Pickled

So you know how last time I said it was way too hot to cook so I gave you a crockpot recipe? Well the last few days it's been too hot to even turn on the crockpot. Like tonight, I went to scramble an egg for dinner and couldn't even take it. In other words, sandwich and microwave time. (Except for two nights ago, when I set my toaster oven out on the back stoop to bake some stuffed summer squash. Yum.) And you know what goes great on those sandwiches and doesn't require any added heat at all? Pickles.

I just finished reading Michael Pollan's new book, Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation, on (surprise surprise) cooking, and all the anthropological/archaeological/evolutionary/biological/chemistry-ical issues surrounding it. I've been a Pollan fan ever since I read The Botany of Desire back in high school, and this one very much lives up. The first section is on roasting meat, with a focus on Carolina bbq (nom nom nom); the second is on soups and stews and braises; the third is on baking bread; and the final section is about fermentation of all kinds: cheese, alcohol, kimchee, pickles. It was the last that grabbed me the most, maybe because it's so far removed from the others: instead of an active process of chopping and adding and kneading and stirring, with the aid of a lot of heat and a bit of time, with fermentation the work is done by a (relatively) lot of time and a million micro-organisms, the same things other modes of cooking kills. There's all sorts of claimed health benefits about eating the kinds of live cultures (aka bacteria/fungi/etc) that live in fermented food (google "microbiome", or see Pollan's piece for the NYTimes magazine, or read anything Sandor Katz ever wrote), so that's cool. But I think what got me is the largely hands-off nature of the project: you're not constructing a product, or directly setting up a chemical reaction, you're creating the conditions for an ecosystem. And, ok, then eating that ecosystem. As Pollan says, it's less like cooking and more like gardening.

So a few days after I finished the book I'm walking around with fermentation on the brain, looking for an opportunity to try it out, when an article pops up in the Dining section of the Times about real lacto-fermented pickles, complete with recipe. And the day after than I find pickling cucumbers at the farmers' market downtown. Needless to say, by that night I had a batch going on my counter.

Any you know what? Pollan was right: there was something downright magical about the process. Lord knows I've seen some pretty sweet transformations enacted in my kitchen before: I've braised meat, baked bread, boiled bagels, made yogurt (successfully) and paneer (fine til I burned it), cooked a pile of tomatoes down into a pot of sauce and a pile of apples into apple butter, roasted Chinese duck and rotisseried Thai chickens and souped and stewed and chopped and sauteed with the best of 'em. But something about the time (3+ days) and the almost total lack of having to do anything combined with the fact that hey, you know that jar I set out the other night? There's something totally different inside it now, and it smells awesome - all that made it feel like something of a miracle. (Ok, the yogurt was a close second: rather less time, more stirring, less chopping, equally dramatic transformation, also technically fermentation. And granted he idea of bacteria doing something weird to food left out on the counter is hardly revolutionary - that's why we invented refrigerators. But still.) And yeah, the pickles were awesome.

Pickles!

Sour Dill Pickles.
These are fermented. In other words, no vinegar; all the work is done by the yeasts and bacteria on the skin of the cucumber and floating around in the air. No, it's not dangerous; according to Pollan the FDA has had zero confirmed reports of food poisoning from this sort of thing. The lactobacilli like the salt, and they out-acidify any nasty-making competitors. But do read Katz or Pollan if you're interested in the actual biology behind it, and don't eat it if it smells funny (rather than like pickles).

pickling (kirby) cucumbers
1tbsp (non-iodized) salt to 1 cup water (brine)
flavorings: smashed garlic
dill
caraway seeds
celery seeds
jalapenos
etc

1) Rinse the cukes in cold water. Wash out enough jars to hold them. (No need to sterilize, but do be sure they're clean.)

2) Boil enough water to completely cover the cucumbers in the jars. (May I recommend using an electric tea kettle to avoid heating up the kitchen while you're at it.) Dissolve 1 tbsp salt for every cup of water. Don't use iodized salt; that screws things up. Add a handful of ice, set aside and let cool to room temp.

3) Slice the cucumbers into spears or chunks. (Or don't.) Seed them. (Or don't.) Smash some garlic cloves. Chop some fresh hill, or get out the dried stuff. Slice some jalapenos. Or use whatever other seasonings you like, or none. Put the cucumbers in the jars, packed fairly tight so they don't float. Put in the herbs and things. Pour enough brine over top to completely cover the vegetables so they don't get moldy.

4) Set the jars in a dish (in case they bubble over) in a not-too-hot part of the house (good luck) and cover loosely with the lids. Watch and wait. After a day or so you should start to see little bubbles, and maybe smell something intriguing. After 3 days the water will be cloudy and you'll have pickles. Taste. If they're good, screw the tops on tight and stick 'em in the fridge. If you want them more sour, leave out for another day or two, tasting occasionally. Eat with a nice cold sandwich. Attempt with other vegetables than pickles if you're feeling adventurous.

Cool Beans

It's too hot to cook. Ever since I heated up my apartment to 87 degrees (87 degrees!) by making a pot of ratatouille, I've been making sandwiches, nuking leftovers, and occasionally boiling a little pot of pasta or sticking something in the toaster oven. (Or staying at my parents' house, where 90% of the cooking this time of year is done by my father on the grill.) So when I say to make this soup on the stove, ignore me. Seriously, don't do it. When I actually cooked this, a month or two ago, the temperature was normal and I could boil a pot of chickpeas without also boiling myself. From, now til September I'm recommending the crockpot method, which I haven't actually tested out but hey, what could go wrong? At the very least it's far less likely to turn your kitchen into a sauna. Which frankly right now is my highest priority, so.

This is a lovely soup, which I found on Pinterest (original here). It's basically liquid hummus, for better or worse. Given my feelings about hummus, I'm going with better. That said, it's one of those flavors that I love for the first half of a bowl and then kind of feel like enough's enough, so I'd suggest having a small bowl as an appetizer or alongside a salad and/or sandwich instead of making it your whole meal. But don't listen to me. (Do you ever?) Alternatively, it would make a good sauce for something like falafel, or maybe a dressing for a Middle Eastern-ish salad. In which case you'll want to make a whole lot less, unless you eat a *lot* of falafel.

Chickpea soup with olive oil, sumac, and lemon juice.

Chickpea Soup
2 cups dried chickpeas, or 1 big can canned chickpeas (dried tastes better but requires advance planning, never my strength when it comes to dinner)
4 cups broth of some sort (chicken/veggie)
water
1 big onion, diced
2-4 garlic cloves, minced
2 bay leaves
1 tsp. cumin
salt & pepper
olive oil
Garnishes: sumac, paprika, lemon juice, feta, parsley, cilantro and/or whatever else looks good, to taste

1) If you're using dried beans, soak them overnight first. If not, open and drain the can of beans.

2) Saute onion until it's translucent and beginning to brown, then add the garlic, cumin and bay leaf, and saute a minute more until everything's fragrant. (Note: On a hot day, skip this step. You miss out on all the wonderfullness that comes with a good Maillard reaction, but also a lot of sweat.)

3) Dump everything but the garnishes in a pot or crockpot. Cook until done. Crockpot: low heat. Stovetop: gentle simmer. Here's a handy table to make sense of cooking time, given all the variables.

	Crockpot (low setting)	Stovetop (gentle simmer)
canned beans	45 min?	30 min?
presoaked dry beans	7-8 hours	1-3 hours
unsoaked dry beans	are you nuts?	derrr… 4 hours?

Figure 1: Approximate cooking times

Do keep in mind though that those are very approximate, and a lot will depend on the freshness of your beans, the alignment of the planets, the will of the gods, and so forth. Keep checking, stirring, and adding water as needed. (Crockpot dry beans can be left to cook while you go off and have a productive/beach-filled day, just start checking near the end of the process.)

4) When the chickpeas are nice and soft, pull out the bay leaves and blend the whole mess til smooth. (Immersion blenders are good for this, if using a blender blender make sure to tilt up the little clear plastic bit in the middle so steam can escape, don't overfill, and keep a hand on the top to thwart explosions.)

5) Serve drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with whatever of the above garnishes sound good to you, alongside something Mediterranean: a cucumber-tomato salad, tabbouleh, a sandwich (grilled cheese? with feta and arugula?), or at least a nice chunk of bread to sop it up with.

Even Nicer

Just a quick middle-of-the-week bonus post while I kill time til lunch. Think of this as an add-on to that last one on socca. I think I mentioned in there somewhere that chickpea pancakes are as good done vegan with a pile of ratatouille on top as they are with onion, bacon, gruyere, and a runny fried egg. (And trust me, they're pretty damn awesome with a runny fried egg.) So: a recipe for ratatouille! I have no idea how authentic this actually is, and really I don't care (so please hold off the it's-not-ratatouille-without-peppers hate mail). This is really just an excuse to cook two of my favorite veggies, zucchini and eggplant, with lots of tomato and herbs and call it dinner. Bonus: those'll all be in season soon, and therefore extremely fresh and cheap at the farmers' market. Score. There are no definitive quantities here; just do it all to taste. What I've listed here makes a big pot, but do feel free to play around. Love summer squash? Add more. Eggplant at the store looking particularly sad this week? Leave it out. Love bell peppers? Blech. But you can add them in anyway. Hate onions (cough cough Sarah)? Sub in leeks. Just keep it all fresh and don't add anything weird and you'll be fine.

Over socca, with salad.

Summer Ratatouille
2 medium eggplants
2 yellow summer squash
2 zucchini
1 onion
a few cloves garlic
large can of diced tomatoes
2 large handfuls of fresh herbs (I used oregano, sage, a little basil, and a lot of parsley, since that's what's currently exploding in my garden)
Salt & pepper
Olive oil

1) Slice the eggplants (1 cm thick?) salt, and let sit for 20-30 minutes on paper towels or dishcloths. Pat dry, rinse, and let drip dry in a colander over the sink.

2) Meanwhile, slice the zucchini and squash into rounds (quarter inch thick?). Chop your herbs. Chop the onion and saute it in oil in the bottom of a large pot until it starts to brown a bit. Mince half your garlic and add it to the pot. Stir about a minute til things get fragrant.

3) Add all the veggies, tomatoes, and half the herbs. (Set the remaining herbs and garlic aside for later.) Salt & pepper to taste. (Taste before you salt, since the eggplant might still be salty even if you rinsed it.) Let simmer partly covered, stirring occasionally, until everything's nice and soft and the liquid has reduced down enough that it's not a soup. (The vegs will soak up some liquid as they cool, so it doesn't have to be totally dry.) Your squash coins will probably have their middles falling out, and your neat circles will have broken, but they shouldn't be total mush.

4) Add the rest of the herbs and garlic (minced) and let simmer just a minute or two more. Serve over socca, or polenta, or with bread, or tossed with spaghetti, or alongside some sausage, depending how virtuous you're feeling. Some romano cheese or even cooked chickpeas sprinkled on top is pretty good too. Makes great leftovers.

Making Nice

Ok, I realize I may have freaked some of you out a little with that last post. Apologies. (That said, can't promise I won't do it again.) But you can come back now, it's safe, no furry head-on critters this time around. This recipe is so normal I got it from the Times. And you know what? It's really good.

See look, no ingredients with claws or ears.

 The first time I had socca (for the uninitiated: a savory chickpea flour pancake from south-eastern France/north-western Italy) was at a restaurant called Nizza on 9th Ave in New York. They serve food from Nice, which is what you would get if you mixed equal parts French and Italian, added a bit of Mediterranean sunshine, a pile of herbs, and then drank a bottle of red wine before cooking it up. In other words, wonderful. I could absolutely live on pistous and pissaladiers and good tapanade on fresh bread, and basically did on my trip to Nice a few years ago (at least when the seagulls weren't stealing the food right out of my hand). And the, gelato, oh the gelato. Of course I got a warm socca to eat at the open air market overlooking the beach, even if it was still way to cold to actually swim, being March and all.

The batter, ready for pouring.

 
 I hadn't thought about socca in a while, til a few weeks ago Mark Bittman did a column in the Times about all the wonderful non-hummusy things that can be done with chickpeas, and included this recipe. Don't get me wrong, lord knows I love hummus, but there's a whole chickpea world out there beyond garlicky spreads on pita. The original called for onion and rosemary for flavoring; I went in a different direction with sage ('cause that's how they make it at Nizza) and Italian sausage (because I had it in the fridge). Think of the batter as a blank canvas to play with as you will. It would be lovely with a handful of mixed herbs (sage, tarragon, and parsley?) and garlic; or onions and olives; a little bacon or prosciutto; some crumbled cheese. Beyond their basic sage/onion/pecorino version, at Nizza they use the socca as a gluten-free crust option for their pizzas, including a margherita; one with tomato, artichoke, goat cheese, and olives; and another with mushrooms, onions, and chevre. A nice ratatouille would be lovely on top too, with some oregano sprinkled over. You get the point - make it perfectly vegan or totally indulgent, whatever your mood. Just do try to have a light hand with the toppings so as not to overwhelm the pancake.

Sauteing the toppings.

 The only thing called for here that's slightly out of the ordinary is chickpea flour. I found a bag of Bob's Red Mill at the supermarket for a few bucks (look in the natural or gluten-free section if it's not in with the regular flour). Indian groceries would also have it, possibly under the name 'gram flour' or 'besan'. Worst case, there's always Amazon.

Socca
(adapted from Mark Bittman)

1 cup chickpea flour
1 tsp salt
1 tsp pepper
olive oil
1 onion sliced
1 handful sage, chopped
1 link Italian sausage
Romano cheese

1) Mix the chickpea flour, salt, and pepper in a bowl. Slowly whisk in 1 cup lukewarm water, making sure to get out all the lumps. Whisk in 2 tbsp olive oil. Cover and let sit on the counter between 30 minutes and 12 hours.

Pouring in the batter

2) Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 450. Add a little olive oil to a cast iron skillet. Crumble the sausage into the pan and saute with the onions until the sausage is browned and the onions are translucent, maybe getting a little browned themselves. Add the sage and stir a minute more. (If you're using other toppings, cook them now.)

3) Pour the batter over the toppings. Stir quickly once or twive to make sure everything's evenly distributed, and sprinkle a handful of romano over the top. Stick in the oven for 10-15 minutes, until the pancake is set.

Ready to bake.

4) Brush a little more olive oil over the top of the socca and set it a few inches under the broiler. Broil it just until it gets brown in spots. Serve cut into slices with a light salad and some good summer wine.

Done.

The Night of the Guinea Pig

Me with pig quarters. Yes, those are its front teeth.

And now for something completely different...


***WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS PICTURES OF MEAT THAT STILL LOOKS LIKE THE CUTE FURRY ANIMAL IT CAME FROM. IF THAT BOTHERS YOU, STOP READING HERE (and maybe have a good think about going vegetarian)***


So recently I've been doing upbeat spring posts about things like fiddlehead ferns and rhubarb compote and other seasonal delights you might find on Pinterest. This post is entirely different. In this post, I barbeque a guinea pig.

Three, actually, one butterflied on the grill and two roasted in the oven, which despite the cool evening may not have been my best idea ever. If you know me at all of have read back through some of the earlier posts on this blog, you know that I like to eat unusual things. (See: crickets two ways at my birthday party last month.) So when some friends and I discovered that the local C-Town supermarket stocked guinea pig in the freezer section, we knew it had to happen. That was two or three years ago; it took M. finishing his dissertation and moving to Ohio for us to get out act together and buy a few to try. (That age old story of 'oh, we'll do it next time', until finally life hits you and there is no next time.) Guinea pigs are a specialty in some parts of South America, where they're called cuy and generally roasted or fried (or so the internets tell me). So in honor of M. moving on with his life, we grabbed some cuy, invited over some adventurous friends, fired up my neighbor's grill, and made a South American(-ish) feast.

1) The rodents. There were seven of us, so we bought three piglets, and prepared each a different way. One was rubbed with a mixture of cumin, paprika, pepper, and salt and grilled over charcoal with a clove of garlic in its toothy little mouth. A second was stuffed with chorizo, parsley, and onions and roasted at 400 "til it's done". And for the third we followed a recipe found online and roasted it with a stuffing made from walnuts, parsley, onions, mint, oregano, and the innards C-Town was kind enough to leave in the three body cavities (heart, lungs, liver, kidneys), lightly poached and then mixed in with the rest. Needless to say I did not eat this last one. Unusual species don't bother me; unusual organs do. (Did I ever claim to be rational?)

Super cuy!

The cuy themselves were sold in plastic pouches (brand name: Super Cuy!) de-furred and cleaned but otherwise intact: head, feet, eyes, skin, etc all accounted for (only the digestive tract had been removed). So they looked like, well, very naked guinea pigs. Let the black humor and grisly jokes commence. They were thawed and opened up, the remaining organs removed, and stuffed or not as per above. M. did the honors of carving the roast beasts at the table, which entailed decapitation, drawing, and quartering. (Actually, I think they came pre-drawn. Whatever.) The first one, which had been butterflied and bbqed, I think was the best. Actually it's the only one I tasted. I got a nice leg (claws and all). The skin was a little rubbery, even after being crisped over the fire, but the meat was nice and tender and flavorful from the smoke and the rub. Stronger-flavored than I'd expected, certainly more pungent than rabbit, and a little fatty. Not bad at all. The second, with the guts-stuffing, I'm told was minerally, which is unsurprising when you consider it was fulled with liver and kidney. (Remind me again why people eat that stuff?) I think without the offal that's a stuffing I might actually use again though. But rodent hearts? Not so much. And by the time the chorizo cuy (pig in a pig!) was carved I was way too full to even think about eating a piece. I did nibble on the stuffing though, and that one I really will make again. Chorizo & onion: yum.

Lowering the cuy into hot water for defrosting. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Opening it for cleaning and stuffing.

What lies beneath. (The heart, mostly.)

Applying the dry rub to #1.

Herb-walnut stuffing (pre-adding of guts).

Sauteing the chorizo stuffing.

Cuy #2, stuffed and closed up with toothpicks.

#s 2 and 3, stuffed and trussed. The one on the right kinda looks like a zombie.

#1 on the grill.

Roasted. We crisped them up on the grill afterwards.

Ready for carving.

Carving the cuy.

Pig on a platter.

2) The fixings. South American themed meant yucca and plantain and avocado and pineapple.  And grilled onions, because why not. The yucca we made into baked fries, the plantains into fried fries, and the pineapple was dredged in cinnamon and grilled. Oh, and M. made some excellent tomatillo salsa, but you'll have to ask him for the recipe since I haven't got a clue. Frankly these were the best part. I mean, guinea pig is good, but grilled pineapple is better. And avocados. Yum.

Some nice bloodless chopped plantains for you.

3) The drinks. You don't think we did this fully sober, did you? Red wine and summer ale were both on hand, and probably to blame for what happened to the heads. Like I said, black humor. So cheers to a good time and the six brave should who came over to share it, and then had the fortitude to go for ice cream after. Salut!

Guinea Pig
Just read the paragraph above. That's really all we had to go on. Besides, you're not really planning to make this, are you?

Fried Plantains
Buy some plantains, the riper the better. Cut into smallish chunks. Fry in oil, probably at a lower heat than I did. Dip in Sriracha and lime juice.

Frying.

Ready for eating.

 
Grilled Pineapple
Cut a pineapple into chunks. Dredge in cinnamon. Grill til caramelized. Devour.

Cut and dredge.

Grill and eat.

Baked Yucca Fries
Finally, a real recipe! Preheat the oven to 450. Peel your yucca and cut it into 3-inch long lengths. Discard the ends. Get a pot of water boiling, and add the yucca. Boil about 12 minutes, until the middles start to split. Drain and let cool.

Cut each section in half lengthwise and take out the tough string running down the middle. There will probably be a layer peeling off the outside too; you can get rid of that if you like. Cut into wedges and arrange on a baking sheet. Drizzle with a generous amount of olive oil, then sprinkle with salt, black pepper, cayenne, and lime zest (or other spice mix of your choice). Bake 10 minutes, stir, then bake another 10 minutes or so. Let cool and eat with salsa.

Yucca Fries.

Sweet & Sour

Continuing on the theme of spring... Last weekend at the farmer's market I bought a big bunch of rhubarb. I love rhubarb - it's nice and tart, with pretty red and green stalks, potentially deadly (only if you eat the leaves... didn't Agatha Christie write a story about that?), and borderline unusual (how many people do you know who actually cook wit the stuff?). Of course, like most of my borderline-unusual farmer's market impulse purchases, I buy it expecting great things and then immediately go blank on what to do with the stuff. Like, Bon Appetit just had a whole article on cooking with rhubarb, but suddenly I didn't want to do any of that. I just made compote, and how boring to repeat. So I left them in the bottom of my fridge for a week. (In my defense, it's been waaayyy too hot to turn on the oven lately. Not that that's stopped my from making socca [post coming soon] or apricot applesauce cake [see below] and bringing my apartment up to a toasty 84 degrees according to the thermostat, but whatever.) Somewhere along the way I got the brilliant idea to mix the rhubarb with apricots and plums, because as I've said before, apricots in baked goods are basically the universe's way of giving your tongue a hug. Smitten Kitchen had a rhubarb snacking cake that looked like about what I was hoping for, but it calls for 1/3 cup of sour cream, which I haven't got and didn't feel like going out to buy. So what's a girl to do?

Not for the first time, Mark Bittman came to my rescue. After coming up empty handed from Alford & Duguid's Home Baking (I've also said this before, but they're brilliant and you should buy all their books, including this one, 'cause even though it didn't have an appropriate thickened-dairy-product-free cake for this particular project it still makes me want to make everything in it every time I open it) and the big yellow Gourmet cookbook, How to Cook Everything yielded a beautiful orange-almond cake. (And I didn't even have to go out and buy butter!) So I didn't actually have any almonds, but nuts are nuts and everything else was in my pantry/freezer. (I've started keeping my flour in the freezer to avoid the moths. Lord help me, I'm turning into my grandmother.) I waited til after dark when the temperature had gone down and I could open up some windows (to no avail; it still got hot as hell in here), roasted some rhubarb, sliced up some stone fruit, poured the whole mess on top of the cake batter, and voila! Sweet orange nut cake with tart spring/summer topping. Breakfast of champions.

All the coconut sprinkled on top makes it look blurry.

Orange Nut Cake with Summer Fruit
Adapted from Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything (the original, not the new revised version, though for all I know it's in there too)
Bittman writes that "this cake is low in saturated fat but not flavor". Sure thing, Mark.

For the cake:
1/2 cup olive oil (He says light. I used extra virgin. Just don't waste your really good stuff on this.)
1 1/4 cups sugar
2 eggs
1/2 cup nuts, optionally mixed with flax seeds if you're feeling virtuous (He calls for almonds. I used walnuts. I bet pistachios would be spectacular.)
2 1/2 cups flour
1/2 tsp spice (I used cardamom. Cinnamon would be good if you used apples on top. Mix 'n' match.)
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
1/2 cup orange juice
1/2 tsp almond extract (or vanilla, maybe anise depending on your fruit choice)
1/4 cup shredded coconut (optional) (see below)
You could probably throw in 1 tbsp orange zest or minced ginger here if you like

For the topping:
1-ish lbs rhubarb
8 or so stone fruits - I used apricot and plum, but peaches or nectarines would go well here too. so would cherries. Or apples and/or pears. Maybe toss some berries in there. Pretty much pick two or three of your favorite seasonal fruits and go to town. Strawberry rhubarb, peach blueberry, apple cinnamon, papaya with lime juice, whatever. Tweak your spices above to go.
1 tbsp sugar (less for sweet fruits, like pear or apple; it's mostly to counterbalance the tartness of things like rhubarb and apricot)
3 tbsp orange juice (only if you're using rhubarb)

Coconut sprinkle:
This is totally optional, but I had some left over from making Papuan steamed buns (ba pao), so I tossed it in. You can use plain (sweetened or unsweetened) shredded coconut instead, or just forget it altogether.
2/3 cup shredded, unsweetened coconut
1 tbsp dark brown sugar (or palm sugar, if you're weird like me and keep some in your pantry)
1-2 tbsp hot water

1) Preheat the oven to 350. If you're doing the coconut thing, dissolve the sugar in the water, then stir in the coconut. Use as little water as you can get away with. Set aside.

2) Start roasting the rhubarb: Chop the rhubarb into 1cm-long chunks. Put in a 9x13x2 (or so) baking pan. Sprinkle with 1tbsp sugar and the oj, stir, and pop into the oven. (This is probably optional; the Smitten Kitchen recipe just puts raw rhubarb right on the dough. If you do that, leave out the oj and just mix the chopped rhubarb and sugar with the chopped stone fruit in a bowl.)

3) Make the batter (and here I'm paraphrasing Bittman): Mix the oil and sugar, then add the eggs and beat for about 5 minutes. (Unless you've got forearms like an Italian grandma, I recommend you use an electric mixer for this one.) Stir in the almond extract.

4) Toss the nuts (and flax seeds, if using; I swear they're delicious) into a food processor and grind  until fine. Mix them in another bowl with the flour, spice, baking powder, & salt.

5) Stir your roasting rhubarb so it doesn't burn.

6) Mix a little of the flour bowl contents into the wet ingredients, then a little oj (of the half cup from the batter list), then repeat til it's all in there. Stir in 1/4 cup of the coconut mixture (or not) and whatever zests you're putting in there. Lick the beaters. Set aside.

7) Cut your fruit into bite-sized chunks. (For small apricots and almonds, I cut around the crease in the fruit, pulled it in half, took out the pit, then cut each half into four slices and cut those in half the short way.) Pull the rhubarb out of the oven and dump it in a bowl (possibly the same bowl you're holding your chopped fruit in.

Cut like so.

8) Grease the rhubarb pan with a little oil, then pour in the batter, smoothing it out like you would a brownie into an even layer. Spread the fruit chunks on top, more-or-less evenly. Save the juice from the bottom of the bowl to mix with seltzer and drink. Scatter with the rest of the coconut mixture (or if you do a nice fruit crisp topping that's work well here too.) Bake until a toothpick comes out clean. Mine took about an hour, but start checking at about 40 minutes; a lot will depend on how much fruit you use and how wet it all is. Thank Mark Bittman and the farmer's market for the inspiration.

I've got no in-progress pictures, so here's another one of the slice.

While we're on the topic of oil-based cake (see also: this), here's a bonus recipe, thanks to the fact that I've been cooking like mad recently and if I don't combine these two into one post I'll never ever get everything up here that I want to. The Co-op had samples set out the last time I was there on my grocery run of organic applesauce blends: plain apple, apple-apricot, peach, etc. And coupons. And they were delicious. So I bought a jar of the apple peach, and then immediately realized I had no idea what to do with it. (C.f. above rhubarb idea paralysis. This happens way too much.) So when Dolly had a party this weekend and I had to come up with something to bring, I pulled out my mom's old applesauce cake recipe and tarted it up with some slices of the apricots I had waiting in the fridge to accompany the rhubarb. So easy, so reliable, so awesome.

All that was left post-party.

Basic Applesauce Cake
This is the basic recipe. Feel free to mess with the spicing (I subbed out most of the cinnamon for cardamom to go with the apricot), use blended applesauces, and/or add slices of fruit, nuts, or berries on top.

2 cups flour
½ cup white sugar
1 cup brown sugar
2 tsp baking powder
1 tbsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp baking soda
¼ tsp salt
less than ¼ tsp ground cloves
3 beaten eggs
16 oz applesauce
½ cup oil

Preheat oven to 350º. Combine dry ingredients. Stir in eggs, applesauce, and oil until thoroughly combined. Bake in greased and floured 15 x 10 x 1 pan for 25-30 minutes. (Or halve everything for an 8x8 pan)

While Rome Burns

Sausage + fiddleheads = dinner

It's spring, finally. (Or did we skip straight to summer? It broke 90 up here yesterday.) So after a month or more of reading about all the MIA seasonal delights - ramps, rhubarb, fiddleheads - that ought, according to magazine editors and food bloggers everywhere, to be overflowing at my local farmers' market, I finally managed to find two of the above. No ramps, alas, but the Co-op had rhubarb and ferns. I had no idea what to do with either, so naturally I bought them anyway.

Washed fiddleheads

Google, as usual, was quick to provide inspiration, with a nod to some French blog I'd never heard of for the rhubarb compote and Saveur for a link to a ramp recipe I didn't really follow. I usually go to Saveur first when I'm looking for something in particular, and they rarely disappoint. Anyway I didn't take any photos while making the rhubarb, so apologies for that 'cause it's all bright and colorful (ETA: I've added photos of the finished product), but the fiddleheads should make up for it. They're photogenic little things, that's for sure, all green and smooth and curled up. The ferns I'd eaten in Indonesia weren't nearly so pretty. At some point I'm gonna have to find some to transplant to my garden so I can pick my own - $10/lb at the store, ouch - because this was delicious. The taste of spring, while it lasts.

Herbs & garlic

Rhubarb-Berry Compote
1/2 lb rhubarb
6 tbsp orange juice
~5 tbsp brown sugar
2 handfuls mixed berries, fresh or frozen (strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, raspberries, etc.)
1 tbsp minced ginger
lemon juice to taste

1) Preheat oven to 375. Cut the rhubarb stalks lengthwise, then chop into centimeter-long pieces. Put these in a glass baking dish, sprinkle with 2 tbsp of the sugar and 3tbsp of the oj, and roast uncovered for about 45 minutes, stirring halfway through.

2) Put the berries, ginger, the rest of the sugar, and the rest of the oj into a pot and simmer for about 5 min. Add the rhubarb and all the juices from the pan and simmer another 5-10 min, until things start to thicken up. Mash the berries a bit with a fork.

3) Take a taste. If you want it tarter, add a squeeze of lemon juice. If you want it sweeter, add a little sugar. Let cool until just warm and serve over ice cream, yogurt, biscuits, or on its own with a spoon.

C'est parfait.

Fiddleheads and Sausage (inspired by this)

1 link sweet Italian sausage
1/3 lb fiddleheads
1-2 cloves garlic, minced or pressed
1 small handful mixed herbs, chopped (I used oregano, sage, and tarragon. Loooved the tarragon.)

Post-chopping.

1) Rinse & trim the fiddleheads. Make sure to rub the sides of the coil to get the little brown bits off. Set aside.

2) Cook the sausage in a pan over medium heat. (Cast iron works well.) Let it brown well on all sides, then cover a bit so the inside cooks. Cut it open to make sure it's not too pink. Set on a plate, leaving all the juices in the pan.

Mmm, Nica's sausage

3) Add the fiddleheads to the pan with the sausage juices and a little olive oil. Add the garlic and herbs and saute until the ferns are just cooked through but not soft or limp, 5 minutes tops. You want these fresh, not mushy. Add salt & pepper to taste.

4) Serve with the sausage and some good bread to mop up the liquid. If at all possible, eat outside on a patio while slapping away the season's first mosquitos and sipping prosecco.

Mid-saute.