Panfried Asparagus with Ramps

 This was a dish that pleasantly surprised us, given its simplicity. It was a nice way to salute the late arrival of nice weather and one of my favorite vegetables, asparagus. Sadly, there's nothing like ramps here in France (I'm not sure I've ever eaten a ramp, frankly), so I went with green/spring onions and then supplemented with a typical spring herb, sorrel. I thought that was in keeping with the "sharp, biting" greens that Melissa writes about in the headnotes. Sorrel has a lemony taste that matches well with the other flavors in this dish.

The recipe is a snap to make. You slice and sauté the whites of the onions and some lemon slices (if possible, use an organic, thin-skinned lemon) in a good amount of butter. Then you add the asparagus and the sliced green onion tops (and sorrel), cover, and cook a while longer.

Finally, you add some eggs and let them fry: I put them in a 350 oven for 5 minutes. And that's it: a simple brunch-ish dish--for us, a light Sunday lunch.

As it turns out, I'm really the only one in the family who enjoys asparagus, and yet this dish disappeared quickly and effortlessly. The asparagus was perfectly cooked and, as Julia pointed out, "really well spiced". I didn't love the lemon bits: my lemons had thick skin that was pretty bitter. But other than that, I was really happy with this dish and once again, glad I made it.

Skillet Chicken with Green Garlic/ Quinoa with Arugula

I made these dishes so long ago that it's a bit difficult to remember. Most of what I remember is that they are both super easy to put together and really delicious.

For the chicken, you toss together a cut-up chicken with salt, pepper, olive oil, a whole head of fresh garlic (sliced), and a ton of fresh thyme, and you let it sit for a while. Feeling a bit rushed, I tossed it all in the skillet, set the timer, and went back to my desk to grade some papers.

Then you put the pan over heat, cover it, and just let it cook for longer than you think is wise: about 10 minutes. You flip the chicken over, deglaze with a bunch of wine, and let it cook some more. And before you know it, before you believe it's possible, the chicken is all cooked.

You take the chicken out of the pan, add a bit more wine and some lemon juice/zest, deglaze a bit more, and thicken the sauce with some butter. That's it, and it's fabulous. While the chicken is cooking, you can make some Quinoa with Black Pepper and Brown Butter.

 Again, pretty darned easy. Bring some water to a boil in a largish pot, add your (rinsed) quinoa, and cook about 10 minutes. Drain the quinoa and scrape out the pot well. Put the pot back over the heat and brown a couple of tablespoons of butter in it. When that butter starts to smell fabulous, add some chopped garlic, then the quinoa, and then a bunch of arugula.

Stir that around until the arugula wilts, and you're done. Season it to taste with salt and black pepper.

As we were eating this, Sami proclaimed, "You know girls, if you gave Mommy a truck tire to cook, she'd find a way to make it delicious." Julia interpreted this as a back-handed insult to the quinoa/arugula thing (which she was devouring a large plate of), but I'm pretty sure he was just in love with the garlicky, savory sauce on the chicken. In fact, when I said there was more in the kitchen, he practically ran to serve himself. I love it when something simple like this has a big payoff in terms of pleasure. I highly recommend it.

Rhubarb, Strawberry, and Lemon Marmalade

This recipe was a bit of a stretch for me in many ways, but I decided to just go for it. So last Friday night before I went to bed, I started making my first batch of jam ever.
Note that this French rhubarb, compared its German cousin from a couple of weeks back, is shorter and slimmer, and probably has more attitude.

 I trimmed and sliced the rhubarb and most of those two baskets of very ripe strawberries, added lemon and sugar, and left the mixture to sit out overnight to macerate.

The next morning, it was time to finish the jam. I started by straining all the sugary juices out of the fruit. 

There was quite a lot of it. The jam making process to this point rather reminded me of making a pie filling the Rose Levy Berenbaum way.

 In any case, the syrup went on the stove with a candy thermometer. When I noticed that the syrup was boiling and the thermometer only registered 200, I realized I'd probably want to add the fruit at about 220 rather than the 230 called for.

 It seems really smart to cook the syrup first and then add the fruit for just a short time for maximum flavor and texture. Of course, most people I know who make jam on a regular basis use pectin (here in Europe, they sell sugar with pectin mixed in so that it's super easy to make jam) and thus don't cook their jam quite as much.

 The jam boiled and boiled. I tried the frozen saucer trick, but even after 15 minutes, I wasn't seeing a wrinkle. I gave up and decided it was done.

I took a rather European approach to my jars: I used old jars that I had run through the dishwasher. My German host mother and my mother-in-law have done this for years and have never had problems. And there it was: my first batch of jam. It wasn't that difficult (besides the inaccurate thermometer problem, which is one that seems to haunt me) and may give me the courage to branch out and try other jams.

So here is my Sunday morning café au lait, croissant, and strawberry-rhubarb jam. I liked this jam: it was a bit sweeter than I would ideally have liked (even though I halved all the ingredients except the lemon) but has a fresh, balanced taste. When the others finally showed up at breakfast, I offered them some homemade jam. "Wow, you made this?" Julia asked. "But you don't even like strawberry jam!" It's true: I enjoyed the freezer strawberry jam that my mom made, but I generally object to cooked strawberries. So chalk this one up to my sheer determination to try a new family of recipes. I can't say I regret it. 

Pan-Roasted Pacific Halibut with Spring Onions

This was a pretty simple recipe based on the idea that spring onions are mild and delicious and match well with a nice piece of fish. Balsamic vinegar doesn't hurt, either.

I'm not sure whether what I got at the market truly qualifies as spring onions: we get these just about year-round. What's hard to find on the market here are actual scallions. But the "white onions" on the market now seem smaller and fresher than in other seasons, so I'll just believe that they're the right kind. Whatever these were, I dutifully trimmed them and cut them into quarters (halves for the smaller ones). Unlike Melissa, who claims she can cut hers tear-free, I had some eye irritation issues. No matter.

The onions then go in a skillet with olive oil and some salt, pepper, and thyme: first covered and then uncovered. As they cooked, I thought of the Slate article I had recently read about how long it really takes to caramelize onions (the author points the finger at Melissa Clark for underestimating the time it takes). Mine never really caramelized, but they got soft and nicely browned, so I decided to leave well enough alone.

So I deglazed the pan with balsamic vinegar and honey and had a sauce that was perfect for at least three of us: the girls and I love caramelized onions, and Claire has a special fondness for balsamic vinegar. Sami, however, is agnostic on the onion.

This part of the recipe was the downside for Julia and Claire: Julia doesn't eat fish, and Claire doesn't much like it, although I always make her try it. I went with the "colin" or haddock that I often use in fish dishes: I seared the skin side on the stove and put the skillet in a hot oven to finish for about 10 minutes or so.

And voilà: fish plated with onions and potatoes (fancy spring potatoes from Noirmontier). The portions were a bit small, but everyone liked the dish. Claire ate all her small piece of fish, because the onions helped it go down. Sami ate all his onions: perhaps the fish helped them go down, though he did in fact praise the sauce. Julia liked the sauce with her potatoes. And I liked it, too. It's a simple and elegant dish that really does highlight good ingredients, and it was light and flavorful. Now that spring seems to finally have arrived, this is the kind of food I want to eat more of!

Roasted Asparagus with Gingered Rhubarb Sauce

One reason to cook through a book is to try out recipes that I wouldn't otherwise have tackled because of the technique or the ingredients or both. This recipe is an example of that: it involves asparagus, which I love, and rhubarb, which I don't. Note how the rhubarb is hulking in a dark corner in this picture, big and brooding, waiting to attack the poor delicate asparagus.

I don't love rhubarb because of its tart and bitter qualities. I always eat it when it's offered to me, but it's not my favorite. And then last spring I made a rhubarb crumble that made me reconsider my distaste for the vegetable. So I thought I'd give this recipe a shot.

It's a pretty simple process: you roast asparagus in the oven (I threw in a spring onion as well because I had one) while you brown butter and then sauté ginger, garlic, and rhubarb until the rhubarb breaks down. Then you add a few good squeezes of honey to balance out the tart rhubarb.

As Melissa Clark points out, rhubarb sauce is not pretty, but I don't think it's that hideous, either. We had this dish with macaroni and cheese, and I thought the big flavors of the sharp and spicy rhubarb asparagus balanced out the creamy pasta nicely. Claire wouldn't touch it because "rhubarb is overrated" (and she doesn't like asparagus either). Sami turned up his nose at the idea of rhubarb in a savory dish (and possibly rhubarb in general), but he tried it and decided he liked it: "It's like chutney." Yes, it is.

There were four of us at dinner and this small portion didn't get finished, so I can't really say the recipe was a raging success. But I thought it was a worthy experiment, and I enjoyed the leftovers (the sauce is excellent on roasted potatoes as well).

Lasagne with Turkey and Caramelized Onions

I found this recipe deep in my archives: it's one of the first recipes I typed on one of my first Macs. I didn't bother to write down where it's from, but my friend Google tells me it's from Sunset of April 1991. The recipe as written originally is designed to cut back on fat (low-fat being the trend of the day), despite the bacon. I added a bit of butter to make a béchamel rather than the cornstarch-thickened sauce they suggested. I also added some wine for additional flavor.

The resulting lasagne is delicious: it tastes nothing like a classic lasagne, of course, but more like Schwäbische Maultaschen, if you've ever had those. The onion and wine flavors dominate, while the meat and cheese add some richness. It's not a low-calorie dish by any means, but it's a bit more restrained than the kind of lasagne that involves two pounds of cheese and a creamy béchamel. And I imagine you could swap the meat out for some mushrooms to make it a vegetarian dish.

Here's my version of the recipe.

Lasagne with Roasted Onions, Turkey, and Thyme

1-1/2 lbs. red onions, peeled and sliced thin

4 oz. bacon, diced

2 large branches fresh thyme or 1 t. dried

1 lb. ground turkey or veal

3 T. balsamic vinegar

9 no-cook lasagne noodles

2 T. butter

2 T. flour

1/2 t. salt

1/4 t. pepper

1/4 t. nutmeg

1 c. milk

1 c. chicken broth

1/2 c. dry white wine, vermouth, or sherry plus some extra for the pan

1 bay leaf

4 oz. grated Parmesan (I used about 2 cups of grated cheese leftovers: Gouda, Cantal, and Parmesan)

Heat the oven to 400. Toss together the onions and bacon with some salt and pepper on a baking sheet or baking dish that's just big enough to hold them (if it's too big, the onions are likely to burn). Roast, stirring every 15 minutes or so, about 35-50 minutes, or until well browned. Add the thyme and turkey and return to the oven for another 10 minutes or so, just until the turkey turns white. Add the vinegar and stir well, crumbling up the meat. Set aside. Turn the oven temperature down to 375.

While the onion part is cooking, make your béchamel: in a medium saucepan over medium heat, melt the butter. Add the flour, salt, pepper, and nutmeg; whisk for about a minute to cook the flour. Gradually pour in the milk, broth, wine, and bay leaf, whisking to avoid lumps. Heat and stir until the sauce is thickened. This is a fairly loose sauce: you need some extra liquid for the lasagne noodles. Remove the bay leaf when you're ready to assemble the lasagne.

To assemble the lasagne, generously butter a 9-inch square pan and sprinkle the bottom with 2-3 T. white wine. Put 3 lasagne noodles on the wine and top with half the meat/onion mixture, a third of the sauce, and a third of the cheese. Repeat the noodle/meat/sauce/cheese layers and finish with a layer of noodles, the rest of the sauce, and the rest of the cheese. Lay a square of parchment over the cheese, then cover the pan tightly with aluminum foil and bake for 25 minutes. Take off the foil and parchment and bake another 15-20 minutes, until the top is brown and the casserole is bubbling. If you can, wait 10 minutes before you serve the lasagne: it will be much easier to cut. Enjoy with a green salad or vegetable.

Vietnamese Grilled Steak and Cabbage Salad

One of Claire's favorite foods is stir-fry: the kind with well-marinated meat, a few vegetables, and a bit of sauce: Asian-American food at its finest. So when I saw this recipe come up, I knew it would be popular because of the marinade and the ingredients. Unfortunately, Claire was invited to a friend's house for dinner the night I was planning to make this recipe. "That's OK," she shrugged, "I'll eat it for breakfast the next day."

 Look at this beautiful meat.  It's "onglet" or hangar steak, lovingly prepared by my butcher. And though he probably would have shuddered in horror,  I went ahead and marinated it in soy sauce and lime and ginger and garlic and sesame oil, and then cut up my vegetables.

The green cabbage was not looking very appealing at the market last week, so red (purple!) cabbage it was. So I shredded the carrots and the cabbage, and then I went to bed with a nasty cold.

When I woke up, I could hear the sounds of cooking and laughter: our friend Jeannie was visiting, and she and Sami were trying to get the meal finished for me: neither one knew where much of the cookware or ingredients were, but they dug around and were eventually able to find everything they needed. Jeannie was concerned that she hadn't pressed the garlic as the recipe had directed, but I assured her that she had probably followed the recipe much better than I would have.

The steak was incredible: tender and flavorful. I wasn't quite so sold on the salad: the cabbage seemed awfully bitter. I had planned to add some frozen chopped mint and basil to the salad along with the cilantro, but I hadn't communicated that to the others--it might have helped. But Sami and Jeannie pronounced it "perfect", and Claire did in fact enjoy her breakfast steak and salad the next morning, while Jeannie had it for lunch. I might enjoy this even more as a classic stir-fry, with the cabbage and carrots cooked rather than raw. But it was definitely worth making, and very nice to have made for me.