Brussels Sprouts with Pancetta

A recipe we stole from an incredible dinner we had at Mado (thank you again, Groupon):

First, we fried slices of deli-fresh pancetta in a saucepan.

We took the pancetta out, dried it on a towel and chopped it.  Meanwhile, we sautéed a couple chopped shallots and a clove of garlic in the pan, adding a tiny bit of olive oil to the pancetta drippings.

As the shallots cooked, we pulled leaves off the sprouts, leaving out the hard (more bitter) cabagey innards.

 
Once the shallots were translucent, we tossed in the sprout leaves, cooking only a minute or two until they were at that sweet spot between crunchy and tender.

Added in the chopped pancetta, and voila:

I'm not sure how brussels sprouts got the "grossest vegetable" reputation, because I think they're phenomenal.  I love their meaty flavor and firm texture, and the pairing here with the salty pancetta and sweet shallots is just fantastic.  This is a dish that is spectacular as a side dish, but hearty enough to stand on its own for dinner.

And THAT, my friends, is what I call "mostly plants."

Dim Summers

(Couldn't resist.)

I have (shall we say) a weakness for greasy Chinese food.  I've spent far too many cheat-meals this year on feasts of crab rangoon and fried rice, inhaling that pungent bouquet of fry oil and MSG.  So I figured it was high time I learned to cook a whole foods approximation.  

And, as I imagine happens with so many strokes of genius in the world, this particular masterpiece came into life on an otherwise perfectly ordinary Saturday night.

That's pot stickers with a sweet chili dipping sauce, and a huge pile of zucchini lo mein.

I discovered the pot sticker recipe idly watching Guy's Big Bite instead of reading for Federal Jurisdiction.  If you don't mind a couple steps, they really are remarkable simple, and taste just like the best dim sum you ever had. 

For the stuffing: chop two green onions and two cloves of garlic.  Mix with a pound of ground pork, a pinch of salt, a splash each of soy sauce, sesame oil, and red chili sauce.  Note: if you're trying to do this whole foods style, it may take some searching to find a soy sauce that doesn't contain things like caramel color #4.  Interestingly, though, the little packets that come with your take-out only contain soy oil and water.   

After mixing the stuffing, beat one egg with a splash of milk to make an egg wash.  Take a pre-made won ton wrapper (with a little searching, I found some at Whole Foods that didn't have any strange ingredients), and coat one side of the wrapper with the wash.  This will keep the pot stickers from unfolding themselves and spewing out stuffing as they cook.  

Put a pinch of stuffing on the egg-washed side of the potsticker, then crimp the edges to fold it shut. 

Stage one of the cooking process is a boiling water bath.  Throw the pot stickers in for just one minute.

You can eat them after boiling alone -- they're fully cooked -- but to put the amazing crisp edges on them, you're going to need to go on to step two: the fry pan. 

You don't need much oil in the pan, but what's in there should be sizzling.  Let the pot stickers fry, flipping them occasionally, until they're golden and a little crisp on each side.  

I made an incredibly easy sweet chili dipping sauce to go with them from a combination of soy sauce, chili sauce, and honey to taste.  And I know that sounds like a lot of steps for these little guys, and I guess it was, but oh, sweet heaven, they came out absolutely amazing.  

We paired them with an easy lo mein recipe using the same ingredients in different proportions.  I match-sticked a zucchini and boiled it with some soba noodles I found at whole foods -- the whole thing cooks in less than five minutes.  I cooled it with a cold water rinse, then tossed with the sesame oil, soy sauce, and chili sauce.  

People, the greatest thing about this whole foods regimen have been these unexpected, restaurant-quality ethnic masterpieces.  If I'd never set out on this journey, I would have continued ordering greasy take-out my entire life ... 

INSTEAD I'M MAKING IT MYSELF.

Killing Chickens

A few weeks ago, I mentioned that Matt had helped out slaughtering chickens on Katie and Greg's farm, and I think he'd like to post about the experience.  So you may find out about that in about seven months, after he's collected his thoughts and arranged and rearranged the words into the precise order he'd like them.

He's making this face right now as he reads that:

So you'll have to wait a little for Matt's thoughts on the act of killing something you intend to eat.  In the meantime, though, I can tell you the second half of the story...

In the interests of perfect honesty, Matt didn't kill this particular bird.  But it did spend its years on Katie and Greg's farm, enjoying the chickeny good life.  Katie doesn't eat "unhappy" meat, so you'd better believe that anyone she's involved in raising is living a humane, comfortable, natural life.

And I can assure you, first-hand, that a humane, comfortable, natural life translates into a pretty incredible meal.

Matt tweaked our favorite roast chicken recipe a little, stuffing this guy with a whole head of garlic and a lemon, surrounding it with chopped zucchini, carrots, and red onions.  He also poured a lemony beer over the top (Leinenkugel's "Summer Shandy") for added moisture and richness.

We then simply baked it, as per usual, at 350.  This one was a little bigger than our usual, so I think we left it in for almost two hours while we prepped everything else.  And when it came out, OH HOLY GOD:

Did you want another photo of that?  Maybe from another angle?

One more?

I know.  That's how we all felt.

Mom had also made a cheesy casserole with some green vegetable that I can't remember off the top of my head (asparagus?  more zucchini?) that came in her CSA bag.  We heated a loaf of take-n-bake that contains just flour, yeast, water, salt. And after the red wine you see above, we popped a celebratory bottle of Summers Vineyard un-oaked chardonnay.

(No relation that we know of.  But the wine is great! )

The bird was, needless to say, flawless.  The meat fell off the bone, to the point that Matt had to give up on trying to carve it; it was simply too juicy and tender to hold up in large slices.  Each bite -- even the white meat, usually too dry for me -- was dripping with lemony, garlicky, fatty, chickeny goodness.  I've had some happy birds before who were a little too tough and stringy (often animals raised the right way are leaner than their feedlot-stuffed counterparts), but this was absolutely perfect.  Exactly what a chicken ought to be.

The vegetables that roasted with the chicken were phenomenal: perfectly tender and completely infused with the lemon, garlic, and chicken jus that filled the bottom of the pan as the chicken cooked.

Our friend Karen had come over for the feast, and Matt said a grace he'd composed for the occasion.  I can't completely remember, but it called on us to be thoughtful about and grateful for the food on our plates, and the way it reached our table.  As we ate, I think we were very aware of every piece of the meal, where it came from, and how eating it tied us into that chain.

Better yet, eating it together tied us to one another.  Every time you share a meal, I think you're making connections with your fellow diners in a fundamentally human way.  With friends and family around a table spread with thoughtfully raised and prepared food, we were engaging in a daily ritual that people have enjoyed, and which has set us apart from other animals, for centuries.

The following photo is a terrible one of everyone involved, but I like it because you can see how happy we are to be enjoying each other's company:

Slash how happy we are that Karen brought a pie.

Strawberry rhubarb (rhubarb from her garden, I think): the perfect end to the perfect meal.

I don't think I'm thoughtful enough about my food on a daily basis as I would like to be, and meals like this one provide a terrific reminder of all I have to be grateful for.

Peach Pie Poll: Lick the Plate?

Since discovering the crisco-less crust that I can eat, Mom has baked a number of fresh fruit pies this summer.  The above was an absolutely delectable peach cream pie, courtesy of our friend Debbie.  The inside is just fresh peaches, a little sugar, cinnamon, and fresh cream poured over the top to thicken and bubble.  Served with more cream, in the iced form, on side, it has to be something like heaven.

Matt caught me actually licking my plate, and I think you can tell from the crazed intensity in my eyes JUST HOW GOOD it really was...

... I was like, 100% focused on getting EVERY. LAST. DROP. of flavor from that plate...

So looking at this photo, I'm a little embarrassed, but I have to ask: when something is just that good, do you ever actually lick the plate?  Am I the only one?  Or am I just the only one who does it in front of other people?

Mustard Salmon with Bruschetta Melts

Sorryyyyy again for the long delay in posting.  But I have a huge back-up of delicious, home-cooked meals to share with you, so I hope to make it up to you with an orgy of mouthwatering photographs.

Such as:

and...

This was salmon rubbed with mustard, a recipe courtesy of our friend Elizabeth.  We slathered the filets in a mixture of melted butter, two types of mustard, and brown sugar, then baked for twenty minutes, broiling for an extra ten.  The broil gave the brown sugar a crunch, making a wonderful sort of mustardy-sweet crust on the tender fish flesh.

We ate them with simple oven-melted bruschetta slices.  Just slices of fresh French baguette, each topped with a slice of tomato, a leaf of basil (fresh picked from the garden, of course), and a chunk of mozzarella from the cheese counter, then set under the broiler for ten minutes:

Pull them out when the cheese begins to blister and the bread begins to brown, and OH SWEET HEAVEN that's my favorite part of summertime.

We also boiled some sweet corn (wait, maybe THAT'S my favorite part of summertime) and voila:

Elizabeth's Mustard Salmon
1/2 stick butter, melted
3 TBS country dijon mustard
2 TBS regular dijon mustard
3 TBS brown sugar
1 lb salmon

Mix butter, mustards, and brown sugar.  Slather onto fish filets.  Bake at 375 for twenty minutes, then broil an additional ten minutes.

Extra topping can be kept in the refrigerator for next time, and is also (apparently) delicious on pork or chicken.

Sweet Summertime

I'm Homaha for the summer, on break from law school (ONBREAKFROMLAW SCHOOL!!!ZOMGG) and starting work for the public defender in just a couple weeks.  Matt and I are heading to California next week for Kim and David's wedding, and I'll launch into work immediately upon my return.  In the meantime, though, I'm taking a few days to run, play, read, write, generally decompress, and -- of course -- eat.

My mom and seven year old niece grow an amazing garden every year, which means there are always fresh vegetables and herbs for our meals, hand-picked only moments before cooking: as fresh and as local as you can possibly get.  (Photos coming soon).  Summer makes slow food so much easier.  

This morning, for instance, Mara and I set out to make parfaits with organic yogurt, summer-sweet berries, and the granola mom recently baked up:

(The granola is just old fashioned oats, shredded unsweetened coconut, and chopped pecans coated in a little canola oil and honey, baked until golden and then tossed with tart dried cherries.)

We layered the ingredients.  As one does with a parfait.

But when it came time to photograph, she grabbed some mint she'd picked from the garden last night for a garnish, and suddenly, your average fruit and yogurt parfait became a SUMMERTIME WORK OF ART:

You can't tell me that's not the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.  Go on.  Try it.

Liar.


In any case, we heartily enjoyed them:

And when they were gone, we had to do something with the extra few mint leaves and strawberries...  Luckily for us, there was lemonade in the fridge.

I'm rapidly revising my list of favorite months of the year.  February?  You got nothing on June. 

We Are Officially a Coffee Shop