Ancient Grains for Modern Meals - Maria Speck [76]
8 dried figs, preferably Greek or Turkish, stemmed
8 thin slices prosciutto (4 ounces)
1 teaspoon minced fresh rosemary
Freshly ground black pepper
8 toasted walnut halves
Extra-virgin olive oil, for brushing
1 Position a rack on the lowest shelf of the oven, about 4 inches from the bottom, and preheat to 375°F. Thoroughly brush a small rimmed baking sheet with olive oil, or coat with cooking spray.
2 Place the figs in a small bowl and cover with hot water for 10 to 15 minutes. Drain and pat dry.
3 Arrange the prosciutto slices side by side on a work surface. Sprinkle with the rosemary and season well with pepper. Slice the figs in half, but not all the way through, so they can be opened up like a book. Put a walnut half in the center of each and close. Place 1 fig on the bottom third of each prosciutto slice and roll up, using a toothpick to fasten the package. Transfer to the baking sheet.
4 Brush the prosciutto rolls generously with olive oil, or coat with cooking spray. Roast for a total of 5 to 7 minutes, until the prosciutto is crisp and browned, turning once, using tongs, and brushing or spraying halfway through. Serve at once.
TO GET A HEAD START: The prosciutto rolls, up through step 3, can be prepared 2 hours ahead. Set aside at room temperature.
TO VARY IT: Use large pitted dried prunes instead of figs.
Barley: Mild and Adventurous
Barley is central to the cultural fabric of Bavaria, the southern German state in which I spent my teenage years, yet many Bavarians have not tasted the grain in a meal since World War II. Locals are devoted to the grain. They like to recite a hymn to barley: “Hopfen und Malz, Gott erhalt’s,” translated as “hops and malt, may God preserve it.” But the malt they rave about is the sprouted and dry-roasted barley used in making beer.
Bavarians love beer. Locals have it at all times of the day, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner—and as a snack in between. They drink it in huge beer halls during the cold season, and in lush beer gardens under the wide canopy of trees in the summer. Munich is the self-declared “beer capital of the world.” But despite the fact that I was raised in its suburbs, after my father’s job posting in Greece ended and we moved back to Germany, I remained pretty aloof from the all-encompassing beer culture around me.
Then one day my neighbor and friend Hildegard served the grain barley to me for the first time. I was in my mid-twenties, and she had come over with a home-cooked meal. I didn’t even know you could eat the grain. Barley is for beer production, isn’t it? Why would anyone consider cooking with the crop? Then I was drawn in by the faint earthy aroma, unfamiliar to me, wafting from my plate. Earlier in the day, she had bought crisp summer zucchini at the farmers’ market. She had cut them in half lengthwise, hollowed them out, and prepared a filling from coarsely milled barley. The grits were first cooked and combined with sautéed onions, a medley of herbs, and a mild farmer’s cheese. Hildegard then baked the zucchini until the cheese in their grain-filled centers melted and its ingredients melded into a light, mouthwatering summer dish. This left me longing for more.
I have since discovered the dual faces of barley. Many people are familiar with pearl or pearled barley in a hearty stew, simmered with spicy sausages, richly flavored beef, or smoked ham hock. Barley is a sucker, so to speak—it will absorb any flavors and sauce from its surroundings and flourish. The result is a supremely comforting soup or stew with character, perfect for the cold winter months.
On Greek islands, whole barley is coarsely milled for rustic loaves that are double-baked into thick farm-style rusks. It has the color of café au lait, so fittingly described by Greek-food expert and author Diane Kochilas. Until a generation ago, locals would eat this tough bread for breakfast, mellowed by dipping in wine. Today these crude rusks are often served as a bread salad, first briefly soaked in water and