PAN CON TOMATE WITH GREEN CORIANDER SEED

Serves 2 to 4

Pan con tomate is one of the most flavor-bursting ways to eat an August tomato. This recipe takes it up a notch, but you have to hurry, because it is hyper-seasonal and both August and tomatoes are fleeting.

I use heirloom green tomatoes( totally ripe just green in color~ if you want you can use any heirloom tomato~ I personally love the green on green~) and green coriander seed. They live together in late summer for a few weeks, when tomatoes are plentiful and the cilantro bolts, still soft and green on the stem. Coriander seeds taste floral and citrusy, and cilantro like all at once, with a small pop when you bite one. They have hit a kind of cult status. Ask your farmer at the market if they have any cilantro that has gone to seed. Chances are they are already bringing it to market, but early-bird chefs are snatching it all up.

Grate the tomato; Grating on the large holes of a box grater gives you pulp with body. Use the softest, juiciest, most overripe tomato you can find. Anything firm enough to slice cleanly is too firm for this. I used a green heirloom to play off the green coriander seed, but use whatever heirloom or ripe tomato you like; heirlooms always seem super juicy to me, so they are my first choice.

INGREDIENTS

1 -2 large heirloom tomatoes, about 1 lb (450- 500 g)

4 tablespoons / 60 ml extra virgin olive oil plus more for serving

1 clove garlic, for grating into the tomato

1 tablespoon 1.5 g green coriander seeds

1/2 teaspoon 3 g coarse sea salt, plus more to taste

4 thick slices miche or sourdough, about 1 inch / 2.5 cm

1 clove garlic, halved lengthwise, for rubbing on the bread

flaky sea salt for serving

METHOD

Cut the tomato in half through the equator. Set a box grater over a wide bowl and grate the cut side of each half through the large holes until you have only the flattened skin. Discard the skins.

Lightly smash the coriander seeds under the flat of a knife or in a mortar. Bruise them to release the oils, not grind them. Leave plenty whole.

Add the olive oil to the tomato, then microplane the first garlic clove directly into the bowl. Stir in the coriander seeds and the salt, then taste and adjust. Let it meld while you toast the bread.

Toast the bread lightly, just enough to firm the surface and take on a little color. It should stay tender in the middle.

While the slices are still warm, rub both sides with the cut side of the halved garlic.

Spoon the tomato on top and let it sit for a minute or two, until the bread softens underneath and soaks up everything

Drizzle generously with olive oil and season with flaky sea salt.

Eat immediately!

COOK’S NOTES

I prefer to use a tomato warmed by the sun, never a cold one. If you can, pick one right off the vine; if not, leave it on your counter in a sunny spot before you grate it.

A sourdough miche is perfect here. The big irregular air pockets catch the juice and the oil and hold onto them instead of letting everything run out onto the plate.

If you cannot find green coriander seed at all, do not substitute dried; this recipe is all about that fresh zing that comes from the combination of tomato and fresh coriander seed.

If you’ve bought a large bunch of coriander seeds, here is a bonus recipe below to keep you in a super green, flavorful salt all year.

GREEN CORIANDER SEED SALT

INGREDIENTS

Makes about 1/2 cup

1/2 cup / 60 g green coriander seeds, pulled from the stems

1/2 cup / 70 g Diamond Crystal kosher salt, or an equal volume to whatever seed you have

METHOD

Gently pull all the green seeds from the plant. Rinse them in a mesh sieve, then lay them out on a clean dish towel to dry.

Combine the seeds and the salt in a food processor. Pulse until fully combined.

Put it in a clean mason jar and store it in the freezer, taking it out as needed. The freezer preserves the color, which may fade slightly over time.

It’s eggplant season. Everyone and their nonna is making eggplant parm. It’s the summer of nonna-maxxing, after all. You can find eggplant year-round, but August is truly the season.

Eggplant is not a vegetable, as many assume. It’s a fruit, a large berry in fact, though no one in their right mind cooks it like one. It’s also a nightshade, which way back in the day made people nervous to eat it. One old name that stuck, mala insana, more or less meant “mad apple,” after a Renaissance conviction that eating it could drive you to madness. So: technically a berry, historically a suspected madness-fruit, currently the best thing in my August kitchen.

Eggplant is also a traveler, and has been for longer than you’d think. Its wild ancestors started in Africa and crossed into tropical Asia long before anyone made eggplant parm. It reached Sicily with Arab traders in the ninth and tenth centuries, when the island was under Arab rule, which is part of why southern Italy got such a head start on cooking it. By the time eggplant became Italian, it had already crossed half the world to get there.

So let’s talk about how to make it.

Let’s talk about skin. Some people prefer to cut it into rounds, skin on, while others cut it into long planks, also skin on. I peel because that’s how it was made in my house. The skin of a more mature eggplant can be tough and bitter. When my grandmother made this dish, she didn’t have access to all these new varieties of eggplant we have today. Newer varieties have more tender skin. The old recipes peeled out of necessity, not preference. I peel because I’m after something specific, and the skin gets in the way. What I’m after is a custardy texture. The technique in this recipe comes from my grandmother, who cut the eggplant into long planks, salted every layer, laid them in a colander, and waited at least two hours before flouring, egging, and frying. The long salting pulls out the moisture, and the planks go soft and silky before they ever see the pan. In my opinion, a fork should cut clean through a parm, and the skin is what gets in the way.

While poking around on the origins of this dish, I found something that surprised me. The "parm" may have nothing to do with Parmesan. One theory, which I came across in La Cucina Italiana, holds that parmigiana comes from the Sicilian parmiciana, the overlapping wooden slats of a shutter, because that is exactly what layered eggplant looks like sitting in the pan. Not named for a cheese, in other words, but for how it is built. The dish may be named for how it’s built, not for a cheese. This version is an ode to the southern cheeses, pecorino Romano and aged caciocavallo, which are saltier and sharper than Parmigiano and add contrast to the fried eggplant.

In northern Italy, another theory points to Parma, not Sicily at all. Back in the 15th and 16th centuries, to cook something “alla parmigiana” meant to do it the Parma way, in neat layers, the way they handled vegetables up there. Since Parma is the home of Parmigiano-Reggiano, that layering sense eventually slid into a cheese sense, and the word drifted toward simply meaning “made with Parmesan.”

The truth is nobody really knows. Perhaps they both came about simultaneously? So since it’s anyone’s guess, I’m going to roll with the southern reading, the one where the name is about the shutter and the cheese is left up to me, and hope I don’t offend any true parmigiana-philes out there with this tangier, sharper mix of caciocavallo and pecorino. If you’d rather stick with straight Parmesan, go right ahead. It’s delicious that way too, and no one at the table will complain.

How to coat the eggplant, or whether to coat it at all, is another area of great debate. Some people don’t coat it at all; others do egg first, then flour; some do flour only or egg only. As you can see, there are many, many ways to make this dish. In this recipe, the salted planks come out of the colander still quite moist, and I don’t rinse or pat them dry, because that moisture is exactly what makes the flour stick. I do a light flour coating using 00 flour, then dip them into a lightly peppered egg wash, then straight into hot oil. Drain the fried pieces on paper bag.

Once everything’s fried, the building begins, and the building is the whole point. Start with a layer of sauce over the bottom of the dish. Then add a layer of eggplant, a light scattering of torn mozzarella, a few torn basil leaves, a handful of the grated pecorino and caciocavallo, then another layer of sauce. Repeat: eggplant, mozzarella, basil, grated cheese, and sauce, until you run out of room or eggplant, whichever comes first. Finish with a final coat of sauce and a generous shower of grated pecorino caciocavallo cheese on top. That’s the shutter, slat over slat over slat construction, which is either where the name comes from or a very happy coincidence, depending on which camp you believe.

The recipe’s below. I hope you make it and love it. Let me know what you think.

EGGPLANT PARMIGIANA OR, IN THIS CASE, EGGPLANT PECORINO

Serves 8 to 10 as a main course, 12 as a first course

Oven at 375°F / 190°C

9 x 13 inch / 23 x 33 cm baking dish

Bake 35-40 minutes

INGREDIENTS

4 medium to large eggplants, about 4 lb / 1.8 kg

1 teaspoon coarse salt plus more for layers

00 flour, about 1 1/4 cups / 160 g ( AP is fine if that is all you have)

Freshly cracked black pepper

6 large eggs

2 cups / 480 ml olive oil for frying, (plus more as you go)

1 recipe marinara sauce below

1 lb / 450 g fresh mozzarella, torn

4 oz /115 g Pecorino Romano, finely grated (plus more for serving)

4 oz / 115 g aged caciocavallo, finely grated ( if you can’t find aged caciocavallo, go all Pecorino Romano)

1 large bunch basil, leaves torn

QUICK MARINA SAUCE

Makes about 6 cups

INGREDIENTS

6 tablespoons / 90 ml olive oil

8 cloves garlic, crushed

2 cans San Marzano tomatoes, 28 oz / 794 g each

Coarse Salt to taste

A handful of basil leaves, torn

METHOD

Warm the olive oil in a wide pot over medium-low heat until it shimmers; don’t let it smoke. Add the crushed garlic and cook until it just begins to turn golden.

Take the pot off the heat and let the oil cool for a minute or two. Crush the tomatoes to a puree by hand, then stir them into the garlic and oil.

Return the pot to a low simmer. Add salt to taste and the torn basil, cook for 10 minutes, and turn it off.

METHOD

Make the sauce and set it aside.

Peel the eggplants and slice them lengthwise into 1/2 inch / 1.25 cm planks.

Layer the slices into a colander set over a bowl, salting each layer as you go. Set a heavy pot filled with water on top to weigh them down, and leave them for about 2 hours. The bowl underneath catches the liquid as it releases.

When you remove the weight, do not pat the eggplant dry or rinse it. The moisture is what makes the flour stick.

Season the flour with 1/2 teaspoon salt and a few turns of cracked black pepper and mix it well.

Crack the eggs into a bowl and beat with a fork until fully integrated, then strain through a fine-mesh sieve into a shallow bowl. This catches any stringy bits and keeps the coating smooth. I do this with any batter like this. Season the strained eggs with a pinch of salt and a few turns of cracked black pepper.

Flour all the eggplant pieces and lay them out on a large baking sheet.

Pour the olive oil into a wide pan to a depth of about 1/2 inch / 1.25 cm and heat over medium-low until hot but not smoking.

Dip a piece of eggplant into the egg and fry to golden brown on both sides fliping once. Adjust the oil temperature if needed.

Dip the remaining floured slices into the egg one at a time and fry.

Add more oil as needed, and let it return to temperature between batches.

Drain the slices on a paper bag and sprinkle with a light dusting of coarse salt while they drain.

To assemble, start with a layer of sauce over the bottom of the bare baking dish so nothing sticks. Then add an eggplant, slightly overlapping, until the pan is covered corner to corner. Add torn mozzarella (keep it light), a good handful of grated caciocavallo and grated pecorino, a scattering of torn basil, and sauce again. Keep going in that order until everything is used, finishing with sauce. Top the assembled dish with a light handful of the remaining Pecorino and Caciocavallo. ( no mozzarella on top!)

Bake for 40 to 45 minutes, until the top lightly browns and the edges bubble. Let it rest at least 30 minutes to 1 hour before cutting into it. Resting is essential because of the high liquid content. Resting allows everything to soak into the layers. A little thin, juicy sauce will always release when you let it rest and cut it. This is perfect for mopping up with a large hunk of bread. Finish with a light dusting of Pecorino Romano.

This dish can be made one day ahead and tastes better the second day. This dish also freezes well.

COOK’S NOTE

I use 00 flour because it’s extra fine and makes a nicer batter, more of a coating really. If you only have all-purpose, go ahead and use that.

If you want to go the classic route, use Parmigiano on its own in place of the caciocavallo and pecorino. A hunk of the best you can find, about 8 oz / 225 g, finely grated. Keep the mozzarella in the Parm-only version.

Fresh mozzarella holds a lot of water, which can leave the parm wet. Tear it and let it drain on a towel for a bit before layering, or use fior di latte, which is drier to begin with.

This recipe halves easily. Cut everything in half and use a smaller baking dish, an 8 x 8 inch / 20 x 20 cm or similar, for a smaller crowd. I always go for the larger one because the leftovers are just so delicious!

A NOTE ON CHEESE

Pecorino is a sheep’s-milk cheese. The name comes from pecora, Italian for sheep. It’s firm, salty, and sharp, with regional versions like Pecorino Romano (the sharpest and saltiest), Pecorino Sardo, and Pecorino Toscano (milder).

Caciocavallo is a cow’s-milk cheese, despite the name meaning “cheese on horseback,” which most likely refers to the way the pairs were traditionally tied together and hung over a pole to age. It’s a stretched-curd cheese, in the same family as provolone and mozzarella, with a firm, smooth texture that gets sharper and more piquant as it ages. Occasionally you’ll see versions made with other milks, but traditional caciocavallo, especially Caciocavallo Silano from the south, is cow’s milk.

This recipe comes straight from my grandmother's kitchen. On warm summer evenings, her house would often smell like roasted peppers, a heavy perfume of garlic and oregano wafting through the screened door. I make these as soon as the sweet peppers turn up at the market. My favorite peppers are the small sweet purple ones, sometimes called lilac or purple beauty. The filling is heavy on herbs , tinged with a bit of garlic and olive oil-soaked breadcrumbs. Eat them warm or at room temperature, with a small scarpetta (a piece of bread to sop up the extra oil). Feel free to add chopped anchovies to the breadcrumbs for an extra salty umami kick.

Serves 4 to 6

INGREDIENTS

8 small sweet purple peppers

⅓ cup extra virgin olive oil (80 ml) plus more for drizzling

1½ cups panko breadcrumbs (90 g)

1 cup finely chopped flat-leaf parsley (60 g)

3 tablespoons finely chopped fresh oregano (10 g)

3 garlic cloves, minced

3 anchovies finely chopped (optional)

¾ cup finely grated pecorino (75 g)

½ teaspoon fine sea salt

Freshly ground black pepper

METHOD

Heat the oven to 425°F (220°C). Halve the peppers lengthwise and pull out the seeds and pale ribs. Rub each pepper lightly with some olive oil. Lay them cut-side up on a sheet pan or in a medium roasting dish.

In a bowl, combine the panko, parsley, oregano, garlic, anchovies if using, and Pecorino Romano. Season with the salt; go lighter or omit altogether if using anchovies, which are already salty, as is the cheese. Add a generous amount of freshly cracked black pepper. Pour in the remaining olive oil and stir until the crumbs are evenly moistened and hold together when pressed.

Spoon the herb crumbs into each pepper half, pressing gently so they stay in place. Spoon any oil left in the bowl over the tops, then finish with an additional drizzle of olive oil.

Roast for 18 to 20 minutes, until the peppers are soft and collapsing and the crumbs are deep golden and crisp. Serve warm or at room temperature. Best eaten the same day.

COOK’S NOTE

Fresh oregano is worth seeking out, since dried will flatten the parsley and take over. If you can only find dried, use 1 1/2 tablespoons.

The herby breadcrumbs can be mixed a few hours ahead and kept at room temperature.

Cherry season is almost over, so I wanted to post this before it is!

Cherries are one of the first summer fruits to arrive at the market, and they are the ones that tell me summer is really here. When I was a kid, we had a small cherry tree in the backyard, and if we could beat the birds to the fruit, we did, and we put up a few precious jars. This recipe holds onto that same impulse. First you pickle a batch of cherries with cardamom, mustard, and two vinegars until they are savory, a little salty, and sweet, then you bake a jar of them into a soft custard sweetened with maple instead of sugar. The pickling makes more than you need for one clafouti, which is the point, since the extra jars keep in the refrigerator for up to two months for tarts, yogurt, or a sharp cheese. If you miss the cherries, you could make this with halved sugar plums, or gooseberries or even halved apricots; the pickling liquid and process stay the same.

SERVES 6, with extra pickled cherries

INGREDIENTS

PICKLED CHERRIES
1 tablespoon fennel seeds
2 tablespoons black mustard seeds
5 cardamom pods, cracked open, pods discarded, seeds crushed
2 cups / 480 ml apple cider vinegar
2 cups / 480 ml rice wine vinegar
2 cups / 400 g organic sugar
1 tablespoon pink Himalayan salt
2 pounds / 900 g sweet cherries, about 2 quarts

CLAFLOUTI
1 quart jar pickled cherries, about 2 cups / 400 g once pitted, liquid and spices reserved
½ cup / 65 g all-purpose flour
¼ teaspoon pink Himalayan salt
¼ cup / 60 ml maple syrup
1 cup / 240 ml heavy cream, plus more for serving
5 large eggs, at room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla extract, or the seeds scraped from 1 vanilla bean
1½ tablespoons unsalted butter, melted, plus more for the dish
Creme fraiche or softly whipped cream, for serving

METHOD

Start with the pickled cherries. Bloom the fennel, mustard, and cardamom seeds in a dry saucepan over medium heat, shaking the pan, until fragrant. Transfer the bloomed spices to a large pot, add both vinegars, the sugar, and the salt, and bring to a simmer, stirring until the sugar has fully dissolved.

While the liquid heats, wash and de-stem the cherries, leaving the pits intact. Bring the liquid to a quick boil, then turn off the heat. Drop in the cherries and let them sit uncovered until the liquid has cooled completely, about 15 to 20 minutes.

Using a slotted spoon, lift out the cherries and pack them into sterilized 1-quart jars. Bring the liquid back to a quick boil and reduce it to a more syrupy consistency, about 5 minutes. Turn off the heat and pour the hot liquid over the jars, leaving ½ inch / 1 cm of space at the top, dividing any remaining seeds evenly between the jars. The cherries are ready to use once cooled, and any you do not bake with will keep in the refrigerator for up to two months. For longer storage, process the jars in a hot water bath according to the recommended USDA time.

When you are ready to bake, preheat the oven to 375°F / 190°C. Drain one jar of the pickled cherries, reserving the liquid and spices. Pit the cherries and set them aside in a bowl.

In a large bowl, sift the flour, then whisk in the salt and maple syrup until you have a smooth, semi-thick batter. In a second bowl, whisk together the cream, eggs, and vanilla. Slowly add the flour mixture to the cream, whisking until the batter is smooth and pourable.

Butter and flour a 9 to 10 inch / 23 to 25 cm baking dish. Arrange the cherries in an even layer across the bottom. Slowly pour the batter over the fruit, taking care not to shift the cherries as you go, then drizzle the melted butter over the top.

Bake until the custard is set and the edges are golden, 30 to 35 minutes. Spoon some of the reserved pickling liquid over the hot clafouti and serve right away, with a pour of cold heavy cream, a dollop of creme fraiche, or softly whipped cream.

The herby floral note here is subtle: it’s chamomile. You can use either fresh or dried. If using fresh, crush the flowers so the oil mingles with the juiciness of the peach. Finally, the richness of the sweet-and-salty crème fraîche brings the dish together in the most decadent of ways.

The one thing I must stress is that you eat this at the absolute pinnacle of peach season. It is summer perfection.

Roasted Peaches

serves 4 (one half peach each or 2 if you are extra greedy. ; ))

2 peaches, halved and pitted

4 tablespoons ghee, melted

4 tablespoons jaggery

3 juniper berries, crushed

2 cardamom pods, seeds removed and crushed

2 tablespoons crushed fresh chamomile blossoms (or 1 tablespoon dried)

Pinch of coarsely ground black pepper

Savory Crème Fraîche

½ cup crème fraîche

3 juniper berries, crushed

1 tablespoon maple syrup

¼ teaspoon flaky sea salt

Method

Preheat the oven to 400°F.

Wash, halve, and pit the peaches. Set them cut-side up in a small baking dish.

In a small bowl, combine the jaggery, crushed juniper, cardamom, and black pepper.

Warm the ghee until liquid, then drizzle each peach half with about a tablespoon.

Top each peach with the jaggery-and-spice mix, then a little crushed chamomile.

Roast for 15 minutes, or until the peaches are soft.

For the crème fraîche: Stir the crushed juniper, maple syrup, and flaky sea salt gently into the crème fraîche.

Spoon the crème fraîche over the warm roasted peaches and serve.

I’m in the midst of finishing up my greens book, out in spring 2027 with Artisan Books. My life has been taken up with nettles, ramps, and all things spring greens, and while the markets are bursting right now, I’ve been neglecting my Substack. As soon as I get the edits turned around and into the design process, I will focus more of my energy here on this platform.

A few weeks back, I was at the Cherry Bombe Jubilee, where chefs Jody Williams and Rita Sodi spoke about what drew them to a life in food. Jody said she came to food because she was hungry. As a child of the 1970s, like Jody, I was also hungry, and my roots in food go back to that. I often had to start dinner before my parents came home, and I most definitely knew every plant in the garden because I was called to weed it on Saturday mornings. What I didn’t realize then was that the hunger itself was the gift. It was quietly building the work ethic I’ve carried ever since, and teaching me the cooking and gardening that would shape my life.

When I started this Substack, I said it would be a mix of recipes, travel musings, and some narrative memoir. A few years back I took a memoir class with Elissa Altman at the Provincetown Writers Workshop, and the piece I’m sharing today came out of that.

What follows goes back further than the garden and the Saturday weeding. It starts in a colder kitchen, in a house where food was something you found rather than something you were given. It has everything to do with hunger.

I was a latchkey kid for most of my life, though our doors were never locked. I often found my way to our neighbors’ house after school, most often when they weren’t home. I’d toast myself an everything bagel and smear it with good, salty butter from their fridge. I’ve often wondered what they thought when they came home and found the house smelling faintly of toast every so often. I’m sure they knew it was me. We had an open-door policy in our neighborhood full of feral children, but they never mentioned it.

ODE TO VELVEETA

I am always hungry. The distant consequence, perhaps, of a childhood with too few meals. We were often left to fend for ourselves in the kitchen while our stepmother chain-smoked and danced alone in the next room to Simon and Garfunkel’s “Cecilia,” before receding into another rosy puddle of Lancers for the night. We were forgotten about. I would tiptoe silently past whichever armchair had swallowed her, terrified of disturbing the eyes that lurked in the back of her head, and bringing on one of her ferocious moods. I opened the refrigerator like a ghost. Reaching a small hand into the cold interior, I’d slide out the long yellow box, cut myself a thick slab of Velveeta, and gently tuck it under my shirt, where it was secured by the waistband of my clover-green Danskins. Creeping up the back stairs, I pleaded with every board not to moan or creak. Alone. I shut my door and carefully removed the tile of cheese suctioned to my belly. And, like unholy communion, I gently bit into its soft, salty yellowness, savoring every morsel. On days when I greedily cut off more than I could stomach, I would tuck it under my pillow, saving it for later, only to find it hardened and shriveled like a little, abandoned baby-shoe, its edges dark and orange, curled and rough. But its center was a soft, oily yellow. I poked my finger into that soft spot and slowly dug inside.

This past fall, I went to Serifos for a friend’s birthday and then on to Barcelona for work. In Barcelona, I headed straight to the large market, La Boqueria, the way I always do when I arrive somewhere new. A market is the pulse of a community. It is where you can see what locals like to eat, what they sell to tourists, and ask questions and learn what people love to cook.

The famous market there is sprawling. On my first visit, I did not buy anything. I just walked the aisles, a slow, cursory look, so I would know exactly where to return and what to pick up the next time. When I went back, it felt like an absolute treasure trove. I brought home bottarga, one of my favorite ingredients. They had both tuna and mullet, and everything was vacuum-sealed and ready to fly. I bought jamón ibérico and other delicious sliced charcuterie, also vacuum-packed, and both the meats and the Marcona almonds made their way onto our Thanksgiving snacks table.

While I was in Barcelona, I also went to Bar Brutal, one of my favorite restaurants in the city. They had beautiful house-made tinned fish, and I picked up a few tins to bring back home, wrapped carefully in my suitcase.

I am trying to be better about not saving things forever, about actually using and gifting what I bring home. It feels good to let these flavors move through my kitchen instead of sitting on a shelf waiting for the perfect moment.

Here is a smattering of what I hope you find inspirational. Always bring an extra bag when you travel. I pack a soft Baggu for my clothes and save my hard suitcase for the food and ceramics I usually get home. Remember to tuck in a few large zip-lock bags to protect honey or anything that might leak. These small habits make it easy to bring back the things that catch your eye.

Soon, I will share a few recipes I made using these beautiful ingredients, so stay tuned, and thank you for following along. Let me know if you like this series. Bring It Back is meant to open your eyes to the world of local comestibles you can tuck into your own suitcase.

GIFTS FROM TRAVELS

No. 1 GREEK MOUNTAIN TEA (GREECE)

I always bring back mountain tea when I am in Greece. It smells like the sun, is a little chalky like the soil, a little wild like the meadows, and a little herbal. The dried blossoms and stems look like something gathered on a long walk through the hills. I love it in the mornings or after dinner, just a handful steeped in hot water. It tastes like the landscape.

No. 2 JAMÓN IBÉRICO DE BELLOTA (BARCELONA / LA BOQUERIA MARKET)

One of the most beautiful foods Spain has ever created. Rich, nutty, melt-on-your-tongue delicious. At La Boqueria, the vendors slice paper-thin ribbons that fall like silk. Vacuum-packed and easy to travel with.

No. 3 LOUKOUMI, ALSO CALLED TURKISH DELIGHT (GREECE)

Small jeweled cubes dusted in sugar. You see them all over the Cyclades. Rose, mastiha, citrus. They feel old-fashioned in the best way, like something a grandmother might tuck into a tin for guests.

No. 4 BARLEY RUSKS (GREECE)

Hard, rustic, and perfect with tomatoes and olive oil or crumbled into a salad. Rusks last forever and always taste like the islands. I love their clean grain flavor and the way they soften just a little under oil, capers, and juicy, briny tomatoes. They are staple in Cretan and Cycladic kitchens as well as in Southern Italy.

No. 5 MARCONA ALMONDS (BARCELONA / LA BOQUERIA MARKET)

Spain’s greatest almond. Buttery, round, tender, so different from the California ones we are used to. I bought a couple of kilos at the market for aperitivo or the holiday tables. They are irresistible on their own but even better with jamón and a glass of something cold.

No. 6 PISTACHIO TORRON / TORRONS VICENS (BARCELONA / LA BOQUERIA MARKET)

Soft nougat studded with pistachios, sweet and chewy and bright green. Vicens is one of the oldest torron makers in La Boqueria, and they offer tastes of everything, which makes it absolutely impossible to resist. You cannot walk away with just one.

No. 7 BOTTARGA DI TONNO / TUNA BOTTARGA (BARCELONA / LA BOQUERIA MARKET)

One of my favorite ingredients in the world. I shave it over pasta, beans, eggs, toast, anything that needs a salty oceanic lift. La Boqueria had both tuna and mullet bottarga, all vacuum-sealed and ready to travel. Bottarga is a pantry treasure.

No. 8 ALMOND TORRON (BARCELONA / LA BOQUERIA MARKET)

The classic Spanish nougat. Toasted almonds bound in a sweet, honeyed slab. Crunchy, fragrant, deeply nostalgic. It reminds me of the Italian Torrone I used to get in my stocking every Christmas.

No. 9 ANCHOVIES (BARCELONA / LA BOQUERIA MARKET)

These are the good ones, fat, vibrant, salty, and super clean tasting. La Boqueria offers anchovies every which way — brined, oil-packed, lightly pickled. A little tin can transform a bowl of greens or a piece of toast. They are small but powerful souvenirs.

No. 10 FOREST HONEY (GREECE)

Dark, resinous, tasting of eucalyptus, pine, and wild fennel. This is the honey I carried back from Serifos, the one I found at Moni Taxiarchon. It was sold to me in the tiny shop inside the monastery by a Greek Orthodox priest. They also sell the incense they burn in the chapel, bundles of Greek mountain tea, and a small digestif made by the monks. The honey glows like amber when the light hits it. Honey is my favorite kind of sweet one that tastes unmistakably of place.

Bring It Back is a travel-rooted recipe and storytelling series on my Substack. It captures what lingers after a journey, the food, scent, rituals, textures and quiet moments at the table. It is about recipes scribbled in notebooks and napkins, meals made in borrowed kitchens, ingredients and cermaics and linens tucked into luggage. It is as much about learning from the locals, exploring markets and tavernas, and watching how people cook and eat, as it is about translating those lessons and inspirations into my own kitchen once I return. A place will inspire each post, but the through line will always be the same, a deep pull toward local food traditions and a desire to bring them back.

The idea for Bring It Back began with a boat ride around the island of Serifos. It was our last night there, the wind soft, the water dark and glittering, and someone put on a playlist. We were in Greece to celebrate our friend’s birthday. Our boat was something out of a James Bond film, sleek, black, rubber, gliding through the water as if it had been made for this moment. It wasn’t exactly slow, but it was slow at all the right times, when we pulled into hidden coves, when we dove off the boat and swam into nearby caves, when we scrubbed our skin with the sand on a secret beach. And then it was fast again, slicing through the Aegean, the wind in our hair. When the song Sing It Back by Moloko came on, the phrase looped in my head as a kind of instruction. Bring it back. Bring back the flavors, the textures, the feelings of this place, and share them.

Serifos is an island you must circle to understand. Whenever I arrive on an island, my first ritual is to drive the entire ring road, a complete loop, to see how big the island really is, to get my bearings, and to find the secret beaches and hidden coves that are not visible from the port. There are more than seventy beaches, some wide and busy, others where you may be alone. The roads are narrow and winding, the wind is strong and insistent, and you must drive differently here, slow and considered.

The port is the pulse of the island, swelling with each ferry arrival and emptying with each departure like a tide that comes in and goes out again. It is where you buy what you need, tomatoes, feta, yogurt, bread, wine, where you might catch a glimpse of a friend, get your coffee, or watch the rhythm of island life.

And then there is Chora, perched high on the hill, blindingly white under the midday sun, built centuries ago to protect from pirates and Venetians. At night, it glows like a fairytale. Our bartender told us to come back in October, when the light is softer, the crowds are gone, and the island exhales. The hills are terraced with stone walls, the remnants of houses scattered like bones, a living archaeology of the island. Bulldozers perch high on ridges, a sign that building is coming, and sometimes I feel like I came to Greece thirty years too late. And yet Serifos still feels mostly its own, an island of grain fields, goats, wind, and quiet.

One afternoon, we turned off the main road and wound our way down a steep hill, past a small church, heading toward the sea. At the bottom, tucked into a cove, was a tiny taverna shaded by a pergola. The food was hyper local: rabbit with potatoes, lamb slow roasted until it fell from the bone, and wine from the island itself. Not far away was the monastery, where we bought jars of pine honey, one of Serifos’s great treasures.

You always eat well in Greece. On Serifos, we ate chickpeas slow cooked overnight in clay pots, gigantes stewed in tomatoes, eggplant melting into olive oil, zucchini and fennel fritters, fried anchovies crisp as paper, and salads so fresh they put every Greek salad you’ve ever had to shame. We drank wine, we swam in clear water, we cooked simple meals with what we found at the market, and on that last night we danced on the boat.

The recipes I will share here are the inspirations I brought back, beginning with the gigante beans I made on Serifos and the monastery bread we ate alongside them. They are part of a larger collection of recipes, places, observations, and flavors, a map of a week on Serifos, a way to circle the island again, to eat at the tavernas again, to taste what we tasted and share it with others.

Some dishes are inspirations, while others are attempts at recreation. Together they form a kind of map, a way to trace a journey through flavor and memory. Here it begins simply, as a way to share what I love most about traveling, cooking, eating, observing, and carrying those experiences home. Please come along, wherever the next meal or journey leads.

GIGANTE BEANS WITH TOMATOES AND HERBS

I spotted the small pile of gigante beans at the tiny butcher shop in the main port town on Serifos. I quickly bought four small bags, about two pounds, as I impulsively tend to do when I see gigante. I wanted to cook at the house we were renting, and these beans became the impetus for something delicious inspired by a lazy afternoon spent earlier in the summer on the quiet side of Andros, in a little town called Korthi. That day, we sat for hours, eating freshly grilled fish, giant plates of horta, zucchini fritters, and the best bowl of gigante I may ever have eaten.

I made it using the wild Greek oregano I picked up at the local grocer, sea salt from the island, and tomatoes bursting with the summer sun. For herbs, I used whatever I had on hand on the property, including bunches of wild fennel, fennel pollen, and flowering rosemary that covered the hillsides. We ate the finished beans with a loaf of church bread from the bakery in Chora, the one that still bakes loaves for the monastery in its old stone oven. I managed to convince them to let me buy one. The crust was burnished and hard, the inside soft and slightly sweet. The bread soaked up the tomato oil and turned orange at the edges. I cooked these beans in a terra-cotta pot, as I like to do. I have many that I have purchased in my travels, everywhere from Greece to Puglia to India. I love cooking in clay pots; the terra cotta allows for a slow, even cook.

INGREDIENTS

1 pound dried gigante beans (450 g)

½ cup extra virgin olive oil (110 ml), plus more for drizzling

1 large yellow onion, finely chopped

4 cloves garlic crushed

Pinch red chili flakes

3 ripe medium tomatoes, grated (about 1½ pounds / 680 g)

2 1/2 teaspoons dried oregano

½ teaspoon dried thyme

5 sage leaves whole

1 bay leaf

3-4 few sprigs of rosemary

Add a handful of finely chopped fennel fronds if you have them, about 1/4 cup.

1/2 teaspoon fennel pollen plus more for serving

1 1/2 teaspoon coarse salt plus more to taste

Pinch cracked black pepper

¼ cup chopped parsley (10 g) for serving

Finely grated zest and juice of 1 lemon for serving

METHOD

Soak the beans overnight in plenty of water. Drain and rinse.

In a medium, deep stockpot, warm the olive oil over medium heat. Add the onion and cook until soft and translucent, about 3-5 minutes. Stir in the crushed garlic and chili flakes and cook for an additional minute. Stir in the grated tomatoes, oregano, thyme, sage, bay leaf, fennel pollen, salt, and pepper. Simmer gently for about 5minutes over medium heat until the sauce becomes fragrant.

Combine the soaked beans with the tomato sauce and stir to coat. Cover with 4 cups of water. Drizzle generously with olive oil. Cover and bake at 350°F (180°C) until the beans are tender and creamy. This can be anywhere from 2-3 hours. This time will vary depending on the age of your beans. Set a timer for 2 hr and then add time from there. When you check the beans at 2 hours, add 1 cup more water if needed to keep the beans just covered. Let rest briefly before serving.

Finish with parsley, lemon zest, and a scattering of fennel pollen. Serve warm or at room temperature, accompanied by good olive oil and a crusty hunk of bread.

COOK’S NOTE

Gigantes can sometimes be hard to find in the United States. Look for them at specialty grocers, Greek or Mediterranean markets, or Italian shops where they may be labeled as giant lima beans, Greek butter beans, or gigante beans. If you can’t find them, large white butter beans or corona beans are good substitutes. They are easy to find online. They hold their shape and take on flavor beautifully when baked slowly with olive oil and tomato. Don’t be alarmed (like I was) when you soak them if you see the skins get all wrinkly, as if they are ready to slip off. This is normal. Resist the urge to pull them off; they will hydrate and plump up, cooking beautifully into creamy little bites. If you pull the skins off, the beans will split and become mushy.

Beans like this are the perfect thing to bring back when you travel. I always pack extra-large zip-lock bags so I can rewrap and protect the food items I buy. My suitcase is always full of beans.

SHOPPING NOTES AND LINKS

FENNEL POLLEN

FAVORITE GRASSY GREEK OLIVE OIL FOR THIS DISH

GIGANTE BEANS

RANCHO GOURDO CORONA BEANS A GREAT ALT

TERRA COTTA CLAY VESSEL

We took daily walks, chopped wood, and even tapped the maple trees. Time was standing still. While it was one of the most uncertain periods of our lives, sharing the ritual of daily cooking grounded us all. Paola brought this recipe with her, and I have tweaked it a little over the years, adding dried raisins from Pantelleria, green pistachios from Sicily, or dates from California. Dishes like this are made for a pantry hoarder like me. It comforts me every time I make it; it's warm, lush, and filled with a tiny tinge of sadness. It brings me right back to our silent cocoon of snow. Quality spices are essential here, as is their origin. I use Diaspora spices and Burlap and Barrel. The quality and fragrance are unmatched. Once you start making this, it will become your winter favorite. Top it off with nuts and dried fruit.

GROUNDING WINTER OATS

2 servings

about 3 cups

Keep a jar of the spice mix around at all times for these quick and easy oats. Once you grind the spices, keep the jar in your refrigerator or freezer. It will stay fresh longer.

INGREDIENTS

SPICE MIX

1 tablespoon of ground ginger

1 tablespoon of ground turmeric

1 tablespoon of fenugreek

1 tablespoon of ground cumin or 1/2 tablespoon cumin seed

1 tablespoon of ground cardamom

1 tablespoon of cinnamon

INGREDIENTS

1 tablespoon of ghee or, coconut oil or butter

3 whole cardamom pods crushed and slightly opened

1/4 teaspoon spice mix (above)

1 cup organic thick rolled oats ( I do not use the quick oats)

2 cups of water

1/4 teaspoon Himalayan Pink salt

2 tablespoons of tahini ( favorite is Seed and Mill ). You can of course, use any nut butter

1 tablespoon of maple or jaggery plus more maple for drizzling

Warm oat milk or cream for drizzling ( optional )

Mix in as many of these as you would like: roughly chopped pistachios, dried apricots, walnuts or cashews, raisins, and sultanas.

METHOD

Yields about ¼ cup of spice mix.

For the spice mix

Add the fenugreek, cumin, and cardamom to a spice grinder and pulse.

Add the ground ginger, turmeric, cinnamon, buzz to the other ground spices, and pulse to a fine powder.

For the oats

Melt the ghee or coconut oil in a small pot over low heat; I use my Staub 1.5qt little rounded rice cooker for these oats, and its perfect

Add the crushed whole cardamom pods and 1/4 teaspoon of the spice mix to the ghee. Cook over low heat until fragrant, about 2 minutes.

Add rolled oats, salt, and tahini and stir over low heat for 1 minute, just long enough to coat with the tahini and spices.

Add 2 cups water

Cook the oats according to the instructions until they are soft, about 8-10 minutes. Stir occasionally.

Serve immediately with a warm puddle of nut milk, a drizzle of warm maple, and your favorite dried nuts and fruit.

This sweet, sour, spicy, floral drinking vinegar is my version of the age-old immunity-boosting folkloric immunity tonic. I started making it some years ago after a few bouts of serious winter illness that always seemed to settle in my lungs.

Growing up in New England, I was no stranger to home remedies. I first read about drinking vinegar and fire cider in Rosemary Gladstar's Herbal Recipes For Vibrant Health. I revisited Rosemary's book while experimenting with shrubs and oxymels for my now-defunct blog.

This curative vinegar-based tonic was a natural progression as I began to look at food as medicine. Rosemary first made a version of fire cider in the late 1970s while teaching at the California School of Herbal Studies. I like the word folkloric to describe this tonic because it has been passed down through many cultures and generations through spoken word. It has many incarnations, and no one knows when or where it started, but most cultures have a version of a healing vinegar tonic.

The exciting thing about a recipe like this is that it is not a recipe; just a set of guidelines and notes a friend might pass to you to do with it as you wish. It belongs to no one. My version has morphed and changed with time and place. The current mood it takes on is the local terroir of upstate (where I forage for anything and everything) and the flavors and inspirations of my travels.

The essential ingredients in this tonic are vinegar, ginger, turmeric, garlic, horseradish, onions, lemons, chilies and honey. I add dried sumac, rosehips, pine, and hibiscus for an extra boost of vitamin C, and turmeric and black pepper are always added for their anti-inflammatory properties. In my last few batches, I have added bee balm, fennel pollen, cranberries, and some bee pollen. I sometimes mix young ginger with mature ginger. You get the idea. Once you have the base, you can experiment.

Gathering all your ingredients for this health tonic is almost as fun as drinking it. Before you start chopping and grating, take a moment to revel in what you have gathered.

If you start making this in big batches, you should search for a farmer who grows turmeric, ginger, and horseradish. Fresh ginger and turmeric are in season at the Union Square Farmers Market in New York City. Buying from health food stores or larger grocery stores can be costly. I started sharing half a case of fresh turmeric and young ginger a couple of years ago with my friend India. We order it in the early fall. It comes from a farm in Western Massachusetts, but more and more people are growing ginger and turmeric, and you can probably find them in bulk at the farmer's market. Last year, I cheated a little and instead of getting a large knob of horseradish root, I picked up some freshly grated horseradish at a market in Pennsylvania. There are quite a few farms around Lancaster that are growing delicious horseradish. I didn't notice any difference in using freshly grated or pre-grated horseradish, so I would say do what is easiest. You might not want to spend the time grating it yourself.

This year, I am adding deep red hibiscus from a trip to Oaxaca, dried rose hips, and sumac. I am always on the lookout when I travel for easy things to bring back, and they inevitably end up in my cooking. Ingredients and market hunting are at the crux of what inspires me.  I hit the market first thing wherever I am traveling. I don't want to scare you off with all the foraged and stowed travel bits because you can jazz this up or strip it back to just the key ingredients so that I will stop here. The items with an asterisk are optional, and in the end, please make it your own!

You will want to make a big batch because they will ask for more once you share it with friends. You might want to drink it at the first sign of feeling a bit of a cold or sore throat, or you might want to take a shot every day as a preventative.

FOLKLORIC IMMUNITY TONIC (FIRE CIDER)

Takes 2-4 weeks to mature. ( Ideally, you would make this in the late fall and let it sit for a month before straining)

This recipe makes roughly 1 gallon but easily halves.

1 cup freshly grated ginger root

1 cup freshly grated horseradish or use an excellent quality jarred horseradish

1 medium sweet yellow onion finely chopped

10 cloves plump fresh garlic finely chopped

5 1-inch nubs of fresh turmeric finely chopped 

1 cup fresh cranberries coarsely chopped

1/2 teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper

2 organic lemons de-seeded, juiced, and peeled. (I peel the skin, making 1/2-inch strips)

2 dried red chilies (give them a little smash in the mortar and pestle to release the oils)

8-10 cups organic apple cider vinegar.

2 cups organic raw honey

*Optional add-ins/ goji berry, dried hibiscus, fennel pollen, white pine, juniper, organic rose petals, and dried sumac powder.

Add all ingredients to a food processor. Buzz to a finely chopped texture. ( Yes, it took me until I was this many years old to figure out I didn’t need to hand-chop it all.)

Add the chopped ingredients evenly into two wide-mouth  1/2 gallon Ball jars. Top the jars off with organic apple cider vinegar. You will

Cover the ingredients thoroughly with the vinegar. Cover the top of the jar with baking paper before screwing on the metal lid. (The metal will rust and corrode, ruining your tonic if you don't use paper. Ideally, use a plastic lid; Ball makes plastic wide-mouth lids. I buy them online. Place the sealed jars in a darkened room or pantry for 4 weeks. Periodically, turn the jars gently.

After 4 weeks, strain the liquid from the chopped ingredients and macerated roots through a fine-mesh sieve. Divide the liquid equally into two sterilized wide-mouth  1/2-gallon ball jars.

Add 1 cup of raw organic honey to each jar. If you prefer a sweeter tonic, add more to taste.

Your tonic should be spicy and sweet but not overly sweet.

This tonic can be stored in the refrigerator for months. Take it whenever you are feeling under the weather every other day or when you feel.

SWEET AND SOUR PICKLED CHERRIES CARDEMOM, MUSTARD SEED  / PICKLED CHERRY CLAFOUTIS

The cherry season comes to the West Coast long before it gets to the East Coast, but it is a fleeting season no matter what coast you are on. I try to catch the cherry season every year, and when I can swing it, I head upstate to pick sour cherries to freeze for winter pies. This recipe calls for non-sour cherries; you can use Bing, Rainier, or whatever non-sour variety you find. Look for fresh cherries at the farmers market or in your local grocery from May through early July. I developed this recipe initially during the early summer of 2020 when I was working on My Wild Larder book, which later became the Cooking with Mushrooms book. One day I will talk more on this platform about how that transition came about and the process of book making. I am still thinking about doing a larder book, which will come in time. The good news is that I have a plethora of recipes from that project to share here with you all. I first learned to make Clafoutis, the humble French dessert that lies someplace between a custard and a pancake, back when we photographed Baking WithJulia in the mid-1990s. It became a summer tradition. It is often made with cherries, but you can use other fruits. I gave this recipe a twist by pickling the fruit. These pickle cherries are inspired by  Indian spice markets; fennel, cardamom, and mustard seeds are first bloomed, then steeped with two kinds of vinegar, and reduced to a lush syrup. The result is savory, a little salty and sweet. I hope you make these and use them in all the ways. They are the perfect partner to the custardy Clafoutis. Remember to spoon the extra syrup over the custard and cream.

SWEET AND SOUR PICKLED CHERRIES CARDAMOM MUSTARD SEED

INGREDIENTS

2 pounds sweet cherries, about 2 quarts

2 cups of apple cider vinegar 

2 cups of rice wine vinegar

5 cardamom pods, break open, discard pod, and crush seeds

2 tablespoons of black mustard seed.

1 tablespoon of fennel seed. 

2 cups of organic sugar

1 tablespoon of pink Himalayan

METHOD

Bloom the fennel seed and mustard and cardamom.

Bring the vinegar, sugar, salt, and bloomed spices to a simmer, stirring until all the sugar is dissolved.

Wash and de-stem the cherries, but leave the pits intact. 

Bring the liquid to a quick boil and turn it off.

Drop in the cherries and let them sit uncovered until the liquid has thoroughly cooled. About 15-20 minutes.

With a slotted spoon, remove the cherries and pack them into sterilized one-quart ball jars.

Bring the vinegar liquid to a quick boil to reduce the liquid and get to a more syrupy consistency, about 5 minutes.

Turn off and pour the hot liquid over the jars of cherries, leaving a 1/2-inch space at the top. Divide any remaining seeds evenly between the jars.

The cherries will keep in your fridge for up to two months.

If you want the pickled cherries for a cold winter day, hot water bath them according to the recommended USDA time.

Preheat oven to 375  degrees F

Serves 6

PICKLED CHERRY CLAFOUTIS

1 1qt jar of pickled cherries. 

1/2 cup of AP flour 

1/4 cup of maple syrup

1/4 teaspoon pink Himalayan sea salt

1 cup of heavy cream

5 room temp eggs 

1 teaspoon of vanilla extract or scrape one vanilla bean.

1 1/2 tablespoons melted butter

Extra picked juice and spices from the cherries

De-pit the cherries and set them aside in a measuring cup or bowl

In a large mixing bowl, sift the flour add the salt and maple, and mix to a semi-thick batter

In another bowl, whisk the cream, eggs, and vanilla. 

Slowly add the flour maple mixture.

Butter a nine to 10-inch shallow baking dish

Arrange the cherries in the buttered dish

Slowly pour the batter over the fruit to avoid moving it around too much.

Drizzle the butter over the batter and pop in the oven.

Bake for 30-35 minutes. The edges should be browned, and the center should be a little wobbly. The custard will continue to set even after you remove it from the oven.

Remove from the oven when done, and spoon the remaining pickled liquid over the hot Clafouti. Serve immediately with a pour of heavy cream, a dollop of creme fraiche, or softly whipped cream.

OTHER SUGGESTIONS FOR PICKLED CHERRIES:

Add to your favorite cheese and charcuterie plate.

Tart with a sharp cheese like salty ricotta salt or creamy goat cheese, pistachios, and a buttery crust

Spoon some sweet and sour cherries over homemade yogurt and top with sunflower seeds.

Make a Frico with Pecorino,  accompanied by sweet and sour cherries on the side.

The possibilities are endless.

Last weekend, we had a few friends over; I made this simple Aperativo, a platter of Green Garlic Spicy Anchovy toasts. It's so addictive that while the toasts were toasting, I gently pulled the bowl away from a friend eating it at the kitchen counter with a spoon! Green garlic is one of the first early spring greens to appear at the market; this is an excellent way to use it. 

You may have seen it; it looks a lot like scallions, but the bulb is a bit larger and slightly rounded, and the leaves are rounded until midway up the stalk, where they come together and flatten out. I use a lot of green garlic in the spring. It is a powerful and fleeting ingredient. Butter is the perfect way to preserve it. For Easter dinner, we dragged cold, crunchy radishes through salty green garlic butter until nothing was left but a buttery Rorschach. Last weekend, we demolished a platter of lightly toasted bread topped with a thick layer of green garlic butter and spicy anchovies. Last night, it was the star of our midnight pasta showered in Pecorino Romano,there might be nothing better.

Once you make it, you'll be amazed at how easy it is to freeze. Pull it out in a month or two, slather it on summer steaks, roasted vegetables, or fish, or stand at the counter and indulgently eat it by the spoonful.

GREEN GARLIC BUTTER / SPICY ANCHOVY TOASTS

INGREDIENTS

2 spring garlic trimmed and coarsely chopped, washed about 1 cup well packed

8 tablespoons unsalted butter

A pinch of coarse sea salt plus more for serving

METHOD

Cut a stick of unsalted butter into small cubes; set it aside to let it reach room temperature.

 Trim the green garlic and remove any roots.

Coarsely chop the greens and bulbs.

Wash the chopped garlic in a colander. I wash after chopping because, like leeks, the layers often have dirt bits.

Drain the garlic but leave it damp

Buzz the green garlic in a food processor until smooth 

Add the room-temperature butter and buzz to incorporate until smooth 

You may need to scrape the sides several times until everything is combined. Stir in the coarse sea salt.

Toast some bread

Slather the warm bread generously with the butter

Top with an anchovy or two; I prefer the spicy ones.

Serve immediately.

If making the butter ahead, transfer it to a small glass jar and store it in the refrigerator or freeze it for future use. 

You can adapt this recipe to any other spring allium, like ramp or garlic chives, and keep the ratio the same: always 1 cup of chopped greens to 8 tablespoons butter.

Put an egg on it for the perfect anytime snack.

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Although we are in the first days of spring, I still see some beautiful and unique citrus varieties. My favorite citrus to preserve as of late is Yuzu. I meant to post this during prime Yuzu season (late December through January), but I never put pen to paper. Sadly, the Yuzu season is over, so bookmark this for early next winter. ; ) Many other bright citrus choices are available all year. Most of us have seen preserved lemons in stores or specialty markets. If you have ever traveled to Morrocco, you have probably spied great barrels of them in local markets. They are used often in Middle Eastern dishes. I reach for my sparkly jar of preserved lemons when cooking many times a week. Salt-preserved citrus is one of the best umami flavors out there. While it's relatively easy to find in a shop, it’s incredibly easy to make at home. I often make preserved lemons from Meyer lemons because the skin is a little thinner and the juice sweeter. In the past few years, I have been salt-preserving any citrus I can get. This is where my Yuzu obsession began. The process is simple and is the same for any variety of citrus. After a few months, when the preserved citrus is ready, I take a few from each jar and puree them in my food processor to a thick, citrusy, salty umami paste. I have stockpiled everything from Limequat to Calamansi to Oro Blanco to Yuzu. I love having preserved citrus to tuck into a stew or a Tagine and preserved paste to spoon into butter and sauces.

It's truly a culinary treat to have these delectable umami flavors at your disposal, whether preserved citrus or citrus paste. Preserved citrus paste is gaining popularity; several varieties are available in the market. Making some jars of your own couldn’t be easier. The possibilities are endless once you start experimenting with these incredible citrus varieties. Now, where do I source all this citrus? If I'm on the West Coast during winter, my first stop is the farmers market. I always carry an extra Baggu Weekender to pack my clothes and fill my suitcase with citrus. I particularly enjoy the Marin Farmers Market in Northern California and the Santa Monica Farmers Market in LA. In New York, I ordered from Natoora and my friends at Bhumi Growers, a specialty citrus grower in New Jersey. I also ordered from Nicholas Family Farms. This year, while exploring the new Wegmans at Astor Place, I unexpectedly stumbled upon a treasure trove of Yuzu. You never know where you might find unique varieties, so keep your eyes peeled and ask your West Coast friends to send you a box of citrus; they are literally falling off the trees!

Another pantry staple I use a lot is Yuzu juice. It's the secret to the most divine salad dressings and sauces. It is a little pricey, but I love the floral sweetness of Yuzu juice and the sour punch that differs from lemon. I usually purchase mine at Sunrise Japanese Market in Soho, but you can find it at most Asian specialty shops. Kalyustians here in NY sometimes have it frozen. When shopping, look for one pure Yuzu juice, as some brands may add other citrus and citric acid, altering the unique flavor profile of Yuzu

.

While cruising through Instagram the other day, I came across Camilla Marcus, founder of Westbourne, talking about preserved Yuzu juice in California ( YUZUCO ). I am intrigued and can't wait to try it. The more options on the market, the better, and the easier it is to write something like Yuzu paste or juice into a recipe.

I leave you with this easy salt-preserved citrus recipe.

I will soon be sharing some ways I use it in my cooking.

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Salt-Preserved Citrus 

One of my favorite meditative activities is preparing salt-preserved citrus. While I try to do this on a snowy day at the height of the citrus season, plans don't always work out that way. I sometimes, throughout the year, find that I have a plethora of citrus left over from a shoot. More and more salt-preserving citrus has gone from a winter activity to an activity anytime I have an abundance of citrus. It feels like alchemic magic. Over time, the salt mingles with the juicy citrus, and the fruit softens. My go-to for every day preserved lemons is Meyer, but lately, I have been experimenting with any variety I can get my hands on. Yuzus has replaced Meyer in most recipes, calling for preserved citrus. Meyer lemons have thinner skins than regular lemons. I find they soften in the salt more quickly. Yuzu might take a few weeks longer than Meyers to soften up fully in the salt brine. The same goes for any thicker-skinned citrus such as Oro Blanco or Etrog. I prefer a bay leaf in each citrus but feel free to play around with spice or heat. Pink peppercorns and chili are nice additions. When the lemons are ready, remove any seeds and buzz a few in the food processor. The thick, glossy paste adds salty, briny brightness to any dish; I love it spooned into my lentils to cut the richness of rich pork and added to fish, crudo, and sauteed greens.

Makes 1 quart (1 L) 

6 to 8 Meyer lemons, preferably organic or (any other citrus you feel inclined to experiment with; the method is the same)

8-10 lemons, preferably organic

1 cup (230 g) kosher salt

6 to 8 bay leaves

Sterilize a 1-quart (1 L) glass canning jar. 

Cut the Meyer lemons lengthwise into quarters, leaving them attached at one end. *This process is the same for any citrus you are preserving.

Use as many lemons as you can fit in the jar. Juice the remaining lemons (you will need about 2 cups/480 ml juice). 

*When preserving any other citrus, do the same and cover them completely with lemon juice.

Pack the interior of each Meyer lemon with kosher salt. Add a bay leaf to each Meyer lemon and tuck the lemons into the canning jar. Add lemon juice to cover the lemons completely.

I use plastic lids for my preserved citrus. Metal lids corrode and ruin your citrus. I have found that even when adding a layer of plastic wrap before screwing on the lid hat, the salt may still start to eat away the metal lids over time; you don't want the jars to get rusty and spoil your hard work.) 

Store the jar in a cool, dark place to let the lemons ferment; turn the jars every few days to keep the salt evenly distributed. They are ready in 1 month but will keep indefinitely if they are refrigerated after opening. It is normal for salt-preserved citrus to lose its vibrant color over time and take on a darker appearance.

BITTER GREENS LENTILS SAUSAGE AND MUSTARD

Serves four generously. If you want to serve 6 dial back the greens and add more sausage or…just add more sausage and use a bigger pot!

Some days, I can't muster the energy to make a grand dinner. Being freelance, my schedule is never an absolute. That is the chaos that makes cooking and food shopping a little unpredictable. If I get home later than I thought I might, I've gotten good at throwing things together that cook quickly or without much effort. I've embrace the healthy habit of keeping a well stocked freezer. The hardest part about keeping a stocked freezer is using what's in there! I keep ragu, broths, sausages, and blanched and sautéed greens at the ready. Cooking on the fly is all about improvisation and well stocked larder, for me, that extends to my freezer. Recently, Eataly moved to our block, which was perfect because our other local grocer down the street recently closed. It's a bit fancy for my every day; but I do go there for specialty items, such as my favorite sausages from Raven and Boar, a farm in Upstate New York. For my everyday greens and vegetables, I head to The Greenmarket once or twice a week.

The other day, before I left for work, I peered into my freezer. I pulled out a half quart of steamed, blanched nettles tucked away at the height of summer last year when they were verdant and tender, a package of Italian sweet sausage with arugula from Raven and Boar Farm. I went to the pantry, where I seemed to hoard all kinds of legumes, saving that hoarding story for another day… I put some Umbrian lentils out of the off-the-shelf. I knew I had the components for a good dinner, but I wasn't sure what I was going to do with it. I got home late, and the first thing I did before even taking off my coat was look in the fridge. There was a sad bunch of broccoli rabe and pink Radicchio that needed to be used.

I browned the sausages with a tiny bit of olive oil in a large Dutch oven. While they were browning, I diced a large shallot and smashed four garlic cloves. When the sausages were browned, I removed them and set them aside. I added the shallots and the garlic to the crispy bits of sausage fat and cooked them until they were soft. I washed and chopped broccoli rabe and Radicchio and threw it in the pot with the blanched thawed nettle. I added a cup of water and let it cook for about five minutes. I felt like it needed a little umami, so I chopped a quarter of a preserved lemon, added a generous pinch of chili flakes and two heaping tablespoons of grainy mustard, and gave it a quick stir before transferring it to my Donabe ( Not necessary; you can cook it all in a Dutch oven, but I am in love with this black Donabe and its easy oven to table vibes.) Make a little hole in the center of the greens and add the dried lentils. Arrange the sausages on top and then cover them with five cups of water ( Feel free to use broth; mushroom broth would be lovely here, but water is fine too). I covered the Donabe, placed it in the oven, and then went about my evening. Two hours later, I had the most magnificent dinner. It took about 15 minutes to prepare and a little foresight in the morning before I left the house. This recipe is also great for a late weekend lunch, and your home will smell divine. *I love mustard and am currently obsessed with both of these varieties, one which I picked up at First Bloom Corner Store in Bloomville NY and the other at the Formaggio Essex in Essex market here in NYC. (Mustard Pommeray and Schwerter Senfmuhle Stammhaus) both are insanely good.

This recipe is really more greens than it is sausage or lentils and that is just the way I like it. Give me a pile of bitter greens all day everyday.

You can swap in any green you want. If you don't have Radicchio, use an extra head of broccoli rabe or kale; if you don't have nettles, you can use spinach. Dandelions work well too. Just get whatever kind of greens you can into the lentils, and I promise you they will be super tasty.

Serve with a big squeeze of a cheeky lemon and some grainy mustard.

You are going to thank me later for the leftovers later.

BITTER GREENS SAUSAGE AND MUSTARD

1 pound Sweet Italian Sausage

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil plus more for serving

1 shallot coarsely chopped

4 garlic cloves smashed

1 bunch Broccoli Rabe about 1 pound preferably organic roughly chopped

1 head of Treviso or Rosa del Veneto about 1 pound roughly chopped

2 cups blanched nettles about 1/2 pound

1/4 preserved lemon finely chopped

Pinch coarse black pepper

Pinch Chili Flakes

1 lemon for serving

2 tablespoons grainy mustard plus more for serving

METHOD

In a large Dutch oven brown the sausages in 1 tablespoon of olive oil

When the sausages are brown, remove and set aside

Add the garlic and shallot to the sausage drippings in the Dutch oven and cook over medium heat until soft

Add the greens along with 2 tablespoons of olive oil and 1 cup of water, cook over medium heat until the greens are soft.

Add the 1/4 preserved lemon, chili flakes and grainy mustard, stir to incorporate

Make a small well in the centers of the greens add the dried lentils

Arrange the sausage on top and cover with 5 cups of water.

Drizzle with olive oil, cover and cook at 350 degrees for 2 hours.

Serve with a big squeeze lemon, a little grainy mustard and a drizzle of olive oil ( right now I am obsessed with Oracle Oil’s unfiltered bright peppery Agoureleo from Crete.

Late last fall, we had the pleasure of accompanying Cristiana Sadidigianis, Oracle Oil founder, to western Crete, Greece's largest island, to participate in the olive oil harvest for a limited edition Agoureleo, a bright and slightly bitter olive oil with notes of walnut. We also took some time to explore the Chania side of the island while we were there. More about that soon.

Agoureleo is the vibrant green olive oil resulting from the very first pressing of the Koroneiki variety of olives during early harvest, which for us meant early October.

As Cristiana wrote for the Oracle Oil Journal “Our adventures took us through Crete's rugged mountains, along scenic roads, and into deep gorges. We trekked invigorating hikes, visited beekeepers, dined in quaint local tavernas, lounged on serene beaches, and soaked in the sophisticated ambiance of Chania's harbor.”

Below is a recipe I originally shared via the Oracle Oil Journal last fall.

I have had lentils cooked many ways in many different countries, so when I saw these bubbling away in a large pot on the very busy stove at Dounias Taverna in Crete, I was intrigued. Served simply in a shallow painted bowl with a warm hunk of bread, a few olives, and a generous dousing of bright green olive oil, they were comforting, mellow, and deliscious. I have done my best to re-create a version of them below. They come together quickly, making them an easy weeknight dinner. Soon, I will be sharing two more easy, delicious lentil recipes; both are perfect for these cozy late winter days. In the meantime, I leave you with this dish from Crete.

CRETAN RED LENTILS

1 carrot peeled and chopped finely

4 cloves garlic smashed and chopped finely

1 shallot chopped finely

1 stalk celery chopped finely

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil plus more for finishing

2 tablespoons salted butter

1 tablespoon smashed coriander seed

A pinch of dried Greek oregano

2-3 fresh bay leaves crushed to release oils

1/4 teaspoon fennel pollen (optional) plus more for garnish

1 1/2 cup split red lentils, also called Mansoor Dal

1 quart of whole peeled tomatoes or 1 qt of tomato puree

1 quart of water

1 tablespoon Pine honey ( any floral honey will work as well)

1/2 cup thick Greek Yogurt or Labneh for serving

10-12 small green olives for garnish or 1/4 cup rinsed salted capers

Cracked black pepper and crunchy sea salt to taste

METHOD

In a large Dutch oven, warm the olive oil and garlic over medium-low heat

Add the chopped carrot, garlic, shallot, and celery to the olive oil and butter, and slowly cook the soffrito until soft, about ten minutes.

Turn the heat down and add the crushed coriander, oregano, bay leaf, and fennel pollen; cook for another 2-3 minutes.

Add the split red lentils and cook for another minute or two, stirring to coat them and slightly toast them.

Add the water and pureed tomatoes ( canned whole peeled tomatoes are fine as long as you use a stick blender to puree them)

Cook over medium heat at a bare simmer for about 30 minutes, stirring frequently.

Add more water if you feel the consistency is getting too thick.

When the lentils are one, stir in the Pine honey, taste for salt, and add if needed.

Cover and let the lentils rest while you prepare the olives or capers

If using olives, add a little extra virgin olive oil to a small pot and cook the olives over low heat until just warm, about a minute

If using capers, fry them off for a minute or so in a little olive oil.

Serve the lentils in large bowls with a spoonful of Greek yogurt. Top with warmed olives, fried capers, a little fresh onion, or green scallion. Dealer’s choice.

Finish it with a bit of cracked black pepper, a pinch of fennel pollen, and a generous glug of extra virgin olive oil. This is the perfect place to use that special bottle of Agoureleo.

CRISPY MASALA-ISH POTATO DOSA WITH SPRING ONION / SAVORY WINTER DOSA WITH MARMALADE AND PECORINO / HYDERABAD STREET DOSA

There are many available options for dosa mix, both wet and dry. I prefer a wet mixed brand called Banjali, which I buy here in New York at Kalyustians. Kalyustians has been around since the 1940s; it was initially a market for Indian spices and groceries but is now known for specialty comestibles. If you haven't been, it is well worth a trip. I always leave with more than planned; it never disappoints. A few years ago, we traveled around India with Diaspora founder Sana Javeri Kadri, photographing a handful of her farm partners. We talked about dosa; her take on ready-made batter was that they were all pretty bad. While it's true that I have had a few disappointing batters, the biggest drawback was that they stuck to the pan; I stand by the Banjali batter.

I have made both dosas and Idli with their batter, and it's perfect. Walking with Sana through her neighborhood in Mumbai, we visited her local spot for dosa batter. When we arrived, the men working at the stall were mid-soaking and grinding the rice and urad dal. There were many vats in various stages of fermentation. The stall's floors and walls were covered in rice, lentil dust, and Pollock-like batter splatters. I watched them grind the rice with a big stone grinder as they gave me a few tips for making dosa at home. I watched, fascinated, as the men, faces covered in the dust of rice and lentils, clothes splattered with dosa batter, moved through the task of making the batter. You can ferment your batter as they were doing if you want, but it is a process. I have included a recipe below if you wish to do so. Dosa is made with three ingredients: lentils, rice, and fenugreek, which aids fermentation. As the men at the shop in Mumbai told me, the lentils and rice are soaked overnight and then stone-ground separately to a soft, milky slurry. They are combined, the fenugreek is added, and they are ground again. The batter is left to ferment for 8-12 hours.

Once the dosa is fermented, they scoop it into small plastic bags and pile it up in the front of the stall. Customers come all day to buy the soft, milky putty pouches of batter. 

Once back in New York, I tried to channel them; the recipe below is where I landed. ( and again, feel free to buy the Banjali batter if making it from scratch feels too daunting) The process feels like making a sourdough starter to me. Once you get in the habit of making it, you will want to keep it on hand. Dosa's make the best quick meal or snack. They can be both sweet or savory, simple or fully loaded.

For many years, we lived a few blocks from Hampton Chutney, a delicious dosa spot, which has now sadly closed its New York City location. (still out east, though) After taking our kids to India when they were 7 and 8, they, too, became obsessed with a crunchy dosa. A short walk to Hampton Chutney for dosa and steamy chai became a weekend ritual. The kids liked their dosas fully loaded; I stuck to the Masala or the cheese dosa, which I was sure must be some American bastardization. It wasn't until visiting the city of Hyderabad in Southern India with Sana and eating some of the best street food I have ever had that I came face to face with cheese and semolina dosa, a piping hot street food specialty of Hyderabad. I stood mesmerized as giant ladles of batter pooled into a bubbling fermented disc. They worked quickly, drizzling a small amount of ghee, a ladle of batter, and a tiny puddle of cooked semolina porridge plopped in the middle. As steam rose and swirled around the giant circular disc, the dosa maker added shavings of cheese, raw onion, and ridiculously umami-bursting chili podi. (if you know, you know, linking a recipe for curry leaf chili podi from Sana here.) The last step was to deftly grab a raw tomato and squeeze it into a ball, juice and seeds dripping into the center of the dosa, which was beginning to crisp at its edges. He swooshed all the ingredients together before folding it and sliding it quickly into a newspaper envelope with the back of a spoon. We ate quickly and got in line for more. 

Round two was steaming piles of Idli doused in ghee and chili podhi. 

DOSA BATTER

makes about 4 cups of batter

1 1/2 cups rice Dosa rice (at your Indian market or use any short grain rice)

1/2 cup split Urad Dal

1 teaspoon fenugreek 

METHOD

Soak rice and Dal separately overnight. I use quart containers.

About 4 inches of water on top to cover

FOR THE RICE

In the morning, reserve the soaking water and set it aside. Transfer the rice and dal separately to a colander and rinse. 

Grind the rice and dal separately.

Start with the rice, which takes longer to grind. Add 1 cup of soaking water to rice and grind it in a food processor; for about 5 minutes, the batter will be a little grainy with a consistency of heavy cream ( add more water if it is too thick. The soaking water will aid in fermentation. Scrape the sides down of the food processor if needed. Transfer it to a bowl and set it to the side when ready.

FOR URAAD DAL

Add 1 cup of the soaking water and the fenugreek. Grind to the consistency of heavy cream.

Scrape the sides down of the food processor if needed.

Combine the rice and dal batter in the food processor.

Processes on high until the batter is thick and smooth.

Pour into a 1/2 gallon ball jar, leaving about half empty for headroom. 

Cover with cheesecloth and secure with a string or a rubber band

Set aside in a dark, warm spot and ferment for 10-12 hours

Fermentation may happen more quickly if you are in a warmer climate.

You will see your batter double in size.

SALT AFTER FERMENTATION

Stir in 1 teaspoon of salt after the 10-12 hour fermentation.

COOKING

I use a large flat cast iron pan with no lip. You can find a dosa pan online or use a flat tortilla pan. The key is for there to be no lip so the dosa will not get stuck.

Turn the pan to medium-high heat.

Splatter the pan with water to see if it is hot enough to start. When it is, the water will bubble, splatter, and evaporate quickly.

Add a little ghee, about 1/2 teaspoon. With a paper towel, move the ghee around the pan to thoroughly coat

Turn the heat down to medium.

With a ladle, drop a spoonful of batter in the center of the hot pan; quickly swirl the batter out towards the sides of the pan in a circular motion. You want the batter to be thin and evenly coat the pan. The dosa will steam a little as it cooks. Add a little ghee and smooth it around with the back of a spoon. Tiny visible air holes will start to form. Once the dosa becomes visibly crispy at the edges, it is done. Add fillings. Fold it in half with a spatula and transfer it to a plate.

CRISPY MASALA-ISH POTATOES WITH SPRING ONION 

Serves 4

2 pounds of potatoes peeled and cubed (about 5-6 medium-sized potatoes)

1 tablespoon salt 

2 teaspoons powdered turmeric

5 tablespoons ghee 

4 tablespoons neutral oil

1-2 spring onions with greens chopped coarsely (about 1 1/2 cups)

If spring onion isn't available, any allium with greens will do; leeks, ramp, or scallion, for instance

1 spring garlic finely chopped or two cloves of garlic minced

1 teaspoon brown mustard seed

1-inch nub of ginger minced

1/4 dried red chili

2 cardamom pod crushed seeds removed and crushed

12 fresh curry leaves

*feel free to up the chili if you want more heat

METHOD

Peel and quarter the potatoes lengthwise and cut them into 1/4-inch pieces

Add ½ tablespoon salt to the water and boil the potatoes until tender but not falling apart.

Drain and set aside to cool.

Clean and roughly chop the spring onion, using the green tops and the bulb, and set aside.

Grate the ginger and set aside.

Add two tablespoons of ghee and neutral oil to a large cast-iron or stainless steel fry pan.

Spread the potatoes into a single layer

Add turmeric and salt and stir gently to combine.

 Resist the urge to stir too much; you want the potatoes to develop a crust. Fry until golden and crispy on one side. Flip with a spatula and fry the other side. Flip one more time so most of the potatoes are crispy.

Remove from the pan and set aside.

Add three tablespoons of ghee in the same cast iron and melt over medium-high heat.

Add mustard seeds and cook until they bloom and dance for about a minute. 

Turn the heat down and Add the ginger, chili, crushed cardamom, and spring onion.

Cook until onions are soft. About 3-4 minutes.

Add curry leaves and cook until they turn a bright green

Return the potatoes to the pan with the onion mixture and toss to combine.

Add the potato filling to the crispy dosa. 

Garnish with fresh coriander and cilantro chutney.

SAVORY WINTER DOSA WITH MARMALADE AND PECORINO

( PHOTO COMING SOON )

This marmalade and pecorino dosa is an ode to crispy Frico and apple served at Buvette. I first had frico at Buvette when we were shooting the cookbook.

The thin, crispy cheese served with sharp apples was everything I wanted to eat. I had been thinking of doing a frico with marmalade on a snowy winter morning in New York, but that thought morphed into something else. So I pulled out the dosa batter, some pecorino, some ghee, and a pile of marmalade jars next to the stove, the spoils of my most recent obsession.

I heated the flat skillet, drizzled some ghee, and gently wiped the excess away with a paper towel. Next, I poured my batter, spooned a little ghee, grabbed the micro-plane, showered it with sharp Pecorino, and spooned Calamansi and ginger marmalade over the cheese. I am not exaggerating when I say this was one of the most delicious things I have eaten in a long time. The sour-sweet fermented taste reminded me of a buckwheat crepe I ate in the Himalayas dripping in local apricot jam. Like the frico and apple, it hits all the salty, nutty, sweet-sour umami notes. 

.

Follow the directions above to make the batter.

INGREDIENTS

dosa batter

ghee

marmalade preferably homemade

grated Pecorino

METHOD

Follow the cooking method above.

Drizzle a little ghee on the dosa.

Add two tablespoons of marmalade.

Grate Pecorino over the marmelade.

Fold the dosa and serve.

HYDERABAD STREET DOSA

Follow the directions above to make the batter.

INGREDIENTS

Make a thin semolina porridge ABOUT 1/2 CUP

Dosa batter

Ghee

1 small red add onion chopped finely

1 slice white cheddar Cheese

1/2 teaspoon curry leaf or chili podi

2 tomatoes crushed by hand

METHOD

Cook the semolina porridge and set it aside.

Follow the cooking instructions above.

Add a large pat of butter or ghee to the cooking dosa

Add a spoonful of semolina porridge and smear the butter and porridge together

Add a good pinch of curry leaf or chili podi

Add a tablespoon of chopped red onion.

Add a square of cheddar cheese.

Squeeze the juice and pulp of one tomato over the cooking dosa.

 Add chopped mint.

Fold over and serve piping hot.

Useful links:

Kalyustans

Diaspora Co

Patel Brothers

I am late to the Substack party, but it's not for lack of thinking about it.

Over the past few years, I have spent hours obsessing over names for my Substack. I told myself the name was the stumbling block that prevented me from starting. Honestly, though, it was more fear of starting something new and all that comes with that process. Friends, If I texted you, emailed you, or slid into your DM's with an exhaustive list of names, including everything from Hare's Ear (a wild mushroom) to Florae~ thank you for listening. I know I pestered you (you know who you are, I see you, I love you, I thank you )

I wanted to decide if it was a journal or a digest or if it should be one word or two. Nothing was feeling right. I long ago retired my blog, Hungry Ghost, and it went to the blog graveyard. Thank you to any of you who used to read it. It was pretty scrappy. I abandoned it when Instagram started, but I missed the process. After writing my first cookbook, Cooking With Mushrooms, I realized how much content I created that never made it to the book. Over the years, Instagram became my place for content creation after the blog. The more recent move from photos to reels did not resonate with me. Lately, I felt the pull of a longer-form narrative. I wanted a place to share travel stories, recipes, interviews, and narrative memoir. I am that person who wants to tell anyone who will listen about my latest meal or a new kitchen tool, comestible, restaurant, or wild mushroom find. I want to discuss my book-writing process and share my experience photographing other people's books.

I am of the mentality - that sharing lifts us all. 

It's no secret that if you know me, you know that I love to stock my larder with all kinds of exciting ingredients from near and far. I always travel with an extra bag inside my suitcase (usually the Baggu Weekender) to fill with the flavor bombs I find along the way. Think of the most amazing salted capers, powdered bottarga, the thickest, tastiest tomato paste (estrattu), or colatura, the umami essence of anchovy. From my kitchen, you will find salted citrus, homemade mushroom powders, and all kinds of wild greens; dandelion, chicory, lambs quarters, mustard greens, and purselane. Don’t even get me started on my love for nettles.

After much thought, I settled on Wild Larder Journal as my substack name. Wild Larder Journal will be a newsletter, a series of workshops, and a place to share my latest larder obsessions and seasonal recipes. It will be a place for travel notes and inspiration. It will be a newsletter, a digest, and a journal. It will be an evolution, just like life.

It's the umbrella under which I will gather and collect my favorite things. I am so excited to share them with you. 

I plan to post once or twice a month while I work out the kinks. Subscriptions are free at the moment. Sometime in the future, I will charge a nominal fee for extra recipes and specialty content. I am hoping some of you will subscribe. It will be a way for me to continue to bring original and inspiring content directly to you!

So, welcome to Wild Larder Journal

I am enormously grateful that you are here.

Xx

Andrea

SPARKLY YUZU MARMALADE

I started making marmalade in the late winter of 2020. It comforted me to have the house filled with the beautiful smell of citrus. The windows were all steamy, and in the end, I had glistening jars of marmalade to share with family and friends. The taste of it made me think of my great-grandmother and her love for lemons.

It inspired a small essay I wrote during that time called Traveling Through Toast. I will share it below. Since then, I've made many kinds of marmalade with all types of citrus, everything from Yuzu to Oroblanco and Meyer lemon to Calamansi and Limequat, you name it. I've done this so often that I stopped following any recipe and went on intuition. When a friend asked me for my recipe earlier this winter, I couldn't tell her because it was all in my head. So, I made a small batch of marmalade to work out the ratios; this is the recipe below. There are as many ways to make marmalade as roast a chicken. I am sharing just one way. I am using a whole fruit method here because it's quick; other methods involve soaking the rinds anywhere from overnight to four to five days! Some marmalade recipes will have you peel the rind and supreme the fruit. Yuzu benefits from the whole fruit method because they are full of seeds and don't have an abundance of juice or flesh to supreme. If you decide to experiment with another citrus, feel free to supreme them and soak the rind for days and days if that's your thing. Here in New York City, we are fortunate to find many kinds of citrus becoming increasingly popular in mainstream grocery stores such as Whole Foods and Wegman's, where I found piles of Yuzu December. If you are looking for a specific citrus you can't find in your area; I've attached links below to farms I've worked with. I hope this inspires you to make your sparkly jars of marmalade.

INGREDIENTS

SPARKLY YUZU MARMALADE

2 pounds Yuzu fruit, approx 5 cups rind

2 teaspoons pink Himalayan salt

4 cups sugar

5 cups of poaching water (see directions below), plus 5 cups of fresh water

3 tablespoons Ume plum vinegar

Juice of 4-5 lemons, about 1 cup juice

METHOD

Stick a couple of small plates in the freezer before beginning this project. You will use them later and want them to be super cold.

Wash the fruit.

Sterilize jars

Fill an extra large stock pot with water about ¾ full. ( You want at least 5 cups of poaching liquid left over after boiling)

Add the two teaspoons of sea salt.

Add the whole Yuzu fruit to the pot. The salt helps to soften the skin and adds to the umami-ness of the marmalade. Bring to a boil and reduce the heat to a bare simmer until soft. You are essentially poaching the fruit. You want to pierce the skin with a fork easily. If it is still tough, cook until soft. This can take anywhere from an hour to an hour and a half.

Remove from heat. With a slotted spoon, transfer the citrus to a bowl to cool. Save the poaching water.

As the citrus cools, it will look shrunken from all sides. This is normal.

Line a colander with a piece of cheesecloth, set the colander inside another bowl, and set it aside.

Once the citrus is cool enough to handle, cut it in half and scoop out the insides over the cheesecloth and bowl (you are scooping out all the flesh and pits into the colander lined with cheesecloth). Any juice will be caught in the bowl below.

Once you have scooped out all the seeds and flesh of the Yuzu, tie the cheesecloth into a bundle so the seeds can escape. (It helps if you use a new cheesecloth for this project. I found the older cheesecloth allows the pips to slip into the marmalade.)

Now, you are ready to cut your citrus into thin strips. Cut each round into quarters using a sharp knife, then cut thin strips. This is where the hand of the maker comes in. You can cut the rind as thin or thick as you want; it depends on how you prefer your marmalade. Set the rinds aside in a large bottom stock pot or a copper jam pan.

Once the citrus is cut into thin strips and placed in the pot, add 4 cups of poaching liquid and 4 cups of fresh water to the rinds. Tuck the bag of flesh, and pips into the pot, and boil for about an hour until the liquid is visibly reduced by half.

Remove from the heat; remove the muslin or cheesecloth and set it in a bowl to cool.

Once cool enough to handle, squeeze the bag of flesh and pips to remove as much pectin as possible into the bowl through the muslin; it will be thick and dense. Make sure to keep it tied up so no pips escape.

Add the pectin, sugar, umeboshi plum vinegar, and 3/4 cup lemon juice to the cooked rinds. The umeboshi vinegar is my secret umami for all of my marmalades. It adds a slight saltiness and bitterness and is perfectly paired with the sweet-sour of the citrus.

Turn heat to medium and boil for a minute or two, stirring until all the sugar is dissolved. Reduce the heat to a bare simmer for about an hour.

Marmalade set times are fussy, so use your eyes, intuition, and hands to check when your marmalade is ready. First, watch for the bubbles to get slow and thick; people often say it is like bubbling crude oil, but who has a reference for that? I recently read that Alison Roman likens marmalade readiness in bubbles to slow-blinking fish eyes; this I understand.

As soon as the bubbles start changing, grab your thermometer and see where you are for temperature. Add the last 1/4 cup of lemon juice and stir in. Most recipes say the marmalade setting time is 220, but I like my marmalade a little runny. My sweet spot for marmalade is around 218 degrees, but this produces a pretty runny result. (I add it to yogurt, ice cream, labneh, or on top of my favorite cheesecake or piece of toast; these all benefit from a looser set. If you want a thicker marmalade, take it to 220 and test it as soon as it reaches that point. Take out your frozen plate, put a small spoonful on it, and let it cool for a minute. Smear the marmalade with a spoon through the center; if it pools quickly back together, it needs more cooking time; if it stays somewhat separated, it is ready. This may seem a little daunting, but trust me, once you do it, you'll understand.

When the marmalade is ready, add the juice of 1 lemon and let it cool for ten or fifteen minutes before filling the sterilized jars and covering them with lids. You can store the marmalade in your fridge or hot water bath can. If you store them in your refrigerator, tell your friends to refrigerate when you give them away. If you hot-water bath the jars, they will be shelf-stable and don't need to be refrigerated until opened.

Bhumi Growers

Pearson Ranch

Here is a link to hot water bath canning.

TRAVELING THROUGH TOAST

It is a cold winter morning. I am upstate in our tiny farmhouse on the North slope of a mountain where big fat snowflakes silently blanket the frozen ground. No one is up yet except the cat, and while I am physically in the upper western Catskills, my spirit travels through toast.

I move around the kitchen, reach for the salt, and stop to clip a small piece of oregano from the dried bundle hanging near the stove. As I do so, I am thinking about the market in Catania and the blinding salty limestone cliffs of the Scala de Turchi. I generously smear my toast with local Jersey butter, sparkly citrus marmalade (recipe below), pungent dried Sicilian oregano, and fleur de sel from the salt flats of Trapani.

Toast is the perfect talisman to carry collected flavors and memories from afar. Toast is a humble partner waiting for me to unload my heavy suitcase, filled with Anchovies and Astrattu from Sicily, Honey from a convent in France, a dusting of powdered bottarga from the shop near the fish market in Venice, pickled Kritamo from Ischia, and rose petal and almond spoon sweets from Andros. These condiments may be small but are big in flavor and easily tucked away in a suitcase bound for home.

The salt and oregano I sprinkle on my toast are comestibles collected from a trip to Sicily; this toast becomes much more than a piece of toast. It's an adventure and an invitation to time travel. Toast is not a recipe. It's more of an instinct, hands reaching for a serrated knife, a quick cut, edges browned to just crispy, center soft. Slather it with a smear of buttercup yellow, softened salty butter. Eat it just like that, or dress it up as above. Toast is comforting and rich with memories. As I bite into it, a drip of butter hits the table. The flavor profile is so ridiculously good. I start to dream about other ways to use it. Just like that, inspiration comes, and a flavor profile is born, all from a distant memory of a blinding hot summer day, the mountain breeze densely fragrant with wild herbs, and the salty sea.

TRAVELING THROUGH TOAST

It is a cold winter morning in February, the month that always seems to be the hardest of winter. I am upstate in our tiny farmhouse on the North slope of a mountain where big fat snowflakes are silently blanketing the frozen ground. No one is up yet except the cat, and while I am physically in the upper western Catskills, my spirit travels through toast this winter morning. I move around the kitchen, reach for the salt, and stop to clip a small piece of oregano from the dried bundle hanging near the stove. As I do so, I am thinking about the market in Catania and the blinding salty limestone cliffs of the Scala de Turchi. I generously smear my toast with local Jersey butter, sparkly citrus marmalade, pungent dried Sicilian oregano, and fleur de sel from the salt flats of Trapani.

The salt and oregano are comestibles collected from a 2019 trip to Sicily; this toast becomes much more than a piece of toast. It’s an adventure and an invitation to time travel. Toast is not a recipe. It’s more of an instinct, hands reaching for a serrated knife, a quick cut, edges browned to just crispy, center soft. Slather it with a smear of buttercup yellow, softened salty butter. Eat it just like that, or dress it up as above. Toast is comforting and rich with memories. As I bite into it, a drip of butter hits the table. The flavor profile is so ridiculously good. I start to dream about other ways to use it. Just like that, inspiration comes, and a flavor profile is born, all from a distant memory of a blinding hot summer day, the mountain breeze densely fragrant with wild herbs, and the salty sea.

Enjoy!!

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