C'mon. If you're old enough, of course you do. Sweet, sometimes so hot it would burn your mouth, slices of warm pineapple (it was always pineapple, wasn't it?), usually too big to swallow whole, leaving a wonderful, sweet mess on your plate. With ice cream, the perfect dessert. It was one of those desserts even Moms who didn't know how to cook, knew how to make.
What happened to it? It seems that, for a while, it simply disappeared from sight. You couldn't buy one, you couldn't get it in a restaurant, or even a coffee shop. Coffee shops, those bastions of those wonderful mile high meringues, and all the other desserts we cannot forget (even if we don't want to remember them), AND NO UPSIDE DOWN CAKE!!!!
Well, Peter Allen, the much lamented and missed singer, had a song with the line (and I think the title): "Everything Old is new again." And in cooking, that sure is the truth. Wait long enough, and things come back. Of course, if certain things never came back again, I'd be happy. But upside down cake is making a reappearance in restaurants, in magazines, in cookbooks, EVERYWHERE.
And they sure seem to have made it much harder than it is. And they sure make it sound like if you don't have a cast iron skillet, somehow you're a defective cook and you'll never do it right. And they also seem to imply that if you make it with pineapple, especially - GASP - canned pinapple- you're as backwards as backwards can be.
Well, they can all get over it. I'm going to try to lead you through upside down cake. Make it once. If you don't eat it all (and you're entitled to eat it all, let me tell you), share it, and then make it again.
You can make an upside down cake with any fruit you like. You do have to keep in mind that liquid is going to leave the fruit during baking, so you probably don't want to use a very wet juicy fruit like an orange, or a lemon. SLICED with their peel on, they make wonderful upside down cakes. Just don't section them. And while I have never made one with a banana, I'm thinking now "why not?"
First, let's get to the equipment you need and don't need. You DON'T need a cast iron pan. What you need is a good quality, nine inch cake pan. Get the best you can afford You'll use it again for other things. Put the pan directly on the flame of a burner, together with 4 tablespoons of unsalted butter and 3/4 of a cup of sugar. One of the brown sugars, light or dark, is best, but if those flavors are too strong for you, use white. Just know it won't be as "burnished" as the ones you remember. Stir these around. The sugar will melt into the butter, and you'll get a wonderful coating, without the need to make caramel. Move the pan to a heat proof surface, and now add your fruit.
I can't give you quantities here, but I CAN say, use more than you think you need. As I said, the fruit is going to shrink, and one of the dramatic things about an upside down cake is that covering of cooked, soft, sugar coated fruit. I used cranberries to make two this afternoon. I needed a twelve ounce bag for each one. Figure accordingly for apples, pears, etc. Like I said, you'll want a lot. Just cover the whole surface of the sugar/butter mixture. If you want to get fancy , go ahead (I love using cranberries because I don't have to get fancy. They just sort of form their own pattern). Now put this aside while you make your cake batter.
If I see one more over the top upside down cake batter, I will lose it. This is minimalist, and it's about as good as it gets. You want to mix up a stick of softened, unsalted butter, and a cup of white sugar. Mix them really, REALLY well, and then put in some flavoring. Here, trust your taste buds. Blueberries? I'd say lemon and vanilla. Cranberries? Ain't no question: orange and vanilla. Bananas? Rum. Peaches? Hell, I'd leave it alone. You get the idea. Stir that in, and then add two large eggs , one at a time.
Off to the side, have a cup and a half of all purpose flour with two teaspoons of baking powder, and a pinch of salt. Also, have half a cup of some kind of liquid dairy. Whole milk, yogurt, sour cream, ricotta, etc. Combine one half of the flour mixture with the butter, and then all of the milk. Then stir in the rest of the flour. You will have a thick, lovely yellow cake patter, that you will have to spoon over the fruit, and smooth, very carefully, to get a nice surface.
Put the pan in a 375 degree oven and look at it after about half an hour. The standard 'straw down the middle' test doesn't work, because you've got moist fruit and sugar going. So you have to wait until the surface is beautifully dark gold. When you have that, the cake is ready.
Okay, now is the one time you have to be really, really careful. You're going to invert this cake onto a plate and you're working with very hot, dangerous things: the only thing that burns worse than hot fruit is hot caramel, and you've got them both in the cake. So make sure you're gloved, far up your arms. Get a plate that is bigger than your pan and put it over the top of the pan. Then, very carefully, pick the whole thing up in your gloved hands (after you've run a knife around the perimeter of the cake), and flip it over. Shake it gently. You'll hear, and feel a soft "plop" as the cake comes out.
Inevitably, some of the fruit sticks to the pan. Just scrape it off and put it back on the cake. With these, at least you know where to put the "fixmeup."
Why not try with the standard pineapple and move on to something else? I'm sure you're gonna love it.
Happy New Year to everyone. We'll be eating this with lots of other desserts tomorrow, and I promise to tell everyone about all the goodies we put away at our annual party
Monday, December 31, 2007
Sunday, December 30, 2007
A "classic" : macaroni and cheese
Yes, unless you're someone who avoids dairy products, you love it , don't you? I have put "classic" in quotes because we all know mac and cheese as a classic. But aren't classics immutable? They're supposed to be the same, every time . How you react to them changes, but they are constant.
I guess that is what distinguishes cooking from anything else. When someone speaks of a dish as a "classic" inevitably it means that there's more than one, and usually dozens, of variations on the dish. Mac and cheese is really a "classic" example of this. I have had it about a hundred different ways, and liked most of them. My favorite is one that is served at the restaurant "Good," which is about five minutes from where we live. I think they use cream in place of the standard milk, and probably use a much higher cheese to macaroni recipe than is usual, and I know they use buttered bread crumbs to finish the dish. They also put anaheim green chilis in the dish, which is a variation I heartily approve of. But I also know that when I order it, I am NEVER going to finish it. The portion is not enormous, but it is so rich that I literally can feel my stomach closing off after just a few bites. And I love every one of them.
I don't think there are many variations that are not valid. Except for one class of them. To quote that wonderfully sardonic humorist Fran Lebovitz "cheese that, by law, must be followed by the word food, does not go well with fruit and wine." And it makes awful mac and cheese. Just about anything else goes. And then it boils down to what you like.
About a year ago , the New York Times attacked this question, and published what they referred to as the "definitive" mac and cheese recipe. If something is "definitive," I'll try it. It was okay. Not bad, not great. I thought mine was better. Other readers were a bit less generous. To the credit of the Times, they published a good ten or so of them. And it shows the kind of debate you have about this kind of dish: it's comforting, it's rich, it's filling, and it's easy to make. You can gussy it up, you can make it simple, and it works. I've had it with truffles, I've had it with peppers, I've had it every which way. And I make it differently every time. I've just made it for a party, and in thinking about it, I'm going to give the guidelines for how I make it, being more general, and specific, to try to tell you how I do it.
You need to make a bechamel. Just like in the white lasagna post I put down a few weeks ago. Make it a little looser - say an extra half cup of milk or so. I made it today with three tablespoons of butter and three of flour , and then three cups of milk. But before you do this, grate your cheese. Now, I had a full, two pounds of pasta that I was going to cook, so I needed 1.75 pounds of cheese for my dish. I ALWAYS use cheddar, and then two other kinds of cheese. This time, it was havarti, and fontina. I always use cheddar - SHARP cheddar, because the "nip" it adds to the dish is essential, in my view. Havarti, because it's a nice, comfortable, filling cheese, and fontina, because it melts so well and has a nice complex flavor. Don't try grating the fontina. It's sort of like trying to get a cat to follow instructions. I cut it into cubes. Then, when the bechamel is finished, I toss in a good tablespoon of mustard - don't matter what kind. I used horseradish mustard. Then I tossed in about 3/4 of the cheese and it melted right away, into the hot bechamel.
A digression here. This is why it's important to learn the basic sauces. If you know how to make a bechamel - and you should from the white lasagna blog - you can make DOZENs of variations. The one I made with the cheese was for macaroni and cheese, but it could just have easily been used to cover vegetables. You can use it for just about anything and in fact, if you thin it with stock, you have a lovely cheese soup.
But enough of the digression. Now that the cheese sauce is done, you still have some of the cheese left over, and this is a good thing. You put it aside and cook your pasta. But only cook it for about 2/3 of the time that the package recommends. Use lots of salt in the water. For some reason, salt just seems to disappear into macaroni and cheese, at least in my experience.
When the pasta has cooked for that 2/3 of the time, drain it, and hold a cup of water in reserve. Put it back in the pot, and then add the sauce to it, stirring it all together. If it looks too thick or dense, add that cup of water. Pour the macaroni into a buttered, 9x13 inch pan (NEVER metal: glass or ceramic please). Sprinkle the remaining cheese over the top, and then bake this, at 400, for about thirty minutes.
That's really all you need to do. Some variations: you can put a little cooked meat into the dish. Sausage ham and bacon all really work well. I stay away from vegetables in it, because they tend to overcook and lose their character. Like I said above, a buttered bread crumb crust is good. You could also put some chilis into it, or truffles if you have lots of money. But ultimately, all you need is that bechamel sauce and lots of cheese.
This makes a lot. You'll need it. People always take seconds. I take thirds.
Now, go and ask other people about their macaroni and cheese recipe. You'll see what I mean.
I guess that is what distinguishes cooking from anything else. When someone speaks of a dish as a "classic" inevitably it means that there's more than one, and usually dozens, of variations on the dish. Mac and cheese is really a "classic" example of this. I have had it about a hundred different ways, and liked most of them. My favorite is one that is served at the restaurant "Good," which is about five minutes from where we live. I think they use cream in place of the standard milk, and probably use a much higher cheese to macaroni recipe than is usual, and I know they use buttered bread crumbs to finish the dish. They also put anaheim green chilis in the dish, which is a variation I heartily approve of. But I also know that when I order it, I am NEVER going to finish it. The portion is not enormous, but it is so rich that I literally can feel my stomach closing off after just a few bites. And I love every one of them.
I don't think there are many variations that are not valid. Except for one class of them. To quote that wonderfully sardonic humorist Fran Lebovitz "cheese that, by law, must be followed by the word food, does not go well with fruit and wine." And it makes awful mac and cheese. Just about anything else goes. And then it boils down to what you like.
About a year ago , the New York Times attacked this question, and published what they referred to as the "definitive" mac and cheese recipe. If something is "definitive," I'll try it. It was okay. Not bad, not great. I thought mine was better. Other readers were a bit less generous. To the credit of the Times, they published a good ten or so of them. And it shows the kind of debate you have about this kind of dish: it's comforting, it's rich, it's filling, and it's easy to make. You can gussy it up, you can make it simple, and it works. I've had it with truffles, I've had it with peppers, I've had it every which way. And I make it differently every time. I've just made it for a party, and in thinking about it, I'm going to give the guidelines for how I make it, being more general, and specific, to try to tell you how I do it.
You need to make a bechamel. Just like in the white lasagna post I put down a few weeks ago. Make it a little looser - say an extra half cup of milk or so. I made it today with three tablespoons of butter and three of flour , and then three cups of milk. But before you do this, grate your cheese. Now, I had a full, two pounds of pasta that I was going to cook, so I needed 1.75 pounds of cheese for my dish. I ALWAYS use cheddar, and then two other kinds of cheese. This time, it was havarti, and fontina. I always use cheddar - SHARP cheddar, because the "nip" it adds to the dish is essential, in my view. Havarti, because it's a nice, comfortable, filling cheese, and fontina, because it melts so well and has a nice complex flavor. Don't try grating the fontina. It's sort of like trying to get a cat to follow instructions. I cut it into cubes. Then, when the bechamel is finished, I toss in a good tablespoon of mustard - don't matter what kind. I used horseradish mustard. Then I tossed in about 3/4 of the cheese and it melted right away, into the hot bechamel.
A digression here. This is why it's important to learn the basic sauces. If you know how to make a bechamel - and you should from the white lasagna blog - you can make DOZENs of variations. The one I made with the cheese was for macaroni and cheese, but it could just have easily been used to cover vegetables. You can use it for just about anything and in fact, if you thin it with stock, you have a lovely cheese soup.
But enough of the digression. Now that the cheese sauce is done, you still have some of the cheese left over, and this is a good thing. You put it aside and cook your pasta. But only cook it for about 2/3 of the time that the package recommends. Use lots of salt in the water. For some reason, salt just seems to disappear into macaroni and cheese, at least in my experience.
When the pasta has cooked for that 2/3 of the time, drain it, and hold a cup of water in reserve. Put it back in the pot, and then add the sauce to it, stirring it all together. If it looks too thick or dense, add that cup of water. Pour the macaroni into a buttered, 9x13 inch pan (NEVER metal: glass or ceramic please). Sprinkle the remaining cheese over the top, and then bake this, at 400, for about thirty minutes.
That's really all you need to do. Some variations: you can put a little cooked meat into the dish. Sausage ham and bacon all really work well. I stay away from vegetables in it, because they tend to overcook and lose their character. Like I said above, a buttered bread crumb crust is good. You could also put some chilis into it, or truffles if you have lots of money. But ultimately, all you need is that bechamel sauce and lots of cheese.
This makes a lot. You'll need it. People always take seconds. I take thirds.
Now, go and ask other people about their macaroni and cheese recipe. You'll see what I mean.
Friday, December 28, 2007
It's good to have fun, but it's good to know what you know
and what you don't. About five years ago, I made a decision to focus what I do in the kitchen on "things mediterranean." This is an elusive concept these days, as we argue, sometimes heatedly, about what is and is not authentically mediterranean. Add in "California Mediterranean," or "New York mediterranean," for example, and you have all kinds of arguments over "what is it?" I must admit that while at the same time I am very much a proponent of sticking to the classics: if they were done this way for 500 years, why are we changing them now? I guess that's a manifestation of "if it ain't broke, don't fix it." On the other hand, I also confess that I am not immune to changes taht make my cooking easier, and in some cases, at least tastier to me.
A good example of this is the chicken with forty cloves of garlic that I wrote about previously. The classic dish shoves the forty cloves under the chicken skin. Perhaps chickens were bigger, or garlic was smaller or the cooks had more patience and more care than I do, but making that dish that way drives me nuts. So the idea from Anne Rosenzweig and her crew at Inside to do it as pieces, was too appealing to resist. And that's how I do it. Traditional? Well, sort of (I don't mess with the basic ingredients). Classic? No. But it's easier for people to enjoy, too. If I know that it's a big crowd, I will use thighs, or legs, so that it's easier to eat standing up. Who wants to face a crowd and have to cut a piece of chicken breast from a whole bird? Not me.
So this is all by introduction to another idea that pervades my kitchen: I can't do it all. I'm really competent at this style of cooking. On the other hand, my Indian cooking is laughable. So is my Chinese cooking. Let's not go near Japanese cooking. I can turn out pretty good Mexican food, but I think of the poor folks I know who spend all day making lasagna (although I AM told that proper Mexican food IS time consuming). I yearn to try to do southern cooking, but I have been told - with good reason - that my fried chicken doesn't even come close, my biscuits are heavy and dull (also a fair criticism), and that I just don't "get it." Fair enough.
These thoughts are inspired by a dinner Guy and I had last night with our friends Dave and Peter, who have made several appearances in this blog. At the risk of sounding politically incorrect, Dave and I referred to the dinner as "an evening of Jew food," because it's food he grew up with, and he does it well. OH MY does he do it well. We had matzoh ball soup in homemade chicken stock , potato pancakes with sour cream and apple sauce, slow cooked brisket, tzimmes and broccoli.
Now, going through that meal, I have some experience with some of the items. As I've said, I'm never making homemade stock again. Dave has a touch for it, and he should do it always - and make me extra. I have made matzoh balls. I'm laughing as I recall them. You could have bowled with them. Dave's are like clouds.
Potato pancakes? Hmmmm. I make good ones. Are they as good as Dave's? I won't go there. Dave's are very good. So are mine. But they're different. And I'm smiling some more because Dave kept the most cooked one for himself. I do the same thing.
Brisket. Oh, do I love brisket. And oh, do I do a TERRIBLE job with it. So did Nana. Her corned beef and brisket were really not her finest moments. So if I have someone around like Dave, who will make slow cooked brisket for me every once in a while, I'll give that one up.
Tzimmes: that wonderful mix of dried fruit and sweeter vegetables. It's a classic for vegetarians, who seem to make it with everything in every possible combination. I haven't made it for years. Oh, am I gonna go out on a limb here (but I can, cause Dave hasn't gotten to the blog yet): Dave , yours is good, but mine is better. THERE I said it. I may live to regret it. I enjoyed every bite of it and cleaned my plate. But mine is better. There are few good versions of tzimmes out there, so try to find someone who does it well, and cultivate them. Especially if you are a vegetarian.
The overriding theme here, is that there is so much good cooking out there, so many wonderful recipes, that at some point, you will find yourself gravitating to some over others. And you should stick with them. Don't be afraid to venture out of your "domain," because what fun is it for you, if you cook the same things, over and over and over again (case in point: If I EVER make a tiramisu for a party again, I will shoot myself)? But have a harbor. Have a place you can go back to, so that when you need something secure, something that people can associate you with, whether it's meatloaf, Japanese tonkatsu, brisket, southern fried chicken, brownies, or whatever, you have it. And if you share it, you WILL be known for it. And if you get to know other cooks, who have their own specialties, well, don't you see the most amazing potluck in the world coming at ya?
A good example of this is the chicken with forty cloves of garlic that I wrote about previously. The classic dish shoves the forty cloves under the chicken skin. Perhaps chickens were bigger, or garlic was smaller or the cooks had more patience and more care than I do, but making that dish that way drives me nuts. So the idea from Anne Rosenzweig and her crew at Inside to do it as pieces, was too appealing to resist. And that's how I do it. Traditional? Well, sort of (I don't mess with the basic ingredients). Classic? No. But it's easier for people to enjoy, too. If I know that it's a big crowd, I will use thighs, or legs, so that it's easier to eat standing up. Who wants to face a crowd and have to cut a piece of chicken breast from a whole bird? Not me.
So this is all by introduction to another idea that pervades my kitchen: I can't do it all. I'm really competent at this style of cooking. On the other hand, my Indian cooking is laughable. So is my Chinese cooking. Let's not go near Japanese cooking. I can turn out pretty good Mexican food, but I think of the poor folks I know who spend all day making lasagna (although I AM told that proper Mexican food IS time consuming). I yearn to try to do southern cooking, but I have been told - with good reason - that my fried chicken doesn't even come close, my biscuits are heavy and dull (also a fair criticism), and that I just don't "get it." Fair enough.
These thoughts are inspired by a dinner Guy and I had last night with our friends Dave and Peter, who have made several appearances in this blog. At the risk of sounding politically incorrect, Dave and I referred to the dinner as "an evening of Jew food," because it's food he grew up with, and he does it well. OH MY does he do it well. We had matzoh ball soup in homemade chicken stock , potato pancakes with sour cream and apple sauce, slow cooked brisket, tzimmes and broccoli.
Now, going through that meal, I have some experience with some of the items. As I've said, I'm never making homemade stock again. Dave has a touch for it, and he should do it always - and make me extra. I have made matzoh balls. I'm laughing as I recall them. You could have bowled with them. Dave's are like clouds.
Potato pancakes? Hmmmm. I make good ones. Are they as good as Dave's? I won't go there. Dave's are very good. So are mine. But they're different. And I'm smiling some more because Dave kept the most cooked one for himself. I do the same thing.
Brisket. Oh, do I love brisket. And oh, do I do a TERRIBLE job with it. So did Nana. Her corned beef and brisket were really not her finest moments. So if I have someone around like Dave, who will make slow cooked brisket for me every once in a while, I'll give that one up.
Tzimmes: that wonderful mix of dried fruit and sweeter vegetables. It's a classic for vegetarians, who seem to make it with everything in every possible combination. I haven't made it for years. Oh, am I gonna go out on a limb here (but I can, cause Dave hasn't gotten to the blog yet): Dave , yours is good, but mine is better. THERE I said it. I may live to regret it. I enjoyed every bite of it and cleaned my plate. But mine is better. There are few good versions of tzimmes out there, so try to find someone who does it well, and cultivate them. Especially if you are a vegetarian.
The overriding theme here, is that there is so much good cooking out there, so many wonderful recipes, that at some point, you will find yourself gravitating to some over others. And you should stick with them. Don't be afraid to venture out of your "domain," because what fun is it for you, if you cook the same things, over and over and over again (case in point: If I EVER make a tiramisu for a party again, I will shoot myself)? But have a harbor. Have a place you can go back to, so that when you need something secure, something that people can associate you with, whether it's meatloaf, Japanese tonkatsu, brisket, southern fried chicken, brownies, or whatever, you have it. And if you share it, you WILL be known for it. And if you get to know other cooks, who have their own specialties, well, don't you see the most amazing potluck in the world coming at ya?
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Red Lasagna
A couple of days ago I wrote about my "white lasagna" Fair is fair, and red lasagna , here we come.
Just like I said about white lasagna, to me, the key is to remember that ANY lasagna is not supposed to make you feel like "you ate the whole thing." If it does that, it wasn't made right. A good lasagna should make you want to have a nice piece of fish, or meat, grilled, and some vegetables.
If you scroll down to my piece on making sauce, you'll have the sauce recipe I use. I normally need two, maybe two and a half quarts of it to make a big lasagna. I also use the same amount of ricotta and mozzarella as in white lasagna, but I stay away from smoked cheeses, or strongly flavored ones. With tomato sauces, I find that the strong taste of the smoked cheese detracts from the lovely taste of the tomato sauce. Use a mix of mozzarella and fontina cheese, if you like. Use YOUNG fontina, and make sure it's the Italian one (a yellow rind: Danish fontina has a red skin, and tastes nothing like the Italian. Don't ask me why they share a name. I haven't a clue). The red sauce takes the place of the bechamel in a red lasagna.
And now we turn to the question of meat. Hmmmm. A tough one. Honestly, I like red lasagna that just has the cheeses in it, with a heavy sprinkle of parmesan when it comes out of the oven. But a case can very easily be made for ground meat, or sausage. Anything more than that begins to get a big too heavy for me to feel comfortable serving. Again, using a big (9x13) lasagna as a model, I think a pound, maybe a pound and a quarter of meat is fine.
Do you cook it ahead of time? Well, yes. I know that people begin to sigh at this point, because many people believe, with no reason, that meat takes longer to cook than vegetables. I don't think many people would put raw mushrooms into a lasagna, but many people think that, since the lasagna is going to get very hot, the meat will cook within the layers of cheese and noodles.
It will. But it will steam. And how many of us like the taste of steamed meat to browned meat? I suggest using a little olive oil and cooking your chopped meat, or your sausage (hot or sweet) until you get some browning. It's hard NOT to cook chopped meat all the way through, and that's fine, but if your sausage is a little "pink" that's fine too. All I look for when I cook the meat is to get some browning, so you get that level of flavor in your finished product.
Then what I do is I follow the same system I used for the white lasagna, only substituting the chopped meat, or cut up rounds of sausage, for the vegetable. Same cooking time, same everything.
If you are really feeling ambitious, try a lasagna party, or at least "dueling lasagne." I've done that for a number of parties. One meat, and one vegetable, one red, one white. When I do the dueling lasagne, I usually have spinach in my vegetable lasagna, and then spicy sausage in the meat version. It's a tough call.
And... in perhaps my most ambitious lasagna outing, ten plus years ago, for my fortieth birthday party, I cooked FOUR lasagne. One was a meat one, just like described here. Then I made a vegetable one with both spinach and mushrooms, in a pure white sauce. Third was a seafood lasagna, where I used saffron bechamel, and a filling of flounder, shrimp and scallops. The last one, perhaps my favorite, used red peppers, eggplant, and zucchini as a vegtable filling (small amounts of all of them), substituted scarmorza for regular mozzarella, and a bechamel.... BUT... instead of the final cover of bechamel, I used pesto. Pesto does tend to burn, so I saved some out, and covered the lasagna at the end, with fresh pesto.
So there you have it. A bit of a walk through recipes for a favorite. Make some of them, make all of them, but for heaven's sake, make ONE of them. Again, it's hard not to make someone happy with a plate of fresh lasagna in front of them. And you know? There are few breakfasts that are both more frightening and more wonderful than a small (okay, medium) sized square of cold, leftover lasagna.
Just like I said about white lasagna, to me, the key is to remember that ANY lasagna is not supposed to make you feel like "you ate the whole thing." If it does that, it wasn't made right. A good lasagna should make you want to have a nice piece of fish, or meat, grilled, and some vegetables.
If you scroll down to my piece on making sauce, you'll have the sauce recipe I use. I normally need two, maybe two and a half quarts of it to make a big lasagna. I also use the same amount of ricotta and mozzarella as in white lasagna, but I stay away from smoked cheeses, or strongly flavored ones. With tomato sauces, I find that the strong taste of the smoked cheese detracts from the lovely taste of the tomato sauce. Use a mix of mozzarella and fontina cheese, if you like. Use YOUNG fontina, and make sure it's the Italian one (a yellow rind: Danish fontina has a red skin, and tastes nothing like the Italian. Don't ask me why they share a name. I haven't a clue). The red sauce takes the place of the bechamel in a red lasagna.
And now we turn to the question of meat. Hmmmm. A tough one. Honestly, I like red lasagna that just has the cheeses in it, with a heavy sprinkle of parmesan when it comes out of the oven. But a case can very easily be made for ground meat, or sausage. Anything more than that begins to get a big too heavy for me to feel comfortable serving. Again, using a big (9x13) lasagna as a model, I think a pound, maybe a pound and a quarter of meat is fine.
Do you cook it ahead of time? Well, yes. I know that people begin to sigh at this point, because many people believe, with no reason, that meat takes longer to cook than vegetables. I don't think many people would put raw mushrooms into a lasagna, but many people think that, since the lasagna is going to get very hot, the meat will cook within the layers of cheese and noodles.
It will. But it will steam. And how many of us like the taste of steamed meat to browned meat? I suggest using a little olive oil and cooking your chopped meat, or your sausage (hot or sweet) until you get some browning. It's hard NOT to cook chopped meat all the way through, and that's fine, but if your sausage is a little "pink" that's fine too. All I look for when I cook the meat is to get some browning, so you get that level of flavor in your finished product.
Then what I do is I follow the same system I used for the white lasagna, only substituting the chopped meat, or cut up rounds of sausage, for the vegetable. Same cooking time, same everything.
If you are really feeling ambitious, try a lasagna party, or at least "dueling lasagne." I've done that for a number of parties. One meat, and one vegetable, one red, one white. When I do the dueling lasagne, I usually have spinach in my vegetable lasagna, and then spicy sausage in the meat version. It's a tough call.
And... in perhaps my most ambitious lasagna outing, ten plus years ago, for my fortieth birthday party, I cooked FOUR lasagne. One was a meat one, just like described here. Then I made a vegetable one with both spinach and mushrooms, in a pure white sauce. Third was a seafood lasagna, where I used saffron bechamel, and a filling of flounder, shrimp and scallops. The last one, perhaps my favorite, used red peppers, eggplant, and zucchini as a vegtable filling (small amounts of all of them), substituted scarmorza for regular mozzarella, and a bechamel.... BUT... instead of the final cover of bechamel, I used pesto. Pesto does tend to burn, so I saved some out, and covered the lasagna at the end, with fresh pesto.
So there you have it. A bit of a walk through recipes for a favorite. Make some of them, make all of them, but for heaven's sake, make ONE of them. Again, it's hard not to make someone happy with a plate of fresh lasagna in front of them. And you know? There are few breakfasts that are both more frightening and more wonderful than a small (okay, medium) sized square of cold, leftover lasagna.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
I come from good people
This isn't a cooking blog, just my entry for Xmas. As I sit here, much of the Xmas dinner is done. Soon, new friends, old friends will be coming by. Much of what I've written about will be on the table at some point. I have my fingers crossed about a steamed pudding that didn't come quite right - again. It never has, but I keep on trying. It's good, even if it ain't pretty. Which is sort of what this blog is about.
"I come from good people." The first line of a song that Guy's Chorus sings. I had never thought about that until recently, when I heard it sung, by some of my new friends from this year: the guys of the Uptown Express. You never really think about your "people" until something "bad" happens. About a year and a half ago, while doing what I thought was a good deed, someone referred to me as "white trash with money." Try as I may to laugh about it, to dismiss it, and him, something like that simply does not go away. And it makes me reflect on a few things. One of which is the inevitable: is it true? And when I came to the conclusion that it wasn't, I thought about the people who have directly and indirectly convinced me that I was right.
My "people" weren't perfect. In fact, they were, at times, downright evil. When I recall some of the things mom did to my sisters, less to me (but enough), dad running away, the plan to keep Tati's death hidden from me, and so many other things, I can sit back and say "HUH? Why am I still alive?"
Well, there was Nana, of course, and all of her nurturing, even mixed in with the things that I think she wouldn' thave done, had she thought she had a chance. And also, some of the things that mom, and my aunt Judi did to make sure that I got the books I needed, the chance to do things that weren't "standard" for boys to do.
I come from good people. And more important, I think, as I learned this year, "I AM good people."
So thank you all. And I'm going to forget people here, and forgive me if I do. And tell me. Because I'll edit this. The newbies: Andrew (oh, God, Andrew, if you only knew), Keith (same with you little brother), Matthew (likewise), Peter and Dave, the not always, but frequently dynamic duo, Michael (my huckleberry friend), Laura P and Louie and the not so newbies . Laura (Oh, lady, do I love you, out of my mind I do), Kevin (25 years and it's just getting better and better and better), and his partner Chuck, Craig and Ken (do you guys know you're the wisest people I know?), Tom and Rich (someone looked down from heaven one day and made sure you met each other. You know it, I know it, we all know it. And we are all glad for it). If I didn't mention James and the Uptown gang, it would be a serious gaff on my part. And good people don't make gaffes. I don't think that all of you, collectively, know how happy you made me this year, and how many times you did. So too, with the citrus folks Eric, Sandra, and Kim, KIm KIM!!!! Do I have to tell you you're gorgeous, gorgeous? Frank and Crystal. Crystal, if I didn't love you so much, I'd hate you for stealing Frank from me. You're my little sister, you know. My little sister who knows parts of me that no one else does. August, Robert, Carol, David, Eric - I can't think of you folks separately because you're all so connected to each other in my mind. The upstate gang who I don't see enough: Peg, Susan, Redd, my "have they cooked together for twenty years?" buddy Jim. Watch us in action. You will SWEAR that we prepped in cooking school together. It's telephathy I tell ya. And of course, Guy. 23 years and you still put up with it. You're more than a saint, more than an angel. You're my partner, and with all due respect to everyone, I love you more than all of them combined.
When I close my eyes, I think of all of you and I smile so much it hurts. Thank you for the whole year, thank you for everything before that, and thank you for what's to come.
Blessed holidays to everyone. I am truly blesssed
"I come from good people." The first line of a song that Guy's Chorus sings. I had never thought about that until recently, when I heard it sung, by some of my new friends from this year: the guys of the Uptown Express. You never really think about your "people" until something "bad" happens. About a year and a half ago, while doing what I thought was a good deed, someone referred to me as "white trash with money." Try as I may to laugh about it, to dismiss it, and him, something like that simply does not go away. And it makes me reflect on a few things. One of which is the inevitable: is it true? And when I came to the conclusion that it wasn't, I thought about the people who have directly and indirectly convinced me that I was right.
My "people" weren't perfect. In fact, they were, at times, downright evil. When I recall some of the things mom did to my sisters, less to me (but enough), dad running away, the plan to keep Tati's death hidden from me, and so many other things, I can sit back and say "HUH? Why am I still alive?"
Well, there was Nana, of course, and all of her nurturing, even mixed in with the things that I think she wouldn' thave done, had she thought she had a chance. And also, some of the things that mom, and my aunt Judi did to make sure that I got the books I needed, the chance to do things that weren't "standard" for boys to do.
I come from good people. And more important, I think, as I learned this year, "I AM good people."
So thank you all. And I'm going to forget people here, and forgive me if I do. And tell me. Because I'll edit this. The newbies: Andrew (oh, God, Andrew, if you only knew), Keith (same with you little brother), Matthew (likewise), Peter and Dave, the not always, but frequently dynamic duo, Michael (my huckleberry friend), Laura P and Louie and the not so newbies . Laura (Oh, lady, do I love you, out of my mind I do), Kevin (25 years and it's just getting better and better and better), and his partner Chuck, Craig and Ken (do you guys know you're the wisest people I know?), Tom and Rich (someone looked down from heaven one day and made sure you met each other. You know it, I know it, we all know it. And we are all glad for it). If I didn't mention James and the Uptown gang, it would be a serious gaff on my part. And good people don't make gaffes. I don't think that all of you, collectively, know how happy you made me this year, and how many times you did. So too, with the citrus folks Eric, Sandra, and Kim, KIm KIM!!!! Do I have to tell you you're gorgeous, gorgeous? Frank and Crystal. Crystal, if I didn't love you so much, I'd hate you for stealing Frank from me. You're my little sister, you know. My little sister who knows parts of me that no one else does. August, Robert, Carol, David, Eric - I can't think of you folks separately because you're all so connected to each other in my mind. The upstate gang who I don't see enough: Peg, Susan, Redd, my "have they cooked together for twenty years?" buddy Jim. Watch us in action. You will SWEAR that we prepped in cooking school together. It's telephathy I tell ya. And of course, Guy. 23 years and you still put up with it. You're more than a saint, more than an angel. You're my partner, and with all due respect to everyone, I love you more than all of them combined.
When I close my eyes, I think of all of you and I smile so much it hurts. Thank you for the whole year, thank you for everything before that, and thank you for what's to come.
Blessed holidays to everyone. I am truly blesssed
Monday, December 24, 2007
Lasagna for the holiday?
The rush of the holidays has in fact caught up with me, and I have been delinquent in writing. At some point, I will be writing about some of the people who were so important to me this year that I cannot forget to include them. But for now, to turn to the subject at hand.
We will be having a lasagna at our Xmas dinner. Or , rather, some of us will be. I had planned to serve Dungeness crab as the first course, which is all well and good, except for two friends who either cannot or will not eat seafood. So their first course will be lasagna, and Guy and I will eat the rest of it during the week. As I planned the lasagna (chanterelle mushroom), I remembered that, for many people, lasagna is viewed as an uphill challenge. Indeed, one year, a former friend and his partner invited Guy and I to a New Year's eve dinner, where he served a lasagna that he said had taken him the whole day to make. Well, it was good lasagna, but... honestly, lasagna should not take you more than a couple of hours to do. I believe that the reason why it seems to be such an uphill battle to people is because of what has been wrought upon lasagna. SO many things are put into it, it is frequently so heavy, and so rich, that after a bite or two you just want to give up. If you're making a classic ragu, with several kinds of meat, and a bechamel sauce, and a filling , to use for your lasagna, then of course it is going to take a long time.
But you shouldn't be doing that. I set the clock today, to see how long it took me to make my lasagna from scratch. Honestly, it took me under 30 minutes to put it into the oven, and then bake it for another 40. To be totally honest, I had cooked my mushrooms a few days ago, and that took some time off of the total, but that is probably about twenty minutes. In any event, there is no reason why you cannot make wonderful lasagna in less than an hour. I'm going to see if I can help you do it here.
I think of lasagne as either "white" or "red." This is a white one, and it uses a bechamel sauce. A "red" lasagna uses a tomato base. I cannot see any reason for using both in the same recipe. And bechamel sauce scares people. It shouldn't. Here's how to make enough bechamel for one big, or two small lasagne , which is what I did.
You need equal amounts of butter and flour. I used two tablespoons of each. And then two cups of whole milk. Working at your stove, in a big pot, melt the butter over low heat, and then add the flour, stirring and cooking the rawness out of it. It will take about five minutes. Slowly and gently heat the milk, and then pour it into the flour/butter mixture. It will bubble up and you should have a whisk ready for stirring them together. The mass will smooth out. Then lower your heat and let it cook for about five minutes. Salt is a necessity here, and you have to taste to your liking, eeping in mind what you're going to put into the lasagna (more on that below). I like putting saffron in it, and I did that here. You don't have to. After the sauce is made, collect your other ingredients. You will need ricotta - GOOD QUALITY RICOTTA. Don't ever use that stuff from the supermarket that ends with an O. You're courting disaster. Go to a good Italian market and get some good stuff. About a pound and a half. If you can only get two pounds, save the rest for yourself. It's good. And while you're there, get some good mozzarella too. A pound. Smoked mozzarella (scamorza), is what I used, but you can use regular stuff too. Salted please. Don't buy the "antipasto" quality stuff. It's a waste here. Tell the clerk what you're doing with it, and s/he'll sell you the right quality.
Now, you don't NEED anything else, but most people expect a vegetable of some kind or some meat in their lasagna. I used mushrooms, and I was generous. I had three pounds of glorious chanterelles, and I had cooked them, earlier, in just butter and olive oil, with some salt. Spinach is good too (here, I'll give you permission to use two packages of thawed, frozen spinach that you've squeezed the liquid out of. And you can use drained artichokes, or butternut squash, or anything you like.).
Preheat your oven to 400. I use fresh noodles for this, because it quickens things. Again, you can use dried. PLEASE DONT USE THE NO BOIL NOODLES. They taste ok, but the texture is terrible.
Okay, so you have all your stuff. Chop up the mozzarella into small pieces, put the ricotta into a bowl, and put your veggies in another one. Now you're set to start. Whether you make one big one or two small ones, smear a few tablespoons (no more than about three), over the bottom of your baking dish, which should be glass or ceramic, and never metal. Now the fun begins.
Cook the noodles in a lot of boiling salted water. If you're using dried noodles, then put them into the pot and cook them for HALF the time the box recommends, all at once. If I'm using fresh, I cook the noodles individually, by holding them by my fingertips in the water, for twenty seconds . Lay a noodle on top of the sauce base you've put down.
Now, you can have some fun. I like to use half of the vegetables for my first layer, mixed with a little bechamel. Spread that over the noodles, and then repeat the process with two more noodles. I follow that with a nice layer of ricotta, all by itself . I use, perhaps, two thirds of it. I cover this with more noodles, and then put a mix of the rest of the vegetables and half the mozzarella on top of that. Again, top with noodles. Finally, I take the rest of the ricotta and mix it with the mozzarella that is left, for the final layer. After I cover this, I pour the remaining bechamel over it, and bake at 400 for thirty, maybe forty minutes, until the beasts begin to brown and get crispy.
Did you notice what I didn't do? I did not put parmesan on before I baked the lasagne. I do this after they come out of the oven, if I do it at all. Parmesan burns when you cook it that long, and if it's going to burn, then why bother? So I sprinkle it over the lasagne when they are hot, and it just melts, gently. But in this case, since there is saffron in it, I leave the parmesan out.
Interestingly, I was talking about lasagna with one of the three young ones (Keith) on Saturday, and he told me that lasagna doesnt appeal to him, because he can't handle all that ricotta. Well, I had Keith in mind when I was making the things today, and I DID try to cut back, but I couldn't go further than a pound and a half. SORRY KEITH. But I'm gonna make a deal with you : there will be lasagna at the New Year's party. Try a little piece of it, okay?
This whole recipe probably sounds much more complicated than it is. I wish I could show you all how to do it, and maybe some day I will get that opportunity. Try it. If you shop well, and have good ingredients, you will do just fine.
Red lasagna is a slightly different recipe, and I will post something on a red lasagna, soon. For now, I wish you all a really wonderful, DELICIOUS stress free holiday. Just remember: the theme here is "friends, family , food." Friends and family first, the food comes last. Don't kill yourself over what you're doing. If you're fortunate enough to be with those you love (as I will be), the food becomes secondary.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL
We will be having a lasagna at our Xmas dinner. Or , rather, some of us will be. I had planned to serve Dungeness crab as the first course, which is all well and good, except for two friends who either cannot or will not eat seafood. So their first course will be lasagna, and Guy and I will eat the rest of it during the week. As I planned the lasagna (chanterelle mushroom), I remembered that, for many people, lasagna is viewed as an uphill challenge. Indeed, one year, a former friend and his partner invited Guy and I to a New Year's eve dinner, where he served a lasagna that he said had taken him the whole day to make. Well, it was good lasagna, but... honestly, lasagna should not take you more than a couple of hours to do. I believe that the reason why it seems to be such an uphill battle to people is because of what has been wrought upon lasagna. SO many things are put into it, it is frequently so heavy, and so rich, that after a bite or two you just want to give up. If you're making a classic ragu, with several kinds of meat, and a bechamel sauce, and a filling , to use for your lasagna, then of course it is going to take a long time.
But you shouldn't be doing that. I set the clock today, to see how long it took me to make my lasagna from scratch. Honestly, it took me under 30 minutes to put it into the oven, and then bake it for another 40. To be totally honest, I had cooked my mushrooms a few days ago, and that took some time off of the total, but that is probably about twenty minutes. In any event, there is no reason why you cannot make wonderful lasagna in less than an hour. I'm going to see if I can help you do it here.
I think of lasagne as either "white" or "red." This is a white one, and it uses a bechamel sauce. A "red" lasagna uses a tomato base. I cannot see any reason for using both in the same recipe. And bechamel sauce scares people. It shouldn't. Here's how to make enough bechamel for one big, or two small lasagne , which is what I did.
You need equal amounts of butter and flour. I used two tablespoons of each. And then two cups of whole milk. Working at your stove, in a big pot, melt the butter over low heat, and then add the flour, stirring and cooking the rawness out of it. It will take about five minutes. Slowly and gently heat the milk, and then pour it into the flour/butter mixture. It will bubble up and you should have a whisk ready for stirring them together. The mass will smooth out. Then lower your heat and let it cook for about five minutes. Salt is a necessity here, and you have to taste to your liking, eeping in mind what you're going to put into the lasagna (more on that below). I like putting saffron in it, and I did that here. You don't have to. After the sauce is made, collect your other ingredients. You will need ricotta - GOOD QUALITY RICOTTA. Don't ever use that stuff from the supermarket that ends with an O. You're courting disaster. Go to a good Italian market and get some good stuff. About a pound and a half. If you can only get two pounds, save the rest for yourself. It's good. And while you're there, get some good mozzarella too. A pound. Smoked mozzarella (scamorza), is what I used, but you can use regular stuff too. Salted please. Don't buy the "antipasto" quality stuff. It's a waste here. Tell the clerk what you're doing with it, and s/he'll sell you the right quality.
Now, you don't NEED anything else, but most people expect a vegetable of some kind or some meat in their lasagna. I used mushrooms, and I was generous. I had three pounds of glorious chanterelles, and I had cooked them, earlier, in just butter and olive oil, with some salt. Spinach is good too (here, I'll give you permission to use two packages of thawed, frozen spinach that you've squeezed the liquid out of. And you can use drained artichokes, or butternut squash, or anything you like.).
Preheat your oven to 400. I use fresh noodles for this, because it quickens things. Again, you can use dried. PLEASE DONT USE THE NO BOIL NOODLES. They taste ok, but the texture is terrible.
Okay, so you have all your stuff. Chop up the mozzarella into small pieces, put the ricotta into a bowl, and put your veggies in another one. Now you're set to start. Whether you make one big one or two small ones, smear a few tablespoons (no more than about three), over the bottom of your baking dish, which should be glass or ceramic, and never metal. Now the fun begins.
Cook the noodles in a lot of boiling salted water. If you're using dried noodles, then put them into the pot and cook them for HALF the time the box recommends, all at once. If I'm using fresh, I cook the noodles individually, by holding them by my fingertips in the water, for twenty seconds . Lay a noodle on top of the sauce base you've put down.
Now, you can have some fun. I like to use half of the vegetables for my first layer, mixed with a little bechamel. Spread that over the noodles, and then repeat the process with two more noodles. I follow that with a nice layer of ricotta, all by itself . I use, perhaps, two thirds of it. I cover this with more noodles, and then put a mix of the rest of the vegetables and half the mozzarella on top of that. Again, top with noodles. Finally, I take the rest of the ricotta and mix it with the mozzarella that is left, for the final layer. After I cover this, I pour the remaining bechamel over it, and bake at 400 for thirty, maybe forty minutes, until the beasts begin to brown and get crispy.
Did you notice what I didn't do? I did not put parmesan on before I baked the lasagne. I do this after they come out of the oven, if I do it at all. Parmesan burns when you cook it that long, and if it's going to burn, then why bother? So I sprinkle it over the lasagne when they are hot, and it just melts, gently. But in this case, since there is saffron in it, I leave the parmesan out.
Interestingly, I was talking about lasagna with one of the three young ones (Keith) on Saturday, and he told me that lasagna doesnt appeal to him, because he can't handle all that ricotta. Well, I had Keith in mind when I was making the things today, and I DID try to cut back, but I couldn't go further than a pound and a half. SORRY KEITH. But I'm gonna make a deal with you : there will be lasagna at the New Year's party. Try a little piece of it, okay?
This whole recipe probably sounds much more complicated than it is. I wish I could show you all how to do it, and maybe some day I will get that opportunity. Try it. If you shop well, and have good ingredients, you will do just fine.
Red lasagna is a slightly different recipe, and I will post something on a red lasagna, soon. For now, I wish you all a really wonderful, DELICIOUS stress free holiday. Just remember: the theme here is "friends, family , food." Friends and family first, the food comes last. Don't kill yourself over what you're doing. If you're fortunate enough to be with those you love (as I will be), the food becomes secondary.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Fennel, what is fennel?
I was going to put this entry into the "difficult vegetables" group, but as I cooked it last night, I decided that it really isn't a difficult vegetable at all. So, with a tribute to Gertrude Stein and "Tender Buttons" (Nickle, what is nickle?), let's talk about "what is fennel?"
Italians know what fennel is. We adore it. A good meal, without some fennel at the end to chew as a restorative, and a palate cleanser, is incomplete. It's that stuff that looks like big, fluffy, celery that you see in the supermarket sometimes, usually having been treated very badly (which is why I think people don't buy it very often). Interestingly, the Italian word for fennel ("finocchio") was used for years as slang for gay man (it was a nastier word, but I won't use it here). Who can figure out why? Maybe because it is a very exuberant, over the top vegetable? I don't know. In any event, Federico, my patient as a saint Italian teacher says that no one uses the word anymore to describe gay men, so I guess we have progress.
Anyway, like I said, when you see fennel, it usually looks horrible. It's not a particularly delicate vegetable, but it does bruise easily, especially because the skin on the outside is so pale and white. You should ignore this, because you're not going to use that part. You're going to have a lot of waste, so make sure you get a nice big bulb. Or several. When I cook for Guy and I, I plan on a large bulb for each of us. You may want to do the same.
Those wonderful fronds on the plant are great in fish dishes. I uses them underneath a baked fish, especially a white fillet like monkfish , or cod, and then sprinkle fresh ones over the fish when it's done. I also add it to risotti if I'm using something like scallops, or shrimp. The hollow stems are something I haven't figured out how to use yet, other than to chew on them because I love the wonderful, anise/licorice flavor that they have. The bulbs, however, are where the action is.
Older fennel forms a nice sized bulb. The smaller ones, which have not "bulbed" yet, are really only useful, in my view, for things where you want a fresh herb. The bulb needs to be sliced thin. Then you can add it to salads. Fennel with oranges is a classic, and rightly so. So, too is fennel with a sprinkling of bottarga, the wonderful dried fish roe from Sardinia, and a lemon dressing. Fennel is a joy to cook. It browns easily and the flavor transforms somewhat. It can also be sliced up, and used in a gratin with potatoes, where it gives some crunch and that distinctive flavor. But today, we're gonna saute it.
What I did was to take two large fennel bulbs. After I took off the fronds and stems, and shook my head because I had nothing to do with them, I sliced them nice and thin. I put them into a pan with some olive oil, and a pinch of salt. I got that wonderful sizzle that a vegetable with a lot of water gives to a pan when it's sauteeing, and as the sound decreased, I moved them around. The slices had browned beautifully, and left a nice "fond" on the pan.
Now, I was faced with a question: I wanted that fond, so as to coat the vegetable with a little sauce. What to use? Citrus juice would have burned off and left no flavor, red wine was out of the question and white wine - at least the stuff I had at hand, simply seemed not strong enough.
'VERMOUTH' I swear I heard my friend Sue's resonant voice give me instruction from the back of the kitchen. (I DO hear voices in the kitchen sometime, and that's not the least of my patholigies). She was right. Vermouth has all those herbal overtones, and with fennel. What a perfect match. So, off the flame, I poured in about a quarter cup of the vermouth and then reduced it. When the cooking was done, I did in fact squeeze a lemon into the dish before serving it, with the conch pasta sauce that I wrote about previously.
This was a winner. I'm serving it as part of my Xmas holiday meal. I think it will be a hit.
There is much more to be said about fennel, but I'm moving on. Do some research, make something wonderful, and maybe you'll find a new ingredient to play with. I hope you do.
Italians know what fennel is. We adore it. A good meal, without some fennel at the end to chew as a restorative, and a palate cleanser, is incomplete. It's that stuff that looks like big, fluffy, celery that you see in the supermarket sometimes, usually having been treated very badly (which is why I think people don't buy it very often). Interestingly, the Italian word for fennel ("finocchio") was used for years as slang for gay man (it was a nastier word, but I won't use it here). Who can figure out why? Maybe because it is a very exuberant, over the top vegetable? I don't know. In any event, Federico, my patient as a saint Italian teacher says that no one uses the word anymore to describe gay men, so I guess we have progress.
Anyway, like I said, when you see fennel, it usually looks horrible. It's not a particularly delicate vegetable, but it does bruise easily, especially because the skin on the outside is so pale and white. You should ignore this, because you're not going to use that part. You're going to have a lot of waste, so make sure you get a nice big bulb. Or several. When I cook for Guy and I, I plan on a large bulb for each of us. You may want to do the same.
Those wonderful fronds on the plant are great in fish dishes. I uses them underneath a baked fish, especially a white fillet like monkfish , or cod, and then sprinkle fresh ones over the fish when it's done. I also add it to risotti if I'm using something like scallops, or shrimp. The hollow stems are something I haven't figured out how to use yet, other than to chew on them because I love the wonderful, anise/licorice flavor that they have. The bulbs, however, are where the action is.
Older fennel forms a nice sized bulb. The smaller ones, which have not "bulbed" yet, are really only useful, in my view, for things where you want a fresh herb. The bulb needs to be sliced thin. Then you can add it to salads. Fennel with oranges is a classic, and rightly so. So, too is fennel with a sprinkling of bottarga, the wonderful dried fish roe from Sardinia, and a lemon dressing. Fennel is a joy to cook. It browns easily and the flavor transforms somewhat. It can also be sliced up, and used in a gratin with potatoes, where it gives some crunch and that distinctive flavor. But today, we're gonna saute it.
What I did was to take two large fennel bulbs. After I took off the fronds and stems, and shook my head because I had nothing to do with them, I sliced them nice and thin. I put them into a pan with some olive oil, and a pinch of salt. I got that wonderful sizzle that a vegetable with a lot of water gives to a pan when it's sauteeing, and as the sound decreased, I moved them around. The slices had browned beautifully, and left a nice "fond" on the pan.
Now, I was faced with a question: I wanted that fond, so as to coat the vegetable with a little sauce. What to use? Citrus juice would have burned off and left no flavor, red wine was out of the question and white wine - at least the stuff I had at hand, simply seemed not strong enough.
'VERMOUTH' I swear I heard my friend Sue's resonant voice give me instruction from the back of the kitchen. (I DO hear voices in the kitchen sometime, and that's not the least of my patholigies). She was right. Vermouth has all those herbal overtones, and with fennel. What a perfect match. So, off the flame, I poured in about a quarter cup of the vermouth and then reduced it. When the cooking was done, I did in fact squeeze a lemon into the dish before serving it, with the conch pasta sauce that I wrote about previously.
This was a winner. I'm serving it as part of my Xmas holiday meal. I think it will be a hit.
There is much more to be said about fennel, but I'm moving on. Do some research, make something wonderful, and maybe you'll find a new ingredient to play with. I hope you do.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Easier than they seem: chocolate truffles
One of the big mysteries in the cooking world is candy making. And with good reason, for the most part. Candy making involves the chemistry of sugar, one of the most notoriously difficult materials around to work with (I was a biochemist before I changed career focus, as they say). Whenever you read a chapter on candy making in , say "The Joy of Cooking," you're confronted with this list of temperatures and "hard ball stage" and "soft ball stage," "hard crack stage," etc, etc, etc, all calibrated to very precise temperatures. You're advised to get a candy thermometer, plus all this equipment that you can't really go to the corner store and get. Oh, and let's not forget the warnings about the severe burns that you can get from working with hot sugar (they're right. Trust me). And, what always amuses me is that, after you read these warnings, one of the first recipes you get is inevitably something like an "italian meringue," which calls for running the blender, with whipped meringues in it, and slowly adding very hot sugar syrup while whipping at an obscenely high speed. Uh, doesn't that invite spraying around? So, no, for the most part, I'll stay away from candy making. My one big foray into it every year is candying grapefruit peel. This is relatively easy, but a very good exercise in the Zen of patience. After four boils of the peel at ten minutes a boil, you put it into a sugar syrup, which you then have to bring to 230 degrees.
Coming to 212 is very easy and very fast. You can tell when the boiling starts. And you would assume, since you've gone from, oh about 70 degrees to 212 in five minutes, how long can it be until you get to 230?
Get a good book. Maybe not War and Peace, but if there's a twenty page article you've been dying to read in the New Yorker, or you have something like that to do, go and do it. At low heat (so you don't burn the peel), it takes me anywhere from 20 to 45 minutes to get to that temperature. And then you have to let it cool (remember the burn warning?), separate it, cool it, and coat it with more sugar.
Someone was charging 64.00 a pound for the stuff a few years ago. The woman was undercharging. I hope all of you who get my candied peel in your cookie tins love me even more for it.
So given the relationship between something as exotic and expensive as chocolate truffles, and, say marshmallows or lollipops, there is a natural assumption that these truffles are hard work, not approachable by the home cook.
NONSENSE.
Last week, Mark Bittman published a piece on making truffles at home. Now, while I have issues with some of what Mr. Bittman has written, and his television persona completely turns me off, on this one, he is spot on. Making truffles at home could not be easier. And what a reversal from the torture I've put you through for quiche. I'm repeating his recipe, with a few comments.
Here's what you need. A bar of the best quality chocolate you can afford, about 8 ounces. And you also need 7/8 cup of heavy cream. Again, get the best you can.
For me, the operative words are Scharffenberger (for the chocolate), and Ronnybrook, for the cream. I know there are more expensive chocolates than Scharffenberger out there, but I really like this stuff. And Ronnybrook cream is celestial.
Here's where I begin to have problems with Mr. Bittman: "7/8 of a cup of heavy cream? " GIVE ME A BREAK. Could you measure that out exactly? I'll tell you how. Measure a cup of heavy cream, and then remove two tablespoons of the stuff, and you have 7/8 of a cup (two tablespoons is a liquid ounce). But Scharffenberger comes in a 9.7 ounce bar (don't ask). And if you don't have a scale, how do you know how much you have if you have a big chunk? Buy a bar of Scharffenberger and use a cup of heavy cream. Chop up the bar of chocolate, using a serrated knife. I admit I was skeptical when I first read that, but after I tried it, it does work the best. Just watch your hands. It's very easy to slip and do some damage, so work carefully and slowly. And make sure your surfaces are dry. Water is the deadly enemy of chocolate. If you get water in your mix, the chocolate will "seize" ( a good word for it, as you watch it clump and look like, well, turds), and make you feel like a moron. Put the dry chocolate into a big, shallow bowl. Scharffenberger makes a bittersweet and a semisweet chocolate. I really like the bittersweet one, but most people prefer semisweet. I compromise and use half of each.
Now, heat the cup of cream slowly, until you get the little bubbles around the edge, which is called "scalding." Pour the cream over your chocolate and stir, slowly and evenly, until it melts completely.
Now refrigerate it for two hours. And if you have a melon baller, put this in the freezer while the chocolate is solidifying . You'll be glad you did.
After two hours, take out the chocolate, put on a glove to protect your hand from the cold, and take out the melon baller. Start scooping out rough portions of the chocolate, and put them out on a baking sheet with parchment paper, just like you were making cookies. MAKE SURE YOUR HANDS ARE DRY, and then roll the clumps of chocolate into nice, round but not perfect balls.
You can stop here if you like, but what most people will do now is roll those chocolates in cinnamon (YES!), coconut (ok), cocoa (yes), powdered sugar (I'll pass), or colored sugar for holidays (Get thee behind me, red sugar).
And you're done. Stack em in a container, separating layers with pieces of parchment, and refrigerate them.
This is a basic recipe. You can make flavored truffles... by adding flavor to the mix. Here, though, you have to be careful. Many flavorings are water based. Do you remember what I wrote about up on top? Hmmmmm? Well, do you? So here's what you need to do. If it's an extract you want, use an oil, like orange oil, or a liqueur, like amaretto, and add it to the hot cream. Go easy. If it's a flavor like coffee, or cinnamon, what I woudl suggest is that you take the flavoring, like coffee beans, or a cinnamon stick, or something like that (or even an orange peel), and put it in the hot cream and let it steep for about fifteen minutes or longer, until you get a flavor you like.
I can't really tell you how many truffles you'll get from this, because it all depends on how big your scoop is, but I like to make lots of smaller ones. If you're serving these at the end of a meal, people will want to have several, especially if you have different coatings, and if they're too big, they'll bite into them, and not finish. So here "smaller is better," in my view.
These are really rich, but in the spirit of this season of excess , make them.
And, ultimately, think about how little work you have to do here. So let's say "He's" coming over for dinner, or you just want to impress your friends. "would you like a chocolate truffle? I made them myself."
BOY will you feel proud, and will you IMPRESS people. Even me, and I'll know where you learned it. :)
Coming to 212 is very easy and very fast. You can tell when the boiling starts. And you would assume, since you've gone from, oh about 70 degrees to 212 in five minutes, how long can it be until you get to 230?
Get a good book. Maybe not War and Peace, but if there's a twenty page article you've been dying to read in the New Yorker, or you have something like that to do, go and do it. At low heat (so you don't burn the peel), it takes me anywhere from 20 to 45 minutes to get to that temperature. And then you have to let it cool (remember the burn warning?), separate it, cool it, and coat it with more sugar.
Someone was charging 64.00 a pound for the stuff a few years ago. The woman was undercharging. I hope all of you who get my candied peel in your cookie tins love me even more for it.
So given the relationship between something as exotic and expensive as chocolate truffles, and, say marshmallows or lollipops, there is a natural assumption that these truffles are hard work, not approachable by the home cook.
NONSENSE.
Last week, Mark Bittman published a piece on making truffles at home. Now, while I have issues with some of what Mr. Bittman has written, and his television persona completely turns me off, on this one, he is spot on. Making truffles at home could not be easier. And what a reversal from the torture I've put you through for quiche. I'm repeating his recipe, with a few comments.
Here's what you need. A bar of the best quality chocolate you can afford, about 8 ounces. And you also need 7/8 cup of heavy cream. Again, get the best you can.
For me, the operative words are Scharffenberger (for the chocolate), and Ronnybrook, for the cream. I know there are more expensive chocolates than Scharffenberger out there, but I really like this stuff. And Ronnybrook cream is celestial.
Here's where I begin to have problems with Mr. Bittman: "7/8 of a cup of heavy cream? " GIVE ME A BREAK. Could you measure that out exactly? I'll tell you how. Measure a cup of heavy cream, and then remove two tablespoons of the stuff, and you have 7/8 of a cup (two tablespoons is a liquid ounce). But Scharffenberger comes in a 9.7 ounce bar (don't ask). And if you don't have a scale, how do you know how much you have if you have a big chunk? Buy a bar of Scharffenberger and use a cup of heavy cream. Chop up the bar of chocolate, using a serrated knife. I admit I was skeptical when I first read that, but after I tried it, it does work the best. Just watch your hands. It's very easy to slip and do some damage, so work carefully and slowly. And make sure your surfaces are dry. Water is the deadly enemy of chocolate. If you get water in your mix, the chocolate will "seize" ( a good word for it, as you watch it clump and look like, well, turds), and make you feel like a moron. Put the dry chocolate into a big, shallow bowl. Scharffenberger makes a bittersweet and a semisweet chocolate. I really like the bittersweet one, but most people prefer semisweet. I compromise and use half of each.
Now, heat the cup of cream slowly, until you get the little bubbles around the edge, which is called "scalding." Pour the cream over your chocolate and stir, slowly and evenly, until it melts completely.
Now refrigerate it for two hours. And if you have a melon baller, put this in the freezer while the chocolate is solidifying . You'll be glad you did.
After two hours, take out the chocolate, put on a glove to protect your hand from the cold, and take out the melon baller. Start scooping out rough portions of the chocolate, and put them out on a baking sheet with parchment paper, just like you were making cookies. MAKE SURE YOUR HANDS ARE DRY, and then roll the clumps of chocolate into nice, round but not perfect balls.
You can stop here if you like, but what most people will do now is roll those chocolates in cinnamon (YES!), coconut (ok), cocoa (yes), powdered sugar (I'll pass), or colored sugar for holidays (Get thee behind me, red sugar).
And you're done. Stack em in a container, separating layers with pieces of parchment, and refrigerate them.
This is a basic recipe. You can make flavored truffles... by adding flavor to the mix. Here, though, you have to be careful. Many flavorings are water based. Do you remember what I wrote about up on top? Hmmmmm? Well, do you? So here's what you need to do. If it's an extract you want, use an oil, like orange oil, or a liqueur, like amaretto, and add it to the hot cream. Go easy. If it's a flavor like coffee, or cinnamon, what I woudl suggest is that you take the flavoring, like coffee beans, or a cinnamon stick, or something like that (or even an orange peel), and put it in the hot cream and let it steep for about fifteen minutes or longer, until you get a flavor you like.
I can't really tell you how many truffles you'll get from this, because it all depends on how big your scoop is, but I like to make lots of smaller ones. If you're serving these at the end of a meal, people will want to have several, especially if you have different coatings, and if they're too big, they'll bite into them, and not finish. So here "smaller is better," in my view.
These are really rich, but in the spirit of this season of excess , make them.
And, ultimately, think about how little work you have to do here. So let's say "He's" coming over for dinner, or you just want to impress your friends. "would you like a chocolate truffle? I made them myself."
BOY will you feel proud, and will you IMPRESS people. Even me, and I'll know where you learned it. :)
Monday, December 17, 2007
Getting reacquainted with a classic: quiche
My huckleberry friend Michael is coming over tomorrow to make chocolate truffles. I talked him out of taking a class, for which he was paying 150.00, to learn how to make these chocolates for Christmas.
Oi.
Chocolate truffles are so easy to make that I don't know why anyone needs a class to make them. So I got involved. That, and the fact that lately, as I'm in the midst of what I can only describe as a "sea change" in my life (which will come out bit by bit in these pieces), I have wanted, very badly, to want to SHOW people how to cook, rather than just write about it.
For those of us who work (all of us), having a get together to do something like truffles means evening. And that means dinner. So, with this in mind, I suggested to Michael that we have dinner together, and that I show him how to make quiche. Michael sounds excited about it. And so am I. Mostly because it's Michael, and it's teaching, but also, because it's quiche, and I just read the entry on quiche in "Cooking for Dummies."
Double Oi. In the 80s, before we all started reading Marcella Hazan, as she put it "Ah, pasta. What sins have been committed in your name. " As Marcella and other great cooks got to work, pasta was "rehabilitated." Quiche, which was all the rage in the 70s and the 80s, unfortunately, has never recovered, in my view. And the recipe in "Cooking for Dummies" confirms it.
If chocolate truffles are easy (and they are), quiche is not. Rather, GOOD quiche is not. It's not difficult, but it IS time consuming, and it requires an amount of skill that people take for granted. It is also a dish that, more than most, rises or falls on the quality of your ingredients. So, when I see a recipe that starts with "one store bought pie crust," I cringe. I absolutely cringe. I am going to set down the law on what is in a savory crust: flour, butter, salt, water. THAT IS ALL. Read a label on a "storebought pie crust." If it has anything other than that in it, move on. And make your own.
And I say that as someone who is NOT all that comfortable with pie crusts. I don't have the flair that the great pie bakers do. But I do ok. They taste good. They don't look great, but again, think of the fact that you're cooking for friends. They'll forgive.
Here's how you do piecrust. For a crust for one regular sized quiche, you need a cup of all purpose flour, a stick of cold, unsalted butter, cut into about 10 pieces, a bowl of ice water, and a pinch of salt. I use a food processor, because my fingers are a little too warm for doing it by hand, and they're a bit arthritic, but you can do it by hand. Start with the flour and the butter. Combine them in the bowl of your processor and pulse, until you have a mixture that is about the size of peas. You can do this by hand, rolling and squeezing the butter in the flour until you get the same consistency. Sprinkle the salt in. Now add water, and be careful about this. You'll need about three tablespoons, sprinkling it, or pulsing it into the flour. When the dough is such that, if you squeeze it together, it's done. Gather it into a ball, flatten it, and then wrap it in foil and refrigerate it, for about 20-30 minutes.
I said a "regular size" quiche. Check the volume of your pie pan. If it holds about two cups, it's a pan for a normal quiche. If it's bigger than that, multiply the ingredients by 1.5. And proceed.
Now, onto making the filling. The classic, wonderful quiche lorraine uses half and half, eggs, salt and cooked bacon. Notice what I left out: no vegetables, no cheese, nothing. It's a rich, filling dish that is served in small pieces. And it's good. It's REALLY good. But I'm going to describe my variation. I use milk. Whole milk. I imagine 2% can work, but lighter than that, I wouldn't use it. For a regular sized quiche, use one cup of milk and three, large eggs. Mix this in a large bowl, and break up the eggs with the milk. Don't beat in too much air. Add a little salt, and some grated nutmeg
Vegetables? Well, yes. I like an onion element. Like a sauteed leek, or a sauteed half an onion, chopped up. Or about six scallions, cut on the bias, and cooked gently. And I can enjoy a quiche that has just that in it. But cooked, very well drained spinach is really good too. So is chopped cooked broccoli. I really don't go much further than that, except an asparagus quiche once in a while, or a mushroom one . In every case, the vegetables are cooked already.
Cheese? Hmmmm. Yes, but not too much. Maybe, maybe 2/3 to 1 cup of cubed, gruyere cheese, or emmenthaler. But for heaven's sake, NO CHEDDAR. If I told you how many bad cheddar quiches I have eaten.
Bacon? Ham? Some other kind of meat? Yes, if I'm leaving out the cheese, no if I'm using it. It's a hard call. If I'm making it just for myself (don't think I haven't), I leave out the cheese and use the meat. It's a lot like having a custard omelet with bacon on the side.
Now, you're ready to get started. Take your crust out of the fridge, and flour a surface real well. Roll it out gently, turning the dough as you work (this is where I fail, most of the time. My touch is very, VERY heavy, and I'm not careful about keeping things dry). Rotate the dough as you roll it out, and every now and then, measure it against your pie pan, making sure you roll it out about two inches bigger than the pan itself.
Move the crust into the piepan, and here's where the really good cooks are REALLY good, and folks like me make do. Press it in the pan, carefully. If (read that as "when") you tear the dough, patch it with some of the overhang (no one is gonna see it ). Put the piepan on a baking sheet, prick it all over with a fork, and bake for 15 minutes at 400. This is called "baking blind," and you do it when your filling is a custard, so that the crust doesn't get too soggy.
Take the crust out, and here's where I differ with many. The standard rule is too let this crust cool until you go further. I have done that, and haven't seen much of a difference. If you're using both veggies and cheese, put the cheese in first, and then the veggies. Then, carefully pour the custard over this. Put the whole thing back in the oven, and bake for about thirty minutes. Shake the pan. If it jiggles slightly in the center, but seems solid the rest of the way, it's done. If it's more liquid than that, come back again in another fifteen minutes.
It's hard to tell how much time this will take. I have had my quiches finish in thirty minutes, and as long as an hour and a half. It depends on the size, the richness of your dairy and eggs, the mood your oven is that day, and so forth.
When you get that little jiggle in the center, take it out of the oven and let it cool for about fifteen m inutes on the baking sheet. The quiche will continue cooking, but it will stay nice and soft if you eat it fresh. Refrigeration will firm it up and it will still be fine, but there ain't nuthin as good as the first, fresh, soft, slice of this wonderful stuff.
This is a dish who's richness sneaks up on you. But read through the recipe: butter, eggs, milk, cheese if you choose. It's a cardiologist's worst nightmare, and his favorite dream as well. I'd tell you to eat a small portion, but let's face it: doesn't this fall right into the comfort foods that we all love? Custard, crisp crust, bacon if you use it, cheese if you use it. So EAT. Have a salad with it, maybe celery root remoulade if you feel like going all the way and really clogging your arteries, but green salad, or beet salad, or carrot salad, or grapefruit salad ala Christa all go well with this.
Okay, having read all of this, you may very well say "the hell with it, I don't like it THAT much, I'll buy one and defrost it." Please try it once. For what it's worth, you can make 2, 3, or even 4 crusts at a time and freeze them (that's what I do). And if I have some left over vegetables that I really don't want to throw out, out one comes, out comes the pie crust, and BAM (I can't believe I wrote that), we have quiche. After the first one, you may be hooked. I hope so.
Chocolate truffles? Oh yes, I started with those. For another day. I'm serious. They are so easy, you may never buy a box of Godiva again.
Oi.
Chocolate truffles are so easy to make that I don't know why anyone needs a class to make them. So I got involved. That, and the fact that lately, as I'm in the midst of what I can only describe as a "sea change" in my life (which will come out bit by bit in these pieces), I have wanted, very badly, to want to SHOW people how to cook, rather than just write about it.
For those of us who work (all of us), having a get together to do something like truffles means evening. And that means dinner. So, with this in mind, I suggested to Michael that we have dinner together, and that I show him how to make quiche. Michael sounds excited about it. And so am I. Mostly because it's Michael, and it's teaching, but also, because it's quiche, and I just read the entry on quiche in "Cooking for Dummies."
Double Oi. In the 80s, before we all started reading Marcella Hazan, as she put it "Ah, pasta. What sins have been committed in your name. " As Marcella and other great cooks got to work, pasta was "rehabilitated." Quiche, which was all the rage in the 70s and the 80s, unfortunately, has never recovered, in my view. And the recipe in "Cooking for Dummies" confirms it.
If chocolate truffles are easy (and they are), quiche is not. Rather, GOOD quiche is not. It's not difficult, but it IS time consuming, and it requires an amount of skill that people take for granted. It is also a dish that, more than most, rises or falls on the quality of your ingredients. So, when I see a recipe that starts with "one store bought pie crust," I cringe. I absolutely cringe. I am going to set down the law on what is in a savory crust: flour, butter, salt, water. THAT IS ALL. Read a label on a "storebought pie crust." If it has anything other than that in it, move on. And make your own.
And I say that as someone who is NOT all that comfortable with pie crusts. I don't have the flair that the great pie bakers do. But I do ok. They taste good. They don't look great, but again, think of the fact that you're cooking for friends. They'll forgive.
Here's how you do piecrust. For a crust for one regular sized quiche, you need a cup of all purpose flour, a stick of cold, unsalted butter, cut into about 10 pieces, a bowl of ice water, and a pinch of salt. I use a food processor, because my fingers are a little too warm for doing it by hand, and they're a bit arthritic, but you can do it by hand. Start with the flour and the butter. Combine them in the bowl of your processor and pulse, until you have a mixture that is about the size of peas. You can do this by hand, rolling and squeezing the butter in the flour until you get the same consistency. Sprinkle the salt in. Now add water, and be careful about this. You'll need about three tablespoons, sprinkling it, or pulsing it into the flour. When the dough is such that, if you squeeze it together, it's done. Gather it into a ball, flatten it, and then wrap it in foil and refrigerate it, for about 20-30 minutes.
I said a "regular size" quiche. Check the volume of your pie pan. If it holds about two cups, it's a pan for a normal quiche. If it's bigger than that, multiply the ingredients by 1.5. And proceed.
Now, onto making the filling. The classic, wonderful quiche lorraine uses half and half, eggs, salt and cooked bacon. Notice what I left out: no vegetables, no cheese, nothing. It's a rich, filling dish that is served in small pieces. And it's good. It's REALLY good. But I'm going to describe my variation. I use milk. Whole milk. I imagine 2% can work, but lighter than that, I wouldn't use it. For a regular sized quiche, use one cup of milk and three, large eggs. Mix this in a large bowl, and break up the eggs with the milk. Don't beat in too much air. Add a little salt, and some grated nutmeg
Vegetables? Well, yes. I like an onion element. Like a sauteed leek, or a sauteed half an onion, chopped up. Or about six scallions, cut on the bias, and cooked gently. And I can enjoy a quiche that has just that in it. But cooked, very well drained spinach is really good too. So is chopped cooked broccoli. I really don't go much further than that, except an asparagus quiche once in a while, or a mushroom one . In every case, the vegetables are cooked already.
Cheese? Hmmmm. Yes, but not too much. Maybe, maybe 2/3 to 1 cup of cubed, gruyere cheese, or emmenthaler. But for heaven's sake, NO CHEDDAR. If I told you how many bad cheddar quiches I have eaten.
Bacon? Ham? Some other kind of meat? Yes, if I'm leaving out the cheese, no if I'm using it. It's a hard call. If I'm making it just for myself (don't think I haven't), I leave out the cheese and use the meat. It's a lot like having a custard omelet with bacon on the side.
Now, you're ready to get started. Take your crust out of the fridge, and flour a surface real well. Roll it out gently, turning the dough as you work (this is where I fail, most of the time. My touch is very, VERY heavy, and I'm not careful about keeping things dry). Rotate the dough as you roll it out, and every now and then, measure it against your pie pan, making sure you roll it out about two inches bigger than the pan itself.
Move the crust into the piepan, and here's where the really good cooks are REALLY good, and folks like me make do. Press it in the pan, carefully. If (read that as "when") you tear the dough, patch it with some of the overhang (no one is gonna see it ). Put the piepan on a baking sheet, prick it all over with a fork, and bake for 15 minutes at 400. This is called "baking blind," and you do it when your filling is a custard, so that the crust doesn't get too soggy.
Take the crust out, and here's where I differ with many. The standard rule is too let this crust cool until you go further. I have done that, and haven't seen much of a difference. If you're using both veggies and cheese, put the cheese in first, and then the veggies. Then, carefully pour the custard over this. Put the whole thing back in the oven, and bake for about thirty minutes. Shake the pan. If it jiggles slightly in the center, but seems solid the rest of the way, it's done. If it's more liquid than that, come back again in another fifteen minutes.
It's hard to tell how much time this will take. I have had my quiches finish in thirty minutes, and as long as an hour and a half. It depends on the size, the richness of your dairy and eggs, the mood your oven is that day, and so forth.
When you get that little jiggle in the center, take it out of the oven and let it cool for about fifteen m inutes on the baking sheet. The quiche will continue cooking, but it will stay nice and soft if you eat it fresh. Refrigeration will firm it up and it will still be fine, but there ain't nuthin as good as the first, fresh, soft, slice of this wonderful stuff.
This is a dish who's richness sneaks up on you. But read through the recipe: butter, eggs, milk, cheese if you choose. It's a cardiologist's worst nightmare, and his favorite dream as well. I'd tell you to eat a small portion, but let's face it: doesn't this fall right into the comfort foods that we all love? Custard, crisp crust, bacon if you use it, cheese if you use it. So EAT. Have a salad with it, maybe celery root remoulade if you feel like going all the way and really clogging your arteries, but green salad, or beet salad, or carrot salad, or grapefruit salad ala Christa all go well with this.
Okay, having read all of this, you may very well say "the hell with it, I don't like it THAT much, I'll buy one and defrost it." Please try it once. For what it's worth, you can make 2, 3, or even 4 crusts at a time and freeze them (that's what I do). And if I have some left over vegetables that I really don't want to throw out, out one comes, out comes the pie crust, and BAM (I can't believe I wrote that), we have quiche. After the first one, you may be hooked. I hope so.
Chocolate truffles? Oh yes, I started with those. For another day. I'm serious. They are so easy, you may never buy a box of Godiva again.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Difficult fish: conch
As I look over the blog, I notice that I am writing a lot about foods that are not all that easy to prepare. Celery roots, quinces, and so forth. I don't want people to think that I deliberately hunt out things that are "challenging" to cook for that reason only, far from it. The thing is, I want to taste everything, I want to eat everything. And many of these things are just not available in restaurants, or are available, sporadically, so you have to prepare them yourself.
Now, I want to make something clear right at the start: when it comes to fish, I am as guilty as anyone of being parochial in my tastes. There are fish that I simply DO NOT LIKE. Most of the darker, "blue" fish, for example - the ones that are good for you. Bluefish, mackerel, anchovies, sardines, etc. No thank you. Lobster too. I've tried them all, but they just don't do it for me. And I fully expect that this recipe will provoke many to "look for the next one." But some of you may try it. I remember that my partner, for example, had a real revulsion for eel and for skate. On separate occasions, they were put in front of him, and he had no choice. Well, now he eats them both. For me, it was trout. Not only do I like it, I serve it. So as I write to you about conch, don't get the skeeves right away. Remember what Diana Kennedy once wrote, of Mexican food: "you have to try it all. Even if you spit it out, you have to try it once."
Conch is the meat of those beautifully, whirly shells that we all listened to as kids, to hear the sea (and 'fess up, you still do it). Essentially, it's a big snail. It's not pretty. It's hard to get out of the shell. But you know what? It's really good. It's a staple for many people, especially folks who live on islands, and those who live in areas with large seacoasts.
In preparing this blog, I was very amused to read in one cookbook "Conch is very economical. A pound of prepared meat will rarely cost you more than 3 dollars." I paid ten for the pound of it that I bought today. It had been "precooked," and that's something you have to look for. Conch will take forever to cook, Most vendors will cook it for several hours before selling it, because it is also highly perishable, if it is not cooked. ASK.
When you get it home, here's my hint: conch is very tough. I find that if I freeze it, and then thaw it, the meat is more tender. It means you need to take more time, but it's all of about an hour and a half. You can find something to do with your time.
When you're ready to prep it, look at it. I think it looks like a m isshapen mushroom. At the cap of that mushroom, there is a soft, flabby membrane that you have to get rid of. Just tear it off, and then cut the rest of the meat into cubes. Small ones.
Once you've done this, go and look down to my basic tomato sauce recipe, and when you are sauteeing the onions, add some cayenne pepper. How much? How hot do you like things. I like a LOT of cayenne. When you add the tomatoes, add the chopped up conch, and cook the sauce as if you were making a basic tomato sauce. Taste after about thirty minutes. Conch is never going to be "fork tender," but if it's just chewy or "toothsome" as I like to say, it's ready.
This is a sauce that is destined for chunky pasta, like shells, or rotelli, or something like that. Never never never NEVER put cheese on it.
There are other things to do with conch, most commonly fried conch fritters. I am not going to add that recipe here, because you can find variations of it, if this tickles your fancy.
I hope you try this. It's not a dish that you're going to make every day, but if you can do this, you can get used to the idea of using fish in a tomato sauce and go on to other things. Clam sauce is wonderful. Try something else. You'll be a better cook for it.
Now, I want to make something clear right at the start: when it comes to fish, I am as guilty as anyone of being parochial in my tastes. There are fish that I simply DO NOT LIKE. Most of the darker, "blue" fish, for example - the ones that are good for you. Bluefish, mackerel, anchovies, sardines, etc. No thank you. Lobster too. I've tried them all, but they just don't do it for me. And I fully expect that this recipe will provoke many to "look for the next one." But some of you may try it. I remember that my partner, for example, had a real revulsion for eel and for skate. On separate occasions, they were put in front of him, and he had no choice. Well, now he eats them both. For me, it was trout. Not only do I like it, I serve it. So as I write to you about conch, don't get the skeeves right away. Remember what Diana Kennedy once wrote, of Mexican food: "you have to try it all. Even if you spit it out, you have to try it once."
Conch is the meat of those beautifully, whirly shells that we all listened to as kids, to hear the sea (and 'fess up, you still do it). Essentially, it's a big snail. It's not pretty. It's hard to get out of the shell. But you know what? It's really good. It's a staple for many people, especially folks who live on islands, and those who live in areas with large seacoasts.
In preparing this blog, I was very amused to read in one cookbook "Conch is very economical. A pound of prepared meat will rarely cost you more than 3 dollars." I paid ten for the pound of it that I bought today. It had been "precooked," and that's something you have to look for. Conch will take forever to cook, Most vendors will cook it for several hours before selling it, because it is also highly perishable, if it is not cooked. ASK.
When you get it home, here's my hint: conch is very tough. I find that if I freeze it, and then thaw it, the meat is more tender. It means you need to take more time, but it's all of about an hour and a half. You can find something to do with your time.
When you're ready to prep it, look at it. I think it looks like a m isshapen mushroom. At the cap of that mushroom, there is a soft, flabby membrane that you have to get rid of. Just tear it off, and then cut the rest of the meat into cubes. Small ones.
Once you've done this, go and look down to my basic tomato sauce recipe, and when you are sauteeing the onions, add some cayenne pepper. How much? How hot do you like things. I like a LOT of cayenne. When you add the tomatoes, add the chopped up conch, and cook the sauce as if you were making a basic tomato sauce. Taste after about thirty minutes. Conch is never going to be "fork tender," but if it's just chewy or "toothsome" as I like to say, it's ready.
This is a sauce that is destined for chunky pasta, like shells, or rotelli, or something like that. Never never never NEVER put cheese on it.
There are other things to do with conch, most commonly fried conch fritters. I am not going to add that recipe here, because you can find variations of it, if this tickles your fancy.
I hope you try this. It's not a dish that you're going to make every day, but if you can do this, you can get used to the idea of using fish in a tomato sauce and go on to other things. Clam sauce is wonderful. Try something else. You'll be a better cook for it.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Designing a soup
Before I start writing about the theme above, I want to make a comment and let you all know something that is coming.
Today, while walking to my doctor's office, I saw a book in a window titled "Cooking for Dummies."
You might well imagine, I found this title offensive. It strikes me as implying that there are people who are good at cooking and there are people who aren't. I don't believe that. I think I am a pretty good cook. I know there are people who are more imaginative, better trained, smarter cooks than I am. But I do not think for one minute that there are people who are not good at cooking. If you aren't interested in cooking, or it bores you, that's one thing. But if you cook, you're good at it. How many of you have cooked a meal that killed someone? There, that's just what I thought. There are no dummies in the kitchen, there are only the inexperienced and the hesitant. And what this is all about is trying to take you out of that. Well, I ordered a copy of the book, and expect my "unbiased review" soon.
So today, I'm going to introduce you to a more complex, somewhat more time consuming style of making soup. I first got this idea from the wonderful Ina Garten. I met her in Berkeley once. As I am a bit formal, I introduced myself and referred to her as "Ms. Garten." She smiled and said "if you use my recipes, you should be calling me Ina." YES!!!! If it weren't politically incorrect to say it, I'd say "Ina, you're a true broad. " Those of my age will know what I mean.
Anyway, Ina has a recipe in one of her books for a roasted autumn vegetable soup. I'm going to give you one for WINTER vegetables, even though, technically, it's not winter yet.
Winter vegetables, to me, include things like onions, carrots, parsnips, potatoes. Note that they're all root vegetables, stuff that survives a freeze, and gets sweeter as a result. Today, at the farmer's market, I was absolutely floored by how beautiful they looked: white parsnips, orange carrots, red onions, kale with its beautiful blue green cast, potatoes, and others. No, there is nothing boring about winter vegetables.
This soup is essentially a guideline for how I make it. You should feel free to substitute in what vegetables you like.
Something to keep in mind: winter vegetables tend to be sweet. And the process of roasting brings out sugars. So you will want to balance that sweetness with plenty of salt and savory ingredients. I use duck confit in this recipe. It's easy to find in NY, but if you don't have it, use meatballs. Or chicken. Or turkey. Or anything you like.
First, get your oven HOT. By hot, I mean about 450 degrees. Let it sit at that temperature for about 20 minutes. You'll use that time to prep your vegetables. If it's a veggie that needs to be pared, like a carrot or a parsnip, do that. Peel the onions and carrots. Clean up leeks if you're using them, just prep the vegetable as if you were going to cook it as a vegetable "per se." Now, put them all in a big bowl and be lavish with salt and olive oil. Get your hands in there and turn everything until they're all coated with oil and salt. Then, lay everything out on a baking sheet, trying to make sure that everything is in contact with the metal. Start roasting, for about ten minutes. After ten minutes, turn them. And after that second ten minute roast, check to make sure they're soft, and brown and beautiful. If they're not, keep roasting. When they're done, remove the tray and let it cool. All in all, you want to start with between 4 and 6 cups of raw veggies.
While that's happening, get your duck confit ready. I use three legs, but use more or less as you see fit. Confit, strictly speaking is already "cooked," i.e., it's been poached or cured in fat. It's very rich. But you'll probably want to crisp it up. To do that, get a nonstick pan, if you have one ready, by putting in the tiniest amount of oil (yes, the duck is rich and fatty, but the oil will help get the thing going). Lay the confit legs in the pan, and bring up the heat to medium. You'll hear a wonderful spattering and smell an even more wonderful odor. As they brown, turn them. And when both sides are browned, take them out of the pan and drain them.
Now, here's the part that I hate: when the duck confit is cool... rip away the skin and toss it. Or, save it to make duck cracklings (YES!!!!!). Simply shred the meat from the bone, looking for pieces that are small enough to eat with one mouthful.
When your vegetables are cool enough to handle, puree them with some cold chicken stock until you get a nice, thick puree (I think that in France they call this gabure, and eat it as it is. And it IS wonderful). Take a look: is it too thick for you? If it is, add some more stock or some water. Then put your shredded duckmeat in, and you are DONE.
This is a truly wonderful and satisfying main dish soup. Put out some serious bread, like a good peasant sour dough rye, and you are in business for a nice informal dinner, need I say it, with a friend or two.
And I have to thank Chuck, Kevin's partner, for the inspiration for this soup. Chuck made roasted autumn vegetable soup once for me, several years ago. I have never forgotten that golden yellow orange soup as we ate it before Kevin's beef tenderloin. That color, golden yellow orange, is one that I will always associate with "sunflower Chuck." It's not a bad thing.
Today, while walking to my doctor's office, I saw a book in a window titled "Cooking for Dummies."
You might well imagine, I found this title offensive. It strikes me as implying that there are people who are good at cooking and there are people who aren't. I don't believe that. I think I am a pretty good cook. I know there are people who are more imaginative, better trained, smarter cooks than I am. But I do not think for one minute that there are people who are not good at cooking. If you aren't interested in cooking, or it bores you, that's one thing. But if you cook, you're good at it. How many of you have cooked a meal that killed someone? There, that's just what I thought. There are no dummies in the kitchen, there are only the inexperienced and the hesitant. And what this is all about is trying to take you out of that. Well, I ordered a copy of the book, and expect my "unbiased review" soon.
So today, I'm going to introduce you to a more complex, somewhat more time consuming style of making soup. I first got this idea from the wonderful Ina Garten. I met her in Berkeley once. As I am a bit formal, I introduced myself and referred to her as "Ms. Garten." She smiled and said "if you use my recipes, you should be calling me Ina." YES!!!! If it weren't politically incorrect to say it, I'd say "Ina, you're a true broad. " Those of my age will know what I mean.
Anyway, Ina has a recipe in one of her books for a roasted autumn vegetable soup. I'm going to give you one for WINTER vegetables, even though, technically, it's not winter yet.
Winter vegetables, to me, include things like onions, carrots, parsnips, potatoes. Note that they're all root vegetables, stuff that survives a freeze, and gets sweeter as a result. Today, at the farmer's market, I was absolutely floored by how beautiful they looked: white parsnips, orange carrots, red onions, kale with its beautiful blue green cast, potatoes, and others. No, there is nothing boring about winter vegetables.
This soup is essentially a guideline for how I make it. You should feel free to substitute in what vegetables you like.
Something to keep in mind: winter vegetables tend to be sweet. And the process of roasting brings out sugars. So you will want to balance that sweetness with plenty of salt and savory ingredients. I use duck confit in this recipe. It's easy to find in NY, but if you don't have it, use meatballs. Or chicken. Or turkey. Or anything you like.
First, get your oven HOT. By hot, I mean about 450 degrees. Let it sit at that temperature for about 20 minutes. You'll use that time to prep your vegetables. If it's a veggie that needs to be pared, like a carrot or a parsnip, do that. Peel the onions and carrots. Clean up leeks if you're using them, just prep the vegetable as if you were going to cook it as a vegetable "per se." Now, put them all in a big bowl and be lavish with salt and olive oil. Get your hands in there and turn everything until they're all coated with oil and salt. Then, lay everything out on a baking sheet, trying to make sure that everything is in contact with the metal. Start roasting, for about ten minutes. After ten minutes, turn them. And after that second ten minute roast, check to make sure they're soft, and brown and beautiful. If they're not, keep roasting. When they're done, remove the tray and let it cool. All in all, you want to start with between 4 and 6 cups of raw veggies.
While that's happening, get your duck confit ready. I use three legs, but use more or less as you see fit. Confit, strictly speaking is already "cooked," i.e., it's been poached or cured in fat. It's very rich. But you'll probably want to crisp it up. To do that, get a nonstick pan, if you have one ready, by putting in the tiniest amount of oil (yes, the duck is rich and fatty, but the oil will help get the thing going). Lay the confit legs in the pan, and bring up the heat to medium. You'll hear a wonderful spattering and smell an even more wonderful odor. As they brown, turn them. And when both sides are browned, take them out of the pan and drain them.
Now, here's the part that I hate: when the duck confit is cool... rip away the skin and toss it. Or, save it to make duck cracklings (YES!!!!!). Simply shred the meat from the bone, looking for pieces that are small enough to eat with one mouthful.
When your vegetables are cool enough to handle, puree them with some cold chicken stock until you get a nice, thick puree (I think that in France they call this gabure, and eat it as it is. And it IS wonderful). Take a look: is it too thick for you? If it is, add some more stock or some water. Then put your shredded duckmeat in, and you are DONE.
This is a truly wonderful and satisfying main dish soup. Put out some serious bread, like a good peasant sour dough rye, and you are in business for a nice informal dinner, need I say it, with a friend or two.
And I have to thank Chuck, Kevin's partner, for the inspiration for this soup. Chuck made roasted autumn vegetable soup once for me, several years ago. I have never forgotten that golden yellow orange soup as we ate it before Kevin's beef tenderloin. That color, golden yellow orange, is one that I will always associate with "sunflower Chuck." It's not a bad thing.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Simple Ain't Easy: Lettuce Salad
Watch how this brings together many of the people who I love. It's fun.
Occasionally, someone will ask me something along the lines of "what's the most difficult dish for you to prepare?" I always answer the same way "green salad." Then they laugh, and they ask again "no, really, what's the hardest thing you do?" And I answer again "making a green salad."
At first blush, "simple" green salad looks like the easiest thing in the world to put together. And it MUST be easy, since every restaurant in the world serves it.
Ok, let's have a show of hands. How many of your can remember the last GOOD green salad you had in a restaurant?
Just as I thought. A truly excellent green salad should make you feel like you're eating something ALIVE!!!! The greens should burst, with crispness, in your mouth. the dressing should be balanced perfectly so the richness of the oil plays against the vinegar, and the salt, and you should feel SATISFIED when you finish it.
Now I'm talking about a basic green salad. I'm not talking about salad with chicken in it, or cheese, or with a heavy dressing. No, just lettuce, olive oil, vinegar and salt. How hard good it be?
Go in and make one now. And get back to me.
I dont' remember the best green salad I ever had, but I remember the worst one. It was in Indianapolis. At a very high end restaurant. Salad came with the meal, no charge. That should have been my first clue. I saw it served to other tables, dripping in dressing. So I asked if I could have my dressing on the side. The waitress looked extremely nonplussed. Then she disappeared. After fifteen minutes, she came back with the manager, who was young enough to be my son, who told me that they COULD do it but they'd have to charge me for it, because all of their salad had been made SIX HOURS EARLIER and it was already dressed when it got to the restaurant . YUCH. So I said no thanks. And they couldn't understand why I didn't want my free salad.
Free food that doesn't taste good is NOT free. Never forget that.
So, now let's get to the heart of the matter. How do I make my salads? I make one every single night. Sometimes it's better than other times. Sometimes it's celestial. And sometimes it's ok. Even though it's always the same ingredients, maybe with one additive as there was tonight (coming to that below). I take "more lettuce than I think we can eat," and separate the leaves. I soak them in a salad spinner in cold water, with ice in the receptacle underneath the holder for the lettuce. After about ten minutes, I drain it, and then I do something that is controversial among high end cooks: I DO in fact spin the lettuce dry. I don't do it hard, but I do it. Many chefs feel that this damages the lettuce, and that it should be dried on clean towels.
Be my guest.
While the lettuce is soaking, I prepare my dressing, in the serving bowl (something I only learned to do this year.). It's almost always champagne vinegar or cider vinegar. I don't measure. I put some in, and then I add salt, and stir it until it's dissolved. You HAVE to do it this way, because once you put in the oil, the salt will not dissolve. I take a look at the vinegar, and again, eyeball about 4 times as much olive oil. T his is a "compromise" between two schools of thought. The classic vinaigrette recipe calls for three parts oil to one part vinegar. I used to do this, but as I've gotten older, it feels harsh to me. The great Elizabeth David said that she couldn't consider eating a salad where the ratio wasn't at least 5 to 1, and preferably more. Then I put the lettuce right into the dressing and toss it. If no one is looking, I use my hands.
I have to go back and tell you. Choose your greens carefully. When you buy them, do they look alive and vibrant and healthy? If they do, buy them. S tick to smaller leaves that you don't have to cut or tear to get in your mouth. Use lettuce, use arugula, use chicories like radicchio, but taste your greens if you're mixing. A salad of only bitter greens like arugula and radicchio is nearly impossible to eat. I suggest one bitter one to any salad . Maybe radicchio with baby romaine, or argula instead, or something like that.
After you've tossed the salad, if you want, add ONE but ONLY ONE "auxiliary ingredient. (Ok, maybe two). Tonight, when I came home, a box of fruit had arrived from Kim at Ripe To You. The more I know Kim, the more I'm convinced she reads minds. We were out of satsuma mandarins. Somehow, she knew.... and the box did have satsumas, but the beautiful surprise was the first page mandarins of the season. I peeled three of them, and sliced them into slightly thickish rings, and put them on top of the greens, together with a handful of sliced scallions. Other combinations? How about persimmons and nuts? Or pomegranate seeds by themselves? or slices of pear with a little good cheese? Or apples with bacon. Just promise me you'll choose the best ingredients you can find. And of course, most of the time, it should just be the greens and you.
Playing against the stuffed cabbage from Tati's recipe, it was a wonderful contrast, and delicious in and of itself.
People will reveal themselves as lovers of good food by how they react to your salads. If you make a good one, pay attention to what your guests do. The triad of young ones, Matt, Peter and Keith, all of whom you've met in this blog, endeared themselves to me by cleaning their salad plates and even asking for seconds. If I didn't love them for other reasons, this would push me over the top. My friend August will say something like "nice, but the arugula is more alive than the romaine, don't you think?" He's PAYING ATTENTION, the most important part of eating.
So spend some time. Make a good salad. I bet you feel so tempted to eat it that you start pulling leaves out of the bowl before you serve it. And why shouldn't you? You made it. You should get the best part.
If you get out of the habit of treating salad as an adjunct to what you're making, and something as important as the rest of the meal, you'll be on your way to being a good, serious, thoughtful cook. And you will know who your "foodie" friends are.
Occasionally, someone will ask me something along the lines of "what's the most difficult dish for you to prepare?" I always answer the same way "green salad." Then they laugh, and they ask again "no, really, what's the hardest thing you do?" And I answer again "making a green salad."
At first blush, "simple" green salad looks like the easiest thing in the world to put together. And it MUST be easy, since every restaurant in the world serves it.
Ok, let's have a show of hands. How many of your can remember the last GOOD green salad you had in a restaurant?
Just as I thought. A truly excellent green salad should make you feel like you're eating something ALIVE!!!! The greens should burst, with crispness, in your mouth. the dressing should be balanced perfectly so the richness of the oil plays against the vinegar, and the salt, and you should feel SATISFIED when you finish it.
Now I'm talking about a basic green salad. I'm not talking about salad with chicken in it, or cheese, or with a heavy dressing. No, just lettuce, olive oil, vinegar and salt. How hard good it be?
Go in and make one now. And get back to me.
I dont' remember the best green salad I ever had, but I remember the worst one. It was in Indianapolis. At a very high end restaurant. Salad came with the meal, no charge. That should have been my first clue. I saw it served to other tables, dripping in dressing. So I asked if I could have my dressing on the side. The waitress looked extremely nonplussed. Then she disappeared. After fifteen minutes, she came back with the manager, who was young enough to be my son, who told me that they COULD do it but they'd have to charge me for it, because all of their salad had been made SIX HOURS EARLIER and it was already dressed when it got to the restaurant . YUCH. So I said no thanks. And they couldn't understand why I didn't want my free salad.
Free food that doesn't taste good is NOT free. Never forget that.
So, now let's get to the heart of the matter. How do I make my salads? I make one every single night. Sometimes it's better than other times. Sometimes it's celestial. And sometimes it's ok. Even though it's always the same ingredients, maybe with one additive as there was tonight (coming to that below). I take "more lettuce than I think we can eat," and separate the leaves. I soak them in a salad spinner in cold water, with ice in the receptacle underneath the holder for the lettuce. After about ten minutes, I drain it, and then I do something that is controversial among high end cooks: I DO in fact spin the lettuce dry. I don't do it hard, but I do it. Many chefs feel that this damages the lettuce, and that it should be dried on clean towels.
Be my guest.
While the lettuce is soaking, I prepare my dressing, in the serving bowl (something I only learned to do this year.). It's almost always champagne vinegar or cider vinegar. I don't measure. I put some in, and then I add salt, and stir it until it's dissolved. You HAVE to do it this way, because once you put in the oil, the salt will not dissolve. I take a look at the vinegar, and again, eyeball about 4 times as much olive oil. T his is a "compromise" between two schools of thought. The classic vinaigrette recipe calls for three parts oil to one part vinegar. I used to do this, but as I've gotten older, it feels harsh to me. The great Elizabeth David said that she couldn't consider eating a salad where the ratio wasn't at least 5 to 1, and preferably more. Then I put the lettuce right into the dressing and toss it. If no one is looking, I use my hands.
I have to go back and tell you. Choose your greens carefully. When you buy them, do they look alive and vibrant and healthy? If they do, buy them. S tick to smaller leaves that you don't have to cut or tear to get in your mouth. Use lettuce, use arugula, use chicories like radicchio, but taste your greens if you're mixing. A salad of only bitter greens like arugula and radicchio is nearly impossible to eat. I suggest one bitter one to any salad . Maybe radicchio with baby romaine, or argula instead, or something like that.
After you've tossed the salad, if you want, add ONE but ONLY ONE "auxiliary ingredient. (Ok, maybe two). Tonight, when I came home, a box of fruit had arrived from Kim at Ripe To You. The more I know Kim, the more I'm convinced she reads minds. We were out of satsuma mandarins. Somehow, she knew.... and the box did have satsumas, but the beautiful surprise was the first page mandarins of the season. I peeled three of them, and sliced them into slightly thickish rings, and put them on top of the greens, together with a handful of sliced scallions. Other combinations? How about persimmons and nuts? Or pomegranate seeds by themselves? or slices of pear with a little good cheese? Or apples with bacon. Just promise me you'll choose the best ingredients you can find. And of course, most of the time, it should just be the greens and you.
Playing against the stuffed cabbage from Tati's recipe, it was a wonderful contrast, and delicious in and of itself.
People will reveal themselves as lovers of good food by how they react to your salads. If you make a good one, pay attention to what your guests do. The triad of young ones, Matt, Peter and Keith, all of whom you've met in this blog, endeared themselves to me by cleaning their salad plates and even asking for seconds. If I didn't love them for other reasons, this would push me over the top. My friend August will say something like "nice, but the arugula is more alive than the romaine, don't you think?" He's PAYING ATTENTION, the most important part of eating.
So spend some time. Make a good salad. I bet you feel so tempted to eat it that you start pulling leaves out of the bowl before you serve it. And why shouldn't you? You made it. You should get the best part.
If you get out of the habit of treating salad as an adjunct to what you're making, and something as important as the rest of the meal, you'll be on your way to being a good, serious, thoughtful cook. And you will know who your "foodie" friends are.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Eat with your friends: Keith , this is for you
A few weeks ago, my friend Peter (one of the three amazing young ones in my life right now), asked me what is the most important thing in my life. It was not a hard question to answer. If we are both in town, which is most of the time, the single most important thing in my life is sitting down to a meal with my partner at night. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we don't. But whether we do or not, and regardless of the mood, there is a magic in the air that is not sexual, not sensual, but spiritual.
"There is more than a communion of bodies when bread is broken and wine is drunk" wrote the great MFK Fisher. And indeed, she is right. Trying to put your finger on what it is, is like trying to find out what makes a butterfly so beautiful by taking it apart and examining its parts. Or by taking music apart, note by note, to try to figure out why you like one piece, and not another. So don't try to figure it out. But just compare the experience of sharing a meal with one or more people you truly love, and eating by yourself. You've been there. So , why do we spend so much time eating alone?
I think we're embarrassed. We think that what we put on the table won't be good enough, won't be impressive enough, or our friends won't want to make the trip to spend the time with us. Well, not making the trip every night is ONE thing. Making it once in a while is another. If they're your friends, they will find time. Trust me. And why do you think what you put on the table won't be good enough? If you're insecure about your own abilities, then buy something, put it on the table, and share it. It's the sharing that matters more than anything else. If you ignore every single recipe in this blog, don't ignore this thought : share your meals. Share them whenever you can.
I'm dedicating this thought to another one of the three young ones, Keith. Keith took me to lunch not that long ago. For no reason other than to have lunch together. Nothing romantic (maybe there was. I HATE the fact that 'romantic' has taken on the meaning of sexual, so ok, nothing sexual), just a friendly, chatty lunch. And we're going to do it again.
Keith is taking major steps forward in his life, and I want to help. I don't know how much more I have to offer but friendship and recipes, and so I'm giving a recipe for Keith, who should be cooking for people. No ifs, ands or buts.
This is a recipe that is very simple, and at the same time, very very elegant. Keith is not simple, but he is basic. And he IS elegant, in the truest sense of the word. So Keith, my young friend, this is for you. Try it on yourself, or better yet, try it on me, and then go forward. I think you'll enjoy it.
You need a fillet or other nice sized piece of a white fleshed fish. I used pollack, but you could use cod, or monkfish, or anything like that. Salt it on both sides. Get a big pot filled with about an inch or two of water, and then put a steamer basket into it. If you don't have a steamer basket, use anything flat that will hold your fish. And if you're doing it for a lot of people, do it in batches. Put a lid over the pot, lower the heat, and let it go for about 8 minutes.
While that is happening, make your sauce. You need about a quarter cup of citrus juice. I had yuzus in the house from the Citrus gang, but they are not a staple of stores everywhere. Use lemon juice, use orange juice, or be more creative and use grapefruit juice or tangerine (Keith, you should use tangerine or clementine or something like that. It wil suit you). Get that juice into a small sauce pan, and bring it to a simmer. Then, start adding six tablespoons of unsalted butter, little by little, waiting until each piece melts until you add the next one. Taste it, and season it.
Plate the fish, and don't worry if it breaks apart. You're with friends, remember? Then spoon some of the sauce over each portion.
There's a main course you can make in fifteen minutes. We had it with couscous (which takes ten minutes out of the box, following the directions), and broccoli sauteed with garlic.
C'mon Keith. Invite me over. I'm there . And congratulations and good luck.
"There is more than a communion of bodies when bread is broken and wine is drunk" wrote the great MFK Fisher. And indeed, she is right. Trying to put your finger on what it is, is like trying to find out what makes a butterfly so beautiful by taking it apart and examining its parts. Or by taking music apart, note by note, to try to figure out why you like one piece, and not another. So don't try to figure it out. But just compare the experience of sharing a meal with one or more people you truly love, and eating by yourself. You've been there. So , why do we spend so much time eating alone?
I think we're embarrassed. We think that what we put on the table won't be good enough, won't be impressive enough, or our friends won't want to make the trip to spend the time with us. Well, not making the trip every night is ONE thing. Making it once in a while is another. If they're your friends, they will find time. Trust me. And why do you think what you put on the table won't be good enough? If you're insecure about your own abilities, then buy something, put it on the table, and share it. It's the sharing that matters more than anything else. If you ignore every single recipe in this blog, don't ignore this thought : share your meals. Share them whenever you can.
I'm dedicating this thought to another one of the three young ones, Keith. Keith took me to lunch not that long ago. For no reason other than to have lunch together. Nothing romantic (maybe there was. I HATE the fact that 'romantic' has taken on the meaning of sexual, so ok, nothing sexual), just a friendly, chatty lunch. And we're going to do it again.
Keith is taking major steps forward in his life, and I want to help. I don't know how much more I have to offer but friendship and recipes, and so I'm giving a recipe for Keith, who should be cooking for people. No ifs, ands or buts.
This is a recipe that is very simple, and at the same time, very very elegant. Keith is not simple, but he is basic. And he IS elegant, in the truest sense of the word. So Keith, my young friend, this is for you. Try it on yourself, or better yet, try it on me, and then go forward. I think you'll enjoy it.
You need a fillet or other nice sized piece of a white fleshed fish. I used pollack, but you could use cod, or monkfish, or anything like that. Salt it on both sides. Get a big pot filled with about an inch or two of water, and then put a steamer basket into it. If you don't have a steamer basket, use anything flat that will hold your fish. And if you're doing it for a lot of people, do it in batches. Put a lid over the pot, lower the heat, and let it go for about 8 minutes.
While that is happening, make your sauce. You need about a quarter cup of citrus juice. I had yuzus in the house from the Citrus gang, but they are not a staple of stores everywhere. Use lemon juice, use orange juice, or be more creative and use grapefruit juice or tangerine (Keith, you should use tangerine or clementine or something like that. It wil suit you). Get that juice into a small sauce pan, and bring it to a simmer. Then, start adding six tablespoons of unsalted butter, little by little, waiting until each piece melts until you add the next one. Taste it, and season it.
Plate the fish, and don't worry if it breaks apart. You're with friends, remember? Then spoon some of the sauce over each portion.
There's a main course you can make in fifteen minutes. We had it with couscous (which takes ten minutes out of the box, following the directions), and broccoli sauteed with garlic.
C'mon Keith. Invite me over. I'm there . And congratulations and good luck.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Quinces
I have been writing, periodically, about difficult vegetables. It did not dawn on me, until this past weekend, that there might be a difficult fruit or two. I thought of coconuts, but honestly, I do not use them very often. Sticking to local as I try to do, coconuts just do not feature in my cooking all that much. When they do, I'm using the grated stuff to make a sorbet, or for cookies, or something like that.
Quinces, however, are somewhat dear to my heart. When I was growing up, there was a wild quince tree in the hospital grounds, where I worked. Their interesting shape and their fragrance fascinated me. As did the fact that no one seemed to know what to do with them, except the birds. Years later, when I found boxes of these large, apple shaped fruit at farmers markets, and smelled their indescribable and lovely perfume, I had to learn about them.
What I learned is that quinces have been around for a long, long time. They originated in the Mid East, where they are still treated with proper reverence, as both savories, and sweets. They were popular in England, where they were used for making jelly, either on their own, or as additives to other fruits (quinces have some of the highest pectin levels of all fruits). The trees were brought to America, and apparently, they were a "godsend," because quinces mature late. They're around when apples and pears are, and because they keep better than both of these, they serve multiple purposes. One of their cosmetic purposes has been to add scent to the linens of "ladies of leisure." I learned that a quince was put in the dresser where milady would keep her sheets and dainties, to add a lovely, light aroma to all.
So why do I consider these a difficult fruit? Bite into one - WAIT DON'T. If you bite into a raw quince, you will probably break a tooth. And if you don't break the tooth, you will nonetheless have a mouthful of bitter, mealy, nasty white flesh with a brownish tint that will make you think "what is all the fuss about?"
Quinces do not give up their secrets easily. They have to be cooked, and cooked slowly. If you cook them slowly, at a low temperature, you will get something with a beautiful, pale pink color. If you cook them slowly, for a very long time, you will get this brilliant red color that is astonishing. I think that is what first attracted me to them. I love bright sparklies, and slices of quince candy are bright red and translucent. And they are easy to prepare, although they take some work. And I'm going to teach you how to do this, and you're going to make them, at least once. After you do, you may go back and do it again. This year, I will probably cook about fifteen pounds of them this way. And I will use them in galettes, in lamb stew (ALWAYS a party favorite), shredded in apple pies, and in sorbets and ice creams.
But to make this wonderful candy, which Spaniards call "membrillo" and Italians called "cotagnata," what you need are three pounds of quinces. The fruits are very different in size, do don't guess. Weigh them. Go with more rather than less. Now, peel them, and then cut them into quarters and gouge out the seed cores. This is not easy. Quinces are very hard, the shape is not uniform, and you have to be careful with the knife. Gather some of the skin and pits, and tie them in a cheesecloth bag. You're going to want this for thickening what you cook. Now, you're going to put all of the sliced quinces into a pot, with the bag of junk you just made, and a lemon, sliced in half, to keep acid balance and to fix the color. Cover this with ample water, cover it, and bring it to a low boil. You now must cook this for at least an hour, maybe longer. You want to check the quinces to see: do they begin to fall apart when you go into them with a knife? If they do, they're done, and you're ready for the next step.
Get rid of that cheese cloth bag, and the lemon. Put the quince slices through a food mill (a food processor WILL work if you don't have one, but it will change the color. The processor whips air into the quinces and you will get an orange, rather than a red color). After you have this pureed, then stir in two cups of sugar. You'll have what looks like very thick applesauce.
Now, get a baking sheet, and oil a piece of parchment paper that you put on top of it. Spread out the quince puree as evenly as possible. Let it dry at room temperature for a bit.
Now, here's the step that freaks everyone out. Put your oven at the lowest possible temperature. Mine goes down to 170. 150 is better, but 170 works. Put the tray into the oven and go away. In fact, go to bed. I'm serious about this. You have to cook the quinces this way, for a good 8 to 10 hours. After that time, you will get a slightly tacky, bright red sheet with a flavor that is new to you unless you've had this stuff before.
Let it cool off in a turned off oven, or near an open window, or anywhere where the temperature is cool. After the tackiness is just about gone, remove the paste from the paper sheet, and cut it into squares. An oiled scissor is best here. You will have very tough, crunch edges, and those are yours to snack on. If you cut the stuff into 1x1 inch squares, you'll get about 60-70 pieces. You need to store these in a container that you keep OPEN. See, the quinces still have water in them, so if you trap them in a tin, they will soften, liquify, and just get gross (trust me on that).
Once you've made this, you will have something that literally will last the next nuclear war. It keeps forever. And it's a great thing to put out with cheese, or with nuts, or to just take with you if you are one of those people who need a quick slightly sweet pick me up during the day, and have gotten sick and tired of gorp and nut bars and all that other stuff. And you will be connecting with an old tradition. Quinces have been cooked this way for hundreds of years.
And if you happen to have friends from Europe, they will be extremely impressed that you made it yourself.
Quinces, however, are somewhat dear to my heart. When I was growing up, there was a wild quince tree in the hospital grounds, where I worked. Their interesting shape and their fragrance fascinated me. As did the fact that no one seemed to know what to do with them, except the birds. Years later, when I found boxes of these large, apple shaped fruit at farmers markets, and smelled their indescribable and lovely perfume, I had to learn about them.
What I learned is that quinces have been around for a long, long time. They originated in the Mid East, where they are still treated with proper reverence, as both savories, and sweets. They were popular in England, where they were used for making jelly, either on their own, or as additives to other fruits (quinces have some of the highest pectin levels of all fruits). The trees were brought to America, and apparently, they were a "godsend," because quinces mature late. They're around when apples and pears are, and because they keep better than both of these, they serve multiple purposes. One of their cosmetic purposes has been to add scent to the linens of "ladies of leisure." I learned that a quince was put in the dresser where milady would keep her sheets and dainties, to add a lovely, light aroma to all.
So why do I consider these a difficult fruit? Bite into one - WAIT DON'T. If you bite into a raw quince, you will probably break a tooth. And if you don't break the tooth, you will nonetheless have a mouthful of bitter, mealy, nasty white flesh with a brownish tint that will make you think "what is all the fuss about?"
Quinces do not give up their secrets easily. They have to be cooked, and cooked slowly. If you cook them slowly, at a low temperature, you will get something with a beautiful, pale pink color. If you cook them slowly, for a very long time, you will get this brilliant red color that is astonishing. I think that is what first attracted me to them. I love bright sparklies, and slices of quince candy are bright red and translucent. And they are easy to prepare, although they take some work. And I'm going to teach you how to do this, and you're going to make them, at least once. After you do, you may go back and do it again. This year, I will probably cook about fifteen pounds of them this way. And I will use them in galettes, in lamb stew (ALWAYS a party favorite), shredded in apple pies, and in sorbets and ice creams.
But to make this wonderful candy, which Spaniards call "membrillo" and Italians called "cotagnata," what you need are three pounds of quinces. The fruits are very different in size, do don't guess. Weigh them. Go with more rather than less. Now, peel them, and then cut them into quarters and gouge out the seed cores. This is not easy. Quinces are very hard, the shape is not uniform, and you have to be careful with the knife. Gather some of the skin and pits, and tie them in a cheesecloth bag. You're going to want this for thickening what you cook. Now, you're going to put all of the sliced quinces into a pot, with the bag of junk you just made, and a lemon, sliced in half, to keep acid balance and to fix the color. Cover this with ample water, cover it, and bring it to a low boil. You now must cook this for at least an hour, maybe longer. You want to check the quinces to see: do they begin to fall apart when you go into them with a knife? If they do, they're done, and you're ready for the next step.
Get rid of that cheese cloth bag, and the lemon. Put the quince slices through a food mill (a food processor WILL work if you don't have one, but it will change the color. The processor whips air into the quinces and you will get an orange, rather than a red color). After you have this pureed, then stir in two cups of sugar. You'll have what looks like very thick applesauce.
Now, get a baking sheet, and oil a piece of parchment paper that you put on top of it. Spread out the quince puree as evenly as possible. Let it dry at room temperature for a bit.
Now, here's the step that freaks everyone out. Put your oven at the lowest possible temperature. Mine goes down to 170. 150 is better, but 170 works. Put the tray into the oven and go away. In fact, go to bed. I'm serious about this. You have to cook the quinces this way, for a good 8 to 10 hours. After that time, you will get a slightly tacky, bright red sheet with a flavor that is new to you unless you've had this stuff before.
Let it cool off in a turned off oven, or near an open window, or anywhere where the temperature is cool. After the tackiness is just about gone, remove the paste from the paper sheet, and cut it into squares. An oiled scissor is best here. You will have very tough, crunch edges, and those are yours to snack on. If you cut the stuff into 1x1 inch squares, you'll get about 60-70 pieces. You need to store these in a container that you keep OPEN. See, the quinces still have water in them, so if you trap them in a tin, they will soften, liquify, and just get gross (trust me on that).
Once you've made this, you will have something that literally will last the next nuclear war. It keeps forever. And it's a great thing to put out with cheese, or with nuts, or to just take with you if you are one of those people who need a quick slightly sweet pick me up during the day, and have gotten sick and tired of gorp and nut bars and all that other stuff. And you will be connecting with an old tradition. Quinces have been cooked this way for hundreds of years.
And if you happen to have friends from Europe, they will be extremely impressed that you made it yourself.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
A recipe for Tati
Warnings beforehand: this one is gonna hurt.
Tati was my grandfather. At least that was what we called him. I've been told that it's a Northern German diminutive for Grandpa, but I've never heard anyone else use it. Oh well, he was my Tati. And I loved him SO MUCH.
History says I shouldn't have. See, I am an unplanned child. That's the nicest way to put it. I used to tell people "Oh, I went to my mother's first wedding." Took 'em a while to get what I meant. I was born in 1957, to a Roman Catholic household. My mom was 17. In those days, abortion was not discussed. Apparently, adoption was, but my Mom was adamant. Like Madonna, she was gonna keep her baby.
Her father was not pleased with this choice. And he told her so. He told her he would never have anything to do with the child.
I don't remember how they got him to the hospital, but apparently, when he saw HIS grandson, it was all over. Nothing he had said applied anymore, and no one, and I mean NO ONE, could get near HIS grandson when he was around.
Tati was a long haul truckdriver. He was about 6 4 with the icy blue eyes that I have, and shocking white blond hair. He drove that truck, but what he REALLY wanted to be was a fisherman. And we fished together, out of Sheepshead Bay, a lot.
Tati basically took over my raising, when he was in town. He bought all my clothes, and he bought versions of what he wore. One of my favorite pictures is of me, about four years old, in a pea coat, a pair of wranglers that were way too long, rolled at the cuff, and a sailor's cap, holding Tati's hand. He's wearing the same thing, and his weathered face looks SO happy.
On weekends, he would borrow a friend's taxi, and he would take me to Central Park. Usually, to a stream, or lake, or some small body of water. On the way there, he'd hand me the breakfast that my mother would never let me have: bacon and eggs, on a buttered roll, and a chocolate milk. (Olive oil saved my cholesterol , I guess). And we'd go to that brook, and he'd give me a little fishing pole, and we'd fish. There WERE actually fish in the water in those days, some kind of gourami species, but I could never remember catching any. After a few hours, I would fall asleep in the sun, leaning against him. He'd wake me saying "sonny, sonny, LOOK. You caught a fish." And indeed, there was always one or two fishes in the bucket we'd bring along. Part of the magic of grandfathers, I guess.
Then there was his corner bar where he'd take me. Harry's (of course). Harry was the owner and bartender. He had a grandson, too, who lived in Florida with his family, so I became "his" grandson, too. And every other blue collar man who was in there who missed his grandson. I learned to play skittles, and poker, and a few other games. And I played with the bar cat, "Gladiolous," although I could never get the name right, and called her "Ravioli." One time, Tati gave me a taste of his beer. Nana was LIVID. I still remember her screaming, and Tati promising she'd never smell that again. And she never did. The next time, he taught me about blackjack gum after drinking. I'm sure Nana knew, but she never said anything.
Tati used to take me driving in his rig too, and BOY, did I love THAT. I felt like such a big kid when I got to be in the truck.
One time, he took me in the truck. We were in matching outfits, and before we left, he was serious and said "I'm taking you someplace where you have to be very quiet. But you'll learn some important things there." He took me to a union hall, walking me in on his shoulders, cursing up a blue streak about how his grandson was there, and anyone who got dirty was gonna get a rap in the mouth. I felt like I was on the top of a tree, on top of his shoulders. And it took me years to realize, I was at a teamster's meeting. I don't know what I learned there, but I DO know that, for the rest of my life, I've been pro union. And whenever I made a pro union statement, years later, my grandmother would smile and say Tati is looking at you and smiling."
One day, Tati disappeared. I just thought he was on a long trip to California, like he frequently went. But he didn't come back. And I began to take trips to the hospital with my mom and grandmother, "to see Susie." I never saw Susie. One of them would go in the hospital, and the other would stay outside with me, and then they'd change . Sometimes, I'd see a man look out the window, in a fisherman's cap and wave to me. "MOMMMA NANA. THERES TATI. LOOK!" They ALWAYS told me I was wrong, it was just a lonely old man, who missed his grandson.
I told you this was gonna be tough.
Well, time passed, as it does for kids I guess. I never went to his funeral (he died of lung cancer, at 54 years). One day, I was looking through some pictures, in a closet, and I found a holy card. You know those things that they give out at C atholic funerals. It had Tati's name on it. I looked up to my mother and Nana, who were sitting there "DID TATI DIE?" The nervous laughter is something I will not forget. I don't remember the answer I got, if I got one, but I do remember that I decided then and there: I would never trust them again.
Years later, as I was packing up things to move to my own place, I found a box . It was my Nana's. It was filled with love letters that Tati had written to her from California. He wrote one every time he went on a trip. And his cap and his gloves were there, too. I have very big hands, but the gloves were too big. They smelled of him: his cologne was Old Spice. It was probably wrong of me, but I took them. I think Nana knew, but she never said anything. When she died, over 30 years after he did, I put them in her casket with her.
I'd like to t hink that Tati still watches over me, and sometimes, I swear I can smell the Old Spice, and feel that brush of stubble that I'd feel when he'd kiss me on the cheek or my head, or I imagine I feel his big, wrinkled, tough hand holding mine. I would also like to think that a man who could give up his prejudices about his grandson is happy with me, and my relationship, and how I've become so much like my grandmother. I miss him. Maybe as much asI miss my grandmother, and certainly in a different way.
Stuffed cabbage was something that Tati loved, but Nana would NOT make it. She called it "Fart dinner," and complained that he farted enough. So when he really HAD to have it, Tati would go out and have it for lunch. Today, I made stuffed cabbage, and I thought of that big, sweet, man, who loved his grandson so much. I was lucky. Not everyone gets that. And when I look in the mirror and realize I have his eyes, well, I'm even luckier.
Tati, if you read this, this is how I made it. I took Marion Cunningham's ( a treasure, by the way. Tati would have liked her) recipe and played with it a little. Hers is sweeter, and spicer than mine, and doesnt have garlic in it.
You need a big head of savoy cabbage. Cut it in half, and cut out the core. It's VERY important that you do this. Then, bring a big pot of water to a boil, and add some salt. Put in the cabbage halves, and when the water comes back to the boil, cook it for no more than five minutes (Ms. Cunningham covers her pot. To me, that's a sure way to get that cabbage smell we hate). Be careful when you pull out the cabbage. It's very hot. Put it in a colander in the sink and let it cool. It's going to take a while.
While that's happening, cook up 2 cups of white rice ( I used basmati), and combine it with a pound of ground meat (I used beef, but I bet pork would be amazing), and a cup of tomato sauce. Pluse a heaping teaspoon of salt.I added two chopped cloves of garlic to this.
When your cabbage is cool enough to work with, select twelve-fifteen nice sized leaves (Ms. Cunningham uses the outer leaves for protecting the dish while it's baking. I don't see why. I stuff them). Chop up the rest of the cabbage, and lay it in a 9x13 inch pan that's been lightly oiled. Sprinkle about 1/3 cup of brown sugar over that. Then, spoon some of the rice/meat/sauce mixture into each of your reserved leaves, and roll it up. You can be generous here, this is a messy dish. Put the rolls on top of the cabbage layer. If you have extra filling, sprinkle it over those rolls. Then, pour half a cup of tomato sauce over all of this, cover the casserole with foil, and bake it for an hour, at 350. After 45 minutes, I take off the foil to let it dry out a little, but you don't have to.
The original recipe says this serves four. Tati had a BIG appetite, and I would be surprised if he couldn't polish this off in two meals. I think six normal sized appetites is more appropriate here.
I dont' make this dish too often, but whenever I do, I feel like Tati is looking over my shoulder, smiling, and I swear that I can smell Old Spice in my kitchen.
Tati was my grandfather. At least that was what we called him. I've been told that it's a Northern German diminutive for Grandpa, but I've never heard anyone else use it. Oh well, he was my Tati. And I loved him SO MUCH.
History says I shouldn't have. See, I am an unplanned child. That's the nicest way to put it. I used to tell people "Oh, I went to my mother's first wedding." Took 'em a while to get what I meant. I was born in 1957, to a Roman Catholic household. My mom was 17. In those days, abortion was not discussed. Apparently, adoption was, but my Mom was adamant. Like Madonna, she was gonna keep her baby.
Her father was not pleased with this choice. And he told her so. He told her he would never have anything to do with the child.
I don't remember how they got him to the hospital, but apparently, when he saw HIS grandson, it was all over. Nothing he had said applied anymore, and no one, and I mean NO ONE, could get near HIS grandson when he was around.
Tati was a long haul truckdriver. He was about 6 4 with the icy blue eyes that I have, and shocking white blond hair. He drove that truck, but what he REALLY wanted to be was a fisherman. And we fished together, out of Sheepshead Bay, a lot.
Tati basically took over my raising, when he was in town. He bought all my clothes, and he bought versions of what he wore. One of my favorite pictures is of me, about four years old, in a pea coat, a pair of wranglers that were way too long, rolled at the cuff, and a sailor's cap, holding Tati's hand. He's wearing the same thing, and his weathered face looks SO happy.
On weekends, he would borrow a friend's taxi, and he would take me to Central Park. Usually, to a stream, or lake, or some small body of water. On the way there, he'd hand me the breakfast that my mother would never let me have: bacon and eggs, on a buttered roll, and a chocolate milk. (Olive oil saved my cholesterol , I guess). And we'd go to that brook, and he'd give me a little fishing pole, and we'd fish. There WERE actually fish in the water in those days, some kind of gourami species, but I could never remember catching any. After a few hours, I would fall asleep in the sun, leaning against him. He'd wake me saying "sonny, sonny, LOOK. You caught a fish." And indeed, there was always one or two fishes in the bucket we'd bring along. Part of the magic of grandfathers, I guess.
Then there was his corner bar where he'd take me. Harry's (of course). Harry was the owner and bartender. He had a grandson, too, who lived in Florida with his family, so I became "his" grandson, too. And every other blue collar man who was in there who missed his grandson. I learned to play skittles, and poker, and a few other games. And I played with the bar cat, "Gladiolous," although I could never get the name right, and called her "Ravioli." One time, Tati gave me a taste of his beer. Nana was LIVID. I still remember her screaming, and Tati promising she'd never smell that again. And she never did. The next time, he taught me about blackjack gum after drinking. I'm sure Nana knew, but she never said anything.
Tati used to take me driving in his rig too, and BOY, did I love THAT. I felt like such a big kid when I got to be in the truck.
One time, he took me in the truck. We were in matching outfits, and before we left, he was serious and said "I'm taking you someplace where you have to be very quiet. But you'll learn some important things there." He took me to a union hall, walking me in on his shoulders, cursing up a blue streak about how his grandson was there, and anyone who got dirty was gonna get a rap in the mouth. I felt like I was on the top of a tree, on top of his shoulders. And it took me years to realize, I was at a teamster's meeting. I don't know what I learned there, but I DO know that, for the rest of my life, I've been pro union. And whenever I made a pro union statement, years later, my grandmother would smile and say Tati is looking at you and smiling."
One day, Tati disappeared. I just thought he was on a long trip to California, like he frequently went. But he didn't come back. And I began to take trips to the hospital with my mom and grandmother, "to see Susie." I never saw Susie. One of them would go in the hospital, and the other would stay outside with me, and then they'd change . Sometimes, I'd see a man look out the window, in a fisherman's cap and wave to me. "MOMMMA NANA. THERES TATI. LOOK!" They ALWAYS told me I was wrong, it was just a lonely old man, who missed his grandson.
I told you this was gonna be tough.
Well, time passed, as it does for kids I guess. I never went to his funeral (he died of lung cancer, at 54 years). One day, I was looking through some pictures, in a closet, and I found a holy card. You know those things that they give out at C atholic funerals. It had Tati's name on it. I looked up to my mother and Nana, who were sitting there "DID TATI DIE?" The nervous laughter is something I will not forget. I don't remember the answer I got, if I got one, but I do remember that I decided then and there: I would never trust them again.
Years later, as I was packing up things to move to my own place, I found a box . It was my Nana's. It was filled with love letters that Tati had written to her from California. He wrote one every time he went on a trip. And his cap and his gloves were there, too. I have very big hands, but the gloves were too big. They smelled of him: his cologne was Old Spice. It was probably wrong of me, but I took them. I think Nana knew, but she never said anything. When she died, over 30 years after he did, I put them in her casket with her.
I'd like to t hink that Tati still watches over me, and sometimes, I swear I can smell the Old Spice, and feel that brush of stubble that I'd feel when he'd kiss me on the cheek or my head, or I imagine I feel his big, wrinkled, tough hand holding mine. I would also like to think that a man who could give up his prejudices about his grandson is happy with me, and my relationship, and how I've become so much like my grandmother. I miss him. Maybe as much asI miss my grandmother, and certainly in a different way.
Stuffed cabbage was something that Tati loved, but Nana would NOT make it. She called it "Fart dinner," and complained that he farted enough. So when he really HAD to have it, Tati would go out and have it for lunch. Today, I made stuffed cabbage, and I thought of that big, sweet, man, who loved his grandson so much. I was lucky. Not everyone gets that. And when I look in the mirror and realize I have his eyes, well, I'm even luckier.
Tati, if you read this, this is how I made it. I took Marion Cunningham's ( a treasure, by the way. Tati would have liked her) recipe and played with it a little. Hers is sweeter, and spicer than mine, and doesnt have garlic in it.
You need a big head of savoy cabbage. Cut it in half, and cut out the core. It's VERY important that you do this. Then, bring a big pot of water to a boil, and add some salt. Put in the cabbage halves, and when the water comes back to the boil, cook it for no more than five minutes (Ms. Cunningham covers her pot. To me, that's a sure way to get that cabbage smell we hate). Be careful when you pull out the cabbage. It's very hot. Put it in a colander in the sink and let it cool. It's going to take a while.
While that's happening, cook up 2 cups of white rice ( I used basmati), and combine it with a pound of ground meat (I used beef, but I bet pork would be amazing), and a cup of tomato sauce. Pluse a heaping teaspoon of salt.I added two chopped cloves of garlic to this.
When your cabbage is cool enough to work with, select twelve-fifteen nice sized leaves (Ms. Cunningham uses the outer leaves for protecting the dish while it's baking. I don't see why. I stuff them). Chop up the rest of the cabbage, and lay it in a 9x13 inch pan that's been lightly oiled. Sprinkle about 1/3 cup of brown sugar over that. Then, spoon some of the rice/meat/sauce mixture into each of your reserved leaves, and roll it up. You can be generous here, this is a messy dish. Put the rolls on top of the cabbage layer. If you have extra filling, sprinkle it over those rolls. Then, pour half a cup of tomato sauce over all of this, cover the casserole with foil, and bake it for an hour, at 350. After 45 minutes, I take off the foil to let it dry out a little, but you don't have to.
The original recipe says this serves four. Tati had a BIG appetite, and I would be surprised if he couldn't polish this off in two meals. I think six normal sized appetites is more appropriate here.
I dont' make this dish too often, but whenever I do, I feel like Tati is looking over my shoulder, smiling, and I swear that I can smell Old Spice in my kitchen.
When it's cold, make soup
It's been a couple of days since I sat down to write. It has been an interesting couple of days, with some rather "high end" changes going on in my life, some cosmetic, some not. I can't honestly say that I've assimilated them all. What I can say, is that it's all been for the good, including a reconciliation and, I think, deepending of my friendship with my friend - and bud - Andrew, and a realization of how much I care for our friends Craig and Ken, and how wise they both are. That's a lot, in and of itself, and there's more. But that will have to wait, as we get to the matter at hand, SOUP.
Late in growing season, and early in growing season, a farmer's market is a challenge. The ground has frozen, the farmers are tired, and the bottom line is, the bounty of October is a pleasant, winsome memory. Now you have several options: give up, and buy stuff at a good grocery store, eat out and spend a l ot of money, or embrace what is not, ultimately, a very difficult challenge.
I went to the market on Friday, in 20 degree weather. I came back with nearly more than I could carry. Stunning baby leeks, baby turnips,beets, baby carrots, celery roots, celery "per se," herbs, potatoes, fennel, a savoy cabbage, fennel. WOW.
Now, the thing is, these are all vegetables that you have to know what to do with. You can't just steam most of them (except maybe the carrots, and they won't taste very good when they're this young). So think about what you have: these are , for the most part, roots. And they are vegetables that do well in the cold. So, what do you like to eat in the cold?
SOUP! Just for the heck of it, I laid all these vegetables out in front of me, plus a big jar of chestnuts, and began writing down all the possibilities I could come up with. SO MANY. An obvious one is the wonderful vicchisoyse (which I'm misspelling, again), of leeks and potatoes, and there's the makings of superb mixed vegetable soup here. But I wanted "something different." And in an hour, I made two, very different soups: celery root with shrimp, and then bacon, fennel, and chestnut.
The basis to all of my soups is a foundation of aromatic vegetables. These change, depending on the soup, but they almost always include an onion variety of some kind, carrots, and celery. All of which I had right there. Now, for celery root soup, I'm going to have the celery flavor, so this time, I left the celery out. I chopped up a cup of leeks, using white and light green parts, and a whole bunch of the baby carrots. (When they are small, all you have to do is wash them. If you peel them, you'll lose half the vegetable). Then, because celery root seems to "love" butter, I sauteed those in half butter and half olive oil, while I prepped four small celery roots. I peeled them, and cut them into cubes, and when they were ready, I added a quart of chicken stock to my base veggies, and then the celery root and a nice, big teaspoon of salt. Celery roots need more time than the other ingredient going into this soup, which is potatoes, so while the celery root was cooking, I peeled and cubed an equal amount of potatoes. After I gave the celery root a head start of ten minutes, I added the potatoes and brought everything to a low simmer. After fifteen more minutes, everything was nice and soft. But the taste was strong. So I added a few cups of hot water. I stopped the cooking, and then when the stuff was cool enough to handle, I pureed it through the food mill.
THIS, was a mistake. When I finished the puree, I had somethng that looked, well, a little like bad cottage cheese. It tasted good, but let's face it boys and girls, we eat with our eyes. SO, while I didn't want to do it, I put everything into the blender, and crossed my fingers.
A correct decision if I say so myself. A few of the potatoes were red fleshed, and I had a wonderful salmon pink soup waiting there.
And THAT is what inspired the shrimp. See, I l iked the soup but it screamed for PROTEIN. Anything too strongly flavored just seemed wrong: this is a soup that screamed out to me to use seafood. And the color said "shrimp." So, in went a couple of pounds of the medium shrimp (why use the big ones? They're too big to put on your spoon, and frankly, I think the smaller ones taste better). Five minutes later, we were done.
It was good, and I will make it again. But now for something interesting. I brought this to our fisherman for his lunch and know what he did? He grabbed a handful of scallops, tossed them into the hot soup, and smiled.
Yup, you one upped me Phil, and I wish I had thought of that BUT.... when I ate mine for lunch, I said "CRABMEAT." Yup, this is a soup that would be just wonderful with crabmeat in it. If I can put together a dinner party of people in January who are not allergic to shellfish, guess what the first course is gonna be?
Now, to soup number two. The combination of fennel and chestnuts sounded so appealing. They both have a wonderful hidden sweetness, and unusual flavors, and it seemed they would work together.
A digression here. Some of you will have said "WAIT A MINUTE. Chestnuts out of a jar?"
Uh huh. Yes I've done the fresh chestnut route, glorifying in the fact that there are indeed American chestnuts again. And after cutting my fingers, spraining my thumbs, and having about a cup of chestnut meat, "As God is my witness, I will never peel my own chestnuts again."
There, I said it. Too much freaking work.
Now, again, I was confronted with the protein issue. And the anise flavor of fennel kept on saying pork. Bacon is my ingredient of the year. I haven't cooked with it much before this year, now I wonder how I did without it. And I had a pound of superb artisanal bacon in the fridge. I cut up half of it into chunks, and sauteed it in olive oil, while I prepped the veggies (most people don't realize that you DO have to start bacon in some fat. If you don't, it will burn. If you add some to start, yes, you do have to drain most of it off, but you will be glad for that extra tablespoon or so of olive oil, which makes your life easier).
Prepping the veggies meant simply slicing up the big fennel bulb I had into half moons, and chopping up t he chestnuts. Again, I started with carrots and onions, but this time, I used the fennel where I would have used the celery. What I did was, I took the bacon out, and let it sit and crisp up, thinking I'd use it as a garnish. That changed. Then I sauteed the carrots, onions and fennel in two tablespoons of reserved bacon fat, and I added a big sprig of rosemary at the last minute. This proved to be a good choice. When I began to hear a "crackle" in the v eggies, I added the chestnuts, stirred them in the fat, and added the chicken stock. A quart of it. I simmered for about twenty minutes, tasting as I went along. It was WONDERFUL. Like a bowl of sausages in liquid form. The bacon flavor, the rosemary and the fennel were all coming together.
Again, I went with the food mill and again, the look was "less than appealing." And the brown chestnut color wasn't helping any. So, yet again, the helpful blender came out and at the last minute I added the bacon and pureed it all together.
The soup is deceptively thin. Not as thick as I thought it would be, but this is a good thing, as it gives me leave to serve up something like a pizza or a quiche with the meal.
I'm still having second thoughts about pureeing the bacon. The soup sure tastes good, and again, I don't have to run around looking for my garnish at the last minute. You'll have to make the call on this.
And play with your food here folks. Make some changes. Use sage instead of rosemary. Use an onion instead of the leek. See what happens if you use sausage instead of bacon, and/or maybe add some rice or some pasta to the soup.
C'mon. Let's cook together. Show me what you can do.
Late in growing season, and early in growing season, a farmer's market is a challenge. The ground has frozen, the farmers are tired, and the bottom line is, the bounty of October is a pleasant, winsome memory. Now you have several options: give up, and buy stuff at a good grocery store, eat out and spend a l ot of money, or embrace what is not, ultimately, a very difficult challenge.
I went to the market on Friday, in 20 degree weather. I came back with nearly more than I could carry. Stunning baby leeks, baby turnips,beets, baby carrots, celery roots, celery "per se," herbs, potatoes, fennel, a savoy cabbage, fennel. WOW.
Now, the thing is, these are all vegetables that you have to know what to do with. You can't just steam most of them (except maybe the carrots, and they won't taste very good when they're this young). So think about what you have: these are , for the most part, roots. And they are vegetables that do well in the cold. So, what do you like to eat in the cold?
SOUP! Just for the heck of it, I laid all these vegetables out in front of me, plus a big jar of chestnuts, and began writing down all the possibilities I could come up with. SO MANY. An obvious one is the wonderful vicchisoyse (which I'm misspelling, again), of leeks and potatoes, and there's the makings of superb mixed vegetable soup here. But I wanted "something different." And in an hour, I made two, very different soups: celery root with shrimp, and then bacon, fennel, and chestnut.
The basis to all of my soups is a foundation of aromatic vegetables. These change, depending on the soup, but they almost always include an onion variety of some kind, carrots, and celery. All of which I had right there. Now, for celery root soup, I'm going to have the celery flavor, so this time, I left the celery out. I chopped up a cup of leeks, using white and light green parts, and a whole bunch of the baby carrots. (When they are small, all you have to do is wash them. If you peel them, you'll lose half the vegetable). Then, because celery root seems to "love" butter, I sauteed those in half butter and half olive oil, while I prepped four small celery roots. I peeled them, and cut them into cubes, and when they were ready, I added a quart of chicken stock to my base veggies, and then the celery root and a nice, big teaspoon of salt. Celery roots need more time than the other ingredient going into this soup, which is potatoes, so while the celery root was cooking, I peeled and cubed an equal amount of potatoes. After I gave the celery root a head start of ten minutes, I added the potatoes and brought everything to a low simmer. After fifteen more minutes, everything was nice and soft. But the taste was strong. So I added a few cups of hot water. I stopped the cooking, and then when the stuff was cool enough to handle, I pureed it through the food mill.
THIS, was a mistake. When I finished the puree, I had somethng that looked, well, a little like bad cottage cheese. It tasted good, but let's face it boys and girls, we eat with our eyes. SO, while I didn't want to do it, I put everything into the blender, and crossed my fingers.
A correct decision if I say so myself. A few of the potatoes were red fleshed, and I had a wonderful salmon pink soup waiting there.
And THAT is what inspired the shrimp. See, I l iked the soup but it screamed for PROTEIN. Anything too strongly flavored just seemed wrong: this is a soup that screamed out to me to use seafood. And the color said "shrimp." So, in went a couple of pounds of the medium shrimp (why use the big ones? They're too big to put on your spoon, and frankly, I think the smaller ones taste better). Five minutes later, we were done.
It was good, and I will make it again. But now for something interesting. I brought this to our fisherman for his lunch and know what he did? He grabbed a handful of scallops, tossed them into the hot soup, and smiled.
Yup, you one upped me Phil, and I wish I had thought of that BUT.... when I ate mine for lunch, I said "CRABMEAT." Yup, this is a soup that would be just wonderful with crabmeat in it. If I can put together a dinner party of people in January who are not allergic to shellfish, guess what the first course is gonna be?
Now, to soup number two. The combination of fennel and chestnuts sounded so appealing. They both have a wonderful hidden sweetness, and unusual flavors, and it seemed they would work together.
A digression here. Some of you will have said "WAIT A MINUTE. Chestnuts out of a jar?"
Uh huh. Yes I've done the fresh chestnut route, glorifying in the fact that there are indeed American chestnuts again. And after cutting my fingers, spraining my thumbs, and having about a cup of chestnut meat, "As God is my witness, I will never peel my own chestnuts again."
There, I said it. Too much freaking work.
Now, again, I was confronted with the protein issue. And the anise flavor of fennel kept on saying pork. Bacon is my ingredient of the year. I haven't cooked with it much before this year, now I wonder how I did without it. And I had a pound of superb artisanal bacon in the fridge. I cut up half of it into chunks, and sauteed it in olive oil, while I prepped the veggies (most people don't realize that you DO have to start bacon in some fat. If you don't, it will burn. If you add some to start, yes, you do have to drain most of it off, but you will be glad for that extra tablespoon or so of olive oil, which makes your life easier).
Prepping the veggies meant simply slicing up the big fennel bulb I had into half moons, and chopping up t he chestnuts. Again, I started with carrots and onions, but this time, I used the fennel where I would have used the celery. What I did was, I took the bacon out, and let it sit and crisp up, thinking I'd use it as a garnish. That changed. Then I sauteed the carrots, onions and fennel in two tablespoons of reserved bacon fat, and I added a big sprig of rosemary at the last minute. This proved to be a good choice. When I began to hear a "crackle" in the v eggies, I added the chestnuts, stirred them in the fat, and added the chicken stock. A quart of it. I simmered for about twenty minutes, tasting as I went along. It was WONDERFUL. Like a bowl of sausages in liquid form. The bacon flavor, the rosemary and the fennel were all coming together.
Again, I went with the food mill and again, the look was "less than appealing." And the brown chestnut color wasn't helping any. So, yet again, the helpful blender came out and at the last minute I added the bacon and pureed it all together.
The soup is deceptively thin. Not as thick as I thought it would be, but this is a good thing, as it gives me leave to serve up something like a pizza or a quiche with the meal.
I'm still having second thoughts about pureeing the bacon. The soup sure tastes good, and again, I don't have to run around looking for my garnish at the last minute. You'll have to make the call on this.
And play with your food here folks. Make some changes. Use sage instead of rosemary. Use an onion instead of the leek. See what happens if you use sausage instead of bacon, and/or maybe add some rice or some pasta to the soup.
C'mon. Let's cook together. Show me what you can do.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Carol and gnarly roots
I have a pretty good memory of when I first met my friends, or at least a story or two about early meetings. It's not as good as my friend Tom, who can tell you who was there, what they were wearing, who's fly was open (well, I can usually do that), what they ate, and what cologne everyone was wearing as well, but it's pretty good. I don't always remember it though, but there is NO WAY I will ever forget my first meeting with Carol.
It was at our annual New Year's Day party. Our friend August, together with his partner Robert, who have brought so many wonderful new people into our lives (Eric and Charles come to mind immediately), brought Carol with them. When they came in, I was in the kitchen. I was busy. In fact, as they say in the restaurant business , I was "in the weeds." I looked up, and there was this woman standing there, in the most beautiful midnight blue silk blouse you could imagine. "Hi, I'm Carol. Thanks for inviting me, you need help. What can I do?" That was our first greeting. What followed was a little macho restaurant preening as I smiled and said "nice to meet you, but that's ok, I have it under control. Why don't you join the guests and have a drink and I'll come out in a minute?" Carol's expression never changed, and she just said "no, you don't have it under control and you're going to hurt yourself. Now give me a dishtowel and I'll at least get the sink cleared out and then we'll both go have a drink." Her sleeves went up, the dishes got dried, we chatted, and I essentially fell in love with a truly remarkable woman.
See, as my partner Guy puts it "Carol gets IT." The caps there are deliberate. It doesn't really matter what "IT" is (if that comment reminds you of Bill Clinton's wobbling, it reminded me, too), Carol "gets IT." She knows what to do, she knows what to say, and she gets it done. One other story about the amazing Carol. She lives in France for part of the year, and so, on the occasion of my first cassoulet, I invited Carol over, together with Robert, August, and some other people. Now, I wasn't nervous. These are friends, and even if the meal was terrible, they were not going to say anything. And I also had worked hard researching the dish, and had it pretty much under control. At the end, Carol said to me "That cassoulet was better than most I've had." She reads me PERFECTLY. If she had said it was the best one, she'd be lying, and I'd know it. And she never, never NEVER said "if you did.... it would be better," or anything like that. And she never would. Not unless I asked. I will always remember her in that midnight blue blouse, and I think of her as the sapphire in my "tiara of friends."
So what is the connection between Carol, and gnarly roots? Ok, like I said, I meander, but I get there. The roots in question are celery roots. These are truly a winter vegetable, and they ARE gnarly. They are dirty, misshapen, and WORK to prepare. You don't really see them in American cuisine at all, but Europeans, especially French and the Flemish, know what to do. And they're good. Yes, you do have to work them, but they have a taste that is not like anything else: sort of like the "deep essence" of celery, perhaps, but even then, I'm not giving them credit. There are any number of ways of preparing them. You can boil them and puree them with other vegetables, like potatoes to make a soup, and I've just read of a preparation where they're pureed with chestnuts. Hmmmm. They also work in gratins, and also as a vegetable onto themselves, or covered with a buttery white or hollandaise sauce (a preparation I learned from my friend Lucienne, mother of my friend and wine god, Frank. There's a story there that I'll never tell :) Frank and Crystal know what I'm talking about).
But my favorite way of eating these gnarly roots is in Celery remoulade, and there's where I think of Carol. If you're going to make celery remoulade, you HAVE to make your own mayonniase. And Carol is one of the few people I know who will read that and think "of course. What's the problem?" Carol makes her own mayonnaise. I bet it's better than mine, and I bet she's done it the traditional way, rather than the way I do it, in the food processor. If you don't do your own mayonnaise, don't make remoulade. It is JUST NOT WORTH IT.
After you make the mayonnaise, add a few tablespoons of a sharp mustard to it. Carol and I both like tastes a little sharp, so we would probably put in more mustard than most, so flavor your mayonnaise to your taste.
Now, to the roots! Like I said, these are ugly, and they take work. Cut a horizontal slice from the top and bottom of each root. I would say you need a pound of uncleaned roots to a cup of mayonnaise. Then , make long slices to take the outside of the root off, until you have what are basically clean, large, white cylinders in front of you.
To prepare a remoulade, I cut the roots lengthwise, then into long strips, which I then cut again, and again, into matchsticks. This produces a very non-uniform final product, which is fine to me. If you want something more even, then you should figure out how to use the blades on your food processor (which I've never done), or take way more time making the slices than I do. Toss the veggie with some lemon, because celery root darkens quickly. (if you don't have a lemon, SHAME ON YOU, but use vinegar instead). Then, just gently fold the vegetable and your mayonnaise together.
I like to let this sit in the fridge for about an hour before I serve it. It seems to let the celery root pick up the flavor a bit. There are people who will quick boil the match sticks for about thirty seconds and then combine them with the mayonnaise. I've done that, and the loss of texture is something I don't care for. I've also had it shredded into thinner flatter slices instead of the matchsticks, and I don't really like that either, but it IS an option.
Like I said in an earlier blog, I like serving this as part of a plate of other winter vegetable salads, like beets and carrots in different forms, but I have also put it under crab cakes and watched every drop of it disappear, and in one of my cross cultural moments, I piled some of it on a hamburger once, and had one of the best burgers I have ever had in my life.
Carol probably has at least another dozen ways to deal with this vegetable. If you're lucky, maybe she'll share them with you. For now, try this one. It's always good to have another winter "staple" at your command, and this one really isn't that hard to do.
It was at our annual New Year's Day party. Our friend August, together with his partner Robert, who have brought so many wonderful new people into our lives (Eric and Charles come to mind immediately), brought Carol with them. When they came in, I was in the kitchen. I was busy. In fact, as they say in the restaurant business , I was "in the weeds." I looked up, and there was this woman standing there, in the most beautiful midnight blue silk blouse you could imagine. "Hi, I'm Carol. Thanks for inviting me, you need help. What can I do?" That was our first greeting. What followed was a little macho restaurant preening as I smiled and said "nice to meet you, but that's ok, I have it under control. Why don't you join the guests and have a drink and I'll come out in a minute?" Carol's expression never changed, and she just said "no, you don't have it under control and you're going to hurt yourself. Now give me a dishtowel and I'll at least get the sink cleared out and then we'll both go have a drink." Her sleeves went up, the dishes got dried, we chatted, and I essentially fell in love with a truly remarkable woman.
See, as my partner Guy puts it "Carol gets IT." The caps there are deliberate. It doesn't really matter what "IT" is (if that comment reminds you of Bill Clinton's wobbling, it reminded me, too), Carol "gets IT." She knows what to do, she knows what to say, and she gets it done. One other story about the amazing Carol. She lives in France for part of the year, and so, on the occasion of my first cassoulet, I invited Carol over, together with Robert, August, and some other people. Now, I wasn't nervous. These are friends, and even if the meal was terrible, they were not going to say anything. And I also had worked hard researching the dish, and had it pretty much under control. At the end, Carol said to me "That cassoulet was better than most I've had." She reads me PERFECTLY. If she had said it was the best one, she'd be lying, and I'd know it. And she never, never NEVER said "if you did.... it would be better," or anything like that. And she never would. Not unless I asked. I will always remember her in that midnight blue blouse, and I think of her as the sapphire in my "tiara of friends."
So what is the connection between Carol, and gnarly roots? Ok, like I said, I meander, but I get there. The roots in question are celery roots. These are truly a winter vegetable, and they ARE gnarly. They are dirty, misshapen, and WORK to prepare. You don't really see them in American cuisine at all, but Europeans, especially French and the Flemish, know what to do. And they're good. Yes, you do have to work them, but they have a taste that is not like anything else: sort of like the "deep essence" of celery, perhaps, but even then, I'm not giving them credit. There are any number of ways of preparing them. You can boil them and puree them with other vegetables, like potatoes to make a soup, and I've just read of a preparation where they're pureed with chestnuts. Hmmmm. They also work in gratins, and also as a vegetable onto themselves, or covered with a buttery white or hollandaise sauce (a preparation I learned from my friend Lucienne, mother of my friend and wine god, Frank. There's a story there that I'll never tell :) Frank and Crystal know what I'm talking about).
But my favorite way of eating these gnarly roots is in Celery remoulade, and there's where I think of Carol. If you're going to make celery remoulade, you HAVE to make your own mayonniase. And Carol is one of the few people I know who will read that and think "of course. What's the problem?" Carol makes her own mayonnaise. I bet it's better than mine, and I bet she's done it the traditional way, rather than the way I do it, in the food processor. If you don't do your own mayonnaise, don't make remoulade. It is JUST NOT WORTH IT.
After you make the mayonnaise, add a few tablespoons of a sharp mustard to it. Carol and I both like tastes a little sharp, so we would probably put in more mustard than most, so flavor your mayonnaise to your taste.
Now, to the roots! Like I said, these are ugly, and they take work. Cut a horizontal slice from the top and bottom of each root. I would say you need a pound of uncleaned roots to a cup of mayonnaise. Then , make long slices to take the outside of the root off, until you have what are basically clean, large, white cylinders in front of you.
To prepare a remoulade, I cut the roots lengthwise, then into long strips, which I then cut again, and again, into matchsticks. This produces a very non-uniform final product, which is fine to me. If you want something more even, then you should figure out how to use the blades on your food processor (which I've never done), or take way more time making the slices than I do. Toss the veggie with some lemon, because celery root darkens quickly. (if you don't have a lemon, SHAME ON YOU, but use vinegar instead). Then, just gently fold the vegetable and your mayonnaise together.
I like to let this sit in the fridge for about an hour before I serve it. It seems to let the celery root pick up the flavor a bit. There are people who will quick boil the match sticks for about thirty seconds and then combine them with the mayonnaise. I've done that, and the loss of texture is something I don't care for. I've also had it shredded into thinner flatter slices instead of the matchsticks, and I don't really like that either, but it IS an option.
Like I said in an earlier blog, I like serving this as part of a plate of other winter vegetable salads, like beets and carrots in different forms, but I have also put it under crab cakes and watched every drop of it disappear, and in one of my cross cultural moments, I piled some of it on a hamburger once, and had one of the best burgers I have ever had in my life.
Carol probably has at least another dozen ways to deal with this vegetable. If you're lucky, maybe she'll share them with you. For now, try this one. It's always good to have another winter "staple" at your command, and this one really isn't that hard to do.
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