Falling Through the Cracks

You know how some kids think about their toys coming to life when they're not around, like in Toy Story? When I was a kid, I was convinced that my Barbies had a pool party, my porcelain dolls had a tea party, and Jem was rocking out in a corner somewhere with her band. The stuffed animals were obviously running amock, because every time I walked back into my room I could swear it looked like they'd moved ever so slightly from where I'd left them on my bed. As a young food lover and only child, I carried the same overactive imagination to the contents of my fridge. Maybe it was the dancing hot dogs and twirling popcorn buckets on the big screen at the movies, but I thought for sure that when the refrigerator door closed, the real party began. I tried the sneak a peek as I slowly closed the door, my eyes squinting to see through the small open crack, but the light inevitably went off, leaving me at best with the need for a snack and a slight chill.

Still, with no evidence to the contrary I maintained that the vegetables must have a life of their own after dark. Perhaps the fridge was really a nighttime disco where the gallons of milk and cartons of juice acted as bouncers presiding over the contents of the crisper. The vegetables wore their Saturday night best as they lined up to join the party. The carrots would obviously make it in, tall and tan as they were. The peppers were the life of the party, full of flavor and spice, and don't get me started on the iceberg lettuce, which I envisioned as a big round frat boy at a toga party (like the John Belushi of vegetables). The onions were always too depressed to party and they made everyone cry, so they had their own little emo party in the crisper. The vine-ripened tomatoes were like the gaggle of slightly plump girls attached at the hip in too much make-up and too short dresses. I always thought I had a place for every vegetable in my scenario (garlic always comes on too strong and gets kicked out before midnight, greens are the tall, lanky guys that pop and lock in the middle of the dance floor), but it turns out there was never eggplant in my fridge as a kid.

No one in my family really cared for it, and no one grew up eating it, so it never made its way into our house. In fact the only memory I have of it as a child is ordering what I expected to be a yummy meat-filled lasagna, only to find it was bordering on vegetarian and filled with eggplant. To say my relationship with eggplant began on a low note is an understatement. From then on it became "that mushy thing that ruins meals" and not even a fatty, marinara and mozzarella doused eggplant parm could convince me otherwise. So needless to say I was less than thrilled when I received a bagful of eggplant with my CSA bounty last week. Lovely as the Japanese eggplant were--small, sweet and the deepest hue of purple you can imagine--I was not only uninspired but uninterested. And so, they sat in the fridge, presumably partaking in the kind of party I imagined as a kid, but I had no idea what their role in that scenario would be be.

Finally, after a few days of feeling guilty I decided that if there are people out there that love eggplant, then it must have some redeeming qualities that I could exploit enhance. So after some research, I found a lot of tasty sounding Asian preparations, but that seemed too easy. After all, you can pretty much stir-fry anything with soy sauce and consider it tasty, not to mention there was no guarantee that it wouldn't go mushy on me. There was nothing of note in my cookbooks other than a bunch of baked, bechamel covered dishes, and I didn't want something heavy or mushy, so after some internet research I came upon this recipe from Bon Appétit, which I made a few changes to. I didn't bother to submerge the eggplant in water to remove the bitterness because I had little Japanese eggplants which are inherently less bitter. The recipe also called for cumin and cayenne, which I changed to cumin and spicy smoked paprika. While the drizzle of pomegranate molasses in the original recipe would have been nice, it's on the expensive side, so instead I made a quick from the hip reduced balsamic sauce. It's a foolproof recipe that I developed a few years ago and perfectly balanced. It works well over ice cream or fruit in addition to savory applications like this one, and can really dress up just about any dish (it's great in a pinch). I normally try to skip anything that involves too much fuss from the stove top to the oven, but it really helped keep the eggplant crunchy and moist, and anything but soggy to do both. The raw garlic on top was questionable, and actually felt a bit unnecessary. I think next time I'd roast large pieces in the oven with the eggplant, but for now, I suggest leaving it out--there's plenty of flavor. Here's the recipe with my changes.


Spicy Eggplant with Balsamic Glaze

3-4 Japanese eggplant cut crosswise into 1/2-inch-thick slices
2 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil, divided
1 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp spicy smoked paprika
1/4 cup cilantro, finely chopped
salt
pepper
1/4 cup balsamic vinegar
1 Tbsp honey


1. Preheat oven to 350°F. Heat 1 tablespoon olive oil in large non-stick skillet over medium-high heat. Working in batches, sauté eggplant until browned and softened, 2 minutes per side. Transfer to large rimmed baking sheet covered in foil (for easy clean-up).

2. Mix cumin and cayenne. Sprinkle eggplant while still hot with salt and pepper, followed by cumin mixture. Roast in oven until golden and cooked through, about 20 minutes.

3. Meanwhile, combine balsamic vinegar, olive oil and honey in a small non-stick saucepan over medium-low heat. Cook, whisking frequently until reduced and thickened.

4. Plate eggplant and drizzle with balsamic glaze. Sprinkle with cilantro and serve. Enjoy!

-Laura

Mon Petit Chou

I've always found it strange that the French involve cabbage in their most common term of endearment, "mon petit chou" (as I learned in my 6th grade French class many years ago). I can't think of a less appealing vegetable visually, to say nothing of the way it smells. I don't know many people that routinely profess their love for it either, so why the famous expression? A little research told me that some people believe it refers to the French word for cream puff, which evidently has some common etymology or reference to cabbage. It certainly is a more romantic reference, but it just so happens that I actually bought a "petit chou" the other day at the farmers market, which got this whole language ball rolling. While it was cuter than your average cabbage and only about the size of my fist, I must say that it presented the same problems as a regular old cabbage the size of my head. What the heck do I do with it, and will I want to eat the results when I'm finished?

But since I'm scraping the bottom of the seasonal food barrel, I felt like I had no choice but to buy the little bugger. I haven't made any cabbage this winter and it's in season, so I figured I'd at least give it a shot. I'm generally not a fan of masking natural flavor and texture, instead choosing to work with whatever the natural characteristics of an ingredient are and enhancing them whenever possible. But I knew this particular ingredient would prove difficult to tame and enhance in any positive way, so I made sure to take my time coming up with a recipe. As a lover of all things tart and sour, I tend to like my cabbage with plenty of pucker, which also happens to be a great remedy for the smelly and generally unpleasant taste and smell of boiled or overcooked cabbage. So after delving into the recipe archives, (the recent Ruth Reichl lecture in the back of my mind) I found a solution in the most recent December issue of Gourmet. A lovely looking recipe for balsamic-braised red cabbage was paired with sweet pan-seared scallops. I'd have to settle for just the cabbage, but it looked like the right idea.

The dish was easy and the final product was tasty, although I had to make major adjustments to the recipe. It was definitely short on liquids, and if you followed the recipe to the letter, the result (at least on my stove, with my pans) would have been a burnt, gloppy reduction and undercooked cabbage. But with some extra water and a few extra tablespoons of vinegar, it actually came out beautifully, not to mention better than I expected. The cabbage still had some bite and wasn't too mushy or limp, and the flavor was great. Slightly acidic, but also a bit sweet, the balsamic vinegar was a perfect foil, and the butter made it silky and luscious (two words I have yet to hear alongside "cabbage"). It'd be a great side dish to pair with roast chicken or pork chops, or even with spiced scallops like the recipe originally says. Here's my version:

Balsamic-Braised Red Cabbage

adapted from Gourmet, December 2008

1 small head red cabbage, cored and thinly sliced

3 Tbsp butter

2 bay leaves

2 cups water

5 Tbsp balsamic vinegar

salt

ground black pepper

Melt butter in a large non-stick skillet over medium heat. Add cabbage, bay leaves, 1 tsp salt, and cracked black pepper, tossing to coat. Stir in 1 cup water and 4 tablespoons of vinegar, tossing to coat. Cover and simmer, stirring occasionally, until cabbage is cooked through. If the cabbage starts to get dry, and more water 1/4 cup at a time until cabbage is tender. Enjoy!

-Laura

Reduction

As summer begins, so too do the barbecues. My first came in May, and with it the intense burning of mosquito bites. I've only recently managed to scratch away the remnants of New York's first sweltering days, and already I fear that while I chow down on ribs and burgers the insect world is chowing down on me. But no amount of creepy crawlies can keep me from a good cookout, and with one later this week I had to start planning my contribution. I tried to offer a trio of delicious dips, but was told that there were already plenty of dip-able treats. After a brief period where I became responsible for the beef empanadas, it was finally settled upon that I bring dessert. Since summer is such a beautiful time for berries and fruits I figured I'd be able to disguise my general inability to produce a decent confection.

Since I recently made some berries with Greek yogurt I figured I'd try and impress with some lovely strawberries and raspberries drizzled with a sweet balsamic vinegar reduction. My first attempt (using a recipe from a very reputable food site) was a failure and led to a balsamic flavored lollipop instead of a sauce. I decided I would try and adjust the recipe to avoid showing up with a tray of fruit and no sauce. I'd like to give the site the benefit of the doubt and assume that there was a typo in the ingredient measurements, because all I had to do was adjust the proportion of the ingredients and it turned out great. I'd also strongly recommend using this balsamic reduction on something like watermelon (which I'll also be bringing to the barbecue) which is juicy and sweet and pairs so well with the sweet and tart sauce. Here's the recipe for the sauce with my tweaks:

Sweet Balsamic Reduction

1/2 cup good balsamic vinegar
1/2 cup water
1/4 cup white granulated sugar

Combine all three ingredients in a small sauce pan and cook on medium heat until reduced to a syrupy sauce. Serve drizzled over berries, stone fruits, watermelon, or ice cream. Enjoy!

-Laura