Fuyu persimmons, courtesy of Flickr user outdoorPDK

The first time I tried a persimmon was a few years ago. I spotted the attractive fruit at the supermarket, and its smooth skin and deep orange color tempted me to buy one. Unfortunately, I didn’t know that the variety of persimmon I bought—hachiya—shouldn’t be eaten until it is extremely ripe. It tasted like industrial-strength cleaner. Since then, I’ve learned that fuyus, which are short and squat, are the variety to buy for eating fresh; pointy-bottomed hachiyas are better for baking.

Fuyus have a pleasantly firm, mango-like flesh. The most similar flavor I can think of is papaya—sweet, but not overly so, with a hint of floral or spicy tones. Both fuyus and hachiyas are usually available in late fall and early winter. Here are a few ways to use either variety:

1. In a salad. Despite originating thousands of miles apart, persimmons (from East Asia) and pomegranates (from the Middle East) harmonize nicely—both flavor-wise and visually—in a fall/winter fruit salad. For an even more colorful (and very nutritious) dish, toss them with sliced red cabbage, Romaine lettuce, Asian pear, hazelnuts and gorgonzola cheese, as in the Rainbow Chopped Salad from Epicurious.

2. As a condiment or accompaniment. Organic Authority suggests serving a fresh persimmon salsa with grilled fish or chicken. Or it can be cooked into a spicy chutney with apples and raisins, as Moscovore recommends. Firm fuyus can also be sliced and roasted to be served as a sweet/savory side dish, as in this recipe from About.com.

3. Dried. Hoshigaki, or dried persimmons, are a popular treat in Japan, where they are made through a labor-intensive process you’re unlikely to want to replicate at home. But even the shortcut method you can make in your oven—like this recipe from Martha Stewart—produces a yummy (albeit very different, I’m sure) snack.

4. In a drink. Just because I’m teetotaling for the next few months doesn’t mean you have to. Imbibe magazine’s recipe for a persimmon margarita rimmed with cinnamon salt is a novel twist on one of my favorite cocktails. On the nonalcoholic side, 101 Asian Recipes explains how to make a Korean persimmon tea.

5. In dessert. Nicole of Pinch My Salt shares her grandma’s recipe for sweet, moist persimmon cookies. And I would like to be in Denise’s Kitchen next time she makes this delicious-looking fuyu persimmon, pear and walnut rolled tart. Having spent only one very rainy day of my life in Indiana (on the interstate en route from Nashville to Chicago), I was unaware that persimmon pudding was a traditional regional food there. Joy the Baker explains how it’s made (including how to wheedle the fruits from your neighbor), describing the result as “sweet and super moist bread pudding meets spice cake.” Sounds good to me.

Stuffed cabbage, courtesy of Flickr user oomni

After potatoes, perhaps no vegetable has kept more bellies full in more places through winter than cabbage. It’s cheap, it’s filling, and it’s available long after a lot of other vegetables have gone into hibernation.

It’s also versatile and is found in cuisines that span the globe. Whether green, red, savoy or napa, here are a few ideas to keep you inspired through spring.

1. Stuff it. Nearly every country between Poland and Lebanon has its own version of stuffed cabbage rolls, each a little different. In Hungary, they’re called Töltött Káposzta and might be stuffed with ground pork and served with sauerkraut, paprika and sour cream. In the Arab countries of the eastern Mediterranean, they’re called Mahshi Malfuf; they’re stuffed with ground lamb and rice and flavored with allspice, cinnamon, garlic and lemon juice. The ones my mom used to make were probably of Polish-Jewish origin, stuffed with ground beef and cooked in a sweet and sour tomato sauce, similar to this version of Holishkes from Epicurious. For a vegetarian take, this Russian recipe stuffed with apples, dried apricots, raisins and spinach and served with sour cream sounds interesting.

2. Stock your soup. I can’t condone eating cabbage soup every day, as one of the crazier (and most intestinally distressing) fad diets has suggested, but the ingredient does deserve a place in your soup repertoire. I like to add shredded napa cabbage, which has thin, frilly leaves, to minestrone soup; this version, from Food52, includes zucchini and green beans, but you could easily substitute fall and winter vegetables. A simple German soup, from Teri’s Kitchen, combines shredded cabbage with onions, rice, nutmeg and a garnish of shredded Swiss cheese. And for a recipe that is defiantly not on the cabbage soup diet, try Closet Cooking’s creamy cabbage and double-smoked bacon soup, which also includes sausage and grainy mustard.

3. Fry it. My favorite way to prepare cabbage is probably to stir-fry it—it’s not mushy or limp, as it can get when boiled, and it’s not dry and starchy, as it sometimes tastes when raw. Plus, it absorbs flavors perfectly—from a simple Chinese-style soy sauce, garlic and ginger mixture to a complex, Indian-spiced dish with potatoes, Aloo Patta Gobhi Sabzi. Or go soul food–style, frying up some cabbage with bacon, garlic and crushed red pepper.

4. Shred it. Slaws are usually thought of as a summer side dish, but they also make a good stand-in for green salads in the colder months. I Really Like Food suggests adding apple, celery, red bell pepper and autumn spices like cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves for a seasonal twist on cole slaw. And, as a transplanted Southern Californian, sometimes I’ve gotta have my fish taco fix, which wouldn’t be complete without a little shredded cabbage and lime juice—like these ones from Koko Likes.

5. Pickle or ferment it. Germans and Koreans independently came up with the idea to ferment cabbage, with very different but equally delicious results. If you’re ambitious—and patient—you could try making your own sauerkraut or kimchi. Or you can do the shortcut version of either, though they will have a less pungent flavor: A quick kimchi recipe on Epicurious takes only 3 1/2 hours to pickle, rather than days, and Brian Boitano (yes—the figure skater—he now has a show on the Food Channel) improvises a quick sauerkraut to serve with Schnitzel by cooking shredded cabbage with German beer, vinegar and mustard seeds.

Delicious looking watermelons, courtesy of Flickr user whologway

If watermelon were a brand, it would be a very successful one. First of all, it has a name that tells you exactly what it is—at more than 90 percent water, it’s the juiciest fruit going. It has attractive packaging. Plus, it’s got impeccable timing. It doesn’t even bother making an appearance until summer really heats up and all anyone wants is something cool, sweet and hydrating. If they could only figure out that seed problem. (Sorry, so-called seedless watermelons are neither truly seedless nor, in my experience, as good as the original.)

The best way to eat watermelon? Straight up, by the wedge, bare feet dangling into a pool, lake or other body of water. But here are five other pretty good ideas:

1. Salads. It’s Greek. It’s salad. But it’s not Greek salad. Toss together some watermelon with feta cheese and olives and you’ve got the basics of a classic Aegean summer dish. For a twist: Grill the watermelon, as Recipe Girl does, to caramelize the sugars. Jacques Pépin adds fresh mint and Tabasco sauce. The Food Section gives equal billing to another quintessential summer fruit, tomatoes. Bobby Flay takes it in a Southwestern direction by swapping in jicama instead of olives and feta and adding lime juice.

2. Drinks. Watermelon is practically a beverage already, but it’s also a natural in cocktails and nonalcoholic drinks. You can mix up a Mexican-style agua fresca with lemon juice and mint. What’s Cooking in America makes the novel suggestion of blending watermelon puree with rosewater and lime juice. Imbibe magazine offers a spicy watermelon margarita recipe for those who like that hot-cold, salty-sweet combination. Or just cut to the chase and spike the whole melon with vodka (recommended only if you have a large group of friends to help finish it off).

3. Soups. The most ubiquitous summer soup isn’t necessarily made with tomatoes; a watermelon-cucumber gazpacho from Salon comes with a Spanish cultural history lesson. I’m intrigued by the addition of buttermilk and rosewater (apparently not as novel an ingredient as I thought) in a Bulgarian chilled watermelon soup. Thai-spiced watermelon soup with crabmeat from Epicurious also sounds delicious.

4. Dessert. Watermelon only needs the slightest nudging to be taken into the dessert category—Wicked Good Dinner explains how to make a watermelon granita by simply freezing the pulp with some salt and sugar and adding fresh basil. “Watermelon” ice cream pie is adorable but it’s made with lime and raspberry sherbet; Emeril Lagasse offers a recipe for real watermelon-flavored ice cream with chocolate chips (they look like seeds).

5. Pickled. You don’t have to be a freegan to want to minimize food waste. Why throw away all that watermelon rind when it only takes a couple of days or so to turn it into pickles? Seriously, according to The Bitten Word, they’re not very complicated to make, and if you’ve never tasted sweet-sour pickled watermelon rind you are missing out on one of the triumphs of southern pickling. Pickled pig’s feet, on the other hand, I’m not so sure about.

Salad Days
By Leah Douglas

The salad bar was no match for a dinner with the grandparents. Courtesy of Flickr user garda

I’m not one of those people who loves to hate the food provided at my university’s cafeteria. Sure, the meat seems dubious at times and the “nacho bar” appears too frequently for anyone’s gastrointestinal comfort. But as a vegetarian, I appreciate the somewhat creative non-meat dishes, and the extensive (if a tad wilted) options at the salad bar.

All that being said, I do not reflect on my first year of college eating with rosy-colored glasses. I would go for days without much in the way of protein, and late-night burrito and pizza runs happened far too frequently. For someone who thinks, reads, and dreams about delicious food, I felt slightly stalled and unsettled by my limited options—but frankly, and perhaps fortunately, there were more important things on my mind than my next meal.

Except for the nights I ate at Red Stripe.

The French bistro, my favorite restaurant in the college neighborhood, is somewhat pricey and a bit of a walk from campus—two factors that keep the majority of the student population away. However, I am the truly fortunate student whose grandparents happen to live half an hour away from my dorm.

That’s right: Lucky duck that I am, I attend college within an hour’s drive of several family members. Suffice it to say that I never really had any problems with moving furniture, getting to and from the train station, or running out of shampoo during my first year. But neither did I have the expectation that my grandparents would end up saving the most valuable part of my person—my stomach—from complete deprivation.

I can’t remember the first time we went to Red Stripe, but I know that I ordered the “Everything But the Kitchen Sink” chopped salad. How do I know this? Because I have ordered the same thing ever since. Pshh, you’re thinking, she thinks she’s an adventurous eater?! Scoff if you will, but then try this salad. Hearts of palm, house-marinated vegetables, chickpeas and olives and tomatoes; oh my. It is heaven in a very, very large bowl. Not to mention the warm, chewy, crusty, perfect sourdough bread served endlessly on the side, with whipped butter…Excuse me. I may need to go get a snack.

My grandparents branched out far more than I, ordering everything from short ribs to grilled cheese. I appreciated their sampling, of course, since it meant I got to taste extensively from the bistro’s excellent menu. The food was prepared in an open kitchen by young, attractive chefs who liked to glance my way as I grinned through their hearty meals. Before long, we had a regular waiter who knew us by name, and with whom my grandfather found a partner in friendly rambling.

As we ate, my grandmother would hold my hand and question the sanity of my far-too-busy schedule. My grandfather would dutifully remember the names of two to three friends to ask about, and I would share as many grandparent-appropriate details as I could. I looked forward to their tales from “the real world,” where work ended at 5 and social engagements featured cheese plates rather than Cheetos.

Over that large salad, in dim lighting and sipping an always-needed Diet Coke, I would feel the knots in my brain unwind and nutrition seep into my slightly neglected body. These dinners were heartwarming and soul-strengthening beyond their cost and deliciousness.

And at the end of another lovely meal, I would inevitably take home half my salad (I promise, it is huge) in a plastic container. This would be my late-night, or perhaps very early morning, connection to the world beyond exams and parties. If I couldn’t control what time my first class started, or whether my roommate had decided to host a gossip session ten feet from my head, at the very least I could satiate grumblings with a reminder of the food world I so missed. These treats were the bright spot in an otherwise nondescript freshman year of eating.

My grandparents will always insist I am doing them a favor by taking the time in my schedule for our dinners. Little do they know how much my stomach is truly indebted to their generosity.

Grading samples of maple syrup, courtesy Flickr user Glass_House

It’s hard to predict exact dates for maple sugaring season because, as this farmer explains, it all depends on the weather. March usually casts the strongest spell, a combination of warm spring days and still-freezing nights that wakes up the sap in sugar maples while keeping their buds in bed.

Weather also influences the sugar content of the sap, which affects the amount and color of the final product. Syrup is classified by letter grades—A, B, and C, with several subcategories in between—from lightest to darkest. The lightest, “grade A fancy,” tends to fetch the highest prices, but they’re all good.

So good, in fact, that although I set out to write only a “five ways to eat” post, I’ve decided to give you an entire alphabet of maple recipe ideas! (Humor me. I’m from Vermont; maple madness is endemic.)

A: Asparagus with maple-tahini dressing.

B: Braised Brussels sprouts in maple-mustard glaze.

C:  Caramel corn, maple-style. Or cupcakes frosted with maple-cream cheese.

D. Maple-roasted duck, with cherry compote.

E. Even eggnog tastes better with maple.

F. Fish, as in maple-glazed salmon or pan-seared maple trout.

G. Ginger-maple cocktail. (Or ginger-maple anything, really.)

H. Hot wings with maple-chipotle sauce. Sweet plus spicy = mmm.

I.  If you can’t get sugar on snow (see “S”), maple ice cream is the next best thing. (Which is kind of like saying you should “settle” for a date with Hugh Jackman if George Clooney is unavailable.)

J. Jicama salad with chicory, pecans and maple dressing.

K. Kabocha squash and celery root soup with maple syrup and brown butter.

L. Legumes. Baked beans get all the glory, but lentils also work well with maple.

M. Maple mashes. As in mashed squash, rutabaga, or sweet potatoes and bourbon.

N. Nuts, candy-coated.

O. Oatmeal with maple syrup and cream was my favorite pre-skiing breakfast as a kid. Oats and maple also pair nicely in scones, cookies or even beer.

P. Pomegranate pancakes! Or pork. Maple-dijon glazed ham, maple-marinated pork roulade, maple pork chops—go whole hog, and top it off with a maple-bacon cupcake.

Q. Quince, poached and then baked with maple syrup, cloves and anise.

R. Rhubarb desserts, like apple-rhubarb crumble or maple rhubarb pie.

S. Sugar on Snow. I’ve already raved about the fabulous candy that forms when heat-thickened maple syrup meets a cold dish of snow (or crushed ice, if you’re nervous about eating snow).

T. Turnips, roasted with maple and cardamom.

U. Upside-down cake with pears and maple syrup.

V. Maple vinaigrette tossed with baby spinach, candied pecans and blue cheese crumbles makes an easy, yet elegant salad.

W. Well, waffles with syrup, obviously. Runner-up: Maple wine.

X. Um…. Xanthan gum in gluten-free pancakes, maybe?

Y. Yams with maple syrup and pecans.

Z. Zucchini, sauteed with a splash of syrup, or baked into maple zucchini bread.

Florence fennel, courtesy Flickr user quinn.anya

I’d heard of fennel, but had never eaten it until I visited my husband’s family for Thanksgiving a couple of years ago. The appetizers included a veggie tray with familiar snacks like peppers, cucumbers, broccoli and baby carrots. But there were also some curved, pale pieces I didn’t recognize, with a celery-like crunch and a pleasant licorice taste.

My husband told me this was called anise (pronounced “ann-iss,” although when they were younger he and his brothers preferred a grosser pronunciation), and that was that. I didn’t realize until later, perusing the produce aisles, that I’d actually eaten fennel! (It’s sometimes mislabeled as anise, a different plant whose seeds are also redolent of licorice.)

I’ve incorporated fresh fennel into many recipes since then, and found it wonderfully versatile. Here are a few ways to use it:

1. Soup: Roughly following this recipe, I made a very simple tomato-fennel soup by sauteeing some chopped fennel (preparation tips here) with onion and garlic in the bottom of a stockpot for 5 minutes, then adding a large can of crushed tomatoes and about 3 cups of water. I let the soup simmer (covered) for 40 minutes or so while preparing the rest of dinner, then used the immersion blender to puree it. I stirred in 1/3 cup of heavy cream right before serving, and garnished each bowl with fennel fronds. With some rustic sourdough bread, it made a delicious appetizer for our dinner. Next, I plan to try Sweet Amandine’s carrot-fennel soup.

2. Salad: I’ve made two variations on fresh salads with fennel so far, and both were big hits. Basically, when you combine slivers of fresh fennel with citrus segments (grapefruits, oranges, and/or clementines) and fresh herbs (including the fennel fronds), you’re on to something great. I also love fresh roasted beets, so I added these in quarters (both red and golden), along with some baby spinach (arugula’s good, too). I tossed this combination with a light dressing made by combining a few tablespoons of the following ingredients to taste: fig-infused vinegar, olive oil, maple syrup, and spicy maple mustard. If you prefer actual recipes, look to Sassy Radish’s fennel tangerine salad or this roasted beet and fennel salad.

3. Gratin: Depending on what ingredients you have, riff off recipes like Ina Gartin’s potato-fennel gratin and Smitten Kitchen’s swiss chard and sweet potato gratin. I had a small yam and a white potato to use up, so I peeled and sliced both, then layered them in a casserole dish with some cooked Swiss chard (chopped and sauteed with garlic, then squeeze-dried a bit) grated Gruyere and fontinella, and a basic bechamel sauce. I topped it all with a few slices of fresh mozzarella, and baked it (covered in foil) for 45 minutes. It was so good that just writing about it makes me want to run home and make more!

4. Roasted: Couldn’t be simpler! Cut a fresh fennel bulb into quarters or eighths, depending on size, toss with olive oil and vinegar, and roast on a baking sheet until tender (try 20 minutes at 400 for starters). Top with grated fresh parmesan and enjoy as a snack or a side dish.

5. Dessert: There aren’t too many vegetables that work well in desserts, but like I said, this one’s versatile. The Washington Post’s recipe finder offers up fennel panna cotta (though you’d probably have to skip the grilled strawberries this time of year), and the blog My French Cooking suggests a mouth-watering candied fennel sponge cake.

Jicama on a fruit truck, courtesy of Flickr user ChazWags

I’ve always like jicama (pronounced HEE-kuh-muh), a starchy, slightly sweet root popular in Mexico. It looks like an ugly brown turnip (and is sometimes called Mexican turnip) and, when raw, has the crunchy texture of a firm pear or a raw potato. Until a few weeks ago, raw was the only way I’d ever had it, usually on a crudité platter or in a salad. It had never occurred to me that it could be eaten cooked—but there it was recently, on a restaurant menu, in a jicama and roasted red pepper risotto. I ordered it out of curiosity, and I was pleasantly surprised by how good it was. In the risotto dish it was diced into small pieces and retained some of its crunch, its texture providing a nice counterbalance to the creamy rice.

The experience made me wonder, what other creative ways are there to prepare jicama? It’s not the most nutritious vegetable, but it’s a good source of fiber, potassium and vitamin C.

1. In a Mexican fruit salad. In Los Angeles, where I grew up, Mexican street vendors sell fresh fruit—like mango on a stick—from push carts. But the best thing they offer is a delicious fruit salad, with some combination of chunks of mango, pineapple, jicama, watermelon and cucumbers, seasoned with lime juice and chili powder. The combination of textures and flavors is divine, and beats the heck out of the flavorless melon melanges so many places pass off as fruit salad.

2. Sautéed. I’m guilty of being pretty unimaginative with vegetable side dishes, rotating among a few standard steamed or sautéed veggies that my fiancé and I can agree on—broccoli, green beans, spinach (sadly, I have not found the recipe that will convert him to brussels sprouts—yet). Epicurious suggests a bright-sounding jicama and celery sauté that might enliven the rotation.

3. As a canapé canvas. Perhaps the most surprising recipe I found was one for jicama-date canapés, also from Epicurious. Again, something that never would have occurred to me, though reviewers said it was a cocktail-party hit and a refreshing palate cleanser. I imagine jicama wedges would make a great platform for all kind of toppings, including (judging from my risotto experience) a roasted red pepper spread.

4. In a stir-fry. Jicama has a similar texture to water chestnuts, so it makes sense that it would work well in an Asian stir-fry. Cut it into chunks and throw in anywhere you’d use water chestnuts, or try this Chinese stir-fry recipe at Cooking Crave (in China, apparently, jicama is known as yam bean). I would probably leave out the cuttlefish, mostly because I don’t know where I’d find them where I live, but otherwise it sounds delicious.

5. As mock green papaya. The only salad I might love more than Mexican fruit salad is Thai green papaya salad—the mixture of tangy, sweet, salty and crunchy is the best of all worlds. But where I live, far from an Asian grocer (and far, far away from the tropical climate that produces the fruit) the chances of finding anything but an overripe papaya are slim to none. As Mark Bittman points out, though, jicama makes a pretty good substitute (and travels a lot better than papaya).

Fresh pomegranate, courtesy Flickr user JoeM500

Post-holidays, most people take at least a passing interest in eating healthier. I know I do, anyway. That’s what motivated me to pick up a whole, fresh pomegranate at the grocery store a few days ago—I’d heard that this round, red fruit is a “superfood,” packed with antioxidants and vitamins. Never mind that I hadn’t a clue how to open the thing, let alone prepare it! That’s what the Internet is for…

In case you’re clueless, too, here are a few tips on what to do with fresh pomegranates.

1) This video on Food52, a wonderful recipe-sharing site developed in part by former New York Times food writer Amanda Hesser, shows a simple technique for extracting the pomegranate seeds. Related recipes on the same site include an arugula, pear and goat cheese salad with pomegranate vinaigrette, a cranberry pomegranate compote, and roasted brussels sprouts with hazelnut and pomegranate (mmm, I might make that one tonight).

2) Add an exotic twist to fresh salsa by incorporating pomegranate seeds. I like the look of this kiwi-pomegranate salsa from Simply Recipes, and I bet some chunks of fresh mango would taste great in there, too.

3) The Wednesday Chef has another intriguing idea: carrot soup topped with pomegranate seeds. This recipe also calls for a touch of pomegranate molasses, which you can find at Middle Eastern grocery stores (I even found a few bottles for sale at the falafel shop in my neighborhood) or in the international aisle of larger chain supermarkets. It’s delicious in muhammara, a spread/dip made with roasted red peppers and walnuts.

4) Liven up a grain dish with pomegranate seeds—that could mean simply tossing a handful of them into couscous, or going uber-healthy with this bulgur, celery and pomegranate salad from 101 Cookbooks. They also taste great in hot oatmeal with a drizzle of maple syrup, as I learned this morning!

5) Drink up. You can buy pomegranate juice, but you can also squeeze your own from fresh pomegranates. It tastes good on its own, or mixed into everything from cocktails to smoothies. Food & Wine has a recipe for sparkling pomegranate punch that combines both juice and seeds with Prosecco, and Martha Stewart has a non-alcoholic variation. The doctor/blogger at Basic Eating recommends a simple pomegranate banana smoothie (he also has a related post with general pomegranate information).

That’s five, but here’s a bonus link, to celebrate the new year: the lovely new blog The Cooks Next Door recently had a pomegranate-themed post that includes helpful preparation tips and three recipes, such as chicken with yogurt and pomegranate.