Weekly Dish

Towards the end of February, I get a little antsy. Some might call it cabin fever, but that isn’t really accurate; I get out of the house often enough. No, my end-of-winter jitters stem from the kitchen end of things. I look in the fridge, especially at the end of the week, and I try hard to get excited about finding a creative use for the bunch of carrots languishing in the crisper or the bag of sweet potatoes that seems to never end.

But sometimes I just can’t do it.

And, so, sometimes, instead of concentrating my energies on making a healthful dinner out of the seasonal ingredients I’m desperately trying to still adore (but am secretly wishing to bid goodbye for a time), I make dessert instead.

Please don’t tell anyone.

It’s just that dinner can get a bit routine come March. We eat lots and lots of broccoli: simply steamed and tossed with sauteed garlic, dressed up a little more with cashews and soy sauce, tossed in pasta, folded into an omelet with caramelized onions, pureed with chicken broth and cheddar cheese for soup. And while I love all of these meals — truly, I am thankful that farm-fresh broccoli bears only the slightest resemblance to its tough-stemmed bland cousin carried in supermarkets, and I happily toss the tender, earthy-tasting florets and stalks into all manner of meals. These quick dinners get us through the winter without breaking our budget or sending us calling for take-out.

Yet, at the end of the day, especially fickle, neither winter nor Spring days, I find myself staring into the recesses of my tiny pantry hankering to do something more with my culinary energy. Something with a little more fanfare than broccoli, again.

Last week, when this urge struck, I found a bag of Meyer lemons calling out to me, as they so often do to waken me from my winter slumber, and they asked, quite emphatically, to be made into a simple cake.

Because I grew up in the South, heiress to a whole host of vintage recipes calling for ingredients that I don’t normally buy now that I’m a little fussier about things like chemical additives and artificial sweetners, I particularly love the idea of taking an old recipe and revamping it. I heard about this one, for lemon-lime ice box cake, on NPR’s lovely segment, Kitchen Window, some time in the fall, and when I saw those Meyer lemons, I knew this cake was the one for me.

I wasn’t so concerned with the green that make the original recipe lemon-lime, — I like the striations of yellow, personally — so I stuck with lemons for all of the citrus flavor and left out the food coloring. And, while I’m sure run-of-the-mill lemons would work perfectly fine, if the season has left you any Meyers, their tempered tartness and hints of sweet florals make this cake truly irresistible.

So irresistible, in fact, that it might just get me from broccoli to asparagus. Maybe even, come fall, I’ll be wishing for winter days and the lemons they bring. That, my friends, would be a powerful cake.

Happy Easter to one and all!

Lemon Icebox Cake
Just a single layer, topped with a simple whipped cream topping, this cake’s humble appearance belies its big flavor. Which, to my mind, makes it an even better candidate for taking to an event, like an Easter dinner — no one will expect the buttery, lemony explosion as they take the first bite, and you, the humble baker will get all the praise. Not that that’s why you bake for others, of course, but just in case it’s an added bonus you appreciate.

A couple of ingredient notes: I find measurements that suggest how many lemons you need for the amounts of juice and zest to vary so widely that they are unhelpful; I measured the quantities of both as I used them, but especially for the zest, it’s okay to estimate. Fresh lemon juice is absolutely essential; yes, it takes time to zest and squeeze all of those lemons, but the result is well worth the effort.

As for the curd, a high-quality store-bought version would probably be fine; the original recipe calls for stirring it with a little water, so that it’s the right consistency to pour over the cake. I found that the texture of homemade curd, especially just after it’s made, worked perfectly.

Lemon Ice Box Cake

For the cake:

3 cups cake flour
3 t. baking powder
1/4 t. salt
1 cup butter, at room temp
1 1/2 cups sugar
4 eggs
1 cup buttermilk (whole milk works too)
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice
2 t. grated lemon zest

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

Stir together the flour, salt, and baking powder in a small bowl and set aside.

In an electric mixer, cream the butter and sugar. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, and continue to beat until the mixture has doubled in volume.

Remove the bowl from the mixer, and with a rubber spatula, fold in the flour mixture and the buttermilk, alternating by thirds, until both have been incorporated. Stir in the juice and zest.

Pour the batter into a greased cake pan, and bake for 30-35 minutes, or until just moist (not wet) in the center. Turn the cake onto a rack to cool.

For the curd:

1 cup fresh lemon juice
1 cup sugar
1 T. grated lemon zest
4 large eggs, beaten
2 T. butter, diced

Whisk together the juice, sugar, zest, and eggs in a small saucepan. Stir constantly over medium-low heat, until the mixture thickens and coats a spoon. Remove from the heat and stir in the butter. When the cake has cooled slightly (it’s fine if it’s still warm, just not oven-hot), poke holes all over it with the bottom of a wooden spoon. I like to poke holes of varying depths — for some, go all the way through to the bottom, for others, just a prick in the top, and then, some in between. Pour the curd over the punctured cake, allowing it to seep into the holes. I had about 3/4 cup of curd left over. Let the cake stand while you whip the topping.

For the topping:

8 ounces mascarpone cheese, at room temp
1/2 cup whipping cream
1/2 cup powdered sugar
2 t. grated lemon zest
4 T. lemon juice

Whip the cream on high until soft peaks form. Add the powdered sugar, zest, and mascarpone; beat on medium-low until just combined. With the mixer running, slowly pour in the lemon juice. Spread the topping over the whole cake.

If you beat the mixture too long, the mascarpone will curdle, but that’s okay; it will smooth out some when you spread it on. And if it gets really lumpy and ugly, it will still taste good, but if you’re concerned about the appearance, whip some extra cream by itself to spread on top (like I did).

You can serve it warm — straight from the pan — or refrigerate and serve it cold. We liked it equally well both ways. It cuts into neater pieces once it’s been chilled.

–Adapted from April Fulton’s adapted recipe on NPR’s Kitchen Window 

Cranberry sauce has been one of my favorite parts of Thanksgiving dinner for as long as I can remember. And by “cranberry sauce,” I mean the dark burgundy, vibrantly tart-sweet condiment made by cooking fresh cranberries with sugar. I do not mean the lump of pink, wiggly, high-fructose corn syrup-saturated, nutritionally vacant, pale imitation of cranberry sauce that comes in a can. My mom always made fresh cranberry sauce for our Thanksgivings, so thankfully, my taste buds never acclimated to that cloyingly sweet jellied variety. Cranberry sauce, from this opinionated cook’s perspective, should be tart because cranberries are tart. Period.

My mom’s, as far as I remember anyway, is super simple — cranberries and sugar, and that’s about it. Which I love so much that I often served myself what some people might consider a condiment in side dish proportions (and can still be found guilty of eating it by itself). But when I started making my own a few years ago, I wanted to tinker a bit, to dress up the traditional just a smidgen. Not enough to interfere with the pronounced cranberry flavor — cinnamon and cloves, I found, were too strong for my taste, as was ginger — but enough to make cranberries that were decidedly my own. I found Scott Peacock and Edna Lewis’s version fit the bill (from the fabulous book, The Gift of Southern Cooking), so what you’ll find below is a slight adaptation of their recipe. There are many, many, many varieties of cranberry sauce out there, so find one that suits your taste. I like this one because it’s sweet enough, but true to the tart flavor of the berries, which are enhanced by the wine and orange zest but not overpowered.

If you’ve never made your own cranberry sauce, let me begin my saying how easy it is. Really. You put the berries, a little liquid, and a bit of sugar in a pot, and cook, stirring, until the berries begin to burst and the sugar dissolves. The natural pectin in the berries will give you the chunky, jam-like texture, and the whole process takes about 10 or 15 minutes. All that is required of you is to stir and taste to make sure you’ve achieved the sweet-sour ratio you like.

If you still need convincing, look at how pretty it is in a cut-glass dish. See? Don’t you want that on your table? Even if your dining companions just look at it, you’ll be glad you made it.

Holiday Cranberries
–Adapted from The Gift of Southern Cooking by Edna Lewis and Scott Peacock

The original recipe calls for port instead of marsala, and I tried that last year. To be honest, I made the substitution because I had marsala in my pantry (left over from this meal) and no port, but, as it turns out, I like it this way better. Marsala is a little sweeter, so I was able to reduce the sugar, and the wine’s subtle flavor slips under the berries quite nicely (the port is a little more robust). But, by all means, use what you have; I imagine any sweet fortified wine would do the trick.

12 ounces fresh cranberries (or about 3 cups)
1/2 cup marsala wine
2/3 cup sugar
zest from 1 large orange (about a tablespoon)

Rinse the berries, carefully picking through them and discarding any that have shriveled or burst. In a saucepan, bring the wine just to a boil over medium-high heat, and add the berries. Cook, stirring continuously, until the berries begin to pop (David loves this part), about 5 minutes. Pour in the sugar and orange zest, and continue to stir constantly until the sugar dissolves, about another 5 minutes. The mixture should be thick like jam. Remove from the heat until completely cool; cover and refrigerate. Before serving, allow the sauce to come to room temperature.

I love the idea of fancy breakfast food. Using my culinary prowess to whip up something innovative and delicious first thing in the morning sounds like something I would love — trading pajamas for an apron and wielding a wooden spoon to whip up a luxurious first meal, beginning the day with a jolt to both my creativity and my palate. A fabulous idea, in theory. Here in my real life, however, the one where mornings revolve around a hungry baby, on the days I am home, I am lucky to get a shower and dress before David leaves for the day; on the days I teach, I do well to make it out the door with two of the same shoes on my feet. For all of these reasons, during our harried weekdays, David is usually the one in charge of finding morning fare for us to eat. Don’t get me wrong, David is great with eggs: scrambled or fried, he knows how to treat them. He also makes fabulous homemade biscuits on occasion. Our standard weekday meals, however, include oatmeal or plain yogurt, jam, and granola. All of these options serve the purpose of kick-starting our metabolisms with fairly healthy calories; utilitarian, perhaps, but these meals taste good and give us fuel to dive into the day. Breakfast does its daily job.

But sometimes I crave more decadent breakfast food, the stuff of brunch menus and country inns. It’s the lack of variety, I think, that gets to me: we eat the same three or four combinations of foods every, single day, and occasionally, I long for something different. Something dressier. Something I might serve if I were to have guests over at 11 in the morning. To satisfy those cravings, we’ve sort of fallen into the tradition of having more brunch-ish food for lunch on Sundays. We still eat our regular oatmeal or yogurt before church, but for when we get home, I usually plan more exciting breakfast food to fix for our midday meal.

Lately, I’ve been on a savory kick; I love French toast, waffles, and pancakes as much as the next breakfast lush, but recently, I’ve liked my Sunday brunch to fall on the saltier side of sweet. Eggs have a constant presence, usually fried because David does them so well, and their runny yolks add a layer of rich creaminess to whatever they land atop. Last week, it was potato pancakes and some boiled shrimp we had leftover in the fridge. A good combination, to be sure, but it needed something more to fulfill my fanciful brunch demands. Something to dress up the plate a little bit, to bind the disparate elements together. Something like Hollandaise sauce.

Hollandaise sauce is, of course, the key ingredient in the king of brunch food, Eggs Benedict, and is often served over asparagus and sometimes fish. Traditionally, it’s made in a double-boiler, and whisked constantly for proper emulsification. On this particular Sunday in my house, however, it came together quickly in the blender while David fried the eggs and the pancakes finished cooking, a necessary adjustment to prevent one cook smashing the other with his elbows or the unwelcome hurling of expletives as we both crowded over a small stove in a small space. Plus, Josie loves the sound of the blender, and she was sitting on the kitchen counter happily observing while our brunch lunch came together; making the sauce this way helped keep her entertained. The texture of the blender Hollandaise is not quite as thick as that prepared the traditional way, especially immediately after it’s made. But it thickens as it sits, and the flavor is the same tangy, buttery one I had hoped would cloak our potato pancakes and shrimp with its velvety yellow vibrancy.

Yes, it’s a lot of butter, and yes, it takes egg yolks to thicken it; yes, it’s rich and full of fat and calories. But it’s sauce, an accoutrement, an extra, almost a garnish, so it’s not like we eat a lot at one time. Plus, it’s not like we eat it every day. It’s not like it’s breakfast. Which is precisely why it tastes so good and why I like our little Sunday brunch tradition: breakfast is food to get us through the day; brunch, on the other hand, is food to savor, food to make an occasion out of a day set aside to be a break from the weekday routine. Food that deserves a special sauce once in a while, especially when that sauce almost just happens with a whirl of the blender.

In my humble, breakfast-loving opinion, you could put this sauce on nearly any savory breakfast dish and have yourself a celebration on a plate. Just don’t remind me how easy it is, or I might just whip some up on a Tuesday morning. And then I would have to call it breakfast, which it most certainly is not.

Blender Hollandaise Sauce

1 stick (1/2 cup) butter
3 egg yolks
Juice of 1 large lemon (about 2 T.)
1/4 t. coarse salt
1/8 t. cayenne pepper

Melt the butter in a glass measuring cup in the microwave, and have it handy. In the blender, combine the other ingredients until well-combined. With the motor running, pour in the melted butter slowly (as you would oil for mayonnaise), to emulsify (to bind the oil and the acid, in other words). Pour into a serving dish and let it stand for a few minutes. Drizzle as your heart desires.
The sauce will keep in the refrigerator for a few days; just rewarm gently before serving. This recipe makes about a cup of sauce.

–From Southern Sideboards, Junior League of Jackson, Mississippi

That’s about the extent of what I had on hand one day last week when I set about trying to rustle up some sort of afternoon snack to tide me over until dinner.

It had been one of those proverbial days. Starting at about 3 a.m., Josie had decided to have a little party in her crib. She does this occasionally — wakes up happy and talking and usually puts herself back to sleep — and this particular middle-of-the-night affair sounded like it would be no different. But, what began with sweet-sounding coos gradually escalated to all-out screams. Not crying screams, mind you; the child was still gleefully happy. But we live in a very small two-bedroom house, and at 3 in the morning, that kind of volume carries quite an eye-opening kick. I was convinced that I would find at least two or three more babies in the bed with her contributing to the noise level when I walked into her room. Whatever she was so delighted about she was determined to share with her parents, and it took a joint effort of feeding, rocking, and walking around from the two of us to calm her down and get her to go back to sleep, only to be awakened by her again by 5:30. At this point, it was clear she was ready to be up for good.

From there, the day tumbled into the sort of managed chaos that life with an infant sometimes is: it happened to be Wednesday, when David is gone from 10 in the morning until 10 at night; Josie, after her early-morning performance spent the rest of the day in and out of the exhausted fussing that always follows an out-of-the-ordinary night; and I spent the entire day grading one student’s paper. Josie took no naps to speak of, and when I finally put a grade at the end of the essay response I had been composing since 7 that morning, it felt like quite an accomplishment.

By the time the late afternoon rolled around, she and I were both tired and cranky, and, since she had needed more attention than usual, I could barely remember what I’d had to eat and was starving. The prospect of waiting until David returned for dinner seemed unimaginable, but I still needed something to get me through the next few hours until Josie would (hopefully) go to bed.

When it comes to dinner, I am good at planning, mostly because I’ve been in the habit for so long now. As those of you who remember my marker board posts know, I make a meal plan on Saturday mornings after we get home from the Farmer’s Market, we go to the grocery store for whatever else we need, and the marker board on the side of the fridge tells me what to make every night for the rest of the week. Before I had Josie, the rest of our eating just sort of happened; I kept cereal or oatmeal for breakfast, and we’d either have leftovers or grab something on campus for lunch. Snacks weren’t on my radar at all, save a piece of fruit here and there or the occasional bag of potato chips David would sometimes bring home.

Providing all of the nutrients for a whole other being has, predictably, changed my appetite, and if I thought I was hungry when I was pregnant, that was nothing compared to what my body demands now that I am nursing. It’s not that I eat that much more, in terms of quantity, but I certainly have to eat more often, which translates into having more food choices on hand. Some weeks I do better about remembering to think about snacks than others, but we’re in a seasonal fruit lull right now, which is my usual between-meal sustenance when there’s nothing else. I am also, of course, trying to be conscious of the nutritive value of everything I consume; making the most of my calorie intake was obviously important when I was growing Josie inside my body, but now that I can actually watch her little body become healthy and strong, I am even more aware of how significant the food I take in really is. That may sound stressful, but it isn’t something I spend a lot of time worrying about, I just try to make good food decisions.

On the particular day I found that can of beans in my pantry, though, I have to tell you that I think I might have consumed almost anything I had found that was readily available to be eaten. We are not in the habit of buying pre-packaged junk food, and it’s a good thing, because if, somewhere in the depths of my kitchen shelves, I’d stumbled across a box of Hostess cupcakes, I might well have eaten the whole box in one sitting.

Instead, Josie and I marched out the back door, gathered enough basil for a quick batch of pesto, and I made some semblance of this bean dip, tossing a few other ingredients into the food processor in the precious few moments I had between feedings, diaper changes, and entertaining an off-schedule, fussy baby. Perhaps it was the sheer force of my growling stomach, or maybe it was the fact that Josie sat happily in her little green seat outside for a full 30 minutes while I ate and relaxed for the first time all day, or it’s possible that I was so grateful for a stretch of time to actually savor, rather than inhale, my food. Whatever the reason, if you’d asked me at that specific moment, I would have told you this dip was the best snack I’d ever tasted.

Since that day, I’ve made the dip twice more, taking the time to actually measure the quantities and photograph it, and, although, I can’t say that it tasted quite as good as it did on that first day (thankfully, I haven’t had another one of those days!) it’s provided many an afternoon of a healthful, filling snack, smeared on whole wheat crackers, or as a dip for carrots or radishes. We’ve also spread it on our sandwiches and used it as a quesadilla filling. I love the fact that it’s creaminess comes from something healthful and protein-laden, and I can see endless possibilities for what you could use to flavor the white bean base. For now, though, I’m planning to stick with my original impulse, at least until the basil sends out its last fragrant green leaves of the season.

This recipe certainly is not earth-shattering in its inventiveness, and I’m sure it’s not terribly original, but these are days of creative utilitarianism around our house, and in the capacity of healthy, hearty snack food, this is a dip that does its job.

At the end of the day this dip first made its way out of the pantry and into my stomach, Josie went peacefully to sleep, dinner somehow got made, and I eventually got to climb into my bed and close my eyes. And, as a happy surprise, when I laid my head on the pillow and asked myself the question all mothers of small children must ask at the end of harrowing days — “Now, what, exactly did I do today?” — this bean dip came to mind. A small victory, yes, but a tasty one. And just in case one of those days happens along your path in the near future, a victory I gladly pass along.

White Bean Pesto Dip

1 15-ounce can cannelini beans, drained
2 cloves garlic
2 T. prepared basil pesto
1 T. olive oil
Juice of half a lemon
1/2 t. sea salt

Pulse the garlic in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade. Add everything else and process until well-mixed but still chunky.

In one of the many notebooks scattered around my house, there’s a page inside with these words written at the top: “Things to Do When School Is Out (Before the Baby Comes).” The list is lo-o-ong. And crazily ambitious.

#3: Reorganize office. (If you’d ever seen my office, this would make you laugh out loud.)

#9: Finish thank you notes. (I’m still working on this one.)

#14: Decide on dissertation topic. (Right. At the most emotional and indecisive time in my life, I should, really, have been finalizing plans for a dissertation. Good idea. Hormones really do make you crazy.)

Needless to say, since Josie came almost 2 weeks early, born on my very last day of school, not many of the numbers on the list have x’s through them. Some of the projects can wait, others we’ve tended to as we’ve found the time.

One item on the list, however, needed to be done that week. #7: Make strawberry jam.

This wouldn’t have been such a big deal, except that I’d bought a whole flat of strawberries the Saturday before, expressly for jam-making purposes. It turns out, it was the last Saturday strawberries appeared at my farmer’s market. I know it may sound silly, but when I came home from the hospital, I was really worried about those berries. Not necessarily the money we’d spent on them, but I knew the season was at it’s end, and I couldn’t bear the thought of those last, precious berries going to waste in my fridge.

You have to understand: I ate strawberries nearly every day of my pregnancy. The first crop appeared around November, just as I was starting my second trimester and becoming very, very hungry. And, for the next 6 months, I bought 2 pints (at least) every Saturday morning, and every afternoon for the rest of the week, I would take a break from whatever I was working on, slice a bowlful of berries and douse them with sugar and cream. Like clockwork, I ate them every day.

Every Saturday, the farmer from whom I bought so many berries would ask me how I was feeling, and smile his big, friendly smile. One Saturday in late April, he asked me how much longer I had. He told me he’d been watching me every week and that he could tell my baby was near to coming into the world. It’s quite remarkable how much the visible signs of carrying life will open up venues of conversation; I swear, anyone will talk to a pregnant woman. That Saturday, he also told me that there were only a few weeks of strawberries left.

And, so I added #7 to my list and resolved to enjoy the strawberry season for the rest of the year.

But, as luck would have it, when the strawberries in my fridge were ready to be jammed, I was in no condition to sterilize jars or stand in front of the stove. So, one afternoon, my sweet mother and husband hulled them and put them in the freezer.

“One day, you’ll feel like making jam,” they told me consolingly. “Then, the berries will be waiting.”

And, waiting they have been. Finally, last week, I thawed out those strawberries, sterilized the jars, and I made jam.

While I was at it, I also made pear preserves with the box of pears David’s grandmother sent our way, pear pepper jelly with the fruit of our insanely productive jalapeño bush, and peach preserves with the last of the peach crop from our farmer’s market.

Once I started, I felt so industrious that I couldn’t stop. Plus, it was delicious. The pear preserves are, admittedly, too sweet. They were the first batch I made, and I overdid it with the sugar. For the pepper jelly, I adjusted the sugar, but I underestimated the fire of the peppers: it is hot, hot. Delicious with cheese and crackers, but hot nonetheless. The peach preserves could have cooked a bit longer, but they are bursting with bright, peach flavor, which is what I wanted from that batch.

But the strawberry. The strawberry is perfect. I put the whole batch in the blender because I wanted a really smooth texture, and I added a hint of vanilla — not so much that you really taste it, but just enough to punch up the berry flavor just a notch, so that at the end of the burst of strawberry, you’re left with something else, something rich and mellow.

And, I love it. So much so that now, instead of berries in a bowl, I have berries on toast, and I have to say, it feels good to have strawberries back in my life again. Which is, after all, the beauty of preserving: enjoying the fruits of the season all year long. Or, at least until the jam runs out.

It’s a good thing November isn’t so very far away.

Vanilla-Scented Strawberry Jam

1 quart strawberries, hulled*
2 1/4 cups sugar
1/2 T. pure vanilla extract
Pinch of salt

Place the strawberries, whole, or cut into chunks (this depends entirely on what kind of texture you want: I knew I would puree mine, so I left them whole) into a large pot. Toss the berries with the vanilla and salt and cover with the sugar. Leave to macerate for several hours.

Bring the berries and sugar to a boil, then reduce the heat and simmer, stirring occasionally, very gently. Simmer for about 15 minutes, just until the berries are tender. Skim any foam off the top as they simmer. Turn off the heat and allow to cool completely. Put the mixture into the blender and blend until smooth. Return to pot and cover; let the jam sit overnight.

The next day, bring the mixture back to a boil, stirring carefully so as not to burn what’s on the bottom. Simmer for another 20 minutes. Skim off any additional foam, and ladle into sterilized jars. Seal the jars with lids and rings; process according to manufacturer’s directions. Makes about 6 8-ounce jars of jam.

–Adapted from The Gift of Southern Cooking by Edna Lewis and Scott Peacock

*I measured the berries after they were hulled; they filled a 1-quart glass measuring cup.

If you come by my house around dinner time and expect to find me slaving over a hot stove these 100-degree, humidity-laden days, you will likely be disappointed. Around here, our evenings tend to look like this: a quick, easy meal, tossed together over white wine and NPR’s Fresh Air, and then, Scrabble.

As a wordy, nerdy, (culinary) bookworm, my love of Scrabble is probably not a mystery. But I really learned to love the game from my great-grandmother, Nanny, who taught me to play. She had one of those fancy, lazy-Susan-esque boards, coated in shiny plastic with neat little cubbies for each letter, upon which she regularly dazzled me with her crossword puzzle-enhanced vocabulary.

Between turns, Nanny was always whipping up something fabulous in her tiny kitchen, so perhaps the combination of delicious food and interesting words is the legacy I’ve always been meant to inherit.

Although Nanny is sadly no longer with us, I can’t help but think she’d be pleased as punch to know that her eldest great granddaughter is carrying on the tradition of loving people through food and, at the same time, soundly defeating them at the game of words. Sorry, David, it sounds like I come by it honestly.

But look at it this way: at least I feed you well in the process.

For a Scrabble dinner date one night a few weeks ago, I put these farmer’s market sweet peppers to work in a salad with some crawfish tails, bacon, goat cheese, and a salty-sweet maple vinaigrette. The quantities are approximate, as with any salad, and the possibilities are endless. Shrimp or grilled chicken could certainly replace the crawfish, and the quantity and variety of veggies is completely up to your personal taste. However you decide to fix your salad, I highly recommend it with Scrabble on the side.

Spinach Salad with Crawfish, Goat Cheese, and Bacon-Maple Dressing

4-6 slices bacon (I like the maple-flavored kind in this salad)
1/2 cup chopped pecans
1 T. maple syrup plus a drizzle for the nuts
1 T. honey dijon mustard
1 T. balsalmic vinegar
2 T. olive oil
1 T. reserved bacon drippings
Spinach leaves
Sweet peppers (I used two), cut into matchstick-sized pieces
Goat cheese (about 2 ounces)
1 cup cooked crawfish tails (optional)

Cook the bacon in a heavy skillet until it reaches your desired doneness. Remove the slices and set aside. Drain off about a tablespoon of the drippings to reserve, and discard all but a very tiny film on the bottom. Return the skillet to medium heat and add the pecans. Stir, toasting the nuts until they are brown and fragrant. Drizzle with a tiny bit of syrup and stir to coat. Turn off the heat.

In a small bowl, whisk together the reserved bacon drippings, mustard, maple syrup, and vinegar until well-blended. Drizzle in the oil in a very slow stream, whisking constantly until the mixture emulsifies.

Cover two plates with spinach leaves. Top with the peppers, dollops of goat cheese, the toasted nuts, crumbled bacon, and the crawfish tails. Drizzle with the dressing.

The antioxidant-rich peppers and vitamin-laden spinach make this recipe a good candidate for ARF/5-a-day Tuesdays over at Sweetnicks. Head over there to see how other people are eating healthy and staying cool.

Barbara, over at Tigers and Strawberries, has invited food bloggers to participate in an event centered on the uses of a variety of spices. For the first three rounds, I was a passive onlooker, reading the entries and gleaning inspiration from those who contributed. But when she announced the most recent edition, The Spice Is Right IV: It’s Too Darned Hot!, using chiles in any form, I knew I’d have to get off the sidelines and get in the game. We love spicy food around here, especially in the summer. (Mostly because it gives us the excuse to pair our food with very cold, fun beverages.)

But immediately, I was stumped about what to make. You see, my favorite spicy cuisine is Thai, and my favorite way to use chiles is in my attempts to make Thai food at home. But that seemed a rather silly entry for this event because Barbara knows way, way more about Thai cuisine than I do, and if you really want to learn how to make it properly, you should go dig through her archives.

So then I thought perhaps I’d try to find some sort of exotic and unique chile and concoct a new inventive creation all my own.

But, well, the thing about the heat (and, wow, is it ever hot in south Louisiana) is that it makes me crave simplicity. It’s almost as if my palate is lazy too–my tastebuds don’t want anything that’s going to make them work too hard, much like my body doesn’t want me to cook anything that requires my being in the kitchen too long.

So I return to the most common of chiles, the dark green one that grows abundantly in the garden, the one that appears most frequently in my cooking, the ubiquitous jalapeno.

Some people like their food to be either savory or sweet, but nowhere in between, no blurring of the lines. I, on the other hand, fall in the contrast camp. When I snack, I find that I need two–a sweet and a salty–and I like to alternate them (a handful of popcorn followed by some M&M’s, and so on). Perhaps that makes me odd.

But it also makes me a huge fan of recipes like this one, where the flavor (and texture) is all about the contrasts. Spicy, sweet, sharp, tangy, salty, herby, soft, crunchy–this quesadilla has it all. Pair it with a frozen margarita (rimmed with salt, of course), and a handful of lime-flavored tortillas to serve with the extra salsa, and I am one happy girl. Even in this heat.

And, I haven’t even had to work hard–with minimal effort, all the contrasts I need are packed snugly into one, crispy tortilla. What more could my taste buds ask for?

Blue Cheese and Mango Quesadillas with Mango Salsa
–inspired by a recipe in The Cheese Lover’s Cookbook and Guide by Paula Lambert

2 ripe mangoes, pitted and peeled
2 T. red onion, finely chopped
4 T. bell or banana pepper, finely chopped (I used one purple bell and half of a yellow banana)
1 jalapeno chile, minced (and seeded if you prefer less kick)
2 T. cilantro leaves, chopped plus a few extra leaves
Juice of 1 lime
1/4 t. Kosher salt
1/8 t. cracked black pepper
4 small flour tortillas
4 ounces blue cheese
Olive oil

In a small bowl, toss together the red onion, peppers, chile, cilantro, and lime juice. Dice one of the mangoes and gently mix it in. Finish with salt and pepper and set aside.

Slice the remaining mango into wedges, and have them, the extra cilantro leaves, and the blue cheese handy.

Heat a drizzle of olive oil (just enough to coat the surface) in a heavy skillet over medium heat. When hot, add a tortilla. Cook until the bottom is crisp and brown, and flip it over. Crumble 1/4 of the blue cheese on the surface. Lay 5 slices of mango on top of the blue cheese, and place a cilantro leaf between each of the mango spikes.

Continue to cook until the cheese is melted. Remove to a plate, top with a spoonful of salsa, and repeat the process for the remaining 3 tortillas. To eat, fold the tortillas in half and dig in! Oh, and don’t forget the margaritas. Serves 2 as a light meal.

Notes: You may have to add oil between quesadillas; a dry skillet will burn your tortillas in a hurry. And, you can, of course, go ahead and fold the quesadillas over while they’re in the skillet as you normally would. But, I think they look so pretty served open faced, and if you add the salsa before you fold them, then you don’t have to worry about making sure you get everything on your fork before you take a bite. Less work even in the eating!

When I moved into my first apartment, my Aunt Jennifer brought me a basket with a loaf of French bread, a container of homemade mayonnaise, and several Vidalia onions, the ingredients for my very favorite treatment of the sweetest onion of all–the Vidalia.

Aunt Jen has been making what she calls San Francisco bread for as long as I can remember, and I am now carrying on the family tradition. I love to serve this bread to guests because they can never guess just what exactly is on it. I know it might sound strange, but I urge you to try it anyway, especially if you find yourself in possession of a sweet, sweet onion. I’ve not had one unsuccessful attempt to convert doubtful guests.

A few caveats: you must, MUST only attempt this recipe with homemade mayonnaise. I try hard not to be authoritarian about much in my cooking instructions, but for the good of the onion, please do not contaminate its sweet spring freshness with storebought mayo. The results will not be the same. And, I know there are risks for consuming raw eggs. All I can say about that is that my family has lived on homemade mayonnaise for generations, and we’ve all survived. Do with that information what you will.

I served this bread with our paneed catfish (a dusting of Tony Chachere’s cajun seasoning and a few minutes in a inch of olive oil–nothing too complicated about that) and Ivonne’s lemony potatoes (with rosemary instead of oregano and red new potatoes instead of Yukon golds) last night to our dear friend Casey. Everything was yummy, but I love this bread best. Maybe it just reminds me of home.

Aunt Jennifer’s San Francisco Bread
One half of a loaf of French bread

1/2 cup minced Vidalia onion

Homemade mayonnaise (recipe follows)

Kosher salt

Cracked black pepper

Preheat the broiler. Cut the bread in half lengthwise. Spread each half with a thick layer of mayonnaise. Cover with onions; season well with salt and pepper. Broil for a few minutes, until the bread is brown and crusty and the onions are soft. Slice and serve. Serves 4-6.

Homemade Mayonnaise
1 egg

1 T. cider vinegar

Juice of 1 lemon

1/2 t. Kosher salt

1/2 t. paprika

1/4 t. cayenne pepper

3/4 cup salad oil (canola or vegetable or a combination), divided

Place all ingredients in the blender, but start with only 1/4 cup of the oil. After the ingredients are blended, with the motor running, add the remaining oil in a very slow, steady stream. The mayonnaise should emulsify, creating a very thick consistency. The blender should start to spurt and sputter. It will keep in the refrigerator for about a week.

Every girl knows that a plain old salad needs the proper accessory to stand out. This sherry mustard vinaigrette is one I learned how to make at the restaurant where I waited tables in college; it was a house favorite. I think I ate a salad coated in its tangy sweetness nearly every workday for lunch. The greens in this photo came from our backyard (arugula, I think?), and the grilled chicken is made according to this recipe. It’s busy around our house, and this salad was the perfect throw-together springtime dinner.

Sherry Mustard Vinaigrette

3 T. cooking sherry (sherry vinegar will do in a pinch)
1 T. cider vinegar
2 t. cane syrup or honey
1 T. dijon mustard (I used the sweet-hot kind, but any mustard you like will do)
5 T. olive oil

Whisk together the vinegars, syrup or honey, and mustard. Whisk in the olive oil a drop at a time, stirring constantly, to emulsify. You can also do this in a food processor or a blender (but I would double the recipe; this amount hardly warrants a dirty blender, in my opinion).

Notes about the recipe: Many people prefer their vinaigrettes with a higher ration of oil to vinegar, but I like mine almost 1 to 1 for a couple of reasons. The first is that it slightly reduces the fat content of the dressing. Secondly, if the dressing is very flavorful, I am apt to use less of it, which also helps to reduce fat and calories. After all, if you’re going to eat salad for dinner, it might as well be as good for you as possible. Right?

With seasonal tomatoes still a few months away, I find myself longing for that sweet, fresh taste of summer that you really can’t get from anything else. Here in Louisiana, down in Plaquemines parish, the Creole tomatoes are the ones that get top ratings. A vendor at the local farmer’s market offers fall and spring Creole tomatoes–grown in a hothouse I think–and to tell the truth, they aren’t half bad. They certainly beat the heck out of those watery, mealy ones at the grocery.

But they still aren’t summer tomatoes.

This recipe is one of the ways I tide myself over until the summer ones arrive. Tomato sauce has been a staple in my weekly cooking since I’ve had a kitchen of my own, and this recipe has been tweaked and tweaked until I could make it in my sleep. The sauce is super-easy and so versatile, but the basic premise of roasting the tomatoes for a long time and using plenty of Kosher salt to draw out their juices is really the crux of the preparation.

And believe me, when summer tomatoes arrive, this sauce will taste even sweeter.

Oven-Roasted Tomato Sauce

3-4 large tomatoes, chopped

Olive oil to coat

Kosher salt–probably about a tablespoon

Cracked black pepper

1 large yellow onion, chopped

4-5 cloves garlic, chopped

1 28-ounce can crushed tomatoes, or chopped if you want the texture

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Arrange the tomatoes on foil-lined baking sheets in a single layer. Drizzle olive oil onto the sheets, and then toss with your hands to make sure all the pieces are coated with oil. Sprinkle liberally with salt and pepper. Roast for about 45 minutes, until they shrivel and begin to blacken around the edges.

Meanwhile, heat 1 tablespoon of oil in a large saucepan (this will hold all of the sauce, so use a big one). Add the chopped onion and garlic and cook over medium heat until very soft, but not brown–about 20 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. If they soften before the tomatoes are done, turn the heat off. When the tomatoes are done, us a spatula to scrape them, with their juices and the black bits crusted on the baking sheet, into the pan with the onion and garlic. Turn the heat back up to medium, and stir, pressing the tomatoes with the back of your spoon to crush them. Add the canned tomatoes, and simmer this mixture for about 20 minutes.

Varations:

• For a richer, silkier sauce, you can swirl in a couple of tablespoons of butter at the end.
• Red wine adds another layer of depth too: turn the heat up on the onions and garlic and dump in about a half a glass to deglaze the pan before adding the tomatoes.
• You can use chopped tomatoes to keep the chunky texture, or crushed tomatoes for a smoother sauce. You can also put the whole thing through the food processor or blender if a smooth texture is what you’re after.
• Portabello mushrooms add an earthy flavor and substance I like if you’re serving the sauce over pasta–you can either add them to the onion-garlic saute, or roast them with the tomatoes. They won’t take as long to cook, about 15-20 minutes.

Ways to use the sauce to follow!

This recipe is my contribution to ARF/5-a-day Tuesday over at Sweetnicks.