Ginger Rhubarb Bee's Knees

I think The Bee's Knees has got to be the cutest cocktail name, ever. When I hear it, I see a pretty bee dolled up in a fringed dress, feathered headpiece, high heels and a string of pearls, ready for a night on the town. 

Comprised of honey syrup, gin and lemon juice, it's super tasty, to boot – a little tart, just sweet enough, and laced with the flavor of flowers and gin aromatics. Once you've made the honey syrup, it's a snap to shake up, too. 

Inspired by Carey's exquisite Thyme and Pear Bee's Knees, I've been making a honey syrup infused with slices of rhubarb. The crimson syrup gives the drink a pretty blush, and the floral-tart notes of rhubarb play up the aromatic gin. For a bit of spicy kick, I muddle in some coins of fresh ginger. (I tried steeping the ginger in the syrup, but found I preferred the zing of the freshly muddled root.) 

As a bonus, after straining the syrup, you're left with tender slices of honey-poached rhubarb, which make a lovely spring breakfast when topped with yogurt and Rum-Kissed Coconut Granola (though Cardamom Honey Granola would be fantastic, too; the rhubarb could also top a panna cotta or cream tart.)

I used No. 209 gin here, which is made in San Francisco and may be my new favorite. Since the flavors in this drink are light and bright, I would recommend sticking with a milder gin, like this one, or Hendrick's. 

I also add a few drops of these bergamot bitters that I made this winter, which add more floral, musky undertones. Lacking those, I would go with blood orange bitters, though the drink is perfectly delicious without them, too.

And if you add a squeeze of lime juice, a few drops of angostura bitters, and serve the drink on the rocks with fizzy water, well, it tastes like a very lovely gin and tonic.

I'll leave you with a song I wrote and performed with my band, The HoneyBelles, which I think perfectly sums up the flirty, jazz-age vibe of  this drink, complete with a tap dancing solo by my beautiful niece! 

This song may make you wonder, is the honey worth the sting? In the case of this cocktail, the answer is "yes." 

Good libations:

Strawberry Blood Orange Rum Punch

Mint Celery Soda

Pink Grapefruit Vieux Mot

Rhu-Mania:

Strawberry Rhubarb Bourbon Cobbler with Ginger Oat Scones

Strawberry Rhubarb Crème Fraîche Crumble Pie

Gluten-Free Strawberry Rhubarb Crumble

Ginger Rhubarb Bee's Knees Cocktail

Inspired by Carey's Thyme and Pear Bee's Knees

Save the rhubarb from the syrup for eating with yogurt and granola, or for topping a panna cotta or tart. 

Honey Rhubarb Syrup 

Makes about 1 1/2 cups syrup; enough for 8 drinks

1 cup water

1/2 cup (6 ounces by weight) mild-flavored honey

2 cups (8 ounces by weight) rhubarb, sliced 1/2" thick (on the diagonal, if you like)

For each cocktail:

2 (1/4" thick) slices of fresh ginger root 

3 tablespoons honey rhubarb syrup (from above)

3 tablespoons gin (such as No. 209 or Hendrick's)

1 tablespoon strained fresh lemon juice

4 drops bergamot or blood orange bitters (optional)

ice

Make the syrup:

In a medium saucepan, combine the water, honey and sliced rhubarb. Bring to a simmer over medium heat, tilting the pan gently once in a while to dissolve the honey. When the mixture reaches a simmer, immediately turn off the heat, cover, and let steep for 30 minutes.

Gently strain the mixture into a heatproof bowl. Reserve the rhubarb for another use. Let cool to room temperature, then chill the syrup until cold. (If you're in a hurry, place the bowl in an ice bath and stir until cold.) The syrup will keep, refrigerated, for at least a week. 

Make the cocktail:

In a glass or measuring cup, mash the ginger with a muddling stick to break it up and extract the juice (a wooden spoon will work in place of a muddler). Add the syrup, gin, and lemon juice, stir well, then strain the mixture through a fine-mesh strainer into a cocktail shaker filled partway with ice, pressing on the ginger to extract all the good stuff. (A pint-sized mason jar with a lid works well in place of a cocktail shaker.) Add the bitters, if using. Shake the drink vigorously for 30 seconds, then strain into a smallish glass and enjoy. 

Variation: Honey, Rhubarb, and Ginger Gin Tonic

Strain the ginger/lemon/syrup/gin mixture into a glass over ice. Add a squeeze of lime juice, and throw the lime wedge into the glass, too. Top with sparkling water and 4 drops of Angostura bitters in place of the bergamot/blood orange bitters. Stir and enjoy. 

Rum-Kissed Coconut Granola

My friend Shawn Magee knows all the best places to eat and drink in San Francisco. He owns Amnesia, a happening bar in the Mission known for its awesome selection of micro-brews and belgian beers. He seems to be best buds with everyone making delicious comestibles in the city. He's a good person to know.

Shawn is set to open a second bar, called Driftwood, which will boast killer cocktails in addition to great wine and beer. One night, assuming he'd be a wealth of knowledge, I tried to pick his brain about rum. Instead of suggesting the smoothest dark rum or nutmeggiest gold, he said merely, "Rum is SO un-hip." And he didn't stop there; he went on to further besmirch the distilled sugar cane juice. "Rum is like the least cool liquor there is. There are like no good rums." (Shawn doesn't usually talk like a valley girl; rum's lack of hipness must have brought that out; or maybe it was the bourbon he was sipping on.) 

Well, I felt a bit indignant on behalf of rum. I've sampled some spectacular rums that a non-rum-hating friend brought back from a trip to Central America and couldn't believe how smooth and rich they tasted. White rum makes a great neutral addition to cocktails, while gold and dark rums can add sweetness and  boozy complexity to baked goods. I like rum in punch, mojitos and dark and stormies; in banana upside-down cakes and buttercrunch toffee. It adds boozy sweetness to congo bars, scones, even cinnamon buns. Besides, pirates like rum, and pirates are cool, right? 

Coconut, on the other hand, seems to be all the rage these days, as I think even Shawn would agree. Vegans, lactose-intolerants and paleo-dieters are embracing it in all its many forms. I'm hoping that the coconut oil, sugar and shreds in this granola will help bolster rum's status in the manner of the head quarterback taking the class geek to prom in an '80's movie. (Another thing that's hip? 80's movies.) 

Unlike the aforementioned couple, though, rum and coconut do make a perfect match. They also make this granola, my current favorite iteration of my favorite granola recipe, highly addictive. Coconut oil crisps the oats, which are sweetened with coconut sugar and maple syrup and studded with roasted whole almonds and cashews. Shredded coconut gives the granola a shattering crispness and dark rum and vanilla flavor the toasty oats. The alcohol bakes away in the heat of the oven, but it adds robust undertones that make the crunchy clusters habit-forming. It's full of earthy, friendly flavors that welcome a scoop of yogurt and any spring or summer fruits.  

The base recipe comes by way of my pastry teacher who got it from a past job at Moose's. The baking technique is brilliant: the granola gets spread into an even layer and sandwiched between two baking sheets lined with parchment paper. It bakes into a golden sheet, no stirring necessary, which can then be broken into large clumps and clusters. I've seen granola recipes call for flour or egg white to create the coveted clumps, but this method is easier and it allows the final product to be both gluten-free and vegan.

Once you've made granola at home, you can never go back. I've even been disappointed by the good stuff, purchased from bakeries – it never tastes quite as fresh as homemade.

I made a batch of this granola with coconut nectar in place of the maple syrup, not just because it is en vogue, but because I've been curious to try it. It worked well, though I found I preferred the robust flavor and crispier texture of the granola made with maple syrup. But the coconut nectar makes quite an adequate substitute if you are so inclined. 

I often find myself snacking on clusters throughout the day. We've been particularly enjoying it with honey-poached rhubarb, the by-product of a syrup that I've been making for a special cocktail, which I'll tell you all about in my next post! Hint: it's make with a type of alcohol that is, I believe, hipper than rum. But I'd have to ask Shawn to be sure.

Groovy granola:

Maple Bourbon Brown Butter Pecan

Cardamom Honey

Stolen Granola

One year ago:

Gluten-Free Strawberry Rhubarb Crumble 

with

Fresh Ginger Ice Cream 

Two years ago:

Rhubarb Crumble Bars 

Three years ago:

Hippie Crispie Treats

Rum-Kissed Coconut Granola

Adapted from my favorite granola recipe (by Casey Hayden via Claire Legas) 

This granola uses a unique baking technique of sandwiching the mixture between two sheet pans lined with parchment paper – no stirring necessary. Leaving it alone means you end up with big shards that can be crumbled into chunks and clumps. You will need two rimmed baking sheets of the same size, and two sheets of parchment paper. Store the finished granola in an airtight jar at room temperature; it will keep for at least a month. If you can't find coconut sugar, use 1/3 cup brown sugar or unrefined sugar in its place. I like the spicy, molassesy Kraken rum here, but any dark rum will be lovely, and a gold spiced rum will work, too. If gluten is an issue, be sure to use oats that are certified gluten-free.

I like this granola sprinkled over a bowl of fresh fruit (berries, mango, apricots and peaches are all great choices) or cooked rhubarb, and topped with a scoop of greek yogurt. Add a drizzle of honey if you want a bit more sweetness.

This recipe is extra-easy if you weigh the ingredients into a bowl and pan - no sticky measuring cups! All ounce measurements here are by weight.

Makes about 6 cups

2 1/2 cups (8 ounces) old-fashioned rolled oats
1/2 cup (2 ounces) whole, raw cashews
1/2 cup (2 ounces) whole, raw almonds
1/4 cup plus 3 tablespoons (2 ounces) coconut sugar
1/2 cup (2 ounces) unsweetened shredded coconut

1/4 cup (2 ounces) coconut oil
1/4 cup (2 ounces) maple syrup
3/4 teaspoon fine sea salt

1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 tablespoons dark rum (such as The Kraken)

Position a rack in the center of the oven and preheat to 300ºF. Line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper, and have a second rimmed baking sheet and piece of parchment paper at the ready. 

In a large bowl, stir together the oats, cashews, almonds, coconut sugar and shredded coconut.

In a small saucepan, combine the coconut oil, maple syrup and salt. Melt over medium heat until the oil is liquified. Stir in the vanilla and rum. Pour this mixture over the oat mixture, making sure to scrape out the salt that likes to stick to the bottom of the pot. Stir the granola well to coat it with the oil and to distribute the salt evenly.

Scrape the granola onto the lined baking sheet and spread it into a very even layer with the edges a touch thicker than the center; this will ensure even baking. Top the granola with the other sheet of parchment paper, then the other rimmed baking sheet, right-side-up, making a granola sandwich. 

Bake the granola until it is deeply golden all over, 35-45 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through. (You'll need to peek under the parchment to check on it.) It will still be soft, but should crisp up as it cools. Remove the top sheet pan and parchment paper, and let the granola cool completely. If the granola isn't shatteringly crisp when cool, break it up and return it to a low (200ºF) oven for 10-20 minutes, then cool again and check for crispness. You can also leave it to dry out overnight in a turned-off oven with a pilot light.

Store the granola in an airtight container at room temperature. It will keep well for at least a month.

Rhubarb Bourbon Brown Butter Tart with Almond Crust

I've been eyeing Deb's Cherry Brown Butter Bars (adapted from Bon Appetit's Raspberry Brown Butter Tart) for what seems like forever. It's actually only been since June 29, 2009. But four years without tasting buttery crust against fruit-studded brown butter custard might as well be eternity. 

Yesterday, with a refrigerator full of rhubarb, I decided that enough was enough. I added sugared slices of my favorite "fruit," a vanilla bean, and a splash of bourbon to the heaven-sent filling, and threw the whole thing in an almond press-in crust. It's my new favorite dessert.

Whoever coined the term "easy as pie" obviously never made one from scratch. Pie dough is finicky, and challenging to get just right. (You should still make pie, though.) This tart dough, on the other hand, is stupid simple. Everything gets whizzed in the food processor until it begins to clump together, and the crumbs get dumped into the awaiting tart pan. It takes a bit of patience to press the edges and bottom into a smooth, even layer, but after a brief stint in the freezer, the crust holds itself up in the heat of the oven without needing the help of pesky pie weights. It ends up tasting like a buttery shortbread cookie kissed with salt and toasted almonds.

The filling is just as much of a breeze. The magic happens when you cook the butter with a vanilla bean until the milk solids caramelize and smell like baking cookies. This glorious golden substance gets whizzed, in the unwashed food processor bowl, into a  custard of eggs, sugar and flour, then doused with a shot of bourbon. The custard is poured over the awaiting rhubarb-filled crust, and baked until puffed and golden. 

The rhubarb turns meltingly tender as the tart bakes, and it retains its puckery tartness in the final dessert, which is, to my taste, perfectly sweetened. The bourbon adds a bit of subtle complexity to the custard; I can definitely sense its presence, but it melts into the background of nutty butter and floral vanilla. The crust is so tender, it crumbles under the merest pressure of a fork, though it holds together sturdily enough to transport slices from pan to plate. It is buttery and crisp against the creamy filling – ultra satisfying. 

You could top this with a plume of softly whipped cream, flavored with vanilla and a splash of bourbon if you like, but the tart is more than adequate on its own. It's an easy dessert to whip up for company who will think you spent an eternity making it. Little will they know.

One year ago:

Asparagus Pizza with Pesto and Lemon Ricotta

Two years ago:

Poppyseed Lemon Curd Mega Scone

Three years ago:

Maple Bacon Sugar Cookies

Rhu-mania:

Strawberry Rhubarb Bourbon Cobbler with Ginger Oat Scones

Strawberry Rhubarb Crème Fraîche Pie with Cardamom Crumble

Rhubarb Crumb Squares

Rhubarb, Bourbon, and Brown Butter Custard Tart with Almond Crust

I do love the bourbon here, but the tart will still rock if you wish to omit it entirely or substitute brandy or another type of whiskey in its place. Be sure to trim away any rhubarb leaves as they are toxic. If you don't have a food processor, you can easily make this by hand by chopping the almonds very finely, rubbing the buttery dough with your fingertips, and using a whisk and bowl to make the filling. I baked this in my favorite 8-inch tart pan which just barely held all of the filling; a 9-inch pan will work perfectly, too. This tart holds its own, but feel free to serve it with lightly sweetened whipped cream flavored with a splash of vanilla and bourbon. 

Inspired by Epicurious and Smitten Kitchen

Makes one 8-9" tart, 8-10 servings

Almond Press-In Crust:

1/4 cup sliced almonds

1/4 cup powdered sugar, plus extra for sprinkling on the finished tart

1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt

3/4 cup all-purpose flour

6 tablespoons cold, unsalted butter, cut into 1/2" chunks

Rhubarb, Bourbon and Brown Butter Filling:

12 ounces rhubarb, trimmed, sliced on the diagonal 1/2" thick (3 cups)

2 tablespoons organic cane sugar, plus 1/2 cup for the custard

8 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise and scraped

2 eggs

1/4 cup all-purpose flour

1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt

2 tablespoons bourbon whiskey

Make the crust:

Position a rack in the lower third of the oven and preheat to 350º.

In the bowl of a food processor, process the almonds, powdered sugar, salt and flour until the almonds are finely ground. Add the butter, and pulse until the mixture just begins to clump together. Dump the crumbs into an 8 or 9-inch tart pan with a removable bottom. Don't bother washing the food processor bowl. Press the dough into the sides of the pan first, then the bottom, taking time to make square corners, a neat top, and an even thickness. (If the dough becomes soft or sticky, put the whole pan in the refrigerator for 5-10 minutes to firm it up again.) Prick the bottom of the crust all over with a fork. Freeze the crust until firm, 15 minutes, or wrap for longer storage. 

Place the tart pan on a rimmed baking sheet for easy maneuvering, and bake the unlined crust until it is pale golden, 15-20 minutes, rotating after 10 minutes for even browning.

Meanwhile, make the filling:

Toss the sliced rhubarb with 2 tablespoons of the sugar in a medium bowl and set aside to macerate while you finish baking the crust and making the custard.

Place the butter and vanilla pod and scrapings in a medium, heavy-bottomed saucepan and cook over medium heat, swirling occasionally. After about 5-10 minutes, the butter will foam up, turn golden and smell nutty, with brown flecks mingling with black vanilla bean seeds. At this point, remove the pan from the heat. Remove the vanilla bean (you can rinse and dry it and stick it in a jar of sugar, or use it to make vanilla extract). Pour the butter into a heatproof measuring cup to stop the cooking, and let cool 5 minutes.

In the bowl of the food processor, pulse together the remaining 1/2 cup of sugar, the flour and salt to combine. Add the eggs, and process until combined. With the motor running, pour in the brown butter, including the brown flecks and vanilla seeds, then the bourbon. 

Assemble, bake, and eat the tart:

Scrape the rhubarb and any juices into the hot, par-baked tart shell in an even layer. Carefully pour the custard over the rhubarb, filling the shell to the brim.

Bake the tart until the filling is puffed and browned, 30-45 minutes, rotating the tart halfway through for even baking. Remove the pan from the oven and let the tart cool until warm. Set the tart on an inverted bowl or ramekin, and ease off the ring. Sprinkle the tart with powdered sugar, cut it into wedges, and serve warm or at room temperature.

The tart keeps well in the refrigerator for several days; re-warm slices in an oven or toaster oven for best results.

Strawberry Caprese Salad

My dad was a foodie long before the word even existed. He always loved cooking new things – risotto, fresh pasta, pizza from scratch, smoked turkey on Thanksgiving. I wish I could say that I appreciated all of his gastronomical endeavors when I was a kid, but in the realm of his nightly salads, this was not the case.

My dad often made caprese salads in the summer: a bed of lettuce topped with slabs of tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, salt and pepper, which he would serve at the end of the meal, in true Italian fashion. I would eat the cheese and even the tomatoes, but the greens always felt like punishment, something to endure in order to be allowed a bowl of ice cream afterward.

One evening, inspiration struck, and I asked if I could eat my salad outside on the deck that overlooked the garden. My dad agreed. I sneaked around the corner and out of sight, launched the lettuce over the side of the deck, loitered around for a bit, then returned to the kitchen with an empty plate, thanking my dad overzealously for the delicious salad. It worked like a charm.

I don't know if my dad ever got wise to my lettuce-chucking ways, but he reads this blog, so now he knows the truth. (Dad, I'm sorry for all the lettuce I wasted.) Unfortunately, Jay has similar salad force-feeding tendencies. We don't have a deck, and Jay would be deeply suspicious if I ever took my salad up to the roof (especially now - he reads this blog, too). So I'm forced to chew my way through giant bowls of leafy greens almost every day. Jay would be happy eating a mammoth salad for every meal – he even ordered one for dessert once – but I'm more particular. I prefer salad only when the weather is very warm, which, luckily for me, isn't that often here in San Francisco.

During last week's heatwave, though, I couldn't get the idea for this strawberry caprese out of my head. I decided to compose it on a bed of greens, as an ode to my dad's caprese in hopes of making up for my past lettuce-wasting ways. Our co-op has been stocking the loveliest baby lettuce heads lately, which I washed and arranged on plates with sliced strawberries, torn basil leaves, small mozzarella balls called bocconcini, and toasted sliced almonds. Balsamic has a way of dulling bright colors, staining pristine mozzarella, and pooling on the plate. I took a cue from Lily and reduced it, with a bit of honey, to a thick syrup before drizzling it over the layers of loveliness along with good olive oil, flaky salt and black pepper. 

I often dismissed strawberries in salad as being gimmicky, but I will never make that mistake again. Here they not only stand in for tomatoes, they might actually trump them with their sweetness and tang. Strawberries and balsamic get on famously, the vinegar adding depth to the sweet fruit, and the reduced form, kissed with honey, is even more intense. The anise flavor of the basil seems to heighten the sweetness of the berries and balsamic reduction, anchoring it in the savoy realm along with black pepper, spicy olive oil and salty cheese. Crisp, cool lettuce leaves manage to taste like a treat, and the toasted almonds add an unexpected, earthy crunch; though I bet pine nuts would make a nice stand-in. Creamy mozzarella makes a soothing contrast to the brash balsamic; though feta or goat cheese could be good, too. All in all, it is a delightful contrast of flavors and textures, one that makes you want to close your eyes and focus on nothing else but the spring garden party going on in your mouth.

The quality of each ingredient is what makes this salad sparkle, so get the best of everything you can find. This recipe serves two as a light meal, or four as an appetizer. Heck, you could even serve it for dessert, what with the berries, nuts and honey.

In any case, this is one salad that I would never throw off the deck. 

Honest.

Salad days:

Spring Tabbouleh with Harissa and Grilled Halloumi 

Melon with Lime, Feta and Mint 

Orzo Summer Salad with Roasted Cherry Tomatoes

One year ago:

Sparkling Bourbon Gingerade 

Two years ago:

Herbed Spinach and Goat Cheese Calzone 

Three years ago:

Green Garlic, Chive and Cheese Souffles

Strawberry Caprese Salad 

Adapted from Erin Gleeson

The balsamic reduction makes enough for 3 or 4 rounds of this salad. Store it in a jar at room temperature. The reduction will stain everything with its deep brown hue, so the instructions here are for a composed salad, with the dressing components drizzled over the top. If looks aren't an issue, feel free to make this as a tossed salad by combining all the ingredients in a large bowl, drizzling in the olive oil, balsamic reduction, salt and pepper, and tossing with your hands until everything is well-coated. As I mentioned above, I think pine nuts could stand in for the almonds, and feta or goat cheese for the mozzarella. Measurements here are loose, so add the components according to your taste and what looks good on the plates.

Makes 2 light-meal-sized salads, or 4 smaller appetizers

For the balsamic reduction:

2 tablespoons (1 1/4 ounces) honey

1/3 cup balsamic vinegar

For the salads:

2 baby lettuce heads (4-5" long), or 3-4 cups gently packed baby greens

1 cup small strawberries, hulled and halved or quartered

6-8 ounces bocconcini (small mozzarella balls) in water, drained and halved

a large handful of basil leaves, torn if large

3-4 tablespoons toasted sliced almonds

1 tablespoon super good olive oil

flaky salt (such as Maldon)

freshly ground black pepper

Make the balsamic reduction:

Combine the honey and balsamic vinegar in a small saucepan. Bring to a simmer over medium-low heat. Simmer gently, swirling occasionally, until the mixture is bubbling thickly and reduced by about a third, 5 minutes. Remove from the heat and cool completely.

Assemble the salads:

Divide the lettuces between two medium plates. Top with the strawberries, bocconcini, basil, and almonds. Drizzle each with 1 1/2 teaspoons olive oil, 1 1/2 teaspoons of the balsamic reduction, and scatter a big pinch of flaky salt over the top. Top with a bit of freshly ground black pepper. (Or, if you prefer, toss everything together in a large bowl, then divide it among plates or bowls.) Serve immediately.

Mint and Celery Soda

I never gave celery much thought. It was stringy and bland, a sometimes necessary component in soups or potato salad, easily substituted by its smaller and more flavorful cousin, fennel. I didn't like it dipped in peanut butter. I did like it filled with cream cheese, but only because anything will taste good with enough cream cheese on it.

But that was before trying Chris Tunstall's homemade celery soda. Now I can't stop thinking about it.

Chris is the mixology maestro at Wayfare Tavern, and I had the pleasure of meeting him and his tech-savvy other half, Julia, at a food blogger meetup in April. Chris and Julia showed up with three large bottles of pale green liquid, which they poured into cups. Sips were taken, eyebrows raised, and the room was filled with exclamations like, "Wow, this is really good!" It was a hot day, and the crisp drink, slightly sweetened and punctuated by a touch of lemon juice, was all I ever wanted to ingest. I refilled my glass four times.

I grilled Chris about his celery soda-making method, which began by shoving a whole head of celery through a juicer. A juicer that I didn't have. I moped around the house a bit, contemplating whether a life without fresh celery soda was worth living, when, as luck would have it, my mom waltzed into town, dumped a Champion on our counter, and left. (Not before making me drink a vile concoction of ginger juice, lemon and oregano oil designed to knock out the cold I've had for the last week and a half, which made my whole body burn for about 20 minutes. Thanks, Mom. :))

It's been quite heatwavy here in San Francisco, and I can't seem to get enough of this soda. I add muddled mint to it, which brings a bit of depth and complexity to the mildly vegetal celery. (I tried juicing the mint with the celery, but it browned immediately, turning the drink a murky pond scum green. Muddling was [literally] the clear winner.) I find the slightly salty celery quite addictive, particularly on hot days; it soothes and cools in the same way as cucumber, which isn't yet in season here. As a bonus, celery is full of vitamin C and potassium, making this soda exponentially healthier than anything you can buy in the store. It's an all-around win.

I've heard that people who have recently acquired juicers tend to juice everything in sight for about a week, then relegate their juicer to storage. My theory is that these people don't actually like the taste of what's coming out of their juicer. They feel that they ought to juice for health reasons, but their heart and tastebuds aren't in it. To those people I say, make this celery soda – you will fall in love with your juicer all over again. 

For those of you who don't have a juicer, don't despair! A couple of loverly posts (Reclaiming Provincial's A Walk in the Weeds [celery, gin and lime cocktail - yum!] and Minimalist Baker's Apple Carrot Beet Ginger Juice) have recently been written about juicing without one. Just chop up your celery, puree it in a blender or food processor, then strain the crap out of it with a fine sieve or nut milk bag.

If you want to add some hard stuff to this soft drink, go right ahead. We tried it with both gin and tequila. I think the salty bite of tequila (Cazadores) blends better with the celery, but Jay prefers the complex contrast of gin (we used Death's Door, but I think Hendrick's would be ideal, as per A Walk in the Weeds, linked above).

I like the soda plain best of all, however; a fact which I find about as shocking as my new found love of celery. 

Good libations:
Strawberry Blood Orange Rum Punch
Pink Grapefruit Vieux Mot
Homemade Irish Cream Liqueur

One year ago:
Meyer Lemon Semolina Bars

Mint and Celery Soda

 

Inspired by Chris Tunstall  

Conventional celery is one of the "dirty dozen" most contaminated vegetables, so I especially recommend using the organic stuff here (though if it were up to me, there would only be organically grown produce). I like this drink straight up, but try it with a shot of gin or tequila if you like. Grocery store celery tends to be more mild and watery than farmer's market celery, which can be dark green and have a sharper flavor. I used the mild stuff here. If using more intense celery, you could try adding more sugar, lemon and sparkling water. Oh, and don't try to be clever and juice the mint, too – mine oxidized instantly and turned the whole drink a revolting pond-scum green. Muddling is the way to go. If you don't have a juicer, see instructions in the post above for making juice without one.    

Makes 2 large or 4 small drinks

leaves from 4 bushy mint sprigs, rinsed, plus extra for garnish

2 tablespoons organic cane sugar

1/4 cup strained lemon juice (from 1-2 lemons)

1 pound celery stalks (1 small head, or 1/2 of a very huge head), leaves ok, washed well

ice cubes

2-3 cups sparkling water

In the bowl or pitcher in which you will catch your celery juice, muddle together the mint, sugar and lemon juice until the mint is bruised. Place the pitcher under the spout of your juicer; the lemon will prevent the celery juice from oxidizing.

Juice the celery into the pitcher. Strain the mixture, squeezing the liquid out of the mint leaves. Pour the liquid into ice-filled glasses, top off with sparkling water to taste, and garnish with some fresh mint leaves. 

This soda is best served shortly after being made, as the celery juice will eventually oxidize.