Emancipate & Resurrect the Kitchen.

This week means a lot of different things to a a lot of different people. This is the week of both Passover and Easter. And whether you are commemorating an enormous emancipation, celebrating a significant resurrection, really excited about warm weather, flowers and sunshine, or need an excuse to watch The Long Good Fridayagain, it's a pretty big stretch of celebration with lots of food involved.

Me, I fall into either of the latter two. But I do love a holiday. Fortunately, timing is really in my corner with this observing and reveling happening right when all of the new, beautiful food stuffs are literally popping up, out of the ground and into our markets to grab up and play with in my kitchen, to serve and share with my friends and family.

Peas, rhubarb, arugula, asparagus, strawberries, mint, Spring onions, tatsoi greens, radishes, fresh horseradish, fennel, ham and, of course, farm fresh eggs, milk and cheese, are just a few of the things I want, and crave, this time of year – holidays or no. To tell you the truth, I really wanted to make a rhubarb ice cream or a rhubarb lemon pound cake for Easter. But after talking to Paz, whose parents are hosting Easter brunch, I hear there is already an over abundance of sweets. One person in particular has apparently already dropped off five cakes for the occasion (*show off*).

So I guess I'm going savory. 

Paz has been needling me because I've never made an actual quiche before – that I can recall. I've made loads of frittatas and plenty of pies, but I guess I've never put the egg stuff into the pie crust. So I scurried off to my favorite, local green grocer and got to hunting for inspirato. And found it. I have to say, however, their eggs are quite difficult to crack open – because they are so, so beautiful. But crack I did. And what resulted was a stunning Spring dish, that would befit a brunch, lunch or dinner, to delight and impress using a lot of those different things for a lot of us different people. Especially the dude that brought five cakes.

Happy Easter!

Spring Vegetable Tart with Chévre & Ham

Makes 1 10” tart

Ingredients

pie crust

All-purpose flour (for surface)

1 medium bulb fennel

5 spring onions or 12 scallions

16 medium cremini mushrooms (about 1 pound)

10 ounces cubed ham

3 tablespoons olive oil, divided

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 Tbsp unsalted butter

8 ounces soft fresh goat cheese

1/4 cup plain yogurt

1/4 cup heavy cream

1 tablespoon minced flat-leaf parsley

1 tablespoon minced fresh chives

4 eggs

Directions

Preheat oven to 350° F. Roll out pie crust on a lightly floured surface to a 12" round. Transfer to 10" tart pan with removable bottom and press onto bottom and up sides. Line the chilled crust with a piece of foil, leaving a little overhang all around. Fill with pie weights of some kind and bake for about 20 minutes. Remove the weights and foil. Bake until dry and set, 5 to 8 minutes more. Let the crust cool completely before filling.

Raise oven temperature to 425°F.  Trim fennel top and root end, reserving fronds, and cut into quarters from top to bottom, then cut fennel into paper-thin slices.

Trim green onions. Toss fennel and onions in a small bowl with 2 tablespoons oil; season with salt and pepper. Place in a single layer on prepared sheet; roast, turning once, until onions begin to brown and fennel is tender, 12-15 minutes. Transfer to a small bowl. Reduce oven temperature to 375°F.

Meanwhile, clean and slice mushrooms. Heat remaining 1 tablespoon oil in a medium skillet over medium heat. Add ham. Cook, stirring often, until ham is browned and slightly crisped, 6-8 minutes. Transfer to a bowl and set aside. Heat remaining butter in skillet over medium-high heat; add mushrooms and sauté until they release all their liquid and most of it boils away, about 5 minutes.

Let cool slightly before spreading ham and mushrooms evenly over bottom of tart crust.

Whisk cheese and next 4 ingredients in a medium bowl. Season with salt and pepper. Whisk in eggs. Pour over vegetables. Scatter fennel and onion over.

Bake tart until edges of crust are golden brown and filling is set, 20-22 minutes. Let cool in pan for 20 minutes or up to 4 hours.

Remove sides of pan. Serve tart warm or at room temperature.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Roasted Purple Asparagus, Red Wine Vinaigrette, 62 Degree Egg

Two years ago: The Pikey

Three years ago: Lamb Chops with Cardamom, Cumin & Lime

Four years ago: Let's Talk About Text, Baby

Back to the Future

Prohibition Era Vibe Meets Post Modern Cuisine at Belmont Food Shop

I was back in my old stomping grounds last week. Spring in Richmond is breathtaking. Dogwoods, daffodils, azaleas, and zillions of tiny inchworms falling from the sky onto everything. Falling onto everything. That was a new one for me. I thought they were sort of cute and endearing and the whole thing seemed very biblical, or like the end of Magnolia, but with inchworms not frogs. Then I Googled 'inchworm' and changed my tune. Take a macro look at one of those bad boys and then see how cute one is inching its way up your sleeve. But still, Fred was way girlier about it than I was.

On our first night in town, my dad booked reservations (for three, of course) at the Belmont Food Shop. From my research in the world of social media, and hungrily reading everything food and drink related coming out of Richmond Magazine and Style Weekly, and whatever else I could get my eyeballs on months in advance, this was the restaurant I was most anticipating. Plus it is smack dab in my old neighborhood, literally one block from Dad's house. And since our flight had just arrived a few hours prior, it seemed perfect to be able to walk to and from dinner on a beautiful, warm evening.

Well, first off, this place is precious. Richmond has and always has had the market cornered on charming, intimate bistro environments, but this one takes the cake. A ye olde, prohibition-era looking cake that houses a mere five tables. And a sweet little bar with a handful of seats. At the sweet little bar a sweet little mixologizing is going on – with house made sodas. Just opened this past September; owner-chef Mike Yavorsky has created an enchanting atmosphere.

A few non-palate related things I like a lot about Belmont Food Shop:

They have three seatings each night – five o'clock, seven o'clock and nine o'clock. Simple. Makes sense. Everyone can own their table for two solid hours. And whomever deals with the reservations has a pretty straightforward system to work with.

The seasonal chalkboard menu's pricing is structured very intelligently – appetizers are $8, entrees are $20 and desserts are $6 (there are a few exceptions here and there (like foie gras(!))). And there is also the crowning glory of an option: the prix fixe. $36 will get you all three-courses plus a glass of wine, or one of those house-made sodas, or a beer. This pricing structure forces the diner to select what they really want to eat, not based on the dollar amount. 

As we sipped our bubbles/martini/artisanal cocktail, an amuse bouche, of sorts, appeared: a trio of gougéres. My dad will not put a bite of food into his mouth during martini o'clock. He will not do it. So Fred and I ate ours and his. They were a lovely touch, a beautiful, ephemeral texture, but a skoch under seasoned and/or under cheesed.

They boast a confident selection of Virginia wines that I was very curious to try. Dad wanted a Pinot Noir. The bartender let us taste the Virginia malbec which Dad quite liked, so we ordered a bottle. That's when he realized he thought he was tasting the Pinot Noir. I felt like we pulled the old smell the apple bite the onion trick from science class. And hopefully it opened up my dad's eyes a little about his wine options.

We started with the Crab and Avocado with Orange Gelée and Black Pepper, the Duck Confit with Orange and Fennel and the Foie Gras with Sally Lunn and Rhubarb Chutney. When our server arrived with our starters I was slightly surprised by the plating. And the plates. I was expecting modest, confident, simple, almost rustic looking food, but was presented with the whole small food, big plate thing. With lots of smears, droplets, and tweezer-placed elements. I was expecting far less composed dishes. I guess I'm just a little bit over that food aesthetic.

Coming from California, which now has the foie gras ban, I was elated to look down at that plate of foie. I found it so, so very, very clever that he made it Southern with the Sally Lunn roll, and I also appreciated the play on the varying levels of pedestrian and fancy pants by having them on the plate together. My dad was so pleased with the crab and avocado that Fred and I barely got our tastes in. It was bright, cool, colorful and refreshing. The confit came at us in salad form, and admittedly, we pretty much cherry picked the rich, succulent shreds of duck meat out and left the greens behind. And the dollops. There were dollops artfully dolloped across the plate reminiscent of a Man Ray photograph. Chestnut, perhaps?

Next up came Tuckahoe Veal with Bok Choy and White Beans. This was like a giant veal steak, and it had been thoughtfully braised for some generous amount of time. My dad was very impressed and said, more than once, that he had never had veal prepared in that style before. Fred's order of Seared Scallops with Peas, Mushrooms and Parsnips was simply beautiful. The colors were so saturated and lustrous it hardly looked real. This was an inspired dish with bold flavors and topped with beautifully, carmelizey-browned-to-a-crisp-on-the-outside, scallops. Me, I ordered the Chicken with Mushrooms, Greens & Fingerlings. I almost always order the chicken when dining out. It's my litmus test. Some folks think it's the throwaway dish. I think it can be the star. And my reasoning is, if the chef pays as much attention to the chicken as the more, shall we say, elevated dishes, then you'll end up eating some of the best chicken you've ever had. My chicken tastedgood. The skin was crisp and seasoned well. It was white meat, which is not my favorite, and was a little overcooked. I found myself taking each bite and dredging it through the pan sauce to bring some moisture back into the meat.

The service was attentive and kind, the food came out at a nice, leisurely pace, allowing us to really enjoy and savor those two hours during which the little table by the window was ours, all ours.

Chef Yavorsky clearly has a way with food. It's obvious he is putting forth a great deal of effort and thought into what he is serving. The space is beautiful, the cocktails are solid, the pricing is smart, the food is nice and I dig the wine list. I personally look forward to walking in again, bellying up to the bar, sampling the wines by the glass and having a couple of small plates.

One year ago: Zebra Tomato, Pistou Basil & Burrata Crostini

Two years ago: Classic Tuna Salad

Three years ago: Orzo Salad with Tomatoes, Feta, Spinach & Mint

A Project, of the Sweetest Kind.

My word! Everything is so crazy right now. Work has hit some random fever pitch, my chores have stacked up and are looming, I haven't had any time to make my weekly batches of pimiento cheese or deviled ham salad for Lindy & Grundy, Fred and I are going on a vacation tomorrow, which means my packing agita began days ago, and, oh my GAWD - I had to remove a large tick from a dog (ticks are one of THE scariest things in the whole world to me). 

Mercifully, there is always light and growth. Right now those very elements are springing forth in the literal sense: the sun is bright and strong, and all things produce are exploding in my garden and at the market. The bounty of all of the new, and unusual produce, has helped to quell the lack of carbs allowed in my world. Because when things feel this funky, I really just want a big bowl of pasta served with a massive chunk of bread on the side. In their stead I have eaten many 'creative' salads, and an inordinate amount of cheese and almonds. The cheese and almonds are the closest snacky thing I have found to satisfy my salty, crunchy cravings (read potato chip desperation).

When in need of soothing I go grocery shopping; it is my therapy – it grounds me. Whenever I stumble across a brand new food anything, I buy it. And I rarely have a clue what I will do with my new Precious, even by the time I'm back in my kitchen. So last week, while aimlessly navigating each aisle of Whole Foods, mostly just to pick up some healthy lunch snack while out running around, I was suddenly face to spear with bright purple asparagus. And this, my friends, I had never seen before.

Thus, a project was born. Of the sweetest kind.

I raced home, put on my cozies, poured a glass of Moscato (needless to say, wine has been ushered back into diet headquarters) and sat down to poke through my brand new copy of Vegetable Literacy for an idea. I wanted something simple. I wanted something clean. I wanted something light and bright and fresh. And I wanted to incorporate the sixty-two degree egg that I have been besotted with of late. I read that purple asparagus (asparaguses? asparagi?) have less fiber and more sugar than other varieties. So I knew I wanted to bring an acid onto the palate with this dish. And things just all came together. As things tend to do. Or not.

This is a fun and versatile dish. You could serve this with brunch, lunch or dinner. It – at least the asparagus – could be served cool, with warm egg, to play on temperatures, or have the whole thing warm, depending on your whimsy. This arrangement creates a wonderful journey for the eyes, with the bright colors and textures. The aggressive spears of asparagus topped with the soft, sensual, gooey ephemeral egg. The little drizzle of the vinaigrette add that tiny pop of pink. That and the smattering of the bright green bits of basil keep your eyes busy for longer than you'd expect.

And theydo say, 'you first eat with your eyes', no?

Here, in the apex of Spring, I highly encourage everyone to plant something right now. Whether you are able to cultivate a garden in the ground, in containers, or you have a few little plants of basil, thyme or oregano on your kitchen windowsill – or how about Sea Monkeys? Remember them? Watch it (or them) grow and use it to enhance your day, your spirit and your food.

Roasted Purple Asparagus, Red Wine Vinaigrette, 62 Degree Egg

Serves 2

1 pound asparagus

3 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon olive oil, divided

Sea salt

Freshly ground black pepper

1 teaspoon coarse prepared mustard

1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

2 eggs 62 degree or soft poached

A few basil leaves, chiffonade

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. If the asparagus spears are thick, peel the stalks and cut off the tough stem ends. If thin, snap off the bottom where it breaks easily and trim the ends.

Toss the spears with 1 teaspoon olive oil to moisten, season well with salt and pepper, and lay them in a single layer in a baking dish or sheet pan. Roast the spears, turning them once every 10 minutes, until tender and colored in places, 20 to 30 minutes.

Make the vinaigrette. Combine mustard, vinegar and 1/4 teaspoon salt, then whisk in the oil. 

Lay the asparagus on two plates. Top with eggs. Spoon the vinaigrette over all and finish with freshly ground black pepper. Delicately scatter basil leaves across the plates.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: The Pikey

Two years ago: Meyer Lemon Relish

Three years ago: Let's Talk About Text, Baby

Full of Hot Air

I generally act as though I’m too cool, or too tough to be a fan of, or want, bold romantic gestures. But it’s all a load of crap.

I used to work at a flower shop and one day, while lamenting that I didn’t think anyone had ever sent me flowers in my life, the owner turned to me and said, “You’re not the kind of girl that would get flowers sent to her.” It totally crushed me. But then I see myself doing things to repel that sort of gesture. Last night, while out with some friends, a man came over selling roses and I immediately declared, “I hate roses.”

What? Who hates roses? What an idiotic thing to say. In reality, cheesy as it may be, I’m sure I wanted someone to hand me a rose, but, thinking that would never happen anyway - I tried to control the moment and protect my pride.

My dad has always been really sharp with the bold romantic gestures with the loves in his life. He gave someone a star for Christmas one year. He had it named after her. A STAR. Of course, I don’t know what one does with their star, but my word, she has a star!

Me, I’ve always wanted to go up in a hot air balloon. With that special someone. With champagne. The whole world beneath the two of us, suspended in the air in our wicker basket under a gigantic billowy, rainbowy balloon watching the landscape slowly change under us.

See, I am a total dork.

A few nights ago a couple of friends came over for dinner. I knew I wanted to make a roasted red pepper soup and actually have a pretty standard recipe I usually use. But, for some reason, that night I felt like exploring other ideas. As I was poring through one of my cookbooks I stumbled upon a French red pepper soup recipe that caught my eye. This soup, I read, was one of the culinary delights awaiting balloonists when they would touch down after drifting with the breezes over vineyards, churches and villages in Burgundy, near Beaune, a small city southeast of Paris.

A tear formed.

Needless to say, with some modifications and variations (including a garnish of crème fraiche and lump crab) - and with my thoughts drifting into hot air balloon fantasies, I prepared my version of Potage Aux Poivrons Rouges.

It turned out beautifully. This is truly a beguiling soup because its lovely light red color suggests tomato but its taste is all pepper. It’s zingy but sweet. Both April and Chris had a second bowl.

I paired it with a burgundy and followed it with stuffed pork tenderloin medallions over rice. I imagine this soup would be equally delicious served cold with a glass of sancerre and a salad.

Funny thing: the next day I received an email containing a coupon for a hot air balloon ride. Perhaps it’s a sign that my fantasy may soon be realized. Perhaps I should also stop acting so haughty about the saccharin sweet, goopy romantic stuff.

Because, while I prefer peonies, I totally love roses.

French Red Pepper Soup 
(Potage Aux Poivrons Rouges)

Serves 2

2 tbsp butter

1 medium onion, peeled and chopped coarsely

1 medium carrot, peeled and sliced

3 cups vegetable stock

2 roasted red peppers, peeled, seeded and chopped coarsely

¾ cup milk

½ tsp fresh thyme

1 tsp salt

½ tsp white pepper

¼ cup crème fraiche

2 tbsp lump crab meat

Melt the butter in a medium saucepan; drop in the chopped onions and cook over medium-low heat until they are soft and translucent, about 15 minutes.

Add the carrots, cover and cook until tender, about 15-20 minutes.

Add the stock, leave uncovered and bring to a boil over medium-high heat for 20 minutes to reduce the stock base in volume and to strengthen its flavor. Skim occasionally.

Add the pepper chunks and cook for an additional 20 minutes or until they can be easily pierced with a fork or knife point. Remove from heat and add milk, salt, pepper and thyme.

When somewhat cool, puree the soup in a food processor or blender.

Reheat soup over low flame and add crème fraiche. Serve in heated bowls, topped with a dollop of crème fraiche and lump crab meat.