That’s It

Well, there you go. 

The food is prepared, the serving dishes are chosen, and the schedule is made.  Tomorrow at 11 am Teacherman and I will be married, and then drive back to our own house to have a party with all of our friends and family.  I expect it to be the best party of my life, and even if the town floods and the refrigerator breaks, that will still be true.

On Sunday, we’re leaving for two weeks in Europe.  This will this be an excellent vacation, but it also means that I won’t be posting.  I’m sure all of you can handle this. 

Stay tuned: On July 9th, a return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Published in: on June 22, 2007 at 3:08 pm  Comments (1)  

All Right, Already

The single most common search query that pops up in my statistics is, unsurprisingly, “Poulet Basquaise.” Back in February my best friend’s husband asked if I had an actual recipe for it somewhere within the site, which, let us not forget, is named for the dish. Well, no. It’s not that I objected to having a recipe up, but that I haven’t made Poulet Basquaise in the entire time I’ve been writing the blog, so all of my posts were on things that I was currently eating.

After months of repetative search queries, though, I’m finally giving in.

Poulet Basquaise was my favorite meal when I was growing up, and one of the first things I learned how to cook on my own (I can’t remember if it was THE first–I think that distinction may fall upon beef stroganoff). I’ve made it for all of my friends at some point, and it was the basis of the first meal I ever made for Teacherman. It is definitely comfort food, of the best meat-in-sauce variety, and, in spite of my mother’s occasional claims that I can’t possibly like her ‘ordinary, plain’ cooking anymore, I adore it still. This recipe is entirely hers–I’ve only ever made one deviation* therefrom–taken straight from the recipe card I’ve had since I left home.

Poulet Basquaise

2 lbs skinless, boneless chicken thighs
8 oz fresh mushrooms, cleaned and sliced
sliced pepperoni to taste
1 large green pepper, chopped
1 large onion, chopped
32-48 oz of good quality tomato sauce
1/2 cup dry white wine
2 Tbsp olive oil

Remove any visible fat from the chicken and pound meat gently to tenderize. Cut each thigh into two pieces, then brown in the olive oil.

Remove chicken from the pan and saute mushrooms, onions and peppers. When onions are translucent, add chicken and all other ingredients to the pan. Use as much sauce as you need to get the consistency you want.

Simmer all ingredients on low heat (after heating on high for a few minutes) for about 45 minutes. Better when made the day before.

* Deviation: My mother dredges the chicken pieces in flour before sauteeing; I do not.

It may not sound like much (and indeed, an ex-boyfriend once turned up his nose at a description and called it “goop”), but the flavors work magic together. It isn’t altogether different from chicken cacciatore, but the pepperoni sets it apart. When I was growing up we always used a major brand of stick pepperoni, sliced into great chunks, but since I moved to the city I’ve used the pepperoni from my favorite butcher. The flavor profile is similar (one wouldn’t want to create an entirely unfamiliar dish), but the one is the platonic ideal of the other.

I usually use button mushrooms or creminis; for all that the former are scorned as common, I find that they have a pleasant meatiness that works well in this dish, adding an earthy contrast to the chicken without dominating. As for the tomato sauce, I use whatever plain, tomato-based pasta sauce I have on hand; marinara-style sauces work the best.

The vagueries of my childhood memory say that my mother always served this dish with rice, using the greater amount of tomato sauce in the preparation, but I prefer to serve it as a kind of stew, with no starch to take away from the intense flavors. And she is right–Poulet Basquaise, like almost all other tomato sauces, is better when left to mellow overnight before serving.

Writing this post has made me hungry, and I’m beginning to crave a bowl of my own. I will have no free time until Sunday, however, and on that day I leave for two weeks abroad. Forays into making Poulet Basquaise will have to wait, but wait they will, and so will I.

Published in: on June 20, 2007 at 8:06 am  Leave a Comment  

Fresher Than Fraiche

Yes, it’s true.  I make cheese at home.  I know that this sounds excessive and may push me over the edge into the realm of crazy survivalists, but I really make cheese for the same reason that I do all of my unusual cooking projects–because it’s fun. 

I first made cheese because of a friend.  I’d invited my college dance partner and his then-girlfriend to visit me for Thanksgiving, and, at the time, he was known far and wide as an extremely picky eater.  One thing that I knew he did enjoy was the fresh cheese he ate for breakfast every day; he didn’t make it himself, but someone in his family did.  In an attempt to provide him with an acceptable breakfast, I threw caution to the winds, trawled the Internet for instruction, and made fresh cheese. 

It took absolutely no effort at all–milk and lemon juice were my only ingredients, an old pot, a slotted spoon, a colander and a cheap thermometer (a meat thermometer, actually) were my equipment.  It took me about 20 minutes to heat up the milk in the pot, stirring it occasionally with the spoon.  When it reached 165 degrees, I added the lemon juice.

Foosh!  Instant cheese!  The lemon juice coagulated the milk into big, fluffy white curds and thin, greenish whey, exactly the color I always imagined the moon would be if it really were made of green cheese (even though I realize now, of course, that it wasn’t really green cheese they were referring to, but new cheese.  Leave me alone: I formed my original idea when I was five).

I poured the contents of the pot into a colander lined with paper towels and watched the whey drain off, leaving the curds behind.  After most of the whey had precipitated out, I let the mixture sit in the fridge for a few hours, until it was about the consistency of the cheese I remembered from my friend’s house.

His visit came.  The cheese was approved.  I sighed with relief and moved on.  But I had made cheese!  I felt so cool!  I knew I had to try it again. 

I made that lemon cheese for several years–for using in cheesecakes, for filling lasagnas, for eating plain, with fresh fruit or chopped herbs–but had never branched out until about two years ago.  One day I idly noticed that a cheesemaking class being given at an event I was already attending.  More idly still, I decided to take the class.  The instructor made lemon cheese, using almost exactly the same recipe I do, and mozzarella, using minimal ingredients and even more minimal time.  Mozzarella?  This was something I definitely had to try.

I bought the book she recommended (Cheesemaking Made Easy by Ricki Carroll).  I perused the websites the book suggested.  I bought the cultures and rennet and cheesecloth.  I made mozzarella–it was really good.  Then I made feta–it was not so good.  Then I tried it again with modifications that made sense and it was fabulous.  I’ve made chevre, leipajuusto, queso blanco, panir, sour cream, creme fraiche, yogurt, cream cheese, cultured butter, whole milk ricotta and real, whey-based ricotta.  All good ranging to great; all definitely worthwhile. 

I’ve discovered that, counterintuitively, regular supermarket milk responds better to the cheesemaking process than fancy organic milk (from, admittedly, fancy organic supermarkets).  The one time I was able to get some raw milk (definitely hush-hush and under the counter), though, it made the most amazing cheese that I’ve ever eaten–it tasted like eating flowers.  I can only assume that the organic milk was pasteurized at a higher temperature than the ordinary supermarket kind.

I admit that I’ve never made a hard cheese.  I have the equipment (a cheese press sulks forlornly in a box on top of my kitchen cupboards, waiting for its chance to go to the ball) and the ingredients (one uses the same cultures and rennet for nearly every kind of cheese, just in different quantities and added at different times and temperatures) but I have nowhere to _age_ the cheese.   As soon as I can find a sterile, contained 60-degree environment with adjustable humidity levels I will make an aged cheese, but until then I’ll stick with the softer ones. 

Which brings me to the point.  Once Teacherman and I had decided on the menu for our wedding reception, and I saw that one of the dishes required creme fraiche, I knew that I had to make the creme fraiche myself.  It’s cheaper, yes, but it’s also incredibly neat to make something so ‘fancy’ out of something so easily available.

After dinner tonight I heated a quart of half-and-half in a small pot on the stove until it reached 86 degrees.  I stirred in the starter culture, put a lid on the pot, and moved it to someplace it could sit undisturbed for 12 hours.  Tomorrow morning before work I’ll check the contents, to see if the resultant creme fraiche thick enough for me.  If so, I’ll put pot in the fridge.  If not, I’ll leave it to continue culturing until after I return home from work. 

The extent of the effort is the heating and stirring–nothing more is necessary.  Almost no cheese is easier (except for cream cheese, which doesn’t even need to be heated: just stir the culture into room-temperature cream, put a lid on and let it sit overnight) and few recipes of any kind result in such a lovely, voluptuous product.

This creme fraiche will fill three almond-onion crusts and be topped by smoked salmon, dill and cracked pink peppercorns.  It won’t be the star of its particular show, but its presence will be noted and appreciated.  Even if that note and appreciation are only from me, it will be worthwhile.

Published in: on June 18, 2007 at 8:37 pm  Leave a Comment  

Why Yes, Thank You, I AM Crazy

“Are you CRAZY?!”

This is the invariable response when I tell people what I will be doing one week from today.   

On the 23rd, Teacherman and I will be getting married. Next Friday, the 22nd, I will be making all of the food for the reception.

<shrieks of disbelief resound throughout the cybersphere>

No, really, it’s true.  With the help of my best friend, and two more friends who have been to culinary school, all of the food for the reception will be made in this very house. 

When I tell people about this, no one understands why I could possibly want to make the food for my own wedding.  They think I’m doing it because I’m a skin-flint and want to save money. 

No.  I’m doing this because I love to cook, and cooking for my own wedding is delightfully fun.  I can make simple, good food, served exactly the way that I want, and I get the enjoyment of making it all from scratch in my own kitchen. 

It goes along with the aesthetic of the entire wedding–our reception is in our tiny backyard, and there are no ‘vendors’ involved at all; everything is being done by one of us, or one of our friends.  One friend is taking the pictures, one friend is in charge of the music for the service, one friend is bringing music for the reception, my best friend did all of the graphic design, and three friends are helping prepare the food.  Why have a party of any kind, let alone a wedding, if it’s not about having fun with friends and family and if it doesn’t reflect who one really is? 

I should point out that there will only be 34 people at the reception, including the entire wedding party, so it’s not like I’ll be cooking for the usual bridal hundreds.  And the wedding is in the morning, so the reception is a brunch, which means I won’t be sauteing myriad chicken breasts or trying roast anything.  Brunch lends itself very easily to make-ahead cooking and that’s exactly what we’ll be doing. 

There is almost nothing on the menu can’t be made ahead of time.  Et voila, le menu:

1. A three-layer fritatta: one layer of roasted red pepper, one layer of spinach and one layer of cheese.
2. A smoked salmon-creme fraiche tart in an almond-onion crust.
3. An enormous salad with edible flowers.
4. A big bowl of macerated berries and fruit.
5. Three good cheeses, one soft, one semi-aged and one hard.
6. The chef’s amazing bread, with two flavored butters.
7. Zucchini bread, made by Teacherman’s mother.
8. A lemon cheesecake, made by my mother.
9. The Wedding Cake: layers of almond torte sandwiched with sweetened mascarpone cheese and fresh, lightly cooked berries, then frosted with vanilla bean-whipped cream.

Next Friday the four of us will get together in my kitchen and divide up our tasks.  Someone will roast peppers, cook spinach, grate cheese, and make the fritattas.  Someone will grind almonds and onions and make tart crusts.   Someone will whip up a vinaigrette (raspberry–I should tell someone that’s the kind I want).  Someone will stew the berries for the cake and sweeten the mascarpone.  The bread–pre-made by the chef–will go to live in Teacherman’s bread cupboard, and the cake layers–also fruit of the chef’s craft–will slide into the refrigerator next to my homemade creme fraiche and the purchased cheese. 

And then, done.  We’ll smile at each other, clean up, and go off to wait for the next day to arrive.

Admittedly, there will be a FEW things to do on the morning-of, but they’re few enough that our chef-y friend can do them all himself and still come to the wedding.  I’ll be meeting him and his wife at the farmer’s market that morning to pick out the salad greens and fresh fruit (along with the flowers for the bouquets), but then he’ll take the purchased edibles back the house, assemble the cake, fill the tarts, and macerate the fresh fruit, finishing up in time to swing back to the chapel for the wedding itself. 

The wedding is at 11:00.  The pictures will be of the entire assemblage.  By 12:30 we should be back home, eating good food and talking to all of the friends that made the wedding what it was. 

That is, what it will be. 

Just one more week.

Published in: on June 15, 2007 at 8:52 am  Leave a Comment  

Life is. . . .

The first sweet cherries appeared at the farmer’s market this Saturday. Two weeks ago they didn’t even have strawberries, but this week it’s obvious–the fruit marathon is about to begin. I bought strawberries, of course, which were soon transformed into strawberry ice cream, a few punnets of red currants, which I fell upon with shrieks of joy (our currant bushes have not yet begun to bear), and a pint of plump, Black Tatarian cherries.

I spent a portion of that afternoon pitting the cherries. Yes, it was only a pint, but I do not have a cherry pitter, something that I plan to rectify every year and never quite get around to. Somehow I always find myself standing in the kitchen holding a bent paperclip with cherry juice all over my shirt. Possibly my subconcious mind secretly enjoys the fact that I get to eat any accidentally mangled cherries and is sabotaging my pitter-purchasing effort.  In any case, I pitted the pint, and ruined sadly few.  Teacherman was planning to spend the afternoon outside, committing acts of home improvement, so as I contemplated the disemboweled cherries, ideas for immediate consumption were farthest from my mind.

Instead, I tipped the cherries onto a parchment paper-lined sheet pan and slid the pan into the freezer.  Sunday morning I combined the rock-hard frozen cherries, two cups of drained yogurt, and a little vanilla extract, then blitzed everything in the food processor until smooth–no sweetener necessary. 

The resulting smoothies were ambrosial.  The taste was entirely of cherry–the tiny background of warm vanilla and the tang of the yogurt only served to enhance and magnify the essence of the cherries themselves.  The flavor pulled us towards summer, leaving spring behind.

Published in: on June 11, 2007 at 6:38 pm  Leave a Comment  

Small Packages

I have always loved tiny things. As I child, I was not only the caretaker of the aforementioned tiny green alligators, but also myriad other tiny plastic animals, old-school metal matchbox trucks (yes, trucks–I don’t think I had any cars at all) a ramshackle dollhouse (built by my mother at half-inch scale, making it even smaller than other dollhouses), and innumerable random small things–woven baskets, wooden ducks, teeny-weeny shells, etc.

Even if nearly all of the ones I owned as a child have disappeared into the ether, I still love tiny things. These days, though, I coo over tiny, perfectly constructed foodstuffs. It grew, I’m sure, out of the tea parties that my best friend and I used to have. Given that we started having them when we were both nearly 18, these were real tea parties, with actual tea and delicate miniature fingerfoods. I don’t think that I ever prepared the ubiquitously expected tea sandwiches, but I made a lot of miniature scones, jelly-tots and comfits. When I wanted something savory, I went for miniature quiches, made in muffin tins, sometimes even mini-muffin tins.

It was only last year that I discovered the perfect tiny savory, though, far too late for my high school tea parties. This paragon? The fritter.

Well. Not really. The recipe title called them fritters, but given that they’re neither deep-fried nor breaded, I don’t know if they can truly be considered anything of the kind. The original recipe was for corn fritters and simply called for beating two egg whites until stiff, then whisking the two egg yolks until smooth and creamy, stirring in a cup of fresh corn kernels along with some salt, pepper and maybe a little herbage if necessary, then folding the egg whites into the corn mixture. Drop by tablespoons-full into a nonstick pan sprayed with oil and saute until browned. Voila–the ersatz fritter.

Simple as they were, those corn fritters were really very good. The result was much more like a silver dollar pancake than a true fritter, but the poppable morsels were light in texture and suffused with the flavor of corn–anyone who objects to ‘eggy’ flavors wouldn’t have been able to muster a single complaint. For a few months after I made them first, pick-a-vegetable fritters appeared at any or all meals of the day; eventually I even branched out into sweetened fritters with fruit–blueberry and apple were my two favorite variations.

Fritter-mania lasted the length of the summer and a short way into autumn, but when the temperatures started falling my cravings inclined towards heartier fare. I hadn’t thought about those pseudo-fritters in months until last week, when I saw a recipe in a newspaper food section for crab, corn and red bell pepper fritters. The recipe was for a real fritter–deep fried and coated in dry breadcrumbs, the internal ingredients bound together with flour, with the final result, if the picture was to be believed, looking like a lumpy hush puppy.

This was less than appealing. The combination of flavors, though, caught my imagination–crab, red bell peppers and corn are all sweet, but their sweetness is different enough that I didn’t think any of the three would overwhelm the others or be so sweet that the whole would be cloying. Contemplating the word ‘fritter,’ my mind flew back to the un-fritters of last summer, and a plan was formed.

For a solo dinner on Thursday night I whipped up an egg white, creamed its egg yolk, then stirred in crab, fresh corn kernels, diced red bell pepper, a chopped scallion, salt and some pepper. I folded in the egg white carefully, but it deflated a bit when confronted with the quantity of filling; the final mixture was still fluffy, though. I added a bit of canola oil to my biggest nonstick skillet, and, when the oil was hot, dropped in diminutive spoonfuls. After about 7 minutes (flipping halfway through) the tiny cakes were entirely golden and caramelized on their flattest sides. I slid them out onto a plate and, armed with a fork, ferried the lot into the dining room for immediate consumption.

As I had thought, the combination of corn, bell pepper and crab was inspired. I had prepared a vaguely Asian dipping sauce to dunk the fritters in, but ended up neglecting it entirely, so much did I love the flavor of the fritters on their own. The natural sugars in the bell pepper increased the amount of caramelization, the sharpness and crunchiness of the scallion contrasted beautifully with the crab, both in texture and flavor, and the corn added bursts of mellow sweetness in the midst of everything else. It was a thoroughly satisfying meal, in spite of its lightness. I have no plans to make this particular variety of fritter in the near future (the farmer’s market is too full of exciting things to repeat a recipe), but its deliciousness was a reminder of how good the little pseudo-fritters can be. I have no doubt that some new vegetable fill find itself fritterized some day soon. I can only hope the resulting morsels will be as toothsome as these were.

Published in: on June 9, 2007 at 7:51 pm  Leave a Comment  

Rubber Bands Redeemed

The first time I ate squid was on a college archaeology trip to Greece.  Our professor was off conferring with an excavator about permission to see a dig in progress and all of the students were wandering around a tiny rural town with nothing much to do.  The hours of waiting were long; everyone was bored.  I was the only one with a book to read, and I had finished it.  Most of the others would only have been happy if a shopping mall had manifested out of the ether, or if the proverbial Hot Euro Chicks appeared to whisk them away to idylls unknown. 

Dinnertime came.  Still no professor.  It was 7 p.m., still too early for any normal Greek person to want dinner, but we Americans were starving.  We stumbled into the only open restaurant–a deserted orektika place just off the main square.  Orektika are like appetizers or tapas, but (obviously) Greek.  This was before appetizer-only restaurants became widespread in America (even last year a colleague was shocked to hear me talking about a tapas bar, because she was unfamiliar with the word and thus could only conclude that I was planning a trip to a topless bar), but I don’t think any of us were surprised by the idea.  We were hungry and we wanted food.

We ordered everything on the menu.  No one in the group was a foodie, least of all me (my cooking skills at the time extended to occasional sauteed chicken breasts interspersed with Hamburger Helper and creatively augmented ramen noodles), but no one was picky about ‘foreign’ cuisine, either.  By this time we had been in Greece for two weeks, and we were used to the flavors and types of Greek food, used to their ways of preparing vegetables, used to the different types of protein.  

Successions of dishes came in myriad waves.  The midwestern meat-and-potatoes guys ate the tripe and the wild bitter greens with no complaints.  Olives were consumed by the gallon, as were quarts of very unfortunate ouzo.  None of us actually liked each other, so there was very little conversation as we passed all the little dishes around the table.

We’d been at it for about 20 minutes when the plate of squid in tomato sauce came within reach.  I ladled a spoonful onto my plate, nestling it next to the marinated feta and the fried zucchini.  A bite.  Oh.  Ew.  Yes indeed–they were exactly as the stereotype has it, like tough, springy rubber bands.  They were impossible to bite through and bounced around inside the mouth as if sentient and trying to get away.  I did not finish my spoonful. 

I could say that I avoided squid for years, but one can hardly be said to be avoiding something if one never encounters it.  Squid isn’t particularly prevalent on American menus, unless deep-fried, and as I rarely went out to dinner at all, let alone to fried seafood joints, squid was not on my dining radar at all.

When I moved to the city, though, I encountered fancy supermarkets.  Fancy supermarkets with fresh-fish counters that carried more than just yer basic farmed salmon and peel-and-eat shrimp.  Lo, squid appeared before me, and I saw that it was cheap.  Cheaper than most other sources of protein.  This made it a must-purchase. 

Having by this time consumed more cookbooks than it would be possible, in cubic feet, to fit in my home kitchen, I was aware of the prevailing wisdom on how to cook squid.  That is, barely. Many recipe writers seemed to be taking lessons from those who wrote recipes for martinis, calling for the bottle of vermouth to be waved in arcane swoops across the room from the glass of gin: the squid was to be passed through the air over the hot pan a couple of times, and then eaten.  Cook the squid any longer, the recipes warned, and the result would be just what I’d had in Greece–inedible rubbery strings, not fit for man or beast.  I took this advice to heart, and learned to make very good seared squid.  Some of my seafood salads might have been a little translucent, but my sources were trustworthy, and the salads were tasty.

It wasn’t long, though, before I began noticing the other recipes for squid–the ones that called for cooking it for an hour, or even more!  I rejected the idea, the memory of the orektika squid still repugnant.  But I couldn’t quite put the method out of my mind.  It was interesting, and more, it was untried (at least by me).  Last night I finally caved in and gave it a try.

It was easy, really–as simple as any of the quick-cooked seafood salads.  One sears the squid until browned, then adds a simple raw tomato sauce to the pan (mine was just a 15-oz can of diced tomatoes whiled in a blender with a red jalapeno, some white wine and some salt).  Bring the mixture to a boil, reduce it to a simmer, cover, and let bubble away for an hour.  After the first minute or two, of course, the squid curls up and rubberizes, but over the remaining hour an unexpected transformation occurs.  The squid gets tougher and tougher until it cannot get any more sproingy, but then, suddenly, it relaxes.  The rings of squid uncurl and become meltingly tender–much more tender than can be achieved by even the lightest and quickest of cooking methods.

Frankly, I was astonished.  Teacherman says that he only likes it ‘as much as’ seared squid, but I think the results of long-cooking are far and away superior to the quicker method.  Simmering anything for a hour isn’t a reasonable proposition on a weeknight, but slow-simmer squid will enter my repertoire as a delicious variation on ragu, perfect for a meal of comfort food.

Published in: on June 4, 2007 at 1:33 pm  Leave a Comment  

More Cheese, Please!

In twenty-six days Teacherman and I leave for our honeymoon: two weeks in the German Black Forest and in Alsace (which, in spite of Teacherman’s pseudo-naive assertions, is in FRANCE).  We are both far too excited about the food.

Sure, we read all the guidebooks and marked down the museums and castles and natureparks and picturesque towns that we wanted to go to, but in the midst of this genteel cultural orgy there would inevitably come a shout from whoever was in the other room:

“Do you think we’ll be there during asparagus season?”

“Look at the website for this cheese shop!”

“Strasbourg geese!  That is all I’m going to say: Strasbourg Geese!”

I think our most extreme moment of glee came when we realized that the farmer’s market in Freiberg is held Every Single Day on the square directly out the front door of our gasthaus.  There was some imperfectly-suppressed joyous leaping. 

And, because I always like to know what I’m getting myself into, I’ve been trying to read cookbooks from the region.  For the most part, this was a futile excercise.  Hearty Germanic cusine is not remotely “in” right now, and both regions, Alsace in particular, tend to be slighted in books of recipes meant to represent the entire country (whichever one that happens to be).

I was elated, therefore, when I discovered Black Forest Cuisine by Walter Staib on the New-Book shelf at the library.   I won’t give a review of the book here–I don’t actually know enough about the subejct to be a reliable auditor–but I will say that I loved the recipes, the traditional salad recipes in particular.  They hearken back to the self-created salad recipes of my childhood (meat, cheese, dressing, ancillary vegetables), but are so far above them in quality and inspiration that they really can’t be compared thereto.

My current favorite is for something called a Camembert Cafe Frei.  A whole round of Camembert is broken into pieces and mixed with a finely chopped amalgamation of chives, onions, caraway seeds and paprika, then served on top of lettuce and sliced radishes. 

I made the recipe last Sunday night, as part of our travelling cooler-fodder picnic.  The cheese I used was not a Camembert, but a something-without-a-name-I-could-discern, from Normandy.  It was runny and pungant, though, so runny that it couldn’t be broken into bits.  Instead we sprinkled the oniony mix-ins over the top and ate it bite by bite, chasing the chives around the plate and dipping the cheese into them. 


I know that the taste of the final dish had everything to do with the quality of the ingredients (the amazing cheese, the chives and shallot [because I had no onions] from the farmer’s market) , but it was still a revelation.  It was incredibly rich, but not so rich that I wanted to stop eating it.  The radishes and the lettuce provided a contrasting spicy crunch that worked well as an alternate bite with the gooey cheese. 

This is a recipe worth saving.  And, more, worth hoping to find in Germany itself.

Published in: on June 1, 2007 at 6:24 pm  Leave a Comment