Melissa Clark - Food Writer

Baked Baby Artichokes and Ramps with Crunchy Breadcrumbs

 

Raining or not, I’ve got spring fever—asparagus, ramps, and artichokes, if I see them, I want them.   That's the thing about spring.  It’s fleeting. So I'm taking full advantage before summer comes around with all its flashy tomatoes and eggplants and what not.

Although they are not local (we don't get local artichokes here until June or July), I got ahold of some lovely baby artichokes recently. And I had what is probably one of the last bundles of ramps this year in my vegetable drawer, so lunch began to take shape. 

I decided that baking them would be the best way to keep things simple.  As I’ve said before, I love stuffing artichokes with good, crunchy breadcrumbs and anything else I might be in the mood for (garlic, capers, pancetta, pecorino, etc.) Artichokes are generally a bit time-consuming to prepare; there’s no way around it.  But boy are they worth it.  And baby artichokes are considerably easier to prep than their bigger brothers and sisters—being choke free, they don’t need as much attention.  After peeling the tougher outer leaves, and trimming the stem, I just sliced them in half and let them wait patiently in their lemon water bath.  I was determined to pair them with my ramps.  So, after separating the ramp bulbs from the more delicate leaves, I popped the bulbs into the roasting tray along with the halved baby artichokes, cut-side up. 

I topped everything with a generous dusting of garlic-anchovy fried breadcrumbs (you can leave out the anchovy if you hate it).  I added a touch of water to the tray, then covered it with foil.  After about forty-five minutes, the artichokes were good and tender. 

Then I cranked on my broiler, crisping everything up.  It was heaven.  The breadcrumbs were savory and crunchy, the artichokes were potently sweet, and the ramp bulbs were silky and luscious (you can use scallions if you can't find ramps).  Thinly sliced, the bright green ramp leaves made for a perfect garnish.  I put a solid portion on my plate, gave everything a quick squeeze of fresh lemon, and then promptly inhaled it.  In order to save some for my husband Daniel, I actually had to cover his plate with a bowl to keep myself from picking away.

I was actually surprised by how well the breadcrumbs clung to the artichokes, and I couldn’t help but think that this recipe would make for great cocktail party fare.  You could separate the ramps and the artichokes after baking and arrange them on the same plate—in my book, they could easily pass as finger food.  (They certainly did today in my kitchen.)  Wonderful hot, wonderful not. 

Just wonderful in every way.

Baked Baby Artichokes with Ramps and Crunchy Breadcrumbs

1 whole lemon, halved

8 to 10 baby artichokes (about 2 pounds)

1 bunch ramps (about 6 ounces)

4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

3 anchovy filets (optional)

3/4 cup plain dried breadcrumbs

2 garlic cloves, minced

2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley, plus more for garnish

Sea salt

Freshly ground black pepper

Fresh lemon wedges, for serving

1.  Arrange rack in the center of the oven and preheat to 350° F.  Into a large bowl filled with water, give the two lemon halves a squeeze and then drop them into the water.  Working one by one, peel, trim, and halve each artichoke and then place them immediately into the acidulated water.

2.  Clean your ramps and trim the root bottoms.  Separate the leaves from the bulbs. 

3.  In a skillet over medium heat, warm 2 tablespoons of olive oil.  Add anchovy filets and sauté for about 2 minutes, breaking filets up with a fork until mostly dissolved.  Add breadcrumbs and stir to coat.  Continue cooking for 5 minutes, then add garlic, parsley, a good pinch of sea salt, and freshly ground black pepper.  Cook for another minute then remove from heat. 

4.  In a baking dish or roasting pan arrange artichoke halves cut side up.  Tuck ramp bulbs in between the artichokes, dispersing evenly.  (I used a 9 by 13 roasting pan, which was a bit oversized, so I ended up corralling the artichokes and ramps together in a tight group in the center of the pan, a 10-inch pan qould have been perfect I think.)

5.  Add enough water to the pan cover the entire bottom of the pan in a thin layer (I added about 1/2 cup).  Cover artichokes and ramps with fried breadcrumbs, then drizzle with remaining 2 tablespoons of olive oil.  Cover pan tightly with a sheet of foil and prick all over. 

6.  Bake for 45 minutes, then check that the artichokes are tender all the way through.  If they aren't easily pierced by a fork, bake for an additional 5 minutes or until tender.  Raise rack to highest position and broil the artichokes and ramps for 1 minute.

7.  Sprinkle the artichokes and ramps with sliced ramp leaves and additional chopped parsley.  Serve with lemon wedges.

 

Sunday Soups: Green, Spring Things Soup

Last week was a doozy. It commenced with Dahlia getting scarlet fever. Apparently that 19th century malady -- the terror that blinded Mary in the Little House books, that dreaded disease of the Velveteen Rabbit -- is still with us, albeit in a milder form. The name itself would have scared the heck out of me if I hadn't seen that really, my kid was okay except for having a 102 fever and a ruby rash all over her body. Uncomfortable, yes. In life threatening peril, not so much. But she was down, and then I fell too with some awful sore throat thing that may or may not have been strep but was most definitely unpleasant.

What I needed was soup. Not chicken soup. Too wintery for the moment. I wanted a soothing soup that tasted like spring. Or at least, like the spring onions, spring garlic, ruffled cilantro, and spinach I took home from the greenmarket before I collapsed into a feverish heap. Something green and fortifying, and pureed so I would haven't to chew.

From the freezer, out came the last of my Thanksgiving turkey stock.  (It is amazing to me just how much turkey stock tastes like turkey.  It tastes more like turkey than turkey does.)  I grabbed a couple of yellow potatoes from the bin and then simmered it all together, finishing the top with a squeeze of sunny lemon.

It was a green, cleansing, spring tonic of a soup. Just what I needed to make me well. Dahlia wouldn't touch it by the way (too green) but she got better nonetheless.

 

Green, Spring Things Soup

Serves 4 ish

 

4 tablespoons unsalted butter or more (I used a stick, I'll admit it, but you don't need that much)

1 bunch spring onions, chopped (white and light green parts, about 2 cups), or use 2 bunces scallions

1 bulb green spring garlic, chopped (or use 3 regular garlic cloves)

1-2 teaspoons salt, more as needed (depending on your stock)

Freshly ground black pepper

1 quart stock (poultry or vegetable)

2 potatoes, peeled and cubed (I used 2 large Yukon golds)

1 bunch young spinach, chopped (about 1 quart)

1/2 cup chopped cilantro leaves, plus more for garnish

1 lemon, halved

1/2 cup chopped dark green spring onion or scallion tops, for garnish

 

1.  In a large pot over medium-high heat melt butter and add spring onions and garlic.  Cook for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until translucent and soft.  Add green garlic, salt and pepper and continue cooking for 1-2 minutes.

2.  Add stock and 1 quart of water and bring to a simmer.  Add potatoes and reduce heat to medium-low.  Continue simmering until potatoes are tender, about 15 to 20 minutes. 

3.  Add spinach and cilantro leaves and continue simmering for another 1-2 minutes until spinach is wilted and soft.

4.  With an immersion blender, puree soup to desired consistency.  Or puree soup in batches in a blender.

5.  Just before serving, squeeze half the lemon into the soup, stirring it well and tasting as you squeeze. If it needs more, squeeze some from the other half. When it tastes right, stop with the lemon. Finish each serving with a sprinkling of cilantro and onion tops.

 

Kitchen Hip Tip: Roasted Broccoli Rabe

Spring is here and I know what you're thinking: asparagus, peas, ramps, rhubarb.

All true, but let's not forget broccoli rabe.

I know, it's not what most people think of when they think spring, (it's also a fall crop) but it's here in abundance after being wintered over. Spring broccoli rabe is actually sweeter than the fall plants, and you can often find them sprouting pretty yellow blossoms that are a joy to eat.

For the most part, I've always sauteed my broccoli rabe with garlic, olive oil, and chili flakes. And it's delicious. But I recently learned that just like its domesticated cousin, broccoli rabe is wonderful roasted. (Keep your eyes peeled for my upcoming video I shot for the New York Times for an up-close look at the technique.).

I wouldn't have thought so, I'd have assumed the tender leaves would burn to a crisp before collasping into a mushy heap. But they don't if your oven is hot enough (500 degress) and you use plenty of oil. Instead, those leafy bits can get soft and wilty in spots, and delightfully charred in others. Plus, like any other roasted veg, it's easy to do. And perfect when you've got the oven on for something else.

Two tips here:  make sure your oven is good and blazing (pre-heated to 500°), and don’t over-crowd the pan—the broccoli rabe needs some room to roast right.  (If the pan is over-crowded, the veggies will steam each other as they release their water.)  After about 5 to 7 minutes in your super-hot oven, you’ll have a tray of irresistible, char-edged goodness.  Pile it high on crostini smeared with good ricotta or a slick of olive oil, serve it hot as a side dish with just about anything, or enjoy it cold, almost like a salad with big curls of Parmigiano Reggiano and a squeeze or two of fresh lemon.

But make this soon, before it gets too hot to crank up the oven. Though at that point, we'll all be on to more summery produce. How many more days until tomato season?

Coconut-Orange Muesli

Muesli at the Andaz Hotel (note the fancy raisins)

Every year, my husband and I go on a “stay-cation” for our anniversary.  That is to say, we stay here in New York City, but head to a swanky hotel for a night off in each other’s company.  It’s a tradition of ours that I love -- it brings us back to our carefree (sort of) lives pre-child.  Included in the evening is of course a dinner out somewhere easy (no thumping music or waitlists) and exceptional.  For example, John Dory, where we had a fabulous seafood plateau. 

In terms of hotels, this year, we stayed at the super-cool Andaz on Fifth Avenue, and had a beautiful view overlooking the New York Public Library. And of course, when we woke up (LATE!) we had breakfast in bed. 

If I believed in heaven, it would include very good room service.  I ordered a bowl of muesli because I wanted something soft and comforting. And that's what I got, a bowl full of sweet, soft oats topped with bananas and those exotic seeming stem-on raisins, which were so sweet they tasted like candy.  

The muesli was so good, I decided to make my own version at home. I hadn't made muesli in years. Although I eat oatmeal and granola all the time, I just never think about extending my oat-love to muesli.  Another motivation was that I really wanted to make some for Daniel , who doesn't eat milk or yogurt.  So instead of using the usual dairy to soak the oats, I swapped in coconut milk.  With a bit of fresh orange juice and zest for brightness and a grated apple for subtle sweetness, my muesli was off and running. 

Here's a trick I learned about grating apples. Just slice big “cheeks” off the core and grate them against a box grater.  The flesh will come away from the peel in a cinch, and the peel protects your hand. See?

Finished with a sprinkling of toasted coconut chips, a bit of fresh fruit, and some really well-toasted whole almonds, my muesli was satisfying and almost as pretty as the Andaz's version (I couldn't find the stem-on raisins but honestly I didn't look very hard). 

By the way, be sure to add the almonds at the last minute—you want them to retain their crunch. 

And Daniel was delighted with his breakfast, even if I didn’t serve it to him in bed.

Coconut-Orange Muesli

Serves 3 to 4

 

2 cups rolled oats

½ cup coconut milk (more as needed)

1 orange, juiced and zested to yield about ¼ teaspoon of the zest (about half the orange)

2 teaspoons honey (optional)

Pinch of salt

1 apple, grated

½ cup dried cherries or other fruit

½ cup skin-on almonds, toasted and coarsely chopped

1/4 cup dried coconut chips, toasted (optional)

Fresh fruit, for serving (optional)

 

1.  In a medium sized bowl, combine oats, coconut milk, orange juice and zest, honey if using, salt, grated apple, and cherries and stir to combine.  If the mixture seems dry, stir in a little more coconut milk. Allow to soften in the refrigerator for at least 1 ½ hours or up to 3 days.

2.  Serve muesli with a sprinkling of toasted chopped almonds and coconut, and fresh fruit if you like.

 

Calzones!

I say ri-caw-tuh, some say ri-coata, which is stuffed in a Cal-zoan -- unless it's calt-zonay…(and then there's a ri-gut stuffed ca'zone but that's a whole other level of Brooklynese that brings me back to Junior High School...).

I'm digressing before I even start.

However you say it, a ricotta-stuffed calzone is a delicious thing, basically a big, beautiful grilled cheese sandwich oozing sweet milky ricotta and gooey mozzarella, sparked with plenty of pecorino or parmesan. I've loved them ever since I was a kid, and lately I've been eating a lot of them as "research" for an upcoming column and video I'm working on for the Times.

Of course I'd be remiss if my research didn't include a trip to Lucali’s in Carroll Gardens. So I headed over there this week to pick up some tips and techniques from a calzone master, chef/owner Mark Iacono. 

Some mighty gorgeous pies come out of Mark’s brick oven, but the calzones are equally special.  Tender and soft, the dough retains a lovely chew even with a touch of char from the super-hot oven, and just the right amount of cheese gets all melt-ey and ooze-ey.   I took the remains of our practice home, and the calzones were even delicious cold.  

(That's Lucali's oven, it can reach about 1000 degrees F.)

One thing I learned for sure—you want to use drier ingredients for a calzone than you might for a pizza.  Since a calzone locks in moisture (unlike a pizza where much of the moisture evaporates and condenses), you want to keep wetness to a minimum so you get a properly and thoroughly baked shell with any dreaded sogginess.  If you’re using ricotta, give it a really good squeeze (or better yet, strain it in the fridge overnight).  And as much as I love runny, fresh, buffalo mozzarella, the denser, cow's milk kind works much better in calzones (look for the stuff wrapped in cellophane rather than balls bobbing in water).  Whatever cheeses you’re using, be sure to season them aggressively (lots of black pepper) before sealing up your cheesy, doughy package.

Mark also makes an irresistible dessert calzone, with sweetend ricotta on the inside and swirls of melty nutella (the kind imported from Italy, of course) on the outside, seasoned with sea salt.  I came home and made something similar with honeyed ricotta mixed with orange zest and cinnamon on the inside, and powdered sugar and honey on top. Heavenly (there it is, below).

Anyway look for more about calzones in a few weeks in the Times. In the meantime, I'll be trying out different filling combinations (broccoli rabe, olives and parmesan sounds like a good to me), and generally brushing up on my calzone technique -- and pronounciation.

Spaghetti with Garlic and Chilies (oh and a few anchovies)

     

Some ingredient combinations are like alchemy. Toss together a few mundane things in the exact right way and you get a dish that's transcendent, brilliant, better than it should be for what went into it. And such was our dinner the other night of spaghetti with garlic, chilies, and a few anchovies. There wasn't much to it, yet it was sublime.

Of course the quality of the ingredients had something to do with it; I had lucked into some of the best garlic and chilies imaginable. But even so, it was a good reminder that even when there's nothing in the house for dinner, there usually is, even if the garlic and chilies came from the supermarket instead of, you know, London's amazing Borough Market.

That's right, I made an Italian pasta dish with ingredients from London in my Brooklyn kitchen. Not very authentic or local or what have you. But boy was it good.

It all started when a friend (who clearly knows me well) returned from a trip to London with some contraband Borough Market treats. 

I’d been lamenting the disappearance of good garlic this time of year. All the farmers' market stuff is dry and dull and the first spring bulbs have yet to ripen. And you have to pick through a lot of supermarket garlic to avoid the soft and sprouty heads. I use garlic constantly nonetheless because that's how I am. But that doesn't stop me from complaining.

Kvetch and ye shall receive:  my friend arrived at my house with a brown paper bag filled with gorgeous Lautrec garlic.  And I am most grateful to my Garlic Smuggling Friend GSF (who shall remain nameless lest the US Customs and Border Protection agents hunt her down). 

In case you didn't know, the little town of Lautrec in the south of France has been famous for its garlic for centuries (yes I just looked all this up...).  It’s serious business there.  So serious that it was given the Certificat d'Identification Geograhique Protégée (certificate of protected geographical identification).  It can only be called Lautrec garlic if it’s grown in Lautrec.  It comes streaked white and rose, with taut fat bulbs that are pink at the tip after peeling. The flavor at first seems sweet and floral, but keep chewing and a sharp, spicy bite hits the tongue, followed by an earthy quality.  It is just spectacular garlic.  Decidedly un-local, but spectacular.

My GSF also brought me a curious little jar of Calabrian Chili.  I’m all too familiar with the yummy salt/oil packed Tutto Calabria chilies that the Brooklyn Larder carries (they’re a mainstay in my kitchen).  But this jar from Borough Market was different.  According to the Calabrian gent who sold them (and who allegedly sported an authentic and impressive mono-brow), a genuine Calabrian grandmother roasts the chili flakes till they’re almost dry, then packs them in salt and oil.  The flavor is searing hot, smoky, complex and very salty, with a crunchy, brittle texture. They were so addictive that I accidentally ate a small pinch flake by flake like potato chips, tears streaming down my face (in a good way).

As I looked at my new overseas goodies, dinner began to take a very clear shape.

I'd riff on the classic southern Italian pasta Aglio e Olio (garlic and oil), stirring in a spoonful of those crunchy chilies along with some anchovies and capers.

This kind of preparation is best paired with a long pasta shape—classically, spaghetti.  And I had a lovely, Campania-made, fancy-pants Setaro spaghetti at the ready (sometimes I just can't stop myself from spending $12 on a pound of pasta, but it's a cheap shopping high, much more economical than, say, that $190 pair of jeans). 

For the two of us for dinner (this dish was going to be far too spicy to share with our small child) I used three cloves of garlic, and wished I’d used more.  For the sake of experiencing the garlic in many manifestations, I chopped 1 of the cloves, and left the other 2 whole after smashing and peeling them. The whole, smashed cloves get sweet when slowly cooked in oil while the minced one, which I added at the end, stayed bright and pungent. And the anchovies and capers added a salty briny depth.

The pasta was so good and so simple that I plan to make it again, even when my stash of fancy garlic and chilies is gone (and they are not long for this world, I think I'm making this dish again tonight). In which case, I'll just use the best, fattest, plumpest garic I can find, and some good crushed red chili flakes that I'll toast in oil for a minute or two with a pinch of salt to mimic that deep, browned flavor.

My friend's gift was more than just good garlic and chilies, it was a reminder that sometimes the simplest recipes are the best. And when late winter palate fatigue sets in, pasta with a little chili and a lot of garlic will set it right again.

By the way, if you're wondering why there isn't a mouth-watering photo of the finished dish it's because we inhaled the thing too quickly. I simply couldn't wait.  Make this and I think you'll see why.

 

Spaghetti with Garlic and Chilies (and a few anchovies)

Serves 2

1/2 pound spaghetti or any long pasta shape

Salt

3 tablespoons good olive oil, more for drizzling

1/4 to 1/2 teaspoon red chili flakes (use the best stuff you can find, preferably of Italian origin)

3 or 4 fat garlic cloves, 2 or 3 smashed and peeled, 1 minced

3 tablespoons drained capers, patted dry with a paper towel to encourage browning

2 to 4 anchovy filets

Freshly ground black pepper

Squeeze of lemon, optional (the pasta was good with and without the lemon, so squeeze to taste)

1. Bring a heavily salted pot of water to a boil (about 1/4 cup salt for a loarge pot of water). Cook the spaghetti until al dente. Drain.

2. Meanwhile, heat the oil in a large skillet, the largest one you have. Add the chilies and a pinch of salt and toast until golden, 1- 2 minutes (skip this step if you are lucky enough to be using fancy toasted Calabrian chilies).

3. Add the smashed garlic, capers, and anchoviues and let cook until everything is well golden and the capers look crisp around the edges and the anchovies have dissolved into the oil (you can help this along by mashing them with a wooden spoon as they cook).

4. Add the remaining minced garlic to the pan and saute for 15 seconds, then add the drained pasta and toss well. Add more salt if necessary, and plenty of black pepper, and serve drizzled with more oil and a squeeze of lemon if the dish needs a lift. Cheese isn't necessary but if you like pecorino and have some on hand, feel free to shower it on top.

SPICES of Life (Whee! I Organized My Spices!)

My kitchen just received the second half of a subtle, but seriously major upgrade. 

First it was my pantry, whose deep shelves were so full that to access anything at the back required either a delicate dance of bottles or a deep excavation.  Andy Rigg of Brooklyn Bilt installed some hefty, load-bearing pull-out shelves and suddently, everything is different.  All my ingredients, from all-purpose flour to that obscure bottle of pekmez I lugged home from Istanbul now regularly see the light of day.

Equally revelatory, but a bit more complicated, was solving the problem of my spice cabinet.  Like my pantry, it was a scary, unchartered place, stuffed to over-brimming. The kind of place that was perilous to stand under, lest the jar of Sicilian chili flakes fall on your head. There were things in the far reaches and the dark corners that were totally inaccessible, and they langished so for years (this is no joke).  And to top it all off, the cabinet was dreadfully close to my stove,  far too close to the heat.  (Any self-respecting kitchen packrat like myself should know better than to endanger their precious hoard with unnecessary exposure to high temperatures.)  All I wanted for my spices was ease, visibility, and safety.  Not too much to ask, right?

(Frightening image, isn't it?)

And boy did I get it…in abundance.  I hadn’t really imagined how my lofty dreams might materialize, but Andy had the brilliant idea of crafting a series of shallow drawers in a space that was occupied by one large, deep drawer.  I immediately loved the idea, and so did Daniel, though we were temporarily scuttled when we discovered our cheapy line of Ikea cabinetry had been discontinued.  But a quick ebay search turned up exactly the components we needed, and a few clicks later we were back on track. 

With the drawers installed (seamlessly, I might add) the next step was clear—choosing uniform and handy containers.  My original spice cabinet had a hodgepodge of jars, boxes, tins, bottles, bags, matchboxes, handkerchiefs, you name it.  

At the opposite end of the spectrum, after much diddling around on the internet -- I mean studious research -- I found these. Square tins, with little clear lids, were an ideal solution.  They don’t roll!  They don’t turn!  They don’t fall on their sides!  In short, square tins make use of the real estate deeded to them with elegance and economy.

Tins chosen and drawers in place, next came The Great Spice Reckoning. 

It was time to look my spice cabinet squarely in the eye, and come face to face with the sweet or spicy or savory ghosts lingering within.  I piled everything into boxes and gradually went through them, one by one, jettisoning the bare minimum (hey, I said it already…I’m a kitchen packrat) with the gentle but firm encouragement of those around me. Daniel, Sunny, Sarah and Dahlia were my own personal SHA support group (that would be Spice Hoarders Anonymous). 

Naturally, I found some sentimental gems that I couldn’t bear to part with.  Mahleb, the tiny little stones from an ancient fertile crescent cherry known as St Lucie have been imparting their subtle almondy-fruitiness to baked goods for centuries—though my stash has only been around for a couple of years.  Black cardamom pods are so smoky and earthy they almost smell like bacon.  And those Thai long pepper corns never fail to intrigue me with their floral and piney heat. 

Dahlia came home from school to find me on the floor, surrounded by the mess, and declared in all her three year-old wisdom that “something smelled funny”.  And indeed, after sniffing many a mystery packet, I was a sneezy mess.  (A tin actually got labeled “Mystery Chili Powder”—I’m open to ideas of what to do with it!) 

Slowly but surely, order started to dominate the chaos.  And then the moment finally came—cue the Rocky theme song.  I put all my newly labeled tins into their new home, arranging them in my own whimsical way (chilis and sweet spices in the top drawer, herbs, seeds and everything else below). The satisfaction was extreme. 

At last count I had over 28 different types of chili products, not including the 5 different paprikas.  (Believe me, even I am amazed.)  Everything is readily available, handy, and oh-so organized.  I pull a handle to reveal the ground-up goodness of many a nation, lined up in friendly phalanxes.  The drawers almost feel like little libraries, and as I pull them out to browse, I’m looking over the recipes, trials and errors, and old familiar friends of my home-cooking life.  Really fun stuff.

Wee Almond Layer Cake with Cherry Jam and Chocolate Honey Glaze

 

I never need an excuse to eat chocolate, or really, to bake a cake (this is one of the many upsides of being a culinary professional - it's my duty to give into cake-baking urges in the name of....um, my job. Right.)

But when a holiday like Valentine's Day rolls around,  the pressure is on, not just to make any old chocolate dessert, but to come up with something truly special.

A petite 6-inch layer cake fills the bill. It's large enough for you and your sweetie to gorge on for Valentine's Day dinner with leftovers for breakfast the next day (or two).  But it's also small enough NOT to share. And it's downright adorable - like a miniature birthday cake, which it could be if you stuck a few candles in the top.

The only potentially sticking point to this recipe is getting (and then storing) the 6-inch cake pans. They are easy enough to order online, but you do need to plan ahead (be sure to check out the brand name on these.)

Then all you have to do is halve your favorite layer cake recipe (one that will yield two 9-inch layers), and bake that halved amount of batter in the two small pans. (You could also bake the batter in one 8 or 9-inch pan, but then you lose the cuteness and celebratory quality of a layer cake; a flat cake just isn't as special, even if you do try and pass it off as a torte.)

You can of course bake any flavor cake you like. But Valentine’s Day is all about chocolate, so I think it should feature prominently.  (For a whole tour of easy chocolate goodness, check out my videos I recently made for the NY Times.) This said, I don't love chocolate-on-chocolate-on-chocolate confections. I like something to break up all that bittersweet monotony. So if I’m baking a chocolate cake, I’ll mix up a contrasting icing—maybe a boozy rum buttercream, or an airy raspberry whipped cream.  But if I’m baking a white cake, nut cake or fruit cake, that’s when I pull out the big chocolate guns, and this fudgy glaze, sweetened with honey, packs some major choco-ammo for a very minimal amount of work. 

This recipe is for a moist, fragrant almond cake, and it's pretty much my go-to layer cake. The best part is that it's really quick to bake, which was essential on this past Valentine's Day. You see, even though Daniel knew that I would be baking something for dessert, I wanted the actual cake to be a surprise. Which meant I had to bake and then hide the whole thing while he was out on a run. Luckily he's in marathon training mode, which meant I had a good 12 or so miles to work with.  The only thing that threatened to foil my dastardly secret was the olfactory evidence; as this cake baked, the house was filled with the heady, warm aromas of almonds and butter.  (Fortunately, Daniel actually zipped upstairs when he got home, distracted with concealing his own secret surprise, a Valentine's Day bouquet.)

A note about this recipe (and cake recipes in general). If your cake layers come out with peaked domes on top, just lop them off with a knife (and eat the trimmings, that's the cook's priviledge for goodness sake). You can see that I did that in the photo, below. In fact even if the top isn't so very domed, sometimes I like to trim the top off anyway. Just to maintain quality control of course.

As for a filling, there is enough frosting to spread between the layers. But instead I opted for a quick smear of tart cherry jam because cherries seem so red and Valentinesy. Then I iced the whole tower with chocolate honey glaze as my giddy three-year-old watched on (she got to lick the spatula).  By the way, icing a cake is a cinch.  I promise.

After the efforts I went to making and hiding the cake, I kept the rest of the meal simple. I splurged on a gorgeous rib eye that we paired with some perfectly, deliciously uncomplicated duck fat fried potatoes (boil fingerlings in salted water, drain, smash, fry in duck fat) and a pile of lemon and olive oil dressed watercress.  And we opened a stupendous ’75 Grand Cru Pauillac, ‘cuz, you know, we had one in the basement (thanks Dad!). 

I have to admit that the cake, as lovely and special as it was, did lose out a bit to the hoopla of the perfect, gorgeous, leathery-cherry-spicy-earthy wine. At least it did that night. But I can tell you it rocked for breakfast. And by then the wine was long gone. But not forgotten.

Wee Almond Layer Cake with Cherry Jam and Chocolate Honey Glaze

For the cake:

1 stick unsalted butter, at room temperature; more for greasing pans

2 large eggs

1/2 cup sour cream or use a combo of plain yogurt and heavy cream

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 1/4 cups cake flour

1/4 cup finely ground almonds

3/4 cup sugar

3/8 teaspoon baking powder

3/8 teaspoon baking soda

3/8 teaspoon salt

Cherry jam

 

For the glaze:

1/4 cup heavy cream

1/4 cup honey

5 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease two 6-inch cake pans and line bottoms with parchment or waxed paper. Grease the paper. In a bowl, beat together the eggs, 1/4 of the sour cream, and vanilla.

2. In bowl of an electric mixer, whisk together the all purpose flour, ground almonds, sugar, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Beat in butter and remaining 1/4 cup sour cream until light and fluffy, 1 to 2 minutes.  Slowly beat in the egg mixture until fully combined.

3. Scrape batter into prepared pans. Bake for about 30 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in center of a cake layer comes out clean. Let cake layers cool in pans on wire racks for 15 minutes, then invert onto racks and peel off paper. Let cool completely on racks.

4. While cakes cool, make the glaze. Bring cream and honey to simmer in medium saucepan. Remove from heat. Add chocolate and whisk until melted and smooth. If all the chocolate doesn't quite melt, put the saucepan back on the heat and whisk constantly until it does.

6. To frost cake, place 1 layer on a cake plate, rounded side down, trimming if necessary so it lies flat (eat the trimmings, they are the best party).  Spread cheery jam between layers, then glaze with chocolate.

 ...A gratuitous (and entirely adorable) photo of said three year-old, pre-spatula lick...

 

Kitchen Hip Tip: The Easiest Homemade Breadcrumbs

We are a household of bread-heads.  Dahlia loves sweet little jam and cream cheese sandwiches in her school lunches. Daniel, a marathon runner, is always in search of good, sturdy carbs.  And I couldn't live without my buttered toast with whatever (anchovies, tomatoes, inch-thick pillows of salted butter, avocado) on top.

So any day of the week, you’ll find several kinds of loaves on our counter in various states of freshness.   Which is a good thing—since different types of bread all mixed together makes for especially great breadcrumbs.

I keep a big Mason jar full of homemade breadcrumbs, always at the ready in my now well-organized and beautiful new pantry.  (Thanks Andy!)  If I’m on top of things, I’ll slice up the remaining heels of bread while they are still manageably soft into slim slices, and spread them out on a sheet tray.  I then dry them out totally in a 300° F oven.  The time can vary depending on the type of bread and how dried out it was to begin with.  After twenty minutes I’ll check the slices for any signs of “give”, and if they yield to the touch at all they go right back in for another ten, or until they’re dry and crisp as can be. 

Here’s where today’s Kitchen Hip Tip comes in…for years, to make my breadcrumbs, I’ve always pulsed the dried out slices in my food processor, using the standard blade.  It was a real chore.  It would take forever, my trusty old machine would overheat, and I’d have to go in there every so often to manually unclog chunks of bread that would collect on the blade.  

When putting away something in the same drawer where I store my other food processor blades and attachments, I saw the grater disc and had a revelation.  What if I dropped slices through the feeder tube and “grated” the dried bread instead?  And you know what?  It worked.  Marvelously.  Easily. But not quietly (tell your preschooler to cover her ears). However you wind up with really nice breadcrumbs, and there’s a bit of variety in the size and texture (if you’re looking for really uniform, fine breadcrumbs, simply slip the blade in after everything is grated and whirl them up). 

Store-bought breadcrumbs are always there in the grocery aisle if you need them, but homemade are so much better.  In everything.  I love big coarse breadcrumbs in place of croutons sprinkled over a salad (fry them first in a little butter or olive oil to crisp them)—you’re more likely to get a bit of crunch in every bite.  Homemade breadcrumbs are great for coating a chicken breast, or for stuffing vegetables (and as artichoke season is approaching, I might be needing an extra Mason jar).  And I LOVE breadcrumbs over a simple pasta, particularly after I’ve fried them in olive oil with some anchovy and garlic (and maybe even some chili flakes). 

Now that making breadcrumbs is a much less cumbersome task, I will never be without them thanks to my burly grater disk.  Give your lovely loaves a delicious second life.   

Sunday Soups--Red Lentil, Parsnip, and Meyer Lemon

There are two things I rarely do when it comes to cooking: follow a recipe (especially one of my own) and make the same thing twice. I'm a improvisational cook and generally end up whipping things together with whatever I've got around.

This said, the one recipe I always follow to the letter is my Red Lentil Soup (from a column that I wrote a few years back for the Times). It’s a soup that fits my tastes perfectly - full of heady flavor, smooth, velvety, spiced with cumin and lemon. Almost every time I make it, I look up my recipe and then I follow it.

Except, you know, when I don't. As in, last Sunday. I planned to make my red lentil soup, but then, at the last minute, decided to change to accommodate some wilty parsnips that really needed a home. So I added them to the soup in place of the carrot.

Though they lacked the pleasing color that the carrots lent to the soup, the parsnips did contribute a lovely, nutty sweetness. And since Meyer lemon season is in full swing (and when it is, I almost always have some on hand), I stirred in some bright but mellow juice right before serving.

Red lentils cook up so quickly (since they’re without a husk), but because of this they also don’t tend to hold their shape very well. Which makes them an ideal candidate for pureeing. Parsnips too love a good turn through the blender.

As a final garnish, I often sprinkle my lentil soup with some chili for a prickly heat, but a pinch of good sweet or smoky paprika is delicious too. On this particular night, I floated a big, home-made crouton in everyone’s bowl for a crunchy contrast. Humans have been eating lentils for a very, very long time and it’s no wonder—they’re easy to store, easy to cook, and super satisfying.

Red Lentil, Parsnip, and Meyer Lemon Soup

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more to taste
1 yellow onion, diced
2 fat garlic cloves, minced
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, more to taste
3 small parsnips, peeled and diced
2 celery stalks, sliced
1 cup red lentils
1 quart stock - any kind. I used turkey
2 cups water
Juice from 1/2 Meyer lemon, plus more to taste
1/4 cup chopped cilantro, plus sprigs for garnish
ground chili, cayenne, or paprika to taste

1. In a large pot over medium-high heat, warm olive oil. Add onions and sauté until translucent, five minutes. Stir in garlic and continue cooking another two minutes. Stir in tomato paste, ground cumin, and kosher salt and continue cooking until tomato paste begins to brown, another two minutes.
2. Add parsnips, celery, and lentils then stir in stock and water and bring to a simmer. Cover pot, reduce heat to low, and cook until lentils are tender, about 30 minutes.
3. With an immersion blender, puree soup until smooth (or to desired consistency, chunky is nice too). Alternatively, puree soup in a blender or food processor, working in batches.
4. Stir in juice of 1/2 Meyer lemon, and adjust seasoning to taste, adding more lemon if desired. Stir in cilantro.
5. Ladle soup into individual bowls and finish each with a generous drizzle of olive oil, a few sprigs of cilantro, and a sprinkle of salt and chili or paprika.