leftovers, last of

I've had bad luck lately with red lentils. Which is better than having bad luck with men, bad luck with the law, or a trick knee, but still. It's been disappointing: the mediocre dal, a delicious meal of red lentils and pasta I ate in Maryland over the holidays but was unable to re-create at home. So I turned last weekend to an old standby, a red lentil dish that has never let me down.

I'm surprised I've never written here before about Red Lentil Soup With Lemon, as it's been one of my favorites since I made it for the first time a couple years ago. At first glance it might not look particularly special, but unlike that deadbeat dal or the red-lentil pasta dish I just can't master, this soup is a sure thing.


This may be a lentil dish, but it's an elegant one: If the lentils are the backbone of the soup, the cumin and chili powder are its little black dress, the lemon and cilantro sparkling accessories. It's definitely suitable to serve to guests, which I did last Saturday, and makes great leftovers, too, which I ate all week, natch.

Red Lentil Soup With Lemon
From the New York Times

3 tablespoons olive oil
1 large onion, chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 teaspoon ground cumin
¼ teaspoon kosher salt, more to taste
¼ teaspoon ground black pepper
A pinch [or two] of ground chili powder or cayenne, more to taste
1 quart chicken or vegetable broth
1 cup red lentils
1 large carrot, peeled and diced
Juice of ½ lemon, more to taste [I use closer to a whole lemon, depending on how juicy it is]
3 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro [don't skip this; it's more than just a garnish]

1. In a large pot, heat 3 tablespoons oil over high heat until hot and shimmering. Add onion and garlic, and sauté until golden, about 4 minutes.

2. Stir in tomato paste, cumin, salt, black pepper, and chili powder or cayenne, and sauté for 2 minutes longer.

3. Add broth, 2 cups water, lentils, and carrot. Bring to a simmer, then partially cover pot and turn heat to medium-low. Simmer until lentils are soft, about 30 minutes. Taste and add salt if necessary.

4. Using an immersion or regular blender or a food processor, purée half the soup [or more, I usually purée closer to three-quarters of it] then add it back to pot. Soup should be somewhat chunky.

5. Reheat soup if necessary, then stir in lemon juice and cilantro.

I hope you all have a lovely weekend. The yachtsman is off to Vegas, where he's going to bet our life savings at the craps table, while I stay home, proofread, and bake cookies. Seriously. I've been thinking about these chocolate chip cookies for over a year, so I think I can wait the 36 hours between making the dough and baking the cookies. And if I can't, no one will be the wiser.

leftovers, part deux

Or should I say, part dos? Because I'm about to describe a delicious little shizzle that relies on a specialty ingredient from Spain. This is not a recipe, it's an idea, and a very good one.

Start with an Asian pear or two.


Peel and core the pears, then slice them into bite-sized wedges or chunks. Drizzle the chunks with the juice from one or two Meyer lemons and some olive oil (I used orange-scented oil), then sprinkle with a little bit of salt and the specialty ingredient, pimentón de la Vera. Toss the pears in this dressing and serve atop some arugula or watercress.

Or not. I had a few pieces of pear left over from Saturday night, which I ate on Sunday without any greens, and then I bought another pear, dressed it, and ate it for lunch this week, again without any greens.


When I made this on Saturday I got all of the ingredients, except for the salt and Meyer lemons, from my Greek stepmother (I'd first had the dish at her house, of course). But it was so good, I'm going to invest in my own pimentón and orange-scented olive oil.

Pimentón, or Spanish paprika, is ground from peppers that are smoked over oak fires while flamenco dancers with flowers in their hair twirl around the flames and handsome bullfighters watch from the shadows. The orange-scented olive oil my Greek stepmother says she purchased at HomeGoods. But I found both products online at Market Hall Foods. Wherever you do your shopping, be sure to buy pimentón "de la Vera," and I used agridulce, which is of medium spiciness. When you have your pimentón in hand, you could also try my boyfriend Mark Bittman's recipe for Grilled Fish With Pimentón Aioli or this Smoky Spanish Tomato Soup.

Part of what made the pears magical, versus just delicious, was the smokiness of the pimentón, but I tried a few bites as I went along, and Asian pears drizzled with Meyer lemon juice alone are delicious. I can't recommend other kinds of pears, since other kinds of pears are inevitably mealy, while Asian pears are almost always crisp.

Adios, amigos.

the mark bittman minimalist club: no-knead bread for monkeys

According to the data I have been collecting here at the high-tech, state-of-the-art GFD lab, one out of three meals I consume consists of leftovers, usually reheated on my Bunsen burner. I'm currently surviving on leftovers from a dinner we made for friends on Saturday night, so for the rest of the week I'm going to share with you some of the menu items from Saturday night's dinner, as well as their later incarnations (which are sometimes identical).


Let's start with the bread, a collaboration (you could call it a threesome) among my husband, the yachtsman; my boyfriend, Mark Bittman; and some other guy. I've never actually made this bread, but the yachtsman tells me it's so easy, a monkey could bake it, which is good news for all of us who own monkeys. It does require 24 hours of lead time, but other than that, effort is minimal, and the results amazing (soft, chewy interior, and a golden-brown crust that shatters). Making this bread is like inviting a supermodel to your dinner party; the bread gets all the attention. Slather a warm slice with salty butter and it's like slathering the supermodel at your dinner party with butter, except not all pervy like you're thinking. It's just really good, really good-lookin' bread, and this is the best butter ever.

No-Knead Bread
Adapted by the yachtsman from the New York Times

3 cups all-purpose, more for dusting
¼ teaspoon instant yeast
1½ teaspoons salt

1. In a large bowl combine flour, yeast and salt. Add 1 5/8 cups water, and stir until blended; dough will be shaggy and sticky. Cover bowl with plastic wrap. Let dough rest at least 12 hours, preferably about 18 [the yachtsman sez the longer the better], at warm room temperature, about 70 degrees.

2. Dough is ready when its surface is dotted with bubbles. Lightly flour a work surface and place dough on it; sprinkle it and your fingers with a little more flour and fold the dough over on itself once or twice, then gently shape it into a ball. [The yachtsman puts his ball into a proofing basket but says this is not necessary.] Generously coat a cotton towel (not terry cloth) with flour; put dough seam side down on towel and dust with more flour. Cover with another cotton towel and let rise for about 2 hours. When it is ready, dough will be more than double in size and will not readily spring back when poked with a finger.

3. At least a half-hour before dough is ready, heat oven to 450 degrees. Put a 6- to 8-quart heavy covered pot (cast iron, enamel, Pyrex or ceramic) in oven as it heats. When dough is ready, carefully remove pot from oven. Slide your hand under towel and turn dough over into pot, seam side up; it may look like a mess, but that is OK. Shake pan once or twice if dough is unevenly distributed; it will straighten out as it bakes. Cover with lid and bake 30 minutes, then remove lid and bake another 15 to 30 minutes, until loaf is beautifully browned. Cool on a rack.

The morning after he baked it, the yachtsman used his supermodel bread to make his haggish wife a griddled egg sandwich. Griddled, bitches. Happy leftovers to me.