Category Archives: The Recipes

main dishes, side dishes, The Recipes

Fun with Artichokes – Brown-Braising Babies is Best

Well, I am embarrassed to admit that I got overwhelmed in Whole Foods the other day. Here I am a Food Professional (whatever that is), and the sheer abundance of goodies in the store was just too much for me. Granted, it was a quick stop—I only had 10 minutes to troll the store, as I was on my way to a book signing at Andover Bookstore in Andover, MA. Since we don’t have a Whole Foods on the Island (nor a grocery store anywhere near the size and breadth of this kind), I try to stop in one of these stores when I’m off-Island, mostly to see what the produce selection is like, but sometimes to pick up a specialty ingredient.

So it’s a little frustrating to be in a store with zillions of different products and not much time to peruse them. But honestly, even if I had hours on my hands, or a store like this nearby for regular shopping, I’d still probably be a bit blinded and a tad frazzled by all the colors and sounds and choices and crowds. It’s just a personal preference for me these days—I like things simpler and quieter, and I don’t mind a few less choices.

So as my little brain struggled to quiet down all the firing synapses while I whizzed around the produce section, I zeroed in on something visually arresting, something I could wrap my whole 5-minutes-are-left-for-you-to-shop self around – a gorgeous mound of purple-tinged globe artichokes, the biggest and prettiest I’d ever seen. One was literally aching to pop into my little basket and so it did. Next to the display was a stack of boxes filled with baby artichokes—my favorite for cooking. (And yes, we do get both kinds on the Island, just not as consistently or in such abundance.) I grabbed two boxes, thinking I hadn’t yet blogged about the babies, and about how delicious they are braised.

Back home, after a weekend of writing, planting onions, leeks, potatoes, and more greens in the garden, and transplanting tomato and basil seedlings to 4-inch pots inside, I finally got a chance yesterday to do this recipe (below) for you, a variation on one in Fast, Fresh & Green. But first I had all kinds of fun photographing the artichokes in various spots all over the house and yard. I simply couldn’t take my eyes off that purple one.

I am convinced that most folks shy away from cooking baby artichokes because they are daunted by prepping them. Really and truly, I promise you that the trimming couldn’t be easier, and that you can do one batch in less than 15 minutes, maybe 10. I did take some quick pictures (in recipe below) to try and illustrate the process for you, but for a better visual, you can also visit the Ocean Mist Farms website (the folks who package up the babies, which are most available in the month of May) to watch a video. Don’t let prepping stop you from cooking and eating baby artichokes—they’re fabulously delicious, and you get more bang for your buck out of them than with bigger artichokes.

By the way, baby artichokes are just immature artichokes picked lower down the stem before they get big. Because their chokes haven’t developed, the whole thing (except for a few tough outer leaves you strip off) is edible.

Brown-Braised Baby Artichokes with Lemon Herb Pan Sauce

Printable Version of Recipe

Serve these over creamy polenta or a small serving of fresh fettucine for a lovely veggie supper. For a variation, cook a little bacon, ham or pancetta in the pan before cooking the artichokes; remove and crumble on at the end. Toasted almonds or hazelnuts would be good with these too, and you could substitute a squeeze of orange instead of lemon at the end if you liked. Baby artichokes vary in size—I have seen the same size box packed with 9 artichokes sometimes, 12 another. This recipe will work for 9 medium-small baby artichokes (2 to 2 1/2 oz. each). If your artichokes are very small, you can use 10 or 11 of them, as long as they fit in one layer across the bottom of the pan with the shallots. Be generous with the fresh herbs here.

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1 1/2 lemons

9 or 10 baby artichokes

1 1/2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

4 small shallots, halved and peeled (or 2 medium or large, quartered)

Kosher salt

1 cup low-sodium chicken broth

1 to 2 tablespoons mixed fresh tender spring herbs such as chives, parsley, mint, tarragon and/or chervil

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Cut the whole lemon in half. Squeeze and drop the two halves into a medium bowl filled half-way with water. Cut the stems off the artichokes at the base. Working with one artichoke at a time, peel away all of the outer leaves until you are left with a mostly lemon-limey colored artichoke (it will be somewhat cone-shaped) with the top third still being a light green. With a sharp knife, cut about 3/4 inch off of the top, and, with a paring knife, clean up the stem end just a bit (don’t remove too much; that’s the tasty heart). Cut the artichoke in half lengthwise. Rub the cut sides of each piece with the other lemon half and drop the artichoke halves into the lemon water.

In a 10-inch straight-sided sauté pan that has a lid, melt 1 tablespoon of the butter with the olive oil over medium heat. Arrange the artichoke halves (with whatever water still clings to them) and the shallot halves (both cut-side down) in one snug layer in the pan. Sprinkle with 1/2 teaspoon salt. Cook, without stirring, until the bottoms of the artichokes and the shallots are well browned, 7 to 8 minutes. (If the heat on your stovetop is uneven—or the burner isn’t level, like mine—rotate the pan so that the bottoms get evenly browned.) Pour in the chicken broth and cover the pan, leaving the lid slightly askew so that some steam escapes. Simmer gently, turning down the heat if necessary, until the broth is reduced to a few tablespoons, 12 to 14 minutes. Uncover, add the remaining 1/2 tablespoon butter, and squeeze the other lemon half over all. Sprinkle most of the herbs over and stir gently until the butter has melted. Remove the pan from the heat, and stir again, scraping up any browned bits if possible. Taste for salt and immediately transfer the artichokes and the pan sauce to a serving platter. Sprinkle on any remaining herbs.

Serves 2 as a veggie main dish with polenta or noodles, or 3 as a side dish

side dishes, The Recipes

Easter Asparagus: Keep it Simple by Roasting or Grilling

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I am, as they say, in the weeds this week. Not the garden weeds (yet), just life weeds. They happen to be good weeds (sorry to be prolonging this metaphor) – opportunities I’m grateful to have, just all a little too close together, timing-wise.

Tomorrow, for instance, I take a quick trip off-island to do a demo and book signing at Andover Books, in Andover, Massachusetts. When I get back on Friday, I have an essay to write for a magazine deadline—and a first look at the copyedited manuscript of Fresh & Green for Dinner, back to me from my publisher, Chronicle Books, for comments before moving on to the galley stage.

I realized today that I haven’t given a lick of thought to what we’ll have for Easter dinner—nor have I set aside time to develop a new Easter side dish to post for you all on the blog. My apologies. But just so I don’t leave you high and dry, I thought I’d offer you a piece of advice about everyone’s favorite Easter vegetable, asparagus: If you’re cooking for a crowd, keep it simple and pick a method like grilling or roasting.

While I’ve already posted about three methods I love for cooking asparagus (stir-frying, sautéing, and quick-braising), unfortunately these methods are best for serving three or four people. (And Easter dinner usually means at least a few more seats at the table.) Once you start overcrowding the sauté or stir-fry pan, you risk overcooking asparagus (steaming it before it browns). I also find poaching and boiling large amounts of asparagus to be risky, too (tips get overcooked or stem ends get undercooked).

What I love about grilling and roasting is that you can cook lots of asparagus at once. The big broad expanse of a gas grill’s grate or the generous surface area of a large sheet pan can accommodate twice as many asparagus as a sauté pan. Also, if you’re cooking a big ol’ leg of lamb and maybe some mashed potatoes, suddenly a quick and simple side dish becomes very appealing. The other great thing about roasted or grilled asparagus is that they are delicious without embellishment. Cooked with oil and salt and sweetened up by all that high heat, they can drop right on the plate. (Certainly a little lemon butter, a sprinkling of ginger-spiked soy sauce, or a few shavings of Parmigiano wouldn’t hurt, either.)

If you’re game, here are the basic methods:

Roasted Asparagus: Heat the oven to 475 degrees. Trim ends from asparagus. For every pound of trimmed asparagus, toss with 2 to 3 tablespoons olive oil and 1/2 to 3/4 tsp. kosher salt. Line a large heavy-duty sheet pan (or pans) with parchment paper. Arrange the asparagus in one loose layer (try not to crowd) across the sheet pan or pans. Cook for 10 to 14 minutes, or until the asparagus is tender and a little bit wrinkly. (Two sheet pans may take slightly longer to cook, but err on the side of undercooking, not overcooking.) Serve right away.

Grilled Asparagus: Preheat a gas grill on medium-high. Trim ends from asparagus. For every pound of trimmed asparagus, toss with 1 1/2 to 2 tablespoons olive oil and 1/2 tsp. kosher salt. Arrange the asparagus at an angle on the grill grates. Cover and cook until nicely marked on the bottom, about 1 to 2 minutes. Using tongs, carefully turn over the asparagus, a few at a time (keep them at an angle to the grate), cover, and cook until the other side is just marked, about 1 minute. (Do not overcook; they will still be bright green.) Transfer the asparagus to a tray or plate and serve warm or at room temperature.

Note: 1 pound of asparagus will serve about 4 people as a side dish. Cook 2 pounds for 8 people.

The Recipes

A Bunny and Baby Chicks, Just in Time For Easter

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Overnight, life changed. We now have animals to care for—baby chicks and a bunny rabbit. I have nervous-new-mother syndrome, and I am relieved every morning that the chicks are still alive and that nothing has happened to Cocoa the bunny. (Cocoa arrived last Saturday, the chicks on Wednesday.) Actually, everybody seems remarkably content. Cocoa hunkered down in her cozy hutch and weathered the 5 inches of rain we got the other day. And the chicks are happily eating, drinking, and pooping in the brooder box Roy built them, under the light and heat of an infrared bulb in our mudroom.

So every morning, once I realize they’re all okay, reality kicks in. Oh, I’ve got to take care of these guys! Everyone is thirsty and hungry in the morning, and often there’s some clean-up to do, too. (More on the lovely subject of litter another time—I am busy reading up on how to incorporate animal manure into the compost pile.) So now my morning routine involves both animal chores and plant chores (after pushing the coffee button, of course.) I start with the veggie seedlings and the baby chicks inside, then move to the rabbit hutch and the new veg sprouts in the garden outside. Boots on; coffee cup in hand; 16 different layers of tee shirts, sweaters, jackets, hats, and socks on (still), I head outside. It’s simply not warm here yet. It was wicked cold today and blowing like stink, as my Dad says—so hard that the clothes on the line were horizontal all day. Not very farmlife-picturesque.

Despite the wretched weather, I still had this oddly warm glow all day. (Especially strange since I was signing books at an outdoor event, and it was chilly, to say the least.) This glow-y thing has been growing all week—it’s the animals, I’m sure. My friend Judy says I get the biggest smile on my face when I start talking about the animals. I admit I’m almost giddy about this little mini-farm, or homestead, or what-have-you we’re creating here. I just can’t believe it’s really happening, and I keep thanking Roy for helping me make my dream come true.

I know we are kind of nuts – in fact, Roy just pulled into the driveway with a truckload of compost, which will go right next to the big pile of sand near the garden. (You know you’re in trouble when you stop going to the nursery for bags of garden stuff and start buying by the truckload). And I bought myself a book called Mini Farming: Self-Sufficiency on 1/4 Acre, which sounds downright scary. Well, we’re definitely not heading towards self-sufficiency around here any time soon. But the book has some great tips and encouraging statistics about selling vegetables (something I still naively think might someday actually be a positive part of my income).

And we certainly don’t have plans to make money on the animals—yet. I’ve been told that selling fresh eggs is a break-even proposition at best, especially if not done on a decent scale. But…just in case, I am keeping track of the costs of acquiring, housing, and feeding the chickens. At the very least, I’d like to know how the cost of feeding your own laying hens every week compares to buying fresh eggs every week. So far, thanks to some free lumber (and in-house labor!), we’ve only spent about $125 getting ready for the baby chicks.

And about those chicks. In case you’re wondering, here’s what we wound up with: 8 chicks, 5 different varieties. Two Buff Orpingtons, two Aracaunas, two Barred Rock, one Partridge Rock, and one Sicilian Buttercup. They’re beautiful—each a different palate of golds, browns, blacks, taupes, creams, and silvers. Each one is already sprouting a few feathers and growing a little bit every day. They don’t stay babies for very long! They also don’t stand still long enough for me to get decent pictures of them–especially down in their infrared-warmed glowy-red brooder box. But it’s a good excuse to take a chick out and hold her, as I did for the photo up at the top (right). Cocoa, on the other hand, is a bit more cooperative–especially when Libby is holding her.

salads, side dishes, starters, The Recipes

Instant Gratification: Roasted Fingerling & Watercress Salad

It’s funny how things come together in the kitchen. This week I’ve had lots of fingerling potatoes lying around, as I’ve been developing recipes with them for Vegetarian Times magazine. As it happens, I also treated myself yesterday to a watercress gathering excursion. Nice to be out in the quiet of the early morning under clearing skies, walking along a damp compost-y path beneath a gradually thickening canopy of budding branches. (Buds—finally.) I had my little scissors, a bag, and my camera. Sadly, I couldn’t linger long—lots of recipe testing scheduled for the day. But I crouched low in the black mud, hung over the stream, and snipped enough crisp clusters of Leprechaun-green watercress to fill my bag. And then reluctantly carried on my way. Retreating out of the cool forest, I heard the buzz of cars on the roadway calling me out of my reverie.

Back home at lunch time (after another recipe test—Asian slaw), I looked at the fingerlings and the watercress and thought: Warm salad. It’s no secret that my favorite way to cook fingerlings is brown-braising. But right then, I wanted instant gratification, and I looked at the little knobby potatoes and thought slicing them into coins and quick-roasting them would get me my hit. Sure enough, the little coins were golden on the outside, moist on the inside after 20 minutes at 450 degrees. I scrunched up some handfuls of washed watercress and scattered them on white plates. On went the roasted potatoes and a super-quick warm dressing I made in the skillet with sautéed garlic, olive oil, and red wine vinegar. I happened to have some toasted hazelnuts around, so I scattered a few of those on, too. Simple and lovely. Nothing I like better than a warm salad, especially with something so crazy delightful as freshly picked watercress. Now, I can’t wait ‘til I can harvest our own greens. (Just a few weeks away, maybe—the first arugula seeds I sowed in the garden last week sprouted today—yippee!)

One little suggestion: If you decide to whip yourself up a warm fingerling salad like this (which you could certainly do with arugula or any other assertive green), the dressing would be even better if you cooked a slice of bacon in the skillet first! Course you could skip the greens altogether, too, if you liked. Those little roasted fingerling coins tasted pretty yummy straight off the sheet pan.

Roasted Fingerling Potato & Watercress Salad

Printable Version of Recipe

All the amounts in this recipe are flexible, and you could vary the dressing or add garnishes as you like. This is really more like a serving suggestion, simply meant to inspire you to pair warm vegetables with cool greens. Just be sure your potato pieces are well-coated in oil for the best roasting. I find slicing the potatoes a little thicker than 1/4-inch, but not quite 1/2-inch (voila, 3/8-inch!) is just about right for cooking through and browning up at the same time in a hot oven.

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12 oz. fingerling potatoes, unpeeled, sliced crosswise into “coins” about 3/8-inch thick

2 1/2 to 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

kosher salt

4 to 5 ounces stemmed watercress, washed (or other assertive greens in small pieces)

1/2 teaspoon minced fresh garlic

1 teaspoon red wine vinegar

1/4 teaspoon maple syrup

2 tablespoons finely chopped toasted hazelnuts or almonds (optional)

1 tablespoon crumbled good-quality blue cheese (optional)

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Heat the oven to 450 degrees F. Cover a large sheet pan with parchment paper. Toss the fingerling pieces with 1 1/2 to 2 tablespoons of the olive oil and 1/4 teaspoon kosher salt. Spread them out in one layer on the parchment paper. Roast under tender all the way through and golden brown on the bottom, about 20 minutes. (Don’t worry if the coins aren’t very brown on the tops—they will be quite golden on the bottom, so just flip them.)

Meanwhile, distribute the watercress on three salad plates (or two for bigger salads). In a small skillet, heat the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil and the minced garlic over medium-low heat. Stir gently and cook until the garlic begins to sizzle, about 3 to 5 minutes (don’t let the garlic brown.) Add the red wine vinegar, the maple syrup, and a pinch of salt and stir. Remove the skillet from the heat.

Arrange the warm potatoes amongst the watercress and drizzle or spoon the warm dressing over the salads. Sprinkle a tiny bit more salt on each salad, and garnish with the nuts and/or cheese if desired. Serve right away.

Serves 2 or 3

The Recipes

Field of Dreams–And the Tools to Tend It

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The landscape of the yard is surreal right now. We spent the week building the vegetable garden (and a few other things—including a rabbit hutch and bluebird nesting boxes), and tools and equipment lie everywhere. Despite the disarray—every day we tidy one area and mess up another—it doesn’t feel so much chaotic to me as comforting.

I am captivated by the well-worn handles and the crusted tines of old rakes and hoes and shovels. I’m fascinated with the patterns and textures that rocks and bricks and twisted chicken wire make against the crumbly earth and the cloud- and cedar-studded horizon. When I look around at all this, I associate the tactile pleasures of working with my hands with all the other sensory stimuli of being outside—the warm sun on my face, the blustery breeze tangling my hair, the pleasant tug of my straining muscles. I’m calmed by the rhythm and ritual of it all. And everything seems so much easier this year. Digging the paths, mounding the raised beds, marking the troughs for planting lettuce and radish seeds—the working sequence comes back to me effortlessly.

And there have been far fewer trips to the garden stores this year. Much less new, much more old. Recycled hinges and latches; an old door for the garden gate. Between what we cobbled together for last year’s garden and the leavings of this old farm, we have most of what we need. (And more. We inherited a lot of stuff you might imagine would be strewn about an old farm—things like rusty harrows and old window frames. It’s just too bad that all that remains of a once magnificent barn on the property is the stone foundation.)

Most arresting for me when I look around is the realization of time passing—my own personal time. I look at the odd collection of beat-up garden gloves I’ve amassed—and at the peeling sole of my favorite work boots. In one moment, I can’t believe those boots are already giving out on me; and in the next moment, I realize I bought them four springs ago, when I first stumbled on to the Vineyard—a time when I wasn’t even conscious of the healing power of dirt and lettuce seedlings and baby goats. Huh. Life is funny. I’m still hoping this isn’t all just a mirage.

eggs & breakfast, side dishes, starters, The Recipes

Quickest Asparagus Recipe Yet—And a Pretty Egg Pancake Makes it Lunch for One

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While I wait (and wait) for our local asparagus, it occurs to me that everyone else is not waiting. The grocery stores are full of asparagus (from elsewhere, wherever that is) and it is hard to walk down the produce aisles without snatching up a bunch. I understand, really I do, and that is probably why my two blogs on asparagus from last year are getting hit up a lot these days. So okay, I can’t be my stubborn self and wait another month to offer up more asparagus recipes. Especially because there are about a gazillion different ways to cook asparagus—almost all of them pretty darn quick—so I can come back to this provocative vegetable again. Soon.

While I love quick-braising and sautéing asparagus, I think the method that may be the absolute speediest may offer up some of the best flavor, too. It’s stir-frying. Two to three minutes, and you’ve got a beguiling roasty-toasty flavor and a nice crisp-tender texture. A few keys here: Slice the asparagus thinly on the bias for the best browning; don’t use a lot of fat; keep the heat cranked up. (I love the bowl shape of my non-stick stir-fry pan, but you can substitute with a nonstick skillet—just stir more frequently.) I like to include a bit of garlic, some sliced scallions or shallots (as in the recipe below), or a combo of ginger and garlic in an asparagus stir-fry—but not much more. I don’t make a finishing pan sauce for it, in order to let that pure flavor shine through. (I do, however, sometimes like a cool, creamy garnish for this dish—crème frâiche is lovely.)

One of my favorite destinations for stir-fried asparagus is a little flat egg “pancake” (really just an unscrambled scrambled egg), which I dress up with fresh herbs to look pretty. (Yes, eggs—no surprise.) I tumble the asparagus and shallots out of the pan and onto the pancake, garnish the whole thing with a dollop of crème frâiche and a few more herbs, and I have a lovely spring lunch in less than 10 minutes (less than 5 minutes of cooking). But you can also double the asparagus recipe below and serve it as a quick side dish for dinner, too.

A Quick Note about Printable Recipes: I have finally figured out a way to provide you with printable recipes, through Google Documents. (Just click on the printable recipe link below the recipe title.) I set this up with last week’s fennel blog and will try to do this going forward until I can afford a website update and find a better way. (This should, I hope, at least make my Mom happy!) Of course you can still print the blog posts with the recipes imbedded in them, but it’s not a very usable format (and expends excess paper, too). The printable recipes are simply Word documents.

Stir-Fried Asparagus & Shallots on Fresh Herb Egg Pancake for One

Printable Version of Recipe

For this stir-fry, be sure to slice the asparagus sharply on the diagonal. It not only looks pretty, but the asparagus will also cook more evenly and the interior of the stalks will brown better. Crème frâiche is available in small tubs now in most groceries. Check both the cheese and dairy sections. If you can’t find it (or don’t want to bother with another trip to the grocery), you could try a little sour cream loosened with a bit of milk or a bit of thick yogurt or even fresh goat cheese. I absolutely love what fresh mint does here in both the pancake and as a garnish, but I usually combine it with chives and/or parsley, which hold their bright green color better. I call for cooking the veggies first and then the egg, but if you’re even a moderately good multi-tasker you can cook them both at the same time.

For the veggies:
2 teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 cup thinly sliced asparagus (cut on the diagonal, 3/8- to 1/2-inch thick and 2 inches long), from about 1/2 medium bunch (or 1/2 pound) asparagus, trimmed
1/4 cup (scant) thinly sliced shallot (about 1/2 medium to large shallot)
1/8 teaspoon kosher salt

For the egg pancake:
1 large egg
1 teaspoon half-n-half or heavy cream
big pinch kosher salt
freshly ground pepper
1 teaspoon unsalted butter
1 scant tablespoon combo fresh baby mint leaves (or thinly sliced mint) and small parsley leaves and/or sliced chives (plus a sprinkling more for garnish)
2 teaspoons crème frâiche for garnishing

Make the veggies: In a large nonstick stir-fry pan, heat the oil over medium-high heat. When the oil is hot (it will loosen up and shimmer), add the asparagus, the shallots, and the 1/8 teaspoon salt, and turn the heat to high. Cook, stirring occasionally for the first minute, and then more frequently, until most of the asparagus are browned around the edges and the shallots are softened and browned, 2 to 3 minutes. (Pay attention here—this goes fast.) Remove the pan from the heat and transfer the veggies to a plate while you make the egg.

Make the egg: In a small bowl, whisk together the egg, half ‘n half or cream, a little salt, and a grind or two of fresh pepper. In a small nonstick skillet, heat the butter over medium-low heat. When the butter has melted, swirl it around in the pan to cover the bottom. Pour the egg mixture into the pan and do not stir. Sprinkle or arrange the herb leaves or cut herbs over the top of the egg. Let the egg cook until it has set, about 3 to 4 minutes. The egg will set from the outside edges in. When the center of the egg looks just barely set, remove the egg from the pan and slide it on a small pretty salad plate, keeping the herb side up. (The bottom will be golden, the top should be still slightly soft.)

Pile the asparagus and shallot mixture on top of the egg; garnish with the crème fraiche and extra herbs. Eat right away.

Serves 1

The Recipes

Imagining Spring with A Fennel & Meyer Lemon Recipe

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This long winter is making me cranky. It snowed yesterday, for God’s sake! I want spring—the real spring—to arrive NOW. Fat chance. Here on the Island, it’s a long way’s off. The maritime climate (read: cold ocean air) keeps the trees from leafing out until it is practically summertime—spring slides by in a blur of lilacs and rhubarb.

It’s not just light and warmth I’m longing for; it’s something fresh and green and edible I want—something pulled from the ground with my own hands. Soon, soon, soon, I tell myself. It won’t be long before we head to our secret watercress stream and come home with a wild salad.

But for now, I’m still stuck imagining springtime at the grocery store. It’s not surprising, then, that I snapped up some frilly frondy bulbs of fennel yesterday. With all that greenery still attached, nice fennel bulbs look like they’re fresh from the garden—you can squint and imagine they’re still growing. A bag of Meyer lemons caught my eye, too. They weren’t cheap, but I had to have them, simply because their color reminded me of a sun-drenched villa in Italy. (A hypothetical villa, I’d have to say, since I’ve never been to Italy!) Meyer lemons have a bracing, almost champagne-ish quality to them that’s a lovely switch-up from the starker acidity of lemons. I wouldn’t necessarily call them sweet, but they do have a complex flavor that hints of tangerines.

At home, I decided to brown-braise the fennel and finish with a little buttery pan sauce enhanced with the Meyer lemon juice. Since I’d already planned to grill-roast a pork loin for Roy, this was a perfect side dish—a riff on a recipe I did for Fast, Fresh & Green. While I love fennel raw—sliced paper thin for a salad—I find that braising it brings out a sweet flavor and tender texture that appeals to a lot of folks who think they don’t like this veggie. Ironically, though, cooked fennel is no longer very fresh and spring-y looking; this homey kind of braise is actually great on a cold night—which, of course, we still have plenty of around here. Hope it’s warmer wherever you are!

Brown-Braised Fennel with Meyer Lemon Pan Sauce

Printable Version of Recipe

You’ll have to forgive the long-winded description of trimming and cutting fennel here—I did my best to be clear, but a video would have helped! Just aim to get fennel wedges that are close to the same width so that they will cook evenly; don’t worry if the wedges don’t hold together—no big deal. Also, I’m sorry to say I call for 2 fennel bulbs here, but you will probably only use about 1 1/2. (One very large fennel would do it, but most of what you get in the grocery is medium-sized.) Save the remainder for salads. Feel free to use lemon juice here instead of Meyer lemon juice. I’d use a bit less or combine the lemon with a little orange juice to get a similar acidity.

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2 medium-large fennel bulbs (about 1 1/4 lb. each with stalks)

2 tablespoons unsalted butter (cut 1/2 tablespoon into two or three pieces and keep cold)

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

3/4 teaspoon kosher salt

1 cup low-sodium chicken broth

2 tablespoons fresh Meyer lemon juice (or 1 to 1 1/2 tablespoons regular lemon juice and or a combination of lemon and orange juice)

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Get out your pan. Make sure you have a 10-inch straight sided sauté pan and a lid for this. If you don’t have a straight-sided sauté pan, a Dutch oven would be a better bet than a slope-sided skillet.

Trim and cut the fennel bulbs: First cut the stalks and fronds off each bulb. Roughly chop a few fronds to yield about two teaspoons (more or less is fine) and set that aside for garnish. Cut each bulb in half. With a sharp knife, notch out most of the core from each bulb half, leaving a bit of the core in to hold the eventual wedges together. You will only need three of the four halves—save the other to slice thinly into green salads. Put the remaining halves, cut side down, on the cutting board and cut each into 5 or 6 wedges about 3/4 to 1-inch thick. (Point the knife towards the center of the bulb as you make each cut—that way you will be sure to include a bit of the core.) You will probably only be able to fit 14 or 15 wedges in the sauté pan. To see what fits, arrange them in the dry pan off the heat.

Cook the fennel. In the 10-inch straight-sided sauté pan, heat 1 1/2 tablespoons of the butter and the olive oil over medium heat. When the butter has melted, arrange the fennel wedges in one layer in the pan and season with the 3/4 teaspoon salt. Cook, uncovered, without stirring, until the bottom sides are browned, about 8 to 10 minutes. Use tongs to check to see if the wedges are browned enough. You also might want to move your pan around on the burner to make sure the wedges brown evenly.

Carefully flip the wedges over with the tongs and cook for about 4 minutes on the other side. Pour the chicken broth in the pan and cover loosely with the lid, leaving just a bit of room for steam to escape. Make sure the chicken broth is simmering; raise the heat if necessary. Cook until the chicken broth has reduced to just a couple tablespoons (the wedges will be tender), about 10 to 12 minutes. Take the pan off the heat and carefully transfer the wedges to a serving plate.

Return the pan to the heat, add the lemon juice and quickly scrape up all the browned bits on the bottom of the pan (don’t let the liquids over-reduce). Add the cold butter pieces and stir until melted and the sauce looks creamy. Remove the pan from the heat and stir and scrape the pan sauce over the fennel pieces. Sprinkle the chopped fennel fronds and a tiny bit more salt over and serve right away.

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Variation note: If you like, you can add a few very thin half-moon slices of Meyer lemon or lemon to the pan along with the fennel wedges while they’re cooking. They get browned and soft and are perfectly edible.

side dishes, The Recipes

St. Patty’s Day & Sixburnersue: A Gratin Recipe to Celebrate

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St. Patrick’s Day, 2011, is sixburnersue.com’s unofficial one-year anniversary. At least that’s what I’ve decided. Actually, let’s make it official. And next year, we’ll have a proper celebration with two green cupcakes and two green candles. This year, we will have to make do with a yummy cabbage and potato gratin recipe.

I’m not sure of the exact day sixburnersue.com went live last year, but I know by St. Patty’s Day I was blogging in real time. And strangely enough, the blog I wrote on sautéed cabbage for the green holiday turns out to be one of the most visited pages on this site. (Along with a post on ten things to do with celery root! Go figure. Posts on more glamorous veggies like fingerling potatoes and asparagus get a lot of hits, too, but I think there may be a shortage of good cooking info out there on less sexy veg.)

My favorite cabbage is the crinkly Savoy (beautiful dark green on the outside, pale on the inside), and yes, I love to sauté it to bring out its sweeter, nuttier side (see last year’s blog.) Then I use it as a rustic tart filling, a pizza topping, a bed for meat, a stir-in for mashed potatoes, or as a bed for a savory gratin, like the potato and Gruyére one here. Of course my main motive for posting this recipe today is to give you an alternative to boiled cabbage (not my favorite). Actually, I’d be happy if you skipped the corned beef, too, and went with roast leg of lamb. But, yeah, you didn’t ask for my opinion on that, did you?

Whatever you eat on Thursday, may the (good) luck of the Irish be with you. (We have more than a little of it here in our household. Just ask the man with the shamrock tattoo.) And if you’re the praying kind, ask St. Patrick for a little luck to rub off on our friends in Japan.

St. Patrick’s Day Potato, Cabbage, Onion, Apple & Gruyère Gratin

This delicious gratin is a pretty rich side dish, so a little goes a long way. Serve it with roast lamb, corned beef, or a big warm salad. It will take you about an hour to get it in the oven, and about an hour and a bit to cook, so plan your menu accordingly. When prepping, don’t be tempted to under-brown the cabbage or the onions. To slice the potatoes thinly, cut them in half first, lay them cut side down, and slice across with a thin-bladed knife such as a Santoku. (You don’t need to use a mandolin).  

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1 tablespoon unsalted butter, plus more for rubbing the baking dish

1 1/2 cups coarse fresh breadcrumbs

3 ounces Gruyère cheese, grated (1 1/4 cups packed)

3 tablespoons olive oil

1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon coarsely chopped fresh thyme leaves

kosher salt

2 small yellow onions (9 to 10 ounces total), thinly sliced (about 2 cups)

2 teaspoons minced fresh garlic

2 cups thinly sliced Savoy cabbage (about 7 ounces)

1 Jonagold, Pink Lady, or Golden Delicious apple, peeled, cored, quartered and thinly sliced crosswise

1 lb. Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled, halved and very thinly sliced

3/4 cup heavy cream

3/4 cup low-sodium chicken broth

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Heat the oven to 350 degrees F. Rub a 2-quart shallow gratin dish (or a 11 x 7 Pyrex baker) with a little butter.

In a small bowl, combine the breadcrumbs, 2 tablespoons of the grated Gruyère, 1 tablespoon of the olive oil, 1 teaspoon of the chopped thyme and a good pinch of salt. Set aside.

In a 10-inch heavy nonstick skillet, melt 1/2 Tbsp. of the butter with 1 Tbsp. of the olive oil over medium-low heat. Add the onions and 1/4 tsp. of salt, cover, and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened and translucent, 6 to 7 minutes. Uncover, raise the heat to medium, and continue to cook, stirring frequently, until the onions are lightly browned, 6 to 7 minutes more. Add 1 teaspoon of the minced garlic, stir for a few seconds, and remove the pan from the heat.  Transfer the onion-garlic mixture to the baking dish and spread it evenly in one layer. Sprinkle 1/2 teaspoon thyme leaves over the onions.

Return the skillet to medium-high heat and add the remaining 1/2 tablespoon of butter and 1 tablespoon olive oil. When the butter has melted, add the cabbage and a pinch of salt. Stir and let sit for a minute for browning to begin. Then cook, tossing frequently with tongs, until cabbage is limp and browned, 4 to 5 minutes. Add the remaining 1 tsp. garlic, stir well, and remove the pan from the heat. Transfer the cabbage mixture to the baking dish and spread in one layer. Sprinkle 1/2 teaspoon thyme leaves over the onions.

In a mixing bowl, combine the sliced potatoes, the sliced apples, the remaining Gruyère, the remaining thyme, the cream, the chicken broth, and 3/4 teaspoon salt. Gently mix with a silicone spatula and transfer to the baking dish, spreading the mixture evenly over the cabbage and onions. (Sometimes it’s easier to transfer the solids first. Lift the potatoes and apples out of the liquids with your hands and spread them in the dish; then gently pour the liquids over all.) Make sure everything is evenly distributed and use your hands to press down gently on the potatoes and apples to let the liquids come up around them.

Cover the top of the gratin with the breadcrumb mixture. Bake until the potatoes are tender (check both the middle and sides of the dish with a paring knife) and the top is brown (there will be a brown line around the edge where the liquids have reduced), about 65 minutes. Let cool for several minutes before serving.

Serves 6 as a side dish

The Recipes

Strange Bedfellows: Sunchokes & Our Own Maple Syrup

We may be taking this Green Acres thing a little far, but we’re having fun. Actually, more fun than people really deserve to have. Our latest project is making our own maple syrup from the sugar maples in our yard. Or I should say, this is Roy’s latest project. He got all geared up about this, apparently having learned something about maple sugaring in 4H and Boy Scouts. (The crafty 4H part I can wrap my head around. But Roy—a Boy Scout? Well, we all have our mysteries.)

Anyhow, we have these two lovely mature sugar maples right out back, so Roy drilled one hole into each and inserted a tap fashioned from bamboo into each hole. (Mature sugar maples can take up to three taps.) With the cold nights and warmer days we’ve been having, the sap has been running like crazy. Roy’s solution to catching the sap (rather than the classic old-timey galvanized bucket we have that doesn’t look too sanitary) was to hang clean two-liter soda bottles over each tap. This works great—the narrow neck of the bottles keeps rain and other stuff out, while the weight of the running sap keeps the bottle clamped on to the tap. The bottles fill up in only a few hours though, so you’ve got to switch them often.

As far as cooking down the sap into maple syrup—before I (briefly!) describe our experiments, my food-safety-culinary-professional-self has to issue a disclaimer: You should turn elsewhere for expert information if you want to try this at home. We are just messing around with making a little syrup for our own drizzling, but if you seriously want to learn more about this, you can check out this primer, or visit or call a small producer like these folks we just read about in the latest issue of Edible Boston.

We started with one key piece of knowledge: Sap to syrup is a 40 to 1 ratio, so if you wanted 1 quart of maple syrup, you’d need to start with 40 quarts. We have managed, through trial and error, to get 1 pint of deliciously maple-y syrup (on the lighter side but still tasty) by boiling down the sap in parts—once the first batch gets down to about an inch and a half of depth in the pot, we add another big batch of sap. We keep on reducing the liquid down this way by adding more sap, and after each reduction the remaining liquid gets a bit darker, a bit sweeter, and a bit more viscous. If you know anything about water, sugar, and syrup, you’ll know that this all has to do with increasing the ratio of sugar to water in the liquid, and that to get the proper end result, you’d need a hydrometer. (Maple syrup that will both keep and not form sugar crystals has a final sugar percentage of between 66 and 67percent). But for a small amount of something tasty, we managed without a hydrometer.

Any way you approach it, you will need to set up burners outside, and you will need a big heavy-duty pot. Our garage/barn/shop out back has both a wood stove and electricity. We tried using the wood stove and one of my cast iron Dutch ovens, but it couldn’t bring the liquid to a rolling boil. (Removing the stove cover would work—and would wreck my pot). So we switched to a portable electric twin burner we have and did most of the reducing on that in the shop. Roy brought the pot inside for the final reduction. But if you tried doing the whole thing inside, your ceiling paint would peel. (By the way, you will also need a fine-meshed filter to strain sugar sand out of the syrup.)

I, of course, let Roy do all the hard stuff. All I really did was clean a bottle so that we could take a pretty picture of the finished syrup—and then I could start drizzling it on everything, including vegetables (like the smoky sautéed cabbage and mushrooms we had last night). It’s no secret that I’m fond of maple syrup to the point of over-using it. (At least I can admit it. See these Swiss chard and Tuscan kale recipes on sixburnersue.com.)

But in my follies, I found one vegetable it doesn’t get along with—Jerusalem artichokes (aka sunchokes). I bought the sunchokes at Whole Foods when we were off-Island last week. I bought some kohlrabi, too, thinking I need to push myself into experimenting with some vegetables I tend to overlook or haven’t worked with much.

The plump knobby sunchokes were pleasing to look at and hold, but don’t smell like anything.(I am an obsessive sniffer.) Easy to chop and slice, too (they don’t need peeling). But my jury’s still out on the flavor. I’d like to try Thomas Keller’s easy-looking sunchoke soup in the latest issue of Vegetarian Times for a different approach (unfortunately the recipe’s not online), but my roasting experiments left me perplexed. (I started with roasting on the advice of cookbooks I consulted.)

I cut the sunchokes into half-moons, tossed with oil and salt, and cooked at 425 on a sheet pan until tender and browned around the edges, about 20 minutes. While they were cooking, I made a quick rosemary-maple butter. When I tasted the roasted tubers, I had a feeling the maple butter was the wrong way to go—even with the rosemary and a touch of sherry vinegar in it. So I held off on tossing the two together.

I found the flavor of the roasted sunchokes to be intensely artichokey—but more in the artichoke leaf kind of way than the artichoke heart flavor. (I adore baby artichokes and artichoke hearts, and I know I may be splitting hairs here, but there really is a difference between the hearts and the leaves. This flavor was somehow overly vegetal and grassy, like the pulp on the leaves can be.) I loved the pieces with very crispy edges. (Probably no surprise, but I swear those crispy parts were more complex and less vegetal.). Realizing the maple butter was not going to cut the intensity, I made up a quick Asian dipping sauce similar to this one I use for crispy broccoli and I loved what the ginger and soy did with the roasted sunchoke flavor—that match worked for me.

So I need to mess around more with sunchokes—and the next time I roast them, I’d definitely push the browning. But right now I can’t yet rave about them. Maybe one of you has had a different experience with these tubers (which are actually the root of a particular sunflower). Let me know. Me, I’ll keep drizzling our maple syrup on Brussels sprouts and green beans—and on my yogurt and berry parfaits!

eggs & breakfast, main dishes, side dishes, starters, The Garden, The Recipes

Veggies for Breakfast or Eggs for Dinner? Here’s A Frittata Plus A Dozen Other Eggy Ideas

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Lest you think I’m completely crazy for devoting so much cyber-ink to birds in my last blog, I thought maybe I should come clean about a couple of things. First, I think the whole bird thing is part of my effort to be more in touch with nature (goofy as that sounds, I know). Mostly because observing nature requires slowing down. In my old life, I did everything on one speed: Fast. (Oh, dear, now I’m starting to sound like Charlie Sheen.) I barely made time to tend a pot of herbs on the windowsill or take a walk around the neighborhood—I certainly didn’t don the binoculars to wait for a bird to fly by.

Secondly (and much more practically), one of the reasons I’m truly excited about having our own hens is because we eat so many darn eggs around here (see below). Okay, I admit, there’s also a deeper meaning to the hen thing. To be completely honest, I still have a little fear that someone is going to snatch me away from the Island, return me to the office, to the suburbs, to I-95, and to a whole lot of other noise that I now happily live without. I figure raising hens gives me one more toehold on Vineyard terra firma. If the Old Life Aliens come to snatch me away, they will have to take my hens, too!

Okay. So about those eggs. Because I don’t eat a ton of meat anymore…and because I figured out a long time ago that I won’t get hungry mid-morning if I eat eggs for breakfast… and because Roy loves having breakfast for dinner… and because Libby loves anything that involves mixing a batter—we eat a lot of eggs. We are very fortunate to have a regular supply of eggs from local farms available to us (even in the grocery stores); their plump golden yolks and perky whites have spoiled me. (The yellow color comes from the  higher amounts of beta-carotene these birds ingest.) When I’m developing recipes, I’ll try to use non-local eggs to make sure the recipe will taste good regardless—but for our everyday eating, we love our local eggs. Here’s what we do with them:

1. We scramble them with fresh herbs (especially cilantro and mint), a dash of cream, a little cheese (cheddar, aged gouda, Monterey jack, goat cheese), and plenty of salt and pepper.

2. We make waffles and buttermilk pancakes, sometimes for dinner. (Favorite recipes at finecooking.com).

3. We make all kinds of different egg sandwiches; here’s a recipe for one of my favorite creations, which I nicknamed “The Local.” Yes it has a bit of (local!) meat on it.

4. We make my Dad’s famous popovers. (See King Arthur Flour site for pans.)

5. We make savory bread puddings, especially when we have the amazing challah bread from our local Orange Peel Bakery. (Popover and bread pudding recipes coming in Fresh & Green for Dinner.)

6. We make French toast with a dash of vanilla and maple in the custard, and we top it with a homemade concoction of fresh berries warmed in maple syrup and slightly mashed in the skillet. (Love to use the challah here, too.)

7. We make omelets with leftover roasted veggies or roasted tomatoes.

8. We make a rif on pasta carbonara with spring asparagus or garden peas.

9. We make thin, quiche-like tarts; my favorite is with fresh corn, basil, and tiny tomatoes.

10. Of  course, we make cookies and quickbreads and the occasional coffee cake, too. (Most often we use recipes from my favorite baker, Abby Dodge.)

11. We make veggie fritters or pancakes—sometimes with grains, too, or leftover mashed potatoes. We also make spoonbread, a favorite from my Dixie days.

12. But probably our favorite thing to do with eggs is to make a veggie frittata. Usually I make one big one, but sometimes I’ll make little ones in a mini-muffin tin. Frittatas (like the leek and spinach one below) are incredibly versatile; you can eat them for breakfast, lunch, snacks or dinner. And they always taste better after sitting a bit (even overnight); I guess the flavors have more time to penetrate the custard. The method I learned years ago at Al Forno restaurant is easy to follow, and you can make up your own veggie combos, too. (I also love potatoes, mushrooms, corn, arugula, scallions, and broccoli in frittatas.) Just be sure to cook most veggies first to concentrate flavor and to reduce excess moisture. Be generous with fresh herbs and don’t forget the salt and pepper in the custard.

Leek, Spinach, Thyme & Gruyere Frittata

This easy frittata method starts out on the stovetop and finishes baking in the oven—but there’s no tricky flipping involved. After cooling, I like to cut the frittata into small squares, rather than wedges, so that bite-size snacks are easy to grab. It’s also a great way to go for a potluck, book group meeting, or other casual gathering.

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3 tablespoons unsalted butter

3 medium leeks (white and light green parts), sliced about 1/4-inch thick (about 2 cups) and well washed

Kosher salt

2 teaspoons minced fresh garlic

3 ounces baby spinach leaves

6 large eggs at room temperature

2/3 cup half ’n half

1 tablespoon roughly chopped thyme leaves

big pinch nutmeg

freshly ground pepper

1 cup (3 oz.) coarsely grated Gruyère

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Preheat the oven to 375°F.  Make sure one of your oven racks is positioned in the center of the oven.

In a 10-inch heavy nonstick (ovenproof) skillet, melt 2 Tbsp. of the butter over medium-low heat. Add the leeks, season with a big pinch of salt, and cover. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the leeks are softened, 5 or 6 minutes. Uncover, raise the heat to medium, and continue to cook, stirring frequently, until the leeks are browned in spots, another 8 to 11 minutes. (Don’t worry if they get a little overbrown in places—that’s just great flavor.) Add the minced garlic and stir well. Add the spinach and 1/4 tsp. salt and, using tongs, toss and stir the spinach with the leeks until it is all wilted, 2 to 3 minutes. Remove the skillet from the heat and let the veggies cool a minute.

In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the eggs, half ’n half, 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, the thyme, the nutmeg, and several grinds of fresh pepper. Stir in the Gruyère.

Return the skillet to medium-high heat and add the remaining 1 tablespoon of butter to it. When the butter has melted, pour and scrape all the custard mixture into the skillet.  Using a silicone spatula, gently stir and move the contents of the pan around so that everything is evenly distributed. (You may have to nudge clumps of leeks and spinach apart.) Let the pan sit on the heat until the custard is just beginning to set all the way around the edge of the pan, 1 to 2 minutes. Transfer the pan to the oven and bake until the frittata is puffed, golden, and set, 22 to 24  minutes.

Before unmolding, let the frittata cool for 10 to 15 minutes. Shake the pan a bit, tip it, and use a spatula (silicone works great) to get under the frittata and slide it gently out onto a cutting board or serving plate.  Cut into wedges and serve warm, or wait for a bit longer and serve at room temp. Refrigerate leftovers; this is even better the next day.

Serves 4 to 6