carrot salad

I've got the blahs tonight. A little bit grumpy, grumpy about being grumpy, you know how it goes.  The girls were home with me today because it was parent conferences and we went down to town, and we walked from town hall to the hardware store and held hands and every three steps we all jumped into the air together.  That was the best part of my day and it was pretty great. 
But sometimes a mood sticks, and I just have to wait it out.  And for now I feel blah, and maybe one of the reasons why is that all I have to tell you about is carrot salad.
It's not that it isn't good--it is!  My friends Jen and Pete gave us a whole cooler full of carrots, and it's been carrots for lunch and dinner and sometimes for breakfast too. And of course it's stew time, and carrots are plenty useful, but it turns out that carrot salad is my favorite thing to do when the carrots are this good. I've never been a carrot stick kind of girl, and it's a shame to cook something so imbibed with earthly perfection.

Sadie told me that tomorrow is National Cookie Baking Day, and I'm taking her word for it.  I'm guessing we'll have exciting things to talk about then.  Who knows what she'll pick?  Right now she's waffling between pistachio shortbread, walnut crescents, and ruggala.  All fine options, I'd say.

But tonight, it's carrot salad for you.  Good for your eyes, and your soul.  And easy peasy.
Grab a handful of carrots.  Peel them if you like.  Grate them in your cuisinart or do a dance with your box grater if you prefer.  Whip up a little dressing in a measuring cup of olive oil, red wine vinegar, lemon juice, salt and pepper.  Add a squeeze of orange of you've got it.  Keep mixing and adjusting until it tastes good to you.  Go out into the cold night and grope around for some half frozen parsley.  Chop that, toss with carrots and dressing.  Eat.  Leftovers will be good tomorrow too.  To eat with your cookies.

Happy Friday friends.

pre-frost panzanella

I was not a good sport through the end of both my pregnancies. I was an okay pregnant woman for most of the most of those months, but the last one? Echhh. I've known women who sat placidly in their 42nd week. "The baby will come when it's ready. I'm good. I'm reading novels, I'm going to movies, I'm making the most of it!"
That wasn't me. Maybe I had a few things stacked against me, but I'm willing to admit that my misery was due to a deep sense of impatience which continues to plague me. To be fair, I did have two very large babies who stretched out and created a massive watermelon shaped belly in front of me. Rosie had a fascination in utero with punching me in the groin (crotch? I don't even know where her fist was banging) which explained why you could find me doubled over at most moments in that last month with her. I also had four-week labors with both of the girls, and the contractions would start and stop with such ferocity that the midwife (yup, I'm a homebirther), finally just left all of her supplies in my bedroom. But really, I spent that last month or two of each of the pregnancies absolutely and completely ready for the next step. On the days that I finally gave birth to my children, I can tell you that I woke up on those mornings with the cry and utterance through gritted teeth..."I am having this damn baby today."
Although yes, although there are those women who love every moment of their pregnancies and would prefer that they stay pregnant forever, I think that the angst and woe I felt as I turned into a ripe and bursting fruit is more common. Pregnancy is not so long, but talk to most women rounding out their 41st week and they'll tell you they are ready. Yes, after months of pregnancy, they'll tell you they are ready to give birth, that they are ready to be done with all of this pregnancy stuff so that they can enter into an indeterminate time and amount of extreme pain so they can actually have the baby already.
And yes, I'm making a generalization here, but I'll bet that you talk to most women in their fifth month and will admit to you that they are scared of birth, that they're not sure how they're going to pull it off. What changes?
The truth is, I think it's helpful to hate the end of pregnancy in order to embrace the challenge of birth and the beginning of parenthood. Yes, birth is difficult, but it's better than being pregnant forever. Nature helps us to prepare for birth by making the end of pregnancy that intolerable.


And in the same way, we prepare for winter by being done with all this summer produce already.
Sure, sure- I'm stretching the metaphor (as usual!) But think about it. In July, did the tomatoes even make it to the kitchen? How many tomato seeds did you wash off the inside of your windshield from eating all the cherry tomatoes before you even got home? Did a pepper actually get through the first day without being cooked into some exciting and refreshing summer nourishment? No!

But look on your counter. Is there a bowl of tomatoes tempting the fruit flies? Is there a pepper or two in the fridge, about to be too wither-y to eat? Are you ready for the frost?

I am. I've got pattypan squash- I think their falling in love in the garden and having babies. I want it to get cold so that I can rip out those plants and make beef stew already. I'm ready. I'm ready for the summer to end.

It's been a good one. Let's have one more panzanella.



Pre-Frost Panzanella
loosely adapted from Jeff Crump and Bettina Schormann, Earth to Table

serves 6

4 sweet peppers
2 pounds mixed tomatoes, chopped into 2-inch bites
1 pound stale French or rustic Italian bread
4 scallions, whites and bottom section of green, chopped
1/4 cup capers, drained
7 anchovy fillets, minced
1 cup, arugula, baby spinach, or lettuce leaves
salt and pepper

for the dressing:
1/2 cup red wine vinegar
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 1/2 teaspoons dijon mustard
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon fresh ground pepper
1 cup olive oil

Preheat your broiler and line a baking sheet with parchment or aluminum foil. Put the peppers on the baking sheet and broil until blackened and bubbling, about 7 minutes on each side. Put the peppers in a heat proof bowl and cover with plastic wrap. Let them sit for 15 minutes, then slide them right out of their skins and remove as many seeds as possible. Cut into one inch pieces.
Make the dressing: In a bowl or large measuring cup, combine the red wine vinegar, garlic, mustard, salt and pepper. Whisk to combine and let sit for a few minutes. Then add the olive oil in a steady stream while whisking. Adjust seasonings if needed. There will be lots of extra dressing--store in a jar in the fridge for up to two weeks.
In a large bowl, combine the roasted peppers, bread, tomatoes, anchovies, scallion and capers. Toss with 2-3 tablespoons of the dressing. Add more if you like. Add the arugula, spinach or lettuce and toss to combine. Top with salt and pepper. Serve immediately.

the foraging explorers

The ladies have a new activity.
When they have read too many books, and art seems boring, and we have said "enough PBSkids.com!", they put on their backpacks and go exploring.

From what I can tell, the contents of the backpacks are strictly defined. There is a water bottle, a notebook in each, and a pen or pencil. One volunteers to carry the bundled up potato chip bag swiped from the shelf, hopeful that she will have control over who eats what is inside. Sometimes there are random articles, some useful, some not-- a magnifying glass, a doll's sweater, a book to read together in case they find a place to rest, a few random pieces of jewelry. Sadie wears her watch and lets me know that they will be back at precisely 3:00. I know that they'll be back in 20 minutes, but I nod at the 3:00 deadline. I remind them of their bear safety (there is news of a mama with cubs hanging around the neighborhood), and they are off.

Right after Sadie was born, I started to imagine the most horrible things. I couldn't drive a car without envisioning another car plowing into the door that protected her little car seat from the rest of the world. As firm as I held her, I saw her fall to the hard floor in my mind, and in every corner there was an imaginary spider or some other monster waiting to bite her translucent baby skin.
By the time she was a month old, it was getting out of control. I was happy, and I didn't seem to have the postpartum depression that was plaguing so many moms. But in these isolated moments, I was terrified, and I was convinced that she wouldn't make it to her first birthday. I went to see a therapist who had helped me through a hellish year before college, and I only needed to see him once.

"Of course you're terrified," he said, gesturing to Sadie sleeping with a wheezy snore in my arms. "Look at her. Have you ever been responsible for anything so valuable? Have you ever held anything more perfect?"

I had not.

"By dreaming up these horrible fates," he continued. "I think you're praying. I think you're saying, 'Bring it on. I can imagine your worst, world. I am ready for it, and you can't surprise me."

With his assessment, along with the passage of time and the lessening of post-birth hormones, I began to trust that Sadie would be okay. Those waves still come here and there, and it remains to be the case that the fear that I feel as a parent is a powerful and overwhelming thing.

Regardless of my quiet fears, they've got their backpacks on, and they want to go exploring.

I think that we keep our children on a tighter leash than that on which we were kept 25 or 30 years ago. I am pretty sure that the world has not gotten any more dangerous; it's just that we have more ways to hear about the bad things. I have such clear memories of lying out in the middle of a field with my friend Sarah, far behind the house that our single mothers shared. We would run out there naked, and we would split open the milkweed pods and spread it over our little limbs, pretending it was sunscreen. We were three. I don't know which part to be more shocked about, that two three-year-olds were running around alone so far from home, or that two three-year-olds were running around naked without any actual sunscreen. Either way, it's clear that the rules are different now than they were then.

Far before 3:00, the girls tumble in the front door. They are sweaty and flushed and there is a wilted dandelion tucked behind Rosie's ear. They show me their little sketches of buttercups and the plant specimens that they found in the field. They report, with a bit of disappointment, that there was no bear to be found. The bag of chips is empty, and in addition, they have come back with some greens for a salad for me. Sweaty and wrinkled from Rosie's hand, there are lamb's quarters and a few leaves of baby lettuce.

The lettuce was intentionally grown, but the lambs quarters are a gift from the yard. Edible plants are always part of the adventure, and the girls will eat anything they pick themselves, especially if it is a weed. We are very careful that each plant has been carefully identified, and there are only two or three that the girls know they can munch without checking in with us first. Clover flowers, and those little sour bursts of green leaves we have incorrectly named lemon grass, the invasive but tasty garlic mustard; they graze on these here and there and fancy themselves in their own version of My Side of the Mountain. I watch them cross over from our yard into the field, and I take a little breath through the fear in my stomach. A lot has happened since that first month of mothering, and I now trust that the girls will make their way back home. They are learning the rules of things quickly, and with every new piece of knowledge, they help me to let go of my fears. They laugh at my anxieties, but they answer my charges nonetheless.

"If you see the bear?" (my heart beats faster even to think the sentence)
"If it doesn't run away, I lie on my belly and play dead." (they giggle at the words "play dead")
"And what can you eat?"
"Chips from the bag."
"Very funny. You know what I mean."
"Garlic mustard. No berries. Lamb's quarters."
"Did you sunblock your sister?"
"Yes! We're going!"

I know that I should savor the simplicity of what they need to know right now. Right now they go just beyond my sight, not so much further. I test their knowledge on edible plants and bear safety. In ten years? First relationships and designated drivers. Now that scares the hell out of me.

Luckily, there's some time for us to learn how to have those conversations. For now we practice with our lessons in weeds and bears. In ten years, I'll be older and (I'm hoping!) wiser too, and these talks and lessons will help create the format for the harder ones as their adventures take on different forms. They'll keep learning how to move through their world, and maybe I'll get better at letting them go.

Today? Let's just stick to the greens.



Lamb's quarters are a lovely spinach-y weed, easily identifiable by their goose foot-shaped leaves and the odd lavender powder around the center stem. They are especially good to recognize if you are a city forager, as I always seem to find them in abandoned and lonely window boxes and planters. If you are hungry in the city, you may just be able to make a salad on the sidewalk.


Lamb's quarters are best this time of year, when they are under a foot in height, and they are mild and light and ridiculously good for you. Both the leaves and stems are edible, and they are perfect in all places where you would normally use spinach, especially just sauteed with butter and a bit of garlic. Like the girls, I get a thrill from sitting in the yard and eating what I find right there, so I usually eat them raw. If they make it into the house, I'll grab a handful of lettuce and a few herb sprigs, and there is my explorer's lunch.

Lawn Salad

1/2 cup lamb's quarters leaves
1 cup baby lettuce leaves
1/4 cup parsley
a few sprigs of dill
1 teaspoon olive oil
salt and pepper

Combine the lamb's quarters, lettuce, parsley and dill in a salad spinner or a bowl of water. Dry thoroughly. Toss with the olive oil, salt, and pepper.

radish salad

I have a couple of things I need to tell you!
Nothing huge or substantial, but details I think you will appreciate.

It is a gray and windy morning (my favorite, secretly), and it is mother's day (happy mother's day!) and this is my 300th post (wahoo!). Rosie has been walking around for the last couple of days with a little sparkly tissue paper wrapped present, voicing a countdown to Mothers day (hooray! 2 days, 1 day, etc) and at 6:30 she woke me out of a dream that I was in Japan, and informed me that it was time to open the sparkly package. It was in fact, the most beautiful bookmark I have ever seen, covered with the word that she knows best how to write, that is "LOVE". Joey shyly pushed a package in my direction, a new and sturdy food mill inspired by a conversation by our local resident French store owner who claims that the food mill is the only way to create silky hummus. This morning, we will pick Sadie up from a sleepover and we will head over to a mother's day wildflower hike over at the cobble. And so the day begins.

Tomorrow is the election, and I'll tell you how all of that goes. Either way, I'll have more time to cook again. Yay Hooray! I actually haven't had granola in the house for weeks now. Without granola, I am hungry all the time.

Yesterday, there was a rainbow that ended in our backyard. The bottom of the rainbow fluttered over our gone to seed dandelions. If that isn't magic, I don't know what is.

And the best thing? The farmer's market started yesterday. It poured for most of it, and there was even a few dashes of lightning, but I was so happy to be there. Even in the rain, people came out to celebrate the vegetables, and we pretty much sold out of everything. The table was covered with these radiant and lovely radishes, and people drifted over, semi-possessed, and pointed at the radishes. Over and over, customers gave me their two dollars, took their radishes without a bag, and I could see them eating them whole before they were even out of the parking lot. Radishes in spring do that to people. Somehow they are the answer to all that old food we eat all winter.
We had a couple of other treats on the table: baby asian greens, sorrel and pea shoots. There were a few bunches of elegant chives with tightly budded flowers, and bags of tender baby arugula. All morning, I was telling people about this salad that I had made earlier in the week- handing them a bunch of radishes, a bag of arugula, and a bunch of chives. They nodded and purchased the whole array of ingredients, but by mid market I started urging the purchase of two bunches of radishes instead of one. I knew that the siren call of the radishes would be to strong; the radishes would never make it home and the salad would never be made. So although there is one bunch of radishes in this recipe, go for two. Then you can eat your radishes in the car with wild abandon, a pleasure I would never want to deny you.

Radish Salad
adapted from Deborah Madison, Local Flavors

1 large bunch of radishes, sliced thin, greens removed (if greens are in good shape, sautee in butter, fabulous!)
2 tablespoons snipped chives
2 handfuls baby arugula or spinach, chopped if it is larger than 2 inches in length
a glug or two of good olive oil
kosher salt
freshly ground pepper
about ten peels of parmesan cheese, peeled with a vegetable peeler

In a large bowl, combine the sliced radishes, chives, arugula, salt and pepper. Pour a glug of olive oil in the bowl- just enough to coat the mixture when you stir it. Lay the salad out on a platter, and top with peeled parmesan. Top with a touch more salt and pepper if needed.

turkish celeriac remoulade

I am grateful for the inner beauty of the celeriac. I'm not fooled by that leather jacket- I know that inside it is delicate and silky, fancy and French, scented like heaven. In the fall, I made soups and stews, and I admired the sensual topography of the noble root on my counter top. But now, under the cover of icy snow, I am beginning to feel like a root vegetable myself. In the cold cave of winter, I yearn for the the fresh crunch of rawness. It tastes like sun and ground, neither of which are here with me now. Do you want this too?
I thought maybe you would. I've been wanting to tell you about this salad for so long, and finally today is the day.


My friend Molly is in Turkey. She searched for celery for her soup in the market and found only this strange root. A new Turkish friend came to her rescue and showed her how to make this, and then she told me. Now it is all I want to eat (along with a brownie now and then). I have changed her recipe ever so slightly, but I'm hoping not so much that I have distanced this glorious dish from its Turkish roots.

Molly is allergic to so many things. I pride myself in finding treats for her when she is in my kitchen. So, in honor of the Turkish friend who was there for my Molly when I could not be, I give you:

Turkish Celeriac Remoulade

1 medium celeriac (celery root), peeled and grated (If you have a food processor with a grating disk, this will be done in a flash)
1 cup whole milk yogurt
juice of 1 medium lime
1 cup pecans, toasted and chopped roughly
3 tablespoons fresh parsley, roughly chopped
salt and pepper to taste

Combine all ingredients. Serve cold or at room temperature

a winner! and bagna cauda for your day

I know why you're here, or at least, I'm willing to guess.
Have you gone over to Buy Olympia to take a look at that calendar? Gotten a little attached? Realized that they are out of stock? Well I must say, your goals were so nice to hear, I wish I had one for everyone. But, someone's got to win, and let's all be happy for her.
Yay Laurie! Send me an email and we'll get that up on your wall pronto.

But don't be too sad. I've got something for the rest of you too.

I know some of you might be cleansing after the holidays. That's all fine and good. Cut out the hourly stale holiday cookies. Drink more water and less eggnog. Go for a walk already. All good. I support you in all your efforts, even if it's just from my couch.

But whatever you're doing, promise me one thing: Let's not leave off the sauce. Who knows how long life will be. If this were my last day, I'd want to dip it in Bagna Cauda.

Say it out loud. Try to pronounce it. How ever you say it, it sounds lovely. I hear it means something like "warm bath" in Italian.

I'd venture to say that this would taste good on most things. Butter, olive oil, anchovies, garlic, thyme, chile, salt. That's it. Give your broiled fish a warm bath. Toss your pasta in a little warm bath. Dip raw vegetables in a warm bath. Dip roasted vegetables in a warm bath You get the idea.


I made a little fancy winter salad, based off of a recipe that a friend passed on from Suzanne Goin. This is not a "Oh I need to eat plain celery all day because it's the new year" salad. I'm voting for the eradication of those altogether. This is a salad that makes love to the vegetables within it, a salad to eat with your hands and let the bagna cauda drip down your arm. Think of it. A warm bath for you. Fabulous.



Bagna Cauda with a Winter Salad
adapted from Suzanne Goin, Sunday Suppers at Lucques
(This makes a big batch. You can halve it if you like, or refrigerate any leftovers and rewarm it when you find other things that must be dipped in it.)

3/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
8 tablespoons butter
About 3 tablespoons chopped anchovies- this is 5-7 of the salt packed kind
4 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
1 dried chile de arbol, minced
2 teaspoons fresh minced thyme leaves
heaping 1/2 teaspoon salt

Heat the olive oil and butter in a medium saucepan over very low heat. Add the anchovies and chile and stir with a wooden spoon until the anchovies melt into the sauce, about 3 minutes. Add the garlic and thyme, take off the heat, and let the garlic finish cooking in the hot olive oil. Add the salt to taste.

For the Salad:
1 head cauliflower, cut into florets
5 radishes, sliced
1 head endive, separated into individual leaves
1 head treviso, separated into individual leaves (treviso is a new vegetable to me- a cross between endive and raddichio. If you cannot find it, you can do two heads of endive, or just skip it altogether.
The juice of 1/2 lemon

Blanch the cauliflower by boiling it for 1 minute, then immersing it in cold water. In a sautee pan, toss the cauliflower and radishes with 1/2 cup bagna cauda over medium heat. Cook for about 2 minutes, or until the radishes start to fade in color. Then toss in a large bowl with the endive and treviso until the entire mixture is coated in sauce, adding more if necessary. Dump onto a platter (or keep it in the bowl if you wish), squeeze the lemon juice over it, and grind the pepper grinder a few times over the top. Serve additional sauce for dipping on the side.

tomato and tomatillo panzanella

After we loaded to the innards of our week in Maine into the Subaru, we stopped at Scratch in South Portland to see what of the place we could bring back with us. The sea salt bagels were all sold out, but there was bread, and one of the loaves that somehow survived the drive back home (without me eating it, that is) was a perfect ciabatta.
We've been back not quite 48 hours, and it's been hotter than the L Word around here. The air is so heavy that it's hard to make your way through, and just when you think you can make it outside for a minute, the mosquitos swarm in numbers I have never seen before. And for some reason, when it gets this damp, the house starts smelling like pee. It's really summer now.
I got back home to a garden gone wild, complete with bursting and beautiful tomatillos. Tomatillos suffer from people not being quite sure what to do with them. They are an obvious salsa ingredient, but beyond that, what to do with tomatillos? Honestly, sliced thin in combination with big wedges of tomato- better than a snickers from the freezer.
By last night, we had half of the ciabatta left, and I decided to make a panzanella. This is a great full meal salad, and another good way to use all of the excess produce in danger of going uneaten. I'm going to give you a rough guideline of a recipe, as this one can be played with as much as you like.

Tomato and Tomatillo Panzanella

5 tomatillos, peeled of paper skins and sliced thin
1 large tomato, cut into wedges
1/2 loaf rustic bread, cut into bite sized cubes
10 green beans
1/2 sweet red pepper, cut into matchsticks
olive oil
salt and pepper
red wine vinegar
balsamic vinegar
dijon mustard
a couple handfuls of lettuce, washed and dried

In a large skillet, heat a few tablespoons of olive oil. Add the bread and green beans and fry for a few minutes, stirring so as not to burn the bread. When the bread is golden, turn off the heat. While the bread is cooking, make the vinaigrette. Dissolve some sea salt into a few tablespoons of red wine vinegar, then add about half as much balsamic. Whisk in a few tablespoons of olive oil and the mustard. Taste it and play until you find the taste that you like. In a large bowl, toss the fried bread, tomatoes, pepper, green beans with the vinaigrette, tasting as you go to get the dressing saturation to your liking.
On a platter, lay out the lettuce. Pile the contents of the bowl over the lettuce and top with salt and freshly ground pepper.

Poached Pear, Caramelized Onion and Goat Cheese Salad

Do you remember that poached pear salad that I had in Shirlington, VA, the only really tasty thing I ate on my trip? OK, maybe it's not sticking in your memory, but it certainly is in mine. I'd been thinking about it ever since that last night of the trip, mostly thinking how lame I am that I've never truly caramelized onions, and I wasn't really quite sure how. So the other day, Joey and I found ourselves in a pretty amazing situation. For months, we've had tickets to see Rufus Wainwright in our very own little town, an exciting prospect on it's own. And as as luck would have it, Grandpa Chris came to pick up the girls on his way home from work, so that they could go have pizza at the farm (I'll explain that one some other time) and we could go to our show. But before the show, we made dinner! This might not sound so strange, but I'm not sure that Joey and I have ever made and eaten dinner on our own in maybe, well, six years and three weeks.
So the girls gleefully hopped into Chris's car, and what did Joey and I do?
We surveyed our beverage options.

Let it be known here that Joey and I are not big drinkers... at all. I can drink that boy under the table, and I'm just a one drink kind of girl. But we made some drinks, well one each, and I guess they were a little strong, because we were a drunken pair.
For all those childless couples out there, this might be a normal Friday night, but for us, this was entirely unique. I must say, sometimes I just love the girls so much because they make me appreciate the moments when they're not around. Is that horrible? It's just the night was all sunny and warm and glittery, and there was this magic in not being responsible for anything. It was just pure fun. And then I made this salad. And Joey grilled some pork chops from our local pig in the freezer. Glittery, sunny, and really good.

And dinner was so good, we just ate without talking, and then we had to go to the concert, and we left the dishes right there on the table, embarking on a drunken and happy walk to town.

I've got my own little Rufus Wainright, only straight and married to me...

Poached Pear, Caramelized Onion and Goat Cheese Salad
(my own taste buds' adaptation of a salad at Busboys and Poets, Shirlington, VA)

So we've got a few different elements here:

1. lettuce of your choice, washed and dried
2. goat cheese- I use Monterey Chevre
3. caramelized onions- I'm sure you know how to caramelize onions, but I had to figure this one out. Here's what I did:
Slice up 3-4 onions so you end up with long strings. Melt a hunk of butter in a large skillet, add the onions at low to medium heat. Toss the onions with a spatula so that they don't stick and burn. Cook, tossing when you think of it, for about 40 minutes, or until the onions are a nice golden brown. Then dump the onions into a bowl, and you should have a brown crust on your skillet. Pour a few spoonfuls of white wine vinegar, a dash of water, and a few spoonfuls of brown sugar into the skillet. Let it boil, scraping the crust of the pan as you go. Pour this fabulous dark brown substance over the onions, stir it in, and refrigerate.
4. poached pears- I used two pears for this: peel the pears, cut in half from the stem to the bottom, and scoop out the core with a spoon. Bring about six cups of water to a boil, add 1/2 cup sugar and a length of lemon peel. Simmer the pears in the liquid for about 15 minutes, or until they are tender when pricked with a fork. Refrigerate in the poaching liquid- then when ready to assemble, slice.
5. candied pecans- In a medium bowl, mix a few glugs of real maple syrup, a splash of vodka, and a few dashes of chili pepper. Toss a few handfuls of pecans in this mixture. Lay on a baking sheet and bake at 400 for 10-15 minutes. keep an eye on them- they can burn quickly.
6. vinaigrette- Whisk together about 1/4 cup olive oil, a few dashes sherry vinegar, a few dashes balsamic vinegar, and a spoonful of whole grain mustard. Adjust to your liking.

Assemble together and top with fresh pepper.