Dad's Scotch Gravlax by Alison Roman

There was this bagel shop near my high school that served a freshly baked, toasted sesame seed bagel with cream cheese for $5.50. Besides going to Panera for a cup of their tomato soup, this was my ideal lunch, which I ate often. 

One day in line at the bagel shop, I heard the person in front of me order a toasted bagel with lox and cream cheese. I hadn’t the faintest idea what lox was. Since these were the olden days, and I didn’t have a smartphone to look up quick definitions or Google Image search for clues, I had to use my good old fashioned virtues of paying really close attention. As we all stood by the counter, waiting for our order number to be called, I kept my eye on the lox-orderer. Of course, the last thing I expected to see was cured salmon. When I saw that plate of bagel and cheese topped in fish, I couldn’t help but say “gross!” out loud. To this day, I don’t know if the lox-orderer heard me. 

Also, to this day, I’ve never ordered a bagel with lox and cream cheese. I have absolutely no desire for it, mostly due to texture (can you say slimy?). So when I saw this gravlax recipe, I had two reactions: 1) “what is gravlax?” and 2) “oh no.” 

Answer key: 

1. Gravlax is Nordic salmon dish that consists of salmon cured (never smoked) in salt, sugar, and dill. Alison’s definition adds scotch, lemon zest, and aleppo pepper. 

   1. There are two main steps to making Alison’s Dad’s gravlax. First, you must make the ingredients become intimately acquainted with one another. Start by pouring a tablespoon of scotch over the fish. Then, after massaging the other ingredients listed above into what feels like “wet sand,” rub them on top of the salmon. Second, you must prepare it for curing. This involves tightly wrapping the fish and cure in many layers of saran wrap. Then poking a few holes in the wrapping on the bottom. And finally, placing the salmon on a rack inside of a baking sheet with a plate and heavy skillet on top to press the cure into the salmon. Over the next 3-5 days (I decided on 4), water creeps out of the salmon and it becomes cured. 

2. My worst fears didn’t come true. Yes, the salmon is somewhat slimy, and yes, it was a mental battle for me to get over that fact. But the flavor is so complex and interesting and in your face, that it overrode any focus on texture. Seriously -- the flavors of scotch, pepper, and lemon are so strong, that I couldn’t think of anything else. If I were to make this again, which, who knows, I might some day, I would stop the curing at 3 days for a slightly fresher taste. But I can’t stress enough how much the flavor distracted me from what I was most wary of. 

   1. It helped that I served the fish with other delicious things: gluten-free bagel, almond milk cream cheese, cucumber slices, and lemon. 

To answer your ever-burning question, will I now become a lox-orderer after making Mr. Roman’s gravlax? The answer is, likely not. 

148 recipes cooked, 77 to go.

Spicy Caramelized Leeks with Fresh Lemon by Alison Roman

I can’t remember the first time I ever bought a leek, but I do know it wasn’t until my 20’s that I even knew what a leek was. My father has a rather strong aversion to onions - the smell and taste of them. So growing up, my mother never cooked anything with onions, and by extension, alliums of any variety. Even garlic hardly made it into our food. The closest she usually got was garlic salt. 

To eat a leek, just a leek, would have been unimaginable just a few years ago. Now, a plain leek (with salt and harissa, of course), is something I crave. 

In case your familiarity with leeks is also lacking, I must point out something Alison emphasizes in the book: leeks are always dirty. Their tightly wrapped layers of green and white trap dirt in hard-to-reach crevices. Without thoroughly cleaning a leek, that dirt will turn into a muddy seasoning for your food. Alison’s cleaning method is to trim the dark green parts of the leek off first, and then soak the light green/white part in a bowl of cold water. This allows the dirt to loosen, so you can rub it off easily as you inspect each layer of leek. This is an unskippable step. 

My favorite step in this recipe involved slicing the leeks like party streamers. I first cut them in half lengthwise, and then, using the longest, sharpest knife I own, cut the layers into thin strips, leaving the base intact. I could have strung them on a piece of yarn and taped them on the wall like party streamers! Maybe I’ll do that for my birthday next year…. 

Before placing them in the oven to sizzle, I massaged the leeks with a harissa and olive oil mixture, making sure to get in between all the cracks and layers. I then seasoned them with salt and pepper. 

Note: This recipe calls for 4 leeks. However, I could barely fit two in my large lasagna pan. If you buy four, be prepared to use two baking pans OR search for small leeks. 

The trend with my new Chicago apartment oven is for things to take at least 5-10 minutes longer than indicated, and these leeks spent an extra 10 or so minutes in the oven to begin to achieve the same level of crispy as the picture in the cookbook. The leeks in the book have an incredible evenness to their caramelization, every strand looks equally frizzled. Perhaps if I tried to spreading the layers out more, this could have been achieved, but something tells me you’d need special equipment to achieve this level of perfection.  

Evenly caramelized or not, the leeks were delicious. The harissa carried the right amount of heat, and the flaky salt and fresh lemon bits brightened up all of the oily goodness. Our dinner guests even loved them, too. The presentation didn’t wow, but the taste sure did. 

I served this with Alison’s Overnight Focaccia, Tonight and Skillet Chicken with Crushed Olives and Sumac for another All-Out-Alison meal. 

147 recipes cooked, 78 to go.

These are our Chicago pals, Christian and Elli!

Overnight Focaccia, Tonight

(This is the third installment of the “Life is often a lot like” series. The other two installments are here and here.)

Life is often a lot like making focaccia bread. From the very beginning, you’re full of doubt. For one thing, the ingredients seem insufficient for the task. You struggle to imagine how tiny grains of yeast, water, oil, and flour can possibly form a pillowy dough large enough to fill a baking sheet. The tools before you feel lacking, which sometimes translates to the lie that you yourself are lacking. The lie is so potent, you consider forgoing bread for dinner altogether. I mean, think of the carbs. But also, think of all those delicious carbs…

Remember what Jill said, failure is where character is formed. Make the bread, learn the lesson, let the yeast do what it was created to do. With a heart divided between doubt and hope, you begin to whisk. Whisking water, yeast, and oil until well combined, nothing you haven’t done before.

Now to add the flour. Five cups of bread flour. You scoop one half cup at a time, feigning carefulness. When really one large dumping of flour would yield the same result. Doubt creeps in again. That’s a lot of dry flour for that amount of liquid. You struggle to incorporate it all with your wooden spoon. You put your whole body to work, leaning into the stirring, the scraping up of dry bits of flour, the combining of a craggy mess. Everything’s a mess. Where’s my apron? Now for a big decision: follow your instinct to add a teaspoon of water for those last grains of flour or forgo your idea for the sake of following instructions. What happens when the rules go against your sense of right and wrong? Which do you discard? Worry about the moral implications of that question later. You’re making focaccia, remember? You add the teaspoon of water before you can face more doubt, and move onto what you, and the bread, require: rest.

Rest for a whole hour. Cover it with plastic and let time carry the weight of the process. Sometimes doing nothing is the most productive decision of all. Funny how often you forget that truth. An hour later, and the dough has indeed doubled in size. You sprinkle your counter with flour and knead the dough, pushing it with your palm and letting it fold onto itself. Over and over, and quickly, until the surface appears smooth and elastic. You coat the bowl with olive oil and put the dough back down for another nap. You’re still surprised that the dough doubles in size, though it’s only because yeast keeps doing it’s job. Me of little faith.

Light, airy, and sticky, you turn the dough out on a well-oiled baking sheet, pushing it out to the edges, so it can rest for one final hour. If there’s one lesson to learn from bread, it’s that good things happen to those who nap.

Turn on the oven, slice an onion, have flaky salt and more oil at the ready. You play the risen dough like a piano, plucking keys, pressing your fingertips to dimple the surface. Scatter the remaining ingredients and watch as the bread turns a golden brown. You spy on the baking bread and wonder why you ever doubted those tiny grains of yeast. After all, you’ve been told your whole life that, “though she be little, she is fierce.” 

146 recipes cooked, 79 to go.

Salted Butter and Chocolate Chunk Shortbread, or Why Would I Make Another Chocolate Chip Cookie Ever Again? by Alison Roman

(^That right there, folks, is the longest recipe title known to humankind.)

Everyone has an opinion on what makes for the best chocolate chip cookie. Be it chewiness, sweetness, saltiness, thickness, thinness, just out of the oven or next-day. I believe every human has the inalienable right to personal cookie preferences, so I won’t claim a universally accepted premiere chocolate chip cookie quality. However, I will tell you what I think makes the best chocolate chip cookie: a balanced ratio of sugar to salt. A cookie without salt is simply uninteresting to me. 

Because of this, I have a predisposition to not only love Alison’s shortbread chocolate chunk cookie, but to echo her question: why would I make another kind again? (My answer is: I’d make a different kind if I find myself craving a more layered, soft, but dense version of said cookie. But the shortbread will scratch the itch 9/10 times.) 

These cookies take some planning, requiring at least 2 hours of chill time in the fridge. The dough assembly, if you have a stand mixer to do the heavy-lifting, is easy. It starts with beating two and a quarter stick of butter with sugar until light and fluffy. Then slowly adding the flour and salt (if you use unsalted butter) and chocolate chunks (I chopped mine from some Whole Foods branded dark chocolate bars) until they’re all combined. I divided the dough onto two sheets of plastic wrap, and rolled them into logs that are 2.25 inches thick. Oftentimes, I wing this sort of thing. But when it comes to thinly sliced cookie dough, the last thing you want is for them to fall apart. It felt important to be exact in the circumference measurements for this reason. 

I prepared my dough on a Saturday afternoon, just before leaving for a party called The Great Midwestern Cornhole Tournament. And yes, it was exactly like it sounds. Great, full of midwestern experiences like college football, beer, and friendly people, and there was a verifiable cornhole tournament. Jordan and I placed 8th out of 16 teams, for those wondering. We’ll take it. 

On Sunday I was ready to bake. I took out one log at a time -- painting it with egg and rolling it in Turbinado sugar, then slicing it into rounds and topping the cookies with flaky sea salt. The baking time averaged to 16 minutes for me. 

I’ve had plenty of shortbread cookies in the past, but what makes these stand out is the crunchy sugar on the edges. I brought the cookies to work on Monday, and by 2pm, they were all gone. The most frequent comment I heard, besides “those cookies were amazing,” was “the sugar on the edges - oh my!”  

145 recipes cooked, 80 to go.

Salted Citrus with Fennel, Radishes, and Olive by Alison Roman

I’ve mentioned before that at the beginning of this project, I hated olives. So when I first perused Alison’s two cookbooks to evaluate all that would lie ahead of me, I made no less than an “ew, gross” face when I flipped the page to this recipe. 

But eight months and one much expanded palette later, I couldn’t wait to make this. And the last summer-weather days of October seemed the perfect opportunity to do so. This recipe is simple: thinly sliced tangerines, covered in salt, honey, and lemon juice. Layered with thinly sliced fennel and radishes, also mixed with lemon juice and salt. Sprinkled with crushed olives of the Frescatrano variety. 

Crunchy, juicy, briny, acidic, salty, and sweet. A salad that encompasses all six of those traits can only be described as excellent. 

144 recipes cooked, 81 to go.