Thursday, February 21, 2019

Turnip Hummus

It's February. Even if you were, as my family recently was, the accidental recipient of *TEN POUNDS* of candy conversation hearts via Amazon (that's a whole lotta love), nothing exciting usually happens during this month. If you're a CSA subscriber or farmer's market shopper and live where winters are cold, you can't escape root vegetables, either. You may choose to avoid them—that's understandable—or you can wholeheartedly embrace them and get creative, as we've been trying to do. 

This winter, I've had turnip hummus on replay. I know, it doesn't sound too sexy and it's probably not an actual, true hummus, but I promise it's delicious and easy, and you should try it if you're looking to put some turnips to good use. You roast the turnips whole and skin-on (my preferred way to cook beets, as well), and blend them with a liberal amount of tahini, roasted garlic, and lemon juice. If you have a more powerful blender you'll get an ultra-smooth, whipped texture, but you can use a food processor or crappy blender for a slightly more rustic vibe. The recipe: 

Turnip Hummus:

  • 3 medium turnips, scrubbed
  • 2 garlic cloves, peels on
  • 2/3 cup sesame tahini (stirred well)
  • 2 TBS fresh lemon juice
  •  1/4 tsp ground cumin, or to taste
  • 2 TBS olive oil (if needed)
  • 1/2 tsp salt, or to taste
  1.  Preheat oven to 375°. Wrap turnips and garlic cloves loosely in a foil packet, add a splash of water, pinch the foil shut, and place in a baking dish in the oven. The garlic cloves will probably be ready in about 30 minutes, or when soft. Roast turnips for about 45 minutes to an hour, or until soft enough that a knife tip easily pierces the turnip. (check regularly, as ovens and turnips vary!)
  2. When done and cool enough to handle, chop the turnips a few times (skins included) and squeeze garlic cloves out of their skins (discard skins). 
  3. Put all ingredients except olive oil in your blender and blend until very smooth. If  tahini was very solid you may need additional olive oil. Taste for salt and add a bit more—and more lemon juice—if needed. Serve at any temperature, and add a swish of olive oil and/or a sprinkle of zaatar.
With roasted carrots

Thursday, May 17, 2018

A word about ramps

Ramps, those stinking starlets of Spring, are here for their brief season. Chances are, if you live in the Eastern states or midwest, you can’t escape their presence on menus, in farmer’s markets, CSAs (like our excellent Local Roots), and now even in some supermarkets. The question is, are they being foraged into oblivion? There’s hot debate about that. Although they're often photographed as impossibly lush shag carpets on forest floors, many botanists and pro foragers assert that, if harvested en masse, roots and all, they can’t properly regenerate and may go the way of the dodo. Others insist they're a weed and will outlive our own destructive presence on this planet. Whatever the case, it’s best to be safe and opt for ramps that are sustainably harvested, which ideally means leaves-only, or a few bulbs taken without removing the root stock. Lani’s farm, one of my favorite NYC greenmarket vendors, sells their ramps this way. If you forage for yourself, you can do this by digging around the ramp bulb and slicing just above the woody rootstock to free it—that part's not edible, anyway. Cover the rhizome back up so it can propagate the next year.

Although ramp bulbs taste phenomenal pickled, grilled, sautéed, and cooked just about any other way, you really don’t need the bulb to enjoy the essence of ramps. The leaves, as my grandfather would have said, “will put hair on your chest”—meaning they’re pretty feisty in their own right. I whir them into pestos with carrot or radish tops, puree them in soups, and use them to make one of my favorite things ever: ramp butter. Below is a dead simple recipe for ramp butter (Try it on warm cornbread. You’re welcome.), plus a sprightly soup that makes use of all the alliums of Spring and requires just a few ramps mingled amongst their tame cousins. I throw the leaves in raw for maximum potency, but if you have an important meeting coming up or your digestion is on the sensitive side, you can simmer them in with the rest of the vegetables until they’re wilted. The color won’t be as brilliant, and the flavor? A more demure announcement of Spring.

Ramp Butter
Soften about ¾ stick of unsalted butter at room temperature. Chop the leaves of about 8 ramps very finely—mince them up! Fold them into the butter and mix in a nice crystally salt like fleur de sel or Maldon until you get the taste right.



Allium, Potato, and Buttermilk Soup 
Serves 6


  • 2 TBS unsalted butter
  • 1 large leek (or 2 small ones), white and palest green parts only, chopped
  • 1 small onion or shallot, or ½ med. onion, peeled and chopped
  • 1 large clove garlic, peeled and roughly chopped
  • 4 ramps: bulbs, stems, and leaves (or substitute scallions)
  • 3 medium-sized waxy potatoes, peeled and cubed
  • 3 cups unsalted chicken stock or vegetable stock, plus water as needed 
  • Sea salt to taste
  • ½ cup good buttermilk (not fat free)
  • ¼ cup heavy cream, or to taste
  • 1 tsp fresh lemon juice
  • Optional garnish: chopped chives and/or chive flowers
  1. Prepare ramps: Wash thoroughly and slip the outer membrane off the bulbs. Chop off and discard any roots. Remove bulbs and stems, then roughly chop them. Chop the leaves and put them aside until the very end (if you’re using scallions do the same). 
  2. In a large heavy pot or Dutch oven, heat the butter gently until it melts, then add the leeks, onion, and ramp bottoms. Sprinkle a little salt over them and sweat them gently for about 7-8 minutes, stirring occasionally. Make sure they do not brown at all!
  3.  Add garlic and potato and cook for about 5 minutes or so, stirring occasionally, then pour in stock. Raise the heat to bring to a boil, lower to a simmer, and cook, covered, until the potatoes are tender, about 30 minutes or so.  
  4. Once potatoes are tender, throw in the ramp leaves and whir in the blender or with an immersion blender until very smooth. If you blender is not great you can run the whole thing through a strainer afterwards.  
  5. Add the buttermilk, heavy cream, and lemon juice and add salt until it tastes right—the soup should not taste salty but all the flavors should assert themselves. If the soup is too thick, add a little water until the consistency is right. 
  6. To serve: I prefer this soup chilled but it’s good warm, too. You can swirl a little cream or crème fraîche on the top and scatter some chopped chives or chive flowers. 

Friday, March 16, 2018

Inner worlds, outer worlds

A couple of nights ago at the family table, we paid tribute the great Stephen Hawking, who had left this world in the wee hours of the morning, and whose magnitude we wanted to make sure the kids appreciated. We parents and the big girls got appropriately science-nerdy and then a bit existential as the discussion flowed from black holes to cosmic energy, to the notion of a holographic universe, and then on to Elon Musk’s assertion that we are living inside a computer simulation and that A.I. is really in control of us all.

The five-year-old, who would rather be building Legos than pretty much anything else, normally stages a complete shutdown during such discussions; talk about meerkats, dino trucks, and Captain Underpants is more his speed. But on this occasion he got a thoughtful look on his face and waited politely to slip into the next gap in conversation.

“I used to live in the outer world,” he said. “And now I live in the inner world.”

We all fell silent, kind of spooked, waiting for him to throw open some goosebump-raising window onto a previous life—perhaps even provide a clue to an unknown realm. We urged him to dig deeper.

“I was in the outer world and then…and then you bought me from the monkey store and I’m in the inner world now.”

I’m not sure what the takeaway was from the conversation, but we all fell silent and resumed enjoying the no-brainer chicken dish I’d put together on the fly moments before. It's a one-dish meal that will by no means solve the riddles of the universe, but it's kind of everything in our inner world, on a weeknight, when we don't feel like scrubbing more than one pan but we do feel like something warm, tangy, saucy, and restorative. It's amenable to infinite variations and can be prepped ahead, refrigerated in the pan, and pulled out when you're ready to roast. It's genius in its own right.


“It would not be much of a universe if it wasn’t home to the people you love.”
—Stephen Hawking

One Pan Chicken with Lemons, Caperberries, Potatoes
Serves a family of 4-5
  • 1 chicken, cut into 8 pieces
  • Extra-virgin olive oil
  • 2 leeks, including whites and all but the very toughest green parts, chopped fine
  • ½ lemon, cut into slices then quarters
  • 1 medium tomato, chopped
  • 8-10 whole giant caperberries, drained (you can substitute green olives)
  • 4-6 medium potatoes, cut into quarters or sixths (leave skins on if organic)
  • Splash of water
  • Sea salt and freshly ground pepper
  1. Preheat oven to 400°. Pat chicken dry and season with salt and pepper. In a baking dish (or huge skillet) large enough to fit the chicken without crowding, spread out the leeks, sprinkle lightly with salt and pepper, then drizzle with olive oil. Next, add the lemons, potatoes, tomatoes, and caperberries. Splash a small amount of water (a few tablespoons) in the pan. Put the chicken pieces on top of everything so that none of the pieces are touching, and drizzle on some olive oil—a fairly generous amount. 
  2. Bake the chicken, basting every 15 minutes or so with the cooking liquids that are generated, until the pieces are done and the top surfaces are nicely browned—about 40-50 minutes, but everyone's oven is different. (If you're not sure, cut into one of the thighs along the bone; if there's still blood the chicken could use some more time)
  3. Serve hot, with the pan juices and a little of everything else, including the lemons.