Combining chia seeds, a nutrient-rich food naive to Mexico and Central America, with water creates a gel-like mixture. Photo courtesy of Flickr user graibeard.

Chia seeds are gaining a reputation as a superfood, joining the ranks of açaí, pomegranate, goji berry and the most recent favorite, quinoa (the United Nations dubbed this year the International Year of Quinoa.) But unlike its health food brethren, which few knew of before they became ubiquitous, the ingredient once enjoyed some unusual success outside the kitchen: it gave life to Chia Pets, ceramic turtles, cows, pigs and other creatures that sprouted plant-hair and sat atop living room tables across America in the 1990s.

Chia, a flowering plant in the mint family known as Salvia hispanica, is native to central and southern Mexico and Guatemala. Domesticated in 2,600 B.C., the seed is said to have been a staple of the Aztec and Mayan diet. The Tarahumara of Mexico, famous for their incredible endurance running, consume a blend of maize and chia seeds while pounding the desert sand.

At just 65 calories per tablespoon, chia seeds are rich in protein, fiber, antioxidants and omega-3 fatty acids. The seeds transform water into a gooey, gelatin-like mixture one can drink (slowly) straight out of the glass. Their unassuming mild, nutty flavor can disappear into countless different dishes, from pancakes and mashed potatoes to barbecue sauce and Jell-O. Here are five ways to cook with chia seeds that go beyond breading and salad garnishes.

Smoothies. Chia seeds can be ground down into a fine powder in a blender. Now a nearly invisible ingredient, chia powder can be swirled around with countless combinations of fruits, veggies and syrups. This recipe pulverizes the seeds with yogurt, blueberries, mangoes and vanilla extract for a tropical shake, while this one blends them with strawberries and apple juice for a quick breakfast beverage. For a brightly colored shake that tastes better than it looks, combine baby spinach leaves, chunks of kiwi, almond milk and a frozen banana and blend till smooth. Toss a few tablespoons of seeds with peanut butter, frozen bananas, chocolate-flavored coffee creamer, cocoa powder and milk to create a rich dessert smoothie. If the mix is too thick, add milk until it thins out.

Pudding. Some drink chia seeds straight with water, but if the gooeyness minus the flavor is too much for you, try pudding. Fold chia seeds into a mixture of cocoa powder, brown sugar, instant coffee and milk and stick them in the fridge for two hours to create decadent chocolate pudding. Combine the seeds with milk, sugar and vanilla extract and refrigerate overnight for a tapioca-like treat, sprinkling it with shredded coconut. For a breakfast pudding, toss water-soaked cashews with maple syrup, vanilla extract and chia seeds until smooth. Refrigerate eight hours or all night, and or top with dried or fresh fruit.

Breads. When chia seeds absorb water, they create a gelatinous mixture that can replace eggs, oil and butter in baking. In this recipe for pumpkin bread, chia gel takes on the role of butter and oil. Blend it with sugar, eggs and pumpkin puree. In another bowl, sift together flour, cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, baking soda, baking powder and salt. Stir the pumpkin mixture in gradually, then fold in chopped walnuts for crunchiness. Spread the batter out into a pan and bake for an hour at 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Once it’s transformed into a spongy loaf and cooled, smear with a sweet glaze of cream cheese, powdered sugar, milk and vanilla extract. Swap pumpkin puree for bananas for classic banana bread.

Burgers. For an extra protein kick at the picnic table, use chia seeds in homemade burger patties as a binding agent. Stir them in water to create a thick gel-like mixture. Saute chopped onion with olive oil in a pan until it begins to caramelize, then add minced garlic. In a bowl, combine them with ground meat, grated carrots, seasonings and the chia seed mixture. Using a large spoon or glove hands, mold the mix into 4-inch patties that are about half an inch thick and freeze them for an hour. Then, toss them on the grill, letting them sizzle for three minutes on each side.

Soups. Water-laden chia seeds can help thicken soup for a hearty comfort meal. For creamy cauliflower soup, boil chopped onion, cauliflower and vegetable stock. Ladle out half of the broth and stir in ground chia seeds. Return the mix to the pot and continue cooking. Garnish the soup with chopped parsley and black pepper, and serve with a crunchy slice of bread.

Roasted cauliflower. Image courtesy of Flicker user Andrew Scrivani.

Should you ever encounter my Mom’s mom and get her on the subject of cauliflower, she will go on to tell you about the best deep-fried cauliflower recipe in the world, the one with the nutmeg in the batter that made the snack sing and how she could sit down and eat a whole bowl if she didn’t watch herself. She will then go on to tell you how, after making up a batch, she spent an entire workday thinking about diving into the leftovers in her fridge only to come home and find that one of her daughters beat her to it. Due to dietary restrictions, she hasn’t had it in a number of years and she, always with good humor, will never let go of the cauliflower that got away. I’ve yet to have the fabled fried treats for myself, but it’s a wonderfully versatile fall vegetable that I love roasting or using in soups. If you’re planning on getting your cauliflower fix, here are five ways to put this high-fiber piece of produce through its paces.

Roast it: The means of cooking may be simple, but you have lots of options in how you execute a dish—namely through how you season the cauliflower and if you pair it with other veggies. It can be as simple as florets dressed with olive oil and paprika gunning it solo in a roasting pan. You can find companions for your cauliflower: broccoli is fairly traditional, but explore other options such as onions and fennel or even Brussels sprouts and sunchokes.

Grill it: Cauliflower really doesn’t require a ton of elbow grease to make it a flavorful companion to a meal. Throw in those endorphin-producing flavors that only a grill can provide, and you’ve got it made. A little salt, pepper, parmesan and those endorphin-producing flavors that come from food fresh off the grill make this recipe an attractive option. You can also cut the head into steaks and put them directly over the heat—and I’m definitely intrigued by the idea of serving them up with a little A1.

Soup it: I have my go-to family cauliflower soup recipe that gets made up a few times once the weather turns cold and it’s a perfect comfort food. Now, I’m fussy—I prefer soups that have a bit of body. For those of you who are agog for for hot purees, you can try this deliciously simple version from chef Paul Bertolli. If you’re like me and like your bowl teeming with discernible bits of veg buoyed by a rich stock, this might be more up your alley.

Sweeten it: Yes, you can use cauliflower in un-savory ways. Cauliflower has a very mild flavor, so it’s easy to sneak it into desserts, like chocolate cake or jam-topped thumbprint cookies. You can also dip them in a basic batter, deep fry and top with sauce made from honey and butter. It’s a fair start at curbing any guilt you have from indulging your sweet tooth.

Don’t Forget the Greens: Well, it can actually be quite easy  to forget the greens. Whenever I see heads of cauliflower in my local supermarket, the leaves are pruned back so that the white flesh of the vegetable is the main attraction. But if you grow your own or have access to freshly-harvested veg (e.g. a CSA or farmer’s market), you can use the greens to make a great side dish. With a little oil and garlic in a frying pan, wilt the greens and cook them up or add a few other vegetables and spices for a pungent stir fry. You can also season and roast them with the rest of the cauliflower.

“Commune Gothic” Summer 1970. Heidi Bushell and Mike McCarty/©Renaissance Community Archives used with permission/UMass Amherst W.E.B. Du Bois Library

In the fall of 1970, Lucy Horton went to stay with Robert Houriet and his wife in Vermont. Horton learned to type and “made order out of the chaos” that would eventually become the book Getting Back Together. Houriet suggested that Horton write a cookbook. And so, after a brief stint cooking for a wealthy woman in Manhattan the following spring, Horton stuck out her thumb and began hitchhiking around the country to gather material. She visited 45 communes and collected dozens recipes for casseroles, couscous, chickbits and a curious soup that calls for Love.

Country Commune Cooking was published in 1972. The comb-bound book resembles earlier community cookbooks put out by clubs and church groups, except that its instructions sometimes contained an overt recipe for social change. I called Horton, who now runs Autumn Leaves, an online bookselling business in Allentown, Pennsylvania, to ask about the legacy of these commune cooks. “They were the forerunners of something,” she told me. “I went to a lot of places where people had what I thought were nutty ideas. But the basic idea was a diet based on what’s available locally, prepared nutritiously, getting away from meat and fat and sugar. That really has become a mainstream idea.”

Not every idea has been a lasting one, Horton said. “The recipes were all donated. I didn’t really own them. And people had a lot of notions about food. I couldn’t accommodate everybody’s notions.” If there were any notion she would forgo today, Horton said it would be what some communards then considered an insidious chemical toxin. “A lot of people thought that baking powder was a poisonous chemical, so I did all the baking recipes with yeast, which is difficult and not very practical.”

One of the most intriguing recipes comes from the Brotherhood of the Spirit, a commune in Western Massachusetts headed by Michael Metelica, “a youthful guru who in turn receives spiritual teachings from a medium, a retired bus driver” named Elwood Babbit. The Brotherhood (later renamed the Renaissance Community) was one of New England’s longest-lasting New Age communes. They tried to spread their message through rock and roll. Their recipe, too, is an attempt at communicating the group’s social and spiritual ideals through the medium of food.

Whether “Brotherhood Spirit in Flesh Soup” is emblematic of an era or more of a recipe for the future remains an open question. Either way, the collection reflects one of the most lasting legacies of counterculture. As Darra Goldstein said at the recent Cookbook Conference: “They were so much more than cookbooks. They were a way of being in the world.”

Warwick Kitchen, 1972. Meg, “Nutmeg” Rich stirring dinner, probably brown rice, squash or mashed potatoes./©Renaissance Community Archives, used with permission/UMass Amherst W.E.B. Du Bois Library

Brotherhood Spirit in Flesh Soup
From Country Commune Cooking, edited by Lucy Horton, reprinted with permission from the author.

Get everyone together and get a good feeling between you. Work out anything and everything that lies unexpressed. Realize that you are Spirit—and that the health and balance of those you feed depend only on your Thoughts—that balance and order of the body depend upon balance and order of the Mind Positive. The ingredients are of secondary importance, and always in a divine relativity. This soup was made by Alan, Martin, Tam, Lynne and others, and Duh Bear.

1. Two big pots half full of boiling water.

2. Add 2 cups of pinto beans and a little later several handfuls of barley.

3. To each then add a lot of sautéed onions. At this writing the soup isn’t done, but we’ll add 12 canning quarts of squash, carrots and tomatoes from last summer’s garden. Also some green beans someone gave us. Later some salt and seasoning, kelp powder, and a few tablespoons of miso to each. Follow your own Awareness most of all. This soup will feed 130 along with two pots of brown rice and two pots of millet. Pots are about 3 or 4 gallons.

Finally, one last ingredient to be used throughout—Love.

Thanks to Danielle Kovacs, special collections curator at UMass Amherst, for assistance securing permissions for the above photographs and also to Stephanie Hartman, whose article “The Political Palate,” provided inspiration.

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.

Braised shark's fin soup with fresh crab meat. Image courtesy of Flickr user Sifu Renka.

California is on the road to becoming the fourth state in the union to ban shark fin soup on account of the ecological impact that rising demand is having on shark populations. A bill nixing the sale, trade or possession of shark fins passed the state senate on September 6 and is awaiting governor Jerry Brown’s signature to be passed into law. The namesake ingredient for this Asian delicacy is harvested by fishermen who catch sharks, remove the fins and dump the carcasses back in the ocean. While other parts of the shark are edible or can be used for other purposes, it makes more financial sense for the fishermen to haul back the fins because they are the most valuable: they can sell (depending on size and the species of shark) for upwards of $880 per pound on the Hong Kong market. (In 2003, a fin from a basking shark sold for $57,000 in Singapore.) It is estimated that between 26 and 73 million sharks are killed worldwide each year for their fins, and with sharks unable to reproduce at such a rate to meet human demand, sustainable shark fishing is a bit unrealistic.

So what’s the big to-do over this dish? It’s certainly not the fin’s flavor—which has been described as being relatively tasteless—but rather it’s unique, rubbery texture. Once dried, processed and incorporated into the soup, the fin looks like fine, translucent noodles whose culinary value is in their mouthfeel—all the flavor has to come from the other soup ingredients. Some chefs have tried using gelatin-based substitutes, but, for those intimately familiar with the dish, imitation shark falls short of capturing the feel of the real deal.

“This is the most stunning aspect of the entire economic empire that has arisen around shark’s fin soup” environmental reporter Juliet Eilperin writes of the soup in her book Demon Fish. “It is, to be blunt, a food product with no culinary value whatsoever. It is all symbol, no substance.” Indeed, with some iterations costing upwards of $100 a bowl, it’s a dish that, if nothing else, displays one’s social status.

The dining tradition that dates back to the Song Dynasty (960 to 1279 A.D.), becoming a mainstay of formal dining during the Ming Dynasty (1368 to 1644 A.D.), and it continues to be a popular dish at Chinese weddings. Opponents see the ban as an act of cultural discrimination, with the language of the bill singling out shark fin soup and giving no mention of other shark-based products, such as steaks or leather goods.

But shark populations are declining. In the 1980s, Hong Kong’s local shark populations were overfished to the point that its fishing market went bust. In the U.S., dusky shark numbers have declined by roughly 80 percent since the 1970s, with conservationists estimating that it would take upwards of 100 years for those populations to rebuild. In western Atlantic waters, hammerhead sharks have declined by up to 89 percent over the past 25 years. And in spite of cultural traditions, the international community—with the exceptions of Japan, Norway and Iceland—has placed bans on whaling because humans put such a strain on those populations. Should the same reasoning be applied to sharks?

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.

A lemon, image courtesy of Flickr user Miss Muffin

In spring a Northerner’s fancy turns lightly to… anything other than the same old starchy winter vegetables I’ve been eating for months. I don’t remember if this used to happen to me when I lived in a snow-free climate, but now that I live up north the only things I’m craving more than balmy breezes and flowers at this time of year are bright, sunny flavors to perk up my palate. Lemon fits the bill nicely. Not only does it add zippy flavor to everything it touches, a bowlful of lemons doubles as both cheerful table decor and subtle home fragrance. I’ve never seen anyone use rutabagas as a centerpiece, and I’m pretty sure parsnip-scented dishwashing liquid would be a commercial flop.

Plus, lemons have been curing scurvy since the 1600s—and providing entertaining videos of pucker-face babies since at least the dawn of YouTube.

If life hands you lemons, say, “thank you,” and don’t limit yourself to lemonade. Here are five ideas:

1. Breakfast. The best time to wake up your taste buds is first thing in the morning, no? You could go sweet, topping your favorite morning bread product with lemon marmalade, a sophisticated alternative to orange. (If you’re going to make it yourself, you might want to hold out for Meyer lemons—they’re a little sweeter and have thinner, tenderer rind). Or try fluffy lemon-ricotta pancakes, which use only the zest (squeeze the juice to use later, or mix up some Bloody Marys, if it’s that kind of morning). If you’re more a savory breakfast type, go for the whole classic New York bagel schmear: cream cheese, lox, capers, red onions and thin lemon slices (tomatoes are also a possibility, if you can find good ones at this time of year).

2. Soup. A recent Inviting Writing essay (with recipe) by a reader who tried to perfect her mother-in-law’s avgolemono soup may have sparked my latest round of lemon obsession. The ultra-lemony soup is one of Greek cuisine’s many delicious uses of the citrus fruit. Lemon also brings lentil soup into new and exciting territory (a squirt of lemon juice can even—almost—rescue bland, over-salted canned lentil soup, I find).

3. Main dishes and sides. The possibilities here are endless—chicken or fish piccata (I like this variation using miso paste); lemon pizza; lemon risotto (Giada de Laurentiis serves it in a lemon cup, if cute presentations are your thing); sole meunière, the French dish that Julia Child said changed her life; and Lee Lum’s Lemon Chicken is one of the recipes I’ve been wanting to try from Amanda Hesser’s The Essential New York Times Cookbook (originally published in the paper in 1969), but I haven’t been able to find water chestnut flour.

4. Desserts. For people like me who like their sweets cut with some tartness, this is the category where lemon truly shines. Last year I made a lemon tart from Cook’s Illustrated that came out brilliantly, if I do say so myself (the link is blocked to non-subscribers, so you can sign up for a 14-day trial or try this one with a pine-nut crust, from Epicurious.). Nigella Lawson’s lemon polenta cake sounds good. And for the true lemon lover, Smitten Kitchen offers a recipe for Shaker lemon pie that uses macerated thinly sliced Meyer lemons, peel and all. Those Shakers sure had some interesting ideas for baked goods. Of course, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention an American classic, lemon meringue pie.

5. Drinks. Now, I’ve got nothing against lemonade, especially on a hot summer day. But why not at least jazz it up with basil, mint or—though I can’t advocate it—cilantro? It certainly wouldn’t be out of the question to add some vodka to any one of those concoctions. Even better, do as Tyler Florence does, and make icy lemon-ginger vodka cocktails or, if you can wait 80 days, make your own limoncello. And did I mention the Bloody Mary? Well, it bears repeating.

Greek avgolemono soup, courtesy of flickr user amainbucatarie

This month’s Inviting Writing series focused on food and dating. We got some great contributions: sweet stories, quirky stories, sad (but triumphant!) stories. Today’s entry, sweet but very tangy, comes from Christie Zgourides, who teaches college English, grows her own vegetables, cooks from a range of cuisines and travels to try even more new flavors.

After the jump, see her recipe for Greek soup, interpreted for the novice. “I pulled the battered, hand-written recipe card from my file,” she wrote when we asked for the recipe, “and realized I will have something of a task getting this into a form that someone can actually work from.” She did, though, and it looks like a worthy challenge.

Secret Soup Strategy

By Christie Zgourides

I had been dating a guy, George, for a while and his birthday was coming up. He was living many states away from his parents, and had been lamenting that he hadn’t had his mom’s Greek soup in some time. This was the early 1990s, before the Internet or Facebook, so all I had was directory assistance. As his last name was Zgourides, I thought, how many could there be in a small Texas town? I got his mom on the first call! She secretly sent me the recipes, and I made Avgolemono (Greek) Soup with the eggy foam, chicken served on the side, and a Greek salad. I had never seen Greek soup much less made his family’s rather tricky recipe. When he came over on his birthday, he stepped through the door, and without even saying hello, said, “I smell Greek soup!” He went into the kitchen and said quizzically, “this tastes just like my mom’s!” Then I handed him the envelope with his mom’s handwriting. He was shocked and delighted I had gone to the trouble to contact his mom and surprise him with his favorite soup!

The funny part was the recipe called for three lemons. I had no idea what size, and bought three “Texas-sized” lemons at the store because, well, his family is all from Texas. The soup was so lemony George was the only one who could eat it, and he was delighted because he said he didn’t have to add lemon—for the first time ever! He pronounced it better than his mother’s.

I topped it all off with a lemon and white checker-board cake. The man loves his lemons.

He has since said he should have had the sense that day to get married, and we finally did a few years (ahem) later. We have been married 13 years, and I have made Greek soup many times since—with far less lemon. So everyone else can eat it. :-) He adds lemon, but still says it is better than his mother’s.

When most restaurants serve Greek or Avgolemono Soup, it is without the egg foam on top. There is no way to accomplish that feat in a restaurant setting, however upscale. It simply has to be done at home. The wrong pan or a mistake in temperature ruins it. This is not a recipe for the beginner or faint of heart.

Here is the recipe for Avgolemono (Greek) Soup. Be forewarned: there are
as many “true Greek” recipes for this as there are Yiayias in Greece, and
everyone thinks their family’s version is correct.

1 whole fryer or roasting chicken
Salt, pepper
1-2 tablespoons butter
2 celery ribs, chopped
1 cup rice (Rice may be cooked in the broth)*

3 eggs, separated
2 lemons, juiced

1. Place chicken in slow cooker with salt, pepper, butter, celery, and
water to cover. Cook on low for 6 to 8 hours or so. The goal is to cook the
chicken until it is falling off the bones and the broth is rich. Times may
vary depending upon size of chicken and slow cooker.

2. Cool. Remove chicken. Drain. Pour drained broth back into slow cooker.
Let stand overnight in refrigerator. Skim off fat next day. Strain broth.
This process should make about 6 cups of broth, and can be used for any
soup base. (Short-cut method: simmer chicken in a Dutch oven for an hour
or two. Remove chicken, strain broth, use same day. Short-cut method is
good, but broth is not as rich and will have more fat.)

3. Cook rice. Bring broth to a low boil in a heavy
Dutch oven.

4. While broth is heating, beat egg whites stiff in a small bowl.

5. Beat egg yolks till foamy in a larger bowl.

6. Add lemon juice to egg yolks and beat until mixed. Add rice to broth.

7. Combine stiff egg whites with yolks. Mix together slowly, using the low setting on mixer.

8. Add some hot broth to the egg mixture (to prevent curdling) and continue
beating slowing

9. Add mixture to broth and rice mixture, and barely stir into soup. There
should be foam on top of the soup.

10. Remove from heat and serve with crackers, de-boned chicken, and Greek
salad.

11. Let someone else clean the kitchen.

Yes, if you do this recipe correctly, you may well be juggling the rice
cooking in one pot, the broth in another, all while beating the eggs. Just
for one pot of soup. It is VERY EASY to get the temperature too high and
curdle the eggs. That is why a good quality, heavy pot is a must, to
control temperature.

*The original recipe called for cooking the rice in the broth, but my
mother-in-law, Katherine Zgourides, and I both decided the recipe turns out better if the rice
is cooked separately and then added to the broth.

Today’s story comes from Evelyn Kim, who lives in Berlin and writes about food and sustainability issues at the cleverly titled blog Edo Ergo Sum (I eat, therefore I am).

The Matzo Ball Blues

By Evelyn Kim

A bowl of matzo ball soup, courtesy of Flickr user imipolexg

There is that moment when you are dating someone and you realize that as much as you think the family accepts you…they don’t. I dated this man through college, after college, and for a time I was even engaged to him. But after we split up, I knew that no matter how many brises, weddings, or bar or bat mitzvahs I went to, I was never really part of the family. How did I know? It was the matzo ball.

I made really lousy matzo ball soup. The soup part was fairly easy, but those matzo balls! I could never get them to turn out right. They had the consistency of school paste and the density of doorstops. They were basically rubber balls in kosher clothing.

It was not for lack of trying. I received all sorts of advice. Trust me, I asked around. Moms, aunts, cousins, rabbanim, the Korean deli on 76th and 3rd—they all had their own methods: club soda, finely ground matzo meal, lard (Kosher food rules were clearly not part of the licensing exam for Korean deli owners in New York), whipped schmaltz, The Jewish Book of Why. None of them worked. I suspected that until I married the guy and converted to Judaism, Moses (or my boyfriend’s grandma) wouldn’t divulge the secret to light and fluffy matzo balls.

For years, I thought dumpling dilemma was due to my lack of culinary skills. Maybe I had the wrong matzo meal. Maybe the eggs were too old. Maybe God was punishing me for eating bacon for breakfast. Clearly, I thought, there was something wrong with me. Maybe the matzo ball and I were like Romeo and Juliet–star-crossed lovers that were only to end in tragedy.

After five years of dating, the guy and I split up. There were the usual reasons: arguments ending with “why aren’t you in therapy,” or “I really don’t care about your career.” But then there was his family: “Oh, I forgot. You’re not Jewish,” “This brisket is good, but not as good as fill-in-the blank,” and my favorite, “But you’re Korean.” Needless to say, I never did get the matzo ball recipe.

And I really didn’t think about the matzo ball—until about three months after we split up, when I sat alone at a deli and blubbered into my hot, steaming bowl of matzo ball soup. I really did miss him. I missed the relationship. I missed his neurotic over-analyzed family. I even missed the smelly shedding cat. And I still couldn’t make those stupid matzo balls.

I knew it was time. Time for the matzo ball showdown. With my self-esteem in the gutter, I trudged through the Safeway aisles. I was determined to make the ur-matzo ball, and nothing was going to stop me.

By 2 a.m., I was a hot, sticky mess. I had egg whites floating all over the place. I had almost exhausted my three-box supply of Manischewitz matzo meal. Little bits of chicken fat were clinging in my hair making me the first Asian with dreadlocks. And in my frustration, all I could think about was those stupid quenelles I mistakenly ordered when I first met his parents in college. Why did I order those pretentious, French fluff-balls?

I started crying all over again. What was wrong with me? Maybe I didn’t deserve to know the secret of the matzo ball. Maybe I didn’t deserve to be part of his family. They probably never liked me. That matzo ball was like Proust’s madeleine—but from hell—a constant reminder of a failed past. In my self-pity, I didn’t realize the answer was right in front of me. That stupid quenelle. If I made matzo balls like quenelles, they would be the perfect consistency. I picked up my pathetic puffy-faced self, and went back for more supplies. At 4:30 a.m., I had my soup. I did it myself. I had conquered the matzo ball. I was going to be O.K.

Matzo Balls

Schmaltz (rendered chicken fat) is the way to go here. You can also use duck or goose fat (it’s delicious). I suppose you could use butter, but the taste and texture might be off. And please, don’t use margarine. I tried cooking the dumplings both in chicken stock and in water. Chicken stock is tasty, but it will color your dumplings yellow. Either way, your tummy will thank you.

4 large eggs, separated

1/4 c. schmaltz (rendered chicken fat), room temperature

2 tbs. Italian (flat-leaf) parsley, minced

1/2 tsp. salt (kosher or sea salt)

freshly ground pepper

2/3 c. unsalted matzo meal

1.     In a medium bowl, thoroughly blend egg yolks, schmaltz, parsley and salt.  In another medium bowl, with clean beaters, beat egg whites until it holds stiff peaks. Gently fold egg whites into the egg yolk mixture, alternating with matzo meal, in 3 additions, respectively. Cover and chill until firm, about 2 hours (overnight is fine).

2.     Bring a large pot of salted water or stock to a boil. Using moistened hands (the mixture WILL stick), form mixture into balls, about 1 1/4 inch in diameter. When all the balls have been formed, drop matzo balls into boiling water. Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer until cooked through, about 30 minutes, turning balls over once.

3.     Drain and serve immediately with chicken soup of your choice.

The ringers’ iconic red collection kettles, which represent soup pots, have been a tradition since 1891. That was the year, according to the Salvation Army, that Joseph McFee brainstormed an idea to fund a Christmas dinner for the destitute in San Francisco. Recalling his sailor days, McFee thought of the port in Liverpool, where passersby would toss coins for the poor into a kettle called “Simpson’s Pot.” He put out a similar pot by the Oakland ferry landing on Market Street, along with a sign reading, “Keep the pot boiling,” and soon had enough to feed 1,000 people dinner.

It’s no coincidence that a soup kettle was the symbol for feeding the poor, rather than, say, a roasting pan or a skillet. Soup has always been one of the most economical ways to provide nourishing, filling food to a large quantity of people. Although he was hardly the first person to come up with the idea to feed the poor, an interesting fellow known as Count Rumford is often credited with establishing the first real soup kitchen.

Born Benjamin Thompson in Woburn, Massachusetts, in 1753, he fled to Britain during the American Revolution, having been accused of being loyal to the crown. He went on to have a brilliant career as a scientist, social reformer and inventor. His work for the Bavarian government earned him the title of Count of the Holy Roman Empire, and he chose Rumford, the New Hampshire town where he lived for a time, as the place he was from (the full name was Benjamin Count von Rumford).

His biggest project may have been his plan to rid Munich of its beggar problem by feeding—and, more pointedly, employing—the poor. According to the handbook he wrote for other cities to emulate, “mendicity” was epidemic there—”In short, these detestable vermin swarmed everywhere,” he wrote. He was speaking specifically of those able-bodied cadgers would send out scuffed-up children to prey on public sympathy, and who had developed an elaborate system of mooching food from merchants, which they would then sell to other shopkeepers at a profit.

After sending out troops to roust the beggars, Rumford established workhouses, where poor people, including children, were employed to make military uniforms. Those who were too weak, young or awkward to do more strenuous work were given the easier tasks of carding wool or spooling yarn. The youngest children were to sit in chairs in the workroom, where they would be enticed by boredom to prefer work. Children attended an on-premises school before and after work and, Rumford noted, were also given the opportunity to recreate and play.

“At the hour of dinner,” Rumford wrote, “a large bell was rung in the court, when those at work in the different parts of the building repaired to the dining-hall; where they found a wholesome and nourishing repast.” This consisted of “a very rich soup of peas and barley, mixed with cuttings of fine white bread; and a piece of excellent rye bread, weighing seven ounces, which last they commonly put in their pockets, and carried home for their supper.”

Rumford was also an early proponent of the potato as good, cheap and filling food, though this New World ingredient was still viewed with suspicion by many Europeans.

Although some of his methods (like child labor) wouldn’t necessarily mesh with today’s sensibilities, the basic concept of Rumford’s program set the groundwork for the last century’s soup kitchens. And through his many scientific innovations, he developed tools that improved cooking for everyone, poor or not, including the cast-iron Rumford stove (the first commercially available kitchen range), which kept in heat and allowed temperature to be regulated better than on an open hearth; a pressure cooker (though not necessarily the first one); and a drip coffee maker.

But the item bearing Rumford’s name that is probably most familiar to cooks today wasn’t actually his invention: a brand of baking powder was named in his honor.

Bowl of menudo for breakfast, courtesy of Flickr user zarzoso

Years ago, during a three-week trip to Turkey (and after recovering from a bout with “sultan’s revenge“), I went with some newfound Turkish and German friends to an outdoor café following an evening in the pub. (This was in a Mediterranean resort town that was far less conservative than the places I visited in the interior.) The late-night snack of choice wasn’t pizza or hot dogs or chili-cheese-fries; it was soup. The tomato-y red lentil stew we ordered hit the spot. The Turks told me that soups like the one we were eating were also common breakfast fare in Turkey.

For some reason, Americans usually banish soup to the post-noon meals. But that appears to be another of our national quirks, like shunning the metric system, in which we are out of step with the rest of the world. Not just in Turkey but elsewhere in the Middle East, Asia and Latin America, soup is considered up to the task of being part of the most important meal of the day.

I never learned the name of the dish I ate that night in Turkey, but I recently did some research and found recipes for one that sounds right—a mixture of red lentils, bulgur wheat and tomatoes, sprinkled with dried mint. It’s called Ezogelin çorbası, and the story behind it could make you cry in your soup.

Ezo the gelin (bride) was a real person who lived in the early 20th century. According to an article on the Web site for Harvard University’s Center for Middle Eastern Studies, “Legend has it that Ezo, with her rosy cheeks and black hair, was admired by travelers along the caravan route who stopped to rest in her village. Many men longed for her hand in marriage and Ezo’s family hoped to secure a worthy match for their daughter.” But she was unlucky in love—her first marriage ended in divorce; her second took her to Syria and a hard-to-please mother-in-law. “It is for her, the story goes, that Ezo created this soup. After bearing 9 children, poor Ezo died of tuberculosis in the 1950s and has since become a Turkish legend, depicted in popular films and lamented in folksongs.”

Not all breakfast soups have such a depressing backstory, but many share one bit of folklore in common: they are considered hangover cures. Here’s what people around the world are slurping while in their pajamas:

Mexico: Our neighbors to the south swear by menudo, a spicy tripe and hominy stew that, like the boy band of the same name, many Americans have heard of but haven’t acquired a taste for. In the words of Gustavo Arellano, who writes a California alt-weekly column called Ask a Mexican! (and a book of the same name), “Menudo is amor. It’s the soup Mexican women slave over for their hungry families on weekend mornings, the dish over which families unite and teens fall in love as they pitch woo while passing along a wicker of tortillas. Menudo nowadays exists in canned form, but that’s heresy.”

Colombia: Just saying the word changua makes me feel good, so I can only imagine the restorative effects of the actual soup. Changua is a popular breakfast in the South American country, including in the capital, Bogotá. It consists of eggs poached in a milky broth with onions, salt and cilantro.

Japan: Miso soup—the yeasty-tasting broth made from fermented soybean paste and often served with tofu, seaweed and scallions—is well known to Americans who frequent sushi restaurants. But it’s also an important part of a nutritious Japanese breakfast.

Vietnam: Nothing says, “Good morning, Vietnam!” like pho, a noodle soup with a thousand variations. Beef pho is the basic version, but chicken, pork and seafood are also popular.

China: Congee, called jook in Cantonese, is somewhere between a rice soup and a porridge, depending on its consistency. In any case, it is a staple breakfast food in China. Although the basic recipe is pretty much the same everywhere—just rice cooked in a lot of water—the options for customization are endless, including meat, fish, vegetables, herbs and eggs, alone or in combination.

When you think about it, congee is not all that different from the cream of wheat or grits that many Americans eat. Just mix in a little extra water and a few add-ins, and voilà!—you’d have an American breakfast soup.

Do you ever eat soup for breakfast?

How do you like your New England clam chowder? Courtesy of Flickr user vilseskogen

I spent a glorious 4th of July weekend on Martha’s Vineyard, where I set a personal record for the amount of fresh seafood eaten in four days. This being our honeymoon, my husband and I splurged on a couple of very nice dinners. But my favorite meal was probably the lunch we had on our second day: we rode our bicycles through picturesque farmland (ocean views, rock walls, grazing sheep—you could almost be in Ireland) to the little fishing village of Menemsha. There, we ordered fresh lobster from one of the fish markets, cooked to order and eaten on the docks as we watched the fishing boats come in.

I also ordered a cup of clam chowder, and was surprised that it had a rather thin, milky broth compared to the stand-your-spoon-up-in-it versions I was accustomed to. With that statement, subsequent research has led me to realize, native New Englanders (at least coastal ones) will be shaking their heads and pitying my ignorance—I might as well be opining that “wicked” should only be used as an adjective, not an adverb, or that Kevin Youkilis has a stupid-looking batting stance.

As it turns out, my West Coast upbringing has—until now—deprived me of the opportunity to eat “proper” New England clam chowder, at least according to some purists.

“Authentic New England chowders are never thick, however, with most relying on the starch from the potatoes to slightly thicken the broth and milk or cream,” explains Charlie Burke, at the online magazine The Heart of New England. “The thick, pasty chowders served in many restaurants are full of flour which masks the flavor of the clams, and would never be served at a church supper in Maine or by any self respecting Yankee cook.”

Some commenters on the Chowhound board were even more opinionated on the matter, deriding thick chowder as “an abomination” or “wallpaper paste.” Burke’s explanation makes sense; the clam flavor in the thinner soup I had in Massachusetts was far more pronounced than in the viscous versions I’ve tasted elsewhere. Consider me a convert.

In Serious Pig: An American Cook in Search of His Roots, John Thorne delves into the history of chowder. The origin of the word is thought to be from the French chaudière, meaning cauldron, spread via Breton immigrants to Newfoundland and down the coast to New England, although Thorne points out that some people believe it comes from the English term jowter, slang for a fish peddler. As his interesting essay reveals, etymology is not the only thing about chowder about which there is disagreement.

Published recipes from the 18th and 19th centuries varied widely in ingredients and preparations, calling for everything from claret to tomato ketchup. (To which, Thorne writes, “A thousand Yankee mariners groaned and rolled over in their graves.”) Milk or cream probably didn’t become common until later, and even then, regional variations sometimes excluded dairy in favor of clear clam broth or—the horror—tomato. To this he devotes an entire chapter, called “The Abhorred Tomato,” in which he writes, “the topic ‘tomatoes and clams’ has become a mainstay of Yankee identity, or at least the curmudgeonly, self-congratulatory kind.”

Actually, that sounds a lot like the deeply ingrained Red Sox-Yankees rivalry I have witnessed since moving to upstate New York. I may bow to the culinary wisdom of New England seafood preparation, but having married into a true-blue Yanks family, it is my duty to continue to mock the Boston team. Blood, after all, is thicker than chowder—even the pasty kind.

Stinging nettle plant, courtesy Flickr user pluralzed

Blue Ridge is where I discovered that stinging nettles—a weed which I once associated only with childhood stings and scratches—are not only edible, but delicious. Stinging nettles (scientific name Urtica dioica) are a common weed throughout North America, and they’re springing up all over the place right now as the weather warms.

Yes, there’s good reason for the plant’s name: the stems and leaves of stinging nettles are covered in tiny, needle-like hairs that will give you a nasty rash if you touch them with bare skin. But the compounds that cause this reaction are deactivated by cooking, and the young leaves are said to be full of nutritional value, including calcium, magnesium, iron, and vitamins A and B.

Wildman Steve Brill has lots of information about the various nettle species and how to gather them safely in the wild; you can also sometimes buy them at farmer’s markets in springtime.

Blue Ridge’s sous chef, 33-year-old Jason Wood, learned to love nettles and other edible weeds when he trained at the Natural Gourmet Institute in New York City. He often makes tea with nettles, and it was his idea to add stinging nettle soup to the restaurant’s spring menu.

“I’m a little nettle-crazy right now, because they’re not going to be around forever, so I want to embrace them,” he said, then realized that probably wasn’t the best choice of verbs. “Well, not literally…when I was a kid, visiting my grandmother, I ran into a patch of them. That was bad news bears!”

Wood said the restaurant gets its nettles from Path Valley, an Amish farm co-op in Pennsylvania, but the kitchen staff still has to remove the leaves from the stems before cooking. They all approach the ingredient with extra caution after Wood got stung through a hole in the bag of the first shipment.

“It itched all day,” he said. “Now we all put gloves on and sort of get in a huddle to take the leaves off…no one else has been stung. I think I was the example.”

The leaves are harmless once they’re cooked for just a couple of minutes, and can be used in place of  spinach in many recipes. Wood’s amazingly simple soup recipe combines nettles with onions, potatoes, chicken or vegetable stock (he’s used both, depending on whether he wants a richer or lighter flavor in the batch). The result is a beautiful emerald-green color that tastes like spring in a bowl; lemon juice adds zing, and a swirl of creme fraiche makes a nice garnish.

It’s been selling well in the restaurant, Wood said, although at least one person isn’t too impressed.

“When I told my grandmother I cook with nettles, she just said, ‘You’re still messing around with those?’” he said, laughing.

–

Blue Ridge Restaurant’s Stinging Nettle Soup

1 Tbsp butter
1 onion, diced
1 lb Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and chopped
1/2 lb fresh nettle leaves (NOTE: use gloves to handle while raw)
6 to 8 quarts vegetable or light chicken stock
Juice of 1 or 2 lemons
Salt
Creme fraiche or plain yogurt (optional)

Melt 1 Tbsp butter in a large stockpot. Sweat onion in butter until translucent, about 5 minutes. Add potatoes and 6 quarts stock, stir to incorporate. Bring to a boil, then let simmer until potatoes are tender, about 20 minutes. Stir in nettle leaves and cook 3-4 minutes more. Add salt & lemon juice to taste. Puree very well in a blender or with an immersion blender, adding more stock if needed to adjust thickness. If texture is still too fibrous, push through a fine sieve. Serve hot. Optionally, garnish with a dollop of crème fraiche or plain yogurt.

–

A Mediterranean-influenced soup with chickpeas, tomatoes, spinach and tahini. Photograph by Lisa Bramen

Last weekend, I challenged myself to cook without recipes for the rest of the week. I had been feeling bogged down by the amount of time I was spending researching recipes and planning menus and shopping lists. I wanted to test my creativity and ability, and push myself to be more spontaneous. I went to the supermarket Friday without a list and without a plan.

The results: a mixed bag, but more positive than negative. The good news was that I know more about cooking than I gave myself credit for. Everything I made was at least edible, and some of it was really good.

I started strong on Sunday with a Mediterranean-influenced soup, using ingredients that I knew went well together but hadn’t necessarily seen combined in this way. I sautéed some chopped onion and garlic, then added a can of chickpeas, some leftover canned chopped tomatoes, chicken broth, a little sherry and some spices. After it was heated I stirred in a spoonful of tahini, which gave it a little creaminess and a delicious flavor. I threw in some chopped fresh spinach until it was just cooked, then blended about 3/4 of the soup so that it would still have some chunks. Finally, I added some leftover cooked rice and let it heat through. The soup was filling and flavorful, and I had just enough left over to bring for lunch the next day.

On Monday, I decided to adapt a macaroni and cheese dish I’ve tried before. In order to cut down on fat and sneak in some vegetables, I had once tried a recipe from, I believe, Food & Wine magazine that replaced part of the cheese with pureed carrot. It was good, but slightly sweet, so I wanted to try the same idea with a different vegetable—cauliflower. I steamed and pureed it with some milk, then mixed it with shredded extra sharp cheddar and jack cheese and a little ground mustard, paprika and cayenne pepper. Then I stirred it into the cooked macaroni, added some chopped tomatoes and chopped green chilis, sprinkled more shredded cheese and Parmesan on top and baked until it looked done. Another success: it wouldn’t beat out a good creamy full-fat version, but it was surprisingly satisfying. I considered the fact that my partner, who doesn’t watch calories, voluntarily finished off the leftovers the next day a good sign.

On Tuesday the problem with my laissez-faire grocery shopping became clear. That is usually my partner’s night to cook, since I work on the blog then. Although he has recently taken up baking (a hobby I wholeheartedly support), his cooking repertoire is mostly limited to pasta or pizza (using pre-made crust). I had bought the crust but failed to check to see if we had mozzarella left. We didn’t. He finished the leftover mac-and-cheese, and I heated up some boxed soup.

Wednesday I made chicken fajitas. Again, my lack of a shopping list came back to haunt me—no lime juice for a marinade. I improvised with some lemon juice and what seemed like a good idea at the time: the juice from a jar of Spanish olives. I won’t say that it was bad, but I wouldn’t use it again. A side of chopped mango and avocado sprinkled with cayenne pepper and lemon juice (again, lime would have been better) somewhat redeemed the meal.

Thursday was my final night of winging it. On the excellent advice of some of our commenters, I decided to riff on a recipe I have made before, acorn squash stuffed with vegetables. The recipe I usually follow calls for chopped carrots, onions, red bell pepper and celery, sautéed with garlic, ginger, soy sauce and white wine, and topped with shredded cheese. I decided to use the rest of the cauliflower, plus red bell pepper and onions, left out the ginger and used balsamic vinegar instead of soy sauce. I also added a bit of cayenne pepper (few things can’t be improved with a little heat, in my opinion). The flavor was good, but without consulting the recipe I didn’t know how long to bake it. I should have let the squash cook all the way through before putting the filling and cheese in; the squash was slightly undercooked and by the time I realized my mistake it was too late because the cheese was already browned.

Overall, I am pretty happy with how things came out. I would make both the soup and the macaroni and cheese again, and it was liberating, and confidence-building, to improvise each day. I saved money and was less wasteful because I didn’t have a list of specific ingredients I had to buy for recipes; instead, I used what I had available, including leftovers.

On the other hand, at times I felt a little lost without the guidance of a recipe, especially for knowing how long to cook things and at what temperature. From now on, I’ll try to use recipes as a starting point, rather than following them slavishly.

Ever tried something for the first time and immediately felt like smacking yourself in the forehead?

Sometimes, that’s because you realize it was a bad idea—for example, sticking your tongue on an icy flagpole. But sometimes, that’s because you realize that you’ve been missing out for years on something wonderful. That’s how I felt when I finally tasted the Vietnamese noodle soup called pho a couple of weeks ago.

We have a delightful feature about pho in the March issue of Smithsonian, cleverly reported from Hanoi by veteran food writer Mimi Sheraton (we also have a great video about Hanoi’s pho scene embedded here). As she notes, although most Americans pronounce the word the way it looks (“foe”), the Vietnamese pronunciation “is somewhere between ‘fuh‘ and ‘few‘, almost like the French feu, for fire.”

Sheraton explains that pho typically involves “slim and slippery rice noodles” served in a steaming broth of beef (pho bo) or chicken (pho ga), seasoned with things like fish sauce, shallots, ginger, cinnamon, chilies, basil, coriander and lime. Depending on the type, it may feature slivers of beef, tofu, vegetables, or egg, and is often served with a condiment platter of fresh herbs and mung bean sprouts to add as you eat.

“It is that contrast of seasonings—sweet and spicy, salty, sour and bitter, hot and cool—that makes this simple soup so intriguing to the palate,” she writes.

After reading proofs of Sheraton’s article, several of the editors here found ourselves hankering for a pho lunch (even though, as Sheraton learned, pho is traditionally a breakfast or late-night food in Vietnam), so we headed to a place called Pho 14 in DC’s Columbia Heights neighborhood.

I felt like a bit of a bumpkin for admitting that it was my first time tasting pho, but as it turned out, I wasn’t the only one. Most of us approached the menu with the same curious confusion, wondering aloud as we perused nearly two dozen options: Large or regular? Does “soft tendon” taste better than it sounds? And what the heck is “bible tripe?”

I chose the pho chay, a vegetarian broth featuring bright, crunchy broccoli and carrots, meaty mushrooms and tofu amid the tender noodles; a few squirts of spicy sriracha made it perfect. Most of my colleagues went for variations on beef pho. No one was eager to stomach the bible tripe (what, with all the puns in Sheraton’s piece, I can’t get away with one?) after hearing a description of it (thanks to someone’s iPhone), but the eye of round, brisket and skirt flank were popular.

There was plenty of slurping and splashing as we dove in with chopsticks and shallow porcelain spoons, squeezing limes and tearing basil with our hands—followed by groans of “oh, I can’t finish all this!” We agreed that it was much more fun than an ordinary lunch, and a steal at less than $10 a bowl.