A happy accident

Like most fundamental things in life, good cooking has a lot of mythology surrounding it. The origins of iconic dishes such as Caesar salad, Buffalo wings, and oysters Rockefeller, to cite just a few American examples, are often hotly debated, with at least three or four stories of ownership and invention existing for each one--not to mention the endless variations on each recipe that restaurants across the country proudly declare to be the "original."

A related form of cooking mythology is the "happy accident" variety. You know what I'm talking about: those recipes that are supposed to have developed through some chef's error that, magically, turned out to be even more delicious than intended. Toll House cookies probably best exemplify this category. The accepted story goes like this: in the 1930s, Ruth Graves Wakefield was the owner of the Toll House Inn in Whitman, Massachusetts. One night, running low on the unsweetened bakers' chocolate that she used to make the inn's popular chocolate cookies, Whitman decided to break a semisweet chocolate bar into chunks and mix them into her plain cookie dough in the hopes that the chocolate would melt in the oven and create a chocolate cookie. But of course, the chunks stayed intact, resulting in an equally, if not more addicting cookie that has gone on to become the most popular American dessert since apple pie.

Now, I tend to mistrust stories like this. Why? Because I think that most accomplished cooks and bakers, like the ones featured in these recipe myths of origin, tend to be knowledgeable enough to be able to predict how their ingredients will react. Chefs aren't just running around kitchens throwing things into bowls and hoping that they'll taste good in the end (well, not usually, at least). Particularly in the Toll House cookie example, the story just seems far fetched: any experienced baker would know that the chocolate chunks in the cookie wouldn't melt, and so on and so forth for the many other "oops I made a mistake but wow does that taste good" tales that exist.

Or so I thought. Until that very thing happened to me. Allow me to set the scene: it was Thursday, June 17, 2010, and I was hard at work in the kitchen creating a rhubarb, apple, and blackberry tart. I had never made one before, but I knew, more or less, where to begin. I started by making an all-butter pastry crust in my brand-new, shiny Cuisinart, mixing the dough only the barest amount, using the smallest bit of water possible to make it set, and allowing it to rest comfortably in the refrigerator for half an hour before even thinking about attempting to roll it out. I was feeling confident as I set to work on the filling, which consisted of sliced apples, sliced rhubarb, whole blackberries, lemon zest, cinnamon, and sugar.

But not enough sugar. Much to my dismay, after smelling the warm, enticing aromas of browning butter and softening fruit during the hour or so that the tart spent baking, I pulled a beautiful, delicious-looking pastry from the oven and stuck an eager fingertip into the bubbling juices--only to pucker up in disgust at the sour taste. I didn't use enough sugar! And I'm due at a barbecue in a half hour! I racked my brain for possible solutions, and there seemed to be only one: I grabbed a box of raw brown sugar from my pantry and sprinkled a generous handful of the coarse crystals over the fruit, then stuck it back in the oven, under the preheated broiler. In about a minute, when the sugar had turned into a tawny, crackly glaze--exactly like the one you find atop crème brûlée--I declared the tart done. There was nothing else I could do.

Later on, at the aforementioned barbecue, I duly cut my tart into even slices, but with a heavy heart: I had little hope for it now. My friends gathered around to try it, and I sat back to gauge their reactions. And much to my delight, far from running to the nearest trash can or patch of grass to indelicately spit out the bitter crumbs, my pals were oohing and aahing with delight, reaching back for seconds and thirds. I tried a piece. It was phenomenal: the crunchy sweetness of the caramelized sugar topping followed by soft, yielding fruit; the whole thing anchored by a light, crumbly, and buttery crust. It was a mistake, and yet it was so good. I guess happy accidents really do exist.

















Bruléed Apple, Rhubarb and Blackberry Galette
Serves 8

Ingredients:

1 stick (8 tbsp.) very cold unsalted butter, cut into small cubes
1 1/2 c. all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp. salt
3 to 4 tbsp. ice water

1 large apple, peeled and cut into thin slices
3 large stalks rhubarb, peeled and cut into thin slices
1/2 pint blackberries
1 1/4 c. sugar
1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
Zest of one lemon
2 tbsp. all-purpose flour
1 tbsp. unsalted butter
About 4 tbsp. raw brown sugar, or granulated sugar

Preparation:

1. Make the dough: in the bowl of a food processor, combine the flour and the butter. Pulse several times to distribute the butter. Pulse several more times, adding as little ice water as possible, until the dough comes together in a smooth ball. Do not overmix, as this will result in tough dough. (Alternatively, you can mix the dough by hand, but a food processor will produce a lighter, flakier crust.)
2. Wrap the ball of dough in plastic wrap and flatten it slightly into a disk. Place in the refrigerator and chill for 30 minutes to one hour.
3. Meanwhile, make the filling: combine the apple, rhubarb, blackberries, sugar, cinnamon, and lemon zest in a large bowl and toss to combine. Let it sit while you wait for the dough.
4. Preheat the oven to 350°.
5. Remove the dough from the refrigerator and let it sit at room temperature for about 5 minutes. Then, working on a large, flat, well-floured surface, use a rolling pin to roll the dough out into a large oval of about 1/4" thickness. Carefully transfer the dough to a large cookie sheet.
6. Evenly sprinkle the 2 tablespoons of flour over the fruit filling and toss to combine. Carefully spread the filling over the center of the tart dough, leaving the outer 1 1/2 inches of dough bare. Carefully fold the dough edges over the filling, creating an ovular tart. Break up the 1 tablespoon of butter into small pieces and dot them over the fruit filling.
7. Place the tart in the oven and bake for 1 1/4 hours to 1 1/2 hours. When done, the tart dough will be golden brown, and the fruit filling will have cooked down and set.
8. Remove the tart from the oven and turn the oven to the broiler setting. Sprinkle the additional 4 tablespoons of sugar evenly over the fruit and place it under the broiler for about 2 minutes, or until the sugar has melted. Be careful not to burn the sugar.
9. Let the tart cool to room temperature before slicing into 8 portions. Serve (preferably with vanilla ice cream).

Potluck, please

I don't know about you all, but I love potlucks. I love hosting them; I love attending them; I even like just talking about them. As much I enjoy eating in restaurants every once in a while, dining out has never really been my thing. That's because my favorite kind of food is the simple, comforting, homey kind; the kind, say, that my friends might make for me. Plus, I've always been a sucker for dim sum/Indian buffet/smörgåsbord-type situations, where you get to try lots of different dishes all at once. So, as you can see, potlucks basically represent the sweet, sweet center of my personal Venn diagram of dining.

I've been fortunate in life, I suppose, because I happen to have found a set of friends who share my passion for potlucks. My pal Patricia, who sadly lives in France nowadays, used to host them in her Brooklyn apartment with some regularity, and a coworker of mine has themed potlucks at her house about once a month. Most recently, though, it was my friend Hallie who invited people over to her new place in Williamsburg for a housewarming potluck.

When deciding what to bring to a potluck, there are a few factors to take into consideration. The obvious one is size: you want to make something that will feed a large group. Another is broadness of appeal: a potluck is not the time to try out that recipe for wasabi-sriracha snails you've been eying. Finally, you'll want to think about portability: if you, like me, are riding your bike or even taking the train to your destination, you don't want to prepare something ultra-delicate that will suffer from transportation.

When choosing my potluck dish this time around, I was inspired, as I so often am, by leftovers. I had a box of phyllo dough that had, funnily enough, been hanging around in my freezer since the last potluck I attended, when I made an Austrian potato strudel. In my fridge, I found some slightly sad-looking shiitake mushrooms that needed to be cooked immediately. Lastly, I had purchased a huge bunch of beautiful fat leeks at the farmer's market, and I wanted to spare them the shiitakes' fate and make sure to use them while they were still in their prime. It was obvious to me, once I considered my options, how all these items would go together: in a rich, savory tart.

I sauteed the leeks and shiitakes together, adding some button mushrooms to fill the mixture out, let that cool, and then folded it into some ricotta cheese, adding grated Parmesan and fresh thyme to tie it all together. Once the filling was done, I set to work on my phyllo, laying out the sheets on a large, clean workstation and covering them with a damp towel. After brushing each sheet with a mixture of melted butter and olive oil, I layered them in a shallow glass baking dish, then spread the filling on top. I added several more sheets of phyllo dough, slid the tart into the oven, and in about 40 minutes had a crispy, golden, delectable-smelling pastry cooling on my countertop. I got to tuck into it a few hours later at the potluck, and it was delicious: the earthy, slightly chewy mushrooms breaking up the soft bland richness of the ricotta, the caramelized leeks adding sweetness and just a little bit of bite. If you try it out for your next potluck, don't expect to bring home any leftovers.




















Savory Leek, Mushroom and Ricotta Tart
Serves 10

Ingredients:

1 box prepared phyllo dough, thawed
1/2 cup + 3 tbsp. olive oil, divided
3 tbsp. + 1 tbsp. unsalted butter, divided
1 cup shiitake mushrooms, cleaned, stems discarded, and cut into bite-size pieces
1 cup button mushrooms, cleaned and cut into bite-size pieces
4 - 5 leeks, sliced into half-moons and rinsed of all grit
1 small (15 oz.) container ricotta cheese
1 egg
Grated Parmesan
Chopped fresh thyme
Salt
Pepper

Preparation:

1. Preheat the oven to 375°.
2. In a small pot, melt 3 tbsp. butter, then mix in 1/2 c. olive oil. Set aside to cool.
3. In a large, wide, heavy-bottomed skillet, heat remaining olive oil and butter over a medium flame. Add leeks and mushrooms and cook, stirring occasionally, until leeks are wilted and mushrooms have released their liquid and browned, about 8 minutes. Season with salt and pepper and set aside to cool.
4. Combine mushrooms and leeks with ricotta, egg, Parmesan and thyme to taste. Season with salt and pepper. Set aside.
5. Lay phyllo sheets out on a large, clean workstation and cover with a damp towel. Working with one sheet at a time, brush phyllo generously with oil/butter mixture, then quickly lay it in a 7"x11" glass baking dish. Repeat with 7 more sheets of phyllo.
6. Spread ricotta filling on top of phyllo, distributing evenly.
7. Add a final layer of 8 phyllo sheets on top of the filling, making sure to seal the tart well.
8. Place tart in oven and bake until phyllo is golden brown and crisp, about 40 minutes. Let cool completely, then cut into 10 pieces. Serve at room temperature.

Talking turkey

If there's a "less is more" school of turkey burgers, then you could not count me among its adherents. I happen to really like turkey burgers, and make them often. Every time I do, my formula is a little different, but each is marked by one particular characteristic: a reckless hand with seasoning, herbs and spices, and add-ins. One might deem this the Kitchen Sink school of turkey burgers.

Ground turkey, I think, needs a little extra help. The packaged kind you buy in supermarkets, and particularly the all breast meat type (which I always steer widely clear of), can be a little dry. It can be a little flavorless. This is because the meat comes from factory raised birds fed a diet of mostly uninteresting things like corn and soy by-products, and if the turkey doesn't eat interesting things, then why would it itself taste good? In order to combat this Tasteless Turkey syndrome, I'm accustomed to throwing lots of flavor at the problem: finely chopped onion or scallions, as well as garlic, are a must; lots of salt and freshly ground pepper are advisable; generous amounts of dried spices like paprika, cumin, and red pepper flakes are common; and chopped fresh herbs like parsley or cilantro often show up, too. One last thing to consider is a little lubrication: I'll often toss in a bit of whole-milk plain yogurt, or a dash of olive oil, to ensure that the burger comes out juicy.

And tonight, my friends, I did all those things--and more--to my turkey meat. But as it turns out, I might not have had to. You see, after a recent viewing of the excellent, eye-opening, generally disturbing but also fascinating (much like a car wreck) documentary, Food, Inc., I've decided to avoid supermarket meat for a while. I don't want to make any hard and fast declarations, especially since my wallet might not be equipped to handle such claims, but for the time being, at least, I've decided to buy the vast majority of my meat at the farmer's market (and avoid the label "Perdue" like the bloody plague). I started my new resolution this past weekend, when a trip to the Grand Army Plaza farmer's market proved quite fruitful (or meat-ful?). I stocked my freezer full of ground pork, ground turkey, and different cuts of free-range beef, so now all I have to do is reach into the icebox for a guilt-free meat meal.

I used up the first of my provisions, the ground turkey (from DiPaola Turkey Farm in Hamilton, New Jersey) in the aforementioned burgers that I made for dinner earlier this evening. I added all the usual suspects--plus a blanket of sharp, rich Cato Corner Farm cheese--and, to be blunt, ended up with a juicy fistful of The Best Turkey Burger I Have Ever Eaten in My Life. Yup--it was that good. Supremely moist and packing a wallop of flavor, I suspect that there was more at work in this burger than the seasonings that I added to it: namely, the freshness and quality of the turkey. Maybe, with meat this good, you don't really need to add much to it. So you should treat yourself to some good meat, too. But for those times when you can't or don't, try the Kitchen Sink technique.




















Kitchen Sink Turkey Burgers
Serves 3 - 4

Ingredients:

1 lb. ground turkey, dark meat preferable
Finely chopped onion or scallion
Minced garlic
Salt
Pepper
Dried spices such as but not limited to: paprika; cumin; coriander; chili powder; red pepper flakes
Chopped fresh herbs such as parsley, cilantro or thyme
Worcestershire sauce (optional)
Whole milk plain yogurt, for moisture (optional)
Olive oil, for moisture (optional)
Cheese, for topping (optional)

Preparation:

1. In a large bowl, combine turkey with ingredients and amounts of your choice. The flavorings listed above are a good guideline but can be varied or omitted according to preference. Just remember to add a lot of seasoning. Mix lightly and form turkey into 3 or 4 burgers. If time allows, let burgers rest in the fridge for about 20 minutes. The flavors will meld, and the burgers will hold together better during cooking.
2. Heat a cast iron skillet, grill pan, or grill. Alternatively, preheat your broiler. When pan is hot, add burgers and cook over high until cooked through but still moist, about 8 minutes per side. When burgers are nearly done, shut the heat off, top burgers with cheese if using, and loosely tent the pan with tin foil. This will help burgers to finish cooking evenly, and will melt the cheese. Serve as desired.

Bruschetta (without the bread)

It's spring here in New York City, and I couldn't be happier about that fact. As soon as temperatures rose above 50 degrees, I retired my winter jacket--perhaps a bit prematurely--and immediately starting craving spring/summer crops like strawberries and tomatoes. Also somewhat prematurely. While the strawberry plants on my deck will probably bear fruit within a few weeks, my tomatoes won't even show their first flowers until June. For the moment, it seems, I'll have to make due with the produce available in my local grocery store. That explains how I, ever powerless to resist or even wait out a craving, found myself with a bag of sub-par supermarket tomatoes last week. I wanted tomatoes, and I got tomatoes.

So how to best utilize an ingredient, like the tomato, that when purchased at the store is almost always woefully lacking in the flavor department? The key is to try your darnedest to deepen and enhance what flavor is already there. In the post I just linked to I suggested slow-roasting tomatoes in order to do just that; and today I'm going to share a fresher, faster alternative to that method. What I did with my most recent batch of wan tomatoes was to make a no-cook tomato sauce that sits at room temperature, marinating undisturbed for as long as your hunger can hold out, increasing in lusty flavor all the while. What you do is dice tomatoes and plop them in a bowl along with minced garlic, shredded basil, a generous amount of salt and a good glug of olive oil (use your best; you'll really taste it here).



















This recipe, as you might notice, is pretty much exactly what you'd pile atop toasted bread and call bruschetta (it's just as good with pasta). What happens is that the salt draws out a lot of liquid from the tomatoes, and as the liquid goes, you taste the fruit's flavor more. Same theory behind roasting any fruit or vegetable. In this instance, that liquid mixes and mingles with the olive oil in the bowl, making a sort of dressing that nicely coats the pasta that you will cook and add in. And the warmth of that pasta will heat up the garlic just a little bit, taking away some of its raw edge but leaving a nice spicy bite behind. So until you can get your hands on some nice, fresh, locally grown and seasonal tomatoes, try this move on your everyday tomato and tell me that it doesn't make the waiting that much easier.



















No-Cook Tomato Sauce
Serves 2

Ingredients:

4 plum tomatoes or 2 larger tomatoes, cut into a small dice
3 cloves garlic, minced
A generous handful of basil, cut or torn into thin strips
Salt
Olive oil
2 servings of dried pasta

Preparation:

1. Combine tomatoes, garlic, basil, salt and olive oil to taste in a bowl. Let sit at room temperature for a minimum of 20 minutes and ideally for at least an hour.
2. When you're ready to eat, set a pot of water to boil. Cook the pasta to al dente, drain, and add it to the bowl of sauce. Toss to combine, check for seasoning, and serve.

Just saying no to takeout

I'll admit it: I love takeout. I live in New York, and there is no shortage of reasonably priced local restaurants whose varied cuisines I would be more than happy to see arrive, like magic, at my doorstep. For me, ordering takeout is akin to what I imagine getting room service to be like: a luxurious, I'm-just-going-to-sit-here-watching-movies-while-someone-else-prepares-my-dinner type of indulgence.

That being said, I can probably count on two hands the number of occasions that I have actually gotten takeout in the past 2 years. Not only am I ridiculously cheap frugal, but I also, obviously, love to cook, and therefore rarely do my stove the dishonor of letting it stand idly by while I eat the fruits of some stranger's labor.

One of the best things about becoming confident in your cooking is that, eventually, you'll probably be able to recreate or at least approximate some of your favorite dishes in your own home, without having to waste money on (nor unwittingly ingest the various chemical additives of) takeout. Anyone reading this blog of late will have noticed that I have become extremely enamored of cooking Asian, particularly Chinese, cuisines. And my increased facility with once-mysterious ingredients such as fermented black beans and preserved vegetables is perhaps my best armor against the siren song of restaurant food. That is because for me, and, I would wager, for a lot of people, my number one takeout craving happens to be Chinese food. Nowadays, in moments of tired-after-a-long-day-at-work weakness, I can look into my pantry and avoid the (you know you have one) takeout menu/miscellanea drawer.

Earlier tonight I was sorely tempted by thoughts of the excellent Thai restaurant down the street from me. But before I picked up the phone I checked out what was in the fridge: a lone lean pork chop and the last remaining member of a bunch of Japanese eggplants. Suddenly I was all caught up in a craving for Chinese eggplant with garlic sauce, with tender slivers of pork throughout. I was now committed to the cause, and duly chopped my ginger and garlic and set my wok to heat up. Working very, very loosely from a recipe I found online, I was soon rewarded with a plate full of creamy, tender eggplant and soft bits of pork suspended in a pungent, slightly spicy sauce. Delayed gratification, in this instance, was just as satisfying--if not more so--than the instant kind.



















Eggplant and Pork in Chile-Garlic Sauce
Serves 3 - 4
Adapted from The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

Ingredients:

3 medium Japanese eggplants, about 1 pound
2 thin, lean, pork chops, trimmed of fat and sliced into small strips
1 tbsp. plus 2 tbsp. light soy sauce, divided
1 tsp. sesame oil
1 tbsp. plus 2 tbsp. rice wine vinegar, divided
1 tbsp. plus 2 tbsp. rice cooking wine, divided
Red pepper flakes
2 tbsp. chile garlic sauce
1 tbsp. sugar
2 tbsp. finely minced ginger
2 tbsp. finely minced garlic
2 scallions, thinly sliced
Vegetable oil for frying

Preparation:

1. Marinate the pork: In a small bowl combine the pork with 1 tbsp. soy sauce, 1 tbsp. rice wine vinegar, 1 tbsp. rice cooking wine, 1 tsp. sesame oil and a dash of red pepper flakes. Stir to combine and set aside.
2. Slice the eggplant into thick (about 1/2") medallions. Discard stem.
3. Make the sauce: in a small bowl, combine remaining soy sauce, vinegar, cooking wine, and sugar.
4. Heat a generous amount of oil (about 3 - 4 tbsp.) in a wok set over a high flame. Just before it begins to smoke, add the eggplant. Cook, stirring or shaking constantly, until eggplant starts to soften, about 8 - 10 minutes. Remove eggplant to a plate.
5. Add one more tbsp. of oil to the wok and heat over a medium flame. Add the garlic and ginger and cook briefly; then add the pork and cook, stirring, until it is no longer pink, about 3 minutes.
6. Add the eggplant back to the wok and stir in the sauce. Reduce heat to low, cover, and cook for about 8 - 10 minutes or until pork is cooked through and eggplant is very tender. Garnish with scallions and serve with rice.