It's not real risotto, but still delicious.
Fiddleheads are local food that announces the arrival of spring. Sprouts of ostrich ferns picked in the wild, they are a culinary and mathematical delight–such taste and proportions the (Golden Mean). Fiddleheads are similar to their fern-cousin asparagus, but their the texture and delicacy are closer to spinach. They are always eaten cooked and best not overcooked since they lose their colour, texture, and taste.
At a New Year’s party in Berlin, I was happily playing sous-chef for Tiffany. As a token North American, I was told to make “some sort of dip” for a crudité platter. In fairly short order, I assembled something passable from convenience store cheese that resembled a plasticine version of Boursin, sour cream, and sundry seasonings. In the end, two dips were served, since Kristin brought mock crab dip (Note: this is different from mock-crab dip, though both are good).
That had me thinking about the whole premise of dip and who might have invented it. Some internet searching for “dip capital of the world” only led to sites with observations about chewing tobacco. Eventually, I stumbled across a site about queso cheese dip, but still I was unsated, hungry as I was for the origins of a completely unnecessary foodstuff.
I had decided that I wasn’t going to add another ice cream post since we already have a hazelnut gelato post from our resident ice cream expert Colin. But then I made rhubarb vanilla ice cream.
Witchcraft essentially. Science actually. Since I stumbled upon this recipe two months ago, I’ve made bread more than a half-dozen times. It must have been over eight years since I last baked proper bread. Sure, some easy pizza dough there, a foccacia here. But not proper bread.
Read this now: Tom Junod’s essay from the September 2010 issue of Esquire, which was just nominated for a James Beard award. Via the New York Times Diner’s Journal blog.
Oh my, this is a good drink.
Juice of two limes and a dash of salt per pint (500ml) of soda water
Ever since I bought Peter a little thing called The Hungover Cookbook, I’ve been wanting to try a recipe in it for something called Shakshuka, which is a single pan dish of spicy tomato sauce and baked eggs.
Books have always fascinated me, especially old ones since they tell so much about the previous readers. Dog eared pages, margin notes, bookmarks, and newspaper clippings tucked between pages are always great finds. Few things in life are better than finding century old pressed four-leaf clovers. But books are only so useful, since a person can’t reasonably eat them for breakfast.
Cookbooks are a compromise, and my favourites are splattered with bits of recipes, whipped up in a hurry, perhaps 60 years ago. This is important trace evidence that the recipe might be good.
Full of recipes that are truly hard to imagine eating.
When I was little, my family used to eat green onions from the garden like carrot sticks. Here is my first one of the season.
