Samphire, shrimp, grapefruit and avocado salad

I recently had to kill an hour in Borough Market in London.  That situation is not among life's hardships.  In fact, several hours have been known to have expired while I whiled away an afternoon among the vegetable, cheese, and meat stalls.  Apparently in business since at least 43AD (but who's counting?), Borough is the market to beat all markets -- at least in England.  The great markets of Italy might give it a run for its money.

So what to do when you have sampled the cheeses, eaten several kinds of sandwiches, tasted boar and ostrich sausage (not together), and been educated about the different varieties of sea salt (is there a marine version of terroir)?  Clearly, one's only option is to shop.  So shop I did.

I picked up bags of luscious cherry tomatoes, boxes of strawberries and raspberries, some arugula and mizuna, a few avocados, some shrimp, asparagus, morels and a few other things that weighed down my bag.  Having exhausted the seasonal and typical delights, and down to my last few pound coins, I stumbled upon an extremely seasonal but atypical British delicacy: samphire.

This succulent resembles a small cactus and grows in the marshland near the ocean.  Crunchy, bright green and briny, it is both earthy and out of this world.  Seems like the sort of thing the Celts would have eaten back in 43AD, unless they were being invaded by the Roman hordes (in which case boar sausage would have been more filling).

Samphire, shrimp, grapefruit and avocado salad

1 medium grapefruit

1 medium avocado

10 peeled, deveined and cooked shrimp

handful of samphire, blanched for 1 minute

Dressing:

juice from grapefruit

1 T. ground nut or other neutral oil

1 tsp. honey

1/2 tsp. rice wine vinegar

1/4 tsp. fish sauce

Section grapefruit over a strainer placed over the salad bowl to catch the juices.  Squeeze excess juice from grapefruit skin when finished.  Pit, peel and slice avocado.  Mix grapefruit juice with remaining dressing ingredients, adjusting to taste.

Mix grapefruit, avocado, shrimp and samphire with dressing.  Serve chilled.

Serves 2

Swiss chard with black bean sauce

At this time of year (ok, really at any time of year), we get bags and bags of different varieties of greens in our vegetable box.  Lately it seems to be chard season.  I have made chard in soup, chard in pasta, chard in frittata, chard in pretty much anything we can think of.  If we were a Dr. Seuss story, we'd be the chard-belly Sneetches.  Better than green eggs and ham, I suppose.

In any event, when I have too many vegetables, my go-to recipe is some variation on a stir fry.  My go-to stir fry sauce is a black bean sauce that's as easy as anything that comes in a jar, and much better.  I use fermented black beans that I buy at the Loon Fung grocery store in Chinatown (along with any one of a hundred varieties of soy sauce, curry cubes, or some other mysterious jar that just looks good).  Just a spoonful of these beans add an incredible flavor to a dish that's impossible to mimic.  Plus, they can sit in the back of the cupboard and last forever.  

Swiss chard with black bean sauce

Olive or a neutral-tasting oil

1 clove garlic, minced

1 tsp. fresh ginger, minced

small pinch dried red chili flakes

Bunch of swiss chard (about 8-10 stalks)

1/2 C. warm water

1 T. fermented black beans

1 T. cornstarch

1 T. soy sauce or tamari

Mix black beans with water.

Add just enough oil to a wok or large pan to keep garlic from sticking, then over medium heat cook garlic and ginger for a few minutes until soft.  Add chili flakes, then chard, and stir fry until the greens wilt.  

Add soy sauce and cornstarch to water and black beans, mixing well.  Pour mixture into pan and heat through until sauce thickens.  

Serve on its own or over rice.

Serves 2.

Purple sprouting broccoli and canellini bean salad

Summer has finally started to emerge from its long winter nap here in the UK. Like Punxsutawney Phil, the warm weather comes out slowly and tentatively, as though it's not altogether sure it's going to stay. On the occasion that we get some sunshine and warmth on a weekend, the entire nation decamps to their closest park or beach, picnicking and playing outside, and returns to work on Monday red as the proverbial lobsters. I personally prefer to stay in the shade, drinking lemonade and snacking on sorbet. I crave cooling, fresh foods.

Luckily, May and June burst forth in fruits and vegetables, if not always the weather to go with it. Purple sprouting broccoli is one of my favorites, not only for the color, but also for the delicate and sweet taste of the lightly blanched stalks. Still warm, I like to sprinkle them with a mild vinaigrette or dip them in a peanut sauce. That and some rice can be enough for dinner on a hot day.

Whenever I cook a grain for dinner, I always make extra for lunch the next day. Rice, barley, quinoa, bulgur and others make a great base for a filling salad. Especially with a few seasonal vegetables, a dash of vinegar or lemon juice transforms some day old rice. No longer will leftovers from dinner hang around the fridge for days on end. Like the summer sun, it will be here one day and gone the next.

Purple sprouting broccoli and canellini bean salad

1 tsp. olive oil

1/2 tsp. each sherry vinegar and rice wine vinegar

1/2 C. cooked brown rice

1/2 C. canellini beans

1/2 C. cucumber, halved lengthwise, seeded and sliced

4-5 stalks of purple sprouting broccoli

Salt to taste

Steam broccoli for about 3 minutes in the microwave, just until the stalks turn bright green and become slightly tender. Chop into bite-sized pieces.

Mix oil and vinegar in your container. Add in rice and mix through the dressing. Add beans, cucumber, broccoli, and a pinch of sea salt.

Serves 1.

Gingered carrot soup

I owe many debts to my teachers over the years.  They have left me with poems that I will always know, mnemonic devices for calculating mathematical formulae, a discovery of certain books, and -- fundamentally -- a love for learning.  Yes, I admit it: as much as I loved summer vacation, I also looked forward to September and starting school again.  There was something so hopeful about new notebooks and sharpening pencils so full of promise (though only in a metaphorical sense -- obviously I had to have the latest, greatest mechanical pencils).

One teacher I had for most of my high school years was my Latin teacher.  From her I learned not only the language, but also more about English grammar than I'd ever thought possible, as well as the literature, culture, and history of the Roman empire.  We made togas and mosaics and tried out the occasional historical Roman recipe (which have not aged quite as well as, say, the Virgil or Tacitus.  Tongue of dove, anyone?).  

While I don't have as much call to use my Latin in everyday speech these days, what I do use more frequently is my Latin teacher's gingered carrot soup recipe.  This soup is a bright orange blend of the sweetness of carrots tempered with spiky ginger, lime juice, soy sauce and a little peanut butter.  It's perfect for the coldest winter day or even livening up a slightly cool summer day.

I know that many people hated the first day of school (or the rest of the days of school for that matter).  In Latin we would say "de gustibus non est disputandum."  This is true in general, but regarding this soup there can be no argument.

Gingered carrot soup

1 ½ Tbsp. olive oil

1 large yellow onion, chopped

2 stalks celery, chopped

3 cloves garlic, minced

3 Tbsp. ginger, peeled, chopped

1 lb. carrots, peeled, chopped

4+ cups chicken or vegetable stock

¼ tsp. dried red pepper flakes

¼ tsp. ground coriander

½ tsp. turmeric

1 ½ Tbsp. fish sauce (leave out if vegetarian/vegan)

3 Tbsp. lime juice 

2 Tbsp. rice vinegar

2 Tbsp. peanut butter

2 Tbsp. brown sugar

1 tsp. sesame oil (dark/toasted)

½ cup coconut milk

salt and pepper

cilantro and sesame seeds for garnish

Saute onion in olive oil. Add celery, garlic, and ginger, and saute a little more. Add everything else except garnish. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer until carrots are soft. Cool and puree in blender, or blend carefully with a stick blender in the pot. Correct seasonings and reheat gently. Garnish with toasted sesame seeds and chopped cilantro.

Serves 4+

Veggie and "meatball" stroganoff

"Love food hate waste" is the name of a website after my own heart.   I used to live somewhere with compost collection, but now have moved elsewhere, and -- living in a flat -- any bad, spoiled, or otherwise no good food is destined for the dump.  A very sad end to their salad days to be sure.

I try to minimize such waste.  I freeze things whenever I can, try to be creative with my leftovers, and eat through as much as possible ("You mean that slice of cake will go to waste if I don't eat it?  I suppose for the good of all humanity I will force it down.  Oh the pain.").  

This particular dish came about from the last quarter of a tub of creme fraiche.  It began its days contributing to a pasta sauce, expended yet more of itself on some strawberries and brown sugar, but spent the rest of its life languishing in my fridge without a purpose.  It was getting to the point where I would either have to use it or throw it out, so I began fishing around the kitchen for other ingredients to accompany it to its final destination.

I decided to go with something warm and rich to balance out the tangy creaminess of the creme fraiche.  A little paprika and some tomatoes would make a delicious sauce for something, and the combination made me think of beef stroganoff.  No beef in the house, but a few sausages from the freezer made a good substitution.  Some vegetables rounded out the meal, and voila: waste not, want certainly not.

Veggie and "meatball" stroganoff

1 tsp. olive oil

1 leek, cleaned, halved lengthwise and cut into 1 inch pieces

1 carrot, diced

1 large clove garlic, minced

1 Tbsp. each hot smoked paprika and sweet paprika

Approx. 2 C. cauliflower florets

3-4 medium tomatoes, roughly chopped, or 1/2 can chopped tomatoes and juice

1/4 C. low fat creme fraiche or Greek yogurt

1/4 C. tomato paste

1/2 C. water

2-4 sausages, as desired, cut into bite-sized pieces.

1/2 C. zucchini, sliced into thin half moons

1 tsp. salt

Parsley

Squeeze of lemon

Saute leeks and carrots in oil for 5-10 minutes until soft.  Add garlic and cook until soft.  Add paprika and cook for 2-3 minutes until fragrant.  Add tomatoes.  Mix creme fraiche and tomato paste and add to pan with water.  Add cauliflower, then nestle the sausage among the vegetables and let the dish simmer until the sausage is cooked through.  Add zucchini, cook until just tender.  Salt to taste.  

Garnish with parsley and a squeeze of lemon.  Serve over brown rice if desired, or noodles!

Serves 2-4, depending on size of appetite.

Bad picture good curry

Reading is a dangerous thing.  When I read Murakami, I need to stock up on soy sauce, mirin, and ginger.  When I read Balzac, out comes the brasserie and patisserie in my kitchen.  I haven't yet mastered Russian cuisine, partially because I have never managed to get through Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky.  One of these days...

For some reason, the last few books I've read have been set in India in the 19th century.  Intertwined with the narrative, I read description upon description of dals, chutneys and pickles, the method for making rotis or naan, how properly to cook rice, and the steamy heat of a curry cooked over a fire in a remote village.  My head filled with images of the Ganges, monsoons, small boats or palanquins on elephants, my tongue filled with turmeric and chili.  

Coming home one night with such a craving for spices and vegetables, but wanting something quick and light but satisfying, I looked through Anjum Anand's Indian Food Made Easy cookbook and found just what I was looking for.  A few tweaks -- in keeping with the spirit of her book -- and I was off.  I scarfed it down and had leftovers for lunch the next day.

It wasn't, however, until I cracked open my plastic container the next day that I really appreciated the recipe and decided it was worth recording -- hence the photo taken with my Blackberry.  The flavors had intensified and the aromas nearly transported me around the world to the land in my literature.  Proust would have been proud.

Bad picture, good curry

1 tsp cumin

1 tsp turmeric

¼ tsp red chili

1/3 C. dried shredded coconut plus hot water to cover

1 tsp minced ginger

1 medium onion, chopped

1 large carrot, chopped

1 large potato, scrubbed and cubed

1 small zucchini, halved and sliced

1 can chick peas

2 C. chopped greens such as spinach, kale or chard

Add warm water to coconut and let soak.

Saute onion in olive oil until soft.  Add ginger and heat through.  Add spices and cook a few minutes until fragrant.

Add carrot and potato to pan and cook until nearly soft, then add zucchini and allow them to finish cooking together.  It may be necessary to add a bit of water to the pan to keep the vegetables from sticking.  Alternatively, speed up cooking times by boiling the potato in a separate pot while the onions soften, then add to the pan with the carrot.

Add chickpeas, greens, and coconut and water, then stir through to wilt greens and allow flavors to meld.

Serve with naan (or pita bread as in photo!) or rice if desired.

Serves 2.

Strawberry and rhubarb bread pudding

I had some old baguette and the last few inches of a loaf of homemade bread that were just on the far side of fresh, and not quite good enough for salvage in the toaster.  I cut it up into cubes with the intention of making Barbara Kingsolver's asparagus and morel bread pudding (which I think came by way of Deborah Madison).  Alas, no asparagus presented itself, so the bread went into the freezer.   

This past weekend, I had settled in for an afternoon of cooking and wanted to whip up something to finish off our lazy dinner.  I had bought some new season rhubarb and found myself with an extra box of early strawberries that I needed to use.  I wasn't really in the mood to make pie or short crust, and had slightly exhausted myself on crumbles this winter, but then remembered my bread cubes in the freezer.  I thought that a golden and puffy bread pudding, faintly scented with vanilla but grounded with a hint of ginger, would be the perfect showcase for these ruby-hued harbingers of spring.

What I hadn't quite taken into account was that, at that point, my bread cubes were really, really stale.  I whipped up my milk and cream mixture (I should have used Steph Chows'recipe!) and put the bread in to soak.  30 minutes later, the liquid was gone and the bread was still rather hard.  So more milk went in.  15 minutes later, yet more milk.  I have never seen anything retain so much liquid, with the possible exception of my swollen feet after a trans-atlantic flight.

Nevertheless, it all came out pretty well in the end.  I baked it with some brown sugar and almonds sprinkled on top, and drizzled just the last few drops of cream over before serving.  The rhubarb and strawberries held their own individual shapes and flavors, and my bread, gorged with dairy, held it all together.  Lesson learned: use frozen, stale bread cubes for bread crumbs unless you want to buy stock in dairy farms.

Strawberry and rhubarb bread pudding.

Day-old bread, cut into cubes, approx. 3 cups

2 eggs

1/2 C. half & half or single cream 1/2 - 1 C. low-fat milk -- add more or use less milk depending on how dry the bread is.  It should be quite moist by the time it is baked.

1/2 tsp. vanilla

1 T. finely chopped crystalized ginger

1 1/2 C. rhubarb, sliced into 1 inch segments

1 1/2 C. strawberries -- left whole if small, or halved if larger, stems removed

1/4 C. slivered almonds

4 T. brown sugar

1 T. flour

Whisk eggs, cream, milk, vanilla, and ginger together.  Mix with bread in a large bowl and cover, letting the liquid absorb for 30 minutes to 1 hour.

Chop rhubarb and mix with the flour and 2 T. brown sugar.  Cut up strawberries, mix with rhubarb, then stir through bread mixture.  If there is a large amount of liquid left in the bread soaking bowl, pour off before mixing with the fruit.

Spread mixture into a 9x9 in. non-stick metal pan, or lightly grease a glass or ceramic dish.  Strew almonds over the top, and then sprinkle with the remaining 2 T. brown sugar.

Bake at 350 until the bread is puffed and the rhubarb is cooked through.