Cucumber Salad with Garlic and Ginger

Had everything gone according to plan, I'd probably be telling you that I served this cucumber salad to a few close friends at low-key Friday night dinner. That we ate szechuan roasted chicken, white rice, and this cucumber salad with plenty of garlic and ginger. That we stayed up late, drinking wine and telling funny stories. That a couple people asked for the recipe for this salad, and so here I am today, sharing it as asked.

What actually happened: the roast chicken was in the oven, watercress and pea shoots were awaiting a splash of soy vinaigrette, rice was on the stove, and I was standing over the sink, eating every last slice of cucumber right out of the mixing bowl. By the time guests came over, the salad had been reduced to a small puddle of dressing. Whoops.

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Let's make it right: here's the recipe for the salad I polished off alone.  You should exercise slightly more self-control when you encounter the perfect balance of sweet, salty, spicy, and tangy flavors in the dressing. Save some for the others, will ya?

Cucumber Salad with Garlic and GingerAdapted from - where else? - Plenty Serves 4. Sometimes.

Dressing: 3 tablespoons rice wine vinegar 2 teaspoons sugar 2 tablespoons neutral oil (I used safflower) 1 tablespoon sesame oil

1 small red onion, very thinly sliced and chopped into short pieces 1 1/2 inches fresh ginger, peeled 1 teaspoon Maldon or other flaky sea salt 2 large garlic cloves, peeled and sliced 8 mini cucumbers 1 tablespoon toasted sesame seeds 3 tablespoons chopped cilantro

Whisk all dressing ingredients together in a medium bowl. Add the red onion, mix well, and set aside to marinate for about 1 hour.

Mash the ginger and sea salt together in a mortar and pestle or with a knife on a wooden cutting board. Use the salt to crush the ginger. Add the garlic, and smash that, too. Transfer the whole mess into the dressing bowl, and stir to combine.

Slice the cucumbers into 1/4-inch slices and add to the dressing bowl. Toss to combine.

Salad will hold for a couple hours at room temperature or in the fridge. Sprinkle with cilantro and sesame seeds before serving.

Thick, Chewy Oatmeal Raisin Cookies

We've had a couple exciting events in the past couple of weeks, and by events, I mean excuses to bake. Chocolate shortbread cookies. Buckwheat coffee thins. Black sesame biscuits. For days, I couldn't stop. I had bags of flour open on the counter - and not just all-purpose or cake: whole wheat pastry, barley, even amaranth. I was on the warpath through Pure Dessert and Good to the Grain, and I couldn't be stopped.

Until last week, that is. I took a couple of almond shortbread cookies out of the jar for D and me after dinner. She took one look at the crumbly, sandy cookie in my hand, then looked at me, and then slowly shook her head. "I can't eat those anymore," she said. "Can't you just make normal, ordinary cookies?"

And so, the gauntlet was laid down.

"Normal ordinary" generally means chocolate chip (these ones in particular). But this time, I pulled out my jar of oats. And the little jar next to it, which contains - of course - raisins. I was determined to show D and the world that chocolate chip is not automatically the standard bearer in the ordinary cookie category, and judging by the reaction these cookies  got, I'd say I was successful.

These aren't delicate or lacy. They're chewy and thick. Unlike all those sad cookies that start out as perfectly-rolled balls but slowly deflate into flops when cooked, these cookies stay nice and plump, thanks to a spin in the refrigerator, which firms up the dough. Once they've cooled, you'll find there's plenty of cookie to sink your teeth into. I also managed to exercise unusual self-control when making these, so -- despite my inclination -- they have no cinnamon; just a dusting of nutmeg and cloves, which gives them a more subtle, delicate spice and really lets the oat flavor come through. But don't take my word for it: D took one bite and nodded vigorously. "Now that's what I'm talking about."

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Tall, Chewy Oatmeal Cookiesadapted from Cook's Illustrated

A couple notes, because I can't resist. First, if you're not a raisin fan, substitute 1 cup of bittersweet chocolate chips. If you do this, I'd suggest sprinkling the tops of the cookies with a bit of flaky salt, which will offset the sweetness. Also, don't skip the refrigeration part; it's the key to getting cookies that stand tall.

1 cup (1/2 lb.) unsalted butter, softened but still firm 1 cup light brown sugar 1 cup granulated sugar 2 eggs 1 1/2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour 1/2 teaspoon table salt 1/2 teaspoon baking powder 1/4 teaspoon fresh ground nutmeg 1/8 teaspoon ground cloves 3 cups rolled oats 1 1/2 cups raisins

Preheat oven to 350 degrees and evenly space two racks in the oven. Line 2 cookie sheets with parchment paper or silpat. In the bowl of a stand mixer or a large mixing bowl, beat butter until creamy. Add sugars, and beat until fluffy, about 3 minutes. Beat in eggs one at a time.

In a medium bowl, mix flour, salt, baking powder, nutmeg, and cloves together, then stir them into butter-sugar mixture with wooden spoon or mix them in on low just until the flour disappears. Stir in oats and raisins.

Form dough into about 40 1.5-inch balls, placing each dough round onto one of two parchment paper–covered, large cookie sheets. Refrigerate sheets for about 45 minutes, until dough has firmed up. Bake until cookie edges turn golden brown, about 15 minutes. (Halfway during baking, rotate cookie sheets from front to back and switch them from top to bottom.) Slide cookies on parchment onto cooling rack. Let cool at least 30 minutes before serving.

Once cookies are rolled into balls, you can also freeze them uncooked for later. If freezing them, put the cookie sheets into the freezer until dough has frozen, about 1 hour. Put frozen balls of dough into a sealable plastic bag. Cookies will keep this way for a couple weeks.

Moroccan Chicken with Apricots

This is a story about the time when I finally learned to cook for my in-laws.

It shouldn't be so hard, really. I love to cook. I do it pretty much every day. I have a food blog, for heaven's sake. But in the past, cooking for the in-laws has proven more than I could handle. Don't believe me? Just ask my father-in-law. Ask him about the time I bought frozen peas - the man loves peas - and then forgot them in the freezer. Ask him about the time I toiled over an apple pie (his favorite) only to realize that I'd ruined it with too much orange zest. Just don't mention all those times I've made chicken. A different kind, every time, and never worth making again.

This weekend, I nearly repeated my past mistakes. Thursday evening, I had maple parsnip cake in the oven, and smoky chiles in a blender along with all the ingredients for mole poblano. I blended it smooth, dunked my finger in for a taste, and....shit! That stuff was spicy. Of course, I loved it. It burned, a long, slow burn that lingers on your tongue and builds with each bite. But people, it was seriously hot. That's when I had the honest moment: between you, me, and the blender of mole, my father-in-law doesn't do spice.

I'm not sure what I was thinking when I started on that mole recipe, but there I was, 2 hours later, with lots of mole that I really couldn't serve for Friday night dinner. Instead of plugging forth stubbornly (yea, I just admitted to being stubborn; first step, right?), I piled that mole into a jar, tucked it in the fridge, promised myself top-notch enchiladas later in the week, and went back to square one. Square one, in this case, was an innocent-seeming recipe for chicken with apricots.

I've always had a soft spot for tagines. Though this chicken dish is made in a regular pot, it has the flavors and textures of a good chicken tagine. The chicken and apricots were meltingly tender, yielding to the slightest prod of a fork. The liquid - little more than water, spices, and honey - had transformed into a deeply flavorful sauce, which we happily poured over golden-crusted rice (a Persian dish called tahdig, and a story for another time).

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When I tweeted a picture of this chicken using instagram, several of you got excited and asked for the recipe. Your wish, my command. Enjoy.

A note about the site: some of you emailed and tweeted me this past week with concerns about the blog. You were searching for granola with tahini, or hamentaschen for Purim, but you got sent to a page that....well, let's just say it wasn't promoting food. I've got some great folks working hard to make the s-p-a-m go away once and for all. Site's clean for now - here's hoping it stays that way. Thanks to all of you for your patience. Now let's go eat some chicken.

Moroccan Chicken with Apricotsadapted from, sigh, an old Gourmet recipe

Makes 4 servings

The original recipe is called Chicken Tagine with Apricots and Almonds. But it isn't really a tagine, since you don't cook it in a tagine. Also: I omitted the (1/3-cup) blanched almonds. Not a big fan of nuts in saucy things. Chicken in saucy things, on the other hand, is delicious. And the apricots - amazing.

1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon 1/2 teaspoon ground cardamom 1 1/2 teaspoons ground ginger 1 teaspoon turmeric 1/2 teaspoon black pepper 1 1/4 teaspoons salt 1/4 cup olive oil 1 (3-lb) chicken, cut into 6 pieces, wings and backbone reserved for another use 1 medium red onion, halved, then sliced 1/4 inch thick 4 garlic cloves, finely chopped 5 sprigs fresh cilantro, chopped 5 sprigs fresh flat-leaf parsley, chopped 1 1/2 cups water 2 tablespoons mild honey 1 (3-inch) cinnamon stick 1/2 cup dried Turkish or regular apricots

Stir together ground cinnamon, ginger, cardamom, turmeric, pepper, 1 teaspoon salt, and 3 tablespoons oil in a large bowl. Add chicken and turn to coat well.

Heat 1 tablespoon oil in a large, heavy-bottomed pot, over moderate heat until hot but not smoking. Brown half of chicken, skin sides down, about 8 minutes. Flip, cook about 3 minutes more, then transfer to a plate. Brown remaining chicken in the same manner, adding any spice mixture left in the bowl.

Add onion and remaining 1/4 teaspoon salt and cook uncovered, stirring frequently, until soft, about 8 minutes. Add garlic and cook, stirring occasionally, 3 minutes. Add cilantro and parsley to the pot, reserving a handful for serving. Then add water, honey, cinnamon, apricots, chicken, and any juices accumulated on plate. Reduce heat slightly and simmer, covered, 30 minutes.

If you're serving this for a dinner party and need to start it in advance, feel free to cook it low and slow instead. I've cooked it in a 275-degree oven for 1.5 hours. Like I said, meltingly tender.

Serve the chicken over either rice or couscous, topped with parsley and cilantro.

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.