Syllabub

To Amanda Hesser's list of foods whose names alone command that you make them, I add this quirky dessert. Syllabub! Every time in the past two weeks I've called it by name, it's been met with total crack-up laughter. Don't you want to make it too, just to be able to say you whipped something up and it's called Syllabub? Ha.

Now that I've made it, I can tell you the name shouldn't be your only motivation for giving Syllabub a whirl. I came across the recipe in an old issue of Saveur (1996, maybe?) that I was reading last weekend at a friend's lake house in Wisconsin. The picture caught my eye: a big, heavy-bottomed glass was filled to the brim with what looked like vanilla custard, topped with a bit of lemon zest and a sprig of rosemary. Intrigued, I read the piece: turns out, syllabub is basically whipping cream combined with sherry and some flavorings. Something about the alcohol or the acid of the lemon juice (or maybe both) thicken the cream without much whipping -- it's very bizarre! -- so very little, if any, work is necessary.

There's a great little anecdote in the Saveur piece about how people used to milk their cows into a bowl with some wine in it, which had the fascinating effect of thickening the cream on top while letting the whey sink to the bottom. I don't have any cows to milk, but I knew instantly that I had to make this dessert -- if only to see cream whip itself.

The result is both fascinating, and quite tasty. The sherry is joined by lemon zest, sugar, a bit of cognac, and a whisper of vanilla; they mingle overnight (or for five minutes, if you're me), and cream is added. Et voila, the perfect end to your meal. I could see layering some berries or berry sauce in between layers of the syllabub, as the cream on its own is quite rich. In terms of alcohol, don't feel bound to use sherry; I also used brandy (not just the 2 tablespoons called for, but in place of the sherry as well) and, while the final product is definitely different, it's equally tasty.

Syllabub adapted from Saveur

1⁄3 cup superfine sugar 1⁄4 cup oloroso or other sherry 2 tbsp. cognac or other brandy 2 tbsp. fresh lemon juice Zest of 1 lemon, reserve a small amount for garnish 1 3⁄4 cups plus 2 tbsp. cold heavy cream (preferably unhomogenized) Pinch of freshly grated nutmeg 4 sprigs of rosemary 1. Put sugar, sherry, cognac, lemon juice, and zest into a large bowl. Stir well, then cover and let sit out at room temperature overnight to allow the flavors to meld. 2. Add heavy cream and a pinch of nutmeg (just "a suspicion", says Day-Lewis) to the sherry mixture and whip with a whisk until soft peaks form. Spoon into 4 glasses and garnish each with a bit of lemon zest and a sprig of rosemary.

Crispy Kale Chips

Hello there readers, and hello 2010! I'm back from Israel and hope you enjoyed the dispatches from abroad. In truth, there's so much more to tell: a dear friend took D and me on a fabulous tour of the Old City's Christian Quarter, where we ate amazingly fresh hummus, climbed down to secret underground cisterns, and visited a tucked-away Austrian hospice for excellent cappucinos and Jerusalem's best apple streudel. And that was just one morning!

But now we're back to the grind, and besides, you must be tired of my rants about my travels. You come here for recipes, and I aim to please. So let's talk about kale chips, shall we?

I think I first read about crispy kale in the late Gourmet Mag. The recipe was as simple as they come -- kale, olive oil, salt, pepper -- and accompanying it were stunning photos of long, evergreen-colored leaves shooting out of a tall glass. Gourmet said the kale was the perfect cocktail party food, and looking at the pictures, I had to agree. I could envision these beautiful vases of kale chips placed on a long table, giving height to the usual array of flat cookie platters and cheese plates. Yum.

One evening, I had a bunch of kale to use up and decided to give the recipe a go. If it was a success, I figured, I'd make it at my next dinner party; the beautiful chips were certain to impress.

But then I ate one.

Can we discuss the fact that my entire mouth, like every single tooth, had green flecks all about? And flecks is an understatement. I might as well have colored my smile with green marker, it was that bad. Cocktail party food my #$@*^%!!! Kale chips are absolutely delicious -- they're crispy, and salty, and perfectly peppery, utterly addictive in short -- but they're something to be eaten at home alone, or with someone who really, really likes you. Either way, be prepared to laugh.

Don't let me green teeth scare you away completely, though: these kale chips truly are delicious. If any of you have made New Year's resolutions to eat more vegetables, consider this recipe a belated holiday gift. You can easily polish off an entire batch of kale this way.

Kale Chips adapted from Gourmet

These chips are delicious just so, but they really pop with a last-minute squeeze of lemon, if you have it handy.

1 bunch kale, cleaned and dried, center stems removed olive oil salt pepper wedge of lemon, optional

Put the kale in a large plastic bag, drizzle about 1/8 cup olive oil inside, and shake and massage to combine. Add more oil to the bag as needed until all leaves are coated in the oil. Spread kale leaves in a single layer on as many baking sheets as you need, and sprinkle generously with salt and pepper. Bake at 300 for 20-25 minutes, until kale is crispy all over. Cooking time depends on age and dryness of kale, so watch carefully and remove when every piece is crispy. Serve immediately, and squeeze lemon overtop just before serving, if desired.

Brussels Sprouts with Sriracha, Honey, and Lime

When the New Yorker lands in my mailbox each Tuesday, the first thing I read is the weekly restaurant write-up, Tables for Two. It's short and sweet, and usually contains a brief description of one or two stand-out dishes. Every once in a while, I hear one of the descriptions and think, that sounds like something I should try to make. Even more rarely than that, I actually get off my derriere and try to make one of the recipes. This is one of those times.

The idea came from The Vanderbilt, a restaurant in Prospect Heights. According to the New Yorker, "the best dish might be the roasted Brussels sprouts, dressed with sriracha, lime, and honey, each bite a perfect combination of sweet, spicy, and tart." They really did sound perfect, and given a) how simple the ingredient list sounded and b) the fact that I happened to have all four aformentioned ingredients in my house, I decided to give it a go. What better use of a snow day than turning dish descriptions into great food?

For my first (and thusfar only) try at this recipe, I used just the listed ingredients, oil, and salt. I imagine the restaurant may have thrown in some stock for balance, or any number of other things not mentioned in the name, but brussels sprouts with sriracha, lime, and honey sound just great. I was making only one serving, so I pulled out a little bowl and squeezed in a tablespoon of honey. I added a teaspoon of sriracha to that and stirred it to combine. Then I added the juice of half a lime and mixed it together. Upon tasting it, I decided it needed more tartness, so I added the juice from the other half of the lime: perfect. I poured it into a bigger bowl and added the trimmed sprouts. I mixed it all together, tossed the sprouts onto a baking sheet, drizzled them with olive, and put them in the oven at 375. 27 minutes later, I pulled out a tray of the crispiest, most perfect little sprouts. Transferring them to a plate and snapping a couple of pictures was all I could do to avoid eating them all immediately.

Brussels Sprouts with Sriracha, Lime, and Honey inspired by The Vanderbilt in Prospect Heights

serves about 6 as a side dish

4 pounds brussels sprouts, root ends trimmed, halved if large 4 tablespoons honey 4 teaspoons sriracha (you might want to start with less if you're sensitive to spice) juice of 4 limes salt about 4 tablespoons grapeseed or other flavorless oil

Preheat the oven to 375. In a small bowl, combine honey and sriracha. Taste and adjust for spice level. Add lime juice and stir to combine. When the sauce has the perfect balance of spice, sweetness, and tartness, transfer it to a larger bowl and add sprouts. Toss to combine. Transfer sprouts to a rimmed baking sheet in a single layer, and drizzle remaining sauce overtop. Sprinkle with salt (a couple big pinches will be plenty), and drizzle the oil overtop. Bake for 25-30 minutes, depending on your oven, until sprouts are fully crisped outside, and soft but not mushy within. Serve immediately.

Brussels Sprouts with "Bacon" and Pears

Yet another installment of my Weekday Lunch series, where I share recipes suited for home or the office.

Last Wednesday night, a colleague of mine had a pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving party. The idea is brilliant. Since most of us spend Tday with anyone from parents and siblings to in-laws and cousins twice removed, might as well take the night before to be with friends and surrogate family members, and to toast the holiday in style. And that's just what we did. We ate butter chicken (spicy!) and Brussels sprouts with apples and the most trashy-chic tater tot casserole; we pigged out on pecan bars (from yours truly) and bread pudding and phenomenal ricotta cheesecake; and we washed it all down with lots and lots of bourbon. There truly is no better way to usher in Thanksgiving.

The next day, having landed in Detroit to spend the weekend with D's family, those Brussels sprouts were still on my mind. They were perfectly caramelized, much softer in the middle than I usually make them, and speckled with little chunks of roasted apple, which provided the perfect sweet, tangy contrast to the smoky and just-barely-bitter sprouts.

Last night, I was determined to make something similar. I knew I had some good-looking sprouts from the previous week's farmers market, and I had some vegetarian bacon in the freezer, which I've used to add smokiness in other recipes to good results. I happened to have used up my last apples on Monday to make a crisp, but I did have two seckel pears -- small, crunchy pears with a relatively tart flavor -- that I thought would do the trick. I halved the big sprouts and left the little ones whole, chopped the fake bacon crosswise into short strips (feel free to use the real stuff), and roughly chopped the pears. I tossed all three together on a baking sheet, drizzled a couple tablespoons of olive oil, and used my fingers to coat the mixture. Just before popping the tray in the oven, I sprinkled a healthy pinch of salt and ground some black pepper on top. I baked them at 400 degrees for about 25 minutes, mixing it all around at two different points during baking, until the brussels sprouts were fully soft and brown on the outside, the pears had caramelized, and the bacon bits were crispy. When it came out of the oven, I took a nibble to test for doneness, and ended up eating half of today's lunch while hovered over the stove. That should speak for itself.

Brussels Sprouts with "Bacon" and Pears serves 6

1 1/2 lbs brussels sprouts 3 tablespoons olive oil salt and pepper 2 pears, chopped into a medium dice 4 strips bacon or veggie bacon, diced into small pieces

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Cut the brown tips off the brussels sprouts and slice each sprout lengthwise in half. If sprouts are very large, slice into quarters; if very small, leave whole. In a large bowl, toss brussels sprouts, pears, and bacon with olive oil and plenty of salt and pepper. Spread out on a large baking sheet in a single layer and roast, tossing occasionally, until very browned on the outside and soft inside, about 40 minutes. Taste and adjust for saltiness, then serve immediately.