You Can Order Anything at the Butcher: Stuffed Peppers

The terrific folks over at Hyperion have given me a box of Cook Yourself Thin books to distribute to industry friends. That's good, because I've spent at least a couple episodes' of revenue buying books and giving them away.

I decided that it would be classier to wrap said books than not, and wouldn't it be cute to wrap them in butcher paper and butcher string? Where does one go to get said "wrap"? To the butcher, I went!

I've got 20 books, so that's a heck of a lot of paper, more than I would feel comfortable asking for on the side. So I went to my guy, and asked if I could order some some butcher paper.

"Whaddya mean, 'butcher paper'?"

"I mean, the paper that you, the butcher, use to pack things up?"

"You mean this?" He holds up the white glossy paper that's thicker than parchment, and usually touches the meat.

"No, that's not it. The brown paper. There it is -- on the roll!"

"Ah, you mean peach paper."

I guess I did. And so I ordered a $40 roll -- enough to last me through a decade of baby gifts, showers, and Chanukah presents.

Butchers always seem like a rough-and-tumble lot to me. You know, carving up carcasses, handling meat. And yet, he called the stuff peach paper; not pink, not brown, not 'meat wrap'. It seemed so delicate; so precise.

And what was I expecting, exactly? After all, you don't go to China asking for Chinese food, now do you?



Antipasti Platter in Providence's Little Italy. The Stuffed Peppers are at 12 o'clock and 4 o'clock:

Stuffed Peppers
I suppose you could make them, but I don't, especially when trading favors with my butcher. These perky little peppers are stuffed with prosciutto and provolone, which both accentuate, enhance, and then relieve the fire in your mouth. They also come stuffed with breadcrumbs, but I like the low-carb version myself.

The Rhoda Moment: Chicken Fingers and Mint Chocolate Chip Muffins

As part of the promotional effort for the Cook Yourself Thin TV show and cookbook, I found myself on the CBS morning show yesterday morning.

In effort to distract myself from the hoopla (as well as my goosebumps, and clattering teeth), I looked left right and center to get my bearings. Across Fifth Avenue was The Plaza, to the left was Bergdorff's and Central Park was to the right. If I looked up towards the sun, there were the building tops of midtown.

Thankfully, Candice Kumai was beside me, a partner in promotion, so I took a moment to distract us from out talking points and the public application of double stick tape to various parts of our bodies, and pointed some local points of interest. When I feel like a tourist in my own reality, nothing grounds me quite like the living history of New York City.

Here's a clip of the CBS Early Show appearance for Cook Yourself Thin.

And here's recipes for some of our recipes. I dig the Chicken Fingers -- and Harry, our CBS host was right; that Cole Slaw is tasty. Try the Mint Chocolate Chip Cupcakes.

Attentive Asparagus and Melting Strawberries: Asparagus Pesto

I was at a roadside farmstand in the Hamptons this week when I asked a particularly daft question. When I arrived, the farmer told me that the only items that were local right now were the strawberries and the asparagus. She sighed, and seemed disappointed.

The strawberries looked good to me. Pretty, teeny and perky. The Lolitas of the farm.

I asked my farmette how long the strawberry growing season was. She looked at me quizzically and somewhat irritated. “Well that’s the $64 dollar question, ain’t it,” she said.

“???” I responded. Ears open, mouth shut.

“You see, we don’t know what the season is gonna be like, now do we. If we get sun, we get sweet berries. If we get rain, the berries melt in the field.”

“Melt?” I asked.

“Sure. Whaddya think happens to ‘em?” she smiled a scold, and walked away to unload a truck of fuschias.

Oof. I mean, I can appreciate hard labor, but I also like a sure thing, especially when it comes to earning a living. Farmers do their best with their land and technology, but in the end…as it has been said by many a Yiddish speaker before me: Man plans. God laughs.

And speaking of man, how ‘bout that asparagus? In New York City these erect little soldiers are just everywhere. Quite an eager suitor for that tart little strawberry, come to think of it. Yet I've never seen them in a dish together. Mutual availability doesn't always make a match.

I couldn't resist the temptation of the young asparagus; I had to have some. And when I arrived home carrying bunches of the stuff, I found their Jersey brothers already lining my vegetable bins. I had an asparagus harem. Oh what, oh what to do?

Nearly every farm stand in the Hamptons was selling asparagus pesto, and as everyone in the food business knows, pesto is a variation on the we-have-too-much-of-this-and-need-to-find-a-way-to-use-it-before-it-goes-bad theme. Jams, jellies, even ravioli and dumplings are all just a way to give food one last shot before it hits the bin. A culinary rope-a-dope, if you will.

So I tossed my bunch of Jersey asparagus with a little oil, salt and pepper, and charred it under the broiler. Then I threw it in the food processor with the tiniest clove or raw garlic, a generous shaving of parmesan, some just-toasted sliced almonds, and a little olive oil. Voila! Asparagus Pesto.

I spread the pesto on a cracker and dropped to my knees. This was the stuff! I could toss the pesto with pasta or garbanzos, or I could thin it with a little chicken stock to make a puree to put under striped bass or somesuch. I could served the dish with grilled lemons; my favorite.

And as for those strawberries? They were so sublime that I couldn't control myself; I ate them raw in the car. This season, it was the strawberries turn to make me melt.


Asparagus Pesto
Toss with spaghetti and some bay scallops, or spread on crackers and enjoy. Less aggressive than basil pesto, it's an incredibly satisfying way to get rid of the old and make room for the new.

1 bunch asparagus
1 tiny garlic clove
1/3 cup sliced almonds, toasted until golden
¼ cup Parmesan cheese (shaved on a Microplane grater)
olive oil, salt, pepper
verjus, sherry vinegar, champagne vinegar or lemon juice

1. Toss asparagus with a drizzle of olive oil, salt and pepper. Place on a baking sheet under the broiler. Babysit it until it sizzles, and gets a little color – 5 to 10 minutes depending on the aggressiveness of your broiler.
2. Place asparagus in a food processor with the garlic, almonds, parmesan, and another tablespoon or two of the olive oil. Pulse until chunky-pureed.
3. Taste. Good, right? Adjust for acidity with a tablespoon of verjus, or a teaspoon or 2 of vinegar or lemon juice

Adam’s Rib: Baby’s Got Back

I used to date a guy named Adam. I outweighed him, even though he was taller by about 4 inches. This is not a situation I would recommend for any woman who wants to feel, you know, like a woman. You don’t want to be able to lift a man who can’t lift you; trust me.

Adam believed that he contracted a tapeworm, or something, when he was in Africa (a decade prior to dating me). His stomach often hurt; friends would give him cases of toilet paper for his birthday.

He hated, I mean hated mushrooms and Parmesan cheese. As a result, I tried to sneak them into everything I cooked. Often he did not detect them, which gave me great joy. But most nights, even when I didn't use Parmesan OR mushrooms, he'd push aside my creative efforts in favor of something he found more satisfying, like a candy bar.

Ah, Adam.

He is married, as I’ve learned through our shared housekeeper. I hear he's living very well. That’s nice, very nice for Adam.

And I mean that sincerely. You see, once the trauma of a break-up is over, ex's can be re-cast as a wonderful piece of the past who helped you become the person you are today. Like a college semester you spent in Tibet. You don’t necessarily want to live there now, but you’re glad you lived there then.

'Adam' is a name that comes up a lot. Beginning of the alphabet, earthy, strong, easy to spell. There’s a prayer that Jewish people recite in Hebrew before they eat vegetables 'Boray, p’ri, ha’adamah'; 'Blessed are the fruits of the earth' (also known as vegetables). 'Ha’adamah' means 'the earth'. Do you see what I see? 'Adam' = 'Earth'. It’s solid, and I enjoy its Hebrew bi-linguality.

It’s a strong name; a biblical name. When I make ribs, I can’t help but think of the original Adam, who was from the earth, and that temptress Eve, who was made from his rib (metaphorically speaking, of course).

And when I pick up a rack of baby backs, I can’t help but think of my own ample asset, which I didn't always consider an asset. You see, Baby’s got back. This cracks me up. I feel like I'm back in ’93 again with those two dufuses sitting around giggling, “Heh, heh. She said baby back. Heh, heh.”

It was hard to enjoy this asset of mine when I was dating Adam. I wanted to get small, smaller than him – smaller than would have ever been healthy. I mean really, people, who can compete with a tapeworm? Come to think of it, eating ribs was also something that I couldn’t enjoy with him.

His absence in my present helps me to enjoy two pleasures more than I would have otherwise. Had I a better body image, and not an ample posterior? It would have been enough for me. Had I Parmesan and mushrooms, and not all-I-can-eat pork for the rest of my life?

It would have been enough for me.

And thanks to my little man of the earth, today I enjoy these pleasures, more. That, friends, is the beauty of a well-loved ex, his departure, and a celebration of reclaimed assets.

Dayenu.

Adam’s Baby Backs with Eve’s Rub
Makes about 2 cups rub, and ribs for 4 to 6

For rib rub:
1/2 cup kosher salt
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup hot Hungarian paprika
1/4 cup chili powder
2 tablespoons onion powder
2 tablespoons garlic powder
1 tablespoon cayenne
1 tablespoon thyme
2 tablespoons espresso or cocoa powder

For ribs:
1/2 cup rib rub
2 slabs baby back ribs
1/2 cup your favorite barbeque sauce, as desired

1. For rub: Whisk together salt, sugar, paprika, chili powder, onion powder, garlic powder, cayenne, thyme and espresso in a medium bowl. Store in a cool, dry place in an airtight container for up to 6 months.
2. For baby back ribs: Using 1/4 cup of rib rub for each rack, generously cover ribs with rub. Wrap ribs completely in aluminum foil. Refrigerate overnight, or leave on the counter for 1 hour. Allow to come to room temperature before cooking.
3. Heat oven to 350F. Cook ribs for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, or until meat pulls away from bone at the ends. Remove ribs from oven, and very carefully remove from foil (there will be hot steam and liquid coming out.
4. Preheat grill to medium heat and lay ribs on grill rack. Cook, turning occasionally, basting ribs with sauce (if desired), until the sauce is set and the rib edges are crispy, about 10 to 15 minutes.

TIP: With ribs, slower, lower temperature cooking results in tender ribs. If you can, cook the ribs at 325F for 2 to 2 1/2 hours, or 300 for 3 to 3 1/2 hours.

TIP: If you don’t want to finish the ribs on the grill, simply remove the ribs from the foil and finish cooking for about 3 minutes per side under the broiler. The broiler will have a similar effect as the grill, crisping the edges and setting the sauce.

Old School Markets: Oxtail Stew

Luck and a bit of free time found me in the Essex Street Market. I’d heard of it for far too long and was tired of answering “you mean you’ve never been?” in the negative.

Food purveyors are my peeps, literally. One of my great grandfathers was a seltzer man; his horse-drawn carriage schlepped fizzy water to thirsty Jews on the Lower East Side. Another great grandfather was a kosher butcher on 3rd Street and Avenue C, also on the Lower East Side.

Enclosed urban markets feel like pushcarts and pinched cheeses to me, a culinary time capsule. At Baltimore’s Cross Street Market there are unapologetic pints of Budweiser served in styrofoam cups, platters of just-shucked oysters and plenty of Old-Bay steamed crabs.

At the Arthur Avenue market in the Bronx, it’s like The Olive Garden – when you’re there, you’re family. There are old guys out front smoking just-rolled cigars and playing dominos. Italian is spoken, and gestured; it's like you’re on a Scorsese set.

Upon entering the Essex Street Market, I passed Anne Saxelby’s cheese shop and lingered a bit. The NY-state only cheese shop had been the impetus for my voyage, but line was long, with hipster mommies doing the baby sway, and I was worried that I might get checked into the wall at any moment. I moved along.

There was a second cheese shop in the back. In addition to cheeses, they had smoked and preserved meats, and pickles...I loved their tiny snack-sized sausages all saran wrapped and ready for me to toss in the bag. Cliff bars, eat your heart out.

This shop was also selling a Sicilian Olive Oil Blood Orange cake, which was “only offered on Fridays”. I asked why, and where it was made, knowing full well that the health department can play deaf-dumb-and-blind sometimes when it comes to immigrant traditions. My answer was a no-eye-contact “Wiliamsburg”. I got the sense that the woman behind the counter made it in her apartment, and schlepped it here on Fridays to make some extra bucks.

They gave me a sliver; it was irresistible. I paid my $4.50 for a 2 x 2-inch square, grabbed a snack sausage and kept moving.

To the right I noticed a barber shop with a mezuzah at the door in the market. You can find a lot of things at Whole Foods, but not a barber.

Just ahead was the butcher. I didn’t need anything; I just wanted to window shop, which as everyone knows is the best way to get your new-favorite thing, be it a dress, shoes, or in my case – a piece of meat.

On the side of the case there was a mound of, er…tails. Each tail was at least a foot and a half long, and undeniably tail-like. On the one hand, ewww. On the other hand, it could be tasty.

I was introduced to oxtail stew five years ago by a Brazilian woman with whom I was working. She talked up oxtails for months, then finally cooked a batch and brought them to the office. After she reheated the pot, she tossing in a bunch of watercress to finish the dish. The way she cooked, and tossed, and shared seemed so European (ok, South American) and sexy to me. When it was done, she walked around all puffed up talking about the power of Brazilian women.

I asked for the recipe. “Oh you know, it’s just a braise. Too simple for a recipe; there’s nothing to it. It’s the tail, and it’s cooked. For a long time. That’s it.

“How do I do it?” I wanted details.

“How do you do it?” she smiled. “You cannot; you are not Brazilian.” She wiggled her ample behind and sauntered off.

Yeah, yeah. I can’t make spring rolls because I’m Jewish, and you can’t make matzoh balls because you’re not. Garbage, all. There was the oxtail and this was my chance. I was taking it home.

Next, I needed the watercress. As I walked toward the vegetables, I passed a 65-year old, loud, big, grey haired man with a hard-to-place accent. He had the swagger of an institution, the type who would call himself “The Mayor of Essex Market”. As I walked by, he said, “You! Excuse me, what do you think you’re doing?”

I looked at him and checked behind me in both directions. “Me?” I asked, hand to my chest.

“Yes, you!” he bellowed. Other shopkeepers and shoppers were looking up from their now, nodding and smiling. Apparently, this was not an unusual outburst. “What are you doing looking so beautiful?! You distract me from my work!” He shook his head and smiled.

At the Essex Street Market, there’s plenty of stuff you won’t find. But the things you can, you won’t find anywhere else.



Essex Street Oxtail Stew
Serves 6 to 8

One oxtail (about 2 pounds), cut into ½-inch pieces
Kosher salt
1 cup flour
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 large onions (purple, yellow – whatever you’ve got)
4 cloves garlic, chopped
5 sprigs of thyme
2 bay leaves
1 bottle of red wine (my new fave is $5.95per bottle at Red, White and Bubbly –Georges Blanc)
fresh horseradish (I had this left over from Passover, so I peeled and grated it – about ½ cup, and added it to the party. Mmmm)
2 to 4 cups low-sodium chicken stock, or as needed
2 parsnips, peeled and cut into ¼-inch coins
2 carrots, peeled and cut into ¼-inch coins
2 turnips, peeled and cut into wedges
1 bunch watercress, washed and trimmed
lime wedges, for serving
mashed potatoes, couscous, rice, for serving

1. Season oxtails well with salt, and dredge in flour, tapping off excess. Heat oil in a large, wide braising pan over medium-high heat. Cook oxtail in batches, until browned, about 5 minutes per side. Remove and reserve.

2. Add onions, garlic, thyme and bay leaves to skillet. Season with salt and cook, stirring until beginning to soften, about 5 minutes. Scrape up any browned bits from the bottom of a pan with a wooden spoon. Return the oxtail to the pan, cover with red wine. Bring to a simmer and cover with parchment paper so that the heat of the steam stays in, but some liquid can escape. Let simmer for 3 hours, adding horseradish after the first 1½ hours. Checking to see if more stock is needed to keep the oxtail 2/3 covered with liquid. If it is, add it.

3. Add the parsnips, carrots, and turnips. Simmer until cooked through, another 30 to 40 minutes. Turn off the heat, and stir in the watercress. Taste, and adjust for salt as needed.

4. Serve over some sort of starch with lime wedges.

Passover is a Pain in the Ass: Roast Lamb, Cauliflower Kugel, Moroccan Carrots

I hosted my first family seder last week. My Dad's a yeshiva boy, and I haven't belonged to a temple since my bat mitzvah, so it was bound to be a little touch-and-go. I chose to focus on the meal, and the ceremonial foods, as that was in my wheelhouse. Here's what I learned:

There's a reason no one in my family has done Passover since my grandmother passed the point of capable. It is a major pain in the tucchus. No really, I'll take Thanksgiving, Christmas, even latke frying any day of the week compared to the labor involved in Passover. Easter Ham? Please, people. I can rock that it in my sleep.

A key difference is that at Passover, you're required to sit around a table reading the story of Jewish servitude. That's cool, I like reading and I like stories. But the table's gotta be something worthy of having your relatives schlep miles to sit around. It's gotta look good. Ironed tablecloth, possibly a runner, flowers, glasses, China. Cloth napkins. Water pitchers. Wine. Now I'm not above the occasional paper plate, but this is Passover, and family elders were driving miles to be here. Go big or go home.

During the meal, there are all these food props. The seder plate, a stack of crumbly matzoh that gets cracked and hidden. Seasonal greens, hardboiled eggs, heck, even a salty dipping sauce. Haroset, maror, then we all dive into a make-your-own sandwich bar right before before dinner. Wine, wine and more wine.

Then, we can start thinking about the festive meal: a four course delight starting with gefilte fish and horseradish, roast chicken soup with matzoh balls, roast leg of lamb, kugel, and more. Oh, and here's a little wrench for added fun: you're not allowed to reach for any cook-comforts like flour, breadcrumbs, challah, rice, beans. Good luck with that.

For the desserts -- unless you're a masochist -- you ask someone to bring. Passover desserts are a craft unto their own; luckily I have a gifted baker cousin who was willing to buy that box of matzoh meal and make the magic happen. Alternatively, you can call your local Jewish bakery, or buy dried fruits and nuts and punt. Whatever you do, you must have those corn-syruppy fruit-slice jelly candies and macaroons. Because they're memories, and no one counts calories on Pesach.

Here's why it's worth doing. There was a moment of organization before the event, where I discussed with my Dad who'd be leading the service. I had a hagaddah, all marked up with stickies. Now, it's Jewish custom that the elder man at the table runs...everything, so I handed him the baton. He demurred, until we hit page 4 and it was time to say the blessing over the wine. The service would be his from then until the birkat hamazon (grace after meals).

And that is why the tsimmes (fuss) is worth it. To see my father, amidst his family, caught up in the moment, reliving his 60-something years of Passovers before, in the here and now. As always, the food is simply the backdrop for the experience. But as you're cleaning the 75th dish of the night, remember -- it's that care that allowed the moment to happen.


Anchovy Roast Leg of Lamb

Cauliflower Leek Kugel


Moroccan Carrots
Serves 4
Adapted from Einav Gefen

1 pound carrots, peeled and cut into “coins”
1 clove garlic, minced
1 scallion, thinly sliced
2 Tablespoons chopped parsley
1-inch piece fresh ginger, peeled and minced
1/4 cup lemon juice
2 tablespoons fresh orange juice
1 Tablespoon finely chopped mint
¼ cup olive oil
pinch ground cinnamon
¼ teaspoon ground cumin
pinch red pepper flakes
1-2 teaspoons honey, as desired
salt for boiling water, plus more to taste
freshly ground black pepper

1. Bring a medium pot of water to a boil. Add 1 tablespoon salt and carrots, boil for 2-3 minutes, until the rawness is gone, but the carrot is still firm. Drain.

2. Meanwhile, combine garlic, scallions, parsley, ginger, juices, mint, olive oil, cinnamon, cumin, red pepper flakes, salt and pepper. Pour over carrots and marinate until ready to serve. Taste, and add honey if needed. Serve warm, room temperature or chilled.

When You're Hot, You're Hot: Homemade Pizza

As some of you know, I've got a dough-phobia. Pie dough and pizza doughs leave me reaching for something store bought and jealous of my pals who can do it with ease. When I bitch about my no-dough hands? All I hear is "Allison, there's nothing to it."

This is very annoying. It's not like I haven't tried. But given my line of work, it behooves me to face my kitchen demons, and make a sincere effort to tackle the things which it appears I have no natural talent for.

So I pitched a story on making pizza at home to mainstreet.com, which meant I had to figure it out. I do things like that. I once bought a stick shift car without knowing how to drive it because I wanted to learn. In San Francisco.

I learned, and am proud to say that clutch made it for 10 years.

Forcing functions work. So I asked on of those "nothing to it" friends to come over and show me how. Turns out the thing is damn easy.

For the dough, we started with:
2 cups of water
1 packet of yeast dissolved in 1 1/4 cups of warm water
salt

You make a well in the flour, which is just sitting pretty in a heap on the countertop. Then you whisk in about 1 cup of the yeast water. So far, the process is similar to making pasta dough, and the aesthetic of the well-dough on the counter makes me feel very old school Italian, which means, I admit, I'm enjoying the process.

Then you start kneading, and keep kneading until it's "as sticky as a lint roller", adding a bit more flour and water as you go. Should take about 10 minutes, which means you won't have to do push-ups later. Oh, and add a generous pinch of salt at some point.

Then you let the dough sit for about half an hour, or up to 2 days in the fridge. Get a cast iron skillet or griddle smoking hot on your stovetop, and turn the broiler on. Pinch the dough out until it's pretty thin, then plop it on the screaming cast iron (not joking, make sure it screams). Put your toppings on -- chopped tomatoes and mozzarella; I've been playing with mandolin-thin purple onions, gruyere, green olives, rosemary and olive oil. It's pizza, it's flatbread; it can be whatever you what you want it to be.

Lay the covered dough (moving quickly now) on a rack about 4-inches under the broiler. Watch as the sides puff! Watch as it begins to char! Take it out when the cheese is melty, in about 4 minutes. Devour.

So it's not your traditional Rays pizza. Which makes sense, because I ain't Ray. But it is delicious - and it doesn't require an 800-degree oven. It gave me a sense of accomplishment, and the thrill of meeting a demon head on, shaking hands, and realizing that he's not such a bad guy after all.