Holiday Lobstercide, In Two Parts

As you might have noticed, over the holidays I've allowed myself a nice, leisurely three weeks away from blogging. In my own defense: no, I have not taken three weeks off from everything else. Life has continued at its usual clip, with the added excitement of much packing and unpacking, present wrapping and unwrapping, plus a blizzard thrown in for good measure.

Instead of sitting at home with my feet up in front of a roaring fire on December 27 -- the night after the blizzard hit New York -- I was fighting an old man over an egg salad sandwich, one of the few items of food remaining in the British Airways terminal, which 36 hours after the first snow began to fall was beginning to resemble the Superdome. Then I was curled up around my duffel bag on the terminal floor, with a sock over my eyes as a makeshift sleep mask. But then again, once the plane finally took off I ended up spending the ensuing week in England, Bruges, and Paris, so I don't expect you to pity me.

Life would have gotten back to normal when I returned to a nearly snow-free New York on 1/3 were it not for my and The Viking's birthdays taking place back to back on the 11th and 12th of January. Frankly, I really don't consider 1/1 to be the start of my new year, because it's just impossible to turn over a new leaf with the prospect of further celebration staring you right in the face.

Anyway, now I'm back on the straight and narrow, and am making an effort to wean myself off a diet of triple cream cheese, foie gras, beer, butter, and pork everything in favor of fat free Greek yogurt, vegetable soups, and roasted fishes.

But getting back to the culinary excesses...

I'm a not usually a big lobster eater, but I happened cook with lobster twice in December, and in two dishes that I'm proud of.

The first dish was a lobster bisque, one which has been described to me in vivid and almost mythological terms by The Viking for most of the length of our relationship. As the story goes, The Viking journeyed far, far north in the British Isles in the dead of winter, to a place where it was dark 23 hours a day and bone-chilling winds blew off the North Sea, until he arrived at the family home of his friend The Scotsman. There the Scotsman's mother served them steaming, fragrant, buttery bowls of lobster bisque. "The best lobster bisque," I have been told. "In existence."

I attempted this bisque once before (I had asked The Scotsman's mother for the recipe) in December of 2008, and it was by all accounts a failure. It looked nice enough, exactly that inviting coral color that a lobster bisque should be, but was watery and insipid. I knew the instant that I tasted it that I had stopped the stock too soon -- the key to a great bisque turns out to be reducing your lobster stock down until it is ruddy and pungent.

This year, I decided it was time for a retry, and managed to produce a much better bowl of soup. I don't know that it reached the epic heights of the Scotsman's mother's creation, but I was satisfied with the result.


My second lobster experience came on Christmas Eve, which I spent at home with my family as I do every year. I knew I wanted to do something with lobster for dinner but couldn't find a recipe that exactly fit the bill. So, I came up with a pasta dish that combines tarragon, cream, and sherry -- all classic lobster pairings -- plus fennel, which I think gives the dish a fresh, interesting twist. It took me about three hours to make, start to finish.

Here's the thing about these two recipes: you absolutely need to start with whole, live lobsters. Not just fresh or frozen tails. To say nothing of the quality of the meat, you need the lobster bodies and shells to make the stock with, which is what gives the bisque and the creamy pasta sauce their powerful, permeating lobster flavor.

You tell people that you're making a lobster dish, yes, using live lobsters, and that yes, you're going to kill the lobsters, and they look at you like you're Charles Manson. The horror! How ghastly! I'll just about take this from vegans, who are apparently so troubled by the idea of harming innocent creatures that they have made a lifelong choice not to do so (although, they might consider moving out of the United States and to somewhere like Switzerland if that's their philosophy)...but my pork-loving, supermarket-chicken-eating, meataholic friends? Where do they think lamb loin comes from? What, exactly, does the ground veal in their Bolognese represent?

To my mind, if you're going to be a carnivore, I think it's only responsible to participate in the killing of your own food every so often. But that's just me.


Christmas Eve Lobster Pasta

Serves 6-8

4 1.5-lb lobsters
3 Tbsp olive oil
1/2 cup shallots, finely chopped
1/2 bulb fennel, chopped
1/2 bulb fennel, separated into individual leaves
3 Tbsp Cognac
2 sprigs Tarragon leaves, plus 1 Tbsp chopped Tarragon
2 cups white wine
4 Tbsp flour
4 Tbsp butter
1 cup cream
Splash sherry

1. Bring a pot of water to boil. Drop lobsters in one at a time, for 1-2 minutes each. Let lobsters cool and separate claws, bodies, and tails (reserving juices that escape). Return tails to boiling water for 7 minutes, then return claws for 10 minutes. Extract meat and chop into big chunks. Reserve shells, meat, and 1 cup of lobster water.

2. Heat olive oil in a large, heavy bottomed saucepan or small stock pot. Add shallots and fennel and saute over medium heat until soft. Add lobster shells and the accumulated juices, douse with Cognac, and ignite. Once the flames have burned out, add white wine, lobster water, and tarragon sprigs. Simmer until reduced to about 1 - 1.5 cups, around 1 hour. Strain in fine sieve and reserve.
4. Meanwhile, drop fennel leaves in boiling water for 5-7 minutes, until fork tender. Drain. Lay leaves flat on cookie sheet and brush with olive oil. Bake at 400 until leaves are golden colored and crisp. Remove from oven and reserve.
3. In a medium saucepan, heat butter over medium heat until foaming. Add flour and stir until paste forms, gradually whisking in lobster stock (and stirring continuously) until thick sauce is formed. Add in cream to desired consistency, then sherry, salt, and pepper to taste. Add lobster chunks and stir.

Serve over pasta (fettuccine or spaghetti), and top with caramelized fennel and chopped tarragon.

Yep, That Just About Sums It Up

Christmas Party As Viewed By Hostess, December 10, 2010

Well, the annual Christmas party is now over. It came and went in a blur, partially due to the freely flowing Gruet and mulled cider (spiked with Brandy to toxic levels by my own hand), but mostly as a side-effect of playing hostess. I should just admit it up front: I'm never going to have meaningful conversations when I'm putting on a cocktail party for sixty. It might as well be a law of physics. There are always fires to put out -- hopefully not literal ones -- but empty glasses, that inevitable guest foundering alone in a corner, gougeres on the verge of burning. One day maybe I'll have people to refill the empty dip bowl and replace the toilet paper...but, as The Viking never ceases to remind me, that won't be anytime soon.

Last week I gave you a preview of some of the party treats that had already been baked. Below is a continuation of the series.

This year, for the first time, I made masala-spiced popcorn. It wasn't exactly a blockbuster, but I think it could have been if I was a little more liberal with the butter. Since it was very, very cheap (less than $10 yields gallons of it) and beyond easy to make (pop corn; add butter, spices, salt), I think it's a recipe worth perfecting.

The above represents my first foray into paté, and I'm quite proud of my maiden effort. The number one thing that I learned about making paté is that you probably shouldn't, if you'd like to continue enjoying eating it with the same abandon. This one is made from chicken liver, and the secret ingredient that lends it sweetness and depth of flavor is caramelized onion. The not-remotely-secret ingredient that makes it taste so rich: butter.

These raspberry macaroons look far better than they tasted. I love a good macaron, and this is not one of them. The recipe called for the delicate little cookies to be filled with store bought raspberry jam. I knew up front that that couldn't be a formula for success, and I had the best intentions of making my own raspberry filling. I had the ingredients in hand but at the critical moment -- which had to have been about 11 PM on Wednesday night -- I wimped out. All the talk of food mills and pectin and candy thermometers was too much for me. I used store bought jam instead, and the final product turned out sickly-sweet and only weakly reminiscent of raspberries.

Not pictured here are two lovely dips: an avocado green goddess dip with crudites, and a roasted red pepper and feta dip with toasted flatbreads. Oh, and a cheese plate. I never did take pictures of any of them.

This Danish almond cake was only modestly popular with party guests, but I think that it suffered unfairly in comparison to its richer, showier fellow hors d'oeuvres (those English Toffee Squares are such sluts). I can report that it is absolutely unbeatable with your morning coffee or afternoon tea.

Danish almond cake is something that my mother used to make at her Christmas parties when I was a toddler, back in the [decade redacted to protect the innocent]. Luckily for me, she has always kept a notebook in which she records each party that she hosts, what was served, who attended, and how the various dishes were received. Thumbing through the notebook over Thanksgiving I saw the Danish almond cake with a note reading "A big hit!" and I decided to take it for a spin. The recipe comes from a little book who's name escapes me, but that I remember as old, non-commercial, and flimsy enough looking to make me feel like the recipe was a real find.

Danish Almond Cake

1 cup butter
1 cup sugar
2 eggs
1 1/2 cups flour
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
3 teaspoons almond extract
1/3 cup boiling water

For glaze:
1/2 cup powdered sugar
1 Tablespoon cocoa
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 drops almond extract
3 teaspoons warm water

Cream butter and sugar until fully combined. Add eggs and mix well. Gradually add flour sifted with baking powder and salt. Beat thoroughly. Add almond extract and boiling water. Mix well. Pour into greased 9 or 10 inch spring-form or tube pan. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes, reduce to 325 for last 30 minutes. Cool 10 minutes and remove from pan. Pour glaze over the cake, spreading it over the surface of the cake and letting it sink into the crumb. Decorate with whole blanched almonds.

I'm Stearing Clear Of Heavy Machinery

Hello from soggy England! I'm in no condition to be writing right now, having spent the past 13 hours in transit, having slept for only 2 or 3 of those hours, and having taken a dose of over-the-counter sleeping medication too small to put me to sleep but just large enough to partially incapacitate me. Nonetheless, I'll try my best to string a few sentences together, because I really am so behind in telling you about last weekend's kitchen antics.

Last Saturday night we had The Viking's cycling team over for cocktails on the terrace. For them, it was a rare opportunity to socialize in a spandex-free environment; for me, it was a chance to attach faces to names and to corroborate The Viking's dubious-sounding claim that when he leaves the house at 5:45 every morning, it really is to ride a bike in circles around the park and not to hold up convenience stores or do drug deals or similar.

A cycling team is the perfect audience for an eager cook, consisting of the sort of stringbeany, twitchy men that need to eat almost constantly just to keep up with their raging metabolisms. Aside from the typical spread of assorted party foods (chips, dips, cheese plate, whathaveyou) I had two homemade items: roasted tomato, mozzarella, basil and brioche 'sliders,' and peanut butter and Concord grape jam sandwich cookies.



I was really worried about the brioche (this might be an overstatement. I really worry about the fact that I don't contribute to a 401k; I was somewhat nervous about the brioche.). I've never made it before and, well, given my track record with breads, I think I had legitimate cause for concern. Luckily the rolls came out of the oven soft and fluffy, and if not tasting exactly like the brioche that I'm used to, they did at least taste good. The 'sliders' (for the record, I think the word 'sliders' sounds trendy and ridiculous but I don't know what else to call these. Sandwiches? Canapes? I don't know.) were summery and fresh, wholesome without being heavy, which is exactly what I was going for.

As for the cookies: I have nothing but good things to say about the jam-making experience. I've been told before that "there's nothing to it," but only by the same type of people who say that there's nothing to knitting and there's nothing to refinishing your own furniture, so people who apparently have a higher threshold for tedious projects than I do. But there really is nothing to making jam. You heat the fruit with some lemon juice and sugar, strain out the juices, and then simmer the fruit juice on its own for 10 minutes or so. Then you wait for it to cool. That's it! And you have jam that is so, so much better than the store bought stuff.



When I saw Concord grapes at the greenmarket last week my mind immediately landed on jelly, and from there it drifted to peanut butter. Ergo peanut butter and jelly sandwiches -- hold the bread. I thought that they would be perfect for the gaggle of small children in attendance, but in the end it was their moms and dads that oooo'd and aaaahh'd over the cookies with a plainly nostalgic glow.



On a different subject, but before I forget it, sad news about our tomato plants: after having almost perished while we were in Morocco and then made a miraculous recovery, this week the tomato plants were stricken by tomato hornworms that have managed to eat every last leaf and most of our ripening fruit within a space of 72 hours. The Viking has had his eye on those tomatoes for over a month and is indignant; I don't really care about the tomatoes and mostly just mind being outsmarted by an invertebrate. This gardening stuff is hard.

Long Live The Zucchini

It's the middle of August, and if you're a certain type of person -- the type who attends farmers markets and talks about "food systems" and reads five different cooking magazines each month -- it's a very special time for food. That's because corn, tomatoes, peaches, plums, and zucchini have hit the farm stands with a vengeance, and we can all finally stop pretending that we're satisfied with our local selection of dandelion greens, pole beans, baby lettuces, stinging nettles, and the like. The heavy-hitters are finally here. It's all very exciting.

This also means that right about now, Yuppie Foodies (Yoodies? No. Fuppies.) are working themselves into a lather over all this August produce (especially the heirloom tomatoes -- ohhh, do fuppies LOVE their heirloom tomatoes), feasting on it with an enthusiasm that borders on mania. This one can't help working into every conversation how she gets just the best sweet corn at a little roadside stand in Quogue; that one will tell you that her community garden is putting out so much zucchini that she can't give it away fast enough.

The moral of the story is that for this four week period when every farmer's market is bursting at the seams with such primo local offerings, those fruits and vegetables are king. Don't bother cooking with anything else.

Rewind to this past weekend, when we had seven friends over for Sunday dinner. It was meant to be a barbecue (in the Yankee sense of the word) but the weather had other ideas. So, we sent The Viking outside to cook strip steaks in the rain and sat inside drinking cold beers, eating bruschetta, and clumsily decanting a Double Magnum of 1996 Barberesco that The Viking had been given as a gift. There have been worse Sundays.

I wanted to incorporate lots of fresh, local produce into the dinner, and my rule of thumb is that the less you do to tamper with these things, the better.

I made a salad of roasted corn, tomato, avocado, and cilantro, simply dressed with a splash of lime juice.



I also did a second salad of thinly shaved zucchini (I shaved it on a mandolin, but you can do it with a vegetable peeler or knife), toasted pine nuts, and chopped basil, tossed in olive oil and lemon juice and topped with some fresh Parmesan (pictured at top).

For dessert, I cut up a quart of local plums, mixed them with brown sugar and cinnamon, rolled them up in tin foil and stuck them under the broiler. I served them, bubbling and juicy, with homemade pound cake and vanilla ice cream.

Qu'est-ce Que C'est Dans Ma Boite Du CSA? Summer Squash, Japanese Eggplant, Napa Cabbage, Fava Beans, The List Goes On And On...

This week I found myself in an unfamiliar position: I was actually prepared to use all of my CSA produce -- I had the dishes all planned out! -- and then a lot of it went bad on me.

Food spoilage was a serious, complex problem over most of the course of human history, but the invention of refrigeration around 100 years ago should have changed all that. We live in the golden age of food preservation (actually, maybe the baroque period?). If we can make milk that's shelf-stable for months, I should be able to keep a cucumber fresh for 7-10 days.

And yet, my refrigerator is where vegetables go to be tortured. Earlier this week some of the squash froze to death and some of it appears to have been suffocated in an unventilated Ziploc bag. The cucumbers died of dehydration. Poor old squash and cucumbers.

I think that most of you can relate. When a new fruit or vegetable comes into one's life, it's not always obvious what should be done to keep it happy. Does one put it in the fridge? If so, in a plastic bag? Or in a brown paper bag on the counter? Should one wash it first? And if one is having this much trouble caring for vegetable matter, how can one expect to have a child?

To make matters worse, my refrigerator is unpredictable and mean-spirited. It is the Mel Gibson of kitchen appliances, cruel and volatile, freezing things at random and without warning. It appears to be particularly bigoted against leafy greens. Mel is currently set at 38 degrees and still manages to freeze things, leading me to believe that either the thermostat is a lie or I remember even less from high school chemistry than I thought.

This week of ruined foodstuffs was a wake up call to get my act together. For information about properly storing produce, I found this cheat sheet - it's not the prettiest, but the information is presented concisely and clearly. Were you even aware that certain troublemaking fruits like apricots and tomatoes must be stored separately from the rest of their fruit and vegetable friends? Neither was I.

I also need to get myself a refrigerator thermometer and figure out what parts of my fridge stay at what temperature, and store things accordingly. I can already see The Viking throwing his face in his hands at this, envisioning a future in which he gets in trouble for putting the blueberries back on the wrong shelf. Sorry, The Viking, but it's the world in which you are about to live.

Without further ado, here's a rundown of how I used my CSA produce:

I sliced the Japanese eggplants and what was left of the squash, brushed them with olive oil, and simply grilled them on a griddle plate on my stove top.



I rescued two cucumbers and used them to make raita, the Indian yogurt, cucumber, and mint sauce. This became a cool, refreshing accompaniment to the grilled vegetables.

The carrots were tossed in with a leftover butterflied lamb shank that I thawed, trussed, and braised on the stove top with tomatoes, lemons, garlic, port, cinnamon, thyme, and bay leaves. I've never cooked lamb this way before and it's worthy of a blog entry of its own - it was sensationally tender and delicately tinged with North African flavors.



The fava beans I blanched and threw together with mint, sliced radishes, sliced red onion, and a honey mustard vinaigrette. I meant to include feta, and that would have been a valuable addition to a salad that ended somewhat too flimsy for its own good.



As previously reported, the Mirabelles became a tart.

As for the Napa Cabbage and Kale...these didn't turn out so well. I braised them in a skillet with garlic and onions and finished them with rice vinegar and raz el hanout. It was a dish that didn't make any sense, and the finished product showed it (it's pictured below with leftover lamb and raita).



This week, only the purslane got left behind. I'll try to do better by it next time around.

A Glut of Mirabelles

Mirabelle. What a great name for a fruit.

Mirabelle comes from the Latin word mirabilis, which mean wondrous. This was not my first impression of the yellow plums that bear that name, but in light of the flattering reputation, I was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt.

You see, for the past two weeks, my CSA box has included a quart of these small, firm, buttercup-yellow UFOs (Unidentified Fruitlike Objects). I could tell that they were probably a type of plum, but no plum that I had ever seen before. They were also too sour to eat as a hand fruit -- at least to my taste -- so I stuck them in a big Ziploc bag in the fridge and vowed to find some other use for them.

And there they sat. And sat. And sat. As of yesterday (12 days after the first batch arrived), they were still firm and fresh smelling, and I decided that their time had come.



A little bit of research revealed that these bright yellow plums are known as Mirabelles, and they are a regional delicacy of Lorraine. If Wikipedia is to be believed, 90% of the Mirabelles harvested become jam or eau de vie, and from what I can tell the other 10% are dropped directly into CSA boxes: nearly every reference to them on the interweb was some message board poster overwhelmed by the number she got from her CSA and wondering what the hell to do with them all. So, my position was far from unique.



I'm not set up with jam-making equipment (though I'd like to be!), so I needed to take a different route. I decided to try a tart. If all went according to plan it would be the perfect, summery dessert for our friends The Diplomat and The Free Spirit, both of whom were joining us for dinner last night.



I used a standard pie crust and surrounded the fruit in creamy custard (note: this tart can be made with any stone fruit; if you are using peaches or nectarines, slice them into segments rather than halves). The final result was a particularly...well...tart tart, in which the Mirabelles had softened and mellowed into a lovely, yolk-colored puree. The Viking and our two guests were big fans of the flavor but if you're like me and want a sweeter finish, sprinkle the top of the tart with sugar five minutes before removing it from the oven, and/or serve it with sweetened whipped cream. It'll be mirabilis.



Mirabelle Tart

Serves 8

For the crust:
1 stick butter
1 1/4 c. flour
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp sugar
2 - 4 Tbsp ice water


For the filling:
18 oz. Mirabelles, halved and pitted (*can be substituted for small purple plums, apricots, sliced peaches, or sliced nectarines)
2/3 c. cream
1/3 c. flour
1/2 c. sugar
1 egg
1 Tbsp butter

1. Mix together flour, sugar, and salt. Cut butter into 15-20 pieces and while still chilled, work into flour mixture until mixture resembles a course meal. Add water a tablespoon at a time until dough just holds together. Form into a disk and chill 1 hour.

2. Preheat oven to 350 degree. Butter 9 - 10" tart pan. Roll out crust and press into tart pan, discarding any extra dough. Arrange Mirabelle halves, rounded side up, to fill pie crust.

3. Mix together sugar, egg, and cream. Add flour. Pour mixture into tart crust.

5. Bake for 35 - 40 minutes. Let cool at least 20 minutes before serving.

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.

Baby Steps To Better Time Management

I have this dream.

I'm standing in the kitchen in a black dress, a white apron, and heels. The doorbell rings; I answer it, kiss my guests hello, take their coats. I ask them if they'd like a cocktail and then calmly wander back to the kitchen.

I'm making a vinaigrette, whisk in one hand and champagne flute in the other, now peeking into the oven, now fluffing the salad greens, now sprinkling a little more salt into soup simmering on the stove, all the while discussing nuclear arms control and cracking terribly clever jokes about Dmiti Medvedev.

And then I wake up. Because in fact, this couldn't have less in common with the actual three ring circus that takes place whenever I have guests for dinner.

At 7:55 PM my hair is still in a ball on top of top of my head, I'm wearing boxer shorts and the Viking's "You Don't Have To Be A Plumber To Have Pipes Like These" t-shirt, and I'm covered in driblets of hardened egg, olive oil and flour. Once I wrestle a dress on and take a couple of swipes with a mascara brush, I spend the first hour after company arrives trying desperately to be witty and engaging without losing a finger.

It's a failure of self-discipline, really. The wise cook, when she knows that she will be single-handedly cooking three courses for a half dozen people, chooses only "do-ahead" dishes that won't cause an hour of pre-dinner frenzy. She then plans out a detailed schedule for the day and follows it faithfully.

But I'm not a wise cook, I'm an emotional one, prone to choosing dishes with a romantic disregard for cost, logistics, and my own limitations of skill.

I'm happy to report that this past Saturday, I took baby steps in the right direction. Although I wasn't exactly 100% ready for company to arrive, I succeeded in choosing dishes that could in theory be prepared and set aside an hour or two before dinner.

The main course was a spring lasagna. I'll be the first to admit that it's not a quick meal -- especially if you're making the ricotta and the pasta fresh -- but it can be 100% finished a couple of hours before guests arrive and need only be heated and sliced. It's seasonal and elegant, a fresh take on a frumpy (though beloved) classic.

I served the lasagna rustically (read: sliced frantically into uneven slabs) but if you want to be fancy, cut it into rounds and garnish it with chervil.


Spring Lasagna

Serves 8

1 recipe basic pasta dough, rolled into 3" x 13" sheets or 1 lb lasagna noodles
2 c ricotta (preferably fresh)
4 c stinging nettles
6 c spinach
1 lb ramps, trimmed and coarsely chopped
1 bunch asparagus
6 artichokes, trimmed
4 tbsp butter
4 tbsp flour
2.5 - 3 c milk
2 c grated Parmesan


1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

2. Bring 2 quarts of water to a boil in a large stock pot; add spinach and nettles and boil for 1-2 minutes. Drain and cool in an ice bath.

3. Either by hand or in a food processor, coarsely chop nettles and spinach. Set aside.

4. Trim asparagus, peel the stems using a vegetable peeler, and remove the tips. Set aside the stems and tips.

5. Slice artichokes and asparagus into 1/8" slices, using a mandolin if available. Set aside.

6. Heat milk until not quite simmering, in the microwave or on the stove.

7. In a medium saucepan, heat 5 tbsp butter over medium heat. Once melted, add 5 tbsp flour, whisking constantly and cooking until golden brown.

8. Gradually add warm milk, whisking constantly and waiting for sauce to thicken before adding more.

9. Add in the ramps, simmering and stirring occasionally for 4-5 minutes.

10. Fold in spinach and nettles, season with salt and pepper, and remove from heat.

11. Butter a 9 x 13 baking dish and lay down a layer of noodles. Spread with a layer of spinach/nettle mixture, followed by sliced asparagus and artichokes, ricotta, and then Parmesan. Repeat layering three more times.

12. Bake in 400 degree oven for 20 - 30 minutes, then remove from the oven and let rest for 5 minutes.