Ingredient Spotlight - Bitter Melon

"Ugh, I HATE bitter melon!" my friend proclaimed, inspiring a sarcastic "Once again, with feeling!" from me.  "My mom makes bitter melon, I think she only cooks it when she's mad at me," he said.


Bitter melon

We were chatting about fruits and vegetables that are hard to find in the US, and my mention of bitter melon sparked an immediate, and quite heated, reaction.  That was the moment I knew I had to get my hands on a bitter melon and see for myself why it was my friend's most hated vegetable. 

Bitter melon is technically a fruit, although it is eaten as a vegetable.  Interestingly, it is also widely used as a medicinal plant.  Some cultures use bitter melon to treat ailments and diseases such as malaria, cancer, and some viruses.  Bitter melon does in fact contain compounds that are useful in medicine.  The fruit grows in tropical and sub-tropical climates and looks like a pale, ridged cucumber.  Some specialty stores and higher-end markets will sell bitter melon from time to time, but you're far more likely to find it if you live in a city with a good-sized Asian population.  I found mine in Boston's Chinatown. 

Once it was time to taste-test this new and exciting veggie, I realized that I had no clue how to prepare it - does the skin stay on?  Are there seeds, and if so, are they edible?  Those were questions for Google.  Turns out, the skin is edible, and while the seeds and the pith are technically edible, removing them takes away the overwhelming bitterness.  Just slice lengthwise and remove the seeds as you would from a cucumber (I, however, cut a cross-section so that you could see what the inside looked like).

The verdict?  I loved it!  It keeps the crunchy, watery texture of a cucumber when stir-fried, and I thought it tasted like a grassy cross between artichokes and chicory.  When I mentioned that to my bitter melon-hating friend, his reaction was, "Exactly.  I don't know why you would want to eat that."  I liked bitter melon for the same reason I love broccoli rabe, escarole, and radicchio - no, not because they're Italian - I like the taste of bitter vegetables.  Bitter melon is certainly not for everyone; it's one of those veggies you either love or you hate.  That being said, if you ever see a bitter melon, try it and decide for yourself! 


Bitter Melon Stir-Fry

boiling water
10 dried shiitake mushrooms
10 dried tree ear mushrooms*
2 T. coconut oil or vegetable oil
2 shallots, minced
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 T. dried shrimp (optional)
1 bitter melon, sliced

For the stir-fry sauce:
1/4 c. low sodium soy sauce
2 T. rice wine or dry sherry
1/2 t. szechuan peppercorns
1 t. red chili flakes
1 t. grated ginger
1/4 t. white pepper
1 t. cornstarch
1 T. cold water

cooked rice, to serve
toasted sesame seeds, to garnish

Dried mushrooms

First, prepare the dried mushrooms by placing them in a bowl and covering them with boiling water (approx. 1/2 cup).  Let them soak for about 10 minutes.  In the meantime, prepare the stir-fry sauce by combining all ingredients but the cornstarch and water in a bowl.  In a separate bowl, blend the cornstarch into the cold water, then add this to the sauce.

Now, drain the mushrooms and squeeze out any excess water.  Slice them into 1/4" strips and set aside. 

Heat a wok or large frying pan over high heat.  Add the coconut or vegetable oil, and once it is melted, add the shallots, garlic, and dried shrimp, if using.  Stir-fry for a minute or so, then add the bitter melon and the sliced mushrooms.  Stir-fry for an additional 3-4 minutes. 

Finally, add the stir-fry sauce and continue to stir-fry until all the vegetables are coated and the sauce has thickened up a bit, approximately 2 minutes. 

Spoon into individual bowls of cooked rice and sprinkle with a generous pinch of toasted sesame seeds.

* These may also be labelled "cloud ear mushrooms" or simply "black fungus." 

"Good" Pizza Day at the Willy C!

Freshman year!

Eleven years ago, I was an ambitious, energetic college freshman at SUNY Fredonia.  Majoring in pre-law, I truly believed that the world was my oyster and that I had a bright, lucrative future ahead of me.  This was at the tail end of Clinton-era prosperity, before the 2000 election and the Florida recount, before 9/11, before I transferred to Northeastern University, before the wars, before the market crash, and before it dawned on me that life isn't going to be an endless string of bonus checks and fashionable parties, but rather a daily grind of putting the new cover sheets on my TPS reports.
 

Yours truly, at a good,
old-fashioned kegger...


Ahh, the year 2000.  After "surviving" Y2K, the days ahead seemed celebratory, and celebrate we did!  We shook our bon-bons.  We let the dogs out.  We let Sisqo see that thong-tha-thong-thong-thong.  Britney hadn't yet flashed her naughty bits, Facebook didn't exist, and Bostonians still groaned about The Curse of the Bambino. 

Kinda surreal.

I made some great friends at SUNY, a few of whom I still talk to regularly and am willing to get felt up by TSA to visit.  When I reminisce with these friends, one of the things we still talk about fondly from that era is the "good" pizza from the Willy C (or to all you non-Fredonians, The Williams Center, which is the hub of non-alcoholic student activity).

The "good" pizza was nothing more than thin-crust pizza margherita with a kick of garlic, but compared to Willy C's other pizza offerings, which featured doughy crust, cheap, greasy pepperoni, rubbery cheese (often burnt), metallic, bitter black olives, and absolutely tragic-looking bits of green pepper, the "good" pizza was reason to run to the nearest computer, log on to AOL Instant Messenger, and let everyone on your buddy list know that the Willy C was serving the "good" pizza! 

Two nights ago, I dreamed about the "good" pizza, and I wouldn't rest until I had it.  My options were limited - I could make some phone calls to SUNY's dining services office to see if it still existed, and if so, when they'd be serving it next, then hop on a plane, rent a car, drive to campus, and wait until the "good" pizza came out of the oven, or I could try to duplicate it.  I chose the latter.

If you went to SUNY Fredonia for more than 5 minutes and you want a trip down memory lane that doesn't involve Scummy's, Coyle's, Brigham Road, or high times at the Chinese buffet with the suspiciously large 'chicken' wings, try this recipe at home sometime! 

The "Good" Pizza

1-2 roma tomatoes, sliced into 1/4" thick rings
1/2 lb. pizza dough
cornmeal
2-3 T. peppery olive oil
2-3 cloves garlic, pressed or sliced paper-thin
1 t. pesto, or 1 T. shredded basil leaves
a few grinds black pepper
1 cup shredded mozzarella

Preheat the oven to 465.  Lay the tomato slices on paper towels to remove excess moisture.  In the meantime, sprinkle cornmeal on your pizza tray or cookie sheet and stretch the pizza dough so that a very thin crust is formed.  Place the dough on the cornmeal - this is the best way to prevent it from sticking. 

In a small bowl, combine the olive oil, garlic, pesto or basil, and pepper.  Mix well, then brush over the pizza crust, leaving 1/2" uncoated around the edge.  Top with an even layer of shredded mozzarella, then place the tomato slices on top of the mozzarella. 

Bake for 13-15 minutes, then remove from oven, let the pizza cool for a few minutes, and slice and serve. 

Salad - A Love Story

Poor salad.  It gets such a bad rap.  Long thought of as "chick food," mass media and advertising perpetuate the myth that salads are never eaten because they're tasty and satisfying, but because the eater is demonstrating his or her weight control efforts and trying to be "good" that day. 

I'm head over heels in love with salad, but I keep our relationship on the down low.  I rarely order salads in restaurants for the totally lame reason that I'm very thin and don't want to be judged and thought of as *that* girl - you know, the fat-free dressing on the side, ice water with lemon, cut off a pinkie before taking a bite of a bacon cheeseburger, "do I look fat?" type...I digress.  I know that I shouldn't let other people's nosy judgments affect my meal choices, but I do.  So I make my salads at home, and I make them taste awesome! 

My favorite salad recipe is loaded with greens ranging from mild and buttery to hearty and bitter, and it features flavor-packed anchovies, ripe tomatoes, hard-cooked egg, crunchy omega-3 loaded toasted flax seeds, distinctive seasonings like pink peppercorns and lavender flowers, all topped off with peppery olive oil and a squeeze of tart lemon juice.  I don't use a salad bowl; I eat from a Corelle 2-quart serving bowl.  I like to eat my industrial-sized salads with homemade garlic bread, charcuterie, and wine.  Put it this way - I can turn "rabbit food" into gluttony.  I know that people who belong to the Church of Our Savior Calorie Counting will probably shake their heads and immediately write me off as a lunatic when they see that I'm serving a salad alongside slices of fatty pork sausage and a carb dish that uses 1/2 cup of butter, but guess what?  Some people eat salad not because they have an irrational phobia of calories, but simply because - GASP - it tastes good! 

The key to a meal this simple is to use the best possible products you can buy.  Don't use bottled salad dressing - all that's needed to dress a salad is a good extra-virgin olive oil and a lemon.  Don't buy a salami or summer sausage that's loaded with more chemicals than meat (I like Creminelli Salami Tartufo, a spicy pork sausage dotted with bits of black truffle).  Why anyone buys that nitrate-loaded mall kiosk shit is beyond me - once you find a good brand and a seasoning style that you like, you'll never eat that salted & petrified dog food again.  And please don't desecrate my garlic bread recipe by using something that's been on a truck or a shelf for five days; buy a baguette from a local bakery that bakes its goodies on the premises.  As for butter, it is worth it to seek out European-style butters, which have a higher butterfat percentage than American brands.  And for Pete's sake, banish from your brain the thought that eating salad is a merely a means to an end. 


My All-Time Favorite Dinner Salad

2 cups oak leaf lettuce, torn into bite-sized pieces
1 cup chicory or dandelion greens, torn into bite-sized pieces
handful baby arugula
3 anchovy fillets, minced
1 hard-cooked egg, chopped
1 T. finely minced onion
1 T. capers, rinsed
a few black olives, sliced
3 cherry tomatoes, quartered
generous splash olive oil
salt & pepper
pinch pink peppercorns
sprinkle of Herbes de Provence
sprinkle of lavender flowers*
sprinkle of toasted flax seeds
sprinkle of toasted pignoli
squeeze of fresh lemon

In a large salad bowl, combine the lettuce, chicory or dandelion, arugula, anchovy, egg, onion, capers, olives, and tomatoes.  Splash the olive oil directly into the bowl, then add the salt, pepper, pink peppercorns, Herbes de Provence, toasted flax seeds, and toasted pignoli.  Toss well until all the lettuce leaves are coated with oil.  Squeeze in the fresh lemon juice, toss again, and serve with garlic bread, sliced salami, and a crisp white wine, such as Pinot Grigio.

Garlic Bread

1/2 cup European-style butter, softened to room temperature
2 cloves garlic, pressed or sliced paper-thin
1 T. peppery olive oil
1 small baguette, sliced on the diagonal

In a small bowl, combine the butter, garlic and olive oil.  In the meantime, heat your broiler and toast the baguette slices for 1-2 minutes on each side, until they are golden but not burnt. 

Spread each toasted baguette slice with the garlic/butter/oil mixture, then place in the broiler with the oven door open for another 15-20 seconds or so, or until the butter mix has completely melted and seeped into the bread.  Serve on a plate with 1/4" thick slices of salami. 

* Make sure you are using lavender flowers intended for consumption rather than potpourri - non-edible flowers are often loaded with chemicals and preservatives

Linguine with Sausage, Tomatoes, and Broccoli Rabe

It's been quite some time since I've posted a recipe that didn't highlight an ingredient or feature a culinary backstory rivaling the Old Testament in word count, so today I offer you a basic, straightforward recipe that is both easy and fun to prepare.  All of the ingredients used are simple and easy to find, but if for some reason you cannot find broccoli rabe, kale, escarole, or collard greens would be acceptable substitutes. 

Linguine with Sausage, Tomatoes, and Broccoli Rabe

1 lb. dried linguine

splash olive oil

1 lb. hot Italian sausage, removed from casings

1 onion, quartered lengthwise, then sliced

small bunch broccoli rabe, chopped into bite-sized bits (approx. 4 cups)

1 28oz. can whole tomatoes, or 2 lbs. fresh tomatoes
2 t. fennel seeds
2 t. dried oregano
1 T. butter
salt and pepper
grated pecorino, to serve

Cook the pasta.  In the meantime, heat a generous splash of olive oil in a large pot over medium-high heat.  Add the sausage and brown it, separating it into bite-sized chunks with a wooden spoon as it cooks.  Cook for a minute or two, then add the sliced onion.  Cook for approximately 5 minutes, or until the onion is soft. 

Next, add the chopped broccoli rabe and saute for about 5 more minutes, stirring occasionally, until the leafy bits of the broccoli rabe have wilted. 

Now, add the liquid from the canned tomatoes to the pot.  Take each whole tomato and crush it in your hand over the pot, as shown in the photo to the right.  I like to think about the person(s) at the top of my shit list when I complete this step - it's mildly therapeutic.  Alternatively (but not nearly as emotionally satisfying), if you are using fresh tomatoes, simply chop them and add them to the pot along with a splash of the pasta cooking water. 

Once the sausage, broccoli rabe, and tomato sauce has cooked for at least 10-15 minutes, the cooked pasta can be added.  The trick is to add the pasta when it is cooked but still slightly firm, as it will continue to cook after you add it to the sauce - nobody likes mushy linguine. 

Once you've added the pasta to the pot with the sauce, toss gently so that each strand is coated.  Add the butter, salt, and pepper, and toss again until the butter has melted.  Serve in individual bowls, topped with freshly grated pecorino romano.

Ingredient Spotlight - Concord Grapes

Concord grapes.  Their unmistakable aroma caught me by surprise as I scanned a produce market with my mom.  I picked up the container of grapes, breathed in their scent, and put them in my basket.  "What are you going to do with those?" my mom asked.

"No idea," I replied.  "Smell them?" 

Just one sniff of Concord grapes always manages to transport me right back to my childhood in Erie, Pennsylvania.  For those unfamiliar with the dot on the map where I spent the first 18 years of my life, Erie is home to more than decaying industry, lake effect snow, and the infamous pizza bomber.  Seated on the shore of the shallowest Great Lake, Erie has miles of sandy beaches and truly gorgeous sunsets.  Head east on PA Route 5, pointing away from the rusted out city, and you'll find acre after acre of vineyards belonging to local wineries, where seemingly endless rows of native grapes grow atop cliffs overlooking the lake's blue waves. 

As a child, I had access to a grapevine.  Yup, a single grapevine.  A sore thumb in my working-class neighborhood of brick rowhouses, postage-stamp yards, and blue-collar folks more loyal to beer than Barolo, my neighbor's vine of Concord grapes grew along the wire fence separating her yard from ours.  Although the scent of the grapes was intoxicating in the fall, my mom's flower garden didn't appreciate the shadows cast by the grapevine's broad leaves.  My neighbor, who canned and preserved whatever she could get her hands on, often juiced the grapes.  I don't remember her doing this so much in later years, but man, oh man, did those grapes smell delicious. 

Reminiscing aside, I still had no idea what to do with my grapes after I purchased them.  I don't know how to make wine, and even if I did, Concords are a "foxy" grape ("foxy" refers to a musty characteristic in grapes), and as such, they aren't generally used in winemaking.  Concords are pretty tart to eat out-of-hand, and their large seeds offer a crunchy, bitter surprise to the unsuspecting eater.  I wasn't quite convinced that I wanted to use the grapes as anything more than a catalyst to ignite a stroll down memory lane, but in the end, I decided it was time to make new memories and a new recipe. 



Grilled Pork Tenderloin with Concord Grape and Wild Boar Bacon Reduction

1 pork tenderloin, about 1.5 pounds
1 c. Concord grapes, halved
2 large garlic cloves, minced
2 T. olive oil
2 T. balsamic vinegar
2-3 sage leaves, minced
1 T. coarsely ground black pepper
1 T. butter
2 ounces wild boar bacon, cut in 1/4" dice*
1 small shallot, finely minced
1/3 c. light-bodied white wine
1/3 c. chicken or ham broth
Concord grapes on the stem, to garnish

Combine the grapes, garlic, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, sage leaves, and pepper in a large glass or plastic container with a tight-fitting lid.  Using a potato masher or the back of a fork, mash all the ingredients together until a fragrant paste is formed.  Place the pork in the dish with the grape paste, rubbing the paste on the pork.  Marinate up to 24 hours, shaking the dish occasionally.  The longer you marinate the pork, the fuller the flavor will be. 

When you are ready to cook the pork, heat a grill or grill pan over high heat.  In the meantime, brush the grape marinade off the pork, reserving the marinade.  Grill the pork on each side until no pink shows.  Each side should take about 5 minutes; the pork is ready to turn when the pork easily releases from the grill/grill pan.  If you are using a grill pan, transfer the pork loin to a shallow ovenproof dish or a baking sheet lined with foil, and bake for 10-15 minutes.  This step is not necessary if using a charcoal grill. 

While grilling the meat, make the grape and boar bacon reduction.  Place the reserved marinade in a small saucepan with the wine and chicken broth.  Bring to a quick boil, then reduce heat to a low simmer.  Keep covered so liquid does not evaporate, and simmer for about 10 minutes. 

In a separate saucepan, melt the butter over medium-high heat.  Add the diced wild boar bacon and saute until the fat has melted and the boar bacon is crispy.  Add the minced shallot and saute for another 3-5 minutes, stirring frequently, until the shallot is soft and translucent.  Do not let the shallot burn. 

Now it is time to add the marinade liquid.  Place a very fine sieve (or a strainer lined with cheesecloth) over the saucepan containing the boar bacon and the shallot.  Pour the contents of the marinade pan through the sieve, pressing the remaining solids with the back of a spoon to release as much liquid as possible.  When all the liquid has been squeezed out, discard the solids and bring the grape liquid to a boil, and whisk the sauce until it begins to thicken.  If it does not thicken up, you can "cheat" by blending 1 T. cold water with 1/2 t. cornstarch, and then whisking this into the sauce. 

Once the meat is done, take it off the grill or out of the oven and let it rest for 10 minutes.  Slice into 1/2" thick rounds, and arrange the rounds over polenta squares.  Spoon the grape sauce over, and garnish with a small bunch of Concord grapes. 

* If you cannot find wild boar bacon, you can substitute regular bacon or pancetta.  Wild boar bacon is available by mail from Savenor's, one of my local butcher shops.