Fake Fruit at the Farmers Market?! Caesar Salad

Last week, I found myself at the Farmer’s Market with 26 (count ‘em) fifth graders from Brooklyn. I volunteer for Days of Taste, a program that takes chefs and food professionals out of their kitchens and plunks them into public school classrooms across the country. We work with the students for four weeks, explaining flavor, doing a little field trip to the Greenmarket, making a salad in the classroom, and a trip to a local restaurant for lunch.

On Greenmarket day, the children are given a tour of the market, lots of samples, and most importantly, a buck with which they can make their very own purchases. As instructors, we set up a simple rule: the buck needs to be used to purchase something that grows on a tree, in the ground, on a plant or on a vine. So while apples fit into these categories, apple cider (a derivative) does not. It’s gotta be something you can dig for or pick.

We encouraged the students to stump us (chocolate capsicum, anyone?), but they seemed more interested in buying rolls and the ubiquitous $1 cider. Of course, some of the boys found their way to pints of habaneros and jalapenos, so that they could rip them in half and taunt each other with the seeds…but for the most part, the students played by the rules.

To make things more interesting (and upsell the delicious, local and ne'er before seen), I took my group on a little tour of the unexpected. I bought a $4 pint of concord grapes, which never fail to stun me with their vivid flavor. I asked the students to open their little bird mouths, into which I plopped a purple orb (telling them to mind the pit, of course).

Relishing the silence, I asked them each to think of one word to describe the flavor, or texture, or experience of this particular grape, and note how it might be different from grapes they’d had in the past.

I got “yummy”, “delicious”, and “scrumptious”, then the child who would not be limited to one word. “More of a grape”, “mushier”, “more slimy”.

And then, there was the child who uttered the word I hadn’t anticipated, which is the true joy of working with elementary school students.

“Artificial!”

“Come again?”

“Artificial!! Everyone should take this grape out of their mouths IMMEDIATELY, because the flavor is so vivid, so real, and so strong, it’s AHHHHBviously fake food.”

We’re in the farmers market with an obvious agenda: to celebrate the flavor of goods that come from local farms. This is a mantra we’d repeated at least a dozen times this morning alone. But these obtuse concepts were not making their way past prior parental prostelitizing, so I tried:

“See that thing you’re holding in your hand? It’s a stem. And that little thing you’re playing with on your tongue? It’s a seed. If you see stems and seeds, you can bet that the food you’re eating is natural and not artificial.”

“But, it tastes artificial.”

Moving right along. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw some huge, impressive lulav-like boughs of eucalyptus. Talk about a vivid, unusual scent. I asked my group to stick their little noses onto this branch, and inhale deeply.

Same student: “It smells like Vicks.”

I could only complement the student for her interest, and passion, and creative palate. Some where between there and here, our confused national food agendas will become clear. Until then, I can only encourage her, in that unlike so many her age, she's gone beyond the chicken nugget and is willing to try food and think about it. She might not have the right answers, but she's on her way.

In the meantime, here’s a killer recipe for homemade Caesar Salad dressing and the most delicious croutons you’ll ever have. Toss this on a head of farmers market romaine and enjoy.

Caesar Salad
Serves 4 to 6

For the croutons:
4 tablespoons unsalted butter or olive oil
1/2 baguette (or any other loaf of fresh bread), cut into bite-sized pieces (about 2 cups)
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon dried parsley flakes
1/4 teaspoon coarse salt

For the dressing:
1 garlic clove, smashed and peel removed
1 large egg yolk
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
2 large anchovies
2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
3 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese
Coarse salt and pepper, to taste

For the salad:
1 medium head romaine lettuce, cut into 1-inch ribbons
Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, shaved or grated

To make the croutons: In a large nonstick skillet, melt butter or heat oil over medium heat. Add chunks of bread, and sprinkle with garlic powder. Stir to coat bread cubes with butter. Cook about 4 minutes, stirring occasionally, until all sides are golden and toasted. Sprinkle with parsley flakes, and toss to coat. Remove from skillet and set aside until ready to use.

To make the dressing: In a food processor or blender, add the garlic and pulse to chop. Add the egg yolk, mustard and anchovies. Pulse to create a paste. Add the lemon juice, and with the machine running, slowly drizzle in the olive oil until it is incorporated and the dressing is emulsified. Add parmesan; season to taste with salt and pepper and set aside.

In a serving bowl, combine the lettuce with the salad dressing and toss to combine. Top with the croutons and cheese, as desired. Serve cold.

Light Bulb Oven: Chocolate Dipped Poached Pears with Red Wine Caramel

I finally got the call: an invitation to one of those underground dinners. I'm long on hype and short on hip; this stuff has been cool for the last 5 - 7 years. You'd think with all my food connections I'd have hooked into one far sooner than I did. Bygones...

Here I was. At lightbulb oven, which was produced (directed, owned, and cheffed) by a gal I'd met while publishing for Atkins. She was intimidatingly Williamsburg hip back then, and gosh, with all her talk of cooking in Texan restaurants, I was constantly concerned we'd have an Emperor's Clothes moment. I admired her from afar.

So it was she who invited l'il ol' me to my first underground. The menu promised:

a fall celebration...

wild mushroom broth with minted green pea gnocchi

warm panko-crusted goat cheese / baby arugula with green tea vinaigrette / red and golden beet coulis

pan-seared cod fillet / roasted fennel / olive oil mashed potatoes / preserved lemons / parsley puree

five-spice poached pears dipped in chocolate / zinfandel syrup / pistachio tuiles

And for only $40, via pay pal, it could all be mine. Best bargain in the borough (no matter what Tempo promises). Though some might get stuck on the issue of the dollar. Indulge me with this for a bit.

These days, in New York, no one throws a dinner party. I've heard stories of parties in the 60s and 70s...women thumbing through Julia, too poor to afford the restaurants. Newly married and blissy and all the publishing friends come over and bottles of wine appear, and somehow it all works out.

Enter: 2007. Still fab women in publishing, except they had earlier careers in line cooking, or maybe they just have a wicked Food Network habit. Whatever it is, we can cook, and it's not beef bourginon, or anything en croute. No one is fussing with white sauces, and the dinner isn't three hours late.

What there isn't is men. We are, count 'em, 11 women and 1 guy (who, bien sur, comes with a date). There are no husbands -- though there are lots of stories of ex's; trust me, you don't want to be among them. And now in the retelling it sounds like I'm in some weird Jerry McGuire moment, but I'm not.

It's 2007; this is an underground dinner club. And it's mostly women, in publishing. And we don't know each other, we just have a common cog in our wheels. And boy can she cook. And gee, isn't it just nice, to sit around the table, be taken care of, and away from the pressures of old friendships, dating and drama. Just to be with virtual strangers, hand selected by our chef/host in the farmers market of her experiences.

We've been put together in lightbulb oven's Prospect pot, and we're a bubbling. We laughed hard, drank a lot, and ate very well. Next time when I'm looking to live life, and have a big dinner party with friends I didn't know I had; I'm going underground.

Chocolate-Dipped Poached Pears with Red Wine Caramel and Mascarpone Cream

My lightbulb pal comes from a restaurant background, so this recipe appears a bit more labor intensive than the usual In Your Kitchen post. So don't skim, consider it's length and move on. Consider this: it's actually four recipes in one. Have the pears, dip something in chocolate, make the caramel, or just make a mascarpone cream.

1 (750 ml) bottle Zinfandel
1/2 cup sugar
1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
1 1/2 teaspoons five-spice powder
1 tablespoon finely grated lemon zest
1/4 cup orange juice
1 tablespoon lemon zest
1/4 cup whiskey (I use Maker's Mark)
6 whole Bosc pears, peeled, cored, and hollowed
Parchment paper, cut into a circle to fit the stockpot
1stick (1/2 cup) unsalted butter
1 cup bittersweet chocolate, chopped

Red Wine Caramel
3/4 cup granulated sugar
2 tablespoons water
3/4 cup cooled pear poaching liquid
1 tablespoon unsalted butter

Mascarpone Cream
1 (8 ounce) containers mascarpone cheese, softened
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/4 cup powdered sugar (or to taste; i err on the less sugar side)
2 tablespoons chopped crystallized ginger
1 tablespoon finely grated lemon or orange zest

Shelled pistachios (not dyed red), toasted and chopped, for garnish

1. In a large stockpot, combine the wine and the sugar. Heat over medium, stirring, until the sugar dissolves. Stir in the next 5 ingredients, then add the pears one at a time, making sure they are submerged (you may need to add water to make enough liquid). Place the parchment circle on top of the pears. Bring the liquid to a slow simmer and simmer until the pears are tender, 12 to 15 minutes.

2. Remove the pan from the heat and let the pears and liquid cool to room temperature, then refrigerate several hours and up to overnight.

3. Remove the pears from the liquid (reserve 3/4 cup liquid) and gently pat dry with paper towels. Line a cookie sheet with parchment or wax paper.

4. Melt the chocolate and butter together in a double boiler or at 50% power in the microwave, stirring at 1-minute intervals. Working one at a time, dip the pears into the melted chocolate, swirling the pan for an even coating. (I like to do mine about halfway up the pear so you can see the lovely pink of the pears.) Place each pear on the lined cookie sheet. Refrigerate dipped pears until the chocolate is solid, about 30 minutes.

5. Meanwhile, in a medium heavy saucepan, combine 3/4 cup sugar and 2 tablespoons water. Heat over medium without stirring until the sugar has caramelized and is golden brown.

6. Remove the pan from the heat and whisk in the reserved poaching liquid. Whisk to dissolve the hardened caramel, then heat over medium until the liquid has reduced by about a third. Remove pan from heat and stir in butter. Let caramel stand at room temperature until serving (unless you make it hours ahead; then refrigerate and bring to room temperature about half an hour before you serve it.)

7. Just before serving, whisk the mascarpone until it's smooth. Whisk or beat the cream and powdered sugar with an electric mixer until stiff peaks form. Fold the whipped cream in to the mascarpone, then fold in the ginger and lemon zest.

8. To serve, drizzle a plate with the caramel and place a pear in the center. Dollop a tablespoonful of the mascarpone cream next to the pear and sprinkle with chopped pistachios.