Given my deep-seated gratitude for pre-washed salad greens, it surprises me how much I love cleaning leeks.
Each pocket or smudge of dirt is revealed by peeling back the leaves. AHA! Found you! Only fingers and running water are involved. What a satisfying task!
Knowing that there will be potato leek soup is another reward, of course.
I used the New York Times cooking app recipe but it’s a very simple soup: two leeks and a garlic clove sautéed in butter (I used half olive oil, half butter), four cups diced potatoes (Yukon Golds are good), a good dumping of stock (yesterday I used box stock, not my top choice but good enough), S&P. Cook til soft and blend into a thick liquid (I use an immersion blender). Add cup of heavy cream and carefully bring back to temp. Delish!
If your vascular system can tolerate, more salt at serving. Potatoes always require more salt, IMHO.
Last night’s corn chowder was so delicious I thought I’d share. Short version? Make a chowder and add chimichurri.
Chowder consisted of:
One-half onion, diced 3 stalks of celery, cut in tiny half moons 3 ears of cooked corn, kernels stripped off the cob One-half green pepper, cut small Dash each of nutmeg and cayenne; S&P Two cloves of garlic
Sauté all of the above and then add a container of homemade chicken stock.
Cook at low boil ‘til potatoes are done and then add most of a pint of heavy cream. Warm up. Voila!
For the chimichurri (shown in mini-Cuisinart):
Parsley, basil, two cloves garlic, 1/2 shallot, splash of olive oil, smaller splash of vinegar, salt.
I also roasted six small sweet red peppers on my stovetop grill and added them. I wasn’t sure they’d work, but they did.
(P.S. I used my “panini bricks” to press the peppers down and make the sear better. Top photo: you can see the stovetop grill and the bricks).
The soup would’ve been bland and too creamy without the herb/pepper add-in so I really recommend it.
I’m still waking before six. I call it “jet bounce” instead of jet lag (of course I’m dead at 4:00 pm).
Peonies offer their gloryWhich do you prefer — pink or white?Looking up at Uffizi
Heard from South Carolina Historical Society: because I only quote from Eliza’s published letters, I don’t need their permission. I actually didn’t think I needed permission, but it’s good to be diligent.
Pink rhodie past its peak
I have PT this morning and will pick up a few groceries while I’m over there. I hope getting a few tasty ingredients will ease me out of this I can’t be bothered with dinner prep phase. I go through these now and again — often associated with extreme heat. This time, it’s also clear that I need to up my vegetarian game.
Anyone have a good recipe for lentil burgers? Other meatless entree favorites?
My ravioli cutters arrived! Now to find some fine flour.
Have a great day everyone!
PS sssssh. Don’t tell anyone. I’m on the back patio and (other than route 9 traffic) it’s actually quiet right now.
I might be weird for loving radishes as much as I do, but right now I’m obsessed with eating their crunchy goodness with just a splash of olive oil, a spritz of lemon juice, and salt and pepper.
I had an Italian/chef boyfriend once upon a time who would prep radishes the same way only simpler — with only olive oil and pepper — and I can tell you that they’re delicious that way too.
For some reason, the stripped down nature of this treat reminded me of a snack my Dad used to eat — a slice of white bread with mayonnaise and pepper. It was considered a real treat, especially if served with a small glass of buttermilk.
Gross, right? But then I remembered that as kids we’d enjoy cold hot dogs right out of the fridge (fully cooked, of course). Also gross.
My father was born at the beginning of the Depression. In 1929, in fact. I don’t know of anyone in my generation who would slug down buttermilk and go, “Ah.”
Here’s another memory — and I swear on my father’s grave that it’s true.
One year, I might have been six or seven, we were heading down the Taconic Parkway en route to visit family in Woodhaven, New York (which was either Brooklyn or Queens depending on the year of the map), when I began to smell something gross. I crinkled my nose. Was it coming from inside the car? Did anyone else smell it? No and no.
I tried to dismiss it. I’d learned early, I’m sad to say, not to trust myself — especially in the face of opposition. But as we crossed the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, the smell got stronger. I knew we were heading toward it, but still no one else could smell it. How baffling!
Finally, we arrived and spilled out of our Pontiac Tempest. Scrambled up the steps and into Nana’s narrow and dark brownstone. Whoa! Right there on the porch I was hit with the smell. It was moist and animal. Something cooking, then? I followed my father into the kitchen where he lifted the lid of a giant pot on the stove and inhaled with pleasure.
Pigs’ feet.
Pigs’ feet? A delicacy I guess.
I can’t remember if I sampled them or not. I can’t remember if I said a single thing about how off-putting I found the smell. Probably no to both. Given what a treat pigs’ feet were to my father’s family, I’m pretty sure no one would’ve minded me taking a pass.
