Yearly Archives: 2010

Ingredient IQ, The Garden, The Recipes, Vegetables

Winter Squash Taste Test: Geeky, Yes, But Don’t You Want to Know the Results?

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Sometimes, you just don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. Take my boyfriend, Roy, for example. I’m sure when he met me, he had no idea that one day he’d be standing around the kitchen island (which he built for me) with seven spoons and a heap of roasted squash in front of him. Fortunately, what I didn’t know (but suspected) when I met him, is that he’s a really good sport. Last Sunday, he agreed to do the winter squash taste test with me. Lucky him.

I dreamed up this little experiment after we found ourselves in possession of several different kinds of winter squash. I’ve loved taste comparisons ever since I was introduced to them at culinary school years ago. We did a lot of them at Fine Cooking, too, in order to recommend brands of chicken stock or canned tomatoes or olive oil to cooks. The worst taste test we ever did was butter. Tasting 8 different brands of butter in one morning will make anyone feel sick. The best? Bittersweet chocolate, of course. In fact, I’ve learned so much about flavor differences in both natural and manmade products over the years from taste tests, that I’m constantly urging other cooks to conduct their own at home. (A great place to start is with something you buy and use a lot, like extra-virgin olive oil. Buy a few different grocery-store brands and taste them side by side to find your favorite—you’ll be amazed at how different they are. Lately I’ve been liking Trader Joe’s Spanish olive oil.)

But not to belabor the point, here’s how we conducted the squash test: I cut each of the squash in half, scooped out the seeds, seasoned them ever so lightly with a little salt, and roasted them, cut side-down, on buttered parchment paper, until they were completely tender and lightly caramelized (about 1 hour 20 minutes on average). I turned the squash over, let them cool a bit, and scooped some of the flesh out of each for us to taste side by side. We each had one or two bites of each squash, and I took notes on the taste, texture, and color.

The first thing I noticed of course, before we even tasted, was the big range in color and texture among the squash. (To identify the squash, see the photo at the end of the blog with IDs underneath.)The Red Kuri, Buttercup, and Butternut squash have deep orangey-red flesh and a dense texture. The Delicata, Acorn, Sweet Dumpling, and Carnival all had a more yellowy golden flesh, although within them, the texture varies (Delicata and Dumpling being creamy, Acorn and Carnival more fibrous.) The cool part of the comparison, though, was how different they all tasted. Here’s what we thought.

Butternut—smooth, rich, dense flesh with a distinctively nutty flavor
Red Kuri—texture like a baked potato, very robust smoky-nutty flavor, intensely “squashy” in a good way; deeply colored (Susie’s favorite)
Buttercup—dense flesh with a very flavorful flesh reminiscent of caramel and peanuts
Delicata—very creamy flesh, light and bright tasting, flavor hints of summer squash
Carnival—moderately fibrous flesh, light sweet-sour flavor, our least favorite (sorry, Carnival)
Sweet Dumpling—flesh is a bit fibrous but creamy too, very sweet with a bit of tang, a light flavor
Acorn—fibrous texture but with a complex nutty-sweet-bright flavor (Roy’s favorite)

So there you have our unofficial and biased results. I’d recommend trying the Red Kuri if you haven’t, and I’d consider using it or Buttercup in place of Butternut in soups for a richer flavor. Though Carnival is a beguiling looking squash, I’d definitely stick with the similar but better tasting Acorn for stuffing, or go with the pleasantly sweet and creamy Delicata or Dumpling.

Squash IDs, clockwise, starting from top left: Butternut, Acorn, Carnival, Red Kuri, Buttercup, Delicata, Sweet Dumpling

The Recipes

Best Butternut Destination: Cathy Walthers’ Black Bean Chili from her new cookbook, Soups & Sides

For a small island (only 18,000 year-round residents), Martha’s Vineyard has a lot of good cooks. There are bread bakers and pig-roasters, candy-makers and jelly-canners, shellfish shuckers and hops-brewers. Even a few, ahem, cookbook authors.  Not surprisingly, we (the cookbook folks) tend to support each other, as secretly I think we harbor the same suspicion—that we might just be crazy trying to make a living (or partial living!) as food writers.

Lately, I’ve been thinking that Cathy Walthers is not crazy. (I probably still am, though.) As a follow-up to her wildly popular cookbook, Raising the Salad Bar, (Lake Isle Press, 2007), Cathy (or Catherine as she is known in author-world) has just produced an amazing collection of fresh soups—each paired with a fun side dish—for her new book Soups + Sides (Lake Isle Press, 2010). Both books have the exceptional and vibrant photography of the Vineyard’s own Alison Shaw (see photo above and book cover photo, below), which makes perfect sense to me, as I think of Cathy’s cooking as vibrant, too—ultra-fresh and unfussy, full of flavor without unnecessary embellishments. Even in the extremely good company we have here on the Vineyard, I think Cathy is one of the best cooks around.

Lucky me, I got to taste three soups from Cathy’s book last week when Cathy and I did a joint book signing at Titcomb’s Bookshop in East Sandwich, Mass., as  part of a Cape Cod food festival called CLASH (Cape Land and Seas Harvest). The store asked us if we’d mind signing together, as we’re both local authors. Not only did we not mind, we loved the idea. Cathy went to my first signing on the Island at Bunch of Grapes bookstore when Fast, Fresh & Green came out in May, and I went to one of her first island signings at Pep Art Gallery in August when Soups + Sides came out.  We both know so well that fear—irrational as it might be—of “what if nobody shows up?” so it only makes sense to help fill the room when we can.

For the Titcomb’s event (which wasn’t in a room but on a terrace under a tent—a nice change-up), I made my Roasted Tomato, Basil, & Mozzarella Sandwiches (of course) and the store (which has access to a kitchen in the Titcomb family’s lovely 17th century home adjacent to the bookstore) made my Mahogany Mushrooms. Cathy brought her Black Bean and Butternut Squash Chili, and the store made her Corn Chowder with Spicy Red Pepper, and Kale and Vegetable Soup with Farro. All three of these soups were so fresh and delicious, but my favorite (probably because I’ve got butternut on the brain—more on that later in the week) was the clever and colorful chili (recipe below), so perfectly seasoned and comforting. (Cathy calls it her Halloween soup because of the bright orange and black colors. It’s the perfect warm-up for a cold October night).

A really cool thing about Cathy’s soups is that every one of them is paired with another simple recipe for an appropriate accompaniment. (There’s an easy cornbread to go with that butternut chili.) So for example, if you make (which I plan to) Rustic Fall Tomato Soup with Orzo and Mini Meatballs, you can make the Crostini with Goat cheese and Roasted Pears to go with it. Or you could put together Honey-Dijon Salmon Bites to go with Quick French Lentil Soup, or Garden Vegetable Quesadillas to go with Yucatan Chicken and Tomatillo Sopa. There are so many delicious sounding options that I can see Soups & Sides becoming, like Raising the Salad Bar, not just a well-used kitchen companion, but a popular gift book, too.  I just bought one for my Mom (but don’t tell her).

Black Bean and Butternut Squash Chili with Cilantro Pesto

Cathy mentions that the cilantro pesto is optional here—a great alternative is simply chopped fresh cilantro. Either way, this soup, inspired by a version Boston caterer Katie Le Lievre makes, is delicious.

2 large onions, coarsely chopped
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
4 cloves garlic, minced
2 bay leaves
1 tablespoon ground cumin
1 tablespoon dried oregano
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 tablespoon chili powder
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper
2 (28-ounce) cans whole tomatoes with juices
4 cups ½-inch diced butternut squash (from about 1 medium squash)
2 to 3 cups water
2 cups cooked black beans
Kernels from 3 to 4 ears fresh corn (about 2 cups)
2 to 3 teaspoons kosher salt

Cilantro pesto (recipe follows) or chopped cilantro

In a large soup pot over medium heat, sauté the onions in oil until translucent, 10-15 minutes. Add garlic and sauté another 2 minutes.  Add spices and continue cooking, stirring to prevent burning, about 1 minute. Add tomatoes and break apart with a masher. Add squash and 2 cups water. Bring to a boil, turn down heat to a simmer and cover. Let simmer until squash is tender, about 20 minutes.

Add the black beans, corn, and the additional water if needed, and simmer to let flavors blend, 5 minutes. Remove bay leaves. Season with salt.

Cilantro Pesto
1/3 cup walnut pieces, toasted
1 bunch cilantro washed and tough stems removed (about 1 cup)
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 cup canola or olive oil, or a mix
salt

To make the pesto, puree the walnuts, cilantro, garlic and oil in a food processor until smooth. Add salt to taste. Serve the soup with cilantro pesto on top or with plain chopped cilantro if you prefer.

The Recipes

They Don’t Call It Harvest Time for Nothin’

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My old friends are probably getting tired of the Pollyanna-ish “Life is Good” mantra I keep repeating in my new life. But there are moments out here, like one morning last week when I was walking across the golden field behind our new place, feeling the warm breeze on my cheeks and watching the hawks glide overhead, that I seriously think I’ve died and gone to heaven. I confided that to a new friend—someone who’s  lived on the Vineyard for years—and she just nodded as if I was making perfect sense.

This past Sunday was another day like this, a day we wanted to make the most of since we had Libby visiting for just 24 hours. We started out early, poking around our new yard. (We just moved into a cool old farmhouse, which is very basic in terms of amenities, but it sits in a wonderful spot, surrounded by maples, cedars, pines, and lilacs, and the backyard  opens up onto miles of conservation land and corn and squash fields.) Libby and Roy hunted for frogs and crickets and then we headed off through the fields, over a brook, and along a wooded path for a good hike.

While we were walking, we ran into the farmer who grows the corn and squash behind us. He said we’d be welcome (just this once!) to glean a few odd squash from the field they had just harvested, so we took a look on the way back. Roy and Libby wound up finding the prettiest little collection of edibles and non-edibles—two Hubbards, a couple rouge-red pumpkins (and a regular ol’ jack o lantern), an acorn squash or two, and something green and bumpy who’s name escaped me. Libby was particularly excited about the handful of “baby” butternuts (maybe 4 inches high!) she found. We took our haul home and arranged the big bumpy things on our new front stoop—with the geraniums, which are still flowering in the Island’s warm fall weather.

Next we hopped in the car and drove up-Island to go apple-picking. Some friends with a towering antique of a tree (their house is pre-Revolutionary so who knows how old the apple tree is) welcomed us to come pick, as their kids and grandkids had already been by, and the apples were falling like crazy. Libby had a great time standing on the ladder (supported by Dad), wielding the furit picker, and harvesting one beauty after another. (Beauty in the rustic sense—no perfectly smooth grocery store apples here!) I, of course, was busy taking pictures as the variegated colors of these old apples fascinate me. We tried not to pick too many, as I don’t have much time to play with them. (Last year, I baked these same apples into mini-galettes, and they were delicious. Yesterday I made a crisp with this year’s crop and was surprised that they completely broke down into an applesauce-like consistency. I may have sliced them too thinly, but I think, too, that they don’t like to be cooked for so long.)

Lastly, we went over to our own vegetable garden. A couple weeks ago we stopped harvesting for the farm stand. Traffic was slowing, our harvest was inconsistent, and I had just taken on a major recipe-development project that was going to require a shift in priorities for me for this fall. The morning and night visits to the farm to supply the stand would have to be curtailed. (The farm stand at Native Earth is still very much open, though, as Rebecca is stocking it with a variety of fall goodies, including chestnuts.)

But just because we stopped harvesting daily didn’t mean the garden stopped producing. Au contraire! Ironically, this September weather—which is sort of warm and cool at the same time if you know what I mean—offers ideal growing conditions for many veggies. Our peppers look better than they have all summer. So do our flower beds, with hundreds of zinnias and nasturtiums intertwined with each other. The squash vines are dying, leaving the butternuts to ripen perfectly (and the pattypans, too) and we still have dozens and dozens of cherry tomatoes ripening. And, oh yeah, beans. Those extra rows of beans I planted halfway through the summer? Yikes. They’re producing—and so are the original plants. So now we have so many different sizes of beans when we go to harvest them that I’ve taken to sorting them into three categories—Papa Bear, Mama Bear, and Baby Bear.  My cranberry beans have taken off, too, and there’s even a mystery bean in one of the rows—a lovely pale green Romano type with a purple flower. Must have got mixed in with the Beananza seeds.

Sunday afternoon, we suggested to Libby that she pick a bouquet of flowers for her mom and a bunch of vegetables to take home with her, too. She carefully put together her selection, and back home we washed everything and packed up the goodies for her mom, Kelly, and her grandma, Judy, too.   Then we rushed off to catch the 6 o’clock ferry, nearly missing it when the Oak Bluffs terminal was closed due to high winds and the drawbridge to Vineyard Haven went up. But we made it and breathed a sigh of relief as we rushed aboard, dragging Libby’s pink suitcase and two bags of vegetables. It was as good a day as any could be.

main dishes, side dishes, The Recipes

“How do I cook eggplant?” she asked…

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Lately, I seem to be getting the same question over and over, at book signings and on my blog: How do I cook eggplant? Friends are also telling me they’re awash in late-season eggplants, and I’ve got four pretty purple orbs (orphans from the farm stand) staring at me right from my own countertop. Or at least I did, until this morning. I figured the universe was trying to tell me something, and I’d better start blogging about eggplant. So I turned the oven on.

It won’t surprise you that my favorite way to cook eggplant is to roast it. (Grilling’s right up there, too, but I am without grill today.) At its very simplest, roasting eggplant is as easy as slicing it up, spreading the slices on a lined sheet pan, brushing them with oil, seasoning them with salt, and putting them into a 450° oven for 20 or 25 minutes, until the slices are golden brown and cooked through.  The browning brings out the nutty flavor in eggplant, and the combination of a high oven temperature and a coating of olive oil draws enough heat and moisture through the eggplant slices to cook them all the way through. (Undercooked eggplant is not good.)

The roasted slices are really versatile, too. You’ll want to nibble a few straight out of the oven, but you can also turn a couple slices into “sandwiches” with a bit of goat cheese and sundried tomatoes or fresh mozzarella and basil in between. Or you can make a roasted vegetable “stack” with roasted tomatoes and roasted zucchini and surround it with greens for an elegant salad. You can serve the roasted slices as a side dish with a topping of fresh salsa or with a warm tomato sauce and a little Parmigiano, too. Or you can use them in a casserole or gratin, like I did this morning. (See recipe below; if you just want to make the roasted slices, follow the directions in the first paragraph of the recipe, and cut round slices, rather than half-moons.)

Grilling eggplant slices will get you similar results, with one problem. Often the high, dry heat of the grill (drier than the oven) will sear the outsides of the eggplant slices before they are cooked all the way through. To solve this problem, I take the slices off the grill when they’re browned and stack and wrap them in foil for a few minutes, where they’ll finish cooking from the residual steam they give off. I don’t normally like to “steam” veggies to finish cooking them, but since the eggplant slices are never really going to be crisp—and undercooked eggplant flesh is unappealing—I find this is a good idea, and that the eggplant flesh benefits, turning out to be especially creamy.

There are lots of other ways to cook eggplant. Roasting them whole is cool (the silky flesh makes great dips), and sautéing doesn’t have to mean a lot of fat (a nonstick skillet solves that). But since this blog is long (and the Late Summer Gratin recipe–shown at left–even longer!), I’ll have to hold those thoughts for another day. One last bit of eggplant advice: Many folks find the tough skin unpalatable. It doesn’t particularly bother me, and I actually like to have a little bit of that texture. So I usually do what was recommended to me long ago—score the skin with a fork or partially peel it (every other half-inch or so) with a vegetable peeler. Either method breaks up the tough skin without entirely getting rid of it. So everyone will enjoy the eggplant—now that you’ve figured out how to cook it!

Late Summer Eggplant, Tomato & Parmigiano Gratin

I love summer veggie gratins because they reduce and mingle the essence of summer flavors into one dish. When I make one with eggplant, I sometimes use feta cheese or goat cheese instead of some or all of the parmesan. I also occasionally add chopped olives, a  little black olive tapenade, or some pesto. I use fresh thyme in this one (a variation on one in Fast, Fresh & Green), but mint’s a natural with eggplant, too. This is also a great spot to use up excess garden tomatoes.  Just be sure to cook the gratin long enough to let the tomato juices mingle and reduce with the onions for the best flavor. You can use any kind of eggplant you like in this gratin, though I think Globe-type are a little more suitable for their heft. If you do use a skinny eggplant, like a Japanese or Italian style, you might not need to cut the veggies in half first before slicing (so you’ll have round slices instead of half-moons.)

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1 ¼ pounds globe-type eggplant (about 3 small or 1 large)

scant ½ cup extra-virgin olive oil

kosher salt

1 large onion (about 9 oz), thinly sliced

1 ¼ pound small or medium tomatoes (4 or 5)

2 tablespoons fresh thyme leaves or chopped fresh mint

1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons  finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

½ cup fresh bread crumbs

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Heat the oven to 450˚F . Line two heavy-duty sheet pans with parchment paper.  Trim the ends of the eggplant. Score the eggplant skin by dragging a fork down it lengthwise, repeating all over until the whole eggplant is scored. Cut the eggplant in half lengthwise; then cut each half crosswise into 1/2-in-thick half-moon slices. Arrange the slices in one layer on the sheet pans, and, using a pastry brush, brush both sides of each slice with some olive oil. Season the top sides with a little kosher salt. Roast until the eggplant is tender and lightly browned, 20 to 22 minutes. (The undersides will be slightly browner, and the slices will be somewhat shrunken.)

Reduce the oven temperature to 375˚F. Set the eggplant aside while you prepare the rest of the ingredients.

Grease a shallow 2-quart gratin dish with a little of the olive oil.

In a medium nonstick skillet over medium heat, heat 2 teaspoons of the olive oil. Add the onions and 1/4 tsp salt and cook, stirring frequently, until the onions are a light golden brown but still have some body, 8 to 12 minutes. Transfer the onions to the gratin dish and spread them out in one layer. Sprinkle them with one teaspoon of the thyme leaves. Let the onions cool.

Core the tomatoes, and cut them in half lengthwise (through the stem). Put each tomato half, cut side down, on the cutting board, and cut each half crosswise into 1/4-in- thick slices. Put the tomato slices on a shallow plate.

In a small bowl, combine  the bread crumbs with 2 teaspoons olive oil, a pinch of salt, and 2 tablespoons of the Parmigiano.

Starting at one end of the gratin dish, arrange a row of overlapping eggplant and tomato slices against the back of the pan (prop the veggies up a bit against the edge of the dish).  Alternate between one tomato slice and one eggplant slice, and after finishing each row, sprinkle it with some of the Parmigiano and a few thyme leaves. Continue arranging rows until you have filled the pan. If you come up short, you can always spread the rows out a bit by pressing down on them (or you can push them back to make more room). If you have extra Parmigiano and thyme, you can sprinkle it over the top of the finished rows.

Season the gratin with 1/4 tsp salt and drizzle 2 tablespoons of olive oil over the veggies.  Cover the veggies with the bread crumb mixture, letting the veggies peek out a bit.

Bake until the gratin is well-browned all over (the crumbs will be dark brown and the edges of the gratin will be browned), and the tomatoes are well-cooked and shrunken (if they were very juicy, the juices will be very reduced, as well), about 50 to 55 minutes. Let cool for at least 15 minutes before serving.

Serves 6 as a sidedish

side dishes

Slow-Sautéed Pole Beans with Shallots and Bacon — Not so Pretty, but Pretty Delicious

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When the pole bean trellis blew down for the second time, we left it. Granted, we were a bit annoyed at the pole beans. They took a lifetime to germinate and what seemed like eternity to start yielding. Meanwhile the bush beans were churning out lovely filet beans by the pound every day.  We would have ignored the pole beans altogether except for this nagging voice I had in my head, “Pole beans are better than bush beans.” I grew up with this voice. My father’s.

My father and his mother (my grandmother Honey, who “put up” pole beans at the end of every summer) were always carrying on about the superiority of “pole beans” over bush beans. (Pole beans are green bean varieties like Kentucky Wonder that grow on vines as long as 12 feet, therefore needing support in the form of poles or some other trellising.)  I needed to find out the truth for myself, as it seemed to me that our bush beans (a variety from FedCo called Beananza) were pretty darn tasty—and oh-so-lovely to look at, too. The pole beans looked kind of gnarled up and blotchy the minute they appeared on the scene.

They didn’t get any prettier—but they did keep growing, even under the weight of a collapsed trellis. After neglecting them for a while (figuring we’d eventually till them back into the soil, as nitrate-fixing beans make great soil enhancements), we came along one day, lifted up the vines, and discovered dozens of big funky beans growing under them.  We surely weren’t going to sell these fallen beans, so I collected them that day—and every few days thereafter—and took them home for us. From the first time I picked them, I knew something was up. They just smelled “bean-y.” I realize that doesn’t sound too appealing, but I mean it in the best way—a really fresh, green, arresting aroma that followed through when I cooked them. It was green bean flavor times two! Really delicious. So now I have to tell my Dad he was right. Bummer.

The pole beans (at least the varieties we grew—Kentucky Wonder and Fortex) do present one cooking challenge:  their texture is a bit, well… I wouldn’t say tougher exactly, just more substantial, I guess. Toothsome, in a good way. To me that texture is a clue to cook the beans a bit longer and with some heartier flavors. But by longer cooking, I don’t mean boiling them to death. I mean something like slow-sautéing, where the beans get brown and tender and pick up the flavors of other ingredients in the pan, like the shallots and bacon in the recipe below. I made this recipe yesterday because it felt comforting and warm, and we’ve had a bit of a nip in the air up here. Plus, I had some particularly gnarly beans to deal with. So it may not look so pretty (though, yes, everything is supposed to be that brown—brown is where all the flavor is), but it did taste pretty delicious.

Slow-Sautéed Pole Beans with Shallots & Bacon

If you don’t have pole green beans, don’t worry. This recipe will work great with any mature green beans—just choose the largest beans you can find when you’re shopping. This method of “slow-sautéing” involves a crowded pan (the opposite of what you would think of for a quick sauté), but I promise you it works great. Keep the pan at a gentle sizzle—you can always slow browning down by lowering the heat. The end goal is veggies that are cooked through and nicely browned, too.

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2 teaspoons orange juice

1 teaspoon red wine vinegar

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

12 ounces pole green beans, trimmed and cut into 2- or 3-inch pieces

4 large shallots, peeled and cut lengthwise into ½-inch wedges (keep a little of the stem end intact if you can)

2 ounces bacon (about 2 pieces), cut into 1-inch pieces

kosher salt

½ tablespoon unsalted butter

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In a small bowl, combine the orange juice and vinegar and set aside. In a 10-inch straight sided skillet, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Add the beans, shallots, bacon, and a scant teaspoon of salt. Using tongs, toss to break up the bacon and to coat everything with the oil and salt. Reduce the heat to medium-low. Cook, stirring occasionally at first and a little more frequently after browning begins, until the vegetables are all very-well browned and limp (the bacon will be cooked through and some pieces will be crisp), about 22 to 25 minutes. Remove the pan from the heat, add the butter and the orange juice mixture, and immediately stir to incorporate the liquids and melting butter into the beans. Transfer the vegetables to a serving dish or individual plates and serve hot or warm.

Serves 3 to 4 as a side dish

side dishes, The Recipes

Squish-Squash: A So-So Day in the Test Kitchen

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Not every day is a winner in a food writer’s test kitchen. In fact, yesterday was kind of a stinker, if I’m really to be honest. I made some stuffed winter squash which was just—not good. I’ll spare you the details about the stuffing, but I have to tell you, the most frustrating thing was this: The squash were under-ripe. And so, as beautiful as they were raw (see the lovelies at left), the squash were fibrous and bland when cooked. I know—I’m really making you salivate, now, huh?

I more or less suspected this was the case when I picked the squash in the days leading up to Hurricane Earl. Uh, I mean Tropical Storm Earl. Or maybe Lite & Breezy Earl is more like it. It just didn’t amount to much, but everyone was scurrying around plucking fruit—ripe or not—from vine and tree alike before the storm. I succumbed—before  I had solved this dilemma of “how do you tell when winter squash is ripe?”

I know, I am supposed to be a vegetable expert. So I should definitely be hanged (or maybe something less dramatic) for continuing to cook the squash once I cut it open and started digging the seeds out of the hard, pale flesh. I knew for sure then that the squash (especially the Delicatas) were under-ripe. (You’ve probably had this experience with a slightly green butternut squash you’ve bought at the market.) The thing is, in the gardening department, I’m still a neophyte, and try as I might, I haven’t been able to get a straight answer from other gardeners on how to tell when my stripey Carnival and Delicata squash are ripe.

I’ve been told to wait for the stems to wither and dry up on the vine (uh-oh, I am not that patient),  and I’ve been told to look for a good spot of orange color on the underside  (this didn’t hold true when I cut into the one with color–the one in the bowl in the top photo). But I am beginning to suspect that it is, in fact, a color issue. I looked at pictures of Carnival squash online this morning, and they all had an orange hue on at least half of their surface. And I remember someone telling me a while back that Delicatas are ripe when the green stripes have an orange hue beneath them. So, if you’re color blind (or impatient, like you-know-who), I don’t suggest growing winter squash.

All is not lost, despite my stubborn “I’m going to get this darn thing in the oven anyway” approach yesterday. First, I have more squash in the garden (still ripening, theoretically). Second, I can, in fact, give you quick and easy directions for simple, delicious (unstuffed) roasted acorn squash halves, if you are smarter than me and actually buy your (ripe) squash at the grocery store. (Directions below.) And lastly, if you’ve got a copy of Fast, Fresh & Green on hand, you can turn to page 51 for my absolute favorite acorn squash recipe—Vanilla and Cardamom Glazed Acorn Squash Rings.

And if you don’t have a copy of Fast, Fresh & Green, you’d better get one! The third printing hit last week, and if it’s anything like the first two, copies will be scarce again soon.

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Simple Roasted Acorn Squash Halves

Heat the oven to 400° F. With a very sharp knife, cut a thin sliver off of both ends of the acorn squash, and then cut it in half crosswise. (Cutting the slivers off the ends will help each half sit flat in the baking vessel, rather than rolling around.) Line a shallow baking dish or small heavy sheet pan with foil or parchment paper and arrange the halves in it. Sprinkle them with salt. For each acorn squash you are baking, combine 1 ½ tablespoons of unsalted butter with 1 ½ tablespoons of maple syrup and a small squeeze of lemon (or dash of balsamic vinegar or soy sauce) in a small saucepan. Heat until the butter melts, stir, and brush all over the squash halves. Most of the liquid will pool in the center of the squash; that’s okay—just be sure that you’ve brushed the tops. Bake until very tender and nicely browned, about 1 hour and 10 minutes for a small acorn squash, 10 to 15 minutes more for a larger squash. Baste occasionally if you like. Serve warm as a side dish, one half per person.

side dishes, starters, The Recipes

A Sweet Tooth and Her Caramelized Onions

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Since I have a sweet tooth, turning vegetables into candy is a favorite pastime (see roasted beets and roasted tomatoes). Last week, after the grand sopping we got (more on the way from Hurricane Earl), we pulled up most of our onions in the garden, as they don’t like wet feet and looked like they were sort of gurgling in the muck.  I know you are supposed to grow onions in order to keep them in long storage all winter. But that may not be happening around here. I couldn’t stand watching all those beautiful onions drying out in the kitchen. I wanted to slice them and dice them and sauté them and roast them and and and…well, you know, I couldn’t wait. Friday I stole three nice plump onions off the rack and sliced them up. And made caramelized onions. There, I had my way.

Caramelized onions are something unto themselves. With their amazing flavor and almost jammy, condiment-y texture, they go well in, on, and around just about anything. Eggs, crostini, pasta, steaks, salads. The other night I threw some in with chopped tomatoes for a quick-simmered pan sauce for chicken thighs. Last night we put some on pizza. They keep in the fridge for at least a week (if you don’t eat them all), so every morning I mix a little with some fresh corn kernels and fresh thyme and add that to my scrambled eggs.

And, ta da!, I just happen to have a good recipe for caramelized onions up my sleeve. It’s one I developed for Fast, Fresh & Green but ultimately cut when we had too much content. While I love this classic preparation, I don’t really think of caramelized onions as a side dish so much as a dinner-booster, so it made sense to take it out of a book of side dishes.

My recipe takes the classic, slow-cooked, slowly browned onions a small step further by adding a bit of balsamic, honey and thyme at the end. (You could leave them out but I think they give everything a lift.) There is some technique to caramelizing onions. First off, they won’t cook evenly unless you “sweat” them first in a covered pan until they are translucent (middle photo above). Then, and only then, can you procede to browning the onions. The next big tip I learned from my old chef boss Lenny Greene: When onions start sticking to a hot pan (and leaving behind all those delicious brown nubbins), pull the pan off the heat and the onions will immediately begin releasing moisture, which will allow you to “wash” all those delicious brown bits back into the onions. You can do this frequently while caramelizing the onions, and every time you wash the browned bits back into the onions, they will get more golden. Lastly, I like to caramelize my onions over moderately low heat so that they cook most evenly. But if you’re in a hurry, you can bump up the heat a bit (after “sweating”) and speed the cooking along. Happy caramelizing!

Caramelized Onions Agrodolce

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2 pounds yellow onions

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1 teaspoon kosher salt, more for seasoning

1 teaspoon balsamic vinegar

1 teaspoon honey

2 teaspoons coarsely chopped fresh thyme leaves

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Slice the ends off of the onions, cut them in half lengthwise, and peel them.  Put each half, cut-side down, on a cutting board. Slice each onion half lengthwise in ¼-inch wide slices in a “radial” fashion by angling your knife in towards the core as you slice from one side to the other (as if you were slicing along longitudinal lines towards the axis of the earth). When you get half-way through, lay the rest of the onion over on its side for easier slicing and continue to slice towards the core. Discard any very thin or small pieces of onion. Slice the remaining halves in the same way. (See radial-cut onions in photo in text, above right.)

In a 10-inch straight-sided skillet, heat the olive oil over medium-low heat. Add all the onions and 1 teaspoon kosher salt.  Stir well, cover, and cook, stirring only every few minutes and putting the lid back on quickly, until all the onions are limp, translucent, and just beginning to stick to the pan, 12 to 14 minutes.

Uncover and cook, stirring more and more frequently, until most of the onions are the color of a caramel candy (some will be deeper amber), about 30 minutes. (Turn heat to medium if onions are browning too slowly for you.) The onions will stick to the pan frequently and will leave browned bits on the bottom of the pan. You will need to “wash” those browned bits back into the onions by doing two things. First, use a wooden spoon to scrape the brown bits up. Secondly, when there is a lot of browning in one place in the pan, pull the pan off the heat and let the onions sit for a few seconds. They will release moisture which will help unstick the browned bits; you can then sweep the onions back and forth across the browned bits to reincorporate them.

Mix the balsamic vinegar with two teaspoons water. Turn the heat to low, add the balsamic mixture, stir, and remove the pan from the heat. Continue stirring to incorporate all of the browning in the pan and to evaporate the liquids. Add the honey and thyme, and stir well again. Taste and season with a little more salt if needed. Let the onions sit a minute or two longer and stir again to incorporate any remaining browned bits in the pan. Let cool and transfer to a storage bowl if not using right away. They will keep in the fridge for a week.

Yields 1.5 cups

side dishes, starters, The Recipes

Today’s Tomato Destination: Easy Bruschetta

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It blew like crazy last night. The garden is pretty disheveled—flattened in fact. The pole bean trellis (with all of its Jack-and-the-Beanstalk vines) is face down in the zinnias. The cosmos are hugging the ground like a dog that’s been chastised. And the little zucchinis on the new plants are bare and naked, exposed to the world after their protective leaves and stems snapped off like flimsy toothpicks.

No matter; we will clean it all up this weekend. In the mean time, with the rain still coming down (and traffic at the farm stand sluggish), harvesting seemed like a silly idea today. We’ll have to go back later in the afternoon and get the beans; they grow too big if left for more than a day, and we have about 4 pounds coming in every day. (Bean picking is hard on the back and time-consuming, too, but if you just go with it, it can be Zen-like.)

Fortunately we brought a ton more tomatoes in yesterday, as Mr. Rat is still on the loose. I was relieved to read on Facebook (yeah, what a source!) that real farmers are also bringing their tomatoes inside at first blush. Bad summer for pests, they say. Whew, this makes a start-up grower like me feel not so silly about the number (now in the hundreds) of under-ripe and semi-ripe tomatoes in our apartment.

However, the under-ripe tomatoes don’t scare me nearly as much as the ripe ones, as I don’t think there’s any way we will sell them all at the farm stand. (A good rainstorm like this comes along—and yesterday being Monday, too—and we only sell 2 pounds of tomatoes in a day, out of the 12 we put out on the stand!) I’ve given some to friends, and roasted a bunch this weekend, but deadlines (and life!) prevent me from spending time marketing them elsewhere. I’ve already told Roy that we’ll be eating green beans and tomatoes every night now for the next millennium, but I’m trying to make lunch out of this stuff, too.

So yesterday I had my V-8 moment—Oh, Bruschetta! I remembered how good and easy bruschetta is to make with ripe summer tomatoes, and I had a nice rustic loaf of bread on hand. So voila—here’s what came of it. Easy, easy. Tasty, tasty.

Summer Tomato Bruschetta

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2 to 2 ½ cups diced, cored ripe summer tomatoes (3 to 4 medium tomatoes; no need to skin or seed, just chop)

1 clove garlic, peeled and minced

10 to 12 medium-large leaves sweet basil, finely sliced or chopped

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for bread

few drops balsamic vinegar

few drops honey

kosher salt

4 to 6 slices rustic bread (each slice about 1-inch thick; I like a baguette cut on a sharp diagonal)

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In a small mixing bowl, combine the tomatoes, the garlic, the basil, the 2 tablespoons olive oil, the balsamic vinegar, the honey, and about ¼ teaspoon kosher salt. Stir well to combine and let sit for 5 to 10 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Rub or drizzle the bread slices with a little more olive oil and toast them in a toaster oven or brown them under the broiler. Arrange the slices on two plates, sprinkle them with a tiny bit of salt, and spoon the tomato mixture over them. Let sit for a few minutes so that the bread soaks up a bit of the juices.

Serve for lunch or as a first course to dinner. You could also add some chopped grilled or sautéed shrimp to the tomato mix, and call this dinner.

Serves 2

The Recipes

We Won! We Won! Six Ribbons at the Ag Fair—Woo hoo!

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This morning I got stung by a bee—twice. It was my fault—I was trying to harvest squash blossoms, and the bees weren’t  finished with their business inside them. One bee got so mad at me that he followed me all the way to the compost pile. And somehow, one got inside my pants. Yeah, ouch.

But I’m not in a bad mood—I’m as happy as can be. It’s impossible not be filled with excitement around here. Martha’s Vineyard in August—especially the third week in August—will make your head spin. Fireworks, the Fair, the President. Yesterday the President’s motorcade whizzed by our front door. The family stays just a quarter-mile up the road from us, so this will be a familiar site.

But the most exciting thing of all for us yesterday wasn’t the President—it was the blue and red ribbons we won at the Fair.  This past weekend, we carefully filled out the entry form after looking at what we had in our garden, and decided to enter in two flower categories and five vegetables. Since we grow our vegetables and flowers to sell at a farm stand, we had to enter as commercial growers.

Wednesday morning, we picked our Fair entries after harvesting for the farm stand, took our goodies home and cleaned them up, and delivered them to the Ag Hall. We got a ticket for each entry and sat down at a picnic table to label everything. Next to us was a young family putting the finishing touches on all the artwork they were entering.  Kids and adults alike work all year long on Fair entries, and you see the coolest stuff on delivery day. My favorite was a giant piece of driftwood covered entirely with seashells and other shore treasures—so great.  Of course, I’ve never entered something in a Fair before, so I was pretty darn excited. Not nearly as excited as Roy, though, who was so proud of the gladiolas he grew.  He’d chosen three beautiful white stems that already were capturing oohs and ahs from friends we ran into, and he really wanted to win a ribbon.

So last night, when we made our way past the Rock Climbing Wall, the Diamond Dragon Ride, the Cotton Candy and Fried Chicken trailers, and the Flintstones Game to push through the doors of the Ag Hall, I was worried Roy might be disappointed. No need for that—he rushed ahead and seconds later reappeared with a smile on this face. His glads got a red ribbon for second place, and he couldn’t have been happier.  I really didn’t have expectations on our other stuff, so when Roy kept finding things and coming back to tell me “the onions got a blue ribbon!” “the fingerlings got first place!” I was amazed.  We got six ribbons out of the seven categories we entered! How could that be, I thought? Well, I looked around and it seemed to me there weren’t a whole lot of commercial entries this year (many more home entries), and that we sort of won by default in some cases. No matter, I thought, this is still a thrill. But someone told me this morning that the judges don’t award a ribbon if they don’t think there’s something worthy in a category; so that means our stuff was at least pretty decent! So for now, I’ll let myself feel good about this—after all, some of those darn vegetables started as seedlings in our apartment almost six months ago, and there was a lot of love and hard work that got them to the Fair!

I celebrated with cotton candy (pink, of course)—Roy with a sausage and peppers grinder. We played a game or two (Roy had to win me a stuffed animal, of course). The moon was glowing in a clear ink-blue sky, and the night was as fine as could be—cool and dry. We strolled through the barn to see the draft horses, prize chickens, and magnificent oxen—and then headed back to the car. After all, we still had work to do—closing the farm stand for the night.

side dishes, starters

A Tale of a Thousand Roasted Tomatoes

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My friends will most definitely give me a hard time about this. Here I am, writing about roasted tomatoes—again. I love roasted tomatoes so much that I’ve written about them every chance I’ve gotten. If you want to slow-roast big, juicy beefsteaks or heirlooms, read how I do it over at Fine Cooking magazine’s website. (I even include lots of suggestions for ways to use roasted tomatoes.) But if you want almost-instant gratification, read on.

The recipe I’m posting here is a quicker version of roasted tomatoes, one I developed for Fast, Fresh & Green. It uses seeded plum tomatoes (which contain less moisture) and a high oven temp to get quicker caramelization. The reason I’m posting this recipe today is to thank all of the folks (like my best friend Eliza’s Mom, Bran Johnston, with me at Stonewall Kitchens, right) who’ve showed up at all my book signings this summer and gobbled up hundreds and hundreds of these things.

Early on in the whole book-publicity strategy plan, I decided that making the same recipe for every signing would keep my life a little simpler. Plus, I don’t have a lot of options for finger food in Fast, Fresh & Green, which is mostly side dishes. These roasted plum tomatoes conveniently fold up around a little piece of fresh mozzarella and a leaf of fresh basil to make “sandwiches” that I skewer with a toothpick (photo and recipe below). I can’t say that they’re the ideal finger food (caterer to the stars I am not), as they’re a little unwieldy and a bit messy. But they taste so intense that I absolutely don’t know anyone who hasn’t liked them on first bite.

Fortunately, Roy likes them, too. (Actually he likes roasted tomatoes better than fresh tomatoes—that’s a good thing, because judging by the burgeoning pile of tomatoes at our windowsill (left), I’m going to have to roast a lot of tomatoes pretty soon.) Roy has not only been a huge help with assembling the sandwiches at the last minute, but he has been lugging the cooler and several other heavy bags of tools and ingredients up and down the East Coast in an effort to make my life easier. For that he gets a lot of roasted tomatoes!

If you’re not sure what all the fuss is about, take the 15 minutes to cut a few plum tomatoes in half, pull out the seeds, season them with salt, a little sugar, a few thyme leaves, a bit of garlic, and lots of olive oil and throw them in the hot oven, and enjoy the aroma while you wait to taste.

By the way, the Ag Fair (officially called the 149th Martha’s Vineyard Agricultural Society Livestock Show & Fair) starts on Thursday here on the Island. (The Obama family arrives on Thursday, too, so yes, it’s pretty much a circus around here.) We’re entering our black cherry tomatoes and a few other veg and flowers, so we’ll let you know if we win a ribbon!

Roasted Tomato, Basil, and Mozzarella “Sandwiches”

These make great hors d’oeuvres or antipasto, but they’re also delicious on a dinner plate or tucked into a green salad, too.

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1 recipe Caramelized Plum Tomatoes in an Olive Oil Bath (recipe follows), any excess oil drained

20 fresh basil leaves

8 mini-mozzarella balls (1 inch in diameter), each sliced into 3 to 4 pieces

kosher salt

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Have ready a serving platter or shallow dish and twenty toothpicks or cocktail skewers.

Lay the plum tomatoes, cut side up , on a cutting board. Place a basil leaf, shiny side down, on each tomato half. Put a piece of mozzarella on one end of the tomato and sprinkle a little salt over it. Fold the other half of the tomato over the cheese and put a skewer through the “sandwich” at an angle, so that about 3/4 in of the skewer comes out the other side . It’s best to skewer through the folded-over ends of the tomato (and the cheese ), but not the middle , to prevent the “sandwich” from flopping open. Arrange the tomatoes on a serving pla tter in diagonal rows, tucking them close to one another.

Yields 20 sandwiches; serves 6 to 8

Caramelized Plum Tomatoes in An Olive Oil Bath

I’m always amazed at how a hot oven turns even the most pathetic, pale plum tomatoes into deeply flavored beauties. The generous amount of olive oil in this recipe has a purpose—as the water in the tomatoes evaporates, the oil replaces it and gently simmers and preserves the tomato flesh. When the tomatoes are finished cooking, you can lift one end and a good bit of the oil will spill out. Don’t be alarmed if the edges of some of your tomatoes (or some of the juices in the pan) look a little black ened. They will still taste delicious.  These tomatoes aren’t just a great side dish; they also make perfect crostini toppers, salad ingredients, or hors d’oeuvres (see page 42).

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10 plum tomatoes

½ cup extra-virgin olive oil

kosher salt

sugar

2 teaspoons fresh thyme leaves (4 to 6 sprigs)

balsamic vinegar

2 large garlic cloves, peeled and sliced crosswise into 10 to 12 slices each

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Preheat the oven to 425˚F. Line a large heavy-duty rimmed sheet pan with a piece of parchment paper. (I like to cover the sheet pan with aluminum foil, first, for easier clean up, but it’s not necessary.) Cut each tomato in half length wise, and, leaving in the core, scrape out the seeds and ribs with a tomato shark or a serrated spoon. Brush 1 tablespoon of the olive oil over the parchment.

Arrange the tomato halves, cut side up, on the parchment.

Season the cavity of each tomato half with a pinch of salt, a good pinch of sugar, and some of the thyme leaves. Drizzle a few drops of balsamic vinegar inside each tomato half. (An easy way to do this is to pour some vinegar into a small bowl and use a 1/8 tsp. measure to distribute it. Or just hold your thumb over the vinegar bottle opening to dispense drops!) Drop a slice or two of garlic in each half , and pour 1 teaspoon of the olive oil into each half. It will look like a lot of olive oil; that’s okay.

Roast the tomatoes until they collapse and are brown around the edges, the garlic is browned, and the juices are somewhat caramelized on the sheet pan, 30 to 40 minutes. (At this temperature, you can roast them up to about 55 minutes before the bottoms get too dark. Some of the really hefty—and underripe—plum tomatoes may want to go this long to be tastiest.)

Let the tomatoes cool for a few minutes on the sheet pan. Carefully transfer them to a serving plate. (If the juices are very caramelized, the tomatoes may stick a bit; take care not to rip the skin.) Serve warm or at room temperature. They will also keep in the fridge for about a week.

Yields 20 tomato halves; serves 6