Mexican Meatball Soup with Limes

On a beautiful Sunday in March of 2006, I left my apartment in Jerusalem and drove due north for about 200 km, until I arrived at Moshav Shtula, which sits on the border between Israel and Lebanon. (On the border, as in: on my morning run, I got about 10 minutes before hitting the UN blue line and turning around.) I went to spend a week with Sara Hatan, a Kurdish immigrant who had raised her family (14 children!) on Shtula and established a reputation as an excellent cook. My friend Neil, who sent me to Sara, told me that people came to visit her restaurant from across the tiny country. They said her kubbeh was the best they'd ever had. And friends, as excited as I was to spend the week washing Sara's dishes and waiting on Shtula's guests, what led me there in the first place was kubbeh.

Kubbeh are meat-filled bulgur and semolina dumplings that are either fried and served as an appetizer, or boiled and plunked into soup. I was after boiled kubbeh, specifically those that find their way into kubbeh hamusta, a sour, sorrel-based soup that I love.

Sara taught me to make kubbeh hamusta. By "taught," I mean that she poured water into a big pot until the water rose halfway up her arm, then said -- in Kurdish-inflected Hebrew -- "See how much water to use? Good." She shaped five kubbeh in record time, without even looking down, and then had me do one.  I started to curl the semolina dough around the meat, when before I knew it, she'd snatched the thing right out of my hand, managing to salvage it in the nick of time. Over five days cooking with Sara, I five pounds fuller and (maybe?) five pennies wiser. She was hilarious and accomplished, but she had no interest in teaching me. Fortunately, the internet exists. I've since taught myself to make a not-all-together terrible kubbeh hamusta.

I recently learned that kubbeh hamusta is just one in a large family of sour meat-based soups. According to my brother, soups like this exist in Turkey and elsewhere across the Middle East. Needless to say, I want to try them all. For now, I'm settling for two. The second? Agrio.

Agrio comes from Henry's mom, who is Syrian-Mexican. Henry's wife Rachel -- possibly more obsessed with Agrio than I -- shared this recipe, and for a while, all we did when we saw each other was gush about how delicious it is.

The basic idea is this: make little meatballs, the float them and little baby potatoes in a broth full of celery, parsley, and spearmint. Just before serving, squeeze a whole bag of limes into the soup. You wind up with something not unlike kubbeh hamusta: salty, meaty, and surprisingly, pleasingly, sour.

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I was going to say that this was by far the best thing I served over the high holidays, but then I remembered that insane lamb shoulder and possibly my best batch of challot, ever. So it's a close contest. But this was a huge hit, and I'm thrilled to have yet another sour, meaty soup in my arsenal.

Agrioadapted from Rachel's mother-in-law's recipe Serves 4-6

Like all good family recipes -- like kubbeh hamusta, come to think of it -- the original formula for Agrio contains the occasional measurement, but mostly refers to quantities like "a bunch" or offers no quantities at all. ("Some beef broth" is one item in the recipe.) The quantities offered here, therefore, are very flexible. Feel free to alter them if you prefer a different balance, or if you only have 3 limes but still want to make the soup. But don't skimp on the parsley; you really do need all of it.

2 lbs. ground beef 2 tablespoons olive oil One whole head of celery, stalks and leaves, chopped 3 cloves garlic, minced 1 medium onion, diced 3-4 cups baby potatoes, halved fingerlings, or diced yukon golds 4 cups beef or vegetable broth 1 large bunch parsley (at least 3 cups packed) 1 cup lime juice (I needed about 8-10 limes) 1 bunch spearmint, leaves only Form the beef into meatballs the size of quarters.

Add the oil to a large soup pot and set over medium-high heat. Add meatballs in batches, making sure not to crowd the pan. Cook meatballs for 2-3 minutes, until the bottom side is brown, then flip and cook an additional 2 minutes on the second side. Remove finished meatballs to a plate.

When all meatballs have been cooked and set aside, you should have a nice layer of olive oil mixed with beef drippings -- perfect for your mirepoix. Add celery, garlic, and onion to the pot, turn the heat to medium, and sweat the vegetables until they start to soften but have not browned.

Add the broth and potatoes to the pot along with all but a handful of the parsley and 4 cups of water. Turn the heat to high, and bring the soup to a boil. Then reduce the heat to low and simmer for 20 minutes, until potatoes are fully cooked. 10 minutes into cooking, add meatballs back into the soup.

When soup is finished cooking, turn off the heat, and add the line juice. Stir to incorporate. Add the remaining parsley and all of the spearmint and give a couple more stirs. Serve hot.

Summer Berry Eton Mess

We're fresh off the plane from London and I have so much to tell you that I honestly cannot figure out where it all begins. Do I start high, with pictures and bits from our unbelievably delicious meal at Nopi? Do I tell you about the day I ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner at Indian restaurants? There's so much to discuss. I already feel like we need more time.

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Let me first say this: I didn't expect to love London. For all the claims that it's better than New York - you know I love New York - I was sure my heart would stay with Manhattan, even after crossing the pond. London, I had been told, was rainy and cold. It was expensive. And more than a few friends warned me that the food wasn't worth much excitement.

But people, I loved London. Of course I loved the accents - so civilized! so grand! - and the dress - much more refined than our stateside attire, I'm afraid - but I really, really adored the food.

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British food used to mean fish'n'chips and beer. For the record, we ate plenty of those. But we also found our way to the mecca that is Borough Market, where hipster-clad folks pull fantastic espresso, sell homemade charcuterie, and serve up the best plate of raclette I've ever seen.

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I expected a rather staid attitude toward food in London, but I encountered quite the opposite. In fact, roaming through Marylebone on the weekend, I passed by a folding table on which a farmer from Kent and his son had set up a pop-up shop selling what were, simply put, the best strawberries and the best cream I've ever eaten.

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And then, of course, there were the more expected pleasures. In planning our trip across the pond, I focused on two food groups. One was Indian food. Everyone says London has the best, and I planned to put that claim to the test. I made sure that plenty of dosas, curries, and chaat were on the week's agenda.

If I'm being completely honest, the curry houses I unearthed - via a quite comprehensive online search and a lot of asking - were good, but not the best. We had some really good samosa, great bhel puri, and memorable aloo gobi. But the baingan bartha, saag paneer, and dosa left something to be desired. If folks have better recommendations -- because yes, there will be a next time -- please do leave a comment below.

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So what was the other major food group? That would be Ottolenghi. Yes, the Ottolenghi food group. Not familiar with that one? A quick search on this site reveals nearly 10 recipes from his collection of wonderful cookbooks, and I'm sure there are more lurking around. Between Plenty, Jerusalem, and the original Ottolenghi, I've cooked dozens of his recipes, and I'm a more skilled and creative cook as a result. So the chance to try some of his five locations across London wasn't something I could pass up. We went to two of his restaurants, and quite frankly, we were blown away. Ottolenghi is famous for his salads, which sit high and mighty on a long table, ready to dish up at lunch or dinner. They are as glorious as the ones in his books, and eating them prepared by an expert is a truly memorable experience. And as for Nopi, his newest location and more of a fancy, sit-down situation, we spent most of the meal with our mouths agape at the exquisite surroundings, the incredible continuity of the room and each little detail contained within. The food was also amazing. You have to go.

One of the most memorable bits I ate at Nopi was dessert. Can we briefly establish that picking a best was very hard? The asparagus and samphire salad was unbelievable and in just a few days back at home, I've already tried to replicate it twice. But the dessert was a pitch-perfect Eton mess, and I've been dreaming about it ever since. And now, you can make it at home.

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Eton mess is a traditional British dessert, and everything in it is something you probably love: strawberries, meringue, and clouds of whipped cream. For Eton mess, these three wonderful things are piled unceremoniously into a large glass, where they mix and mingle into a dessert far greater than the sum of its parts. Tuck in with a spoon and get a bit of each, further blurring the lines between components with each spoonful until by the end, you've got a vaguely pink mash of sweet, crunchy, creamy goodness. It's perfect, unfussy food for summer.

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At Nopi the night we were there, I ordered the rhubarb Eton mess, which had bits of silky cooked rhubarb and other bits that were macerated, but nearly raw. I loved that combination of soft and crunchy. Traditional Eton mess is made with strawberries, which are mostly over for the year. I still had one small box of strawberries left, so I added them to a pile of raspberries, and the combination was perfect. If you have rhubarb, I offer instructions below for using it. Otherwise, I bet cherries would be lovely. Any summer berry will work well here.

Happy July, folks. Stay cool.

Summer Berry Eton MessAdapted from recipes by April Bloomfield, yet another Brit worth celebrating Serves 4

I spent an afternoon making cheese with Cathy last month, and she convinced me that I made a mistake not buying Bloomfield's new book, A Girl and Her Pig. When I borrowed it from the library, it seemed like too many of the recipes contained pork, which I don't use in my kitchen. (The title may have suggested as much, too.) In any event, Cathy is right about most things and this was no exception. She lent me her copy, and I've been cooking from it ever since. (Cathy, it's coming back to you soon - promise!)

Bloomfield has a way with peculiar, particular instructions. For her Eton mess, she has you macerate strawberries in almost a dozen ingredients before adding them to the mix. I winnowed down her list for simplicity because it's summer in DC, not summer in London. It's too hot to fuss. The result, though, is no less splendid. This is a dessert that will evoke wide, teeth-baring grins from anyone who eats it. Sorry for the cliche, but it's a party in your mouth.

One more thing: if you don't want to make your own meringue, you'll lose that crispy-chewy thing, but you'll save a hell of a lot of time. No judgment here.

For the meringue: 3 egg whites, carefully (perfectly!) separated from their yolks 1/2 cup sugar zest of 1/2 a lemon

For the berries: 2 pints berries of any sort (I like a mixture of raspberries and strawberries) zest of 1/2 a lemon 2 tablespoons lemon juice 2 tablespoons sugar 2 grinds of the pepper mill

(If using rhubarb, mix a pound of rhubarb with 1/4 cup sugar and 2 tablespoons water and put into a baking dish. Bake at 350 degrees for 40 minutes, until the rhubarb has softened but not lost its shape. Cool completely.)

For the mess: 1 cup heavy cream 1 teaspoon sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla or the seeds from 1 vanilla bean

Make the meringues:Preheat the oven to 225 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or silpat.

Beat the egg whites and sugar in a clean large stainless steel bowl or a stand mixer until the mixture holds very stiff, shiny peaks, 4 to 5 minutes. Gently fold in the lemon zest. 

Spoon the mixture into 6 equal mounds on the lined baking sheet. Bake the meringue until it’s dry and crunchy on the outside but still soft and chewy inside, about 1 1/2 hours. Let it cool, preferably in the oven turned off but also fine on the counter.

Macerate the berries: Combine all the ingredients in a large bowl, stir gently to combine, cover with plastic wrap, and let sit on the counter while the meringues cook, stirring every so often to encourage juices to seep out.

Assemble the mess: Whip the cream, vanilla, and sugar together until the cream holds semi-stiff peaks. Crumble the meringues into a large mixing bowl; you should have a combination of small crumbles, medium pieces, and large chunks. Add the whipped cream and stir gently just until the meringue pieces are coated. Add about three-quarters of the berries (or rhubarb) and their liquid and stir very gently just until the berries are well distributed but you still see streaks of red in the white cream.

Carefully scoop the mixture into bowls, scatter the remaining berries on top, and drizzle on the rest of the liquid. Serve straight away.

Crispy Eggplant Ruben

Over the years, my mother has taught me that rarely is restaurant food out of reach for the home cook. Once, she and I went to a Thai restaurant in Tenleytown; while I proceeded to heap spoonfuls of fish curry into my mouth, she speared a small piece of eggplant, took a bite, then another, and thought a long while before saying, “yep, I can make this one.” And sure enough, she did.

Since adopting her practice, I’ve made Thai pomelo salad, Indian dosas, and Japanese ohitashi. I’ve developed a habit that waiters and cooks are almost guaranteed to find horribly annoying, where after trying something especially delicious, I ask just a million questions about what’s in it, how it’s cooked, what spatulas they use to flip it, etc. What’s a girl to do? I can’t schlep out to Woodlands every time a dosa craving sets in.

But last week, I attempted a new party trick. This one’s called “recreate a restaurant dish you’ve never even tried.” Ballsy? Yes.

But you know what? It totally worked.

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I encountered the Eggplant Ruben – or, rather, my friend Megan encountered it – when we went to DGS deli after work one day. What started as “just drinks” ended in hefty sandwiches and lots of napkins on the patio. I had my beloved pastrami, but Megan, a vegan, went with DGS’s Eggplant Ruben, a riff on the traditional meat-filled, Russian-dressing-oozing number. Two slices of rye bread, lots of spicy mustard, Russian, sauerkraut, Emmenthaler cheese (which, needless to say, they omitted for her) and two big slices of spice-rubbed fried eggplant. I’ll be honest: as I watched her bite down on that grilled beauty, I was a bit jealous.

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So naturally, I did the only thing there was to do. I went straight to the market, bought an eggplant, and recreated the sandwich at home the next day. I didn’t have Emmenthaler at home, nor did I have Swiss (a natural substitute), but I did have a lovely sharp cow’s milk cheese from Cowgirl that melted perfectly. You, too, can use whatever you have on hand.

I read online that DGS used its pastrami spices to season the eggplant for the Ruben – that’s coriander, fennel, and black pepper. I ground equal measures of each with quite a bit of salt, and sprinkled that onto my eggplant before frying it.

When it came to frying the eggplant, I wanted soft insides and crispy outsides, but I worried about the eggplant-as-sponge problem, where the thing emerges flaccid and full of oil. To avoid this, I experimented with a couple different methods for crisping up the eggplant. First was this method from Danny Bowien, chef at the amazing Mission Chinese. Bowien has you soak the eggplant in ice water, which – in the words of Saveur – “shocks the surface of the vegetable and fills tiny air pockets between the cells, preventing the oil from entering them.” I believe that this works for Japanese eggplants, as he suggests, but my slices of regular eggplant did not take well to this approach.

Fortunately, my tried-and-true technique from Chow worked great here. Chow has you first steam the eggplant in a covered pan with a bit of water. Only after the eggplant has softened to you brush each side with oil to brown it. This way, each eggplant slice needs only a small amount of oil and still gets plenty crisped.

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In this case, after steaming the eggplant, I brushed it with oil and sprinkled on the spices. I also added a few more drops of oil to the pan, because I wanted more than just a browned exterior – I wanted crispness. Feel free to adjust the oil used to your preference.

The rest is simple: good rye bread brushed with olive oil, plenty of mustard and sauerkraut, Russian dressing if that’s your thing (not mine), cheese, and the eggplant slices. Fry up the sandwich grilled-cheese style, and you’ve got yourself a bang-up lunch that'll please vegetarians and meat eaters alike.

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Crispy Eggplant RubenInspired by DGS Deli Makes 2

4 slices rye bread 4 1/2-inch bias-cut slices of eggplant, scored in a crosshatch pattern 1/4 cup olive oil (or more, as needed) 1/2 teaspoon ground fennel 1/2 teaspoon ground coriander 1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper 1/2 teaspoon salt 4 slices Emmenthaler, Swiss, or other sharp, meltable cheese spicy grainy mustard Russian dressing, optional 1/2 cup sauerkraut

Cook the eggplant: Set a wide shallow nonstick or castiron pan over medium heat and add 2 tablespoons of water to the pan. Set the eggplant slices in the pan, cover with lid or foil, and steam for 2-3 minutes on each side, until softened but still fully intact and slightly firm. While eggplant steams, grind (if needed) and mix spices and salt in a small bowl. Remove then lid; all the liquid should have evaporated. If not, drain the pan.

Paint the face-up side of each slice of eggplant with a generous coating of olive oil. Sprinkle a bit of the spice mixture on top. Then crank the heat up to high, flip each eggplant slice over, and repeat brushing and seasoning on the second sides while the first sides crisp up. Fry for about 2 minutes on each side, until eggplant has crisp edges and a soft, tender center. Transfer to a plate in a single layer, lined with paper towel if you wish. Reduce heat to medium.

Prepare the sandwich: Lay the slices of bread on a work surface so the sides you eventually want on the inside of each sandwich are face-up. Spread slices with your perfect amounts of spicy mustard and/or Russian dressing. Lay two eggplant slices on one side of each sandwich.  Top each with sauerkraut and two slices of cheese. Lay the second slice of bread on top and press down firmly on each sandwich.

Add some olive oil to the pan. I like to add about half a tablespoon per side per sandwich, but you can also just brush each side of bread with olive oil, which probably uses less overall. Lay the sandwiches in the pan, and fry each side for 3-4 minutes, until the cheese has melted and the bread is fully browned and crispy.

Remove sandwiches to a workbench or plate, slice in half, and enjoy immediately.

April Bloomfield's Porridge

So far, it's been the kind of month where I'm eating lunch from food trucks and takeout for dinner at the office. Stew season is slipping away, and I haven't nearly had my fill. (Though, just to be clear, I've had more than enough winter weather. Who's ready for spring?)

In weeks like these, where I feel constantly behind, it's hard to find down time at night. As a result, I occasionally take the extra 20 minutes at home in the morning to make a proper breakfast. I understand this flexibility to be a luxury; these days, most of my friends are packing diaper bags and hustling a herd of children out the door every morning. But for me, those 20 minutes make me feel civilized and satisfied.

In spring, it's yogurt, granola, and some frozen blueberries (which I rinse with warm water to thaw). But it's still March, and much as I'd like to deny it, it's still pretty cold out. For frosty mornings like this one, I humbly recommend this porridge.

I'll cut right to the chase: this porridge, it is salty. I mean, it's seriously got a punch of salt. But, as April says, after that first hit of "whoa, savory!", the porridge fades into milky sweetness. Oatmeal is a humble food, but this porridge feels somehow luxurious. Which, incidentally, makes it the perfect porridge for an ever-slightly-slower weekday morning.

For those of you without time to spare on workdays: not every nice weekend breakfast must include biscuits or pancakes (though if you're making those, I recommend these and these. And these. Okay okay, one more.) When I visited Jess and Eli last year, Jess gave me options for brunch, and one of those was oatmeal. I loved that she'd make oatmeal for company. What a revelation! Of course, oatmeal is the perfect company-for-brunch food. Make a big pot and let guests dress it up as they wish. So I guess I'm saying, this weekend, let this oatmeal be your porridge-for-company recipe. It won't disappoint. If anything, your guests will think you brilliant. Yea, brilliant.

April Bloomfield's PorridgeAdapted from A Girl and Her Pig, April Bloomfield's new book, which just won the Food52 Piglet award and almost as quickly found its way into my library; it's a fantastic book. You will learn a ton from reading and cooking Bloomfield's recipes. See here for a lovely review by Stanley Tucci.

Serves 2

As I said above, this porridge is Salty, with a capital s. That's why I love it. If you're nervous about the salt and want to start slow, reduce the quantity to 1 teaspoon. Also, if you don't have salt that is truly flaky, as Maldon is, reduce the quantity even further. You should probably use only about 3/4 teaspoon of fine sea salt.

1 1/2 cups milk (preferably whole but whatever you have is fine), plus more for serving 1 1/2 cups water 1 1/2 teaspoons Maldon or other flaky sea salt; if using fine salt, use less - start at 3/4 teaspoon and adjust as needed 1/2 cup steel-cut oats 1/2 cup rolled (not quick-cooking) oats 2 tablespoons maple syrup, maple sugar, maple butter, or brown sugar (I used maple butter, which I happened to have, and it was delicious)

bring milk, water, and salt to a simmer in a medium pot over high heat. When liquid starts to simmer, add both oats, stir to combine, and reduce heat to medium. Cook the oats at a steady simmer, adjusting the heat as necessary and stirring occasionally to prevent the mixture from boiling over. At 20 minutes, the steel-cut oats will be just cooked and the rolled oats will have melted into the porridge.

Taste the porridge. Salty! You're now going to adjust the flavor by adding maple syrup or brown sugar to taste. I used the full 2 tablespoons, and maybe even a wink more to serve, but start with 1 and see where you are. You want the porridge to start salty and then fade into sweetness. What I'm about to say will sound a bit blasphemous, but the balance of salty and sweet is a much more refined, successful version of what those instant oatmeal packets are trying to accomplish. Here, it works.

Once you've achieved the balance of salty and sweet, spoon the porridge into bowls and top with a splash of cold milk and maybe a pinch more of brown sugar or a dribble of maple syrup. Serve immediately.