Provisions Unentitled

I've done it again, fallen hopelessly behind. And do you really want to know why? It's because I haven't been able to pull together the past few weeks' menus under a singularly witty banner. Weak sauce, I know. Also not helping matters is that so many of our meals have eluded photographs, either by dint of the camera's absence (or cooperation), because I deemed them not particularly photogenic, or because, if you've seen one pork-and-veggie stir fry, however satisfying, you really have seen them all. So, while I've devoted my time to such DVD effluvia as Drainiac and Monsturd - no, really - you've all been left to wonder what Master and I have been eating. That's not right, and I do, once again, apologize.

Let me see if I can recall enough about some of these bygone morsels to get right by my readers, before you all misinterpret the dust and cobwebs and drift off in search of other food-blog fixes. Hopefully the colorful, clearly toothsome pictures above and below will be enough to reel you back in. The peas are simply parboiled with a couple of crushed garlic cloves. What a joy - albeit one too short-lived - it has been to have access to fresh peas. Because of Master's gardens, I've known the incomparable delight of snacking on the first, youngest crop, plucking each honey-sweet bite from fistfuls of the still sun-warm pods. By this point, though, the peas had swollen with maturity, too staunch and starchy for raw snacking. This would sadly be the last of the peas for the season, but they left us with a lingering hunger for more, and a keen anticipation of next year's bounty.

The hillock of Moroccan couscous, prepared with orange juice and chicken stock, is a fortification edified with orange zest and crushed pistachios. It had to be flavorful to stand up to the zesty sweet-and-sour concoction of lemon juice, honey, cinnamon, paprika, garlic, cilantro, parsley and pepper in which the boneless chicken thighs and carrots were braised. This was an Epicurious find, originally from Gourmet, inspired by a traditional Sephardic Sabbath-eve preparation. I rarely follow recipes to the letter, so I'm sure I worked my own wrinkles into the ingredient list. I only wish I could remember what they were, because this dish was stellar. We were both spooning the pan sauce over the couscous and marveling at the synergy. And the leftover chicken, chopped up with celery, yellow bell peppers, onion, herbs and mayo, made an equally gratifying salad to serve on sandwiches the next day. I was sure I'd snapped a photo, but now I can't seem to find it. Oh, here you go.


Skipping over a number of tasty but unambitious stir-fries (and one fairly disastrous Hokkien noodle experiment), we come to the most recent meal. If you find yourself in these climes, you know that Spring has exited with a show of strength that defies one not to show it some of the respect offered up to Summer. This has made for many an unpleasantly humid day and evenings, one of which fell upon last Friday. I didn't want to overheat the kitchen. Master and I had discussed the possibility of going out to eat, but were both feeling too sodden and weary to make it as far as the car. I had the notion to try out a Thai street-food favorite on him, my interpretation of the famous "glass noodle" salad, yum woon sen - sans green chillies, of course. Even without the hit of heat, the combination of cold bean-thread noodles, ground beef sauteed with shallots and garlic, and dressed with lime juice, soy sauce, fish sauce, thinly sliced scallions and ample fresh cilantro while still hot, once again carried the day. Master was initially reticent when he caught his first whiff of the fish sauce in its raw form. He remained skeptical even as I assured him that magic happens when this stinky elixir meets the right combination of ingredients and temperature. Since he did more than his share to reduce the heap of yum woon sen and supple Boston lettuce leaves to a few tattered scraps, I guess it's safe to say that he's now a believer.

Fishing for Complements

For every Stir Friday, there is now a Fish Friday. Sometimes even a Fish Fry-day, when the impulse to be just a bit bad seizes me. As it did this past Friday. The local market had fresh flounder, which looked fantastic - milky white, opalescent, beautifully filleted - and was hard to resist. Flounder being so mild and unassuming, I knew I had to do something to invest it with a stronger presence. Breading gave it crunch; a sesame, white miso and ginger dressing gave it some swagger. The question was then a matter of sides. I wanted not only to serve something tasty with the fish, but also for the sides to serve the fish in every way. If not raw, I preferred that they'd be at least only lightly cooked, to compensate for the indulgence of frying. I had a head of Napa cabbage to finish up, and was pretty sure I remembered seeing a bag of snow peas in Master's fridge. Yes! There they were! A quick warm slaw of sauteed cabbage and (laboriously) julienned pea pods, very lightly seasoned with ginger, garlic and ponzu, would do nicely. But the plate still felt unbalanced to me. Because the fish was breaded, the flour-and-breadcrumb mixture enlivened with plenty of black pepper, coriander, cumin, sea salt and lime zest, I saw no need for a separate starch. Besides, the last of the flounder fillets had taken its turn in the pan and was already set aside to drain and cool. So it was too late to start up a batch of rice. Back to rummaging through the refrigerator, then, to see what we could find. Basil, Persian cucumbers, ah - very nice. Sounds like a summer salad. Fresh tomatoes - not refrigerated, obviously - a touch of salt and olive oil, and we were done, without breaking much of a sweat. Master loved the breaded flounder, the slaw and the salad, though I noted for future reference that the admittedly assertive flavors of the dressing weren't really to his liking. That's okay. It's not as though I'd worked my palms raw grinding the toasted sesame seeds into paste in the pestle. Actually, I had. But it's still okay.

Another recent Friday fish feast, this one featuring wild-caught steelhead trout, and another challenge of appropriate pairings. I wasn't terribly familiar with this fish, apparently a variety of anadromous rainbow trout, but knew that it was supposed to be very salmon-like in flavor and consistency. The comparison sells the remarkable steelhead trout - delectable, sustainable - short. I'm now among those eager to declare that this was the best piece of "salmon" I've ever eaten. Knowing that salmon takes exceptionally well to Asian flavors, I assumed the trout would hold up to braising in a sweet/sour/spicy butter sauce made with soy, garlic, lots of cilantro and sweet paprika. It did indeed. The butter worked particularly well with the natural richness of the fish. Call me a believer. The leftovers, devoured cold the following afternoon, without even the nicety of utensils, were even more delicious, putting the best poached salmon to shame. This will not be the last appearance of steelhead trout on our dinner table. Trout out the encores, baby!

But Master would probably prefer that I not serve grilled radicchio di Treviso again. He was game enough to try a few bites, punctuating each with a comment about how "different" it was. Well, yes. It is certainly an acquired taste. For me, the play of resonant bitterness and charred sweetness is irresistible, especially when drizzled with balsamic vinegar and good olive oil. And it's just such a gorgeous presence on a plate, with its white ribs and maroon leaves seared brown by the intense heat. Master was far more enthusiastic about the fingerling potatoes, roasted with rosemary, oil and sea salt. I know he enjoyed the variety of colors and the surprising textures - the waxy Russian Banana, the mealier Peruvian Blue, the buttery Ruby Crescent - concealed by the crispy skins. I'm still not sure what he made of the final side, a cold cucumber and roasted beet salad. He does love those beets - I always try to roast a few extra for him to snack on between meals - so my Dijon mustard-laced vinaigrette may have been too sharp for him. I thought it was just right, cutting through both the butter and the bitter, and standing in keen and all-around complementary contrast to the radicchio and roasted potatoes. I'm very proud of this plate.