Lemony Octopus Salad

Octopus scares most cooks. Not because of its tentacles, or its slipperiness, or its often unwieldy size. It scares most cooks because  preparing it successfully (until it’s tender rather than rubbery) seems unlikely.

Why this should be the case is a mystery. Think of octopus as you would a tough cut of meat meant for braising: beef chuck, oxtail, pork shoulder, lamb shanks… You get the idea. All it needs is slow, gentle cooking to render it tender and soft, rather than chewy and tough. Forget all you have read about triple-dunking in boiling liquid, beating against the side of a rock (or the inside of your sink), whacking it with a meat mallet, or adding a cork to the boiling liquid. Just cook the octopus for hours, until a fork easily punctures it, and you’re done.

The recipe below is for poached octopus, which certainly doesn’t sound very sexy, but it is succulent, the ideal starter for a holiday seafood dinner. The first step is making what the French call court bouillon, which means short stock: a flavorful, often wine-spiked cooking liquid in which to poach fish and seafood (or anything else you wish to cook). Making a  court bouillon takes minutes of work, and you can add whatever aromatics you want to the pot: below are my favorites, but improvise as you like.

Once the court bouillon is strained, lower the octopus into it and cook it at a happy simmer for 2 or 3 hours, then serve it straight away, as below, or cool it in a bit of its cooking liquid and grill it later (a simple smoked paprika, parsley, and garlic dressing is my favorite post-grilling). You can also press the cooked octopus into a terrine mold (or loaf pan) lined with plastic wrap overnight, refrigerate it under the weight of a few cans, and when you take it out, you can slice it into a most impressive-looking octopus soppressata:  the gelatin in the octopus sets the layers so it looks like a gorgeous octopus mosaic.

Keep in mind that octopus shrinks tremendously when it is cooked, so even if it seems like a 3-pound octopus is overkill, it will be about one-third of its original weight after cooking.

Serves 2 as a main course, 4 to 6 as an appetizer

For the court bouillon:

  • 1 yellow onion, chopped
  • 1 celery stalk, chopped
  • 1 carrot, chopped
  • tops and fronds from 1 bunch fennel
  • 2 garlic cloves
  • 6 black peppercorns
  • 1 bay leaf
  • 1 cup dry white wine
  • cool water to cover

For the octopus and to serve:

  • 1 large octopus (ideally about 3 pounds)
  • 1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
  • juice of 1 large lemon
  • 1 teaspoon sea salt
  • 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
  • 1/4 teaspoon chili flakes
  • 1 garlic clove, grated on a microplane
  • 2 tablespoons minced Italian parsley

Make the court bouillon: Combine all the ingredients except the water  in a deep pot (preferably one with a built-in strainer). Add enough water to come as high as you think is safe, considering that you will later be adding the octopus to the pot.

Bring to a  boil and simmer 30 minutes. Strain to discard the solids and return to a  boil.

Lower the octopus into the simmering liquid. Cover and cook until the octopus is very tender over medium-low heat, about 2 to 3 hours. Don’t rush the process; octopus takes time to become tender. Add more water as needed to keep the octopus submerged throughout the cooking.

Remove the octopus from the liquid and place on a large platter. Cool until you can handle it easily with your hands. Slip off the slimy purple skin (but leave the suction cups attached to the tentacles). Discard the head (I find it tough, although you might want to try it in case you disagree).  Cut the tentacles into bite-size chunks.

In a small bowl, combine the olive oil, lemon juice, salt, pepper, chili flakes, garlic, and parsley. Pour over the octopus and toss well; taste the seasoning and adjust as needed. Serve warm or at room temperature. We enjoy octopus with steamed baby potatoes, green beans, and kale sprouts (as pictured below) dressed simply with olive oil, salt, and pepper, but you can serve it atop baby greens, peppery arugula, or a shaved fennel salad.

 

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Einkorn Bread

I don’t know if you ever heard of einkorn. If you haven’t, you aren’t alone: most people have no idea what it is. Despite its name, it isn’t a variety of corn. It’s actually thought to be the oldest form of wheat, and supposedly has never been hybridized like modern wheat. Einkorn  means “one grain” in German, because it has only one grain per stem, while other varieties of wheat have several groups of grain.

I first heard of einkorn a few years ago, when I was researching farro. Einkorn is one of three main types of farro wheat, called farro piccolo (little farro) in Italian. It grows well in hardy climates, and has a much higher vitamin and nutrient content than modern wheat varieties. While it contains gluten, and is actually higher in protein than even bread flour (around 20% protein content as opposed to around 14%), einkorn may contain a type of gluten that some people with gluten intolerance can digest more easily. However, it was close to extinction until a few years ago, because harvesting and milling is much harder and more costly, and the yield is far lower, than with modern wheat varieties.

Since I love baking bread (if I could, I would bake every day… but being a family of just two, there is only so much bread we can consume!), I was intrigued at the prospect of baking with einkorn flour. Would the bread taste significantly different? Would it rise as well, or be leaden and heavy, like many undoctored whole wheat breads can be? I didn’t want to add more yeast than usual to make it rise higher, as an abundance of yeast gives bread an artificial taste and an overly light crumb. I didn’t want to add vital wheat gluten. I didn’t want to add sugar or fat or anything other than what I usually put in my bread dough: just flour, yeast, salt, and water. This way, I figured, I would really taste the difference between einkorn bread and bread made with modern wheat.

So last week, I baked my first batch of einkorn bread, using flour I picked up at my local market. (You can buy the flour as well as the whole berries from Jovial, the world’s largest producer of einkorn, online.) Since the gluten in einkorn is apparently not activated by kneading, I skipped the kneading step and simply stirred the dough a minute or two, then let it rise overnight at cool room temperature (if your kitchen is warm, refrigerate the dough). The bread rose very, very slowly at first, then picked up speed in the last few hours of rising. I took care not to deflate its air bubbles in the final stage of shaping, and let it rise again before slipping it into a moderately hot oven, and it emerged golden and fragrant 40 minutes later.

The result: Delicious, wheaty, sweet, moist, definitely worth repeating. It didn’t rise as much as bread made with modern wheat, but it had a pleasant chewiness and staled far more slowly than modern wheat bread: in fact, it was still good the next day (I propped it on its cut side so no air would compromise  the open crumb). Try the recipe below; it’s easy and rewarding, and you’ll be helping a grain once vital to humanity to flourish once again.

Makes 1 loaf (about 1 pound)

  • 2 cups einkorn flour, plus extra for sprinkling
  • 1/2 teaspoon instant yeast
  • 1 teaspoon fine sea salt
  • 1 cup room-temperature water, plus extra as needed
  • cornmeal for dusting

Place the flour, yeast, and salt in a large bowl. Mix well with a wooden spoon. Add the water slowly, stirring constantly. When all the water has been absorbed, determine if you need to add a  little more water or not; einkorn flour absorbs water more slowly, and doughs made with einkorn should be somewhat sticky if the bread is to bake up light rather than heavy. The dough should feel sticky when touched, but not like a batter.

When you are satisfied with the texture of the dough, stir it a minute or two. Then cover the bowl with plastic wrap, and place a plate on top of plastic wrap  to prevent light from filtering through (the bread can develop an orange hue if the  dough is exposed to light, due to the high amount of carotenoids in the flour; carotenoids are very good for us, as they are anti-oxidants, so the high amount of carotenoids is another good thing about einkorn).  Set aside to rise for 12 hours.

Uncover, and gently deflate and reshape the dough to redistribute the yeast (this helps bread dough to rise better). Cover again with the plastic wrap and the plate, and let rise again until doubled, about 12 more hours.

When you are ready to bake, place a baking stone on the bottom rack of the oven and preheat the oven to 350 degrees (preferably set on convection bake).  Line an upturned baking sheet with parchment paper and dust it with cornmeal.

Sprinkle your counter with cornmeal. Gently turn the dough onto the cornmeal without deflating it. Gently tug into a long rectangle, about 10 inches long by 4 inches wide; if the dough is sticking to your hands, wet your hands as you would if you were handling meatballs. Place on the cornmeal dusted parchment paper atop the upturned baking sheet and dust the top with flour. Cover with plastic wrap and let rise 1 hour.

Uncover (the plastic wrap may have stuck here and there).  Dust the top again with a bit of flour for a rustic look.  Transfer to the baking stone using the baking sheet as a peel (don’t bake the bread on the baking sheet though, just on the parchment paper).

Spray 3 times with water during the first 10 minutes of baking. Bake for a total of 35 to 45 minutes, or until the bread is richly golden. The bread should sound hollow when thumped on the bottom. Cool on a rack, removing the parchment paper first to allow air to circulate from  the bottom and prevent the bottom crust from getting soggy.

Cool completely before slicing. This bread is excellent spread with raw honey!

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