On flying and fennel

For the past few days the monitor on my computer has been out. Nothing, kaput, and although the computer turns on there isn't a shred of communication between the innards of the thing and the screen itself. It's a relationship gone bad and, unfortunately, couples' therapy costs much more than I have banging around in my pocketbook at the moment.* So I've resigned myself to reading in bed before sleep instead of combing the interwebs for this and that. A life less digital, more tactile and present, if I may, because a good story doesn't lend to my escape so much as carry me home.

And I've been reading a good story, friends. A very good story. An epic, even: Jonathan Lethem's The Fortress of Solitude which I've stupidly avoided since my move to Brooklyn over half a year ago (if anyone's counting). I'm not even halfway through and I really didn't like the first 75 pages, but somewhere around page 87 and "this crab runs sideways west/out of the pot/but not out of potluck," my eyes perked up and started relaying words directly to my gut which seems appropriate and which is where I feel this book the very most. This sweeping story of a city I'm still not quite sure about and her reluctant but inevitable son...is a story I've somehow connected to in the basest of ways. The book makes me revere and revel in my Brooklyn, this Brooklyn where I live that seems so much like the Brooklyn of decades past. And it reconfirms a pride in my neighborhood based on absolutely nothing but one I'll take. An acknowledgement of hardship, unwarranted in my case but one that Crown Heights wears like a cape, a superhero cape, one that's shredded and stained but effective nonetheless.

Crown Heights has a colorful history (word choice, Robin, word choice) and I'm glad to live here, against the better judgment of my family and friends who would rather I rent an apartment in Park Slope: an unrelenting baby boom of a neighborhood, lovely (really) but overrun with entitled children and parents who would never live anywhere else. Shops and dining galore, but I have trouble finding the soul of the place.

Now, I haven't abandoned my family's wishes completely. I work in Park Slope, smack dab in the center, and it's a nice place to visit. I walk around and if I can avoid bumping into strollers or stepping on a toy dog, it's quite sweet. Park Slope has a sense of humor about itself, in fact, so I actually respect the neighborhood and some of the people in it. I have friends there, and I'll even visit them sometimes. But for me? Not really....

Except for one not insignificant establishment: Union Market, where I've found the best (and some of the, dear me, most expensive) produce in Brooklyn. I would probably move to 5th avenue just so I could be close to this achingly gorgeous grocery store. I go there after work almost every single day if just to look at the shiny happy produce spilling over itself in an effort to get my attention. It's a bounty in every aisle, a tiny powerhouse of a food shop that calms and charms my aching heart (and, er, wallet) into submission.

The other day from Union Market I picked up: fennel, shallots, tarragon, ricotta salata, grapes. And here is what I done did:

It's a bulked-up Jamie Oliver recipe. He uses only tarragon, ricotta, shallots and grapes and creates, with a splash of vinegar and olive oil, a truly stunning salad. Since I'm god-damn crazy for fennel and thought it would complement the tarragon's licorice notes nicely, I added some, thinly sliced. I also put in radishes because I had them lying around and they didn't overpower the dish at all. In fact, they became a lovely counterpoint to the sweetness of the grapes, tarragon and fennel, echoing the shallots' spice and bite.

(that's another picture because I think that this salad is very very pretty)

One thing Jamie Oliver does, and I do this all the time, is "marinate" the shallots in a bit of vinegar and salt before adding them to the dish. I opted out of this and instead combined all of the ingredients before sprinkling delicately and carefully with salt, olive oil and vinegar. It gave the salad a very clean taste and none of the strong flavors were muted, yet as I ate (and I savored this, slow as honey) they spoke with each other, got cozy and created something different entirely. An orgy of delicious, really, and happening right on my plate. I couldn't ask for more.

Fennel, Grape and Tarragon Salad

Don't be afraid of this. Every single ingredient is confident but humble, asserting itself best in the presence of one of its friends. Eat a grape with some fennel and tarragon, make sure it's all coated in the salata, place a shallot sliver right on top. The second time I made this I used some balsamic vinegar which gave the salad a rich, deep flavor, but I like it best without (you can, of course, experiment). Also make sure to taste before you add the salt, as the ricotta salata is quite stand-up. And add more tarragon than you're comfortable with. Really, you must.

Serves 1

1/3 cup fennel, shaved thin with knife or mandolin
3 tbsp tarragon leaves, picked off of their stem
1/4 cup grapes, halved
2 tbsp ricotta salata, grated, plus more for garnish
1/4 of a medium-sized shallot, sliced very thin
1 radish, sliced into thin half-moons
glug of olive oil
splash of red wine or cider vinegar
sea salt to taste

Combine everything except oil, vinegar and salt. Gently toss with your fingertips. Taste for salt, season accordingly. Add a good glug of olive oil and a bit of vinegar (you'll be surprised at how quickly the salad takes on the acidity, so don't go overboard). Let sit if you'd like, or eat immediately, with extra cheese sprinkled on top.


*The computer's fixed now, for the moment. Thank you for your concern.