Seeded Winter Slaw

This is the salad I keep coming back to this winter. It’s like a song stuck in my head, except there’s a bit of a different riff each time, depending on what vegetables happen to be in the fridge that particular day—and we've been wealthy in winter vegetables thanks to our Local Roots CSA share. The basics are the same: celery root, apples, and beets, all julienned matchstick thin. Sometimes I throw in some shredded cabbage, other times fennel bulb, sliced wisp thin. If I’ve come into some sunflower sprouts or lacy micro anything, I’ll throw those in too, to remind myself that Spring is right around the corner. Another punchy addition is quick-pickled shallot, which is easy enough to make if you don’t mind the extra step and just a tiny bit of advance planning. Always, I dress the whole thing up in a tart apple cider vinaigrette and scatter crunchy seeds on top with abandon. This salad—or slaw, or whatever you'd like to call it—is sturdy enough to keep until the next day with minimal change in texture…and the color is undeniably pretty. May I present:

Seeded Winter Slaw

Ingredients:

• 1 ½ cup shredded raw cabbage (leaves sliced thin)
  
• 1 cup finely julienned raw celery root*
• ½ cup finely julienned raw beetroot*
• 1 small apple (keep the peel), cored and julienned*
• 2 TBS sunflower seeds 
• 2 tsp poppy seeds (more if you'd like)
• Pinch of flaky sea salt 

*To julienne the vegetables, cut away the outer peel and discard, then either use the thin ⅛" (not super fine) setting on a mandoline**, OR do it by hand: cut vegetables into very thin cross sections, about  ⅛" thick, then crossways into matchsticks of about  ⅛" thick.  
 
For vinaigrette:

• 1 tsp Dijon mustard 
• 1 tsp honey 
• 2 TBS apple cider vinegar 
• 7-8 TBS extra-virgin olive oil (or sunflower oil) 
• Hefty pinch of sea salt 
• A couple cranks of ground black pepper

Instructions:

1. Mix up the vinaigrette in a small bowl: whisk together mustard, honey, and vinegar. Whisk in oil very gradually so that it does not separate. Taste it as you go, until you achieve just the right tartness. Add salt and pepper to taste. 
2. In a medium bowl, toss all vegetables and apples, adding the dressing gradually and tasting occasionally, until you've gotten the right amount—you don't want it too heavy or greasy, and you will most likely have some dressing left over. 
3. Toss with a couple big pinches of flaky sea salt and the seeds, saving a few extra to put on top of the salad when serving. If you're adding sprouts or microgreens, wait until the very end so they're still spritely when served. 

Variation: Quick-Pickled Shallots
To quick-pickle shallots, simply remove the outer layer of skin from the shallot and discard. Slice the shallot very, very thin crosswise. In a small bowl, mix a bit of vinegar (2-3 TBS) with a pinch of sugar and a pinch of salt until dissolved. Toss the shallots in this mixture and allow them to stand at room temperature for an hour or two (stir occasionally if they're not covered). 

Variation with pickled shallots and sunflower sprouts

**A note about mandolines: If you're interested in investing in one, the Japanese Benriner is relatively inexpensive on Amazon (I've linked to the older, cheaper version). They're great for slicing things very thinly, making French Fries, and julienning all sorts of stuff. You've been warned, though: they will just as easily remove a chunk of your thumb, as I've done. 

Something Else

About 10 years ago, when I had two toddlers under three, I dragged my sorry self into a holistic doctor's office. I could write an endless list of complaints I had at the time, but to sum it up, I felt like complete crap and thought that surely I must not be long for this world. After filling out forms and going through basic health questions, I moved on to a doctor-led dissection of my lifestyle. It was here that she pounced on our evening routine, which involved cooking two dinners—one for the kids and one for us parents—separated by an elaborate bedtime routine and all of it wrapping up somewhere around midnight, about five hours before the younger child awoke. 

The doctor looked at me in vague horror as I sheepishly finished describing all of this to her. "No wonder you feel the way you do! You're pouring all your energy into other people." She was right, and someone with a medical license didn't need to be the one telling me this.
The truth was, the last thing I was trying to do was martyr myself—I simply love to cook and hadn't yet figured out how to be efficient about it. More importantly, having a later, adult dinner was a way to feel human and eat exactly what I wanted to, and enjoy the meal (and a glass of wine or two) with the other grownup of the house once all the kid toys were kicked to the margins of the room and the sippy cups were stowed in the dishwasher.

But this daily slog was wearing me out more than it was giving me fulfillment. Fortunately, 10 years and another kid later, I've gotten saner about evenings, and that has enabled me to survive an increasingly complicated life. One of our crutches is getting takeout here and there; no shame in that! Another trick: teaching my older kids—11 and 13—how to cook, and assigning them dinner some nights (if you're going to have kids, you might as well raise helpers, right?). But then I have a few "something else recipes" in my back pocket: the tasty, wholesome ones that can be served two different ways, but which we all sit down to enjoy together. I serve them with punchy, add-on garnishes that instantly gin up the flavor for more sophisticated (or spice-tolerant on our case) adult palates. I'm all for getting away from the concept of kid food, but in reality some of the hotter, stronger flavors don't fly yet; I hope this will soon change. 

The soup recipe below is my new favorite fall "something else" recipe. It's also a change from the version I had on repeat for way too long, which relied on ample butter for comfort. The one below is vegan, but that's really just a side bonus. The flavor profile is tangy, bright, and clear and makes me believe it wouldn't be hard at all to give up dairy (for a day).

Butternut Squash Soup With Lemongrass and Red Curry Oil
Serves 4-6 (more if you are serving kids' portions)

Ingredients: 

• 2 TBS vegetable oil (sunflower, coconut, olive, or similar)
• 1 small yellow onion
• 1 tsp. ground coriander seed
• 1 very large butternut squash (or 2 small ones), peeled, de-seeded, and cubed*
• 1 stalk lemongrass
• 1" section of fresh ginger, peeled and minced very fine
• 1 pint (approx.) unsalted vegetable stock/broth*
• 1/2 can (less if you prefer) full-fat, unsweetened coconut milk (I prefer the canned kind since it's creamier, but you can also use about 1/2 cup or more of the lighter kind that comes in cartons)
• Juice of 1 lime
• Sea salt to taste

 
Ingredients for garnish: 

• 2 TBS virgin coconut oil
• 1 TBS minced ginger
• 2 TBS Thai red curry paste (the brand I use is Thai Taste)
• Fresh cilantro leaves, roughly chopped

 

Instructions: 

1. To prepare lemongrass: remove  2 or 3 outer tough, woody layers and discard them (or reserve for stock). Chop off the dry, wispy tops and root end. What you should be left with is a long core that is still relatively tough but feels slightly damp and alive. Put this on a cutting board and with the blunt side of a large knife's blade, pound the lemongrass up and down on all sides to tenderize it. Now, with the sharp side of the blade, mince the lemongrass finely. 
2. In a large sturdy saucepan or Dutch oven, heat the oil over medium-high heat and add the onion and ground coriander, and a sprinkle of salt. Stirring occasionally, sauté for about 5 minutes, or until the onion is slightly translucent (do not brown). Add the squash and minced lemongrass and stir around a couple of times, then pour in enough stock to reach halfway up the vegetables. Bring to a boil then quickly lower to a simmer and cover. 
3. Meanwhile, make the red curry oil. In a small skillet, heat up the coconut oil for a few minutes. Add the ginger, sizzling briefly, then add the red curry paste. Cook, stirring, for a couple of minutes to bring the flavors up. At this point, add a few drops of water until the consistency is liquid (drizzle-able) but not watery. Reserve in the pan until you're ready to serve the soup.
4. Simmer squash mixture for about 25-30 minutes total, checking occasionally. Stir in ginger after about 20 minutes. The vegetables are ready when the squash is soft and yielding when pierced with a knife, but not gone to mush.
5. In a good blender, whir the vegetables and their liquid until they are velvety smooth with no lumps (do this in batches if it won't all fit in the blender at once—you can mix it together in the pot afterwards). Add the lime juice and 1/2 cup coconut milk at first (stir if separated), taste, then add more if you like. Rinse out the pot you used for cooking, then add back the blended soup and turn heat to low, adding more stock or water if it seems too thick. Important: now taste and add salt bit by bit until the flavors are where you want them. I don't like including precise salt measurements in my recipes, since everyone's tastes are different and the other ingredients vary. 
6. Serve soup hot in bowls, then swirl in red curry oil and scatter with cilantro leaves if desired. Offer extra garnishes at the table. 

*Stock-making tip: You can make your own vegetable stock, using the peels and seeds as a base. Put these in a medium pot along with the following: discarded lemongrass husks, a small chopped onion and/or leek, a smashed garlic clove, chopped celery or fennel, a chopped carrot, a bay leaf, a few peppercorns, and a strip of kombu (aka kelp - if you don't have it, that's fine!). Add just enough water to cover and simmer for up to an hour. 

 









 

 

Winter Survival

It's the little things that get us through winters like this, when the predominant sound some nights is the rumble and scrape of snowplows, and morning brings the shriek of car wheels spinning in icy parking spots. During blizzards, I've found myself looking forward to watching our neighbor's late-night shoveling routine, which involves pushing every flake of snow away from his house, off the curb, past the gutter, and all the way out into the middle of the street, where he deposits it into staggered piles reaching almost to the supermarket up the next block. After each heave, he stops to lean on his shovel and re-adjusts the old-fashioned cap balanced atop his head. Depending on how persistent the storm is, he might repeat this process several times in a night. For him, nearly getting whacked by speeding delivery men on mopeds is better than ending up with a permanent, trash-studded snow bank like the rest of the block. 

Being from parts farther south, I find that diversions such as these keep me going when those days in the minuses have knocked the breath out of me. There are other bright spots: the total makeover our brown and grey neighborhood undergoes with the first blanket of snow, and pouring a glass of big red wine as the sky goes dark and the flakes swirl in the streetlights. Slow braises, coffee with friends, root soup, warm boots, and, on the weekends, a trusty wood stove. Skiing with my girls and husband, and curling up to read "Busy Busy Town" with the warm two-year old. The weather forces us to huddle indoors together, bickering and joking our way through cabin fever but also sharing simple meals, 80's movies, and never-ending games of Monopoly. 

Lately, I’ve needed something not so seasonal and not so local to break me out of my winter torpor. And that something, very often, turns out to be as simple as a salad. It started with an obsessive stockpiling of avocados in all shades of ripeness, from impossibly hard and green in the fruit bowl, to nearly-there, to ebony outside/buttery inside in a special corner of the refrigerator. I’ve been dreaming about perfectly ripe avocados all winter, and of citrus fruits. And so they often find themselves tossed together in the salad bowl, tumbling around with a juicy dressing and handfuls of strong, dark greens, scattered with some toasted nuts and flaky sea salt. Give me your kale/Brooklyn jokes, but what I keep coming back to for this salad is finely sliced, raw lacinato (Tuscan) kale. Also good are arugula (but not the wimpy packaged kind) or watercress. You can use any good orange you happen to have, but a blood orange and a meyer lemon together are so much better. This duo, I’ve found, gives greater complexity of flavor than just a regular orange, and the taste is subtly different with each bite. Meyer lemons (which are sweeter than regular lemons) add surprising little bursts of tartness, and blood oranges have a hint of bitterness and greater depth of flavor that makes them more interesting than their paler cousins. All this brightness plays nicely against the suavity of the avocado, and for the crunch you can try toasted handfuls of sliced almonds, pumpkin seeds, sunflower seeds, or pine nuts. 

Soup is nice, but this pop of color — and vitamins — is sometimes the strongest medicine on the bleakest days. 

Winter Rescue Salad
Serves 2

Ingredients:

• 1 medium-sized blood orange (or any other orange)
• 1 small meyer lemon
• 1 avocado, ripe but still firm
• 2 fistfuls of dark, sturdy greens such as watercress or finely-chopped lacinato kale
• 1 endive, thinly sliced, base and core removed
• ¼ cup sliced almonds or pine nuts, lightly toasted in a skillet or oven
• ½ teaspoon Dijon mustard
• ½ teaspoon white or red wine vinegar
• ¼ cup grapeseed or extra-virgin olive oil
• Flaky sea salt (such as Maldon)
• Freshly ground pepper

Instructions: 1. Prepare citrus: “Supreme” segments of orange and/or meyer lemon by first cutting off ends, then standing on one of the flat ends. Using a sharp knife, cut down and around to remove all the skin, including the bitter white layer. Now, holding the orange in hand, cut into the segments along the dividing membranes, to release them. Reserve supremed segments and pith, separately. If you're using meyer lemons, cut the segments into smaller pieces. (here's a video if you're confused)

"Supreming" citrus

2. Squeeze the leftover membrane into a small bowl to capture all the juice. Whisk in mustard and vinegar. Whisk in oil, gradually, until incorporated. Taste, and add more oil if you think dressing needs it — which will depend on the tartness of your fruit and how much juice it yields. Add salt and pepper to taste. 

3. Slice or dice avocado. If using lacinato (Tuscan) kale, cut it into very thin ribbons crosswise. You can include the stalk. Put greens and citrus segments together in a salad bowl. Drizzle the dressing over gradually, not using it all at once, so you can control the amount — you may have some left over. For sturdier greens, you can let the salad marinate in its dressing for a few minutes, up to a half hour. Next, add the avocado and endive and toss gently. Add a little more dressing if you wish. Serve on plates or in bowls, scattering nuts and flaky salt over top of the salad at the last minute.

Summer, stay a while

Our car is still littered with sand and sky-blue ferry tickets, and the girls' legs have kept a bit of their August brown, but mornings this past week have demanded socks and even jackets. The summer of 2012 was unanimously declared a good one by everyone under this roof – the way summers should be and the way we hope the kids will remember them.   

So good and so very busy, in fact, that I've found it hard to make my way over here, though there's been much to write about. Also…there's the small fact that I'm expecting our third child and haven't had much energy to channel into writing and editing photos…but I plan to make up for lost time before baby boy's January arrival is upon us. So, thank you to those of you who are reading now and who have found your way back here, too.
 
Driving home on Labor Day, I turned over all the vacation moments in my head like a stash of mementos, and mourned those delicious weeks a bit. Once the last ferry was behind and the soft light of the North Fork ceased shining on us, the malls of Long Island flew by and then the U.S. Open and the hydroponic gardening center, and before I knew it we were home, and the skies opened as if on cue (this, following a nearly unbroken string of sunny days). A couple of days later we were catapulted into the school-year routine.

Summer was sunny days in the foothills and shores, dew on bare feet in the mornings and outdoor showers on August afternoons, looking up at blowing treetops. The briny, funky smell off the marshes drifting through our open windows at night, and the squawking of birds in the bushes our alarm clock in the morning, before the sun even burned through the fog. For Ben, plucking at the banjo – and getting pretty good at it. For me, stolen time on porches and in hammocks with a good book. For the girls, learning to sail and ride horses, kayaking and catching hermit crabs with friends in the shallow inlets around the island. There was good fun with cousins, grandparents, aunties and uncles – and a brand-new baby cousin with sweet toes and a fuzzy head. We read Harry Potter, Book 4 together way too late into the night, most nights. There were rosé-soaked days out on the water with friends – long, breezy days heeling along in the sailboat, or anchored and swimming off the back, the grownups just as gleeful as the under-ten set.

 

 

And of course there was eating – plenty of it, because summer wouldn't be right without a succession of satisfying feasts, usually a team effort among friends and family. And because, this summer, I was hungry. Hungry for fish tacos, succotash, ribs, pulled pork, fried shrimp. Blueberry picking and eating, as always. Lobsters and stone fruit crumbles. Ice creams churned by my beloved new ice cream maker, the one I treated myself to in June. Local clams, dug and baked by friends. And a favorite I'd like to share, because we've enjoyed it so much these past couple of summers that I would be stingy not to post it here.

The original recipe for this green gazpacho appeared in Molly Katzen’s Enchanted Broccoli Forest cookbook, but I credit friends Tara and Josh for their particular spin, which always makes people go quiet for a moment when they first taste it – in a good way – because the soup is so unexpectedly creamy and rich for the healthy vegan recipe it is. This version uses tomatillos in place of the green tomatoes called for in the original, and most importantly, a sprinkling of freshly grilled corn kernels; the sweetness, smokiness, and subtle crunch of the corn is what really makes this soup. Though summer's on the wane, the primary ingredients are still vibrant in our farmers' markets and CSA (in fact, we just got tomatillos and cilantro today), and this is one of the finest uses of tomatillos I know. Enjoy, along with your own summer memories.

Green Gazpacho with Corn

Adapted from Molly Katzen, Enchanted Broccoli Forest  
4 servings

Ingredients:

• 5 largish tomatillos (husked), quartered, seed pulp cut away and discarded  
• 1-2 cloves garlic (depending on size), chopped 
  
• 1-2 cucumbers (depending on size), peeled, seeded, and chopped 
  
• 1 avocado, peeled, pitted and diced  
• 1 medium green bell pepper, chopped
• 1 jalapeño pepper, chopped and seeds removed (leave a few in if you like heat)  
• A few sprigs parsley
  
• 1 small handful cilantro
  
• 1 tablespoon vinegar (cider vinegar or red wine vinegar are best)  
• Juice of 2 limes  
• 2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil  
• Sea salt to taste  
• 1 teaspoon honey or a pinch of sugar
•  3/4 cup cold water – more if needed

• Kernels cut from 2 ears of cooked corn – preferably grilled (any method of cooking works)

Instructions:

Throw everything in blender but corn. Process until smooth. Add a little more water if it seems too thick, and more salt if needed. Chill. Serve in bowls with corn kernels sprinkled on top.

 

Rooted

If you had told me, when I landed tentatively in New York, that I would still be hanging around 14 years later, I probably would have laughed at you. I would have been positively howling had you told me that this Virginia transplant would eventually consider herself a Brooklynite – and a proud one, at that. But here I am, and as much as I itch to flee the city on weekends, I adore this little part of Brooklyn where we landed, almost accidentally, seven years ago and are raising our daughters; this post is a shameless love letter of sorts to the neighborhood. 

I love the sound of the foghorns rolling off the harbor at night and the hulking container cranes at the end of our street, backlit by sunset. Nothing beats the smoky tang of the neighbors' grills firing up on the first warm day of spring, or that crazy, confused tree on Baltic that offers a profusion of pink blossoms in the dead of January – even a real January. There’s the occasional clang of the knife-sharpening truck and the synchronized flock of domestic pigeons you’ll see wheeling overhead as you walk up Henry at a certain time of day, if you look up at exactly the right time. 

In a stretch that's sandwiched between some amazing restaurants and markets you'll pass Jesus in a box, the filming of Talk Stoop, and a riotously bedazzled row house. There's always a little surprise. Last week, a loud, late-night manhole explosion brought all the characters out of their brownstones, in various states of pajamaed splendor (one woman told me four times that her sleeping pills were kicking in, then followed me like a zombie down the street). 

I love the fact that I have to add on 10 extra minutes to get anywhere, because I know I'll bump into a friend or neighbor I haven't caught up with in a while…but somehow, I'm always late anyway. 

More and more familiar faces have landed here, and lately, the ranks seem to include Toad out of The Wind in the Willows – at least according to my 7-year-old, who upon surveying the wreckage from a couple of recent car crackups said: “I think Toad must have been out stealing cars again.” Of course she knows the truth, but we like to keep a tall tale going; it adds glamour to our already colorful corner of the world.

In addition to all that is Brooklyn, there are the riches brought into the borough by farmers from the surrounding areas. Ironically, during the winter we have greater access to regional produce here in the city than we do when we're in the country, where it grows. And almost from the beginning, our weekly farm share (CSA) became an integral part of our way of cooking. 

Signing up for a CSA, at first, can be like being told to sit in a room with strangers and chat amongst yourselves; some of them, you discover you hit it off with and want to get to know better. Others, not so much. Jerusalem artichokes (aka sunchokes) for me were the first kind of stranger, meaning I might not otherwise have sought them out and had probably stared right through them at the farmer’s market. They’re kind of like the mousy introvert in the room, the one you didn’t notice at first but who later floors you with a warm, nutty personality that just needed a little drawing out.

Now, since we get Jerusalem artichokes at least twice a season in our weekly share, they're regulars around here, and I find myself seeking out more when I run low or when there's no CSA – I've been picking them up lately at the green markets and at Perelandra. Often I'll cut them crossways into coins and sauté them slowly in butter, flipping so that each side gets nicely caramelized. The trick to this – and it's hardly a trick – is to not have the heat up too high, nor to crowd them in a pan. Sprinkle a little sea salt over them and serve them instead of potatoes with roast chicken. I also used to make a very creamy Jerusalem artichoke soup, using a Daniel Boulud recipe, but this Christmas the husband gave me Nigel Slater's Tender: A Cook and His Vegetable Patch, with its lovely arrangement of fava beans on white linen across the front. He had a hunch this vegetable-centric book would be right up my alley, and he was right. 

The recipe below, from the book, highlights the particular sweet nuttiness of Jerusalem artichokes. The soup is light and pure on its own and can even go vegan with a quick swap of oil for butter. Whatever you do, though, do yourself a favor and don't skip the spice mix, even though you may be tempted to save time. Yes, there's more chopping involved and yes, you'll have to clean an additional pan afterwards – but this crunchy garnish is what makes the soup something special, flavor-wise and texture-wise. 

A soup of roots, leeks, and walnuts (Adapted from Nigel Slater, Tender)  

Serves 4
Ingredients:  

• 2 large leeks  
• 3 TBS butter or vegetable oil (such as olive or sunflower)  
• 3 medium/large celery ribs  
• 1 lb. (give or take) Jerusalem artichokes, or sunchokes 
  
• 4 cups light stock (chicken or vegetable), and/or water  
• salt and pepper to taste  
• Small bunch parsley, chopped (to yield about ¼ cup)  

For spice mix:  

• ½ tsp. ground coriander seeds (fresh ground from about 1 tsp. whole seeds is best – in a spice mill or mortar and pestle)
• ¼ cup shelled walnuts, chopped fine  
• 1 oz. ginger  
• 4 tsp. peanut or sunflower oil

Instructions:

Slice the white and palest green part of the leeks into rounds, then rinse away any grit. In a heavy-bottomed saucepan, melt the butter and add the leek slices. Sweat over low heat until they are soft enough to crush with the edge of a wooden spoon. Meanwhile, slice celery and add to the pot when leeks have begun to soften. Peel and chop the artichokes (I don’t peel too scrupulously – just the really thick, crusty skin) and add them to the pot. Cover the pot and let the vegetables soften without coloring, then pour in stock and/or water, and bring to a boil. Lower heat to a simmer and partially cover with a lid. Cook for about 25 minutes, until artichokes are very tender.

Meanwhile, peel the ginger and slice very thinly, then slice into very thin matchsticks. Warm oil in a small skillet and add ginger. Fry for a few seconds, until it is golden and crisp, then add coriander and chopped walnuts to the pan, let them sizzle briefly, then drain on paper towels.

Puree soup thoroughly in a blender (or with immersion blender), stir in chopped parsley, then adjust seasoning – you will need to add salt until the flavor tastes full, and crank in a bit of black pepper if you like. Serve topped with spice mix.

More good roots: 
Bittman on roots
Raw Winter Salad 
Lovely Beet Chips, at La Tartine Gourmande
Meaty Borscht, at Glutton for Life
Sweet Amandine Talks About Parsnip 
Another Root Soup from Cannelle et Vanille

Winter at the greenmarket

This is the time of year when I start rebelling against roasted root vegetables–I mean really dreading them. What was such a refreshing change from tomatoes and zucchini back in October is now about as welcome as another snow day. Although I don’t follow the Animal, Vegetable, Miracle diet by any stretch, I do try to support regional farmers by eating as locally as comfortably possible through the winter–and that’s no easy feat in the New York City. It can be limiting. Our growing season looks like a mirage glimmering in the distance right now, and our fresh vegetable and fruit CSAs won’t kick in again until June. And yet, on certain days–yes, even freezing ones–I find myself craving a nice crisp raw salad–one bursting with real, vibrant leafy things beyond the wan lettuces on the store shelves.

It turns out, thanks to inventive, intrepid growers, we have quite a few options around here now: wonderful, colorful creations that were actually grown within a morning's drive. Roots, of course, store well, and we still have some nice looking ones from this fall’s CSA–and believe it or not, roots don't have to mean cranking up the oven (more on that in a second). Our winter share, from a Hudson Valley-based cooperative called Winter Sun Farms, not only keeps us in frozen vegetables for our soups and berries for our smoothies, but delivers the sprightliest (greenhouse) pea shoots you can imagine, which we enjoy this fine way.
 
They're brave people, the farmers up here, and I'm grateful for that. Last Saturday I trekked to the Grand Army Plaza greenmarket in Brooklyn with temperatures in the teens, and quite a few growers had shown up, offering wares such as grass-fed milk, crisp apples, sustainably raised pork, frilly mushrooms, and roots–and even some whole, frozen heirloom tomatoes from last fall.

Then, on Wednesday, at the start of another mighty blizzard, I hopped the subway to the Union Square Greenmarket to answer the burning question of what sort of inspiration can be found on a snowy day. The answer was this: plenty, including some truly amazing options for salad. And not just sprouts, like the psychedelically-hued selection at Windfall Farms. I also spied cucumbers, lettuces, and peppers at Bodhi Tree Farm. Peppers! Even my beloved shishito peppers, which I blister in a hot pan and dip in paprika salt, and to which I thought I had bid farewell until August. At first coming face to face with them in a greenmarket tent in January felt all wrong, until I realized that the bell peppers I occasionally buy in our organic market are raised in greenhouses and shipped all the way from Holland.

…At Windfall Farms:

In the end, there were simply too many choices. I paid a pretty penny for some of the greenhouse items, but I believe supporting local growers will pay dividends in the end, on many different levels. The salad I ended up tossing together was a happy marriage of greens and of raw root vegetables. What's that? Raw root vegetables in a salad? Yes! If you have a mandoline or even a very sharp “Y” peeler, you can shave your root vegetables thin as petals, for texture and flavor that are brighter, more delicate, and leafier than what results from cubing and roasting those very same vegetables. Jerusalem artichokes, which are actually the roots of sunflower plants, taste especially nice this way and add a touch of nuttiness. Watermelon radishes and black radishes (below) supply color and drama and a hint of heat. Try it–just make sure to get them thin enough to let light through.  

My salad was mostly raw, but I did sprinkle some toasted hazelnuts on top because they work so nicely with the nuttiness of the sunchokes and the sunflower and rosy buckwheat sprouts. I used hazelnut oil too, and would recommend it, but there’s no reason not to use other nut oils, or olive oil. (The hazelnuts were not local, and if anyone could point me in the direction of hazelnuts grown around here, I would be grateful!). The recipe below is a loose guideline, meant to incorporate anything you might happen upon in the market, on any given day. If you sprout your own beans and seeds at home, this is a perfect place to use them.

Winter Greenmarket Salad: 
Vinaigrette:
Serves about 2

• 1 teaspoon dijon mustard
• 1/8 teaspoon honey
• 1 tablespoon white wine or champagne vinegar
• pinch sea salt
• crank of black pepper
• 3 heaping tablespoons hazelnut oil (or other oil, such as walnut or olive)

Whisk together all ingredients except oil. Gradually whisk in oil a drop in a time, then in larger dribbles until it's all incorporated smoothly. Taste, and if you feel it's too acidic add a couple more drops of oil. 


Salad:

• Young greens: dandelion, mizuna, arugula or tat soi
• Sprouts: sunflower, buckwheat, or radish
• Roots: Jerusalem artichoke, radishes, turnips, celeriac
• Hazelnuts
• Optional: minced chives

Toast hazelnuts in a 350 degree oven for about 10 minutes, until deep golden brown. Cool them, and rub the skins off. Crush the hazelnuts under the side of a large knife, or in a bag, with a rolling pin. Wash the roots you have selected, dry, and then thinly shave them horizontally (see picture above of the pink watermelon radishes). It's up to you to decide the amount and proportion of roots and greens you want. Count on a small handful of greens per person, with about half the volume of roots. Put these in a large bowl and drizzle dressing, starting with about 1 tablespoon per person. Toss gently with clean hands, adding more dressing if needed. Gather up haystack bundles of salad and heap onto plates. Sprinkle with toasted hazelnuts and, if you like, fleur de sel (fine sea salt crystals).