Rural Eating

Anything Strata

2012-01-14T09:36:00.000-08:00

Here's a formula for making a savory bread pudding with whatever you have on hand.

Five years ago, I wrote a book proposal on strata, that family of savory and sweet bread puddings that are frugal, adaptable and universally loved.

It never sold. I'm happy that I didn't have to recipe test 70 strata recipes--that would be a lot of bready meals. (Sometimes rejection is a good thing).

The experience did give me the foundation for producing strata at the drop of a hat. And I discovered that I prefer savory bread puddings to sweet ones. (I call them all strata because they're built in layers.)

What I love about dinner strata, apart from its economy, is its versatility. For seasonal cooks that means you can make strata any time of the year using whatever vegetable is in abundance. For last Sunday's Slow Food potluck, I made one with roasted butternut squash, a vegetable I have aplenty.

At this time of year, use whatever's in cold storage or the freezer to dream up a strata based on this formula (or skip to the recipe). It's a great way to keep eating local whenever you're stuck here in the veggie doldrums of winter.

There are only three parts to a savory strata:
Part 1: The Bread
Some recipes say to cut off the crusts. If you want to get fancy (see Bonus, below) or are making a sweet strata for dessert, then by all means trim off the crusts. But I like the textural contrast of more and less chew--and not wasting bread. In fact, I collect crusts and loaf ends in my freezer just for the purposes of making a strata. I tear the bread, generally--unless I want more uniformity, and then I cut--before toasting until crisp. 8 to 10 slices nicely fills a 9-by-13-inch baking dish.

Part 2: The Custard
This is a no-fuss mixture of milk and eggs. I use a proportion of roughly 2 eggs to 1 cup of milk. To add richness, replace a portion of milk with half and half or heavy cream and include an extra egg yolk. Or, to lighten it up, substitute vegetable or chicken broth. Season each cup of milk with 1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt, plus any other herbs or spices you like. If you want to check the flavorings, but are concerned about salmonella, mix up the milk with the seasonings and taste before you add the eggs. 2 1/2 cups of custard brings enough moisture to the standard baking dish and yields a crispy top once baked.

Part 3: The Flavorful Filling
This is where you get creative. Anything goes and in any quantity, leftovers included. The only guidelines are to use combinations that appeal to you, generally 2 to 3 ingredients, and make certain that they taste great on their own. Most ingredients need to be cooked in advance, especially any leafy greens, mushrooms or ground meats.

For my butternut squash strata, I roasted the squash in olive oil, salt and pepper and ground dried rosemary, and tasted it to be sure it was well seasoned. With cooked greens, such as spinach or kale, I like to add freshly grated nutmeg or red pepper flakes along with the salt. Go with your gut.

Finally, while strata is the ideal use for that hunk of dried-up cheese, know that cheese is optional.*
Anywhere from 1 to 3 cups of added vegetables and meats plus 1 to 3 cups of cheese produces a strata with interesting variety and flavors.

Bonus: Getting Fancy
I'm certain you've seen them on restaurant menus. So, how do you dress them up? It's easy. Cut the bread nice and even (without the crusts, see "bread" above), enrich the filling with half and half or cream and include out-of-the ordinary ingredients, such as wild mushrooms, crab, or leeks. Bake the strata in individual ramekins (reducing the baking time by 10 to 15 minutes) or use a round cutter to cut servings from a standard baking dish. The presentation is quite nice!

Here's a family supper or brunch strata recipe from the cookbook that was never written:
Recipe: Whole Wheat Strata with Ham, Corn, Scallions and Cheddar

*For a completely dairy-free bread pudding, try one of these panade recipes I published in Relish.

Recipe: Ham & Cheddar Whole Wheat Strata

2012-01-14T08:24:00.000-08:00

Whole Wheat Strata with Ham, Corn, Scallions & Cheddar
Makes 8 to 10 servings

8 ½-inch slices of crusty whole wheat country bread

2 1/2 cups whole or skim milk

4 large eggs

1 heaping tablespoon spicy brown mustard or Dijon

1 teaspoon salt

Pinch cayenne

4 to 6 ounces sliced ham or Canadian bacon, cut into roughly 2-inch squares

2 cups (1 10-ounce bag) frozen corn kernels

1 bunch scallions, chopped

3 cups grated sharp or extra-sharp cheddar cheese

1. Preheat theoven to 350 degrees F. Tear or cut the bread into bite-sized pieces. Placethem in a single layer on a large baking sheet and toast until crisp and beginning to brown, about 10 minutes.

2. Whisk the milk, eggs, mustard, salt, and cayenne until smooth in a large measuring cup to make the custard.
3. Toss the ham, corn, scallions, and 2 cups of the cheese with the bread in a large mixing bowl until well distributed.

4. Butter or oil a9-by-13-inch glass baking dish. Transfer the bread mixture into the baking dish and pour over the custard over it. Cover with plastic wrap and weight with a gallon-sized resealable plasticbag filled with rice or beans. Press down to submerge the bread. Let the stratasoak for at least 30 minutes at room temperature or up to 2 days in therefrigerator.

5. If thestrata was chilled, let it stand at room temperature for 30 minutes beforebaking. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F and remove the weights and plasticwrap. Sprinkle onthe remaining cheddar cheese. Bake until the strata is puffed, bubbly, and thetop is well browned, 45 to 50 minutes. Cool on a rack for 10 minutes beforeserving.

Practice Makes Pasta (Near) Perfect

2012-01-06T16:58:00.000-08:00

Do you expect to do everything right the first time?

So do I.

This past Monday morning, I was baking for a private dinner that evening. My plan was to make individual chocolate tarts for dessert and the dough (from a recipe I'd never tested, mistake #1) crumbled instead of rolling.

And then what happens when you don't deliver?

In my case, I tend to sling insults at myself and feel like a failure.

I mean, it was only tart dough, but I was cooking for a business group, so it had some import. Plus, I'm supposed to be a professional.

As I made the tart dough again from a professional formula I know and trust, I realized that I haven't exactly had a lot of pastry practice of late. And that, I've come to realize is most of what it takes when it comes to baking and cooking--and just about everything else we do in this life.

I once heard a radio interview with Portland chef Naomi Pomeroy who said, essentially, that what separates professionals from home cooks is that they get a lot more opportunities to practice. Training and experience aside, it's true.

This is why I am dedicating 2012 to practicing all my important things, like writing, yoga, running, parenting and pasta.

Yes, pasta. Fresh, homemade pasta in all its wondrous varieties is something I'd like to be able to do without looking at a book for a recipe or formula. I long to become like that Italian homemaker who simply scoops some flour onto the counter, cracks in a few eggs and eases it all into a dough that she rolls into translucent sheets.

All it will take is doing it more. So that the next time I make butternut squash ravioli, like I did over the holidays, there will be more pleasure and less strain.

This video is a good way to learn the process of making pasta from scratch if you're feeling rusty.

So, what skills do you want to practice well in 2012?

Beef Tenderloin Substitutes

2011-12-29T10:30:00.000-08:00

Want to enjoy a regal roast beef but spend a bit less?

photo by mila0506

Okay, there is no real substitute for the butter-knife tenderness of the most spendy cut of beef. It's making the rounds on a host of food blogs for the upcoming holiday.

In fact, I just got booked for a private dinner slated for January 2nd and I've been on the phone trying to track down a couple of grassfed tenderloins at the last minute.

But, did you know that among the pros--and I'm talking about meat cutters here--tenderloin is never a top pick? Most butchers I've spoken to think the tenderloin is overrated. Certainly, it is pricey, but that doesn't tend to impress them.

This slender cut is the single most tender muscle on a cow because it's a supportive, not an exercised muscle. But, it has a milder flavor than other cuts. Butchers think it's a wimpy cut without any character that makes beef great.

If you're looking at the new year with an eye on your budget like I am, tenderloin may be out of your range. But that does not mean that you can't serve a lovely and impressive beef supper over the New Year's weekend.

Here are some lesser known, more economical and supremely flavorful beef cuts to try:

*Rib-eye roast: This premium cut is popularly known as prime rib and is butchers top pick as the king of beef cuts.

*Top sirloin roast: Sirloin usually ends up as steak, but a center cut chunk of sirloin makes a mighty fine roast.

*Top round roast: The cut typically used for deli roast beef makes a succulent roast beef supper--so long as it's cooked at a low temperature (325F or less) until medium-rare.

*Sirloin tip roast: The underdog of the beef world, this cut is also known as the "knuckle" since it lies between the sirloin and the round sections.

Here's an Oregonian article I wrote about 3 of these cuts for an affordable feast. It includes 3 recipes for stuffed roast beef that have the added bonus of serving less meat per person.

It holds true no matter what meat cut you choose that cooking it to the proper temperature is critical to your eating enjoyment. Invest in a reliable instant-read thermometer before you buy any meat.

Happy New Year!

My 5 Best Make-Ahead Holiday Breakfasts

2011-12-22T19:54:00.000-08:00

What to make to satisfy all of our Christmas morning cravings?

photo by jbcurio

Christmas Day brings a culinary paradox: we don't want to spend all day in the kitchen, but we want to eat well. That means making advance preparations especially for the first meal of the day: breakfast or brunch.

I'm more than happy with a pot of coffee for most of the morning (with a few sugar cookies popped into my mouth). I ply the girls with smoothies to sip as they open presents to eliminate risk of low blood sugar.

Come 10 a.m., everyone's ready for something more substantial, sweet or savory--or both.

Here are my top picks for a pre-made holiday breakfast. With only 2 days to go, I'm still deciding among them for myself:

1. Extra-Pumpkin Tea Cake Not too sweet and made with a hefty proportion of whole wheat flour, this is my go-to holiday snack. I already have some stashed in the freezer.
2. Orange Twists For something a little more indulgent, donut-like without any deep-frying. These simple pastries flavored with orange zest, juice and orange flower water rise overnight for a.m. baking.
3. Truffled Baked Eggs with Potatoes On the savory side, these baked eggs flavored with truffle oil are a great choice when company's coming.
4. Whole Wheat Sourdough Waffles Make this sourdough batter the night before for a near-instant breakfast. Take it to the sweet side with fruit preserves, poached fruit or maple syrup with yogurt or go savory by making it the "bread" for a great egg sandwich (see Bonus, below).
5. Cinnamon Streusel Sour Cream Coffee Cake A slice of nostalgia with an ideal streusel-to-cake ratio. A most welcome contribution to any holiday brunch.

Bonus:
One Good Egg Sandwich on Biscuits or Waffles It's may be an add-on to the list, but an egg sandwich is my favorite breakfast of all. I plan to bake a batch of biscuits to put in the freezer today, just in case the mood for a sausage, egg and cheddar biscuit sandwich hits.

Freezer Burn

2011-12-19T10:21:00.001-08:00

Do you treat your freezer like a circular file? It's time to excavate.

photo by me, alexis

Whenever I return from vacation, I see my house anew. I notice the chipped door jams, the overstuffed drawers and the dust on the chandelier, and I get to work putting my house in order.

Last week, when we returned from 2+ weeks in the east, I couldn't help notice the sad state of my freezers. The top freezer on the upright fridge is stuffed to bursting with Grand Central Bakery bread. While we were away, it sprung open a crack and everything is now coated, cartoon-like, in frost.

We food preservers and locavores may be the most guilty of hoarding food. We spend our precious time putting by all of summer's good produce and then we let it sit in there for months and years. Most people I know haven't seen the bottom of their freezers since they bought them.

Even though I've made a concerted effort to eat from my frozen stores, I still have more food than I need in there.

Tell me, do you know what's in the depths of your freezer? If so, what are you saving it for?

Don't worry, it's not just you. It's one of those kitchen universals, like the resistance to unloading the dishwasher, the dull knives you planned to sharpen, the gross pot holders needing to be replaced.

I'm here to remind you that your freezer is not a safety deposit box. And, while it's true that nothing's going to spoil in the freezer (barring an extended power outage, and man, think of all the food that had to be tossed during the east coast's Halloween storm power outages), nothing's getting better, either.

(Here are the best freezer storage guidelines I've found.)

You only have 92 days until spring, when the new growing season begins. By planning meals from the freezer, we can all eat the food while it's best and reduce our food waste, which peaks at this time of year.

So here's the holiday challenge: for the next 5 days, paw through your freezer(s) before you hit the grocery store and build meals around what you find.

There's not much time, but I'm betting that there are a few "lost" items you might be pleased to discover. I "found" a pound of dry-packed scallops I was saving for a special occasion. They're now the feature of my holiday menu.

What's in your freezer? Eat it soon. You'll be glad you did.

A Tale of Two Ranches

2011-12-09T13:54:00.001-08:00

A battle with the bottle.

The Platter, a photo by anotherfaceinthecrowd

Today, my daughter Molly talked me into buying a bottle of Hidden Valley Ranch dressing at the grocery store.

It was only recently that I learned about my kids' knowledge and love of RanchTM. When Cece requested it one day with her carrot sticks, I asked her, "Where did you have it?" "At school."

Of course! What daycare-going, preschool-aged child in America has not had ranch salad dressing with those faux baby carrots? They could probably become their own food group.

It was one of those moments when I realized my 3-year old's experiences are expanding beyond my reach. I resolved then and there to make those girls some homemade ranch. After all, I had all the ingredients I needed: mayonnaise, yogurt and the granulated garlic in long-term storage in the spice cabinet.

One night, when I was searching for a side to go with a baked potato supper, I mixed up some yogurt ranch for my little epicures to try--and as a way to get them to eat cauliflower and broccoli. They liked my ranch better than those crucifers.

At lunch today, after I shuddered reading the ingredient list on the Hidden Valley bottle, I conducted an informal poll. As they were speed-eating baby carrots dipped in RanchTM,I asked as casually as I could, "Which ranch do you like better? This one or the one I made the other day?"

Public school first grader Molly was unequivocal. She looked me straight in the eye and said, "This one." Her younger sister answered with her mouthful. "I liked yours better, Mommy."

My vote broke the tie.

Recipe: Yogurt Ranch Dressing and Dip

Recipe: Yogurt Ranch Dip

2011-12-09T13:45:00.001-08:00

Yogurt Ranch Dressing and Dip
I originally made this dressing based on the seasonings used in a Saveur recipe. But now I play around with the combination--the only time I use powdered onion and garlic for a smooth dressing--just like what comes in the bottle. This ranch, however, is made with 50/50 mayo-plain yogurt--eat up!

1 cup mayonnaise
1 cup plain yogurt
1/2 teaspoon onion powder
1/4 teaspoon garlic powder
1/4 teaspoon dried oregano
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon pepper
1/4 cup milk

Combine all of the ingredients in a mixing bowl until smooth and well blended. Refrigerate for at least 1 hour to let the flavors marry before serving.

Winter Salad Series: Leeks Vinaigrette

2011-11-16T15:23:00.001-08:00

They're only onions, but leeks seem exotic and therefore special.

photo by M00k.

All of my lettuce is gone now. I miss those greens to my core. But it's time to become inventive on the salad front.

No more easy tossed mesclun mixes--at least those that don't come in a recycled plastic clam shell.

For seasonal eaters, this is a huge adjustment period, and I'm in the first stages of withdrawal.

A bevy of leeks cheered me considerably. Long and lithe, leeks are something to behold (once washed of the prodigious quantities of dirt they acquire between their sheaths while growing).

In most cooking uses, leeks fade in color and loose their length when chopped for a soup or a tart. Left whole and braised just until they're fork tender, however, these gentle onions get to show off their legginess and full integrity. Once I bathe them in a thick mustard vinaigrette, they satisfy a late-fall, early snowfall need for something green.

Leeks Vinaigrette
This is a braising method for preparing about 8 medium leeks for a salad:
1. Trim the leeks to the length you want with as much or as little green as you like. Slice them in half lengthwise to within 1 inch of the root end, wash thoroughly between the layers and dry them well.
2. Melt 2 tablespoons or so of butter in a large sauté or roasting pan over medium-high heat. Add the leeks and cook to brown them lightly, turning 2-3 times, about 7 minutes.
3. Add ¼ cup white wine or vermouth and salt and simmer until the wine is nearly evaporated.
4. Preheat the oven to 425 F degrees.
5. Add 1 cup of stock (I used vegetable stock, but bean water, pasta water or chicken stock are good, too), bring to a boil.
6. Braise the leeks in the oven until they are fork tender, about 25 minutes.
7. Meanwhile, make your favorite Dijon vinaigrette. I whisked up a combination of coarse mustard and Dijon mustard, red wine vinegar, olive oil and salt and pepper to taste. Serve the leeks warm or at room temperature with the vinaigrette and chopped parsley. If you like, top them with chopped hard-boiled egg.

--Adapted from Bon Appetit

A Sucker for Socca

2011-11-06T06:49:00.000-08:00

Just one of the many excellent uses for chickpea flour.

I don't clearly remember how I spent all my time on the French Riviera when I was twenty. I chased French boys, went topless on the beach (blush) and drank plenty of Stella Artois beer in the open-air cafes. Somehow I missed out on socca, the crispy chickpea crepes common in Nice.

I can't right the wrongs of my bad behavior from those days, but I can make up for lost time by making all the socca my family will tolerate.

I adore garbanzo beans, aka chickpeas, but I can never find enough uses for them. In our house, they find their way into soups, stews and salads. Raw, I grind them for heavenly falafel. When I discovered that Bob's Red Mill sold garbanzo bean flour, I became their best customer. Then I tried to find multiple uses for it, besides making the hummus I used to whisk up on every backpacking trip (and, as a result, cannot stomach to this day).

I first made standard socca, mixing water, olive oil and salt to the chickpea flour. After letting the batter stand for the starches to swell, I broiled thin pancakes as instructed by David Lebovitz on his blog.

I expected my girls to love them as much as they love pita breads, corn tortillas and pizza. Alas, it was not to be. Truth be told, the socca were a bit too plain even for me (maybe I need to spend more time in Nice), and I ate mine rolled up with ratatouille.

So, for the next round, I used the chickpea flour in place of all-purpose to make my favorite zucchini fritters. Larger than fritters, they turned out more like pancakes, which I topped with the last tomato from the garden--a golden one at that--and a dollop of sour cream (just because).

The resulting chickpea zucchini pancakes may be as far from socca as I am from my twenties, but they are going into my weeknight supper pantheon, though they are also a lovely hot lunch to make for special friends.

I'm not gluten-intolerant. Nor am I vegan. But if I was, I would perhaps love chickpea flour even more than I do now.

Which is to say, a lot.

Recipe: Curried Chickpea Zucchini Pancakes

Recipe: Curried Chickpea Zucchini Pancakes

2011-11-06T06:42:00.000-08:00

Curried Chickpea Zucchini Pancakes
Makes about 9 3-inch pancakes

Two to three of these savory pancakes makes a serving. Top with chutney, salsa or sliced avocado and sour cream. If making these to eat all at once, keep them warm in a low oven, ideally on a rack to maintain crispness. You can also make up the whole batch and store them in the refrigerator for 2-3 days. They reheat well.

2 medium zucchini, grated
1 teaspoon salt, divided
1 cup garbanzo bean flour
1 teaspoon curry powder
3/4 cup water + additional for thinning batter
2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1. Toss the zucchini with 1/2 teaspoon of the salt and put it in a colander to drain for 20-30 minutes. Squeeze out some of the moisture and put them into a medium mixing bowl.
2. Add the chickpea flour, curry powder, the remaining salt and water. Stir until well blended. The batter will be chunky from the zucchini and should have the same consistency as pancake batter. Thin it, if necessary, by adding 1 tablespoon of water at a time, and stirring to blend.
3. Let the batter stand for at least 1 hour (or longer in the refrigerator).
4. Heat the oil in a large skillet over medium high heat. Cook the pancakes in batches by ladling in dollops of batter to make small pancakes about 3 inches wide. Cook until golden brown, 3-4 minutes, flip and brown the other side. Reduce the heat to medium for the final minute of cooking to fully cook the insides. Repeat with the rest of the batter.

Zuppa di Zucca

2011-10-27T16:30:00.001-07:00

Taking pumpkin soup on a different spice route.

Photo by Bennet V

Say it with me, "Zuppa di zucca." It's pretty fun to pretend to speak Italian, so I decided to try cooking that way, too.

Pumpkin soup comes around every fall, but it reminds me of being a young adult in New York City. It was the one and only dish I remember making in my teensy-weensy three bedroom apartment in lower Manhattan back in the day.

On our tiny stove I simmered chunks of squash in chicken broth with curry powder. I'm guessing that I pureed it all in a blender--immersion blenders not the everyday (and indispensable) appliance they are today--but I have no recollection of owning a blender back then.

The point is that ever since, I've always followed the same spice route with pumpkin. True, it loves the warmth of ginger, cumin and coriander. But this fall I wanted to go in a different direction, mellower and more savory in a way that played up its pumpkin-ness. In other words, zuppa di zucca.

I cooked the onion is ample butter and olive oil without a real sense of direction. Salt, vegetable stock, and seeded, scooped-out pumpkin flesh* went into the pot. I stirred just a little and thought about what this soup wanted.

The seasonings for this zuppa?

A parmesan rind and 6 bay leaves. Yes, repeat after me: parmesan and bay leaves. Say it with feeling: Parmigiano e alloro.

Amazingly, bay makes pumpkin taste more of itself while the parmesan offers its nutty saltiness.After the parmesan rind had softened, I scraped some of the gooey cheese into the soup, then pureed it in the pot with my immersion blender.

Dinner. Done. Molto grazie.

Recipe: Savory Pumpkin Soup

*In years of pumpkin soup making, I've learned not to waste another moment (or risking an ER trip) cutting up raw pumpkin. I'm so lazy that after splitting the pumpkin or winter squash, I don't even seed it. I plunk it on a parchment paper-lined baking sheet and send it into the 350 F-degree oven until I can press the flesh with my fingers, about 1 hour. I bake the pumpkin hours--or days--in advance, so that I can make pumpkin soup in 20 minutes.

Recipe: Savory Pumpkin Soup

2011-10-27T16:30:00.000-07:00

If you live in a temperate climate where bay trees thrive, use them here to impart their nutmegy flavors into the soup. If not, sigh with me for our communal misfortune, and use dried bay as usual.
Serves 6

3 tablespoons unsalted or salted butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 large onion, chopped
3 cups vegetable or chicken stock
3-4 cups pumpkin or winter squash puree*
Sea salt
6 bay leaves
1 parmesan rind of any size
1/2 cup whole milk, half and half or heavy cream

1. Melt the butter and heat the oil in a medium stock pot over medium heat. Add the onion and cook, stirring now and then, until it softens but does not brown.
2. Add the stock, pumpkin, 1/2 teaspoon or so of salt, bay leaves and parmesan rind.
3. Cover and simmer for at least 15 minutes and up to 1 hour. Just before serving, remove and discard the bay leaves and parmesan rind. Add the milk and, if desired, puree until very smooth. Taste for seasoning before serving with crusty bread.

Canning Closure

2011-10-15T12:27:00.000-07:00

What's left to keep at the end of gardening season.

Photo by photofarmer

Today I received a special offer from Food52 for some lovely Weck canning jars. I would like to write back and say, "I'd love to, but I just can't face any more rounds of canning this year."

For some reason, I am done, I have enough--or do I?

I spent a day in the big garden in Troy last week preparing for frost by harvesting storage onions, carrots, squash and beets. I picked just enough tomatoes, peppers, eggplant and zucchini to eat them fresh. Although the leaves on the tomato plants were wilted and some of the tomato skins had split, I could have picked another thirty pounds to haul home for canning.

The peppers, too, were so flush, I could be drying anchos, chiles de arbol, jalapenos, guajillos, to name a few, from now until Christmas.

I turned my back and walked away from them all. I hope that someone in our little gardening cooperative has more stamina than me and these fruits and veggies will not simply drop from their vines to compost into the soil.

Those gorgeous Weck jars with their brushed stainless steel ribs and glass tops bring back all my regrets. Nothing like the Ball and Kerr jars with the utilitarian screw-top lids that all the veteran canners around here use. I would like to posses a full set of them and see them lined up on my shelves filled with raspberry jam, dilly beans, salsa verde and especially my favorite of the season, Sungold-Ginger Preserves.

I found the inspiration for this recipe in early 20th-century cookbooks using yellow pear tomatoes, and I fell in love with the notion of keeping cherry tomatoes in a jar--something I'd never done before. Red, yellow and orange cherry tomatoes of any variety (tangerine-colored Sungold are especially delicious and easy to grow in any container) look like jewels suspended in the syrup. I created this recipe for the Oregonian's FOODday in September (see the full story here), but it's so good, I had to preserve it here, too.

Recipe: Sungold-Ginger Preserves

Recipe: Sungold-Ginger Preserves

2011-10-14T16:48:00.000-07:00

Increase this recipe by any measure for canning all your remaining cherry tomatoes you can capture before the first frost. Serve these unusual preserves (of save them for holiday gifts) with any hard or soft-ripened cheese with flat breads and crackers as an appetizer, slather it on pork roast or spread it on plain toast for breakfast with a cup of tea and reminisce about summer.
Makes 1 pint
1 pound Sungold or other cherry or pear tomatoes, cut in half
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
1/3 cup lemon juice
2/3 cup water
1 tablespoon peeled and grated fresh ginger
Pinch salt

Put all the ingredients into a nonreactive saucepan. Bring it to a simmer over medium heat, then reduce the heat to low so that small bubbles percolate on the surface. Simmer until the tomatoes are tender but still hold their shape, 10 to 15 minutes.
Use a slotted spoon to transfer the tomatoes into a sterilized pint glass jar or other heatproof container. Boil the remaining liquid, skimming off any foam, until thick and syrupy and reduced to 1 cup, 15 to 20 minutes. Pour the syrup over the tomatoes.
Chill the preserves in the refrigerator until loosely set and stir to distribute the tomatoes that settle on top. Store refrigerated for up to 2 weeks (preserves may keep longer; they are safe as long as there is no mold present). Or, pour the tomatoes and hot syrup into sterlized half-pint canning jars. Wipe the rims, seal with sterilized lids and process in a boiling water canner for 10 minutes (15 minutes for pints).

Some Wild Foods Are Just Out the Door

2011-10-06T12:57:00.000-07:00

Not all wild foods are beyond reach.

Ripe chokecherries come in different shades.

I moved here from Seattle for a taste of the wild. Back-country skiing and topping out on the ridges of our 10,000-foot peaks was what I had in mind at the time. When it came to food, I felt that I was giving up the good life of the city. Sure, I'd grown up fishing and clamming on Cape Cod and I joined Seattle's first CSA, but the store was still my food main source.

It didn't take long that spring in 2001 before I got the full taste of the wild: morels, trout, huckleberries and elk. The whole experience was captivating, from the mushroom hunting and elk butchering to the cooking. And the profound pleasures of eating foods directly from the land, lake, river or sea surpasses that of any meal, bar none. It must be primal.

There's good reason more people are turned on to wild foods as witnessed by the interest in Hank Shaw's Hunt, Gather, Cook and Langdon Cook's Fat of the Land. Though some may have the impression that you have to travel far, carry special tools (or weapons) and suffer physical discomfort, none of this is universally true.

Sometimes finding wild foods--or even feral foods, such as horseradish, plums and dandelions--is easily within reach. Such was the case with the wild chokecherry trees growing along the ditch in Kit Phelps's wheat field.

A few days before we picked, Kit fed me vanilla ice cream topped with chokecherry syrup. The color of raspberries, the syrup had a distinct cherry taste perfumed with rose and orange with a pleasing bitter edge like rhubarb. Yup, this was the amazing, complex and tantalizing taste of wild food, qualities impossible to cultivate. We made our plan for picking.

Loaded up with an orchard ladder and picking buckets two days later, Kit, my dd Cece and I bounced in the bench seat of her flatbed truck (ranchers have all the equipment you need for most jobs like this) to survey the trees. "These are really wild," Kit said and we reached the first willowy stand to check for ripeness and abundance. The trees were loaded with chokecherries, but curiously, some were the color of cranberries while others were the color of red plums. We tasted until we found the sweetest, though that isn't saying much because these are so tart, they make your tongue tingle.

Chokecherries are appropriately named because they have a pit that makes the avocado look like a generous fruit. Imagine eating a cherry pit tucked inside a blueberry and you get the idea. The flesh was like a "skin" covering the pit. No wonder the birds had left so many for us.

Later, I sweated over getting the juice from those chokecherries. As I boiled, food-milled, mashed and squeezed them in succession, it seemed like I was trying to squeeze water from a stone. From one gallon of berries, I got 3 cups of juice--and it was so worth it.

Combined with loads of sugar (I used a ratio of 2 cups sugar to 1 cup juice), I got 5 half pints of viscous chokecherry syrup (For a detailed how-to, click here.) With other fruit syrups and jams, I often add a bit of lemon juice, liqueur, ginger or spice and a pinch of salt to make the flavors more interesting and developed. When I dipped a teaspoon into this pot for a taste, I discovered that chokecherries didn't need a thing from me.

I gave one jar as a thank you to Brenda Crow who runs the great site Foodshed, the source for artisanal ingredients direct from the producers. Aside from an ice cream topping, I recommended she try it as a sauce for seared duck breast.

If I get any wild duck, pheasant, grouse or chukar this winter, I'll have to give this wild foods combination a try myself.

10 Cooking Lessons from 72 Hours On My Feet

2011-09-16T13:14:00.000-07:00

Two back-to-back cooking jobs brought me back to the basics.

photo by Green Wellies

I got back in the professional cooking saddle over Labor Day weekend for a jag that lasted 8 straight days. I was happy that I could still spend 14 hours on my feet going strong.

Then, I got home and couldn't sleep enough. While lounging around, I reflected on the whole experience, which ranged from cooking in a big commercial kitchen for 120 folk dancers to soloing in a well-appointed home kitchen for 9 foodies.

What I learned (and relearned) from both experiences is, I think, usable for anyone who spends time in any kitchen producing meals for others:

Dishwashers are better than gold. Reward them well--even when it's you. I had a direct comparison of one job with 2 dedicated dishwashers (a bonus that they were so good-natured) and the next where I did all the dishes myself. Even though it was a smaller job, it was a struggle to squeeze in the rounds of dishes. I typically economize on dishware, but when they get ahead of me I put on some music, get down to it and reward myself well (red wine, anyone?) when they're done, which leads me to...
Clean as you go and you'll feel more creative. This is not a sexy lesson, but it's one that really struck me as I worked with 4 other cooks. Cleaning up counters, wiping cutting boards and clearing away dishes before you move onto a new task makes the whole process way more efficient and fun. There's a crass expression in the trade, "Don't s**t where you eat." For me, I simply can't get inspired when I'm in the midst of a mess. Can you?
Prepping like a pro makes light work. If you're using a postage-sized cutting board and a knife that hasn't been sharpened since you got the set as a wedding gift, it is time to treat yourself. Yes, this is all about being good to the cook--you. Again, not sexy, but fundamental. Buy the biggest cutting board you can find, get a non-stick pad to put under it to keep it from slipping and get your knives professionally sharpened. (Confession: mine are overdue.) Now, we are ready to make some mean mise en place.
Get your baking out of the way early and second guess your timer. Everybody loves scones, cookies and dessert, but baking can get in the way of meal preparations. Here's how I make it go quick: As far ahead of time as possible (ideally the night before), measure and portion all the dry and the wet ingredients, keeping them separate as instructed in the recipe. If there are any stand-alone steps, like making a crumb topping that needs to be chilled, do it in advance. You'll be amazed at how quickly it all comes together! When it comes time to bake, set your timer for half the designated recipe time. This way, you can rotate the pans as necessary and monitor the final baking in small increments for a perfect golden brown finish.
You can't taste too much, unless you're taking whole bites. Do you sample as you cook? I'm not talking about snacking, but sampling with the tip of a teaspoon early and often. Try it and you'll be amazed at how you can teach yourself (yes, that's right, TIY) to be a better cook by adjusting the seasoning--salt predominantly but other spices or other flavorings--as you go. This goes for salads as well as soups, sautes, or stews, but see #7 for meats. (Heck, I even taste my pasta water.) Right before serving, taste again and make sure it's just what you wanted (bearing # 9 in mind). If not, a pinch of salt or a dribble of lemon juice where appropriate can brighten and heighten the flavors.
Burns are forever. Don't be like me. It was hot, so I was working in a tiny T-shirt while roasting, baking and grilling, and I paid the price. Long sleeves would have saved me some scars on the tender spots on my arms as would have long hot pads and grilling gloves. Are your hot pads as nasty and worn out as mine? Let's pinkie promise to replace them asap. (Yes, I have a first grader.) While we're at it, should we splurge on some new kitchen towels?
How to season and cook proteins right. You've seen it happen to the pros on all the cooking shows: that steak, those scallops, the turkey breast is or is not perfectly seasoned and cooked. It's the linchpin of the whole meal in many cases and the most costly component, so it requires all your attention. The seasoning part does take some practice because you cannot taste the meat as you go (as per #5). As a general rule, you want to use more salt on raw meat than you think is sufficient and to distribute it as evenly as possible (flake salt like kosher works best). As for cooking meats and fish of any kind, experience helps but doesn't replace the need for a timer and an instant-read thermometer. This is the time and place to get gadgety. I indulged in a Thermapen and I've been thankful ever since.
Be friends with your grill. I once taught a cooking class to 6 women where none of them grilled. We women must take back the grill! It's not only the simplest way to produce memorable meals, it also reduces dishes (see #1) and gets you outside to enjoy the fresh air. On top of that, what isn't great when grilled? Here's my formula for a great supper party no matter the season: bake your dessert first (see #4), wash the lettuce and make a dressing. Make an herb sauce (think pesto, but use any tender leafy herb, such as parsley, tarragon, cilantro, sorrel and spike it with anchovy or red pepper flakes, red wine vinegar and be generous with your best olive oil. Now, you're ready to grill the protein and all the veggies to serve on a big platter painted with your herb sauce. Add beer or wine and you're done.
Don't expect perfection. Julia Child's advice to never explain, excuse or apologize came to my mind on several instances on the job. Once the frittata is over-salted (guilty), the salad's overdressed (guilty again) or the chickpea a tad on the crunchy side (damn them), it doesn't do any good to beat yourself up or bore people with the details. I try not to lose sleep over my many mistakes and to become a more thoughtful and present cook. In the thick of things, so much can happen. Sometimes, it's simply a not-so-gentle reminder that I'm really not (despite my fervid beliefs) in control.
Make it joyful. There is a mountain of work involved in feeding ourselves and others. Hours of planning, shopping, prepping and cooking food that gets consumed in minutes before another round of dishes is there staring you in the face (sense a theme?). It could get you down, except that there is so much potential for pleasure. For me, it's working with fresh, local products, an organized work space, music and good company in the kitchen. I became very clear that I am much happier when I'm in a community of cooks. I thrive on the back and forth chatter, the "taste this" and the "can you help me with that." The days I cooked alone were intense and interesting in their own way, but they were not joyful. What brings you cooking joy?

Homemade Mayonnaise (by machine)

2011-08-31T23:18:00.000-07:00

A time-tested recipe for mayonnaise without a whisk.

Painting by Made in Mississippi

Today, I overcame my inability to make mayonnaise by machine. It's all thanks to Whitney Ferre and her mom Susan Gilbert who taught me the secret to small batch mayonnaise.

Use the whole egg.

Previously, I used only 1 yolk and it did not provide enough mass to reach the blade in a food processor and produce the necessary emulsification. If you use the whole egg, it does--and it did.

This recipe comes by way of Whitney's Grandma Gilbert. Susan emailed, "Grandma got the recipe from a friend of hers named Virginia Snell, long deceased. The original recipe called for garlic powder, MSG and ground pepper. I dropped the MSG right away and I usually opt not to use the pepper because I don't like little black spots in the creamy white mayo."

And creamy it is. It is also tangy from the distilled white vinegar. You could substitute lemon juice, red wine vinegar or champagne vinegar, or cut the vinegar to 2 tablespoons if you prefer. But, do you really want to mess around with a classic like this?

It is also supremely flavorful with onion, garlic and mustard powder. An all-purpose spread for sure, it's also a head start for making your favorite homemade creamy dressings--from caesar to blue cheese to ranch.

"I think I’ve only purchased one jar of mayonnaise in 43 years of marriage,right after a move," Susan wrote, "and I ended up throwing it out!"

I hope to follow in Susan's (and Whitney's, Grandma Gilbert's and Virginia Snell's) footsteps--in more ways than one.

Classic Mayonnaise
Makes 2 cups
1 whole large egg
2 small garlic cloves, peeled
1/4 small onion
3 tablespoons distilled white vinegar
dash Tabasco
3/4 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon mustard powder
1 cup vegetable oil

1. Put the egg, garlic, onion, vinegar, tabasco, salt and mustard in the bowl of a food processor or in a blender.
2. With the machine running, slowly drizzle 2 tablespoons of the oil in through the feed tube or the opening in the blender lid. When the mixture thickens, gradually drizzle in the rest of the oil.
3. Store the mayonnaise in a sparkling clean jar in the refrigerator.

Giving a Fig

2011-08-15T13:18:00.000-07:00

Have you shared a fig today?

Photo by Steve Einhorn

For a month now, I've been trying to think of a way to thank Steve Einhorn for giving me this fig (see photo).

What is the best way to express gratitude for a spontaneous act of generosity?

Steve is one of the most warm-hearted people I know--a musician and songwriter, a pen-and-ink artist and photographer, a husband, dad and grandfather. When I hear him sing with his wife Kate Power, it warms me from head to toe, inspiring me to make music with my own spouse and to sing more every day.

Steve gave me this fig photograph after I read from my essay about figs at the Fishtrap summer writers' conference. (It was racy.) Isn't it gorgeous?

Steve and Kate really do give a fig--an archaic expression for caring, empathy or interest. And I want you to know about their online community Quality Folk (where you also can tune into some of their catchy and soulful songs). For a good while now, they've been on a musical road trip calling themselves the Ukalalians. Their mission: to engage nonmusicians in the musical world and to teach them to play ukeleles within 1 hour. It works!

I took their fun-filled workshop with my kids and everyone was smiling, singing and strumming the whole time. Check out their touring schedule or contact Steve and Kate to see if they can swing by your locale for a session. Or, get their just-released songbook and instructional DVD here.

Letting more people know about their project is one of the best ways I can think of to thank such generous, spirited and fun-loving people.

Thanks, Steve!

Prosciutto and Figs
While the figs are ripe, indulge in this easy appetizer with quality folk you know.
Serves 6

6 ripe fresh figs
1/4 pound good-quality prosciutto, very thinly sliced

Cut the figs in half top to bottom and arrange them on a platter. Drap each half with a slice of prosciutto and serve at room temperature.

The Miracle of Mayonnaise

2011-07-26T14:50:00.000-07:00

Making mayonnaise can become a simple routine that's worth every ounce of effort.

Tuna macaroni salad photo by kumquatgirl

It's true that jarred mayonnaise is an exceptional product. Having it ready-to-use in the fridge makes egg salad, potato salad, coleslaw, tartar sauce and spinach dip one step easier.

But homemade mayonnaise is so much better--more satiny smooth, rich, pure and fresh. You probably knew that already, but you're still unconvinced that it's easy.

So was I.

The fact is that I did not ever conceive that anyone could produce mayonnaise until I was 19 and in France. Mayonnaise is very important there, and I wonder if people there have accepted the stuff in jars. I was astonished when Sofy, my host family "sister" demonstrated how to make it, as if she had spun gold from straw.

A few weeks ago, our new friends Peter and Whitney Ferre came for dinner whereupon they were completely monopolized by our two enthralled children. (They just moved from Nashville to a far-off piece of property near Wallowa for an amazing life change. Check out Whitney's creativelyfit website for more about her mission to help people live their lives creatively.)

One of the statements the girls let Whitney complete was one I will never forget: "My mom never bought mayonnaise." And she was not even French!

I've had my share of mayo disasters--usually when I try to follow another food writer's advice to make it in the blender. For me, the only foolproof method is by hand.

But it takes so long, you say.

Is five minutes too long?

I know. There are times when five minutes is too long, but not as often as you think. I now search for that pocket of time when it's logical to steal those moments to make it, such as when:

8 eggs are boiling for egg salad
fingerling potatoes are simmering for potato salad
the charcoal is lit but not ready for the burgers
the fish is breaded but needs a rest before frying

There are also times when it doesn't really matter. I don't need homemade mayo everyday, but I do need it in the aioli for my oven fries and in the gribiche for the grilled salmon. It is a treat on a burger and a little bit of luxury in all those summertime salads, from coleslaw to potato. I may even make a nostalgic macaroni salad with it.

On really, really hot nights growing up in Massachusetts, my mom made macaroni salad for supper with tuna and celery. We ate it at the picnic table under the giant oak tree. So cooling and mayonnaisy, it practially slipped down my throat.

It's not even hot here, but I'd go for some right now. I'm ready because I just made a fresh batch of mayonnaise.

It only takes a bowl, a whisk and a moment of time.

Homemade Mayonnaise (by hand)

2011-07-26T14:01:00.000-07:00

This is the most foolproof method for me:

Mayonnaise

Makes 1 cup

1 egg yolk mixed with 1 tablespoon water*

1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice

1/8 teaspoon salt

3/4 cup vegetable oil

Dampen a dish towel, twist it into a rope and wrap it around the base of a medium mixing bowl, the heavier the better, to stabilize it. (Or, if you have a willing assistant, have them hold the bowl.)
Whisk the yolk, lemon juice,and salt until it is frothy and light in color. Trickle the oil down thesides of the bowl while whisking, allowing time for it to be incorporated. Continue whiskingand drizzling in the oil.
Once the yolk mixture begins to develop a thicker consistencylike yogurt, you can increase the flow of oil, pulling back ifthe mixture begins to look curdled until it is smooth once again. Continue whisking until all of the oil is used up and the mayonnaise is satiny smooth.
Taste for salt and lemon juice and store in the refrigerator until ready to use or for up to 3 days.

Going Slow with Miso

2011-06-08T17:28:00.001-07:00

The essence of life found in a bowl of soup.

Red Bowl, a photo by Eric M Martin on Flickr.

The rain pours down continuously onto the saturated ground. Every where looks like a bowl of soup, and it all points toward soup for dinner. But this cannot be a wintery bean soup, a hearty chowder or even tomato soup, since all the canned tomatoes are gone.

It is June, although the temperature says "March," so this soup must be light. It just so happens that I found one that inspires me to use the tops of the salad turnips I blanch and chop: Miso soup.

The ingredients for this soup have been loitering in my cabinets for, dare I say it, years. It starts with dashi, the seafood stock made from kombu, or kelp, and shaved bonito flakes. But I rarely bother to make the dashi and simply dip into the tub of mild miso that resides in my refrigerator to make the broth.

Tonight, I'm doing things more slowly. I've realized that I have been trying to do everything fast for who knows how long. I feel the urgency to get things done--and frustration when I don't.

Even out here in the country, life moves quickly. My lifestyle does not involve commuting, chauffering kids to afternoon activities, traveling for business or responding to urgent work demands.Still, I rush.

Especially when it comes to making dinner. But there is pleasure in taking the necessary steps: rinse the kombu and put it in cool water. Heat until bubbles rim the pan and break on the surface. Shower in the bonito flakes and stand by as some of them fall to the bottom of the pan the way fish food does in a tank. Strain. Heat the dashi gently and stir in the miso through a mesh strainer to remove the bits of barley. I add the turnip tops and diced tofu.

It takes no time at all, but I do nothing else in those moments before I sip this elixir that tastes of the sea. The steam wafts up and warms my brow and the scent of the seaweed makes me think of summer.

All of it was here all long.

Tomato Days

2011-05-24T20:55:00.000-07:00

Pining for sliced tomato sandwiches, tomato salads, roasted, sun-dried and canned tomatoes.

VineTomatoes, a photo by dpstevenson2

I live at the same elevation as the tips of some New Hampshire mountains I skied as a youth. I expect cold. I anticipate wet. I tolerate cloud cover.

However, this May has really been too much--even the kids are showing signs of seasonal affective disorder.

Last Friday, in contrast, I reveled in the summer to come while transplanting juvenile tomato plants in Karen's monumental Troy garden. I descended nearly 3,000 feet through basalt crags to the Grande Ronde Valley floor and plunged my hands in those volcanic soils. Sun-warmed and wet, the chocolate-brown dirt gloved my hands.

Days later, traces of it rim the crescent moons of my fingernails I notice while preparing dinner tonight. It's a quick one because Molly's school performance is at 6 p.m. I make bulgur, defrost chickpeas, warm pita and open the olive jar for a meze meal that the kids really go for.

I try not to notice what's missing from this meal. At the supermarket yesterday I eyed the tomatoes on the vine, the cherry varieties from Mexico. I'm stopped by what I know has been sprayed on those tomatoes and the fact they're hardly worth dying for. Wan in flavor they'll surely be.

I'll bide my time for the Stupice, San Marzanos, and Brandywines all taking root on the property of a generous and hugely ambitious gardener living in a different climate nearby.

I can already taste them...Can't you?

Spring Salad to Calm a Tempest

2011-05-14T10:14:00.000-07:00

The first asparagus is something to get riled up about.

Spinach, asparagus, and egg salad with whole-grain mustard

This composed salad looks to have been prepared by someone focused and tranquil.

But, if this salad came with a soundtrack, what you'd hear would be my three-year-old screaming for juice. Incessantly and increasingly louder as I piled my plate with these cool and crisp spinach leaves and finger-width asparagus I'd just steamed. It was 2:30 p.m. and I hadn't had lunch.

While the rest of you have enjoyed weeks of asparagus munching, this was my first taste of the local stuff (regional, really from roughly 100 miles away in Milton-Freewater, Oregon). The salad was unplanned and came together quite haphazardly. It was one of those days that I'd been cooking all morning and had a slew of meetings all afternoon, so I just snapped the ends off of the asparagus and put them in a saute pan with a half-inch of water to steam while I tried to restore some order to my kitchen. My youngest child, however, was another story.

Her screaming went on and on from just below my hip, and I credit this salad with maintaining my inner calm. "I'm sorry, Cece," I said as I peeled the egg and pried it in halves with my fingers, "you've already had juice."

"I. WANT. MORE. JUICE!" There's nothing better than a mustardy vinaigrette with asparagus, but I didn't have it that together to whisk one up. So instead, I dolloped on some whole grain mustard next to the egg and dribbled on the balsamic vinaigrette I store in a bottle in the pantry--our all-purpose dressing.

"I. WANT. MORE. JUICE!" I reached my fingers into the ramekin of sea salt. It was the last of my sel gris from The Meadow in Portland, and now NYC. The rough salt crystals were cool and damp as the day and its color matched the gray clouds outside my kitchen window. I sprinkled it onto the egg, asparagus, and spinach, and watched the grains that didn't get caught bounce to the edges of the plate and sparkle.

By now, Cece was in my arms, shouting into my left ear, but I was inspired. "You want some salt?" I asked her. She looked at me with wide blue, teary eyes and paused her tirade. I put the sel gris within her reach and she stretched her plump baby pincers into the ramekin. Her body relaxed in my arms as she slipped out her tongue to taste it.

Perfect quiet came then. She extended her fingers out for more salt and licked. I picked up my fork and ate this early spring salad while standing at the counter with Cece in my arms, each of us absorbed in our own tasting worlds.

The Last Piece of Coffee Cake

2011-05-06T10:54:00.000-07:00

Who needs frosting to make it celebratory?

This may look like any-old coffee cake.

True, it's a sour cream coffee cake, the kind I remember from childhood, pre-Entenmann's, with just the right ratio of sweet cinnamon filling and topping to tender cake. But that's not entirely what makes it special.

I baked it the morning of Cecelia's third birthday. I admit that it was more for me than her. Selfish, yes, but several days prior I had baked her a full-blown birthday Easter bunny cake thick with white seven-minute frosting.

She's young enough not to care much about birthday parties and for me to spend more time reminiscing about the day of her birth than ordering gifts. Three years old is a milestone in toddlerhood, and this cake marked the day I officially let go of my baby and acknowledged the little girl that she is now.

However, it was nearly a disaster: I'd gone to bed with two cookbooks laid open to recipes for sour cream coffee cake: The Joy of Cooking and The Fannie Farmer Baking Book. I was planning to blend the two to produce just what I hoped for when Benjamin stepped in. He's gotten into the wonderful habit of laying out everything for breakfast the night before. So, when you enter the kitchen in the early morning when Cecelia's decided it's time to wake up--and you better go downstairs with her now--you simply turn on a burner for the pre-measured oatmeal and press the coffee maker button. It's lovely.

In the same manner, he had measured the dry ingredients in a large bowl, set out two sticks of butter to soften, and mixed the streusel in a small bowl--but for which recipe? It was Sunday, and instead of waking him or waiting, I tossed the butter into the mixer and gambled on the Joy of Cooking.

What I didn't notice was that this recipe called for only 1/2 stick of butter, not two, until I was stirring in the last addition of flour. Well, the batter in the mixer looked just great, so I proceeded to fill the pan, layer in the streusel and bake.

I am happy to report that this was the coffee cake of my dreams, and it could never have been nearly so good, or worthy of this occasion without the extra butter. As it happens, the cake stayed moist for three full days.

I discovered the last piece on Tuesday afternoon while the girls were watching a video, and decided it was for me alone to eat. Holding the plate and fork, I strolled from the kitchen to peek in at them. Usually, they pay no attention to me when they're riveted to "Kipper the Dog" or "Caillou." But on this day, their heads whipped around to see what I was munching. "Can I have a bite?" they both chirped.

And it seems appropriate that I fed that precious cake to both of my girls, which, in the end, was far more delightful than devouring it peacefully all by myself.

Recipe: Cinnamon Streusel Sour Cream Coffee Cake

Cinnamon Streusel Sour Cream Coffee Cake

2011-05-06T10:30:00.000-07:00

Cinnamon Streusel:
2/3 cup all-purpose flour
2/3 cup finely chopped walnuts
2/3 cup packed light brown sugar
11/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
Coffee Cake:
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/4 cups sour cream
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup sugar
2 eggs
1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F and grease a square 8-inch baking pan.
2. To make the streusel, stir together the flour, walnuts, brown sugar, cinnamon and salt until well blended. Add the melted butter and stir to form small clumps.
3. Whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt in a bowl. Combine the sour cream and vanilla in another small bowl.
4. Beat the butter and sugar in a stand mixer on high speed until light and fluffy. Beat in the eggs 1 at a time. Add the flour in 3 parts, alternating with the sour cream mixture in 2 parts, stirring on low speed just until the ingredients are incorporated.
5. Use a rubber spatula to scrape the bottom of the bowl and stir to make a smooth batter. Spread half of the batter into the prepared pan and sprinkle on half of the streusel. Top with the remaining batter and spread into an even layer. Top with the remaining streusel and bake until a skewer comes out clean, 30 to 35 minutes.

--Adapted from Joy of Cooking (1997)

Spring Milk

2011-04-22T11:17:00.000-07:00

What to do with all this milk (after learning how to milk a cow)?

Photo by Chiot's Run

In other places, you might go to a bar after an evening meeting to debrief over a beer with a fellow board member. But, Wallowa County is not like other places--not only because we have wolves.

Still, I was surprised to find myself in a barn at 9:30 p.m. on a recent chilly night after a Slow Food meeting with our chair, Liza Jane. She had offered me an extra gallon of milk from her cow, Jules. So, I left the VFW Hall and followed her rig to the 6 Ranch.

Turns out she had way more than a gallon.

Jules was ever so eager to see us when we approached well after her usual milking time. A bright bulb lit up the stalls and the hay glistened. Jules put her nose to the grain and settled into position as her own calf and an orphan Corriente the color of milk chocolate began to suckle. I sensed Jules's relief --though it may have simply been my own recollection of nursing. Ever since having babies, I relate all too closely to cows mothering their newborns at this time of year.

Easter is traditionally about chicks and bunnies, but here it's the height of calving season, which means that the milk is flowing. Jules was producing 8 gallons a day.

Only I couldn't quite get the technique and the rhythm and the flow all at the same time on my first try. I squatted on the stool and leaned my head into Jules's warm golden flank as I squeezed and aimed into the green bucket between her cloven hooves. She was so patient and tolerant with me.

I collected about one-half cup ("a drop in the bucket," I thought) before I let Liza Jane take over. It was getting really late. I got to take home a gallon anyway, and I drove through the darkness thinking about all the possibilities of fresh milk: ricotta or paneer, rice pudding or creme anglaise, chowder or cream sauce, yogurt or butter, flan or pot de creme.

My two girls saved me the torture of decision making by drinking it all within 48 hours. I stole a gulp from Cece's glass one morning. Jules flashed into my mind as I swallowed. Chilled, her milk tasted as sweet as melted vanilla ice cream infused with the flavors of the grain and hay she ate and the air she breathed in that cozy barn.

I'll be back soon for more milking practice.

Road Food

2011-02-25T23:51:00.000-08:00

How far do you go to put food in your family's mouths?

I spent last week in Portland feeding no one but myself. And that was sporadic, since I seem to be able to go a disturbingly long time on coffee.

When I did get hungry, anything I desired was readily available--at bakeries and food carts and cafes. I stopped into Whole Foods to buy wine and cheese to sate me before a late dinner reservation at June. I was the one standing amidst all the engrossed shoppers stupefied by the array of prepared foods options.

Waylaid on my return home by a snowstorm, I stopped in Hood River at my friend Lindsay's. It was her book group night, and so I got to dine with a lovely group of women (and excellent cooks--how I love to be fed).

A mother of two girls a little younger than my own described the previous afternoon. She was in the car with two hungry, cranky kids. "I needed to secure a meal without opening the car doors," she said. Her comment sent me into guffaws. That day, she hit the drive-through.

I've recalled that phrase many times since I've been back home; it's become my pet phrase for stress-free dinners. Instead of the drive-through, I rely on a series of near-instant homemade fixins. (I realize now that my freezer is my drive-through):

pizza: par-baked personal sized pizza dough, tomato sauce and shredded mozzarella--all straight from the freezer
tacos: good tortillas, again frozen, with whatever bits of protein are around plus avocado
salmon burgers: frozen wild salmon patties and whole wheat buns

What do you do to "secure a meal without opening the car doors"?

Crowded Into the Kitchen

2011-02-04T20:30:00.000-08:00

Some of the best things in life happen in the kitchen.

Molly makes pesto.

Tuesdays are recipe testing days at my house. Adele comes over after feeding the cows, pours herself a cup of coffee, makes a prep list and starts in on the day's agenda. For the past 4 weeks, Kit, my sausage-making coach recently freed from feeding her own herd after 23 years of ranching, has joined our cooking team.

This past Tuesday, I had a moment when I stepped away from my preoccupations over the tasks at hand. I looked up and caught a glimpse of what was happening in my kitchen at 9 a.m.

Each woman stood with her back to me--Adele toasting dried chilis at the stove, and Kit slicing round for jerky at the counter next to her. We were all engrossed in our work and contributing to a meaningful banter. Right then, I felt so thankful for their company. These Tuesday sessions--with the rounds of dish washing and tasting and distributing all the excess food--have become the best of my work days.

I felt, right then, the happiness of being with others in the kitchen. While some want total control (and being a Type A+, I can relate), it's the conversation and moving hands, the shared space and occasional bumps, the easy-going conviviality and shared drudgery that is so much more important than having everything turn out perfectly.

I thought of all the other times I've chopped and stacked wood, weeded a garden or rebuilt a trail with other people and how those have been the most enjoyable of interactions. Not that I don't adore lingering over a dinner table with half-full glasses of wine or catching up with a friend on a walk.

Something happens when we work to produce something together.

The next day, when I read Mark Bittman's manifesto calling for a renaissance in home cooking, I thought, Yes, but let's cook be sure to have company in the kitchen. Too often, it's a lone person with the sole responsibility of putting a meal on the table with a time crunch, no less. It's all toil with little, if any, reward.

I cooked alone on both Thanksgiving and Christmas this year, and there was no joy in it. Cooking with other people, I now recognize, creates the holiday for me. And, on any day it can make the daily grind of chopping, stirring and even dish doing the very best experience of all--even when, as in the case with kids, it's slower and messier with uncertain outcomes.

And so, I say, let's all cook with whomever we can as often as we can. It's as essential, if not more so, as the food itself.

Make It Pie Week

2011-01-27T21:00:00.000-08:00

There's no such thing as too much pie.

Teaching a pie making class to 18 on National Pie Day.

I've never been tempted to put a bumper sticker on my car, but if I was, mine would read, "I break for pie."

I think that Americans should go back to eating pie for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Of course, that means making more pies, something I don't often do.

But why not?

It just so happened that last Sunday was National Pie Day and the day of my pie baking class for Fishtrap's Big Read of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. (I had no idea that those 2 events coincided and only learned about it while listening to NPR as I was mixing pie dough in bulk for the course. Boy, it made me look really on top of things.)

But one pie day a year is not nearly enough. Just like birthdays. So, I'm celebrating pie week, which I'm hoping may extend into pie month. I've had at least one bite of pie every day this week, though none yet for breakfast.

If you're wondering what Tom Sawyer has to do with pie, it has less to do with the book and more to do with Mark Twain who adored, nay, worshiped pie. Kind of like me.

For the class, I baked his favorite pumpkin and apple pies as well as a blueberry pie. Not one of them was picture perfect and that became the theme of my class. "Perfect pie," I said, "is like perfect sex. It doesn't exist." The eruptions of laughter quieted, and I said, "But what's so wrong with damn good pie?"

Fluting a not perfect pie.

It was a good cover. The fact was Anne's pie's (the woman who hosted the class at her lovely and spacious home) were gorgeous, with fluted rims and the strawberry-rhubarb even had a lattice top. They tasted divine, too.

Here's the seminal learning of the day. While watching the other women roll pie dough, I observed nearly all of them over-handling the dough. They wanted it to thin out into a neat circle, so they patched the edges and mashed it into shape. Aha! Here was the point when pie dough gets tough. (Well, one of the places because the other seems to be making dough that's too dry because everyone's been told not to add too much liquid. That's pretty counterproductive if your dough crumbles when you try to roll it.)

Rolling out pie dough isn't pretty. That day was the first time I'd ever done it with an audience, and it's better done in private where you can relax with all your imperfections. Pie should be public once its baked.

So here's to many more days of pie ahead, and an all-butter crust recipe from an old friend of mine and pastry expert, Caroline Weil. It's got a high proportion of butter, so it doesn't hold its shape as well as other crusts, but it is the best I know.

All-Butter Pie Crust

Makes 1 double 9-inch pie crust

1 cup (8 ounces/2 sticks) unsalted butter

2 cups (9 ounces) unbleached all-purpose flour

1/4 cup granulated sugar

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/4 cup very cold water

Cut the butter into 1-inch cubes and chill it in the refrigerator for 5 to 10 minutes. Whisk together the flour, sugar and salt in a large mixing bowl.
Use a pastry blender, 2 table knives or your fingers to cut the butter into the flour until it is broken up into pea-sized pieces.
Trickle in the water and stir with a fork or your fingers until it comes together into a shaggy dough. Collect it into 2 equal-sized balls and pat each one into a disk. Wrap the disks in plastic wrap and chill for at least 30 minutes or until ready to roll.

More Pimento Cheese, Please

2011-01-09T15:42:00.000-08:00

This cheese spread's onion, peppers and spice make everything nice.

Now that's a grilled cheese.

Pimento cheese found me late in life. I'd known my share of cheese spreads, but they all came in a plastic tub, WisPride being a family favorite. For a holiday dinner, one of my aunts might make a cheeseball rolled in chopped walnuts, but no one in my New England world considered that you could produce your very own cheese spread.

I grew up and learned that during all those years our compatriots in the Southern states were lapping up this spicy little number. I'm making up for lost time now by keeping a batch of pimento cheese on hand for every occasion, and especially for grilled cheese sandwiches.

Honestly, grilled cheese had always bored me a little. Yes, the oozing cheese was a lovely thing and the buttery toasted bread, too. But something was always lacking on the excitement index. I'd try mayonnaise, dijon or tomato, but none could pull the whole thing together and kick it up a notch.

Then, I met pimento cheese with its hit of onion, bite of cayenne and bits of roasted red pepper all bound together with the grated extra-sharp cheddar by the mayonnaise. Once melted--and it melts at precisely the time the bread is nut brown--it sings a little ditty in my mouth with every bite, and keeps me humming (could it be "Dixie"?) all day long.

Pimento Cheese
Makes 2½ cups
This is also great for spreading on crackers or serving with crudites.

2½ cups extra-sharp cheddar cheese, grated and brought to room temperature
2 teaspoons grated onion
⅛ teaspoon cayenne pepper
¾ cup mayonnaise
3 Tablespoons roasted red pepper, peeled, seeded, and finely chopped
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper

1. Stir together the cheese, onion, cayenne, mayonnaise and red pepper in a mixing bowl until it is creamy. Taste and add a pinch of salt and a few grindings of black pepper, if needed.
2. Cover and refrigerate until ready to use. Remove from the refrigerator 15 to 20 minutes before serving.

--Adapted from Chef Scott Peacock

New Year's Hash

2011-01-05T10:02:00.000-08:00

Making excellent roast beef hash with poached eggs is all in the timing.

I like my poached eggs medium and hot sauce on my hash.

On New Year's morning we stuffed the many friends who stopped by our open house with waffles. In the late afternoon, both girls simultaneously came down with fevers. One or the other has been in my arms ever since. (Oh, that we did not infect anyone who blessed our home yesterday.)

As a result, I have not begun 2011 industriously. And it seems just right to be reminded about living for now and keeping priorities in order.

As I sit eating a bowl of chickpea and kale soup--leftovers of a meal I served to dear friends visiting from L.A.--I'm thinking about nourishment, luxury and frugality.

Take this hash. I threw it together to keep the last of the standing rib roast I cooked for the holiday meal from going to waste. Built on luxury, it is a model of frugality and waste-not, want-not ideals. Equal parts diced cooked potatoes and beef and ample onion (I used red), it cooks in a well-oiled (or buttered) skillet.

There are loads of recipes for hash, and I was considering one for my book, too. But that seems out of line with its sole purpose: using up what you have on hand. So into my hash went the leftovers of a celery root gratin, diced. Its sweet earthiness was terrific in the hash--better tasting than its first incarnation. I can't think of a root vegetable that would be out of place in hash. I've had a wonderful vegetarian version with sweet potatoes, winter squash and red peppers--again with plenty of onion and the staple potato.

The central element of hash making is browning it nicely. But it's not easy to achieve a crisp and golden brown crust. You need to know your pan's sensitivities, adjust the burner's heat just right and then wait the correct amount of time before moving everything around. No one else but you can say what's the right amount of each.

In my cast-iron skillet, I charred mine a bit where the pan sat over the gas flame. I'd waited too long and next time I'll use more oil, lower heat and catch it sooner. But then again, next time, everything will be different. Hash may determine cooking skill in the same way as an omelet or scrambled eggs. It's a balance between heat and patience and a learned sense of timing.

The same applies to the poached eggs that complete any hash: a gentle simmer, an egg less than 1 week old and the minutes waiting while the whites set. It's a guessing game half the time, but I'll often lift an egg from the water and poke the yolk gently with my finger. When it resists just a little, it's just the way I like it: set at its edges and molten in the middle.

When it's all ready to eat, the first move I make is to cut straight through the egg. Out flows a little sauce that gilds my mountain of hash. I feel very rich.

Holiday Smoking

2010-12-23T12:16:00.000-08:00

There's no bad time for barbecue.

Right here in Joseph, Oregon.

All week long the forecast called for snow and temperatures in the high 20s, but that did not stop Sherri Currie and me from putting on some barbecue 5 days before Christmas.

A Texas native, Sherri operates Holy Smokes BBQ out of the commercial kitchen in the back of her laundromat in downtown Joseph. (Is that authentic, or what?) I've been a fan of her wood-smoked beef brisket with tangy barbecue sauce for years now. (Naturally, she does pork butt and ribs, too, and it is all finger-licking good.)

Lately, I've been grilling her about her techniques, and she's such a generous spirit that she agreed to tutor me in the art of smoke.

Meanwhile, I've been preaching the local food gospel, raving about all the great grass-fed beef from right here in our own back pasture. Her barbecue with local beef seemed like a match made in heaven. So, we set up a side-by-side cook-off pitting conventional brisket (purchased from Walmart) against grass-fed brisket from Fluit Family Farms.

On Monday, the wind howled from the mountains straight down Main Street in direct line of the smoke site. I could smell the burning wood from the fire in the tank-like black smoker before I rounded the corner to her kitchen door. I bent into the wind, flung open the door and fell inside.

There stood Sherri with the two briskets ready to rub, each in its own bus tub. I had expected the grass-fed to be significantly smaller, but the Fluits run a big-framed breed of South Devons, so theirs was only two pounds shy of the feedlot fatso. The grass-fed sample had a thinner fat cap, and we discussed wrapping it in foil after the initial smoking to keep it from drying out. Sherri doesn't prefer this method, since the meat steams instead of smoking. "I like it crispy," she said.

It was the color of the flesh that was so remarkable: red beet versus rose. It's been so long since I've been around raw conventional beef, I could have mistaken that light-colored beef for pork. You could also see a compactness to the grain, a firmness--and that would come into play in how it took to the smoke, too.

So, which brisket is grass-fed?

We talked dry rubs, wet rubs, and all the possibilities for prepping a brisket for a while. Then we massaged those briskets with Sherri's spice rub formula, more personal than secret and therefore just as hard to replicate. The good thing is, with paprika, salt, and a little chili powder it's nearly impossible to go wrong.

Ideally, we'd have rubbed that beef 1 to 2 days in advance. I've been amazed at what a simple salt and spice rub can do to a tough piece of meat. But when the smoker reached 220 degrees F, we dashed out into the weather with those briskets and laid them on the grate.

I'd have to wait 18 hours to taste the results.

Whole Wheat Sourdough Waffles

2010-12-19T19:57:00.000-08:00

The dread and delight of getting things underway for New Year's Day brunch.

Photo by cafemama

Although I still have plenty to do for Christmas, I woke up this Saturday obsessing about the next Saturday holiday. New Year's Day will be our 7th annual Sourdough Waffle Open House party, and I didn't know if I had a viable sourdough.

Deep in the recesses of my basement refrigerator, my starter sat neglected for a full year. Each time I'd gone to fetch the olives, miso, or pickles I store there, I glanced at the murky sludge in the jar. I hoped my ignoring it 'til needed was a form of benign neglect.

This morning was reckoning day. I trudged to the basement before I'd had coffee, even, and returned with my arms wrapped around the gallon-sized jar. Half of the contents was liquid as gray and ominous as a thundercloud. I poured it all down the drain. Then, I poised my nose over the opening for a tentative sniff, expecting an aroma worse than spoiled milk.

Lo and behold, the slurry left inside the jar smelled sweetly tart like apple cider vinegar. It was so surprisingly pleasant, I sniffed again. Hope spurred me on. I scraped a wooden spoon across the surface to excavate the non-moldy culture dwelling below like a scientist extracting a core sample. All I needed was a teaspoon to learn its fate.

I had spooned the clean culture-- was there a vestige of life in it?--into a pint mason jar when Molly and Cece raced into the kitchen to "help" me. All three of us took turns stirring in warm water and bread flour (not very fresh, I realized since I've done no bread baking in recent memory). I stirred with extra vigor to bring oxygen to those yeasts as needy as patients on life support.

They sprang to life in an instant. The starter bubbled. It had lived through another year. There will be sourdough waffles this New Year's Day.

Whole-wheat Sourdough Waffles
Makes 1 quart of batter, about 7 round Belgian-style waffles
Start this recipe the night before for morning waffles or in the morning if you'll be having them for dinner. Made with white whole-wheat flour, the batter is thick and elastic. This method is based on Nancy Silverton's in Breads from La Brea Bakery.

1 1/2 cups (11 ounces) sourdough starter from the refrigerator, "fed" within the past 3 days
4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) melted butter
1/4 cup vegetable oil
1 1/4 cups (10 ounces) milk, whole or skim
1 tablespoon maple syrup
1 1/3 cups (6 ounces) stone-ground white whole-wheat flour
1/4 cup uncooked 8-grain cereal
3 eggs
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon baking soda

Whisk together the starter, butter, oil, milk, maple syrup, white whole-wheat flour and 8-grain cereal in a large mixing bowl until well-blended. Cover securely with plastic wrap and let sit at room temperature for 8 to 12 hours.
Uncover the batter, which will be thick and have bubbles broken all over the surface. Whisk in the eggs, salt and baking soda.
Heat an electric waffle maker to its highest setting. Ladle enough waffle batter onto the bottom plate to come within 1 inch of the edge. Close the top plate and cook the waffle until it stops steaming and the surface is nut-brown, 6 to 7 minutes. To keep waffles warm, place them on a cooling rack set on a baking sheet in a 175-degree oven. Freeze cooled waffles in a resealable plastic bag for up to 1 month.

A Cup of Happiness

2010-12-12T19:37:00.000-08:00

When you want some chocolate to go with your coffee.

All my favorites in the dark chocolate mixed half-pound box.

For 10 years, I've longed for a cafe in my adopted hometown where I could go to write when I need that hum of conversation and energy that really helps me focus. Oh, and to get great coffee, meet a friend, while away a Saturday morning...all the critical things one accomplishes in a cafe.

All my dreams came true when Arrowhead Chocolates opened 2 blocks from my house. I've been there ~~3 times in 2 days~~ 4 times in 2.5 days.

It's like being a city dweller again with mountain views and no traffic lights. No traffic, even.

Oh, and it's a family business, run by the Reiningers, three charming people who are in love with what they do. Inspiring!

I highly recommend the mocha, which the barista flavors by dipping a spoon straight into the tempering machine in the middle of the shop. You can try samples of the salted caramel, chili pepper, dark chocolate with cocoa nibs (my favorites), and all the other delightful chocolates while you wait. Of course, you'll need to pick up at least a half pound box while you're here.

It's worth the trip no matter how far you have to drive to get here. Meals and lodging available chez nous, right nearby.

The Care and Feeding of Others

2010-12-03T14:56:00.000-08:00

When feeding is as good as eating.

Corriente calves in the weaning pen

I've been away hard at work on my book. Along with the 125-odd recipes, the first part of the book will cover everything you want to know about grass-fed beef--that's my goal, at least. There is a burning interest in the subject and just as much misinformation I'm hoping to clear up. But it's been more arduous than marathon training, which is what I was doing at this time last year.

I've been preoccupied trying to digest all that I've learned about beef production--more complex than it has any right to be. So, today was a welcome reprieve from wrangling with my words at the computer.

I went out and fed some cows first thing this morning.

I knew it was going to be a great day when I pulled up the curtains in my bedroom and the sky burned blue over the sparkling white mountains--a blue bird day, the skiers call it. The temperature was in the teens, so I put on a down coat underneath my big work jacket and earmuffs underneath my cowboy hat. Then I drove along the Wallowa River and crossed up into the hills to meet my friends Liz Jane and Craig Nichols at their ranch. From their front porch the rising sun sat on the slope like a giant Florida orange. Three border collies wiggled around my knees and lifted their snouts for pets. I slipped off my boots and went inside for coffee.

The Nichols own the 6 Ranch. They raise a small, sharp-horned heritage breed called Corriente, cattle used for rodeo roping and grass-fed beef. Liza Jane and Craig are two of the most joyful people I know. He's the quintessential horse-shoeing, rodeoing, game-hunting, guitar-playing, storytelling, fix-anything cowboy. She's a fun-loving, barrel-racing, horse and cattle breeding local food activist who works as a land steward for The Nature Conservancy. They are great pair to be with out on the land on any day.

Their ranch perches above the valley floor, spreads down to the river (where they did a restoration project documented by Oregon Public Broadcasting), and over the broad pastures with mountain views from every angle. Did I mention the landscape actually sparkled?

Craig calls in the cattle while Liza Jane doles out the hay

Seated in the warmth of the 1952 Chevy pickup's cab, we bounced down the snow-covered dirt road to feed the calves, freshly weaned from their mother cows only a couple of days ago. None of them were bawling, and they went straight for the hay we piled off the flatbed. I learned how to pull of a "flake" from the 150-pound hay bales to toss into piles spaced to prevent crowding and poking.

Snows have come early, so the ranchers are already dipping into their hay supplies--bundles of timothy, orchard grass and rye grass--that nourish the cattle until late spring when all grows green again. The adult Corrientes are hearty and well-adapted to these alpine conditions. Since they browse the seed heads of the grasses that stand above the snow, they ignored the horn Craig blew to call them in for their feed. Later from the roadway, we saw them grazing on the craggy hills in full sun. Smart cows. This breed has a goat-like ability to scale steep hillsides and a liking for just about anything that grows in soil. Good for weed control.

Along with getting the bulls and the yearlings their hay, we threw hay to the two milk cows, handed fistfuls to the horses as a snack against the cold, and replaced frozen with free-flowing water for the chickens and the barn cats.

In three hours, we'd toured the entirety of the ranch. I asked Liza Jane and Craig about aspects of ranching and producing meat I will never fully understand. Still, I felt like I was a part of it. Riding around in the pickup having a great time has never felt so essential and valuable.

Indulging my inner cowgirl

After a warming cup of coffee and banana bread, I left 6 Ranch reluctantly. Back to my own world. Liza Jane told me she planned to head out on horseback to check on the rest of the herd, to see if any of the mother cows had traveled to the river bottom trying to get back to their calves.

I would have done anything to go with her.

The Last Days of Salsa

2010-10-13T18:08:00.000-07:00

You really can put summer in a jar.

Golden heirloom tomato-pepper salsa

It's a golden afternoon, but the sun is at a low-slant about to plunge behind the mountains and it's still before 5 p.m. The mornings display everything sugar-frosted and I'm accepting that this is the fall I did not spend canning.

Any night now a hard frost will claim all the tomatoes left on the vine, and we'll turn our affections toward the squash and pumpkins. So, if we're going to have homemade salsa, it's now or never.

What I've made will hardly last us through Thanksgiving, but I'm still grateful for the Romas and tomatillos I hauled back home from the Troy garden.

I'm reminded once again how canning depends on generous friends--those who pick and wash and toil with you and then send you home with all the rest. Which is how I have any prize jars of the sunflower golden tomato and pepper salsa we made in our outdoor kitchen (no mess!) while on the river last weekend.

The jars are glorious to behold, which reminds me how we canners love nothing more than to admire our work, the vivid colors, tastes, and memories of summer, just as Greg Brown sings.

The tomatoes are persimmon, an extra-tart variety that we determined--thanks to a handy pH meter--required no additional vinegar. (Hooray! Vinegar quantity is the one point that pricks good friends to come to blows each year.) The salsa is a 50/50 mix of tomatoes and peppers, sweet bells and fiery yellow banana, plus jalapenos, onions and garlic.

It's a blue-ribbon winner based on looks alone, and keeps its promise in the taste department, too: picante, tart, pungent, salty, and sweet all unified and balanced enough to keep you titillated, not overwhelmed, and wanting more.

Roasted tomatillos ready for salsa

Sweet, sour, salty and spicy are the qualities we usually associate with Asian food. But it's useful to keep these attributes in mind it seems while cooking from other cuisines, too.

Excellent Eggplant, Frittered or Fried

2010-09-30T16:08:00.000-07:00

Deep-fried eggplant is delectable any way you go.

Eggplant fries are an important part of a healthy diet.

Late summer allowed me to sneak in two big-city trips where I ate exotically. Both Seattle and Portland have all the evidence of the gastronomic renaissance we're in--from handcrafted soda to four-star food carts. It's intoxicating.

Everything seemed a bit plain and simple when I got back home. Then, last Saturday, I stepped off my front porch and walked the 50 paces to the Joseph Farmers Market. I was feeling pretty lucky to live so close to my food source when I noticed that the market was in full-on harvest mode.

With a super-saturated June, the growing season had shifted forward by several weeks. Now, this close to October, there wasn't a vegetable you couldn't have. Greens and beans, tomatoes and tomatillos, cucumbers and summer squash, peppers of all stripes and eggplants.

Eggplant was my object of desire. This ebony-fleshed fruit with a spongy flesh is not a favorite of many. But it's mine. There were lots of them piled on top of one another in the basket. Eggplant might be more detested than beets. I wonder why this is, since no one was subjected to canned eggplant as a kid. Well, it can get mushy.

Eggplant has preoccupied me ever since I sampled the eggplant fries with sea salt and buckwheat honey at Poppy in Seattle. That memorable event took place before Labor Day, so you might say it had grown into an obsession. I had to recreate those perfectly crisped and crunchy eggplant fries at home.

The reasons are now unclear to me why I tried a batter version first. I love battered french fries, so maybe that's why. I beat about one cup of flour with one egg, a half teaspoon of baking powder, a big pinch of salt and enough water to look like pancake batter. I knew it was not the Poppy way the moment the first fry sizzled in the oil and double it's girth.

There was no sense wasting the batter, and these souffled eggplant fritters were undeniably good, if not right, especially dipped into aioli. So, I kept on deep-frying, all the while contemplating my next move: the standard battering procedure.

Dust with flour, dip in egg, coat with crumbs. That's all there is to it, besides getting the pan filled three inches deep with oil up to 350 degrees F. That method using Panko bread crumbs was the ticket to an extra-crispy fry, though I'm suspicious that the restaurant's bread crumbs are finer than those I used straight out of the box. I also seasoned the flour with salt and ground toasted coriander just for embellishment.

They nonetheless became the center point of our Mediterranean-diet dinner as soon I realized that it's impossible (and inadvisable) to multi-task while deep-frying. I was amused when I put them on Molly's plate (pictured above) and they resembled the frozen fish sticks I was raised on. The girls especially liked them when I broke down and let them dip them in ketchup.

Benjamin and I ate our own small piles in no time. (Me: plain salt; him: aioli again.) Then, we reached onto the pan I inadvertently (?) left on the table and nibbled on them until they were gone.

Airy and crispy eggplant fritters

Have a Heart

2010-09-19T22:29:00.000-07:00

Learning to be open minded about what is and isn't palatable.

"Gone to pick up a bunch of organ meats. Be back soon."

That was the message I left on the chalkboard by the back door for Benjamin last Friday. Mike and Sara of Bunchgrass Beef had harvested 4 cows that morning and there was offal for the taking.

I drove out to Mike and Sara's homestead and returned home with my prizes--heart, liver and kidney.

All of it would have gone to waste if I hadn't claimed them. I was determined to give them a try and keep an open mind.

The liver was the organ meat I relished the very least. But I remained hopeful as I sauteed thin slices with bacon and sage and doused them with marsala. I don't mind handling, cleaning or trimming any food at all, but it's another thing to eat it.

I took one tiny bite, but I could not swallow. No quantity of booze or bacon will ever convince me to sample mealy beef liver again. The kidneys were much less objectionable. Cut up and cooked, they had a smooth, dense texture and a mildly livery taste not unwelcome in a pot pie.

The heart, however, was surprisingly good. It is, after all, a muscle--an extraordinarily lean and fine-grained one at that. Despite its scarcity (just one per cow) it's not coveted outside of Peru.

Still, I think that if you tried it, if you ever had the opportunity to sample it marinated, sliced into strips and grilled, I think that you would like it, too.

Grilled Apricots

2010-09-06T14:43:00.000-07:00

Grilled fruits go the savory way.

No matter the weather in your part of the world, Labor Day is the last official day to grill.

Here, it's already frosted so hard, it feels more like Halloween. But I can trust that it's not October yet because the market baskets are still flush with peaches.

I'll need to get canning if we're going to have our favorite dessert on hand this winter: peach halves in light syrup straight from the mason jar. Seriously, it's such a treat that I serve them to guests--perhaps with a shortbread cookie on the side.

Summer's sun-ripened peaches really speak for themselves. But sometimes I like to make a statement with them while they're still abundant and fresh. That's why I grill them.

It's all the rage this summer. You can read my story with three really good recipes for grilling stone fruits. It's not a gimmick, and I urge you try it so long as you've got the grill lit. It takes those innocent, delectably sweet and juicy fruits and gives them an edge. They literally play with fire and the just-scorched sugars are worth savoring.

The photo above is one of my recipe tests with apricots (peaches, nectarines and plums are other options). I didn't end up including it in the article because it's less a recipe than an assembly of grilled fruit, soft-ripened cow's milk cheese (French triple cream, anyone?) and prosciutto on a bed of arugula. Dress it with your favorite balsamic vinaigrette.

There is nothing to it, so long as your grill grate is scraped clean as a whistle and you've oiled it, or the fruits themselves. Amazingly, they do not stick, and it takes, like, 3 minutes to do a whole rack. You can have them as a salad, with your entree (see my article for ideas) and dessert.

That's just what I'm going to be demonstrating at next week's farmers market (September 11th)--and it's going to be videotaped just like a live cooking show. If you happen to be wandering hundreds of miles from the nearest major city looking for a bite to eat, you should definitely stop by.

The Perfect Pantry

2010-08-31T21:34:00.000-07:00

Seattle's moveable feast is an ideal place to stock the larder.

We all move around so much, we can count the places we've once lived like past loves.

Nine years after leaving Seattle, I went back by myself for the first time this past weekend.Seattle and I no longer recognize one another. We've both matured so much, our youthful selves reshaped by a near-decade of experience and change.

All slights and disappointments are so far in the past, I had no expectations of the city. Perhaps that is precisely why I felt only admiration for all that it has become while I've been away.

From the moment I took off from the airport on the light rail to meet my friend Judy for an afternoon of ramen, bibimbap and cream puff eating in the International District, I took in all that is new.

And I loved it, this city I rejected for another life, once again. Should I move back? I thought. Could I live here now?

If it was only about the food, the aisles of noodles, soy sauce and frozen fish products at Uwajimaya would be enough to keep me enthralled. I'd make daily trips for cheese, meat and bread at Melrose Market if only to take in the great vibe. I'd drive at rush hour all the way to Ballard for more of Gelato d'Ambrosio's caramel-fig gelato.

Foodwise, there is nothing you cannot have in Seattle. I strolled through the QFC with envy of the stores of high-quality staples. If only I had access to all of this!

Life in the country certainly gets you close to the source, but it doesn't feed you. Not when you have to track down the eggs, milk the cow, harvest the beans and pick the wild plums in order to eat well. I've chosen a different life here where the air is clear, but with canning season just coming upon us, I'm wishing that it was more convenient and beautifully arrayed in a single location.

I might have to have a friendly, non-committing encounter with Seattle again soon. Only next time, I'll be packing a very, very large cooler.

Asia In My Dreams

2010-08-21T15:56:00.000-07:00

Making excellent Asian food is a matter of tasting with your taste buds wide open.

If I could do anything, I would hopscotch my way from Vietnam to Cambodia with a side trip to Laos and all the way through Thailand for no other purpose than to eat.

I daydream about Southeast Asian street food. It was all I wanted to eat when I was pregnant, both times. Now that I'm working on a chapter of my book entitled "World Beef Cuisine," it's consuming me.

There is no more vibrant food--in the bowl or the mouth--in the world. It is so fresh, so balanced, so summery. It can capture every taste that Aristotle identified all those centuries ago--sweet, sour, bitter, salty and pungent--in a single bite.

It's also very friendly to the cook: with a little advance prep work, dinner's ready in a matter of minutes. For instance, to make this beef noodle bowl (based on the Vietnamese bun), I precooked the noodles, marinated the beef and made the dressing a day in advance. All I had to do was grill the beef and assemble the bowls. It's even quick enough to make for a workday lunch.

While researching, writing and testing these recipes, I've often wished that I was a well-traveled expert of these intoxicating cuisines. Then, I realized that it's not about replicating a taste from another place. Like all good cooking, it's more important to be attentive to the tastes at hand.

So, that is exactly what I am doing as I doctor the marinades, dipping sauces and stir fries: tasting, tasting, tasting. My goal now is not to make my recipes adhere to some standard of authentic, but to make certain that they are delicious and evocative.

In fact, I was just telling the story to a friend over coffee today about making a Thanksgiving dinner while living in Mexico. Nothing--not the turkey, mashed potatoes or pumpkin pie--tasted the way it did at home, but it was all delectable.

Still, I'm plotting an all-I-can-eat trip through Seattle's International District and a museum-like excursion through the Asian fantasy food mart Uwajimaya, while I'm there for the International Food Blogger Conference next week. Better cooking, eating and blogging is all in my future.

And when the girls get old enough that I can endure the flight, so is a trip to the land of my food dreams.

Beef Noodle Bowl
Serves 4
All you really need to know to make an awesome bowl of bun is the simple dressing called nuoc cham. There are so very many variations, so adjust it to suit your taste. You can use some of the dressing to marinate the beef or just grill it as is. This potent dressing adds all the extra flavor you need. Of course, a dab or two of sriricha sauce is never a bad idea.
1 (6 ounce) package vermicelli rice noodles (maifun)
4 tablespoons fish sauce
4 tablespoons lime juice
1/2 cup warm water
3 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 garlic clove, minced
1-3 serrano chilies, stemmed and very thinly sliced into rounds with the seeds
1 carrot, cut into matchsticks
1 pound lean beef, such as sirloin, cut into 1/2-inch cubess
For serving:
4 large green or red leaf lettuce leaves, separated
1 bunch cilantro
1 bunch Thai basil
1. Boil the rice noodles in plenty of water until tender to the bite, about 3 minutes. Drain, rinse in cold running water, and drain well.
2. Combine the fish sauce, lime juice, water, sugar and garlic in a small bowl and stir until the sugar dissolves. Add the chilies to taste and the carrot.
3. Thread the beef onto 4 skewers and grill or broil on high heat, turning the skewers 2-3 times for a total of 4- 5 minutes.
4. Tear the lettuce into the bottom of 4 bowls. Make a nest on top with the rice noodles and top with 1 of the beef skewers. Splash on the dressing with as many chilies and carrots as you desire and add herbs to taste.

Cook Like A Local: Work With What You've Got

2010-08-14T16:15:00.000-07:00

Happily, big, beefy tomatoes for stuffing grow on both coasts.

What a sea change coming back to our mountain home. Last weekend we were stuffing ourselves on lobster at my sister's wedding reception. (Congratulations Beth and Chris!)

The next day, we were so flush in clawed crustaceans leftovers (from those crazy people who opted for steak and chicken) that Chris whipped up a food-service-sized bowl of lobster salad. And the day after that, we combined the lobster salad with corn cut off the cob, fresh lime juice and chopped romaine and stuffed Dad's precious tomatoes with it all.

A lot is made of lobster rolls on Cape Cod. I could travel to the church luncheons every day of the week and have a different one, which I am tempted to do one of these summers. But I think that the lobster & corn-stuffed tomato is the overlooked treasure, especially come August.

You'd guess that after 3 straight days of getting "lobster drunk," as my sister (the newlywed one) likes to say, I'd be done with it. Alas, back in the pacific time zone at 4,200-feet above sea level, I was still missing it. All I had was tomatoes for consolation.

So, I called upon my favorite summer grain--bulgur, because it does not require cooking (only soaking in hot water for 30 minutes or so). The innards of the tomatoes I scooped out were step 2 of the filling befriended by diced zucchini, crumbed feta and chopped olives all married in a zesty dressing of red wine vinegar and olive oil. (Do it all right in the same bowl to taste people, with salt and pepper, of course.)

It used to be that I liked summer's best tomatoes simply sliced and salted. No more. All the way into next month, I'll be stuffing any one of them as big as a baseball. I've found that the thin, flexible blade of a boning knife works best to cut around the tomato top like you're carving out a pumpkin. Then, pull out the flesh with your fingers and drain out the juice and use both of them in the filling, whatever it may be.

Here's one I stuffed with a ground beef and corn saute, since ground beef is as plentiful here as lobster is there.

But maybe the next time I'm at the supermarket, I'll search for Dungeness crab. I'm sure that it would be fabulous stuffed inside a tomato.

Dining Off the Dock

2010-08-03T12:49:00.000-07:00

On a lucky day on the waterfront, great food is not far away.

We arrived over a week ago at my parents' riverside home on Cape Cod. It's meant adjusting our internal rhythms to the 3-hour time difference, our personal thermostats to the humid weather and our appetites to a seafood-based diet.

Eating from the sea is the definitely the way to go. As far as I can tell, it's not easy getting pasture-raised meats and dairy on the fingertip of New England. (Grassfed is not the catchword here like it is in New York and the Northwest, but I did get a pasture-raised veal chop at our belated wedding anniversary dinner last weekend at the great Cape Sea Grille restaurant. Don't ask me what I was going eating meat there.)

Nightly, my dad heads to the fish market for supper. But sometimes, we manage to catch it ourselves. Last weekend, we savored grilled bluefish and baked-stuffed quahogs (ko-hog, a hardshell clam that I adore).

Today, it's blue crab on the specials menu. I came back from the beach just in time to catch my dad steaming two big ones. Then, out in the rowboat, I managed to dredge a few quahogs at low tide and pluck some oysters from their beds. I had visions of bounty, but I only managed to get a half dozen of each.

No matter. Together, we had ourselves a raw bar with just enough for everyone to savor. Then, we dined on lobsters that we did not catch ourselves, but enjoyed almost as much.

3 Secrets About Flatiron Steak

2010-07-26T08:12:00.000-07:00

Here's how to cook a flatiron with some trivia, too.

So, do you want to know how to cook a flatiron like this?

Or, maybe you just want to know a bit more about this super-trendy steak. You've seen it on restaurant menus, but do you know what it is?

That's perfectly okay. Most professionals, including chefs, meat purveyors and ranchers are not sure where this "new" steak comes from.

I only learned myself through a focused research project before I cooked a bunch of them for some cooking demonstrations and classes. Here are the basics:

This is a flatiron.

It is not a new invention. It's always been there on the cow's shoulder, called the chuck (in butchers' terms). Tough overall with a complex system of musculature, the chuck typically gets cut up for stew meat or ground beef.

Researchers recently discovered one to be the second most tender muscle after the tenderloin (1), if you can believe that. But, this steak has more flavor than tenderloin, if you can believe that (2).

To get specific, the flatiron is cut from the shoulder blade region. It's actually the same muscle as blade steak, only it is cut differently, thereby giving it a whole new name (3). So, if you buy blade steaks and cut out the center line of gristle, you have the same piece of meat.

Flatiron steaks from grassfed cattle are about 3/4 inch thick overall and as large as a man's outstretched hand. So, they cook very fast. Here's what it looks like after seasoning with salt and pepper and grilling for 4 minutes per side.

Serve it with you favorite herb puree, some flat bread and a green salad. You're good to go.

Everyday Herb Puree
I know that I have this annoying propensity to avoid writing specific recipes. That's because I like to teach people techniques that they can apply to their own situation, ingredients and proclivities. But I truly do understand the yearning for a recipe, if only for a model. Herewith, my model herb puree, a combination of mild-flavored and more potent fresh herbs.

I recently made one for the flatiron steaks I grilled at the farmers market using only herbs I found for sale there, so there is a lot of latitude. I like to chop the herbs coarsely with a knife, but you can puree it more finely in a food processor. Store it in the refrigerator for up to 1 week.

1 garlic clove
3/4 cup chopped fresh basil, cilantro or parsley (or a combination)
1/4 cup fresh oregano, chives, rosemary or sage (or a combination)
pinch red pepper flakes
1/2 teaspoon sherry vinegar
3/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
salt and pepper
1. Slice the garlic very thin, sprinkle with coarse salt and smash with the side of a wide-bladed knife to make a paste. Mix the garlic with the herbs, red pepper flakes, vinegar and olive oil in a bowl until well-blended. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Strawberry-Lavender Granita, By Hand

2010-07-18T07:08:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, the ingredients drive the dessert menu.

Karen was harvesting lavender when I arrived at her Eden-like garden along the Grande Ronde River in Troy last Friday. It was still early, and the sun, low-slanted, basked every stalk, vine and leaf in warm, gold light.

I was there with Molly to harvest 10 pounds of strawberries for our Slow Food booth at a big street fair in Enterprise. I was ready to get on with things, but Molly wanted to help harvest the lavender.

It's one of my favorite plants, both beautiful and edible. But I haven't brought any into the kitchen in years.

Karen asked, "What should I do with it? I'm thinking of making some scones."

Years ago, when I cooked at The Herbfarm, I could have rattle off a list, highlighting lavender's use in savory dishes and its affinity for onions, duck and rabbit. I'd mention using the flowers for herb rubs and for adding a light floral note to summertime soup.

As, I drove home, I thought more about lavender and how a little goes a long way and a pinch too much can taste like you accidentally swallowed potpourri.

For desserts, I tend to infuse the flowers in cream, milk or sugar. Which is perhaps, how I ended up turning the luscious leftover strawberries we didn't sell at the fair into a lavender-flavored granita.

A granita is just frozen pureed fruit that's shaved or chopped. To scent the strawberries with lavender, I dissolved some sugar in boiling water and tossed in a few of the lovely lavender flower heads, then let it steep for 20 minutes. The kitchen smelled like Provence.

By then, it was cool enough to taste, and it was just flowery enough. If it wasn't strong enough, I could have reboiled the syrup with another flower or two; if it was too strong, I could have diluted it with a plain batch of simple syrup.

I swirled some of this lavender syrup into my pureed strawberries, tasted and added a bit more sugar and lemon juice to balance all the flavors, plus a pinch of salt, which heightens the berry flavors. After I poured it into a square baking pan and froze it for a few hours, it was ready to chop by hand. (From Judy Rodgers' Zuni Cafe Cookbook, I got the hot tip to use a tool called a dough knife or bench scraper that lets you cut straight down into the pan easy as pie.)

It was one of those times, where the ingredients drove the dish, which must be how it is when a novelist's characters start dictating the story. It's delightful and freeing to start out without the end result in mind. Only the starting point (well-traveled, very ripe strawberries) and then a sense of the direction (dessert, preferably cold) that wends its own way toward something tangible--and, thrillingly, edible.

I wish I could have shared some with Karen.

Wok Joy

2010-07-08T17:03:00.000-07:00

The simple pleasures of good cooking gear and a simple stir-fry for supper.

I received my new Joyce Chen carbon steel wok in the mail yesterday, just in time to start writing the "world beef cuisine" chapter of my cookbook.

The last time I had a wok, I was in my early mid-twenties, not doing much cooking. My most memorable meal from that period is standing in front of the fridge eating hummus and rice cakes before heading off to teach an evening English as a second language class. I loved those crazy nights when over 40 adults crammed into a community college classroom, looking out into the sea of expectant faces from Russia, Azerbaijan, Vietnam and Mexico. Sometimes, people brought me great food.

The wok, which was a gift from my older sister, did not get much play in those not-cooking-for-one days. It went awol during one of my migrations on the way to coupledom and adulthood. A few times, I regretted the loss, but I made do with a big cast-iron skillet.

This is the second purchase of specialized cooking equipment in recent months. I've mentioned how I dislike gadgets, but there is something to be said for having the right tool for the right cooking job. I adore Asian food, and in order to prepare it well, I justified the wok purchase.

I ordered a carbon steel wok, avoiding the non-stick option. Having seasoned my new and beloved omelet pan, I was not intimidated by the involved instructions to boil water in the wok for 10 minutes, scrub it out with soapy water, then heat it with oil 3 to 4 times before using. By the time it was seasoned, the pristine graphite-color interior was scorched to caramel and my vegetables were all prepped and ready to go.

Along with a lid and a bamboo spoon, it came with a recipe booklet by Joyce Chen herself. I followed one of the recipes to make the soy and sesame sauce for ingredients I had on hand--tofu, salad turnips, scallion and spinach--and I parboiled some long noodles (aka spaghetti) to toss in with the sauce.

Not authentic by any means, but the pleasure was in how evenly and quickly the wok heated, how well it seared the tofu and how readily this last-minute meal came together thanks to an exquisitely engineered utensil.

Oh, and a night off from eating beef wasn't so bad either.

Seared Tofu with Noodles and Greens
Serves 2-3
The beauty of stir-fry is the option to improvise based on what you have so long as you adhere to the principles of stir-frying and employ a flavorful and balanced sauce such as this one adapted from Joyce Chen. Salad turnips look like white radishes, but are sweet and tender, a little bit like daikon.

1 tablespoon cornstarch
1 1/2 tablespoons soy sauce
1 1/2 teaspoons sesame oil
2 teaspoon oyster sauce
1/2 teaspoon chili sauce
3 tablespoons peanut oil

4 ounces firm or extra-firm tofu, drained, patted dry and cubed

2 garlic cloves, minced
1-inch piece fresh ginger, minced
4 scallions, finely chopped
4 salad turnips, thinly sliced
2 cups chopped baby spinach
4 ounces cooked long egg noodles
1. Mix the cornstarch with 1/4 cup water until there are no lumps. Stir in the soy sauce, sesame oil, oyster sauce and chili sauce until blended.
2. Heat a wok or large skillet over medium-high heat. Add 2 tablespoons of the peanut oil and swirl to coat the pan. When shimmering, add the tofu and cook undisturbed until golden brown on the bottom. Stir to turn the pieces as best you can and cook until another side is golden brown. Transfer the tofu to a plate.
3. Heat the remaining tablespoon oil in the wok, add the garlic and ginger and stir-fry for 30 seconds. Add the scallions, turnips and spinach and stir-fry for 1 minute. Add the tofu and the reserved sauce, stir to combine and boil until thickened. Stir in the noodles and serve immediately.

Cook Like A Local: Some Thoughts on Recipes

2010-07-03T15:11:00.000-07:00

How planning a meal is a lot like getting dressed.

From the first post in this new Cook Like A Local series, I got some great comments via Facebook. This one summed up a lot of the issues:

Yes, well, starting w/ recipes is for those of us who are not confident and/or do not have the faintest idea what's in season (because the contents of our stores hardly vary by season). As I've moved to co-op and farm stand shopping I see seasonality much more and start by ingredient.

It also helps to have the internet at your fingertips--before I had to start w/ whatever recipes were in my tiny cookbook collection. And now that I've been around the cooking block a time or two I don't always need a recipe, but that was years in the learning.

Yes, yes and yes, again! How true that you can't tell the season or the weather inside the supermarket. (Kind of freaky when you think about it.) Our entire food system has been based on uniformity and consistency. How lovely that is changing for many of us who are opting to shop in the great outdoors.

Ah, the pleasures of seeing fresh snow peas, and English peas and pea vines in the spring and local strawberries that have actual flavor. Even the staples, like broccoli and peppers and melons don't look or taste the same when they're in season. (Sad how we've become used to produce that lacks flavor.)

The main thing is that cooking by ingredients isn't necessarily dependent on what's in season, though that is nice. It depends on the food in your fridge--just like the clothes in your closet.

Making a meal is a lot like getting dressed. I don't think that anyone envisions an entire outfit from the get-go. It starts with a shirt or a pair of pants, and depends in part on the weather and the occasion. Then, the whole ensemble builds from there, using what we have on hand. Sometimes we do pine for the perfect pair of shoes or a different belt, but we improvise until we're dressed and ready to go out the door. Or, stay in and cook supper.

It's the same with cooking.

To illustrate, let's take that broccoli. Maybe it's in season and a lovely dark green bunch with tight-clustered heads came in your CSA box; maybe it's from Mexico via the supermarket and if you don't use it tonight, the heads are going to yellow. Either way, that's the starting point for the meal, because it's there.

Before I look for a recipe, I decide what direction to go with that broccoli, based on the weather, the occasion and my mood or cravings. If I decide it's stir-fry night--perfect for using up any other veggies, leftover meat or day-old rice--then I could open a Thai cookbook for a good sauce idea. Broccoli with oyster sauce, anyone? Or maybe something spicy like a curry...I know I have a can of coconut milk in the pantry.

If it's a hot summer evening, I'm going to turn that broccoli into a salad. Blanche it until verdant and crisp-tender, then make Broccoli Caesar with Walnuts or improvise that yummy broccoli slaw with toasted sesame seeds and dried cranberries in a light and faintly sweet mayonnaise dressing. (Whisk red wine vinegar and a pinch of granulated sugar into a tablespoon or two of mayonnaise. Season with salt and pepper.)

If I've already planned grilled chicken, then I would steam, roast or saute that broccoli--maybe check out an Italian recipe to see if I could make it more interesting, or not. Or if I'm making pasta, I'd chop it into florettes and plunge it in with the pasta for the last 2 minutes of cooking. (I love to do that with any green vegetable, including spinach, asparagus or peas, but my kids do not let me get away with it, even when I make mac and cheese.)

Yes, confidence and experience do play a big part. Once you start thinking this way, it gets more natural. The bottom line is that recipes are great resources once you know where you want to go.

The Omelet Project--

2010-06-24T07:11:00.000-07:00

When it comes to omelet-making methods, you can pick your preference.

Whew! We've spent a long time getting everything ready to make great omelets. I've led my poor friend Jane on the long road to pan purchase and seasoning. (It's going to be worth it, Jane, I promise. Thanks for hanging on while I've been in the depths of beefdom.)

On Father's Day last weekend, after a full day at the butcher's shop and co-hosting a group of Portlanders for a beef tasting and ranch barbecue, I wasn't fit for much. I did manage to pad over to the stove in bathrobe and slippers by 10 a.m. to make the father of my two children an omelet. I might mention that the man himself had been incredibly industrious, besides the usual kid and dish management, he was doing laundry and cleaning bathrooms.

Yes, I know. Bathrooms. Sorry, he's taken.

I did my usual routine of preheating my seasoned and oiled omelet pan over medium-low heat, while I scrambled 4 eggs to make 2 omelets, one for him, one for the girls. I poured the eggs into the shimmering oil and watched them bubble, and I thought again about omelet technique.

Method 1. When I first started The Omelet Project in late February 2010, I believed that I would find the single best omelet-making technique. So did some readers, who sent me the link to the Julia Child pan-thrusting method as explained by Mark Bittman and advice on what not to do (like try to flip an omelet). You can read her 13-page description in Mastering the Art of French Cooking or watch it here (good nostalgia). But, this way is too noisy and laborious for me.

Method 2. At the outset, I thought I'd adopt the technique demonstrated in the final silent scene of the film "Big Night." On the morning after, Primo stirs eggs in the hot pan until they are nearly set, and it looks to many like he is scrambling them. But he stops moving the eggs around after just a few moments, lets them set and then flips fairly elegantly. This video is an excellent demonstration by Stanley Tucci, though he uses a higher heat than I recommend for a light omelet.

The flip is the technique I use most often--though I flip with less self-assurance, and I do it over the sink just in case. I know that someday I will be able to do it with confidence and ease.

Method 3. This particular Sunday morning, I did not feel up to flipping. So, I lifted the edges of the omelet to let the uncooked eggs flow underneath, as I'd been advised. I turned the heat to its lowest setting, covered the pan and steamed it to finish cooking the eggs in the center.

So, if you're looking for one definitive method, I'm afraid I've failed you. Sometimes, it's just a matter of my mood. No two omelets are ever the same, like no two days in a lifetime. There are good omelets and better omelets...and I've come a long way since I began this project. I am now one who makes omelets.

Now, you try. Then, tell me, What's your single most favorite omelet filling?

UnTruths About Hamburger Patties

2010-06-09T13:28:00.000-07:00

To make the best burgers--grassfed or not--here are two things to learn and practice all grilling season long.

Grilling grassfed burgers over high heat

Okay, so May was officially hamburger month. But, like the weather, I'm a few weeks behind on a bunch of things--blogging and grilling included. (I really am going to scour the grill this weekend--promise.)

In the meantime, I have been researching and writing quite a bit about ground beef because it's the first recipe chapter in my book, Pure Beef.

Wait, a beef cookbook that starts with hamburgers? Yes, it's true! Not T-bones or flatirons, prime rib or filet mignon, but hamburgers.

They're the culinary icon of America and our most favorite way to eat beef. Despite the fact that you can find hamburgers anywhere and everywhere, we are now in the midst of a hamburger frenzy. Among the signs are people willing to wait in long lines at Shake Shack in NYC and to pay $16 for a burger on a bun--extra for black truffles--in celebrity chef-owned restaurants around the country.

Along with the burger buzz, I'm reading a lot of tips about grilling grassfed beef. To be blunt, 90% of them are dead wrong.

For almost 10 years, I've cooked exclusively with 100% grassfed ground beef from cows raised by a neighboring rancher. So, I'm pretty familiar with its cooking characteristics. The ground beef is 85% lean from all the trim from a single cow. I hand shape uniform 1/3-pound patties, season them generously on both sides with kosher salt, then grill them over the hottest part of the grill for 3 to 3 1/2 minutes per side.

Each and every time Benjamin and I take our first bite, we nod our heads at one another over the table because they're pretty phenomenal (even though we're still working on a good source for buns).

On Memorial Day weekend, I cooked a couple of exotic burgers during my cooking demonstration at the Wallowa County Farmers market. It gave me an opportunity to start dispelling some of the misinformation about grassfed beef:

Don't over-handle the ground beef: Okay, there's handling and over-handling. If you are going to make hamburger patties that don't fall apart, you need to shape them with your hands.*

Some people say that you'll make the hamburger tough. Huh? The beef is already ground, so you'd have to knead it for a long time to toughen the meat. Now, it's easy to make them tough--and dry--by pressing on them with a spatula while grilling and squeezing out all the juices. I'd like to start a Stop Pressing the Burger campaign to prevent anyone from doing that again, ever.

The only over-handling point I've heard that bears merit is that you don't want the heat of your hands to melt the fat. Keeping that fat intact is key to a tender and juicy burger. So yes, if you handle the ground beef for too long and it starts sticking to your hands, then your burger will be compromised.

I've realized that shaping hamburgers is a lot like making pie dough. People have been warned for so long about not overhandling the dough that they tend to underhandle it. So they end up with dry, raggy-edged pie crust. Same is true with the burgers I've seen: lumpy with thin edges that don't fit the bun.

Be not afraid!, I told the people at my demonstration. You can shape nicely uniform discs of ground beef while keeping contact to a minimum. Just portion (I use a scale, but if you have 1 pound of burger, it's easy to divide it into 3 or 4 pieces), then hold each piece in your hands and press it while spinning it around like you're making mini-pizza about 5 inches wide and 1-inch thick (okay, a very thick mini-pizza). Put it on a plate and use your thumb to make an indentation in the center so that when the patty expands during grilling, it won't blow up into a burger ball. I have witnessed too many burger balls at backyard barbecues, and it's a sad sight.

Now, how long did that take? If it was less than 1 minute, you're safe from over-handling but still have an actual hamburger patty, not a blob of ground beef.

Don't cook it over high heat: This is another claim that makes me just want to scream, "Baloney!" Trust me, it's all over the internet and it is simply is not true. Grill that beautiful beef patty over a hot grill--just don't cook it for very long. Four minutes per side is max, I'd say. Three per side leaves you with a deliciously medium-rare burger, of course that does depend on how cold the ground beef was before you put it on the grill. I pull my patties from the fridge about 20 minutes before grilling. [Food Safety Aside: If you're using 100% grassfed beef from a rancher you trust, that means it came from one and only one cow and the chances of food-borne illness (i.e. E. coli) are next to nil so you do not need to employ your probe thermometer to ascertain it has reached an internal temperature of 155 degrees F as food service institutions must do.]

For anyone who might want a burger cooked more than that (oh, but do note that grassfed ground beef stays pinker longer than grain-fed), either turn off the grill and close the lid, or move it to the coolest part of the grill to finish cooking, nice and slow.

As I write this, I realize that it really needs a video demonstration to go along with it. I will work on that, along with cleaning the grill--I promise.

*I haven't as yet, but plan to try one of the hamburger presses on the market.

Cook Like A Local: A How-To Guide Begins

2010-05-30T15:03:00.000-07:00

Cooking at the farmers market

This weekend is the kick-off for our farmers market in eastern Oregon.

Yes, I realize it's a bit late for lowlanders. But here at 4200 feet we're still flush in rhubarb, dandelion greens and chives. Given the recent snows, we are thrilled over the sight of anything coming up out of the ground, and I'm not just talking about morels.

We're all soldiering on through a May that looks and feels like March, looking forward to a new season of fresh, local produce. The truth is that even in the heart of summer we're rich in vegetables and fruits are precious and few.

I love the Wallowa County Farmers Market because that's where I get to do a monthly cooking demonstration. I left my education career for cooking, but I have to admit, I still like to get up in front of a group of people and show them how to do stuff. I always learn something useful, myself. That's the universal truth of teaching.

What I've learned over the past year of public teaching is that folks come at cooking in a whole different way than I do. A lot of people tell me that they start out by thinking of a recipe. (Or, they don't know what to make at all. Perhaps that's when people end up buying premade, prepackaged foods. I don't know for sure.)

I honestly don't think that I ever start out by having a recipe in mind. I would just feel hamstrung that way, hunting through my stores for ingredients that I may or may not have.

That's a rough way to start and it certainly doesn't provoke confidence, enthusiasm or creativity.

I start with what is available, i.e. what's in season and plentiful. Then, I work toward a savory or sweet solution from there. It's a whole different orientation, but it's the only way I know to cook with the seasons, which in my book, makes for the best eating anywhere.

So, if you'd like to follow along, I'll pick up this topic through the growing season, elaborate on the ideas I've outlined here and offer lots and lots of seasonal cooking ideas. I hope you'll chime in with your own.

Happy Memorial Day, everyone. I invite you to drop by the farmers market one of these Saturdays, come to a cooking demo and help me learn some more.

Gambling for Morels

2010-05-28T12:52:00.000-07:00

With just a handful of morels, asparagus and eggs go wild in this easy and impressive appetizer recipe.
[photos coming as soon as my camera gets fixed. Sorry!]

I think I understand gambling addiction. After spending a few afternoons searching for the elusive morel mushroom, I know the thrill of making a score. One little win stimulates some part of the brain and you want to repeat the experience to the exclusion of anything else.

In my case, it was finding a solitary morel. If there was one wild mushroom growing below the Douglas Fir trees at Wallowa State Park, I reasoned, there had to be more. The fact that I left the kids with Benjamin in the middle of the park or that it was getting stormy or precariously close to dinner time did not matter. All I could see in my mind's eye were those pointy, honeycombed caps out there...somewhere.

If you've ever wondered what all the rage is about mushrooms, the answer, I believe, lies in the hunt. Perhaps it is in the core of our genes that we find deep satisfaction in finding our own food. Forager Langdon Cook has a lot to say on this subject on his Fat of the Land blog and book.

Finding a morel feels like striking gold. There you are in the woods scanning the under story for signs of mushrooms. Is there disturbed ground? Are they hiding on the underside of that damp log? And then you take a step and between your feet is one of those edible fungi. Once you know the color of the cap, which can vary from black-brown to blonde, you reset your vision to scan for the exact shape and the color and keep looking.

Morels can appear and disappear at will. I picture them as tiny gnomes with magical properties. If you spot one and look away, it will be hard to find it again--if you're an amateur like me. The more you find, the more you’re convinced that you’re walking by others who are laughing at you behind your back.

If you don’t find any at all, self doubt nags. You wonder if you’re in the right spot, if they’re just up the hill or down the hill or over the next draw--or you are simply not seeing them. There is nothing to be done but to keep trying. You're addicted.

Every year I promise myself that I’m going to study to become a better hunter. As soon as I return from the woods, I forget my resolve until I’m out there again. Whatever I do find is blind luck, which is probably why I don’t find very many.

My approach to cooking morels is based on scarcity. After finding six morels on my first outing, I created this recipe, which I shared at the cooking class I taught this past week to a group of morel enthusiasts.

Asparagus and Morels with Garlic-Chive Sabayon

Serves 2

1 small garlic clove
pinch kosher salt
2 egg yolks
1 bunch asparagus
6 (or more) morels, washed
2 teaspoons sea salt
¼ cup dry white wine or vermouth
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh chives

1. Bring a pot of water to a boil. Slice the garlic into very thin slices, sprinkle with the salt and smash with the flat side of a chef’s knife to make a paste. Whisk the egg yolks with the garlic paste in a metal mixing bowl until very smooth.
2. Trim the ends from the asparagus and slice the mushrooms in half if they are large. Salt the water and plunge the asparagus and mushrooms into the water to cook until tender, 3-4 minutes. Lift from the water to drain and set aside.
3. Set the mixing bowl over the boiling water and whisk in the wine. Continue whisking while the yolks become very frothy. They will gradually turn into a foam and there will be no visible liquid in the bottom of the bowl. Remove from the heat and whisk in the chives. To serve place half of the asparagus spears and morels onto 2 small plates. Spoon the sabayon over the warm-to-room temperature vegetables.

The Omelet Project--Pan Finale

2010-05-23T22:17:00.000-07:00

What the pans taught me about making a good omelet.

After months of practicing omelet production in a variety of non non-stick pans, the results are in. I really didn't intend this project to take so long, but many things are afoot--more on that soon.

Good things it's been perfect omelet weather, which is to say horribly cold, wet, gray and even snowy. Only eggs have sustained me.

As promised, I have made omelets with more and less success in cast-iron, stainless steel and black steel--all 8 inch.

Can you guess which I prefer?
Yes, my $30 French omelet pan made of black steel is the standout. The French must indeed understand something about omelet physics because this heavy duty, easy care pan heats quickly, cooks eggs evenly and holds the heat to complete the cooking even after it's pulled from the burner. And, for no extra charge, the handle stays cool. (So, there you have it, Jane, I say buy the omelet pan for crepes and omelets, since it performs both tasks with aplomb.)

All of the pans have taught me something critical to becoming a more proficient and confident omelet maker:
1. Season the pan just before using and preheat thoroughly. If you add the beaten eggs before the pan is hot enough to make the oil shimmer, they will be more inclined to stick. FYI: This is true of all proteins and frying in general.
2. Use enough oil to glaze the pan. One of the reasons non-stick became so popular was that people were avoiding any and all hydrogenated oils. No such worries with extra-virgin olive oil, which I use it to make every single heart-healthy omelet.
3. Cook less egg at once. I pour no more than 2 beaten eggs into the pan at a time and make individual omelets. This is great for practice and prevents overcooking some of the egg while the rest is still raw and runny.
4. Give the eggs a chance to set. If you stir the eggs like you're planning to scramble them, they'll remove that nice oil coating and will start to bond to the pan.
5. This omelet pan does a lot more than omelets, including egg over easy, sunny side up and the rest, naturellement, crepes of all kinds, shredded home fries and just about anything you want to reheat, saute or pan fry in small quantities. This pan has legs.

Get your pans preheated and oiled up because we'll tackle the ultimate omelet techniques in the next installment.

Sorrel Pesto

2010-05-12T14:14:00.000-07:00

The remaking of spring's least-celebrated herb and a pesto recipe for the season.

Since spring began--if only in name--I've been thinking of creative ways to use sorrel. I've loved this tart, lemony herb since I cooked at the Willows Inn on Lummi Island (before it became world-famous on the pages of Gourmet magazine). On gun-metal gray spring days on the Washington coast, I'd harvest a bag from the raised-bed garden for spinach-sorrel soup served at the inn's spring 7-course dinners.

In all those intervening years, sorrel has not hit it big. Still, I've been waiting.

Even when anything green can become a pesto (even asparagus as of today's Minimalist article in The New York Times), this bold, easy-to-grow green hasn't made a name for itself outside of France, where classically, it's blended with cream to sauce poached salmon.

So, that's exactly what I did with the bag of sorrel Brian and Evan delivered en bicyclette last weekend just in time for Mother's Day. I took a huge handful of those sword-shaped leaves, stemmed them and pureed them with garlic, salt and olive oil. Simple but not quite right.

I wanted to temper some of the puckery qualities of fresh sorrel. My first instinct was to put a pot of water onto boil, so that I could blanch the leaves. This technique works great for taming the bitterness of dandelion greens.

But just before plunging them in, I tore off a piece to try. Sorrel has a fresh, sparkly lemon taste that I didn't want to lose in the heat. So, I used the hot water to make a cup of tea and pureed the leaves with whole toasted almonds instead. Their oils, I figured, in tandem with the olive oil, would round out sorrel's harsh edges.

When I was done, I had a little more than a cup of bright-green sorrel pesto, zesty and a little bit salty to use at will.

If the Chinook salmon were running yet, I'd certainly dab some on a grilled fillet. (Word is we'll be seeing record runs of this species, which means more free fish.) Putting the plant in this form, creates a whole range of new possibilities:

tossed with spinach pasta, spring peas and a little cream
blended with goat cheese for an omelet
swirled into a tomato-vegetable soup
mixed with mayo for topping a salmon burger
that steak tartine (photo)

Sorrel, here's your big break. Let's rebrand and become the taste of springtime.

Sorrel Pesto
Makes 1 1/4 cup

2 cloves garlic
1/4 cup toasted almonds
2.5 ounces (about 20) sorrel leaves, stemmed
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
pinch cayenne
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

1. Puree the garlic and almonds in a food processor until well-blended. Add the sorrel leaves and pulse until finely chopped. Add the sallt and cayenne and pulse 1-2 times to blend.
2. With the motor running, drizzle in the olive oil just until blended. Store covered for up to 1 week.

Madhur Jaffrey Saves the Day

2010-05-06T22:12:00.000-07:00

How a famous screen actress gave me a winning recipe for chickpea and tomato stew.

It snowed like a January blizzard yesterday. Yes, it was Cinco de Mayo and it was blowing so hard we didn't venture the 2 blocks from our house to the summertime outpost of La Laguna restaurant in Joseph, which opened just in time for the holiday.

We didn't feel much like celebrating with guacamole and margaritas anyway when it felt like ski season again with 6 inches of snow on the ground. I scrapped my supper plans for the Laotian salad called larp (we all needed something warming) and put a pot of chickpeas on to boil in late afternoon.

I felt inspired to make a simple yet rich chicken broth-based garbanzo bean soup like the one I had at Craft years ago. (Congratulations James Beard Award winner Tom Colicchio!) But with no local chicken in my freezer and an aversion to buying factory-farmed birds, I looked instead to a stand-by from Madhur Jaffrey's World-of-the-East Vegetarian Cooking.

I got the cookbook at a Friends of the Library booksale in Seattle over 10 years ago. A paperback, it split into three pieces, which my 2-year-old loved to pull out and further dismember. I kept patching it back together before impulsively recycling the whole thing with the intention of ordering her entire cookbook collection and her memoir.

Like most Americans, I know Jaffrey best through her cookbooks and food writing. Then, 2 weeks ago, I saw an example of her exquisite skills as a character actress and got a sense of how funny she is.

Jaffrey stars in the new movie Today's Special with Aasif Mandvi of The Daily Show who wrote the screenplay. It's not in release until fall, but Foodista hosted a late-night screening for food professionals at the IACP conference in Portland, a conference highlight.

I didn't speak to Jaffrey. She's so regal and wordly and I didn't think I had anything to say. But now I wish that I had simply thanked her in person for, among so many other gifts, her simple recipe for chickpea and tomato stew that sustained my family on a busy, stormy night in May.

Chickpea and Tomato Stew
Serves 4-6

Since my cookbook self-destructed, this is my recollection and reproduction of Madhur Jaffrey's recipe. It is oniony, slick with olive oil and all you need for supper.

1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 onions, chopped
1 1/2 cups cooked chickpeas
1 28-ounce can whole peeled tomatoes
sea salt and black pepper

1. Heat the olive oil in a saucepan over medium heat. Cook the onions in the oil until translucent. Add the chickpeas and tomatoes, breaking them up with your fingers, and all their juice. Bring to a simmer and season to taste with salt and pepper.
2. Eat hot while watching Shakespeare Wallah.

How Do You Brew?

2010-04-25T08:07:00.000-07:00

A link to a definitive coffee brewing guide from the experts in Portland, Oregon.

I'm up early on a Sunday morning getting ready to leave Portland after a week of city living. As I drive around my adopted neighborhood, I think about how a city works--even on a sleepy Sunday morning--thanks to all those who get up early and make it happen.

At the grocery store, there's a cheerful bakery attendant who boxes up the petit fours I'm bringing home to celebrate Cece's 2nd birthday. (It was yesterday the 24th, but I'm hoping she won't hold it against me later in life.) There's the gas station attendant pumping my gas and gulping down a steaming cupful of Oodles of Noodles. He's wearing a black stocking cap and is hunched down in his coat against the morning's chill. Lord only knows how long he's been up so that I can have enough gas to head on my way.

At my last stop for coffee and a bite of breakfast, a barista is arranging the outdoor tables. A pale glow backlights the clouds and the sidewalks are dry--perfect weather for spending the day at an outdoor cafe.

I step up to the counter, waffle in my order, then go for the fabulous coffee from the press pot. The barista waits politely and indulges my questions about refills and taking one for the road.

"Hey," I say, "one more thing. Can you tell me how much coffee you use in your French press?"

I'm trying to calibrate our home coffee making system by surveying my favorite coffee spots. The barista gets a scoop of beans and a scale and calculates the per cup ratio of beans to water--10 grams of ground coffee per cup hot water, or 65 grams in a 51-ounce French press (that's the giant one).

Then, when I take my seat with coffee and quiche, he dashes over to my table with an order ticket. He's printed a website of coffee brewing information compiled by the best coffee roasters and brewers in the city: brewmethods.com.

"It'll tell you everything you want to know for every method" he says and strides away.

I recommend using this reference in preparation for the next time you need to do something useful for someone else some early morning.

So...how do you brew?

Photo by EspressoDOM

Tomato Sauce as in Rome

2010-04-23T09:43:00.000-07:00

Homemade tomato sauce in 5 minutes as told to me by Wendy Holloway, Flavor of Italy.

I'm in Portland for a conference of culinary professionals from all over the world. Well, a lot of the international guests couldn't quite make it over the pond because of copious amounts of volcanic ash in the sky. One of those who did arrive on time is Wendy from Rome who owns Flavor of Italy, a bed and breakfast and cooking school.

Over lunch we talked about Italian ingredients. She had scoffed when I told her that I sometimes add sugar to my tomato sauce to balance the acidity that makes my kids object to its tartness.

"No sugar," Wendy commanded with a scowl. Righ then and then she gave me a verbal cooking lesson on making real Italian tomato sauce.

"Italian food is simple," she said with a dramatic sweep of her hands. I guess after 25 years in a country, you even pick up the hand gestures.

Wendy's Tomato Sauce alla Romana
If you have any stores of home-canned tomatoes left in your pantry (lucky you), make this now. If you don't (like me) buy the best, organic canned tomatoes you can find. (I like Muir Glen.)

1. Pour 1/4 cup of the finest olive oil you have into a sauce pan. Smash 1 clove of garlic, peel it and let it fry in the oil for a minute or two until aromatic and softened but not browned.

2. Drain the tomatoes and add to the pot. Smash with a potato masher until the consistency you like. Cover the pot and cook for 5 minutes, until you see pools of oil on the tomatoes.

3. Season with salt and serve with the boiled pasta of your choice. (Make sure to make that water nice and salty. Wendy uses two fistfuls of coarse sea salt in her pot.)

"Five minutes, it's done," Wendy said. "I guarantee your kids will love it."

I replied: "And so will I."

How to Cook a (Free) Steelhead, Part 2

2010-04-14T16:50:00.000-07:00

During another spring of fish aplenty, I offer 5 ways to cook a steelhead.

For the second time in a year, I gutted and filleted some steelhead at my kitchen sink last night.

It was 10 p.m. and as much as I didn't want to, I had to clean those two fish while they were still fresh. I have to say, I managed it all quicker and tidier than last year.

Steelhead are flooding the rivers of Wallowa County again this spring. The food bank is giving them away at a rate of 150 or more a week.

It looks like we'll be eating fresh, free fish every week until early May. And I'm going to get a lot of practice with my fillet knife.

Who would have thought that cooking steelhead was a hot topic? Certainly not me...until I checked my traffic stats and learned that my post of late March 2009, How To Cook a (Free) Steelhead was my #1.

I know that steelhead anglers flock to the Grande Ronde and the Wallowa at this time of year for the spring runs. Maybe they've brought their Blackberries to wall tents in Troy and are hunting for recipe tips after dark.

Since I have such a supply of fresh fish, I'm branching out my steelhead cooking repertoire. But you'll notice there's no fancy footwork here. When the fish is fresh, I say, keep it simple.

Here are 5 ways I've cooked steelhead:

*Home-style Fish and Chips: Cut 1 fillet into serving-size pieces, dust with flour, dip in beaten egg and coat with well-seasoned bread crumbs. Pan-fry in 2 inches of canola oil until crisp on both sides. Pat dry on paper towels and sprinkle with sea salt. Serve with a squeeze of lemon, tartar sauce optional, and oven fries (e.g. your own or some made by Ore-Ida).

*Pan-fried Steelhead with Lemon Brown Butter: Cut fillet into serving-size pieces, season sea salt and pepper. Saute in butter until nicely browned. Set aside and keep warm while adding 3-4 tablespoons more butter to the pan. When it turns nutmeg color and smells nutty, remove from the heat and squeeze in the juice from half a lemon or more to taste.

*Smoke-then-Grilled Steelhead: (I cheat by using a Traeger smoker-grill.) Set up your grill for smoking and smoke fillets for 15 minutes. Then grill for 8-10 minutes until the fish is cooked through to your liking.

*Slow-Baked Steelhead: Sprinkle the fillet with sel de mer or another coarse sea salt and preheat the oven to 300 degrees. Bake until just cooked through, about 15 minutes.

*Grilled Teriyaki Steelhead: Combine equal parts soy sauce and mirin in a mixing bowl along with freshly grated ginger and brown sugar to taste. Spoon over the fish before grilling and pass extra sauce at the table.

And that's just the beginning when it's a steelhead season like this year.

Vegetable Hierarchies

2010-04-07T12:53:00.000-07:00

While we wait for late spring produce, there's a great variety of wild, edible greens--like miner's lettuce--ready for the taking and making a well-dressed salad.

On the occasions when I watch a sporting event on TV, I'm predisposed to root for the underdog. So it's no wonder that I'm a huge fan of vegetables that need a PR makeover. I recently mentioned my penchant for leeks, and I adore parsnips and turnips. So many vegetables fly under the radar in a mass market-driven food world.

At this time of year, I'm obsessed with greens that are often classified as weeds. Or, we could call them Trash Veggies.

"Trash fish" is the term applied to fish that don't have a market and are so valueless that they're simply pitched back into the seas. It wasn't long ago that monkfish and skate were considered unfit for human consumption.

In the vegetable kingdom, some species are similarly neglected. At this time of year, two of my favorites--chickweed and miner's lettuce--are growing in abundance in the temperate climes of Portland and Seattle.

In our mountain valley where it has snowed every single day of April, I head to Brian and Marcy's greenhouse for my fix of wild, edible greens. Around the edges of the planting beds are bunches of miner's lettuce and I clip all I can use.

With tender mild leaves and crisp watery stems, miner's lettuce is a wonder. I especially love the leaves in their infancy when still a single heart shape no bigger than a nickel.

Mature miner's lettuce has two joined leaves and a flower center.

I pick some of both. If it weren't for my footprints in the snow outside, they'd never know I was here.

If you don't find a rogue grower selling miner's lettuce at your farmer's market, ask them for some. I'm sure they have plenty crowding the edges of their gardens. Or, forage in your neighborhood pea patch. They're wild, edible and free.

Like other delicate salad greens, miner's lettuce prefers to be lightly dressed with mild olive oil and vinegar, such as champagne or sherry.

To dress a salad: Put fresh, washed and dried greens in your biggest mixing or salad bowl. Sprinkle on your best extra-virgin olive oil and toss with tongs. Use your fingers to sprinkle on the salt of your choice (I use fine sea salt) and toss again. With a light hand, add 6 or so drops of excellent-quality vinegar. Taste: this is the most important step. Adjust salt and vinegar to suit. Pass the pepper mill at the table.

My girls ate more greens at this one meal than they have all month! Here's Molly demonstrating her appreciation for miner's lettuce.

Fair Trade Lamb

2010-03-31T22:19:00.001-07:00

Origami photo by ilovedrywell

This is the story of how I scored a leg of lamb just in time for Easter this weekend. I plan to give it a rub with lavendar, rosemary and garlic and hope to roast it over an open flame.

We have our first genuine coffee house, a hangout called Gypsy Java in downtown Enterprise. Co-owned by a pair of talented American Tribal style bellydancers, it's the first cafe we have that's open daily and into the evening on Thursdays and Fridays.

I love the near-full-story windows, the second-hand furniture and the Cafe Mam organic, fair-trade, fresh-roasted beans. I go there often to write. After years of missing Seattle's cafe society, I have a place where I be quiet around a bunch of other people.

Weird and paradoxical, I know. But when I am stuck, there's nothing better than the smell of atomized espresso and a few casual conversations to get my writing motor running.

A few weeks ago, I left my laptop at home and met another ex-Seattleite at Gypsy Java just for conversation. Janet raises lambs with her partner Ralph at their place way up into the snow zone of Alder Slope. I usually buy a half lamb from them but didn't last year because my freezer was full of other species.

Over coffee, Janet related an exciting tale involving the lamb shoulder she made into spring lamb stew. It sparked my hunger for lamb, so I asked, "What can I trade you for some lamb? I have beef and pork and..."

"Oh, we have pork, but I'd love some beef."

"What do you want?" I asked, meaning which cut of beef.

"I don't know. Lamb is more expensive than beef, so we'll do a different cut," she said.

"Or I can give you more beef," I said.

"Okay, we'll figure it out." (We did via e-mail just today.)

And there you have it: a good, old-fashioned meat barter at the modern-day coffee bar.

The Omelet Project--Free From Nonstick

2010-03-27T18:23:00.000-07:00

A plain omelet that rolled right out of the pan proved that a simple seasoning technique is worth its salt.

There is nothing I enjoy quite so much as when someone cooks for me.

It doesn't happen very often, so the pleasures are great no matter what is served--a simple soup, some pasta or beans and rice. But, when I am hosted with largesse and graciousness as I was last night at Mellie & Tim's, then I'm over the moon.

I also can get carried away and eat and drink a little too much. Oh, that Cuban pork and macaroni and cheese and all that imported wine was so very good! Today, I needed to institute some austerity measures to fully recover.

All day I couldn't stomach much more than green tea. But by 4 o'clock, I felt in need of some sustenance, something wholesome and gentle on the system. Ah yes, the perfect day to test-drive my new omelet pan.

After many shopping trips to the Internet (time consuming but it sure does save a lot of gas), I ended up clicking the "buy" button for a black steel French omelet pan from Matfer that cost only $30.

When I hefted the long-handled 8 5/8 incher from the box late last week, I felt good about my decision. Some of the other pans I had considered were not as solid as this, and I knew that I wanted one that would heat evenly and insulate the delicate egg from the flames.

The first challenge was removing the label adhesive from the cooking surface and trying to interpret the seasoning instructions, which were a garbled translation. (Perhaps you only thought that happened on products manufactured in Taiwan and China.) They involved frying a potato in oil and salt and then throwing it all out.

I didn't know what magic the fried potato might have for seasoning my new pan. But instead of trying it out, I employed the technique I use to scrub my cast-iron pans when they're really messy and in need of a tune-up.

I heated the omelet pan on the burner on medium high and added a good quantity of canola oil--nearly 3 tablespoons. Then, I dumped in nearly 1/4 cup of salt. It was a bit excessive, but I wanted to make sure that I could get all traces of the adhesive off the pan and rid it of anything the egg could stick to.

Once the oil and salt were hot, I removed the pan from the flame and used a papertowel to rub the salt all around. (My own body could have used such an invigorating warm sea salt scrub!) The pan gleamed and appeared willing to receive some beaten egg.

Still quite warm, this cheap French-made pan was very kind to those two beaten eggs. It sizzled when I poured them in and let them swirl around the pan freely before gently setting them without any browning on the bottom. It practically escorted the omelet onto the plate and held nothing back.

Voila: a cooked omelet and a clean pan sans nonstick. It was just like a dream.

So before each and every use, I will repeat the hot oil and salt technique, one that can be applied to any non-non-stick pan for similar results--but I'll be more judicious in the quantities next time. And, unless absolutely necessary, I'll keep it away from any dishsoap.

I enjoyed that plain omelet sprinkled with some sel gris and a salad dressed with pesto vinaigrette in the early spring sunshine on the back deck. It was quite restorative and satisfying and readied me for the many omelet-making techniques I'm going to try and report on in future posts.

All that was missing, I thought, was a nice glass of wine.

A Soup for Solace

2010-03-22T14:09:00.000-07:00

A vegetarian leek, carrot and potato soup can make everything seem a little less weighty.

Oh my, what a week! I feel like I've been holding my breath, just waiting for everything that is in process:

Waiting for the health care vote--hooray!
Waiting for Benjamin to come back home to us.
Waiting for my cold to go away.
Waiting to share my big news: I am writing a book.

It's so very new that the paperwork is still in process, but I am starting to write and cook and dream it big. I'll tell you all about it very soon.

So much is going to be changing around here, you'll start to see a big improvement in this blog within the next month--thanks to my design team Mojo Marketing. And I'm going to face up to my photo-phobia and start posting pictures of my own food and recipes.

You won't see how my working life is changing, but that already looks and feels a whole lot better, too. After nearly a year of taking my laptop wherever I could to type in solitude for a few moments, I now have a freshly painted marigold office to work in and a real office chair rather than the creaky old oak chair that made me saddle sore.

Yesterday, while awaiting the House of Representative vote and Benjamin's return, I took the girls to see Ralph and Janet's baby lambs. I breathed a little easier as they chased the sheep around the pen while the guard llama looked on disapprovingly. The sun concentrated on the last patches of snow and warmed my back in the most soothing way.

Afterwards, I came home and made soup from one of my favorite underappreciated vegetables: leeks. What makes it so comforting is that it is simple and elemental in taste. It is a soup to make while waiting for spring.

Potage: Vegetarian Leek, Carrot and Potato Soup
Many recipes only call for the white part of the leek, but this uses the white and green parts. You can leave this soup chunky or puree it in the blender or with an immersion blender. It's great either way.

1 tablespoon olive oil
1 sweet onion, such as Walla Walla, diced
4 carrots, diced
3 leeks, split lengthwise, sliced and thoroughly washed
4 small potatoes, diced
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
1 1/2 teaspoons sea salt
2 cups vegetable stock
1 cup water
1 bay leaf

1. Heat the olive oil in a stock pot. Add the onion, carrots and leeks and cook until the vegetables start to soften, about 6 minutes. Add the potatoes and stir in the thyme and salt.
2. Pour in the stock and the water to cover the vegetables and add the bay leaf. Simmer covered until the vegetables are tender, about 30 minutes.

Don't Throw Out That Bean Water

2010-03-13T22:59:00.000-08:00

Y'know when you cook dry beans and there's all that beany water that just goes down the drain?

(If you don't simmer your own beans, you might consider it, since there's not just a little BPA in those cans. What you save on buying dried legumes in bulk you can spend on a pressure cooker--a great investment.)

I was thinking about that murky water just today and what an incredibly valuable cooking resource it is. Pasta water is another thing that goes to waste. Both make good stock for soup or rice and other grains, too.

I need a vegetarian stock for a spinach-sorrel soup made from these fresh greens delivered by generous greenhouse-owning friends. (Have you noticed how much local product I use is actually given to me? What a place! See? Not everybody needs to ranch, farm and garden themselves to eat local.)

I don't stock vegetable bouillon in the cupboard. It tastes funny to me. And while a veggie stock is not hard to make, it's just another step I don't have time for in my life right now.

But I do make beans. Every week.

Garbanzos are the house favorite. Molly squeals with delight when I serve them in a soup or stew. Benjamin and I adore pintos and black beans from our traveling days in Mexico & Central America. Cannellini beans always go into my minestrone and since I'm from New England, I hafta have navy beans for Boston Baked Beans. Mung beans I've cooked only a few times, and I didn't love them, but I think that's a familiarity issue.

Considering there are oodles of dry bean varieties, I should probably branch out more.

Anyway, I cook beans regularly because once they're soft and edible, I have a lot of options. I can puree them for a spread or dip, add them to a soup or stew or throw some into a salad for extra sustenance. I even treated myself to a breakfast of huevos rancheros last week just because those black beans needed eating up. Yup, breakfast, lunch and dinner, those beans!

I always save the bean water. This by-product is starchy and mildly flavored but way better than using water in your cooking.

If I've simmered the beans with salt and a chunk of onion or garlic, the broth is tasty all by itself. But it's even better with a nice fresh bunch of fresh, chopped greens tossed in until they wilt. I can puree it, or not, and season to my liking.

And since it just snowed 8 inches here, it's still soup season and will be for a while.

Photo by Texas Finn

The Omelet Project--Pan Trouble

2010-03-09T23:45:00.000-08:00

It's cool how many suggestions, video links and instructional offers I've already received for The Omelet Project. Thanks!

Honestly, my appetite hasn't been its usual robust self since I've been under the weather. So, I've spent some of my sick time researching omelet pans.

One of the first comments I received on this topic (via Facebook) was this: "I say, stick with the non-stick. I used to watch the cooks at the 13 Coins and they would lift the edges of the omelet with a rubber spatula in order to let some more of the wet eggs hit the hot pan, they would go around all edges like this. I have tried this with a teflon pan and it works great. The eggs even get a little fluffy and eventually the top gets dry, you can add your cheese to melt, then your other goodies.....ha, imagine me coaching a chef!"

Alas, non-stick is a godsend for eggs. But at this point, I'm committed to protecting my family from all the toxic gases and airborne chemicals I can. Lord knows there are so many others I can't control.

I've practiced conscientious nonstick use by making sure never to heat the pan empty (I add a tablespoon of olive oil to preheat) and don't let it overheat (I stand over the pan until the point at which it's ready to receive the beaten eggs). Still, I hate thinking about it at all. What's more, I know that perfectly excellent omelets were made in the age before non-stick.

Ah, but we must remember that that was also before the non-fat frenzy. Non-stick was the answer to our low-fat prayers, but at what cost? Happily, I am not afraid of a little fat--be it oil or butter--so that's my non-stick.

The other thing one can't shy away from if choosing a PFOA-free alternative is practicing good pan maintenance. That means seasoning them well and cleaning with care. (We'll cover exactly how to do that.) Non-stick is definitely the easy way out.

I browsed through the hundreds of omelet pans--also called skillets and fry pans--on the market, the vast majority of them non-stick. What I settled on surprised me, but how could I argue with a $24 price tag?

I ordered a French steel crepe pan based on a recommendation from Chow.com. And as a control in this study, I also got a shiny new stainless steel omelet pan.

Once I have my new pans in hand, I'll share my inspiration for one promising omelet technique--and it's not Julia.

Curry in Your Hands

2010-03-05T20:15:00.001-08:00

I'm down to the last of winter's stockpile: a few pound of carrots, 4 delicata squash, 2 pumpkins and 1 monstrous squash. I don't mean to disrespect their unique individual characteristics, but they're all getting curried whether they like it or not.

Just this week while I was fantasizing about escaping to an exotic location, I decided that the end of winter eating is all about root vegetables and curry. Such a collection of warming spices like coriander and cumin with real heat from chili and black pepper. Just looking at the orange-gold tumeric root elevates my core body temperature.

Since I'm not heading to any distant lands real soon, the curry's going to have to cut it.

Sweet Curry Powder
Originally uploaded by alida saxon

Once upon a time, I purchased curry powder without a second thought.

It was fine.

Maybe it was stale, like many ground spices get while waiting at the store to be sold. Maybe the blend didn't ring my bell.

Whatever the reason, I'll never go back to premade curry powder now that I've customized my own from the master recipe in Julie Sahni's Classic Indian Vegetarian and Grain Cooking published in 1985.

My latest super-easy supper is to toss cubed veggies (such as the above mentioned, or potatoes, or a mix) with mild-tasting oil, such as canonla or peanut, and roast them in a 375-degree oven until tender, turning occasionally, about 45 minutes. Top with raita and eat.

You never know. Your very own curry powder and some sorry root vegetables could take you places, too.

Essential Curry Powder
Makes about 3/4 cup
Adjust this suit your own preferences.

1/2 cup + 2 tablespoons coriander seeds
2 dried red chilis

1 3/4 teaspoons cumin seeds
1 1/2 teaspoons mustard seeds
1 1/2 teaspoon fenugreek seeds
3/4 teaspoon black peppercorns
3 tablespoons ground tumeric

Grind the whole spices to a fine powder in a spice blender and stir in the tumeric. Store in an airtight container for up to 6 months.

--Adapted from Classic Indian Vegetarian and Grain Cooking

Rice Pudding as a Survival Strategy

2010-03-01T22:08:00.000-08:00

Mud season's come early to the valley this year. If it weren't for the sun lingering a little longer over the mountains and all those new calves cuddled by their mothers in the fields along the highway, I'd be downright depressed.

Fecundity is all around us as the snows recede. First come the calves, then the lambs and goats, then the foals...all of which means that there is an overabundance of milk. All of it with a lusciously high fat content.

At the same time, I'm trying to introduce my very recently weaned youngest to cow's milk. So far, she doesn't relish it.

Tonight I'm making something that I hope will serve many purposes at once:

*convince Cece to love milk
*use up our extra milk
*embolden me through the long mud season ahead

Stirred Rice Pudding
Serves 6

This simple stove-top recipe makes an ultra-creamy rice pudding. I used paella rice, which has a great chew, but arborio would be nice, too. The method is like a stirred pudding, but also like making paella or risotto--with a sweet ending. Eat it right away while warm and runny (my way) or chill until set.

4 cups whole raw milk (substitute 3 cups milk and 1 cup heavy cream)
1 cup short-grain white rice
1/8 teaspoon salt
5 egg yolks
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon allspice
1/4 teaspoon cardamom
1 teaspoon vanilla

1. Bring the milk to a simmer in a saucepan over low heat. Add the rice and salt and cook, partially covered and stirring occasionally, until the rice is al dente.
2. Whisk the eggs and sugar in a mixing bowl until frothy. Ladle in some of the hot rice and milk to temper the eggs. Then pour the contents of the bowl into the saucepan.
3. Stir in the nutmeg, allspice and cardamom and cook until the custard coats the back of a spoon. Remove from the heat and stir in the vanilla. Ladle into 6 ramekins.

The Omelet Project Begins

2010-02-25T14:40:00.001-08:00

When I was 20 and living in Chantilly France, I cooked breakfast for my French "parents," Jean and Claudine. The menu: toast, bacon and eggs over easy.

They were very gracious about my clumsy attempt to share with them a typical American breakfast, but it must have been quite weird. In no other circumstances have I witnessed a French citizen--or perhaps anyone on the European continent--consume eggs for breakfast.

Just this week, I was reminded of how eggs deserve to be enjoyed much later in the day when we're less bleary eyed and more particular about our selections. With all the wonderful local, fresh, eggy-tasting eggs we're getting from our neighbors and friends with too many chickens, it's time to give them a place of honor at the dining table.

With a sick girl and an absent husband all week, our suppers have been tres simple. Last night, I made a cheese and mushroom omelet because it was something the sick girl likes and it was quick and nutritious for all.

Deprived I was not! I accompanied my share of omelet with a mesclun salad and a tumbler of Chateau La Coustarelle. Afterwards, I desired nothing more. (Funny. That's just the way I felt after a home-cooked meal in France, too.)

Where I'm going with this is a confession: I'm a lousy omelet maker. I've long felt frustrated by my efforts to produce what I consider an acceptable omelet: neither runny inside nor browned outside.

I once heard a NYC chef I admire mention that she usually messes up her omelets, so she turns them into frittatas and pretends that's what she intended all along. I thought I was the only one who did that!

Frittatas are lovely, but I want to master the omelet and from here on out will be trying various techniques from time to time from the masters to get it right. Here's the clincher: I'll even do it in a cast-iron pan!

I haven't yet tossed out my toxic non-stick pans (PTFE-coated or Teflon), lord only know why not, but I did stop using them--even for eggs--about 1 month ago. How about you?

I won't show you what the cast-iron looked like after last night's omelet experience. Let's just say that I've scraped but haven't entirely cleaned off the petrified egg bits.

Stick with me on this Omelet Project and in the next few weeks we'll all learn how to make a perfect omelet in any type of pan we choose. And with that skill will come easy and delicious suppers to soothe our souls on demand.

Bon courage!

5 Must-Have Finishing Ingredients

2010-02-22T15:56:00.000-08:00

Is there an ingredient you've discovered in 2010, and now you can't imagine how you ever cooked without it?

I've never claimed to be on the cutting edge of food trends. Not when I lived in Seattle, not in NYC, so definitely not in Joseph, Oregon.

Way out here at the dead-end of a long & winding road that travels through at least 3 climactic zones from any major city, it takes 2 days just to get overnight Fedex. Maybe that's why it took this long for me to find my latest food accessory.

This new favorite joins a short list of my must-have ingredients. I'm not talking about cooking standards like good extra-virgin olive oil. I'm thinking of the ingredients you use to finish a dish, those that add a little flair, another flavor dimension:

1. Sriracha Hot Chili Sauce
2. Jerez Sherry Vinegar
3. Garam Masala
4. White Truffle Oil
(Some of these things are not like the other.)

Around here, we just like having these ingredients around because it makes us feel a little closer to civilization. To this list, I now add Smoked Sea Salt.

During a recent cooking class, someone asked me: "Have you heard about those fancy sea salts?" She paused. "Are they worth it?"

I've long stocked several different sea salts in my kitchen: fine sea salt for general cooking and baking; coarse sea salt for focaccia and grilled salmon. Then, there's the Maldon Sea Salt I use every chance I get.

I also have a jar of extra-coarse sea salt that I collected off the flats in southern Baja, Mexico. I am both sentimentally attached to and can't quite figure out a good use for it, so it hangs around looking pretty in the jar.

"So, yes," I replied, "I think they're worth it, if you use them the right way--as a final touch."

Well, I may be taking things a bit far with this smoked sea salt I acquired on my last trip to Portland. It was not on my shopping list but I was cruising the aisles for just this sort of thing.

At $29.99 per pound, I got about one-half cup of a gray-pink fleur de sel in a oval plastic tub. Some of the crystals are as big as a 3/4 carat square-cut diamond in an engagement ring, while most are like big, broken snowflakes.

It's cold smoked over oak wine barrels formerly used to age chardonnay. The smokiness is subtle but alluring, extra-minerally and clean-tasting. Then, there's the wonderful crunch.

I first used the smoked stuff on a grilled sirloin steak just to experience it in its simplest form. By week's end I lavished it on a fried egg over rice pilaf. That was, perhaps, the finest lunch I've ever had. There's no end to what I'll sprinkle this on, so I may have to institute self-rationing.

At the very least, I need to put this prize in a more worthy container before it's long gone.

Photo by micon

Better Than Chocolate

2010-02-15T21:53:00.001-08:00

Originally uploaded by Gryfon

I know. It's hard to come up with something better than chocolate, especially the stuff we're getting around here, thanks to Erica Reininger.

Erica's a graphic designer who moved here from Portland to grow organic vegetables and bake whole grain breads and help her parents run Arrowhead Ranch outside of Enterprise.

Now, she's dusted off the chocolate-making equipment from their former Bend, OR-based business and is making exquisite hand-dipped chocolates. The only trouble is that it's on the QT until she gets a commercial kitchen... Talk about a secret chocolate stash!

I had my fair share yesterday (throughout the weekend actually): all dark and perfectly tempered. I believe that my favorite is the enrobed candied ginger. Or, is it the caramel or hazelnuts? I'll have to give it another taste test and let you know.

I do know that the other highlight of my Valentine's Day was holding not 1 but 2 brand-new baby girls. That newborn baby smell is the only thing more tantalizing than dark chocolate. It was pure sugar and spice and everything nice.

Hope your V-day was just as sweet.

The Black Leonardo

2010-02-11T21:47:00.000-08:00

Last week my friend Rob reminded me via e-mail that February is Black History Month.

Now, Rob's mind works in very mysterious ways and it makes Olympian associative leaps. Everyone needs a scientist/creative friend like Rob to expand their minds and enliven any casual conversation with a curveball topic.

Anyway, his point was that it being Black History Month, it was once again time to celebrate George Washington Carver, dubbed the Black Leonardo, who, among many other achievements, developed 118 different products from sweet potatoes.

So, following along Rob's train of thought (stay with me now), we all need to start roasting a mess of sweet potatoes and getting extremely creative with them. Here's the photo he sent along:

He wrote, "This one's got peanut butter, yogurt, with just a light drizzle of chocolate sauce."

I have it on good authority that this combination was really good. I'm still wondering how those particular flavors married, but Rob's come up with winners in the past, so I'll go on faith.

The main point is that there is not much more you need to satisfy a strong winter hunger than a roasted sweet potato. It's a lifesaver for a harried weeknight meal. If you only associate these root vegetables with brown sugar and marshmallows, prepare for a re-education.

Just rub with oil, poke with a fork and roast in a 400 degree oven until blackened in spots.

I love 'em with pasture butter and coarse sea salt, and I savor the crispy ends above all. You can try them any way you like--even Rob's way.

Root Cellar Rotation

2010-02-07T10:13:00.001-08:00

Originally uploaded by °Giulietta°

FIFO ("first in first out," and pronounced like a dog's name) is a term used in the food industry. Basically, it means use up the old yogurt (substitute: onions, beef, eggs, rice, salmon, you name it) before you open a new one.

It's a good practice to institute at home as well. Think about how many scary and smelly moments could be avoided from what lurks in the dark depths of the fridge. With FIFO, the risks are dramatically reduced because you're constantly searching for what needs to be used up.

That principle actually inspires many of my best ideas. Right now, I'm planning a meal to use up the last tablespoon in a jar of harissa.

The root cellar is a different story. All the potatoes, squash, onions, shallots and garlic went in at the same time but they rot at varying rates. During the fall, as you rotate through the stock, you find a few for the compost bin. But for the most part these vegetables wait their turn.

Then February comes and you have to hurry up and use them up--and quick. With the earth beginning it's slow tilt back toward the sun and the seed catalogues coming two per day in the mail, it's high time to purge it all through diligent cooking.

Happily, that fits in very nicely with my ideal of the Simple Sunday Supper: put it all in the oven and leave it be.

This week, I noticed how the potatoes and the alliums are already sprouting. Signs of higher intelligence? Well, somewhere in their genes, they know that spring is coming.

Potatoes Baked in Garlic Cream
You can use this garlicky cream for baking other vegetables, like cauliflower, carrots or winter squash. It's a nice partner for roast chicken, but I like to serve it on its own in deep bowls with a tossed green salad on the side. Alternately, you can puree it all together (along with the garlic) using a food mill or potato ricer for some righteous mashed potatoes.

20 cloves garlic
1 pint heavy cream
salt and pepper
3 pounds small potatoes
1 medium onion
4 large shallots, halved (optional)
1 bay leaf

1. Peel the garlic and split it in half from root to stem and pull out the bitter green shoot (if it has one. Heat the cream in a small saucepan and add the garlic. Simmer for 10 minutes, cover and remove from the heat to steep for 20 minutes more. Strain the garlic out and season the cream generously with salt and pepper. Taste: it should taste like sea water.
2. Peel the thick skins from the potatoes and cut out any eyes or green tinge. Cut them in half if larger than a bar of soap. Lay them in a single layer in a baking dish, distribute the onions and shallots (if using) and add the bay leaf.
3. Pour over the cream, stir and bake the potatoes in a 350 degree oven, turning them occasionally, until fork tender, about 45 minutes.

An Ideal Cake

2010-02-01T20:21:00.000-08:00

I love the idea of cake, but I'm not a fan of the species in general.

Towering layers with billowy frosting have just filled me with great expectations that go unfulfilled...until now. Most unexpectedly, I found my ideal cake in a community cookbook dating from 1962.

Community cookbooks are like thrift shops; there's treasures therein, but you have to be willing to dig around. In this case, I didn't have to do much searching because the cake found me.

It happened like this:
Yesterday, I taught the second cooking class for Fishtrap's Big Read project for To Kill A Mockingbird and the subject was Lane Cake. This 4-layer, custard-filled, whisky-spiked cake dates from 1898, but has enjoyed a renaissance in the past few years.

I could have followed any number of recipes, including one from Food & Wine. Instead, I followed the Lane Cake recipe from The Linly Heflin Cookbook published in Alabama (the setting for the book) and loaned to me by my friend Mary B., who also originated in Alabama.

Photo: by ghwpix
From the first try, this white cake recipe answered my prayers. It is moist and tender with a fine, dense crumb. My dessert-loving friend Janet commented that it was a little more toothsome than her favorite cakes made by Simply Desserts in Seattle's Fremont neighborhood.(I'm still researching what types of cakes those are.)

This recipe is unusual because it combines the creaming technique of a butter cake with the whipped egg whites of a foam cake.

I like that it's a balance between pound cake and your typical American layer cake. It's certainly not delicate, but because it's so foolproof, sturdy and versatile, I've decided to make it my layer-cake standard.

Vanilla-flavored and cream-colored, it's like the baking version of the little black dress. Here's what I've tried so far:

strawberry jam, whipped cream and fresh strawberries

lemon curd and lemon 7-minute frosting

chocolate pastry cream and cocoa 7-minute frosting

plain

Now, you try!

A Versatile White Layer Cake
Makes 2 9-inch layers

3 cups flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
1 cup unsalted butter at room temperature
2 cups granulated sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup milk
8 egg whites*

1. Grease and flour cake pans and preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Sift flour, salt and baking powder together.
2. Cream butter thoroughly, add sugar gradually and cream until light and fluffy. Add vanilla. Add flour and milk alternately to sugar and butter mixture, beating well after each addition.
3. In a separate clean bowl, beat egg whites until stiff and fold in above mixture. Bake for 25-30 minutes until a cake tester comes out clean.
--From The Linly Heflin Cookbook, Birmingham, Alabama, 1962.

*Tip: Use the egg yolks to make a pastry cream filling, an unexpected and exciting cake filling.

Seven-Minute Frosting
Makes about 2 quarts, enough for a 9-inch layer cake

4 egg whites
2 cups sugar
1/2 cup water
3 teaspoons light corn syrup
½ teaspoon cream of tartar
2 teaspoons vanilla

1. Mix all ingredients except vanilla and put in top of a double boiler over rapidly boiling water until it's as warm as bath water.
2. Beat for seven minutes until it holds soft peaks. Add vanilla and continue beating until thick and shiny like marshmallow.

Lemon Seven-Minute Frosting: Squeeze the juice from 2 lemons and add enough water to make 1/2 cup. In place of the vanilla, use lemon extract.

Cocoa Seven-Minute Frosting: Along with the vanilla, add 3 tablespoons sifted cocoa powder.

Crock Pot Crazy

2010-01-28T18:01:00.000-08:00

Since I live in a land where you can't get a city newspaper,* it was a rare treat to finger and page-turn the real thing this morning at the Wildflour Bakery.

So what if it was Tuesday's edition of The LaGrande Observer? I miss randomly scanning the newsprint, picking out odd stories I'd never click on in the digital version. Besides, there was the food section with a feature all about crock pots.

Did you know that crock pots are hot, I mean, like, really hot? Did you know that 15 crock pot cookbooks were published in 2009? More are coming.

I know that we are in the comfort food age (again) and the simple & easy cooking era (still) and the budget-conscious phase (this year, at least). It's as if all of these food trends have come together:

comfort food + easy + cheap = crock pot cooking

And it's hip now, too.

I just don't know about this. I realize that I've waxed on about my own vintage appliances in other posts and I'll go to the grave with my Kitchen Aid stand mixer, but I'm really not a gadgety kind of cook.

I only recently got a rice cooker (donated by a friend who'd never used it). Our jury's still out on whether it's worth storing another appliance that doesn't work appreciably better than a pan with a tight-fitting lid over a very low flame.

I'm all for slow cooking. It's the foundation of my repertoire, of Simple Sunday Suppers, of my very survival as the food provider for my family.

And I love the vessel it requires: a cobalt-blue Le Creuset granddaddy 9.5 quart French oven that I scored at the Sumpter Flea Market for 20 bucks (a $325 value). The beauty of it is, I can brown and braise in the same pot. That's one thing no crock pot can do.

The big question I'm pondering is this: Why is cooking in a crock pot considered safer than a pot in the oven?

Well, I did a little research to find out if there were any major crock pot accidents and what the risks were in using one. Other than cracking the insert and one incident involving a toddler who suffered burns from pulling a crock pot off the counter by the cord (I couldn't read the details), they seem pretty fail safe.

As for ovens, there's no telling if an unattended pot of beans in a low oven ever caused a house fire. Most oven fires are caused by grease and so long as the oven isn't slathered from roasted chickens, what harm could come from a pot full of broth percolating at 300 degrees?

All household appliances are at risk of catching fire. In the course of research, I found stories about clothes dryers, dishwashers and, believe it or not, toilets (don't ask me how) catching on fire when people were away from their homes. Every appliance with a cord and an electrical circuit is a danger.

The only thing for certain is that most people feel perfectly comfortable leaving the crock pot on all day while they're away from home. After all, isn't that what it's made for?

Want to know what the greatest threats from crock pot use really are?

Salmonella enterica, Campylobacter jejuni, Escherichia coli O157:H7, Staphylococcus aureus, Clostridium perfringens and Bacillus cereus--the pathogens that can reproduce in its perfectly moist, warm, slow-cooking environment.

For all other crock pot questions, check out A Year of Slow Cooking.

*It's one of the shocking facts of our lives ever since the Oregonian cut off delivery to eastern Oregon about 2 years ago. I recently discovered the print edition of the Sunday New York Times at the Enterprise Public Library and nearly fainted from excitement.

photo: manthatcooks

MIA in PDX

2010-01-24T21:27:00.000-08:00

I realize things have been too quiet around here. Once the girls recovered last week, I took off for a few days in Portland on business, but I brought you something.

Brussels sprouts. Emerald green, compact and sweet.

Many restaurants in town are serving them to great affect and it made a big impression on me. (Amazing that anything penetrated my coffee-and-pastry-induced stupor.)

On Friday night, my friend Lisa and I ate at Olympic Provisions. The house-made garlic sausage and red-wine braised pork belly--not to mention the potatoes roasted in goose fat, served with ultra-creamy aioli--were definitely something to write home about.

But, according to our waiter, it's their Brussels sprouts, served raw in a Caesar-like dressing, that's driving everyone crazy.

When we ordered them, the guy at the next table, leaned over and said. "I don't even like Brussels sprouts and I love these."

In other places, they're serving them shaved, roasted and sauted with bacon. Again, more raves.

Yesterday, I cruised through the Gorge, across the desert and over the snowy Blue Mountains in a car loaded with booty. Amidst the books from Powell's, aged goat cheese, Grand Central Bakery bread, a half case of red wine, smoked sea salt, the running clothes I didn't run in and a wad of receipts sat a 2-pound bag of Brussels sprouts to share.

So, for my first meal back at home, a Simple Sunday Supper, I cooked them to still-crunchy tenderness spiked with lemon and crispy bread crumbs, almost exactly the way my mom made them. Here, help yourself...

Lemony Brussels Sprouts with Bread Crumbs
serves 4-6

2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 pound Brussels sprouts, trimmed and halved
1 lemon, halved
sea salt
1/3 cup bread crumbs
freshly ground black pepper

1. Heat the olive oil and melt 1 tablespoon of the butter in your widest skillet over medium heat. Crowd the Brussels sprouts into the pan cut side down and cook until well browned and nearly tender, about 7 minutes.

2. Squeeze the lemon juice directly into the pan, catching the seeds with your fingers. Stir, season generously with salt and steam for 1 minute. Melt the remaining 1 tablespoon butter in the middle of the pan and add the bread crumbs. Stir and cook until the bread crumbs are toasted. Add pepper and taste for salt, adjusting the seasonings as necessary.

Photo: Chiot's Run

A Western Ode to Toast

2010-01-18T22:59:00.001-08:00

I'm guessing that mentioning vomit on a food blog is not something that's done. But the fact is our past 24 hours have been mightily impacted by the girls' bug. It's okay now: they're both sleeping and the laundry's nearly done.

As a result, we've pretty much eaten nothing but toast today. Early this morning, the toast came with Aunt Jane's huckleberry jam; this afternoon it sported a schmeer of pimento cheese.

Sardines on toast collage
Originally uploaded by Joey 7

As a New Englander I was completely unintiated into that particular condiment, but now that I know how to make really good pimento cheese (a lovely side effect of teaching a Southern foods cooking class yesterday), it will become a standard in our lunch rotation.

But the best thing I've ever had on toast was this past weekend in Troy when my friend Cory made spinach-sausage gravy with poached eggs over toast.

It all started as a scramble since there wasn't an omelet pan in the vacation house. Then, once the sausage and spinach were all cooked and fragrant, she posed this question: Should I just make gravy out of this?

Really, there is only one right answer to that question.

Gravy, by all means, I replied.

Sausage gravy can go wrong in so many ways--and it usually does. Thick, gloppy, floury-tasting messes.

By God if Cory didn't cook that flour just long enough in the sausage fat and then add just the right amount of milk to make a silken sauce. It was beautifully flecked with organic spinach with which we could fool ourselves into thinking it was healthy.

She said that she learned to make sausage gravy in cow camp. As I ate my poached egg and toast bathed in that gravy, I wanted to move to cow camp on a permanent basis. Maybe I should have skipped cooking school and gone straight to cow camp, I thought.

The famous French baker Lionel Poilane--you've heard of his giant sourdough breads called miches that you can order online and have shipped from Paris to anywhere in the world--wrote two obscure cookbooks devoted to toast. Obscure because they're only available in French.

Only he calls them tartines. Between the two volumes (Les Meilleures Tartines de Lionel Poilane and Les Meilleures Tartines Sucrees de Lionel Poilane), he's created 101 recipes for elaborating on toast.

Among the recipes for the Ali-Baba tartine (dates and walnuts), Mexican tartine (avocado and sour cream) and Viking tartine (salmon and tartar sauce), he included a Cowboy tartine. Can you guess?

Toast topped with bacon and an egg over easy.

What's your favorite--or fantasy--topping for toast?

Single Parent Suppers

2010-01-13T23:12:00.000-08:00

My most sincere congratulations and apologies to anyone who single parents full time. After 4 days going solo, I am so looking forward to Benjamin's return from the Emerald City.

It has nothing to do with all of us being awake since 4 a.m. this morning. Actually, it's all been quite lovely with just us girls.

The thing of it is, it appears that Daddy is our motivation for having a good dinner.

Since his departure on Sunday, the three of us still gather at the table at the usual hour, but the meals are ad hoc. Granola and yogurt...cheese, apple slices and crackers...biscuits (more recipe testing) and premade soup (oh, but still homemade).

The only night I actually cooked was in an effort to live up to my resolutions to shop less, use what I have and cook simply. I did all of them at once by making spaghetti with broccoli.

It was a total disaster.

Sad, since everything started out with such promise. With all supplies on hand, I followed a recipe from The Silver Spoon, a treasury of classic Italian recipes translated from the original.

Aside from the practicalities, I was so hopeful and my expectations were high for a new wave of 5-ingredient suppers inspired by the Italians.

Cook the broccoli, simmer with onions and cream, season with salt and pepper. It was so simple and tasted so very good. Then, as instructed, I pureed it all to a sauce for 12 ounces of pasta.

Well, that tasty puree hit the hot pasta and bonded like school paste. To say it was tight is a major understatement. No amount of additional cream could loosen its grip. No quantity of Parmigiano Reggiano could redeem it.

Our resident broccoli lover, Cece, ate one bowlful; our dinner enthusiast, Molly, said it was gross. I had to agree, but then I saved it overnight just to give myself time to come up with an ingenious way to resurrect the worst thing I've made since that phad Thai with the tough undersoaked noodles.

Then tonight, with a heavy heart, I sent the whole bowl of Spaghetti ai Broccoletti into the trash.

Photo by TGKW

Biscuit Heaven

2010-01-10T22:57:00.000-08:00

A Saturday in January when the skiing conditions are pitiful is the perfect time for a biscuit bake off. I had invited my friend Mary B. (formerly of Alabama and Atlanta) over because she is the biscuit queen in my book.

When she arrived, I had the house to myself, Gillian Welch cranked up and a hot cup of coffee in hand. We agreed there was nothing better we could be doing than taste testing biscuit recipes.

Mary B. is very generously lending her time to help me with two cooking classes I'm teaching this month for the NEA's Big Read project in our community. The book: To Kill A Mockingbird. Naturally, the cooking classes centers on Southern cooking.

Did I mention that I have no experience cooking Southern food? Besides biscuits, that is.

Be that as it may, we whipped up three batches of biscuits and I got to witness the expert in action. It was amazing to watch Mary B. painstakingly cut in the butter with a knife and fork because I didn't have a pastry blender like she does at home. The butter was irregular and each piece no bigger than a pea.Once she added the buttermilk, she just left that dough alone!

"I think it's really important not to overwork the dough," Mary B. said.

Out she dumped a very shaggy dough onto the counter and just barely pressed it together. Really, there's no need when you're just going to cut it into rounds.

She was impressed that I had an actual biscuit cutter. "I use a glass," she said. Supposedly, a sharp edge gives you a loftier rise.

The other piece of advice Mary B. imparted was to dip the biscuits in butter--salted--before baking. (We brushed them with melted butter.)

Three batches later, we sat down to taste test the recipes* and here's what I learned:

* there is no such thing as a bad hot biscuit (so long as it's well made)

*the butter does not need to be chilled, in fact our favorite (#3 below)
called for softened butter

* modern-day buttermilk does not add any tang and is no better than milk or half and half

* the best baking temperature is no less than 400 degrees F and no higher than 425 degrees F

* dipping in or brushing with melted butter before baking is great, but it's even better when you do it after baking, too

Oh, and one more thing: do not eat more than 2 biscuits at 1 sitting.

*Recipes:
1. Buttermilk Biscuits from the SF Gate, sort of a standard formula very much like Joy of Cooking and many other biscuit recipes
2. Southern Biscuits from the Linly Heflin cookbook, an Alabama recipe collection dating from 1962
3. the Flying Biscuit biscuit from the Atlanta cafe

Eating Right

2010-01-06T22:16:00.001-08:00

Is there anyone who doesn't resolve (whether or not they label it a resolution) to eat right at the start of a new year?

In the past eating right had a simpler meaning--more whole grains and leafy green vegetables, less refined sugar, fats and alcohol. Food pyramid stuff. Nutritional equations with (fairly) definite answers.

These days the quest to eat right has a staggering level of complexity. It's not just a matter of what we eat, but where it comes from, who produced it and how they were treated and compensated, how far it traveled, how it lived and died...

Eating choices are now a matrix and we're still left wondering: How do I eat what's right?

It's what we all want to do and what this blog is about.

All this was on my mind as I drove around on Monday to pick up 2 dozen eggs from Eliza Jane whose chickens are laying like it's May, and then all the way to get the gallon of milk from a contented cow that helps support a ranching family. Both nourish my family and taste oh so good.

Is it perfect food? Hardly, when you factor in the driving.

During those miles I gained clarity about some principles that I want to live by in the year ahead. None of them is a solution to the conundrum of the eating choices we face, but each is a step that feels, right now, like resolve:

*Shop Less
*Use What I Have
*Cook Simply

Shop Less
Do I go to the supermarket more often than I need to? What am I buying on a regular basis that we could live without? What can I make instead of buy?

We are fortunate to have a market 2 blocks away for pickups, which is a rare luxury for rural folks. But there are many things I buy that I can readily make with the raw ingredients I have or can get directly from the source. Yogurt and bread are the main items. And I know that I will cut myself off from regular purchases of store-bought crackers, cereal, snacks and chips. (We'll see how long we can last.)

Use What I Have
Do I have things in my pantry gathering dust? How can I build a meal around 1 or 2 items I have on hand and clear out the larder within the next 6 months? What's in the freezer that we need to eat within the next month?

I clean out my clothes closet every spring and fall, but I have nori in the pantry that's as old as my eldest daughter. The paella rice and the millet are also neglected. What am I waiting for, the next Y2K? I often cook from the supplies of local grass-fed beef and pork in the freezer, but I am going to strive to build meals using as many ingredients as I can from what I already have in house supplementing with fresh foods where necessary.

Cook Simply
Do I need to cook like I'm a Top Chef contestant? Can I make a locally grown organic potato the mainstay of a meal? Can I be satisfied with doing less?

Having kids certainly put the kibosh on fancy cooking, but we all love to eat and appreciate great flavors. I don't think that any of that needs to be sacrificed for the sake of simplicity. Planning certainly helps, but the plan I posted and followed for over a year still overreaches a bit. I'm not sure what it will look like, but I'm going to seek simplicity in cooking and see where it leads.

All this you'll read about in the year ahead. May it be a good one (with fair-trade coffee and chocolate) for all.

Photo: Seedling Originally uploaded by *ian*

A Taste of the Decades

2010-01-03T22:53:00.000-08:00

New Year's 2009 was doubly impactful because it took all of us back to Y2k, no?

On January 31, 1999, I was in a wall tent in the wilderness on a backcountry ski trip with Benjamin, a great couple from Shasta, California and Roger, our ski guide. I have no recollection of what we supped on. But I vividly remember the libations because it was my first taste of Southern Comfort--liquor being much more transportable than wine or beer, nevermind champagne, in a backpack stuffed with life-essential gear. Let's just say that when I retired to my cot I kept one foot on the floor...

At the time, we were living in Seattle. I was in cooking school at Seattle Central Community College and assistant food editor for Seattle Magazine. Benjamin was commuting by bus to Microsoft as a contractor. We were only dreaming of buying a house and just beginning our search for a great place to ski, read and write our lives away (with a little paid work on the side).

I did not have one inkling of the life I now lead in a town of 1,000 people in a remote mountain valley in our 105-year-old house raising 2 amazing and adorable little girls. With them and Benjamin I toasted 2010 with Sorelle Bronca Prosecco (the girls had cranberry-apple sparkling cider) and pesto focaccia.

It was all more delicious than anything I could have imagined in 1999.

What was your last taste of 1999 and 2009?

Defeated By Leftovers

2009-12-30T15:44:00.000-08:00

For 4 straight days I've been feeding my family leftovers. It's been a saving grace so that we can go skiing and ice skating and sledding and still have something to put in our mouths. After all the hours I logged in the kitchen pre-Christmas it's either leftovers or pizza. Since New York Richie's pizza is gone, we reheat and eat.

I have long prided myself on creativity with leftovers and a "waste not, want not" coda. My favorite cooking challenge is to open the fridge and see what I can come up with from the bits of cheese, scraps of meat and wilting veggies. (You'd like it, I promise, things like Thai rice noodle salad and I don't ever sneak in yucky things I wouldn't eat myself.)

But this week I am overrun by leftovers. There is still wild plum-glazed ham, turkey mole, black beans, pumpkin pie--not to mention all that unbaked extra filling that I planned to make into bread pudding. Also the ends of the pannettone and the 3-day-old scone are causing me regrets that there weren't enough meals and big enough appetites to consume them all.

I tried, I really did, because I loathe waste above all. The figures on holiday food waste are disturbing on many levels--for the methane produced from it being dumped in landfills and for the immense squandering of precious energy and resources.

This turkey rice soup is the last of it. We're eating as much of it as we can for lunch because 4 days is the limit on leftovers.

Where did I come up with the 4 day rule?

I honestly have no idea. Solid research notwithstanding, I've freely handed out this so-called advice to friends. Not unsolicited, but in the instance when a good friend who shall remain nameless called me and asked if the turkey in her fridge was okay to eat.

"How old is it?" I asked.
"A week," she replied.
"As in a 5 day work week or a full 7 days?" I asked.
"8," she said.

Eight days a week, like the Beatles song? No wonder she had a stomache ache!

Before I compost all this food, I decided to check out the numbers for myself and to pass them on to you just in case there's a nib of this or a container of that hanging around and you're wondering if it's fit to eat.

State agricultural extension offices are my first authority when it comes to canning and preserving and I trust them because they tend to be on the conservative side. This general food storage guide from the Texas office is very thorough. It corroborates all the information I found (which I actually suspect is the same single bit of information circulating from place to place) everywhere else including various governmental websites.

You may not trust the FDA or the USDA, but doesn't the Center for Food Safety and Applied Nutrition inspire confidence? Well, it's run by the FDA. Still, all the information was updated within the past 4 months and all of it is collected and searchable at food safety.gov.

Turns out that 4 days is the outside timeframe, so long as the food--no matter what it is--wasn't left out for more than 2 hours. The ham and pumpkin pie are fine for 3-4 days and so is that turkey mole.

The bad news is that if I had frozen some of it right away, it would have lasted until Valentine's Day.

PS: See The Leftover Queen for more timely ideas and to prevent wasted food. That's my New Year's resolution.

Christmas Cooking With and Without Recipes

2009-12-27T13:20:00.000-08:00

Christmas Day I loitered in the kitchen at Carman Ranch while my friends Cory and Renee made dinner for a crew of 14. Outside the kitchen window I could see Craig roasting chestnuts over an open fire (for real).

It was a sparkling cold day in one of the most beautiful places on earth. The cattle lolled on the snow-speckled slopes and the sky burned cerulean above the evergreens. In Joseph, we have the drama of snowy alpine peaks but Wallowa's rolling landscape, 30 miles downriver, is beguiling. You never know what view or wildlife you'll see over the next rise.

Just before dark, all three dads took the kids sledding on the single patch of snow Dave had discovered, no doubt on one of his rounds around the ranch chipping ice to get the cows water access.

I stayed inside with the baby helping--sort of but not really--with dinner preparations. It was a great opportunity to watch other people cooking.

This is what my recipe collection looks like. It wasn't quite so ragtag before Cecelia got her little mitts on the baby-sized notebooks I used in my professional cooking life. For the most part, they're filled with base recipes for ice cream, brine and pasta plus baking formulas for pie, bread and cookie dough. It would be hard for anyone else to follow them, but they're my tried-and-true sources.

For Christmas dinner, Cory had printed out recipes for all the dishes from Fine Cooking, a most dependable online source. What was remarkable to me was that these two cooks were actually following the recipes.

For someone who writes recipes for others, this was a most interesting case study. I would love to conduct a research project to investigate how many people really follow recipes as written. (I have a theory that it correlates to personality type.)

My mother's cookbooks are stuffed with recipes ripped from magazines. Every holiday she writes detailed menus listing page references for specific recipes. Yet, I believe that she has never followed a recipe to the letter. She appreciates convenience and loathes extra trips to the supermarket, so she liberally takes shortcuts and makes substitutes. Then, when things don't turn out as she expected she wonders what went wrong with the recipe.

Whenever I go to online recipe sites, like epicurious and recipezaar, I read the ratings and comments because they're fascinating. So many people change just about everything they can--from essential ingredients to cooking times and temperatures to pans. Then, they take license to rate the recipe even though what they've done is create their own dish.

Here's a classic example from a reader comment on Triple Ginger Cookies. It called for light and dark brown sugar and fresh and powdered ginger: "I used all light brown sugar, I didn't have fresh ginger so I doubled the ground ginger (really good quality), and my baking soda is expired, and they're still the best ginger cookie I've ever eaten. I also added a little more of the crystallized ginger."

Expired baking soda? No fresh ginger? Hilarious. Still, it got the highest rating.

Here's another reader comment from a recipe for Butternut Squash Gratin with Goat Cheese and Hazelnuts: "This was such an amazing dish. I decided to use russet potatoes and yams instead of butternut squash. I also used a little veggie stock with the cream for added flavor."

Potatoes? Yams? Whatever! Entertaining examples like this could fill a book.

Back at the Carman Ranch, dinner was served, eaten and enjoyed by all in a flash. The stained, splotched and wrinkled recipes on the counter were the only testimony of a day spent cooking.

So, what kind of recipe user are you?

I Can't Stop Kneading

2009-12-21T18:35:00.000-08:00

All of my friends have quit kneading their bread dough. I cannot make myself stop.

I'm all too aware of the no-knead bread movement kicked off by Jim Lahey's article in the New York Times (who now has a book). I e-mailed that link to more than one bread baking friend. Still, I knead every bread I made.

Heavens, no, not by hand! I am terrifically loyal to my 22-year-old Kitchen Aid stand mixer, which, for all its faults, allows me to keep on living while the dough (at least) gets its workout.

Maybe it's my stubborn streak. Part of me feels like a religious zealot holding tight to old beliefs in the face of new realities. Like the reality that not kneading can produce great bread with crusts you need to tear off with your teeth and air pockets you can see through.

I just can't divorce myself from all those earnest French bakers I studied with and the Italian bakers I visited. For them, kneading is a science and an art. They are passionate and committed to their methods. I wonder what they would make of all this no-knead madness.

In France, they're big on two-stage kneading, first on low speed and then, once you add the salt, on medium speed. Eh, voila. Italy is where I saw the longest and fastest bread kneading of my life--in Rome at Campo de Fiori--20 minutes at high speed. The pizza was crackling crisp and the most divine adorned with nothing more than olive oil and salt. Funny thing is, that's the style of bread baking Jim Lahey practices, so I'm a bit stumped.

All I really know is that I love to make shaped breads and enriched breads, like challah, and so I knead on. The Pannettone Project involved a lot of kneading to work in all that butter. But, by the time it was done, it was silken smooth and glossy.

I've promised myself that I will try a no-knead bread (probably Lahey's method, but I also have the Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day formula memorized) in 2010.

But there's one technique I will hold onto resolutely and it will do wonders for your baking regimen, too.

Do this: The day or night before you want to bake, measure out all the ingredients you need for the recipe, combining ingredients in the preliminary steps where applicable. For example, I always put the dry ingredients in one bowl unless there's something like nuts or olives or dried fruit that needs to be mixed in at the end. I also combine wet ingredients, like eggs, milk and vanilla (then refrigerate). When it's time to bake, all you have to do is get on with the method and move onto your day. Most satisfying.

Now, this will not guarantee perfect results every time or any pitch TV promises like that, but it will set you up in a very satisfying way and you may even find yourself doing more baking in the new year.

Now, let's have a slice of this pannettone with a nice caffe macchiato, shall we?

Happy Holidays.

Citron? Absolutely

2009-12-18T22:24:00.000-08:00

France is renowned for its pastry arts, but it was in Spain that I discovered the jewels of the pastry world--whole candied fruits.

They dazzled me from a shop window: transluscent and radiant miniaturized pears, apples, oranges and lemons. I stared with the same fascination I'd observe a finely crafted ship in a bottle. How did they do that?, I wondered.

Turns out it can take up up to 6 months of simmering small whole fruits--seckel pears, meyer lemons, for example--in a sugar syrup until the sugar completely replaces the water content and they're clear as jellies.

Fortunately, candying citrus peel takes all of an hour and lasts for months. Thank goodness because my holiday baking list is THIS long and making the candied lemon peel is just Step 1 of the Pannettone Project.

I suffer from great intentions. Each and every year, I make edible gifts of chocolates or extra-special cookies or sweet breads but never have that perfect wrapper or box on hand. No matter how nicely they turn out (or don't) they lose something when plopped into a gift bag.

One year I thought I'd solved the problem by canning enchilada sauce (canning jars always make a good presentation). The devil of it was that as I was opening the pressure canner at 11 p.m. , a jar exploded in my face--yup, 2nd and 3rd degree burns and 6 months pregnant to boot. What was worse, my straw-colored kitchen looked like a reenactment of a horrendous crime and it took several weepy days to scour the ceiling, the light fixtures and the bookshelves on the other side of the room.

This year, I had lovely brown paper pannettone wrappers stored away before Halloween. Now they're awaiting their debut, which hinges on candied lemon peel, or citron.

I boiled up a whole bag of lemons since it's something I've always wanted to have on hand. My favorite scone recipe calls for chopped candied lemon peel along with fresh lemon zest. It is great in blueberry muffins, would make killer lemon bars and convert nonbelievers to fruitcake, I believe. They're nice on their own, too.

The strange thing is that every recipe I consulted calls for blanching the peel three times in fresh changes of water with nary an explanation. It seems like one of those culinary laws that gets handed down and passed around without questioning. When I searched online, unverifiable sources suggested it reduced bitterness. Another source stated that it made the lemon peels tender, but wouldn't boiling them longer do the same?

As with nearly everything, I am skeptical...and still searching for an answer.

Still, I followed the instructions to the letter and ended up with a quart jar of chewy, sweet-and-sour strips of fruit candy. They're not only very special snacks, they look awfully dazzling in that jar.

New York Richie's is Dead

2009-12-15T23:03:00.000-08:00

Our best restaurant is gone. I went by New York Richie's hoping to find a warm slice of pizza yesterday. But the place was dark and locked in the middle of a business day.

What a loss. What a disappointment--no, a tragedy.

Everyone has their own preferences in pizza, but Richie's matched my ideal: classic New York-style with a thin crispy crust on the bottom and a breadstick edge, zesty tomato sauce, not too much cheese and a touch of oiliness on top for authenticity. The pizzas came one size only--20 inch that served up gigantic slices we polished off without a problem.

Richie's was the one restaurant I wholeheartedly recommended to visitors and I even served his pizza to guests in our home. (We liked to pick up a par-baked pizza and blast it at 500 degrees in our own oven.)

Richie himself was a trip. Larger than life, you could say. You had to be prepared to face a straight-talkin' body builder with a serious 'tude. A Hollywood transplant, Richie Brose played Conan the Barbarian at Universal Studios for 10 years and appeared in TV shows like "Murder She Wrote." The photos to prove it decorated the restaurant.

We could never figure out how he found his way to Wallowa County, Oregon, but we were happy he did. Often he'd sit down at your table and regale you with whatever was on his mind while you enjoyed the amazing eggplant pizza with white sauce or the Italian sausage. These specialties weren't on the menu, but he'd make them just for you and he heartily agreed that they were pretty fantastic.

I'm extra sad that I didn't take Richie up on his standing pizza-making offer: "You come by on a Sunday and I'll teach you everything I know." I never quite found the time and I didn't really believe he'd abandon us.

Then, one day word spread throughout the land that Richie had packed everything up and gone. He even took the tables from the restaurant. Maybe he's bringing great pizza to another backwater town. I hope the folks there consider themselves lucky.

Those of us left behind have to resort now to our own devices.

Simple Pizza Dough
Make this in a food processor and it'll be ready to use in less than 1 hour. Tasty from olive oil, sticky and stretchy, this dough makes exceptional pizza so long as you abide by Richie's approach: bake it as hot as your oven goes and keep the toppings light and simple.

3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 1/2 teaspoons instant yeast (1 foil package)
2 teaspoons salt
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons warm water (80-90 degrees F)
1/3 cup olive oil

1. In the bowl of a food processor fitted with the plastic dough blade, place the flour, yeast and salt. Attach the cover the mix for 5 seconds.
2. Combine the water and olive oil in a measuring cup and pour it through the feed tube with the machine running. A ball of dough will form and slap around the bowl. Let the ball spin around 10 times before stopping the machine. The dough will feel warm, soft and tacky.
3. Collect any bits of dough from around the bowl and attach them to the ball. Replace the cover on the food processor, slip in the feed tube pusher and let the dough rise for 45 minutes.
4. Lightly flour the counter top and scrape the dough onto the flour. Cut off pieces of dough to make 2 large or several individual pizzas.

If you're not one to take the easy way out, are a serious baker or come from New York, try this truly authentic and detailed New York-style pizza method.

Beer is Nice

2009-12-12T13:55:00.000-08:00

A long time ago, over a couple of Heinekens, my wise oldest cousin Chris said, "If there was anything as delicious as beer, I'd drink it."

That was in the old days, before microbrews changed our lives for the better, and his are trusty words to live by.

Only in the past few years, I've hardly had beer.

Then, on Friday I met some friends at Terminal Gravity (TG), our famous brewpub in Enterprise. Just typing those words I know that I am sparking the envy of IPA lovers throughout the region. TG does have delicious beers and they will get you landed straight in jail if you drive immediately after quaffing more than 1 pint.

Just as beloved among folks around here is the place itself, a marigold bungalow tucked behind Pairie Creek amid aspen stands. In the summertime, the front porch trellising hopvines is crowded, sometimes with musicians, and the picnic tables fill up by 6 p.m. On this below-zero night, only the smokers ventured outside and the patrons shouldered into the 5-stool bar. I knew them all by name.

Sometimes it's an inconvenience knowing people everywhere you go. When you just want to get the grocery shopping done asap, that's when you meet an acquaintance on every other aisle. When you foolishly schedule a meeting at the Bookloft, our lone cafe/bookstore, you will surely run into someone who has a) news they're dying to share with you or b) time to kill so they're ready to hang out and chat. I've wondered how people manage to have an affair around here--somehow they do--because you cannot be anonymous anywhere.

But that cameraderie can be welcome and wonderful, too. If you ever feel disconnected or lonely or in the mood for conversation, TG is a good place to be. I've known travelers who wandered in for a beer and ended up with weekend accommodations at a local's house and backcountry ski buddies for the weekend. Everybody's a friend there.

If you've been a resident as long as I have, the other benefit is having your own handblown glass stored behind the counter (they've run out of room for more). So, when I walked in and said hello to everyone and ordered my Festive Ale in my own swirled work of art, I instantly felt like a member of my community again. And sure enough, at the tables upstairs--where people of average height like me can bump their head on the ceiling--twos and fours became sixes that swelled to eights and tens.

When my curfew came, the party was just ramping up. I bought a growler of IPA to bring home to Benjamin who stayed with the girls. If he couldn't experience the sense of belonging, at least he can drink really good beer.

I got dibs on a 1/2 cup of it to make beer-battered onion rings. All the experts advise against cooking with IPA. A while back TG co-owner Steve Carper dissuaded me from deep-frying with their beer at all. I don't remember the exact reason why, but I don't think any brewer appreciates the application of heat to their carefully crafted beer.

I mixed up an IPA batter anyway for Karen's surplus softball-sized red onions. I reasoned that the bitter, hoppy flavors would be great with the sweetness of the onions.

The rings were ultra-crunchy and addictive with no real detectable taste from the brew. I believe beer offers lightness more than any other quality to the batter.

The problem wasn't using IPA but not having a deep fryer the size of a 40 gallon garbage can. I could only drop in about 6 rings at a time; otherwise, they bonded together. Then, Benjamin came home from a snowy outing with the girls just as I was starting the second batch.

"Nobody come into the kitchen!" I shouted.

This year I'm going to ask Santa for an electric deep fryer.

Desert Island Desserts

2009-12-06T23:13:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was my birthday. Since I'm still catching up on everything from being away in Seattle last week, I'm prolonging the celebration.

That includes the preparations for my own birthday cake.

After completing the Seattle marathon last Sunday, I could have eaten my way through every patisserie at Bakery Nouveau without any net gain. But carousel rides and playgrounds won out over pastry excursions. And strangely, the run dulled my sweet tooth.

Then, yesterday with the snow sifting down from a gun metal sky and a wish to make for my new year, I realized that I did want a little sweet something. Not just anything, mind you, but something out of the ordinary and therefore unavailable unless I made it myself.

Over my morning coffee, I mentally taste-tested all the possibilities. When I considered my most favorite treats going back to childhood, eclairs, Boston cream pie, Napoleons, almond croissants, pain au raisin and sfogliatelle all came to mind. I remembered how we served individual fresh fruit tarts at our wedding reception.

Q: What do they all have in common?
A: Pastry cream--or some variation of it.

Pastry cream is one of those amazing dessert staples that can take so many forms and so many flavors. So, I made a batch of dark chocolate pastry cream and spent the rest of the day deciding what I'd do with it.

Even if I wasn't going to make a traditional birthday cake, this was to be representational. So, I cooked a batch of puff paste (pate choux--another pastry standard) and piped it into a steering-wheel-sized ring as if for a Paris-Brest. Once baked, I filled it with the pastry cream and topped it with dark chocolate ganache, yet another pastry-making essential.

You know how they ask chefs what ingredients they'd want to have if they were ever on a desert island? Well, these 3 basics--pastry cream, puff paste and ganache--more formulas than recipes per se (but do follow the links for joyofbaking.com recipes)--are what I'd make sure to have down pat before venturing out to sea.

You could open a bakery from the dozens of desserts possible from these elements no matter where you landed--like Joseph, Oregon. Well, providing that there were some laying hens and good chocolate on hand.

As it was I was happy just to lick the pastry cream bowl clean. Turns out the making of the thing was my wish after all.