I enjoy celery. It’s snappy and refreshing and fat free, though perhaps not technically healthier than a glass of water. In fact, it is water, trapped inside a fibrous rope, a sort of crispy, waterlogged bungee cord.

As such, it’s a challenging ingredient, valued merely for its crunch, and tossed into salads. Occasionally, celery is braised a process which, by definition leeches out the water and softens the vegetable. Unfortunately, braised celery tastes and feels like crummy, slightly bitter baby food, a sad transformation which eludes even the most recognized chefs blinded by their Frenchy allegiance to The Braise. They’d braise a ceiling fan if it fit in a pot (or a sous vide bag).

It took a long time (decades), and an unusual source for me to be awakened by celery’s more interesting possibilities. Our sub-mediocre Chinese delivery place excels in wrecking most dishes: crispy beef comes out limp, and the “chicken” in General Tso’s is lumps of soft, over-sweet batter.

And yet, they fry up a dish of beef laced with thinly cut celery sticks, in which the vegetable salvages an otherwise wan pile of meat. Having been run through the fire of a restaurant wok, the celery loses some of its crunch, but its indescribable flavor lends an edge to the dish. Finally, humble celery comes into its own, proving itself more than a mere mix-in.

It took awhile to see any other creative celery-tinged dishes, until we went to Vandaag, a Dutch-themed restaurant in the East Village. While disappointing-save for the spectacular bread basket of caraway-studded wafer shards, thick brown bread and warm rolls-the waterzooi, a stew of shrimp and mussels in a buttery broth was very good.

I dug into the perfectly cooked seafood, half-finishing the bowl, when I noticed the thin celery sticks threaded throughout the dish. The taste was remarkable, offsetting the richness with, again, that indescribable celery punch. What had been rich and sweet and hearty became instantly more interesting and fresh and almost cooling.

Other than a penchant for biking, the Dutch and Chinese don’t seem to share much. Not a controversial assessment, at least until you see at least a few Dutch delivery guys pedaling down Broadway. Yet, they do seem to understand celery.

And now, thanks to a coincidental Sino-Dutch harmony, so do I. A touch of raw or barely cooked celery adds not just crunch, but edgy flavor to rich or sweet hot dishes. In this sense, celery becomes almost a spice, to be used as one might a bit of crushed coriander or ground cumin or the caraway in those great Dutch breads.

A final word on celery. It suffers the fate of ubiquity. The tiniest market lodged in the cracks of the densest urban jungle will carry celery. It’s hard and seemingly indestructible, a non-perishable green vegetable which resists crushing and is thus stacked in giant piles. A toddler stuffs toys into his chest with more delicacy than the grocer does celery.

A shame, as celery is more than a bite of crunch, it’s a spice, a pleasant discovery that took years of eating and cooking. And the Dutch. And the Chinese.

Clams w/ Celery and Chiles

Serves 2 as an appetizer

20 littleneck clams (roughly 1 ½ pounds), scrubbed well
¼ cup white wine
3 tbs celery brunoise (fine dice)
1 tbs finely sliced red chiles deseeded
½ tsp crushed, toasted coriander seeds
2 tbs unsalted butter

1. Combine clams and wine in a medium pot over medium high heat. Cover and cook till opened, 6 or 7 minutes.
2. Remove clams to two bowls.
3. Raise the heat and bring broth to boil. Whisk in the butter then stir in the celery, chiles, and coriander and spoon the sauce over the clams. Serve.

About five years ago, I discovered the perfect sub. Sandwich, that is, not the submersible propeller kind. At White House Sub Shop in Atlantic City, it was equivalent to Supper’s caci e pepe being your inaugural bowl of pasta. White House is one of the last legitimate eateries left in Atlantic City, and it’s worth the trip, but bring your track shoes-you may need to dodge bullets on the way in and the way out.

As Caroline Russock at Serious Eats noted, the key to the White House sandwich is the hot chile pepper condiment spooned over the meat. The bread is also superb: fresh, slightly crusty, and not too dense. I also like the sheer size: a full sub is a two foot-long torpedo wrapped in butcher paper. All day people stream out, balancing sacks of them as they sprint to the car. (Bring the shoes.)

While the White House makes a fantastic sandwich, it is summer after all, and with high quality ingredients you can put together a lighter, equally delicious sub. Rather than the papery, bland shrink-wrapped prosciutto from the supermarket, we used a delicious, salty, porky, dry Serrano ham from D’Espana. While there we snatched up some manchego; on the way home we grabbed a few good rolls and tomatoes from a Little Italy market.

The condiment here is a take on tomato bread, a tapas staple (to stay with the Spanish theme of the day) in which a tomato is halved and grated onto crostini. Since we were composing a sandwich, a heartier, more liquid version was called for, so we grated the flesh into a bowl and spooned it over the bread.

As with anything in life, this sandwich is a trade-off: unless you live conveniently near a bunch of great specialty stores, finding first-rate ingredients may be a bit of a hunt. On the other hand, you won’t have to trek to A.C. and risk your life. If you’re within say, 50 miles of the shore, however, I do recommend the White House Sub.

(NOTE: the nectarine adds sweetness (obviously), though you can omit if you don’t want that gourmet stuff. It is nectarine season, though, so might as well go for it now when you can.)

Serrano Ham and Manchego Sub w/ Grated Tomato

Makes 4
1 beefsteak tomato
6 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons sherry vinegar
10 oz sliced Serrano ham
10 oz sliced manchego
1 nectarine (optional)
4 ciabatta rolls
salt and pepper

1. Halve the tomato. Cut side facing the grater, grate the flesh of both halves into a medium bowl. Season with salt and pepper, two tablespoons of the olive oil and the vinegar. Set aside.
2. Split the rolls and toast very lightly, until barely colored. Remove and spoon several tablespoons of grated tomato on one side. Top with the ham, cheese and optional nectarines. Serve.

We spend August in Truro. Truro is way out on the Cape, nearly as far as you can go, just before Provincetown, the tip of the curl, a place you’d think remote, yet jammed with schlocky shops and summer beachgoers strolling its narrow streets day and night.

No matter. The farther out on the Cape, the more you realize it’s truly a fishing zone. Markets sell giant, thick hunks of swordfish, tuna, and bass, as well as crab and buckets of steamers ready to be cleaned and dunked in clarified butter.

The long drive to this seafood mecca necessitates a roadside diner stop. Last year, either we chose the wrong place, or pureed chicken salad is a tradition among these joints. Needless to say, my mushy scoop went untouched.

“Protein salad”, for lack of a better term, shouldn’t be mushy. (By “protein” I mean chicken, tuna, egg, etc. It must be a remnant of my days working at the cooking school receiving dock where every morning the “protein” guy unloaded the truck, handing over the meat and fish for us to label and cart up to the classes where students would destroy the helpless aforementioned “protein”.)

While I like my “protein” salad at least semi-chunky, it’s tricky to achieve success. Chunks of chicken or, in this case, shrimp, don’t bind well with mayo, a failing perfect for a salad, less perfect for a sandwich. Sandwiches, you see, shouldn’t collapse with one bite. The filling has to remain inside the bread, otherwise you’re left with soggy bread and a handful of whatever.

A handful of  bite-sized shrimp tossed with a few herbs makes for a great salad as well as a tasty sandwich.if matched with the right bread. It should be a soft bread (see mayo-less lobster roll): the violent wrestling motion inspired by a crusty roll or baguette causes spillage. Go light on the mayo to prevent soaking, but if need be, use a few leaves of protective romaine.

If you make it to the Cape, you may as well soldier on to the end and taste the purest seafood on the East Coast. Alternatively, a good shrimp salad is a good simulation.

(NOTE: We made an hors d’oeuvre, which works well. You can even use crusty bread, as it’s only a one or two biter. Adjust the seasonings to taste.)

Shrimp Salad Canape

Makes 8

1/2 pound peeled, deveined shrimp (or do it yourself, it’s cheaper)
¼ cup mayo
1 tablespoon dijon
1 teaspoon green peppercorns
2 tablespoons capers
1 tablespoon tarragon, minced
1/3 cup celery, small dice
3 tablespoons scallions, thinly sliced
1 baguette, ½ inch slice
salt and pepper

1.     Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add the shrimp and blanch 5 minutes. Drain, cool under running cold water or an ice bath. Dry well.

2.     Chop shrimp into ½ inch pieces and reserve.

3.     In a medium bowl whisk together the mayo and Dijon. Fold in the shrimp then the rest of the ingredients. Refrigerate.

4.     Spoon salad on bread and serve. Alternatively, serve in a nice bowl alongside the bread and dig in

I can’t decide whether Paul Bertolli’s book, Cooking By Hand, is obnoxious, critical culinary instruction, or a bit of both. Bertolli, longtime Chez Panisse chef, is known for his exacting dissection of ingredients. Minutiae are his thing: percentages of hard to soft wheat in flours for fresh pasta; the advantages of milling your own wheat for the same; the crucial distinctions between balsamic vinegars, heritage pork breeds, and so on.

Is he on target? Is it really pointless to make fresh flat noodles out of Baker’s Choice versus the little known but ideal Promotory brand, constructed from a “harder” wheat? If he came to dinner and I served him Baker’s Choice pasta would he toss it out the window onto the Broadway pavement below?

I suppose a massive series of taste tests would put the matter to rest, but that’s one kitchen project I doubt we’ll undertake. It’s messy enough to make one batch of fresh pasta. Pushing out a second batch using special mail-order flour and mineral water would surely coat the apartment with a thick, floury mat. Also, logistics aren’t in my favor: It’s tough to hang sausages in a New York City apartment and even trickier to find the space for a flour mill.

I will concede, however, that there is such a thing as an indispensable ingredient without which a dish is a mere shadow of the genuine article. For certain dishes, “optional”, a term which peppers so many recipes, is at best wishy-washy and at worst criminal. Curry leaves are just such an ingredient.

Living in New York, we’re spoiled by the profusion of specialty items. For most, a lush garden of unusual stuff is a few subway stops, or brief traffic dodging bike ride away. And so I cycle uptown, wearing my empty backpack, past Union Square, into Gramercy, to Kalustyan’s from which I emerge, backpack stuffed with sacks of dals, pink salt, bags of spices, nuts, and, invariably, the aforementioned fresh curry leaves. The ride back is slightly more perilous.

Earthy and almost toasty, fresh curry leaves are a critical component of Indian cooking. Imagine fried chicken without salt, a burger without ketchup, or chicken salad without celery, and you get the idea. Curry leaves round out the dish, adding fragrance, flavor, and color to an otherwise lifeless product.

Yogurt rice is a perfect example. Yogurt rice is a delicious, cold side dish of Basmati rice mixed with yogurt, fried dal, mustard seeds, chiles, and curry leaves. It is Indian food at its purest: quick with an exquisite balance of spices. Minus a handful of curry leaves, yogurt rice is forgettable and frankly not worth the trouble.

Paul Bertolli may know everything about pasta, balsamic vinegar, and sausages, but he can’t convince me I won’t be able to follow his tortelli of tagliatelle with braised poussin recipe and come out with a pretty decent dish of pasta. However, I know for sure that if you come across an Indian recipe which calls for “optional” curry leaves, and you don’t have any, make something else. It simply won’t be the same.
(NOTE: you can use all urad dal or mung dal. Asafoetida is highly useful in Indian cooking, and in the spirit of this post I haven’t labeled it “optional”, but if you can’t find the stuff I won’t be too upset.)

Yogurt Rice

Serves 4
1 cup basmati rice
2 tablespoons olive oil
½ teaspoon mustard seeds
12 curry leaves
3 dried chiles
2 tablespoons urad dal
2 tablespoons chana dal
¼ teaspoon turmeric
pinch asafoetida
2 cups yogurt
juice ½ lemon

1. Wash rice. Combine with 2 cups water in a medium saucepan, bring to a boil, stir, cover, simmer slowly until done, then leave 15 minutes before fluffing.
2. Heat oil in a small pan with the mustard seeds. When they begin to pop, add the curry leaves, chiles, and dal. Fry, stirring, about 2 minutes, till the dal has colored. Stir in turmeric and asafetida.
3. Combine the yogurt and dal mixture in a large bowl, mix in rice, season with salt and lemon juice. Refrigerate. Serve cold.

Sweet and savory is a kitchen mantra of which no other food is a better example than peanut butter: peanut butter and jelly, peanut butter and apple, peanut butter and chocolate, peanut butter and ice cream, peanut butter and honey, peanut butter and marshmallows, etc. Salty, earthy, and gamy, chicken livers (like duck and other rustic meats) are the peanut butter of the offal and game world, existing to be matched with something sweet.

I love chicken livers, especially turned into a pate, poured into a crock and set on the table before me with a large spoon and the newspaper. Maybe some bread. If I don’t make it myself I’ll hop on the bike and head down East Houston to Russ & Daughters for a pint of their semi-smooth chopped liver studded with bits of caramelized onion.

The browned onion is partly what makes the traditional deli version so rewarding: the sweet factor folded in with the livers, making for a perfect sweet-savory unit. It’s the Jewish version of a Reese’s cup. The traditional French mousse also has onions or shallots but is less sweet, which is why we came up with an accompanying fruit compote.

For obvious reasons, summer is a great time to fiddle with compotes. We chose black plums and strawberries for their acid/sweet balance, but other summer fruits would work. Set out a container of each with some country bread and enjoy.

(NOTE: If you’re not eating all at once, pouring enough olive oil to cover will prevent the surface from oxidizing. You’ll have extra compote, which is great with toast or ice cream or…peanut butter.)

Chicken Liver Mousse with Black Plum Compote

Serves 2

2 tablespoons olive oil plus more for covering (see note)
¼ pound chicken livers, cleaned
1 cup onion, thinly sliced
2 teaspoons chopped thyme
1/3 cup balsamic vinegar
1/3 cup heavy cream
salt and pepper
1 baguette, sliced or other crusty bread
Black Plum Compote

1. Season livers with salt and pepper.
2. Heat a medium pan with 2 tablespoons of the oil over high heat. When very hot, add the livers and cook 1 to 1 ½ minutes per side. Don’t overcook, which turns the flavor. They should be pink. Remove to a blender or food processor.
3. Add the onions and cook 3 -4 minutes until browned then add the thyme, toss and add the balsamic. Scrape the pan until nearly dry then add to the blender.
4. With the blender running, slowly pour in the cream until smooth. Season well with salt and pepper. Pour into a ramekin or similar vessel and refrigerate.
5. If using later, cover with olive oil (see note). Refrigerate until cold. Serve w/ the bread and Black Plum Compote.

Black Plum Compote (see below)

Makes 2 cups

5 black plums
½ pound strawberries, stems removed, quartered
1/3 cup sugar
½ cup water

1. Peel the plums: Make a small cross in the bottom of the plums and place the fruit in a bowl and pour boiling water to cover. Drain after ½-1 minute and peel. Run under cool water if necessary. If the skin won’t come off, carefully peel with a sharp paring knife. Remove pit and cut into chunks.
2. Combine the fruit with the water and sugar in a small saucepan, cover, and place over medium heat.
3. When the fruit simmers, remove the cover and lower the heat to a gentle simmer, cooking until thickened, about 30 minutes. Transfer to a ramekin and refrigerate until cold.

Most people seem to like tuna salad sandwiches. I don’t, but I have a few theories.

One: it’s purely a vehicle for mayo. Two: it’s pretty cheap. Three: it’s easy to make. Four: it’s a social mandate. Five: people like canned tuna.

As to these points:

-Any vehicle for mayo is okay by me. Caesar’s salad comes to mind. However, the underlying ingredient has to have at least a modicum of merit, which, to my mind, tuna does not have. (see #5)
-Tuna is relatively cheap, and thus makes for a pretty reasonable lunch. But so is peanut butter and jelly. Or cheese. Or soup. Or water, which I’d eat/drink before I’d have a tuna sandwich.
-It is easy to make. Can’t deny that.
-Tuna salad does seem genetically inbred from the time we first pack a lunchbox and head to school.
-Canned tuna is a real problem. For one, fish was never meant to be packed into a tiny can. Also, the rule on fresh tuna is it dries out easily if overcooked. And yet, canned tuna is dry as a desert, a violation of the above standard. Hence the NEED for mayo, without which you’ve got a desiccated hockey puck unfit for consumption. (Again, in my view.) A vehicle for mayo is no problem. A NEED for mayo is a different issue. What’s that you say? Romaine needs dressing too? Yeah, but I’d rather eat a bowl of plain romaine. Finally, tuna smells awfully fishy, the not too surprising result of trapping fish in a tiny can.

A chicken salad sandwich is a different story. Chicken is neither fishy nor stringy, and it can be shredded, sliced, cubed, etc. and turned into a great, clean, toothsome, unstringy product.

Now fresh tuna makes a fantastic sandwich. It’s rare, silky interior ensures easy eating; it’s lean, healthy, and a great way to increase your fish intake, and it’s flavorful yet also sort of a blank slate able to pair with any number of condiments and other sandwich accoutrements.

The downside of course, is the expense. To that I have no snappy answer except to say splurge if you can. If you can’t, please, please eat chicken salad.

Seared Tuna Sandwich

Makes 4 sandwiches

2 cups strained Greek yogurt
1 large cucumber, grated
1 clove garlic, minced
1 ¼ pounds fresh tuna
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 head romaine
I baguette
salt and pepper

1. Add the yogurt to a medium bowl and fold in the cucumber and garlic. Season with salt and pepper. Refrigerate.
2. Season the tuna on both sides. Heat the oil in a medium pan over medium high heat until nearly smoking. Gently slip in the tuna and sear until browned, about 1 ½ minutes. Flip and cook the second side. About 3 minutes total. Remove to a cutting board.
3. Slice the baguette lengthwise. (Or first cut in 4 even pieces then slice if too awkward.)
4. Slice the tuna thinly, about ¼ inch. Spread the baguette with the yogurt, lay over the romaine, shingle the tuna evenly over the lettuce, slice and serve.

Some foods are blank canvasses. Off the top of my head, these tend to be white: rice, cream of wheat, pasta, a variety of white-fleshed fish, etc.

Rice can be the basis for paella, rice and beans, different risottos, and so on. Pasta can be twisted and torn and stretched into a variety of shapes and paired with an even greater variety of sauces. You can do anything with white-fleshed seafood. We’re about to make the summer Cape pilgrimage, which means the grill, probably our favorite fish-cooking method.

Simple peeled shrimp is white enough and bland enough to qualify as a blank canvas. Unlike the mildest white fish it really needs a boost. Even my late grandfather, a believer in blandness and stuffed sole, would agree: the only good shrimp was a fried shrimp served with cocktail sauce.

Cocktail sauce, one of history’s great concoctions, was probably inspired by a bowl of flavorless boiled shrimp and a dinner party in need of an hors d’oeuvre.

Shrimp is God’s gift to the caterer: it’s bite-sized and doesn’t slide off a toothpick. Hors d’oeuvres have to be a delicious little mouthful, which is why, if you’re using shrimp, treating it like ceviche is a good idea. A lime juice bath donates acid, a dusting of spice and a bit of pear add sweetness to shrimp, a truly blank canvas.

(NOTE: serving on a pear slice makes for a nice presentation. The down side is, from our experience, whenever you serve an hors d’oeuvre on a slice of something edible, such as cucumber, guests tend to eat that as well. The upside is it looks nice, so use an extra pear if presenting it this way. Green-skinned Bartlett pears are more attractive than Bosc.)

Spiced Shrimp w/ Pear

Makes 12 pieces

12 peeled, deveined shrimp
10 limes
1 teaspoon chile powder
1 teaspoon nigella seeds
kosher salt
1-2 Bartlett pears (see note)

1. Boil a pot of water and blanch the shrimp for 5 minutes. With a slotted spoon add to a bowl of ice.
2. Juice the limes into a medium bowl. Add the shrimp, toss and refrigerate a few hours.
3. Before serving, cut the pear into ½ inch dice or ½ inch by ¼ inch rectangles. To serve, drain and dry shrimp. Dust with the chile powder, nigella, and salt. Spear the shrimp followed by the pear and serve

The idea for this one is speed. A speedy weeknight dinner, that is. As such, I’ll keep it short in case you don’t have time to read.

Weeknight, or any kind of deadline cooking, should use no more than a pan or two and/or the oven. The goal is achieving as much flavor with the least possible effort. The use of spices is the most efficient and effective method.

Think cocktails. Throw together vodka, grapefruit juice and sugar. Nice. Crush up a few mint leaves and stir. Nicer. The entire palate is satisfied: sugar, sour, booze, and herbal fragrance. Which is why an understanding of spice is the mark of a good cook. As Anthony Bourdain said between mouthfuls of Red Hook ballfield ceviche: “a monkey can cook a sirloin”.

Spice is on the brain chez 2 peas (see our post on upma) these days. You’d think that odd, perhaps, since spices are often associated with heavy wintry foods such as pumpkin pie, Indian food, and gingerbread. But we also rub it on ribs headed for the grill, so get over it.

Spices and herbs are fantastic tiny parcels which rapidly transfer enormous flavor. And since rapidity is what we’re after, they’re the key. All we need to do is choose the vehicle. Because it’s already so flavorful, we went with lamb. Lamb pairs with so many spices, reducing the risk and complication. We chose cinnamon.

There you go: two ingredients, lamb and cinnamon. Weeknight and speed. And not too many words.

(NOTE: loin chops are much cheaper than those from the rack and just as good. As with all lamb chops, they’re two-biters, so you may want to cook more in case. Heat up an extra pan.)

Lamb Chops w/ Cinnamon

8 loin lamb chops
4 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 cinnamon sticks
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
salt and pepper

1. Season the chops on both sides with salt and pepper.
2. Heat the oil in a large pan over high heat until nearly smoking. Add the chops and cinnamon sticks. Cook 3 minutes or so, or until browned.
3. Flip the chops and add the butter. Cook another 3-4 minutes, using a spoon to baste with the butter. In the last minute sprinkle the ground cinnamon over the chops and continue to baste with the cinnamon butter. Remove to a plate and rest 5 minutes. Serve.

I don’t believe in that firm stance of refusing to order an item in a restaurant which you could make at home. Restaurants are about luxury; people bring stuff to you. They refill your water glass; cook your food; play music over the speaker; say hi and goodbye. Whether or not you could make it at home isn’t really the issue. Usually.

But they still need you to return, hence easy-listening menu options such as burgers and fries, steak, salmon (a friendly fish), pasta, and so on. All of which can be very tasty. Crab cakes, though, are a curiously ubiquitous offering.

The genesis of the crab cake is a mystery. At its best-purely crab, very lightly breaded-it’s still a hockey puck served with dressing on the side. Because it’s so popular, you’d think McDonald’s would have coopted the crab cake. However, crab is prohibitively costly, which is why, in addition to being fried, it’s a restaurant favorite.

Expensive and plain, crab cakes, to my view, are, yes, best made at home. Not because in your kitchen they’re any less plain, but for another key reason: the bowl. The best part of crab cakes is stealing a spoonful of newly-mixed fresh crab. The lump crab, tossed with a light dressing of mayo, capers, cayenne, and herbs, is delicious, especially in summer. Why not just make a salad of it, you may ask. You can, though here it’s like eating cake batter, where half the fun is the anticipation.

And, to be fair, a good crab cake is worth the anticipation: crisp and sweet assisted by a rich, astringent dressing. It’s just not something, despite a restaurant’s inherent luxury, I’d order.

(NOTE: I was feeling in a diet mood so I bypassed pan-frying and opted for the oven, which worked well. Also, these guys serve it as a sandwich on brioche with their Cajun Remoulade, which is probably pretty tasty, but I made my own yogurt dressing-see below.)

Crab Cakes (adapted from Clinton St. Baking Cookbook)

Serves 4

1 egg, beaten
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
¾ cup fresh white breadcrumbs
1 tablespoon chopped parsley
1 tablespoon chopped capers
1 tablespoon minced onion
¼ cup Hellman’s mayo
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
pinch cayenne
1 teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon white or black pepper
1 pound lump crabmeat
2 teaspoons Canola

1. Preheat oven to 350.
2. Mix egg, lemon juice, ½ cup of the breadcrumbs, parsley, capers and onion with the mayo, mustard, and seasonings. Fold in crabmeat and shape 4-5 ounce cakes with your hands. Dredge in remaining breadrumbs.
3. Refrigerate cakes for an hour then place on a oiled tray and into oven until lightly browned. Turn off the oven, switch to the broiler, place on a rack close to the broiler and sear until fairly dark and crunchy, flipping once. Serve with the sauce.

Yogurt Dressing

1 cup strained 2% Greek yogurt
2 tablespoons chopped capers
2 tablespoon chopped tarragon
2 tablespoons minced garlic
2 tablespoons chopped chives
salt and pepper

1. Fold all ingredients together, season well with salt and pepper. Refrigerate till ready to serve.

There’s okra and there’s okra. I haven’t done a formal survey, but it’s a fair bet a lot of people don’t like the stuff. It’s cool-looking-a green, faceted pod-but tough to cook. You can’t eat it raw, and, heated, it releases a strange sticky white gel. Sound gross? Not at all. The entire thing-nutty, crunchy seeds and toothsome skin-is edible and even hearty, a rare quality in a green vegetable.

That is, if you cook it right, i.e. nicely browned and al dente. If you screw it up you get that plateful of nasty vegetal ooze, which scares, off cook and diner alike.

To my mind, Indian cooks have truly mastered okra. They slice it in small chunks and give it a quick toss in a hot pan with plenty of spices. Not only does the vegetable retain its integrity, but the spice heightens the flavor. It’s what I love about Indian cooking: respect for the ingredient paired with respect for the spice.

Tamarind, a few blocks from us, is a fantastic Indian place. A giant, airy two-level loft, it attracts a sharp-dressed crowd. A far cry from the neighborhood Indian place of my childhood, with its oppressive red velvet walls, neon-red tandoori chicken, and soul-deadening sitar music, Tamarind is an Indian restaurant for the modern era.

The spice pantry at Tamarind must be cavernous, and most of it seems to go into the okra, a mixture of okra, ginger, and a wild handful of ground and whole spice. Whole spice is among the best elements of this cooking: the seeds add crunch and a strong but not overwhelming flavor, which is muted by hot oil.

Upma, introduced to me years ago, is the quintessential whole-spice Indian dish. Like the best quick curries-okra, eggplant, or other-it’s a mix of a simple ingredient and complex spice. Although fortified with potatoes and tomatoes, the main ingredient couldn’t be more basic-cream of wheat-making upma essentially a dish as suited to breakfast as it is lunch or dinner.

Lending a great crunch to the otherwise soupy cream of wheat, the whole seeds make upma a great starting point for anyone interested in cooking Indian food. It’s like sinking into a bubble bath: the warm water is great, but nothing without the bubbles.

Upma

Serves 4

¼ cup olive oil (or canola)
3 tablespoons toor dal (or any small-sized dal, i.e. not chana)
2 tablespoons cumin seed
2 tablespoons mustard seeds (black, preferably)
2 yukon gold or red bliss potatoes, peeled in 1-inch chunks
3 plum tomatoes in chunks
1 inch ginger, peeled and minced
1 cup cream of wheat
salt
3-4 small red chiles, chopped thinly, with seeds (if you can deal with the heat)

1. Add the oil and spices to a medium pot over medium heat. When the mustard seeds pop and the dal starts to color (about 30-40 seconds), add the ginger, potatoes, and tomatoes.
2. Cook a few minutes, stirring, and season with salt. Not too heavily-this is just the first seasoning-you don’t want the final product to be too salty. Adjust at the end.
3. (This is where we go off recipe a bit.) Add enough water as you want-it’ll determine how much upma you want. For this amount of spice and other ingredients, I add quite a bit-enough to cover the veg by probably 2 inches.
4. Raise the heat a bit and bring to boil. Stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, add the cream of wheat in a thin, slow stream. You don’t want lumps.
5. Reduce to low heat and cook, stirring, until the upma thickens. You don’t want cement, rather, a smooth, thin porridge. Season again with plenty of salt. If you’re being fancy, plate it and garnish with chiles. Otherwise, just stir em in. Serve hot. (But it’s great cold the next day.)