I recently bought myself a present. I’d heard amazing things about David Tanis’s book A Platter of Figs. Cooks I respected loved it, I kept running into it at bookstores, and then I was visiting my sister in Seattle and saw it on the shelf at Delancey That’s it. I was sold. I’m not sure how to even talk about this book because it’s so unlike any other. It’s not just a cookbook. Christopher Hirsheimer takes beautiful, spare photographs that really highlight the integrity of the food. And then there’s David’s recipes. He focuses on simplicity and seasonality. In his introduction, he notes “The platter of figs is a metaphor for the food I like. Fresh ripe figs are voluptuous and generous, luxurious and fleeting. And beautiful.”
If you’re not familiar with David’s story, he grew up in Ohio, moved to California, took odd jobs in Bay Area kitchens, landed a pizza and salad gig at Chez Panisse and eventually stayed to run the upstairs cafe. The draw to open his own restaurant eventually brought him to Santa Fe. He was extremely successful there, but business became tough in a depressed economy and David moved back to CA…and to Chez Panisse. At the time, he shared the downstairs restaurant chef position with Jean-Pierre Moulle. They split up the week. Then in 2001, an opportunity arose for David to move to Paris. Initially saddened, Alice Waters came up with the perfect plan: instead of splitting up the week, they could split up the year! And that was that: David cooks for six months out of the year at Chez Panisse and during the other six months he hosts a private dining club in Paris, preparing meals in his tiny galley kitchen.
In talking about initially meeting David in the early days and asking him to cook lunch for her, Waters notes,”It was that lunch’s radical simplicity that won me over.” And that radical simplicity is exactly what drew me to A Platter of Figs. The book is split into seasonal, themed menus. For example, under Fall you’ll see “The Bean Soup Lunch” or “Dinner for a Tuscan.” David’s writing is visual and visceral: he paints lovely narratives before each menu, talking about the weather, the seasons, the light at a certain time of day. You could buy this book with little intention to cook any of the recipes and still enjoy it. I promise.
So in flipping through the book late the other night (I tend to do a lot of cookbook reading before bed), I came across this recipe for Green Chile Stew. It calls for roasting the chiles on a grill and coincidentally, it’s been almost 80 here for the past few days so I’ve been itching to break out the barbecue one last time. The recipe was inspired by David’s time in New Mexico. He describes how the stew is a staple in the Northern part of the state, with everyone making it and adhering to their own versions. It’s only time consuming in the fact that the stew must simmer for at least an hour and set for another hour, but other than that, it’s just a lot of prep and chopping. David notes that if you’d rather not use pork, feel free to use chicken, lamb, turkey, or beef. At the end of the recipe, he advises to let the stew sit for an hour or more and refrigerate overnight if desired. I’ve had it for two nights in a row and the flavors only get better. If you can, I’d make it a day ahead. I hope you’re as taken with it as I was.
Slightly adapted from Platter of Figs
Rub each side of the pork with salt and pepper. Cut into 2-inch cubes. Begin heating the oil or lard in a large Dutch oven or other heavy-bottomed pan. Add the meat in small batches, without crowding, and brown lightly. Transfer to a platter.
Add the onions to the pot and sautee until brown, 1-2 minutes. Add the garlic, cumin, tomatoes, carrots, and green chiles, then sprinkle the flour over the mixture and stir together. Add salt to taste (start with 1/8 tsp.), then return the browned meat to the pot and stir well. Cover with the water or broth and bring to a boil. Cover the pot, turn the flame to low, and simmer gently for an hour.
Taste the broth and more salt or green chile if necessary. The broth should be well seasoned and fairly spicy. Add the potatoes and continue cooking for 30 minutes or until until they’re soft and the meat is tender. Skim any fat from surface of the broth and let stew rest for an hour or more. Refrigerate overnight if desired. To serve, reheat the stew and ladle into warmed bowls. Sprinkle with chopped cilantro and accompany with warm tortillas.
Note: Fresh green chiles (New Mexico or Anaheim) must be roasted over an open flame on a barbecue grill, gas burned or under the broiler till blackened. Then rub off the skins, remove the stems and seeds, and coarsely chop the chiles. Twelve large fresh chiles will yield about 1 cup of chopped. Lacking these, a pretty fair approximation can be made with a combination of fresh poblanos and roasted jalapenos. Frozen green chiles are an acceptable substitute for fresh; use canned chiles only as a last resort.
My good friend Keena was working in India for the last few months and just returned to Seattle, eager to experience as much Pacific Northwest summer as possible in September. I'm with her on this one: It just so happens that towards the end of this month, the farmers markets I've been doing will also come to an end, so things seem like they're both simultaneously gearing up (hike! picnic! beach!) and wrapping up at the same time as I also feel a sense of wanting to cram in as much as I can before the days start getting noticeably shorter. And truly: there's no better recipe to commemorate such efforts than these fresh corn grits with oil-poached summer tomatoes.
For many years, I've always made a summer to-do list. I usually set to work on it right at the beginning of June when the days feel long and ripe with possibility. The list often involves things like learning to bake sourdough bread or making homemade ricotta, doing an epic hike I'd read about in a local magazine, training for a marathon, or reading specific novels. It is always a pretty aspirational list, and I generally don't make much of a dent in it -- resulting in the guilty feeling come late August that I'd wasted too many lazy afternoons when I could've been baking sourdough or making ricotta or doing memorable, epic hikes. But this summer is going to be a bit different: there will be no list. We wait so long in Seattle for long stretches of sunny days, and now that it stays late until 9:30 (or later?), I want to see more of our friends and find stretches of time to do not much of anything except catch up, tan our legs and eat farmers market berries. That's my list.
I received The Sprouted Kitchen Bowl + Spoon cookbook in the mail not long before we moved to our new house, and I remember lying in bed and bookmarking pages I was excited to try but also feeling overwhelmed with where to start: the truth is that this summer has been a relatively low-inspiration / low energy time in the kitchen for me. I'd been chalking it up to pregnancy but when I think back and if I'm honest with myself, my cooking style tends to be very easy and produce-driven during these warmer months. I rarely break out complicated recipes, instead relying on fresh tomatoes and corn or zucchini and homemade pesto to guide me. But last night I cracked open Sara's book and pulled out a few peaches I've had sitting on the counter, fearing their season may be nearing its end. This morning as I was making coffee, I sliced up the peaches, toasted the pecans and churned away -- having a bite (or maybe two) before getting it into the freezer to firm up.
A triple berry summer crisp made with oats, quinoa flakes and hazelnuts. Summer in a skillet.
We just returned from my mom's cabin on Lake George in upstate New York where we often spend the 4th of July. As usual, each bedroom was packed with family members (this year the couch was even occupied for a night), and our days with reading, lounging on the dock, swimming a bit, maybe jogging down the road or playing tennis if you were feeling ambitious. We drank a notable amount of seltzer water; I managed to read three books and my mom threw us a family baby shower complete with balloons, chocolate cake and Mike's rhubarb bars. In previous years, my mom has planned most of the dinners and even some lunches, but for breakfast we'd all fend for ourselves. I'd often bake a pie or a batch of brownies in the afternoon and everyone would help out where they could, but she would largely do the shopping and brunt of the cooking. This year was different: having just moved from California to Vermont, my mom had a lot on her plate and sent out an email before the holiday weekend asking us all to chip in and help with the meals. Sam and I claimed Friday dinner: we grilled sausages and Sam made his famous deviled eggs. We cut up some unusually seedy watermelon that I found at the co-op in Burlington before we drove out to the lake, and I made a summery quinoa salad that I expected to be kind of epic. The trouble was that it wasn't. I overcooked the quinoa until it was kind of a congealed mush and everything just went downhill from there. But I knew that the idea was strong -- to pack a whole grain salad with all the things of summer (corn! tomatoes! basil!) -- so when we got home to Seattle I tried again. And this time it's a winner.