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.

Broccoli with Capers and Olives, Two Ways

Finally, the next chapter of "Weekday Lunch," where I offer recipes for food that fits in tupperware and warms in the office microwave.

This dish happened completely by accident. D had decided to order a pizza for dinner, and I decided to do something else, seeing as it would have been my fourth pizza meal of the week. (Ugh.) I did a quick scan of the fridge and saw a bag of nice-looking young broccoli that I'd picked up at the weekend farmers' market. I also had the last of a tub of greek olives that I'd recently replaced with a new tub and wanted to use up, and the end of a jar of summer's tomato sauce. There was about 1/4 of a box of macaroni left in the cupboard, so I figured I'd throw the last little bits of each of these to make a nice pasta dinner.

I started by finely chopping a shallot and heating a tab of butter in a large, shallow pan over medium-low heat. When the shallot was translucent and fragrant but not brown, I added about 1/2 teaspoon of red chili flakes and 2 cups of broccoli. I knew I planned to cook the broccoli just until al dente, but I wanted to use the stems as well as the florets, so I sliced the stems pretty finely -- about 1/3-1/2-inch thick -- so that they'd cook pretty quickly. I added a hefty pinch of salt and tossed the pan a couple times to combine.

Soon after adding the broccoli, I tossed in what was left of the olives, probably about 1/2 cup worth. I also added about a tablespoon of capers. At this point, the broccoli was heating up and had turned a vibrant shade of green. I wanted to preserve this color, so I added a very little bit of water from the pasta, which had already started to cook. Non-pasta water would have been fine as well, but it helps to have the water be hot, so that it doesn't slow down the cooking.

After about five minutes, the broccoli was almost perfect; still that beautiful green shade, mostly cooked but still with a bite. I ended up adding several ladlefuls of my tomato sauce, and eventually some hot pasta, to make this dinner. But before tomatoes ever hit the pan, I looked down at the broccoli with its briny accompaniments and thought, gosh, this'd make a fantastic side. So there you have it; broccoli with capers and olives. I'd probably squeeze a bit of lemon if I were serving this alone; hitting it with some acidity would compliment the vegetal and salty flavors. I could see it served atop israeli couscous, or as an accompaniment to chicken. It was also pretty great mixed with tomato sauce and tossed with the end of the box of macaroni. Just sayin'.

Soup of Fresh Shelling Beans and Sorrel

Is it Monday? I’m pretty sure it’s Monday. The last two weeks have been a blur of sniffles, tissues, and gallons (I mean it) of chai. I came down with a cold just around the start of the month. Chalk it up to a late recovery from August’s crunch time at work. I took a couple of days on the couch to recover, and when it started to fade, I headed back to the office. But the cold wasn’t finished yet, and by trying to rush it, I only invited it to extend its stay. Sure enough, it hung around, bringing a sinus infection to the party, and before I knew it, two weeks passed. Well now I’m better, but in anticipation of the many unwelcome colds sure to pay visits this summer, I’ll share a godsend of a recipe with you. It’s for a soup so simple, yet so restorative, that I probably wouldn’t have made it through the past half-month without it.

One morning when I was feeling unusually chipper, I shelled some fresh cranberry beans and threw them in a pot. I added a couple teaspoons of olive oil, half an onion chopped, 2 whole cloves of garlic, water, and, about 20 minutes in, a big bunch of sorrel leaves (NOT the stems, which, I learned the hard way, separate into sharp spindles that are incredibly NOT fun to eat, especially when glands are swollen. Ouch.) I let the whole thing boil away for 25 minutes total; by then, the beans were pretty soft but not mushy, the sorrel was fully cooked, and the broth was incredibly fragrant and a bit tart from the sorrel.

My cold was of the particularly nasty variety that made swallowing a luxury just out of reach. My glands were the size of golf balls, and I literally struggled to get food down my craw. This soup was easy on the throat, really simple to make, and flavorful enough that even my stuffy nose could detect aromas. Highly recommended for winter, sick and healthy days alike.

About 1 lb. fresh shelling beans 1 bunch sorrel leaves, stems discarded Salt and pepper Olive oil Half an onion, chopped 2 cloves garlic

Sweat onion and garlic in a couple glugs of olive oil until translucent but not brown. Add shelling beans and several cups of water, and boil til almost soft enough. Add salt and pepper to taste. Add chopped sorrel leaves and boil 3 more minutes. Taste the broth, not the beans, for seasoning: add more salt, pepper, or a squeeze or lemon juice or white wine if necessary. Serve hot.

Crostini of All Sorts

During a recent stop at the bookstore on my street, Idle Time Books (which, btw, had a cameo in A Few Good Men), I was thumbing through cookbook author Deborah Madison's latest book, What We Eat When We Eat Alone, which she co-wrote with her artist-partner Patrick McFarlin. WWEWWEA (liberally abbreviating the long title here...) is a funny and shockingly intimate account of the ways in which, in the absence of others, food becomes our animated companion. It's a book that draws you in, and before I knew it, I had plopped down on the floor to dig in, and was reading about pouring sardine juice onto cottage cheese and eating it on one foot at the open refrigerator. I laughed out loud as I thought about similar moments I've had, grabbing a bite standing up while I peer into the fridge for my next little nibble.

In the spirit of celebrating this wonderful little book, I'll tell you about one thing I invariably eat lots of when it's just me in the house: crostini.

Here's how I do it: I buy a baguette about once a week. I always rip off a piece on the way home, while it's still super-fresh, but when I get home, I cut the baguette on a sharp bias into 1 or 1.5-inch slices. I put the slices into a ziplock bag. That way, they stay soft and don't get stale immediately. Granted, they're no good this way unless toasted, but I always toast the slices for crostini, so no matter.

Here's just a selection of the crostini I've had over the past month:

• Fresh ricotta, thinly-sliced radish, fleur de sel
• Fresh ricotta, late-summer fava beans, fleur de sel, a couple drops of fresh lemon juice
• Same ingredients, but favas mashed into ricotta for smoother texture
• Goat cheese, tomato confit (cherry tomatoes slow-roasted with olive oil and salt for 4 hours
• Tomme de Raclette (an earthy cheese wrapped in herbs and lots of paprika) and homemade apricot jam
• Herbed quark (tangy, reminiscent of goat cheese), smoked salmon, capers, red onion
• Warmed goat cheese-stuffed figs with rosemary, a hint of fleur de sel

Here's another little confession: sometimes, when I'm alone in the house, I get really particular about the look of the crostini, arranging my radishes just so or ensuring the favas cover every inch of ricotta. There's something so pleasurable about eating beautiful food. Then again, sometimes I hold a fava in one hand and a half-slice of baguette shmeared with as much ricotta as the knife could grab, then pop both in to my mouth at once. That's a whole different kind of beautiful, an equally tasty one.