The vegetable garden in San Pancho is a hit-or-miss affair. I should perhaps explain that the garden used to be planted over a triangular piece of land that demarcates the filter bed for all the drainage from the house. In theory, the vegetables should receive sufficient nutrients and irrigation from this source, while in practice, it doesn’t quite work like that. But that is another story. Elisorio, the man who looked after my ranch, became impatient with the light, loamy soil brought in by the contractors for the filter bed/garden in front of the house—although he seems to have forgotten completely that the first year we had a magnificent crop of corn, beans, and tomatoes—so, in disgust, he started another garden of his own right between the cow shed and the goat’s pen. Since it receives the effluence from both, it has done rather well from the start. But it is still a case of feast or famine. Sometimes we have four types of lettuce, wonderful crisp little cucumbers, and fava beans and peas galore, while at other times we have a sparse crop of radishes so peppery that they resemble misshapen chiles, little groups of Florence fennel appearing where they were not planted, and a few onions here and there in between odd clumps of coriander, but nothing growing in a straight line or even the semblance of one. The garden is strictly organic and always has been.
Now, I can never be accused of being orderly—except while giving a cooking class—but I do like to see orderly growing vegetables, so I went out one day and planted some mâche in a very straight row. Although I watered it regularly and gave it special attention, it was puny and very soon wilted and died. One morning Elisorio appeared at the door with a small bunch of magnificent mâche and a triumphant look on his face. “I told you your garden was no good, señora,” he said. “Come and look at my plants.” I went down there and couldn’t see a sign of them. “Look,” he said and reached down to brush aside a tall fava bean stalk and some bushy carrot tops. There indeed were two magnificent mâche plants—but only two.
One day I gave Elisorio a package of yellow crookneck squash seeds to plant. A few weeks later I saw that some healthy plants had grown up and small yellow squash were forming nicely. The next day I looked again and they were gone. “Do you suppose that squirrel ate them?” I asked him innocently. Elisorio’s face was a sight to be seen. He pushed back my discarded old sombrero that he had adopted to a rakish angle on the back of his head and laughed heartily, showing off the big gap where three teeth had been the week before. Once he recovered from his mirth, he confessed that he had thought they were all sick and cut them off for the goat.
Another time, I noticed that we were beginning to get a solid line of carrots. They were growing so close together that the roots were intertwined like Siamese quadruplets. “Why did you sow the seeds so thickly?” I asked. “Well, it’s like this, señora: If I plant a few, they don’t come up, and if I plant a lot, they all come up. But,” he added, “I have to admit that my hand surpassed itself this time.”
Of course, we have our problems with squirrels, armadillos, aphids, one hundred types—or so it seems—of beetles, caterpillars from the white cabbage butterfly, and, worst of all, the gallina ciega, the fat white grub of the June bug that lives on the roots of plants. We take care of most of the insects with a spray of wild tobacco and soap, but the gallina ciega has to be dug out by hand. One day I saw Elisorio with a huge, succulent grub in his hand. “Kill it,” I shouted, as it had been eating my favorite asparagus plant. “No, señora, this is Maximilian’s midmorning snack.” Maximilian is our large white turkey-cock, and while I had to admit he deserved it because the fertility rate of the female turkeys is awe-inspiring, I was even more impressed that my lessons in recycling had not gone unheeded.
Feast or famine, I live on salads and vegetables either gathered from my two vegetable patches or bought from the campesinos in the marketplace.
Vegetables
Thirty years later, I am not, nor could I ever be, a complete vegetarian, but I live on vegetarian meals most of the week.
I shudder when I think of how vegetables were cooked when I was young. You could smell the cabbage or brussels sprouts boiling before you got to the kitchen, and the smell lingered there until the next day. There were rather stringy runner beans; soft cauliflower always blanketed with a layer of white sauce—albeit well made—with cheese; and watery marrow, that ridiculously overgrown squash so beloved in the British Isles. Thank goodness times have changed. We owe an enormous debt of gratitude to the Chinese and the disciples of nouvelle cuisine, all of whom have given us vegetables that are crisp and colorful. Of course, there are some delicious baked stews with soft vegetables: take ratatouille, for instance, which was like that when I first had it in Saint-Tropez so many years ago—I do not like the modern ratatouille with crunchy lumps of bitter al dente vegetables.
Though it may sound sacrilegious, I don’t really like steamed vegetables either. A lot of goodness goes into the water, and they are never seasoned properly. Purees remind me of Gerber’s, but I love vegetables that have been blanched and sautéed or stir-fried with a little chicken broth. Vegetables done this way have a sweetness that is lost when they are steamed. I remember I was cooking dinner once for a friend who was in the middle of moving house. The vegetables in an uptown New York fruit store in those days were not very promising in a cold January, but I julienned kohlrabi, turnip, and parsnip, then cooked them in a little chicken broth and butter—the children, who would normally not be caught dead eating those vegetables, came back for seconds.
I don’t like anything swimming in butter and, worse still, topped with almonds—a sort of cop-out, I feel. Carrots are superb cooked as I mentioned in the previous paragraph, with lots of chopped parsley and a touch of olive oil to finish, and lots of freshly ground black pepper and nutmeg or turmeric. One minute of cooking time is enough for small freshly picked peas—I don’t like the brilliantly colored frozen ones—or fava beans, with a little chopped fresh summer savory. Yes, they are wonderful raw, but that slight cooking brings out another dimension of flavor. So you can imagine my reaction when confronted with a plate of raw cauliflower, broccoli, etc., around a dip—one has to have the digestive system of a cow. But how to teach culinary students that the desired al dente does not mean half raw?
I remember Mother’s braised vegetables, so good on a winter’s day: celery, parsnips, and carrots. I have added to them Belgian endive and the bulb of Florence fennel, which does very well in springtime in my Mexican garden.
Sautéed Spinach
4 servings
This is the way I like to cook spinach—chiles with everything? Just about, or you could substitute a little fresh grated ginger root. I cook it like this if I am going to stuff an omelette or make a soufflé. The amount of broth and the cooking time have to be reduced a little if it is very fresh leaf spinach. However, most of the spinach sold commercially today is the tougher beet spinach.
1 pound (450 g) spinach
1 tablespoon oil
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
5 tablespoons finely chopped onion
2–3 cloves garlic, peeled and chopped
2 chiles serranos, or any fresh hot green chile, finely chopped, with seeds
1/4 cup (65 mL) chicken broth
Finely ground sea salt to taste
Pick over the spinach and remove any tough stalks. Spin for a few seconds in a lettuce spinner to remove excess water. Chop roughly. Heat the oil and butter together in a heavy pan or wok. Add the onion, garlic, and chiles and cook over lively heat until the onion is translucent, about 3 minutes. Add the chopped spinach to the pan and stir briefly. Add the broth and cook over high heat, turning the spinach over until wilted, about 5 minutes—but see the note above for tender leaf spinach, which would take about 3 minutes. Adjust the seasoning. Cover the pan and let it sit off the heat for a further 5 minutes before serving.
Another favorite dish of mine for spinach is Paula Wolfert’s Spinach Pâté in her book The Cooking of the Eastern Mediterranean.
Corn “Soufflé”
4 servings
This recipe is one that evolved when I was asked to contribute to one of the little books in The Great Cooks’ Library series. It is a moist soufflé-like dish. It is cooked in a water bath and does not rise as spectacularly as a lighter and more traditional soufflé.
CORN MIXTURE
1-1/2 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus extra for buttering the dish
2 tablespoons finely chopped onion
1 small clove garlic, peeled and finely chopped
1-1/2 cups (375 mL) corn kernels (if corn is not the freshest possible, use frozen and measure before defrosting)
2 fresh green chiles, finely chopped (optional)
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
A scraping of nutmeg
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 heaped tablespoon flour
1/2 cup (125 mL) warm whole milk
4 eggs, separated, at room temperature
TO SERVE
Alone or with a tomato sauce or crème fraîche
Heat the oven to 375°F (190°C). Place a water bath inside, on the middle rack; a roasting pan is suitable with water to the depth of 1 inch in it. Butter well a 1-1/2-quart (1.5 L) soufflé dish or 4 individual soufflé dishes.
To prepare the corn mixture
Melt the 1-1/2 tablespoons butter. Add the onion and garlic and fry briefly without browning until the onion is translucent. Add the corn kernels, and the chiles, if desired; season; and cook until tender but still crisp, about 5 minutes. Set aside.
To prepare the roux
Melt the 2 tablespoons butter and add the flour, stirring constantly as it froths up for about 2 minutes. Gradually stir in the warm milk and cook the mixture over low heat, stirring all the time until it thickens, about 5 minutes. Add the corn mixture. Beat the egg yolks briefly just to break them up and stir them into the corn mixture. Beat the egg whites until they are stiff but not dry. Stir 1 large tablespoon of the beaten whites into the corn mixture and then fold in the rest. Pour the mixture into the prepared dish.
Place the dish in the water bath and bake for about 40 minutes, or until the soufflé is just firm but still moist and nicely browned on top. Serve immediately with a tomato sauce or some salted crème fraîche.
Potatoes
I must confess to having a passion for potatoes—among a few other foods, of course. I always try to buy some of those wonderful red bliss potatoes. I steam or boil them in their skins and then eat them with lots of chopped parsley, chives, and melted butter. For baking, I prefer the potatoes of England because they have a tougher skin than those of Idaho, and they are very mealy. I am fascinated by the little wild potatoes from Zacatecas in north-central Mexico, and by the wizened, frozen potatoes of the Andes, chuños. But when it comes right down to it, I would fly off any spring to England just to eat warm new potatoes. When you buy them, they are covered with pale-brown papery flakes rather than skins, and the flesh, when cooked, is almost transparent. We would always boil them at home with fresh mint and chives and then toss them in butter.
I love all those wonderful fattening French ways of cooking potatoes—pommes de terre Anna, gratin à la dauphinoise, or gratin savoyarde—but two recipes in particular that I find myself using over and over again are Pommes de Terre à l’Ardennaise, with garlic and juniper berries, and Pommes de Terre au Grain de Sel, Sauce Bouillade, with red peppers and garlic, two recipes from Elizabeth David.
So often when you cook potatoes for a potato salad they fall apart, or when you cut them, they look unappetizingly ragged around the edges. To avoid this, a good way to cook them is: slice the unpeeled red bliss or other waxy potatoes to just less than 1/4 inch (6 mm) thick. Put them in a heavy pan in which they are no more than 3 layers deep. Barely cover with water and put the lid halfway over the pan. Cook the potatoes—they should barely simmer—over low heat for 5 minutes. Turn off the heat, cover the pan completely, and allow them to finish cooking in their own steam. They should be just past the al dente stage. (Time of cooking will, of course, vary with quality and thickness of pan, type of heat used, etc.)
Potato Scones
about 10 scones
These doughy potato scones, a specialty of Scotland and Ireland, can become addictive, especially if you love potatoes. They are generally made with a proportion of white flour or rough oatmeal mixed with peeled mashed potatoes, and are eaten hot, spread with butter. When I lived in Scotland, I used to eat them for breakfast with a fried egg on top, but they are also good with bacon, with melted cheese on top . . . what you will. Sometimes I add coarsely ground whole wheat flour (2 ounces [about 60 g]) instead of the oatmeal.
1-1/2 ounces (45 g; rounded 1/2 cup [135 mL]) quick oats
1/2 pound (225 g) unpeeled potatoes (I prefer cooked and roughly mashed with their skins)
1/2 teaspoon finely ground sea salt
1 tablespoon unbleached all-purpose flour, plus flour for kneading and rolling
1-1/2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
Put the oats into a blender jar and blend for about 3 seconds. They should be broken up rather than ground fine. Add them to the potatoes, together with the salt, flour, and melted butter. Knead well. Sprinkle the pastry board lightly with flour and roll out the dough to approximately 1/8 inch (3 mm) thick. Heat a griddle and brush with butter. Cut the scones with a round 3-inch (8 cm) cutter, prick them well, and cook for about 3 minutes—by this time the underside should be lightly browned—turn the scones over, and cook for a further 3 minutes on the second side. As soon as they are cooked, cover with a napkin and keep warm until ready to eat. You can freeze them and then reheat on a well-buttered griddle.
NOTE
It is easier to work the dough if the potatoes are still slightly warm.
Pommes de Terre au Grain de Sel, Sauce Bouillade
4 servings
This recipe is adapted from one in Elizabeth David’s French Country Cooking.
1 pound (450 g) red bliss potatoes or other waxy potatoes, peeled and cut into 1-inch (2.5 cm) cubes
Boiling water to cover
Coarse sea salt to taste
Cover the potatoes with boiling water, add salt to taste, and cook until still a little al dente, about 8 to 10 minutes. Drain and dry off in the hot pan.
SAUCE BOUILLADE
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon pork lard
3 small sweet red peppers, unpeeled, seeded, and cut into small squares
4 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed
1/2 cup (125 mL) dry white wine
About 2 tablespoons water
1/2 tablespoon flour
Heat the oil and lard together and sauté the red peppers until soft, about 3 minutes. Add the garlic and sauté for 2 minutes more. Stir in the wine and reduce over high heat for 1 minute. Add the water to the flour and mix to a smooth paste, add the flour mixture to the pan, and cook the peppers over low heat for about 8 minutes. The sauce should be fairly thick and coat the back of a wooden spoon well. However, if it is too thick, then add more water and continue cooking a minute or so longer.
Transfer the potatoes to a warm serving dish and pour the hot sauce over them. Serve immediately.
British-Style Roast Potatoes
4 servings
British roast potatoes should have a good, rich crust outside and be floury and soft inside. Mother always cooked them to perfection, and there is a simple trick to it: parboil them first and while still hot, roast them in splattering fat. Of course, we always used the fat part of the drippings from the Sunday roast, but you could use good lard or duck fat instead. You don’t want a waxy potato for this, so Idaho or yellow would be good.
1 pound (450 g) medium-sized potatoes, peeled
Cold water to cover
Sea salt to taste
1/2 cup (125 mL) fat skimmed from pan drippings (see note above)
Cut the potatoes in half lengthwise so you have a lot of flat surface—they shouldn’t be too large either; about 2 to 2-1/2 inches (5 cm) long and about 1 inch (2.5 cm) thick is ideal. Put the potatoes in water to cover, add salt, and bring to a boil, lower the heat, and cook over medium heat for about 12 minutes. Drain well and set aside.
While the potatoes are cooking, heat the oven to 375°F (190°C). Have ready a shallow baking dish, metal preferably, into which the potatoes will fit in one layer with plenty of space in between them. Put the fat into the pan and place on the top shelf of the oven to heat through as the oven heats. When you can hear the fat sputtering, put the potatoes into the pan, turning each so that it is coated with the hot fat. Turn them once more to make sure. Roast the potatoes on the top shelf, turning them as soon as they are well browned on one side, and continue turning and basting until they are crisp and brown all over, about 40 to 45 minutes.
Pommes de Terre à l’Ardennaise (Grated Potatoes with Juniper Berries and Garlic)
4 to 6 servings
I had made this recipe a number of times and given some to my helpers at that time, Sylvie and Ephy, to taste . . . they rolled their eyes in approval. Potatoes were cheap at that time, but my neighbors would certainly not think of buying olive oil or butter, so I showed them how to prepare the recipe with the locally pressed sesame oil and strips of chile poblano fried with sliced onions (rajas). It was a great success. Socorro was helping me with the cleaning one day, and I offered her some of these potatoes with her lunch. She ate silently but with relish and then settled back in her chair to talk. “You know, I have great faith in potatoes,” she said. “For months I had such swollen feet and ankles that I could hardly walk, and one day Juan [her husband, who scorned potatoes and never ate them] was reading a book of herbal cures when he came across a remedy for my condition—potatoes. I ate at least one kilo a day and in a week I was cured.” “Seven kilos of potatoes in one week!” I exclaimed. “Didn’t you get very fat?” “No,” she said, “on the contrary, and now Juan swears by them, too, and eats them all the time.” This is my version of an Elizabeth David recipe from French Provincial Cooking.
2 pounds (900 g) red bliss or other waxy potatoes, unpeeled
5 tablespoons unsalted butter and 2 tablespoons olive oil
1 rounded teaspoon sea salt and a lot of freshly ground black pepper
12 juniper berries, crushed
8 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed
Grate the unskinned potatoes in the food processor or with a hand grater. Cover them with cold water and leave them for about 1 minute. Strain and squeeze as dry as possible in cheesecloth.
Heat a very heavy 10-inch (25 cm) frying pan and melt the butter in the oil. Mix the potatoes with the salt, pepper, juniper berries, and garlic. When the oil is hot, add the potatoes, press down, and cover. Cook over high heat for about 10 minutes—test from time to time to see if the bottom is browning and not burning. Lift the potatoes with a spatula and turn them over, half at a time. Continue cooking a further 10 minutes, covered, and repeat the turning process. After 30 minutes they should be forming a coagulated mass. Remove the lid, turn for the last time, and brown the bottom of the potatoes well. Total cooking time should be about 40 minutes. Serve directly from the pan.
Alternatively, just cook up to the last 10 minutes and hold uncovered. When ready to serve, brown over high heat on both sides.
Pommes Soufflées, without frustrations
I discovered I was not alone in failing miserably to get my pommes to soufflé despite adhering to the most careful of instructions. A good friend, Jean-Yves Ferrer, then director of Maxim’s in Mexico City, came to my rescue. He took me into the kitchen to see how easy it really is; but as with all easy things, there are some twists.
First choose flattish, longish potatoes. Cut a vertical slice off one end of the potato and check for a water marking or “vein.” If there is one, use the potato for something else. If not, then proceed by peeling rather thickly into an even oval shape. Cut into horizontal slices almost exactly 3/16 inch (5 mm) thick. Do not wash.
Have ready 2 deep skillets with oil to the depth of 1/2 inch (1.25 cm) in each one. Heat the first one to 250°F (120°C). Add a few of the potato slices—do not crowd the pan—and shake the pan, gently turning the slices over until they begin to blister or puff but remain a very pale gold color. Remove and drain. Meanwhile heat the second pan until very hot—375°F–400°F (190°C–200°C)—and add the potatoes, which should immediately puff up. Cook until they are a deep golden color, about 3–4 minutes. Drain and serve.
Cooking may be delayed for several hours in between the two frying stages.
Salads
Salads, glorious salads! Can you imagine being condemned to live in a country—and there are plenty—where you can’t eat fresh salad every day, or nearly every day? But I should qualify that—not any salad, such as the type, for instance, that you find when you are on the road in the average motel restaurant: a huge plateful of iceberg lettuce, enough for twenty-five rabbits, with thick, glutinous dressing. Mind you, I didn’t like salads when I was growing up. It was Father’s job to make them at home, and he prided himself on it. He would cut up lots of greens, beets, tomatoes, etc., very fine and then douse it all with lots of mayonnaise, Heinz mayonnaise, until it wept and died. And by the way, never let the most vigorous person at the table toss the salad—he will toss it to death; you want to toss lightly and briefly, and no bare hands, please.
The serving of salad has its pretensions, too, starting with the menu: salad is always “garden fresh,” when you know very well that it has been perked up with some chemical to make it look greener or stand up longer. “Your choice of our delicious dressings”: French and Italian dressing that no Frenchman or Italian would recognize, and that terrible oil and vinegar! Then there is the cold plate, a plate so cold that the oil congeals on it and all the flavor disappears. But surely the ultimate pretension is the frozen fork. I think it first happened to me in Arizona, when I was confronted by a young waiter inclining almost ceremoniously and holding out to me, meticulously wrapped in the whitest of napkins, a frozen fork. He looked amazed when I refused. “My inlays,” I explained, “are jangling at the thought.” Enough of gripes. When traveling, I think longingly of a salad at Chez Panisse, or Green’s in San Francisco, or a winter salad in France or Northern Italy.
Anchovy and Walnut Winter Salad
4 servings
In the 1970s, after my annual winter visit to my mother in England, I used to go to stay with friends in Paris. They were wonderfully generous hosts, and we would visit their favorite bistros and some outstanding North Vietnamese restaurants in our quest for great food. One year, on the spur of the moment, we decided to go on a quick trip to Lyons. Unfortunately, we had chosen the very fortnight in which most of the big-name restaurants were shuttered. All were closed for vacation except Pyramide, in nearby Vienne. I am afraid that dinner was not a success. The moment we walked in, we were told in no uncertain terms that we could have only the prix fixe dinner, and after rich but delicious amuse-gueules and the predictable foie gras in brioche dough—which is not my favorite way of eating foie gras—came roast duck with two thick, overrich sauces, both of which were undistinguished and completely overshadowed the excellent cooking of the entree and desserts. However, we fared very well in another little one-star restaurant in Lyons—very typical with its businesslike air and rather tasteless French suburban decor. The food was simple and well prepared, but it was the winter salad with its hot lardons and walnuts that drew my attention. I have tried to re-create it, but without the lardons.
About 6 cups (1.5 L), loosely packed, of mixed winter greens: mâche, chicory, dandelion leaves (pissenlit), watercress, arugula, radicchio
1/2 cup (125 mL) cubed whole wheat bread, dried (for croutons)
1 large clove garlic, peeled
1/3 cup (85 mL) thinly sliced fennel root
1/2 (2-ounce) can anchovy fillets, cut into small pieces
1/2 cup (125 mL) walnut pieces
DRESSING
1-1/2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
4 tablespoons walnut oil
1-1/2 tablespoons good red wine or sherry vinegar
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Wash the greens, spin dry, and tear into large pieces.
Heat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Spread out the bread cubes on a well-oiled baking sheet and let them bake until crisp, about 15 to 20 minutes, depending on how dry they are. Set aside. Crush the garlic in the salad bowl and smear it around the bottom and sides. Add the ingredients for the dressing and beat well. Adjust the seasoning and vinegar to taste—the dressing should be very sharp. Toss the croutons and fennel briefly in the dressing. Add the anchovies with the greens and walnuts to the dressing. Toss just before serving. Do not overtoss and wilt your greens.
Ensalada de Nopal (Cactus Salad)
4 servings
The idea of eating cactus is probably totally alien to those not initiated into the mysteries of Mexican food. There are even people who ask me if it is eaten raw. Well, no, you remove the prickles and cook it. In Mexico, nopal cactus paddles are said to cure stomach ulcers, and its medicinal properties for heart ailments are at present being explored by the Japanese. Certainly cactus provides fiber in a diet, but anything is possible with these natural foods, which kept a large pre-Hispanic population alive and strong.
Cactus paddles for cooking—the slimmest and tenderest—while available the year round, are at their best in the spring when the cactus plant throws out its new shoots. If you wander through a Mexican market at that time, the most spectacular of the prepared foods will be a large, circular tray of cactus salad covered with slices of intensely red tomatoes, lots of coriander, and white onion. The nopal cactus gives a crunchy texture and slight acidy flavor to the salad, which is one of my favorites.
Nopales, like okra, give off a slimy substance when cooked, and the best method of cooking them to retain their nutrients and yet make them acceptable is the one that I wrote about in Recipes from the Regional Cooks of Mexico, al vapor, which I am repeating here.
A surprising number of markets now carry fresh cactus paddles during their season in the United States, and I am afraid I cannot recommend either the bottled or canned commercial ones as a substitute.
1-1/2 pounds (675 g) fresh nopal cactus paddles
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 scallions, chopped, with the green leaves
2 cloves garlic, peeled and chopped
Sea salt to taste
With a sharp knife, scrape the prickles off the cactus, taking care not to remove all the outer green layer that gives it color. Rinse the paddles well in cold water to make sure that none of the almost invisible prickles are still adhering to them. Cut into narrow strips about 1/4 inch (6 mm) wide and 2-1/2 inches (6.5 cm) long.
Heat the oil and fry the scallions and garlic in it gently, without browning, for 2 minutes. Add the nopales and salt, cover the pan, and cook over fairly high heat until all the slimy substance comes out—it helps to stir from time to time—about 8 minutes. Remove the cover and continue cooking and stirring over high heat until that substance has been absorbed—about 15 to 20 minutes. Set aside to cool off.
FOR ASSEMBLING SALAD
The cooked nopales
1-1/2 tablespoons fruity olive oil
2 tablespoons vinegar
Heaped 1/4 teaspoon Mexican oregano
1 heaped tablespoon finely chopped white onion
3 tablespoons crumbled queso fresco, or white crumbly mild cheese
1 heaped tablespoon roughly chopped fresh cilantro (coriander)
1 tablespoon liquid from chile can (see below)
Sea salt to taste
GARNISH
2 medium tomatoes, unskinned and cut into thin slices
1 tablespoon crumbled queso fresco
1 scant tablespoon roughly chopped cilantro (coriander)
1 medium purple onion cut into thin rings
Strips of canned chiles jalapeños en escabeche to taste
While still slightly warm, mix the nopales with the rest of the ingredients and set aside to season—not in the refrigerator—for about 1 hour. Test for additional salt.
Garnish the salad and serve at room temperature, never cold.
This salad can also be served as a first course with hot tortillas.
Oriental Watercress Salad
4 servings
This recipe was suggested to me many years ago by a young Korean who owned a vegetable stand on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. This is my version of it, authentic or not.
2 cups (500 mL) firmly packed watercress, thick stems removed
2 tablespoons roughly chopped fresh coriander (cilantro)
1/2 teaspoon finely grated fresh ginger root
3 small scallions, trimmed and finely chopped, with the green leaves
1-1/2 tablespoons Chinese sesame oil
3 tablespoons rice vinegar, preferably Japanese
3 teaspoons soy sauce
1-1/2 tablespoons sesame seeds, lightly toasted
Wash the watercress well and spin dry. Put in a bowl with the chopped coriander. Set aside. Beat together the ginger root, scallions, oil, vinegar, and soy sauce until well amalgamated, and toss the salad with this dressing and the toasted sesame seeds. Serve at room temperature.
Jicama in Lime Juice
4 to 6 servings
I never thought much of jicama served as it generally is in Mexico—sliced and sprinkled with chili powder, lime juice, and salt—until my friend Roberta Schneiderman was visiting me in Mexico. She told me that some Mexican friends of hers had served this on a recent visit. It is delicious. Serve it plain, eaten with a toothpick, as an appetizer; mixed in with a salad; or as an accompaniment to broiled meats.
1 medium jicama (about 1-1/4 pounds [500 g]), peeled and cut into 3/4-inch (2 cm) squares
2 tablespoons finely chopped white onion or scallions
1/2 cup freshly squeezed lime juice
3 tablespoons grated cheese (añejo in Mexico, Sardo or Romano in the United States)
1 canned chile jalapeño en escabeche, roughly chopped, or to taste
1 heaped tablespoon finely chopped cilantro (coriander) leaves and tender stalks
Sea salt to taste if necessary
Put the jicama and onion in a china or glass bowl and stir in the lime juice. Set aside to marinate for about 2 hours. Stir in the rest of the ingredients and serve at room temperature. Salt should not be necessary with the rather salty cheese.
This dish doesn’t keep beyond the day it’s made.
Brown and Wild Rice Salad
4 to 6 servings
The idea of rice salads in summer always appeals to me, but then as I bite into the rice I realize I don’t particularly care for its texture when it’s cold. This is a variation that gives plenty of texture and flavor. You can mix your salad depending on your mood—Italian, Greek, Mexican—substituting spices and ingredients accordingly.
1 cup (250 mL) long-grained, unconverted brown rice
1/2 cup (125 mL) wild rice
2-1/4 cups (565 mL) cold water
1 rounded teaspoon sea salt, or to taste
Rinse the rice and wild rice briefly in cold water and drain. Put into a pressure cooker with the water, cover, and bring up to pressure. Lower the heat and cook for 30 minutes on the lowest pressure (but see note on page 80 on rice of different properties). Remove from the heat and allow the pressure to reduce normally—but not under cold water. Remove the lid and stir the rice quickly with a fork, sprinkling the salt over it. Place a tea towel over the rice, replace the lid, and allow the rice to finish cooking in its own steam for 20 minutes. Every grain should be slightly al dente and standing apart from its neighbor.
NOTE
If you do not have a pressure cooker, cook the brown and wild rice together, using the normal cooking method for brown rice.
SEASONING
5 tablespoons olive oil
3 tablespoons white or red wine vinegar
Sea salt to taste
Freshly ground black pepper
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg, turmeric, or paprika (optional), depending on the type of ingredients you want to mix in the salad
Stir the oil, vinegar, and seasonings into the rice while still warm and then add the rest of the ingredients to taste.
Suggestions for rice salads of different types:
MEDITERRANEAN
grated lemon rind/cured black olives/chopped anchovies/very finely chopped garlic/roughly chopped fresh basil
MEXICAN
chopped green chiles/chopped fresh cilantro (coriander)/cubed jicama/cubed avocado/cubed cooked nopales
AMERICAN
chopped celery/green or red peppers in strips/diced cucumber/tuna fish in chunks
Tomato Salad
When I have fresh tomatoes in the garden, I serve them sliced, unskinned, scattered with thin strips of dried tomato, olive oil, salt, and a little shredded fresh basil on top.