Only recently have I come around to the radish. It’s fairly polarizing as far as vegetables are concerned. There are those who go to sleep dreaming of fresh radishes and butter, and those who scorn the very sight of them. I previously belonged to the latter camp, only tolerating radishes if pickled or preserved, unenthusiastic about the raw peppery bite. But upon learning that radishes taste completely different when cooked, I decided to test my luck and poach them in some broth. The result is somewhat miraculous: the nose-clearing effect dissipates, and the pink parcels take on a subtle yet complex flavor, something between a potato and, well, a radish.
What else is transformed by broth? Meatballs make a serious second contender. Though I rarely ever gravitate towards ground turkey (too lean, pretty flavorless), I imagined its subtlety would lend itself well to a miso- and pea-filled broth: a good protein to let the brightness of spring produce take center stage. This broth is perfect for the transitional weather. It’s the comfort you need as you wait for May flowers to sprout from April showers.
Ingredients
Serves 3–4
Meatballs:
1 pound ground turkey meat (pork would also work)
1/2 cup chopped chives
1 egg
1/3 cup panko bread crumbs
3/4 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon black pepper
1 teaspoon garlic powder
Broth:
3 cups broth of choice (chicken, vegetable, dashi)
2 tablespoons sesame oil
1 cup frozen or fresh peas
2 bunches radishes (stems removed)
1 bunch pea shoots (if you don’t have these on hand, don’t worry. The broth is delicious without them too)
1 tablespoon fish sauce
1 tablespoon miso paste
1 tablespoon coconut aminos
1 tablespoon soy sauce
Black pepper and salt, to taste
Instructions
Heat pot over medium heat. Add sesame oil.
When oil is hot, add the turkey in batches, using a small spoon to form chunks. Brown the turkey meat, 3–4 minutes.
After all the turkey has been browned, deglaze the pan with broth, scraping up the bits of fond on the pan.
Bring the broth to a boil, then reduce to a simmer.
Add radishes and miso paste. Cook for 10 minutes.
Add turkey back in and cook for another 2–3 minutes.
Add frozen peas and cook for another 1–2 minutes.
Finish off with fish sauce, coconut aminos, and soy sauce.
Top with more fresh chives and pea shoots, and serve with a side of rice.
Oh, the jarred artichoke! What a wondrous creation. I would eat these bottled beauties every day if I could. But, as one grows older and wiser, one realizes—to much dismay—that it is, indeed, dangerous to have too much of a good thing. So, when I allow myself a jar, it’s with both giddiness and caution that I ask myself: How can I best showcase these bleeding green hearts? This recipe comes from one such experiment, which, to much delight, turned out to be incredibly fruitful. Paired with a creamy white bean, fresh dill, and the bright punch of a whole lemon, this artichoke pasta will no doubt please all the palates it graces.
Ingredients
Serves 2
1 can artichoke hearts (preferably in olive oil)
1 can cannellini beans
3 cloves garlic
1 lemon, for both zest and juice
1 handful dill
1 teaspoon red pepper flakes
Salt and pepper
Pasta of choice (Rigatoni or anything tubular works best)
Instructions
Bring a pot of salted water to a boil.
Drain and rinse cannellini beans. Set aside.
In a large saucepan, heat 2 tablespoons olive oil over medium heat (use oil from the jar if artichokes are oil-packed)
Quarter the artichoke hearts into bite-sized pieces, and thinly slice three cloves of garlic.
Add artichoke hearts to the pan and cook undisturbed for 2-3 minutes.
Add in garlic and red pepper flakes, cooking for 1-2 minutes until fragrant.
Turn heat to medium-low, and deglaze the pan with lemon juice.
Add in cannellini beans, seasoning with salt and black pepper. Cook for another 3-4 minutes.
When the pasta is cooked, add in lemon zest and chopped dill.
Add cooked pasta to the mixture along with some reserved pasta water until the sauce becomes emulsified.
Top with parmesan and some more fresh lemon zest and dill.
Nothing livens up a Friday night like a themed dinner. When the days drag on and the bitter gray of Connecticut winter gets to me, I find reprieve in Parisian daydreams: chalkboard bistro menus and chain-smoking retirees sitting at comically small round tables. Escargots are few and far between in these parts (and I’m not equipped to cook them quite yet), but as a new cast-iron owner, a steak frites moment seems feasible. I sent a text out to my anemic friends and got to work.
Steak Frites with Garlic Aioli
Ingredients
Serves 4–5
3–4 New York strip steaks
5 Yukon gold or Russet potatoes
1 cup mayonnaise
2 cloves garlic
1 tbsp lemon juice
Kosher salt
Black pepper
3 tbsp butter
Canola oil (a frying amount)
c/o Gemmarosa Ryan, Food Editor
Instructions
Grate garlic cloves into mayonnaise, as well as a squeeze (1 tbsp) of lemon juice, a pinch of salt, and a healthy amount of black pepper. Set aside.
Peel and cut potatoes into matchsticks.
Place potatoes in a bowl of warm salted water.
Salt and pepper both sides of the steaks (1 tsp kosher salt per pound)
Heat a large pot over high, and add canola oil. It should be about 2 inches worth of oil, (enough for a deep-ish fry of the potatoes).
Once the oil is glistening, and you can smell it intensely (about 5-6 minutes), drop in 1 fry. If it sizzles immediately on contact, add in the rest of the fries. Work in batches to not overcrowd the oil.
Take the fries out when they turn golden brown and place them on a paper-towel-lined plate. Salt them while they are still hot.
If you can multitask while the fries are frying (or have 2 cooks in the kitchen), heat up a cast iron skillet over high heat to get it ripping hot.
Add in the butter and the steaks, lower the heat to medium. Don’t fuss with the steaks for at least 3 minutes, flipping only when the first side is nice and seared.
Flip the steaks and cook for another 3 minutes on the other side.
Tilt the cast iron so that the butter accumulates in a pool, and, using a spoon, baste the steaks for another minute.
Take the steaks out and season with flaky salt (if you have it). Let them rest for a 3–4 minutes.
Cutting against the meat grain, slice the steaks. Add a handful of fries and a healthy dollop of the aioli you made earlier.
I would recommend serving with a peppery and lemony salad of sorts on the side, nothing fancy. I made a simple one with arugula, lemon mustard dressing and some pickled carrots I had on hand.
The Zoom room radiated with tangible anticipation as we waited for our esteemed guest to enter the waiting room. As born and bred New Yorkers, Tables for Two aficionados, and The Wesleyan Argus’ Food editors, it goes without saying that to meet and speak to Hannah Goldfield, food critic at The New Yorker, was a dream come true.
We met Goldfield about a month ago during an event put on by the Shapiro Writing Center that was part of a series called The Critic & Her Publics. Shapiro-Silverberg University Professor of Creative Writing and Criticism Merve Emre (The Critic), a highly admired professor at the University, interviewed Goldfield about her life story, approach to criticism, and overall relationship with food. During the event’s second half, we saw Goldfield in action as she tried various students’ cookies, responding critically to the different flavors and textures.
While there was some time for Q&A after the cookie testing, we were eager to continue the food writing conversation with Goldfield, and, luckily enough, she graciously agreed to answer a few more of our many questions virtually.
Goldfield’s entrance into the world of food criticism was not as one might picture it. Goldfield graduated from Columbia University with a concentration in Biological Anthropology, which she said informed her interest in and outlook on the food world in many ways. Her interest in writing originated in her participation in the campus magazine and her voracious reading habits, which she still sustains today.
Among her inspirations are auteurs such as David Sedaris, from whom she gets her propensity for humor; Calvin Trillin, lauded critic for the New Yorker; and Ruth Reichl, whose food memoirs are canon for most aspiring critics.
Reading any of Goldfield’s articles, one can see how she artfully integrates the quippy humor and inventive description of her favorite authors. Some examples of such are: “tart barberries glistening like rubies,” “shiny blimp speckled with sesame seeds,” “sauceless white pies that let it sing,” or Merve Emre’s personal favorite: “wontons bobbing like jellyfish, their ruffled bellies stuffed tightly with shrimp, their slippery wrappers trailing like tentacles.” Her illustration of food is filled with alliteration and evocative verbiage; it’s no surprise that she took various poetry classes while at Columbia. These poetry studies inform her ability to avoid cliches, which lies in her specificity of description. After perusing her articles, it’s evident that Goldfield is never boring, always bringing her unique storytelling to her restaurant descriptions. She makes it look easy.
For the average writer describing food, achieving a Proustian level of finesse is hard. But how might one walk the line between cliche and over-abstraction?
“I find it really hard to write about food because there are so many ways to say certain things,” Goldfield said. “You run out of words really fast. I often hit a wall with how to describe that particular sensation more than once in the same piece.”
While Goldfield has had a passion for food all her life and quite a knack for writing about it, she didn’t anticipate a career in food writing. After college, Goldfield worked as a fact-checker at The New Yorker and grew an affinity for the food columns, constantly seizing opportunities to work on those pieces. As luck would have it, one of the staff writers for the food column stepped down, and Goldfield jumped at the chance to claim the spot.
Goldfield is now a seasoned savant of culinary conversation, but her methodology has changed quite a bit since she first began. Goldfield herself can trace a distinct shift in her approach to criticism.
“When I started writing about restaurants, I aimed to serve the reader,” Goldfield said. “So I was just going to be brutal about whether or not I like this restaurant. And that has shifted over time. There is a time and a place for negative reviews.”
It was amid the COVID-19 pandemic that she changed her outlook on criticism. With restaurants all over New York shuttering their businesses, the hardships of restaurant ownership became glaringly evident.
“The bottom line is that it’s really hard to run a restaurant,” Goldfield said. “It took me a while to realize there’s never a reason to punch down.”
She also extended this advice to our growing food section, explaining that we (and our writers) should write to serve our audience of other students, pointing them to places we love and explaining why one type of restaurant may be more fitting than another. Comparing and contrasting locales might be a better way to approach one’s writing than just trying to be a harsh critic.
In Goldfield’s opinion, harsh criticism should only be reserved for “big fussy” restaurants that spend gargantuan amounts of investor dollars on publicity. These restaurants tend to be pricier, and Goldfield believes that it is her job to alert the public whether or not these locales are living up to their proposed hype.
Aside from the COVID-19 pandemic, much has changed since Goldfield started writing Tables for Two. Food writing and journalism have ballooned as a career or interest for many young people, ourselves included. The industry has become increasingly digitized, relying on videos and short-form content instead of traditional food essays or articles. Goldfield acknowledges that for today’s aspiring critics, their career paths will not mimic her own, especially in an age where social media has transformed the food media landscape.
“I think it’s just where things happen now,” Goldfield said. “Social media is absolutely integral to my work. Instagram, to me, is a research tool. That is how people promote things in the restaurant world. It’s how I’ve made connections with people in the industry. It’s often how I reach out to a source.”
Food writing, as Goldfield herself acknowledges, is no longer defined simply by writing.
“Food is such a visual and tactile medium,” Goldfield said. “It really lends itself to photography and video. It does feel like you at least have to be aware and fluent in those things and be willing to participate with them.”
These other media haven’t always defined her work, but Goldfield has a positive attitude about how the food writing landscape is changing.
“Tables for Two is a thing that is very beloved for print readers,” Goldfield explained. “In terms of traffic on the website, it was not the most popular thing. People want different things when they are reading online.”
After reading one of her most recent articles, “My Favorite Restaurants in New York City,” it became clear that Goldfield has artfully adapted her voice and style to serve a new, faster-paced online environment. This specific angle of the food media was especially interesting to us regarding our section, since we recently had the idea to create a spreadsheet for students to fill with their opinions about local restaurants, almost like a Wesleyan Yelp. We’ll shamelessly plug ourselves and encourage our readership to fill it out.
After recently announcing she would step down from her position as the Tables for Two columnist, we were curious what was next for Goldfield. While a memoir is not off the table, Goldfield admits she doesn’t have much of an impulse to write one, at least not in the next 20 years. However, she would consider writing a book of reported essays not necessarily confined to the formalities of restaurant criticism.
Another pursuit Goldfield is currently engaged with is reviewing cookbooks, which she believes to be the emerging pearls of publication as they become increasingly grounded in narrative and rich biographical stories. To review a cookbook, Goldfield treats it like a hybridized book and restaurant critique, attempting to share how she engages with the text. The narrative portions are equally important to the actual experience of cooking the recipes, which she does for her friends and family whenever she has the time.
We look forward to seeing how Goldfield and her sharp prose continue to evolve in the next stages of her career. We are thankful for her help setting the table so our food section can continue to whip up worthwhile engagement and serve a dynamic array of ravishing recipes, saucy stories, and fond fables.
This soup came out of a happy accident—a fridge full of bits and bobs that I struggled to use. Soups, especially blended ones, are foolproof ways of using up vegetable scraps that look uninspiring or tired. They are also easy, long-lasting meals that can you can keep in your fridge for busy work weeks when you need a quick lunch or dinner. I’ve since made this soup with a wide array of green vegetables and leaves, and I’ve also eaten it with added noodles and dumplings.
Ingredients
Serves 6-8
2 tablespoons ghee, coconut oil, or sesame oil
1 (1-inch) piece ginger
1 large yellow onion
1 large zucchini
1 cup coconut milk
4 cups chicken or vegetable broth
2 heads corn
1/2 bunch curly kale
1 block silken tofu
1 tablespoon fish sauce
Instructions
In a large pot, melt the ghee, coconut, or sesame oil over medium heat.
Grate the ginger and add to the pot, letting it cook in the fat for about one to two minutes until fragrant.
Add in roughly chopped onions and zucchini, salt generously, and stir to coat.
Let the vegetables sauté for three minutes before adding in the can of coconut milk and broth. Bring the liquid up to a boil.
Once boiling, reduce to a simmer and let the mixture cook for 10 minutes.
While the pot simmers, cut the kernels of corn off of the cob and wash the kale.
After the soup has simmered for 10 minutes, add in the kale and let it wilt into the mixture.
Add in the block of silken tofu.
Use a regular or immersion blender to blitz the mixture. (If using a regular blender, wait until the mixture has cooled slightly.)
After the mixture is well-blended and smooth, add the corn kernels into the soup and simmer for another five to seven minutes until the corn has cooked.
1916: You might know it as the year Woodrow Wilson was re-elected, the year the first Planned Parenthood clinic opened, or the year Dadaism made its mark on the art world. But to the residents of Middlesex County, it was the first-ever Durham Fair. What began as a humble agricultural exposition with a crowd of 2,000 became the largest fair in Connecticut, with almost 200,000 attendees gathering in recent years. Attracted to the art of the spectacle, I convinced my friends it was paramount to go. Kindly, they indulged me, equally enticed by the promise of candied apples and questionably assembled roller coasters.
We pulled into a massive field that smelled of damaged grass and overturned mud. Unsure of whether to proceed, my friend handed a five dollar bill to the parking attendant and inched her baby blue bug past the flimsy gate. A row of Durham residents in neon vests used air traffic controller batons to wave us into our designated parking spot. Skeptical and disoriented, looking for planes overhead, I tried to assuage my worries and trust the process. Where was the fabled Durham Fair? I began to panic, thinking my dreams of sensationalized Americana were all but a fallacy. Sensing my worries, one of the parking assistants motioned us to the yellow school buses at the front of the lot.
Boarding the bus was like an EKG for the psyche. I felt my seventh grade self come alive as I patiently awaited Ms. Kringle to rev the engine and catapult me into a world of gaudy attractions and glorified gluttony. And suddenly it was there, right before my eyes. Over the hill and around the bend, the light of an average-sized Ferris wheel caught my eye.
Stepping into the fair, I was immediately greeted by the smell of bacon-wrapped turkey legs that attacked my olfactory from every corner (aside from inside the barns, where cow manure trumped it). Occasionally, I would spot a culprit, a middle-aged man towing five toddlers, presumably gorging on protein to keep his energy levels high. My grub of choice was an impossibly plush round of fried dough. The ghostly heat of the oil vat radiated through time and space to reach my cold hand, the powdered sugar lodging itself in my throat while clouds of white encircled my wheezing face.
Fueled and ready to rumble, I made my way toward the real event of the night: the demolition derby. I didn’t know what was happening at first, and I was too far away to realize the smoke above was the soul of a smoldering Toyota Corolla ascending to car heaven. What an enrapturing New Age ritual! Pure and simple destruction, the joy of creating carnage. The joy of knowing there is no shortage of Toyota Corollas in the world. The joy of human evolution, sacrificing goats for gods now cars for corporate greed.
Zigzagging between T-Mobile booths and artisanal fudge stalls, I marveled at the fruits of late-stage capitalism: three french fry stalls lined up beside one another, an army recruitment tent that offered “100% free college tuition.” Hungry from an accumulating unease, I walked from food stall to food stall, trying to find a fried Oreo that cost less than eight dollars a piece.
The final stop of the night was the petting zoo. The cherry on an ethically dubious cake. We walked around the pens and cages, looking at perfectly bred bunnies with names like “Mad Hatter” and “Mr. Cuteness.” The Durham County Fair truly had all their ducks in a row. “No,” a friend said, “these are some of the best waterfowl I’ve ever seen.” The piglets were small and the pumpkins were large. I wondered how many secondhand GMOs would be contracted after such prolonged exposure.
After a spin on the Ferris wheel and a brief flirtation with some fall-themed house goods, my friends and I decided that our senses had been adequately stimulated. We couldn’t stand to see one more sheep, ride one more teacup, or eat a gram more of sugar. Boarding the yellow school bus, we drove back around the bend and over the hill, knowing that despite some reservations, next year we would be going back down this rabbit hole again.
Neat rows divided by tar-black metal beams. An Olympic-style pool if the swimmers lived in hell, lapping through the fiery lanes at Satan’s YMCA. I turn the gas on, and the valve rises from a propane tank. I think of the joys of a party store, the giddy anticipation before helium balloon inflation—a ready-to-pop “6” glittering and pink under the store’s fluorescent lights. I scrub the leftover soot from the surface, hoping the act can wipe away all my psychic debris with it. “Sweee, sweee,” go the ashen bristles.
Apply grease.
Ignition on.
Dial up the heat.
Close the top
and you’re off!
Primal immediacy. Try to think of the last time you felt it coursing through your veins, depositing itself in your brain. Your mind comes alive again, awakened from a 9-to-5-induced stupor. A hypnotic daze from the clacking of your computer keys. The licks of smoke that rise remind you:
YOU ARE NOT AN AUTOMATON
THE OFFICE IS NOT YOUR MASTER
REMEMBER THE HEARTH THAT BORE YOU
The next few moments, you would be wise to savor. As you lower the links and succumb to the steak, submit to their solicitations and requests for devotion. If you adjust your eyes, the grill does look like quite the shrine. You can almost picture it being used that way centuries in the future. When past customs have been annihilated and post-apocalyptic humans repurpose the vestiges of our time.
No matter. No need to think of times to come. At least not now, as the pork fat makes its first contact with the flame beneath it, “PSSSSTT,” the scent whispers sweet nothings in your ears. A smell so beautiful you can see it. Almost as well as your first love’s upper lip, the curvature of your grandmother’s hand stirred chicken soup.
A trance befalls you. The grill is a conduit of nostalgia; after all, you can almost see the figures of your past and present dancing atop the flames. Watch the past guide the present through the heat—a father with a child on his feet.
It’s a tender line, one you can cross with a second’s notice, between charred and burnt. A mastery of sorts, accumulating debris but not too much. One step too far and needed depth becomes an unsavory weight. Grilling is a practice in moderation, from low and slow to hot and fast. The movement of the meat around the grill top is a delicate affair. Each cut asks something different of you with each arising moment.
I want more from you.
I need some space.
Maybe we’re due for a break?
If you’re cooking for a crowd, the affair complicates further. Your brother wants his steak rare, but your mother-in-law calls for an infuriating “well done, dear.” There are seven burgers to flip, and the hot dogs fall through the grates. Sweat pools on your forehead like the condensation on the beer bottle someone’s uncle left unattended. The heat slaps your face with renewed vigor. It’s at this moment you might doubt your quest, wish you had not resigned yourself to the whims of the elemental. But if you stop now, you might threaten every law of evolution. If you stop now, you are cursing centuries, nay millennia, of your ancestors. Think of sacrifices made so you could spend your days at a modestly regarded corporation! DO NOT LET THEM DOWN!
It brings me such joy when all that is needed to make a delicious meal is one singular pan. The clouds part and angelic music streams from the heavens as I triumphantly approach the sink with minimal carnage. I wash happily under the lingering smell of tomato paste, capers, and onion baptized in chicken fat and confirmed in lemon. The couscous is a holy vessel for their communion. I cannot promise this chicken will absolve you of your sins, but it surely puts up a fight.
Ingredients
Serves 4
4 bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs
1 cup pearled couscous (if you can’t find pearled couscous, sub for orzo)
1/2 lemon
1 tbsp capers
1 tbsp caper brine
1 tbsp tomato paste
½ large red onion
2 cloves garlic
1/2 block feta
2 cups chicken broth
Olive oil
Salt & pepper
Instructions
Heat 1 tbsp olive oil in a skillet over medium heat. Once hot, add in chicken thighs skin-side down. Cook for about four minutes, flipping when the skin becomes golden brown, releasing without force from the bottom of the pan. Cook for three more minutes and then transfer to a plate (don’t worry about cooking it all the way through. It will finish cooking with the couscous later).
Drain about 1 tbsp of the chicken fat, leaving a generous but non-excessive coating on the pan. Reduce your heat to medium-low and add the thinly sliced red onion, salting and cooking for about five minutes until jammy and slightly browning around the edges.
Mince garlic and add to the onions, tomato paste, and red pepper flakes. Let the paste toast for two minutes until brick red.
Deglaze the pan with 1 tbsp of caper brine and a squeeze of lemon juice. Let the liquid cook off, around one to two minutes.
Turn the heat back to medium and add in your couscous and capers. Stir to coat and let toast slightly for two minutes.
Add in your chicken stock and the rind of the lemon you squeezed earlier. Bring the stock to a boil.
Once boiling, reduce to a simmer. Nestle the chicken amid the couscous and cook for about 15 minutes until it has absorbed its cooking liquid and is cooked through. If needed, add more broth or water if the mixture looks dry and the couscous is still al dente.
Crumble over some feta, parsley, and a squeeze of lemon.
For this semester’s final issue of The Argus, I wanted to share a classic Tuscan recipe passed down to me from my mother. Pasta e Ceci—pasta with chickpeas—is an emblematic dish of the Tuscan “cucina povera” (peasant cooking). While unassuming and cheap to make, this dish manages to turn the most simple of ingredients into a meal that will impress your dinner party guests and cure your Sunday scaries. It never fails to warm my heart and fill my stomach—I can only hope it does the same for you. Since the last issue is a special occasion, I invited my wonderful fellow Food Section editors Lia Franklin ’24 and Lewis Woloch ’24 over to my humble Low Rise so that we could all enjoy the pasta—and there wasn’t a singular bucatino left in the pot when we finished eating. It was the first of many dinners that we will have together.
If you want to keep up with what I’ll be cooking over the summer, follow me on Instagram @wannabechefg, and stay tuned for the launching of my substack.
Grazie mille for reading the column, and until next year,
Chef G
Ingredients:
Serves 2-3
1 can chickpeas
300 grams of pasta (Bucatini, Ditalini, Tagliatelle)
1 medium carrot
1 medium stalk celery
1/2 white onion
3 tablespoons tomato paste
2 cups vegetable or chicken broth
1/2 bunch Tuscan kale
4 tablespoons olive oil
1 sprig rosemary
2 cloves of garlic
Salt and pepper
Instructions
In a food processor or by hand, finely chop the carrots, celery, and onions. Mince garlic separately.
Remove the vegetable mixture and blend half a can of chickpeas, putting aside the other half of whole chickpeas to use later.
Heat up four tablespoons of olive oil in a Dutch oven or large saucepan over medium heat. Add in the carrot, celery, and onion mix. Season with a pinch of salt and pepper.
Sweat the vegetables out until fragrant and translucent, around four minutes.
Add in garlic and rosemary, cooking for another two minutes.
Add in the tomato paste, cooking until it turns brick red, around two minutes.
Add in the two cups of broth to de-glaze the pan, making sure to scrape up any bits stuck to the bottom of the pot.
Add in the chickpea purée and the remaining whole chickpeas, along with a heavy pinch of salt and pepper, and bring the mixture to a soft boil.
Once boiling, add in the pasta and lower to a simmer. Cook until the pasta is perfectly al dente, adding more broth/water if there isn’t enough liquid or if the mixture looks dry.
Add in the kale, stirring into the pasta and letting it wilt.
Serve with a fresh grating of Parmesan, a scrunch of black pepper, a sprinkle of salt, and another drizzle of olive oil.
For the longest time, I loathed red bell peppers. As I got older, I warmed up to them, but to this day I still remain suspicious. One of the only ways I will spoon-feed myself red-bell peppers is when they are emulsified with some sun-dried tomatoes, almonds, and copious amounts of parmesan (what some might choose to call a “pesto”). This recipe I devised is tried and true, and it will be the crown jewel of your charcuterie board, gnocchi night, or hungover egg sandwich. If you don’t have the time or energy to turn on your oven, by all means use jarred red peppers and stick with regular old raw garlic. But, as in most cases, going the extra mile really makes the difference.
Ingredients
2 red bell peppers
1/2 cup sun-dried tomatoes (about 8-10 depending on size)
1/2 head of garlic
1/2 cup Marcona almonds (I’ve used toasted almonds, walnuts and pine nuts too but these almonds really add something special)
1/2 cup Parmesan (plus more for serving)
Salt and pepper
1/2 cup olive oil
Instructions
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.
Core the red bell peppers and cut into quarters. Place on a baking sheet and coat with 2 tablespoons of olive oil, salt and pepper.
Cut the head of garlic in half lengthwise, and place the two halves in tinfoil. Cover the garlic in about three tablespoons of olive oil and close the tinfoil.
Roast the red peppers and garlic for about 30-45 minutes, or until the peppers are jammy and slightly charred and the garlic can be squeezed from its skin.
Once the vegetables have slightly cooled, put the peppers and half of the garlic into a food processor or blender, making sure the roasting oil gets in there too! (Save the other half a head of garlic for whatever garlicky needs you may have)
Add sun-dried tomatoes, almonds, and grated parmesan to the processor along with a pinch of salt, crack of pepper, and another 2 tbsp olive oil.
Blend until smooth, adding more olive oil as needed to get a smooth and emulsified consistency.
Serve with your favorite pasta shape, on toast with an egg, or as a dip on your next charcuterie board.
