Tri-colored Potato Salad Provencal

If only Van Gogh had used these colors in The Potato Eaters.

That bleak masterpiece would have been even more brilliant. And if he had painted with olive oils? Ok then. Moving right along...

In this vibrant, Provence-inspired version of potato salad, I use a Dijon vinaigrette instead of that heavy, old-school mayo. Three kinds of potatoes and a trio of bell peppers make for a truly palette-able dish. While the purple potatoes are native to Peru, they’re now grown in California, Oregon and Washington and can be found at farmer’s markets and even Trader Joe’s.

The zesty flavors of the vinaigrette, capers, shallots, peppers and dill work wonderfully together, but if dill is not your deal, you can use basil or flat-leaf parsley instead. A combination of all three herbs is delicious too. Roasting the peppers in olive oil gives them a rich, robust flavor, and I happened to have some on hand already, but if you don’t feel like going to the trouble, raw ones work well in a more traditional potato-salad way.

In a recipe-naming quandary, I struggled with using the stodgy term "potato salad." But when you serve the potatoes on a bed of greens and let the vinaigrette fall where it may, it is literally a potato salad. A Tri-colored Potato Salad Provencal, that is.

Recipe

1 ½ - 2 pounds of combined red, white and purple potatoes

½ cup of combined red, yellow and orange bell peppers, chopped either raw or roasted

1 TBSP capers

Large handful of fresh dill, chopped

Dijon Vinaigrette

¼ cup olive oil

1 ½ tsp red wine vinegar

½ heaping tsp Dijon mustard

1 medium shallot, minced

Salt to taste

Pepper to taste

Makes about 4 servings

Cut the potatoes into quarters (leaving skins on) and boil in salted water until fork-tender. Drain and let cool. While potatoes are boiling, prepare the vinaigrette, cut the peppers and chop the dill.

When potatoes are cool, put all the ingredients into a mixing bowl, add vinaigrette and toss. Season to taste with sea salt and freshly ground pepper. Refrigerate for several hours' minimum, but preferably overnight. Before serving, let it sit out at room temperature for a few minutes before plating on a bed of greens.

Travel Bite: Turkish Bagel Vendors

When I was in Turkey, I photographed an array of street vendors selling Turkish bagels called simit (see-meet). They’re made by dipping a ring of dough in grape molasses and sesame seeds before baking. The most eye-catching vendor I saw was walking around with simits on his head. I wondered if he slipped, would he simply pick them up and restock his cranium?

Despite all the mosques, cleanliness was not next to godliness. I saw a customer squeeze half the simits in this vendor's wheelbarrow before finding his favorite.

The most common simit vendors were similar to the ones I saw in Poland (see previous post—Travel Bite: Polish Bagel Vendor). As I noted there, the bagel was invented in Krakow, and one account says it was created in the shape of a stirrup to commemorate the victory of Poland over the Ottoman Turks in 1683. That explains the similarities between Polish and Turkish bagels. Now the story has come full circle, so to speak.

Grape Leaves Stuffed with Minced Meat

First I stuffed the grape leaves. Then I stuffed my face.

When I was in Istanbul, I took a wonderful Turkish cooking class called Cooking Alaturka. We made five dishes, and these beef and lamb stuffed grape leaves were one of the five highlights (don’t make me choose a favorite!). While I don’t eat red meat very often and am not a lamb fan, these were very good. With lamb being so prevalent in Turkey, I ended up eating it several times. Hey, when in the former Roman Empire…

I have some original ideas for vegetarian dolma fillings that I plan to experiment with, but I wanted to share this authentic Turkish recipe from Eveline Zoutendijk.

Recipe

These stuffed vine leaves are often spiked with some hot pepper and tomato in parts of central and southeast Anatolia, but in Istanbul they are served like this, with yogurt on the side. Unlike the zeytinyagli dolma, which are rolled into long elegant fingers and served cold, these are short and stubby, more like a thumb, and served hot in some of the cooking liquid.

25–30 preserved vine leaves, soaked in a few washes of water for a few hours, or if you use fresh ones, blanched for a few minutes to soften.

Filling

12 oz minced lamb or beef or a mixture of both

2 onions, finely chopped

4 oz long-grain rice, washed, soaked and drained

Bunch of dill, parsley and mint, finely chopped

1 TBSP tomato paste

1 TBSP bell pepper paste (optional)

1 TBSP olive oil

1–2 tomatoes, skinned, seeded and chopped (keep the seeds and chop)

½ carrot, ½ onion to line the pan

Salt and freshly ground pepper

Cooking liquid

¼ pint water

Juice of ½ lemon (optional)

2 TBSP olive oil

Mix all ingredients for the filling in a bowl, except for the rice. Add (part of) the tomato seeds to the mixture for extra moisture (you want the moisture to be moist but not too wet). Fold in the rice carefully. Lay the leaves on a flat surface (always with the shiny side on the outside), and place a little of the meat mixture on the top of each leaf. Shape the mixture into your desired dolma shape to ease the rolling process. Fold the sides over (no need to close them—this is when you decide the length of your dolma and you want them to all be the same length), and roll the leaf up into a tight package (start pressing gently but surely from the very beginning).

In a wide saucepan, prepare a bed of sliced carrot, onion and garlic, the stems of all the herbs used in the stuffing, the stems of the leaves, some peppercorns, and if you have any, some meat bones. This serves both for aromatic purposes and so that the dolmas won’t stick to the bottom of the pan. Cover with a layer of (broken or small) vine leaves and place the ready dolmas on top with their opening, facing downwards. They need to be tightly packed together so that they won’t open while cooking. Pour some olive oil, and if needed, some salt over them and pour the tomato cubes over them, then cover with another sheet of leaves and lots of plates or other weights, to hold everything down. Now pour the water (and lemon if wanted) over the vine leaves (if you do this before the plates are on top, you risk the dolma floating to the surface and opening). Cover with a lid, and cook gently for 40-45 minutes. Serve hot in a bit of their cooking liquid. Decorate with the tomato cubes. Serve some yogurt on the side.

Serves 4

Conquering the Eat-oh-man Empire!

Ah, Turkey. That vast swath of land straddling Europe and Asia, once belonging to the Ottomans and now under my fork-gripping domain. Only an Aegean away from where the Olympics began, I wasn't just eating for sport—I was going for the gold. This fierce triathleater was conquering breakfast, lunch and dinner.

My training started in warm-up mode. There were stomach stretches. Double-chin-ups. Forklifts. Middle-body workouts. I honed my discipline at repeated trips to the breakfast buffets full of cheeses, olives, cucumbers, tomatoes, yogurt, eggs, breads, jams and cakes. In the first 24 hours alone, I had eggplant three times. What a country! Eggplant stuffed with lentils. Eggplant stuffed with chicken and mashed potatoes. Eggplant stuffed with lamb. My inner carnivore didn’t know what hit her. And all those skewered meats? Sheesh. I kebapped till I dropped. But I got right back up. A triathleater goes the distance. There is no finished line.

Then there was that ubiquitous Turkish Delight candy made out of sugar, water, corn starch and any number of nuts, figs or flavorings. Who was I to deprive the Turks their delight? They made it to be eaten—am I wrong? And the baklava in all shapes and sizes? Who cares that some of it was odd tasting, unlike the honey-dripped Greek kind. Maybe the next one would be different. After all, they all looked so good. Joyner didn’t stop for a pebble in her shoe. Phelps didn’t waver from some water in his mouth. A triathleater goes the distance. There is no finished line.

There was canoe-shaped pide (Turkish pizza), all flavors of sweet helva (sesame seed halva), stuffed grape leaves, tomatoes, peppers, zucchini and mushrooms, borek (savory-filled pastries), su boregi (cheese-filled Turkish kugel), Turkish ravioli with tomatoes and yogurt, pilafs, kuru (white beans in tomato sauce), lentil soups, amazing mezes, roasted chestnuts and fresh pomegranate juice on every corner, as well as all things pistik (pistachio). And like a triathleater, the list goes on.

Oddly enough, what I began to crave was hunger itself. That gnawing, aching permission to say to my inner glutton, “Hey Tubby, it’s ok to come out now. You’re on!” This eating-for-sport, baklavian bacchanal was becoming too...normal. Shouldn’t I actually feel hungry between meals? Shouldn’t some of this over-sustenance be going to the Ethiopian children with flies?

Now that I’m back and have reacquainted myself with hunger pangs, I panic, as if I should receive famine relief. But then I quickly replenish myself with a piece of pistachio Turkish Delight that I brought back and then another made with fig, walnut and coconut. I remind myself that once you've tasted gold, you'll always want to go back for another. For a triathleater, there is no finished line.

I'm Off to Turkey!

I’ve stuffed cabbages.

I’ve stuffed peppers.

I’ve stuffed mushrooms.

I’ve stuffed zucchinis.

I’ve stuffed eggplants.

I’ve stuffed chilis.

I’ve stuffed dates.

On some dates, I stuffed my bra.

But I have never stuffed a grape leaf.

So I'm off to Turkey to learn how.

When I'm done stuffing my face,

I'll be back with photos and other stuff!

See you soon!

The Cream Puff Crazy

When I first moved to Los Angeles in my twenties, I took a job as a telemarketer until I could find a job at an ad agency. For a short time, I dated a fellow telemarketer there, whom I’ll call C.P. He was smart, funny and neurotic—just like Woody Allen, without the talent. Even with his nerdy glasses and short, wiry hair, he had an intense magnetism that really drew me in.

One day, he told me he was going to make me these fabulous cream puffs and that he was thinking about going into the cream puff-making business. He also mentioned that he had been 100 pounds heavier in a previous life.

Then one night, out of thin air, he said, “I’m thinking about getting fat again.” Wow. I knew he could be unpredictable, but imagine my surprise when I heard that paunch line. As the air thickened with his bloated bluster, I wondered what I was supposed to do with that little tidbit? Should I say, “That’s flab-ulous!” or “Enjoy your new heft?” Should I try to talk him out of it? “Aw, you don’t really want to be a rotunda. You’re just down in the dumps and feeling dumpy.” The fact that someone could choose obesity as if he were deciding to grow a beard was, well, a sign that this guy wasn’t dealing with a fully stocked pantry.

Shortly after that, C.P. came to work acting all David Koresh-Waco-possessed. He started going from desk to desk, dishing out five-course diatribes on each person’s flaws. He had told me once that he’d attended EST seminars, and now I could see the fruits of his higher-consciousness labors. EST taught you to speak the truth (but if you wanted tact, that was a different group).

As he voraciously chewed people out in his creepy, my-word-is-the-gospel way, I got under my desk, seeking refuge. I thought this guy was about to go postal, and if those were just his co-workers, what was in store for me? When he wouldn’t leave, the boss finally pushed him out the door and locked it behind him. That’s when everyone gathered around my desk and said I could come out now. It was safe to come out!

That was the last time I saw C.P. and to this day, he is what I think of when I hear the words “Cream Puff.” But a profiterole? That delicate, cream-filled pastry with chocolate sauce that I so lovingly devoured in Paris? Ooh la la. That’s a whole ‘nother story.

Sautéed Rainbow Chard

This California chard has deep, earthy overtones.

It may not get you sauced, but when you down this sparkling varietal, you'll feel an instant vitamin rush from its many nutrients.

This colorful, rustic dish makes a crowd-pleasing side or a hearty main course when you add cannelini, garbanzo or fava beans and serve it over a bowl of creamy polenta. Sometimes I simmer the chard and beans with a can of diced tomatoes, Italian seasonings and fennel seeds for a richer, stew-like version. But since I found this pretty rainbow variety at the farmer’s market, I wanted to leave it au naturel to preserve its bright colors. You can see that when cooked, though, it’s not the psychedelic superstar it once was. But then, who is?

Recipe

1 bunch chard, stalks and leaves cut up

½ large onion, diced

1 large garlic clove, minced

1 ½ TBSP olive oil

Salt

Pepper

Makes about 2 servings

Sauté onion until golden. Add cut-up chard stalks and garlic. Cook several minutes until partially cooked. Add cut-up chard leaves and stir, coating greens well with oil. Simmer until cooked throughout. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Ode to a Fig Leaf

Such mystery that hides beneath

The green maternal shapely sheath

You cover up a modest gal

Or is your fig a femme fatale?

Ms. Splenda

As I watched her pour a packet of Splenda into her coffee, I practically had a conniption. “What are you doing?” I said. “That stuff is poison! I read that it actually makes you gain weight by screwing with your metabolism and ruining your body’s ability to count calories. Why do you use that s**t when you know it causes cancer?”

My friend gave me a cockeyed look and said, “I don’t live in your world.” As her words hung in the unsweetened air, I said, “Look, it’s no picnic for me either. You think I like being mayor of Doomville?”

She was afraid she had offended me, but she had fueled an epiphany. Was it possible for me to not live in my world too? Could I leave Doomville and move to Mayberry? Could I bust out of these cerebral walls and live a carefree, oblivious existence, devoid of all common sense, empirical evidence, scientific data and the ability to recognize advertising hype?

“My grandmother lived to be 97,” Ms. Splenda said, all cocky. “She ate bad stuff and never exercised. It’s all about the genes.” Ah, the genes. That’s where it went so wrong. Mine were high-strung and skin-tight on both sides. If only I could get new ones. Stonewashed, relaxed-fit genes that wouldn’t fall apart or fray when rubbed the wrong way. They’re making new scientific discoveries every day. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.

And to think that if Ms. Splenda had put evaporated cane juice, honey, stevia or refined sugar into her beverage, I wouldn’t be sitting here planning my getaway. But now I want out.

Roasted Green Beans, Peppers and Garlic

Roasted veggies are a no-brainer, even when you use your bean.

This may not be the most complicated culinary offering, but that’s the beauty of it. Well, that and the gorgeous colors.

I love fresh green beans, and when paired with yellow wax beans and bright, roasted peppers cut to match the beans, your dinner is ready for framing. Lately I’ve been roasting a few pans of various colored bell peppers along with some garlic cloves to keep on hand. They’ll last a couple of weeks in a jar in the fridge, and they just get sweeter, richer and juicier with age. You can put them on anything from green or grain-based salads, quiches, frittatas, omelettes, pizzas, pastas, quesadillas, sandwiches—you name it. And the juice at the bottom of the jar is to die for.

Like most of my recipes, this one is not set in stone. Except for baking, I'm not really the measuring type, so you can add more olive oil or change the ingredient ratios to your own taste.

Recipe

½ pound green beans

½ pound yellow wax beans

1 each red, orange and yellow bell pepper (save half for later use)

6 cloves whole, unpeeled garlic (save 4 for later use)

2 TBSP olive oil

Salt

Pepper

Two large cookie sheets

Preheat oven to 425˚. Cut peppers into long strips. Mix them together with the garlic cloves, half of the olive oil and salt and pepper to taste in a mixing bowl. Coat well. Place peppers and garlic on a cookie sheet and make sure the pieces are not overlapping (use another pan if you need to). Mix the rest of the oil with the beans, salt and pepper to taste, and lay them out on another cookie sheet.

Roast for 20 to 25 minutes. Turn once when they are brown and caramelized. When cool enough to touch, slide two garlic cloves out of their skins, then mince and toss with the beans and peppers. Store the leftover peppers and garlic cloves in a jar in fridge.

As a finishing touch, you can add a splash of balsamic vinegar or some lemon zest or garnish with toasted nuts, fresh herbs or whatever strikes your fancy. I usually keep it pretty plain so I can really taste the veggies.