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Lemon Sole with My Chermoula, plus Caramel Oranges with Cardamom

April 10, 2026 by Erica

The Bay of Tangier, by Henri Matisse, 1912.

Recipes below: Lemon Sole with My Chermoula; Caramel Oranges with Carda

I’ve been fascinated with food and cooking for a long time, but not from the very beginning. Before food, I loved rocks and seashells. I accumulated large collections and entered them into my elementary school science fair each year. My father made glass cases for it all, and I’d organize it with one of those label punching machines that were popular in the sixties and  seventies (my mother worked in retail and she labelled drawers of merchandise with the gadgets: berets, leather gloves, sheer tights, thin belts, wide belts). All the rocks I found were from around New York, where I grew up; the shells I collected over the years during visits to my grandparents’ winter house in Hollywood, Florida. 

Then when I was around 14 I dropped rocks and shells altogether and turned my attention to Southern Italian cooking, the food of my ancestral homeland. The fascination has remained to this day.  However when I was about 20 I developed a culinary side gig. The cooking of Morocco became another preoccupation, never as powerful as the Italian one but still consuming.

I’ve been to Morocco only once so far, but I have a lot of Moroccan cookbooks, and they’ve taken me on a journey through tagines, couscous, Marrakesh street food, and unfamiliar spices and spice mixes. Being a lover of most things seafood, I’ve been attracted to a Moroccan preparation called chermoula, a paste of fresh herbs and spices that’s mainly smeared on fish before cooking. Some cooks add hot chilies, others sharp spices like cumin or gentler spices such as cinnamon and saffron, but one constant is cilantro, in abundance. If you’ve been reading my posts for any time, you know that I abhor cilantro. Even the smell of it makes me gag. It’s extremely popular in Moroccan cooking, but I’ve worked my way around it by substituting parsley or mint or oregano, and sometimes a mix of all three. This chermoula preparation is usually so cilantro-heavy that I didn’t know how I could pull it off and still call it chermoula. So I never tried making it until now, when I finally decided not to worry and just say screw it, I’ll make it my way and call it my chermoula. So here’s what I came up with. Not traditional but, I think, really delicious. The recipe I’m offering you here is a simple treatment. All I’ve done is coat a nice piece of lemon sole bottom and top with my chermoula and stuck it under a broiler. Sole is so thin that the broiler works perfectly, cooking it to tenderness with a little browning at the edges in about 5 minutes. Other thin fillets that would work well this way would include gray sole, flounder, and fluke. But the paste will also great on shrimp kebabs or tuna or swordfish (you might want to try a grill for those), or eggplant, or even on chicken thighs, which did great in a hot oven. I hope you’ll like my American-Italianized version of chermoula.

I’ve added a caramel orange dessert that I’ve been making for many years. This time I included cardamom instead of cinnamon and orange flower water, just because it seemed to be the thing to do. I wanted fruit, but there are no spring berries popping up yet in New York, and we’ve still got oranges. I thought this would be a good follow-up to the lemon sole, which I served with Israeli couscous seasoned with butter and a pinch of cinnamon.

Lemon Sole with My Chermoula

For the chermoula:

1 1-inch chunk fresh ginger, minced (about a tablespoon minced)
1 fresh garlic clove, minced
1 piece fresh red chili, minced (I used a peperoncino, about half of it, but choose your level of personal heat)
1 teaspoon ras el hanout
A big pinch of saffron threads, lightly dried and ground in a mortar and pestle
1 teaspoon honey
1 teaspoon Aleppo pepper
6 large sprigs flat-leaf parsley, the leaves well chopped
5 thyme sprigs, the leaves chopped
Salt
The grated zest from 1 lemon
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

For the fish:

2 skinless lemon sole fillets, about ½ pound each
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
Lemon wedges for serving

Put all the ingredients for the chermoula into a bowl, and mix it all well. (I chopped everything by hand, figuring that the food processor would turn it to mush).

Get out a large sheet pan, and spread about ¼ of the chermoula onto the middle of it. Place the fish pieces over the chermoula, presentation side up. Spread the rest of the chermoula evenly over the top of the fillets (if you have extra chermoula, spread it on a warm pita). Drizzle the melted butter over the fillets, and give them an extra little sprinkle of salt.

Broil about 5 inches from the heat source, until just tender. Mine took about 5 minutes. Serve with lemon wedges.

Caramel Oranges with Cardamom

Use 1or 2 oranges per person. Since I served 2 people I used 4 oranges. Peel them and cut them into flat rounds. Lay the rounds out on a pretty platter, slightly overlapping. Sprinkle them with a little ground green cardamom ( I used about ½ teaspoon). Sprinkle on a tiny bit of salt.

Pour sugar into a saucepan (I used about ¾ cup, but adjust depending on how many oranges you’ve got). Add a drizzle of water. Cook over medium heat until the sugar turns a rich golden brown (you’ll really need to watch it, as once it starts to go golden it can turn from beautiful caramel to smoking black in an instant). Drizzle the caramel more or less evenly over the oranges. The caramel will harden, becoming candy-like. Let sit unrefrigerated for about about 2 hours. The caramel will soften as it mingles with the juice from the oranges, forming a nice caramel sauce. Garnish with mint or basil, if you like.

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My Easter Pastiera

March 31, 2026 by Erica

Recipe below: My Easter Pastiera

I love the subtle signs of the earth’s rebirth that Easter time brings to New York, and I love all the traditional Southern Italian Easter dishes I grew up with. Also I really enjoy creating new dishes that may or may not become family traditions in their own right, depending on how they go over. Every year I try to post a new recipe, but this year I’ve been involved with another writing project and haven’t had the creative energy to come up with anything new and exciting for my Easter table. However, people keep asking me about pastiera, the sweet ricotta and wheat berry torta that’s flavored with orange flower water, cinnamon, vanilla, and sometimes candied citron.  It’s a gorgeous flavor, mysterious even, so I thought I’d repost my recipe, just in case you want to give it a try.

Happy return to spring.

My Easter Pastiera

I used a 9-inch pie pan.

For the pasta frolla:

2½ cups regular flour, plus a little more for rolling
A big pinch of salt
½ cup powdered sugar
½ teaspoon grated nutmeg
The grated zest from 1 large lemon
1½ sticks cold unsalted butter, cut into small cubes, plus a little more for buttering the pan
2 large eggs, lightly whisked
About 2 tablespoons dry vermouth, maybe a bit more

For the farro mixture:

¾ cup farro
2 cups whole milk
A pinch of salt
1 teaspoon regular sugar
The grated zest from 1 orange

For the rest of the filling:

2 cups whole milk ricotta
1 cup powdered sugar
1 large egg, plus 2 eggs yolks
A pinch of salt
1 teaspoon orange flower water
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
The grated zest from 1 large lemon
The grated zest from 1 orange
1 cup of candied citron

Plus:

1 egg whisked with a little water, to serve as an egg wash

To make the pasta frolla, pour the flour into the bowl of a food processor. Add the salt, sugar, nutmeg, and lemon zest, and give it a few pulses, just to blend everything. Add the butter, and pulse a few more times, breaking the pieces up a bit. Add the eggs and the vermouth, and do a few more pulses, just until it forms a crumbly ball. If it seems too dry, add a drizzle more vermouth.

Turn out the dough onto a lightly floured work area, and give it a few quick kneads. Then press it together, and wrap it in plastic. Stick it in the refrigerator for at least an hour before you roll it out. That will make it easier to roll.

To prepare the farro mixture, pour the ingredients into a small saucepan. Cook them over medium heat until the grains are tender, about 15 minutes. If there’s still milky liquid, drain it.

To continue with the filling, put the ricotta in a large mixing bowl. Add the cooked farro and all the other ingredients. Mix well, and give it a taste to see if you might need more sugar or something.

Set the oven to 375 degrees. Butter the pie pan.

Take the dough from the refrigerator. If it’s only been in there for an hour or so, it should be ripe for rolling. If it’s super cold, you may need to let it warm for a little time. In any case, flour a work area. Cut off and set aside about ¼ of the dough to use for lattice strips. Roll the big portion out into a large round, and then drape it into the pie pan, pressing it down around the edges. Stick that in the refrigerator while you make the lattice.

Roll out the smaller piece of dough into a rectangle about the length of the pie pan. With a sharp knife, cut 8 approximately ½-inch-thick strips. If you don’t get 8 strips, don’t worry. You’ll be able to fashion a few more from the pie pan trimming.

Take the pie pan from the refrigerator, and pour in the filling. If it looks like you have too much filling, hold back on some. You can use any extra for the small crustless custard, sticking it in the oven along with the pastiera. Brush the edges of the dough all around with the egg wash. Arrange the lattice strips criss-crossed over the top, pressing them down all around the edge so they adhere. You can weave them in and out in the more sophisticated way, or just cheat and lay them across one another.

Now trim all around the pie so you have a neat round. If you need more lattice strips, you can make them with the trimming. Brush the lattice and all around the edges with the egg wash.

Put the pastiera in the oven, and bake it until it’s nicely golden all over, about 40 minutes.

Let it rest about an hour before serving. I find prosecco an especially good match for this beautiful pie.

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Women with Fish

March 20, 2026 by Erica

On a happy day.

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Braised Artichokes with Potatoes, Taggiasca Olives, and Mint, and Artichokes Stuffed with Fennel, Almonds, and Pecorino Sardo

March 11, 2026 by Erica

Still Life with Artichokes, by Raoul Dufy.

Recipes below: Braised Artichokes with Potatoes, Taggiasca Olives, and Mint; Artichokes Stuffed with Fennel, Almonds, and Pecorino Sardo

Artichokes are like cats, scratchy, bitchy, and very sweet, all in one package. Just like my sparky Little Tiny, a usually cozy lap cat who every once in a while loves to sink in a hard bite for no apparent reason. (I’m sure he has his reason, but I guess it’s secret.) Artichokes are like cats also in that they are beautiful in all stages of life. Did you know that they are actually big green flower buds that will blossom into fuzzy purple thistles if you leave them be (artichokes, not cats)? I once saw a spectacular display of artichoke flowers in a field in Menfi, Sicily. I’m not sure why the farmer let them go to blossom like that. Seemed a waste, but who knows what the story was.

There is no artichoke season in New York. They don’t like it here. I did however, last spring, notice at the Union Square Market a creative New York farmer arranging three dozen small artichokes in a straw basket.

“I didn’t know you could grow artichokes in the Hudson Valley. What’s your yield?” I asked him.

 “You’re looking at it.”

 I mentioned that it must have been a lot of effort to grow even that small amount in our cool, damp climate. 

“Stupid little side gig,” he said.

It’s now artichoke season in Italy, where they grow several beautiful varieties, such as the small, skinny purple ones on long stalks that look a little like long-stem roses and usually go by the name Violetto. Southern Italians seem to idolize all artichokes. In Sicily I’ve seen artichoke ornaments, terracotta or cement, sometimes beautifully glazed in green, perched on stone walls or just set out in gardens. I’ve always wanted one of those for my herb garden. Maybe this will be the year of my purchase. Better than all the sinister little fairies and gnomes I see plopped down in many of the front yards near my place in Rhinebeck.

California is where almost all our U.S. artichokes are grown. I’m just starting to find nice heavy Green Globe ones in my markets, and I should be able to get them fresh through May. Supposedly Violetto artichoke are being grown by a few smaller farms, but I’ve never seen them in New York stores. I’d buy them. I know plenty of people who’d buy them. Where are they? And while I’m at it, whatever happened to baby artichokes, those little guys that grown further down the stalk of the big Globe types?  They seem to have disappeared. They were great because they had no chokes to deal with. You’d just snap off a few tough outer leaves and they’d be ready to cook. No one I ask seems to know why we can’t find them here anymore. Maybe they produce such small yields that farmers aren’t shipping them cross the country. I think also they’re fairly fragile and go soft quickly. But we used to get them, and often in pretty good shape. Maybe nobody wants to bother picking them. Whatever the reason they’re gone, I miss them.

To celebrate artichoke season I’ve come up with two new recipes that have roots in classic Southern Italian style. One is a stuffed version, but I didn’t stuff the artichokes whole, blowing them out into a giant flower. My relatives did that, and it was delicious, but what a load (especially when they served it as an appetizer before Thanksgiving dinner). I’ve instead whittled the artichokes down to heart and stalk, cut them lengthwise, and pressed the stuffing into their little cavities. Knife and fork artichokes, not tooth-scraping. The other recipe is for the typical Southern pairing of potatoes with artichokes, a cucina povera treatment that stretches costly artichokes by braising them with a less expensive ingredient. The potatoes soak up all the artichoke cooking liquid to be drenched in artichoke flavor. I hope you’ll give these recipes a try.

Happy very early spring cooking to you.

Braised Artichokes with Potatoes, Taggiasca Olives, and Mint

1 large lemon
6 Green Globe artichokes
Extra-virgin olive oil (since this is integral to the taste of the finished dish, I used something good, Benza BuonOlio from Liguria, which I bought from Gustiamo.com)
2 garlic cloves, sliced
2 fresh bay leaves
A few large sprigs of thyme
A big pinch of allspice
Salt
Black pepper
1 cup dry vermouth
2 medium Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and cut into wedges
A handful of Taggiasca or Niçoise olives, pitted and cut in half
6 big sprigs spearmint, the leaves lightly chopped
6 big sprigs flat-leaf parsley, lightly chopped

Zest the lemon, and set the zest aside. Cut the lemon in half, and squeeze all its juice into a large bowl. Drop the lemon halves into the bowl, and add about 4 cups of cold water.

Trim the artichokes of all their tough outer leaves. Trim and peel their stems, leaving about an inch or so. Trim their tops. Cut the artichokes in half lengthwise, and scoop out the chokes. Next cut them in quarters, dropping them into the lemon water as you go.

Get out a large sauté pan with a cover, one big enough to hold the artichokes and potatoes in more or less one layer.

Drain the artichokes into a colander.

Put 2 tablespoons of olive oil in the sauté pan, and put it on medium heat. Add the artichokes, the garlic, the bay leaves, the thyme sprigs, the allspice, and a little salt and black pepper. Turn the artichokes around in the oil a few times to coat them with flavor. Add the vermouth, and let it bubble away. Add about a cup of water. Let it come to a simmer, and then turn the heat down a bit, cover the pan, and let the artichokes braise until they’re just tender, about 10 to 15 minutes, depending on their size. You’ll want to turn them once or twice. You’ll also want to check the liquid level as they cook, adding a little more water if needed.  Test them for doneness by sticking a thin knife into one of them.

While the artichokes are braising, place the potatoes in a medium-size pot, and cover them with water by about 2 inches. Add salt. Bring the water to a boil, and then turn the heat to medium, and cook the potatoes until they’re just tender but not falling apart, about 8 minutes. Drain them, and add them to the pan with the artichokes. (I’ve tried cooking the artichokes and potatoes together, but I found it hard to gauge the cooking time, and I didn’t want to wind up with mushy, falling-apart potatoes. This worked better.) Add the lemon zest, the olives, the mint, and the parsley. Add a tablespoon of olive oil, and give it all the gentle stir. Taste for seasoning, adding more salt and black pepper if you think it could use it. There should be a little liquid left in the pan to serve as a sauce, so add a little water if needed.

Serve hot or warm.

Artichokes Stuffed with Fennel, Almonds, and Pecorino Sardo

1 large lemon
6 Green Globe artichokes
Extra-virgin olive oil
1 small fennel bulb, trimmed and cut into small dice
1 small shallot, diced
Salt
1 teaspoon fennel pollen
¾ cup homemade breadcrumbs
½ cup grated pecorino Sardo cheese
½ cup blanched toasted almonds, roughly chopped
3 sprigs rosemary, the leaves well chopped
4 or 5 big sprigs flat-leaf parsley, the leaves chopped
Aleppo pepper
1 cup dry white wine
1 garlic clove, sliced

Zest the lemon, and set the zest aside. Cut the lemon in half, and squeeze all its juice into a large bowl. Drop the lemon halves into the bowl, and add about 4 cups of cold water.

Trim the artichokes of all their tough outer leaves. Trim and peel their stems, leaving about an inch or so. Trim their tops. Cut the artichokes in half lengthwise, and scoop out the chokes, dropping the artichoke halves into the lemon water.

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

To make the stuffing, get out a medium sauté pan, put a tablespoon of oil in it, and set it over medium heat. Add the fennel and shallot, season with a little salt and the fennel pollen, and sauté until it’s all fragrant and softened, about 3 minutes. Remove the pan from the heat, and add the breadcrumbs, pecorino, and almonds. Add the rosemary, the parsley,  the reserved lemon zest, and some Aleppo. Add a big drizzle of olive oil, and mix well. Taste for seasoning.

Get out a baking dish that will hold the artichokes in one layer. Drizzle its cooking surface with olive oil. Press about a tablespoon or so of the stuffing into the hollow of each artichoke piece, and lay them stuffing-side-up in the baking dish.

Pour the wine around the artichokes, and then add water to about halfway up the artichokes. Scatter the garlic slices into the wine. Drizzle the artichokes with a generous amount of olive oil, and give everything, including the wine, a sprinkling of salt. Cover the baking dish with foil, and braise until the artichokes are tender, about 25 minutes, depending on their size. Poke one of them with a narrow knife to make sure they’re tender. Uncover the dish, and roast it for 10 minutes or so, just until the artichoke tops are golden.  You can sprinkle on a little more Aleppo if you like.

Serve three artichoke halves on each plate, spooning some braising liquid over each serving.

I had some stuffing mix left, so I used it the next night, packing it on top of thick cod fillets and then roasting them in a very hot oven. Really good.

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Penne Integrale with Savoy Cabbage, Pancetta, Fennel, and Sage

March 3, 2026 by Erica

The Cabbage Painting, by Nataliia Nosy.

Recipe below: Penne Integrale with Savoy Cabbage, Pancetta, Fennel, and Sage

I don’t dream about cabbage the way I dream about eggplants and apricots, but sometimes I wish I did. You can’t force fascination, but every once in a while my neglect of cabbage creeps up on me, telling me I’m not a responsible enough cook. (I can’t just ignore an entire vegetable forever, can I?) I then push forward with this boring, to my Southern Italian mind, vegetable. and occasionally I come up with something really good. Here’s an example.

Penne Integrale with Savoy Cabbage, Pancetta, Fennel, and Sage

Salt
Extra-virgin olive oil
1 approximately ½-inch-thick round of pancetta, chopped
1 Vidalia onion, chopped
1 fennel bulb, trimmed and chopped
A small palmful of fennel seeds, ground in a mortar and pestle
1 pound whole wheat penne
1 small Savoy cabbage, thinly sliced
Freshly ground black pepper
A big splash of dry white wine
About ¾ cup homemade chicken broth
A few drops of rice wine vinegar
About 8 small sage leaves, cut into chiffonade
A chunk of pecorino sardo cheese

Set up a pot of pasta cooking water, and bring it to a boil. Add salt.

As the water is coming to a boil, get out a large sauté pan, set it over medium heat, and drizzle in a tablespoon or so of olive oil. Add the pancetta, and let it get crisp. It will give off a fair amount of fat, but that’s good. You want that. Add the onion and the fennel and the fennel seeds, and let them soften for a minute or so.

Drop the penne into the boiling water.

Add the cabbage to the pan, season it with salt and black pepper, and sauté it until it’s softened but not completely broken down into a mush, about 5 minutes or so. Add the splash of white wine, and let it bubble away. Add the chicken broth, and let it simmer for a few minutes. Add a few drops of rice wine vinegar to brighten the sauce, and add about half of the sage, stirring it in.

When the pasta is al dente, drain it, saving a little of the cooking water, and put it into a large serving bowl. Add a big drizzle of fresh olive oil, and give it a toss. Add the cabbage sauce, and toss again, adding a little of the cooking water if you need it to loosen the texture (I didn’t, but you never know). You’ll also want to check the seasoning, adding more black pepper or a little salt if you think the dish could use it. (I feel black pepper is an important spice for this dish, so use good peppercorns, such as Tellicherry or Malabar.) Garnish with the remaining sage. Top each serving with an ample grating of the pecorino sardo.

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My Way with Moroccan Herbs and Spices, plus a Recipe for Lamb Tagine with Prunes and Parsnips

February 16, 2026 by Erica

Recipe below: Lamb Tagine with Prunes and Parsnips

My love of Moroccan cooking grows stronger all the time. I was first pulled in by Paula Wolfert’s  book Couscous and Other Good Food from Morocco, which came out in the early 1970s. I could hardly believe this beautiful food really existed. I cooked my way through the book my last year of high school, and I’ve kept it close ever since. I’ve always felt that Moroccan flavors complement the cooking of Puglia, Campania, and Sicily, the ancestral cuisine I grew up with. It seemed a natural path.

There are, however, two obstacles to my complete Moroccan food immersion. First, I absolutely hate cilantro. Second,  I absolutely love wine, both for cooking and for drinking. To solve the first problem, I usually substitute mint or parsley, or sometimes a mix of parsley and thyme, depending on the dish. I know none of those herbs are anything like cilantro in taste, but that’s the way I’ve found to get around it. Moroccan cooking and eating, for the most part, does not include alcohol, but I can never resist adding a little wine or vermouth to long-simmered meat dish, such as the tagine I offer you here. Wine adds depth and a bit of acidy, cutting through the Moroccan taste for sweetness in savory dishes that can sometimes be a little too much for my palate. I also tend to brown meat before a long braise, a French and Italian approach to stews that’s not often done in Moroccan cooking. I call my style Moroccan cooking in the French manner, which is a concept I first picked up while cooking Moroccan dishes at several French bistros in Manhattan. I haven’t delved deeply into the various regional Moroccan cuisines. I wouldn’t win any prizes if asked to explain the intricate difference between Berber and Arab, or Moorish and Sephardic cooking. Moroccan flavors are a sideline for me, but a serious one, an improvisational one.

One thing I never screw around with is the subtlety of the Moroccan touch with spices. My favorite spice combination for meat tagines and couscous is cinnamon, ginger (mostly dried but occasionally fresh), and saffron. I love these spices separately (a good starting point), but when I blend them together I get a sweetness with an underlying sharp hit that I find irrestible. If you try my lamb tagine recipe, you’ll see what I mean.

I most often use Ceylon cinnamon, which is soft and sophisticated, but I go for Cassia if I want a more direct cinnamon-bun effect. I sometimes add coriander seed to cinnamon when I make, for instance, a bisteeya, the pigeon (or, more likely for me, chicken) and almond–enclosed pastry. Interestingly coriander seed tastes nothing like the same plant’s foliage, cilantro, and I find that a relief.

I used to add turmeric to this mix more often, but now I find it can drag a dish down. When I do use it I prefer to highlight its bitter dustiness, for instance in braised chicken with saffron and turmeric, a gorgeous flavor combination and a very yellow dish.

I love cumin, but I’m not crazy about it mixed with cinnamon, as you sometimes find in some Moroccan dishes. I use it most in fish tagines, warm vegetable dishes, and in a marinade for lamb kebabs (sometimes along with a pinch of clove). And I love mixing cumin with anise or fennel seed to use with shrimp or in a monkfish tagine. Cumin and coriander and ginger make a great dry rub for roasted lamb.

Ras el hanout, a blend of up to about thirty spices, can be interesting if you find a good one, but I find that if I rely on it too much it makes everything taste the same. Over the years I’ve sampled many ras el hanout blends.  I currently like one called Tangier made by La Boîte. And Kalustyan’s makes a nice one, although maybe a touch too sweet. I also blend my own, making it a little different each time. Here’s one way I do it.

I have to say that generally I prefer to add spices separately, so I have control over what results. Also I don’t want to wind up with a muddy taste, which can happen sometimes with spice mixes, especially if you add more spices on top of them.

Moroccan cooking isn’t big on heavy chili heat, like the cooking of Tunisia, where harissa was born. I make my own harissa, and  I used to put it on almost every Moroccan dish that came out of my kitchen. I don’t do that anymore, finding it insulting to what I’m trying to create, but sometimes I add a gentle dried chili like Aleppo, which doesn’t overpower all a dish’s other spices, or the slightly stronger Spanish piment d’espelette, or I choose freshly ground black pepper and let that shine through.  I do, however, love harissa on meat shish kebabs, and also on a San Gennaro–style sausage and pepper hero.

Lamb Tagine with Prunes and Parsnips

2½ pounds bone-in lamb shoulder, cut into chunks
1 teaspoon cinnamon (I used Ceylon, but cassia is fine too)
1 teaspoon powdered ginger
1 teaspoon turmeric
Black pepper
Salt
Extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 large Vidalia onion, cut into small dice
Aleppo pepper
A drizzle of honey
A big splash of dry vermouth
A big pinch of saffron threads, lightly dried and ground in a mortar and pestle and dissolved in about ¼ cup hot water
3 cups homemade chicken broth
3 medium parsnips, peeled and cut into batons
3 medium carrots, peeled and cut into batons
2 small turnips, peeled and cut into wedges
About 2 dozen pitted prunes
About ½ teaspoon rice wine vinegar
A handful of lightly toasted whole blanched almonds
A handful of mint leaves

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Dry off the lamb chunks, and toss them in about half of the cinnamon, ginger, turmeric, black pepper to taste, and a little salt.

Get out a large casserole fitted with a lid. Add about 2 tablespoons of olive oil, and get it hot over medium-high heat. Add the lamb, and brown it all over (do it in batches if it’s too crowed). Take the lamb from the casserole. Pour off excess fat, if necessary.

Add the butter to the casserole. Turn the heat to medium, and add the onion and a little salt. Let the onion soften, about 4 minutes. Add the lamb, a little Aleppo, and the honey, and give it all a stir. Add a big splash of vermouth, and let it bubble away. Add the saffron water and the chicken broth, plus a little extra water, if necessary to almost cover the lamb. Bring it to a boil, put the lid on, and stick it in the oven for 1½ hours.

Pull the casserole from the oven, and skim the surface. Place the parsnip, carrot, and turnip on top of the lamb in an attractive pattern (I made a sunburst sort of look, alternating colors). Sprinkle on the remaining cinnamon, ginger, and turmeric, and add a little more salt. Cover the casserole, and stick it back in the oven for about another hour, just until the lamb is very tender.

Take the casserole out, and tuck the prunes in around the vegetables. Scatter on the almonds. Cover it again, and just leave it on the stovetop. The residual heat from the tagine will soften the prunes.

When you’re ready to serve, taste the broth for seasoning.  I added a drizzle of rice wine vinegar to balance its sweetness, but that’s a personal call. You might also want a bit more Aleppo, one of the other spices, or a little more salt. The sauce by this time should be cooked down and not too brothy. If needed, let it reheat, uncovered, over medium-low heat to reduce slightly.

Scatter the mint over the top, and serve the tagine from the casserole. You can serve it over couscous or just with good bread.

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Winter is for Bottarga: A Recipe for Spaccatelle with Escarole, Bottarga, and Sweet Breadcrumbs

February 3, 2026 by Erica

Spiaggia di Mondello, by Antonio Cirafisi.

Recipe below: Spaccatelle with Escarole, Bottarga, and Sweet Breadcrumbs

For me many foods reveal a clear link between memory and taste. For instance, the first time I had bottarga was many years ago in Mondello Beach, in Palermo, during my first trip to Sicily. The weather was hot, the beachfront restaurant was plain but to me extremely glamourous, with dried out wooden tables, no umbrellas to shield us from the sun, and an old waiter with a limp. I was presented with a bowl of spaghetti tossed with olive oil, garlic, hot chili flakes, and then gently retossed with shavings of bottarga, the dried fish roe that in Sicily is usually made from tuna. I had heard of bottarga, but I hadn’t yet tasted it. Being an anchovy fanatic, I was pretty sure it would be something I’d love. I was right.

That is a hot-weather bottarga memory that has lasted for many years, but now I think about bottarga more in winter than in summer. Why, I’m not sure. Possibly because I haven’t been back to Sicily in many years, but also maybe because here in New York I view it as a pantry ingredient, like anchovies, even though I don’t always have it hanging around unless I have a recipe working its way through my head. It’s more of a pantry-like ingredient that I stick in the fridge (once it’s opened I find that it’s good for many months).

Bottarga is nice both summer and winter; escarole is best right now. I’ve never seen a recipe for a pasta with escarole and bottarga, but I’m sure they’re out there. If not, here’s this one now.

Since my first experience with bottarga I’ve now eaten it and cooked with it many times. I’ve come to prefer the slightly sweeter and less bitter type made in Sardegna from grey mullet roe. I get it from Gustiamo. The brand they carry is l’Oro di Cabras. It’s excellent. Whatever bottarga you buy, it’s best to get the whole tongue and grate it yourself. The dry pregrated stuff is always disappointing, plus you don’t get the experience of scraping off slices and watching them lightly melt onto the hot food, which I find beautiful. I’ve written more extensively about bottarga in other posts. Here’s one, if you’d like to learn more.

At Citarella I found a bag of a pasta called spaccatelle, a shape I had seen around but possibly never cooked with (is that even possible?). Its dainty but not too delicate shape seemed right for this recipe. Bottarga is often paired with spaghetti or another string pasta, but my addition of escarole made that match seen klutzy. Spaccatelle is a Sicilian pasta that gets its name from the split down the center (spaccatura means fissure or split). Sicilia Naturalmente, by Margherita Tomasello, is the brand I found. Trecce or gemelli would be a good substitute.

It has been extremely cold in New York for over a week, not even getting near freezing. If you’re experiencing similar, or even if you’re in Key Largo or somewhere warm like that, I hope you’ll give this pasta a try. It’s really nice with a glass or two of Sardinian Vermentino.

Spaccatelle with Escarole, Bottarga, and Sweet Breadcrumbs

For the sweet breadcrumbs:

Extra-virgin olive oil
¾ cup homemade breadcrumbs, made from good, hard Italian bread
Salt
1 teaspoon sugar

For the rest:

Salt
1 medium head escarole, roughly chopped
½ pound spaccatelle, gemelli, or trecce
Extra-virgin olive oil
2 fresh unsprouted garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1 small jalapeño, minced (and seeded, if you like less heat)
The grated zest from 1 lemon, plus some of its juice
A splash of dry vermouth
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
About ¼ of a bottarga tongue, preferably from Grey Mullet, peeled from its outer wax wrapping

To make the sweet breadcrumbs, get out a small sauté pan, and set it over medium heat. Drizzle in a little olive oil, and add the breadcrumbs, some salt, and the sugar.  Stir everything around until the crumbs become golden and fragrant, about 2 minutes. Turn off the heat, and tip them into a small bowl.

Set up a medium pot of water, and bring it to a boil. Add a little salt. Drop in the escarole, and blanch it for about a minute. Drain it into a colander, and then run cold water over it to stop the cooking and set its bright green color. Squeeze as much water out of it as you can, and give it a few good chops so you have bite-size pieces.

Set up a pot of pasta cooking water, and bring it to a boil. Add salt. Drop in the pasta.

Get out a large sauté pan, and set it over medium heat. Add a about ¼ cup of really good olive oil. Add the garlic, the jalapeño, and the lemon zest, and sauté until fragrant but not letting the garlic color, about a minute or so. Add the escarole, and season with a little salt (not too much, since the bottarga is salty). Sauté a minute to blend all the flavors. Add a splash of dry vermouth, and let it boil off.

When the pasta is al dente, drain it, saving about a cup of the cooking water, and add the pasta to the sauté pan with the escarole.  Turn off the heat. Add a big squeeze of lemon juice and the butter, and grate about ¼ cup of bottarga into the pasta. (I used a large-hole grater, which grated the bottarga into thin strips. I think that looks prettier than what a microplainer gives you, and tastes better, too.) Add a little cooking water, and toss gently. You should have a creamy but not overly liquid texture.

Serve out the pasta into two shallow bowls. Sprinkle a little of the breadcrumbs over the top, and then finish with a fresh grating of bottarga.

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Red Snapper Veracruz

January 17, 2026 by Erica

Recipe below: Red Snapper Veracruz

When I first started cooking seriously, not professionally yet but seriously, I developed a romance about a dish called pescado a la veracruzana. I had no idea what the dish was, but its name evoked glamor. I daydreamed about floating in a dinghy, drinking tequila, and eating big hunks of fish with my fingers, getting warm from the sun but not painfully burnt. The flavors and colors of Mexico seemed a perfect escape when I was a kid trying to get through the long New York winter. My first boyfriend wore those cotton Mexican peasant shirts with the intricate white embroidery, and I was in love with him. Mexico seemeded like a good place.

It wasn’t until I bought my first Mexican cookbook, The Cuisines of Mexico, by Diana Kennedy, that I saw a recipe for the dish, and believe me it didn’t disappoint. It was titled huachinango a la veracruzana, huachinango being the word for red snapper, a popular fish in Mexico. Her version contained capers, green olives, jalapeño, lime or orange, oregano, thyme, tomatoes, and raisins, ingredients all familiar to a kid growing up in an Italian-American household.  I made it a couple of times for my family, and everyone said it tasted like Italian food, sort of like puttanesca.

I’ve since learned that there are many interpretations of the dish, but they all seem to  keep the green olives and capers, which is, I think, as it should be. Some cooks pan-fry the fish and then pour the sauce on top when serving. Others bake everything all at once. I’ve chosen to pan-fry quicky, spoon the sauce on top, and then give it a short bake on high heat to finish cooking through. Kennedy’s had a hit of cinnamon, which I used to include, but now I feel that drags down the freshness of the sauce. Hers also included raisins, which I decided to forgo this time, adding honey for sweetness. Mostly you’ll see recipes using red snapper, but sea bass works well, too. I’ve also encountered versions made with shrimp, which is delicious. I added bay leaf instead of the thyme called for in Kennedy’s recipe, because that was what I had on hand.

The dish is more Spanish in origin than native Mexican, but the lime and jalapeño underline what a lovely cultural blend it truly is. I hope you’ll give it a try.

Red Snapper Veracruz

Extra-virgin olive oil
1 large jalapeño pepper, cut into thin rounds
1 small shallot, cut into small dice
2 fresh unsprouted garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1 pint grape tomatoes
1 tablespoon honey
1 fresh bay leaf
Salt
A splash of dry sherry
A palmful of good green olives, pitted and torn in half (I used Ascolana del Piceno, but if you want something milder you might want to try Castelvetrano)
⅓ cup salt-packed Sicilian capers, soaked, rinsed, and drained
2 large red snapper fillets, about 6 or 7 ounces each
¼ cup all-purpose flour
About 6 large oregano sprigs, the leaves lightly chopped
A large lime, quartered

Heat the oven to 450 degrees.

To make the sauce (or condimento, as I prefer to call it, since it’s more chunky than saucy), put a big drizzle of good olive oil in a sauté pan, and turn the heat to medium-high. Add the jalapeño slices and the shallot, and sauté for about a minute. Add the garlic, and let it cook for about 30 seconds. Add the tomatoes, and turn the heat to high. Add the honey, bay leaf, and some salt, and cook quickly, just until the tomatoes give off some juice. Add a splash of sherry, and let it bubble away. Add the olives and capers, give it a good stir, and turn off the heat.

Dry off the snapper fillets, and season them on both sides with salt.  Coat them lightly with flour.

Get out another sauté pan, one that can go into the oven, and set it over high heat. Add about 2 tablespoons of olive oil, and let it get hot. Add the filets, presentation side down (skin side up), and brown them quickly, about 2 minutes. Turn them over, and turn off the heat. Pour off any excess oil.

Add about half of the oregano to the olive-and-caper sauce, and then spoon the sauce over the fillets. Drizzle with a little fresh olive oil, and squeeze on the juice from two quarters of the lime.

Stick the dish in the oven to finish cooking the fish and heat the condimento through, about 4 minutes. Garnish with the remaining oregano. Serve right away with the remaining lime wedges.

I served it with plain white rice and a watercress-and-avocado salad dressed with lime, salt, and olive oil.

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Soufflé for the New Year: A Soufflé with Fontina and Arugula, plus a Fennel, Pear, and Taggiasca Olive Salad to Go with It.

January 7, 2026 by Erica

Le Recamier, by Carol Gillott. Le Recamier is a soufflé restaurant in Paris, but not the one I mention below. I’ve never been to either. I sure would love to.

Recipes below: Arugula and Fontina Soufflé; Fennel, Pear, and Taggiasca Olive Salad

With all the evils being perpetrated by our country right now, I thought I’d try to lighten up and talk a little about eggs. They are really amazing things, the way they tighten or puff depending on how you treat them. When you firm them up, you can make a flan. When you fluff them, you can produce a soufflé. There’s a restaurant in Paris called Le Soufflé that opened in 1961. Its entrance is painted a gentle light blue (see the photo below). I’ve never been, but I’ve walked past it. I’ve been told that Catherine Deneuve eats there often, or used to. I’m not sure what she’s up to lately. I just looked at their menu. It seems a little farty and a lot touristy yet also elegant. I like the idea of their morel soufflé, or maybe the one with Roquefort, or goat cheese. However the soufflé made with beef bourguigon does not sound appealing. I’m not even sure how you’d get it to rise. But wouldn’t it be nice to go for lunch and maybe order an asparagus soufflé and a ton of wine, and follow up with a vanilla soufflé for dessert? One of these days.

I have no history of soufflés in my family, and I didn’t really understand how they were made until I started seriously messing around in the kitchen myself, trying to produce something equivalent. Later I occasionally wound up in semi-fancy restaurants and came to understand the idea of the dessert soufflé.  I believe the first one I ever had was at Lutèce, where my boyfriend, now my husband, took me for a big birthday dinner in the mid eighties. I chose André Soltner’s famous Grand Marnier soufflé, and he brought it to the table himself. That was thrilling.

Soufflé is not an Italian concept, but Italian cuisine does offer something similar, often less puffy, more custardy, and you can find straight-on soufflé-like dishes there, too. I once had a gorgonzola soufflé in Rome, and it was very puffy. Whether custardy or puffy, in Italy it usually goes under the name sformato, which translates something like to unmold. I make the custardy type often, usually with whatever seasonal vegetable feels right. This time I decided to go all puff, adding two well-loved Italian ingredients, fontina and arugula.

I find this a solid dinner for two, with good bread, the salad I propose, if you like, and a few glasses of rosato, or maybe prosecco. A celebration of better things to come.

Arugula and Fontina Soufflé

I used an 8-inch-wide, 3-inch-deep traditional ceramic soufflé dish, but one wider and shallower would be fine. You’d just need to cut down the cooking time.

For the dish:

1 tablespoon soft unsalted butter
2 tablespoons grated Parmigiano cheese

For the soufflé:

3 tablespoons unsalted butter
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 cup whole milk
¼ teaspoon allspice and ¼ teaspoon nutmeg, mixed together
Salt
Piment d espelette to taste
4 large egg yolks
½ cup grated Parmigiano cheese
¾ cup grated Fontina Valle d’Aosta cheese
3 cups baby arugula, blanched for a minute, drained, run under cold water to set its color, and then squeezed dry and chopped (this will yield about ½ cup chopped, and be sure to get out as much water as possible so it doesn’t weigh down your soufflé)
6 large egg whites

Smear the soft butter all over the inside of the soufflé dish. Dust the inside with the Parmigiano. You can stick the dish in the refrigerator while you get on with the recipe, so the coating stays firm, but take it out about 15 minutes before you want to bake the soufflé, so the dish is not too cold.

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

In a large saucepan, heat the 3 tablespoons of butter over medium heat. Add the flour, whisking it until it’s well blended. Let it cook for about a minute to burn off any raw flour taste, and then add the milk. Whisk it over medium heat until it becomes thick and smooth, about 3 minutes. Add the allspice and nutmeg mix, some salt, and some piment d’espelette. Pull the pan from the heat, and add the egg yolks, whisking them in one at a time. Mix in the Parmigiano, the Fontina, and the arugula.

In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites until they’re shiny and stiff. With a spatula fold about ¼ of the egg whites into the soufflé mixture. Then gently fold the remaining whites into the mix. You don’t need to work them in completely evenly. A little streakiness is okay and better than over mixing. Pour the mixture into the soufflé dish, and stick it in the oven.

Turn the oven down to 375 degrees, and bake for about 30 minutes. The soufflé should be lightly browned, quite puffy, and fairly firm when you touch the center of its top. Ideally you want only a tiny bit of runniness in the middle when you open it up. Serve it right away, with the salad, if you like.

Fennel, Pear, and Taggiasca Olive Salad

Fennel, Pear, and Taggiasca Olive Salad

2 medium fennel bulbs, trimmed and cut into thin rounds
2 firm but fragrant pears (I used red Anjous, because they actually smelled like pears, as opposed to the other varieties at Citarella, which smelled like nothing), cored and thinly sliced (I left on the peel for color contrast)
1 small shallot, thinly sliced
A handful of Taggiasca or Niçoise (similar to Taggiasca) olives, pitted and torn in half (or left whole, if you prefer)
4 large sprigs tarragon, the leaves lightly chopped
1 teaspoon rice wine vinegar
Salt
½ teaspoon Dijon mustard
1½ tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Black pepper

Place the fennel, pears, shallot, olives, and tarragon in a wide salad bowl.

Whisk the vinegar with a little salt and the mustard. Whisk in the olive oil.

Grind a little fresh black pepper over the salad, and then pour on the dressing. Toss gently with your fingers.

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Merry Christmas from Women with Fish

December 21, 2025 by Erica

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