The Volcano Permits It

The day of our departure is finally upon us, and the volcano has decided to play ball. Hurrah! So I'm flying off into the sunset, signing off until June 1st. Please check back in a couple of weeks for spectacular Morocco recaps and in the meantime, keep your fingers crossed that I don't contract a food or water-borne illness.

Take A Chance On Farro

The Viking absolutely loves his cured meats. If left to his own devices he'll eat prosciutto, speck, sopressata, and bresaola by the fistful, munching a saucisson down to the nub for an encore. Watching him return from a Saturday morning bike ride and set upon a few containers of the stuff is really a site to see. He can slurp slices of it down almost like oysters, alternating sheets of cured meat with gulps of a double espresso, barely even stopping to chew. It's like watching a python devour its prey.

And, like the python owner dutifully visiting the pet store for a fresh supply of white mice, so too do I traipse up to the salumi shop every so often to replenish The Viking's cache of cured meats (to be fair, I eat and like them too, they just don't have quite the same primal hold over me that they do him).

Our favorite place to go is Salumeria Rosi on the Upper West Side, which in addition to being a primo source of meats and cheeses is also a damned fine little restaurant. The shop has about 15 seats and a shoe-box of a kitchen from which Cesare Casella, its chef and owner, serves a limited menu of Northern Italian dishes.

We washed up at the Salumeria at the end of last week feeling the way one does on a Friday evening: world-weary and badly in need of a glass of wine. We ordered some of our usual dishes, cavoloni con prosciutto, insalata pontormo, manzo di lucca, but my favorite thing that night was a special -- farro with asparagus, basil, and parsley. It struck that rare and precious balance of feeling indulgent and comforting without being heavy. The flavors were fresh and grassy, the firm grains of farro and taute little disks of asparagus held together in a lightly creamy, cheesy sauce.


Best of all, it seemed like something that I could reasonably expect to recreate at home. I tried to do exactly that on Monday night and served the finished product alongside sea bass. Mine was significantly less creamy (in retrospect I could have cooked the farro risotto-style rather than simmering it in water, which would have helped the creamy factor) but the flavors were there. It not only made a great side dish that night, but we had loads of leftovers that have reheated well for lunches. This whole week I can't help but think about just how wildly underappreciated farro really is: it's like barley only better, yet it has been relegated to second class citizenship while brown rice and quinoa inexplicably get all the attention. If you see farro while you're out shopping (you might have some luck at your local Wholefoods), pick it up and give it a try.


Farro with Asparagus, Basil, and Parsley
Inspired by Salumeria Rosi

Serves 6

1 large or two small shallots, minced
1 bunch asparagus
1 tbsp chopped parsley
3 tbsp chopped basil
3 tbsp butter
1/2 c olive oil
1 lb farro
2 c grated Parmesan

1. Soak farro in cold water and let sit for 25 minutes.
2. Meanwhile, trim and peel asparagus, then thinly slice into 1/8" rounds
3. Drain farro, then transfer to large pot with 2 quarts water; bring to boil, then reduce heat and let simmer for 25 minutes.
4. Heat butter in large skillet over medium heat until it foams.
5. Add shallots and let soften, 2-3 minutes.
6. Add asparagus, kosher salt, and pepper, stir to coat, and cook for 3 minutes more; remove from heat (asparagus should still have some bite).
8. Drain farro then add in olive oil, Parmesan, asparagus, and herbs; add salt and pepper to taste.

A Recipe For Day Drinking Success

When it comes to self-indulgent pastimes, day drinking is right up there with yoga and...well...blogging.

The boozy brunch, the tipsy tailgate, the pie-eyed picnic...these are activities that a chosen few can take part in and then go on to have a regular day afterward: say, do a couple loads of laundry, catch up on emails, call mom, shower, and go to dinner. I don't know how they do it. Lightweight that I am, the moment that a Bloody Mary or a Bellini passes my lips I know that I am waving a big, fat goodbye to the balance of the afternoon and evening. Within an hour, I'll be too sleepy and dim-witted to do anything more ambitious than collapse in front of the TV in a state of semi-sleep.

That was one thing in college. We all had a lot of time on our hands, not to mention an endless supply of charismatic pushers who could make a keg of Milwaukee's Best or a trash bin filled with "jungle juice" seem like an offer not to be refused at 11 AM on a Tuesday. There was no shortage of reasons for a big daytime lash -- a football game, the end of midterms, some lesser holiday marked by a frat party.

It's quite another thing in the working world. I try to suck every last moment out of my two precious weekend days, and the cost-benefit analysis of drinking while the sun is still high in the sky has changed. I've gotten a lot pickier about the when, the who, the why...but especially the what. If I'm going to get legless at lunch, it won't be on a bad margarita.

This is all a long-winded way of announcing that I have discovered a new drink that from now on will be my beverage of choice for any and all day drinking this season. It's light, refreshing, balanced, and tastes like liquid summer on ice. Best of all, preliminary testing suggests that it causes minimal hangover side-effects.


Fizzy Lizzy
Adapted from Gourmet, May 2009

1 cup fresh lemon juice
1 cup sugar
2 (8-inch) rosemary sprigs, plus more to garnish
Vodka
Chilled club soda

1. Bring lemon juice, sugar, and rosemary to a boil in a small saucepan, stirring until sugar has dissolved.

2. Reduce heat and simmer for 2 minutes.

3. Cool completely; discard rosemary sprigs.

4. Fill a glass halfway with ice. Add equal parts syrup and vodka, top off with club soda, and garnish with rosemary sprig.

Are You There Eyjafjallajokull? It's Me, Liz

At the moment, I find myself in the somewhat awkward and primitive position of praying to a volcano. I imagine that people have been doing this in Iceland for a thousand years, although for the most part it has probably involved virgin sacrifice and an entreaty to spare flocks of sheep from a sea of molten lava. Well I don't have any virgins to offer, but all I want is for the volcano to leave my vaca alone.

In exactly one week, I am scheduled to travel via London to Morocco for ten days of pure enjoyment. I have been looking forward to this for months. In some sense I have been looking forward to it since November 31, 2007, when I returned from Argentina -- that was the last time that I took a whole week off from work and ventured somewhere new in the world.

Here's the plan: three days in the UK for a full-throttle English wedding, four days trekking in Morocco's Atlas mountains, and then three days in Marrekech to spend at spice markets and souks, getting hammam treatments, eating street food, and sunbathing. Yeah, so it's a pretty nice vacation that we lined up for ourselves.

Unfortunately, as I write this, there's a big, angry plume of volcanic ash drifting around up there, and whether or not my trip actually happens depends -- literally -- on which way the wind blows and how long the erruption lasts. The only ash cloud I've ever worried about up until now is the one circling my head when I'm trying to sneak a cigarette, but I've become obsessed with this thing: tracking its movements, researching prevailing seasonal wind patterns, checking up on airport-by-airport flight disruptions.

Everyone keeps reminding me that there's nothing I can do about it, so I might as well just relax. "Relax" isn't in my vocabulary, but it translates most closely to "make a stew."

In honor of the (hopefully) impending trip, I decided to make a tagine.

A tagine is a Morrocan stew (as well as the name of the vessel that you use to cook it in). There are countless variations, but they tend to feature a handful of the following: olives, apricots, apples, raisins, dates, almonds, fresh or preserved lemons, orange, lamb, chicken, honey, and spices including cinnamon, saffron, ginger, turmeric, cumin, paprika, and/or the King of all North African spice blends, Ras El Hanout.




I absolutely love a good stew: they're warm, comforting, filling, and fun to make. A stew is just enough work to make you feel like you've accomplished something but not enough to make you regret starting it in the first place. Here's the general formula:

-Chopping things, like meat, celery, carrots, onions;
-Browning meat on the stovetop (a critical step for anything that's going to cook slowly in liquid
it gives the meat that rich roasted flavor);
-Dumping liquids and spices into a pot, cracking open a bottle of wine, and giving the simmering mixture an occassional stir, sniff, and taste.

Once your stew is done, you have a one-pot meal with loads of leftovers that will taste even better in a day or two once the flavors have had a chance to meld. Stews also freeze beautifully, especially if you put them away the same night they're made.

I got this particular tagine recipe from the New York Times and found it to be flavorful, lean, and easy to prepare. It does require buying lots of spices, especially if you don't have a good collection to start with, but once you have those on hand your second, third, and fourth tagine will be dramatically less pricey to buy for. In terms of equipment: I don't have an actual tagine (in a New York City apartment? Please.), but an enameled cast-iron pot works just as well. If you don't have that, then an oven-proof 5 quart pot will fit the bill.

If Eyjafjallajokull cooperates, hopefully this will be the first of many Morrocan-themed posts to come. Keep your fingers crossed.

Lamb Tagine With Green Olives
From The New York Times, April 5 2010

Serves 4

For the spice mixture:
3/4 teaspoon ground coriander
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
1/8 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon paprika
Generous pinch cayenne
Pinch saffron

For the tagine:
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 pounds lamb stew meat, cut into chunks
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
1 medium onion, sliced into medium-width pieces (about 1 cup)
1 clove garlic, peeled
1 tablespoon diced, fresh ginger (from about 1 inch)
Juice of 1 orange
1 14-ounce can diced or chopped tomatoes
1 2-inch-long piece of orange peel
2 cups chicken broth
1 teaspoon honey
1 medium carrot, sliced ½-inch thick (about 1 cup)
1 celery rib, sliced ½-inch thick (about 1 cup)
1/4 cup sliced almonds
1½ tablespoons sesame seeds 8 green olives, sliced into quarters (about 1/4 cup)

For the citrus rice:
1½ cups basmati rice, rinsed 3 times
1 bay leaf, preferably fresh
Grated zest of 1 lemon
Pinch of salt
1/4 teaspoon red-pepper flakes
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
Juice of 1 lemon
1 orange, sectioned and chopped (about ¼ cup)
2 scallions, sliced

1. Make the spice mixture by stirring together the spices in a small bowl. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
2. In a large, ovenproof stew pot or tagine, heat the oil over medium-high heat. Season the lamb all over with salt and pepper. Add the meat to the pot and stir to coat in the oil. Brown for about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally to make sure the meat browns evenly on all sides. Transfer the meat to a bowl and set it aside.
3. Lower the heat to medium and add the onion, stirring to coat. Sauté for about a minute, until it begins to soften. Add the garlic and ginger and add the meat back to the pot. Stir everything together. Squeeze the orange juice into the pot and mix well. Add the tomatoes, orange peel, spice mixture, chicken broth and honey. Mix well. Raise the heat to medium-high and bring the mixture to a simmer, then cover the pot and put it in the oven. Cook for 1 hour or until the meat is about half-cooked.
4. Stir in the carrots and celery and return the pot to the oven. Cook for another 30 to 45 minutes, until the sauce is thick and reduced and the lamb is tender.
5. While the tagine is in the oven, toast the almonds and the sesame seeds in a small pan over low heat until the nuts are golden, about 5 minutes, stirring regularly to make sure the almonds don’t burn.
6. About 15 minutes before the tagine is finished, make the citrus rice: Put the rice and 2 cups of water in a large pot set over high heat. Add the bay leaf, lemon zest, salt, red-pepper flakes and butter. When the water boils, lower the heat and cover the pot with a tight-fitting lid. Continue to simmer until the liquid has been absorbed, about 12 minutes. Turn off the heat. Add the lemon juice, orange pieces and scallions and mix well. Transfer to a large bowl and serve immediately.
7. Remove the garlic clove and orange peel from the tagine. Add the olives and spoon the tagine onto a large serving plate. Sprinkle the almonds and sesame seeds on top. Serve immediately, with citrus rice.

I'll Bring Dessert.

I really don't know what keeps compelling me to volunteer to bring people dessert. I guess it just seems like the sporting thing to do when someone invites me to their house for dinner. Or lunch. Or cocktails. I'll bring dessert! It's a reflex. And no one ever seems to mind.

The thing is, I don't even really like baking, and it's always a much bigger time commitment than it should be to find the right recipe. I scour cookbooks, magazines, and websites, but almost everything I come across falls short based on one or more of the following deal-breakers:

-It's an all-day project, with 76 steps and requiring excursions around town for esoteric ingredients found at boutique chocolatiers or in the basements of Chinatown;
-It breaks the bank (see above re: chocolatiers);
-It's insufficiently impressive (oh ADMIT IT, if you're going to go to the trouble to make something from scratch you sure as shit aren't showing up with oatmeal raisin cookies);
-It requires fancy equipment like an immersion blender, kitchen torch, spring-form pan, parfait glasses, etc.;
-It relies on a seasonal ingredient that is not, in fact, currently in season;
-I would need to be a trained art handler to transport it in tact to its destination;
-It's meant to be served immediately out of the oven.

But after a lot of research and testing, I have come up with what I believe to be the ultimate go-to "I'll Bring Dessert" recipe: a baked lemon custard. It avoids all of the above pitfalls, and even happens to be reasonably healthy. The ingredients cost around $15, it takes me 30 minutes to prepare, and the only equipment needed is a hand mixer and a baking dish (I used an 8" souffle dish, but a square baking dish around that size would work too).


To give the dessert a seasonal touch I grab a garnish when I buy the rest of the ingredients -- recently I bought blackberries, mint, and whipping cream. You can improvise with different garnishes at different times of year: berries in the summer, dried fruits in the fall, shaved chocolate or chocolate sauce in the winter...you get the picture.

Baked Lemon Custard
Adapted from Bon Appétit, January 2006

Serves 6

3/4 cup sugar
3 tablespoons butter, room temperature
1 tablespoon grated lemon peel
4 large eggs, separated
3 tablespoons all purpose flour
1 cup buttermilk
1/4 cup lemon juice

1. Preheat oven to 350°F
2. Butter an 8" souffle dish, or similar ceramic baking dish.
3. Using electric mixer, beat sugar, butter, and lemon peel in large bowl; beat in egg yolks.
4. Mix in flour in three additions alternately with buttermilk in two additions. Stir in lemon juice.
5. Using clean dry beaters, beat egg whites in medium bowl until stiff peaks form.
6. Fold egg whites into yolk mixture; pour batter into baking dish.
7. Bake until custard is set in center and beginning to brown, about 35 minutes. Remove from oven and let cool.

Can be made 1 day ahead -- cool completely, cover, and refrigerate. Transport in souffle dish then invert onto plate to serve. Accept praise graciously.

Our New Soda Siphon: Or, How To Assuage Your Yuppie Guilt

I'll be the first to admit that fate has dealt me a pretty great hand in life. I have a job that I like, attractive friends, low cholesterol, good teeth, a big warm bed to sleep in at night, a mother who spoils me, and a Viking of my very own.

This good fortune leads to a tremendous amount of Yuppie Guilt. Guilt about things like not giving change to Salvation Army Santas, being secretly resentful at having to participate in corporate community service outings, never once texting “HAITI” to 90999, and failing to donate to local food drives because canned goods are really heavy to lug about. I know that I don’t do nearly enough good in the world, that that probably makes me a wicked and ungrateful person, and that if God exists I am really going to be screwed for judgment day.

One of my greatest sources of Yuppie Guilt has to do with my stewardship of the planet...or lack thereof. Specifically, about my trash.

The Viking and I generate an enormous amount of garbage, due in part to the fact that we treat bottled water like we’re living in Nicaragua instead of New York. We use it to do everything except wash dishes and brush our teeth. I drink a lot of sparkling water in particular, and recently my San Pellegrino habit had gotten to the point where I was going through a case of the heavy glass liter bottles every other week. Add to that beer and wine consumption, and there was perpetually a small mountain of empty bottles piled inside the recycling bin.

Well, something plainly needed to be done. Buying a Brita pitcher was an easy fix for cutting down on bottled still water, but I wanted to go further. I wanted to stop buying sparkling too (I know. I know. My courage is an inspiration.). So I purchased a soda siphon.

The soda siphon: in addition to being an indispensable prop in classic physical comedy routines (see Marx Brothers, Three Stooges), a soda siphon is the old-fashioned way of making sparkling water out of still water + a CO2 cartridge. The one I bought cost $47.50 on Amazon.com, and while its space-age design lacks any charm/vintage appeal, it gets the job done.

I've given it a few weeks of regular use, and can report back that I highly recommend that you buy one. Sure, it takes a little more effort than just twisting off a bottle cap, but the benefits more than make up for it. The quality of the water is every bit as good as Perrier or Pellegrino, but without the nasty environmental impact. And if you buy the CO2 chargers in bulk, the costs works out to about 50 cents per bottle -- so less than half of what it costs to buy even cheap seltzer water in the grocery store.

Using a soda siphon also allows you to add all types of exciting things into your sparkling water -- Italian soda syrups, lemon, lime. You can carbonate OJ or apple juice. You could even carbonate milk if you wanted to! Although, maybe don't try that.

Perhaps best part of the soda siphon is the Mad Men-esque romance it lends to even the simple act of pouring a glass of sparkling water, and especially when making an actual cocktail. The first thing I did after fizzing my first bottle of water was make myself a scotch and soda, temporarily forgetting that I think scotch tastes like gym socks.

It took me a few tries to get the process right, so here are a few tips. Let me stress that the water needs to be cold and filtered going in (low temperature = fizzier water; filter it because if it tastes like tap water going in, it will taste like tap water coming out). Oh yeah, and make sure not to fill the siphon too full with water, or when you discharge the CO2 into it you’ll end up spraying water everywhere, like on some important-looking papers lying on the coffee table and all over your copy of the Bouchon cookbook that you've worked hard to keep clean. For example.

Without further ado:

1. Fill the siphon with cold, filtered water until it is 5” – 6” from top (you’ll be leaving some space in the bottle for the C02).















2. Insert tube.

















3. Screw lid on tight.

















4. Insert CO2 canister into sleeve, then screw sleeve into CO2 valve; CO2 canister will empty fully into siphon.
















5. Unscrew CO2 canister and discard; screw cap onto valve.

















6. Shake siphon vigorously at least five times.

















7. Dispense sparkling water in a gentle stream; keep siphon stored in refrigerator for maximum carbonation.
















On Saturday I went through five siphons full of seltzer making Fizzy Lizzies (an excellent vodka cocktail for which I’ll give you the recipe soon, if you are very good), and had only a handful of empty cartridges to show for it -- empty cartridges, and a smug expression that said, "I care deeply about the environment...in the chicest way possible."

The Revolution Will Not Be Entree-Sized

Since I work in the restaurant industry, every so often someone will ask me what I think the most obnoxious current New York dining trend is. There are so many to choose from: communal tables, restaurants decorated like a Bay Ridge yard sale, "speakeasies," bacon everything, food trucks, unpublished reservations numbers, the list goes on and on. But bar none, my most hated industry trend is the one for serving “shared small plates." I've sworn off restaurants with a small plates menu format. I think you should too, and I'll tell you why.

Once upon at time in New York, when you sat down in a restaurant and looked at the menu, you knew what you were getting yourself into. There were appetizers, entrees, and desserts, and you'd order some combination of those three based on how hungry you were. You knew how much food you'd be getting and what you'd be paying for the meal. It was all so simple, so reasonable.

But if New York liked "simple" and "reasonable," it would be called Boston. Over the past five years, that tried and true format has fallen by the wayside as more and more restaurants traffic exclusively in small plates meant to be shared by the whole table. It’s a formula that seems specially designed to stun, disorient, and anger me for the entire time I’m in a restaurant.

It starts when I’m handed the menu, which is either just one interminable list of dishes or, even worse, dishes divided into multiple categories with names in foreign languages (calientes, crudos, aperitivos, pesces, words that you vaguely remember from high school Spanish class or the Italian guy you dated in college). You're supposed to order a bunch of different dishes and share them, because someone decided that that’s festive.

Well, there's nothing less festive then a group of six people all silently studying their menus, heads cocked and brows furrowed like they’re trying to decipher the Rosetta stone. No one has any idea how many small plates they want or how much they should be paying for them. How big is the zucchini tempura going to be? How many plates should we get as a table, total? Should we order something from each category? Does my friend's anorexic girlfriend count as a whole person or half a person? Should everyone order a couple of things, or should one person order everything? Civilized conversation cannot possibly resume until we have some answers.

Eventually we get past the hurdle of ordering, likely thanks to a server who takes pity on us and suggests a few favorites, and the food begins to arrive – first in a trickle, and then in a flood. I've never been good at sharing anything, least of all my food. "Shared small plates" to me conjures visions of inhaling croquetas, shoving arancini in my cheeks like a gerbil, spearing strips of hanger steak and dragging them onto my plate before the server removes a dish to "clear some room" as the tapas offensive continues. Before I know it, dinner has devolved into a concentrated attempt at hunting, securing, and destroying food.

And that makes me hate myself, because dining should be about slow and deliberate tasting, free of worry that while I'm savoring a bison slider someone else is going to bogart my share of the prosciutto. And it definitely should not be about eating a duck meatball followed by a fish taco followed by a pierogi, which causes such sensory overload (not to mention crippling heartburn) that within 20 minutes of leaving the restaurant, I have no recollection of anything that I ate. I just want to lie down. There's a reason why none of the best meals of your life have ever been in buffet format -- it's like listening to 10 seconds each of The Beatles, Bob Marley, Madonna, U2, and Dean Martin. The whole is waaaaay less than the sum of the parts.

But the worst part of the meal is still yet to come: it's the bill! Ohhhh, the sticker shock. Someone very clever realized that people with a perfectly good command of mathematics will order an unlimited number of drinks and food items in the $5 - $15 range without expecting the total to hit the three digit mark. I go into one of these places thinking that it will be a cheap dinner --something on the level of going out for Thai food or pizza -- and come out realizing that I could have bought myself a steak somewhere nice for the same price. As I numbly put my credit card down all I can think is: What. Just. Happened.

The sad part is, there happens to be some pretty great food out there out that is served in small plate format. If you don't want to miss out on it entirely, here's my suggestion: avoid the group dinner at all costs. Go with one other person for a drink and a snack (or small lunch), sit at the bar, and share just a couple of plates, slowly, between the two of you.

Rhubarb: It's Celery In Drag

So rhubarb showed up at the greenmarket this weekend. Just a few firm, silty-bottomed stalks of it, but there they were, yanked from the ground on some hilltop in the Hudson Valley, driven into the city, and tossed into a wooden crate next to the baby lettuces and broccoli rabe.

Like the asparagus and ramps that I've lately been so frantic to incorporate into meals at every possible opportunity, rhubarb has its moment here in May/June and then disappears until the following spring. When I see it I can't not buy it, even if I have no clue what I'm going to do with it.

That got me thinking about what I can only call rhubarb's identity crisis.

If you've had any experience with cooking or eating rhubarb, it has probably been in pie, crumble, cobbler, jam, fool, or compote form. Often consorting with strawberries or cherries. You'll admit, this is unusual behavior for a vegetable.

Because, make no mistake, rhubarb is a vegetable. Just look at it! It looks like celery in a red dress and lipstick. Gnaw on a stalk of ripe rhubarb and you'll taste how wholly unfruitlike it really is. People say it's "tart," but that's putting it politely. It's really pretty sour. You're not fooling anyone with that getup, rhubarb. You're a vegetable through and through.

Separate rhubarb from its fruity friends and it makes a great savory ingredient.

So, that's what I decided to do. I returned rhubarb to its rightful place among fellow spring vegetables -- put it back in a pair of 501s and a tee shirt, if you will -- simmering it with onions, garlic, and vinegar, and serving it with a big hunk of a pork chop and a ragout of shiitakes, ramps, and asparagus. This photo is taken instants before The Viking devoured everything in sight, proclaiming the rhubarb chutney in particular to be "actually delicious, far better than it looked to be."



It's true. This condiment isn't going to win any beauty contests (though it might turn out prettier if you start with pinker rhubarb than I did -- my stalks were green and pink), but after all, looks aren't everything. That's something a strawberry would be worried about.


Rhubarb Chutney
From Tom Colicchio's Think Like A Chef

Makes about 1 cup

1 tablespoon peanut oil
1 small onion, peeled, halved and thinly sliced
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
4 stalks rhubarb, sliced about 1" thick
1 tablespoon grated fresh ginger
3 cloves garlic, peeled and sliced
1 bay leaf
2 tablespoons sugar
1/4 cup cider vinegar

1. Heat the oil over medium-low heat in a medium saucepan until it thins slightly. Add the onions, salt and pepper and cook, stirring occasionally, until the onions are soft, about 15 minutes.
2. Add the rhubarb, ginger, garlic, and bay leaf and cook, stirring occasionally, until the rhubarb begins to soften, about 10 minutes. Add the sugar and vinegar and cook until the rhubarb is completely soft and the chutney is the consistency of chunky applesauce, about 7 minutes more.
3. Adjust the seasoning with sugar, salt and pepper. Serve warm or at room temperature.

The chutney will keep in the refrigerator for several weeks.

Impromptu Badass Omeletteness

Alright, I realize that about half my posts to date involve eggs or yuppy spring vegetables. I promise to branch out, it's just that I randomly made an omelette with sorrel and ramps this morning and uuuhhhh it was amazing.

Ramps, as previously mentioned, are wild leeks. Sorrel is a lemony, leafy herb. If you can't get one of these, use just the other; if you can't get either then use your imagination to come up with another filling. Spinach, onion, I don't know, whatever you can find at the supermarket. If you don't have any imagination, use just the cheddar.

What makes this omelette different than the ones you get in a diner -- besides the fancy produce -- is that it's super thin, almost like a panino, and due to using relatively low heat the eggs are soft and custardy instead of being crispy and dense. Mmmm. Me likey.

Okay, that's all for today. It's 85 and sunny on the terrace and I have a date with a chaise lounge.


Omelette with Sorrel, Olive Oil-Braised Ramps, and Local Cheddar

Serves 1

1/2 c. olive oil
5 ramps, cleaned
1/2 c. coarsely chopped sorrel leaves
2 tbsp butter
1/3 c. shredded cheddar
3 eggs, scrambled
Kosher or Sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper

1. Heat olive oil in small skillet over medium-high heat; once hot, add ramps and coat with oil.
2. Once ramp greens are wilted, reduce heat to low and cook ramps covered, stirring ocassionally, for 5-10 minutes or until very soft.
3. Remove ramps from pan with slotted spoon and transfer to paper towels to drain.
4. Pour off most of the olive oil, then return skillet to medium-low heat.
5. Add sorrel, cooking until just wilted, then remove from skillet with slotted spoon and transfer to paper towels to drain.
6. Coarsely chop ramps add to sorrel, then blot with paper towels to remove as much oil as possible. Set aside.
7. Heat butter over medium heat in a non-stick or cast-iron skillet, spreading butter to cover pan evenly.
8. Once butter begins to foam, add eggs, stirring/scraping eggs towards center with fork or rubber statula.
9. When eggs are cooked almost through, add cheese, then ramps and sorrel, salt, and freshly ground black pepper.
10. Gently detach eggs from pan with spatula (if stubborn, rubber spatulas are gentlest).
11. Using spatula, fold eggs in half and cook for a few moments more.
12. Transfer to plate and season with salt and pepper.