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.

Pasta Primavera

Forget that crap they serve in bad Italian restaurants. (All year round, mind you. Does anyone else see the irony in that?) This is the real thing. It's spring (did you hear?), and this is a pasta dish that shows off the season's finest. It's a dead-simple preparation that doesn't skimp on flavor, and it takes mere minutes to throw together.

It's hardly a recipe, I confess. But that's mostly because it can be made any which way, with whatever spring vegetables are in your fridge now. If you see this and think, "I need this right now," I gotcha. Variations of this recipe have been my lunch 5 days out of the past two weeks. I started with asparagus, mushrooms, and peas. When I roasted some late-season brussels sprouts one night for dinner, I added the leftovers to my pasta for the next day's lunch. If you have other vegetables -- favas, carrots, whatever -- they'd be lovely here as well. And yes, I tossed in a forkful of the caramelized onions I keep in the fridge. What's pasta primavera without'em?

And one more tip for this lovely Friday: many spring vegetables, including peas, asparagus, mushrooms, scallions, and favas, have bits that you discard, be they tough stems, or pods. Instead of simply throwing them away, along with their wonderful flavor, here's a fresh idea for what to do with them: stick them in a big pot of boiling water, add a whole onion, and maybe a few stems from your basil or mint leaves, plus some salt. Bring to a simmer, and cook for about 20 minutes. Let cool overnight in the fridge, then strain through a strainer lined with either cheese cloth or 2 paper towels (yes, it really works). Pour the strained liquid into ice cube trays, and freeze. Now you've got the most flavorful, aromatic spring vegetable broth, stored in easy-to-use ice cubes. I have a gallon-size bag full of these cubes, and they're the perfect addition to pasta primavera.

Pasta Primavera serves 4, or 2 hungry people plus weekday lunch leftovers

1 pound any kind of pasta; I've used penne, macaroni, and shells, all great olive oil caramelized onions, if you've got'em 2 scallions, chopped finely 1 1/2 pounds any of the following: asparagus, peas, mushrooms, brussels sprouts, fava beans, or other spring vegetable 1/2 cup vegetable broth or water 2/3 cup grated parmigiano reggiano or pecorino cheese a couple pieces fresh mozzarella or spoonfuls fresh ricotta, optional salt and pepper a couple leaves fresh basil, mint, or both

If using fava beans, remove beans from pod, boil for about 5 minutes, and remove beans from waxy coating. Reserve; you'll add them to the finished dish.

Boil pasta.

Meanwhile, drizzle a couple tablespoons olive oil in a wide saute pan and heat on medium-high. Add caramelized onions and/or scallions and stir to soften, 2 minutes. Then add mushrooms -- you want them to really fry up and release their flavor. When mushrooms have sizzled, sizzled some more, and finally released their juice, sprinkle a pinch of salt. Leave heat around medium-high. (If you're in a rush, as I was one night, you can skip this step and add everything all together.)

If you're doing this in stages, add the slower-cooking vegetables, like brussels and asparagus, next. If you need a drizzle more olive oil, go for it. When the asparagus and sprouts have been coated in the oil and have started to develop some color on the underside, turn heat down to medium. Add about 1/4 cup broth or water to the pan; it will boil vigorously, then calm down. Add a pinch of salt.

When asparagus are starting to soften, add extra broth if pan is dry, and then add peas. You'll cook the vegetables for about 3 minutes after peas are added, just long enough to warm them through. At this point, pasta will be done -- drain and reserve.

Add the pasta to the pan with the vegetables, and use tongs to toss pasta and "sauce" together. Add cheese, toss to coat, and serve immediately.

Spinach Bourekas

At some point last year, I fell off the puff pastry cliff. It all started with this onion-date tart, one of the best and easiest recipes I've ever written. I made it once, twice, three times, and more; I couldn't stop. I'd tweak a thing or two every time: I'd add mushrooms, swap the goat cheese for feta, add some roasted red peppers, etc. The tart never failed to please, so I just didn't stop making it.

From there, I branched out to other similar tarts, like this one with zucchini and olives. Why hadn't I thought of this sooner? Why had it taken so long to realize that when you pile delicious stuff on a buttery piece of dough and bake it off, the results are...delicious?

Just when I thought I'd had my revelation, D had had just about enough. She finally confessed that she hated all these tarts -- these big pieces of flaky dough meant to pose as entrees -- and that if I could stop making them, forever, that'dbegreatthanks. I was bummed: had I reached the end of puff pastry heaven so quickly? Without it, what else would I make? There was NOTHING else to make! Nothing but puff pastry! AACK!

Needless to say, I moved on. I made other delicious things like baked pastas and quiches and even the occasional (gasp!) meat dish. I moved on so well, in fact, that I actually forgot about puff pastry entirely. That is, until my friend Jeremy asked me to make some bourekas for a potluck he and his wife Beth hosted this weekend.

Given that I lived in Israel for two years, where bourekas could easily make a run against falafel, hummus, and schnitzel for the country's national dish, it's hard to believe that they haven't come up on NDP before today. I guess I don't make them as often as I'd have thought. But they're really very easy to make, they keep well and reheat like a charm, and they're as appropriate for a fancy meal as they are in a ziplock baggie.

Using the recipe below, I made about 50 bourekas before running out of puff pastry. I sandwiched the leftover filling between layers of filo dough for an easy mid-week pie that was a close relative of spanikopita.

Spinach Bourekas adapted from Ina Garten's spanikopita recipe makes about 50, plus extra filling

1/4 cup good olive oil 1 cup chopped yellow onion 3 scallions, white and green parts, chopped 2 (10-oz) packages frozen chopped spinach, defrosted 4 eggs, lightly beaten 3 tablespoons parmesan cheese 3 tablespoons plain dry bread crumbs 1 teaspoon freshly-grated nutmeg 2 teaspoons salt 1 teaspoon black pepper 2 cups diced feta cheese 3 tablespoons toasted pine nuts 3 tablespoons golden raisins 1 small wedge lemon 3 packages (6 sheets) puff pastry, defrosted

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees

Heat olive oil over medium heat in a large saute pan. Add onion and cook for 5 minutes, until soft but not browned. Add scallions and cook two more minutes, until wilted. Meanwhile, squeeze the water out of the chopped spinach and transfer to a large bowl.

Add cooked onions and scallions to spinach and stir to combine. Mix in eggs, parmesan, bread crumbs, nutmeg, salt, pepper, and raisins. Squeeze in lemon juice; gently fold in feta and pine nuts.

Sprinkle working surface with flour. Place one sheet of puff pastry on suface and roll it out to about 1/8-inch thick, rotating it 90 degrees after each roll to ensure that dough grows evenly and doesn't stick. Use more flour as necessary. Once dough is proper size, cut the dough into three lengthwise and three horizontally, dividing the dough into nine equally-sized squares.

Place two tablespoons filling into the middle of each square. Dip your finger in a bit of water and run it along the edges of the square, then bring one corner its opposite corner and seal to make a triangle. Use the tines of a fork to make a decorative edge and ensure that bourekas stay shut.

Place bourekas on parchment or silpat-lined baking sheet and bake about 25 minutes, until golden on top. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Down and Dirty Pasta e Cecci

Anything that has the words "down and dirty" in the title is something I will, sooner or later, make. "Down and dirty" suggests a rough-and-tumble version of the refined original, something you're more likely to eat on your front stoop than in a dining room. When I hear down and dirty, I see myself in cutoff jean shorts and one of those ribbed white tank tops, sitting outside on a balmy summer day. There are mosquitos in the air, bangs in my face. I'm eating from a clay bowl I threw in the pottery studio down the street. When lunchtime rolls around, I notice some chickpeas in the cabinet, so I decide to throw them in with some chili, anchovies, and pasta, and call it lunch. Down and dirty lunch, that is.

Surely you can understand how, when I saw a recipe for "down and dirty pasta e cecci" on Food52's website (via Jennifer Steinhauser of NYT, via her friend fisheri -- that's his username, not his real name -- oh, the confusion!), I simply had to make it. Mind you, I didn't even know what "cecci" were. I don't speak Italian. But down and dirty pasta is something that best be coming out of my kitchen, like, pronto.

I read the recipe around 8am. Turns out cecci are chickpeas. Great! I love chickpeas. At 8:03, I was in the kitchen, a pot of water boiling on the stove, rummaging through my cabinets for a (suddenly precious) can of chickpeas. With good anchovies in the fridge and a can of tomatoes by my side, I was moments away from having a tupperware of down and dirty pasta and cecci for lunch. Chickpeas were found, I got down and dirty in the kitchen, the rest is down and dirty history.

As Jennifer rightly points out, this is the kind of recipe that lends itself to adjustments -- both intentional and entirely accidental ones. Fisheri calls for fresh tomatoes, but I assure you if he'd written the recipe during an East Coast winter, he'd have called for canned. I actually cheated and used half canned tomatoes, half sundried tomatoes that I reconstituted in a bit of boiling water. Come summer, I'll try this with fresh ones, but not these days. I have a unconquerable weakness for spice, so I've added chili flakes both times I've made this recipe, and highly recommend them. Fisheri called for farfalle or another small pasta, but I broke all the rules and used spaghetti. Know what? It was still delicious. In terms of the liquid used, I've tried it with chicken broth and water; both are fine, broth is is better. If you use water, be sure to really load up that bowl with cheese. As for the rosemary: it's delicious, but so was a sprig of thyme that I accidentally used instead. Any which way you make it, dinner (or lunch) just doesn't get much easier.

Also, now that I have your attention, apologies for the shameless self-promotion, but if I can't do it here, where can I? I'm super excited to announce that I'm featured in this week's Washingtonian Blogger Beat! Check it out!

Down and Dirty Pasta e Cecci From Food52, via Jennifer Steinhauser, via her friend Fisheri

2 cloves garlic 4 filets anchovies 3 sprigs rosemary 3 tablespoons olive oil chili flakes to taste 1 can chickpeas, drained 4 ripe plum tomatoes (or 4 canned tomatoes, strained if desired; or a mix of canned and sundried, reconstituted; you get the drift: anything goes.) 1/2 pound small pasta like farfalle (I used spaghetti) 4 cups chicken broth or water heaps of grated parmesan salt and pepper

Dice garlic, roughly chop anchovies, and cut up tomatoes.

If using water instead of broth, bring water to a boil in small pot.

In a large pot over medium heat, saute the garlic, anchovies, and two sprigs of rosemary in olive oil until anchovies melt into the oil. Add chili flakes, if using.

Add chopped tomatoes. Saute 10-15 minutes, until tomatoes are cooked through. Taste, and salt if needed.

Turn heat to medium-high and add chickpeas, along with a few cups of boiling water or chicken broth. Ad last sprig of rosemary and bring the whole thing to a gentle boil.

Add pasta. If liquid doesn't cover pasta, add enough that it's just covered. Reduce heat to simmer and cook for one minute less than the pasta package recommends. You want the pasta to be cooking in what will become its sauce, so add liquid only if necessary; you don't want the sauce to be too thin.

When the pasta is done, spoon it into bowls, grind in some pepper, and top with as much parmesan cheese as your heart desires. Add a glug of olive oil, if you like. Dig in.