Easy Recipes

This past week brought a spate of traveling and holidays and celebrations. I have eaten cookies and latkes and New York pizza; I have finished unconscionable amounts of wedding appetizers and Thanksgiving courses and birthday cake. And now, I am home. I will snuggle my dog in my own comfy bed (farewell, pull-out couches!). I will do my laundry. I will read a book and spend a full 24 hours without making smalltalk with strangers. And I will make vegetable soup.

This soup is my go-to recipe, a sort of homely and humble minestrone-ish hybrid that I make every couple of weeks throughout the winter. Its an easy way to get a good shot of vegetables (whether or not youve had a deficit of same in your recent overindulgent Thanksgivukkah diet), and it freezes beautifully for a grab-and-go lunch on leftover-free days. And beyond a few basics (the building blocks of onions and carrots and tomato, the welcome sweetness of long-cooked cabbage), it is ridiculously adaptable. Ive snuck in kale instead of chard, and a bunch of chopped parsley when I had neither. Ive poured in leftover tomato juice instead of tomato puree, and stirred in handfuls of fresh basil in the summer. Beans have ranged from frozen leftover pigeon peas to quick pressure-cooked navies to none at all. No matter the variation, it tastes just like home.


Go-To Vegetable Soup

yields two full pots

2 tablespoons olive oil
1 large or 2 small-medium onions, cut in a small dice
4 cloves garlic, sliced
1 tablespoon paprika
1/2 cup barley
~8 cups vegetable broth (I tend to use homemade freezer stock or Rapunzel bullion these days)
6 carrots, peeled or scrubbed, and sliced into thick coins
3-4 stalks celery, thinly sliced
1 small head cabbage, thinly sliced/shredded
4 cups tomato puree
2 bay leaves
1-2 cups cooked (or par-cooked) beans
1 bunch chard, leaves and stems, washed and chopped (leaves can be roughly chopped, but make sure the stems are sliced thinly, like the celery)
1 handful chopped fresh herbs (dill, parsley, basil, or whatever you have — optional)
salt and pepper

Heat a large soup pot over a medium flame (if you have a mega stockpot you could make this in a single batch, but if not youll need another pot later). Add the onions, along with a pinch of salt, and saute until they become translucent but havent totally collapsed, ~10 minutes (adjust head as needed so that they soften without coloring). Add the garlic and paprika, and cook for another minute or two to soften. Add the barley and vegetable broth. Raise the heat until it reaches a boil, then reduce until its just high enough to simmer. Cook for about half an hour, until the barley is par-cooked (you can use this time to prep the remaining vegetables).

After half an hour, transfer half the mixture into a second soup pot (unless your pot is epically large). Between the two pots, divide the carrots, celery, cabbage, tomato puree, and bay leaves. If the beans are only par-cooked, add them as well (if theyre fully cooked, theyll come later). Add water to cover the mixture by a generous few inches. Bring the mixture to a boil, then reduce heat until its somewhere between a very gentle boil and a healthy simmer. Cook ~45 minutes, until the carrots are fully softened and the cabbage is mostly translucent and softened. Add the beans (if fully cooked and not yet added) and the chard and fresh herbs. Simmer another 30 minutes, until everything is fully cooked and the flavors have blended. Season to taste, and serve. Soup improves upon standing (and isnt so bad after freezing, either).

The majesty and impact of some images can be difficult to capture on film (or its digital equivalent). The soul-stirring drama of a sunset, for example. The misty rush of a waterfall. Or, in this case, cilantro soup. This soup, loosely adapted from a Portuguese recipe by the lovely Tea and Cookies, tastes like spring itself. Its kind of unfortunate that the picture looks like a bowl of mulch.

If you cant trust the image, trust me: this soup has a brothy, herbal lightness, but also a depth of flavor from the leeks and hefty dose of garlic. And two secret weapons: a crusty slice of garlic-rubbed toast at the bottom of the bowl, and a poached egg on top. If you, like me, are thinking that a slice of soggy bread doesnt sound like the most awesome idea, I ask you to think again. Its lovely. The original recipe called for white beans, but I opted for a can of the similarly-Iberian garbanzos. Its sort of like the best of garlic bread, soup and salad all in one bowl.


Acorda (Portuguese Cilantro Bread Soup)

adapted from Tea and Cookies, as inspired by San Francisco Magazine

serves 4

2 Tbsp olive oil
3 leeks, washed, dried and chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced, plus 2 whole cloves
8 cups stock (vegetable or chicken)
1 bunch chard, washed, dried and coarsely chopped
1 can garbanzos or white beans, rinsed and drained
~2 cups cilantro, washed, dried and coarsely chopped
4 large or 8 small slices peasant-style crusty bread
salt and pepper
4 eggs

In a large pot, heat the olive oil over a medium flame. Add the leeks and a pinch of salt, and saute until softened. Add the minced garlic, and saute until the garlic is soft but not brown. Add 6 cups of the stock, the chard, and the beans. Bring to a gentle simmer, and cook for a few minutes to soften the chard.

While the soup is simmering, puree the cilantro with the remaining stock in a food processor until its fairly smooth. Pour this into the pot, continue to simmer to blend flavors.

While the soup is on its final simmer, Bring a pot of water to boil to poach the eggs. In the meanwhile, toast the sliced bread until lightly browned. Take the remaining whole garlic cloves and run them over the toasted sides (toasted bread does a remarkably good job of grating the garlic into a fine paste to coat). Place a slice of toasted garlic bread at the bottom of each of 4 bowls.

Poach the eggs in the boiling water (if youre not an experienced poacher (hee), you can find a nice tutorial here). Season the soup to taste, and ladle a serving over each bread-filled bowl. Top with a poached egg and serve.

I dont always travel well. I try to be game for lifes adventures and experiences, but more often than not find myself overcome for a powerful longing for the pleasures of home -- namely my dog and my contoured neck-supporting pillow. And fresh vegetables.

If I needed to describe the lentil soup of my youth in one word, it would probably be brown. Brown lentils, a few aromatics and stewed tomatoes, and just a smattering of vegetables. Ive learned to add a bit more interest to the Italian-style lentil soup, stirring in some kale or spinach, and a bit of vinegar at the end to lift the flavors. I still like that brown lentil soup, and make a pot every so often. But this soup, this Turkish-inspired red lentil soup -- I love it. Its made of the still-virtuous-but-less-earthy red lentils, and brightened with some warm spices and a splash of lemon juice. On the days after I have over-indulged (something that certainly happens this time of year), its a great recovery meal. Its got fiber and vitamin-rich vegetables, and yet its light and smooth enough to soothe ragged stomaches.

Traditional Turkish red lentil soup can take a variety of forms. Some are simple purees, while others feature sprinklings of mint or dried bulgar. My version contains rice and a handful of spices, with a heaping of carrots to lighten it and give a bit more vegetal taste. The recipe is flexible, and can be easily adapted to your tastes and pantry availability: Ive stirred in a few handfuls of spinach or a sprinkling of cilantro at the end (neither terribly traditional, but both delicious), and added extra tomato paste when I didnt have a fresh tomato on hand. Once you try this, youll want to keep some red lentils on hand to be able to make a pot whenever you like. Especially after Thanksgiving.


Turkish Red Lentil Soup

makes 1 pot

2 Tbsp olive oil
1 onion, finely diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 Tbsp coriander
1 tsp cumin
1 tsp paprika
pinch cayenne (or more, if you like it spicy)
1 Tbsp tomato paste
1 tomato, small dice
1 1/2 cups red lentils
1/4 cup white rice
2 carrots, cut in 1/2" dice
6-8 cups water
salt and white pepper to taste
juice of 1 lemon, plus additional lemon wedges for serving
yogurt for serving (optional)

Heat the oil in a soup pot over a medium flame. Add the onion and garlic, and saute until softened but not browned, ~5 minutes. Add the coriander, cumin, paprika and cayenne, and stir for a few minutes to toast the spices in the hot oil. Add the tomato paste and chopped tomato, and stir to combine. Allow to cook a couple more minutes, until the tomatoes soften around the edges. Add the red lentils, rice, chopped carrots, and water (start with the smaller amount). Bring to a simmer and cook, stirring occasionally, until the lentils have broken down into a rough puree, the rice has started to lose its shape, and the carrots are very soft, ~45 minutes. Add more water as it cooks, if needed.

When the soup has cooked down, season to taste with salt and pepper, and stir in the lemon juice. Serve hot, with lemon wedges and a dollop of yogurt if desired.

At various times in my office-bound life, I have been part of lunch collectives. I got the idea several years ago, when I was working at NYU and watched some of the grad students in a neighboring lab try to save their meager grad student wages by having lunch together every week. Each day, one student took a turn bringing in food for the group, and then the five of them would cycle through again the next week. Cooking for five twenty-something mouths is definitely a big undertaking. But when you average it over the week, you ultimately end up cooking less, saving money, and eating better.

In years since, Ive brought this practice to bear in a couple of my workplaces. Usually its been limited to once or twice a week, to accommodate varying schedules and available leftovers. But its still a win-win proposition: after establishing the initial ground rules (various food allergies, restrictions, and common definitions of healthy food (we end up being fond of both fruits, vegetables and butterfat)), you sit down with your coworkers to enjoy a delicious glimpse into someone elses kitchen. Even if the meal is nothing more than a homemade soup and salad, its still miles better than the greasy takeout options in walking distance. But for me, really, it comes down to something else: an excuse to indulge in some dairy.

Living with a someone whos lactose intolerant, Im probably much healthier than I would be if left to my own devices. But Im also left with a powerful craving for cream. Last week I made this soup for lunch club, which fulfills both dietary preferences at once: on its own, it is vegetal and lovely, with sweetly soft-cooked fennel and carrots touched with a bit of fresh orange juice. But for others (like myself and my lunch club), stirring in just the tiniest bit of sour cream gives it a lovely, complex, barely-there tang, giving its lightness a bit of balancing heft. I felt compelled to round out my lunch club contribution with a batch of broccoli-cheese knishes and some cookies (were still in the impress-the-co-workers first round), but it would be lovely on its own, with just a bit of crusty bread and a salad if you want.

And I must belatedly amend last weeks post: I talked about a dramatic chocolate dessert, and lamented that, barring this confection, my life tends to be free of sitcom-worthy drama. But while away at the beach this weekend, I was reminded of a jaunt to a friends parents beachfront cottage last year, wherein one of the guests used hand dishwashing soap instead of the meant-for-machines version in the dishwasher. Acres of suds spilled across the floor. To be fair, the machine didnt walk itself across the kitchen, nor did this occur as we were frantically trying to clean up after throwing an ill-fated party while our parents were out of town. But still: drama!


Creamy (or not) Carrot Fennel Soup

tweaked from Amanda Hesser in The New York Times
yields 2 quarts

2 Tbsp olive oil
2 medium fennel bulbs, washed and thinly-sliced
3 lbs carrots, peeled and sliced into fat coins
2 cloves garlic, thickly sliced
~ 6 cups water or stock (or half of each) - honestly I forgot to measure this ingredient, and details on freestyling are below
1 tsp salt
1/3 cup fresh-squeezed orange juice
dash maple syrup
1/4 cup sour cream
salt and white pepper to taste

Heat the oil in a large soup pot over a medium flame. Add the fennel, carrots and garlic and cook, stirring occasionally, until they soften and just start to color (~10-20 minutes, depending on how large your pot is). Add the water/stock until it just covers the vegetables. Bring to a boil, and then lower the heat until its just high enough to maintain a simmer. Simmer uncovered until the carrots are meltingly tender, ~45 minutes. Longer doesnt hurt.

Let the soup cool slightly, and puree in batches (I prefer it just shy of smooth). Place it back in the pot, and add additional broth/water as needed to get a nice consistency. Add the orange juice, maple syrup, sour cream, and salt and pepper to taste. Serve hot.

There is something of a debate about cooking technique that occasionally rears its head in our house. On the one side, there is the practice of long, slow cooking. Soups and sauces are simmered for several hours, developing surprisingly deep flavors and smooth textures. On the other, theres the desire to cook fast and furious over high heat, and take the soup pot off the stove because come on its done enough and Im really hungry! Im embarrassed to say that I represent the latter camp.

Whenever I manage to quiet my impatient grumbling and let something simmer for the alloted time, Im usually floored by the results. This soup is an especially good example of the startling transformation that can be achieved through slow cooking. As in much of Basque cooking, the emphasis isnt on a handful of spices or flashy additions, but on a careful treatment of fresh vegetables. The ingredients are as humble as they come -- just a handful of root vegetables and some water -- but the resulting soup is full of flavor.

Porrusalda (Basque Potato Leek Soup)

as interpreted by Iñaki Guridi
yields one large pot

Traditionally, the potatoes arent cut with a knife, but broken into rough-edged pieces that release more starch to thicken the soup. To do this, slide a paring knife halfway through a peeled potato, about 1.5" down. Press the potato between your thumb and the knife, and twist to free a chunk roughly 1.5" square (although, of course, it wont be square). Repeat until the whole potato is reduced to rough chunks.

2 Tbsp olive oil
1 clove garlic, sliced into thick rounds
3 waxy red or yellow potatoes, peeled and broken into chunks (see note above)
4 leeks, washed and sliced into 1" rounds
4 large (or 6 small) carrots, peeled and sliced into 1/2" rounds
water to cover
salt to taste

Heat the olive oil in a large heavy soup pot over medium heat. Add the garlic and potatoes, and saute for a few minuts. Add the leeks and carrots, and saute for another minute. Add water to cover by 1", and a bit of salt. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer. Simmer, covered for about 2 hours (or, ideally, longer), stirring occasionally. Season to taste with additional salt.

In a lot of ways I am a big hippie. I store my bulk-bought rice in cleaned-out tomato sauce jars (poured through my trusty metal canning funnel, no less), and I sleep under a threadbare quilt stitched together from old fabric samples. But when it comes to food, hippies and I have some issues. Sure, I have eaten my share of tofu and tempeh. But there are so many areas where hippies are dead wrong. Like telling you that nutritional yeast is an acceptable substitute for grated cheese. And insisting that you should never, ever salt your dried beans until theyre finished cooking.

A recent article helped bust open this hippie myth for me. Cooking beans with salt is my new favorite thing. And not just cooking them with salt — soaking them with salt. Although the good old hippie cookbooks warn that salt toughens bean skins, its actually quite the opposite — advance salting helps soften bean skins, yielding beans that cook up evenly, consistently, and, most importantly, full of flavor.

Recently I put this newfound briny knowledge to good use by cooking up some chickpeas for a delicious soup. After a salty soak, beans are simmered with a bunch of aromatics and a glug of olive oil (and a bit more salt). A few of them are pureed with the two full bunches of kale, which yields a ridiculously green and flavorful base, and the rest of the beans bob along in the broth. Its clean yet satisfying, full of bright green flavor but also a protein-rich depth. So what turns such a simple preparation into one of the best soups Ive tasted? Is it the kale? The olive oil (toned down from the original 1 1/2+ cups called for, but still)? Or is it the salt?


Chickpea and Kale Soup

adapted from Frannys: Simple Seasonal Italian
yields ~8 servings

The words "summer soup" conjure up different pictures in different parts of the world. In some places, its a chilled and dilled borscht. In others, a cooling, smoothie-like mix of fruit and dairy. And in the Basque Country, it is a simmering stew of potatoes and tuna.

Okay, I know this sounds like the last thing youd want on a hot day. But the timing makes some bit of sense: summer brings the new potato harvest, as well as the annual tuna run. Even so, its not quite what I look for on a sunny afternoon. But on chilly winter nights, like the ones weve been having recently, its perfect.

Every coastal region seems to have its own version of fish stew, from a rustic chowder to a layered boulliabaisse. Marmitako is on the surface a simple soup, but has a surprisingly satisfying depth. The aromatics and potatoes are cooked together for well over an hour to develop the flavors, and the tuna is stirred in at the end to add a briny note without becoming overcooked.

Marmitako was traditionally made right on the tuna boats themselves, simmering the days catch with potatoes that had been brought on board. It can take many forms, some using dried peppers, others with onions or tomatoes. This particular version was adapted by my friend Iñaki, whos been schooling me in Basque cuisine for the past few months. Hes sadly heading back home next week, and shared this recipe during our final cooking session. Its a hell of a parting gift.


Marmitako

as adapted by Iñaki Guridi

yields one large pot

As with the Basque soup porrusalda, the potatoes arent cut with a knife, but broken into rough-edged pieces that release more starch to thicken the soup. To do this, slide a paring knife halfway through a peeled potato, about 1.5" down. Press the potato between your thumb and the knife, and twist to free a chunk roughly 1.5" square. Repeat until the whole potato is reduced to rough chunks.

2 Tbsp olive oil
1 red pepper, finely diced
3 cloves garlic, finely minced
6 medium (or 4 large) waxy red or yellow potatoes, peeled and broken into chunks (see above)
2 Tbsp tomato paste
1 Tbsp olive oil
1 1/2 lb fresh tuna (albacore, if possible), cut into 1" cubes
salt and pepper

Heat the 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a large soup pot over medium heat. Add the pepper, garlic and potatoes, and saute for several minutes, until the pepper and garlic have softened. Add the tomato paste, and enough water to cover everything by about 2". Season with salt, bring to a boil, and simmer, covered, for at least an hour and a half, until quite tender and flavorful.

When the soup is about 20 minutes from being done, heat the remaining tablespoon olive oil in a skillet over medium-high heat. Add the tuna, season liberally with salt, and saute for 3-5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until firm but not fully cooked. Add the cubes to the soup pot, and simmer gently for another 15 minutes to meld the flavors.

Im generally something of a wuss when it comes to chili-spiced food. I like complex seasonings, sure. But too much heat, and I start to break a sweat and grab for the water glass (Ive heard that dairy is a better foil for the volatile oils, but waters usually closer). I think there might be an actual physiological component to my wussiness, as my lips often redden and swell to pouty bee-stung proportions. Whatever the reason, Im not one to prove my machismo when it comes to chili-eating. But there are some exceptions.

Well, maybe one exception: tom kha soup. This Thai recipe is a ridiculously herbal-fragrant hot-sour soup, with a coconut milk background. Its sour from lime juice, sweet and creamy from coconut milk, salty and pungent with fish sauce, and piquant with lemongrass, galanga root and lime leaves. And in addition to that, its spicy. Breaking-a-sweat spicy, cutting-through-congestion spicy. Somehow, in this context, I cant get enough. (A big scoop of rice to balance this out doesnt hurt either.)

The chili heat I use in this soup is Nam Prik Pao, a sweet and spicy paste made with dried pods that are toasted, soaked, and blended with ingredients like garlic, shallots, and dried shrimp. It can be so intense that neighbors called the cops on a London Thai joint that was cooking up a batch, mistaking the chili fumes for a chemical attack. Seriously. But in Tom Kha, its well balanced by the other ingredients. If you dont have Nam Prik Pao, you can substitute some red Thai curry paste, or other asian chili paste, to good effect. The most distinctive element of the soups taste comes from the galanga root, an Asian rhizome with a difficult-to-describe lemon-ginger-piney flavor. You can substitute standard ginger, but this ones worth seeking out.

I realize that this recipe may seem somewhat daunting: the ingredients are unfamiliar to many cooks, and the amounts are very imprecise. But these obstacles can be easily overcome. The galanga root, lime leaves, and lemongrass can be easily found at most Asian markets, and can be stored in your freezer until you make the soup again (and you will want to make it again). As for the amounts called for, youre going to want to play around with these to your taste. Chili pastes vary in heat levels, just as individual palates vary in heat acceptance. Some love the funk of fish sauce (me!), while others might just want a salty whiff. As a general rule, I find that the final seasoning of lime juice/fish sauce/chili paste should be tinkered with delicately, tasting as you go. But as for the lime leaves, galanga, and lemongrass that form the basis of the broth? Those are pretty much impossible to overdo.

Tom Kha

adapted from a combination of several sources, including the Tom Kha Goong from The Asian Grandmothers Cookbook blog, the Tom Kha Gai from Chez Pim, and a recipe from a Minneapolis restaurant I learned many years ago at the Carleton College Tofu Festival

serves 6

4 cups stock (vegetable or shrimp)
1 large handful kaffir lime leaves
4" chunk galanga root, hacked into thick slices if possible
4 stalks lemongrass, peeled of tough outer layers, cut into chunks and whacked with knife to bruise
1 can coconut milk
juice of 2-3 limes
2-4 Tbsp fish sauce
1-4 Tbsp Thai roasted chili paste (Nam Prik Pao), or other Thai chili paste or red curry paste
1 pinch-1 Tbsp sugar
1/2 lb mushrooms, sliced in halves or quarters, depending upon size
1/2 head cauliflower, broken into florets
2 small broccoli crowns, broken into florets
3 shallots or 1/2 red onion, thinly sliced
1/2 cup grape or cherry tomatoes, if its the season
1 large handful mint leaves (optional, but nice)
1 lb shrimp, peeled
1/4 cup cilantro leaves, coarsley chopped

rice for serving (preferably sticky rice or jasmine rice)

In a large soup pot, combine the stock with the lime leaves, galanga root, and lemongrass. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat until its just enough to maintain a simmer. Simmer for 30 minutes to infuse the broth with the flavorings.

After 30 minutes, pour in the can of coconut milk. Add the lime juice, fish sauce, chili paste, and sugar, starting with the smaller amounts and tasting until you like the balance of hot, sour, salty and sweet flavors. The soup will be served with rice, so you can go a little heavier with the heat than you might otherwise. Add the mushrooms, cauliflower, and broccoli, and simmer for a couple of minutes, until a little shy of tender-crisp. Add the shallots or red onion, tomatoes (if using), and mint leaves, simmering another minute or two until the vegetables are just shy of done. Add the shrimp, and cook another minute until pink (theyll continue to cook in the residual heat, so err on the side of underdone). Turn off the heat.

Taste again to finally adjust the seasonings, add more lime juice, fish sauce or chili paste if needed. The inedible lime leaves, galanga root and lemongrass can be fished out, or left in to further infuse (just make sure diners know to set them aside as they eat). Serve in bowls with rice, topped with the fresh cilantro.

It seems that the New Year often starts with a cold. Weve been traveling and celebrating, and somewhere between the late nights and airplane germs, it catches up. I wisely decided to get my illness out of the way earlier in December, but many of those around me are snuffling through this first week of January. Which means soup.

Ive already simmered and delivered a big pot of matzo ball soup this week, so I decided to try something a little different. We had a package of deliciously thick and chewy udon noodles in the fridge, after I stopped by an Asian market on the way home from the DMV (In related news, who steals peoples registration stickers off their license plates?). There was some leftover baked salmon from a delicious Sunday Roast (more on that soon), and a few lonely scallions in the planter box outside. I briefly flirted with cooking up a proper Japanese dashi broth (there may be some kelp and bonito flakes knocking around the cupboard somewhere), but decided instead to go with a simple sunny vegetable broth, bolstered with a bit of garlic and ginger for some seasoning and magical healing properties. Add in a handful of fresh spinach, and its perfect.

Although I am still a fan of the long-simmered soup, this clean, simple, and near-instant option is nice to have in the arsenal. I aim to share some with a recovering friend, and slurp up the rest to fend off whatever else is going around (as well as fortify me against tomorrows terrifying forecast of "ice pellets"). Heres hoping 2013 is a healthy and delicious one for all of us.


Noodle Soup with Salmon and Udon

serves 4

This is a fairly basic brothy template, easily adapted to whatever you may have on hand. I almost feel silly writing it up.

6 cups vegetable broth
1 inch ginger, scrubbed or peeled and cut into coins
4 cloves garlic, sliced
1/2 pound udon noodles (these can be found in the refrigerated section of Asian markets)
several handfuls fresh spinach, washed and trimmed of tough stems
1 cup cooked and flaked salmon
1 scallion, thinly sliced
1 handful cilantro leaves
sesame oil and/or hot sauce, to garnish

Place the broth, ginger, and garlic in a saucepan. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer ~20 minutes, to cook the garlic and infuse the broth with the ginger.

While the broth simmers, heat a large pot of water, and cook the udon noodles according to package directions (or, if your package has no directions, until done). Dump into a colander, and rinse to keep them from clumping.

Ladle out a tangle of noodles into each bowl, and top with a handful of spinach and salmon. Pour some of the hot broth and garlic (but not the inedible ginger) over the top, heating and wilting everything deliciously. Garnish with scallion and cilantro, and top with a few drops sesame oil and/or hot sauce, if desired. Slurp.

There seem to be these strange unspoken rules about what makes for a Valentines Day meal. Its got to be chocolate, or steak, or some gooey-with-cheese risotto or such. But I argue thats limited thinking. Special occasion dishes (be they for your special someone or a party of one) need not (and, arguably, best not) be dripping with heavy flavors. They can be light and lovely, yet still totally befitting of a special evening. Like this soup.

I adapted this recipe from the amazing Silvena Rowe, who tends to give an interesting Ottoman spin to anything she touches. The end result is a riff on the avgolemono soup common throughout Mediterranean. Its tart yet rich, studded with slippery orzo, a luxurious bite of sweet and briny crabmeat, and a handful of arugula to brighten things up. Its a refreshing different entry into the Fancy Soup category (a category that seems populated exclusively with sherry-spiked cream bisques). It might even be my new Valentine.


Egg-Lemon Soup with Crab, Orzo and Arugula

adapted from Silvena Rowes Purple Citrus and Sweet Perfume (her original version is much heavier on the egg yolks, so feel free to play around if you fancy a richer, thicker soup)

yields 4 small first-course servings, or 2-3 main course servings

1 quart chicken broth or stock
1/4 cup orzo
2 egg yolks
juice of 1 large lemon (or more, to taste)
1/4 — 1/2 pound picked crab meat
several handfuls arugula
several pinches crushed sumac (optional, available at Middle Eastern grocery stores)

In a large saucepan or small pot, bring the broth to a boil over a medium-high heat. Add the orzo, and reduce the heat until its just high enough to maintain a simmer. Cook until the orzo is quite tender, ~20 minutes.

In a small bowl, whisk together the egg yolks and lemon zest. Ladle in a half cup of the hot stock, whisk to temper, then pour the mixture back into the pot. Whisk to combine, then taste and adjust seasonings as needed. Let simmer for a minute to heat, then add the crab meat and arugula. Let cook for a minute or two, until the arugula is just wilted and the crab is heated through. Ladle into bowls, top with a pinch of sumac, and serve.