(My daughter Melissa, who is also a writer and has her own site, flyingnotscreaming, wrote this week’s French Fridays with Dorie post.)
by Melissa Myers Place
One of the things I admire most about my mother is her unwavering determination. When she sets her sights on a goal, she works steadily and doggedly, looking neither left nor right, until she reaches her destination. So when she called last week to tell me that her husband of twenty-six years died after a decade-long struggle with Alzheimer’s, I knew that in the days that followed one of the things we would be doing was a little French cooking. It is with no disrespect to Michael that in amongst making necessary phone calls, discussing future plans, and revisiting favorite memories of the man we both loved, we would be making sure my mother did not miss her French Fridays with Dorie deadline. And Michael, who was always the most proud of Mary, would not have wanted it any other way.
For those of you who don’t know, French Fridays with Dorie is an online cooking group. Members are cooking their way through Dorie Greenspan’s latest book Around My French Table, and each Friday they post their results on their own foodie site. (All 50 or so members cook the same recipe each week.) It is a Greenspan love fest, and some followers have taken to calling themselves “Doristas.”
Despite the fact that at one point in my life I earned my living by cooking, I was a little intimidated when my mom handed me Greenspan’s weighty volume. I know from following my mother’s weekly posts for the past eighteen months that these Doristas are SERIOUS about cooking. And the French Fridays with Dorie commitment is not for the faint of heart. Week after week, these dedicated food enthusiasts fearlessly venture out onto a new cooking limb, and yes, Greenspan has simplified each dish as much as possible, but it is still Frenchcooking for goodness sakes.
“I hope it’s an easy recipe,” I said, as my mother looked up our Friday cooking assignment. What I meant was I hoped the recipe didn’t require the mysterious technique of braising or call for ingredients outside of my comfort zone such as phyllo dough or lamb shanks.
Luckily for me, this week’s recipe was Crunchy Ginger-Pickled Cucumbers. I love cucumbers, pickled or not, and had picked up two at the market earlier that day. I skimmed the recipe’s preface. Greenspan describes these pickles as a “hotter, hunkier take on traditional thinly sliced cucumbers in vinegar.” The description tickled me. I haven’t heard a variation on the word “hunk” since I was in junior high. I flipped to the back flap and took a good look at the bespectacled Greenspan who the New York Times calls a “culinary guru.” I decided if Greenspan could use the words “hot” and “hunky” to describe a French dish, then I could make it.
As my mother read aloud the ingredient list, I prayed we didn’t have to make another run to the store. These days even the simplest errands seem momentous. “Can you substitute ingredients?” I asked.
My mother looked horrified. “NO!” she whispered, as if afraid the other Doristas could hear.
I realized at that moment that this was even more serious than I previously thought. And, that I would have to be on my best cooking behavior because I tend to be a sloppy cook: I don’t measure and I rarely follow a recipe exactly or even closely. I hadn’t felt so much pressure since I caught a frying pan on fire during a tryout for a cooking position, but for my mom, I was going to try with all my might to channel the Dorista spirit.
“Are you going to create your mise en place?” She asked as she headed to the other room to sort through some paperwork.
“What does Mikhail Gorbachev have to do with it?” I asked. My mom sighed, and I yet again regretted not paying more attention during my French language courses in college.
“Just take a lot of photos” was my mom’s parting advice.
Consulting the Dorista Bible closely, I gathered all the required ingredients, and arranged them carefully on a cutting board. Forty photos and twenty minutes later, I was finally ready to begin.
Mise en place for Hot and Hunky Cucumbers
“How’s it going?” my mom called. “It’s pretty quiet in there. Are you okay?”
“I’m just about ready to start,” I called back. “Could’ve made this five times by now,” I mumbled to myself.
And it was true. As I am committed to avoiding processed food, I have to cook fast to keep up with the food needs of my family of four. But taking the photos and documenting each step on the notepad by my elbow slowed the cooking process considerably. My admiration for Greenspan’s followers was growing by the minute.
I was glad I’d happened to purchase seedless cucumbers so I could eliminate a couple of steps, but I had to call my mom into the kitchen to double-check that I was cutting the cucumbers into the correct hunky shape. I carefully salted the cucumbers (holding back a little as I doubled the recipe and a full teaspoon of salt seemed like a lot), and while they stood for the required 30 minutes, I prepped and mixed the remaining ingredients.
Salted cucumber hunks
I have to confess that I have a love/hate relationship with fresh ginger. I love when it comes to the party, but don’t like when it hogs all the attention. I’ve found in the past that fine grating the ginger helps release the flavor, but eliminates the unpleasant stringy texture. Not able to locate my mom’s fine grater, I used her larger-holed grater and then minced the strands finer with a knife, hoping that Greenspan wouldn’t mind.
Grated and minced ginger
I combined the seasoned rice wine mixture with the drained cucumbers . . . and that was it. I scanned Greenspan’s recipe again to make sure I hadn’t overlooked a step. It had been almost too easy. I tasted a hunky cucumber chunk. I was disappointed by the blandness and wondered if I had been mistaken in doubting Greenspan regarding the salt amount. With a disappointed sigh, I put my Hot and Hunky Cucumbers (as I’d taken to calling them) into the fridge to chill.
Later that night, even though my mother and I were especially missing Michael and feeling pretty low, we headed to a small Fourth of July gathering with a few close friends, pickled cucumbers in hand. We were warmly welcomed by our lovely host and hostess, and each party member bravely took a spoonful of pickled cucumbers onto their plate. And to my great surprise, the cucumbers were good. As Greenspan already knows and I am beginning to learn, sometimes nothing helps like time. It helped my cucumbers, and it will help the grieving, sad hearts of my mom and me.
Although I will be happy to return to posting weekly personal essays on my own site–a much easier feat than the French Fridays with Dorie commitment–I enjoyed my foray into the world of Greenspan. I learned a thing or two, but mostly I discovered what a wonderful group of people you all are. My mother and I have been so grateful for the outpouring of kindness and support from the French Fridays with Dorie community this past week. It has been truly remarkable, and has proven that you Doristas are made of the very best ingredients.
(My friend and neighbor, Michelle Morgando, who is a professionally-trained chef, is my guest contributor today. Although Michelle, who is also a judge and lawyer, is about to launch her own food blog, she has generously agreed to help me and share her expertise with my readers during this time. Thank you, Michelle, and, to all you American readers, Happy 4th of July.)
by Michelle Morgando
Pane-Siciliano and my sourdough story
I must make a confession, my name is Michelle and I am afraid of bread. Well, I am not afraid of reading about it, drooling over pictures of it, shopping for it or most importantly, eating it. Last year in Italy I think I ate half of my body weight in bread in one week. No, I am afraid of making breads, particularly those that involve yeast. I must also disclose that I am a professionally trained cook. I went to culinary school at the very young age of 42 and loved every minute of the two years I spent in school, with the exception of the bread and pastry classes. I had wonderful instructors but I was so intimidated by the process. I often wondered why I was so afraid of bread, it has so few ingredients. All you need are measuring cups and spoons, or a reliable scale, and infinite amounts of patience. Actually, what you truly need is an ability to give up control. Once bread is mixed, scaled and formed, all you do is put it in the oven and wait. Maybe that is my problem. I can fix a broken Hollandaise, shuck bushels of clams and oysters without losing an important body part or calling 911 and I can grill you the perfect steak. Those things I have control over from start to finish. Bread, on the other hand, can’t be remedied once it goes in the oven. I have learned in the past several years that bread is like a horse or a dog; it can smell your fear.
For the past year or so, I have contributed to a forum that has many wonderful cooks as members. One of the members, Nancy, started a thread on bread baking. She is not professionally trained but is as fearless as anyone I know in the culinary industry. We have never met in person but e-mail almost daily and have spoken on the phone one time. Nancy decided that it was time to experiment with sourdough starters. She tried to make her own with no success and then found a wonderful website that will send you, at no cost, an 1847 Oregon Trail Sourdough Starter. It comes to you in a little envelope and is dehydrated so you must bring it back to life. After reading her posts, I decided to face my fears and begin my own sourdough trail.
I patiently waited for a couple of weeks for my starter to arrive as I kept track of Nancy’s efforts. Her breads were so beautiful and she posted step-by-step instructions along with great photographs. My starter finally arrived so I set about rehydrating it with water, flour and some dried potato flakes. It sounded simple until I was reminded that I have to give my starter a name. All of Nancy’s were called “Bob” and a one point she likened them to Tribbles (all you Star Trek fans will get this reference). I decide to name mine “Bettie”, after my mother who passed away last year. I was hoping she would bring me good bread karma.
So, as you see in my opening picture, my starter is all fed and ready to go. You can tell it is doing well by the amount of “action” it has. It should be very bubbly and alive. Lo and behold, here is “Bettie” after two days:
“I often wondered why I was so afraid of bread, it has so few ingredients. Actually, what you truly need is an ability to give up control. Once bread is mixed, scaled and formed, all you do is put it in the oven and wait. Maybe that is my problem.”
MY PREMIER SOURDOUGH EXPERIENCE
I decide to start with the most basic of breads, the sourdough baguette. I found a recipe from a site that I have trusted in the past and followed the recipe as written. I was a little suspicious because not only did it call for the starter to make the initial “sponge”, which is later mixed with flour and water to make the final dough, but it also called for additional yeast and vital wheat gluten. Yeast I have, vital wheat gluten entailed a trip to Whole Foods. I was tempted to leave out the additional yeast and/or wheat gluten but given my past disasters, I figured the experts knew what they were doing so I ignored my suspicions. The sponge rose beautifully, as did the final dough. Encouraged, I deflated the dough to form the baguettes and all I can say is the consistency was like trying to nail Jell-O to a tree. It was sticky, runny and downright impossible to work with. Disappointed, but determined not to waste two days of work, I dumped it on the counter, added a lot of flour, kneaded it and put it in an oiled sheet pan. I brushed the top with olive oil, added some coarse salt and dried herbs and baked a focaccia. My lovely Italian neighbor, Adriana, took it to her parents’ house that night and they had it with antipasti. They said it was delicious, maybe they were being nice.
I began to suspect that I just did not have what it takes to be a bread baker. I still had more of the Bettie starter so I then attempted sourdough biscuits. These are the same as a good old Southern biscuit but are made with a sourdough starter and no butter. To my complete surprise, not only did they turn out but they tasted terrific:
No sourgrapes needed…… my first attempt at sourdough biscuits worked.
Meanwhile, Nancy had moved on to increasingly complicated recipes. She sent me the recipe for Pane Siciliano, a wonderfully moist and dense olive oil based bread using the sourdough starter. I was scared of trying the baguettes again so I decided to try her recipe. This was truly a three day labor of love between making the biga (the sponge), making the final dough, forming the loaves, letting them rise and finally baking them in a 500 degree oven with steam. I thought since I failed at making the most basic of breads, I might as well go down in flames with a really complicated recipe. The difference was, I was not afraid of this recipe. The final results were spectacular as you can see in the opening picture.
Pane Dough, oven-bound…
I am slowly gaining more confidence and am now experimenting with creating different starters from my “mother” starter. More on that later, and my second attempt at the baguettes. Wish me luck, I already have the courage.
Two books that I find invaluable are: Baking With Julia, by Dorie Greenspan (based on the PBS series) Le Cordon Bleu, Professional Baking, by Wayne Gisslen (3rd Ed.)
(My daughter, Melissa, a writer who has her own site, flyingnotscreaming, will be a guest contributor to my blog for the next two weeks. Last Thursday, I lost my husband Michael. In this post, Melissa shares some of her memories of her stepfather that happen to revolve around food. –Mary)
by Melissa Myers Place
I first met Michael Hirsch when he was courting my mother. I was a sophomore in college and back in Des Moines for a winter break. Just after I’d awakened my first morning home, Michael pulled into my mom’s driveway. He was on his way to his OB/GYN practice, and was looking dapper in his suit and bow tie (few men can pull off that combo). He rolled down his window and handed my mother a heavy crystal glass full of fresh-squeezed orange juice. My mother explained to me with a blush that this was their morning routine since meeting several months previously. It was enough to gross out the nineteen-year-old I was back then, but still, I couldn’t ignore the obvious: Michael was crazy about my mother and she was pretty smitten with him.
Several months later, my mother married her handsome doctor. Since I had pretty much left the nest and already had a close relationship with my biological father, Michael wisely suggested that we just be friends. Soon after, we settled into an easy and comfortable relationship.
Mary and Michael Hirsch
Since my mother’s call last Thursday morning to tell me that Michael died peacefully in his sleep after his decade-long struggle with Alzheimer’s, I have been thinking about our twenty-six year friendship and the memories he and I made together. As I have, it occurred to me that many of our shared experiences revolved around food. In no way, shape, or form was Michael a gourmet, but he had specific food preferences that tickled us and irked us, occasionally at the same time.
As I learned that first day in my mother’s driveway, he insisted on fresh-squeezed orange juice each and every morning. He was borderline rude to any wait staff who tried to serve him “that fake stuff from a concentrate.” Each winter, Michael had cases of Honeybell oranges shipped to Aspen, Colorado, where he and my mother relocated after his retirement from medicine. Honeybells, which are called the “diamond of the citrus world,” are only grown in Florida and their availability is limited to the month of January. The other months of the year, Michael had to make do with ordinary oranges, but nevertheless, morning juice was always fresh-squeezed and always served in a crystal glass.
Other than juicing oranges, Michael didn’t do much in the kitchen, but he was a master when standing out on the deck beside his Weber. He even used his grilling savvy to bolster my love life. When I brought home my new boyfriend midway through my senior year of college, Michael, with his typical generosity, packed us into his Jeep Cherokee, stuffed my wallet with money, gave us a key to his condo in Aspen, and sent us on our way. Before we pulled out of the driveway, he handed us a huge tupperware container of barbequed chicken that he’d spent the afternoon grilling (after clearing the deck of snow: it was January in Iowa). My boyfriend ate that chicken as we drove through the night towards Colorado. The white shirt he was wearing was never the same again, but he loved every bite. And I loved Michael for his matchmaking efforts. That boyfriend and I have been married for twenty-three years now.
“The Boyfriend,” Melissa, Mary, and Michael
But where Michael really shone was as a grandfather. He came to grandparenthood late, at seventy-two, but he enjoyed every moment of the the years he had with my children before the disease took too much of his mind. He would watch their every move as newborns, toddlers, and then preschoolers, his eyes shining with pride. Grinning from ear to ear, he’d say, “Aren’t they wonderful? They’re just wonderful. Aren’t they wonderful?”
Grandpa Hirsch with his youngest granddaughter Clara
“Yes, Michael,” we’d all groan, teasing him for sounding like a broken record, but his appreciation and adoration of his grandchildren was wonderfully endearing. And I learned early on that when it came to my girls, there was nothing he wouldn’t do. Even if it meant driving twenty-six hours round trip to pick up me and my newborn who was wearing me out from her constant crying.
“I’m so tired,” I sobbed during a call to my mom and Michael six weeks after my oldest daughter was born. “I need help. She cries all the time and I don’t know why.”
Michael and Mary as proud new grandparents with Emma.
My mom and Michael were at my doorstep in Bishop, California the very next day. Without a single complaint, Michael settled my new baby and myself in the backseat and we headed back to Aspen. It was a long, long drive with a nursing newborn, but as always, Michael was a good sport. And he needed to be because my mom and I together are a force to be reckoned with. We are quick-witted and quick-tongued, a tad bossy, and uproariously funny (or so we think). Often, especially during that visit, our humor was at Michael’s expense.
As we made our way home, Michael, despite our protests, made a stop at a melon stand in Green River, Utah to buy several (FIVE!) huge melons. This stand was known for its casaba melons and Michael loved melons almost as much as he loved fresh-squeezed orange juice. But my mom, my newborn, and I were tired and cranky, and we did not appreciate the delay. We were impatient and annoyed as he squeezed the melons into the already full trunk, and kept talking on and on about how these were the best melons in the whole world and how we were going to love them.
Shortly after leaving Utah, Michael, as usual, was driving too fast. (Michael was skilled at many things, but driving was not one of them.) He was unable to slow in time to avoid a construction bump in the road, and he hit it hard, jarring us all. Both my mom and I started upbraiding him about the newborn in the backseat and demanded that he slow down and pay more careful attention.
In the midst of our verbal tirade, I noticed that the whole car started to smell like melons. My exhaustion got the best of me, and I started to laugh. “It smells like melons,” I shrieked with near hysteria. “I think the melons broke.” Soon my mom was helpless with laughter as well. Michael was not amused. He didn’t talk to us the rest of the way home even though we would sporadically break into uncontrollable giggles and the scent of melon lingered in the air.
Whether or not any melons actually broke in the trunk, I don’t know. He never told us. And with uncharacteristic selfishness, he ate every bit of those melons without offering us a single slice. My mom and I brought up “the melon incident” at every family gathering, and each time Michael looked at us as if he’d just tasted something sour, never cracking a smile, which, of course, made us laugh even harder.
He was a good guy like that. He let us laugh and be who we were, and secretly he relished every moment of it. The last joyful memory I have of Michael, before the light went out in his eyes and he became someone I couldn’t recognize, was during his final visit to Bishop. The night before he and my mother were scheduled to leave, he lay down on the floor where my girls were playing. He was exhausted from the busy weekend (he was probably seventy-seven years old at the time and we’d kept him hopping.) As he lay there on his back, my daughters setup a tea party on his belly–little cups filled with water that inevitably spilled on his shirt and bits of cookies that he’d periodically snitch from their plates. “GRANDPA HIRSCH!” the girls would shout. “No stealing the cookies!” He’d feign innocence and chuckle at their outrage.
At one point, as they played, he turned his head towards where I was sitting, careful not to disturb the set up on his belly, and said, “This is the happiest moment of my life. Aren’t they wonderful?”
Yes, Michael. They are wonderful and so were you in many, many ways.
Grandpa Hirsch with Emma and Clara
No one knows what happens in the afterlife, but I hope with all my heart, that Michael, my friend for over half of my life, is somehow reliving the memory of that happy tea party with his grandchildren. And that he is being served fresh-squeezed orange juice and slightly damaged melons.
A stack of corn cakes filled and garnished with apricot preserves with morsels of chevre (goat cheese) introduced for some tartness.
This week’s First Friday with Dorie recipe is the answer to every Iowa girl’s dream. Since I’m a born ‘n bred Iowan and more than a lil’ bit country, I consider myself an authority on CORN.
Dorie, did you know:
1. In 2011, Iowa corn farmers grew almost 2.3 billion bushels of corn on 13.7 million acres of land.
2. Iowa has produced the largest corn crop (most of it field corn) of any state for almost two decades. In an average year, Iowa produces more corn than most countries.
3. Corn has been the dominant crop in Iowa for more than 150 years!
The Sprout character was introduced in Green Giant® advertising in 1973. He is an apprentice to the kindly Green Giant® and helps the Giant tend the vegetables. The Jolly Green Giant® is the third most recognized advertising icon of the 20th century, behind Ronald McDonald and the Marlboro Man. (greengiant.com)
In fairness to our neighbors to the north, I’ll concede that the Jolly Green Giant and his sidekick, Sprout, raise more sweet corn for the consumer market than we Iowans. That’s why the canned corn you use for this recipe might have grown up in Minnesota.
Yes, for this recipe we are using canned corn, those sweet little krammed-with-karbohydrates kernels. Dorie suggests we find a can that is without sugar or corn syrup. Although corn is low in saturated fat, cholesterol and sodium, 82 percent of the calories in this food are from carbohydrates. It is, however, a good source of dietary fiber, thiamin and folate.
But I digress. French housewives have been using canned corn to make these little pancakes for years. Who knew? They were first introduced stateside in the mid-Eighties after world-famous chef Jean-Georges Vongerichten arrived here. He paired them with crème fraîche and caviar. Of course he did! Although they are fine as an hors d’oeuvre, they also are an interesting accompaniment to any meat dish to replace potatoes, rice, or noodles.
Mise en Place, the ingredients for making corn cakes. Just a few are needed for this simple delight.
For these little wonders, throw three ingredients, corn, eggs, and flour, into your blender or processor. Salt. Then use a tablespoon to drop the batter into a skillet well-lacquered with grapeseed oil (or, any mild oil). Once you achieve a golden color on each side (2 minutes per side), pat off the excess oil and transfer to the warm cookie sheet waiting in the oven.
When making pancakes for breakfast, my Mother would call these “silver dollar” pancakes in size.
After making the pancakes and cooling them to room temperature, I tried three different versions. Serving them with guacamole as a garnish to accompany my lunch of chilled corn and crab salad was delicious. For dessert, I made them into a Raspberry-Crème Fraîche Shortcake. So tasty. If crème fraîche is too strong a taste for you, try whipped cream instead. I just thought the three flavors, sweet fruit, tangy sauce, and corny cake, played well together.
Corn pancakes, garnished with guacamole and served as an accompaniment to chilled corn salad and crab.
For dinner, just needing a snack, I used apricot preserves as a filling for a corn pancake stack to which I introduced morsels of chevre (goat cheese). This idea was actually my favorite taste.
Corn pancakes filled and garnished with crème fraîche and added raspberries.
Although we don’t share recipes from “Around My French Table”, because we would like you to buy the book, I believe you’d make good corn pancakes by blending a 15-ounce can of corn with 2 eggs and 6 tablespoons of flour. Don’t forget the salt. To see how my colleagues, who probably aren’t “corn-fed” did with this week’s recipe, go here.
The world-famous Iowa State Fair butter cow is celebrating its 100th anniversary this year. As a kid, I would visit the butter cow during our family’s annual trip to the fair. As a Mother, I made sure my girls never missed the fair. (Rodney White/The Register)
Chilled Corn and Crab Salad, a delicious addition to your summer salad choices.
Sometimes it takes a village. Isn’t that how it goes? This week’s definitely spectacular summer salad has been a community effort. My prediction: you’re going to love it.
Shortly after arriving in Aspen, just barely having gotten unpacked and organized, a friend and I jumped in the car and drove to Denver to see the Yves Saint Laurent Retrospective at the Denver Art Museum. The exhibit, a sweeping march through the designer’s forty years of creativity, opened in Paris before going to Madrid, with a last stop in Denver.
The show was well worth the four-hour drive to and fro. Betty and I enjoyed, after my eight-year absence from Colorado, our two wonderful days together. As usual, much of our discussion revolved around food. My friend is no slouch when it comes to cooking and baking. In fact, Julia sat at her table a time or two, so I’m always interested in what she has to say. She inspires me.
As a amateur home cook, I always gather my ingredients together, checking to see I have everything I need. The French call it Mise en Place.
Before returning to Aspen, she suggested we detour to a little-known European bakery in Avon. What a discovery! Their coconut macaroons? I wish I’d bought more. The baguettes. Oh là là. Continuing on our culinary tour, her next stop was Gypsum where the only Costco in the High Country is located. Yes, if you live in the mountains, it’s a 135-mile round trip to a Costco. So if you’re passing by, you stop.
That’s where I bought a pound of crab meat.
The salad, ready to be folded together. The corn has cooled to room temperature, the crab and minced sweet pepper mixed together, the dressing whisked, and the cilantro ready to be chopped.
After returning to Aspen I received this e-mail from my Nevada neighbor, Michelle. “I know you are looking for good salads for the summer. I am making this tonight, it is so delicious! I substitute cilantro for the basil and serve it over Bibb lettuce leaves, sliced tomato and sliced avocado. I used a red jalapeño pepper and it was just hot enough. That and some good crusty bread makes the perfect meal! “
The nearby El Jebel grocery store had just stocked fresh ears of corn. (Don’t you love these towns’ names?) I needed fresh spices but my neighbor, Karen, had already urged me to harvest her overabundance of herbs.
So that’s my story and the reason this week’s Summer = Salads recipe is Chilled Corn and Crab Salad.
Chilled Corn and Crab Salad served on thinly-sliced tomato .
For my purposes I wanted this salad to be more about the crab than the corn. However, being Iowa born and bred, I urge you to make the extra effort (and, mess) and use fresh corn. I substituted a sweet petite mini pepper for the Thai chile because I didn’t want the heat, just the color. Like Michelle, I used cilantro instead of basil.
Chilled Corn and Crab Salad served with Corn Cakes garnished with homemade guacamole.
This salad seems so clean cut to me. It looks nutritious and acts healthy. Although there are many ways to serve this dish, I served one plate rather plainly, accompanied only by corn cakes garnished with guacamole. For the guacamole, I never stray from Rosa Mexicano Restaurant’s recipe. (The corn cakes are the upcoming FFwithDorie recipe which you’ll read about later this week.) For the other luncheon plate, I piled the salad onto farmers market tomato slices.
Long ago, when visiting Manhattan, I tasted Rosa’s guacamole at her restaurant. Never have I tasted better so I still stick to her recipe.
This would be a mighty tasty and luxurious addition to any buffet table, potluck dinner or picnic. It’s a salad that can be transported quite easily – thrown in a Ziploc bag, stashed in the cooler. It won’t wilt, break apart, or get its feelings hurt. Hopefully, you’ll agree this is a yummy addition to your summer salad list.
Chilled Corn and Crab Salad
Adapted from Martha Stewart Living, September 2007, and Michelle Morgando.
Serves 6 Luncheon Portions/12 Potluck or Buffet Portions
Ingredients
3-4 tablespoons olive oil or grapeseed oil
3 cups fresh corn kernels (from about 5-6 ears of corn)
1 small red onion, finely chopped (about 1/2 cup)
4 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon of sugar
1 sweet petite mini red pepper, diced
16 ounces lump crabmeat (about 2 cups)
2 tablespoon coarsely chopped fresh cilantro
1-2 teaspoon coarse salt
Freshly ground pepper, to taste
Directions
1. Heat 1 to 2 teaspoons oil in a nonstick skillet over medium heat. Add corn and cook until tender, about 3-5 minutes. Remove from heat. Stir in onion. Let cool to room temperature.
2. Whisk together lemon juice and sugar. Drizzle in remaining tablespoon plus 1 teaspoons oil, whisking until combined.
3. Combine corn-onion mixture, pepper, crabmeat, and cilantro. Fold in lemon dressing. Salt and pepper to taste.
4. Cover, and refrigerate until chilled, at least 30 minutes, preferably 2 hours. Serve plain or garnished with cilantro leaves or guacamole. Enjoy.
Colorado’s state flower, the white and lavender columbine (Aquilegia caerulea) is commonly known as the Rocky Mountain columbine. Its journey to become the Colorado state flower began near the end of the 19th century in 1891 when Colorado school children voted the Rocky Mountain columbine their favorite flower (The cactus came in second place!). These columbine, pictured above and discovered while hiking near the Capitol Creek trail, are uniquely white in color.
Agreed, it’s an unusual combo: Mint Chocolate Ice Cream and Seaweed Sablés. Both recipes are by David Lebovitz.
Sometimes Dorie takes us waaaay out on a limb. For example, remember the Sardine Rillettes or the Spiced Squash, Fennel and Pear Soup? Even the Caramel-topped Semolina Cake and Gerard’s Mustard Tart were a stretch for an Iowa girl like me. Luckily, more often than not, the limb doesn’t snap and we end up with a tasty morsel.
This week Dorie decided to take us for a swim. Since water is not my friend, I never even learned to dog-paddle, I’m a bit reluctant to dive right into this recipe choice.
But dive I must……
A first for me, purchasing packages of toasted Nori.
The Japanese call it “nori”. Here in the United States, it’s just plain old seaweed. For this recipe Dorie is suggesting we put 3 tablespoons of seaweed into a sweet, buttery shortbread slice-and-bake cookie. Why would anyone do that?
Because David said so.
According to Dorie, who is a Parisienne part-timer, it’s playful, chic and attention-getting to turn sweet into salty. Choosing unusual add-ins for this very traditional French shortbread cookie is all the rage. Adding olives, cheese, even bacon, I understand. But it was American cookbook author and pastry chef David Lebovitz who suggested seaweed.
The shortbread mixture after the nori has been chopped finely and added. Admittedly, it does look pretty.
The shortbread cookie dough, rolled into one very long log.
The dough, as for all sablés, is simple to make. Butter, salt, confectionary sugar, egg yolk, olive oil and flour. Next, add the 3 tablespoons of finely chopped toasted nori. (I found this at my local Whole Foods.) Roll the dough into logs. Chill or freeze. When you’re ready to bake them off, sprinkle a pinch of sea salt on each one and bake for 12 to 14 minutes.
A tip from COOK’s Illustrated magazine: Prior to freezing slice-and-bake cookies, put the logs into toilet paper or paper towel rolls to get perfectly rounded cookies.
The paper roll trick worked quite well.
Although these sablés are cocktail fare, I first served them with luscious and delicious Mint Chocolate Ice Cream which my granddaughters and I made. What was my rationalization for coupling rich/creamy mint chocolate with salty/savory seaweed? Simple. These are both Lebovitz’s recipes and can hang out together!!!
This little cocktail cookie complements the Lillet. A nice duo.
Next I served these with Lillet, a French aperitif which is a blend of Bordeaux wines and citrus liqueur. The salty cookie blended well with the lovely Lillet.
Although I’m glad I met and baked with toasted chopped nori for the first time ever, these aren’t nibbles I’ll make again. This is a little too playful , chic and attention-getting for me. The mint chocolate ice cream, however, is spectacular.
