Recently in Ingredients Category

I enjoy these cool, drippy days when the winter rains finally come to the Bay Area; they give an illusion of changing seasons rare in our temperate climate. It's nice to put on my pumpkin-colored raincoat and tweed cap for the first time in months and head out to buy a new umbrella. It rains so infrequently during spring, summer, and early autumn, I invariably forget where I stored the previous season's umbrella and must replace it. I suspect that one day I'll open the right drawer or closet and find a mother load of previous season's parapluies.

While I'm out umbrella shopping, I'm also likely to pick up a few bunches of beets. For as much as I love eating adorable baby beets in the spring, I like them even better in the chilly days of autumn. The smell of damp earth and caramelized sugar while they roast seems to warm me from the inside. Plus, what better to counteract a damp, gray day than an intense infusion of beet pink?

Although I know it's possible to think of the pink as something of a menace, an infectious hue that must be segregated from all other foods until the last possible minute, I love that the color looks almost too intense to eat. That such a bright hue accompanies such rich, almost dirt-like taste always surprises me. Many of my favorite beet dishes take advantage of the pink, letting it bleed freely into the dish, and ensuring a truly dramatic presentation on the plate.

"Just look at those curved loins and muscular buttocks--just what we'd expect from a fit, racy bitch," I overheard. But by the time I managed to get a peek at the telly, Glyn must've already changed the channel: something about Birmingham, Crufts, and an Australian Shepherd taking the pastoral round.

I teeter between being cuted out (as in, I find every dog so cute that I squeal as one affected by severe cuteness) and being mildly piqued by the limiting of genetic pools to preserve the idea of breed. It's the cultural and ethnic mutt in me--the bitch, one might say--that finds the frighteningly detailed classifications of these carefully bred pedigrees, or purebreds, distasteful.

Don't get me wrong: I rooted for the Welsh Springer, and my family had a little tricolour King Charles Cavalier, rightly named for pedigree and year with the letter H, bred by the Renard family of La Ferté-sous-Jouarre, whose mother was a French national champion and whose puppies were worth a grade A liver on the Parisian black market.

How do you know that your hot sauce addiction has gone too far? The above bottle of chipotle Tabasco had been in my possession for a mere 24 hours when that photo was taken. During the course of that day, I ate it on a grilled cheese, I used it in a marinade for fajitas, I had a snack of it on tortilla chips, and then ate it on the fajitas themselves.

When your daily hot sauce consumption can be measured in ounces, that's probably how you know. So, okay, maybe I'm addicted. It's my brother's fault, really. On a visit home last year, I saw him shaking it onto a slice of pepperoni pizza. "It's good," he said, "It's really good." One bite and I was hooked.

What's round, crunchy, salty, and excellent for snacking? Potato chips, obviously, but why limit yourself? For the last year or so, here at Chez Marthe, radishes have been a snack food of choice. It sounds like one of those healthy eating lies. Fat free yogurt is not as good melting into black bean soup as sour cream. Portobello mushrooms, though delicious, don't really taste like steak at all. But a radish, sliced into crimson-rimmed coins and dipped in your best sea salt, have all the makings of a healthy snack for the ages.

I read once about a scientific study about why we like noisy, crunchy foods. If I recall correctly, they tested corn chips. Apparently, we love the violence of the sound, the louder the better. A cold, fresh radish crunched between the teeth certainly meets those criteria. And while they may not taste like cool ranch, when their natural pepperiness is augmented with salt, they are anything but bland.

If you're feeling a little indulgent, radishes and salt served with generously buttered bread and a glass of Sancerre makes for one of my favorite cocktail hour treats. Or if it's already time for dinner, I like to cut the radishes into wedges and toss them with raw sugar snaps or blanched green beans, mesclun, and sherry vinaigrette for an excellent accompaniment to Tejal's Oeurves en Cocotte.

I also love these rosy beauties julienned in with the cabbage for fish tacos, topping sesame noodles, or tossed into spicy stir-fries at the very last minute. I stir thin-sliced radishes and apples into chicken salad and diced ones into couscous with currants, almonds, and herbs. Still, no matter what I use them for, I always slice off a few fat disks and sprinkle them lightly with salt. I'm always in the mood for a snack.

I'm not convinced that organic and natural foods are always better. Local is nearly always better, but sometimes organic doesn't necessarily equal quality. At its best, the word "organic" signifies that the product was loved and nurtured, cared for rather than doused in chemicals. At its worst, a zucchini is a zucchini is a zucchini, unless it's an organic zucchini, then its a zucchini that cost six dollars.

But when it comes to eggs, I'm absolutely convinced. I buy the fussiest eggs I can get my hands on. I like them cage-free, organic, antibiotic-free, fresh, local, and fed an all vegetarian diet. My reasons for this are entirely selfish. Sure, I guess I'm glad that the chickens that laid my eggs weren't confined to cages, but their chickeny happiness is not my main motivation. I like fancy eggs because they look and taste so much better. I guess that pampered chickens lay eggs that pamper me. Lately, I've been buying Rock Island eggs, produced just up coast in Sonoma.

The yolks are a beautiful, bright orange that makes cakes, custards, and mayonnaise equally richly tinted. They fry, scramble, and most especially poach better. They taste fantastic. I'm sure the freshness is a big part of why they're so good. Perhaps if I could get my hands on industrial eggs this fresh they'd taste every bit as good, but I guess I'll never know. For now, even if my zucchini are average, my eggs will always be fantastic, and yes, even organic.

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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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(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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One of the treats I brought home from my recent pilgrimage to the Ferry Building was two ounces of brick red pimenton de la Vera from Boulette's Larder. It is lovely; it has a color so rich, I can already picture it in stews and a smoky aroma that literally makes my mouth water. All morning, I've been nipping over and taking a heady sniff.

Pimenton de la Vera has been produced in Extremadura, in the Southwest of Spain, since about the 16th Century. It is made from pimento chiles dried over fires and ground and is the ancestor of the shameful, flavorless dust we call paprika. It has a Denomination of Origin, meaning that it is a protected product, certified by the Regulating Council in Spain. I'm in love with the whole idea of certifying and protecting important regional foods. It shows a reverence both for tradition and uniqueness of taste that I wish we had in the United States. For more about this excellent product, check out chocolateandzucchini.com. Clotide had an excellent piece about it in September.

I think it will be excellent in braises with pork and hearty greens. I'm going to pair it with shellfish and garlicky olive oil. I may even use it to make some very devilish deviled eggs.

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Alas, no pictures (I forgot because I was worn out from Christmas tree decorating), but my ras-el-hanout tomato sauce was a rousing success, and it suggested a super quick supper that was just perfect after a long day of festivity.

The recipes, more or less:

Ras-El-Hanout
(closely adapted from epicurious.com)

2 teaspoons ground cumin
2 teaspoons ground ginger
2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 teaspoon black pepper
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground coriander
3/4 teaspoon cayenne
1 teaspoon ground allspice
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon ground cardamom

Mix well and store in a sealed container. Makes about 1/4 cup.

Cod with Moroccon Tomato Sauce and Feta
(With no real measurements, this is a quick supper after all.)

French one small onion and fry gently in olive oil until soft but not colored. Add two cloves of garlic minced, cook until fragrant. Add 1 generous tablespoon tomato paste, the zest from one lemon and one tablespoon ras-el-hanout. Stir until you smell the spices and deglaze with aboutg half a cup of white wine. Add 1 can of whole tomatoes crushed up with your fingers, all the juice and about half a cup of water. Simmer vigorously until the sauce thickens (this took me about 15 minutes).

Turn on your broiler to preheat. Cut one pound of cod (or basically any flaky white fish) roughly into inch and a half chunks. Stir it into the tomato sauce, slap on the lid and simmer until the fish is just cooked through. When the fish is cooked, add a heaping tablespoon of finely chopped cilantro and taste the sauce for seasoning. I added a squeeze of lemon for brightness and a teaspoon of brown sugar to cut the bitterness of the canned tomatoes.

Spoon the fish with tons of the sauce and onions into two oven safe bowls. Sprinkle generously with crumbled (preferably french) feta. Heat under the broiler for just a minute until the cheese softens. Drizzle the fish with good olive oil and serve with lemony couscous.

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