Cocoa Nib and Almond Shortbread + News

Ooh, have I been excited to tell you about these shortbread. I first made them as a way to use up some very ancient cocoa nibs taking up space in my tiny pantry. The irony: I loved them so much, I went out and bought more cocoa nibs to make them again. I've made them five times now, and since they keep so well, I've had a stash on hand at all times, for company and impromptu snacking. I tucked a few in my bag last weekend for a post-museum snack with my parents (they're very portable) and a few more for yesterday's baseball game. We served them on the patio last Sunday night to munch on after our gazpacho was gone. These cookies are happy things.

But mostly, I'm really excited to be back in the kitchen. Spring brought on a bit of a cooking hiatus: I didn't eat much of anything, let alone cook. D subsisted on frozen Indian food and lots of sushi, while I ate an obscene quantity of pancakes (out of the rotation for the time being). The upside: I have officially mastered one-bowl pancakes. They're done in around 10 minutes, they're darn near perfect, and when I can stomach the idea of eating them again, I'll share the recipe. But for now, we're on to bigger and much, much better things: if all goes well, come November, we'll be a family of three.

Yep, I'm pregnant. Fortunately, I'm out of that first-trimester haze, eating plenty of the green vegetables and rhubarb and other wonderful stuff spring has to offer, which I really couldn't fathom eating only a few weeks ago. I'm also cooking again, and starting to plan for a summer of no- or low-alcohol refreshers, which should provide some fun new blog fodder.

In the meantime, I know these cocoa nib shortbread cookies don't seem to sing "spring," but they are so, so worth making, regardless.

Can I tell you my favorite thing about them? It's a silly little thing, but the rolled-out dough looks exactly like granite:

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(It also happens to taste very, very good. Consider yourself warned.)

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The other best thing is that the finished shortbread are really special. They taste like chocolate from all those nibs, but the flavor is earthier and less sweet than if you'd used chocolate chips. I confess to upping the salt a tad: I love a salty shortbread. But otherwise, the flavor is really really perfect. Imagine my surprise that the recipe comes (via Saveur) from Alice Medrich's latest book. All her recipes are pretty much perfect.

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And that's what I have for you today. Make them tonight, serve them Friday, and your guests will be none the wiser.

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Happy summer, friends. I'm happy to be back in the kitchen, and I can't wait for all that's to come.

One year ago: Cucumber-Gin Slushies and Cypriot Greens and Cheese Pie (two favorites) Two years ago: Two cherished yogurt soups and Caramelized White Chocolate-Rhubarb Bars (gosh, May is an all-star month) Three years ago:Simple Asparagus with Fresh PeasFour years ago:Vanilla Custard Strawberry Tart and Singapore SlawFive years ago: Rigatoni with Broccoli Rabe and Pickled CauliflowerSix years ago: Endive, Orange, and Avocado Salad and Rugelach

Cocoa Nib and Almond ShortbreadAdapted from Alice Medrich's Seriously Bittersweet

By nature a fiddler, I adapted this recipe each time I made it. Below is what I consider the perfect rendition. First, I made the cookies shorter. I found the long, skinny shape somewhat unwieldy for baking and especially for packing, and since I envision toting these to many summer picnics, non-breakability was key. Second, even though the cookies are much shorter than the originals, I kept the original baking time. I found that 20 minutes for the long ones left the cookie just on the wrong side of crunchy, which no one wants. If you opt for the longer cookie length, consider extending the baking time 2-3 minutes.

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour ¾ cup ground almonds or almond flour ⅔ cup sugar ½ teaspoon kosher salt 6 tbsp. unsalted butter, cubed ¼ cup roasted cocoa nibs 1 teaspoon vanilla extract ⅛ teaspoon almond extract

Pulse flour, almonds, sugar, and salt in a food processor until combined. Add butter; pulse until pea-size crumbles form. Add cocoa nibs, extracts, and 2 tablespoons of ice water; pulse until a crumbly dough forms. Lay a large piece of plastic wrap on a workspace; dump dough onto plastic wrap, and form dough into a 6” x 9” rectangle, about ½-inch thick. Truthfully, the size of the rectangle isn't important: just make a rectangle of even 1/2-inch thickness and you'll be fine. Wrap plastic wrap completely around dough, set on a flat baking sheet, and chill at least 3 hours or up to overnight. The longer you chill the dough, the better the cookies keep their shape.

Heat oven to 350° and line two baking sheets with parchment paper. Unwrap dough.

You are aiming for cookies that are 2" x 1/2" x 1/2". I like to slice lengthwise into 1/2-inch sticks, then slice crosswise into 2-inch lengths. You can do the reverse, though. Just aim for cookies that are roughly 2 inches long, and you'll be good to go. Transfer cookies to parchment paper-lined baking sheets, spaced 1 inch apart. Bake until cookies are golden around the edges, 20-22 minutes. Let cookies cool completely before serving.

White Asparagus with Cashew Cream Sauce

Friends, today is the day I almost told you a story about the time I made a recipe I'd had my eye on for forever, and it was a total dud.

The recipe came from Elaine Sciolino, by way of the NYT dining section. Sciolino shared it last year, along with the jealousy-inducing tale of her adventures foraging white asparagus in the forests of France. The white asparagus in the pictures that accompany the article look they were pulled from the earth: they're a rustic shade of white, with dull black bottoms. They look like springtime.

I don't have easy access to the forests of France, nor my own personal crop of white asparagus. I do, however, have easy access to a grocery store. Determined to finally make this recipe, I went to the nearest Whole Foods and spent too much money on creamy, pale stalks of organic white asparagus from California. Then I headed home, pulled up the recipe, and tried to make magic.

The original recipe has you bundle the white asparagus standing up, wrap them in a thick layer of tin foil, stick a pat of butter on the tips of the spears, and roast upright until (supposedly) they were just tender. But after 45 minutes under 400-degree heat, my asparagus were still extremely crunchy - not to mention insipid. Blame the asparagus? Perhaps. Regardless, not a promising sign.

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While the asparagus cook, you're meant to make a simple sauce of salted cashews and milk. The flavor is fantastic - sweet and mild, a perfect white-on-white pairing with the asparagus. But Sciolino's original recipe calls for cashew powder to be stirred into milk. This means you must grind cashews to a powder while taking great care to not let them turn into a paste. It also means that the final product, milk thickened with powdered cashews, has a somewhat chunky texture, where I'd much prefer a smooth, creamy sauce.

Last but not least: the asparagus begged so desperately for salt that when I first made this, I actually sprinkled some flaky salt onto the finished dish. So much had gone wrong! I was almost ready to call the dish a dud.

But then, so belatedly, my instincts kicked in. With my precious second batch of white asparagus, I did what I always do with the green ones: roasted them in salt and pepper. For the sauce, I borrowed a technique from a favorite Indian recipe, and soaked the cashews in the milk while the asparagus cooked. Then I immersion-blended the mixture until smooth, before heating briefly just to thicken it a bit. The result was a smoother, creamier sauce: success.

The julienned topping required no changes, except that this lazy bum simply peeled some shavings instead of doing a proper julienne. That change, too, was a net improvement.

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So was this recipe a dud? Sort of. Should you make the version I'm sharing below? Absolutely. And do me a favor: if you find yourself at all near the forests of France during white asparagus season, go pick some, and try the original recipe again. I bet there's magic in there, somewhere.

White Asparagus with Cashew Cream SauceHeavily adapted from Elaine Sciolino, via the New York Times

Serves 4 as an appetizer

1 1/2 cups salted cashews 1/2 cup milk 2 bunches (about 16-20 stalks) white asparagus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, divided salt and pepper 2 tablespoons minced chives

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.

Combine the cashews, the milk, and 1/2 cup of water in a small saucepan. Let the cashews steep in the liquid while you prepare and roast the asparagus.

Cut the top 3 1/2 inches of each asparagus stalk and set aside. These are the pieces you will roast. Take 4 of the stem ends, peel away some of the fibrous exterior, then peel shreds of the inner layers of the 4 stems into a small bowl. Add chives and 2 teaspoons of the olive oil, along with a 1/2 teaspoon of salt and a few grinds of pepper. Stir, and set aside. (Reserve the remaining stems for a soup, or chop them into tiny coins and add to a mixed salad.)

Toss the asparagus tops with the remaining olive oil, sprinkle lightly with about 1 - 1 1/2 teaspoons of salt and a few grinds of pepper, and spread in a single layer on a baking sheet. Roast asparagus for 15-20 minutes, checking periodically for doneness, until asparagus are crisp-tender. If they're particularly thick or fibrous, they may need a few extra minutes, but try not to overcook them.

When the asparagus are nearly done, use an immersion or regular blender to blend the cashews, milk, and water until completely (or near-completely) smooth. Then heat until the mixture just comes to a boil. Set aside.

To serve, arrange a large spoonful of the cashew cream in the center of each plate; top with 4 asparagus tops; and finish with a spoonful of the shaved asparagus stems. Alternatively, serve the dish family-style: Spoon all the cashew cream into the center of a long serving plate, set the asparagus tops across the cream, and finish with a bit pile of the shaved stems.

To gild the lily, you can pulverize a handful of salted cashews and sprinkle them over the finished dish. The crunch is nice, but not essential, especially if you're trying to minimize utensils and steps.

Red Cabbage Slaw with Golden Raisins and Mint

Whew! It's been a while, hasn't? I could make excuses -- work, Passover, a drab, terrible winter that dragged on and threatened never to leave -- but I'd rather just get down to business. I hope you've been well these last few weeks, cooking all sorts of delicious things and enjoying the change of seasons. We've been busy, and also under the weather, which hasn't resulted in much cooking. But I'm back, and I've got a slaw to share today. I want to share it, so you can go and make it. There's no time to waste.

In my recipe browsing, I saw a recipe for red cabbage salad and thought, now whatever happened to red cabbage? I haven't touched it since sometime last year. It seems I'd forgotten about it. And while red cabbage brings braised, creamy joy in winter, it makes a fine base for a spring salad, too.

As you know, I dislike mayo and really don't use it, ever. Yogurt offered itself as a perfect substitute to make this slaw creamy. The dressing is tangy-tangy, from yogurt and lemon. It's got a healthy amount of black pepper, because I like a bright salad to have some lingering bite. And it's got plump golden raisins (which I soaked with some red onions in rice vinegar, to soften and season them), as well as fresh mint. So there's not much to it, but I tell you, when we served it for Saturday brunch, it got gobbled right up. The little leftovers were a late-afternoon snack, and by Sunday, I was off to the races again, fixing a fresh batch.

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I'm so, so happy it's spring. We've waited for this forever. The coming weeks will contain many un-frigid trips to the farmers' market, the glorious return of my beloved asparagus, cultishly obsessed hordes snatching up ramps and morels and fiddleheads, and yes, plenty more cooking. See you there.

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Red Cabbage Slaw with Golden Raisins and Mint serves 4-6

Half a red onion, sliced into thin quarter-moons 1 cup golden raisins 1/4 cup rice wine vinegar Half a medium-large head of red cabbage, shredded 1 cup fresh mint leaves, coarsely chopped

For the dressing: 1/4 cup yogurt 1 tablespoon mustard (I like either grainy or smooth dijon) 2 teaspoons honey 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil juice of 1 lemon 1 teaspoon salt 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

In a small mixing bowl, combine onions, raisins, and rice vinegar. Stir to coat, and set aside 30 minutes. (This step is nice, but not essential; if pressed for time, cut the vinegar in half, toss the ingredients together, and let sit while you prepare the rest of the salad.)

Meanwhile, prepare the dressing: combine all ingredients in a jar with a tight lid. Shake for 10 seconds until fully emulsified.

In a large mixing bowl, combine cabbage, onions and raisins (with whatever little vinegar remains in the bowl), and 3/4 cup of the mint. Pour half the dressing and toss the salad. Taste, and add more dressing as needed.

Sprinkle remaining mint on top of salad and serve. Salad can be made and mixed up to 1 hour in advance.

Reading: April 2014

It's been quiet around here this week, since I've been tied up with other things and haven't had much chance to cook. Still, the weekend is here. That should give you some time to make this lovely semolina bread, or perhaps these gingerbread oat waffles. Maybe it'll also give you some time to catch up on your food reading. Here are some things I've been eyeing, for your reading pleasure. Happy weekend, friends.

An unassuming little cocktail that isolates the DNA of strawberries so that it's visible. Awesome.

A deep and devastating look at animal cruelty on factory farms - the latest in a string of pieces that reinforced my conviction to avoid the stuff entirely.

I've wanted to take a food tour of Queens (or some part of Queens) for eons, and now Mary Jane Weedman has put together a thorough list of 48 eateries on one little stretch of Queens Boulevard...which Grub Street kindly made into a map. Let's do it, k?

We made this (from the Kitchn) with lamb shanks, apricots, and brandy. It was incredible. Already scheming to make it again with prunes.

A make-your-own-sparkling-wine-cocktail bar - brilliant! Part of our next party, for sure.

My next brunch project. It really does look like the kind you'd buy in a bakery.

This honey-lemon tea-infused butter has me excited.

On a tip from Luisa, I made this "faux-tisserie" chicken last week. Guys, it's a keeper's keeper.

Last but not least, that picture at the top is from this time - eons ago - when I made a version of Deb's spring vegetable potstickers but used kimchi, broccoli, and tofu. All in a pan, saute till soft, then process a bit before filling the dumpling wrappers. Not terribly difficult, really delicious. Highly recommended.

Happy weekending!