Rhubarb

I was in line at an outdoor market in Paris and une dame d’un certain âge in front of me was getting a lesson on preparing rhubarb from la vendeuse, who insisted that rhubarb absolutely, positively had to be peeled before cooking. Having prepared quite a bit of rhubarb, often in a professional capacity, I figured I could add my deux centimes, so I spoke up, telling them that I’d never done that and that it really wasn’t necessary. Immediately, the line of French housewives erupted, insisting that yes, you simply must peel rhubarb. Seeing as I was outnumbered, I decided to not argue the point. Safely back at home, I’ll admit with confidence that I’ve never found the need to peel rhubarb for a recipe, but I have experimented with using it in unconventional ways and found that it has a remarkable affinity for pineapple and raspberries, a mix that makes a delicious fruit cobbler—which no one should have any quibbles with.

Crisps and crumbles—they are one and the same—were always a favorite in our family, and I miss having them on a regular basis. But I found it’s very easy to make just one portion in a small casserole dish (I use an onion-soup bowl).

Until I left Texas, I had never even heard of rhubarb, which grows in more temperate parts of the country. The first time I saw someone mix strawberries with rhubarb was when Cindy Crawford shared her recipe on The Oprah Winfrey Show. This odd-looking, sour-tasting fruit did not seem to me a good candidate for a pie so good that one would go on national television to sing its praises. But I decided I had to try it myself. I discovered a fruit filling with a beautiful shade of pink (lighter or darker, depending on the color of your rhubarb) and an invigorating tart-sweet flavor. At last I understand what all the fuss is about! Now as soon as rhubarb appears in markets, I begin to look for in-season strawberries so I can make this pie.

Pickled vegetables are great to have in the fridge as a go-with-everything condiment; try them on sandwiches or burgers, in place of olives at a cocktail party, or alongside Falafel with Tahini Sauce (page 29). A quick brine made of rice vinegar, sugar, and water gives your favorite crisp vegetables a sweet-and-sour flavor. They’ll keep for up to three months in an airtight container in the refrigerator, and the recipe can easily be doubled if you want to prepare a bigger batch. The vegetables in the recipe below are my favorites, but feel free to mix it up by adding others such as raw baby corn, zucchini, or beets. One batch of brine will be enough for any one of the suggested vegetables, below.

At ’wichcraft, we make our own peanut butter and we make our own jelly, usually strawberry, Concord grape, and for a brief time in the spring, rhubarb. We feel that even the humble peanut butter and jelly sandwich deserves the finest ingredients. Here’s one of our top secrets: We doctor up standard peanut butter by adding real butter, which mellows the flavor, adds richness, and makes the texture more velvety. Is it excessive or—as some have suggested—even evil to add butter to peanut butter? Well, we think of it as substituting one fat for another, modest as long as you spread the same amount on your sandwich.

Hey, Dad! Remember those surprise outings Team McKenna took to Knott’s Berry Farm in the early 1980s? When we piled into the station wagon for a two-hour voyage with one seatbelt stretched over three kids? The trips that got you significantly more amped than they did anyone else? I do. Will you admit now that the real reason for those trips was that you were in thrall to the Knott’s Berry Farm restaurant’s strawberry-rhubarb pie? Twenty years later I’ve finally come around, and I now understand the overwhelming allure of this delicious pairing. This one’s for you, Dad.

This compote is a perfect balance of opposite flavors: sweet, soft strawberries and bitter, astringent rhubarb. It fills the mochi on page 23, but it would also be very nice with Fromage Blanc Panna Cotta (page 37), mixed into thick plain yogurt, or as a bed for Vanilla Bean Ice Cream (page 220) and fresh berries.

There were always barrels of pickles at the flea markets my parents took me to when I was growing up. My dad loved half-sours; my mom loved sweet pickles; I loved both. Mom would cut both kinds in half and stick them together, so I’ d get two flavors in every bite. This is my homage to those days, made with one of my favorite ingredients.

This simple preparation replaces the bitterness of raw rhubarb with the musty richness of port while maintaining a special crispness in flavor. You could put this out with cheese. Or pair it with Pink Peppercorn Meringues (page 38), fresh berries, ice cream, and whipped cream for a deconstructed vacherin.

Rhubarb is paired with strawberry so often, but I like showcasing the pungent, tangy flavor all on its own. Combining this sorbet with White Chocolate Ice Cream (page 221) softens the edge. If your rhubarb isn’t very ripe and red, you may want to adjust the color with a few drops of pomegranate juice.

This is a riff on Jean-Georges’s grandmother’s rhubarb tart. It’s not her recipe for the pastry or the streusel, but the notion of macerating the rhubarb before baking and adding the flan came from her. Mustard may not be a traditional ingredient for desserts, but it adds a definite edge to the jam and it’s my nod to Alsace, from where Jean-Georges hails. You’ll have leftover jam. Try pairing it with cheese or with a sizzling steak.

Maybe I like rhubarb so much because I started eating it when I was a child; my mother’s strawberry-rhubarb pie is one of my earliest memories. And I love summer fruit soups; that’s something I learned from François Payard. So this combination is a natural for me. You need just the pod from the vanilla bean for this dessert, so if you have saved some used pods, now is the time to recycle. And you will need a whipped cream charger (see page 279) for the foam. You will have leftover consommé (which you can freeze) and foam; you simply can’t successfully foam less liquid than is in the recipe.

Mochi are sweet, filled Japanese dumplings that are served chilled. I’ve been fascinated by them from the first time I had one, but I’d always been told that they could be made only in factories. And since the commercial ones are artificially flavored and colored and filled with ice-hard ice cream, that didn’t surprise me. One day, I promised my friend David Chang of Momofuku that I’ d make fresh mochi for him. It became a mission. Once I learned how to do it, I found that it really wasn’t difficult at all to make the tender, sweet rice dough and flavor it naturally. And since I fill mochi with a compote, they’re fork-tender. The basil fluid gel is an ideal herbal foil to the compote. I use 2-inch demisphere molds when I make mochi, but I’ve found that an egg carton works fine. The secret to the dough is working quickly. This recipe makes twice as much as you need for the fourplay, but I hardly consider leftover mochi a problem. The mochi will keep for 1 day in the refrigerator.

Gina: One is juicy and sweet, the other sassy and tart, and the glue that holds them together? Plenty of sugar! Strawberry and rhubarb are made for each other, kinda like Pat and me. I love this pie because there is just one crust to roll, the filling is a snap, and the crumbly topping adds another layer of sweet crunch as it bakes down into the fragrant fruit filling. The result is a pie that’s as much fun to eat as a bar cookie.

The sweet-tart flavor of these pink ribbons makes them a wonderful accent. They are fun with cheese courses where their crunch is a nice contrast to the creamy texture of the dairy. Their lightly tangy flavor is delicious with sweetbreads and game. They also make a beautiful garnish for a panna cotta, rice pudding, or slice of cheesecake. Sprinkle them with a little togarishi (a Japanese spice blend) before drying and use them to garnish crab salad. A hint of Old Bay seasoning can make them the perfect accompaniment for bay scallop risotto or fish cakes. Sprinkle them with sparkling sugar and they can become gorgeous tuiles to be eaten alone or perched on top of a sweet lemon tartlet.

“I’m not much of a cook,” Michèle Weil told me as she ushered me into her charming kitchen in a residential section of Strasbourg. Fresh basil was growing on her kitchen windowsill, and paintings from the Jewish School of Paris adorned the walls. “But,” she continued, “I have to cook. All French women cook.” A full-time pediatrician and the mother of three boys, Michèle is smart enough to know she can’t do it all. On medical call before we arrived for dinner, she quickly pulled from the freezer a package of hunks of frozen salmon and cod, bought at Picard Surgelés. Then she boiled some potatoes, put the fish in the oven, and opened a carton of prepared Hollandaise sauce, which she microwaved and poured over the baked fish. Putting this together with a green salad with tomatoes and her homemade vinaigrette, she had made a quick and balanced dinner. Like all working women, Michèle has to make compromises. “My mother would never have given you frozen food,” she apologized. “But, no matter how busy I am, I would never buy desserts. I always make them,” she told me as she presented a free-form rhubarb tart that she had made before going to work. It seemed that every Jewish cook I visited in Alsace served me rhubarb, the sour-tasting sign of spring. Unlike Americans, who almost always marry tart rhubarb with strawberries and lace the two with large quantities of sugar, French cooks make a less sweet tart using only rhubarb. They peel the stalks first, which I do not. I think it might be one of those French fetishes, like always serving radishes with butter, or tomato juice with celery salt. Alsatian home cooks also serve their tart with a delicious custard topping made from cream and eggs.

Serve this Persian sauce, which has an unusual tart flavor, with plain rice steamed in the Persian manner (page 338) or the quick and easy boiled and steamed rice (page 339).

The very first recipe I tested for Gourmet magazine was a rhubarb fool. It was a rather complicated affair that required a sugar syrup—of which you used only half—gelatin, whipped cream, and a whipped egg white. Fools don't need to be so involved; they're an old British dessert that basically consists of a fruit puree folded into whipped cream. The recipe below will show you just how delicious four simple ingredients simply united can be. Ready for more rhubarb? Get my tips for how to pick the perfect stalk and learn how this vegetable gets its ruby red color, all on the Gourmet Live blog. Then tune in to the 04.20.11 issue of Gourmet Live to read about my first adventures with rhubarb. Download the Gourmet Live iPad app for free!

"This dough, with its addition of whole wheat flour for a nutty taste and tender texture, is a must in your baking repertoire."—Karen DeMasco