Squash, The Glamorous Doyenne of Fall.

Squash - neither dainty nor fragile, nor costly nor small - is still a precious thing. Like little Boteros, they add a voluptuous raw sculptural element to the terrace for weeks until we use them. Noble and patient, they wouldn't dream of spoiling. Once cut, they lend their rich creamy texture and their sweetness to savory dishes and desserts with a flexibility unmatched. They have a huge personality- pastas and soups glow deep saffron yellow, tarts and cakes luscious gold - but they mingle graciously with everyone. They can afford to let the sage sparkle, the nutmeg charm; it is the rich fullness of the squash that effortlessly drives the character of the dish. Everything else is icing on her proverbial cake. Not diva, Queen.

A good squash is not just firm but rather rock-hard, and if it is not too hot out, it will stay that way for as long as you'd like. They are much nicer to look at than baskets of potatoes. I have settled for the moment on this stone blue variety. The subtle outside hides bright orange flesh, darker than most, and cooks up denser than any others. It is much harder than a Halloween carving pumpkin. In fact, the most difficult part of cooking anything with it is getting it open in the first place. Your sharpest and heaviest cleaver will sink into it and then just stay there until you pry it out. We need only to somehow separate it into rough halves though. Scoop out the seeds, and set them aside for roasting if you like (not with this particular variety - the seeds are large and tough). Then just place the halves cut side up on a baking sheet and roast them in a medium oven (170 C/ 350 F) until they yield easily to a knife. This takes abut 45 minutes, but check them often - a squash baked too long loses its lively taste. Once cool. we just scoop the flesh out with a spoon, scraping down to the skin. Use a potato masher or a stick blender or a hand mixer to even out the texture if you like, and portion it out into usable quantities, some to use at once, and some in plastic bags for the freezer. 500 g/ 2 C is a good amount for many recipes.

The dark caramelized surface is delicious. Take it off and eat it right away.
The flesh underneath will be uniformly silky.

This will usually leave you with a portion of uneven measure. With ours, I will make gnocchi for two, with this elegant two-ingredient recipe. 

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Mediterranean Roast Chicken with Vegetables- A Sumptuous Weekend-Style Meal for a Tuesday.

The dish does take time, but not yours- you can devote yourself to the goings-on of mid week as the long roast makes house smell like Home with a capital "H." Those who live in large apartment buildings in Mediterranean cities with a strong mid-day meal culture recognize tempting familiar lunches as they go up in the elevator- fresh mullets frying, stuffed peppers baking, etc. It's gratifying to hear someone open the door exclaiming "I was hoping that was coming from here!" This is that dish- the one everyone hopes is theirs. It is yours for the price of a chicken, the most tired of your produce, and 15 minutes of a busy afternoon. 

One of the goings-on of our mid week is trying to find room for the produce of Monday's λαικι ("laiki"- neighborhood weekly farmers' market). Making room in the vegetable drawer, I found a half box of mushrooms and a single eggplant. On the table were the rest of the previous week's tomatoes- too withered for salad but by no means spoiled. New and irresistible from Monday's shopping were a bunch of delicate sweet carrots.

Chicken and potatoes in the oven with olive oil, lemon, and oregano is a beloved Greek dish, and our worthy starting point. The addition of the eggplant, mushrooms, carrots, and tomatoes made our dish still more generous and colorful. As they roasted, each vegetable became more like itself- the mushrooms and eggplant more rich and meaty, the carrots more sweet and mellow, the tomatoes bursting with tang. There was great variety of flavor and texture on the plate, all brought together by the rich chicken juices, the lemon and the herbs. 

Of course, you could use all fresh produce, specially bought just to make this dish. But there is no need- the week of gentle withering of the vegetables simply started the work that the roasting finished- concentrating their flavors and textures.

We will need:

A chicken as large as you like, or even better two small tender ones.

5 or 6 large potatoes

other vegetables of your choice- here we have:

a dozen mushrooms

an eggplant

5 carrots

3 tomatoes- these added much to the dish

the tops of a fennel bulb

several whole garlic cloves

some lemon zest and the juice of two or three lemons

a very large spoonful of dijon mustard- this also adds much to the dish

a wineglass full of olive oil

salt and pepper

oregano

another herb of your choice (sage here- nice with poultry)

Peel the potatoes and cut them into pieces, perhaps the width of two fingers. Halve the mushrooms, cut the eggplant into large dice, the carrots into 4 or 5 sections each, the tomatoes into large pieces (they will take up quite a bit in roasting- we don't want them to disappear altogether), peel several cloves of garlic, and put them all into your largest roasting pan. They should be about two pieces deep- a single sparse layer and they may dry out; too deep and they will steam rather than roast and turn golden:

Salt and pepper your whole chicken, taking care to salt the cavity as well. Put a garlic clove or two in the cavity, and half of a lemon- these will perfume the meat from the inside out. If you care to, carefully lift the skin from the breast without tearing, and put some fresh herbs beneath it- we used sage leaves here. It also perfumes the meat, and makes a fine appearance at the table. Place the chicken on top of the vegetables- they will serve nicely as a roasting rack.

Zest a lemon, and juice two or three more-

To this, add a large spoonful of dijon mustard, the herbs (fresh oregano is very good if you have it but dried is just fine), more olive oil than you would think is wise- certainly a large wineglass full- and salt and pepper. Whisk it together, massage the chicken with it, and pour the rest over the vegetables, tossing to see that they are all nicely coated.

Roast the dish at 180 C/350 C for an hour, turn it down a bit, and leave it in for another 30-45 minutes, even another full hour. The vegetables will be done after the hour and a half, but the extra time seems to do them no harm, and the chicken is probably technically done after an hour and a half too (74 C/165 F, with an instant read thermometer stuck into the thickest part of the thigh), but give it a little more time to be meltingly tender, coming easily away from the bone. Above all, make sure the skin is crisp, and a beautiful mahogany color.

It's a good idea to let poultry rest before serving to re-absorb some juices. Cover it lightly with tin foil so it stays warm while you set the table. If we'd done the classic chicken with potatoes, we'd need to make a salad now, but no need with all of these roast vegetables on the plate. Serve straight from the roasting pan- it's a handsome rustic dish just as it comes from the oven. There is ample juice in the pan, but we often have plain yogurt on the table as an informal sauce, sometimes mixed with chopped fresh mint and a little salt- a raita a la Greque (just like we serve with our stuffed peppers). Apart from that there is no need for anything else on the table. It is splendid the next day, if you have any left.

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Cream of Cauliflower Soup- March is Winter's Bone

March is rough. It's fine to muse on the waxing and waning of the seasons and the cycle of life, but philosophy is not going to get dinner on the table. Nature isn't, either. Greece has a share of troubles now, but there is always the generosity of nature. It's hard to feel worried and poor in the abundance of the weekly market- heaps of sparkling produce, a bounty that makes your arms ache. Except in March- not quite cold enough to turn on the heat but certainly not warm. A low gray sky nearly constantly, and nothing yet is in bloom. Last week's market was a poor sight- tired, colorless produce of little variety, picked over and the tables half empty by noon, and everything very expensive. The apples are less crisp, the oranges getting hollow, the herbs without vibrance, or even much scent. 

So, lent or no lent, I'm breaking out a can of milk. At least once a week we dine on whatever is around- no extra shopping- just fresh things and a little innovation. This was a handful of limp carrots, two potatoes, an onion, and a head of cauliflower that had lost its ivory glow and gone grayish. Nothing was past usefulness. Cosmetically, the cauliflower was not fit for steaming; the carrots without snap were not for eating raw, but they were still full of the sweetness of the cold weather vegetables. The dill and parsley had gone limp, but not yellowed. Their fragrance had ebbed, but on the plus side there was plenty of it. The creamy canned milk would smooth it all together, and make it more filling- turn this handful of sleepy vegetables into a meal, and an elegant one.

I scrubbed everything clean, then put the peelings and trimmings from all the vegetables in a pot- that's the core of the cauliflower, the outer 2 layers of the onion, peels of carrot and potato. I threw in all of the herb stems and most of the leaves, setting aside just a few to pretty up the soup. Also some peppercorns, a bay leaf, a garlic clove, and some salt. It needed just 15 minutes to simmer and there was a surprising amount of flavor to this impromptu stock- the rich, sweet, soothing flavor of winter. It was a little cloudy from the potato and a warm orange from the carrot. 

While it was simmering, I sauteed the onions in some butter in a larger pot: 

then added the diced potatoes and carrots in largish pieces:

I added the broth, gave these slower-cooking vegetables a five-minute head start, then added the cauliflower florets and the handful of herbs:

When the vegetables were tender. I pureed it with a stick blender, leaving some texture, and shamelessly added a can of evaporated milk just like it was 1965. I'm sure cream would be better, but this was really just fine. Everyone was warmed and sated, and anyway, what are you going to do with cherries when the sky is still so low and cold? We were happy with what we had, and if not exactly wealth, this is at least plenty.

p.s. wine is not always brilliant in cream things, but a half of a shot of hard liquor- whiskey in this case- gave glamour and depth.

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Buona Figura

What's better than Black Coffee?
The frozen fish guy playing Nina Simone singing "Black Coffee" at 9:30.

"Oh... no. She'll want to go to the market with you so you show her the best stands." I have only one housewife friend- Kiki. She perceives the intricacies of the situation at once. The possible damage to my relationships at the weekly market would elude my other friends (who though lack for no savoir vivre in night life, where the guidelines are actually roughly similar). My mother-in-law is moving to our neighborhood and this- this out of a dozen possible foreboding musings- is the first thing out of her mouth. "She's going to bother your vendors...."

The thing is, to keep up a buona figura in the market you need to be ruthless, and charming. You have to be vigilant about quality, but you also have to be happy to spend to get it. Ruthless she is- I remember the first time I went with her- this is more than 20 years ago. She reaches into a bag that has been padded by the vendor (another piece or two he adds to round up to an even kilo or two) and pulls out a piece- "were you selling this as a tomato?" She was right, of course. But this is not the whole story.

She does good sometimes- for instance (this is also some 20 years ago) it's the third day in a row that the bakery in Chania (Crete)- one with an enormous wood oven turning out not just dark thick-crusted loaves loaves but also baking the meals of the neighborhood*- has given me bread still gummy in the middle. The first day it could be a fluke. The second day, my mother-in-law said- "Maybe they know foreigners eat softer bread, you know like that packaged, squishy bread we saw in the States." The third day, she marched me over to meet her former kindergarten classmate, the latest generation to run the family bakery. The woman said "Ah." She gave me an unabashed glance up and down, to register who I am. "We thought she was a tourist."- this by way of a completely reasonable explanation for giving me the last choice of loaf. Of course, it never happened again. And suddenly, I didn't wait in line so much either. It's like when the bouncer unhooks the velvet rope at a club everyone wants to get in to just for you, but much more important. I could live the rest of my life without seeing the inside of another club. But the right loaf of bread? That matters.

Instant gratification- cheerfully stocked shelves.
These are at a bodega on 24th street in Mission, SF.

When you're buying packaged food, who you are is not so important. It's a uniform product, sitting on a shelf, and it takes no discernment to select it, no charm to get the best one. It makes for an easy purchase, and at heart an unsatisfying one. But most of the things we have in our kitchens- our loaves and our fishes- are not uniform, and who you are is in fact very important, or at least it is in this part of the world.

Building your figura in the marketplace takes a little time. There are a lot of shoppers- experienced ones- matrons armed with metal carts- and you need to distinguish yourself over the course of several visits. It's not too difficult- the matrons are often pretty vicious. A smile, a little admiration, really stand out.

The Buona Figura comes more easily to some.

This goes both ways- you're not just distinguishing yourself, but also sizing up the vendors. Over the course of months and years, you'll have a routine of regular stalls. Along the way, you will necessarily have discarded several vendors- cheapness, wiliness, poor manners. It's important to be decisive about this. There are a lot of fish in the sea, and being ruthless about character is not so much a right as it is an obligation. These people are there for hours every week, same spot, they know who buys from who, and they know why. This is, after all, the agora**... the stage of public life; you've got to play your part.

Once you have your routine though, you can free up the charm a little. The people selling you this very important stuff have been up for hours and hours, doing backbreaking work while you were still too drowsy to think even about making yourself a cup of tea. Market originally is only for producers- farmers selling their produce, beekeepers, poultry guys, etc. Many stands are still run by producers, and a little connoisseurship never goes unappreciated. Admire. Apart from getting the best stuff, it is this that makes market a really satisfying experience. 

Kosma- a farmer with a small selection of
organic produce (the only one), with his:

"Κολοκυθάκια" = zucchini. "Παραγωγός" = producer (farmer).
They'll be a Boureki later in the week (Cretan dish). 

Many of the vendors you keep will sell the same goods. For instance, I have only one pumpkin lady, but several tomato vendors. I spread out my custom in an informal rotation, based on what looks best. Then I always greet the others. One of the tomato guys has this exquisite variety from late April (when it costs more than fish, and I'm happy to pay) until June, when the variety finishes. He comes to both markets so I see him twice a week during that season, and I buy heavily. To not stop by until the next April, that would just be tacky- like only dating a guy when he can borrow his dad's car.

Pretty Argyro, with fat melons...

and creamy luscious squash:

And when I buy, I buy fair- getting a representation of what is on offer. No rotten peaches, but not just the biggest peaches either. You can't be greedy. You also can't be cowed by the other shoppers: it's fine to admonish them charmingly for hogging the bin. I may pick carefully, but I pick swiftly as well and- this is important- no unseemly squishing and groping. Sometimes I tell the vendor "you know best." I get things nicer than I would pick out on my own***. They do know best, and they never unload the substandard stuff on a respectful customer. And if I don't need all perfect, I say so- no sense taking only his pretty salad tomatoes if I'm going to grate half of them into a pulp an hour later. Fair play brings out the vendors' generosity. It also ensures you always get first pick when you need it, and- most importantly of all perhaps- that none of the lovely things go to waste. Lastly, if you like having something special available, then you have to buy that thing. Only one vendor sells thyme and tarragon, so I get them, whether I think I need them or not. They always find their way into something in the course of the week.

The practiced hand of an elderly gentleman samples some tarragon.
That's his wife, getting out her wallet.

What do I get out of this? Well, the contact is nice. These people have a huge impact on my family's week, on the beauty of the table. And they know it- if something went over big, I tell them about it the next week. They also know how to get the best out of their goods- preparation tips, storage tips. The beet greens someone else had cut off always get stuffed into my bags as a parting gift, along with big handfuls of samples. Then of course there's the vip room of produce- items in limited supply they keep back in the truck and don't put out for just anyone. I get this stuff.

Babbis and his boys- beautiful produce, great service.

A buona figura is also an insurance policy. It's not just getting the best of everything and a friendly exchange; it's the vendors not treating you like everyone else. My head was recently turned by a very fine price on some small red mullets. As I looked back at them over my right shoulder, the fishmonger caught my eye, then glanced quickly upward - the Eastern Mediterranean's subtle gesture of 'no.' "Those aren't for you, my girl..." he said under his breath, then continued to hawk.

Pavlos, who sold me the bass in Rich Catch of Fish.
That's his daughter smiling in the background.

*this is a charming thing- mostly of the past but still going on- bakeries with large wood-burning ovens will bake alongside their loaves your homemade meal- your stuffed tomatoes, your leg of lamb with potatoes, etc- and you pick it up a couple hours later. How heavy those hot sheet pans laden with food are as you carry them not to the table but down the street and around the corner in the midday sun! But the smell- it smells so much nicer than it would from your electric oven- full of woodsmoke, plus whispers of your neighbors' dinners was roasting next to it.  They charge little for this valuable community hearth.

**Agora means marketplace- think of our word 'agoraphobia'.

***If the produce is artfully stacked, avoid this. Glancing behind the facade of the pyramid, one often finds considerably less appealing pieces- much smaller, blemished, unripe, overripe, etc. These beguiling structures are often the tools of the wily vendor.

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