All posts by Susie Middleton

The Recipes

Bringing Home the Brussels Sprouts–For a Quick Braise

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Brrrrr…..Brussels sprouts. The two seem to go together. But I guess I’ll never know if frost makes sprouts sweeter (so they say), since we harvested all our Brussels sprouts from the garden last night—and this morning woke up to a shiny silver blanket of frost (our first) on the fields all around us.

The amazing thing is that we have any Brussels sprouts at all. Watching the flea beetles ravage them in late summer, I all but gave up on them until about a month ago when I noticed little sprouts were forming anyway. So I topped off a few of the plants to see if that would increase the size of the sprouts. (Now that I’ve harvested, I can’t really tell. All the stalks have sprouts of all different sizes on them, bigger ones at the top.)

Last night we made a foray over to our much neglected garden to continue trying to break it down. But if you ever want to better understand the will to live, visit a vegetable garden on Martha’s Vineyard in early November. Not only did we have dozens of eggplants hanging off the plants, but the cherry tomatoes are still ripening even though we pulled the vines down. (It’s the warm sea air.) And we came back with buckets of kale, chard, and mustard greens; about 100 green peppers (I’m not kidding–friends are stopping by today to pick some up!); a couple of hidden potatoes, and…a big armful of Brussels sprouts stalks.

The sprouts were the last thing we picked from the garden, as they’re in the far corner. We scrambled over the nasturtiums and zinnias (still blooming) to get to them, and found the stalks standing tall and alien-like, with their holey wings extended nearly far enough for the goats to nibble on them through the fence. And yes, they were covered with sprouts—many that didn’t even have holes in them! We yanked them out of the ground and carted our harvest back to the car.

(On our way out of the garden, we were ambushed by about six of the mama goats and their now-big babies, who’ve been waiting all summer to get into our garden. Our hands were full, we couldn’t stop them, so in they came, heading straight for the remaining kale and chard. We packed the car, came back and shooed them out, but they were all smiling. They had this planned.)

This morning I made quick-braised Brussels sprouts and this afternoon I’m planning on a Tuscan kale soup to start using our goodies. The quick-braising technique (for more details, see Fast, Fresh & Green) is such a great one for Brussels sprouts as the sprouts get to brown in the pan first (for great flavor), and then finish cooking to the perfect texture in a little liquid. That liquid simmers down to make a little bonus pan sauce in the end, too. Below you’ll find the variation I made today.

Quick-Braised Brussels Sprouts

Brussels sprouts vary a lot in size—not just in the garden, but in the grocery store, too. If you can, choose medium-sized sprouts—or at least sprouts that are all close in size to each other. If you can only find very large or very small sprouts, you can increase or decrease the liquid by a little bit (2 to 3 Tbsp.) to assure that your sprouts will be cooked properly. (Also feel free to eliminate the white wine and use all chicken broth.) Whatever size sprouts you wind up with, be sure they fit in one layer (once you cut them in half) in your 10-inch straight-sided pan. If there are extras, put them aside, as the sprouts won’t cook evenly if they’re in more than one layer.

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¼ cup dry white wine

¼ cup lower-sodium chicken broth

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

¾ lb. Brussels sprouts, trimmed and halved

3/4 teaspoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon minced garlic

1/2 small lemon

chopped fresh parsley or chives (optional)

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Combine the white wine and chicken broth in a liquid measure.

In a 10-inch straight-sided sauté pan with a lid, melt 1 ½ tablespoons of the butter with the olive oil over medium heat. Arrange the sprouts, cut side down, in one layer in the pan. (You’ll have to tuck them in snugly.) Season with the salt. Cover and cook the sprouts until the bottoms are nicely browned, 3 to 6 minutes. (If the heat on your stovetop is uneven, rotate the pan so that the bottoms get evenly browned.) Pour the wine/chicken broth mixture into the pan and cover the pan mostly with the lid (leave it slightly askew for a little steam to escape). Adjust the heat so that the liquid is just gently simmering.

Cook until the broth is reduced to about 2 tablespoons, 6 to 8 minutes. Uncover and add the remaining 1/2 tablespoon butter and the garlic. Toss well and stir just until the butter has melted. Remove the pan from the heat, and continue to stir gently until the garlic are well-incorporated and slightly softened. Gently squeeze the lemon half over all, toss, and serve.

Serves 3 to 4

side dishes, The Recipes

Yoga & Roasted Cauliflower — Both are Good for You, Both are Delicious

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I started taking yoga again last week. Actually, “Yoga on the Ball.” At first it made me giggle, bouncing around on this thing. The ball reminds me of the Hippity-Hop I had as a little girl. Back in those days, my parents would do anything to try to wear me out. I was Miss Energy. These days, not so much. But after I got over the giggles, I started to feel really good. What I need (or what my back, my hamstrings, and my tummy need) is stretching, and draping yourself over, under, and around this big round ball seems to make stretching easier and more effective. Very Cool.

Plus, I love my yoga teacher, M.J. Bindu Delekta, and she makes everything soulful and relaxing, even if it does involve putting on unflattering clothes and contorting your body into embarrassing positions. And she’s really into good food. Last week she announced to the yoga class that she highly recommended Susie’s cookbook, especially the roasted cauliflower. She has mentioned this roasted cauliflower to me a few times, so I know she is serious.  It reminded me that it might be a good idea to spread the word about roasted cauliflower beyond my yoga class. Plus, I happened to roast some this weekend for a recipe I’m working on, and I thought to myself, “Oh, roasted cauliflower, what a hot ticket you are! So sweet, so delicious, and yet, still cauliflower.” (Okay, I know I really am going nuts now, talking to cauliflower. I’m afraid I’ve been in the kitchen far too much lately.)

There is simply nothing difficult about roasting cauliflower. It’s not even hard to cut up a cauliflower into florets. And with my quick-roasting method (yes, lifted right from Fast, Fresh & Green), you can be popping these yummy bites right off the sheet pan and into your mouth in less than 30 minutes. But in case you’d actually like to serve these as a side dish, I’ve included a little seasoning idea—a Garlic-Lime-Cilantro butter—with the method below. For more ideas, check out the Orange-Olive Dressing on the roasted cauliflower in FFG, or try one of the other herb butters in the roasting chapter.

But I have to tell you just one last thing about M.J. and this whole yoga gig. The reason M.J. is so cool is not because she loves roasted cauliflower. It’s because she gives the best homework assignments ever. Last week she reminded us that we live on an Island and that we should visit the ocean if we haven’t lately. In fact she said, we should go to the beach, close our eyes, and practice pacing our breaths with the rhythm of the waves coming ashore. She even emailed us all this weekend to remind us of our homework. So today I got out of the kitchen and went to the beach. It just happened to be 70 degrees, and I got to dig my toes into surprisingly warm sand. I’m not sure I quite got my breathing in sync with the waves. But it was the best homework assignment I’ve ever had. So after you roast your cauliflower, go to the beach. Or walk in the woods. Check out the leaves. It’s all delicious.

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Roasted Cauliflower (with optional Garlic-Lime-Cilantro Butter)

I love this high-heat, sheet-pan roasting method for cauliflower. But I recently roasted cauliflower in a Pyrex pan at 425 degrees, and it came out just fine, too. It does brown up and it’s still tasty. But there’s no doubt that the cauliflower (and most veg) gets crisper on an aluminum sheet pan at higher heat. Because of the material and depth of a Pyrex pan, vegetables roast a little more slowly and come out a bit moister (not always a bad thing) from the steam they pick up from neighboring veg. Since cauliflower has a fair amount of moisture to give off, it’s one that I think really benefits from the open sheet pan.

1 pound cauliflower florets (from about 1 small head), each cut into pieces about 1 ½  inches long with one flat side (see photos)

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

¾ teaspoon kosher salt

Garlic-Lime-Cilantro Butter (optional, see below)

Heat the oven to 475 degrees F. Line a large baking sheet with parchment paper. In a mixing bowl, toss the florets gently but thoroughly with the olive oil and salt. Spread the florets out on the sheet pan in one layer, flat side down. (Scrape any remaining salt and oil out of the bowl onto the florets). Roast until the bottom of the florets are well-browned and the tops are starting to brown, 20 to 24 minutes. (You can turn them once with tongs about ¾ way through cooking, but do leave the flat side in contact with the sheet pan for at least the first 15 minutes so that it will get nicely caramelized.) Serve right away (they cool down quickly), or drizzle with the butter and transfer to a serving bowl.

To make Garlic-Lime-Cilantro Butter: In a small skillet, heat 1 tablespoon unsalted butter with 2 teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil and 1 teaspoon minced garlic over medium-low heat. When the butter has melted and the garlic has begun to smell fragrant, remove the skillet from the heat and mix in ½ tsp. freshly grated lime zest and ½ tsp. fresh lime juice. Stir in 1 tablespoon chopped fresh cilantro. Drizzle over cauliflower.

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side dishes, starters, The Garden, The Recipes

You Say Borlotti, I Say Cranberry—Beans, That Is

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Halfway through the summer, I gave into temptation and bought a new packet of seeds for the vegetable garden. (Like I really needed more seeds—we had so many left over from our order last winter that I have enough to start the entire garden next year.) Right around the time our first carrot row emptied out, I happened to spot some Italian Borlotti beans at the garden center down the road. I had to have them.

I’ve always wanted to grow shell beans. I think it’s the whole popping-them-out-of-the-pod thing. It seems so peaceful to me—an activity you definitely have to slow down to enjoy. But these particular shell beans are special. First off, they’re pink. I’m not kidding—my favorite color. The crimson pods and the magenta-dappled beans are way too charming to pass up. Secondly (and yeah, a bit more importantly), Borlotti beans (usually called Cranberry beans in the States) are delicious. Cooked fresh, their creamy, meaty texture is like no dried or canned bean you’ve ever eaten. The only bummer thing is that they lose that beautiful color when cooked.

Because I planted my Borlotti beans late in the season, I didn’t expect much. In fact, after a little initial weeding to help the baby plants along, I kind of ignored them as summer waned and fall got busy. But every once in a while I’d catch a glimpse of pink among the weeds, and I discovered that the plants were producing lots of pods. As soon as the pods started plumping up, I’d zipper one open every time I visited the garden. I was trying to figure out when to harvest them. Were the beans ripe? They seemed big enough, but many of them also had a pale greenish hue—hardly white with pink spots. I couldn’t find any info on the internet, but I finally got my answer, almost by accident.

I took a few pods home one day to photograph, and as I was lining them up on the patio, I noticed that even though all the pods were predominantly pink, some of them were mottled with green, some with white. The pods that had the most white—almost the color of candy canes—had the nice white and magenta speckled ripe beans inside. The pods that had a mottled green background color still had the greenish beans inside. And there were gradations along the way; it seems the pods gradually change color as the beans ripen. At last, I’d finally figured out a way to tell if the beans were ripe without having to pick the pod and open it up first.

Saturday Roy and Libby and I pulled up most of the Borlotti bean plants. We were in a rush, trying to get some tidying done in the garden before heading to the Bronx Sunday morning for a book signing I’d been asked to do at The New York Botanical Garden’s Edible Garden event. So I snipped the pods off the plants, stuffed them in a bucket, and crammed them into the fridge at home.

This afternoon I got a chance to (slow down and) sort through the pods, and happily, a majority of them were more pink than green. I shelled enough pods just to get two cups of beans, as I want to make them last. I almost hated to cook with them they were so pretty. But I wanted to prepare them the way I’ve had them in Italian restaurants—with lots of garlic and rosemary. I wasn’t disappointed; they were as delicious as I remember—the perfect thing with a warm green salad and some crusty bread. And the bonus: Since they’re fresh, they cooked in less than 30 minutes (no soaking). (And actually, despite turning grey, they were still quite pretty when I photographed them, too, though you will just have to believe me. Unfortunately, I accidentally erased and recycled those photos tonight. Glad I don’t do that very often!)

Depending on where you live, you may still see the fresh beans at farmers’ markets or natural food stores this fall. But even if you don’t get a chance to cook them fresh this year, keep an eye out for dried Borlotti (or Cranberry) beans. They’re a classic addition to all kinds of Italian soups and stews like Pasta Fagioli and Minestrone.

Fresh Cranberry Beans with Bacon, Rosemary & Garlic

For a light supper, serve these beans with a warm escarole, spinach, or arugula salad and some crusty bread. If you have pancetta (Italian bacon), it would be a more authentic substitute for bacon, so feel free to use it. And if you want to go meatless altogether, no worries. The beans are still full of flavor cooked with just the rosemary and garlic and without the meat.

2 cups (10 oz.) shelled fresh cranberry beans (from about 1 ¼ lbs. pods)
kosher salt
extra virgin olive oil
1 large clove garlic, smashed, plus 2 tsp. minced fresh garlic
2 smal sprigs fresh rosemary plus 1½ tsp. chopped fresh rosemary
2 slices bacon
1/2 tsp. sherry vinegar or white balsamic vinegar

In a medium saucepan, combine the cranberry beans, ½ tsp. kosher salt, the rosemary sprigs, the smashed garlic clove, and 3 cups water. Bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer, and cook gently until the beans are tender, about 20 to 25 minutes. (You should be able to mash them lightly with the back of a spoon.)

Transfer the beans with a slotted spoon to a bowl, and reserve the saucepan of cooking liquid. Remove the garlic and rosemary leaves from the beans.

In a medium heavy nonstick skillet, cook the bacon or pancetta over medium-low heat until the bacon is crisp, about 12 minutes. Transfer the bacon to paper towels to drain. Turn the heat to medium and add 1 Tbs. of extra-virgin olive oil to the skillet.

When the oil is hot, add the minced garlic, and cook, stirring, until the garlic is fragrant and softened, about 1 minute. Add the beans, ½ tsp. kosher salt, ½ tsp. of the chopped rosemary, and a small amount (about ¼ cup) of the cooking liquid. Turn the heat to medium-high and cook, stirring frequently, until most of the cooking liquid has simmered down or been absorbed, about 2 minutes. Add the sherry vinegar and another ½ tsp. chopped rosemary to the beans. Stir and transfer all the contents of the pan to a serving bowl and garnish with the bacon, crumbled, and the remaining ½ tsp. chopped rosemary. (If you don’t plan to eat all the beans tonight, save a little more of the cooking liquid to reheat them in tomorrow.)

Serves 3 to 4 as a side dish.

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