By now, you may have had your fill of simply steamed or roasted asparagus.  I haven’t yet, but I can see that day coming.

Every spring, I gorge on plump asparagus spears from the farmers markets.  I adore the grassy freshness and pure green flavor of just-cut stalks.  Nothing tastes quite so much like spring.

But somewhere along the line, I always begin thinking of the other things I might do with those beautiful spears.  This year, my thoughts turned to shaved asparagus salad.

It began with this video from Chow.  I had never really considered the idea of asparagus in the raw before, but the ribbons of shaved asparagus looked so good, they begged for a salad that made the most of their fresh flavor.

Shaving the stalks lengthwise with a Y-shaped peeler produces paper-thin strips that don’t require any cooking at all. Marinate them in a lemony vinaigrette for an hour or so before serving, and the ribbons soften, their grassy flavor mellowing into the essence of spring.

In this substantial salad, I’ve teamed the asparagus with its classic partnerss, eggs and ham.  In this case, it’s salty prosciutto and hard-boiled eggs.

Preparing the asparagus takes a little time, but the rest of the salad comes together quickly.  Lay a stalk down on the counter and proceed to peel it in layers lengthwise.  When the stalk gets very thin, you may have to raise the stalk a little on the handle of a wooden spoon to give the blade room to maneuver.    Once you have a pile of ribbons, you’re ready to go.

I’ve added preserved lemon to the dressing to deepen the flavor.  It’s a wonderful savory condiment to have waiting in the refrigerator.  If you’d like to make your own, check out this earlier post.  Mark Bittman offered an even quicker variation in the New York Times a couple of years ago.

Of course, you could always just grate some fresh zest into the dressing.  Just don’t miss the delights of raw asparagus.

With the days getting longer and temperatures rising, grilling season has opened at our house.

Throughout the warm months, we cook at least half our dinners outside.  They’re simple affairs—a piece of fish, or perhaps a pork chop, and a grill basket filled with the season’s best vegetables.  I never tire of the way a little smoky char brings out the natural sweetness of everything from eggplant and zucchini to peppers and potatoes.

This year, we decided to try grilling artichokes, which are plentiful at the farmers markets right now.  I especially like the smaller ‘chokes with their tender stems.

The results were extraordinary — the buttery, nutty flavor of the thistles playing off the smoke of the grill and a parsley paste heady with garlic and lemon.  Braising in white wine and olive oil beforehand contributed yet another layer of flavor.

It does take a little more effort to prepare artichokes for the grill. You’ll need to strip each one down to its most tender leaves and remove the hairy choke at its center.  On the other hand, eating artichokes requires less effort when you don’t have to remove the leaves as you go.

If you need a refresher on prepping, check out this tutorial from my earlier post on artichoke risotto.  For this dish, though, you will slice the prepared artichokes in half rather than eighths.

To make things easier at dinner time,  you could prep and braise the artichokes early in the day, then refrigerate them until it’s time to grill.  The actual time over the open flame is relatively short.

Just be sure to make plenty.  They’ll go fast.

 Many cookbooks are primarily kitchen manuals filled with no-nonsense instructions.

Not “Ripe.”  Author Cheryl Sternman Rule and photographer Paulette Phlipot break the cookbook mold.  Their  gorgeous tribute to fresh produce in all its glory is more inspiration than instruction, although filled with creative recipes.

“Ripe” (Running Press, 2012) will send you straight into the kitchen – right after you get home from the farmer’s market.  You may find yourself keeping it out on the coffee table, though, to thumb through in idle moments.  The photographs are downright luscious and the text is whimsical, amusing and informative.

Rule and Phlipot wanted to get away from the “eat your vegetables” cookbooks.  Their goal is to make you want to eat vegetables and fruit just because they’re so irresistible.

They definitely succeed.  Even the photograph of a red apple is tempting, and I don’t care much for red apples.  Raspberries glow, peas gleam, bok choy beckons.  The Bosc pear belongs on the wall of an art gallery.

The beautiful photographs are the appetizers of this cookbook. They draw you in and prime your palate with vivid colors and textures. Sections are arranged not by seasons, as is common in produce cookbooks, but by color.

The main course, though, is the encyclopedic introduction to a wide range of fruits and vegetables, from pomegranates to jicama. Even familiar vegetables show a fresh side of their personality here.

Rule is an engaging writer and gifted cook who offers a little background on each fruit or vegetable along with a few simple uses and an unexpected recipe.   The pomegranate, for instance, is represented by a pomegranate clove thumbprint cookie, tomatoes by an open-faced grilled sandwich with smoked mozzarella.  I loved the kumquat and arugula salad, which explodes with bold but complementary flavors.  The Israeli couscous with fava beans, shallots, and olives was stunning.

I zeroed in on the broccoli soup with cheddar croutons, however, because  it felt particularly appropriate given the cookbook’s mission to entice diners into eating fresh produce.  When Supreme Court justices go out of their way to badmouth broccoli, you know its reputation could use a little help.

The creamy green soup is especially healthful because it doesn’t include a drop of cream.  But it’s packed with so much flavor from cumin, coriander and fennel balanced with lemon and Greek yogurt that you’ll never notice.  Just go slow on the crunchy cheddar croutons, which are infinitely munchable on their own.

The soup was even better the second day, when the flavors had time to meld.  Although Rule recommends pureeing with an immersion blender, I got a far smoother texture with a more powerful standing blender.

I should note that Rule is a San Jose resident and I got to know her when I was a food writer at the Mercury News.  I’ve followed her freelance career ever since and am a fan of her blog, 5 Second Rule.  This cookbook with Phlipot is her first.

Whenever I get together with my friend Lisa, we spend much of our time hanging out in the kitchen, cooking, eating and laughing.

Lisa is an adventurous eater and enthusiastic cook.  She’s the one who introduced me to Ethiopian food and soft shell crabs.  We’ve shared summer pudding in East Berlin, lobster straight out of the steamer at a beach house in Delaware, and southwest paella cooked over a backpacking stove in Yosemite.

Ours is a bi-coastal friendship and we don’t see each other as much now that we no longer work in journalism.  But when I flew back to Maryland to visit her last month, we picked up right where we left off, drinking tea in the remodeled kitchen of her Victorian house and planning our meals for the week.

This pork roast came from a dinner party we threw for a few of Lisa’s close friends.  It started with a pair of tenderloins pulled from the freezer and a garlicky herb paste, originally devised for chicken, we adapted from an Italian cookbook.  It was such a hit, I knew right away that I would post it here.

Tenderloin is a juicy—and yes, tender—cut that cooks quickly and pairs well with many flavors.  Because it’s so lean, though, you have to be careful not to overcook it.  The internal temperature will continue to rise while it rests after roasting, so pull it out of the oven when it reaches 140 to 145 degrees.

A thick blanket of minced herbs, garlic and lemon zest, inspired by “Big Night In” by Domenica Marchetti (Chronicle, 2008), keeps this roast moist even if you do cook it a tad too long.  We introduced fennel fronds to the mix for a lingering note of anise, which goes so well with pork.  The proportions aren’t that important.  Just hold back a little on pungent herbs like rosemary.

The recipe is simplicity itself.  Mince up a couple of handfuls of mixed herbs with garlic, spices and olive oil.  Slather the mixture over the tenderloins and let them marinate 4-6 hours, or overnight if possible.   Slide them into the oven and bake for 15-25 minutes.  Let them rest while you set the table and toss the salad.  Then serve.

Party fare doesn’t get any easier than this.

I’m on a mission to bring back the hot cross bun.  When made well, this lightly sweet, yeasty bun studded with dried fruit is a highlight of the days leading up to Easter.

Good examples of the traditional British buns — which date back at least as far as Queen Elizabeth I and probably to the Saxon era — are becoming harder and harder to find, though.  Supermarket offerings are usually stale, leaden lumps overloaded with dreadful candied fruit.

Several years ago, I began experimenting with baking my own.   I tried a number of approaches, including kneading fruit and spices into frozen bread dough, mixing everything up in the bread machine, and making yeast bread by hand with three risings.  My kitchen is always pretty cool, though, and getting bread to rise is difficult (which is one reason I often start with the bread machine).

Then I ran into this recipe for Hot Cross Muffins on the King Arthur Flour web site and never looked back.   It’s not really traditional, it’s true, but somehow the texture and flavor is better than you’ll find almost anywhere in the real thing.   And it’s amazingly easy to throw together.

The secret is adding yeast as well as baking powder to the dough.   It gives the finished muffin a firmer texture and a pleasant yeasty flavor.  Although you must allow the dough to stand for about 40 minutes before scooping it into the muffin tins, it’s not expected to rise much.  No kneading or shaping in required.

A little potato flour, or dried potato flakes, keeps the dough moist.  The flour is fairly to easy to find now that so many people are eliminating gluten from their diets.

I’ve done very little fiddling with this recipe aside from adding a generous portion of lemon zest to get some of the citrus flavor associated with the customary dried citron and lemon peel.

Taste one and you’ll share the pleasure of the English, who considered spice buns such luxuries in 1592 that the London Clerk of the Markets decreed the city’s bakers could sell them only at burials, on the Friday before Easter, or at Christmas. The ban didn’t last long.

Buns with a cross incised on the top had been a fixture in England since the Saxons ate them in honor of Eostre, the goddess of light whose name was given to Easter. The Catholic church transformed the buns to Christian purpose, and some sources cite the monks of St. Albans Cathedral in Hertfordshire handing out buns stamped with the mark of the cross to the poor on Good Friday in the 14th century.

The cross is now made of icing, which adds just the right measure of sweetness to the bread.

Although these treats are usually associated with Good Friday,  you don’t have to be Christian to appreciate a good hot cross bun.  A little cross-cultural culinary exploration is good for everyone.

No form of cooking intimidates beginning cooks quite like baking.  Because the chemistry must be precise for cakes to rise and cookies to achieve the right balance between chewy and crisp, there’s very little room for error.

That doesn’t mean it has to be mysterious or terribly difficult.   All aspiring bakers really need is someone to offer a little gentle guidance in the kitchen.

Pat Sinclair does just that in the newly revised second edition of “Baking Basics and Beyond” (Surrey Books, 2011).  She breaks all the steps in baking down into easy to follow instructions.  Sprinkled among the recipes and descriptions of ingredients and techniques are little tips I wish someone had shared with me long ago.  Who knew you could test whether the sugar has dissolved properly in a meringue by rubbing a little bit of the beaten egg whites between your fingers?

This cookbook has an old-fashioned feel and the recipes are not going to inspire adventurous bakers. But Sinclair covers all the homey baked goods most of us really crave, from biscuits and cobblers to brownies and tarts.

I might quibble with a few of her instructions.  I’ve never had much success using a pastry cutter as she recommends, although I’ve known home cooks — including my mother — who would swear by them.

My luck has been a lot better since I’ve learned to use my hands to blend the butter and flour.  I cut the butter into small cubes and rub them into the flour between my thumb and fingers with a quick motion, much like snapping my fingers.  It only takes a few minutes to produce a mixture resembling crumbled feta cheese with a few pea-sized chunks scattered about. I’ve described this hands-on approach in more detail here.

Scones are one of my weaknesses and this recipe attracted my attention because it includes cornmeal in the dough, which lends a nice crunch.  I’ve added a little lemon zest because I can’t resist the combination of blueberries and lemon.

These little treats are simple to make.  You just stir them together, drop the batter on a cookie sheet and bake.  They come out of the oven with a crisp crust and fluffy interior.

Sunday brunch just got a whole lot easier.

BLUEBERRY CORNMEAL SCONES
Makes 8 scones

1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup plus 2 teaspoons cornmeal, divided use
1/3 cup brown sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/3 cup butter, cut into 4 or 5 pieces
Zest of 1 lemon
2/3 cup milk
1/2 cup blueberries

Heat oven to 400 degrees with rack in the middle of the oven.  Grease a large cookie sheet or line with parchment paper or a silicone baking mat.  Sprinkle with about 2 teaspoons cornmeal.

Combine flour, cornmeal, brown sugar, baking powder and salt in a medium bowl.  Using a pastry blender or your fingers, cut butter into the flour mixture until it resembles coarse crumbs with some pea-sized pieces.  Stir zest into the milk and pour into the middle of the flour, stirring with a fork until a sticky dough forms.

Add blueberries and stir gently.  Drop dough on the baking sheet in 8 mounds of about 1/3 cup each.

Bake 16 to 20 minutes or until golden brown.  Serve warm or at room temperature.

Note: If you’re substituting frozen berries for fresh, do not thaw berries before adding to the dough, and lengthen the baking time by a couple of minutes.

Adapted from “Baking Basics and Beyond,” by Pat Sinclair

We’ve been on a craft beer kick ever since we took a road and ferry trip to Alaska a few years back.  There aren’t many wineries in the frozen North, so we went beer tasting at intriguing little breweries from Juneau to Homer.

Along the way, I developed a taste for stout.  It’s the antithesis of light beer — one pint is enough to last me all evening — but I love its thick, creamy body and dark, bittersweet  flavors hinting of coffee and chocolate.

I never really thought of stout for dessert, though, until I tasted beer ice cream for the first time last October.  The hoppy kick of a good stout brought a pleasantly bitter edge along the lines of burnt sugar and dark caramel to the ice cream.

Since my efforts at recreating beer ice cream at that time were such a success, I’ve been musing about a cake with chocolate and beer for months.  A little  bite from fresh ginger seemed like a good idea, too.  St. Patrick’s Day was the perfect excuse.

This cake is even better than I imagined.  It’s dark and moist with a nice balance of chocolate and ginger underscored by the earthy notes of chocolate stout from Oregon’s Rogue Ales brewery.  I’m sure it would work with Guinness, too, but this stout is exceptional.

The recipe is a mash-up of several ideas I picked up rummaging through my cookbooks.  The chief inspiration, though, was the gingerbread stout cake Rick Rodgers contributed to “Real Beer and Good Eats,” by Bruce Aidells and Denis Kelly (Knopf, 1994).  I used it as a starting point for my experiments.

My first lesson in playing around with beer as a cake ingredient is that all the carbonation must be exhausted before you stir the beer into the  batter.  I had measured the beer out and let it sit for more than an hour before I made my first cake and that wasn’t enough.

I knew I was in trouble when the batter started fizzing after the beer went in, but I just let it sit another half an hour before I scraped the batter into the pan, shoved it into the oven and crossed my fingers.  What a mess!  During baking, the batter rose so high, it overflowed the pan.  The cake was tall when I removed it from the oven but deflated as it cooled.

The flavor was a little too sharp and the texture was odd,  but it had possibilities.  So, the next day I set the beer out to go flat in the morning and mixed the batter with a different balance of cocoa, sugar, and ginger in the afternoon.  I substituted an organic corn syrup for half the molasses, too.

This cake was just what I was looking for, a substantial, not-too-sweet dessert with pronounced adult flavors.  It slumps a little in the middle because its so moist, but I consider that part of its homespun charm.

Of course, it pairs perfectly with beer although I prefer it with a nice cup of tea.

I’m sure the Irish would approve.

I’ve yet to meet an Asian salad I didn’t like.  The sour, sweet and salty flavors in combination with crunchy textures are so intensely satisfying.  Green papaya salad, noodle salad, Cambodian shredded cabbage salad, even that old standby, Chinese chicken salad — they all get my vote.

My latest obsession is this Asian salad made with crisp radishes and fat green onions, some of the best produce of the season.  The English cucumbers grow in Watsonville greenhouses year-round, so I include them and the fresh herbs in seasonal produce, too.  Throw in poached chicken, some glass noodles, a little chile and cashews and I’m happy.

This recipe began in a terrific cookbook by the revered British cookery writer, Simon Hopkinson,  The original is semi-vegetarian.  By that, I mean Hopkinson uses fish sauce in the dressing.  Neither meat nor poultry make an appearance, however, in “The Vegetarian Option”  (Stewart, Tabori & Chang, 2010).

Still, I’m a self-confessed carnivore and if I’m making an elaborate salad for dinner, I like to include a little protein to tide me over til morning.  This recipe just called out for chicken thighs poached with Asian spices.

I didn’t make the ginger syrup and sesame paste recipes that the author specifies.  Not only do fear my old food processor is not up to the job of grinding sesame seeds, but I also can’t see devoting so much energy to an ingredient of which I’m only going to use one tablespoon.

Thankfully, the juice from a jar of pickled ginger and some roasted sesame tahini made acceptable substitutes after they were dressed up with a little sugar and chile flakes.  I’m sure the originals are better but life is short, even for the food-obsessed.

What makes this salad work so beautifully is the interplay of textures, sparked by chile, lime juice and fresh mint.  Every bite has the clean, fresh flavors I crave at this time of year, when you never know whether spring or winter will show up tomorrow.  With this salad, I’m casting my lot with spring.

Even in California, it’s tough to find a good selection of local fruit in the winter. Citrus is about the only choice at the farmers market these days and I get weary of clementines, as wonderful as they are.

The arrival of blood oranges is always cause for celebration. I can’t resist these beautiful oranges with the blushing rind and dark red flesh.  Their flavor is deeper and more complex than ordinary navels, with wine-like undertones and a lively balance of sugar and acid.

Blood oranges are great to eat out of hand but I think they’re best used in salads and desserts that capitalize on their exotic flavor.They’re an intriguing substitute for the usual lemons in this take on the old-fashioned pudding cake.

To call it a cake is really a stretch.  Think of it more as a rustic souffle floating atop a luscious sauce.  As a bonus, it’s much less temperamental than the classic souffle.  It puffs up in the oven and deflates a little on standing but never totally collapses.

This is a homey dessert.  With the exception of the oranges, all the ingredients are probably sitting in your pantry and fridge.  Stir up the batter, beat the egg whites, fold them in, and spoon it all in a buttered dish to bake while you fix dinner.

As the batter bakes, it separates.  An airy cake rises to the top of the dish and a tangy, pale pink sauce forms on the bottom.  The sauce tends to be fairly thin but incredibly tasty.

Of course, if you can’t find blood oranges, lemons will make a very nice pudding cake.  Meyer lemons would be even better.

We’ve been battling off a persistent virus for weeks at our house.  Just as we start to feel better, it creeps back with scratchy throats and dull headaches.

What we need now is soup, hot and soothing with chicken broth, lots of vegetables and  a good dose of ginger.  When I spotted this take on won ton soup in Nina Simonds new cookbook, “Simple Asian Food” (Rodale, 2012), I knew I had to make it.

Simonds long has been one of my favorites.  She translates Asian flavors into lively dishes that don’t require a pilgrimage to a distant Asian market to pull off.  She’s also an advocate of healthy eating who sits on the Nutrition Roundtable at Harvard’s School of Public Health.

The new cookbook is filled with tempting dishes, but the soups are most appealing to me at the moment.  I also have my eye on the cinnamon beef noodles and Saigon-style chicken noodle soup, Simond’s simplified variation on pho.

This gingery faux-wonton soup was everything she promises.   Cloud-like pork meatballs, studded with chopped ginger, float in a light chicken broth. Bow-tie noodles stand in for wonton wrappers and a generous portion of chard delivers calcium, iron and vitamin C.  It all comes together much more quickly than you would imagine.  And there’s none of the fuss of filling wontons when you’re not feeling that great anyway.

The only changes I made to her recipe were to increase the amount of pasta a little and use only half of the meatballs.  I froze the rest for a future soup.  A pound of meatballs just felt like too much meat for only six cups of broth.  Alternatively you could increase the broth to 8 cups or more.

Next time, I’d probably make the meatballs a little smaller, too.  But that does take a little more time and effort.

If this soup doesn’t cure what ails you, at least it will ease the suffering.