Roasted Beets with Ricotta + Pistachios: Sunday Suppers, part ii

Good morning! Isn't this a beautiful site to wake up to? These are more of the lovely photos by Karen Mordechai from our valentine's sunday supper dinner. This is the first course of our feast ~ Roasted Beets with Ricotta and Pistachios ~ one of my favorite recipes from my book, The Newlywed Cookbook. She caught me as I was plating 24 of these jeweled beauties for our valentine's guests. Swing over to her site {sunday-suppers.com} for the recipe, along with more photos and the recipe for my Braised Short Ribs with Gremolata and Melted Polenta. I'm still dreaming about how good that was....

food styling :: Sarah Copeland
photography :: Karen Mordechai for Sunday Suppers

Carrot Soup with Hazelnuts + Blood Orange Oil: Sunday Suppers, part i

I tend to be a fan of the understated. When Karen from Sunday Suppers called with the idea of hosting a valentine's supper together, promising our approach would be anything but obvious, I knew she'd come up with something novel and chic. She always does. But I didn't count on this earthy brilliance--twigs, spelling out L-O-V-E, taped to the white washed walls behind the table which she dressed with tiny blooms. It was just right. 

And, it was the perfect setting for teaching exactly the kind of cooking I believe love thrives on -- simple, beautiful food with flavors that shine. Carrot soup, with a little care, is the king of earthy brilliance. Start with fresh carrots, as close to home-grown as possible {we have the farmer's market to thank for ours}, and simmer them into a silky soup with onions, ginger and water. Then, once pureed, finish them with fresh pressed carrot juice for pure, vibrant flavor. With a garnish of yogurt, roasted hazelnuts and a simple homemade blood-orange oil, this soup is art for the eyes and the mouth. 

P.S. This soup is an early preview of my new cookbook, Feast, which I just saw the cover of today! 

Carrot Soup with Hazelnuts and Blood Orange Oil

Serves 4 to 6

4 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil, plus 2 tbsp for blood-orange oil

1 yellow onion, thinly sliced

1 garlic clove, smashed

1 in/2.5 cm peeled fresh ginger, chopped

2 lbs/910 g organic carrots, peeled and chopped

4 to 5 cups/960 ml to 1.2 L water

1 sprig fresh thyme

Sea salt and freshly cracked pepper

2 cups/480 ml fresh carrot juice

1/2 cup/120 ml full-fat plain yogurt

½ bunch of chives, snipped or chervil

1/3 cup roasted hazelnuts, roughly chopped

1 blood orange, juiced

Heat 2 tbsp of the olive oil in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Add the onion and cook until tender, 6 to 8 minutes. Add the garlic and ginger, and cook until fragrant, about 1 minute. Add the carrots, thyme and enough water to cover (4 cups if you like a thicker soup, 5 cups if you like yours thinner) and bring to a boil. Cover loosely and reduce to a simmer. Season with salt and pepper.

Cook until vegetables are completely tender, 20 to 30 minutes. Remove the thyme, remove from the heat and purée until smooth, about 3 minutes. Stir in fresh carrot juice, reheating over a low flame as needed to warm through. Season and keep warm over a low flame until you are ready to serve.

Stir together the blood orange juice with in an additional 2 tbsp of finishing oil. Ladle the soup into four or six shallow bowls, and garnish with a dollop of yogurt in each bowl. Finish with a drizzle of blood-orange oil, hazelnuts and a sprinkle of chopped chives. Serve warm.

recipes + food styling :: Sarah Copeland
styling + photography :: Karen Mordechai for Sunday Suppers

shades of white + a sunday oasis

my kitchen upstate is covered in shades of white. milky white tiles canvas the walls. white wooden cabinets conceal a mis-match of kitchen tools and baking grains. ivory ironstone bowls and platters litter the rough wooden shelves, waiting to be filled. i could spend hours upon hours in that kitchen cooking, dreaming, creating— my eyes feasting on every ruby red beet and oxblood orange standing out against the backdrop, beacons of good things to come.

in the city, there is so much color, so much noise. it is rich, but when my mind craves space, it is white I seek. so, when i find a space as drenched with light and possibility as my own country kitchen, i cherish it. 

this {pictured} is the sunday suppers studio, where last sunday night i was invited to teach and prepare a valentine's feast. the studio is an oasis of light and loveliness, a vision of its creator karen mordechai. it is a place i could return to again and again, soaking in the order the as my knife glides rhythmically across the cutting board, leaving rings of blood orange falling from their frame in its wake. 

here, before guests arrived, these quiet moments fed my soul and stoked my spirit. And then we feasted. 

The Menu

~
Roasted Beets with Ricotta and Pistachios

Carrot Soup with Hazelnuts and Blood Orange-Oil

Braised Short Ribs with Herb and Citrus Germolata
Melted polenta

Little Tangerine Pine Nut Pies
Homemade Chocolate Sorbet

I'll be back later this week with more photos {from karen} and recipes {from me}. Come visit us both very soon.

{visit} http://sunday-suppers.com

Bubbly + Books {A Book Signing for The Newlywed Cookbook}

i'm over the moon excited to be toasting and signing books tomorrow night at Chelsea Market Basket, and guess who is invited. why you, of course!

House of Bread

“Everybody needs beauty as well as bread “~ John Muir

lic, ny

A few years ago, I moved from Manhattan to Queens to be with András, kicking and screaming the whole way. I had lived in Manhattan for 9 years, was convinced that my favorite things would be too far out of reach in his borough. He lured me with love, a farmer’s market right outside our building and promises of good bread.

The farmer’s market is indeed a gem, but the bread he spoke of came from an old Greek bakery below our subway stop and was wholly unremarkable. Luckily for him though, he was right, Queens is home to some of the best bakers in town. 

On a summer bike ride around the neighborhood, I passed a truck that said Pain D’Avignon, and followed it home down the street in hopes of finding French bakers that recalled those of walled French city of Avignon. Instead I found only a wholesale operation, and the breads I could smell completely out of view behind brick and motor. Still, I rang the buzzer and met JoAnne Cortese who opened up her doors to one of the most magnificent houses of bread I’d ever seen.

Owned by three gentlemen from Yugoslavia, Pain D’Avignon’s bakers are masters of handcrafted, artisan baking, and their commitment shows in the texture and flavor of their breads. Each and every bread is mixed by Moussa Cond’e, who has been mixing the unbleached, American-raised grains since he came to Pain D’Avignon from West Africa 8 years ago {he’s pictured here in this room of white}. After Moussa mixes the dough, all the breads are hand scaled and shaped before going to rise.

Bakers work through the night to turn out some of the finest, most toothsome artisan breads in town that until recently could only be had in the bread baskets of some of the best restaurants in town, including Picholine, Locande Verde and The Standard Grill.

Last week, Pain D’Avignon opened a retail shop at the Essex Market on the Lower East Side in Manhattan, home to Saxelby Cheese and Fromaggio Essex. The market is still one of New York’s best-kept secrets, and it’s worth a journey to this wondrous old-world market for the bread alone. Sadly, you won’t get to meet Moussa or the other men and women behind those hand shaped breads but you can take home their treasures to taste for yourself. 

Date Night {Roman's}

ft. greene, brooklyn

Last night we had dinner with our friends Katie and Parker at their new neighborhood restaurant,  Roman's.  The meal was simple, satisfying, actually kind of perfect. Romans serves like kind of food that you could make at home but tastes especially good when someone else has done the work for you—things like stretched mozzarella on toasted bread, hen of the woods mushroom toasts with telleggio fonduta, and tagliatelle in a light rabbit ragu. It all adds up to a belly that’s not overly full, but incredibly satisfied.  And they have a pretty savory beer list too. Try the Aventiunus Doppelbock.

Between the four of us, we don’t each much meat, but we share a philosophy on eating humanely raised meats sold directly to the consumer.  Roman’s is the kind of place that celebrates that too, so go ahead and order the beef rib agnolotti {if it’s still there, the menu changes daily}. It helps to have your very own butcher, as Roman's does {Marlow and Daughters} but we won’t begrudge their good fortune since they’re not greedy with their resources. You can get quality meats from their butcher too, just down the road apiece.

Romans

243 Dekalb Avenue

Ft. Greene, NY

718-622-5300

Marlow & Daughters

95 Broadway

Williamsburg, Brooklyn

718-388-5700

B is for Brooklyn {and beer}

brooklyn, ny

Last night, on north 11th street in Brooklyn, Brooklyn Brewery released the latest in their Brooklyn Brewmasters Reserve Series, Cookie Jar Porter, a smooth malty brew rich with the familiar flavors of oats and raisin. I'm not sure what I enjoyed more, the taste on tap or the actual cookies they were inspired by {from Feed Your Soul Bakery}. Both were DE-licious. The truth is I never met an oat I didn't like. If you're not careful, I'm likely to put oats into parts of your meal you never dreamed possible. But I still believe they they are most at home on the sweet side. Last month I dreamed up an oatmeal bark with a dark chocolate coating, layered it with bananas and an oatmeal-infused cream fool-style and called it Fool of Oats. Get it? Full of Oats? Anyway, the Food Network Magazine, where it appeared in the current issue, called it a parfait. Call it what you like, you can get the recipe here.

Oats aside, my favorite part of the the Brooklyn Brewery is their collectables -- bottles that date back to when Brooklyn brewed the world. Brooklyn was once home to almost 50 breweries, the first of which made its home there in 1822. Sadly, the industry went flat by 1976, when every brewery, including the 11 on a 12-stretch block from Bushwick to Williamsburg called Brewer's Row, had closed. But local brewers like Brooklyn Brewery, Six Point Craft Ales and Kelso of Brooklyn are giving the borough and its beer culture a welcome revival. And with all those grains {oats, wheat, barley}, that's a revival even the most health conscious among us can get behind.

A Truly Happy New Year

new york, new york

Since before I can remember, I wanted to be a doctor, just like my Dad. It turns out I just wanted to be like my Dad, whose manner, and therefore his profession, from my standpoint, was synonymous with delivering joy and good news, news like, “It’s a big, fat, bouncing baby boy!” to new parents.

In the years before I discovered that there was occasionally bad news involved with being a doctor {tumors, warts in unseemly places}, I spent Sundays at his side on his hospital rounds, shadowed him at the office and begged him to be bedside when he delivered babies, which I thought was the most exciting thing imaginable {and still do, if not for the fear that it could one day happen to me}. Once or twice he let me join him in the delivery room, and I twice got a look at one of these big fat bouncing baby boys myself. To my untrained eye these babies, who weighed in around 7 pounds, looked like the teeny-tiniest little things I’d ever seen, except for grandma’s newborn kittens. But he assured me that the babies were robust and healthy and would fatten up as soon as they got on mother’s milk.

On the eve of a New Year, I can think of no greater news than that of a birth of a baby that fit’s Dad’s description to a tea. Big boy William Spencer Motland hit the scene this morning at 9 pounds, 3 ounces. András and I are big fans of his Mamma, Nikki, who taught me how good Fluff and peanut butter is spread between two Famous Wafers in our earliest days together in the Food Network Kitchens. {Today, she’s the gal behind all of the gorgeous food you see on the Martha Stewart Show}. This is a photo from the meal we shared the day we met Will’s Papa, Kent, who we happen to be rather fond of too. The meal was brunch at Landmarc, which I highly recommend, and I think the consumption of sugary stuff {note the cotton candy}, bodes well for a sweet life for one baby boy, and a big, fat, bouncing New Year for the rest of us!

Happy New Year!

Waffles, Dinges & Dirt Bikes {pedaling, part iv}

Cyclocross is not a sport for the faint of heart. Akin to road racing, but on courses made up of mud, grass, sand, hills and obstacles so steep cylists must occasionally dismount and take to foot, Cyclo-cross requires serious training, blood, sweat and plenty of sweet Belgian waffles.

I’d like to say that is was for the love of my husband that I went all the way to Princeton, New Jersey at 5 AM one muddy Sunday in late November to watch him race, but in fact it was in large part for the love of waffles that I know anything about cyclocross at all.

Let me explain. Like traditional road racing {think Tour d’France}, cyclocross’ origins are European. Legend has it that in the early 1900s, European cyclists would race each other from one town to the next cutting through the farms and fields, over fences and a myriad of obstacles to find the fastest route. But that’s not important. What is important is that the sport stuck as a way to keep cyclists fit in the off season, and has made itself cozy in Belgium, home of the best waffles and beers and the planets most flawless frites.

Though not all the details translate precisely, cyclo-cross in these parts has become synonymous with Wafels and Dinges, aka, The Waffle Truck {motto: Good Things Belgian}, who send a batch of their Leìge style Belgian best over to every race. And that’s where I come in. Having just embarked on a mammoth waffle project in the Test Kitchen at the Food Network, I felt it was my duty to do some investigate reporting on the difference between a traditional Belgian waffle {crisp and airy, made from a yeast-leavened batter} and a Leìge waffle{a rich, dense brioche-inspired waffle}.

As it turns out, the waffles, though delicious, weren’t my biggest reward for journalistic integrity. Far more fulfilling was the site of grown men {and women too}, including András and his teammates, having this much muddy fun.

By the way, according to the Waffle Truck, dinges are merely little thingies, like toppings. My favorite dinges are strawberries and whipped cream. And, in the name of journalist integrity, the "dirt bikes" I'm referring to are actually high performance cross bikes, that just happened to be covered in dirt.

A movable Feast {Pedaling, part iii}

For four Sundays running, András and I have been pedaling from our little nest in L.I.C. over bridges and through the woods to new adventures we go. It's a tradition that dates back to one of our very first dates, and is as much about feeding as it is about finding our way in the world together.

These last few weeks, our two wheels have taken us to Boneshakers biker cafe in Greenpoint, run by cyclists who declare "Death Over Decaf" and make killer stacks of avocado, sprouts and eggs on salted bagels, and to Bierkraft, a tiny slip of a beer library with over 1,000 pints. We've lunched at the fashionable Five Leaves {try the housemade ricotta} with our friends Josh and Doris {that's Josh on his wheels above}, then rolled over to Walters in Williamsburg, past Saltie and beyond the legendary Peter Luger, promising to return another day. We've looted the curiosities of Kill Devil Hill, where on a shelf that held a pair of vintage glass piggy banks {"Jesus Saves" and "Satan Spends,"} I found just about the prettiest pickles I've ever laid eyes on, from Brooklyn Brine, and an old enamel bread box that had to come home with us. And then, we found our way to the Radegast Biergarten, where we could have stayed all day among the steins and hand-stuffed sausages, if not for the fast fading sun and the creeping cold, and that constant cup of hot cocoa back in L.I.C that beckons us home.

New Amsterdam {Pedaling, part ii}

Find the shortest, simplest way between the earth, hand and the mouth.

~Lanza del Vasto

South Street Seaport, Manhattan

If you have a bike, and a buddy, one of the best ways to spend a Sunday is pedaling around town bound for your local market, particularly if you local market happens to be the much-lauded New Amsterdam Market in New York’s historic South Street Seaport. Inspired by Paris' Les Halles, and London's Borough Market, the New Amsterdam Market is a collection of savvy, sustainable producers that inspire, educate and sell some of the most thoughtful food products in New England.

Of the dozens of producers at the market, there are as many stories worth telling, and something noteworthy about each and every purveyor at the market, hand chosen for their integrity, their stewardship of the land and waters, and their appreciation for the local commerce and communities their products nourish. I couldn’t possibly name every delight or detail, but in the spirit of awards ceremonies {and high school yearbooks}, here are a few of my favorites.

Best in Show: Those who know New York food know that Queens has the best bakers, and Brooklyn has the best brewers. In my opinion, the top baker’s toque in town is Pain D’Avignon. Their Cranberry Walnut Bread {baked down the street from us in Long Island City}, like all their breads, is an instant portal to yeasted utopia.

Best Educator: Nova Kim, of Wild Gourmet Food, lover of all wild edibles, won my heart when I told her I’ve been foraging all summer, to which she said, “Repeat after me. I do not forage. I wild craft, I collect, I gather.” Foraging implies scavenging. Gathering edibles in the wild requires knowledge and a skill set, along with the respect that one should leave the area in better shape than one found it. Got it. Go forth, and gather. Or let Nova and partner Les Hook gather for you, and join their Wild Foods CSA {Community Supported Agriculture}.

Best Cult Following: Tie between Intelligentsia Coffee & Tea and Mother In Law's Kimchi.

First to Sell Out: Nordic Breads’ Finnish Ruis Bread, also baked in Long Island City, was gone well before we arrived. So, I’m guessing it was good. What did I tell ya’ about those Queens bakeries?

Most Popular Guy: Luke’s Lobster rolls, perhaps the city’s most talked about lobster roll {and that’s saying something}, had folks in a titillated state. I don’t do lines, but I dig their motto: It's the only roll that's traceable from the sea floor to your plate.

Best Dressed: Imagine you have a brother, and both of you have fine taste in clothing and chocolate. So you stir up a little handcrafted chocolate business in Brooklyn, wrap your bars in handsome vintage paper and sell, sell, sell. Because people love them {not just for the paper, the chocolate is really, really good.} That’s Mast Brothers Chocolate.

Best Innovation: Brooklyn Oenology owner Alie Shaper blends wines in Long Island, christens them with clever names like Motley Cru, then commissions local artist to design their labels. None of those details would be worth mentioning if her wine wasn’t also wonderful. Even more impressive? Those labels peel right off, for us nostalgics. Finally.

Best Nickname: The Piggery, from Trumansburg, NY. But actually, that’s not a nickname. That’s their real name. Local, old-world style charcuterie. Enough said.

Most Incestuous Local-Love-Fest: Liddabit Sweets, caramels, candy bars, lollies and jellies made from the best little bits from a handful of local, artisanal producers like Brooklyn Brewery, Martin’s Pretzels, and Salvatore Bklyn. But you don’t have to be local to try a liddabit. Get some here.

Best Historical use of Space: W&T Seafood, and Stella, like New Amsterdam’s original market vendors, shuck oysters as fast as folks can swallow them, making mountains out of oyster shells, which, for the record, is far, far more delicious than making mountains out of mole hills.

Best Free Sample: Wild-caught crab claws from Port Clyde Fresh Catch, who used them to lure me in to their Community Supported Fishery club {think, Community Supported Agriculture, or CSA, for fish}. I’m in.

Biggest Head Turner: Louisa Shafia’s new book, Lucid Food, had me at hello. The seductive cover photography {of rhubarb, a personal fave}, its tagline, “Cooking for an Eco-Conscious Life,” and Louisa’s 80 alluring recipes speak my language. And if her pumpkin bread {or the success of her catering company} is any indication, the gal can cook. The book hits stores this week.

Best Find: Hudson Valley Seed Library, a collection of local, heirloom seeds cultivated in the Hudson Valley, is sold in packets featuring commissioned artwork worth holding on to after the seeds hit the soil.

Best Service: Valet bike check, by Bowery Lane Bikes. Covetable bikes too, with a rear rack and wooden crate big enough to tote home all your loot.

Best Story: When I asked James Andela of Krugerrand Farms how many goats he had, after I tasted his mildly sweet 90-day-aged raw-milk goat cheese, he told me a story. “This is a 4-H project that got out of hand,” he said. “When my girls went to college, they told me I could sell their goats. They pictured the goats grazing on a dairy farm, I pictured them becoming a one-night stand at a bad Indian restaurant, so I kept them.” Good move. 10 years later he and his wife run a sustainable farm and produce four memorable artisan cheeses.

That is exactly why I shop at local markets. I want the 4-H story. I want to know the names of the goats who give milk for my cheese, or the brothers that handcraft my chocolate. I want food with heart, with history. Food that for the miles it has not traveled, and the care with which it was crafted, tastes so much better than everything else.

Applesauce, in the Spirit of Discipline

lic, ny

Yesterday was marathon Sunday in New York, a day when over 40,000 people gather from around the world to run their hearts out along the 26.2 mile route that weaves through New York’s five boroughs...while the rest of us gather to show our support, most commonly over brunch.

The easiest thing in the world is to stand on the sidelines of a marathon with a full belly, hoping to absorb some of the tenacity and perseverence it takes each runner to pound the pavement for three to four {and sometimes five and six} hours on end. Having never attempted such a feat, I’m struck with emotion over the effort of hundreds of people running side by side for country or cause, pushing through the pain at the 14-mile marker where András and I stood with our bikes around the corner from home. There is both hope and heartache in the sight of people being pushed on by the sound of their name called out by strangers, read from jerseys to inspire them to keep going just a few miles more. Go Dave! Go Karen! You can do it Juan! Keep going Susan!

András leads the voices. He knows the rules of a marathon intimately, having run dozens of them, six of them in New York, once finishing 176^th out of over 38,000 runners. He narrates the scene—the mile markers, the time charts, the water stations, the volunteers standing by with Vaseline to rub on chapped skin. I’m mesmerized by his knowledge of the scene, his stories of crossing the Queensboro Bridge separated from the nearest runner by a minute split.

I ask him his best Marathon time.

2:41:15.

I try to think of something amazing I’ve done with two hours and forty-one minutes, and suddenly I think of the 30 pounds of apples sitting in our kitchen that we lugged home from the farmer’s market on Wednesday morning.

“I bet I could make a winter’s worth of applesauce in two hours and forty one minutes,” I say.

We roll home on our bikes and set to work, side by side, washing and coring Mutsu, Macoun, Pippen and Cameo apples, cutting them in chunks and toss them in our biggest pots with a touch of sugar, cider and Saigon cinnamon from my last trip to The Spice House in Chicago. While the house smells of simmering sauce, we set to work on the bookshelf, reorganizing and arranging piles of books that we ransacked during a busy summer.

When the sauce is finished and cooled, I transfer it into jars, make list of friends we’d be sharing it with and create lovely labels with names like Saigon Sweet {for the cinnamon}, Gala Royale and Empire State Sauce.

“It’s not worth putting on those labels for just one or two days,” András says. Left in his reach,the 12 jars we made will most likely be gone within the week, a feat requiring the kind of dedication András has mastered through years of training. So, in the spirit of discipline, we each curl up with a jar of sauce, a spoon and a favorite book, rest our weary legs and celebrate our winnings.

I’d like to think that a marathon applesauce making requires sacrifice, tenacity, perseverance but the truth is, it is about the simplest thing, requiring no discipline at all. Here’s how: