One of the revolutions in my cooking was the first time I had "cima di rape." Now, there are going to be some of you who are going to say "oh yes, broccoli rabe." Well, NO.
"Rape" is a turnip, and "cima" is the "top" of something. Cima di rape, strictly speaking, are turnip greens. The turnips they come from do not really amount to much, and the plant is grown, when it is grown, for the greens. They look a little like broccoli rabe, but they are not at all close to each other, in my view. They ARE related, botanically, as both broccoli rabe and turnips are "cruciferous" vegetables. All that means, by the way, is that their flowers form a small cross pattern. Americans seem to be more familiar with the broccoli rabe, so I've seen cima called just that. When you see the two of them together, however, the differences are clear.
Cima are definitely "greens." They look like greens. They're light, fluffy leaves, with some stem, not a lot. Broccoli rabe, to me, looks very much like a big bunch of extensively tall broccoli. The stems are much tougher. I am going to focus on cima today, because that's what I cooked.
I love broccoli rabe. I think every southern Italian does. It's one of those "talismanic" foods for us. We remember eating it often, by itself, in pasta, in pasta with sausage, with sausage and no pasta, as leftovers with eggs, on sandwiches, etc. It's not the prettiest vegetable, but I know people who eat it every night if they can. But I love cima di rape even more. And when I see it, I grab it.
These are both vegetables that are not for the timid. They have a bitterness to them that you either react to positively, or push away on your plate. I think that's why the vegetables are combined with pork products so much, as I think that pork is the "sweetest" of meats, and it balances the bitterness. I happen to like it "straight up" with some garlic, which probably says something about my personality. But it's not just mine. Last night, my friend Ray was cooking with me. Ray is from Asia, and he did not know this vegetable. When he tasted it, he said "it's good. It's a vegetable you have to accept on its own terms." Sort of like me. And sort of like my friends who really like it.
When you get cima, or broccoli rabe, you have to do the "stem test." There is a point where you will "see" that the stem becomes very tough, thick and is clearly not edible. There ARE cooks who take the stalks and painstakingly peel them, in order to get to the softer part underneath. I can't be bothered, and I take a big, sharp knife and cut it at that point. Then I proceed with the recipe.
With either of these vegetables, like I said with my first entry on greens, if you boil them quickly, you will reduce the bitterness, but you will never get rid of it. My feeling about this, is that if you're going to get rid of the bitterness, you may as well eat another vegetable. So what I do is, after I've gotten rid of the stems, I take two nice big cloves of garlic, peel them and SLICE them into thin slices. I do this because I like eating garlic with these vegetables. I put enough oil in a big pan, in order to cover it. That's all I need. If there is too much vegetable to put in the pan at once , that's fine. I add half of it, and then let it sizzle until it just begins to collapse. Then a pinch of salt, and the garlic go in. They get stirred around, and if there's more vegetables, they go in too. Stir it all around until it collapses some more. If the vegetables look too dry, and start to scorch, add a bit of water. That should finish the cooking process, IF you want it to. At this point, you can do what really big fans do, and add some hot red pepper. If I'm eating it myself, that's exactly what I do. If I'm not, I don't. Then, when it's finished, add a good "glug" of olive oil to the greens. They will essentially drink up that oil, and make a lovely finishing sauce for your greens.
Make a big pot of this. Enjoy it as a vegetable, or do one of the other things above. Or put it on a pizza. It's your choice.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Local artichokes
You don't really think about artichokes as a crop that is typical of NY. That may be changing, the way things changed for apricots, as folks like Red Jacket Orchards started bringing their crop of artichokes to the NY farmers markets. Now, I can't think of a summer without local apricots. I save the pits, to crack them and use the "noyau" inside of them for cookies, custards, ice creams, and everything else.
Many years ago, I found one farmer, (Pfaffenroth Farms), who had artichokes. The patriarch of that farm told me it was "the first and last time" he would grow them, because "they are too damn hard to grow." And he kept his promise. He never had them again. I knew there was a second farmer who grew them, because in a local foods demo that Peter Hoffmann of Savoy gave, he served artichokes. I asked him where he had gotten them, and he said "not Pfaffenroth," and he wouldn't tell me where. (These days, he probably would).
Anyway, this year, I've seen about four or five farmers selling them. But I always go back to Muddy Rivers Farms, to get his. Are they better than others? I don't know. I like the owner, and I like the artichokes, and he's always good for a solid half hour or so of chat - whether you have the time or not.
Anyway, this year, he brought not only the full sized artichokes to the market, but small ones. Now, it's not really important to know this, but it's fun to know: the younger the artichoke plant, the smaller the artichoke it will grow. Those little tiny ones you see will never turn into bigger ones in a given year. Next year, the plant will make bigger ones, and I think it's 4-5 years before you get the globe ones that we're used to. When I saw his artichoke crop, I was about to get the big ones, until I saw the box of small ones. I didn't even ask what the cost was, I just scooped up a bag of them, paid for them, and brought them home.
With no clue of what I was going to do with them. So after they sat there in the fridge for three days, looking at me reproachfully, like the plant version of a bag of sardines, I said "OK. GET TO WORK."
It took a while, but I came up with something really good. I braised them. There is a technique of braising where oil and water are combined, and I've written about it before. It's really useful for something like artichokes, and for baby ones like this, it's really good.
One thing you have to keep in mind for baby artichokes. You may think that, because they're small, you will have very little waste. That's wrong. You still have to pull off the outer leaves, just like with the big ones. They will never get tender. And you also have to clip those sharp tips in order to avoid hurting yourself when you eat them. You don't have to go in and remove the "choke," because, while it's there, it's still soft and edible. And they will cook quickly.
This is a variation on a recipe from a wonderful book, called "Chez Panisse Vegetables." I really like it.
Take two pounds of baby artichokes, and get the tough leaves off of the outside of them. How far down do you go? It's a judgement call. I went down one layer, and probably could have gone down a second one, but it was "family" who were eating them, so I was good with that. Then cut away the sharp tips, and cut the artichokes in half. Put them in a bowl of water with some lemon juice or vinegar, to keep them from browning as you prep them.
When they're done, put them in a non reactive pot with a big clove of garlic that you've sliced into thin pieces, a few thyme sprigs, a big pinch of salt, a third of a cup of olive oil, a lemon, halved, and half a cup of water. Cover the pot tightly, bring the heat to medium and simmer for about ten minutes. Check by taking a knife to see if it goes through the artichoke. If it does, move on to the next step and if it doesn't, cook them some more.
When they're soft enough to pierce with that knife, uncover the pot, increase the heat, and cook down the liquid by about half. You'll see the liquid take on a grayish, opaque quality. This is going to be your sauce for these guys. I like to cut up the lemon, which will be soft , but you don't have to, and you can just discard it. Take out the thyme sprigs, and then let the artichokes come to room temperature.
Like I said, this is a "family" style dish, because as you eat it, you'll get bits that won't be digestible, and you'll put them to the side. But you know what? If the people you're eating with aren't "family," then you shouldn't be eating with them.
Many years ago, I found one farmer, (Pfaffenroth Farms), who had artichokes. The patriarch of that farm told me it was "the first and last time" he would grow them, because "they are too damn hard to grow." And he kept his promise. He never had them again. I knew there was a second farmer who grew them, because in a local foods demo that Peter Hoffmann of Savoy gave, he served artichokes. I asked him where he had gotten them, and he said "not Pfaffenroth," and he wouldn't tell me where. (These days, he probably would).
Anyway, this year, I've seen about four or five farmers selling them. But I always go back to Muddy Rivers Farms, to get his. Are they better than others? I don't know. I like the owner, and I like the artichokes, and he's always good for a solid half hour or so of chat - whether you have the time or not.
Anyway, this year, he brought not only the full sized artichokes to the market, but small ones. Now, it's not really important to know this, but it's fun to know: the younger the artichoke plant, the smaller the artichoke it will grow. Those little tiny ones you see will never turn into bigger ones in a given year. Next year, the plant will make bigger ones, and I think it's 4-5 years before you get the globe ones that we're used to. When I saw his artichoke crop, I was about to get the big ones, until I saw the box of small ones. I didn't even ask what the cost was, I just scooped up a bag of them, paid for them, and brought them home.
With no clue of what I was going to do with them. So after they sat there in the fridge for three days, looking at me reproachfully, like the plant version of a bag of sardines, I said "OK. GET TO WORK."
It took a while, but I came up with something really good. I braised them. There is a technique of braising where oil and water are combined, and I've written about it before. It's really useful for something like artichokes, and for baby ones like this, it's really good.
One thing you have to keep in mind for baby artichokes. You may think that, because they're small, you will have very little waste. That's wrong. You still have to pull off the outer leaves, just like with the big ones. They will never get tender. And you also have to clip those sharp tips in order to avoid hurting yourself when you eat them. You don't have to go in and remove the "choke," because, while it's there, it's still soft and edible. And they will cook quickly.
This is a variation on a recipe from a wonderful book, called "Chez Panisse Vegetables." I really like it.
Take two pounds of baby artichokes, and get the tough leaves off of the outside of them. How far down do you go? It's a judgement call. I went down one layer, and probably could have gone down a second one, but it was "family" who were eating them, so I was good with that. Then cut away the sharp tips, and cut the artichokes in half. Put them in a bowl of water with some lemon juice or vinegar, to keep them from browning as you prep them.
When they're done, put them in a non reactive pot with a big clove of garlic that you've sliced into thin pieces, a few thyme sprigs, a big pinch of salt, a third of a cup of olive oil, a lemon, halved, and half a cup of water. Cover the pot tightly, bring the heat to medium and simmer for about ten minutes. Check by taking a knife to see if it goes through the artichoke. If it does, move on to the next step and if it doesn't, cook them some more.
When they're soft enough to pierce with that knife, uncover the pot, increase the heat, and cook down the liquid by about half. You'll see the liquid take on a grayish, opaque quality. This is going to be your sauce for these guys. I like to cut up the lemon, which will be soft , but you don't have to, and you can just discard it. Take out the thyme sprigs, and then let the artichokes come to room temperature.
Like I said, this is a "family" style dish, because as you eat it, you'll get bits that won't be digestible, and you'll put them to the side. But you know what? If the people you're eating with aren't "family," then you shouldn't be eating with them.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
"Il Canon" IV: Swordfish with Salmoriglio sauce
If I seem to be obsessed with the idea of a canon of food and recipes, it's because I am. The idea that there is some "codified" version of a recipe, which is the "correct" one in a culture's cuisine, fascinates me, the way there is a "correct" language, and then dialects that come off of it. NONE of us speak standard, written English all the time, in the same way that I KNOW that Italians don't all speak the codified Tuscan that is "proper" Italian all the time, and I'm sure that French and German speakers don't do it with their language either. When we HEAR that kind of change from the canonic form, no one really budges, unless it's inappropriate, i.e., you won't hear "rap" in a law firm board room, without some kind of reaction. But when you see it written down in a text of some kind, it always "jars," because it's WRONG... We're taught it's wrong.
In cooking, perhaps a little teaching is a bad thing. Beginning cooks are always looking for "the right way" to cook things. And unfortunately, there are way too many teachers who say "this is the right way to do this." I am not going to say that anything goes in cooking, far from it. If you feel that you MUST put strawberries into hot olive oil and fry them, well, be my guest. I will tell you that you will not like it, however. If you are going to substitute butter for olive oil in certain recipes, and vice versa, again, do it, but be careful. Add to that the fact that there are certain "constants" to dishes. On a simple level, a dish that is described as "veronique" will always have green grapes in it. A dish described as Florentine, will always have spinach. Why? Who knows? On a more fundamental level, there is always garlic in the wonderful Greek sauce and soup, skordalia, in the same way that there is always butter in hollandaise. Skordalia is a better example of what I'm going at here, because there is much more room to play within that sauce, as long as you keep some of the fundamentals. In hollandaise, there isn't much room for play.
These thoughts came to mind last night, for a number of reasons. Taking Italian lessons with two guys who are immersed in the finer points of literary analysis, and canons of literary construction as well as the canons themselves. And of course, talking with my friend Charlie about the canons of music, especially jazz, where a canon is being created and deconstructed, is interesting. So these thoughts are all running through my mind.
We get to the application of this to salmoriglio sauce, via way of Joe, my substitute teacher. Joe is a Sicilian American, and salmoriglio sauce is one of those food things that , at least to me, says SICILY in big, strong capital letters. I learned from a bit of research that in Sicilian dialect, it is called salmarigghiu , which is supposed to be "light brine," or something like that. Interestingly, salmoriglio as I know it is not very salty at all.
The fundamentals of the sauce are olive oil, lemon juice, salt, garlic and fresh herbs. Usually , the herb is fresh oregano; however, you can use dried. You can also use parsley. You can also use combinations of the two of them. I have seen recipes where olive oil and butter are combined. Sorry, but if you're going to do that, don't call it a Sicilian sauce. No butter in Sicilian main dish cooking. Where the recipes go all over the place is in the proportions of oil to lemon juice. Some recipes add water to help the emulsion. Some use more garlic than others. Some use lemon peel.
So, what's the "true, canonical recipe?" Who knows? It was Marcella Hazan who wrote the recipe with butter, so here I'm going to have to disagree with the expert. Water? That sounds like a convenience to bulk up the sauce, and make the work of emulsifying easier (which isn't that hard to do to begin with). So, when I made my sauce last night, I didn't feel bound to anything but the ingredients. And then I did something that I haven't seen in any of the recipes: I "cooked" my sauce.
Let me explain what I mean by that. In all of the recipes I have seen, you combine chopped garlic, lemon juice, salt, olive oil and herbs, and whisk them to an emulsion. I wanted to do something where the pieces of garlic were not in the sauce, so what I did was something that you do when making another classic, this one from further north, the Roman dish of spaghetti agloglio or spaghetti with garlic and oil. I learned when making this you slowly cook whole cloves of garlic in olive oil to flavor it, and that is the basis of your sauce. That sounded good to me. So for the two of us, I took about a third of a cup of olive oil, and put it in a pan with a very large, crushed clove of garlic. I cooked it very slowly, until the garlic was just browning, and then removed it. I let it cool while I was cooking the fish (more on that below). When the oil was cool, I added a big tablespoon of fresh oregano, and then the juice of one lemon. Plus a small teaspoon of salt. I whisked this right in the pan, and it came together as a thick emulsion almost immediately.
Now to the swordfish. We don't eat swordfish a lot, because I find it very fragile. Even more than oilier fish like bluefish, it seems to me that if I don't cook the swordfish immediately, it begins to go bad. But I had bought a one pound piece earlier that day, and it was fine. I oiled my grill pan, and patted the fish dry. Then I rubbed oil and salt on both surfaces. When the grill pan was hot, I cooked the fish for four minutes on each side. The fish was about half an inch thick, so what we wound up with was fish that was barely cooked, and even a bit raw in the center. That's how we like it, and it is decidedly NOT a European or Italian way to cook and eat fish. If you want it cooked more thoroughly, cook it for longer. I sliced it, the same way I would slice a steak (because to me, tuna and swordfish really ARE the "steaks of the sea"). We poured the sauce over the fish at dinner, saluted Joe and Sicily and had the dish with a "ragu" of baby artichokes (you'll get that one tomrrow), and some pasta, stolen from that other island home of great food, Sardinian fregola.
So, what's the message for today? I guess it's that we should all use canons as a place to start. But learn how to read the "codes" that govern these canons. Salmoriglio is more a technique than a recipe. Once you have the ingredients in hand, swing with it, play with it, and have some fun. You can use it on way more than swordfish. Douse potatoes with it, put it on lamb, put it on tuna, hell use it as a salad dressing. Just enjoy it.
In cooking, perhaps a little teaching is a bad thing. Beginning cooks are always looking for "the right way" to cook things. And unfortunately, there are way too many teachers who say "this is the right way to do this." I am not going to say that anything goes in cooking, far from it. If you feel that you MUST put strawberries into hot olive oil and fry them, well, be my guest. I will tell you that you will not like it, however. If you are going to substitute butter for olive oil in certain recipes, and vice versa, again, do it, but be careful. Add to that the fact that there are certain "constants" to dishes. On a simple level, a dish that is described as "veronique" will always have green grapes in it. A dish described as Florentine, will always have spinach. Why? Who knows? On a more fundamental level, there is always garlic in the wonderful Greek sauce and soup, skordalia, in the same way that there is always butter in hollandaise. Skordalia is a better example of what I'm going at here, because there is much more room to play within that sauce, as long as you keep some of the fundamentals. In hollandaise, there isn't much room for play.
These thoughts came to mind last night, for a number of reasons. Taking Italian lessons with two guys who are immersed in the finer points of literary analysis, and canons of literary construction as well as the canons themselves. And of course, talking with my friend Charlie about the canons of music, especially jazz, where a canon is being created and deconstructed, is interesting. So these thoughts are all running through my mind.
We get to the application of this to salmoriglio sauce, via way of Joe, my substitute teacher. Joe is a Sicilian American, and salmoriglio sauce is one of those food things that , at least to me, says SICILY in big, strong capital letters. I learned from a bit of research that in Sicilian dialect, it is called salmarigghiu , which is supposed to be "light brine," or something like that. Interestingly, salmoriglio as I know it is not very salty at all.
The fundamentals of the sauce are olive oil, lemon juice, salt, garlic and fresh herbs. Usually , the herb is fresh oregano; however, you can use dried. You can also use parsley. You can also use combinations of the two of them. I have seen recipes where olive oil and butter are combined. Sorry, but if you're going to do that, don't call it a Sicilian sauce. No butter in Sicilian main dish cooking. Where the recipes go all over the place is in the proportions of oil to lemon juice. Some recipes add water to help the emulsion. Some use more garlic than others. Some use lemon peel.
So, what's the "true, canonical recipe?" Who knows? It was Marcella Hazan who wrote the recipe with butter, so here I'm going to have to disagree with the expert. Water? That sounds like a convenience to bulk up the sauce, and make the work of emulsifying easier (which isn't that hard to do to begin with). So, when I made my sauce last night, I didn't feel bound to anything but the ingredients. And then I did something that I haven't seen in any of the recipes: I "cooked" my sauce.
Let me explain what I mean by that. In all of the recipes I have seen, you combine chopped garlic, lemon juice, salt, olive oil and herbs, and whisk them to an emulsion. I wanted to do something where the pieces of garlic were not in the sauce, so what I did was something that you do when making another classic, this one from further north, the Roman dish of spaghetti agloglio or spaghetti with garlic and oil. I learned when making this you slowly cook whole cloves of garlic in olive oil to flavor it, and that is the basis of your sauce. That sounded good to me. So for the two of us, I took about a third of a cup of olive oil, and put it in a pan with a very large, crushed clove of garlic. I cooked it very slowly, until the garlic was just browning, and then removed it. I let it cool while I was cooking the fish (more on that below). When the oil was cool, I added a big tablespoon of fresh oregano, and then the juice of one lemon. Plus a small teaspoon of salt. I whisked this right in the pan, and it came together as a thick emulsion almost immediately.
Now to the swordfish. We don't eat swordfish a lot, because I find it very fragile. Even more than oilier fish like bluefish, it seems to me that if I don't cook the swordfish immediately, it begins to go bad. But I had bought a one pound piece earlier that day, and it was fine. I oiled my grill pan, and patted the fish dry. Then I rubbed oil and salt on both surfaces. When the grill pan was hot, I cooked the fish for four minutes on each side. The fish was about half an inch thick, so what we wound up with was fish that was barely cooked, and even a bit raw in the center. That's how we like it, and it is decidedly NOT a European or Italian way to cook and eat fish. If you want it cooked more thoroughly, cook it for longer. I sliced it, the same way I would slice a steak (because to me, tuna and swordfish really ARE the "steaks of the sea"). We poured the sauce over the fish at dinner, saluted Joe and Sicily and had the dish with a "ragu" of baby artichokes (you'll get that one tomrrow), and some pasta, stolen from that other island home of great food, Sardinian fregola.
So, what's the message for today? I guess it's that we should all use canons as a place to start. But learn how to read the "codes" that govern these canons. Salmoriglio is more a technique than a recipe. Once you have the ingredients in hand, swing with it, play with it, and have some fun. You can use it on way more than swordfish. Douse potatoes with it, put it on lamb, put it on tuna, hell use it as a salad dressing. Just enjoy it.
Monday, August 4, 2008
"Le Canon, Part III" Salade Nicoise
I have told you all, more than once, that I know no French. So if the article before "Canon" is incorrect, I apologize. In fact, if the word for "Canon" is not "Canon" in French, I apologize for that too. And for anyone I offend with my musings on salade nicoise, yet another apology.
No, I am not wearing ashes and sackcloth today, nor did I get confused on the way to Lent. I am walking on unfamiliar territory here, and I don't wish to offend....THIS TIME.
Salade nicoise is one of the dishes that I consider to be part of the "French canon" of cooking. It's fairly ubiquitous. You can find it in bad greasy spoon diners, and you can find it in good French restaurants. Everybody "knows" what it is, but everyone does it differently. There seems to be some general agreement on what goes into it, as the basics, but then, things change. That's sort of the way things are with "canonic" dishes. There are always a few basic, constants, and then there are variables.
In researching salade nicoise, what I found was that most recipes said that the "essentials" were soft, butter type lettuce, black olives , hard boiled eggs, green beans, tomatoes, cooked potatoes, and canned tuna (in olive oil). The dressing is supposed to contain garlic, and anchovies.
You've seen it on menus with rice in it, or pasta, or cheese. You've seen it with chick peas. Who knows? But you almost always DO see it with the basic ingredients above. Where people vary, it seems, is in the AMOUNT of those basic ingredients. I have seen recipes, for example, with as many as six hard boiled eggs, then halved, to serve four people, and a pound of green beans, with minimal tuna, and minimal lettuce. I've also seen it with fewer eggs, more tuna, and fewer vegetables. So, what is one to do?
Damned if I know. I don't codify these things, I just cook. And I want to present my salad, which I guess should be called " A salad in the style of salade nicoise."
This was born out of necessity, and goodies in the refrigerator. Here, at peak summer, there is always a bowl of cooked beets around. The little tiny ones. I bake them when I'm cooking something else, and since Guy and I both love them, they go into salads, or get mixed with things. For example, baby golden beets and cooked green beans, in a creme fraiche dressing, is something you should try.
I also had a bunch of left over cooked green beans. "Haricot verts" to be exact, which I had spent a small fortune on , for beans (7 bucks a pound). They were not getting thrown out. We also had potatoes around, as we always do. And we were looking for a filling, somewhat less fattening dish than the quesadillas we had eaten on Saturday. So a salad was in the offing. I got some soft lettuces from Nevia. I also got half a pound of fresh tuna from Phil's stand (after teasing Carl, his grandson, for about fifteen minutes about flirting with two lady cops. I wish you had been there. Talk about going out of his league). Now, just about every recipe that I looked at which dealt with salade nicoise contains the stern admonition FRESH TUNA IS NEVER USED IN SALADE NICOSE.
Oops. Oh well. I also left out the hard boiled eggs. I hate them. And I included beets, which are not in the "canon." And the dressing was a mustard vinaigrette, not an "achiode" which is the combination of anchovies and garlic.
I seared the tuna very quickly, at very high heat, for about 90 seconds a side, and then sliced it thin. I cut the beets in half. I had four cooked potatoes, that I diced into pieces. And the beans were already cooked. I also had four really ripe heirloom tomatoes, cut into slices, rather than wedges. The lettuce was baby , and clean. All the makings of a salad.
What I do want to explain here, is how I dress a salad with components like this. I always make my dressing right in the salad bowl. Vinegar first, and then salt. In this case, there was mustard, so I emulsified that into the vinegar. Then the olive oil, about four parts to the vinegar and mustard. I completely forgot about olives until we sat down
When I have a salad that has more than greens in it, I make a quick mental "check" of what ingredients are strongly flavored, and which are not. In this case, the beets, the beans, and the potatoes fell into the not so strongly flavored ingredients. I put them, and the lettuce into the bowl, and tossed them with my hands, until everything was coated. Then the tomatoes and the tuna went on top of the salad.
The reason for putting the tomatoes on top, incidentally, has to do both with flavor, and their liquidity. If you mix tomatoes into a salad, they will begin to "weep" and dilute everything and generally create a mess. So try not to do that. In fact, I don't usually put tomatoes into a salad unless it's a tomato salad per se.
So it wasn't authentic, but it WAS good. Lots of summery things, all combined, with just a touch of protein, for a nice light Sunday lunch. Really good.
We ate it all, but if there were left overs, we could have made another classic of french cooking, the sandwich called "pan bagnat." That is one of my favorites too.
Try it. Leave out the beets if they make you say "EEEEEWWWWW"
No, I am not wearing ashes and sackcloth today, nor did I get confused on the way to Lent. I am walking on unfamiliar territory here, and I don't wish to offend....THIS TIME.
Salade nicoise is one of the dishes that I consider to be part of the "French canon" of cooking. It's fairly ubiquitous. You can find it in bad greasy spoon diners, and you can find it in good French restaurants. Everybody "knows" what it is, but everyone does it differently. There seems to be some general agreement on what goes into it, as the basics, but then, things change. That's sort of the way things are with "canonic" dishes. There are always a few basic, constants, and then there are variables.
In researching salade nicoise, what I found was that most recipes said that the "essentials" were soft, butter type lettuce, black olives , hard boiled eggs, green beans, tomatoes, cooked potatoes, and canned tuna (in olive oil). The dressing is supposed to contain garlic, and anchovies.
You've seen it on menus with rice in it, or pasta, or cheese. You've seen it with chick peas. Who knows? But you almost always DO see it with the basic ingredients above. Where people vary, it seems, is in the AMOUNT of those basic ingredients. I have seen recipes, for example, with as many as six hard boiled eggs, then halved, to serve four people, and a pound of green beans, with minimal tuna, and minimal lettuce. I've also seen it with fewer eggs, more tuna, and fewer vegetables. So, what is one to do?
Damned if I know. I don't codify these things, I just cook. And I want to present my salad, which I guess should be called " A salad in the style of salade nicoise."
This was born out of necessity, and goodies in the refrigerator. Here, at peak summer, there is always a bowl of cooked beets around. The little tiny ones. I bake them when I'm cooking something else, and since Guy and I both love them, they go into salads, or get mixed with things. For example, baby golden beets and cooked green beans, in a creme fraiche dressing, is something you should try.
I also had a bunch of left over cooked green beans. "Haricot verts" to be exact, which I had spent a small fortune on , for beans (7 bucks a pound). They were not getting thrown out. We also had potatoes around, as we always do. And we were looking for a filling, somewhat less fattening dish than the quesadillas we had eaten on Saturday. So a salad was in the offing. I got some soft lettuces from Nevia. I also got half a pound of fresh tuna from Phil's stand (after teasing Carl, his grandson, for about fifteen minutes about flirting with two lady cops. I wish you had been there. Talk about going out of his league). Now, just about every recipe that I looked at which dealt with salade nicoise contains the stern admonition FRESH TUNA IS NEVER USED IN SALADE NICOSE.
Oops. Oh well. I also left out the hard boiled eggs. I hate them. And I included beets, which are not in the "canon." And the dressing was a mustard vinaigrette, not an "achiode" which is the combination of anchovies and garlic.
I seared the tuna very quickly, at very high heat, for about 90 seconds a side, and then sliced it thin. I cut the beets in half. I had four cooked potatoes, that I diced into pieces. And the beans were already cooked. I also had four really ripe heirloom tomatoes, cut into slices, rather than wedges. The lettuce was baby , and clean. All the makings of a salad.
What I do want to explain here, is how I dress a salad with components like this. I always make my dressing right in the salad bowl. Vinegar first, and then salt. In this case, there was mustard, so I emulsified that into the vinegar. Then the olive oil, about four parts to the vinegar and mustard. I completely forgot about olives until we sat down
When I have a salad that has more than greens in it, I make a quick mental "check" of what ingredients are strongly flavored, and which are not. In this case, the beets, the beans, and the potatoes fell into the not so strongly flavored ingredients. I put them, and the lettuce into the bowl, and tossed them with my hands, until everything was coated. Then the tomatoes and the tuna went on top of the salad.
The reason for putting the tomatoes on top, incidentally, has to do both with flavor, and their liquidity. If you mix tomatoes into a salad, they will begin to "weep" and dilute everything and generally create a mess. So try not to do that. In fact, I don't usually put tomatoes into a salad unless it's a tomato salad per se.
So it wasn't authentic, but it WAS good. Lots of summery things, all combined, with just a touch of protein, for a nice light Sunday lunch. Really good.
We ate it all, but if there were left overs, we could have made another classic of french cooking, the sandwich called "pan bagnat." That is one of my favorites too.
Try it. Leave out the beets if they make you say "EEEEEWWWWW"
Sunday, August 3, 2008
"The Canon," Part II: Pan fried chicken
I will admit, right up front, that fried chicken intimidates me. I do not make it well. I have tried, but it is one of those dishes that just defies my efforts. I am determined to try it again, very soon, but for now....
When I speak of the fried chicken that intimidates me, I am speaking of those varities that involve letting the chicken sit in butttermilk overnight, and then coating them and frying them in cups and cups and cups of melted lard, or oil, or what have you. I am NOT speaking of the panfried stuff, which is where I turn my attention now.
For those of us who are too frightened of REAL fried chicken to do it, pan fried chicken can come to the rescue. I am not going to say that it is better or not as good as "Southern fried chicken," it is a dish onto itself.
There are thousands of variations on this theme. Again, when checking these, I found mind boggling variations. All, however, share two characteristics: there is a dip into which you immerse the chicken before coating it. They all work from dairy and eggs. I did not find cream in the mix, but of course, buttermilk and yogurt show up. So do the various types of mik. And the dairy is combined with eggs. As with corn pudding, the number of eggs varies; however, as a 'rule' I found that one egg was good for half a cup to one cup of dairy.
Then there is the coating. Oi, the coating. Flour. Corn meal. Cracker crumbs. Potato chip crumbs. Bread crumbs. Cereal. You name it, it's been used to coat chicken (When I was growing up, Nana used bread crumbs). One variation caught my fancy: corn flakes.
Now, I have no patience for ready to eat cereals generally. I eat one, in order to, ahem, "keep things moving," but I wish I didn't have to. They're expensive, they're nutritionally unsound, and the cereal companies are making a fortune selling you a box of cereal that has 11 cents worth of ingredients in it, for 5 bucks. Corn flakes, however, have an inherent sweetness (from the corn, AND the sugar added during the processing), that seemed to be a good fit for the chicken, which I planned to serve with a sharper sauce. So that was my coating. Here's the recipe. Again, make this with your kids if you like. They will love this recipe, and I am going to offer some suggestions along the way, to make this more kid friendly.
You'll need a bowl, and a flat surface to do this, like a baking sheet or a big, wide pan. You'll need milk and eggs, in a ration of half cup milk to one egg. I cannot give you precise numbers, because it will depend on how many pieces you make. Start with half a cup , and one egg, and mi it well. Let four boneless, skinless chicken breasts sit in this, while you get the corn flakes ready.
How do you get them ready? By crushing them. You can do this anyway you like. I just got my hands in and went to work. How much? This is hard to say. Start with three cups or so, and add more if you need it. After you've crushed them, add a teaspoon of salt.
Now, here's what may be the most important thing to know about this recipe. Corn flakes, when they get wet, will stick to anything, including each other. So unless you have a nice, flat surface that is going to accomodate all of your chicken in a single layer, the crumbs are going to stick to each other, and not to your chicken. So you can either use a flat surface, or you can add more crumbs for each piece of chicken. Hard call.
Take the pieces out of the milk mixture and let the excess drain off. Then, coat them in the crumbs, pressing the crumbs in if you need to. Like I say, this WILL tend to get frustrating later in the process. Stick with it.
When you're done, add a third cup of vegetable oil to a nonstick pan, and when it's hot, add the chicken, over medium heat. Don't crowd the pan: be ready to do several batches if necessary.
How long to cook? A real good question. If you're making this for adults, who like a browner, darker flavor, six minutes to a side will do it, but you will get a very dark product. If you are going to cook for children, who will want it paler, I would say three to four minutes to the side. This won't finish cooking them; however, you can move the chicken to a baking sheet and finish it in a 375 degree oven, for about ten minutes. You'll get a lighter product that the children will love.
One of the benefits of this recipe is that you will wind up with leftovers such that you can make another controversial American canonical food: hush puppies. Mix leftover crumbs with leftover milk and eggs, form egg shaped balls, and fry them in the chicken oil, until they're brown on both sides, and try not to eat them all.
The issue of what is, and is not "canonical" food will be with us for a while. Theorizing is fine, but as Calvin Trillin once wrote, "let's eat."
Indeed.
When I speak of the fried chicken that intimidates me, I am speaking of those varities that involve letting the chicken sit in butttermilk overnight, and then coating them and frying them in cups and cups and cups of melted lard, or oil, or what have you. I am NOT speaking of the panfried stuff, which is where I turn my attention now.
For those of us who are too frightened of REAL fried chicken to do it, pan fried chicken can come to the rescue. I am not going to say that it is better or not as good as "Southern fried chicken," it is a dish onto itself.
There are thousands of variations on this theme. Again, when checking these, I found mind boggling variations. All, however, share two characteristics: there is a dip into which you immerse the chicken before coating it. They all work from dairy and eggs. I did not find cream in the mix, but of course, buttermilk and yogurt show up. So do the various types of mik. And the dairy is combined with eggs. As with corn pudding, the number of eggs varies; however, as a 'rule' I found that one egg was good for half a cup to one cup of dairy.
Then there is the coating. Oi, the coating. Flour. Corn meal. Cracker crumbs. Potato chip crumbs. Bread crumbs. Cereal. You name it, it's been used to coat chicken (When I was growing up, Nana used bread crumbs). One variation caught my fancy: corn flakes.
Now, I have no patience for ready to eat cereals generally. I eat one, in order to, ahem, "keep things moving," but I wish I didn't have to. They're expensive, they're nutritionally unsound, and the cereal companies are making a fortune selling you a box of cereal that has 11 cents worth of ingredients in it, for 5 bucks. Corn flakes, however, have an inherent sweetness (from the corn, AND the sugar added during the processing), that seemed to be a good fit for the chicken, which I planned to serve with a sharper sauce. So that was my coating. Here's the recipe. Again, make this with your kids if you like. They will love this recipe, and I am going to offer some suggestions along the way, to make this more kid friendly.
You'll need a bowl, and a flat surface to do this, like a baking sheet or a big, wide pan. You'll need milk and eggs, in a ration of half cup milk to one egg. I cannot give you precise numbers, because it will depend on how many pieces you make. Start with half a cup , and one egg, and mi it well. Let four boneless, skinless chicken breasts sit in this, while you get the corn flakes ready.
How do you get them ready? By crushing them. You can do this anyway you like. I just got my hands in and went to work. How much? This is hard to say. Start with three cups or so, and add more if you need it. After you've crushed them, add a teaspoon of salt.
Now, here's what may be the most important thing to know about this recipe. Corn flakes, when they get wet, will stick to anything, including each other. So unless you have a nice, flat surface that is going to accomodate all of your chicken in a single layer, the crumbs are going to stick to each other, and not to your chicken. So you can either use a flat surface, or you can add more crumbs for each piece of chicken. Hard call.
Take the pieces out of the milk mixture and let the excess drain off. Then, coat them in the crumbs, pressing the crumbs in if you need to. Like I say, this WILL tend to get frustrating later in the process. Stick with it.
When you're done, add a third cup of vegetable oil to a nonstick pan, and when it's hot, add the chicken, over medium heat. Don't crowd the pan: be ready to do several batches if necessary.
How long to cook? A real good question. If you're making this for adults, who like a browner, darker flavor, six minutes to a side will do it, but you will get a very dark product. If you are going to cook for children, who will want it paler, I would say three to four minutes to the side. This won't finish cooking them; however, you can move the chicken to a baking sheet and finish it in a 375 degree oven, for about ten minutes. You'll get a lighter product that the children will love.
One of the benefits of this recipe is that you will wind up with leftovers such that you can make another controversial American canonical food: hush puppies. Mix leftover crumbs with leftover milk and eggs, form egg shaped balls, and fry them in the chicken oil, until they're brown on both sides, and try not to eat them all.
The issue of what is, and is not "canonical" food will be with us for a while. Theorizing is fine, but as Calvin Trillin once wrote, "let's eat."
Indeed.
"The Canon," Part I: corn pudding
There is a tendency in cultures, not just American, but all that I know anything about, to attempt to "codify" things, and to perhaps "systematize" some aspect of that culture, be it literature, design, architecture, music, and so forth. And it is all encompassing. For example, as a classical music fan, I am more than familiar with attempts to create a classical music "canon." Recently, my friend Charlie provided enlightening commentary on attempts to codify jazz.
I guess this all goes to some deep rooted need to find order in what we do, and to establish a 'right' way to do things. Cooking has not escaped this tendency, to some extent. Happily, and at the same time, frustratingly, it has very much escaped it. Looking simply at American cooking, for example, think of "classic" or "canonical" dishes: chili. Apple pie. Meat loaf. Pizza (ok, that's pushing it). Hamburgers. Everyone "knows" how these dishes are supposed to be made. And if you speak to six people about the right way to make them, you will get six different answers.
I need to make clear that this is a different issue from the knottier one of how a dish becomes part of the canon. For example, Americans, by and large, say their favorite pie is cherry pie. You would get arguments from southerners, who swear by peach. Yet, we are "as american as apple pie." How did apple pie get into the canon, while cherry pie, or my favorite grape pie, did not? Vanilla is America's favorite flavor. BUT... chocolate cake is in the canon, yellow cake is not. At least for some of us, this is a very stimulating topic, one that has no clear answers, and which inspires serious discussion amongst serious cooks and serious eaters.
Today, I set out to make an American classic, corn pudding. I'm not sure if corn pudding is canonical. People don't speak of it in the same reverent terms as the items above, or some others, like barbecued ribs, and so forth. On the other hand, EVERYONE knows what corn pudding is. For some people, Thanksgiving without corn pudding is not Thanksgiving. It's just sort of "there."
Now that we are at the height of corn season, I thought it was time to make it, especially since Guy loves it. When I asked him to recall it, however, he remembered "custard and corn,' and not much else. In researching it, I found, literally, hundreds of recipes. Some were loaded with cheese. Some were loaded with fresh herbs. Others called for smoked ham. Still others, for shellfish, like crab. All well and good, but one of the characteristics of "canonical " or "classic'' dishes, in my opinion, is their simplicity. ( I will not generalize this to other cuisines. Looking at the canonical dishes of French cooking, like coq au vin, or cassoulet, one hardly comes away with a sense of simplicity).
As I researched the recipes, a few things did become apparent, however. All contain a dairy element, and eggs. The dairy elements vary widely: whole milk, skim milk, light cream, half and half, heavy cream, etc. The number of eggs varied from 1 to 8. And all contain corn. BUT.... what TYPE of corn? Almost universally, these recipes called for frozen corn, that was thawed. When they DID call for fresh corn, it was always chopped, or processed, before baking.
I surmised that the issue with the corn was simple: raw corn has that somewhat chewy kernel to it. When it bakes, this dries out and becomes very , perhaps too, chewy. Freezing and thawing corn in fact breaks down that tissue. So, too, does pureeing or chopping fresh corn. But I wanted the texture of whole corn, and I wanted it fresh. Why use frozen corn, or freeze it and thaw it, when the fresh was available? My solution was to cook fresh corn, off the cob. That worked to soften the corn, and still maintain its integrity.
Onto dairy. There was no question that low fat milks were not going to be used. This dish precedes the creation of these milk products, almost all of which I find revoltingy bad. I combined it, in equal quantities, with heavy cream. All heavy cream would have made a dish way too rich to eat (think panna cotta). I also used a half of a stick of unsalted butter, that I had melted.
Finally, there was the issue of eggs. You need eggs to set up a custard. As I said, the number of them varied, from 1 to 8. As a general rule, the more fat you have in a baked product, the fewer eggs you need. I used three large ones.
The custard, made as described below, was certainly thick, unctious and smelled wonderfully of corn. The top crust was slightly browned, and even for a "heathen" like myself , as my friend Jeff called me (I don't care for corn), this was quite appetizing.
I should point out that children pick corn as their favorite vegetable, almost 2 to 1. This is easy enough to make for your kids. Make it now, while the "corn is as high as an elephant's eye" Freeze some, and make it for Thanksgiving dinner too. Or just make it if it's one of those dishes that means "comfort" to you.
Preheat your oven to 350. Shuck eight ears of corn, and slice the kernels off, rubbing the cob with the back of your knife to get all the juices. You should have about three cups. Get this into a pot of cold, salted water, bring it to the boil, and cook for about ten minutes. While that is happening, mix half a cup of heavy cream and half a cup of milk. You can use a whole cup of milk, and if you do, I would add two additional eggs to the recipe.
Combine the cream/milk mixture with three large eggs, and beat this . Then add a half a stick of melted butter, and a pinch of salt. Drain the corn, and add it right to this mixture.
Butter a 9x9 inch glass or ceramic baking dish, pour the stuff into it, and bake for an hour or so. You'll need to check. When it's ready, the edges will be bubbling, the top will be a bit golden brown, and the custard will be slightly jiggly in the center. Turn off the oven, and let it cool there.
What you get with this recipe is a very solid , corn filled custard. It is definitely CORN custard, not custard flavored with corn.
Cookbooks refer to this as a side dish, but I prefer to treat it as a vegetarian entree. Serve larger portions, together with "something green," and you have a wonderful, summer dinner.
If you have children, have them help you with this. Taking kernels of corn off the cob is probably a bit dangerous, and frustrating for the very young (it sure is for ME), but the rest of it is SO easy, they will love the dish, and it's important to get your children cooking sooner rather than later.
'Tis the season. Make some corn pudding.
I guess this all goes to some deep rooted need to find order in what we do, and to establish a 'right' way to do things. Cooking has not escaped this tendency, to some extent. Happily, and at the same time, frustratingly, it has very much escaped it. Looking simply at American cooking, for example, think of "classic" or "canonical" dishes: chili. Apple pie. Meat loaf. Pizza (ok, that's pushing it). Hamburgers. Everyone "knows" how these dishes are supposed to be made. And if you speak to six people about the right way to make them, you will get six different answers.
I need to make clear that this is a different issue from the knottier one of how a dish becomes part of the canon. For example, Americans, by and large, say their favorite pie is cherry pie. You would get arguments from southerners, who swear by peach. Yet, we are "as american as apple pie." How did apple pie get into the canon, while cherry pie, or my favorite grape pie, did not? Vanilla is America's favorite flavor. BUT... chocolate cake is in the canon, yellow cake is not. At least for some of us, this is a very stimulating topic, one that has no clear answers, and which inspires serious discussion amongst serious cooks and serious eaters.
Today, I set out to make an American classic, corn pudding. I'm not sure if corn pudding is canonical. People don't speak of it in the same reverent terms as the items above, or some others, like barbecued ribs, and so forth. On the other hand, EVERYONE knows what corn pudding is. For some people, Thanksgiving without corn pudding is not Thanksgiving. It's just sort of "there."
Now that we are at the height of corn season, I thought it was time to make it, especially since Guy loves it. When I asked him to recall it, however, he remembered "custard and corn,' and not much else. In researching it, I found, literally, hundreds of recipes. Some were loaded with cheese. Some were loaded with fresh herbs. Others called for smoked ham. Still others, for shellfish, like crab. All well and good, but one of the characteristics of "canonical " or "classic'' dishes, in my opinion, is their simplicity. ( I will not generalize this to other cuisines. Looking at the canonical dishes of French cooking, like coq au vin, or cassoulet, one hardly comes away with a sense of simplicity).
As I researched the recipes, a few things did become apparent, however. All contain a dairy element, and eggs. The dairy elements vary widely: whole milk, skim milk, light cream, half and half, heavy cream, etc. The number of eggs varied from 1 to 8. And all contain corn. BUT.... what TYPE of corn? Almost universally, these recipes called for frozen corn, that was thawed. When they DID call for fresh corn, it was always chopped, or processed, before baking.
I surmised that the issue with the corn was simple: raw corn has that somewhat chewy kernel to it. When it bakes, this dries out and becomes very , perhaps too, chewy. Freezing and thawing corn in fact breaks down that tissue. So, too, does pureeing or chopping fresh corn. But I wanted the texture of whole corn, and I wanted it fresh. Why use frozen corn, or freeze it and thaw it, when the fresh was available? My solution was to cook fresh corn, off the cob. That worked to soften the corn, and still maintain its integrity.
Onto dairy. There was no question that low fat milks were not going to be used. This dish precedes the creation of these milk products, almost all of which I find revoltingy bad. I combined it, in equal quantities, with heavy cream. All heavy cream would have made a dish way too rich to eat (think panna cotta). I also used a half of a stick of unsalted butter, that I had melted.
Finally, there was the issue of eggs. You need eggs to set up a custard. As I said, the number of them varied, from 1 to 8. As a general rule, the more fat you have in a baked product, the fewer eggs you need. I used three large ones.
The custard, made as described below, was certainly thick, unctious and smelled wonderfully of corn. The top crust was slightly browned, and even for a "heathen" like myself , as my friend Jeff called me (I don't care for corn), this was quite appetizing.
I should point out that children pick corn as their favorite vegetable, almost 2 to 1. This is easy enough to make for your kids. Make it now, while the "corn is as high as an elephant's eye" Freeze some, and make it for Thanksgiving dinner too. Or just make it if it's one of those dishes that means "comfort" to you.
Preheat your oven to 350. Shuck eight ears of corn, and slice the kernels off, rubbing the cob with the back of your knife to get all the juices. You should have about three cups. Get this into a pot of cold, salted water, bring it to the boil, and cook for about ten minutes. While that is happening, mix half a cup of heavy cream and half a cup of milk. You can use a whole cup of milk, and if you do, I would add two additional eggs to the recipe.
Combine the cream/milk mixture with three large eggs, and beat this . Then add a half a stick of melted butter, and a pinch of salt. Drain the corn, and add it right to this mixture.
Butter a 9x9 inch glass or ceramic baking dish, pour the stuff into it, and bake for an hour or so. You'll need to check. When it's ready, the edges will be bubbling, the top will be a bit golden brown, and the custard will be slightly jiggly in the center. Turn off the oven, and let it cool there.
What you get with this recipe is a very solid , corn filled custard. It is definitely CORN custard, not custard flavored with corn.
Cookbooks refer to this as a side dish, but I prefer to treat it as a vegetarian entree. Serve larger portions, together with "something green," and you have a wonderful, summer dinner.
If you have children, have them help you with this. Taking kernels of corn off the cob is probably a bit dangerous, and frustrating for the very young (it sure is for ME), but the rest of it is SO easy, they will love the dish, and it's important to get your children cooking sooner rather than later.
'Tis the season. Make some corn pudding.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Late summer in the city
You know it's getting toward the end of summer, and the start of fall by walking through the farmers market. Last week, I saw the first apples. One of the farmers had celery root. And today, for the first time in a long time, I bought leeks. Small ones, not baby ones, and not huge ones, but small ones. Just the right size for poaching, or for putting on a pizza with some olives. But my thoughts are turning toward the kind of thoughts that Ray Bradbury conjures up for me, in his wonderful book for "children," "Dandelion Wine."
I make a point of reading that book in August every year. It always makes me a little weepy, as we follow one summer in a young boy's life, and one summer in the small town where he lives. I didn't grow up in a small town, but I sort of did. Long Island City really is a small town, with houses with stoops, and gardens, and things like that. I guess I did have the kind of summers that Bradbury writes about, but I digress. One of the things that happens, is that late in the novel, one of the lead character's best friends comes running to him, horror stricken. It seems that the general store has put notebooks, pads, compasses (remember compasses?), protractors, and all kinds of school supplies in their window. And the shoestore has taken out the sneakers, and put oxfords in the winter. And everyone is thinking "OH MY GOD. SUMMER IS OVER. HOW COULD THAT BE?" The wise grandfather brings the boy down to the basement and shows him the rows and rows of dandelion wine that they made over the summer, and asks him to just look at the bottles, arranged by dates, and tell him what he sees. And VOILA. He remembers that that's the day he and his friend played marbles and he one the big augie, adn that was the day Granma made chocolate cake for him, and that was the day they went to the lake, and, and and.... Anyway, for me, this blog serves that function. When I look back and read about the dinners, the dishes, the people, yes, the summer of 2008 will not go away. Not unless I want it to. And I don't.
I will be coming back to that book in the future, because there is a whole lot of wisdom about cooking in it. Now, though, a recipe. One that is not so much summer centric, but one that in a way, sort of is, too. And I'm talking about quesadillas.
I don't make quesadillas often. I make them when I want to make "fun food," that I know people will eat. I can't think of many people who won't eat them. The way I make them, they take a little bit of time, but honestly, I think they're worth it. Try them.
You're going to need the larger sized, flour tortillas, and a baking sheet, that you line with parchment. You do this for two reasons. First, the tortillas tend to stick to the pan if you don't. Second, filling is going to spill out. The paper will keep the cheese and other goodies from burning.
You can get two big quesadillas on a baking sheet at a time. While two are baking, you can make more. And you will want to make more. Preheat your oven to 400. And collect your ingredients. There is always cheese. I use monterey jack, but you can use anything that melts well. Grate it. A pound is not too much for these, because people WILL want more. You can stop with cheese, but why, at this time of year, would you? Put two tortillas down on the parchment, and sprinkle them with cheese. Don't overdo it. Two ounces is plenty for a tortilla, so if you have a pound, you have enough for eight of these. Then, add some vegetables. SOFT vegetables. I like to use diced tomatoes, and chopped up I also like chopped tomatillos. You can come up with other ideas on your own, too. Just keep in mind that the veggie should be soft. So if it's something that starts hard (like leeks!), cook it first. Mushrooms are good, so are onions. Actually, so are cooked carrots. I'm not a big fan of putting beans in mine, but if you are so inclined, by all means. You can also incorporate some fresh herbs.
Put a second tortilla on top, and then do this to help them along. Take a big heavy can and press down on it. That will flatten them and help the cooking. Then put the sheet in the oven, and bake them for about eight minutes, or until the cheese fairly oozes out of them. You can make more while this is happening.
They need to sit for a few minutes to "firm up," because you'll want to cut them into at least six pieces. Eight is traditional, but I find it hard to cut them that small. Four is actually a good size too, if you don't feel bad about looking like a hog. I certainly don't. And of course, if you have a salsa of some kind around, by all means, put it on the quesadilla, or even inside of it while it's baking.
You'll change the filling in the winter. Fresh tomatoes give way to canned, or use cooked winter greens, or use meat like bacon or sausage or ham, or something like that. It's all good.
And read Dandelion Wine. I guarantee you, it will make you smile. It will remind you of whatever GOOD memories you had as a young one (some of us don't have too many of those, unfortunately, and we have to hold on to what we have), and perhaps you'll be inspired to make your own "dandelion wine," even if it doesn't involve dandelions, or wine.
I make a point of reading that book in August every year. It always makes me a little weepy, as we follow one summer in a young boy's life, and one summer in the small town where he lives. I didn't grow up in a small town, but I sort of did. Long Island City really is a small town, with houses with stoops, and gardens, and things like that. I guess I did have the kind of summers that Bradbury writes about, but I digress. One of the things that happens, is that late in the novel, one of the lead character's best friends comes running to him, horror stricken. It seems that the general store has put notebooks, pads, compasses (remember compasses?), protractors, and all kinds of school supplies in their window. And the shoestore has taken out the sneakers, and put oxfords in the winter. And everyone is thinking "OH MY GOD. SUMMER IS OVER. HOW COULD THAT BE?" The wise grandfather brings the boy down to the basement and shows him the rows and rows of dandelion wine that they made over the summer, and asks him to just look at the bottles, arranged by dates, and tell him what he sees. And VOILA. He remembers that that's the day he and his friend played marbles and he one the big augie, adn that was the day Granma made chocolate cake for him, and that was the day they went to the lake, and, and and.... Anyway, for me, this blog serves that function. When I look back and read about the dinners, the dishes, the people, yes, the summer of 2008 will not go away. Not unless I want it to. And I don't.
I will be coming back to that book in the future, because there is a whole lot of wisdom about cooking in it. Now, though, a recipe. One that is not so much summer centric, but one that in a way, sort of is, too. And I'm talking about quesadillas.
I don't make quesadillas often. I make them when I want to make "fun food," that I know people will eat. I can't think of many people who won't eat them. The way I make them, they take a little bit of time, but honestly, I think they're worth it. Try them.
You're going to need the larger sized, flour tortillas, and a baking sheet, that you line with parchment. You do this for two reasons. First, the tortillas tend to stick to the pan if you don't. Second, filling is going to spill out. The paper will keep the cheese and other goodies from burning.
You can get two big quesadillas on a baking sheet at a time. While two are baking, you can make more. And you will want to make more. Preheat your oven to 400. And collect your ingredients. There is always cheese. I use monterey jack, but you can use anything that melts well. Grate it. A pound is not too much for these, because people WILL want more. You can stop with cheese, but why, at this time of year, would you? Put two tortillas down on the parchment, and sprinkle them with cheese. Don't overdo it. Two ounces is plenty for a tortilla, so if you have a pound, you have enough for eight of these. Then, add some vegetables. SOFT vegetables. I like to use diced tomatoes, and chopped up I also like chopped tomatillos. You can come up with other ideas on your own, too. Just keep in mind that the veggie should be soft. So if it's something that starts hard (like leeks!), cook it first. Mushrooms are good, so are onions. Actually, so are cooked carrots. I'm not a big fan of putting beans in mine, but if you are so inclined, by all means. You can also incorporate some fresh herbs.
Put a second tortilla on top, and then do this to help them along. Take a big heavy can and press down on it. That will flatten them and help the cooking. Then put the sheet in the oven, and bake them for about eight minutes, or until the cheese fairly oozes out of them. You can make more while this is happening.
They need to sit for a few minutes to "firm up," because you'll want to cut them into at least six pieces. Eight is traditional, but I find it hard to cut them that small. Four is actually a good size too, if you don't feel bad about looking like a hog. I certainly don't. And of course, if you have a salsa of some kind around, by all means, put it on the quesadilla, or even inside of it while it's baking.
You'll change the filling in the winter. Fresh tomatoes give way to canned, or use cooked winter greens, or use meat like bacon or sausage or ham, or something like that. It's all good.
And read Dandelion Wine. I guarantee you, it will make you smile. It will remind you of whatever GOOD memories you had as a young one (some of us don't have too many of those, unfortunately, and we have to hold on to what we have), and perhaps you'll be inspired to make your own "dandelion wine," even if it doesn't involve dandelions, or wine.
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