February 2007 Archives
I was so sure I was going to love this that I started composing this entry in my head before I had even scooped the yogurt into my cup. And I think the level of my expectations may have sabatoged the experiment. This is good, it's a natural, and I like it. Not really sweet enough to compete with a good honey-yogurt combo, not rich enough to make me swoon (my fault for choosing the nonfat instead of the full-fat yogurt, which were my only two options). This was the first time I opened up the June Taylor fig, port and lemon thyme conserve, and it's . . . interesting. Every flavor is there, so it's kind of a complex taste. I almost think the stuff would be good with some roasted pork, chicken, maybe even lamb. It's not really sweet enough to definitely be dessert.
Or a good cheese accompaniment--I almost think something nutty and sharp would be good with it--you know, like the quince paste and manchego combo. I think gorgonzola or goat cheese are common fig partners.
Oooh, I like the cheese idea . . . and there they go again, those expectations, higher, higher, higher.
I was so sure I was going to love this that I started composing this entry in my head before I had even scooped the yogurt into my cup. And I think the level of my expectations may have sabatoged the experiment. This is good, it's a natural, and I like it. Not really sweet enough to compete with a good honey-yogurt combo, not rich enough to make me swoon (my fault for choosing the nonfat instead of the full-fat yogurt, which were my only two options). This was the first time I opened up the June Taylor fig, port and lemon thyme conserve, and it's . . . interesting. Every flavor is there, so it's kind of a complex taste. I almost think the stuff would be good with some roasted pork, chicken, maybe even lamb. It's not really sweet enough to definitely be dessert.
Or a good cheese accompaniment--I almost think something nutty and sharp would be good with it--you know, like the quince paste and manchego combo. I think gorgonzola or goat cheese are common fig partners.
Oooh, I like the cheese idea . . . and there they go again, those expectations, higher, higher, higher.
Every once in a while I get on a meal-planning kick. I figure out what I'm going to make each day for lunch and dinner and then buy all the groceries at once. Often I fizzle out on my plans before I reach the end of the week and have a bunch of food left over that taunts me with its impending bad-ness. Or the grocery store (or delivery service) throws a wrench in the works by not having something in stock or sending me the wrong thing. Or I make too much of one thing and don't have a chance to eat leftovers because I have all these plans for other meals.
You just have to be really flexible and ready to adapt and eventually it just seems like too much effort. When the weather's nice I don't mind shopping every day and just making meals on the fly. But with slushy snow on the ground and a stroller that doesn't always fit into the six-inch-wide paths of cleared sidewalk, I'm trying again.
First I got messed up because Fresh Direct sent me parsnips instead of tomatillos for my chili. Can you imagine a turkey-parsnip chili? (Hmmm. Maybe I should've tried that one out.) I just used the canned tomatoes I was going to use for the fennel tomato soup. So now I have 4 parsnips and a whole bunch of fennel that I don't know what to do with.
I did make a pork tenderloin, broccoli and mashed potatoes. The pork went into tacos the next night, the broccoli will go into homemade calzones tomorrow, and I'm starting to think the potatoes would be good in a parsnip soup.
On top of all that, last night during the breaks in the Oscars I assembled a strata for some brunch guests I was expecting today. It sits in the refrigerator all night, bread soaking up custard, then bakes in the morning, until it's this beautiful, golden, puffy thing. But only one person would brave the weather, so now I have a big pan of the stuff and a son and husband unwilling to eat it. Maybe I'll post the recipe later. It was good.
Sorry to do this here. It has nothing to do with what I'm cooking. But I just finished watching the new episode of The Office, and I'm struggling to find the word for the emotion the show often leaves me with.
I'm not good at talking about TV or movies. I tend to watch Grey's Anatomy after The Office is over, and I think the differences between the two magnify the quality of The Office. GA is huge, melodramatic, with grand romances, big emergencies, fast talking, rousing monologues. I think the titular character, Meredith Grey, has almost died 3 or 4 times in the one season I've watched.
But Office does more with less. It's mundane, everyday, banal, but the nuances of the characters' words and actions are honest, maybe because their experiences are more like our everyday experiences. And the character who reveals the most and who draws the most out of his coworkers is the one I hated in the beginng, the boss, Michael. He makes me squirm with embarrassment every single episode, but then he responds with unfeigned shocked anger and sorrow at an employee's lack of faith in the business, or genuinely admires Pam's awkward attempts at painting, and for me he redeems all of humanity.
I'm done, I think. Just so glad to find something that can move me without making me feel like I've been manipulated. Do I belittle what The Office is trying to do by saying it moves me? I'm not sure that's the goal of the British version, at least. Hmm.
On related note, I've found that I have a lot less tolerance for violence, grief, pain in TV shows or movies since my son was born. I don't mean it makes me mad. It makes me feel sick and tense, even if it's Hollywood over-the-top. More than ever before. Huh.
I was on a roll last week, cooking up a storm. I wanted to be seasonal and soothing and make something Todd likes. This cauliflower, from All About Braising, was earthy and nutty and so essentially cauliflowery, with just the right hint of cabbage-ness. I tossed it with pasta and grated cheese over the top.
You start by sauteeing 1 1/2-inch florets in 2 tablespoons butter and 1 tablespoon olive oil until they're "speckled all over with nice bits of brown," about 8 minutes. Then you put in a couple tablespoons of rinsed capers and cook a bit more. Next, 1/2 cup water (the recipe calls for stock), salt and pepper, then simmer covered about 15 to 20 minutes, until the cauliflower is tender. If you're going to eat it as a side, you boil away the liquid, then add lemon and toasted breadcrumbs. I didn't boil down the liquid, but added some cooked penne, the breadcrumbs and some parmesan.
As a side note for those of you who are not squeamish, it breaks my heart when I finally coax August into putting something new and delicious into his mouth and, instead of squealing, "More! More!" he thrusts the chewed-up once-lovely food out of his wide-open mouth. Usually he aims for the plate, and I can't decide whether that's better or worse than his other options.
I was on a roll last week, cooking up a storm. I wanted to be seasonal and soothing and make something Todd likes. This cauliflower, from All About Braising, was earthy and nutty and so essentially cauliflowery, with just the right hint of cabbage-ness. I tossed it with pasta and grated cheese over the top.
You start by sauteeing 1 1/2-inch florets in 2 tablespoons butter and 1 tablespoon olive oil until they're "speckled all over with nice bits of brown," about 8 minutes. Then you put in a couple tablespoons of rinsed capers and cook a bit more. Next, 1/2 cup water (the recipe calls for stock), salt and pepper, then simmer covered about 15 to 20 minutes, until the cauliflower is tender. If you're going to eat it as a side, you boil away the liquid, then add lemon and toasted breadcrumbs. I didn't boil down the liquid, but added some cooked penne, the breadcrumbs and some parmesan.
As a side note for those of you who are not squeamish, it breaks my heart when I finally coax August into putting something new and delicious into his mouth and, instead of squealing, "More! More!" he thrusts the chewed-up once-lovely food out of his wide-open mouth. Usually he aims for the plate, and I can't decide whether that's better or worse than his other options.
Not that I have anything against Jacques Torres*, but I find myself completely unable to haul myself, my 2-year-old, and the stroller into his store to try these chocolate-covered Cheerios that I keep reading so much about. But then August sees the picture of them in New York magazine and starts squealing. Out come the chocolate chips, a quick zap in the microwave, a couple of fistfuls of Cheerios stirred in and we had it. The tedious part is fishing them out of the melted chocolate, which I did with a skewer while the boy stuffed 1 in his chocolate-smeared mouth for every 2 I laid out on my silpat. It is kind of tricky to melt chocolate in the microwave; I did it for 2 minutes on 50 percent power. The trick is to take them out far before they look finished, while they're still whole; those chips hold a lot of heat, which finishes the job.
But what a genius idea. They are remarkable. And I'm sure Torres' are even better, made as they are by a master chocolatier.
*Actually, I kind of do, but it's a small, personal thing; I was writing a short, short piece on fondue and wanted to get a recipe from him, but his people made so many demands about wording and about touting Torres' own chocolate that I couldn't use it - there simply wasn't enough room for all that verbiage and the recipe. Chocolate Bar was much more accommodating.
My 2-year-old and I have been staying indoors in the afternoons, so I've made an effort to include him in our dinner preparation. That included using a food mill to puree a split pea soup I cooked up from a recipe I got on Fresh Direct's web site. It doesn't have any meat in it (it does have stock), and a russet potato makes it so thick that I've added about 1/4 cup water to each serving when reheating. It's still silky smooth with a mild, but not bland, flavor. August likes his more soupy, so I just added more water to his.
The recipe directs you to bring 4 cups beef broth (I used chicken-it's what I always have) to a boil, then add 1 1/2 cup split peas and 2 medium potatoes (I used 1 because mine was a russet and seemed big), diced into 1/2-inch pieces. Then, while that's boiling, you saute a diced onion in 4 tablespoons butter and 2 tablespoons olive oil. Add 1/4 teaspoon fennel seeds, then cook until onion is soft and beginning to brown. Set aside until peas and potatoes are soft, about 45 minutes, then add onion mixture and puree. Put back in pot, then add a medium diced carrot and more stock to thin the mixture; simmer until the carrots are soft, about 10 minutes. Add salt and pepper to taste.
The recipe includes a topping of finely minced red onion, parsley and lemon juice, which sounded good to me but not to my cautious eaters, so I didn't bother. Let me know if you try it. The recipe's here.
If you know any dutiful churchgoers, you've probably at least heard of that experience when they (or you) walk into church, sit down, and hear a sermon that speaks exactly to some struggle they (or you) are having.
And so it goes with me today with that not-really-a-religion-but-feels-like-it-sometimes, food: I'm laying on the sofa at 6:30 this morning thinking that I really don't want to eat any of the usual suspects for breakfast. I want something savory, but not eggs. Something warm and satisfying. "What if I make grits with lots of butter and cheese?" Silence. So I'm not going to do it; I'm not hauling myself up to prepare food that my son and husband won't eat. Did I mention it's 6:30?
Then later, thank you, the Times suggests the very thing. It doesn't make my family any more willing to eat it, but it gives me a little vindication in the face of their disdain. And maybe tomorrow morning I'll make them go hungry as a sunny-colored bowl of grits slowly cools in front of them.
I got a big, beautiful pottery cookie jar for my birthday, so August and I were both anxious to get something in it. Because I've been trying to cut back on the sweets, I chose cornmeal-almond biscotti from the Once Upon a Tart cookbook. I'm kind of reluctant to call them biscotti, though. The cornmeal made them more sandy than usual biscotti. Not unpleasant. Just different. I added poppyseeds because I didn't hae the chopped almonds, so that added to that coarse-grained crunchiness.
The recipe was funny. It seemed pretty clear to me, from measurements like 1 tablespoon plus 1 1/2 teaspoons, that the recipe was increased by 50 percent. So I made 20 cookies, which was 2/3 of the recipe. It was easy to split that way:
I creamed 8 tablespoons butter with 1 cup sugar, then beat in 2 eggs, one at a time, and 1 tablespoon almond extract. In a separate bowl, I mixed 2 cups flour with 1/2 cup cornmeal, 2 tablespoons poppyseeds, 1 1/2 teaspoon baking powder (the only measurement that didn't break down too well by 2/3; it should be 1 1/3 teaspoon, but who has 1/3 teaspoon measuring spoon?) and a pinch of salt.
Stir the dry into the wet, then, using floured hands, form into a 4-inch-circumference log. I did it on my silpat, then brushed off the excess flour before baking it in a 350 oven for 40 minutes. Let it cool completely, then cut into 20 slices. Lay biscotti on their cut sides and bake for another 30 minutes.
You know, Todd and I often resorted to this traditional "peasant food" back when we were both on starter salaries, and I have forgotten how much he loves it. It's really a soul-satisfying soup, especially when you have thick gruyere toasts soaking up about half a bowlful. August follows in his dad's footsteps, upending the bowl into his mouth when the spoon proved inefficient. It took a bit of convincing that the soggy bread in his bowl was cheese "toast," but soon he figured out that it tasted much better, and was easier to eat, than the crispy stuff.
Start with a couple of tablespoons of butter and 2 thinly sliced onions (I used 1 yellow, 1 vidalia, but I don't know if that makes a difference). Saute the onions over medium heat along with a chopped garlic clove, a bay leaf, a sprinkling of dried thyme (the recipe called for fresh, but I didn't have it), salt and pepper for almost half an hour, until the onions are soft and brown. Add 1/2 cup of wine and let it cook until it's gone. Then stir in a generous tablespoon of flour and cook on lowered heat for about 10 minutes to brown, but not burn, the flour. Add 4 cups stock (I used chicken, but the recipe calls for beef and I'm sure it would've made a lovelier-colored soup and maybe a better flavor - but this is peasant food, so I say use what you have). Simmer that for 10 minutes, then top with toasts (sliced baguette topped with shredded gruyere and popped in the toaster oven). The toasts get soggy so you can eat them with a spoon. Yum.
We swung by City Bakery today for the Banana Peel hot chocolate. I had never had their hot chocolate, although I tried the frozen hot chocolate a couple summers ago.
This was thick stuff, and really rich. I didn't make it through. I actually find the creaminess of the drink a distraction from the chocolate; especially with the banana flavor I think it needed more of an edge, some bitterness or acidity from the chocolate. I think I like my hot chocolate made partially with water, or lowfat milk, so the chocolate flavor can shine.
That said, City Bakery offers a lot of flavors this year that might be a good foil for the richness of the basic chocolate: bourbon, lemon, ginger. Beer even seems like it might be a good idea now that I know what I'm dealing with.
Another word: share. It's decadent and yummy, but has the potential to give you a stomachache.
