There’s nothing more debilitating to a food blogger than having no appetite. And frankly, in this oppressive summer heat, not only have I not wanted to cook, I haven’t even wanted to eat. I have a theory that when your body needs less energy to warm itself, you don’t need as many calories. I wonder if science backs me up.

In fact, one of the few things I’ve been eating as of late are Israeli salads. Some people call them Arab salads (it’s all politics, ultimately), while in Hebrew, they’re often simply called chopped salads.

The base is always the same — little chopped cubes of tomatoes and cucumbers. That’s the basic salad you get at falafel shops. In order for cucumbers and tomatoes to carry an entire salad, they have to be fresh and ripe. Now that it’s summer, you can expect to find plenty of these — the cucumbers here are no longer greenhouse-grown, and the tomatoes are bright red and juicy — as they were once, people like to say. Americans, read: No tomatoes picked green and unripe, and then transported two weeks. That will make your salad taste like cardboard.

Once you’ve got your base, you can dress it up with all sorts: Chopped onion, red or green pepper, and a wide assortment of herbs, including parsley, chives, garlic chives and mint. If you want a more Italian feel, try basil, oregano or marjoram. Mimi recently introduced me to purslane (a.k.a. regelah in Hebrew, and also known as rejlah, its Arabic name); juicy and lemony, it grows in the street, but I prefer to buy it from my greengrocer. Sometimes I like to grate some salty cheese on top, like feta, Bulgarian or jibneh (a sheep’s cheese).

Then comes the dressing — juice of a fresh lemon, and a generous swirl of top-quality olive oil. The resulting salad is rich, flavorful, and bursting with life.

For one chopped salad:

2 ripe tomatoes (say, 160 grams, for those who like precision)
2 crisp cucumbers (Israeli size — about 120 grams)
juice of 1 small lemon (say, 1 tablespoon)
a generous swirl of good olive oil (1 to 1 1/2 tablespoons)
salt, to taste (my taste is 1/4 teaspoon; I like using kosher salt or sea salt, which has larger grains)

Optional:

• A ring of purple onion
• Half a bell pepper
• Small handful of fresh herbs including: parsley (say, 1 tablespoon), chives or garlic chives (1 tablespoon), garlic chives and mint (1 teaspoon)
• Or, about 1 teaspoon of any of the following herbs: oregano, zaatar, marjoram and basil
• 2-3 stalks of purslane, both leaves and stems; about 1/4 cup
• A few gratings of white, salty cheese, such as feta, Bulgarian or jibneh
• Freshly ground pepper

Chop the vegetables into small cubes. Dice the herbs. Mix it all together, and season with salt, pepper (optional), the lemon juice and the olive oil. Enjoy.

Limonana is the quintessential drink of the Israeli summer. Simple and ubiquitous, there’s nothing more refreshing than freshly squeezed lemons and ground sprigs of mint, whether served on ice or blended into a smoothie.

In the summer, limonada becomes my social drink of choice — the drink that captures the spirit of the moment, a pleasant afternoon nestled into a chair in a lively streetside cafe. In the winter, I order a cappuccino; in the spring and early summer, I make that iced coffee; and once even milk is too heavy for the oppressive summer heat, I get limonana. Big, green and frothy, and very cold, please.

The name limonana is simply a combination of the word for lemonade, limonada, and the word for spearmint, nana, one of the country’s favorite herbs. It can be prepared as a drink, or as a smoothie, in which case all the ingredients are blended together.

The recipe contains a lot of fresh lemon juice, as well as a lot of mint, which gives it a strong flavor and a bright color.

You’ll want to adjust the sugar to your tastes: 4 tablespoons (i.e. 1/4 cup) will give you a mildly sweet drink, and 6 tablespoons will give you a drink that’s sweet but not cloying, something like the sweetness you’ll get in restaurants. 2 tablespoons comes out barely sweet. I prefer 4 tablespoons, but if you like things really sweet, you might even want to add more than 6 tablespoons.

For 4 cups (one liter) of ice limonana:

2 heaping cups of ice
1 cup fresh lemon juice (from about 4 large lemons)
1/2 cup spearmint leaves (from about 40 stalks), plus a few more to garnish
4-6 tablespoons sugar (or to taste; see note above)

Juice the lemons, and remove the mint leaves from the stalks. Dump all ingredients in a blender, and blend until smooth.

Serve garnished with mint.

Note: While you can find a limonana pretty much anywhere, I had a great limonana smoothie — limonana garus — at Etnachta, on Dizengoff 190. There, most everyone is sipping bright green limonanas in the summer.

They say that people either love licorice or hate it, and the licorice battleground happens to fall right through the middle of our household. Since fennel has what I would describe as a licorice flavor, I’ve never been a big fan. But this recipe, which I’m blatantly, um, borrowing from renowned Israeli chef Rafael Cohen, made me love fennel — at least, so long as its caramelized in butter and sugar.

The preparation is quite easy — basically, you’re steaming the fennel, sliced open and lying in a pool of butter and sugar, until its soft, and the underside has turned a caramelized brown. It’s also perfect for spring, because what better way to enjoy the season than to sink your teeth into a juicy green vegetable?

I should probably mention that I found huge, beautiful organic fennel roots at the Tel Aviv Farmer’s Market at the port, which is now being institutionalized with its very own building there.

This works with leek, too.

For two servings:

1 large fennel root
1 teaspoon sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup water
butter for frying (±1-2 tablespoons)
6-7 saffron threads (this was in the original recipe, but in my opinion, it’s optional)

Slice the fennel in half, rinse out any dirt and place the halves cut-side down in a big pot, along with the other ingredients. Heat on a low flame until the fennel is soft, about 40 minutes. If the water boils off, add a bit more, so the fennel (and caramel) won’t burn.

These biscotti have a tendency to vanish. Biscotti are twice-baked cookies, once into a loaf, and the second time after being sliced, and until crunchy. Something about the denseness means they don’t lose much — if anything — from being made with matzo meal instead of flour, and thus kosher for Passover.

I got the recipe from my mother, who explained to me that she never bakes the full batch at once, because however much you bake, it immediately disappears. I baked mine before the holiday officially began, and thus kept myself from eating them — no Passover food until it’s Passover.

So first thing after getting home from the seder, I made a beeline for the cookies — yes, after a four-course meal and all. And it’s only been downhill from there.

My version of this recipe contains way more nuts and chocolate than the original, since that’s how I like it, and may make a bit less — I halved the amount of batter, but bulked up on the fillings, and the net result was 20 cookies instead of 24. Not that it matters how many cookies you make, because you’ll probably have to make another batch either way.

For about 20 slices:

3/8 cup oil plus additional for the pan
1/3 cup white sugar
1/4 cup brown sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla

2 tablespoons cocoa powder
2 eggs
1-2 tablespoons espresso (or brewed coffee)
Pinch salt
3/4 cups matzoh meal
1 tablespoon potato starch
1/2 cup walnuts
1/2 cup semisweet chocolate

Preheat oven to 180 degrees Celsius (350 Fahrenheit). Oil a 10-by-20 centimeter (8-by-4 inch) loaf pan, or fold a sheet of aluminum foil into a rectangle to make a makeshift pan (the batter is pretty stiff, so this works).

Meanwhile, mix the oil, sugars and vanilla in a bowl. Add the cocoa, and then the eggs, then the coffee, salt, matzoh meal and potato starch. Let stand about 10 minutes; the batter will thicken.

Chop the nuts and chocolate, and mix into the batter. Pour it into the loaf pan/tin foil — it should be quite thick.

Bake for 40 to 45 minutes, until dry and cake-like; cover the loaf with aluminum foil after the first 10 minutes in the oven so that the top doesn’t burn.

Let the loaf cool, so that it becomes firm (you can leave it sit overnight or longer if you want).

To finish, heat the oven to 150 degrees Celsius (300 Fahrenheit), slice the loaf into thin cookies and arrange on a baking sheet (or aluminum foil).

Bake until dry, for about 20 minutes. Make sure the cookies don’t burn.

I had a particular Persian meatball dish in mind when I made this — meatballs stewed in a broth of dried fruit. Fruit plays a central role in savory cooking in Persian cuisine. While dried fruit is more commonly associated with another holiday, Tu Bishvat, Passover also happens to fall in the spring, and thus fruit is still appropriate.

In this dish, it gives Ashkenazi matzo balls an unusual twist. The matzo balls provide firm texture in place of meatballs, and the fruit soup — well, it speaks for itself, a mix of sweet and savory thanks to some onions and garlic.

In terms of the fruit you use, you could follow my lead, or improvise.

I added some grated zucchini into my matzo balls in order to soften the texture. The main factor affecting how soft (or hard) your matzo balls are is whether you add water — I added 8 teaspoons, which made mine pretty fluffy, but if you like them denser, you could reduce that. And if you like them REALLY hard, you could leave the water out of the batter altogether.

Note: For those who eat kitniyot over Passover (you know who you are), this goes great served as a stew alongside rice. For those unsure, many Ashkenazi Jews do not eat rice (or other kitniyot) during Passover.

For two liters of soup:

125 grams dried apricots
125 grams prunes
70 grams dried sour apricots
70 grams raisins
5-6 garlic cloves
150 grams onion (1-2 onions)
2 teaspoons salt
oil for frying

For the matzo balls:
1 cup matzo meal
1 cup grated zucchini
4 eggs
8 teaspoons water (about 3 tablespoons)
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon, nutmeg
salt (I used 1 teaspoon)

Chop the onion and fry until translucent in a thick-bottomed pot in a bit of oil. Crush the garlic, add to the pot and fry until lightly golden.

Rinse and chop the fruit, and add to the pot. Add enough water so that the fruit is covered 2-3 times over — the fruit will swell up. Add the salt and let simmer.

Once the fruit looks fully saturated with water, blend the soup until smooth. Let simmer as you make the matzo balls.

Meanwhile, make the matzo balls: Grate the zucchini and measure out a cup. Mix with the eggs, matzo meal, spices and salt. Let sit for a few minutes so that the matzo meal can absorb the liquid.

Bring water to a boil in a second pot. Form the matzo batter into balls, and drop into the boiling water. Let cook for a few minutes, until they start to float and then some. (You cook the matzo balls on their own first, as opposed to in the soup, so that extra starch doesn’t get into it).

Once the matzo balls have taken form and look cooked on the outside, use a slotted spoon to transfer them into the soup pot, and let boil there for another 10 minutes or so to absorb the flavors.

(Full disclosure — the matzo balls in the photo weren’t boiled in the soup; they pick up some of the soup’s color in the cooking process)

This is a play on a classic charoset — a Sephardi-style nut/date spread with a decidedly new-world twist. Cranberries are a new-world fruit, so it’s highly unlikely that they started appearing in any traditional Jewish cuisine too many centuries ago. But hey, it’s been 500 years since Columbus sailed the ocean blue and the world is increasingly globalized, so there’s no reason not to give our holiday “mortar” an extra cranberry tang.

Beyond the cranberries, there are the pears and the pecans, which give the charoset a decidedly upscale taste. What better way to deck out the seder table?

For a small container of charoset:

2 pears
40 grams dried cranberries
40 grams dates
1/4 cup pecans
A bit of orange juice/lemon juice if needed to make things blend

Pit the dates, core the pears and rinse the pecans. Blend it all together, adding liquid only if necessary. That’s it!

Pork-obsessed Spanish cuisine is not known for being kosher friendly, but classic croquettes can easily be made not only kosher and vegetarian, but kosher for Passover, to boot.

Croquettes are breaded dumplings filled with a bechamel cream, flavored with any number of things. I learned the technique from my friend Arturo, who threw himself a croquette birthday party with seven different kinds of dumplings — including ham, shrimp, ham and shrimp … and then for the vegetarians, mushroom and spinach. Arturo was nice enough to invite me over during his three (!!) days of preparations, so after watching seven batches of croquette fillings come off the flame, I felt confident enough to give it a go myself.

Traditionally, the bechamel filling is thickened with wheat flour and cornflour, but there’s no reason not to use potato starch,which gives it a more gooey, melted cheese texture. And the dumplings are usually coated with bread crumbs, but finely crumbled matzo works here, too. As for the flavors, there is any number of delightful options that don’t include pork, shrimp, or any other form of meat — I used mushrooms in this recipe, but spinach would also work, as would fresh herbs, sharp cheeses (blue cheese or cheddar, for instance) and maybe even roasted nuts. Arturo used pine nuts, raisins and eggplant. Kosher, non-vegetarian options include fish, such as salmon, tuna or codfish.

For those not making this for Passover, panko makes for a fabulously light, crunchy coating.

This recipe can be conveniently prepared over a number of days — the bechamel filling can sit in the fridge for a day or two, and once formed into dumplings and coated in potato starch, it can sit for another day or so.

A note about frying — having a thermometer makes things much easier, and takes away the guesswork. It lets you know when the oil is at the optimal temperature — 190 to 200 degrees Celsius, or 375 to 400 Fahrenheit — without you having to test a dumpling or two to see whether it burns/browns nicely/absorbs oil without cooking. Plus, more importantly, it lets you know whether the oil is getting too hot during the cooking, and saves you from burning things.

For about 16 croquettes:

For the bechemel filling:
100 grams onion
100 grams portobello mushrooms (±1-2)
100 grams button mushrooms
1/4 cup potato starch
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups milk
oil for frying

For the breading:
potato flour
1 egg
2-3 sheets matzo, or some matzo meal
Oil for deep frying

Grate the onion, and finely chop the mushrooms.

In a frying pan on medium heat, fry the onion in a bit of oil until golden. Add the mushrooms, and pan-fry until soft. Add the salt, and then the starch, mixing it into the vegetables. Everything should start getting dry and stiff very quickly. Pour in the milk, mixing to incorporate into the starch. This is a good time to deglaze — stir to get all the brown bits off the bottom of the pan.

Lower the heat, and keep stirring until things start to thicken — you want the filling to have the consistency of mashed potatoes, so that you’ll be able to form it into dumplings.

Once the filling is thick, scrape it into a dish and set aside to cool. Then, put it into the fridge for several hours. You can even leave it for a day or two — that helps the flavors combine. Once cool, the filling should not move when you turn the dish onto its side.

To make the dumplings: Put the matzo into a food processor and grind into fine crumbs. Note that larger chunks will be noticeable in the coating, as in the photo, and will have a more solid (but still crunchy) texture. Or, just use matzo meal.

Prepare three bowls, one with potato starch, one with the egg (beaten) and one with the matzo crumbs/meal.

Scoop out spoonfuls of filling. They should come off the spoon as little logs. You can roll them into balls if you like. Dunk them in potato starch, then in egg and finally coat with matzo.

Fill a pot with half an inch (1.5 centimeters) of oil, enough to cover at least half a dumpling once the pot is full of croquettes. Put the oil on a flame, and heat to 190 to 200 degrees Celsius/375 to 400 Fahrenheit. Drop in the dumplings and fry until golden on one side, then flip.

Remove and sit on a paper towel to absorb the excess oil. Eat hot.

Passover is rapidly approaching. The stores have already stopped stocking my favorite cookies and chocolates (no baker’s chocolate for Passover? really guys?) You, like us, are preparing for the week of unleavened bread, whether that means planning a seder, or just coming up with things to eat for the week.

I’m not one of those people who feels Passover equals starvation. I love the holiday, and all its food. Hopefully, I have some recipes that can make that process easier and more enjoyable. I’ll be posting new recipes over the next two weeks, but until then, you can check out my Passover-specific recipes from last year:

• Sweet bimuelos, a Turkish staple that aroused a surprising amount of interest as expressed by the commenters from around the world
• Mina de espinaka, a Sephardic spinach-cheese pie
• My mother’s charoset recipe, in traditional Sephardi Mediterranean style
• Matzo ball soup with Middle Eastern spices

Plus, my posts from the rest of the year are categorized based on those that suit Passover: Everything free of chametz (grains) appears in my Sephardi Passover recipes list, while everything free of chametz and kitniyot (legumes) appears in my Ashkenazi Passover recipes. (Let me know if I’ve mislabled anything …)

Have a happy Passover, from Cafe Liz. Let the cooking begin.

Blood oranges aren’t so common, although I’m not sure why not. They have a relatively discreet exterior — only a hint of a blush that tells you that no, this is not a normal orange; inside lies a shockingly red jewel of a fruit.

This year, I’ve found only one person selling blood oranges at the Carmel Market — the guy near the bottom of the shook, who also sells steamed corn and fruit juices. Coincidentally, he’s across from the one person at the shook who had limes several months ago.

What is it with the scarcity of interesting citrus this year? In any case, I decided to preserve some blood oranges for posterity, or at the very least for the next few months. Because what would make a marmalade more beautiful than ruddy sunset hues?

Inspired by David Leibovitz’s recipe for bergamot marmelade (OK, who isn’t?), I whipped up a simple jam. Like many jams, this one has three ingredients — fruit, sugar and water.

Unlike other fruits, such as strawberries or apricots, the oranges don’t cook into a mush. The sugar and the water are what make the concoction jam — by increasing them, you can increase the quantity of jam you make. Obviously, the more you increase the water and sugar, the less the concentration of orange bits in the jam. Mine was pretty packed with candied orange peels, so it’s a matter of personal choice — some recipes use twice the amount of sugar and water that I used.

Also worth noting — citrus contains a nice amount of pectin, which helps the jamming process.

A note on canning — if you want to properly can your jam, read this guide from the USDA, in order to understand what your goal is, and what the dangers are. Apparently, due to their acidity, there are less risks involved in canning fruit than in working with vegetables, but it’s important to understand the process nonetheless.

For about 0.8 liter of jam (three jars, in my case):

900 grams-1 kilo oranges
2 cups sugar
1 1/2 cups water

Rinse the oranges and chop into uneven chunks, peel and all, but removing the seeds.

Put into a pot with the sugar and water, and bring to a boil. Let cook until the jam sets. There are a few ways to check for this:

• The temperature should be 220 Fahrenheit/105 Celsius (meaning the sugar content is high enough to raise the boiling point past 212 F/100 C, and the sugar is beginning to candy).
• When drizzled on a plate that was in the freezer, and let cool in the freezer for another minute, it should “wrinkle” when nudged — meaning it should have a jammy, not liquid texture.

Put the finished jam into jars.

If you want to can your jam, first, read the USDA canning guide. Then, prepare the jars while the jam cooks, by boiling them in a pot of water (consult the guide for the exact times).

Fill the jars with jam, close them, and then return them to the water bath and boil for 10 minutes. Remove from the water and let cool.

If you do this properly, your jars should be fully sealed and you could store them outside the fridge. However, I keep mine in the fridge, since I have room. My goal in canning the jam is that it last longer, even if stored in the fridge.

People, believe it or not, I've found a use for kiddush wine. For those who have never had it, it's a traditionally sweet wine to represent the sweetness of blessings, but there's just so much sweetness a person can handle until terms like cloying and sickly come to mind. But add some spices and fruit, and heat it up, and it's actually quite nice. There you have it, mulled wine, no sugar added. Good for the cold weather, too.

A few weeks ago, I had the honor of attending a Tel Aviv food blogger meet-up. Yael of Oranges and Honey (in Finnish), Irene of Irene Sharon Hodes, Sarah of Foodbridge, Michelle of Baroness Tapuzina and Miriam of Israeli Kitchen and I met at Mazzarine in Tel Aviv for dinner (see my previous review). The management had caught wind of our nature, and sent over a handful of offerings on the house, along with the new chef. Culinary highlights: I quite liked the foccaccia and the mustard mayonnaise; chef Sharon Artzi, who had been there a week at the time, told us he planned to renovate the menu with new dishes; and the mulled wine that closed our meal was excellent. A traditional Scandinavian holiday drink, as Yael pointed out. (Non-food highlight: Have you ever been out to eat with six people who all get up and methodologically photograph every dish? It's nice to be with like minds.)

Along with cubes of fresh fruit, Mazzarine added a few dried rosebuds to their mulled wine, and while they don't add a prominent flavor, they make a nice visual touch.

Now, you could make mulled wine from slightly better stock, but why bother? I've never exactly been a wine connoisseur, and in any case, why ruin something that's worth drinking on its own? And who doesn't have a random, unwanted bottle of kiddush wine sitting around?

In my version, I used quinces, which have a somewhat floral flavor and compliment the rosebuds. I also used mini-lemons (a.k.a. "Chinese lemons"). I'd love to try this with kumquats. You can use whatever fruits suit your fancy, as well as a range of pie spices.

Generally, mulled wine is simmered for a long period of time, but I let the lemon and rosebuds infuse on their own, in the refrigerator, and they thus maintained their colors. Only the quince was boiled -- most kinds of quince need to be cooked before they can be eaten.

For a bottle's worth:
1 quince, cubed
3-4 mini-lemons (or 1-2 full-sized lemons), finely sliced
a broken cinnamon stick or two
half a dozen cloves
4-6 cardamom pods
a pinch of freshly grated nutmeg
a dozen dried rosebuds or so
1 bottle red wine (if you don't use kiddush wine, you'll have to add sugar to taste)
Optional: Vodka to increase the alcohol content

Finely cube the quince, put in pot and just cover with wine, add spices, cover and boil until quince is soft. Turn off flame, add the rest of the wine, the rosebuds and the sliced lemons.

Let sit to infuse for long as possible -- a few days in the fridge is just fine. Heat before drinking.

More about the blogger meet-up

Yael, Sarah, Miriam, Michelle and Irene already have published their reviews of the event and the meal. Who's the slacker?