Purslane

The market was in full swing last week, overflowing with summer's bounty. I can't resist the beautiful but pricey heirloom tomatoes--so juicy, sweet, and flavorful! Peaches are also a must right now, as are the candy-like Walla Walla sweet onions. This week I bought the young, small ones with the stems still attached, perfect for grilling. But my most thrilling discovery was purslane.

While I may be relatively new to the delights of purslane, others, especially those in Latin America, India, and the Middle East where it grows like a weed, are not. It is actually a type of leafy succulent (portulaca oleracea), and can be eaten in its entirety, stems and all. We ate it raw, just chopped coarsely, but apparently if you cook it as you might spinach it becomes "mucilaginous" which, I'm assuming means a bit thick and perhaps snotty? Whatever the case, many cultures use it profusely in soups and stews, as in the Mexican Verdolagas con Carne de Puerco. In addition to tasting quite good, a bit sour and even salty, purslane is also extremely good for you. It boasts more Omega-3 fatty acids than any other leafy vegetable, and is apparently loaded with good for you antioxidants and vitamins. Summer purslane is what is at the market right now; we fell in love with winter purslane, more commonly known as Miner's lettuce, early on in the spring months. It too is a type of succulent, and Miner's lettuce is also chock-full of healthy stuff; it even made it onto the "perfect foods" list. All I know is that both types of purslane taste terrific and make a deliciously crunchy and uniquely flavorful addition to a salad.

So what did I do with all of this "perfect" food? After thoroughly cleaning and picking through the purslane, I chopped it and splashed it with just a touch of champagne vinegar, my best olive oil, salt and pepper. Then I cut up big, meaty chunks of those gorgeous tomatoes and put them on top. I recently received some "finishing" salts as a gift, so I sprinkled the tomatoes with the coal-black Hawaiian salt, then doused the entire thing with olive oil. The only thing else we needed to round out our meal was those lovely grilled Walla Walla sweet onions and some chicken that had been marinating in herbs and garlic for a good part of the day. Delicious. Simple, but that seems to be a theme around here lately.

Garbanzos

Various things have conspired against my trips to the farmer's market over the past few weeks. Some weeks we were out of town, others we went but didn't have the time to make anything remarkable let alone write about it. And now the latest development, our kitchen remodel, has nearly brought all cooking to a complete halt in our household. I say nearly because we do (thank god!) have a grill and it is summer time. However, our "kitchen" currently consists of a table in the living room piled high with cutting boards, the microwave, and as many useful things as I could fit on it, while the refrigerator sits far away in the other room, the only lonely item in our once functional kitchen. Our "sink" is now the laundry room basin where the dish rack sits next to it on top of the washing machine. In case you're not getting it, I'm trying to paint the picture that our cooking lives are in complete chaos.

However, we are still stuck with the lovely dilemma that the food must go on--we must eat. And while our meals have been reduced to the most basic and simple of grilled foods, there is something wonderfully primal about cooking over fire because you have to. This subtle shift seems to result in food that is so entirely satisfying. At the end of the day when the workmen have gone and the dust has settled, there we are on our back patio, enjoying the small things in life--food, wine, each other.

So garbanzos? you're undoubtedly wondering. Sure, we're all familiar with the regular canned or dried chickpeas, but I found them fresh this past weekend at the farmer's market. A wonderful mess of fresh little pods at the end of their very dry and crispy stems and leaves. A wonderful mess, but a time consuming one as well; first finding all of the pods hidden among the leaves and then removing each little "pea" from its protective jacket was no small task. After all was said and done, my gigantic pile of garbanzo mess turned into a tiny bowl full of bright green chickpeas. It's no wonder that they were considered peasant food in ancient times. Who else would put forth so much effort for such a tiny little morsel?

They were all shelled and ready to eat, so now what? The farmer at the market said that she preferred to eat them raw, but in my opinion they seemed a bit chalky and well, raw. So I decided to blanch them quickly over my fancy propane burner. It took at least 5 if not 10 minutes of boiling before they were tender when poked with a fork. While they were cooking, I cut up one of those remarkably ripe and juicy tomatoes found only in the heat of the summer and slathered it with my very best olive oil, salt and pepper. I then added to the tomatoes some chopped up fresh mozzarella and the cooled chickpeas once they were done. I sprinkled some finely chopped basil on the top and voila! A fresh garbanzo bean summer salad.

After all that work, I'm sorry to report that the fresh chickpea was remarkably similar to its canned counterpart. Perhaps a bit more toothsome and flavorful, but the difference was barely discernible. Still, it was a fun process and a fun find.

Fava Beans

If ever there was a labor of love in the kitchen, surely it must be fava beans. I mean really, this vegetable does not want to be eaten. The long, fuzzy pods are completely inedible unless very immature; mostly the thick pods must be pulled apart to reveal the beans inside which are encased in yet another layer of tough skin. The beans must first be blanched before they will pop out of this outer skin. Only then are they ready to be thrown into a pasta, salad, or just enjoyed by themselves.

When I first brought home some favas years ago, I was blessedly unaware of the work that had to go into them. I shelled them and then cooked them up into something, who knows what now. They were practically inedible--all pasty and chalky. Instead of wondering what I had done wrong, I quickly jumped to the conclusion that favas were just gross (a conclusion which was further supported by viewing Anthony Hopkins' take on them in Silence of the Lambs!). It was sometime later that I stumbled across an article on favas, and realized that we had eaten the entire bean, skin and all. Ah well, live and learn, right. For some reason my husband keeps coming back to the table, despite the fact that I insist on feeding him inedibles.

Lesson learned--shell the favas from both of their intimidating protective layers! I know now that they are not gross, but rather a wonderful, tender example of spring at its prime. I only buy them when I am ready to invest some time in their preparation. While admittedly requiring a lengthy process, I find that I can get lost in the simple motion of popping them out of their skins. Quite Zen.

I decided that I needed a fava salad to go along with the garlic-spear soup. So after getting them down to their ready-to-use state, I simply sauteed up some thinly sliced pancetta (my newest obsession!), then threw a shallot into the left-over fat. After the shallot was nicely browned, I added the favas and then threw in some balsamic vinegar after they were slightly warmed. I tossed the fava/shallot/vinegar with some coarsely chopped spinach, then topped the entire thing with the pancetta and some pine nuts. Splendid.

Garlic spears

I first stumbled upon these rather threatening looking members of the onion family years ago at Pike Place Market. They looked so odd, so I just had to try them. They quickly became a favorite in our household for the fleeting few weeks that is their season in late May/early June. Mostly, my husband and I just grill them dressed with nothing more than olive oil, salt and pepper. Their grassy, asparagusy crunch is always a delight and one which marks spring's true entrance for me. The real garlic flavor comes when you bite into the beautiful flower/bulb like tops. It is almost like a whole roasted garlic clove encased within a tender green envelope. Soft without being mushy, garlicy without being overpowering, garlic spears are one of my "perfect" vegetables.

Garlic spears are actually the immature shoots of the elephant garlic plant. The farmer apparently cuts off the top 12-14 inches of the plant above ground (at the expense of the head of elephant garlic below, I wonder?). I have occasionally found these garlic spears at my local supermarket, so I don't consider them to be too rare. However, I was pleasantly surprised this week when I discovered "garlic tops" at the farmers market. These too, are the tops of the garlic plant, but because these come from just your regular garlic variety rather than the elephant kind, their tops are scaled down as well. The ones I found were a beautiful mess of slender, dark green stalks which curved into tremendous loop-de-loops at the top. They also had a flower bulb near the tip, but it was so immature and small that it was barely even noticeable.

What to do with all of this garlic goodness? Well, it was (what do you know) another dreary Saturday here in Seattle. As the weather didn't warrant firing up the grill which is my first instinct with garlic spears, I chopped them all up and made a soup. It was wonderful. Thickened slightly with some potatoes, the subtle garlic flavor was just enough to be noticeable while still allowing the other grassy undertones of the garlic spears to shine as well. For this soup I had two bunches of the thin garlic tops and one bunch of the thicker garlic spears. I chopped up every part of the smaller tops but saved the beautiful, flower-like tips of the garlic spears and used them as a garnish in the soup.

Garlic-Spear Potato Soup (serves 3-4)

1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 large, sweet onion, thinly sliced into discs
1/4 cup vermouth
4 cups (about) vegetable broth
2 medium-sized Yukon potatoes, peeled and quartered
2-3 bunches garlic spears, stems cut into 1 inch pieces and tops reserved
1 Tbsp. balsamic vinegar
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 cup half and half
1 Tbsp. fresh thyme
salt and pepper

Heat oil in a medium-sized sauce pan over medium-low heat. Add onion discs and cover pan with a lid. Continue to cook over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, for about 20 minutes, or until bottoms of onions begin to brown and onions appear soft and cooked through. Take off lid at this point and increase heat to medium. Stir the onions frequently until evenly browned and all of their liquid has evaporated.

Once the onions are evenly caramelized, add the vermouth to de-glaze the pan (stir constantly until all the little brown bits have come off the bottom). Add the broth and potatoes, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium-low, partially cover, and simmer for about 15 minutes. Then add the garlic spears and simmer for another 30 minutes or until all vegetables are very tender. (Add more broth or water to the soup during this process if it does not seem to have enough liquid. There should be enough liquid to fully cover the potatoes.)

For garlic spear tops, preheat oven to 350. Toss tops with olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and salt and pepper. Cook for 10-15 minutes or until the bulbs are soft and the tips are slightly charred or crunchy. Set aside.

Puree the soup until smooth, then return to low heat. Add half and half, thyme, and more broth (if necessary) until desired consistency is attained. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

After ladling soup into bowls, arrange garlic spears in the center of the bowls, garnishing with fresh flowers or more fresh thyme if desired.

Quilcene Clams

Quilcene Clams with Chorizo

1 link chorizo, cut into 1/4 inch pieces
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 medium-sized sweet onions (like Vidalia or Walla Walla), minced
2 cloves minced garlic
1 medium tomato, chopped
1 lb. clams
1/2 cup white wine

Preheat saute pan over medium high heat. Add chorizo and cook, stirring occassionally, until browned on all sides (about 10 minutes). Remove from pan and use a paper towel to wipe up excess grease.

Turn heat in saute pan down to medium and add olive oil. Add onions and stir until coated with oil. Cover with a lid and cook for about 10 minutes, stirring occassionally, allowing released steam to cook the onions. When onions begin to brown slightly at the edges, remove the lid and turn the heat up to medium high. Continue to stir and cook until onions are nicely browned on all sides and their released liquids have evaporated (about 10 more minutes).

Add garlic, tomato, clams and wine. Cover with a lid and cook until all of the clams have opened and their juices have created that irresistible brothy-goodness (about 5 minutes).

Sea beans

Classic Seattle June weather this weekend. 58 and raining--what a perfect day for the market! Despite the dreary drizzle, I was not alone in my persistence. The market was bustling with people and vendors alike, decked out in our Seattle parkas or hiding underneath temporary tarp roofs. Apparently there is sun somewhere, because the beautiful produce displayed obviously needs more than just water to do its magic.

This week's treasures included a flat of amazingly sweet yet tart strawberries, more of our favorite Miner's Lettuce, and the newcomer, sea beans! Also known as samphire, salicornia, and glasswort, sea beans are not beans at all, but they are common along both the Atlantic and the Pacific coasts. Although it has found relative obscurity in modern times, samphire apparently has had its day in the limelight throughout history. It went through a big pickling craze in England at one point, and the Greeks and the Romans also mention "steaming it lightly to be used as a vegetable." The 2-3 inch long "leaves" look more like green twigs, and the 1/2 pound that I bought from my favorite guy at "Found and Foraged" appeared to be an intimidating, spindly mess. Although the advice I got at the market was to blanch it and then serve it with or as a salad, after a bite of the raw sea beans I decided to forgo the whole cooking thing and just try it raw. The tender green shoots were wonderfully crispy and crunchy. When first biting into it, I tasted a slight grassy sweetness which was suddenly followed by a bright burst of salt. Unlike anything I've ever had before, it seemed to just call out for some asian-fishy thing. So that's what I did. Below you'll find the recipe for the sea beans, which I served with grilled black cod (also slathered with Trader Joes' Miso Mesquite sauce) and rice.

Asian-Inspired Sea Bean Salad

2 bell peppers, one red and one orange
1/4 cup Trader Joe’s Miso Mesquite sauce
1/4 cup rice vinegar
2 Tbsp. sesame oil
1 bunch chopped green onions, white parts only
1/2 lb. sea bean

Grill or broil peppers until blackened on all sides. Sweat inside a plastic bag for at least 10 minutes, then peel and remove stems and seeds. Cut into thin, julienned strips and set aside.

Combine sauce ingredients in the bottom of a large bowl. Thoroughly wash sea beans and add to bowl, along with peppers. Toss all ingredients together and allow to sit for at least 10 minutes before serving (do not salt!).