After a couple weeks of not being able to use my word documents (thanks to a computer that was filled to the gills), I now have a smaller, brand-spanking-new computer with BIG space. I’m slow to acclimate to new technology and I still don’t have the ability to load pictures, but that should (keep your fingers crossed) be fixed soon. And then I’ll be able to show you all the stuff I’ve been up to.

But since I can’t show you yet, I’ll have to settle with telling. And you’ll have to settle for reading, not just looking.

I’m such a demanding blogger, making you work like that. Shame on me.

Anyway, last week it rained. And then it sunned. And then I scurried down to the local greenhouse, bought lots of plants, and came home and threw them—whump, whump—into the garden. Over the course of two days, I planted the entire garden: tomatoes, peppers, jalapenos, anise, fennel, dill, carrots, beets, cucumbers, beans (October Sky, red, black, and green), edamame, and corn. (We have a little space remaining, but it’s reserved for Miss Beccaboo’s popcorn and a row of sweet potatoes.) Yay me.

It wasn’t just me doing all the work, I’ll admit. I got Mr. Handsome to help (he’s missing a few teeth now), but it was me instigating the whole thing. And that’s the truth.

I worked outside most of the day on Saturday, so it was fitting that our menu was garden-based, more so than it usually is. For lunch we had a huge salad of fresh lettuce, spinach, thinned chard, radishes, and spring onions (and with ham, boiled eggs, sunflower seeds, raisins, and oven-roasted tomatoes). There is nothing quick about salad when you have to pick and clean the lettuce. That’s why I make it a habit of preparing a huge bowl of salad—for the next several days we are set to go.

Supper’s colors were spectacular: yellow! white! green! red! Skillet-blackened asparagus topped with poached eggs (and buttered toast to mop it up with), lemony shortcake, sugared strawberries, and billows of whipped cream.

But what I really want to tell you about is the salad we had for supper the night before: a spinach-strawberry salad.

I look forward to this salad every spring—its shockingly brilliant colors, the tangy-sweet dressing, the crunchy buttery pecans. It’s the embodiment of sunshine and bare feet.

I fixed a large bowl of the salad, and between the two of us, Mr. Handsome and I put away the entire thing.

I first ate this salad at a church potluck, a picnic at a local park. I still remember who brought the salad (Keith) and where exactly on the table the salad was placed (a little beyond a box of pizza). As you can see, it made quite the impression on me.

Strawberry Spinach Salad

1 large bag of fresh spinach, about 10 ounces (though I never measure), cleaned and torn
1 pint fresh strawberries (again, I never measure), cleaned, topped, and sliced
½ cup chopped pecans
1-2 tablespoons butter
1/3 cup red wine vinegar
½ cup sugar
3/4 cup vegetable oil
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon dry mustard
1 tablespoon minced onion
1 tablespoon poppy seeds

Melt the butter in a small skillet and add the pecans. Toss them about till golden brown. Transfer them from the skillet to a bowl (so they don’t continue cooking and burn to a crisp) and set aside.

In a blender, whirl together the vinegar, sugar, oil, salt, mustard, and minced onion. Blend it well, till it’s creamy smooth and pale pink. Pour the dressing into a pint jar and stir in the poppy seeds. Set aside.

Immediately before serving, put the spinach in a large salad bowl and toss with the dressing. You probably won’t need all of the dressing. Put whatever is left over in the fridge for the next day’s salad (because there will be a next day’s salad)—to use, simply bring to room temperature, and shake well before serving.

Top the spinach with the sliced strawberries and the toasted pecans. Heap high your plate and dig in!

Serves 2-8, depending on appetites and whether or not there is anything else is for dinner.

About one year ago: Garden tales, part one.

I first started thinking about rhubarb in terms of savory after doing some reading in my honkin’ huge food encyclopedia. My book reports that in Iran they serve rhubarb in stew and that in Afghanistan it gets added to spinach. In Poland they cook it with potatoes and aromatics. And so on. It got me to thinking. Clearly, I was underestimating my rhubarb.

So I started searching through my cookbooks and poking around on the web. There wasn’t much out there. I attempted some rhubarb smothered pork chops. They were edible, but not something I’d repeat.

I dug deeper. The pickings were few and far between and I began to get discouraged. But onward-ho I pushed. I had a persnickety hunch that we, the rhubarb sweeties, were missing out on something special.

And then I discovered lemon-rhubarb chicken. I was right! We were missing out!

The idea of this recipe is simple: make a rhubarb sauce, reduce it, and serve it over chicken.

(Actually, the original recipe was a bit more complex. It called for stuffing rhubarb into chicken breasts. I opted to simply stuff and roast a whole chicken. The final dish tasted marvelous, but there was one little problem: my rhubarb is mostly green, remember, and mushy green rhubarb and a chicken carcass—well, let me stop there. I knew, however, despite the dish’s less-than-desirable appearance and thanks to my cast-iron stomach, that I had landed on a keeper.)

The sauce is profound, like spring on a spoon—light, tangy, sweet, sprightly. It calls to mind nymphs and druads, carpets of moss and fairy dust.

I’ve changed the recipe up even more, simplifying and beautifying as I typed. The final dish is still not going to win any beauty contests—pale sauce with white chicken on white rice (unless, of course, you dress it up with sprigs of parsley and slices of lemon)—but your tongue will sing multitudes of praises. And if you serve it with brilliant green asparagus and some pickled beets, you’ll have a feast for the eyes as well as the tummy.

Lemon-Rhubarb Chicken
Adapted from the February 2007 issue of Bon Appetit via Epicurious

A note about storing ginger: I store fresh ginger by peeling it, roughly chopping it, packing it into a jar, and then topping the jar off with sherry. Stored in the refrigerator, it keeps indefinitely.

about 4-5 cups cooked chicken, chopped
5 tablespoons olive oil
6 tablespoons minced onion, divided
4 1/2 cups diced rhubarb, divided
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
2 teaspoons lemon zest
4 tablespoons butter
1/2 cup sliced ginger (unpeeled is okay)
3/4 cup sugar
6 tablespoons brandy
4 cups chicken broth
1/4 teaspoon fennel seeds (or one whole star anise)
1 bay leaf
salt
black pepper

Saute 2 tablespoons of the onion and 2 cups of the rhubarb in 2 tablespoons olive oil for five minutes, or until just beginning to soften. Stir in the lemon juice and zest. Season with salt and pepper and set aside.

Melt the butter in a heavy-bottomed skillet. Add the remaining onions and rhubarb and the ginger; saute for about ten minutes. Add the sugar and brandy, bring the mixture to a boil and boil hard for one minute. Add the chicken broth, fennel, bay leaf, some salt and pepper, and simmer over medium heat for about an hour, or until the broth has been reduced to about two cups. Strain the sauce, discarding the solids.

Return the strained sauce to the (wiped out) heavy-bottomed pan, add the reserved rhubarb and the cooked chicken. Heat through and taste to correct seasonings.

Serve over rice.

About one year ago: Bald-Headed Baby and Raspberry-Mint Tea

I’ve been on a dip kick. It started with these naked babes and went downhill from there. I made hot artichoke dip and no one in my family liked it but me. (There’s gotta be something seriously wrong with people who don’t like hot artichoke dip. I refuse to justify their strangeness.) I served pesto torte. I bought the ingredients for guacamole and pico de gallo. (Can you tell that I’ve recently acquired Pioneer Woman’s cookbook?) I made double and triple batches of pita chips multiple times.

In fact, I have two more bags of pitas sitting on the counter just waiting to be dressed with butter, chopped up, salted, and baked. If you haven’t made them yet, you really must. We are all absolutely nuts about them. Head over heels in love. True love.

And I served them to company this weekend and they commented about them several times, impressed that I had added no extra seasonings.

They’re really good.

If, by chance you missed my post about them, or the link for the post in the first paragraph, I’ll include it again right HERE. I’m just trying to make it easy for you.

Okay, I’ll stop now.

(Please make them.)

Back to the dips.

So I was talking pesto torte and baked brie and salsa (well, not the salsa, but I could’ve been) and then Mavis up and said, What about the hummus, huh?

And I said, Dang! She’s right! I forgot the hummus!

So now I give you the hummus. It’s my favoritest hummus recipe. I can eat embarrassingly enormous quantities of it.

That is, if I were to be the type of person that gets embarrassed about my hummus consumption. But I’m not. The stuff is good for you. There is nothing to be ashamed about.

This hummus is not only nutritious, pretty, and creamy, it’s lemony, garlicky, and parsley-y. (Say “parsley-y” three times fast and you’ll feel like you have the palsy. Or maybe it’s just me?)

It’s filling enough to be a main dish, and if the mono-color offends you, serve it with some carrot sticks and fresh fruit.

Go on, now. Make it. Throw you and your buddies a springy dip party. (When summer hits, you can branch out and make it a skinny dip party. If you’re that sort. But if you do that and get embarrassed, don’t blame it on the hummus.)

And whatever you do, spring or summer, DON’T FORGET THE PITA CHIPS. (Geesh.)

Hummus
Adapted from The Moosewood Cookbook by Mollie Katzen

The fresh parsley and lemon juice are crucial. Do not use substitutes.

2 cloves garlic, peeled and sliced
1 large handful of parsley
2 scallions, roughly chopped
3 cups cooked chickpeas (or 2 15-1/2 ounce cans), rinsed and drained
6 tablespoons tahini
6 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon salt
1/8-1/4 teaspoon cayenne
1/2 teaspoon cumin

Place all ingredients in a food processor and pulse till well-mixed and creamy. (Or, if you prefer, you can leave it a little chunkier.) Taste to correct seasonings.

Store in a tightly lidded container in the refrigerator.

Serve with crackers, PITA CHIPS, or fresh flour tortillas.

About one year ago: Rhubarb Sorbet