I almost feel unethical posting this as a “recipe.” It’s so simple– a boil, a sprinkle, and done. It came about mostly in an effort to clean out my fridge and spice cupboard. And yet, the result of said kitchen tidying had the added bonus of this stunning salad. (Is it a salad all on it’s own? Or would one need to add lettuce for that? I never know.) The delicate dill rounds off the somewhat bawdy beets. The resulting dish encompasses the best aspects of farm-to-plate eating– earthy richness and heavenly crispness.

Because beets are the main ingredient here, make sure you use the freshest beets you can find. Old ones that have been lolling around shelves for a few weeks tend to be woody at best and bitter at worst. A good beet should be as sweet and firm as a good kiss. To assess the freshness of your beets, squeeze them. They should not be in any way squishy. You can also make sure the greens are crisp and lively, not wilted and listless. Like most vegetables, your best bet is to buy your beets from the person who grew them.

A bonus of finding a local source of beets is that you’re more likely to encounter different varieties. I used the two kinds that City Roots is growing: Bull’s Blood, a deeply red beet, and Chioggia, an heirloom beet with beautiful fuchsia and white rings. (Tragically, these fade when cooked.) While I can’t say they taste much different, they do vary dramatically in color and make a very pretty salad when tossed together.

Wherever you get your beets from, make sure you store them properly once you get them home. (Hint: cut those tops off!)

And, out of neighborly concern, I do feel the need to assure you that, the morning after eating this, don’t worry. You’re not dying. You know how people used to dye things with beet juice? Yeah, that’s what happened to your insides. All’s well.

In the kitchen, however, I am much more adept at improvising. I love the magic of off-the-cuff meals– when disparate ingredients come together into a delicious punchline of a dinner.

That’s what happened this past lunchtime. I gathered together what sounded good: lettuce with the crispness of fall morning air, golden raisins the color of its afternoon light, and toasted almonds smelling of its evening fire. Toothsome pears and leftover pear brandy cream sauce completed the cast.

]]> http://collectedquotidian.com/2011/10/06/an-impromptu-autumn-salad/feed/ 0 http://collectedquotidian.com/2010/12/29/chopped-citrus-and-cranberry-nut-salad/ http://collectedquotidian.com/2010/12/29/chopped-citrus-and-cranberry-nut-salad/#comments Wed, 29 Dec 2010 23:52:43 +0000 Jana@ Collected Quotidian http://collectedquotidian.com/?p=1204 I love citrus. While most cookbooks and online recipe forums seem to think that citrus is best enjoyed in the dog days of summer, I love that it’s true season is actually the mid- winter months. Like a doting grandmother who slips you a bright little foil wrapped piece of candy in that long half hour before dinner, citrus waits till the dark days of winter to ripen.

While it’s true that citrus isn’t necessarily local, unless you happen to live in Florida, California, or parts of Texas, it is a seasonal fruit, just like anything else. So, while most of us can’t buy citrus from one of our farmer friends, it is still possible to buy it at the peak of its season when it’s freshest, imported the least number of miles, and most importantly– tastiest. For me, that means taking advantage of the natural down time that winter gives us and chowing down on all the grapefruits, tangerines, oranges, clementines, lemons, limes, pomelos, and tangelos I can eat. Peggy Bourjaily wrote an excellent piece for NPR’s Kitchen Window series about this practical locavorism.

Citrus in winter is also a nostalgic thing for me. Truth be told, I would probably eat it in the winter even if it wasn’t in season then. (Conveniently enough though, I get to keep my moral high ground.) As kids, we would always get an orange in the toe of our stocking at Christmas. I don’t know how often we actually ate the orange, but it was of utmost importance that it was there. Since starting our own Christmas traditions, Mr. Quotidian and I have dispensed with the usual stockings filled with odds and ends that end up getting lost or broken in a few weeks. Instead, we leave a pad of paper and pencil by the stockings and write down memories of the other person, then put the memory in the other’s stocking. So, by Christmas morning, we have stockings stuffed with memories. I love the tradition, but obviously an orange would feel rather out of place in such a situation. However, a Christmas without citrus seemed hollow and dull. I realized the easiest way to solve the situation was to serve citrus at one of our Christmas meals. Since citrus doesn’t do well with a cheese fondue, Christmas Eve was out. However, when I remembered a recipe for a salad using oranges and cranberries, Christmas brunch seemed the ideal way to include this jolly, festive fruit. New Year’s brunch would be delicious too…paired with a mimosa perhaps?

I’ve adapted the original recipe by substituting the citrus I had on hand– grapefruit and tangerines. I think it would be delicious using just about any citrus. The addition of lemons and limes would be especially delightful. A note on the preparation of the citrus: This salad would be dressed to the nines if you took the time to supreme the citrus. However, I’ve never been good at such things; I end up too sticky to brush the hair out of my frustrated face and annoyed with the tiny bits of mangled fruit and juice running down the edges of the counter. It is on my list of skills to master as a cook, but alas, I’m not there yet. If you’d like to try your knife at supremeing (supreming?), here’s a good video to get you on your way. (Just promise me you won’t try it for the first time on Christmas morning…bad idea.) For the rest of us who don’t have our supreme legs, chopping the citrus into tiny pieces should enable you to pick out most of the seeds.

When I was making my menu a few days ago, it was cold and blustery outside. I also had some potatoes that needed to be used. Destiny seemed to be handing me a steaming bowl of Potato and Leek Soup.

But wait, this is Southern Destiny. And what’s that she’s wearing? Short sleeves and sandals? By the time Potato and Leek Soup night rolled around, it was a balmy 70°. I took the potatoes and leeks from Destiny’s hands, but left the soup for another day.

I do have to give some credit to Mr. Quotidian for the inspiration for this recipe. I told him I was considering switching around dinners to accommodate the warmer weather and make the pasta salad instead. He, being the ironic husband that he is, asked if we were therefore having potato and leek salad.

And that was all it took.

This recipe is inspired by the classic flavors of Potato and Leek Soup. It’s seasoned with bacon drippings and a simple vinaigrette. You could easily make it more complex by adding other herbs and spices, but I think that would detract from the beauty of this recipe. As it is, simplicity keeps the flavors in harmony. The potatoes taste like potatoes.  The leeks taste leek-y. And the mushrooms . . . well, you get the idea. The only addition I would perhaps add next time is bacon. I used bacon drippings as both the roasting fat and oil in the vinaigrette because I happened to have some on hand. But some actual bacon, not just the drippings, would give the salad a nice crunch without stealing the show.

If you don’t have bacon or drippings around, I’m sure this would work with a different oil. Just be sure to use a good tasting one, like melted butter or olive oil, because both the potatoes and mushrooms are flavor sponges, soaking up whatever you drizzle over them. It’d be a shame to miss an opportunity like that by using something flavorless (or worse) like vegetable oil. If you use something other than bacon drippings, just make sure you remember to add salt to the veggies and dressing, as my recipe doesn’t call for it because of the salt already in the drippings

This post is part of Pennywise Platter Thursday at The Nourishing Gourmet.

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