Making a Real Dinner: Fried Farro and Dark Greens

Here's a dish I simply must tell you about: Fried Farro and Dark Greens. I made it for the first time in Point Reyes, but it's snuck into our weeknight rotation at least two times since. It's easy. It's healthy. It's the perfect meal if I'm eating alone and the leftovers are just as good the next day for lunch, hot or cold. Plus, it's extraordinary topped with a fried egg, or alongside roasted chicken or sausage. 

Last night, I used a big bunch of kale as my dark greens and also tossed in a few fresh herbs (marjoram from our CSA box, basil, and parsley). Sean's was served with a pan fried chicken sausage, mine was topped with half an avocado. 

I like to call this kind of dinner "peasant food." Simple and hearty, these aren't always the most attractive dishes but they are -- without fail -- my favorite to consume.

Add in a little farmer's market bread, a chunk of Gruyere, and a bottle of pink wine. Suddenly the mid-weeknight is feeling less frenzied, more authentic. Just the way I like it.

Fried Farro and Dark Greens

Adapted from Off the Menu by Marissa Guggiana

1 cup farro

1 bunch dark greens (kale, chard, collard)

3 Tbl. olive oil

2 garlic cloves, chopped

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Spread the dry farro on a sheet pan and toast it until a little brown, about 10 minutes. Toasting the farro will enhance the flavor. Note: Alternately, I've done this step in the toaster oven (simply toast the grain) as well as pan toasting it in a hot frying pan before cooking the grain. All methods work well.

Coarsely chop the dark greens. In a medium saucepan, bring 3 cups of water to a boil and add the greens. Cook over high heat for 5 to 8 minutes; drain and set aside. 

Combine the toasted farro with 2½ cups salted water in the saucepan. Bring to a boil, lower to a simmer, cover and cook for 20 to 30 minutes or until done. Drain the farro.

Heat a medium cast-iron skillet or other heavy-bottomed pan over medium heat. Add 2 tablespoons of the olive oil, and the garlic. Stir-fry for a few minutes, until the onion is just tender and beginning to brown. Add the farro along with the remaining tablespoon of oil and continue to fry to encourage browning, constantly stirring to avoid burning, about 6 to 7 minutes. After the farro is fried, add about 2 cups (or more) of the cooked greens and warm through. Serve immediately.

The Summer Do List

The moment the calendar flipped over to August I was struck with a level of panic that's normally reserved for small school children. I know summer isn't technically over yet, but there's no more vacations on our horizon and there's a half-dozen zucchini in every CSA box we get. Not to be dramatic, but the end is near.

The finish of summer is particularly painful because we don't really get what I consider a "real" summer in San Francisco. We can usually sleep with the windows open, but there are no chirping crickets, no hot mornings that require tank tops and iced coffee, and very, very few sunburns. 

Thus, the End Of Summer Do List. It's -- you guessed it--  my attempt to make sure we do some of those things that all of you living in sweltering temperatures do without even thinking about it. Things like eating popsicles and grilling peaches. Things that should be obvious summer goals to hit, but are occasionally hard to accomplish when the fog begins to roll in at 4PM and the August daytime high is a balmy 64 degrees. 

Here are a few of the things on The List:

Eat an It's-It in the back yard on a sunny afternoon. 

Can tomatoes. 

Make another batch of jam. (I made strawberry-vanilla in July, but I'm dreaming about stone fruit. Apricot? Plum?)

Grill anything that can be grilled instead of cooking inside. 

Dine alfresco. 

Drink more rose. 

Do yard work.

Play hooky and go to the Coppola Pool. 

Bake with blackberries. 

Make ice cream. Maybe this recipe? Or this one? 

Ultimately this is a very quotidian to-do list, one that should be easily accomplishable in summer's remaining weeks. Meanwhile, I'll keep on living the everyday, and that means finding things to do with all that August zucchini. This zucchini-orange marmalade tea cake is a start. The recipe is from Tartine Bakery, which is  only a couple of miles from our house. Even though the cases at the bakery are filled with all kinds of pastry and creme and confection, this humble loaf is usually what catches my eye. It's a super moist cake (and yes, I know people hate that word but saying damp just won't do). Those of you who like not-too-sweet cake will find it really hits the spot. 

But, I digress -- and my numerous digressions are part of what leads to the necessity of the End of Summer Do List. So -- get out there and conquer summer. Make a list. Eat ice cream. Because this pang in my heart tells me it's all going to be over before we know it. 

Zucchini and Orange Marmalade Tea Cake
From Tartine Bakery, San Francisco

1 3/4 cup + 2 tablespoons all purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
2 large eggs
1/2 cup + 2 tablespoons vegetable oil
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 cup orange marmalade
2 1/2 cups grated zucchini
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup walnuts, lightly toasted and coarsely chopped

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 9 x 5 inch (23 x 12 cm) loaf tin.  Set aside.  Sift the flour, baking soda, baking powder and cinnamon in a mixing bowl and set aside.  In a separate bowl, mix the eggs, oil, sugar and marmalade until just combined.  Scrape down the sides of the bowl and add the flour until just combined.  Add the nuts until incorporated.  Pour into the prepared loaf pan and smooth the top.  Bake for 60-70 minutes until a tester comes out clean.  Let cool on a wire rack for 20 minute, then turn out to let cool completely. Keeps well, up to five days. 

Green Pea Soup

A few weeks ago I made pea soup for M.F.K. Fisher. It sounds kind of silly, but I like to celebrate her birthday every year. I feel sort of like she's my kindred spirit/fairy godmother and to honor her birthday just feels right. I typically make a big, three course meal, drink lots of rose or Champagne, and then ease into the 4th of July celebration. It works. 

This year I was feeling a bit more retro in my approach. Maybe it was because I had just finished reading The Help and was seriously obsessed with the idea of making a layer cake. But it was also because as I've gotten a bit older, I've begun to think of Fisher's creative life a little differently. 

After I turned in the manuscript for An Extravagant Hunger, I got to work curating pieces to include in two new books of Fisher's writing: Love in a Dish and Musings on Wine and Other Libations. Both are collections of "lesser known" Fisher pieces. The books include a lot of pieces that she wrote for magazines like House Beautiful, Holiday, and House and Garden. These are not the lyrical wanderings of a girl eating bread and chocolate on a French country hillside. This is the work she did for pay. The articles with menus for June bridal lunches helped get food on the table and care for her two little girls. 

I've long believed that Fisher felt alienated by the prissy, ultra-feminine, domestic culture that was so prevalent in the Post World War II 1950s. The magazine pieces she wrote during that time embraced the zeitgeist, but they don't really reflect how she felt about food and nourishment. In fact, I think that culture (in addition to her family responsibilities) may be why she didn't publish more during this time. 

I understand more than I used to how hard it is to write for pay versus writing for love. And maybe that's what I was trying to honor with this menu -- Fisher's creativity and talent, her ambition and her hard working attitude. Because there is a difference in the work we do for love and the work we do because we need to work. 

We began with pea soup, followed by chilled chicken-tarragon salad and greens, a cheese plate, and a towering chocolate cake with strawberry icing. Note: I don't really think Fisher was a layer cake kind of gal. But I do think she was a woman of convictions, and I was convinced I needed to bake a cake. Tout suite. 

The pea soup was, of course, a direct homage to Fisher who wrote several times about peas grown on a Switzerland hillside:

"But what really mattered, what piped the high unforgettable tune of perfection, were the peas, which came from their hot pot onto our thick china plates in a cloud, a kind of miasma, of everything that anyone could ever want from them, even in a dream. I recalled the three basic requisites, according to Fanny Farmer and Escoffier... and again I recalled Sidney Smith, who once said that his idea of Heaven (and he was a cleric!) was pate de foie gras to the sound of trumpets. Mine, that night and this night too, is fresh garden peas, picked and shelled by my friends, to the sound of a cowbell."

{From P is for Peas, from An Alphabet for Gourmets by M.F.K. Fisher}

Is this soup heaven? Who knows. But it sure seemed perfect that night.

Fresh Pea Soup

From the Barefoot Contessa At Home

Ina notes: This soup can be served hot or cold. If served cold, allow the flavors to chill in the fridge for a bit. If you can't find fresh peas, frozen are just fine. 

I note: Who wants to shell 5 cups of fresh peas? Frozen are fine.

2 Tablespoons unsalted butter

2 cups chopped leeks, white and green parts (2 leeks)

1 cup chopped yellow onion

4 cups chicken stock, preferably homemade

5 cups shelled peas or two 10 oz packages frozen peas

2/3 cup fresh mint leaves, loosely packed

2 teaspoons kosher salt

1/2 teaspoon fresh ground black pepper

1/2 cup creme fraiche

1/2 cup chopped fresh chives

Garlic Croutons, for serving

Heat the butter in a large saucepan, add the leeks and onion, and cook over medium-low heat for 5 to 10 minutes, until the onion is tender. Add the chicken stock, increase the heat to high, and bring to a boil. Add the peas and cook 3 to 5 minutes, until the peas are tender. (Frozen peas will take only 3 minutes). Off the heat add the mint, salt, and pepper

Puree the soup in batches: place 1 cup of soup in a blender with the lid on top and puree on low. With the blender still running, open the vent hole and slowly add more soup until the blender is 3/4 full. Pour the soup into a large bowl and repeat till all the soup is pureed. Whisk in the creme fraiche and chives and taste for seasoning. Serve with garlic croutons. 

Garlic Croutons

1/2 loaf good bakery white bread (French, Italian) sliced 1/2 inch thick

1 large garlic clove

2 tablespoons good garlic oil

Kosher salt and black pepper

Remove crusts from bread slices and cut into 1/2 inch thick cubes. 

Crush the garlic with the side of a large chef's knife and discard the peel. In a medium sautee pan, heat the olive oil over medium heat and add the garlic. Cook for 1 minute until the garlic starts to brown, and then discard the garlic. Add the bread cubes, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and cook over medium heat, tossing occasionally, until browned on all sides. 

Vacation Meals

Just a taste of what we've been eating while living in a cabin in Pt. Reyes for two weeks.

New York in Bloom

 As I look at the pink trees I start to bloom:

P.S. The other night I made a riff on this recipe from DIY Delicious. Our "real food" bowls were stuffed with quinoa, kale, avocado and pistachio and topped with leftover chicken and tahini dressing. It was the perfect chocolate egg recovery meal.
P.P.S. I borrowed the name of this post from one of my favorite blogs. You must take a peek at LA in Bloom

Herb, Chard, and Feta Soup (And an Epiphany)

“Life is always changing.” 

Yes, I thought from my downward dog position, watching the San Francisco sunlight pour into the yoga studio, feeling my shoulder protest the deepest stretch. Yes, it is. 

Change. It’s something we’re all aware of, something so ubiquitous that mentions of it quickly begin to sound overly yogic or Zen, especially when they are pounded into our brains in this week after the dawn of a New Year. We’re collectively encouraged to make resolutions (though now, the popular thing seems to be to call them “intentions”), clean up, cut back, and start fresh.  

I’m into this concept of self-renewal. Though I didn’t take down the tiny tree, the collection of penguins on the mantle, or the merry line of cheerful cards just yet, I did scour the fridge, organize the laundry and utility closet, and go through a jumbo stack of papers and old to-do lists. We committed to trying to eat vegetarian for the entire month, and vowed to limit the booze. It felt good, like I was setting the tone for a productive 2012, a year where I’d never feel flustered or behind. 

But the real revelation came when I was making soup: Herb, Chard, and Feta soup from the January 2012 issue of Bon Appetit magazine. The instructions were simple. After tossing a bunch of chard and herbs into a pot along with some vegetable stock, you blend the cooked greens and top with feta, Greek yogurt, lemon juice and more herbs. 

Here’s where things got funky. With immersion blender in one hand, I stared down the pot and felt my stomach sway. The greens looked swamp-like, and I had an immediate memory of a rank, raw green juice I choked down one hot New York day. 

You see, I grew up not eating anything green. There was no lettuce, no celery sticks, and certainly no spinach, broccoli, or chard. I didn’t even eat guacamole. I think I may have made an exception for asparagus, but that’s not much of a compromise, is it? This changed quickly, in my early twenties, as my mother promised it would, and now I eat greens in abundance. 

Still, the soupy sludge was testing me. I thought about the decades where I never ate a vegetable and how they led to this confrontation, this Me vs. Chard Soup Showdown. I thought about this time two years ago when I was broken-hearted, and how I met Sean, miraculously, on Epiphany. About how this time last year I wasn’t married, and now I am, and how this time last year I was an anxious, about-to-be-published writer, now I’m an anxious published writer. 

Life is always changing. Sometimes the change comes from decisions we make: Resolutions, intentions, to-do lists, whatever. And sometimes the change comes from within, or around. Sometimes the change is quick. Other times it is so subtle and collective that you’re not even aware of the blunt force of it all until you’re left alone in the kitchen, two days into a new year, with an immersion blender and a pot of green soup, marveling at just how far you’ve come. 

Herb, Chard, and Feta Soup

Once I got past my fear of this green brew, I fell in love with this Yotam Ottolenghi recipe from the January issue of Bon Appetit. The soup is savory, silky, and has a richness that belies its 100% healthful ingredients. The best part may be that it keeps for a day or two and makes for vibrant lunch leftovers. I recommend stocking up on the crumbled feta; we found we liked the soup best when it was liberally sprinkled with cheese.

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 large onion, coarsely chopped

2 garlic cloves, crushed

1 pound Swiss chard leaves (center ribs and stems removed) or spinach, coarsely chopped (about 10 cups)

3 1/2 cups vegetable broth

1 cup coarsely chopped flat-leaf parsley

1/2 cup coarsely chopped fresh cilantro

1/4 cup fresh mint leaves

1 tablespoon dried mint

1 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

salt and freshly ground black pepper 

Garnishes:

5 ounces plain Greek-style yogurt (about 1/2 cup)

1/2 cup mixed chopped herbs (such as parsley, cilantro, and mint), divided

4 ounces feta, crumbled, divided

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

Fresh lemon juice (optional)

Olive oil (optional) 

Heat oil in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add onion and garlic and cook, stirring often, until translucent and soft (do not brown), 7–8 minutes. Stir in chard, broth, parsley, cilantro, fresh and dried mint, and nutmeg. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer, stirring occasionally, until chard is tender, about 10 minutes. Stir in lemon juice and season to taste with salt and pepper. Working in batches, purée soup in a blender until smooth. Return to pan. DO AHEAD: Can be made 8 hours ahead. Cover and chill. Rewarm soup before continuing. 

Place 1/3 of yogurt in a medium bowl. Add 1/2 cup warm soup; whisk until smooth. Repeat process twice more, adding a total of 1 cup more soup. Whisk yogurt mixture into soup in saucepan. Stir 1/4 cup herbs and half of feta into soup. Season to taste with salt, pepper, and lemon juice, if desired. 

Ladle soup into bowls and garnish with remaining 1/4 cup herbs and 2 oz. feta. Drizzle with oil, if desired.

Cinnamon-Sugar Scone Recipe & Small Sweet Treats Giveaway!

[I'm giving away a copy of Small, Sweet Treats by Marguerite Marceau Henderson. To enter to win, leave a comment on this post or follow @poeticappetite on twitter and then re-tweet information about this give-away. A winner will be chosen at noon on September 23rd.]

Memory is a funny thing. Last weekend I went to the wedding of an old friend. We didn't meet in childhood, but I can't remember exactly when we did meet. Was it college? The fateful summer between high school and college? I can't recall. All I remember is that we were working at Cucina.

In those days, Cucina, an upscale Italian delicatessen in the Avenues District of Salt Lake City, was run by my friend Sarah's mother, Marguerite Marceau Henderson. For a couple of summers I worked at Cucina taking orders, serving salads, wiping down tables and clearing dishes. On rare days I ran the cash register or made a sandwich or two.

At Cucina I tried leeks and pesto for the first time (imagine!) and learned that on a bad day a big meatloaf sandwich can be immensely satisfying. Eventually I moved on and Marguerite did too. But she's continued to instruct me in the hows and whys of cooking and entertaining through her books. There are several of them now: Savor the Memories, Small Plates: Appetizers as Meals, Small Parties, and the newest, Small Sweet Treats.

Marguerite is amazing (think Ina meets Martha) and her recipes are my go-to. She's constantly coaching me through weeknight meal making and dinner parties. In her newest book she's become my guide to all things sweet with dozens of recipes for cookies, pastries, cakes, pies and other desserts that are ideal for the holidays, entertaining, or just because. As I write this, there's a chocolate-orange bundt cake with chocolate ganache (page 146 in the book) staring me down. I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to resist cutting into it. 

The summers that I worked for Marguerite, I often took the morning shift. I arrived while it was cool and quiet, and though there was coffee brewing, I never needed it. Occasionally someone would take a broken or day-old sweet and cut it into chunks for us to eat while we did our side work. I never got more than a bite or two of Marguerite's epic cinnamon-sugar scones, just enough to make me hope that at the end of the shift there'd be one leftover for me to take home. This hardly ever happened.

For years my mother has tried to replicate the cinnamon sugar scones, best eaten warm with a bitter cup of coffee, but they've never come out quite right. The morning after the wedding I padded into the kitchen to find my mother baking from her new copy of Small Sweet Treats. Finally, she told me, Marguerite had shared the recipe for cinnamon-sugar scones. Hurrah!

The scones, packed with cinnamon-sugar ribbons and plump golden raisins, tasted exactly as they should. Just as my mom said, a dark cup of coffee helped to cut the sweetness and kept us happily munching. Best of all, they brought back vivid adolescent memories of giggling, gossiping, and trying not to sever my hand with the meat slicer.

This, my friends, is what good food should do: create and revive memories while feeding you physically and spiritually.

I'm excited to share this recipe (and Marguerite's newest book!) with you. 

[I'm giving away a copy of Small, Sweet Treats by Marguerite Marceau Henderson. To enter to win, leave a comment on this post or follow @poeticappetite on twitter and then re-tweet information about this give-away. A winner will be chosen at noon on September 23rd.]


Cinnamon-Sugar & Golden Raisin Scones
From Small Sweet Treats by Marguerite Marceau Henderson
Scones:
2 cups all purpose flour
2 cups cake flour
1/2 cup sugar
1 heaping tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
About 1 cup of half and half or buttermilk
Cinnamon, brown sugar, golden raisin ribbons (recipe follows)
Glaze (recipe follows)


In a medium bowl combine flours, suga, baking powder, baking soda, and salt; mix. Add the butter and with a pastry cutter, cut into the size of peas. With a wooden spoon or heavy duty spatula mix in enough half and half or buttermilk to make the batter just moist, not too wet. The dough should hold together when formed into a small ball. Add cinnamon, brown sugar, and raisin mixture (recipe follows); mix until just combined.

Use a small ice-cream scoop or spoon to shape the scones and place them on silpat or parchment lined baking sheets.

Bake on the middle rack of a 375 degree oven for 20 minutes. Remove and let cool slightly before glazing.

Cinnamon, Brown Sugar, and Golden Raisin ribbons:
In a small skilled, heat 2 tablespoons unsalted butter. Add 1/2 cup brown sugar, 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon, and 1 cup golden raisins. Mix over low heat until sugar has softened, about 1 minute. Cool for 10 minutes. Set aside while you make scone batter. Fold the ribbon mixture into the batter after the half and half or buttermilk has been added. Do not over-mix.

Glaze: 2 and 1/2 cups powdered sugar thinned with half and half or milk.

My Chicken Monterey

Right now, I'm in love with cooking from real cookbooks. I like having to bend the spine a bit to get it to lie flat on the counter, and I like getting the pages a little messy with my fingerprints. Most of all, I like being able to write a little note in the margin.

Even if I never make this dish again, I'll love looking through my cookbook and seeing this: "Made for Mom & Dad, Labor Day Weekend 2011. SF made pasta and fresh pesto to start. We drank Champagne and Vermentino. Blackberry-apricot cobbler for dessert."

My Chicken Monterey
Adapted from The Silver Palate Cookbook
I made some liberal changes to this iconic recipe: cilantro instead of parsley, wine instead of stock, and fresh tomatoes instead of canned. It was a beautiful way to use up a ton of that red-yellow-orange summer produce we got last week in our CSA. I wasn't sure about the orange juice and zest, but I had an orange on-hand, so in it went. It did add something beguiling. Sean said it was a pernod flavor. To me it was more undefinable but equally evocative. It tasted like long late summer days: fresh, vibrant, but with true, deep flavors.   

5 Tablespoons olive oil
1 chicken 2 ½ to 3 lbs, quartered
salt and black pepper to taste
1 cup finely chopped yellow onion
4 garlic cloves, peeled and minced
1 cup white wine
½ cup fresh orange juice
½ cup chopped tomatoes with juices
1 T dried rosemary
1 medium red bell pepper, cut julienne
½ zucchini and ½ yellow squash, sliced diagonally
1/3 cup cilantro
grated zest of 1 orange

1. Heat 3 Tablespoons oil in large skillet. Rinse and pat chicken pieces dry; season with salt and pepper, and cook in oil 5 minutes. Turn chicken, season; cook another 5 minutes. Do not brown; it should be pale gold. Remove chicken and reserve.
2. Add onions and garlic to oil and cook, covered, over low heat until veggies are tender, about 15 minutes.
3. Uncover skillet and add wine, tomatoes, and rosemary. Season with salt and pepper to taste and simmer mixture uncovered, 15 minutes.
4. Return chicken pieces to pan and simmer 20-25 minutes or until chicken is nearly done. Baste pieces with sauce and turn once at 15 minutes. You can refrigerate chicken in sauce and reheat gently before serving in you want to complete recipe here.
5. Heat remaining 2 Tablespoons olive oil in another skillet and sauté pepper 5 minutes. Add sliced zucchini and yellow squash and season with salt and pepper. Raise heat and toss vegetables until tender, but still firm, about 5 minutes more. Serve warm or at room temperature.
Serves 6-8

Oh, August: Pasta with Corn, Zucchini and Tomates

When I decided to get married four months after announcing my engagement, I did it with some trepidation. It wasn't because I was nervous about the wedding planning or the small, but oh-so-important details. It wasn't because I was anxious about marrying my mate. It was because I was worried about August.

August: when the days get long and hot. August: the month when peaches plump and basil bursts; when the French go on long vacations and we Americans become frantic, trying to squeeze everything in before Labor Day.

But in August, in San Francisco, the days are long and cool -- and often grey. And for me, a newly minted married woman, sans major project, loafing around looking for a book proposal, a project, a job, August would be treacherous.

Oh, August. I wish I could say you surprised me. But you haven't. Admittedly, I'm a little fickle. There's been sunshine, I'm sure of it. But right now what I see outside my window is dismal and grey. And I've got projects -- the little book I'm editing is nearly finished!-- but I want more projects, bigger ones.

It might be the worst part of my personality, this tendency to never be satisfied. But it might also be the best. It's what keeps me pushing ahead, whether it be writing and networking, or granola baking, floor scouring, and thank-you note writing.

And so, these long slow days of summer demand deeper introspection. Perhaps I've been too quick to plow ahead (I've been accused of this); maybe I'm a bit dramatic?

For there are some August surprises: the CSA box bursting with peaches, tomatoes, and corn also arrived with an array of purple treats that remind me that autumn will come. There are sweet purple grapes and large pungent onions. When have I ever had the time to consider what to do with two pounds of purple onions?

But wait, there's more. Even though I've an abundance of time these days, perfect for elaborate meal planning and execution, there's a new cook in the kitchen. He used to appear sporadically, but this month he's been in the kitchen twice. I even caught him pawing through a Marcella Hazan cookbook after dinner.

The other night he took stock of the vegetable drawer. Next, he found a recipe -- Mark Bittman's Pasta with Corn, Zucchini, and Tomatoes -- and gently pushed me out of the kitchen while he got to work. The end result: barely cooked red and yellow vegetables tossed with tangled ropes of fresh pasta and sprinkled with tarragon.

He says he's cooking again tonight. Oh, August. How you surprise me.

Pasta with Corn, Zucchini and Tomatoes -- recipe by Mark Bittman
Ingredients:
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 cup corn kernels ( cut from 2 or 3 ears)
1 cup diced zucchini or summer squash (from 2 or 3 small vegetables -- we used pattypan)
1 medium onion or 3 or 4 shallots, diced
1/4 teaspoon minced garlic
1 sprigs tarragon or a tablespoon dry
4 plum or 2 large tomatoes, diced
1 pound cut pasta, like penne (imperative so that bits and juices can become lodged in the tubes!)

Set a large pot of water to boil and salt it. Put 2 tablespoons oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat and add corn. Cook, stirring occasionally, until corn begins to brown. Add zucchini and some salt and pepper. Cook, stirring occasionally, until zucchini begins to brown. 

Add onion and garlic. Cook, stirring occasionally, until onion softens, about 5 minutes. Add tarragon and cook for 30 seconds, then tomatoes. Put pasta in boiling water and cook until tender but not mushy, 10 to 15 minutes. 

While pasta cooks continue to cook sauce, reducing heat when tomatoes begin to break down. If sauce dries out (with plum tomatoes, this is likely), add some pasta cooking water, about 1/2 cup at a time. When pasta is done, drain it, toss with sauce and serve immediately.

Back To Normal: Vegetable Tacos

Well the honeymoon had to end sometime, right? After nearly two weeks away we're getting back in the groove. We're working, exercising more, eating lighter. Somehow, we seem to be having just as much fun.

When I first began cooking "real food" for myself in graduate school, I relied religiously on the tear-out menus from Martha Stewart Living. I'd head to the grocery store over the weekend, then spend Sundays cooking a meal from start to finish: appetizer, main, salad/side, dessert. Next I'd sit down to eat it all by myself, saving the leftovers to lug to evening class with me for the rest of the week.

These days I cook more by feel and sight than ever before. Still, it's always nice to have Martha around, especially when you've just returned from a big trip, and everything in the kitchen feels a little unfamiliar.

There's something endlessly reassuring about the recipes in the "What's For Dinner" series: their pull apart, perforated edges, beautiful photos, and quick recipes -- easy enough to fit on the back of that small card. And this particular collection from the May 2011 issue was a hit. It's a vegetable heavy homage to summer. There's nary a meat in sight, but there's lots of greens and layers of fresh flavor that turned out to be surprisingly satisfying.


Beans and Greens Tacos with Feta (based on Martha's recipe, adapted for our tastes!):

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 large red onion, sliced into 1/4-inch-thick rounds
3 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1 pound Rainbow chard, stems and ribs removed, leaves washed well and coarsely chopped
1 cup canned cannellini beans, drained and rinsed
1/2 cup vegetable or chicken stock (I used a mix of water and white wine)
Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper
8 whole wheat tortillas
1/3 cup crumbled feta
8 cilantro sprigs

1. Heat oil in a large high-sided skillet over medium heat. Cook onions until soft, about 6 minutes. Add garlic, and cook for 1 minute. Stir in chard, beans, and stock. Cook until greens are wilted and beans are warmed through, about 4 minutes. Season with 3/4 teaspoon salt and some pepper.


2. Warm tortillas. Spoon filling onto tortillas, top with cheese and cilantro and serve with fresh-from-the mercado salsa, or try Martha's tomatillo and chipotle salsa.


I served this meal with a big green salad with spiced pepitas, avocado, and a simple vinaigrette made from chopped shallots, olive oil and verjus from Venturi-Schultze winery in British Columbia (a honeymoon souvenir!).

Unlike my graduate school days, I didn't make the whole meal -- the recipe cards for salsa and horchata were saved for another day. But the feeling I got from whipping together a tasty and good looking meal in minutes was the same: I felt utterly capable in the kitchen; on top of my game in cooking and in life.

And that's not a bad way to start a week or a marriage.

Be Careful What You Wish For

Our backyard is a bit of a Northern California jungle. It is steep and sloped and there are funky terraced parts, weird brick walls, and lots of over-grown plants. When I look outside I see a mess. It doesn't look like the neat, flat, green backyard I grew up with in Salt Lake City. When M. looks in the back yard he sees a Trader Joe's tiny rosemary bush he planted that grew and bloomed, a huge lavender plant, tiny spouts of chard that grow (despite the fact we don't care for them nearly enough), a tiny fig tree that produces only green figs, an avocado tree that never blooms, and lovely, tall calla lilies. He also sees green garlic.

We have enjoyed green garlic all spring. M. pureed it and stirred it into rice, made a green sauce to scoop over white fish, and even chopped up the tiny white blossoms and used them in a divine, faintly garlicky vinaigrette. We were in love with green garlic.

So it seemed like a good idea to suggest a green garlic harvest. The pureed green garlic could easily be frozen and put into the freezer for future use. It seemed like a brilliant plan. M. rolled his eyes a bit when I suggested it, but was happy to comply. He went out to work in the yard, and I stayed in, reading the Sunday New York Times, staring out the window, and drinking coffee. Then I got in the shower.

When I got out, I noticed there was a a small trail of dirt that dribbled from the front door to the kitchen sink. And what was in the kitchen sink and piled on the counter tops of the kitchen? Piles and piles of green garlic.

"This isn't even all of it," he said, bringing in another armful. I watched as small clumps of dirt and bugs settled on the clean floor and counter tops. Was this really my idea?

But now it was too late to look back. We picked through the green garlic, washed it, and left it to dry in batches on the dish rack. Then M. cooked it down (as you would with any green) and pureed it. I filled bag after bag and popped them all neatly in the freezer.

We've used some of it, but the spring time produce is starting to be so abundant there is really no need. But later in the year I think we'll welcome something dainty and green and fresh to remind us of our first spring in San Francisco.

It is also an excellent reminder for us city folk to look a little more carefully at our green environment. Since discovering green garlic I have seen it everywhere: in the Mission, poking out of small plots of ground that don't look as if they could produce anything at all. Of course, I probably wouldn't want to eat green garlic picked from a curbside on Valencia Street, but the point is, it is possible to be an urban harvester.

Do You Compost?

We started composting yesterday! It was a bit of a lark. Although composting is a super idea it is not something we have been talking about doing. But M.'s mom was in town for the weekend and she insisted it was so easy we must start doing it.

So we did -- M. made a makeshift/DIY compost container and I saved all the breakfast scraps. Luckily we'd had seven people over for brunch so we had lots to start with: egg shells, onion skins, strawberry tops, grapefruit, lime and orange rinds, pepper and banana peels all went into the bin. Now it will start "cooking" (I guess).

How long do we have to wait before we get new healthy dirt to spread in our new garden plot? Is there anything we can't compost?

I think some research might be in order. Until then, lunch's banana peel is going straight to compost as I head out the door to Office Max.

Oh my exciting life!