Duck with Murcott Tangerines and Beluga Lentils

I’ve been sitting here all afternoon trying to come up with a story you’d want to read, some literary sustenance about today’s recipe. I’ve been inspired by the recent emotional and personal outpouring of my friends and fellow bloggers White on Rice Couple and Foodwoolf, but the honest truth is this: There is no story; the duck was on sale.

I don’t buy duck often, though not because I don’t like it. I find it challenging to cook, a pile of inedible fat and oily meat if prepared improperly, and too expensive to screw up. So with duck on sale at Whole Foods, and the vision of the Murcott tangerines* from Burkart Farms littering my countertops like freckled orange golf balls, I headed home—a cook on a mission.

After a little reading, I was ready to face my duck-cooking fears. It seemed all I’d need to make delicious, crispy duck was a knife to make hashes through the skin (being careful not to pierce the meat), a lot of open windows in case there was smoke as the fat rendered, and patience. Neal can attest that patience is not one of my virtues, but I promised myself I would wait until the skin went from the color of scorched Southern California hillsides to mahogany, and that I wouldn’t worry about overcooking the meat, even if it meant walking into the family room and sitting on my hands for 15 minutes.

Fortunately, Neal didn’t know this little bargain I struck with myself, because I couldn’t wait long enough. My first attempt at the dish I concocted, the duck with a Murcott and balsamic reduction, fresh Murcotts and Beluga lentils proved a tasty combination that failed in the execution.

So I tried again, though this time the duck wasn’t on sale. Maybe it was the extra couple of bucks I had to spend, or that Neal called from work half way through cooking the duck to tell me he was stuck there, poor thing, but I let that duck sit simmer until all of the fat had turned into a decadent crust that hugged the duck breast. I served it with some tender spring asparagus and sat quietly eating it by myself, admiring the texture, and grateful for on sale duck.

*Murcotts are one of my favorite kinds of citrus. Available from January to April, I like them even more than blood oranges, which have long been the front-runner. They are the color of my kitchen, easy to peel, and their flavor is bright and refreshing, sweet and tangy, which makes them perfect for cooking.

Duck with Murcott Tangerines and Beluga Lentils

For the duck
1 lb duck breast (about two full breasts)
Zest from one Murcott
1/3 cup Murcott juice
Murcott segments from 2-3 Murcotts (depending on size), cut in half
1/3 cup balsamic vinegar
1/2 cup coarsely chopped red onion
salt and pepper

Trim duck breasts of any excess fat at the edges. Pat dry and cut a crosshatch pattern deep into the skin side, being careful to not to pierce the meat. Heat a sauté pan over medium heat, then put the duck in skin-side down. Cook until all of the fat is rendered and the skin is very crisp, about 25 minutes. Remove duck from pan and set aside.

Drain off all but 1 tbsp of fat (I recommend running it through a coffee filter and putting aside for future use) Lower heat to medium-low. Add onions and season with salt and pepper, cooking until the onions are soft. Add juice, zest and balsamic and return the duck to the pot skin-side up. The liquid should come about half way up. Cook duck for 5-7 minutes, or until the temperature at its thickest part registers 150.

Remove the duck and let rest for 10 minutes. In the meantime, reduce the remaining cooking liquid until it thickens slightly. Slice duck and serve over lentils, sprinkle with fresh Murcott slices and drizzle the top with balsamic reduction.

For the lentils
1 cup Beluga lentils
1 carrot, chopped fine
1 celery stalk, chopped fine
1 small onion, chopped fine

Heat a tablespoon of olive oil in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Add carrots, celery and onions, season with salt and cook until soft. Add lentils and enough water to cover them by about 3 inches. Cover and cook until the water is absorbed and the lentils are soft, but not mushy. Season with salty and pepper.

Braised Beef

We all have bad habits. I’m a piler and a procrastinator. I have trouble recognizing when I’m supposed to give the “short” answer to a question. And I tend to buy the ingredients for a recipe without actually reading the directions.

This final habit has caught me more than I’d like to admit staring at a recipe an hour before dinner that tells me I should have started it the night before. Or worse, I’ve gotten half way through preparing something only to discover that I am then supposed to let it sit for three hours to set or that I should refrigerate it overnight. Mishaps like these leave me scrambling and, while they can inspire creative solutions (like packing custards on ice to set them faster), the results are usually less tasty, texturally challenged or complete failures. Those are the nights we eat frozen Trader Joe’s spinach pizza.

I am trying to get better, though. I even decided to sit town with David Tanis’s A Platter of Figs last Tuesday night to look over the winter menu—Slow Beef—I’d planned to make on Wednesday for the Top Chef Finale. Fortunately I had realized that the menu was for 8-10 people when I was looking at the ingredients (7-8 lbs of flanken was a dead giveaway that we would have more leftovers than we’d know what to do with). Wouldn’t you know, not only was I supposed to salt the flank steak for the braised beef overnight, but then he suggested, right there in the intro, that you let the meat sit in the sauce over another night! Determined to do the best that I could (you don’t fall down on Finale night, do you?) I peeled myself from the couch, salted the meat, and made a date with my Le Creuset Dutch Oven for 8 a.m.

Earl Wednesday morning, with sleep still crusting my eyes, I chopped my onions and measured out all the ingredients I would need for the sauce. I browned the meet so that it had a nice crust on it, added the sauce, stuck it in the oven and went to work, which, fortunately, is just down the hall. I popped up from my desk for five minutes here and five minutes there throughout the day, straining and degreasing the sauce, then finally putting it in the fridge for about 6 hours to soak up the flavor. The results were layered, complex and melt-in-your-mouth tender, with the faint sweet heat of the paprika and earthy spice of the cloves coming through. Lesson learned. The extra time salting, slow cooking and letting the meat rest in the refrigerator had really brought the dish together. Reading the recipe had made the difference.

Beet, Egg and Watercress Salad

To accompany the beef, I made a version of the celery root mashed potatoes Tanis suggested, cutting back on the fat in recipe in addition to halving it. But the real star of the evening, though, was the roasted beet, egg and watercress salad we enjoyed to start. Sweet and tangy with a little watercress spice and creamy hard-cooked eggs with the slightly molten centers, the salad was the picture of restraint and balance. My dinner guest that night, my friend Suzy, bravely battled her fear of desserts and whipped up delicious lemon and rhubarb tarts for dessert that were light and refreshing, with wintery citrus flavor and a hint at spring, just around the corner.

I am convinced of the benefits of fully reading a recipe days in advance, but I know I’ll probably falter again. Bad habits are hard to break. And you probably didn’t need the “long” version of the story to figure that out.

Watercress, Beet, and Egg Salad
from A Platter of Figs by David Tanis
serves 8-10

3 bunches watercress
2 large shallots, finely diced
2 tbsp red wine vinegar
1 tbsp sherry vinegar
salt and pepper
1 tbsp Dijon mustard
¼ cup extra virgin olive oil
2 tsp grated orange zest
6 medium beets, roasted, peeled and diced small
6 soft-center hard-cooked eggs

Wash the watercress and drain. Wrap in a kitchen towel and refrigerate.

To make the vinaigrette, macerate the diced shallots in a bowl with the vinegars and a good pinch of salt for 10 minutes. Stir in the mustard until dissolved. Whisk in the olive oil, add the orange zest, and grind in some pepper. Taste and adjust for acid and salt. The dressing should be somewhat tart so add more red wine vinegar if necessary.

Put the prepared beets in a bowl and season with salt and pepper. Whisk the vinaigrette and pour it over the beets. Toss the beets in the dressing and leave at room temperature.

To assemble the salad , trim short watercress sprigs from the bunch and make a fluffy pile on a large platter. Scatter the beets over the watercress leaves, distributing the vinaigrette here and there. Carefully cut the eggs into quarters and garnish the salad with them. Just before serving, sprinkle the eggs with salt and pepper.

Braised Beef
adapted from A Platter of Figs by David Tanis
Note: This is half the original recipe. It served Suzy and I dinner on Wednesday night Neal and I four or five times each after that. It’s still plenty of food. Try making has with fried egg and potato cakes out of the leftovers, it’s delicious.

3 lbs flanken
salt and pepper
olive oil and vegetable oil or lard
1 tbsp butter
1 tbsp flour
1/2 tsp paprika
¼ cup tomato puree
½ cup dry red wine
4 cups chicken stock (preferably homemade)
1 large onion, halved
1 bay leaf
a couple of cloves
½ a large thyme spring
Celery root mashed potatoes (BUY THE BOOK!)

Season the beef generously with salt and pepper. Refrigerate for several hours, or overnight.

Heat the oven to 325 degrees. Let the meat come to room temperature and dry it well.

In a heavy-bottomed pot, like a cast iron Dutch Oven or enameled iron pot, brown the beef in your choice of oil. You can add vegetable oil to the olive to lower the smoke point. I didn’t. I browned in straight olive oil. When the meat is well colored on each side, remove from pot and set aside.

Pour off any remained fat and return the pot to the heat. Add butter and flour, stirring well with a wooden spoon to incorporate the flour. Stir in the paprika, tomato and red wine. Slowly add the chicken stock and bring to a boil.

Add the onion halves, bay, cloves and thyme. Return the beef to the pot, cover and move to the oven. Cook for about 2 ½ hours or until the meat is quite tender.

Remove the braise from the oven and transfer the meat to a platter. Strain the sauce. Chill it, then degrease it by spooning the fat layer off the top. Taste the sauce and season if necessary. Put the beef back in the pot, pour the sauce over it. If time allows, refrigerate it overnight. To serve, reheat the meat in its sauce. Carve meat into thick slices and serve with potatoes. If necessary, reduce sauce over a brisk flame to thicken it slightly.

Rosemary Olive Oil Ice Cream

The basil plant was the first to go, its fragrant leaves curling in, then turning yellow and limp. Next it was the mint. I can’t remember who told me that mint grows like a weed and is impossible to kill, but they were wrong. The only thing weed-like about my spearmint plant is the apocalyptic-looking skeleton it left behind when it died, like it was doused by a gallon of Roundup. Now you can count one dead rosemary bush among my summer’s worth of failed gardening achievements. Loved and, perhaps, a bit over-watered, I thought I’d let it dry out a bit. But then I forgot about it altogether. Now my rosemary looks like a tiny Ponderosa pine sapling struck by lightening. So much for developing a green thumb. Mine is black and blue.

This last gardening defeat was the most tragic because I love to cook with rosemary. An incredibly versatile Mediterranean evergreen herb from the mint family, rosemary complements both sweet and savory dishes. This summer I snipped its slightly woody branches from the bush and soaked them to smoke shrimp, tucked whole, silvery-green leaves into fresh ricotta drizzled with honey for a bruschetta and snuck it chopped up fine into an earthy rhubarb crisp. I was looking forward to baking it into Nancy Silverton’s rosemary olive oil cakes when the Indian Summer heat finally started to retreat— the lemony-fresh smell of the rosemary plays perfectly with the fruitiness of the olive oil in a moist, bite-sized treat I like for breakfast, mid-day snack and after dinner— and finding myself without a go-to rosemary plant made me want to bake them all the more. But by the time I made it to the farmers’ market to pick up some sprigs from Lily, our brief reprieve from the fall heat wave had ended. And if there was anything I learned in the last couple of weeks, it was that you couldn’t make it feel like anymore like fall on a 90-degree day with the oven cranked to 350-degrees.

Instead I decided to combine my rosemary obsession with the one I’d nurtured over the summer for ice cream. I’d had olive oil ice cream before, served with the rosemary olive oil cakes at Osteria Mozza, so it didn’t seem like a huge leap to infuse the ice cream with rosemary, sprinkle the finished product with Malden sea salt and skip the baking altogether. I was seeking a dessert treat that was at once savory and sweet, earthy, fruity and satisfying, who said it had to be a baked goodie?

The rosemary worked like a culinary gouache in the first batch, amplifying the citrus-y flavor of the olive oil so that it tasted a little like a green creamsicle. In the second batch I doubled the amount of rosemary, simmering it with the milk and sugar briefly then letting it steep for an hour. This treatment brought the rosemary flavor out from the wings, letting it shine alongside the olive oil, which also tasted more potent this time. The dusting of Malden on the finished scoop added an eating-ice-cream-by-the-sea quality as well as a nice textural counterpoint.

While the ice cream wasn’t a panacea for my gardening woes—I think my lavender bit the dust while writing this piece—it reminded me that growing my own herbs is worth another try. And, remarkably, it cooled off today, which means, maybe if I keep cooking like it’s the middle of summer, I’ll finally get the fall I’ve been hungry for.

Rosemary Olive Oil Ice Cream

2 c whole milk
¾ c cream
2 oz fresh rosemary
¾ c sugar
½ c fruit extra virgin olive oil
3 eggs
Malden sea salt

Combine sugar, milk and rosemary sprigs in a medium saucepan. Heat slowly to a simmer over medium-low until the sugar dissolves, stirring often. Remove from heat and cover. Steep for one hour.

Pour cream into a medium bowl and place a strainer over it.

In another bowl, lightly beat three eggs. Slowly beat the warm milk mixture into the eggs with a whisk, tempering them. Once all of the milk has been added to the eggs, return all of the mixture to the saucepan. Heat over medium-low, stirring constantly until the custard thickens slightly.

Pour the custard through the strainer into the cream to remove any lumps. Whisk in olive oil. Cover and chill overnight, then freeze according to your ice cream maker’s directions.

Garnish the finished ice cream with a pinch of Malden and some fresh rosemary springs.

The perfect autumn dish and way to use all the varieties of apples you find at the farmers’ market. I used Newton Pippins for the risotto and a combination of Spitzenberg, Red Stripe and Muutsu for the salsa.

Apple Risotto with Grilled Pork Tenderloin and Apple Salsa

Pork Tenderloin
1 cup brown sugar
¾ cup coarse kosher salt
1 tbsp juniper berries
1 tbsp peppercorns
5 cardamom pods
1 tsp fennel seed

Combine ingredients in a large zip-top bag. Add whole pork tenderloin and add enough warm water to completely submerge the pork. Shake to dissolve sugar and salt. Refrigerate minimum 1 hour and up to 3 hours.

Heat grill. Brush tenderloin with olive oil and place on grill. Cook about 7 minutes on each side or until the internal temperature reaches 140 degrees for medium rare (the temperature will increase about 10 degrees after you take it off the grill). Let rest 15 minutes before slicing into ¾-inch pieces.

Apple Risotto
adapted from Silver Spoon
1/2 tsp lemon zest
2 Newton Pippin apples, diced
4 tbsp butter
6 cups vegetable stock
2 tbsp olive oil
2 cups Arborio rice
5 tbsp dry white wine
2 tbsp parmigiano reggiano, freshly grated
salt and pepper to taste

Melt 1 tbsp of butter in a sauté pan. Add apples and lemon zest. Sauté for 4-5 minutes, until apples are beginning to soften.

Bring the stock to a boil in a large saucepan. Meanwhile, heat the olive oil in a skillet. Add rice and stir until coated in oil. Sprinkle with wine and cook until evaporated. Add a ladleful of stock, stirring until it has been absorbed. Continue adding stock a ladleful at a time, stirring until absorbed before adding another. Add apples to the rice mixture about six minutes into cooking the risotto. When the rice is almost tender, stir in the cheese and remaining butter. Season to taste.

Apple Salsa
2 tbsp sugar
2 tbsp cider vinegar
2 tbsp lemon juice
½ tsp chile flakes
3 apples, cored ad chopped
1 tbsp tarragon

Stir sugar, vinegar, lemon juice and pepper flakes in a small saucepan. Bring to a boil. Add a half of the apples and cook until the apples are soft. Remove from heat. Mash the apples with a potato masher or an immersion blender. Stir in tarragon and the other half of the apples. Chill for 1 hour.

Serve the sliced pork over the risotto topped with the apple salsa.

Homemade Cannelloni

Last Sunday my dear friend Brooke and I sat on the curb underneath an old avocado tree a few blocks from the Hollywood Farmers’ Market and flipped through the Chez Panisse Café cookbook before heading into the dizzying array of farm fresh fruits and vegetables. It seemed apropos, really, looking at recipes from Alice Waters, the woman who inspired a generation to get back to cooking in season, who praised farmers’ efforts by putting their names on her menus more than 30 years ago.

I love the idea of cooking what’s in season. It’s a wonderfully satisfying act with political and economic undertones—putting my money where my mouth is. And the more I read about the current state of our food economy, the more important that becomes to me. But moreover, it tastes better. And this is why I love Alice Waters. She reminds me that I don’t need to rant and rave and jump around to create change—though sometimes I still do. It starts by asking simple questions about where your food comes from and how it was raised and continues at the dinner table, with good friends and good food.

So that’s what I did this week. I made my political statement for dinner. I bought organic, heirloom tomatoes from Givens Farms, fresh green and purple basil, marjoram, thyme and Italian parsley and invited Brooke and her husband over to join Neal and I for homemade cannelloni a la Alice Waters. I persevered, even after slicing my hand on a broken glass, rolling out fresh pasta dough, mincing the garlic and chopping up fresh herbs. I used the amazing Buffala milk ricotta from Bubalus Bubalis in the filling and pasture-raised eggs from Lily Farms in Santa Barbara. And finished the night off with homemade ginger ice cream, but that’s another post.

Cannelloni
adapted from Chez Panisse Café by Alice Waters

Filling
1lb fresh ricotta
½ cup grated Pecorino Romano
salt and pepper
a dash of cayenne pepper
4 tbsp chopped herbs (basil, marjoram, thyme and parsley)
2 eggs, lightly beaten

Pasta
1 ½ c 00 or AP flour
pinch of salt
2 eggs lightly beaten

Sauce
1 lb fresh heirloom tomatoes, diced
1/3 c extra virgin olive oil
2-3 cloves of garlic, chopped fine
green and purple basil
salt and pepper

Heat oven to 425 degrees.

Mix ricotta, parmigiano, salt, pepper, cayenne and herbs together. Taste for seasoning. Add eggs and mix again.

Make pasta dough following your favorite method. I like to mix it until it just comes together with the paddle attachment on my Kitchen Aid, combine it into a ball by hand, then knead it with the dough hook for about 10 minutes. Let pasta dough rest at least 15 minutes before rolling it out.

Roll dough into 12 rectangles about seven inches long and six inches wide. Cook one at a time in salted boiling water, keeping the noodle firmly al dente. Cool in a cold water bath, then lay on a clean cloth. If you stack them they will stick!

Spoon about two tablespoons of the ricotta mixture onto each rectangle and roll into a loose tube shape. Place in a buttered baking dish in one layer (you may need two baking dishes). Brush the tops with melted butter. Bake in 425-degree oven for about 15 minutes, until puffed up and lightly crisped.

While the cannelloni are backing, heat olive oil in a non-reactive pan over medium high heat. Add garlic and let sizzle for about 30 seconds without letting it brown. Add diced tomatoes and cook until they just start to relax and give up their juice, about three to five minutes. Add a little chopped green and basil, salt and pepper to taste, stir and remove from heat.

Serve the cannelloni with the tomato sauce and more chopped basil.

Making Rugelach

Growing up, my mother’s version of junk food was, well, limited. Unlike my friends, we didn’t have a pantry full of Kool-Aid and Marshmallow Fluff. Popsicles were made in Tupperware using real juice and the ice cream was Breyers (read: no preservatives). Fortunately, at least once a year, sometimes twice, my grandmother would bake rugelach. Even after my grandparents moved to Florida, the rugelach would come, packed into shoeboxes between layers of foil and wax paper. Even after my family moved from New York to Southern California, and after I left for college and subsequently moved a dozen or so times, I eagerly checked the mail around my birthday for the box of rugelach. When my grandparents would come out west to visit, my grandma would pack a second suitcase, filled with rugelach and mandel brot, and occasionally (and disastrously) my grandpa would sneak in some golf balls.

There’s nothing ordinary about my grandma’s rugelach, the traditional Yiddish cookie filled with jam, nuts and raisins. I’ve tried dozens of versions from both Jewish and non-Jewish bakeries, but none compare to my grandma’s. They’re usually too sweet, too dry and oddly glossy or they look like jellyrolls. My grandmother’s rugelach, on the other hand, are slightly sweet, only using the sugar in the cream cheese for her dough. They are flaky, helped by their dive in a bowl of cinnamon sugar. And their crescent shape cradles the jam, raisins and nuts. I could easily eat a dozen at a sitting without thinking, but don’t. Instead, I ration them out carefully, trying to stretch the satisfaction one after-dinner or mid-afternoon treat longer, only sharing with people who I know will appreciate the hard work that goes into them.

Making rugelach, as far as I’ve known, takes feats of magic. When my cousin Tara tried making them it was, well, unsuccessful. She told me, “Grandma’s rugelach is the fussiest, most difficult dough to make. So if you’re attempting it, I truly wish you good luck.”

Nervous at the prospect of messing up something so dear and so steeped in family history, I waited to make it. It actually launched Bakefest 2008, the marathon, multi-generational baking lesson I started writing about in my last post, because it’s a two-day endeavor.

Rolling out and filling the cookie dough

Day 1
The trickiest part of any rugelach is the dough. Work it too long and the butter and cream cheese melt, making dough that is sticky and hard to work with. This is particularly important when making rugelach in summertime (or Florida, as my cousin was), where the temperature and humidity can quickly transform your dough into wallpaper paste. But having my grandma there to run it between her fingers and say, “this is perfect,” made all the difference. Using extremely cold butter and cream cheese, working in two batches and mixing until the dough just barely comes together are also key. Once the dough is mixed, cut into six, slightly flatted disks and wrap in wax paper. Refrigerate overnight.

Day 2
With the mandel brot in the oven our team of bakers set out to make the rugelach. My cousin’s daughter Madelyn was eager to get her hands in and remarkably patient as we repeatedly asked her to wait while my grandma demonstrated the first batch. Sprinkling the cutting board with powdered sugar (so as not to add more flour to the dough), she deftly rolled the first disk out to about nine-inches, then cut it into even triangles. Then she sprinkled cinnamon and sugar over the triangles. In each triangle she put a dollop of jam toward the center, then placed a raisin in the middle of the jam to keep it from oozing out. She then put three raisins along the long end and one in the point. Then, starting with the fat end, and working quickly to keep the dough cool, she folded in the ends and rolled out to the point. Then she rolled the cookie in cinnamon and sugar and placed on a cookie sheet. We each took turns making a batch, rolling and spacing the raisins, (or chocolate chips, a variation my brother loved) eventually giving Madelyn her own dough to work with, which she attacked with fervor. We lined up the completed rugelach on a cookie sheet one after another, all the while taking pictures to capture each moment and movement.

When my mother, my aunt, my cousin and I all uploaded our photos to share with our loved ones who couldn’t be there, my cousin Tara remarked, “Those are THE most well-documented rugelach on the planet.” And so they were.

We all went to dinner while the rugelach cooled and when we came back, all of the participants of Bakefest 2008 (and a couple of extra cousins we picked up on the way) stood and ate them, straight off the cookie sheet, dunking them in milk and smiling.

Now these are the definitely the planet’s most well-documented rugelach.

Grandma Janette’s Rugelach

1/2 lb cold sweet butter, cubed
1/2 lb cold cream cheese, cubed
2 cups flour
1 tsp almond extract
½ cup sugar
2 tsp cinnamon
confectioner’s sugar
raisins
chopped walnuts
strawberry or plum jam

Cream together first four ingredients in a stand mixer or food processor until dough just comes together. Make sure the flour in fully incorporated, but do not over mix. Cut into six pieces and wrap in wax paper. Refrigerate overnight.

In a shallow dish, mix ½-cup sugar with a couple teaspoons of cinnamon for cinnamon sugar. Place within reach.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Working quickly, roll out dough on confectioner sugar into a nine-inch circle (each of the “pieces” from the night before should make a nine-inch circle). Cut into triangles—each circle should result in nine pieces. Fill with raisins, chopped walnuts, plum or strawberry jam, cinnamon and sugar.

Roll pieces in the cinnamon/sugar mix from above. Place on ungreased cookie sheet covered with parchment. Bake for 30 minutes at 350 degrees. (Keep refrigerated until ready to bake.)

Asparagus and Ricotta Ravioli with Favas and Sage Brown Butter

Never mind that the recipe was probably one of the easiest I’ve ever followed. A year ago, if you asked me whether I ever thought about making my own ricotta cheese I would have laughed, crinkling my brow like a concerned mother in a movie, and said plainly: no, never.

As frequent readers of SpicySaltySweet can attest, I do like making dishes from scratch. In fact, I get quite the kick out of deconstructing things I used to take for granted. A few years back I made a soupy mess that was my excuse for Greek yoghurt. I’ve made my own butter. I make fresh pasta almost weekly now. But cheese? Cheese is something spiritual—a vehicle for transcendence that no mere home cook could possibly concoct in her kitchen.

But when I stumbled across Julia Moskin’s article about ricotta in the New York Times two weeks ago, I became convinced that making my own would not require divine intervention.

So in less than an hour last Thursday night I made ricotta cheese, following Moskin’s simple instructions. And the results were transcendent. Not as sweet as store-bought ricotta, with a firmer texture, my homemade ricotta was bright and light with a curd that was velvety smooth.

Ricotta draining

Homemade Ricotta

Ricotta is a traditional Italian cheese that’s actually made from a byproduct of cheesemaking: whey. It literally means “re-cooked” and it is made by heating the whey and adding a bit of acidity, causing the curds to separate. It is delicious when made with cow’s milk cheese, and I really love the sheep’s milk version, which has a slight tang and a deeper, more complex flavor.

The best part about making ricotta, as opposed to any other type of cheese, is its versatility. Spread ricotta on grilled bread, with a little sautéed radicchio, drizzle it with honey and top with fresh leaves of rosemary and you have an elegant bruschetta to serve at a dinner party. Mix with sugar, egg whites, lemon juice, orange zest, spices and chocolate chips for cannoli filling. Bind it with egg, Parmesan, nutmeg and flour for gnocchi. Savory or sweet, ricotta can add dimension or foundation to a meal any night of the week.

It was hard to decide what to do with my ricotta, with so many options. But I finally decided on asparagus and ricotta ravioli with favas and sage brown butter. It was the perfect farewell to spring (though, fortunately both vegetables will be around all summer, their peak season is springtime).

Asparagus and Ricotta Ravioli with Favas and Sage Brown Butter
adapted from Bon Appétit

Filling
1 lb slender asparagus
¾ cups fresh ricotta
1 tsp fresh mint, chopped
1 large egg

Fresh Pasta
2 ½ cups all-purpose flour (preferably Italian 00)
3 eggs, beaten
pinch of salt

Sauce
1 lb favas, shelled
4 tbsp butter
1 tsp fresh sage, chopped

Remove the tough, bottom portion of the asparagus. Cut up the remaining vegetable into ½-inch pieces. Cook in saucepan with boiling, salted water until slightly tender, about 2 minutes. Shock in ice bath to set color. Pat dry and mix, in a large bowl, with ricotta, mint and egg. Set aside. **You may want to reserve a scant ½ cup of asparagus for the sauce.

Following either the well method or using the paddle attachment on your mixture, slowly incorporate eggs into flour and salt mixture to make pasta dough. If the dough is too wet, add a little flour, if the dough is too dry add a little water. When the dough just comes together, switch to your dough hook or knead by hand, about 10 minutes. Wrap in plastic and let rest for at least 15 minutes.

Roll pasta out into sheets either by hand or using a pasta roller to desired thickness (7 on a pasta roller). Spoon mixture onto half the dough lengthwise, spacing it about 2 inches apart. Fold the other half of the dough over to cover the filling. Cut ravioli using a pastry wheel or a ravioli cutter. (You can also cut using a knife, but crimp the edges of the ravioli with a fork to keep sheets of pasta from separating). Place filled ravioli on a baking sheet dusted with cornmeal. **I find it easiest to roll one sheet of pasta, fill it, then roll the next, continuing until I’ve used all the dough. Rolling all of the sheets ahead of time puts them at risk for drying out before you’ve got them filled.

Boil a large pot with salted water to cook ravioli. While water is boiling, melt 1 tbsp of butter in a sauté and cook favas until tender. Toss in reserved asparagus to warm. Set aside.

Melt remaining butter in sauté with chopped sage. When butter starts to brown, remove from heat.

Add ravioli to pot of water and cook for about 3-5 minutes. Cooked ravioli will float to the top. Plate ravioli, about 6-7 per person, top with favas and asparagus and drizzle with brown butter and sage.

Tortellini en Brodo

Last Thursday was the Vernal Equinox, the day in the Northern Hemisphere when the night and day are essentially the same length. It is also the official start of spring and my second favorite time of year after fall. But living in Southern California, it’s easy to get a little detached from the seasons—the daffodils, cherry blossoms and tulips started blossoming at the end of February and I’ve returned to wearing flip flops most days—but I find that cooking always keeps me in time with the earth’s clock. Feeling springy, I decided to host “Easter” dinner for a few friends, a slightly surprising turn of events since I’m Jewish. Yet no sooner was the guest list confirmed than I found out I was supposed to work Sunday brunch at the restaurant I’ve been moonlighting at. Rather than cancel I decided to pick a simple menu, prep Saturday and have Neal do a bunch of the cooking while I was at work.

The “simple” menu I planned started with Tortellini en Brodo, a soothing traditional Italian dish consisting of delicate tortellini floating around in clear, flavorful broth. For the second course I decided to roast a leg of lamb, following the recipe for Easter Leg of Kid I found in the bible of Italian cooking, the Silver Spoon. With that I’d serve a simple contorno of asparagus, English peas and fresh basil that I found in the April issue of Gourmet. With my dear friend Brooke of Foodwoolf promising to bring a deconstructed creamsicle for dessert it seemed easy enough. But remember, I’m a masochist.

I decided to follow the Silver Spoon’s recipe for tortellini since it was the simplest I found, but buying ground veal was harder than I thought. Whole Foods had none and would only grind me fresh veal if I paid $25 a pound for the bone-in veal shanks. Thanks but no thanks. I finally found fresh ground veal at Marconda’s, a butcher shop in the Fairfax Farmers Market, but by that point I’d already lost about two hours of precious time and was to hungry and frustrated to appreciate it.

Ordinarily I would go into all the gritty details of prepping: the meditativeness of shelling peas or the near tortuous task of peeling pearl onions, but it’s been nearly a week and the memories have been filtered through a wonderfully joyous meal. I will say this: making tortellini is not easy and I understand why most people would rather buy it from a box. Neal and I were up until one in the morning measuring two-inch by two-inch squares of pasta dough, filling, folding and pinching each into little tortellini shapes—probably not most people’s idea of a relaxing Saturday night at home. But then again, the first time is always the hardest and the results were so delicious, so perfectly balancing the salty sweetness of the filling, the melt-in-your mouth pasta dough and the soothing warmth of homemade organic chicken broth that I’d quickly do it again.

What I appreciated most about the meal, besides sharing it with fabulous and wonderfully appreciative friends, was how the table reflected the transition from winter to spring. The tortellini en brodo was like the last kiss of winter, warming and comforting. The lamb, rubbed with rosemary, garlic and olive oil and surrounded by onions, a rainbow of carrots and new potatoes sat on the cusp of the seasons. The carrots and onions were a nod at winter’s staples, the new potatoes and spring lamb a hopeful hello, like the first morning you awake to hear the birds yapping wildly outside your window. The tender young asparagus, snappy English pea and basil side dish fully embraced the new season, verdant and fresh they tasted like wearing a tank top and feeling the warm sun on your bare shoulders. So while I don’t really celebrate Easter in the Christian sense, our dinner that night celebrated the season, the idea that life can rise again out of the darkness of winter. I don’t think you need to be any religion to find joy in that.

Tortellini En Brodo
adapted from the Silver Spoon

Filling
2 tbsp butter
½ c ground veal
2 tbsp Parmigiano-Reggiano, freshly grated
½ c prosciutto, diced
¼ c mortadella, diced
1 egg, lightly beaten

Fresh pasta dough
1 ¾ c flour, plus extra for dusting
2 eggs lightly beaten
salt

Chicken broth
1 chicken, skinned and trimmed of visible fat
1 onion
1 carrot
1 celery stalk
salt

You can make the chicken broth ahead of time and either refrigerate or freeze it. Chop the celery, onion and carrots into large pieces. Heat a tablespoon of olive oil and add vegetables and a pinch of salt. When the vegetables start to sweat out their liquid add the chicken and cover with water and sprinkle with more salt. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, covered for at least two hours, occasionally skimming any scum that rises to the surface. Pour finished stock through a wire mesh strainer and let cool, skimming off any fat that rises to the surface. Set aside.

On a wood cutting board sift flour and a pinch of salt together and make a mound and a well. Add beaten egg yolks to the well and start incorporating the flour. When the dough comes together, knead for about 15 minutes by hand or with the dough hook on your mixer. Wrap dough in plastic and set aside to rest for 30 minutes.

In the meantime, melt the butter in a small pan; add the veal and cook, stirring frequently, until browned. Transfer to a small bowl and let cool. Stir in the Parmigiano, prosciutto, mortadella and egg. For a smoother filling place all ingredients in the food processor and pulse 3-4 times until incorporated.

Roll out a sheet of the pasta dough and cut into 2-inch by 2-inch squares. (It’s easiest to roll out a sheet at a time, since filling and folding is time-consuming and as the dough dries out it cracks when you fold it.) Pipe or spoon filling into the center of a square and then fold the square into a triangle and seal the edges with a little water. Fold the triangle over the top of your finger then gently fold the flap of dough backwards to make a tortellini shape. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Let tortellini dry on a cookie sheet for about a half hour before cooking or moving to the refrigerator, covered with plastic or in a zip-top bag.

When you’re ready to serve, bring the chicken broth to a boil. Add the tortellini and cook until they float to the surface, about five minutes.

Ladel broth and about 20 tortellini into a shallow bowl. Grate fresh Parmigiano over the top and finish with a dusting of fleur de sel.

Egg Papardelle with Bagna Cauda, Wilted Radicchio and an Olive Oil-Fried Egg

I’m a culinary masochist. It’s taken me awhile to come to terms with this, but a few recent cooking endeavors have made the truth difficult to avoid. The facts are, perhaps, best exemplified by my new favorite cookbook: Nancy Silverton’s A Twist of the Wrist. Nancy’s book is designed to help home cooks create gourmet meals using the bevy of high-quality pre-packaged ingredients lining the grocer’s shelves. Sounds great, right? Used correctly, these jars, boxes and tins are timesaving complements to Nancy’s delicious, well-thought-out recipes. But in my DIY-addled brain I see Nancy’s timesaving devices as the opportunity to try making other, more time-consuming components from scratch. At my house, a meal from Nancy’s book that’s supposed to take a half an hour suddenly takes three—like when I made the Mole Poblano Chicken Casserole with Black Beans and Queso Fresco. The dish layers tortillas and jarred Doña Maria Mole mixed with Mexican chocolate, chicken, onions, Monterey Jack cheese and black beans. It’s supposed to take 55 minutes from prep to table. After making the tortillas and roasting the chicken, and running around all over town to find the mole and chocolate, dinner took nearly four hours. I was so exhausted by the time I put the meal on the table that I could hardly appreciate the perfectly melded flavors and the surprise of alternating textures.

Not one to learn my lesson the first time around, last week I made the book’s Egg Papardelle with Bagna Cauda, Wilted Radicchio and an Olive Oil-Fried Egg. I was really excited about this dish—a pasta version of my favorite Mozza pizza minus the guanciale—and with an estimated prep to table time of a mere 30 minutes I thought it’d be a great opportunity to try out the pasta attachment on my new Kitchen Aid mixer.

What I forgot was this: pasta takes time. Time to rest after the dough comes together and time to roll out—even with an electric pasta roller. Plus my dough was a little crumbly at first and needed some tweaking before it would come through in smooth, even sheets. After about an hour and a half of running dough, rolling it up and cutting it into one-inch strips, I finally had a floured baking sheet full of satiny, wide, pale yellow ribbons. It was another 45 minutes before the meal came together, since I was, um, unable to find jarred bagna cauda and I had to make that from scratch, too.

Ultimately, the dish was delicious. I love bagna cauda, which literally means “warm bath” in Italian. This simple sauce is comprised of butter, olive oil, anchovies, garlic and lemon and is really easy to make. It’s a little spicy, a little salty and a little sweet, with a refreshing lemon zip. It stuck to my homemade papardelle really well and the metallic, protein-y taste of the olive oil-fried egg added incredible depth to the dish; it was also a really nice contrast to the bittersweet wilted radicchio. And since it was only 9 o’clock when we sat down to eat—and I’d been enjoying a nice glass of Movia Ribolla Gialla while the pasta was boiling—I quickly forgot how difficult I’d just made things.

I may have twisted my wrists, my ankles and walked backwards for these dinners. I may have, ever so briefly, cursed Nancy’s name. But in the end, I enjoyed my pain. And I will surely do it again.

Egg Papardelle with Bagna Cauda, Wilted Radicchio and Olive Oil-Fried Egg
from Nancy Silverton’s A Twist of the Wrist: Quick, Flavorful Meals with Ingredients from Jars, Cans, Bags, and Boxes
 
Ingredients
8 oz egg papardelle
¾ c bagna cauda
¼ cup extra virgin olive oil
4 large eggs
12 radicchio leaves, torn into large pieces
Parmigiano-Reggiano for grating
Sea salt
1 heaping tbsp fined chopped fresh Italian parsley
Fresh ground black pepper
 
Bring a large pot of water to boil; add a generous amount of kosher salt. Add the pasta and bring back to a boil, stirring occasionally to prevent sticking, until al dente.
 
While the water is coming to a boil, heat the bagna cauda, stirring occasionally until warmed through.
 
In another skillet, heat ¼ cup olive oil over medium-high heat, until the oil’s almost smoking. Break an egg into a small bowl and pour into the skillet. Once the egg starts to set around the edges, you can add a second egg in the same way (adding them one at a time like this keeps the eggs from setting together). Cook the eggs for about 1 ½ minutes each, until the edges are golden brown, the whites are set, but the yolks are still runny. Move the first two eggs to a plate and cook the other two the same way.
 
When the pasta is cooked, transfer it, without straining, from the water to the skillet with the bagna cauda. Toss to coat. Then place the skillet over high heat and add the radichhio, tossing for a minute or two until the radicchio wilts.
 
Divide the pasta amongst four plates, grate a generous amount of Parmigiano-Reggiano over each serving and top each with a fried egg. Finish egg with a pinch of sea salt. Scatter parsley over each plate, grate a little more cheese and grind some fresh black pepper and serve.
 
If you’re a masochist like me…
 
Bagna Cauda
1 stick (1/2 c) unsalted butter
20 anchovy fillets, finely chopped
8 large garlic cloves, minced
¼ c finely chopped fresh Italian parsley
Grated zest and juice of ½ lemon
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
 
Heat butter, oil, chopped anchovies and garlic in a skillet over medium-high heat, until anchovies dissolve, and the garlic is soft and fragrant. It’s important to break the anchovies up with a wooden spoon while cooking and to stir frequently so that the garlic doesn’t brown. Reduce heat to low and cook for another two minutes so the flavors have time to incorporate. Turn off heat and add the lemon juice and lemon zest, season with kosher salt and fresh ground black pepper.
 
Egg Papardelle
10 oz all-purpose flour
3-4 eggs
 
Mound flour on a wood cutting board, form a well and crack 3 eggs into center. With a fork, beat eggs and slowly incorporate flour until dough comes together. (Or, if you have a dough hook, put it all in your mixer.) If the dough is too dry, add the fourth egg yolk. If it is still too dry, add the egg white. Once a ball forms, knead the dough for 15-20 minutes. Wrap with plastic and let rest for at least 30 minutes.
 
Using a pasta roller (or, if you’re really hard core, some good old-fashioned muscle and a rolling pin) roll pasta out into thin sheets, no more than 1/16 of an inch. Cut the pasta sheets to the length you’d like your noodles, and then roll those sheets up lengthwise, like a cigar. Then cut the noodles the width you’d like them, about one inch in this case. Place the noodles on a cookie sheet for 20-30 minutes to dry before throwing them into rapidly boiling water to cook. And remember, fresh pasta takes just minutes until it’s al dente.

Butternut Squash, Asiago & Walnut Ravioli with Brown ButterRavioli Dough:
3 cups semolina flour
4 eggs
½ tsp olive oilMound the flour on a wood cutting board, creating a well in the center for the eggs and olive oil. Using a fork, slowly incorporate the eggs, oil and flour, slowly pulling in more flour as the ingredients are blended. You’ll need to continuously reshape the mound to maintain the integrity of the well shape.

Once about half of the flour is incorporated, you should be able to start kneading the dough by hand. Once it’s all come together remove the dough from the board and scrape up any leftover bits and discard. Reflour the board and knead the dough for about six minutes; it should be elastic and a little sticky. Ball up the dough and wrap it in plastic. Let it rest at room temperature for a half an hour.

Butternut Squash Filling:
1 large butternut squash (about 3 lbs)
1/3 cup coarsely chopped walnuts
¼ cup extra virgin olive oil
2 tbsp aged balsamic vinegar
1/2 tsp hot chile flake
1 ½ tsp honey
¾ tsp coarse sea salt
5 oz fresh grated asiago
Walnut oil

Peel and seed squash and cut into 1/4-inch cubes. Combine squash, walnuts, olive oil, chile flakes, honey and sea salt in a bowl. Toss ingredients until completely coated with oil. Pour out onto baking sheet and cook in 350-degree oven for a half hour, stirring every 10 minutes.

Turn temperature on oven up to 500 degrees and cook squash mixture for 10 minutes more or until squash are tender. Let cool.

In food processor, combine squash mixture and cheese. Blend until ingredients are almost smooth. Scoop squash mixture into a pastry bag or Ziploc, cutting off one corner to squeeze out filling.

Ravioli:
Cut your dough in half, forming each segment into a ball with your hands. Wrap one in plastic and set aside. On a large, lightly floured surface, roll out your pasta dough into a rectangle until it is about ¼-inch thick. Fold in half and roll out again. Repeat this four more times, rolling dough out thinner each time. Roll the dough out until it’s about 1/8-inch thick. Pipe filling out onto dough strip at 1-inch intervals, about ½-inch in from the edge. Fold the ½-inch of dough over and press to seal edges and individual filling pockets. Cut ravioli with a dough scraper–you may want to trim the edges with a kitchen scissor–crimping the edges closed with a fork. If you have a pastry roller, you can separate the ravioli using that, too. Put finished ravioli on a cookie sheet dusted with cornmeal until ready to use. You can also freeze them.

To serve: Bring a large pot of seasoned water to a boil. Add ravioli and cook for about five minutes or until ravioli are floating at the top. Drain.

In a sauté, melt ¼ cup of butter, allowing it to foam. As the bubbles dissipate the butter will brown, remove from heat.

Ladle six ravioli into a dish. Top with 2 tablespoons brown butter and finish with fresh-grated asiago and a drizzle of walnut oil.