Fancy-Ass Cucumber Preparation Technique

This is a really simple way to make the ordinary cucumber overcome some of its occasional hurdles. Sometimes these guys are too seedy, damp, dry, etc. and most of it can be cured with this technique, which isn't really that fancy. Or ass.

Here's what you do :

1) Take your cucumber firmly in hand and assess it. Get to know it. That's right.

2) Peel the cucumber, mostly. By which I mean, peel with extreme prejudice any areas that seem overly dry or overly soft. Then peel the rest of the cucumber, leaving a bit of healthy peel in evidence to provide color and contrast.

3) Based on your assessment in (1), cut the sucker. If it's too big, cut it into quarters, first in half lengthwise, then in half along the vertical. If it's too uneven (a shrinky-dink top and a fat bottom, for instance), do the same. If it's too small, cut it in half along the vertical (one long slice running from top to bottom of cuke and exposing all the seeds).

4) Deseed that guy or guys. The best option for this is to take a teaspoon with a maximum width of the thickest part of the cucumber's middle portion, and scoop all that wet, seedy nonsense out. Dis-card. When ready it (or they) should look like this :



5) Slice that mother thin, but not too thin. About the width of your blade at the base. If they were super-fresh you could slice them thinner or thicker (based on what you are serving them with), but with this kind of prep it's really going to be about what you do with these cucumbers NEXT. Which is use them for something that requires them to have a little bit of structure. Here's how this process looks :




Now your guys are ready. Ready to be put into ANY RECIPE NORMALLY CALLING FOR SLICED CUCUMBERS. But now they'll be a bit fancier. For extra fanciness, you can also cut your prepped cukes into julienne or strips, or whatever matches well with whatever you're making. The main thing is that your unsightly, uneven, overmoist or overdry cucumbers are not something to be thrown in the garbage (or God help us, compost heap). No no no! They too can be utilized to make fine and even fancy dishes.

So there you have it!

Cucumbers & Tomatoes

We have a tradition around here. Or at least, I do, and I've falsely projected it onto that continuously-evolving construct known as 'my childhood.' But in MY childhood, and in my adulthood, we have a tradition. This is that the first garden tomato of the season to present itself for eating is merely sliced thin, sprinkled with pinches of salt, pepper and oregano freshly crushed inbetween the fingers. Oh, and then eaten. With fingers or fork, it doesn't matter. If your first tomato comes on a really hot day skip the salt and pepper and drink what's left in the bowl.

The unsaid assumption in the above paragraph is that you are eating this tomato on your own, surreptitiously or not. After all, it's your damn garden. You should get the best shit, right? However, it is possible that someone else helped you. In which case you can share. If the idea of sharing the relative tininess of one fresh tomato or slurping of a bowl filled with fresh tomato runoff with the person who helped you causes any kind of grief I suggest the following, which it should be said, is what I do with the second fresh tomato (or more usually small batch of fresh tomatoes) of the season:

Cucumbers & Tomatoes

1 or more fresh cucumbers from your garden or someplace you could walk to
1 or more fresh tomatoes from ditto

Slice the above as thinly as talent or mandolin can muster and put them in a bowl. If the cucumbers are big'uns, you should employ the Fancy-Ass Cucumber Preparation Technique.

Sprinkle over the top :

some sea salt, freshly ground or crushed with the fingers
some black peppercorns, ditto
some dried oregano, ditto

Stir around a bit and let sit for about 15 minutes or so. If you are a complete idiot and had fresh tomatoes or fresh cucumbers in the fridge, let it sit for at least a half-hour.

Realistically speaking, however, this should be made when you still have dirt on your fingers or feet from being out in the garden. And after the whole, wonderful, shared experience is over, you should be able to say in all honesty:

"Damn, but that was summer in a bowl."

Next up : Summer in a bowl on ACIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIID:

Potage Jersienne, August 2011

Apart from the ingredients themselves–local produce available around the beginning of August in Western New Jersey, this is very much in the tradition of the classic French farmwife potager, soups made out of whatever happens to be popping up out of the ground, usually thickened with potatoes.



2-3 tablespoons olive oil
4 small onions, diced
4-5 stalks of celery, diced
beet stems from brined beet greens*, chopped

Place the oil in a stockpot and heat. Add the chopped onion, celery and beet stems, along with a pinch or two of sea salt. Sautee until softened. Add :

2 zucchini, medium size, diced
2 green bell peppers, diced

Cook until softened, then add 8 cups of whatever vegetable or meat stock you may have around or water or a mix of any of those.



Bring this mix to a boil and simmer for about 15 minutes or so. Then add :

beet greens from brined beet greens*, chopped
4 small-medium potatoes, chopped
parsley, eight sprigs
tarragon, 1 large sprig

Cook until warmed through, then take from the heat and allow to set for an hour or so.

Puree in food mill, then reheat. Add sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste. Add snips of whatever fresh herbs you might have floating around in space out there. Great options are chervil (my new favorite), marjoram or oregano, fennel, torn pieces of basil, etc. etc.

This time around served the potage a few different ways–by itself, with a hunk of country bread, garnished with parsley, or served with some roasted, shorn local corn and fennel fronds from the garden.



I'm not particularly sold on always stressing local ingredients at the exclusion of all else, and I certainly don't think it should be the preserve of the well-to-do and trendy. But it does feel good to make up a batch of something this nourishing from from Shit In Our Backyard. Whether or not it makes me feel like a French or Mexican housewife is frankly none of your concern. However, in the interest of making a record, in this case the green bells, zucchini, celery, beet greens and all the herbs were from our garden. The onions and corn (used for a couple bowls) were purchases from a local farm stand. The potatoes were Jersey-grown yellow potatoes bought from a supermarket. The salt, pepper and olive oil were from far, far away. The stock was from my kitchen, and therefore, here.

* brined beet greens
These were brined overnight in a combination of salt and ice cubes. I intended to put them in a mixed pickle of some kind, but felt like the outcome wasn't worth pickling–I think next time I will skip a brine stage with delicate greens, as many of them wilted. They were awesome in this soup, however, so I intend to explore this technique with some possible refinement. In the case of this particular soup, I'm sure any kind of green brined overnight (or not) would be tasty.

The Garden in August, First Half

The last leaning leek flower (there were two) keeps watch from the western end of the garden.


A few of the many, thriving basil plants. Basil in NJ verdict : yes!


The northeastern quadrant of the garden - ornamental gourds, melons, cucumbers and two different zucchinis (8 ball and stripey italian). Or, the cucurbits.



Stripey Italian zucchini and zucchini blossoms (note imperiled leaves).


Our first melon!


The tomatoes, taken from the midpoint of the garden. Northwestern quadrant is mainly tomatoes, marigolds and basil.



More basil. Some tomatoes from the first weeks of august.





The southeast quadrant of the garden is home to the eagerly-awaited cole crops : red cabbages, TONS of brussels sprouts and satan's broccoli. Also the bell peppers, which are awaiting some impending treatment, naples-style.






Some selections from our mixed-up southwest quadrant : beets! (sadly all eaten), a couple little eggplants struggling along, celery in the ground and harvested, and the largest round yet of hungarian hot chiles, which we've been eating and pickling for about two months.


Some accidental impressionism - marigolds and butterfly bush.




There are a ton of herbs and flowering perennials clustering outside the garden fence. Here are lemongrass, flowering sage and black-eyed susans.


This guy showed up in a basil harvest, the little scamp. Here he is getting let back into the garden.


A broad view, from the west.

Huynh, 912 St. Emanuel St., Houston, TX

Close to the top of any "best of" list I could ever imagine for Houston, food-related or otherwise, Huynh (pronounced "win" or "hwin") is one of the best places to enjoy Vietnamese food in Houston, a city which is itself possibly the best place in America to sample this amazing, deeply underrated cuisine. I hadn't really eaten much Vietnamese (well, much that was truly worthy of the name) before I moved to Houston, and I've been desperately craving it since I've left. Luckily, just across the river in Pennsylvania (but wait, that's another story)…

If you happen to be in Houston, there are plenty of decent-to-great Vietnamese spots in Midtown and in the Bellaire area. And even the so-so, pricey spots outside these two key zones (I'm thinking places like Miss Saigon in the Village and Mo Mong in the Montrose here) will at least serve you something solid, even while they pry a few-too-many bills out of your wallet. You can even get a respectable (and, occasionally, great) meal out of a dive like Hollywood Vietnamese on Montrose Ave. But if you want something extraordinary, I strongly recommend crossing 59 and bringing a date to Huynh.

And, yes, this is definitely a meal worth dining in for. The take-out is fast and first-rate, but Huynh has great atmosphere, think main category Asia Modern, sub-category Slightly Harried. At night the lighting is beyond dim (hence the quality of these photos), but romantic enough if your partner enjoys poking around with chopsticks at pork bits of uncertain provenance while bathed in the glare of wall sconces. If they don't, well, that's your loss and theirs.





There are some things one nearly always need check out when finding a choice new Vietnamese spot, and I'm pleased to report that Huynh doesn't drop the ball on any of the classics. Both Cha Gio and Goi Cuon are excellent here, in particular the crispy Cha Gio, which have an-almost delicate crispness and avoid the greasiness of some of their lunch counter competition. The herbs and lettuces here are always nicely fresh as well, a truly essential part of a superior Vietnamese meal. There's nothing worse than withered romaine leaves and limp cilantro laying sadly near your Pho to remind one of how important the crisp greenery is to this cuisine, so rooted in contrasts.

Other familiar favorites like the rice vermicelli Bun noodle bowls and of course, Pho, are well-executed, sticking close to the classic model. Nice touches are the addition of a char-grilled shrimp noodle bowl, not often seen, and a substantial set of Pho options, including the ever-present squiggly meatball as well as flank, brisket, tendon, and tripe. But if you're craving a noodle soup as heartening as Pho, I encourage you to try Bun Bo Hue, a specialty of the owners' home region, Hue.



Thick with fat noodles and various uncertain bits of pork and beef, colored and umami-fied with pig's blood, this is not, as they say, for the faint of heart. But those familiar with the squeakier types of Pho, as well as all indiscriminate lovers of pork product should find much to delight here. The flavor of the broth is deeper and subtler than Pho, less heavily spiced and more warming. Pho is traditionally a breakfast food, eaten on the street while in transit to work. This is more of a chilly night, after dark kind of soup, with thick rice noodles reminiscent of Udon. The raw accompaniments are more wintry, too, crunchy shredded cabbage and carrot and bean sprout. Even stranger for western palates but also excellent is Bun Ming Vit, a similar combination, but with duck on the bone and large pieces of bamboo shoot.



Good to the last drop.



Worth investigating at Huynh is nearly anything off the grill. There is no place where Western and Vietnamese tastes combine so effortlessly (barring possibly Banh Mi) as in the rice-based comfort dishes, Com Dia. Anything accompanied by a "Huynh favorite" smiley on the menu is strongly recommended, but the Phoenix chicken, short ribs, and anything based on grilled pork are all extra-strongly recommended. The short ribs strike an excellent balance of charred and tender, and come with a perfect fried egg nestled on top. "Phoenix chicken" is in fact Cornish hen with fried egg, a nicely spiced bird I can only describe as extra-succulent and juicy within a thoroughly crispy layer of skin.



Very few places can entrance me to stuff myself to the point of pain and then even consider, let alone actually order, dessert. But our waitress was extremely persuasive. Thus, we ended up with a mango smoothie (frapped and not-too-sweet) and Che 3 (or Ba) Mau, "three colors of beans," which is somewhere between a parfait, rice pudding and a more standard Asian red bean dessert. Highly recommended.

If you're in the Houston downtown area, it's well worth your while to swing down St. Emanuel and check out Huynh, within spitting distance of the George R. Brown Convention Center and Discovery Green. And unlike many great Viet spots in Houston, they actually have a website, with full lunch and dinner menus.

SANGRIA 7.22.11

We're enduring a rough heatwave in the Northeast at the moment. Which reminds us of Houston. Which reminds us of… Sangria! Our perennial favorite for a day when everyone's off and it's just too damn hot to go outside. For more than blueberries. And, so :

Sangria 7.22.11

Gather :

1 cup lightly crushed blueberries & 2 sliced yellow peaches, macerated briefly with a little bit of sugar (a couple tablespoons will do)

Add :

1 bottle dry but not-too-dry Spanish red wine (we used Altos del Cuco, see below)
1/2 cup brandy (of mediocre quality or slightly better, it's not yet time to whip out the Henny)
1 sliced orange (we used valencias)
juice of 1 orange (ditto valencia)
1 sliced lemon (sliced real thin to avoid the odd over-tart glass)
1/2 cup sugar (or more, to taste)

Chill in the fridge for a few hours, then scoop a bit of fruit and pour a bit of sangria into stemmed red-wine glasses, or goblets, or whatever works best. Then add ice & club soda to taste.

On the Selection of Fruit :

We picked some blueberries from the bushes at our house and used some nicely room-ripened Jersey peaches but we would like to note that this DOES NOT MAKE US BETTER THAN ANYONE ELSE. They were merely at hand. Whatever should do nicely. If you have a plethora of gooseberries, too, or whatever, this will likely work. I think the peaches are the key element - soft enough that you have to slice them slowly and evenly for fear of mashing them.

The oranges should be plump but not too juice heavy. Of moderate ripeness.

On the Selection of Wine :

In The Foods and Wines of Spain, one of the classic English-language Spanish cookbooks, Penelope Casas recommends when making a red sangria to use "a dry, full-bodied red wine, preferably of Spanish import from Valencia or Valdepeñas," and I see no reason to contradict this. I would add only that a wine following that description from southern Italy or South America or Australia would work almost as well (if not as authentically), and that the key phrase here is "dry," not "full-bodied." The latter is mainly a reminder that you don't want some acid-heavy, puckeringly dry big red for your sangria. What you should avoid, though (and I've been as guilty of this as anyone), is picking a sweet red for your sangria. This seems to be the pattern most often repeated by home sangria-makers here and it's a key one to avoid. After all, you're adding nothing that isn't sweet (fruit, sugar, eau de vie, brandy) to the wine to make it sangria. Why choose a sweet wine? It'll only make the whole experience a cloying one.

At any rate, we picked Altos Del Cuco, a monastrell/syrah/tempranillo mix that drifts towards the dry side of what is usually a more even-tempered combo. At around $10 and under a bottle, it's about the perfect price point for a batch of sangria. If you spend $15 US or more on a bottle for sangria (outside of extremely bourgie districts), you're spending to much. Altos Del Cuco is a clean, dry (but not acerbically so) red with enough notes of fruit to make for an excellent batch. There's a fairly decent review here.

garden schematics, may 2011