Two requests intersect, and complement in today’s post: a lush sauce and a tuna recipe. The first concerns a good customer, and the second, a good cat.

1.
Nearly every Friday, you’ll find me in the kitchen of the Culinary Arts Center at Second Harvest Food Bank. There, we create a wonderful buffet lunch, open to the public. Called First Harvest Cafe, its proceeds go to the support of the food bank, in its varied, but pointed missions to end hunger. We create a different menu for each Friday: One week might be Santa Fe style fajitas and fixin’s, another might explore the tastes of the Mediterranean Rim.

One of our best customers, Don, is a man who lives for good food. He has dined with us nearly every Friday since we started First Harvest Cafe. (August 2005) Talk about loyalty!

A recent Provencal menu featured Salad Nicoise, a beautiful late summer spread with green beans, new potatoes, caramelized sweet red peppers and onions, olives, hard-cooked eggs, and the like. To accompany, I made two dressings: a whipped balsamic vinaigrette and a silken aioli, laced with tarragon and lemony tang.

At the end of our French picnic lunch, Don circled by the kitchen to wish us a happy weekend.

“I could eat a bowl of that sauce,” he said. “If the recipe is not already on your blog, it needs to be.”

Comin’ right up, Don.

LEMON TARRAGON AIOLI
1 Lemon–for juice and zest
1 Garlic clove
2 heaping Tablespoon fresh Tarragon leaves
1 farm fresh Egg
1/2 t. sea salt
1/4 t. black pepper
3/4 c. Olive Oil

In a food processor fitted with a swivel blade, process the garlic, lemon juice, zest, and egg together until smooth. Pulse in the tarragon leaves, salt and black pepper. Then, Slowly-steadily drip-pour in the olive oil while processing. The mixture will emulsify into a luscious thick-and-creamy sauce.

Makes about one cup. Keeps for 2-3 days, refrigerated.

2.
I cooked up this simple, but elegant tuna dish, at the request of my daughter. Today is her birthday, and if we were together, we’d dine on these delectables. It’s not that seared ahi tuna is her favorite. Well-loved, for sure, but not a fervent desire. Her request sprung from a different place: the desire to honor our sweet old cat, Cass, who recently exited this physical plane, on to other unseen adventures.

Cass was the fervent tuna lover.

She came to our household in 1992, via our garage, where, as a very young mother, she chose to have her litter. Her name then was Christine. Neglected by her owners, our neighbors two doors down, she was starving, struggling to care for her young. It was a heartbreaking discovery.

At the time, a pair of parakeets were our pets. I had no plans to become a cat owner.

“We’re bird people,” I remember telling my daughter.

No matter. Often, a cat will choose you.

We renamed her Mama Cass, found homes for her kittens, restored her to good health, and ultimately, found a home for the pair of parakeets.

In short, we became cat people.

Cass was a part of our family for almost twenty years. For her first nine years, she was the solo cat. Then came the boys, Mo and Willis, rascals whom she barely tolerated for the following nine years. The boys were snatched from us in untimely ways: an incurable illness, a pack of dogs.

But Mama Cass endured, remarkably healthy, and fairly spry for a feline who brushed up on the age of 97, in human years. No doubt, that dollop of canned tuna I put on top of her dry food every meal was a contributing factor!

There were hints of her impending translation–a loss in appetite, a lengthening in sleeptime. Her old body had worked well for so long, and it was done. She died peacefully, in the comfort of her home, stretched out on a blanket on the couch, surrounded by her loving human family–me and Bill. As uncomfortable as it was watching her surrender to that inevitability, it was a gift to see her make that passage with nobility and grace.

It’s felt empty in our home since her passing. The sun lowers, and I think, oh, it’s time to feed her. Or, if I’ve been out, as soon as I open the front door, I make a move to check on her whereabouts. The brain, so grooved with habit, has to be reminded, and relearn.

SEARED AHI TUNA, served over mixed lettuces, sliced grapefruit, and avocado, topped with Lemon-Tarragon Aioli

Ahi Tuna Steaks, about 1″ thick
Good Olive Oil
Sea Salt and Cracked Black Pepper

helpful: ridged cast-iron grillpan

Rinse tuna steaks and pat dry. Rub with olive oil, liberally sprinkle with salt and black pepper.

Heat skillet. Sear steaks, about 2 minutes a side. Allow the meat to rest about 10 minutes before slicing.

Arrange slices over a bed of greens, avocado and grapefruit slices. Top with aioli and serve.

Today’s beauteous recipe was inspired by the work of a Nashville chef, Roderick Bailey. He owns The Silly Goose, a charming restaurant in East Nashville, one of my favorite dining haunts. Don’t be misled by its name. While the Goose attitude is upbeat, light-hearted, and occasionally silly, the Goose Food is anything but.

In an economy of space, The Silly Goose folks make some serious good food.

Recently, Roderick offered a dish, similar to the one above, as an evening special. We had taken a seat at the bar that looks into the kitchen, and asked for his recommendation. His description made my decision a simple one.

“The scallops just came in and look really really nice,” he said. “And, I’ve made a kind of pureed gazpacho using these fantastic heirloom tomatoes, and organic peppers. I’ll quickly pan-sear the scallops, and place them in the soup mounded with skillet fried corn–fresh silverqueen. And then, I’ll garnish them with young pea tendrils.”

Sold!

What a bowl of pleasure. A spoon-only meal! I could scoop through the crisp-seared scallops, the spoonful holding corn and heady broth along with each tender bite. Each element held its own kind of sweetness: from candy-acid delight of tomatoes, to the bursting kernels of corn to the briny, almost floral sweet notes of the scallops. The bright green tangle of pea tendrils collapsed and cooked into the broth.

I couldn’t wait to recreate it, and had the right opportunity the following week, when we had guests for dinner.

Well-conceived, the recipe can be made in three simple steps.
Its success relies on fresh picked produce for imparting deep flavors.

Lucky-lucky, my garden had already provided tomatoes and peppers a plenty.

I spread them out on a baking sheet pan, coated them with olive oil, a little sea salt, and roasted them to bring out the natural sugars. Then I simmered and strained the caramelized mass, until it made this lush red broth.

The rest was easy. I love skillet-fried corn, a true Southern cooking technique; unlike creamed corn, or corn pudding, its taste is true, uncomplicated by dairy or eggs. I recommend this preparation to enjoy on its own. Good scallops don’t require much–a liberal dose of salt, pepper, and paprika—cooked on high in a butter-oil combo. No pea tendrils in my purview, but some fresh arugula readily accommodated–a peppery green contrast.

I served these sumptuous bowls with wedges of cornbread, baked in my cast iron skillet, riddled with jalapeno bite. Almost unthinking, one by one, we all broke small hunks into the soup. It added yet another dimension. The table fell quiet, each of us savoring the rare union of soulful sophistication.

ROASTED TOMATO-PEPPER BROTH
4 lbs. Ripe Tomatoes, cored and cut in half (can use a combination of cherry tomatoes, if you like)
1 Red Bell Pepper, cut in half, deseeded
3 Assorted Banana Peppers, stems removed
2 Jalapenos, stems removed
1 large Onion, quartered
4 cloves Garlic
Olive Oil
salt and pepper

Place all the vegetables onto a roasting pan. Brush with olive oil, and season with salt and black pepper.
Roast in a preheated 400 degree oven for 20 minutes, until skins are blackened and blistered.
Cool, and run all the veggies (and their juices, and oils) through a food mill–twice.
Heat in a saucepan and thin with water.
Taste for seasoning.

Makes 8 cups.

SKILLET FRIED CORN
4 ears Fresh Corn on the Cob, husked and cleaned of corn silk
4 T. Butter
Sea Salt and Coarse Ground Black Pepper
Water about 1/4 cup

The trick to this is how you cut the kernels. Holding the ear of corn upright in a bowl with one hand, slice down through the kernels—only halfway through, exposing the kernel center and the most “corn milk.” Using the back of the knife, scrape down the cob to get out the remaining kernel pulp. Scrape back and forth to get the most out of each ear.

Over medium heat, melt the butter in a skillet and add the scraped kernels. Stir well, coating the corn. Add water, as needed. (Some ears of corn are milkier than others!) Season with salt and pepper. Sometimes people add a pinch of sugar, but fresh corn is naturally sweet and won’t need it.

Stirring often, cook for about 10 minutes. The frying of the corn is more like a sauté; the natural sugars and starch from the corn will lightly thicken the mixture.

SEARED SEA SCALLOPS
1 lb. (or so ) Diver’s Sea Scallops (figure 3-4 scallops per person)
Paprika
Sea Salt
Cracked Black Pepper
Olive Oil and Butter–combo for searing, 1-2T. each

Rinse scallops and pat dry. Liberally season both sides with paprika, salt and pepper.
Heat butter and olive oil together in a heavy skillet, just below smoking point.
Sear scallops, about 1 minute per side. Remove from heat.

ASSEMBLY
Ladle hot Tomato-Red Pepper Broth into bowls.
Spoon fried corn to the center of each bowl.
Place scallops on top of corn mound. They will sink a little into the broth—that’s good.
Garnish with fresh arugula, if desired.

My recent trip to Costa Rica has left me longing for the flavors of the tropics. Passionfruit. Mangos. Pineapples.

Coconuts!

We would see them, fallen with abandon to the sandy floor of beachside groves. We would also see people gather them in pick-up truckloads, either scavanged from the fallen or cut from on-high, to be arranged alongside bananas and melons on roadside fruitstands.

“Pipas Frias”

Hand-lettered signs would advertise the immature “green” coconuts and their pure, nutrient-rich water. For under a dollar, you could purchase one of these foraged delectables, drilled with a small hole and inserted with a sipping straw.

Cool, barely sweet coconut water was so refreshing.

The coconut has remarkable versatility. From husk to coir to palm frond to trunk, there are no less than 46 documented general uses for it! Of course, we are familiar with coconut milk, the key ingredient in lush curries, or Tom Ka Kai soup. And, in Costa Rica, I found that milk in an unexpected place–cloaking a piece of sea bass at a French-styled bistro.

One day, we drove down the coastal highway to explore the neighboring town, Ojochal. We’d heard there was a farmer’s market going on, and several interesting eateries worth visiting. To our surprise, we discovered a strong French-Canadian community there.

The farmer’s market was small, held in the airy lobby of a hotel/restaurant called Citrus. What a treat! One local farmer was selling ripe tomatoes, slender green beans, and bunches of Lacinato kale. Another had fat bundles of green onions, arugula, and genovese basil. And, a vendor was selling gorgeous artisan bread. Some loaves of rustic wheat had undulating waves and a star drawn and baked into the crust. (with a taste that matched the beauty!) These had been baked by a French man further down the Ojochal main dirt road. His breads were in high demand, available only by special order, or at these markets.

After making a few purchases, we stopped at a little panaderia–a bakery/coffeehouse run by another French couple–for a cup of dark roast and croissant. We snacked under the tin roof porch and laughed every time a coconut fell with a startling crash. Here, we learned about Exotica, the long-standing and possibly best restaurant in Puntarenas province. After giving directions, the bakery owners called ahead for us too, in case we needed reservations.

Exotica is a festive little enclave–thatched hut, breezy covered patio with tables made from tree trunks, charming forged lanterns suspended from the ceiling, and flowers-flowers-flowers, all surrounded by natural bamboo and wrought iron fencing.

We were greeted by hostess and co-owner Lucy, a tall, handsome woman who radiated hospitality. She and her husband, Robert, who is the chef, have run Exotica since the 1990’s—in the early years, without electricity.

Their menu wove French and Costa Rican influences, belonging to neither cuisine, but a happy fusion of the two. We each enjoyed a salad of local lettuces in a bright citrusy vinaigrette, garnished with a huge salmon-colored hibiscus bloom. Bill had a cheese plate with camembert, boursin, and a locally crafted tomme. I chose the sea bass in garlic beurre blanc.

My fish had a delicate pan-seared crust, bathed in a beurre blanc sauce that deviated from the expected French manner. Instead of the traditional lemon-garlic-white wine reduction swirled with a heap of butter, this beurre blanc got its acid note from lime, and its buttery mouthfeel from coconut milk. There was a balance of butter and coconut milk, neither overpowering the other, with nuanced layering of garlic and lime. Served with a timbale of jasmine rice and steamed local green beans, it was a sublime dish, one that I wanted to recreate.

Simply —and with speed—-done.

Here are some notes:

The coconut milk replaces at least half the butter in a classic beurre blanc recipe, and is faster-easier to work with too. The whole process came together in about fifteen minutes, which is so nice for such elegant results.

I cooked my jasmine rice in brown butter with leeks—hence the darker color, and rich-sweet toasty flavor. Saute a handful of diced leeks in a tablespoon of butter, with a pinch of salt. When the leeks are collapsed and the butter solids golden, stir in the rice. Let the butter-leek mixture coat the grains before adding the water.

Sea bass was unavailable at the market the day I went shopping, so I chose flounder. While not as thick a filet, it was still delicious. Any mild white fish should work well.

PAN-SEARED SEA BASS WITH COCONUT-LIME BEURRE BLANC

6 oz. fresh Sea Bass fillets (or flounder, or other mild white fish)
1 fresh Lime, for zest and juice
1/2 t. each: Sea Salt, Granulated Garlic, Black Pepper
1/4 t. Red Pepper Flakes
4 T. Butter, divided (1 T. for saute, 3 T. for beurre blanc)
1/2 c. Coconut Milk (canned is fine)
Fresh Chives, for garnish

Rinse fish fillets and pat dry. Season with grated lime zest, salt, peppers, and garlic. Snip a couple of chives and sprinkle over the fillets, too.

Heat skillet and melt 1 T. butter. Sear seasoned fillets for a couple of minutes on one side (edges will turn golden) and flip. Cook for another 2-3 minutes. Remove fillets from the skillet, and place on a separate plate or baking dish.

Return skillet to medium heat. Add coconut milk and stir well, scraping up any browned bits. Add the juice squeezed from the lime and continue stirring.
Cut remaining butter (3 T.) into pieces. Turn off heat, and whisk in the butter, one tablespoon at a time. The sauce will get a glossy sheen. Taste for seasoning and adjust.

Pour the sauce over the fillets, garnish with chives and serve.

Serves 2.

When my mom was a little girl living on Long Island, summers meant vacationing out the island’s North Fork, on a little strip of smooth-stoned beach along Peconic Bay called Breezy Shores. Facing the waterfront were dollhouse cottages, white-washed clapboards with dark blue trim, each cottage hand built and a little different from one another.

Some had screened porches, perfect for starlit sleeping; others had small flowerbeds where scrappy rosebushes ambled up their windswept trellises; most had blue painted wood chairs, cracked and peeling, placed out front overlooking the bay.

You could see fishermen in the early morning make their stealth way in small boats, on their quest for a good catch. You could see Shelter Island and watch the ferries make their hourly chugs from the mainland and back. You could watch weather.

I know all this, because when I was a little girl living on Long Island, summers, too, meant vacationing at Breezy Shores. Often, we would stay in the same cottage that mom had. My sister and I would collect smooth stones on the strip of beach, hunt hermit crabs in little sand mounds, rig cryptic messages in bottles and clumsily launch them into the bay.

Breezy, in 1965, was not very different from Breezy in 1935.

After we moved to Nashville, visits to that charmed spot became infrequent.
I went a couple of times in my teens and later brought my daughter–ten months old at the time–for her first salt water and beach experience. Not far from Breezy we discovered a little seafood restaurant. It was near the legendary Soundview, but it was more of a shack. It might have even been called The Shack–thirty plus years ago, memory is not clear on that detail.

No matter, the food memory is everclear! For five dollars, you could get bay scallops, sweet, small as the tip of your pinky, broiled in a buttery broth, served in an oval gratin. It came with slaw, steamed local corn on the cob, and a soft roll to mop up all that buttery broth. It was simple and fresh, gently sea-perfumed and bursting with sweetness.

I was reminded of that place, and that sumptuous dish, over the Labor Day weekend. Something about the crisp quality of the September air–at last no humidity–the end of summer conjures memories, and I saw some bay scallops, wild caught, for sale at the market.

That little seafood place doesn’t exist anymore, but miraculously, Breezy Shores does…in much the same way as it always has…and holds many stories for future posts….

MY NORTH FORK BAY SCALLOP GRATIN
with thanks to Joseph and LeCreuset for the Enameled Fish Gratin

2 T. Butter
1/4 cup diced Onion
1 clove minced Garlic
1 T. Flour
1/2 c. White Wine
1 cup Milk
1 lb. Bay Scallops
Paprika
Chives
Salt ‘n Pepper
handful of soft Breadcrumbs

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Coat the bottom and sides of a gratin dish (or small casserole, baking dish) with soft butter. Place uncooked scallops in the gratin.

In a saucepan or small skillet, melt the butter. Saute onions and garlic until translucent, about 3 minutes. Add white wine, a little sea salt, a few grindings of black pepper, and simmer for 5 minutes.

Mix flour into milk until well blended, and pour the slurry into the saucepan. Stir until mixed well with the wine and onions. Add snipped chives and a few pinches of paprika. Taste for seasoning. Remove from heat when slightly thickened, and pour over scallops in the gratin.

Sprinkle breadcrumbs over the top, dust with paprika, and place into the hot oven. Bake for about 8 minutes–the top will get brown and bubbly.
Do not overcook–you want the scallops to stay tender.

Get out your best bread to mop up the rich goodness.

Serves 4

The new seafood vendor at our farmer’s market had red snapper fillets for sale, and it triggered a food memory, my first taste of this fish: a revelation. As a former poster child for Picky Eater’s Anonymous who wouldn’t eat fishsticks let alone something fresh from the sea, I credit red snapper caught in Saint Andrews Bay, Florida and grilled outside, at the nearby piney campgrounds as the first unraveling of years of food fear and loathing.

I was sixteen years old, thrilled to be a guest of my best friend Pat McNellis and her family on a spring break camping trip to a secluded beachtown on the Florida panhandle. It was rare for the McNellis’ to plan such a vacation and Pat’s parents, Martha and Maurice, extended an invite to her friends. Jean and I accepted.

Likely the availability of a neighbor’s pop-up camper sparked the trip. It slept four and was an easy hitch onto the McNellis Bel-Air station wagon. We were told to pack light, shorts and tops, and be sure to bring a towel, bathing suit, and pillow.

Maurice intended to fish; he hadn’t used his reel in years but was certain he’d hook a bucketful of good eating from the Gulf Stream waters. Most of the gear packed up with the camper, luggage strapped onto the Bel-Air roof.

Maurice drove, with navigator Martha and youngest McNellis daughter Laura in the front seat. They folded down the back seat, and bedded it with quilts for us four teens. Pat, sister Lynn, Jean and I each placed our pillows on alternating sides, stretched out and settled in for the long drive to the Gulf of Mexico.

Plan was to leave in the early afternoon, but getting the remaining McNellis household, Pa, the dogs, and Aunt Margaret, situated before heading out took longer than expected. Maurice didn’t aim the Bel-Air South until seven pm. “McNellis time,” Pat reminded. “People are bumping.”

No matter. It was my first spring break trip to Florida, my first camping trip too. We were all looking forward to seeing the ocean, and escaping the grind of high school—although we were saddled with English homework—a rare combination of reading absurdist plays and writing the answers, chapter by chapter, to 200 Huckleberry Finn questions.

Of course, we considered ourselves to be cutting-edge cool in 1971.
While Martha pointed out road signs and Maurice considered his casts off a long jetty, we were in our own world, spread out on quilts in the station wagon rear. Discussing the existential nature of life, the bleak vision of Jean-Paul Sartre’s No Exit, the stunning long strawberry blonde locks of heartthrob Casey George was our passion, not fishing or camping or the searing tedium of the Huck Finn homework.

Somewhere between Montgomery and Dothan Alabama Pat and I began writing our own play, “Rest Area No Restroom”

What should have taken eight hours to drive took all night. We awoke glazy-eyed on a side road where Maurice had pulled over to give his eyes a rest, about an hour from our destination.

After unpacking, we spent a lazy day on the beach. Martha set up her camp-kitchen and Maurice headed off to the jetty, tackle box in tow.

It was rough go for the man; he’d lose footing, slip on slick stones, the irregular jetty rocks more treacherous than he’d remembered. His legs got banged up pretty bad.

By early evening, Maurice emerged, knees and shins jagged rock-cut and bloody, but ruddy face beaming as he held up a string of beautiful red snapper.

We learned later that it was a bit of a ruse. Poor Maurice never caught a thing. Battered but determined, he bought some off of some other fishermen and strung ‘em up on his line.

Martha had a grill ready, along with foil packets of sliced potatoes and onions. She cleaned and prepped with fish simply with salt, black pepper, paprika, and lemon, then wrapped them in foil too. After placing all pieces strategically on the grill, she joined Maurice for a Salty Dog cocktail: vodka, grapefruit juice, and little salt. Surely that would salve his wounds.

Some time later, we were called to supper, set out on a long picnic table beneath tall pines, the night sky twinkly.

I was hesitant, but hungry, and so took a forkful. Wow. The snapper was delicate yet firm, sweet, almost nutlike. There was light smokiness from the grill, delicious, with bits of lemon cooked onto the fish added surprising tang. It felt good to be eating something so fresh, so immediate. The potatoes and onions had charred up brown and smoky in their foil packets, too. It was a great beginning to our camping adventure.

The grueling 200 Huckleberry Finn questions were left for the ride home.

Grilled Red Snapper with Lemon and Chives
1 lb. Red Snapper fillets, boned, with skin on
Olive Oil
1 large Lemon, sliced into rings
2 cloves garlic, finely minced
6 long strands of fresh Chives
Sea Salt
Black Pepper
Paprika

Rinse off the fish and pat dry. Lightly rub the whole piece with olive oil. Over the flesh side of the fillet, rub in the minced garlic and sprinkle with salt, pepper, and paprika. Lay out the lemon rings and use the chives as strings to secure, tying them like you would a package around the lemon.

This can be done in advance.

Prepare your grill or smoker. If you are grilling foil packets of potatoes and onions—do those first. The potatoes take time–about 45 minutes.

The snapper fillets can be laid out directly onto the grill and with lid lowered, cooked for 10 minutes. Placed in foil, they will take longer.
These are thin fillets and you don’t want to overcook them.

Sad but inevitable, about this time every year tomato fatigue sets in.

For weeks now, with markets and gardens glutted, I’ve cooked and eaten ripe, juicy tomatoes in countless delicious ways. So much so that when I look at the sea of red baskets at our farmers market or the one that happens to be sitting on my counter, brimming with those picked from my own garden, I feel……….worn out.

And maybe a wee bit guilty. I mean, in a few short weeks, the Tomato Time will be over.

For now, with plants still producing, (although less prolific, as daylight shrinks, temperatures cool) it’s time to switch to the Green.

There’s something special about fried green tomatoes that I did not come to appreciate until recent years. When fried, what appears to be firm and without flavor, softens and releases a tangy citrus essence. A surprise with bite! The salty crackle of cornmeal batter is a splendid complement.

Of course, they are tasty on their own, but if you don’t want to eat just fried food—–

Here’s a late summer salad that uses the fried green wonder as its centerpiece. It layers pungent heat from mature arugula and horseradish with the sweetness of green tomatoes and shrimp.

I had gotten peppery hot rocket leaves from Drury Farms to form the salad base. Horseradish cream sauce tops the stack of fried ‘maters, performing double duty as a foil for the lemon-poached shrimp. All the elements work together brightly to create a fresh, satisfying meal.

Without fatigue.

Sliced, these green tomatoes look very pretty.

A little flour lightens the cornmeal coating. A simple soak in buttermilk is all the slices need.

Fried Green Tomatoes
1 cup Cornmeal
¼ cup All Purpose Flour
Salt
Cayenne
Black Pepper

1 cup Buttermilk

Firm, green tomatoes, sliced 1/4 “ thick

Vegetable oil (like canola oil) for frying

Mix cornmeal well with flour and seasonings.
Dip tomato slices into buttermilk, then dredge in cornmeal mixture.
Heat skillet and add vegetable oil. Test for and fry tomato slices about 2-4 minutes per side—until golden brown. Drain on paper towels.

Horseradish Cream Sauce
1 cup Sour cream
½ cup Good Mayo (Hellmann’s or Duke’s)
2 heaping Tablespoons Horseradish
1 teaspoon fresh Lemon juice
½ teaspoon Louisiana Hot Sauce
½ teaspoon Salt
Pinch Cayenne

Whisk all the ingredients together until well blended. Taste for horseradish and add more if necessary. Keeps refrigerated for at least 2 weeks.

Poached Gulf Shrimp
½ lb. shrimp (this will serve 2-3, I used a 21-26ct.shrimp)

Poaching Liquid:
To 2 quarts of water add:
A few slices of Onion
1-2 sliced Garlic cloves
1 Bay Leaf
a few slices Lemon
1 teaspoon Sea Salt
½ teaspoon Celery Seed,
½ teaspoon Black Pepper
¼ teaspoon Red Pepper flakes

Bring poaching liquid to a rolling boil, plunge in shrimp. Cook for 3-4 minutes and remove from heat. Peel, devein, and chill shrimp.

The Assembly
On a salad plate, place bed of mixed greens or arugula.
Stack fried green tomato slices. Dollop with Horseradish Cream.
Place shrimp on top of the horseradish sauce.
Garnish with lemon slices, and serve.

The inspiration for this salad comes from the tallest member of the Bill and Nancy Belmont Farmette–Anethum graveolens —Dillweed. A gift from Tally May, this plant was maybe five inches tall when I put it in the ground eight short weeks ago, and now it’s in its glory: almost five feet of aromatic feathery leaves and whorls of pinpoint blooms–a kind of fireworks display in yellow.

The ancient Greeks regarded Dill as the plant of prosperity, its very presence indicated wealth.
So, I feel mightily blessed to have my one-and-only gracing the garden front.

It’s early June, and temperatures are already creeping up into the 90’s. My garden mesclun greens are plentiful, but in danger of turning bitter. With heat and greens and billowy dill, I ‘ve got the makings for a summery salad for dinner, no time to lose!

What other good things to build the salad?
Look to the season’s offerings, I remind myself: they all play well together.
So, we’ve got
Cucumbers, new potatoes, and sugar snap peas……
Plus,
some shrimp coated with dillweed and lemon zest, quickly seared in the pan.

Composing a salad—-laying out all the elements in mandala-like fashion on a plate—is a simple way to make a stunning presentation. It also gives it structure, a place for each ingredient to be.

This salad is delicious served chilled or at room temperature. It doesn’t take long to make and I find that combining chilled things (sugar snaps, greens, cukes) with warm things (shrimp, new potatoes) in the dish enhances flavors. For vegetarians like Bill, I substitute chevre for the shrimp.
Give it all a good drizzle of of the lemony-dijon-dill dressing. Enjoy! These garden lettuces and herbs are fleeting things.

Dilled Shrimp and Sugar Snap Salad
10 pieces Peeled and Deveined Raw Shrimp
1 Tablespoon Olive Oil
1 Tablespoon Lemon Zest
Fresh Dillweed–a few stems
1 teaspoon Sea Salt
Sugar Snap Peas—a handful, maybe 12-15 pieces
Cucumber—just a piece (less than half of one)
4-5 roasted Baby New Potatoes
Mixed Salad Greens, washed and dried

Place shrimp in a bowl and toss with olive oil, lemon zest, and sea salt. Wrap each shrimp with a sprig of dill.
Blanche Sugar Snaps in a skillet of boiling water for less than a minute–forty five seconds. Remove and chill.
Slice cucumbers and new potatoes.
Heat a skillet and drop in shrimp to sear for a minute one one side–then flip and sear on the other. Remove from heat and let the shrimp sit in the skillet.
Arrange lettuces on the plate.Add a ring of slice cucumbers and new potatoes, then sugar snaps.
Top with cooked shrimp. Drizzle with lemon-dill aioli and garnish with a few dill sprigs and lemon slice.

serves 2

Lemon-Dill Aioli
1 clove roasted Garlic
3 Tablespoons fresh Lemon Juice
1 teaspoon Dijon Mustard
1 heaping Tablespoon chopped Dillweed
1 teaspoon Sea Salt
6 Tablespoons Olive Oil

In a small bowl, mash the roasted garlic with a fork and mix in the lemon juice, dijon, dillweed, and salt. Mix into a paste. Add in the olive oil, one tablespoon at a time, until the mixture is emulsified. Taste for seasoning and acidity—add more lemon if you like.

Here’s hoping this noble plant will reseed and return next spring!

Back in my catering days, one of the constant challenges was to create an appealing dinner menu that would meet the following criteria: it could be prepped well in advance, transported over a piece of space-time, and finished off with aplomb at the client’s appointed hour. Sure, there were opportunities for something to go awry at any stage, but it was during that middle section—time traveling with food—- where the chances of The Undesired increased.

Yes, during what we caterers call The Schlep, strange, unforeseen things could happen.

Key elements could go missing; dishes could shift in transit; something could ooze/spill/flip/be dropped/lose temperature/overcook. The catervan driver could run into strangling traffic, miss the main turn, vanish in some Bermuda-Triangle-like anomaly. With even the most carefully laid plans, there remained that element of surprise. As my partner Bill says, “I’m livin’ in the mystery.”

The plate I’m offering here is one of those beauties you’d be proud to serve your guests at a dinner party. Most of the work, such as it is, can be done well before everyone’s arrival, leaving a couple of finishing touches to serving time.
And, lucky you, there’s no livin’ in the mystery of the schlep in the process.

Consider this menu:
Citrus Smoked Salmon with orange-balsamic glaze, served on a bed of
sauteed fresh spinach and caramelized onions, with
Crispy Parmesan-Polenta Triangles

Thick salmon steaks are perfumed with fruity olive oil and blood orange zest. Juice from the orange and lemon is reduced with balsamic vinegar to an acid-sweet syrup, ready to drizzle over right before serving. Both steps can be done hours, if not the day, before.

The same is true for the polenta.

I love a pot of creamy corn meal, but for a fancier dinner, I prefer the look and texture of the crispened triangles. Once poured into a pan and cooled, (again-best done ahead) the polenta cuts easily into interesting shapes that take only minutes to flash in a skillet.

Fresh spinach sautés in seconds, making a nice bed upon which to place the fish.

Citrus Smoked Salmon
4 Salmon Steaks
Extra Virgin Olive Oil
1 Orange (used for zest on salmon and juice in glaze)
Sea Salt
Cracked Black Pepper
Fresh Chives

Rinse off steaks and pat dry. Lightly coat steaks with olive oil.
Zest the orange and rub it onto both sides of the salmon.
Sprinkle with sea salt and black pepper, top with a few strips of chive.

On a smoker-grill that is at medium (300 degree) heat: place steaks and lower grill lid. Smoke for 15-20 minutes.

Orange-Balsamic Glaze
¼ cup Balsamic Vinegar
½ cup Orange Juice
2 teaspoons Lemon Juice
¼ teaspoon Salt

Put all four ingredients into a non-reactive saucepan and stir well. Put on low heat. Stirring occasionally, allow the mixture to reduce by at least half.
If you make this ahead, refrigerate, and gently rewarm at serving time.

Parmesan-Polenta Triangles
4 cups Water
1 teaspoon Salt
1 Tablespoon Butter
1 cup Polenta (can use yellow corn meal)
½ cup grated Parmesan

Olive Oil

Add salt and butter to water and bring to a boil. Pour in the polenta and reduce heat, stirring constantly. The mixture will begin to thicken. After cooking for almost 20 minutes, add the grated parmesan, continuing to stir until well-incorporated.
Pour into a 9”x13” baking pan and allow to cool. Cover and refrigerate.
Before serving time:
Heat a skillet.
Cut polenta into triangles and brush with olive oil.
Cook triangles for 3 minutes on each side; they will brown and crispen.
(these will stay warm in the oven set on 200 degrees)

Firm, chilled triangles slip out of the pan with ease.

The salmon is quite good, even without the orange-balsamic reduction spooned over it.

You can use whatever variety of orange you fancy. Save a section for garnishing. When they are available, I will get blood oranges. I’m at once intrigued and freaked out by them.

I call this dish Lime Rickey Shrimp,
not just because I like rhythm of the words as they roll off my lips,
Gonna make some lime-rickey-shrimp lickety-split,
or that it has intrigue:
like the name of a sketchy operative in a British spy novel, but for the cocktail-like combination of fresh lime and vodka that I use to splash onto shrimp as it cooks.

Now, before you say, not my Ketel One!
I must point out, it takes only 4 Tablespoons for the recipe.

Then, why even bother with the vodka?

Well, it acts as a good vehicle for expanding the flavor of the lime, and leaves a clean finish on the shrimp. Unlike cooking with a sauterne or sauvignon blanc, which adds its own more complex “winey” overlay to a dish, the vodka seems to intensify the other flavors at hand—in this case, shrimp, leeks, and lime—before it vanishes in the quick saute. In just minutes, briny shrimp sauce up with sweet leek and lime.
And, you’ll detect a trace of something mineraly, something alcoholic, left behind; that’s intriguing.
Cheers!

Lime Rickey Shrimp
1 Tablespoon Olive Oil
1 teaspoon Lime zest
½ lb. large (26-31ct.) raw Shrimp, peeled and deveined
Salt and Black Pepper to taste
1 Tablespoon Butter
1 cup chopped Leeks
4 Tablespoons Lime Juice (1 lime should do the trick)
4 Tablespoons Vodka
2 Tablespoons chopped Italian Parsley

1 cup cooked jasmine rice

In a small bowl, add olive oil and zest. Add a little salt and a few grindings of black pepper, and stir. Add the shrimp and gently toss so that the olive oil and zest coats each piece.
In a separate bowl, measure in the lime juice (one entire lime will yield 4+ Tablespoons.)
Scrape any residual pulp into the bowl. Add the vodka and stir together: here’s the rickey.
Melt butter in a skillet under medium heat and sauté leeks until soft, about 3 minutes. Push leeks to the side of the skillet, and increase heat. Add shrimp and quickly sauté—about a minute and a half—then flip them and repeat. Shrimp will be a bright pink.
Do not crowd the shrimp in the pan.
Pour in the rickey. Stir and shake it all around the shrimp and leeks, coating, glazing, browning, reducing. This, too, is done with speed—another minute. Add the chopped Italian Parsley and pour over a bed of rice.
Serves 2 generously