An Open Letter to Salt
Dear Salt,
I love you.
Yours truly and forever,
Lucius
Dear salt,
I love you.
Yours truly and forever,
Lucius.
It’s true. I do love salt. However, I am not in a monogamous relationship with it. At any given time I have at least three varieties on my counter within arm’s reach. And another seven in my pantry.
Why, you ask?
Because salt is important! Because there are a thousand kinds, all with subtly different tastes; with textures from fine to coarse, granular to flaky, dry to damp!
Fleur de sel, kosher salt, and Himalayan salt, coarse and finely ground, respectively. My boos. My main squeezes. My best bitches.
Would you sprinkle a chocolate chip cookie with iodized table salt? (I swear to God if you answer yes I will smack you so hard your ancestors will flinch.)
No, you say? You would sprinkle it with some Maldon or some Ile de Ré? Well, then. I guess we can still be friends.
I could fill pages discussing salt, but I know modern attention spans, so I won’t. The quick version: there’s table salt, kosher salt, sea salts defined by the location of their harvest and sea salts defined by their texture or flake size. Then flavored salts: salts aged with citrus rind, garlic, truffle, wine, or spices, or smoked over various hardwoods.
Kosher salt is the workhorse. I use it whenever I have a liquid phase that I want salt to go: pasta water, in sauces and stews, marinades and vinaigrettes. The liquid is like, “Hey, sailor,” and the salt is like, “On my way!” It goes everywhere the water goes. Its purpose is not to be noticed but to blend in; to become the scaffolding for all the flavors in your dish.
Now for finishing salts. Despite their name, they are not salts intended to refine one’s social graces in preparation for the rites of upper-class patriarchal oppression. No, rather they are the crown of salty stars you anoint your food with right before serving. Like the sprinkles on your ice cream, finishing salts are for winners.
For savory dishes, fleur de sel is my favorite. Celtic sea salt and sel gris are from the same region of France and are similar. These are moist salts (say that out loud in front of others - I dare you) and are light grey in color. Despite that unappealing description they are actually quite pretty, and are downright delicious.
Fleur de sel from Ile de Ré
Maldon is another favorite finishing salt of mine. A sea salt in large, crunchy flakes, this is ideal to sprinkle on top of something sweet: caramels, dense fudge brownies, a really special chocolate chunk cookie. It is easily visible, and lends a crunch along with a little burst of salt to balance sweetness. Imagine that orchestra of flavor on your tongue. CAN I GET A HALLELUJAH? Amen, my brothers and sisters!
Fine sea salt is great for baked goods both savory and sweet. You add it to your dough or batter where it acts invisibly to enhance flavor and/or balance sweetness. Could you use plain table salt? I suppose. but where’s the fun in that? Plus, sea salt gives you bonus minerals like potassium, calcium and magnesium.
Himalayan salt gets its pink color from those extra minerals. It is sea salt, in the sense that it was deposited by ancient oceans. But then it was buried under literal mountains of rock in the Himalayas where it lay protected from humans shitting all over it with their pesticides and their plastic…and their literal shit. It needs no refining, but only to be chiseled into smaller bits in order to be enjoyed.
It’s also fucking expensive.
In the regions where it is mined, it is called “white gold”. I know, a real head-scratcher for me, too. (Umm…pink. It’s pink, guys.)
I use it in liquid-y sweets that need a touch of salt, like ice cream and custards. You may not taste it, but I will know it’s there. And that makes it special. I also keep some in a special salt grinder that I hide from everyone except the people I like. Luckily, I don’t like many people. The bag should last my lifetime.
Admit it. That’s some sexy fucking salt.
Lastly, the flavored salts. Aside from smoked salts, I don’t use them much. Maybe to jam a little extra flavor into a vinaigrette. Otherwise, I usually stick with my boos: kosher, fleur de sel, Himalayan. I sometimes cheat on them with Maldon, my side bitch.
Smoked salts, on the other hand, are awesome. Anything you can think of that would benefit from a little smokiness: salt-cured salmon, a pot of chile, something you’re going to cook on a gas grill but want to taste like it came from a charcoal grill even though you got rid of yours because it was too messy and lighter fluid is gross. See? I understand you.
Thanks for hanging with me, gentle reader. I think we all learned a little something today, didn’t we?
Calabrian Chile Garlic Nirvana
If crack were a pantry staple, it would be Calabrain chiles. The End.
If crack were a pantry staple, it would be Calabrain chiles. The End.
Smoky and spicy, these chiles have a depth of flavor that is both unique and strangely addictive. Their heat doesn’t accumulate, so there is nothing to stop you from shoving this pasta into your mouth so fast you embarrass yourself.
Consider yourself warned.
My favorite way to use them is simply with garlic, salt, and black pepper as a sauce for pasta, which I then top with fresh chives or scallions. Add to the recipe or mix it up based on what sounds good, what’s in season, or what you have. Roasted red pepper from your pantry shelf, chopped sweet cherry tomatoes, a little fresh mozzarella or…burrata.
Have we discussed burrata? No? Well, if sex were a cheese…no, wait. If GREAT sex were a cheese, it would be burrata. The End.
What follows is the my basic staple sauce. You can follow it exactly as written, or you can do you. Right now, I’ma go get me some burrata.
Shit You Need
Crushed Calabrian chiles in olive oil. I used a heaping tablespoon for a prominent but totally doable heat. Your mileage may vary.
2-3 Tbs olive oil
1 clove of minced garlic
3 Tbs chopped scallions, green parts only
1/2 pound pasta. Whatever you have - that’s the point of a pantry recipe. But if you want something really special, grab fresh filled pasta made locally. Pictured above is a leek and sweet corn-filled ravioli I got at my farmer’s market. It blew my fucking mind.
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
I admit it, this is a pretty shitty mince job. Still tasted good.
Keep Calm and justeffingcook
In a skillet or sauté pan big enough to hold your pasta, add the oil, garlic, salt and pepper. Let this hang out on low heat while you get your water boiling and cook your pasta.
Bring about 6 quarts of salted water to a boil on high heat. Note that the salt is so important I italicized it. We should all be so lucky to be italicized one day.
They say your pasta water should taste like the ocean, which honestly always seemed a little non-specific to me. I mean, Atlantic or Pacific? What about Indian? Anyway, yours should taste obviously salty, otherwise your pasta will taste like cardboard.
Once boiling, add your pasta and cook for 1-2 minutes less than the recommended time. Trust me.
Don’t drain your pasta. Instead, use tongs or a slotted spoon (depending on the variety) to transfer the pasta to your sauté pan. You will transfer a little starchy pasta water, which will emulsify with the oils and help build the sauce. Toss the pasta with the sauce for 1-2 minutes to finish cooking. (See? I told you you could trust me!)
Plate, top with green onion, and serve!
Quince Preserves
The first time I brought up the subject of quince among my friends, they seemed uncomfortable.
The preserves the world wishes it deserved.
The first time I brought up the subject of quince among my friends, they seemed uncomfortable. Apparently they thought it had something to do with someone’s nether-region.
“Quince jam”, even worse. They were pretty sure it was an STD.
Then I bought some quince and made some of this quince preserve. And it made them forget their nether-regions entirely. It’s that good. I take no credit for this. All the credit goes to the weird anomaly of creation known as the quince.
The quince looks like an apple and a pear had a night of drug-fueled passion and this was their strange mutant love-child. Weirdly lumpy. Never symmetric. Ah, but now give it whiff. It smells like apple and pear and tiare blossoms and honey and some perfume you definitely can’t afford.
I have stood in grocery stores with my nose jammed in this fruit for such extended periods of time that people kept a six foot radius - and this was years before any God-damned pandemic. Produce guys in their little green smocks gave me the side-eye. They may or may not have asked me to leave. Fuck ‘em. This shit’s amazing.
Look for quince in October through December in your fancier grocery stores. Stick your nose in them right there in the store…I KNOW, RIGHT??? Now take them home. Brace yourself. You will cut one open…or try to, and be like: “What the hell??? Is it…not finished yet?”
Oh no, my precious one. It’s finished, alright. This is God’s two-part joke on us. Part one: he makes it smell that good and yet in this state it is completely inedible. Part two is the joke on all those poor suckers that threw it out at that point and didn’t bother to cook it.
Aren’t you glad you have me prevent that terrible mistake?
You cook these bastard love-children and they transform into a rose-colored, honey-scented concoction that dares us to define it, that defies reason, that belongs on homemade sourdough toast with the best butter that you can possibly afford, that needs to be IN MY MOUTH RIGHT NOW.
Moving on.
I wish I could tell you that making jam were easy. I wish I could tell you that life was fair, that all stories had happy endings…but that shit just ain’t the truth and you and I both know it. Jam relies on a chemical reaction between sugar and pectin and acid. Luckily for you, quince has a lot of pectin. You’ll add acid with the lemon juice. After that, it’s a matter of making the chemistry happen.
I know, you’e thinking, “The apple and the pear made it happen, how hard could chemistry be?” Well, it’s sorta hard.
You have to cook this concoction down until the sugar is concentrated enough that everything sets once cooled. There are various methods to measure the cooking time, and you can ask Mr. Google about all of them: the frozen plate method, the thermometer method, the “whatever the fuck let’s just see what happens” method. Generally, I do all of the above, average the results, and that’s when I take it off the heat and ladle into jars. You’ll just have to figure out what works for you.
Make this. I beg you. That’s all.
Shit You Need
3 pounds of quince
6 1/2 cups water
5 cups sugar
1 vanilla bean, split and scraped, seeds reserved
15 cardamom pods, crushed
1/3 cup lemon juice
1 Tbs lemon zest
Keep Calm and justeffingcook
Wash, peel, and core the quince, reserving the peels and cores. Peels and cores are a repository of the magical pectin that will help the preserves set.
Chop the flesh of the quince into fine dice (my preference, which is what matters) and add to a large stockpot with the water.
Place reserved quince peels and cores, scraped vanilla pod, and crushed cardamom into a large square of doubled cheesecloth and tie closed. Add to the pot.
Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer 20 minutes, until quince is soft. Smell the aromas. try not to weep from the sheer beauty of it.
This is a great time to sterilize your jars and lids. Maybe it’ll take your mind off the aromas.
Add sugar and vanilla seeds to the quince mixture and bring to a boil again. Stir to dissolve the sugar. Reduce heat to medium high and cook, uncovered, 30-50 minutes, until preserves are pink in color and syrupy. Add lemon juice and zest and cook another 10 minutes.
Watch closely at this point. This shit can go from pancake syrup to a block of cheese in the space of 5 minutes flat. Do the freezer plate thing or check the temp. When it reaches 220 degrees Farenheit (or you have wrinkles on you freezer plate, see Google) turn off the heat and ladle into your sterilized jars.
Wipe rims with a damp paper towel, add lids, and finger tighten bands. Leave to cool, undisturbed overnight. Sorry to be so serious, but this is serious shit. I don’t wan’t anyone getting some horrible disease because they thought I was kidding about any of this.
If the jam fairy (and the no-botulism fairy) both smile on you, the lids will suck down with a satisfying pop, ensuring that you have a good, uncontaminated seal, and will have jaw-droppingly awesome quince jam for the next year or until you run out, whichever comes first. Spoiler alert: you’ll run out.
Amazing Fucking Sheet Pan Chicken
The skin on this chicken is literally. The. Best. Thing. Ever.
“Damn, that’s a lot of shallots!”
Let’s start at the beginning.
And by the beginning, I mean all the way at the beginning. Like, at the grocery store. Because no one in her right mind actually has enough shallots at home for this. Could you use regular onions? Not if we’re going to be friends.
Quit whining and get your ass to the store.
That is literally the hardest thing about this recipe. It is ridiculously easy. So easy it inspired the category “Ridiculously Easy”. So easy it has no business being this good.
It was inspired by Jenny Tschiesche’s Sheet Pan Coq au Van which sounded like a great idea (Wine and bacon? Sign me up!) except I had no mushrooms, have a daughter that doesn’t like beans, and happened to have a fuck-ton of shallots because I had stocked up in case shallots were the next toilet paper of the pandemic.
One last thing. The skin on this chicken is literally. The. Best. Thing. Ever.
You don’t eat chicken skin? Neither did my husband before this. Now he eats it. And tries to steal mine, too. Wait a sec… Get your grubby paws off my GODDAMM CHECKEN!!! Okay, I’m back.
Go make this now. You’re welcome.
Shit You Need
Shallots. A fuck-ton. In case you need help with the conversion, that is 2.5 shit-loads.
Garlic, 5 whole cloves
Bacon, 12 oz. Thick sliced, serious gourmet shit, cut into 1/4 inch pieces. That’s right, get your ruler out, fuckers.
Herbs, ideally in sprig form. See below.
Chicken thighs. Family pack action works great here, well- sized for a sheet pan. Can you scale down? Sure, but know that I am judging you.
White wine. Something you’d want to drink. If you use trash, guess what your chicken will taste like? That’s right, the bottom of a dumpster. And you will be drinking it if you follow the directions, so to your future you I say, “See? Never question me again.”
Salt and pepper. Kosher and fresh-ground, respectively. If you cheat on the pepper I will know.
Shallots. A fuck-ton (I counted).
Keep Calm and justeffingcook
Grocery store. Shallots. You know how many. Enough that you can cover a whole sheet pan with a generous layer of those bad boys. Enough that they look at you funny at checkout. Yes, I know they’re three times as expensive as regular onions. Ever bought a cup of coffee at Starbucks? I thought so. So shut up, already.
Now go home and preheat your oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.
Peel the shallots. Many are paired and will separate into little cloven hooves of deliciousness. Spread them across a sheet pan along with the garlic cloves. Don’t want to clean your pan? I got you. A little foil first. You’re welcome.
Scatter the pieces of bacon on top of the shallots like you’re a 2 year old on a sugar high. Throw that shit all over.
Herb time. Whatever you have on hand: rosemary, thyme, anything else from a Simon and Garfunkel song just so long as it holds up to 45 min at 400 degrees. Chives? Naw. Dill? Hell no. Tarragon? Stop wasting my time. Got your herbs? Grab an armful of boughs and scatter.
Apply the chicken thighs across your thoughtfully arranged sprigs. Just like tiling your foyer. Hold the grout.
Season: salt and pepper like you mean it. It only goes on the top of the chicken, but somehow it goes everywhere. It’s fucking magic.
Pop that sheet pan in the oven and walk away for for 20 minutes. Do some other stuff. Open that wine and have a good long drink to make sure it’s good enough.
Pour a cup or so of that wine on the bottom of the sheet pan - not over the chicken. That would fuck up the glorious crispy skin you’re about to get. Roast for 25 min.
Magic has happened. Transfer the shallots to a fancy serving dish or a horse trough, it doesn’t matter. Here’s the important bit: Pour off the sauce into the same dish, top with chicken, throw away the herbs, and toss the bacon back on the sheet pan to roast until it crisps.
Scatter bacon over your head-smacking masterpiece and enjoy!
