Simple Sauteed Snow Peas

Readers, meet my new favorite side dish.

We spent the morning of our first full day in Santa Fe downtown, at a farmers' market adjacent to an artists' market (a lethal concoction as far as my wallet was concerned). At the tail end of our stroll through the farm stands, I caught a glimpse of an overall-clad gentelman manning a fry pan set over a camping stove. I headed over to see what he was cooking, and before I could see any of the wiry, bright green snowpeas bouncing around the frying pan, I hear the crackle-snap of their dip in the hot oil and knew the end result would be mighty tasty. I stuck around. Sure enough, after a few flips of the pan, the blistered snowpeas landed on top, giving their still-green comrades a turn over the heat. Once all the peas were glistening with oil and many were blackened in spots, the gentleman tossed a generous pinch of flaky salt over the vegetables, poured them onto a plate, and shouted for customers and neighboring farmers to get one while they're hot. I wasted no time popping one of the smoking-hot snowpeas into my mouth.

Their crunch was what caught me first: blackened where their bumpy surfaces had touched the scalding pan, much of the flesh managed to remain crisp, striking just the right balance of doneness. The snowpeas were vivid green, their juices gathering at the bottom of the plate and mixing with that lovely salt. I could've eaten the whole lot myself. Naturally, I bought a couple pounds of his bounty, determined to wow D's family with this surprising treat.

This isn't one of those stories that ends in failure. I'll spoil the punch-line right now: for an addictive appetizer or side, it just doesn't get more foolproof than this. You need only the most modest mis en place: a hot pan, a glug of oil, a couple pinches of salt, and the freshest, crispest snowpeas you can find. The dish practically makes itself. If you want to put them over the edge, squeeze some lemon over the peas just before serving.

If you're making these for a crowd and don't have a very large (15-inch) pan, make them in batches. You want these guys to really blister, and they won't if the pan is crowded. Let the snap-crackle of the peas be your guide: when the vegetables first hit the pan, they'll really sizzle (watch those forearms -- the oil will spatter). After a while, the sound will let up. If the next time you flip the peas, none have browned on the bottom, add a splash more oil: let the sizzling resume. I've made these twice, and each time, the peas have needed about four pan-flips, maybe a total of 7-8 minutes in the pan. Don't stress if yours seem done after 5 minutes or need a bit extra time -- they'll be done when they're done.

Last night, I served a dish of these snow peas as a side dish to complement seared tuna. But the first time I made them, I served them up right out of the frying pan, smoking hot, to a crowd of hungry bellies waiting on barbequed chicken. These were the perfect low-key appetizer, just the sort of thing you want to absentmindedly munch on while waiting for dinner to hit the table.

Simple Sauteed Snow Peas serves 6

2 lbs. snow peas, as fresh and crunchy as you can find 'em, rinsed and thoroughly dried olive oil 2 pinches salt wedge of lemon

Heat 2-3 tablespoons olive oil on medium-high in a large stainless steel pan, not a nonstick one. When the oil shimmers on the surface, add 1/3 of the snow peas (careful! oil will splatter). Leave the pan alone for a minute or two, and the peas on the bottom will begin to blister. After about 2 minutes, give the pan a big toss. Blistered peas should rise to the top, and less cooked ones should descend to the bottom of the pan, close to the heat. Again, let the pan be for about 2 minutes. Toss again, to redistribute peas. If peas haven't blistered, add a tablespoon more olive oil to the pan.

After about 7-8 minutes, peas should be cooked through but still crispy, and some should have darkened or blistered spots. At this point, sprinkle a pinch of salt over the peas, and transfer to a serving bowl or platter. Repeat this process twice more, cooking 1/3 of total peas each time. After all peas have been cooked and transfered to serving dish, squeeze wedge of lemon over peas, use large wide spoon to distribute lemon juice, and serve immediately. (Peas will also be delicious at room temperature, so if you're not serving as an appetizer to some hungry folks, don't sweat it; set them aside, and serve when everything else is ready.)

Mediterranean Chickpea Salad

It's Memorial Day weekend, and barbeque is king. No doubt you've seen more than enough burger recipes in the past 48 hours; don't worry, that's not what I'm sharing today. No, no. I'm here for the vegetarians and the newly-minted lessmeatarians. Let's make sure they (um, we) are well cared for this holiday weekend. And, while there are approximately several thousand potluck-friendly vegetarian recipes, another never hurts. Because we all know Monday's side dishes will be Tuesday's tupperware lunch and Wednesday's leftover dinner. So let's make'em good, shall we?

If you make nothing else this weekend, you'll be in great shape with this chickpea salad. It is dead simple to make, people. Embarrassingly so. I soaked and cooked fresh chickpeas, but if we're being perfectly honest, there's no need to go to all the fuss. Canned are absolutely fine here. And I know I often say what follows, but that's because it's true: this recipe is by no means set in stone. It can be altered in any number of ways, a few of which I list here. Don't get hung up if you're missing one or two of the ingredients. Green garlic can swap out for regular garlic, scallions for red onions, cumin seeds for the ground stuff, anardana for sumac, and now I'll stop listing. If all you've got is chickpeas, cumin, feta, and lemon juice, you're 90% of the way there. And while I'm sure tomatoes would be great in this salad the first time around, I really can't stand them once their refrigerated, as leftovers always are, so I've left them out. Feel free to add them back in, if you'd like. If you're cooking vegetarians, lessmeatarians, or plain ole' people who can't eat just burgers for 48 hours straight (yes, I recognize that that's not an all-inclusive category), I guarantee this chickpea salad will please across the board.

Also, because this should never go without saying: let's all take a couple moments this weekend to recognize those who have given their time, their energy, and their lives in service to our country. Our freedom owes in no small measure to their sacrifices. Say thanks with words, say thanks with chickpea salad; either way, let's all show our gratitude.

Mediterranean Chickpea Salad heavily adapted from a recipe in the New York Times

1 pound chickpeas, soaked and cooked; if using canned, rinse 1 large red bell pepper, cored, seeded, and coarsely chopped 2 scallions, chopped (can substitute1/4 red onion, chopped) 1/4 cup small kalamata or greek olives, halved (optional) 1 medium-sized hunk (about 4 ounces) feta cheese, cubed a handful various herbs, roughly chopped (I used thyme, tarragon, mint, and dill; basil and parsley would also be great)

juice and zest 1 lemon 1 tablespoon red wine vinegar (can substitute balsamic) 1 bulb and stem of green garlic, chopped (can substitute 1 clove regular garlic, chopped) 1/2 teaspoon cumin seeds, toasted in a dry pan over medium heat until fragrant (can substitute 1/2 teaspoon ground cumin) 1/2 teaspoon anardana powder (dried crushed pomegranate seed; can substitute 1/2 teaspoon sumac) 2 tablespoons yogurt salt and pepper to taste

In a medium serving bowl, combine chickpeas, pepper, onion, olives, feta, and herbs. In a small mixing bowl, combine lemon, red wine vinegar, green garlic, cumin seeds, anardana, and yogurt. Mix with a fork until combined. Add salt and pepper to taste. Pour dressing over salad and mix to distribute. Serve. (Salad will keep for several days.)

Peas with Leeks and Tarragon

This isn't the recipe I planned to share with you today. There's a recipe for a cookie that I absolutely adore, that I was sure I posted last July. Thing is, I've been searching and searching for it on this site, but it seems either to have gone missing or to have never been posted. I'm still totally confused about where it's gone, but I'm getting to the bottom of this and will post the recipe later this week...so stay tuned.

In the meantime, peas, anyone?

Fresh peas a staple of springtime, on the menus of every restaurant in the city, and when they're really fresh, they're amazing. But I mean really fresh. Like, 1 day old or less. Sometimes, you get a lucky batch of pods, and the peas inside are small and young enough that they never take on that starchy texture or lose their sweet, clean flavor. But generally, fresh peas are hit-or-miss if you buy 'em more than a couple days out. That's why this recipe calls for frozen peas (*collective sigh of relief*).

Traditional partners for peas include mint, which I adore, and tarragon, which is a relatively new friend of mine. Tarragon is incredibly intense. It smells of a cross between fennel, anise, and basil. And it ain't messin' around -- so use it sparingly. For 2 pounds of peas, I used between 1/2 and 1 teaspoon of chopped tarragon. Start small, and only add if you really can't taste it. Trust me...you'll know if it's there.

Also, a word about leek confit, which you'll make as the basis of this dish: it's a gift to mankind. It makes everything taste good, from rice to chicken to hell, some plain ricotta. Think of it as next-generation caramelized onions. And then go play around.

Peas with Leeks and Tarragon serves 6

2 large leeks 3 tablespoons butter 1 tablespoon olive oil 1-2 pounds frozen peas 1/2-1 teaspoon tarragon salt and pepper

Slice leeks lengthwise into quarters, then slice crosswise into small pieces. Transfer leeks to a strainer and rinse carefully, making sure all the dirt comes out. Leeks are often covered in dirt, and cleaning them already chopped is definitely the easiest way.

Shake leeks dry. In a large saute pan over medium heat, melt butter with olive oil. Add leeks, and cook, stirring occasionally, until they start to soften and get pale. Turn heat down to medium-low and continue to cook until leeks have really softened and some have turned golden, about 20 minutes. Add a pinch or two of salt.

When leeks are very soft, add peas, still frozen is fine. Cook until peas are warmed through, stirring regularly to make sure heat gets evenly distributed. If too much liquid collects in the bottom of the pan, turn heat back up to medium to boil it off. When peas are warm and liquid has been mostly reduced, add tarragon and stir through. Taste, then adjust for tarragon and salt levels. Finish with a couple grinds of black pepper, and serve immediately.

If you want to serve these as an appetizer, toast some slices of baguette; smear them with some good ricotta; and smash some of the peas overtop.

Bursting Hot Tomatoes with Cheesy Breadcrumbs

There's a little game I play as fall wanes into winter. It's about tomatoes. In summer, when tomatoes are at their peak, I want nothing but to eat them -- lots of them, all the time -- in preparations as simple as can be. Don't make me pasta with tomato sauce when bursting, juicy, raw tomatoes can be had in abundance; slice up a couple, drizzle a little olive oil on top, share a pinch of salt, and I'll be on my way, thank you.

The fall tomatoes in these parts aren't half-bad, either. Some farmers -- Toigo, notably -- do a great job with the late-season fruit. But December and January (and beyond) are murky tomato territory, where the red ones are all found beneath the fluorescent lighting of your nearest grocery store, and the farmers market tomatoes tend to be green, for frying or pickling only.

Now before you let anyone tell you that supermarket tomatoes are good for nothing, I've got to chime in. I'll agree wholeheartedly that January beefsteak tomatoes are about as mealy and flavorless as they come. However, the grocery store's cherry tomatoes are passable when you really, really need them. Furthermore, there are ways to enhance supermarket tomatoes to the point that they're not just edible, they're actually kinda tasty. This is one of those ways.

That quality that we all love about good raw tomatoes -- that so-juicy-it'll-burst thing -- can be mimicked by heating subpar tomatoes. This concentrates intensifies their flavor, and also stretches the tomato skin taut, so that when you bite into one, the innards burst in your mouth. Top said heated cherry tomatoes with a thick blanket of feta and parmesan-spiked homemade breadcrumbs, and you're on your way to heaven. Given that the tomatoes aren't the best, you should compensate by using high-quality ingredients for the rest of the dish. I use homemade breadcrumbs, really good butter, and parmigiano reggiano cheese.

I can imagine this going wonderfully with a steak dinner; alternatively, pair it with a salad, a frittata, or roasted vegetables for a light supper.

Bursting Hot Tomatoes with Cheesy Breadcrumbs

serves 2

1 pint cherry tomatoes, best you can find but supermarket will do 1 cup homemade breadcrumbs 1 tablespoon butter 1/8 cup crumbled feta cheese 1/8 cup grated parmesan cheese black pepper

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Spread the tomatoes in a single layer in an ovenproof casserole.

In a small saucepan over medium heat, melt butter. Add breadcrumbs; toss to coat evenly, then continue to cook until golden, about 5 minutes.

Transfer breadcrumbs to a small bowl; mix in feta, parmesan, and several grinds of black pepper. Spread evenly over tomatoes. Bake until breadcrumbs are well browned, about 15 minutes. Serve immediately.