Sea Salted

Lessons in Leftovers: Turkey Rillettes

2011-05-17T15:02:00.000-07:00

Possibly the biggest perk (slash trade secret) of working for a food publishing company is the take home fridge. It sits in a room behind the kitchen, and daily fills up with the remains of recipe testing. Sometimes I find dozens of deli containers of chocolate pudding, or tomato sauce, or even tater tots. Other times, I scout fruits and vegetables too bruised and battered for a photo shoot, or rare pantry items no longer useful in the kitchen. Today was a pretty good day: I brought home two leeks, a small jar of olives (only a few missing), half a block of semisweet baking chocolate, half a bag of semolina flour, and a small container of dried figs.

Usually I’ll get really excited about my finds when I grab them, but when I get home and empty my grocery bag on the table, I sigh and scratch my head.

Not wanting to waste a bit of my free groceries, I’ve tried to get as creative as possible using up my leftovers. Some days it is obvious, like the day I snagged a raw rabbit, already broken down into easily braised pieces. Into the Dutch oven it went with a few vegetables, wine, and stock. Served with bread, it made my dinner for at least a couple days.

Other days, like last week, when I brought home a few bags of whole grain flour and a generous piece (cough half a cake cough) of chocolate-almond torte, I end up stashing my loot in the freezer until some kind of inspiration/chocolate craving strikes.

I’ve gathered over half a dozen flours, beans, grains, and parmesan rinds this way, slowly using it all up over months at a time, and greatly reducing the last minute trips to the grocery store. It’s awesome.

But I’m not here to brag about my job or anything. I’m here to talk about potted meat.

This past weekend, I attended a canning party/potluck with some good folks from food52. I was planning on putting together a cheese and homemade crackers spread, but once I got down to the cracker-making part late last week, I realized the platter needed a little oomph. A little meat oomph, if you will.

As luck would have it, that day I had snagged a generous box of braised turkey (thinking I would feed it to Matt over the weekend). Along with the (fantastic) homemade pancetta I already stashed in the fridge, I figured I could whip up some kind of quick rillettes. Rillettes are a French meat preparation (many times with pork or duck, but, use what you got!) consisting of slowly cooked (or confited) and shredded meat, smashed up with stock and fat, pressed into a small container, and covered with more fat. (This copious amount of fat helps to preserve the meat (and to keep it moist and delicious)). The rillettes are chilled at least overnight to flavor and set the spread, and then served at room temperature over bread or crackers.

For my turkey version, I removed the leg and thigh meat from the bone, shredding the meat, and simmering the bones (along with a carrot and half an onion) in a pot of well-salted water for a quick broth. I diced up the pancetta and rendered the fat in a generous glug of olive oil to use instead of turkey fat (most had already been rendered and removed during the braising process). Some of the stock and fat joined the turkey meat in my standing mixer, where it all got beaten and whipped into a frenzy/spreadable paste. My mixture fit perfectly into three 1-cup ramekins, where it got coated in a sizeable layer of pancetta-olive oil fat, wrapped in plastic, and stuck in the fridge overnight.

The final dish, while certainly not the product of painstaking technique, was still unctuous, gamy, and perfect for my cheese plate. Not bad for a box of leftovers.

Leftover Turkey Rillettes

Makes about 3 cups

1 bone-in braised or roasted turkey leg, skin removed*

1 bone-in braised or roasted turkey thigh, skin removed*

1/2 onion, peeled

1 carrot, peeled and chopped into 3-inch pieces

Water

Salt and pepper

1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil, plus extra for finishing

3 ounces pancetta or thick-cut bacon, cut into 1/2-inch pieces

1. Remove turkey meat from bones, and set meat aside. Place bones, onion, and carrot in large saucepan. Cover with water, and season with a generous pinch of salt. Simmer over medium-low heat until water takes on flavor of bones and vegetables, about 1 hour. Strain through a fine mesh strainer into 8-cup liquid measuring cup.

2. Meanwhile, heat pancetta and olive oil in small saucepan over medium heat until pancetta begins to sizzle. Reduce heat to low and continue to cook until all of the fat has rendered out of pancetta and remaining meat is crisp. Strain through fine mesh strainer into bowl.

3. Shred turkey meat into bite size pieces, and transfer to bowl of standing mixer fit with paddle attachment. Beat turkey on medium speed until broken down. Drizzle in about 1 cup broth and 1/4 cup fat, and continue to beat until moistened. Add more broth and fat until turkey reaches a moist and spreadable consistency. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

4. Transfer turkey mixture into 1 cup ramekins, packing tightly to remove air bubbles. Refrigerate, uncovered, until chilled. Drizzle remaining fat over top of chilled turkey mixture so that about 1/8-inch fat covers the surface. If necessary, add extra olive oil to cover. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight. Serve at room temperature with crusty bread, homemade crackers, good cheese, and tart pickles.

*You could totally substitute chicken here. 4 braised or roasted thighs should do it. (I'd shy away from chicken drumsticks, since they contain so much cartilage.)

Right now, this is my favorite

2010-08-09T16:40:00.000-07:00

Simple, quiet, unassuming: the first glance belies its rich, tart complexity. It is at once cold, tangy, creamy. I smear it on one half of a prune plum, layer it under granita, serve it with bread, eat it from a spoon.

Labneh cheese.

So effortless, yet so decadent. I vow to always keep it around.

Start with whole milk Greek yogurt.* I had a large container of Fage Total in my fridge so I used that. Use as much as you’d like, but I’d recommend that you use as much as you can. This stuff; it is a drug.

Take your yogurt and place it in a cheesecloth- or unbleached paper towel-lined fine-mesh strainer set over a bowl. Make sure the strainer balances over the bowl. Dump your yogurt into the lined strainer, cover with plastic wrap, and place in the fridge overnight. I think I let my sit about 12 hours and that seemed sufficient. Perhaps you can get away with less time.

Once the manna is thick, thick, thick (think barely whipped cream cheese), remove and place in a sealable container. Eat with everything possible.

*If you can’t find or can’t afford Greek yogurt, you can certainly use knock-off strained brands, or you can start with plain yogurt (the straining step will just take longer). And remember, this is cheese, not diet food, so stick with the full-fat good stuff.

Pickles

2010-08-01T10:43:00.000-07:00

I’ll just go ahead and state the obvious, get it out of the way, and move on. It’s been quite a hiatus over here. I didn’t know if I was going to come back here and continue writing, or move on and start anew. I wasn’t sure of this blog’s identity anymore (stories, recipes, politics, funny pictures: all or one or none of the above?), and that struggle was keeping me from doing what I set out to in the first place, namely, to write. And then I decided I wanted to keep going, to keep writing—writing at least something, but couldn’t get started.

So this blog turned one and I let it be. I moved to Boston, threw a going-away pie-party and didn’t tell you. I took a real person job (in! cookbook! publishing!) and let it slide. So I’m sitting here drinking tea in the Northeastern heat wave thinking about my kitchen and how to catch up.

My new job has blessed me with an abundance of extra food. Some days it is leftover chili, pie, chocolate cake, and (ugh) slow-cooker meatloaf. Other days it is extra produce from a photo shoot: shitakes and basil, habanero peppers and half-cut onions. I lug what I can carry home during a 30-minute stroll to my (hot, hot) 3^rd floor walk-up, and lay it all out. On Thursdays I stop by the Coolidge Corner farmers’ market and buy the rest of my week’s groceries: local squash, carrots, early heirloom tomatoes, and the last of this mixed-up season’s blueberries.

My fridge is bursting at the seams, and spoilage is my mortal enemy.

So I’ve been spending my Saturdays getting to know my freezer and practicing the awesome art that is pickling. Using Momofuku as a guide, I’ve pickled carrots, ginger, jalapenos, asparagus, onions, radishes, and so many cucumbers. Quick vinegar carrot pickles go quickly, and sliced on the bias taste great in salads with walnuts and butter lettuce. The pickled ginger has been thrown in (another) salad with leftover work salmon, a spicy okra sauté, and straight into my mouth when I get home from work with a bellyache. My pickled asparagus is quite ugly: I made a soy sauce brine, and the thin spears shriveled up upon contact with the hot/salty/sweet liquor. But they sure taste good.

My best pickles, however, are my latest cucumber pickles—the brine is an agglomeration of ideas and recipes: a mixture of white and rice vinegar, onions, garlic, peppercorns, dill, fennel, and sea salt. They’re not sweet, nor sour, just cold, crisp, and preserved. I can take my time with them, knowing that they’ll still taste good next week.

And then there is the granita, the icy treat that requires no ice cream maker, no dairy, and no custard. I made a great one yesterday and I think you should try your hand at it too.

The method is simple: stir together a sweet, flavorful puree or flavored syrup (but make sure your syrup is watery; too much sugar makes for a gloppy granita). Stick it in the freezer in a shallow pan or Tupperware container. Wait 45 minutes, and stir with a fork. Wait again, stir again. Repeat. After a couple hours, you’ll have it: Italian ice, no corn syrup needed.

Here’s my recipe, but change it at will (a fruit puree would be a great addition; I’ve been eating my berries and stone fruit fresh, and quickly, so none of it makes it into these projects).

Ginger-Basil Granita

serves 1 for a week of desserts, or 4-5 all at once

1/3 cup honey

1 ½-inch knob of ginger, peeled and sliced into 1/8-inch disks

a few basil leaves

juice from ½ lime (about 1 teaspoon)

water

Stir together honey with 1/3 cup water. Add ginger slices and bring to a simmer over medium heat. Simmer until the ginger softens and the syrup has become spicy, about 10 minutes. Turn off the heat, add basil, cover, and let steep for another 10 minutes. Remove lid and let syrup cool for 10-15 minutes. Pour syrup into measuring cup and add water to measure 1½ cups. Pour into a shallow pan or Tupperware container and freeze for 30-45 minutes, or until mixture begins to freeze. Break up frozen chunks with a fork and stir. Return to freezer for another 30-45 minutes, and stir again with a fork. Repeat freezing and stirring steps until the mixture is completely frozen and flaky. If you forget to stir, don’t fret. You’ll just need to stir more aggressively once you remember.

Spotted at Super H Mart

2010-04-26T09:47:00.000-07:00

I finally made it out to the Korean superstore a couple weeks ago, buying practical goods like somen noodles to mix with ginger scallion sauce, palm sugar, aji chiles, and Pocky

(apparently men only can enjoy dark chocolate).

I showed uncharacteristic restraint when faced with less edible

Did you know that durians are farmed close enough to Atlanta to earn the title "fresh"? Neither did I.

The most entertaining part about shopping here, however, is the shelving arrangements.

Should we combine coconut milk with Vermont Curry?

Or perhaps give dinner guests a choice between canned light Progresso and the less diet-friendly canned tripe stew.

The best part about Super H Mart, however, is the kimchi wall. I will be back.

Food Carts and Recipe Duels

2010-04-05T12:15:00.000-07:00

Some meals are best left to restaurants. Long, multi-course affairs with wine pairings and a different amuse bouche for each diner or conceptual, intricate dinners decked out with foam and exploding truffles are beyond pleasurable, but not something most of us would want to make ourselves or even enjoy on the fly. And, much of the time, these are not the meals I crave, dream about, or plot to put together on a long Saturday.

Usually I want simple, straightforward food that tastes great and looks like it was made by human hands.

I think most of you do too.

There are several cities in our country experimenting with new ways for getting just this kind of food into our bellies cheaper, quicker, and better. Chefs are doling out meals ranging from fried-whatever-you-can-imagine and khao man gai to handmade local sausages and artisanal pizza, to hungry office workers, elitist hipsters and vacationing families. They’re brining good food to fast food wastelands and transforming parking lots into foodie meccas. Those of you in Portland, Seattle, New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, and Washington DC surely have eaten lunches, dinners, and late night snacks at your roaming squadrons of food carts, not realizing how fantastic these mini-kitchens are. I know I grew complacent.

But I now know how empty an empty parking lot can feel, and I now know how satisfying that 1:30 am cone of fries can be.

Atlanta, unfortunately, is home to archaic zoning ordinances that make it close to impossible to own and operate a food cart. These days there are a few cart-like vendors but, until the rules change, there is no way for carts to populate Atlanta like in other cities .

Luckily, it looks as if things might be starting to change.

The Atlanta Street Food Coalition, mostly made up of Hayley Richardson and Christiane Lauterbach have begun mobilizing current and future food cart owners and lovers to petition the city for change (go ahead and sign the petition here). They organized a great event a couple weeks ago to raise awareness for the chefs already trying to bring their creations to the street.

I hung around for a bit and tried some pretty good food, made simply and delectably.

Good Luck Bowl: collards, black-eyed peas, cornbread waffle

Coppa Pizza

Ginger Creme Brulee

Speaking of good and simple food, did any of you hear that two of the best sources for creating these meals at home, food52 and Cook’s Illustrated, are having a duel? Apparently they’ve been, um, exchanging words since this fall, and they are, right as I write, culling and/or developing recipes for roast pork shoulder and sugar cookies. The recipes will be judged on Slate and the winner will get the title of Best Method for Creating Foolproof Recipes (or something like that). Will it be the power in numbers that comes from internet-saavy homecooks or will it be the tried-and-true science behind a trained kitchen of experts?

Personally, I like both. I use cookbooks like textbooks and I love resources like Cook’s that provide a wealth of information along with their reliable recipes. I also think that online food site like food52 bring an impressive level of creativity and ingenuity that can inspire cooks of all levels to develop their own recipes and palates.

I ran my own little test this Easter, just to verify my two-is-better-than-one thesis Granted, my test was, um, the opposite of scientific and was pieced together after the fact, but I think that the strength of both publications shone through anyway.

In addition to Martha’s fabulous mac and cheese and an Italian Easter Bread recipe from Gourmet, I baked up a daffodil cake from the most recent Cook’s Country and a pomegranate molasses-glazed ham from food52 (a winner and editor’s pick).

The cake was seriously beautiful, and crazy-simple to make (as long as you can whip egg whites to a medium peak, you can bake this cake). The perfect complement to our strawberries and cream, its crumb was both delicate and creamy, and the hint of orange mimicked the warm sunshine in our backyard that afternoon.

The ham? Holy crap, it was good. The reddish glaze baked up into a complex, spicy caramel crust, and its je ne sais quoi permeated to the depths of the meat. I stood in the kitchen, long past full, picking at the crispy bits long after lunch ended.

Who needs a winner?

So I started another blog

2010-03-25T06:43:00.000-07:00

Mostly food-related, mostly unrelated, modest proposals is a collection of internet-y bits that I find interesting, funny, or gross (most of the time, all three).
Check it out.

All I've been eating for the past two weeks....

2010-03-24T10:41:00.000-07:00

Hello, muffin.

It's been quite nice spending two weeks with you and all of your friends.

I'm glad I learned your almond butter secrets; you taste pretty good.

It is time, however, for you to find some new homes.

Anyone want one?
Or twelve?

Better Than The Bakery Cranberry-Nut Muffins

3½ cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1½ teaspoons double-acting baking powder
¼ teaspoon baking soda
¾ teaspoon non-iodized table salt
2/3 cup unsalted butter, at slightly-cooler-than room temperature
1½ cups granulated sugar
2 tablespoons creamy almond butter, at room temperature
2 large eggs, at room temperature
1¼ cup low-fat buttermilk, at room temperature
2½ cups fresh or frozen cranberries, chopped in half (if using frozen, do not thaw)
1 cup walnuts, toasted and chopped

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and spray a 12-cup muffin pan with cooking spray. Spray the top of the pan as well as the inside of the cups.

Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt into a medium bowl. Set aside. Cream together the butter and sugar on medium speed of an electric mixer until lightened in color and well mixed, about 2 minutes. Turn off the mixer and add the almond butter. Return the mixer to medium speed and cream until combined. Add the eggs one at a time, continuing to beat at medium speed until smooth, about 45 seconds.

Gently fold in 1/3 of the flour mixture, followed by 1/3 of the buttermilk, until the flour just barely disappears. Fold in another 1/3 flour and then 1/3 buttermilk, and repeat once more, again, just until you can no longer see the flour. Do not over mix. Gently fold in the cranberries and walnuts just until incorporated.

Spoon the batter into the muffin pan, filling each cup so that it mounds slightly over the top of the cup. The batter should fill 12-18 muffin cups, depending on the size of the cup.

Bake 40-45 minutes, or until the tops are mounded, smooth and deeply golden brown, rotating the pan halfway through the baking time.

Remove pan to a cooling rack. Let the muffins cool in the pan for 15 minutes to set, and gently remove to a cooling rack for another 3-5 minutes. Eat while still warm.

Happy Spring

2010-03-24T10:33:00.000-07:00

I don't know what was up with those freak snow flurries the other day, but I think it's now safe to say that spring is springing here in Atlanta.

The major farmers markets open in a couple of weeks, but for now, get yourself to Decatur or Morningside and make a giant salad!

Southern Manners

2010-03-17T11:13:00.000-07:00

In my valuable minutes between batches of granola and batches of cran-nut muffins, I’d like to talk to you about something that is growing increasingly important to me, as my time in the South grows longer like the daylight. I knew leaving Portland, aka farm-to-table Mecca, aka foodie paradise, aka blogger wonderland would necessitate a change in my eating, shopping, and even writing habits. During my time on the left coast, I assumed I could always know from which state, or even which city or town, my pear, broccoli, and mushrooms came. I assumed I could always find responsible meat, even if it cost an arm and a leg. I assumed I could always eat locally, even down to the flour in my cookies and the oats in my granola.

Jesus I was spoiled.

I can still find much of the same produce here in Atlanta that I bought in Portland, but 2500 miles is a long way for Oregon pears, Washington apples and California kale to travel before hitting my plate: a far cry from local; a far cry from sustainable, even if the produce is organic. Of course, Atlanta has farmers’ markets, just like Portland. But at last count, Portland has 16 operating farmers’ markets, excluding the other 23 markets in the metro area. Atlanta? It has 16. For the entire metro area.

I don’t mean to complain, or wax poetic about a city that gets more than its fair share of fanatical press. I just mean to point out the challenges of living in a city a bit less connected to its agricultural blessings. Georgia is a largely agricultural state, and Atlanta is beginning to see much more local produce, meat, cheese, and specialty products now than just five or so years ago. The problem is, all of these great foodstuffs are isolated in specialty shops, expensive restaurants, and our, mostly small, and mostly competitive, farmers’ markets. Our grocery stores, even Whole Foods, are saturated with Mexican and Californian produce, and the names of these far-off origins are hidden or non-existent on the store shelves. Consumers on a budget or with strict shopping schedules (as much as I hate to admit it, many well-intentioned people just can’t make it to a farmers’ market on Wednesday afternoons or early enough on Saturdays to catch the good stuff) have little choice but to buy their citrus from California, even with excellent choices available from Florida, or their apples from Washington, even while Southern heirloom varieties are beginning to make a comeback.

In the past few months, I’ve been doing my best to discover or re-discover the alternatives. Because there are sustainable eating options in Atlanta, and they don’t all break the bank. It just takes a close eye and a willingness to explore new stores.

In the spirit of Southern hospitality, here’s a list of where I like to do my shopping:

Your DeKalb Farmer’s Market
Not a farmers’ market at all, this warehouse of a store is more of an international grocery metropolis. They don’t pay much attention to seasonality, but they do a great job of listing from where every product was sourced and stock more organics than Whole Foods. They’ve begun to carry cage-free eggs (I know, not the same as true free range, but it’s a start), organic milk from grass-fed cows, heritage pork and grass-fed beef. They also carry a huge variety of grains and flours, many from Kentucky (it’s not super local, but at least you know that it’s from the Southeast). Oh, and everything is dirt-cheap.

Whole Foods
Okay, so I talk a lot of shit about WF, but they have been stocking more local products lately. I’ve found local Johnson Farms milk for only $5.99 a gallon (many of the smaller stores who carry their milk charge upwards of 5 bucks for just a ½ gallon), Atlanta Fresh yogurt, and local free-range eggs for decent prices. They’ve also begun to rate the animal-friendliness of their meat producers, and the meat guys are totally willing to ask any questions about the source and raising practices of all of the farmers. Bonus points? They now carry local beef, pork and cute French-style chickens. The chickens get a 2 (out of 5) on their ethics scale, and the both the beef and the pork get a 4. I’ve tried the pork, straight up and in sausage form, and it’s pretty good. They also carry a bunch of local beers, and some of the stores stock Sweetgrass Dairy cheese. Sometimes you can find local produce, but it’s still pretty Cali-saturated.

Decatur Farmers’ Market
I haven’t been here in a while; my nanny job keeps me busy during their Wednesday afternoon hours, but you can find some awesome greens, pickles, salsas, bread and mini-pies most weeks. It’s still pretty small, but it has grown every season, and I’m sure it will be pretty excellent once spring produce begins to come in full force. Also, I just saw that they'll be expanding to a Saturday market in addition to the Wednesday market, beginning in May (yes!!).

Morningside Farmers’ Market
You’ve got to get here early on Saturday mornings; lines begin to form way before the 8 am opening time. Prices tend to be higher here (because of the neighborhood?), but, man, I’ve bought some beautiful vegetables on my visits. A couple of the farmers sell eggs, and there’s a meat guy there most weeks (I haven’t tried these proteins, but I’m sure they’re good).

Alon’s Bakery
When I get done at the Morningside market, I hop across the street to my favorite bakery since … forever. Alon’s has grown considerably since we first started buying their cookies when I was 6 (?). They make several varieties of hearth-style breads, decadent pastries (the mini-cookies, in oatmeal raisin, chocolate chunk, and double chocolate are, um, the best?), and stock a few different local cheeses amongst the European selections. They also carry Johnson Farms dairy products, Atlanta fresh, and local eggs, but these all carry a hefty price tag.

Sawicki’s Meat, Seafood, and More
This one-woman powerhouse of a store carries local eggs and dairy, as well as local and specialty meats and seafood. You can also ask for just about anything meat-wise and she’ll order it for you.

Pine Street Market
Housemade sausages from local pork? I think yes. Plus the owners are totally cute.

The Mercantile
It’s a bit farther from my house, and they stock a lot of the same products as Alon’s, but the cheese monger is more friendly, and super knowledgeable (and they have samples!).

Where do you like to shop in Alanta?

Yogurt Trials

2010-03-04T11:13:00.000-08:00

Lactobacillus Acidophilus.
Streptococcus Thermophilus.
Bifidobacterium.

Music to my ears.

The key to my lactose intolerant heart.

Yogurt and I have a close relationship. In fact, if I were to calculate the cost of my yogurt consumption over the past, oh, 23 years, it would surely outnumber the money I’ve spent on any other relationship by some absurdly significant amount. I spoon it over granola and mix it into biscuits for breakfast, dollop it on soup for lunch, and dash it with cinnamon and honey for dessert. I eat it frozen, stirred, lumpy; full fat, non-fat, goat-fat. As long as it isn’t full of flavorings and or soymilk, I’m game. It was only a matter of time until I tried to make it myself.

I’ve read enough and heard enough (my mother has fantastic stories about her hippie days and electric-blanket culturing) about yogurt creation that it just seemed like a no-brainer. Heat milk, cool it a bit, add yogurt, and stir? Easier than high-school chemistry.

Or not.

For my first batch, I sought out the best local milk I could easily get my hands on (Perhaps one of these days I will get my hands on some raw milk for my “pet,” but such delayed gratification is just not in the cards right now). I had been enjoying Atlanta Fresh Yogurt, and a little research revealed the source of their dairy: Johnson Family Farm, who luckily sell their milk retail just ¼ mile from my house, at Sawicki’s in Decatur. I snagged a half-gallon of whole milk and brought it home to my lab/kitchen.

I’ve read that larger brand yogurts make better starters than artisanal creations because they tend to contain a larger number of precious cultures, and thus yield a more consistent product. We already had some Stoneyfield Organic non-fat in the fridge, so I used it for my first batch. The heating and cooling steps seemed straightforward—the first recipe I found directed the cook to heat the milk to 180-190 degrees and then cool to 115 to 120 before adding the starter (2 tablespoons per quart). I was careful to monitor the temperature during these steps, and then placed the mixture in a 1-quart mason jar wrapped in kitchen towels. I then stuck the whole thing in my oven with the oven light (but nothing else) on for four hours. After this period, the “yogurt” was pretty viscous—kind of like ooblek—but certainly not yogurt textured. However, the directions specificied “setting time” in the fridge, so I figured this would lead to the desired consistency.

Um, nope.

Whether it was the too high heating temperature, non-active starter, too short culture time, or just the milk, this never became yogurt. It tasted great: fatty in the way that only whole milk can be, with a distinctive tang upfront. I just couldn’t spoon it on to anything, and it dripped and oozed and slimed its way all over the counter every time I tried to eat it.

But, damn, this milk was expensive. Not to be wasted.

Hence, the ice cream maker.

Another snowstorm and a freezer full of other cartons of frozen decadence notwithstanding, I was determined to create something edible and worth the effort (and hopefully yummy). But this yogurt was totally cursed. Manufacturer’s directions are there for you to read, people. Ice cream paddles will not fit into the container once the mixture has started to freeze. All milk mixtures generally make ice, no matter how long and hard you churn. And these icy mixtures will freeze into a hard block when there’s not enough sugar or fat to keep it spoonable.

I like to think of my yogurt ice block kind of like a Dairy Queen Blizzard: it won’t fall out of its container when you flip it upside down. And scraped on top of raspberry sorbet, the ice eventually melts into a creamy sauce that tastes pretty good.

But it’s still not yogurt.

So I tried again yesterday. This time, I bought less local but still grass-fed and organic milk (vat pasteurized!) from the Dekalb Farmer’s Market and chose Danon low-fat yogurt as a starter. Urged on by different directions, I lowered the initial heating temperature to 170 degrees, let it cool all the way to 108, and mixed in a full ½ cup starter. I followed the same swaddling/oven-light culturing strategy, but I left it in incubation for almost 6 hours.

The result? See for yourself:

It’s still not perfect: I’d like it to be tangier, and I could probably push the incubation up to 7 or 8 hours for a firmer product. But this will do for today’s, tomorrow’s, and possibly the next day’s breakfasts, snacks, and desserts. And there’s no ice cream maker to clean.

The Best Kind of Saturday

2010-03-01T11:08:00.000-08:00

As a once again very busy underemployed jack-of-all trades, I have learned to value the long Saturday afternoons I now have wide-open-free for experimenting, crafting, stirring, tasting. The best of these Saturdays, shining bright after an endless week of carpooling and 30-minute meals are filled with some variation of the ultimate trifecta: pie, granola, and ice cream.

The pie: a sour-cherry confection, baked for my cousin’s 21st birthday (perhaps the ultimate hang-over cure?). I started with a double crust pate brisee from Martha,* and mounded a precariously high pile of canned (uh, I know, not the best, but hey, this was the request) sour cherries mixed with a tablespoon of cornstarch, ½ cup-of sugar, ½ teaspoon vanilla and a pinch of salt (next time, lemon juice!). The top crust fell apart a bit upon its careful placement, but hey, that’s what “rustic” cooking is all about.

The granola: my adaptation of Orangette’s adaptation of Nigella Lawson’s breakfast blend. It’s got the usual suspects—oats, nuts, honey, cinnamon—but is laced with applesauce, unsweetened coconut, and brown rice syrup, the secret to crunchy clusters without corn syrup. The recipe is super-flexible, so, at least in my house, no two batches are quite the same. Sometimes I add molasses, sometimes I add sesame, sometimes it’s flax seeds. Each adds its own magic.

The roasting process (especially if making a double or triple batch) can take quite a while, especially in my parents’ tinier than tiny oven, but there is seriously nothing more therapeutic than slow, routinized stirring, tossing, and tasting. And with this winter aiming to be the longest, coldest winter, um, ever, sticking by a hot stove all day is pretty freakin’ great. Once finished, this granola is worlds away from anything you can buy at the store, flavor-wise, money-wise, and health-wise. I eat it most mornings with yogurt, some kind of fruity topping, and occasionally mixed with Flax Plus.

The ice cream: left-over from my grandmother’s 78th Sundae birthday party. The ménage a toi of chocolate, vanilla, and mint-chocolate chip is particularly good topped with coconut, chocolate sauce and a cherry.

*Try as I might to convince myself to try a new recipe, like the supposedly foolproof Cook’s Illustrated vodka-laced pastry, I just can’t break with habit. This crust may be a bit finicky during humid weather, but it is crumbly-flaky in just the way I like it, and melts on the tongue in a way M&Ms can only dream of.

Oh, and a big Verdant Kitchen P.S. I prepared a trio of dips and crackers for a CDC party last week. Check it out over on my other webpage.

Cooking for Others

2010-02-17T11:06:00.000-08:00

I’ve been holding out on you.

It wasn’t intentional. I just didn’t want to tell you until I had survived the first event unscathed. Victorious, even.

A few weeks ago, I was hired to cater a dinner party for a great group of people. I dove in headfirst, scheming up a menu ready to satisfy the vegetarians, omnivores, kosher-keepers and hilal-observers who make up Kids4Peace, an exchange-ish program between Muslim, Jewish and Christian children in the US and in Jerusalem. Needless to say, the stakes were high. I mean, these are pretty awesome people, and I certainly couldn’t serve them less than the best.

I made a triple batch of French bread (learning important lessons about the freezer along the way), roasted free-range chickens, stuffed 10 pounds of kale into my stockpot, and pickled beautiful Woodland Gardens watermelon radishes. I baked cookie after cookie, stretched endless batches of cracker dough, assembled mushroom and rutabaga tarts, and sliced enough citrus to power an iPhone (um, almost).

In short, it was awesome, and I hope to do it again. And again.

Without further ado, then, I give to you my new pet project: Verdant Kitchen Sustainable Catering.

Tell your friends.

Avoiding Ingredients

2010-02-11T08:21:00.000-08:00

During a job interview the other day, I was asked if there was one ingredient with which I refused to cook. This question kind of threw me for a loop, because, in the last few years, I have undertaken a mission to at least like everything. As a kid, I was pretty picky. I’d like to think that this stemmed from my myriad food allergies; my pickiness was just a method of self-protection. In reality, I was probably just being a kid.

Since then, I’ve taught myself to eat (and enjoy) mushrooms, tomatoes, fish and browned toast (Yes, I was one of those children who would have rather eaten a cold Eggo waffle than one with just the slightest hint of browning). The only food I have yet to conquer?

Bananas.

The final frontier.

Granted, bananas aren’t the most sustainable fruit to eat, especially in the winter, and the hard yellow specimens filling our supermarket bins are the culinary equivalent of Sara Lee white bread. But the sweet yellow fruits seem should seem like a small hurdle to overcome on my path to I’m-a-foodie-so-I-like-everything status.

Not so.

From a young age, I could pick up the taste of traces of bananas in everything from baked goods to my friends’ contaminated lunch boxes. Small taste tests turned into face twisting retches of agony, the flavors in my mouth screaming “Mushy!” “Overripe!” “Saccarine!” At some point, my abhorrence got so bad that I refused to touch any fruits near the bananas in my parents’ kitchen.

With age, I tried to introduce the flavor slowly, stomaching plantain chips, slowly sipping strawberry-banana smoothies, and swallowing whole rum-soaked Foster slices. None of these things worked. Not even close.

It wasn’t until the other day that I was asked to whip up some banana bread for my after-school charges that I ate a few bites of the stuff without a grimace. Perhaps it was in hopes of keeping my authority intact (How can you get a six-year-old to eat broccoli if you won’t even try your homemade banana bread?), but I actually enjoyed my banana-filled concoction. And seriously, this bread was filled with the fruit—I had to almost triple the suggested amount of banana to use up the quickly over ripening specimens on the counter, lowering the other liquid ingredients to almost negligible amounts. This was serious stuff, and I wish I had a recipe, or at least a picture to show you, but it has unfortunately escaped into the netherworld of crazed babysitter afternoons.

Julia knows her bread

2010-01-12T13:18:00.000-08:00

One of my "Santa" presents this year (yes, we still do Santa in this family...) was a DVD collection of Julia Child's The Way to Cook series. Now, I'm not an insane Julia fanatic (Mastering the Art of French Cooking was on my shelf, admittedly, gathering dust, way before Julie & Julia), but I do love me some knife-banging, cream-logged, ooooo-filled cooking every once in awhile.

And there's no time like the new year for some indulgence, right?

Hence, The Bread.

Yes, gut-busting, crust shattering, just-the-right-amount-of-chewy French bread—and not just any golden loaf of splendor, but Julia's exhaustively detailed, hours and hours in the making bread.

Some may scoff at her detail, others may run in horror, but hear me out: the details matter, and when you follow them to a T, you wind up with impeccable stuff. Two winters ago, the Daring Bakers took on the recipe, and they've got great advice and photos (not to mention the whole recipe, word for word, out of Mastering the Art... vol. 2). I followed all of the kneading, shaping and baking directions exactly, but I added a slow first rise in the fridge overnight. This slow rise gives the flour and water more time to incorporate; ferments the dough a little bit, giving the finished product that slight tang so desired in artisan breads; and makes the whole process quite a bit more convenient.

Trendy or not, Julia knows her stuff—this bread is just as good (if not better) than anything I've had in restaurants here, and it is certainly the best I've ever made. So please, bust your gut a little this weekend and make. this. bread.

Seriously.

Smarty Pants

2010-01-11T07:23:00.000-08:00

My whipper-smart little sister is the science nerd of the family. My brother and I have managed to emerge from my parents' protective graces firmly entrenched on my mother's artistic side, but she's got her eyes set on pre-med and chemistry and neuroscience and all sorts of other mysterious things. She's also a cook, and for her senior (high school) project, Sally's been taking a cue from meticulous blogger extraordinaire, Carol Blymire, who has taken on some of the country's most challenging cookbooks (and meatballs), by exploring the craft and science of molecular gastronomy.

Basically, she's playing in the kitchen.

I got to help out with one of her experiments over Christmas vacation—we made our version of Alinea's Pheasant, Shallot, Cider, Burning Oak Leaves and served it as a haphazard amuse bouche on Christmas Day.

It was a hit, even with five-year-old Robert (for him, a more apt name for the dish was Fancy Chicken Nugget on a Burning Stick).

Farm Fresh

2009-12-30T11:04:00.000-08:00

I originally sat down to write this post on December 9. I typed two sentences, thought about a recipe, got up to get a cup of tea, and immediately got distracted by the gigantic epic that was to be my month of December. Whoops.

Long story short, I spent this last month orchestrating the big move back to The South, capital S. There was packing and selling and more packing and driving to be done—and then all of a sudden it was Christmas and I was in North Carolina with my entire extended family and tomorrow is the last day of 2009.

Excuses, excuses.

But now I am back on the couch in my parents’ house, new dog in tow, beginning Job Search 2.0, reminiscing about this

Earlier this month I made a quick trip to Palmetto, GA, for an interview/work day at Serenbe Farms. I dug up sunchokes (aka Jerusalem artichokes), plucked radishes and got super muddy. It was exhilarating spending all day outside, touching and digging and sniffing out delicious food in its most primitive form.

The farm is part of a unique little community being built about an hour south of Atlanta. It’s planned and suburban, yes, but it’s also 100% focused on sustainability, organic farming and alternative ways of interacting with our environment. All of the homes are built to maximize energy retention and minimize carbon footprints. The streets curve in such a way that it takes longer to drive than to walk. The farm and the two restaurants have this amazing exchange program—the farm sells the restaurant excess produce and the restaurants give back their waste in the form of compost—it’s a complete cycle. Most of the residents participate in the CSA program, and the town farmer’s market brings organic foodies from all over each week. The farm even does educational programs with elementary schools in the area, and as far as I’m concerned, the more kids who want to dig in the dirt, the better. The residents have a bit more money than most, but I honestly think that all of this is a good thing. If all of us with the resources to contribute to improving the food system were as conscious about it as those in Serenbe, change would come much faster.

Perhaps one of the best parts of this little jaunt was the schwag I brought home from the interview, like these little guys

Mix together these babies with some spinach (or more seasonal salad greens, preferably dug up from your garden), kohlrabi and a citrusy dressing and you’ve got a salad that’ll brighten up even the snowiest of December days (I’m talking to you, Portland).

Also on my plate is that vegetable tart made with pureed sunchokes, sautéed Swiss chard and onions, and a sprinkling of Parmesan. The onions, olive oil, flour and cheese were from the regular grocery, but almost everything else came from my cold and muddy hands.

Talk about local.

Radish and Kohlrabi Salad with Citrusy Dressing

1 head kohlrabi, cut into a thin julienne using a mandoline or very sharp knife
6-8 French radishes, thinly sliced into transparent rounds
Seasonal salad greens, enough for four people
¼ teaspoon each of grapefruit, lime, lemon and orange zest
about ¼ cup mixed citrus juice (I used lemon, lime and orange)
pinch of brown sugar
olive oil
sea salt
freshly ground black pepper

Assemble radishes and kohlrabi on top of greens. Season with salt and pepper. Mix the zests with the juice and sugar. Slowly whisk in the oil to taste (I like about a 50-50 ratio, but most people find that a bit too acidic). Add salt and pepper. Lightly dress the salad right before serving.

Sunchoke and Chard Tart

Olive Oil Tart Crust (I used Clotilde’s, from Chocolate and Zucchini, with a 50-25-25 mix of all-purpose flour, whole wheat flour and cornmeal)
olive oil
1 pound (I think … Just fill up a cookie sheet…) sunchokes, peeled and cut into 2-inch long chunks
3 cloves garlic, peeled
¼-½ cup stock of your choice
2 bunches Swiss, red, or rainbow chard, stems and leaves separated
2 sweet onions
¼ cup dry white wine
½ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
kosher salt

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Prepare the tart crust and chill in the fridge for about an hour.

Place the peeled sunchokes on a baking sheet with the garlic cloves. Season with salt and drizzle with a little bit of olive oil (just enough to keep them moist and to prevent sticking). Roast until fork tender (I honestly can’t remember how long I cooked them, but I think it was probably 20-30 minutes). Take out of the oven and let cool until you’re able to touch them without screaming in pain.

Meanwhile, prick the crust all over with a fork, line with aluminum foil and fill with dried beans. Cook for about 7-10 minutes, remove the foil and beans, and cook 7-10 minutes more until ever so golden brown. Let cool until you’re done with everything else.

While the sunchokes are cooling and the crust is baking, chop up the chard stems into 1-inch long pieces and the leaves into bite-sized pieces. Slice the onion into a thin julienne. Heat about one tablespoon of olive oil over medium-ish heat in your biggest and best saucepan. Once it shimmers, add the onion and the chard stems. Saute until they soften and then add the wine. Cook until most of the wine evaporates. Season with salt, and add the chard leaves. Saute until the greens soften and then remove from the heat.

At this point, your sunchokes should be cool enough to handle. Place them and the garlic into the bowl of a food processor. Drizzle in a bit more olive oil and ¼ cup of stock. Puree until smooth, adding more stock and/or oil until smooth. Add about 2/3 of the cheese, pulse to combine and taste for seasoning. Add salt if necessary.

Pour the sunchoke puree into the tart crust. Spread with a spatula so that it evenly covers the tart. Carefully spread the chard and onion mixture on top, again trying to make sure that it is even. Sprinkle the rest of the cheese on top and bake (still at 400 degrees) for about 15 minutes or so, or until everything is hot and bubbly and the cheese is melted and browned. Let cool for 10-15 minutes so that it doesn’t explode everywhere. Serve with the radish and kohlrabi salad to all of your locavorious foodie friends.

Read this

2009-12-08T17:17:00.001-08:00

I'll be back in a day or so with some fresh-from-the-farm yumminess, but for now, I advise you to take a look at this:

Serious Eats intern Chici Wang got a chance to listen to Frank Bruni and Jonathan Safran Foer duke it out over meat-eating ethics. She's got a nice synopsis of the event, and I'm totally jealous that she got to take Foer head on.

I'm reading Eating Animals right now and I have quite a few thoughts on it (leaning towards the Frank Bruni/Chici Wang side of the whole argument), but I definitely recommend checking it out.

I am still stuffed

2009-11-28T15:21:00.000-08:00

We learned some important lessons this Thanksgiving.

Number one: French press coffee makers do indeed whip heavy cream into glorious submission:

Number two: Homemade appetizers still don't get eaten unless they are a) decor for bloody marys (celery, cheese, olive, sausage, surprisingly appropriate) or b) macarons (espresso and salted caramel, explosively delicious):

Number three: Turkeys cooked in a roasting rack do sometimes look like torpedos:

Number four: Eight Thanksgiving servings are always smaller than eight regular servings. We would all have to eat like this:

(and then some) to eat all of this:

(I still don't know where Ted's sausage-walnut-sage stuffing went. It was delicious, I promise).

Happy Thanksgiving!

2009-11-26T08:43:00.000-08:00

For the first time in three years, I will not be cooking a turkey or manning a kitchen on this, the best of Thursdays. Instead, I am whipping up some winter squash soup, cranberry sauce and a pecan pie, traveling across southeast to eat with a smaller group of friends. Relaxing and somewhat strange, I'm sure that it will still be a deliciously gluttonous evening.

Whatever your plans today, travel safe, eat well, and laugh. A lot.

Comfort(able)

2009-11-19T11:41:00.000-08:00

Late fall in Portland begs for soup. It pleads for steaming bowls, big spoons and a leisurely dinner spent slurping. It commands us to spend extra time and care in front of a hot stove, stirring, smelling, tasting until we achieve, night after night, the perfect blend of warmth and silky satisfaction.

It’s the wet and the cold and the drafty windows that do it. The chill brings bone-numbing shivers, demanding that we pull out the raincoats and the rain boots and the umbrellas (for the non-natives). It makes us run inside to bars, coffee shops, movie theaters and creative combinations of the three. It causes us to complain, but it also makes us stronger.

Lest we forget, it’s the long months of rain that bring us the red and the yellow of carrots and squash and apples demanding to be transformed into comfort. It’s the long months of rain that bring us rows upon rows of hearty winter greens, the mysterious stalks of Brussels sprouts and the fractal beauty of romanesco.

If we can brave the soaked markets and the puddle-filled parking lots, it is with pleasure that we should take a few more minutes to roast that squash, caramelize that onion and stew those greens, melding all of these wonderful autumnal flavors to create a bowl of goodness more special than even the sum of its parts.

Take first, for example, warm cabbage salad (for which I am eternally indebted to Heidi Swanson):

Bitter, raw, crunchy vegetables take a warm dip in oil, vinegar, raisins and spices to emerge just ever so wilted, ever so sweetened, ever so royal.

Or next, pile warm stewed kale on top of a thick slab of homemade toast and drench with the runny yolk of a just-cooked over easy egg (oh, Orangette, you are so very wise):

Yet my favorite this November has been the bowls upon bowls of winter squash soup. I’ve made it with whatever orb strikes my fancy–pumpkin, butternut, acorn, delicata–stewed with everything from apples to sage to shallots, sometimes with water, sometimes with chicken stock, sometimes with leftover bean cooking liquid. I’ve found that the best soups come from a roasted squash, a single fresh herb profile, a bit of apple and a splash of acidity. The flavor lingers, complex but not overwhelming, and matches perfectly with all of the above.

Roasted Winter Squash Soup
Very loosely adapted from Serious Eats
Serves about 4, depending on sides

1 medium or a couple smaller winter squashes (I like the combination of acorn and delicata), cut in half with the seeds scraped out (save to roast for a snack!)
Olive oil
½ sweet onion, chopped
2 cloves of garlic, minced
about ¼ cup dry white wine
2 apples, on the tart side, cored and chopped
about a 1-inch segment of fresh ginger, smashed with the side of a kitchen knife
1 clove, stuck into the segment of ginger
about 6 cups chicken (or veggie) stock
pinch red chili flakes or cayenne pepper
juice of half a lemon
kosher salt and fresh-ground pepper

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Generously salt the halves of squash, rubbing the salt into the flesh. Place on a baking sheet, cut side up, and roast for about 20-30 minutes (depending on size), until the tines of a fork can pierce the flesh easily.

Meanwhile, heat a good glug (about 1 tablespoon) of olive oil over medium heat in a good soup pot (I use my Le Cruset). Add the onion, sprinkle with salt, and sauté until softened. Add the garlic and sauté for about 30 seconds, or until you can smell it. Add the wine and let it reduce until almost evaporated.

At this point, if the squash isn’t done, remove the pot from the heat. Once the squash is cooked, let it cool just until you can handle it without burning yourself (this has never happened to me…). Gently peel the skin away from flesh, trying not to smash up the soft squash all over the counter (again, never happened…). Cube the squash and add it to the soup pot along with the apples, ginger, clove and stock (I usually just add enough to cover all of the other ingredients. You can always add more back in at the end if the soup is too thick). Gently bring up to a simmer, cover, turn down the heat to low-ish and simmer until the apples are cooked all the way through.

Once everything is cooked to your liking, remove the pot from the heat and (carefully, in batches!) puree in a blender or food processor. (Make sure to only fill up your blender/processor about 1/3 of the way and make sure to blend slowly. You do not want a soup-covered kitchen–trust me. It helps to have another bowl or handy for your pureed soup. If you are lucky enough to have an immersion blender, use it!) After pureeing the last batch, return the soup to low heat. Add chili flakes/cayenne to taste, lemon juice and extra stock if the soup is too thick. Taste for seasoning and add salt if it needs it.

Serve with wilted salad, stewed greens or a grilled cheese sandwich.

Drink a hot toddy. Cuddle.

The Meat Beat

2009-11-08T21:02:00.000-08:00

I don’t know if you follow foodie news sources with the same obsession…er…rigor… as myself, but if you do, this whole sustainable meat business probably caught your eye. It started a few weeks ago (well, it really started much longer ago, with the likes of Michael Pollan et al, but, ugh, I don’t want to go there) when Nicolette Niman (yes, that Niman) published an editorial in the New York Times arguing, basically, that vegetarianism doesn’t do all that much to help with global warming. She argues that meat can be farmed and butchered sustainably, and, in these cases, the act of producing meat does not contribute much to carbon dioxide and methane emissions. Obviously, she acknowledged the harm that industrial meat farming has on the environment and health and … the list goes on; however, the gist of the article is that you can be a meat eater and a tree-hugger, too.

Not surprisingly, the editorial proffered a flurry of debate in the food press–prestigious and otherwise. Many derided Niman’s claims of meat’s inner innocence and I am sure there are many vegetarian/vegans kicking and squirming at the very thought of responsible carnivores. There is still a lively debate going on over at the Atlantic’s food site, and I recommend that you check it out before tossing in your two cents.

But–what does this have to do with me?

I recently got to write up a short piece for WW on a couple of up-and-coming butchers in the Portland area. Both are making their names for themselves with a badge of sustainability, and both have given me a lot of food (heh) for thought surrounding this issue.

The younger of the two, Berlin Reed, came back out to Portland at the end of the summer after spending a stint working in the Brooklyn (NY) food scene. Most recently, he held the post of butcher at Greene Grape Provisions, a store that seems to be doing a lot right. He basically taught himself how to cut up animals, how to cure bacon (including lamb! bacon! yes!) and how to source the most ethical meat possible. Best part about Berlin, though, is that he used to be a vegan. Militantly. He was so vegan that he wouldn’t even sit next to, let alone have a legitimate conversation with, meat eaters. For him, it had always been an ethics issue. He knew about the horrors of industrial meat production and wanted nothing to do with it.

Once he found good meat, though, his veganism was gonners. His first bite of flesh in 14 years was rib-eye, and he hasn’t looked back. In the last year, he has penned himself The Ethical Butcher, writing a blog, networking with farmers, making insane bacon* and being an advocate for sustainable omnivorism. But all of this is in my story. You should read it.

The part of his story that got left out of editing, and what really got me thinking, was his derision of pescatarians. I know a lot of pescatarians. In fact, most of my vegetarian friends eat fish regularly. I’ve always been a bit confused by that choice, but I never understood why I couldn’t accept it as reasonable. After Berlin and I got to talking, I remembered some images I had seen of shrimp farms in god-knows-where Asia and thought, those look just like the shots of Tyson chicken farms that made me so ill. And then Berlin brought up migration patterns and worldwide oceanic ecosystems and dwindling populations and shipping and … oh yeah, fish and other seafood are just as unsustainable as meat. There just aren’t evil corporations like Tyson for us to shake our fists at. Sure, there is sustainable seafood out there. Programs like the Monterey Bay Seafood Watch do a great job listing safe products, and even give you a really easy color-coded system to check on tomorrow’s future dinner.

Yes, it’s tricky to keep up with fish sustainability. Today’s green light will be tomorrow’s red flag, but really, if you think about it, it’s not that much harder than remembering peaches are not seasonal in December or that there are no winter squash in July. Some seafood (farmed shrimp) will never be sustainable to eat, just like New Zealand kiwis will never lose their giant carbon footprint. So pay attention. If you do choose to eat only fish, do it with the same responsibility you attribute to avoiding meat. Think local. Think seasonal.

Speaking of local seasonality, let’s talk giant Oregon animals. Let’s talk grass-fed beef and heritage-breed pigs.

It turns out, there are way more Oregon ranchers raising these awesome animals than it seems when I walk into New Seasons and look for my bi-weekly meat purchase. Many of these ranchers, it turns out, don’t show up in New Seasons because it is way more lucrative to send their animals clear across the country than it is to wrangle the financial hardships of selling to small local shops. Since USDA regulations require that all meat products sold retail in the United States be slaughtered and processed in USDA-certified facilities, and since these certified slaughterhouses are gigantic and inhumane and few and far between, it is hard for local ranchers to maintain the level of sustainability required to pass muster financially and ethically in Portland’s picky foodie market.

But there’s a loophole. If you sell a live animal to a person for personal use, you the farmer are allowed to slaughter the animal however you choose. This loophole has allowed the formation of what are called meat CSAs–consumers can contact a farmer and request a whole or half animal, which is then slaughtered and processed on site to insure humanity and sustainability. Most of the time, this huge hunk of flesh will get divided among friends and stuck in meat freezers all over town. The problem is, most people don’t know the first thing about getting involved in a CSA like this. And, most farmers don’t have the time to meet potential customers.

Camas Davis is trying to fix this. Since returning from a summer spent learning the craft of pig butchery on a small family farm in France (um, so jealous), she has been working to form the Portland Meat Collective (PMC). By becoming a member in the collective, you will enter into an organized and streamlined version of the meat CSA system. Camas will act as liaison between farmer and shopper, enabling many more people to be involved in the process. In addition, and this is the most awesome part, PMC members will get to take butchery classes with Portland butcher-chefs, learning the best way to break down and eat their animal. This is my idea of a Saturday afternoon.

****************************************************************************************

My take on all of this sustainable meat dialogue is a bit mixed. I am obviously not a vegetarian. I take great care in selecting the meat and fish I do eat, and I feel like I am very aware of the way in which my purchases affect my place in the whole global warming/good health/ethical eating system.

However. The problem I have with the argument that, “yes, meat is okay because there is sustainable meat out there” is that, yes, there may be sustainable meat out there, but it’s not everywhere, and it’s certainly not affordable for much of the country. I can afford to buy expensive meat because I only do it so often and I am only feeding myself. I am also lucky to be surrounded by so much good meat here in Portland. Laurelhurst Market. Tails and Trotters. The Eastmoreland Market. New Seasons. To consumers in, say, Vidalia, Georgia, this is not the case.

I think that we live in an exciting time foodwise. There are so many young people out there who are devoted to Slow Food and organics and locavorism that we really do have a shot at changing the food system in this country. It is starting to change, and I think the poor economy actually helps (of course it’s cheaper–and better!–to eat food grown in your own backyard), but we’re going to need more people out there growing beautiful produce and raising happy animals.

The only way we can get better food more accessible to more people is if we have more people out there growing it. We need more farmers.

With any luck, I’ll be out there doing my part in the next couple of months. Keep your fingers crossed.

*If you have a couple extra bucks, you really should contribute to Berlin’s quest to get his bacon in the Portland farmer’s markets. He’s currently part of a funding program called Kickstarter, which helps young and creative entrepreneurs get dollar bills for their projects. Participants get a certain amount of time to get a set amount of money in pledges. If they meet their goal in the allotted time, they get the money. If not, no dice. In Berlin’s case, if you pledge $20 or more, you’ll get a tee shirt. If you shell out the big guns ($50 or more), you can get the opportunity to design your own bacon flavor and get it named after you.

Curry Paste and Dried Fish

2009-10-26T20:58:00.000-07:00

Andrew has an awesome Thai cookbook. He stole it from his mother’s house over summer, brought it back to Portland, and our house hasn’t been the same.

This particular cookbook makes the Slow Food movement look like MacDonald’s. The author–David Thompson–having found himself in Thailand by accident some years ago, decided that its cuisine was … maybe the best thing ever. He did some serious reconnaissance, found a bunch of ancient recipes, and went from there. Thai Food is as fat as a dictionary and contains a recipe and Julia-esque length explanations for everything from fermented fish paste to coconut ash pudding.

Andrew’s been experimenting with many of its curry recipes (and they have all been absolutely fantastic) since August, but it wasn’t until this weekend that he, Rosie and I put together a full-fledged (and painfully authentic) feast. Rather than sit here and describe each dish for you, here’s the meal in images:

The night before, Andrew fried up a shallot relish in left-over duck fat. Seriously, this was probably one of the best things I have ever eaten. We recommend using long beans as relish-consuming vehicles:

Rosie (along with a bit of pounding help from Stephen) painstakingly shredded a green papaya for a salad–funky, fishy, and totally addictive:

I cracked open a young coconut (hopefully there will be pictures of this to come–Andrew took them and we can’t find his camera cable) and cooked it up with freshly picked wild chanterelles, chicken, game hen stock, deep fried garlic and thai basil. Not the most photogenic, but still yummy:

I also made the requisite coconut rice:

The highlight of the meal was certainly the Andrew’s steamed fish curry. I’m not totally sure what all went into the curry paste, but it was green, lemon-limey, and super-tasty. The best part of the curry, though, was the way that the fish (we used cod because it had the green light from Monterey Bay) melted into the sauce. It wasn’t fish in curry sauce at all–it was curry-fish with an almost pudding-like consistency. So. Good:

You’ll notice the well-constructed banana-leaf bowl in which the curry steamed:

This was Stephen’s major contribution to the feast. He just wanted me to tell you that.

No feast is complete without dessert:

Okay, pulut hitam (black rice pudding) is not exactly Thai, but it’s one of my favorite desserts and has coconut and palm sugar in it just like everything else we ate.

So full. So satisfied. I should eat real Thai more often.

Is there magic in this?

2009-10-18T17:08:00.000-07:00

(For more background, please check out my first (!) published (!) story here)

As many of you already know, I published by first real story last week, covering what is probably one of the coolest places I have found in Portland–Salt, Fire & Time. It’s a community supported kitchen, or CSK (the name is a play on the ever-popular CSAs, but, besides the connection to local and sustainable farms, the connection is pretty thin). I first read about Salt, Fire & Time on Serious Eats and was instantly curious what it would be like to join in. Luckily, my editor agreed.

I spent a day in the kitchen hanging out, cooking and shopping with owner Tressa Yellig, two other volunteers, and Yellig’s kitchen companion, a woman named Abby who cooks vegan/raw/gluten-free healthy stuff. It was actually totally hilarious to witness the combination of the two cusines in one kitchen–on one side of the kitchen, Tressa was cooking down 30 pounds of pork to make rillettes, and on the other side, Abby was prepping a raw kale salad. Both of them said that they really liked the balance. They’ve got all the food groups covered.

Anyhow, because I volunteered on a Wednesday, the day before orders are distributed, most of the work involved packaging and labeling already prepared food. Even though it was a bit tedious, I got the opportunity to see a lot of different things that come out of the kitchen.

See and taste, that is. Tressa loves to share. It’s a good thing, too, because I have to admit, I was a bit skeptical about her cooking style when I first came in. Tressa trained at the Natural Gourmet Institute, which is a super hippy-dippy, mostly vegan/macrobiotic cooking school. One of their most famous graduates is Morgan Spurlock’s wife (remember Super Size Me?). They teach natural food remedies, emphasizing the healing powers of things like garlic and naturally fermented beverages. Called a traditional whole foods diet, it calls for a return to “traditional” eating practices, whatever they may be. As a former biology major and someone who lives in a house full of scientists, I generally scoff at such things.

I scoff no more. Tressa’s food is awesome and totally not what I, or anyone, would call hippy. While volunteering that day, I tried citrus beef jerky (amazing, and I usually hate jerky), orange-clove lacto-fermented soda (alive and effervescent), coconut truffles (I crave these every day now), a couple kinds of sauerkraut, and a left-over pork and beet greens dish from a dinner party. More than sated, I remained full for the rest of the day, but it wasn’t one of those gross, stomach-achy kinds of full. It was a satisfied, energetic kind of full.

That’s the whole idea.

Not only is this food sustainable on an environmental level (Tressa sources only from local and organic sources), but it is sustainable on a personal level as well. Her foods are nutrient-dense–with every preparation, Tressa works to preserve and promote as much of the good stuff in food as possible. Her food is rich and fatty, but your body consumes it slower, so you burn sugar slower and stay fuller longer (kind of like the low-glycemic index trend). She advocates frequent use of fermentations in order to balance out your body’s digestive system (scoff if you like, but those of us who are lactose intolerant and still eat yogurt have already bought into this theory). As Tressa told me, though, it’s difficult to convince most people to buy into her food until they’ve tried it. So she holds weekly dinners with famous foodies from around town in order to draw in wider customer base. I’m lucky enough to be able to attend one such dinner next week. I’m totally pumped.

In fact, I’m planning on spending as much time as I can at Salt, Fire & Time. Despite the fact that I am not a natural foods person or that I have no plans to begin brewing my own kombucha, I feel very much at home there. The community aspect was readily apparent to me the first moment I stepped inside. The space buzzes with energy, enthusiasm and encouragement. I felt a part of something game-changing.

During my interview with Tressa, she talked a lot about her problems with the restaurant business, frequently bemoaning her time spent as the “invisible back end slave” not able to have any relationship with her customers. This thought crosses my mind frequently, as friends and relatives ask me when I’m going to go cooking school on a regular basis. I too do not want to be the invisible slave. I want to be able to cook for people, but I want to see them, to know them, and to be able to give them the best of me and of my ingredients.

Community supported kitchens seem like a great way to do just this, whatever their particular cuisine. They require strong relationships with eaters, cooks and food suppliers in a way that most restaurants just don’t. Like I said before, they bring sustainability to a whole new level.

As Tressa says, is there magic in this?

No, but there’s love, and without that, this new food revolution is going nowhere.

Last gasps of summer, first winds of fall

2009-10-12T13:52:00.000-07:00

Today is one of those rare fall days in Portland where the sun is shining, the leaves are brown, and the nippy wind brings not rain but pleasant, subtle shivers. Wearing a jacket isn’t so bad today–it doesn’t need to be waterproof or have a hood. It’s almost real fall. But, as the weathermen keep reminding us, it will probably start raining tomorrow, so pull out your rainboots and umbrellas now.

Harrumph. I like real fall, one filled with dry piles of leaves, warm sunshine piercing through the chilly winds, and wool pea coats–a fall when you can still spend time outside without catching hypothermia or water-logging your cell phone. But there are bonuses to our never ending rain. There are coffee shops and bookstores, fireplaces and hot chocolate. Oh, and a great excuse to spend all day in the kitchen. I love all of the seriously slow food that comes with the cooler weather–rich braises, roast chickens, apple pie, and, above all, soups, soups, soups. I’ve worked up a batch of chicken stock already waiting in the freezer for the first rain-soaked day. I’ve armed my pantry with dried beans and grains, and I’ve bought boat-loads of garlic. I’m totally ready.

But first, in one last homage to the crisp salad days of summer, here is what I like to call a transition salad: Filled with the early-fall bounty of my final CSA shipment, this salad blends the best of both seasons with sweet, raw Zephyr squash and musky, rich mushrooms. I added shaved fennel for crunch and served it up with a local aged gouda, crusty bread, and thin slices of a yellow Bartlett pear. It may match the yellow leaves outside, but each crisp bite was almost enough to trick me into believing it was still September.

Transition Salad
Serves one

5-10 Cremini mushrooms, sliced thinly
1 small zephyr squash (or any other fresh summery squash), sliced thinly, on a bias
½ bulb fennel, shaved thinly
1 scallion, white and light green part only, sliced thinly
olive oil
sesame oil
about ½ lemon
kosher salt and fresh ground pepper to taste

Combine the veggies in a serving bowl. Drizzle a small amount of both oils (you just want enough to thinly coat each component). Toss. Squeeze as much lemon juice as you need to brighten the flavor (the only way to know for sure is to taste). I used the juice of half of a not-very-juicy lemon. Toss and season with salt and pepper. Serve with your favorite cheese, bread, and a thinly sliced pear (or apple). I recommend building a bite with all of the components together.

All Work and No Play?

2009-10-08T14:10:00.000-07:00

Hey guys.

Life seems to be running on fast forward these days. What with restaurants and writing and schmoozing and new-job hunting, this blog is the last thing I think of on my long list of to-dos. I know that I’m lucky to have all of these great opportunities right now, and I am working hard to take advantage of my many activities. But I miss this blog.

I want to be able to continue to post as regularly as possible, but I don’t want to have to compromise its integrity by throwing up videos and links to other stories when I don’t have time to write them myself. So I can no longer promise regularity right now.

However.

I have been meeting some really really awesome people and attending some really really awesome events in the past month or so while working at the Willamette Week. And, lucky for you, I don’t have the space/expertise/bargaining power/what have you to get to publish all of my experience. So here’s what I’m going to do–all these missed opportunities for the Willy Week will become stories here. I want to be able to tell the rest of Tressa Yellig’s story, I want to bitch about the food quality at the Indulge event, I want to share with you Chris Kimball’s dirty little secrets (hopefully he has some, and hopefully I’ll find out about them next week!). So I will.

So stay tuned for Secrets of an Arts and Culture Intern … beginning very soon.

Today, however, I want to talk about my CSA. Well, my soon-to-be-former CSA.

I was totally pumped about joining a farm share program and signed up with Hood River Organics as soon as I moved back into my house. The first couple of weeks were pretty sweet–so much local, organic, fresh (great buzzwords, all) produce delivered once a week, straight to my front door. But I have quickly realized that this is going to be a long mushroom season and that I can only do so many things with the gigantic purple radishes that keep showing up. I like to eat a huge variety of foods, and it simply isn’t cost effective for me, as a single buyer, to order what amounts to bulk quantities of a few types of vegetables. So I’ve cancelled my subscription and after this week, will return to New Seasons for my weekly grocery run.

The one great thing about CSA monotony, however, was that it forced me to be more creative in the kitchen. I made mushroom tarts, kale quiches, and a totally insane beet and coconut chocolate cake. My most successful venture, which I share with you below, has been radish bread. Going through the fridge, I found six or seven baseball-sized radishes on the verge of mushy. Not wanting to waste, but oh so tired of radish salads and sandwiches, I thought that they might work as a substitute for carrot or zucchini in a quick bread. I looked up my favorite carrot cake recipe, changed it around a bit (reduced the sugar and fat, making it more bread and less cake), and threw in grated, drained radish. The consistency seemed right and the bread smelled awesome in the oven (albeit strangely like bacon-banana bread).

The verdict–a slightly tangier version of zucchini bread–was totally delicious and surprising. (Apparently radishes turn from purple to green in the oven. Any food scientist (Sally) out there know why?) I imagine any unfortunate root vegetable hanging out in your crisper (turnips, parsnips, celery root) would work similarly. So much more exciting than salad.

Radish Bread
(Very loosely adapted from Slow Like Honey)

The original recipe calls for cream cheese frosting, but I found that this doesn’t need it. It’s moist and sweet enough on it’s own. But should your sweet tooth call for extra decadence, mix a softened block of cream cheese with a softened stick of butter, a couple of cups of powdered sugar and some lemon juice and call it done.

1½ cups all-purpose flour
½ cup whole wheat flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1 teaspoon ground cardamom
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
¾ teaspoon salt
2-3 cups grated, salted, and drained radishes (I do this in a food processor, toss them with a generous pinch of kosher salt, and let them drain, under the weight of several bowls in a colander, for about 30 minutes)
½-1 cup chopped walnuts
½ cup unsweetened coconut
½ cup raisins
scant ¾ cup sugar
scant ½ cup canola oil
½ cup pear or applesauce
1 tablespoon molasses
4 large eggs

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Butter and flour a bread pan.

Whisk the flours, baking powder, baking soda, coriander, cardamom, cinnamon and salt in a medium bowl. In another bowl, stir together the radishes, walnuts, coconut and raisins. In a third bowl, beat the sugar and oil together on medium speed of an electric mixer until smooth. Beat in the pear/applesauce and molasses until well combined. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition.

Turn the mixer to low and slowly add the flour mixture. Make sure to mix only until the dry ingredients are combined–don’t overwork the gluten in the flours! Fold in the radish mixture, making sure that all of the components are well distributed.

Pour the batter into the pan and bake for about 50 minutes. I put foil over the top about halfway through because the top had already reached a great color of brown. Insert a toothpick in the center to make sure it’s cooked through–you want it to come out clean, but just barely. Dry bread is no one’s friend.

Let it cool in the pan for about 5-10 minutes, and then carefully remove the cake and cool to room temperature (ha!) before eating.

Unleash the Beast

2009-09-21T15:49:00.000-07:00

I had very high expectations. In fact, right before the waiter brought us our first glass of wine, I turned to Andrew – I am quivering in anticipation right now.

You see, Beast is one of the most talked-about Portland restaurants these days. Helmed by Naomi Pomeroy, a Food and Wine Best New Chef this year, the restaurant boasts an exclusively small dining room, with an equally exclusive menu – six meat-centric courses, substitutions politely declined. Everyone dines at a long table during one of two seatings each night. Spots are cherished. I had tried to eat there back at graduation but by the time I called, the place was booked all week. Somehow, this week Andrew had more luck, and at 6:00 Friday, Andrew, his sister, his mother and I finally took our seats.

I was lucky enough to nab a prime spot, facing the open kitchen, where I could watch Pomeroy and her überhip assistants plate our dishes. Speaking of dishes – the six course meal was a fairly traditional progression (minus the fish): soup, charcuterie, an entree, salad, cheese and dessert. Andrew, his mother and I chose the wine pairing option, which while a bit more than I would drink normally, was certainly educational and much more fun than a single bottle.

Our soup was a chilled cream of watercress with a nasturtium chiffonade. Totally refreshing and summery, it seemed a richer version of the spinach soups with which I've been experimenting recently. It's like slurping the best flavors of summer greens. The first wine, a dry and bubbly Bott-Geyl Cremant D'Alsace NV Brut was fine but it seemed chosen more because it was a safe sparkling wine and less that it paired well with the soup.

The charcuterie plate arrived with much fanfare. Pomeroy's foie gras bon bons are becoming famous for much of same reason Gabe Rucker at Le Pigeon succeeds – decadence and a thwarting of Portland's "crunchy" reputation. Besides the bon bon, the plate has salami, pickled beets and carrots, steak tartare with quail egg toast, pork liver and sour cherry pate, a cornichon and mustard, chicken liver mouse with pickled shallots and a micro greens salad. The wine, a Graf Hardegg vom Schloss Riesling, was not particularly memorable other than the fact that I liked it better than most Riesling I've tried. What was memorable, however, was the peanut butter shortbread on which the foie was served. Since the online menu had made no mention of peanuts, I had forgone calling ahead to inform the restaurant of my allergies. I was so embarrassed, then, when I had to ask the server if they could remove it. After a bit of conversation, they re-plated everything and even gave me a new bon bon (not bad for a substitution of sorts). Still, I was a bit too red in the face to enjoy my meats as they should. Everyone else cleaned their plates.

Between courses, we cleansed our palates with a grapefruit-prosecco granita. Just perfect for what it was.

Our entree was a medium-rare lamb loin chop served with a tomato stuffed with veal, Tail and Trotters pork, lamb, bread crumbs and spices. We all assumed that the tomato would be boring, but it truly stole the show. Literally exploding out of the bright tomato shell, each component of the stuffing brought a new meaty layer of flavor and texture, and when eaten alongside the chop, eat bite popped, enhancing the gamey deliciousness of lamb. The wine, a Peillot Mondeuse Bugey VDQS 2006, or "bougie," was nice, but, again, not particularly memorable.

The salad of baby oak leaf lettuces, frisee, sheep's milk cheese, black mission figs and fried Marcona almonds with a sauvignon blanc vinaigrette was stellar. Late summer on a plate. And the wine, a Masson Apremont Savoie Blanc Vielles Vignes Traditionelle 2006, strange on its own, tasted outstanding alongside the almonds – the lingering taste of the nuts brought out a dryness in the otherwise caramelly wine, a depth of flavor unmatched in all other pairings. Makes me want to try pairings at more restaurants.

The cheese plate featured two raw milk cheese (one unpasteurized and hard, the other pasteurized and semi-soft) and a rockin' camembert. All three cheeses has just the right amount of footiness – kind of raunchy, but still enjoyable. They came with local honey and grapes (yum!) as well as anise and fleur de sel shortbread (totally making this at home). The wine, Peillot Altresse Roussette de Bugey (more bougie-ness!) tasted great with everything, but I experienced to revelatory new tastes.

Finally, dessert. Online it said we would have tarte tatin, but it changed by that evening to a dandy plum brown butter spice cake with vanilla ice cream. Certainly comfortable, but nothing special. The wine, Francois Pinon Vouray Cuvee Botrytis 2007 was actually very enjoyable (and I usually hate dessert wines – too sweet – bleck!), surprisingly dry in the mouth, which complemented the sugary cake well.

Final thoughts? All of the food was excellent, and held a level of rustic quasi-refinement for which, in my ideal kitchen, I strive. Yet it was not the best meal of my life, and, besides the almond-wine pairing, contained no new tastes. Not much can compare to the duck noodles at Ping or my first taste of sweetbreads at Paley's, or even the zucchini salad at Chez Panisse. What was new, however, was the family-style/relaxed fine dining approach taken by Pomeroy. While other top Portland restaurants attempt to toe the line between formality and casual hipness, Beast is the first place that actually pulls it off. By serving plated yet rustic food in a small room in which you can watch the chef (certainly not dressed in chef's whites) banter with her staff, and giving diners a chance to toast with complete strangers, Beast fills a space previously unoccupied. The fact that the food didn't totally blow my mind didn't matter so much. I went to bed that night feeling nourished, body and mind.

So there is good Chinese in Chinatown! / Ping

2009-09-07T23:18:00.000-07:00

The other day when I was in Chinatown for reasons other than eating, I thought out loud if there was actually any reliably good Chinese food to be had in the area. Those few blocks in Portland seem overrun with pretty much everything but reliable goodness – strip clubs, “lounges,” homeless shelters, and the occasional music venue populate instead.

Upon recommendation from one of my new colleagues, however, I decided to check out Ping when my dad was in town. Andy Ricker, the chef at Pok Pok, opened Ping about 6 months ago; and I have a vague recollection of reading about it, putting it on my endless “to eat” list, and promptly forgetting about it. It’s a shame it took me so long to get there.

Focusing more on Southeast Asian street food than specifically Thai cuisine, Ping is a dream for diners of my persuasion. The menu contains 21 different types of skewers, as well as a perfectly varied collection of entrée-type dishes, organized by cooking method. Most dishes are small, and the waitstaff encourages ordering as you would in a tapas bar, a couple of dishes at a time, sharing with your friends, and stopping once full.

My dad and I started with the fried pork ears, a special for the day:

(unfortunately I forgot my camera, and so these photos are from my phone…)

Crispy, porky, and slightly chewy, these were a great drinking snack, but perhaps a bit too heavy for a starter (I prefer lighter appetizers, usually, so that my appetite is wet, not deadened).

Next came the baby octopus skewers:

Just the right amount of chew, with a very spicy chimichurri-like chili sauce over the top, which added fire but still managed to allow the subtle ocean taste to come through at the end.

For our slightly larger dishes, we had the nonya-style daikon cakes, fried with eggs and a sweet soy sauce (kecap manis):

and the kuaytiaw pet pha lo, a duck and noodle dish, which was probably one of the best dishes I have eaten in months:

The duck was falling off the bone tender, juicy, and slightly sweet, accompanied by thick rice noodles, shittakes, and pickled mustard greens. These greens infused what could have been an overly sweet broth with a sour, briny complexity that echoed on my palate long after swallowing. I could eat this bowl over and over again for days, weeks, months.

After such a meal, I was totally craving an ice kachang, so I asked the waitress if they made such delicacies. She laughed and said she had never heard of it, but brought us the dessert menu anyway. Turns out they make a dish somewhat similar to an ice kachang, minus the shaved ice:

I don’t remember what this was called, and Ping doesn’t post its dessert menu online, but it was basically a bowl of assorted jellied things like tapioca, lychees, and fresh coconut shavings, covered in coconut milk and ice cubes. While not exactly what I wanted, it was very refreshing and a perfect, cooling end to a delicious meal.

In other words, the answer is now, yes, there is good Chinese (and Southeast Asian) food in Chinatown. Brave the crazies. It’s totally worth it.

Ping: 102 NW 4th Ave, 503-229-7464, Monday-Friday 11-10, Saturday 4-10.

Restauranting it

2009-09-03T20:59:00.000-07:00

Surprise!

Working in a restaurant, even in a slow one, and even in a relatively stationary position, is exhausting. I just worked a closing-to-opening double and I am pooped. Haven't been cooking much either.

So, I didn't have anything for you yesterday and don't have anything for you today, but I promise to write tomorrow.

Hang tight, fellow readers, I still have much to share.

A Love Affair with Capers and Cucumbers

2009-08-31T19:36:00.000-07:00

I had this whole plan for today’s post that involved regaling you with my prowess of experimentation and improvisation (yet again) in the art of baking (yet again), but, alas, the weekend baking god granted me neither luck nor forethought enough to pull off a flourless/white sugar-less/almost butter-less chocolate cake. And, in the end, you are probably tired of reading about breads and cakes and the like (or at least you find me somewhat insane to continue cranking the oven up to 375 degrees at the end of August.

The cake wasn’t terrible, though, and looks kind of charming in that fallen, flat, brownie kind of way:

And if you happen to have the proper ingredients, you should probably try it (as I will probably attempt, again). The cake is almost certainly delicious, since it comes from the almost unfailing repertoire of Orangette, and really does contain only chocolate, sugar, eggs, and butter (okay, and a tad bit of flour). How could that possibly be bad?

But I come not to bring you cake, but capers. And cucumbers (for more cute recipes starting with the letter “c” and the rest of the alphabet, see Gourmet’s Sesame Street-esque September issue) – not combined together, but as two new starring roles in my usual roster of recipes (God. Can’t get enough alliteration. I promise to stop – now).

I first tossed capers into a batch of pesto a couple of weeks ago on a whim. I had been craving a tapenade, but having neither olives nor anchovies, yet copious amounts of backyard basil, I made what I thought was a compromise. A bit shy at first, I added only a few, careful not to disturb the careful balance of basil and olive oil. Struck, however, by the capers’ miraculous ability to blend right in to the emulsion, I added a few more and then a few more until I achieved that perfect hint of briny umami underneath the spicy and sharp overtones.

So. Good.

Yesterday I was again faced with too much basil – lemon basil this time – and again pulled out the Cuisinart. This time I skipped the garlic and the parmesan, and subbed walnuts for pinenuts, creating more of a pistou than a pesto, but once again added the requisite capers. This time the caper flavor shone through more fully without the competition of raw garlic and cheese, which, when tossed with raw baby squash, paired perfectly with frenchified white beans (I prepared them as I would have cooked puy lentils, with carrots and shallots) and a filet of Coho salmon (beautiful, wild caught, on sale, from New Seasons).

On the side I enjoyed the newest version of watermelon salad – with cucumber. I suppose I stole the idea from the aforementioned issue of Gourmet; however, they suggest serving the melon Greek-style with tzatziki sauce. The yogurt sounded weird, and a bit too filling to fit the rest of my meal, but the cucumber?

I have already spoke of my new respect for the vegetable in a certain beet and avocado salad crafted by a certain “Waters woman,” and I have since been looking for other new ways in which to use its crunch. Watermelon seemed the perfect match. Both are crisp, refreshing, subtle, and both pair perfectly with mint and lime (oh cucumber Ricky,* I love you so).

I chopped and de-seeded half of my yellow watermelon (yes, mom, it had real seeds – gotta love farmers’ markets!) and added de-seeded and thinly sliced cucumber (from about a two-inch chunk), about ¼ cup mint leaves in a chiffonade, and the juice of half a lime. Crunchy, cool, and with a bit of an acidic tang from the lime, this is the perfect fruit salad to eat every day for the rest of the summer – or at least until the melons are no longer ripe. Come to think of it, this combination would probably work with any ripe melon you can find, or even a mixture. Go wild!

*For my new favorite summer cocktail, muddle a couple slices of lime and a couple slices of cucumber with a couple mint leaves. Add ice and 1½-2 ounces of Plymouth or Aviation gin. Shake and pour into a highball glass. Top with soda. Sip. Sigh.

New Tastes / Pho Oregon

2009-08-28T21:49:00.000-07:00

Add one point to the offal team:

It may be blurry, but it definitely is what you think it is - tripe. I ate it. And I enjoyed it. A little chewy, a little meaty, a lot of texture, whichever stomach this type of tripe comes from, it's certainly delicious and I think you should try it.

I also think you should get out and eat the rest of this yummy bowl of pho (number #2, in case you're wondering, with everything except the meatballs):

It is way worth the trip up 82nd during rush hour.

Do it.

Pho Oregon. 2518 NE 82nd Avenue. Portland, OR 97220. 503-262-8816.

Busy, Busy, Busy

2009-08-26T15:22:00.000-07:00

To piggyback a bit off of Monday’s post, I’ve got some more excellent news! I’ve gotten another internship working for the Arts and Culture editor at an alternative weekly here in Portland. Hopefully I’ll be doing some food writing (!!) for them in the near future, and I will definitely keep you posted. On top of this, I’ve been moving back into my real house, unpacking my new kitchen toys (like this, my very retro Mixmaster):

and bouncing around between interviews. It feels great to be back to what I think of as my home now, and today is the first day I’ve felt really … settled … in a long time.

In the spirit of settling down and getting comfortable, I buckled down and made some sandwich bread (I know – more baking. Now that I am no longer in need of comfort food, I promise to share something not requiring an oven soon. Promise). This particular bread recipe is actually what I immediately imagine when confronted with the idea of homemade bread. My father has been baking this Tassajara loaf on and off for a looong time. The nutty, yeasty smell that begins wafting out of the oven about twenty minutes into its baking time transports me back, in true Proustian fashion, to lazy Sunday afternoons, sneaking a peek at the rising bread, and the taste of that first warm slice from the heel. It may not be the fanciest bread, or the most “world-class,” but it satisfies in a way that only a hearty hippie loaf can.

The version that follows is my own interpretation of Tassajara’s standard formula for bread, and not exactly like my father’s. I quartered their original recipe (4 loaves is three too many for little ol’ me). I recommend it smeared with honey, piled with left-over ratatouille, or toasted and topped with thick slices of summer tomatoes, kosher salt, and black pepper.

Wheat and Flax Sandwich Bread
(adapted from the Tassajara Bread Book)

2 cups lukewarm water
about ½ tablespoon dry active yeast
about 1 tablespoon molasses
½ cup dry milk
about 2 ½ cups whole wheat bread flour (I use King Arthur or Bob’s Red Mill)
about ¾ tablespoon kosher salt
1/8 cup canola oil
about 1 cup additional whole wheat bread flour
½ cup wheat bran (Bob’s Red Mill)
½ cup ground flax seeds (Bob’s Red Mill)
about 1 cup or so all-purpose flour for kneading
sesame seeds

Dissolve yeast in the water. Let it sit for a couple of minutes to proof (All this means is that it should start to bubble a bit – if it doesn’t, the yeast is old and you’ll need to try again with a new package). Add the molasses and dry milk. Stir to combine. Add the first 2 ½ cups of whole wheat flour and beat well with a wooden spoon (Tassajara says 100 strokes – try counting it, and you’ll definitely see the batter transform around stroke 75 or so. Pretty cool). Let the batter rise for about an hour. Again, you should see bubbles – this means that the yeast is working.

After the first rise, add the salt and oil – stir until oil is emulsified. Add the rest of the whole wheat flour, wheat bran, and flax. At this point, a dough should form and pull away from the sides of the bowl (it will still be sticky). If you need to, add more whole wheat flour.

Generously flour your counter with all-purpose flour (you can continue to use whole wheat here if you want; the white flour will lighten the bread up a bit) and turn the dough out of the bowl. Knead for 10-15 minutes, or until the dough is smooth, elastic, and no longer sticky. Put the dough, covered with a damp towel, in an oiled bowl and let rise for 50 minutes to an hour. It should double in bulk. Punch the dough down and let rise for 40-50 minutes more. Again, it should double in bulk.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

To shape the dough into a loaf, turn the ball out onto a lightly floured counter and knead a couple of times. Gently roll into a log shape, about the length of your bread pan. Square off the sides and ends, and pinch the seams together. Grease the pan with a little bit of canola oil. Place your loaf seam side up in the pan and flatten out with the backs of your fingers. Turn the loaf over so that the seam is on the bottom and press it, once again, into the shape of the pan. Cover again with the damp towel, and let rise for about 20 minutes, or until the top of the loaf reaches the top of the pan. Cut three slits about ½ inch deep into the top, and sprinkle with sesame seeds.

Bake for about an hour, or until the top is a deep brown and the bread sounds hollow when tapped. Let cool until manageable, and turn the bread out onto a cooling rack. Let it cool completely for neater slicing, or, if you don’t care about such things, dive in right away. There’s not much in this world better than fresh warm bread.

A Cake and a Confession (and also, some great news!)

2009-08-24T17:32:00.000-07:00

Okay, okay, great news first: I got a job! A real, paying job in a real, live restaurant! As soon as I pass the necessary background screenings (note: drug testing – not as awkward as predicted), I will be working as a breakfast and lunch hostess at a hotel restaurant downtown. It’s right on the river, is run by a former Atlantan, and, hopefully, I’ll get to train as a server if things go well. I’m pumped! Take that second-highest-unemployment-rate-after-Detroit!

Anyway, on to the cake, by way of a confession: I have a bookmarking problem. I read a lot of food blogs, so I look at tons of photos and recipes every day. Most recipes, as long as they seem at least somewhat decent or beautiful in some way, get a big fat apple-D (oh, bookmark command, why did I ever memorize you?). On a good day, I’ll only bookmark a couple. On a bad day, it can reach 20 or 30. If you were to pull up my bookmarks menu, you would at first be confronted with a long list of to-be-sorted, poorly named links waiting for a day when I have a patient, boring, minute. If you were so lucky to reach the folders, you would see a highly organized folder-within-folder catalogue of hundreds upon hundreds of ideas.

Most of these ideas stay just that – ideas, fantasies, intangible wisps of information. They sit, gathering digital dust in my 21st century file book. Sometimes, I go through and delete a couple of stale ones, those that have gone so out of season or out of fashion that I would probably never touch them. On more ambitious days, I’ll actually click on the link, revisit the recipe, and prepare some version of it.

Saturday was one such day. A few of my friends just moved into a new house and were throwing a house warming party, asking guests to bring along some sort of edible or drinkable donation.

I made cake. Specifically, the yogurt cake that found Orangette’s Brandon. Bookmarked ages ago, it has always sat in the back of my dessert brain as an object of future experimentation. The cake is a snap to whip together, and the recipe is easy to manipulate. I added peaches, cornmeal, and a bit of olive oil to the original recipe, and left out the lemon zest and glaze, giving the cake a complex savory note to counter the sweetness of my overripe peaches.

Sophisticated enough to stand out in a crowd of homemade desserts, but rustic enough for a barbeque, this cake was a definite success. And, as I had found out about my job (!) only a few minutes before digging into my first piece, the cake was eaten in celebration as well.

Celebratory Peach Yogurt Cake
(adapted from Orangette)

½ cup plain yogurt
½ cup cane sugar
½ cup light brown sugar
3 eggs
1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
½ cup medium-ground cornmeal
2 teaspoons baking powder
¼ cup canola oil
¼ cup olive oil
1-2 cups peeled, diced peaches

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and butter a nine-inch round cake pan. I used a springform pan here out of necessity (temporary house = temporary lack of baking supplies), which was too tall, but did help with the removal of the cake when it was done.

In a big mixing bowl, combine the yogurt, sugars, and eggs with a whisk (this makes it easier to combine the yogurt (I don’t pre-stir) with the other ingredients) until well combined. Add the flour, cornmeal, and baking powder, and mix (now you can switch to a spoon) until just combined. Add the oils and stir. Molly warns (and rightly so) that the batter will take quite a bit of stirring until the oil combines. But be patient, it will work.

Pour half the batter into the cake pan. Pour on the peaches, and try to distribute them as evenly as possible. Top with the rest of the batter and smooth with a spatula. Bake for about 30-35 minutes until the edges are golden (the top will still be a bit pale) and a toothpick comes out clean. Cool the cake on a rack for about 20 minutes in the pan, and then turn out of the pan until cooled completely.

Coast Picnic

2009-08-21T09:27:00.000-07:00

In a few minutes, I will get in the car for what has now become a weekly jaunt out of the city with Matt. We're heading west, to Astoria, and perhaps other parts of the coast for the day. I've packed a picnic-ish lunch (hopefully the sun will be shining - or at least the clouds won't be raining - so we can sit outside):

a baguette, left-over okra and cranberry bean succotash, melon, curry chicken, port salut, chocolate, and my new favorite hot sauce/condiment - an onion and chili combo I adapted from a post on Serious eats.

Garlicy and spicy with my Thai chili interpretation (oh Fubon, you have served me well), the sauce has gotten better each day since I whipped it up on Wednesday morning. I've been eating it with a left-over polenta-white bean-kale combination, brightening the dish's otherwise muted flavors (grumpy mood = bland food). Anyhow, I imagine that the sauce will be delicious smeared on top of bread with a nice hunk of cheese.

Moroccan-Thai Chili Sauce
(adapted from Serious Eats)

1/2 Walla Walla onion, diced
4 cloves garlic, diced
2-3 Thai chilis, chopped
1 teaspoon paprika
1 teaspoon cumin
salt and pepper, to taste
1-2 teaspoons lime juice, or more, to taste
2 tablespoons water
1/4 cup (or less) olive oil

In a food processor, blend together onion, garlic, chilis, paprika, cumin, salt and pepper, lime juice, and water. Taste and adjust salt, pepper, and lime. With the processor running, drizzle in oil just until emulsified. Taste again and adjust seasonings as necessary.
Store in the fridge and eat on anything that needs a pick-me-up.

A New Plan

2009-08-19T15:15:00.001-07:00

Guys. I’ve been a bit … absent lately. For lack of a better explanation – post-college life is tough. And when I’m struggling, it shows up in my food and my writing. I’ve been avoiding it. But I don’t want this blog to turn into a whiny pity-party rant site, I’ll leave it at that.

Well, that and the promise of a new plan. Cooking and writing and creating and writing some more is good for me, and so I’ve decided to pledge to you, wide-open blog-o-sphere to begin posting consistently. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I will put something up. No matter what.

All of this said, I have been doing plenty of cooking and eating in the past couple weeks. A girl’s got to eat, especially when feeling glum. And there’s little better than bread baking to feed my hunger for challenge, change, experimentation (except maybe croissants, but I still have some in the freezer). I recently bought a Peter Reinhart book – Crust and Crumb, not The Bread Baker’s Apprentice (the availability of a paperback copy is extremely persuasive to my new budget-minded self) – and have been doing a lot of scheming about fermented, multi-stage bread.

I’ve done a bit of bread baking in the past, but never anything as involved as his recipes. I’ve made plenty of quick breads and pizza dough, a couple loaves of sandwich bread and one deliciously crackly boule. But that’s about it. Now that I have so much time on my hands, I plan to start working my way through his recipes, starting, as soon as I get back into my real kitchen next week, with French bread.

Before I get there, though, I’ll leave you with the slightly simpler como I made last week. It uses a Poolish starter – a wet, gurgling bowl of yeast, flour and water left to ferment overnight – and a high ratio of water to flour, which yields a sticky dough. I didn’t have any trouble folding the dough in its prescribed patterns, but I think that I used too much flour. I would also recommend a longer final proof on the dough, as well as a note to made sure that all of the seams on the loafs are sealed and on the bottom. A couple of my loaves cracked open in the oven, which diminished the final texture.

Como Bread
(from Apple Pie, Patis, and Pate)

For percentages and proportions by weight, see the link above. I have a digital scale waiting for me back at my real house, and will get to use it soon, but for these loaves, I used volume measurements.

First, make the Poolish:
Combine ¾ cup bread flour, ¾ cup room temperature water, and 1/8 teaspoon yeast until well mixed. Let the mixture stand at room temperature for 12 to 16 (I let it go the full 16) hours before making the final dough.

The next day, combine all of the Poolish, 2 2/3 cup bread flour, ½ cup whole wheat flour, 1 ¼ cup water, ¼ teaspoon yeast, and 2 teaspoons kosher salt until well combined. Knead the dough on a floured counter for about 6 to 8 minutes or until it becomes a more cohesive ball of slightly springy dough. It will still be sticky.

Let the dough sit in a lightly floured bowl for one hour at room temperature. After the hour, stretch the dough into a rectangle, about 10x12 inches. With the long side facing you, fold in thirds, as you would a letter. Fold the dough a second time, in the same way, with the short sides going towards the center, so you end up with a sort-of square ball. (If this is confusing, there are great pictures on the link, so check those out). Let the dough sit for another hour, repeat folding, and let sit for one last hour. Divide the dough into three pieces (or however many loaves you want) and let rest for about 15 minutes. Stretch each piece into a strip, about 16 inches long, and seal the seams. (I made two baguette-like loaves, and one small boule, because I only had a couple of small pans. They all cooked in about the same time, so I don’t think that it matters too much which shape you choose). Let the shaped loaves proof on parchment-lined baking sheets for at least 30 minutes (or maybe an hour?) before cooking.

Preheat the oven to 475 degrees (make sure that it gets this hot!). Boil one cup-ish of water and pour into a heavy pan (a cast iron skillet works well) and stick this under the rack on which you will cook the bread (the boiling water will create steam in the oven, which is crucial to the creation of a crispy crust on your bread). Immediately stick the bread in the oven. The loaves should cook in about 20 minutes. I rotated the pans around after about 10 minutes, but make sure that you wait at least that long so you don’t mess up the initial oven rise. The finished bread will be golden brown and will sound hollow when tapped.

Let cool as long as you can stand it, and serve with various accoutrements, such as cheese, prosciutto, and summer tomatoes.

Secret Ingredients

2009-08-09T14:44:00.000-07:00

Chocolate cake holds a special place in my heart. Voluptuous, decadent, powerful – the best cakes subtly pull at your taste buds, calling out for just. one. more. bite. Chocolate cake was my first love, and my first personalized recipe. I remember finding a story in the Atlanta paper: Cocoa makes it chocolately. Pulling out the scissors, I carefully dissected a perfect cut-out of the directions, photo intact. I remember gathering the ingredients, measuring, sifting, smelling. And then, an idea: Why follow the recipe exactly? Rustling through the spice cabinet, I found a few things not normally in my thirteen-year-old idea of chocolate cake, pinching, shaking, dusting, melting, concocting my creation.

It’s funny, though: I remember the process more than the actual taste of the cake itself. I know that it tasted good – it had too, since the recipe has stayed in my and my family’s dessert repertoire since. I’ve changed my secret ingredients a bit since that first time, but the process remains the same. The experience of self-discovery and experimentation leading to “Kate’s World Famous, Extra-Specially Good Chocolate Cake” with SECRET INGREDIENT! was vastly more influential to my growth in the kitchen than any specific recipe. I learned to trust my instincts and not to shy from creativity and improvisation.

But I still feel a bit unfaithful when I bake a different cake. Anything else is strange, not mine. Many times these new cakes are better, more mature creations, with ganache instead of butter cream, and coffee instead of water. My newest such infidelity was a giant chocolate cake pulled from Gourmet.

At once pure and mature, this cake was as chocolate as you can get without ditching the flour. I used the best cocoa and bar chocolate I could find, and coated it with a rich, thick ganache. Matt, my housemates, and I have been enjoying the cake for about a week now (true to form, this is a beast of a cake – make sure to keep it in the fridge so it lasts). And I’ve been doing my best to savor the moist interior and slick topping, but it’s not quite doing it for me. With every bite, I imagine my other cake, the cake, in all its unrefined glory.

So here, as my gift to you, reader, is my personal chocolate cake recipe, printed for all eyes to see for the very first time. I encourage you to experiment with it for yourself.

Kate’s World Famous, Extra-Specially Good Chocolate Cake
(adapted from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution)

2 cups sugar
1¾ cups all-purpose flour
¾ cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1½ teaspoon baking powder
1½ teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs
1 cup milk
½ cup vegetable oil
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1 cup boiling water

1 stick unsalted butter, at room temperature
powdered sugar, somewhere around 2-3 cups
cocoa, about 1-1½ cups
about ¼ cup milk
1 teaspoon vanilla

Preheat oven to 350º. Grease and flour 2 9-inch round baking pans. In a large bowl, stir together the sugar, flour, salt, cocoa, baking powder, and baking soda. Add the eggs, milk, oil, and vanilla and beat on the medium speed of an electric mixer for two minutes. Add the butter and mix in completely. Stir in boiling water, carefully (the batter will start to smell a little bit cooked, and will be very thin – don’t worry, this is normal and good). Pour the batter into prepared pans. Bake for 30-35 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the middle of the cakes comes out clean. Be careful not to over bake – no one likes dry cake! Cool for 10 minutes in the pans and then carefully flip out onto wire cooling racks. Cool completely.

While the cake is cooling, make the frosting. I always eyeball my frosting and probably make it differently every time. The process is very simple, though, so feel free to experiment. First, cream the butter with an electric mixer until it is smooth and fluffy. Add about ½ cup of powdered sugar and mix until it begins to lighten. Add a similar amount of cocoa and mix to blend. Continue alternating between sugar and cocoa until it tastes the way you like it, and it looks like you have enough to frost the cake. If the mixture gets too stiff, add milk until it returns to the correct consistency. At the end, add the vanilla and mix until blended.

Once the cakes are cooled, place the less-pretty cake (one is always less pretty) on a plate and spread a generous layer of frosting on top. Carefully flip the other cake – rounded side up – on top of the frosted piece. Generously coat the cake with the remainder of the icing and serve to all of your friends.

Summer Heat

2009-07-28T11:03:00.000-07:00

In the immortal words of Nelly, "It's getting hot in herre."

Whether or not we "take off all our clothes," something must be done to tackle this, the second in a series of a predicted week of 100 degree+ weather in Portland. Unfortunately for you, readers, I avoid the kitchen like the plague. Yesterday I broke out in a sweat slicing ingredients for a salad at 10am. I had high hopes for an experiment in chilled rapini soup today, but the thought of turning on the stove to blanch the greens makes me lightheaded. So the soup will have to wait.

My only savior on days like today?

(Standing beside the open freezer door is also a nice place to hang out.)

I finish all my meals with chocolate

2009-07-25T12:53:00.000-07:00

(I recommend E. Guittard Nocturne 91%)

Unemployment Croissants

2009-07-24T14:06:00.000-07:00

These days, it has become fashionable to refer to one’s lack of a job as funemployment. The word pops up everywhere it seems – Facebook, blogs, backyard barbeques, and the like. Those who use it always emphasize the first syllable, drawing out the fun: it’s FUNemployment, and so certainly not UNemployment. I find it absolutely absurd, and have thus taken to extreme eye rolling every time the word pops up. It’s not fun to be unemployed. It’s boring. Afternoons are the biggest challenge – after filling up my mornings with a 5 mile run, another trip to the grocery store, and an early lunch, I’m left with way-too-short lists of job prospects and applications, and an infinite amount of time in which to complete them.

So, I’ve started trying to think of projects (long projects) to fill up my days. Like seeing how thin I can learn how to slice a zucchini for a salad:

Or practicing my artichoke trimming skills (I'm getting pretty good – watch out, Thomas Keller!):

My best idea so far, however, has been my 24-hour croissant-making extravaganza.

I’d never attempted such an involved baking task before. I tend towards simpler, more rustic desserts, embracing the homely ruggedness of a crooked cake, ugly cookies, or an almost-but-not-quite burnt piecrust. In fact, last weekend, Rosie and I experimented with less-than picture perfect mini pie baking when we hauled in almost 10 pounds of berries from Sauvie Island. They may have fallen apart upon contact with any serving device, but they were definitely delicious. And I’ve already spoken of my love for galettes – the most rustic pie of all – which always taste better when thrown together at the last minute.

Last minute these croissants were not. I found Nancy Silverton’s recipe for the dough online at Epicurious (the story was published in Gourmet in 2000), read through it a couple of times, and began work on Wednesday, at about 2 in the afternoon. It took the rest of my day to make the dough, let it rise, and perform the folds (folding in sticks of butter, that is!) necessary for a flaky pastry. The dough was left to slow-rise in the fridge overnight, and I started with the fun part the next morning.

My only variation from the recipe was to make a couple of my own fillings. First, in an attempt to both use up some of those berries and to recreate one of my favorite childhood treats, I pureed a pint of raspberries with a little honey. Delicious on its own, or as a sauce, I’ve been using the leftovers as a pick-me-up in the late afternoons following. I also threw some walnuts, cinnamon, and sugar in the food processor to make a cinnamon roll-type filling. These leftovers are also delicious.

The rolling step takes a bit of patience, since, just like any yeasted dough, the croissant dough has a spring to it that wants to prevent any attempts at uniform thinness. I had learned/taught myself in the past to let such types of dough come to room temperature before rolling to allow for maximum flexibility. However, the massive amount of butter in croissants makes it impossible to wait for the temperature to rise – you don’t want oozing butter all over your table (that is, until the pastries are cooked!). So I had to whack it around a bit, but eventually ended up with some pretty nice triangles that all rolled up into more or less croissant-like shapes.

Once shaped and rolled, the croissants have to sit for a final rise – about 2 ½ hours – covered. Nancy (I’d like to think we’re on a first name basis now) suggests setting up a tent for the pastries using clean garbage bags and upside down glasses. I did this for a couple batches; but, while strangely pretty:

it was actually an unnecessarily cumbersome step, and I ended up using toothpicked plastic wrap in the end.

After running an errand or two, twiddling my thumbs a bit, and staring into space for a while, it was time to set up the oven. And, just like the rest of the process, this step required attention and patience (especially since my temporary house has only one very small baking sheet, so I had to cook the croissants in four separate batches). The oven starts at 425; once it’s heated, you have to spritz it with water, close the door, pop in the croissants, spritz again, turn the heat down, wait ten minutes, turn the pan, turn the heat down, and wait ten more minutes. And then do it again, over and over, watching the clock like a hawk, awaiting perfection.

But.

When they’re finally done – all I can say is awesome.

I mean, check these out:

I made those! And they're not just beautiful, they're butter-oozing, melt-in-your-mouth flaky, toasty rolls of greatness. Remember back when I called a certain galette the best thing I've ever made? Well, these are about a billion-gagillion (totally a number, ask a four-year old) times better. I urge you, the next time you have 24 hours of free time on your hands, make these. And if you're in a job situation like, they'll almost be enough to put a little fun- into your un-….

(yeah, sorry about that one)

*But, in all seriousness, if you are in the Portland area and need some type of employee to do anything, or even if you don’t need an employee, but want to make a certain expert croissant baker super happy, talk to me. I will most certainly bake you something.

Road Trip Days 6-9 / Eating famously in San Francisco / Chez Panisse

2009-07-20T12:47:00.000-07:00

I’ve been to the Bay Area a few other times in the past to visit friends, to hang out, to cook Thanksgiving dinner, but never with the explicit purpose to eat as much local cuisine as possible. I could have pretended that this most recent trip was planned to visit friends and to look at colleges (for my sister), but, really, I wanted to eat more; and, in a touristy fashion, I wanted to eat as much of the talked-about, famous food as possible.

As Sally and I were staying in a friend’s apartment in Berkeley, we woke up extra early on Saturday to get on the BART and head to Ferry Plaza to experience the farmers market in full force. On this visit, the market was awash in stone fruits – cherries, peaches, plums, nectarines, and, Sally’s new favorite, pluots. We walked around, sampling these fruits as well as olive oils, honeys, pickles, almond butter, peas (…) before deciding that we didn’t want to carry around fresh produce through the city all day. I picked up a pound of Rancho Gordo flageolets (awesome, by the way, and will probably pop up here again soon), a couple of pluots, and a (very strong) cup of Blue Bottle coffee, and we headed inside the ferry building for some (famous) Acme sourdough and Cowgirl Creamery cheese for lunch.

The bread itself was a bit too chewy for my taste (I like as many air bubbles as possible); flavor-wise, it was a bit bland, actually, for sourdough. I much preferred the olive rolls we grabbed as well. The cheese was delicious, but the bigger surprise was the store’s guest cheese of the day – a tarentaise made by Thistle Hill Farm in Vermont by one of my fellow Reedie’s family. Totally cool.

For the next day and a half, we wandered around San Francisco, visiting famous places, like the Williams-Sonoma mothership (10 pound bars of chocolate!) and Bi Rite Creamery (I had strawberry balsamic and ginger ice cream – epic),

and less famous, but no less authentically San Franciscan, locales like Four Barrel Coffee, Isaac’s new place of work,* and Heaven’s Dog restaurant (a hip take on Chinese, delicious, but too dark for visible photographs … sorry).

Sally and I also ventured over to the Cheeseboard in Berkeley for their Bastille Day special pie. Not only was this pizza an awesome deal for two small girls ($20 fed us for 2 ½ meals!), but also the quality of ingredients used was so fresh that I could taste summer in every bite. I could overlook the too-chewy crust (I like mine thinner, with more char and bubbles) and embrace the sharp notes of the Comte cheese and shallots, and the sweet heirlooms and thyme. The first night we ate the pizza at the apartment, with their Niçoise salad, still warm, but away from the crowds. It held up well, cold, for lunch, the next day as well, and as a snack on the road (and, now that I think about it, I can’t say the same for other famously delicious pizza like Apizza Scholls in Portland).

None of this, however, compares to our most famous meal, the lunch for which I made a reservation a month in advance, at the awesome but perhaps not too surprising,

Ben, our Berkeley host, and Joanna, my friend from high school, joined Sally and me for the meal. I have to admit that I was a bit disappointed in the beginning – the place was packed and the hostess was spacey and a bit rude, and once we were seated (about 10 minutes after our 2pm reservation), our waitress seemed to want to rush us into ordering our meal. Things improved dramatically, however, when the food arrived.

My salad, baby romaine with raw zucchini and mint, was every bit as light, crisp, and refreshing as I desired, almost like a cool glass of ice water.

My sister had a pizzetta with goat cheese, shallots, and green onion. It was a bit heavy for a lunchtime appetizer, but it tasted great and Sally enjoyed it.

Ben had a beet salad served with avocado and cucumbers. The picture doesn’t do justice to the excellence of this dish. I certainly never would have thought to pair these three vegetables, their flavor profiles seemingly too disparate to complement. Yet the flavor and texture contrasts – at the same time crunchy and creamy, crisp and rich – brought by each element recall a more complex, deconstructed cuisine, yet without the assistance of foams, gels, or liquid nitrogen. This is Alice Waters/California cuisine at its best – a celebration of seasonal ingredients in all of their unadorned glory.

Sally and Joanna both ordered the roasted chicken breast, served with grilled polenta, summer veg (corn and peas, mostly), and a tomatillo sauce. All of the flavors here were good, and the chicken very moist, but I think there was a little too much on the plate – it was almost a three-course meal in itself.

Ben ordered a pizza with housemade sausage and nettle leaves. The leaves were a new taste for all of us, and lent surprisingly creamy note, still with a lingering bitterness, which complemented the sausage nicely.

My favorite entrée was my own – oricchette with a lamb ragu. The pasta was super fresh, with just the right amount of chew, and its crevices were the perfect vehicle for the shreds of tender lamb.

For dessert, Joanna had the espresso-chocolate pave, a dense, flavor-packed brownie of a dessert – a few small bites were enough for me.

Ben had a beautiful black mission fig tart, which was surprisingly not sweet – the pure subtle taste of fig shone through.

I had roasted apricots with raspberry couli and sabayon – orgasmic. Just sweet enough, with a little crunch provided by the crust on the apricots, caramelized and warm, the best possible flavors intensified by the oven. While I wish there had been a higher ratio of apricots to accoutrements, I still licked my bowl clean.

Sally chose the most Alice Waters-y dish of the evening for her dessert – a bowl of summer fruit (Santa Rosa plums, a Suncrest peach, and local raspberries). The plums and raspberries were good (sorry, Isaac, not quite as awesome as you described), but the peach was the greatest surprise. Being from Georgia, I am a self-admitted peach snob, and thus rarely enjoy a west coast peach. But this peach was just as good as the best of the early season Gaffney peaches my mom picks up on her way back from Charlotte every summer. Juicy, sweet, slightly creamy, and golden yellow all the way through – this was what peaches are supposed to taste like.

We finished the meal a bit confused about what time of day it was (I don’t think I’ve ever eaten like this for lunch – 3 courses with a bottle of wine – but I could get used to it. Anyone out there want to fund a Gourmet lunches for Kate campaign?). Sally and Ben went home to take a nap, and Joanna and I wandered down to the Edible Schoolyard for a bit more Alice Waters time before she headed back to Carmel and I back to the apartment to pack for the last leg of the trip.

With not much famous left in us, Sally and I drove up to Ashland the next day to visit Sunya, my freshman year roommate, and then on to Portland on Friday. I’ve settled in to my temporary summer house, looking for jobs, ** cooking, and eating for myself again.

* We did sample an apple maple bacon donut here, which we later discovered while vegging out in front of the Food Network is one of their star’s “best thing I ever ate (with bacon).” Small world.

** Want to hire me? I’m a bright college grad who will do anything and everything, preferably around food. References available…

Road Trip Days 1-5 / Observations on the middle of the country

2009-07-19T12:54:00.000-07:00

In many cases, I find it strangely comforting to confirm stereotypes. Not so much stereotypes like, “All people from the South are fat and ignorant,” but stereotypes more like, “Germans eat a lot of sausage and drink a lot of beer” (true). To me, these stereotypes are more along the lines of common wisdom, and verifying their accuracy reminds me that it is possible to trust the words of experience. Case in point – the Midwest. Flat. Mesmerizing. Most of the time, pretty damn boring. Just like everyone said. We had thought that we would find surprising roadside gems, but, in the end, we just found Patti's 1880's settlement, where we did not eat:

and an overpriced animal farm, in which we did not enter:

The road trip took Sally and me up through Nashville to St. Louis and from there, across vast, straight stretches of Kansas, Colorado, Utah (more on Salt Lake later), and northern Nevada. While we certainly witnessed some amazing scenery (see Smoky Mountains, the Great Salt Flats, and Tahoe), many days we had only the masses of trucks on to keep us alert. That, and snacks:

Sitting here reflecting on the journey, I’ve realized that, for those ten days, we mostly just sat (driving) and ate. Pretty well, I might add. I stocked the car with way too much dried fruit, nuts, energy bars, cheese, chocolate, pretzels, tea. In addition, our great aunt Barbara gifted/forced upon us a giant bag of leftover 4th of July popcorn:

Really, had we been in a hurry and too disinterested to stop, we could have survived on my car snacks the whole way. But stop we did. In Nashville, for barbeque:

and we also stayed with family and friends in St. Louis and Kansas City, where we were generously fed homecooked meals. In Denver, we ate at a Ted’s Montana Grill next to our hotel, as we were too drained to search out anything more interesting. We ate at a Subway and a coffee shop, a rest stop and a park, but our best gamble was on a cantina in Salt Lake City.

The night before, we were struggling to plan our upcoming evening in Salt Lake, and for some reason decided to look up Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives. Confession: I cannot stand Guy Fieri. He came to Portland in the spring to visit Woodstock’s own Otto’s Sausage Kitchen and cast a giant Food Network shadow over the Reed neighborhood for the rest of the day. But his show is a good source of ideas for cheap, good food. And, as it turns out, he does know a good cantina. This place, Lone Star Taqueria, was luckily near our hotel (and after getting lost once already that day, close was important).

The place was small, brightly painted, and packed. All of the cooks in the open kitchen spoke in Spanish. There was an abundant salsa bar. All good signs. As for the menu, you basically had a choice between tacos, burritos (half and full sizes!), or tamales. Simple, but with an abundance of filling choices.

I ordered a carne asada taco plate, and my sister had a chicken tamale plate (after poking around some more at reviews of the place, I wish I had ordered the fish taco of the day – they are supposed to be killer – but “next time,” perhaps). My taco was almost excellent: the steak was juicy and flavorful, the toppings were fresh but sparse (as they should be); I only wish that they used housemade tortillas. While I appreciated the automatic use of double-stacked white corn tortillas (instead of the far less delicious flour), a housemade tortilla makes all the difference between a great taco and the best taco ever.

The rest of the food was good too – the beans and rice were tasty and filling, but I wish I had ordered another taco instead, mostly for varieties' sake. Sally thought her tamale was delicious (I didn’t try it, so her opinion stands).

After dinner, we stumbled back to our hotel, watched a movie, and got some rest before heading out on our last long day of driving into the Bay Area.

Tomorrow: San Francisco, Berkeley, and a surprise lunch!

Road Trip Day 0 / Filling up on Penang

2009-07-18T14:07:00.000-07:00

As you may have noticed, I like to plan – make lists, gather maps, color-code, and cost-calculate just about everything. So when it came to my road trip cross-country, I needed to know just when we would leave and go, where we would stay, what we would eat, for an entire 10 days. I printed out maps and directions a couple of times (my reliance on Google maps was probably a bit too trustworthy, in the end), and made countless contacts with friends and family dotted along interstates 70 and 80. In the end, my sister and I did a pretty good job staying on track – getting lost only once, and only staying slightly behind schedule most of the way.

Part of my plan was to stuff ourselves with good eats before getting on the road, because you never know what you’re going to find on the road. And I had to get in one meal at my favorite Malaysian restaurant before taking off. So my family and I ventured out Buford Highway to Penang.

One thing you have to understand about my family and Penang is that we have certain set dishes. We go there so infrequently, that by the time we sit down, we all know exactly what it is we crave. Much of the time, we invite friends just for this reason – more people equals more dishes equals more chances to squeeze in an extra new dish amongst the roti canai and char kway teow. This time, there were only six of us (my immediate family and grandmother), so we only tried one new dish – a fried fish with “Thai sauce.”

But I’m getting ahead of myself. We always start with the same three appetizers:

Roti Canai, a griddle-fried pancake, made with lots of butter and served with chicken curry. This dish is always a crowd pleaser. The bread is airy and only slightly sweet, with alternating pockets of air and chewy, buttery bits. It can be enjoyed on its own, but is awesome in the curry. Because we usually share these between two or three people, my siblings and I used to fight over who got to eat the potato and who got to eat the bite of chicken (always a random, unidentified piece of dark meat, usually with skin and bone attached – my parents used to describe watching the chicken butchers in Singapore hack away at the birds until no more than small cubes – nothing like supermarket chicken in America). We always save the leftover sauce to pour over white rice with the rest of our meal.

Satay (one chicken and one beef), Malaysia’s version of meat-on-a-stick, served with peanut sauce (except for me), cucumbers, and red onions. My dad has come up with his own version of satay, which we have served at a couple of dinner parties over the years. It’s surprisingly tricky to recreate the marinade, and many restaurant versions, in my opinion, just aren’t up to par.

Achat, pickled, jullienned veggies, covered in peanut sauce and sesame seeds. I’ve never eaten this (warning, don’t give me peanuts unless you are skilled with an Epi Pen and know the fastest way to a hospital), but it’s one of my brother’s favorite dishes.

Following the appetizers, we pretend like we don’t know what else to order for a few minutes, close our menus, and recite our standards:

Pork Fried Rice, for my increasingly less picky sister, which, in Penang’s Malay version, has little seasoning other than oil, and a smattering of carrots, peas, and red onions to go with the char sui pork. About 5 or 6 years ago, Penang added a menu insert of “daily specials” that actually never changed, including the memorably misspelled Pineapple Friad Rice. Entertained by the comedy of it all, we would order this instead, until finally growing tired of the overwhelming sweetness of the pineapple added in.

Char Kway Teow, a fried rice noodle dish, with seafood, egg, and a few vegetables. Traditionally, the dish is very spicy, but at Penang it varies from visit to visit. This particular night, it was one of the hottest things that we ordered. Regardless of the varying intensity, char kway teow is one of the few dishes we have ordered every single visit. It is one of my favorites, and I crave it regularly. My mom tells me this is because she ate it constantly while she was pregnant with me, and so I’ve had it in my blood since before I was born. Maybe this is true, or maybe it is just delicious.

Kari Sayu, a vegetable curry, served in a coconut broth. We first ordered this dish a couple of years ago on a whim, and it is now in regular rotation, partially due to the abundance of green in the bowl, and partially due to my mother’s obsession with lady fingers (or okra, in the south). This curry manages to walk the line between creamy and crunchy, and it only slightly spicy – a nice contrast to our other dishes, like –

Crispy Golden Fried Squid, a spicy calamari, covered in some kind of chili powder and served with beautiful slices of bell peppers and onions. This was the first squid that I ever enjoyed – it is never chewy, always crisp – and it’s painfully addictive.

As I mentioned earlier, our guest dish of the evening was a deep-fried whole fish (we were thinking red snapper, but the menu just calls it fish) with what they called “Thai sauce” a mysteriously red lemongrass sauce that makes an appearance on many of Penang’s seafood. The fish was flaky and moist, just as it should be, but the sauce stole the show. I found myself scraping it on to rice too many times to count. More Thai sauce, please!

After stuffing ourselves with spice, we always end our meal with Ice Kacang. As my parents explained to me at a very young age, successful, stomachache-less Malaysian meals need both heating and cooling elements. As our entrees are almost always hot and greasy, our desserts must always be cooling. An ice kacang does just that. Extremely sweet and strange the first few times you eat it, the snow-cone like bowl of awesome gradually grows powerfully enticing. At this point in my eating career, I can’t imagine anything better to end a meal, and I find myself wanting them every time I eat spicy food. What makes it so strange, though? At first glance, it seems innocent enough – a towering pinnacle of shaved ice with syrup on top. But this syrup is not your average artificially colored high-fructose corn syrup mess. Instead it is a combination of rose syrup, palm sugar, and sweetened condensed milk. And hiding underneath the tower is a collection of agar agar jellies, atap seeds, corn, and beans:

Sound weirder? It took me several years to get up the courage to try the treats hiding underneath, but it is now my job to eat up the bottom. I don’t know why it tastes so good, really, but it is. Awesome.

Stuffed and happy, we left the restaurant and headed home to finish packing, organizing, planning. I was still full the next morning when Sally and I jumped in the car at 8 am and headed to St. Louis.

Tomorrow: The long leg of the trip, across the Midwest, though the desert, and into the west coast. Stay tuned!

Road Trip!

2009-07-05T17:43:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow my sister and I leave for a ten day long road trip across the country, all the way from Atlanta to Portland. I probably won't be posting any time between now and then, but I'll be sure to catch you up on everything – from good southern home cooking in St. Louis to an exciting surprise in the Bay Area – when I settle back down in PDX.
Until then, eat well!

Happy 4th / Time for Lunch

2009-07-04T06:36:00.001-07:00

Oh, Independence Day. The one day a year where I willingly don the flags colors, on my clothing, and in my food. It doesn’t seem like a statement of politics today, but rather an embrace of another over-the-top holiday consisting mainly of food, drinks, and very loud explosions. Today, though I’d like to ask you, readers, to think about another way in which you can celebrate the holiday with an act perhaps more patriotic than wearing red, white, and blue.

I’d like to invite you all to take a look at the Time for Lunch website. Time for Lunch is a campaign, organized primarily through Slow Food USA, to bring the upcoming review of the Child Nutrition Act to the country’s (and Congress’s) attention. The Child Nutrition Act is a bill that governs how the National School Lunch Program feeds kids in the nation’s public schools. Most importantly, the Child Nutrition Act sets a limit on the amount of money that a school can be reimbursed for the cost of their cafeteria’s food. Right now schools receive only about one dollar (one dollar!) per child per meal. No wonder my memories of school lunch consist of powdered mashed “potatoes,” square rubbery “pizza,” and canned “peaches” (and these foods were served on the best days; I was lucky enough to have a choice to eat school lunch or bring my own. Many children today do not have that privilege). The Child Nutrition Act will come under review this September, and Time for Lunch is asking Congress to consider doubling the amount of reimbursement – from one dollar to two.

In addition, Time for Lunch is advocating for stronger control of the types of additional foods sold in school, like the French fries, cookies, and chicken wings from the “a la carte” line in the cafeteria, as well as items sold in vending machines scattered around many schools’ premises. The presence of these types of food encourage poor eating choices among students – I remember many of my high school friends eating French fries and a cookie for lunch every single day of the week. Why would they want to suffer the inevitable stomach ache and sugar crash from such a diet? Because their parents weren’t there to tell them otherwise.

Finally, Time for Lunch is asking for the continued and increased support of Farm to School programs. In the last year, my high school has added a kitchen garden to its premises (the result of a student-organized senior project) and they will hopefully begin eating from it in the fall. More programs like this are possible, but there needs to be more funding. Apparently, the last time the Child Nutrition Act was reviewed (in 2004), a section was added to provide an unspecified amount of money to schools to hold lessons in local eating and healthy eating, but Congress never appropriated the funds. Time for Lunch is asking Congress to guarantee mandatory funding for programs like the one started at my school.

I know that this might seem like a lot of political advertisement, but I really believe that support of groups like this can do a great deal to improve not only childhood nutrition in this country, but also over-all public school education standards. It is common sense that students will pay attention and learn better when they have a full stomach and proper nutrition. A meal of powdered mashed potatoes or gummy pizza simply does not provide the brain food necessary to be a successful student. It is also common sense that such proper nutrition cannot be provided on a dollar a day.

Take a few minutes today and show your support. Time for Lunch is putting together a petition to show public support for the review of the Child Nutrition Act; all you have to do is sign it. It only takes a minute. You can also check out their Eat-In potluck program that will commence on Labor Day. Find one in your area and get involved. It will be fun, helpful, and, most importantly on a day like today, patriotic.

To-Do Lists / Fruit, Spice, Party

2009-07-02T11:14:00.000-07:00

I am a fan of lists. I make them for just about every slightly-larger-than-small task; sometimes they are even color-coded. This I learned from my mother, and I’d like to think that my list-making skills have a lot to do with how well I did in college. This said, here is my to-do list for you, reader, now that it is July and hot outside.

First, use up that extra fruit and make dessert. There’s something about hot weather that begs for fruity desserts. Don’t get me wrong, I love chocolate, but it’s not quite as satisfying on a 90°-plus evening.

This cherry-peach-almond clafoutis (adapted from, you guessed it, A Platter of Figs) was pretty killer. Almost custard-like in its filling, this confection really highlights the sweetness and texture of the fruit. And you can experiment with different fruit selections – I like to combine like fruits (stone fruit with stone fruit, or berry with berry, but I’m sure anything fresh would work beautifully).

Second, eat spicy food. It may seem counter-intuitive on a hot day to fill your body with capsaicin, but it really is satisfying. I’m not quite sure what it is – there’s got to be a reason why so much spicy food comes from hot parts of the world (Southeast Asia, anyone?). Maybe it’s because if your insides are burning up, the outside temperature doesn’t seem quite so hot.

Or maybe it just tastes good, like this dinner from Woodlands in Charlotte, NC. I went there with my parents, one of my mom’s friends from college, and her husband. Unfortunately there is no picture of the beautiful appetizer plate, but this is what we shared for dinner:

(Starting at the top, going clockwise) Kadai Bhindi (Okra), Palak Paneer (Spinach and Paneer, a yummy Indian cheese), Aloo Gobi (Potatoes and Cauliflower), Baigan Bharta (Eggplant), and Dal Tadka (Yellow lentils). We ate this with the requisite rice, onion naan, and raita. All of it was awesome, all vegetarian, and all spicy. If you’re ever in Charlotte, you should definitely visit (don’t be discouraged by its location in a less-than-picturesque strip-mall neighborhood or its extremely bizarre service).

Third, have a party. And cook a lot of food. It helps to have graduated from college, or to have someone else graduate, or accomplish a similar feat, but having a party just to have a party is great fun too. For my party, I invited 50 or so friends, family, and family friends over to celebrate, drink, and eat what I like to call Italian tapas. I had some help from my family, especially with the set-up (thanks!!), but this was definitely the largest cooking endeavor I had planned and executed largely on my own. It was definitely a rush, and I would definitely do it again (especially since everyone seemed to love the food).

Arugula and Fava Bean Crostini

Tomato and Garlic Crostini (from A Platter of Figs)

Charcuterie: Prosciutto di Parma, Coppa, and Salami from the Dekalb Farmer’s Market

(No photo: Olives, Artichoke Hearts I marinated myself, and Roasted Red Peppers)

Leeks Vinaigrette and Balsamic Marinated Radicchio with Ricotta Cheese

Asparagus Salad with Basil and assorted fresh Summer Peas

Orzo Salad with Tomatoes and Herbs

Pork Meatballs with a Tomato and White Wine Sauce

Abbracci Cookies

I took most of my recipes and ideas from Bon Appetit/Gourmet/epicurious.com, and, since I was cooking so much, I didn’t modify them as much as I usually do. Instead of re-printing recipes, I’ve provided the links for your reference. I did, however, put my own spin on the meatballs. Here’s my version:

Pork Meatballs with Tomato and White Wine Sauce
(Adapted from the A16 Cookbook)

I’ve scaled this back down to the original recipe size. If you are really dying to make about 175 meatballs, feel free to multiply the numbers by three and you’ll end up with about what I made.

For Braising Liquid:
Olive Oil
salt
½ onion, diced
1 garlic clove, finely minced
fresh oregano, chopped
fresh thyme, chopped
dry white wine
28 oz. diced San Marzano tomatoes
chicken stock

For Meatballs:
2½ lb ground pork
kosher salt
about ½ teaspoon dried chile flakes
about ½ tablespoon fresh oregano, chopped
4 oz. freshly grated Parmesan (at this point in my day, I was in a hurry, so I gave the cheese a pretty rough grate, but it would probably be better to grate as finely as possible)
1 lb. stale bread, cubed
1 onion, diced
1½ cloves garlic, chopped
½ bunch parsley, chopped
½ lb. ricotta cheese
a few tablespoons milk
4 eggs

I made the braising sauce first, so it could have time to cook and meld flavors. To prepare it, heat a tablespoon or so olive oil over medium heat in a Dutch oven (you’re going to stick all of your meatballs in here after they’ve browned, so make sure it’s big enough–5-7 qt. should be about the right size). Sweat the onion with a bit of salt. Once it has softened, add the garlic, oregano, and thyme. Sauté for about 30 seconds, or until the herbs are very fragrant. Add about ½ cup of wine and rapidly simmer until it no longer smells like alcohol, scraping up any browned bits from the bottom of the pan. Add the tomatoes with their juices and bring back up to a simmer. Cover, lower the heat, and cook for at least 30 minutes, or until all of your meatballs are ready.

To make the meatballs, preheat the oven to 400°. Mix the pork with a generous amount of salt, the chile flakes, oregano, onions, garlic, parsley, and Parmesan. Mix by hand gently, just until uniform. Put the bread cubes in a food processor and chop until you’ve got fine bread crumbs (You can also do this in a plastic bag, with a hammer-like object, but it’s a lot more work). Add the bread crumbs and the ricotta to the meat mixture and mix, adding milk as needed until everything is moist and blended. Add the eggs and mix just until the eggs are incorporated.

Form the mixture into balls, a little smaller than golf balls, and place onto an oiled rack on a roasting pan. You can place them very close together, but make sure that they don’t touch. Roast for about 10-15 minutes, or until browned. I had to do this in about 7 or 8 batches, and I placed the browned meatballs in a bowl until all of them had been browned.

Once the meatballs are browned, add them to the braising liquid in the Dutch oven, stacking gently if needed. If the liquid seems too low, add some chicken stock until the liquid reaches, but doesn’t cover the top layer of meatballs. Bring back to a simmer, cover, and cook over low heat or in a 300° oven for 2-3 hours, or until cooked through and very flavorful.

Allow the meatballs to cool as much as possible in the liquid and remove them to a serving platter. Turn the heat up to high, and bring the braising liquid back to a boil. Cook until the liquid has reduced by half, skimming off fat and residue as you go. Once the liquid is reduced, strain through a fine mesh sieve (Chinois, if you have it), and return the strained liquid to the saucepan. Reheat right before drizzling over the meatballs.

Family Style

2009-06-22T11:17:00.000-07:00

I’ve always been of the belief that summertime meals are the greatest of all seasons. Some may argue for the soul-warming benefits of the hearty stews and braised meats of winter, the sweetly inviting aroma of roasted vegetables in the fall, or the refreshing first salads of spring. I would grant these meals as thoroughly enjoyable, but the best? I think not.

Summer meals have the benefit of vast arrays of colorful fresh produce, and encourage eating in varied abundance. As you already know, in my family, we support colorful eating, and there is no time better than now to have a colorful meal, no place better to eat such a meal than outdoors, and no way better to prepare and eat it than with a bunch of people – family style.

A couple of weeks ago, my parents, brother, sister, and I fixed a taco spread with flank steak, a pepita chimichurri, black and white beans, and grilled local veggies. Another night my parents and I feasted on chilled cucumber soup (the cucumbers picked fresh from the garden), caprese salad, fresh avocado, and bread and cheese. The meal lay somewhere between snacking and dining, an embrace of all things casual and fresh.

Later that week, my aunt, uncle, and cousin roared through, bringing my grandmother into town for a trial stay at an assisted living home. Earlier that day, my mom had stopped at a fruit stand and picked up fresh okra, limas, and lady peas (of all summer vegetables, fresh peas are one of the greatest gifts, especially when they’ve been pre-shucked). I had been itching to try another one of David Tanis’s recipes,* a variation of succotash, using jalapeño butter instead of plain. His recipe called for green beans and zucchini, but I subbed in the limas and okra, and used extremely fresh (and cheap!) local white corn.

My dad threw pork ribs (marinated in Mojo sauce instead of BBQ, for a more subtle and less sticky flavor - you can actually taste the pork!) on the grill, my mom made another caprese salad, and we sliced up some crusty bread. American summer food all the way, baby.

For dessert I baked a raspberry-blueberry galette. I used cornmeal in my crust again – I’m coming to think that even a small addition of cornmeal adds a wonderful crumble to the crust, with just a slightly nuttier taste that helps to balance the sweetness of the berries. My cousin was a huge fan, and fought (and won, mind you) with my dad for the last piece.

For your next summer meal, here is my version of the succotash – use as fresh ingredients as possible! It's the difference between good food and great eats.

Okra Succotash
(loosely adapted from A Platter of Figs … again)

about 3 cups fresh lima beans
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 Vidalia onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
6 ears of corn, shucked, and kernels cut off
about 3 cups okra, washed and then sliced into bite-sized pieces
salt and pepper
½ stick butter, at room temperature
1 jalapeño, minced (use the seeds if you want it spicier, or leave them out)
zest and juice of 1 lime

Bring a pot of salted water to a boil, add the lima beans, and gently simmer for about 20 minutes, or until just under al dente (you’ll finish cooking them with the rest of the veggies, so stop when they’re almost-but-not-quite done). Drain and set aside.

Heat the oil in a large, somewhat deep skillet or pot over medium. Add the onion and cook until soft. Add the garlic, corn, okra, and limas. Season with salt and pepper. Turn the heat up to high and cook for a minute or so. Add about a cup of water and cover the pan. Steam the vegetables for about 5-7 minutes, or until they’ve reached your ideal consistency.

Meanwhile mix together the butter, jalapeño, lime juice, and lime zest in a small bowl. When the vegetables are done, mix in the butter and serve right away, or let sit and serve at room temperature, with other summer treats.

*I promise I source my ideas from other places as well. I promise my next post will have something different!!

Three Colors

2009-06-10T08:22:00.001-07:00

Sometime when I was in middle school, my mother grew tried of cooking for the family every day of the week. I can imagine that it would get boring after awhile, cooking the same meals over and over, catering to our still undeveloped picky tastes. On top of this, she had decided to go back to work, and it seemed only fair to share the kitchen burden. So one night after dinner, she pulled out the calendar and had each of us (my father, brother, sister, and me) pick one day a week in which we would each cook dinner. Five of us meant that all of the school nights would be covered, and with teenagers in the house, these would be the only realistic nights for a family meal anyway. I can’t remember what my original day was; I’m pretty sure it changed every once in awhile, after quitting gymnastics, beginning dance class, or joining the cross-country team. In any case, I think we were all pretty nervous about the change in meal quality in the beginning. My sister, Sally, was something like eight years old at the time – frozen chicken nuggets and Kraft were her favorite foods. I’m not sure if my brother, Sam, hadn’t cooked much more than nachos. I was enamored of baking and not much else. Not exactly nutritious.

Instead of starving, we started to read cookbooks. My sister learned properly cook pasta. My brother learned to grill. I learned how to chop an onion. In a matter of months, we all had a few recipes under our belt – Sally had taco night, Sam had his own version of gyros, and I had roasted chicken and black beans and rice. As it turns out, we were all naturals in the kitchen, and while not every night was an exciting culinary adventure, we were eating well and getting excited about food.

From the beginning my mother had set some ground rules.

Well, actually, it was one rule: every meal must have three colors. Shades of brown did not count, and neither did artificial colors, like Skittles or M&Ms. For the longest time, I could not understand why she didn’t specify three food groups – I always made my colors match up this way, because the food pyramid seemed to be the epitome of healthy, balanced eating. And I still generally eat at least three food groups at every meal, but not always. The colors are what have really stuck with me.

When I left for college and was forced to eat cafeteria food I learned that there is something about a multicolored meal that is always fulfilling. I believe that our eyes sense a balance in the composition of our meals when they are varied in this way. Multiple food groups are not always so visually stimulating. If you eat a plate of brown vegetable, chicken, and rice mush, you might get your protein, veggie, and starch, but you’re not getting any pleasure out of your food. It’s all the same texture, it’s all the same consistency, it’s all the same color. It’s gross, and it’s boring.

As soon as I moved off-campus and off-board, I started eating three colors again, and was happier and healthier for it. Thanks to my mother’s rules growing up, I knew how to cook, and I knew how to cook well.

In celebration of colorful food, here’s my rendition of David Tanis’s spinach cake, which is actually more like a mousse or a quiche without the crust. It’s a bright green, fluffy, surprise of a dish, filling enough for a light lunch or as an assistant to roasted chicken and strawberries for dinner. The mousse is also the best at room temperature, so make it early in the day and let it sit out until you’re ready to eat.

Spinach Mousse
(adapted from A Platter of Figs)

2 medium leeks, cleaned, and chopped into a small dice
2 tablespoons, or a little less, unsalted butter
salt and pepper
about ¼ teaspoon nutmeg
2 pounds spinach, cleaned and chopped into 1-inch (or so, it’ll be processed) pieces (if you’re using pre-washed spinach, drizzle a little bit of water over it once it’s been cut to help the steaming process)
2 cups milk (the recipe calls for whole, but I used 2% lactose free, and it was great)
6 eggs
about ¼ teaspoon cayenne
Parmigiano (I forgot this, so I ended up eating it cold on the side, and that works too)

Melt the butter in a large pot (use the biggest stock pot you can find, 2 pounds of spinach is a lot!) over medium heat. Add the leeks and season with salt and pepper. Sauté until soft but still green, and definitely not crispy. Turn up the heat, add the nutmeg. Layer the spinach in the pot, alternating with a bit of salt. Push it down and cram it all in there (trust me here; the spinach cooks down fast). Cover tightly and let steam for a minute. Stir the spinach around so the raw pieces on top can get closer to the bottom. Cover again and let steam for about another minute. You don’t want to cook the spinach completely; instead it needs to be just wilted, and still very very green. Turn the entire contents of the pot, including the juices, onto a shallow platter to let cool.

Heat the oven to 400°. Once the spinach is cool, taste and adjust seasonings (this is your last chance to do so, unless you like to eat raw eggs). Mix the eggs and milk together. In a blender or food processor, puree the milk mixture with the spinach mixture in batches. (If you use a food processor, be careful to not overfill. You’ll make a huge mess. Trust me.) Include some of the juices from the pot as well. Add the cayenne.

Pour into a buttered baking dish or a well-seasoned cast iron pan. Grate a bit of cheese on top if you’re using it, and bake for about 45 minutes, uncovered, until a toothpick comes out clean. Let cool completely and serve with at least two other colors.

On extraordinary eating: Sel Gris / Safeway cake

2009-06-03T11:22:00.000-07:00

Ever since Daniel Mondok’s shiny bald head graced Willamette Week’s restaurant guide last year, I had been pining to dine in his restaurant, Sel Gris. From its namesake (a grey French sea salt) to its seasonal “bistro” style food – it seemed to be the ideal Portland fine dining experience. It took a while to get there – college students can’t easily afford a meal that easily comes to $50-60 a head (if you’re eating and drinking properly) without tip. And the reservation policy, rare in Portland, makes it near-impossible for the spontaneous Let’s go out to eat trips that most frequently make up my dinners out. I thought about taking my parents there when they were in town, but the small size and super-hip vibe didn’t seem right somehow.

But then, we went. Somehow we were squeezed in (almost) last minute for an early dinner on Saturday, ending up at a table as far away from the open kitchen as possible, delightful nonetheless. Despite its not-much-larger-than-a-closet size, Sel Gris didn’t seem to have a bad table in the house. The sun shone through the ceiling-high windows, reflecting off the steel beams of the interior, making the room almost sparkle.

The buzz of excitement led me to forget not only my camera from my house but also Matt’s camera from the car; however, the small size, close proximity of our neighbors and constant wait staff attention would have made photography uncomfortable. So you’ll have to make due with my words.

We started with the Ris de Veau, veal sweetbreads with “bacon and eggs” – a semi-poached egg encased in batter with bacon bits on the top – and an herb oil. Smaller and daintier than the sweetbreads I ate at Paley’s, these were wonderfully rich when eaten with the runny yolk and fragrant oil. Matt was impressed (he hadn’t had sweetbreads on their own) and was struck by their pungent complexity.

Following the appetizer, I had the soup special – a puree of asparagus and green garlic, poured tableside over sautéed morels and fried onions. While the presentation was beautiful and the body of the soup was deliciously fresh and delicate, I wasn’t sold on the incorporation of the fried onions. The contrast between crunchy and smooth could have been nice, but the soup was so hot that I couldn’t eat it until the onion batter had dissolved into mushy globs at the bottom of the bowl. Next time, perhaps caramelized onions, or simply crispy ones, would be better.

Matt had the asparagus salad with smoked trout, prosciutto, an aioli, and a number of other ingredients. Despite its heavy busy-ness (it probably would have been a better match for a pasta entrée than what Matt actually ordered), the salad was a tasty combination of smokiness and fresh snappy green flavor.

For my entrée, I had the lamb prepared two ways – braised and a quickly grilled rack – served with chickpeas, favas, and a root vegetable puree. The lamb was tender and fragrant, and both methods prepared perfectly. But it was nothing terribly special. Not like Matt’s dish – the duck served with foie gras, artichoke hearts, and peas. Up until this dinner, my duck experience had been limited to bad Chinese restaurants. Overcooked, greasy, stringy. The duck on Saturday, however, was marvelous. Served almost rare, with the crispy, fatty skin on top, it was like slicing into a petit filet, but with the flavor of the best dark poultry meat. Bites containing bits of fat and foie were the best – rich, buttery, satisfying. I am now a duck convert.

And, finally, despite being underwhelmed by the dessert selections, we decided to order the Napoleon. Bright local strawberries were layered between crisp pastry and crème pâtissière for a clean and fresh end to the meal.

The next night (my last in Portland) came with the goal of eating up all the fresh vegetables I had bought the other day when I lost self-control at New Seasons. Matt and I invited Ted and Emmeline over, and we chopped, sliced, and stir-fried our way to dinner. Unfortunately there was no leftover desserts needing to be eaten, and so we scoured the internet for a bakery open late on Sunday nights.

It turns out there is no such place.

Well, at least there is no such place that doesn’t turn into a bar past dinner, and, given Matt’s embarrassingly young age, we were stuck with what seemed like the worst case scenario – Safeway. After fantasizing about Papa Haydn and Piece of Cake, Safeway cakes sound like hell. Artificial, dry, chemically. But they are cakes just the same. Emmeline and I decided to split the “Giant Artisanal Carrot Cake” and Matt and Ted ate some chocolate cherry concoction.

As it turns out, carrot cake is a good choice. Despite the very long list of ingredients, it lacked that grocery-store cake aftertaste and was surprisingly moist and flavorful. Our biggest complaint was the improper ratio of icing to cake, but that is easily remedied with a little self-control. And compared to the boys' dry, flavorless chocolate thing, it was close to great.

Our lesson? Always get the carrot cake.

Decatur

2009-06-02T17:43:00.000-07:00

I have left the land of the West for a visit back home in Georgia.
It's a long plane ride and I'm working on getting over the jet-lag and the heat, but expect news about my last Portland dinners soon (hint - one was super-fancy, and the other was super-not fancy), along with reports from the Decatur Farmer's Market!

Improvisation / New Discoveries

2009-05-29T19:35:00.000-07:00

The other day I was sitting around the house, doing close to nothing when Matt called – Wanna go to Beaverton? Umm… Not exactly my destination of choice, but I had nothing better to do and I hadn’t left the house yet that day, so I decided to tag along. Our mission? Travel agent. Matt is leaving for Russia in about a month to do some work for a professor, and for reasons unbeknownst to me, Reed employs this company’s services even though it is a solid 45 minutes from campus.

Anyhow, the travel thing – not so important here.

When we pulled into the parking lot, I gasped and broke out into a big smile. There it was – a giant Asian grocery store. Called Uwajimaya, this store totally kicks Fubon’s ass. Not only is it actually organized, but it is cleaner, stocks a more succinctly navigatable selection of products, and it has an awesome produce section – shiny even.

I wandered the aisles for a bit before picking up some rice stick, wonton wrappers, and four cute Indian eggplants, thinking all the while about that night’s dinner. Eggplant dumplings? Rice noodle soup with the chicken stock I had sitting on the stove back home? Stir-fry? Ideas, ideas.

On the way back home, we decided to stop at Otto’s for some sausage (they sell a couple varieties in bulk – no casings – that are cheap and tasty). I grabbed ½ pound of the plain pork and headed to the kitchen.

When I base meals around spontaneously purchased ingredients, I usually improvise as I go. Sometimes it works out, sometimes … not so much. Tonight, I had dumplings on the brain. I hadn’t made dumplings since my short stint at the Oregon Country Fair a couple summers back, but I have a pretty good memory, so I went with it. I threw the eggplants in the oven to roast, browned the sausage to render the fat, and then fried a bit of shallots, garlic, and ginger. At the same time, I boiled some water for the rice stick and cut up my giant head of broccoli into slivers. These got a quick stir fry in soy sauce, fish sauce, sesame oil, and siracha. In went the noodles.

Matt came in to help with the dumplings. I get a real sense of joy when faced with such tactile tasks as filling and folding dumplings. It’s the gummy sensation on your hands as you smear water onto the wrappers, the oozing of the filling between your fingers as you mold it into a ball, and the sense of creative accomplishment when you manage to stretch the dough correctly to form a solid seal. The filled dumplings then feel heavy and plump, filled almost to bursting capacity in the palms of your hands when you move them from the counter to the steamer. Not to mention the anticipation that forms in your belly throughout the process.

After a quick steam, I served the dumplings alongside the broccoli-noodle stir-fry, with extra fish sauce for me and siracha for Matt.

Oh yum.

Improvised Eggplant and Sausage Dumplings

(serves two)

4 Indian eggplants, or two Japanese eggplants, or, if you must, one small American eggplant (vastly inferior if you ask me)
¼ pound pork sausage
1 shallot, minced
2 cloves of garlic, minced
about 1 teaspoon fresh ginger, minced
a tablespoon or so chopped fresh basil
salt
Wonton wrappers

Prick the eggplants with a toothpick and roast them in a 375°-400°-ish oven until they are cooked through and the skins are beginning to blacken.

Meanwhile, cook the sausage in a skillet over medium heat until browned and some of the fat has rendered. Set aside in a paper-towel lined bowl to drain. Reserve some of the fat (however much you want, I suppose. I used a nonstick skillet, so I didn’t need much). Cook the shallot in the same pan with a pinch of salt, again over medium heat (5 minutes or so), until translucent, and then add the garlic and ginger until fragrant (about a minute). Remove from heat until the eggplants are done cooking.

Once the eggplants are fully roasted, remove the skins (carefully – they’re hot!) and chop up the flesh. Add this back into the skillet along with the sausage and cook for about a minute, until the flavors have melded. Season to taste. Remove from heat and add the basil.

To assemble the dumplings, clean off a counter (this is an issue at my house, but it might not be at yours) and fill a small bowl with water. Place one wrapper on the counter, dip your fingertips in the water, and lightly wet the edges. Mound about a tablespoon of filling in the center of the wrapper (the more ball shaped you can make this, the easier the wonton will seal). Fold two opposite corners together and pinch all the edges together. You can get fancy here and attempt pleats or pointy folds, but the most important part is a solid seal on the edges.

Place a steamer basket in a pot filled with about an inch of water (just make sure that the water doesn’t come up to the level of the basket) and bring it to a simmer. Add as many dumplings as fit, but make sure that they don’t touch. Cover the pot and steam for 3-5 minutes, or until the wrapper is no longer gummy.

Serve with your sauce of choice and noodles, stir-fry, or some other improvised dish.

And if you have any left over sausage, as I did, mix it in with leftover noodles and more siracha for the Matt Special:

(I think my bowl is more appealing...)

The Meat Project

2009-05-27T14:49:00.001-07:00

It started with Nicky’s USA.

A couple weeks ago, Isaac suggested that we go check out this butcher near Burnside that supplies meat products to nearby restaurants. Of course I couldn’t pass up such an experience, and, assuming that he knew what he was talking about, I enthusiastically agreed. It wasn’t until last week, once our families left, that we actually began to plan the trip.

We decided to go last Wednesday, and the night before got together to look for ideas. Isaac left a post on my Facebook wall: let's look through my A16 cookbook tonight if you have time. A16 is Isaac’s favorite (perhaps the only book he uses?). It is beautiful, and holds many recipes for many types of meat. But I had just bought A Platter of Figs and was eager to look through it as well. In fact, I had been eying one particular spring recipe involving lamb that I wanted to try out. So I grabbed a pile of my books and headed over to his house. We sat down and thumbed through a few pages. Our conversation went something like this:

Let’s make lamb Isaac. It’s my favorite meat to eat once it gets warm. Tastes like summer.

I hate lamb.

Come on. It’s delicious.

I’ve been wanting to try this goat recipe [points at a recipe from A16]. What about that?

It’s braised. It’s too warm for braising.

I love braising.

I suggested a couple of other things, including the lamb from Platter of Figs, but Isaac kept coming back to the goat. Not really wanting to pick a fight, I conceded, and we moved to the Nicky’s website to check on prices.

Goat is too expensive. Don’t know why, but for the cut we wanted, it was going to come to something like 50 dollars. Neither of us wanted to pay that much. Isaac sighed.

Lamb was cheaper. And a good substitute for goat in the recipe. Yes! I thought. Just what I wanted! We agreed to go the next afternoon, leaving enough time for a proper salt of the meat before the party on Saturday. It seemed like a great plan.

Isaac and Matt picked me up the next afternoon and we drove into the bowels of the Southeast industrial district, passing warehouse after warehouse. When we finally located Nicky’s, we saw that there was no storefront, no real entrance save for the loading docks. We drove around the block and parked. Isaac pulled out his iPhone to call them, but first looked more carefully at the website: No walk-in orders. $125 minimum. Whoops. So much for Nicky’s USA.

Next resort: New Seasons. Their meat is still very good, usually local, and butchered in the store. After two checks in the back of the store and a conversation with the butcher, we finally got what we wanted – 5 and half pounds of on-the-bone lamb shoulder.

We lugged it back to my house, cut into the fat, and salted the hell out of it:

On Saturday I went to the Eastmoreland Market for San Marzanos (they are one of the few places that sell the good ones) and other goodies, and then we trekked up to the Portland Farmer’s Market for last minute vegetables – asparagus and chard:

I don’t know how I feel about the PFM – there are certainly lots of things to see and eat, but it’s a bit overwhelming. I tend to prefer the smaller markets, like Moreland or Milwaukie, where you can remember which stand had the freshest strawberries and the greenest greens. The food we bought was delicious, but I’m sure I could have gotten just as good produce from somewhere less stressful.

Anyway, we spent the next few hours cooking and cleaning – I got the lamb in the oven and worked on four different pizza appetizers:

Red Potato Pizza with Leeks, Manchego, and Arugula

Basil-Walnut Pesto Pizza with Sun-dried Tomatoes, Garlic, and Parmesan

Gorgonzola Pizza with Cremini Mushrooms and Cherry Tomatoes

Asparagus Pizza with Parmesan, Basil, and Garlic

Isaac went on a beer mission and then cooked the chard with a tomato-anchovy sofrito to serve with the lamb. Some of the guests generously brought other things to eat as well, like Robin’s killer cardamom caramel brownies:

Everything tasted awesome. The lamb especially. Cooked slowly for four hours in a mixture of its own rendered fat, tomatoes, garlic, rosemary, and cinnamon, we probably couldn’t have gone wrong. We couldn’t move it out of the pot without the roast completely falling apart. It even converted a few non-lamb eaters, Isaac included, and disappeared in a matter of minutes.

(chard dish in the foreground, lamb in the background)

Lamb Shoulder with Tomatoes, White Wine, and Rosemary
(adapted from A16)

5 ½ pounds on-the-bone lamb shoulder
about 2 tablespoons kosher salt
¼ cups olive oil
3 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed with a knife
2 sprigs rosemary
2 cups dry white wine (we forgot to buy this, so we used a left-over pino gris, which worked alright)
28-oz San Marzano tomatoes
½ teaspoon cinnamon

The night before cooking, make a series of cuts in the shoulder, especially in the top layer of fat, and rub the kosher salt all over the lamb. Wrap the lamb in a plastic bag and put it in the fridge.

The next day, take the lamb out to come to room temperature as you prepare the rest of the braise.

Preheat the oven to 275°. Heat the olive oil over medium heat in a 5-qt (or larger) Dutch oven. Add the garlic and cook for 5-10 minutes, until soft and browned. Add the rosemary and the wine. Bring to a simmer and reduce the wine almost completely (this can take quite a while – be patient). Walk by the stove several times and smell. It’s awesome.

Once the wine is reduced, add the tomatoes and cinnamon. Bring to a boil and then remove from heat. Squeeze the lamb into the pot and spoon some of the mixture over the top. Cover with the lid and stick in the oven. Let the meat braise for 3½ to 4 hours, or until the meat is super tender and falling off the bone. Again, I recommend checking on it every hour or so, just to pull off the lid and smell.

Once the meat is done cooking, move the pot to the stove. Take the lamb out the best you can and remove the meat from the bones and return it to the pot. Stir everything together and serve to a group of hungry post-college students.

Happy Memorial Day!

2009-05-25T12:29:00.001-07:00

Enjoy the sun.
Eat food.
Be happy!

I'll be back tomorrow ... with lamb!

Food + Drinks / Paley's Place

2009-05-22T17:44:00.000-07:00

Last Monday at a graduation barbeque, some of my friends and I were reminiscing on the last time we finished school, 18 years old, ready to leave home for the giant adventure that was college. This feels kind of like that, we thought. Except with more drinking.

Indeed, drinking was the constant throughout the weekend – the one cure-all for those awkward moments when you realize that you just introduced your grandmother to that guy you “know” from that party three years ago. Yes, Grandma, this is my … friend… Yeah… Somehow everything seems just a bit calmer, or more funny even, with a glass of wine in your hand.

Of course, we had to do something to soak up all the extra booze.

My parents and grandmother arrived last Friday evening, starving from a day of flying. Originally we were going to cook dinner that night, but they were so hungry that we jumped off to Por Que No? for tacos and margaritas. Por Que No? is a pseudo cantina-type restaurant that opened up a second location near my house about a year ago. They mostly serve tacos, although there are a couple of salad type options and they have tamale specials as well. And strong margaritas. I tried these for the first time a couple weeks ago with Katie and Sarah to celebrate the end of our theses. I ordered a large, and drank it with one of the aforementioned salads. It wasn’t until I was firing off arbitrary Facebook wall posts two hours later that I realized how much tequila was actually in those drinks.

Anyway, this time I came prepared (except for my camera – whoops!) and ordered a small to go with my pescado taco and veggie taco. My mom and dad had the carne asada and the carnitas, and my grandmother ordered Bryan’s bowl, a massive container of beans and rice, meat, salsa, and cheese. We also had the guac and chips (not free). My tacos were good – I love the way they crust their fish in a cornmeal batter and serve it with mango salsa on the pescado. I tried my mom’s carne asada, tasty as well, with just the right amount of spice. Really, though, the best part of Por Que No? is the guac and chips. They fry their own tortilla chips in house and their quac is mostly just avocado – with none of that extra stuff to cover up the creamy subtly of the fruit. I could probably eat just that for dinner.

The next day Ben and Arthur arrived and we ate our official celebratory meal at Paley’s Place in Northwest. I had wanted to try the restaurant for years (readers of the New York Times dining section will no doubt recognize the name, as the restaurant was praised as one of the top in the country a couple years ago), but it’s a bit out my poor student budget to eat there properly. It’s perfect for visiting parents.

We had an early (6:30) reservation to better accommodate my grandmother, and then even showed up 20 minutes early. They went ahead and seated us at the table and we all enjoyed cocktails (I had a gin gimlet with local Aviation – crisp and refreshing after a long hot day), bread, and an amuse bouche of caprese salad:

The flavors were all spot-on – the best of tomatoes, basil, goat cheese, and balsamic, but the mouthfeel lacked contrast; it was a little too consistently mushy.

Arthur wanted to pick out the wine (surprise, surprise), but when he looked at the menu realized that he needed his glasses (I left them at home dear, style is more important than sight). Our waiter needed little more than to see his discomfort to bring over a box of glasses collected from forgetful guests. Arthur picked out a pair speckled with rhinestones. Stylish.

Anyhow, my mother can’t drink red wines, so we started with a bottle of white Burgundy (can’t remember the name!) – not too sweet, but with enough body to hold up to our varied dishes. This bottle lasted us through appetizers and part way through our entrees, and then we ordered a cleaner, crisper Cassis from Provence (Clos Ste. Magdeleine). This embodied my favorite type of wine – very dry and citrusy – and I probably drank more than my fair share, as you will see later.

As far as food goes, we started with salads and charcuterie:

(starting from top, going clockwise) Roasted Beets with horseradish cream, George’s Gathered Greens with lemon and olive oil, Wine-cured Prosciutto, Coppa, and Testarossa. Everything on this plate was awesome, especially the Testarossa. We ordered it before asking what it was – turns out its pickled meat from the pig’s head. Very fatty but very flavorful. My mother asked the waiter for an explanation of its flavor profile and he offered, There are so many ingredients, it would be hard to name them all. He did actually say that he has requested the ingredients from the chef and could do it again, but we didn’t push it.

We all ordered different entrees (half-orders, so we could eat more desserts!) and shared. I had heard great things about the Sweetbreads, which came fried with bacon-braised black lentils, wilted greens, and house ham:

I had never had sweetbreads before, and these certainly didn’t disappoint. They reminded all of us of pork belly, in that they were very fatty and kind of chewy, but they also had an almost footy flavor, like a good mushroom or a complex cheese. The lentils and greens were delicious as well, especially in a bite with the meat.

Ben had a Pork Roast with apples:

Quite good, if a bit obvious, and the only entrée that didn’t come in half-portions.

My grandmother had the Risotto with spring peas, carrots, Parmesan, and mint butter, which I didn’t get to try or photograph because, well, she’s my grandmother and it would have been awkward.

Arthur had the Rabbit Ravioli with snow morels, fava beans, and bacon:

I love love love rabbit and pasta combinations (maybe for the same reason I think croquettes are the perfect vehicle for oxtail – they prevent the meat from being simply a stringy blob), and I can’t say no to fresh beans of any sort, so I of course enjoyed this quite a bit.

My father had the Heirloom Bean and vegetable cassoulet:

The best part about this dish (it tasted good, but was a little boring) was that it came in its own miniature Le Cruset Dutch oven, and we know how appreciative I am of well-used miniature restaurant dishes.

My mother ordered the fish special, Halibut with fennel and greens of some kind (didn't write it down and it's not online!):

At this point in the evening I was … a bit tipsy and pretty food-drunk, and I thought that it made sense to try to cut a bite from her plate while it was balanced on the edge of the table. Right. No sooner had I sliced my knife into her food that the plate tipped and crashed onto the floor:

Clatter and laughter ensued. My face turned crimson, and when the waiter came over to see what the ruckus was, my parents joked about how I had had so much wine because I was about to graduate. I didn’t hear them, so I told him the same thing five minutes later. Whoops. Embarrassing.

Luckily, my mom got a new piece of fish, which was apparently better than the first, and all was right with the world.

Earlier in the evening, when we walked into the restaurant, we had admired the cheese cart, and so, well into our second bottle of wine, we decided to order cheese as well as four desserts:

Sticking with the French theme, we had (from top, going clockwise) Fourme d’Ambert, a Paley’s Bar, Tomme Brulee, and Valençay Cendre. I don’t know too much about cheese, as I am lactose intolerant and so only eat it when in situations like this one. I, did, however thoroughly enjoy all of these, especially the Fourme d’Ambert. Thinking back on it now, even though I am a huge lover of sweets, I think the meal might have been better if we ended with the cheese course. Not that the desserts were bad in any way. They were just okay. Completely outshone by the rest of the meal. But here they are anyway, for your viewing pleasure:

Coconut Cake with macerated Strawberries and Panna Cotta

Warm Chocolate Soufflé Cake with Toasted Hazelnuts and Honey-Vanilla Ice Cream

Almond Torte with Rhubarb Compote and Mascarpone Ice Cream

Crème Brulée, with a candle for me

Oh, and as if the night wasn't excessive enough at this point, we all ordered some type of digestif. I shared Clear Creek Pear Brandy with Ben.

Delicious.

Miniature Pepper Grinders / Toro Bravo

2009-05-20T11:19:00.000-07:00

Most of my eating in the last few days has centered on graduation and was funded in large part by my family (Thanks mom and dad!). Before they arrived, though, my house (plus Dave, minus Stephen, who so rudely opted to have dinner with his chemistry lab instead of us) went out to Toro Bravo to celebrate the end of finals.

Toro Bravo is one of my absolute favorite restaurants in Portland. It’s a tapas restaurant, famed not only for its food, but its no-reservation policy, popularity (Mark Bittman wrote about it!), and thus long waits. Luckily they also have an excellent wine list (mostly Spanish, focusing on the Basque region) and inventive cocktails. There’s also an awesome bar upstairs (more on that in a minute) that’ll let you know when your table is ready. I love the place not only because (almost) everything that I have eaten there has been outstanding, but also because I believe that tapas-style is the best way to eat. I love to share food, and I love to have food shared with me. There’s something so comforting about a communal table; not only do you get to taste so much more food, but you can talk about it.

They also have cute miniature Peugeot pepper grinders (note the picture at the top) on the table to go with the little mise bowls of kosher salt. The attention to small details such as this one is another reason why I love this restaurant. Not only can you season your food properly at the table (no need for a server’s assistance), the aesthetics of the condiments made the meal even more pleasant. Catherine was particularly enamored with the size. She even talked about borrowing one – permanently.

Anyway, I think that the best way to eat at Toro Bravo is to bring all of your friends. I did that for my birthday and we were able to eat our way through almost the entire menu. This time our group was smaller, so unfortunately I didn’t get to try as much of the new menu items (they change daily/seasonally) as I would have liked.

We started with drinks while we waited – I had the Sage Seville (kind of a gin and tonic with sage and mint added, strange but very good), Catherine and Dave shared a lemoncello and cherry concoction, and Andrew had water (He had been up all night finishing finals. Later he ended up with their version of a margarita). Once we sat down, we were greeted with roasted chickpeas. I change my opinion about these snacks every time I go there. Sometimes I eat a couple, realize that I hate how hard they are, and stop. Other times, like last Thursday, they are the perfect salty accompaniment to my drink.

After contemplating the menu for a while, we settled on the pickled vegetables and olives to start and the following:*

Duck Liver Mousse Terrine with house-made mustard and pickles

This was awesome. Andrew and I ate most of it because it made Catherine squeamish and it was far away from Dave on the table. The liver mouse was airy enough to not be overwhelming, but still decadently rich (it was wrapped in bacon – not on the menu!). The spicy mustard alongside helped to balance the fattiness of the mousse and the pickles lent a nice sour touch at the end.

Grilled Radicchio Salad with green olive toast and Manchego vinaigrette

I rarely eat radicchio on its own, mostly because I don’t think about it, but now maybe I will, as long as it’s with Manchego. I’ve already talked about my love for this cheese, and this salad was another place in which it shined. It mellowed out the radicchio in a way that didn’t hide the bitter flavor, but instead brought it into harmony with the subtle sharpness of the cheese. The olive toast didn’t do much for me – it tasted good, but seemed a little out of place on the plate.

Sautéed Spinach with pine nuts and raisins

Sweet, buttery, green – a solid side that added much needed color to the meal.

Moroccan Tuna with dried cherry couscous

Catherine’s favorite. I thought the couscous outshone the tuna (this tuna was cooked through, and I prefer mine raw or rare), but I always love fruity grain pilafs.

Oxtail Croquettes with spice roasted chili mayonnaise

I am obsessed with this dish. The croquette, I think is the perfect vehicle for such a strange meat. They pop in your mouth – the cornmeal crust gives way to just the right amount of batter surrounding the shredded, braised meat. The mayonnaise on top cools the bite down a bit (you still have to be careful though: Catherine burned her tongue), and then later mixes in with the excess juices to provide a savory vehicle for extra bread eating. We had to shoo the waitresses each time they tried to clear the dish away.

For dessert, we shared the Churros and Chocolate: Spanish donuts, coated in cinnamon, served with an espresso cup filled with melted, just ever so slightly sweetened chocolate. Decadent, but yummy. When I came here for my birthday, they stuck a candle in one of the donuts. It was comical.

It was early when we finished dinner, so we decided to go upstairs to the Secret Society for another drink. Apparently the bar was the home of several secret societies in the past; now they specialize in old-school cocktails, each with a date of conception on the menu. The atmosphere is upscale without being intimidating – I feel more mature in there, but definitely not out of place.

It was crowded so we sat at the bar. As it turns out, it was a great decision. We struck up conversation with the bartender and he gave us lots of samples. One we tried – the Green Flash – I'll have to go back again and order. It's main ingredient is a white rum, which I don't normally enjoy, but mixed with Chartreuse (hence the name), it had an intriguing floral flavor that wasn't too sweet.

Catherine and Dave split another drink – an Irish coffee, which was beautiful but took a long time to concoct.

Andrew and I both ordered the Corpse Reviver #2 – my new favorite drink. It consists of a delicate balance of Aviation gin, Lillet Blanc, Cointreau, lemon juice, and Trillium absinthe – a strong yet not overpowering anise flavor from the gin and absinthe shone through the distinctive tartness of the lemon and Cointreau. We’re going to try to recreate it, as soon as we can get our hands on some Lillet (harder to find than you think – anyone know a store that carries it?).

Buzzed, full, and happy, I returned home to clean the house and get ready for the weekend.

*You’ll have to forgive the inconsistent photo quality here. It’s the first time I tried to take food pictures in a restaurant and wasn’t sure about the flash, etc. Squinting helps.

Epic Eating

2009-05-20T11:13:00.000-07:00

I did it. Graduated. An overwhelming experience in itself, the ceremony ended up taking a backseat to all of the other parties and planning and family interacting over the weekend. Of course, we also ate. A lot. It was epic.

I’m still pretty full from all of it, in fact, and have retreated to light salad territory probably for the rest of the week (good thing the Moreland farmer’s market is today!). For the next couple days, I’ll recount the ups and downs of the weekend – you won’t want to read it all in one post anyway.

Loose Ends

2009-05-14T17:31:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I realized that the end of college is actually a long string of endings – finishing classes finishing the thesis, burning the thesis, passing orals, finishing finals –leading up to the big one – graduation, which for Reed is this Monday. I’ve spent the last few days tying up loose ends – binding my thesis, clearing off my library desk, paying my printing fees and overdue fines, selling back all the books I thought I’d want but now I’d rather trade in for money.

My parents arrive tomorrow, and a lot of great eating will ensue (stay posted!). For now, though, here are some loose ends from the week:

- I found not-too-expensive early raspberries at Trader Joe’s the other day. I cannot resist raspberries – ever. I ate half the container when I got home. The next morning I baked the rest into muffins with walnuts and gifted them to Matt and my hungry finals-ing housemates.

- I went to Café Castagna for dinner the other night with Matt. I had heard nothing but raves about it, and so I was very excited to eat there. We had a pork liver pâté appetizer, and then he had a burger and I had a white bean and rapini stew with chorizo. The pâté was tasty, but my entrée was way too salty. Matt’s burger was slightly over cooked, and he said the last time he was there his fries were way too salty too. I couldn’t help feeling disappointed when we left. Not only was my stomach full from such a heavy meal, but that salt – uh. I love salt, but never so much that you can taste it.

- The Moreland Farmer’s market opened yesterday! It was too rainy and cold to mill around too much, but I bought some delicious honey Greek yogurt, leeks, pea shoots, and this:

I made some green soup a la Orangette and served it with a bit of Manchego on top and roasted carrots on the side. It fed all of my housemates with no leftovers.

- Leftover salmon makes a lovely substitute for steak in my improvised Thai salad:

I mixed together baby greens, extra spinach, and a chiffonade of basil (however much looks right). Into that goes red onion or shallot sliced into very thin moons, diced cucumber, and the salmon (if I had had red pepper and/or left-over blanched veggies, that would have gone in as well). If you aren’t allergic to peanuts like I am, I imagine that a small handful of chopped toasted peanuts would be good on this as well. To make the dressing, I whisked together rice vinegar, lime juice, siracha, salt, and pepper, and then drizzled in a bit of sesame oil followed by olive oil. Dress the salad lightly and eat immediately.

On salad dressings: I always make my dressings to taste and on the fly, so they are always different. If you’re making your own, start with your acidic base and then add oil until it tastes right to you. If you want your dressing to be fully emulsified (most of the time I don’t really care), try making it in a small screw-top jar. You just dump everything in and shake vigorously until combined. It’s much easier and less messy than using a whisk. Also, it is already in a storage container if you make more than you need.

praline leftovers

2009-05-12T14:02:00.000-07:00

Praline crumbs are not chocolate chips. They don’t look like chocolate chips, taste like chocolate chips, and most certainly don’t behave like chocolate chips when mixed into cookie dough and baked.

Praline crumbs melt and ooze and become a sticky, burnt, delicious mess.

When I made pralines for my orals board, I didn’t buy enough pecans, so I ended up with a large vat of nut-free praline candy. Not one to waste, I spread it out on a baking dish, let it cool, and then broke it into bite-sized chunks. Trying it later that day, I realized why pralines contain pecans. So sweet! Catherine said that she had to spit it out. But, after all the effort of making the candy, I couldn’t throw it away, so packed it up in a cookie tin. I’d would find a use for it at some point.

On Saturday, when I was brainstorming ideas for a treat to take to an end-of-the-year Dance Troupe party, it hit me – whole wheat oatmeal cookies. Not too sweet in themselves, they seemed the perfect vehicle for my sugar chunks. I’d just break up the pieces, stir them in, and bake as normal. Right.

The dough seemed promising: the pralines folded right in without breaking up too much, and if I ignored the taste of the raw dry oats, the sweetness seemed to be perfectly balanced. I thought I was being clever when I generously spaced out my first batch on my cookie sheet. I figured they would expand a little more than usual. Right.

I checked on the cookies after about 10 minutes and burst out laughing. Instead of being small, round, sugary poofs, the cookies had basically become childhood models of the planet Saturn – a misshapen glob of oatmeal mush surrounded by a huge disk of burnt sugar, oozing and bubbling all over the place. I quickly grabbed a spatula and scraped the melted sugar on top of the oatmeal globs as best as possible and let them set for a couple minutes before moving onto a cooling rack. Guys, these cookies were ugly. Not rustic, cute ugly. Ugly-ugly. Definitely not party-worthy.

Still not thinking clearly, I dumped some of the dough into four small ceramic dishes and put these in the oven. The dishes kept the sugar from oozing (I love this word ooze. It’s just so … appropriate), but there was just too much dough in there, and they collapsed in on themselves, in a kind of miserably-failed-soufflé kind of way. And, after they had cooled, they were stuck to the edges and crumbling, so by the time I got the “cookies” out of the dishes, they looked less like cookies and more like large, glorified crumbs.

But I had enough dough left for one more batch. I actually stopped to think about what I was doing. I spread the rest of the dough into a large-ish aluminum bread pan, so that it was about ½-inch thick. I put it in the oven and crossed my fingers.

Success! The pan was large enough and the cookies were thin enough that they didn’t collapse in the middle. And, since they weren’t as thick, I could move them out of the pan soon enough so that they wouldn’t stick (could’ve lined the pan with parchment, too, but that would have required a little more forethought). I cut them into small bars and put them proudly on a plate. Not only good looking, they were tasty as well. The pralines had disappeared into the oatmeal, leaving behind crevices of sugar-lined goodness, adding just enough sweetness to enrich the whole wheat nuttiness of the base.

They were all but gone in about 15 minutes at the party. Katie said that she ate 5 herself. I left the mistakes (still delicious, if hideous) at home, and they were gone by the next morning.

Oatmeal Praline Cookies
(loosely adapted from Mark Bittman)

1 stick unsalted butter, at room temperature
½ cup brown sugar, loosely packed
scant ½ cup white sugar
2 eggs (I substituted an oil, baking powder, and water mixture, but only because I was out of eggs)
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup all-purpose flour
½ cup whole wheat flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/8 teaspoon kosher salt
2 cups rolled (not instant) oats
About a cup chopped up pralines (I used Martha again, but you could use left-overs from any simple cream and sugar based mixture)
Sea salt to taste (I used pink Himalayan, but you could use anything you think tastes good)

Preheat oven to 375°. Line a baking dish (brownie pan, sheet pan, bread pan, or the like) with parchment.

Using an electric mixer or a wooden spoon with a strong arm, cream the butter and sugars in a large bowl until it is well mixed, fluffy, and begins to lighten in color. This will take a couple of minutes. Be patient. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well to incorporate. Mix in the vanilla.

Sift together the dry ingredients in another bowl. Gradually add to the butter mixture on low speed, just until incorporated. Fold in the chopped pralines.

Spread the dough into the baking dish to about ½-inch thick. Make multiple batches if you have more dough than will fit, but make sure that you use enough so that the dough reaches all of the edges of the pan (otherwise you’ll end up with a sugar mess!). Sprinkle sea salt over the top, as much as you like. I like a lot. Sea salt is delicious, especially on baked goods.

Bake for about 10 minutes, or until the cookie is golden and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out semi-clean (no one likes overcooked cookies; aim for them to be a little mushy). Let the cookie cool in the pan until set, and then move carefully to a cooling rack. Once completely cool, slice into bars and take to a party with lots of hungry dancers.

food shopping/eating in the sun

2009-05-10T13:08:00.000-07:00

My friend Janet goes food shopping. At the food store. I used to think that she was so strange, to talk about the grocery store in such a way. The grocery stores of my childhood sell so much more than food–pharmaceuticals, shampoo, dog toys, bank accounts. You can outfit almost your whole life at these stores. And I never shopped in Wal Mart. These stores are the Krogers, the Publixes, the A&Ps, the Whole Foods–the stores for everyone. Grocery stores.

And then I moved to Portland. I learned that you could buy your vegetables from one place, your beans from another, and your meat from still another. It takes longer, and you have to walk farther, but shopping changes. It becomes a scavenger hunt, a quest for the best. It is fun.

It is food shopping.

My favorite food store is the Eastmoreland Market. A few blocks from my house, it is both my last minute, I need flour to bake this cake I already started place, and my 3 in the afternoon, wandering the aisles looking for dinner inspiration place. They stock super local produce, cure their own bacon, and make delicious sandwiches. They import delicious fancy treats from Italy and Spain to hide in my pantry for a particularly cold and rainy day. They sell the best chocolate (raw, 82%, smooth, not sweet, with just the right amount of bitterness). They are tiny, they are family owned, and they are expensive. I usually don’t mind spending the extra two dollars though, to support the owners, and to support myself. Shopping there makes me unfathomably happy.

Earlier this week, I had to defend my senior thesis in front of four of my professors. At Reed, it is tradition that seniors “bribe” their orals board with food, drinks, and gimmicks. Since my thesis was partially about the South, I made pecan pralines (more on the fate of these later) and galettes–one with peaches, and one, just because it was in season, with rhubarb. Of course I made extra dough.

In a celebration of the completion of my thesis, I went to the Market for treats in which to fill the extra dough. Spring has finally come to Portland, and the produce section, across the back wall of the store, was overflowing with green. Spring lettuce, asparagus, and artichokes. Beautiful. I bought some of everything that tasted good (they encourage sampling!), Manchego, and a chocolate bar for later. Walking home, I crafted the galettes in my head…

I spent my afternoon working on these, rolling the dough, caramelizing the onions, standing by the oven savoring the changing smells wafting through the kitchen. Avery came over later and we ate them on my deck, in the much-needed sunshine, with a red-leaf salad.

The first galette – asparagus, blanched and then lined up in rows, sprinkled with sun-dried tomatoes (dry-packed, never in oil!) and the last of my Parmigiano-Reggiano – fell a little flat. I think it needed something creamier; maybe a goat cheese would have been better. It certainly was beautiful though.

The second galette was heaven. I used the cornmeal paté brisée, and filled it with the tiniest golden fingerling potatoes, sliced thinly into rounds, the Manchego layered into the potatoes, and covered with caramelized onions (a mixture of a Walla Walla sweet, a cipollini, and a baby red). Right after it came out of the oven, I scattered on a bunch of gardencress (a newly-discovered delight; Andrew said that it tasted like mushrooms, I found it to be a developed peppery mustard) and let it wilt. I don’t know if I’ve ever made something more delicious. At one creamy and flaky, sweet and bitter, with a whiff of sharpness from the cheese, made even better when eaten outside, with your hands.

Sunshine Galette

½ recipe cornmeal paté brisée (from Martha Stewart)
About 1 ½ cups assorted onions, sliced into very thin half-moons
A large handful fingerling potatoes
About ¼ cup Manchego cheese, grated (mine was young, aged only about 3 months, so it was still somewhat soft)
About ½ to ¾ cup gardencress, or maybe arugula, or another strong-flavored green, washed
Kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper

Caramelize the onions slowly over a low flame. This should take around an hour. You want them to be sweet and turning golden brown, but certainly not burnt. Stir every once in awhile to make sure they don’t burn or stick. I cooked them in olive oil, but they would certainly be delicious in butter as well. I never know the best time to salt the onions, so I gave them a generous pinch about halfway through cooking.

While the onions are cooking, wash and slice the potatoes as thinly as possible. I wish I had a mandoline, but I don’t yet (this would make a nice graduation present, hint hint), so I made do with a sharp knife. Salt generously and set aside.

Wash the gardencress, and discard any wilted or brown leaves.

Flour a clean countertop and roll out the crust dough (this should have been sitting in the fridge for a couple of hours chilling, if you’re making it the day-of, but you can make it ahead up to a couple days, as long as its well-wrapped). Since the galette is free-form, the crust can be any shape you want, but make sure that it is nice and thin, somewhere between 1/8- and ¼-inch. Carefully move to a parchment lined baking sheet. Depending on the fragility of the dough, I either fold it in half (if it is nice and strong), and pick it up gently to move it, or I roll it up on the rolling pin, and then unroll it onto the pan (this works better than folding if the dough is especially delicate). Cover the crust and refrigerate until the ingredients are ready.

Heat the oven to about 375°.

Once the onions are cooked, pat the potatoes dry with paper towels, and season them with pepper. Arrange the potatoes on the crust, leaving about an inch of crust on all sides. I did this in two layers, alternating with the cheese, but you should arrange them in whatever way makes you the most excited. Top the potatoes with the onions. I made enough for a generous mound. Gently fold the crust edges up over the potatoes and onions, folding and pressing with your fingers to seal when necessary. This is supposed to look rustic, so don’t worry about uniformity.

Bake the galette for about 20-30 minutes, or until the crust is golden brown and all of the insides are bubbling and golden. The onions on top will get crispy, but this is a good thing. Once it is done, move the pan to a cooling rack and immediately top with the gardencress. Let cool to room temperature before cutting into four pieces. Eat with your hands while sitting outside.