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Simple Sauteed Snow Peas

Readers, meet my new favorite side dish.

We spent the morning of our first full day in Santa Fe downtown, at a farmers’ market adjacent to an artists’ market (a lethal concoction as far as my wallet was concerned). At the tail end of our stroll through the farm stands, I caught a glimpse of an overall-clad gentelman manning a fry pan set over a camping stove. I headed over to see what he was cooking, and before I could see any of the wiry, bright green snowpeas bouncing around the frying pan, I hear the crackle-snap of their dip in the hot oil and knew the end result would be mighty tasty. I stuck around. Sure enough, after a few flips of the pan, the blistered snowpeas landed on top, giving their still-green comrades a turn over the heat. Once all the peas were glistening with oil and many were blackened in spots, the gentleman tossed a generous pinch of flaky salt over the vegetables, poured them onto a plate, and shouted for customers and neighboring farmers to get one while they’re hot. I wasted no time popping one of the smoking-hot snowpeas into my mouth.

Their crunch was what caught me first: blackened where their bumpy surfaces had touched the scalding pan, much of the flesh managed to remain crisp, striking just the right balance of doneness. The snowpeas were vivid green, their juices gathering at the bottom of the plate and mixing with that lovely salt. I could’ve eaten the whole lot myself. Naturally, I bought a couple pounds of his bounty, determined to wow D’s family with this surprising treat.

This isn’t one of those stories that ends in failure. I’ll spoil the punch-line right now: for an addictive appetizer or side, it just doesn’t get more foolproof than this. You need only the most modest mis en place: a hot pan, a glug of oil, a couple pinches of salt, and the freshest, crispest snowpeas you can find. The dish practically makes itself. If you want to put them over the edge, squeeze some lemon over the peas just before serving.

If you’re making these for a crowd and don’t have a very large (15-inch) pan, make them in batches. You want these guys to really blister, and they won’t if the pan is crowded. Let the snap-crackle of the peas be your guide: when the vegetables first hit the pan, they’ll really sizzle (watch those forearms — the oil will spatter). After a while, the sound will let up. If the next time you flip the peas, none have browned on the bottom, add a splash more oil: let the sizzling resume. I’ve made these twice, and each time, the peas have needed about four pan-flips, maybe a total of 7-8 minutes in the pan. Don’t stress if yours seem done after 5 minutes or need a bit extra time — they’ll be done when they’re done.

Last night, I served a dish of these snow peas as a side dish to complement seared tuna. But the first time I made them, I served them up right out of the frying pan, smoking hot, to a crowd of hungry bellies waiting on barbequed chicken. These were the perfect low-key appetizer, just the sort of thing you want to absentmindedly munch on while waiting for dinner to hit the table.

Simple Sauteed Snow Peas
serves 6

2 lbs. snow peas, as fresh and crunchy as you can find ’em, rinsed and thoroughly dried
olive oil
2 pinches salt
wedge of lemon

Heat 2-3 tablespoons olive oil on medium-high in a large stainless steel pan, not a nonstick one. When the oil shimmers on the surface, add 1/3 of the snow peas (careful! oil will splatter). Leave the pan alone for a minute or two, and the peas on the bottom will begin to blister. After about 2 minutes, give the pan a big toss. Blistered peas should rise to the top, and less cooked ones should descend to the bottom of the pan, close to the heat. Again, let the pan be for about 2 minutes. Toss again, to redistribute peas. If peas haven’t blistered, add a tablespoon more olive oil to the pan.

After about 7-8 minutes, peas should be cooked through but still crispy, and some should have darkened or blistered spots. At this point, sprinkle a pinch of salt over the peas, and transfer to a serving bowl or platter. Repeat this process twice more, cooking 1/3 of total peas each time. After all peas have been cooked and transfered to serving dish, squeeze wedge of lemon over peas, use large wide spoon to distribute lemon juice, and serve immediately. (Peas will also be delicious at room temperature, so if you’re not serving as an appetizer to some hungry folks, don’t sweat it; set them aside, and serve when everything else is ready.)

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Sesame-Crusted Tuna on Arugula Salad

Much as I love to serve fish for dinner, I return to my weeks-old whining about the heat. How are we expected to endure an hour of 400-degree air in the kitchen, followed by several hours of still-not-cool temperatures, just to get a piece of protein on the table? We’re not, is the answer. We make a salad — any salad will do, but there are lots of nice ones here — and call it a night. But we both know that gets old. At a certain point, we start craving something more.

Here, then, is an entree that won’t blow the gasket on the delicate balance between the blazing outdoors and the “little engine that could” of an air conditioning system. It requires no braise, no long boil, but a quick flash-sear on a hot stovetop, followed by a rest in the fridge, while you set the table, stick your head in the freezer for a moment, and suck on an ice cube hoping for that sweet, sweet redemption known as fall.

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Fattoush

If the history of this blog is any indication, I’m a huge fan of bread salads. My love is easily explained: bread adds heft to make a salad feel like a meal, and since i’m going to dunk a hunk of baguette in my leftover dressing anyway, ripping bread right into the salad is the best kind of shortcut.

Fattoush is a member of the bread salad family, an honored and much loved one at that. Its origins are Levantine, and in various Middle Eastern countries, it’s a definitive staple. Instead of the crusty bread you often find in American or Italian bread salads, fattoush relies on the Middle Eastern staple, pita. Like other bread salads, the idea behind fattoush is to use stale bread — but the salad is so addictive, I confess to finding myself at the bread basket, grabbing some perfectly unstale pita to toast for the purpose.

For some, fattoush is all about the pita. For others, it’s about those beautiful persian cucumbers — the skinny, seedless variety that have finally found their way to farmers’ markets on the east coast. But if you ask me, especially in this season, fattoush begins and ends with excellent tomatoes.

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Taco Night Coleslaw

Taco night is a perennial favorite. It’s an easy meal to prepare, most components can be prepared well in advance, and if you make it for a dinner party, you’ll be feasting on leftovers for days. When I say “taco night,” of course, I’m referring to that generic category of weeknight suppers, including but not limited to tacos, fajitas, burritos, and anything else involving tortillas, fillings, and toppings of your choice.

In case you’re at a loss for where to start, here’s my go-to iteration of Tex-Mex dinner: I serve warm flour tortillas, refried beans, sauteed peppers and onions, cabbage slaw with lime and chile, and salsa, guacamole, and queso fresco to top it all off. It’s a regular feast.

And please, don’t let me cramp your style: the possibilities aren’t limited to beans and whatnot. If you’re not a fan of the legumes, pan-fry some chicken, fish, or beef slices over high heat until charred, squeeze a lime juice and sprinkle some salt and pepper, and you’ve got yourself a taco or fajita filling.

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Summer Peach Cake

If you can muster the inner peace to not explode when you turn on the oven, you should definitely make this cake. Granted, the 100+ temperatures make summoning the will to add heat to your home that much more masochistic, but like I said: if you can find that inner namaste, this cake is a handsome reward. It’s a simple summer cake recipe, one whose heft and flavor comes as much from thick, juicy peach slices as from freshly ground almonds.

You’d think the big hunks of fruit and almond flour would make this cake heavy, but they don’t. No, it’s not the lightest, most fluffy cake, but you know what? Neither is summer the lightest, freshest season. These are the dog days. With weather like this, you have two choices. You can sip cold soup, do a 10-day cleanse, and will the season to fade into fall, or — if you can’t beat’em, join’em. This slightly dense, incredibly moist cake will bring that love-hate relationship with summer right to the fore. It’s plump and bursting with peach juice. It’s not the least bit cold. And as you eat it, you’ll realize that succumbing to the dog days of summer, while sweaty as hell, can actually be liberating.

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Apricot Basil Ice Cream

Admittedly, it all started with apricot curd. I know, I know…more curd? You must think I’ve gone mad. But consider the humble apricot, whose thrilling tang and sultry sweetness lies pretty much dormant until cooked. Rhubarb is much the same, and you’ll remember how that turned out – so can you blame me for trying again? No, you can’t. And let me tell you, that apricot curd was really, really good.

But then it got really, really hot in DC. When it’s 100 degrees out with 99% humidity, it’s hard to rationalize making anything but cold soup and ice cream. So I turned back to my humble apricots, wondering if I could turn them into something sweet, tangy, and frozen.

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Santa Fe Getaway

Hi folks!

Well, we’re back from Santa Fe. I can’t say we got a warm welcome home — it was more of a scorching welcome. The weather here was completely out of control, with temperatures soaring into the 100s and humidity in the high 90% range. Now that DC isn’t completely exploding, I’m out of my post-vacation funk, and I’ve got loads of pictures and bits to share.

Santa Fe is nothing like DC. The days are hot but dry, the evenings cool and breezy. It’s weather that calls for linen pants and light, airy sweaters. That’s what I wore for 6 wonderful days.

The weather and surroundings in Santa Fe were, without a doubt, the highlight of the trip. Not since I lived in Israel have I been in a place with such beautiful scenery everywhere you look. Desert in the background, mountains in the distance, a hot, dry haze in the air, but the promise of cool breeze in early morning and evening. We took advantage of those cool evenings to eat outdoors, and restaurants in Santa Fe have beautiful outdoor seating. At one restaurant, Aqua Santa, we ate under wooden beams laced with vines and supporting a beautiful sour cherry tree. A couple plump, red sour cherries were the perfect end to the meal.

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Fried Squash Blossoms

Please welcome my good friend Jeremy, who’s going at ’em again with his second guest post on NDP. I’m off to Santa Fe, NM for the long weekend, and Jeremy’s babysitting the blog (because 4 kids isn’t enough!) while I’m gone. Behave now…and get thee some squash blossoms!

I’m not one for begging, but I’m begging you, dear reader, not to miss out on the squash blossom.

For some reason, this extraordinary harbinger of summer seems to scare the bejeezus out of people. For the past month or so of Sundays, I’ve found myself lingering at a table covered with little wooden baskets filled with these delicate, delicious flowers. And without fail, I’ve overheard conversations like this one, between two veteran denizens of DC’s biggest farmers’ market:

“What would I do with them?”
-“I don’t know.”
“I mean, I love squash, but the blossom… whatever.”
-“I know. There must be a reason you never see them on a menu anywhere.”
“Exactly.”

Verbatim? No. But you get the idea. So let’s set the record straight, shall we?

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