Preserved Lemons

Preserved lemons are a Middle Eastern specialty, lending an ineffable flavor to anything they're put in. Savory, tart, and briney sweet, they're a major compliment to tangines, cous cous, hummus, and lamb. When they're done, you can liquify them with some onion and parsley to make a delicious relish.

If you start these little babies now, you can prepare salmon tangine with me later in May. The 'recipe' (it's so simple that it can be barely be called one) that I used is modified from the Chez Panisse cookbook, but some variations add cloves, peppercorns, bay leaves . . . whatever spice you fancy. I left them out for this first go-around.


Preserved Lemons

6 Meyer Lemons (regular lemons can be used, but the sweet, thin skinned Meyer lemon is better for preserving)
2 regular lemons
Quantity of additive free Kosher or sea salt (ordinary table salt is far too harsh)
Cloves, coriander seeds, peppercorns, bay leaf (optional)

1 quart canning jar


Start by sterilizing the jar you are to use by using canning sterilizer or a mixture of 1:1 bleach and hot water. Fill jar with sterilizer and let sit; swish and rinse thoroughly. This step is important for warding off contamination which will create mold.

On a plate, make 4 longitudinal (top to bottom) slices in each Meyer lemon, without cutting into the ends, so the lemon is still attached versus quartered into 4 separate pieces. Pack sterilized canning jar with a thick layer of salt in the bottom (about 1 inch). Pack your sliced lemons with plenty of salt, pushing the salt inside the lemon and coating it. Place all lemons inside jar, with the juices collected on the plate. With a clean, large spoon, push the lemons vigorously into the jar, pressing to release juices. If you are using Meyer lemons, you will need the extra acidity of regular lemon juice, since their own juice is a bit sweet; cut 2 regular lemons and squeeze their juices into the jar. The juice should mostly cover the lemons; as the lemons sit, they will eventually release more juice. If you are adding spice, add it now. Dump a generous amount of salt on top of the lemons, like a little snowstorm on top. Close tightly and place in an undisturbed spot at room temperature. As the lemons sit, they will be submerged in liquid after a few days. Monitor the liquid level, and if they're not submerged in 3 or 4 days, add more lemon juice and another dose of salt, trying to not touch the jar mouth too much (again, to not introduce any extra bacteria!). After a few weeks (around 2-3), they will be ready. At this point, you can refrigerate them for future use and they will keep for a year.

Pouding Chômeur, a Cure

Pouding Chômeur was conceived in trying times. Translated, it is "poor/unemployed man's pudding", and its early incarnations were eaten in Quebec's depression of the late 1920's-early 3o's and used variations of sugar or maple syrup, shortening, flour and milk. The beauty of this recipe is its ability to provide the comfort that only sweet, rich and homely foods can. It's perfect for a recession winter, a little sadness, some spiritual troubles: keeping it simple with a humble treat. But what a treat! The texture is a cross between a pound cake, a dense pudding, and sticky bun, topped with a caramelized crust. It can double down for a decadent breakfast or a dinner party dessert, baked in individual bowls. I'd like to experiment adding apple or pear in the bottom to pretend it is even vaguely healthful. But really, healthful is a little beside the point with this category of treats. The point is to be soothed, soothed with butter and sugar. Is there anything better? No.

Wherein I Rescind Upon a Resolution, Deliciously

Out of a misplaced sense of virtue, I wrote a terrible, terrible resolution for 2010. It reads: no more sugar and flour. What possessed me to write such a treacherous thing? The first, noted above, then perhaps that bleary stupor that attends the sweet-filled holidays, after a rigorous diet of cheesecakes barely tasted into the second slice and family viewings of blockbuster movies unavoidably helmed by a similarly bloated Nic Cage?

Once the madness of the sentiment had passed, I resolutely banished this amendment, and got to baking out of one of my favorite christmas presents, the glorious Bread Bible by Rose Levy Beranbaum. The carrot bread recipe caught my eye as anything that approaches carrot cake tends to do, but the beauty of the bread is its lightly sweet flavor, moist crumb, and adaptability towards all-day noshing. I also happened to have 4 obscenely large carrots from the CSA looking strangely like fat baby arms in the fridge, which I decided I was too uncomfortable having nesting there any longer. It was the right, the delicous, decision. Have a slice for breakfast with coffee, then spread it with brown-sugar sweetened cream cheese for a heavenly dessert.