Adventures in Pescatarianism

The first week of 2022, my boy came home from school and announced: “I’m becoming a pescatarian,” and then paused for effect. He was a few weeks away from his ninth birthday, and we’d been down this road before. A few years back it was an attempt to go full-on vegetarian, a run that lasted all of a week and a half and was stymied, as is usually the case, by bacon.

“Oh really?” I asked, unconvinced. “What’s the inspiration?”

“S. is going vegetarian for the new year, so I figured I would too. Except I don’t have a problem eating fish.”

The logistics would not be much of an issue. Our oldest daughter has been an unflagging vegetarian for nearly four years, and we’ve all slowly drifted toward a more plant-based existence. When my son made this announcement, his sister had just returned to school, and we were thinking about braising a big pot of pork paprika…but apparently the universe had other plans. Instead, we pulled together an emergency “Sahadi’s night,” a thing in our family that involves picking up middle eastern prepared foods from a favorite market and making a big Greek-ish salad to go alongside it.

“How’d it go with the pescatarianism?” I asked him the next night at dinner.

“Great,” he said. “Except they had hotdogs in the cafeteria and they smelled soooo good. I was almost tempted.”

“Gross,” said his 15-year-old sister.

“And S.?”

“Still goin’.”

On the third day, my son came home and announced that his friend S., erstwhile vegetarian, had lapsed.

“What did it?” I asked.

“They had pulled pork in the cafeteria and he couldn’t stand the temptation. ‘I just gotta!’ he said.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I’m committed.”

We had miso salmon for dinner.

Things continued like this for the next few weeks. S. continued to hop on and off the wagon, and my son recounted his friend’s struggles with temptations of the fleshly variety.

“I hope you’re not shaming him?” I asked, suddenly worried he might be that sanctimonious kid everyone avoids at lunchtime. “You’re not a meat-shamer, are you?”

“Oh no! Definitely not. I do me, he does him.”

A month and a half later, he’s still going strong, and I realize the ways in which he’s becoming a big person, capable of long-term goals and commitments. I’m a little verklempt. Many nights we rely on our vegetarian favorites: savory tarts, tofu tikka masala made with a favorite vegan simmer sauce, simple pastas sans meat. For him and his sister I created a vegetarian version of hearty French Onion Soup. We have fish some nights, but given the state of today’s fisheries limit consumption. One favorite is slow-roasted salmon which I first spread with a paste of white miso, sesame oil, rice vinegar, ginger, and garlic. Another salmon favorite is Alison Roman’s slow roasted citrus salmon with herb salad (possible paywall). They are both easy.

But the thing the boy has been asking for again and again is clam chowder, one of his most favorite foods. He once ate a raw oyster for $20, but other than that, shellfish is usually off the table. Except for clam chowder. This week, I granted him his wish. It holds a special place in my heart, too, ever since I enjoyed a bowl at Grand Central Oyster Bar in my early NYC days. Like barbecue, clam chowder is a culinary lightning rod, telling of regional alliances and gustatory prejudices. Manhattan or New England? White, red, or clear? Bacon or none? For us, the answer in that winter moment was simple: white clam chowder with no bacon and no frills. A deep dive into internet chowderdom revealed a dizzying number of options. The two I was most drawn to were Sam Sifton’s, made with bacon and cream, and Ina Garten’s, with no bacon or cream and a large amount of roux. I came up with something in between, creamy and rich but not too thick, and of course no bacon, because that would just be mean. It starts with whole fresh clams, which may seem fussy but I promise is worth it. I got mine from our local shop Fish Tales, and the fishmonger kindly scooped armloads of free oyster crackers into the bag. The chowder came together nicely, and as we warmed from the cold February day the taste was rich, briny, and comforting.

Our rendition of New England clam chowder

CLAM CHOWDER RECIPE

Ingredients:

• 24 medium/large sized top neck clams (or cherry stone, or if using quahogs, fewer clams), rinsed briefly

• 1 large white or yellow onion, diced

• Salt - 1 teaspoon or as needed

• 5 tablespoons unsalted butter

• 1/2 cup dry white wine

• 4 medium yellow potatoes, peeled and cubed

• 1-2 ribs celery, peeled and diced

• A couple sprigs fresh thyme

• 1 bay leaf

• 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour

• 2 cups whole milk

• 1/4 cup cream

• Chopped parsley for garnish

• Oyster crackers (Optional but recommended!)

Instructions:

1. In a large heavy pot or Dutch oven (le Creuset or similar), put the clams and about a cup of water. Cover and heat for 10-15 minutes, checking occasionally. When clams are open, transfer them to a bowl to cool. Discard any clams that haven’t opened after about 15 minutes. Important: Strain the liquid through a fine strainer and set the liquid aside for later—this will be your broth.

2. Clean the pot and put it over medium heat. Add 2 tablespoons of the butter and the diced onions, and sprinkle with some salt and pepper. Cook gently for about 10 minutes, until onions are softened a bit but not browned at all. Add the potatoes, celery, thyme, and bay leaf and sauté, stirring, for a few minutes, then add the white wine. Let simmer for 5 minutes or so, allowing the wine to cook down a bit, then add in the strained clam broth and cover the pot. Cook over low-medium heat until potatoes are soft enough that they can be pierced with the tip of a knife.

3. Meanwhile, prepare the clams: pull them out of their shells and discard the shells. Chop the clams into quarters or more if they are on the large size.

4. In a small saucepan melt the remaining 3 tablespoons butter and then whisk in the flour. Cook, whisking, for 5 minutes, then add milk and continue cooking. Whisk until the lumps are out, milk is simmering and beginning to thicken. This will take around 10 minutes.

5. Once potatoes are tender, add clams to the pot and pour in thickened milk mixture. Bring the pot to a simmer and cook for another few minutes. Taste for seasoning. Clams and their broth contain natural saltiness, but you may find the soup needs a little more. Just before serving, remove sprigs of thyme and the bay leaf, stir in cream, crank in some pepper, and taste once more for seasoning. Serve hot, with parsley sprinkled on top and oyster crackers.

Sausage Rolls and Flaming Pudding

When our girls were small, and their brother was nothing but a speck of stardust, we would sometimes steal away between Thanksgiving and Christmas. We’d ditch school and head to England, because that is where Ben’s extended family lives and there was usually some excuse—an anniversary party or a birthday—that didn’t take much arm twisting. His Granny was alive until a few years ago, and when she celebrated her 91st birthday we didn’t hesitate to fly over for it. We’re so glad we did.

Those trips weren’t always easy. Toddler jetlag deserves its own circle in hell, and during that first mini-vacation, England was in the clutches of a cold snap. Our hotel room’s window was stuck in a “cracked open for ventilation” position, ushering in an Arctic blast that left us all sniffly and ill-slept; the girls’ noses ran like faucets the entire trip. London is magical around the holidays, though, and its delights soon outweighed the trials of travel as we wandered the glittering streets way past bedtime every night. We made the obligatory visit to Father Christmas at Harrod’s, and he was so convincing I’m sure he extended the lifespan of our daughters’ beliefs. They squirmed and shotgunned pastries through high tea (“top tea” as they called it). The Winter Wonderland amusement park had sprung up in Hyde Park, and we spent hours on the kiddie rides and trying our luck at archery games, sub-freezing temperatures be damned.

In the countryside, hoarfrost blanketed graveyards and hedgerows, making everything look as though a giant hand had brushed it with icing; none of the pictures I took managed to capture the magic. When our fingers got numb we took refuge in warm, dark pubs where we drank warm, dark beer. The girls lived on mediocre chips and fruit pastilles. I don’t know how much they actually remember of these trips, though, especially that first one—if you ask them they’re probably recalling photographed scenes. And in this digital age our lives have become collections of crisply photographed scenes. (My own early memories are tinted orangish, no doubt because I’m actually remembering 70’s era photos rather than the occasions themselves).

The girls are teens now, and we haven’t been back to England for years. Playing hookie is now a no-no, and casual travel is all but impossible in the omicron age. Our holiday traditions, though, will always be partially British, just like our kids are. Typically, we’ll cap off the Christmas feast by dousing a Christmas pudding in booze and lighting it on fire. Someone runs it around the dinner table while it burns, as many times as possible before the flame dies out, because the more laps you can make the more prosperous the coming year promises to be. And Christmas would never be Christmas in our house without piles of sausage rolls, which often sit on a platter beside ham biscuits, a Virginia tradition from my childhood.

Christmas is never really the same as it was the year before, but it’s these little traditions that keep it festive. I’m experimenting with a vegetarian mushroom version of the sausage rolls and will keep you posted. For now, I give you our traditional recipe, both the short and the long versions….

Easy sausage rolls:

Ingredients:

• 1 package good quality, all-butter puff pastry (I like DuFour, in U.S. freezer sections)—defrosted overnight in refrigerator

• 6 or so good sausages, either sweet Italian variety or something sage-y. Feel free to experiment with non-meat varieties.

• Flour for rolling

• 1 egg, lightly beaten in a bowl with a few drops of water

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 450°. On a lightly floured surface, lay out the puff pastry and gently roll it with a rolling pin until it’s even in thickness and just slightly compressed. Next, squeeze sausage from its casing and lay it vertically along the left side of the dough, in a couple of inches from the edge. Pat the sausage into an even strip, about 1 inch thick. Discard the casings. Now you’ll want to work out the width of the pastry needed to surround the sausage, allowing enough dough to overlap slightly. With a sharp knife, cut the dough parallel to the sausage. Brush edges with a little bit of egg and fold the dough over the sausage, until the sausage is completely surrounded. Press the edges firmly together to seal; you can use the tines of a fork to make little crimps along the edge. Now you should have a long strip of dough-wrapped sausage. Cut it into equal pieces (Size is up to you! We like them bite sized) and lay them on a lined baking tray. Cut small slits into the tops and brush with egg.

2. Bake at 450° for about 10 minutes, then lower heat to 375° and bake for another 10 minutes or longer, if needed. Pastry should be puffed and golden brown and the sausage cooked through and sizzling around the edges. Serve hot or room temperature. I like to serve them with mustard for dipping.

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Traditional Sausage Rolls from Scratch:

(This recipe was given to me by my mother-in-law, Pauline:)

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Excellent corn bread, goose grease and cordial

A few months back, I wrote about the process of recipe keeping and my own family’s generational traditions. Here is a sequel—or more accurately a prequel—to that story.

If you are triggered by talk of clutter, piles, and moldering papers, then this post might not be for you. But if you’re intrigued—as I am—by family mysteries, heirlooms, and very old recipes, then read on.

On a recent Sunday, I stopped in to see my aunt Katie & uncle Andy in Maryland, and as Katie often does she had an armload of mystery treasures for me, along with some homemade pesto and iris rhizomes for me to plant in our Brooklyn garden.

The pile, which had belonged to my grandmother “Mimi” (who was a food writer), filled up an empty wine case. The contents included travel souvenirs, a bunch of well-worn and annotated cookbooks Mimi had used in the mid-20th century, and my grandfather’s 1924 Fresno High yearbook, which was plastered with multiple newspaper clippings announcing his expulsion from school—these seemed kind of proudly displayed, if you ask me (he eventually went on to graduate and become a mostly upstanding citizen).

one person’s trash…

As we were going through the books, Katie pointed out a tobacco-colored notebook that was in particularly rough shape and commented “this one looks really old but I have no idea what it is.” She gingerly turned the handwritten pages inside, many of which were loose and deeply yellowed. There were clippings and shreds of paper hanging on by rusted pins and in some cases sewed onto the notebook’s paper with thread. We speculated on whether it had been mice or time that had nibbled away at the edges of the papers, rendering them lacy and delicate. I was immediately smitten.

It was clear to me that this homespun book was from before my grandmother’s time, but when? Whose? After I got it home, it took a couple of hours of toggling between the notebook’s pages and my ancestry.com tree to connect the dots. Later, through the wondrous ways of the internet, I was connected with Don, the owner of Rabelais Inc. in Maine (a culinary bookshop I now can’t wait to visit), who as it turned out was the perfect person to help me contextualize this collection and suggest ways to preserve it.

Evidence points to the fact that the notebook was mainly used by Bettie Wheat Anderson, my great-great grandmother, who lived from 1832-1905 in Richmond, Virginia. Notebooks of this type would have been a family’s primary catalog of recipes, whether the person doing the cooking was the woman of the house or a domestic servant (or both). Since folks back then were generally less wasteful with their paper, many of the recipes are scribbled on the flip side of letter drafts, doodles, old bits of accounting; these “B sides” are fascinating in their own right. Some bear dates, which helped me deduce that most of the activity in the notebook took place between the 1870’s and the 1890’s. Adding another layer, the many different penmanship styles and ink qualities found in the book indicate different time periods and multiple authors. Clearly, there was a lot of passing along of recipes, swapping, and mailing them. A few are attributed to “M.D. Anderson”, who I’m pretty sure was my great-great-great-grandmother Maria (1803-1879)—the mother-in-law of Bettie—passing along her wisdom to the next generation.

Damsons are a small, sour variety of plum that were commonly grown and preserved in England and early U.S./colonies, but they’re harder to find now.

Most of the “receipts” in the book are for preserved foods, like pickles and salt-cured meat, or baked items such as cakes. Don at Rabelais explained to me that such content was typical in these home cookbook compilations, as baking and preserving required more precision, whereas cooked vegetables and roasted meats were more intuitive. Lest you think cooking was bland back then, many of these foods were highly spiced; ginger, allspice, cloves, and peppers all appeared frequently. You can find similar flavor profiles in Mary Randolph’s 1824 iconic cookbook The Virginia House-Wife.

Among the desserts in my family’s notebook is something called a Democrat Cake (“election cakes” were popular in the 19th century), and some cornmeal-based recipes—corn being a staple ingredient in Virginia since well before the arrival of European settlers. In the recipe below for “Excellent corn bread", note the use of the “long s” where double ss appeared, so “thickness” looks sort of like “thicknefs”. This appears in some of the papers but not all, as the long s faded from fashion some time during the 19th century, depending on factors like region and the age of the writer (Bettie Anderson did not seem to use the long s—this was someone else’s handwriting). Notice, also, that the cooking instruction for the cornbread says, simply, “bake quickly”—since electric ovens had not come into use, and baking was an imprecise endeavor. My own go-to cornbread recipe by Edna Lewis calls for 450°, which I’d say amounts to a pretty quick bake. A “slow oven,” used for things like delicate cakes, might translate to 350°.

There are plenty of newspaper clippings fastened into the pages or floating loose: A notice of the auctioning of an Anderson family property and its mill. A poem entitled “His Grandmother’s Mince Pie.” A rundown of “New York Fashion Notes” from January 9, 1876, which informs the reader that “Grecian coils are going out of style and the long braided loop is returning to favor. Long curls at the back of the neck are now the style for evening dress.”

Victorian chic

Numerous home remedies and homespun medical advice pinned into the book hint at ailments that constantly plagued families of that era, but which we rarely give a thought nowadays. The clipped and saved remedies for Smallpox, Scarlet Fever and consumption sound a little dodgy now (goose grease and rancid bacon, anyone?)…but considering some of the remedies that have been attempted during our current pandemic, it’s nice to know that some things never change.

Don’t try this at home

So what do all these clippings and handwritten articles add up to? They’re just a heap of crumbling papers from the past, yes, but the fact that they have survived down through at least five generations of my family feels nothing short of miraculous. Many hands wrote those recipes, and the little pieces tucked in among the pages reveal multitudes about the dailiness of my ancestors’ lives. My grandmother had this notebook in her possession for a stretch, and some of the recipes bear her own initials and her familiar scrawl that says “copied” (I’ve found the copies in her recipe tins). She had a fascination for culinary history, which I inherited along with the material things she saw fit to save. As I look through all of these pages and make sense of them I imagine her doing the same, and time seems to compress in a way that is both dizzying and comforting. Could the creators of these notes have imagined their writings would be read by their descendant 150 years later, into an age when foods from every corner of the globe reach people via metal flying machines, and recipes are searched and saved on pocket-sized electronic devices that seem glued to everyone’s palms?

An object like this is both common and rare. Common, because every family probably had one—yours likely did, too, even if they lived in a different country. Rare, because how many families are crazy—or lucky—enough to hold onto something like this? I know I’m damaging the pages a little bit each time I flip through and tiny flakes slough off like dandruff, but I’ll preserve this precious thing the best I can, look through it from time to time, and encourage my children to do the same. A notebook like this was, after all, meant to be used.

A blackberry cordial receipt and a child’s doodle

They're Here

Happy June! I’m fresh back from a week in Virginia, where a strange sound awakened me around 5:30 most mornings. The first day, my brain registered it as someone’s home alarm system going off incessantly in the distance. I cracked open the quarter pie window of my childhood bedroom, and the outside world was loud—filled with a high, ringing roar that kicked up with the first hints of light and pulsated in the background throughout the day. It’s everywhere, most days: in the trees, in your head, all around you. On beautiful, warm mornings after a nighttime rain, the ruckus sounds downright apocalyptic. In the evening, the din morphs into something like a bunch of lazy-sounding weed whackers whizzing up and down the street.

The sound, of course, is the chorus of Brood X cicadas emerging after 17 years underground, all of them trying to get it on before it’s all over for their red-eyed tribe for another 17 years. Everywhere there are ragged holes left in the dirt where the nymphs emerged. Their molted shells, the color of perfectly done fried chicken, adorn every climbable surface, and the adults in their new bodies stumble around unsure of what to do with themselves. Some don’t look quite right after subterranean phase; they weave around drunkenly or beat a hopeless circle on their backs. The air is filled with them, like tiny drones, and each time a squirrel scampers across a tree bough a flock is unleashed into the sky. The sidewalks are littered with a flotsam of wings (the birds, who are pretty psyched right now, apparently spit those out).

If you come upon one emerging from its shell, it’s an eerie and beautiful sight: a diaphanous creature with etched crystal wings and eyes like little rubies. This is the stage when you can capture and eat them, apparently—"tree shrimp,” according to this guide. Within minutes their exoskeletons have hardened and darkened.

Their numbers are astonishing. They’re especially thick around my favorite tree, a huge and magnificently twisty old Japanese maple whose branches were barely large enough to support me and my sister when we were little, and under whose boughs, as teens, we were made to pose awkwardly for a portrait photographer. At the time of that picture (which I hope Cassie and I destroyed all copies of), the generation that would become the 2004 emergers were biding their time silently beneath us.

In cities that are reopening right now—definitely in my neighborhood of Brooklyn—the human population is behaving much like those cicadas. People are flocking out of their homes and into the streets and parks and bars and outdoor restaurant terraces (definitely one of the upsides of covid times). We’re not all getting it right. Some of us are still a little disoriented and dazed, and some have emerged a little damaged from the long stint underground. Others—plenty—are spreading their wings and looking for action.

Are the Brood X cicadas another plague descending upon us? Or are they a symbol of hope and renewal and the tenacity of nature? I’m a Spring optimist these days, so I’m leaning heavily toward the latter view.

Check out this cool Washington Post interactive on the cicadas’ life cycle.

If you’re not into eating bugs, here are some other seasonal cooking ideas (with links to recipes):

Asparagus:

•Throw them in a hot skillet with some butter or olive oil, a little salt. Turn them to brown on all sides; you just need around 5 minutes (a little more if the spears are fat). When they are almost done, scatter a bunch of shredded parm over them and let it crisp at the edges a bit. Squeeze some lemon on and serve.

•Steam and top with ramp butter or miso butter.

•Rub with olive oil, salt and chili flakes and throw on the grill

Strawberries:

•Try this vintage recipe for strawberry shortcake made with one huge biscuit.

•Buttermilk panna cotta with fresh strawberries

•Strawberry-almond muffins

Pea Shoots:

•Wilt the sturdier ones with miso and Spring garlic

•Use the wispier pea tendrils in this salad with pecorino and almonds

Fig Leaves:

Yes you can use them! Especially the tender new ones. They have a very special flavor. Here’s how:

•Wrap up fish like fresh sardines or branzino and grill.

•This fig leaf and honey ice cream from David Lebovitz will exceed your wildest expectations.

Green Tomatoes:

•Fried green tomatoes are the best!

•Pickle them

Greens, miscellaneous:

•Savory greens and feta tart

•Add some green tops (radish, carrot) to basil in a pesto to stretch it out and eliminate food waste.

If you love farmer’s markets but can’t always catch them, check out Our Harvest for those in NYC, Long Island, and parts of Connecticut. 25% and free delivery off your first order (or use discount code SHALLOT at checkout)!

emerging

All About The Crunch

The Mayflower Inn is a destination of sorts in Washington, Connecticut—in the hills of Litchfield County. It has lately undergone a renovation and re-styling, and its restaurants have been revamped by chef April Bloomfield. Before all that, though, the Mayflower was a quietly upscale, slightly stuffy New England Inn where we would go for the occasional brunch on Mother’s Day or for a birthday dinner. In spring and summer, its best feature was the formal garden you could wander, getting lost in the boxwood mazes and stumbling upon Shakespearean quotes among the flowers. In colder months, a visit was guaranteed maximum coziness thanks to intimate little libraries and sitting rooms where you could take a glass of wine, commandeer your own personal fireplace, play a game of chess with your kid.

When Ben and I were married, many moons ago, a lovely bridesmaids’ luncheon was thrown for me at the Mayflower by my godmother and her daughter, and we most certainly had the Bibb Salad to start, because there was a time when that was the iconic salad at the Mayflower. A bit of a 90’s throwback, the dish was notable for its perfect balance of flavors and crunch: soft lettuce leaves, blue cheese, diced tomatoes, and crispy shallots. That’s it. (A journey into the internet’s memory tells me it was also dressed with truffle oil vinaigrette, but nooooo that can’t be, I’ve already overwritten that part.)

That salad was always, first and foremost, about the crispy shallots, and after receiving a huge order of shallots from OurHarvest recently*, I’ve become re-obsessed with their sweet, sublime crunch. If crunch were a food group, crispy shallots would give bacon bits some stiff competition. They are outstanding on any salad and even more so on Vietnamese noodle dishes, as a mix-in for a sour cream-based dip, a topping for your most decadent mac-n-cheese. A plus is that they are vegan so make a fine substitute for crumbled bacon on many plant-based things.

In the process of re-working this beloved salad recipe I tested out different techniques for making the crispy shallots. I tried the deep-fry method, where you heat the oil to a high temperature first and then let the shallots frizzle in it. It’s fast but also stressful, due to the vigilance needed to keep the shallots from burning. Another method—found on Bon Appétit and other sites—is to cover the shallots with a quantity of oil, adding both to the pan at the same time and cooking in a longer, more controlled manner. I was worried at first this would yield oil-sodden shallots, but my fears were allayed by a batch of perfectly browned and sweet little frizzles, which magically crisp up as they drain on paper towels. This is now my method of choice. Something I highly recommend if you are making this is using a mandoline to slice the shallots. They allow for even thickness, which translates to even cooking (i.e., you won’t have bitter burnt pieces mixed in with undercooked ones). If you’re not using a mandoline, just slice as evenly as you can. Instructions, plus the salad recipe, are below.

The Mayflower Salad lives on

Crispy Shallots

Adapted from Bon Appétit

• 1 cup or a bit more of vegetable oil (grapeseed, canola, refined sunflower all work)

• 3-4 large shallots, peeled, sliced crosswise to the approximate thickness of a dime

• Salt

Set up a tray covered with a couple of layers of paper towels. In a high-sided skillet or saute pan, put shallots covered in oil and turn heat on to medium high. Stir the shallots around with a fork to separate the rings. The shallots will cook slowly and begin to take on a golden color; once they do, watch them carefully and remove once they are golden brown—around 20-25 minutes. Pour the shallots and oil through a strainer with a bowl underneath to catch the oil. Allow to drain for a minute or two, and then spread shallots onto the paper towels and sprinkle with salt. They will crisp up after a few minutes. Store in a sealed container for a couple of days.

Reserve strained oil—which is now toasted shallot oil—for dressings and stir-fries.

Mayflower Salad

Serves 2

Ingredients:

• 1 bunch Boston Lettuce, Bibb Lettuce or Butter Lettuce, washed and patted dry (keep leaves whole)

• 1 medium tomato, diced, excess seeds and goo removed

• Blue Cheese, crumbled (Bleu d’Auvergne or Arethusa Farms Blue both work great)

• Crispy Shallots

• Tarragon vinaigrette (below) or other basic vinaigrette

• Salt and Pepper to Taste

Instructions:

Assemble Salad as you like! Toss greens and tomatoes with a couple of tablespoons of vinaigrette then scatter blue cheese and shallots on top. Sprinkle with salt and pepper.

Tarragon Vinaigrette

Ingredients:

• 1/2 tsp. honey or agave, or a pinch of sugar

• 1 tsp. Dijon mustard

• 2 TBS tarragon vinegar or just white wine vinegar (I make my own tarragon vinegar by inserting a clean bunch of fresh tarragon into a bottle of white wine vinegar and letting it infuse indefinitely).

• 1/4 cup oil: grapeseed oil, olive oil, a mix, or your choice of neutral oil

• Salt and pepper

Instructions:

Whisk together honey, mustard, and vinegar to blend. Slowly whisk in oil until it’s evenly blended. Season with a pinch of salt and a couple cranks of pepper to taste.

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*OurHarvest, the source for the shallots I used, is an online farmer’s market and grocery that delivers to NYC, Long Island, and Southern Connecticut. You can use the code SHALLOT to get 25% off your first order plus free delivery…or just follow this link.

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