Have you ever seen this? Salted cod? It usually arrives as a large flat dehydrated fish fillet, often skinned and de-boned, eggshell white. It looks like something a fraternity might use to abuse incoming freshmen with a whack. If you get a fin-side view it sort of looks like a flattened raccoon. A glance makes one think, “Hmm, non-refrigerated fish. Maybe not too smart?”

I have run into salted cod a lot though never considered the purchase (you know, the whole non-refrigerated fish thing). And actually it was D that made the ultimate purchase of what turned into the above dish.

My local fish mongers carry it. It also sits in a local Italian deli by the counter. In all locations it is out in the open air, stacked high in a simple cardboard box. Old women will shove me aside as I stare at it. They must think I’m picking out a prime specimen so they snatch a stack and toss back a few. I’m really just watching it, waiting for it to do something, speak to me, anything. With their purchase there is usually a discussion with the shop’s proprietor in the proper language (Italian in the deli; Greek in the fish monger). I imagine they are trading recipe secrets of the strange fish.

Non-refrigeration is the beauty of salted cod and how generations of near sea-living (and seafaring) folk survived harsh winters. From Norway down the continent and into the Mediterranean, these cultures have been munching salted cod and most cultures have a recipe that involves the funny looking dried up fish.

When D and I were in Norway we went to a local farmer’s market in Bergen that was selling salted cod and herring. The merchant let us try some. I’m telling you, unless you grow up and eat salted cod regularly, I do not recommend munching on the fully salted dry version. We passed on the purchase. Throughout Norway, and into Scotland, variations of salted cod were on menus, often at breakfast served with eggs. I always avoided it for pancake stacks of smoked salmon and caviar (because really, where else can one stack smoked salmon like pancakes and top it with a drizzle of caviar like it’s totally normal!?).

Last year on a trip to Chicago, D and I, with my mom in tow, dined at Avec. Salted cod was on the menu and both D and I agreed, it must be ordered. What was served was something we had never imagined salted cod to be. A warm puree of fish, a faint saltiness, deep complexity, and a whole lot of butter. Loads of delicious butter blanketing the silken fish. It was heaven in a ceramic dish and we licked it clean. Perfect for a cold, wet, late November Chicago evening.

Returning home I stood in front of the salted cod and declared, “One day I will purchase you!” I never did. D ultimately made the purchase at the Italian deli. Asking, “what should I do with it?” The answer: “You know, soak it in water and uh… eat it.” It was not recipe secrets being traded. Even knowing it had sat possibly months in the open air of the deli it arrived home we asked each other: “What do we do with it?” “I dunno, refrigerate it, I guess.” So we refrigerated it

Eventually on a wet spring day courage got the best of me. I unwrapped that cod. Soaked it in a few changes of water, pureed it with butter then broiled it until golden. If you can suggest a more delightful brunch, aside from pancake stacks of smoked salmon and caviar, I dare you.

We enjoyed our cod with hearty thin slices of rye bread, pickled ramps, hard boiled eggs and olives.

Salted Cod Dip
Active time= 15 minutes. Inactive time= 12 hours. Cook time= 8 minutes.
1 flank salted cod, approximately 1 lb
1/2 cup heavy cream
2 cloves garlic
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon fresh rosemary
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
freshly ground black pepper

Cut the cod into 3 to 4 even pieces. Place them in a bowl covered with water and soak for at least 12 hours, changing the water 2 or 3 times. Drain the cod. Bring a pot of water to a boil, add cod and boil, 2 minutes. Place cod and remaining ingredients in a food processor and puree until smooth. Transfer to a ceramic dish and place under the broiler for 5 to 8 minutes, until lightly golden. Serve warm with toasted bread or crackers.

This sauerkraut receives its fuchsia-hue from beets.

Note: This post also appears on Sustainable Table’s Adventures in Fermentation.

Confession: When I was younger I hated sauerkraut. Most people will read that and think, Well, no bother. Just don’t eat the stuff. It’s not like one is presented with it often!

But, being that I am half-Latvian, sauerkraut was presented to me more often than most people would consider normal. Perhaps normal for you would be that one year at a family picnic when your eclectic Aunt Betty, having just returned from Germany, wanted to share the joys of sauerkraut along with a rousing schuhplattling. Or perhaps it was on a vacation 3 years back and it appeared mysteriously, slathered on a hot dog.

But, as I said, being half-Latvian, sauerkraut was seemingly everywhere. Forget the odd family picnic or bizarre vacation hot dog. On our regular journeys into the depths of Chicago’s Latvian neighborhood we would find my grandmother at home, stirring a large batch of sauerkraut. (Think stock pot size– enough for everyone to take home!) At the yearly Latvian block party, buckets of sauerkraut from every family on the block would be on the offering– right there, next to the jelly bean guess-the-quantity competition (which, thank you, I won one year). You know block parties, one little nibble from your own grandmother isn’t enough, you have to look good in front of the neighbors. During cold Chicago winters, my own mother would raise the stock pot and pour in the ‘kraut. Eventually, the operation was moved to a portable burner in the garage so the smell wouldn’t saturate the house during the 4+ hour cook time– and of course, so we could have sauerkraut more often.As a child I thought sauerkraut was, well, sour. It was also funny looking. And it smelled weird.

I’m not talking about the sauerkraut that is served cold with sausage on the side (though ours was most often served with kielbasa on the side). My family’s Latvian sauerkraut is slow-braised for hours until it reaches caramelization. It sits there on the plate, a deep amber mass, fit for a rustic Baltic meal: a side of meat with mustard and dark Latvian rye bread.

As a child I recall my polite no thank you’s when it was being served, but was always met with the parental, “Okay, just a little then.” So there it sat on my plate being pushed around and spread out to appear if at least not enjoyed, partially consumed.

But years pass and tastes change and that sourness now seems more sweet.

My grandmother, uncles and mother still make a stock pot full of sauerkraut, and sometimes I even find myself behind the stove on a cold New York City night taking out the stock pot.

But the start to sauerkraut, whether it’s slow cooked, or uncooked and cold, begins with fermentation.

As one can imagine, northern Europe plays host to some frigid winters. (If you cannot imagine, I spent an August in Latvia, their warmest month, and wore a sweatshirt the whole time there. Of course, families were basking in Speedos on the beach, but to each their own.) Cabbage was, and still is, a mainstay of the cuisine. It grows well in cool climates and once fermented, it has a long shelf life, feeding a family through a brutal winter. A little salt and a crock pot is all it takes and in a few days natural bacterias in the air take over for a lacto-fermentation (ending as lactic acid converts sugars to acid).

Once fermented, kept raw, sauerkraut is very high in vitamin C. In fact, it is sauerkraut, and other fermented foods, that cured early explorers of scurvy (not barrels of oranges)*. Further, all those sugars, converted to acids, lowers the pH and is good for digestion. And some believe that fermented foods keep them healthy and can fight against disease and illness from the avian flu to ulcers and cancer to hangovers. (A hangover cure might also explain why my Latvian family can drink like a fish through the night and wake up raring to go.)

It should be noted that all these benefits occur when the sauerkraut is eaten raw, uncooked. If you want the same beneficial bacteria to play in your stomach and don’t want to make it yourself, seek out raw sauerkraut on the store shelves. Most of the sauerkraut you find in bags has been quick fermented with vinegar and will not have the same positive results.

Should you want to make it yourself, it’s easy and a fun experiment for any kitchen! You can add a plethora of vegetables to the mix. In my batch, pictured above, I have cabbage, beets, carrots and kohlrabi. You can even add hot pepper flakes for a kimchi-like variation.

NOTE: Never use aluminum as your fermentation vessel, or aluminum tools to stir or taste. A ceramic crock or large glass 1 to 5 gallon containers are ideal. Clean everything well so only good bacteria have an opportunity to multiply (a run through a dishwasher or hand washed with hot water and soap is fine).

Sauerkraut
Serving size= about 6. Active time= 20 minutes. Inactive time=1 to 3 weeks, depending on temperature (hot temperatures speed up fermentation)
2 medium to large heads cabbage (red or green), about 5 lbs
3 carrots
1/4 cup Kosher salt
4 cloves garlic, peeled
2 teaspoons caraway seeds (optional)

Shred the cabbage and carrots using a food processor (or finely by hand), as you would for coleslaw. Set in a bowl and toss with salt, garlic and caraway seeds. Transfer to your fermentation vessel (see note above). Using your fist, pack the vegetables firmly into the bottom of your vessel to release as many air bubbles as possible. (This is where a glass vessel is nice because you can see your progress.) Juice should escape from the cabbage and just cover the vegetables. If not, add a little water and a bit of salt until vegetables are just covered. (The older your cabbage, the less juice it will have!) Place a weight inside your container, keeping as much of the cabbage underneath as possible. A ceramic plate or food-grade plastic bag filled with some salt water (in case the bag breaks) work well. Cover the fermentation vessel with a kitchen towel or a few layers of cheesecloth and secure. Set aside on counter.

After 2 to 3 days, taste the cabbage, fermentation will have begun! Continue to taste until it reaches a tartness you like, 1 to 3 weeks, depending on the temperature in the room. After day 3, you might notice a film developing on the top of the brine. Skim it off every day or two, but don’t wait more than 2 days. Once the vegetables have reached a flavor you like, transfer to the refrigerator. It will keep for many months.

If you are going out of town after your fermentation has begun but is not finished, just transfer your container to the fridge and replace it to your counter when you return. Cold temperatures slow fermentation. Never eat fermented foods that taste “meaty” or smell off– your nose is powerful, trust it! This is a sign the wrong bacteria have taken over (rare, but it can happen). Fermented foods should smell tangy, tart and fresh.

Other additions include curry, turmeric, hot pepper flakes, dill, onions, turnips, kohlrabi, radish or other vegetables and seasonings in your sauerkraut!

*Or is is barrels of limes?! Perhaps a combination of both– or it depends where those sailors came from!

At twenty-six years old, my grandmother ran from her country under the protection of the night’s sky. She ran with four children under the age of seven, her husband, and a lifetime of recipes tucked away in her mind. That night they left behind their friends, livestock, farm, language, family, country and way of life, in an attempt to gain freedom. It was a process that would take five years in a refugee camp before being adopted into the United States. A process where they would not be able to return to their homeland or speak with relatives for forty years.

During her life in Latvia, well before women held jobs out of the house, my grandmother was head chef at an all-girls boarding school—those lucky girls. There, she cooked up piradzini (soft, doughy crescent-shaped rolls stuffed with bacon or mushrooms), kotlettes (ground meat patties), and my family’s all-time favorite nac rita atkal.

Nac rita atkal translates as “come back tomorrow.” “In the old days,” my grandmother, now ninety-two, will say in her still broken English, “parties lasted days, with friends sleeping between dancing and eating, close to the fire.” One has to imagine, in a country that can get so cold, where winter nights go on for days, a party that lasts until the one hour of sun-up isn’t a party, it’s a way of life. Snow is not a wispy blanket, but coats the ground in a waist-high thicket. “At those parties,” my grandmother still remembers wistfully, we made nac rita atkal.

My brothers and I know them simply as Latvian Pancakes. They are beyond a treat in my house. They are so good, that even in the six years of my noble vegetarianism, my grandmother knew to make me a veggie version of the savory snack to keep the household peace.

This is a recipe that must always be secretly doubled. One batch goes onto the table for immediate consumption (if it can make it to the table), while the other gets whisked away quickly and quietly, carefully hidden in an odorless, opaque, non-conspicuous container on the other side of the house until everyone is good and stuffed. Even then, it’s whereabouts and contents must be kept unknown except to the privileged few.

To this day, Latvian Pancakes are the one food my brothers and I still fight over to take home frozen. I ration mine down to the week, knowing precisely how many I can eat to keep my addiction at stasis before the next batch will grace my plate.

Unfortunately, it is impossible to write any of my grandmother’s recipes down. They are stored neatly in her brain, now getting a bit foggy, so my uncle has taken to video taping her kitchen movements. She moves quickly. Too fast to measure anything beyond how many eggs are used– which also varies depending on her mood, the outside temperature, the position of the sun, and countless other variables. “Grandma, how much flour?” I’ll ask. “This much,” she says thrusting her fist into the flour and tossing a handful into the mixing bowl. She stirs. “So… one cup?” I question. “No, more!” she declares adding more bit by bit until the batter is to her liking.

While I do not have my grandmother’s exact recipe for this pancake, I am able make a butchered version that is pretty good. After all, I have come to realize, it’s my grandmother’s touch and bittersweet memories of her home that make them truly perfect.

The pancakes are minced meat, always leftovers, usually beef, stuffed inside perfectly folded golden crepes. Turkey makes a decent filling, especially useful with Thanksgiving leftovers and roasted vegetables with mushrooms can pass as edible. Traditionally served with sour cream, apple or cranberry sauce, though also excellent plain, I argue there is no finer dish.

Nac Rita Atkal (Come Back Tomorrow or Latvian Pancakes)
About 25 pancakes
Crepe:
1-1/4 cups flour
1/2 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon salt
8 eggs
1 cup whole milk
1/2 cup water
1/4 cup melted butter

In a medium-sized bowl, sift together dry ingredients. Create a moat in the middle, add remaining ingredients. Whisk together, smoothing out lumps. Refrigerate at least 2 hours, ideally 8 hours minimum. Note: If batter gets too thick, thin lightly with water.

Warm a dollop of butter on a 9-inch skillet over medium heat. Ladle in the batter, tipping the pan quickly to spread evenly, paper-thin. Brown one side golden, 2 to 3 minutes, then flip onto a plate. Continue with remaining batter.

Filling:
3-1/2 cups roasted beef (recommended: leftover brisket), roughly chopped
1/2 cup roasted mushrooms, chopped
1/2 cup chicken or beef stock
1/4 cup chopped onions, sautéed golden
1/4 cup sour cream (or 1/2 sour cream 1/2 gravy)
salt, to taste

Working in batches, pulse all ingredients in a food processor until chopped to the consistency of wet ground beef. Add salt if needed.

Working with the crepes golden (cooked) side up, place two heaping tablespoons in the center. Fold the bottom up over the filling, then the top down, then sides, forming a small tight, square pocket. (The uncooked side of the crepe acts like a glue to hold crepes together lightly.) Transfer seam-side down to a plate. Repeat until all crepes are filled.

Return the skillet to medium-high heat, warming a large dollop of butter. Place a layer of stuffed pancakes seam down. Cook 3 minutes until golden, turn and cook another 2-3 minutes. Transfer to a plate, continuing to cook assembled pancakes.

Serve with sour cream, apple and/ or cranberry sauce.

It is a cold, hibernate-worthy winter this year. I know, not as cold as my friends and family tell me the mid-west is, but none the less, cold for New York City (and snowy!). It is a winter where heaps of homemade pasta and roasted meats keep us alive, root vegetables warm us, and a special apple cider-maple syrup toddy is just the thing to end the night. All I need is a fire to keep my toes toasty.

Shortened daylight seems to mess with my realities of time and the amount I can accomplish in a day. But more is to come: More Sustainable Table pages are going up. I’ll post those shortly. Exciting information come Spring– a heads up and hint to check the Spring/Summer ICE (Institute of Culinary Education) curriculum calendar if you are in NYC or coming this way. All excuses to not be posting, so I wanted to share this dip. It is so simple. (Can I call this a dip? For some reason olive oil does not say dip to me.)

This dip is perfect because I usually have some combination of these ingredients around (and I think most people will too). I made this 4 nights straight it is so quick and easy to throw together. Alternately, one large batch can easily be whipped up and rationed and the flavors will come out more intensely.

With this dip, D and I re-discovered the glorious thing that is sage– It is going into the garden come Spring no doubt. Though any equally hearty fresh herb like rosemary or tarragon will work well. Don’t skimp on the fresh herb! I forgot the sage one night and it was not the same. Any citrus zest– lemon, grapefruit, tangerine, will do the trick, and if you like, omit the garlic.

Orange-Sage Olive Oil
Serving Size= 4 persons. Prep time= 4 minutes. Cook time= 0 minutes.
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
1 garlic, smashed
1 tablespoon loosely packed fresh sage, chopped
2 teaspoons (a dash) balsamic vinegar
1-2 teaspoons orange zest (or other citrus)
1/4 teaspoon salt (can mash salt with garlic to form paste, if desired)
pinch of fresh ground pepper

Mix all ingredients briefly with a fork to incorporate. Eat with good crusty bread.

D and I have been so busy wrapping things around here up, building a cold frame in the garden, and prepping for a friend’s wedding this weekend on top of Thanksgiving, I almost forgot to post this last wrap up!

These last few pictures in my Post-Summer Wrap Up all have vibrant shades of pink and purple in common. They are also all delicious appetizers, perfect for an upcoming holiday bash.

This first dish is my favorite– the colors totally stunning, and the taste… Well, it had a cured pork product, it was delicious. At a recent dinner party, this dish was the highlight of the night. It was really so simple to make, it should be the highlight at every dinner party. Beyond the color, the flavors still linger in my memory.

While D and I did grow melon (cantaloupe and watermelon) in our garden, this melon is not one of ours. (For the most part, ours were eaten before we could document their beauty.) This melon came to us via our CSA. It is a Sunjewel Melon, similar in flavor to honeydew, though not as intensely sweet. I am usually not a fan of honeydews, though if wrapped in pork, I make an exception. Sprinkled on top are purple basil flowers and tomato flakes*.

*Tomato flakes- After canning 50 lbs of tomatoes I had a huge pile of tomato skins. I didn’t want to compost them all– too overwhelming for my worms (and perhaps too acidic), and I couldn’t bare throwing them all away. What to do? I dehydrated a few cookie sheets worth of skins in the oven at 200F for about 2 hours and blitzed them into flakes. Now what? I sprinkle them for color on dishes like the above, I have mixed them with salt to make tomato-salt, and use them to add a slight tomato seasoning to dishes.

Sunjewel Melon (Honeydew) & Prosciutto
Serving Size= 4-5 (appetizer). Prep time= 8 minutes. Cook time= 0.
1 Sunjewel, or honeydew-like, melon- cut into 2 inch pieces
1/2 pound prosciutto
2 tablespoons olive oil
basil flowers (for garnish) optional, or 2 teaspoons chopped basil
1 teaspoon tomato flakes (for garnish) optional or 1 teaspoon hot chili flakes

Slice thick prosciutto pieces in half lengthwise. Wrap a piece of prosciutto around each piece of melon and secure with a toothpick. Arrange on platter, drizzle olive oil over and sprinkle with basil flowers, tomato flakes, and/ or hot chili flakes.

I suppose these first two pictures both make lovely appetizers. This second one really needs a smell-o-vision computer screen. It’s a simple Camembert cheese covered in white truffle honey. Regular honey will do the trick, but if you can get your hands on truffle honey, it is well worth the hefty price.

This would make a lovely addition to a cheese plate, is so simple, yet is almost too decadent. I believe the picture explains the prep. If not: drizzle truffle honey over a nice piece of soft cheese, sprinkle with berries and serve. Can also serve with dried fruit and nuts on the side.

I believe it is safe to lay claim that this summer was the season of eggplants. I was a bit worried planting our eggplants when a fellow gardener told me she’d been gardening in the City for 15 years and was never successful with eggplants. Well behold! Not only did our garden produce an unbelievable bounty of eggplants (one day’s harvest from 4 plants is pictured above), our CSA managed to sneak eggplants into nearly every CSA box.

No complaints. D and I both love eggplant and made baba ganoush and similar dishes every chance we got. Luckily, we froze some baba and have it stored for a cold eggplant-less day this winter.

For a cozy twist on baba, traditionally served cold or at room temp, serve the side warm on bread or pita with a drizzle of  pomegranate molasses over top and/ or a sprinkle of ground lamb seasoned with allspice.

We’re at the peak of fall here in New York City and it hardly seems to be showing. While the trees are brilliant golds, mums are popping open, and bulbs are heading into the ground, the sun is blasting down and the days are mild in the upper 50’s and 60’s. I thought I lived on the east coast, not west.

I await a steady stream of cool, crisp fall days– Fall is my favorite season and there is nothing like cuddling up to a bowl of hot soup on a cold night, or a nice hot toddy. And as we sit practically beach side in the City, northern New York and the surrounds have already seen snow. These truly cold temps around the City bring fall produce into farmer markets and my CSA drops, even if it’s the last thing on our mind.
So now I have a pileup of butternut and acorn squashes awaiting temperatures to dip low enough to justify turning the oven on for extended lengths. And as I thought about those squash the other day, I thought about potatoes and home fries and hash, and how sweetly seductive a butternut hash might be with a morning egg.

Peeled, seeded and chopped into 1/2-inch cubes, squash will cook up in less time than the same sized potatoes on the stove top. Left alone, those sauteed squash can top salads, get mashed for sides, or, turned into cookies or pies– Or, as above, mixed into a sweet and savory hash to accompany an egg.

Squash Hash
Serving size= 4 persons. Prep time= 15 minutes. Cook time= 15 minutes
1 butternut squash (acorn, sunshine, delicata, or other winter squash will work), Peeled, halved, seeds removed, slice into 1/2-inch cubes
1 cup crimini mushrooms, quartered
2 red peppers, sliced into long 1/2-inch strips
2 tablespoons fresh chives (or 1 scallion), minced
salt/ pepper to taste
2 tablespoons lard, olive oil or butter to cook

Method: Heat preferred fat in skillet over medium-high heat. Add squash and mushrooms, toss to coat in fat, then let cook for 5 minutes to brown. Add red peppers and a pinch of salt. Stir and cook about 8 minutes, stirring occasionally, until squash is soft and mushrooms are browned. Remove from heat, add pepper to taste and chives. Toss to coat and serve.

Growing up in the midwest, I hated potato salad. It’s true. The staple side dish gracing every BBQ was the bane of my outdoor dining existence. It occurred at some point in when I hatched a distaste for mayonnaise.

I believe this decision formulated shortly after I made myself a tuna fish sandwich: In attempts to get the fishy tuna flavor out of my sandwich, I mixed in close to 2 cups of mayonnaise (into a single-serving can of tuna). It didn’t help, and I ended up discarding the sandwich, two bites of which gave me a horrible stomach ache. (Who would have thought with all that mayonnaise?)

Next, mayonnaise-heavy potato salad popped into my vision at every deli counter. There is something about prepared deli counter salads that has always told me to stay away. Is it the resemblance to the lunch line at school? Or perhaps the display that gives everything a brownish-blue hue and make nothing appear to be refrigerated?

Let us pinpoint these moments as the beginning of my mayonnaise banishment.

Obviously, this dislike of mayonnaise, living in the midwest, brings me to my hatred of potato salad. Because we all know midwest potato salad and mayonnaise go hand-in-hand.

It was not until college that I tried potato salad again. My good friend A made me her family’s Lebanese Potato Salad, which she described as simply adding the Lebanese basic seasonings: garlic, lemon juice, olive oil, parsley, salt and pepper. Light, simple and totally delicious, it awakened me to a whole new world of looking at potatoes: Did you know potatoes don’t need to be mashed with butter or fried and dipped in ketchup to taste good?

My preferred method of cooking potatoes now is making a potato salad using the Lebanese trio (trio because in my book, an herb, salt and pepper are given). Sometimes I spice it up with some hot chili flakes, sometimes I add other vegetables to bulk it up, as in this case. You cannot go wrong when you work with these basic, yet deliciously pure ingredients.

Please note: I have recently found new appreciation for mayonnaise. While I still do not use it in a tuna sandwich, I can understand its place in a vinegar-based coleslaw (just a little fat, not saturated in mayonnaise). I also admit that I recently made my own mayonnaise and highly suggest a homemade version over anything store bought. (Further, I prefer homemade because I know I will actually finish it– the smallest bottle of store bought mayonnaise has gone bad in my refrigerator. With a shelf life over one year, you do not want to know what rancid mayonnaise smells like.)

Potato Salad with Corn and Green Beans
Serving size= 6-8. Cook time=  15 minutes. Prep time=  10 minutes.
1 pound potatoes, halved or quartered depending on size (I prefer the texture of new potatoes in potato salad because they hold shape and texture)
1 cup corn, sliced from cob  fresh (or canned)
1 cup green beans, cleaned and halved
1/4 cup olive oil
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/4 cup parsley, chopped
salt/ pepper to taste

Boil potatoes in salted water for 10-15 minutes, until soft when pricked with a fork. While potatoes are cooking, place fresh corn, green beans, olive oil and garlic in the serving bowl. When potatoes finish cooking, drain, but do not rinse with water. Place hot potatoes in the serving bowl and toss. The residual heat will steam the corn and beans, leaving the beans snappy (if you prefer beans more done you can steam them for 30 seconds before you add them to the hot potatoes). Finish by tossing with the parsley, salt and pepper to taste. Serve warm, at room temp, or cold.

An important garden lesson: you cannot stop a cucumber plant from going crazy– Actually, you cannot stop any vining plant from clinging and climbing wherever it sees fit. But let’s talk cucumbers.

I planted an heirloom variety known as lemon cucumber. Lemon because the resulting fruit is fairly lemon shaped and ripen from light green to a bright lemon yellow. When I checked on the plant two Fridays ago there were a number of flowers waiting to burst with fruit. I left for a week to visit D in upstate New York terrified I would miss out on a massive cucumber harvest. (Seriously, I had three different dreams about lost or unattended garden bounty.)

While upstate, I purchased a beautiful 3-gallon ceramic crock pot from a lovely antique dealer– really a gift for all those cucumbers ready to spring to life. When D and I returned Sunday we headed to the garden for our first massive harvest: corn, tomatoes, cucumbers, eggplant and ever more basil.

We’re overflowing with cucumbers now and decided to take action. Garden cucumbers head to the crock for brining and CSA cucumbers get crock treatment or turned into the great little snack you see pictured above. I’ll provide a picture of the brined cucumbers once the pickles are (hopefully) tasty and ready for the camera.

Until then, satisfy your cucumber (and tomato) bounty with this fresh and easy snack. I used a hearty cranberry-walnut bread as the base. Any other good bread will do, or go without bread, using the cucumber as a base. Top with any fresh herb and voila, a tasty garden treat.

Cucumber Bites
Serving Size= 5 piece. Prep time= 5 minutes.
5 small slices, or 2 larger slices cut small of cranberry-walnut bread
1 cucumber, sliced 1/2-inch thick
1 vine ripe tomato, sliced 1/2-inch thick
salt/ pepper to taste
5 slices, 1/4-inch thick, feta
fresh thyme for garnish (parsley, chives, parsley or cilantro will work too)
lemon spritz (optional)

Method: Toast bread until golden. Layer bread with cucumber and tomato. Season with salt and pepper then top with feta and a sprinkle of herbs. Add a spritz of lemon over top for some added zip.

I know, I know, all the controversy over foie gras. It’s so over, right? I’m staying out of politics with this one because I’ve heard pretty good arguments on both sides. (Honestly though, it’s not like I’m buying the stuff all the time.)

But I like the stuff. Actually, I think I may love the stuff (in small doses from time to time, of course). You know what else? I can get it more local than my mangosteens. Hudson Valley in fact, which is pretty much New York City’s backyard. A little more food for thought: With Chicago lifting the ban in May, are we a little closer to acceptance? (Obviously, not in California where the ban is in effect until 2012.)

Back in December D received a beautiful gift of foie gras and miraculously, some still exists tucked in the freezer, sliced and ready to go, wrapped in wax paper and excessive amounts of plastic wrap to fend off freezer burn. Still there because, simply, I don’t think about foie gras every day and because D practices what I like to call “boy searches,” whenever he looks for something. Ladies, you know what I’m talking about: Man opens drawer or cabinet and without moving declares an item not present because it is not face level, front row, with a neon sign screaming I’m what you’re looking for! My reply is something along the lines of, Yes it is. Bottom shelf, left side, behind the x. This doesn’t just happen in the kitchen.

A few months back we broke into the stash and took a handful of slices to a local wine bar and let the chef do what he may. Three amazing dishes were presented to us, wines to match, shared equally between us, my friend DR, the owner and chef.

But now while D is away, as cruel as it may be, the mice do play!

Oh… just a little crumb, he’ll never even notice– until of course he returns and reads this post. By which point it will be happily digested.

Strangely enough, I wasn’t thinking about foie at all when I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to eat some. I was writing away on a lonely Friday night thinking about peaches (I don’t always think about food, I was writing about peaches, okay). For some strange reason, foie gras popped in, blocking my peach receptors. The urge was so strong that I vowed my brain I would make foie gras the following day for a little snack if it would so kindly return to peaches.

I’ve been so good lately it’s a reward really. As I said, D is away and I have three times the amount of vegetables to cope with than normal. Not only is there a full Community Supported Agriculture share booming with summer harvest (seriously, 10 zucchini!?), there is also the garden shoving zucchini and basil down my throat. Perhaps like a future foie you could say.

While I methodically remove one item from the summer repertoire each night (a quart of pesto, frozen zucchini), I turned vegetarian eating through the non-preservable, refusing to purchase more food for the overflowing fridge.

Possibly this is where the overwhelming urge for foie gras came from: My own rejection of meat protein this past week lured me into the most forbidden meat of all: foie gras. I will continue to swear by it though: It was the peach’s fault! And how delicious they are together.

A closer look at the picture reveals I picked the worst of the foie (if there is such a thing)– The little scrappy lobe bits that weren’t real slices. And while I’m admitting things, I will also state that when the foie gras was finished from my plate, I licked the remaining fat clean off.

Seared Foie Gras and Peaches
Serving Size= 1
1 one-inch thick slice of foie gras
salt/ pepper
1/2 peach, sliced into 4 wedges
1/4 teaspoon fresh ground coriander
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon sugar
pine nuts
2 or 3 leaves of fresh chopped mint
1 tablespoon heavy cream (optional)

Method:  Warm a small skillet to medium-high heat. Sprinkle foie gras with salt and pepper on both sides. Mix the coriander, cinnamon and sugar and sprinkle over peach wedges, both sides. Sear peaches on both sides, until blackened, set aside. Sear foie gras on both sides, until blackened. Do not overcook the foie gras. The longer it cooks the less foie you get as it melts to fat! Place foie gras on a a plate, layer on peaches, sprinkle with a few pine nuts, mint and drizzle with cream. Serve with a mild cracker or melba toast.
NOTE: Heavy cream is optional in this dish. Already so creamy on it’s own, it doesn’t need it, but, well, peaches n’ cream.

Dare I say I’ve gone strawberry crazy?

I am quite happy to inform folks that I have bushels of strawberries in my possession. I excitedly contemplated all the delicious things to make: wine, jam, ice cream, scones, lemonade… As I thought, I realized I was quickly eating through my stash. So sweet in their natural state, I started thinking, Applying them to a dish would be sacrilegious! (They do much better in my belly unadulterated.)

The more sensible part of me methodically began pulling stems and lining the berries on a baking sheet to freeze, then bag for a future use (as there was no way all could be eaten before spoiling). As I lined a cookie sheet with strawberries I realized how nicely uniform so many of them were. In fact, they appeared to be a perfect little army dressed for strawberry battle in some distant fruit land– perhaps protecting Strawberry Shortcake (the cartoon or the dessert)? Each berry was outfitted with a gnome-like cap. (How adorable.)

As I admired my infantry, the Giant of Terror in the Land of Berries approached. Oooo, strawberries! D exclaimed as his colossal hand reached into my helpless army patch and snatched up soldiers. One after another he ate my freshly stemmed friends. “Stop eating my strawberry army!”

“Uhhhh… Your what?”

“Nothing… They’re just my strawberry army. You can’t eat them, eat these.” I shoved over the random piling of discarded strawberries sprawled on the counter, not perfect enough to join my forces.

So now sits a bag of berries marked “not for giants” awaiting recipes in the freezer. If I can rein myself in they will be saved for a blistery day in late December. While I ponder future berry times I’ll whip up an occasional strawberry smoothie: 2 parts frozen berries, 1 part heavy cream. It is the purest and sweetest milk shake I ever had.

Strawberry Smoothie
Serves 2
1.5 cups fresh frozen strawberries
3/4 cup heavy cream (or whole milk)

Method: Place ll ingredients in a blender and blitz until smooth. Add more heavy cream to thin out if necessary.

If you can still find some fresh berries this late in the season a favorite application was in salad. You may add or subtract from any of these ingredients.

Strawberry Salad
Serves 4-6
1 head romaine, or similar crisp lettuce, washed and separated
1 handful arugula, washed
1 bulb kohlrabi*, sliced into matchstick size cuttings
1 bunch fresh herbs (thyme, basil, parsley work well), loosely chopped
1 cup sugar snap peas, washed and stemmed
4 ounces goat cheese or fresh ricotta, crumbled
1/2 cup strawberries, sliced
1/4 cup walnuts, chopped
mustard vinaigrette (recipe follows)

Method: Toss all prepped ingredients and serve with dressing on the side.
*Kohlrabi is an odd looking vegetable, but worth a try (it’s very high in vitamin C). The flavor is similar to cabbage, but crossed with the crispness of a perfect apple. It is a great addition raw to coleslaw or salad. Just cut off the stalk and slice (I don’t even peel mine).

Mustard Vinaigrette
This dressing will keep so make enough and store in a small glass container. Season to preferred acidic taste.
1 part whole grain mustard (Dijon makes an excellent one)
1 part lemon juice
1 part olive oil
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon cumin

Method: Add all ingredients to a jar and shake just before applying to salad. (This dressing is great over fish like halibut or salmon.)

NOTE: This strawberry salad recipe was entered into Healthy Cooking’s recipe event, because hey, what’s more healthy than fresh ingredients? No substitutes needed!