Schug. S’chug. Skhug. Zhoug. Regardless of spelling, they all refer to the same Yeminite condiment – a fresh, herby, spicy sauce made primarily from green chiles and cilantro. And it’s pronounced s-hard h- oog. The ingredients are piled into a small food processor if you have one (no need to drag out the heavy one) and pulsed their way to a fiery sauce that you’ll put on everything.

Treat schug like any other herby topping – gremolatta, chimichurri, salsa verde – and add it to dishes for some herby brightness and, at least in schug’s case, a jolt. Spoon over steak. Add to scrambled eggs. Stir into soup. Shake with oil, lemon juice, and a generous pinch of salt for salad. Spread on pizza. Seriously, anything.


Just barely adapted from Adeena Sussman’s recipe in Sababa. Ironically, she calls hers “cardamom-kissed” and that’s exactly the spice that I exclude since I find it too bitter. This makes a big batch, so I freeze part of it in ice cube trays and pull out a cube or two to drop into soup or just thaw in the fridge for adding to everything. The bright green schug will darken over time, though lemon juice and oil helps slow down that process.

Makes 1 1/2 cups

– 1 C tightly packed fresh cilantro, leaves and tender stems
– 1 C tightly packed fresh parsley, leaves and tender stems
– 10 garlic cloves
– 3 large jalapeños, stemmed and coarsely chopped with seeds
– 1 t kosher salt
– 1 t ground cumin
– 1 t freshly ground black pepper
– 1 T freshly squeezed lemon juice
– 2 t extra-virgin olive oil, plus more to cover

Process. In the bowl of a small food processor, combine the herbs, garlic, jalapeños, salt, cumin, pepper, and lemon juice and pulse 15-20 times, then process until smooth, about 1 minute. Add water 1 tablespoon at a time if the ingredients are initially too dry to let the food processor do its thing. Periodically stop and scrape down the sides of the bowl. The mixture will start out pulpy but will quickly come together into more of a paste. Drizzle in the olive oil and pulse very briefly.

Store. Transfer the schug into a jar or two and cover with a very thin slick of olive oil. Stored in the refrigerator, schug lasts up to a month.

Well, here we are on the shortest day of the year, and I’m just getting around to writing about the sweeties I made for Rosh Hashanah. The recipe started out as a cake actually – the apple cider doughnut loaf cake that I tore from September’s Bon Appétit – but magnificently transmorphed into little nuggets of caramel, slightly tart from intensely concentrated cider syrup and punctuated by crunchy pyramids of salt.

First I snagged an early batch of late summer cider from the apple farm at my Friday greenmarket. Then I actually read the cake directions and skimmed the comments and realized I wasn’t up for the fuss. Next I let the jug hibernate in the coldest back corner of the fridge until the unfiltered pulp settled to the bottom. Finally, I bought a carton of heavy cream and summoned up the courage for candy-making.

I say courage because my last candy adventure (testing the recipe for the caramel lacquered apple pie in the Sprinkles cookbook – insanely good!) ended up with a hot, sticky phone and some very burnt fingers after brilliantly prying said phone out of the pot of boiling sugar. My phone survived. My fingers healed. And I was ready – five years later – to again try my luck. Turns out, when you’re not trying to take to capture on video bubble rate and size, making caramel is a whole lot easier.

Apple Cider Caramels

Recipe (barely) adapted from Smitten Kitchen. Deb likes her caramels cooked just over the edge of the firm ball stage, so they’re fairly soft at room temperature. I kept my first batch in the fridge for a firmer, chewer texture and decided to push the syrup further into the hard ball stage for subsequent batches. Translation into English: I heat the caramels a few degrees higher (258-262F) than the original recipe calls for (252F). I’ve found that boiling down the cider can take up to 90 minutes, so you will need to be patient. And I’ve made this with all white sugar, tastes just as delicious!

Yields 64 candies if you slice as directed; I wing it so I never know how many I’ll end up with

– 4 C (945 ml) apple cider
– 1/2 t ground cinnamon
– 2 teaspoons flaky sea salt, such as Maldon
– 1/4 C (115 g, 1 stick) unsalted butter, cut into chunks
– 1 C (200 g) granulated sugar
– 1/2 C (110 g) packed light brown sugar
– 1/3 C (80 ml) heavy cream

Boil. Boil apple cider in a 3- to- 4- quart saucepan over high heat, stirring occasionally, until it is reduced to a dark, thick syrup, between 1/3 and 1/2 cup in volume. This takes anywhere from 45 to 90 minutes – the wider your pot, the more surface area for heating and evaporating, the quicker it will be.

Prep. Meanwhile, measure out the other ingredients, because you won’t have much time once the candy is cooking. Line the bottom and sides of an 8- inch straight- sided square metal baking pan with 2 long sheets of crisscrossed parchment. Try not to leave any any exposed areas at the corners because if caramel seeps under the parchment, it makes it difficult to remove the candy to cut. I found it helpful to use binder clips to keep the parchment in place. Set the pan it aside. Stir the cinnamon and flaky salt together in a small dish.

Boil again. Once the apple cider is reduced, remove it from heat and stir in the butter, sugars, and heavy cream. Return the pot to medium-high heat with a candy thermometer attached to the side, and let it boil until the thermometer reads 258 degrees (252 if you prefer your caramels softer), only about 5 minutes. Keep a close watch on the thermometer.

Stir. Remove caramel from heat, add the cinnamon- salt mixture, and give the caramel several stirs to distribute it evenly.

Pour and wait. Pour caramel into the prepared pan. Let it sit until cool and firm—about 2 hours, though it goes faster in the fridge.

Cut. Once caramel is firm, use the parchment paper sling to transfer the block to a cutting board. Warm your knife under hot water, wipe dry, and cut the caramel into 1-inch by-1-inch squares. Between each cut or two, wipe the knife with a hot damp towel (or run under hot water).

Wrap. Wrap each caramel in a 4-inch square of waxed paper, twisting the sides to close.

Store. Depending on how soft or hard you like your caramels, store them in an airtight container at room temperature or in the refrigerator. I keep them in the fridge where they have lasted several weeks.

Back in New York, returning after nearly a month in places that require quarantine, I’ve taken to my 550 square foot home with the familiarity and comfort necessary to hole up for two weeks on the top floor of a building with no access to the outdoors other than sticking my head out the window like a road-tripping dog.

Opening my front door after four weeks away was stifling: blinds closed, air stale, plants drooping. I crossed the threshold with my overstuffed suitcase, computers (plural, I traveled with 2), cross-body, and a cooler bag of frozen meat* that lost one handle as I boarded the train and the second as I disembarked, falling between the platform and train, rescued by one of the engineers.

First order of business: the meat. But my COVID doomsday prepping at the beginning of the pandemic, way back in March and April and May and June and July, meant my freezer was packed. Luckily I have a second freezer (I keep it in the hall closet) that had more than enough room for my rescued-from-the-depths-of-Penn-Station ground beef and chicken breasts.

As for my fridge, the shelves were bare as I was away much longer than expected and had asked a few friends to rescue my CSA fruits and vegetables so they didn’t go to waste and to throw out anything else that might spoil. But the door bins formed a cityscape of jars of homemade dressings (for cabbage, for roasted vegetables) and sauces (schug, Thai-style peanut) and pickles. In addition to store-bought cucumber pickles, I always have pickled red onions on hand, translucent magenta rings floating in a tangy brine. But this time, I also had a new type, ready for their first taste.

A few months ago, I found myself entangled in a glut of CSA and greenmarket garlic scapes and decided to quick pickle a fistful. Way back at the beginning of June, I wound the curlicue stems and buds along the edges of a jar, cutting off the more stubborn ends and stuffing them in the center. A bath of hot vinegar and a shower of salt, seeds, and flakes, and 6-8 weeks in the fridge, and ready for me to chop into my salad after a long long time away.


*To my NYC friends – kosher meat is so much cheaper in Maryland. Let me know if you want me to pick something up for you next time I go down.

Pickled Garlic Scapes
Makes 1 pint

Adapted from Le Grande Farmers’ Market in Oregon and Marisa McClellan (of Food in Jars fame). The pickled scapes are firm, similar in texture and crunch to pickled green beans. I like them chopped up on salad for a burst of vinegar and garlic with each bite. The basic recipe is a 1:1 ratio of vinegar to water, at least a tablespoon of salt for each pint, and whatever else you want to throw in. I used mustard seeds (1 teaspoon) and Aleppo pepper flakes (1/2 teaspoon). Next time I’d use a hotter pepper and maybe coriander.

Be warned, you will need to leave the scapes in the fridge for at least six weeks before opening to give the salt and vinegar time to do their thing. An emergency trip might help pass the time.

15 garlic scapes (give or take)
1 t mustard seeds
1/2 t Aleppo pepper flakes
1 C water
1 C cider vinegar
1 T kosher salt

Stuff. Trim the tough ends of garlic scapes and any tails that are starting to brown. Coil them into a pint jar, stacking one on top of another until you reach the top. Slice and stuff any remaining scapes into the center of the jar. Add the mustard seeds and pepper flakes (or whatever other flavors you want).

Boil. In a small saucepan, bring water, vinegar, and salt to a boil until salt is dissolved.

Pour. Slowly and carefully pour the brine over the scapes until completely submerged, tapping the jar a few times to allow any air bubbles to escape.

Wait. Once the jar is cool enough to handle, wipe the rim and screw on the lid. Store in the refrigerator for 6 weeks before opening up again.

two spoons

My first trip to Paris as an adult, boyfriend in tow in lieu of parents, began with an immense pedestalled bowl of chocolate mousse and two spoons. We arrived from London on Bastille Day, la fête nationale, and I had visions of light shows over le tour Eiffel, spontaneous dancing along the Seine, the rusty bellows of an accordion.

Instead, Dave and I cowered in a Metro station near Montmarte, hesitating to ascend the stairs as firecrackers were thrown down the well. I was scared, he put on a brave face, and we eventually covered our heads with our arms and ran up to street level pushing our way through throngs of laughing teens. OK, so I realize this sounds somewhat melodramatic, but this is the memory etched in my head. The fear, the flight, the rush, the calm that followed, and then, of course, the hunger.

We escaped to a blessedly quiet street and a blessedly near-empty restaurant. Dinner was nothing memorable, but we ate it right next to a floor-to-ceiling window, our own reflection mingling with the rare passerby. 

Dishes cleared, the waiter set down that vast bowl of mousse, rivulets of condensation racing down to the table,  and those two spoons – deux cuillères – with a grandiose “ce que vous voulez” – have how ever much you want. Now that etched memory, however faulty it might be, does not include a serving spoon or plates. Just the two of us dipping our spoons into the vat of dense chocolate, to be returned to le frigo for the next customer after we payed our bill. 

I can’t imagine that being the case then, and I sure can’t imagine that being the case these days. But I like to remember that gesture of generosity, the idea that we’ll give you as much as we made for the day, for all of our guests, and you’ll eat as much as you want and save some for everyone else.  

Six years ago today, I tasted chocolate mousse that reminded me of that evening. I was at Buvette here in New York. Actually, I was stood up and treated myself to a solo Bastille Day drink, dinner, and dessert at the bar. The waiter lifted a silver footed bowl from the lowboy and plated a haphazard heap of nearly-noir mousse and a just-as-haphazard heap of barely-sweetened whipped cream, then stuck two spoons in and slid it over to me. I licked one spoon, then the other, digging in with one, stirring coffee with the other.

Fast forward to today, and I finally made Buvette’s chocolate mousse for myself. I shared with my neighbor and my favorite doorman (don’t tell the others!) and still have some left in le frigo for another day or two. 

Buvette’s Chocolate Mousse

From Jody Williams’ Buvette: The Pleasure of Good Food (and published online here). I used Callebaut semi-sweet chocolate which is my go-to. You need 4 eggs, but only 3 of the yolks, so freeze the extra yolk with a pinch of sugar or salt or crack a few more eggs and make ice cream right away. 

Despite having so few ingredients, this recipe does require three bowls and a stand-mixer. Unless you have the arm strength of my Bubbie who could whip egg whites into snowy peaks for fluffy matzah balls and delicate cakes on Passover, in which case the recipe requires three bowls and a bubbie. 

Serves 4-6

– 12 T (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
– 1/2 lb (8 oz) semisweet chocolate, roughly chopped
– 1 T water
– 3 large eggs separated, plus one additional egg white
– pinch coarse salt (I used kosher)
– 2 t superfine sugar (I pulsed regular sugar in a coffee grinder, cleaned of coffee)
– Crème fraîche or lighlys weekend whipped cream, for serving

Melt. Put the butter and chocolate in a stainless steel bowl along with the spoonful of eater and set over a small pot of barely simmering water. Stir until completely melted. Set the chocolate mixture aside to cool slightly. 

Whisk. Whisk the 3 egg yolks together in a large mixing bowl with the salt. Set aside.

Beat. Meanwhile, place the 4 egg whites in a large mixing bowl, or into the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the wire whip. Add the sugar and beat until stiff peaks form.

Whisk again. Whisk the yolks, one-third at a time, into the chocolate mixture, making sure each addition is completely combined before adding the next. Don’t be tempted to add the egg yolks all at once – adding it in batches will help regulate the temperature of the egg yolks and keep them smooth and uniform. 

Fold. Next carefully fold the stiff egg whites into the chocolate mixture, being as gentle and careful as possible so as not to lose any of the volume you have worked to so hard to create in the egg whites. Coer the bowl with plastic wrap and set in teh refrigerator until form, at least 4 hours and up to 2 days in advance.

Serve. Scoop the mousse, which will have become a striking combination of fluffy and dense, into serving bowls and serve with crème fraîche or lightly sweetened whipped cream.

for snacking

Enough with the vegetables folks, let’s eat some cake.

Since it’s just me in my apartment, I’ve been making mini ones – easier to share with neighbors or freeze for cake emergencies. These are chocolate yogurt ones, not overly sweet, and the perfect size for snacking for two to three days each. Maybe even a distanced picnic, separately packaged for each friend joining so you can share dessert without it becoming a viral cesspool (appetizing, n’est-ce pas?). I make them in mini-loaf pans and they look just so cute, with their round bellies protruding – much more appealing in baby pans that adult ones.

My regular go-to cake is a French yogurt one – phenomenally moist from the dense dairy with a hint of tang and the scent of lemon. But change is good every once in a while, and I recently stumbled across a French chocolate yogurt cake which, in case you’ve noticed the photos, went from page to oven in less than an hour since I always have yogurt and chocolate on hand.

With so much indoor time, I’ve been rearranging my apartment and about a month ago, I created a reading nook. I had gotten rid of my rickety old desk last year (actually half a repurposed oval table from a friend, balanced on 2 legs and a small filing cabinet and a thick cookbook) which opened up a corner. I moved both of my bookshelves to line the walls (thanks for the idea, Robyn) and wedged in an arc lamp with the shade spotlighting my Bubbie’s rocking chair. It is a non-work zone: I call friends, read books, and sometimes eat dinner rocking away. I like to turn the chair around sometimes and face the books, imagining that I have a small library.

I rearranged my cookbooks in rainbow order, spent a few hours flipping through old favorites that had gotten buried over the years. The paperbacks were particularly well-hidden, typically slid on top of lined up heavier tomes, pushed to the back as the piles grew, under the shadow of the shelf above. David Lebovitz‘s The Sweet Life in Paris – the story of his move to Paris from California interspersed with recipes he picked up or developed along the way. Stuck midway through the book was a stainless letter opener twisted and reminiscent of a Möbius strip, prying the pages apart at bouchées chocolate au yaourt, aka chocolate yogurt snack cakes. As Lebovitz explains, “The French call things that don’t neatly fit into any other dessert category bouchées (mouthfuls), and these little cakes certainly fit that description). I didn’t make them in a cupcake tin, as you can clearly see, so I doubt you can shove one of these mini loaves into your mouth, but I wouldn’t blame you for trying.

Chocolate Yogurt Snack Cakes (bouchées chocolate au yaourt)

Adapted from David Lebovitz‘s The Sweet Life in Paris. Lebovitz makes these as cupcakes, which cuts the baking time down to 25 minutes. My mini-loaves take 35-40 minutes and a standard loaf takes 45-55 minutes. While my old stand-by yogurt cake uses only one bowl, this chocolate version requires three: one for the warm chocolate, one for mixing wet ingredients, and a third for the dry ingredients. I tried my go-to shortcut of mixing the dry ingredients in a large bowl, making a well in which to mix the liquid ingredients, and then stirring it all together, but I couldn’t mix the yogurt and eggs thoroughly enough before the flour started sliding in, resulting in some pretty major lumps. So, sorry about the dirty dishes, but these cakes more than make up for it. Light, not too sweet, and just enough to satisfy a craving without making you feel like you need to wait a few minutes to take a swim.

Makes 3 mini-loaves (5.75 X 3 inches) or 1 regular loaf (8 X 4 inches)

– 7 oz (200 g) bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, coarsely chopped
– 1/2 C (125 ml) vegetable oil, divided
– 1/2 C (125 ml) plain, whole-milk yogurt
– 1 C (200 g) sugar
– 3 large eggs, at room temperature
– 1 t vanilla extract
– 1 1/2 C (200 g) flour
– 1 1/2 t baking powder
– 1/2 t kosher salt

Prep. Preheat oven to 350F. Lightly oil and line loaf pan(s) with parchment paper (I find a little bit of oil helps the paper stay in place).

Melt. In a double boiler (or, a metal bowl set over simmering water), melt the chocolate with 1/4 cup of the oil. Once melted and smooth, remove from the heat. (Alternately, you can do this in the microwave on high for 30 seconds, then in 15 second increments, stirring well between each until smooth.) Allow to cool slightly (but not too much – you want it to be pourable) before adding it to the rest of the batter.

Mix. In another bowl, mix the remaining 1/4 cup oil with yogurt, sugar, eggs, and vanilla.

Mix again. In a large bowl, whisk the flour, baking powder, and salt. Make a well in the center of the flour mixture and pour in the yogurt mixture. Stir lightly a couple times, then add the melted chocolate and stir until just smooth.

Bake. Divide the batter among pans (or pour all of it into a regular loaf pan) and bake 35-40 minutes (more for a loaf pan – about 45-55 minutes) or until they feel barely set in the middle and a tester or toothpick comes out clean. Remove from the oven and cool on a wire rack before serving. If you want to freeze, allow to cool completely and then wrap in one layer of plastic wrap and another of heavy-duty foil.

warm weather soup

A simple warm weather soup and some photos inspired by the cover of Deborah Madison’s Vegetable Literacy. (Last photo is bolted cilantro that I got from this year’s first CSA haul, has absolutely nothing to do with the recipe, but I felt like the image belonged.)

Happy week, all!

Creamy zucchini soup with dill and chives

Makes 2 quarts

This is a light and mild soup, perfect for warmer weather, and can be served hot or very cold. Use chive blossoms is you can find them at your farmers market to push this over the top. Not merely for adornment, these purple flowers, raw, add a subtle allium kick when you catch one in your spoon.

– 1/4 C butter, divided
– 1 T extra virgin olive oil
– 1 medium onion, roughly chopped
– Kosher salt
– 3 cloves garlic, crushed or minced
– 4 oz cauliflower rice (1 C)
– 1 medium thin skinned potato, roughly chopped
– 2.5 lbs zucchini, roughly chopped (3 large)
– 2-3 C water
– 1 T chopped fresh dill, tightly packed
– 1 T chopped fresh parsley, tightly packed
– Fistful of chives or 5 chive blossom stems, snipped into roughly 1/4-inch pieces
– 1/2 lemon, juiced (2 T)
– Optional garnish: chive blossoms, chives, fresh dill, fresh parsley

Cook. In a heavy 3-4 quart pot over medium-low heat, melt 2 tablespoons butter and olive oil. Stir in the onions, a pinch of salt, and cook very gently for 5 minutes until translucent but not browned. Add garlic, cauliflower, and potato, cooking for another 5 minutes. Taste for salt. Stir in zucchini and let it cook down for a few minutes. Add 2 cups of water to just barely cover the vegetables; pour in a more water if necessary to cover. Stir in herbs and chives.

Simmer. Turn up the heat to medium-high and being to a slow boil. Lower heat to medium and simmer for 20 minutes, checking periodically to make sure the bottom isn’t burning and tasting for salt.

Puree. Using an immersion blender, puree until very smooth. Stir in lemon juice and remaining 2 tablespoons butter, and taste one more time for salt.

Serve. Either divide into bowls immediately, or allow to cool to room temperature and refrigerate for 3 hours, and then serve very cold. Garnish with some chopped dill, chopped parsley, snipped chives, or a few flowers plucked from a chive blossom ball.

Well, today just may be the day that I turn on my air conditioner for the first time this year. I’ve cleaned the filter of my unit, so it’s ready for action, but, like all years, I try to hold out for as long as I can. I just don’t like air conditioning. Don’t get me wrong, I love having it – they sure didn’t have such a luxury in the shtetl – and I love standing in front of it every once in a while, but I like being able to keep the fresh air flowing rather than recycled. And so, two windows flung open, all three fans cranked up, I’m hoping that the heavy humidity breaks into a quick cooling downpour soon.

Eventually, I know I’ll have to bring the temperature of my apartment way down so that I can once again turn on the oven for two, almost three, hours to melt some cabbage. This is another cult classic of Adeena Sussman‘s from her Sababa cookbook that itself has developed a cult following. This dish transforms the humble crucifer into a complex yet comforting dish by braising it with other shtetl staples and then a splash of white wine (like air conditioning, not a shtetl staple). You end up with spoon tender cabbage, garlic and onion softened and sweetened and nestled in the leaves, and pools of what can best be described as potlikker.

Hot, cold, room temperature, it’s all good any which way you want to eat it. (The photo above was second day cabbage, eaten cold, straight from the pan, straight from the refrigerator.) So, even if I could resist the air conditioner through the end of the month, I doubt I’ll make it that long without this melted cabbage.

Adeena Sussman’s Melted Green Cabbage

Just barely adapted from Adeena Sussman’s Sababa (recipe published here). While I typically rewrite recipes in my own language, I’ll let Adeena’s stand on its own. I’ve noted any substitutions or tips I have in italics.

Active Time: 20 minutes
Total Time: 2 1/2 to 3 hours

1/3 cup (75 mL) extra-virgin olive oil
2 tsp (10 mL) kosher salt, plus more to taste
1/2 tsp (2 mL) coarsely cracked black pepper, plus more to taste
2 small heads of green cabbage (2 lb; 900 g), quartered (but not cored)
10 whole garlic cloves, peeled
4 shallots, peeled and halved (no shallots, so I substitute 1 medium or 2 small yellow onions)
1/2 cup (125 mL) dry, acidic white wine, such as Albariño or Grüner Veltliner
1/2 cup (125 mL) chicken or vegetable broth, plus more if necessary (I’ve even used water)
4 sprigs fresh thyme (I’ve omitted)
3 tbsp (45 mL) unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
1/4 cup (50 mL) crème fraîche or sour cream
Lemon wedges, for serving (optional)


Preheat the oven to 300°F (150°C).


In a heavy, large, high-sided skillet or shallow Dutch oven, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat. Sprinkle 1 teaspoon (5 mL) of the salt and 1/4 teaspoon (1 mL) of the pepper directly onto the oil, then arrange the cabbage wedges in the pot, making sure that each is lying on a flat side (you can cram them in; they’ll relax into one another as they release liquid). (I had to do this in 2 batches.) Let the undersides get nice and brown, resisting the urge to move them too much but checking once to make sure they’re not burning (reduce the heat slightly if they are), 6 to 7 minutes. Using tongs, flip the cabbage wedges, then tuck the garlic cloves and shallots into the pot, and brown the undersides of the cabbage, another 6 to 7 minutes. Add the wine and broth, bring to a boil, reduce the heat, and add the remaining 1 teaspoon (5 mL) salt and 1/4 teaspoon (1 mL) pepper along with the thyme. Cover with a tight-fitting lid, transfer to the oven, and cook until soft, slumped and mahogany brown, 2 hours, or 2 1/2 hours for even softer cabbage. Uncover, cool slightly, and serve the cabbage with the liquid accumulated in the pot. Season with salt and pepper and top with butter and crème fraîche. Serve with lemon wedges, if desired.

Serves: 4

Walking distance from my mom’s place in South Florida, we discovered earlier this year a no-frills Russian grocery store. Well, we always knew it was there, and that it drew large crowds seated on plastic chairs at plastic tables on the sidewalk, but this year I popped in. After checking out the produce (a pretty normal assortment) and the aisles of Cyrillic-labeled bottles, jars, and cans, I was drawn to the buffet that ran the length of the store. I bee lined to the cold section: an overabundance of cold salads consisting of combinations of vegetables, heavy on the dill and cabbage and pickling. I got hooked on the more vinegary of these salads, taking home more than a few pints and quarts of them and rounding out most lunches and dinners with a little of this, a little of that.

Fast forward to the “pause” and “stay-at-home” orders that keep getting extended, and I’ve returned to my Eastern European roots. I’ve been loading up on what my friend and I like to call shtetl vegetables – beets, potatoes, carrots, cabbage – ones that are hardy and last for weeks, months even, helpful during these times of limited grocery runs. As I’ve grown weary of soup and look forward to more spring vegetables, I’ve been using up these shtetl staples to make big batch salads that stay good in the fridge.

My most recent batch: salat vinegret*.

In watching a discussion of Soviet-Jewish Cuisine featuring Bonnie Morales of Kachka and author Boris Fishman, I learned the word zakuski – a spread of appetizers similar to mezze – that are always in the fridge, ready to pull out when a guest drops by, a tangible element of hospitality, usually served with vodka. Each of the participants had prepared zakuski, and my friend Gabi who was leading the talk showed a bowl salat vinegret, pink-tinged cubes of beets and potatoes, dressed with pickled cabbage, vinegar and traditional sunflower oil.

Remembering how much I loved the salads from Matryoshka’s buffet, I looked up salat vinegret and – not surprisingly, has most of the ingredients. I made do with what I had – those shtetl genes run deep, I tell you – and have been eating from this huge bowl for days. No guests allowed, so I shared with a friend who lives across the street from me.

* Of course I have a footnote. Vinegret comes from the French vinaigrette which is a diminutive of the word vinaigre (vin aigre = sour wine = vinegar). Most agree that the term came eastward due to the Russian nobility’s Francophilia and Francophonia, and the preparation – using vinegar to hide any off flavors – became popular in the early Soviet era when fresh produce was scarce, and frozen or canned goods dominated. Over time, vinegret has come to refer to any beet salad. It can also mean a mish-mash.

Salat Vinegret

Recipe developed in reviewing this and this, and rummaging through my fridge and pantry.

Makes a lot, 2 quarts perhaps (I didn’t measure)

– 1 lb new potatoes potatoes (4 medium)
– 2 lbs beets (2 large)
– 4-5 medium pickles (and 1/4 C pickle juice, optional)
– 1 small yellow onion
– 1 T chopped dill
– 1 T chopped parsley
– 2-3 T vegetable oil (ideal is sunflower from Ukraine, but it’s not something that I had in my pantry)
– 1-2 T mild vinegar (I used cider vinegar)
– Salt
– Other traditional ingredients: cooked carrots, peas, sauerkraut

Roast. Roast (or boil) beets and peel. I roasted by wrapping them individually in foil with a little salt and vegetable oil and cooking in a hot oven (400F – 425F) for a little over an hour (depending on size) until a paring knife pierced easily through to the center. When cool enough to handle but still warm, the skin will slide off pretty easily with your hands (the hotter, the easier). If you’re having a hard time peeling, they may need a little time in the oven.

Boil. While the beets are roasting, boil the potatoes in salted water over high heat, 10-15 minutes until that same knife pierces easily through the center. Don’t overcook, or they potatoes can get water logged.

Cut. Cut the beets into 1/2- to 3/4-inch cubes/pieces. Transfer to a large bowl, and clean off the cutting board and knife. Cut the potatoes and pickles into pieces roughly the same size. Finely dice the onion. Add the vegetables and chopped herbs to the bowl.

Mix. Drizzle in oil, vinegar, and pickle juice, and mix. Start tasting. Add some salt. Keep tasting until it suits you.

I went to Israel on Friday!

Ok, it was just an hour. And it was over Zoom. But the challah workshop I attended truly, truly transported me to Mattat in the Galilee, to the kitchen and garden of Erez Komarovsky. Guided by my friend (and Sababa author) Adeena Sussman and hosted by The Jewish Food Society, dozens of us worldwide baked wild spring challah alongside Erez, whom Adeena calls the godfather of artisanal baking in Israel.


In his kitchen, at a stone-paved, wood-covered counter and against the soundtrack of chirping birds, Erez kneaded and rolled and braided challah, incorporating greens and herbs and roots and flowers plucked from his garden. Fittingly, he prepared two different versions – one stuffed with artichoke confit, studded with artichoke leaves and flowers and herbs, then showered in rose petals. I’ve photographed my version of the second type – infused with garlic oil, stuffed with garlic confit, and interwoven with root-to-stem strands of wild garlic, green onion, and scallions (he uses freshly dug entire garlic cloves, but I used what I was able to get at the greenmarket and grocery store).

Erez explained that moving to Mattat, just south of the Lebanese border, nearly two decades ago completely changed his life: “I improved my skills as a chef and baker because I live in nature, see seasons, grow my own vegetables.” He laments that baking has been slow to embrace the idea of cooking locally, seasonally, and with terroir. Adeena nicely summarizes that with challahs that come straight from the garden, Erez can bring the essence of nature and one’s surroundings into his bread. And, so could we.


The virtual audience peppered him with questions to which he and Adeena responded with equal parts technical culinary knowledge, commitment to season and locale, dry humor, and near-continuous laughter.

On the mechanics of challah baking, Erez advises:

… store your yeast in the freezer, it’ll last a year, more than a year, probably longer.

… use the highest protein flour you can find. In Israel there is specialized challah flour, ground from inner part of the kernel, that is less elastic so that when you open the challah (which is how Israelis refer to rolling out the strands), they don’t spring back. Bread flour is nearly as good, AP will suffice if that’s what you have. 

… instead of whole wheat, try spelt, it’s nutty but not as coarse.

… add salt only after kneading dough for a few minutes because it slows yeast growth.

… after rolling out the strands, twist them to give them more strength.

… braid challah loosely to give it room to expand in the oven


But more fun are his dramatic responses that demonstrate his philosophy on food and life, tempered with an understanding that we each have our own reality and we can’t (unfortunately) all live in Erez’s world:

What if  you can’t find fresh young garlic? If you can’t find fresh garlic, do not make garlic challah. 

Can you use canned artichokes instead of fresh? No. Use what’s in season. You can use mushrooms if mushrooms are in season. If you have good tomatoes, you can roast the tomatoes. Onions, onion confit. You can do peas. You can do mushrooms. You can do chicken liver. 

Do you make sweet challah? Yes, 100%! I love making sweet challah. Now is the season for apricots, so I make knoedel – marillinknoedel – an apricot dumpling. What about using jam? No, too sweet. Well, maybe you can use apricot jam. Or roast the apricots and then drain in a colander. 


Is there a point in the process when you can freeze the challah dough, so you can bake it in the future? Freezing is good in Wyoming and for the wolves. Freezing challah, why do you have to freeze the challah? Make it fresh. I do not freeze challah. And I know, but really, you can freeze it any time you want. 

How do you store challah, how do you keep it fresh? You eat it. You don’t store it. But, if you want some for tomorrow, if you have some extra, keep it in a paper bag or wrap it in a towel overnight. 

What if  you wanted to make smaller challot? Rolls even? Sure, you can do small, very small if you are obsessive. Go ahead if you have a lot of time because you’re still in quarantine…You can do very small, you can make even microscopic challah if you’d like.

Ahem, guilty:


And then there’s using baking to honor tradition and history.

What flavor will the rose petals add to the artichoke challah? Smell, and rose flowers do not have a lot of flavor. My grandmother used to make rose jam, so it’s memories here, and my family. 


After leaving the loaves to rise, Erez and Adeena led us out to the garden. First stop is one of Erez’s several outdoor ovens: This was my first taboon. It’s straw and mud, like in Egypt, by our ancestors. We follow as they meander through the greenery, pausing to look at flowers, pull herbs, taste leaves, pick strawberries, sigh at the views.

Erez approaches some sunflowers: I also use sunflower leaves, and the sunflowers for baking. It’s very good, it’s kind of nose to tail baking. It’s something I don’t know why we’re not doing it. I use every part. Exhibit 1: his sunflower challah.

Adeena asks, how did you learn to grow these vegetables so well? I didn’t learn. I don’t do it so well. It’s trial and error. You just put down good earth. And give it a good compost, and a lot of sun and a lot of water. 


I think Erez would appreciate the moniker that a new friend, Eve Sicular (bandleader of Isle of Klezbos and Metropolitan Klezmer) dubbed a photo of my challah: vilde challah*. 

Vilde challah. So perfect.

Erez Komarovsky’s Wild Spring Challah 

I’m not going to recreate Erez’s instructions here because they speak for themselves. Here is Erez’s challah recipe shared by the Jewish Food Society. If you scroll down a bit, you’ll find instructions for artichoke and garlic confits. 

However, I do have to make a confession: I used Adeena’s challah recipeYears ago, my father had lost a good amount of weight using the Diet Center meal plan; when asked by a friend whether he had added exercise to his regimen, he responded, “of course not, I didn’t want to add too many variables. I have no doubt that Erez’s base challah recipe is top notch, but as my father’s daughter, I stick with Adeena’s which has been a constant since receiving her cookbook last year. The confit and leaves and roots provided enough variables for me at one time. 


* In Yiddish, vilde means wild, and vilde challah is a play on the phrase vilde chaya which translates to wild beast. It’s a term often used to describe a kid who is especially rambunctious. Maurice Sendak’s mother used to call him a vilde chaya, and he went on to write Where the Wild Things Are.

stone soup

You’ve heard the story of stone soup, right? A stranger comes to town, hungry, but no one will help him. So he makes a big production of scrubbing a stone and placing it in a big pot of water set over a fire. The locals watch. As the “soup” comes to a boil, the stranger dips a spoon for a taste. “It’s great, but would be even better with some potatoes.” Someone runs inside to their cellar for a few potatoes and dumps them in.

“This is delicious, but a few carrots would make it even tastier.” And a kid sneaks into his garden and yanks out a handful of carrots by their tops.

And on and on until the whole town contributes to the soup and everyone eats dinner together.

Stone soup was one of the first things I cooked. As a kid, I actually did drop a (cleaned) stone into the pot. We used V8 as a base and threw in whatever vegetables we had around.

It remains part of my winter repertoire but I’ve replaced the stone with a large chunk (or two) of Parmesan rind, taking a cue from classic minestrone. During these stay-at-home days with limited grocery runs and a need for comfort, stone soup season is still running strong. Each batch larger than the next, and I’ve finally graduated to my largest stock pot and a wooden paddle so long (18 inches!) that I feel like a witch toiling over my bubbling brew.

The majority of the soup goes straight into the freezer in quart containers and zip-top bags. And while I can’t invite people over and share in person, I’ve dropped off frozen quarts for a few friends and my sister.


Kitchen soup (aka stone soup, vegetable soup)

I started calling this kitchen sink soup, and then I shortened it to kitchen soup. This is more guideline than recipe. The basic formula that I’ve found to work, to give me the right consistency and balance, is as follows 2:1:2:1 – vegetables : crushed tomatoes : liquid : beans

So, here are the quantities that I consider a single batch (about 4-5 quarts):

– 8 C vegetables: bite-sized pieces of onion, celery, carrot, cabbage, kale, new potatoes, cauliflower, broccoli, green beans, broccoli, zucchini, spinach (in approximate order of when you should add them, with zucchini and spinach last as you can just add them in the last 30 minutes)

– 4 C crushed tomatoes (1 28-ounce can is ~3.5 C, but this is close enough)

– 8 C liquid: even mix of vegetable broth and water (1 box of broth = 4 C; 1 tomato can of water = almost 4 C)

– 4 C red kidney beans (2 15.5-oz cans = 4 C)

– Plus a stone, aka Parmesan rind (approximately 2×3 piece)

– other stuff to gather: olive oil, salt

– other stuff that’s optional: 1/2 t red pepper flakes (if you like spice), 2 T tomato paste (to deepen tomato/umami flavor)

Sauté. In a very large pot over a medium flame, heat up enough olive oil to generously coat the bottom (2-3 tablespoons, depending on the size of your pot). Stir in onion, carrot, and celery and sauté until soft but not browned, 7-10 minutes. Add tomato paste and red pepper flakes, and cook, stirring, until the tomato paste changes from a bright red to a deep maroon, about 5 minutes, turning the heat down if it starts to burn.

Deglaze. Pour in a cup of broth or water and scrape up all the bits of tomato paste.

Keep stirring. Add the Parmesan rind and a good pinch of two of salt. Stir in crushed tomatoes, the remaining vegetables (except zucchini or spinach), and drained beans.

Simmer. Add rest of liquid and bring to a slow boil, then turn the heat down to low or medium low to simmer for at least an hour, covered. Keep tasting and adjusting for salt and spicy-ness. Like tomato sauce, the longer you cook, the deeper and richer the flavor. I typically let the soup simmer for about 2 hours. If the soup comes out too thick, call it stew or add more broth. If soup is too thin, keep simmering uncovered until some of the liquid evaporates. If you’re using zucchini or spinach, add it about a half-hour before you plan to serve it.

Serve. Remove from heat and fish out the rind(s). Sprinkle with shredded Parmesan and serve with a nice hunk of bread (or matzah).

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