It’s strange how easy it can be to define joy. After years of looking for happiness in a profession or in a mate, I find myself ever more capable of satisfaction and elation from mere moments. As I walk toward the farmer’s market on Wednesday morning, I feel like a dog dragging its owner to the park. My ebullience at the stalls of ramps, lilacs, lily of the valley, is such that $12 for a 1/4 lb. of mesclun can’t even bring me down. The soft air on my arms and ankles as I unfold myself from the car in Millbrook on Friday at twilight both comforts me with nostalgia and excites me with promise.

Yesterday I went morel hunting, which is one of my favorite ways on earth to spend an afternoon. By all accounts, I was a week late. The mushrooms popped in Dutchess county and the Berkshires a week ago; and three hours of foraging produced only six morels. But I can’t say that I was disappointed or that the day was a failure. How could it be when the sight of that first glorious morel growing up through the forest floor—staring at me as though it had been waiting for me—could inspire such joy. Before I used my trusty Opinel to harvest it, I took a photo with my iPhone and a “Mind Shot” of the sensation with my mind’s eye.

“Mind Shots” (preferably pronounced with a French accent, as it was by its inventor) are how you take a photo of a moment, a feeling, not just an image; a trick taught to me by my dear old pal, Da French Mouse, Stephanie Betant. The serenity that came over me at finding that perfect specimen growing up from dark leaves and verdant weeds on the forest floor, the accomplishment of finding that one flawless morel, it’s enough—even if the afternoon’s literal yield is only enough for a garnish.

My mother roasted two pork loins, drenched in Dr. Pete’s Praline Mustard Glaze (phenomenal Morrell pantry staple) and Domaine Faiveley Burgundy and I sautéed my freshly foraged morels with shallots, garlic and madeira.

Pork Loin: Pre-heat the oven to 450°F.

While the oven is heating up, clean your morels by slicing them in half lengthwise. Remove any grit (or critters) with running water if you prefer, though I dab them with a wet paper towel. I want the morels as dry as possible so that they soak up the flavors of what I cook them with. To that end, I briefly roasted my morels in a warm oven while I prepped the pork and got other ingredients ready.

Pork: Poke small holes in pork loin and stuff with garlic cloves/slivers. Rub pork loin with olive oil, sea salt, fresh pepper and dried thyme. Add some Dr. Pete’s Glaze if you can get your hands on it. Pour madeira and/or red wine into the bottom of the roasting pan (this will help keep your pork moist, imbue it with boozy deliciousness and eventually become a gravy.) Put the roast in the oven and turn the heat down to 400°F. Roast for 25 to 30 minutes (basting with the booze occasionally) or until the loin feels springy when you squeeze it. Slice the pork into medallions on platter. Reduce pan juices over medium heat on stovetop.

Morels: Chop 1 large shallot and two garlic cloves for every six morels you are lucky enough to find. Heat oil in a large pan (you don’t want to crowd your mushrooms). Add chopped garlic and shallots, sea salt and some fresh pepper—white, if you have it. Let simmer, stirring often, until the shallots soften but do not color. Add halved morels. Let cook. Gently turn the mushrooms. When the mushrooms have become golden and shrunk slightly, deglaze with a healthy douse of madeira and let simmer until the liquid is reduced by half. Add a few spoons full of cream, and again let the liquid reduce until the mushrooms are lying in glossy shallow puddle that clings to them. Add freshly chopped parsley. Serve draped over pork loin and spoon mushroom cooking liquid over pork or add it to the reduced pan juices for gravy.

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Tags: Foraging, Millbrook, Morel, Mushrooms, Spring

In my family, the passage of time is marked by the meals. Zucchini bread in abundance means summer has had her way with my mother’s garden and the zucchini have bloated to the size of footballs. The gelatinous herb-laced scarlet tire of my grandmother’s tomato aspic says “Merry Christmas” when it wiggles on the top shelf of the fridge. Cassoulet is the punctuation mark of a happy birthday for my Pisces father. And shad roe means spring, it means warmth is imminent and the days are growing longer and the world is rejuvenating. And it reminds me of Jasper, not that I need reminding.

Jasper was a best friend of mine, and the brother of a best friend, and the closest I’ll come to having a brother. I think most people who read this blog knew Jasper or know of him, but, dear Reader, if you didn’t know him, then think instead of one of your favorite people, one who could always coax a smile, but who isn’t around to squeeze your knees anymore.

Shad roe was Jasper’s last meal.

When the shad swim up the Potomac and lay their bloody eggs for North Eastern gourmands to claim and sautée in butter, I think of Jasper smiling as he ate shad roe for the first time, with the spring sun setting behind the Catskills. I think of him telling stories in his singularly delicious accent—posh and punk at once—in the warm kitchen with rapt fans hanging on his every word.

I am reminded by this image to live life as Jasper did: constantly trying new things, challenging himself, laughing at himself, laughing at me, making me laugh. I share with you his lesson: Try Everything.

Taste the tripe. Gobble the liver. Indulge in a sweetbread. Give the brussel sprouts that you were force-fed in childhood another chance when they are roasted with olive oil and sea salt. Pick up a guitar or a paint brush. Push your boundaries. You might find you love something you’d never thought to try.

And if you want to taste the somewhat strange, beady, livery, very delicious shad roe, try it Patricia’s way, and think of the lights that you have loved, and let them fill you up and warm you from within.

Patricia Jean’s recipe:

“Super simple. Wash and pat dry one set of shad roe. Dredge in seasoned flour. Heat clarified butter until sizzling. Brown roe. (Be sure to cover with splatter guard, it’s brutally explosive when browning). Lower heat and cook gently until barely pink in middle. Retire roe to warm oven. Deglaze pan with lots of lemon, add lots of chopped parsley. Some add cooked bacon. I don’t.
Pour over roe, bliss!”

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Vintage photos of shad fishing on the Potomac c. 1910.

Tags: Fish, Jasper, Millbrook

“Foolproof.”

I don’t like to bake. We’ve been over this before.

But I’m practicing a new approach to things: I say yes when I used to say no. I say no when I used to say yes. Instead of shying away from an opportunity that intimidates me, I am giving things the old college try.

I’ve been pouring over Melia Marden’s new cookbook Modern Mediterranean, my mouth watering with every turn of the page, and though baking isn’t really my thing (to put it mildly), I elected to try out The Smile chef’s recipe for almond cookies with a bitter orange glaze as a gift for my Easter hosts.

I can’t tell you the number of times I cursed myself for doing so because…

I also tend to make things as complicated for myself as possible, so I attempted the recipe with only two hours to buy the ingredients, cook the recipe, get dolled up and make it to Easter lunch. With my tiny oven theoretically pre-heating to somewhere in the vicinity of the required 350°F, I realized that my measuring spoons were nowhere to be found, but forged ahead, eye-balling it, just as one is absolutely-not-supposed-to-do when one bakes.

Despite my characteristic lack of precision, a combination of Melia’s genius and a lot of luck made for delicious results. And in another fortuitous twist of fate, even my friends who were celebrating Passover could indulge in these wheat-free cookies that resembled almond macaroons in their chewy sweetness. Fresh blood orange made for a rosy glaze. I even gave up feeling self-conscious about my irregular, misshapen slightly fibrous cookies until I tasted Melia’s perfectly round and smooth ones at her book launch. When I told her this story, she intimated a truth about her baking that I already knew: “My desserts are foolproof,” which means that even a fool like me can’t screw them up.

Cookie Ingredients
2 cups whole blanched almonds
½ teaspoon almond extract
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
¼ ground nutmeg
3 large egg whites
6 tablespoons confectioners’ sugar
½ vanilla extract

Glaze Ingredients
½ cup plus 2 tablespoons confectioners’ sugar
2 tablespoons freshly squeezed orange juice (from 1/2 an orange)
1 teaspoon orange zest (from 1 large orange)
1/4 teaspoon orange-blossom water

Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C). Line a baking dish with parchment paper.

Place the almonds and almond extract in a food processor and process until they resemble bread crumbs, about 40 seconds. In a large bowl, combine the almond mixture and stir until well combined.

In a separate bowl, combine the egg whites, confectioner’s sugar, and vanilla extract. Whisk until well combined. Pour the egg-white mixture in to the almond mixture and stir until well combined.

Roll the mixture into roughly 1½-inch balls (ping-pong ball size) and place them in rows on the baking sheet, leaving about 1 inch between cookies. using the bottom of a glass, press down lightly on each cookie so that it is about 2 inches in diameter and ½ inch think.

Bake on the middle of the rack of the oven until the bottom and edges are just slightly golden, about 10 minutes (14 minutes if your oven functions anything like mine). They should still be a bit chewy in the center. Let the cookies cool completely while you make the glaze.

Make the glaze: In a small bowl, combine all the ingredients and stir until smooth. Spoon about 1 teaspoon glaze on top of each cookie and spread evenly. Let the glaze sit untouched until it sets. Store in a cool dry place for up to 2 days.

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Tags: Cookies, dessert, New York

My counter is ten inches wide. Ten.

There are plenty of parsnips longer than my counter. A robust daikon would put my counter to shame. I suppose that rock cornish game hens would fit alright. Lots of shrimp and two dozen snails could huddle together shell to shell. But am I to cook only mollusks and miniature chickens while I live in this gloriously cozy but frankly lilliputian apartment? I think not.

Two dear friends are coming for supper and I am cooking a fifteen-inch sea bass caught off the coast of Montauk, counter be damned! (I’ll do the chopping on my dining room table.) Also from the Union Square farmer’s market: some gorgeous purple-hued cooking turnips, onions, extortionately expensive (and delicious) pea shoots and purple radish sprouts. My fennel bulb from the local grocery is of questionable origin, but so be it. Who the hell am I to hold a fennel bulb’s pedigree against it in February in New York?

I consulted my much worn and loved copy of The River Café Cookbook and halved the recipe for Ruth Rogers’ and Rose Gray’s Roasted Marinated Sea Bass. I thought April Bloomfield’s dreamy “Creamy” Turnips would go wonderfully with the fresh fish, and they certainly did (recipe to come). A small salad of pea shoot and purple radish greens and our feast was complete…and very well received indeed.

Branzino Arrosto
Serves 2-3
1 No. 2-3 lb sea bass (scaled and cleaned but not filleted)
1 tablespoon fennel seeds
1 red onion, thinly sliced
2 lemons: 1 sliced and 1 for juice
a few parsley stalks…and leaves for garnish
1 large fennel bulb, sliced (keep fronds for garnish)
1/3 a bottle of white wine (roughly)
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

Preheat the oven to 375° F (190° C). Put half the fennel seeds, salt and pepper into the cavity of the bass. Heat some olive oil in a large pan and quickly sear for about 3-6 minutes on each side (if you have a grill, paint some olive oil onto the fish and grill it quickly instead).

Fill a roasting pan or baking dish with half the sliced fennel, onion, lemon, parsley and remaining seeds, then lay the fish on top and cover the fish with the rest of the sliced veg. Pour the olive oil, lemon juice and white wine over it all and bake for about 30 minutes, or until the flesh is firm (I used the excellent and extremely inexpensive 2010 Ardeche white Burgundy).

I plated the whole bass on a platter with the fennel and garnished with some fresh fennel fronds and parsley. Reduce the deliciously fennel-infused cooking liquid to make a sauce to spoon atop the fish on each plate.

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Tags: Entrée, Fennel, Fish, Wine