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I was gifted a sourdough starter right before Passover. My family was visiting Pirch to look at kitchen designs —  we’re renovating the Lower East Side apartment where my mom grew up — and I struck up a conversation with Chef Tracy Justynski over a fig-studded loaf of bread and gluten free chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven. I’m not sure what prompted my chutzpah, but I asked her if she had any sourdough starter to share.

She did.

Tracy told me that her starter is over two years old, and she drove it cross-country from San Diego, leaving a trail of blobs with friends along the way. She disappeared into the prep kitchen, and came out with a plastic quart container filled with a cup or so of a flour water mix inoculated with Southern California yeast. Inscribed on the top, in Sharpie: “Starter – feed me flour + water every 2 weeks.”

I slipped it in my bag and would have skipped home if I weren’t a decade of blocks away. I kept the starter in the fridge, keeping it alive with a one-to-one (by weight) ratio of flour to water (approximately 1 cup flour to 1/2 cup water) every other weekend.

Finally I attempted to bake bread using an adaptation of Chad Robertson’s (of Tartine) recipe. It was a five-day process: three days to wake up the starter; one day to mess up the first attempt; two days to get it right. Well, sort of right. The bottoms were burnt. The crumb was spongey. The taste lacked oomph. But at least it sang.

I fed the starter and returned it to the fridge for another weekend project. In the interim, I had amassed a quart worth of starter discard. See, before your feed your starter, you pour out about half (if you don’t, the starter will take over your kitchen). I can’t bear to throw out the discard — especially since I suspect I’ll eventually name mine. So I collected it and searched for recipes. I mostly found English muffins and pancakes, but I tracked down one for blueberry muffins that seemed simple. Also, it used up a lot of excess starter.

My first attempt yielded blueberry-less muffins that were tough. Yesterday I made a second batch, this time with cut up strawberries, a bit more liquid, a lower oven temperature, and a longer bake. Success.

In light of the disaster of a healthcare bill that recently passed the House, I can’t help but find meaning in valuing what some may discard, in cherishing what gets left behind.

Sourdough discard muffins – strawberry version

Adapted from King Arthur. This is a very simple recipe to use up discarded sourdough starter that you just can’t bear to throw away. The sourdough flavor isn’t particularly pronounced. This is essentially a quick bread, and you need to mix the wet ingredients into the dry very quickly (like pancake batter) and then immediately spoon it into the muffin pans. This allows you to capture the rising action of the baking soda. You can substitute 1½ cups of any other berry or fruit (the original version has blueberries and cinnamon). You can make these in mini muffin tins – bake for 20 minutes – which will yield about 3 dozen.

Makes 1 dozen muffins

– 1 C all-purpose flour, plus more to toss with the berries

– 1 C yellow cornmeal, fine

– ¾ t salt

– 1 t baking soda

– 1 C sourdough starter, fed or unfed

–  1/3 C milk

– 1 large egg

– ¼ C melted butter of vegetable oil, plus more to grease the pans

– 1/2 C maple syrup (or honey)

– 1 t vanilla extract

– ½ t rose water (optional)

– ½ lb strawberries, cut into small pieces (about 1½ cups)

– Demerara or coarse sugar, for sprinkling tops

Prep. Preheat oven to 375° F. Grease the wells of a muffin pan (or use cupcake liners).

Stir. Combine the flour, cornmeal, salt, and baking soda in a large bowl and set aside.

Whisk. In a second bowl, beat together the starter, milk, egg, oil, maple syrup, vanilla, and rose water (if using).

Toss. Coat the cut strawberries in a few tablespoons of flour.

Blend. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry and blend together quickly, about 30 seconds or so, until just combined. There may be a few lumps – that’s OK. Gently stir in the berries.

Fill. Fill the greased muffin cups to the top, and sprinkle the tops with Demerara sugar. Try not to get too much sugar on the pan itself or it will caramelize and make it difficult to remove the muffins.

Bake. Bake the muffins for 30 – 35 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.

Cool. Allow the muffins to cool in the pan for 5 minute and then remove to continue cooling on a rack.

Spring fruits and vegetables, in the Northeast at least, arrive with exclamation points.

Asparagus!

Morels!

Peas!

Fiddleheads!

Favas!

The exclamation pointiest of the exclamation points is ramps. I mean, ramps! Better yet, RAMPS!

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Because they’re typically foraged and their season is short, these alliums could start a cult with worshipers preparing all year for the few weeks these pungent (and, whew, they are pungent!) guys emerge, praying to the gods of rain and sun and dirt, stalking farmers market for the first hint of these wild leeks that look a bit like scallions but with purplish stems and broad leaves. Mario Batali even made a video about them that’s worth a watch.

When I spied a few bundles on friends’ Instagram feeds, I beelined to my neighborhood farmers’ market. It was the first Friday after Passover and while I was very happy to see She Wolf Bakery and grab the last maple and oat loaf, there was little in the soil-plucked, tree-picked category. The following week, same thing. I brought home a bundle of branches covered in buds and the promise of my own personal cherry blossom festival. To date they’ve only sprouted leaves. Not a single flower yet, but I have faith.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAI finally trekked down to the Union Square Greenmarket hoping for something, anything, of the green variety. My schlep was rewarded with an entire table of ramps. I loaded up and then went a little bit crazy. Scallions. Upland cress (which is like watercress, but more peppery: I’ve been chopping it up like parsley and adding it to Israeli salad). A few mint plants for good measure. By the time I got home, my bag reeked but I didn’t care.

The most common ramp recipe I found was for pesto, but I wanted to make something slightly different. In the past I’ve sautéed ramps, and this time I went for a chimichurri-like sauce with a dash of vinegar and some red pepper flakes. While the herbs for chimichurri are usually hand chopped and mixed with oil, I sliced my finger earlier in the week (it’s still healing and not very pretty looking) and decided to just throw everything in the food processor for a smoother puree.

I’ve been slathering this on everything from bread to an omelette to fish. And mixed it with yogurt, a bit of mayo, and a squeeze of lemon to dress cabbage slaw. I’m even thinking about trying to make skirt steak to showcase the sauce (you might have noticed that the only been I ever make is braised – I’m sort of scared of ruining a steak).

Ramp chimichurri

Adapted from Vegetarian Ventures and A Couple Cooks. Make sure to clean the ramps really well – they’re not as gritty as leeks, but they are related. The extra step of blanching the leaves will help the sauce retain a bright green color. 

Makes 1 cup

–  approximately 25 ramps (2 -3 bunches)

– 2 T sherry vinegar

– 1/4 C olive oil, plus extra for storage

– 1 t aleppo pepper

– 1/2 t salt

Wash. Separate the leaves from the bulbs. Swish the leaves in a big bowl of water to dislodge any dirt, draining and replacing the water until it runs clear (this may take quite a few repeats). Cut the roots off the bulbs and then remove the outer slimy layer.

Blanche and shock. Make an ice bath. Bring a large pot of water to boil. Drop the leaves in until they wilt, about 10 seconds, and then transfer to the ice bath. Once cool, squeeze as much water as possible from the leaves.

Puree. In a food processor, pulse the ramp leaves and bulbs, vinegar, oil, pepper, and salt until smooth, but not too smooth.

Store. Cover with a thin layer of oil to prevent browning and refrigerate.

a potschke

My Passover cooking philosophy – with the exception of matzah brei and matzah ball soup – is to avoid matzah in all of its permutations (farfel, matzah meal, cake meal). Rather than attempt to construct a facsimile of a leavened sweetie (or even worse, use a boxed cake mix), I like to find ways to use naturally Passover-friendly ingredients in ways that I’d gladly eat the rest of the year.

Which is why I found myself nodding as I read “Don’t Make Passover Too Easy,” the New York Times op-ed that my friend Jeff Yoskowitz wrote last week. In it he makes a compelling argument that  “embracing the holiday’s tedious dietary restrictions, not working around them, is critical to appreciating this holiday on a deeper level. And to eating well.” He encourages readers to go back to basics, to cook the way they did generations ago before there was a Passover aisle with its ersatz cookies, its pizza and s’mores kits. To turn to seasonal produce and cook from scratch and have fun with the challenge.

Yes!

Or, if I were cooler, I’d probably say yaaaaaaasssss!

The article reminded me of how when I met Jeff with his beard and skinny jeans and artisanal gefilte fish company where his title is “chief pickler,” I knee-jerk dismissed him as a hipster and joked that he probably lived in Brooklyn. He does. He then guessed that I lived in the conspicuously Jewish enclave known as the Upper West Side. I do. Touché, Jeff, touché. (I have no idea whether Jeff remembers this conversation, but we’ve moved past any early awkwardness.)

In the article, Jeff doesn’t use the word nostalgia, perhaps because it’s gotten a bad rap in its association with hipster-ism* or its tendency to devolve into excessive sentimentality. But in my book, Passover is the nostalgia-ist of all holidays because it requires a week of stringent food restrictions, and a reliance on recipes passed down through the generations is often the only way to make it through. Even more, the preamble to the seder dinner involves a retelling and symbolic reliving of our communal history. What better way to relive an experience than by immersing ourselves in the foods that our parents and grandparents and great-grandparents ate**, and if you go back far enough (or, in many cases, not that far at all) what our ancestors ate in the country they came from that’s not our current country, because weren’t we all – Jews, Americans – immigrants at some point?***

It’s not surprising, then, the holiday prompted my friend Gabi to coin the term “granny chic” in another recent Passover food-related article in the Boston Globe. Gabi writes about her first time making her mother’s version of her grandmother’s favorite spongecake (10 eggs!) and dried fruit compote. In the article, she addresses the nostalgia issue head on, sharing Jewish cookbook author (most recent: King Solomon’s Table, more on this as soon as I can get it down on paper) and food storyteller Joan Nathan‘s perspective that strict adherence to authenticity can be overrated and improving upon the nostalgic recipes of our past is the way to go.

The Passover recipe that’s most nostalgic for me, that most reminds me of my own Bubbie, is her Passover “bagels.”  They are essentially dense heavy rolls with a thumb print in the middle, heavily sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon (so their belly button fills with the sweet mix), and baked for at least an hour until they finally dehydrate enough to hold their shape and develop of crust. I’m not sure why we didn’t just call them doughnuts, but tradition is tradition and my mom continued making them until just a few years ago when we opted for lighter fare. I can’t help but wonder if we should bring them back next year, keeping the cinnamon sugar but using some non-matzah meal flour alternatives to free them from their hockey-puck heft.

All this has been a really long-winded introduction to the recipe that I have for you today. And perhaps an explanation – to myself at least, since writing and reading often help me figure out what’s behind what I do – for why I opted for such a potchke (translation: fuss in Yiddish) of a recipe for this year’s seders. All the talk of nostalgia got me thinking about what Bubbie might have wanted after dinner and before the afikoman. She was a woman who orchestrated setting the cloth-covered table with dishes for every eventuality, a thematic centerpiece, and pitchers to hold seltzer. Never, ever were we to have a plastic bottle displayed.

So I decided to make a showstopper of a dessert: a lime curd tart on a coconut crust. Something that, after the dinner plates had been cleared and everyone had sat down again, could be presented to the table on a special platter. The Passover equivalent to my bubbie’s Thanksgiving Jell-o mold.

This was a major departure from my tendency to make petite sweets – chocolate cakelets, macaroons, mandelbread. And in my quest to develop a recipe that would work, I followed the advice of Anna Gershenson (she’s Gabi’s mother and has a lifetime of catering and teaching experience) and did something I’ve never done: I broke down and bought potato starch. Using an ingredient that I wouldn’t normally use during the rest of the year was hard for me to stomach, and I stubbornly researched recipes for over a week to avoid it. Eventually I realized that to make the dessert I wanted without laborious recipe testing would require borrowing a failsafe technique developed over many Passovers: potato starch to provide structure to both the crust and curd of the tart I had been dreaming of.

Sure, the crust takes an hour and a half to make, but most of that time is waiting. And, yes, the curd requires a lot of zesting and juicing and tedious stirring over the stove. But the result was exactly what I was looking for. The potschke is worth it and I think I can pat myself on the back and say that Bubbie would have been proud.

FOOTNOTES (seriously, who writes a blog post with footnotes?):

* My working definition of a hipster as someone who “manifests nostalgia for times he never lived himself” comes from an opinion piece in the New York Times that I read back in 2012. Here, Christy Wampole (a Princeton professor of French literature and thought) argues that living ironically (as exemplified by hipsters) is a form of frivolity (my words, not hers) that is worth reconsidering in favor of seriousness. I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole of reading a bunch of Wampole’s articles and interestingly, after last year’s election, she wrote a follow-up essay about the political destructiveness of this ironic living and the importance of “good” seriousness in the face of a current administration that demonstrates an unapologetic, un-self-reflective, taking-itself-too-seriously brand of seriousness.

** The Jewish Food Society, founded by Naama Shefi, has as its mission to honor and revitalize Jewish culinary traditions. I wrote about their first public event, “Schmaltzy,” which was a Moth-like evening during which five different people shared food stories and their favorite dishes. The organization and event were also covered in NPR and Food and Wine.

*** Here’s another article that seems particularly relevant these days: David Sax of Save the Deli argues for welcoming immigrants at the very least for the sake of dining diversity.

Coconut macaroon crust

Adapted from Tori Avey. This is essentially one big macaroon that dries out in the oven to get completely crispy. I initially tried to use my own macaroon recipe but I didn’t make enough to fill the tart pan, and while cooking the egg white coconut mix on the stovetop first is helpful for shaping the macaroons, it’s not necessary for this crust. I scooped it into macaroons.

My crust was very difficult to remove from pan. Next time I plan to line the removable bottom with heavy duty aluminum foil so the tart can be easily removed (like I do for brownies). I’ll report back once I do this to update the recipe.

– 3 C shredded unsweetened coconut

– 4 egg whites (reserve yolks for lime curd filling, below)

– 1/2 C sugar

– 1 T potato starch (or cornstarch)

– 1/4 t salt

– Coconut oil for greasing

Preheat. Preheat oven to 325° F.

Stir. In a bowl, stir together coconut, egg whites, sugar, potato starch, and salt until thoroughly combined.

Wait. Allow the mixture to sit for 20-30 minutes so that the coconut soaks up the liquid.

Press. Grease with coconut oil a 9- or 10-inch tart pan with a removable bottom. Press the coconut mixture into the pan. Use a measuring cup of the bottom of a glass to smooth out the coconut and to press it into the sides of the pan. Wet the bottom of the cup or glass if it’s sticking to the coconut.

Bake. Place the pan on a cookie sheet and bake for 30 minutes or until the edges turn a light golden brown, but the center is still white. Allow to cool for a few minutes until you can gingerly handle the pan, and cover the edge with aluminum foil to stop the browning.

Bake again. Return the pan to the oven and bake for another 30 minutes or until the center turns golden brown. The center might be a bit darker than the edge. Allow to cool. If you’re going to make the whole tart, keep the oven on.

Lime curd filling

Adapted from Gourmet. I amped up the lime zest and replaced the butter with a quarter the amount of coconut oil. This curd is on the puckering side which is how I prefer it, but you can add a bit more sugar if you’d like. 

Makes approximately 1½ cup

– 4 large egg yolks (leftover from the crust)

– 3/4 C fresh lime juice (my limes weren’t very juicy, so I needed 9)

– 2 T lime zest (if you have any left over, use it for the tart topping)

– 3/4 cup sugar

– 1 T potato starch (or cornstarch)

– 1/2 teaspoon salt

– 2 T coconut oil

Whisk. In a 2-quart heavy sauce pan, whisk together egg yolks, lime juice and zest, sugar, potato starch, and salt until the potato starch is dissolved.

Cook. Whisk the mixture over medium-low heat, using a silicone spatula to reach into the corners and scrape the sides and bottom of the pan until the mixture is thickened and beginning to bubble around the edges, about 5 minutes. Whisk for another minute and remove from heat. At this point, the curd should be thick and jiggly.

Strain. Place a strainer over a bowl. With the spatula, scrape the curd into the strainer, pressing gently on the solids – this will remove any egg that might have cooked as well as most of the zest. Scrape any curd clinging to the underside of the strainer into the bowl. This whole process may take a few minutes.

Store. If not using right away, store the curd in the fridge.

Coconut lime curd tart

While the crust is baking, you can make the lime curd, or use whatever curd you’d like – either homemade or store bought.

I played around with a lot of decorating ideas, particularly since lime curd is really yellow from the egg yolks and I wanted to make sure you could tell it was lime rather than lemon. I initially candied lime peel but I allowed the peel to boil for too long (boiling removes the bitterness) before shocking it, so it turned an ugly shade of khaki. I was going to sprinkle it over the curd after the tart baked, but I didn’t feel like making a second batch. Ugly or not, I managed to eat almost the entire batch. In the end, I toasted some coconut and mixed it with lime zest and a little sugar – next time I’d probably sprinkle it over the entire tart so it doesn’t look like a fried egg.

– 1/4 C shredded unsweetened coconut (optional)

– 1 T lime zest (optional)

– 1 T sugar (optional)

– 1 coconut macaroon crust, baked (see above)

– 1 ½ C lime curd (see above)

Preheat. Assuming you’ve just made the crust, the oven should already be at 325° F, but if it’s not, turn up the heat.

Toast. While the crust is baking, pop the coconut into the oven to toast, no more than 2 minutes until it just starts to brown. Watch closely because coconut burns very quickly.

Mix. In a small bowl, mix together the coconut, lime, and sugar.

Fill.  Spread the curd evenly across the crust. Sprinkle liberally with coconut-lime mixture.

Bake. Keeping the pan on the baking sheet, bake for 10-12 minutes until the curd is just set and no longer wobbles if you tap the pan.

Chill. Once the tart comes to room temperature, carefully wrap it in plastic and refrigerate for at least an hour before serving. I like it right out of the fridge.

 

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Way back in December – doesn’t that feel like an eternity ago? – I woke up early one Friday morning, dressed in darkness, and tiptoed out the front door. I needed two pounds of butter (for the cookies that kept on giving) and another of margarine, and my friend Nachama was in town, fast asleep on the sofa. It was Alyson’s birthday and she had invited both of us over for shabbat dinner. As usual, I offered to make dessert.

Just a few weeks shy of the winter solstice, sundown (the start of shabbat) was around half-past four and with at least a thirty minute drive up to Alyson’s new place in Riverdale, and a downtown physical therapy appointment, I wanted to get dessert into the oven early. This is all a long-winded way of saying that I was tired and in a rush.

Back home from the store, I ground fresh beans and made a pot of coffee. Either the sound or the smell dragged Nachama out from under the covers. She sat on a pouf that she dragged across the floor to my kitchen doorway – the kitchen’s barely big enough for one, let alone two bodies – and we caught up on each other’s travels, work, and lives.

The day before, I had found a few tart recipes to use up a bag of cranberries left over after Thanksgiving. While Nachama and I chatted, I compared three printouts and calculated how to mix and match the recipes in the right proportions. I was convinced that the area of a circle was 2πr which slowed down the process considerably. Once I remembered it was πr2, things went a bit more smoothly.

Math all figured out, I set to work, mixing together a dough and pressing it into little tart pans (how cute are they??).

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While the crusts baked, I started in on the curd. Melting down the cranberries into a compote. Pureeing. Cooling. Adding the eggs and yolks. While the cranberries cooled and I cracked and separated eggs, Nachama squeezed past me and sliced up some onions for an omelette to use up the four egg whites leftover from the curd.

I did double duty at the stove – stirring the cranberries with eggs, lemon, sugar, and a pinch of salt and slowly caramelizing the onions with the other. Once the curd set, I strained it. Once the onions caramelized, I added the eggs. I filled the tartlet crusts with curd and popped them in the oven, and Nachama and I sat down to breakfast.

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When the timer went off, I pulled the tartlets out of the oven and put them on the counter to cool. Right next to a stick of margarine. The stick of margarine that I forgot to add to the curd. Shit! 

Too late to do anything about it, I trotted off to PT and rushed back home. After an hour or so in the fridge, the tartlets firmed up and though the curd was a little looser and the texture a little less decadent than I’d have liked, Nachama and I decided that no one would know that an ingredient was missing.

And so I have for you some winter tartlets. Just in time for spring.

(If you want to be all seasonal about it, fill the crust with rhubarb curd instead.)

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Cranberry curd tartlets

The idea for these tartlets came from the New York Times, but eventually I used the crust from my lemon bars (originally from Alice Medrich) and a slightly less sweet (and lower fat if you forget the 1/2 cup of margarine/butter) cranberry curd from The Kitchn. If you do want to add margarine/ butter, stir it into the strained cranberries. Now that it’s Spring, you can make the curd with rhubarb instead (double this recipe from Not Derby Pie) for an slightly less pink dessert.

Make sure to line the bottom of your tart pans with rounds of parchment paper. If you don’t want to make tartlets, you can make two 8- or 9-inch tarts or a 9X13-inch pan. The recipe makes 2 cups of curd. 

Makes 10 4-inch tartlets.

For crust:

– 1 1/2 C sifted flour

– 1/2 C yellow cornmeal

–  large pinch salt

– 1/4 t baking soda

– 1/4 C unsalted butter or margarine (room temperature)

– 2/3 C sugar

– 2 egg yolks

– 2 T light mayonnaise or yogurt

– 1/3 t vanilla extract

For topping:

– 12 oz (about 3 C) fresh cranberries

– 1/2 C water

– 2/3 C granulated sugar

– 4 eggs

– 4 egg yolks

– 2 T lemon juice

– 1/4 t salt

Prepare. Preheat oven to 350ºF and put rack in lower 1/3 of the oven. Cut 10 circles of parchment paper the size of the removable pan bottoms, and then grease and line the pans. Pick out any squished or blemished cranberries and remove any stems and then rinse the berries.

Make crust:

Mix. Stir together the flour, cornmeal, salt, and baking soda. In a stand mixer, beat the mayonnaise/yogurt and margarine/butter until creamy. Add the sugar and beat for about a minute. Beat in egg yolk, mayonnaise/yogurt, and vanilla. Add in the dry ingredients and beat on low until just combined. It will be crumbly. Scrape bowl and knead briefly with hands.

Press. Press a generous 1/4 cup of dough into each tartlet pan, making sure to cover the sides. Use the bottom of a measuring cup to smooth everything out and nudge the dough into the fluted edges. Prick the dough all over with a fork.

Bake. Arrange the pans on a cookie sheet for easier transport. Bake for 20 minutes until the edges just start to brown.

Make curd:

Cook. While the crusts are baking, place the cranberries and water in a medium-sized pot over medium-high heat and stir. Continue cooking, stirring occasionally, until all the cranberries have popped and become mushy, about 5 minutes. Puree the cranberries with an immersion blender until as smooth as possible.

Cool. Remove the pot from the stovetop and allow the cranberry puree to come to room temperature. This is an important step because if it’s too hot, it will cook the eggs.

Mix. To the pot with the cranberry puree, add the sugar, eggs and yolks, lemon juice, and salt. Stir thoroughly.

Heat. Return the pot to the stove. Stir the curd continuously, making sure to scrape the bottom and corners of the pan. Cook until the curd starts to thicken, coats the back of a spoon, and registers about 150° on an instant-read thermometer if you have one, about 10-12 minutes.

Strain. Pour the curd through a strainer into a clean bowl – this will get rid of any tough cranberry bits or cooked egg. This is when you should stir in the 1/4 cup of butter or margarine until it melts.

Put it all together:

Bake. Pour the strained cranberry curd (it’s OK if it’s warm) onto the baked crust, a scant 1/4 cup per tartlet. Bake at 350° for 10-12 minutes, until the curd has set. It shouldn’t wobble when you tap the pan. Cool completely and refrigerate before serving.

Store. Keep refrigerated. The crust will soften after a day, so these are best eaten the day they are made.

The past week or so, I’ve been on the RAT diet (aka the BRAT diet, but I don’t like bananas). With most meals limited to applesauce, tea, electrolyte drinks, broth, and challah rolls, my dishwasher is full of mugs, bowls, and spoons.

When I felt ready to move to more solid foods, I went cautiously. I craved protein and needed something pure, with nothing that might offend my stomach – no fat, no spice, no acid, no dairy, no nothing. A search for “bland recipe” didn’t really turn up anything inspiring. But I had some chicken breasts in the freezer and, still not up to an excursion to the grocery store, decided to poach.

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Admittedly, this isn’t my prettiest dish. My vegetarian sister commented that she hoped it tasted better than it looked. Sure, the chicken looks anemic, but I like to think of it as a blank slate – a tabula rasa if you want to get all philosophical. First, I nibbled the chicken as is. The next day, I shredded some meat and heated it up in a bowl of broth and noodles. And then one night I dipped slices into a mix of mayonnaise and dijon. Hopefully soon, I’ll be able to slice it into a sandwich or cube it over a salad.

Looks aside, I stand by this chicken, as it stood by me. Even though it’s one of the most boring recipes in the world, I’m posting it here as a reminder of how good those first bites taste after being sick and with the hope that someone else on the mend will find it helpful.

Poached chicken

Adapted from The Kitchn. You can use whatever you have in our kitchen to gently flavor the chicken – here I used the basics, but on a more adventurous day, I might throw in some dried chili peppers and smashed garlic. The Kitchn also suggests adding a bay leaf, sliced ginger, other fresh herbs, or thinly sliced onions, and substituting a cup of white wine for some of the water.

– 3 boneless skinless chicken breasts

– handful fresh parsley

– 1/2 lemon, sliced

– 1 t kosher salt

– 1 t whole peppercorns

Arrange the chicken in a single layer on the bottom of a pot. The pieces can overlap a little bit, but they’ll cook more evenly in a single layer. Scatter the parsley, lemon, salt and pepper, over the chicken, and then add cold water to cover the chicken by an inch or so.

Bring the pot to a boil. Some white scum will rise to the top – feel free to skim it off.

Lower the heat to a simmer, cover, and cook for 10-15 minutes until the chicken is cooked all the way through (opaque in the center) and registers 165ºF with an instant-read thermometer. Start checking at 8 minutes.

Remove the chicken from the liquid and serve.

 

Not much of a story today, just a recipe that is almost ridiculous in its simplicity. It’s a soup that may look familiar to some of you based on its sparse ingredient list: tomatoes, onions, and butter. Yup, it’s a riff on Marcella Hazan’s tomato sauce with just slightly different ratios. More vegetables, less butter, and a bit of water to thin it out. You could use fresh tomatoes, but why?

This is the savory version of hot chocolate after a romp in the snow. And if you want to up the ante, make a grilled cheese sandwich and cut into cubes (if you’re like me, they’ll be oh so raggedy, but who cares, really?) for oozy croutons.

The soup is just creamy enough to feel decadent but not New Year’s resolution breaking. So poke around your pantry and fridge and cook up a batch tonight.

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Three-ingredient Tomato Soup

Inspired by Marcella Hazan‘s tomato sauceIf you’re using whole tomatoes, snip them with scissors or squish between your fingers to break them up.

Makes approximately 6 cups

– 2 28-oz cans whole peeled or crushed tomatoes (ideally San Marzano)

– 2 onions, roughly chopped

– 1/4 C butter

– 1 t salt

– 1/2 – 1 C water

Simmer. Mix in a saucepan the tomatoes, onion, butter, and salt and bring to a simmer over medium heat. Cook, covered and stirring occasionally, for 45 minutes to an hour until the onion is almost falling apart.

Puree. With an immersion blender, puree the soup until smooth. Add water and continue to puree until you get the texture that you like.

 

You probably know the Hanukkah story: in a fight over religious freedom in Judea, the temple in Jerusalem was ransacked before the Jewish Maccabee soldiers won the war, liberated the city, and reclaimed their temple in Jerusalem. Upon their return, the Macabees found only enough oil to keep the menorah lit for one day, but miraculously, the flame flickered for eight.

The culinary manifestation of the Hanukkah miracle just might be Dorie Greenspan’s Do-Almost-Anything cookie doughs. Yes, this is a poor segue, but bear with me for a moment. You know I adore Dorie (how could anyone not?), and her most recent cookbook, Dorie’s Cookies, hasn’t wandered far from my kitchen since I wrote about her salt-flecked kasha-studded chocolate chip cookies. When planning a baking birthday playdate with a friend’s twins (How old are you today? Three. How old will you be tomorrow? FOUR!!!!!), I settled on two easy roll-and-bake recipes – one chocolate, one vanilla – and a rainbow of colored sugars. The recipes were the perfect blank canvas for kiddos and left me with enough extra dough to last the entire holiday season. A miracle indeed.

For the playdate, we rolled out wide craft paper to cover the floor of my living room and got to work on the chocolate dough. The birthday boys measured out ingredients (we used a scale and practiced numbers and math), turned on the mixer (with a few puffs of flour and cocoa), and scraped the paddle and bowl (while resisting the temptation to sample raw dough at their mother’s request).

While the chocolate dough chilled, I pulled from the freezer two sheets of vanilla dough that I had made in the morning and rolled out in advance. Armed with cookie cutters, the boys pressed out shapes and went wild with the colored sugars. As they baked, we tried another method for the chocolate – a medium-sized scoop to squeeze and plop the dough onto parchment and a squish with the palm of the hand to flatten into discs.

As I pulled the first tray out of the oven, and the boys leaned over the cookies, inching forward as I backed away warning “be careful, they’re hot hot hot.”

“But they smell like grandma’s house!” I couldn’t have been prouder.

I don’t have any photos from the day, but two days later, I used some of the leftover dough to make some holiday cookies for my physical therapist.

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A few nights later, my parents and I attended “The Eve” – my cousin Judy’s annual Christmas party. Inspired by Dorie’s recipe for vanilla polka dot cookies, I scooped up some mini chocolate balls, rolled them around in bright white pearl sugar, and pressed them into silver-dollar coin sized cookies. I baked up these tiny crispy treats, called them midnight sky cookies, and brought them along to add to the dessert table.

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The party was a fun mixing of traditions – we lit the Christmas tree with a wand, the menorah with a blessing – and then there was a mad dash of present opening that left the floor knee-high with torn wrapping paper. Everyone caught up while we migrated from table to sofa and back again, trying to remember which glass of wine was which, nibbling snacks and digging into my cousin Roberta’s famous igloo-shaped yodel ice cream cake. My favorite part of the evening, just like when I drove out a few years ago, started around midnight when most of the guests had left and a core group – largely my parents’ generation – traded stories about “the old days,” discussed politics, and just gabbed away until 2:30 in the morning.

I shared a sofa and a blanket with my great Aunt Harriette (“that’s 2 Ts and an E,” she likes to remind people) and nodded off a few times. I spoke to her the next morning and she told me: “I enjoyed the gentle weight of your kepele on my shoulder.”

Here’s a picture of Harriette back in the day photoshopped with her daughters Judy and Roberta at a dance recital. My sister and dad made this for Harriette’s 90th birthday.

harriette-judy-roberta

My parents stayed in New York for most of Hanukkah, and on the sixth night we lit candles together and my dad and I baked some more chocolate cookies for their car ride home the next day. Standing side by side in the kitchen, we got a small assembly line going, him scooping and plopping out the dough, me coating the dough in sugar and flattening out the cookies.

Finally, I baked up one more batch for New Year’s Eve, having perfected the scoop-plop-roll-squash technique and using it for both the chocolate and vanilla doughs.

I still have some vanilla dough in the freezer for 2017.

I realize now that I got all caught up in the stories and I forgot to talk about the cookies themselves. Both doughs lack leavening and are high in butter, so they bake up dense and crispy which is just the way I like them. The vanilla ones are very vanilla-y, the chocolate ones are rich in cocoa but taste less sweet.

Before we get to the recipes, I have a few tips:

The recipes have very few ingredients, so use the best vanilla and cocoa you can find. Dorie likes Sonoma Syrup Co’s vanilla bean extract crush – yes, it really costs almost $30, but you can find it at TJ Maxx for about half that. Dorie recommends Valrhona cocoa (as well as Guittard and Droste) and I keep a large stash of this one in my pantry.

If you’re going the cookie cutter route, roll out the still soft dough right after you make and  between two pieces of parchment paper so you don’t have to use flour to prevent it from sticking. Chill the rolled out dough in the fridge (or, if you’re in a rush, slip it in the freezer) so it will firm up before cutting.

Since the cookies don’t spread, if you want to keep the shapes as sharp as possible, you can cut the dough on the parchment, remove the scraps, and bake as is.

Dorie Greenspan’s Do-Almost-Anything-Doughs

Both recipes make about 80 cookies if you roll and cut them into 2-inch shapes. I make my midnight sky cookies with a teaspoon scooper for silver-dollar sized  cookies and I’ve lost count of how many the recipe made, but it’s closer to 150. 

I know it’s annoying to have to link to another page, but I didn’t think it was fair to copy two recipes straight out of Dorie’s book.

Dorie Greenspan’s Do Almost-Anything Vanilla Cookie Dough as published in the Washington Post

Dorie Greenspan’s Do-Almost-Anything Chocolate Cookie Dough as published in Bay Area’s Mercury News

Midnight Sky Cookies

I adapted Dorie Greenspan’s Vanilla Polka Dots recipe in Dorie’s Cookies, replacing the  Do-Almost-Anything Vanilla Cookie Dough with the chocolate version. If you make this with the vanilla dough, I found that they need only 12 minutes in the oven. 

Makes at least 30

– About 1/2 C (96 g) pearl sugar (sometimes called Swedish sugar)

– 1/4 recipe Do-Almost-Anything Chocolate Cookie Dough, just made and still soft

Prep. Center a rack in the oven and preheat it to 350 degrees F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Scoop, roll, and press. Using a teaspoon-sized cookie scoop, scoop out level portions of dough. Shape each portion into a ball between your palms. Roll the balls in the sugar to coat and place them on the lined baking sheet about 2 inches apart. Gently press each cookie down with the palm of your hand to slightly flatten.

Bake. Bake for 15 minutes until the cookies are just set – they’ll firm up as they cool. Transfer the sheet to a rack and allow the cookies to rest for 5 minutes before lifting them onto the rack to cool completely.

 

 

me being me

The past two weeks have been rough. I shed tears of joy at the polls about the beauty of being able to vote for a female president and then wept at home as I stumbled into bed just before 2 am, unsure of how to make heads or tails of the world. I’m grateful for the privilege of my liberal arts education, where close reading and critical thinking were emphasized and practiced and are helping me make sense of the news swirling around, but even that doesn’t seem to be enough. My sister reminded me recently of the importance of listening to and respecting differing perspectives: “we have two ears and two eyes and one mouth for a reason,” she said.

There’s been a lot of ugliness leading up to the election and now there seems to be even more in its aftermath. I find myself more ornery than usual. I see reminders every day of the need for kindness – and mindfulness and that metta meditation come to me more urgently than in the past.

So my article in the Forward about Dorie Greenspan‘s newest (twelfth!) cookbook, Dorie’s Cookies seems particularly timely. I’ve pasted the entire piece below (it’s long, but filled with lots of great nuggets and references to my grandmother whom I always think of during Thanksgiving), and want to emphasize Dorie’s #cookiesandkindness campaign through which she’s encouraging people to bake cookies and share them.

The sharing is key, and it’s really central to Dorie’s general approach to the kitchen. I’ve written before about Dorie’s philosophy on baking, and here’s what she told me two years ago: “I love baking. I always return to it when I’m stressed out. It’s the process, the ingredients, getting dirty, everything under my nails. I love the magic of it… You cook for yourself and other people, but when you bake, you don’t bake for yourself, you bake to share. You bake for love and for people you love.”

Right now, it feels good to be in the kitchen, to show care for other people, and to also remember to take care of ourselves. We won’t have these cookies at my Thanksgiving table because we made a conscious decision to NOT go overboard this year and already have pies and fruit for dessert. But, no worries, I’ve got two cranberry sauces all packed up and ready to go. Those recipes coming just as soon as I can type them.

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Below is my article from The Forward, followed by Dorie’s recipe for Kerrin’s multigrain chocolate chip cookies.

***

My late grandmother used to keep a package of store-bought cookies in the glove compartment of her car. Whenever she drove through a tollbooth or stopped to fill up her tank, she’d offer the attendant a cookie, or three. I have no doubt that she’d have been friends with four-time James Beard Award-winning cookbook author Dorie Greenspan who has been baking cookies for as long as she can remember and who is waging a kindness war with cookies as ammunition.

“I’ve just been caught up in the news and the state of things and thinking that the world is a pretty wobbly place right now,” Greenspan told me over the phone a few weeks before the election – a wobbly time indeed – and about a month before Thanksgiving – a holiday that should give families and communities a chance to cook together and share food and thoughts around the table. “I realized how happy I am when I’m baking, how happy I am when I’m sharing what I bake, and how happy the recipient is. So I thought we need cookies now more than ever. I had this crazy idea to start a sweet revolution to get people to bake and to share what they bake. I call it the cookies and kindness project.”

Here’s how it works: bake cookies, share them with someone or several someones, post to Instagram or twitter or wherever else you’d like, tag with #cookiesandkindness and #doriescookies, and make the world a little sweeter. And it gets even better – read down a few more paragraphs.

Armed with the over 160 recipes in Greenspan’s latest cookbook Dorie’s Cookies, you can’t help but join the revolution. This book stretches the concept of what a cookie can be – there are bar cookies, savory cookies, ones that accompany cocktails, and even one that was inspired by a cocktail – and Greenspan told me she enjoyed figuring out how to “cookie-fy” anything.

If you’ve used any of Greenspan’s other books, you know that you’ll feel like there’s a little Dorie fairy flitting around your kitchen, anticipating any questions you might have and answering them before you even think to ask. This writing style Greenspan shares with the late Julia Child with whom she frequently collaborated.

She joked, “When Julia said, ‘I want you to write my book [Baking with Julia] because you write like me,” I asked, ‘You mean, because I write long recipes?’ and she said, ‘No, I mean detailed, detailed.’” With the repetition of the word “detailed,” Greenspan’s voice rose and warbled.

She recounted this story last month at the 92nd Street Y to Charlotte Druckman, author Sizzle Stir Bake: Recipes for your Cast-Iron Skillet and Skirt Steak: Women Chefs on Standing the Heat and Staying in the Kitchen. In front of a room packed with adoring fans clutching copies of the Greenspan’s purple-cloaked book, the two women, sporting nearly matching pixie haircuts and silk scarves – Druckman’s twisted around her wrist paying homage to Greenspan’s signature foulard – perched on stools and discussed baking, differences between French and American cookies, and general cookbookery.

There was talk of “mother doughs” – akin to the five mother sauces that are the essential building blocks for classic French cooking – and Greenspan pointed to her book’s vanilla and chocolate “do-almost-anything” recipes that she likens to a blank canvas or a dressmaker’s muslin. A description of the meticulous testing that Greenspan does for all her cookies, trying different types of ingredients, ovens (gas, electric, convection), baking times, and any other variables that could impact the outcome. A dialogue on how cookies palates and recipes have changed due to access to better cocoa and chocolate, an appreciation of vanilla as a flavor rather than mere flavoring, and the use of salt – now measured in teaspoons rather than pinches – as a seasoning for sweets. And a tongue-in-cheek exegesis on what a cookie is and can be.

Prompted by a question from the audience, Greenspan turned to a cause that enables her sweet revolution to have tangible and measurable impact on the world. From the back of the room, a woman waved her hand and asked, “Can you talk more about cookies for kindness and your involvement with Cookies for Kids’ Cancer?”

Earlier, Greenspan had provided me with some background on her connection with the non-profit that raises funds for research into cures for pediatric cancer. She has known co-founder Gretchen Witt for years, before she was married, before she had a son Liam, and before Liam was diagnosed at age 2 with neuroblastoma. Greenspan has been engaged with Cookies for Kids Cancer since the very beginning, doing what she does best: baking and creating community.

She told the crowd at the 92nd Street Y about a generous challenge grant given to Cookies for Kids’ Cancer: an anonymous donor will match contributions up to $250,000 in the months of November and December. And Greenspan has sweetened the pot. Donors of $1,000 will receive a signed copy of her latest book and those of $2,500 will be entered into a raffle to spend a day baking with her in her home. I’ve had this opportunity and I can personally tell you that it is not one to be missed.

You can also lend support with your own oven and a little social media: bake something from Dorie’s Cookies, post a picture on Instagram, hashtag it with #DoriesCookies and tag @cookies4kids (see example here) to automatically trigger a $5 contribution to Cookies for Kids’ Cancer. And then of course, don’t forget to share what you bake as part of #cookiesandkindness. If it seems like a lot of symbols and words and strung-together phrases, it is. But, hey, let’s call it a good excuse to join the funfetti generation and its successors without having to download snapchat or catch Pokémon.

Greenspan and I considered which cookies might be particularly meaningful for Forward readers to bake and share. For the holidays that just passed, there are apple bars and a half-dozen nibbles with honey in them. For Purim, hamantashen. For Passover, coco-almond thumbprints, pistachio-berry slims, and matzo morsels. For Thanksgiving next week, sweet potato pie bars (complete with broiled marshmallow topping), spiced pumpkin jammers, and cranberry-studded breakfast biscotti. And for this year’s true Christmukkah, when the first night of Hanukkah coincides with Christmas Eve, you can make your own fortune cookies.

As we scrolled through the index and flipped through the pages over the phone, Greenspan gasped, and I could hear her nearly leap out of her chair on the other end. “Kasha! Kasha to the rescue!”

She explained: “My friend Kerrin sent me this fabulous recipe from Switzerland – a multigrain chocolate chip cookie. And she included a note saying that she uses rye grits in it – she gets rye berries from the market and then they grind them for her to order. Well, I don’t have a market that sells rye grits, and I certainly don’t have anyone who would grind them for me. I was going to leave them out, but I knew that I’d be missing their great texture. I can’t remember why kasha came to mind. I think maybe because there was buckwheat flour in the recipe as well, or maybe I was wandering the kosher aisle of my grocery store. Once I added kasha though, I was like a little kid jumping up and down. I was so excited to find this perfect substitute for rye grits – the kasha nubbins give such a nutty crunch – that I wanted to use it in other recipes! So kasha’s also in the breakfast biscotti and the double chocolate double buckwheat cookie.”

Greenspan’s husband was also elated: “My husband Michael adores kasha and has always complained that I can’t prepare kasha varnishkes like his mother’s. With these cookies, I was vindicated. I said to Michael, ‘I haven’t learned to make a brisket as good as your mother’s, and I can’t bake your mother’s kasha, but there’s a new way of eating kasha, and it happens to be in cookie form.’” I doubt Michael complained again.

Inspired by this story, I baked a batch of Kerrin’s multigrain chocolate chip cookies on a moody gloomy day, made sure to shower the scooped dough with a good dose of flakey salt, and then shared. I shared them with my doorman, with some colleagues, with a neighbor. I shared them on Instagram. I tagged away. And the photo convinced a friend to make the recipe herself.

If my grandmother were still alive, she would have shared the cookies too – perhaps her mailman, the crossing guard, a bank teller. And if she had known Greenspan, I think she would have called her such a doll and said that she tickles her heart. I can’t agree more.

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Kerrin’s Multigrain Chocolate Chip Cookies

Reprinted with permission from Dorie’s Cookies.

My friend Kerrin Rousset has a wonderful, quirky way with food, mixing ingredients that you wouldn’t expect to be culinary classmates and always sneaking a smidgen of healthfulness into every tasty thing she makes. Here she found a way to use whole wheat and buckwheat flours, and I found a way to use kasha.

An American, Kerrin lives in Switzerland, and this recipe originally called for rye grits, which she buys in a local market where shopkeepers happily grind it to measure. When I couldn’t find rye grits (sometimes called cracked rye), I hit on the idea of using buckwheat groats, aka kasha. Be sure to use Wolff’s granulated kasha (100 percent buckwheat), which is readily available. (Medium-grain buckwheat from Bob’s Red Mill or the bins in your natural food market can’t be used for cookies; it’s too large and hard.) Wolff’s bakes into the cookies just as nuts would (and you can substitute nuts if you’d like). You get toastiness, full-grain flavor and crunch. And hold on to the leftover kasha to use in the Double-Buckwheat Double-Chocolate Cookies or Fruit and Four-Grain Biscotti.

A word on color and spreadability: Depending on your buckwheat, your cookies might be golden or mocha colored — however, they’ll always be good. And depending on how cold your dough is, your cookies might spread and be like saucers, or they might bake to be like pucks. Again, both are delicious.

Makes 25 cookies

½ cup (68 grams) all-purpose flour

½ cup (68 grams) whole wheat flour

½ cup (60 grams) buckwheat flour

½ teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon baking soda

7 tablespoons (3½ ounces; 99 grams) unsalted butter, cut into chunks, at room temperature

2⁄3 cup (134 grams) packed light brown sugar

½ cup (100 grams) sugar

1⁄8 teaspoon fine sea salt

1 large egg, at room temperature

1 large egg yolk, at room temperature

¼ cup (45 grams) kasha, preferably Wolff’s medium granulation (see headnote), or toasted nuts, finely chopped

6 ounces (170 grams) bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped

Maldon or other flake sea salt, for sprinkling

Whisk together the three flours, the baking powder and baking soda. Working with a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, or in a large

bowl with a hand mixer, beat together the butter, both sugars and the salt on medium speed for 5 minutes, scraping down the sides and bottom of the bowl a couple of times. Add the egg and beat for about 1 minute, then add the yolk and beat for 1 minute more. Turn the mixer off, add the dry ingredients all at once and pulse the mixer a few times to start blending them in. Working on low speed, mix only until most but not all of the dry ingredients are incorporated — you should still see streaks of flour. Add the kasha, and pulse a couple of times. Add the chocolate, pulse and then, if necessary, mix on low just until everything is blended. Or do this last bit of mixing by hand, with a sturdy flexible spatula. Scrape the dough out of the bowl, form it into a ball, wrap in plastic and refrigerate for 1 hour. (You can refrigerate the dough longer; your cookies will not spread as much.)

Getting ready to bake: Center a rack in the oven and preheat it to 375 degrees F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a silicone baking mat.

Remove the dough from the fridge. Using a medium cookie scoop, scoop out level portions of dough, or use a tablespoon to get rounded spoonfuls. Place the mounds of dough about 2 inches apart on the baking sheet. Sprinkle each mound with flake salt, making sure, as Kerrin advises, not to concentrate it only on the very center of the cookie.

Bake for 8 to 10 minutes, rotating the sheet at the midway mark, or just until the edges of the cookies start to brown. The cookies will be underbaked, and that’s the way they should be. Transfer the baking sheet to a rack and let the cookies rest for about 2 minutes, then, working very carefully with a wide metal spatula, transfer the cookies to a rack to cool until they are just warm (delicious) or they reach room temperature. The cookies will firm as they cool.

Repeat with the remaining dough, making certain that you always use a cool baking sheet.

Storing

The dough can be refrigerated for up to 2 days. If you’d like, you can freeze scooped-out balls of dough. Let them stand at room temperature while you preheat the oven; frozen dough may not spread as much. The baked cookies can be packed airtight and frozen for up to 2 months.

held its own

I’ve been spending a lot of time in the kitchen lately. Perhaps it’s that I’ve been working from home of late. Or that after the holidays, it’s nice to cook for one for a change. Or that sometimes it feels good to turn on a podcast (I alternate between these two right now, both on iTunes), turn off your brain, and let your hands, a good knife, a mandoline and some heat do all the work.

It’s been simple foods mainly: cucumber and radish salad; shakshuka (make a huge pot of spicy sauce for the week, then each morning ladle a few spoons into a pan, plop in two eggs, and into the oven); a tomato soup based on Marcella Hazan’s three-ingredient sauce; an obnoxious number of hard boiled eggs (slice ’em up with this guy, mix with mustard, capers, oil, and parsley, and you’ve dashed together a quick and dirty sauce gribiche to scoop up with green beans); coleslaw like this one with cabbage instead of delicate sprouts.

Today I repeated one of my Rosh Hashanah menu items – the chicken dish that I added at the last minute on the off chance that someone didn’t want to eat meat.The plate returned to the kitchen with only lonely piece left, which means it more than held its own against the “Sultan’s Delight” short ribs.

It’s an Ottolenghi recipe (from his first book, which in the US was his third book) which is meant to be roasted on a sheet pan so that as many chicken edges  as possible can brown. I, of course, ignored those directions last month and made it in a disposable aluminum pan with high sides and the juice pooled around the chicken. I used a cut up chicken as well as boneless skinless chicken breasts because that’s what I had in the freezer and because that’s what  you do for an eleventh hour dish. The skin on the bone-in pieces got soggy and sad, but the naked breasts came out plump and juicy, infused with citrusy marinade.

This time, I just made two breasts – naked as I seem to prefer them – and halved the recipe. They marinated overnight in a mix of lemon and red onion slices, a crushed garlic clove, brightly sour sumac, warming cinnamon, and olive oil. I know raw chicken is supposed to be gross, but it looked so pretty going into the oven, sprinkled generously at the last moment with za’atar.

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40 minutes later, with just a few interruption for basting, dinner was done.

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Za’atar and lemon roasted chicken 

Adapted from Yotam Ottolenghi, as published in Bon Appetit. I used boneless skinless chicken breasts because I found they worked best in a deeper dish. If you’re going to make this on a sheet pan as the original recipe suggests, skin-on chicken should work well because the chicken should crisp up. I skipped the allspice, doubled the lemon, and didn’t bother to finish with pine nuts or parsley. After all, it’s weeknight dinner, folks. 

Serves 4

– 4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts or thighs

– 2 medium red onion, thinly sliced

– 2 garlic cloves, smashed

– 2 lemon, thinly sliced

– 1 tablespoon sumac

– 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

– 1 cup low-sodium chicken broth or water (I used water)

– 1/4 cup olive oil, plus more for drizzling

– 1 T kosher salt

– 2 tablespoons za’atar

Marinate. Toss chicken, onions, garlic, lemon, sumac, cinnamon, broth/water, oil, and salt in a large resealable plastic bag. Chill at least 2 hours or overnight.

Prep. Preheat oven to 400°.

Roast. Place chicken, onions, garlic, and lemon in a roasting pan, spooning any remaining marinade over and around chicken. Sprinkle with za’atar and roast chicken, dousing it with any pooled juices periodically, until browned and cooked through, 40–45 minutes. Check with the the tip of a sharp paring knife to make sure the meat isn’t pink anywhere (you can cover up any holes with a slice of lemon).

 

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