In a Nut Shell

Hello, peanut gallery!

You can scrutinize me all you want, but I've been dutifully working. I'll admit, it was in sunny Napa Valley. Nonetheless, it's still work.

This week, I attended a conference hosted by The Peanut Institute. It was a comprehensive course covering the legume's history, health benefits, culinary applications and more.

The highlight—for me, anyway—was attending The Culinary Institute of America at Greystone. It was my first time there, and I quickly understood why my friend from culinary school still thinks about what her life would be like if she would have chosen the California program instead.

After a morning of lectures and a demo on deep-frying turkey, the conference attendees were asked to prepare lunch. I slipped on my toque and quickly got to work. I felt a rush of adrenaline stepping back into a school kitchen.

Peanuts, of course, were used in virtually every recipe. I selected the Pan-Roasted Alaskan Salmon in Aromatic Peanut Pipian. I immediately realized that I had chosen perhaps the most extensive recipe in the bunch and, given the time constraints, I would be hard-pressed to finish.

Roasted Alaskan Salmon with Aromatic Peanut Pipian (Courtesy of The Culinary Institute of America)

Yield: 6 portions

14 ounces of tomatillos, husked and rinsed

2 serrano chiles, stemmed

2 tablespoons peanut oil

1 small white onion, roughly chopped

2 garlic cloves, roughly chopped

1/2 cup peanuts (plus more for garnish), chopped

2 cups chicken or vegetable stock

8 cilantro sprigs (plus more for garnish), chopped

6 Alaskan salmon fillets, each 3/4-inch thick and 5-6 ounces

1. For the sauce: Roast tomatillos and serranos on a baking sheet about 4 inches below a very hot broiler (or place them directly on a gas burner, like I did). When they blacken and soften on one side, turn and broil on other side. Peel skins and roughly chop. Transfer to blender along with their juice.

2. Heat 1 tablespoon of oil in a saucepan over medium heat. Add onion and cook, stirring often, until golden, about 10 minutes. Stir in garlic and cook another 1 minute. Scrape into blender with the tomatillos and serranos, leaving as much oil as possible in the pan. Blend to a smooth puree.

3. Return saucepan to medium-high heat and when hot enough to make a drop of the puree sharply sizzle, pour it in all at once. Stir to sear and concentrate the sauce, about 7 minutes. Set aside.

4. In an ungreased, small skillet, toast the peanuts for about 4-5 minutes until golden, stirring regularly. Scoop into sauce, along with chicken stock and chopped cilantro. Partially cover and simmer for about 30 minutes. (I found it to be a bit water, so I turned the heat up fairly high and let it reduce.)

5. In batches, pour the mixture into the blender and blend for about 1 minute, until the sauce is smooth. If smoother is preferred, strain it through a chinois. Return sauce to pan and adjust seasoning with salt. If too thick, think with a little stock for the consistency of a light cream soup; if too thin simmer to reduce.

6. For the salmon: Heat oven to 425 degrees. Coat a large cast iron or oven-proof skillet with the remaining 1 tablespoon of oil and set into the oven. Lightly salt both sides of the fish. When pan is very hot, after about 10 minutes, remove it, lay in the fish and return to oven. When fish is crusty and brown underneath, after about 4-5 minutes, use a thin-bladed metal spatula and carefully flip. Return them to oven for 2-4 minutes.

7. Serve salmon with the sauce. Garnish with toasted peanuts and cilantro, if desired.

It was like school all over again: Even thought I wasn't being graded, I felt an obligation to prepare the dish to the best of my ability. I wanted Chef Lars (who reminded me so much of several of my instructors from culinary school) to know that I could cook.

Sweaty and fatigued, I presented the dish to chef. "You've done this before, haven't you?" he questioned.

I blushed. "Yes, chef."

Can-do Attitude

Seven weeks—oh, and 1 day.

That's how long ago I sliced lemons, sprinkled them generously with kosher salt and packed them into a Ball jar with bay leaves and peppercorns. It was the first time I tried preserving lemons.

I thought 3 to 4 weeks—the suggested canning time frame—would take forever. Nightly, after brushing my teeth, I methodically shook the jar to stir things up per Paula Wolfert's recommendation. It turned into a ritual; in fact, "Melissa shaking her lemons" became a joke among family and friends. But let's not go there.

Before I knew it, the lemons were more than ready. Tonight was the night to see if my patience had paid off.

I opened the jar, and it smelled like Mr. Clean. And although I've never tasted the toxic solution, the fermenting fruit has the sort of flavor I would imagine coming from a bottle stamped with the muscular bald man. Oddly enough, I continued to eat it; I was intrigued by the flavor.

For dinner, I turned to a Serious Eats recipe I found the week I read The New York Times piece about preserving lemons. I put my own twists on it, substituting the produce I picked up this weekend at farmer's markets. It was healthy, and it was a hit.

Farro, White Bean and Preserved Lemon Salad (adapted from Blake Royer via Serious Eats)

1 cup farro

2 tablespoons olive oil, plus more for drizzling

2 spring onion stalks, thinly sliced

2 green garlic stalks, thinly sliced

2 artichoke hearts, boiled in water with halved lemon for approximately 15 minutes (or until tender) then brushed with olive oil and grilled for 3 to 5 minutes per side, thinly sliced

1 teaspoon fresh thyme, chopped

1 teaspoon fresh oregano, chopped

1 can cannellini beans, drained and rinsed

2-3 tablespoon diced preserved lemon

Salt and pepper to taste

1. Prepare farro according to package directions (I mixed the grain with 3 cups of cold water, brought it to a boil, turned it down to a simmer and covered the pot. It cooked for approximately 40 minutes.) Drain and set aside.

2. In the meantime, heat olive oil over medium in a large skillet. Add spring onions and spring garlic; cook about 3 to 5 minutes, or until they start to become tender. Stir occasionally.

3. Stir in artichokes, herbs, beans, lemon and farro to heat through. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Drizzle with more olive oil, if desired.

When combined with all the other flavors, the preserved lemons are present but don't overpower. It offered a nice, bright flavor to complement the spring veggies and nutty whole grain.

The now-opened jar has been placed in the fridge. Guess I'll have to find another nightly ritual.

Southern Hospitality

Sorry for the longer-than-usual break. I've been a little busy—eating.

I spent the weekend in Lowcountry at a wedding of friends, which are actually more like family considering we've spent the last 25+ summers vacationing with them. At this point, Lowcountry—or more specifically, South Carolina—feels like a second home. And the cuisine feels just as familiar.

I couldn't wait to get back and eat shrimp and grits, butter beans, pirlau, sweet tea and fried chicken. I'd been thinking about the latter for weeks, especially as the wedding grew near. I wondered if we'd get a chance to eat it—and not just from any joint, but from Brown's Bar-B-Q in Kingstree, S.C. At one point during our visits down South, we were introduced to Brown's and it made a lasting impression—enough for me to think about it during a weekend when we'd no doubt already be surrounded by amazing food.

At the rehearsal dinner, I got my fill of shrimp and grits, coleslaw and biscuits. At the wedding (which was amazing, by the way), I shoveled in fried catfish, pulled pork, butter beans and more shrimp. At the post-wedding day brunch, I consumed a mountain of pirlau and washed it down with sweet tea.

Somewhere in between, we made the trip to Brown's where we emptied plate after plate of chicken. I'm not kidding when I say it's the best barbecue I've ever eaten. My stomach paid the price, but I know I'll be longing for it again soon.

In the end, I got my fill of Lowcountry cooking. (Don't tell anyone, but I even got a nip of moonshine at the wedding.)

I'm telling you now, there ain't nothing like a Southern party.