You Can Order Anything at the Butcher: Stuffed Peppers

The terrific folks over at Hyperion have given me a box of Cook Yourself Thin books to distribute to industry friends. That's good, because I've spent at least a couple episodes' of revenue buying books and giving them away.

I decided that it would be classier to wrap said books than not, and wouldn't it be cute to wrap them in butcher paper and butcher string? Where does one go to get said "wrap"? To the butcher, I went!

I've got 20 books, so that's a heck of a lot of paper, more than I would feel comfortable asking for on the side. So I went to my guy, and asked if I could order some some butcher paper.

"Whaddya mean, 'butcher paper'?"

"I mean, the paper that you, the butcher, use to pack things up?"

"You mean this?" He holds up the white glossy paper that's thicker than parchment, and usually touches the meat.

"No, that's not it. The brown paper. There it is -- on the roll!"

"Ah, you mean peach paper."

I guess I did. And so I ordered a $40 roll -- enough to last me through a decade of baby gifts, showers, and Chanukah presents.

Butchers always seem like a rough-and-tumble lot to me. You know, carving up carcasses, handling meat. And yet, he called the stuff peach paper; not pink, not brown, not 'meat wrap'. It seemed so delicate; so precise.

And what was I expecting, exactly? After all, you don't go to China asking for Chinese food, now do you?



Antipasti Platter in Providence's Little Italy. The Stuffed Peppers are at 12 o'clock and 4 o'clock:

Stuffed Peppers
I suppose you could make them, but I don't, especially when trading favors with my butcher. These perky little peppers are stuffed with prosciutto and provolone, which both accentuate, enhance, and then relieve the fire in your mouth. They also come stuffed with breadcrumbs, but I like the low-carb version myself.

The Rhoda Moment: Chicken Fingers and Mint Chocolate Chip Muffins

As part of the promotional effort for the Cook Yourself Thin TV show and cookbook, I found myself on the CBS morning show yesterday morning.

In effort to distract myself from the hoopla (as well as my goosebumps, and clattering teeth), I looked left right and center to get my bearings. Across Fifth Avenue was The Plaza, to the left was Bergdorff's and Central Park was to the right. If I looked up towards the sun, there were the building tops of midtown.

Thankfully, Candice Kumai was beside me, a partner in promotion, so I took a moment to distract us from out talking points and the public application of double stick tape to various parts of our bodies, and pointed some local points of interest. When I feel like a tourist in my own reality, nothing grounds me quite like the living history of New York City.

Here's a clip of the CBS Early Show appearance for Cook Yourself Thin.

And here's recipes for some of our recipes. I dig the Chicken Fingers -- and Harry, our CBS host was right; that Cole Slaw is tasty. Try the Mint Chocolate Chip Cupcakes.

Attentive Asparagus and Melting Strawberries: Asparagus Pesto

I was at a roadside farmstand in the Hamptons this week when I asked a particularly daft question. When I arrived, the farmer told me that the only items that were local right now were the strawberries and the asparagus. She sighed, and seemed disappointed.

The strawberries looked good to me. Pretty, teeny and perky. The Lolitas of the farm.

I asked my farmette how long the strawberry growing season was. She looked at me quizzically and somewhat irritated. “Well that’s the $64 dollar question, ain’t it,” she said.

“???” I responded. Ears open, mouth shut.

“You see, we don’t know what the season is gonna be like, now do we. If we get sun, we get sweet berries. If we get rain, the berries melt in the field.”

“Melt?” I asked.

“Sure. Whaddya think happens to ‘em?” she smiled a scold, and walked away to unload a truck of fuschias.

Oof. I mean, I can appreciate hard labor, but I also like a sure thing, especially when it comes to earning a living. Farmers do their best with their land and technology, but in the end…as it has been said by many a Yiddish speaker before me: Man plans. God laughs.

And speaking of man, how ‘bout that asparagus? In New York City these erect little soldiers are just everywhere. Quite an eager suitor for that tart little strawberry, come to think of it. Yet I've never seen them in a dish together. Mutual availability doesn't always make a match.

I couldn't resist the temptation of the young asparagus; I had to have some. And when I arrived home carrying bunches of the stuff, I found their Jersey brothers already lining my vegetable bins. I had an asparagus harem. Oh what, oh what to do?

Nearly every farm stand in the Hamptons was selling asparagus pesto, and as everyone in the food business knows, pesto is a variation on the we-have-too-much-of-this-and-need-to-find-a-way-to-use-it-before-it-goes-bad theme. Jams, jellies, even ravioli and dumplings are all just a way to give food one last shot before it hits the bin. A culinary rope-a-dope, if you will.

So I tossed my bunch of Jersey asparagus with a little oil, salt and pepper, and charred it under the broiler. Then I threw it in the food processor with the tiniest clove or raw garlic, a generous shaving of parmesan, some just-toasted sliced almonds, and a little olive oil. Voila! Asparagus Pesto.

I spread the pesto on a cracker and dropped to my knees. This was the stuff! I could toss the pesto with pasta or garbanzos, or I could thin it with a little chicken stock to make a puree to put under striped bass or somesuch. I could served the dish with grilled lemons; my favorite.

And as for those strawberries? They were so sublime that I couldn't control myself; I ate them raw in the car. This season, it was the strawberries turn to make me melt.


Asparagus Pesto
Toss with spaghetti and some bay scallops, or spread on crackers and enjoy. Less aggressive than basil pesto, it's an incredibly satisfying way to get rid of the old and make room for the new.

1 bunch asparagus
1 tiny garlic clove
1/3 cup sliced almonds, toasted until golden
¼ cup Parmesan cheese (shaved on a Microplane grater)
olive oil, salt, pepper
verjus, sherry vinegar, champagne vinegar or lemon juice

1. Toss asparagus with a drizzle of olive oil, salt and pepper. Place on a baking sheet under the broiler. Babysit it until it sizzles, and gets a little color – 5 to 10 minutes depending on the aggressiveness of your broiler.
2. Place asparagus in a food processor with the garlic, almonds, parmesan, and another tablespoon or two of the olive oil. Pulse until chunky-pureed.
3. Taste. Good, right? Adjust for acidity with a tablespoon of verjus, or a teaspoon or 2 of vinegar or lemon juice

Adam’s Rib: Baby’s Got Back

I used to date a guy named Adam. I outweighed him, even though he was taller by about 4 inches. This is not a situation I would recommend for any woman who wants to feel, you know, like a woman. You don’t want to be able to lift a man who can’t lift you; trust me.

Adam believed that he contracted a tapeworm, or something, when he was in Africa (a decade prior to dating me). His stomach often hurt; friends would give him cases of toilet paper for his birthday.

He hated, I mean hated mushrooms and Parmesan cheese. As a result, I tried to sneak them into everything I cooked. Often he did not detect them, which gave me great joy. But most nights, even when I didn't use Parmesan OR mushrooms, he'd push aside my creative efforts in favor of something he found more satisfying, like a candy bar.

Ah, Adam.

He is married, as I’ve learned through our shared housekeeper. I hear he's living very well. That’s nice, very nice for Adam.

And I mean that sincerely. You see, once the trauma of a break-up is over, ex's can be re-cast as a wonderful piece of the past who helped you become the person you are today. Like a college semester you spent in Tibet. You don’t necessarily want to live there now, but you’re glad you lived there then.

'Adam' is a name that comes up a lot. Beginning of the alphabet, earthy, strong, easy to spell. There’s a prayer that Jewish people recite in Hebrew before they eat vegetables 'Boray, p’ri, ha’adamah'; 'Blessed are the fruits of the earth' (also known as vegetables). 'Ha’adamah' means 'the earth'. Do you see what I see? 'Adam' = 'Earth'. It’s solid, and I enjoy its Hebrew bi-linguality.

It’s a strong name; a biblical name. When I make ribs, I can’t help but think of the original Adam, who was from the earth, and that temptress Eve, who was made from his rib (metaphorically speaking, of course).

And when I pick up a rack of baby backs, I can’t help but think of my own ample asset, which I didn't always consider an asset. You see, Baby’s got back. This cracks me up. I feel like I'm back in ’93 again with those two dufuses sitting around giggling, “Heh, heh. She said baby back. Heh, heh.”

It was hard to enjoy this asset of mine when I was dating Adam. I wanted to get small, smaller than him – smaller than would have ever been healthy. I mean really, people, who can compete with a tapeworm? Come to think of it, eating ribs was also something that I couldn’t enjoy with him.

His absence in my present helps me to enjoy two pleasures more than I would have otherwise. Had I a better body image, and not an ample posterior? It would have been enough for me. Had I Parmesan and mushrooms, and not all-I-can-eat pork for the rest of my life?

It would have been enough for me.

And thanks to my little man of the earth, today I enjoy these pleasures, more. That, friends, is the beauty of a well-loved ex, his departure, and a celebration of reclaimed assets.

Dayenu.

Adam’s Baby Backs with Eve’s Rub
Makes about 2 cups rub, and ribs for 4 to 6

For rib rub:
1/2 cup kosher salt
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup hot Hungarian paprika
1/4 cup chili powder
2 tablespoons onion powder
2 tablespoons garlic powder
1 tablespoon cayenne
1 tablespoon thyme
2 tablespoons espresso or cocoa powder

For ribs:
1/2 cup rib rub
2 slabs baby back ribs
1/2 cup your favorite barbeque sauce, as desired

1. For rub: Whisk together salt, sugar, paprika, chili powder, onion powder, garlic powder, cayenne, thyme and espresso in a medium bowl. Store in a cool, dry place in an airtight container for up to 6 months.
2. For baby back ribs: Using 1/4 cup of rib rub for each rack, generously cover ribs with rub. Wrap ribs completely in aluminum foil. Refrigerate overnight, or leave on the counter for 1 hour. Allow to come to room temperature before cooking.
3. Heat oven to 350F. Cook ribs for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, or until meat pulls away from bone at the ends. Remove ribs from oven, and very carefully remove from foil (there will be hot steam and liquid coming out.
4. Preheat grill to medium heat and lay ribs on grill rack. Cook, turning occasionally, basting ribs with sauce (if desired), until the sauce is set and the rib edges are crispy, about 10 to 15 minutes.

TIP: With ribs, slower, lower temperature cooking results in tender ribs. If you can, cook the ribs at 325F for 2 to 2 1/2 hours, or 300 for 3 to 3 1/2 hours.

TIP: If you don’t want to finish the ribs on the grill, simply remove the ribs from the foil and finish cooking for about 3 minutes per side under the broiler. The broiler will have a similar effect as the grill, crisping the edges and setting the sauce.