Sunshine On a Cloudy Day

Among the many things I've learned this week - including the shocking revalations that I love Los Angeles and this gluttinous sandwich - I discovered I would walk a mile for olive oil cake.

In fact, I walked multiple miles to try Mozza's rosemary olive oil loaf cake last week. And after a long bus ride and walk (and a pit stop my sister will tell you about if you're trustworthy), that little loaf of cake tasted pretty good. But if I'm being honest, it wasn't the cake of my dreams.

That title is reserved for the sunshine-y version I'd made weeks before and declared my new winer cure-all. That cake was delicate and wonderfully moist, with a lingering sweetness and all the warmth of the sunny California coast. Flecked with vanilla beans and brigthened by orange zest, the golden round disappeared quickly as both myself than my husband snitched slivers to get us through the rainy days.

Coming from a girl who previously regarded basic cakes as boring, updating one with olive oil was a revelation. Swapping olive oil for the neutral flavored cooking oil deepened the flavor of an otherwise typical cake and delivered a subtle fruitiness and a spongy texture that left me pining for more. I devoured that first small square of cake alongside a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream; then, not able to contain my craving for more, I stole a bite from my husband's plate and sighed in satisfaction.

I know, I'm cheating again because this isn't really a solo dining recipe. It could sort of fit the bill if you baked it in little loafs a la Mozza to squirrel away in the freezer and warm up whenever you need a pick me up. But I'd advise going big and inviting some friends over to celebrate it. It's just that kind of cake.

Vanilla-Olive Oil Cake
Do not omit the vanilla bean from this cake on account you think it's expensive. I bought my bean from the bulk section for 8 cents, and the recipe - from the wonderful Jess Thomson - wouldn't have been the same without it. If you want to portion this out into single servings, try dividing the batter between those adorable miniature loaf pans or even a muffin tin if that's what you have on hand.

Makes 1 8" cake

Vegetable or olive oil spray
1 cup low fat milk
1 (3-inch) piece vanilla bean, split lengthwise and seeded
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil (like Trader Joe's Spanish Olive Oil)
Zest from one orange

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees, and position a rack in the middle of the oven. Grease an 8” cake pan with the oil spray (or line it with parchment paper), and set aside.

In a small saucepan, bring the milk and the seeds from the vanilla bean to a bare simmer. Remove from heat and set aside to steep.

In a medium bowl, whisk the flour, baking powder, and salt together to blend. In a large bowl, whisk the eggs and sugar until well blended. Add the warm milk to the egg mixture in a slow, steady stream, whisking until combined. Fold in the flour mixture with a rubber spatula until just incorporated. Add the olive oil and the orange zest, and mix until just blended.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 25 to 35 minutes, or until the cake is golden and just beginning to brown at the edges. Let cool 10 minutes in the pan, then transfer the cake to a cooling rack or platter (depending on if you plan to serve it warm or at room temperature.)
-

Adapted (just a wee bit) from Jess Thomson of Hogwash

For as good as I am (or like to think I am) at multitasking, handling two or three tasks in the kitchen at once leaves me feeling frantic. I've never been someone who can simmer a sauce, roast a chicken, boil some pasta and toss a salad all at once; such efforts usually lead to a catastrophe that, while minor, certainly doesn't taste great on my plate.

In the very least I need a sous chef. But with one sous chef away at work and the other having flown south to LA for the winter and beyond, I'm left to tinker at the stove on my own. That position often leaves me making one pot meals like risottos and soups. But I've tired of those options of late and so, this week decided it was time for me to tackle the multi-component, multiple pan meal on my own. 

The thing that got me to take the leap was kale.

I've been eating kale's close cousin, chard, nearly daily, serving it sauteed on the side of my failed lamb experiment and, yes, with an egg. But I haven't picked up kale since my mom grew a patch for me in her garden back when I was an anemic high school-age runner desperately in need of some iron-rich meals.

Mention of a flash-cooked kale in Bon Appetit last month got kale back on my grocery list. The prep for the dish couldn't have been easier. I just needed to wash and roughly chop the kale, throw it in a hot pan with a bit of olive oil and a pat of butter, and let each piece wilt slightly before adding a squeeze of lemon juice and a pinch of salt on top. 

This may sound like another one pan recipe but the story is not quite over because the things I wanted to eat with that kale required more steps, more pans and a carefully timed dance about the kitchen as I multitasked my way from the stove to the table.

I wanted fresh linguine, cooked in a big pot of salted water until it was al dente. There needed to be little nubs of spicy Italian sausage, browned in a swirl of olive oil, slippery red onions for color, but also texture, and then the kale, crunchy-soft and lemony strewn through the noodles.

Somehow the vision of this impromptu dish propelled me to time everything just right, or as close to right as I've come yet. In my harried state, I forgot to toss the onions in with the pasta. No matter, they made a fine garnish and I can always give the dish another chance.

Pasta with Kale
You know, better than I, how much pasta and meat you like to eat for dinner. So tinker with the amounts here until you nail just the right portion to satisfy you if you like. Do not however trim back the amount of kale you use. It is the star of the dish and if your pasta looks more green than brown, trust me, you won't mind a bit. 

1/4 red onion, diced 
3 tablespoons olive oil, divided
1/4 pound spicy Italian sausage (pork or chicken)
1/4 pound fresh linguine
1/3 bunch of lacinato kale, washed, ribs removed and cut crosswise into 1/2-inch slices
1/2 lemon
Parmesan cheese, for garnish if desired

In a saute pan, cook the onion in 1 tablespoon olive oil until its bite fades and the pieces soften, about 5 minutes. Set aside in a small bowl.

Meanwhile, bring a pan of salted water to boil. Then add another tablespoon of olive oil to the saute pan. Once it is warm, begin cooking the sausage over medium heat.

When the sausage is nearly done, slide the pasta in the pot of boiling water and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until the noodles are al dente.

Meanwhile, slip a pat of butter and the remaining tablespoon of olive oil in a heavy saute pan. Once the butter has melted, place the kale in the pan. Toss the kale with tongs so every piece touches the hot surface of the pan. Continue cooking and tossing the pieces for a minute or so more, until they are just wilted, then turn off the heat and dress them with a squeeze of lemon juice.

Drain the pasta, leaving a bit of the cooking water in the pan (approximately a few tablespoons or so). Toss the sausage, onions and 1/2 the kale in with the pasta. Plate the dish, and garnish with the remaining kale and parmesan cheese, if desired. 

A Mouthful of Marmalade

As you may have noticed, I'm running a bit late this week. I've been running here for dinner, here and here for meetings, and sneaking moments at the computer between meals and moments in the kitchen between assignments. And as my husband so aptly put it yesterday, we've generally been running around like two chickens with our heads cut off all week.

And yet I still found time to caramelize onions for an orange-honey-thyme-onion marmalade; the mere memory of it was enough to make me put down what I was doing and pause for a good, long while over the stove.

I don't think orange-honey-thyme-onion marmalade is this dish's exact name (nor should it be - it's a mouthful). But it does describe the exact mix of ingredients that come together to create the garnet-hued spread I first tried in the kitchen at Trellis. The chef uses this recipe as a way to preserve the many pounds of onions he harvests from his farm each year; for me, the girl without an onion patch to call her own, making this marmalade is just another excuse to go to my favorite grocer, unwind at the stove and then eat really, really well. 

This marmalade begins with slow cooking the onions, carefully as you don't want them to burn. Then you add a heap of sugar and, many minutes later, the wine, orange juice, honey and thyme that turn that pile of onions into a handsome spread.

You have to let it stew for awhile, and darn it if you don't take a taste now and then, just to see how the whole thing's progressing. Eventually, you'll pinch a piece from the pot and intuitively know that your work is done. Then you'll sample a larger bite, a spoonful maybe, just to make sure it's ready, and the flavors will jump out at you one after another - first the assertive orange, then the subtle thyme, the sweet, lingering honey and the softened wine, all clinging to a spoonful of silken onions as they slip across your tongue.

I wouldn't blame you if you ate that whole tangle of onions that way, spoonful after spoonful. But then you'd miss out on the meal I made: onion and pear topped flatbread. I didn't care to write down a recipe for it, as it's more a method than an exact science. First, I snatched off a bit of dough from the ball my husband made and formed it into a misshapen rectangle with rustic little rounded edges that I folded back over themselves to form just a hint of a crust. The marmalade, that went in the middle, topped with paper-thin slices of Asian pear. Then, I popped the whole thing in the oven and waited for it to crisp up. Granted, I should have been a bit more patient with my little pizette as it was disappointingly soggy in the middle. But with a mouthful of marmalade accompanying each bite, I barely noticed at all. 

Orange-Honey-Thyme-Onion Marmalade

If you are someone who wants a quick, 30-minute meal tonight, turn on Rachael Ray. This marmalade will take you a bit longer than that to prepare but then you'll have enough for a little pizette and a tiny jar of leftovers to accompany a cheese and cracker plate one night and garnish an arugula salad the next. 

1 pint orange juice

2 1/2 red onions, peeled and sliced into small slivers

1/4 cup olive oil

1/3 cup sugar

1/2 cup red wine

3 springs of thyme

Zest from 1 orange

1/2 cup honey 

In a small saucepan over medium heat, reduce the orange juice until you have 1/4 cup remaining.

Meanwhile, sweat the onions in the olive oil until they are translucent. Stir in the sugar and continue to cook the onions as they slightly caramalize. 

Add the red wine, orange zest and leaves from the thyme sprigs, and simmer slowly until the liquid is reduced by about half. 

Add the reduced orange juice and honey and simmer for 5 additional minutes. Remove the pan from the heat and cool. Store the onions in a lidded container in the fridge.

-Adapted from Chef Brian Scheehser of Trellis Restaurant

My Moroccan Mistake

I had meant to bring you something really special today, something exotic, something Moroccan, maybe, because up until now I've felt a bit like a cheat. Despite my self-imposed mission to start cooking better solo meals, I've played it safe; with all the salads, soups and scratch-baked treats I've been sharing, I haven't really branched outside my comfort zone. 

Yes, I've gone beyond the tried in true, substituting a composed salad for my traditional green salad or a tomato bread soup that, quite frankly, didn't differ much from my favorite fall fallback. But a salad is a salad and soup is a soup, and those muffins I told you about are a version of the same breakfast I've been eating for most of my adult life.

So this week, I really wanted to uphold my end of the deal. I took a midday work break, settled in with some books and started scouring them for a recipe that would teach me how to braise meat. Why braising? Visions of slow-cooked, fork-tender lamb shank, shredded and spooned over polenta had somehow wiggled its way into my head and I just couldn't let that image go.

Unfortunately, my exhaustive search yielded exactly one dull braised lamb recipe. But I did find a recipe for a Moroccan lamb so I combined the method from the first recipe and the spices from the later, and let that braising liquid bubble away for hours. 

When I opened that pot, the meat was indeed falling off the bone and the scent of cinnamon, cumin and coriander that perfumed the air set my mouth watering. The meat itself was a bit dull, so I reduced the braising liquid down, blended it together and poured it back over the now shredded lamb meat. The flavor was greatly improved but now - and forgive me for being graphic - it was the color of something you'd find in a diaper. Since it was just me, I ate that lamb and liked it, but I cannot encourage you to take so much time to make something so unappealing to the eye.

Fortunately, there was a savior in this whole, long braising experiment: the side of polenta. I have been making polenta off and on ever since I found a recipe for polenta corn cakes from a local inn. Before that, I had not known how easy polenta was to make - or how fun. As soon as you pour the corn grits into the pan, they start burbling and burping and letting off gusts of steam such that you'd think they were having a party in a pan as you stir them together. I promise, these silly little noises will stretch a smile across your face.

So too will the finished polenta. I recommend you make it now and then again and again for it is forever versatile. You might refrigerate it in shallow little pans and fry up slices in the morning to serve with a slippery poached egg on top. Or, you could spoon a large heap of just-cooked polenta onto your plate, and fan out some pale pink pork tenderloin around it. You can push the indulgence meter into the red by stirring in hunks of crumbly cheese, or leave the polenta plain to ground a dish like Steamed Eggs in a Nest of Greens (yes, there I go with that recipe, again).

Maybe you'll even find something exotic to pair it with - just not my Moroccan lamb shanks.

Polenta for One

The truly great thing about a recipe this simple is you can update it at will. You can chop up fresh herbs and toss them in the pot at the last minute, or add a crumbly cheese and watch it melt and make the polenta impossibly rich with a few turns of a mixing spoon. To make enough for leftovers, you can double or triple the recipe (don't worry, the math's easy) and chill the remaining polenta in a shallow pan. Then, all that's left to do is fry up the firm pieces for your next meal. 

1 cup low-fat milk (or water if you prefer)
A pinch of salt
1/3 cup stone-ground yellow cornmeal

Bring the milk (or water) and salt to boil in a heavy saucepan over medium-high heat. 

Once the milk is warm, add the cornmeal in a thin stream, whisking constantly as you pour it into the saucepan. Turn the heat to low and continue stirring with the whisk or a wooden spoon (constantly or it will get lumpy) until the mixture has thickened and starts to pull away from the sides of the pan, or about 10 minutes.

Stir in cheese, herbs - whatever you want really - and serve immediately.

-Adapted from The New Basics Cookbook

Soups On

When the first dark, drippy day of fall arrives and other people slip on their rain jackets and mourn the end of summer, I can be found peaking out my window with a smile spreading across my face for that day that announces the season for sweaters and scarfs, curbside puddles, falling leaves and weekends spent turning the dog-eared pages of my well-loved books.

And, best of all, it's also the season for soup.

From October through March (or sometimes April or May - this is Portland after all) soup is my constant mealtime companion and midday belly warmer. Though I love the rain, the chill that accompanies it creeps into my bones such that I can often be found writing at my computer in faux fur-lined slippers and a down jacket with a blanket draped across my lap. It's a ridiculous get up but that cocoon keeps me warm until it's time to eat soup.

I'm not very creative when it comes to winter soups, preferring instead to tweak my go-to tomato soup recipe just so, and just often enough that I don't get bored with it. Ever. And yes, despite the fact that I've already explained that I abhor tomatoes, I find no fault with the taste and texture of tomatoes when I eat them crushed, from a can.

That's where my recipe always starts, with a can of crushed tomatoes and a splash of chicken broth. In the "old" days, back when I was a penny-pinching studio dweller, I added little nuggets of herbed sausage and a handful of spinach to the soup. It was sort of like a meatball soup, but not quite. And though my husband loved this version (minus the spinach) I sought something more refined.

Over time, I've added bits of salty proscuitto to the pot, then topped my bowl with peppery arugula and a drizzle of aged balsamic vinegar. I've sprinkled it liberally with feta cheese (with poor results) and aged Parmesan (the perfect garnish), and often mixed in frozen shrimp or fresh fish to create a makeshift cioppino.

The version I'm certain will appear many times this year is my riff on Donna Hay's tomato basil-bread soup. All the recipe required was that I simmer the soup base for a time, then turn off the heat and add big chunks of soft, spongy bread and a handful of basil leaves. I know, soggy bread might not sound appetizing but the heft those little bread bits give the soup changes the experience of eating it entirely. Go ahead, give it a try. 

Italian Tomato and Basil Bread Soup
The original recipe called for stewing very ripe tomatoes down into a chunky sauce. Since good, local tomatoes are hard to find in Portland during the late fall and winter, I streamlined the recipe by using a can of crushed tomatoes instead. Crushed tomatoes usually come in 28-ounce cans; this recipe makes a bit too much soup for me to slurp up in one meal so I often reserve the leftover soup for "second rounds", adding more broth and fresh bread if I want to bulk it up the next day. 

1 teaspoon olive oil
1 clove garlic, smashed but left whole
1 can crushed tomatoes (unsalted if you can find them)
1/4 cup low-sodium chicken broth 
1 1-inch thick slice artisan bread, crust removed and torn into chunks
1 handful basil leaves, torn into tiny pieces
Salt and fresh cracked black pepper, to taste

Warm the olive oil in a small saucepan over medium heat. Add the garlic clove and saute for a minute. Pour in the crushed tomatoes and the low sodium chicken broth, and stir the soup base together. 

Place a lid on the pot and simmer for approximately 10 minutes or until the soup is warmed through. 

Remove the garlic clove and simmer to taste with salt and pepper. Turn the heat off and add the bread and basil to the pot. Allow the soup to stand for 5 minutes, covered, then ladle into bowls and serve unadorned or garnished as desired.

-Adapted from Modern Classics by Donna Hay

An Obsession

I feel a bit like I've failed you this week. I should be reporting with tales of triumphant one person meals, maybe a rustic risotto, a heady French onion soup or a flaky fillet of white fish, perfectly prepared and prettily presented in a parchment paper packet.

But I've made none of these things this week because every time I go to open a cookbook or plan dinner, I decide I'd rather be baking. So I do. This week has been a flurry of flour and sugar and butter, all spun together in the bowl of my mixer to make lemon blueberry buckle, from-scratch granola bars pocked with half-moons of dried apricot and blackberry muffins that carry my summertime favorite into fall.

It's the muffins I want to talk to you about today. Anyone who knows me well, knows I am among the muffin obsessed. It started when I worked at a wholesome little bakery as the bleary-eyed countergirl (my shift started before six...on a weekend). Thoughts of their oatmeal berry muffins roused me from bed before sunrise, and eating one, or two, got me through many a shift. Years later, those muffins filled my freezer at college; I stocked up on a few dozen every time I went home, then rationed them throughout the term like a squirrel trying to make a nut stash last through the winter.

There were, of course, Muffin Mondays at the local bakery with two dear friends and muffin making mornings shared with my trio of roommates, who were only too happy to let me bake away. Even now, muffins are the baked good I gravitate toward because, like cookies and cupcakes, they are perfectly proportioned for one.

So every weekend of late, I've made a batch of muffins to freeze and then defrost and eat throughout the week. For awhile, I was trying different recipes on for size, to see which one suited me in the same way another woman might try this style or that one before deciding that her look was sporty chic. And eventually, I met a muffin that finally halted my search for the perfect one.

Appropriately, it called for the harbinger of spring, those skinny red stalks of rhubarb that fill the stands at the first farmer's markets of the year. When rhubarb season ended, however, I found that the recipe was equally impressive made with most any fruit. My preference of late has been the local blackberries my husband Jake and I froze on trays in our freezer, then tucked away in baggies for a rainy day.

I like to split these moist, sugar-dusted muffins in half and top the stump with a bit of jam, then save the best part - the muffin top - for last. Don't ask me why the top is the best part. I can't pinpoint why I like it best, but I know the muffin-obsessed among us will agree. 

Blackberry Applesauce Muffins
In my opinion, the best muffins have a lingering sweetness, which is best achieved with a dusting of sugar or crumbly topping of some sort. So while these muffins might taste fine plain, I can't say I've tried them that way. Instead, I always dust them with a bit of brown sugar and cinnamon before I pop them in the oven. 

2 cups whole wheat flour
1 cup all purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 eggs
1 1/4 cups packed brown sugar
1 cup applesauce
3/4 cup canola oil
1 1/2 cup frozen blackberries (or fresh rhubarb cut into 1/4-inch pieces or a frozen fruit of your choice)
Cinnamon and brown sugar topping, if desired (I use about 1/2 cup of brown sugar and a teaspoon of cinnamon)

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

In a large mixing bowl, stir together both flours, the baking powder, cinnamon, baking soda and salt. Make a well in the center and set the bowl aside.

In a medium mixing bowl, beat the eggs with a small whisk. Whisk in the brown sugar, applesauce and oil. 

Pour the wet ingredients into the well you made in the dry ingredients, and stir until the batter is combined. Fold in the blackberries.

Grease a standard size muffin tin or place liners in each of 12 muffin cups. Fill each cup to the brim (to encourage a massive top) and sprinkle the batter with the cinnamon-sugar mixture if desired.

Bake for 18 to 20 or until the tops are golden and a toothpick comes out clean when you pierce a muffin in the middle. (If the tops start to look too brown but the insides still need oven time, cover the tops with a large piece of tinfoil).

Serve warm, preferably with berry jam, or cool and freeze to eat later.

Going Green

Since it is officially October, the season of falling leaves, rain storms and minimal sun, I think I can safely reflect on my summer goals. And more specifically, the goal I failed at reaching. 

You see, this summer I had planned to learn to love tomatoes. I didn't.

Now, I've always liked tomatoes in cooked, pureed form; I enjoy rustic tomato soups, pasta tossed with marinara sauce and, on occasion, a cheeseburger spread with liberal amounts of ketchup. But something about the texture of a fresh tomato has always made me push my plate away when I encounter it. No matter that the heirlooms looked temptingly beautiful with their glossy sheen and imperfect silhouettes at the market this fall, or that if I tried hard enough I could conjure a craving for a BLT or caprese salad. When I nibbled at a cherry tomato or tried to trick myself by hiding small slices of an Early Girl tomatoes in a panini sandwich, I discovered that my stomach would not concede to my wishes.

All of this throat-clearing is my way of saying I still don't like fresh tomatoes, and as such fresh tomatoes won't appear in this week's recipe. My tabouleh is all green.

The first time I made tabouleh - the popular Middle Eastern salad traditionally made from parsley, bulgur wheat, mint, tomatoes and green onions - it turned out ok. At that point in my life, I didn't own the modern kitchen workhorse, the food processor, and try as I might, I couldn't chop the parsley fine enough to help it meet my expectations for the dish. I ate that makeshift concoction - sans tomatoes of course - but quickly forgot about tabouleh until I ran into two recipes for this sprightly salad last week. 

So one night this week when I planned to eat alone (my husband also has particular food neurosis - he disregards hippie-dippie ingredients like bulgur with fervor), I gave generous handfuls of parsley and a few mint leaves a quick spin in the food processor. Then I tossed the chopped herbs together with the cooked bulgur, which is the easiest-going grain I've encountered yet. Making it simply requires you boil water, add the bulgur and wait for it to cook. That's it. 

Anyway, I then added some chunks of cucumber to contrast the soft grains with a crisp, clean bite and tossed the whole jumble in a simple vinaigrette of extra virgin olive oil and lemon. Then I piled it atop a bed of greens and sat down to a meal that was particularly lovely - tomato goal achieved or not. 


All Green Tabouleh 
If you're like me, you won't miss tomatoes in this recipe. But if you want to add them, go ahead. I imagine chopped tomatoes or plump little cherry tomatoes slivered in half would both work well here. Also, it's worth noting that you can adjust the amount of vinaigrette you use to suit your tastes. When I first made tabouleh, I used twice as much dressing. Now, I prefer it lightly dressed. 

2/3 cup water
1/3 cup bulgur wheat
1/2 cup parsley leaves
2 tablespoons mint leaves
1/2 small cucumber, seeds scooped out, peeled and diced 
1 scallion, finely chopped
1/8 cup lemon juice (approximately the amount from 1 small lemon)
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
Red leaf lettuce

Bring the water to boil with a pinch of salt. Once it is boiling, turn off the heat and add the bulgur. Cover, and let stand for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, place the parsley leaves and mint leaves in the bowl of a food processor and pulse until they are finely chopped.

If necessary, drain the remaining water off the bulgur. In a small mixing bowl, stir the cooked bulgur, parsley and mint mixture, cucumber and scallion together. Add the olive oil and lemon juice and toss until well combined. Salt and pepper the salad to taste.

Pile the salad on a bed of red leaf lettuce and serve immediately.

Open Faced

The French, they call them tartines, the Italians, bruschetta. And though you might not be familiar with these terms, you've been eating an Americanized version of these open-faced sandwiches since your mom slid that first crisp cheese toast onto your plate at age 5.

I don't recall loving open faced sandwiches as a kid (maybe I'm wrong, mom?). But I do love snacking on these European bites now. Those Europeans take the basic idea of an open-faced sandwich and dress it up with fancy spreads and elaborate toppings, or simply add a layer of creamy cheese and something salty, like prosciutto, and pronounce it perfect. Tartines, or bruschetta, make excellent meals for light appetites (there's only one piece of bread!) and are just showy enough that you'll feel good about serving a class of sandwich for supper. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I like to elevate my open-faced sandwiches with a spread like a freshly blitzed pesto or a thin layer of grainy mustard. But I won't leave it at that; I couldn't not tell you about my favorite open-faced sandwich spread. It goes by the name of crema.

I met crema on another blog (you won't be surprised when I tell you which one), and I've been lusting after it ever since. Just ask my husband, who rolls his eyes when I pull out the ingredients to make a new batch each week.  

Based on its name, you might think crema contains cups of cream. But actually, crema consists of just three main ingredients: a red onion, walnuts and olive oil. As separate entities, these pantry staples might add a hint of indulgence to a dish; when blended together, they deliver a degree of decadence that seems impossible for something so simple.

When I first made crema, I served it pooled under a bed of fresh-from-the-market asparagus, just as the recipe instructed. But when asparagus season waned and my crema cravings didn't, I started seeking other ways to use it. I quickly learned it loves to coat the noodles in a seasonally-driven vegetarian pasta and that it can stand in for tomato sauce on a margarita pizza. It has become my go-to dip for the baby carrots I store in my fridge (and not surprisingly, it looks just like hummus). And when it comes to sandwich spreads, I find it bests mayonnaise, mustard and pedestrian pesto every time.

So yes, let's get back to that sandwich (my apologies...crema sometimes distracts me like that). Like any good sandwich, open-faced or not, this one starts with a high quality bread like the rustic, country boule I pick up from Ken's Artisan Bakery every week. I sliver it oh-so-thinly, then crisp it's crumb in the oven since I like the spread to sit atop the bread, not soak it through. 

When it's slightly crunchy round the edges, I slather the bread with the crema and layer on whatever greens are waiting in my fridge - arugula, artichoke hearts, Swiss chard. Sometimes, I sneak in a whisper-thin slice of proscuitto in between the spread and the veggies and other times, I sprinkle the whole slab with feta cheese before I dig in.

The beauty of this sandwich is that it does not need a recipe; sometimes, it's nice to be free from the constraints of recipe rules. However, if you're ready to meet crema, you'll need the recipe below. It makes more than enough for one sandwich but I have no doubt you'll find a way to use the leftovers as well.


Crema Sauce
This sauce is incredibly easy to make and forever versatile. The only caveat I have is that nuts can be quite bitter to some tastes. If their bitter flavor doesn't suit you, try blanching the nuts in the salted water twice to further soften their bite.

Kosher salt
1 1/2 cups walnuts
1/3 cup plus 1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
1 small red onion, diced (about 1 cup)
1/2 cup reserved cooking liquid, divided 

Bring a pot of salted water to boil. Add the walnuts and blanch for 10 to 12 minutes or until tender in the middle. Drain the walnuts, reserving 1/2 cup of the cooking liquid. Set aside.

Meanwhile, in a saute pan, heat the 1 tablespoon olive oil over medium heat. Add the onion and generous pinch of salt and sweat for about 7 minutes, or until golden brown and tender. Remove from the heat. 

In a food processor, combine the cooked onion, walnuts and 1/4 cup of the reserved cooking liquid. Process until creamy. Taste for seasoning and add more salt if needed. 

With the processor running, gradually add the remaining 1/3 cup olive oil, processing until creamy. The crema should have the consistency of a smooth hummus. If it is too thick, add a little more of the reserved cooking water. 

Taste again for seasoning and adjust as needed. Store in a covered container in the refrigerator for up to a week before using - though I doubt it will stick around for that long.

-Adapted from the A16 Food + Wine cookbook

The New Salad Course

 

Years ago, I had the pleasure of working at a tiny French cafe. It wasn't the sort of cafe that's particularly charming, with black and white decor, vases of daffodils lining the kitchen counter and tiny twinkling lights strung overhead. Rather, it was a bare bones restaurant nestled into the corner of an art gallery on my college campus. Diners ordered at the counter then followed a ramp, yes a ramp, to a sunken dining room filled with cookie cutter tables and chairs. And, though there were rich, Cabernet colored walls and music, always music, piped in overhead, it wasn't idyllic in the least.

But the food was sturdy and solid and good, French cuisine with a Northwest twist. We served a French onion soup so seductive I snuck a spoonful of it with every turn through the kitchen. Back behind those swinging kitchen doors, the cheeky (in every sense of the word) chef layered petite baguettes with prosciutto and cheese, and crisped little Croque Bébés on the grill top until they were practically melting with butter. In the fall, students returning to campus clamored for a slice of bacon-studded Quiche Lorraine; in the winter, they soothed their stomachs with silky squash soup.

And always, there was the composed salad. At the cafe, the composition was made of an herb-dusted potato salad, a creamy celery root remoulade, jewel-toned roasted beets and a refreshing carrot slaw. I cared not for it.

In fact, I'd never ordered it myself and hadn't thought about it in years until recently, when I decided my salad plate was looking rather green.

Most days, I toss arugula or mesclun greens with a vinaigrette, homemade croutons, grated cheese and, maybe, baby shrimp. This loose-knit combination has been my fall-back recipe for years but lately I've been bored by my lack of creativity and starting to experiment with fresh alternatives. In the last month, Molly Wizenberg's red cabbage salad with lemon and black pepper had got me rethinking my previous opinions on raw cabbage. Jamie Oliver introduced me to the pleasures of pairing carrot and cilantro in one "treat for all" as he call his citrusy carrot salad recipe. And Mark Bittman, well, he offered 101 ideas to help me recreate the salad course of which I landed upon a fennel and apple salad dressed in a mustard vinaigrette.

After sampling these recipes individually, I recalled the salad I served at the cafe years ago, and decided to put all these pieces together on one plate (smaller versions of course - not even this veggie-lover can eat that much foliage). I'll warn you ahead of time that this cobbled together salad requires so much chopping and dicing and slicing that you'll soon feel like a sous chef whose bane of existence is to prep piece after piece of produce. But the result is a colorful plate that boasts three inviting salads in one course. It's not French by any means but it is a perfect meal for one.

Composed Salad 

This is really three recipes in one, each yielding enough for a leftover snack the next day unless you're really hungry. I find it helpful to approach each salad individually, doing all the fancy knife work, measuring and tossing for one salad before tackling the next one. Then, you're just left to assemble the trio of salads and set to work with your fork. Of course, if you are feeling particularly lazy - and I sometimes am - you can make each of these recipes individually and serve them aside something lovely like an omelet for supper.

 

For the Red Cabbage Salad

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

Pinch of pressed garlic (approximately 1/16 of a tablespoon, if you own a spoon that small)

Pinch of kosher salt

1/2 of a small red cabbage

1/8 cup grated or crumbled Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese

Freshly ground black pepper

Make the dressing in a small bowl by whisking together the olive oil, lemon juice, garlic and salt. Set the bowl aside while you prepare the cabbage.

Pull away any bruised leaves from the outside of the cabbage, and trim its root end to remove any dirt. Cut the cabbage half in half again and, using a mandoline or a sharp knife, slice each hunk as thin as you possibly can (aim for no larger than 1/4-inch slivers). 

Add the cabbage to the dressing bowl and toss together. Add the cheese and toss lightly. Taste, and season as needed.

-From Molly Wizenberg's A Homemade Life

Fennel-Apple Salad

1/2 of a small fennel bulb

1/2 of a small crisp apple, like a gala

1 tablespoon mustard vinaigrette, like the one here

2 tablespoons parsley

Salt and pepper

Using a mandoline julienne your fennel and apple into tiny matchsticks. Place them in a bowl, then toss with the dressing. Add the parsley and season with salt and pepper to taste.

-Adapted from Mark Bittman

Carrot and Cilantro Salad

Zest and juice of 1/2 an orange

Juice of 1 lemon

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

3 medium-sized carrots, washed and peeled

Small handful of fresh cilantro leaves

4 tablespoons golden raisins 

Make the dressing in a medium-sized bowl by whisking together the orange juice and zest, lemon juice and olive oil. Set aside.


Cut all the carrots into fine ribbons (I use a peeler, though you could cut the carrots into matchsticks or grate them instead and the recipe would turn out fine). Add the carrots, cilantro and raisins to the bowl. Toss well, then season to taste with salt and pepper. 

-Adapted from Jamie Oliver's Jamie's Dinners

Lastly, mound equal amounts of each salad on a plate and serve.

Falling in Love with Fruit Crisp

 

When I think about what I really love to eat, there's fruit crisp hovering in my sub conscious. It's the quintessential dessert topping in the summer sprinkled over plump jewel-toned berries, and equally addictive in the fall forming a golden crumb roof over slivers of apples or cubes of quince. 

What I love most about a crisp crust is that it's flexible, allowing for whimsical adaptions or a last minute flip flop of say crunchy walnuts standing in for oats to give the streuselly, crunchy-tender exterior added texture and oomph.

I'd trade fruit crisp for any custard or cake - even a sliver of dense, raisin-pocked carrot cake (easily my second favorite dessert). I'd eat it for dinner if I could, and can knowingly recommend a bowlful for breakfast. It is the food of my childhood - a Sunday evening tradition for a house full of girls - and the food of my adult life as well, made many times over to impress houseguests, beat back loneliness or soothe a sour mood.

So yes, in my mind, fruit crisp is perfect. Well, almost. It does have one flaw: it feels incredibly gluttonous to make a big, rustic pan of crisp for one. 

The solution, I've found, is to hack my favorite topping recipe in half, then halve it again such that I have the perfect amount to crumble over a juicy peach. When my sweet tooth strikes, I split the peach in half and mound the crumb into the gaping indentation leftover by the pit. It's the same idea of combining plump, juicy fruit and an oaty, toothsome topping, only in a petite, personal-size version of my favorite dessert.

Personal-Size Peach "Crisp"

This recipe makes enough for two to four peach halves, depending on the size of your peach. I store the leftover topping in a tiny jar in the freezer so I have it on hand the next time a crisp craving arrives unannounced.

3 tablespoons chilled unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes

1/4 cup firmly packed brown sugar

2 tablespoons granulated sugar

2 tablespoons all purpose flour

1/3 cup old-fashioned oats

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

Pinch of kosher salt

1 ripe peach

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Plop the butter, sugars, flour, oats, cinnamon and salt in the bowl of a food processor. Blitz it all together until the ingredients are well combined, but still crumbly (you want to stop mixing it before it comes together in one uniform ball). Keep it in the refrigerator until ready to use.

Slice the peach in half and remove the pit. Place the halves in a small glass baking dish. Remove the topping from the refrigerator and scatter over the tops of the peaches, about a 1/2-inch deep.

Place the baking dish in the oven and cook for approximately ten minutes, or until the peaches are somewhat soft when poked with a fork or knife and the crust is golden brown.

Serve solo or, better yet, with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream.

The Quinoa Cop Out

I have to admit: cooking quinoa seemed like a cop out in my new mission to cook well for one. It's been one of my pantry staples since college (not surprising since I went to school in hippie Eugene, Oregon) and by now, I figured I'd made quinoa salad in every possible permeation. 

The version I’ve eaten more times than I care to count involves dressing a cooked pot of quinoa with a squirt of lemon juice, then adding slivers of green onion, bright edamame and little pink shrimp. At times, I've tossed in lemon zest, currants and salty feta cheese to try and coax a lively flavor out of the wholesome, plain Jane grain; other evenings, I’ve turned it into a bed for a Mediterranean stir fry of chicken sausage, artichoke hearts and spinach. But if I'm being honest, all of these version were a bit boring.

When I made my latest quinoa salad, however, I finally understood what all those fall-back, thrown-together recipes lacked: crunch. Quinoa is couscous-esque in that it is one of those grains more favored for its fluffy texture than its toothsome bite. So, you can imagine that the pleasure of eating quinoa dulls after a few bites if you don’t add an ingredient that counters its soft character. 

I found my savior in a recipe that called for pistachios. I realized they were just what quinoa needed when I found myself rooting around in my bowl to make sure I had a pistachio bit in every bite. The recipe won me over even more by calling for jewel-toned cranberries; I threw in a shower of feta cheese – I figure if you’re going to add something crunchy, you might as well add something crumbly too.

Quinoa Salad with Pistachios, Cranberries and Feta

Adapted from The New American Olive Oil by Fran Gage

Quinoa is not something I like to eat plain. Served solo, it is boring and bland - not to mention plain Jane brown - which is why I have always turned it into a salad studded with bright greens or shiny dried fruit. This recipe adds color and crunch by way of chopped pistachios that are now my secret weapon for making quinoa salads that wow. I’m cheating a bit by sharing a recipe that serves 4 but trust me, these are leftovers solo diners will be happy to have on hand.

1 cup quinoa

1 1/2 cups water

2 tablespoons red wine vinegar

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

3 scallions, green tops removed, sliced

1/3 cup pistachio nuts, lightly toasted and coarsely chopped

1/4 cup dried cranberries

¼ cup feta cheese

Salt and black pepper, to taste

Toast the quinoa in a medium skillet over high heat, shaking the pan occasionally, until it lightly browns, starts to crackle, and smells a bit toasted, or about 3 minutes. Meanwhile, bring the water to boil in a small pot. When the water is boiling, add the quinoa to the pot, cover and turn the temperature to low. Cook until the quinoa is soft but still has a little bite, and all the water has been absorbed, or about 12 to 15 minutes.

Transfer the grain to a bowl and let it cool slightly before tossing it with the vinegar and olive oil. Mix in the pistachio nuts, scallions, cranberries and feta cheese.

Serve immediately, or if not serving immediately, refrigerate the salad in a lidded container to peck at later for snacks and lunches as you like.

An Edible Nest

I never thought I'd start a blog. It felt too indulgent, too self-promotional, too, well, not me. But here I am, putting my most personal thoughts (or at least my personal thoughts as they pertain to food) on the internet for everyone to see.

But simply wanting to write about food was not my reason for starting this blog. No, this blog came about because I am struggling with a task that has recently fallen upon me, that task being cooking for one.

You see reader, dinners at my house follow a familiar pattern. When I have people to feed (or alternatively try and impress), I serve tender pork mole, shredded and stuffed into barely blistered tortillas. Or, I spin silky slow-cooked leeks into a pot of homemade noodles or wrap a snowy white fish fillet in prosciutto and perch it atop a bed of mescalin greens, looking every bit like an edible present waiting to be unwrapped.

But when it’s just me, I’m embarrassed to admit I make "everything but the kitchen sink" salads or scramble egg whites with spinach and cheese and call it supper. Or I crank open a can of crushed tomatoes and dump it into a pot to make my fallback dish: no-frills tomato soup. I haven't sunken so low to eat cereal for dinner but I'm certainly no Barefoot Contessa when I'm cooking for one. And unfortunately, I cook for one a lot because my husband’s a firefighter who lives at his station every third day.

So you can imagine that I was eating a lot of dull meals, and that I needed a bit of motivation to improve my solo suppers, which in turn prompted quite a few people to suggest I start a blog. So here we are at the beginning - the start of my mission to start cooking well, for one. Fortunately, I begin with a bit of help care of a soon-to-be-released cookbook, aptly titled The Pleasures of Cooking for One. The author (you may know her? Judith Jones?) makes a valid argument that cooking for one is about, you guessed it, you. It's about cooking what you want to eat, feeding your of-the-moment cravings and servicing your taste buds and culinary desires without heeding the wants or needs of anyone else. Refreshing, no?

My craving, it seemed, was for Steamed Eggs Nestled in a Bed of Greens; this was the recipe that got me off the couch and into the kitchen. The dish sounded impossibly simple and completely rustic, and the accompanying photo called out to my love of all things green and my preference for eggs served with slightly runny yolks.

To make it, you tear up a bunch of young, hearty greens - for me, rainbow chard - and toss them in a hot skillet with a bit of olive oil and slivers of garlic to wilt and droop just a bit. Then, you add a bit of liquid, cook the greens till they're tender and make a little indentation in the middle of the "nest" to add the piece de resistance: the egg. Once the whole thing has steamed for a few minutes, you scoop the mound of greens and egg into a bowl using a slotted spoon. Dinner is served.

So reader, here is my gift to you. A rustic recipe meant for one and a promise of more meals made for one to come.

Steamed Eggs in a Nest of Greens

Adapted from The Pleasures of Cooking for One

Judith Jones calls for water to use to steam the greens and eggs in this recipe. I prefer the backbone of flavor that a rich broth brings to the dish, so I cut the water with a bit of low sodium vegetable broth. I recommend serving this with a thick slice of rustic bread - it is an extremely practical tool for sopping up all the goodness in your bowl.

What you need

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

1 garlic clove, peeled and slivered

2 handfuls of tender greens, such as Swiss chard or spinach

1/4 cup water

1/4 cup low sodium vegetable broth

1 or 2 large eggs

Salt

Freshly ground pepper

Parmesan cheese (optional)

Heat a wok or a large saute pan (the kind with a tight-fitting lid), pour in the oil and drop in the slivers of garlic once it is hot. Cook, stirring over high heat, and just before the garlic starts to brown, toss in all the greens. Stir-fry for 1 minute, then add the water and vegetable broth. Cook the greens until they are almost tender.

Using a wooden spoon, make an indentation in the center of the greens (or two indentations if you are using two eggs), and crack the eggs into it. Check to be sure there is enough water left to steam them; if there isn't, add a little more.

Sprinkle on the salt and pepper, cover, and steam over medium heat. The eggs will be ready in about 3 minutes, at which point the liquid should be almost boiled away. Turn off the heat, and remove the greens and eggs carefully to a plate, using a large slotted spatula so the remaining liquid stays in the pan. Center eggs in the middle of the plate with the greens "nested" around them. Shower with Parmesan cheese, or not, and serve immediately.