Smithsonian.com

Smile! Image courtesy of Flickr user cav.

It seems Americans suffer from “Easter Bunny syndrome.” We relate to rabbits as cartoon characters, imaginary friends, bedtime story heroes, annual purveyors of sugary treats and, yes, pets. Given their formidable cute factor—those adorable fuzzy ears! that cotton ball tail!—we tend not to think of them as a table offering. And Glenn Close’s kitchen shenanigans in Fatal Attraction only solidified the taboo of eating bunnies. Although a mainstay of European cuisine, restaurant chefs on this side of the pond who dare to place rabbit dishes on the menu get flak from appalled diners. Though perhaps even more appalling is the fact that, unlike other meats, there are no Congressional mandates requiring rabbit meat to be federally inspected before it reaches our plates.

Nevertheless, it’s a meat source that has its advantages. It’s a lean protein that’s low in cholesterol. If you’re a do-it-yourselfer carnivore, rabbits are easy to raise, and since they breed like, well, you know, they provide a steady supply of food. These perks were especially noted during World War II. With rationing in effect, prime meat products such as beef weren’t always readily available whereas rabbit was off-ration and was *ahem* fair game for cooks. In light of the times, one advertisement in Gourmet magazine quipped: “Although it isn’t our usual habit / This year we’re eating the Easter Rabbit.” However, by the 1960s, most home chefs were kicking the rabbit habit.

I grew up with a pet bunny. Beechnut, a light brown Holland lop, gave me 11 years of affection, and I couldn’t have asked for better animal companionship. But after reading about how a German breeder has created giant rabbits that could help alleviate food shortages in Korea and watching an episode of The Perennial Plate on sustainable rabbit farming, I grew curious about how rabbit actually tasted. (Word of warning: the last minute or so of the Perennial Plate’s bunny episode does show a rabbit being slaughtered, so do not click if you are faint of heart.) If I could eat venison after repeated viewings of Bambi, this shouldn’t be much different, right? There are rabbits for pets and there are rabbits for eating. At least that’s what I kept repeating as I planned Sunday dinner.

Two rabbits on a cutting board. Photo by Jesse Rhodes.

Seeing two headless, skinless, yet distinctly rabbit-ish carcasses stretched out on my cutting board ranks as the most Buñuelian kitchen experience I’ve had. Being used to buying my edible animals in bits and pieces, it’s easy to dissociate those parts from a clucking, mooing, oinking whole. But here I was, set to carve up a creature I otherwise looked to for social comfort. When it comes to cutting up a chicken, I generally wing it—and having seen it done plenty of times before, I can go in feeling fairly confident and competent. But for this, I went to YouTube and watched—and re-watched and re-re-wtached—a video on how to cut up a rabbit before reaching for a knife. Even though the animals were already dead, a poor butchering job somehow seemed like I would be adding insult to injury. I wanted to do the best I could, paying careful attention as to where to slice and which vertebrae to crack and twist apart. With the dirty work done, the pieces were browned in olive oil and braised in beer with chili sauce, onions, carrots and red potatoes with a tasty gravy made from the remaining cooking liquid.

And the result? I learned that domestic rabbit tastes like chicken. Furthermore, with the only nearby market that carries them asking $3.99 a pound, it’s an elite meat that tastes like the cheap stuff. Perhaps bunnies fed on grass and greens—like what you would find in the wild—would have a different flavor, but I’m in no rush to cook one again. Most of my cookbooks advised to prepare rabbit as you would chicken, though I think it makes more sense to do the opposite. That said, chocolate bunnies will suit me just fine.

And in spite of sounding incredibly tacky given the above: Easter is a rough time of year for rabbits (please, hold your remarks). Pet rabbits are given as gifts, but recipients may not be willing to assume the responsibility of caring for them, and these animals are frequently abandoned. If you want a rabbit for a pet, please do some background research before you commit and consider checking out your local rescue organization. If you are bent on buying a brand new bunny, please go to a reputable breeder.

For the rest of you looking for rabbits to eat: happy hunting and bon appétit!

Beer braised rabbit. Photo by Jesse Rhodes.

Easter eggs. Image courtesy of Flicker user MrB-MMX.

My Mom always packed my Easter basket with a fun assortment of holiday-themed candy, from jelly beans to chocolate rabbits and marshmallow peeps. And then, the crème de la crème: Cadbury Crème Eggs. I loved the candies themselves for their sheer novelty value: chocolate eggs filled with a fairly convincing fondant impression of yolks and whites. And then there was the clucking bunny ad campaign that aired on television, followed up by a commercial with other bunnies and then a menagerie of other creatures vying for the position of Crème Egg spokesanimal. I was a kid. I thought this was hilarious. And the whimsical television spots only bolstered the eggs’ wundercandy ethos. That said, I was thrilled to find that people have considered the culinary value of these treats beyond unwrapping them and popping them into one’s mouth—they’ve come up with Cadbury eggs for the more adult, discerning palate. Perhaps this year you might want to prepare these seasonal sweets in one of the following ways:

1. Deviled

Some creative cooks found ways to make the Cadbury equivalent to classic egg dishes. And if you’re looking for another excuse to use that deviled egg platter gathering dust in your closet, here’s your opportunity to create a festive presentation piece that—with the combination of chocolate, fondant, buttercream frosting and sprinkles—ought to satisfy the most voracious sweet tooth.

2. Cadbury Eggs Benedict

If you thought poached eggs swimming in a rich Hollondaise sauce was decadent, what say you to slightly melted Cadbury eggs served atop half a doughnut and a chocolate brownie with a side of pound cake “hash browns”?

3. Fried

No, someone out there hasn’t figured out how to make Cadbury eggs sunny side up (yet). With this recipe, we’re talking about carnival-style, artery-clogging, battered and deep-fried guilty-pleasure food. The video only asserts that you can indeed fry these treats, so you are left to your own devices when it comes to selecting an appropriate batter and frying oil. Perhaps a nice funnel cake batter would do the trick. In the DC area and feeling lazy? Alexandria’s Eamonn’s Dublin Chipper has some for you to try through Sunday.

4. Crepes

Do you also have a crepe pan that is dying to be used? Try this variation on chocolate crepes where you fold bits of chopped up Creme egg into the batter. This recipe deserves props for elegant use of the Creme egg as garnish, with fondant frosting oozing all over a plate of artfully arranged crepes.

5. Cadbury Creme Egg McFlurry

Yes, this is actually a product that McDonalds rolls out every year at Easter—a regular McFlurry with bits of Cadbury chocolate and fondant whooshed in. However, it’s available only in the U.K., so for us poor unfortunate souls on this side of the pond, we must content ourselves with watching the playful TV promos. Or, if you’re feeling adventurous and innovative, make your own McFlurry at home and work in some gooey Cadbury goodness.

If you’re feeling eggstra (ha ha… hmm) adventurous, you can try making Crème Eggs from scratch. Also, if you’re looking to have some fun with the rest of your holiday goodies, check out Amanda’s post on cooking with Easter candy.

Matzo pizza, courtesy of Flickr user paurian

In a previous post, Brian Wolly gave a “Gentile’s guide” to keeping kosher at Passover. Despite being non-Gentile (that is, Jewish), I found it helpful myself, since I grew up in a secular family that observed Passover as part of our cultural heritage rather than religious belief. Our celebration was mostly about food and tradition (though we were not, as with the converted dentist in an episode of Seinfeld, only “Jewish for the jokes”). Whether you’re keeping kosher or not, the unleavened bread called matzo (also spelled matzah or matzoh) is a mainstay of the festival—and not just for schmearing with chopped liver or charoset.

Here are five ideas for taking matzo beyond the seder:

1. Matzo Brei. Matzo brei, broken pieces of matzo dipped in egg and fried, is Jewish comfort food, delicious in its simplicity. It’s good for breakfast with maple syrup (hmm, is that kosher? Brian?) (Ed. — yes) or cinnamon sugar, or you can get fancy with savory versions. Melissa Clark at A Good Appetite has added lox and onions to sate her Passover longing for bagels. Or take a cue from Mexican cuisine with matzah chilaquiles, a twist on the fried tortilla dish—try Jewish Fusion’s version or just replace the tortillas in a standard recipe (this Guadalajara style chilaquiles recipe sounds promising).

2. Savory Pies and Bakes. Last night I tried a recipe for spinach and matzoh pie from Gourmet magazine (via Epicurious), and it was as advertised: an easy variation of spanikopita, with matzo instead of phyllo dough and tangy feta cheese and dill. That got me thinking that matzo could probably also stand in for lasagna noodles; sure enough, I found a number of recipes. Albion Cooks recommends a spinach and ricotta filling; Cooking Light adds eggplant and mushrooms; Jamie Geller, of Joy of Kosher, offers a recipe for whole wheat butternut squash matzo lasagna that sound good.

3. Grilled Matzo Sandwiches. Just because you’re observing Passover doesn’t mean you can’t simultaneously celebrate Grilled Cheese Sandwich Month. The blog Cheese and Champagne found a simple version with cheddar to be lacking in comparison to the standard, so maybe this is the time to get creative—Grilled Shane combines charoset and brie, which sounds like a perfect flavor combination, and Doves and Figs soaks the matzo in Passover wine before grilling with cheddar, for a “drunken Passover grilled cheese.” You could also interpret it as a matzo-dilla, adding veggies, beans and salsa.

4. Matzo Salad. A lighter idea comes from Diets in Review, a variation on panzanella—a salad of tomatoes, cucumbers and basil with matzo pieces in place of the traditional bread cubes. Even better, it can replace the flatbread in the Middle Eastern salad called fattoush, as offered by Two Lazy Gourmets.

5. Dessert. The Kitchn calls this caramel and chocolate–topped matzo candy “matzo crack.” My aunt makes a similar, delicious recipe with only chocolate and nuts (I don’t know if the link goes to the same recipe she uses, but it sounds similar), and I can only imagine the addition of caramel would make it even better. If you like the flavor combination of wine and chocolate (and if you don’t, who are you?), Cooks.com shares a chocolate matzo torte recipe that should fill the bill.

Matzo, the unleavened bread. Image courtesy of Flickr user Avital Pinnick

The Torah couldn’t make things any clearer. From Exodus 12:14 and 15: “This day shall be for you a memorial day, and you shall keep it as a feast to the LORD; throughout your generations, as statute forever, you shall keep it as a feast. Seven days you shall eat unleavened bread. On the first day you shall remove leaven out of your houses, for if anyone eats what is leavened, from the first day until the seventh day, that person shall be cut off from Israel.”

But in the centuries since, food has gotten a lot more complicated, and the Jews who fled Egypt were fruitful and multiplied, melding their own traditions with regional customs. Today the rules governing keeping kosher for Passover aren’t as clear as they were in ancient Judea. Erik’s explainer on the Lenten fast taught me much about the Catholic tradition, so I’ll repay the favor with this guide for my Gentile friends on how American Jews keep kosher for Passover. I should preface this section by saying that even among the most observant Jews, there are disagreements over what is and what is not kosher for Passover. There are many foods, like jellies or butter, that  should be considered allowable given their ingredients, but the equipment used to produce them is not cleaned and inspected by rabbinic observers. This is why you may see specially wrapped or branded products of everyday goods for those Jews who look for that extra degree of precaution. Consider this a brief slice of a very complicated discussion.

The Obvious No-Nos:

Wheat, spelt, barley, oats and rye. Known collectively as chometz, these grains are universally left out of diets during Passover week. This means no Apple Jacks, bagels, biscuits, cakes, cookies, danishes, empanadas, ficelles, gyros, hoagies, Italian bread, jelly donuts, knishes, lefse, muffins, naan, oatmeal, pasta, pizza, quiches, rugelach, strombolis, tacos, upside-down cake, Viennese wafers, waffles, yeast or zwieback.

Unfortunately, these rules also mean that all beer and most liquor is forbidden. The only alcohol allowed is wine, of which there are kosher-for-Passover varieties.

It is customary to clean all the chometz out of one’s house. Some totally cleanse the house, others board up closets, others sell the grains to their non-Jewish neighbors (you can help next year!) and buy it back at the end of the holiday, others sell their chometz on the Internet to a stranger and buy it back even though the food never moves.

The Generally Assumed No-Nos:

Rice and beans. The realm of kitniyot (legumes) is among the grayest of areas. Joan Nathan is the Barefoot Contessa of Jewish cooking and she says it best in her book Quiches, Kugels, and Couscous: My Search for Jewish Cooking in France:

In the Middle Ages, rice, lentils, chickpeas, and fava beans were all ground into flour, which in that state could be confused with the true grains. The list continued to grow after corn and beans came to the Old World from the New. In France, where mustard seeds grow, mustard was added to the list, because the seeds could be intertwined and confused with other plants.

The confusion principle is largely the reason why many American Jews abstain from eating any corn or rice products on Passover. According to Nathan, a biblical ruling was made in the 12th and 13th centuries that “any grain that can be cooked and baked like matzo [could be] confused with the biblical grains.” Therefore, not kosher for Passover. But this is a tradition that is mainly continued by Ashkenazic Jews, or those whose ancestors come from eastern Europe. Pre-Inquisition Jews from Spain never followed these rules, and thus Sephardim, who by definition are Jews descended from those who escaped Spain but also include those who are from South America, Asia, the Middle East and Africa, do not either. The vast majority of American Jews, 95 percent or more, are Ashkenazic.

Even now in an era of detailed FDA-mandated labeling, where such a confusion is nigh impossible, the tradition remains. This is why you see the fabled “Mexican Coke” make an appearance each spring. Made with cane sugar and not high-fructose corn syrup, the imported soda is good to go.

Matzo. For reasons that are unknown to most Jews, some people willingly eat matzo at other times of the year. These matzo boxes are labeled “not kosher for Passover” and should not be eaten as a part of observing the holiday. The difference? Rabbinic supervision to ensure that any matzo made for Passover is untainted by any leavening agents. There is also a debate over whether egg matzo is allowed. While clearly being verboten for the Passover seder (another Torah passage states that only the flour and water version may be used during the ritual), eating egg matzo during the rest of the week is left up to the observant.

Quinoa. The New York Times had a good wrap-up of the quinoa loophole, which is rather ingenious. Since the grain is a relative newcomer to Western diets, the grain wholly bypassed not only the Talmudic scholars but the “confusion principle” as explained above. Ashkenazic rabbis never had the chance to exclude it from the holiday, and so by default it became kosher for Passover. Now concerns are being raised over whether the manufacturing process is clean of any of the banned grains.

Fair Game:

Most everything else. All in all, keeping kosher for Passover isn’t all that difficult, especially if you have experience with the Atkins Diet. I find myself eating more healthy meals this week than usual, as I am forced to cook at home and use copious fruits and vegetables to fill out my diet. If I’m cooking meat, I make my own marinades or sauces, and if I’m eating a salad, my own dressings. Don’t put shrimp salad or a bacon cheeseburger on your matzo—the normal kosher laws still pertain: no shellfish, pork products or mixing of meat and cheese is allowed.

One last note:

If you re-read the passage from Exodus, you’ll notice that it declares that the holiday should be observed for seven days, as is done in modern day Israel, and not the eight customarily observed by American Jews. In the era before standardized calendars, Jews in the Diaspora (any area outside of Israel) added an extra day to ensure that their holiday overlapped with the official celebration. This is also why American Jews have two nights of seders, where in Israel they only have one.

Delicious Kale on a warm spring day. Image courtesy of Flickr user Another Pint Please

For this month’s Inviting Writing series, we asked you to tell us about the most memorable meal of your life. A pattern emerged from the stories we received: nothing focuses the mind on a meal like hardship, hunger or disgust. Today’s entry reminds us that meals don’t have to be traumatic to be memorable (and that sometimes food tastes even better if you reject standard table manners).

Emily Horton is a freelance writer in Washington, D.C., who specializes in food and culture and is an enthusiastic cook. As she explains about her story: “What inspires me most, as a cook and a writer, are traditional foodways and remarkable ingredients, which is where the food I wrote about in this essay takes its cues. This meal was so memorable to me in part because it was so fresh in my mind, but also because it epitomized what I value most in cooking: simple, unfussy food made stellar by way of local and seasonal ingredients, and the shared experience of cooking and eating with others.”

The Magic of Kale

By Emily Horton

Kale is best eaten with the fingers.

I don’t think we had specifically planned to make dinner. But it was already around 6:00 when my friend John came by; it was a Friday and warm, and there were dogs to be walked. This being March, when warm days are a tease and thus impossible not to ravish, I thought company would be just the thing. “I’m bringing kale,” he said.

In my kitchen he emptied his bag of its contents: a bunch of Siberian kale, sweet, tender and mossy-hued. If it’s not the variety responsible for inspiring those “Eat More Kale” T-shirts, it should have been. We cooked it in a Dutch oven over a low flame, slicked with a glug of olive oil, a few dribbles of water and some sea salt, until it turned into a silken, glistening heap. We emptied the greens onto a plate, grabbed juicy bits with our fingers. Forks have no place here. We’re not sure why. “It’s so much better eating it this way,” he said. I nodded. We finished the plate with fewer words; we hadn’t bothered to sit down. I credit the kale for its sumptuousness. John says my technique is magic (it’s nothing special, and I’ve since taught him how to replicate the results). But flattery gets a person everywhere, and when he asked if I might bring him another beer from the fridge (could I open it, too?), I only narrowed my eyes a little.

“I have an idea,” I said. I remembered a dish I had coveted all winter, refusing to make for one, that had seemed too lusty of a thing to be eaten in solitude. We set about cracking walnuts, pounding them with garlic (actually, John took both of those tasks because he’s a better sport than I am), grating copious amounts of cheese. We stirred butter into the walnuts, then the Parmigiano, then olive oil. We boiled fresh linguine, nutty with spelt and oat flour, saving a bit of the cooking water. I turned everything into a bowl. The pesto covered the pasta now like a creamy coat, and the heat coaxed such a fragrance from the walnuts, heady and floral, that we understood why adding herbs would have been something of an interruption. We took the single serving bowl to the table, two forks, in the interest of minimalism.

John sat back in his chair, the wicker one without a match, and closed his eyes. “Wait a second, I’m having a moment.” There were bits of walnut shell in the sauce that my teeth kept catching. I decided not to care.