Meatless Monday: Summer Vegetables+Pasta+Pesto=Dinner

I know that I have written a lot about pesto recently. Long-time readers should know that I will put it on almost any vegetable.

Which, as far as I am concerned, makes pesto a most versatile kitchen ally when you are striving to eat more vegetarian meals.

Basically, the versatility of pesto as a sauce for vegetables and pasta, means that you can pair it with nearly any combination of summer vegetables you happen to have in your possession, taking into account the cooking methods necessitated by each vegetable.

Some vegetables can be sauteed just as they are.

Some vegetables can be sauteed, but need to be blanched first.

And some vegetables can be added to the pasta at the last minute when they are essentially raw.

And that is what this post is about–which vegetables go into which category, along with ideas for various combinations which I and my family find to be most delicious.

Vegetables to Saute Just As They Are

Onions, small summer squashes, bell peppers, hot peppers, mushrooms, chard, kale, broccoli rabe, sugar snap peas, young collard greens, small eggplant.

These are the easiest vegetables to prepare–you just cut them, preferably in analogous shapes that echo the shape of whatever pasta you are using, heat up a bit of olive oil in the pan and start sauteing. If you use onions, they go in first. I like to at least get them golden before anything else goes in. Then, if you are using peppers or mushrooms, in they go next. Then, you can add squashes or eggplants–both cut very thinly. (If you use very small or young eggplants or the elongated Japanese kind, you don’t have to salt them to remove bitter juices before you cook them.) Snap peas would go in next, with the greens, kale, collards, chard and broccoli rabe being cooked for the shortest period of time.

Vegetables to Saute After Blanching

Broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, shelled peas and green beans (even haricot vert are better if they are blanched briefly before sauteing).

These vegetables are great with pesto and pasta, but they need to be softened up a bit by blanching them in boiling water for a minute or two, before you add them to the saute pan. Once again, cut them up into shapes and sizes that are analogous to each other and the pasta shape you have chosen. (You can tell I have cooked a lot of Chinese foods.) Dunk each of them into a pot of boiling water for a minute or two, just until they are softened, and then drain them. You don’t need to shock them in cold water–just drain them and put them into the saute pan with whatever other vegetables you are using–usually near the middle or end of the sauteing process.

The blanching just softens up the tissues of these harder vegetables and makes them more receptive to the process of cooking in the saute pan and makes them more likely to soak up the flavors of the sauce.

Oh, and by the by–I just use the already boiling pasta water pot to blanch my vegetables. Why boil two pots of water for one dish? I just blanch the vegetables first and then, after they are out of the pot and into the pan, I add the pasta.

Vegetables to Be Added At The End

Tomatoes and spinach.

That is a short list, isn’t it?

You can, of course, cook either of these vegetables a bit, but I have found that if you toss raw baby spinach with hot pasta into which are you stirring pesto, it will wilt just perfectly without having to take the chance of overcooking it. As for tomatoes, you can cook them, of course, but I really, really like the flavor and texture of wedges of them added raw to the pasta and then tossed with everything else. The heat of the pasta and other vegetables do indeed cook them a bit, but they still retain their color, fresh flavor and texture, which contrasts nicely with the cooked vegetables and pasta.

How It All Comes Together

So, the cooking method goes something like this:

Start your pasta water boiling.

Cut up your vegetables so they are close to the same shape and size and so they go with your pasta shape.

Put all of the pesto ingredients into your food processor except for the olive oil.

Start sauteing your vegetables–putting the ones that take the longest to cook in first, and blanching and draining the ones which need to be blanched before going into the saute pan. After most of your vegetable cooking is done, add some wine or vegetable broth if you wish, and a bit of cream–as little as a quarter cup will work. (This helps everything to cling to the pasta and adds a bit of moisture to the pesto sauce. The cream also helps the pesto stay green.) Take the saute pan off of the heat. It will stay warm, but you don’t want the vegetables to over-cook.

When your vegetables are nearly done, put the pasta in the boiling water, salt it and start the pesto. Remember to drizzle the olive oil into the feed tube of the food processor while it is whirring about or your pesto will be really pasty and funny-tasting.

When the pasta is done, drain it, and either put it back into the cooking pot, or dump it right into your saute pan. (Which one you do depends entirely on how big your saute pan is. I have big ones, so that is how I do it–if yours is not big enough, put the pasta back into the cooking pot and dump the vegetables on top.) Add either baby spinach or tomatoes if you are using them, and then scoop however much pesto you want into the pot and start tossing and don’t stop until everything is coated in a lovely haze of green sauce.

Really Tasty Combinations of Vegetables for Pesto and Pasta

The one pictured here is onions, red bell peppers, haricot vert and cherry tomatoes.

But you could also do:

Onions, baby squashes and tomatoes.

Onions, bell peppers and broccoli.

Onions, mushrooms, and peas (or spinach–yum!).

Onions, broccoli rabe or kale, and mushrooms.

Onions (do you get the idea that I like onions?) bell peppers, spinach and tomatoes.

Onions, cauliflower and spinach.

The possibilities are nearly endless.

And–you could always ditch the pasta and instead use boiled fingerling potatoes along with whatever combination of summer vegetative goodness you can get your hands on.

Summer Berry Crisp

This recipe is not an original; I adapted it from a recipe I found on All Recipes a while back and have meant to make it ever since.

But, until last weekend, when I was presented with a stellar combination of summer fruits–the last of the summer’s blueberries, fresh wild blackberries, both golden and red raspberries and an unexpected windfall of everbearing strawberries that were the juiciest, sweetest, reddest fruit imaginable, I hadn’t really thought about baking anything for a while.

But then, faced with five of the best summer fruits, and the fact that this was the last time this particular combination of local berries would be available this year–I decided to mark this event with something special–but also something easy, since it was hot and I was in no way in the mood for arguing with pie crust.

Crisps are the best and tastiest way to bake with summer fruits when you are not in the headspace to deal with making pie crust. The dough is easy to put together–basically you mix together flour, brown sugar, rolled oats and some spices–cinnamon is classic, as is nutmeg or cloves–then cut in butter. The fruit is tossed with some sugar and maybe a bit of spices, and is put into a buttered baking dish, then the crisp crust is just sprinkled on top of the fruit and patted down gently. Then you bake it, and serve it warm out of the oven!

So easy!

Well, this recipe is a bit different in that it calls for half of the dough to be patted into the bottom of the baking dish, over which the fruit is dumped and spread. Then, the other half of the dough is sprinkled and patted over the fruit and the baking goes on as usual.

I was intrigued with this idea, because while I love fruit, and prefer fruity desserts to chocolaty ones any day, I also love the oat crusts of fruit crisps. And this method seemed like it would make for a crisp that was twice as good as your usual one with only the top crust. It sort of combines the best of a pie and a crisp–it has two crusts like my favorite kinds of pies and it is easy and full of oaty goodness.

I did modify the recipe a bit. I used more fruit than was called for in the recipe, in large part because I saw no reason not to, and the amount of fruit compared to the amount of crust seemed a bit parsimonious for my taste. And, there was the fact that I had a huge amount of fresh fruit to use, so why not? Instead of the four and a half cups of fruit, I used about seven cups of it, and since the berries were quite sweet, I used the same amount of sugar called for in the filling for the four cup amount.

I also added rosewater to the fruit, because all berries taste better with it, especially bramblefruits like raspberries and blackberries and strawberries are always made even more delicious with a sprinkle of rose flavor.

I added an extra half cup of oats to the dough because I like them, and used cardamom and a bit of dried ginger as well as the cinnamon to flavor it, and left out the nutmeg. (You know, I do like nutmeg, but I prefer it in savory foods than in sweet. I don’t know why, but that is the case–I feel the same way about allspice.)

Kat helped with this dessert–and if you have an older child, like a nine or ten year old, they could probably make this dish all by themselves, with you only helping to put the pan into the oven and take it out when it is done. It is really that simple.

For a nearly three year old, there was still plenty that Kat could do. She helped stir the sugar and rosewater into the berries for them to macerate. Then, she stirred the flour, brown sugar, spices, and oats together. After I cut the butter into the dough, she (with very clean hands, of course) helped me mush the butter into the mixture very well–a step the original recipe leaves out. I find that it makes a more crunchy, crispy crust if you fully blend the butter into the dry ingredients by massaging it all together.

Besides, Kat and I thought it was a whole lot of fun!

And, of course, Kat helped eat the results of her labor. She loved it–and who wouldn’t, really? Buttery crunchy crust with lots of sweet berries oozing with brilliant magenta, blue and purple juices–it really was heaven in a bowl.

Now, if only I had thought to make vanilla chai ice cream to put on top.

Next year.

But for this year, I can make an everbearing strawberry crisp with vanilla rosewater ice cream.

Or a peach melba crisp (peaches and raspberries) with vanilla chai ice cream.

Don’t those sound wonderful?

Until then, here is the recipe–remember, you can use just about any fruits to make a crisp.

Summer Berry Crisp
Ingredients:

6-7 cups of mixed fresh summer berries, trimmed and sliced as needed
4 tablespoons raw sugar
1 tablespoon rosewater (optional)
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 1/2 cups rolled oats (not instant oatmeal!)
1 1/2 cups packed brown sugar
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground dried ginger
1 teaspoon ground cardamom
1 1/2 cups cold butter

Method:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

In a large bowl, toss together the berries with sugar and rosewater. Allow to sit and macerate while you prepare the crust.

In another large bowl, stir together flour, oats, brown sugar and spices. Cut in butter until crumbly, then with clean hands massage the dough until it is smoother, but still with crumbly bits.

Press half of the dough into the bottom of a glass 9″X13″ pan. Dump in the berries and spread them about until they cover the bottom crust.

Sprinkle the remaining dough over the berries and lightly press them into the berries with gentle pats of your fingers.

Bake for 30-40 minutes, or until the fruit juice is bubbly and thick and the crust is golden brown. (If you have a convection oven like I do–the baking will take about 25-35 minutes, depending on how golden brown you like the crust of your crisps to be. I baked mine for thirty minutes exactly and it was perfect.)

Serve warm, with or without sweetened whipped cream or ice cream on top.

Teaching and Learning in the Kitchen

Children learn best by doing.

They follow our example in all things, as I remember well from my own childhood.

I have no doubt in my mind that the reason I am a chef today is because I grew up in a family of great cooks, all of whom had no qualms about spending hours a day cooking food for their families to eat. Not only did they have no qualms–they loved doing it. And they did it pretty much every day.

And when I was growing up, where did I spend most of my time?

In the kitchens of my mother, grandmothers, aunts and uncles.

And what did I do there?

I watched a lot.

For whatever reason, I was endlessly fascinated in what went on at the stove and on the table, in the sink and on the counter. I watched from my station on the floor under my Mom’s or Gram’s kitchen tables, as all sorts of fascinating alchemy went on around me–from making noodles and hanging them on a clothesline strung overhead across the kitchen, to canning tomatoes (once while canning tomatoes, my mother accidentally scalded her hand in boiling water and our next door neighbor lady put a grated up potato on it, and wrapped it in a bandage “to pull the heat out”–it worked–Mom’s hand didn’t blister at all) to making fudge to the cooking of countless pots of beans to the rare occasions when Gram stirred up her boiled custard that no one to this day can replicate.

And I played at cooking, too, down under those tables–pots and pans, wooden spoons, plastic bowls and measuring cups that were not in immediate use were given to me, and I would “cook,” stirring and measuring and scooping under the table, out from under the feet of the women passing to and fro as they actually worked, but still close by where they could keep an eye on me and I could happily watch them.

And then, before I knew it, I was old enough to help, in ways large and small.

My little hands were quite nimble, and so I was often put to work shelling peas or stringing beans.

I was also good at picking the strands of silk from between the kernels of corn fresh from its green, fragrant shucks. I could hull strawberries and pick through dried beans and lentils looking for bits of stone or stray sticks or beans that were wizened and crinkled or off-colored and untrustworthy-looking.

Soon enough I was trusted with a vegetable peeler and could tackle piles of carrots. Before that, I remember being given the task of peeling dozens of boiled eggs for deviled eggs or those mountainous batches of potato salads that my mother made every summer for the annual family gatherings with all the cousins, aunts and uncles, all of whom dearly adored her potato salad. (And I still prefer hers to anyone else’s. No one else makes it right.)

I am certain, absolutely certain that if I had not been included in those long hours of food preparation, if I had not helped plant and harvest vegetables, if I had not been intimately involved in tending livestock and preserving the fruits of our labor for the winter–I would not be a food-obsessed chef and food writer today.

I might still be a journalist or something.

Or maybe even a veterinarian. (I even was a pre-vet major for a time. The math classes killed me.)

But certainly, I would not be who I am today.

We are the sum of our experiences, filtered through our own unique personalities, talents and skills which are inborn.

But I am only a sample size of one person. Let’s look at how Morganna has turned out.

Most of her childhood memories of me are tied in some way to food. She remembers picking blackberries in the woods with me when she was about four or five.

She remembers me getting her to eat lamb by telling her it was dinosaur meat.

She remembers her Aunt Nikki making her candied carrots, which she called “Bugs Bunny Candy” and they were the first cooked carrots Morganna would eat.

She remembers being obsessed with garlic at an early age, and carrying heads of it around so she could smell them.

And she remembers, from the time she could stand on a step stool and reach the counter, helping me in the kitchen.

And in truth, she remembers helping her Grammy, my mother, as well.

And where is she now?

She’s a line cook at a fine dining restaurant here in town, and is planning on possibly transferring from OU to Johnson & Wales University to finish her BA as a culinary degree.

(And yes, Mamma is very proud of her. Very proud indeed.)

Now, I am not saying that every child we teach how to cook at home is going to run right out and become a chef.

Far from it.

But what will happen is that every child who learns how to cook also learns how to eat. And what to eat. And how to eat it. And when, and why.

Cooking lessons bring a child a sense of accomplishment and impart important skills that push that child towards self-sufficiency and independence, which, as I recall, is the point of raising a child into adulthood. Knowing how to cook is a skill that will serve any child, as well as that child’s loved ones very well for the rest of their lives. (And it is a marketable skill as well….)

But learning to cook isn’t just about cooking, because cooking isn’t just a chore.

It is a part of our cultures. It is a part of our selves, our families. It is history, it is art, it is science, heck it is even math.

It is part of what makes us human.

For it is theorized that cooking food is what enabled us to evolve these big brains which went on to create art, science, music, literature, history, philosophy and culture. Cooking then, is part of what not only makes us human now–but made us human in the first place.

So, if you teach a child to cook, you are not only introducing him or her to a useful life skill–you are teaching them what it means to be human.

Cooking and sharing food brings love and peace–so when we teach our children to cook, we are also teaching them how to be good, humane, loving human beings.

So, this Sunday, it was Kat’s turn to start learning how to prepare food and be a good little human while she is at it..

She has helped her Daddy make scrambled eggs for several months now, by guiding his hand as he cracks the egg and sprinkling in the herbs, but Sunday, I gave her her first real task–she sat down on the floor with me and helped shell horticultural beans.

And she worked at it diligently for over forty-five minutes–and was sad that we had no more pods to empty!

I had to open the pods for her–they are leathery and tough, but she would with careful, nimble fingers, pull each bean out and put them in the colander, while tossing the empty pod into the pot I had brought in for them.

She was so absorbed in the work–she commented on the beans, she counted them as they came from the pods, and she noted what color they were as she shelled them. (Horticultural beans can be pure white, white with pink stripes, white with red stripes, solid pink, solid red or red with white stripes. I am fascinated with the genetics involved in such a variable appearance.)

It was wonderfully relaxing to have her working with me, both of us sitting comfortably on the floor as we worked side by side.

I am so proud of her.

And she was and is so proud of herself–and guess what? Because she shelled those beans, even though they were an unfamiliar food, she readily tried them, tasting the broth of the stew they cooked in, and the beans themselves. She loved it. She insisted on stirring the stew with me, so I held her up to the stove and we carefully manipulated the wooden spoon in lazy circles in the pot, sniffing the delicious steam that rose to wreath our faces in the savory scents of herbs, onions, garlic and leeks.

Later, she helped me mix the dough for the berry crisp we made for dessert. She was especially fond of sniffing the cardamom jar, and she helped me pour the rosewater over the macerating berries. I taught her to put a dot of rosewater behind her ears so she could “smell like a flower,” as she said.

I think she is well on her way to learning to love food, the way it smells, feels and tastes.

And her education in how to cook has only just begun–but the photograph above chronicles the exact day and moment it began, at least in a practical, not just theoretical sense.

Meatless Monday: Kale and Fingerling Potato Hash

This is a super-simple dish which you could serve with say grilled or broiled stuffed tomatoes or summer squash topped with a bit of grated cheese. Or, really, for a light lunch, you could have it alone.

You can also add sliced shiitake or regular button mushrooms to this to give even more oomph to it. In the fall, I might also add some parboiled parsnip slices–I think that the sweetness of them would go great with the lightly bitter kale.

This dish is so simple, in fact, I am not even going to give you a recipe for it–I am just going to tell you how it goes.

First, pick out how ever many fingerling potatoes you need to feed however many people you are feeding. Scrub them up well and cut them in half or in quarters if they are bigger, and plop them into cold salted water, bring to a boil, then turn down to a simmer and cook until they are soft, but not mushy.

Drain them, pat them dry and set them aside.

While the potatoes cook, you start caramelizing your onions in a good quantity of olive oil. When the onions are a great shade of golden brown, add the potatoes to the pan, cut side down, and brown them as well. Sprinkle however much minced garlic you want over the potatoes and onions, and sprinkle in a little bit of some kind of chili flakes–like Aleppo or just plain old red pepper flakes–over everything.

When the potatoes are browned on the cut side, flip them over and add in however much kale you need for the amount of potatoes you have (this all depends on how many people you are feeding, mind you!) into the pan, along with about a quarter cup to a half cup of vegetable stock. Stir and fry like mad.

When the kale is wilted and the stock is mostly cooked off, add between a teaspoon and tablespoon of balsamic vinegar to the pan, and stir in well, then remove from heat. (The amount of vinegar depends, of course, on the amount of potatoes and kale you have. I bet you are surprised to hear this.)

Salt to taste, and boom–its done.

And it is really, really delicious. This winter, I will do the recipe up again with fresh shiitake mushrooms added to it.

The Flavor of Memory: Lamb And Rice Filled Grape Leaves

On Sunday, I had a powerful desire for rice and lamb stuffed grape leaves–dolmathes, (or dolmades) as they say in Greek, or dolma in Turkish. Actually, dolma is just a general name for stuffed leaves, fruits or vegetables, stuffed grape leaves are more properly called yaprak dolma. And I wanted them home-made, none of those canned ones which are very commonly found in Greek and Middle Eastern grocery stores and restaurants.

Mind you, quite a few brands of the canned dolmathes are not -bad-, but they still cannot hold a candle to the real, honest to God real homemade thing. I wanted excellent dolmathes, stuffed with rice and lamb, like the ones I used to eat either at my Aunt Nancy’s house or at the Greek restaurant in Charleston. (I ate at Best of Crete in Charleston a lot when I was pregnant with Morganna–and the wonderful woman who ran the restaurant with her tall, well-grown adult sons used to slip me extra treats because I was pregnant. And she would never, ever let me drink anything but milk. I could order tea and get milk anyway. At the cheaper tea price, mind you, but she was adamant that I drink the milk so my baby would have strong bones. Morganna has never broken a bone, mind you…though she has tried.)

To me, good dolmathes take me back to happy times in my earlier life. The smell of them simmering on the stovetop make me think of the smells coming out of Mrs. Zakaib’s open kitchen door that drifted across her backyard and down the alley where the neighborhood kids played. She was an interesting lady–most of the kids were scared of her rather stern demeanor, but she was truly nice. She just didn’t put up with nonsense. She also used to harvest leaves from our next-door neighbor’s Concorde grape vines in their backyard–with their permission of course. The vines had been there when they moved in, so they didn’t care if she picked them. I used to help her by climbing up the arbor to get the ones she couldn’t reach because she was so little.

She’d give me honey cookies for my trouble, and I was one of the kids in the neighborhood that she was always nice to, in large part because I was helpful and polite.

While I picked the leaves, she told me all about how to prepare them to use for dolma.

But, it wasn’t Mrs. Zakaib who taught me how to make dolmathes.

It was my Aunt Nancy.

She’s the one who taught me how to roll them up and how to cook them.

She never had fresh leaves to work with; she always used the tightly packed jars of grape leaves in brine that you could get at Greek and Middle Eastern grocery stores, even in Charleston, West Virginia back in the seventies and eighties. She’d buy a big jar of the leaves, and then carefully pull the tightly stacked, wrapped and rolled leaves out of their glass home, draining the brine as she did so. This took patience and not a little effort–those leaves are really, really tight in the jar and it is hard to get them out without tearing them. But she showed me how to use a rubber spatula or table knife to ease down the jar between the glass and the leaves to sort of break the seal from the vacuum packing, and get a little air in there to help slip the leaves out in a single bundle. She would turn the jar upside down after that, and drain the brine, and then with her finger and thumb, get a good hold on the leaf bunch and begin tugging it gently down while shaking the jar downward with the other hand.

Eventually, after a bit of work, the leaves would ease down into her hand with a whispered “pop,” and invariably the last bit of brine would drizzle down the arm holding the leaves. (That’s why you always wear short sleeves when you make grape leaf rolls,” she said to me once, with a grin. “Arms wash easier than shirts.”

Once out of the jar, the leaves are laid into a deep, wide bowl and then covered with boiling water. This leaches out excess salt and it also helps to loosen the leaves which have been stuck together in the jar so tightly that they really don’t want to do anything but cleave to each other.

But no matter what the leaves think about it, they need to come apart, so they get a boiling water bath.

Once the water is cool enough for your hand to go in, the leaves have usually let go of each other and you can swish them around a bit to loosen them up further. Then, you drain them in a colander and put them back in the bowl, and cover them with cold water and swish around, then drain and then repeat the cold water, swishing and draining dance once again. This removes the excessive salty flavor that the brine imparts, allowing the natural lightly bitter green flavor of the leaves to present itself to the front of the palate.

While the leaves are soaking in the boiling water is when you want to make your stuffing.

Lots of recipes call for cooked meat and rice to be used in the stuffing, but Aunt Nancy said that she didn’t think that those kinds of grape leaf rolls had as much flavor as the ones like she made where the meat and rice are uncooked when they go into the leaves, and then are cooked. When you do it that way, the unique flavor of the leaves permeates the meat and rice, making them fragrant and amazingly delicious. You also end up with more moist rolls that way.

(Now, I did not know this at the time when I was learning to make these dolmathes from Aunt Nancy, but you don’t need to have any meat in the stuffing–you can use rice and lentils instead or rice and pine nuts with currants or golden raisins. In the case of vegetarian stuffings, you use cooked lentils and rice–otherwise the stuffing mixture would not hold together and stuff the leaves very well–it would all fall apart and leak out and make a royal mess in your cooking pot or pan.)

Aunt Nancy used good ground beef and long-grain rice in her stuffing; I prefer ground lamb and basmati rice. Aunt Nancy liked lamb better too, but it was hard to find in West Virginia back then. She seasoned her filling with finely grated onion, a little bit of minced garlic, some tomato paste and some chopped parsley.

I used more seasoning in my stuffing and added pine nuts, but no matter what you use for the stuffing, you roll the leaves up into little packets the same exact way.

First, you cut the stems off of the leaves and discard them.

Then, you lay the leaf out on a clean work surface with the bottom edge facing your body, and the top jaggedy edges pointing away from you. Before you lay the leaf down, however, notice that the leaf has two sides, the shiny, darker green side and the kind of bumpy, dull-colored and paler green side. You lay the leaf shining side down so that the prettier side will be on the outside of the leaf when you are done. Also, because of the way the veins on the leaves are structured, the leaf will roll up more easily with the bumpy side to the inside and the smooth side to the outside.

Then you take between a teaspoon and a heaping tablespoon of filling mixture (in the Middle Eastern countries, dolma are made thinner than they are ever made in the US. In the photographs I have seen of dolmas from Arab countries, they are no thicker than a woman’s finger, whereas the ones Aunt Nancy made and I later ate in Greek restaurants here in the US, are always thick and somewhat pudgy-seeming. About the thickness of a not small woman’s thumb.

So the amount of filling you pick up depends on how thin or fat your want your dolmathes to be. I like mine fat, so I grabbed up heaping tablespoonsful of the meat and rice mixture and shaping it in one hand, worked it into a roughly cylindrical shape. Or, if you want, a football shape.

This filling is placed down on the bottom of the leaf, about 1/2″ from the bottom edge.

Then you carefully curl the bottom edge of the leaf over the filling and start to roll it up. Give it one and a half rolls, just to tuck the filling “into bed” as Aunt Nancy used to say, then you start folding the sides of the leaf into the center, like you were making a little verdant envelope.

When you fold in the edges, bring them tightly against the filling, and sort of crease the top edge of the leaves where they are folded tightly. You will end up with what looks like a little packet, with an open bit at the top that looks all pointed from being the central, pointy top edge of the leaf.

Then, keeping the leaf as tightly tucked as possible, you continue rolling upwards until you have a nicely filled and tucked and rolled up dolmathe. When you set the grape leaf roll down, you will be setting it seam side down so it doesn’t get all uppity in the pot and start unraveling itself as it is simmering. That would just not look good, nor would it taste very good, because you want to taste the leaf and the filling all at once. Otherwise, it is just like eating meatballs cooked with leaves, and if we wanted that, we’d have made meatballs with leaves in the first place and saved ourselves the trouble of all that rolling, tucking and rolling again.

Now let’s talk about the pot you are going to cook your dolmathes in.

First of all, you have to decide if you are going to cook these on the stove, or if you are going to cook them in the oven. Aunt Nancy did hers on the stove, but in culinary school, we did them in the oven, so I know for a fact both ways work equally well. It all depends on how you want to do it. If your oven sucks, then use the stovetop method. If you are afraid you will forget to watch the stove to keep the pot from running out of cooking liquid and burning the grape leaves, well, then by all means cook it in the oven. That is only being sensible!

It doesn’t matter if you simmer on the stove or bake the dolmathes, you prepare the pot or pan the same way.

You put a layer of grape leaves–you can use the ones that inevitably get torn in the fight to get them out of the jar–on the bottom of your chosen cooking vessel. This prevents the rolls from burning and sticking to the bottom.

Then, I like to put slices of lemon and onion, and sometimes, slices of fresh garlic cloves in a layer over the leaves. These not only elevate the rolls further, but they also add extra flavor to the cooking liquid, which means it adds extra flavor to the dolmathes themselves, which take on the flavors and aromas of whatever they are cooked with.

It is over these layered leaves and aromatics that you layer your dolmathes, placing them carefully seam side down, in concentric rings around the pot, starting along the outside and working inward.

When a layer is completed, repeat the layering process–cover the dolmathes with a flat layer of grape leaves, then the aromatics of your choice and then the second layer of dolmathes. This can theoretically can go on forever, until you run out of grape leaves, dolmathes or room in your cooking vessel of choice. Stop with a layer of dolmathes, though, so you can add your cooking liquid.

Now, the cooking liquid.

Some people use just water, but I think that is a waste of an opportunity to add more flavor to the dolmathes which take on the flavors of whatever they are cooked in and with.

Others use a can of tomatoes, but I am not one of them. I use tomato paste in my meat filling, so I see no reason to add more tomatoes to the dish.

Aunt Nancy’s secret was to use chicken broth. I used Pacific brand in the aseptic packaging.

Whatever you use, pour it in until it just reaches the bottom of the last layer of dolmathes. Then, add about 1/2 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice.

Then you can cover the rolls with a layer of grape leaves, adding more aromatics if you feel like it.

Once you have added the cooking liquid, lay a final layer of grape leaves over the dolmathes and sort of tuck them in around the edges of the pot to seal everything in nicely. Then, put the pot on high heat and bring to a boil. Turn the heat down to low, put a tight-fitting lid (here’s a trick if you have a kind of crappy loose lid on your pot–take a piece of aluminum foil a little bigger than your pot, set it on top of the open pot and put your lid down on top of it–instant tight fitting lid!) on the pot and simmer until the dolmathes are tender–about an hour to an hour and a half. The idea behind sealing the inside of the pot with grape leaves and then putting on the tight fitting lid is that you want to lose very little of the cooking liquid to steam evaporation. You want it all to be in the pot becoming tastier and tastier and bathing those dear little rolls in flavor and moisture.

Because the deal is–you want these dolmathes to be juicy. When you bite into them, they should squirt a tiny bit in your mouth the delectable, rich broth they were cooked in.

When they are done, take them off the heat. If you are not going to serve them right away, leave them sealed up in their pot on the stove until serving time. (This is where a cast iron pot like my Le Creuset Dutch Oven really comes in handy. It retains heat so well, it can keep the dolmathes at serving temperature for over an hour if you leave it tightly closed.)

Aunt Nancy served hers plain, with just a good squeeze of lemon juice and a sprinkle of fresh parsley over them, but she said when she was a kid, her family always had plain yogurt to dip them in.

I like to season yogurt with a bit of lemon zest, fresh parsley, a tiny bit of cumin, smoked paprika, Aleppo pepper and fresh minced garlic and use that as a dipping sauce.

Or, you could use the lemon tahini sauce from my falafel recipe as a dip–this is a fantastic combination of flavors.

At any rate, here is my recipe, based on the flavors I remember first enjoying in my Aunt Nancy’s kitchen, after learning how to wrap these dear little bundles of joy.

Oh, and one more thing–when you take that layer of grape leaves off the top, and between each layer of dolmathes–don’t throw them out! Eat them! They are amazingly good and it is the privilege of the cooks who have been in the kitchen toiling to make delicious dolmathes and who are now setting them on serving platters for their guests to eat the delectable morsels that these gently braised leaves represent. And while you are at it–sip the broth–it is very good for you, especially if you have a bit of a cold or sore throat.

Lamb and Rice Stuffed Grape Leaves
Ingredients:

1 jar grape leaves (use a small jar for this recipe–you will have more than enough grape leaves for it–this makes a small batch)
1 pound ground lamb
1 small onion, finely grated
3 cloves garlic, finely minced
1 tablespoon tomato paste
zest of 1 lemon, finely grated
2 tablespoons fresh parsley, finely minced
2 tablespoons fresh mint, finely minced
1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves, stems removed
1 tablespoon fresh Greek oregano or basil, finely minced (optional)
1/4 teaspoon salt
pinch ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon Aleppo pepper
1/2 teaspoon Spanish smoked paprika
1/2 cup uncooked basmati rice
1/4 cup toasted pine nuts
2 lemons cut into thin slices
1 onion cut into thin slices
3 cloves garlic cut into thin slices
2-3 cups chicken broth or stock
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice
fresh minced herbs, Aleppo pepper flakes and lemon juice for garnish

Method:

Prepare grape leaves for cooking as outlined in the post above.

Mix together all filling ingredients from ground lamb to Spanish smoked paprika, kneading it well with your (clean!) hands until everything is smoothly mixed together.

Mix in the basmati rice and pine nuts with your hands, kneading until they are well distributed into the filling.

Line bottom of pot with grape leaves, onion, lemon and garlic slices as outlined and illustrated in post above.

Wrap the rolls and place in pot as explained in post above.

Layer grape leaves and aromatics as outlined above, and add broth as explained above.

Add lemon juice and then seal the dolmathes in with a final layer of grape leaves.

Bring to a boil, turn the heat down to as low as it will go and still maintain a simmer, then cover the pot tightly and cook for 1-1 1/2 hours, or until the dolmathes are tender and the rice is done.

This recipe makes between 3 and 4 dozen little dolmathes for appetizers and between 20-24 larger dolmathes to be used as an entree.

Garnish with a sprinkle of fresh herbs, Aleppo pepper and lemon juice and serve with seasoned or plain yogurt or lemon tahini dipping sauce.