Raspberry sorbet using invert sugar

The last time I was at Pizzeria Mozza I sat at the bar, stuffed full of tricolore salad and pizza, unable to stop eating the mango and passion fruit sorbets in front of me. I’ve had Dahlia’s gelatos and sorbets hundreds of times, I even watched them being made when the machine first arrived, but this time I was mesmerized. As I lifted the spoon to my mouth time after time I just kept wondering, how in the world did she get them so creamy?

When I had the good fortune of running into Dahlia at a party just a couple weeks later I asked. The answer, apparently, is simple: invert sugar.

Now I admit to geeking out on the science of cooking now and then—I’ve got a soft spot for Alton Brown’s brand of nerdiness—but invert sugar sounds like molecular gastronomy to me. I just like making things from scratch. Nonetheless I was intrigued. Could this one thing really truly improve the texture of my sorbet that much? I had to find out.

Apparently invert sugar really isn’t that high up on the technical scale. It’s made by taking traditional sugar and using an acid—lemon juice, cream of tartar, citric acid—and heat to break the sucrose into equal parts fructose and glucose dissolved in water. The resulting syrup crystallizes more slowly than regular sugar, giving the product it is added to a softer, creamier texture.

While you can buy invert sugar (try Surfas or Gloria’s Cake & Candy Supply in Los Angeles), I decided I wanted to make it myself. (Did I mention I like to make things from scratch?) I had trouble finding a recipe, though, so I decided to experiment. I combined one cup of water, one cup of sugar and ¼ teaspoon of citric acid and simmered it for about 30 minutes and then let it cool.

With my experimental invert sugar on hand, I rinsed off the tart, sweet raspberries I picked with my family at Underwood Family Farms in Simi Valley and ran them through the food processor and then through a fine sieve to get out all the seeds. Some water, the invert sugar and chill time later I found myself scooping out the creamiest, most luscious-textured sorbet I’d made to date, like velvet across the tongue. Even after a few days in the freezer the sorbet, which usually hardens into a block of ice, stayed soft and scoopable. Next up, sugar plum sorbet…inverted of course.

Raspberry Sorbet

4 cups fresh raspberries
1 cup water
1 batch invert sugar*

*invert sugar – 1 cup water, 1 cup sugar, ¼ teaspoon citric acid or cream of tartar, simmered for 30 minutes and then cooled.

Puree the raspberries in a blender or food processor. Push through a sieve with the back of a spoon to remove the seeds. Add one cup of water and the invert sugar to the raspberry puree. Stir and refrigerated until thoroughly chilled (about 8 hours). Freeze according to your ice cream maker’s instructions.

What happened to the crab guy at the Hollywood Farmers’ Market? Read my new post on Squid Ink to find out…

Excuse my dusty cliché, but man does time fly. It’s been more than a month since I’ve written anything here, a month of living by the beach, trying to remember where I put things in my urgency to just get unpacked already, and now it seems that summer is waning with the moon. I’m sorry for my absence; not writing here feels like not talking to your best friend for too long.

But it’s not like I haven’t been writing at all, which is why it’s been a little hard to get back into the groove. In fact, I’ve been keeping up my column for the LA Weekly’s blog, Squid Ink, with stories about lobster trap escape hatches, food stamps at farmers markets, egg safety regulations, sugar shortages, Eat-Ins and farmers market celebrations. And I’ve been cooking, just a little bit, trying to figure out my oven on the not-so-hot days, but mostly making ice cream.

I find the clicking and whirring sounds of the Cuisinart ice cream maker that Matt and Adam lent me quite comforting, a musical interlude before a delightful frozen treat, and I use it every chance I get. The recipe I’ve been working on lately was inspired by the musty, piquant Yerba Buena mint Lily had at her herb stand a few weeks ago. Standing there with Foodwoolf, my face buried in the mint taking long deep breaths, I imagined the aroma interacting with something spicy, something sultry. Chocolate. Chile. Mint.

It took a couple of tries, but the chocolate-chile-mint ice cream I envisioned that day finally came together. Neal and I are still pecking away at the first batch, where I used to crushed chile flakes. The heat in that ice cream was all front-of-the-palate, and it built so that it was a little hard to eat when you got to the bottom of the bowl. I liked the mint element, which was cooling, but there seemed to be a big hole in the middle, like donut, followed by the rich, coating quality of 85 percent Scharffenberger chocolate.

For the second batch, I searched for Fresno chiles, thinking their sweet heat might give the ice cream a rounder flavor. But then I remembered the Ibarra in my cabinet and the smoky, cinnamon-spiced heat that makes Mexican hot chocolate so intriguing. So I opted for the full-flavored ancho chile powder in my cabinet instead, added some fresh-grated Vietnamese cinnamon and toned down the bitterness on the chocolate using 70% Scharffenberger. To quote my friend Bryan, whose wife was a recipient of the first successful batch: “OMG that ice cream you made and brought is absolutely FABULOUS.  Jia-Rui (his wife) woke up talking about it this morning and I just tasted it… OMG. So damn good.”

I think you’ll feel the same way. I loved it, and I don’t even like chocolate that much.

Chocolate Chile Mint Ice Cream

2 cups heavy creamy
¾ cup sugar
3 springs Yerba Buena mint (can substitute spearmint or peppermint), chopped
5 tbsp unsweetened Dutch-process cocoa powder
3 oz chopped 70% cocoa Scharffenberger chocolate or other bittersweet, high-quality chocolate
pinch of salt
1 tsp fresh ground Vietnamese cinnamon
2 tsp ancho chile powder
1 ½ cups whole milk

Heat cream and sugar in a medium saucepan until the sugar dissolves. Add mint and let steep for 30 minutes. Re-warm and whisk in cocoa powder, trying to break up lumps. Bring mixture to a rolling boil and then remove from heat.

Slowly stir in chopped chocolate until fully melted. Add salt, cinnamon and chile powder. Stir until combined. Stir in whole milk. Pour into a storage container and chill overnight.

Strain out mint and freeze according to your ice cream maker’s instructions.

Red Rock Crab

Call me naïve, but I really didn’t expect the fish smell to last that long. But with this morning’s shower, I have finally managed to remove the last olfactory remnants of chum and seaweed and fish guts lingering in my hair and on my skin from Saturday’s crabbing trip in Santa Barbara. The story I was working on for EdibleLA won’t come out until the fall, but I was starting to worry that the salty, slightly fermented perfume might last that long too.

Paul Chopping Chum

Saturday’s trip was far from a pleasure cruise, not that I expected or wanted it to be. The Sea Fever, my subject John Wilson’s boat, is meant for one thing—catching crab and lobster. There is no bathroom, just a bucket in the small cabin down below, no running water to wash your face if you’re stomach is pitching with the sea, and no comfy chairs to sit and watch Roxy the Golden Retriever bark at the dolphins and seals playing around the boat as John and his deckhand Paul haul in another trap clammering with crab.

Neal came with me, grimacing across the bed through the last of the moonlight being cast through our bedroom window when the alarm went off at 4 a.m. Fueled by a pot of coffee, we flew up the coast to the Santa Barbara Harbor, stepping onto John’s 45-foot boat just after 6, the pale grey dawn pushing through the mists settled over the calm ocean. As we pulled out of the harbor, I asked if there was anything I could do to help. My offer was met by silence. As the boat rocked across the waves to the first crab trap I had to bury my urge to give into the building seasickness. I was on assignment. I couldn’t spend the day looking over the side. I braced myself, snapping pictures of our two-man crew preparing for the day’s work.

John Examining Crab

Unfortunately, Neal wasn’t so fortunate. He spent the entire morning running between the makeshift bed in the cabin where he splayed out, noise canceling headphones on his head, trying to keep the world steady, and the side of the boat, Roxy licking his hand sweetly. Around noon, up near the Gaviota pier, John offered to drop Neal off. All he had to do was jump about two and a half feet from the boat to a rope, avoid a couple of baby seals, and climb to land. He did it willingly, smiling for the first time all day as he waved goodbye from the steadiness of the old pier.

In the meantime, John and Paul hooked buoys along an invisible line, looping them around an industrial-sized reel that assisted in pulling 150 to 200 pounds of vinyl-coated steel and crab to the surface. The duo moved swiftly and efficiently, John sorting through the crab, tossing pregnant females and specimens whose shells were too soft (crab are molting this time of year) with a pitcher’s arm back into the drink. As the last crabs landed in a bucket, Paul placed a container stuffed with chopped mackerel and a halibut carcass back into the trap. When John found the spot he wanted to drop it back, they heaved it over the side, the orange buoys skimming the rolling waves as the rest drifted slowly back to the ocean floor—150, 160, 180 feet below the surface.

Paul Waiting to Cast a Trap

Between traps we talked. We talked about crabbing and lobster catching, fishing and the bureaucratic b.s. that makes a life at sea at combination of hard physical work, loneliness and politics. But to get all that you’ll have to read the EdibleLA piece this fall. Until then, here are a couple of photos of the day to whet your palate.

Roxy the Seafaring Dog Never Gets Seasick

Note: You can pick up gorgeous Red Rock crab like these, as well as Santa Barbara Yellow Rock crab, line-caught halibut and red snapper from John Wilson at the Hollywood Farmers’ Market on Sundays. John will also have Spiny Lobsters this fall.

Blueberry Lemon Verbena Ice Cream

“Nothin’ but blue skies for now on…”

Anyone who tells you Seasonal Affective Disorder is a load of crap should be subjected to a Pacific Northwest winter. Eugene, Oregon, where I went to graduate school, layered days upon days of glary, gossamer grey light. It’s not that it rained that much there. Don’t get me wrong, it rained. But the greyness was what was most oppressive, climate-coated  emotional shackles. I prefer the monotony of 300 days of sunshine. Blue skies, blue skies with puffy white clouds, blue skies and wind-whipped icicle cold air, as long as there’s sunshine, I’m happy.

Which is to say, that my least favorite month living in Southern California is June. The hazy, foggy mornings that fall under the umbrella of June Gloom are such a downer. I find it hard to wake up, hard to concentrate, hard to do anything but laze around and watch baseball. And since May Grey seems to precede June Gloom with more frequency than it used to, by half way through June I’m cranky as all get out. And by the behavior of my fellow Angelenos, I’d say it’s getting to them too.

Fortunately, I’ve learned that the shortest route to an attitude adjustment has to be ice cream. Take a crying kid and give her an ice cream cone and those tears quickly dissipate into a dirty-faced smile.  Take a curmudgeony grown-up on a hot, sticky day out for gelato and they’re bound to relax. So last week I decided to take my bad mood out for some ice cream.

Inspiration wasn’t too far off. As I was snapping pictures at the Hollywood Farmers’ market for my monthly contribution to Serious Eats’ Market Scene (which, incidentally, was about June Gloom too—there seems to be a theme here), I tried gorgeous tangy-sweet blueberries from Jimenez Family Farm, newcomers to the market. The navy blue orbs were like nature’s Pop Rocks, exploding with flavor that was surprising for this early in the season. Armed with blueberries, I wandered over to Lily’s herb stand and, sniffing around, discovered some lemon verbena. An herb native to South America, it has powerful lemony scent with just a hint of grassy undertones. It’s a nice complement to fruit salad, makes for a refreshing tisane and, I thought, would add a nice lemon quality to the ice cream without adding more acidity. When I told Lily what I was thinking she raised her dark eyebrows skeptically.

The combination of the fruit and the herb was the delightful, summery remedy I was looking for. And it’s cerulean color, tinged with purple, and its creamy richness would have to suffice for blue skies, at least until July.

Blueberry Lemon Verbena Ice Cream

2 cups whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
3/4 cup sugar
1 oz lemon verbena
12 oz blueberries, rinsed
pinch of salt
5 egg yolks

Stir together the blueberries, a pinch of salt and sugar in a medium saucepan over medium-low heat until the berries start to give up their liquid. Add sprigs of lemon verbena and let steep for about 45 minutes. Remove the lemon verbena and puree in a blender until smooth. Pour the blueberry mixture through a sieve to remove seeds and skins, then add back to the pot and stir in the milk over medium-low heat.

Pour the heavy cream into a medium bowl and set a strainer over it. Set aside.

In another medium bowl whisk your egg yolks until they’re smooth. Slowly pour the warmed blueberry mixture into the eggs, mixing constantly, to temper the yolks. (Do this too fast and you’ll end up with blueberry scrambled eggs.) Transfer the blueberry custard base back into your pot and heat again over medium-low until the mixture thickens slightly. You’ll know it’s ready when you can drag your finger through the batter on the back of a spoon or spatula and it doesn’t run together.

Pour batter through the strainer into the cream. Stir to combine, cover with plastic and chill overnight. Freeze according to your ice cream maker’s instructions.

Strawberry-Rhubarb Clafoutis catches some rays at breakfast

Sometimes I get a little over-zealous at the farmers’ market, especially in the late-Spring. I stock up on gorgeous gem-colored cherries, tangy-sweet blueberries, pints of radiant red strawberries, baby beets and rainbow chard, forgetting I made dinner plans or agreed to go to a wine tasting later in the week. As I’m unloading my bags and stuffing my crisper until it’s spilling out the seams like Jack Sprat, I realize I’ve bought way more than I’ll have time to eat without a little strategizing. (And sadly there are weeks I don’t realize this until I the strawberries begin looking like a fifth grade science experiment.)

Walking to the old Farmers’ Market on Fairfax and Third last week, Neal and I spied some rhubarb growing in a neighbor’s yard. The plant had already gone to flower, so it wasn’t going to be good eating, even if it wasn’t an integral part of their landscaping. But it got me thinking of the pint of strawberries in my fridge and one of my favorite, simple French desserts: clafoutis.

I love clafoutis, which is essentially fruit and cake batter, but it tastes a cross between custard and a pancake-y Dutch baby. In Limousin, where the dessert originated, it’s usually made with early-Season cherries, pits and all. The little stones inside aren’t edible, but as they cook they add depth of flavor to the clafoutis. When I make the dessert with cherries, I like to pit them, but rather than cutting the cherries up, I prefer to split them by hand to remove the pit but keep them mostly in tact. It adds to the rustic appeal of the dish.

Moreover, I love clafoutis because it’s so hard to mess up. Even the worst clafoutis tastes pretty good, and it takes hardly any time to make.  So I picked up some crimson stalks of rhubarb at the market to make a strawberry-rhubarb clafoutis. I found a recipe from the folks at King Arthur flour that I used as a foundation and set to hulling and halving strawberries and dicing rhubarb. And while the final version made for some good after-dinner treats (and late-afternoon, passing-through-the-kitchen will-power busters), this not-to-sweet version, which I spiked with cardamom and black pepper, was a delight first thing in the morning with my cup of coffee.

Spiced Strawberry Rhubarb Clafoutis
adapted from King Arthur Flour

Fruit
1 lb ripe strawberries, hulled and halved
1 cup rhubarb (about 2 stalks), diced
4 tbsp butter
1/3 cup sugar

Batter
1/3 cup sugar
1/4 tsp salt
3 eggs
3/4 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
3/4 whole milk
1 tsp vanilla
1 tsp ground cardamom
1 tsp fresh-ground black pepper

Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 9-inch cake pan or casserole dish.

In a sauté pan, melt the mutter. Add the rhubarb and place the strawberries on top, cooking for about five minutes and giving an occasional shake to make sure it’s not sticking. (The goal is the reduce the fruits’ juices to create a bit of a syrup without turning the strawberries to mush.) Sprinkle the 1/3-cup of sugar over the berries, stir and bring the mixture to a boil. Cook for a few minutes, until the mixture thickens slightly. Pour the fruit into you baking dish and let cook while you make the batter.

In a medium-sized bow, whisk the sugar, salt and eggs together until it is light. Slowly add the flour, whisking until combined. Stir in cream, vanilla, cardamom and pepper. Pour the batter over the fruit. Bake for 35-45 minutes, until the cake is puffy and browned on top. Dust with powdered sugar or serve with whip cream or ice cream.

Quinn Hatfield

What do poets and journalists have in common? Unless you’re the talented Amy Scattergood from the L.A. Times, I’d say: not a whole lot. Journalism school ruined my poetry. Wildly lyrical juxtapositions, I learned, had little place in clear communication. I wrote poetry to obfuscate, articles to illuminate. Even when I tried my hand at playfully mixing the two, a la the great Andrei Codrescu, the sentiment fell flat. And since life as a poet offered so few opportunities to make a living that I ended up in j-school in the first place, I knew I needed to find a new muse.

She came dressed at “motivation,” which is funny considering the number of people out there questioning mine in this new era that I’ve taken to referring to as “Post-FBCE” (Food Blog Code of Ethics). Nonetheless, I love finding out what makes people do what they do, to hold their beating hearts up to the world for all to see. Of course, there’s an inherent danger, I think, in trying to understand people’s motivations. If you connect, it draws you closer to the subject, veils your thinking in admiration and skews your writing. If you don’t, it can cast an odd patina on their work, causing you to confuse your dislike of their motivation with what they do.

My objectivity, when it came to the Hatfield’s, was shot long before I met them, long before I ever enjoyed my first meal at their jewel box of a restaurant on Beverly Boulevard, because they were friends of a friend, and because I knew people who worked there. But when Karen and Quinn invited a handful of foodies in to preview their new DIY prix fixe menu pro bono, I jumped at the chance. I hadn’t been in because I was under the impression it was beyond my budget (with the new prix fixe, it costs no more than other area restaurants), and the food was well worth the wait. Each dish, from amuse bouche to pillowy beignet, was thoughtfully composed. While we all shared most of what we ordered, I was compelled to hoard my dish like the youngest in a huge, hungry family. It was delicious and it was mine!

After the meal, I wanted so much to write about it, to tell everyone I knew to go eat at Hatfield’s, but wasn’t sure exactly how to share. Then I bumped into Quinn and Karen and their adorable daughter at the Hollywood Farmers’ Market picking through pea tendrils next to me. I asked Quinn a bit about his philosophy on cooking seasonal, local ingredients and his response blew me away. He started talking about being inspired by new ingredients that he found at the market, but also understanding the unique growing conditions where we live. If farmers are able to grow berries, or corn or tomatoes outside of the traditional “season” because of Southern California’s temperate climate, then why not use them, he asked? And use them he does…Last night Quinn twittered, “Early season corn and little tomatoes (both surprisingly good) made their way into an anglioti dish-with dungenous crab-fava beans-hon shimegi…”

And there it was, motivation doing her little dance before me yet again (that vixen). So I emailed Karen and Quinn for some insight into their creative minds about running a restaurant and cooking. Here’s their response. I hope, despite my obvious bias toward them, you give the restaurant a shot. If you love well-prepared, seasonal food accented with a dash of creativity, then Hatfield’s is for you. And the restaurant is small enough, you might get the opportunity to know this dynamic duo a little better too.

The two of you have worked at some of the country’s top restaurants, how different is it running your own?
When you work for amazing Chefs in world class restaurants as a cook, your scope is quite small. You take pride in your station and the work you are responsible for. You try to be perfect all the time, to be a good employee, to make yourself valuable to the chef. As an owner your world becomes all about the guest. You look for ways to make their experience better, how to give them the most and still be successful as a business.

What was your vision when you opened Hatfield’s? How has that evolved over the past few years?
Our vision has always been the same. We wanted to have a restaurant where the food was center stage and we wanted to accompany it with our idea of good service—Friendly and comfortable without ever feeling stuffy.

How did the restaurants that you worked at previously inspire you? Was there one chef’s whose work really spoke to either of you?
I always related to David Bouley’s food and style. I really appreciated how focused on the plate he was. That may seam like a simple concept, but in reality running a restaurant is a hectic job and chefs loose sight of why people are really there. To me the Chef is (or should be) the best cook in the building, and he should be doing as much cooking as possible…

When we ran into each other last week at the farmers market, Quinn, you talked about how you let the market inspire you. Do you mentally prepare dishes as you buy ingredients, or do you get back to the kitchen and then start figuring out how to put it all together? Describe how you work and give a recent example, if you can.
For me there are many ways that creativity works. We could just do this interview on that subject. Sometimes it is just ingredients— sometimes you base everything around a technique or central ingredient, and build out finding things that are in season that accomplish what you want texturally of flavor wise. Sometimes an entire complete perfect dish just pops into your head… Sometimes it is too easy-sometimes you struggle and the dish never comes together.

Karen, how much are your desserts inspired by the market? Same question as above?
Same answer as above… LOL is that lame? People say we share a brain…
Your menu changes frequently. Are there any dishes that you can’t get rid of?
I always have the Croque Madame and the Date and mint crusted lamb on the menu… They are actually two of my earliest dishes and I love them both. It might be hard to get rid of them, but I am not planning on it, so it’s not an issue. It is just important, as a chef, that your signature dishes speak to you.

What ingredients have you really fired up right now?
I got into this weird Oatmeal thing, based on cooking for my daughter… I ended up doing a dish with octopus, Oat Groats (un-milled oatmeal), and making a crisp out of overcooked rolled oats. The oatmeal crisp is one of my favorite elements in our kitchen.

How much do you talk to the farmers you buy from? Have you ever asked them to grow something specific for you?
I have a good relation with many of them… I like to let them do what they do—I like the mystery/seasonal property of cooking and using what is available—so no I haven’t placed any special orders.

How is cooking in a restaurant different in Los Angeles than in New York or San Francisco? What are the benefits? The downsides?
I think S.F. and N.Y.C. restaurants capitalize heavily on tourists, less so in Los Angeles. This leads to a slightly heavier reliance on regulars and it makes it harder to take advantage of early and late seatings. From a business standpoint I think that makes L.A. a harder place to be a restaurateur. As far as diners I find that they are similar, in this time, in big cities, people are pretty food/wine savvy.

Your wine list has a lot of international values as opposed to the usual suspects. How do you choose the wines on your list? Do you have a favorite right now?
We use the same approach to our wine list as our menu, small and interesting. Exceptional wines, good value, and accompanies the food perfectly.

Anything new on the horizon that Hatfield’s fans would be excited to learn?
As usual, we just keep doing what we do… I know that is not the big scoop, but for us it is not so much about re-inventing ourselves, its about evolving and getting better without loosing sight of the original course. We always want to hold on to what made people love Hatfield’s in the first place.

Alex Weiser at the Hungry Cat. Photo by Foodwoolf.

The first time I ever saw a crosne, the grubby looking Chinese tuber known for its crunchy, earthy-sweet flavor, was at the Weiser Family Farm stand at the Santa Monica Farmers’ Market. I bought a bag full, along with sunchokes, from a golden-faced man in a wide-brimmed hat whose smile radiated like sunshine on stainless. I met him again, months later, in the same wide-brimmed hat, crunching through Purple Haze carrots at the Hollywood Farmers’ Market, and finally introduced myself. Since 1982, Alex Weiser’s friendly face has been working the area farmers’ markets, his face as familiar as the parsnips, potatoes and sprouting broccoli he talks about enthusiastically with local chefs and foodies.

Alex embodies what I love about the farmers’ market. The great produce and a direct connection with the people who grow the food, someone to thank for all the tasty meals I put on the table. I caught up with him by email recently (trying to pin this busy man down is quite difficult) and to find out a bit more about the farm’s history and its future. This is what he had to say:

How long have you been farming? Where is your farm and what varieties of potatoes, root veggies and other vegetables do you grow?

We purchased our first agricultural property in 1977.  It was a 160-acre apple orchard:  Red and Golden Delicious.

We farm in Tehachapi, Lamont/Edison area, Lucerne Valley. Also, in my parents new backyard in Claremont.

This year we are growing many varieties of potatoes. As of now: Russian Banana, La Ratte, Purple Peruvian, Red Chilean, King Edward, German Butterball, Red Thumb, Ruby Crescent, All Blue, French. Also, many colors of beets and carrots, many varieties of melons, many varieties of onions, broccolis, cauliflowers, parsnips, rutabagas, turnips, sunchokes, crosnes, peppers, blackberries, mulberries, grapes, quince, apples, peaches, jujubes, lilacs, spinach, shallots, wheat, winter squashes, summer squashes…I can’t stop!

How do you choose what to grow?

Basically we grow what we have a comparative advantage in growing where are farms are located. Luckily for us we have three distinct growing regions that give us a lot of options. We also choose to grow niche crops, varieties that have flavor, heirlooms, new introductions, European varietals, seasonal standards…crops that sell themselves.

How long have you been participating with local farmers’ markets? How has it changed your business and your relationship with the community?

Since 1981, when the Direct Marketing Program first started in the state. Then the farm was really struggling to survive and if it wasn’t for the farmers’ markets we probably wouldn’t be still farming.  It saved us.

Today, I find it amazing over the years, how many friends we made, people we’ve touched and the bonds we created through simply growing good food that tastes good. We appreciate our customers and they appreciate us. Totally positive.

You seem to have an incredible relationship with the area’s top chefs; how has this benefited your farm? Other consumers?

It is great to get chefs insights and perspectives.  A lot of chefs were trained in foreign lands and can offer a lot of advice.  And chefs have the best palates, so you might as well ask them what they think.  Or, if we should try something new or old.  It’s nice to get a few thumbs up and some commitments before we plant something. We love menu collaborating.

Farmers market consumers’ benefit because they are like the chefs and want the best fruit and veggies they can get at a fair price.  We try to grow enough to make everybody happy.

You recently went on a research trip to Spain? Where did you go and what did you discover?

I was in the Southern part of Spain, Andalusia.  I stayed on the Costa del Sol and visited Marbella, Malaga, Tarifa, Cadiz, Sevilla, Cordoba and Granada.  I ate out basically every meal and had great seafood and tapas.  Saw the sights, the Alhambra, the Mezquita, went skiing, hiking, enjoyed the sunsets.  One can’t help but relax there; it’s where “the siesta” started.

You mentioned you brought back some seeds from the trip to experiment with, what will you be planting? When might we expect to see the results?

Piel de Sapo Melon and Padron Peppers.

What is your favorite thing to cook? Would you share a recipe?

My favorite things to cook would probably some sort of roast with all our root vegetables on the side. Also, stir-frying our Bloomsdale spinach or sprouting broccoli with olive oil, garlic salt and pepper, sometimes with chili flakes.

What advice do have to home cooks about picking the best produce?

Granted, buy produce at your local farmers market and get there early and come often.

Where can people find you?
Santa Monica on Wednesday.  Also at Hollywood on Sundays

Can’t wait until the market to see what’s in season? Check out the Weiser Family Farm Crop Availability!

Strawberries from Harry’s Berries@ the Hollywood Farmers’ Market

Sometimes I think I want to just throw in the towel. Writing is hard work, and some days the last thing I want to do, after a full day writing and editing for work, is to sit in front of the computer while the last hours of sunshine and warmth recede into purplish sunsets. To me a bad day writing is like a bad day cooking—you’ve still got something you created in front of you, but do you really want to eat it?

Still, it seems, almost immediately after a string of uninspired days, I’ll be filled with a creative impulse that allows my brain and my ego to shut off just long enough for me to type with abandon. And generally, that inspiration comes from the kitchen, a dish or dessert that rekindles that desire to share, a literary running around with the spoon, eager to feed everyone. I had intended to make a springtime pizza this week complete with a new dough recipe I’m working on in my head. But a succession of incidents left me feeling discouraged, and I never got around to making the dough. As of yesterday, the English peas, fava beans and asparagus for the pizza were still sitting in my fridge, next to the three pints of ruby red strawberries I picked up at the farmers’ market last week.

I love strawberries. In fact, I love them so much, and I ate them with such gusto as a kid (strawberries, strawberry jam, strawberry shortcake, strawberry yogurt—if it had strawberry in it, I ate it) that I developed a strawberry allergy. For nearly a decade, those sweet, juicy berries were forbidden fruit. I grew out of the allergy, thank goodness, but to this day I savor every berry like it might be my last. I try not to over-indulge, but the force is strong with me. I can easily eat a pint in a sitting. Surprised that I hadn’t eaten more of them, my wheels started churning.

I learned long ago that pity parties are best with ice cream. So I decided to take advantage of my new loaner, countertop ice cream maker, my semi-sour mood and riff on the strawberry thyme sorbet recipe I’ve been playing with.  (Thanks Adam!) And wouldn’t you know, inside the perfectly smooth scoop of strawberry rosewater sorbet last night was that seed of inspiration that I had been looking for. Now I have two recipes to post!

To spring!

Strawberry Rosewater Sorbet
adapted from David Lebovitz’s Perfect Scoop

1 lb fresh strawberries
¾ cup sugar
2 tsp lemon juice
½ tsp rosewater
pinch salt
1 tsp vodka

Rinse and hull the strawberries, then quarter them. Add strawberries, sugar, lemon juice, rosewater, salt and vodka to a medium bowl and cover with plastic. Let the strawberry mixture macerate for a half an hour and stir. Let stand for another half an hour. Puree strawberry mixture, then push through a fine-meshed sieve with a wooden spoon to get rid of any pulp or seeds. Chill mixture for 6-8 hours and then freeze according to your ice cream maker’s instructions.

Strawberry Thyme Sorbet
adapted from David Lebovitz’s Perfect Scoop

1 lb fresh strawberries
¾ cup sugar, separated
1 tsp lemon juice
1 oz fresh thyme springs
¼ cup water
pinch salt
1 tsp vodka

Rinse and hull the strawberries, then quarter them. Add strawberries, ½ cup sugar, lemon juice, vodka and pinch of salt to a medium bow. Let macerate for an hour covered with plastic wrap, stirring occasionally. In the meantime, place ¼ cup water, ¼ cup sugar and thyme springs in a small saucepan, heat until the sugar dissolves. Let cool, then pour over the strawberry mixture. Let macerate for another half hour to hour.

Remove thyme spring and puree strawberry mixture. Run through a fine-meshed sieve to get rid of any pulp or seeds. Chill mixture for 6-8 hours and then freeze according to your ice cream maker’s instructions.

A couple of years ago I didn’t know peas had a season—the only ones I’d ever ate came from the freezer section of the grocery store. They were a standby veg, little green orbs best reserved for swollen ankles and pot pies. But peas are so much more than the Jolly Green Giant would lead you to believe (that deceptive behemoth has lied before, you know). Peas are nature’s indicator species, announcing spring’s arrival louder than any of the birds chirping away the morning news outside my window.

This spring, though, I was ready for them, eagerly awaiting the tender, artful pea shoots, like edible curlicues, and the Sweet English shelling peas that immediately follow. A member of the legume family, English peas, also known as sweet peas and common garden peas, are best when super-fresh. The moment they’re picked, these sweet spheres start converting their tempting sugars into starch, and it’s the starchy peas that have vexed American children for the last 50 years, pushing them to hide them under mashed potatoes or roll them off plates out of gustatory boredom.

The key to choosing delicious peas is to find ones that have just been picked, and what better place to do that than your local farmers’ market? At the Hollywood Farmers’ Market the best peas I’ve found are from McGrath Family Farms (Camarillo) and Tutti Frutti (Lompoc). For the tastiest peas, select pods that are plump and bright green with tight-skinned peas inside (crack one open and take a look and taste, you’ll get the idea quickly). This year, many of them have pale speckles on the pods—these are from frost—but they shouldn’t affect the flavor. I find shelling peas meditative and love sitting in the sun snapping the pods open and listening as the peas roll into a stainless steel bowl. It’s a great job for kids, too, if you’re trying to get them into cooking. But if shelling peas isn’t your jam, try sugar snap peas. A cross between the English pea and a Chinese snow pea, these crisp, sweet treats can be eaten pod and all, and they require no cooking (actually, I strongly discourage cooking them). Both kinds of pea pair deliciously with herbs, especially mint and basil, which elevate their flavors and pretty up the plate. Pea shoots add a fresh, springy, hint-of-pea flavor to salads, and are delicious on their own just quickly blanched and sautéed. However you serve them, just remember that good peas don’t need much adulteration, practice restraint when preparing them, and none when eating them.

Here are a few pea recipes that are making my mouth water:

Summer Pea Soup from Elise at Simply Recipes

Peas, Mint and Homemade Greek Yogurt Cheese from Brooke at Foodwoolf

Piselli con Asparagi e Basilico from these pages (and Gourmet)

Snap Peas with Meyer Lemon and Mint from the Kitchn

Happy Spring!

Learn more about green peas on Foodista, a cool cooking encyclopedia.