Wheatberries with Melted Leeks and a Poached Egg

Leeks aren't exactly a spring vegetable - they've been at the market most of the winter - but spring brings those young, skinny leeks, seemingly born anew in the warm weather, and I positively love them.

It takes a while to soften the big, sturdy leeks of winter, but the spring ones submit almost effortlessly, melting into butter just like shallots would. After not long at all, the leeks are impossibly mild and sweet. They make everything better.

I tucked this first batch into a bowl of just-cooked wheatberries. I left the two to mingle for a few minutes, as the wheatberries went from steaming hot to just warm. Meanwhile, I snipped some fresh chives and poached an egg the control freak way. And then, I sat on our deck, broke my egg over the wheatberries, and ate lunch.

If this is all too pure for you, there are plenty of ways to doll it up. Add some flaked salmon or snapper; toss in some marinated tofu; or chop up some chard or spinach and fold it into the berries. If you're feeling crazy, pour the wheatberries, leeks, and greens into a gratin dish, top with a couple raw eggs, grate some hard cheese overtop, and tuck the dish under the broiler for a few minutes. <That's lunch for company.

Wheatberries with Melted Leeks and Poached Eggs

Serves 2, maybe with leftovers

1 cup wheatberries 3-4 baby leeks or 1-2 large leeks 2 tablespoons butter 4 chives, minced 2 eggs

Bring a pot of salted water (or part water, part broth) to a boil over high heat. Add wheatberries, and once the water has returned to a boil, lower heat, cover pot, and cook about 1 hour, adding extra water if needed, until wheatberries are tender.

Meanwhile, clean the leeks. Slice off the root end of the leeks and the dark green tops - you'll only be using the white and light green parts. Quarter the leeks lengthwhise, then slice them crosswise into small pieces. Clean very well: I do this by dumping the bits of leeks into a strainer set over a bowl, filling the bowl with water, swirling the leeks around to free the dirt, and then straining them by pulling the strainer out of the bowl. If your leeks are from the market, you'll probably need to do this several times to get the leeks thoroughly clean. It's worth it - gritty leeks suck.

Add the butter to a shallow saute pan set over medium heat. When butter has melted, add leeks and a healthy pinch of salt. Stir to combine, and when leeks start to hiss, add a couple tablespoons of water. The water is especially important with bigger leeks, which need some help softening. Now, cover the pan (if you don't have a cover, tin foil will work), turn the heat to medium-low, and let the leeks melt, stirring occasionally and adding more water if it looks like they're browning before they're soft. This should take about 20 minutes. When leeks are melted and soft, remove from the heat.

Drain cooked wheatberries and transfer them to a large bowl. Add leeks and fold together to combine.

Poach the eggs when you're just about ready to eat. There are many ways to do this; my favorite is to poach them in the shell, in just-barely-hot water. I get that isn't exactly unfussy, so you can also just simmer a shallow pot of water with a couple teaspoons of vinegar, swirl a fork around the pot a couple times to get the water moving, add a couple eggs, and poach them for about 2 minutes until the white is just

Spoon the wheatberries into bowls, set the poached eggs on top, and sprinkle the chopped chives over everything. Break the eggs, mix into the wheatberries, and enjoy.

Asparagus Risotto

It's hard enough to believe that four springs have come and gone since I started this blog. What's even harder to believe, though, is that I've never shared this recipe with you. Just ask D: I make it about once a week when asparagus are in season, toting it to work as often as I dish it out for dinner (though it really isn't nearly as good the day after). It's a meal in a pot; it takes about 30 minutes, start to finish; and it calls for asparagus, which by now you know is a virtue I hold above most others.

Asparagus risotto: pretty straightforward. You're probably seeing it on restaurant menus everywhere, as I have been. Being slightly particular about my spears, I really dislike when restaurants bury them beneath a heap of rice. Asparagus are wonderful because if you cook them properly, they get crunchy and slick on the outside, coated just so with butter or olive oil, dusted with salt and pepper, completely irresistible. If you add them to risotto too early, they lose their oomph. So I've taken to this slightly more finicky (but no more complicated) approach, which keeps the two components of the dish mostly separate until they hit the table, leaving it to the diner to fold rice and asparagus together per their preference.  It also makes for a more dramatic presentation, the pool of creamy rice accented with a burst of green on top, and of course, the requisite shower of grated Parmesan.

Here's the cooking plan: risotto gets made in a wide-bottomed high-sided skillet. When it's close to done, asparagus go in a little pan right alongside. The two should finish cooking at the same time. Into shallow bowls goes the risotto, then topped with several pieces of asparagus, and finally, a shower of cheese. Dig in.

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If I'm not in the mood for rice, I'll use the same technique with polenta. Asparagus and cornmeal are quite the pair. And, if the mood strikes, I'll squeeze a wedge of lemon over the whole thing. I love the sour punch that offsets the creamy polenta.

Either way, It's a dish that celebrates spring, perfect for weeks like this one, when the weather is cold and rainy, but warm sun-filled days seem just around the bend.

Asparagus Risotto serves 3-4

2 tablespoons butter 1 cup arborio or carnaroli rice 1/2 cup white wine (whatever's open, though preferably nothing too sweet) 3-4 cups hot stock (I used homemade vegetable, but chicken would work well here, too)

1 lb. asparagus, rinsed, trimmed, and sliced on a bias into 3-inch segments 1 tablespoon butter 1 tablespoon olive oil salt and pepper

1/4 cup mascarpone cheese half a lemon 2/3 cup grated Parmesan cheese

Choose your risotto pan: I prefer a skillet with relatively high sides to a pot, but a pot or dutch oven work great, too.

Plop 2 tablespoons butter into the risotto pot, turn the heat to medium, and as the butter melts, add the rice. Stir to coat rice in butter. Your rice will start popping gently - that's a good sign. You want every kernel coated in the butter.

Once the rice has heated through and a couple of the kernels have toasted a bit, add the wine. Things will sizzle rapidly as the wine boils, and this is good: you want the wine to get a head start on reducing. Once the wine has settled down, add 1 cup of the stock. Stir vigorously to incorporate it with the rice, and to get those kernels moving around. The more they move, the greater trail of starch they leave in their path...and the creamier the risotto.

This is your essential process for the next 20 minutes or so. Add stock by the ladleful, stir to incorporate with the rice, and watch as the rice drinks up the stock. When things get dry in the pan, add another ladle of stock.

Important: taste your stock. Is it salty? If so, your risotto may need only pepper. If not, you want to salt the rice gently as it cooks. Feel free to also taste a kernel or two of rice along the way. They won't be fully cooked, but it'll give you a sense of how salty your risotto will be, and it'll let you adjust before the very end.

When your rice is still raw inside but nearly softened, set a small saute pan over medium heat and add the remaining tablespoon of butter and the olive oil. When the butter has melted, add the asparagus. They'll cook as you finish up the risotto, and they don't need much attention - just the occasional shake of the pan to have them turn over and move around. They'll take between 2-5 minutes, depending on the size of the pan you're using. Taste one to test for doneness. I like them still a bit crunchy, but you may prefer them softer. As you wish.

When your rice has cooked through, add enough stock that risotto will be pourable. Good risotto spreads when served, and firms up only once it's on the plate.

When ready to serve, add the mascarpone cheese and squeeze the lemon into the risotto. Stir to incorporate. Add the cheese, stir again, and pour into shallow bowls. Top with asparagus, maybe squeeze that lemon just once more onto each bowl, and serve immediately.

Gingered Broccoli Puree

There's no good way to say this, and I'm sure that when I do, most of you will dismiss me as a loon. I don't care much for mashed things. Sure, I make sweet potato puree at Thanksgiving. I do very much like applesauce, so I suppose that's an exception right there. And if you puree butternut squash with plenty of cream, stuff it into pasta, and pan fry it in sage butter, well, I just as well might take back that little declaration altogether. But mashed parsnips, potatoes, celeriac - those things aren't my bag. If I cooked steak more often, I might enjoy making them to accompany the meat. But as things are, I'll usually pass.

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Which is why this ginger-laced broccoli puree jumped out at me from the pages of the New York Times Essential Cookbook. I realize I just said I don't like mashed things, but reading this broccoli recipe, I thought better. It's just root vegetables I prefer solid. Mash up those avocados as much as you like. I love guacamole. And mangos - you can mash those into a great lassi. And you know what? Mashed broccoli. Who knew? It's sublime.

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Those of you with kids are probably way ahead of me here. Now that my friends have little guys and girls in tow, they're pureeing practically everything in site, so the thought of pureed broccoli probably isn't so crazy. But here, the ginger is juicy and tart and spicy. This is pureed broccoli all grown up.

Here's something I'll happily come right out and say: I ate nearly all of my latest batch still hot, right out of the bowl. It, alone, was dinner. If you're looking to be more civilized about the whole eating thing, you might serve this with halibut or salmon, prepared simply. For halibut, perhaps something like this. For salmon, this soy-glazed one would be great. ...Think I just figured out what we'll be eating for dinner one night this week.

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Gingered Broccoli Pureeadapted from the New York Times Essential Cookbook, originally from Cooking with Daniel Boulud

So here's the truth. Boulud has you grate the ginger into a thin tea towel, wring the juice into a bowl, use about 1/4 teaspoon of that juice, and toss the rest - along with the ginger solids - away. I tried it this way, but a) I hated wasting all that ginger, and b) I wanted more spice in the final dish. So I'm sharing my less fussy and less precise version of his original recipe. I grate the ginger straight into a bowl, and I use almost all of it, starting slowly and adding to taste. I also chop up the piece of ginger that goes into the cream, and I don't fish out the pieces afterward - I just blitz them along with everything else. If you're fancy-pants, go forth with Boulud's instructions. Otherwise, c'mon down the unfussy road with me.

1 2-inch piece ginger, peeled 1 1/2 teaspoons olive oil 1 cup thinly sliced onions 1 large clove garlic, finely chopped 1/2 cup heavy cream or milk 2 pounds broccoli, trimmed into florets with 1 inch of the stem Pinch salt, plus more to taste Pinch cayenne pepper, plus more to taste

Cut off a 1/4-inch-thick slice of ginger and chop coarsely. Grate the remainder into a small bowl, and set aside.

Heat the oil in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add the chopped ginger, onions and garlic, cover and sweat until the onions are soft but not browned, 5 to 8 minutes. Add the cream (or milk), bring to a boil and simmer until slightly thickened, about 4 minutes. Discard the ginger slice and keep the cream warm.

Bring a pot of salted water to a boil. Add the broccoli and cook until very tender, 8 to 10 minutes. Drain in a colander and press against the sides with a wooden spoon to extract excess water.

Put the broccoli in a food processor, add 1/2 the cream mixture, a pinch of salt and a pinch of cayenne. Process until smooth. Add the remaining cream mixture and the 1 teaspoon ginger; blend well. Taste, and add more ginger, if desired. Adjust the other seasonings and serve warm.

Maple-Roasted Pears

'Tis the season for cookies, and lately I've felt so bombarded by different shapes, sizes, flavors, and varieties, it's hard to focus on much else. Ok, obviously I've still found time for applesauce cake and gingersnap pear cranberry crisp. But what I'm trying to say is, there have also been cookies. Lots and lots of cookies. An embarrassing number, some of you would think (if I were willing to estimate my personal intake, which I am not).

I find it difficult to forgo cakes and cookies for lower-key desserts year-round, and this time of year, it's especially hard. But last week, after fiddling with the "surprise me" function on Deb's blog, I stumbled on a recipe for roasted pears that caught this cookie-loving lady's attention. The pears looked like they were melting into the baking dish, coated with a syrup of vanilla beans, sugar, and lemon. I wanted to scoop them right out of the screen.

pear prep 2

I'd planned to make Deb's recipe just as she wrote it, but my tweaking tendencies got the best of me. I had some maple syrup from a farmer who sells stuff on my corner, and I'd been itching to use it with the pears that sat, somewhat forlorn, in my fridge for just a few days too long. So I did, swapping in maple for the sugar. I kept the lemon - the acidity proves absolutely critical in a dish that's otherwise quite sweet - and I added a piece of cinnamon along with the vanilla bean. The pears, they tasted of pure fall. Which is somewhat ironic, since I think it's officially winter at this point. Ahh, well.

pears and butter

Deb hits the nail on the head about these pears. They're easy as hell to make, and they'll impress dinner guests as much as if you'd slaved over this instead. Not that I don't love towers of salted caramel and chocolate, because I do. Of course I do. But when the holidays roll around, time is of the essence. So you choose.

halfway cooked pears

Maple-Roasted Pearsadapted from Deb, who adapted it from Sally Schneider of The Atlantic Serves 4

Incidentally, these pears are just wild with a scoop of the cinnamon-vanilla ice cream I made this week. Follow this recipe, but skip the chocolate drizzle, add a cinnamon stick to the milk along with the vanilla bean, and let the whole thing steep for 30 minutes before proceeding with the recipe. Divine.

Also: I had only 4 pears, but the sauce makes enough for 1.5 lbs. pears, which should be about 6.

1 1/2 pounds pears (about 6), peeled, halved (though the stem, if possible), and cored (I use a little melon baller to scoop out the seeds and a paring knife to carve out the internal stem) 1/4 cup maple syrup 1/2 vanilla bean 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon 2 tablespoons lemon juice 2 tablespoons water 2 tablespoons butter

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F for unripe pears, 350 degrees F for ripe ones.

Arrange pear halves cut-side up in a baking dish: 4 pears fit in an 8x8, 6 will need a 9x13.

Slit the vanilla bean in half and using a small paring knife, scrape the seeds from the bean into a small bowl. Add maple syrup, cinnamon, lemon juice, and water, stir to combine, and pour evenly over pears. Cut the vanilla pod halves into slivers, and distribute evenly in the baking dish. Dot each pear with butter.

Roast the pears for 30 minutes, basting them occasionally with pan juices. Turn the pears over and continue roasting, basting a couple more times, for 25 minutes, until a knife inserted into a pear half meets no resistance.

Serve pears warm, drizzled with the remaining sauce and topped with either a dollop of creme fraiche or a scoop of ice cream (vanilla, cinnamon, butter pecan, and sour cream ice cream would all work well here).