Root veg kaleidoscope.

Steamed carrot slaw with roasted beets. © Ryan Schierling

The challenge: Create an unforgettable side dish from random items in your refrigerator before time runs out. Who will rise to the occasion, and who will be… CHOPPED.

(WE INTERRUPT THIS POST FOR COPYRIGHT LIABILITY REASONS. IN THIS CONTEXT, THE TERM “CHOPPED” MIGHT BE A REGISTERED TRADEMARK OF TELEVISION FOOD NETWORK G.P. AND ITS AFFILIATES. CONTINUED IMPLIED USAGE AND/OR VIOLATION WILL RESULT IN TED ALLEN’S HANDLERS ASCERTAINING YOUR LOCATION IN FETCHING BLACK HELICOPTERS, DESCENDING ON YOUR KITCHEN, WHERE YOU WOULD BE… BOPPED. IF THERE ARE ANY BISCUITS AROUND, YOU MAY BE… SOPPED. REGARDLESS OF THE CONTEXT, YOU WILL BE… STOPPED. UNLESS YOU ARE ABLE TO DEFEAT MASAHARU MORIMOTO AT THE IRON CHEF AMERICA NINTENDO Wii GAME. ALLEZ-CUISINE!!*)

I'm fairly certain I would be a terrible contestant on one of those competition-based cooking shows. You know the ones where contestants have to execute something spectacular in under 20 minutes with a limited number of disparate ingredients? Not a minute to spare rethinking or redoing anything? I’d probably knock it out of the park about one in three rounds, and full-on crash and burn the rest. Pressure cooker situations are just not for a planner like me. However, that’s not to say I don't enjoy rising to a challenge when the opportunity presents itself.

Tuna melt with Mexican mint marigold.

Tuna melt with Mexican mint marigold (or tarragon, if you please). © Ryan Schierling

Tuna, tuna, tuna, tuna... melty cheese, please.

Tuna salad sandwiches. While ubiquitous culturally, they were never a staple in the meat-free household of my childhood. The closest thing to a tuna sandwich in my experience was probably the Nuteena sandwich – but we never had a melty version of that.

Quite frankly, I never found the smell of tuna sandwiches to be appealing. But, then, it could be that my first real contact with the stuff was working in a less-than-fancy food service environment. While I do enjoy trying new things, I have never been one to bother stretching myself for something that doesn't hold the appearance or promise of present or future enjoyment.

By the time Ryan introduced me to the tuna melt, I already had some decent tuna experience under my belt – just nothing of the cheap, tinned variety. I could appreciate the creamy texture of tuna sashimi, and I enjoyed seared tuna as an entree, but chunk light tuna in water was another thing entirely and I was a bit skeptical.

Now, I probably suggest this comforting sandwich more often than he does.

Tomatoes rock.

Tomato carpet at the now defunct Emo's on Red River - Austin, Texas. © Ryan Schierling

My mother always describes eating fresh tomatoes out of a childhood, long-ago family garden – plucked ripe from the vine, warm from the sun, juices dripping down her chin on the first bite. I imagine it is what tomatoes were always supposed to taste like... killer.

Grocery store tomatoes are a sad affair, no matter how organic or fresh. Compared to home-grown, they are typically a little mealy, a little dry, lackluster and lacking in fresh-picked, sun-ripened flavor. When we buy tomatoes outside of our Central Texas growing season – which is to say, November through March – they're usually used for making salsa or tomato jam. The little actual tomato flavor they've got is augmented by other, bolder ingredients. But when it's summertime in Austin – which is to say, April through October – we have two garden plots that are a cage-match tomato free-for-all.

The larger varieties don't usually fare so well. They split before they're ripe, they are susceptible to leaf-footed bugs, and we've found that crafty mockingbirds abscond with bits and pieces of them as soon as they're soft enough to poke a beak in. Sweet little cherry and grape tomatoes are prolific and quick to grow, the medium-sized orange ones do well, and small heirloom varietals have been very successful. We stick with the tried-and-trues, and use them to their tomato-ey fullest while we've got them.

Better than take-out Thai green curry.

Thai green curry with tofu. © Ryan Schierling

I'm not sure why it's taken so long for me to finally write about this dish. Even with a fair number of requests for the recipe, we've never managed to detail how we make it. We've just made it. 

So, the few who have had it – in the spontaneous and informal space of an evening at home – have been friends stopping by the wee suburban cabin when no plans were made and there was no special occasion to celebrate. It represents to us the simple comfort of family and nourishment to warm the belly. 

How green curry came to be part of our repertoire is one of the earliest food stories that Ryan and I share. Before I moved into the bungalow next door to Ryan in Seattle – before we'd even met – I lived a short block away in a sweet, old third-floor apartment right above a Thai restaurant. Once every week or two I would either stop by or call in an order for pick-up. The were five or six dishes I particularly enjoyed, but the curry (especially the green curry) was my rich and delicious "usual" on a cold and rainy night.

Eggs bedevil me.

Tarragon pickled eggs. © Ryan Schierling

Ooooo! It's Halloween!! All those "deviled" eggs in the magazines and on entertaining TV decked out with selectively-sliced black olives to look like scary faces or creepy spiders for Halloween... this is not that post.

Each and every October, it seems that deviled eggs start showing up all over. I get it, because there's "devil" in the name and you can make faces with the garnish to look all gouhlish – oh, and, sure, probably  because it's a holiday for entertaining. There is that.

I'm a little picky about my deviled eggs. I think there's "one way" (my way, of course*), and then there are all the other ways I am perfectly happy to eat them when someone else is kind enough to go to the trouble. They may not really be all that difficult to make, but for some reason always seem to be the LAST thing on my priority list when I'm assembling a crudite spread. Peeling hard boiled eggs is bad enough, but removing the yolks, seasoning them and then fussing them back into place... oh, please. Despite my best intentions, I can't remember the last time I managed to get them completed in time for a party. I'm lucky if a few sliced hard-boiled eggs end up on the plate with sprinkle of kosher salt. So, I've simplified a "make ahead" strategy that hits all the same spots, but doesn't require piping my yellows back into my whites.  In fact, in the fine Southern tradition of pickling eggs, I may even like these better...

Cucumber salad #2.

Cucumber and cantaloupe salad with hazelnuts and chevre. © Ryan Schierling

Fresh, earthy, crunchy, creamy. This one is our twist on cucumber-cantaloupe salad.

Don't call it a fruit salad because it will surely disappoint anyone expecting to satisfy a spirited sweet tooth. It gets a good grounding from the rich chèvre, the flavorful crunch of toasted filberts and the provocative hint of rosemary.

This one is easy to prep, but unfortunately it doesn't do well all mixed together in a serving bowl. Those lovely little bits of goat cheese just dissolve away into a creamy mess. Individual portions are prettier. No stirring, just a simple presentation of cucumber and melon with an unexpectedly serious garnish.

Cucumber salad with cantaloupe and chèvre

1 English cucumber, peeled
1/4 cantaloupe
1/4 cup white wine (such as pinot grigio), or the juice of 1 lemon
1/2 cup filbert (hazelnuts) pieces, lightly toasted
2 ounces chèvre
1 tablespoon fresh rosemary leaves, finely minced
Salt and fresh ground black pepper to taste.

Slice and the cucumber and cantaloupe into approximately 1/2" pieces. Gently fold the white wine and/or lemon juice with all the diced cucumber and cantaloupe in a bowl, then let it chill in the fridge for a bit.

When you're ready to serve, stir again lightly with a pinch of salt, then portion it out into smaller serving bowls. Give each a dusting of finely minced rosemary, then top with pieces of chèvre and hazelnuts. If you're feeling it, add a crack of black pepper, too.

Serves 3-4.

Cucumber salad #1.

Cucumber, minimally adorned. © Ryan Schierling

Summer's on the way, so we've been working up a few salads, cool as a cuke.

This is close to a Turkish cucumber salad, or cacick, but not quite. Turks be damned, I added the dill and Sriracha because I can't leave well enough alone. The cucumber cool, the yogurt bright, it was just beggin' for a little slap and tickle. And the dill in our garden is going crazy.

We've done this a few weekends in a row, serving it alongside salt-and-peppered ribeye steaks, grilled over oak coals, sidled up with a mound of garlic mashed potatoes and mushrooms messed with feta. I'd like to think it's a fresh, palate-cleansing wake-up between the heavy courses. Really, it's probably just a punk-ass, back-talkin', middle finger to the rich(ness).

But, honestly, it does well with the protein and starch crowd, a song and dance number between drama bites of meat and potato. And it's easy.

Cucumber salad with yogurt and dill

3 seedless cucumbers, peeled and sliced thin
1 7-ounce container plain yogurt (Fage)
juice of 2 lemons
2 tablespoons minced fresh dill
1 tablespoon minced fresh mint
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon Sriracha hot sauce (optional)
pinch of kosher salt
2-3 tablespoons water

Mix the yogurt and lemon juice well with a whisk. Add dill, mint, garlic, salt, hot sauce (if you want… it adds a lovely subtle back-end heat). I add a few tablespoons of water to thin the sauce out a bit. Toss in the sliced cucumber and mix well. Refrigerate for an hour or so to let the flavors mingle and/or duke it out. Serve with meatses and potato.

Parsley. Sage. Myzithra and thyme.

This isn't Chuck E. Cheese, it's myzithra cheese. © Ryan Schierling

Old-fashioned lampshades with long fringe and soft light glowing over vintage oak furniture. The occasional worn velvet settee. The heady scents of sourdough and garlic perfuming the air. A scoop of tri-colore spumoni ice cream in a fancy little silver dish.

If you're not already thinking "The Old Spaghetti Factory," I'm willing to bet there wasn't one of these fine establishments in your home town.

At The Old Spaghetti Factory you could feed a family of four a hearty dinner complete with sourdough bread, side salads and a little dish of spumoni ice cream at the end, all without going broke. It's been many years since I've been to The Old Spaghetti Factory (not to be confused with other "spaghetti warehouse"-type establishments) and my memories are still fond. The restaurants I've been to have always had that fun cafe buzz and noise about them, while still being warm, comfortable and family-friendly. The locale we frequented when I was a kid living in Spokane included a fabulous old trolly car inside of the restaurant – a wondrous attraction for any seven-year-old. I remember the rhythm of the waitstaff bustling in and out of the kitchen and in these formative years it was an intriguing and special place to be taken out to eat.

The concept being basically "prix fixe" on a budget and the fact that dinner was always served in proper courses – bread on the table, soup or salad, entree, dessert – was a wonderful entry-level education in how to be a good diner. This was not fast food and decidedly not the kind of place where chicken nuggets were featured on the children's menu. In fact, I checked today, and their kids' menu includes all of the same courses, only with an abbreviated selection of entree options on a smaller scale (including a white clam sauce for your children with sophisticated palates).

For an establishment with a price range of $$ on Yelp and middling reviews on the quality of their marinara sauce, there is one thing you can't fault it for – their offering of spaghetti with myzithra (or "mizithra") and browned butter. I do not recall seeing a menu from any other restaurant that has featured this wonderfully-salty aged Greek cheese.

It's an extremely simple dish: spaghetti tossed in browned butter and sprinkled generously with grated myzithra cheese. Aged myzithra is a very dry cheese similar to parmesan, pecorino romano or a particularly arid ricotta salata. But even more so. It doesn't seem to absorb liquid so much as act in opposition to it – which is why copious quantities of browned butter are such a perfect compliment. It reminds me a bit of one of my "simple pleasure eats" for leftover pasta where I toss it in a warm saucepan with some extra virgin olive oil, freshly grated parmesan and salt and pepper to taste. Easy and somehow tremendously satisfying.

Okay, so let me bring this back around... A few days back I was poking around the refrigerator case at Phoenicia Bakery and Deli and came upon a block of aged myzithra. It was like striking nostalgia gold. It's not one of those cheeses you see every day or that most people really have any idea what to do with, so I was pretty darn excited to take a chunk home with me and give my simple pleasure a few substitutions, a la The Old Spaghetti Factory, and share this fabulous fromage treasure with Ryan.

I could have kept it easy with a generous crack of black pepper, but being all grown up and generally unwilling to leave well enough alone... I quartered a clove of fresh garlic to flavor the butter as it browned and topped the finished dish with some of the fresh thyme we had growing gang-busters in the garden. I'm pretty proud of that choice, because I had plenty of fresh herbs to choose from and the thyme turned out to be a bit of flavor magic. We went back for more, and then a little more. Don't skimp on the thyme. The fragrance and flavor with that soft evergreen note get on splendidly with the salty cheese and toasted butter. Splendidly.

A nice bottle of red wine will compliment this entree charmingly, but I can't promise that it, or a side salad, will keep you from the inevitable carb and butter coma that is certain to follow. Spumoni with the candied fruit, my friends... eat at your own risk.

Herb-ivore.

Sweet basil with wee carnivorous visitor. © Ryan Schierling 

Dried herbs?!? Don't even get me started. Yes, most of us grew up with them – sad rows of anemic, dehydrated, desaturated flakes with long-past-due expiration dates in the seasoning rack. There is a small place for certain dried herbs, sure. But a compact herb garden that can supply 95% of your fresh herb needs always wins as the better-tasting and less-expensive option over fresh-cut herbs purchased from a grocery store or anything in a dusty jar. 

My first "just outside the door" herb was chives. As a kid I LOVED them and would chew them down one-by-one, plucked carefully from the little flower bed tucked along the side of the house next to the kitchen door. This was all cute and adorable until my breath became so punctuated with the onion-y fragrance of chives that my mom started asking me to back off... both in physical presence and chive intake. 

I've moved beyond my chive-chomping "get out of this kitchen with that onion breath" youth, but my appreciation has not waned. I have always had a few herbs around, growing in a pot on the porch or in a patch of dirt out back. Then somewhere along the line, I stopped taking herbs for granted and realized that the benefit of growing them was such a huge asset to my cooking experience that a home without them was unimaginable. When we moved to Austin, it was late fall and our plans to put in a proper raised bed for herbs were delayed by a few months. By early spring of 2010, not having fresh herbs outside our door was driving us bonkers. Planting those first few starts was immensely satisfying and, while we have had a few minor casualties along the way, this herb garden has been the most continuously productive, useful and inspiring patch we have planted.