the great sauce caper

caper, n.

1.     to leap or skip about in a sprightly manner; prance; frisk; gambol.

2.     a prank or trick; harebrained escapade.

3.     a frivolous, carefree episode or activity.

4.     a spiny shrub, Capparis spinosa,  of Mediterranean regions, having roundish leaves and solitary white flowers.

5.     its flower bud which is pickled and used for garnish or seasoning.

This one is a lulu, piquant and snappy and as useful as a little black dress.  You could dip into it with a vegetable, you could smear it on anything grilled, broiled or just standing still, you could rocket a potato or chicken salad to the moon with it.

It comes from one of my favorite and most splattered cookbooks, Jerry Traunfeld’s Herbfarm Cookbook.  His polenta is my standard for polenta.  His sensibilities make my tastebuds very happy.  He avoids the traditional sprinkle of fresh herbs, tending more toward the fistful, but manages to make the results still subtle and interesting and not at all overdone.  

In case the Full Disclosure Police are reading, I should volunteer the information that I once made his lavender shortbread cookies and served them at a ladies’ function with a gooseberry fool and felt I had carried myself pretty well, until the lady to my left said they reminded her of her grandmother’s bath soap and fed them to her dog, who was under the table, handing him her dish of fool to go with it.  I don’t hang with ladies much anymore.  Very stressful.  All those manners and white gloves.

The only modification I made here was to use a chunk of preserved lemon in place of the lemon zest his recipe called for.  But I have made it his way and it totally rocks like that, too, so if you lack preserved lemons do not fret.  Heed his warning about using tender stems of parsley only, because the thicker stems have too potent a flavor here.

If your food processor has suddenly died, gasping wildly as you tried to use it and then stubbornly refusing to budge its upper grinders while grating its interior gaskets into little piles on the counter top underneath the machine (or is it just me?), then rest assured you can do this in the blender or with a hand blender—just add the oil up front so you have enough substance to make the ingredients move.  It will all emulsify fine.

green herb and caper sauce

Adapted from Jerry Traunfeld’s Herbfarm Cookbook

1 ½ cups (gently packed) fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves and tender stems

½ cup (gently packed) fresh mint leaves

½ cup coarsely-snipped chives or the green parts of a scallion

1 clove garlic, peeled

2 t Dijon mustard

4 anchovy filets

2 T capers, drained

a small chunk of preserved lemon, or the zest of ½ a lemon, finely grated

1 T fresh lemon juice

a few twists of fresh black pepper

6T olive oil

Process all the ingredients except the oil in a food processor until they are finely chopped.  Scrape down the sides.  With the machine running, pour in the oil in a steady stream and continue to process until the sauce is slightly creamy but not completely smooth. 

bean there

After yesterday’s detour into the flour bin, we’re back to the whole chickpea today. I am bound and determined to find one way to make everyone try them, which may explain the drop in readership. Friday, there will be cake. But only if you have finished your chickpeas.

This may be another one of those things you have to make without telling yourself or anyone around you what is in it. Like the parsnip oven fries, it sounds like love beads and macramé wall hangings will come in to play. Also like the parsnip oven fries, I will try to distract you for a minute by yakking about how good for you this will be--perhaps misguidedly, because I should just tell you it’s tasty. Then, perhaps, (like the effect I’ve enjoyed recently with the parsnip oven fries) I will begin to be lovingly accosted in public places by beautiful, fresh-faced children who happily ate the thing and want to smile at me because I told their mother to make it for them.

So, quickly: arame is a kind of seaweed, but it is not slimy and it does not taste like it was stuck to the bottom of your kayak. It brings you astonishing levels of calcium, iron and trace minerals, plus elusive vitamins and immune-, libido- and joint health-supporting effects that you would be hard-pressed to find on the resumé of other things in your grocery cart.

Plus: we are going to douse it, and the chickpeas it rides in on, with lots of that irresistible triple threat of lemon, olive oil and salt. It’s a flexible set-up, in that you can leave it at that, or continue gilding the lily with a bunch of optional accessory ingredients.

Arame is, like most of its weedy brethren, available on most Asian aisles of the Gourmet Shoppe and/or Wheatberry Emporium type of establishment near you, as well as in any Asian market worth its salt. It looks like the wiring of some motorized vehicle left too long in a damp garage full of mice, but after a quick soak is less unfriendly in appearance. The soaking water is a boon to any houseplants you may have, so give them a treat while you are at it by throwing it into your watering can.

chickpea & arame salad

serves 4-6

One good size handful of arame

2 c cooked chickpeas, drained (if canned, then rinse them)

juice of a lemon

¼ c really good olive oil

½ t cumin

a pinch to 1/8 t cayenne

1/2 to 1 t sea salt, or to taste

large handful of fresh flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped

optionally:

1 t finely grated fresh ginger

1 clove garlic, mashed or minced

1-2 scallions, white and light parts only, minced

handful of green beans, blanched and cooled and cut into 1-2” sections

Soak the arame in water for ten minutes or so, and then drain it well, pressing excess water out.

In a medium size bowl, lightly mash some or all of the chickpeas. You can skip this step, but it does help the little fellas absorb more of the flavor. Now combine with the remaining ingredients--the seaweed and the seasonings--and taste to adjust the flavors to your liking. It likes to sit a little before you eat it, but if it will be longer than about a half hour you may want to wait to add the parsley. A long time in that much lemon juice will diminish its beautiful green. If you have let it sit, taste again before you serve as a little booster shot of lemon juice and salt is often desirable at that point.