10-Second Mediterranean Salad

Toss this salad in a jiffy

Well, now that I have your attention, I admit this salad will take more than 10 seconds to toss together. Assuming you have all the ingredients ready, it might take few minutes - tops. Really. I think you can handle that.

What is it about instant gratification anyway? It’s like we’ve never lost our infantile urge to have our every need satisfied RIGHT NOW. We all know that it is just not possible to lose ten pounds in one day, or to change the world in five, but there’s always that hope. And I don’t know about you, but my days seem to be springing forth and losing substance. An hour’s worth, to be exact. I need it back!

But back to the salad – if you make a batch of the balsamic vinaigrette (adapted slightly from a recipe in the March ’08 Gourmet magazine) ahead of time, this will be a simple, speedy-fast meal. I love all the Mediterranean flavors in this salad recipe- everything from the artichokes to the chickpeas calls out to me. Oh, wait, it must be time for lunch...

10-Second Mediterranean Salad
inspired by a recipe in Whole Foods magazine

2 -4 tablespoons Balsamic Vinaigrette (recipe follows)
1 15-ounce can chickpeas, drained
1 jar or can artichoke hearts, drained and halved
1 cup halved cherry tomatoes in assorted colors if you can find them
Handful of leftover steamed green beans (optional)
¼ cup thinly sliced red onion or shallot
2 cups mixed prewashed salad greens
2 tablespoons toasted pine nuts
¼ cup soft goat or feta cheese

Put 2 tablespoons dressing in a large bowl. Add the rest of the ingredients except cheese and toss gently. Add more dressing if you like. Crumble cheese over the top.
Serves 4.

Balsamic Vinaigrette: In a food processor, pulse ¾ cup balsamic vinegar, 2 tablespoons Dijon mustard, 2 tablespoon Italian or flat-leaf parsley leaves, 2 teaspoons honey, 1 finely chopped shallot, 1 finely chopped garlic clove, and a dash of hot sauce. With motor running, slowly drizzle in ¾ cup olive oil or safflower oil until emulsified. Season with about 1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt and fresh black pepper. Keep in a jar in the refrigerator for up to 2 weeks.

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Copyright (c) 2008 FamilyStyle Food

Market Dinner: Fettuccine with Baby Artichokes and Wild Mushrooms

Yesterday was one of those days when I'm glad that I tend to overstock the pantry with dried pasta (among other things), because I was able to throw together this simple dinner using my Portland produce. I found a bag of wild mushroom fettuccine hiding behind the Barilla spaghetti in my cupboard - lucky me.

I'd never had the opportunity to taste a fresh porcini mushroom. I use the dried ones frequently, though. They're readily available and are pretty strongly flavored - a little goes a long way in soups or sauces. One of my cooking contest friends even used dried porcini "dust" in a prize-winning recipe at the National Beef Cookoff last year.

I 'd assumed that you had to go Italy or France to find fresh porcini, also known as Boletus edulis (and as "cepes"in French). So I just about fell over when I saw them on the menu in a pasta dish at a little neighborhood restaurant, Alba Osteria, on our first night in Portland. Since Fresh and Local is the mantra there, I was on the lookout for these plump fungi at the market, and sure enough, a wise old forager had a nice selection of them on display at his booth at the Farmer's Market.

According to him, the mushrooms should be cut in half to ensure there aren't any critters living inside, and stored in a paper bag in a cool place. I bought one to take home, and it arrived in fine shape. It was only just starting to break a sweat after 8 hours of traveling in my tote bag.

I trimmed the base and most of the leaves off the artichokes (and actually, I could have trimmed off even more - don't be shy at this step), leaving just a tight, light green ball, and sliced them in half. They were pretty tiny. I cut the mushroom into thick slices, and admired the soft, pure white flesh inside (critter free, thankfully). I braised the artichokes for about 10 minutes in lemon juice, olive oil, fresh garlic and a scoop of pasta water from the fettuccine before adding the mushrooms. They soaked up the liquid like little sponges, and tasted delicious, with a creamy texture and a milder flavor compared to the dried version.

Thanks to the efforts of Alanna at A Veggie Venture, this recipe will be sponsored by this cute little sweet tomato. You can get your own here.
Or better yet, go out and visit your local farmer's market!

Fettuccine with Baby Artichokes and Wild Mushrooms
serves 4

12 ounces mushroom flavored fettuccine (plain would be just fine)
1/2 pound baby artichokes, bases and tops trimmed off and outer leaves removed down to the pale green part, sliced in half
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
3 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
1 large fresh porcini mushroom, cut into 1/2-wide slices, or 1/4 ounce dried porcini soaked in warm water 15 minutes and drained
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Fresh Italian parsley
Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, for grating at the table

Bring a 6-8 quart pot of water to a boil and salt generously - about 2 tablespoons kosher salt.

Place the artichokes in a medium skillet with the olive oil, lemon juice, garlic and 1/4 cup water or broth. Cover and place over medium-high heat. Cook until tender when pierced with a fork, 10-15 minutes, adding some of the boiling water if the pan begins to dry. Toss in the mushrooms and cook, uncovered, until tender. Season with salt and pepper and stir in the parsley.

Add the pasta to the pot and cook until al dente. Drain and toss with the sauce in a warmed serving bowl. You could add a large knob of butter at this point, too, if you're so inclined. Pass the Parmigiano at the table.

Serve with an Oregon Pinor Noir if you're looking for a perfect pairing.



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Portland Paradise

Baby Artichokes at the Portland Farmer's Market

Some people come home from faraway places with T-shirts and postcards; I bring porcini mushrooms, freshly harvested garlic, and tiny little artichokes. As Tony Soprano would say, whataya gonna do? I'm hopeless.

I'm totally smitten with the city of Portland, as I knew I would be. Just a few minutes after arriving, I got the feeling the place was like the lovechild of San Francisco and Madison - all tattooed and double-latteed but with a small town Midwestern feel.

Superlative local food, great bookstores, a temperate climate and acres of my most favorite wine grape, pinot noir. I could pitch a tent in any one of the numerous parks, and live very happily. (And people do just that, apparently - there's a sizable homeless population).

I'd been going on and on to T about how perfectly the place appealed to me, and he just nodded his head. But after we walked a few blocks to the farmer's market on Saturday morning, I knew I had him. It's high cherry season in Oregon right now, and for my husband the sight of endless crates of just-picked cherries puts him over the edge. It's like baiting Cookie Monster with a lifetime pass to the Mrs. Fields factory.

We restrained ourselves, and carefully packed a few pounds to tote home on the plane. We have at least one kid who devours ripe fruit until her belly distends.

I'll get back to you with the results of tonight's dinner - I need to cook up those mushrooms and artichokes!

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Suckling Spring Lamb on a Spit

Spit-Roasted Suckling Lamb with Salsa Verde, Spinach-Ricotta Gnudi and Artichoke Salad

“I’ll have your lamb shipped to you by the end of next week. Right now he’s still suckling on his mama.”

Those were the words of Sarah Hoffmann at Green Dirt Farm. Hearing them brought on a head rush of mixed emotions. There’s nothing like thinking of yourself as a heartless killer of a cute baby farm animal while at the same time greedily salivating at the thought of its pale, tender flesh.

A healthy sheep at Green Dirt Farm

It started innocently enough. I had only intended to grill a simple leg of lamb for dinner, but what I got instead was a whole lamb carcass sitting in a cooler by my back door.

I was planning a menu for our supper club - four couples who meet four times a year for seasonal dinner parties. I had spring this year. Perfect. I put together an Italian-themed meal that would center on some classic harbingers of spring: fresh chives, artichokes and lamb.



After setting out on an Internet search for some fresh local meat, I landed on a page from Green Dirt, located just outside Kansas City, Missouri. They produce grass-fed lamb and sheep dairy products. And they offer a limited supply of baby spring lamb - animals raised exclusively on their own mother’s milk.



Right away I remembered a story I’d read ten years ago in Saveur magazine about the Roman Easter tradition dating back to ancient times, of serving tiny, milk-fed lamb, called abbacchio. I found the idea so very appealing; something about the sheer pagan ritual combined with photos of piles of juicy, pink roasted meat. It made my mouth water. I wanted to eat one.

Trouble is, finding one of these milk-fed babies in the United States is nearly impossible. Over the years I’ve made attempts to track down a baby lamb. It’s not something your local butcher stocks, needless to say. Usually what’s available is not strictly suckling lamb, but young lamb, which can be anywhere between 5 - 12 months old - too mature to be considered a sacrificial lamb. Typically, true abbacchio is slaughtered at 1 to 2 months of age and weighs between 15 and 20 pounds.

Sarah told me my little lamb was in the 18-pound range, and she would ship it to me fresh, right after slaughter (or, um, processing if that sounds better). I could see the lamb turning over a spit on my backyard barbecue, and I recited my credit card number. It was a huge splurge, considering this main course was going to cost somewhere close to two hundred dollars.



The night before, after marveling a little at the image of a whole gutted animal laid out on my counter, I rubbed the baby down with olive oil, garlic, rosemary and lots of salt and pepper. I threw some halved and squeezed lemons into his tummy cavity and sewed him up.



Being the sort of fly by the seat of my low-rise jeans cook that I am, I didn’t actually plot out how I was going to get the little bugger onto my Weber rotisserie attachment when it came time to fire up the grill. I guess I was sort of passively hoping that it would all work out, or that T would get in touch with his inner Roman shepherd and wire that thing onto the spit for me.

We ended up using the method I’m most comfortable with - improvisation. In order to get the lamb on the relatively short shaft of the rotisserie rod, we had to scrunch him up a bit and lash him with wire. It seemed a perfect fit for the 21-inch wide kettle, until we turned on the motor and saw that the lamb’s neck protruded in such a way as to prevent a full revolution. That’s when we had to get out the hacksaw and saw it off, and that’s also the moment that A chose to come outside to see what we were up to (I’d felt the need to shield her from the sight of the lamb until this point, for some reason) It felt like a scene from Fargo, minus the wood chipper and a crazed Swede.



After about 30 minutes of roasting, the lamb starting to brown a bit too fast, and my olive oil marinade was causing flare-ups. I had a brief image of my guests coming over for the much-touted lamb only to find a charred piece of sinew. So I did what any sensible lamb spit-roaster would do. I took it off the spit, transferred it to a large roasting pan, lightly covered it with foil and put it into a 350-degree oven for two and a half more hours.
T pulled the meat off the bones, and we served it up on a giant platter.



Was this the most delicious lamb I’ve ever eaten? I have to tell you, yes, it absolutely was. I’d heard that the meat of suckling lamb was mild, almost to the point of being bland. But this guy had delicate flavor, and tender, juicy meat.

And, just in case I’ve come off as a cruel carnivore, I was reminded over and over of the importance in knowing where our food comes from. It seems a little shocking to behold and prepare a meal out of something that still looks remarkably like what it is, a dead animal, when we’re so used to seeing neatly wrapped cuts in the meat case.

Why is it that going out of my way to find local farmers who produce my food in a sustainable, humane manner feels like a big privilege? I wish it were the norm. As much time and expense as my baby lamb cost, it was totally worth it, and I can't wait to repeat it. Something I read in Michael Pollan’s Omnivore’s Dilemma really struck me, and I can’t seem to forget it. Pollan writes that:

No other country raises and slaughters its food animals quite as intensively or as brutally as we do. No other people in history has lived at quite so great a remove from the animals they eat. Were the walls of our meat industry to become transparent...we would no longer continue to raise, kill and eat animals the way we do....we might eat less, but maybe when we did eat animals we'd eat them with the consciousness, ceremony and respect they deserve.

For more interesting words about abbacchio, check out Cooking the Roman Way by David Downie.

Steven Raichlen, once again, is the Man. His book How to Grill has complete step-by-step illustrations on spit-roasting a whole lamb.

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Copyright (c) 2007 FamilyStyle Food