Not Derby Pie

The most obvious solution to the “problem” of those oversized, seed-filled summer squash is to make a gratin. When you slice those massive squash as thinly as possible, blanket them in something creamy, and top the pile with something crunchy, the so-called problem is a problem no more.

However, gratins cause a problem of their own (one that’s slightly more real than a glut of summer produce): flooding. Summer squash are like 80% water, and if you aren’t careful, they’ll flood even your most carefully constructed casserole. If you’ve ever made a gratin with plain sliced squash, you know what I’m talking about. You’ve gotta serve it with a slotted spoon, and even then, the liquid pools in the pan and on the plate, ruining what could have been a good thing.

Most recipes that call for cooked squash tell you to salt and strain it in advance. This is good advice. But to really avoid any pooling whatsoever, you need to kick the draining process into overdrive.

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This is the most glamorous thing to do with the half-bag of stale tortilla chips languishing at the bottom of your snack drawer. (Come clean: it’s there.) Instead of throwing them away — or, as I do, letting them sit there getting even more stale until not even the greatest of hunger pangs can motivate you to open the bag, and then throwing them away — you can dunk them into a vat of good ranchera sauce, pile on some toppings, and call it breakfast. Yes, I’m telling you to eat tortilla chips for breakfast. I’m sorry, do you need more convincing?

Somehow, in a feat of magic and wonder, you can soak a tortilla chip in sauce, and it stays just crunchy enough to make for a delightful meal. If you put a bit of queso fresco and some scallions on top, it even starts to look healthy. I admit, it’s confusing. In a very good way.

Yet another recipe from Roberto Santibanez’s excellent book, these chilaquiles remind me of the ones that we had a few summers ago in Santa Fe. If I were feeling ambitious, I’d make both the red and the green sauce in his book, and serve the chilaquiles “divorciados” (half red, half green). But on a lazy Saturday, that kind of potchkeing isn’t in the cards. I’ve got half a bag of semi-fresh homemade tortilla chips from Luna’s Tortillas, which I visited on last week’s business trip to Dallas. I have a jar of ranchera sauce in the fridge, as well as a bit of fresh feta cheese and heavy cream (two very fine substitutes for queso fresco and crema). No cilantro, but I’ve got scallions from my CSA. Five minutes later, I have chilaquiles, a happy stomach, and a bebe who, from the strength of its kicking, seems to enjoy breakfast as much as I did.

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My usual version of enchiladas starts with a glance in an empty fridge, a brief utterance of four-letter words, a recollection that the pantry has both a jar of salsa and a jar of tomato sauce, and a dash to the corner bodega for corn tortillas. It’s not glamorous, but it gets the job done.

These days, though, I’m making them from scratch. Turns out, it’s not all that complicated. All you need is a batch of Roberto Santibanez’s ranchera sauce, and you’re most of the way there.

Back in 2012, Santibanez wrote a book called Truly Mexican. In the quarterfinal round of Food52’s cookbook contest, The Piglet, Truly Mexican lost to Nigel Slater’s Tender (one of my favorite cookbooks), and the judgement seemed unjust: the cartoonist Roz Chast drew the most absurd, unconsidered evaluation of the book, dinging it for making her roast chilies (the smell made her cough – the horror!), and for calling for smoky ancho chilies: she substituted plain green chilies and the recipe came out bland, go figure. I — along with many Food52 loyalists – was angry. Here was a cookbook that others had lauded for its best-ever guacamole and excellent, instructive corn tortilla recipe, and Chast made a recipe for which she didn’t have the proper ingredients, then blamed her failure on the book. Correcting the injustice in my tiny way, I went out and bought Truly Mexican.

This was not a mistake. Santibez takes what often feels like a confounding cuisine and makes it approachable. His prose and instructions have none of Diana Kennedy’s chiding; instead, he recommends substitutions where appropriate, and tells you frankly when an alternative just won’t do. He also has a section on salsas and another on moles and pipians, both of which are so thick that the entire middle of his book is devoted to sauce. As someone who sees solid food as a vehicle for flavored liquid, this delights me.

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There are times when I get home from work, drop my bag, open the fridge, and dinner just jumps out at me. I see the garlic scapes on the middle shelf, the tomatoes on the counter, some good ricotta lurking in the back, and it’s done: summer pasta.

But other times, despite what others surely would call a full fridge, I can’t seem to find anything to make. Last Wednesday was one of those times, and I’ll have you know that I came this close to running down the street and grabbing a rice bowl–before an idea popped into my head.

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The experts report that corn pudding is a specific thing. Before angering the purists with this hacked-up version, I figured I’d look into what the original actually is. After an earnest attempt to track down true corn pudding, I’m here to report – somewhat cheerily? – that Google is so full of riffs and adaptations, it’s nearly impossible to find a source that records the original dish.

From what I can tell, true corn pudding is like a souffle, made with the pulp and juices left over after you’ve cut the kernels off an ear of corn. In Amanda Hesser’s version, you need 14 ears of corn to get enough pulp for one 9-inch baking dish.

I had 8 ears, and I didn’t have other plans for the kernels. I wanted something that could make use of them, and I really didn’t want it to be fussy. I was drawn to the puffed-up, cloud-like spoonbread that Deb shared from Cook’s Illustrated a while back, but it called for three too many bowls and I was in a hurry.

Fortunately, Ina came to the rescue with something called Sagaponack Corn Pudding, which she claims converted her from corn pudding skeptic to lover. I wouldn’t go that far (plus, who hates corn pudding?), but it’s a sturdy dish that can be mixed and/or baked well in advance, held in a hot oven without deflating, and please even the few strange specimens who haven’t been counting down the days until good corn finally comes back to the markets. (Weirdos.)

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This site’s been down on and off for the last week or so, due to technical problems that definitely are over my head in terms of complexity. But you know me, I tried to fix them anyway. After one full day of head cold-induced stupor and a second, semi-conscious day of tinkering around, I seem to have solved most of the issues, at least for now. My header still isn’t showing up, but a) that may be the last little kick in the derriere that I needed to change the thing, and b) you’re the best readers ever: you know where you are.

Meanwhile, I’m glad the site’s up again, because I finally can share the stockpile of delicious things I’ve been cooking that you need to cook, too.

We hosted our monthly wine club on Friday night. Dinner was gazpacho and a big nicoise salad, but for dessert, I had two quarts of the sweetest sweet cherries an no plan. I’d had my sites set on a slab pie, but the head cold nixed my grand plans. That’s when I remembered about the freezer bag of chopped rhubarb that I’d put away in early spring, and I got nervous that the cherries would be too sweet and one-note on their own, so I combined them into a spontaneous and really good crumble.

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I was poking around on Food52 the other day and came across a recipe for Mama’s Summer Gazpacho, from one of my favorite early participants in the site. The headnote above the recipe was equal parts loving ode and adamant defense: “Purists may question this recipe’s lack of bread, or the use of tomato juice, but I firmly believe…” and so on.

She was right to defend herself. Gazpacho is a deeply personal thing, and when people say they have their favorite recipe, what they probably mean is that they almost definitely like their own gazpacho better than yours. Some people are loyal to entirely smooth versions containing not much more than tomato. Others swear by those sweet-ish gazpachos containing watermelon. And while I’ve never heard someone hold white gazpacho above red as their favorite, those people must be out there, somewhere. Pretty much every time I serve or eat gazpacho, I look around the table and see that people have strong opinions about what’s in the bowl. They grew up on a certain kind of gazpacho, and convincing them that yours is equally lovable may be out of reach.

There are exceptions to this rule. We recently swooned over gazpacho made by our friend Josh, which was based on (gasp!) canned tomatoes, and stood up well to the best fresh versions I’ve had. It wasn’t my recipe, but you better believe I asked him to share it. It’s a great one for the files, especially when you’re craving cold soup and fresh tomatoes aren’t quite ready for a spotlight. I’ll share it on here one of these days.

But today, I’m here to share my favorite gazpacho with you. What you need to know:

• It uses fresh tomatoes.
• It contains two distinct textures: a smooth soup, and a diced salad toss-in.
• the smooth soup does not include bell peppers, because I’m pretty sure pureed green bell peppers ruin things.
• It contains two kinds of chile: fresh jalapeno, and chipotle in adobo.
• It does not contain tomato juice (though I, too, have a soft spot for recipes that call for it).
• It is wonderful.

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