You may have noticed that here at Salty Seattle, we have a wee obsession with- you guessed it- SALT.  I pretty much think it’s the salt of the earth, I want to be its Salty Dog, and I sometimes don’t know if I’m worth(y) of my salt.  I know there are other saltophiles out there, however unfashionable it may be to admit it in our Atkins-crazed flavorless society, and I say, let’s unite! We should join together as exemplars of the movement back to good taste and simpler times, and what could be simpler than salt-making?

It was one of those AHA! moments I had a few weeks back that I just couldn’t shake- “Linda- must make salt. Must make salt soon.” What started as a little tickle in the back of my cerebellum quickly grew into a full-blown mania- the chanting voices in my head would not be calmed until a cauldron of oceanwater was brewing on my Bertazzoni.   I did a fair amount of research on water quality of various points of the Pacific Ocean, and decided that my collection point should be at Ocean Shores- some three hours drive from my humble abode perched atop Mt. Baker in the heart of Seattle.  I thought long and hard about how to coerce Jonas into spending more than six hours in the car on a rare day off (with a teething baby Bentley and a mother-in-law who won’t admit to hearing loss, no less) and I decided that AMBUSH was the best tactic. 

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Buonissimo! Finger-licking buonissimo is what you’ll be raving into next Tuesday if you step out on a limb and venture to make this crowd-pleasing pasta.  Just don’t tell your squeamish friends it’s made with duck eggs until after the first bite.  As is often the case with my culinary endeavors, I headed down to Pike Place Market to get some inspiration for what would be seasonally-appropriate to make for a fun dinner for five yesterday.   It could not be a better time of year to be at the market- every fruit stall is simply bursting over with bounty and the crisp autumn colors have us here at the Salty Seattle household all in a swoon.

 It was one of those days where just about everything I saw wanted to come home with me, from unnecessary gadgetry like a melon-balling set at Kitchen Basics to the absolutely gorgeous duck eggs from the Pike Place Market Creamery.  By the end of my unhinged spree, I wondered what on earth I would sort out for dinner from my unlikely mélange- definitely an everything-but-the-kitchen-sink kind of a journey. 

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Sitka and Spruce has been at the top of my very short list of must-try Seattle establishments for countless moons.  While I can make excuses galore about why I haven’t managed to venture in for crudités until now, the real reason is the façade.  Every time I drive by, a little wave of excitement bubbles up inside until I see Subway slinging sandwiches next door and my pitter-pattering heart halts with a shudder.  I honestly cannot figure out why on earth Sitka and Spruce is quaintly nestled between a drycleaner and a franchise sub shop in a dinghy stripmall circa 1992, but I no longer care. 

The place reminds me of high school gym class.  In the beginning of a semester you were supposed to demonstrate your lack of prowess in any number of demeaning athletic activities, only to improve over the course of several months until at the end of the class you were doing back-flips off the high beam.  I would always deliberately underwhelm Mr. Tinker, the Green Beret dropout-cum Gym teacher on the first day.  That way, when I would progress 300% by the final coup de grâce I could ensure myself at least one A+ on my frequently questionable report card.  Sitka and Spruce is much the same in the sense that you are not blown away at first glance, but once inside things just keep getting better and better until you leave bursting at the seams of satisfaction and blissfully intent to return again soon. 

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After spending an oozingly satisfying morning making burrata from scratch, I knew I had to have a superlative plan for serving it later that night.  The whole crew who came along for the burrata adventure was going to be there, and I wanted them to experience the efforts of their toils in a way they would not soon forget.  The task was compounded in difficulty by the fact that I was pretty insistent upon doing multiple courses with different variations of the burrata.  I was hoping to make each course unique enough that every time someone experienced that gushing burst of burrata bliss it would be just as good as the first.  This post deals with two of those courses- both succulent enough to inspire salivation in the most sated soul. 

We started with burrata in white nectarines with a fava bean puree because it’s refreshing, light (even with the burrata!) and the nectarines act as a great amuse bouche opening the palate to further pleasures.  I’ve served many variations on this fairly classic presentation of burrata, though normally I opt for apricots.  They were not in season at the market, which turned out to be a blessing in disguise. The nectarines had the added benefit of intensified sweetness to counterbalance the fava as well as a larger depression where their pits used to be, allowing me to cram in a perfectly plump dollop of burrata.  In the past, I had always oscillated between balsamic drizzle and mint simple syrup when dressing this dish, but this time I decided to go for broke and try both.  I wanted to be sure that each would have a different texture, so I upped the ante with the mint simple syrup and continued it to the point of caramelization.  That way, I could crumble the mint and drizzle the balsamic, and trust me, everyone was very happy. 

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Yes, funny you should ask.  I’m curing those lovely duck breasts this week so that next week they’ll become duck breast prosciutto.  I will report back once they are 70% of their original body weight and ripe for the slicing.

I have had a serious love affair with DeLaurenti in Pike Place Market for quite some time now; it’s the only shop I enter in Seattle and feel a semblance of being back in the land of prosciutto and Gucci (though I do have to ignore many of the uber-American tourists who frequent the market wearing tennis shoes and fanny packs if I want to retain my reverie).  It started when I moved back to Seattle from Torino a few years ago and went on the hunt for bresaola- the most amazing air-cured beef.  In Italy I had eaten it by the etto, almost daily and with reckless abandon.  One of the many things I forgot to factor into my homecoming was the utter absence of bresaola available on stateside soil.  After searching high and low to no avail, DeLaurenti came gleaming onto my radar like a beacon of brilliance.  They handily solved the first of what would become many gustatory jonesings, and I fell in love. 

This summer I went on a big gelato-making jag, and DeLaurenti was the only place in town that carried the super-top-secret-amazing-melt-in-your-mouth-ingredient I needed to make my pistachio flavor pop. They have become my go-to for everything from Marcona almonds to Valrhona chocolate.  When I discovered a while ago that they occasionally make their own burrata should the demand arise, my love affair went to a whole new level and I instantly vowed for better or worse, til death do us part.  Burrata, a cheese that consists of a mozzarella shell that encases the most amazing creamy-ooziness in the core once you slice it open, is the stuff from which dreams are made.  It should literally become global currency, transcending the euro and the yen faster than you can slip in a mouthful and beg for more.  Read more