What a Lemon

There sure are a ton of lemons around New York these days. (I suppose you could take that several ways... )

I'm referring to the preserved kind, however. Recently, I've noticed a number of restaurants are including the item on their menus. Also, I received a recipe e-mail a couple weeks ago from Serious Eats for Farro, White Bean and Preserved Lemon Salad (I plan to try this at some point). I became even more intrigued when The New York Times launched its online "D.I.Y. Cooking Handbook," and included a how-to for preserved lemons.

I had to try it.

Preserved Lemons (courtesy of Paula Wolfert via The New York Times)

5-9 organic lemons, depending on the size of the jar

1 tablespoon kosher salt, as needed

2 bay leaves

1 heaping tablespoon black peppercorns

1. Sanitize a jar with a tight-fitting lid.

2. Scrub lemons and slice about five (or enough to fit in the jar) from the top to within 1/2-inch from the bottom, almost cutting them into quarters but leaving them attached on one end. Rub kosher salt over the cut surfaces, then reshape the fruit. Cover the bottom of the jar with kosher salt. Fit all cut lemons in, breaking them apart if necessary. Sprinkle salt on each layer.

3. Press the lemons down to release their juices. Add peppercorns and bay leaves. Squeeze additional lemons into the jar until juice covers everything.

4. Close the jar and let ripen at cool room temperature, shaking the jar every day for three to four weeks, or until the rinds are tender to the bite, then store it in the refrigerator.

Turns out, preserved lemons are a Moroccan tradition—they have been used for years in tagines. According to the article, the minced peel can top salads or seafood and pairs well with salmon, carrots, olives, parsley and potatoes; the brine is perfect for a bloody mary.

Check back in three to four weeks for an update. I hope the procedure isn't a lemon.

Feeling Shrimpy

They say you are what you eat. Well last night, I suppose you could call me a shrimp (not that I haven't heard that one before, thanks to my 5-foot-barely-2 stature).

Apparently, I still have Astoria on the mind. I've been craving a dish one of our favorite Greek restaurants calls "Garides Liana"—a lemon and olive oil shrimp tossed with garlic. The restaurant, Agnanti, serves massive shrimp with their heads still attached. (Don't ever be scared to order it this way—it packs a ton of flavor.) Garides Liana is one of those dishes that's so flavorful, I have a difficult time trying a "new" entree when I'm there. I always want to eat the shrimp because they're so amazing.

I searched online for a similar recipe and came across this one on Epicurious.com. It wasn't an exact replica of Agnanti's—especially since Whole Foods didn't carry the same size shrimp—but it's definitely a keeper. Even Ryan, who's not always in the mood for shrimp, scarfed it down.

Lemon-Garlic Baked Shrimp (adapted from Gourmet via Epicurious.com)

4 garlic cloves, chopped or thinly sliced

1 1/4 pound medium (16-to-20 count) uncooked shrimp (I shelled and cleaned them myself, but you can definitely buy them deveined)

1/3 cup flat-leaf parsley, chopped

1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil

4 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, divided

Salt and pepper to taste

1. Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

2. In an 8-inch round shallow baking dish, combine garlic and oil. Place in middle of the oven for 3-5 minutes, or until the garlic is lightly colored; be careful not to burn it.

3. Add shrimp, 2 tablespoon lemon juice and salt and pepper. Toss to combine. Bake shrimp, turning once, until just cooked through, about 6-8 minutes. Stir in remaining lemon juice and parsley. Serve immediately or at room temperature.

I served it with a Greek salad of cucumber, red onion, tomatoes and feta cheese tossed with an oregano-red wine vinegar dressing. And don't forget a loaf of crusty bread to sop up the lemony goodness.

This dish certainly doesn't have shrimpy flavors.

Irish Blessing

My (quarter-percent) Irish eyes are smiling.

Every St. Patrick's Day that I can remember, my mom has baked Irish soda bread. One corner of the kitchen counter is dedicated to a pile of loaves. My mom keeps two and distributes the rest to family and friends.

The recipe she uses is from her mother, my grandma Perron, from whom she learned the tradition; my grandma acquired the recipe from her Irish friend. I imagine there are thousands of variations of Irish soda bread, but this is the one that I compare to every other. If it doesn't taste like the one I grew up with, it's simply not right.

My grandma passed away more than a decade ago, but my mom has kept the Irish soda bread tradition alive. She reserves a loaf especially for my grandpa, who has always enjoyed being on the receiving end of the bread baking ritual.

Living more than a quick drive away from my parents since college began, I haven't eaten Irish soda bread more than a couple times in the last 10 years. I miss it. I decided this was the year I was going to try it on my own. My mom walked me through the recipe over the phone, and I was able to produce two nice loaves.

Grandma Perron's Irish Soda Bread

4 cups AP flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon salt

1 tablespoon caraway seeds

1/2 cup sugar

1/4 pound unsalted butter (1 stick), room temperature

1 cup raisins, soaked in hot water for 10 minutes and drained

1 1/3 cups buttermilk

Cornmeal, as needed

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a parchment-lined baking sheet with cooking spray (or—I haven't done it this way but I imagine it would work nicely—a 10-inch cast iron skillet).

2. Sift flour, baking soda, salt and sugar. Using a stand mixer fitted with a dough hook, place mixture in the bowl and crumble in butter; combine until it looks like coarse bread crumbs. Mix in drained raisins and caraway seeds. Add buttermilk and mix until the dough barely comes together (it will be sticky and look shaggy). If over-kneaded, the bread will be tough.

3. Lightly sprinkle the baking sheet or skillet with cornmeal. If desired (the method I chose), divide dough in half, mold into 5-inch rounds and place on separate baking sheets. Score dough with an "X" to prevent cracking.

4. Bake 1 hour for one loaf, 40-45 minutes for two loaves, or until cake tester inserted in the middle of either comes out clean. Cool on a wire rack. Serve breakfast, lunch and dinner with Irish butter (or whatever butter you have). Be sure to store at room temperature in a resealable plastic bag because it will dry out.

Of course, my mom has the bread down to a science. She texted me a picture of her perfectly brown loaves and I became instantly jealous. I imagine it will take practice—not to mention my Manhattan oven isn't good for much.

I feel the luck of the Irish that I'm part Irish.

(More than a) Pinch of Salt

What do you make when a fellow culinary grad comes over for dinner? Leave it up to me and it will be an experiment.

For a week, I asked myself what to cook. I didn't want it to be ordinary, and I needed to be sure the meal didn't contain dairy (her boyfriend, who was accompanying her, has related allergies). Why not roast a whole fish in salt, I thought? It's not something I've personally done, but I've tasted it and loved every bite. Plus, my friend is a salt addict—she literally has spent hundreds of dollars on different types from around the world.

The decision was made. On the day of the party, I went grocery shopping in order to secure the freshest fish. The plan was to get a 4-pound fish—preferably a wild striped bass or red snapper—and we could share it. Turns out, I couldn't find a fish that large anywhere. Instead, I ended up with two 2-pound red snapper. The fish were gorgeous and, as it turns out, were a perfect size for my oven. I would have been screwed with a 4-pound fish.

The dish turned out amazing. My friend and I ended up working on it together—a fun, interactive dinner party experience and something we haven't done since culinary school. We loved how impressive the presentation was when we peeled off the salt crust. I think we heard a few "oohs" and "aahs" from the guys, too.

Whole Red Snapper in a Crust of Salt (adapted from chef Jonathan Waxman via Saveur)

Yield: 4 servings

6 large egg whites

3 1/2 pounds kosher salt

Zest of 1 lemon

2 whole red snapper, about 2 pounds each, cleaned and scaled

1 lemon, sliced 1/4-inch thick

1 lime, sliced 1/4-inch thick

1 blood orange, sliced 1/4-inch thick

1 cup flat-leaf parsley

2 rosemary sprigs

2 oregano sprigs

2 thyme sprigs

2 tarragon sprigs

4 cloves garlic

1-ounce piece of ginger, peeled and sliced

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Beat egg whites in a bowl until foamy, then gradually whisk in salt until mixture is slightly moist and has the texture of cornmeal; add a bit of water if necessary. Stir in lemon zest.

2. Pour enough salt mixture onto a sheet pan to form a bed for the fish. (I didn't use parchment paper on the sheet, but it would probably be a good idea as the salt was a pain to scrape off after cooking. You can moisten both sides of the parchment with water.) Place the fish on top of the bed. If it's too long for the pan, trim it's tail. Repeat with second fish.

3. Stuff each fish with half the citrus fruits, herbs, garlic and ginger. Be careful not to overstuff the fish or force in the ingredients—you want the fish to somewhat retain their shape. Pat half of the remaining salt mixture around the top and sides of one fish to form a crust; it's OK to cover the entire fish or leave part of the head and tail peeking out a bit. Repeat with second fish.

4. Bake about 25-30 minutes or until the salt begins to slightly color. Tap knife along the edge of crust to crack the salt and gently lift away from the skin. Portion the fish in filets and serve.

I would love to try this on a grill—if I had one. But that won't stop me from making it again in my miniature New York oven. When I do break out the recipe a second time, I'll be sure to pair it again with the duck fat-fried potatoes sprinkled with Maldon smoked sea salt and invite my friend over to make her maple-bacon doughnuts, which had a perfect salty-sweet balance.

The phrase "feeling salty" may have taken on a new meaning.

Under the Influence

If you want to persuade me, it can be done with bacon. Just wave a slice of cured pork belly before me and I'll write that extra piece/pick you up from the airport/take care of your cat/watch hours of sci-fi. (The latter might be pushing it.)

Flipping through the March issue of Bon Appetit (which influenced me to make pastitsio last week), I stumbled upon a bacon and date scone recipe from acclaimed Venice, Calif., restaurant Gjelina. I'd been hearing a lot about this place recently, so I thought I'd see what all the hype was about and give the scones a shot.

I made a couple changes to the recipe. For one, I used figs instead of dates (I personally love the combo). Also, I used maple bacon—cured by me, of course.

Bacon and Fig Scones (adapted from Gjelina via Bon Appetit)

Yield: 8 scones

10 ounces thick-cut maple bacon slices, diced

2 cups AP flour

1/2 cup sugar

1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder

3/4 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

3/4 cup dried figs, roughly chopped

1/2 cup (1 stick) chilled unsalted butter

2/3 cup buttermilk

Turbinado (raw) sugar for sprinkling

1. Cook bacon in skillet over medium heat until cooked through but still tender (not crisp), turning occasionally. Transfer to paper towels to drain and cool. Reserve bacon drippings in a bowl.

2. Whisk flour, 1/2 cup sugar, baking powder, baking soda and salt in a large bowl. Add bacon and figs to flour mixture. Toss to coat. Coarsely grate butter into mixture and use a fork to incorporate. Add buttermilk and stir until large, moist clumps form. Knead mixture with hands in bowl until dough forms.

3. Transfer dough to a floured work surface. Pat into an 8-inch round and cut into 8 wedges; transfer scones to parchment-lined baking sheet. Cover and chill 1 hour.

4. When ready to cook, preheat oven to 400 degrees. Brush scones with reserved bacon drippings and sprinkle with turbinado sugar. Bake scones 16-18 minutes, or until they're golden brown and cake tester comes out clean when inserted into the middle. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Turns out, Gjelina is now on my "Must Visit" restaurant list. Browsing its menu, it looks like I'll have to try the crispy Niman Ranch pork belly with soft polenta, bitter greens and apple cider. Or maybe the grilled radicchio with bacon, fontina and tomato confit. Or both.

Gjelina: I'm officially under your influence. Do you need me to watch your cat?

Blue Note

When life hands you blueberries, make blueberry ketchup. That's my thought anyway.

When work ordered a ton (well not exactly a ton, but a lot) of blueberries for a recent photo shoot, I gladly took home a pint. After all, it's still winter and blueberries are hard to come by—and expensive.

My mind immediately began racing about what to do with them. Instead of making a dessert (the obvious choice), I decided to use the blueberries for my dinner. Duck and berries are a classic combination; I conjured up a blueberry "ketchup" to pair with seared duck breasts. It was outstanding.

Blueberry Ketchup (adapted from chef Jim LaPerriere via The Detroit Free Press)

2 cups (one pint) blueberries

1 clove garlic, minced

1 small shallot, minced

3 tablespoons brown sugar

1/4 cup balsamic vinegar

1 tablespoon lemon juice

1/4 teaspoon ground coriander

1/8 teaspoon ground ginger

1/8 teaspoon allspice

Salt and pepper to taste

1. Combine all ingredients (except salt and pepper) in a small saucepan and bring to a boil. Reduce to a simmer and cook uncovered for 25-30 minutes, stirring occasionally, until thickened and syrupy. Season with salt and pepper.

2. Remove from heat and serve. If a more refined sauce is desired—or if you want it to appear more like ketchup—strain through a fine chinois.

If duck isn't your thing—which I can't imagine why unless you're a vegetarian or afraid of cooking it—this ketchup would also work well with chicken, pork, beef or any game meat. Or just smear it on a toasted baguette and call it a day. Either way, be sure to break out this recipe during grilling season.

You won't be singing the blues after this one—at least until it's gone.