Dandelion Muffins with the Niecelets

This is an odd confession, but as a child I ate flowers.

It started early, this strange habit. On my first birthday I ate the flower garland my mother had made for me to wear. Kids that age put anything in their mouths, but for me it didn't stop there. I remember nibbling on rose petals when I was six, and eating one of the flowers from the bouquet given to me at my ballet recital when I was eight. To be perfectly fair, my brother dared me to do it, but I did it all the same.

It was always disappointing. I wanted flower petals to taste wondrous, sweet and ethereal, but they never did. They mostly tasted bitter. By the age of ten I had given up eating them and instead tried to use them as makeup. I crushed purple iris buds and attempted to smear them on my eyelids and was sad that this didn’t tint them a stunning lavender color.

What can I say—I grew up in the country. This is what passed as afternoon adventure.

So when I saw a recipe for dandelion muffins and bread, on the website of Seattle forager Langdon Cook, I was intrigued. They were tinted yellow from the petals of the dandelion and looked so cheerful.

I’ve been rather curious about dandelions for a while. Last winter I received a comment on a post where the writer mentioned harvesting dandelions. It was one of those slap-yourself-on-the-head moments when I realized the greens I buy at the market for my ravioli filling are the same weeds that are growing in my lawn.

Well, not exactly the same—I believe it’s a different strain—but close enough. Ever since then I’ve been thinking about eating my lawn.



When I saw the recipe for dandelion muffins and my niecelets came over yesterday to play for the day, I decided to put my plan in action. I told the girls we were going to go on a dandelion hunt.

They were so excited. Fairies eat flowers, they told me. We were going to collect fairy food.

We put on our shoes and went out into the spring day to gather dandelions. Seeing as they’re blooming from just about every crack and crevice and lawn they can right now, it wasn’t hard to find them. The girls loved picking the bright yellow flowers.







When we had gathered enough we headed back to the house with our forage, feeling particularly pleased to have found such bounty.



The girls helped twist off the yellow flower petals (rather aggressively, I must add). We tried to make sure there were no green bits in there, as they are too bitter for the muffins.



We were left with a lovely pile of fluffy yellow petals. I did taste them at this point, and unlike the flower petals I had tried to eat as a child, these weren't bitter. They didn't have a very strong flavor at all. If pressed I would say they tasted like spring—slightly fresh—and they looked cheerful.



I'll admit to having moments of slight panic, when I wondered if I might be poisoning us all with yard weeds. These I calmed with the knowledge that Langdon is an experienced forager—has a book coming out on the topic—and he feeds dandelions to his own child. I also know there are old, traditional recipes for things like dandelion wine. Finally, a few people wrote in comments on his post saying they had made the muffins or bread—and clearly it hadn't killed them, so we plowed ahead.

I'm mostly kidding. I was fairly certain it was safe—dandelions are supposedly quite nutritious. It's just that eating something you've always thought of as weeds feels a bit odd. I didn't have much time to dwell on it, however, because we were into the baking portion of our experiment.

I make a regular effort to cook with the girls. Their mother doesn't cook, and my brother—who does, and quite well—has become more of a functional, get-dinner-on-the-table-quick-after-a-long-day-of-work sort of cook. The girls get a lot of frozen peas and macaroni and cheese and I understand the realities to this, but in the time we spend together I'd like to show them the other side of that coin. I want them to know how to cook. Later they can choose for themselves if they want to or not, but knowledge is power and being able to take care of yourself is never a bad thing.

And the truth of the matter is that they love it. They love "dumping the ingredients" into the bowl, they love mixing, they love running in to the kitchen check if the baked goods are done. Even the two and a half year old knows which button on the stove will turn on the light to see inside the oven. This makes me profoundly happy.

They each have their kitchen aprons, and they get so excited about whatever it is we're making. We have to be very clear about taking turns, because they are both eager to be involved. One of them holds the bowl for the other one to stir.



Then they switch.



Each time we make something I use it as an opportunity to bring more cooking concepts into their vocabulary. Yesterday we learned about "wet" ingredients and "dry" ingredients. We learned the name of that funny "whisk" thing. We also learned how a toothpick, inserted in the middle of a muffin, can tell you if it's done.

For me the prize is seeing the pleasure and pride the girls have when they get to eat something they've made—something they picked, even. Who cares if the kitchen is covered in flour, this is the payoff I was hoping for.



As for the muffins themselves, did they taste like dandelions? I'd have to say no, not in a strong way. I'm not sure what dandelion flavor is, really. If it was there, it was too faint to make much difference in the taste. Langdon said that he had doubled the amount of dandelion from the original recipe and said he might do even more.

Some of the comments on the original post were from people who had added other herbs. If I make them again I think I'd add fresh thyme. Then again, I'm more likely to just throw some dandelion into the next batch of cornbread muffins I make—the golden petals would be a perfect match for the texture. As Langdon mentions, the muffins are reminiscent of cornbread—not too sweet.

Not until we put butter and honey on them, that is.



Dandelion Muffins and Dandelion Bread recipe on Fat of the Land

So there you have it, my first foraging. I keep noticing a huge patch of stinging nettles that I pass on my walking route, so who knows where this might take me. I do know I'm very much looking forward to Langdon's book, out later this year. I think this foraging thing could get addictive.

Stalking Wonder, Further Afield

Thanks so much for all your lovely comments on last week's Stalking Wonder post. I'm glad if you liked it. I'm going to keep these posts on Fridays, so those of you who are just looking for food stories can steer clear. I know this is my site—and I've been told more than once that I can do what I like with it—but I think of this place as a tea party, and you all are an integral part of that. I set out to write about food and life. To change the programming radically without consensus doesn't feel right to me. It's not fair for guests to show up at a party they didn't RSVP for. From now on, it will be food for most of the week, wonder on Friday. I'm sorry not to have a food post this week, I'm on a revision deadline and just didn't have it in me (well, that and the squash curry that was great the first time, turned out a little less great the second).

But I'm glad you like the wonder, and my tentative attempts to capture it. I'd love to hear if any of you are doing any wonder-stalking on your own. Here's some of mine from this week.

The most wonderous thing of all is that it finally got warm this week—really warm. One morning I went out for my walk wearing nothing more than a skirt, t-shirt, and strappy shoes. I can't tell you how delightful that was. The next day dawned rainy, but that's just a Seattle spring. I've learned to appreciate the wet mornings, and wait for the warm ones.



The cherry trees are blooming this week. I might have to do an entire post about cherry trees, but for today here is this. This photo is a metaphor. In the midst of something rough and hard, a delicate flowering.



This branch, reaching out over the path, made me laugh. I couldn't help feel like it was stretching out it's palm for a high-five.



This is the second year in a row that ladybugs have appeared, inside the bedroom screen door (how do they get there?). I've come to think of it as a sign of spring—though it seems we are running behind schedule. Last year's ladybugs showed up on March 8th.



The camillas are past their prime this week (am I the only one who thinks of Miss Brodie whenever I hear that phrase?). To me they are even more heartbreaking this way. They don't lose their petals, they wither intact.



But the magnolias are coming on strong. Magnolias are a big favorite in my family—we call them tulip trees and there are trees, near where I grew up, that we have loved for years. My mother still tells me, each spring, when the grand old magnolia in Larkspur goes into bloom.



Because you can never have too many magnolias.



I mean, really.



My obsession with mosses of all kinds continues. I love how they look like a delicate tapestry.



Sometimes even a quirky shadow can amuse me.



In the spring everything feels amazing, joyous, happy to be alive.



Even the muddy drainage ditch by the side of the road can be a thing of beauty (that big lump of light colored bokeh is a discarded beer can). In the spring, everything wants to grow.



I love old sheds, and sun-dappled paths that look like they lead someplace delightful.



And multi-generational families taking strolls down cherry blossom lanes.



Or thinking about what the world might look like to a bug.



Even the freeway off-ramp can hold some beauty, when viewed from the right angle.



Or the shattered piece of mirrored glass, found in the fire station on 4th Street.



Which makes for a rather interesting self-portrait.



Happy Friday, everyone. I hope you all have a wonderful weekend!

Stalking Wonder

Stalking wonder: isn’t that among the best phrases ever? I imagine being on the prowl—searching out those small sights and moments that make your heart sing. We must always be on the lookout for wonder.

I can’t take credit for the phrase—it is the work of the ever eloquent Jennifer Jeffrey—but the idea is something I’ve been thinking about a lot these days. Stalking wonder.

There hasn’t been a lot of wonder in my life these days. I’ve been deep in book writing and then rewriting (and rewriting, and rewriting) and though there are wonderful parts of that process, there are also parts that make me feel like I am hitting my head against a particularly sturdy brick wall and cannot stop.

No matter how much we may love our work, sometimes it can still suck.

These days I spend far too much time staring at a computer screen. Leading up to a deadline, I’m there from early morning until late into the night (hello, 3am; we’ve gotten to know each other well). Some days I forget to shower, forget to leave the house, forget to eat until 4pm when I realize that I'm ravenous and there is nothing to eat in the house. It sounds overly dramatic, but I sometimes wonder if my life isn’t being sucked into the computer screen, hour by hour, day by day.

It’s time to stalk some wonder.

I am often inspired by other blogs, and not always food blogs. Soule Mama fills me with wonder, as does the words and photographs on Superhero Journal, and Chookooloonks. There’s plenty of wonder on Flickr and Shutter Sisters, images that delight and move me, but this is passive wonder. These days I need to participate in wonder, to discover and be part of it. In order to facilitate that, I developed a little project: stalking wonder.

I've been particularly inspired by the photographs of Lisa Steinbrueck. Each day she posts one photo taken that morning—from her life on the farm she and her husband are building in Virginia (if you live near her, you could subscribe to her CSA and I will be jealous). Her photos are extraordinary. I wondered if such beauty could only be found in the morning. Perhaps there is something special about morning light.

I wouldn't know, I spend my mornings more bleary-eyed than anything else, but I decided to find out.

For the past week or two, every morning, as soon as I wake up, I go outside with my camera and take a short walk. It’s rarely more than a few blocks, not meant to be a workout, at least not in the aerobic sense. This workout is for the eyes and for the soul; this is where I stalk wonder.

I never fail to find it.

The tiny shoots and flowers growing bravely in a crevice alongside the road.



Cherry blossom petals caught in a child's handprint.



The fact that, in Seattle, given a horizontal surface, moss will grow.



Last year's blackberries, forgotten and withered on the vine.



A single raindrop, caught on a neighborhood fence.



Much of what I photograph is natural beauty. It’s there all the time, but it is the act of slowing down and seeing it that is crucial. In the two weeks that I’ve been doing this project, I’ve seen and appreciated things in my neighborhood that I never noticed before. Small beauties, both natural and man-made.

A trail of colored stones, left by a child—or perhaps an adult.



A neighbor who agressively pruned back every branch on his tree, except the one that held the bird's nest, which is now sprouting.



The hopeful fact that more people are composting this year than ever before.



Sometimes, I don’t get more than a block away from my house. There was one day when I barely left the driveway. There was so much there that I had never noticed.

The knothole in the tree that reminded me of an owl.



The knobby rhizomes that look like ginger but will grow into stunning irises (one hopes).



Camilla flowers, whose fading beauty reminds of Miss Haversham from Great Expectations.



Young shoots of lavender growing through last year's dry stalks.



I’ve just started a class in Permaculture Design and observation is hugely important. According to permaculture beliefs, if you bought a piece of land you ideally wouldn't do anything to it for the first year—just watch it. This way you'd learn the sun patterns, the flow of the wind, where the rainwater puddles. Once you had an understanding of how nature was working, you could design a plan to work with it—gardens, housing, water and energy supply. This idea is so at odds with our modern, capitalistic ethos of build big, produce now; the belief that man can tame nature.

What I am finding, though, is that the more I am able to slow down, to open my eyes to what is around me, the more in awe I am of life and nature and beauty. My wonder isn’t only for the flowers, it’s also for people. I am moved by the new mother I hear trying to console her crying baby down the street; the sight of people going to work each morning—to jobs they hate or jobs they love—in order to support their family; the hope and faith that lies in the small brave act of planting a garden. It is all beautiful to me.

The wonder is always there, sometimes we just need to make an effort to look for it. My life may have me tied to the computer for the moment, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find wonder in my own driveway, on my street, in three blocks I’ve walked a thousand times before. I'd like to think that the familiar and worn paths of our lives could become beautiful to us again. As Marcel Proust once wrote, “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”

I hope your weeked is filled with small moments of wonder, wherever you find them.



I'm thinking of doing a weekly Stalking Wonder post, on Fridays. It might not have much to do with food (though you never know), but is this something you would like to see? Please weigh in with your thoughts in the comments section—thanks!

I Baked Some Cupcakes for You

Those of you who’ve been around here a while will understand how funny that title is. You don’t see me plunging into big baking projects much, do you? Generally, when I see one of those amazing-looking intricate dessert recipes (like this or this or this), the first thought that comes to my mind is: I wish someone would make that for me.

My second thought: Is there somewhere I can buy that?

I am fairly lame when it comes to baking sweets, it is true. Bread I can handle—I quite like it, in fact—but when it comes to elaborate dessert, best to look elsewhere.



Which is why it’s so funny that I baked cupcakes. Especially since I recently said I was over the whole cupcake thing. There are adorable—I’ll give you that—but I rarely want more than one bite. Cupcakes are usually a one-note flavor, and mostly I find them too sweet. I know there are plenty of cupcake-lovers who will disagree with me, but I think cupcakes get by mainly on their looks.

Oh, and the icing. The icing is key.



Given all that, I still made cupcakes. If you can believe it.

It was a recipe I had seen three years ago. True to form, I wondered who I could get to bake them for me. This is not entirely laziness on my part; mostly it’s a desire not to be left alone with an entire batch of cupcakes. I might not love cupcakes, but that doesn’t mean I won’t eat them.



Finally all the stars aligned—a recipe I realized no one was ever going to make for me; the annual Oscars awards show which gave me a gathering of pals on whom to foist my baked goods; and a weekend when I really needed to be distracted from my spinning, worrying, over-thinking brain.

Sometimes you just need to get out of your own head and throw your attention into a big project. In this case it was one of those baking projects that is actually three recipes in one: cupcake batter, filling, and frosting.

Do you see now why I don’t bake elaborate sweet things? Put that much effort into savory cooking and you'd have a full dinner party.

Oh, but it was a doozy of a recipe: Margarita cupcakes (yes, with tequila and triple sec) filled with lime curd and topped with a buttercream frosting. Yowza.



How did it go? Let’s just say that the path to complicated baked goods does not always run straight—at least not for me. I faked a double boiler, by putting a glass Pyrex bowl over a pan of hot water, in order to melt some butter. I've done this before with no problem, but for some reason this time the bowl shattered, sending glass all over the counter and causing me to dump a number of ingredients for fear shards might have lodged in them.

I would have stopped right there, but I already had the batter made and didn't want to have to throw that out too. I soldiered onward, making a new batch of curd and bringing the full count of sticks of butter used in one day to an all time high for me. I couldn't tell you how much butter I went through—I stopped counting—but the pile of wrappers at the end was impressive.



And let’s just say that it’s very good I had several cups of frozen lime juice and citrus zest in the freezer, which made up for the ingredients that had to be tossed. I’m not sure I would have stuck it out had a trip to the store been required, mid-bake. I was getting cranky enough as it was.

If I had half a brain I would have started drinking the tequila, instead of baking with it.



At the end of the day I showed up at the Oscars party late, missing the red carpet portion of the evening entirely. As I rang the doorbell, I was holding the still hot muffin tin I had pulled out of my oven just minutes before.

“You’re bringing new meaning to the term ‘fresh baked goods,’” said Molly when she opened the door to let me in.

“Me and my baked goods need a time out from each other.” I said, flustered from the experience. I put the cupcakes in the kitchen—the closest thing to a dunce’s corner I could find—and went back later to fill and frost them. They annoyed me even further by not turning out very attractive looking. I had thought they would at least be cute—in that cute cupcakey way that Cheryl’s always are. Apparently cupcake cuteness takes skill to replicate. Skill I do not have.



How did they taste? Well, they tasted much better than they looked. The lime curd filling is the key, I think. The curd is tangy and lively, and the mix of curd and light dough made things interesting enough that I didn’t want to stop after one bite. Perhaps this is a cupcake I can get behind after all.



The cupcakes had a nice light crumb, even the half I made gluten-free. I wasn’t happy with the buttercream frosting recipe I found online, but I topped it with lime zest mixed with sugar and a pinch of salt— to add that little Margarita kick—and that was good.

A friend of mine later told me her husband thinks this might be an uptapped direction for cupcake baking and he would like to have a gin and tonic cupcake for his after work enjoyment. You can rest assured that this is not a business plan I will be pursuing.



So yeah, pretty good, but I think my original plan might have been even more brilliant. Whenever I see some glorious dessert recipe, I’m going to find someone else to make it for me, someone who really likes this sort of thing. I don't have the skills, patience, or temperament required. I have great respect for those who do—and I wish they would all open bakeries where I could go and buy these lovely desserts that I’m not willing to make myself.

But boy, gosh, golly was it a good life distraction. With all the flying glass, creaming butter and sugar, and citrus zesting, I completely forgot my worries for the day. Perhaps in the end that is the key to these elaborate baking projects—to step out of life for a brief while, to create something sweet and beautiful that brings people pleasure. Because, really, that was the most fun for me—giving them away to people afterwards, making them smile.

Hey, want a cupcake? I made one just for you.



Here’s the info, if you’d like to make the cupcakes yourself. Beware that this recipe makes a huge mess of cupcakes. You might want to make a half batch. To make them gluten-free, simply sub out the wheat flour for a mix of equal parts sorghum, teff, tapioca, and sweet rice flour (1 1/8 cup each, if you are making a full batch).

Margarita Cupcake recipe from She Craves
I am so delighted that the lovely Vanessa is back to blogging. She's a great writer and knows what tastes good. Her cupcakes are also prettier than mine.

The lime curd recipe I adapted from Mrs. B’s lemon curd recipe (just swap lime juice and zest for lemon). It makes more than you'll need, but my friends were happy to receive jars of curd. It's truly delicious stuff.

As for frosting, I think you’re on your own there. I wasn’t happy with the recipe I tried. If you have any suggestions, I’d love to hear ‘em.

Happy baking—if you're the sort who likes it.

Spring, Sprang, SPRUNG!

Oh, people, it happened—that day we’ve been waiting for came: the day that feels like the first day of spring. At last, it came!

I can’t tell you how happy this makes me. After snow on April Fool’s Day, a mere week ago, and again last Wednesday, Friday dawned mild and sunny. Then Saturday, then Sunday, and now today: four days of sunshine—in a row!

I’ve just used three exclamation marks in barely two sentences of text, but it’s warranted. Trust me on this.

I actually spent the weekend sick—with two family parties to muddle through in two days (smile, nod, sniffle). By Sunday afternoon I felt like gunk, but I just had to be outside. I puttered in the garden, cutting back old growth on the herb plants, assessing what survived the winter and what did not, planting some iris rhizomes which spent the winter in a bag in the garage because I forgot about them (yes, I know, I am a bad gardener).

And all the while people were riding by on their bikes, birds were chirping, neighbors were popping out to say hello. Some of these folks I haven’t seen since last fall, I swear. Everyone has been hunkered down inside, but this weekend we all emerged to look dizzily up at the new blue sky and turn our faces towards the warmth. I has been awhile.



It’s amazing how friendly people in Seattle become when the sun comes out. Everyone is happy, everyone feels giddy. The check out clerk at the grocery store this morning was ready to be my new best friend—and I was ready to let her. The sun brings out the best in us all.

As for food, right now I want to consume only candied flower petals and the newest of spring greens. Miners lettuce and radishes and chives, anything that’s ready to sprout. Of course spring has barely sprung and fresh greens are a ways off still. We'll have to wait for those perfect heads of soft lettuces. The sun has only just emerged, the produce has to grow before we can taste spring.

So today I ended up with a lunch that was an attempt at spring, using some of winter’s leftover yield. It was a slaw of sorts. The base was cabbage—our old winter friend—but made a bit more spritely with cilantro, slices of radish, lemon zest, fresh mint.

To be honest, this is the salad I wanted, but for that I'll have to wait a month or so. That's okay. Now that I've had some sunshine, I can hang in there a little longer.

And because this is Seattle, I understand that this may not be our real spring—it may just be a teaser, a preview that could be followed by days of rain and cold (though no more snow, please). I am fully prepared for these sunny days not to last.

Perhaps it just makes them all the sweeter. Gotta grab the sunshine while it's here. Soak it up and store it away. These moments of spring are to be treasured.

This recipe is just an approximation, if you’re interested in replicating it. But what I’m most curious to hear is this: what food means spring to you? What is it that you’re longing to eat now that spring has sprung? (or when it finally makes its way to wherever you are—which I sincerely hope is soon!).

Happy Spring, everyone.



Spring Slaw, of sorts
Per person:

1 1/2 cup cabbage, shredded
3 radishes, sliced
2 tbs cilantro, coarsely chopped
3 strips of lemon zest, peeled
1/2 tsp mint, finely chopped (optional)
Generous handful of peas in their pod (sugar snap, snow peas, etc). If you have them around, but don't worry about going without.
Olive oil
Lemon juice
Salt and pepper to taste

Toss all the ingredients together, drizzle with olive oil and lemon juice. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Because, really, who wants to be in the kitchen when it’s spring outside?

For Those Wanting to Make the Crossover

I loved your comments on the last post. There was beet love (who knew there were so many of you?); beet hatred (I feel your pain); and a few who wished they could make the change—or who wished they could convert those in their lives to loving beets. To that end, I’m offering you a bonus beet recipe.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that anyone who doesn’t like beets should be forced to eat them. Especially not the commenter who said her husband calls beets the devil’s vegetable ("if you cut them, they bleed"). A man that witty should be left in beet-hating peace.

I do believe that people shouldn’t have to eat what tastes awful to them. I’m never going to like liver and I’m okay with that. Likewise, I think raw cauliflower is an abomination—and if you disagree with me, you are welcomed to eat my portion. People who don’t like beets, and who don’t want to like beets, shouldn’t have to.

I don’t even think our president should have to eat beets. That man’s got enough daunting things to deal with on his plate already, poor guy

But for those of you who said you wished that you could like them, here is an offering—the first beet dish I really loved. Some of the components are the same as the raw beet salad—walnuts, cilantro, a mustard-based vinaigrette (my mother says almost anything can be made edible with enough good mustard and I think she's right). There is goat cheese as well, and capers to boot. It’s a jazzy, kicky little number, good for those of us who like a little tang in our lives.



I first made this salad nearly three years ago now. I made the dressing and put in some goat cheese, a common pairing with beets. I threw in a few walnuts, but it needed something else. I had taken the bowl to my office at the back of the house—with the view westward towards gardens and the gorgeous golden afternoon sunshine found in California. I sat there in my desk chair, toying with my food and trying to figure out what else to add. Then it hit me: cilantro. I went and got a handful of the soft green leaves and it was a good match.

Something about this addition niggled. I didn’t know where the cilantro idea had come from. I searched my brain and realized the idea came from a post by Shauna, the Gluten-free Girl whose site I had been reading but whom I hadn’t yet met (this seems so funny now that, over time, she has become one of my dearest friends). Months earlier Shauna made a goat cheese spread with tomato vinegar, cilantro, and capers, and had spread it on slices of beet, a vegetable she also once hated. Somehow the idea had stuck in a back corner of my brain, until the time was right and it could be of use.

I love this about the internet, about books and film and life in general. We tuck ideas away, until such moment as they inspire something entirely different. A word, a phrase, the detail of a photo, or an overheard conversation will bubble up, years later sometimes, and turn into something beautiful or delicious—or perhaps the perfect comeback at the exact right moment. I love it when that happens.

The world is full of inspiration, if only we are open to it.

So here is another beet salad—cooked, this time—with a nod to Shauna. Again, I don’t think you should force yourself, but if you were one of those who wanted to learn to love the beet, this is what worked for me. Of course, all the other components of the salad are things I love. If you love them too, give it a try.

Another lovely thing is that it turns into a pretty pink mess when you mix it. On a Friday, after a week that has been particularly challenging (spring seems to be playing April Fools jokes on us—was the snow on Monday really necessary?), a pretty pink salad makes me happy.

Have a good weekend, all! And for the beet haters, I promise next week will be beet-free.



BONUS BEET SALAD
This recipe is written per serving, multiply as necessary.

Per person:
One large beet or two small ones (roughly 1 1/2 cups worth of cooked, cubed beet)
Small handful of walnuts (about 1/4 cup)
Small handful cilantro, steams and leaves chopped (about 1/4 cup)
2 tsp capers, drained and coarsely chopped
2 tbs cup soft goat cheese, crumbled (1.2 oz)
Vinaigrette dressing (below), about 1/4 cup.

Assemble all ingredients in a shallow bowl or plate and drizzle the dressing over top. If you are not a beet lover and are giving this a try, cut the beets in smaller pieces (about 1/4 of what you see here) and don’t skimp on the dressing.

As a former beet hater, this recipe got me to a point where I practically lick my plate when I make this salad. I don’t really lick my plate, but very nearly. Your mileage may vary, but I think it’s seriously that good.



Vinaigrette Dressing
1 part Dijon mustard (1 tsp, for example)
3 parts red wine vinegar (3 tsp)
Olive oil—up to five parts
Salt and pepper to taste

Whisk in a small bowl until mixture is smooth. Continue whisking and slowly pour in olive oil, in a steady stream, until the mixture begins to thicken and the oil and vinegar mixture hold together. A standard vinaigrette recipe may tell you to use as much as five parts olive oil, but for my taste I stop at two or three. I like my dressing tangy, not overly smooth. I’d encourage you to taste as you go along and figure out where your sweet spot is.

A Note on roasting beets: I cut mine in chunks (after I took this photo, below) I cut them in half once again, so they would cook faster) and toss them in olive oil in a shallow pan large enough that they are all resting on the bottom of the pan. I sprinkle them with a generous pinch of salt and toss again, so they are all fully coated. I add about 1/2 an inch of water to the pan and cover them with foil (actually, half the time I don’t even bother with the foil, but it does keep them from drying out). Then I roast them at 350° for up to an hour, until they are fully cooked and soft when they are pierced with a fork. I do it in my toaster oven, though you can use a full sized oven as well. I just love my toaster oven.

Roasting takes anywhere from 45 minutes to an hour. I check them at 30 minutes, and give them a stir. Sometimes I add a little water, if needed. I check again at 45 minutes, and let them go a little longer, if need be.

Remove the beets and let them cool. The skins should slip off easily. Use a paring knife to peel if they don’t. Or leave them on, if you are so inclined.