Schmears are a doddle, as Jamie Oliver would say.  Or as I like to think he would say, since he was originally talking about gravlax, which is a lot harder to make than a schmear.  But perhaps you are unfamiliar with the word?  Has it not spread beyond the confines of Manhattan, to inflect yet another new Yiddishism on American food-speak?

If not, then let me help it out – a schmear is something you spread.  Perhaps, but not necessarily, on a bagel.  I first encountered the word on the lips of my grandpa Maier, who was watching me paint a fence – or, rather, put paint on a fence.  “Are you a painter,” he asked me, “or a schmearer?”

From the context, it was clearly better to be a painter.  Yet I grew up to be a schmearer.  So it goes.

I love making schmears.  They are a perfect illustration of one of my major culinary precepts – you can almost always make something better than what you can buy, mainly by using More of the Expensive Stuff.  So here, for example, is a lox schmear that is, by weight, half lox.  An olive spread made with Castelvetrano olives.  An Everything Schmear that uses nigella seeds, if you can find them, as well as the pedestrian sesame and poppy.

My goal is to keep adding schmears to this site until every bagel in the world has its perfect spread.  Or I might just stop at 50, which is one schmear a week for a year, less a vacation someplace warm enough to melt cream cheese:  50 Schades of Schmear.   I’m up to five, so far, that I feel are ready to share, with a few still in the can, so pop back anytime if your bagel looks too naked.

 

Most of the spreads sold cavalierly from the refrigerated case at your local bagel bakery will bow humbly before the schmears you can make yourself, using more and better ingredients.  These Three Classic Schmears – lox, olive and vegetable – will cover all the bagel bases, and rank very high on the deliciousness-to-effort scale.  My generic advice:  use full fat cream cheese, and do not overprocess.  When in doubt, leave the chunks.

Three Classic Schmears

 

As a bagel purist, I viewed the arrival of the Everything Bagel with suspicion.  Poppy seed and pumpernickel are still my favorites, but this Everything Schmear is killer on both of them.  Don’t wait on finding nigella seeds to make this, but do hunt them down at some point (Penzey’s is a great online source).  They add a smoky, exotic flavor – the schmear equivalent of putting on eye shadow.

Everything Schmear

 

The inspiration for this Horseradish/Beet Schmear was, of course, the mysteriously red horseradish that my family never purchased, choosing instead the plain.  The reason, my grandma said, was that the red version contained beets – as if that were cheating.  I expect it was tinted so that it looked nice next to gefilte fish, which is about the color of oatmeal; both jarred versions taste virtually the same.  But beets, of course, do have a flavor of their own, and a great native sweetness to go with the nose-clearing heat of the freshly-grated root.  Still, it is the amazing color of the beet version that makes it nearly irresistible.

Horseradish/Beet Schmear

 

A few years ago I was standing in my front yard staring concernedly at something, when an older gentleman stopped by and told me that he used to live in my house.   We had a great chat.  Among many other things, he told me that my backyard used to be planted in buckwheat.

“Did you eat that, then?” I asked, wondering if he could possibly be Jewish.

“No, no,” he explained.  “It was to attract the pheasants.  We used to shoot them from the back step.”  He went on to tell me it was actually illegal, except during hunting season.  But my house was far enough out from the center of town that they didn’t worry about that too much.

Today, of course, if I fired a shotgun in my backyard an armored SWAT vehicle would be lobbing tear gas canisters at me within minutes.  That’s progress, I guess.  One thing hasn’t changed, though – whole buckwheat is still mostly seen as bird food.

Unlike amaranth, freekeh, farro, kamut, quinoa, sorgum and teff, buckwheat has missed out on the ancient whole grains bandwagon.  It’s basically too old to be rediscovered.  In the grain world, once you’ve been ground up into blini and slathered in caviar, it’s too late to play the ingenue.

But whole buckwheat, besides being an Oprah-endorsed superfood, is good stuff.  Toasted, it has a hazelnut aroma and a soft texture that improves with rest.  It wants to be handled rather leisurely, in stages – mixed with egg and retoasted in a dry pan, glossed with hot fat and simmered for a good half hour, then allowed to sit, steaming into a dish towel, for another 10 or fifteen minutes.

Rush things, and it tends to disintegrate.  Fluff it up and leave it overnight in the fridge and the grains will stay nicely separate, ready for reheating in the oven or microwave.

It can be a tiny challenge to find the buckwheat format you need.  In my own local super, kasha is never seen in the natural foods aisle.  The little retro boxes packaged by Wolff’s are only found in the kosher section, next to the tubes of barley and Israeli couscous.  Bob’s Red Mill makes a great-looking product in economic quantities, but I have yet to find it locally.

Wherever you find your kasha, try to get the whole grain variety for these recipes.  If it’s not available, you can work with coarse.  It’s not as nutty and the grains aren’t as distinct, but it will cook in half the time.  Medium and fine grade kasha is basically oatmeal – it cooks into mush.  Delicious mush, if you like, but I am not an oatmeal guy.

No one seems to know why Jews in the Russian Pale started mixing pasta with grains.  I expect they were just being frugal with leftover soup noodles, but according to Mitchell Davis, author of The Mensch Chef and one of my beloved food authorities, even the term varnishkes is obscure.  Here, too, I just assumed it meant “garnished”, which is garnishte in Yiddish, which is close enough for me.

However it came about, this is great, basic, cheap, protein-laden and filling; exactly what you need to keep the wolves at bay and the Olympic medals coming.

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Kasha varnishkes has been around a long time, lurking in the side dish section of many a deli menu. I’m not sure whether it’s because it’s steam table friendly, truly and amazingly delicious, or just funny to say. It is definitely filling, comforting and a little bit curious – why bow ties? Why pasta with grains in the first place? What is a varnishke? The only answer is the dish itself. Despite the modern pasta shape this is an ancient flavor, nutlike and nutritious. Foodwise, it’s biblical. Wordwise, it sounds like the stage name of a Catskills comedian. Folks – you gotta try it. It’s there all week.

Kasha Varnishkes

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Vegan Varnishkes is for my vegan niece.  I love her to death and respect her choices, and I do hate seeing her bring her little ersatz sausage patties to family dinners, asking politely for a bit of space on the stovetop as we get ready to slice a ham.  To make this, I souped up the flavor and protein profile by cooking the buckwheat in tomato juice, and added soybeans and chickpeas.  I also saute about half the garbanzos in generous olive oil with a sprinkle of smoked paprika, to make a flavored drizzle for the plate.  That and fresh mint, if you have it, make a great, slightly exotic finish for this filling dish.

Vegan Varnishkes

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So Kasha Varnishkes doesn’t float your boat?  Well, dammit, I did my best.  I showed you how to cook it so the grains stay separate. I talked it up, added tasty fats, gave it a bit of context and even duck and vegan versions, and still, you turn up your nose?  Unfortunately, you have company among some in my immediate family, who think it’s kind of blah.  Maybe it’s just one of those things you have to have had as a kid.  Maybe it just really needs to have brisket gravy poured all over it.

Let’s move on.  This Good Housekeeping/Food52 mashup Kasha and Lentil Skillet with Feta dinner has moved right into our twice-weekly vegetarian weeknight rotation. It has it all:  Whole grains.  Legumes.  Flavor.  Cheese.  Nuts.  Exotic spices.  Yummy fats poured on at the end, so you can regulate how much you deserve.  Also, it’s ready in less than an hour, with plenty of time to make a salad and warm up some naan or pita.

In the interests of time and simplicity we forgo the egg and let the buckwheat and lentils form a mutually agreeable coalition, crumbly yet tender.  Nuts add crunch, the broiler adds roastiness, and meat would add nothing.  You could serve it with rice, but it’s perfect just with flatbread and mint chutney.

Kasha and Lentil Skillet with Feta