My Work Is Nearly Finished!

My diabolical plan is succeeding.
Cranky is becoming a great cook, and all I had to do was be brave and let him fool around in the kitchen.
It was funny, actually, the number of times he popped out and asked me, ensconced in my easy chair with a New Yorker magazine, whether, what, and how he should be doing this or that.
"Oh," I purred. "However it seems right. That would probably do."
I felt brave, letting him be brave.
Yesterday's lunch was a deep, rich French onion soup. There are plenty of recipes for onion soup, so he just familiarized himself with one, and let 'er rip.
We had all the ingredients on hand (mostly local) and they really wanted to be cooked and et. The best part was the homegrown spring onions, unbelievably moist and tender and sweet; some cooking recalculation was required to cope with their baby-soft texture, and Cranky did fine.
Oh, but he was a hopping fool. Skittering out of the kitchen, asking my advice, coping with my utter detachment.
His best move was deciding not to cover the soup bowls with bread and mounds of cheese, which just seals the broth in a rubbery, broiled sarcophagus, making the soup too hot to eat. Instead, he toasted some bread, melted a little cheese over it, and laid the cheesy (but not-too-cheesy) toast into the bowls.
And later, he brought me some chocolate for dessert.
World domination, I tell you.
Bwa-ha-ha-ha!

Shirr? Sure.

The last time I shirred eggs — it's a funny old term for baking eggs in a ramekin, or more Frenchily, en cocotte — I was in a sixth-grade homemaking class. I don't think any of us 11-year-old girls appreciated the technique. I still prefer my eggs scrambled.
But there we were, learning the art of the fusty old shirred egg. I can't remember how they tasted, although they were probably bland; I think the only other ingredients we added were cream, salt and pepper. I definitely recall that they were cooked in those horrifically retro Pyrex custard cups.
In other words, the recipe didn't much stick in my brain. I never tried it again.
Until the other day. It was a perfect storm, if I may be allowed the painful cliché. I had some ingredients that irresistibly added up to fishing boat, George Clooney, rough ocean, bad movie... And, voilà: Oeufs a la Andrea Gail.
I mean, seriously, not a success. But I had no choice. I had to go down with the ship.
Too bad. Because look at this photo. It is beautiful!
Just so you know, then. I lined the buttered ramekin with a slice of lovely, smoky, moist ham. Topped that with cut-up spears of strapping spring asparagus, partially precooked in butter. Cracked a couple of super-fresh free-range eggs over it all. Salt, pepper. Oven.
Doesn't that sound perfect? (Psst: Cookiecrumb, check the weather report! Storm!)
I looked up shirred eggs in Joy of Cooking, and was warned that the eggs would retain heat, and therefore keep cooking, after they came out of the oven. No problem; do I look like a perfect idiot?
I kept checking the eggs, peering through the glass window of the oven door and recoiling at the sight of the translucent, slimy, squiggly egg whites. Those guys weren't done yet, no sir.
Well.
Minutes passed, probably more than the 10 or so that had been recommended.
Still, the whites looked gooey.
But finally, I had to get them out of there.
Oh, man, they looked good. Tumescent, vivid egg yolks. Slightly singed ham. Asparagus done just right. And those egg whites; they still had a gelatinous sheen, but it was time to eat.
Which was when the fork bounced off the yolks.
Well, not "bounced," exactly, but they were shirred, fer sher. Overcooked. En beaucoup cocotte. A little much-ish.
I think this recipe would have been improved by dousing the eggs in the ramekins with a little cream before they went into the oven, and surely by removing them before the credits rolled.
But.
Nah.

Goyishe Guilt

I'm sorry.
I got your matzos.
I didn't know there would be a shortage in stores this week. And I'm not even Jewish.
So if you've had to do without, blame me.
It's not like I needed the matzos. I just like matzo brei.
Two weeks ago the local paper ran results of a taste-off of various matzos. Suspecting that the number-one favorite, available at Whole Foods, would probably disappear off shelves, we made a dash for a box.
Now I'll be honest. My limited contact with matzos makes Manischewitz a hands-down winner, strictly by familiarity. Ooh, the soggy, creamy, unthreatening, traif texture of these domestic crackers is almost part of my DNA. Like Carr's Table Water Crackers.
But when I read that these upscale Yehuda matzos, made in Israel, topped the food section chart, I had to try them.
So? (Oh, I have to say "nu" here. Can I say "nu"?) They're, um, fibrous. You know, difficult. Kind of like a cross to bear, but probably more like running away fast and the problem with the not-quite leavened bread, difficult in its own way, although freedom (good) and tradition. Tradition!
I would have been happy buying the Manischewitz, although now I'm suspecting that a whole lot of other shoppers, ones with more legitimate shopping needs, might have been, too. Doesn't matter in the long run, I suppose, because all the matzos, all brands, got scarfed up.
I shopped early, I got the Yehudas, and I wanted the matzo brei.
You might not believe this, but I think I'm good at making matzo brei.
Probably because I don't know what matzo brei is supposed to come out like.
Mine is always fluffy, tender, eggy, and totally not sweetened. No cinnamon. No jelly.
Scrambled eggs, buttery, mixed with puffy mounds of softened matzo.
What's the opposite of "oy vey"? They're that good.
I have asked Jewish friends whether they like matzo brei cooked soft or crispy, and the answer I usually get is "No."
Would you have liked some? Thought so. Nu? No recipe.
So please, no complaints about shortages.
Oy.

Guess Who Discovered the Benriner

Cranky says "It's like making lettuce."
He likes this little Japanese mandoline so much, we now own three of them. (They were on sale!)

Winter-Spring Vegetables (Salad!)

We had to pull all the old, tired cauliflower and broccoli plants out of the garden. They weren't getting any younger (rim shot, ha ha!) and they were using up valuable real estate destined for future potatoes, tomatoes and crocagatoes.
Unpristine they were not, but unlovely they were. So we just hacked off the tenderest buds and stems, and used them in an ad-hoc recipe we had already tried once before, improvising from the get-go, and improvising the second time even more.
It's a salad. I can call it a salad because it has oil and vinegar in it.
Also: The vegetables are served just warm or at room temperature, so technically it's still pretty much a salad — in other words, not hot. But the vegetables are not quite raw.
The recipe we improvised on came from the New York Times a couple of weeks ago, but it's senseless for me to even link to it.
Here's the drill: Get some oil hot in a skillet, and scorch some minced garlic along with a few whole cumin seeds.
Toss your brassicas with a little nice red-wine vinegar, a drip of sesame oil, some red pepper flakes, salt, and a tiny splish of soy sauce. Be prudent; this stuff tastes great in small amounts.
Now, dump the hot, garlicky oil over the seasoned vegetables. Toss. Serve.
Happy.

Uninstinctive, Successfully

Ever followed a recipe that sounded so strange, so impossible, you didn't see how it would work? But it was so mesmerizing, you did it anyway?
I tried this recipe for baked onion-cheese-toast over two years ago, and it was so weird, I followed it to the letter. Out of fear.
And it came out great.
So yesterday I attempted a re-creation of this unlikely concoction, without a recipe (we had used a library book the first time), and it came out great!
The secret is just understanding, and trusting, your food. You commit a few simple, heretofore-unknown, exercises, trusting in your food guru (Lidia Bastianich, in this case). Then, more than two years later, you figure you can pretty much remember, rethink, redo. And you do.
No bragging here, actually. It's really easy. I'm just so glad I lodged this dish in memory, and dared to try it again without the cookbook.

Briefly (and it really is this easy): Decide how much buttery onion-cheese-toast you want, and select a glass or ceramic baking dish to fit your dream.
Start your oven at 350º.
Begin sauteing sliced onions in butter, with salt, pepper, and a bunch of crunched fresh laurel leaves. How many onions? As much as you want. Not too many. Does this make sense? You'll want your collapsed onions to cover the bread in your baking dish, generously but not obscenely.
Slice bread (about 1/2-inch thick), leaving crusts on or trimming off if you're a sissy. We used a rustic pain au levain. Butter the bread on both sides, and jam it into the dish, in a single layer, fitting it in tightly.
When the onions are a golden, soggy mess, slather them over the bread (removing the laurel leaves).
Now, grate some hard cheese; we used Parmigiano. You want enough to create a delightful snowfall; not a heartbreaking sludge-storm, although you'd be surprised how much you can get away with. Sprinkle this cheese POOFILY over the onions; don't smash it down. Poofy does it.
OK, now bake for a half an hour. The cheese will get crisp and the onions will get fragrant and the bread will toast. It is magic.
Delicious with a soup or stew, maybe just a salad and a glass of prosecco.

If you try this technique only once, you will probably remember it years later.
And you really ought to thank me. Because this is not a recipe blog.
Oh. This wasn't really a recipe, was it?

Sit Still?

No comprendo.

Garden Is Pretty

Unexpected glint of esthetics in my onion patch.
Pansies.
I have no idea how they got there, but what a sweet surprise.
They are molto miniature, these little pansies. I wouldn't have discovered them if I hadn't been weeding. And luckily I didn't pluck them out of the ground along with the other interlopers.
So, question: If a weed you didn't plant in your garden is unwelcome, what about a pansy you didn't plant?
I'm leaving it in. I doubt it's going to cause much mayhem.
For something wonderful to eat when life gives you too many onions (and damn, I thought we'd be harvesting these onions back when it was onion soup weather), go check out this vague, tenuous how-to on onion toast. To clarify, if needed: butter bread and cram it into a baking dish. Distribute onions that have been sauteed with seasonings (salt, pepper, bay leaves) over the bread. Sprinkle loosely grated cheese (grating cheese, please) over the top, Not Mushed Down! Bake at ohgod, I don't know, 350? for half an hour. It's awesome.
Also, read the comments on that old post for a fun comments game we had going there for a while. Ah, the good old days.

Who Cares??!!

Icky man.
Dead.
Gone.
Why do we have to keep hearing about him?
I'd rather watch my DVR recordings of Jane Austen stuff. Hmm, yum.
And tonight I'm watching

"Walk Hard."
You come here for good taste, right?
Tasty.

Spring in My Step, But Not in My Mouth

I can't get the spring rhythm going.
We went out for cleaning supplies yesterday; that must be a positive sign. (I didn't say when I was going to start using them.)
I keep seeing pretty little vegetable starts for sale, but I mostly refrain from buying them because... I don't know why.
Oh, I do know why. I know that I will be giving the local, organic seedlings at the farmers market a thorough look-see tomorrow because they're local, organic, and for sale at the farmers market. In my book, that beats all (sorry upscale local, organic nursery whom I still love and will still buy my chicken poop from, even though!!! Even though my compost heap looks like really good, brown, juicy, flaky, nutrient-rich dirt, and I will be scooping bits from it really soon).
So, the garden is ready to go, as soon as the plantlets are procured. Tomorrow, possibly. That's a good sign.
But the cooking.
Let me ask you, is there spring cooking?
No, I don't mean Easter or Passover. Lovely feasts, and they do manage to be seasonal... though this goy gets a little twitchy over the Passover turkey (which tells you I am a dope who only eats turkey once a year, if that often).
But normal kitchen cooking: Spring favorites?
Asparagus, yes. Eggs, yes. Spring onions, yes. In fact, we've eaten all that good stuff this spring, so maybe I'm not as off track as I feared.
But the other day we accidentally bought a couple of beautiful tomatoes. Pretty, but not summery, and that was the mistake. Do not jump the gun.
We tried to treat the tomatoes in a gentle springlike manner with hard-cooked eggs and baby lettuce. Still. Not good enough.
I've got to stop stirring up the backyard dirt for a couple of hours and think about real spring food.
I think it should be easy. I think it should be gentle.
What do you suggest?