One of my favorite things about living in Southern California is the amazing produce we get year round, and the staggering variety available.  Every Sunday, I buy most (if not all) of my produce for the week at the Hollywood Farmers’ Market.

Shopping at farmers’ markets has made me realize the diversity of the produce I buy; while a few heirloom veggies are currently enjoying a vogue, it’s not often that varieties are labeled at the supermarket.  I love knowing that I prefer fuerte avocados to bacons, for example, or being able to buy several kinds of mint on any given market day.  But one of the most interesting things is running across produce that, as a New England transplant, I’ve never seen or tried before. 

One fall morning a few years ago, I saw a vendor selling fresh olives.  I knew that olives had to be cured to be eaten, and though I had seen fresh olives growing on trees, it had never occurred to me that I could cure my own olives.  I knew I had to try it. 

As soon as I got home from the market, I called my dad.  “Have you ever cured olives?” I asked “Of course!” he laughed.  I didn’t consider how commonplace an activity it must have been for him growing up in Greece.  He recited from memory some beautifully simple instructions, so rustic compared to the published recipes I typically cook from.  I doubt any family member has ever written down this method; rather, it’s the kind of technique one learns from a mother or grandmother whose movements and measurements are sure and automatic.  I’m happy to be recording and sharing my dad’s “recipe,” and as I continue to refine my technique each time I make them, I love remembering how plainly he passed the knowledge on to me.

Brine-cured olives

- Part 1 -
5 or more lbs fresh olives (I’ve used both Mission and Manzanilla olives)
box of kosher salt
bottled water (at least one gallon to start)
extra virgin olive oil
large jar or jars for curing

- Part 2 -
extra virgin olive oil
rosemary
lemons (Meyers can be used, but are not necessary)
small jars for “canning”

Wash olives well, then drain in a colander. 

Working in batches, place a few olives at a time on a cutting board.  (I like to put a dish towel around it to prevent them from rolling.)

With the flat side of a meat tenderizer give each a good whack until it splits open. 

My dad says he put the olives on a rock and smashed them with another, smaller rock; that’s an option as well.  Alternately, slice each one lengthwise with a paring knife. 

Transfer sliced or split olives to a large jar or jars.

Dissolve one cup (“two fistfuls” per my dad’s instructions) of kosher salt in water, mixing until as much salt is dissolved as possible. 

Pour off the salt water into the olive jar, leaving undissolved salt behind.  Keep adding water and stirring, then pouring water into the olive jar until all the salt has been dissolved and added to the olives.  Top up jar with enough fresh water to cover olives and give it a shake or stir.

Add a thin layer of oil to the surface of the water and olives, and seal the jar.

Leave the jar out at cool room temperature, and wait a week.

After week one, drain and rinse olives.  Some sludge may accumulate on the surface— this is not a problem, just rinse the olives well.  Wash the jar, then return the olives to it.  Again dissolve the salt water as above, this time using only half as much salt (1/2 c).  Add oil, and seal the jar for another week.

Repeat this procedure for four weeks.  At the end of the four weeks, taste the olives.  If they are still bitter, use half as much salt as the previous week and let them sit another week.  If they are salty, let them sit a week in water only.  If they taste great, move on!  The olives can take anywhere from four to eight weeks, so be patient.

When the olives taste good (not too bitter, not too salty), drain and rinse them a final time. 

Slice one or two lemons crosswise into thin slices, and line each of the small jars with a few. 

Cut rosemary sprigs to the height of each jar.  Add olives to the jars a few at a time, snuggling a few sprigs of rosemary in-between. 

Press gently on the olives, packing them in tightly, then pour olive oil slowly over olives and seal jars.  Let olives rest in the refrigerator at least one week. 

Olives should be stored in the refrigerator (where they will keep at least one year), but the oil will solidify, so bring them to room temperature before enjoying them.

Last year (2009), I participated in the first KCRW Good Food Pie Contest.  While it was fun, there were a few weird things about that event, not the least of which was that it took place in a mall.  Competing with over one hundred fifty pies, my humble Caramel Pumpkin, even with its high fluted all-butter crust, lacked the glitz and glamor of those flashy meringue-topped concoctions of which I’ve honestly never been a fan. 

I think I make a pretty good pie, so I was disappointed that I didn’t place, but I developed a stragegy for this year: I would make a visually dramatic pie, I would make a pie with an exotic crust, I would pull out all the stops to get this pie noticed.…or so I thought.  My planning began over the summer, before the pie contest was even announced; unfortunately, I started a new job that week and had to work all weekend, forcing my withdrawal from the pie contest at the last minute.  I’m OK with it, and had made a practice pie, so I’m sharing some pictures and the recipe for the pie I would have made, if I hadn’t spent Labor Day weekend assistant editing an infomercial for, ironically, a convection oven.

Key Lime Pie

Super easy to make, this pie still tastes pretty sophisticated, as the crunchy spiciness of the ginger snap crust contrasts the cool lime custard.

Trader Joe’s triple ginger snaps (or whatever they call them) work great for the crust, but this time I wanted to step everything up so I made my own (and used the leftovers to make ice cream sandwiches).  From a recipe originally published in Gourmet, these gingersnaps have been a perennial staple of my holiday “Cookies and Cocktails” party.  I find them spicy and delicious, but one of my Chinese friends thinks they’re weird because they are made with five-spice powder, which is traditionally used to season meat.  So, just a heads up.

- crust -

1 to 1 1/2 c ginger snap crumbs (from homemade or store bought cookies)
4 to 6 tbsp unsalted butter, melted and cooled to room temperature

Combine, adding more butter or crumbs to make a workable mixture, and press as thin a layer as possible into a 9” pie plate, or, for added drama, a springform pan. 

Bake in preheated 350 oven for 10-12 minutes, until a shade darker, then let crust cool while assembling filling.   Leave oven on.

(If using a springform pan, place it on a baking sheet so butter doesn’t melt and smoke on the oven floor— I learned this the hard way.)

- filling -
4 large egg yolks at room temperature
1/2 c key lime juice (10-20 “key” or “Mexican” limes depending on size and juiciness)
2 tsp lime zest
1 14 oz can sweetened condensed milk

Beat yolks until light, then add juice, zest, and condensed milk.  Mix well and pour into crust.

Bake 15-20 minutes (again, on baking sheet for springform pan) or until slit poked in custard does not reseal— custard will set more as it cools.

If using a springform pan, cool completely before CAREFULLY un-molding.  Et voila!

For the contest I wanted my pie to be more visually striking than just a 9” round expanse of custard, so I tried out some decorating techniques.  I pressed some raspberry jam through a sieve to remove the seeds, mixed some creme fraiche with a little water to get a thinner consistency, then drizzled each in patterns over the pie in an attempt to figure out what shapes worked best.  It wasn’t exactly what I was envisioning, but I actually liked the abstract look of it— not too fussy, but still kind of pretty. 

In the end, I was happy with the look and flavor of the pie, even if I wasn’t able to compete in this year’s contest.  But I’m not gonna lie, I really want to know what Zoe Nathan would have thought.

One of my favorite aspects of cooking is making foods that are ordinarily store-bought.  Most people have probably baked cookies or simmered up some marinara, but how many people make their own bread, jams, or condiments?  Accustomed to buying certain prepared items, we tend to forget they can be made from scratch, although lately I’m seeing a resurgence in doing just that.  Controlling the quality of ingredients, avoiding unnecessary packaging, and a desire to eat “real” food the way it “used to be” made set me on the road to my first batches of pickles this summer.

I have always been a pickle lover, but I have recently swooned over pickle plates at Momofuku Ssäm Bar in New York and Umami Burger here in Los Angeles that offered some pretty outlandish pickles: watermelon rind, heart of palm, carrot, apple, cauliflower, shitake, okra…a bounty of exotic and heirloom veggies brined in a variety of salty, sweet, and spicy combinations.  A far cry from the sad chartreuse spears I nonetheless enjoyed as a child, these pickles were art.  

My head reeling with the limitless pickle possibilities, my first effort was the pickled watermelon rind from the Momofuku cookbook.

I’ll humbly admit this was a near-failure.  I decided to make a double batch since a single batch only called for half a watermelon rind and, well, I had a whole watermelon, so why waste?  I’m not sure what my downfall was, but there were a few issues.  First, maybe I left too much of the pink flesh on.  When the pickles were cooked, it was kind of mushy.  Also, where the recipe indicated to add the fruit to the boiling pickling liquid and then boil for a minute, I wondered, do I let the mixture return to a boil and then time the minute?  I did, but maybe that was a mistake as it took several minutes to return to a boil after adding the cold fruit.  Overall, I thought they came out a little too sweet, and something, maybe the star anise, lent them a funky flavor.  I pawned them off on as many unsuspecting friends as possible, but they were pretty and I love the idea so I might try another more traditional “American South” recipe.

Undaunted, I forged ahead with a basic pickled beets recipe from epicurious.com using Chioggia beets, an heirloom Italian variety, instead of the dark purplish ones.  Bright red on the outside with concentric white circles inside, these lovelies yielded a pickled beet that was milder tasting and a very pretty bright pink.  These, too, were a bit on the sweet side, but definitely still tasty, unlike the watermelon rind (which I still have if anyone wants it).

After making the beets, I threw some raw purslane into the leftover pickle juice, inspired by some friends who’d bought pickled purslane (who knew you could pickle that?) at a roadside farm somewhere up the PCH.  It worked OK, but the spicier stuff my friends had gotten was much tastier, and I have to concede I don’t know the first thing about pickling purslane.  Really, I don’t know a lot about purslane at all, so let’s move on.

With one moderate success and one embarrassing failure, I thought I’d try some straight-up “Real Kosher Dills” according to Mark Bittman’s ever-useful tome How to Cook Everything.  What makes these the real deal is that they are cured with kosher salt rather than vinegar; the ingredient list is simple: water, salt, fresh dill, garlic, and Kirby cucumbers.  I also added some coriander seeds, mostly because I like the way they look floating in the jar among the spears.  Delicious and super easy, the only cooking involved was boiling water.  Packed in the Ball canning jars (which I finally tracked down at Target of all places), their classic aesthetic is charming, isn’t it?  And they really taste like a dill pickle— salty, crunchy, a nice garlic bite.  If anything they might be just a bit too salty, but that’s probably a matter of taste.  In any case, I saved the leftover pickle juice which I’m considering diluting a little and using to cure some more Kirbies, perhaps (thought this might be sacrilege) adding a handful of black peppercorns or a few dried chilies to spice things up.

Now that I can create my very own “pickle plate” at home, I feel like the possibilities are endless.  I don’t really care whether it’s an overlooked culinary treatment or a a retro-cooking fad, pickling made me want to plant a victory garden and make more of my own eclectic condiments.  Maybe ketchup is next?