The Business of Giving Asparagus the Business

Don’t tell me you’re tired of asparagus already. If you’re anything like me, you gobble up these harbingers of spring with extreme prejudice. They’ve been sauce gribiched, sliced into ribbons, pureed into soup — we really gave asparagus the business this season.

Asparagus for snacks, dominoes for fun.

A National Day to Get Behind

I don't remember the first pickle I ever ate. But I do remember the first pickle I ever asked for more of.

1st Pickle Festival in NYC

They were hamburger dill chips and they accompanied the grilled cheese sandwich of my dreams.

Happy Accidents with Vinegar

Oh, it's me, pickle-crazy again. Remember when I pickled everything in my apartment? Remember when some pickled okra left a crazy amount of extra brine? I poured it over these to make my favorite cocktail garnish to date.

Let’s talk Gibsons for a moment. A Gibson is basically a classic gin martini, garnished with a pickled onion instead of an olive. The perk? No one ever asks if you want that Gibson made with vodka or with gin. They just KNOW. If you're asking for a cocktail garnished with a pickled onion, people generally assume you're not afraid of flavor. Vodka drinkers: I'M SORRY. I just don't get you people.

On Pickles and Panic

I opened the fridge. All our homemade pickles had been consumed. I panicked. And then I pickled every single comestible in sight. 

Punch Drunk

The Fred Swayze/Shivery McPickles union turned one year old last month. To celebrate, we were supposed to be in Spain for our honeymoon. Unfortunately, as you all definitely know, my Sidekick had to get - well - re-stacked this summer, so we've postponed. To soothe the burn of having to reschedule our ham and txakoli-oriented trip, we threw a bitchin' party centered around a giant bowl of punch.

If that looks like the sun rising over the horizon to you, it's no coincidence. This mother holds three gallons.

My Sidekick was in charge of the punch. A no-nonsense hell-broth of bourbon, citrus, maraschino, orgeat, bitters and sparkling wine that tasted like juice, went down like water and made everyone's cheeks especially rosy. I was in charge of the snacks.

Hog Wild

Let's talk briefly about Kirby psychosis. This is something that takes over my brain each summer around the time these little pickling cucumbers hit the market. Let it suffice to say; shit gets real.

A good friend of mine recently tweeted, “I don’t use the term “hog wild” lightly. Let’s just say there were Kirbys at the farmers market and leave it at that.”

Getting Itchy

So, anyone else tired of winter? I know, I know. Every year with me, it's the same story. When the cold sets in, I'm thrilled to braise, roast, slow cook and bake to my heart's content. Along comes late February and I'm getting itchy for pickled green tomatoes and micheladas.

I pickled these particularly beautiful green tomatoes at the very end of summer last year. Happening upon their picture today really makes me want to pickle. And for it to be 75 degrees outside. Anyone else?

In terms of pickling, anyone have any favorite winter pickles to tide me over? Was thinking of pickling some carrots today. What pickles are you making/eating?

Excellent News

via NY Food Museum

Great news via the NY Food Museum's Twitter:

10th Annual Pickle Day Sun 10/17/2010 - pkg lot at Broome/Ludlow - NYC Lower East Side. FUN. FREE. FASHIONABLE, sort of. Filling, anyway.

The beautiful Jordi Gailard with a Pickle-on-a-Stick, wedding style.

Last year's Annual Pickle Day was where I had the good fortune to meet the guys from Horman's Best, who just so happened to have supplied all the pickles for our wedding. These guys, aside from being incredibly friendly, make a spicy-sour pickle that will knock your brains loose in your head. That is to say, they're delicious.

You can find Horman's at the DUMBO farmer's market on Sundays, up in the Hamptons on occasion (not my department) and also just outside the West 4th street stop in Manhattan on Carmine street & 6th ave.

See you at Pickle Day? You know I'll be there.

Greatest. Wedding. Marker. Ever.

On How to Like Things

There are very few things in this world that I don't like to eat. I hate rice pudding. I think the combination of strawberry and banana should be stricken from existence forever. If I never tasted or smelled Bailey's Irish Creme again, it would be too soon. I've had to wrack my brain for these.

Mostly, I was born this way. I ate whatever my parents ate and my parents ate VERY well. But, it's also taken a lot of work. When I identify something I don't really like, I do my best to try it a variety of different ways - multiple times - and usually I come around. I can now say that I happily eat cumin (within reason), I now have an occasional craving for a tuna fish sandwich and I can say without reserve that I am fully ready to try sea urchin again.

via Summer Tomato, Flickr

Which brings me to fiddlehead ferns. I didn't think I liked them. In fact, I really didn't care about them at all. Fiddlehead ferns pop up in our markets and kitchens every early spring, along with the other spring harbingers everyone is always talking about, morels, peas and ramps. If you've never tasted one, it's sort of like a slightly bitter, wild-tasting asparagus. My trouble with them has been that because of their adorable, tightly curled spiral shape, they're almost never cleaned properly, usually undercooked for my taste and I find myself guiltily pushing them around on my plate every spring. Especially since I refuse to like something just because I SHOULD.

I know what you're thinking. "Uh, dude, it's September. We're kind of past fiddlehead season, aren't we?" Yes. We are. Or so I thought.


Yeah. That's what you think it is. A jar of sour pickled fiddlehead ferns, procured from the new and amazing Brooklyn Farmacy, which I can't wait to tell you about later. These guys hail from VoterVale Farm in Avon, Maine and I just don't know how to thank them enough.

I know that I'm so predictable, but it turns out that pickling these suckers is the secret for me. The vinegar bath and processing tenderize them just right and give them a slightly fermented, caper-ish, almost white-wine-like flavor that I absolutely can't get enough of.


The other great thing about them? See all those mustard seeds swimming around in there with them? The shape of the ferns sort of acts like a natural scoop for those guys, trapping them in their inner coils and transporting them directly to your mouth.


In addition to eating them greedily, straight out of the jar, I've also been using them anywhere I'd use capers or olives, like the fiddlehead pesto crudo I drizzled on top of a risotto cake and a sunny-side-up egg last weekend.

Pickled Fiddlehead Pesto Crudo

2 garlic cloves
1/2 cup grated Parmesean
10 - 12 pickled fiddleheads, finely chopped
3 cups packed basil leaves, finely chopped
4 tablespoons olive oil

Grate garlic cloves on a fine micro-plane into a small bowl. Add fiddleheads, basil leaves, salt and pepper. Bash with cocktail muddler until the basil is just bruised and releasing some oil. Stir in the Parmesean and olive oil and let sit while you prepare whatever you will drizzle this over to make more delicious.

Reflections on Ramp Season

So guys, you know I love these things, right?


If you don't, there's a good chance that we've never spoken. Or that you've never been to the beach with me. As I have one pretty conspicuously tattooed on my ribs. (Sorry ancestors and grandmas.)


I went characteristically ramp-crazy this spring, but noticed that while nearly everyone I know has been forced to try them in my presence and (I hope) enjoyed them, there's been a lot of ramp backlash lately. I've heard grumblings of fad-ism, that people only go crazy for them because they're tough to get, even during their unfairly short season. These grumblers also mention that these 'foodies' really only like ramps because it seems pretty cool to be ferociously hungry for something that hardly anyone knows about. A secret, stinky little club. (Let's take a quick minute to discuss how much I kind of detest the word 'foodie'. We're people. We eat food. Being excited about it shouldn't get a diminutive 'ie' tacked onto the end of it. There, I said it.)

Anyway. My adoration is undeterred.


I was taught to love onions, garlic and all things in the allium family by two people. My mother, who cooked them into nearly every meal I ever ate as a child, not to mention as a grown-up, and my father, who SHOCKED me by chomping straight into a raw green onion right before my eyes. I was never the same.

So, it is in their honor that I continue to go totally allium crazy at all times of year, but especially ramp season. We (Sidekick and I) started with butter grilled ramps atop one of his most impeccable burgers. He makes the best burgers, did I mention that?


I moved on swiftly to the tastiest deviled eggs.


I, inevitably, moved on to pickles, which were gobbled up all too soon.


I also have some ramp butter relaxing coolly in the freezer. Just waiting to delight us come fall and winter - if I can wait that long.


Ramp Deviled Eggs

12 large eggs
1/2 cup sour cream (plus a few spoons of crème fraiche if you have it)
2 teaspoons whole grain mustard
1 tsp. white wine vinegar
8 - 10 ramp tops (use the bulbs and lovely pink stems for something else, like PICKLES)
knob of butter
salt
white pepper
smoked paprika

Cover eggs with cold water by 1 1/2 inches in a 4- to 5-quart pot and bring to a rolling boil. As soon as the water boils, take the pot off the heat, cover tightly and let sit for exactly 12 minutes. Meanwhile, chop the ramp tops and saute with the butter and a pinch of salt until tender, but still bright green. Let them cool and TRY not to eat them all. When the eggs are finished, rinse them under lots of cold water to stop cooking.

Peel eggs and halve lengthwise. Carefully remove yolks and push them through a fine mesh strainer with your fingers over a mixing bowl (I know it sounds silly, but these will be the creamiest, lightest deviled eggs you've ever eaten). To the yolks, add sour cream, crème fraiche, mustard, ramps and stir with fork until combined well. Add the vinegar, mix gently. If you want the filling to be little looser, add a little more vinegar. Season to taste with salt and white pepper, then spoon into egg whites.

Sprinkle the smoked paprika over and serve them to grateful friends, significant others, or yourself with a cold Lillet.