Instead of just four seasons, I'm proposing we have five.
Here goes: The tail end of summer should be a season all on its own, at least here in the Pacific Northwest. The days are sunny and mild, and can even get warm, but by evening the temperatures cool to what we refer to as "good sleeping weather," requiring replacing summer's light blanket on the bed with a cozy comforter. Here in the Willamette Valley this season can last well into October some years, extending the harvest before winter truly arrives with the first frost shriveling leaves and covering the garden with a glinting coat of silver.
No such thing as too many tomatoes!
This year I've managed to roast almost 100 pounds of my beloved Astiana tomatoes, ladled into around 27 quart bags that are now safely resting in our little freezer for braises, sauces, tarts and soups to (hopefully) last us through the winter. In the meantime, I'm buying as many of the last heirlooms from the farmers' market as I can to shove thick, juicy slices between Dave's mayonnaise-slicked sourdough for lunch, slicing up colorful platters to have with grilled fish and meats, and sautéeing others into fresh tomato sauces with pasta.
An easy pasta dish I love to make any time I can get fresh cherry tomatoes is so simple the sauce only has three main ingredients and comes together in—I kid you not—30 minutes or less.
Pasta with Cherry Tomatoes, Anchovies and Garlic
Adapted from the New York Times
3 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil 10 med. garlic cloves, peeled and roughly chopped Pinch of cayenne (optional) 1 tin anchovy fillets in oil 1 pt. halved cherry tomatoes (approx. 2 c., any color) 1 lb. dried pasta Grated parmesan
Bring a large pot of water to a boil and salt it.
Heat olive oil in a medium skillet over medium heat. Add garlic and cayenne (if using) and sauté briefly. Add anchovies with their oil—they can spit hot oil, so pull off heat if needed. Cook, stirring occasionally, for about a minute, until anchovies melt, then add tomatoes. Adjust heat so tomatoes bubble nicely, and cook until mixture becomes saucy, about 5 minutes. Add salt to taste.
While sauce is simmering, cook pasta until just tender but not noodle-y. When it is done, drain it. Pour sauce over pasta and serve with parmesan alongside.
In the Pacific Northwest, early summer and late spring can feel like fraternal twins. So much alike and yet, at the same time, so different. Just as you're ready to toss your hoodies and jeans into the bottom drawer of the dresser until you reluctantly dig them out again in the fall, a cool maritime front blows in from the coast causing the mercury to plummet 20 degrees.
In cases like that—and I'm not speaking hyperbolically, since today's 94 degrees is predicted to be a cool 75 tomorrow—it's wise to have a good soup recipe sequestered in your back pocket when the chillier of our early summer twins is in residence. Luckily for me, I found an extra jar of my favorite local kimchi hanging out in the back of the fridge (we're out of my homemade kimchi, a situation soon to be remedied in about a month when Napa cabbage is available at the farmers' market) along with a tub of local Ota tofu and just enough leftover roasted chicken to shred into it.
Oddly, in searching through recipes online, I came across one from Joanne Molinaro, aka The Korean Vegan, that called for black beans to be added to this most Korean of stews. Coincidentally I had just cooked up a big pot of those legumes and, since Joanne said it was okey-doke to add them, I did, though not only for the added fiber alone. Just two cups of beans added a pop of color and a bit of that bean-y texture that complemented the crunch of the fermented cabbage quite nicely. It might just be a combo I'll try in other dishes.
Kimchi Jjigae
1 Tbsp. sesame oil 2 Tbsp. gochugaru 1/2 c. diced onion 4 green onions, sliced crosswise into 1" pieces 3 cloves garlic, minced 1 medium-sized potato, chopped into 1/2" dice 2-3 c. Napa kimchi (cut into bite-sized pieces) 3 Tbsp. gochujang 2 Tbsp. soy sauce 1/2 c. water 4 c. stock (chicken or vegetable) 1 16-oz. block medium firm tofu, diced 2 c. cooked, drained black beans or 1 15-oz. can of black beans, drained 1-1 1/2 c. shredded chicken (optional)
Heat a Dutch oven or your favorite soup pot over medium heat, then add sesame oil until it shimmers. Add gochugaru and cook for about one minute, then add onion and sauté until onions begin to become translucent. Add green onions and garlic, stirring often to keep the gochugaru from sticking to the bottom of the pot.
Add potatoes, kimchi, and gochujang, stirring to combine. Add water and soy sauce, stir, then add stock. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to low and simmer for 20 minutes. Add sliced tofu, black beans and shredded chicken, if using, return stew to a boil, reduce heat and simmer for 15 minutes. Serve with jasmine rice. Garnish with toasted sesame seeds, roasted unsalted peanuts or more finely sliced green onions if desired.
I love fava bean season so much that, at the first sign of the bundles of young green shoots on farmers' market tables in the spring, I get a little giddy thinking of them stir-fried with garlic and tossed with pasta and preserved lemon, or slathered with oil and roasted, served alongside a beautiful grilled, pasture-raised chicken thigh. Then there's the knowledge that in just a couple of weeks, it'll be time for the pods to start appearing, their strange, off-green, blobby exteriors revealing pale green kidney-shaped beans pillowed in a porous white cushion.
My neighbor Bill loves his favas and grows more than enough to share. Lucky me!
That's about when I remember that to prepare these little beany delights, I have to strip them out of their pods, boil them in a salty pot of water, then spend what seems like hours in the tedious task of popping them out of their skins to get a paltry—albeit decidedly delicious—pile of the bright green, shiny jewels.
In a post on her blog, she excoriates Americans who insist on peeling the skins from their beans:
"What a waste of time! What a waste of flavor!
"Where does this weird practice come from? I suspect from the French professional kitchen where chefs are constantly challenged to come up with new tricks and trucs to keep their enormous brigades de cuisine in operation. In Italy, where restaurant kitchens are run much more economically, no one has to dream up tasks—there are enough to go around and more.
"But why do Americans insist on this? Every food writer except one (me) says you have to peel beans. Then they go through elaborate rigmaroles to show you how to do it. No wonder fava beans are not exactly popular despite their magnificent, slightly earthy flavor, so very different from string beans or limas. Every spring or summer I feel like climbing up in the pulpit and shouting: YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THAT—IN FACT, IT IS COUNTER-PRODUCTIVE!!!"
Toss the cooked beans with Oregon albacore and pasta…so simple, so delicious!
Which, as you might imagine, got my attention. And came in mighty handy when my neighbor called offering a grocery bag full of freshly harvested favas from his garden. Let me tell you, I never relished preparing beans more—just shuck, boil in a pot of salted water for ten minutes and they're ready!
While there's a vast universe of serving suggestions, and more cultural trivia about these delicate denizens of early summer, for me, I used some of my neighbor Bill's beans tossed with preserved lemon and albacore, tossed with pasta, sprinkled with chive blossoms and chopped chives, then used the rest to make the following dip for guests. Though when everyone oohed and aahed over the amount of work it took to peel all those beans, I was torn about revealing my secret. (Psst…I did.)
Fava Bean Spread
3 c. shucked beans 2 cloves garlic 1/2 fennel bulb, cut in half, cored and roughly chopped 1/4 c. parsley, coarsely chopped 1/4 c. mint, coarsely chopped 1/3 c. fresh lemon juice 3-4 Tbsp. olive oil Salt, to taste
Bring a large pot of well-salted water to a boil. Drop in fava beans and cook for ten minutes. Drain and run under very cold water (or ice bath) until cool.
Put beans, garlic, fennel, parsley, mint and lemon juice into the bowl of a food processor. Turn on and while its running drizzle in olive oil until puréed. Adjust lemon juice and olive oil and add salt to taste. Serve with slices of rustic bread or crackers, or on toasted slices of baguette (à la bruschetta).
There are certain vegetables that I am embarrassed to admit I have had almost no experience with. I could blame my upbringing in small town Oregon in the middle of the last century where iceberg lettuce was the only fresh green in Piggly Wiggly's produce aisle. Or my father and brothers who considered any vegetable outside of frozen peas and creamed corn to be potentially poisonous, so much so that my mother rarely dared to venture further afield.
But there was that magical day when she somehow—call it a mistake, a lapse in judgement, or maybe a frozen food-aisle epiphany—came home from the store with a box of frozen broccoli with cheese sauce. Packaged in a vacuum-sealed plastic bag, the only cooking required was to submerge it in boiling water for ten minutes to heat the broccoli and melt the cheese sauce.
I thought I'd died and gone to heaven, and have been a fan (and evangelist) for vegetables ever since (though not so much frozen or cooked in plastic).
I am, though, a latecomer to the leek. While I love alliums of all sorts, leeks intimidated me with their baseball bat size and warnings about the need to clean them thoroughly, since their upright growth habit provides a perfect receptacle for splashes of spring mud.
Then came my epiphany in the form of my friend Carol Boutard's Potage Bonne Femme, a potato leek soup that seduced me with its rich, creamy luxuriousness. Like so many soups, it's simple and so quick you can make at the (nearly) last minute, the leeks infusing it with a sweet, light, slightly onion-y flavor and the potatoes giving it a smooth, hefty body, particularly if you choose to blend it either in a blender, food processor or with a stick blender. We love this soup on a cool or wet spring evening.
The other evening I was casting about for what to have for dinner that we hadn't had a million times before and was curious about combining the leeks I had in the vegetable bin with pasta. A quick internet search turned up a recipe for leeks in a cream sauce over pasta, but it seemed a bit heavy for a warm-ish spring evening, so I pivoted to a savory sauté that included most of a tin of leftover anchovies. The guys deemed it immensely "tasty"—their highest accolade—so I share it here; it would also be incredibly delicious spread on crostini as an appetizer.
Leek Sauté with Anchovies over Pasta
For the leek greens: 2 Tbsp. olive oil for drizzling Leek greens Salt
For the sauté: 1 lb. dried pasta 2 Tbsp. olive oil 1 Tbsp. butter 2 medium-sized leeks 1 tin anchovies with oil 4 cloves garlic, minced Juice of 1/2 lemon Salt and pepper, to taste Parmesan cheese for sprinkling
Preheat oven to 375°.
While the oven is heating, separate the dark green tops from the light green/white bottoms by slicing crosswise, then making sure they are free of dirt or grit, slice the dark green tops crosswise into approximately 3-4" lengths. Press those flat and slice lengthwise into thin slivers, then spread out on a sheet pan lined with parchment paper.
Drizzle olive oil over the slivers and sprinkle with salt. Place in oven for 25 minutes or until lightly charred.
Put a large pot of water on to boil for pasta.
While it comes to a boil, slice off any root ends remaining on the leeks, then slice the leeks in half lengthwise, rinsing off any dirt or grit. Slice the whites crosswise into thin slices.
Place a large frying pan on medium heat and add olive oil. When it shimmers, add leek whites to the pan and sauté for 10-12 minutes until they are wilted. Make a well in the middle of the pan and add anchovies, pressing them down with a spatula until they dissolve. Add garlic and sauté briefly until warmed, then reduce heat. Add the roasted greens to the pan and stir. Keep it on a low burner while you cook the pasta.
Put the pasta into the boiling water and cook until al dente. When the pasta is done, drain in a colander and transfer to a large serving bowl. Pour the leek mixture over the top and toss briefly. Drizzle with additional olive oil and serve with grated parmesan at the table.
I adore quiche, especially the version known as Quiche Lorraine with bacon and cheese, the one that Julia Child trilled about on her cooking show, "The French Chef." I watched it in reruns on our first color TV in the 1960s, along with "The Galloping Gourmet"—aka Graham Kerr—as he swozzled his way through recipes swirling bottomless glasses of red wine.
The rage for French cuisine that Ms. Child ushered in caused quiche to become ubiquitous on brunch and "luncheon" menus in the 70s, though most were pale versions of Julia's, reheated in new-at-the-time microwave ovens or kept too long in warming ovens—they'd been made hours before, which deflated and dried out the delicate egg custard.
Nothing shouts spring more than green sprouts like this broccoli raab.
The difficulty for me when it comes to making them for anything but special occasions is the necessity for a blind-baked pie crust. Not that a crust is difficult, mind you, but it does require planning ahead—not my strong suit when it comes to weeknight dinners—to leave enough time for the dough to chill, then to prebake the crust before filling it and finishing the baking.
Crustless quiche to the rescue!
Perfect for a quick dinner using spring greens like raab or kale, I made the version below for dinner a couple of nights ago—the only time-consuming aspect was prepping the vegetables and bacon. Tossing them into a buttered dish with the grated cheese then pouring in the egg mixture was a cinch, and the resulting moist, eggy custard would have made Julia proud.
Crustless Quiche with Greens and Bacon
1 Tbsp. butter for greasing the baking dish 1 1/2 Tbsp. panko or fine bread crumbs 3-4 oz. greens like kale, raab, etc. 8 oz. bacon sliced in 1/4" cubes 3 cloves garlic, finely chopped 1 c. grated cheese like Comté, Gruyère or Cheddar 1 c. half-and-half 1 c. whole milk 5 eggs 1 tsp. salt 1/2 tsp. freshly ground black pepper 1/2 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg 1 oz. freshly grated Parmesan 3 green onions, finely sliced
Preheat oven to 325°.
Butter a deep 9" pie dish or 8" square baking dish. Sprinkle the panko evenly over the bottom of the dish.
Bring a medium-sized pot of water to boil over high heat. Toss in greens and cook until tender, 2 to 3 minutes. Strain through a sieve or colander and run under cold water to stop them from cooking. Squeeze out moisture and slice into chiffonade. Place on paper towel to drain any remaining water.
In a small frying pan, sauté bacon over medium heat until slightly crisp. Add garlic, stir and remove from heat.
Break eggs into a medium-sized bowl and whisk until no whites are discernible. Whisk milk and half-and-half into eggs along with salt, pepper, and nutmeg.
Scatter greens evenly over bread crumbs in the buttered dish. Scatter bacon and garlic mixture (and any bacon fat) over the greens. Top bacon and greens with the grated cheese, covering it evenly. Slowly pour the egg mixture over the bacon, cheese and greens, letting it seep into the nooks and crannies. Sprinkle Parmesan and green onions over the top.
Place quiche on a sheet pan in the oven (just in case it bubbles over while baking) and bake 45-50 min. The middle can be slightly wobbly when you take it out of the oven. Allow to cool for ten minutes before serving.
Remember when Mark Bittman, the author of the "Minimalist" column in the New York Times from 1997 to 2011, went through his pimenton phase? He was infusing everything from soups and meats to fish and vegetables—mostly to good effect—with the Spanish smoked paprika, making it a ubiquitous staple in pantries across the country (including mine).
An hour to marinate, then flash-frying for two minutes per side, and it's done!
Lately I've been having a similar fling with chili crisp, the latest "it" seasoning in culinary circles, adding spoonfuls to stir fries and drizzling it with abandon on eggs and avocado toast. I've made my own from a Serious Eats recipe by Sohla El-Waylly—out-of-this-world good but tedious to make—and for that reason I've been working my way through several store-bought brands from the crunchy, addictive Laoganma Spicy Chili Crisp, the basis for El-Waylly's version, to others from Fly by Jing and Momofuku.
Crunchy, garlic-infused, salty—Laoganma is a global fave.
Originating in China and made with chiles and other aromatics that have been fried in hot vegetable oil, chili crisp formed the base for a recent quick marinade for one of the Oregon albacore loins I'd pulled out of the freezer. Subtle enough that it complemented but didn't overwhelm the flavor of the tuna, then very briefly fried in cast iron, this recipe is going to be a go-to with any firm fish. (It would also be delicious with chicken thighs—just allow it to marinate a little longer.)
Chili Crisp-Marinated Albacore
1 albacore tuna loin (~1 1/2 lbs.), sliced crosswise into 1”-wide sections 1/4 c. soy sauce 2 Tbsp. mirin 1 Tbsp. rice vinegar 1 Tbsp. grated fresh ginger 1 tsp. sugar 1 Tbsp. plus 1 tsp. toasted sesame oil 2-3 Tbsp. chile crisp 2 green onions, sliced, for garnish (optional) 1 tsp. toasted sesame seeds, for garnish (optional)
Whisk together soy sauce, mirin, rice vinegar, ginger, sugar, sesame oil and chile crisp. Pour into 1 gallon zip-lock bag and marinate for one hour.
Heat 2 Tbsp. vegetable oil in cast iron skillet over medium-high heat until it shimmers. With tongs, transfer albacore slices to the hot pan (stand back…it may sputter) and sear for 2 minutes on each side.
Serve over fried rice (recipe here) or with plain jasmine rice and sautéed greens. Garnish with sliced green onions and/or toasted sesame seeds.
Growing up, root vegetables were not in my mother's dinner repertoire. Well, carrots were available, but certainly not the ubiquitous so-called "baby carrots" of today—which are actually chopped, shaved down, shaped chunks of bigger carrots that weren't pretty enough to sell whole, and which are often rinsed in a weak bleach solution before bagging. (Ew.)
Back then, parsnips, rutabagas, beets, turnips and celery root either weren't available in the local Piggly Wiggly supermarket, or were passed over in favor of potatoes. Locally grown spuds were available in abundance in Central Oregon at the time, and the annual Potato Festival was a much-anticipated summer celebration in our small town, featuring a Potato Parade and, of course, potato sack races. (Read more about it here.)
Delicious root or alien spawn?
These days I'm starting to love my roots, especially celery root (or celeriac), those intimidating-looking, softball-sized vegetables that look like alien spawn in a science fiction movie. But don't be afraid…once you slice off the outside rooty bits, the inside is not dissimilar from a potato and cooks up similarly.
I think they're smashing in soups like the one below, as well as stews, or mashed with potatoes, but my friends Anthony and Carol Boutard, formerly of Ayers Creek Farm in Gaston (but now happily ensconced in the Finger Lakes in upstate New York), prefer them raw, as Anthony wrote several years ago:
"So crisp and sweet, it is a shame to cook them. Prepare as a salad or celeriac remoulade. First, grate or julienne the raw roots.
"For a salad, dress with lemon juice and olive oil. We mince the greens into the mix, or add chopped celery when available.
"For a celeriac remoulade, sprinkle the grated roots with lemon juice and then dress with a remoulade sauce. The sauce is mayonnaise seasoned with mustard and a sprinkle of cayenne. We follow James Beard's suggestion of mixing a sharp Dijon with sweeter German mustard and the pungent English mustard. A nice balance. The salad is especially good the next day. On occasion, we sprinkle some caraway seed into the remoulade, a Nordic gesture."
Raw or cooked, celery root is a hidden gem in the produce aisle.
I'll leave the final word to Josh Alsberg of Rubinette Produce, who shared this story:
"Right before Thanksgiving about 3 years ago, a customer approached me and asked if I had any suggestions to, in her words, 'jazz up her boring potato dish.' I told her one of my favorite vegetables was celeriac. 'Celeri-what?' she responded.
"I mentioned that it’s from the same family as celery and she said, 'This looks like a brain and I generally don’t eat anything I can’t pronounce. But you're saying this will help my potatoes taste better?' I said absolutely and told her how to prep and prepare it. She seemed a little unsure, but put it in her cart anyway.
'A few weeks later, she came back, grabbed my arm and started raving about what an amazing ingredient it is and how happy she was to discover something new. She's been a regular customer ever since.'
So when you're ready to jazz up a tired old recipe, go grab an alien brain…I mean…some celeriac, and let me know what you think!
Cream of Celery Root Soup
3 Tbsp. butter 2 large leeks, quartered lengthwise and cut into 1/2" slices (including the green tops) 3 Tbsp. flour 3 c. water 3 c. chicken stock 2 large or 3 smaller celery roots (celeriac), peeled and chopped in 1/2" dice* 2 tsp. salt 1 c. sour cream 3 Tbsp. chives, minced (optional)
Melt butter in soup pot or large Dutch oven over medium heat. Add chopped leeks and cook slowly for 5 min. Remove from heat, add flour and stir. Return pot to heat and cook, stirring constantly and without browning for a minute. Add water and stock, stirring well. Add diced celery root and salt. Bring to boil and lower heat to simmer for 50 minutes. Remove from heat and purée with immersion blender (or cool and purée in a food processor or blender in batches). Return to heat and warm to a simmer, then add the sour cream and stir to combine (don't let it boil or the sour cream may separate). Adjust salt and add more water or stock if it seems too thick. Serve garnished with chives.
* To peel the celeriac, Edward Schneider of the New York Times wrote, "Ruthlessly peel a celery root. In other words, forget about your Ecko peeler: Take a knife and cut away all the dirty parts, right down to the flesh; my 20-ouncer lost a quarter of its weight in the process. Rinse, cut into chunks and put into a pan."
People who deny the facts of evolution completely puzzle me. Even putting aside the fossil record, DNA evidence and untold hours of programming on public television, do these people ever look around them? Stuff is changing all the time, for heaven's sake.
And I'm not even talking about the legendary example of the beaks of Darwin's finches on the Galapagos Islands, where "an immigrant first settled on one of the islands [and] it would undoubtedly be exposed to different conditions in the different islands (where) it would have to compete with a different set of organisms. ... Then, natural selection would probably favor different varieties in the different islands."
Neither rain, nor snow, nor dark of night will keep Dave from his bacon.
You don't have to look any further than this blog, which in geologic time has only existed for a millionth of a nanosecond, but it has evolved from a simple food blog with restaurant reviews, farmers’ market reports and recipes to a forum for discussion of issues about our food system, from the fields to our plates. And the recipes have changed, too, as I've learned more and tweaked them to fit the way we're eating now.
Take Dave's bacon recipe. On the recommendation of a friend, I bought him Michael Ruhlman's "Charcuterie: The Craft of Salting, Smoking, and Curing," considered the primer for those interested in learning about cured meat. In the five years since he cured and smoked his first pork belly, he's adjusted it to his own tastes, to the point where we find it next to impossible to stomach store-bought because even the most highly-touted examples simply don't measure up.
Cure the belly with a mix of herbs and spices, then smoke it…pure heaven!
So if you're at all interested, it's incredibly easy. The only special equipment required is pink curing salt (different from Himalayan pink salt), two-gallon zip-lock plastic bags, a charcoal grill or smoker and a thermometer, then a week for the curing. Seriously, that's it.
And, of course, Dave's notes, which are here in his own words:
"The bacon recipe is based on the Michael Ruhlman recipe, with a couple of changes. I use half as much kosher salt as the recipe calls for—a quarter cup makes it way too salty. I use coarse sea salt rather than kosher. I use a little more garlic than called for—eight to 10 cloves, maybe. I don’t think I’ve ever made it with the optional thyme. I have made it with the optional juniper berries once or twice, but most of the time not. I usually make 12 or 13 pounds at a time, so I double the recipe as I’ve altered it. I usually have two pieces of belly, each rubbed and placed into the big plastic bags in the fridge on a Saturday or Sunday for smoking the next weekend. I turn them once a day. I put it in my Weber Smokey Mountain smoker, on the grates over a water pan, at a low temperature—I try to keep it about 200-225 degrees—over Kingsford with four or five chunks of soaked maple or cherry wood (not too much or the bacon’ll be too smoky and bitter). I smoke it until it’s about 145 degrees internally, usually about three or four hours."
But this will inevitably change and evolve— and I'll keep you posted!
Dave's Homecured Bacon
5 lbs. pork belly 1 oz. (1/8 c.) coarse sea salt 2 tsp. pink curing salt #1 4 Tbsp. coarsely ground black pepper 4 bay leaves, crumbled 1 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg 1/4 c. light brown sugar 8-10 cloves garlic, smashed in a garlic press
Place the pork belly on a sheet pan. Rub the salt and spice mixture all over the belly. Place it in a 2-gallon zip-lock bag and put in the refrigerator for seven days, turning it over once a day. After seven days, take it out of the fridge, rinse off all the seasonings under cold water and pat dry.
Place in smoker preheated to between 200-225 degrees over a water pan and smoke until an instant-read thermometer reads 145 degrees internal temperature. Cool and slice into one-pound slabs. Store in refrigerator or freezer.
Dungeness crab season started on December 16th this year, much to the relief of cooks, diners and Oregon's crab fleet of 424 small family-owned vessels that ply the waters up and down our 362-mile coast. This year's opener, while delayed by a week or so from original predictions, was still weeks earlier than in recent years when it was delayed due to concerns over the presence of domoic acid, a naturally occuring biotoxin that can build up in crustaceans.
Over the past decade, a season opener in December was a rare occurrence, a devastating blow to fishing families who traditionally had relied on holiday sales to home cooks, grocery stores and restaurants to carry them through the winter. The downstream effect on their local communities was no joke, either, causing everyone from hardware stores to grocery stores to gas stations to tighten their belts.
Crab boats dot the horizon at dawn just off the coast at Lincoln City.
This season, though, with its early start and plentiful supply, should be a good one for fishers, coastal communities and crab-lovers alike. To kick off crab season at our house, I'd been jonesing for a festive crab chowder to serve on Christmas Eve. Fortune smiled when I came across my friend Nancy Harmon Jenkins's post about a lobster chowder served at Portland, Maine's iconic Fore Street restaurant. Sam Hayward, its James Beard award-winning chef and co-owner, is considered the dean of Maine's culinary scene. Jenkins wrote:
"[Hayward's] main (Maine) effort has been to inspire us all to Pay Attention—pay attention to quality, pay attention to our relationship to the soil and the waters that surround us, pay attention to what’s happening in our gardens, on our stoves, and on our tables.
"In Sam’s recipe for what he calls Scotian Lobster Chowder (the name, he says, because he learned to make it in Nova Scotia), you can see his thoughtfulness coming to play: the freshly steamed lobster, the specificity of russet potatoes, the density of the thick Jersey cream, the gentle stewing of the leeks in butter, the emphasis on shoe-peg corn."
Like many great classics, the recipe itself* is simple and elegant, with one smashingly simple technique that I'd never run across before: pre-cooking the called-for russet potatoes with leeks to jumpstart the process that lends the chowder its characteristic thickness rather than adding flour, which all to often tends to give it a paste-like, gloppy texture.
Because we are, as noted above, in prime Dungeness season, I chose to substitute our native crustacean for Maine's and make a stock from the shells after picking them of their meat. This is a company-worthy special occasion dish but it's also easy enough to prepare with shrimp or other shellfish instead of the crab on a weeknight.
Here's wishing our fleet a safe and bountiful season!
Dungeness Crab Chowder
3 oz. bacon, cut in 1/4 inch dice Butter (around half a stick, divided) 2 large russet (baking) potatoes (or 3 medium), peeled and sliced into 1/2" dice 2 medium (or one large) leeks cut in 1/4 inch dice 2 live, large Dungeness crabs 1 c. whole milk 1 c. half-and-half 8 oz. corn cut from the cobs (or 8 oz. frozen) Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
To prepare the live crab, fill a 3 to 5-gallon stock pot 2/3 full of water and bring to a hearty boil. When it's boiling, grab the crabs by the back of the shell (their large front claws are usually banded shut) and slide them, upside-down, into the boiling water. Cover with a lid and boil for 20 minutes. Drain and allow to cool in the sink. (If you're using pre-cooked crabs, start here.)
Once you've picked the meat, set it aside in a bowl in the fridge. Put the shells in a large pot and cover with water (about 1 quart). Bring to a boil on the stove and reduce heat to simmer for 30 minutes. Strain through a fine mesh sieve and reserve the stock.
In a heavy stock pot or Dutch oven, gently sauté the bacon in a teaspoon of butter until it yields its fat and starts to turn crisp on the edges. Add the potatoes and leeks and 1/2" of water, just enough to keep the potatoes from sticking. Bring to a simmer, then cover the pan and cook gently until the vegetables are soft, 20 to 30 minutes.
At the end of the cooking time for the vegetables, add the stock from the crab shells. Combine the milk and half-and-half in a small saucepan and set over medium heat. Bring to a simmer for 2 to 3 minutes to get rid of the rawness, then add to the vegetables and stock, stirring to combine. Add the crab meat and once the chowder comes to a simmer again—don't let it boil or the milk will curdle—turn off the heat, cover the pan, and leave it for 20 minutes.
Just before serving, bring the chowder to a simmer once more, stir in the corn and simmer 5 to 10 minutes, or until the corn is just done. Adjust the seasoning and serve immediately. If you wish, float a pat of butter (a little more richness) on the surface of each bowl as you serve up the chowder.
Dave makes scones for breakfast at least once a week—they're in a regular rotation with his sky-high biscuits and bran muffins—and we routinely save one out for Fred, our letter carrier. While Fred said he's sorely tempted to scarf it down on the walk back to his truck, he fights the impulse so he can enjoy the scone for breakfast with his tea the next morning. More than once, though, his kids have discovered the baked delight in his postal bag, so he said he's taken to stashing it out of sight in the back of the fridge when he gets home.
Lately Dave's been experimenting with revising his classic Orange Currant Scones by adding toasted oats to the dough for a slightly less sweet, heartier version that reminds me of Scottish oat cakes. These brawny lads are mellowed with a generous slathering of butter and a heaping helping of homemade fruit jam and, in our case at least, a big mug of strong black coffee alongside. Let me know what you think!
Dave's Toasted Oatmeal Scones
1/4 c. (29 grams) rolled oats* 1 1/2 c. (195 grams) all-purpose flour 1 1/2 c. (195 grams) lightly sifted whole wheat flour (or AP flour if you wish) 1 Tbsp. baking powder 3/4 tsp. salt 1 Tbsp. brown sugar 8 Tbsp. (113 g) unsalted butter (1 stick) 1 c. half-and-half 1 egg 1/3 c. dried fruit like raisins, currants, cranberries, etc. (optional; also see note at bottom) Extra brown sugar for topping (optional)
Heat oven to 350 degrees.
Spread the oats in the baking sheet and toast for five minutes or so; stir and toast another five minutes or so until very lightly browned. Put warm oats into a heatproof container; toss a couple of times and let cool.
Line a baking sheet with parchment or silicone baking mat.
Pulse flour, brown sugar, baking powder and salt in food processor. Pulse in butter until the largest butter bits are about the size of peppercorns, about 10-15 pulses or so.
Put flour mixture into a large bowl. Add cooled oats to flour mixture and mix.
Whisk egg and half-and-half in a small bowl. Add liquid mixture and dried fruit, if using, to dry mixture and mix until a dryish dough forms. Transfer to floured surface and knead four or five times. Form dough into two equal-ish balls.
Flatten each ball with hands into a 6-inch disk. If desired, lightly sprinkle flattened disks with brown sugar. Using a knife or bench knife, cut into wedges of desired size. Place wedges, not touching each other, onto baking sheet.
Put into oven and bake until lightly browned, about 22 minutes.
NOTE: You can also chop up a quarter to half of an apple, briefly sauté it in butter and cinnamon sugar, then mix this into the dough befor shaping. So good!
* Use rolled oats (often called "old-fashioned rolled oats"), not the quick-cooking oats.
I am, though, a latecomer to the leek. While I love alliums of all sorts, leeks intimidated me with their baseball bat size and warnings about the need to clean them thoroughly, since their upright growth habit provides a perfect receptacle for splashes of spring mud.
