January 2006 Archives

After a picnic on the beach, a nap is always good form.

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Stephen and I were in Daly City to see a movie, so we stopped by the big, cool Asian supermarket to pick up a few things. Specifically, I'd been in the mood for the tasty Vietnamese spring rolls that Tejal and I are both so devoted to, and I needed to pick up some skins.

Plus, I just really like to shop there. In addition to the beautifully marbled meat, fresh, whole fish, crazy-cheap produce, and enough types of miso, noodles, and frozen dumplings to keep me busy for the rest of my life, it's invigorating to shop in a grocery store that's so full of things I didn't know I needed. It's the same kind of novelty I felt the first few times I went to Trader Joe's and Whole Foods, combined with the implicit rush of buying items when I cannot read anything on the package and am not perfectly certain what they are.

Now, my neighboorhood has large Chinese and Russian populations, so I shop in neat little shops full of neat exotic foods all the time, but there is something special about having that expierance in a store with the size and selection of Albertson's. It makes me feel like I felt for a few months after I moved into my first apartment, when wandering the aisles of Safeway, stocking up on staples was oddly exhilirating.

In addition to piles of herbs and udon, soba, and cellophane noodles (and of course, spring roll skins), we picked up a big box of clementines. Now, I didn't have to go to the Asian market to get clementines, this time of year you can find them anywhere. Somehow, until that moment, Stephen and I had avoided their siren call. A fruit so sweet and juicy, so adorably palm-sized, so easy to peel, no wonder they're seductive.

We have a sordid history with those tiny, succulent fruits. In college, my roommate Megen made the mistake of bringing box into our room. For weeks, she and I hunched over the crate, peeling and eating clementine after clementine until our finger tips were orange and our mouths raw from the acid. Soon, we peer-pressured Stephen into our addiction. Our room was littered with piles of peel and a citrusy perfume wafted out every time we opened the door.

But in recent years, Stephen and I have been less addicted. We convinced ourselves that we shouldn't buy a crate. How could two people finish five pounds of fruit before it went bad? But this year, we gave in. Between us, we ate 17 clementines in the first 15 hours. Seventeen sweet, sweet clementines. I think we may be in trouble.

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As an addendum to yesterday's love poem to gin, some practical information.

From The Food Lover's Companion:
Gin [JIHN] An unaged liquor made by distilling grains such as barley, corn or rye with juniper berries. London dry gin is any colorless gin, the majority of which is made in England and America. Hollands gin, also known as genever or jenever gin , is a Dutch product that tastes very different from other gins because it's made with a large proportion of barley malt. The first Dutch gin was used as medicine.

In addition to the dominate flavor of juniper, gin is flavored with different blends of other botanical flavors including lemon or bitter orange peel, anise, angelica and orris root, almonds, liquorice, cinnamon, coriander, and cassia. There are a few different styles. No matter how different they taste, nearly all the common gins are slight variations on London dry style. Dutch gin is the original gin. It has a rounder, sweeter taste, thus the designation of "dry" in London dry gin. Old Tom gin is all that remains of lightly sweetened style that was wildly popular in the 18th century; the use of Old Tom gave the Tom Collins cocktail it's name. Finally, Plymouth gin, a favorite of mine, also used to be a style and is now just a brand. Plymouth originated in, hold on to your glasses, the port city of Plymouth, England. It is very smooth and very fragrant. Lots of excellent information at Tastings and Wikipedia

Some of my favorite gins:
Bombay Sapphire-- My preferred everyday gin. A lovely scent and super smooth. It's tasty in mixed drinks and martinis, although I like a Sapphire martini a little wetter than with some higher end gins.

Tanquerary and regular Bombay are other nice, versatile gins that aren't so expensive you have to drink gin to forget how much you paid.

I am also greatly devoted to some of the higher end, boutique gins.
Hendrick's-- Beautifully perfumed with rose, coriander, and cucumber; I could splash it on after a bath. Marvelous in a g&t, marvelous in a quite dry martini, generally just marvelous.

Junipero-- This stuff is strong in every way. Made by the same people who brew Anchor Steam beer, it's bracingly junipery and rather high in alcohol, yet it retains balance. I like it in a wetter martini.

Magellan-- It's infused with a lovely blue color from irises. And it tastes good too. It's much too pretty for anything other than a martini.

And finally, a few of my favorite recipes using this fine elixir:

My Martini
Start with 3oz of your gin of choice. You must add vermouth. Call me a traditionalist, but without vermouth it isn't a cocktail, just gin in a glass. Depending on the gin, I like anywhere from a teaspoon to an ounce. My general rule is that the smoother and more perfumed a gin is, the less vermouth it needs. Thus, Hendrick's gets a teaspoon, Sapphire gets a tablespoon, Junipero and Tanquery get about 3/4oz.

Now, add ice and stir for all your worth with a long bar spoon, or even the handle of a wooden spoon, just something to keep your fingers out. Stir quickly to aerate the gin a little and get it as cold as possible with a minimum of ice melting. When the shaker feels cold, you're done. Traditionally, you stir drinks made of all alcohol and shake those with mixers like juice. I think this is a good rule. I don't exactly understand how it is possible to "bruise" gin, but I do think stirring prevents ice crystals clouding the drink and interfering with the texture, and it waters down the gin less.

Strain into a chilled martini glass. If you've got enormous, modern martini glasses, you may find it doesn't fill the glass up very far. Don't be tempted to add more. You can't make it through eight full ounces of gin before it gets warm anyway. Now, take a long lemon twist, or even a wide swath of peel removed with a vegetable peeler (this isn't as pretty but is easier to get oil from). Crush it over the glass until you see the oils spritz out and float on top of the drink. Rub the peel around the rim of the glass and drop it in.

Stephen's gin and tonic
1 1/2 oz of gin plus 4 1/2 oz tonic (basically, a 1:3 ratio) over plenty of ice. Squeeze in a sizeable wedge of lime.

Pink Spank (My favorite variation on a g&t.)
1 1/2 oz gin plus 1oz campari over ice. Squeeze in a lime and orange wedge; fill with tonic.

The Jasmine (Where I first discovered how good gin and campari are together. I understand that it was invented in Oakland.)
Shake vigorously over ice: 1/4 ounce of Cointreau, the juice of half a lemon, 1 1/2 ounces of gin, a dash of Campari.

The El Splendido (This was the drink Dave at the B-Side served to me that initiated me into the ways of gin. It was invented by the Millionaire from the band Combustible Edison.)
1 1/2 oz. gin, 3/4 oz. Chambord, 3/4 oz. fresh lime juice. Shake rather hard over ice. The texture of fresh lime pulp and ice crystals is nice.

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Last night, during a phone call with our sometime guest blogger Whitney, I learned that she has taken to drinking gin, and I'm largely responsible. No, I haven't said hurtful things or betrayed her and driven her to the bottle, I just provided the necessary final push to make her a fan when she visited over Thanksgiving. I have that effect on people.

I am devoted to gin. It has just about ruined me for fruity cocktails forever, but I love it just the same. Perhaps it's that gin reminds me of myself. We are complicated, nuanced, and refreshing. Gin and I are perhaps not immediately approachable and we can be potentially abrasive, but we inspire enthusiasm in those who get to know us. If you don't treat us with respect, both gin and I can burn you.

I think I should begin at the beginning; my love of gin started at a bar called the B-Side with a bartender named Dave. If you're ever in Cambridge, Massachusetts, you should stop by the B-Side Lounge. The food is great, the atmosphere cool but relaxed. The cocktails are serious. There are no flavored vodkas or fluorescent Puckers at the B-Side, just an extensive list of seriously retro drinks and sophisticated original cocktails served up with just the right amount of ceremony. One evening, while I sat at the bar having an early dinner, Dave and I started chatting about food and drink. He seemed like a nice guy with a good sense of taste, so I asked him for a recommendation. He served me a drink that he said was his girlfriend's favorite, a brisk mix of gin, Chambord, and fresh lime. I was hooked.

Before that day, I thought gin was loathsome. My early college forays with the liquor convinced me that it smelled like pine trees, burned like acid and elicited an instant gag reflex. I hadn't tasted it in years, but I guess my tongue was ready that day. Primed by a love of full-bodied wines and rich, dark beers I could finally appreciate the gin's unique flavor and perfume. In time, Dave, with his black dress shirt, skinny white tie and tattooed forearms, taught me to love martinis as well.

The B-Side's signature martini was made with super-smooth Plymouth gin, vermouth, and orange bitters vigorously stirred over ice. Dave twisted lemon rind over the glass and rubbed the oils around the rim before dropping it in. It was heaven. I came to understand that the pine tree taste was actually juniper. I began to discern the balance of bitter and sweet, the citrus and spice, the refreshing crispness and the bracing bite. Vodka, I thought, was for teenagers. Nothing but a bland burn, it presented little challenge and thus little reward. Just as I'd moved past Bud Light and White Zinfandel, I was ready for a woman's liquor. It was time for gin.

Since then, my cocktail times have been populated with many martinis and gin and tonics. I mix it with juices and herbs; I stir and shake it. And, it seems, I convert others. Stephen now regularly asks to me greeted at the door with a frosty gin and tonic on a Friday night, an unexpected request from a man who is himself devoted to Manhattans, also courtesy of Dave. Now I've brought Whitney into the juniper-scented fold. She called me Janie Ginnyseed. A fine, dry nickname. I like it.

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There are plenty of things taught in culinary school that when you get in the working kitchen make you go, phfff, I can't believe they told me to do it like that at school! When you're working you see there's almost always a hundred different ways to do one job to the same end--you learn which is best for you by watching others, by playing around.

But here's something I stick by hating in school: making choux pastry by hand. Incorporating the eggs to the stiff, wet dough, one by one, till the dough was smooth and stretchy again may have given me, for a few months, the toned arms of an ambi-dexterous tennis player, and sure there was a certain satisfaction in piping it out with burning, twitchy muscles--but it hurt! And it took a long time. And kitchen aids are such wonderful things...

Unfortunately, I don't have a kitchen aid. Or a Kenwood for that matter.

And? And Glyn has been talking about eclairs for the past few days with such zest, that I've fixated on them. They're everywhere, on the fridge, at work, in every cook book I open... I can only think of a proper tea with eclairs baked that day, mmm! So? So I'm going to do what I thought I'd never have to do again, make a choux pastry by hand. Thank you Chef John and Chef Christophe, for locking away the equipment and strengthening my arms with a thousand pastry creams, genoises, choux batters, and meringues. Here goes.

Choux pastry is pretty underappreciated if you ask me. When made well, the airy golden puffs can be built into a pyramid of caramel, sliced and filled with savoury cheesy goodness or plumped up with a mixture of pastry cream, whipped cream, or butter, then iced. They will steam, rise, and brown into whatever shape you pipe or drop them. They will bake or fry, and even if you are forced to shape like ridiculous cream filled swans, they will still be tasty. Also, they're not that hard to make, and probably require no grocery shopping to get started. Plus they freeze well all piped out and unbaked if you make too much. This tray of unbaked eclairs, gougeres, and religieuses will come in handy next week, when your boyfriend's parents come to visit...So don't be scared. Flex.

Choux is a classic recipe, so there are a thousand of them out there. It's almost one part butter/flour to two parts eggs to two parts water, with slight variations of course. Today I'm testing out doing exactly this proportion as so many recipes I've seen are very nearly this proportion. Either way, they're all made basically the same way: start with a base of liquid--sometimes just water, sometimes a mixture of milk and water--my old pastry chef claimed adding milk made egg wash obsolete. I'm not sure how that works, but we did try making the dough both ways, and it's true.

When you're baking a thousand eclairs everyday for Harrods , you'll try anything to save time and skip a step. Of course, when baking one tray at home, a single step doesn't cost you a half hour but only a minute or two. But for Chef Christophe, I still replace a fifth of the water with milk and skip the eggwash. The choux gets golden without it and it doesn't add flavour so why bother? Also, I use salted kerrygold butter but still add that pinch of salt, and sometimes add about a tablespoon of sugar to flour.

240 ml water
60 ml whole milk
150 g butter
150 g flour
250-300 g whole eggs
pinch salt

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees and get your ingredients scaled out. Melt the butter and water together in a saucepan. Once boiling, whisk in the flour. Now get rid of the whisk and switch to a paddle, like a firm spatula, and keep the mass moving until it becomes a dough that holds together and doesn't stick to the sides of the pan, this should just take a couple of minutes. Take off the heat and allow to cool slightly in a large round bottomed bowl (or if you're lucky, the kitchen aid). Very gradually, beat in the eggs, waiting each time to properly emulsify the egg before adding more. Beat the crap out of it. Seriously.

You want it smooth, shiny, slightly elastic, but drippy. Confused? In French, of course, there's a term for the texture you're looking for, bec de canard. It means that if you lift the whisk, a "beak," a strand that falls in the shape of a beak will form. It looks like a duck's beak, I guess. In some cases, like if you've cooked your water/butter/flour mix for too long and too much water has evaporated, or if your flour is old and dry, you may need to add a bit more egg than the recipe calls for, to get the beak. And in some cases, you may not need to add all the egg you've scaled out, it all depends on the texture of your dough.

Eventually, you'll get there. Put the dough in a piping bag, then using a round nozzle, pipe small lines or rounds of choux onto parchment, giving them room between each other to grow. If you're egg washing for colour, and I'm certainly not, now is the time to do it. Bake for about ten minutes. They should be coloured a medium brown on the outside by now, but it's also important that you're able to pick one up and, well, check that it's bottom is golden, dry and firm--as bottoms should be. If it isn't then the pastry isn't cooked through enough and won't hold its' filling properly--just put it back in at a lower oven, 300 degrees, to dry out a bit.

Set them aside to cool, then store in an airtight container until your filling's ready and it's time to fill, which also means time to eat. If you're making eclairs yourselves, I suggest not filling and glazing until you are just about to eat them, that way the pastry stays crisp and delicious.

Poking around in my recipe collection the other day, I noticed I make a lot of soup. When I'm at home during the day and in search of lunch, often I'll get to poking around for things that can be simmered together. Soup suits me for a number of reasons. Most importantly, it serves as its own reward for keeping a reasonably well-stocked pantry. Homemade stock from the freezer, or even the canned stuff, plus canned beans or tomatoes, seasonings, and whatever vegetables are lurking in the fridge combine in seemingly infinite ways. My soups also typically have more nutritional value than my other go-to lunch, spaghetti with garlic and olive oil. They let me exercise another favorite habit of mine, namely, sneaking vegetables into things. I'm convinced most people, Stephen and I included, just don't eat enough vegetables. In college, I berated dorm-mates for their low produce consumption, warning of the inevitable onset of scurvy. It pleases me to slip spinach, peas, peppers, or zucchini into something I'm eating anyway. I think I subconsciously believe that if I eat enough fiber it will cancel out all the ice cream, but that's another topic entirely.

I've made soup twice this week already, and today's effort has yielded particular pleasure. I sometimes have issues with chickpeas. At their best, they soak up flavors and aromas like a sponge. They take well to Mediterranean, North African, Italian, and Indian ingredients, and can add either welcome texture or pleasant creaminess to dishes. At their worst, they're bland, floury lumps that bear an uncomfortable resemblance to tiny brains. I think this soup expresses the former.

Chickpea Soup

1 can chickpeas, rinsed and drained
1 can whole tomatoes, crushed by hand and 1/2 cup of the juice reserved
1/2 onion, diced
1 rib celery, diced
1/2 red bell pepper, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 can low-sodium chicken broth
1/2 teaspoon coriander
3/4 teaspoon cumin
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
1/4- 1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika (optional, but nice)
1 small chunk parmesan cheese rind (also optional, but also very nice)
1 small pinch red pepper flakes
1 bay leaf
1/4 teaspoon ground mustard
1 1/2 tablespoons olive oil
Lemon juice, to taste

Heat the olive oil in a large sauce pan, add the onion and celery, sprinkle with salt and saute until the veggies soften. Add the bell pepper and garlic and continue to cook until the onions are translucent and beginning to color. Add all the spices and cook until they are fragrant.

Add the tomatoes and reserved juice, chickpeas, broth, and parmesan rind. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer for about 30 minutes, stirring occasionally. Or, if you're hungry now, cook it at a higher heat stirring often for 15 minutes. Fish out the bay leaf and parmesan rind.

At this point, you can eat the soup as it is, or puree partially or entirely. I removed about 1/3 of the soup (taking care to get more chunks than juice), pureed the rest in the pan with an immersion blender, then stirred the chucks back in. Season with lemon juice and black pepper.

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(Chicken with Tiny Potatoes and Mustard, before the mustard)

I didn't always love chicken thighs. I wanted them to be a cheaper alternative to boneless, skinless breasts. Instead, they insisted on being blatantly misshapen, oddly grayish, fat-streaked chunks. They sauteed for crap. I didn't like them, and even though they cost about three dollars less per pound than breast, I still wasn't going to buy them. How naive I was.

I didn't understand that the dark meat and bits of fat have their purpose. Lurking within that unattractive lump of meat is meltingly tender secret potential. What I didn't know those first few times I cooked them was that chicken thighs, like any other dark, tough, marbled, ugly, riddled with connective tissue piece of meat, respond well to low and slow cooking.

In recent years, I've done better. We eat chicken thighs frequently, and I've never gotten over a slight feeling of wonder at their transformation. They go into the pot ugly and chewy and emerge rich, soft, and full of flavor. And they cost so much less than chicken breasts, I get to enjoy them, and enjoy feeling thrifty to boot.

Remember when I mentioned the beautiful fond my Le Creuset makes?

Braised Chicken with Tiny Potatoes and Mustard
(serves about 3)

6 chicken thighs with bones and skin
1 head of garlic, cloves peeled
2 carrots, sliced
About 18 tiny potatoes, an inch in diameter, or larger new potatoes cut into 1-inch chunks
1 cup white wine
1/2 cup low-sodium chicken broth
8-10 sprigs thyme
2 sprigs rosemary
2 bay leaves
2 tablespoons olive oil
Flour, for dusting
1/4- 1/3 cup heavy cream
1 tablespoon dijon mustard
1 tablespoon whole grain mustard
Juice of 1/2 lemon

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Remove the skin from the thighs, season with salt and pepper, and dredge in the flour, tapping off the excess. Heat a 5 1/2 quart (or there about) Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add the oil and saute the thighs until they are deep gold, about 5 minutes per side. Adjust the heat (or even pull the pot off the burner) if the bits on the bottom of the pan look like them may burn.

Remove the thighs and set aside. Turn the head down to about medium and add the garlic cloves; saute briefly until they begin to color. Deglaze the pan with the chicken broth and wine, scraping up all the brown bits. Add the carrots and herbs and tuck the thighs back into the pan. If necessary, add a little more broth to bring the level of liquid halfway up the sides of the thighs.

Put the potatoes into the pot on top of the chicken. They will sort of roast rather than braise. Put the lid on the pan and cook in the oven for about an hour and twenty minutes, or until the chicken is very tender.

Remove the pan from the oven. Fish out the more obvious herb stems and bay leaves. You may notice that the garlic cloves have sort of melted into the sauce. Stir the mustards, cream, and lemon juice. If the sauce looks thin, put the pan on the stove over medium-high head for a few minutes to let the cream thicken it. Season with salt, pepper, and more lemon juice if necessary.

The finished dish.

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Crostini with white bean puree, roasted tomatoes, almonds, and smoked paprika.

Glyn, master of the flame.

Tejal corrupting little Milton.

The duck, oh so smoky and covered in a spicy-sweet glaze, dripping with tasty duck fat.

Glyn carving, the second in a series (see the Thanksgiving pictures).

Juices, again.

Tarte Tatin with lime cream.

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Maybe you've noticed that my cohert, the entirely tasty Tejal has been missing lately. Don't fret. She just moved into a new pad and her internet isn't hooked up yet; expect her back any day now.

And hey, if you ever need to talk to either of us right away, we're reachable via martha@2tastyladies.com and tejal@2tastyladies.com.

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The dreary weather persists. Wet feet are all the rage, or at least the inevitable result of leaving the house. The other result, at least around my place, are rich, slow-cooked dishes that warm the tummy and fortify against the rain. I have simmered, stewed, slow-roasted, and braised until I worry that my Le Creuset Dutch oven may collapse from exhaustion.

And let me, for a moment, sing the praises of that very extraordinary cooking vessel. Nothing is better suited for gentle, moist cooking than enameled cast iron. Its smooth interior is pleasantly stick-resistant, yet it develops truly superior fond when meat is browned in it. The lid fits tightly, sealing in moisture, and the dense, heavy cast-iron absorbs the heat and releases it back into the food with consummate care. Its cheerily colored exterior brightens up even the grayest winter day. Chicken thighs and cubes of pork shoulder emerge tender and infused with flavor. My enameled cast iron Dutch oven is one of my most useful, most prized tools in my kitchen. Indeed, it was an investment, but since I fully expect my heirs to fight over it at my funeral, I believe it was totally worth the price.

Stephen and I had a rare day off together today. We lounged, snacked and cuddled in our pajamas. Tonight I made a rich Bolognese sauce that simmered for about two hours. It smelled so good I expected my neighbors to knock on the door, hoping for a taste. The recipe follows (with the standard caution that I'm not always great at exact quantities). Expect more of my recent slow-cooked creations in the days to come.

Rigatoni with Bolognese Sauce

1 pound ground chuck
1/2 pound ground pork
3 slices bacon, diced
1/2 cup finely chopped celery
1/2 cup finely chopped carrot
1 medium onion, finely chopped
4 cloves of garlic, minced
8 ounces cremini mushrooms, chopped
1/2 ounce dried porcini mushrooms soaked in about 3/4 cup boiling water, finely chopped with 1/2 of the liquid reserved
1 cup milk
1 cup red wine
1 14.5 ounce can diced tomatoes
2 1/2 cups tomato puree (no salt added is best)
1 cup low-sodium chicken or beef stock
1 generous teaspoon each dried thyme and oregano
2 bay leaves
pinch dried red pepper flakes
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 cup heavy cream
1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
1 1/5 pound rigatoni

Heat a heavy Dutch oven over medium-high heat and add the ground chuck and pork. Season with salt and pepper and cook until all the pink is gone. Drain the meat in a colander and set aside. Turn down the heat to medium and cook the bacon until it starts to get crisp. Add the onion, celery and carrot to the bacon fat. Sprinkle lightly with salt and saute about 10 minutes until the vegetables are very soft and starting to turn golden. Add the garlic and cremini mushrooms and saute until the most of the mushroom liquid has evaporated, about another 5-10 minutes.

Return the meat to the pan, add the thyme, oregano, pepper flakes, bay leaves, and a few grinds of pepper. Add the milk and cook until most of it has evaporated. Next add the wine and also cook until almost dry. Pour in the diced tomatoes, tomato puree, stock, the reserved porcini soaking water, and add the cinnamon and nutmeg.

Bring to a boil and simmer, stirring occasionally, about two hours or until the sauce is very thick. Stir in the cream and balsamic vinegar, taste for salt and pepper. Cook the rigatoni and toss it all together. Garnish with chopped basil or parsley and grate on some parmesan.

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