taking a classic for a spin … Salmon Rillettes

A few weeks ago David Lebovitz, the Paris based American born pastry chef and cookbook author, wrote a post about pork rillettes. I’m never sure how I feel about rillettes. They are essentially shredded meat of some kind, often pork or duck, slowly cooked in their own fat and pressed into a dish or ramekin to be enjoyed on a crispy baguette. I’ve encountered them countless times on my travels through France, brought home a zillion tins from the local market and I want to like them. I really do. But something about them doesn’t quite do it for me.

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fire it up … Smoky Baba Ghanoush

As a culinary consultant, I’ve picked up some really nifty tricks over the years. This is one of my favorites. While working on some dips for a Middle Eastern food company, I was asked to make a yogurt based spread with grilled eggplant, sort of a dairy based baba ghanoush. The provided “recipe” was a sheet of paper with an ingredient list typical of baba ghanoush: eggplant, tahini (sesame paste), garlic, lemon, olive oil. No measurements, no notes, no direction of any kind. That was part of my assignment: figure out the recipe and do it fast as the concepts were going to be consumer tested the next day. This is not entirely unusual in my line of work, which is why having a broad range of knowledge and techniques is incredibly helpful. And what I don’t know, google helps fill in the cracks.

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doing the best we can … Prosciutto Stuffed Figs

Walking through the produce section last week, I gasped when I saw them. Figs! Last summer I made something really delectable with figs off my friend Kate’s backyard tree.  Let’s do it again!  And then it hit me.  This time last year, I wasn’t looking at figs in a grocery store.  I was in Gascony picking them off a tree.  A wave of melancholy rushed over me.  There would be no trip to France this summer.  I’m up to my eyeballs in a new job, treading water while I figure out what I’m doing and adjusting with a little difficulty to a new schedule.  But I could make those figs again, and pretend for just a little bit.  Maybe I could trick myself into thinking I’m on that terrasse, scratching an enormous dog between his wiry ears with one hand, balancing a glass of cold rosé and a bit of saucisson in the other while big fat duck breasts sizzle in a pan.  It could work.  For a few seconds anyway.

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