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.

Beets with Pistachio Sauce

Among the highlights of my big New York birthday was dinner at Lupa. I haven't been to Lupa in ages - not since right after college - and our meal back in February had me vowing not to wait so long before our next trip.

Lupa is a small spot. It's long and narrow, and waiters constantly are squeezing by your table and muttering polite "excuse me"s under their breath as they navigate the cramped quarters. Apparently, Lupa has grown tremendously popular over the past several years; I've heard from friends that even weeknights have long waits.

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Lucky for us, that Saturday night, we coasted straight to the back of the restaurant, tucked ourselves into a little table, and almost immediately got to work on a sampling of their verdure. That night, it was citrus-braised salsify that I've tried to recreate twice (good, not quite there); broccoli with burrata and chili; and beets coated in a smooth, green pistachio sauce, finished with a light vinaigrette. I took one bite, cooed, and started scheming about what it would take to get those beets on my home table.

Apparently, it wouldn't take much. A quick search online turned up a couple other folks who'd tried their hands at the recipe, so I didn't start from scratch. A couple nips and tweaks later, I had jewel-like beets, draped in silken pistachio, and as gorgeous to behold as they were delicious to eat. Quick, before asparagus and artichokes show up at the market, and weeks and weeks of nothing but beets become a faint memory: Make these beets.

Beets with Pistachio SauceInspired by a meal at Lupa

1 lb. beets, rinsed, greens removed 1/2 cup shelled pistachios 1/4 cup (4 tablespoons) water 2 tablespoons pistachio oil or olive oil 2 tablespoons red wine vinegar 4 tablespoons olive oil 1 teaspoon grainy mustard 1/2 teaspoon salt freshly cracked pepper

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Wrap beets in foil and poke a couple holes in the foil with a fork or knife. Set wrapped beets on a baking sheet, transfer to the oven, and bake until tender, 1 to 1.5 hours, depending on size. Remove beets and let cool completely.

Meanwhile, make the pistachio sauce; in a food processor or blender, combine pistachios, 2 tablespoons pistachio or olive oil, and 3 tablespoons water. Blend until smooth, adding the remaining water if necessary; you want the pistachio sauce to be thick, but pourable. If you prefer the sauce very smooth, press through a medium-fine mesh strainer. I did this, and I think it's worth the extra effort.

Next, make the red wine vinaigrette: Combine red wine vinegar, olive oil, mustard, salt, and pepper, and whisk until thoroughly incorporated.

Peel the beets under running water; their skins should slide off easily. Cut the cooled beets into quarters or big chunks (depending on size), and toss with half the red wine vinaigrette, adding more to taste. Transfer to the serving platter, spoon the pistachio sauce over top, and serve.

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.

Broccolini and Snow Peas with Sesame Sauce

This weekend, D and I flew up to Boston to see good friends and their newish babies. We saw Rachel, David, and baby Gabriel; Jess, Eli, and baby Mia. We spent the time gurgling, giggling, tickling, and jowl-pinching. And we ate, of course. Boy did we eat. Rachel made blackberry meatloaf and Jess and Eli made Melissa Clark's wonderful Whole Wheat Cinnamon Snacking Cake (try saying that 5 times fast). But much - maybe most - of what we ate last weekend was from Plenty.

Plenty is open on my workbench at home. It's been that way practically every evening for the past few weeks. I keep telling myself I'll turn elsewhere for the next meal, the next experiment - but then I discover caramelized black-pepper tofu or Mediterranean ribollita, and my commitment to cookbook variety softens as quickly as the onions swimming in olive-oil at the bottom of my soup pot.

Apparently, I'm not alone. Rachel made at least 3 recipes from Plenty over the weekend, and when I was at Jess's for breakfast, I noticed that she, too, had the book propped open. Incidentally, it was open to the ribollita. Back in DC, I dropped my bags, made a beeline for the grocery store, and had that very soup on the table about an hour later.

It's the color that keeps me coming back, I think. The book is drenched in color. Pictures of creamy, blistered eggplant and jewel-like crimson pomegranate seeds beckon me to the kitchen on dark winter nights. And Plenty truly celebrates vegetables from every season. In other treasured books, the full-page pictures are of perfect tomatoes and zucchini, which in winter only make me long for a different time. The most enticing images in Plenty are of winter cabbage slaw, herbed omelets, and warm, creamy hummus. They're as delicious now as ever.

Last week, I found myself with a pile of broccolini and a handful of snow peas. In Plenty, I found a winning treatment for these winter vegetables. Yotam Ottolenghi, the author of Plenty, has you stir up a sweet, tahini-based sauce, drizzle it over just-blanched vegetables, and sprinkle it all with toasted sesame seeds and nigella seeds, also known as black caraway. I first encountered them in Israel (they're called "ketzach" there), and love using them to finish savory dishes.  To me, they recall a more floral, nutmeg-y version of caraway. They taste like nothing, but smell like everything.

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Ottolenghi suggests either piling all the ingredients in a large bowl and stirring into one big salad, or plating individual salads to order. I chose door number 3: composed salad, but on one big platter; dressed lightly, with extra sauce on the side. A success by all accounts. When sunlight is scarce and colorful vegetables are in short supply, I'll be turning to Plenty for recipe ideas -- and, it's safe to assume, I'll be making this dish again.

Broccolini and Snow Peas with Sesame SauceAdapted from Plenty Serves 4

So: Ottolenghi calls for broccolini, snow peas, and green beans. The beans at my market looked wimpy, so I skipped them. But I see no reason to stop the adapting there: if you can't find broccolini or snow peas, feel free to swap in broccoli, or even cauliflower, cut into florets. You're going for a bit more than 6 cups of vegetables total. Blanching time will vary depending on the size of your florets, but it should hover around 2 minutes, maybe a bit less. When the vegetables are bright green and cooked but still firm, pull the broccoli or cauliflower out of the water and set aside. Proceed as instructed below.

For the sauce: 4 tablespoons tahini 2 1/2 tablespoons water 1 small garlic clove, crushed 1 teaspoon tamari or other soy sauce 1/2 tablespoon honey 1 teaspoon cider vinegar 1 1/2 tablespoons mirin (if you don't have mirin, up the honey to 1 tablespoon and up water to 3 tablespoons) 1/2 tablespoon peanut oil pinch of salt

3/4 lb. (3 1/2 cups) broccolini 3 cups snow peas 2 teaspoons sesame oil 1/3 cup cilantro leaves 3 tablespoons toasted sesame seeds 1 teaspoon nigella seeds

First, make the sauce: Whisk together all ingredients in a medium bowl. The sauce should be thick but pourable; if sauce is too thick, add water by the teaspoon to thin it out.

Next, blanch the vegetables: Set a large pot of lightly salted water over high heat and bring to a boil. Trim leaves and ends off broccolini. When water is boiling, add broccolini, cover completely with water, and blanch it until tender but still firm, a scant 2 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to remove broccolini into a large, shallow bowl or platter. Next, blanch the snow peas. Mine took just about 1 minutes until they were bright green and still firm, so watch them carefully. Blanch until firm, then transfer to the bowl with the broccolini.

Assemble the dish: Toss broccolini and snow peas together, or scatter onto a serving platter. Drizzle the dressing over the vegetables with a light hand; I find that using a fork or very small spoon gives me the control I want. Next, drizzle the sesame oil over the vegetables. Top with cilantro leaves, sesame seeds, and nigella seeds. Serve at room temperature.