Adventures With Unfamiliar Vegetables: Sautéed Puntarelle.
Yesterday, I was outsmarted by my own purchasing practices. For the first time in I-don't-remember-how-long (maybe ever?), I created a meal that I didn't like. I'm posting it anyway, because in all matters of technicality, it wasn't bad. In fact, tin ate it, and allegedly liked it.
The story begins with my bi-weekly trip to the grocery store to buy fresh vegetables. Eager to try a new leafy green, I laid eyes on an unusual-looking specimen, with stalks like celery (with approximately the rubbery-soft feeling of bok choy) and leaves that resembled arugula. It was puntarelle -- a late fall/early winter chicory.
I am fully aware of the fact that chicories are bitter. And in fact, I rather enjoy a good chicory (even as a salad: raw, with lemon, honey, and raisins). I did a little research (you'll read about my findings soon) and maybe didn't take it seriously enough, maybe I was too cocky -- at any rate, I thought I knew what to do.
I began by giving mine a good scrub -- my puntarelle was indeed so fresh-from-the-garden that it still had a little snail on it. (The snail is now residing in a potted plant in my kitchen, hopefully eating some fruit flies.) Without bothering to dry it, I chopped the entire thing into bite-sized pieces, as I would a bok choy. I set it on the stove on low heat, using the water remaining on the leaves to create the perfect amount of steam. I added a teaspoon of good balsamic vinegar, a teaspoon of honey, and 2 teaspoons of coconut milk. For a little bit of texture and because I usually like it in cooked, dark leafy greens, I threw in a small red apple. And finally, 2 tablespoons of sweetened dried cranberries. A pinch of salt and a bit of fresh black pepper, I thought, would finish it off -- I put the lid on and left it to stew.
In the meantime, I toasted two teaspoons of sesame seeds in the bottom of a small pot, adding 1/2 cup of dry couscous and 1 cup of boiling water to the toasted seeds. Couscous is prepared by simply leaving the grains in hot water (as rice, in a 1:2 ratio), tightly covered -- the fine grain will absorb the liquid within a few minutes, at which point, you can fluff it with a fork and it's ready to eat.
I tasted the puntarelle to see how things were shaping up, and I have to tell you, I struggled to keep a straight face. This was no chicory for the faint of heart -- this beast brings with it a bitterness that I'm pretty certain cannot be downplayed. Now that said, in my research, I came across a rather time-consuming process for preparing puntarelle which involves stripping it of its leaves, finely slicing its shoots, and shocking them in an ice bath -- apparently this will cause the small interior shoots to curl, and take away some of the bitter edge. The process is not a mandatory one (and, to me, seemed like a waste of a lot of edible plant), but the chefs who chose not to put their plants through the paces balanced out the bitterness with -- surprise -- anchovies. I have never in my life wanted to balance out anything with an anchovy (I remember them tasting like a mouthful of salt).
Concerned that tin might not like this assaulting abomination any more than I did, I began to work on an emergency dish to accompany the sesame couscous (now totally fluffy, getting cold). Hey, sometimes you've gotta be flexible. I peered into the refrigerator and was able to emerge with two green onions, an unopened package of soy-based "sausages," and some ginger. I minced a teaspoon of the ginger, roughly chopped the green onions (about 1/3 cup) and cut four of the small sausages into round slices (about 1/2 cup). One chili pepper and a tomato remained on my counter from last week's salsa-making, and something wild possessed me to choose the pepper over the tomato. So rattled by the crushing feeling of failure, perhaps, I was in "why not?" mode, so I cut it into bite-sized pieces and threw it into a nonstick skillet with the rest, seeds and all*, and sautéed away. In another skillet, I thawed & warmed some mushrooms that I found in my freezer.
*This would be a good opportunity, however, to pick the tomato, as the pepper was so dominating that I scarcely tasted the subtle sesame couscous. And this is coming from someone who loves super-hot peppers.
By now, there were so many pots floating around containing so many semi-unidentifable creations that I wasn't sure what my kitchen smelled like anymore or, really, what was going to end up on our plates, but the mere thought of throwing away that cooked puntarelle was already eating away at my conscience -- I vowed, if you recall, that in the year 2013 I would let no food go to waste (and I mean nothing). I could not, in good faith, throw away an entire pot of cooked puntarelle.
I voiced my concerns to tin, admitting that I found its bitter flavor genuinely repulsive. Undeterred by my less-than-glamourus introduction, she rebutted, after a thoughtful taste test, that it wasn't bad, and offered to eat it.
And that's how we ended up eating two different meals last night.
tin's plate, boasting such a deep and tempting green hue that makes my vegan heart beat a little faster. She ate it all -- so if you're a chicory fan, I don't want to scare you away from trying puntarelle. But I would encourage you to maybe consider going through the entire preparatory process, found here: http://racheleats.wordpress.com/2008/11/07/puntarelle-alla-romana/.
In other news, freezing mushrooms is possible, and intensifies their flavors. Mine were unbelievable, indeed, the best thing on my plate. Testament again to my no-fuss, simple & natural theory of plant prep: that nature makes things taste better than I can.
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