Wednesday, November 02, 2011
What kinds of pies would you like? Here's what PQ's considering, but there's lots more in the repertoire! In general, at this time of year, PQ doesn't want to freak out you (or your guests) by putting weird things into your apple pie. Especially for this very tradition-bound holiday. Then again, PQ has made, upon request, both cherry pie and key-lime pie for Thanksgiving, and a good time was had by all, so if you're longing for Meyer lemon meringue or chocolate silk instead, it can happen. All pies are possible!
Crusts are all-butter; fabulous butter-lard or vegan/nondairy upon request.
Classic Autumn Apple Made with a mix of tart and sweet California apples, lightly sweetened and spiced. With or without raisins.
Pumpkin No Libby's here! Made with fresh, slow-roasted winter squash, eggs, cream, and spices. A custardy delight!
Sweet Potato A Southern favorite! Made with baked sweet potato, brown sugar, eggs, and cream.
Cranberry-Tangerine Something different! A PQ family fave: tangy, ruby-red, chilled cranberry-tangerine filling in a crunchy walnut crust. Perfect with fresh whipped cream!
Pecan More nuts, less goop! Finally, a pecan pie that doesn't curl your molars. Also available in Chocolate-Pecan.
Pear & Quince A luscious autumn treat.
And a non-pie offering: Cranberry-Walnut Tea Bread. An excellent, lightly sweetened loaf that's perfect toasted and buttered for T-day (or day-after-T-day) breakfast.
Pies are $22-$28 each, and can be baked in a disposable foil pan or in a reusable glass or metal pan (available for refundable deposit or a small additional fee.)
For more info and to set up an order, call me at 415-623-6212 or email at dixieday(at)aol(dot)(com).
*Dietary restrictions: I can't promise a strictly gluten-free or nut-free environment for those with serious allergies. But if you just have a common dietary-choice issue, like being vegan or wheat-free, well, PQ loves a challenge! I can make vegan, wheat-free, dairy-free and/or eggless crusts and fillings, as well as wheat-free crusts. Just ask!*
I'm talking, of course, about the worms. The caramelized mealworms, to be precise, crunchy and sweet but absolutely undisguised in their utter mealworm-ness. A bloody sundae topped with actual candied worms: does it get any spookier than that?
Mealworms, it seems, are the larval form of the Tenebrio molitor, the darkling beetle. They're common in California, where they were long part of the diet of native peoples in the region. They were the final creepy-crawly delight in a night of Edible Insects and Other Rare Delicacies at the Headlands Center for the Arts last week. The event, part of a well-publicized trend towards insect-eating was conceived and run by Monica Martinez, a Mexican artist who now runs a special-events company called Don Bugito, specializing in edible insects, and chef/bioartist Phil Ross, founder of CRITTER, a very vocal champion of entomophagy. To Martinez and Ross, eating insects isn't a novelty or a gross-out dare; instead, they see the long culinary history in many countries and cultures, where bugs may have started out as a subsistance food in places where any readily available source of fat and protein was prized, wriggly or not, but later became prized as delicacies. Several reporters were on hand during our two days of kitchen prep for this dinner, and both Martinez and Ross spoke with great sincerity about the deliciousness of the bugs they were roasting, frying, and pan-toasting. As anyone who has lived in a New York City apartment knows, insects are an abundant, green and renewable resource; they will be here, rubbing their six or eight legs together and feasting in the back of our cabinets long after factory-farming of bigger four-legged creatures has exhausted the resources of the planet. (Even bedbugs, scourge of urban living, are edible, Martinez insists.)
The five-course tasting meal that Martinez and Ross came up with featured bugs (some brought in from Mexico, others local) in every course. There were no giant scorpions to saw through; this was not knife-and-fork eating. The insects--crickets, wax-moth larvae, fly eggs--were used more as garnish and flavorings than solid entrees. In fact, a few of the artists in attendance wished the insects had been more in evidence. What's the point of a bug dinner if you're not crunching down on wings and antennae? The plates were daintily sized, too, just a few bites per course. ("We're going out for a burger later," one artist whispered to me as she toyed with the last few mealworms on her plate.)
For anyone that was feeling a little squeamish, though, drink pairings came with every course, from worm-salted Mezcal Factoria del Santos to wash down the lake-fly fritters to honey wine spritzers with the wax-moth larvae and corn custards.
And while the $50-a-plate attendees may have the more elegant experience most enthusiastic bug eaters turned out to be the squadron of servers and volunteers who came out to help, many connected to Martinez through her work at La Cocina. (Don Bugito is part of La Cocina's small-business incubator program, receiving mentorship, business advice, and reduced kitchen-use rates.) Working hard for free throughout the evening, they got their reward at the end of the night, when all the extra food was piled on platters in the middle of the kitchen. No dainty portions here: the mostly-twentysomethings grabbed plates and dug in, popping Tecates and piling their plates high with avocado, corn, and zucchini speckled with escamoles fried in brown butter and tomatillo-jicama-cricket salad, munching with the same enthusiasm they'd bring to a super carnitas burrito from El Farolito. Scary? No way.
Monday, September 26, 2011
The thirteen of us (plus 2 dogs) walked along a section of the Coastal Trail starting at the parking lot of the Visitors’ Center, down to Rodeo Beach and back, traversing coastal scrub, salt-marsh wetlands, and ocean beach.
Our first plant, growing right by the trailhead, was immediately recognizable by its licorice scent, feathery fronds, and umbrella-shaped clusters of chrome-yellow flowers. It often stands 6’ tall or higher, and you probably think of it as nothing more than a stringy weed that grows happily in trash-strewn vacant lots. To the ancient Greeks, however, this plant, wild fennel, was sacred, revered as the fire-bearer. Wrote the playwright Aeschylus of his protagonist in Prometheus Bound, “For I am he who hunted at the source of fire, and stole it, packed in pith of a dry fennel stalk.”
Prometheus was known in Greek myth as the Titan who snatched a live coal from the sun’s burning chariot and brought it back to earth in defiance of Zeus, who had decreed that only the gods could possess fire. (For this rebellion, he was chained to a mountain rock in the Caucasus with an eagle perpetually eating his liver. Bummer.) A walker on the tour had a more prosaic (but equally important) reason to revere fennel: it was, she said, a good remedy for flatulence, surely a concern for the people of the Mediterranean, whose often austere diet relied on dried beans and pulses as an important source of protein.
Right now, our wild fennel is blooming and producing a lot of edible yellow pollen with an herbal/licorice scent. This same pollen, imported from Italy, is sold for high prices in fancy gourmet shops back East, and is used as a finishing sprinkle over salads, pastas, and fish dishes. How lucky we are, living where it’s free for the shaking! Soon, these flowers will be producing small, flat, greenish-brown seeds with the same distinctive scent and flavor. As Patience Grey tells us in her excellent, scholarly Mediterranean memoir/cookbook, Honey from a Weed, the seeds are used in Naples to flavor taralli, hard, ring-shaped biscuits served with wine, as well as in a famous Tuscan salame, la finocchiona. The fronds and sheaths (stems) are used in soups, as a bed for fish dishes, and with snails, pork and wild boar throughout Greece, Italy, and Catalonia.
The bulbous, fleshy vegetable that we buy as fennel at the farmers’ market or grocery store is in the same family, but bred specifically for its edible bulb. It is deliberately “blanched” during the growing process (covered with soil or mulch) to keep it white and tender, much like celery and endive.
It’s hard to walk anywhere in the Headlands without running into poison oak, a most pernicious native plant. It’s not related to the oak (it gets its name from the oak-like shape of its leaves), and it’s not, technically, poisonous. About 85% of people are allergic to urushiol, a compound produced in the leaves (also found in the leaves and fruit skins of the mango, and in the leaves and fruit of the cashew plant). It’s the body’s own allergic reaction to contact with this oil that produces the painful, oozing skin rash unhappily familiar to many hikers. Animals are generally not allergic, but if they roll around in it, they can rub the oils off on you or your clothing. Euell Gibbons, the father of foraging, once wrote that he’d heard of a fellow nature-lover taking a homeopathic approach to poison oak, eating a minute quantity of the plant every day until he was desensitized. As you might expect, PQ wouldn’t recommend this approach.
What’s this 5’ tall plant, lurking in the shadow of a gloomy cypress tree? It looks like a giant Queen Anne’s lace or a carrot gone wild, with white umbrella-shaped flower clusters, ferny leaves, and a smooth, hollow stalk speckled with red. Rub the leaves (which look a lot like carrot tops) and you’ll smell an unpleasantly musty, “mousy” odor. It’s in the same plant family, Apicaea, as our friend fennel, sharing botanical similarities with carrot, parsley, dill, cilantro, and celery. But beware, one of these things is not like the others! The blood-red spots on the stalk are the giveaway: this is poison hemlock, and every part (root, stem, leaves, flowers, seeds) of the plant is poisonous.
Wrote Keats in his Ode to a Nightingale, “My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense/As though of hemlock I had drunk,” which is a pretty good description of this plant’s effect. Unlike many other vegetable alkaloids, whose effects can generally be summed up by “dizziness, confusion, vomiting, convulsions, and death,” hemlock produces just such a drowsy numbness as Keats described. Weakness and heaviness move from the legs upward, and if the dose is great enough, death follows from respiratory paralysis. It has a similar effect as nicotine, stimulating then depressing the nervous system.
Socrates, of course, was hemlock’s most famous victim, forced to drink a fatal decoction in 399 B.C. for the crime of “corrupting the youth of Athens” (including his student Plato) with his philosophical teachings.
Nearby, winding among the poison oak and blackberry vines is another killer, deadly nightshade, also known as devil’s cherry or belladonna. Just like hemlock, it shares a plant family, Solanaceae, with many well-loved edibles native to the Americas, including tomatoes, potatoes, eggplant, and peppers. (Tobacco, whose active ingredient, nicotine, is one of the most toxic plant substances known, also belongs to this family.) It has small, hanging purple or white flowers and shiny green fruits that ripen to eggplant-black in autumn. Birds enjoy them, but the effects on people can range from rapid heartbeat, seizures, hallucinations, and convulsions to death if the dose is large enough.
The active ingredient is atropine, named after Atropos, the last of the 3 Fates, envisioned by the Greeks as the death-bringer who snipped the thread of life. (Atropine does have its medicinal uses as an antidote to other poisons.) One of its effects is a drastic dilation of the pupils; supposedly, it was used as an eyedrop by women in both Ancient Egypt and Renaissance Italy to give a mysterious, dark-eyed look, hence the name “belladonna,” Italian for “beautiful woman.”
Time for a tea break! Emerging from the shade of the cypress and eucalyptus trees (planted as windbreaks around this once-treeless area), we found ourselves climbing up a drier, windswept hillside. The plants here are tougher, often with thick leaves and woody stems, built to withstand both drying winds and the fog-born dampness that can encourage fungus and mildew.
But tough can still be pretty. One of the loveliest of coastal plants is found here, Rosa californica, our wild rose. Five flat bright-pink petals surround a golden center with a sweet, characteristic rose scent. In Britain, the wild rose is known by its French-derived name, eglantine, familiar from the description of Titania’s flower-strewn bower in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Says the sprite Puck to his master Oberon,“I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows, quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine/There sleeps Titania sometimes of the night, lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight.
Keats, too, praised the beauty of the “pastoral eglantine.” For culinary purposes, however, we want not the flower but its plump, shiny, seed-bearing fruit, the rose hip. Dry, seedy, and tart, rosehips are not the most tasty of fruits, but they are powerhouses of nutrition, higher in Vitamin C, iron, and phosphorus than oranges. It dries well and could be pounded together with dried deer meat and fat to make pemmican, a staple travelling food for many native peoples. Now, it’s most commonly used in tea, often in combination with the tropical hibiscus flower, which has a similar bright-red color and tart, fruity taste. Rose hips can also be used to make jelly. Out of the bag of treats came teacups and a teapot, and we enjoyed some hot rosehip/hibiscus tea with an ocean view.
As we walked over the hay-strewn path (why hay? Only the Park Service knows), the tang in the air went from the characteristic coastal-scrub scent of fennel, sage and sweet Annie to the cool brine of kelp and ocean waves. Descending along the path down to Rodeo Beach, we were suddenly surrounded by acres of iceplant, a South African native (also known as sea fig) that was brought in to reduce erosion along the railroads and is now a pernicious invasive. It is edible, although not very palatable raw, as a few of the braver among us discovered. In “How to Cook a Wolf,” California food writer M.F.K. Fisher described how a beach-dwelling friend with no money but a love of feeding her friends supplied her larder by flitting along the cliffs, coming back to serve up odd but alluring salads of iceplant and crumbled seaweeds. Perhaps Fisher’s friend had a secret recipe; maybe pickling might help, or peeling. But as an out-of-hand snack, astringent iceplant would be low on anyone’s list.
Still, it would be worth it to study the many seaweeds that wash up in the cove here. Rich in minerals, these sea plants were once an important part of native diets. (The roots and tuber-like rhizomes of the cattails in the nearby lagoon are also a rich food source; crushed and soaked in water, their starch precipitates out and can be used as a paste or dried into flour.) Seaweed can simmered in broth, dried as a crunchy snack, or used in salads
Walking back, we hoped to find some late-ripening blackberries. We discovered only a few (birds and hikers having taken the rest) but enjoyed a snack of tiny homemade blackberry tarts instead, with a honey-and-sour-cream filling under the juicy fruit. Appetites whetted, we made it back just in time for a Mess Hall brunch of fresh-squeezed orange juice; Morell’s bread and butter; Sonoma goat cheese; La Quercia prosciutto; Castelvetrano green olives marinated in lemon, rosemary, savory, and thyme; Spanish-style baked eggs with potatoes, spring onions, dry Jack cheese, and heirloom tomatoes; green salad with figs; and apple-walnut spice cake.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Last year, making that many little pastries in my shared Bernal kitchen was pretty much a nightmare and a huge mess. Working in a big kitchen, with an equally spacious fridge and freezer, should make everything much simpler. I'm going to make & chill the dough today. If possible, I'm planning on rolling out, cutting, and filling the turnovers tomorrow, and freezing them overnight. Saturday, they'll go straight from the freezer into the convection oven, which should blast them to a nice flakey golden brown.
I had promised, like last year, to make these turnovers from foraged fruit. Unfortunately, it's a bit early in the season in this neighborhood for tree fruit, especially after such a rainy spring. No one's apricots, plums, or peaches will be ripe at least for another month. Even out in Brentwood, the apricots are still not quite ripe enough. And my public calls for backyard rhubarb and berries have fallen on deaf ears. So it looks like I'll probably be "foraging" from Berkeley Bowl and the Friday Oakland farmers' market instead. There are, of course, plenty of lemons to be had around here, but the other 2 dessert makers have already staked their claim on citrus cheesecake and candied-lemon shortbread, so no lemons for me. I do have vast quantities of last summer's strawberry jam still hanging around, so I'm wondering if some of that can be incorporated in some way.
Here's a recent article I wrote for KQED about the upcoming Wild Game Feast (with ticket info). If it's anything like last year's, it should be a ton of fun and full of excellent eats & cool folks.
Monday, March 28, 2011
-Go to shul
-Then go to SF's new pop-up deli, Wise Sons.
You can read about Wise Sons on KQED's Bay Area Bites column, which I wrote last week. My favorite comment on this, of course, came from my sis on Facebook, who wrote, "Your grandfather, may he rest in peace, he didn't eat at delis that popped up. He married a balaboosta and SHE cooked for him."
Too true. But should you not have a bubbe at home baking babka, you could do worse than to let Beckerman & Bloom do it for you. True, their pastrami is a little fatty for my taste, cut a little thick and not quite as tender as it could be. (I also like a lot more spice falling off the edges.) So, not Katz's, but then again, lemon trees here, not slush!
Anyway, I don't need to eat pastrami when they have such awesome, house-baked bialys loaded up with Acme smoked salmon from Brooklyn. You could do a smoked-fish throwdown between their "Ollie's Bialy" and the open-faced smoked-salmon sandwiches from Capt Mike's at the Ferry Plaza farmers' market, and everyone's mouths would be too busy happily chewing to pick one or the other.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Ms. D. suggests putting the soda-bread dough into a cake pan, putting the pan onto a cookie sheet, then upending a deep (7") cake pan, baking dish, or heavy ovenproof pot over the dough. This will trap both heat and moisture around the dough as it bakes, helping it to rise. The pan or pot is removed after 30 minutes, so that the bread can brown for a final 10 min. or so.
Soda bread was originally baked over turf fires in the hearth, usually in heavy cast-iron pots. For baking, the rounded lids were flipped over, so they fit into the top of the pot like a shallow dish; coals were then piled into the lid and the pot suspended by a hook over the fire, so that the bread was baked by radiant heat from all sides. Lacking a turf fire, you can imitate this by putting a heavy cast-iron (or enameled cast iron, like Le Crueset) pot into the oven to preheat for 10-15 minutes. Once the dough is ready, drop it into the pot and pop on the lid. Bake for 30 minutes, then remove the lid and let it bake another 10 min or so to brown. It's the same mini-brick-oven concept as used by the No-Knead Bread folks.
But, if you don't want to bother with this, a cast-iron skillet makes a very good baking pan, giving a good crust and helping the bread bake & brown well.
Personally, I love the taste of caraway seeds in soda bread, but you can leave them out if they're not your thing. Oh, and make sure your baking soda is reasonably fresh and hasn't been sitting over the stove for the past 5 years. It's CHEAP, and since you're probably going out to the store to get the buttermilk and caraway seeds anyway, spring for the buck or so and get a new kitchen-only box.
St. Patrick's Day Soda Bread
1 1/2 cups whole wheat or white flour, or a combination (I love the flavor and nuttiness of all whole wheat, but adjust to your taste; a non-wheat mix of oat and barley flours would probably also work well)
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 tbsp sugar (optional)
2 tbsp butter, softened
1/3 cup raisins or currants
1 to 2 tbsp caraway seeds (optional)
1/2 cup to 3/4 cup buttermilk
extra water and/or buttermilk, as needed
1. Preheat oven to 425F. Lightly grease a cast-iron skillet or 8" cake pan. Sift dry ingredients together in a large bowl. Rub in butter until mixture looks grainy/pebbly. Mix in raisins and caraway seeds, if using.
2. In a small bowl or measuring cup, beat egg and buttermilk together. Drizzle into dry mixture, stirring gently, until mixture comes together into a moist dough. If patches remain dry, add a little water or more buttermilk.
3. Pat mixture into a plump round. Slash a cross on top with a sharp knife. Put bread into prepared pan. Bake approx. 40 minutes, until golden brown. Best served warm or toasted.
Monday, February 28, 2011
On the menu: apricot-candied lemon scones, and meyer lemon-blood orange curd to go with. The scones were particularly successful, as several people came up to me, post-sampling, to say that they'd always thought they hated scones, only to realize that they only hated BAD scones.
Unfortunately, almost every bakery & coffee joint I know makes/serves these crappy, hard, tasteless scones, so scones have gotten an undeserving bad rap. (The only exception is Remedy, the coffee place at 43rd & Telegraph, in Temescal, which has gotten justifiably famous for the awesome scones made by its in-house baker. Lotsa cream & butter, and a madly perfectionist attitude, seem to be her secret...)
Given that this was a farmers' market demo, I tried to use as much stuff from the market as possible, which meant using Eatwell Farm's locally grown and freshly ground flour, made from Sonora soft winter wheat. Soft wheat, as opposed to hard, is lower in protein, which makes it less gluten-y and thus better for tender "quick" breads like scones, muffins, and pancakes rather than yeasted breads that need to rise. The whole-wheat flour was more delicate than I expected and worked beautifully, in a 2:1 ratio w/ regular all-purpose.
Since it was winter, without a lot of fresh-fruit option besides citrus, I decided to highlight the gorgeous dried & preserved fruit available at the market, using chopped dried apricots and June Taylor's candied lemon rinds. This made a lovely sweet-tart combination that balanced nicely with the fluffy, buttery, not-too-sweet scone.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
What's on the menu? Scones that don't suck! I am a lover of scones, and yet I almost never eat them outside of my own kitchen, because almost all commercial scones, particularly the ones you get a chain coffee shop like Peets or Starbucks, are AWFUL: dense, tasteless hockey pucks that aren't even good for you. At least those equally dense & tasteless little oatcakes on the countertop of every Berkeley coffee joint are redeemed by Swiffering your colon with all the fiber in there.
But it doesn't have to be that way. Like chocolate chip cookies, which are infinitely better when made at home from the recipe on the back of the chip bag (although, picky picky, I like Guittard or Ghirardelli's dark chocolate chips a million times more than the overly sweet & metallic Nestle ones), excellent scones are easy to make. The recipe I rely on is an adaptation of one from a basic British cookbook that I took out of the library in, oh, 1981 or so, in order to make scones as part of a welcome party my school was hosting for a new English exchange student. I probably had a little crush on this guy, who was several years older, wore a long knitted scarf, and had, of course, That Accent.
Now, about the egg: most British scone recipes don't call for an egg--they're basically flour, sugar, leavening, butter, and buttermilk, milk, or cream. But I'm up here with all the chickens, rolling in eggs, and I've found that adding an egg does make for a lighter, fluffier scone that's a wee bit more cakelike, so it holds together nicely when you split it open to make way for all the jam. It's really optional, though, and you can make these quite nicely with or without it.
You can also mix up the flours--I usually use a mixture of whole-wheat pastry flour and all-purpose white, but you could also try non-wheat flours like oat or barley. (I've found a mix of oat & barley flours to be a good substitute for regular wheat flour in quick breads like this one.)
Now, some troubleshooting: don't worry if you add in all the liquid and get a very sticky or mushy dough. Just skip the folding/patting/cutting step, and drop your scones off a big spoon onto the baking sheet in nice big lumps. These are drop scones, perfectly legit.
Feel free, as I know you will, to mess around with what you put in the scones. Currants and lemon rind, cranberries and orange rind, pecans or almonds and chocolate chips, golden raisins, whatever you like.
Apricot-Candied Citrus Scones
Makes 16 scones, depending on size
3 cups flour (I like to use a mixture of whole-wheat and white)
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1/3 cup sugar
6 oz butter (1 stick + 4 tbsp) butter, cold and cut into cubes
2 tbsp finely chopped candied lemon or orange rind*
1 cup plain yogurt
¼ cup half-and-half or heavy cream
1 egg, preferably from a pastured hen
½ cup diced dried apricots
2 tbsp milk or cream, for glazing
1 tbsp sugar, for finishing
Preheat oven to 425F. In a large bowl, sift dry ingredients together. Add butter cubes, tossing them around with your fingers or a fork until each cube is covered in flour. Keep tossing mixture lightly and cutting butter cubes down smaller and smaller, until mixture looks pebbly. Quickly toss in chopped citrus rind.
Beat egg, yogurt, and cream together. Drizzle most, but not all, of yogurt mixture over flour-butter mixture. Grab that fork and start tossing again, scooping up from the bottom so that the whole bowlful gets evenly moistened. Mix in diced apricots.
Dump out your big, rather straggly lump of dough onto a clean countertop. Pat down gently into a round. Fold over, then pat down again 2 or 3 times, just until it smooths out and holds together. Pat into a round about an inch thick.
Cut in rounds or wedges, using a sharp knife or a biscuit cutter. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or grease lightly. Place scones on prepared sheet. Brush top of each scone with a little milk or cream. Sprinkle with a little sugar.
Bake 15-20 minutes, until golden brown. Remove from baking sheet and cool on a rack. Serve warm with citrus curd or jam.
*Candied citrus rinds are available in the market from June Taylor Jams.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
It's actually quite relaxing, I find, to cook for a larger group when you have the right tools for the job. Today at the Headlands, where I'm helping out for the next week while a small group of artists does a 2-week special residency (in preparation for my actual kitchen internship there this summer & fall) my job was soup for lunch, made with white bean, fennel, and kale, a kind of pasta-less minestrone.
White Bean, Fennel & Kale Soup
Good for using up the dregs of your winter CSA box
What you need: Olive oil; fennel bulb(s); spring onions; tomato paste; white wine or vermouth; white wine vinegar; vegetable stock; cooked white beans; dino kale (cavalo nero); fresh sage, parsley, oregano; chile flakes; some grated hard cheese for serving
In a nice big pot, heat up some olive oil. Saute some chopped fennel bulb(s), sprinkled with salt, until soft and beginning to caramelize. Let it go slowly, stirring frequently, to bring out the sweetness. Add about half as much scallion/green onions, chopped, and cook until it's all soft and getting a little brown here and there. Add a few good squirts of tomato paste, and cook, stirring, for a minute or two. Deglaze the pan with a good glug of white wine and a spoonful of white wine, champagne, or cider vinegar. Cook, stirring, until liquid is almost evaporated and everything looks kind of jammy.
Add enough vegetable stock to make everything float. Simmer for 10-15 minutes, until flavors have melded. Add some cooked white beans, a little salt and chile flakes, and some chopped fresh sage, and continue simmering for another 10-15 minutes. Taste for seasoning. 10 minutes before serving, add some finely shredded dino kale. Simmer until kale is tender. Add some minced fresh parsley and oregano. Taste again for seasoning. Top with a generous swirl of olive oil (a little fat at the last minute helps relieve the austerity of a purely vegetarian soup). Serve with some grated hard cheese (dry Jack, asiago, grana, parmesan) and a sprinkle of red chile flakes.
Of course, you could make this with chicken stock, or saute a little pancetta in with the fennel. Yesterday, when we made a slightly Indian-inflected (turmeric, cumin, coriander) vegetarian lentil soup for lunch, the artists ate it straight (with yogurt and scallions) and all the cooks took a bite, then turned to the fridge to forage for the leftover sausage they knew was in there. They each broke up some cold sausage in their bowl, added hot sauce, and then ate happily. So, everything's better w/ sausage and a squirt of Sriracha sauce! At least lentil soup is. (I ate mine plain, and it was still pretty darn good.)
As a perk, today I got to take home not only soup but a plateful of last night's dinner: roast chicken, potato-fennel mash, sauteed kale, lovely mushrooms and a bit of tempeh. Plus, even more importantly, dinner for the goats: a big paper-bagful of the day's veggie scraps, including carrot peelings, parsley stems, and all the not-ready-for-prime-time mustard greens. (This on top of the compost-ready leftovers--carrot tops, old chard, withering fennel--I'd already begged from the kind folks at County Line & Full Belly Farms at the Marin Farmers' Market that morning.)
The goats, like a couple of haughty teenagers, were a wee bit disdainful of all those greens, but the chickens were STOKED. Peck, peck, peck, chomp! The goats preferred their hay, and I spent some minutes simply watching them munch inside their little stable as the rain pattered down. Earlier that day, I'd come down to check on the group and give out a little hay--a redundant occupation, given that the goats have figured out how to break into their hay bin, the plastic doors of which are now semi-detached and hanging open, no matter how I try to prop them up & block them shut.
Monday, February 21, 2011
You'd think, perhaps, after writing 3 cookbooks, I might be accustomed to the thought of other people actually feeding themselves from one of my recipes, but no! Every time, it's a surprise and a thrill. Especially when it comes from a friend. My pal Susie Bright sent me an email a couple of days ago, headlined "Yr recipe is my command" with this, her own picture of the carrot-lentil soup I've been going on about. And she said it was delish, even cold! So nice to hear and see...
So, back to the ladies' luncheon...Trying to make multi-grain rolls, lemon-buttermilk cake, and soup all at once, along with taking out the recycling, throwing all the shoes into the closet and setting the table, was a little crazy. (Such is studio living--everything's right there, all in one room, and how I long for the days of my glamorous, by comparison, Brooklyn one-bedroom, with an actual door that could be closed on fallen sweaters and an unmade bed.)
So I didn't end up roasted the tomatoes like I'd planned, but you should. I also had another thought, long after the soup was made, that parsnips, those tough, unappreciated wallflowers of the root-veggie bin, would be a really nice addition. So, here's the recipe, partly how I made it, partly how it should have been made. And again, mess around the spicing as you wish. This had a nice, vaguely smoky-Moroccan thing going on, but you should suit your own taste. I would go for the seedy/barky/warming spices though, rather than leafy green things like basil or dill.
Roasted Parsnip, Carrot, and Lentil Soup
1 lb carrots, peeled but left whole
1/2 lb parsnips, peeled, split if large
salt and freshly ground pepper
1 28-ounce can whole plum tomatoes
1 ornion, thinly sliced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tsp chipotle pepper or smoked paprika (pimenton)
1 tsp pure chile powder
1/2 tsp coriander
1/4 tsp turmeric
1/4 tsp cinnamon
1 cup red lentils
Water or chicken broth as needed
Lemon and plain yogurt, creme fraiche, or sour cream for serving
1. Preheat oven to 450F. Lay carrots and parsnips out on a baking sheet. Drizzle with olive oil, salt, and pepper, and roll around until well coated.
2. Drain liquid from tomatoes, and set aside. Halve tomatoes and place, cut sides up, on a baking sheet. Put both baking sheets into the oven. Roast, turning occasionally, until carrots are tender and browned here and there, about 15-20 minutes. Add sliced onions to the carrot pan and roast for another 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally.
3. Remove both baking sheets from the oven. Let carrots rest until cool enough to handle. Dice carrots, parsnips, and onions. Roughly chop tomatoes, reserving any juices.
4. In a deep saucepan, saute carrot mixture with garlic and spices for a minute or two. Add tomatoes and lentils, along with reserved tomato liquid and juices. Add water and/or chicken broth to cover. Stir well and bring to a simmer.
5. Partially cover and cook, stirring frequently, until lentils are tender and have broken down to a nubbly sludge, adding more water or broth as needed. Taste for seasoning, and add more salt if necessary. Depending on the texture, feel free to attack this with an immersion (stick) blender, or to puree some or all of it in a food processor or blender.
6. Add a squeeze of lemon before serving, if desired. Top with a dollop of yogurt, creme fraiche, or sour cream for serving. A sprinkle of fresh cilantro leaves would also be nice.
As mentioned in an earlier post, you could also add some diced or crushed canned pineapple in unsweetened pineapple juice shortly before serving.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
The other day, hungry but with not much in the larder, I had a sudden flashback to a NYT recipe for a kind of thick, terra-cotta-colored potage. Red lentils were involved, I seemed to remember, along with oven-roasted carrots and some warming spices. I sifted through the many torn-out, wrinkled recipes in my big, messy, much-loved recipe binder to no avail, before trying the obvious fix: entering "roasted carrots and lentils" into the NYT search engine. Instantly, there it was, circa 1998, by Molly O'Neill, Roasted Carrot & Lentil Ragout (scroll to the end of the piece for the recipe).
This is as easy, cheap, and nutritious a thing as one can imagine. Plus, it's a good pantry dish to remember during spates of bad weather, since you'll very likely have all the ingredients (carrots, onions, lentils) on hand. The spices are quite flexible--you could use any number of Moroccan or Indian-style spice combinations to very good effect, things like cinnamon, ginger, turmeric, coriander, garam masala, etc.
This time, I'm thinking of opening a big (28-oz) can of whole plum tomatoes, halving them, and putting them into another baking pan to roast alongside the carrots and onions. This would concentrate and caramelize them a bit. Then, I'll add in the tomatoes (chopped) as well as the reserved tomato liquid from the can when the rest of the veg are ready to simmer with the lentils. Some coconut milk at the end would make for a richer, creamier dish, or you could buzz the whole thing in a blender for a smoother puree.
Of course, however satisfying to our peasant forebearers, pulses and beans can be a bit dull. They can always benefit from an acidic pick-me-up right before serving. A big squeeze of lemon or lime juice helps any lentil dish. Fresh salsa perks up black-bean soup, and a shake of hot-pepper vinegar (or a few dribbles of hot sauce) gives a lift to any long-simmered beans.
In keeping with the theme of Kitchen-Cabinet Homesteading, I had a sudden brainwave that afternoon while looking at a half-emptied can of pineapple chunks sitting in the fridge after the morning's Grape Nuts. Quickly diced, the chunks and juice went into the lentils, where they added a lovely tropical tang, doing the more or less the same thing as tomatoes would. (Only do this if you have plain old pineapple in unsweetened pineapple juice, not pineapple in any other kind of juice or syrup.)
Why red lentils rather than the usual greeny-brown ones? Well, red lentils break down quickly into a gently nubbly sludge that I find very comforting. And the deep-orange color is cheering when everything outside is so gray.
So, I'm going to play around with Molly's recipe for tomorrow. Will post once I've got my own version down. And stay warm! It's crazy hailing out there!
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Wednesday, February 09, 2011
So, the Castle being bereft of bread but well-stocked with various flours and most importantly, the long-stored, much-missed, well-loved little Le Creuset enameled cast-iron pot, we got to thinking about no-knead bread, which made such a sensation when it first came out. I remembered baking it several times back then in my Cobble Hill apartment and being quite pleased with the results.
So I consulted a past PQ entry and, mindful of my own advice, mixed up a batch of dough, using a mixture of what was on hand: about 1/2 cup of white flour, another 1/2 cup of rye flour, a cup of whole-wheat and another cup of coarse-milled graham flour. Why this mix? Simply because that's what I had--a little bit each of a bunch of different things. I do think this bread benefits from at least a little white flour in the mix, although I do prefer that the whole grains predominate, for health and taste. Also because, here in the Bay Area, there is so much high-quality white bread already out there, baguettes and boules and sourdough and pain au levain, why would you bother making yet another white loaf? The fun is in making up your own mix, adjusted to taste and made out of whatever's in the cupboard.
This is part of Kitchen-Cabinet Homesteading: Use what you've got. It's hardly frugal to keep running to Rainbow Grocery or Berkeley Bowl to get another plastic baggie filled with this grain or that flour, of which half will be used and the other half left, unlabeled and unloved, to subside into rancid dusty nothingness. If you got it for one thing, find a way to use it for something else.
The dough was very wet and sticky-goopy, but I let to do its thing under a sheet of plastic wrap. Perhaps because my kitchen is quite cool--closer to 60 than the typical central-heated 70 degrees--it rose very slowly, and didn't seem to mind being left out for a full 24 hours, rather than the recommended 12 to 18. Stirred down, with a couple of tablespoons of flour sprinkled over to make it workable, it had a lovely bouncing, eager quality, supple and light, and quite unlike the denser doughs I usually make.
The trick to the second rise is finding something that this very wet dough won't stick to. Regular flour is no good; much better is rice flour, if you have it, or cornmeal. The original instructions call for rubbing a tea towel with plenty of rice flour or cornmeal, then lining a shallow bowl or basket with it to make a home for the dough's second rise. Still, however much I sprinkled or rubbed, the dough always seemed to get caught in the folds, sticking and deflating when the time came to heave it from basket to oven.
Instead, I laid down a thick layer of rice flour in a high-sided cake pan, rolled the dough into a fat round, and let it rise there. The sides of the pan girdled the slack dough, helping it stand up as it proved. Meanwhile, during the last half-hour of rising, I heated up the pot and lid in a 450 degree oven. (I've also had good luck dumping the dough onto a preheated pizza/baking stone, then covering it with a preheated, upside down cast-iron pot.) The idea is to make something like a mini brick oven, in which the dough is trapped in a very hot place with indirect heat radiating inwards from all sides. As the moisture of the dough evaporates outward, it forms air pockets inside the crumb and bathes the outside of the dough in steam, which helps create that classic, hard-to-achieve, crisp-chewy crust.
Once the oven was hot and the dough risen, I flipped the pan over--quickly! no hesitating!--and the poofy, risen dough fell into the hot pot barely deflated. Clapped on the lid and into the oven for about 40 minutes, another 15 minutes with the lid off, then a final all-around crisping up out of the pot on the oven rack for another 5 or 10 minutes.
Out of the oven onto the counter to cool--because of the dampness of the crumb, this is a bread that needs to cool down intact. No matter how divine it smells, let it be for at least an hour. Sitting there on the counter, it's still cooking inside, and ripping into it while it's still crackling-hot will result in a loaf that's gummy inside rather than appealingly moist.
Sliced later in the day, spread with butter and marmalade, this was a lovely, full-flavored, wholesome thing, spattered with holes inside, rustic and very appealing, and well worth the 10 minutes of actual work it required.
No-Knead Whole-Grain Bread
1 1/2 cups lukewarm water
1/4 tsp active dry yeast
15 oz (3 cups) mixed flours, including white, whole-wheat, coarse (graham) whole wheat, and rye, or whatever mix of flours you have on hand
2 scant teaspoons sea salt
1. Sprinkle yeast over the water in a measuring cup, and let sit for a few minutes, stirring occasionally, until yeast has dissolved.
2. Stir flours and salt together in a big bowl. Add yeast mixture, and stir vigorously until a rough dough is formed. Cover with a damp tea towel or a sheet of plastic wrap. Place somewhere cool-ish, dry, and out of the way for 18 to 24 hours. It will roughly double in size and look bubbly.
3. Stir down, adding a little more flour as necessary to make the dough able to be shaped. Fold dough over onto itself several times, until it holds together. Shape into a ball.
4. Thickly powder a high-sided 8" or 9" cake pan with rice flour or cornmeal. Place the ball in it. Drape with plastic wrap and let rise for another 2 hours, until well-puffed.
5. 30 minutes before dough is fully risen, preheat oven to 450 degrees. Place a heavy ovenproof pot and lid (like an earthenware or enameled cast-iron Dutch oven) into the oven.
6. After pot has heated for at least 30 minutes, remove the lid and quickly dump the dough into the pot. Clap on the lid and return to the oven to bake for 30-40 minutes. Remove lid and bake for another 15 minutes to brown crust. If a thicker crust is desired, remove loaf from pot and let it bake bare on the oven rack for another 5-10 minutes.
7. Remove from oven and let cool for at least an hour before slicing.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Perhaps this would make some people put on their jeans and head out to the store for milk, coffee, and Grape-Nuts. Instead, inspired by the Homesteading workshop I'd just attended, as well as inherent Sunday-morning laziness, I padded from bed to to food-storage room (a.k.a. the studio's kitchen cupboard) to see what PQ had put up for the winter. Ah, oatmeal, currants, an apple, and a tin of smoky lapsong suchong tea: breakfast! And over here, a bag of multi-grain cereal, a jar of honey, polenta, rye flour, whole-wheat flour, yeast, and salt--all the ingredients, plus butter, for Easy Multi-Grain Bread.
Because I love to make gingerbread, there's also the dregs of a jar of molasses. Leftover from making bread-and-butter pickles last summer, some dry mustard, and from general thriftiness, a jam jar filled with dried little white beans. Boston baked beans! I haven't made these for years, but they are amazingly tasty and satisfying, bearing no resemblance to those disgusting mushy canned ones bathed in sweet goo, and a great way reason to keep the oven on all day. Warm apartment! They are a fantastic example of the sum being madly more than its parts. The parts are really cheap and unexciting, but all it takes is a long, slow commingling in a dark warm place to turn them into the pride of New England.
Not having grown up with pork in the house (the Jew thing), I appreciate the Little-House-on-the-Prairie idea of salt pork, or pork fatback, more than I really want to eat it, so I generally make my beans without the typical slab of pork fat on top. Today, though, I still had the remains of the holidays' tub of pastry-making, happy-pig lard in the fridge, so I dropped a spoonful of this good stuff into the pot first.
You should really soak your beans overnight, unless, like me, you wake up wanting baked beans for dinner today. Since my beans were small (pinkie-nail sized), I figured a brief soak would be enough. So, a cold-water soak for an hour or so, then another hour or so of simmering, until I could dip out a spoonful of beans, blow on them and watch their skins curl back. Drain the beans and save the cooking water. Then, the beans go into my recently retrieved-from-storage, incredibly battered, $1-at-the-Bernal-Hill-Garage-Sale, pig-greased Le Creuset pot. A peeled onion in the middle, and generous sprinkles of mustard, smoked paprika, and salt over the top, plus ropy dark wriggles of molasses. Add back enough bean-cooking liquid to just cover the beans. Bring this all to a simmer on the top of the stove with the lid on, then into a preheated slow oven, 250 degrees.
When you think of it, stir gently and check the liquid level, adding more bean-cooking liquid or water to keep the beans just barely submerged.
So, that's been the morning's activity. Bread dough rising and beans baking to go with the collard greens from C & S's garden, stashed in the fridge from last week's party with the ladies. Now, perhaps, time to peel off the flannel jammies, put on shoes and get some provisions from the farmers braving the rain at the Temescal farmers' market. Can never have too many satsumas at this time of year!