The Newlyfeds

Cabbage and Carrots

2011-11-21T21:39:00.001-05:00

A friend of mine used to decry what she called "inefficient frugality"--that office practice of inexplicable cost-cutting measures like monitoring Post-It note consumption or shaking the last tiny bit out of every toner cartridge. Fred and I practice a version of this called "erratic frugality." We'll spend $5 a pound for a locally raised, cage-free chicken without batting an eye but freeze up at the prospect of shelling out more than $3 on a bottle of shampoo.

Lately, though, our desire to escape from the Jerry Springer show that is our neighborhood has spurred our efforts to economize. These people aren't kidding around--today, for instance, I discovered that the murder rate in our neighborhood is 7 times the national average.

Thank goodness we've put an offer on a house, in a neighborhood where the murder rate is only twice the national average. (Please don't tell my landlord. It's a short sale so she probably won't lose us as tenants until 2015.)

To afford this we'll need to scrape together about $10,000 extra dollars a year, and the first step will entail reducing our total monthly food bill (including eating out) from somewhere north of $1,200 a month to a more reasonable $900 or so. Plus, we both still need to lose weight.That should be easy because Atlanta was recently voted the 18th healthiest city in the country. I'm not sure how our neighborhood's murder rate factors in there, but perhaps the joggers in Grant Park help balance that out.

So, to help our budget and improve our chances of survival, we are eating cabbage. There's a reason the poor eat a lot of it. It's high in fiber, vitamin C and calcium, and it tastes pretty darn good. And the smell may deter the murderers.

Joking aside, I love this dish. The herbes de Provence and carrots lend a sweetness to the cabbage, and it's tender without being soggy and drab. It's lovely as a side with chicken or pork.

Cabbage and Carrots

1 tbps. olive oil
1 medium yellow onion, halved lengthwise and sliced into thin strips, the strips cut in half1 clove garlic, minced
4 carrots, sliced lengthwise into thin strips, the strips cut into pieces about 3" long
1/2 head cabbage, sliced lengthwise in strips about 1/4 inch wide, the strips cut in thirds
About 1/2 cup chicken broth, or enough to cover the bottom of a 10" skillet
Generous tbsp. of herbes de Provence
Salt to taste

Heat olive oil in 10" skillet on medium high heat. Saute onions in oil until translucent, about 5 minutes. Add garlic carrots, and herbes de Provence, stir, and continue to saute for a few more minutes. Add remaining ingredients and stir. Cover and cook until cabbage is sweet and tender, 15 - 20 minutes.

So much for being back

2011-11-11T21:00:00.000-05:00

We've been back home in Atlanta going on six months now and I still can't seem to find the time to write. I seem to have lost my voice for the moment. A nasty comment on my last post may have affected me more than I want to admit. In any case, my writing self has lain dormant for a while.

The good news: the cats. They couldn't care less. They have catnip . . .

... and food.

Never mind that their humans live in a part of the city hell bent on recreating past episodes of the Jerry Springer show for the entertainment of the neighbors. In the six months we've lived here, we've seen furniture thrown off the porch during a particularly dramatic spat, had to call the cops on a domestic dispute, dealt with teenagers who seem to have mistaken our front yard for their own personal football field, and headed to the back of the house when we heard gunshots.

And I love being here, in Atlanta, my home. I'm cooking again. I'm writing again. I will be back. Thanks for being patient.

Back

2011-08-02T18:07:00.001-04:00

We're back! Back in Atlanta, stuck in traffic, sweltering in the heat, wondering if our trash will ever get picked up, marveling at the number of mattresses that make their way onto the interstate. It's wonderful to be home.

I tried to like Durham and North Carolina. I should have liked it a lot more since I went to college there and had a good experience. But my heart is in this messy, inefficient, traffic-filled, smog-coated, crowded city in the part of the world I love best, where I can drink wine outside with old friends on a warm evening, and find a Korean taqueria tucked into an industrial park and it not be the only Korean restaurant in town, and see the skyline while jogging around Grant Park (our new neighborhood), and sit on the deck at Six Feet Under and look over the cemetery, and have dozens of interesting neighborhoods to explore, and not be subject to the fashion whims of bald, graying professors laboring under the delusion that the ponytail they grew in 1972 still looks cool.

I'll be posting on a regular basis again sometime in the coming weeks, once I get a bit more settled into my new job. Glad to be back!

Hummus: Sweet Potato and Pumpkin

2011-04-17T09:59:00.001-04:00

My world underwent a quiet but dramatic change about a month ago. My dear friend Rocco, who is a fabulous cook, started it all when he pointed me to the beet hummus on the Simply Recipes site.

Up to that point, I'd never considered anything other than chickpeas and roasted red peppers as the basis for hummus. How foolish I was! If the unloved beet could be converted into a delicious hummus, then anything was possible.

Luckily, two purple sweet potatoes from the Durham Farmers' Market rested on my counter top at that time, waiting for their moment of glory. Looking at them, I was certain I was about to blaze a trail through the hummus jungle, forging past black bean and red pepper and into a territory of new taste. I'd be the first person to make sweet potato hummus. I'd be famous. I'd never have to work again.

Following the general contours of the beet hummus recipe, I came up with a sweet potato hummus using the purple sweet potatoes, with just the right mix of spice with lots of lemon to brighten the flavor.

My success made me think that other vegetables in the same genre, such as winter squash, might also work. Having bought about a dozen cans of pumpkins (on sale!) over the holidays, I tackled pumpkin hummus next. Experiments led me to tone down the lemon, allowing the pumpkin to assert itself. The addition of tomatoes increased the acidity but provided a softer, earthier complement to the gentle pumpkin than more lemon would have and made for a more balanced flavor.

After my work was done, I googled "sweet potato hummus" and "pumpkin hummus" just to confirm that I was the first.

I won't humiliate myself by linking to the results. So the blogosphere is not likely to be wowed by this post. But I like both these recipes. Unlike many of the other hummus variations I discovered, these don't include chickpeas, which allows the flavor of the base ingredient to stand out. Maybe I'm not the first, but I'll imagine I'm among the best.

Pumpkin hummus, foreground, and purple sweet potato hummus. (My limited photography skills kept me from getting a good close-up of the sweet potato hummus Let's just say that the close-ups took the idea of "food porn" to a new and somewhat disgusting level.)

Sweet Potato Hummus

1 cup cooked sweet potato (about 1 medium)
1/4 cup olive oil (or more to taste)
1/4 cup tahini (or more to taste)
4 medium cloves garlic, minced
1/2 cup lemon juice
1 - 2 tsp. kosher salt, or to taste
1 tsp. cayenne pepper
1/2 tsp. cardamom
2 tsp. cumin (or to taste)

Mix ingredients in food processor until smooth. Taste and adjust seasonings. Serve with celery, carrots, bread, or crackers.

Pumpkin Hummus

1 can pumpkin
4 tbsp. tahini
2 large garlic cloves, minced
1 1/4 tsp. salt
1 tsp. cumin
1 tsp. cayenne
2 tbsp. olive oil
1/2 tsp. cardamom
4 tbsp. crushed tomato (or more to taste)
1 tbsp. lemon juice

Mix ingredients in food processor until smooth. Taste and adjust seasonings. Serve with celery, carrots, bread, or crackers.

Arugula, Lamb's Quarters, and Goat Cheese Salad

2011-04-03T18:39:00.000-04:00

Yesterday offered a sobering reminder of why gluttony is a sin. Fred and I joined a friend at our beloved Federal to watch Butler and VCU in the Final Four. I found myself drinking barley wine, a deceptively named beer that even I, normally not a beer drinker, could enjoy. We dug into a plate of fries, then moved on to a pork belly sandwich (Fred ordered, I sampled). We downed a mountain of nachos.

After seeing a plate of nachos with guacamole at a nearby table, however, and realizing that we had at least 30 more minutes of basketball remaining, I decide that additional nachos were needed. This was a serious error. The onslaught of more cheese, beans, sour cream, and chips--now with guacamole thrown in--proved devastating to internal systems already groaning under the weight of the garlic fries and the barley wine. The rest of the evening was lost to a food coma of monumental proportions. I'm still recovering.

The moral of the story? Greens are your friend. Greens will make up for a multitude of sins. Greens are what I will eat for the rest of this week. (Guacamole does not count as a green.)

Most importantly, greens are delicious, and the Durham Farmers' Market has some beautiful examples right now, including some I've never tried. Recently, for instance, I picked up lamb's quarters, pictured below. They may look like tree leaves, but they have a mild flavor--more like lettuce than a green--with a light peach-like fuzz that disappears after they're washed.

I bought Russian kale as well. (Note the continuation of the tree leaf theme.) This is a mild kale, and the purple adds a nice bit of color.

Most people recommend lightly sauteing these greens before serving. I've found, however, that both lend themselves quite well to salad. The lamb's quarters, in particular, offered the perfect balance for some sharpish arugula we picked up on the same day. The resulting salad was, according to a friend who came over for dinner, the best he's ever had. Truth be told, it was even better than the nachos.

Arugula, Lamb's Quarters, and Goat Cheese Salad

Serves 4

Salad
6 cups mixed lamb's quarters and arugula, large stems removed from lamb's quarters, all greens rinsed and dried
4 spring onions, all but 1" of green part removed, halved lengthwise and sliced 1/4 cup crumbled goat cheese, or to taste

Dressing
1/4 cup olive oil
1 large clove garlic, cut into six pieces
1 1/2 tsp. balsamic vinegar
1/2 tsp. fine grain sea salt, or to taste (can substitute regular or kosher salt)
Fresh ground pepper to taste

Whisk all dressing ingredients together in small bowl. Let sit for 15 minutes or so. Place greens in large bowl. Remove garlic pieces from dressing. Whisk dressing again and pour over greens. Add additional salt and pepper to taste and toss. Add onions and goat cheese. Toss one more time before serving.

Other ingredients that work in this salad: Mushrooms, cubed Granny Smith or other sour apple, chicken, Parmesan cheese instead of the goat cheese.

Going Home

2011-03-23T21:12:00.000-04:00

I am pleased--and most importantly, my mother is pleased--to report that it looks like we are returning to Atlanta in just a couple of months. I've accepted a new job there and am looking forward to getting back. Fred has already laid bets with his best friend on the chances of Braves third baseman Chipper Jones suffering a season-ending injury before July 4. One of them will get a steak dinner out of this. It's entirely possible I'll end up cooking it either way.

In any case, posting will be sporadic over the next couple of months, much as it has been over the last few weeks as we made this decision and worked to get our house(s) ready to sell.

Today, I'd like to pay homage to the Durham Farmers Market, which I will miss when we return to Atlanta. Specifically, I'd like to honor the pea shoots that have been available there for the last three weeks, if you arrive early enough.

I sincerely hope that they will be available this Saturday. They are a miraculous little green, with the taste of tender, leafy snow peas--a little sweet, somewhat crunchy, with a delicate, almost minty flavor.

You don't really need to know how to cook them. It's okay to stand in the kitchen and just stuff them into your mouth by the handful, just like potato chips. They also infuse any salad with a gourmet air--add them to your mix of lettuces and put a little sign by the serving bowl that says, "Local lettuce and pea shoot mix with something-infused oil."

So far, though, my favorite way to enjoy them is over pasta.

Here's the recipe, such as it is. It is very forgiving. I never seem to make it the same way twice, and it's always good.

Pea Shoots with Pasta

Makes 2 meal-size servings. This dish will also work with other tender young greens, like cress or creasy greens, also available now.

1/2 lb. linguini, spaghetti, or fettucini
1 tbsp. butter
1 tbsp. olive oil, plus more for drizzling
6 small scallions, sliced, including some of the green part
3 - 4 cups pea shoots, rinsed and dried
Salt and pepper to taste
3/4 cup coarsely grated Parmesan

Following directions on package, put salted water for pasta on to boil. Meanwhile, add butter and olive oil to large skillet. Heat on medium high heat until butter melts. Add scallions and saute until tender, 3 - 5 minutes. Remove from heat. Finish preparing pasta according to package directions. Drain well. Add pea shoots to skillet. Pour pasta over top. Add generous amounts of salt and pepper and mix until pea shoots have just wilted. Pour additional olive oil over pasta, to taste. (About 1 - 2 tablespoons should be enough.) Transfer to two serving bowls. Top with Parmesan cheese and additional salt and pepper if desired.

Still No Artisan Bread

2011-02-16T11:04:00.003-05:00

Dear readers, I regret to say that I lied to you at the end of my last post: "I discovered that you can make good artisan bread with no recipe at all."

I'm not sure why I suddenly took on the tone of a Google sidebar ad ("I got white teeth for only $1. Find out how"), but to be fair things did seem to be heading in that direction. What I should have said was a little less glamorous: You need a recipe, but artisan bread isn't that hard.

Cleo: "Even I can make artisan bread!" (Note: She was whisked from the scene before she got a chance to prove it.)

Thought it isn't hard, it involves several steps and takes a couple of days to make--which means that recipe testing is taking longer than I originally anticipated. So it will be a while before I can post on this topic.

I'll be turning to other subjects in my next few posts. In the meantime, though, check out this fabulous site on artisan bread to learn from someone who actually seems to know something about it.

Artisan Bread

2011-01-11T19:57:00.002-05:00

It seems everyone these days is making artisan bread. I thought I was on the right path by making five minute no-knead boule dough, whose proponents claim for it the quality of artisan bread without the starter and all the effort. Recently, though, I received a 20-year-old starter from a bread-baking neighbor--and now everything has changed.

The starter, housed in the bowl my grandmother used for making cornbread for my grandfather's nightly supper.

Suddenly, I had a heavy responsibility in my hands. The starter was born around the time I began graduate school, possibly just as I was leaving Durham for Wisconsin. It sat in my neighbor's kitchen as I meandered across the United States for 20 years, perhaps waiting for me to return to Trinity Park. Worse, it was the beloved child of a man with a structure behind his house dedicated entirely to a wood-fired oven--a wood-fired oven for baking loaves of bread.

David, the starter's parent, delivered it on a day when Fred was at home. When I got back, it was in a jar on my kitchen counter. David had provided a spreadsheet for the baking process too. He told Fred to let the starter sit out for a couple of hours and then put it in the fridge. "She'll know what to do with it after that," he said.

This was a grave error. Glancing over the spreadsheet, I might as well have been reading a formula for making rocket fuel: "The column to the left has the refreshment regime. Line 4 is the variable; fill it in with the amount of starting levain and it calculates the flour and water you need to make a 66% levain from a 66% levain."

I felt just as I had when I first read postmodern literary theory, around the time that damned starter had emerged from a combination of flour, water, and whatever yeast and bacteria floated around Trinity Park circa 1990: "How the heck had I never learned any of this?" My mastery of the bread baking techniques outlined in my 4-H Club booklet had failed me. I could not bear to tell David that he had turned a portion of his precious 20-year-old starter over to the bread baking equivalent of a crack-smoking nanny who's never changed a diaper. Especially a man who had spent tens of thousands of dollars on an oven just to bake bread.

In desperation, I turned to the internet, where my complete ignorance of the bread baking process was further reinforced. It turns out (and this won't be news to artisan bread bakers) that bread made from this kind of starter is fundamentally different from the yeast breads you find in your average recipe book. The basic technique for these breads is this:

Proof yeast in warm water (optional)
Mix ingredients
Knead
Let rise in oiled bowl until doubled
Punch down and shape into loaves
Let rise until doubled again
Bake

This process takes anywhere from three to six hours, depending on the type of yeast you use. Yeast is a living thing, and the gasses it produces as it feeds make the bread rise. With commercial yeast--a product that was developed in the relatively recent past (a hundred years or so)--that process is relatively fast.

In contrast, bread made from the kind of starter that I was given takes two or three days. The yeast and bacteria that create the rise come not from commercial starter, but from the air. The process looks more like this.

In the morning, take a small amount of starter and add enough water and flour to double. Let rise, covered, until bubbly.
Add water and flour to double starter again. Let rise again until bubbly.
Repeat. This rise will be overnight.
Knead in salt. Knead a lot to incorporate air.
Let rise in bowl lined with lightly floured towel, covered. Fold once or twice during rising.
Shape into round loaf or loaves. Bake on stone in hot oven.

Though the rising time is slower, there are advantages. Yeast in each part of the world produces a unique flavor (hence "San Francisco sourdough"), and so this technique is the best way to get that "bite" you find in a traditional sourdough bread. It's hard to match this type of bread for flavor and texture.

But there are additional disadvantages to this method--the biggest one being that artisan bread bakers are a fussy, persnickety lot, agonizing over issues such as oven spring, crumb, exact baking times, and so on. And there is an impenetrable chasm between those who measure their ingredients and those who weigh them. Measurers see weighers as inflexible, unimaginative dilettantes; weighers turn up their noses at haphazard cooks who treat recipes as culinary free-for-alls.

This meant that there was no guidance on how to transform the weight-based percentages on David's spreadsheet into cups and tablespoons. I ran the amounts through a converter, but I was still faced with the problem of the levain (yes, it's the starter)--I couldn't find a reliable way to determine its weight without a scale. And the amount of all the other ingredients--the flour, water, and salt--depended on that weight.

To solve the problem, I ended up getting a scale, but the good news is that I also discovered that if you are not one of the fussier types you can make good artisan bread with no recipe at all. I'll post on this next time.

Panela Hot Chocolate

2010-12-29T12:13:00.000-05:00

Durham enjoyed a white Boxing Day, and so did Fred and I. We made a snow kitty.

Yes, it is wearing a bowtie and playing a recorder. It is probably not necessary to say that these items were Fred's idea.

And we walked through the neighborhood, still aglow with Christmas decorations.

When we were happily tired and chilled, we repaired back to the house, where I made Fred what might have been the first cup of homemade hot chocolate he's ever had.

I won't dwell on how ghastly it is to live in a culture that uses hot cocoa mixes combined with . . . (I can barely say it) water when the homemade version is so simple and so much better. Let's just say that since this was Fred's first experience with hot chocolate from scratch, I wanted to do a good job. So I decided to lace it with my newest addiction--Latin America's culinary answer to crack--panela.

Panela is raw sugar cane, boiled down until it forms a firm cake. You might recognize it from your local market as a brown, cone shaped item that can easily be mistaken for a candle (not that I ever would have done that, of course). Also known as piloncillo or papelon, it tastes like brown sugar infused with the richness of molasses, with smooth overtones of maple syrup. In Central and South American it is grated, shaved, or broken off in pieces and added to recipes. Despite its firm texture, it grates easily and dissolves quickly in hot liquid.

I discovered panela when I made asado negro for Fred, from a recipe that appeared in the New York Times Magazine earlier this month. Asado negro is a Venezuelan dish consisting of roast beef simmered with leeks, onions, peppers and garlic in a thick, dark, caramel-like sauce. The magazine column, "The Cheat," explained how to create the sauce with a combination of white and brown sugar, but indicated that the roast would be "spectacular" if you could find some panela.

Remembering the little candles, I immediately trotted over to Compare Foods to get one. There I found that panela comes in different shapes and sizes. There was the candle, but there were also large round cakes and these smaller beauties, which I decided to bring home.

The asado negro didn't turn out as well as I'd hoped (the cooking time in the recipe ended up being too long for the meat), but none of this mattered. After my first taste of the panela, I wanted it in everything. I put it in my oatmeal. I sliced it over cheese. I cut off chunks and ate it all by itself.

So when the need for hot chocolate arose, I knew panela had to be involved. Its smoothness is the ideal complement to cocoa's rich bitterness, and I'm glad to say that Fred's first cup of homemade hot chocolate was the best I've ever made.

Panela Hot Chocolate

For each serving, you will need:

1 cup milk
1/4 cup half and half
1 1/2 tbsp. Dutch processed cocoa
Dash salt
2 T grated panela, packed (more or less to taste) (if you can't get panela, white or brown sugar would be fine)

Pour enough milk for all servings into saucepan and on high heat. Into each cup, add half and half, cocoa and salt. Whisk with small wire whisk (or a fork) until well blended. Add panela and whisk again until panela has begun to melt. When milk is hot but not boiling, fill each cup. Whisk again until panela has melted. Add a dash of cinnamon or ground chili pepper for garnish if desired.

Microwave version: Follow directions as above but do not heat milk in saucepan. Instead, add cold milk to cocoa mix in each cup and microwave each serving until milk is hot, about one minute. Remove from microwave and whisk ingredients until well blended before serving.

Blue Crabs

2010-12-21T07:40:00.000-05:00

For a farm girl, I'm inconsistently squeamish about killing things. Flies in our house are caught with a cup and freed outdoors, but roaches are mercilessly squashed. Ants might be allowed to roam across counter tops for days, then tortured to death with poison from traps placed in strategic corners. Meat from sentient creatures such as cows, goats, and chickens is consumed with abandon . . . and I can't put a live crab in boiling water.

The crabs caused a lot of trouble a couple of weeks ago, when Walking Fish, our CSF (Community Sponsored Fishery), let us know that North Carolina blue crabs were in the next delivery.

I'd been avoiding the crabs, and apparently so had many other Walking Fishers. Originally, members were simply told that crabs would be arriving as part of their weekly share; those who didn't want the crabs could write to the group's e-mail list and arrange for an exchange with another member. But it seems there was so much switching around, and too many crabs not being taken, that Walking Fish changed the policy. Now, when crabs come in, those brave enough to face them down have to add their names to a list.

Fred wanted to be on that list--the list of mighty crab killers. Why remains a mystery, but it is probably the same impulse that propels him--my sensitive, bookish artist--to yell at hapless pitchers and treat interstate on-ramps like entryways to the Indy 500.

"Will you just have it all done when I get home?" I pleaded.

"Sure," he said. Perhaps it was my imagination, but his chest puffed out the tiniest bit. "I'll look up how to do it on the internet."

That should have been my first warning.

As usual, he picked me up from work on Thursday.

"How are the crabs?" I asked.

He couldn't seem to look at me. His head drooped. "It was awful," he said. "I couldn't get any meat out of them. I tried and tried and I got just enough to put on a cracker."

Confused, I asked, "What do you mean there was no meat?"

"There was just this watery stuff, mostly, and then I couldn't get the meat to pull away from the shells."

I pondered this. "That's odd."

Then it came to me. "Did you cook them before you tried to get the meat out?"

He looked up, and the life drained from his eyes. "Cook them? The internet instructions didn't say anything about cooking them first."

At moments like these in married life--like when the Braves lost to the Giants in the playoffs, or when a man struggles with assembly instructions you figured out an hour ago--it is important to be gentle. "Honey, I think you need to cook them first."

He put his head in his hands. "But the instructions didn't say anything about cooking them first. They just talked about cleaning them. I thought it was like fish, or chicken. You know, you clean it, then you cook it."

I put a hand on his shoulder. He looked up again, despair clouding his face. "Why didn't they say anything about cooking them first?"

Now is probably not the time to mention crab boils, I thought, or all the stories you hear about cooking live crabs, or children's movies like The Little Mermaid, which admittedly Fred probably never saw. Instead, I patted his hand.

"We can probably salvage something," I said. "I'll take a look when I get home."

"I don't know," he moaned. "There really isn't much there."

I figured he was exaggerating. Unfortunately, he wasn't.

If you've ever wondered how much meat you can get from six blue crabs without cooking them first, here it is.

Luckily, Fred stopped his cleaning efforts before he got to the claws. We boiled the carnage, seasoning the water with herbes de Provence and salt. We made an appetizer of the meat we salvaged. It was sweet and tender, possibly the best I've had.

Fred's been pondering the meaning of this incident ever since. He's wondered how many times, at 50, he's missed critical first steps. He's even considered the crabs as a metaphor for his whole life.

That may be true. If so, then it's also true that a few good things can be salvaged from a mess. And that we'll get another shot at the crabs, if we want.

Hiatus Activity

2010-12-04T19:37:00.000-05:00

It's been a busy few weeks.

The cats have helped me with my crosswords.

Cleo admired Fred's latest painting.

Fred cooked supper, even involving vegetable matter in the process.

And we visited the family farm in Tennessee.

Posting will continue to be sporadic over the next few weeks, as we travel around the country for holidays. I've been cooking a lot and hope to share recipes for the holidays soon, but will certainly be back in January.

Return to Farming

2010-11-07T20:44:00.009-05:00

Before I married Fred, I was an avid gardener. Unfortunately, I was not very good at it. Though I fantasized about pantry shelves lined with bright jars of home-canned produce, and snipping fresh herbs from my deck to toss into various dishes, my gardening efforts over two years yielded about 30 tomatoes, 2 mealy yellow squash, about ten pounds of rosemary, 3 tablespoons of parsley, 4 green beans, and possibly the tiniest piece of okra ever grown.

The problem was that while I liked to dig and put things in the ground, I didn't like to plan. Thus I'd inevitably find myself in mid-May with a strong desire for home-grown vegetables in the summer, but I'd have no beds prepared and no real sense of where the plants might do well. So beds would hastily be dug in a spot that seemed sunny; a few bags of dirt from the garden store would be added; plants would thrown in, watered, and randomly fertilized; mulch might be distributed. But I had no understanding of the soil and the nutrients that might be needed, or what plants should go together, or how to prevent disease.

This year, however, I'm turning a corner. My work at the St. John's community garden has led to a resurgence of my gardening interest, and it has peaked at a time of year when the only thing you can do is plan. Thus I have familiarized myself with measuring tape, stakes, and gardening books to create a map for a converting our weedy yet sunless back yard into a cornucopia of home-grown, organic produce.

Last weekend, I took the first step, measuring out Bed 1, a 10' x 3' space right behind the house. The effort renewed long-dormant math skills that revealed that I'd have 30 square feet in which to plant my crops.

The area is typical of our back yard: a swath of unidentified weeds scattered with leaves. Daffodils appear in the spring, but the photo below reflects the state of the area for the remaining 11 months of the year.

I dug here industriously for about three hours, scraping down about 8" until the crummy clay surface, and my back, could yield no more.

I removed the sod and weeds, added a little store-bought compost, covered everything with a layer of newspaper, then leaves.

I'm afraid that the only difference between the "before" and "after" photos is that the largest weed is gone and the leaves are in a more organized pile. But I am hopeful that the earth will go to work, and that next year, I might get enough tomatoes for at least one batch of salsa.

Everything's Better with Bacon

2010-10-27T06:30:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago I went to the doctor for my sort-of-annual check-up. "Your cholesterol levels are amazing," she raved. "Your overall number is a bit over 200, but it's because your good cholesterol levels are so incredible. I just don't see this very often."

I felt as smug and self-satisfied as I did at age six when I was the first student in Mrs. Hyberger's class who could read from the "Dear Cubby" page in the textbook. I hadn't worked very hard to learn to read--it just happened. And certainly I haven't worked very hard to lower my cholesterol levels. It's just my natural ability, I thought. My innate talent. A special gift.

I'm celebrating by eating bacon. With my cholesterol levels, why should I worry about it? And it certainly keeps Fred happy. (Miraculously, his cholesterol levels are excellent too.)

The bacon has been a surprising boon to the the fish we've been getting from our CSF (community-sponsored fishery), which is in the middle of its fall season.

Mullet

Flounder

As usual, we've gotten some beautiful fish, but the flavor has been unexpectedly strong in some cases. There's no funky smell, but when cooked the fish was briny and earthy all at once--in other words, too fishy even for my taste.

In desperation, I turned to some of the recipes provided by the fisheries themselves. I had my doubts about these recipes, which relied heavily on bacon and cream and baked the fish for what seemed like far too long. It didn't make sense to me. Why smother fresh-caught fish with other flavors? But after trying to face down some of these powerful creatures with mere lemon juice and garlic, I've come to accept the wisdom of attacking them head-on with pork and cream. This technique mellows the pungent flavor of fishy fish without covering it up completely (though covering that flavor would be a miracle on par with Fred choosing to eat a salad over a steak).

It also turns out the somewhat longer cooking time is necessary when the fish is all together in a casserole dish--laid close together this way, the fish take a bit longer to heat up than they do when separated into individual pieces. Just be sure to check for doneness frequently to avoid overcooking.

Fish with Bacon, Onions, and Cream
Serves 4

1/2 - 2 lbs white fish (you can use fish that is headed and gutted but not filleted, but you will have to watch for bones)
6 slices bacon, cut into 1" pieces
1 large onion, cut in half and sliced
Cream or half and half (enough to partially cover fish in when spread out in a casserole dish)
About 1 tbsp. sage (optional)
Chopped chives for garnish

Preheat oven to 350. Generously salt and pepper fish and place in a casserole dish large enough to hold pieces without layering. Cut up bacon. Place in large skillet and fry on medium-high heat. Cut a large onion in half and then slice thinly. When bacon is cooked about halfway, scatter in onion and saute until translucent. Pour over fish. Pour a mix of cream and half and half, or just half and half, over fish until bottom of pan is covered and cream covers fish partway. (Unless you pour off the bacon fat, I suspect that using cream alone would make the dish too heavy.) Sprinkle sage over fish, if desired. Cover dish with lid or foil and bake until fish is tender, anywhere from 10 to 30 minutes depending on the individual size of the fillets. Check frequently for doneness to make sure fish does not overcook.

Remove fish from oven. If fish is not filleted, remove the bones as best you can. To do this, gently scrape off the top layer of flesh with a large fork, then peel out the spine and ribs and discard. You won't get all the bones, but you'll reduce some of the hassle of removing them at the table. Plate fish and spoon generous amounts of sauce and onions over the top. Garnish with chives and serve.

My Recipe Redux: Rum Balls

2010-10-19T20:16:00.001-04:00

On Sunday, our church service focused on forgiveness, and it made me realize that I have a long way to go. I've never recovered from being denied the role of Scarlett O'Hara in our grad school parody of Gone with the Wind (in which Scarlett would have done anything to get tenure). I still don't understand why my fourth grade teacher liked LaVelda Blanton better than me, though it's possible that her lack of seething resentment at others' success had something to do with it. And, of course, there's my irritation at the New York Times Magazine's "Recipe Redux" column.

But now I have to consider that the Lord will forgive my trespasses only as I forgive those who trespass against me. I have some issues to work out with "Recipe Redux" now because I found myself updating a recipe this weekend in ways that would probably make the original author roll over in his grave. So Amanda Hesser, I hope you will overlook my nasty remarks about the Medjool date recipe and the snide comments about that laborious, incomprehensible twelve-ingredient dessert. I understand it all a little better now, and I'll try to be nicer. Mostly. At some point.

It started with the bourbon balls. I write a column for a newsletter in my Atlanta neighborhood (we never managed to sell our house there), and this month I wanted to feature a recipe for a holiday treat given to me by an elderly Presbyterian minister a few years back. The column was due Friday, which means that first thing Saturday morning I wrote in to beg for an extension. Then I went to the kitchen.

But when I pulled out the bourbon ball recipe, I saw it wasn't going to work. For one thing, it called for paraffin. Paraffin isn't unusual for a chocolate recipe; it's used to make it glossy and keep candies solid at room temperature. My grandmother used it to seal her jellies. But I didn't like the idea of putting wax in my food. It seemed like cheating.

Plus I didn't have any. I didn't have semi-sweet chocolate chips either. Or bourbon. (At least, not bourbon I could pour into a bowl of chocolate without making Fred cry.)

What I did have was 5 squares of unsweetened baking chocolate, cocoa powder, powdered sugar, rum, and a looming deadline. I rationalized the lack of semi-sweet chips and the addition of the cocoa powder by concluding that modern sensibilities lean toward less sugar and a more intense chocolate flavor. I also figured that the type of liquor wasn't really important and that I now had an excellent opportunity to use what was not used in last Christmas's rum cake.

But having spent quite a bit of time shopping recently for desserts, I was also intrigued by the idea of some of the flavors I've seen paired with chocolate, especially savory items like chili powder, bacon, and especially salt. Tempted as I was to try the bacon (and one day I will), I decided to take the safe route in my variation and dust the rum balls with a little salt.

This was a fortuitous choice. There's something about the salt-chocolate combination that's utterly addictive, (as anyone who's eaten a chocolate-covered pretzel will tell you), and the increased proportion of chocolate to sugar provided the intensified chocolate flavor I hoped to achieve. These candies aren't as rummy as some I've tried, but that's really a bonus, allowing you to focus on the chocolate.

The ingredients used weren't even particularly good (months old Baker's unsweetened chocolate, generic cocoa powder), but I was nevertheless pleased enough with the result that I'm going to make these for Christmas. Maybe I'll even send some to Amanda Hesser.

Original Recipe: Bourbon Balls

This recipe was given to me by a Presbyterian minister in his 90s. I am certain that his regular consumption of bourbon and chocolate contributed to his long life and health.

1/4 pound butter
1 box powdered sugar
1/4 cup bourbon
1/2 square paraffin
2 cups finely chopped pecans
1 large package semisweet chocolate chips + 2 1/2 squares baking chocolate

Cream butter and sugar. Add bourbon and pecans. Shape into small balls put on waxed paper. Refrigerate for at least 30 minutes. Melt chocolate chips and baking chocolate; add paraffin. Dip balls into cooled chocolate and place on waxed paper to harden.

Updated Recipe: Rum Balls

5 oz. unsweetened chocolate, melted in small saucepan using lowest possible heat and set aside to cool
4 cups confectioners sugar
1 ½ cups cocoa powder
½ lb. European style butter, softened (I used salted, but use unsalted if desired)
2 cups finely chopped nuts (pecans or walnuts)
½ cup dark rum
2 tsp. high-quality salt, finely ground (optional)

In large bowl, whisk together 3 cups of the sugar and 1 cup of the cocoa powder. Add to butter. With electric mixer or by hand, stir on very low speed until ingredients begin to combine, then increase speed and mix until creamed. Stir in rum, nuts, and chocolate. Add remaining 1 cup of confectioners sugar and mix until thoroughly blended. Cover and refrigerate at least 30 minutes.

Whisk together salt and remaining 1/2 cup cocoa. Shape dough into one inch balls. Roll into cocoa mixture and set on wax paper. Allow to firm in refrigerator; transfer to container and keep refrigerated until served.

When You're Down . . .

2010-10-10T20:04:00.000-04:00

I'm just now returning to something resembling normalcy, after an unpleasant bug that kept me out of work for four days and cost an appalling $108 in antibiotics to cure. Fred was out of town leading an arts workshop, so I had only the cats to help out.

Thelma took care of the livestock . . .

. . . while Cleo and Catalina made sure I stayed warm.

Unfortunately their food preparation skills are somewhat limited, and the only thing they caught during the week offered little of nutritional value and even less in the way of presentation.

Needless to say I was thrilled to have Fred back, and look forward to returning to the kitchen this week.

Dear New York Times "Recipe Redux"

2010-09-29T21:38:00.004-04:00

My short love affair with the "Recipe Redux" column in the New York Times Magazine came to an end on Sunday. Fascinated as I am with old recipes, I was thrilled to find a column that dug up ancient treasures like Chocolate Caramels (1881) and this 1904 bouillabaisse swimming in olive oil. The old recipe is followed by a modern update created by a chef, with only one rule, according to Amanda Hesser, the column's author: "the chefs can improvise with flavors and techniques as much as they want, as long as they can later explain how they got from A to B." Thus Chocolate Caramels have been transformed into Black-Sugar-Glazed Medjool Dates with Pecorino and Walnuts, while the bouillabaise becomes Olive-Oil Poached Cod with Saffron-Blood Orange Nage.

It's not the painful inventory of each esoteric ingredient, or the exacting specifications that demonstrate you're in the know ("dates" aren't good enough anymore; only Medjool dates will do!), that pushed me over the edge. I've grown accustomed to that, since you can't go to a bar without being forced to order not merely roast lamb but Happy Meadow Farms Lamb with Organic Creek Merlot Reduction and House-Grown Rosemary. And reading ingredients is fascinating to me.

What I can't abide is "updating" that turns a perfect, simple recipe into a complicated production.

Things started to go downhill with June 6's Rhubarb-Strawberry Mousse (1989). I'll let the description of the modern version speak for itself:

As with many old desserts, the beauty of the dish is its simplicity. Yet without fail, whenever I’ve sent chefs a dessert recipe from the paper’s 159-year archive, they’ve found this very simplicity troubling. Modern desserts seem to require acid playing against sweetness, crunch jarring the suppleness, bitter challenging creaminess — a flood of contrasting elements that manage to divert our 140-character-length attention span, even if just for a fleeting moment.

So it was no surprise that after making this six-ingredient mousse, Melissa Perello, the chef and owner of Frances in San Francisco, returned with a modern, layered delight: a 12-ingredient, three-part dessert, made up of a ricotta mousse, a strawberry-rhubarb broth, garnish and cookies.

Why? Why? Why take a dish whose beauty is in its simplicity and turn it into a "12-ingredient, three-part" monstrosity? It's one thing if you're a chef trying to woo customers. It's an entirely different matter if you're a home cook trying to put a meal on the table or host a dinner party after work.

Last week's Saratoga Potatoes (1904) were the end. Saratoga Potatoes are potato chips. (Who knew that's where they came from?) For the basic recipe, you slice potatoes as thinly as possible, fry in olive oil, and salt. That's it.

We are told that the updated version, Crackery Potato Bugnes, are "so easy to make and . . . turn out so professionally that you’ll soon be whipping them up for every dinner party." My version of "easy," however, does not involve two bowls, chilling dough "for at least one hour and as long as overnight" and . . . well, this:

Using a ruler and a pastry wheel (one with a zigzag edge is nice for this job) or pizza cutter, cut long strips 1 to 1½ inches wide, then cut the strips at 2-inch intervals. (Again, size isn’t really important and the shape is flexible — you can make long strips, triangles or squares.) Using the tip of a paring knife, cut a lengthwise slit about ¾ inch long in the center of each piece. Lift the pieces onto the baking sheet. When you’ve filled the sheet, just cover the dough with another piece of wax paper and keep going. Roll and cut the other half of the dough and place these pieces on the baking sheet as well, separating the layers with wax paper. You should have about 60 bugnes. Chill for at least 1 hour or for as long as overnight.

I won't be spending two hours chilling and God only knows how many agonizing minutes cutting up 60 slices of dough into cute little shapes for my next dinner party unless a fairy brings me a maid with far more patience and time than I possess.

Ms. Hesser needs to send those recipes to me. As God is my witness she will get an updated version for those potato chips: Britt Farms Yukon Golds Fried in Real North Carolina Pork Fat with Roasted Garden Jalapenos and Garlic.

Hmmm--I need to work on that . . .

Green Tomato Salsa

2010-09-26T10:02:00.002-04:00

Earlier this summer, I described the avalanche of produce that nearly overwhelmed the tiny congregation of St. John's Presbyterian Church, where Fred serves as a parish associate for the arts and I now serve on the garden committee. God was blessing our efforts. He (or She) was returning me to my farming roots, though it would have been nice if He (or She) had not caused me to look quite so much like an ancient mountain woman in the process.

But now He (or She) has decided to bless us with weeks of bright sunny days without a rain cloud in sight. We were also blessed with an abundance of tomato plants along with a generous helping of ignorance. Thus, close planting, a failure to prune, and the lack of rain all combined to produce plants that eked out only green tomatoes, which brooded on the vines until, depressed by their own failure to ripen, they flung themselves to the ground and rotted in despair.

Next door, however, the peppers were having quite the merry fiesta. They lived in a flourishing village that basked in the sun and was clearly up to something in the evenings, judging by the abundance of baby peppers that popped up with alarming regularity. (The proximity to all this merriment probably contributed to the tomatoes' demise.)

What were we to do? Earlier in the summer we'd dreamed of tomato sandwiches, of winter shelves lined with rows home-canned summer tomatoes, of freezers packed with homemade tomato sauce. But our hopes were dashed along with those of the pitiful green tomatoes who could not bring themselves to turn red.

I found a solution recently in this salsa, just in time for the green tomatoes that other gardeners with happier plants will soon be harvesting. It's roughly based on a tomatillo recipe from Rick Bayless's Salsa That Cook. While I'm not sure about the wisdom of substituting tomatillos for green tomatoes regularly, it worked quite well here. The salsa packs quite a bit of heat, but you can adjust that by using fewer peppers.

After one day, the brightness and the heat of the salsa had mellowed and the roasted flavor came to the forefront. If you want the salsa hot, I recommend serving it the same day; if you'd prefer a more mellow version, wait 24 hours before serving.

The salsa is wonderful with fish or shrimp as well--a serving suggestion is below. I can only hope the little green tomatoes have found their purpose in life now.

Green Tomato Salsa

Makes about 4 cups

A dozen small green or partially red tomatoes
6 serrano or other hot green peppers (more or less to taste)
1 large yellow onion, halved and sliced
Kosher salt
Sugar (about 1 tsp., or more to taste)
Cream, sour cream, or any kind of South American cream (Mexican, Honduran, Salvadoran) (optional)

Place oven rack about four inches below the broiler flame. (For me, this is the second slot from the top--do not place too close to the heat.) Set tomatoes on baking sheet. Roast with broiler on high about six minutes on one side, then turn and roast for an additional six minutes. The tomatoes will be dark brown to black. Set aside to cool, about 20 minutes.

While tomatoes are roasting, place a sturdy skillet on a medium high flame (no oil). Remove stems from the peppers. Place peppers in skillet and roast until blackened in spots, about 10 minutes.

Cut up onion while peppers are roasting and set aside. Once tomatoes are done, remove them to a bowl. Lower oven rack to the middle level. Set oven temperature to 425. (It should already be preheated from broiling the tomatoes.) Scatter the onions over the baking sheet (no need to wash it) and bake, stirring every few minutes, until translucent and blackened or dark brown in spots, 10 - 15 minutes. Let cool for a few minutes.

Place whole peppers and onions in food processor and pulse, scraping down sides of bowl regularly, until ingredients are minced. Add whole tomatoes (peels, cores, and all) and pulse until finely chopped. (Add water if it is too thick.) Add plenty of salt and sugar to taste. Serve immediately with chips for a very hot salsa or wait 24 hours for a more mellow version. Add cream if desired--it will mitigate the heat.

Shrimp Tortillas with Green Tomato Salsa

Serves 2 -- a good way to use the extra salsa!

16 large shrimp, peeled and deveined
1 tsp. olive oil
2 - 3 cups Green Tomato Salsa, above
3 - 6 tbps. half and half
Grated mild cheese to taste (we used plain old cheddar, but Mexican queso seco might be better)
Spinach
6 small corn tortillas

Heat oven to 350. Place tortillas on baking sheet and set in oven to warm. (You will need to check on them frequently to make sure they don't crisp up--once they are warm and soft, turn off oven and let them sit.) Heat olive oil on medium high heat for a few minutes. Add salsa and cream. Heat, stirring frequently, until mixture begins to bubble, about 5 minutes. (Add more cream if it looks like it might burn.) Add shrimp and cook just a few minutes, stirring frequently, until shrimp have just pinkened, adding more cream if necessary. Remove tortillas from oven. Spoon shrimp mix into tortillas, top with spinach and cheese, fold over, and serve.

Concord Grape Pie

2010-09-11T11:12:00.005-04:00

In the spring of 1991, my reputation as a pie baker was born, emerging out of a strawberry-rhubarb pie I made for my roommate, Carol.

Until that point, Carol believed that pie crusts were available only in the freezer section of your local supermarket. Though her parents were both French, living in Wisconsin had apparently sapped away every vestige of their culinary heritage, leaving them only with the knowledge of how to brew coffee and cook sausage. I, on the other hand, took great pride in my crusts and my recipe, taken straight from the back of the Crisco can.

The strawberry-rhubarb pie, made from ingredients picked up at the legendary Madison Farmers' Market, was apparently a revelation to Carol. It seemed a bit on the watery side to me, but she talked about it non-stop for nearly a week. "That was the best pie I've ever had," she said. Twin Peaks was running at the time; she sounded like Agent Cooper at the counter of the R & R Diner.

So thrilled was she that she gave me this copy of Farm Journal's Complete Pie Cookbook as a birthday present that year.

Written in 1965, this book chronicles a lifestyle that was already under siege by the agricultural industrial complex the moment it hit the shelves. I know this; I was born on a farm in 1965, and by the time I was in kindergarten my life was considered so exotic that it was turned into a field trip for my class. Thus a herd of five-year-olds was shepherded from the safety of suburbia to our farm, just a few miles outside the "city" of Cleveland, Tennessee. They looked at cows. They wisely ran in fear from the chickens. They stepped in little piles of manure dotting the fields and probably littered the freshly mopped floors of their homes with fecal matter within hours.

But I digress. I love the way that Farm Journal's Pie Cookbook evokes a fantasy farm life, where green fields stretch out into the summer evening while swallows twitter overhead. Some samples:

"Peach pie is a reward tired and hungry men who have worked late in the field trying to finish a job really appreciate," one farm woman says.

Early summer mornings, when the air's still dewy, farm children gather ripe, juicy berries for Mother's superb pies.

We certainly had moments like this on our farm. But we also had these:

Farm women think canning beans in August is about as much fun as a colonoscopy, but they know that both things need to be done.

Farmers are the kind of people for whom "vacation" means waiting till the next day to fix the tractor.

The book also contains recipes for pies that never appeared on our table--not surprising, given regional differences in American cuisine. Of course, I was drawn first to these more exotic pies (at least to me)--elderberry, currant, mulberry. One of these, Concord Grape Pie, has become a fall favorite. The filling reminded me of the juice and jams Mammaw made a few times from the grapes in our orchard. Just imagine the best homemade grape jam you've ever had, a grape jam with rich earthy undertones that's not overly sweet--then you'll have an idea of how this pie tastes.

Greed prevented us from getting a better photo.

By the time I thought to get the camera, this was all that was left.

When the grapes come in this fall (September and October), you have only a few weeks to make this pie. It's like those farms in 1965--their time on this earth is, sadly, too short.

Concord Grape Pie

Unbaked 9" pie shell
4 1/2 c. Concord grapes
1 c. sugar, or less to taste
1/4 c. flour
2 - 3 tsp. lemon juice
1/8 tsp. salt

Wash grapes and remove skins by pinching at end opposite stems. Reserve skins.

Place pulp in saucepan and bring to a boil; cook a few minutes until pulp is soft. Put through strainer or food mill, while pulp is hot, to remove seeds.

Mix strained pulp with skins. Stir in sugar, flour, lemon juice and salt.

Place grape mixture in pastry-lined pie pan. Cover with crust, cut vents, dust sugar on top, and flute edges. Bake at 425 for 10 minutes, then reduce heat to 350 and cook an additional 50 - 60 minutes.

Three reasons not to tell your husband that he has good legs

2010-08-27T07:09:00.001-04:00

Shrimp, Corn, and Squash Soup

2010-08-20T07:48:00.000-04:00

Nothing makes me crabbier than fall. That cheerfully crisp weather, that can-do spirit that forces you off the porch and into some useful activity--it's all too horrible to contemplate for very long.

This year, though, good news has buoyed me up, helping me to face fall's dreadful enthusiasm with a sense of hope: The Louisiana shrimpers are headed out into the Gulf again.

For me, the Gulf oil spill has loomed all summer like . . . well, like the black oily cloud it is, seeping into the fragile marshes, threatening the livelihoods of shrimpers and fishermen even more than cheap seafood from China, oozing into delicate marine life and causing damage we may not fully realize for years. Still, earlier this week the shrimpers were out on the water again. They didn't catch much. But there's a little hope.

To celebrate, I'm offering this soup recipe that I developed at the beach, using these gorgeous shrimp from the North Carolina coast, caught the same day they were served. Fred's little camera doesn't begin to do them justice.

This dish is a lot less complicated than it looks. If you can boil water, you can make the shrimp stock, and it cooks while you prepare the other ingredients. Besides, there's almost no way to mess up the combination of fresh corn, squash, and shrimp--a hearty yet delicately flavored combination that may well be the perfect summer dish, just in time for summer to end.

You can, of course, cheat by using frozen shrimp and corn and substituting water or chicken broth for the shrimp stock. But you'll regret it. And you need to help the shrimpers get back out there.

Shrimp, Corn and Squash Soup

Serves 6

Kernels from 6 shucked ears of fresh sweet corn (do not substitute frozen)
6 small to medium yellow crookneck squash, quartered lengthwise and sliced (may substitute 1 – 2 small zucchini for 1 – 2 of the squash for added color)
2 tbsp. olive oil or butter
1 large onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 fresh jalapenos, minced (optional)
1 lb. large fresh shrimp, peeled, deveined, and cut into 3 pieces each; shrimp peels and tails set aside in bowl
Water
1 15 oz. can evaporated milk
Salt to taste

Begin by making the shrimp stock. Place shrimp peels and tails in medium saucepan. Add enough water to cover by about 1 inch. Bring to boil on high heat. Reduce heat to medium low and simmer for about 20 minutes. Drain stock into bowl, discard peels and tails, and set aside.

While stock is boiling, sauté onion in olive oil in large pot on medium high heat until translucent. Add garlic and jalapenos and stir. Add squash and sauté until tender, about 5 – 10 minutes. Remove from heat. Pulse in food processor until very finely chopped. Return to pot. Add corn. Cover with shrimp stock and increase heat to high; add water just to cover if there is not enough stock. Bring to boil; reduce heat to medium low. Add evaporated milk, cover, and simmer until corn is tender. Cooking times can vary significantly depending on the type of corn you use, anywhere from 5 to 30 minutes; taste periodically until the corn is tender but not starchy. When corn is cooked, reduce heat to lowest possible flame. Add shrimp and cover; cook about 3 minutes or until shrimp are cooked.

Hamburger a la Fred

2010-08-10T22:11:00.001-04:00

Upon returning from the beach, the mood in the Wise household has tanked. Hurled from the glamorous freedom of vacation back into the plodding reality of ordinary life and work, we've both been a bit downtrodden, even grumpy.

My own irritability has been exacerbated by a sprained ankle I acquired on the way back from the beach--not by slipping on a sundae dropped by a careless toddler at McDonald's, or in a 12-car pileup on I-40, or even by tripping over the entryway at a rest stop. No, I managed to do this in the car. Sitting down. With my feet up.

After examining my X-rays, the doctor at Duke Urgent Care explained that the damage occurred because of an old injury, an avulsion fracture, in which a ligament had torn and pulled a little piece of bone off with it. I well remembered the injury, from my senior year at Duke in 1987, during a volleyball game held as part of a scholarship competition at Vanderbilt Law School. (I did not win the game or the scholarship. I suspect the committee questioned the sense of a candidate who could not bear the thought of not wearing her brand-new five-inch heels to the interview and so wore the heel on one foot and a splint with a cotton sock on the other.) And the results apparently are still with me, because it seems that the ankle is more susceptible to additional injury--including holding my ankle in a stretched position a little too long.

I'm now splinted and wrapped, able to wear only flat sandals to work, and not really in any shape to stand in the kitchen and cook. So Fred stepped bravely into the breach, offering to try his hand at dinner tonight.

As he did a couple of years ago, the last time he was allowed in the kitchen, he made hamburgers. This time, he consulted Mark Bittman for starters but decided that he wasn't going to grind his own meat. He used 2/3 lb. ground beef for two patties, added a splash of Worchestershire sauce and salt to each one, and fried the two thick patties with some jalapenos and garlic. We debated the merits of bread vs. bun, and Fred's preference (sourdough bread) won out because he was cooking. I hate to admit it, but he was right. Served with fresh tomato slices and onion, the flavor of the meat stood out, with the bread a nice complement to t he flavor rather than an overwhelming presence. And we ate them so fast it didn't have time to get soggy.

I'm still grumpy, but I'm grateful that I have a husband who takes care of me when I most need it.

2010-08-04T09:49:00.000-04:00

I’m at the beach this week with the dozen or so friends I’ve been vacationing with for the last 12 years. We’re a group of food lovers, and over the years we’ve had memorable dishes, from an epic production of fried chicken to peach pie laced with bacon fat. (I believe in the goodness of that pie despite what everyone else says.)

Now, though, with only one member of our group under 40, things have begun to change. Suddenly, food issues of all sorts are putting a damper on our once free-wheeling, fat-laden extravaganzas:

1. Following her husband’s 40th birthday party a few years ago, in which he stored a whole pig carcass on ice in the bathtub for a few days, M.H. has, understandably, returned to her early vegetarianism.

2. Janice and her son, Julian, are gluten-free because her doctor has told her that she has the gene that causes celiac disease and that she needs to avoid wheat. (Her husband occasionally refers to the doctor as “that quack.”) She also avoids dairy.

As an aside, I caught Janice giving cod liver oil to poor Julian yesterday. My attempts to infuse humor into the situation: “I can’t believe you’re giving him cod liver oil!” went unappreciated. “It would be better to help rather than hinder the situation here,” Janice said. I decided it was best to leave Julian to the therapist he’ll be seeing in about 15 years.

Janice brings a lot of her own food.

3. Donna and Mara do not eat seafood.

4. Everyone (except me, it seems) has an idiosyncratic aversion of one sort or another, including raw tomatoes, tapioca pudding, mayonnaise, Brussels sprouts, liver, rutabagas, coffee, coconut, olives and mushrooms.

We had for years managed to work around these dietary predilections with minimal fuss and only the occasional blow-up.

But then Shannon and Carol chimed in.

I was planning dinner for our first night and sent an e-mail to the group asking them to remind me of their dietary restrictions. This was a silly idea in the first place, akin to stubbing my toe on purpose or giving myself a series of paper cuts. So I deserve what came next.

Carol wrote back the next day. In sum, her message said that they didn’t eat grains in any form—rice, wheat, spelt, millet, bulghur, you name it--any kind of bean, or dairy. Apparently, she and Shannon have embarked on the Paleolithic diet, in which they attempt to eat like our Paleolithic ancestors, on the theory that this is what humans originally evolved to eat before agriculture stepped in and ruined everything. (Shannon apparently picked it up when he was training for a bike race.) In essence, this means they eat only meat, vegetables, and fruit.

There’s probably no point in commenting on the wisdom of adopting the diet of a people whose average life span was about 35, or on why meat would not be considered “processed” food. All I can really say is that approaching dinner, I faced the following SAT-like logic problem:

1. M.H. eats seafood, grains, and dairy but not meat.
2. Donna and Mara eat meat, grains, and dairy but not seafood.
3. Janice eats meat and seafood but not wheat or dairy.
4. Carol and Shannon eat meat and seafood but not grains of any kind or dairy.

Our fragile equilibrium had collapsed. Were I to attempt to prepare a meal that took into account everyone’s dietary restrictions, we would be eating only vegetables, fruit, and eggs. And there are only so many omelets you can eat in a week. (Later, I learned that Mara doesn’t eat eggs.)

Poor Shannon and Carol. Over the next several days, e-mails flew back and forth mercilessly, including one in which Rocco declared that he was feeling very out of style as an omnivore and was therefore going to try his hand at dietary restrictions by keeping kosher and requiring us to get separate kitchens for meat and dairy at the beach house.

I wasn’t terribly surprised when Shannon and Carol decided to stay home. They claim it was because they’d just moved and started new jobs and didn’t want to haul two small children on a cross-country odyssey just then, but I know better. They were afraid we’d slip some millet into their vegetables.

On Saturday night, we ate tacos. Everyone was happy.

Cucumber-Avocado Soup

2010-07-30T07:43:00.000-04:00

Several events converged in the making of cucumber-avocado soup yesterday.

A reminder that The Newlyfeds is about the stories and food, not the photos

The first was last month's family trip to Kiawah Island, South Carolina, where we made our annual pilgrimage to Hege's. Hege's is a "brasserie Francais classique" focusing primarily on seafood. (Fred, of course, ordered steak.) On this trip, they offered a cucumber-avocado soup as a special. It was so good that even my seven-year-old niece loved it. The color was the perfect green for this kind of soup but it's hard to describe exactly what it was--the only thing that comes to mind is a very unappetizing comparison to a 1970s appliance, only about six shades lighter. Or maybe the minty color of a bedspread you'd get at Pottery Barn.

Color aside, the soup somehow managed to taste like neither cucumber nor avocado, but a summer evening, with a dash of cream and chives. (The server claims there was no cream in the dish, but I am sure he lied--see below). I was determined to try this at home.

The second event was the avalanche of produce that is coming out of the nascent community garden at our church, St. John's Presbyterian.

You can see the cucumber plants in the fourth box from the front. There are a lot of cucumbers buried in those plants--so many that our small congregation can't quite manage all of them. And there's parsley, enough to supply the entire city of Durham for the remainder of 2010.

Here, of course, was my opportunity to re-create that spectacular cucumber-avocado soup, only this time with parsley in place of the chives. I was a bit reluctant to replace those chives, since they complemented the other flavors of the soup so well. But I hated to see that parsley go to waste, and there's only so much tabbouleh that one person can eat.

The parsley was a stroke of genius. As a garnish, it added crunchiness and a gentle undertone, with a hint of creamy pine nut balancing its natural sharpness. And like the original, this soup tasted just like summer.

Cucumber-Avocado Soup

4 servings

4 large cucumbers, seeded and roughly chopped
1 avocado
1 small garlic clove, minced
1 tbsp. Salvadoran or Honduran creme
2 tbsp. heavy cream or half and half
6 - 8 large Italian (flat-leaf) parsley leaves, plus generous amounts for garnish (about 1 cup)
2 mint leaves, torn (optional, but these smooth out the flavor)
Salt to taste
Water

Scoop avocado from peel and remove pit. Puree cucumber, avocado, and garlic in food processor until finely minced. Add remaining ingredients except for water and pulse in food processor a few seconds at a time until ingredients are combined. Add water until soup reaches the consistency of thin grits or whatever you prefer. Garnish with very generous amounts of parsley.

The soup is best if served immediately. The avocado will create a brownish film on top of the soup if it is kept overnight.

Note: The creams and avocado make this a rich dish, and I noticed a bit of greasiness around my mouth after each bite that some might find unpleasant. To correct this I would suggest reducing the Salvadoran creme to a teaspoon and substituting half and half or whole milk for the heavy cream, or even omitting these and adding chicken broth until the dish is the proper consistency. I did not have chicken broth on hand when I made this, and that may well be what Hege's used to get the right flavor instead of cream. But I still think the server lied.

Fred turns 50

2010-07-25T10:13:00.003-04:00

Fred turned 50 earlier this month--on the Fourth of July, to be exact. The event was marked with a weekend of Fred-filled activities. These included lunch at the North Carolina Museum of Art . . .

. . . with his adoring wife . . .

. . . who tried to ignore the fact that he was wearing white tube socks with Italian shoes and carrying books in a battered lunch bag with a prawn on it.

Of course, there were fireworks at the Gwinnett Braves games--I mean, at the Bulls game where they played the Braves.

(Aside: It's important to understand the role that the Braves play in Fred's life. At about ten o'clock last night, I was reading in bed when I heard Fred cry out, "Oh God!" from the study, followed by a stream of worried muttering.

"What's wrong?" I called out anxiously, concerned that he'd received news of a death in the family or that some tragedy had struck a friend.

"It's 10 - 5 at the bottom of the ninth and the Braves have nearly wrapped it up but this stupid pitcher is throwing BALLS! JUST THROW A STRIKE, WILL YOU? For cryin' out loud!"

I returned to my book.)

The weekend was capped off with dinner at Angus Barn, the Triangle's go-to place for an old-fashioned steak dinner with a martini. Even Fred couldn't finish the 15 ounce Porterhouse he ordered, so it ended up in a sandwich the next day.

Fred is very excited about the new venture into cooking and food photography that this image represents. He chopped things and assembled them. Perhaps one day he'll venture into turning on the stove.

But I'm glad he's spent 5 of his 50 years with me, and I'm hoping for many more.

Roasted Persimmon Salsa

2010-07-23T08:08:00.000-04:00

In addition to the loss of our beloved Louise, June has been a trying month for The Newlyfeds. That's primarily because my work takes me traveling across the country to Annual Conferences of the United Methodist Church. There's generally not much to report food-wise on these trips, unless you fantasize about hotel banquet meals.

Perhaps this overabundance of salad topped with chicken breast, combined with our current explorations of Durham's taqueria scene, has led me to explore spicier food--along with the prodding of my dear neighbor, Melissa. During one cat-sitting stint for us, she looked over my cookbook collection and upon our return declared, "Your cookbooks seem kind of outdated for someone who writes about food."

I tried to explain that a) I liked to collect older cookbooks and b) we were too cheap to buy new ones. She raised her eyebrows, looking at me just as my mother did about 40 years ago when I tried to tell her that it was Cindy Riden's idea to "decorate" my bedroom furniture in magic marker and crayon.

"You can buy used cookbooks on Amazon for practically nothing," she said. "Come over to my house and look over some of mine. You can even borrow them."

That's how I ended up with her copies of Rick Bayless's Mexico: One Plate at a Time and Mexican Kitchen--two thorough, engaging books that have set me off on a new journey through Mexico's foodways. Melissa was finally able to pry the books out of my greedy, grasping fingers after several weeks, but fortunately Fred stepped in and bought me copies for my 45th birthday on June 16, along with the newer Salsas that Cook.

I've especially enjoyed the salsas, which have introduced me to the technique of roasting garlic and peppers in a skillet to bring out their flavors, then adding to roasted tomatoes.

Inspired by these and by the purchase of some persimmons on a trip to Atlanta, I came up with the recipe below. It's reminiscent of peach or mango salsa, but not treacly as those can be. Instead, it offers just a hint of sweetness followed by a considerable kick.

If you've never tried persimmons, they're common in the South though not always easily found in the store. The trees grew wild on our farm in Tennessee. These wild ones must be very ripe before they're eaten; unripe, the taste resembles lemon infused with chalk. The ones you'll find in stores are a little more forgiving, tasting a bit like a not too sweet apricot with hints of orange. For this recipe, use the ripest ones you can find, or let them ripen on your counter for a few days--the sweeter persimmons help balance the acidity of the tomatoes.

Roasted Persimmon Salsa

2 whole unpeeled, very ripe persimmons (available in most stores)
2 whole unpeeled tomatoes
1-2 whole jalapeno peppers
3 whole cloves unpeeled garlic
Salt to taste
Chopped onion and fresh chopped cilantro for garnish

Set oven rack about 6 inches below broiler and turn broiler on high. Place persimmons and tomatoes on baking sheet with rim. Roast in oven about 6 minutes on each side until blackened in spots. Remove and let cool on sheet.

Meanwhile, place garlic and jalapenos in ungreased skillet on medium high heat. Roast on stove top until blackened in spots, about 15 minutes. Set aside to cool.

Remove stems from jalapenos and peel garlic. Chop in food processor or blender a few seconds, until minced. Cut out tops of persimmons and tomatoes and discard; peel if desired. Add to jalapenos and garlic in food processor or blender, along with juice. Chop coarsely and salt to taste. Garnish with onion and cilantro if desired.

Good-bye, Louise

2010-06-06T10:03:00.002-04:00

Our dear cat Louise, featured so often in pages of this blog, died unexpectedly yesterday morning. The vet discovered fluid in her lungs when we took her in Friday afternoon, and by Saturday morning we decided it would be best to have her euthanized. We trust that God is giving her lots of tuna, that she is getting good lap time on a regular basis, that she is chirping happily in a warm sunny spot, and that she is finding many birds and voles to chase--birds and voles that misbehaved horribly in this life, and are getting their just desserts.

But I miss her, my friend and companion of 14 years. She sat on my lap and chirped through a broken engagement, three major moves, a new marriage, and a career change. She was always there to remind me that a creature deserves and therefore should demand love and respect, that naps are a necessary part of life, and that you need to pay attention to the things you love no matter how busy you may be.

Good-bye, Louise.

Six weeks old

With her favorite toy as a kitten

Protecting her human at night

Helping to write the blog

My sweet friend

Red Turnips, Scallops, and Pasta

2010-05-14T07:48:00.004-04:00

I continue to grovel for nearly killing Fred last week, and yesterday some some scallops offered a chance for redemption. (They came from Walking Fish, our community sponsored fishery, which I've raved about so much in this blog that they need to start paying me.)

My first thought was to serve them over pasta, with a side salad that included this bunch of red turnips, picked up at the Durham Farmers' Market on Saturday and so in desperate need of eating.

The turnips are white on the inside, laced with red, and with a thick scarlet ring around the edge when sliced. They would have been beautiful in a salad, especially with their greens mixed in. Unfortunately, though, they tasted like--turnips. Really sharp turnips. So cooking was in order, and I considered serving them mixed with the scallops.

But I dispensed with this idea when I saw the scallops, just a few hours out of the ocean. They were everything you hope for in a scallop--sweet, buttery, tender little pillows that needed only a quick visit to the skillet. They deserved star billing, not to be sullied by any association with pasta or, God forbid, turnips.

Thus the turnips, with their greens, ended up on top of the pasta. The idea was inspired in the vaguest sort of way by a visit to Liguria, Italy, in 1994, when I first had potatoes and pasta with pesto--the moment I came to understand that anything, even another starch, could be served pasta and it would be good.

My scallop technique comes from Cook's Illustrated's book The Best Recipe, though really the only technique you need for scallops is not to overcook them. The recipe includes a nice sauce made from the pan juices, and it occurred to me that a variation on that sauce would be good with the turnips. ("Variation" may be the wrong word here, since I left out everything in the recipe except butter, white wine, and parsley and added turnips, garlic and turnip greens.)

The meal below looks more complicated than it is. I've written out the recipe in some detail because the timing is critical--but the whole thing took only 30 minutes from the moment the ingredients came out of the refrigerator.

And it's worth it. Fred declared this one of the best meals we've had--though he thought the addition of sausage might help. Only the fact that I put him in the emergency room last week kept me from killing him right there.

Scallops, Red Turnips, and Pasta

Serves 2

Scallops
14 medium to large scallops
1 - 2 tablespoons butter
Salt and pepper

Turnips and Pasta
6 small red turnips, washed, greens and ends trimmed, sliced into 1/2" wide strips
Greens from turnips, stems trimmed, washed, dried, and cut into 3" wide strips
2 large cloves garlic, minced
1 - 2 tablespoons butter
1/2 - 1 cup white wine
Fresh chopped parsley for garnish (about 1/2 cup)
1/2 lb penne pasta
Butter and salt for pasta

This recipe goes quickly once you begin cooking, so it is important to have everything ready.

1. Prepare vegetables and set aside.
2. Set scallops out on a plate and salt and pepper to taste. Set out additional clean plate, with foil to cover, for cooked scallops.
3. Put salted water for pasta on to boil. (Follow package directions.)
4. Heat large skillet on medium high heat for about 2 minutes. Once skillet is heated, add butter and swirl until bottom of skillet is coated. Cook until butter is lightly brown, a few minutes.
5. Add scallops quickly, one at at time. Cook for 1 minute. Turn individually and cook for an additional minute. You want to undercook the scallops a bit, as they will continue to cook a little on the plate. Turn off heat and transfer scallops to plate. Keep in warm place until ready to serve. (Covered on top of or near the stove is fine, or in a warming tray on the lowest possible heat.)
6. Watch the pasta water while you are preparing the other ingredients and add pasta to water once it comes to a boil. Cook according to package directions and keep an eye on it so it doesn't overcook. When pasta is done, drain it, return to cooking pot, add butter and salt, and cover until ready to serve.
7. Return heat on skillet to medium. Add 1 - 2 tablespoons butter until melted. Add wine, enough to cover bottom of the pan, and scrape bottom to remove brown bits. Add turnips and salt to taste. Cover and cook until just tender, about 5 minutes.
8. Add greens. Cook an additional 2 - 3 minutes, covered, until greens have just wilted.
9. Remove lid from turnips and continue cooking just a few minutes more. Serve turnips over pasta and garnish with parsley, with scallops on the side.

In which I nearly kill Fred

2010-05-09T11:49:00.004-04:00

Last week, Fred triumphed in a marital victory of epic proportions. On Wednesday morning, he pointed out to me a red spot on his waist, just at the top of the thigh bone, about an inch or so across.

"I think I need to go to the doctor about this," he said. "It looks like it's getting infected, and I think my lymph nodes are swollen."

I peered at the spot. "Oh for heaven's sake," I scoffed. "It's just an infected mosquito bite. That's why your lymph glands are swollen. They swell up even for regular mosquito bites. If it starts to spread go to the doctor."

"Are you sure?" Fred said. Looking back on it, I realize that this was Fred's way of saying, "THIS THING IS KILLING ME! I NEED TO GO TO THE DOCTOR NOW!"

I rolled my eyes and made the sort of face you might make at a small child pestering you to fix a scratched finger. "Of course I'm sure. You'll be fine." I am always sure, since I am always right.

That was the end of the story, I figured--except, of course, for getting a good laugh out of it with my female colleagues at work. What big babies men are! we said. Running to the doctor over a little infected mosquito bite! HAHAHAHAHA!

That night, as we were getting into bed, I said smugly to Fred, "I take it your bite hasn't gotten any worse?"

"It still itches," he replied, "but I haven't checked it since this morning."

"Let's take a look at it then." I figured we might as well put an end to this.

Fred pulled down his waistband. "It looks like it might be a little redder," he said.

In that moment it dawned on me that Fred is no baby. The spot was not "a little redder." It had grown about a half inch in diameter and turned a fiery scarlet. Worse, a pinkish swelling, about a foot or more across, had spread across his groin, waist, and thigh.

In that moment I remembered the inch-long splinter Fred had left in his thigh for over a month, which got infected and which he treated only when I made him go to the doctor.

"I guess I should go to the doctor tomorrow," he said.

"No you will not! We are going to the emergency room right now!"

We'd recently had a friend hospitalized for just this sort of thing--a rapidly spreading redness on this skin that quickly developed into a nasty MRSA infection (a superbug that is resistant to multiple antibiotics). Fred, it turns out, had the same thing that set off our friend's MRSA infection--cellulitis, a bacterial infection of the skin that can spread rapidly. The bite, which Fred later revealed had been there for a couple of weeks and had been growing steadily worse, probably came from a spider.

We were lucky to get in and out of the emergency room in a little over three hours. I felt terrible for dismissing Fred's worries earlier. I felt even worse thinking about the bill we would get for the emergency room visit. I felt still worse thinking that if I'd listened to Fred, we would be out only a $30 co-pay for a visit to urgent care and would not be sitting in Duke's emergency room at 2:00 a.m.

As the doctor was writing out the prescription for some powerful antibiotics, I tried to think of something that would get me out of a lifetime of groveling, that might somehow indicate that I had not pooh-poohed Fred's troubles in vain.

"So if we didn't treat this," I offered, timidly, "would it just resolve itself? I mean, is this the sort of thing that might clear up without going to the doctor?"

The doctor looked up from his paperwork. "Oh no," he replied cheerily. Clearly, he was on Fred's side. "He would die. The infection would get into his bloodstream and become septic. That's why antibiotics were such an important development. This used to kill people all the time!"

Happy to have set our minds at rest, he handed us his paperwork and breezed out of the room.

Fred is recovering well, and he is too kind to gloat. But let's just say he's getting fed very well these days. I had intended to post a recipe for the lamb dish I made for him the next night, but frankly it didn't turn out very well. But there will be plenty more, since I will be paying for this for the rest of our life together. And since I'm awfully glad he's here.

Pupuseria y Taqueria Orellana

2010-05-02T17:36:00.003-04:00

Fred pretends to be adventurous. After all, he's the artist--the one who moved to New Mexico on a lark to make his life as a painter; the one who likes to horrify me by wearing white athletic socks to social events; the one for whom "CD investments" means spending too much money on jazz recordings in the late 1990s.

But the truth came out on a recent Sunday venture after church, when we decided to eat out before running some errands. Driving away from the service, I said, "Why don't we stop at one of those little Mexican restaurants on Roxboro?"

Fred squirmed--actually squirmed--moving back and forth in his seat. "Which one?" he said, fear coming in to his eyes.

"I was thinking about that little place right after the church on the left."

Silence.

"You don't want to go," I said. "Why?"

"I don't know," he said. "It's just outside my comfort zone."

"What do you mean? Are you afraid you'll order something that tastes bad?"

He thought for a minute. "I'm afraid there won't be anything I recognize on the menu."

"They'll have carnitas," I scoffed. "All Mexican restaurants have carnitas, and you always like that."

Poor Fred was trapped, and he knew it. If he refused, he'd lose his cachet as the zany artist, the free spirit eager to seek out new experiences. I had him.

Thus we found ourselves pulling in to the parking lot of Pupuseria y Taqueria Orellana (5300 N. Roxboro Rd; 919-471-3299).

To be fair to Fred, it's a stretch to describe this place as a restaurant. The dining area is in the back of a convenience store featuring Mexican and Latin American products. It consists of an order window, several colorful plastic booths, a large-screen TV, and a fascinating stone fountain with potted plants set up along the back wall in an empty refrigerated case, shelves and doors having been removed. With the exception of the fountain, it's a lot like the fast food places you'll find attached to a gas station at an Interstate exit.

Unlike a fast food joint at a gas station, though, the food here was fresh, clearly prepared to order. Much to Fred's horror, there were no carnitas on the very short menu, which kindly offered some English translations. But he found comfort in a miraculous sandwich, a torta de carne asada. This featured thin slices of spiced meat on an enormous bread roll good enough to be homemade: white on the inside, dark brown and crusty-soft on the outside. It also included generous amounts of mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato, jalapenos, and "a special cheese"--a soft, mild white cheese I'm afraid I can't identify.

The sandwich calmed Fred. Here were recognizable items--meat, bread, jalapenos, cheese--and he wasn't being forced to speak Spanish. With his anxieties under control, I was able to turn my attention to my own order--tacos with tongue (lengua), cabeza (pig's head), and al pastor (spiced beef).

These were wondrous creations. Each was covered in neatly diced onion, cilantro, a slice of avocado, and fresh limes. The salsa--a sauce in the traditional Mexican sense, not our American tomato-based tortilla dip--was thin, sharp and vinegary. The meat was tender and nicely seasoned. (There were, by the way, plenty of offerings for the less adventurous: chicken, carne asada, chorizo).

We also enjoyed a tamale, which resembled a giant hush puppy with a moist, cake-like interior, and a pupusa de queso. There's a nice description of the pupusa here: it's a Salvadoran dish consisting of a corn tortilla stuffed with a variety fillings, such as meat or cheese. The pupusa de queso here included Salvadoran and mozzarella cheeses. I'm sure mozzarella is not native to El Salvador, but it worked nicely in combination with the slightly sour Salvadoran cheese.

Fred was happy when we left. His response the next Sunday was predictable. "Can we stop at that place again?"

Jicama and Watermelon Radish Salad

2010-04-24T17:45:00.000-04:00

I regret to report that my sweet potato recipe did not win the contest. God only knows whether I'm getting my just desserts for not paying attention to the sermon, or whether retribution is in order for the contest judges, or whether God is too busy with a few other things to worry about than who wins the North Carolina Sweet Potato Recipe contest.

So--off to other vegetables. Recently, I was thrilled to pick up this beautiful watermelon radish.Though it is indeed large. it's not actually the size of a watermelon; it's closer to your average orange. You can see, though, where it gets its name.

Apparently this radish is a type of daikon, but I didn't spend enough time investigating to find out if that is true. There also appear to be many different varieties. Apparently most of these are actually available in the fall rather than the spring; I'll start looking for them at the Durham Farmers Market.

Descriptions of the watermelon radish on the Internet say that it's slightly sweet. This was not the case here. It tasted more like a typical radish--sharp and crisp. So I decided to pair it with jicama, which is sweeter and milder, and added a South American twist by including chili powder. (The chili powder idea came from a dinner party I attended years ago, when the host served mangoes covered in it.)

The result was a nice mix of sweet and sour. I've tried it with regular radishes and apples since, with good results.

It seems unlikely that North Carolina's watermelon radish farmers have developed a contest, but if they did I am certain this recipe would win.

Jicama and Watermelon Radish Salad

1 watermelon radish (or other radish of your choice), cleaned and cut into 1/2" pieces
1/2 large jicama, peeled and cut into 1/2" pieces
1/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup white wine vinegar
1 tbsp. honey
2 tsp. chili powder
1/2 tsp. ginger
1/4 tsp. cloves
1/4 tsp. allspice

Sweet Potato and Black Bean Soup

2010-03-28T21:47:00.004-04:00

This recipe comes with deepest apologies to the pastor of St. John's Presbyterian Church. Last Sunday, as Fred and I sat dutifully in worship, I wrote out a new recipe for a sweet potato and black bean soup on the church bulletin instead of thinking about Mark 6:45-56 and Jesus walking on water.

Some might say I should apologize to God instead of the minister for this kind of behavior. But God knows better than anyone that while you can always get a copy of the sermon, you can't always remember a good recipe idea.

And if you want proof that God favors those who care about food, I discovered the North Carolina Sweet Potato recipe contest while I was doing a little online research for this blog posting, just in time to enter the contest before tomorrow's deadline. Frankly, I don't see how the judges can NOT pick a recipe that was originally written out on a church bulletin (even if that bulletin serves as proof that the recipe creator was not paying very much attention to the sermon).

The idea for the dish was not actually triggered by anything in the service but by a recent potluck dinner, where one of the guests brought a dish with sweet potatoes, black beans, rice and chicken. I had been wanting to make something interesting with the Carolina Ruby sweet potatoes sitting on my counter, the only ones from Whole Foods that were under $2 a pound.

My constant carping about Whole Foods and their prices aside, our unit on Ninth Street is certainly a friend to North Carolina's sweet potato farmers--a good thing, since the state produces forty percent of the sweet potatoes grown in the US and is the country's number one producer. On any given day the store will feature up to five different varieties, including purple ones.

We'd already enjoyed two of the Carolina Ruby potatoes served mashed with a little butter, but the remaining two deserved a more exciting end. Here's what I came up with--a combination based in part on the potluck dish and part on a Cuban-style black bean soup I'd tried years ago. The dish is unexpectedly but pleasantly spicy, which complements the sweetness of the potatoes. To me it's a welcome change from our Southern tendency to smother these wonderful vegetables with sugar and pecans. After all, there's a lot more to a sweet potato than the sweet.

Here's hoping the North Carolina Sweet Potato Commission will like this recipe as much as we did.

Sweet Potato and Black Bean Soup

Makes about 2 1/2 quarts, or 6 - 8 servings

2 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
1 medium onion, diced (about 1 cup)

3 large cloves garlic, minced (about 1 tbsp.)

2 large sweet potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/2" cubes (about 6 1/4 cups)

4 cups chicken broth (homemade or low-salt)

2 1/2 tsp. cumin
1 tsp. ground coriander
1 tsp. thyme
2 medium-sized bay leaves
1/2 tsp. hot red pepper flakes (add more or less to taste)
2 tsp. salt (or to taste)
3 tbsp. fresh squeezed lime juice (do not substitute concentrate)
2 cans black beans, drained
1 c. crushed tomatoes
1 c. evaporated milk
Chopped fresh cilantro for garnish (optional)

Heat oil on medium high heat in large pot. Saute onions until translucent, about 3 minutes. Add garlic and stir. Add sweet potatoes, broth, and spices. Cover and turn heat to high, bringing to boil. Reduce heat to medium low and simmer until potatoes are becoming tender, about 5 minutes. With potato masher, mash potatoes briefly, crushing into smaller pieces but not pureeing--there should still be distinctive pieces of sweet potato in the soup, but crushing them will distribute the flavor throughout the dish.

Add remaining ingredients except evaporated milk. Cover and cook until potatoes are very tender, 5 - 10 more minutes. (At this point, soup can be frozen. When ready to serve, thaw and finish according to instructions.) Add evaporated milk. Cover and continue to simmer until flavors are blended, about 45 minutes to 1 hour. (The soup's flavor continues to improve the longer it sits and is better the next day.) Correct seasonings and garnish with cilantro if desired. Let cool slightly before serving.

Roast Beef with Coffee and Red Wine

2010-03-08T19:06:00.003-05:00

Fred and I are officially sick of this recession, but the cats are thrilled: after Louise's recent $437 dental extravaganza we can't take any more of them to the vet for a while. Since we can't afford to go out much in the evenings, our laps serve as cat-warming meditation pillows, ideal for contemplating ways to destroy rolls of toilet paper or the next spot for a good hairball incident, preferably in a high-traffic area frequented by bare human feet at the darkest point of the night.

As our house in Atlanta languishes with no buyer in sight, food remains the best of comforts for the feline and human residents of the Wise household. The roast beef I made over the weekend was a great example--a relatively inexpensive cut of meat braised in coffee and (cheap) red wine. We felt like royalty carving it and serving it with the luxurious sauce. The flavor of the sauce is unusual, most closely resembling a rich, smoky, thick au jus, with just the slightest hint of sweetness from the molasses.

The recipe is a modified version of an Italian dish. (I know it only as beef braised in coffee.) The sauce in the original version was lopsided to me when I first made it, lacking depth, so I added chili powder, cloves, molasses, a tiny bit of garlic, and a little tomato. The result was a great variation on the original, one we'll definitely try again.

The cats also like the little bits that "fell" on the floor.

Roast Beef with Coffee and Red Wine

4 lb. rump roast, tied
2 medium onions, thinly sliced
3 tbsp. butter
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
3/4 c. strong brewed coffee
3/4 c. red wine
1 tsp. chili powder
1/4 tsp. cloves
2 tbsp. molasses
3 tbsp. crushed tomatoes
1 small clove garlic, minced

Preheat oven to 325. Melt butter on medium heat in Dutch oven or oven-proof pot large enough for roast. Add onions and saute until translucent, about 5 minutes. While onions are sauteeing, rub roast with generous amounts of salt and pepper. Push onions to one side of the pot. Add roast to the side of the onions, browning lightly on all sides, about 3 - 4 minutes per side.

While roast is browning, mix together remaining ingredients. Turn off heat. Turn roast so that fattiest side is on top. Pour wine/coffee mix over roast. Use tongs to move roast back to center of pot; redistribute onions evenly throughout liquid, placing some on top of the roast. Cover and bake for up to 3 hours for a well-done roast and longer if you want it falling-apart tender. If you prefer a rarer roast, cook until meat thermometer inserted in roast reads 160 degrees; begin testing after about an hour and a half.

Carbonara with Spinach

2010-03-03T07:30:00.001-05:00

Our lives at present consist primarily of work, work, and more work. Cooking remains a source of great joy and pleasure, but I can't seem to find the time to write about it.

But no matter how bad things are, I can always conjure up a dish of carbonara. If you too are slaving away during the hatefully termed "current economic crisis," a big bowl of carbonara will offer more comfort than an entire case of three-buck Chuck.

The basic dish consists of pasta coated with eggs, with pork, salt, pepper, and grated Parmesan cheese added. Many recipes also include scallions, garlic, and other vegetables. In traditional Italian versions, the pork is usually guanciale or pancetta. As I've indicated in previous posts (found here and here), guanciale is nothing short of heaven, a symphony of pillowy fat, and makes a spectacular carbonara. Pancetta is fine as well, but it's not quite as flavorful--and with a lower fat content, it's not as much fun.

Guanciale and pancetta, however, have the disadvantage of being expensive and sometimes hard to find. When this is the case, bacon will make an acceptable substitute. My Italian friend Claudia, who taught me how to make this dish when she lived in the U.S. for a year, used bacon when she made it here, so I figure it's okay.

Secretly, of course, I love carbonara with bacon the best. In this version I've also added fresh spinach and mushrooms in an attempt to get some vegetables into Fred. I was pleased with the results. The spinach added a nice, slightly crunch texture to the dish, and I love the way the nutty flavor of mushrooms complement the bacon and the Parmesan.

American Carbonara with Spinach

2 large servings

1/2 pound pasta of your choice (anything except the small pastas like orzo or orecchini will work)
6 - 8 slices good quality bacon, cut into 1" pieces
2 fresh eggs (eggs are not fully cooked in this recipe so do not use commercial--find organic, cage-free, or best of all local farm-grown eggs to keep risk of Salmonella low)
1 tbsp. cream or half and half
1 tbsp. grated Parmesan cheese
2 cups fresh baby spinach, washed and dried
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
Extra fresh grated Paremsan for topping

Put salted water for pasta on to boil. Meanwhile, fry bacon in large skillet on medium high heat until just crisp. Turn heat down to lowest possible flame, leaving bacon in skillet.

When water comes to boil, add pasta and stir.

While pasta is cooking, separate eggs into small bowl, leaving a little bit of the white with each yolk. Whisk in cream, Parmesan cheese, salt, and a generous amount of freshly ground pepper. Measure out spinach and set aside.

When pasta is al dente (still firm when you bite down on it, not mushy), drain it. Immediately return to cooking pot. Quickly pour egg mixture over pasta and stir. Spoon out bacon from skillet (you will want to get a tablespoon or two of the bacon fat also) and add to pasta. Add spinach, stir well, and cover for 5 minutes or so, until spinach is slightly wilted.

Serve pasta in large bowls and top with additional freshly ground pepper and Parmesan.

Irony Is . . .

2010-02-13T08:28:00.001-05:00

when you are agonizing over purchasing rice and beans but don't hesitate to spend $437 to get your cat's tooth pulled.

French Lentil Salad

2010-02-10T07:51:00.003-05:00

The winter rut has been hitting hard over the last few weeks. You can eat only so much kale, roast, and potatoes before you start longing for plums, or a peach, or a tomato. But good luck finding plums or peaches that aren't tasteless balls of concrete or a tomato that has more flavor than the box it came in.

Last Saturday, then, I found myself roaming the aisles of Whole Foods for novel fare, carefully adding up each item as I placed it in my basket, trying desperately not to exceed our miserly monthly food budget with the purchase of a fillet of fish or a single Meyer lemon.

In the spirit of cash-strapped shoppers everywhere, I trotted over to the rice and beans in the bulk aisle. There, after buying some arborio rice at $2.49 a pound, I found these lovely little French lentils (also $2.49 a pound). Feeling wildly indulgent, I poured two pounds of each item into an ecologically disastrous plastic bag (happily noting the irony that I'd brought a canvas bag to carry home my groceries).

These French lentils were a joy to prepare and eat. Not only do they look like tiny pebbles, but they also hold their shape nicely when cooked--making them ideal for salads when other lentils can be easily overcooked and fall apart (much like I did when I realized that I'd managed to blow ten bucks on rice and beans). They also have a nuttier flavor than other lentils, so they require very little seasoning to add a little culinary spark to a dish.

I cooked two cups to start, pulled out a cup or so partway through the process to make a salad and letting the rest simmer a little longer to soften them for a soup. The salad turned out to be the perfect winter meal--hearty enough to satisfy on a cold day but offering a welcome hint of summer.

French Lentil Salad

Note: Adjust amounts as needed to suit your taste; I feel silly offering a recipe for salad in the first place. These portions will serve 2 as a meal.

1 cup French lentils
3 cups water, and more as needed
4 mushrooms, sliced
2 cups fresh baby spinach leaves
1/4 cup olive oil
Kosher salt
Fresh ground black pepper

Sort and rinse lentils. In a medium saucepan, bring lentils, about 1 tsp. salt, and water to boil. Reduce heat. Cover and cook 20 - 25 minutes, until lentils just become soft. Drain lentils and rinse in cold water for a few seconds, until they are warm but no longer hot. Allow lentils to continue draining while you prepare the rest of the salad.

Toss spinach, olive oil, and kosher salt to taste in a large bowl. Slice mushrooms and add to salad, then lentils. Place in serving bowls and top with more salt, if desired, and fresh ground black pepper.

Best Bread in the World on a Snowy Weekend

2010-02-03T19:57:00.001-05:00

Go ahead and mock us Southerners for shutting down over the 6 or so inches of snow that fell here on Saturday. We're happy to take a sabbath, close up, hunker down, tuck ourselves in and enjoy a pleasant winter day snugged up in our house, baking, reading, and napping.

Cleo, never satisfied just to stay safe in a warm house, mewed so desperately to get out on Saturday that I decided to let her venture forth.

Obviously, she didn't get far.

And anyway, I don't understand why anyone would have wanted to leave the house this weekend. I baked like crazy, including this loaf of bread.

The recipe claims that this is the "best bread in the world." That depends on what you like in a bread, of course. If you like a crusty loaf this one won't satisfy, but its soft and tender crust makes it perfect for sandwiches. I find its sweet and nutty flavor very appealing.

The recipe is quite forgiving in the portion of wheat to white flour. In fact, I accidentally reversed the portion of white and wheat flour in the original recipe, and I like the change so much I kept it here.

Best Bread in the World

Makes 2 loaves

2 cups boiling water
1 cup uncooked oatmeal
1/3 cup lukewarm water
2 tbsp. yeast
1 tbsp. salt
1/2 cup honey
2 tbsp. butter
3 cups whole wheat flour
1 cup white flour
1 egg yolk plus 1 tsp. water

Pour boiling water over oats in large bowl. Add salt, honey, and butter, and stir. Let stand until softened, butter has melted, and mixture is lukewarm.

Stir yeast into lukewarm water and let it dissolve. (I usually give it a stir until the lumps are gone.) Add to oat mixture. Gradually add flour, stirring with wooden spoon, until a soft ball of dough forms. It should stay together easily when you gather it together with your hands.

Generously flour kneading surface with white flour. I like to use a non-fuzzy cotton towel, like the ones made from flour sacks. Knead dough until smooth and elastic. The instructions say to do this for 10 minutes but it never seems to take me this long. Dough will be ready when it doesn't "fold" over easily during the kneading process and it springs back in your hands. Don't clean kneading surface unless required for another task--you will use it one more time.

Oil a large bowl and add dough, turning it to coat with oil on all sides. Cover with a towel and let rise for 1 hour or until doubled in size.

Oil 2 loaf pans. Punch down dough and divide in two. Knead each half briefly and shape into loaves. (You can clean your kneading surface now!) Place loafs in pans. Cover and let rise until pans are full. Preheat oven to 350.

Beat egg yolk lightly with the teaspoon of water. Brush surface of each loaf with egg mixture. Bake 35 or 40 minutes.

Turn loaves onto rack and let cool slightly, if you can resist, before slicing. Loaves will freeze well.

Quinoa, the Outcast Indian Maiden

2010-01-24T11:44:00.079-05:00

The increased budgetary restrictions imposed by our unwilling ownership of two houses are leading us down some interesting culinary paths. Our latest discovery is quinoa (pronounced KEEN-wah), a South American seed that cooks up into a nutty, flavorful, and filling side dish. I'd heard of it for years but never ventured into making it myself until recently. We found a supply at Costco, ample evidence that it's made the leap from the Birkenstock and brown rice crowd into the Land of Wal-Mart.

As for the taste, if couscous and brown rice got married and had a baby, it would be quinoa. When cooked, the seeds are roundish like couscous, but the flavor more closely resembles brown rice. We've taken to calling this grainy love child "Quinoa, the Outcast Indian Maiden" in honor of Eudora Welty's bizarre little short story, "Keela, the Outcast Indian Maiden," and it's made many an appearance on our dinner plates as of late.

Here's a recent, simple version with just onions and garlic, served with a smoked paprika fish.*

*Unfortunately I can't reproduce the smoked paprika fish recipe, which was thrown together using the juice from Rick's Pick's Smokra, a spicy pickled okra heavily infused with smoked paprika. With Smokra at $10 a jar, I try to use every bit of it the few times of year we indulge. A cheaper version of the fish with smoked paprika, garlic, and vinegar is in the works but is not ready for publication.

Like its imaginary parent couscous, quinoa seems to be a very forgiving grain--that, or I'm cooking it badly but liking it anyway. The basic cooking method is two parts water to one part quinoa. You put it in a saucepan, cover, bring to boil, then simmer with the lid on for 15-20 minutes. Taking the lid off and checking it on occasion does not seem to hurt it, nor does my occasional obsessive-compulsive stirring. The instructions on our bag tell you it's done when "a white spiral-like thread appears on each grain," and they also suggest toasting the seeds in a dry skillet before cooking to bring out the nutty flavor. I tried both the toasting and the non-toasting methods and was fine either way. The recipe below omits the pre-toasting.

Quinoa also appears to be a versatile grain, capable of functioning as a breakfast cereal with fruit and nuts or as a vegetable side dish, but not being breakfast eaters we've tried only the latter. My favorite has been the recipe below, which is a heavily modified version of the one on the back of the bag. This makes a gentle and unassuming side dish; in fact, if your favorite chicken soup could be transformed into a solid, this would be it. (The chicken broth helps.) It's a nice accompaniment to just about any basic dish, from roast chicken to broiled fish to pork chops.

Quinoa is an outcast no longer.

Quinoa with Carrots, Celery, and Onion

Serves 4 as a side dish

1 tablespoon oil (olive or vegetable)
1 medium onion, chopped
2 - 3 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 cup carrots, peeled and minced
2 stalks celery, chopped fine
1 tbsp. thyme or herbes de Provence
1 cup dry quinoa
2 cups homemade chicken or turkey broth
Salt to taste

Heat oil in large saucepan on medium-high heat. Add onion and saute until translucent. Add garlic and stir. Add carrots, celery, and thyme and saute until just tender, about 5 - 10 minutes. Add quinoa, water, and salt and stir. Cover and bring to boil. Reduce heat and simmer, covered, for 15-20 minutes, until water has evaporated and quinoa is fluffy, with white spiral-like threads on each grain.

Possibly the Worst Recipe Ever

2010-01-20T19:39:00.001-05:00

I've lately rediscovered the Treasury of Tennessee Treats, a cookbook put out by grandmother's church, Keith Memorial United Methodist in Athens, TN. It was first issued in 1957, and my copy is the revised version from 1962. It is so battered that the index, long detached from the binding, is stuffed into random pages throughout. The two pages of pecan pie recipes look like a Jackson Pollock painting.

The book is a testament to small-town life of the late 1950s and early 1960s, when time-honored but time-consuming ways of cooking were slowly giving way to modern convenience foods. There are many gems here--black bottom pie, dozens of lovely cakes, wild goose with apple and sweet potato stuffing, quail pie, chili, stew. But you can also see how cooks like my grandmother were being seduced by the siren song of convenience foods, luring them down some dark paths lined with canned asparagus and cream of mushroom soup.

The recipe below represents the worst excesses of the era. It's hard to imagine a combination more hideous than marshmallows, jarred pimento cheese, and Maraschino cherries. But the cooks of Athens, TN, must have been fascinated by the exotic wonder of this salad--which contains real whipped cream only, I am sure, because Cool Whip was not invented until 1966.

I have serious doubts that anyone from Los Angeles ever made this. My guess is that it was some Southern cook's way of getting back at a snooty California relative.

Los Angeles Salad

1 1/2 lb. marshmallows
Small can crushed pineapple
10 Maraschino cherries
1 4-oz. glass pimiento cheese
1 cup whipping cream

Mix cheese and whole can of pineapple. Add cherries and juice, and marshmallows, cut in small pieces. Whip cream. Add to mixture. Place in ice tray four or five hours. Serve with mayonnaise.

Vegetarian Boston Baked Beans

2010-01-18T11:55:00.001-05:00

Every winter the urge for Boston baked beans comes upon me, and with the holiday weekend I decided it was time to make them again. Not able to find my own recipe--a meatless version I cobbled together during my six-month vegetarian phase in 1987--I turned to dear, reliable James Beard.

But I was dismayed to discover that my beloved Beard did not like Boston baked beans: "The worship of Boston baked beans," he writes, "is a mystery to me, since my palate cannot reconcile the sweetness of syrup or molasses and the simple hardy flavor of pork and beans."

My palate has no problem with this, and it should be no mystery why a nation that adores honey roasted peanuts and chocolate covered pretzels would love the salty-sweet combination offered in this dish. The traditional version calls for salt pork, which adds a rich, flavorful smokiness. Not having any salt pork on hand, I considered using the applewood smoked bacon in our freezer. Bacon that costs $8.00 a pound, however, deserves a more prominent place in a recipe. And with no extra cash in our budget this month, I couldn't spring for even a few ounces of salt pork. So it was back to the vegetarian version.

Beard's recipe called for maple syrup, which I knew was not part of the recipe I'd lost. So I left him to huff over America's proletarian taste buds and turned instead to Fannie Farmer (13th edition), where I found what looked like the right proportion of sweetener (in this case, molasses) and dry mustard. I also liked her addition of brown sugar, since the organic molasses on my shelf--bought in desperation one day at Whole Foods--has a bitter taste. The addition of onions, garlic, and extra kosher salt adds enough flavor to make up for the lack of salt pork. Almost.

But perhaps the best part of making Boston baked beans is that I get to use my grandmother's bean pot--a simple brown clay vessel that she never used much but which looks great on the shelf, like you really know what you're doing in your kitchen.

Vegetarian Boston Baked Beans

3 tbsp. canola or vegetable oil
1 medium onion, finely chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 tsp. kosher salt
2 cups white beans (navy or Great Northern)
2 tbsp. dry mustard
5 tbsp. dark brown sugar
4 tbsp. molasses

Soak beans in water overnight or use short method. For short method, place beans in a covered pot with water twice the depth of the beans. Bring to a boil. Cover and let sit for one hour, then follow directions below.

Preheat oven to 300. Drain beans, reserving liquid. Put beans in bean pot or tall casserole dish. Saute onion in oil on medium high heat. Add garlic and stir. Remove from heat. Add to bean liquid along with remaining ingredients and stir until mixed. Pour over beans.

Bake 6 hours, checking every hour or so to make sure there is enough liquid in the pot. I like my beans to be coated with a gooey, sugary paste, so I typically don't add water. If they begin to reach this state before the last 30 - 60 minutes of cooking, however, more water should be added to keep them from drying out.

Warm Food for a Chilly New Year

2010-01-12T07:46:00.003-05:00

We are back for 2010, after a long vacation over Christmas that included our third wedding anniversary and a week in Jackson Hole, WY, with family. We limited the possibility of injury by sticking to snowshoeing. Fred also took his first cross-country ski lesson, during which they taught him to fall down. He was so pleased that he practiced falling down quite a bit thereafter, and seems to have mastered the technique quite well.

I was also reminded why I married him, because he is the only man I know who would bring a copy of Poetry magazine on a snowshoeing excursion. (I post this photo as a tribute to Ruth Lilly, the benefactor of the magazine, who died while we were on the trip.)

Returning to Durham, we were surprised to find the temperature was very nearly the same as it had been in Wyoming. The cats responded appropriately. See if you can spot which one made herself at home in our sweater drawer.

And finally, I made this delicious pork and bean soup. I post it despite my concern that it's not possible to replicate it. For starters, the broth I used was from a Cornish game hen I roasted over Christmas. The hen was stuffed with sage dressing, and the flavors may have infused the broth.

Second, the pork came from a container of pulled pork "barbecue" from Whole Foods. As barbecue, it was lousy--tender but lacking anything in the way of zip, zing, or flavor. Not even worthy of a sandwich, it was heartlessly tossed into the pot, where it took on a new life so tasty that it may convince me to buy it again for the sole purpose of making this soup.

Pork and Northern Bean Soup

Makes 3 - 4 servings

About 1 quart chicken or other poultry stock
1 medium onion, chopped
3 - 4 cloves garlic, minced
1 cup dry Great Northern beans
1 cup small carrots, sliced
1 tbsp. herbes de Provence (could substitute a mix of sage and thyme)
1 cup mild pork barbecue, shredded or chopped*
1 small can evaporated milk, or more to taste
Kosher salt and pepper to taste

*Note that this is North Carolina-style barbecue, which is vinegar based and uses no tomato. If this type of barbecue is not available, I would substitute leftover smoked pork shoulder, pork chops, tenderloin, or even ham.

Put enough chicken stock in bottom of soup pot to cover and saute onion on medium high heat. Add garlic and stir. Add beans, remaining chicken stock, and a large pinch of kosher salt (a teaspoon or so--it really does not matter as long as you don't overdo it, since seasonings will be corrected at the end.) Bring to a boil and let boil for 1 -2 minutes. Cover, reduce heat to medium low, and let simmer until beans are just tender, about 1 1/2 to 2 hours. Check every half hour or so; add water or more stock if liquid level begins to get low, enough to keep ingredients well covered. Add carrots and herbes de Provence. Cover and continue to simmer until carrots are tender, 15 - 30 minutes. Add pork and evaporated milk and stir. Remove from heat immediately or when soup is sufficiently warm; do not overcook the pork. Add more salt to taste and pepper if desired. Serve immediately.

Shrimp!

2009-12-13T08:57:00.003-05:00

We have received some gorgeous shrimp from our CSF, which much to our dismay made its final delivery for the season on Thursday.

I especially love the green tints in the tails. Fairy wings must look like that.

The bounty of shrimp has led to a recent cooking extravaganza. In preparing them, I've referred to an old and dear favorite of Southern cooks, Charleston Receipts, for ideas. My copy, the 1973 edition, was snatched from the jowls of death while I was in college, grabbed from a pile of cookbooks a family friend was tossing out.

It's easy to see why a suburban housewife would not want this filthy thing lurking on her tidy shelves. The cover isn't even physically attached anymore. Still--how could someone throw away a book with 28 "receipts" featuring shrimp?

I'm quite fortunate to have help whenever we cook shrimp. Louise waits patiently in this exact position throughout the process, ready to clean up any stray bits that might happen to fall on the floor.

(Note: Those hideous Birkenstocks with socks are reserved solely for the home. I am more embarrassed than Tiger Woods at this unexpected revelation of my secret life.)

Neither of these recipes comes from Charleston Receipts, exactly, but some of those dishes served as inspiration. You'll note these two dishes are very similar--we had fresh jalapenos to use up!

Shrimp with Black Eyed Peas

This dish was actually better the next day.

Serves 4 as a main dish supper or 6 as a pre-dinner soup

2 tbsp. olive oil
1 large onion, chopped
1 medium jalapeno, minced
2 large cloves garlic, minced
1 lb. black-eyed peas
6 cups or more water
2 medium bay leaves
Kosher salt to taste
1 1/2 c. crushed tomatoes (canned)
1/4 c. flour
1/2 c. half and half or milk
24 medium shrimp with tails

Heat olive oil in large pot over medium high heat. Saute onion and jalapeno in oil until onion is translucent. Add garlic and stir. Add peas with enough water to cover them by an inch or two. Cover and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat to low (but high enough to keep liquid at a simmer). Add bay leaves, salt, and tomatoes. Cook, covered, for about 45 minutes or until peas are tender, stirring occasionally. Add water as needed to keep peas covered. (Bring to a boil again if you add water, then reduce heat back to low.) Once peas are tender, whisk together flour and cream until flour has completely dissolved and no lumps remain. Add to peas and mix thoroughly. Add shrimp. Cover and cook for a few minutes until shrimp has turned pink, stirring frequently to keep sauce from sticking. Serve with rice or cornbread.

Shrimp with Black Beans and Rice

Serves 2

2 tbsp. olive oil
1 c. chopped onion
1 jalapeno, minced
3 -4 cloves garlic, minced
2 tsp. cumin
1 tsp. coriander
1 1/2 c. water (approximate)
1/2 c. dry brown rice
Salt to taste
1 bay leaf
1 1/2 c. crushed tomatoes
1 can black beans
Half and half or cream

Heat olive oil in large pot over medium high heat. Saute onion and jalapeno in oil until onion is translucent. Add garlic and stir. Add cumin and coriander and stir. Add water, rice, salt, bay leaf, and tomatoes. Bring to a boil over high heat. Lower heat to a simmer; cover and cook until rice is tender, about 40 minutes. Add beans and cream and cook until beans are heated, a few minutes. Add shrimp. Cover and cook until shrimp is pink, 4 - 5 minutes. Serve with cornbread.

Clammy Disaster

2009-12-04T07:26:00.002-05:00

Fred and I received some beautiful clams from our CSF yesterday. We'd made a wonderful recipe with them just a few weeks before, simmering them in white wine, shallots, garlic, and a bay leaf, adding fresh parsley and butter at the end. Here's how that dish turned out.

But yesterday we were out of white wine, and I'd just gotten the last of some pre-frost jalapenos from a colleague's garden. So I decided to improvise and make a spicy broth.

We had red wine, beer, and turkey broth to serve as possible broths. I chose the beer, an India pale ale, thinking it would be the best complement to the jalapenos. I added shallots, garlic, a bay leaf, and some diced potatoes, bringing the ingredients to a boil and cooking until the potatoes were tender. All was going well. Everything smelled fine, a nice robust simmer of shallots, garlic, and jalapeno. I tasted a potato piece or two--they were tender and tasty enough.

Then I added the clams. Without washing them.

Fresh clams are not a regular part of my repertoire. I've opened plenty of cans and made a quick linguini dish with them, but I've rarely been willing to spend the money for fresh. I'm also a bit squeamish about cooking things that are still alive. So perhaps I can be forgiven for forgetting that clam shells are covered in an invisible grit. Invisible, that is, until it has sloughed off into your broth.

After the clams had steamed for about six minutes and were all opened, I ladeled them into bowls, poured the broth over them, and proudly presented them at the table. We dug in.

Fred took the first bite. This is sometimes followed by an exclamation of, "Honey, you are an excellent cook!" or "Wow!" He is very easy to please. There were no comments this time.

I scooped a clam from its shell. It was tender though not as flavorful as our earlier batch. I speared a potato. It was not obviously bad, but it lacked a certain richness. Then I tasted a spoonful of the broth.

Fred was eating silently, seemingly content. I wrinkled my nose.

"This is disgusting!" I exclaimed.

Fred put down his spoon. "I thought I noticed a metallic taste," he said.

That comment proves without a doubt that Fred is a saint. The broth tasted like liquid tin foil, with sand added for texture. The jalapenos contributed a spicy note.

"We can't eat this," I said. "It's awful."

Fred looked relieved. I suspect he would have eaten the entire bowl without complaint. I picked the bowl up and carried it away. He dove in to his salad.

Not wanting to throw out an entire batch of fresh clams I drained off the broth, noticing that it was the color and consistency of a dirty pond. I rinsed the clams and potatoes multiple times. I took out the turkey broth--prepared over Thanksgiving--from the freezer and made a quick soup with onions, garlic, butter, more potato, herbes de Provence, thyme, bay leaf, pepper, and cream. I added the clam/potato remains back in and served it back to Fred, who had temporarily retreated into the study to look at Facebook--perhaps hoping to forget the horror of what he'd eaten earlier.

The soup was edible if not spectacular. We were able to determine that the metallic flavor actually came from the beer--I'm not sure why, since I've made beer-based dishes before without that effect. Fred thought it was the particular characteristic of an India pale ale, but we may never know for sure.

And the potatoes still tasted like tin.

Chicken Soup with Herbes de Provence

2009-11-06T07:25:00.001-05:00

If you think this is not a thrilling post--"Chicken soup??"--you have never tried herbes de Provence. The French may be a pretentious, snooty, and cold people, but if they do nothing else besides create herbes de Provence and demonstrate to the world that six-week vacations ought to be mandatory, they deserve our love and respect.

Herbes de Provence are a magical mix of, obviously, herbs, chief among them thyme and lavender flowers. The proportions and spices will vary and can include savory, basil, fennel, sage, rosemary, and marjoram. My source, Whole Foods, offers a great combination in their bulk spice section--one of the few places you can actually get a bargain there.

Herbes de Provence are ideal for vegetables, fish, and chicken dishes. This soup allows their flavor to stand out, and the aroma alone makes it worth making on a cold day.

Chicken Soup with Herbes de Provence

2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut into 1 - 2" pieces (small enough for spooning)
1 medium onion, finely chopped
1 medium clove garlic, minced or grated (do not add more or it will overpower the herbs)
4 smallish/mediumish red potatoes, cut into 1" pieces (3 - 4 cups)
2 cups peeled and sliced carrots
Chicken stock/broth to cover
1 - 2 tbsp. butter
2 tbsp. herbes de Provence
Salt and pepper to taste

In large soup pot, melt butter. Add onion and saute on medium-high heat until translucent. Peel and slice carrots and add to onions; saute about 5 - 10 minutes. While carrots are sauteeing, cut up potatoes, then chicken. Add garlic and stir. Add chicken to pot and cook for a few minutes, stirring occasionally, until chicken begins to be cooked through. Add potatoes, herbes de Provence, and salt and pepper; stir to coat ingredients with spices. Add stock to cover. Cover pot and bring to boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer until potatoes are tender, 20 minutes or so. Add cream to serving bowls if desired.

Flounder with Green Tomatoes and a Radish Salad

2009-10-24T12:23:00.005-04:00

Seasonal cooking is ideal for the easily bored: if you don't eat some things all the time, you get the chance to appreciate them anew every year.

Right now, we're appreciating green tomatoes, as well as radishes, turnips, and their accompanying greens.

At $2.00 - $2.50 a bunch, these radishes from the Durham Farmers Market are costly little beauties. So I suggest you use every last bit and add the greens to a salad. I posted a simpler recipe for radish salad back in the spring, but the dressing here has a little more heft and can stand up to fall's richer foods.

Radish Salad (Makes 2 large salads)

4 cups cleaned and dried radish and/or turnip greens, torn into bite-size pieces
6 radishes or small white turnips, thinly sliced

Dressing

1 tsp. olive oil
3 tsp. white wine vinegar
1 tsp. brown mustard
1/2 tsp. honey
Salt and pepper to taste
1 small clove garlic, crushed or grated with zester

Whisk dressing ingredients together. Toss with greens to coat; add more salt and pepper if desired and toss again. Top with radishes and serve.

As for the green tomatoes: Every decent Southerner knows that you're supposed to slice them and fry them up in bacon fat. But my fried green tomatoes are often abject failures-- slimy green discs with bits of charred breading sliding across them. So I've turned to other methods.

Green tomatoes, it turns out, are wonderful accompaniments to fish. Their tart, citrusy flavor is perfect with any mild white fish that you'd pair with lemon--like this beautiful flounder from our CSA.

Baked Flounder with Green Tomatoes

1 whole flounder, 1 - 2 lbs, headed and gutted, skin and tail on

4 cups chopped green tomatoes

1 medium yellow onion, chopped

2 extra large cloves garlic (ours came from the Durham Farmers' Market)

1/4 c lemon juice

1 tsp. red pepper flakes, or more to taste

1/4 cup olive oil

Kosher salt and fresh ground pepper to taste

(Special Note: If you are The Cat, pretend that you do not want to wrestle the flounder to the floor and gnaw its bones. )

Preheat oven to 350. Lay flounder in broiler pan. Brush with enough olive oil to coat fish. Salt and pepper both sides. Stir together remaining ingredients together in large bowl. Pour over fish.

Cover with foil and bake for 20 - 30 minutes. To serve, scrape top layer of fish from bone, set on plate, and cover with tomatoes. Peel off bone and serve remaining fish. Be sure to let a piece or two fall to the floor so The Cat can take it with dignity.

CSF Saves Griller

2009-10-14T08:03:00.004-04:00

The CSF previewed on this blog over the summer has arrived, and it is delivering great happiness to our home. Called Walking Fish and started by a group of Duke students at the Nicholas School, it is now delivering fish caught by North Carolina fishermen to members once a week. (Shares are sold out; watch the site for opportunities for next year.)

CSF stands for "community sponsored fishery." It works much like a CSA (community sponsored agriculture), in which you purchase a "share" in advance and receive weekly deliveries. (We pick ours up at the Sarah P. Duke Gardens.) The advantage for the fishery is that they are guaranteed a certain level of income. The advantage for us is fresh fish at a decent price. For $11.67 per week, Fred and I receive between 1 and 2 pounds of fish, or roughly $7.78 per pound.

Fred forgot to pick up the first week's delivery, but I have begun to forgive him. After that disaster, however, we have so far received shrimp, yellow-bellied spot, and mullet

which we prepared like this

The side dishes are mashed potatoes with roasted squash, zuchhini, onion, and tomatoes. But those are unimportant. The important thing here is that the fish is GRILLED--deliciously, beautifully, wonderfully grilled.

My days of embarassingly inept grilling may be drawing to a close. Thanks to a Saturday spent watching my friend Bebe, an expert griller, prepare salmon, I quickly discovered a painfully obvious reason for my failures.

I was excited when Bebe invited me over for fish one Saturday, and even more excited when I realized I'd have a chance to watch someone who knew what she was doing work the grill. I had planned to watch her technique closely: how she laid out the fire, whether or not she covered it, how much she opened the vents once lid was put on.

I stood in her backyard, wine glass in hand, ready to take notes as she gathered her charcoal and implements.

"I'm really glad I have the chance to watch you do this," I said. "I just can't figure out why I can't get my food to cook right on the grill."

"Well, there's nothing to it," she said. (All grillers say that, but if there were nothing to it, poor Fred would not have suffered through multiple servings of simultaneously charred and raw steaks.)

"Maybe for you," I said, and blathered on as I watched: "I wonder if I'm putting the lid on too soon? Oh--I see you're opening those vents underneath. I do that too, but it doesn't seem to matter. And you're using self-lighting charcoal--well, we can't do that with our grill because it has the option of using a propane tank to light the charcoal and if we ever want to do that we can't use the self-lighting grill or we'll blow ourselves and the entire neighborhood sky-high."

Then she put a pile of charcoal on the grill. A big pile.

"You use THAT MUCH charcoal?"

"Yeah, you need to make a pretty big fire. And it needs to get hot--wait until the flames die down and all the embers are red."

Oh.

So for the mullet, I got me a big pile of charcoal--roughly three times what I'd been using before. I completely filled that damn starter and fired 'er up. And the mullet was great.

Goat Kidneys

2009-10-07T17:09:00.006-04:00

I seem to be the only person in Durham--or perhaps the nation--who is excited about the goat kidneys I found at the Durham Farmers' Market a couple of weeks ago through Meadow Lane Beef farm. The near-universal response to the news that we'd tried them was a wrinking of the face, followed by an "Euw!" or an "Ugh!" or the occasional polite "Oh."

The horror, though, was inevitably followed by curiosity: "So . . . what did they taste like?"

Fred described the flavor as "what you wished a giblet tasted like." I said they were a cross between liver and a chicken thigh. The texture closely resembled that of liver, just firmer and with no tendency to crumble.

Unable to find a recipe for goat kidney even on my overburdened cookbook shelves, I turned to James Beard's recipes for lamb kidney in his American Cookery.

Beard sure does love his offal. True, he devotes only a small section of the book's 850 or so pages to the subject--but then again, he doesn't even offer a recipe for cheesecake. Describing cakes, cookies, and other typical confections, he shows about as much enthusiasm as someone about to clean a bathtub: "This is a popular cake for church picnics." "This cookie has an unusual flavor that is not unpleasant." But when it comes to lamb's tongues, he speaks as he would of a long-lost love or a beloved, recently departed parent:

There was never a time, it seems to me, when there were not some pickled lamb's tongues on the shelf of our family larder. They were used for a quick snack, for a cold supper, for sandwiches, or for picnics. And how tender and delicious they were . . . . I fear that lamb's tongues are lost to most people today, who won't take the trouble to prepare them and don't know what eating pleasure they are missing.

His descriptions of lamb's kidneys were equally rhapsodic, so Fred and I eagerly anticipated trying the goat.

The kidneys were very easy to prepare. First, I removed the little tube in the kidney and the white gristle-y parts. Then I soaked them in milk for about an hour.

I brushed them with olive oil, seasoned with salt and pepper, and broiled about 5 minutes, turning once. The most important thing, it seems, is not to overcook them.

They were not as rare as James Beard suggested, but that was fine with us on our first try.

The verdict? We'll try them again. And if anyone knows where we can get lamb's tongues, please let me know.

Fred at Centerfest

2009-09-20T08:26:00.005-04:00

I digress from the blog today to invite you to visit Centerfest this afternoon. Fred has a booth with his watercolors and paintings. I fell in love with Fred's art before I fell in love with Fred, so it's worth seeing.

We would love to see you, and I hope you'll stop by to support ALL the artists there.

Finally--Durham Farmers' Market

2009-09-13T19:02:00.008-04:00

It's embarrassing to start two blog posts in a row with the phrase, "It's a little embarassing . . ." So be it.

It's a little embarrassing to have lived in Durham for over two years and never to have visited the Farmers' Market. My early complaints about store produce were always met with tching from friends, who would scold, "You just need to go to the Farmers' Market!" But their admonitions were also laden with various qualifications, "It's small." "You need to go early." "It's only on Saturday."

Such comments had led me to expect a dozen or so ragtag booths, populated by earnest, tie-dye clad organic farmers, each with three or four tomatoes and some salad greens on display, all of which would have disappeared by 9:00 a.m. Why would I drag myself out of bed on the only day of the week I can truly sleep in for that?

Yesterday morning, though, I found myself in unusual circumstances. First, I was Fredless, since he was working a 24-hour shift at the hospital where he serves as a chaplain. Second, I was awake and about by 9:00. It was a gorgeous morning and I had nothing to lose, so I figured I'd stop by the Farmers' Market and see what it had to offer.

Quite a bit, it turns out. First, there were these tiny heirloom tomatoes from Bluebird Meadow Farms. The orange ones could well be the sweetest, most perfect little tomatoes I have ever eaten.

I ate about half of them plain, then put the rest in this salad of olive oil with a dusting of sea salt. It turns out that plain was best--they were simply so perfect that the extra flavoring was wasted.

There were also these baby eggplant, though I can't remember where they came from. They are coated in kosher salt, waiting to be broiled with olive oil and pepper as I type this.

Best of all, however, was this:

These are goat's kidneys, from Meadow Lane Beef farm. Neither Fred nor I have ever tried kidneys, but they are soaking in milk and will be cooked for supper tonight. They are supposed to be quite tender and delicious. I will post results.

Durham Farmers' Market, I am sorry I ever doubted you. I will be back!

Grilling Myself

2009-09-09T22:11:00.003-04:00

It's a little embarrassing to have been cooking as long as I have and to have such a poor command of the grill. Frankly, I've always been bewildered by cooks who say they love the grill because it's so easy and cleanup is a snap. These must be people who also enjoy pounding their laundry clean over rocks in a river, or mucking out the barns of their cattle, or perhaps mowing the lawn with a pair of hand shears.

My experiences with our new grill over the last few weeks have typically gone something like this:

1) Crumple newspaper and stuff into bottom of chimney starter.

2) Set starter on bottom rack of grill and add charcoal. Forget that black dust has adhered to fingers. Wipe fingers on white shorts.

3) Light newspaper. Wait in hopeful but futile anticipation for flames to erupt. Cough and wave hands in front of face when seemingly non-existent wind somehow manages to blow smoke into eyes. Light another corner of newspaper. Get more smoke in eyes. Note flames beginning to erupt.

4) Run back up stairs into kitchen. Salt and pepper meat or fish as the grill heats up. Glance out door to check on fire. Note that there is plenty of smoke but no sign of fire.

5) Continue with meal preparation. Check fire again. When there is still no sign of fire, run downstairs to stare at smoking starter in hopes that flames shooting from eyes will cause charcoal to burn at last.

6) Repeat steps 4 & 5 several times until flames actually erupt.

7) Wait what seems a reasonable amount of time for charcoal to catch fire. Turn starter over onto grill and try not to catch self on fire as flames unexpectedly shoot from all corners of the starter.

8) Watch as fire either slowly dies or continues to rage uncontrollably. Futilely move various levers and knobs on grill. Run upstairs to collect various items you have forgotten (tongs, mitt, shot of bourbon). Eventually, toss food onto roaring flames, where it will char on the outside and remain nearly raw on the inside, or set onto icy rack over barely flickering embers, where it will lie inertly until you give up, take it inside, and cook it on the stove.

Still, we remain hopeful. Even the very poorly prepared swordfish and salmon I've produced has beated pan-seared and baked versions for taste and tenderness. If I ever get this grilling thing right, I'll report results.

Grilling tips, anyone?

Cackalacky Mystery Solved

2009-09-05T09:10:00.004-04:00

God answers prayer. Truly He does. Two days after my most recent post on the mysterious origins of Cackalacky, my boss walked into my office and handed me this:

Source: Southern Season.

Here's what's left, three days later.

What have I been putting it on, you ask? An empty bowl and a clean spoon.

The Cackalacky Mystery

2009-08-30T10:42:00.001-04:00

The Newlyfeds is now embarking on quest to undercover the mystery of Cackalacky Sauce. Cackalacky is a sweet-potato based hot sauce, coming from our neighbors in Chapel Hill. It's not the hottest, though it packs a respectable wallop. (Macho sauces that exist just to create sores in the mouth aren't that interesting anyway.) Instead, Cackalacky's sweet potato base rounds out the heat just a little while adding richness and depth. You can pour it directly onto meats or use it in cooking. I like eating it straight from a bowl as well.

We usually find it on the table at our weekly Federal run and will sometimes run through an entire bottle in one meal. Lately, though, Federal has run out on occasion. Apparently, the supplier shows up periodically and unpredictably. And that seems to be the case in the stores where Cackalacky is supposedly sold. I found a random bottle at Tom Robinson's Seafood in Carrboro, but came up empty at Whole Foods, A Southern Season, and Parker and Otis.

I became a fan of Cackalacky on Facebook recently and am hoping this will begin to unravel the mystery. Cackalacky, are you just flirting with us, giving us occasional tastes of your delicious self and then not calling for weeks? Are you one of those lovers who can't make a commitment, entering our pallid lives for a few brief, thrilling moments and then disappearing? Have you turned your eyes elsewhere, finding other loves in other states outside your home town? Is this a game you play with us to make us love you all the more?

Or do we just need to get a grip and order from the web site?

Summer Black Bean Salad

2009-08-22T09:50:00.001-04:00

After our beach excesses, Fred and I crawled back to Weight Watchers a couple of weeks ago, tails between our legs, shame-faced and begging forgiveness. But God was merciful and good, and we actually lost a little.

In general, though, we remain stuck. (Eating rabbit in cream sauce at the Federal isn't helping.) Fred has lost close to 40 pounds and needs to lose 20 more, but the scale has not budged for him in months now. I'm trying to hang on to my own 17-pound loss, but keep creeping over my goal.

I explained our frustrations to our leader before the meeting. She said that we should try what's known as the "Simply Filling" plan, in which you don't count your points but eat primarily from certain groups of foods. She began to describe it.

My eyebrows went up in skeptical anticipation. I'd done the "Simply Filling" plan once before. I knew what it meant. Lots of vegetables and lean meats. Lots of fruit and milk. A lot less of our most recent dietary staples: bread, pizza, pasta, and potatoes.

The leader finished. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she said.

"It won't work," I said bluntly. "I've tried it and I hated it."

"Really?" she replied, looking surprised. (It must be incredibly difficult to be a leader, forced to display cheerful optimism when confronted with people like me.) "I've found it's a great way to kick-start my weight loss again."

She handed me the booklet detailing the plan. "Just see what you think," she said. She didn't pat my hand, but I know she wanted to.

I took the book and grumped into the meeting, where I started flipping through the pages to avoid our leader's upbeat smiles. About halfway through the book, I stopped. There was a photo of what looked like a pretty darn good black bean salad.

I read through the recipe, which included mangoes, limes, cilantro, and jalapeno pepper. This looks promising, I thought.

And it was. It has not revolutionized our weight loss yet, but it's a sign of hope.

Black Bean Salad

I've substitued peaches for the mango, since peaches have been in season here, and added avocado because we had some on hand. The avocado could be omitted, but it adds a nice creamy texture.

For this dish fresh ingredients are absolutely essential. It will be ruined if you try substituting lime juice from concentrate for fresh, or use canned chopped garlic (or worse, garlic powder), or dried cilantro. I find that canned beans work just as well as cooked dry beans, but cook your own if you feel otherwise.

1 15 - oz. can black beans (you can also use dried beans that you have cooked), drained and rinsed
1 peach (peeled or unpeeled), cut into 1" pieces
1 avocado, scooped from skin and cut into 1/2" pieces
1 fresh jalapeno pepper, minced (I leave in the seeds for more kick)
Juice of two limes
3 - 4 cloves garlic, minced
2 tbsp. minced fresh cilantro
Salt to taste

Mix lime juice, garlic, and cilantro in small bowl. Add remaining ingredients to medium-sized serving bowl. Pour lime juice mixture over bean mixture and add salt. Stir until thoroughly mixed.

Federal Bunny

2009-08-19T07:05:00.004-04:00

I know: you're tired of hearing about Federal and what a great restaurant it is. (Another review is here.) The problem is that it's just about the only restaurant we visit these days. It's our reward for slogging through our Monday Weight Watchers meeting and surviving the first day back at work. And the vision of the pork sandwich and a beer certainly sustains Fred through a week of trying to eat more vegetables and limiting his intake of animal flesh.

But on Monday, Federal served up what may well be the best special they've ever had--rabbit with bacon, served over mashed potatoes and roasted parsnips and carrots in a cream sauce. (They were nearly out of it then, so you probably won't be able to get any now unless they've gotten in a new order for the week.)

This entree single-handedly destroyed the noble efforts I'd made the week before at watching what I ate. It tempted me as I stared at the menu, but I lied convincingly to myself, saying that I wasn't that hungry.

I went for the salad with figs and goat cheese and the soup with carrots, parsnips, and lavender. Our friend Paul ordered the rabbit. That's good enough, I thought. I'll get to try it.

When the rabbit arrived, wafting scents of thyme (I think) and bacon across the table, I was grateful for Paul's lack of willpower and willingness to share. I reached across the table and took a forkful of rabbit and mashed potato, making sure to get a bit of the cream sauce.

That was it. I dutifully ate my delicious salad and soup. I kept staring at the rabbit. By the time I'd wolfed down my dinner Paul was only about half-way through his entree. I knew I wouldn't make it.

I called our waitress over. "I'll have the rabbit too," I said.

Pizza Pizza

2009-08-16T06:59:00.001-04:00

Pizza has single-handedly transformed our food life over the last couple of months. We've gone from a diet of vegetables and meat served over pasta to a diet of vegetables and meat served on bread, occasionally mixed with vegetables and meat rolled into a burrito. But vegetables mean variety, and the more vehicles you have for delivering them, the more exciting your menus seem.

For us, the revolution started with the amazing chicken liver pizza I made in June. But the dough, though excellent, was a barrier. Like most of us, I don't have the time or the patience on a weeknight to wait for all that rising and resting.

That's where five-minute no-knead boule dough comes in. Quietly gurgling away in the fridge most days of the week, this dough is ready to leap into action whenever pizza is called for. You just pull off a chunk, roll it out, and have homemade pizza in just a little more time than it takes for the oven to heat up.

Be forewarned that if you are a pizza snob, you won't find perfection in this crust. It lacks the tender softness of the best doughs and often veers too far into the realm of the crispy. But if you are looking for a quick and better than average supper on a pretty darn good crust, this dough is your faithful friend.

A side note: Don't be intimidated by the amount of writing in the recipe below. It takes only a couple of times through to get the technique down and do it from memory.

Here's the basic dough recipe again.

Five-Minute No-Knead Boule Dough

NOTE ABOUT FLOUR: The important thing is not so much the amount of flour but the final consistency of the dough. The range given here should allow for the many different types of flour you might use at home. Note that bread flour will also work in this recipe. The amount used will tend toward the lower end of the range.

6 1/2 - 8 c. unbleached all-purpose flour
3 c. lukewarm water (test on the inside of your wrist)
1 1/2 tbsp. yeast
1 1/2 tbsp. kosher salt

Add yeast and salt to water in a 5 quart bowl and stir. Add 6 1/2 cup flour with a wooden spoon and stir until uniformly moist. Dough should be soft and conform to container. If it is too thin (e.g., the consistency of thick cake batter), add more floor until it just holds together into a ball but is still soft. Cover loosely with towel and let rise at room temperature until it begins to collapse or flatten on top, 2 – 5 hours. At this point you can refrigerate dough in lidded but not airtight container for up to two weeks. (Refrigerated dough is easier to work with.)

Topping Preparation

Have toppings prepared and oven preheated before working with dough.

It's a good idea to roast vegetables that are "wet" ahead of time (squash, broccoli, zucchini, etc.)--and all other vegetables are good roasted as well. To roast, cut up vegetables to desired size and put in a bowl. Add a couple of teaspoons of olive oil, salt and pepper. Scatter over cookie sheet and place under broiler, on top rack, on high for 10 - 15 minutes, stirring frequently. Watch carefully to avoid burning. Vegetables are ready when they have begun to brown.

Here are some favorite combinations we've tried lately.

Anchovies, onions, chopped fresh cayenne or other pepper, and a mix of gorgonzola and cheddar cheeses

Roasted squash, onions, garlic, red pepper, and Parmesan cheese

Sliced leftover steak, chopped fresh jalapenos, onions, and white cheddar cheese

Baking

Place baking stone on bottom rack of oven and preheat to hottest temperature possible. (In the case of my oven, this is 550 degrees.) Sprinkle cornmeal on pizza peel. Dust a rolling surface with flour. (I use a non-fuzzy kitchen towel.) Dust your hands with flour and pull off a piece the size of a small grapefruit. For very thin crust, pull off a smaller piece; for thicker, pull off a larger one. Sprinkle dough with flour and roll out to desired size.

Rolling out pizza dough. If you'd seen my hair in the original photo you'd understand why I cropped my head off.

Transfer dough to peel and repair damage than will inevitably ensue until you get more practice. Make sure there are no holes in the crust and that the shape roughly conforms to what you imagined (e.g., round or square). Brush surface of crust with a tablespoon or so of olive oil. If using tomato sauce, spread sauce over surface. Add toppings.

Slide pizza onto baking stone--a few forward shakes, and pretending that you are trying to pull a tablecloth out from under a table loaded with dishes, might help. And remember that even disasters like this still taste good.

If you don't have a pizza peel or a baking stone, transfer the pizza dough to a cookie sheet, add your toppings there, and cook on the bottom rack of the oven.

Bake for 8 - 10 minutes. Add cheese toppings. Bake 2 - 3 minutes more. Remove from oven and let cool a few minutes before slicing and serving.

Roasted Cantaloupe Seeds and Spiced Nuts

2009-08-15T08:40:00.001-04:00

It has been nearly two years since I mercilessly mocked Fred for thinking that you could roast cantaloupe seeds and was humbled to discover that indeed you could. Now Fred's quiet triumph is fully complete: I've made them, and they're good.

It started with an impromptu evening with friends last month. Deciding at work to have guests for cocktails and snacks, and having no time to go to the store, I reviewed the pitiful contents of our cupboard as soon as I got home.

There were truffles left over from Christmas, a bit of cheese, and pretzels. There were also several items inexplicably stored in the freezer, perhaps in the faint hope of miraculously improving their quality: rum cake whose unthawed state was distinguishable from its frozen one only by its warmth; Amish Friendship Bread that I'd tried to turn into a cake, which when originally served had most closely resembled two large, round, stale Twinkies encased in chocolate frosting; and homemade wheat bread that had the taste and texture of sawdust suspended in a loaf of Wonder.

In the bottom drawer, however, underneath the vodka bottle and a roast, I hit pay dirt: pecans. It was time for Susan Koenig's Spiced Nuts.

I've lost touch with Susan, but she was a fellow graduate student in the University of Madison English department with me in the 1990s. These nuts were a party staple and a great version of the concept--spicy with just hint of sweet. Here's the recipe.

Susan Koenig's Spiced Nuts

2 1/2 c. nuts of your choice (Susan ususally mixes pecans, almonds, and cashews)
2 tbsp. vegetable oil (Susan recommends peanut, but I've used just about everything)
1 1/2 tsp. ground cumin
1/4 tsp. cayenne pepper
2 tbsp. granulated sugar
1 tsp. salt

Preheat oven to 300. Place nuts in a bowl. Pour oil into small heavy saucepan and place over medium-low heat until warm. Add cumin and cayenne and stir until mixture is aromatic, about 15 seconds. Pour flavored oil over nuts. Add sugar and salt to coat evenly. Transfer to baking pan and spread out. Bake, stirring occasionally, until nuts are toasted, about 20 minutes. Store in airtight container for up to two weeks. Rewarm before on baking sheet in 300 degree oven for about 5 minutes.

As our friends sat around our living room that evening, devouring this wonderful snack, I went into the kitchen to get beverage reinforcements. And I noticed the cantaloupe from our CSA, Britt Farms, sitting plumply on the counter. And a light bulb came on.

I'd been dumping the seeds from our farm cantaloupe into the trash. Suddenly, though, with the taste of those spiced nuts rolling around on my palate, it occured to me that Susan's spice combination would be perfect on those seeds.

Then came the sickening, slowly dawning horror that this could be a case where Fred was right.

I roasted the seeds anyway. I even let Fred eat them.

Spicy Roasted Cantaloupe Seeds

Seeds from 2 cantaloupes, rinsed and drained (no need to remove all the pulp; it roasts nicely. Seeds can be stored in refrigerator for a week or so, until you have collected enough to use.)
2 tbsp. vegetable oil
1 1/2 tsp. ground cumin
1/4 tsp. cayenne pepper
1 tbsp. granulated sugar
1 tsp. salt

Preheat oven to 350. Place seeds in a bowl. Pour oil into small heavy saucepan and place over medium-low heat until warm. Add cumin and cayenne and stir until mixture is aromatic, about 15 seconds. Pour flavored oil over seeds. Add sugar and salt to coat. Transfer to baking pan and spread out. Bake, stirring occasionally, until seeds are toasted, about 20 minutes. Can be served warm or at room temperature.

Scenes from the Sea (This Time, for Real)

2009-08-09T09:41:00.005-04:00

We're back in Durham after two weeks at the beach, one at Kiawah with my family and another at Oak Island with friends.

In Kiawah, I made kitty sand castles with my niece, Grace.

These projects involved a lot of sandy goo, most of which ended up on Grace herself.

Fred created a nest in the corner of our room, his little haven of detritus surrounding him within 24 hours--empty vegetable boxes (used to transport books), sketchbooks, scissors, sunscreen, empty gum packs, and his razor. He managed to whisk away a dozen or so random bits of paper before I could get the shot.

At Oak Island, I stuck to my crossword puzzles.

Especially after Fred made me take this picture of a pun.

And even more so after he showed me how he had repaired his glasses.

"What is that, honey?" I asked, cringing.

"Isn't it great?" he beamed. "My glasses were completely falling apart, so I took one of those blister packs from my Claritin pack and stuck it on there! They're really holding together now!"

"You did what?" I squealed in happy delight. There would be years of material from this one.

It was dawning on Fred that his ingenuity was not making the kind of impression he'd hoped it would. "I was afraid they might look a little odd," he confessed. "They really stuck out when I first put them on, with the squares and all, so I trimmed them down."

I went into the bathroom, where thin slivers of Claritin pack covered the vanity. I collapsed in laughter. I laughed some more when I saw Fred wearing the glasses the next day. I still laugh in the morning sometimes just thinking about those blister packs sticking out of the side of his glasses.

I'm glad to be married to someone who makes me laugh.

Scenes from the Sea: CSF and Tom Robinson's Seafood

2009-08-05T09:19:00.007-04:00

Unbeknownst to me, my recent quest for octopus started with a meeting at Duke's Nicholas School of the Environment. The event, sponsored by DukeFish, was a focus group on the possibility of starting a CSF (community sponsored fishery) in Durham. A CSF works much like a CSA (community sponsored agriculture), in which individuals purchase a "share" in a farm for a summer and in return get vegetables delivered every week. (Duke's Mobile Farmers Market offers this option.) Think tuna and shrimp in your weekly box instead of squash and tomatoes.

I signed up for the focus group the second I heard about it and persuaded poor Fred to come along with me. Not realizing that the event had been organized by graduate students, I was lured by visions of free wine and product samples--crab dips with water crackers; sushi rolls; smoked salmon with capers, onions and heirloom tomatoes; seared tuna slices drizzled with organic olive oil and sea salt.

When we arrived, about five minutes late, the graduate students had already decimated the hummus, vegetable tray, ranch dressing, and pita bread to cobble together their pitiful suppers. Fred and I picked up some baby carrots and a few stray red pepper slices, scraped the remaining hummus from the tray, took our water bottles, and sat down.

Still, the group was interesting and the conversation productive--especially for me, since it led to the discovery of Tom Robinson's Seafood in Carrboro.

As we discussed the possibilities of the CSF--the graduate students stuffed with pita bread, the rest of us trying to ignore the rumblings of our stomachs as they mulled over the carrot scraps-- we agreed that it wasn't easy to find fresh and reasonably priced seafood in Durham. "Except for Tom Robinson's, of course," said one participant, "which is the only place I can get sushi-grade fish. And it's in Carrboro."

Tom Robinson's? Was it possible there was an alternative to $23/pound sea bass at Whole Foods and tired, mushy, dried-out supermarket offerings? I turned to Fred.

"I gotta talk to this guy after the meeting," I whispered.

A desperate look came into his eyes. "Aren't we going to get something to eat?" he croaked.

Fred often says he's a simple man. He's right. I knew exactly how to handle this one. "We can go get a pork sandwich at the Federal after this," I wheedled.

The desperate look disappeared and was instantly replaced by hopeful anticipation. I knew I'd get however long I needed.

It turns out that the other participant was a writer for the wonderful blog Carpe Durham, and he lived in our neighborhood. Tom Robinson's, he explained, was a little place, but the owner traveled to the coast once a week and brought in fresh seafood. There was usually a pretty good variety, and prices were reasonable.

Just a week or so later, the Octo-Pie project under way and no octopus to be found in Durham, I found myself giving them a call.

"Do you have octopus?" I asked.

"Yes," said a Spanish-inflected voice on the other end. "But it's frozen. Not fresh. Is that okay?"

You have the only octopus between here and somewhere in the mid-Atlantic and you're asking me if it's okay if it's frozen, I thought. "That's fine," I said. "How do I get there?"

I drove down 15-501 from Durham, wended my way through Chapel Hill's achingly slow and self-righteous traffic, smug in its care for pedestrians and conservation of our natural resources, and turned left on Roberson Street in Carrboro.

I would have missed the building had it not been for a small sign reading "Fresh Fish" stuck in the grass next to the street. Next to the sign was a small white cinder-block building, in a white gravel lot, looking very much like it had been lifted up from a little sea town in the Bahamas and plopped down in the middle of Carrboro.

Walking in to the building through the screened door, I saw just two medium-sized coolers and a stainless steel rack with a smattering of condiments. A Japanese family was pointing at the contents, speaking to each other in their native language, and apparently deciding what to order. The Japanese are very picky about their fish, and when they frequent a place, it's a good sign.

I picked up four pounds of frozen octopus, a whole pink snapper (about a pound and a half), and a pound of whole shrimp (heads and all) all for around $50. The prices were slightly lower than at Whole Foods, and I was also able to keep the head and bones of the snapper for stock. On a later trip, I was even able to get some conch, pictured below. (It was fresh and had a wonderful flavor, but I botched the recipe I tried by not properly tenderizing the meat beforehand.)

My only reservations about Tom Robinson's are 1) the place doesn't exude the kind of cleanliness I like to see in a fish market, and 2) on a return trip, a little over a week after the first one, I saw a distinctive whole fish for sale that was very suspiciously like another from my previous visit. Still, the snapper we had was firm, fresh, and delicious, as were the shrimp, and the prices can't be beat. Fred and I will be going back for more.

If you want to make a trip yourself, here's the address. They don't have a web site, so call them if you need more information.

Tom Robinson's Seafood
207 Roberson St.
Carrboro, NC 27510-2349
(919) 942-1221‎

Grill Baby Grill

2009-08-04T09:56:00.008-04:00

Like most couples marrying later in life, Fred and I had already accumulated most of the kitchenware we needed. Knowing this, our friends and relatives flooded us with gift certificates at our wedding, most of which have long since been used.

Still, one set of key certificates remained untouched: two cards from Crate and Barrel in generous amounts, waiting for just the right purchase.

The pressure to decide on exactly the perfect way to use these cards was becoming a terrible burden for Fred and me. We are people who hem and haw over restaurant and movie choices. How could we be entrusted with such a weighty matter as this?

And so it was that shortly after our arrival in Durham, cards in hand, we visited the Crate and Barrel at Crabtree and spent an entire afternoon examining every item in the store, debating their individual merits: potholders, bed frames, pillows, chaise lounges, All Clad cookware, pickled onions. Only one item, though, really stuck with me: a grill, made by Weber, that allowed you to use propane to light the charcoal and that came attached to a handy plastic table for holding your plates of burgers and steak. (I assume the table won't melt.) We decided, though, that the wooden screened-in porch of our apartment would not be the best place for grilling, and let it go.

But this summer, finally beginning to settle into our house in Trinity Park and freed from the confines of the wooden screened-in porch, I found myself fantasizing about seared salmon steaks and mesquite-smoked pork chops, with my equipment tidily arranged on the little plastic table and my charcoal and wood chips securely stored in the handy pull-out bin underneath. And so it was that on one of our rare trips to Raleigh recently, we took the plunge.

Here it is, safely ensconced on our concrete porch next to our brick basement. We can only hope that the weeds growing out of the patio won't catch fire.

Louise, excited by the prospect of grilled tuna, also helped with the assembly.

Five-Minute No-Knead Boule Dough

2009-08-03T11:08:00.000-04:00

With my friendship bread starter now sitting forlornly in the freezer, my colleague Carol must have sensed that I needed a new project. A bread fan, Carol used to make her own on a regular basis when she was a stay-at-home mom--a feat that to me sounds only slightly easier than baking a souffle during the Allied bombing of Dresden, or maybe wrestling sharks.

Now that Carol works full-time and has two teen-agers, baking bread from scratch has been relegated to the same status as enjoying a peaceful dinner or reading a book from start to finish--a rare event to be celebrated and enjoyed. But a few weeks ago, she seemed to have found a solution in several recipes from Mother Earth News featuring "five-minute bread."

I'd first heard about this phenomenon on NPR's The Splendid Table with Lynne Rossetto Kasper, in which she interviewed Jeff Hertzberg MD and Zoe Francois, authors of Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day: The Discovery that Revolutionizes Home Baking. Though I generally avoid cookbooks written by doctors, on the theory that they’re less about food and more about promoting the doctor’s latest theory, I was intrigued.

Google soon let me know that once again I was on the trailing edge of culinary trends. Apparently the New York Times published a "no-knead bread" recipe in 2006 that made the rounds of the internet and spawned a host of knock-offs, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there were earlier versions.

I read this news with a sense of pleasantly smug, self-righteous superiority. It seems that Dr. Herzberg’s “discovery” is that you make extra no-knead bread dough and use it any time over the course of two weeks. (His other tip is to add hot water to a pan in the oven during baking, which also does something important but I’m not sure what.) You just store it in the refrigerator and pull off chunks when you want to bake it.

I could have thought of that, I sniffed haughtily to myself. Of course, Lynne Rosetto Kasper is interviewing Dr. Hertzberger. I’m still waiting for her to call me.

And the bread has been a boon to Fred and me. We've had fresh-baked bread with several meals, and the recipe can also be used for pizza dough. I'll share that technique in a future post.

Five-Minute No-Knead Boule Dough

The recipe below is a mishmash (hence the name), cobbled together from the Hertzberg/Francois five-minute bread, the recipe Carol gave me, and various internet sources. The original amount of flour in several of the recipes, 6½ cups, has not worked for me in all circumstances. It’s probably because I’ve been trying several varieties of flour. The important thing is not so much the amount of flour but the final consistency of the dough. The range given here should allow for the many different types of flour you might use at home.

Note that bread flour will also work in this recipe. The amount used will tend toward the lower end of the range.

6 1/2 - 8 c. unbleached all-purpose flour
3 c. lukewarm water (test on the inside of your wrist)
1 1/2 tbsp. yeast
1 1/2 tbsp. kosher salt

Add yeast and salt to water in a 5 quart bowl and stir. Add 6 1/2 cup flour with a wooden spoon and stir until uniformly moist. Dough should be soft and conform to container. If it is too thin (e.g., the consistency of thick cake batter), add more floor until it just holds together into a ball but is still soft. Cover loosely with towel and let rise at room temperature until it begins to collapse or flatten on top, 2 – 5 hours. At this point you can refrigerate dough in lidded but not airtight container for up to two weeks. (Refrigerated dough is easier to work with.)

On baking day, sprinkle cornmeal on pizza peel. Dust surface of dough and your hands with flour and pull off a piece the size of a large grapefruit or small cantaloupe. Hold dough in your hands; add flour as needed to keep from sticking. Gently stretch dough and turn ends under to form a ball. Stir in any flour remaining on top of dough and return to the refrigerator.

Place ball on pizza peel. Let rest uncovered for 40 minutes. Preheat oven to 450 with a baking stone on middle rack. Place an empty broiler tray for holding water on lower rack. Slash 1-2 1/4 inch deep marks on top of dough. Sprinkle top with flour if desired.

Slide dough onto baking stone. Quickly pour 1 cup hot water into broiler tray and close oven door to trap steam. Bake 30 minutes or until crust is browned and firm. Cool before slicing.

Dough can also be frozen in 1 pound portions in an airtight container and thawed in refrigerator before baking.

The Octo-Pie

2009-07-26T19:27:00.001-04:00

For years, my reputation as a cook hinged on my pies. This was largely the result of my friends' utter ignorance of the pie-making process. Not realizing that the phrase "easy as pie" had been coined for a reason, they were easy targets, impressed by the mere fact that I made my own crusts. I did what I could to reinforce the myth, pointing out that I rolled out my crusts on an old flour sack taken from my grandmother and regaling them with stories of summer blackberry picking. Other key points were quietly omitted, such as the fact that my crust recipe was lifted from the back of the Crisco can and that my grandfather said of my first blackberry pie, "That crust reminds me of the bottom of my boot!"

So it came as a bit of a surpise when, a few months into our marriage, I realized that I had never made a pie for Fred.

He was thrilled to know that I could actually make pies from scratch and immediately began to imagine the possibilities.

"Can you make rhubarb pie?" he asked.

"Oh yes, when it's in season."

"How about blueberry?"

"Of course. There's also grape pie in the fall," I added. "You use Concord grapes, and it tastes like a really good grape jam."

Then Fred's brain, straying into odd corners as it likes to do, began to explore other options.

"What about onion pie?" he said.

"Actually, yes. It's like a quiche."

"Fish pie?"

"Um, never tried it, but I could probably figure it out."

Then Fred's eyes lit up and his face erupted in a happy smile--a sure sign that a terrible, terrible pun was at hand.

"What about octo-pie?"

I sighed. "I'm sure I could figure that out too."

With that, the spectre of the octo-pie began to haunt my culinary imagination. Surely there must be a way to make a savory pie using octopus, a delicacy we both enjoy. But the project stayed on the back burner until Fred's most recent birthday.

Preparing for a small dinner party to celebrate, I began scouring my cookbooks for ideas. And when I pulled out my copy of Lidia's Italy and flipped it open, there it was: Octo-pie.

The recipe is actually for a tiella, a dough made with semolina flour that tastes like a cross between a pie crust and cornbread. Lidia's recipe includes other fillings if octopus is not your thing, but the octopus was delicious--firm, tender and richly complemented by the flavors of olives and garlic.* Even some of our timid dinner guests tried it and were pleased. And Fred was ecstatic to have a pun to eat on his birthday

*I'll describe where I got hold of the octopus in a future post.

Nona Lisa's Tiella and Filling with Octopus, Garlic and Oil (adapted from Lidia's Italy by Lidia Matticchio Bastianich, pages 247 - 252)

Tiella Dough

1 pkg. (2 tsps.) dry yeast

1/4 c. warm water

1 1/2 c. all-purpose flour, plus more for handling the dough

1 1/2 c. semolina flour

1 tsp. coarse sea salt or kosher salt

1 1/2 tsp. sugar

3/4 c. cool water plus more if needed

3 tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for the bowl

Dissolve yeast in warm water and let it sit for several minutes.

Put flours, salt, and sugar in the bowl of a food processor and run the machine for a few seconds to blend the dry ingredients.

Stir the active yeast together with the cool water and olive oil in a spouted measuring cup. With food processor running, pour all the liquid into the flours and continue processing for 30 seconds or so. A soft dough should gather on the blade and clean the sides of the bowl. If the sides are not clear, incorporate more flour, a tablespoon at a time, to stiffen the dough. If the dough is very stiff, work in more cool water in small amounts. (You can also use a heavy-duty electric mixer to form the dough or do it by hand.)

Turn out the dough onto a floured surface and knead by hand briefly to form a smooth round. Placed the dough in a lightly oiled bowl and cover with plastic wrap. Let rise in a warm place until doubled, about an hour. Deflate the dough when doubled, knead it briefly, and return to the bowl for a second rise. Dough can be refrigerated in an airtight container for up to a day at this point; deflate and knead it whenever it doubles. (It doubled only once in the 24 hours it sat in my refrigerator.)

Octopus Filling

4 lbs. frozen, cleaned octopus (tentacles about 1/2" thick at thickest part)

2 bay leaves

1 lb. ripe plum tomatoes (4 tomatoes)

4 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil

1 1/2 tbsp. sliced garlic

2/3 c. Gaeta olives, pitted and cut in half (I could not find Gaeta olives and used Kalamata)

1/2 tsp. peperoncino flakes

1/2 tsp. coarse sea salt or kosher salt

2 tbsp. chopped fresh Italian parsley

Defrost the octopus, and put it in a big pot with several inches of water to cover. Add the bay leaves. Bring to a boil, and cook at a bubbling simmer for about 35 minutes, or until the octopus is tender but al dente. You should be able to pierce the flesh with a big meat fork but still feel a bit of resistance when you withdraw it. The skin of the octopus should still be largely intact--not broken and peeling off, which indicates overcooking. Let it cool in the cooking water, then drain well and cut it up into 3/4" pieces.

Rinse, core, and seed the plum tomatoes, and cut into 1/2" dice. Pour the olive oil into a big skillet, set it over medium heat, and stir in the garlic. Cook for a minute, until sizzling, then add the octopus pieces and toss them in the oil. Scatter the olives in the pan, and cook for a couple of minutes, stirring and tossing; sprinkle in the peperoncino. When the octopus is sizzling, toss in the diced tomatoes, and season with the salt.

Cook at the simmer, stirring frequently, for another 10 minutes or so, until the filling is dense and glistening, with no liquid left in the pan. Toss in the parsley, and cool the filling before assembling the tiella.

Assembly and Baking

Heat oven to 375. Arrange a rack in the center of the oven and put a baking stone on it, if you have one. Brush the bottom and sides of a 12" oven-proof skillet, baking pan, or tiella pan lightly with olive oil.

Deflate the dough, knead it briefly to form a round again, and cut off a third of the dough for the top crust of the tiella. The larger, two-thirds piece will be the bottom crust. Let the dough relax (especially if it has been chilled) before rolling.

On a floured surface, roll out the big piece of dough to a 14" round. Transfer the round to the skillet or baking pan, centered and lying flat on the bottom and sides. Trim the top edge of the dough neatly so it is an even height, about 1 1/2", up the sides all around.

Scrape the cooled filling into the bottom crust, and spread it in an even layer, slightly compressed. The bottom crust should extend at least 1/2" above the filling all around.

Roll out the smaller piece of dough to a 12" round and trim it into a neat circle that is a bit larger than the layer of filling--use a ruler to get the right dimensions. Center the circle and lay it on top of the filling. Pinch together the overlapping edges of the bottom and top crusts all around. Fold this flap of dough inward and press it down and against the pan sides all around. Make uniform indentations with your fingertips, to seal the tiella tightly and create a decorative rim of dough at the same time.

With the tip of a sharp knife, pierce the top crust all over with a dozen or so small slits. Finally, brush extra virgin olive oil all over the tiella, including the border of the crust.

Bake the tiella, on the heated stone if you have one, for about 45 minutes, or until the crust is a deep golden brown. Cool it on a rack for at least an hour in the skillet. Invert and remove the tiella if you want, or leave it in the pan for serving. Cut wedges and serve slightly warm or at room temperature. (It is also good hot.)

Chicken Liver Pizza

2009-06-23T21:07:00.007-04:00

We love Rockwood Filling Station deeply and the idea of their chicken liver pizza even more. But I've never been entirely satisfied with their version, in which whole fried chicken livers are scattered over the top of the pizza in a grand clash of North Carolina-meets-Italy. The fried livers are too big to munch in a respectable bite of pizza, and there are too few of them to imbue the entire pie with their rich livery goodness.

Last weekend I solved the problem. I chopped up the livers and sauteed them in carmelized onions and spices before adding them to the top of the pizza. I won't say that you'll like this even if you don't like chicken liver, because people who don't like chicken liver never like chicken liver no matter how it's served. But I will say that this tastes a lot like sausage, and that everyone needs to learn to like liver a lot more.

I have included a crust and sauce recipe if you need one.

Pizza with Spicy Chicken Liver and Carmelized Onions

Crust (from Cook's Illustrated: The Best Recipe, p. 333)

I like to keep homemade pizza crust in the freezer, then put it into the refrigerator to thaw a day or two ahead. In this case, "a day or two" turned into a week, and the crust was gluey on one side and stiff on the other by the time I went to bake it. Still Fred declared it the best pizza crust he's ever had, and even I have to admit it was quite good--thin and crispy, without a hint of sogginess.

1/2 c. warm water, at about 105 degrees
1 envelope (2 1/4 tsp.) active dry yeast
1 1/4 c. water, at room temperature
2 tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil
4 c. bread flour, plus extra for dusting hands and work surfaces
1 1/2 tsp. salt
Vegetable oil or spray for oiling bowl

Measure warm water into 2 c. measuring cup. Sprinkle in yeast; let stand until yeast dissolves and swells, about 5 minutes. Add room-temperature water and oil; stir to combine.

Pulse flour and salt in workbowl of large food processor fitted with steel blade to combine. Continue pulsing while pouring liquid ingredients (holding back a few tablespoons) through feed tube. If dough does not readily form into a ball, add remaining liquid and continue to pulse until ball forms. Process until dough is smooth and elastic, about 30 seconds longer.

Dough will be a bit tacky, so use rubber spatula to turn dough onto lightly floured work surface; knead by hand with a few strokes to form smooth, round ball. Put dough into deep oiled bowl and cover with plastic wrap. Let rise until doubled in size, about 2 hours. Punch dough down with your fist and turn out onto lightly floured work surface.

Roll out dough to about half desired size. Let rest while preparing other ingredients. Continue to roll out and let rest until dough is desired size. Roll edges in to form edging. Brush with olive oil just before adding toppings.

Sauce

1 28 oz. can crushed tomatoes
2 tbsp. olive oil
2 large garlic cloves, minced
Salt and pepper

Mix together in large bowl. Extra will keep for several days in refrigerator and can also be used as a base for pasta sauce.

Chicken Liver Pizza Topping

1 large onion, halved and thinly sliced
2 tbsp. olive oil
2 tsp. thyme
2 tsp. red pepper flakes
Coarse kosher salt to taste
3/4 to 1 lb. chicken livers, drained and chopped
1/2 cup grated sharp white cheddar cheese

Saute onions in olive oil over medium high heat until carmelized, about 10 minutes. Add remaining ingredients except cheese. Continue to cook, stirring frequently, until liquid has evaporated, about 10 - 15 minutes. Reduce heat about halfway through cooking time to prevent burning.

Place oven rack on bottom level and slide in pizza stone. Preheat oven to 550 or hottest temperature possible. Place rolled out dough onto pizza peel sprinkled with cornmeal. (I use a cookie sheet without edges.) Spread tomato sauce over crust, leaving about 1/4 inch around edges to prevent spillage. Spoon chicken liver mix evenly over crust. Remove pizza stone from oven and slide pizza onto stone. (Imagine you are trying to pull a tablecloth out from under a fully loaded table without moving anything and you might avoid disaster.) Return to bottom rack of oven and bake for 6 - 12 minutes, until edges of crust begin to brown. Add cheese to pizza and cook for 2 - 3 minutes longer, until cheese has just melted. Transfer to cutting board. Slice and serve.

Cat Update

2009-06-20T10:16:00.003-04:00

Louise ponders Fred's latest painting.

Catalina ponders the neighbors and wonders if they will try to eat her.

Cleo ponders the mysteries of the universe.

A Beet, a Pickle, and a Potato Walk into a Bar . . .

2009-06-17T20:19:00.001-04:00

My explorations of Sundays at Moosewood continue, and thank God I'm I nicer person than I was in the early 1990s. In reading through the section on food from the Southern United States, I came across the very sentence that nearly led me heave the book out the window: "I had to redefine Southern cooking in order to present it without meat."

Therein lies the major shortcoming of the book. If the cuisine I grew up with has been rendered unrecognizable (the author suggests adding Gouda cheese instead of bacon to give Southern dishes their smokey flavor, an idea that's only slightly better than shoving a fork into your own eyeball), then I can only imagine how they've desecrated the cuisines of Africa, India, and China.

But I'm a calmer person now, content to labor along in abject ignorance of other cultures and willing to accept butchered versions of "authentic" dishes if they are edible. Thus I came across the recipe below for Russian salad--which used a miraculous combination of beets, pickles, and potatoes to clear out the entire supply of oddball items left lurking in my refrigerator.

The recipe comes from the section in Sundays at Moosewood on Finnish cuisine. The recipes, focusing on root vegetables, are fascinating, but there's still a lot of earnest vegetarianism to overcome. The author of this section is a grad-school dropout who adopted some goats from a Finnish farmer, couldn't bear to kill them, and started rescuing animals at livestock auctions. I sympathize (heck, I still can't bring myself to eat veal)--but then, there's the problem with the fish and the need to take advantage of what's available in local conditions. Never mind that "the Finns do eat a great deal of fish, as is quite natural in such a watery place"; the author writes: "I don't eat fish myself or recommend it to others, so I've not included fish recipes in this chapter."

I'll let the reaction of her Finnish neighbors to the smorgasbord Moosewood put on for them sum all this up: "Knowing how nostalgic Finns can be about their traditional foods, it was with some trepidation that we presented our [vegetarian] versions of some age-old dishes. But all was well. Nothing was too far off the mark or else, with the usual quiet steadiness and reserve of the Finnish folk, they didn't let on."

If those Finns had been in North Carolina, they'd have been saying, "Bless their hearts" quietly to themselves.

To honor the fishy Finns, I served the Russian Salad with a mackerel recipe adopted from James Beard's "Mackerel in Escabeche." It was a great combination of spicy and sweet, hearty and light. In this case, I DO recommend fish to others.

Russian Salad (Venalainensalaatti) (from Sundays at Moosewood, p. 263)

2 c. cooked, diced potatoes (the recipe says to peel; I did not)
2 c. peeled, diced, and cooked carrots
1 c. peeled, diced tart apple
1 c. minced dill pickles (we used Claussen's)
1/2 c. minced onion
2 c. cooked, peeled, and diced beets

Cooked beets for Russian Salad, from Britt Farms

Dressing
1 c. sour cream (or 2/3 c. heavy cream)
2 tbsp. fresh lemon juice or cider vinegar (we used lemon juice)
Dash of salt, sugar, and freshly ground black pepper

Hard-boiled eggs, sliced

Dressing for Russian Salad

Mix potatoes, carrots, apple, pickles, and onion in large serving bowl. Chill. (I did not.) Combine all the dressing ingredients and chill. (Again, I did not.) Add the beets to the other vegetables just before serving. Fold dressing into salad just before serving. Can also serve dressing on the side or mounded on top of the salad. Decorate with egg slices.

Russian Salad ingredients assembled

Mackerel in Escabeche

3 mackerel steaks, salted and peppered (1 1/2 lb.)
1/4 c. lemon juice (recipe calls for lime)
1/4 c. orange juice
2 tbsp. olive oil
1 onion, finely chopped
2 stalks celery, chopped
2 tbsp. red pepper flakes
4 small cloves garlic, minced
2 tbsp. minced fresh cilantro
White wine

Mackerel awaiting saute

Saute all ingredients except mackerel, cilantro, and wine in large skillet until onions are translucent, about 5 minutes.

Vegetables in saute

Add cilantro and mackerel.

Mackerel sauteing, just before covering

Cover and cook for about 2 minutes. Turn fish, cover and continue to cook until mackerel is just done, about 5 more minutes. Check after 1 - 2 minutes, and if sauce begins to dry out, add a few splashes of white wine.

Voila! Finland meets Mexico

Return to Moosewood: Vegetable Curry

2009-06-07T21:19:00.001-04:00

Efforts to claw my way out of the cooking rut are beginning to succeed, as my old friends, the Moosewood Collective, lent a very helpful hand earlier this week.

I became acquainted with Moosewood during my six-month vegetarian period, which lasted from the fall of 1987 to one day in the spring of 1988, when a Krystal oasis wafted its heady onion-burger scent across a concrete desert of strip malls and lured me back into the dark world of flesh eating, never to return.

Moosewood Restaurant, in Ithaca, NY, was an early vegetarian mecca. Their first two books, The Moosewood Cookbook and The Enchanted Broccoli Forest, introduced me to exotic new dishes such as Welsh rarebit and lentil soup. In 1990, they put out Sundays at Moosewood Restaurant, featuring menus focused on foods from a specific region (India, the Caribbean, the American South, New England, etc.)

But the timing was off for me. By the time I got Sundays at Moosewood as a present sometime in the early 1990s, I was living in Madison, WI, where I was quickly wearying of earnest, Birkenstock-clad, dredlock-sprouting vegans and vegetarians. I'd had enough of middle-class white grad students appropriating select tidbits of other cultures in the name of "diversity," especially when they failed to realized that a hairstyle that looked wonderful on people with thick, curly hair was going to turn into a smelly, matted rat's nest on them. I was over Moosewood. I didn't need their sanitized versions of "ethnic" vegetarianism anymore.

So the book sat on my shelf virtually untouched until last week. But having grown up a bit, and becoming more patient with others (even white people with dredlocks) and myself--and being nearly desperate for some new vegetable recipes--I opened up Sundays at Moosewood again.

I was pleasantly surprised. Without meat, of course, many of the recipes aren't going to resemble what you'd find in the region from which they came. (Vegetarian Brunswick stew? Please.)* Still, Sundays at Moosewood offers a good place to start sampling different cuisines and try out fresh flavors.

*I should note that Fred loves the vegetarian Brunswick stew at Whole Foods. He claims it's wonderful if you add barbecued pork.

I turned to the section on India first. Each section of the book has a different author, and only two have names that suggest they grew up eating the foods they write about. Linda Dickinson, the author of the section on India, is one of them, and my reservations about the book came surging back when I read her introduction. Her first exposure to Indian food came in Cambridge, Massachusetts, when her roommate made an Indian dinner. I have a sneaking suspicion that she was an enthusiastic participant in the post-Beatles India fad of the 1960s and fear that she still favors flowing batik skirts with Tevas.

Still, Linda, bless her heart, has done a heck of a lot more than I ever will to understand Indian food. I did not actually use one of her recipes but cobbled together the one below from the techniques she suggested. Most important is to heat the spices in the butter first to bring out the flavors.

This dish is probably as "authentic" as vegetarian Brunswick stew--I didn't even make my own spice mix. But until I decide to get my own Indian cookbook, the wildly complex food of India is probably beyond my ken. This will do for now. Thanks, Linda.

Vegetable Curry

2 tbsp. butter, melted
2 tbsp. muchi curry powder (available at Whole Foods)
1/2 c. minced onion
4 small to medium red potatoes, diced, cooked until just tender
3 carrots, minced
1 Mediterranean squash, diced (zucchini and chayote squash would work nicely as well)
3 small cloves garlic, minced
Salt and pepper to taste
Milk and sour cream (yogurt would be more appropriate for an Indian dish, but we didn't have any)

Melt butter in large skillet over medium high heat. Add curry powder and heat until spice becomes aromatic, about 20 - 30 seconds. Add onions and saute for 1 - 2 minutes. Add garlic and stir. Add carrots and squash. Stir, cover, and saute about 5 minutes or until vegetables are tender. Stir in potatoes until well-coated. Salt and pepper to taste. Add milk and sour cream until dish is desired consistency. (I use roughly 1/4 c. milk and 3/4 c. sour cream.) Can serve over rice if desired.

Chickenless Chicken and Dumplings

2009-06-06T08:49:00.009-04:00

Faced with a fresh pile of vegetables from our CSA once again, I was forced to turn down an invitation to the Durham Bulls game last night to stay home and cook them. (The unpleasant prospect of sitting outdoors on a cloudy, muggy, rain-splattered evening had nothing to do with it.) And so I felt compelled to Do Something.

My first thought was to make a vegetable pot pie, so I pulled out my handy Cook's Illustrated: The Best Recipe for some guidelines. But the book magically opened instead onto the recipe for chicken and dumplings.

It's been years since chicken and dumplings crossed my lips, and what a sad thing that is. They were a childhood favorite (back when the first line of my grandmother's recipe would have read, "Kill chicken"), but I don't find myself making them very often. The main reason is that I can no longer call my grandmother to get the recipe because I've forgotten it and could never remember to write it down.

Unfortunately my mother cannot be of help here because this is an area of deep division between us. Her mother (my other grandmother) was a proponent of flat dumplings, which are rolled out before they are added to the dish. My father's mother was squarely on the side of drop dumplings, which are formed into balls and "dropped" in.

The flat/drop debate has raged in our family for decades now with no clear resolution. My mother, usually right about everything, has yet to see the merits of my argument in this particular case. To me, flat dumplings cannot even approach the fluffy perfection of a well-made drop dumpling. Properly done, drop dumplings are exceedingly light, with an inside like a tender, cakey biscuit, all surrounded by a very thin layer of rich, creamy dough. How can a flat, chewy lump even compare?

Still, the biggest obstacle to my making chicken and dumplings last night was that I had no chicken, and I wasn't going to send even Fred out into a misty, damp evening to get one. Luckily, the Cook's Illustrated recipe is called "Chicken and Dumplings with Aromatic Vegetables"--and I figured I had the second part of that covered. So I modified the recipe and came up with this dish.

Of course, the dumplings are not quite as light and fluffy as my grandmother's. But lost recipes are like that--always made better by the fact we can't have them anymore.

Note dumpling's fluffy, tender goodness

Vegetable Stew with Dumplings

4 tbsp. butter
1 onion,chopped
3 medium carrots, peeled and diced
1 large zucchini, cut into 1/2" pieces
1 medium yellow squash, cut into 1/2" pieces
1 1/2 c. frozen peas
6 tbsp. flour
2 tsp. thyme
Salt and pepper to taste
4 c. chicken stock
Cream, if desired

Melt butter in soup pot or Dutch oven over medium high heat. Add onion and saute until translucent. Add carrots and saute for 5 - 10 minutes. Stir in zucchini and squash. Cover and cook for 5 - 10 minutes, until vegetables are just tender. Make dumplings and set aside. Stir in flour, thyme, salt, and pepper until flour vegetables are coated. Add chicken stock and bring to a simmer. Add peas. Add cream if desired. Lay dumplings over top of liquid. Cover and simmer for 15 minutes until dumplings are done.

Baking Powder Dumplings (from Cook's Illustrated: The Best Recipe, p. 162)

2 c. flour
1 tbsp. baking powder
3/4 tsp. salt
3 tbsp. butter
1 c. milk

Mix flour, baking powder, and salt in medium bowl. Heat butter and milk to simmer and add to dry ingredients. Mix with a fork or knead by hand two to three times until mixture just comes together. Form dough into balls about 2" in diameter.

The Cooking Well Runs Dry

2009-05-30T20:52:00.003-04:00

With all the vegetables we're receiving lately, you'd think that I'd be posting recipes almost every day. The trouble is that I have entered a rut familiar to all cooks who have been at this game for a while. "I just cook the same old things," my grandmother used to say. So it is with me. Tired at the end of the work day, I turn to well-worn formulas, spices, and combinations to get supper on the table. Onions and garlic are sauteed in olive oil; another vegetable or meat is added; herbs are tossed in; everything gets dumped over pasta, rolled into a burrito, or served over potatoes.

And that's okay, because a few experiments over the last week or so revealed why it's probably best to trudge along in your little food rut until a clear path out is revealed. Efforts to claw your way over the edge will result in injury only to yourself and others who are forced to eat the unsavory products that emerge in the process.

The baked cabbage should serve as sufficient warning. We've been slightly overwhelmed with cabbage lately, after buying a couple of heads just before receiving more from Britt Farms, our CSA (Community Supported Agriculture). Of course, it really doesn't take much cabbage to overwhelm even an experienced cook. Not only does it increase exponentially with each cup that is used, it also conjures only a limited number of dishes to mind. Having made cole slaw, added it to soups, steamed it, eaten it raw, and even considered then quickly dispensed with the idea of making homemade sauerkraut after realizing the impracticality of storing rotting vegetable matter in a pot in the basement for a month, I was pretty well out of ideas.

Then I remembered a recent New York Times Magazine article on baked kale, which I'd tried and which had made a pleasantly crunchy snack. You took kale leaves, rolled them up, sliced the rolls into thin strips, tossed in olive oil and salt, and baked them in the oven at about 400 degrees for several minutes until they crisped up. They made a light, crunchy snack.

Cabbage doesn't do that. It makes a heavy, chewy, oily snack. You can try cooking it until the cabbage browns, but then you will have a bitter, crispy, burned-tasting, oily snack. If you have a sweet, kind husband as I do, he will taste the results and declare them "interesting." If you are a sweet, kind wife in return, you will take the whole mess, toss it straight into the trash, and make a nice dish of olive oil, onions, garlic, your favorite spices, vegetables, and pasta.

Better Amish Friendship Bread

2009-05-16T14:14:00.001-04:00

The moment we've been waiting for since February 24 has arrived. In an effort to create a version of Amish Friendship Bread that I actually like, I've turned our house into a bread factory over the last few months. I'm pleased to say that these attempts have not been in vain.

I started with the original recipe, below.

Original Amish Friendship Bread

I'm not sure this is the original starter, but it's what I found on the Internet. There are many versions that use yeast, but I suspect this one did not.

1 cup flour
1 cup milk
1 cup sugar

Put ingredients in plastic bag and seal.

Day 1: Do nothing.
Days 2 - 5: Mash the bag
Day 6: Add 1 c. plain flour, 1 c. sugar, 1 c. milk, and mash the bag.
Days 7 - 9: Mash the bag.

Day 10:
Pour entire contents of bag into a non-metal bowl. Add 1 cup plain flour, 1 1/2 tsp. baking soda, 1/2 tsp. salt, 1 1/2 c. sugar, and 1 1/2 c. milk. Mix.

Measure out 4 bags of 1 c. each. Put batter into Ziplock gallon bags and keep a starter for yourself and give the others to 3 friends with a copy of the recipe.

Baking Instructions

Preheat oven to 375. To remaining batter in bowl add and stir:

3 eggs
1 c. oil (or 1/2 c. oil and 1/2 c. applesauce)
1/2 c. milk
1 c. sugar
2 t. cinnamon
1 1/2 t. baking powder
1/2 t. salt
1/2 t. baking soda
2 c. plain flour
1 lrg. Box instant vanilla or choc. Pudding (surely the Amish cook who added this was excommunicated)
1 c. raising or chopped nuts (opt.)

Grease 2 large loaf pans. In a bowl mix 1/2 c. sugar and 1 1/2 tsp. cinnamon. Dust the pans with 1/2 of this mixture. Pour batter evenly into 2 pans and sprinkle with cinnamon sugar mix over top. Bake for 1 hour.

And Now for Something Completely Different

It doesn't take a mathematician to figure out that no one has enough friends to keep this up. Maybe you know dozens of people who want to keep rotting dough in plastic bags around the house and bake bread every 10 days, but I don't. After just one month I felt like the owner of an unspayed cat, with kittens everywhere and no idea who would take them. And you are one blessed person, or an Olympic marathoner, if you can eat this stuff week after week and not become a bloated testament to the effects of a sugar-infested, overprocessed American diet.

I also wanted a recipe that didn't completely cover up the flavor of the starter itself. Starters, after all, are the key ingredient for wonderful sourdough breads, and what better way to make one than with, um, soured dough? I'd hoped that the friendship bread would have the nice bite of one of these loaves, but it was, alas, buried in the onslaught of sugar, cinnamon, and the lrg. Box of inst. Pudding.

My experiments over the last couple of months have led to a series of recipes that alter the original so much that to call it a "variation" would be ridiculous. So I'm christening this "Newlywed Bread" because a) it rhymes; b) two people can eat a loaf in a week without gaining so much weight together that they have to spend every Monday night at Weight Watchers; and c) like newlywed couples, cooks who make this don't have to share even one tiny bit of it with another living soul.

The starter is simple and very forgiving. The only trick is not to use any metal when working with the starter (though using metal in the baking process seems to work fine.)

Newlywed Bread Starter

1 cup flour
1 cup sugar
1 cup milk

I put this in a glass bowl covered with a towel (hand-embroidered, of course, to remind me that I'm a little old lady at heart). Yeast does not seem to be necessary, and I like to think it's because this starter works like the ones for sourdough bread, which absorb yeast from the environment.

Instructions

Day 1: Do nothing.
Days 2 - 5: Stir with wooden or plastic utensil.
Day 6: Add 1 1/2 c. flour, 1/2 c. sugar, and 1 c. milk.
Days 7 - 9: Stir.
Day 10: Bake (recipes below).

After the first ten days, feed the starter every 5 - 10 days. It is a living thing and requires nutrition to keep going. It will rise up overnight into a bubbly mass if it is healthy. If it starts to rise less, lose its bubbly texture, or quits rising altogether, it needs to eat. Feed it:

1 1/2 c. flour
1/2 c. sugar
1 c. whole milk (I use 1% with a little half and half)

You can add half this amount (3/4 c. flour, 1/4 c. sugar, 1/2 c. milk) if your starter is getting too big.

Every ten days or so, you should bake a loaf. You can bake more often if you like; just feed the starter whenever you remove some for baking. If you can't bake very often and your starter gets too big, you can freeze it, refrigerate it, discard some of it, or--heaven forbid--give some to a friend along with a copy of the recipe.

All of these breads have a hearty whole wheat texture. Most are still on the sweet side, but they're closer to bran muffins than cakes. Most also include buttermilk, which add an extra bit of sourness--perfect for the sour among us, without enough friends to share.

Newlywed Bread Basic Recipe

Preheat oven to 350. Grease 1 loaf pan.

Remove 1 c. starter and place in large mixing bowl. Add to starter:

3 eggs
1/2 c. buttermilk
1 c. melted butter (add to buttermilk to cool before adding to mix)

Whisk together in separate bowl:

2 c. whole wheat flour
1/2 c. oats
2 t. baking powder
1/2 t. baking soda
1 t. salt
2 t. cinnamon
1/2 c. brown sugar

Add dry ingredients to batter mix and stir. Pour into loaf pans and bake one hour. Remove from pan and cool.

I've made several variations on this recipe, though the "variations" are often quite different. Below are some favorites.

Sweet Potato Newlywed Bread

Preheat oven to 350. Grease 1 loaf pan.

Mix together in large bowl:

1 c. starter
1/2 c. baked sweet potato, mashed
1/2 c. buttermilk
1/2 c. melted butter (add to buttermilk to cool)
3 eggs

Whisk together:

2 c. whole wheat flour
1/2 c. oats
2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
2 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. cloves
1/2 tsp. nutmeg
1/2 c. brown sugar

Pour in loaf pan and bake for 1 hour.

Variation: Maple Fig

Replace sweet potato with 1/4 cup pureed fig preserves and 1/2 c. maple syrup. Increase oats to 1 cup.

Irish Soda Newywed Bread

This one is more like a hearty sandwich bread, with only slightly sweet taste, and with the strong soda flavor characteristic of the orignal Irish version. It's baked as a round rather than in a loaf pan to give it a beautiful crispy crust all over.

Fred prefers this loaf sweeter than I do, so simply increase the sugar to 3/4 cup if you want more of a breakfast bread.

Preheat oven to 400. Grease bottom of cookie sheet.

Mix together in large bowl:

1 c. starter
1 c. buttermilk
2 1/2 tbsp. melted butter (add to butter milk to cool before mixing)

Whisk together:

2 c. oats
1/2 c. whole wheat flour
1/2 - 3/4 c. brown sugar (depending on sweetness you prefer)
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1 1/2 tsp. salt

Add dry ingredients to batter and stir until mixture comes together. Turn out on floured surface and knead about 15 strokes. Form into round loaf shape and place on cookie sheet. Bake for 1 hour (check after 45 minutes for doneness.) Brush with melted butter.

New variations keep emerging. I'll keep you posted.

New Love

2009-04-21T20:38:00.004-04:00

Last week we received the first delivery from our new CSA (Community Sponsored Agriculture)--Britt Farms in Mt. Olive, NC. They don't have a web site, but you can read about them here. We were attracted to this farm by the fact that it's been family owned for several generations and is less concerned with the niceties of being organic than with getting us some good produce. (And we have no idea what happened to Snow Creek Organics, our CSA from last year.)

And good produce it is. Today we received spinach, radishes (gone), strawberries (nearly gone), two different types of lettuce, asparagus, and delight of delights, O'Henry white sweet potatoes. The radishes and strawberries were revelations. With the bland varieties we get in the store, I'd forgotten that radishes can have a bite and that strawberries can have amazing undertones of lemon and wine. What a great reminder of the glorious variety we can get in our vegetables.

The white sweet potatoes led me to make this interesting and delicious Mexican-inspired soup. I used tomatoes my mom grew and canned, which helps, but a high-quality store-bought version should yield good results.

White Sweet Potato Soup with Chipotle

Serves 2 as a main dish or 4 as a first course

1 onion, halved and sliced thin
1 tbsp. olive oil
3 -4 cloves garlic, minced
4 stalks celery, chopped
1 large white sweet potato, peeled and cut into 1/2" cubes
1 1/2 - 2 cups good quality chicken stock
16 oz. high quality canned whole or crushed tomatoes, with juice
1 large dried chipotle pepper
1/2 tsp. coriander
Salt to taste
1/2 lb. elbow macaroni

Saute onion in olive oil over medium heat until translucent, adding a little chicken broth if it begins to brown. Add garlic, celery, and a few tablespoons broth. Saute over medium heat until celery is tender, about 10 minutes. Add remaining ingredients except macaroni and stir. Cover and bring to a boil. Reduce heat; cover and simmer about 15 - 20 minutes or until potatoes are tender. Add macaroni and stir. Increase heat to high and bring to boil again, stirring occasionally. Cover and reduce heat to medium low. Simmer until macaroni is cooked, about 10 minutes more. Correct seasonings and serve.

Radish Salad

2009-04-05T21:55:00.006-04:00

I'm feeling better about Food, Inc. today. Sure, it trod much familiar territory, but walking through the Whole Foods Industrial Complex yesterday, I was struck with the happy thought that the film also featured one of my favorite rants: the high cost of sustainably grown and/or organic food. At one point, the filmmakers follow a working class family through the supermarket, where they have to consider how reasonable it is to buy two pears for 99 cents when they could get an entire hamburger for the same price.

I was faced with the same dilemma in Whole Foods yesterday as I stood in front of a gorgeous display of organic radishes, their round little magenta bottoms delicately nestled in a lush bed of crispy green leaves. Feeling guilty about some recent purchases of factory-farmed meat at ridiculously low prices, I had decided to punish myself by walking over to Whole Foods, loading up on expensive but sustainably farmed meat, and lugging all twenty pounds back home in a single large cloth bag. Maybe if I threw my shoulder out, I reasoned, God would forgive me.

My self-righteously reusable cloth bag bursting with swordfish, a whole chicken, a roast, two pounds of ground chuck, half and half, and a wallet soon to be considerably lighter, I contemplated the radishes, at $2.49 a bunch, wondered if my shoulders could take on an additional half pound of costly produce. I thought of the people who agonized over the pears and about how crazy it was that you could get a hot dog and soda at Costco for the same price as those radishes. What the heck, I thought.

I like to think that I made up for my indulgence just a bit by using every bit of those radishes in the salad I made for supper. Radish greens can be quite good, as long as they are fresh, bright green, and not too large. They also should be thoroughly cleaned, as they tend to collect dirt. This salad is very easy and brings out the best of the greens and the radishes themselves.

Radish Salad

Serves 2

1 bunch radishes
Olive oil (extra virgin)
White balsamic vinegar
Salt

Cut radishes from leaves and set aside. Thoroughly clean greens and trim stems. Dry in salad spinner or on towels. Wash radishes and trim ends; dry. Tear greens into bite-sized pieces, if necessary, and place in large salad bowl. Thinly slice radishes and add to greens. Drizzle olive oil (1 - 2 tbsp.) over top, lightly splash with vinegar (1 - 2 tsp.), and salt to taste. Toss until greens are coated and serve immediately.

Food, Inc.

2009-04-04T17:26:00.006-04:00

Last night we went to see Robert Kenner's documentary Food, Inc. at the Full Frame Documentary Film Festival here in Durham. I should have loved it. The auditorium at the Carolina Theatre was filled to the brim with liberal locavore-loving foodies just like me, secure in the knowledge that our organic herb gardens were sprouting and our CSA deliveries were scheduled for just a couple of weeks away.

But if you've been aware of these issues since the 1980s, when you first read Frances Moore Lappe's Diet for a Small Planet (first published in 1971), and if you grew up on a farm where your grandfather pointed out at every meal that all that you were eating had been grown right there--and more recently, if you read Eric Schlosser's Fast Food Nation and Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma--well, you've seen Food, Inc. Because the director relies heavily on Schlosser and Pollan's expertise, large chunks of the film felt like a rehash of these books. We went over the corn thing again (cheap corn makes it cheaper to feed livestock grain instead of grass, leading to factory farms, leading to the need to pump animals full of antibiotics, leading to antibiotic-resistant microbes in the food supply) we spent lots and lots of time with the vocal owner of Polyface Farms, a sustainable operation in Virginia (whom Pollan also interviewed); and we learned, again, that meat packers work in terrible conditions and that chicken farms are dreadful.

It would be wonderful if this film reached a wide audience and brought about more widespread change. For those who haven't read these materials, the movie will no doubt be eye-opening. And the movie makes specific calls to action in the final sequence that might help us take some practical steps toward making a difference (eat local, reduce meat consumption, and of course, "visit our Web site!").

They film is optimistic about the future, noting that the actions of consumers can change the market and pointing out that if food conglomerate seem invincible, remember that Big Tobacco, once thought invincible, had been brought down. (Or bought by Nabisco.)

But I was haunted by the thought of Lappe's book. Her goal was to get Americans to eat in a way that would lead to reduced hunger world wide--largely by drastically reducing meat consumption. Her argument, back in 1971, was based on the idea that our meat production system was terribly inefficient, requiring 21.4 pounds of grain to cattle for every pound of beef we produced. We were misusing agricultural land by deploying it to feed animals rather than people; we should restrict livestock raising to land that couldn't be used for other agricultural purposes and feed cattle grass instead of grain; and our use of chemical pesticides to produce food in vast quantities was getting into our meat in uncertain and potentially dangerous amounts.

We could change everything, Lappe argued, by eating differently: "The act of putting into your mouth what the earth has grown is perhaps your most direct interaction with the earth . . . . What I will be suggesting in this book is a guideline for eating from the earth that both maximizes the earth's potential to meet man's nutritional needs and, at the same time, minimizes the disruption of the earth necessary to sustain him. It's that simple."

If only it were.

Pork Belly at (the) Federal

2009-03-14T11:23:00.002-04:00

Our gluttonous streak continued last week, as the fried chicken extravaganza was followed by a pork belly blowout at the Federal.*

Federal remains our favorite Durham restaurant, and has become the site of a weekly post-Weight Watchers pilgrimage, where Fred can order his beloved pork sandwich with cheese and jalapeno peppers and I can sample the Federal's many fascinating specials.

One special that's eluded me since I arrived in Durham has been the pork belly (a cut of meat from the pig taken from the underside--essentially uncured bacon). It was on the menu on our very first visit, during a heady six-month period last winter when every foodie in America (including me) could seem to think of nothing else besides little piggy undersides. That night, so many of us had descended on the Federal that there was none left for me, and I had to content myself with the carnitas.

Those carnitas began our love affair with the Federal, but in our weekly visits over the past year pork belly did not make another appearance until last Monday.

I was thrilled and worried. The reasons for the thrill should be obvious. The worry, though, grew out of my struggles through what is coyly known as "maintenance" in Weight Watchers--the tortuous battle to keep off those pounds your body so desperately wants back, the battle you will wage for the rest of your life if your idea of a good time is to eat pork belly while reading a book, preferably with a cat on your lap.

That day, the Weight Watchers scale had revealed a 1.2 pound gain. So I made a compromise: I would order the pork belly, but I would eat only half of it and save the rest for lunch.

You know what happened. I was utterly unprepared for how greasily good that pork belly would be. It had been roasted with a slightly sweet, jerk-style rub and was served with chopped sweet potatoes roasted with onions. The meat itself was achingly tender, each of the four slices containing a quarter-inch layer of creamy fat. I don't know if the sweet potatoes and onions had been cooked alongside the pork, but it tasted that way.

After eating two slices and half the potatoes, I should have stopped. I should have asked for a box right there. But, I rationalized, how well would this dish heat up? The meat would overcook. The potatoes would lose their succulence. The glorious perfection of the moment would be lost. Carpe diem, I said to myself, and dug right back in.

*It's probably a good time to note the longstanding cultural debate over how to refer to this article-defying restaurant. A few months ago, a friend told me that since it's called "Federal," I should say "Federal" and not "the Federal." I thought this was nuts--surely a bizarre whim concocted in the picky brain of an overly scrupulous English major.

So I asked Laura, our favorite server, to give me some guidance.* She prefered "the Federal." Brimming with triumph, I conveyed the news to my friend, who calmly responded that Durham residents who were around when (the) Federal first opened, and was known as Federal, find it hard to change. Naturally, the very next day, a friend at church said, "We should go to Federal sometime!" I wish just once I could be right about something.

*Of course, only the picky brain of an overly scrupulous English major would even think to formulate these questions. Or write about them.

The Wages of Gluttony

2009-03-02T14:08:00.003-05:00

It's a good thing Durham is indeed buried in two, maybe even four inches of snow. Last night Fred and I went on a fried chicken extravaganza that rendered us nearly motionless, barely able to drag our churning stomachs out of bed this morning. I think I consumed roughly two cups of gravy alone.

I would offer the recipe here, but all I can say at this point is that I have not cooked a really great batch of fried chicken since the late 1990s. Even Fred's well-honed frying instincts failed us. At one point, we found ourselves staring in bewilderment at a meat thermometer sticking out of a slightly blackened thigh in gently roiling oil, as the temperature read a good 60 degrees lower than "done."

We've decided that we need to try Fred's grandmother's technique, in which you reduce the heat immediately after placing the meat in the skillet. Unfortunately, I don't think we'll be up to eating fried chicken again until 2011.

Cheap Pork and Turnip Greens

2009-03-01T15:20:00.003-05:00

Coupon clipping is beginning to take a toll on me. This morning, I rushed off to CVS to get the Puffs Plus Tissue with Lotion on sale for 97 cents a box before Durham was buried in 2 inches of snow. Even worse, I found myself saying things like this to the clerk: "Your flyer says this item was $2.99, so why is the price $3.99 here?" Or, "Don't I get this free if I buy 2 items at the regular price?" The clerk glowered as she scanned my coupons, making it clear that she wanted to shove them somewhere besides the cash register. But I didn't care. I saved $30.

But I worry that my newly discovered frugality may affect my cooking. Being a selective cheater when it comes to making things from scratch, I follow a set of inner rules that only a tax attorney could sort out. Yes to Brummel and Brown, Hamburger Helper, and pre-packaged sushi. No to canned soup, spaghetti sauce, and anything made by Swanson except chicken pot pie. No to canned biscuits (well, most of the time).

Now, the coupon world is ALL ABOUT pre-packaged foods. Coupons are the manufacturers' way to lure us into trying their latest product, from frozen Texas toast to banana-flavored Cheerios (I am, unfortunately, not joking). You can't find coupons for organic radishes, or prosciutto, or local butter. So I'm straining a bit, trying not to lower my standards and buy frozen pizza sticks just because they're 99 cents a box.

The good news is that seasonal ingredients do tend to be cheaper. So here's a wonderful recipe for a dish we had just the other night, made of items purchased at a decent sale price, with not a single canned good involved.

Pork Tenderloin, Turnip Greens, and Mushrooms over Pasta

Serves 2

1/2 lb. long thin pasta (spaghetti or spaghettini, linguini, etc.)
1 large onion, halved and sliced thin
4 cloves garlic
1 tsp. (or more) olive oil for sauteeing
1/2 pork tenderloin, fresh or leftover (about 4 - 6 oz.), sliced lenthwise, then into thin strips about 1" wide
12 - 16 leaves turnip greens, cleaned, ends trimmed, sliced into thin strips
To slice, lay about 6 leaves on top of each other, roll up tightly, then slice at 1/4" intervals
4 -6 mushrooms, halved and sliced thin
1 tsp. crushed red pepper (or more to taste)
Salt and fresh ground pepper to taste
Fresh grated parmesan cheese

Put water for pasta on to boil and prepare according to package directions. Heat olive oil in skillet on medium high heat. Add onions and saute until translucent. (Add water or more olive oil if they begin to brown.) Add garlic to skillet and stir. If using fresh tenderloin: Add pork and cook until just tender and lightly browned, then add remaining ingredients except cheese. Cook until mushrooms and turnip greens are tender. If using leftover tenderloin: Add remaining ingredients except cheese and cook until mushrooms and turnip greens are tender. Serve over pasta and garnish with cheese.

Mashed Potatoes with Roasted Onion, and A Friendship Bread Update

2009-02-24T19:48:00.005-05:00

1. Amish Friendship Bread Update

Above are two of the most recent Friendship Bread experiments. The one on the right, a whole-wheat version with honey, was quite good. Since then, however, I have developed a superior loaf with whole wheat, oats, and brown sugar. I'm setting out a new starter--I found the recipe on the Internet, of course--to make sure the recipe will work, so it will be at least 10 days before I post on this again.

2. Mashed Potatoes

It's darn near impossible to beat the creamy, luscious tastiness of mashed potatoes. But since that lusciousness results largely from vast quantities of butter and cream, Fred and I have struggled to keep mashed potatoes on our slimmed-down menu.

I'm the problem. I pretend to be a normal cook, the kind of person who makes desserts with Kool Whip. But the truth is that I am a horrible snob when it comes to food--a dreadful, pretentious, unyielding, unforgiving snob. While others at our Weight Watchers meeting are raving about recipes that call for cake mix combined with diet soda (I only wish I were joking here), or fat-free HoHos, or the menu items at Chili's that have less than 7 points, I can only smile weakly with supressed horror. Why are they not making cakes from scratch? Who eats at chain restaurants? And why do they not recognize that "fat-free" foods are the worst abominations of the agricultural/military/industrial complex?

My pretensions kept me from using fat-free sour cream or fat-free half and half in any mashed potato recipe. Buttermilk, which is rich but tends to be lower in fat, seemed an acceptable substitute. But the butter, with no "real" alternative, posed a thorny problem.

Luckily, I am a woefully inconsistent snob. I am a sucker for processed foods from the 1970s, the beloved companions of childhood. I will happily lap up cans of Spaghetti O's, heaps of Hamburger Helper Lasagna, vats of Campbell's Tomato Soup, and gallons of Kool-Aid. And it's a good thing for these mashed potatoes that among those foods, margarine holds a special place in my heart.

My health-concious mother, lured by advertising claims that margarine was the healthy option, kept it on hand along with the wheat germ and the embarassing slices of whole-grain bread that encased our bologna sandwiches. My grandmother, across the street, was providing butter churned from cows my grandfather had milked by hand. But my palate, captivated by the salty, flavor-filled chemical overload of margarine, rejected the subtle delicacy of fresh butter. And so even today, there is always a tub of non-dairy spreadin my refrigerator--these days, it's Brummel and Brown, which uses actual dairy products. It's right next to the unsalted organic butter.

The Brummel and Brown is essential for this recipe if you are counting calories. If not, butter will do quite well. Roasted onions add flavor and additional liquid without resorting to a lot of cream.

Mashed Potatoes with Roasted Onion

Makes 4 servings

Preheat oven to 350. Take two whole, unpeeled onions and place on cookie sheet. Roast in oven until very soft, 45 minutes to 1 hour. Let cool slightly, cut off ends, and remove skin. When onions have about 30 minutes remaining, peel and slice potato. Place in enough salted water to cover and bring to boil. Reduce heat, cover, and simmer on medium-low heat until potatoes are very soft, about 20 - 30 minutes. Drain potatoes and place in food processor with blade inserted. Add 1 - 2 tbsp. Brummel and Brown or butter, 2 -4 tbsp. half and half, and salt and pepper to taste. Cover until Brummel and Brown has melted. Add onions and process until just smooth. Add more half and half if needed and adjust seasonings. Serve hot.

Happy Valentine's Day

2009-02-14T10:34:00.002-05:00

I am deeply ashamed to admit that Whole Foods suckered us in to buying this for our Valentine's dinner tonight. I would like to say that it was Fred's idea. Let's pretend it was.

Waldorf Variations

2009-02-10T19:32:00.003-05:00

The writeup of the Amish Friendship Bread saga is taking a bit longer than anticipated, primarily because it seems that everyone from Martha Stewart on up has something to say on the subject. While I try to sort out whether or not I should be worried about getting salmonella from starter that ferments on my countertop for 10 days, I'll share with you a nice idea for red cabbage that I came up with on Sunday.

This recipe is a variation on Waldorf salad, a classic dish made with apples, raisins, celery, and walnuts with a mayonnaise-based dressing. I wanted to find a way to use a red cabbage and the 10 apples we bought in our efforts to save money by buying food we don't need at a very low cost. Fred and I were pleased with the result. If you like Waldorf salad, you'll enjoy this.

Red Cabbage Waldorf

Serves 4

1 tbsp. mayonnaise
1/4 cup fig preserves (preferably made with whole figs)
1 tbsp. red wine vinegar
2 cups red cabbage, chopped
1 slightly sour apple (MacIntosh, Braeburn, Pink Lady, or similar), cored and chopped
1/4 c. chopped walnuts
Salt to taste

Puree mayonnaise, preserves, and vinegar in food processor. Put cabbage, apple, and walnuts into a bowl and pour dressing over top. Add salt to taste. Stir. Serve cold.

Friendless Amish Bread

2009-02-04T20:09:00.009-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, after some 20 years of effort, I finally secured a starter for Amish Friendship Bread. (Actually, "effort" might be too strong a word, since my exertions consisted primarily of watching languid thoughts meander across my brain: "Wonder if someone will ever offer me a starter for Amish Friendship Bread?")

I'd first encountered Amish Friendship Bread when someone gave a loaf to my grandmother, and other family members had received loaves over the years. The concept was fascinating: The loaf began as a starter consisting of soured dough. The starter, filled with living cultures and bacteria and God knows what else, functioned as the leavening agent. You had to "feed" it to keep it alive, and as it grew you passed the excess along to your friends--hence the name "Friendship Bread." Legend has it that the starter originally came from the Amish, who passed it around their community along with the recipe. But someone in the community obviously let the secret slip, and before they knew it people like me, who couldn't even harness a buggy, were wanting to make it.

Once, in my late 20s, I asked my Granny about a loaf she'd received. "How do you make the starter?" I said.

"I don't know," she replied. "Someone has to give it to you."

"But how does that person make it?"

"Well, they get it from someone else."

"But someone HAS to know how to make the starter."

"I don't know," Granny repeated. "I've always just heard you had to get the starter from someone. I guess it's a secret."

"But it has to start somewhere."

"I think you have to have a friend give it to you," Granny replied, probably worrying, "And how will she find any with questions like these?" quietly to herself.

I gave up. I was in grad school, and we didn't hang around with the kind of people who gave loaves of friendship bread to each other. That was for women who made crafts and attended PTA meetings. My friends wore black, hung out in smelly coffee houses, and believed that literary theorists like us were well on our way to eliminating war, hunger, and racism. Or at least to offering a scathing critique of those who were trying.

And then there was the problem of the bread itself. Resembling a forlorn, sunken loaf of bleached banana bread, it tasted like a gluey, sickeningly sweet cross between a liquified cinnamon roll and a week-old birthday cake from the supermarket. I was able to choke down no more than a slice or two before I had to throw out the remainder of what my Granny gave me.

Still, I longed for a starter of my own. I wanted a Foucault-loving friend who would show up on the door of my apartment in a black turtleneck, a cigarette dangling from her lips, and hand over a loaf of Friendship Bread with a starter in a hand-crafted wooden bowl with the recipe carved on the side. But that friend never materialized, and my desire for starter went the same way as my plans to take the Orient Express clear through to China and marry George Clooney.

And then just the other day Carol in my office piped up, "Would you like a starter for Amish Friendship Bread?"

Would I like to marry George Clooney? (Wait. I can't answer that question in the same way anymore. Let's rephrase.) Do I think Fred Wise is the best husband on earth? And so I eagerly awaited the arrival of my starter, in its wooden bowl covered with a towel and accompanied by a hand-lettered recipe on a home-calligraphied index card.

I was a little surprised, a few days later, to find a Ziploc bag on my office chair, filled with what appeared to be yellowish glue, with a two-page computer printout from the Internet taped to the side. The instructions told me to "mash the bag" every day for 5 days, add 1 cup plain flour, 1 cup sugar, and 1 cup milk on day 6, and mash the bag again every day until day 10. On that day I was to create more starter by adding flour, sugar, and milk to the bag, separating the starter into more plastic bags for my friends, and then baking a loaf of bread that included "1 lrg. Box instant vanilla or choc. Pudding" in its ingredients.

Experience with Microsoft AutoCorrect suggests that the errant capitals here don't stem from an 18th-century love of creative spelling, and I have a strong suspicion that you won't find "instant" anything in most Amish kitchens. Still, I believe in my Friendship Bread. Ignoring the "friendship" part by hoarding every new bit of starter for myself, I've embarked on a new project to create a recipe that I will actually like. As I type this, several bags of starter lurk about the kitchen--enough to make 32 loaves of bread.

There have been two failures so far, one an apple-cinnamon version and a whole-wheat variety that was good warm but tasted like sawdust once it had cooled. But there was also a very successful apple-black walnut bread, and two new whole-wheat versions have just emerged from the oven. I will post recipes as soon as I get the starter thing figured out. I'll have to find an Amish lady. Or check the Internet.

Losing the Grocery Game

2009-01-29T08:32:00.005-05:00

I've mentioned in previous posts that Fred and I are not frugal people. But with this economic "downturn," or whatever the latest euphemism is for the disaster that is our financial system, we decided that we should do a better job of saving money on groceries--provided, of course that we did not end up with crummy bruised fruit and limp lettuce just because it was on sale.

Our first attempt involved setting a monthly budget for food. After blithely sailing past the limit somewhere in the second week of the month, we were forced to accept that our "budget" was functioning as a testament to our complete lack of thrift or discipline. And so I signed up for The Grocery Game, which promises to lower your food bill by about 60% through clipping coupons and watching sales.

Theoretically, it works like this: For about $1.25 a week, I sign up to receive lists of items that are on sale at the two local stores where I shop. Every Sunday, I pull out the coupons from the Sunday paper. On a specified day of the week, I check the Grocery Game site for the updated list for each stores. The list tells you when items are at rock-bottom sale prices and when to use your coupons. You then visit the store to stock up on things while they're at the lowest possible price.

Here's how we're doing so far:

Week 1, Sunday: I've signed up, paid my fee, and read the rules. They note that it takes roughly 12 weeks to get going with their system. On Sunday, Fred and I purchase a copy of The Durham Herald-Sun. I dutifully clip all the coupons and stack them on my desk.

Monday: Pile of coupons stuffed in my purse, I go to print the list at work. (Our printer at home has broken. We hope to buy a new one with the money we save on groceries.) I discover that the coupons on the list are in The New & Observer, not the Herald-Sun. Undaunted, I print the list anyway, selecting items I think I might need.

Saturday: After several failed attempts during the week, we finally make it to the store. I shuffle through lists and coupons, trying to find what I'm supposed to buy. We emerge some two hours later (our visits normally take about one) with $143 worth of groceries--cheaper than usual. We're on our way.

Week 2, Sunday: We don't get around to looking for a News & Observer until the evening. They are sold out everywhere. We go to Whole Foods, where we pick up enough food for about two meals for around $120.

Weeks 3 and 4: We travel for the holidays. We eat out a lot.

Week 5: Forget to buy N&O. Another run to Whole Foods.

Week 6: Decide to subscribe to N&O, for an additional $100 a year, to make sure we get coupons. Purchase that Sunday's edition for $1.50. Re-read directions for list. Discover that we need to go on certain days of the week for rock-bottom sale prices. These days are different for the two stores we frequent. (Note: Whole Foods is not one of those stores.) Realize more planning may be involved than we initially thought.

Week 7: We make it to the store, with the few coupons we've been able to accumulate clutched in our hands. Begin to utilize "stockpiling" method (buying lots of items when they're on sale). Buy 10 jars of salsa and mustard, 10 bags of Starbucks coffee, 10 bags of cat litter, and 10 cans of air freshener. ("We never use air freshener!" Fred exclaims. "That's because it's not on sale!" I respond.) At checkout, learn that there are limits on the discounts and that 2 of our groups of 10 won't get it. Spend $248.

Realize we need shelves to store all this extra food. We've been told Costco has great deals on things like this as well as food. Head over to Costco. Purchase membership for $50. Buy set of shelves for $100.

Week 8: Shelves still not set up. N&O subscription has not yet been delivered. Forget to buy paper again. Discover we've missed sale days at both stores again this week, which is particularly disappointing since Harris Teeter had Bing cherries. Have dinner consisting of collard greens with salsa, both of which were on sale. Go to Whole Foods and discover whole chickens on sale for 99 cents a pound, not to mention wine. Spend $111.

This week: I travel for work most of the week. Fred will have to live on chicken and salsa.

Settling In

2009-01-23T18:42:00.003-05:00

We are beginning to settle in. The transition team has been hard at work throughout our move, though we'll be plagued by the legacy of the past for years. Items long held prisoner in a remote corner of our lives are being removed from confinement and are being returned to shelves and cabinets. The executive branch (our house) no longer contains everything, since we now have a functioning legislative division (Fred's studio) to help things run more smoothly. And most importantly, Dick Cheney is no longer running the country, which makes the entire universe a happier place.

The move, coupled with over a month of holiday "cheer" and near-constant travel, has altered some of our eating habits. We've been cooking, but it's a lot of the same stuff. So I'll devote my first post of the new year, a mere 23 days in, not to a new recipe per se, but to report the happy discovery of a new breakfast concoction: pumpkin yogurt.

This discovery came out of Weight Watchers, which Fred and I continue despite the fact that our sole success recently is that neither of us gained more than 3 pounds over the holidays. For someone who consumed a gallon of milk per day in her youth, I've found it hard to meet the two-dairy-servings-a-day "Healthy Habit" advocated by WW. So I've resorted to this tasty combination to deal with the issue.

Pumpkin Yogurt

1/2 cup vanilla yogurt
2 tbps. canned pumpkin
Cinnamon to taste

And here's the best part: I found out last week that it's actually really good for you. Normally I discover that the things that I love to eat (fat, salt, lard, butter, fat, bacon, salt, and fat) aren't really very healthy. So picture my happy astonishment when I re-read a recent article in the New York Times on "The 11 Best Foods You Aren't Eating" and discovered that my yummy little breakfast had two of those foods (cinnamon and canned pumpkin) on the list. Can life get any better? I think not.

Chicken Livers and Sweet Potatoes in Our New House

2008-12-10T19:56:00.005-05:00

After two months of signing papers, carrying boxes, fussing at Fred for misplacing things he's never seen, and the other horrors associated with moving, we are finally settled in a house here in Durham. It's only about eight blocks from the Federal and has a garage that will become an art studio. Fred is in heaven. I'm pretty happy too, because most of his paints, drawings, canvases, stretchers, tools, paintbrushes, and empty watercolors jars are no longer inside my--I mean, our--house. He has his cave, and I have my kitchen.

I am, however, beginning to suspect that we may never see each other again. Last week, as we were just starting to unpack, Fred disappeared into the basement with a load of boxes. Some time later, when he still hadn't returned, I began to be concerned. I went to investigate.

Our basement is only partially finished. Half consists of a room with a tiled floor and finished walls, with a smaller room containing a shower, sink, and sump pump attached. The other half is unfinished and contains the heating and air conditioning system.

I entered the basement just as he was emerging from the unfinished portion. "What are you doing?" I asked.

He was aglow with pleasure. "I've been looking at the sump pump while you were running the washing machine upstairs! Fascinating! And just now I was checking to see how the basement was holding up after the rain. Everything looks fine." He spread his arms out, his face beaming like a king who's just learned his wife gave birth to an heir. "Isn't this GREAT!?"

"Yes," I muttered, barely able to reign in my enthusiasm--and suddenly realizing that unpacking was going to take much longer than I had planned.

While Fred explores the underbelly of our home, I'm getting the kitchen in order. Despite the chaos, the creative spirit was upon me this week. Most interesting and surprisingly good were the chicken livers and sweet potatoes we had last night. We continue our weight watching--Fred has lost 29 pounds and I've reached my goal of losing 15. The trick here, then, was to find a way to cook chicken livers without resorting to the default mode of frying. This method, cobbled together from James Beard and others, is simple and tasty.

Chicken Livers with Mashed Sweet Potatoes

Serves 2

1 lb. chicken livers
1 large onion, chopped
4 large garlic cloves, minced
1 tbsp. butter
1/2 cup or more red wine
Salt and pepper to taste

Melt butter in large skillet over medium heat. Saute onions until translucent. Add garlic and stir. Add chicken livers, wine, salt and pepper, and stir. Cover and cook 3 minutes. Uncover and cook until livers are done and sauce has reduced slightly, about 5 more minutes. Serve with the sweet potatoes, below.

Mashed Sweet Potatoes (from James Beard's American Cookery)

Preheat oven to 400. Clean and dry 2 sweet potatoes and place on cookie sheet. Cook until tender, about 1 hour. Remove skins and mash with 1 tbsp. butter, salt, and lots of freshly ground pepper.

Fred at Durham Art Walk

2008-10-29T18:44:00.008-04:00

We'd love it if you would come to see Fred's work at the Durham Art Walk this weekend, Nov. 1 - 2. We'll be in the West Village Apartment lobby, across Morgan Street from Tosca.

Our recent trip to New York, where Fred visited the Met, MoMa, and the Frick, has fueled a creative streak that's filled our apartment with about 50 new watercolors, including the watercolor below is inspired by the Italian artist Giorgio Morandi. (It's one of my favorites.)

Much as I love Fred's work, I would be thrilled if it could find a home outside our dining room. To address this problem, we're buying a house in Trinity Park with an art studio. You can come see paintings and watercolors there too.

Through all this, I keep cooking--the only thing that keeps me sane. This weekend, we returned to an old favorite: pinto beans and cornbread. I firmly believe that only two people raised on "country cooking" in the South can fully appreciate the joy of a dinner consisting of pinto beans and cornbread. I don't see a point in offering a recipe--you put a pound of beans, a few slices of salt pork or bacon or ham, onions, and salt in a crock pot and cook on high for 4 - 5 hours, or low for longer. But when you're buying a house, there's no dish that can make you feel more frugal and virtuous.

No such thing as too many collards

2008-10-09T21:00:00.006-04:00

Perhaps it's come to your attention that our Weight Watchers updates have decreased in frequency. We haven't quit; we've just plateaued. Our collective weight loss stands at 32.8 pounds--15.8 for me, 17 for Fred. With just 1.2 pounds left for me and 6 for Fred (to reach his initial goal of a 10% weight loss), we're now entering the final push.

This means more soup. At least that's what was suggested at our last WW meeting.

If you've ever wondered how Jell-O salad ever got to be popular, come to a Weight Watchers meeting. I'm often stunned at the culinary tactics some of my fellow members deploy in the kitchen.

In our last meeting, the leader divided us into groups to come up with ideas for fall soup recipes. Our group (led--some might say dictated--by me) devised a spicy butternut squash chowder. This idea was met with murmured confusion, even by some group members. (But like Sarah Palin, and Stalin--who must be related to her since Alaska is so close to Russia--I had managed to suppress dissent.)

The most popular idea was to take a bag of frozen vegetables and dump some canned chicken broth in it. I was forced into seething, bitter retreat.

In response, I offer this very simple but MUCH better dish, which I made the next night.

Brat, Butter Bean, and Collard Soup

3 pork brats or sausages, quartered lengthwise and sliced

NOTE: The brat should have enough fat for the saute. If you use brats made with a low-fat meat like turkey, add oil or chicken stock to the saute mix to keep it from burning.

4 cups collard, cleaned and chopped
2 medium onions, chopped
4-5 cloves garlic
1 can butter beans, undrained
1 tsp sage
1 tsp thyme
2 bay leaves
1 whole dried chipotle pepper
Salt to taste
Water or chicken stock to cover

Heat chopped brats on medium heat. Add onions and saute until translucent. Add garlic and stir. Add remaining ingredients. Cover and cook on medium heat for about 1/2 hour.

Food for Hard Times

2008-09-30T20:21:00.011-04:00

ALERT: RECIPE CORRECTED! (See below.)

Greens used to be the vegetable of the poor. My Depression-scarred grandparents adored them and passed that love on to me. In the fall, my grandfather plowed up our vegetable garden and sowed the field in turnips. By early November, we would have not only turnips, which kept for months, but also the turnip greens. My grandmother would preserve them by cleaning, blanching, and freezing them, so they too would be available throughout the winter. We also relied on collards, which are in season right now. (We got some lovely batches in the last few deliveries of our CSA.)

Greens make me think of my grandparents, and I've been wanting to talk to them a lot lately: "Are you as worried as in 1929 as I am now? Do you think this is going to be as bad?" This morning I woke up and actually thought I should give them a call, then realized they aren't available anymore. All I can do now is cook the foods they ate when times were hard--even if they now show up in stores whose prices would have sent my grandparents into apoplectic shock.

I've shared one recipe for greens on this blog (Hulga's Vegetarian Collard Greens), but was shocked in perusing my archives that I haven't featured more. So here's one from last week that will give you something to do with your fall vegetables.

Butternut Squash and Collards with Penne (2 large servings)

1/2 pound penne pasta
1 medium butternut squash (can substitute any fall squash, including pumpkin), stem removed, halved lengthwise, and seeds scooped out, plus 1 tsp. olive oil for roasting
3 cups collards with stems, chopped (turnip greens, mustard greens, or kale would probably work too)
1 tbsp. olive oil or 1 cup chicken stock for sauteeing
1 large onion, quartered and sliced thin
4 large cloves garlic, minced
2 tsp. crushed red pepper (add more or less to taste)
2 - 3 cups chicken stock
Salt to taste
Grated Parmesan cheese for serving
NOTE: Save seeds from squash to roast, either for garnish or a snack

1. Preheat oven to 350. Baste halved butternut squash with olive oil. Place cut side down on jelly roll pan or cookie sheet. Roast for 30 minutes or until soft.

2. Meanwhile, saute onion in olive oil or chicken broth in large skillet on medium high heat until translucent. Add garlic and stir. Add collards, crushed red pepper and salt. Turn heat to low and cover. Cook on low heat, stirring every 5 minutes or so, for about 15 minutes. Turn off heat and set aside, covered, until squash is done.

3. Put salted water on to boil and cook pasta according to package directions. Drain.

4. When squash is done, scoop out of skin and add to collard mix. Add 2 cups chicken stock. Stir together. Continue to add stock in small amounts until squash has reached consistency of thick tomato sauce. Mix with pasta in large bowl. Serve with grated parmesan cheese. Garnish with roasted butternut squash seeds if desired.

Roasted Butternut Squash Seeds

Preheat oven to 400. Rinse squash seeds and remove most of flesh. Spread out between two cloth towels and pat dry. Place in small bowl. Add 1 tsp. olive oil, salt to taste, and stir. Spread on jelly roll pan or cookie sheet and roast for 15 minutes or until lightly brown.

So Much Going On . . .

2008-09-24T19:12:00.003-04:00

I have been so busy trying to put together a panel today on sustainable agriculture at Duke Divinity School, which employs me, that I did not even think to publicize it in this blog. It was a lively discussion about how better to feed the poor in this country while improving our agricultural practices. The upshot: We need policies to fight poverty, not just food banks to plug up the holes that exist. And we need to develop economies that will make healthy, fresh foods available to all, not just those who can afford to buy local, organic produce.

Panelists were Mark Winne, author of Closing the Food Gap: Resetting the Table in the Land of Plenty, and Divinity faculty members Norman Wirzba and Ellen Davis, both of whom write on ecology, agriculture, and the Bible. (Ellen's new book, Scripture, Culture, Agriculture: An Agrarian Reading of the Bible, will be out next month.) These are authors worth reading, and a subject worth discussing, especially in the land of Whole Paycheck.

Love at First Sight

2008-09-14T09:10:00.009-04:00

The Federal may now have a rival for first place in our culinary hearts. We met our new love at the end of a couple of hours spent looking at houses yesterday. (We continue to labor under the delusion that we can afford to keep our still-unsold house in Atlanta and buy one here too.) Too tired to cook, we stumbled into Rockwood Filling Station (2512 University Drive), Durham's new "Neapolitan Pizzeria."

We were seated outside in the warm night under the full moon. I was happy despite being a sartorial wreck, clad in not terribly clean flip flops, jeans, and a tank top, with my wispy, flyaway hair pulled back in a ponytail. The only consolation was that the jeans were my skinny ones, which are comfortable now for the first time in 8 months.

The menu was promising--an array of pizzas much like those you see in Italy, which you would certainly hope for and expect in a place that bills itself as authentically Italian. And then our waiter came to tell us about the specials.

"First off, we have arancini, which are fried risotto balls . . . ."

I couldn't believe my ears. "Arancini?" I said. "That's kind of unusual. Isn't that a Sicilian dish?"

My waiter seemed pleased and no doubt surprised at this remark from the poorly dressed woman with the bad hair. He smiled. "You win the prize! You're the first person tonight who knew that."

I went on, ever the good student eager to show the teacher that I knew the answer but pretending I was talking to Fred. "Yes, 'arancini' is Italian for 'oranges.' They're called that because the fried risotto gives them a dimpled appearance like the outside of an orange."

"That's right," the waiter said.

I waited expectantly for the "prize." A free martini would be ideal, but a gold star would do. None being offered, I made do with the arancini themselves.

They were prize enough. I've been eager to sample this dish since my friend Rocco, my expert on all things Italian, told me about them on a trip to Rome a few years back. But I never saw them on the menu then or in a subsequent trip back to Italy, and never in the U.S.

This being my first time with arancini, I can't say how they would compare to what you'd get in Palermo. But these were wonderful--crispy and tender all at once, like a perfect hush puppy, if hush puppies were lumpy and made with cheese. These had mozzarella and a few other things that neither Fred nor I can remember; we ate them too fast. They were served with a spicy marinara sauce, which nicely offset their creaminess.

My entree was the pizza special--arugula, truffle oil and Parmesan, done perfectly. There was so much arugula it kept falling off and just enough truffle oil to offer its indescribably rich and heady undertone without overwhelming everything else. We also threw caution and weight watching to the winds and ordered fried calamari, which included some whole ones with their tender little tentacles as well as the typical rings. The breading was delicate and crisp, flavorful without being spicy. Poor Fred, who ordered it despite my harrumphing about how fattening it would be, ended up getting very little.

We were also pleased by the mid-range prices. Our meal, including one glass of wine and one beer, was $44 with tip. Of course, if we do end up buying one of these houses, we'll never be able to eat out again.

P.S. I'm a bit late on the Rockwood review bandwagon. Carpe Durham and Delicious Durham have already posted entries that have generated a lot of comments. But whatever kinks were there in the first few weeks, I think they've started to work themselves out.

Education

2008-09-13T06:15:00.005-04:00

My confidence as a cook was somewhat restored last night when I used my Ranney Ranch soup bones in what I can only call Un-Split Pea Soup. (I don't offer a recipe, though, because while the beef was good, the recipe itself still needs work.) These tasty little morsels consist of a bone (obviously) surrounded by about three inches of meat. This time I kept it simple--searing the soup bones in a little olive oil, sauteeing with onion, adding garlic and then soup ingredients. The smell of the meat cooking in the pot was heady, with a slight undertone of something else--cloves, perhaps, or New Mexico grasses, or maybe just a memory of home.

I also discovered that the ranch offers a recipe for arm steak on their web site. It does not call for smothering the meat in bad barbecue sauce.

As for the Un-Split Peas: These were acquired on our trip to Food World (home of the mysterious and delicious little peppers I have yet to identify). I was excited to try them. They were labeled "whole dried peas," and they consisted of small, yellowish-green pods that I imagined would puff up slightly, like black-eyed peas, and might make an interesting addition to a salad.

It's probably pointless to go on. You know how the story went--the slowly dawning realization during cooking that the pods looked an awful lot like peas, only dried; the wonder at how quickly they were softening; and the final burst of insight upon tasting them: "Whole dried peas. Oh yes. Split peas, only . . . not split."

Culinary Disasters

2008-09-08T19:28:00.006-04:00

Our rut continues, but even in the midst of our doldrums, we have lost a collective 27 pounds--14 for Fred, 13 for me. The reason may lie in some spectacular culinary failures in the last couple of weeks, which go a long way toward keeping portion sizes under control.

The worst resulted in the sad destruction of a pound or so of arm steak from Ranney Ranch, owned by a colleague from Duke. Ranney Ranch raises "grass-finished" beef, and having grown up on a beef cattle farm, I was looking forward to trying it. But from there, things went downhill.

As far as cooking arm steak is concerned, I had the same amount of experience as someone who'd never accidentally stepped in a "manure pile" by accident. (It happens, you could say.) I suspect that this cut ended up as "ground beef" (which my grandfather adored) when we sent out our own calves to the slaughterhouse. So I was left to scour the internet for cooking ideas, just like anyone else.

My research led me to conclude that a long marinade or braising was the cooking method of choice, since arm steak tends to be tough. As usual, I had no patience with the idea of marinading overnight, so braising it was. Knowing that Ranney Ranch is in New Mexico, I also thought that Mexican spices would be appropriate.

If I'd left it at that, things might have been okay. But after adding chipotle, and salt and pepper, and vinegar (to reduce the gamey taste of the meat, I theorized), and then deciding to throw in tomato, and chili powder, and cumin, and coriander, and brown sugar, and God only knows what else, and then searing it on both sides, and then cooking not quite long enough because it was approaching 9:30 p.m., we were left with some tough meat floating in a sea of what amounted to mediocre barbecue sauce.

I have since learned that grass-finished beef is best cooked simply so that the flavor will stand out. Unfortunately I'm out of arm steak.