There are certain foods out there that I sometimes think I’ve solved. Peas, for example. I’ve eaten them raw in salads, boiled and buttered, with mushrooms in pasta, pureed in soups, hot and cold. I know how to eat them alongside schnitzel and fried fish, and how to press them into mashed potatoes with the back of my fork. Sometimes I think I’ve done what can be done with them. Of course, this is a dreadful way to think about food, as if it were a closed system with a finite number of variables and solutions to be “plugged and chugged,” as my middle school algebra teacher would say. Food’s not like that at all. Thank goodness for dinners out, and books, and blogs, and all of you to remind me of that, when need be. (So, uh, anyone have a killer pea recipe to share? I’m due for a new one, obviously.)
I also have radishes. If peas come, batteries included, with a full color manual, radishes are more about feeling your way as you go. At least that’s how they are, for me. We’re all friends here, so I’m okay admitting that I’m not always sure what to do with them. I will also admit that sometimes – only sometimes – I’m not even sure if I like them. But all of this means that they keep me on my toes, and I do like that. They’re pink, and crisp, and easy on the eyes, so they get points from me there. And there are times when I really do like them so much, like in egg salad or – sparingly – in a chopped salad with sweet cucumbers and fennel. It’s not always so clear, though. A few summers ago, they started rolling in fast and furiously from our CSA, and soon we had a colony of radishes threatening to take over our crisper. One night, I gathered all of them up, brushed them with olive oil, and roasted them in a very hot oven. They wrinkled a little, and browned where they touched the pan, and mellowed in a way that was either delightful or disappointing – I couldn’t decide. I’m equally ambivalent about radishes with butter and salt, that classic combination that, as I type this, has me salivating, yet I always end up sweating my way through them and partially relieved when they’re gone. Shaved paper thin on a well-buttered slice of crusty bread is more my speed. I should try to remember that.
So, radishes. I’m still figuring them out. What do you guys do with them, anyway? I know I just tapped you for a pea recipe, but I hope you don’t mind my asking about radishes, too. For the sake of fairness (and also for the sake of other important things, like your dinner plate) I can at least offer you a trade, here. A recipe for the greens in exchange for your wisdom on what to do with the rest of the darn things – yes? A radish leaf pesto for your trouble.
That you can whirr greens together with nuts and cheese and make a bang-up pesto isn’t news. Still, I want to share this particular radish leaf pesto with you, because of the several recipes I’ve tried, this one gets it just right. I usually like the nuts out front in a pesto, just a shoulder behind the greens. But in this recipe, when the almonds all but disappear – an ounce of almonds is not very many almonds, and the ratio of almonds to cheese is 1:1 – it’s a very nice effect. I think of the almond as one of the more distinctively flavored nuts in this world, so I was surprised by the way this pesto transforms them. They duck behind the garlic and the lemon zest, and when they do peek out here and there, they’re practically unrecognizable. Nutty and rich, to be sure, but mysteriously so.
The first time I made this pesto, we ate it on pasta, as people do. A couple of nights later, it got late without us noticing, and even though it was only Monday, we were tired. Neither of us felt like cooking, and so we poked around in the kitchen, as people also do, and came up with the remains of this pesto, a partially hardened baguette, and a small tub of marinated anchovies. I hardly need to tell you the rest of the story. We sawed through the baguette and slid it under the broiler; what happened next you can see for yourself in that photograph up there. That was a few weeks ago, and the combination stuck. The second batch of pesto we ate this way exclusively. I’m behind it 100%.
Radish Leaf Pesto
Adapted from Chocolate & Zucchini
I used almonds here, as I mentioned, above, but Clotilde says that you can also try pistachios or pine nuts. She suggests avoiding walnuts, which she finds too bitter in this recipe. She also suggests storing the pesto under a thin layer of olive oil. It’s a great tip for keeping the pesto beautifully green. You can pour some of it off when you’re ready to serve it, and stir the rest of it in.
2 large handfuls of radish leaves, stems removed (I used the leaves from two bunches.)
1 ounce (30 grams) Parmesan or pecorino cheese, grated
1 ounce (30 grams) almonds, pistachios, or pine nuts
1 clove garlic, cut into a few pieces
Zest from half a lemon
2 tablespoons olive oil, plus more, until you reach the consistency you like
Salt and pepper
Put all of the ingredients into a food processor and pulse into smooth, stopping to scrape down the sides of the bowl, when necessary. Add more olive oil, a little at a time, until you reach your desired consistency. Add salt and pepper to taste.
I store this pesto in a ramekin covered in plastic.
(I forgot to measure the yield. Both times. Sorry! I’ll update here the next time I make this.) (You won’t have to wait long.)