Years ago, I won a copy of Root-to-Stalk Cooking in an online raffle. As soon as it arrived in the mail, I plonked down on the couch with a pile of Post-It notes and bookmarked every recipe I was dying to try. Then I tucked the book away on my shelf of cookbooks and promptly forgot it existed. A couple weeks ago I pulled it down, pages still studded with little pink flags. This is the first of those recipes I’ve tried, and it’s good. Really good.
The secret here is chard stems–those beautiful, vivaciously-colored stalks that you should never, ever throw away. I love them pickled; I love them in soups and stews. And, if you blanch them until soft and tender, they make a fabulous hummus-like dip.
Yes, I said hummus. Turns out, cooked chard stems make an admirable–dare I say superior?–replacement for the ubiquitous chickpea. They blend up even smoother and softer than canned chickpeas, with no fibrous skins to get in the way. And their subtle beet-y sweetness is a perfect balance for the usual hummus suspects: nutty-bitter tahini, tangy lemon, and buttery olive oil. It’s delicious, thrifty as hell, and a great low-FODMAP alternative to traditional hummus.
One thing I didn’t expect: if you make this dip with red chard stalks, it turns out pink. Like, tutu pink. Millennial pink. I found this delightful, but it did lead to several party guests asking why there was a bowl of strawberry yogurt next to the chips. Fortunately, chard comes in a wonderful variety of colors. If you prefer a more neutral-colored dip, choose white chard stems, or a mix of white, yellow, and green. (I’d avoid full-on rainbow chard, which seems like it would turn an unappetizing shade of brown.)
That drizzle of olive oil means it’s hummus, not yogurt. Right? Right?
I don’t often find inspiration in airplane food. But a few months ago I was on a Virgin America flight, hungry and fresh out of snacks. I ordered one of their cheese-and-cracker boxes, which came with a little tub of edamame hummus. I didn’t have high hopes, but the hummus was surprisingly great: smooth and solidly garlicky, like any good hummus should be, but lighter and more grassy. By the time I reached the bottom of the container, I was kicking myself for not having thought of it sooner.
It seems so simple, right? Just replace the chickpeas in a traditional hummus with cooked, cooled edamame. Ha! If only it were that easy. Trying to recreate that little tub of airplane hummus has taken me weeks and caused at least one tantrum. Turns out that frozen, thawed edamame don’t like to blend smooth, at least not without a lot of persuasion. It took at least three failed batches to produce a good one, but I finally got it down–a smooth green paste with the flavors of soy, lemon, tahini, and raw garlic in balance.
It all came down to the technique, and three things seem to have made the biggest difference. First, boil the frozen edamame for long enough, until the beans have lost lost their last hint of chalkiness. Second, add the edamame to the food processor in two or three batches, and make sure each addition is pureed as smooth as possible before adding the next. Third, and perhaps most importantly, puree everything for a good long while; I suggest letting the machine run for at least 30 seconds every time you add something, and let it run for a good solid minute or two once everything is in.
As with any hummus, the proportions here are entirely to taste. I like a strong but not antisocial garlic kick, a lot of lemon, and a ludicrous amount of black pepper. I like my hummus thinned with just a little bit of water, enough to make it scoopable but not saucy. I like to keep the olive oil out of the processor and drizzle it on just before serving, so that the flavor is fresh. And though I’m not usually one for food styling, I like a little dusting of something red on top–I believe sumac is traditional, but for my nonconformist green hummus, smoked paprika is just lovely.
Sometimes reinventing the wheel is fun. But when the wheel is just too good to need reinventing, there’s no need to fuss.
I made white bean hummus this weekend. No innovations, no frills, no extra-special secret ingredients–just beans, tahini, oil, a few seasonings and a finger-sticking boatload of roasted garlic. Especially this time of year, especially in northern California, when the slowly intensifying sun and bottomless blue sky start seducing people outside to eat finger foods and play guitar on the grass, there’s a lot to be said for going back to the tried-and-true.
Roasted garlic elevates just about anything it touches, but it especially loves hummus. The combination of sweetness, creaminess and nuttiness is one of the surest crowd-pleasers I’ve ever encountered. When it’s homemade, it’s even better–the garlic is sticky and caramel-like, the beans are silky and flavorful on their own, and using fresh lemon juice cuts the creaminess with bite.
Chickpeas are traditional, of course, but white beans make for a milder hummus and let the garlic star. I like a simple mix of smoky-fragrant seasonings in my hummus–thyme, cumin, coriander, and a shiver of smoked paprika on top. I can think of no better way to kick-start the sunshine season than with a bowl of this stuff and a plate of dippable crunchy snacks.