“To kill a fish is an act I do to preserve my own body.
To preserve a fish is a task I do with salting,
Never to rely on frozen water again.”
—An unknown Italian American cook, sometime in the late 1970s.
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Recipe below in text: Seared Pork Chops with Apples, Onion, Thyme, and Calvados
I almost never think to eat a whole raw apple. I don’t know why this is. But I did it the other day. I picked a Jonathan out from a large variety of apples displayed at Montgomery Place Orchards’ farm stand in Red Hook. I chose it for its deep red color; its taste was spicy-sweet-sour, its inside slightly warm. I had an excellent time eating that apple, and I wondered why I didn’t eat raw apples more often.
I have, on the other hand, always loved cooking with apples. New York is a good place to be in the fall if you want the aroma of apples. Montgomery Place Orchards grows 75 different kinds. When I was there I saw about 30 on display. Their skin colors and textures ranged from lumpy beige to cinnabar, including yellow, light green, orange, orange red, streaky red orange, brilliant pink red, and crimson, and some with pink insides. Here are a few of the varieties that caught my attention.
If this makes you want to explore the world of apples further, go to Montomery’s website, where they list all their apples in three categories: modern, traditional, and antique. I find the list very moving. It’s beautiful that these people are preserving all these varieties. I think one of the reasons I don’t eat a whole raw apple more often is that the supermarket types I have to choose from have no smell at all. The air at Montgomery Orchards was strong with apple.
The idea for this pork chop and apple dish started with one I used to cook at Restaurant Florent back in the day. That one was blood sausages with apples, onion, thyme, and Calvados. All I did here was switch out the blood sausages for pork chops and add an anise spice rub for the chops, a good flavor blend with thyme.
Of all the apples I stared at that afternoon, I decided Esopus Spitzenberg would be the one with these pork chops. Not only was it Thomas Jefferson’s favorite apple, but I was told by one of the farm ladies that it had a good mix of sweet and sour and held its shape well when cooked. Two important qualities for this dish.
I really can’t stand when cooks describe a recipe as simple when it might look somewhat rustico on the plate but is actually a big pain in the ass to pull together. This dish really, truly is easy and quick, yet its flavor is deep.
To make it for two, get two medium-thick bone-in pork chops, preferably from a local organic farm (mine were about ¾ inch thick; any thicker and you’d probably need to finish off in the oven, which I didn’t want to bother with).
Grind up a palmful of fennel seeds. Mix them with about an equal amount of ground star anise, some salt and black pepper, and a pinch of sugar. Rub this all over the pork chops, and let them sit while you slice up a medium onion and thinly slice two firm, not-too-sweet apples (Granny Smith, Cortland, and Pink Lady are other tart varieties you might consider). I think it’s best not to peel the apples. I like the way their red skins look in the dish, and it helps the slices hold their shape.
Get out a heavy-bottomed pan (cast iron is good), and a large sauté pan.
Have on hand extra-virgin olive oil, a bottle of Calvados, salt, freshly ground black pepper, and the leaves from about 7 or 8 thyme sprigs (plus a few whole sprigs for garnish, if you like).
Drizzle olive oil into the sauté pan, and let it get hot over medium flame. Add the onion, and let it soften for a few minutes. Add the apple slices, season them with salt and black pepper, and add the thyme leaves. While that’s all cooking, put a high flame under the cast iron pan. Drizzle in some olive oil, and when it’s really hot add the pork chops. Brown them well on both sides, about 3 minutes per side. Next add a big splash of Calvados, turn off the heat, cover the pan, and let them continue to cook gently in the waning pan heat until they’re just done through but still pink at the bone, about another 3 or 4 minutes.
When the apples are tender but still holding their shape, add a big splash of Calvados to their pan and let it bubble for a few seconds. By this time the chops should be perfect.
Uncover the pork chop pan and plate the chops. Pour a little of the pan juice over them. Pile the apple-onion mix on top of and alongside the chops. You might want to sprinkle a little coarse salt on, too. I did. Garnish with thyme sprigs if you like. Eat hot.
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Recipe in text below: Mezzi Paccheri with Butternut Squash, Pancetta, Rosemary, and Walnuts
Butternut squash can get to seem boring right now, when it’s all over the place, piled up in bins not only at the Union Square market but also at places like West Side Market, a local supermarket I have a love-hate relationship with (their fish department borders on disgusting). Butternut squash is clunky, bulbous, and colored a strange, dull peachy beige, but it has wonderful qualities, too. It tastes good, like pumpkin but gentler, sweeter, and less stringy. It’s easier to peel than pumpkin. Its seeds are contained in a little round pocket inside its bulbous bottom. Peeling that part can be a challenge, but the neck is smooth and clean and easy to cut into uniform cubes, so there’s an elegance to that alone. To make it easy for myself I often purchase a large butternut squash (or two smaller ones if they’re all I can find). I separate its long neck from its bulby bottom and then skin and dice the neck—a sharp chef’s knife slides right down the skin. I leave the bottom for another day, usually to cut in half, scoop out the seeds, and roast. A nice side show for two, along with, say, pork chops sautéed with apples.
Butternut squash is sweet, sometimes a little too sweet, but you can awaken it. In my recipe here I did so with a little dry vermouth and a few drops of rice wine vinegar that brought it into balance. I find that butternut squash is nice paired with something fatty and salty, so I included a good amount of pancetta, too.
I’m getting to really love this vegetable. It makes fall cooking an event.
I also wanted to mention Faella pasta, my new favorite brand. It’s from the grand dried-pasta capital of the world, Gragnano, a town just south of Naples. I cook a lot of different brands of dried pasta, but lately this one has really been speaking to me. I love the way the pieces clink together in the bag, and the semolina dust they leave on your hand when you grab a bunch. Their color is a warm yellow with a rough, almost velvety look they get from the traditional bronze dies used to extrude them but also from the slow drying process used to finish them to perfection.
Faella is an old family-run company, started in 1907. In my opinion it’s still doing everything right. For my butternut squash recipe I chose Faella’s mezzi paccheri shape, one of my favorites. It’s not as giant as paccheri; it’s the same idea, hefty and bold, but easier to get into your mouth. Faella pasta is available from www.gustiamo.com. I love looking and choosing from all the shapes they carry. Almost as exciting as shopping for shoes.
Before I show you how I put together this butternut squash pasta, I’d like to remind you that the Siena early Renaissance show has just opened at the Metropolitan Museum. I went to a members’ preview the other day. The beautiful show covers the years 1300 to 1350, a time of phenomenal artistic creation in Siena, a first break from the Byzantine style and the dawn of the Italian Renaissance. You’ll see works from the four major artists, Duccio di Buoninsegna, the brothers Pietro and Ambrogio Lorenzetti, and Simone Martini, brought together from museums and churches all over the world. The colors are rich and bright, ultramarine, scarlet, vermillion, a powdery pink that I love. Lots of gold leaf. The medium is mostly egg tempera on wood. And you can get up close to many of the remarkably well-preserved works. A brilliant show. It’s up until January 26, 2025.
If you’d like to try making my Mezzi Paccheri with Butternut Squash, Pancetta, Rosemary, and Walnuts, here’s what you’ll want to do:
Start with a large butternut squash. Separate the rounded bottom from the neck with a sharp chef’s knife, and save the bottom for another day. Skin the long stem section, and cut it into approximately ½-inch cubes. You’ll notice how pretty and uniform they look, and how orange. You’ll want about 2½ cups of them.
Get out a large sauté pan, and drizzle in a tablespoon or so of extra-virgin olive oil. Let it get hot over medium heat. Chop a ½-inch-thick round of pancetta into small dice, and add it to the pan. Let it cook slowly until it’s crisp and much of its fat has been released. Remove the pancetta bits with a slotted spoon, and set them aside. I do this so they stay crisp, a good contrast to the soft squash, and I’ll add them back toward the end. Add a large shallot cut into small dice (you can use a leek instead). Add the butternut squash, and season with salt and black pepper and a little hit of allspice. I’ve still got decent-looking rosemary in my garden, so I added the well-chopped needles from a large sprig. Rosemary goes well with hard squash, and it’s a nice change from sage, which can turn a little musty with heat. Give it a stir, and let everything sauté for a few minutes.
While it is cooking, set up a pot of pasta cooking water, salt it well, and bring it to a boil.
Add a splash of dry vermouth to the sauté pan, and let it bubble out. Add a splash of chicken broth or water, cover the pan, turn the heat down a touch, and let the squash steam cook until tender but still holding its shape, about 6 minutes.
Drop a pound of mezzi paccheri into the water (or use another similar pasta, such as rigatoni).
Uncover the sauté pan, add about ½ cup of crème fraîche, and stir it around until it’s melted and creamy. Let it simmer, uncovered, for a few minutes. By now some of the butternut squash will have broken down and blended in with the crème fraîche, creating a sweet light orange sauce. Give it a taste. You might want to add a few drops of rice wine vinegar for acidity, or maybe not. That’s a personal taste call.
When the pasta is al dente, drain it, leaving a little water clinging to it, and pour it into a large, warmed serving bowl. Add a drizzle of good olive oil, and toss briefly. Add the butternut squash sauce, the crisp pancetta bits, a few big gratings of Parmigiano or grana Padano, and a handful of toasted, lightly chopped walnuts, holding some back for garnish. Add a little more black pepper, and toss. Taste to see if it needs salt. Scatter on the rest of the walnuts. I also garnished this with a little chopped Italian parsley. It wasn’t entirely necessary, but I had it on hand.
This will serve four as a main-course pasta.
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Recipe in text below: Roasted Cauliflower with Tahini, Pine Nuts, and Lemon Thyme
We were lucky this year in New York: Fall flew in quickly, turning a lot of the green into yellow, orange, pinky red, seemingly overnight, but the temperatures stayed soft. I haven’t even cut my herbs back, even though some of them, especially the Greek oregano, have turned to grizzle, and the summer savory is shot to hell, self-trimming by nature. I did scissor off most of the seeds and pollen-topped umbels and some of the stalks from my fennel to get a head start on my finocchietto, the Italian fennel liqueur I make every year. I just steep the fennel in Everclear, the 190-proof nightmare you can purchase at just about any liquor store. Almost immediately the Everclear pulls all the fragrance and color from the seeds and stems, turning brilliant green, actually a deep green with a blue undertone. A strange color leaves from the normally light green fennel stalks. It’s astonishing how well the Everclear sucks the life out of a plant. I’ll let the fennel steep for about two months, then add a sugar syrup to tamp down the bitterness (not a lot of sugar, as I don’t want it sweet like Sambuca), and then enough water to get the alcohol down to a manageable level. By Christmas it should be where I want it.
The produce at the markets changes as quickly as do the leaves on the trees. Pumpkins, tiny and huge, pile up, round, squat, ones with odd squared-off angles, orange, beige, white, even gray-green ones. I’m not sure why I find this so disturbing. What do people do with all these pumpkins? What happens to them after November? Growing all these things for reasons I don’t understand must take up a lot of land space. I do make a savory pumpkin torta with parmigiano and sage once or twice in the fall, but that’s about it. Why do farmers grow so many? I mean, there are so many pumpkins all over the place. I’ve never really gotten over this.
I do love when the cauliflowers appear. That I understand. They’re so lumpy and voluptuous, almost volcanic-looking. Story Farms has colored cauliflowers that drive me a little wild. Green, orange, purple, gorgeous things that started showing up at New York farm stands maybe about fifteen years ago. They are hybrids, crosses of traditional creamy-white cauliflower with other vegetables to achieve those colors. The green ones are a cross between white cauliflower and broccoli, the orange ones with vegetables high in beta carotene such as carrots. The purple ones get their color from anthocyanin found in purple vegetables, usually purple broccoli. The colors fade a little during cooking, but I find that the orange variety generally stays pretty orange. Here are a few recent photos from Story.
In addition to the orange, purple, and white cauliflower, in the upper left you can see a Romanesco variety with its spiral bud pattern. Itʼs an old Italian hybrid of cauliflower and broccoli.
Hereʼs their beautiful green variety.
For my Roasted Cauliflower with Tahini, Pine Nuts, and Lemon Thyme, I used regular white cauliflower, but you can make it with any type. Or you can use broccoli, if you prefer. To make it you’ll want to cut approximately 1-inch flowerets from a large head of cauliflower and toss them in a little olive oil, a tiny drizzle of runny honey, lemon zest, salt, some chopped fresh lemon thyme, and a little piment d’Espelette.
Make a Tahini sauce by mixing ¾ cup of tahini with about ½ a minced garlic clove, a big pinch of allspice, salt, a bit more of the espelette, and the juice from about half a lemon. Slowly whisk in about ½ cup of water until the mixture loosens up and becomes smooth and pourable.
Roast the cauliflower on really high heat (450 is good) until it’s tender and browned. Transfer it to a large, wide serving bowl. Drizzle on the tahini sauce (you might not need all of it—judgement here), sprinkle on a good amount of toasted pine nuts, and finish with a few more lightly chopped lemon thyme leaves.
For me this dish is best right out of the oven, when the cauliflower is hot and crisp. It still tastes really good at room temperature, but also the cauliflower softens a little. I served it with a whole roasted sea bass I stuffed with lemon and a variety of herbs I still had in my garden, but it would make a good vegetarian dinner served over Israeli couscous, I think. One big cauliflower should serve four as a side dish or two or three as a main over some type of starchy thing.
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Recipe below: Caponata with Lovage, Thai Basil, and Pear
If you ever get to upstate New York, you probably notice a lot of pizza trucks rumbling around. They show up at farm stands, breweries, wineries, fairs. They pull up and set up, churn out pizzas for a few hours, and then they’re gone. They’re not all great, but some are.
I often hang out at Slow Fox Farm Brewery, in Rhinebeck. It’s both a brewery and a farm, with its own tomatoes, herbs, cabbage, kale, beets, arugula, and rows of, at the moment, zinnias, cosmos, and celosia that you can pick while drunk. As well as more than half a dozen fine house-brewed beers and ales. You can often eat pizza there. So far they’ve had I think three or four different pizza trucks this summer (this should go on into the early winter, before they close up until the spring). All the pizza has been good, but one stands out for me.
I could tell right away from the aroma wafting out from the Mommò truck that I was going to like its pizza. Mommò, I just learned, is Neapolitan for “right now,” and that’s about right. The pizza takes three minutes to cook. Luca, the owner and pizzaiolo, is from Italy, and he has the Neapolitan flavor down. The crust is yeasty and pully and just a touch salty, with charred but not too charred bubbles circling its rim. That is the taste I want but often don’t get. He’s got wood, but unlike most of the pizza people who drag around a wood burning oven with their truck, Luca had it built right into his truck. It doesn’t seem possible, but I’ve seen it. He explained to me that it’s a stainless steel pizza oven made in Naples for backyard use. It’s a little tight, but he got it to fit. If he turns around without thinking, he can burn his arm. But he’s been doing this for almost three years now, and I guess he’s got the reflex down.
Luca makes an effort to use good ingredients, as not everyone does. He’s got that bright red tomato sauce I always look for, the type that’s ladled on raw but gets flash blasted in the extra-hot oven. So far I’ve tried his margarita, his pizza with shiitake mushrooms, an anchovy and burrata one, and his sausage pizza topped with a nice mellow local sausage. In true Neapolitan style he’s light on the toppings, but you still get that traditional Neapolitan moist spot in the middle that I love. There’s a gorgonzola pizza I’m interested in, too. Next time. If you feel like following Luca around the Hudson Valley, you can track his whereabouts at www.mommopizza.com.
As you probably gather, I do love a good pizza, but what about caponata? Not that they’re related, except for the fact that they’re both Southern Italian. It’s still eggplant season here in New York, so I’ve got to use eggplants every way I can while they’re still young and vibrant. Caponata is of Sicilian origin, one of those full-bodied Spanish- and possibly Arab-inspired dishes with strange lists of ingredients that combine to open up lusciously on the tongue. Eggplant is caponata’s anchor, and agrodolce gives it its swing. It’s an old dish (tomato being a recent addition), which when done up for high-class Sicilians used to include (and sometimes still does) Baroque garnishes such as chocolate, cinnamon, hard-boiled eggs aged in vinegar, and even baby octopus. I kept the cinnamon.
Basil, parsley, and mint are traditional contemporary herbs for caponata. But this September, since I’ve still had tons of lovage in my garden, I’ve decided to add a little of that. And it makes sense, since celery is almost always a component of the dish and lovage has a strong celery-like flavor. If you don’t have lovage, use a palmful of celery leaves instead. I also had Thai basil hanging on, so that went in as well. And since it’s early fall, instead of the more typical dried fruit, usually raisins, I went with pear, just to freshen things up. And I decided on almonds instead of pine nuts because they seemed to go better with the pears. Not sure why. Just a feeling.
And just one more thing about caponata: I don’t care what anyone says, caponata is not ratatouille. It’s not a side dish. It shares basic ingredients, such as eggplant, but the seasoning couldn’t be more different. Its agrodolce boldness steers it toward the antipasto category. I like it served room temperature, along with bruschetta brushed with good olive oil.
Caponata with Lovage, Thai Basil, and Pear
Extra-virgin olive oil
2 firm medium-size eggplants, stripe-peeled and cut into medium dice
Salt
A big pinch of cinnamon (about ¼ teaspoon)
A drizzle of honey (about a teaspoon)
1 red bell pepper, seeded, ribbed, and cut into small dice
1 medium onion, cut into small dice
2 teaspoons Spanish sherry vinegar
3 small inner celery ribs, cut into small dice, plus a handful of celery leaves (especially if you don’t have lovage)
1 firm pear, skinned and cut into small dice
A splash of dry Marsala
1 large, round summer tomato, skinned and cut into small dice
1½ teaspoons sugar
A palmful of salt-packed capers, soaked and rinsed
Black pepper
A handful of Thai basil leaves, lightly chopped, plus whole sprigs for garnish
3 lovage leaves, lightly chopped
A big handful of blanched almonds, lightly toasted and roughly chopped
Have a large serving bowl ready near the stove. In a large skillet, heat a big drizzle of olive oil over medium heat. Add the eggplant, and sauté until it’s tender but still keeping its shape, about 8 minutes. Season it with a little salt and the cinnamon. Add the honey, giving everything a mix. Spoon the eggplant into the bowl.
Add another drizzle of olive oil to the skillet, add the red pepper and onion, and sauté over medium heat until softened, about 4 minutes or so. Add 1 teaspoon of the vinegar, and let it bubble for a few seconds. Add this mixture to the bowl with the eggplant.
Add another drizzle of olive oil to the skillet, and then add the celery and celery leaves, sautéing them until they just start to soften, about 2 minutes. Add the pear, and let it sauté about a minute longer. Pour in the Marsala, and let it bubble away. Add all this to the bowl, and give everything a gentle toss.
Add one more drizzle of olive oil to the skillet, keeping the heat on medium. Add the tomato, seasoning it with a little salt. Add the sugar, and sauté the tomato for about 2 minutes (you want it to remain red and fresh-tasting). Add the other teaspoon of vinegar, and let it boil for a few seconds. Pour the tomatoes into the bowl.
Add the capers and a few big grindings of black pepper to the bowl. Add the Thai basil, lovage, and about ¾ of the almonds. Give everything another mix. Taste for seasoning. The caponata should have a gentle, well-balanced sweet-and-sour taste. Add a little more salt if you need to to bring all the flavors into focus. Let the dish sit and come to room temperature. Then give it another taste, just to check the seasoning. (Dishes taste different at different temperatures, and this one in particular will change flavors as all its various components meld. It might need a little drizzle of vinegar or a bit more black pepper.) Garnish with the remaining almonds and the Thai basil sprigs. Serve at room temperature.
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Recipe in text below: Rigatoni with Roasted Red Peppers, Crème Fraîche, Thyme, and Basil
In the late 1800s Carmine Street and the surrounding blocks of the West Village became a destination for Italian immigrants, mostly from Liguria. Our Lady of Pompeii Church, at Carmine and Bleecker, was their refuge, providing not only spiritual support but also helping new arrivals with housing, jobs, and medical care. It has continued to comfort all the Sicilian and Neapolitan people that followed. My friend Sandy Di Pasqua’s family landed on Carmine. My next-door neighbor on Long Island Lou Mastellone’s older brother was born in a walkup, cold-water apartment on Christopher Street, about five blocks away.
Pompeii is still an Italian church in spirit, having a daily Italian-language mass for the remaining elders, but it also offers one in Tagalog, as the congregation is now heavily Filipino. I took Italian classes at its adjoining school in the 1990s. And for years I would get together with a bunch of friends for its Good Friday Mass. For me, a nonreligious type, the attraction to the vigil was the darkness, the yellow light, the smell of the paraffin candles, and the repetitive, hypnotic song we all sang as we walked over and over around the pews. The refrain “Sono stati i miei peccati, Gesù mio, perdon, pieta” is, I’m pretty certain, stuck in my brain forever. In the old days they even took the song and candles out onto the street. After the vigil we’d all go to Rocco’s for fritto misto and chianti (the old Rocco’s, not the new faux–Italian American hotspot it’s become). Our group has now dispersed, so we don’t do it anymore, but the show goes on, although with fewer participants each year.
There are still a few legit Italian places in the neighborhood. Rocco’s pastry shop (not related to the now trendy restaurant on Thompson Street ), Ottomanelli’s butcher, Joe’s pizza, and Faicco’s Pork shop (which now, unfortunately, has an aggressive MAGAroni vibe to it that I don’t appreciate) are all around the corner on Bleecker.
So for me, it’s a celebration when a new Italian-run shop appears in the neighborhood. Yesterday I went to check out Sullaluna, a just-opened cafe and bookshop combo on Carmine, an offshoot of a place in Venice. They specialize in beautifully illustrated children’s books, all in Italian. I felt peaceful in Sullaluna, and the books are fascinating. A whole new world of literature for me. Here’s a book I just had to purchase:
There’s also good coffee and wine, and a small menu with standard items like gnocchi, arancini, carbonara, and salads. They also do brunch. I cannot yet comment on the quality of the food, since I only had an espresso, but the guy next to me ordered a huge gelato-stuffed cornetto that looked enticing. This is a sweet little place. I will be back.
Sullaluna is at 41 Carmine Street. It’s closed on Tuesdays. As of now, It doesn’t seem to have a website, but it does have an active Instragram account that you might want to check out.
After my coffee at Sullaluna I made my way over to the Union Square market to check out all the late summer produce there. We’ve still got lots of tomatoes here in New York City, and those dark and dusty-looking pointed Italian plums, my favorites for tarts. And many of the sweet and hot chilis have now ripened to a deep crimson. I bought an armful of sweet ones labelled Giant Marconi. I think I’ve cooked with them before, but I wasn’t familiar with that name. I love a roasted sweet pepper sauce for pasta, so that was my plan.
Here’s how to make my Rigatoni with Roasted Red Peppers, Crème Fraîche, Thyme, and Basil.
You’ll want to start by roasting your peppers. I used 6 of the Giant Marconi ones, which turned out to be dense and rich tasting, but 4 or 5 regular red bell peppers would also work. I like to do them on a charcoal grill, but a broiler or gas flame does a fine job. Just blacken them all over, and then peel and seed them. Then give them a rough chop. (I really don’t recommend using jarred roasted peppers for this. Their taste is always somewhat acidic, which can really spoil this suave sauce.)
Get out a large sauté pan, and set it over medium heat. Add a big drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil and a tablespoon or so of butter. Add a chopped shallot and a sliced garlic clove, and let them soften for a moment. Add the roasted peppers, a little chopped fresh thyme, some salt, and a pinch of nutmeg, and let them cook until the peppers are fragrant and tender, about five minutes. Add a splash of dry vermouth, and let it bubble out.
Purée the peppers in a food processor, adding a little water to thin out the purée. Return the purée to the pan, and add about ½ cup of crème fraîche and a sprinkling of Aleppo pepper. Let it warm through.
Cook a pound of rigatoni or another shape you might have on hand, and drain it, saving a little of the cooking water. Pour it into a large, warmed serving bowl. Add the sauce, a drizzle of fresh olive oil, a good sprinkling of grated Parmigiano Reggiano, and a handful of lightly chopped basil, adding a little cooking water to loosen it if needed. Give it a good toss.
This sauce is also very good on mussels or clams. Just open them in a little white wine or vermouth, add the sauce, and toss. Beauty.
Happy end of summer cooking to you.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged dinner, food, italian, pasta, recipes | 6 Comments »
Fish Walker, Sheep Jones, 2023
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Recipe below in text: Warm Corn Salad with Tomatoes, Thai Basil, and Ricotta Salata.
I haven’t been very creative with corn this summer, just eating a lot of corn on the cob (or corn on the club, as my friend’s young son used to call it). And, in fact, I haven’t completely enjoyed every ear, finding some ridiculously sweet. Half the time I can’t even finish one club. You have to really hunt around the farmers’ markets to find the old-fashioned varieties that are not just sugar loads.
The other day I picked up some ears of what was labeled white corn. The kernels weren’t exactly white, more like a very pale yellow. I’ve seen carnations that color. I was told by the people at the farm stand that that corn was a native, nonhybrid variety. After a little research I thought maybe it was New York Iroquois corn, but the farm people didn’t call it that. I tested it by chomping into it raw. Sweet but grassy. I decided to slice off the kernels and sauté them. That made it even sweeter, but with a deeper vegetable undertaste than the yellow stuff. Still, I didn’t want to eat it straight, finally deciding that any type of corn is improved by a little acid, a little heat, and salt.
I came up with this recipe, which includes a peperoncino for heat, ricotta salata for salinity, tomatoes because it’s still summer, a little miso for umami, and Thai basil for its anise spiciness, which, especially late in the season, is a good counterpoint to sweet.
To make it, first off make a vinaigrette, with 1 teaspoon of white miso, a teaspoon of sherry wine vinegar, a teaspoon of mirin, and 1½ tablespoons of good olive oil. Mix that all well until the miso is dissolved.
Shuck 5 ears of summer corn (you can try to find a white variety, but any type will work well). With a sharp knife, slice off the kernels.
Get out a large sauté pan, and set it over medium heat. Drizzle in a little olive oil. Add the corn, 2 scallions cut into thin rounds, a piece of a fresh hot red chili, minced (as much as you like; I used about half a peperoncino), and a big pinch of allspice. Add a sprinkle of salt, and sauté until the corn is firm but tender, 3 minutes or so.
Put the corn in a big serving bowl. Add 2 or 3 well chopped plum tomatoes (I seeded mine) and a handful of lightly chopped Thai basil leaves. Pour on the vinaigrette, and give it all a gentle toss. Scatter on some crumbled ricotta salata, and garnish with a few nice looking Thai basil sprigs.
You can serve this warm or at room temperature. It will feed four or five as a side dish. I served it with roasted monkfish that I topped with a green tapenade, but it would go well with any number things (barbecued chicken thighs, for instance).
Happy late summer cooking to you.
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Recipe in text below: Gazpacho with Cantaloupe and Basil
I don’t like bell peppers in my gazpacho, either green or red. They add a sharp gasoliny flavor so dominating, I find, that I can’t taste much else. Roasting would probably improve the pepper presence, but to my mind the point of gazpacho is to blend uncooked ingredients, releasing their essence and their trapped water while keeping it all as cold as can be so it’ll refresh your body on a hot day. No cooking here at all. But those bell peppers bummed me out every time. I wanted to love this soup so badly. You know what I did? I left the bell peppers out. Dramatic, I know. I instead emphasized the sweet by adding melon, balancing that out with sherry wine vinegar, a mildly bitter extra-virgin olive oil, basil, and sea salt.
If you’d like to try my version, you’ll need four medium summer tomatoes, chopped (I didn’t peel mine, but you certainly can if you want), a medium cucumber, skinned and chopped (I skinned it because I didn’t want the dark green skin to add a murky color), about 3 cups of cubed really fragrant summer cantaloupe, 2 chopped scallions (just the white part; save the green stems for the garnish), a piece of a fresh red chili (I used half of a red jalapeño from my garden), a small, very fresh summer garlic clove, chopped, and the leaves from a few sprigs of lemon thyme.
Put everything in a food processor, and pulse it until blended but still maintaining a little texture (you don’t want it to resemble a smoothie). Add about a teaspoon of sherry wine vinegar (depending on its strength, you may need more; I used Viagre de Jerez Reserva, which is potent), some nice sea salt (I find that this soup can take a good amount of salt), and about ¼ cup of your best olive oil (I had on hand a Sicilian brand called Olio Verde that I really like that is bitter but not aggressively so). Pulse again a few times to blend. Depending on how much water is in your vegetables, the soup at this point may be thick or thin, but we’ll adjust that later.
Pour the soup into a pitcher or a bowl, and refrigerate it for at least 3 hours (overnight is fine). This will give it time not only to chill but also for all the flavors to blend.
When that’s done, it will have thickened a little. If it started out thin, this will be a good thing. In my case I needed to loosen it up with about ¾ cup of cold water. My preference is for gazpacho to have body and texture but still be pourable. I don’t want a spoon to stand up in it. Next taste the soup, adjusting with more salt, vinegar, and/or hot chili if needed. Add about 5 or 6 leaves of well chopped basil, and stick the soup back in the refrigerator for about another hour to further meld the flavors and chill. Then it will be ready to serve. You’ll have four good-size servings.
I like garnishing each bowl with a fine chop of cantaloupe, cucumber, the green ends of scallion, and a thread of fresh olive oil. And I love this soup with good bread, a plate of Serrano ham, and a cold glass of rosato.
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I am a chef, food writer, and herb lover who specializes in improvisational Italian cooking. I am the author of The Flavors of Southern Italy and Pasta Improvvisata, as well as Williams-Sonoma Pasta, which is available at Williams-Sonoma stores. A member of the Association of Culinary Professionals, The New York Women's Culinary Alliance, The New York Culinary Historians, The Herb Society of America, and the Italian-based International Slow Food Movement, I live in New York City.
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