Celery

Put this backup singer at center stage

By Emily Horton

April 30, 2008

As a kid, I found celery the most unappealing snack food imaginable: fibrous, stringy, and unforgivably bland. Even in recent years, I could appreciate its workhorse utility in the background of a soffrito or a stock, but I seldom found myself lavishing it with praise.

Which is a shame, because celery is remarkably versatile as a main ingredient. At its best, celery is strikingly crisp and clean when raw, tender and gently sweet when cooked. Paired with ingredients that accentuate its best features, such as lemon and honey, celery is something not just to be relied upon, but to be celebrated.

Ordinary supermarket celery.

Two things made me reconsider celery. First, I discovered the skinny-stalked, prolifically leafy celery at my farmers’ market, called “cutting” or “leaf celery.” It’s crisp and sweet, with a stronger flavor than conventional celery.

Second, while dining at a favorite Latin American-inspired tapas restaurant, I tasted a celery salad starring shimeji mushrooms, toasted corn kernels, delectably grainy aged mahon cheese, and celery marinated in lime and ginger. It was a rapturous homage to celery.

You don’t need to purchase special celery to appreciate this everyday vegetable anew. When fresh and stored properly, common grocery celery (usually the Pascal variety) can be lovely all by itself. Toss thinly shaved celery with fennel, parsley, and a lemon vinaigrette for a quick salad, or make a main dish of smoked trout and celery salad. And if you’re lucky enough to find celery with an abundance of leaves, celery pesto will put them to great use.

Kiwis

A sweet-tart delight

By Carrie Floyd

April 16, 2008

In New Zealand, I was once told by a friend who spent a year there, it’s common to store kiwifruit at room temperature until they are sweet and pulpy, then eaten. I can imagine it, but it doesn’t appeal to me. After all, what I like about kiwis is the cheap thrill of tartness.

Lucky me, then, because tart fruit is what’s mostly available here. Kiwis in the store right now are mostly from California and were most likely harvested unripe in the fall, stored at a cooler temperature, then brought to market during what we’ve come to know as kiwi season: late fall into spring.

I like plain kiwis best.

Oregon farmers also grow two kinds of kiwi: the more common Hayward variety (large and fuzzy) and hardy kiwis (small and smooth-skinned). With twice the vitamin C of an orange and 20 percent more potassium than a banana, kiwis pack a nutritional punch; they’re also an excellent source of fiber.

What to do with them? Of course, they’re delicious in a fruit salad; I toss them with oranges, apples, and shredded coconut. Supposedly, though I haven’t tried it, turning kiwis into a marinade tenderizes meat. A riff on salsa — kiwi, shallots, cilantro, chiles, and lime juice — would dress up an otherwise plain piece of fish. But really, in my mind, kiwis taste best by themselves, cut in half and scooped out of their furry shells with a spoon.

Asparagus

Spears of spring

By Caroline Cummins

April 9, 2008

Slim and straight and easy to cook, asparagus has become one of those vegetables sold year-round in supermarkets. It always looks so pretty, so elegant and firm. And the taste is such an addictive combination of grass and mushroom, green things and meaty ones. But that’s only if you get it when it’s in season locally — not in the fall and winter, when it’s shipped in from South and Central America.

As Deborah Madison has pointed out on these pages before, we may think of asparagus as an early-spring treat. But asparagus season varies: January in the hottest parts of California, May in Michigan, even July in Canada. So figure out when asparagus is local to you, and buy it then.

There’s no taste difference between thin and thick asparagus; the thin stalks, obviously, cook faster, and some people prefer to peel the thick ones. White asparagus looks ghostly but is simply the result of mounding dirt over the stalks as they grow, preventing chlorophyll from doing its thing. Some folks prefer the milder flavor of white; others think it’s a sort of cruel and unusual asparagus punishment.

All types, however, need nothing more than a rinse under water, a snap in the middle, and a trip to the steamer, grill, broiler, roasting pan, or skillet. (Don’t bother with a fancy asparagus steamer; a stockpot with a pasta insert, or an ordinary steam-basket setup, will work fine.)

Breaking the stalks at their middles is optional; you’ll know you’re a stalk-breaker if you find yourself chewing the fibrous root ends with distaste. To snap asparagus, simply pick up a stalk and bend it gently; it’ll snap naturally at the point where the stalk is turning fibrous. Compost the fibrous ends, or save them to make asparagus stock.

Jane Grigson likes her asparagus with potatoes and eggs. Deborah Madison tosses the tips into an Asian-style noodle salad or just roasts the stalks in olive oil. And Carrie Floyd, Culinate’s food editor, prepares asparagus with a lemon vinaigrette.

Chervil

Seek out this shy wallflower

By Emily Horton

March 26, 2008

Every time I spot chervil’s feathery, kelly-green leaves at my farmers’ market, I feel a silly little rush of glee. Perhaps it’s because chervil makes itself available to me only a few temperate months a year, or because it signals the arrival of the rest of spring’s luxuries. Regardless, I can scarcely get enough of it before the heat scares it away until fall.

Chervil looks like parsley, its close relative, but tastes more delicate.

Chervil isn’t widely adored in the U.S., but it’s a fixture in French kitchens, where it’s a component of the classic fines herbes quartet (chervil, chives, parsley, and tarragon). But where parsley is zippy and bold, chives onion-tinged, and tarragon aggressively seductive, chervil offers a simple, grassy clarity and just a tease of delicate, anise-tinged sweetness.

Because chervil is so soft-spoken, it needs to be used in quantity and in company with similar mild flavors; otherwise, its voice will be lost. Likewise, too much heat will trash chervil’s flavor, so add it only in the last few minutes of cooking. Still, so long as flavors stay low-key, chervil is remarkably flexible.

This time of year, I like to snip chervil leaves and fennel fronds into a salad of mixed lettuces and shower it over a soup of sorrel or leeks. I also use it to finish a spring-vegetable ragout: young radishes, turnips, carrots, spring onions, and peas sautéed in a bit of butter and white wine just until tender, then finished with a flourish of finely chopped chervil.

One of my favorite applications for chervil, though, is even simpler: a generous teaspoon or two, along with a pinch of sea salt, folded into a few farm-fresh scrambled eggs just as I bring the eggs away from the heat. Add some good crusty bread and a green salad, and there’s lunch, courtesy of the season.

Read Cindy Burke’s blog post about spring chives.

Parsley

The all-purpose green garnish

By Caroline Cummins

March 19, 2008

Despite its soft, tender leaves, parsley is a tough herb, overwintering just fine next to the sage, rosemary, and thyme. The seeds my parsley plants scattered last fall are just coming up, filling the vegetable beds with a soft carpet of sweet green. But I’m still clipping new growth from last year’s plants, showering minced parsley leaves over pretty much everything savory.

A basket full of fresh parsley: flat-leaf on the left, curly on the right.

The parsley I grow is the kind referred to as “flat-leaf” or “Italian” parsley; this parsley is easier to clean and sweeter-tasting than the frizzy parsley called “curly.” If you’ve ever munched the curly parsley garnish that comes on the side of most diner blue-plate specials — you know, the fuzzy mop next to the orange slice — you’ll realize why flat-leaf parsley is now king: the curly stuff isn’t just crunchy, it’s downright bitter. Keep the bitterness for winter’s big-leaved greens (kale, mustard, etc.) and grow or buy the Italian parsley instead.

If you hate cilantro, parsley is a milder alternative. And here’s a fun fact: Kosher restaurants aren’t wild about curly parsley because it’s easier for bugs to hide in the curly leaves. With a few exceptions, bugs ain’t kosher.

Toss a big bunch of flat-leaf parsley (pull the leaves from the stems and discard the stems first) into a food processor for one of three classic sauces: Italian Parsley Pesto, Salsa Verde, or the gremolata in Buffalo Brisket in Tomato Sauce With Gremolata. Each offers a Mediterranean taste of summer when the real hot weather is still months away. Hold off on the tabbouleh, though, till the tomatoes are ripe.

Beets

Easy ways to eat beets

By Caroline Cummins

March 6, 2008

The beauty of beets is that they’re in season practically all year long. You can eat them small and big; you can discard their greens or eat them, too. It’s all good.

You can tackle beets in two ways: classic and adventurous. Beloved beet dishes in the classics department include roasted beets, a reliably delicious side dish, and borscht, an easy, classic soup whether served hot (in winter) or cold (in summer). Salad also benefits from a scattering of beets, either grated raw on a box grater (don’t grate your knuckles off) or steamed and sliced into circles.

Beets and their greens.

But if you get tired of these favorites — or you just can’t bear to see those beet greens go to waste — try the shockingly colored Beet and Greens Pasta or the Mediterranean-inspired Beet Greens and Feta Phyllo Pockets with Yogurt Dill Dip.

Finally, some of us just can’t get enough of that northern-European standby, the dish of marinated beetroot. Boil and marinate your beet slices in a simple sauce of rice-wine vinegar and a little sugar and salt, or get a bit fancier with Marinated Beetroot with Horseradish. Either works as a standalone salad, side dish, or condiment.

And if you’re nervous about purple beet juice splattering everywhere, try this technique: Snip the greens and tails off your beets and put them, whole and unpeeled, into a large pot of water. Bring to a boil and then simmer until just tender (anywhere from 15 to 40 minutes, depending on the size of the beets). Drain, then submerge in a large bowl of cold water. When the hot beets are cool enough to handle, stick your hands under the water and slip the skins off the beets. Rinse and dry the beets (with paper towels if you must) before slicing.

Meyer lemons

Not just for lemonade

By Carrie Floyd

February 27, 2008

All too often, when a fruit first comes into season I buy far too much of it. I place the pears or tangerines in a pretty bowl and set it on the table, where I can admire it and, if possible, eat the fruit straight out of hand. But fruits (like quince) that require cooking to make them edible or more delicious begin to wither if left too long as a still life. Such is the case with the Meyer lemons currently sitting on my counter.

Cooks love Meyer lemons — a cross between a regular lemon and an orange — for their fragrance, smooth thin rind, and sweet (or less acidic) flavor. Grown in California, Texas, and Florida, the lemons peak between November and January, but their season often extends into March.

A bowl of Meyer lemons.

As the Meyer-lemon season is waning, I want to preserve some of the fruit’s lusciousness for a time when the Meyers are no longer available. Preserved lemons are easy enough: I fill a jam jar three-quarters full with quartered lemons and top with 1/4 cup kosher salt and enough lemon juice to come almost to the top. This goes into the fridge for the future: Moroccan Chicken and a favorite Paula Wolfert dish, fish with charmoula.

Even easier to make is lemon sugar. I measure 4 cups sugar into a bowl and grate the zest of two Meyer lemons over the top, then mix this all together before pouring it into a large jar for the pantry. In the coming months I’ll dip into this for baking — scones, banana bread, cake — as well as to sugar the rim of martini glasses for cocktails. Other possibilities tease: limoncello, infused vodka, candied lemon peel. But I want to be sure to eat a few fresh, too.

A sandwich worth savoring.

So I check out Matthew Card’s savory marmalade, our house recipe for lemon curd, and Helen Rennie’s Meyer lemon mousse. I put them on my docket to cook and scratch out a grocery list of missing ingredients. In the meantime, I’m relishing my new favorite sandwich: smoked salmon and thinly sliced Meyer lemons with a sprinkling of sliced shallots and freshly ground black pepper set into a layer of cream cheese spread on whole-grain bread . . . yum.

Kale

By Kathleen Bauer

February 21, 2008

The pickup: When I think of a meal, I tend to think “meat, vegetable, starch.” And the vegetables that come immediately to mind are the usual suspects: broccoli, Brussels sprouts, carrots, peas, and beans.

But because I’ve been trying to buy more local and seasonal produce, and we have two winter farmers’ markets in our area with an abundance of gorgeous greens, the thick green leaves of kale have shouldered their way into my repertoire.

A member of the cabbage family, kale is very high in beta carotene, vitamin K, vitamin A, and vitamin C. Nutritious, easy to grow, and resistant to most pests, kale is a hardy plant that will keep producing new leaves far into the winter. (Kale grows year-round, but tastes best in winter after frosts have encouraged the leaves to produce more sugars.)

Leafy green kale at the market.

Kale varieties you’re likely to see in grocery stores and at farmers’ markets include green kale, purple-tinged Russian kale, and the nearly black and bumpy-looking Tuscan kale (aka lacinato kale or cavolo nero).

The results: All it takes to prepare kale leaves is a rinse under running water to knock off any dirt and then the removal of the tough central veins. Do this by stripping the leaves from the stems individually, or making a neat pile of the leaves and cutting the leaves away from either side of the stems.

Roughly chopped and sautéed in garlic and olive oil till wilted, kale makes a terrific side vegetable with any meat or fish. You can also stir those sautéed leaves in with pasta and sausage or beans for a simple one-dish dinner.

I love kale in soups, too — particularly in bean soups calling for winter greens, such as White Bean, Chard, and Pasta Soup; White Bean, Dried Bread, and Escarole Soup; and Tennessee Bean, Sausage, and Mixed Greens Soup — where the leathery leaves add wonderful color and texture, not to mention flavor and nutrition, to a wintry meal. Two other soups to try: Lentil Soup with Greens or Potato-Kale Soup.

Grapefruit

By Ashley Griffin

February 12, 2008

The pickup: It’s citrus season, so I picked up a few grapefruit from my neighborhood grocer. Yellow, red, or a pinkish in-between, I love the bright, tangy flavor of grapefruit; I like slicing one in half and broiling it with a sprinkling of brown sugar for breakfast.

The results: This time, though, I wanted to break out of my grapefruit rut. I happened upon a feed talking up a traditional Texas dish of grapefruit pie and later an Epicurious recipe for the same dish.

Grapefruit is both tart and sweet.

But I’m eating alone this week and knew I wouldn’t be able to (and shouldn’t!) consume a whole pie by myself. So I continued my search until I found a Martha Stewart recipe for grapefruit risotto.

I know from previous experience that lemon risotto is lovely, so I merged the Martha recipe with my own. Three tablespoons of grapefruit zest added to my run-of-the-mill risotto recipe gave the dish a hint of citrus flavor. (Add the zest at the exact moment you add the rice to the pan, to make sure the zest has time to infuse the rice with citrus notes as it cooks.)

The zest was delicious in the risotto. But what to do with the grapefruit flesh itself? I supremed the remaining fruit and paired the slices with slivers of crisp, light fennel and a sprinkling of chopped parsley leaves. Presto! A salad to go with my risotto.

Celeriac

By Ashley Griffin

January 29, 2008

The pickup: Huge and bulbous, with a knobby, wrinkled skin, celeriac (also known as celery root) is one ugly duckling. But celery root is a versatile vegetable with a delicate flavor somewhere between celery, parsley, and artichokes. Its flesh is reminiscent of potatoes; unlike spuds, however, celery root can be eaten both raw and cooked, making it equally suitable for crunchy salads and creamy soups.

The results: Celeriac is perhaps best known as the main ingredient in the classic French salad known as céleri rémoulade. I wanted to try a twist on this famous dish in Gourmet magazine incorporating parsley and fennel. (Food & Wine also offers a version of this bistro salad featuring pears and walnuts.)

Celery root is ugly but tasty.

So I hit my local grocery, where the hard, firm, and definitely hideous root earned me weird stares at checkout. At home, I assembled the rest of the salad’s ingredients — fennel bulb, parsley, and a lemony vinaigrette — before turning my attention to the two-pound root resting on my cutting board.

Twenty minutes and a cut to my thumb later, I’d finally wrestled the inner root out of its tough skin. Then I simply shaved the snowy white bulb into paper-thin strips with a vegetable peeler and tossed everything together.

Lessons learned? Use a good, sharp knife and a sturdy peeler to speed up the prep time, and for more flavor, sprinkle the salad with freshly grated Parmesan.

Celeriac also makes a good mix-in for smashed potatoes and a delicious base for soup.