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Rivka Friedman

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How to Summer

August 19, 2015 Rivka
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I know, I've disappeared lately. We've been summering. I don't have a full post for you today, because doing summer properly in Washington involves lots of time away from Washington: we spent a weekend up in PA, where I snapped the above photo of the team roaming through a lavender field. This is the right answer.

When we are in town, we spend Sundays in a hot kitchen with jars of tomato on the counter and glasses fogged from the steam. Morning canning projects are followed by languid afternoons on the porch, and evenings comforted by a glass (alright, two) of Amaro Lucano where I almost pick up the camera to snap a photo of the roasted cauliflower before it's devoured, but then I remember the languid part and I don't get up, and the cauliflower gets polished off, escaping any photographic proof that it existed. We feel full. And tipsy from the amaro. We go nowhere, we do nothing. We summer.

But I assure you, things are getting made. Bellies are getting filled. Of note:

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The tomates farcies from David Tanis via NYT look amazing. I bookmarked them immediately after he published them, intending to make them for the weekend. But the weekend rolled around, and when I lazily googled "tomatoes farcies," only to be sent to a much meatier recipe from 1981. I didn't notice that it was the wrong link; I just forged ahead with the new recipe, swapping out pork for cured beef sausage and skipping the cheese. The results were positively divine. Three of us polished off the lot of them one Saturday, after discovering - whoops, summer! - that I'd left them in the oven the previous evening, an entire dish of my Friday night dinner unserved, unmissed, unnecessary. (I am becoming my mother.) Make both.

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The tomato bread soup from the Franny's cookbook continues the streak of A-grade soups from the Franny's folks. (You can find the recipe here.) I hesitate to slap the word "sludge" on anything I intend to encourage you to make, but heck: it's a sludge, the best, summeriest sludge ever.

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If you can get your hands on methly plums - those small, fragrant dark-ruby plums with equally red centers - try your hand at a conserve with either ground ginger or, even better, galangal. I lucked out on about 5 pounds of second methlys from Toigo, a favorite farmer, last weekend. I followed Cathy's template for plum jam, and ended up with hands down the best jam I've made all summer - maybe ever. GO.

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Adi loves nectarines like her mama. We're not big peach people: fuzz ruins the the experience. But we (sans Adi) did very much enjoy a gin-based cocktail with muddled peaches, basil, and some demerara sugar. Sub mint if that''s your thing.

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I've always been partial to basil pesto over the parsley variety, but this summer, I've found multiple uses for a punched-up pesto with both herbs. I've been using a bit of shallot, some green garlic, equal parts parsley and basil, lots of lemon zest, and some very fragrant Turkish chile, pounding everything together in a mortar and pestle with plenty of olive oil.

I've twice found myself ten minutes before serving dinner and at a loss for an appetizer. The solution, both times, has been a simple cucumber-avocado soup. There are manyrecipes for this, but I've ridden bareback: 2 small cucumbers (I like the thin-skinned Persian ones), 1 avocado, juice of a lemon or lime, a slice of jalapeno, salt and pepper to taste. Whir that blender and pour into small bowls. This makes four small bowls. You can add cilantro, mint, or chives if you'd like.

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Mark my words, I will tell you about that cauliflower. Soon, I hope.

Happy summer, friends.

In techniques, various and sundry
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Mushroom and Kale Breakfast Strata

July 20, 2015 Rivka
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Turns out, unsettling from the old place was much harder than settling into the new place. Luisa told me that I shouldn’t worry if, for weeks after the move, I still wondered when we’d finally go back home. That’s just what I expected to feel. But those final weeks pre-move were so stressful and sleepless and unsettling that by the time we unpacked everything, the place already had started to feel like ours.

It helps that 24 hours after move-in, we were fully unpacked. That’s my leading lady: she’s extremely efficient, she hates transitions, she wants it donedonedone. So it was.  By Sunday morning, I was back to weighing coffee beans, pouring the slow stream of hot water over my filter, setting my favorite mug on the counter. And exactly one week after that, with both my brother and old friends in town, we managed to host some folks for brunch.

Save for a few old jars and nubbins of past-prime vegetables, the contents of our fridge made the move with us. Among the contents: half a stale baguette, most of a bunch of kale, and the end of a log of goat cheese. This is practically the holy trinity of strata, so strata it was. It's simple, really: stale bread, some sauteed vegetables. A not-very-large quantity of milk, a not-very-small quantity of heavy cream. Layer; bake. Poof: the house smells like home.

And speaking of recipes that bring us home, I need to tell you about a book.

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My friend Jess, she of the wonderful blog Sweet Amandine, has written a book (!!) about her brain aneurysm, and also, food. A confusing combination, no? But it works. Oh, does it work.

When Jess was 28, an aneurysm ruptured in her brain. The recovery was slow and uneven. To regain a sense of normalcy - and to fill the long days - Jess started baking. Stir is the story of the recipes that helped her heal.

In college, Jess was the awesome senior who ran the a cappella choir, lurking in my social periphery. We reconnected over our blogs, though - and one day, in Boston for business with a morning to myself, I hopped over to her place for brunch. Jess was one month into motherhood, an impossibly tiny Mia bundled in the stroller she pushed on our walk. We picked up bread from High Rise Bakery - a corn flour loaf, I think - and back home, she cooked me what to this day are the most perfect sunny-side-up eggs I've ever had. While she made the eggs, Jess put me to work grinding beans for my coffee. She's a tea person, but she still managed to have the world's coolest Hario grinder and Chemex carafe. I learned about both from her. I also heard more about why she'd started the blog in the first place.

Jess has quite a story to tell, and she tells it perfectly. (Frankly, she could write about wallpaper, and you'd still want to read more.) She also shares recipes at the end of each chapter, and having tested several of them, I can tell you that they, alone, are worth the price of the book. Apricots with cardamom and pistachios? Yes. My favorite Jess recipe, ever. Folded slow-rise challah? Feathery and brioche-like. You want it. An almond cake requiring one bowl, one pan, and lots of self control? Friday night dinner just got fancy.

Jess is baaacckkk. Go read her book. Make her apricots; serve them for brunch, with this strata, or just eat them straight out of the fridge. Toast your health and hers. Congrats, dear Jess!

Mushroom and Kale Breakfast StrataAdapted, just slightly, from Merrill Stubbs, of Food52

This is almost exactly Merrill's strata formula, minus sausage plus mushrooms. I did reduce the amount of pecorino, since I find it easily overpowers other flavors. I swapped out gruyere in favor of goat cheese, too. Merrill recommends assembling the strata 6 hours before serving, to let the bread fully soak up the liquid. I didn't do this - not everyone plans brunch in advance! - and the strata came out great anyway.

1 tablespoon olive oil 1 tablespoon butter 1 sweet white or yellow onion, diced 8 oz. mixed mushrooms (I used a mix of cremini and shiitake), wiped clean and sliced 1/2 teaspoon salt 1 large bunch kale (I prefer dino, the kind with the bumpy dark green leaves), stems removed, washed, dried, and chopped 6 eggs 1 1/2 cups whole milk 1/4 cup heavy cream 1 tablespoon smooth dijon mustard 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg (freshly ground if possible) a few grinds of black pepper 7 cups cubed stale bread 5 oz. goat cheese, crumbled 1/2 cup grated parmesan cheese 1/4 cup grated pecorino cheese

Butter a 9x13-inch baking dish and set aside. If serving the strata immediately (see headnote), preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Heat olive oil and butter in a large, shallow sauté pan over medium heat. Add onion, and sauté until soft and fragrant, about 5 minutes. Add mushrooms and salt and increase heat to medium-high. Sauté, stirring occasionally, until onions and mushrooms have softened and some have turned golden, 5-7 minutes. Add kale, reduce heat to medium, and cook until kale has wilted, about 3 minutes more. Remove from heat and set aside.

In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, milk, cream, mustard, nutmeg, and pepper until fully combined. To assemble the strata, spread half of the cubed bread into the bottom of the prepared baking dish. Top with half the greens, half the egg mixture, and half of each of the cheeses. Repeat with the remaining bread, greens, and egg mixture; sprinkle the remaining half of each of the cheeses over the top of the strata. At this point, either bake the strata immediately, or set in the fridge for up to 6 hours to set.

Bake strata for 35-45 minutes, until the top is golden brown and the middle is set (check with a toothpick). Let cool for 5 minutes before serving.

In breakfast and brunch
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Barley Porridge with Orange and Black Sesame

June 29, 2015 Rivka
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This was the big weekend, the one where home changed locations.

I keep trying to remember the day we moved out of our first apartment in this city, into a slightly larger, slightly quieter one four doors up the block. I can picture the movers -- one in particular, who carried a very tall bookshelf on his back around three flights of curved stairs like it was a pocketbook. I remember our first night in the new place, marveling at how much of a difference four doors west could make for the noise level. Everything was so...quiet. But before I picture all of this, my mind skips two steps backward, to the day I moved us into that first apartment, on the corner of a quiet street and a busy one. The apartment with the big bay window, the Formica counters, the incredibly-hip and not-totally-practical lofted bedroom, the wall I insisted on painting pink. Move-in day was just me - D was still in Michigan - and a pile of cheap furniture I'd found on Craigslist. One of the two front doors was stuck shut, so I spent the bulk of the day jamming the legs of various tables in the small front opening, then around and around that three-flight twisted staircase.

That was eight years ago. Since then, we've accumulated five more bottles of bitters (current favorites: Fee Brothers black walnut; Jack Rudy aromatic), and a pantry full of last year's preserves threatening to take away my canner for the season if I don't use them up soon. And of course, now we've got our daughter, too. She comes with her own accumulation: books and toys and tall stacks of hand-me-downs that could last beyond her first birthday. There certainly was more to pack and move this time around, which caused several nights of sleeplessness, 24 hours of mild turmoil, and lingering fatigue. But even more daunting than the actual move is the prospect of trying to hold onto memories from three homes. I don't want to lose any of it.

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Our kitchen has been dark for much of the past month, save for a couple meals over father's day and a last-hoorah birthday dinner for our friend Jana. But before we shut down operations entirely, I cooked a batch of porridge from Ottolenghi's newest book, Plenty More, for breakfasts.

In a week full of transitions, that porridge was the perfect thing. Comforting and familiar, like a good bowl of oatmeal. Fresh and intriguing, from fragrant marinated orange segments and a pile of sugary, crunchy sesame seeds. The new and the old, together. That is how we will proceed.

Barley Porridge with Orange and Black Sesame Adapted from Ottolenghi's new cookbook, Plenty More Serves 4

I find constant inspiration from Ottolenghi's recipes - his celebration of vegetables, his bold embrace of meatless feasts. That said, his recipes are extraordinarily fussy, and -- at least for me -- not always in ways that improve the result. I've simplified his instructions liberally, so that something as homey as porridge can stay that way. If you want to make the original, get the cookbook. It's worth it.

For the porridge:
1 tablespoon mixed black and white sesame seeds
2 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon muscovado sugar, divided
125 grams (scant cup) whole or pearled barley, covered with cold water and soaked overnight
750 ml (3 cups plus 2 tablespoons) whole milk
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
Zest of 1/2 a lemon Zest of an orange
Salt
20g tahini

For the orange topping:
1 orange
1/3 cup sugar
1/3 cup water
1/4 teaspoon orange blossom water

Prepare orange topping: Peel off a strip of orange rind and add to a small saucepan. Next, supreme the orange, transferring both the segments and the resulting juice drippings into a bowl as you work. Set aside.

Add sugar and water to the pan with the strip of zest. Bring to a boil, stirring regularly, and cook until sugar has dissolved, about 3 minutes. Set aside to cool; then add orange blossom water and reserved orange segments and juice.

Make porridge: Drain and rinse the barley. Tip it into a medium saucepan with the remaining 2 tablespoons muscovado sugar, milk, citrus zest, and a three-finger pinch of salt. Bring to a boil, then turn the heat to medium-low and simmer for an hour, stirring occasionally, until the barley is cooked but still has some bite: if it's becomes very thick, add a little water towards the end.

Make sesame topping: Toast sesame seeds by shaking them around in a small, dry pan over medium heat until fragrant, about 3 minutes. Combine seeds and 1 teaspoon of muscovado sugar in a mortar, and crush lightly. Set aside.

Serve: Stir vanilla into porridge, then leave to cool for five minutes. Divide between four bowls. Dribble a teaspoon of tahini over each portion, spoon the orange segments and syrup, and sprinkle with sesame topping.

In breakfast and brunch, comfort food
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Fennel frond pesto + what to do with those pesky stalks

June 22, 2015 Rivka
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I love fennel, especially the bright, beautiful bulbs available at my farmer's market right now. But I do feel a small pang of guilt when I buy whole fennel, because the bulb? It's so small. And -- at least in my case -- the stalks are so big. I mean:

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So you see what I'm dealing with here.

A quick search for what to do with my piles of fennel stalks turned up some truly dainty advice: "sprinkle the fronds on salad," and "add a pinch of fronds to simple syrup, then mix with gin for a nice cocktail." That all sounds lovely, but if I were to "sprinkle" these fronds on my salad, I'd end up with something akin to fennel tabouli. (Which, come to think of it, doesn't sound half bad. Next time.)

I thought momentarily about trying a few different preparations and seeing what panned out, but quickly abandoned that idea for fear of excessive fussiness. I wanted to give my pile of fronds destination and purpose, and I wanted to do so post haste. So I went long - six cups long -- on what, in retrospect, was the most obvious choice: pesto.

I started with Melissa Clark's basic formula: fronds, toasted almonds, garlic, olive oil. You could stop there and have something worthy of fridge space. But I ended up adding a bit of orange zest and some Turkish chile to round things out, and I'd recommend both additions.

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When the pesto comes out dense, as it did in the photo above, you can just add more oil. If you're going to use it relatively quickly, you can even add a bit of water to help thin it out.

Can we talk for a moment about all the ways to use this pesto? A few are obvious, but others are less so:

  • mixed with ricotta, spread on baguette slices
  • spread on a tart or a sheet of puff pastry, topped with tomatoes or, hey, slices of roasted fennel
  • a spoonful mixed into a simple vegetable soup or dolloped into a bowl of minestrone
  • added to salted water as a lovely cooking broth for any vegetable, especially artichokes
  • as a layer in a grilled cheese sandwich (with blue, gruyere, parmesan, or pecorino)
  • as a condiment on a cheese plate (see recommended pairings above), alongside orange marmalade
  • Tossed with spaghetti and any number of other things (tomatoes; anchovies; raisins/currants; toasted bread crumbs)

We had it on tarts for Friday night dinner, layered under shaved zucchini, crushed tomato, and parmesan cheese.  For Father's Day dinner, I folded a bit of the pesto into tomato sauce for campanile (those little bell-shaped pasta), which I topped with a carefree helping of olive oil-toasted bread crumbs. I've still got a  tub of it left in the fridge; whatever I can't get through before the move, I'll freeze in small containers for use later this summer.

As for those pesky fennel stalks, they are far more stubborn than the bulb, slower to yield. That said, a long, lazy bake in a cast iron pan did the trick, and now I'm addicted. I sprinkled them with sea salt and pepper, drizzled a tablespoon or so of olive oil and about half as much honey, and baked them in a cast iron pan at 400 degrees for about 40 minutes. The result was a pile of soft, golden stalks, sweet and yielding and delicious as I'd ever tasted. They made a great cook's snack, but next time, I'll try layering them on a tartlet, on top of a smear of that frond pesto, finished with some honey or orange marmalade and maybe some soft cheese.

With that, I'm off to toast a slice of the last challah this AdMo home of ours will see. *sob*

Fennel Frond Pesto
Adapted from Melissa Clark Makes about 2 cups

Clark calls for an 8:1 ratio of fennel:nuts, but I prefer more nuts in my pesto. Because I used whole roasted salted almonds, I didn't need to add any salt. If you're using unsalted nuts, add salt to taste - probably no more than 1 teaspoon, but I'm guessing here.

3 cups fennel fronds, roughly chopped
1 cup toasted salted almonds (if toasting yourself or using unsalted, you'll salt the pesto to taste after blending) 
1 garlic clove
1-2 teaspoons fragrant medium-spicy chile, to taste
1 teaspoon orange zest
3/4 cup olive oil

Combine all ingredients except oil in a food processor. With the motor running, drizzle in olive oil 1/4 cup at a time, until pesto reaches the desired consistency. If adding salt, add by the 1/2 teaspoon to taste.

Store in the fridge in an airtight container topped with a thin layer of olive oil. Keeps at least a week, probably two.

In condiments, how to use---, vegan, vegetarian
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