Another Use for Salsiccia

There's a distant, elderly section of my family by the surname Zechinsky. One of these was my longtime sitter's mother, a lady I used to call Grandma Zechinsky. Grandma Zechinsky was a hard-boiled lady. I recall her stern demonstration to me of what looked like a ping-pong paddle with large holes drilled through it. Motivated probably by my propensity to steal M&Ms from the tiny glass vessel in her sewing room, she demonstrated how the holes allowed the paddle to quickly move through the air, advising this would result in a much more devastating blow if a spanking were ever needed.

Grandma Zechinsky was no stale woman.

Despite this improved punishing implement, she couldn't move too quickly, so I didn't much have to worry about the power of her swing.

Her house usually smelled, I thought, like a German cottage. I was, of course, young enough to think the diets of everyone living in Germany consisted of boiled sausages, sauerkraut and stinky beer. Thankfully, her house didn't smell of beer; if there had been beer around, its scent was overhelmed by sausages.

Around this time I was introduced to a spicy italian sausage called sazitza -- brought to you by the same Italian-Americans who eat mooza-dell, gaba-gool and rigot pie -- and this, incidentally, was a popular ingredient in Grandma Zechinsky's kitchen. This spicy sausage, I learned, was part of the vibrant house-smell with which I was so familiar. Consequently, on many unhealthy occasions, I asked for this when visiting Grandma Zechinsky. She indulged me. Every time. Peppery pieces of sazitza soaked in a thick, sweet tomato sauce elevated my palatte. Now that I'd discovered the stuff grown-ups were hiding from me, my childhood would no longer be filled with bland hot dogs.

I ate the stuff there often enough that I came to ask for it in other places long after my visits to her house ended.

"Mom, may we have zechinskis with our spaghetti tonight?"

"Are there any zechinskis at the deli?"

Oops. Nobody knew what I was talking about; I certainly didn't want to eat my family members.

When I was old enough to correct myself and request sazitzas, still nobody knew what I was talking about, and only in high school did I begin paying attention to the meat packaging at the grocer that read salsiccia, which sounded remarkably similar to the object of my years-long search. Eventually, I tried salsiccia.

Like a wartime bride seeing her husband home from battle, my tongue ignited. My mouth lit up like a pinball machine. At last, I was home.

I don't expect you to cultivate the same affair with sausage as I, but I'll not hesitate to offer the following suggestion, which is a ubiquitous recipe that usually calls for sweet sausage. Bathing the spicy meat in the sweet tomato cream sauce might easily make this substantial dish become a favorite comfort food for any of its first-timers. I apologize for not including a photo with this recipe, but be prepared for a sight: the sauce, you might guess from reading it, will be pink.

Penne With Sausage and Tomatoes

Ingredients:

1 tablespoon butter
1tablespoon olive oil
1 medium onion, diced
3 garlic cloves, minced
1lb salsiccia, casings removed
2/3 cup chardonnay
1 14.5oz can diced, peeled tomatoes with juice
1 cup heavy whipping cream
6 tablespoons parsley
1/2 cup freshly grated parmesean
I box penne pasta

Method:

1. In large saucepan, heat oil and melt butter over medium high heat. Add onion and cook until it begins to caramelize. Add garlic, cook two minutes, stirring frequently.

2. Add sausage. Break apart into chunks with spoon and cook thoroughly. When sausage is cooked through, drain half of liquid from pan. Add wine, return to boil, then reduce heat to medium and simmer for 10 minutes.

3. In another large pot, empty penne into generously salted boiling water, cook until tender.

4. Add tomatoes to sauce mixture, return to boil then reduce heat to medium and simmer 10 minutes. Add cream. Simmer until liquid thickens enough to coat the back of a spoon, then reduce heat to low. Spoon sauce over penne and top with grated parmesean cheese.

Accidental Enhancements

I remember standing in front of the icy, glass seafood cases at a local fishmonger eying a tiny signpost that read "Wild Alaskan Sockeye" and considering that a only few blocks away a grocer had fresh salmon for nearly half the price of this particular sockeye. I bought it anyway, thinking that the higher price must correlate with a higher quality, and, after investigation, I'm still unsure if it does. In addition to diminished flavor, critics of farm raised salmon complain of higher levels of PCBs and lower levels of omega-3 fatty acids, citing these as evidence that you just don't want to be eating farm raised fish to begin with. While between the two varieties the difference in flavor is apparent -- probably from the higher fat content of the farm raised fish -- it's not enough to prohibit me from buying farm raised salmon when it's the only type available.

On the other hand, when it's available for a few weeks each summer, Copper River salmon is really terrific. Even places like Costco have it available with reliable labels:


Although I've enjoyed it only once, the flavor from this fish was big. I learned that the Copper River is a 300 mile-long and violently flowing river from which salmon are harvested, and the vigor with which these fish traverse the water translates to a more developed meat. And when there's good salmon to be consumed, there must be A Good Recipe around, too. The one I use is a slightly altered version of Alton Brown's Broiled Sockeye Salmon with Citrus Glaze. Interestingly, only now as I ready the recipe for linking do I realize I've been preparing it incorrectly.

AB uses dark brown sugar and lemon zest, which, the first time I made it, immediatley filled the kitchen with a sweet aroma. I knew it was working. When it was done, the fish developed a juicy tenderness beneath a sweet, crystallized glaze. I cut into it and took a bite, which melted on my tongue. Again, AB's recipe delivered.

About a month later I wanted to make it again. Looking back, I thought I accurately remembered the recipe -- at the time I was confident of my memory -- when I made it using lemon zest and orange zest, and about three times as much, by proportion, of the latter. I overlooked this accident and enjoyed the orange flavor that had seeped down into the meat of the fish and caramelized on its top. I prepared it twice more in this manner, each time thinking AB had been right-on with his combination of orange and lemon. Oops.

I'll provide it here with my accidental addition in parentheses. If you adventurously choose to include the orange zest, I'd recommend also increasing the sugar to 1/2 cup.

Photo: Food Network

Alton Brown's Broiled Sockeye Salmon With Citrus Glaze

Ingredients:

1 side, skin-on, sockeye salmon, 1 1/2 to 2 pounds, pin bones removed
1/3 cup dark brown sugar
2 tablespoons lemon zest
(or 1 tablespoon lemon zest and 3 tablespoons orange zest)
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

Method:

Position a rack in the oven 3 inches from the broiler. Line a half sheet pan with aluminum foil and place the salmon on the pan.

Place the sugar, zest, salt, and pepper into the bowl of a small food processor and process for 1 minute or until well combined. Evenly spread the mixture onto the salmon and allow to sit for 45 minutes, at room temperature.

Turn the oven on to the high broiler setting for 2 minutes. After 2 minutes, place the salmon into the oven and broil for 6 to 8 minutes or until the thickest part of the fish reaches an internal temperature of 131 degrees F on an instant-read thermometer. Remove the salmon from the oven and allow to rest, uncovered, for 8 to 10 minutes. Serve immediately.

Fabled Soup

What is it that has made me feel
My iron muscles, and my nerves of steel,
Stiffen'd my sinews, made me stout and brawny?
"It has no name,
As yet to claim,
But seeing 'tis my own invention,
If you approve, 'tis my intention
To call it Mulligatawny!"
The Origin of Mulligatawny By Tuck, the Prior, in The Blue Friars: Their Saying and Doings, London, 1889.

While this poem involving Hercules and cross dressing is interesting, I'm unsure of the merit of its claim. Despite this, the passage does not lie. Mulligatawny, a corruption -- a British corruption; tea wasn't the only Indian serving for which the country developed a tongue -- of the Tamil word milakutanni, meaning "peppered water." Though you'd be hard-pressed to find a standard recipe, most versions of the soup involve the kick of a spice combination, known as a curry, and restrained by the smoothness of coconut. And while a stewy, meat-based version of mulligatawny provides the saltiness and richness you've come to expect from soup, the smooth vegetable version I'll provide here develops a more versatile and much milder, albeit more appreciable flavor served hot or chilled.


Mild Vegetable Mulligatawny

Ingredients:

14 Oz lentils, soaked in cold water for 2 hours then drained
3-4 dried red chiles
1 teaspoon whole black peppercorns
2 tablespoons whole coriander seeds
1 teaspoon whole cumin seeds
1 1/2 teaspoon whole fennel seeds
1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric
1/4 teaspoon cayenne
4 to 5 cups vegetable stock
2 small potatoes, peeled and diced
2 medium carrots, peeled and sliced
2 small turnips, peeled and diced
12 fresh curry leaves or 8 fresh basil leaves
2 garlic cloves, peeled and coarsely chopped
1 medium onion, coarsely chopped
3 tablespoons ginger, peeled and finely chopped
1 (14-ounce) can coconut milk
1 1/4 teaspoons salt, or to taste
1 lime cut into wedges
1 bunch fresh cilantro

Method:

Place peppercorns, coriander seeds, cumin seeds, and fennel seeds in a small frying pan set over medium-high heat. Stir and roast spices 3 minutes, stirring vigorously and avoiding burning, or until spices begin releasing aromas. Empty onto plate to cool, then grind into fine powder. Grind chiles, then add chiles, turmeric and cayenne to the spice mixture.

Place lentils in a bowl. Slowly mix in 4 cups of stock.

Combine the lentils, spices, all the vegetables, the curry leaves, garlic, onion, and ginger in a large pan and bring to a boil. Cover, turn the heat down to low, and simmer for one hour or until the vegetables are tender.

Blend the soup in a blender in several batches, if necessary, and press through a coarse sieve. Return the soup to the soup pan, add the coconut milk and salt, and bring to a simmer.

Simmer gently for 2 to 3 minutes to blend the flavors; thin out with more stock, as needed. Serve hot or chilled with lime wedges & fresh cilantro.

Gordon Ramsay's Chilled Spring Pea Soup

In London last year Christa and I ate at Gordon Ramsay's restaurant in Claridge's Hotel. The meal was exquisite, and I've always remembered quite vividly the first course, a chilled, exceptionally creamy pea soup.

As a child, when my mother made split pea soup, I never enjoyed its pungent scent, a foul odor that permeated every room in the house despite my preemptive door-shuttings. (She hasn't prepared it in years, and perhaps if she did I'd find its aroma appetizing.) Consequently, when I encountered the pea soup at Gordon Ramsay's, the first thing I did was sniff it.

It smelled good.

It was very cold, but, interestingly, it smelled salty and fresh. Much like buttered peas, appropriately. Cream drizzled atop the light green soup -- the recipe in Mr. Ramsay's book includes a strip of bacon topping -- swirled slowly as I dipped in my spoon. This is what peas should taste like, I thought.

I didn't waste my time with it. I'm sure I finished it much more quickly than was proper, and, sadly, this was the only time I enjoyed it.

But, after discovering its recipe in Gordon Ramsay's book, A Chef for All Seasons, I aim to make it. Soon.

Photo: Gentil & Hyers, A Chef for All Seasons

Spring Pea Soup
A Chef for All Seasons, Gordon Ramsay

This is a light, creamy soup that has everything going for it — a tempting color, velvety smooth texture, and a wonderful fresh flavor. It’s always a harbinger of warmer weather and the opening of farmers’ markets all across the country.

Peas and bacon are a popular combination in England and in America, as the sweetness of the former plays well off the smokiness of the latter. I prefer to use Ventrech bacon from Alsace, but another lightly smoked, dry-cured bacon is fine.

Ingredients:

4 ounces lightly smoked sliced bacon
2 shallots, sliced
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 pound fresh peas in pods, shelled
2 tablespoons dry white wine
4 cups Vegetable Nage or light chicken stock
1/2 cup heavy cream, plus a little extra for serving
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

Method:

1. Reserve 4 slices of bacon and chop the rest. Place the chopped bacon in a saucepan with the shallots and oil. Heat until sizzling, then sweat over a low heat for about 5 minutes.

2. Add the peas and cook for a further 2 to 3 minutes. Pour in the wine and cook until it has evaporated.

3. Stir in the nage or stock and 1 cup of water, and bring to a boil. Season with salt and pepper, and simmer for 15 minutes. Blend in a food processor or blender until smooth, then pass through a fine sieve into a bowl, rubbing with the back of a ladle. Leave to cool and then refrigerate.

4. Meanwhile, broil the reserved bacon slices until crisp. (In the restaurant we bake the slices between two heavy baking sheets to keep them straight and flat, but you may prefer the crinkly look.) Drain well on a paper towel so they aren’t greasy. Keep warm.

5 When the soup is well chilled, check the seasoning and whisk in the cream. Season again. Serve in bowls with a little extra cream trickled on top and a floating bacon slice.

The Most Important Recipe

While searching among the pink cards of recipes strewn haphazardly through our cabinets, I came across a rather important concoction to have at hand if you, like us, are the oweners of curious dogs.

The Melting Pot

Photo: The Melting Pot

Christa and I recently ate at the Melting Pot, a fondue restaurant about which I've heard only good things. We walked through the door at 7:20pm, ten minutes before our reservation time. After te hostess informed us that we'd be waiting a few minutes, we overheard her mention to a party that arrived well before us that "finding a waiter" for them was taking some time. Christa and I looked at each other resignedly. Forty minutes later we were seated in a comfortable booth at a glossy, cultured stone table equipped with an electric burner in the center that read "Caution: Very Hot."

Atop the burner rested a fondue double-boiler pot. When our waitress introduced herself and took our order, she turned began heating it by flipping a concealed switch beneath our table. For our dinner, we settled on the "Big Night Out," a four-course monster that began with a cheese fondue appetizer and salad, then moved to a fondue-cooked entree and finished with chocolate fondue-based dessert. We were ready for all of it.

And, just to be fancy, Christa ordered a small, delicious, bright-pink rum cocktail. And in only two hours sipped out nearly a fourth of it.

Our empty fondue pot heated and began bellowing steam, signaling to the waitress it was time to add fondue. She returned with our drinks and poured what must have been close to two cups of white wine and sherry into our pot. Next in were scallions and large portions of Fontina and Butterkäse cheeses which she stirred into a smooth cream. Finally, she melted in several crumbles of buttermilk bleu cheese. The fondue was piping, and the scent of the boiling wine climbed into our noses. The waitress instructed us on the use of our fondue prongs -- long, primitive spear-like implements with which we would stab a tasty morsel and submerge it beneath the fondue -- and served us chunks of fresh breads, apples and vegetables. "Dip these," she spoke. And we did.

Repeatedly, we dipped.

Our salads came next. Mine was insalata caprese, dressed lightly with a mild balsamic vinegar. I don't recall Christa's salad, unfortunately; I was too focused on the food in front of me to even offer her a bite of mine. She reminded me of this, it seemed, as she picked up her fork to eat hers.

During the course of salad, our cheese fondue was purged and replaced with a coq au vin fondue: rich, aromatic chicken stock and thick burgundy. This was allowed to simmer briefly before the waitress brought our entrees on a very large plate -- raw, bite-size portions of beef filet, pork, shrimp, pasta, chicken and lobster -- accompanied by several dipping sauces and more fresh vegetables. Everything would cook in two minutes, she said, excepting one minute for the seafood and pasta. We grabbed our fondue prongs and began stabbing. I took a piece of filet and doused it in the boiling fondue. Christa also stabbed something, but I, too much involved in my own affair with the filet, wasn't paying close attention.

Since I don't often stew meat, much less bite-size chunks of meat, I placed my phone on the table and used its digital clock to get an accurate cooking time. Two minutes later, I removed the filet and watched it steam as I set it on my cool, metal plate. (That was a curiosity, the metal plate with picnicware-like dividers. The only other time I've eaten from a metal plate was while in the outdoors, where ceramics, obviously, are easily breakable and unwelcome. The place insisted on using metal plates anyway.)

I hadn't tried the sauces, one of which was bright yellow and curry-flavored, we were told. I drizzled some on my chunk of filet, then eagerly bit into it. Mustard and fenugreek hit my tongue, followed by a pleasant combination of spices whose burn lingered on the back of my tongue after finishing the bite. Perfect, I thought. I wanted more. No, I needed more.

Since each bite required cooking -- an agonizing wait, I assure you -- we finished our entree over the course of an hour, which prevented rapid eating and the uncomfortably full feeling I might have otherwise endured after such an Olympic meal. For dessert we chose the s'mores chocolate fondue, consisting of melted milk chocolate topped with toasted marshmallows and mashed graham crackers. Into this we dipped bites of brownie, pound cake, cheesecake and strawberry slices.

Surprisingly, the Big Night Out was not followed by a commensurately Big Bill; it was very reasonable for hours of eating.