Kale Pesto Pasta: An Ode to Weeknight Cooks

There is a quiet ingenuity to making a meal on a weeknight, which can easily go unnoticed to those who surface just as the pasta is placed on the table.  Even when one likes to cook, dinner on a Tuesday is more about survival than the faraway pleasures of a leisurely Sunday cassoulet.

There is also a lot of labor involved, it just isn’t usually apparent. It starts with a working knowledge of the pantry status quo. This information gets filtered through preferences of the eaters and includes, perhaps, a quick viability scan for lunch leftovers.  Nutritional merit can award or subtract stars depending on who is at the table.

The menu may become altered after factoring in the affairs of one’s bank account or the time available to procure necessary ingredients and execute before the eaters get restless and the cook starts to fantasize about drinking a cold glass of gin.  All of this eventually, miraculously, gets extracted into a singular meal that slips into the parameters of the evening, all the while treating the brain like it is a card catalogue for 30-minute meals.  Unless one is awarded the luxury of being able to stay at home, this mental jujitsu is done at work. And it has to be done every day.

This does not even address the skills required to actually cook something edible.  It is not a glamorous job, nor it is one for weaklings.

I mention all of this as a testament to how underappreciated this labor—traditionally defined as women’s work—tends to be. I do not mean to suggest that men do not partake.  There are certainly heteronormative households wherein the man is in charge of most of the cooking.  But given that it is my job, more or less, to conduct daily ethnographies on household cooking responsibilities I find more often than not, women are still responsible for the majority of meals. I think this contributes to the lack of prestige. 

It can be a thankless job for even passionate cooks.  These are not meals that most sane individuals would describe as fun to commandeer, when it is one out of one million responsibilities for the day. 

Despite all the calculating, the weeknight cook can still feel bad about the results.  The broccoli was too firm, or not firm enough, or too salty, or not appropriately seasoned. Yet, when responsibility defaults to the deputy cook, these meals may get subcontracted to outside businesses or factory processing—and tend to include little to no broccoli.

Broccoli is more work.

Which is where this recipe comes in.  It does not feature broccoli or, worse, a side salad—which to me is like attempting to debone a chicken on a Tuesday night.  Too much effort for too little reward when work looms in the morning.  But it does include kale, which only takes a minute or two to clean the leaves and cut out their sturdy middle ribs. 

The protein content is fairly low and if that is irksome add some chickpeas or pair the sauce with one of those legume-based pastas, which I tried one night (featured in the photo).  The result was edible, but eating pasta made from beans and pea protein made me feel a little out of place, like I was wearing a fedora in the kitchen.  I will stick to gluten moving forward.

Anyway, this is really a sneaky salad recipe for those who are not above vegetable bribery.  In exchange for the pleasure of eating pasta, one is also awarded a scant half pound of kale. It can easily be made on a weeknight, which is also a joy for fellow cooks who bristle at the thought of having to squat and fish out the salad spinner from a bottom cabinet. 

It ensures vegetables make an appearance at dinner and does not award extra dirty dishes in the process.  The recipe produces a creamy, slightly vegetal sauce that is a brilliant shade of moss green.  I am happy to report that it is unique enough from regular pesto to be its own enjoyable thing. 

I don’t have an answer to how we, as a society, can elevate the importance of weeknight cooking, but I do have a response for dinner.  And it ends with eating kale in quick and quiet pleasure.

Kale Pesto Pasta

Adapted from The New York Times Magazine courtesy of Tejal Rao and Joshua McFadden

Ingredients:

• ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil
• 2 cloves garlic, slightly smashed and then peeled
• 1 to 2 bunches of lacinato kale (about 12 ounces)
• ½ pound uncooked pasta
• ⅛ teaspoon chili flakes (I use a smoked variety, see notes)
• freshly ground black pepper plus salt, to taste
• ¾ cup Pecorino Romano, plus more for garnish (to taste)

Instructions:

Bring a large pot of salted water to boil over high heat.

In a small skillet over medium-low heat, add the olive oil and garlic cloves.  Cook until the garlic starts to smell fragrant and turn light golden, about 3 or 4 minutes.  (You will need to watch carefully to ensure the garlic does not burn.)  Remove from heat and set aside.  (If the garlic continues to cook and threatens to get dark brown and burn, remove it from the oil to stop its cooking.)

Wash the kale leaves and run a knife down both sides of the thick stem on each leaf to remove the rib; discard all ribs. 

When the water is boiling, add the kale leaves and cook until they turn dark green and are just tender, about 4 to 5 minutes.  Using tongs, pull the kale leaves out of the pot and into a blender.  They will be dripping with water and that is okay—the small amount of hot water will help create the sauce.  Add the pasta to the still boiling water.

Add the garlic and oil to the blender with the kale.  Add the chili flakes plus a few cranks of black pepper and a couple generous pinches of salt.  Blend until the mixture is thick and fully pureed.  Taste and adjust seasoning, adding more salt and pepper as needed, and then blend again. (If the mixture is too thick and won’t fully puree, add a little hot water from the pot. Take care not to add too much, I found it can mute the flavor.)

When the pasta is fully cooked, scoop it out of the pot using a slotted spoon and into a serving bowl.  (I found this method carried enough water to help meld the sauce and the pasta, so it didn’t require reserving more pasta water to add.  Alternatively, you could reserve a little water before draining the pasta into a colander.)

Toss the pasta with the sauce (adding the reserved pasta water, if necessary).  Add the Pecorino.  Top with extra cheese, if desired.

Makes enough for two or three people as a main course

Notes:

1. The original recipe calls for one pound of kale, but I found that my grocery store reduced the size of their bunches and buying two bunches of kale for one dinner, which was twelve ounces all said and done, felt like enough
2. You will need to taste and season at least a few times.  The recipe will be bland until you add enough salt.
3. I usually reserve about ¼ cup of extra sauce that the pasta doesn’t need and use it as a spread for sandwiches—it could easily be blended with mayo too.
4. I love these smoked chili flakes from Daphnis and Chloe, they add an almost meaty quality to otherwise vegetarian dishes.

Colonel Tso's Cauliflower Conquers Hunger

I went to Nantucket last weekend and the thing that always catches me off guard—besides the unwritten island uniform of Nantucket Reds and navy blue blazers—is how good the food is.

Holding a group of vacationers captive, fully surrounded by water, might encourage some slack at dinnertime. But most restaurant prospects are far from grim.

Raw oysters come cold and briny, as though they were shucked straight from the Atlantic.  Lobster rolls arrive generously proportioned. Fried clams appear plump and juicy, without the bits tasting of iron and shoe leather that occasionally haunt the mollusk.

The problem with these well-intentioned establishments is that I sometimes leave hungry. One evening my four-ounce short rib arrived with a silhouette of sticky rice that I can only assume was modeled after a golf ball. The next night, I preempted a pasta dish with two appetizers, and still needed to request an order of bread.  There were also multiple meals during which my plate was proactively cleared after coming back from the bathroom.

I was often quite hungry and paid a good deal of money to feel slightly less so.

Admittedly, my perspective might be skewed. When Brett and I went to Babu Ji in New York City, we paid the equivalent of one market price Nantucket lobster roll plus a beer to be happily destroyed by a tasting menu of pan-Asian cuisine.

And while you could argue it is easy to offer fancy proteins like shellfish and short rib and please people, it is a much harder sell to cast a cruciferous vegetable in positive light.  This is where Colonel Tso comes in.

Inspired by General Tso’s chicken, the dish offers a plateful of nostalgia while smartly swapping in cauliflower for suspicious and ubiquitous poultry.  Why Babu Ji trades a general for a colonel I am not certain.  It does not deserve the slight in rank.

Sure the dish will please vegetarians, but I believe it will please anyone who likes the occasional fried thing or who bristles at the thought of leaving a restaurant without a slight postprandial paunch.  Colonel Tso’s cauliflower was one of the courses we were served at Babu Ji and the recipe holds true to memory.

The vegetable is crispy and addictive, even before you add the sweet and spicy sauce.  I would argue you could leave off the mahogany coating altogether if you have post-traumatic associations with late night Chinese takeout, but my recommendation is to toss at least half the mixture in sauce, taste the difference, and then decide for yourself.  It is hard to go wrong when it comes to a big bowl of fried bits, made even better by the rebuttal of cauliflower as an undesirable.

Perhaps I do not like to be bridled.  I might be a little too coarse—or too hungry—for Nantucket.  I also really do not like salmon-colored pants on men.  And though I appreciate a flamingo-themed rosé brunch with a view of mooring buoys, it is not enough to distract me when my half-eaten plate of fries is prematurely swiped.

At any rate, when flamingos start hanging from the rafters it is time to flock home.  And, with any luck, that home will have something fried waiting.

Colonel Tso’s Cauliflower

Adapted from Food52 and inspired by Babu Ji

Ingredients:

for the sauce

• 1 tbsp toasted sesame oil
• 3 garlic cloves, minced
• 4 scallions, white and light green parts only, minced (green parts reserved)
• 1 tbsp peeled and minced ginger
• 4 to 5 small dried chiles, minced
• ½ cup hoisin sauce
• ¼ cup rice vinegar
• ¼ cup tamari (or soy sauce)
• 2 tbsp brown sugar
• 2 tbsp cornstarch

for the cauliflower

• 1½ to 2 quarts peanut or safflower oil (see note)
• ½ cup cornstarch
• ½ cup all-purpose flour
• ½ tsp baking powder
• 1 tbsp garlic powder
• 1 tbsp ground ginger
• 3 tbsp black (or white) sesame seeds, plus additional for garnish
• 1 tsp dried red pepper flakes
• ½ cup cold water (plus more, as needed)
• ½ cup vodka
• 1 to 2 large cauliflower heads, cut into one-inch florets (see note)
• Green scallion (from above) cut thinly on the bias, for garnish

Instructions:

to make the sauce

In a medium saucepan, add the sesame oil, garlic, (white and light green) scallion, ginger, and chiles; sauté on medium heat for about 3 minutes, until the mixture starts to soften slightly.  Add in the hoisin, vinegar, tamari, and brown sugar.  Stir and let it come to a slow boil.

Meanwhile in a small bowl, whisk together the cornstarch and a ½ cup (4 ounces) of water until fully incorporated, then add an additional cup (8 ounces) of water.  Pour the cornstarch mixture into the slowly bubbling sauce, turn the heat down to low, and whisk often until it slightly thickens.

Place the sauce on low heat on a back burner and keep an eye on it during the rest of the prep—turning down the heat even lower, if necessary, to prevent it from overly reducing. (After it thickens slightly, it should be kept barely simmering.)

to fry the cauliflower

Pour the oil in a Dutch oven or sturdy cast-iron pot (or deep fryer or wok) and set on medium high heat.  A deep fat frying thermometer is recommended here, as you will want to maintain the oil at 350 degrees (at a lower temperature the cauliflower will absorb more oil and may get greasy; at a higher temperature it may brown too quickly without properly cooking).

Set the oven to 200 degrees to keep the cauliflower warm after it is fried.

While the oil is heating, in a large bowl, combine the cornstarch, flour, baking powder, garlic powder, ground ginger, sesame seeds, and red pepper and whisk until fully mixed.

Add the cold water and vodka and whisk until a smooth batter forms (it should be the consistency of thin paint and should fall off the whisk in thin ribbons that disappear as they hit the batter—add additional water by the tablespoon, if needed).

Add half the cauliflower (or one head) to the batter and toss to coat.  When the oil is ready, working with a couple pieces at a time, lift the cauliflower from the batter, allowing the excess batter to drip off and gently place into the hot oil.  Repeat until the pot is full, but not overly crowded.  (Watch the temperature, if it starts to drop too quickly, stop putting cauliflower in.) 

Use a metal spider or slotted spoon to gently rotate the cauliflower pieces as they cook to ensure even browning.  They can be removed with the spider or spoon when they are golden brown and uniformly crispy (about 6 minutes). 

Transfer to a paper towel-lined baking sheet or plate. Then transfer to another baking sheet and place in the oven to keep warm.

Frying the cauliflower will take a few batches.  (Allow the heat to come back to 350 degrees in between frying.) Continue to add cauliflower to your batter until the batter is used up.

Once all the cauliflower has been battered and fried, pour the low simmering sauce over the pieces, tossing to coat evenly.  (See note below.) Garnish with sliced green scallion and additional black sesame seeds.

Makes enough for four to six humans

Notes:

1. The recipe called for two quarts of oil.  You should be able to fry more cauliflower per batch if you are using more oil. I usually try to reduce the oil when deep-frying, to limit the waste, and got away with using just under a quart and a half.
2. You may want to sauce half the cauliflower at one time.  The original recipe called for one head of cauliflower, but we found there was easily enough batter for two.  We left some of the second batch of cauliflower unsauced (any leftovers will lose their crispiness but will still be tasty).
    

Tostones: Slice, Soak, Fry, Smash, Fry

As far as I can tell, there are a few helpful rules to follow when having company for dinner.  Salty pig parts rarely disappoint.  Dessert should be mandatory, for both hosts and guests.  And if you can fry something without making your companions feel as though everyone has entered the seventh circle of hell, you will be a champion.

Frying food is not easy.  It is violent.  Hot oil gurgles and bubbles and erratically catapults towards the stove, the walls, your eyes.  Always the eyes. 

I went through a phase in my twenties when I fried a lot of sad, white fish.  Tilapia was very cheap.  I was broke. Amazing what a saltwater soak, some Tabasco, and a double dip in flour could do. 

Though one time I served this fish camouflage with slightly raw insides to an old boyfriend’s family and everyone ate very quietly and politely while I melted into the carpet. Luckily, no one died.

The point is, I have the recipe written down somewhere in a splattered kitchen notebook.  It is worthy of company.  And I have not made it in over five years.  Because frying things—and I like to think I am not alone here—usually makes me feel like hell.

But this is not the case for all.  For instance, if you are a certain hot-blooded Puerto Rican, you might set down a plate of sexy fried things looking like you’ve just woken from a nap in a meadow.  Which is what happened when my friend Thais and her husband Dave invited me over for dinner a few months ago. 

Appropriate rules were followed.  They served a big, brilliant plate of bacon rice studded with peas and carrots and seasoned with culantro sofrito.  Collectively, dinner guests pillaged a quart of coconut ice cream.  And Thais taught me how to make tostones, and made it look effortless.

In truth, tostones really aren’t really a nefarious endeavor.  There is some oil splattering, to be sure, but no breading to deal with.  And the risk of involvement from the Centers for Disease Control is incredibly low.

They are made from green plantains, which are like starchy bananas.  Tossing them in oil makes them irrationally more redeemable than French fries—though just as addictive.  Essentially, you slice, soak, fry, smash, and fry again. 

And then you eat with a mayo or sour cream-based condiment of choice. Thais has childhood roots in mayo and ketchup.  I’ve fiddled with the addition of chili garlic sauce and lime.  Some minced fresh oregano would be lovely too, I’m sure.

Don’t let the sauce or the splatter deter you.  They can be made without too much difficulty.  You too can avoid the inferno.

Tostones

Ingredients:

• 1 large garlic clove, minced
• kosher salt
• 3 green plantains
• canola oil (enough to fill an inch or so up the sides of a pan at least 10 inches wide and 3 inches deep)
• coarse sea salt (kosher works in a pinch)

Instructions:

Prepare a large bowl of water (temperature does not really matter, just not too hot or cold).  Add in the garlic and a few pinches of kosher salt. 

Take one plantain and, with a sharp knife, slice the peel lengthwise, cutting into the peel but not the flesh.  Cut two more lengthwise slits at equal intervals so the peel is segmented in three places (this will make it easier to remove).  Wedge your thumb under between the peel and the flesh of the plantain and gently slide it down to remove each section of the peel.  Repeat with the remaining plantains.

Cut the plantains into ½ inch diagonal slices and toss them into the seasoned water; let sit for at least 10 minutes or up to an hour. 

When you are ready to fry, pour the oil into a large, deep pan; fill at least 1 inch deep and heat on medium high.  (The oil is ready when it sizzles when a piece of bread is dipped in.)

Set in as many slices as you can without overcrowding the pan.  Turn them over when their bottoms turn bright yellow and start to get crispy; repeat with the other side (this will take about 3 minutes per side). 

One fried on both sides, place the slices on a large board and repeat with the remaining slices. 

After the first frying, use the bottom of a sturdy glass to press down heavily to smash each slice. 

Dip the smashed slices in water, press a few bits of salt on one side, step back to avoid the splatter, and then fry the slices again on both sides until crispy and golden (1 to 2 minutes per side). 

Makes about 15 or 20 tostones

Notes:

1. This can be done with more than 3 plantains, but the amount listed is enough for 3 or 4 people to have as a snack.
2. For this you do not want the yellow, ripe plantains; they’ll be too sweet.
3. These are best the day they are made, but they can be warmed in 350 degree oven for 5 to 10 minutes.