I pulled a small bunch of dirty, purply-red globes from this week’s veg bag and a memory came flooding back:
A cold Friday night in Brooklyn … Me, my man and my good friend M around a small table … A bottle of red wine … A white plate of crimson beets, nestled with avocado chunks, splashed with balsamic.
That night at Frankie’s Spuntino, I fell in lust with the velvety splendor of beets.
When I mention beets to people – which I’m known to do, and which explains a lot about my limited social life – the reaction is often beet-ambivalence, but occasionally full-on beet-hate. I can’t claim to understand that (unless you have kidney stones, which, apparently, don’t go so well with beets). I strongly believe that people who do not like beets just haven’t met the right one yet. If you find the right ones, in season – June to October in much of Europe and the US – squeeze them (they should be firm), buy them, cook them lovingly, and remember where you got them so you can go back for more. And don’t be afraid to try something new, like pink and white striated chioggias or golden beets, which can be prepared the same way as the more recognizable red beets.
Despite my current beet evangelism, my relationship with this root (known as beetroot in Europe and the UK) didn’t start as the torrid romance it is today. I first ate them pickled when I was a kid back in Toledo. They came sliced from a can, or intricately and uniformly cubed and shoveled into big tubs at mile-long salad bars, next to the cottage cheese. As I spooned them onto my plate, I always forgot to separate them from the cottage cheese to avoid it turning red.
During a whirlwind one-week business trip to the ‘stans (Kazahkstan, Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan), I was served salads of cubed meats, potatoes and beets, some of them swimming in a luridly pink-tinted mayonnaise dressing. Next, it was the breakfast buffet in Riga, Latvia, where I ate pickled beets with pickled fish, and realized that fish for breakfast was something I’d been missing all my life.
It wasn’t until I moved to England that I first invited beets to come back to my place. This was when I discovered that a beet lover must be a patient lover – beets take a really long time to cook. I would cut off the greens (and save them to use just like chard or kale). Then scrub the beets, cover them in cold water and boil the crap out of them for more than an hour. There have been at least two beet-related saucepan fatalities in my house: I left the beets to boil and they cooked away all the water, scorching the vegetable and the pan. Sadly, I cannot recommend blackened–pan-boiled beets.
Fortunately, my mother-in-law loaned me her pressure cooker and told me it’s the only way to boil beets (that was several years ago, and I still have the pressure cooker, so ‘loan’ might not be the right word). Beets take only about 20 or 25 minutes in a pressure cooker. After they’ve cooled slightly, their skins slip off easily, and I place them in a bowl, slice them if they’re particularly big, and dress them with a bit of balsamic vinegar. They’ll keep for days in the fridge and taste great with just about anything, particularly pickled fish or smoked salmon, but also beef and lamb, or on a salad with feta cheese.
My mother-in-law makes a gelatin mold with sliced beets, which is sweet and visually striking in its red-purple splendor. I don’t see many spectacular vegetable-infused gelatin molds these days – not like in the 1960s edition of the Joys of Jell-O, which I inherited from my late grandma. It includes a recipe for beet salad: horseradish, canned beets and celery suspended in a mound of wobbly purple Jello-O. (According to the back page, for just 50 cents and three Jell-O package fronts, I can get some decorative gelatin moulds to make my own!)
Today, I’m more likely to roast my beets than boil or gelatin-ize them. Again, as with any love affair, it takes time, but (unlike love affairs) most of it is unattended. Get small beets if you can, and avoid really large ones as they’re likely to be woody and bitter. Preheat the oven to around 375F, scrub the beets, and halve or quarter medium-sized ones. Rub with olive oil and sea salt, wrap in foil (or put in a small roasting dish with a lid and some water), and place in the oven for anywhere from 30 minutes (for really small beets) to 1.5 hours (you’ll need to check them now and then). They should be fork-tender when finished. Let them cool and remove the skins (or don’t – I find good quality, fresh, seasonal beets can taste fine with the skins on). Check here or here for other tips for roasting.
This week I mixed my roasted beet quarters with feta cheese and ate them with a green salad and bowl of lentil soup. On another day I had them with crispy romaine lettuce and thin slices of smoked salmon. I know there are millions … okay, thousands of ways to prepare beets, and I’ve only just begun. (Send me your recipes if you have some!)
If you simply don’t have time for a prolonged love affair with beets, just grate them raw on top of a salad. Or go to Frankie’s and order the beet and avocado salad. Who knows … you might just get lucky.
I took today off work, sort of. I started my computer and checked email, then browsed Facebook and the latest celebrity gossip (the nice kind, not the Grazia-esque or phone-tapping variety). This is how I assuage my life-long guilt of taking days off work – by pretending I’m working, as if being at a computer is tantamount to doing something useful.
After about an hour I snapped myself out of this and left my office. I tore the plastic wrapping off my just-bought copy of Red magazine and examined the ‘free-with-this-month’s-issue’ tube of rose-scented bath and shower gel. I went to the bathroom and ran a warm bath.
Before entering the bath, I visited the kitchen. I resisted the three Belgian chocolates left over from dinner with friends last night. Instead, I went for a sweet-salty combo: I poured a glass of orange squash (for Americans, this is like a cheap cordial, which you mix with water); and I grabbed one nearly-empty and one unopened bag of “mature cheddar and pickled onion flavour” Tyrrell’s potato chips (apparently now called ‘crisps’, in ‘proper’ British fashion, according to Tyrrell’s website and the many comments from Brits who don’t seem very happy about the way we Americans refer to fried potatoes).
As I undressed, I felt the giddy pleasure – but also slight ‘ick’ factor – of eating in my bathroom. It brought to mind an episode of Seinfeld, when Kramer realized he enjoyed being in the shower so much that he installed a food waste disposal in the drain and did all his cooking and dishwashing in the shower. (To my friends who came over for dinner last night, I assure you all the food was prepared in the kitchen. Though judging by the state of the kitchen I’m not sure that’s much consolation.)
I slipped into the bath, then realized I’d left the nearly-empty bag of chips on the other side of the room, while the unopened bag was close to hand. Just last night my husband spluttered when I opened the second box of Belgian chocolates because one chocolate still remained in the first box. It was as if he didn’t think I would finish the first box and move on to the second – these were BELGIAN chocolates. Clearly he’s deranged.
So as the warm bathwater soothed my muscles, I realized it would be counter-productive to hoist myself, drippingly, up and out of the bath to get the already-opened bag of crisps on the other side of the bathroom. I ripped open the new bag – which was filled with big, perfect, unbroken chips, rather than the shards and crumbs the other bag had to offer.
Holding the magazine at eye level without getting bathwater or cheddar-and-pickled-onion-fingerprints on the pages proved difficult, especially since I insisted on reading without breaking my chip-munching stride. Add to this the occasional effort to take a sip of squash while lying half-prone, and you start to get the picture. Eventually I found that eating a chip, cleaning my fingers by dipping them in the bathwater then drying them on a nearby towel enabled me to safely turn the pages of the magazine without undue damage.
The bath was hardly rose-scented by the end, what with all the mature-cheddar-and-pickled-onion I’d added, but maybe there was an idea there for an eclectic dinner: rose-water scented cheese-and-onion potato pasties?
When my delightful cheese-and-onion bath was done, I guiltily remembered the nearly-empty bag of crisps that I couldn’t reach. For the sake of my marriage, I poured the shards and crumbs into the now-half-eaten newer bag … as if none of this had ever happened.