Arigyalas.

Let me be very clear up front.

Salads are not my preference.  I do not care how you combine leaves with other fantastic edible life-forms or how delicious those first few bites may be -- the time will come, within the same bowl, where I will feel as though I am eating a lawn.  A glorified lawn, yes, one with nuggets of cranberry and/or cheese crumbles and/or other delectable plants, but a lawn nonetheless.

Also?  Not into salad dressing.  I remember when ALL. THE. RAGE. raved over Green Goddess salad dressing and never was I a fan. I can handle a touch of something balsamic, or even this fig concoction that Brandon brought home recently, but only enough to say that I did.

At any rate, this all leads up to the problem of what to do with not one but TWO bunches of farm fresh arugula.  Siiiigh. I have been known to order an arugula/parm/lemony dressing combo when needing to participate in the cultural tradition of the "salad course" when dining at restaurants -- after all, this is how I knew I liked arugula in the first place -- but something told me my version of any fancy salad I had prepared for me would fail dramatically in comparison. I needed to cook it. I think the preferred term in this instance is "wilt."

As an aside, I have a soft spot in my heart for arugula for a completely (almost) unrelated reason. And that's Arigyalas.  When Brandon and I moved to our Cottage in the Woods in the splendid DC summer heat of July 2009, I had major anxiety. I have --other than an ill-advised few months in Winston-Salem, NC -- lived in a major metropolitan neighborhood, be it DC or NYC, since 1993. I had not owned a car. I walked everywhere I could ever want to go. I had a push cart to wheel groceries home. I could fall out of my front door to any of sixteen bajillion cuisines, wine varieties, beers on tap, and freaky people. I had friends a stone's throw away. What I did not have, however, was space enough for a growing Doberman, greenery, or a happy fiance. The house hunt that started in Capitol Hill to appease my fear of leaving urbanity ended in Chevy Chase (DC side! DC side!) where houses were not attached (I am not making this up) and children played outdoors in actual YARDS. I wanted Brandon to be happy, and I did not want to walk the dog in the snow, and so I let go of my push cart, bought a car, and moved six miles up the road into what felt like no-man's land. Or at least no-one-like-me-and-Brandon land. People looked WAY too normal up here.

Turns out, our first night collapsing at Arigyalas erased the vast majority of that anxiety. After we finished unloading the endless stream of boxes and belongings, all we wanted to do was eat. And, well, drink.  We were dirty, we were hot, we were sweaty .... and we were in Chevy Chase? Where in the name of all that was holy could we eat in OUR condition? In the old 'hood, we would not have given it much of a thought -- any of ten places would have been options. But here? With the pretty people and manicured lawns? So, we headed over to the little Chevy Chase DC area of businesses on Connecticut Avenue to see what we could find, and there we spied a sign that said Arucola. Brandon asked, exhausted but always the funny man, "what's this place? what kind of word is that? Arucola? like the plant? why not just call it Arigyalas?"  Homemade pasta in a fancy, rustic Italian setting, complete with antipasto tray and dessert cart. It was after 9 o'clock, and I thought no way would a kitchen up here in no-man's-land still welcome diners, let alone two in our condition. Never shy, we gave it a whirl -- me in my ripped filthy tee shirt and a face that exposed the trauma of the day's move, Brandon in his work clothes, covered in sweat and tattoos. And you know what? Arucola was THE BOMB. You would have thought they were just waiting for us to show up so that they could say hey, WELCOME, let me stuff your face with homemade pasta goodness and cold beer while we show not one ounce of care that we certainly have never served anyone in your state of appearance in recent memory. The people were amazing and the food unspeakably delicious. Heaven.

Since then, Arucola is the go-to, maybe a weekly affair. They know us by now (and how could they not?). Our neighborhood fancy Italian joint. Except we never, ever call it Arucola. No. It is forever Arigyalas. Or Ol' Arigyalas. On nights when I can't fathom cooking, we may have an exchange as follows -- modern couple that we are, of course, this occurs via text:

Me: Trying to leave work. It's late. Starved. No cooking.
Him: K
Me: Can we go somewhere?
Him: K
Me: Rigyalas?
Him: K

And so it goes. But, I still do not order salad there.

So we are back to the arigyala from the farm with my refusal to eat it raw, and in a bit of a state of needing comfort food, which meant whipping out the necessary stand bys:

I may be in Chevy Chase, but I am proud to have my Lawry's and Mrs. Dash!  Sometimes, Penzey's, a girl has to go back to her roots.  But for this comfort food, I needed meat.  And, it being summerish, I was determined (as I am almost all of our summer months) to cook said meat outside. I found we had some ground turkey so I knew I was in business.  Turkey burgers and some-form-of-cooked-arigyala coming up.

Now, some folks (I'm looking at you, Dad) may think the use of "turkey" in place of "beef" automatically means healthier. This is not the case. "Ground turkey" in an of itself could consist entirely of dark meat and Lord knows how much fat. The only time I ever buy ground turkey is when I know I am buying 100% ground turkey breast.  The upside is the leanness; the downside is the leanness causes dryness and less flavor.  The price we pay for health. 

Out of respect for my vegetarian beloveds, I will not post the pics of my time with the ground turkey.  Suffice it to say that one thing I love about making turkey burgers is the harkening back to my childhood days of playing with various substances. Play-doh comes to mind.  Ground turkey is nothing at all like ground beef, or ground bison (the family favorite).  Ground turkey breast only turns into a decent burger with certain additions to hold it together and prevent its drying out.  So, to the meat I added the aforementioned Mrs. Dash and Lawry's Seasoning Salt (don't be shy folks! season season season!), an egg, a small chopped onion, and copious amounts of breadcrumbs. After pattying it up, I washed my hands for about ten minutes and sprayed down the counter. 

Once those were on the grill -- the farm bounty!  After some research online, I found that others (including one lady named Martha Stewart) cooked arugula in many ways similar to my standard formula for all greens -- olive oil, garlic, red pepper flakes. Since arugula has a bitter, peppery punch to it, I thought I would ditch the crushed red pepper and instead top it off with a bit of balsamic. 

I cut off the bottom stems of the bunch of leaves, then took out the larger, tree-like stems with flowers.

Next I cut the leaves into ribbons for the mandatory washing. And let me tell you; one bowl change of water will demonstrate why cleaning greens from the farm is a necessary task.

Since the rigyala is a thin leaf, I knew I better remove as much water as possible before adding to the pan. So, after about four rinses in bowls of water, I spun the leaves using a salad spinner -- and, knowing this would take all of a few seconds, pulled out the non-stick so I could use the TINIEST amount of olive oil. Then, add garlic to heat for a minute or two before adding the leaves and turn turn turn until wilted. Finish with a drizzle of balsamic.

The end result, complete with the turkey burgers and backyard bliss, was a sight to behold. Brandon even came into the kitchen towards the end and starting eating the 'rigyala from the pan. The arugula was PERFECT. And thank heavens we had two bunches -- that stuff cooks down and we both devoured it as quickly as our forks and mouths would permit. This one is a keeper.