Almost A Farmers Daughter: Eggs Three Ways

The farmer’s daughter fantasy works both ways. For men, it’s about Maryanne: gingham, pigtails and a bright shmata on the head. A farmgirl is a sweet lil’ thing that can bake one helluva pie. She’ll take good care of you.

For modern women, it’s the discarded notion of being identified by your lineage, and your pop's profession. It’s about leaving the advanced degrees, glasses and braininess aside, trading it for old-school sufficiency (cow milking, feather pulling, beet growing), and endless chatter about tomorrow’s weather. To be a farmer’s daughter and celebrated as such, is to be like the ripest fruit at the height of the season. Someone worked hard to raise you right.

We urbanites flirt with farmers markets for all kind of reasons Although we’re there ostensibly to buy food, we don't treat it like a grocery store. We’re outside, for crissakes, fraternizing with farmers, inquiring as to the afternoon activities of the now-dead pig laying before us, and picking up a few daffodils for the sill. Role playing rural, we slide on sundresses, sandals, and floppy hats.

Last Saturday, I was very happy to see my pal Rick manning the Rick's Picks booth at the Greenmarket. It had been a while, and we were able to catch up, though not before Rick handed me a wad of cash and limped away. Turns out the truly scarce local resource at these markets is the time to leave your booth so that you can use the facilities.

There I was, and there they were, the costumed urbanites, looking to purchase the $8 jar of Wasabeans or Pickled Beets; a few were wise enough to cough up an extra $2 for the premium price of Smokra (well worth skipping your daily Starbucks). I had enough cash and chutzpah to make accurate change, and the gift of gab required for prattling pickles.

Rick returned, but I couldn’t tear myself away. I was a busy lil' thing, restocking the display, offering samples, and selling up a storm. He relaxed, chatted with friends, and I got to play the role.

While on the farm side of the table, I couldn’t believe how long it took people to just make the purchase; I know how good these pickles are, and believe it’s well worth the $8 investment. But they snack, sample and walk away.

When I finally tore myself away, I headed towards Flying Pigs Farm. Were they really asking $20 for two pork chops? The nerve. The least expensive item I could at the table find was eggs (apparently, when pigs fly they also lay eggs) at $5 per dozen. Sheesh! Can’t I get this at the grocery for $3.29?

Whoops…sorry, you'll have to excuse my alter ego. The same person who pshaws the $2 extra for the smokra is now choking over pricey albumin. I called my own bluff and purchased them.

And was rewarded a thousandfold. They were like no egg I’ve ever tried; sublime, creamy; an egg custard. The yolks weren’t ovals; they were perfect globes, standing up in the whites. And the color? Like a glass of orange juice. I could only bare to poach or sunny-side up these guys; any additional cooking seemed disrespectful. I was raised better than that.

Of course I cannot say this for all expensive, organic, free range products out there (charlatans abound), but this time, score one for the locavores. I stand corrected in my own stingy silliness, and appreciate a farmer who is doing it right. Five bucks now seems like a bargain. Daughter learns a lesson without anyone garnishing my allowance.


Fried Eggs: Sunnyside, Over-easy, Over-hard
This was a recipe I developed for Home Made Simple that can makes one fried egg, one over easy egg, and one over hard egg in the same skillet. I recommend picking a very small skillet for no more than 2 to 3 eggs at a time, and using the same cooking approach (not cooking three different types in the same pan). But it can be done. The cooking methods are all described here.

3 large eggs
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
Kosher salt
Cayenne pepper

1. Add butter to a large non-stick skillet over medium heat. Crack one egg into a small bowl. Add to skillet, after butter melts and foam subsides. Repeat with remaining eggs; cover with lid.

3. After 1 1/2 to 2 minutes, turn two eggs. When the white of the third egg is completely opaque, remove it to a plate; this is your sunny side up egg. After and additional 45 seconds, remove the second egg; this is over easy. After two minutes more, remove the third egg; this is over hard. Season eggs with salt and pepper, as desired.

NY Women Make it Too Easy: Lemon Pepper Ricotta Gnocchi

When I was 24, I left NYC for San Francisco, in attempt to avoid "becoming a New Yorker". I was afraid of becoming what I saw before me, an older New York woman, shriveled and unhealthy, bright red lips puffing on a menthol, wearing some kind of old fur coat and ratty hand-knit hat, muttering to cats. I'd be fluent in ballet, restaurants and shows, but less agile in rivers, trees and mountains. Worse for the wear, without a doubt.

It took a few years, but pretty soon I couldn't stand the laid-back nature of San Francisco. Why do bars close at 1AM? So that everyone can take their mountain bikes up Mt. Tam at 6AM? All that schlepping; for what? That's what convertibles are for. And the sweatpants; why must these women be wearing sweatpants around the Marina constantly, with their VPL and last night's makeup? Oy! Get me a taxi and get me the hell out of here.

And now, through the eyes of a few non-New York male friends, I'm worried about New York women for a whole new reason. Not because of the crochety 80-year old version I am afraid of becoming, but for the desperate, sad and lonely 20- to 40- something version that are now my cohorts. Here are some examples:

A divorcing friend in his-mid 40s is in from LA and meets friends in the Wall Street area around midnight for a drink. The "owner" of the bar, a tall lass from Ireland comes by, asks if everyone is having fun, and would they like to have more fun. "More is always better than less" says he, not thinking of his alimony-to-be, and she returns with some outstanding bottles of red wine that she shares, exclusively with him. The wine is good and his ego is flying and it's 4AM, just the two of them left in the bar. "I'm sooooooo drunk. Come home with me," she says. He hesitates.

As the story is retold to me, "Allison, the last time a girl said 'I'm soooooo drunk', it was followed by 'please take care of me and make sure I get home okay', not inferring, 'please take advantage of me, I can no longer be held accountable for my bad decisions and a warm body is better than nothing.'" He made his way home, alone.

Another friend, up at JG Melons for a late-night burger at the bar, met an attractive chatty DMWK (divorced mom with kid) in her40s. She lives in Woodmere, but was staying at the NYC Ritz that night while her mom was in the hospital. Cruising the bars for some late night comfort, she comes across my friend, who happens to be a professor. Within 15 minutes of their meeting, she learns what he does.

"Do all your students want to fu** you?" she asks. "I do."

Another woman destined to go home alone.

Or my other pal, doing a little post-serious girlfriend trolling on nerve, is looking to dip a toe back in the dating pool. It's always the same; they meet for a drink or two, and sometime after the first drink, they're touching his legs and climbing onto his lap. This drink provides an excuse to mount a virtual digital stranger.

There are more stories; I'm sure we can all add to the heap. Did I just become the world's biggest prude, or are these self-made, self-assured, aggressive women suddenly playing by a different set of rules?

I'd like to know what's gained from a night spent with a stranger, drunk, and waking up not remembering his name. I'll put it in that almost-full category: Things I'd Rather Not Do Again. For these women, is this a one-time thing or recurring? Does it become more or less comforting? It appears to be the modern equivalent of a caveman clubbing his mate before taking them to the cave; except this time, the women are clubbing themselves.

I hope this isn't part of our post-feminist society. I hope this isn't woman, roaring, and taking the "mans approach" to dating. I like flirting; I like dates. I like leaving something to the imagination. I like letting things happen slowly and getting to know someone instead of pouring liters of wine down my throat to numb my sensibilities.

My male friends tell me that these woman aren't different from the less aggressive women they date. They want partners, families, and babies, and this is how they go about getting them. In the Girls Gone Wild era, these are women, wilding.

I don't get it. I don't think these women are being true to themselves and their needs. I don't think it's good for their self esteem. I don't think it's good for the men. Of course there is the occasional randy chick (Mona from Who's The Boss comes to mind), and that's all well and good, but when did it become an epidemic?

My New York male friends are kind of getting used to this woman-attacking-them-in-a-bar approach; no one is waiting past the first date to go to bed. That makes it difficult for those of us who'd like to be walked home and left at the door, wanting more and looking forward to it.

Is this what we've inherited from Sex in the City? I hope not. My wrinkly NY phobias had me running across the country to avoid my destiny. My new New York fears have me staying right where I am, with the confidence of a 35-year old, realizing that you can stay in New York, and behave like a good old-fashioned woman.


Lemon-Pepper Ricotta Gnocchi with Tomatoes and Basil
Serves 8 to 10 as a starter

The Wooden Spoon was recently hired to provide a cooking class at a bridal shower for some lovely women. We made these gnocchi, and no one in the room could get over how delicious, but just as importantly, how simple they were. Simple makes for good gnocchi; complex makes for a worthwhile woman.


1 16-ounce container ricotta
2 egg yolks
3 tablespoons grated parmesan cheese
Zest of 1 lemon
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper
2/3 cups flour, plus more for rolling
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 1/2 pints grape tomatoes, sliced in half
2/3 cup thinly sliced basil

1. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. In a large bowl, combine ricotta, egg yolks, lemon juice, salt and pepper; stir well. Add flour, about 1/2 cup at a time, stirring to just to incorporate. Stop adding flour when mixture becomes a dough, or add more as needed.

2. Lightly flour a surface for rolling. Using floured hands, pinch off about 1/3 cup dough from bowl, and roll to make a “snake” with your hands. Place on surface and continue to roll until dough is 3/4-inch thick. Using a floured bench scraper, cut “snakes” into 3/4-inch pieces.

3. Add gnocchi to boiling water in batches (no more than 30 dumplings at a time). Remove from water after the gnocchi have floated for about 30 seconds. Remove from water with a slotted spoon and drain on a paper towel.

4. Heat a large skillet over medium-high; add 2 tablespoons oil . When warm, add 1 1/2 pints grape tomatoes and gnocchi (only 1/2 recipe) and cook, tossing, until tomatoes are soft and gnocchi are browned, about 4 minutes. Repeat with remaining oil, tomatoes and gnocchi. Remove from heat and toss with basil.

Regift? The Morel of the Story: Grilled Pizza

Over the last year, I've become friendly with Ryan, who works as "the sound guy" for Home Made Simple, and many other television shows. As the sound guy, Ry listens to people all day long.

Listening, as you'll know, if you've ever had a conversation is a skill employed by few. It is said that hearing is when information reaches your ears, while listening is when the same information reaches your brain. Ryan takes listening to a new level in his line of work; listening to the tone of your voice as well as the words, from determining whether your shirt is scratching your mic, to whether there is a loud bird or plane flying over while you speak (which will make it hard to edit).

I remember once, Ryan was completely out of sight while I'm was prepping for a scene and getting annoyed with a grill. He suddenly appeared (and fixed it). Another time, I was getting frustrated, and tried to masked it as we all do. Ryan heard it in my voice; he sought me out to make sure I was okay.

While listening, Ry picked up that I like to cook. A year ago, he told me stories of foraging for morels in April, back in his home state of Kansas, and I sat rapt with jealousy. This year he remembered, and sent me a big packages of the lovely little behives. Not only does he listen, he remembers.

He sent me the package on the condition that I'd send him some recipes, which I did, picking favorites from around the web (see list below). But now I was faced with a quandry. He sent me morels for 6 to 8 people, and I didn't have a soul to cook for. It's Easter weekend, everyone's traveling. I scored the sweetest fungal package in the city (at present, morels are retaling for over $60 per pound); I couldn't let them go to waste.

I was telling a chef friend about the score, and he wimpered a bit. He casually mentioned that they were his favorite mushroom, and waxed poetic about the things he would do with them. "I'd treat them with the respect they deserve, pairing them with a duck confit, no, crispy sweetbreads, no BOTH! And then, then I'd make the tangiest, brightest Hollandaise to dress them. I'd have my pastry chef make her incredible Armenian flatbread which we'll throw on the grill to get nicely charred..."

Ach, I was torn. These were my morels. Mine. And I could keep them all to myself like a gollum, or I could share them with my friend, who in turn would share them with all of Brooklyn, treating them in a way only a restaurant chef could (Sweetbreads? Homemade Armenian flat bread? Thinking about the prep time alone fatigues me.)

So I relinquished and regifted. My chef friend treated me to dinner at the bar: a salad, a glass of wine and the special: Grilled Armenian Flatbread with Duck Confit, Morels, Wilted Arugula, and Sweetbreads, drizzled with Hollandaise. It was insanely indulgent; a one way ticket to gout. I took a picture of the thing, to send to my Morel Man.

And then a Park Slope mom and her son sat next to me, regulars who were studying the menu. I couldn't help myself; I gushed about the special. But the son doesn't like morels. I looked at this 12-year-old, bellied up to the bar 9:30PM on a Friday to have yet another incredible urban sophisticate meal with his mom: this was a kid of privelage, and I had a hunch he was on the cool side. I told him about the morels, and how they were foraged by a friend of mine in Kansas. Did he think he might reconsider? He was willing; I gave him a wink.

The special lasted about 5 minutes on his plate (and it was not exactly a small portion). He loved it, and is rethinking toadstools. I gave him the contact information for my favorite local forager.

A young man who heard me, listened, and opened his mind. Not bad for a Park Slope kid; listening is not just for Kansans anymore.


Morel Recipes
As I mentioned, the flatbread is not for preparing at home. It's a restaurant dish. But if you can score some pizza dough from your favorite local pizza place grill it, saute some morels and throw them on top, shred some duck confit and do the same, saute some sweetbreads cut them into big pillowy pieces, wilt some arugula, and drizzle the whole damn thing with a nice lemony Hollandaise, you'll be close. Or you can take three ingredients (morels, duck, arugula), toss them with pasta, make a little brown butter sauce and add the zest of a lemon, you'll have a delicious, simple, homemade morel dish.

For additional morel recipes, here are the ones I recommended to my Sound Ry:

This recipe is easy and fatty-delicious:
Asparagus with Cream on Brioche
http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/recipe_views/views/105005

Another simple delicious one (do as little as possible to the brown wonders…just pair them!). Or you can use these ingredients and fold them into a frittata.
Morel, Ham and Brie Omelet.
http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/recipe_views/views/1656

Simple pasta:
http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/recipe_views/views/11924

Simple sauce. Can use with pork or chicken:
http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/recipe_views/views/233415

Morel Vinaigrette? I always trust (and love) Bobby Flay’s recipes. It’s also recommended to top grilled Salmon: http://www.foodnetwork.com/food/recipes/recipe/0,,FOOD_9936_29213,00.html?rsrc=search

4 Cups of Wine? Let the festivities begin: Spicy Carrot Salad

Passover is here and I couldn't be happier. It's time for religious carb counting, and requisite inebriation. Thanksgiving and Passover are vying for my favoritest holiday, and Passover is quickly taking the lead. Unlike Thanksgiving, Passover has no expectations for the main dish, and with Passover, there's even a party game built into the meal. If more religions got on the fun train, and built games into the traditions, wouldn't more of us find religion? I'd be first in line if we concluded a baptism with pin the tail on the donkey; and who wouldn't want to meditate for 8 hours if we could play twister at the end. Imagine Yom Kippur concluding with a swift bat to the pinata? Amen!

4 cups of wine would be received differently in different cultures. Only recently have good kosher wines been coming to the table; for the most part Jews aren't big drinkers. If G-d asked us to be booze free for 8 days, no one would change behavior. But no noshing? There's a hardship.

Sweet teeth need to be appeased, and without cake, the Semites start dunking everything in chocolate. Macaroons! Matzoh! Gefilte fish! Funny faux fruit slices! To heck with that, give me a feedbag of chips; I'll tie it to my jaw and inhale for a week.

The lack of a requisite main dish (ie. turkey) let's a meal planner wander like the Jews; we can travel to Spain, Morocco, Syria, Turkey, Greece, or India, and Sephardic up the joint with Tagines and Curries, or we can go traditional Ashkenazi with our Briskets, Stuffed Breasts of Veal and Capons.

For me, the fun is in the unexpected; dazzling simple sides. The mains are standards, inherited things that everyone is going to love. Let's face it; how hard is it to cook an expensive piece of kosher meat? Purchase smart and cook simply.

Here's a dish I came up with during the Indian-food frenzy I've been in for the last two weeks. There's something delicious about fresh grated ginger -- you can't go wrong with it's vivid, happy heat. This is a simple dish is bright, colorful, and can be served warm or room temperature. For the vegetarians in the bunch, try it with some lentils and a dollop of yogurt for a satisfying lunch.


Spicy Ginger Carrot Salad
Serves 6 to 8


1 1/2 tablespoons mustard seeds (optional)
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 medium onion, sliced
1 jalapeno, roughly chopped (seeds or not, your choice -- seeds=heat)
3 inches fresh ginger, peeled and finely grated
1 pound carrots, coarsely grated
1/3 cup cilantro leaves

1. Place mustard seeds in a small dry skillet and cook over medium heat until fragrant, about 3 minutes. Remove and reserve.
2. Heat oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add onions and cook until softened, about 5 minutes. Increase heat to medium high, add jalapeno and ginger, and cook until fragrant, about 1 minute. Add carrots, and cook, until carrots have turned a brighter shade of orange, and the "rawness" has cooked out, about 4 minutes. Remove from heat, and toss with cilantro leaves. Serve warm or room temperature.