Join The Cult Of Celtuce

Do you have a moment to talk about our root and savior, celtuce?

Perhaps this girthy stem lettuce doesn’t have a cult following, and I’m not exactly the most convincing salesperson, but tasting is believing. I’m on a mission to spread the good word for this sadly unsung Chinese vegetable that deserves a fervent fan base. Since we last spoke of our planted redeemer, I haven’t seen a surge in popularity, so I’m back with another pitch that won’t miss.

Why You’ll Love This Celtuce Stir Fry

Pretty much anything can be stir fried with great success, but celtuce is a truly exceptional selection.

  • Cooks in minutes. High heat lightly cooks the food while keeping it tender-crisp throughout, making this a dish you can get on the table at a moment’s notice.
  • Minimal ingredients. Just a few pantry staples and fresh aromatics stand between you and instant gratification.
  • Bold, savory flavors. This is the real reason you’ll want to make this recipe again and again. A touch of nutty sesame oil goes a long way in adding depth and richness, bolstered by umami garlic chives and scallions. Warm fresh ginger and peppers spice things up, while a touch of black vinegar adds acid that cuts through it all, lingering with a gentle sweetness at the end.

How To Cut Celtuce

The thick skin protecting each stalk makes celtuce seem intimidating to break down, but it’s really a snap to hack.

  1. Use a sharp peeler or knife to cut away the thick outer skin. Remove the dried out bottom and leafy top.
  2. Slice it on a bias to make long strips, about 2 – 3mm wide.
  3. Stack a few of the strips at a time and cut those into thin ribbons.
  4. Repeat until the whole stalk is thinly julienned.

If you have any means of getting your hands on fresh celtuce, you’re doing yourself a disservice by leaving it at the store. Support your local Asian market, ask your closest specialty store to carry it, or even order it online. There’s nothing else quite like celtuce and once you’ve been enlightened by its virtues, you’ll become a believer, too.

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Make A Beeline For Biquinho Peppers

An open olive bar is a very dangerous place for me to be. I’m not talking about the potential for cross-contamination with messy cubes of marinated feta, always carelessly crumbling beyond their containers, or germs from those who resist the shield of the sneeze guard. For me, the peril is in knowing when to stop. I have yet to meet a pickle I didn’t like, from mild to hot, and I always want to try more. One impulsive glance over the chilled chafing dishes could result in a pound of two of impulse pickles, and a correspondingly hefty bill.

That’s where I met my current pickle fixation, Brazilian biquinho (pronounced bee-keen-yo) peppers.

What Are Biquinho (Sweety Drop) Peppers?

Also known as sweety drops, they’re tiny tear drop-shaped peppers about the size of a nickel. Their name means “little beak,” owing to their pointed ends. Though most commonly red, you might get lucky and find yellow peppers too.

Think of them as concentrated red bell peppers; all sweet, no heat. For a touch of instant whimsy and elegance, these are the ultimate topper. No prep is needed since you eat them whole, seeds and all, which means they’re always ready to go straight out of the fridge.

What Can You Do with Biquinho Peppers?

If you crave the salty, briny bite of pickles like I do, it’s hard to resist popping them in your mouth straight away. Soft, tender flesh gives way to crunchy seeds for a wholly satisfying bite. Of course, if you can delay that gratification, there’s no end to their use in everyday and special occasion dishes alike. Here’s a few ideas to get you started:

Anywhere a cucumber pickle works, these pickled sweety drop peppers will, too. Soon, they’ll be come an indispensable staple on your grocery list, not just a sporadic lucky find. For that, you’re welcome and I’m sorry.

Do As You Peas

Standing in the kitchen, hands full of half-peeled zucchini in the dark of night, I’m trying to channel my grandmother circa 1984. Five years before I was born, President Ronald Reagan was in office, astronauts went on the first untethered space walk on the moon, and Apple made a splash with its infamous “1984” Macintosh commercial. It was also the year that Bon Appétit magazine published a recipe for Zucchini Cups Stuffed with Peas.

Zucchini Cups Stuffed With Peas - Recipe Card from Bon Appetit Magazine, December 1984

I know this because my grandmother so carefully clipped and preserved this relic of the past. It survived nearly four decades, multiple moves, deaths and births, whole lifetimes. Not once did I ever see zucchini cups with peas grace our table, and I can’t help but wonder…Zucchini cups, cored

Why? Why zucchini cups?

  • Why was this recipe run in December, for starters, when neither zucchini nor peas would be in season?
  • Why was this the standout dish my grandmother kept, of things?
  • Why couldn’t I stop thinking about it, from the minute my mom unearthed it?

Stuffing baked zucchini cups with peas.

These questions have no answers.

My grandmother doesn’t remember the zucchini cups or what inspired her to file the recipe away. I’m okay with not knowing; some things just are that way, and I’m happy to have this taste of the past, maybe even better than what my grandmother had envisioned during her years of entertaining.

Zucchini cups stuffed with peas on a silver platter.

Small changes were necessary, of course, to veganize and enhance the original stuffed zucchini recipe with modern ingredients and technology.

  • Butter is traded for peppery extra virgin olive oil.
  • Dried tarragon gets axed in favor of verdant fresh herbs.
  • Melon ballers belong only in museums at this point, so I reached for my trusty zucchini reamer instead (yes, that’s a thing)- Though you could very happily use a regular pairing knife here.
  • Boiled zucchini sound downright dreadful, which is why the dry heat of the oven, which concentrates flavors and gently browns the surface, had much greater appeal.

The real beauty of the concept, however, is that it doesn’t take much to assemble or enjoy. I suppose they were intended to serve as appetizers or snacks for guests, as every good housewife should be ready to entertain at the drop of a hat, but I happen to think they make a fantastic side dish for any random weekday dinner, too.

Green pea stuffing.

If you have extra peas, those alone are brilliant to pair with just about any protein, such as a meatless loaf, balls, or cutlet, especially with creamy mashed potatoes or al dente pasta as a base. Beyond that, consider using them to top avocado toast, puree to use as a dip, or mash roughly to stuff into sandwiches.

Zucchini cups stuffed with peas on a silver platter.

I’m certain my grandmother never made the original recipe, but I hope I could still do her proud with my rendition. We don’t have many memories together, at least in recent years, so I’m grateful to keep making new ones now.

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What’chu Takuan About?

To most Americans, it’s that strange yellow thing in vegetable sushi. Salty, crunchy, and plant-based, it’s otherwise unidentifiable. Those in the know will recognize them as tsukemono, aka “pickled things,” or more specifically oshinko, which is a pickle made with salt. Daikon radish, a woefully under appreciated vegetable, gets to play the leading role here, slowly morphing from bright white to a luminous shade akin to saffron.

All it takes is time, and lots of it. Traditionally, daikon are sun-dried for a few weeks before ever seeing brine, where they then ferment for months. That process alone creates the signature golden hue, although most manufacturers today take shortcuts. Artificial coloring is used liberally, in addition to chemical preservatives and high-fructose corn syrup. These practices are so widespread that few people even know what proper takuan should taste like.

There’s no going back once you cross that line. Ever since getting a bite of authentic takuan, pickled from sun-dried daikon grown in Miyazaki, mass-produced takuan have been ruined for me. It’s impossible to replicate that distinctive crunch, subtly nutty undertone, gentle sweetness, and gently tart flavor. The seasonings serve to enhance the natural flavor of the daikon, rather than cover it up. Like an addict, I’m forever chasing that same high.

“Simple” doesn’t always equate to “easy,” and while it requires little labor, summoning the patience for these pickles to properly mature can be more difficult than the most complex preparation. Ideally, you should set aside two to four full weeks to achieve the proper texture and flavor using traditional methods. Time is the ultimate secret ingredient that no machines can replicate and no amount of money can buy. That said, modern technology can help a good deal; use a dehydrator to expedite the process if you’re worried about leaving food out in the open for that long, don’t have ideal conditions for drying, or just want to get down to the good stuff sooner.

Rich in natural probiotics, takuan is good for your gut, too! No proper Japanese meal is complete without a few slices to contrast with a rich entree, cutting through heavier tastes with a clean, crisp palate cleanser. Once you’ve had the real deal, there’s no going back.

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Cucumber Confessional

I love cucumbers. Full stop. People profess their love to many types of foods, saying they could eat them everyday and never get bored. I actually do; everyday, I’ll eat at least one whole cucumber, sprinkled with just salt and pepper, or dipped in hummus, or chopped up in salad. Tiny Persian cucumbers, large English cucumbers, plain pickling cucumbers- I love them all.

Why hasn’t this obvious obsession factored more clearly into my writing or recipes? It’s not interesting, quite frankly. I’m not doing anything exciting with them, just eating them in mass quantities. Even this idea that I’m here sharing today is far from earth-shaking. Barely the tiniest twist on a time-honored classic, surely it’s been done before. However, it’s good enough that it bears repeating: Make shirazi salad while summer produce is at its peak, but replace the tomatoes with watermelon.

That’s it, that’s the whole recipe. Adding a whole recipe card with formal measurements is really overkill when so much of the dish is based on the produce itself and personal taste. If I can be honest and break down that fourth wall for a minute, the recipe card is for Google. For you, I trust you can figure it out.

Consider the chopping an opportunity to practice your knife skills, to meditate, or simply revel in the aroma of summer. The minute you slice into a cucumber or watermelon, that aroma floods the air, setting the mood like candles for a romantic evening, only with notes of whimsy, sunshine, and a cooling breeze.

To anyone complaining about the amount of liquid leftover at the bottom of the bowl: Congratulations! You completely missed the point. That heavenly elixir, my friend, is a beautiful meeting of the worlds, the best parts of fruits and vegetables, sweet and savory, existing in harmony as one. Don’t you dare dump it out. When you pick up the mostly empty bowl, the only option is to bring it to your lips and drink every last drop.

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