This side is: a) 100% vegetables b) 100% hearty c) oddly Christmasy-looking d) all of the above If you guessed “d,” then you hate these kinds of questions because you always know whoever’s posing it is trying to get you to say that. And I don’t blame you. But you’ve got to try these green beans to believe how true it is.
As you can see, I’m drinking to the end of summer. Stirred (not shaken) up as a last-minute idea for the Salsa Takedown at Mo Pitkins, this salsa is my sloppy toast to another warm season of farm-fresh fruits and vegetables, many of which I feel much closer to in the wake of their departure for the fall.
I made this dish twice to get it right. The first time, I was going for salsa. It had hot peppers in it, vinegar, oil and sea salt. The second incarnation was more of a fresh fruit salad. Both were mellow, juicy and crisp little concoctions, like a summer cocktail. When I finally decided on the right balance of flavors, I hit a wall on what to name it. Salsa, or salad? Then again, what is the difference — really … Read More
A week or so ago, I bought a pint of thick, full-fat Greek-style plain yogurt. I planned on making the most mouthwatering, yet-undiscovered frozen yogurt flavor, but had no idea what it would be. A week of contemplation went by. What about a fresh, spicy ginger flavor with brown sugar? Maybe those sour cherries can be cooked down to a syrup and swirled in. What if I threw blueberry cobbler pieces into it with mascarpone cheese?
Water, water, everywhere! To worship the wettest Wednesday we’ve seen in New York, I decided to whip up this watery dish for the weekend. [Signal applause for alliteration.] In all seriousness, though, we had one whale of a washout!
Not really, silly. The word “Manhattan” here, of course, simply stands in for “tomato-based,” and though there may be who-knows-how-many similar vegetable soups enjoyed on the island of Manhattan, mine has never graced its turf. Yet while I may be slightly offish about Manhattan, I am not adverse to clams; my boyfriend is. Like relationships, it’s funny how some recipes begin: I had a craving for something soupy this week. (Most people I know avoid hot soups like the plague … Read More
Sometimes I just want to retreat to a vegetable paradise. Where I can, you know, peel potatoes in a grass skirt and roll around in fields of cornsilk to the tunes of Cat Stevens. I get this feeling especially after visiting a midsummer farmers’ market, soaking in the blissful variety and radiance of all the produce. It’s not so much a sensation of hunger that I get as it is of admiration and awe, similar to visiting a museum. That … Read More
Three words: Smoked Monterey Jack. A creamy composite of dove-complexioned tenderness on the inside, roughed up to a bronze smokehouse char on the outside. Not as piquant as smoked cheddar, or slightly spongy like smoked Gouda. It’s more like a mouthful of pure, cool summer barbecue breeze, the kind that wafts into your window from the neighbors’ yard and tantalizes you like crazy because you’re not invited.
Last week I reached for a jar on the back of the refrigerator door, knocked over the marinated artichoke hearts — the cap must have been lazily placed on top rather than screwed on — and spilled artichoke juice all over three shelves and the floor of the fridge. It didn’t smell half bad. Tonight, I intentionally did much the same to this simple spinach salad — that is, didn’t bother whisking up any dressing. Nada. It wasn’t half bad, … Read More
Two summers ago it was a bar on Columbia St., at the “edge of Cobble Hill,” called the B61 that I went to every spare happy hour I had and ordered a tall pint glass of bartender Jamie’s magnificent Bloody Marys. Two parts homemade Bloody Mary mix heavy on the horseradish, one part vodka, a splash of Guinness straight from the tap, spice seasoning on the rim of the glass, cracked black pepper at the bottom, three olives speared with … Read More