FOOD ON THE FOOD

Buckle Up

Turns out I’m addicted to black raspberries.  I picked a bunch more a few days ago because it was raining, and when I got back, Looky Daddy had tweeted about this, which was adapted from this.  Suddenly, there was cake in the oven, its jammy scent wafting upstairs, interfering with my ability to fold laundry properly.  (I’m still finding mismatched socks in odd places.)

I managed to hold off for most of the day, but then I ate a quarter of this cake while making dinner.  What, I’m just fattening myself up for chemo. 

Black Raspberry Buckle

I know buckles usually have a crumbly topping, but that would ruin this.  It’s perfect the way it is.  I just like the name.

1 cup all-purpose flour
½ tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. baking soda
¼ tsp. salt
4 Tbsp. unsalted butter, softened
2/3 cup sugar, plus 1 Tbsp., divided (I liked Pinch My Salt’s idea of using demerara sugar on top.  I would have done it if I'd had some.)
½ tsp. pure vanilla extract
1 large egg
½ cup buttermilk, well shaken
1 cup fresh black (or red) raspberries

Preheat oven to 400°F with rack towards the top.  Butter and flour a 9-inch round cake pan.  Whisk together flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.  Cream butter and 2/3 cup sugar with an electric mixer at medium-high speed until pale and fluffy, about 2 minutes.  Beat in vanilla. Add egg and mix well.

At low speed, add flour mixture in 3 batches, alternating with buttermilk, and mixing until just combined.  Spoon batter into cake pan, smoothing top.  Scatter raspberries evenly over top and sprinkle with remaining 1 Tbsp sugar.

Bake until cake is golden and a toothpick inserted into center comes out clean, 25 to 30 minutes. Let cool.  Serve.

Source: Adapted from Gourmet’s recipe by Melissa Roberts.

Breasts (of Chicken)

This is sure to be my most tasteful post ever.

Quick update.  My drains are out, I’m showered, and dressed in real clothes that aren’t designed for post-ops.  Finally, I’m of a suitable appearance for blogging.    (I didn’t think there was a minimum requirement for one’s appearance when it came to blogging, but as blogging is reflective of one’s state of mind and/or body at that moment, it would be wise to note the correlation.  “If I’m incapable of dressing myself, then I’m unlikely to be fit for blogging” is a good rule of thumb.) 

I weaned myself off of the Percocets last week on Day 1 of my period so you can imagine what a laugh a minute that was.  It was kind of an emergency situation, though, as I alluded to in my previous post.  Husband had been so kind as to purchase some Senna early on to facilitate certain things (turns out the much-lauded Senokot had been conveniently pulled off the shelves for some reason, but luckily he found a guerilla generic brand).  Then, my mom arrived with every other weapon outlined in the comment section.  So, you see, your comments really can make a difference!  I can’t tell you what worked or what didn’t work, but the 12-day standoff recently resolved itself in a series of skirmishes that began and ended within 24 hours, so let’s leave it at that.

Hungry?

So, let’s talk about something else.  And let’s have that something else not be my breasts, either, for a refreshing change of pace.  Here’s what one of our wonderful neighbors brought for dinner the other night.  A big platter of breaded chicken cutlets (with marinara sauce), which seemed highly appropriate not to mention delicious.  This is how you know you moved into the right neighborhood!

Breaded Chicken Cutlets

8 boneless chicken breast halves
6 large eggs
2 Tbsp. milk or water
¾ cup Parmigiano-Reggiano or Romano cheese, divided
¾ cup all-purpose flour
3 cups plain dried bread crumbs
3 Tbsp. olive oil (or more)
3 Tbsp. butter (or more)
1½ cups marinara sauce (see recipe below)
1½ cups mozzarella cheese, if desired

Rinse chicken breasts under cold running water, pat dry with paper towels, and trim.  Holding the knife parallel to the cutting board, cut breasts in half to thin them out.  With meat between parchment or wax paper, pound gently with a meat mallet to reach an even ¼-inch thickness.  Season with salt and pepper.

In a medium bowl, beat the eggs, water, and ½ cup of the cheese.  One at a time, dredge the flattened chicken breasts in flour, then the egg mixture, then the bread crumbs.  Refrigerate breaded cutlets for 30 minutes to set.

Line a baking sheet with paper towels.  Place a large skillet over medium-high heat.  Warm 1 Tbsp. of butter and 1 Tbsp. of olive oil until hot.  Add cutlets, a few at a time, until bottom is golden-brown and crusty.  Turn and cook the other side.  Remove and drain on paper towels.

Serve topped with marinara sauce and extra cheese or, for Chicken Parmesan, preheat oven to 350°F.  Add a thin layer of marinara sauce to the bottom of a large pan.  Place cutlets on top, spoon another thin layer of sauce on top, and sprinkle with cheese.  Heat in the oven 10 minutes until cheese has melted.

Marinara Sauce

2 28-ounce cans whole Italian plum tomatoes and their juices
3 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil
3 cloves garlic, minced (about 1 Tbsp.)
6 leaves fresh basil, sliced
¼ tsp. freshly ground pepper
½ tsp. salt
1 tsp. sugar (if needed)

Coarsely chop the tomatoes into ¼-inch dice by hand or food processor.  In a large skillet, heat 2 Tbsp. olive oil until shimmering.  Add garlic and stir until it just turns golden, about 2 minutes.  Without letting the garlic burn, quickly add the tomatoes and their juices, half the basil, and the pepper.  Cook uncovered on medium heat for about 1½ hours, stirring every 5 to 10 minutes so sauce doesn’t scorch.  Sauce is done when you drag a spoon across the center of the pan and no liquid seeps back into the trail.  Add remaining 1 Tbsp. olive oil, season with additional salt and pepper (and sugar, if necessary), and add remaining basil leaves.

Source: Adapted from Cooking with Grace by Grace Pilato.  Thanks, Linda!

Oysters: The Pearls of Wellfleet

Look what my in-laws gave us a few weeks ago:

Local oysters raked up by Grandpa P on the beautiful shores of Wellfleet.  (You may remember his Cape Cod lobstering pictorial.)

I love oysters and I derive a lot of satisfaction out of shucking them, too, for some reason.  Now that I have the appropriate tool, an oyster shucker with a dull, curved blade and a wide grip, the task is a lot easier.  Do NOT ever use a paring knife to shuck oysters.  It’s tempting, I know, as you may not have an oyster shucker handy and the knives are right there.  But unless you want some of your more useful fingers to go flying across the room in a bloody spray, don’t do it.  If you have to make some kind of substitution, a screwdriver might potentially work.  A flathead, not a Phillips head.

Even when using an oyster shucker, you’ll need some hand protection.  They have these stabproof gloves you can wear, but as I only shuck oysters once or twice a year, I use a thick dishtowel folded a bunch of times or a crappy oven mitt.  Whatever you use, be prepared for it to smell like low tide when you’re done.  Sometimes I also wear a rubber glove to get a better grip, but I find it gives me a false sense of security, as if it offers some measure of protection against the stabbing motion of my other hand.  It doesn’t. 

And now that I’ve scared the bejesus out of you, let’s get to the shucking.  The first thing to do is scrub the bivalves well in cold water.  Then, firmly grasp the oyster in your dishtowel so the hinge is facing you and the flat side of the shell is face up.  You want the curved side of the shell to be on the bottom so there’s a reservoir to contain the delicious oyster juices instead of having them spill out.  Then, you take your shucker, angled down, pointy side up, and sort of wedge it into the hinge.  There’s a weak spot in there.  It may take a few tries to find it.  Once you’ve got it, give the tool a twist and sort of wiggle it around to loosen the shell.  Then, run the blade across the underside of the top shell to sever the adductor muscle and pry off the top shell completely. 

The interior should look moist, and smell clean and briny.  I toss anything that's questionable (shells that don’t close, loose hinges, dried out membranes, or any kind of funky smell).  The shells often stink, but the oysters themselves should not.

You can eat them like this, raw on the half shell, or you can slide them out, gently nudging them with the shucker off the muscle that holds them onto the bottom shell, into a bowl along with the liquor for any number of preparations.  I made creamy oyster soup and a bunch of crispy, fried oysters.  These were so so so so good and just about as local as it gets.  Thanks Grandpa P!

Oyster soup

This soup is simple but very rich.  As such, it’s best served in small, shallow bowls which will also keep the fried oysters from sinking to the bottom.

2-3 dozen oysters, liquor reserved
2 Tbsp. butter
1 shallot, finely minced
1 inside rib of celery, finely diced (1/4 cup)
1 Tbsp. flat-leaf parsley
1 bay leaf
¼ tsp. fresh thyme, chopped
Dash of cayenne
2 Tbsp. flour
1 cup milk
1 cup heavy cream
Salt and pepper to taste

Scrub and shuck the oysters, saving the flavorful liquor.  Chop oysters into pieces on the small side of bite-sized. 

Melt the butter in a medium saucepan over medium-low heat.  Add the shallot, celery, parsley, bay leaf, thyme, and cayenne, and cook, stirring constantly, until the veggies are soft but not brown (about 5 minutes).  Add the flour and cook a few minutes more.  Add the oyster liquor and stir well to thicken.  You may need to add a bit of water if you don’t have enough oyster liquor.  You want a thick cooking liquid, not a paste.  Add the oysters and simmer until cooked (about 5-7 minutes).  Remove the bay leaf.  Off the heat, add the milk and cream, stirring constantly.  Return to the flame and heat slowly being careful not to boil, which will curdle the cream.  Taste for seasoning.  You may not need much extra salt.  Garnish with a fried oyster.

Fried oysters

You could always skip the soup altogether and just make fried oysters.

1 part flour
1 part cornstarch
Beer from the bottle you’re drinking
Canola oil

Heat oil in a small saucepan to a temperature of 375°F.  Meanwhile, mix together flour and cornstarch in a small bowl with a bit of salt and pepper.  Add just enough beer that the batter is thick enough to coat the oyster without being gloppy.  Fry on both sides until golden and crispy.  Drain on paper towels.  Season with salt.  Eat them while they’re hot.

Local Sources:
Oysters: Nature, Wellfleet, MA
Milk: Our Family Farms of Western Massachusetts, MA
Cream: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA
Butter: Cabot, Cabot, VT

Easter Egg Ice Cream

Easter preparations have begun in earnest.  Hard-boiled eggs have been dyed, benevolent rodents have been plied with unreasonable gift requests, and at least one food blogger we know has put a serious dent in the Greater Boston Cadbury Crème Egg supply.  And while I know deep down in my heart that Easter isn’t only about the candy, I think Christ would agree that it’s totally all about the candy.  And it was only a matter of time before I wised up and started freezing some of it away to extend the season.  (See?  I’m a good little locavore.)

Ordinarily, I try not to take my culinary cues from the fast food chains, but what can I say?  Every once in a while, McDonald’s has a good idea.  Namely, the Cadbury Crème Egg McFlurry, which is all the rage in the British motherland (thanks, Jo!).  Basically, it’s crushed Cadbury Crème Eggs in vanilla ice cream.  The speed with which I was able to recreate this at home was limited only by the speed with which I could sweep an entire shelf’s worth of crème eggs into my shopping cart.  Which is to say, not long.

The evidence:

(This is what it looked like after I excavated most of the candy out of it.  Notice the yellowish pools of fondant goo?  Guess I missed a few spots.)

I could draw this story out longer than it really needs to be, but I’m sure you have other things to do.  The results?  Were disappointing.  Shocking, I know, coming from someone who conducts elaborate experiments and writes Plath-like poetry on the subject.  Who wouldn’t love Cadbury Crème Eggs in ice cream besides the 98% of the world’s population that hates crème eggs? 

I’ve concluded that it’s a conceptual problem.  You’re diluting the crème egg so less of it comes into contact with your tongue at once.  That’s not the spirit of the crème egg at all.  The crème egg is all about killing yourself softly with sweetness, but then resurrecting yourself because you have to have another crème egg even if it kills you.  Which it will.  Again.  That’s the moral of Easter, I’m pretty sure.  The sub-moral is: Crème Egg ice cream sucks.

But it got me thinking about Robin’s Eggs, and how much I love those malted milk balls.  And malt goes so nicely with dairy products, as the fifties proved.  Plus, the speckled candy shells come in several festive Easter hues, which, though not altogether true to nature, would give the ice cream appropriately hideous visual interest. 

Now this?  This is a good idea.

Robin’s Egg Ice Cream

Good with Whoppers, too.

2 eggs
¾ cup sugar
2 cups heavy cream
1 cup milk
10-oz. bag of Robin’s Egg malted milk balls

Whisk the (chicken’s) eggs for a few minutes.  Add the sugar, little by little, whisking all the while.  Add the cream and milk, and whisk until sugar dissolves.  Pour into ice cream maker and follow manufacturer’s instructions (usually to spin for 25 minutes or so). 

Meanwhile, pour the robin’s eggs into a plastic storage bag and crush with a mallet or hammer.  Once the ice cream machine is done with its magic, pour soupy mixture into a freezable container, and fold the crushed candy in as you go.  Freeze until stiff.

A Very Nice Potato Salad

Spring has been a little slow to warm up for my taste.  It always is, though, and who am I to judge, she who makes cold starts a way of life. 

Here’s a nice potato salad that’s lighter than my summertime standby, with a mustardy vinaigrette and some teasing greens.  It’s the seasonal equivalent of showing a little leg.  A pale, goosebumpy leg that could benefit from a bit more sun and little less of the raw, chafing winds.  Is all I’m saying.

Anticipatory Potato Salad

Like April, this is best served lukewarm.

8-10 small Yukon gold or fingerling potatoes
1 small yellow onion, halved and sliced thinly
1 small bunch watercress, leaves only
¼ tsp. Dijon mustard
¼ tsp. whole-grain mustard
1 Tbsp. white wine vinegar
1 tsp. chopped fresh thyme leaves
3 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper

In a large pot, cover potatoes with water and bring to a boil.  Add some salt to the pot.  Simmer until tender, 15-20 minutes.  Drain and let cool a bit.  Peel and cut into ½-inch cubes.

In a small bowl, whisk the mustard, vinegar, thyme, salt, and pepper.  Whisk in the oil in a slow, steady stream.  Toss the warm potatoes with the onions and watercress.  Add dressing, toss, and taste for seasoning.  Serve slightly warm or at room temperature.

Source: Inspired by Amanda Hesser’s The Cook and the Gardener.

How2Choke

There’s a Web site out of Cambridge called How2Heroes that films fun, educational videos of local people demonstrating their food-related crafts.  You can watch Joanne Chang of Flour Bakery make her famous sticky buns, and learn about cheese-making from the farmers at Shy Brothers Farm in Westport.  They even have regular folks like you and me cooking stuff.  It’s worth checking out if there’s a topic or technique you’d like to learn more about, like maple sugaring, and you’re sick of the annoying personalities on the telly.

They contacted me a few months back about doing a video for one of my recipes.  I came up with what I thought was a very convincing string of excuses for why I didn’t think that would be possible.  That I would be washing my hair that particular day.  That I would be brushing it the next.  That I would be attempting to style it for the next three days in a row and, no, the following week I would have to start the process all over again.  But they were remarkably persistent, and so it would seem that my remaining cat fell gravely ill.  Then family members started dropping like flies.  Some more than once.  At least one was brought to the brink of death but then experienced a miraculous recovery, only to have a fluke household accident finish them off 36 hours later.  It was very hard to keep all the stories straight, frankly.

Finally, orphaned and petless, I had a Wednesday free to do a video on how to make a very simple maple ice cream.  You can watch it here, if you’re brave enough.  Brave because you’ll notice that I drew upon my trademark ultra-relaxed, super-confident, breezy personal style that puts everyone at ease.  Don’t smile, Tammy.  We wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.

Given that the guys manning the cameras were as nice as could be, I can only surmise that the reason for my deer-in-headlights demeanor was that there was a second whisk that was lodged somewhere.  Somewhere unspeakable.  And every time I so much as hinted at letting my guard down, someone would come up behind me with a croquet mallet and take hard aim.  And now that you have that image in your head, this should be a hell of a lot more entertaining to watch. 

I’ll be sure to get myself good and liquored up next time.  If there is a next time.

Dulcet Caramel, You Will Be Mine

Recently, a jar of Argentine dulce de leche caught my eye at Russo’s.  I didn’t even hesitate as I placed it lovingly in my basket.  After all, this is the time of year when I eat whatever the hell I want, from wherever I want, environment be damned.  It’s been a long winter and the summer is still achingly out of reach.  So, I figured, I could either fly the whole family down to Argentina for dessert or fly the dulce de leche up to me.  (It was a bitch of a flight, but I got the goods.)

This dulce de leche by La Salamandra, essentially caramelized whole milk, is by far the best I’ve ever had, with deep caramel tones and a full, rich mouthfeel.  Now the canned stuff will forever suck by comparison.  I spread it on crêpes for a mid-afternoon snack, then melted and poured it over ice cream for a mid-evening snack.  A banoffee pie even crossed my mind for a midnight snack, except by then I had already eaten the rest of it right out of the jar.  God, this stuff is amazing.

So, here’s a question.  Has anyone ever boiled cans of condensed milk for hours to make dulce de leche?  And did they explode?  Back in my twenties, I did this quite a few times without considering the dangers of cans under pressure.  Then I heard all of these second-hand horror stories about explosions and caramel-coated kitchens and I haven’t done it since.  Just curious what your experience has been.  David Lebovitz says you can make it in the oven without the can, which seems less controversial/exciting.  But I may never go back to cans again now that it seems like you can make better stuff with regular milk (do I hear local?), sugar, and baking soda in a pot.  Or at least the Argentines can.  As always, I will report back.  In the meantime, here’s a snack.

Crêpes with Dulce de Leche

My crappy 7-inch non-stick T-Fal from college makes awesome crêpes.  Don’t tell anyone.

2 eggs
1/3 cup flour
Pinch of salt
1 cup milk
1 Tbsp. butter
Dulce de leche

Whisk together eggs, flour, and salt in a medium bowl.  Slowly add the milk, whisking constantly, until smooth.  Strain batter into another bowl, cover, and refrigerate for 30 minutes.  The batter will seem like it's way too thin, but it's not.

Heat a 7-inch non-stick pan over medium heat until hot.  Grease pan with a little butter, then pour in ¼ cup of batter, swirling to coat the bottom of the pan evenly.  Cook 1-2 minutes, until the edges start to brown and the underside is cooked and developing toasty spots.  Flip crêpe and cook 1 minute more.  The first one always comes out like crap.  Persevere.

Transfer crêpe to plate and spread dulce de leche on half of it.  This is easier to do if the dulce de leche is room temperature.  If it’s coming from the fridge, you can nuke it slightly to loosen it up, but be careful or you’ll end up with a puddle that refuses to be wrangled.  Fold crêpe in half, then in half again, and devour.  Repeat.  Makes about 6.  (Also good with Nutella or whatever other fillings you might concoct.)

Source: Adapted from Saveur, from an article by Melissa Hamilton (I think).

Luck of the Famished

In honor of St. Paddy’s day, we were visited this morning by leprechauns.  Have a look-see:

What the hell?  What month is it again?  I just packed away my musket and everything.

We were alerted to the invasion by the 3YO, who was sitting on the potty, looking out the window and muttering happily to himself about “turkeys in the grass.”  Yeah, yeah, I said, turkeys in the grass, aliens in the sky.  Pipe down and do your business (potty training is a sore spot with me at the moment).  Then I saw that there were, in fact, turkeys out there.  Eleven of them.  Our tiny yard was filled feather to feather with wild turkeys.  With all the ruckus the kids were making in their so-called observation mode, the male puffed himself up into full tail-feather display (or it could have been my shrieking at the kids to be quiet that did it).  Then, one of the turkeys flew up into a tree, which was a very odd thing to see.  I always knew turkeys had wings, but I thought they were just ornamental.

I’m afraid there’s no pot of gold at the end of this St. Patrick’s rainbow.  But, there is a pot of soup.  Extra points if you use turkey stock.

Stracciatella (Egg Drop Soup)

Because, like so many Bostonians, my Irish is mixed with a little Italian.

6 cups chicken or turkey stock
2 cups fresh spinach or Swiss chard, washed, stemmed, roughly chopped
5 egg whites
1 Tbsp. lemon rind
1 Tbsp. grated Parmesan cheese
Salt and pepper

Bring stock to a boil and add spinach.  Lower heat and cook for 2 minutes.  Meanwhile, beat egg whites with lemon rind, cheese, salt, and pepper.  Dribble into simmering broth.  Stir gently and turn off heat.  Let sit for 5 minutes.  Stir in any additional salt and pepper it may need before serving.

Source: Adapted from Ciro’s Provincetown Kitchen by Ciro and Alethea Cozzi, one of my favorite Italian cookbooks, which I believe is out of print.

Four Stocks You Can Count On

In these troubled times, it’s hard to know the safest place to put your money.  I’ve never claimed to be any sort of financial expert, but I know where I’ll be storing my nest egg, and it ain’t under my mattress.  No, these 10 bucks are going straight into my stockpot.  That way, come June, I’ll know I have something left.  Take that, economy.

To continue our previous discussion, don’t let stock’s reputation get you down.  It just requires that you have access to a large pot, that you remain in the vicinity of your house for a few hours while it simmers away (not hard when you’re poor), and that you have some freezer space in which to store it.  Stock is a good way to clean out your crisper of limp celery, dehydrated carrots, and that leek you don’t know what to do with, as well as any onions that are starting to sprout.  I use parsley leaves often when I cook, so I save the stems for stock.  Any vegetables that are about to rot, I store in the freezer until it’s time to make stock.  Same with leftover wine, if you can imagine such a thing.  Ditto for bones, which is one of the benefits of buying local meat. 

Here’s the method for vegetable stock (broth, really), but use whatever you have on hand.  VegYear says potatoes are the secret to a great veggie stock, so I’ve learned something today.  You can then modify this basic recipe if you have access to bones.  Often you can get some for cheap or free from your local butcher or fishmonger if you ask.

Basic Technique: Vegetable Broth

3 onions (or leeks), halved (peeled or unpeeled)
2 garlic cloves, smashed (peeled or unpeeled)
2 carrots and/or parsnips in large chunks (unpeeled with tops is fine, washed would be nice)
2 celery stalks (or small celery root) in large chunks
Handful of parsley stems
Several springs of thyme
A bay leaf
A sprinkling of whole peppercorns
A cup of wine (optional)

Cover with water by several inches (vegetables will float, so use your imagination).  Bring to a boil and simmer for 30 minutes.  Let cool a bit, then strain and portion into freezable containers (or ice cube trays).

Here are some non-vegetarian stock options:

Chicken Stock
Add a meaty chicken carcass to the vegetables and add water to cover.  Simmer 2-3 hours, skimming off the foamy stuff that collects at the top.  Strain out the solids and remove the slick layer of fat from the top of the remaining stock.  Or leave it in like I do.

Beef Stock
I like to roast five pounds of beef, veal, or lamb bones for about 45 minutes in a 375ºF oven first to get those deep, meaty, caramelized flavors going on.  Then they go into the pot with the vegetables.  Simmer for 3-4 hours, skimming the foam off every so often.  Remove the fat if you like (this is easier to do when it’s been in the freezer for an hour or two, as it helpfully congeals).

Fish Stock
Fish heads or racks (meaning skeletons, not breasts) from white fish like haddock are ideal.  Oilier fish like salmon I’ve heard don’t make good stock.  You’re supposed to remove the eyes, which cloud up the stock, but I just leave them alone (somehow, gouging them out seems grosser than cooking them).  I like to use fennel fronds in place of carrots, but that’s just me.  Simmer for 30 minutes, skimming occasionally.

Now that you’ve invested in delicious stocks, how do you know when it’s time to cash out?  I find chicken and vegetable stocks to be the most versatile with a subtle flavor good for most soups or sauces.  I like them in risotto and polenta, too.  You can even use them to braise tougher greens like collards and kale.  Beef stock has a more assertive flavor, good for heartier soups and stews.  I use fish stock whenever a recipe calls for clam juice in chowder or any fish-based soup, and you could also use it to poach seafood.  Just remember to add salt whenever you cook with homemade stock.  You’ll need a fair amount, but it will be nowhere near what you get with bouillon cubes.

So, who’s with me?  Let’s hear it for frozen assets, the only investments you can really rely on these days.  At least until they shut off your electricity.  What else do you guys use stock for?

In Like an Onion, Out Like a Ramp?

I was all set to change the pictures over there on the right to warmer-weather food now that spring is supposedly in sight, but I decided to hold off while this Siberian cold snap is in full force.  So, soup is on the menu once again.  What can you do?  Talk to the groundhog.  At least it’s onion soup.  I’ll take a few more days of winter if I can have onion soup all week.  But then we seriously need to start warming things up around here.  Please?  Does anyone have any extra greenhouse gases stored up somewhere?  Or a few bloated cows?  Maybe we could talk.  I’ll bring soup, you bring cookies.  

Julia Child’s French Onion Soup

I used a local maple-smoked cheddar on top, but, I’ll be honest, I kinda missed the Gruyere.

4 Tbsp. butter
1 Tbsp. olive oil
8 cups thinly sliced onions (about 2½ lbs.)
½ tsp. salt
½ tsp. sugar
1 Tbsp. flour
8 cups homemade beef stock, heated
¼ cup Cognac
1 cup dry white wine
8 ½-inch-thick slices of French bread, toasted
¾ lb. Gruyere, coarsely grated

Over medium heat, melt the butter and oil in a heavy saucepan.  Stir in the onions, cover, and cook slowly until tender and translucent, 8-10 minutes.  Blend in the salt and sugar, increase heat to medium-high, and let the onions brown, stirring frequently until they are a dark walnut color, 25 to 30 minutes.

Sprinkle the flour and cook slowly, stirring, for another 3 to 4 minutes.  Remove from heat, let cool a moment, then whisk in 2 cups of hot stock.  Bring to the simmer, adding the rest of the stock, Cognac, and wine.  Cover loosely, and simmer very slowly 1½ hours, adding a little water if the liquid reduces too much.  Season with salt and pepper.

Divide the soup among 4 ovenproof bowls.  Arrange toast on top of soup and sprinkle generously with grated cheese.  Place bowls on a cookie sheet and place under a preheated broiler until cheese melts and forms a crust over the tops of the bowls.  Serve immediately.

Source: Adapted minimally from Julia Child’s The Way to Cook.

Local Food Sources:
Butter: Cabot, Cabot, VT
Cheese: Grafton Village, Grafton, VT
Beef bones for stock: Southboro Belties, Southboro, MA (via Pete and Jen’s Backyard Birds, Concord, MA)
Wine: Truro Vineyards, Truro, MA
Bread: Nashoba Brook Bakery, Concord, MA (via Russo’s, Watertown, MA)

Serendipitous Cheesecake

So often, the very best things I come up with are not what I intended to make at all.  They’re usually offshoots of things that didn’t quite work, or I didn’t like, or were in some other way terribly misguided.  Kind of like my life.  This cheesecake evolved in much the same way.  I’ll spare you the backstory.  Suffice it to say that I had a lot of soft cheese that I needed to figure out something to do with. 

These little cheesecakes make use of two of my favorite local ingredients: goat cheese from Westfield Farm in Hubbardston and Bonnie’s Jams out of Cambridge.  They’re more reminiscent of thick, New York-style cheesecakes than creamy, custardy cheesepies.  Dense, sturdy, and rich, the same way I like my men.  Just kidding.  The tangy goat cheese gives them lots of character.  Don’t you just love the way the fruit spills over and stains the exposed walls?  (If you reject this one, Tastespotting, you’re dead to me.)

This is a good occasion to show off any of your own preserved berries you may have hiding away, preferably something on the tart side.  But, if you don’t know your gelatin from your pectin, fear not.  Bonnie’s fruit preserves are pretty much better than anything I could ever make.  I don’t really even understand how anything out of jar can taste that good, but I’m very glad it’s possible.  What you see up there are blackberry preserves, although the blueberry and lemon would also be nice.  I’ve always felt her jars were a little too pricey just to spread on toast.  They’re more like dessert fare.  In fact, if I do say so myself, this may be the perfect use for them.

Little Goat Cheesecakes with Blackberry Compote

I get the impression that cheesecake is considered passé, but I will never tire of it.  NEVER. 

1 cup graham cracker crumbs or 9 graham crackers, pulverized
5 Tbsp. butter, melted
2 8-oz. packages cream cheese
10 oz. goat cheese
½ cup sugar
2 Tbsp. honey
2 eggs
Blackberry preserves (or whatever else you fancy)

Preheat oven to 350°F.  Mix butter with graham cracker crumbs until well moistened.  Grease one of those mini-cheesecake pans and press crumb mixture into the bottoms only.  You could also use muffin tins.  Or, if you don’t have the former and you don’t feel like washing the latter, you could use a set of biscuit cutters of varying sizes set on a sheet pan lined with parchment paper.  Your call.  Bake 10 minutes.  Let cool.

Cut cream cheese into chunks and nuke them until they soften (maybe 3-4 minutes on medium).  Crumble in goat cheese and add sugar, honey, and eggs.  Whip until smooth.  You can use a mixer or, if the cream cheese is warm enough, just do it with a whisk.  Spoon into forms and bake about 20 minutes or until centers are set and just starting to crack.  Let cool and refrigerate.  Carefully remove from forms and serve with Bonnie’s blackberry preserves.  Makes 9 to 12 depending on size.

Constructing a Temple of Churros

Did you know that Churros y Chocolate was the name of my first Spanish textbook?  Are you surprised I remembered that?  Of course you’re not.  The prospect of deep-fried dough dipped in chocolate was a surefire way to get me interested in a foreign tongue if there ever was one.  Well done, textbook publishers.  You know your audience.

Thinking that, as a parent all these years later, I knew my audience just as well, I decided to make churros and hot chocolate for the kids on their snow day last week.  Just because I was pissed off that school got cancelled didn’t mean everyone else had to suffer.  (Although, if I have to pay for another day of Preschool that gets snowed out, Mother Nature and I will come to blows.  There are four days during the week with no Preschool.  Why can’t it snow then?) 

So, I proceeded to get the chocolate melting and the lard a-bubblin’.  I wasn’t worried.  I mean, what’s not to like?  Fried dough.  Chocolate.  Well, the children didn’t offer up any specifics, but the Kindergartener took one bite of his churro, calmly returned it to the tangled mass of remaining churros, and silently withdrew back into his imaginary Pokemon world.  The 3YO, in typical form, took his and smashed it on the floor in disgust.  If you ever want to push my buttons, Internet, this is a good way to start.  Disrespect something I just lovingly deep-fried for you and then walk away without a backwards glance.  That right there is a recipe for rage.  (Later on, when the neighbors came over, the 3YO ate about 20 churros once he saw his best friend/arch-nemesis eating some.  Chalk one up for peer pressure.)

We adults enjoyed the remaining 150 churros with rich, steaming cups of Taza Chocolate with a hint of cinnamon.  If you don’t know about this Somerville chocolate factory, you must educate yourself.  Quick, before the winter is up.  Start by converting their stone-ground disks of pure heaven into beverage form, and then you will understand why the Mayans built temples for chocolate.  Or whatever it was they built temples for.  Quiet, snowless days, perhaps?

Churros

This makes a giant plate full of them.  Invite snowbound neighbors over to help you eat them all because they truly suck the next day. 

10 Tbsp. butter
1 cup water
2/3 cup flour
3 eggs, plus 1 egg yolk
Grated rind of 1 orange
Lard (or oil) for frying
Confectioner’s sugar and cinnamon for dusting
Hot chocolate for dunking

Add butter and water to a medium saucepan, and heat until butter melts.  Bring to a rolling boil.  Meanwhile, sift the flour at least twice and, as soon as the water boils, add it to the pot.  Remove pot from heat and beat until the mixture forms a ball and leaves the sides of the pan clean.  Let it cool about 10 minutes before you add the eggs so they don’t scramble.  Then add the eggs, yolk, and orange rind.

Heat the lard or oil in a medium, heavy-bottomed saucepan to a temperature between 350°-375°F (or until a cube of bread browns in 30 seconds).  Adjust the flame as needed to keep the temperature more or less in that range.  Spoon the mixture into a pastry bag fitted with a medium or large star nozzle.  Pipe strands of dough into the hot oil, pressing the tip against the side of the pan to pinch off the dough.  Alternatively, if you can’t be bothered with a pastry bag, I don’t see why you couldn’t just spoon in the dough, beignet-style.  Fry until golden brown on each side, flipping once.  Remove with slotted spoon and drain on paper towels. 

Mix together cinnamon and sugar, and sift gently over churros.  Serve warm with hot chocolate, dunking liberally.

Source: Adapted from Bite-Sized Spain by Sharyn Conlan and Anne Crane

Bollywood Beets

We saw Slumdog Millionaire over the weekend and, boy oh boy, did that movie ever make me hungry.  So many delicious parts to speak of, especially in the beginning.  Or it could have been all the dancing I did in the aisles during the closing credits.  Either way, I had a hankering for Indian food afterwards and, naturally, I thought of beets.

Actually, I didn’t think of beets at all.  Rarely do I give beets much thought.  I like them, but that’s usually overridden by the fact that I object to the way they stain your fingers and bleed all over everything.  Yes, I know that’s a girly thing to say, but I thought one of the benefits of eating vegetables was not having any blood on your hands. 

So lately I’ve been indulging in golden beets.  Just as tasty, but no mess.  And things were going fine, really they were, until I saw a photo in my new Indian cookbook pictured above, 5 Spices, 50 Dishes by Ruta Kahate, which showed both kinds of beets together like so many garnets and topaz.  Oooooooooooo, pretty.  That combined with my newly revised image of what squalor looks like, I thought maybe a little purple dye on my hands wasn’t so bad after all.

Except here’s the thing, and I knew this: You can’t cook both kinds of beets together and expect them to retain their original color.  No way.  Beautiful as it is, that picture up there is a total food-styling cheat.  Nowhere in the recipe does it say to sauté the beets separately, and even if it did, let’s face it, I would have ignored it.  If you do boil them together and then sauté them together, they will end up looking like this:

Two-toned magenta in all its hideousness.  But you know what?  When you finally sample the dish, it tastes every bit the way that first picture looks.  Which, I guess, is the argument behind all those crazy tricks that the really good food photographers use.  And it’s why I’m risking a copyright infringement lawsuit by posting that photo.  You can’t go by my shot, which makes the dish look like it’ll taste like crap.  Then, when you scan the humble ingredient list, you’ll wonder what’s so special about it, anyway.  Beets, a little lemon juice, some mustard seeds, cilantro.  Big deal.  I don’t know why it tastes so good, but it does.  It sings.  It dances.  You’ll like it.  I bet you a million dollars.

Sautéed Beets with Mustard and Lemon Juice

You’ll be tempted to leave out the chiles, am I right?  Don’t do it.  Sweet with a little bit of heat is an addictive combination.  Plus, don’t you have a whole bunch in the freezer from the summer?  No?  Next year, save some.  Serranos are yummy! 

2 lb. red and golden beets (about 8 medium)
3 Tbsp. canola oil
½ tsp. mustard seeds
2 small green Serrano chiles, sliced thinly (or just one if you’re scared)
1 tsp. salt
1 Tbsp. lemon juice, or more to taste
2 Tbsp. minced cilantro leaves

Scrub and rinse the beets well.  Cover with water in a medium pot and bring to a boil.  Lower the heat and cook, covered, until tender, 20-30 minutes depending on the size of the beets.  If a paring knife slides into the thickest part of the beet fairly easily, then they’re done.  Drain, cool, peel, and then chop the beets into ½-inch cubes (baby beets can be quartered).

Heat the oil in a wok or large frying pan over high heat.  When the oil begins to smoke, add the mustard seeds and cover with a lid or splatter screen.  The seeds will pop right out of there if given half a chance.  When the seeds have stopped sputtering, add the chiles and give a quick stir.  Quickly throw in the beets and salt.  Toss, cover, and steam over low heat for 6 to 8 minutes to allow the flavors to blend.

Remove to a serving dish and toss with lemon juice and cilantro.  Serve warm or cold.

Source: Adapted minimally from 5 Spices, 50 Dishes by Ruta Kahate

The Truth About Lard

Look what I found at Pete and Jen’s Backyard Birds:

Laaaaaaaaaard.  Because Pete and Jen don’t just raise birds, they also raise pigs in pristine Concord (as well as sheep, rabbits, and, potentially, a cow).  I think they should change their name to Pete and Jen’s Backyard Birds And Other Animals.  They’re really nice people over there behind Verrill Farm, but, more importantly, they have lard.

Lard gets a bad rap.  It’s a terrible-sounding word from a phonetic standpoint.  It’s almost always used in a derogatory way (e.g., lard-ass).  Sure, it’s possible that there may be a correlation between eating large quantities of lard and an ever-expanding derrière, but that can be said of lots of things.  I don’t think we need to single out lard unfairly.  And while the idea of pig fat may be less than appealing in a theoretical sense, practically speaking, there’s no more delicious way to make sure all the parts of the animal are put to good use.  I mean, you like bacon, don’t you?  That’s something like 75% pig fat, if you’re lucky. You can’t love bacon and hate lard.  It’s physically impossible.

So, now that we’re being open-minded about lard, let’s put some in a pie!  A pie crust, to be exact.  Why are we back to heaving so soon?  You know how great apples and pork go together.  Here, lard just provides extra richness and a delicate flakiness to the crust.  It’s not like the pie is going to have a giant pork chop in the middle of it or anything.  I don’t think.  I mean, no, of course it’s not.  God, Tammy, show some restraint.

Dough made with lard handles very differently than dough made with butter.  The mixture is sandier, requires less water, and is softer and easier to work with.  It’s a good dough for novice pie-makers.  

I always form any leftover dough scraps into little jam-filled tarts so I have something to distract me away from cutting into the larger pie before company arrives.  Would you look at the flakiness?!

Just look at it!!!  (Calm down, Tammy.  You’re making a scene!)  This is why pie crusts made with lard are so awesome.  You can’t buy this in a box. 

Here’s the pie. 

Sorry, there was no time for even cursory styling as there was a chicken stew to be made.  Here’s what was going on in the other three feet of counter space to the left. 

Raw chicken and pie.  Two worlds that must never collide.  Unless, of course, we’re talking about chicken pot pie.  Drooooooool.  Need more lard!

Apple Pie for the Pork Lover

Or, if I have failed to convince you losers, the crust can be made with butter instead.  You’ll need 12 tablespoons of unsalted butter plus several more tablespoons of water.

Crust
2 cups flour
¾ cup lard
1 Tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. salt
8 Tbsp. ice water (you may need slightly more or slightly less depending on the humidity, phase of the moon, your emotional state, etc., etc.)

Filling
6-7 tart apples, like Cortland, Northern Spy, Macoun, or whatever, peeled, cored, sliced ¼-inch thick
¾ cup sugar
1 tsp. cinnamon
¼ tsp. nutmeg (preferably freshly grated)

1 egg, beaten

For the crust, mix flour, sugar, and salt in food processor.  Add spoonfuls of lard and pulse in 1-second beats until you have little chunks the size of small peas (around 12-15 pulses).  Be careful not to process it into oblivion.  If the dough gets too uniform, I suspect some flakiness will be lost in the final product.  Dump mixture into a large bowl and add ice water, a few tablespoons at a time, fluffing with a fork until gently absorbed.  The dough should just hold together when you press on it.  Don’t knead it or it will become too tough.  Tear off two pieces of plastic wrap.  Dump a little over half of the dough mixture in the middle of one, and the rest on the other.  Flatten the mixture into disks about an inch thick, then wrap them up, and refrigerate at least a half hour until ready to use.

Preheat oven to 425°F.  In a small bowl, mix sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg.  Add all but 1 Tbsp. to the sliced apples and mix.  Set aside.

Flour your counter and rolling pin well.  The dough shouldn’t stick at all.  Take the larger disk and roll it out about ¼-inch thick, about a foot in diameter.  Roll from the middle out in all directions.  Don’t grind the dough down into the counter—push it out to the sides.  If the dough sticks, sprinkle more flour.  Transfer to a 9-inch pie dish by lifting the edge of the dough over the top of the rolling pin.  Gently lift and push until the dough is draped over the rolling pin (a bench scraper or even a spatula under the dough really helps).  Align over pie plate and gently unfurl.  Make sure it’s centered, then brush bottom of dough with beaten egg (this seems to help keep the crust from getting too soggy).

Pour in the apples.  Roll out the second crust the same way, only slightly smaller.  Drape over fruit.  Fold edges of top crust over edges of bottom crust and crimp.  Cut steam vents on top with a sharp paring knife.  Brush dough with beaten egg and sprinkle with reserved sugar mixture. Place pie plate on baking sheet and bake for 20 minutes.  Reduce heat to 375°F and bake until bubbly and crust is golden brown, 20-30 minutes more.  Let cool until warm.  Serve with vanilla bean ice cream.

Remember This?

Oh, yeah.  It’s sauerkraut time!  Or at least it will be in about 40 days or so.  Check back around Valentine’s Day because nothin’ says lovin’ like a crock of festering cabbage.  In the meantime, you might want to steer clear of my kitchen while the bacteria work their magic.  They have a less-then-bashful way of making their presence known.

In this year’s mix:

5-6 lbs. cabbage, shredded (about 2 medium cabbages)
3 garlic cloves, peeled, smashed
3 Tbsp. sea salt
2 Tbsp. juniper berries
1 Tbsp. caraway seeds
1 tsp. fennel seeds
1 tsp. celery seeds
2 bay leaves

For the process, see last year’s kraut post.  C'mon, you know you want to try it!

I Made My First Porchetta

For our second attempt at a nice Christmas dinner (this time with my dad), I attempted to duplicate the Marchegiana porchettas that Nonni has served for holidays over the years.  Basically, a porchetta (pronounced por-ketta) is an Italian pork roast seasoned with garlic and fennel seeds.  For as long as I can remember, Nonni has bought them from her local butcher already spiced and bound, so I didn’t have a particular family recipe in mind, just a general taste.  The Zuni Café Cookbook had a recipe that resonated, so I used that as my guide. 

I took a 3.5 lb. Codman Farm pork shoulder and began by removing the bone.  This is not as easy as it sounds, but you can get away with a partial hack job here since you just roll the meat back up again anyway.  I say “partial” because you really want the meat to remain in one piece.  However, if you get sloppy and end up with 14 pieces, just use extra string.  Better yet, have your butcher do it for you.  Next, I continued to open up the cut by separating as many of the natural muscle seams as possible with my trusty boning knife, again, trying not to cut entirely through anywhere.  The idea is to expose as much surface area as possible to the herb rub. 

The particular rub I made was a combination of salt, pepper, minced garlic, sage, rosemary, fennel seeds, capers, and lemon zest.  I’m pretty sure neither capers nor lemon zest figure into the New Haven-style porchettas that Nonni gets, but I didn’t think they would hurt.  I rubbed this paste on the inside of the meat, then rolled it back up, tied it, and rubbed the remaining mixture on the outside.  Then I let it sit in the fridge for hours.  Really, it should sit for days.  The flavor just keeps getting better and better over time (you know, up until a point).  But, alas, I did not have days, I had merely hours.  I roasted that sucker in a 350°F oven for about 2½ hours, or until it reached in internal temperature of 170°F.  Then, I took it out, let it rest, sliced it up, and made a quick pan sauce, which involved deglazing with stock and vermouth following an extremely half-assed skimming of the fat.

The porchetta came out very good.  Tender and tasty, but in the future I know how to make it better.  More time sitting in the fridge with the rub equals more of that flavor that makes a porchetta a porchetta and not just any old pork roast.  It really needs that time.  A little old-fashioned courting between the herbs and the meat.  Some chaperoned flirting.  A little uncertainty before the culinary equivalent of a cold shower.  You just have to wait.  None of this rushing into anything on the first date stuff.  This is old-school Italian we’re talking about.

Finally, roasting sliced fennel and onions alongside the pork is definitely the way to go.  Fennel-haters, seriously, the flavor mellows so much this way.  I’m convinced that 50% of people who hate fennel raw would like it cooked, either roasted in rendered pork fat as mentioned or braised in wine and sprinkled with cheese like this.

And there it is, the first of many pork posts to come in 2009.  I guarantee it.  But I wonder what else this brand new year has up its sleeve?  Hmmmm.  I’m just a little bit afraid to find out!

I Like Turnips

I’ve had to call in a few favors to get my hands on some local produce around here.  Like Eastham turnips, courtesy of my in-laws. 

Never had Eastham turnip?  Oh, you’re missing so much.  They’re sweeter than the average turnip, which some say owes to the salty air and the particular sandy Cape Cod soil in which they’re grown.  Turnip terroir, if you will.  Others say it’s because the turnip is actually a cross between a rutabaga and a white turnip.  Whatever the reason, it’s my favorite turnip, just edging out those little white Japanese salad turnips for the best spot in the crisper drawer of my heart.

This past Thanksgiving, I got tons of hits from people looking for Eastham turnip recipes.  Tons.  All I had up was an early post about how to boil and mash turnips with butter and nutmeg.  It truly is the best way to eat them, but I suspect people were looking for something a bit more interesting than that.  So next year, I’m cashing in with this recipe for roasted Eastham turnip with shallots and apples.  The idea is to brown things well in order to coax out the natural sweetness.  If all goes well, the shallots will end up soft and caramelized (except for the sought- after blackened bits), turnips will have turned pleasingly mellow, apples gnarled and twisty, all of it finished with a generous dusting of thyme. 

If you like turnips, you’ll like this dish.  And if you don’t like turnips, I’m willing to bet pocket change you’d like Eastham turnips.  And if you’re going to sit there and insist that you don’t like turnips, it doesn’t matter what kind, no way, no how, and you never will…well, I can’t help you.  You’re stubborn and you’ll never change. 

Roasted Eastham Turnip, Shallots, and Apples

Macomber is a good turnip, too, but I’m sure you could use whatever other crappy turnips you have lying around.  (Just kidding, Turnips.  I love you all.)

1 large white turnip, peeled and chopped into ¾-inch cubes
2-3 shallots, peeled, lobes separated, each lobe cut into 4 wedges
1 large tart apple (like Cortland, Granny Smith, or Macoun) (not McIntosh as they will saucify), peeled, sides cut off the core and sliced into ¼-inch half-moons
1-2 Tbsp. olive oil
1 tsp. chopped fresh thyme (or sage)
Salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 375°F.

Dump all the ingredients onto a sheet pan and combine with your hands until everything is coated in oil.  Don’t forget the salt and pepper.  Roast 20-25 minutes, until vegetables start to take on some color.  Flip them with a spatula and roast 20-25 minutes more, until the shallots are on their way toward burning but not quite there, yet.  Serves 1, if you’re me.  Serves more like 4 if you’re a normal person.

Third-Degree Deliciousness

There are many different kinds of burns that one might sustain in the kitchen.  Steam burns.  Oil spatters.  Boiling water that you pour out into the sink but a dirty dish is at just the right angle that it splashes all over yourself.  Hot sheet pans that brand stripes into your forearms.  Metal pot handles that (surprise!) get as hot as the pan itself.  I could go on. 

But the worst kind of burn, by far, is the caramel burn.  That shit sticks like glue and will cause you a world of pain for as long as it remains adhered.  I have some experience with this, meaning that the part of my brain responsible for storing memories is permanently blistered and raw.  So when I saw a recipe for burnt caramel gelato from Sally Sampson’s book, Recipe of the Week: Ice Cream, I thought, finally, an opportunity to get caramel back.

If you’ve ever had the burnt caramel ice cream at Toscanini’s, then you know how creamy and sweet and bitter that flavor is all at once.  There’s something very coffee-like about the way that bitterness asserts itself in the finish, and it’s similarly addictive.  So, between that and my persistent grudge, I took great pleasure in burning that caramel.  And just when I thought it couldn’t get any more burnt, I burned it some more.  Take that.  And that! 

The recipe is here if you’re interested.  I strongly suggest you make it.  If you don’t have an ice cream machine, well, I know someone who’s making a list and checking it twice!

***

And while we’re on the subject of painful burns: as part of my pledge to humor no more than one PR person per year from all of the unsolicited e-mails I get, 2008’s lucky winner is Amy Gan of Phyllis Klein.  Because burns are no laughing matter (except today on my blog), and every day that goes by that Burn Jel Plus is not in my medicine cabinet is another day to feel guilty.  Usually because I’ve just burned myself.  Apparently, it’s based on the same stuff that firefighters and the military use.  I’ll be checking in with my firefighter sources to confirm this.  If I can just reach the phone, 9-1-…

Tortilla Soup for Optimum Marital Health

This recipe for tortilla soup is courtesy of my BFF who really ought to start her own competing food blog since I’m always stealing her recipes.  It’s a good use for any post-Thanksgiving turkey stock you might have on hand.  You did make turkey stock, right?  Right?  If not, please deposit your unwanted turkey carcasses in my mailbox.

It was too dark to take a photo when I first made the soup (I rely heavily on natural light to compensate for my failings as a photographer).  Instead, I fried some extra tortilla strips and set them aside in a little plastic baggie for the next day when I would be recreating the whole experience.  Don’t eat them, I told Husband.  I won’t have time to fry more.  I have a very narrow 8-hour window of daylight in which to work.  Please, for the love of God, don’t mess with them.  Then we went through the usual spousal push and pull involved with trying to verify whether or not the request was heard and would be honored.  In the end, though, he agreed.

Cut to the next day.  I heat up my soup and get ready to apply the appropriate garnishes.  Sour cream?  Check.  Shredded cheese?  Check.  Avocado?  Check.  Tortilla strips?  Che…wait a minute.  Where the hell are they?  They’re not on the counter.  I yell up to Husband.  He insists they’re on the counter, but they’re not.  They’re just not.  I check all the cabinets.  Nothing.

After several maneuvers not unlike trying to dislodge a mule from his favorite resting spot, I manage to get Husband downstairs to confirm that, indeed, there were no tortilla strips on the counter.  Or anywhere.  And now I’m starting to get mad because the sun is poised to do a swan dive into the deep, dark night, and did we not have a whole conversation about this?  I have pretty low standards for photographic composition, but I think tortilla soup should at the very least include some visible tortillas.  And he’s mad because I’m making such a big deal about chips.  Which is clearly not the point at all.

Me: FIND ME THE STRIPS.

Him: They’re not here.  I put them here and they’re not here.  I’m sorry.

Me: THE STRIPS!!!

Him: I put them right here.  It’s not my fault.

Me: STRRRRRRIIIIIIIPS. 

It went back and forth like this for a while.  Voices were raised, several levels of maturity were disproven, in what was shaping up to be one of our worst fights ever.  So this is it, I thought.  The straw that breaks the camel’s back.  Tortilla chips. 

Until…

Him: Oh…oh, wait.  (fixes gaze up over my head)  Now I remember where I put them…

He reaches up on top of one of the blades of the motionless ceiling fan and produces my bag of chips.

Him: I forgot.  I was going to play a trick on you, but I forgot…

Then he ran up the stairs as fast as I’ve ever seen him move. 

The sad thing is, after all that, I couldn’t even get mad about it.  Well, I was a little mad.  The kind of mad where you alternate between sighing and laughing and shaking your head.  His punishment?  You’re looking at it.

Tortilla Soup for Optimum Marital Health

Cheaper than counseling and just as ineffective.

¼ cup vegetable oil
4 6-inch corn tortillas, halved and cut into strips

8 6-inch corn tortillas, cut into bite-sized pieces
1 medium onion, chopped
6 garlic cloves, minced
½ cup cilantro, chopped
1 15-oz. can diced tomatoes in juice
6 cups chicken or turkey broth
1 Tbsp. ground cumin
2 tsp. chili powder
2 bay leaves
4 skinless chicken breast halves
¼ tsp. cayenne pepper
2 cups sharp cheddar cheese, shredded
2 avocados, pitted & diced
Sour cream

Heat oil in small skillet. Add tortilla strips in batches, frying until golden.  Drain on paper towels.  Salt well and set aside.

Pour frying oil into large, heavy pot over high heat.  Add tortilla pieces (not the ones you just fried, the other ones), onion, garlic, and cilantro, and sauté about 3 minutes.  Stir in tomatoes with juices, and bring to a boil.  Add broth, cumin, chili powder, and bay leaves.  Return to boil.  Add chicken and cayenne pepper, and reduce heat.  Simmer until chicken is cooked through, about 15 minutes. (I didn’t actually add any chicken here; my homemade broth already contained some shredded chicken.  Not a lot, but enough.)  Remove soup from heat.  Using slotted spoon, remove bay leaves.  Transfer chicken to a plate, and let cool.  Shred chicken and return to soup.  Ladle into bowls.  Top with cheese, avocado, dollop of sour cream, and FRIED TORTILLA STRIPS.

And You Thought We Were Done With Squash

When trying to figure out what to do with winter squash, which is native to the Americas, I think it wise to turn to the Native American peoples for help.  After all, squash has been an integral part of their diet for centuries.  Surely they would know how to make it delicious.  But where are these natives?  That was the question I found myself asking on Thanksgiving.  Where the hell are they?

I attempted to summon some squash inspiration from my distant and long-dead Mi’kmaq relatives, but frankly they’re a little pissed off that I’ve spent so much time writing up the recipes from the Italian side of my family and now the Appalachian side.  Once again, it would appear, the natives get shafted.  What do you want, relatives?  You didn’t document your recipes.  Oral storytelling will only get you so far.

A better bet, I found, was looking south of the border.  My mom’s man friend is Peruvian and has some tricks up his sleeve when it comes to squash.  Tricks I teased you with last winter and then failed to ever follow up on.  But I’ve had this dish again and again since then, and I’m smitten despite the godawful looks of it.  Stews are hard to gussy up, especially when you barely even try.  I ate this four dinners in a row, though, and since we all know how I feel about squash, I think that speaks volumes. 

Peruvian Beef and Squash Stew

Chopping up all this squash takes some time, but you’ll make a major dent in your squash pile, and, really, isn’t that what matters?

3 Tbsp. olive oil
2 medium onions, chopped
6 cloves garlic, smashed
2 Tbsp. paprika
2 lbs. sirloin steak, cut into 1-inch pieces (or you can use cheaper cuts like stew meat)
8 cups winter squash, peeled, seeded, cut into 1-inch chunks* (from about 3 squashes, like butternut, carnival, delicata, buttercup, whatever you have)
2 medium potatoes, cut into 1-inch chunks
2 tomatoes, chopped
¾ lb. extra sharp cheddar cheese, shredded
Salt and pepper to taste

In a large braising pot, heat olive oil until shimmering.  Sauté onions, garlic, and paprika over medium heat until soft.  Add meat and cook until halfway done.  Add potatoes and tomatoes.  Dump squash on top (no need to mix; the idea is for the squash to steam up there).  Cover, lower heat, and cook 30-45 minutes until squash is soft and easily mashed.  Proceed to mash it all with the back of your spoon, and then continue to cook until the squash melts into a thick sauce and the meat is tender, about 15 minutes more.  Sprinkle with cheese and cover until melted.  Remove from heat and serve over rice. 

*I hate peeling raw winter squash.  But I hate it less now that I know an easier way to do it.  Here’s what I learned.  Cut squash in half and scoop out the seeds.  Cut each half into wedges, as if you were serving cantaloupe.  Take a big bite and then remember that it’s not cantaloupe.  Orange does not equal cantaloupe.  Take these wedges, lay them on their sides, and use a sharp knife to slice off, one section at a time, the edges with the peel.  Then cut the peeled squash into your 1-inch pieces.  Now repeat for all 415 wedges.  Do you hate me now?

Chocolate Fix

Now that the cold, dark, sickly, depressing season is upon us (which is made even less tolerable by the seepage of premature Christmas music), comfort food has become paramount once again.  And so I have instituted Sunday family dinners with my dad, effective immediately. 

Our first feast: roasted leg of Codman Farm lamb with rosemary, garlic, and a red wine pan sauce, turnip and potato gratin, and braised kale.  For dessert, we had molten chocolate cakes spiked with cognac.  Because, let’s face it, that was the only way my dad was going to eat his kale.  And turnips.  Weird how the lamb disappeared so quickly, though.  (He is his daughter’s father, after all.)

This is not the same kind of chocolate cake that Bill Cosby spoke so highly of as part of a balanced breakfast.  These are more like individual chocolate soufflés encased in chocolate cake.  You know, the kind you have to order at the same time as your meal at an expensive restaurant so they’ll be done in time.  I was sure the kids wouldn’t like them at all, being gooey in the middle and frostingless and somewhat boozy.  But they did, goddamnit.  I had hoped the remaining cakes would last me until at least Wednesday.  Nope, just Monday.  Round about 7 a.m.  When I ate the last one out of the microwave while the kids had Chex.

Molten Chocolate Cakes

Don’t worry, they get more alcohol than this in their cough medicine.

9 oz. bittersweet chocolate, chopped
6 Tbsp. unsalted butter
2 Tbsp. cognac
4 eggs, separated
1/3 cup granulated sugar
3 Tbsp. cake flour
Confectioner’s sugar, for sprinkling

Preheat oven to 400°F.  Butter 6 individual ramekins and dust lightly with flour, shaking out any extra.

In a double-boiler, combine chocolate, butter, and cognac, and stir until melted and smooth.  (No double-boiler?  No problem.  Just set a large metal bowl over a medium pan of simmering water and proceed.  The steam from the water will heat the bowl enough to melt the chocolate without scorching.  Oven mitts are recommended.)  Remove from heat.

Beat the egg whites in a medium bowl until they hold stiff peaks.  In a separate large bowl, beat the yolks and sugar until the color lightens and the mixture falls off the beaters like ribbons.  Gently fold the egg whites into the yolk mixture.  Sift the cake flour over the egg mixture and fold in.  Add the chocolate mixture and fold in.  You want the batter to be uniform color but still maintain as much of its airy lightness as possible.  Spoon batter into ramekins.  (You can refrigerate them, covered, for several hours at this point.)

Set dishes on a baking sheet and bake 10-12 minutes until they rise and the tops just start to crack.  Do not overbake.  Remember, you want the centers to basically be hot batter.  Invert onto a plate and then onto serving plates.  Dust with confectioner’s sugar and serve immediately.

Remember the UPS Man

Have you ever made such a spectacular fool out of yourself that the more you try to explain, the worse it gets? 

Whenever this occurs (fairly frequently, I might add), it reminds me of the time I got my wisdom teeth pulled.  I was in my studio apartment in godforsaken Malden waiting for the Novocain to wear off when the UPS guy arrived.  He was cute and I was on pain meds, so I set about answering his delivery-related questions with much enthusiasm, forgetting, of course, that my mouth wasn’t working.  And, well, there’s no other way to put it…I sounded like I was retarded.  A retarded adult living alone with her two cats in a one-room, rent-controlled apartment in the middle of nowhere.  The more I thought about it, the more plausible it seemed.  And the more I gestured wildly about dental procedures and fumbled around for a pen and paper to clarify, the more he backed himself down the hallway, and the more I tried to sponge off the drool and reassure him that no, no, I’m actually not retarded, while sounding completely, 100% retarded. 

Someday, they’ll find an antidote for bruised pride—something better than time, which takes too long.  Until then, take my advice and remember the UPS man.  Shut your trap, and don’t open it again until you're alone with a plate of turnovers sitting in front of you.  Cranberry cardamom or fig with blue cheese and walnut, for example.  You’ll thank me later.

Cranberry Cardamom Turnovers

I love these as is, but one of you should put a little orange rind in there and see what happens.  For the fig version, simply slice fresh figs into thickish ovals (no pre-cooking required), overlap three or four to a turnover, dot with blue cheese (I wished I had used more), and sprinkle with chopped walnuts before sealing them up. 

Crust
2 cups flour
1 Tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. salt
12 Tbsp. cold unsalted butter, cut into cubes
10-12 Tbsp. ice water

Filling
1 cup cranberries
½ cup sugar
¼ cup water
½ tsp. cardamom

1 egg, beaten

For the crust, mix flour, sugar, and salt in food processor.  Add cold butter and pulse in 1-second beats until butter is the size of small peas (around 20 pulses).  Dump mixture into a large bowl and add ice water, a few tablespoons at a time, fluffing with a fork until gently absorbed.  You don’t want it wet and sticky, but if there’s too much dry flour, the dough won’t come together right.  It should just hold together when you press on it.  Don’t knead or it will become too tough.  Tear off two pieces of plastic wrap.  Dump half of the dough mixture in the middle of each, and flatten the mixture into disks (or rectangles or rhombi) about a half-inch thick, using the plastic wrap to help shape and compress them.  Wrap tightly and refrigerate until ready to use (or at least a half hour to let the gluten relax).

Meanwhile, in a small pot, bring cranberries, sugar, water, and cardamom to a boil and simmer on low, 15-20 minutes, until berries burst and thicken.  Let cool.

Preheat oven to 425°F.  Line sheet pans with parchment paper.  Flour your counter and rolling pin well (the dough shouldn’t stick at all).  Take one of the disks (keep the other refrigerated) and roll it out about ¼-inch thick.  Roll from the middle out in all directions.  Don’t grind the dough down into the counter—push it out to the sides.  If the dough sticks, sprinkle more flour.  A bench scraper comes in really handy for loosening stuck dough.

Cut dough into rectangles about 3 inches wide by 9 inches long, or whatever looks like a reasonable turnover size once you fold it in half.  Place filling on one side of dough, leaving space all around the perimeter to seal it up.  Fold dough over and press edges to seal.  If the dough doesn’t stick to itself, run a wet finger in between.  Crimp edges with a fork.  Cut steam vents in top crust with a knife.  Brush with beaten egg and set gently on parchment-lined pan.  Repeat with remaining dough (any leftover scraps can be gathered up and re-rolled).  Bake 15-20 minutes, until crust turns golden brown.  Let cool.  Makes about 12.

Chowdah

Not everything went badly last week.  Let’s take a look at what went right before my unraveling.

Ah, yes, the chowder went right. 

I didn’t have a go-to recipe, so I decided to experiment a little.  I started by making a list of all the things I like in a chowder.  If I’m going to invent a chowder recipe, I didn’t want to forget anything.  Like clams.  Oh, and bacon.  Celery.  Bay leaf and thyme.  Potatoes.  Big hunks of fish.  Cayenne.  I like my onions sliced instead of diced so they hang over the edge of my spoon like they’re trying to get away.  I also prefer my clams to remain tucked into their submersible cots until the very last minute.  I like to think they’re more comfortable that way.  And less chewy. 

From there I crafted my best approximation of what Jasper White would do with this list.  Hmmmm, what would he do in a situation like this besides charge me a million dollars at Summer Shack?  But since I didn’t really know, I followed my own instincts—the very same instincts that would betray me only days later.  It came out tasty, though.  Husband didn’t cry and the kids ate it without complaining, which is all I really ask at this point. 

Two things I would have changed.  The clams I used were a bit sandy and could have benefited from an overnight soak in water in the fridge so they could purge themselves of their grit.  (I’ve heard of using salt or cornmeal in the water, too, but I’ve never tried it.)  Also, I would have used a starchier type of potato, which I think would have given the soup a little more body.  This version is creamy, but not thick.  If you prefer your chowder thick, I would suggest stirring in a few tablespoons of flour in with the onions and celery toward the end of their cooking.  But usually I just rely on free-agent potato starch to do the trick.

People can get pretty insufferable about chowder around here, so I can’t wait to read the comments in my delicate condition.  Still, one should always make chowder the way one likes it, no matter what the Chowder Police say.  As long as there are no tomatoes involved.  Adding tomatoes to chowder is very wrong.

P.S. Very wrong.

Fish and Clam Chowder

You can always mash some of the potatoes against the side of the pot to release the starches for extra thickening.  That’s a Jasper White trick.

2-3 slices of bacon to yield 2-3 Tbsp. bacon fat
2 onions, halved, sliced
1 rib celery, small dice
4 cups potatoes, medium dice, unpeeled is fine
2-3 cups water (or fish stock) (I’m not the biggest fan of bottled clam juice, but you can use that, too)
1 bay leaf
½ tsp. dried thyme (or 1 Tbsp. fresh)
Dash cayenne
2 lbs. haddock, cut into large chunks
1 lb. steamers (smallish clams), scrubbed, soaked if you have the time
1 tsp. salt
¼ tsp. pepper
1½ cup milk
1½ cup cream

In a heavy-bottomed pot, fry the bacon until crispy.  Remove, let cool, crumble, and set aside.  To the bacon fat in the pot, add onions, celery, and bay leaf.  Cook low and slow until the vegetables are wilted, but not brown, about 8 minutes.  Add potatoes and arrange fish on top.  Add water or fish stock to cover the potatoes.  Simmer five minutes, covered.  Add clams on top.  Simmer 5-10 minutes longer, covered, until the shells open.  Discard any unopened clams.  Gently stir in milk and cream (you want the flaky fish chunks to stay as intact as possible—have fun with that).  Heat until just ready to simmer.  Serve sprinkled with crumbled bacon.

Sources:
Bacon: Codman Farm, Lincoln, MA
Onions, potatoes: Drumlin Farm CSA, Lincoln, MA
Celery: Dick’s Market Garden, Lunenburg, MA (Waltham Farmer’s Market)
Haddock, clams from local fishermen: Steamers, Newton, MA
Milk, cream: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA (Russo’s)

Apple Cake and a Word About Flour

If I’m going to follow all of these Eat Local rules, then I have some rules of my own for this apple cake.  First, you must use a cast iron pan.  Preferably one that has spent a large portion of its life span getting cozy with bacon fat.  If you don’t have one, you must get one now.  Quickly, before the market gets any worse.  They’re cheap.  Just heavy.  Then you must cook 200 lbs. of local bacon to properly season it.  (Hey, I didn’t make the rules.  Or did I?)

Actually, those are my only requirements for this cake, besides eating it slowly, which is impossible.  Some rules are meant to be broken.  (Except the cast iron one.)

But first, a word about flour.  I found a local source for whole wheat flour last year: Wood Prairie Farm in Maine (they also have rye flour and oats).  Yes, I know that having stuff like that shipped to me isn’t exactly sustainable from a fuel- consumption standpoint, but maybe if there’s enough demand, people will start growing grain again in Massachusetts.  Not on a Midwestern scale, but on a community-supported scale.  It’s been known to happen.

It should be noted, however, that, in addition to local grains, I’m also allowing myself to use King Arthur all-purpose flour in equal parts when I see fit.  King Arthur grain comes mostly from the Midwest, but they are an employee-owned, Vermont company that originated in Boston in 1790.  They’ve got history and they make really good flour.  This, too, falls under the umbrella of “I value their craft.”  (BTW, I also value the craft of the baking powder and baking soda people, so add those to my growing list of exemptions, too.)

This cake may not be the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen, but few apple cakes are.  They’re rustic.  This one has a large, soft crumb, and all these buttery, nutty, mapley notes that make it pretty irresistible.  When I made it yesterday, though, the cake wasn’t tall enough due to the size of the pan I was using, so I doubled the amount of cake batter in the recipe.  I HAVE NOT RETESTED THE RECIPE SINCE.  I don’t have time.  I’m, like, barely holding things together as it is.  The recipe should work, by my calculations.  I’m like 99% sure, but I will not accept hate mail on this particular point since I’ve already issued a warning. 

So, who’s going to be the guinea pig?  If anyone does my recipe-testing for me, I’ll link to your blog in return.

Apple and Maple Brown Butter Upside-Down Cake

If you’re not eating locally, you can still make this with regular brown sugar and apples from China.

Topping
½ cup unsalted butter
1 cup maple sugar
3-4 tart apples, peeled, cored, cut into ¼-inch slices

Batter
2/3 cup unsalted butter
2 cups maple sugar
2 large eggs
1 cup milk
½ cup apple cider
1-1/3 cup whole wheat flour
1-1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1 Tbsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. cinnamon
¼ tsp. fresh grated nutmeg

Preheat oven to 350 F.

In a 12-inch cast iron skillet, melt butter.  Heat for 3-4 minutes, gently tipping pan back and forth, until butter turns a medium shade of amber.  It’s hard to tell against the jet-black metal, but just make a call before it burns.  Remove pan from heat and stir in maple sugar.  Spread evenly on bottom of pan.  Arrange apple slices on top.  Don’t burn yourself.  Go on, try it.

In a large bowl, cream together butter and sugar.  Add the eggs, milk, and cider, and mix well.  Add dry ingredients and stir just until incorporated.  Pour batter on top of apples.  Bake 35-45 minutes, or until toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.

Let cool a bit and then loosen edges and bottom carefully with a spatula.  Invert a plate on top of the skillet and carefully flip.  It’s really freaking heavy.  You will have some words for me.  Cake should come loose onto the plate, apple side up.  Serve warm.  Vanilla ice cream never hurts.

Sources:
Apples: Autumn Hills Orchard, Groton, MA
Butter: Cabot, Montpelier, VT (Russo’s)
Maple sugar: Warren Farm and Sugar House, North Brookfield, MA (Waltham Farmer’s Market)
Eggs: Chip-In Farm, Bedford, MA (Russo’s)
Milk: Our Family Farms of Western Massachusetts, Bernardston, MA (Russo’s)
Apple cider: Allen’s Cider Mill, West Brookfield, MA (Waltham Farmer’s Market)
Whole wheat flour: Wood Prairie Farm, Bridgewater, ME (mail order)

Crisp Autumn

Last weekend, there was a CSA potluck dinner at my farm.  I cursed myself for already having plans.  After all, that might have been the only chance I’m ever offered to see the Farmer in a purely social setting (deep breath), with his hat off (gasp!), eating something that he himself prepared (hyperventilating).

I thought about standing up our friends at our own house, as I’m known to do when something better comes along (or when nothing better comes along).  But then my conscience got in the way.  I mean, what were the odds that I’d get to have the Farmer all to myself at a romantic table for two that I would have set up in the spot with the best view with candlelight and lots of booze?

Not good, I thought.  Might as well keep my plans intact.

The esteemed harrison3 brought his family over, and we had burgers with homemade pickles, coleslaw, and watermelon.  Apparently I was trying to fool myself into thinking it was still summertime.  I know that menu looks like I totally phoned it in, but did I mention that the pickles were homemade?  Homemade and amazing.  I made the hamburgers and coleslaw, too (half-hearted applause).  Oh, and apple raspberry crisp, the only clue that we were, as we continue to be, firmly entrenched in fall. 

I’m not sure which was better, the pickles or the crisp (the pickles?), but the photo of the crisp came out better, so that’s the recipe you’re going to get!

Apple Raspberry Crisp

You don’t need too many raspberries for this.  A handful or two will do you just fine.  Who can make it all the way home with a full pint anyway?

Topping
¾ cup rolled oats
1/3 cup brown sugar
½ cup flour
1/3 cup cold butter, cut into pieces
1/3 cup sliced almonds

Filling
6-8 apples, peeled, cored, cut into ¼-inch thick slices
½ cup raspberries
Juice from ½ lemon
½ cup brown sugar
2 Tbsp. flour
1 tsp. cinnamon
¼ tsp. grated nutmeg
¼ tsp. almond extract

Preheat oven to 350°F.

For the topping, combine oats, brown sugar, flour, and butter in food processor.  Pulse until crumbly, with butter pieces the size of small peas.  Stir in the almonds by hand to keep them whole.

In a large bowl, combine apples, lemon juice, brown sugar, flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, and almond extract.  Gently fold in raspberries.  Dump into an 8x8-inch baking dish, spreading evenly.  Pour topping over the fruit.  Bake 50-55 minutes, until apples are tender and bubbling and top is golden brown (use the broiler if you must).  Serve warm with vanilla ice cream.  That is not a suggestion.

How To Salvage a Mistake

Well.  I had planned to share with you a very special and virtually-unheard-of family recipe for spiced tomato jam, but apparently tomato jam is all the rage this year, what with both Mark Bittman and Amanda Hesser beating me to the punch.  And with a lineup like that, you have to wonder what in the world I could bring to the table that they couldn’t.

Mistakes, that’s what.  Mistakes and I will always have each other.

My mom’s recipe was simple enough.  Not something you could easily screw up.  So although I hadn’t ever made it before or even tasted it since childhood, I laughed, hahahahaha, as I wandered down the baking aisle and grabbed a box of that powdered gel stuff the recipe called for.  And when I got home, I snickered about all the crazy shit I’d have to make up for this post since nothing remotely interesting was going to happen.  Hooohooohooo, slapping at my knee as I dumped the powdered gel stuff into the pot of simmering tomatoes.

Hmmmm.  Why is it clumping up like that?  Gross.  It looks like I tried to cook a jellyfish.  It’s almost like what happens if you dump gelatin into hot liquid without dissolving it first…

Fuck! 

The English writing on the box confirmed my worst fears.  I had used gelatin instead of pectin.  What’s the difference, you might ask?  Well, pectin isn’t made from crushed-up, boiled-down animal bones, for one.  Pectin is plant-based and not quite so…gelatiny?  It’s a kinder, gentler jelling agent.  Anyway, I don’t know what happened.  My hand automatically goes straight for the animal product.  I can’t control it.

The “jam” ended up tasting great, just like what I remember, but the texture is creepy.  It’s way too firm to spread, which kind of defeats the purpose of a jelly.  It’s even too dense to qualify as a Jell-O mold (thank god), so here’s what I decided.  Get yourself some Manchego cheese and slice it into thick pieces.  Scoop out a big glob of this tomato concoction, slice it (yes, you can totally slice it), and place atop cheese.  Voila.  It reminds me of the quince paste the Spaniards like to eat on their Manchego for dessert, except with autumn spices.  And less quince.  It was truly delicious, much less creepy in this format, and I’m looking forward to trying it with other cheeses, too.

Or, here’s another idea.  Make it correctly.

Spiced Tomato Jam

Sure-Jell is pectin.  Sure-Jell is not gelatin.  Double-check your work.

2¼ lb. tomatoes
1½ tsp. grated lemon rind
¼ cup lemon juice
½ tsp. allspice
½ tsp. cinnamon
¼ tsp. ground cloves
1 box Sure-Jell
4½ cups sugar

Into a pot of boiling water, gently place 3 pint jars and their lids for 5 minutes to sterilize them.  Let dry on a dishtowel.

Scald tomatoes in boiling water for 30 seconds and then dunk them in a bowl of ice water to cool.  Peel and discard skins.  Chop tomatoes roughly (no need to remove the seeds).  In a large pot, simmer tomatoes for 10 minutes.  You should have about 3 cups of cooked tomatoes.  Add lemon rind, lemon juice, spices, and pectin.  Cook over high heat until mixture comes to a hard boil.  Immediately add sugar and bring to a full rolling boil (a boil that cannot be stirred down).  Boil hard 1 minute, stirring constantly.  Mixture will threaten to overflow the pot’s edges, which is why you need a large pot.  If you’re freaking out, grab oven mitts and, while stirring, remove the pot from the heat to let the foam subside a bit, but keep it boiling as hard as you can for that minute. 

Remove from heat, skim off foam with a metal spoon.  Ladle into sterilized jars, leaving ¼-inch space at the top.  Seal jars and place them in a pot of boiling water for 15 minutes.  Let cool on rack.  After half an hour, shake to prevent fruit from floating to the top.  Store in a cool place.

Onions and Roses

After wrangling winter squash for several hours last weekend, I got to finish my workout by cooling down in the greenhouse trimming onions.  Meanwhile, some Spaniards were passing through on a visit.  I pounced on them as soon as I heard their accent. 

They turned out to be from Madrid by way of Galicia, the lush, green province in the northwest corner of Spain.  We got to chatting as I had traveled through that area in college years ago, visiting Santiago de Compostela, La Coruña, and Pontevedra.  The latter had a really beautiful plaza and we were lucky to catch it with all the roses in perfect bloom.  At least I think they were roses.  Do roses grow on trees? 

Anyway, botany aside, it’s one of my most vivid memories of my time abroad. 

I won’t lie—I made off with a couple of onions from the greenhouse.  I couldn’t help myself—the Spanish tortilla that was coming together in my mind was all but made, save the onions I was out of.  And wouldn’t you know it, two onions just happened to roll right off the table and straight into my bag on the floor below.  On the third try.  I smiled as I thought of my evening plans, which involved flipping through my photo albums and shedding salty tears of nostalgia while frying golden slices of potato and stolen onions. 

Just add it to the tab I’ll have to work off for the Farmer somehow.

Tortilla Española

It’s like a really dense frittata with potatoes and onions.  Iberian comfort food.  Chorizo never hurts, but we can’t always be so lucky.

¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil, preferably Spanish, plus 1 Tbsp.
6 small potatoes, peeled, sliced ¼-inch thick (or 3 medium)
2 small onions, sliced thinly
8 eggs
1 tsp. salt
Black pepper to taste

Heat the oil in a medium frying pan over medium heat until shimmering.  Add the onions and potato slices, stirring often to separate them and seasoning with half of the salt and pepper.  Cook until potatoes are tender and starting to brown, 20-25 minutes.

In the meantime, whisk the eggs and remaining salt and pepper in a large bowl.  Add cooked potato mixture and blend well, separating any potatoes that are stuck together.  Heat remaining 1 Tbsp. oil in pan.  Add egg mixture, spreading evenly, and turn heat to medium-low.  Cover and cook until middle is almost set, careful not to let the bottom burn.  This can take about 15 minutes depending on your burner.

Now, you can either set it under the broiler to finish off the top, or you can do what Spanish home cooks do, which is the following.  First, loosen the bottom with a spatula.  Then invert a plate over the top of the frying pan and flip the whole thing so that the tortilla is now upside-down on the plate.  Wearing oven mitts is a good idea because sometimes there’s some hot oil bouncing around.  Return the pan to the heat and slide the tortilla back into the pan to cook the bottom, another 5-10 minutes.  Loosen with a spatula and slide onto a serving plate.  Can be served warm, room temperature, or cold.

Note: If you do opt for chorizo, I like to cube it and sauté it first so you can use the rendered fat as part of your cooking oil, which infuses the whole thing with spicy deliciousness.  But that’s just me.

***
And while we’re on the theme, here are some of my other favorite Spanish recipes:

Gambas al ajillo (garlic shrimp)
Patatas bravas (fried potatoes in tomato/paprika sauce)
Gazpacho (cold tomato soup)
Atún con pimiento y cebolla (tuna with peppers and onion)

All I Really Need to Know I Learned From Spanish Movies

Did I mention that a certain someone starts school this week?  Free school.  FREE.  All day, five days a week. 

Yes, this is the time when the Preschooler becomes a kindergartener, the Toddler becomes a preschooler, and I curse myself for thinking up names for the kids that would change every goddamned year.  (To be fair, I thought I’d quit blogging after two weeks, but haven’t I caught on by now that nothing happens like you plan?)

I was thinking of just calling the Preschooler the Kindergartener, and the Toddler the Preschooler.  Creativity isn’t my strong suit, as you well know.  But that nomenclature is likely to be confusing.  Like, how did the Preschooler go from being a sweet and gentle boy to a noisy brute practically overnight?  (Public school, that’s how.  We must all lose our innocence someday.)  So, if anyone has a better idea, let’s hear it.

Anyway, given the new, freeing kindergarten schedule, you may be wondering how I plan to spend my time?  Rather than doing the work needed to sustain a freelance career, I think I’ll start by acting out scenes from Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown instead. 

Yes, that is a fantastic idea.  I’ll start with gazpacho.  Lots of gazpacho.  Then I’ll mope around as if I’m despondent about the recent turn of events.  Why does he have to go to kindergarten?  Why, why, WHY?  There will be much pacing and hand-wringing, not to mention checking voicemail every two minutes.  Oh, and throwing things just to be dramatic.  I really don’t do enough of that.  I don’t want to die having never thrown anything through a plate glass window in a fit of rage.  That would be a waste.

I just hope that after all of the lighting things on fire, high-speed scooter chases, gazpacho at gunpoint, and dancing half-naked in windows play out, Husband doesn’t make me go out and get a real job.

Gazpacho

This recipe is straight from Spain and is my absolute favorite.  You can thicken it up with bread soaked in water if you like.  Adding garlic is also fair game.  Sleeping pills are optional.

4 large tomatoes
1 cucumber
1 bell pepper (green is traditional, but I prefer red)
¼ medium onion
6 Tbsp. olive oil
2 Tbsp. red wine vinegar
1 tsp. salt
Black pepper
Cayenne pepper to taste

In a large pot of boiling water, dunk tomatoes for 20 seconds or so, then submerge in ice water until cool.  The skins should slip right off.  Core tomatoes, then cut in half across the equator and squeeze out the seeds.  Cut into quarters and place tomatoes in blender.

Peel cucumber and cut in half lengthwise.  Holding a spoon upside-down by the handle, dig a trough along the length of the cut side of the cucumber to remove the seeds.  Cut into pieces and put into blender, reserving one piece to chop for garnish.  Core and remove seeds from pepper.  Reserve one piece to chop for garnish and add the rest to the blender.  Add onion (chop some extra for garnish), olive oil, red wine vinegar, salt, pepper, and cayenne.  Purée until smooth.  Taste and adjust seasonings if necessary.  Refrigerate.  Serve chilled topped with chopped red pepper, cucumber, and onion.

Pie

This peach blueberry pie may be the best pie I’ve ever made! 

It’s shocking for two reasons.  One, because I’m out of practice making pies.  Two, because my oven decided to stop working midway through the baking time.  I didn’t even realize it was broken until hours later when I went to preheat the oven for dinner and it never got past 100°F. 

Suddenly, everything made sense.  How I kept having to add 10 minutes to the baking time over and over again, because the pie filling still wasn’t bubbling the way it usually does when it’s done.  How I kept checking to make sure that when I reduced the heat from 425°F to 375°F, I didn’t accidentally press 75°F.  Because it really didn’t feel too hot in there.  How the whole house didn’t smell like PIE!!!!, but merely pie.  And how I finally gave up and stuck it under the broiler to get the top nice and brown instead of a waxy shade of beige. 

Yes, any combination of these things should have set off warning bells, but no.  I was all, it’s been a while since I’ve made pie.  Maybe they don’t really smell that good?  Perhaps now that summer is waning, I’ve lost all ability to sense heat?  Anyway, I guess the secret to an awesome pie is to bake it fast and furious at the beginning and then long and sloooooow at the end.  You heard it here first, Chris Kimball.

The peaches and blueberries are from Carver Hill Orchard in Stow, where we went peach-picking on Saturday.  Unlike our cherry-picking extravaganza earlier in the summer, this expedition involved a ridiculous amount of whining and misbehavior from the kids.  So much as to render it almost not enjoyable at all.  But the payoff came in the form of pie.  Sweet, sweet solace. 

Peach Blueberry Pie

If anyone wants some, come to my house by noon tomorrow or it will be gone.

Crust
2 cups flour
1 Tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. salt
12 Tbsp. cold unsalted butter, cut into cubes
8-10 Tbsp. ice water (or more)

Filling
3 lb. fresh peaches (about 5 large or 7 small peaches)
1 cup blueberries
1/3 cup brown sugar
¼ cup white sugar, plus 1 Tbsp. to sprinkle on top
¼ cup flour
1 Tbsp. lemon juice
1 tsp. vanilla
¼ tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
1 egg, lightly beaten
2 Tbsp. unsalted butter, cut into cubes

For the crust, mix flour, sugar, and salt in food processor.  Add cold butter and pulse in 1-second beats until butter is the size of small peas (around 20 pulses).  Dump mixture into a large bowl and add ice water, a few tablespoons at a time, fluffing with a fork until gently absorbed.  You don’t want it wet and sticky, but if there’s too much dry flour, the dough won’t come together right.  It should just hold together when you press on it.  Don’t knead or it will become too tough.  Tear off two pieces of plastic wrap.  Dump a little over half of the dough mixture in the middle of one, and the rest in the middle of the other.  Flatten the mixture into disks about an inch thick, then wrap them up, and refrigerate until ready to use.

Preheat oven to 425°F.  Set a large pot of water to boil.  Dunk the peaches in the boiling water for about 30 seconds, then submerge in ice water.  Peel off their velvet cloaks.  Cut into thin wedges, discarding the pits.  To the bowl of peaches, add the washed blueberries, brown sugar, white sugar, flour, lemon juice, vanilla, and nutmeg.  Mix it up and set aside.

Flour your counter and rolling pin well.  The dough shouldn’t stick at all.  Take the larger disk and roll it out about ¼-inch thick, about a foot in diameter.  Roll from the middle out in all directions.  Don’t grind the dough down into the counter—push it out to the sides.  If the dough sticks, sprinkle more flour.  Transfer to a 9-inch pie dish by lifting the edge of the dough over the top of the rolling pin.  Gently lift and push until the dough is draped over the rolling pin (a bench scraper or even a spatula under the dough really helps).  Align over pie plate and gently unfurl.  Make sure it’s centered, then brush bottom of dough with beaten egg (this seems to help keep the crust from getting too soggy). 

Pour in the fruit.  Dot with cubes of butter.  Roll out second crust the same way, only slightly smaller.  Using a pastry wheel or sharp knife, cut thin strips for a lattice topping.  Arrange strips like so.  Fold over edges of bottom crust and crimp however you like.  Brush crust and lattice with beaten egg and sprinkle with sugar.  Place pie plate on baking sheet and bake for 20 minutes.  Reduce heat to 375°F and bake until bubbly and crust is richly caramelized, maybe 30-40 more minutes if your oven is functioning properly.  Keep an eye on the crust—if it starts to brown too much, cover with foil.

Let cool until warm.  Serve with vanilla bean ice cream.

The Boycott is Over

It’s been 30 years at a minimum since I’ve willingly allowed a cherry tomato to pass my lips, so disgusted am I by their seedy interiors.  But these?  These little sungolds are like candy.  I can’t get enough.  Here I tossed them with crumbled queso fresco, fleur de sel, and fresh marjoram from out back.  No dressing required.  Perfection.

(Forgot to mention: This is my submission to Kalyn's Weekend Herb Blogging hosted by the lovely Marija at Palachinka.)