looking for something sweet and silky, with no graininess or chemical aftertaste. If possible, don't buy it unless you know you like it, or someone will let you taste it beforehand.

Next week: Swiss chard, chickpea, and tamarind stew (p. 148)

#5 Soba Noodles with Wakame

Sometimes there are plans and expectations, hopes and ambitions, dreams even. And then there are the times when harsh reality intervenes.

This last week has, unfortunately, been just such a time.

I had hoped to tantalize your appetites with a recipe for hot noodles in a savory broth.

I had aspirations for elegant discursions on the new-to-me range of sea vegetables we're finding at the grocery store these days, an insightful overview of the benefits and potential hazards of these vegetables, and perhaps even an intriguing segue to the role of these vegetables in Iceland's reviving economy.

I even had dreams of writing a sentence -- maybe two! -- without a single parenthetical remark, a single em-dash,  or one lousy embedded clause.

Well, dream on, darlings, dream on: the week had other plans for me. 

Like everyone else I know, we've had some pretty extreme weather, which with the resulting unplowed and impassable roads, has left us more confined to home than usual. The bigger issue, though, has been the bevy of contractors drifting through our house. I am grateful for them -- don't get me wrong -- after two weeks of the house hovering around 60 degrees, I am totally up for whatever it takes to restore full heating capacity to the house. It's just that erratic arrivals and the random pounding and drilling as they adapted our ductwork and in floor heating to our new furnace have made routines hard to stick to.

And then there was the recipe I had selected for this week. When I finally had the chance to really look at it, I realized -- cucumbers? radish sprouts? -- this was not the savory broth-y noodle dish of my wintertime fantasies, but a noodle salad, a cool and refreshing accompaniment to a grilled chicken or a crisp summer salad. It was going to require a shopping trip to make. And, did I mention it already? Shopping excursions were hard to come by last week.

The truth is, I have historically been a little squeamish about seaweed. It seems slimy. It makes me nervous. While I like it just fine toasted and wrapped around my favorite sushi, in anything else -- like miso soup, for example -- I tend to leave it behind, stuck to the sides of the bowl, accidental-like.

And the reaction of the carnivore I live with did not help matters: "Do you really think I'm going to eat THAT?" he said, after I described the recipe.

All this to say: it was with some trepidation that I approached this week's project, and one reason I made only half the recipe.

Was it as bad as I feared? Not at all. Although it certainly wasn't the slurpy bowl of noodles I had dreamed of, it was pretty darned delicious... kind of like all my favorite sushi flavors in a bowl: the wakame brought the hint of the ocean, perfectly complemented by the cool, refreshing notes of the grated cucumber. Instead of rice, there was the sweet earthiness of the buckwheat soba noodles. Combine it all with a dressing that included Ottolenghi's quadrumvirate of  chiles and lime, cilantro and mint, along with smoky undertones of toasted sesame oil and a nice amount of ginger, and you have a side dish that is surprisingly compelling. Even the naysayers in our household enjoyed a bite or two, begrudgingly admitting that it was pretty good. I might be tempted to  make this one again... in the spring, when radish sprouts are finally in season.

It is easy to make, too. On the Ottolenghi Perceived Exertion Scale, about a one: took me less than hour from start up to clean-up to pull the whole thing off: just cook noodles, soak wakame, grate the cucumber, and make the dressing, and you are very nearly done.

Notes:

The amount of wakame called for seemed outrageously excessive. I soaked less than half of what the recipe called for, and of that, I used less than a third. It seemed like plenty -- more than plenty-- to provide that clean flavor of fresh seawater that was a perfect complement to the grated cucumber. 

This recipe calls for 1/2 tablespoon of palm sugar, which I almost let myself get talked into buying because one site described it as possessing the flavors of butterscotch and caramel, which, as you all know, are flavors I CANNOT resist.  But, after seeing it at nearly $5 pound, I decided to use brown sugar instead, and I think it worked just fine.

I could not find radish sprouts and used shavings of daikon radish instead. Next time, if I can't find the sprouts, I would probably go with watercress or some other peppery green instead. The daikon was too sweet and the shaving disappeared into the salad. I ended up giving this a squirt of sriracha to perk it up a bit.

Next week: a preview of Valentine's Day with this bittersweet salad (162)

#4 Sweet Winter Slaw

Here's another one that's easy to like, and a good thing, too. We're in the starting phases of building an addition to our house for my in-laws -- bedroom, bathroom, and sitting area -- and everything in our life seems to be reacting with a certain brittleness to the anticipated changes. In the last week alone, just for example, we've replaced one set of tires, purchased a new phone (irredeemably lost to a pile of slush), and ordered a new furnace.

So, when it came to my latest cooking project, something easy to like was more than welcome. And this one, well, this one was definitely easy to like (did I say this already?). Of course, at least some part of its appeal may or may not have been thanks to the super-secret, ultra-exxxtraordinary magic of -- spoiler alert -- CARAMELIZED MACADAMIA NUTS!!!!!!!!!! ... but more about these later.

Better yet: it wasn't too hard to put together. According to my Ottolenghi Perceived Effort Standard (OPES)--a new metric I am introducing with this post, where a 5 indicates a recipe that felt like it took practically a week at least one full day of nearly constant effort to complete and a 1 indicates a recipe that can be tossed off with less than an hour of undivided attention--this recipe seemed relatively undemanding: a 2 perhaps; maybe a 3. A mandoline makes a big difference here; a food processor might make an even bigger one. If you have neither, then a sharp knife and som excellent knife skills are probably necessary.

You start with crisp ribbons of red and green cabbage. The original recipe calls for savoy cabbage, but after springing for a new furnace, a sudden frugality prompted me to use the homegrown green cabbage already sitting in my refrigerator; I don't think the dish suffered for the substitution.

Add in thin slivers of sweet mango and papaya, a jazzy touch of roughly chopped cilantro and mint, and the barest accent of hot chile. Bring it all together with a citrusy dressing sweetened with maple syrup and made smoky with toasted sesame oil and a splash of soy sauce.

And then, for the piece de resistance: those magical macadamias. These not only add a delectable spicy sweetness that beautifully complements the sweet juiciness of the tropical fruits and the tangy sweetness of the lime juice based dressing, but their toasty crunch makes an excellent companion to the crisp shreds of cabbages as well. If that sounds like overkill to you, it's easy enough to leave these out, and there'll still be plenty of razzle-dazzle in this salad to enjoy. But, personally, given the grimness of this year's winter, I'd gratefully accept every measure of extravagance that is on offer. They're also extremely easy to make, and the fragrance as they caramelize on the skillet will draw in friends and family from unexpected quarters, all offering promises of whatever you desire for the simple privilege of sampling even just one of these delicious morsels.

Not that I'd ever abuse that opportunity, of course...

Two things I'd do differently next time: For one, I'd double that recipe of caramelized macadamia nuts, just to have some extras around for eating out of hand. And for another, because the following day I noticed that the nuts had lost some of that delicious crispiness after a full night's soak in the slaw, I would garnish only the portion of salad that I planned to serve immediately and reserve the rest to mix in later.

Ottolenghi recommends serving this with a roast chicken or chard pancakes. Around here, we matched this with simple cod cakes and roasted potatos and thought it an excellent combination as well.

Next week: Soba Noodles with Wakame (188). And a reminder, if you decide to give any of these recipes a try, let me know, and I'll be happy to link to your post.

#3: Mushroom ragout with poached duck egg

After last week's tempestuous entrée, you might be pleased to learn that this week we're enjoying a far more congenial dining companion:

Start with panfried mushrooms served in an intensely-flavored sauce based on a stock made from porcini mushrooms and aromatics, enriched with sour cream and spiked with thin ribbons of fresh tarragon and parsley. Ladle this over enormous garlic croutons, roasted until they are perfectly crisp on the outside, chewy on the inside. And then top it all with the sumptuous fabulousness of a poached duck egg to create a luxurious mix of smoky, woodsy, herbal deliciousness. Really, what is not to like?

If you can find duck eggs, and if you don't mind paying a premium price for them, they are worth using for this dish. And I'm not saying this just because we happen to have one or two extras lying around that I'd be happy to sell to you. Duck eggs, ounce for ounce, are higher in protein and heart-healthy omega-3 fats than chicken eggs. The yolks are enormous and they contribute an extremely rich, almost buttery flavor to the ragout that is an excellent complement to the crispy croutons and the mushrooms. If you can't find duck eggs, then use the best chicken eggs you can find --  they really will make a difference.

My version substitutes homemade chicken broth for the white wine and water called for in the original recipe, but I suspect Ottolenghi's vegetarian version is excellent as well. I also opted to forgo the splurge on truffle oil and instead followed his suggestion to drizzle the plate with olive oil to finish the dish. Perfectly lovely, but if I ever find myself with an unexpected fortune, that truffle oil would be a tremendous temptation.

Compared to the black pepper tofu recipe that I tried last week, this recipe also involved far less fuss; nonetheless, it is not a dish to make when you are rushed, or when you have hungry children imploring you for dinner. It is, however, just the thing you might want to make when you're in the mood for a meditative afternoon in the kitchen. All it takes are six (relatively) simple steps:

1) Prepare the croutons. These could be made in advance and then reheated before serving. FWIW, I suspect this would be really really really good with soft polenta as well.

2) Sauté the mushrooms in batches until they are golden brown on each side and slightly crisped. I could have saved myself a lot of work by reading the instructions and not slicing all of my mushroom and instead quartering only the largest ones and leaving some of the smaller ones whole to contribute yet more interesting texture to the dish. It certainly would have sped up the sautéing operation.

3) Make the mushroom/vegetable stock. Again, not a complicated step, but plan to take some time for the porcini mushrooms to soak -- and note, you only use the soaking liquid in this recipe; be sure to save the reconstituted mushrooms for some other purpose -- and for the stock to reduce. As with the croutons, this could be made in advance and then reheated when you are ready to assemble the dish.

4)  Poach the eggs; drain them well and hold them in a warm dish in a warm oven (170 degrees). It's worth warming the dishes you intend to use to serve this with as well.

5) Heat the stock together with the sautéed mushrooms; stir in the sour cream; add most of the herbs.

6) Assemble the ragout: Place 4-6 croutons in each bowl and ladle one fourth of the mushroom mixture over each serving. Top with a poached egg, sprinkle with the reserved herbs, finish with olive oil, and enjoy!

Finally, fwiw, please note that if you made the croutons and stock in advance, it would be very easy to pull this off for an elegant brunch... and if you can swing that, mimosas would be an excellent accompaniment. You deserve at least that.

Next week, something to brighten any winter-bedraggled spirits out there: Sweet Winter Slaw (102)

#2: Black Pepper Tofu

I am a sucker for intensely flavored foods: bleu cheese, anything with garlic and red pepper flakes, bitter greens, and spicy salsas and curries. And besides I'm always on the lookout for new ways to use tofu, which I am pretty sure I should eat more frequently. So it was no surprise that this particular recipe caught my attention. Not only does it call for nearly two pounds (!) of tofu, but it also includes TWELVE cloves of garlic! TWELVE shallots! THREE tablespoons of finely chopped ginger! EIGHT thinly sliced red peppers! FIVE tablespoons of crushed black pepper!!!

For me, this had the effect of the French foreign exchange student who showed up in my art class during my junior year, all rumpled hair, sweet brown eyes, and wicked smile: it promised something exotic, plenty of drama, just enough seduction, and a bit of a dare. Naturally, I found it irresistible.

And just as naturally, it came with one or two challenges.

For starters, there were the three kinds of soy sauce called for in the recipe -- light soy, sweet soy (kecap manis), and dark soy sauce -- which required some research. Light soy sauce, I learned, is a saltier, lighter-colored soy sauce that is emphatically NOT "lite" or low-sodium soy sauce; for this, I used my usual tamari. Dark soy sauce, on the other hand, refers to a Chinese-style soy sauce that is thicker and darker, with perhaps a hint of molasses to it. This round, I used a bottle of Japanese-style dark soy sauce by Sushi Chef that I found on the shelves at the local Meijer. And, finally, the sweet soy sauce, also known as  kecap manis, turned out to be an Indonesian style of soy sauce sweetened with palm sugar and seasoned with garlic and star anise. I made mine by combining equal amounts of soy sauce and light molasses, and then I skipped the garlic (figuring there was enough in the rest of the recipe to compensate) and added a pinch of Chinese Five Spice mix.

There's also some significant prep work involved in this project. Given the twelve cloves of garlic, twelve shallots, three tablespoons of ginger, eight chile peppers, and sixteen green onions, this is probably no surprise. Made me glad for holiday break... and every pair of extra hands I could commandeer into the kitchen.  That said, once the chopping is done, though, this is indeed easy to pull together: just fry the tofu, drain the oil, heat the butter, sautee the vegetables, add the soy sauce and, voila, you are done! Takes barely half an hour. And it looks spectacular.

Yes, there is dredging and frying involved. If you hate cleaning a greasy cooktop, save this recipe for a day when someone else will volunteer for clean-up.

And then, after all the dredging and frying, there are still eleven tablespoons of butter to be added to the pan ... in a recipe allegedly calculated to serve four. Even to me, a huge fan of butter,  this seemed excessive. Instead, borrowing from a tip gleaned from a comment on the recipe at Saveur, I sautéed the vegetables in just 5 tablespoons of butter and then enriched the sauce with a half cup of homemade chicken broth. I don't think anybody noticed the difference.

And the eight red chiles? Ottalenghi does not suggest a particular type of chile, but to perk up the look of the fried tofu and sautéed green onions in this dish, you will want red ones, trust me. And, as he emphasizes, they need to have some heat: that is the point of the dish. Eight chiles, however, is a LOT of chiles, even if you manage to find ones that are relatively mild, which I did not. Following the adaptation from Saveur, I attempted to find red serranos (which I suspect would be plenty hot), but failing that, picked up something from an unlabeled bin at Whole Foods, which proved, upon testing, to be nearly lethal: only four of them made it into the final recipe. Even so, some of us suffered.

But was it worth the effort? Well.... imagine crisp tofu in a slightly sweet, richly flavored soy sauce spiked with ginger, crushed garlic, plenty of chiles, and the lush richness of sautéed shallots. The crushed black pepper in this quantity contributed a complexity like chocolate or coffee and added an easy-going heat that somehow gentled even the harsh chiles I had used. The flavor was fabulous, appetite-stirring, downright exciting. Definitely spicy, though, even with the reduction in peppers. Even served with lots of steamed rice. I loved it; my daughter adored it and ate nearly half the pan; and my husband admitted that the flavor was excellent but he couldn't eat it. We all would have preferred it with a gin & tonic.

So, yes, I'd say that this one was worth the effort. Maybe not one to try out on company, and maybe not a recipe to make without first testing your chiles. But on a brutally cold day when you've been snowbound for nearly a week, this is a dish to counter the chill, awaken your senses, and help you believe in a world beyond your own four walls. Yes, it's a bit of an adventure, but the thrilling comfort it offers makes it worth a try.


Next week, something savory, maybe even less complicated: Mushroom ragout with poached duck egg (Plenty, p. 50); (originally published in The Guardian, with metric measurements).

Week 1: Watercress, pistachio, and orange blossom salad

Judging by the sudden onslaught of diet advice everywhere, I'm not the only one who has spent the last six weeks living on  caffeine, alcohol, and peppermint bark. Come January, I am tired of rich roasts, triple creme cheeses, and decadently silky pates.... even if they come accompanied by crystal flutes of bubbly champagne.

No. January is definitely the time for excesses to end, a time to return to simple rituals, easy routines, and honest flavors that are bright and clean. Flavors like those you find in this wonderful watercress, pistachio, and orange blossom salad (Plenty, p. 154).

At first glance, it looks like a noisy party: lots of loud, brash flavors that might not play very well together. But here's how it works out: It starts with lots of peppery watercress -- nearly half the salad. But then it's accompanied by two surprising sidekicks -- cilantro and basil -- that bring out unexpected sweetness from the usually brazen cress, a sweetness that is echoed in the pistachio nuts. Add in the tender solicitations of dill fronds and tarragon leaves, and you have the herbal equivalent of the generous guest who always seems to ask just the right question at the just the right moment to keep the conversation rolling. Marry it all together with a tart lemon and olive oil dressing -- and skip the orange blossom water, which, as far as I'm concerned just competes in an unpleasant way with the brightness of the lemon juice -- and you have just the perfect host who circulates through the crowd, pouring drinks and making introductions. In short, a perfect party.

This salad is definitely a party with lots of personality, though. As Ottolenghi suggests, it's best suited as a course by itself, or an accompaniment to a simple roast or a rich ragu of mushrooms and beef where its strong flavors won't overwhelm anything more delicate. Like scallops, for example.

But, if you've been finding yourself seduced these days -- against your better judgment, of course -- by the enormous, gorgeously red strawberries that have started showing up in the supermarkets that you know you will regret the moment you get them home only to discover that their apparent beauty is nothing but LIES, LIES, LIES, and MORE VICIOUS LIES, with not one molecule of real strawberry flavor yet intact ... well then, consider this salad instead, where tastier rewards are guaranteed.

Coming up next week: Black Pepper Tofu (p. 44)