Happy Anniversary, Have Some Beluga Lentils

I surely did not think I’d be discussing lentils at this juncture. But it’s official, this is the one-year anniversary of A Plum By Any Other Name … and I’m about to suggest to cook a seed. I had figured to usher in this event, I’d probably write about something truly impressive. A gorgeous three-tiered cake. Or an effortless plum crostata.

At the very least, I thought I’d have brioche for you, which I finally got up the nerve to make again after a disastrous first attempt that required transport through Kubler-Ross’s stages of grief. I’d like to say the results this time around were glorious, but—while the brioche wasn’t bad and was certainly edible—it wasn’t quite right. So it will likely get reincarnated as pain perdu, which is a step up from being whirled into gazpacho, the fate of attempt #1, but I digress.

The more important message here is that one thing I was certain I wanted for this blog was a list of go-to recipes. Recipes that would be like old friends. Recipes to keep in your back pocket, knowing even if you didn’t see them regularly, they’d be there if you needed them. So while I’ve failed at brioche (again) and have slacked in the celebratory dessert department, I’ve found a lot of great recipes that have enriched my life.

Enter: beurre maître d’hôtel and beluga lentils. Consider it a recipe for the Rolodex. It’s transformative and yet easy going enough for any occasion. It’s heavenly on fish, and carrots, and chicken, and pretty much anything that can take a little butter. Eating food graced with its presence is like getting to spend spring in Paris. In fact, it’s a celebratory dish in its own right, a feat that the French manage to pull off quite regularly.

The recipe itself is from Elizabeth David’s French Provincial Cooking. It was originally published in 1960 with David, a British cookery writer who lived in France while studying history and literature, stressing the glory of simple French food. And so I can’t think of a better way to usher in year two than with her—who I hear was a bit of a wild woman—and a simple recipe that plays very well with others. Consider it a new old friend. (And a bit more reliable than brioche.) The brioche will come one day, I’m sure. But for today, lentils are where I am at.

And if there is one thing I’ve learned this past year, it’s that if you can take the heat, stay in the kitchen. You won’t always find the food that you've imagined, but if you keep at it what you'll find is well worth the wait. And so it’s been a wonderful first year, lentils and all. Thank you for coming along.

Beurre Maître D’Hôtel (parsley butter)

4 tbsp butter

1.5 tbsp chopped (very very finely) parsley

A few drops of lemon (the juice can also be used below)

Rinse a bowl out with hot water, add your butter and parsley (which David stresses should be very finely chopped) and work together with a fork, adding a few drops of lemon until well combined.

Lentilles Maître D’Hôtel (lentils with parsley butter)

Adapted from Elizabeth David

1.5-2 cups beluga lentils

Kosher salt

1/2 cup chicken stock (plus additional if cooking the lentils in stock instead of water*)

Juice of half a lemon

2 tbsp chopped parsley

For the lentils, spread them out on a plate or sheet pan and pick out any pebbles or grit you find. Soak the lentils in cold water for about an hour.

Drain them and put them in a pan with about 4-5 cups of water (or stock). Salt your liquid and bring the lentils to a boil and then simmer until the lentils are tender but not mushy, adding more liquid if needed. This took about 30 minutes for me, but it will depend on the freshness of your lentils. Once your lentils are cooked, drain any leftover liquid.

Return the lentils back to your pot, add 1/2 cup of stock and simmer the lentils again until the stock is absorbed. (If the lentils are in danger of getting mushy, just drain the excess liquid.) Put about 3/4 of your parsley butter (the remainder destined for something else wonderful) and lemon juice into the lentils and stir until it has just melted and forms a little sauce. Sprinkle with additional parsley. Taste the lentils and add additional salt and/or lemon, if necessary. "Serve at once in a hot dish," per David.

Notes:

-While any lentils could be used here, ideally you'll want a lentil that retains its shape when cooking, like French Puy lentils. Though, if you can find beluga lentils they are stunning and hold up to their regal namesake.

-You could certainly cook the lentils in stock. *Honestly, I can't remember whether I used water or stock, though I have a sneaking suspicion I used a non-committal ratio of half water half stock.

-I admit I've previously sort of scuffed at sorting through lentils. This time, I figured I'd listen to David. And it made me wonder just how many pebbles I've swallowed in my past.

-I had to add a quote from David about the butter here. "We all know how to make parsley butter. But do we always do it really well or know its many uses?" Well, you don't say!

He Ain't Heavy, He's My Bran Muffin

Yes, the road may be long—with many a winding turn—but the emergence of this muffin is surely a sign that better times are around the bend. While some bran muffins are known for their “tough love,” being dry, often dense, and occasionally burdensome, this muffin is nothing of the sort. In fact, it sort of coddles. I might even go so far as to call it seductive.

I’ve had a muffin (okay, two) daily since they came to be. I love them, though I can’t put my finger on exactly why; I suppose the crème fraîche helps, as does the fruit soaked in framboise. Leave it to the French to lend a certain je ne sais quoi to a muffin made of bran.

And leave it to Joanne Chang to create another baked good masterpiece, without even the use of any butter whatsoever. How she managed to make a light, cake-like bran muffin is beyond me. And the texture the millet imparts is brilliant. You may be tempted to omit it because of its slight obscurity: don’t if you can help it.

Though, the perfectly round grains will bounce all over your kitchen, so don’t bother to get out your broom until the last bran muffin has been baked and put away (or eaten). You wouldn’t believe the places I’ve found those little yellow balls.

I admit I was initially concerned that all this bran was turning me into a bore, my love for a muffin with a crunchy millet topping getting deeper by the bite. But then I thought: who cares? They really are that good. Yes folks, life—when eating bran—is good.

So, on we go. My existence, at times, is still a bit cumbersome, but it’s getting better. At any rate, I now have this muffin: and he won't encumber me. In fact, he doesn’t weigh me down at all. He ain’t heavy, he’s my muffin.

Bran Muffins with Millet and Framboise-Soaked Fruit

Adapted from Joanne Chang's cookbook Flour: Spectacular Recipes from Boston's Flour Bakery + Cafe

2-1/2 cups wheat bran

1-1/4 cups whole milk

1 cup crème fraîche

3/4 cup 0 or 2% greek yogurt

2 eggs

1 cup dried cherries

1/2 cup raisins

~1/3 cup framboise

2-1/3 cup flour

2 tsp baking powder

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp kosher salt

1/2 cup packed brown sugar (light or dark)

2 tbsp molassess (light or dark)

~1/4 cup millet

~2 tbsp cup seeds, such as sesame or flax

~2 tbsp cup slivered almonds

In a medium bowl, stir together bran, milk, crème fraîche, yogurt and eggs. Meanwhile, heat dried cherries and raisins in a small saucepan with framboise for about 5 minutes, until they start to plump, adding additional framboise if needed. Let both the bran mixture and dried fruit sit for 30 minutes. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

During this time, combine flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt in a large bowl. After 30 minutes, add the brown sugar and molasses to the bran mixture, stirring thoroughly until well combined; drain the dried fruit and add to mixture. Add the bran mixture into the flour mixture and stir until just combined; do not over mix. Spoon batter into muffin tins lined with muffin liners and top with millet, seeds and almonds. Bake about 30-35 minutes.

Makes about 2 dozen muffins

Notes:

-This muffin is not very sweet; it's the real deal. The bran doesn't hide in sugar, it embraces itself.

-Any combination of dried fruit, nuts and seeds would work magic here. Banana chunks would also be lovely.

-Don't omit the step of letting the bran sit; have patience, grasshopper. This allowed the bran to soak up some liquid and soften.

I'd Rather Eat Pistachio Ice Cream Than Feel Real Pain

I recently came across a sign that read: I’d rather have champagne than real pain. I must have subconsciously channeled its effervescent mentality because I went straight for plucky, unapologetic items with intention; gave myself permission to take a break from my problems; and put the less-than-fun things in my life on hold this week. Full speed, right into the thick of it.

I wore red high heels. Drank champagne cocktails. Roasted chicken in bacon fat. Finally ordered that deer antler bookshelf I'd been eyeing. That sort of thing. To sum up: I went overboard.

Naturally, this included ice cream. Pistachio. Yes, a rich, dense, gutsy green pistachio flavor was definitely in order. So I added a nearly committable amount of pistachios and did not look back. (Those that don't wholeheartedly like pistachio need not apply here.)

As a result, it's entirely possible that this frozen treat might be suffering from an identity crisis, as it can't decide whether it's gelato or ice cream. It started out innocently enough as a light gelato base, but the pistachios may have pushed its density into ice cream territory.

Don't spend too much time thinking about this. The whole point is to have a good time. This is precisely what ice cream is for. When people scream for it, they don't do it out of confusion. (Self medication, perhaps.) Mostly, they know exactly what they are getting themselves into.

So the gelato "that once was" is now in my freezer. A wonderful addition to the warmer weather we’ve been having. And a fabulous sidekick for champagne when fighting "reality." Which got me thinking. Not only would I rather have champagne than real pain, I'd rather eat ice cream than face my problems. I realize I can't keep this up forever. But for right now, pass the pistachio please.

Pistachio Pistachio Ice Cream

1 cup whole milk

2 tbsp cornstarch

1 cup half and half

1/3 cup sugar

2 cups shelled pistachios

~2/3 cup honey, corn syrup, or sweetener of your choosing

Pinch of salt

Juice one lemon

Splash of almond extract

Splash of cointreau

Combine 1/4 cup milk with cornstarch until smooth. Heat remaining milk and half and half in a saucepan with sugar. When milk is almost boiling, add cornstarch mixture and cook for about 3-5 minutes, until mixture becomes thick; remove and let chill in the refrigerator, ideally overnight.

While mixture is chilling, prepare pistachio paste by combining remaining ingredients (except cointreau) in a food processor. Taste and add additional sugar as needed. You may also need to thin the paste out slightly with a little water. Refrigerate until ready to make ice cream.

Whisk pistachio paste into chilled milk mixture and freeze in an ice cream maker (should take about 25 minutes). The last 5 minutes, add cointreau.

Makes about 3 cups

Notes:

-Honestly, you could probably cut the pistachio amount in half (and reduce the sugar) and still feel quite pleased with yourself. But this week called for double the pistachio (and double the fun).

New Traditions and Cacao Nib Chocolate Biscotti

Can I make a chocolate confession? I tend not to swoon over it. It can be a bit overdone: the red rose of desserts. And yet here I am, about to add another sin to my recipe box.

I promise you, these studded chocolate biscotti will have very few enemies at the table. Or wherever you chose to eat them. At whatever time of day. With whatever beverage of your choosing. That's the thing about a chocolate biscuit: it's pretty easy going, and it pairs as well with red wine as it does with your morning coffee.

Taza's chocolate covered cacao nibs in the recipe also add a little intrigue. The small pieces of cacao bean, which Taza describes as "light" and "fruity," are roasted and covered in chocolate. Made right here in Somerville, MA. This is a chocolate I can get behind.

Nibs aside, biscotti purists (are there such people?) may scoff at the butter in this recipe, as traditional biscotti is said to forgo it. Which begs the question: what does traditional really mean? I imagine butter might have been omitted because it was hard to come by, no? Is a recipe coming from an octogenarian Italian grandmother not tradition enough? We are talking cookies here-and we are lucky enough to have butter regularly available-let's not take ourselves too seriously, shall we?

It is worth noting that this recipe is from my grandmother, not only because she is a great cook, but because my grandfather-her husband-turned ninety on Sunday. Yes, ninety. And if you are looking for someone to swoon over sweets, he is your man. When I called on Sunday, my grandmother was preparing their traditional Sunday macaroni dinner with apple pie for my grandfather for dessert. "We eat pie instead of cake on our birthdays," she said, when I asked what they were having to celebrate.

Traditionally, it is thought that women adore chocolate and red roses. Conventionally, cake is consumed on your birthday. Apparently, my ninety year old grandfather prefers apple pie. So maybe the secret to long life is butter in the biscotti and pie on your birthday.

Or perhaps it's making your own traditions. To which I say, the hell with convention: leave the red rose, bring the chocolate biscotti.

Cacao Nib Chocolate Biscotti

2 cups all purpose flour, plus extra for dusting

1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp kosher salt

6 tbsp butter, plus extra for greasing

1 cup sugar

2 large eggs

1/2 cup walnuts, chopped

3/4 cups chocolate covered cacao nibs (or chocolate morsels)

1 tbsp powdered sugar

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a cookie sheet with butter and then dust with flour, shaking off extra flour. In a bowl, combine flour, cocoa powder, baking soda and salt. In another bowl (or mixer bowl), beat butter and sugar until lightly fluffy; add eggs and continue to beat until well combined. Stir flour mixture into butter mixture until it forms a stiff dough; mix in walnuts and cacao nibs.

With floured hands, form dough into 2 logs (about 10 inches long and 2 inches wide) and place on greased cookie sheet; flatten logs slightly with your hand and sprinkle with powdered sugar. Bake about 35 minutes or until slightly firm to the touch. Cool logs on baking sheet for about 5-10 minutes. On a cutting board, cut biscotti diagonally and bake until crisp (about 10-20 minutes more). Let cool. They'll keep for at least a week.

Makes about 20

Notes:

-There is nothing like the sound of crisp homemade biscotti hitting your plate.

-This weekend Taza and local ice cream hero Batch will be pairing up to make ice cream sundaes at Taza's factory store in Somerville. Go and get your nib on.

A Time For Hope and Peas

Spring is here. On the sunny days it can feel like you’re standing on top of a mountain after a long hike. You made it. The air may be brisk, but it still feels crisp and clean: even in the city. For a moment you feel like you can do anything.

You’ve made it through the windburned cheeks, gray earth, and seemingly endless supply of winter squash. You’re ready for green: for fava beans, asparagus, and English peas. But this is New England. We have a good two months before we’ll see the likes of anything like that grown at an arm’s reach. Let’s face it.

Luckily, we’re a hardy bunch. We’ve been through worse. It’s rumored to snow tonight.

We’ve learned how to cope. We eat clam chowder. We wear coats the size of sleeping bags. We put long underwear on underneath our suit pants. We find ways to eat root vegetables that involve a shameful amount of cream. We carry on. We make do.

Which is just what I did over the weekend, when I was craving something green to usher in spring. I scoured the market for anything—imports included—that I could smash into a creamy green paste. I got a little ahead of myself. Other than some artichokes from California, I was pretty much out of luck in the seasonal green department.

So frozen peas it was. Which I didn’t feel too terrible about. Fresh peas are really best—and most sweet—on the day they are picked; it will be awhile before I snag them at the farmers’ markets here. (Sigh) So I turned to basil and a hint of pernod for some sweetness. Like I said, we make do. And sometimes we eat frozen peas dressed in basil leaves to usher in spring. Given that it’s been bitterly cold here, I suppose a pea with a little chill on it is fitting. We are straddling seasons, one foot in winter and one in spring.

But that’s springtime in New England. It keeps you guessing. Some days it brings you hope and some days it brings you frozen peas. Today, I’m just happy to have the peas.

Pea Pesto

1 pound frozen peas

2 cups basil leaves, packed, and divided

3-4 slices bacon, plus about 1 tbsp bacon fat reserved

3 garlic cloves, minced

Splash of pernod (about 2-4 tbsp)

2 tbsp olive oil

1 tbsp fresh lemon juice

1/4-1/2 cup grated pecorino cheese, plus additional for tossing

Salt and pepper, to taste

Bring salted water to boil in a large sauce pan. Add frozen peas and cook until the water just about returns to boil. Meanwhile, fry up the bacon in a sauté pan until crispy and reserve 1 tbsp bacon fat. Drain bacon on paper towel. Wipe down sauté pan and add bacon fat to pan; cook garlic in fat about 1-2 minutes, being careful not to burn it. Add pernod to the garlic and let alcohol burn off, about 1-2 minutes more. When water with peas is just about boiling, add 1/2 the basil leaves and cook for about 30 seconds more. Drain water and add peas and basil to kitchen aid or blender. Add olive oil, lemon juice, pecorino cheese and sautéed garlic; blend into a paste. Taste and adjust seasonings as needed.

Toss pasta with pea pesto sauce and top with crispy bacon pieces and additional pecorino.

Makes about 2 cups pea pesto sauce

Notes:

-This is also lovely as a topping for crusty bread and marinated artichokes

Protection with Meyer Lemon Parsnip Puree

It feels a little odd to wax poetically about fluffy parsnip puree in the presence of Meyer lemons right now. It’s a little precious. A little too perfect. Certainly the opposite of how I’ve been feeling lately. I’ve been a tad cranky.

Impervious also comes to mind. I’ve been listening to Simon and Garfunkel’s “I Am a Rock” on repeat. A lot. I’ve been unmoved at the sight of my tulips peaking up from the earth. (Which is odd, considering the deep, dark winter we’ve had.) Truthfully, I think I’m just exhausted from life at the moment.

Luckily, this dish came along and brightened my spirits a bit. It’s full of hope: scallops resting on clouds of parsnips. You may have noticed the recipe title lists the parsnips before the scallops. In a world where the scallop is king, here he’s almost more of a condiment. Though the scallops’ sweetness really elevates the dish and I think it would be a mistake to forgo them, it’s the parsnip that is the true star.

If you are lucky enough to find a farmer that has been keeping his parsnips all winter, you’ll perhaps find that they are unusually delicious; parsnips that have been sulking underground in the cold get sweeter when picked during the last days of winter or beginning whispers of spring. (One can only hope the same will soon be true for me.)

A tad skeptical on the pleasures of parsnips? It’s never a bad idea to invest in a little decadence. The addition of heavy cream, a vinegar syrup reduction, and a dose of floral Myer lemon may very well change your mind.

Or it could be that you’ve never had parsnips the way chef Jeremy Sewall intended. I was lucky to attend a dinner talk hosted by Island Creek Oyster Bar where he served this fantastic dish. He also had some gnocchi tossed in this recipe, but right now I know my limits. A mercurial temperament and dough associated with carefree lightness do not mix. I had to fill in some holes in the recipe (and sadly part with the gnocchi portion), but I think the dish came close to my first tasting of it at the talk.

Add a glass of muscadet (or perhaps a few swigs straight from the bottle, depending on your day) and consider yourself brightened. It really is a nice way to welcome spring. We won’t have Meyer lemons for much longer, so best to enjoy while you can. And for right now, I’ve got my Meyer lemons and my parsnips to protect me. I am shielded in a creamy puree. (Cue Simon and Garfunkel.)

Meyer Lemon Parsnip Puree with Seared Scallops

1/4 cup sherry vinegar

3 tbsp honey

3 tbsp butter, plus additional butter for cooking the scallops

6 parsnips, peeled and chopped into about 1/2 inch pieces

Kosher salt, to taste

1 cup heavy cream

4 Meyer lemons, zest and juice

Whole milk, as needed to thin to desired consistency

Scallops

In a small sauce pan combine vinegar and honey until syrupy and reduced to about half, which may take about 10 minutes. Set aside. Heat a medium saucepan on medium low heat. Add butter and cook until it starts to turn a deep honey color and add parsnips and salt. Cook about 10 minutes, or until parsnips start to soften. Add cream and continue to cook until the cream reduces and starts to coat the parsnips (there will still be a little liquid remaining). Add honey vinegar reduction, zest and juice of the lemons and puree mixture. Taste and adjust for seasoning and add milk to thin, if desired.

Puree makes about 3-4 cups (hard to say exactly when you eat it from the bowl of your food processor)

Notes:

-To cook the scallops, pat them down scallops to remove any moisture. Put dry pan on medium to high heat. Add butter and scallops. Cook for about 1 minute, until crust forms on the scallops and then briefly turn over and cook for another 30 seconds or so.

Irish Soda Bread Go Bragh

I admit it. I arose this morning slightly pickled from wine. Friday night started off innocently enough with a glass of vouvray, progressing to a sparkling grüner veltliner or two and ending with a glass of … umm … red? That, and polishing off an entire dessert plate of cookies from Scampo.

Despite last night’s shenanigans, I promised myself I was going to make Irish soda bread and so I headed to the kitchen—because a promise is a promise no matter how many glasses you’ve downed or cookies you’ve eaten—and got to work. Well, first I made butter because I needed the buttermilk for the soda bread. Then I got to work.

Butter making aside, this is a shamefully simple bread. And is hard to mess up, even if your sobriety is in question (which I suppose is fitting given said recipe and the reputation of the Irish, in general). Also appropriate, arguably non-negotiable even, is the crucial step of plumping the currants in some whiskey. Which provided a visual for how my little shrived up liver was likely feeling, as well.

In under an hour, I was enjoying the sweet, crunchy crust and tender crumbs of my labor, and rapidly becoming a soda bread enthusiast. While soda bread has a sinister reputation for being dry, I assure you this one is not. Nor is it boring with its boozy currants and hint of anise, which I admit is not Irish, but what can I say: I’m Italian.

Should you not want to make your own—or perhaps have had a night similar to mine and don’t feel up to “morning after” soda bread baking—I suggest you head to the newly opened Wholy Grain bakery in the South End. They have a nutty oatmeal soda bread that is to die for. And they sell it by the loaf. Their recipe is from the owner’s brother’s bakery in Ireland and was the inspiration for the soda bread pledge I made with myself.

Soda bread is still regularly found on dinner tables in Ireland and is worth including on yours, especially given our proximity to St. Patrick’s Day. But you don’t need the luck of the Irish, nor do you really need to have all your wits about you to make this recipe. You just need a plan, a pan, and some whiskey. Which might actually make for a pretty good life slogan, as well. I’ll ponder that one as I eat my next slice …

Irish Soda Bread with Whiskey Currants

3/4 cup currants

~1/4 cup whiskey of your choice (I like bourbon), enough to plump the currants

1 cup flour

3/4 cup spelt flour

1/4 cup bran

5 tbsp sugar, divided

1-1/2 tsp baking powder

1 tsp kosher salt

3/4 tsp baking soda

3 tbsp cold butter, cut into cubes, plus extra for greasing

1 cup buttermilk

1/2 tsp anise seeds

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Put currants in a small bowl and pour whiskey over them; set aside. Grease a 9 inch loaf pan with butter. Combine flours, bran, 4 tablespoons of sugar, baking powder, salt and baking soda in a large bowl. Add butter and use your fingers or a pastry cutter to mix in butter until it crumbles. Make a well in the center of your bowl and add in buttermilk; mix until just combined. Drain currants and add them to the mixture, along with the anise seeds. Pour batter into greased loaf pan and sprinkle with remaining tablespoon of sugar. Bake for about 40 minutes, or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean.

Makes 1 loaf

Notes:

-Caraway seeds would be splendid, and very appropriate, in this recipe.

-If you don't have spelt flour (and why would you, really?) you could easily substitute whole wheat or just use 2 cups all purpose flour instead. I recently bought spelt flour because I've been seeing it in a lot of dessert recipes lately and figured spelt was as good a reason as any to justify dessert.

-I make butter by whipping cream and then often save the "buttermilk" that remains for baking. I suspect it's a little richer than the buttermilk you find in grocery stores.