In the Hands of a Chef (13 page)
Read In the Hands of a Chef Online
Authors: Jody Adams
M
y paternal grandmother was a
primly delicate little woman who declined to eat with her fingers. She made stripping the kernels off an ear of corn at one’s plate without causing the kernels or cob to fly across the table appear to be simply one of those skills that any well-mannered Philadelphia lady was assumed to know. In her kitchen (
not
at the table) she taught me to rub the back of a knife against the stripped cob to extract the hidden “corn milk. “ Her own creamed corn was an exercise in simplicity—corn, butter, cream, salt, and pepper. You don’t have to really do too much more than that, especially with today’s super-sweet varieties of corn, but if you have a garden with zucchini vines and their blossoms, or a vendor in your local farmers’ market who will sell you the blossoms, then this recipe is a treat.
MAKES 4 SIDE-DISH SERVINGS
6 ears corn
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 small onion, finely diced
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
16 squash blossoms, stamens removed
½ cup crème fraîche
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh basil
2 to 3 scallions, trimmed and thinly sliced
1.
Husk the corn and strip the kernels off the cobs. Rub the dull edge of a knife down the stripped cobs to extract the corn “milk.” Set aside.
2.
Heat 1 tablespoon of the butter in a large sauté pan over medium heat. Add the onion, season with salt and pepper, and cook until tender, about 5 minutes. Add the corn kernels and corn milk. Cook until the corn is tender, 3 to 4 minutes. Transfer 1 cup of the corn to a food processor and purée. Return the corn purée to the pan and stir everything together. Set aside.
3.
In a second large sauté pan, melt the remaining 1 tablespoon butter over high heat. Add the squash blossoms, season with salt and pepper, and sear until wilted and golden on both sides, about 3 minutes per side. Transfer the blossoms to the pan with the corn.
4.
Lower the heat to medium. Add the crème fraîche, basil, and scallions, season with salt and pepper, and cook over medium heat until heated through. Serve immediately.
T
his is both the simplest
and most luxurious recipe in this book. The fresh flavor of favas transcends their humble origin as a bean, but the effort involved in shelling and peeling them makes them the caviar of shell beans. As a result, a dish composed exclusively of favas is a rare luxury. One of the great joys of visiting the eastern Mediterranean is the popularity of fava bean purée, a gastronomic delight that is almost always too labor-intensive to think about doing here. Save this preparation for really good friends, to accompany a wonderful roasted meat dish like rack of spring lamb. Then again, you could just eat them all yourself.
MAKES 4 SIDE-DISH SERVINGS
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1½ to 2 cups shelled fava beans, long-blanched (see Fava Notes, page 88) and peeled (about 3 pounds in the pod)
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
Melt the butter in a large sauté pan over medium-high heat. When the foam subsides, add the favas, season with salt and pepper, and toss until heated through. Serve immediately.
F
ava beans are usually sold in their large plump pods. You can count on getting ½ to ¾ cup of beans for each pound of fava pods. (If you get more, consider yourself lucky.) Unlike other beans, which have only to be shelled, favas need to be blanched and then peeled, which makes them quite labor-intensive. The only exception to this is very young favas, no larger than, say, navy beans. Personally, I find it soothing to peel them while listening to tango or opera. The ubiquitous popularity of favas in Mediterranean countries can only be a sign of a saner, slower approach to life. Still, you needn’t commit to listening to the entire production of
Aïda
to enjoy them. A small portion of favas, with their bright green color and distinctive flavor, makes a welcome component in vegetable stews or one of several ingredients in a pasta sauce.
THE SHORT BLANCH
Before you can peel favas, you have to shuck them. Snap the stem end off the pod and peel away the “thread” down one of the seams. You can then snap the pod open by running your thumb along the seam. Shovel the beans out of the open pod with your thumb. The individual beans will still be covered with a thick green membranous skin and need to be blanched to loosen the skin. Blanch the favas in salted boiling water for 1 minute, then plunge them into a bowl of ice water to stop the cooking. After draining the beans, you can either pinch the skin off with your fingers or use a paring knife. I pinch off a piece of the skin near the thick end of the bean, then squeeze from the other end so the fava pops out of the hole. After the membranes are removed, the favas are ready (at last!) to be treated like any other raw vegetable.
After a few beans, you will become quite practiced at this technique. I suggest putting on a good tango CD. Your fingers will seem to work by themselves as you imagine yourself spinning across the floor in a Buenos Aires dance hall.
THE LONG BLANCHThe problem with the traditional shuck-blanch-peel method is that afterward you’ve still got to cook them, which means another blanching or braising or whatever. I’ve found that you can save yourself a step if you extend the blanching time—in other words, you precook them in their membranes. Although you still need to peel them, they will require little additional cooking. Fava beans vary in size, and large ones take longer to cook than small ones. Let them boil for 3 minutes, then scoop one out of the water, peel it, and taste. If it no longer tastes raw, they’re done. Plunge them into ice water, then drain and peel. If they’re not done, let them cook for another 30 seconds and try again.
I use the long-blanch method 90 percent of the time when I’m cooking favas. If I’m going to add them to a dish that will then continue to braise for another 8 to 10 minutes, I use the short blanch.
T
his is a pretty dish
that not only tastes good but, with two shades of intense green, seems just the ticket for celebrating the springtime arrival of local greens, especially fiddleheads from New Hampshire and Maine. After relying for several months on root vegetables and imported greens, I can’t wait to begin putting fresh local produce back on the table. The availability of fiddleheads, bright green curls of baby fern, limited to only a few weeks in late spring and early summer, makes this a once-a-year combination. The earthy, fecund flavor of fiddleheads takes well to the meaty taste of pancetta. It seemed natural to me to mix them with favas (even if they are from California), another item commonly paired in Italy with pancetta or prosciutto.
MAKES 4 SIDE-DISH SERVINGS
½ pound fiddlehead ferns, trimmed of any split, broken, or dirty stems
Kosher salt
2 ounces thinly sliced pancetta, cut into ½-inch pieces
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1 cup shelled fava beans, long-blanched (see Fava Notes, page 88) and peeled (about 2 pounds in the pod)
Freshly ground black pepper
1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice
1.
Drop the fiddleheads into a bowl of room-temperature water. Swirl with your hand to remove the brown papery parts.
2.
Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. While it’s heating, prepare a bowl of ice water. Add the fiddleheads to the boiling water and blanch until tender, 7 to 8 minutes. Drain and immediately plunge the fiddleheads into the ice water to stop the cooking; drain thoroughly.
3.
Heat a large sauté pan over medium-high heat. Add the pancetta and cook until it begins to render its fat and get crispy, about 4 minutes. Add the olive oil and garlic. Cook until the garlic is aromatic, just a minute. (If it starts to sizzle as soon as it hits the pan, lower the heat so it doesn’t burn.) Add the favas and fiddleheads, season with salt and pepper, and cook, stirring occasionally, until they’re heated through. Drizzle with the lemon juice and serve immediately.
T
his dish builds on one
of my favorite Italian vegetable combinations, a warm salad of radicchio and blanched peas. I’ve simply taken it several steps further by adding two other spring arrivals, favas and thin green beans. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil and blanch the vegetables in sequence, transferring them to a bowl of ice water as they finish cooking. The salad is dressed with a cream and lemon vinaigrette, which may sound unusual but is a great match with the vegetables. Please don’t skip the favas—they add a wonderful element in both taste and texture. You can cut down on serving-day preparation time by blanching the vegetables a day ahead. Refrigerate in resealable plastic bags, then assemble the salad just before serving.
MAKES 4 SIDE-DISH SERVINGS
¾ cup extra virgin olive oil
1 large red onion (about ½ pound), sliced ¼ inch thick
2 large heads radicchio, washed, dried, cored, and cut crosswise into ½-inch-wide strips
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
½ pound thin green beans, trimmed and blanched in boiling salted water until just cooked, about 4 minutes
½ pound fresh peas, shelled and blanched in boiling salted water until just cooked, 1 to 3 minutes, depending on their size
1½ to 2 cups shelled fava beans, long-blanched (see Fava Notes, page 88), and peeled (about 3 pounds in the pod)
¼ cup coarsely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
2 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme
1 teaspoon finely chopped fresh rosemary
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
3 to 4 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
¼ cup light cream
1.
Heat ¼ cup of the olive oil in a large sauté pan over medium-high heat. Add the onion and cook until translucent, about 3 minutes. Turn the heat to high, add the radicchio, and sear until browned. Season with salt and pepper and cook for 4 minutes. Lower the heat to medium, add the green beans, peas, and favas, and cook until just heated through. Season with salt and pepper and add the parsley and thyme. Remove from the heat and arrange on a platter.
2.
In a medium bowl, whisk together the rosemary, lemon zest, 3 tablespoons lemon juice (if you like tart vinaigrettes, use more), and the remaining ½ cup olive oil. Whisk in the cream. Season with salt and pepper.
3.
Drizzle the vinaigrette over the vegetables and serve. (If you’re going to have leftovers, dress only the portion you are serving, and store the remaining vegetables and vinaigrette separately in the refrigerator.) Serve at room temperature.
I
can’t tell whether my taste
buds have become desensitized or broccoli rabe has become milder over the years. My first taste of broccoli rabe more than twenty-five years ago struck me as both wonderful and shockingly bitter. I still love it, but it no longer seems as strong. I recently came across a recipe written some ten years ago advising readers to blanch broccoli rabe for a full five minutes in order to remove the bitterness. When my husband cooks it, he often skips the blanching altogether or simply braises the rabe in a covered pan with a little water for a couple of minutes. By the time the rabe has finished cooking, the water’s gone—and the rabe tastes fine.
