I think the pictures say it all today. The garden was full of green tomatoes that ran out of time to ripen. 20+ lb. of tomatoes. Which meant only one thing: time for a fried green tomato party. What you need: fried green tomatoes, a big pot of red beans, a pan of cornbread, a big ol’ tub of sour cream, 2 kinds of hot sauce (Tapatío and Louisiana), and, optionally, some preserves. Plus, booze and friends willing to bring more food and more booze. And some good tunes, of course.

Still so many green tomatoes — for salsa, for jam, for green tomato tart. Any other green tomato ideas?

Recipe for fried green tomatoes after the jump!

Fried Green Tomatoes

For 6 people as a side dish or brunch; more people if it’s a party and everyone’s having just a couple (though you may still want to increase the recipe)

Adapted from the Lee Bros. Southern Cookbook, by Matt and Ted Lee

Ingredients

-       3 lb. green tomatoes (about 6-8 medium tomatoes), washed and sliced into 1/4 – inch slices (Lee bros. say to core them, but I just sliced them vertically through the core, and didn’t notice a thing once they were fried)

-       3 large eggs, beaten

-       ¾ cup whole milk (I used low-fat because it was what I had, and it was fine)

-       1 ½ c. all-purpose flour

-       ½ c. plus 1 Tbsp. stone-ground cornmeal (polenta works well here – you want the coarser grain for crunch)

-       2 Tbsp. salt

-       4 ½ tsp. finely ground black pepper

-       oil for frying (the Lee bros. recommend peanut oil, but I had vegetable oil on hand, and it worked well, plus it’s cheaper)

-       Optional, to sprinkle over: Salt, torn basil leaves, hot sauce (Tapatío or Louisiana style)

1. Whisk egg and milk together in a shallow bowl.
2. Mix flour, cornmeal, salt, and black pepper together in another shallow bowl to make the dredge.
3. Pour about a ½ inch of oil in a skillet (I used a cast-iron pan). Heat over medium-high heat.
4. To fry tomatoes: Dip one slice of tomato in dredge, make sure both sides are covered. Then, dip in egg/milk mixture, so both sides are covered. Then, dip back in dredge, again making sure both sides are covered. Place in oil.
5. You can test the heat of the oil by putting a slice of the dredged tomato on. The oil should sizzle around it. If it doesn’t, just leave that one tomato on until the oil starts going. If the oil does sizzle, then get dredging, until you’ve filled (but not crowded) the pan.
6. Flip the tomatoes once they’re golden brown on one side, about 2 minutes. Cook the other side until golden brown (about 2 minutes more), adding more oil as needed. Remove the fried tomatoes with a spatula to a platter lined with paper towel. Sprinkle with salt or basil, if desired.
7. Serve immediately, and repeat!

Well, friends, here we are, in mid-September, and it is time to start preserving tomatoes. This is the perfect moment — the moment when tomatoes are rolling, abundantly, into farmers’ markets for the cheapest prices of the season (at least here in Minnesota), the moment when other produce is not rolling quite so abundantly into the markets anymore, the moment when it is cold enough at night to blast the oven, and the moment when it’s about to get a lot colder.

I was never really one for preserving tomatoes. People would talk about blanching them, peeling them, canning them whole, or else making them into a sauce and canning that. It all seemed too fussy for me; so much work for something that is so simple. And, truth be told, I think you can buy pretty good canned tomatoes for pretty cheap. (Muir Glen was actually just doing a giveaway near my house of its reserve tomatoes, which are being sold on its web site in a Reserve Kit for members of the Tomato Connoisseurs’ Club. Wild!)



But everything changed when I found out about slow-roasted (or, when cooked a little longer, oven-dried) tomatoes. This is the simplest way I can think of to preserve tomatoes, requiring extremely little active time on your part, meaning…no canning! Liberation from the water bath! It doesn’t get easier than that. (You just need some space in your fridge or freezer.)



Slow-Roasted/Oven-Dried Tomatoes

Inspiration and Information from Kinfolk, Pinch My Salt, Martha Stewart

Ingredients

- tomatoes (preferably Roma)

- a little extra-virgin olive oil (plus lots more if you plan to preserve them)

- kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

- herbs of your choice (I like dried thyme; coriander is also good)

There are two ways to slow-roast tomatoes. Your choice all comes down to the question…Are you feeling lucky?

To start: Get a bunch of tomatoes (I think Romas are best for purposes of preservation; you can also use cherry or grape tomatoes, especially if eating immediately — they will need much less time in the oven). Rinse them well. Line several baking sheets with parchment paper. Slice tomatoes in half, length-wise, placing them cut-side up on the baking sheet. Drizzle olive oil on top of tomatoes, and sprinkle with salt, pepper, and herbs.

Then…

Method One: Roast tomatoes at the lowest heat in your oven (about 200º F) for 6-8 hours. The only time to do this, probably, is while you sleep. When I followed this method last summer, I spent a relatively restless night worrying that I was going to burn down my apartment building, and I set my alarm for 4 am to check the tomats mid-way through. Not the best. The tomatoes, for the most part, came out very well, though more of them were burned than I would have liked.

Method Two: Blast the tomatoes at high heat (450º F or so) for about 20 minutes (depending on what kind of tomato you’re roasting). Turn heat off; do not open oven. Let tomatoes sit in the cooling oven overnight (or for 6-8 hours, or until the oven is cool). I found that this method did not quite get the Romas roasted in one go, but, overall, it was much less stressful and also much easier to control how roasty toasty they got. When they weren’t as roasted as I wanted, I just blasted them a second time for about 20 minutes, and let them sit for 4 hours or so.

I really prefer Method Two, but maybe you like to live on the edge.

To end: You know you’re done when the edges are shriveled and the tomatoes have shrunken considerably. I like mine still a little plump, but to be on the safest side (see below), you’ll want them to be completely dry (no juices running). Then…

1. Put in a Ziploc freezer bag and freeze them — no extra oil needed. Tomatoes should keep in the freezer for up to a year.

OR

2. Pack them into jars and cover them with olive oil (preferably extra-virgin); make sure they are fully submerged in the oil (by at least one inch). Seal tight and keep in the refrigerator. The oil will condense in the cold, so make sure to check the jars after a day or two to see if you should top them off. Tomatoes should keep in the fridge for at least a month (some sources say up to six).

*Note: The National Center for Home Food Preservation no longer recommends preserving tomatoes in oil, for fear of botulism (which is extremely rare, but fatal or paralyzing). This mostly, I think, refers to preserving at room temperature, as Martha and others say it’s okay to refrigerate the tomats in oil. But you may want to look into it yourself.

Here in Minnesota, the weather has turned very suddenly to Fall. On Thursday, I was at the State Fair on a 95-degree day, eating chocolate-covered bacon, fried pickles, cheese curds, craft root beer, beer-on-a-stick, and fried apple pie. The next day, the temperature had dropped by at least 20 degrees, and now nighttime is cold enough that I’m thinking it might already be time to pull my comforter out of the closet.

But while I love Fall here in the Midwest — I venture to say that it dwarfs the beauty of East Coast Fall — I’m not quite ready to say farewell to summer yet. After a late start, produce is still coming into the farmers’ markets here, and I’m trying to squeeze out a few last bites of the bounty.

Which brings me to these eggs, which taste like a mouthful of summer. I know that everyone waits for tomatoes and corn and strawberries, and I love those, too, but for me, the best part of summer might be the basil. Basil, basil everywhere. Basil that is so cheap at the market for such a big bunch that it’s hardly worth taking up space in the garden. Basil that will keep for days and days in a jar of water, making everything around it fragrant.

I love deviled eggs, but I had never tried to make them before. I had always heard that they were an excruciatingly time-consuming process, which must be a myth perpetuated by delis and caterers everywhere. Because I’m here to tell you, my friends, they’re not! They’re not exactly easy or quick, but they’re not excruciating, either, even with the extra garnishes here.

And let me tell you about the garnishes here. I think this quick basil mayo may have changed my life. Used to making aioli from scratch, I was looking down my nose at it a bit, but I was cooking a lot of other things, so I thought why not. And it was remarkable.

I used the leftover mayo on everything — grilled cheese sandwiches, spread on toast with tomatoes for breakfast — and it kept just fine in the fridge for about a week, which was as long as that test could go before it disappeared. Before the basil disappears entirely, I’m planning to make a jar or two, and see how long they’ll keep in the fridge. The better question, though, might be how well I can restrain myself from eating it all immediately.

Deviled Eggs with Basil Mayo and Fried Capers

Adapted from Molly Wizenberg at Orangette

Serves about 4 as a pre-dinner snack

Ingredients

- 6 large eggs

- ½ Tbsp. olive oil

- 1 Tbsp. jarred capers

- 3 Tbsp. mayo

- ½ Tbsp. Dijon mustard

- ¼ tsp. lemon juice

- pinch of salt

- 1 recipe Basil Mayo, below

1. Hardboil the eggs. The way I do it: put the eggs in a pot and cover with water. Bring to a boil; turn off the heat; cover the pot; let sit approximately 10 minutes. Drain immediately and rinse with cool water (or put in a bowl of cold water).

2. When eggs are cool enough to handle (preferably fully cool, but we all know how timing goes), peel and cut in half lengthwise. Scoop out the yolk into a medium bowl. Add mayo, mustard, lemon juice, and salt to the yolks. Using a fork, mash everything together. Taste and adjust as needed.

3. Heat oil in a skillet. Add capers (fish them out of the jar so they’re not super liquidy). Fry until they are starting to split and get brown. Remove from pan onto a plate lined with paper towel.

4. To assemble eggs: Arrange egg whites on a platter. Spoon filling into a sandwich-size Ziploc. Cut a small bit of the corner off (opposite the zip part). Now you can squeeze the filling into the egg whites, as if you have a pastry bag. Fill egg whites with yolk mixture. Put a dollop of the basil mayo on each, and finish off with a fried caper or two.

Quick Basil Mayo

Adapted from Molly Wizenberg at Orangette

Makes a little more than ½ cup (you will have some leftover)

Ingredients

- 2 Tbsp. olive oil
- ¼ cup packed basil leaves
- ½ tsp. lemon juice
- 1 medium garlic clove, pressed
- pinch of salt
- ½ cup mayonnaise

1. Put olive oil, basil, lemon juice, garlic, and salt in a blender or food processor. Process until mixture is smooth, scraping down the sides if needed.

2. When mixture is smooth, combine with mayo.

‘Tis the season, here in the dog days of summer, to be squirreling away as much of all the fresh, cheap, readily-available produce that you can. The last couple weeks, I’ve been indulging in some overexuberant canning, and I just bought another flat of pint jars today (and about ten pounds of stone fruit).

But canning really means some serious slaving over a hot stove — we are talking blood, sweat, and tears territory. And sometimes, you want to preserve some bounty, but you don’t want to be fussing with hot water baths (and hot water burns) and jars, and all the rest. Enter fermenting. Enter sauerkraut.

Way back in the day, I said that one of my New Year’s resolutions (along with redesigning this site, check!) was to make sauerkraut from scratch. And while the redesign sat on the back burner for a while, I got going on the sauerkraut pretty quickly. Nothing, after all, can really stand between a girl and her fermented cabbage.

My first attempts, however, were utter disasters. All the web sites I looked at assumed that I was starting with jarred sauerkraut that I simply wanted to kick up a notch (with the universal advice to cook it with juniper berries and butter). Few cookbooks had anything about sauerkraut, and those that did (ranging from a 1940s vintage farm cookbook to a modern-day book on preserving) all said the same thing: mix cabbage and salt and wait for the cabbage to release enough liquid to cover itself. Well, folks, maybe something is screwy with my cabbages, but they never ever came remotely close to releasing more than a tablespoon or two of liquid. Meaning only one thing: my first two (two!) attempts at sauerkraut rotted. They rotted in my closet. Thankfully, cabbage (strangely?) doesn’t smell very much at all when it rots; doubly thankfully, cabbage is cheap.

But, oh, what was I doing wrong? Enter the beautiful, amazing cookbook Cooking for the Moment, by Andrea Reusing (which I received c/o Clarkson Potter). This book not only had a recipe for homemade sauerkraut (a rarity, let me tell you), but it worked. And it was easier than all the ones that failed. The secret was simple: don’t rely on the cabbages to create their own liquid. Take matters into your own hands, and create a brine. Meaning: Just add water.

At any rate, now that I know the secret, making homemade cabbage could not be easier. So far, my attempts have tasted a little different than the store-bought stuff, mellower in flavor, and also more cabbage-y. More vegetal. At first, I was dismayed by the difference, but then, one of my friends pointed out to me: Wouldn’t you hope the homemade version would be different than the processed, store-bought version? Yes, I would think so.

All I know is that once you try this, you will never buy $7/jar sauerkraut again (in fact, you will be outraged that it even exists).

And, as a final note, I cannot sing the praises of this cookbook enough. Not only is it the only book I’ve found (in my extensive search) with an accurate recipe for sauerkraut, but everything in it is just my kind of food — simple enough, but with one easy flourish you could never think of on your own. And, as if that weren’t endorsement enough, I saw it on the shelf of one of my most food-savvy friends, with one of the most carefully curated cookbook collections I know. This one is seriously a keeper.

Homemade Sauerkraut

Adapted from Cooking in the Moment

Makes about 6 quarts

Ingredients

- 2 large heads of green cabbage (about 5 lbs.) — you want the kind that’s tightly wound, not frilly and loose

- 1/2 cup plus 3 Tbsp. kosher salt, or more as needed

1. Remove outer leaves from cabbage, discard. Core cabbage (cut off base stem of cabbage, then cut into quarters; remove the more solid-looking core on each quarter). Cut cabbage into thin slices, horizontally.

2. Put all the sliced cabbage into some large vessel. Reusing suggests a 10-12 quart crock or food-safe plastic bucket. I used a large glass punch bowl that I got at a thrift store for less than a dollar and washed the living hell out of (I now use it for all fermenting needs, and I highly suggest this option).

3. Combine salt with 1 gallon of water; stir until salt is dissolved. (If you are somewhat lazy, like me, you can simply toss the cabbage with salt and then add water to cover.) Either way, the cabbage should be covered by several inches of water. (If it isn’t, add more water, along with more salt — 2 tsp salt/1 cup of water.)

4. Use a plate to weigh down the cabbage so that it doesn’t float up (it needs to be fully submerged in the brine).

5. Cover with plastic wrap or a towel. Put in a dark, cool place (I used my hall closet).

6. Check every day or so, skimming off any impurities that form on the surface (I didn’t have any problems, really with that). It probably won’t be ready to go for a week or so, but the warmer it is, the faster it ferments. You may want to start tasting it after three or four days.

7. When it reaches the desired flavor (level of tang), drain the sauerkraut, reserving all liquid. Pack the kraut into containers (I just use old yogurt containers, but you can use glass mason jars if you’re feeling fancy). Cover kraut with reserved liquid. Store in refrigerator.

8. That method lasts for at least a couple weeks, but Reusing adds that if you want the kraut to keep longer, you can bring the liquid to a bare simmer in a large pot. Let simmer for 2 minutes, then let cool. Use the simmered liquid to cover the kraut in Step #7 above and store in the refrigerator. It should keep longer. (I haven’t actually tried, as my kraut seems to disappear fast enough as is.)

*NOTE: This should work out just fine, but if for some reason anything looks or smells funky, throw it out and start again (and feel free to ask for help in the comments). Cabbage is cheap; no reason to get yourself or anyone else sick.

When the snow is still knee-deep outside as we crawl towards spring break, it’s hard to remember that there ever was a thing such as summer. Ever was such a thing as heat on my skin, as sandals, as swimming. And then I take a whiff of these preserved lemons, and the aroma is so heady, so positively perfumey, that all seems right again with the world, if only for a second.

This right here is a jar of warmth, a jar of exotic otherworldliness, made only of lemons, lemon juice, and salt.

My lemons were Meyers, from my parents’ backyard tree in Berkeley. (Meyers are preferred in the traditional Moroccan version, but yours can definitely be the regular supermarket kind, Eureka.) I gathered them in the sunny warmth of August last year and brought them back to Minnesota. They’ve been ready for months now, but became a kind of sacred jar to me. I needed to think of a dish worthy of them before I was willing to take the first scoop.

Of course, all kinds of things are good for them, and now that I’ve started cooking with them, I can’t wait to do more. They’re perfect (and often called for) in all sorts of Moroccan and Middle Eastern dishes, particularly tagines. I have it in my head to make a pasta with them, green olives, feta, and almonds; and also a pizza with similar toppings (sans almonds). I think they’d be great added to just about any sauteed vegetable or tossed at the last minute with some roasted ones. And, I read a recipe lately for preserved lemon budino, which you can bet is coming up here.

What do preserved lemons taste like? Well, the taste is almost beside the point. They are salty (you can either rinse them off before using or wait to salt your dish until you’ve added them). They have some citrus zing. But really, with preserved lemons, it’s all about their incredible perfume. The flavor of any dish will get brighter, and the aroma will get unbelievable. For stews, especially, I recommend trying to make your dish at least a day before serving; the smell will just intensify as it sits, and when you open the lid of your pot, it will whoosh out at you in the most electrifying way.

Preserved lemons are about as simple as it gets. No water baths, no pectin, no nothing else. And best of all, a preserving project you can do in the winter, when the blues is starting to overtake your kitchen.

Preserved Lemons

Makes 1 quart (note, you can easily adjust this recipe to howver many lemons you have, you’ll just need a different size jar – or additional jars)

Adapted from Simply Recipes

Ingredients

-       8-10 lemons, preferably Meyer lemons, but Eureka (the supermarket lemon) is fine – you do want them to be organic or non-sprayed, though, as you’ll be eating the peel

-       ½ c. kosher salt, possibly more (it’s important this be coarse salt, not table salt)

-       extra fresh squeezed juice (this can be from regular lemons)

-       1 sterilized quart jar

1. Prepare the lemons: Give them a good wash, scrubbing the peel with a vegetable scrubber. Let dry. Cut off any protruding stems. Cut ¼ inch off the tip of each lemon. Now, cut the lemon in an X shape vertically, so that it is still attached at the base. Pull the lemons open and generously sprinkle salt all over the inside and outside of the lemons.

2. Pour 2 Tbsp. of salt at the bottom of the jar.

3. Now, pack the lemons into the jar, squeezing as you go to push out all their juice (a wooden spoon works well for this). You want the jar to be filled with lemons, with lemon juice covering the top of the lemons. You may need to add additional lemon juice to make sure that the lemons are covered; I used regular lemon juice even with my Meyer lemons. Top with a few Tbsp. of salt.

4. Seal the jar (no need to process) and let sit at room temperature for about a week. Every day or so, turn the jar over (from right-side up to upside-down and back again).

5. After about a week, the lemons should be softening up. Put the jar in the refrigerator and continue to let sit for about three weeks, turning occasionally. The lemon rinds should be soft at the end of three weeks, ready to use.

6. To use: either remove a lemon from the jar and rinse off the excess salt, or go easy on the salt in the dish until you’ve added a lemon straight from the jar (which will add a lot of salt); then you can adjust.

Preserved lemons will keep, refrigerated, for at least six months.

As scary as it may seem the first time, cooking a turkey is not hard. Not hard at all. It is, after all, just a big hunk of meat; nothing intricate or particular about it. All that meat like this requires is that you pay a little bit of attention, but not even as much as you’d have to pay to, say, risotto. And, it’s all the easier if you just accept the inevitable: if you keep a turkey whole, there is just no way to cook it evenly. The white meat cooks that much faster than the dark meat. This is simply a fact of life, and the sooner you, as a turkey chef, accept it, the less stressed you will be. With whole turkeys, perfection is unattainable. The best thing to strive for is relaxation.

How do I know all this? I have cooked a lot of turkeys in my day, albeit with Mom Supervision. This turkey, though, seems like the best one to round out FJ’s collection of Thanksgiving recipes; a super-simple, almost magically quick method of cooking the big bird that delivered juicy meat and crisp skin, all in about two hours. (Which, if you’ve ever cooked a turkey — or watched a Thanksgiving episode of any TV sitcom — you will know is an astoundingly short time.) The trick to this turkey is a hot hot oven and a turkey on the smaller side of things (12-14 lbs). And that’s all you need. No epic grocery list, no day-long stresses, no need to call the Butterball help-line. Just you, a turkey, and a hot oven, and two hours later, a feast-worthy centerpiece.

In fact, despite all my faith in the Power of Mom, my mother actually almost ruined the Two-Hour Turkey last year. With all of her Mom Wisdom, she thought there was no way the turkey could possibly be done in two hours, and suggested (to put it kindly) that I plan on cooking the turkey for the usual four or so hours. Two hours later, it was done, nothing else was cooked, and nobody was coming for some time. But then, of course, Mom Wisdom to save the day — a little bit of hot chicken stock poured over two hours later, and nobody was the wiser.

A lot of turkey recipes have a long list of ingredients: herb butters, salt crusts, brines, glazes. Not to mention the entirely separate recipe for the gravy. Not so with this simple beauty. It doesn’t get a lot more straightforward than this, and you know what? I think that’s fine. Because while turkey might be the Thanksgiving centerpiece, everyone is, for the most part, in it for everything else — the stuffing, the potatoes, the pie. And when slices of turkey are buried under all that other goodness, you’ll hardly be able to tell if there’s a crust or a fancy glaze or a complicated gravy (gravy in particular is a last-minute item you don’t want to have to be fussing over, once your delightful company has arrived).

All you’ll know is that you’re relaxed and calm, that you spent only a few minutes on the bird and were able to spend the rest of your time doing more important things: cleaning the house, walking around the lake, making the cocktails, readying the boardgames.

Food Junta is off for the rest of the week, cooking and hosting and then off to a cabin up north to enjoy the first days of winter. I hope you have the loveliest of Thanksgivings!

Easiest, Fastest (Two-Hour) Turkey and Gravy

Makes 10-12 servings

Adapted from Gourmet

Ingredients

·  1 onion, halved or quartered

·  2 to 3 garlic cloves

·  3 to 4 rosemary sprigs (optional)

·  1 (12- to 14-pound) turkey

·  1/4 pound (1 stick) butter, melted, or vegetable oil (optional)

·  1 quart turkey broth or canned chicken broth

·  1/2 cup flour

·  1 cup cream (optional)

·  Salt

·  Freshly ground black pepper

1. Preheat oven to 450º F.
2. Place onion, garlic, and rosemary into the turkey’s cavity. Place turkey, breast side up, in a large roasting pan. Brush with butter or oil. Place in oven and cook, uncovered, for one hour.
3. After an hour, carefully remove turkey from oven, closing the oven door. Brush turkey with pan juices or butter. Return to oven and reduce heat to 400º F. Roast for another hour, checking pan juices occasionally (if they’re running low, add stock). If the breast starts getting too brown, cover it with foil (leaving legs exposed).
4. After about two hours, carefully remove turkey from oven. Insert meat thermometer into thigh; if the thermometer registers 170º F and the juices run clear (not pinkish), then the turkey is done. If not, then return to oven for about 10 minutes at a time before checking again.
5. Once turkey has reached 170º F, remove turkey from pan and place it on a cutting board, letting it rest for at least 10 minutes (the temperature will rise at least 10º). After resting, discard the onion, garlic, and rosemary from the cavity. Carve the turkey, to the best of your abilities.
6. To make gravy: While the turkey is resting on the cutting board, place the pan over medium-high heat on the stove. Remove all but ½ cup of the fat, keeping as much of the juices in the pan as possible. Whisk in the flour and cook until the flour turns light brown. Whisk in the rest of the broth and bring to a boil; cook, stirring occasionally, until it reaches your desired consistency (you can add more stock or water if it gets too thick). Add cream, if desired. Season to taste with salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Mashed potatoes may be the stand-by: buttery, garlicy, soft, comforting. And they used to be the stand-by on my Thanksgiving table. But at some point in my life, I’m not sure when, I made the switch. To roasted potatoes.

Crispy, crunchy, still with a little bit of that creamy softness buried within, roasted potatoes are my preferred holiday potato (although latkes trump all, because frying trumps all). Mashed potatoes still have their place, of course, but for me it’s roasted potatoes, all the way. And particularly since I finally solved the mystery of how to make the perfect, crispy, crunchy, delectable roasted potatoes that I knew existed, somewhere out there.

Whenever I roasted potatoes at home, I just cut them up, tossed them with olive oil, salt, and pepper, and stuck them in the oven for about 45 minutes. This produced a perfectly delicious roasted potato, but I knew there could be more. And so, when Clotilde posted about her perfect roasted potatoes, my ears perked up. And then, coincidentally, I checked Nigella Lawson’s gorgeous book Feast out from the library, which had her take on perfect roasted potatoes (which is mentioned numerous times in the comments on Clotilde’s post).

In the end, Nigella won out over Clotilde in my kitchen, because the idea of adding semolina was just so intriguing. These potatoes were, in fact, so popular in Britain (thanks to “the Nigella effect”) that supermarkets were actually running out of semolina in the days leading up to Christmas.

But besides the semolina, they’re basically the same recipe, so if you have trouble finding semolina (I got mine from the bulk foods aisle of the local co-op), then you’re probably still doing fine. The semolina probably gives an added edge of crispness, but the really important thing, I gather, is very, very hot oil, and some properly bashed potatoes — you’re going to want to beat those taters up between par-boiling and roasting, to get them all fuzzy and full of nooks and crannies that will get beautifully crisp.

The only thing I really changed from Nigella’s version (Nigella, whom I adore) was that I didn’t peel my potatoes. Who has time? Who cares? And, for that matter, I think mine may have even turned out better, if I do say so myself. Because the potato skins peeled back a bit in the bashing, and then they got separately crisp themselves, and then the whole thing became a delightful marvel, with shockingly little time spent on my end.

If you are making this for the holidays, the one thing you will want to watch out for is timing, as these should really be served hot (or at least warm) from the oven. The holidays are not a time for stress, though! So if they do get cold, just have another glass of wine, stick ‘em back in, and a few minutes later, you’ll be all set.

Perfect Roasted Potatoes

Adapted from Nigella Lawson

Serves 8-10

Ingredients

-       3 1/2 lb. small, yellow, waxy potatoes, rinsed (and optionally peeled)

-       1- 2 Tbsp. semolina flour

-       oil (vegetable oil or olive oil, or duck or goose fat)

-       salt, to taste

1. Heat the oil: Preheat the oven to 475ºF. Pour fat/oil of your choice into the bottom of a large roasting pan. Heat the pan (and fat) up in the oven while you’re prepping the potatoes, about 20-30 minutes.
2. Prep potatoes: Cut each potato into three parts on a slant, so you get a triangle in the middle. (If you’re working with bigger potatoes, just cut them up into good-sized chunks.)
3. Parboil potatoes: Place cut potatoes into salted, cold water in a big pot. Bring to a boil. Let boil for 4 minutes. Drain potatoes in colander, then return them to the pot.
4. Sprinkle a tablespoon or so of semolina flour over the whole business.
5. Now, this is the best part: give them a good bashing. Holding the lid on tight, shake that pot like a Polaroid picture. Shake it, shake it, shake it suga’! Really, shake until things are looking good and fuzzy in there.
6. At this point, you may need to take a break to wait for the oil to heat up all the way…maybe a good time to listen to some more Outkast.
7. After the oil has been heating for 20-30 minutes, carefully add the potatoes to the hot pan. The oil may spatter! Careful!
8. Roast for about an hour, turning occasionally (and checking on them to make sure they’re not burning), until they’re golden-brown. If they don’t absorb all the fat by the end, you can always discard it.
9. Perfection!

Last weekend, I went to a new farmers market in South Minneapolis. New to me, that is, as my neighborhood one has already closed for the winter. It was a lovely day, 60 degrees and sunny, and there was Indian-spiced donuts and locally-roasted coffee. And there were not one, but two different stands selling cabbage flowers.

I’m still not quite sure what a cabbage flower is, really. I don’t think it’s edible, but it’s certainly beautiful. And I bought a bunch of them and carried them around as I gathered the rest of my goodies and was just pleased as punch, especially for the fleeting moment when I thought I had finally gotten to the bottom of the Neutral Milk Hotel song. And then, I was gently corrected. It’s clearly been too long since I spent some time with Jeff Magnum. But wouldn’t it be lovely to be the king of cabbage flowers?

And I bought parsnips and onions and parsley, and the last of the tomatoes for the year. And some glorious chard that I forgot to photograph in its raw, rainbowed beauty, but here it is in its yet more delicious form.

It didn’t take long for the tomatoes to get mushy and the cabbage flowers to turn yellow. But the tomatoes are still pretty tasty, and I think these newly yellowing, crinkling flowers are quite arresting in their own right.

And the chard lasts and lasts, and this weekend I will eat the last of it in scrambled eggs with tomatoes and goat cheese. And I will put on my coat and got to the farmers market again, and this time there probably won’t be tomatoes, and it probably won’t be 60 degrees, because in this last week we’re beginning to see winter, at least here in Minnesota.

Chard is super easy and super satisfying, a good entry-level green. I wrote about chard way back in the day, but I think it’s worth reminding you of now. Also, that used garlic and red onion, and this used just yellow onion, and really the lesson here is that chard just wants something a little onion-y to accompany it, but probably doesn’t even absolutely need that.

Nor does it need you to be as careful as I was, in my less chard-confident days, about separating every bit of stalk from leaf. You’ll want to cut off the thick part of the stem, and slice that up, but you can leave the greens with the ribbing.

Basically, it goes like this: Heat olive oil; add chopped onion and chopped chard stem; saute for a few minutes, til things are starting to get tender; add chard greens with a little bit of water; cook until greens are wilted, adding more water if needed; when done, add salt to taste.

Eat while admiring a bunch of beautiful flowers, or hearing the loud thunk of their hefty petals falling to the table below, whatever the case may be.

Once you’ve become a vegetarian, certain restaurants and/or cuisines are suddenly categorically off-limits: burger joints, barbecue places, Brazilian steakhouses. Dim sum doesn’t seem like it would be on that list (Tofu is everywhere! So are vegetables!), but it turns out there’s pork in practically everything. Even the turnip cake.

I’m really only a good-faith vegetarian — there’s a bacon lapse in my recent past — but I still try to avoid restaurants where the only non-meat options are desserts. The temptations are just too great, particularly the mouth-watering appeal of something like char siu bao, Cantonese barbecue pork buns. If I went to dim sum as a vegetarian, I doubt I could resist ordering them, so I did what any enterprising non-carnivore would do. I used the Internet to figure out how to approximate them at home.

The results? Delicious.

This recipe uses seitan, my favorite imitation meat, and a ready-made mix for the bun dough. There are also numerous from-scratch bao recipes (involving yeast, rising, kneading, and several hours of your Saturday afternoon) that a little Googling will turn up, if you’re feeling ambitious. Any moderately-sized Asian grocery will also sell frozen pre-made buns that are simple to defrost and fill.

Pork-Free Barbecue Steamed Buns

Makes 12 very large buns, about 4 servings; you will have leftover filling.

Ingredients

Filling

- 8-10 ounces seitan or mock duck, drained and roughly chopped
- 1 small yellow onion, diced
- 1 large garlic clove, minced
- 2 Tablespoons oil

Barbecue Sauce

- 1 ½ cup vegetable stock
- 1 ½ tablespoon oyster sauce (vegetarian versions are widely available in Asian markets)
- 1 tablespoon Shaoxing wine or medium-dry sherry
- 1 tablespoon hoisin sauce
- 1 tablespoon soy sauce
- 2 tablespoons ketchup
- 1 tablespoon sugar
- 2 tablespoons cornstarch

Buns (prepare according to package directions)

- 16 ounces steamed bun flour (2 tablespoons reserved)
- 1 tablespoon oil
- ½ cup sugar
- 1 cup milk

Parchment paper, waxed paper, or banana/bok choy/lettuce leaves

1. Combine steamed bun flour, oil, sugar, and milk in a large bowl. Flour surface using reserved flour. Turn dough out; knead for 10 minutes. Cover with a damp kitchen towel; let rest for 15 minutes while preparing filling.

2. In a heavy saucepan combine stock, oyster sauce, Shaoxing wine, hoisin sauce, soy sauce, ketchup, and sugar. Place about ¼ cup of the mixture in a small bowl and whisk in cornstarch. Heat remaining sauce over medium-high heat until bubbling, stirring constantly; stir in cornstarch mixture. Continue cooking, stirring constantly, until sauce thickens. Remove from heat.

3. Heat oil in large skillet over medium heat; add onion. When onion is translucent, add garlic. Cook for 1 minute, then add drained, chopped seitan. Cook until seitan colors slightly, about 4-5 minutes. Remove from heat. Combine with sauce.

4. Using remaining steamed bun flour, knead dough again for 5 minutes. Using a knife, divide dough into 12 equal portions. Take each portion, roll into a ball, and flatten into a thin disc roughly 3” in diameter. Additional flour may be helpful.

5. Top each disc with a scant tablespoon of filling mixture. Gather dough over mixture and pinch edges together.

6. Place buns 1” apart in steamer basket lined with parchment paper or vegetable leaves. Steam 20 minutes.

These gloriously yellow pickles single-handedly set off my canning kick this summer. I tasted a jar of them at a friend’s while cooking other, fresher things, and I immediately knew that I not only had to have the recipe, but I had to have a jar (or two) of my own. This friend then generously offered up her kitchen, and enlisted her canning-pro sister, to churn out a big batch of delight. And delightful they are; by the time these babies are ready (you have to let them sit for at least three weeks before eating), the mixture is practically a chutney, full of sunshiney, golden flavor.

As Liz demonstrated a few weeks ago, canning isn’t actually all that hard. It seems intimidating at first, but once you’ve gathered the basic equipment and given it a few goes, you’ll feel able to whip up a batch of pickles in no time, with no stress. Sunshine pickles are a good place to start, I think, because not only are the ingredients super cheap (so, unlike jam, you don’t have to worry so much about screwing up and wasting precious pints of berries), but I’ve never seen anything like this for sale. And that, really, is the beauty of self-canning: not just thriftiness, but also inventiveness.

I don’t have much else to say about this, which may be because my friend’s sister did a lot of the heavy lifting, in the form of prepping the cucumber. If you do not have a little cucumber prepping elf, then I suggest you pop in a good dvd and hunker down in front of the telly for some veg prep. Otherwise, this is a breeze.

Ah, and nothing more satisfying than hearing the pop, pop, pop of the lids sealing after you take them out of the hot water bath! Get to it.

(And, a helpful hint: if you don’t have enough mason jars for all the pickles, you can also use leftover jars — like the salsa jar below; they just won’t seal, so you’ll have to keep them in the fridge and eat the pickles a little quicker. Poor you.)

Sunshine Pickles

Adapted from the Joy of Pickling

Makes 7 pints

Ingredients

-       7 lb. lemon or pickling cucumbers

-       1 lb. onion, halved and sliced

-       ¼ c. pickling salt (can sub. Kosher salt)

-       21 thin slices fresh, peeled ginger

-       3 ½ c. cider vinegar

-       1 c. water

-       1 c. honey

-       ¼ c. seeded, minced chile pepper

-       2 tbsp. yellow mustard seeds

-       1 tsp. celery seeds

-       1 tsp. ground turmeric

-       1 c. golden raisins

1. Peel, halve, and seed cucumbers. Cut lemon cucumbers into crescents; cut pickling cucumbers into 1-inch chunks. Toss cucumbers and onion with salt. Cover vegetables with ice cubes from 2 ice trays. Let sit 3-5 hours.
2. Drain vegetables. Rinse in cold water, drain well again. Put 3 ginger slices into each of 7 pint mason jars.
3. Using a large, nonreactive pot, bring remaining ingredients to a boil, stirring to dissolve honey. Add drained vegetables and slowly bring mixture to a boil. Ladle hot vegetables and liquid into jars, leaving ½-inch headspace. Close the jars with hot two-piece caps.
4. To ensure a good seal, process for 10 minutes in a boiling water bath.
5. Store jars in a cool, dry, dark place for at least three weeks before eating pickles.