A neglected house is a sad house, and sometimes even a bitter one. After the turn of new year, when we finally opened up our beloved little cottage after eons away, we were greeted by a puff of musty air – as though the place was angry at us for leaving it for so long to the field mice. It was slow to share its charms.
The answering machine was blinking. We had three hang-ups in a row and a message from a mystery lady saying “Phyllis? You there? Call me. There’s been a…development.”
Outside, the New England landscape was stripped down to her shabby underthings – frumpy without a pretty blanket of snow to dress up her figure. There have been no good blizzards to speak of this winter, unless you count the October freak that snuffed out power for weeks and splintered our lovely tulip magnolia in half–the tree that explodes in pink blossoms every year for Ben’s birthday.
The first thing we do, always, is put the kettle on. The bags come in. The children stumble inside and squeal in horror at how frigid the house is and jostle for a spot on the sheepskin throw. It’s a tiny house, though, so it heats up quickly, the little woodstove chugging away to warm the floors and corners and bedsheets. That cast iron stove so terrified us when the girls were wobbling, grasping toddlers, but it is now our salvation, and once the logs start popping inside, we know the place is ours again.
But the process is never complete, the house not fully alive, until a good satisfying meal gets cooked in the big, blue pot that guards the stove. A real, wintry one. Our choice this time around: pork paprika. It’s my mom’s bachelorette dish, the one that emerged with her out of Richmond, VA in the late 60's and rose above a sea of cream of mushroom soup-based standards that long ago fell by the wayside. She can’t even remember where the recipe came from, except that the original was intended for veal and she changed it somewhere along the line. One time she proudly cooked this dish for her post-college roommate, Betty, whose taste buds she accidentally assaulted when she shook in the better part of a jar of cayenne pepper…instead of the intended paprika. It was the first and last time she ever made that mistake.
About ten years ago, the first time Mom cooked pork paprika for Ben, she hooked him and there was no going back. Now, there's no way she can not cook it for us when we visit them in Colorado in winter, especially after a cold and vigorous day outside skiing, when our legs are jello and our fingers and toes are still burning back to life. And so this year, when it looked like the vacation was about to pass without her having made it, Ben politely pointed out that fact to her. And so, to start 2012 off right, we enjoyed big, heaping bowls over noodles for New Year's day dinner.
And then we reprised it a week later for Ben's parents, who were up for the day. I browned and paprika-ed and simmered it on our stove, and the little house sighed with happiness. We let the flavors find each other in the blue pot while we went out for a Sunday hike. October's storm had yanked down trees and peeled off entire sections of hillside beside the trail, but the hike along Bee Brook was still lovely and bracing, and bowls of pork paprika made a warm, spicy ending to a satisfying day. Afterwards, as we sat around the table and listened to the wood popping in the stove, there was no denying that the last of the cobwebs had been dusted away and the blue house was home once more.
Notes on this recipe: my mom never measures when making this, and come to think of it, nor do I. I did my best to get the amounts down, but still: think of this as a guideline. You might want more mushrooms, or fewer. You might decide chopped peppers are in order. All paprikas are not created equal, so play with amounts of hot vs. sweet and taste and adjust often (I strive for a subtle degree of heat but mostly lots of brightness). This, I think, is key when making any kind of savory dish. Also, the meat: my mom usually uses pork loin, since it's lean and readily available, but I used shoulder and – sorry mom – it was tastier. Shoulder is always my go-to cut for braises and stews, as it has more texture, flavor, and marbling. This one came from the Arcadian Pastures stand at the Grand Army Plaza greenmarket in Brooklyn. The mushrooms–earthy creminis–came from Madura farms. I used a pork stock I had made from the pig and frozen, but you could also use chicken stock or even water. The secret ingredient, though, is a few hours' rest time–I highly recommend this step if you can find the time…or better yet, give it a night's rest and look forward to it the next day.
Pork Paprika
Serves at least 4
Ingredients:
- 2 lbs. pork shoulder, cut into 1-2 inch cubes and trimmed of excess fat
- 1 ½ cup all-purpose flour
- 2-3 TBS sweet (not smoked) paprika
- 1-2 TBS hot paprika
- Salt, pepper
- Vegetable oil, such as canola
- 1 TBS butter
- 4 medium onions, diced into smallish pieces
- 1 lb. white or cremini mushrooms, wiped clean and sliced thin (about 1/8”)
- ½ cup dry white wine
- 1 pint pork or chicken stock
- 1 cup tomato sauce (or a combination of diced tomatoes and tomato paste)
- 2 TBS crème fraîche or sour cream (approx. – adjust to taste)
To serve: Broad, flat egg noodles, such as pappardelle
Instructions:
In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, some salt and pepper, some of the sweet paprika, and some of the hot paprika. Toss pork into flour mixture to coat each piece. Heat a dutch oven (such as le Creuset) or other heavy-bottomed pot over medium-high flame, add oil, and patiently brown the meat in batches on all sides, taking care not to crowd pieces in pan or burn the outside of the meat. Transfer to a clean plate. When all meat has been browned, splash wine into the pot to deglaze. Add stock and simmer for a couple of minutes.
Meanwhile, in another skillet, heat butter and sweat the onions until translucent. Add mushrooms and shake in some more paprika (this will depend on your taste and the strength of the paprika, but unless you like it super spicy, count on about half as much hot as sweet, and taste as you cook. You can always add more as you go) and a little salt, and sauté for a few minutes. The vegetables will, at some point, release their liquid. At this point, turn the heat up a notch until the liquid has mostly evaporated and mushrooms have begun to brown a touch. At this point, remove pan from the heat. Add the meat back to the pot with the liquid, add tomato sauce, and turn the heat up until it boils. Add a bit of water if needed to cover meat in liquid. Turn down heat and allow to simmer for about 45 minutes, then add the vegetables. You can splash a bit of water in the pan and scrape all that sautéed goodness into the pot with the meat.
Cook on a low simmer, stirring occasionally, for another hour or so. Taste and add more paprika if needed; mixture should be a lovely russet at this point. If liquid seems to be getting too low, splash in a bit more water. It’s done when meat is tender and yielding. Ideally, you will make this the night before and re-heat the next day. The flavors really come together this way. But, even if you can let it rest an hour or two and re-heat before serving, you'll see the difference. Taste for seasoning at the end, add more salt, pepper, and paprika if you need to, and finally stir in a generous dollop of crème fraîche before serving – this will round out any sharp edges and take the deliciousness to a whole new level. Serve over egg noodles.
I’d been working on a post about Brussels sprouts, when all of a sudden I woke up one morning and Wham! was on the radio singing “Last Christmas”, and the tree people had come down from Vermont to re-forest the corner of Kane & Clinton. This means, by necessity, that letters for Santa have been painstakingly scrawled in childish hand, and Good Curious Elf has begun his nightly patrols. We’ve already been swept into the whirlwind of the Christmas Spectacular and tree viewing at Rockefeller Center, and we've handed the tots off to the grandparents for the more onerous Manhattan errands. So suddenly, shredded Brussels sprouts with lemon and cappellini, as much as I love that dish, seems colossally un-special. It’s time for some baking, and I’d like to share a cookie recipe that, for us, always kick-starts the holiday season. It’s not the most original one you’ll see in this year’s cookie line-up, but it was my great-grandmother’s. That sounds even more impressive when I tell my daughters we are baking their great-great grandmother’s cookies, the ones my mom used to make with my sister and me every December.
Mrs. Julia Butterworth, known as “Juju,” lived in the tiny town of DeWitt, VA. This is not the first time I’ve written about her here. Since she reached the venerable age of 96 I got to know her for a handful of years, but those being my youngest years I only caught her in glimpses, which at this point in my life have gotten muddled together in a grainy black-and-white montage. I imagine her with a nimbus of snow-white hair and old-fashioned eyeglasses, slimly built and simply dressed, with a sweet, old-lady smile. I suppose, now, I know her more from Mom’s stories than anything else and can almost feel the feeling of climbing in between cold sheets in her guest bedroom, peering out at the dark shadows that gathered in the corners of her old farmhouse. I can hear the birds chirp in the morning as I imagine stealing into her garden to pull sweet young turnips from the dirt, warm underfoot in the Virginia sun.
And so, following her recipe for “tea cakes,” rolling out the buttery dough and pressing down onto the cookie cutters and snapping a crisp cookie between my teeth, I almost believe I can visit with her for a while and bring my daughters along to meet her. They don’t yet appreciate time passed and memories preserved as I do, but they adore a good tea cake and beg for them year round. We’ve been known to pull out this recipe at Halloween or Valentine’s Day, too, merely as an excuse to wield cookie cutters.
There’s nothing especially elaborate or new about this recipe, it’s just a good, solid one for this old-fashioned type of cookie, which inhabits the space somewhere between a butter cookie and a sugar cookie. In spite of what the name might suggest, there’s nothing cake-y about them–especially when rolled thin as we’re in the habit of doing in my family. Juju had two different versions: the “everyday” ones baked with Fluffo instead of butter and cut thicker in the shapes of bunnies, with raisins for eyes…and then the fancy “tea cake” rendition for special occasions: made with real butter, rolled thin, cut in a variety of shapes, and decorated prettily with sprinkles. That’s the kind my mother made with us at Christmas. It was part of her slim repertoire of sweet treats, and in fact the only thing we ever baked during the holiday season. But she was a decent baker and had her opinions about how things should be done. The dough had to be stretched whisper-thin and lightly adorned, preferably with 4mm silver dragees. My sister and I used to torture her by loading on the colored sugar, as much as a cookie could physically hold, as soon as she turned her head…and gleefully watched her horror when she turned back around to discover our handiwork. As I make these cookies with my daughters every year, I catch myself falling into the same OCD patterns, tensing up as they pile on the crystallized red dye #5. But I hold myself back, letting them unleash their little creative demons.
Around here, it’s not Christmas until a round of these cookies gets made, and flour dusts the whole kitchen, and the house fills with their buttery-sweet smell. I do roll them wafer thin, a habit which demands a little more work and watchfulness (they burn in a flash). My preference is for cookies that are golden and a little toasty around the edges, with a hint of caramelized flavor. I am also partial to the glittering dragees, even though I’m not quite sure what sort of metals we’re ingesting (note: I prefer the 2mm size to the 4mm; they’re more like birdshot than BBs and much gentler on the teeth). Brooklynites can find all sorts of pretty sprinkles, dragees, and cutters at A Cook’s Companion on Atlantic. 
Enjoy this recipe any way you like: pressed thin, left thick, modestly or garishly sprinkled, iced, pale, tawny at the edges, or burnt to a crisp. Enjoy the meditation of flouring the board and rolling out the dough. And if you happen to be making these with kids, savor the way you're forced to slow down a bit during the holiday season. Let go of your control freak side for a moment and make a terrible, floury, sprinkly mess.
Juju’s Tea Cakes
Ingredients:
- 2 sticks butter (8 oz.), softened at room temperature
- 1 ½ cups sugar (the natural kind works if it’s finely textured)
- 2 eggs (large sized or smaller. Just use one if they're "jumbo")
- 2 ½ cups all-purpose flour plus extra for flouring cookie surface
- 1 tsp. good-quality vanilla extract
- 1 teaspoon baking powder
Instructions:
With an electric mixer, cream together butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs and vanilla and beat until combined. Sift dry ingredients together into a separate bowl, then add to the butter mixture in two additions. Mix until just combined. Scrape out of bowl and shape roughly into four disks, wrapping in plastic wrap or parchment. Chill for at least an hour, or overnight, until firm.
When ready to make cookies, preheat oven to 350º. Leave dough out at room temperature for 20 minutes or so, until softened and workable but still cold and somewhat firm. Prepare trays with either parchment or silpat. Ready a clean surface and rolling pin, along with some extra flour for dusting. Lightly dust your work surface and rolling pin and roll out cookie dough, working from the center outward and rotating the disk for the most even thickness. When you’ve reached about between 1/8" and 1/16” thickness (or as desired), cut out your cookies with floured cutters of your choice. Transfer to prepared cookie sheets (a dough scraper really helps) and decorate as desired.
Bake, checking frequently, between 15 and 25 minutes. Ovens vary widely, and much depends on how thinly you've rolled your dough. When done to your likeness (I like them golden around the edges), remove tray from oven and cool cookies before handling. They keep in an airtight container for a couple of weeks.
Poor kohlrabi. Hardly anyone pays it any mind. And usually if they do, they quickly dismiss it as “that-weird-alien-pod-looking-thing-I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with.” Or worse, diss it as something Jabba the Hutt might snack on between frogs and monkey lizards.
This member of the cabbage family flummoxes people with its unfamiliar shape, which looks as if it must be a missing piece of something else–and surely not the edible part! But yes, that green or violet, bulbous stem (and it is, in fact a stem–not a root) is edible, and once you peel back the rough exterior, the pale celadon flesh is sweet, juicy, and versatile–and fairly cries out for all manner of preparation. If you've ever tasted the peeled stem of very fresh broccoli, think sweeter and milder and juicier, and you've got the general idea. Taste- and texture-wise, it has been compared to a cucumber or a young turnip (or a cross between the two). The dark green leaves, which may or may not still be sprouting from the kohlrabi globes by the time they arrive at market, are similar to collard greens and can be cooked in the same ways (alas, the ones pictured above arrived without their greens).
As soon as I got the hang of what to do with it, I began enjoying kohlrabi’s appearance in our CSA share and at farmers’ markets. Cooked, the vegetable becomes mellower and sweeter, holding its crispness when sautéed and stir-fried, and becoming soft and tender when steamed or boiled for longer periods of time. Cubed, it roasts nicely alongside winter squashes. Pureed into a creamy fall soup, kohlrabi becomes silky and luscious. Elizabeth Schneider, in her always useful Vegetables from Amaranth to Zucchini, offers kohlrabi preparations from around the world, including a spiced Indian soup with chickpeas and tomato; Vietnamese spring rolls; and Swedish meatballs with baby kohlrabis (!). This recipe for kohlrabi tsatsiki, which appeared in New York Magazine, makes a tasty sauce for roasted lamb. And while I'm at it, here are some additional kohlrabi links, from Simply Recipes.
While kohlrabi is mellow and sweet when cooked, my favorite preparation is simple and raw, as a respite from all the roasted and braised fare on the fall table. At the most minimal, it can be chopped and dipped into hummus or herbed, fresh ricotta. But it’s also nice tossed in salads and slaws with other fruits of the season.
This weekend, I picked up pounds of purple kohlrabis, along with my pie pumpkin, from Marble Valley Farm in Kent, CT. Like many farms in the Northeast, this one took a beating during the freakish weather that whipped through this summer and fall. Many fall crops perished, but the tenacious little kohlrabis hung on. Any vegetable that can survive a hurricane, Biblical flooding, more flooding, and 18 inches of tree-splitting October snow is a hero in my book.
If you come across this crazy-looking vegetable in the coming weeks, why not give it a try? Better yet, include some in your Thanksgiving celebration. In the very least it will serve as a conversation starter, and you'll more than likely sell your fellow feasters on the virtues of kohlrabi. Cut the peeled globes into pretty half-moons as a seasonal addition to a healthy vegetable platter (serve raw or quickly blanched). Or if you have a bunch, as I do right now, try the slaw recipe below, which you can think of as an guideline for whatever other flavors and colors you would like to incorporate; think shredded radishes, thinly sliced celery, or a little julienned raw kale. The recipe is a variation on our go-to summer slaw, which we enjoy every 4th of July with slow-smoked pork shoulder, but this version has a bit more snap and substance, in keeping with the season. I use a little bit of mayonnaise to round the whole thing out, but if you prefer to leave the mayo out, you can certainly substitute the equivalent amount oil, or adjust to your liking. Either way, the recipe still comes across as light without being austere, and serves as a refreshing break from the barrage of ultra-rich dishes that are bound to come our way this week.
Wishing you all a happy and healthy Thanksgiving!
Kohlrabi and apple slaw
Serves 4-6
- 2 medium kohlrabis, leaves and leaf stalks removed
- 1 large, red crisp apple (like Ida Red or Jonagold)
- 6 scallions, whites and pale green parts sliced into thin rounds
- Optional: 1 bulb fennel and/or 2 medium carrots
- 2 teaspoons dijon mustard
- 1 Tablespoon mayonnaise (preferably not a sweet one–I like Trader Joe’s organic)
- 1 Tablespoon apple cider vinegar
- 3 Tablespoons olive oil, sunflower oil, or grape seed oil
- 2 teaspoons caraway seeds (add more at the end, if desired)
- Salt and pepper to taste
- Optional: sunflower seeds or toasted, chopped walnuts
Instructions:
- Peel kohlrabi either with a vegetable peeler, or, if skin is tougher, cut off ends with a sharp knife and rest on a flat side on a cutting board, then carefully cut off outsides, going down and around–make sure you remove not just the visible skin, but the fibrous layer just underneath it. Next, julienne or shred either by hand, on a mandoline, or in a food processor. I prefer to cut kohlrabi into thin matchsticks that retain their crunch.
- Julienne apples in the same manner as you did kohlrabi, keeping peel on (you can toss them in a little lemon juice to prevent browning). If you’re using other vegetables, peel and treat in the same manner. Put all vegetables in a large bowl and set aside.
- To make dressing, whisk together mustard, mayo, vinegar, and oil in a separate bowl. Taste, and add salt and cracked pepper as desired. If you would prefer not to use mayonnaise, substitute an extra Tablespoon oil, more if dressing still tastes too acidic for your liking. When ready to serve, drizzle dressing over vegetables and toss. Sprinkle in caraway seeds. Taste, and add more salt and pepper if needed. Slaw can be tossed up to a half hour before serving, and refrigerated.
But the process is never complete, the house not fully alive, until a good satisfying meal gets cooked in the big, blue pot that guards the stove. A real, wintry one. Our choice this time around: pork paprika. It’s my mom’s bachelorette dish, the one that emerged with her out of Richmond, VA in the late 60's and rose above a sea of cream of mushroom soup-based standards that long ago fell by the wayside. She can’t even remember where the recipe came from, except that the original was intended for veal and she changed it somewhere along the line. One time she proudly cooked this dish for her post-college roommate, Betty, whose taste buds she accidentally assaulted when she shook in the better part of a jar of cayenne pepper…instead of the intended paprika. It was the first and last time she ever made that mistake. 
