{clean eating} Black Radish Salad with Kale, Tokoyo Turnips, Almonds and Parmesan Cheese

This past weekend Greta, András and I were in Virginia and North Carolina, and we were bad—really bad. I’m talking buttery grits, sweet tea, biscuits and Nutter-Butters bad. So this week I’ve been craving nothing but kale salads and beet juice, the kind of cleansing food that gets me back on track, mentally and physically, from my sugar-induced slump. But then, there’s this cold that’s creeping in. And hot chocolate calls.

Sigh.

It’s nothing a good trip to the farmer’s market can’t fix. Here’s how it went. Greta and I set out for our weekly Wednesday trip to our teeny market, just two strides out my front door— our neighborhood’s greatest gift. I had two facts in my head as we went: First, the market is just week’s away from its winter hiatus, which starts after Thanksgiving, a deadline I don’t take lightly. And second, today we had just $20 cash, half our usual market stipend that has us in a week’s worth of fresh fruits and vegetables, a jug of cider and one cider donut apiece. What can you buy with $20 at the market? Amazing, intriguing vegetables—always cheaper than fruits—bunches of greens and piles upon piles of roots. Beets. Potatoes. Black Radish. Kale. Broccoli. Tokyo Turnips.

I saw a salad coming on.

Last week at an incredible dinner at Il Buco, I had a Grilled Filet of Spanish Mackerel with filet beans and raw Tokyo Turnips, a bracing, surprising success that I haven’t stopped thinking about since. The turnips were calling my name, as were the black radishes whose brooding, elephantine skin conceals their gleaming white core.

I had a vision of a clean salad forming, full of crisp, fall flavors, knobby bits of aged crystalline Parmesan cheese, and roasted almonds. All crunch, substance, flavor. Back home, as I worked my way around the roots with my camera, I got hungrier, so I threw a few potatoes and some garlic in the oven to roast. And the smell.... well, you know the smell of roasted garlic and potatoes.

What’s left, after my split personalities went their separate ways, is two different but equally delicious salads: one pure and raw, the essence of every vegetable, the other, warm and raw melting together, the give of roasted potato between every bite of earthy kale and crisp radish. Both alive. Both the kind of salad you might enjoy, say, as a lunch or a first course, of if you’re still in the mood for being bad, as an easy meal eaten along side a few fine slices of charcuterie with a glass of Chimay. So much for clean. Either way, lean or lux, both are at home on any table—carnivore or vegetarian. Take your pick:

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Black Radish Salad with Broccoli, Tokyo Turnips, Kale, Almonds and Parmesan Cheese

Serves 2 to 4

½ head Tuscan/ Black Kale/Cavolonero, cut in bite-sized pieces

3 tablespoons high quality extra virgin olive oil

Juice of ½ lemon

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

1/2 small head fresh broccoli, florets and stems, thinly sliced lengthwise

1 large black radish, thinly sliced or cut in bite-sized pieces

2 small Tokyo Turnips, thinly sliced

4 ounces Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, broken in bits

1/3 cup roasted, unsalted almonds, roughly chopped

Fleur de sel or sel gris, for garnish

Toss the kale together with the olive oil and lemon juice in a large bowl. Season with salt and pepper. Massage the kale, squeezing and rubbing the leaves together with your hands, working the oil, lemon juice, salt, and pepper into the leaves to flavor and tenderize them. Toss together with the broccoli, turnips, parm, and almonds. Divide between plates. Garnish with fleur de sel and more ground pepper; serve at room temperature.

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Black Radish Salad with Tokyo Turnips, Roasted Potatoes, Apples, and Manchego

Serves 2 to 4

1 handful fingerling or banana potatoes, halved lengthwise
4 cloves garlic, in their skin, smashed

5 tablespoons high quality extra virgin olive oil

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

½ head Tuscan/ Black Kale/Cavolonero, cut in bite-sized pieces

Juice of ½ lemon

1 small crisp, tart apple, thinly sliced

1 large black radish, thinly sliced or cut in bite-sized pieces

2 small Tokyo Turnips, thinly sliced

1/3 cup roasted, unsalted almonds, roughly chopped

2 ounces Manchego cheese, thinly sliced

Fleur de sel or sel gris, for garnish

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.

Toss the potatoes, garlic, 1 tablespoon olive oil, salt and pepper together until coated and spread onto a baking sheet in a single layer. Roast until soft with golden brown edges, about 30 minutes.

Toss the kale together with the remaining olive oil and lemon juice in a large bowl. Season with salt and pepper. Massage the kale, squeezing and rubbing the leaves together with your hands, working the oil, lemon juice, salt, and pepper into the leaves to flavor and tenderize them. Toss together the roasted potatoes, turnips, apples, and almonds. Divide between plates. Scatter the cheese over the top. Garnish with fleur de sel and more ground pepper; serve at room temperature.

Photos and Recipes © Sarah Copeland 2012

Please credit source when using on Pinterest. All other uses require permission via email.

{foraging} rye and yogurt pancakes with figs and fennel syrup

We're lucky that Greta spends many days a week in the very good care of two angelic sisters, Miss Marlene and Miss Angele, who keep her fed and happy while András and I work. One of the things that drew us to their sweet space was the fact that it's in a family home, right on the park, with a garden out back to play in the shade of an enormous fig tree.

This is Greta's first fall there, and it hasn't taken her long to fall as hard and fast for figs as I did the first time I had the chance to pick them straight from a tree, long ago in St. Tropez where I spent many months as a private chef.

These days, I get my figs from this sweet Italian gent down the street from me, one of the dozens of my neighbors who brought the tradition of keeping fig trees in their yard from Italy, Greece or in the case of Marlene and Angele—Malta. But I found the fig bowl on his porch empty the last two times I passed. On a recent evening picking up Greta, I admitted to Miss Marlene that I had a hard and fast fig craving and no ready solution. She welcomed me to forage the upper reaches of the fig tree, where it's us against the birds to get to them first. For the most part, they've won, but one day this week Greta and I made out with four whole figs, plump and pink inside—an absolute treasure, and cause to celebrate.

In our house, celebrating means pancakes. A lengthier start to a week-day, the kind that gives her Apa (papa) heart palpations since his commute is a little more time consuming than mine. But today, her Apa's gone, and this rain has me feeling snoozy, like hanging in with my girl a little longer than usual before I arrive at my desk.

Pancakes in our house almost always start with mostly or at least some whole-grain flour. Rye is our favorite of late—earthy and rich, which blends well with buttermilk, or since it's always on hand in our fridge, creamy European-style yogurt. These fat stacks are great in Papa size portions, or made as silver dollars, just right for dipping.

Today we're dipping in a little fennel maple syrup, made with another foraged treat—fresh fennel seeds from our neighbor's garden, sprinkled in while the syrup warms on a low flame. But any light drizzle of pure grade b syrup over your stack is just the thing to sweeten the start of the day.

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Rye and Yogurt Pancakes with Fresh Figs
and Fennel Syrup

Makes 12 to 18 pancakes

Pancakes

1 cup rye flour

1 cup all-purpose flour

1 tbsp raw or unbleached sugar

1 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp baking soda

1/4 tsp fine sea salt

2 large eggs, separated

1 cup thick plain yogurt + 1 cup whole milk (or 2 cups buttermilk)

4 tbsp melted unsalted butter, plus more for the pan

Fresh figs

Fennel Maple Syrup

Grade B maple syrup

¼ to ½ teaspoon fennel seeds

Whisk together the rye flour, all-purpose flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a large bowl. Whisk together the egg whites, yogurt and milk in another bowl. In another bowl, whisk together the egg yolks and the melted butter. Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients, and whisk in the wet ingredients, alternating between wet mixtures until the batter is just incorporated with a few lumps—be careful not to over mix, which can make the pancakes tough.

Warm the syrup in a small saucepan over low heat. Add the fennel seeds if desired, stir to combine, and keep warm over low heat while you make the pancakes.

Heat a nonstick or cast-iron griddle or heavy skillet over medium-high heat until hot. To test, splash a drop of water onto the griddle; it should sizzle. Brush the griddle lightly with melted butter. Scoop about 1/3 cup of the batter onto the griddle, leaving plenty of space between pancakes for them to spread and be flipped. Cook until the bottoms are set and a few bubbles form around the edges, about 3 minutes. Add a little more melted butter to the griddle.

Using a flexible spatula, flip the pancakes and cook until the bottoms are golden brown around the edges of the second side, and the apples a touch crisp, 1 to 2 minutes. Transfer to a plate and stack them high, topped with butter, fresh figs and a drizzle of warm fennel syrup.

Photos and Recipes © Sarah Copeland 2012
Please credit source when using on Pinterest. All other uses require permission via email.

cooking with love + paprika

When it comes to family, András and I couldn't have been born into better ones— we adore our own parents, and each other’s. But while we're fortunate to see my family four, five, sometimes six times a year, the 4,000-odd miles between us and Hungary, where András is from, means that will never be the case for him. We do our best. We visit once a year and stay as long as we can, we Skype each Sunday and email photos back and forth. But still, truth be told, I take for granted that they—these four healthy grandparents Greta has, András parents, and my own, will still be there, strong and lively as ever on the one day when we hope we can stay a little longer, visit more often.

Recently, we had a scare with Anya, András mother, and it made me look those 4,000 miles straight in the eye. Everything turned out to be just fine, but it softened my too-rare sensitivity to the concession that for András, a life spent together with me would be a life apart for his family, too.

There's not a great deal I can do about that big ocean between us, but if there's one thing I know that brings home a little closer to him, it's cooking with love and paprika.  Lecsó--a stew of onion, pepper, and tomato that’s loaded with the heady aroma of rich paprika, is the one meal we always eat when we’re in Hungary, no matter the season. And when we miss Hungary, and the people it holds, it is Lecsó I cook, serving it as his mother does, over thick slabs of rustic brown bread. If it is bread with flecks of caraway like the one she makes fresh most days, all the better.

Lecsó is not the most beautiful food on the planet, but its flavor can blind you. And it couldn’t be simpler to make. The trick is finding the right peppers. Hungarian long green peppers are most like banana peppers or Italian frying peppers, thin and crunchy, and melt into the stew. You'll need a few hot Hungarian wax peppers—small, green and spicy—which for lack of ever finding them, I'm committed to growing in my garden forever more. I always use Hungarian paprika for this dish because of the round, rich flavor and depth it lends. 

Lecsó is great served warm or cold (though I prefer it warm), and because it keeps well for days in the fridge or freezer, I always make a big batch...maybe one even big enough to last until Thanksgiving.  

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Lecsó

Serves 2 to 4

3 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

1 large yellow onion, thinly sliced

4 long Hungarian, banana, or Italian frying peppers, seeded, deribbed, and thinly sliced

1 to 2 hot Hungarian wax peppers, seeded, deribbed, and thinly sliced

5 large firm, ripe tomatoes, chopped

2 tbsp Hungarian sweet paprika

1/2 tsp Hungarian hot paprika (csípős)

sea salt and freshly ground pepper

Whole-grain bread

Butter, at room temperature

Heat the oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the onion and cook, stirring occasionally, until soft and just golden brown, about 6 minutes. Add the peppers and stir to coat with oil. Season with about ½ tsp of salt. Cook the vegetables until softened, stirring often until they seem to melt together, about 10 minutes. Stir together the tomatoes and paprikas in a medium bowl and stir them into the vegetables in the pan. Continue cooking, seasoning with salt and pepper, stirring often until everything is soft, a roasted red color, and deeply flavored, about 10 minutes more. Serve warm over fresh buttered bread. 

All Photos + Recipes © Sarah Copeland 2012

Please credit when posting on Pinterest. All other uses require permission via email.