How to make a frittata: asparagus and goat cheese frittata recipe

My Italian friend Simona says, “When in doubt, make a frittata.”

And she is right. A frittata is the ultimate spontaneous, refrigerator-foraged meal. With some good cheese and pasture raised eggs, lingering leftovers can be resurrected, even elevated, especially when accompanied by a glass of wine and a salad. Simona’s pasta frittata is a great example. Now those are leftovers to write home about.

A frittata can be more deliberate of course. Special seasonal ingredients can be celebrated in a frittata, like the asparagus here, which has already peaked and is now waning fast. In this recipe, the goat cheese and asparagus combination is almost a cliché.  I say almost because: think about it.  A cliché has an undeserved negative connotation. It evolves from a truth that is repeated so often that we become inured to its virtues. I am a champion of many food clichés. On a quest for more exotic, scintillating (and sometimes dismal) dishes to excite our palates, we dismiss the tried and true as tired and sad. If you want to up the ante on the excitement taste meter with soy foam, be my guest. I’ll take the asparagus and goat cheese combination any day, and I don’t care who knows it.

To make a good frittata, you have to understand eggs. Yes, it is a simple dish, but like many simple dishes, you need outstanding ingredients and thoughtful execution. I’m not trying to scare you—it isn’t difficult to make a frittata. It’s just that so many people have complained to me that they have not had success (too dry, rubbery, etc.) that I think there are a couple of points worth noting. Pay particular attention to steps 5 and 6 in the recipe.

The maxim: when you cook eggs, walk on eggs. Eggs are delicate. Treat them kindly and you will be rewarded with soft, creamy curds that melt in your mouth instead of dry, chalky bites that stick in your throat. By treating them kindly I mean take care to protect them from high heat. Cook them slowly. Don’t rush. Give them the time they need. In other words, what’s your hurry? This is a quick supper; you don’t need to take ruinous shortcuts.

Slowly cook the eggs (step 5) over medium to medium-low heat until they begin to set. At that point, run a metal spatula (or a rubber spatula if you don’t have a metal spatula) around the edges of the pan and tilt the pan so that the uncooked eggs on the surface dribble into the gaps at the edge of the pan. Repeat this until the eggs are about 3/4ths of the way cooked.

Finally, place the pan under the broiler (step 6), but far from its harsh direct heat. Leave the oven door ajar. Watch carefully, and wait for the top to puff and brown lightly. You are looking for a light golden brown color, not a deep brown. Let the frittata rest for a minute or two. Slide it onto a plate and serve, or cut it into wedges and serve from the pan.

Of course, don’t be limited by asparagus and goat cheese. Oozy, melty cheeses like taleggio or fontina or cheddar are good paired with vegetables. The possibilities are endless.

Asparagus and goat cheese frittata

Makes 1 10-inch frittata

1 pound asparagus, trimmed of tough ends and cut into 1-inch lengths

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 medium leek, white part only, halved lengthwise and thinly sliced

7 eggs

Salt and pepper, to taste

2 tablespoons coarsely chopped fresh tarragon

2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh parsley

1 tablespoon finely chopped chives

2 1/2 ounces (1/2 cup) crumbled goat cheese

1. Set an oven rack about 10 inches from the broiler. Turn on the broiler. Have on hand a 10-inch non-stick skillet with a heatproof handle.

2. Bring a large saucepan of salted water to a boil. Add the asparagus and cook for 3 minutes, or until tender. Drain in a colander.

3. In the skillet over medium heat, heat the olive oil. Add the leeks and cook, stirring often, for 5 minutes, or until soft. Add the asparagus to the skillet and sprinkle with salt and pepper.

4. In a bowl, whisk the eggs until combined. Stir in the tarragon, parsley, chives, goat cheese, and  more salt and pepper. Pour the eggs over the asparagus in the skillet.

5. Adjust the heat to medium-low. When the eggs begin to set at the edges, run a spatula around the pan, and tilt the pan to allow the uncooked eggs to run to the sides. Repeat once or twice, until the eggs are almost set.  

6. To finish cooking, set the pan in the oven, leaving the door ajar. Broil for 2 to 3 minutes, or until the eggs are set and the top of the frittata is slightly puffed but not deeply browned. Cut into wedges and serve.

Chocolate zucchini muffins

One consequence of catering to picky eaters (i.e., children) is that certain food groups are neglected for years on end. Another consequence of catering to picky eaters is that they grow up and come home with an appetite to match their status as much bigger people. This new appetite begets requests for foods that were banished during their childhood. The disenfranchised food group in question here is muffins, even bakery-bought cake-like, lollapalooza muffins. But living away from home (in New York City for example) broadens one’s tastes apparently. Muffins are back.

Questioning why a picky eater turns up his nose at something is an exercise in futility. There is no rhyme or reason to explain the capriciousness of children. Should you indulge them? I struggled with the question, landing on the side of indulgence more often than not, deciding that battles at the dinner table were secondary to other skirmishes pertaining to child rearing. Luckily, it all turned out okay. Nature took its course. The muffin is now being reinstated, along with many other foods that were once excluded.

Truth be told, I was never much of a muffin maker. With low demand and a perverse insistence on my part to keep them healthy by cutting back on sugar and fat, the muffins I produced were nothing to write home about. They were flat. They were dry. No wonder they languished on the counter until they were stale enough to be relegated to the compost heap.

Eat across the color spectrum: A cheerful rainbow salad

On the phone last Friday, College Boy suggested I bake cupcakes. I made chicken stock. After all, his train from New York that morning had been cancelled, so he wouldn't be here to eat them. That left two of us—Man of The House and myself—two people who could not be trusted with a plateful of little frosted cakes for a nano-second.  Surely that would be dinner, along with a glass of Scotch (his poison) or red wine (mine.) Or maybe both. And plenty of it. I guess we can’t call out for pizza we joked reassuringly to each other, still uncertain when the lockdown would be lifted.

As it turned out, I could not summon enough focus to decide what to bake. So I cleaned out my freezer and made stock. Despite my best efforts to take breaks, my eyes and ears were glued to the television. Not even cooking—a favorite remedy of mine during times of stress—could offer refuge or distraction. At one point I snoozed on the couch, since I am one of the lucky ones who can sleep for twenty minutes any time, anywhere. I escaped into light slumber, lulled by the muted put-put of the helicopters through tightly closed windows, only waking to once again be riveted to the screen and the minute-to-minute updates. How very surreal to hear helicopters rushing to the scene, sirens wailing, and then, the unthinkable: gunshots--the final drama unfolding just three blocks down the hill from our calm and comfortable house.

There were no cupcakes for dinner. There was some good, soothing chicken soup, and plenty of the aforementioned poisons to wash it down. That was quite enough for one day.

The intensity of the past weeks demands lightness. In that vein, I offer you this colorful salad to bring you back into balance containing a wide color spectrum of foods, should you need that. With so few vegetables available to us Northerners in the in-between season, this salad fills in the gap. The salad goes nicely with some of those first grilled burgers or shrimp of the season, now that pleasant weather seems to have arrived.

Rainbow Salad

Serves 6

DRESSING

Juice of 1 lime

Juice of 1 orange

1 tablespoon white wine vinegar

Pinch sugar

Salt and pepper, to taste

1/2 cup olive oil

1. In a small bowl, whisk the lime juice, orange juice, vinegar, sugar, salt, and pepper together. Gradually whisk in the oil.

SALAD

1 small celery root (12 ounces), cut into fine matchstick

1/2 small head red cabbage, thinly sliced

1 large carrot, grated

1 Granny Smith apple, cut into small dice

6 radishes, thinly sliced

1/2 cup pomegranate seeds
1/4 cup chopped fresh parsley

Salt and pepper, to taste

1 avocado, sliced, for garnish

1/4 cup pumpkin seeds, for garnish

1. In a salad bowl, combine celery root, cabbage, carrot, apple, radishes, pomegranate seeds, and parsley. Toss with the dressing. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Top with sliced avocado and pumpkin seeds.

Lentil and arugula salad

It’s hard to know what to eat at the cusp of spring. In the upper reaches of the Northeast, bare brown branches scrape each other in the chilly wind against a murky sky, not quite blue, not quite gray.

A few robins appeared on the dingy lawn last week, a hopeful sign, but even they looked out of place. Their heads bobbed this way and that. Where are the worms? The earth beneath them—dead grass the color of old cement—was still awaiting rejuvenation from the first warm April rain. An imminent meal for the robins did not look very promising.

My brain is yearning for spring and thinking salad, but my appetite is stuck in winter—it wants warming foods, substance. Pale, soft lettuces, fresh bright peas, baby leeks—these are still in my future. I hope in a not too distant one. In the meantime, I am transitioning with lentils. I have been making lentil soup for weeks on end: lentils with curry, lentils with sausage, red lentils, green lentils, yellow lentils, thick stewed lentils enveloping a few handfuls of something green like kale, Swiss chard, watercress. Lentils topped with feta cheese or crusty pita toasts.

Yet my mind is overtaking the demands of my body; I will have my salad, it states with imperiousness. Young arugula, with its sharp, peppery edge matches my impatience for the new season’s arrival. A salad of its dark green leaves, fortified with hearty lentils, spring onions, and some pan-seared tomatoes, fits the bill, a truce in the mind/body conflict and a nod to both seasons as they merge and move more definitively toward spring.

Le Puy lentils

Ordinary brown lentils

The lentils I used in this salad are Le Puy lentils—small, green lentils from France. They hold their shape well in cooking, so they are ideal candidates for eating warm, cold, or, most preferably, at room temperature. Another small lentil choice comes from Italy: Umbrian lentils (lenticchie di Castelluccio.) Start by flavoring some olive oil with crushed coriander seeds in a skillet. (If you don’t have a mortar, enclose the coriander seeds in a zip lock bag and crush them with a rolling pin.) Sear some cherry tomatoes, and let them cool on a plate, while you make the vinaigrette in the skillet to soak up all the coriander tomato goodness. To mitigate the strong flavor of onion that will overpower the salad if it sits untamed, stir them into the lentils while they are hot, and add a bit of the vinaigrette at the same time, another flavor-soaking exercise. Finally, dress the leaves with the remaining vinaigrette and top them all off with the lentils and satisfying salty crumbles of feta. A fine meal to savor while waiting for the daffodils to pop.

Lentil, arugula, and feta salad

Serves 4

5 tablespoons olive oil

1 teaspoon coriander seeds, coarsely crushed in a mortar

12 cherry tomatoes, halved

2 tablespoons sherry vinegar

Salt and pepper to taste

1 cup small green lentils, such as Le Puy or Castelluccio

1/4 red onion or 1 small spring onion, thinly sliced,

1/4 cup chopped fresh cilantro

2 bunches (6 cups) arugula

3 ounces feta cheese, crumbled

1. In a skillet over medium heat, heat 2 tablespoons of the oil with the coriander seeds. Add the tomatoes, cut side down. Cook for 2 to 3 minutes, or until the tomatoes are slightly soft but still hold their shape. Remove the pan from the heat. With a slotted spoon, transfer tomatoes to a plate to cool.

2. For the vinaigrette: Add the remaining 3 tablespoons of oil to the skillet. Stir in the vinegar, salt, and pepper to taste. Leave to cool in the pan.

3. Bring a large saucepan of salted water to a boil. Add the lentils. Simmer over medium-low heat for 18 to 20 minutes, or until they are tender but still hold their shape.

4. Drain in a colander and transfer to a bowl. Stir in the onions and 3 tablespoons of the vinaigrette. Let cool to warm room temperature. Stir in the cilantro and cherry tomatoes.

5. In a salad bowl, toss the arugula with the remaining vinaigrette. Pile the lentils on top, and sprinkle with the feta.

How to stay happily married (chocolate helps.) A recipe for chocolate crackle cookies.

After thirty-some years of marriage—to the same man, no less—I have a few opinions about the institution that I would like to share on this, the eve of Saint Valentine’s Day. Let’s start with: thirty years is a long time. You need to pace yourself. Here are five (of many) suggestions to sustain longevity. I am still working on them. (NB, these are mostly addressed to women, but understand that there are inherent role reversals in this list.) Please add your tips in the comment section if you feel so moved.

The endangered dinner party makes a comeback: Cornish hens with cranberry beans and kale

Cornish hen with beans and kale

Okay, so I’m not a winter person. I feel paralyzed by the cold. I have acute brain freeze too right now, which is one of many reasons I haven’t been here for a while. I know. I should embrace the snow and the exuberance of the tingly, frigid air. I am trying. But really. Can I just crawl under the covers until spring?

Snap out of it, I say to myself, as I sit here at my computer wearing thick wool socks, wool clogs, long underwear, and two sweaters. (Winter clothing weighs heavily upon my psyche, too.) It is high time to bring back the endangered dinner party. Time to think of the friends who make me laugh and invite them over.

I made these Cornish hens for a Boston Globe Sunday Supper recently. Not only are they special and festive, they are also ideal for feeding a small group of people without too much angst or effort. The little birds, which are actually domestic chickens bred to mature in a shorter time than regular chickens, have a good portion of juicy white breast meat, and a lot of bone. If you want to avoid the expense—they are a bit pricey—you could roast a couple of chickens, or buy large hens and split them in half before roasting them and serve each person a half (make an extra one for leftovers or just in case you have one or two big eaters on your hands.) However, by the time you and your guests eat through some cheese, a couple of noshes, and a glass of wine before dinner, why, there won’t be a need for a big chow-down at the table.

Take comfort in tradition: pot au feu

Traditional dishes like this pot au feu draw me into the kitchen on a regular basis. Have I become stodgy in my cooking, I ask myself? Or is my gravitation towards these dishes simply a knee jerk response to the darkness and difficulty that has piled up this year. So much sorrow and grief and trouble in 2012, both personally and globally, leave me and so many others with a deep need for grounding. A need to create some small happiness amid the crushing blows of the world. Of life. Tradition helps us put one foot in front of the other when we don’t want to get off the couch or out of bed in the morning.

I take solace in the words of Pema Chodron: “It’s not impermanence per se, or even knowing we’re going to die, that is the cause of our suffering, the Buddha taught. Rather, it’s our resistance to the fundamental uncertainty of our situation. Our discomfort arises from all of our efforts to put ground under our feet, to realize our dream of constant okayness. When we resist change, it’s called suffering. But when we can completely let go and not struggle against it, when we can embrace the groundlessness of our situation and relax into its dynamic quality, that’s called enlightenment, or awakening to our true nature, to our fundamental goodness. Another word for that is freedom—freedom from struggling against the fundamental ambiguity of being human.”

I’m working on that. In the meantime, it helps me to get into the kitchen, despite my resistance to doing so. One foot in front of the other. I want to cook something to create a little joy, to create a connection with my fellow humans, to express some love to lighten the load. I hope January will bring more friends around the table. We need each other.

Take a break from butter: Greek olive oil and honey cookies

When I was growing up, Christmas Eve in our house meant baking sugar cookies. We cut them into baby bunnies, lions, maple leaves, stars, and hearts. We sprinkled them with homemade colored sugar, much of which landed on the floor. My parents usually removed themselves to the living room, leaving us to destroy the kitchen. Once the first batch was out of the oven, we proudly marched into the room and presented them with a plate of warm cookies. And then we sang Christmas carols around the tree. (Uh, no, that didn’t actually happen.) But we did make the cookies, and afterwards we were sent back into the kitchen to clean up, where we each tried to stake a claim on the largest cookies—the Christmas trees and the chickens. (Chickens? Who knew? Those chickens were integral to our holiday baking.) Years later I duplicated the tradition with my son, so that by the time he could stand on a chair and reach the counter we made gingerbread boys and girls, Christmas trees, and yes, chickens from the very same cookie cutter.

Five strategies for making edible gifts (and more)

As soon as the first flakes of snow fall (and they did last week) I start thinking about holiday giving. And by that I mean, edible holiday gifts. An Organic Conversation invited me on their radio show to talk about just that. The podcast on their site should be up sometime this week. (If you are in the car you can listen to it on Stitcher.) The whole exercise made me revisit some of my ideas, and ways I have streamlined the process over the years to make it more enjoyable.

Let’s face it, for some people an evening at home puttering around the kitchen is much more satisfying and far less stressful than traipsing through a mall with a gift list. Even if cooking or baking is a challenge, you can reacquaint yourself with your kitchen and avoid the crowds, parking stress, and gift anxiety. There are still many simple gifts you can make that don’t require an oven. So turn up the music and give yourself the gift of a night at home away from the shopping madness.

Chocolate Whiskey Truffles

Is the dinner party dead? Crispy braised chicken for six

Is the dinner party dead? Guy Trebay wrote in the New YorkTimes yesterday that it just may be on the endangered species list.

I have to admit that in years gone by, there was a steadier flow of people at my table than now. So, what gives? Are we too busy? Too tired? Or, as Mr. Trebay suggests: “Increasingly, such gatherings seem outmoded, squeezed out by overcrowded schedules, the phony urgency of affinity sites, restaurants cultism and overall tectonic shifts in how New Yorkers congregate.” Outside of the Big Apple, I’m not sure restaurant cultism is a factor. It may be that collectively we’re in a rut, and cooking for a crowd, once we are out of the habit, seems too daunting. It’s hard to be a part-time cook. If you don’t cook on a regular basis, then inviting six to eight people to your house once in a blue moon is a pretty steep mountain to climb.

I want to get back on the horse, but if I do, I will re-adjust my expectations. A dinner party can (and in these times, maybe should) be an informal affair. Who says spaghetti and meatballs, or even meat loaf is off limits? Better to make something homey and comforting than to contort into a tizzy that leaves you exhausted and cranky by the time your guests arrive.

I usually don’t like to ask guests to bring anything—my feeling is if you are going to give them dinner, give them a night off, too. Buy dessert, or just put a few olives and nuts out before you sit down, and keep your sanity. It’s about the company. Nobody cares whether or not you pull out a homemade chocolate torte. Of course, it’s nice if the food is good, but the whole point is to bring people together. With the holidays looming and so much busy-ness in the air, it might be a good idea to set aside some time to relax with friends. Plan ahead and make a one-dish meal that you can plop on the table with a salad. Spread out the cooking and shopping if you can. Set the table the day before. Read Sara’s post at TheYellow House about making one grand gesture (a roast, for example) and having others bring side dishes if that’s how you want to roll.

Here’s one humble chicken dish idea: If you love dark, tender poultry and crisp skin, start by making braised chicken thighs and turn the technique on its head. Usually, the braising technique consists of browning food, then cooking it slowly in a covered pot with a small amount of liquid. Here, to get the skin crisp, the browned chicken goes into a baking dish with red onions, carrots, white wine, chicken stock, and a touch of honey and vinegar to make a rich sauce. While the vegetables cook in the liquid around the poultry, the exposed chicken skin crisps and browns. The cooking juices make a flavorful sauce. This dish can be prepared several hours ahead and reheated in the oven just before serving. Make some rice or polenta and a salad to serve with it. Dinner is done!

Crispy braised chicken with vegetables

Serves 6

2 tablespoons olive oil

12 to 14 chicken thighs, with skin and bone (about 4  pounds total)

Salt and pepper, to taste

3 red onions, each cut into 8 wedges

8 carrots, cut into 3-inch lengths and halved lengthwise if large

1 cup white wine

3 tablespoons white wine vinegar

2 tablespoons honey

2 1/2 cups chicken stock

2 sprigs fresh thyme

2 tablespoons chopped parsley, for garnish

1 Heat the oven to 375 degrees F. Have on hand two 9-by13-inch baking dishes.

2. Trim the excess fat from the chicken thighs. Pat them dry with paper towels and season them on both sides with salt and pepper.

3. In a large skillet, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the chicken, skin sides down. Cook for 5 to 6 minutes, or until the skin is golden. Turn and cook on the other side for 3 minutes. Transfer the thighs, skin sides up, to each of the 2 baking dishes. Tuck the carrots and onions around them.

4. Pour off the fat from the skillet. Return the pan to the heat and add the wine. Cook and stir for 1 minute to scrape up the brown bits from the bottom. Stir in the vinegar and honey. Pour half of the liquid into each baking dish. Add enough chicken stock to each dish to come halfway up the sides of the chicken (it shouldn’t cover it.) Nestle the thyme sprigs into the dish.

5. Braise, uncovered, in the oven for 45 minutes, or until the meat and vegetables are tender.

6. Transfer the chicken and vegetables to a large platter. Sprinkle with chopped parsley.

8. Pour the sauce into a large measuring cup and skim off the fat. Transfer the sauce to a pitcher and serve alongside the chicken.

If you have leftovers, sauté some mushrooms, add spinach, stir in rice and leftover chicken. Dinner is done, again.

STAY TUNED: COMING SOON IS A GUIDE FOR HOLIDAY GIVING (MORE RECIPES!)