Seared Sardines

Once, I posted a story about a porterhouse with a pictures of a thoroughly gnawed bone. That's all that was left of the steak by the time I remembered to take a picture. Some food is just meant to be eaten, not photographed. That post didn't get any comments, which disappointed one of my favorite readers -- my Dad. "You can see that someone really enjoyed that steak," he said. "How come no one noticed?" He'd probably say the same thing about these sardines, and he'd be absolutely right -- someone really enjoyed these sardines. That someone was me. Seared whole sardines is one of my private pleasures.

I have one word for you: bones. That's the reason I eat sardines all alone. My students, my husband, and my daughter find them too bony. My daughter has an excuse. She is 15 months old, and I believe that kids should be able to talk in full sentences before eating bony fish. But what's the other people's problem, I don't know. The bones are part of the fun. These slightly prickly obstacles to the most mouth-watering fish on earth add just a hint of danger and excitement. The reality is that they are all soft and edible, so if you were to eat one, nothing terrible would happen. But if you use the right eating technique, you'll avoid almost all the bones.

How to eat a sardine

First, you have to imagine that you are a cartoon cat who puts the whole fish in his mouth and removes a nicely cleaned fish skeleton. Now you have to act the part. Let's start by putting away the silverware. Have you ever seen a cat eat fish with a fork and a knife? Exactly. Pick up a sardine with your hands and gently lift one of the fillets with your teeth. If you pull gently, the fillet with come right off leaving all the big bones behind it. Now flip the sardine and repeat on the other side. Enjoy all the crispy bits and don't forget to mop up the escaped juices with a piece of bread.

Now that you know how to eat sardines, I hope you'll feel more comfortable ordering them in restaurants and maybe even cooking them at home.

How to clean sardines

I think the part that makes everyone a little nervous about cooking whole fish at home is cleaning them. So let's talk about that.

Option 1: go to a really good fishmonger and ask them to clean sardines for you. The only fishmonger in the Boston area who does a good job by my standards is the New Deal in Cambridge. Of course, you don't want to abuse this complimentary service, and only ask Carl to clean such little fish as sardines if he doesn't have a line of customers waiting.

Option 2: clean sardines yourself. Little fish are much easier to clean than big ones and don't make a big mess since their scales don't go flying when you try to remove them. I leave scaling and gutting to Carl, unless I am dealing with sardines. They are so small and cute that cleaning them is kind of fun. Put your sardines in the sink and rub them gently with a spoon from tail to head under cold running water. Don't use a scaler appropriate for bigger fish as it might tear the delicate skin of sardines. Cut off the heads, and cut open the bellies making a slit from the anal fin (that's the part of the belly closest to the tail) to the head. Scoop out the guts and rinse the bellies under cold running water. If there are any loose rib bones sticking out, grab them firmly with your fingers and yank them out.

That wasn't so bad, was it? Now we are ready to cook.

How to sear sardines

The first step is to dry your sardines very thoroughly on paper towels. I can't emphasize this enough. They need to be completely dry inside and out, or they won't crisp and will splatter like crazy.

Rub the bottom of a non-stick or well-seasoned cast iron skillet with a paper towel dunked in canola oil. Set the skillet over moderately-high heat.

Sprinkle sardines with salt and pepper on both sides, and when the skillet is hot, place as many sardines as can fit in one layer. If sardines don't fit, sear them in batches. If you have too few sardines for your skillet and end up with empty spots, cover these spots with pieces of bread to prevent them from smoking (the goal of the bread is to prevent smoke alarms from going off, it's not for eating). Let sardines cook without moving until nicely browned on the first side, about 2 minutes. Regulate the heat so that they are browning, but not burning.

Flip the sardines and turn down the heat to medium. Cook on the other side until nicely browned, 2-3 minutes. Sardines are so small, there is no need to worry about doneness. If they are brown on the outside, they are cooked through inside. Remove sardines to a plate, give them a squirt of lemon, and sprinkle with some parsley, cilantro, or an herb of your choice.

Just say NO to Cortland apples

Let's get one thing straight: Cortland is a terrible baking apple. There. I said it. I can now breath easier.

It's been recommended for baking by so many cookbooks, used on so many cooking shows, and suggested to me by so many farmers, that for years I was trying to use it. I finally gave up on Cortland two years ago when Kathleen Weldon from New England Grown introduced me to the Northern Spy apple. Finally, I found a real baking apple that keeps its shape instead of turning into apple sauce like Cortland does.

Last week I wanted to bring an apple galette to a friend, but Northern Spies weren't out yet. They don't show up till very late in the season. I should have waited, but the apple galette craving was too much to handle. I was facing a dilemma at Whole Foods. I could always go the easy and reliable route and get Golden Delicious. They keep their shape beautifully, but are kind of boring in the flavor department due to low acidity (not a biggie as that can be remedied with lemon juice). But Golden Delicious were not local, and it seemed ridiculous to bake with an apple from Washington State while living in New England in the fall. So I went the risky, feel good route, and got local Cortland. The guy at Whole Foods swore by them as the best baking apple and assured me they'll keep their shape.

Well, it was apple sauce as usual. It's one of those rare cases where the picture made it look better than it really was. Those nicely caramerlized shapes you see in the picture were just a thin top layer that set quickly during baking. The inside of the slices turned to complete mush. It reminded me of the French Chef episode when Julia Child flips Tarte Tatin, and the soupy apples completely fall apart. "I wonder if those were really Cortland apples," says Julia. That's what I've been wondering for years. But unless there is some apple conspiracy to sell fake Cortland apples to unsuspecting public, I think those really were Cortlands.

Luckily, I am now a proud owner of a huge bag of Northern Spies. I asked Kimball farm for a dozen to make sure I have enough for all my tart classes and Thanksgiving. Northern Spies keep incredibly well (as long as 2-3 months) because they mature late and have more acid and less sugar than most apples. The best way to keep them (as with all apples) is in the fridge in a plastic bag with holes for ventilation. Just make sure to poke those holes before putting the apples in the bag so that you don't bruise them.

Since we are entering a serious pie and tart baking season, I thought you might find my illustrated guide to pie and tart dough handy.

Happy baking to all!

November 3, 2008 update:
Julia Child once said that a potato is a neurotic vegetable. I'd like to add that an apple is a neurotic fruit. That dozen of Northern spies that I got from Kimball this year didn't turn out nearly as well as in the past years. They kept their shape only slightly better than Cortlands. However, I tried another apple for baking, called Golden Blushing (also from Kimball) and it was outstanding. Baked as good as I remember Northern Spies baking, kept the shape, great sweetness/acidity balances, etc. Well, I don't know what to say. Maybe I just keep getting unlucky with Cortlands. Apples are so unpredictable...

Sautéed Fennel with Almonds and Cherries

I am a food magazine junkie. I've never seen an episode of Top Chef, Good Eats, or whatever else is supposed to be on Food TV. But I read Cook's Illustrated and Gourmet magazine cover to cover every month. I learn something interesting from most issues. Food magazines can be very educational if you actually read them instead of looking at the pictures. For a few months, I haven't been too inspired with Gourmet, but the September 2008 Paris issue was so fantastic that I was drooling all over the pages. I finally got around to trying one of the recipes and all I can say is yum! I know, "yum" is not very descriptive. But this dish is so delicious I don't really know what else to say. A combination of fennel and oranges would be enough to make me happy, but the addition of saffron, almonds, and dried cherries almost made me swoon.

Here are a few substitutions that I've made:

• The original recipe called for raisins, but I didn't have any, and used dried cherries instead.
• Omitted 2 tsp whole coriander seeds
• Reduced the garlic from 10 cloves to 4 (I was actually wondering if 10 was a typo)

Gourmet got this recipe from Raquel Carena, who is the chef at Le Baratin. Next time I am in Paris, I know where I am making a reservation.

This fennel dish can be served hot or cold, as the first course or as a side dish for fish and poultry. I'd even eat it for dessert, but my idea of dessert is a little strange (I have once ordered gravlax for dessert). Here is my adaptation of Raquel Carena's recipe.

Sautéed Fennel with Almonds and Cherries

Serves 4

2 medium fennel bulbs (if possible with fronds)
4 garlic cloves, finely minced
1/4 cup olive oil
1 orange
1/4 cup dried cherries
pinch of saffron threads, crumbled
1/4 cup whole almonds, toasted, and coarsely chopped
1/4 cup chopped cilantro (optional)
Salt and pepper to taste

1. Cut off the fennel stalks, take off and reserve the fronds (the leaves that look like dill), then discard the stalks. Cut the fennel bulbs in half. Cut out and discard the tough cores. Slice the bulbs lengthwise 1/4 inch thick. Chop the fronds and reserve separately.
2. Zest the orange and squeeze 1/4 cup juice out of it (that's about half the orange). In a small bowl, combine orange zest, juice, saffron threads, cherries, and almonds.
3. Heat oil in a large heavy skillet over medium-high heat until it shimmers. Add fennel, garlic, and 1/2 tsp salt. Cook, stirring often, until crisp tender, 5-7 minutes.
4. Add the orange juice mixture from step 2. Cook, stirring often, until orange juice starts to get syrupy, 1-2 minutes. Season with freshly ground pepper. Taste and correct seasoning.
5. This dish can be served immediately or chilled and then brought to room temperature. Stir in the fennel fronds and cilantro right before serving.

Celery Apple Salad

It always perplexed me why carrots are sold in supermarkets with their bushy green leaves and all we get for celery are the stalks. Where are the leaves? I've never found anything decent to do with the carrot leaves, while the celery leaves are the best part of that plant! Fortunately, the celery we get in our farm-share and from the farmers' markets comes with leaves and I've been putting them to good use.

This is not the celery you are used to from the supermarket. You know, the boring spinster sister of the vegetable family that no one ever wants to show off in a dish. The locally grown celery we get this time of year has thin, bright green, and extremely crunchy stalks. They are a bit tough to eat raw when diced, but perfect when sliced paper thin. I slice the leaves as thinly as possible for use in salads and as a garnish on soups, fish, etc.

Here is a celery apple salad that is bright, cool, and crisp as a breezy fall day.

Apple Celery Salad

Serves 4

Note: if using supermarket celery, 1-2 stalks might be all you need to yield 1 cup of slices.

5-6 small celery stalks, sliced diagonally paper thin (about 1 cup sliced)
1 cup lightly packed celery leaves, cut into chiffonade (very thin strips)
1 apple, cut into julienne (I prefer to use Honeycrisp, but you can use any good eating apple that has a good balance between sweetness and acidity)
1/4 cup thinly sliced red onion
1 Tbsp whole grain Dijon mustard
2 tsp lime or lemon juice
1 Tbsp olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste

Toss all ingredients together, taste and correct seasoning. You might want to add more lime juice or salt. If the apples are too tart, a teaspoon of honey might be a good touch.

My Last CSA

Criticizing a farm-share is like criticizing a Thanksgiving dinner. It's the ultimate faux pas. It's not about whether the turkey is dry and the gravy is lumpy. It's about the love and care that went into cooking them. It's about sharing the bounty. It's about being a family. But today, I'll do the politically incorrect thing and go beyond the warm and cozy concepts of love, family, and knowing where your lettuce comes from. I'll try to answer the question of whether a farm-share provides you with the best tasting produce you could get in your area during the growing season. After all, it is a service that costs me $500 a year. So I think it's only fair to give it an honest evaluation.

What is a farm-share? A farm-share (a.k.a. Community supported agriculture or CSA for short) is a contract between you and the farmer. You pay her a yearly fee, usually in the winter when she needs the money the most. In exchange, the farmer supplies you with a weekly box of produce during the growing season. In Boston, where I live, the growing season is June through the end of October. I heard about this concept 5 years ago and it seemed very appealing. It reminded me of getting a tasting menu at an upscale restaurant and surrendering to the chef's imagination and skill. I imagined that what I'd get in my weekly mystery box of veggies would be way better than what I could possibly choose myself. I was also hoping that a farm-share would encourage me to use excellent produce not only occasionally, but constantly during the growing season. Even with the best intentions, I didn't get to the farmers' markets every single week. The hours weren't convenient and the prices were often higher than even at Whole Foods. Farm-share seemed to solve all these problems. When divided by the number of boxes, it seemed cheaper than the farmers' market (about $25/box), and the distribution site stayed opened till 7pm. In the past three years, I've tried two different farms, have written about the highlights extensively on my blog, even taught a class on how to cook from a farm-share.

You can discuss the farm-share concept from many points of view. The ones represented well in the food media are those of the small farmers, "eat local" activists, parents who want to educate their children about vegetables, home cooks who want the challenge of cooking what's in the mystery box, and urban dwellers who yearn for the countryside. I'd like to bring to it a different perspective -- that of a cook who is in search of the best tasting produce available.

Let me start with the pros. Farm-share has provided me with plenty of inspiration. For example, last night it was the peppers. They ended up in a roasted pepper risotto, which was lovely. Farm-share also encouraged me to try vegetables that I didn't notice before. Even experienced cooks usually stick to tried and true veggies. Sometimes it's good to get a nudge to try collard greens or mezuna. Those weekly boxes also taught me what vegetables can be grown in our area, and the best times for them. For example, the lettuce is much better in June than in October if you are in New England. On occasion, I've gotten a tomato, a fennel, or a watermelon that just knocked my socks off. It didn't happen often, but when it did, it felt like winning the lottery.

Now the cons. Buying a farm-share brings with it a significant risk. If the farm got flooded, or the groundhogs ate all the fennel, tough luck. Another problem is inconsistency. Some farms are better at growing corn and others are better at growing beets depending on their soil and farmer's skill. For example, the tomatoes from our farm have been outstanding, but the corn is not even competitive with what's available at our generic grocery store. Now the question of quantity and variety. Most of the time, we get tiny quantities of tons of different vegetables. This works well for the most typical dish Americans cook with vegetables: stir-fry. You cut up and cook all sorts of veggies and the picky eaters can choose to eat the peppers, but not the broccoli. Consider though, what happens if you want to make stuffed zucchini and you keep getting 1 or 2 of them per week. You got inspired to make ratatouille because you got zucchini and eggplants, but peppers and tomatoes were not in the box. If once in a while, you have a craving for a dish that's not a stir-fry, you'll end up at the farmers' market to supplement what's in your farm-share box. While you are there, you start looking around and realizing all the awesome stuff you've been missing out. While you've been getting kale for the fifth week in a row, farmers' markets have been offering gorgeous eggplants, zucchini, Swiss chard, tomatoes, carrots, and bok choi. And you don't have to buy just 1 zucchini, you can buy as many as you want.

We take food very seriously in the US these days. We want to know if the beef is grass-fed, if the vegetables are organic and local, if the cod is "day-boat," if the salmon is "wild," if the chicken is "free-range," and if the duck hasn't suffered in the production of foie gras. There is only one question we forget to ask. It's the question Julia Child's instructor asked her in Le Cordon Bleu, the question French obsess over: "How does it taste?" I guess I joined the CSA for the wrong reason. I joined it for the hedonistic reason of finding the tastiest vegetables New England can grow. For some reason, hedonist's approach to food makes us uncomfortable in the US. It seems unethical and devoted more to earthy pleasure than to moral ideals. I don't view hedonism as something to be ashamed of. It's what elevates the act of eating into an art form. It's humanity's quest for perfection applied to food. From my experience, CSA is not the Holy Grail of this quest for taste.

This is not an omelette

"Can I ask you a stupid question?" I said to my Mom on the phone. "How do you make an omelette?"

This is not a conversation we had 10 years ago when I was learning to cook in college. This is a conversation we had last week when the sight of another egg was making me nauseous, and I really couldn't stand any more omelette research. If I die from clogged arteries after making and tasting 30+ omelettes this month, I want my epitaph to say, "She lived for the fish, but she died for the egg."

For over a year, my students have been asking me for an egg class, and for over a year I thought it wasn't a good idea. Eggs are the one food Jason doesn't eat, so I never cook them. But as I was thinking of new classes to offer in Helen's Kitchen, eggs were just begging a closer look. It's one of the few culinary frontiers I haven't explored yet, and I thought it would be great fun. A few months ago, I finally decided to teach an egg class and thus the egg project began. I originally thought the soufflés would pose the greatest challenge, but I breezed right through them thanks to the Joy of Cooking and Julia Child. Custards were easy too. Scrambled, hard-boiled, and poached eggs took a bit of experimentation, but soon they were coming out "perfectly delicious" as Julia would say. Good thing my friend Susan came over for lunch sometimes to help me eat the never-ending egg experiments. Just when I thought that eggs and I were becoming best pals, I got to the omelettes. The first thing I learned was that the fluffy golden omelettes I remembered from my childhood were not omelettes at all, at least not authentic French omelettes. A French omelette, as defined by Escoffier, was custardy scrambled eggs wrapped in a thin layer of coagulated eggs. It's a pale cylinder that is just barely set inside. The classic French omelette has only one ingredient: eggs (well, and butter, salt, and pepper, of course).

"How hard can it be?" I thought. I read the instructions in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French cooking, watched Julia make them on YouTube and got to work. A dozen of eggs later, I figured that the whole pan shaking method was too inconsistent, and I started looking for another way. That's when I found Jacques Pepin's technique. His fork stirring and folding method yielded more consistent results and another dozen of eggs later I was producing proper French omelettes. I was still not sure why would one ever want to eat a plain omelette instead of French scrambled eggs. When cooked over low heat, these feather-light and delicate egg curds are so easy to make and so delicious! I really wasn't sure what that thin film of coagulated eggs did for them. But of course, the scrambled eggs couldn't hold a filling, while an omelette could. So I started experimenting by filling the omelettes. Another dozen eggs later, I realized why Julia and Jacques concentrate so much on plain omelettes instead of filled. The filling can actually disturb that perfect creaminess of the inside and the process of adding it seemed to disrupt the already tricky procedure of making an omelette that is perfectly done. Since the whole process takes only 20 seconds, 10 seconds of dealing with the filling, can easily mess up the whole thing.

For my first egg class, I decided to skip the filling and just teach my students how to make plain French omelettes. The problem was that letting everyone make only one omelette didn't really work. But spending more time on this skill in class would have been silly, especially when I found out that the French omelette didn't really excite my students. They wanted to learn how to make light fluffy omelettes that lend themselves to infinite filling variations -- yes, the completely unauthentic ones. To tell you the truth, so did I. Even after I learned to produce the perfect French omelette, I still never really liked it. I thought of giving a soufflé omelette a try, but decided against it. The soufflé omelette requires you to separate eggs and beat the whites separately. It's essentially a soufflé fried in a skillet. While Delia thinks it's easier and more approachable than a soufflé, I disagree. You still have to go through most of the trouble of a soufflé, so the only thing more approachable about it is the title of the dish. People think that soufflés are hard and omelettes are easy. What a misconception!

Further reading on Chowhound.com home cooking board revealed that I am not the only disturbed person who likes golden fluffy omelettes instead of the pale French ones. That's where I learned that even though there is great controversy about what's technically considered to be an "omelette," there are 3 major types:

• French omelette -- pale cylinder of scrambled eggs enveloped in a thin film of coagulated eggs
• Soufflé omelette -- egg whites are separated and whipped, then folded into the yolks. This gives this omelette tremendous volume and lightness. It's often finished in the oven or under the broiler instead of being flipped.
• Fluffy -- eggs are not separated, but the omelette is supposed to puff up in the pan, then collapse once it's out of the pan.

Since I have never liked a restaurant omelette before, I couldn't think of any chef I could call for help. So I did what I usually do when I am in trouble -- I called my Mom. The fluffy omelettes sounded like the ones my Mom used to make when I was little. I remember them being puffy, delicate, golden, and really yummy. As they settled on a plate, they took a deep sigh, exhaling their warmth. Knowing my Mom, I couldn't imagine them being a fussy undertaking like a soufflé omelette.

"You start by mixing milk and flour," said my Mom. Good thing she couldn't see me cringing on the other side of the phone. Milk is the kind of ingredient that would make Escoffier send me to culinary purgatory. Flour would send me straight to hell. From everything I had read, it is absolutely unacceptable in an omelette. But since making another French omelette felt like hell already, I decided to follow my Mom's instructions to see what would happen. I had to make some educated guesses with measurements, since my Mom gives measurements in units of "a lot," "a little," and "not too much." I tried 1/3 cup milk, 1 Tbsp flour, 2 eggs, salt and pepper. First I beat milk and flour with a fork to get rid of lumps, then I beat in the eggs. I fried the omelette on medium-low heat, covered as my Mom instructed. It got a little puffy. When the top was still slightly wet, I flipped it using the knife technique my Mom taught me for crepes. I covered it back up for 15-20 seconds and it got really puffy. Then I stuffed it, slid it onto a plate folding it over onto itself. It was surprisingly good -- just like I remembered my Mom making.

But this was only my first try and I couldn't help tweaking a few things here and there. I remembered reading on chowhound.com that beating eggs in a blender for a couple of minutes is one possible technique to help fluff up the omelettes. Since I had an immersion blender that's easy to clean, I decided to try it. To my delight, it simplified the process. Since the blender did a great job getting rid of lumps, there was no more need to beat the flour and milk separately from eggs. I could dump all the ingredients into a Pyrex measuring cup, buzz them for 2 minutes, and be ready to fry.

The flip bothered me too. It was definitely not as easy as the crepes. Either you had to wait until the center was almost set, which resulted in a slightly tougher omelette, or you had to flip a totally wet unwieldy mess. I wanted to find an easier way for my students. That's when I remembered Delia's idea of popping the omelette under the broiler to cook the top. It worked like a charm! The omelette was perfectly puffy and golden on both sides, creamy inside, and required no acrobatics or even practice. Another benefit of the no flip solution is that you are no longer bound to a small skillet. You can use a large non-stick or cast iron skillet to make a huge omelette that can serve 2-3 people. This way, you can sit down and enjoy your breakfast together instead of being stuck in the kitchen cooking omelettes one at a time.

I realize, of course, that I have exposed myself to infinite possibility for ridicule by calling this an omelette. To make sure Escoffier doesn't turn in his grave, let me just clarify that this is not an omelette, but an egg dish I have christened a Pufflette.

Helen's Mom's "Pufflette"

For 1 serving (can be easily doubled, tripled, etc)

Ingredients:
1/3 cup whole milk
2 1/2 tsp unbleached all-purpose flour
2 large eggs
Slightly heaping 1/4 tsp Diamond Crystal Kosher salt (or scant 1/4 tsp table salt)
A few grinds of black pepper
1 tsp butter
1 tsp canola oil
2-3 Tbsp of a filling of your choice

Equipment:
For an omelette that serves one person, you'll need a 7-8 inch non-stick skillet with a cover. Ideally, you should be using a skillet with a metal handle so that you can safely put it under the broiler. However, the time under the broiler is so brief that I have successfully wrapped the plastic handle of my skillet with several layers of aluminum foil and nothing terrible happened. If you have a 10 inch non-stick skillet with a cover, you can double the recipe (for a 12 inch non-stick skillet, you can triple and even quadruple it).

Fork way:
Measure milk in a glass measuring cup. Add the flour and beat with a fork until absolutely no lumps remain. Add the eggs, salt and pepper, and continue beating for 2 minutes. Proceed to cooking the omelette instructions.

The immersion blender way:
Measure milk in a glass measuring cup. Add the flour, eggs, salt, and pepper. Process with the immersion blender for 2 minutes. You can also do it in a regular blender if you want to go through the trouble of washing it. Proceed to cooking the omelette instructions.

Cooking the omelette:
Read these instructions carefully before starting the cooking process. You'll have to act very quickly and won't have time to stop and consult the recipe.

1. Preheat the broiler.
2. Set a 7-8 inch non-stick oven-proof skillet over medium-high heat. Add the butter and oil and swirl the pan to cover the bottom and the sides. If you pre-mixed the eggs for several omelettes, measure slightly less than 1 cup of the egg mixture for 1 omelette.
3. When the foam in the skillet subsides, pour the egg mixture into the skillet, cover immediately and cook for 45 seconds. The omelette should start to look set around the edges, but be completely liquid in the center and on top.
4. Uncover and place the skillet under the broiler (2-4 inches away from the flame) until the egg mixture is puffy and golden on top, 60-90 seconds.
5. Add the desired fillings and slide the whole thing onto a plate, folding it in half or rolling it up. Dot with a sliver of butter, spreading it over the top of the omelette as it melts.

Filling ideas:
Small and relatively dry fillings like chopped herbs, minced cooked spinach, and cooked shallots can be stirred into eggs before cooking. Chunky ingredients like cooked mushrooms, roasted peppers, tomatoes, cheese, etc, can be added in the middle after the omelette is cooked. Of course, there is nothing preventing you from doing both. Here is a spinach omelette with chanterelles and oyster mushrooms.