La Cuisinette

Breakfast, Lunch, Tea, Repeat

2012-01-29T08:13:00.000-08:00

Rose Carrarini is the reason I put so much butter and creamin scrambled eggs.

She’s the Englishwoman behind the popular Rose Bakery, inParis, and behind a gem of a cookbook, BreakfastLunch Tea. You might have guessed it, but the bakery and the book are fullfor pastries, soups, salads and puddings. And more.

I trust her because of those afore mentioned scrambled eggs.Never before had I followed a recipe for scrambled eggs, and she admits she“feels a bit silly” giving one. But they are what she promised: creamy but wellcooked. She shouldn’t feel silly. I’ve made my eggs her way since. One day,I’ll feel “silly” enough to pass it along too.

But not today. Today is a good day for blueberry andcranberry scones. In Breakfast Lunch Tea,Carrarini calls only for blueberries, so feel free to omit them. But I foundthey offer a fresh pop! of acounterpunch, though.

Don’t, however, omit the wheat germ. It’s just a handful, Iknow, but it really makes the texture in these scones, gives them a moistcrumble. They are most satisfying. If you don’t have wheat germ on hand, usecornmeal, or a handful of whole wheat flour.

Blueberry and Cranberry Scones

Adapted from BreakfastLunch Tea, by Rose Carrarini of Rose Bakery

500 grams white all-purpose flour (about 3 1/3 cups), plusextra for dusting

A handful of wheat germ

2 very heaping tablespoons baking powder

2 tablespoons white sugar, plus extra for sprinkling

1 teaspoon salt

Grated zest of a lime, lemon or orange

1 cup butter, straight out the fridge and cut into cubes,plus extra for greasing

2 handfuls of fresh or frozen cranberries

1 handful of fresh or frozen blueberries

1 ¼ cups milk (or almost)

Grease a baking sheet, and preheat the oven to 400F.

In a large bowl, combine the flour, wheat germ, and bakingpowder. Give it a good thorough mix. Add the sugar, salt, and lime zest. Mix.

Add the cubed butter. Using your fingers, rub the mixtureuntil it is a fine crumble. Mix in the blueberries and cranberries, and form acrater in the middle.

In a glass measuring cup, beat one of the eggs. Add milkuntil you reach the 1 ¼ cup mark. Poor the liquid into the crater, and gentlymix with a fork. Finish mixing the dough with your hands, very gently so thatyou don’t burst all the berries (you will, inevitably end up with some bursts,creating a beautiful purple swirl in the dough).

On a floured surface, roll the dough out with a rolling pinor just your hands. You want it quite thick—3 cm or so. Using a round cuttingtool (a glass works), cut the dough into individual scones and place on bakingsheet, nearly touching each other.

Beat the second egg, and brush on the scone tops. Sprinkleeach one with a pinch of sugar. Bake in the oven for 15-20 minutes, until justgolden. Serve warm with butter and lots of tea.

An Extravagance

2012-01-26T19:48:00.000-08:00

Today, I have a question for you. Let’s call itcrowdsourcing.

Thisis salt that I bought in New York. Ithas white truffles in it, and when I unscrew the jar, I get a hefty, earthy whiff. It’s pretty much the only thing I boughton our trip to New York, so the frivolity of spending that (embarrassing) amounton a jar of salt is excused (in my imperfect opinion).

Anyway.So my question is this: I’ve used it in a few things—eggs, dressings, sprinkledon cold meats and on toast with avocado—but I need your help. Where else shouldextravagant truffled salt go? Leave a comment and let me know.

An Indian Mushroom Soup

2012-01-22T09:02:00.000-08:00

Let’s cut straight to it. You should really make this soup.

I made it almost by accident yesterday afternoon. Ithappened for two reasons: First, I had too many mushrooms in the fridge.Second, I’ve been perusing Meeru Dhalwala and Vikram Vij’s book, Vij’s At Home, religiously over thelast week.

It’s such a lovely book, and while every recipe was a snapto make, the results were complex flavours and a full variety of curries on thetable.

But this mushroom soup standsout. It’s like alchemy. It’s mostly water, really, but heavily spiced and thickenedwith potatoes, it becomes the absolute best vehicle for a large handfuls ofmixed mushrooms.

Dhalwala and Vij call for buttermilk, but I had to substitutefor every kind of dairy I had in the fridge (mostly milk, a bit of cream, anddollop of yoghurt), which I soured with a drop of vinegar. Go for buttermilk if you have, though.

As for mushrooms, any combination will do, but shitakes arejust so nice. If you can include them, do.

This will serve six people for a light meal, with a littlesomething on the side (some rice, or a salad, say).

Another tip: Once you get the oil going, everything startsto happen quickly. So make sure you’ve prepped and measured everything, beforeyou get going.

Indian Mushroom Soup

Adapted from Vij’s AtHome, by Meeru Dhalwala and Vikram Vij

1 ½ lbs potatoes, scrubbed but not peeled

½ cup sunflower or other high-heat cooking oil

1 tablespoon cumin seeds

8 large garlic cloves, finely chopped

3 tablespoons ginger, finely chopped

2 teaspoons salt (orup to a tablespoon, depending on taste)

2 ½ tablespoons ground coriander

1 tablespoon crushed hot chilies

1 ½ teaspoon turmeric

5 cups water

2 ½ cups buttermilk

A few large handfuls (6 to 8 ounces) of mixed mushrooms(shitake/cremini/oyster, or anything you fancy), sliced quite thickly.

First boil the potatoes. But them in a large pot with plentyof water, and bring to a boil. Turn down to a simmer, and cook for 45 minutes,or until tender. Drain and leave to cool. Then peel the skins and discard (whenthey are cooked, you can even do this with your fingers). Roughly mash the potatoes, making sure toleave some larger, bite sized pieces.

In a heavy bottomed pot, heat the oil on medium-high, andadd the cumin seeds. Allow them to sizzle for 30 seconds. Add the garlic and sauté for a minute or so,until just golden. Then add the ginger, and continue to stir, for 30 secondsmore. Now add the dry spices: salt, coriander, chilies, and turmeric. Stir fora minute, reduce the heat, and add the potatoes. Give them a good mix tocombine, and add the water. Bring up to a boil, then down to a simmer. Leavethose flavours to marry for 5 minutes or so.

Before adding the dairy, spoon some of the hot curry intothe cold milk, to prevent curdling. Then, carefully pour the milk in, stirringas you pour. Bring it slowing up to a gentle boil, still stirring. Add themushrooms and cook them until they are just soft. This will only take twominutes or so. Take off the heat, and serve.

A Very Fresh Ceviche

2012-01-18T20:00:00.000-08:00

I promised a ceviche recipe, inspired by the freshness of the fish we ate in Costa Rica. Here’s what I’ve come up with. It’s based ona brilliant ceviche that my friend Stacey makes, but I replaced the spicyelement with crunchy red pepper—not out of principle, but in keeping with theCosta Rican-style ceviche I tried.

The recipe calls for tilapia, but any firm white fish—aslong as it’s perfectly fresh—will do. My Rick Stein book on seafood recommendsa similar recipe, using monkfish.

These amounts will serve six as a first course, but three orfour people could share it as a main course, served on tostadas. For somethinga little decadent but not especially authentic, but a thick layer of mayonnaisehelps the ceviche stick to the tostada.

A Very Fresh Tilapia Ceviche

Adapted from a recipeby my friend Stacey

1 lb tilapia filets, cut to about the size of the tip ofyour finger

The juice of 6 limes

A smallish red onion, very thinly sliced

A small red pepper (bell or otherwise any mild pepper),thinly sliced

1 avocado, diced

A generous handful of chopped cilantro

A few generous pinches of salt (to taste)

In a medium sized bowl, combine the fish and the juice lime.For about forty minutes, allow the lime juice to “cook” the tilapia. Give it agood stir every so often.

About ten minutes before serving, add the red onions to thebowl, mixing them in. The lime juice will take away some of their bite.

Transfer this mixture to a large bowl by the handful,discarding the majority of the lime juice by squeezing the liquid. Add the restof the ingredients, combine thoroughly and serve.

Pura vida, as they say

2012-01-15T11:13:00.000-08:00

Here, some photos to explain my absence.

We spent a week in Costa Rica, near the small city of Puntarenas.

The first four photos were taken by Andrew, in a neighborhood called El Roble, and the last four were taken by me, on a very hot afternoon in Puntarenas proper.

The most impressive of Costa Rican food comes from the sea. We ate a few fantastic ceviches. Ticans are not crazy about heat in their food, so unlike some Mexican ceviches that I’ve devoured, they’re not spicy. But they are delightfully bright and with so much lime juice it’s nearly a cold soup. I will be working on my best imitations of Costa Rican ceviche, and will report back!

Bonne Année, Jehane Benoît!

2011-12-30T16:50:00.001-08:00

Christmas has come and gone. December is nearly over. And we’ve calculated that between New York and a couple of stints at Andrew’s parents’, we’ve spent as much of the month away as we have at home.

All that to say I’ve been far from the kitchen and the recipe I’m sharing today dates back to before Christmas. But tourtière, that ubiquitous French Canadian meat pie, is just as appropriate for New Year’s Eve as it is on Christmas.

A note on the recipe : It’s my mum’s, but she derived it from the Québécoise culinary great of the 1960’s and 70’s, Jehane Benoît. She’s relatively unknown to Anglo-Canadians, but her 1963 Encyclopédie de la cuisine canadienne sold a million and a half copies. She was a constant in my mum’s cooking when I was growing up, and my mum’s a helluva good cook, so I owe Jehane a mention.

I’ll leave the piecrust recipe up to you. The best choice is a lard-based crust, but I’ve used a butter crust, which was just fine.

La tourtière aux quatre épices (Four spice meat pie)

5 lbs ground meat (ideally, one third pork, two thirds beef)

1 cup water

1 large onion, diced

1 ½ tablespoon salt

1 tablespoon ground pepper

1 teaspoon ground nutmeg

1 teaspoon ground cloves

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon powdered ginger

About 1 cup bread crumps, perhaps more

(Enough pie dough for three 9-inch pies, including top sheets)

Preheat the oven to 400F. In a large, sturdy pot (cast iron, if possible), combine all the ingredients, save for the breadcrumbs. Stirring from time to time, brown the meat on medium-high heat on the stovetop, uncovered. When the meat is cooked through and the ingredients are well combine, turn the heat way down, and start adding the breadcrumbs. This is a gradual thing – you want just enough breadcrumbs to absorb the liquid, but not so much that you end up with a mouthful of dry stuff.

Turn the heat off, and let it cool while you prepare three piecrusts. Fill each crust with a third of the meat mix, and cover with a top crust. If you have a little extra trimming, apply decorative piecrust by dampening it a tad.

Bake for about half an hour, or until your crust is cooked and golden, and the meat is piping hot.

Where do I start about New York?

2011-12-08T07:58:00.000-08:00

In Central Park Zoo, four trainers fed four sea lions. The sea lions performed tricks, and then gobbled sardines or kippers or some kind of fish. I was too mesmerized to take photos.

Four days in New York is not enough. We walked, ate, gawked, we rode the subway. We also stopped for cold beers in cozy bars as often as we could manage.

We were lucky to have a list of recommendations from Mika. Every time we stopped for a snack or a pint, we referred to that list, to a map, and then back to that list.

High on the list was Prune. We ate the trip’s last meal there.

I need to go back and eat some more.

What December 1st looks like

2011-12-01T18:11:00.000-08:00

Some of what I saw on my walk to work this Thursay, December 1st morning. The croissants are at Clafouti, a lovely café on Queen Street West, right across from Trinity Bellwoods Park, where I had a delicious mushroom and asiago croissant sandwich.

An unusual soup

2011-11-29T19:33:00.001-08:00

Look, it’s unconventional.

I’ll cut straight to the chase. I made a soup last night that involved bacon, curry powder, and a good dose of dry sherry. The fact that I had very little going for me in the fridge is not a factor. This was a pre-meditated, weird and unusual soup. I thought about it long and hard. And I made it anyway.

And it’s brilliant.

I am exaggerating about my level of insanity here. But. BUT. Have you ever come across a recipe that involves curry and bacon. Have you?

Actually, wait a sec. I’m going to look it up:

Nope, nothing. Even this excellent book would never pair the words “bacon” and “curry.”

But I did.

Okay, enough drama. I made a soup, and it should have been weird, but it was very good. That’s it.

Also, it’s not that weird.

What follows is an approximation of what I made. Forgive the vague instructions. This is based on a memory of something that I didn’t think would work—so I kept no notes.

Squash, bacon and curry soup

In a heavy-bottomed pan, heat a small splash of oil (grapeseed will do). Add two rashers of double-smoked bacon (sliced). Fry for a few minutes, stirring frequently, until the bacon starts to colour.

Then add one diced carrot and one sliced leek. Sautee for a few minutes more.

Now add about two teaspoons of good quality curry powder, two cloves of garlic (finely chopped), and one small chili pepper (finely chopped). Turn the heat right up, and cook for a minute or so, stirring constantly.

Now add a good, decent splash of dry sherry, stirring. It will evaporate quickly.

Time to add one butternut squash, peeled, seeded and cubed. And a 14 oz can of whole tomatoes, along with its juices. And a litre of vegetable broth.

Add a good pinch of fleur de sel. Bring to a boil, then a simmer.

Simmer for a good half hour, until all the vegetables are very tender. Puree with a hand blender until very smooth. Add a can of coconut milk. Stir, and serve in bowls with a large handful of chopped fresh cilantro.

A dark, spicy cookie

2011-11-27T20:35:00.000-08:00

There’s a real cold weather feel to these cookies. They’re dark, spicy, and rich, but also slightly dry, like biscotti. Just the kind of thing you’d want to dunk into hot chocolate after a cold skating session. Recently, my friend Nadia (who keeps this lovely blog) asked me about cookies to bake for Christmas. These are the first that came to mind.

The recipe has been in my tattered Duo-Tang for as long as I’ve been stuffing recipes into it. My aunt Hélène told me about them. She calls them heart attack cookies—presumably for the sheer shock of realizing how much cocoa they contain.

I’ve tweaked them slightly to make them even spicier, but feel free to omit the cayenne. The back pepper, coffee, and cinnamon are a necessity. Remember you’ll also need to refrigerate the dough for at least a few hours before baking.

Heart attack cookies

¾ cups unsalted butter, softened

1 cup white sugar

1 large egg

1 ½ teaspoons vanilla

1 ½ cups all-purpose flour

¼ teaspoon baking soda

¾ cup good quality cocoa powder

¼ teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 tablespoon finely ground coffee

½ teaspoon cinnamon

a pinch or two cayenne pepper

In a large bowl, mix the butter and sugar with an electric beater, until creamy. Add the egg and vanilla, and beat until fluffy.

In a separate bowl, combine all the other ingredients. Mix well, and tip into the butter mixture. Mix the dough with a spoon, until there are no lumps of flour and the texture is uniform.

Next, you’ll need to form a log with the dough. I find it easiest to gather the dough with my hands, and dump in directly onto a large sheet of wax paper. Form the log with your hands—it should be about two inches in diameter. Sprinkle it with a bit of white sugar, wrap it well in the wax paper, and refrigerate for a few hours, or overnight.

Pre-heat the oven to 375 F. Unwrap the log, and slice it into pucks (about half an inch thick). Bake for 12 minutes on a greased cookie sheet. Remove, and cool on a rack.

Cat In A Box

2011-11-25T18:18:00.000-08:00

I don’t remember getting a case of Duggan’s No. 9 IPA, but I found the box at the very back of the closet. As soon as I took it out, the cat claimed it.

It’s been a week, and she still spends her sleeping (and sit-and-stare) hours in it.

Cookie Imitation is the Best Form of Flattery

2011-11-19T16:34:00.000-08:00

On Thursday, I stopped into Dark Horse Espresso Bar on Queen West, and two things happened; first I ran into the lovely Derek Easton, of Easton’s in Toronto’s Kensington Market, and then I ate the best oatmeal cookie out there.

This post is about the cookie, but I should mention that Derek told me about the dry chorizo the venison sausages that he now has in the shop. He convinced me, and now both types of sausages are at my house.

But the cookie! It’s an oatmeal, pistachio, and fig cookie, which I’ve replicated, more or less. Happily, I share with you my version of the cookie.

Oatmeal, Pistachio and Fig Cookies
Makes about two dozen cookies

1 1/3 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 cup salted butter, softened
1 cup brown sugar, packed
¼ cup granulated white sugar
1 egg
2 teaspoons Bourbon (or vanilla)
¼ cup water
2 ¾ cups rolled oats (not quick oats)
¾ (100g) cup pistachios, roasted at 300F for ten minutes, and coarsely chopped
10 dried figs ( about 100 g), with the “twig” removed, and chopped into raisin-sized chunks.

Pre-heat the oven to 375F.

In a small bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, and salt. Set aside. In a larger, bowl, combine the butter and the sugar. Blend with an electric mixer for a minute. Add the egg and Bourbon. Continue mixing until the mixture is light and fluffy.

Add the flour mixture into the butter mixture, stirring with a wooden spoon, and alternating with the water. Stir in the oats, nuts and fruit.

On a greased cookie sheet, drop well-rounded teaspoons, flattening each cookie with the back of the spoon. Bake for ten minutes. Cool on a rack.

The Process

2011-11-15T19:22:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, the outcome is not what you’d hoped for but the novelty of having ever tried in the first place redeems the experience.

Apparently Teddy Roosevelt, on his first buffalo hunt in the Dakotas’ Badlands (a trip that, by the way, partly fueled his devotion to national parks), lived for the process. After days in the blistering sun, little to drink, rain soaked camping blankets, nothing but dry biscuits to eat, and not a single successful shot, Roosevelt enthusiastically proclaimed, “By Godfrey, but this is fun!”

And that’s how I felt about my new pasta machine.

Don’t get me wrong, Yotam Ottolenghi’s instructions for Saffron tagliatelle with spiced butter (from his book, Plenty), are very good. The fragrant butter sauce is exciting, and the turmeric-stained pasta dough is flawless. It’s just that I’ve never used a pasta machine. And I’m afraid that in the end, the resulting meal was more like Spaetzle (a slightly gummy, sticky German squirt noodle), and less like a delicate tagliatelle.

Perhaps one day, when I’ve perfected the art of cranking out my own pasta, I will share some version of the recipe. But for now, here are some photos of The Process.

All photographs by Andrew Budziak

A hot lemon soup to cure you

2011-10-15T16:03:00.000-07:00

The flu renders me useless. For instance, when I made this soup on Wednesday, there wasn’t much hope I’d get a better photo.

It went as follows: Make soup. Take a shitty picture. Whimper miserably. And sink into the couch with this hot, nourishing lemon and butter noodle soup.

Of course, this is best made with homemade chicken broth, if you have it. But if you’re the one fighting the flu, seriously, don’t bother. For God’s sake, don’t make chicken stock form scratch if you’re sick. Keep it easy, that’s the whole point of this recipe.

Lemon and butter noodle soup

Adapted from a recipe in Tessa Kiros’ “Apples for Jam”

Serves 3

1 litre chicken broth

The juice of half a lemon

1 oz butter

3-4 oz spaghetti, broken up into 1 centimetre pieces

Grated Parmesan cheese

Black pepper

A sprinkling of dried mint leaves

Bring the broth, lemon juice and butter to boil in a pan, and lower to a gentle simmer. Let the flavours marry, simmering for 5 minutes or so. Add the noodles, bringing the soup up to a more enthusiastic simmer, but not a roaring boil, by any means. Cook the noodles about as long as the package instructs, minus 30 seconds or so, since they will continue to cook after the soup is served. Add pepper to taste.

Ladle the soup into bowls, sprinkle with the cheese and the mint, and serve.

Making bread, part two

2011-10-08T09:15:00.000-07:00

We flew back from Manitoba last month with a suitcase that weighed 98 pounds. It was full of frozen lamb, canned vegetables from the farm, and … a Black & Decker bread maker.

My mum bought it for us at the second hand store in Steinbach, Manitoba, which is run by the Mennonite Central Committee. It cost her twenty dollars. It came with a handwritten recipe, an add-on from the MCC volunteer who kindly tested the bread machine before putting on the shelf.

Now, I’ve written about another bread I’ve been making – a Nigel Slater loaf – and of course proper homemade bread is beautiful and therapeutic in its kneading, punching, and rising. I’ll keep that recipe close too. But machine bread is a snap to make. And it’s also a good recipe to have up your sleeve.

Since I brought this baby home, I’ve been baking all my one loaves, tweaking that recipe ever so slightly each time. More than a month and a dozen loaves later, I can tell you, confidently, that I’ve got the recipe I like.

Automatic Bread

This, of course, is only the kind of recipe that works if you have a bread maker. And if you have a bread maker, you know that the recipe “instructions” are unbelievably simple: 1) put the ingredients, in the order listed, in the baking pan; 2) insert the pan into the machine; 3) turn the machine on, according to the manufacturer’s instructions; 4) go away. This recipe is perfect for the machine’s 2 lb setting.

1 ¼ cup water

4 tbsp olive oil

1 tbsp sugar

1 heaping tsp salt

2 cups white flour

1 cup whole wheat flour

1/3 cup mix of interesting dry bits (seeds/chopped nuts/cornmeal/wheat germ/steel cut oats, etc)

1 tsp traditional yeast

Evidence of September

2011-09-09T16:27:00.000-07:00

Fall is here, or approaching anyway. I know this because of the vegetables I picked up at the Metro Square farmer’s market on Thursday.

Well, everything but the lemons and limes. I'll admit that.

And I know it's September because the sun looks like this, at 7 o’clock.

Delinquently yours,

2011-08-06T21:26:00.000-07:00

These last few weeks, I've been taking photos instead of cooking. Though, arguably, these are photos of food, aren’t they?

Late July

2011-08-01T12:29:00.000-07:00

We spent the weekend at the farm again, where I lazily watched my mum make the year’s first pickles. We had grilled venison for supper, and then went for a walk at sunset. As we watched the sun dip into fields, my mum recalled something she’d read from an Albertan landscape artist, something to the effect of: “Out here, the sky is the landscape.” I think the same goes for parts of Manitoba.

Fresh Peas Go Pop

2011-07-28T20:25:00.000-07:00

Photo: Andrew Budziak

It’s true, they do. When they’re just right—when the pod is firm, but the peas are small enough to leave room for an air pocket—they make a great little popping sound.

But I’m sure you know this already. Maybe you too spent time on the porch as a kid, shelling peas for supper. Hardly a chore, really, especially when you’re sneaking them into your mouth by the handful. They’re so sweet.

Photo: Andrew Budziak

This summer, I get to shell peas again. Andrew and I are in Winnipeg, but on the weekends, we go to the farm, where my mum’s garden is gorgeous, and full of promise. It’s also full of beets, summer squash, and carrots. And until last weekend, it was full of peas. But we took care of that.

Photo: Andrew Budziak

I made these peas-on-toast a few nights ago. It’s great as a part of one of those light, I-don’t-really-want-to-eat nights, with a small pile of scrambled eggs. It’s not much of a recipe, more of a splash of this, and a knob of that. And if you have a food processor, it will be even faster than my fork-smashing method.

AND: This sounds crazy. It certainly did when I described my sandwich to my colleagues the next day. But as leftovers, they make a great sandwich, with good crusty bread and smoky cheese.

Fork-smashed peas-on-toast

Makes four large toasts

2 cups of fresh shelled green peas

2 tablespoons salted butter

a good splash of white wine

a crusty baguette

1 large garlic clove, halved

1 or 2 tablespoons of olive oil

In a large sauté pan, heat the butter to melt, on medium heat. When it is completely melted, add the peas, and toss to coat. Turn the heat up just a tad, so that the wine will get a good sizzle when it hits the pan. Add the wine, and adjust the heat so that the peas cook gently, and the alcohol evaporates. Well, mostly, anyway. What you want is cooked peas that are still bright green, but soft enough to mash. This should take somewhere between 5 – 8 minutes.

Meanwhile, turn the broiler on in your oven, and set the grill about five inches from the element. Cut you bread; once right across, for two halves. Then cut each through the middle of their lengths. Think: two 6 inch subs. These will be your four toasts. Next, brush the olive oil on the cut side of each toast. Place them on a baking pan, cut side up, and place under the broiler until just toasted. Turn over, and toast the underside.

When the bread is toasted, rub the garlic on the oiled side of the bread. Set aside. Your peas should ready. If they have a lot of liquid, drain them. Then, with a fork, give them a good smushing—they need to be spreadable peas, not the kind of peas that keep rolling off your toast. Finally, spread the peas on the cut side of the toast, piled high. A sprinkling of freshly grated Parmesan would be nice, too.

New policy: Keep your bread recipe handy

2011-07-16T17:07:00.000-07:00

I made these loaves months ago, and I’ve been wanting to post this picture for just as long. It's a simple white bread recipe by Nigel Slater, in Appetite. Because my cookbooks are in the Toronto apartment, I can’t refer back to them today to remember just how the recipe goes. That seems a shame. Perhaps a new policy is in order; always keep a good bread recipe handy.

What I can tell you is that Nigel Slater loves good toast. And this bread makes the best toast. A good thick layer of butter, and a veil-thin spread of jelly elevate it to, possibly, my favourite comfort food.

The things that matter

2011-07-04T16:29:00.000-07:00

We arrived in Winnipeg yesterday. For me, it means moving home for the summer. We’ll be here for two months—just long enough for Manitoba to sink in, and to get good use of the best of Manitoba’s farms and gardens.

We’re living in a small sublet apartment, in Wolseley. It’s a place where, when it rains, you can stroll on the sidewalk without getting wet. The thickness of the elm canopy protects you. There seems to be a bakery at every corner.

I only packed one cookbook, in an effort to pare down. The Flavour Thesaurus is not a recipe book, but an idea generator. It treats ingredients like they belong on a colour wheel. For each entry—from figs, to capers, to chicken—it has a long list of pairings.

For instance:

Dill. Why not dill and beef? Dill and avocado? You’ve heard of dill and potatoes, of course. But did you think it might work with turmeric and chilies, as an Indian dish?

Of course, The Flavour Thesaurus is more eloquent than I'm being here, but you get the idea. Its purpose is to inspire and guide, not to instruct.

And that is the kind of summer I’m ready for. A pared-down, inspired summer. A summer where the few essentials—close friends and family, a single cookbook, and a few things in the fridge—are the source of inspiration in my cooking.

As for those few items in the fridge, here are some of them. The bare essentials, according to, well, me. Happy summer, and expect to hear more from me.

Vegetable hegemony

2011-04-04T18:11:00.000-07:00

We started getting organic fruits and vegetables delivered weekly, on our doorstep.

As a result, I am a slave to kale, to turnips, to potatoes. And to squash. Goddamned squash.

Still, the pressure of a boxful of produce that must be emptied before the next box arrives has its merits. For instance, I’ve made a new acquaintance: collard greens. I’ve also been cooking at home an awful lot more—and rather healthily, I might add.

But while I’m loving the front door box, I still have sweat on my brow. Sure, today is only Monday and the new box doesn’t arrive until Friday. But do you have any idea have what we haven’t used yet? Oranges, apples, kiwis, watercress, arugula, turnips, yams… It’s really a lot. And I’ve got to be creative.

And tonight, I did get creative with those collard greens. It’s a saucy, fragrant and filling dish, and it was a snap to make.

Now, I’m going to be quite wishy-washy with this recipe. Partly because I very loosely based it on a recipe in Simply in Season and didn’t take notes on my changes, and partly—as you can see in the background of this photo—because I was having Bourbon at the time (and I’m having more now…which also helps to explain my lack of commitment to detail)

Collards and tomato in peanut sauce

(Enough for two, adapted from the Mennonite Central Committee’s Simply in Season)

In a sauté pan, heat sunflower oil on medium-low heat, and gently sauté half a chopped onion. When the onions are well on their way to translucence, add one or two cloves of minced garlic. Continue to sauté until fragrant.

Now, add a tomato, which you’ve chopped into large chunks. Stir occasionally, and cook for a few minutes, until the tomato skin is just starting to curl from the heat.

Now add spices. Combine any or all of the following: ground coriander, ground cumin, a pinch of ground clove, maybe some turmeric – adding up to about 1 teaspoon or so. Salt to taste, and cook for an additional two minutes.

Now it's time for the collards. A bunch of six or seven leaves should do it. Discard the tough part of the stem, and roughly chop the leaves. Add to the hot pan, with a small splash of water. Cover, and let the greens gently steam until bright green and wilted. You will want to lift the lid and stir occasionally.

Just before serving, add about three tablespoons of peanut butter, which you’ve mixed with a splash of hot water. Stir until it has dissolved into a nice, creamy sauce that coats the vegetables.

Serve on rice, polenta, or, as I have, on barley.

You’ll notice I’ve got a few shrimp in mine, on that picture up there. That was completely unnecessary. I think the Bourbon made me do it. Don’t do it, it adds nothing.

Though, I bet it would welcome grilled chicken on the side.

Mornings are for puttering

2011-01-29T17:07:00.000-08:00

I took this photo on Friday morning, long before the office, long before my streetcar ride, and even before I showered or changed out of my pyjamas. It's a marinade for pork ribs. Simple enough, it's a sticky concoction of oyster sauce, thick honey, garlic, dried chilli flakes and whole star anise.

What I had done before I prepared the marinade, was ease into my slippers, and sip on some warm coffee while reading the Nigel Slater recipe I was about to make.

I was calm, content, and completely outside my usual weekday morning mindset. Normally, I wake up later, but from the moment I wake up, the focus is on the workday ahead: the newspaper, the radio, the BBC, the New York Times, NPR, the Guardian ... whatever will fill my head with ideas for the story meeting that day.

Yet, on Friday, I got up earlier, and created an hour-long buffer between the alarm clock and the workday. And I filled that hour with kitchen-puttering. And when I was done, I started my usual routine of rabid news consumption. Only this time, the coffee had a chance to kick in, and my mind was allowed an entire hour of wake-up time before I thrust it into its daily news-junky mode.

I think I'm on to something here. I must wake up, putter for an hour. And only after that should I turn into a mad producer lady.

It also reminds me of my favourite coffee table book, A Year of Mornings. Decidedly not from the minds of mad producer ladies like me.

Flummoxed: The worrisome effect of baffling adjectives

2010-11-02T19:03:00.000-07:00

Not too far from where I grew up, there is a country road that baffled me when we drove by. It was all about the name: Old Tom Road. It bothered me because I couldn't tell what the adjective -- "Old" -- referred to. Tom, or the Road? Did Old Tom have a road named after him? Or was it an old road, called Tom?

As you can imagine, a lot of things baffled me when I was a kid. I realize this explains a lot about my general character.

Anyway, this all comes down to a recipe, which shouldn’t surprise you. I want to tell you about a terrific cold weather desert called: Chilled Prunes Simmered in Wine. Not only is it a perfect conclusion to a heavy winter's meal, it's also baffling--baffling that I didn't stick with the original, logical name of the recipe, which was written by David Tanis.

Now, I am sure you're wondering: "Are the prunes first chilled, then simmered? Or simmered and chilled? Or perhaps the wine is chilled when the prunes are simmered? WHAT THE HELL AM I SIMMERING HERE?"

If you haven't stopped reading by now, please, please try this dessert. Anyway, David Tanis calls it Chilled Prunes in Beaujolais, which is much more sensible name.

This dessert is so easy, and dare I say, wholesome. The prunes should be served in crystal, if you ask me, and you should eat them slowly and savour the wine and cinnamon syrup.

By the way, they're simmered, then chilled. In case you're still wondering.

Chilled Prunes, Simmered in Wine
Adapted from a recipe by David Tanis, in A Platter of Figs

Serves ten or so, and can be kept in the fridge for several weeks.

1 ½ pounds dried pitted prunes (organic if possible)
2 ½ cups light-bodied wine, like a Beaujolais Nouveau
½ cup white sugar
A cinammon stick

This is so wonderfully easy. In a heavy-based sauce pan, combine all ingredient. Bring to a gentle boil, and simmer for ten minutes. Let it cool, then store it in a jar in the fridge. Make sure it’s fully chilled when you serve it.

David Tanis, who I am quite certain is a wise, wise man, advises the following: "Serve each diner a small bowl with a few prunes floating in the winey sauce."

Yes, please, Mr. Tanis.

Happy Returns

2010-09-17T08:13:00.000-07:00

Oh, gosh. Hi. It's nice to see you again.

I could pretend that I didn't go on another long hiatus, and just launch right back into blogging as though nothing happened. But I should probably address the situation, straight on. I didn't blog, because life is wonderfully busy, mostly with lots of work in radio.

I also left the country for nearly a month. We went on a trip in July, Andrew and I. Several days in Paris, and several more in Sweden.

The highlights? A wedding in the north of Sweden, near a city called Luleo. The bride was Sri Lankan, and we feasted on warm curries under the (nearly) midnight sun. I also discovered something Swedish called smörgåstårta --- sandwich cake. And it really is that: a cake made out of sandwiches. With shrimp and ham and pickles and tangy mayonnaise -- tangy because it's mixed with Baltic herring. And they rolled it out in the wee hours of the drunken morning.

I'm going make sandwich cake one day. I have a recipe, you know.

Andrew, in Sweden

Now, on to business. This is a hefty salad I've been meaning to share with you. It's originally a Jamie Oliver recipe from Jamie at Home, but it comes to me via the lovely blogger Beth Palmer. So it's changed hands a few times. I've made it many times in my own kitchen, and it's starting to morph, as recipes do.

It's hard to find the right name for this thing. Jamie Oliver calls it an Indian Carrot Salad. I think its more about the ground lamb, and I'm not sold on its authenticity as an Indian dish. Beth calls it Lamb Salad, and I think she's on to something.

I can say, at least, that it's definitely a salad. It's warm, and delicately spiced with garam masala. Shallots, cilantro and mint punctuate the dressing. I always serve it as a meal course, piled high in distinct layers. But tossle it around before you eat it. A bite of this, a bit of that. Let the shallots surprise you.

Spiced lamb salad

Adapted from Jamie Oliver's recipe in Jamie at Home

Serves two as a main course

1 lb ground lamb
2 teaspoons Garam Masala -- you may want to adjust by adding more
4-5 good sized carrots, shaved into long ribbon-like strips (use a mandolin or a regular peeler) You should come up with two large handfuls.
A genourous handful of cilantro leaves, roughly chopped
Nearly as much fresh mint, leaves only, roughly chopped
Juice and zest of one lemon
A thumbsized nub of ginger, peeled and grated (should come out to a teaspoon or so)
2-3 shallots, very thinly sliced
A pinch of sea salt
Olive oil, to taste
1 tablespoon sesame seeds

In a dry skillet, briefly toast the sesame seeds on high heat. Be careful, it happens very fast! When they're golden, set them aside.

Now, prepare the dressing. Combine the shallots, ginger, lemon juice, lemon zest, salt. Whisk together with enough olive oil to turn it into a dressing. I would say three tablespoons should do the trick. Jamie asks for five. Use your judgement. Set the dressing aside.

On two plates, arrange the cilantro and mint. Think, bed-of-lettuce, only they're herbs.

Now, in an ungreased , non-stick skillet(perhaps the one you toasted your seeds in?), fry the lamb up with the garam masala. Here, I fry it a bit longer than I normally would. When it is rather crisp, take it out of the skillet, using a slotted spoon. Leave the spiced lamb fat in the skillet.

With the skillet still hot, briefly fry the carrots in that lovely garam masalaed fat.

To assemble the salad, first pile lamb atop each of the beds of herbs. Then the carrots. Pour the dressing over the carrots. Now scatter the sesame seeds, and serve immediately.

Inaugurating the club

2010-05-08T08:53:00.000-07:00

If you think these pictures look like the blurry photography of gal swinging a glass wine in one hand and a camera in the other, you'd be right.

For the record, there were also several glasses-worth of wine in the photographer's belly. And she's telling lots of really funny jokes.

Right. It’s me. I'm the photographer.

In April, I hosted the first Cookbook Club. At least, it’s the first one I’ve ever been in.

Here's what happens. There is a Club. We like to cook. The evening’s host picks a cookbook a few weeks ahead of time. Everybody reads it, and then we schedule a grand'ol dinner, pot-luck style, with food from that very book. Easy peasy.

The book was Falling Cloudberries, by Tessa Kiros. I've talked about her on this blog before.

Here's what we ended up with, a few Sundays ago.

Beth made some delicious dolmades, which we dipped in some very, very fatty yogurt.

Annie made a spicy, cilantro and chickpea salad. Dynamite.

Andi roasted some beautiful vegetables—bell peppers, tomatoes and zucchini—stuffed with rice and minced meat.

Mika did some slow chicken roasting. It was sweet and deep flavoured, with some lovely little potato wedges.

For dessert, Lauren made the happiest cake I’ve ever seen.

As for me, I did something I’ve never done before. I made a freaking-octopus-goddamned stew! WAH! It had so many more legs than I do. I was terrified. It's a tremendous creature, and it lounged on my kitchen counter, thawing, all afternoon. I didn't really think I could do it, honestly.

Lucky for me, I combined the forces of good wine in my belly, and good wine in the stew (Andrew gasped when he saw me pour a cup and a half of $20 wine into the pot). Caramalized pearl onions, cinnamon, nutmeg, bay leaf, simmered and spiced up the whole kitchen. The result was tender (tender!) octopus meat, sweet onions, and a broth I've never quite tasted before. It was savory, meaty, and mulled. And it was soaked up beautifully into some home-baked bread. I’m crazy about it.

I’m adapting Tessa Kiros’ recipe a tad, reducing the liquid components. In fact, we all agreed that her recipes are lovely, but call for more liquid than they really need. That collective knowledge makes us all better cooks.

Octopus Stifado
Adapted from a recipe in Tessa Kiros’ Falling Cloudberries

Serves 6-7

One 4-pound whole octopus, gutted
2/3 cup olive oil
3 lbs pearl onions, peeled, but kept whole
1 tbsp sugar
3 tbsps red wine vinegar
3 cloves garlic, chopped
A 16 oz can of whole, peeled tomatoes, tomatoes roughly chopped and juice included
1 ½ cups red wine
2 bay leaves
1 tsp crushed dried red chili
A pinch of grated nutmeg
1 cinnamon stick
3-4 allspice berries

First, clean the octopus. Slice the head off as one disk, below the eyes, and discard. Most of the innards type bits should be gone, so cut the tentacles and central body into chunks of about 1 inch. Discard any leftover organs from the central part of the body. Set the meat aside.

Heat ½ cup of the olive oil in a large wok or heavy skillet on a very gentle heat. You’ll be caramelizing the pearl onions. Add the onions, and cook slowly, on low to medium-low. Stir them gently, and be careful not to break them up. When they are light golden, add the sugar and vinegar, and continue gently tossing them around. This can take up to an hour, on very low heat. They should be sweet, soft, and deeply golden. The sauce should also be quite thick.

Meanwhile, heat a heavy bottomed pot (used a round Dutch oven, if you’ve got) without any oil, on high heat. Throw the octopus chunks in and stir, over high heat, for about three minutes. The meat will turn bright, and create a lot of liquid. Reduce to medium high, cover, and cook for an additional 10 minutes, stirring every so often.

If there is a lot of “octopus liquid,” drain the meat. Add the remaining olive oil and garlic, and sauté until just fragrant, on medium heat. Add the tomatoes and their juice, and cook for 5 minutes. Add the wine, bay leaves, chile, nutmeg, cinnamon, and allspice, as well as some salt and pepper to taste. Add 2 or 3 cups or so of water, and bring to a boil. Reduce to a simmer and cook, uncovered for about 20 minutes.

Stir in the caramelized onions, cover the pan, and simmer for another 10-20 minutes. Gently stir occasionally, so that nothing sticks to the bottom. Let it sit for as long as half an hour, and serve in shallow bowls, with olive oil bread.

Meet the supervisors

2010-04-12T11:46:00.000-07:00

Big time, pig time

2010-04-09T14:59:00.000-07:00

I’ll admit that there are worse tragedies than what I’m about to tell you.

I have too much bacon. So much, in fact, that my entire life revolves around a simple, but pressing question: How can I use it all up before it’s too late?

I took the bag of beautiful, pink streaked stuff out of the freezer on Tuesday. It was heavy, like a sack of apples. Two or three pounds of bacon? Maybe more.

I’ve carved dent in it since I embarked on the pork bender. But I need to use it up before it becomes bachelor bacon---the stuff university students find at the back of their fridge, craggy, brown and dry. I swear, some people will shrug, and fry it up in last night's oiled pan, still on the stove from drunken, greasy fried eggs. Have I ever done this? Nooooo. Maybe.

Yesterday, to keep my bacon sanity, I cracked open a brick of a book, Nigel Slater’s Tender. I think the book weighs about the same as the bag of bacon did, when I thawed it out.

So I consulted dear Mister Slater, and he told me (in his chapter on broccoli) that I should make a nice soup, creamy green, rich and meaty, akin to a simple ham and pea soup. Bacon broccoli soup is nothing groundbreaking, but it’s a lifesaver when you need something green to cut the massive amounts of cholesterol chugging through your arteries.

Broccoli and bacon soup

Adapted from a recipe in Nigel Slater's Tender, volume 1

Serves 6

A medium onion, roughly chopped

A good knob of butter

200 grams bacon, cut into 2 cm long pieces

3 potatoes, scrubbed and cubed

1 1/2 litres chicken stock (or ham, for a very pea-soupiness)

A bunch of broccoli, about 300 grams, cut into pieces with stems no thicker than your thumb

150 ml milk

Soften the onion in a large, heavy soup pot in the butter until just translucent, but not browned. Add the half the bacon, and the potatoes. Stir and let the flavours come together, with as little browning as possible. Add the stock, and bring up to a nice boil. Reduce, and simmer for fifteen minutes, or until your potatoes collapse against the slight pressure of a spoon.

Now, add your cut broccoli. The exact shape of your veggies doesn't matter; you'll be pureeing the soup anyway. Let everything gently simmer for ten minutes, until the broccoli is nice and soft, but still brilliant green.

In the meantime, fry up the remaining bacon. Set aside, on a paper towel.

Add the milk to the soup, and heat through back to the simmer. Turn the heat off, and blend to a rough puree (I like to discover tender pieces of vegetable in my pureed soups). Serve in bowls with the crisp bacon pieces on the surface.

From Motors to Maize

2010-03-23T20:03:00.000-07:00

You might think I’ve forgotten you. I haven’t.

I haven’t been around La Cuisinette because I've been having a hoot producing radio. Some of you may know that I'm a freelance journalist, doing my best to make a living. I've had a very lucky streak, and have had loads of work over the last few months.

While I might not have been blogging about food lately, I have been thinking about it an awful lot.

Last week, I worked at As It Happens, the CBC's flagship current affairs program. That’s where I make a living, mostly. It's a great place to work, and I'm lucky to be able to pitch stories that I think are important.

Which is where Detroit, Michigan's urban agriculture movement comes in. Over the week, As It Happens told the story of a city in the midst of change. Here is my favourite interview of that series, which I produced.

So that’s what I’m up to, when I’m not blogging. But do stick around. I promise more recipes and more photos…as soon as I find the damn camera charger. In the meantime, hear the sounds of radio.

Back Porch scenes

2010-02-01T16:09:00.000-08:00

You may have noticed, I’ve been talking a lot about Manitoba. Now I’m back in Toronto, after a blissfully relaxing two weeks at my parents’ farm in Sainte-Anne, Manitoba.

I played with the border collies, walked on the frozen river with my mum and helped (sometimes) with feeding grain. And because my parents have been locavores since before locavores appeared in the lexicon, and because Manitoba winter’s are, um, harsh, eating locally means eating cheese and meat. Lots of it. Potatoes, onions and beets too. And some sharp, crisp pickles. I return to Toronto well fed and, I think, slightly fat. I feel great.

I also did some eating outside the farm, which brings me to this place.

Back Porch is a café on the outskirts of the small farming community of Linden, 30 or so kilometers south-southeast of Winnipeg. Denise Collins and her family opened the café in October, in a house once owned by her great-grandparents.

It’s a house that’s been in the family, and it feels like it. A narrow staircase leads to a cozy second floor, which has been renovated into an open space that somehow comfortably fits a half dozen tables and a few reading nooks.

Back Porch is open for breakfast and lunch. The kitchen serves coffee and espresso, breads, buns, bagels, cinnamon rolls, soups and sandwiches. On Saturday mornings, Collins offers a robust brunch buffet, complete with bacon, eggs and sausage. Brunch is just under $9, which is especially good when you consider the prairie view from the top floor.

You couldn’t pay for this in T.O.

Willie's Magic Mash

2010-01-18T08:50:00.000-08:00

I realize that most people will remember their grandfathers as the sweetest men on earth. But I will go ahead and say it: My grandfather really was the sweetest. Really, he was.

In 2003 , Willie was left nearly speechless by a stroke. Yes, he became more dependent upon family members, but he never failed to find ways to be helpful. At family gatherings, he made sure everyone’s drink was filled. He had an extensive liquor cabinet, and a good memory for cocktails.

He used any occasion as an excuse to find something special at the jewellery store for Marge, my Grandma. He attended our graduations, and hugged his grandkids tightly. Without words, he was able to find ways to tell us that he loved us, was proud of us.

I suspect that making wine was, for Willie, a way to show how much he loved his friends, his family. Long before I could drink the stuff, myself, and long before he lost his speech, he was notoriously generous with his homemade wine. I’m not sure there was ever a visit when my parents didn’t come home with a bottle, or twelve, of the stuff.

Willie died last August, exactly a year and a half after Marge. My dad found this bottle of homemade crab-apple wine in the basement stash. It’s old, from 1995, and amber coloured. You wouldn’t necessarily think that homemade fruit wine ought to last that long, but it did. We opened the bottle yesterday. It was delicious, sweet, and as Grandpa would have it, nice and boozy

January blues

2010-01-11T14:11:00.000-08:00

Oh, hi. This is awkward. Here I am, more than a month after those beers, during which time I didn't call, write, or make any attempt to connect. Not so much as a peep.

Well this time it’s different. Really. And there are a few things I need to tell you.

First, you’ll be seeing a lot more of me. On Mondays, specifically. Perhaps not every Monday, but most Mondays. If I’m not mistaken, today is Monday. Hi.

I should also tell you that I’ll be bringing cheese around a lot more. Today, for instance, I brought a feisty little cheese that I want you to meet.

So here it goes. Meet Blue Haze, an Ontarian smoked blue cheese.

Blue Haze is well-travelled, for a cheese. Monks start this semi-firm blue in l’Abbaye de Saint-Benoît-du-Lac, in Québec. The wheels travel to Cayuga, Ontario, where they are smoked of a bed of cherry and hickory chips by an affineur, Provincial Fine Foods.

And in this case of this particular wedge of cheese, photographed by my father, Randy, it also travelled with me to Manitoba, where it was laid to rest. In our stomachs.

While blue cheese and smokiness may be flavourful extremes, the result is mellow and well balanced. Because the cheese is fairly dense, the effects of the smoking process don’t fully penetrate the salty, buttery blues. But the golden, sweet caramel smoke rind creates a surprisingly delicate contrast.

The girl at the cheese shop recommended I have this cheese with fig chutney. I tested her theory, but with ground-cherry jam instead. Beautiful. Then I tested it again. And again. And again. I suspect Blue Haze and I will meet again.

Booze, out of season

2009-12-03T10:11:00.000-08:00

This is going to seem all wrong:

It’s early December, the sky is grey, and the air is cold. I should be telling you about a hot, steamy, boozy drink, perfect for evenings spent under a blanket and on the couch, while watching Christmas movies on CBC. Instead, I’m going to share a recipe for a cold beer cocktail best enjoyed outside, in July, under the hot afternoon sun.

I discovered micheladas, or cervezas preparadas ("prepared beers") in Mexico City. To be fair, I arrived in January, and for the first month it did hover around freezing temperature at night. So I did learn to love them while I was wearing a jacket.

This recipe is also going to seem all wrong, simply because it’s a beer cocktail. I suspect some beer fans might consider them a travesty. Why add lime, salt and spice to a perfect good beer?, they might ask. I’ll tell you. Because it’s awesome. Maybe not to everyone, and probably not when it’s cold outside. But I don’t care. This beer is good.

Michelada
(makes one cocktail)

1 cold Mexican beer, preferably Negra Modelo or Indio
1/4 cup fresh lime juice
1 tablespoon (or less) Salsa Valentina (available in Latin America grocery stores)
A dash of Salsa Maggi or regular soy sauce
Ice cubes (if desired. Not necessary if you have a chilled beer glass)

for the rim preparation:
3 tablespoons Kosher salt
1 tablespoon crushed/powdered piquín pepper

First, prepare the rim mix. Mix the salt and the piquín pepper in a small bowl, and sprinkle a spoonful onto a plate. Rub lime juice on the rim of a well chilled pint glass, and dip the glass into the salt mix.

For the drink, start with the "condiments". In your rimmed pint glass, add your ice, both salsas and the lime juice. Pour the beer (there might be a little left over in your bottle. Keep it to top off your drink), and gently mix the cocktail with a spoon. Garnish with a lime wedge and serve.

Manitoba Dreaming

2009-11-20T21:50:00.000-08:00

I look forward to care packages from home. They’re always perfect, and my parents put a lot of thought into them. My mother always sends me her watercolours, which are stunning. The packages often include some home-grown literature (The Carillon, for instance. That way, columnists like J.D. Lee can make me kick, scream and sob, all from a distance. On the plus side, I’m also able to keep tabs on the properties in Manitoba that I could buy one day. There, I will raise poultry and grow cabbage).

There's more, and the boxes are always full of surprises. One thing I know for sure, though. There is going to be some kind of food in there. I can count on that.

It’s always been that way. When I was fifteen, and living in Québec on a student exchange, my father sent me a box full of Easter chocolates. It came with a letter telling me to take charge, as the Easter Bunny. I did this, dutifully.

Today, I got a package. It was packed full of goodies, but not chocolate this time. Instead, everything smelled like sweet, beautiful garlic, grown by our friends Kelly and Gerry Dubé, in LaBroquerie, 15 minutes away from my parents’ farm. I now have massive amounts of garlic, and by God, I will use it.

The box was also heavy with fingerling potatoes, which I helped dig up back in September. I also found two very firm, cylindrical beets.

Which brings me to tonight's dinner. I roasted fingerling potatoes, a beet, and an entire bulb of Kelly’s garlic, along with some yam and eggplant that I found in the crisper. I tossed everything in olive oil, salt and pepper, and topped it off with some nice feta. I also tucked in half of a lemon into the roasting pan. Once all my veggies were happily roasted, I squeezed hot lemon juice onto the roasted vegetables. A little fresh parsley, and BAM. Dinner.

Ah, yes. You want additional instructions, because that wasn’t really a recipe at all. 450 F, half an hour to 45 minutes...or whenever everyone in the roasting pan is tender, and even a bit charred. The denser veggies, like potatoes and beets should be cut into smaller pieces than softies, like eggplant or yams.

It may not have been a recipe, but I am damn excited about roasted vegetables in the fall. And so should you be.

Meringues aren't for breakfast

2009-10-22T06:57:00.000-07:00

I’ve been eyeing a meringue recipe for days now. Finally, yesterday, when I felt my hands were steady enough to separate the whites without a speck of yolk, I dove in.

I made them with lemon zest, and they were beautiful in the oven. Their outsides puffed up crispy, while their insides caved in.

When they finally came out, I was unsure. Too soft? Now, too dry? I tested, sampled, and stuffed myself until I was miserable, full of sugar and immensely cranky (Andrew will attest). Worse, I had lost all perspective, and I couldn’t tell anymore if they were any good.

This morning, after yoga, and before eating anything else, I tested them again, with fresh eyes and a fresh stomach. Now I’m sure. These are good! Crunchy on the outside, slightly gooey on the inside, only interrupted by little zesty bursts of lemon.

This isn’t much of a recipe, because I’m sure you’ll find a meringue recipe in any basic cookbook. But here is what I learned:

-Be sure there isn’t any yolk or eggshell in your whites. The best way not to become insane is to use three bowls: one for your whites, one for your yolks, and one that you use to break and separate the egg into. Just slide the whites into to the larger bowl as you go. That way, if you screw up one egg, you won’t ruin the rest.
-Before you add the sugar, be sure your eggs are so stiff you could hold the bowl upside down, over your head.
-Before you fold in any flavouring, make sure the sugar has completely dissolved. The meringue should feel perfectly smooth between two fingers.
-Parchment paper works very nicely.

Mr Trout pleads not guilty

2009-10-07T17:07:00.000-07:00

Yes, this little fish looks like he’s done something wrong.

He looks guilty, ashamed. This is a terrible photograph. To this tasty little trout, I owe an apology. I’m sorry your picture looks like a mug shot. It doesn’t do you justice. You were delightful, not a criminal. You were moist, buttery, and you got along really well with the parsley.

That being said, you didn’t photograph well.

This trout recipe is so simple, so quick, and rather quite perfect. The real treat is the hot lemon juice, which practically pours out of the broiled lemons. It’s from my recipe book crush of the week, Jamie Oliver’s Cook with Jamie.

Crispy Trout with lemon and Parsley
Adapted from a recipe in Cook with Jamie, by Jamie Oliver

For 2 people:

1 whole trout (1 to ½ lb), gutted, scaled and cleaned
a drizzle of olive oil
coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper
a bunch of fresh parsley (enough to stuff the fish’s cavity)
1 lemon (zest one half and slice it and leave the other half intact)
10 small knobs of butter

Preheat the broiler as high as it will go. With a sharp knife, slash the fish about ten times on each of its side, about a quarter of an inch deep. Rub the fish with olive oil, salt and pepper. Stuff it with the parsley and the lemon slices. Place Mr Trout on a broiling rack or on a baking rack set over a roasting pan. Put half the lemon zest and 5 knobs of butter on the upside of the fish. Place the intact half of the lemon on the rack beside the fish.

Place the fish in the oven, about 6 inches from the heat. Cook for about 6 minutes, or until the skin is crispy and golden. Take the fish out, carefully flip him over and put the rest of the lemon zest and butter on his uncooked side. Place him back on the rack for another 6 minutes.

Squeeze some hot lemon juice on the trout and serve immediately.

Cookbook commitment

2009-09-28T08:24:00.000-07:00

I have a problem.

Admitting you have a problem is the first step, I understand? I have an addiction to cookbooks. I covet them, obsessively. Then I buy them, flip through them, and shelve them for weeks without using them again. Bought, pored over, and forgotten. It’s neglectful, really. And it doesn’t help that I work weekends in a cookbook store. It’s akin to hiring a recovering pill-popper to work in a pharmacy. Behind the counter. With the good stuff.

Before I tell you more about my addiction, I really need to sneak this in: I found a really great pumpkin curry recipe, and I’m awfully smitten with it. We had it last night, and we’ll have it again. Next Friday, Andrew and I are planning to take the ingredients over to his parents’ to make it.

Now back to my addiction. You’ll see that the cure lies in the curry, incidently. Here’s why: I’ve promised not to buy another cookbook until I’ve given the ones I own the attention they deserve. I will take them off the shelf, one at a time, perhaps for an entire week at a time, and lovingly turn their pages and discover new treasures within them. No new cook books for me, not until I’ve mended my broken relationships of the past. So for the next few weeks, I’ll be writing to you with specifics books in mind.

This pumpkin curry was born out of such a commitment. I spent an entire week with Jody Vassallo’s Cooking from above Asian. It’s a mish-mash of Asian cuisine (Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese, Indonesian, and Thai), but beautifully illustrated, as the title suggests, from above. That way, the ingredients and tools are lined up for every recipe, so no one could possibly screw it up. It’s especially useful when it comes to unfamiliar ingredients.

I made a few good dinners from this book, but the winner is the Satay Pumpkin Curry. It’s rich, creamy, and satisfying. Cherry tomatoes burst in your mouth, and the pumpkin melts into the coconut cream. I added a few squirts of hot sauce (Sriracha) to satisfy my need for spice. If that’s what you like, try it. Or use a fresh hot pepper. It cuts into the creaminess very nicely, as does the cilantro.

Whatever you do, please try the curry. I know you have pumpkins.

Satay Pumpkin Curry
from Cooking from above Asian, by Jody Vassallo

1 tbsp sunflower oil
2 tbsp satay paste
2 tbsp fresh ginger, finely minced
1 lb pumkin, peeled and cut into bite sized chunks (I used a pie-sized pumpkin. It was perfect)
½ lb firm tofu, drained and cut into cubes
½ lb cherry tomatoes
2 cups coconut cream
1/4 lb spinach leaves, roughly chopped
2 or 3 tbsp chopped fresh cilantro

In a heavy bottomed pot or wok, heat the oil and add the satay paste and the ginger (and the chili peppers if you chose to add them). Cook over medium heat for a few minutes. Add the pumpkin and cook until it’s coated and beginning to soften. Add the tofu, tomatoes and coconut cream. Bring to a boil, and reduce the heat. Simmer for 20 minutes or so, until the pumpkin is very soft and the tofu has absorbed the flavours. If you’re adding Sriracha sauce, add it now, to taste. Serve piping hot, over rice.

A quick note on méchouis

2009-09-17T20:50:00.000-07:00

I need to tell you about our visit home to the farm in Manitoba last week. Well, I shouldn’t speak for the both of us; it’s home for me, but a totally new place for Andrew. He got to shoot a .22 and drive the tractor... I think he had fun.

My parents run a sheep farm, and I grew up eating lamb. If you are what you eat, well, BAAA. So there: if I know anything, I know lamb, in all its variations. But my very favorite way to prepare lamb is this:

The méchoui. It would be a traditional Moroccan dish if it weren’t for the entire bottle of Canadian whisky it’s basted with. The lamb is cooked over hot coals, for about three hours, its belly filled with rice, dates, cashews and lemons. The whole yard smells of coriander and paprika. While the lamb cooks, you drink beer, shuck corn. It’s party food really. It fed nearly twenty people. It was so good to be home.

Glaze optional

2009-08-28T06:36:00.000-07:00

If you were to flip back to the page of July 29th of my day planner, you would see the words "BAKE MORE" scrawled across the page in large letters. I don’t know what exactly I was thinking, but it seems like sound advice. So I’m going to bake more.

Today is the second time I’ve baked the best banana bread in the world. I’m telling you this in all seriousness. Do not take it lightly. I’m going to share with you the BEST banana bread recipe known to man.

I guess it’s not a big secret, given that the recipe comes straight out the pages of Sundays at the Moosewood Restaurant. But if no one has told you where to look, how would you know?

This is why I’m sharing this secret with you now. And you’ll love it. It’s banana bread, with so much banana, it’s a wonder it bakes into such a solid loaf of bread. There’s coconut, lime and ginger. And rum. Did I mention rum?

It’s tangy and bright, unlike any banana bread I’ve had before. The glaze is sticky, zingy, and most importantly, boozy.

I know, the picture doesn’t look like much. I am acquainting myself with Andrew’s camera, but it might also just be the bread itself. In fact, when I left the bread to cool on the counter, my roommates didn’t eat it until they realized the loaf was topped with coconut, not cheese. Which makes me wonder: Do they think I’m crazy?

In any case, don’t be fooled by the photo. This bread is really good. My roommates will confirm this.

Yellowman’s Banana Lime Bread
From Sundays at Moosewood Restaurant

Yields one loaf

Batter:
3/4 cup brown sugar, packed
½ cup butter, softened
2 eggs, lightly beaten
1 cup mashed bananas (or about 3 bananas)
3 tablespoons plain yoghurt (milk will do too)
1 tablespoon fresh lime juice
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon ground ginger
3/4 cup unsweetened grated coconut, toasted (see note)
2 cups unbleached white flour
1 teaspoon baking powder

Glaze:
1/4 cup brown sugar
1 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon rum
3 tablespoons fresh lime juice

1/4 cup unsweetened grated coconut, toasted

Preheat the oven to 350F and butter a bread loaf pan.
For the batter, cream the sugar and butter in a large mixing bowl. Stir in the other wet ingredients: eggs, bananas, yoghurt, and lime juice. Also add the salt, ginger, and coconut. In a separate bowl, combine the flour and baking powder. Add the dry ingredients to the wet, and mix until smooth. Pour the batter into a buttered loaf pan and bake for an hour or so, or until an inserted tooth-pick comes out dry. Let the loaf cool for 10 minutes before taking it out of the pan.

While the bread cools, prepare the glaze. Combine the brown sugar, butter, rum and lime juice in a saucepan. Bring it to a low boil, stirring constantly, until it becomes a light syrup. Pour it over theloaf, spreading it, and then sprinkle the remaining toasted coconut.

Wanna play?

2009-07-29T10:55:00.000-07:00

Let’s play a game. You pretend to be any of the professors I had throughout my undergrad, and I’ll pretend to be me, during that same time period.

Me (shuffling into professor’s office, head down): "Um, hi. I have...a question."
You (looking up, frowning): "Yes."
Me: "It’s going to take me...longer than anticipated to finish this essay."
You (sighing, one eyebrow rising). "And?"
Me: "And I was wondering if you would grant me an extension. Just this once. Um, I mean, just this once for a second time."

In this game, you can decide what you’ll say. Maybe you can grant me the extension, but dock some marks? Or you can roll your eyes and mutter "whatever," and return to your work, ignoring my excessive thank yous. In any case, seriously, please give me an extension.

In real life, things have been a little crazy. Not in a bad way, just busy and exhausting. Without getting into the details, I’m working many jobs while trying to orchestrate a move to a new apartment.

I know! Last time I wasn’t updating my blog regularely I told you it was because I was moving. In undergrad terms, that’s like using the "my great-aunt died" excuse one too many times. But it’s true. I really am moving. Again.

But here is my promise to you: I will be back in full form as soon as the dust settles. I have some wonderful perogies to tell you about. And I’ve really gotten into the old BBC cooking show, Two Fat Ladies. And I certainly haven’t stopped eating. Oooh! And I’m buying myself a copy of Nigel Slater’s Kitchen Diaries for my birthday.

So more to come. Promise.

Tried and true

2009-06-25T10:24:00.000-07:00

I like to gush about recipe books (see my review of Falling Cloudberries, below). In fact, a funny things happens; I develop crushes on recipe books. Certainly, there’s a lot of courting going on at the cookbook store where I work on weekends. I spend a lot of time flirting with David Tanis, Jamie Oliver, Rose Carrarini. Someday, when I can afford to, I might just take them home.

That being said, I have stayed true to an old faithful. Joy of Cooking is, it has to be said, an essential. Faults, it’s got. I’ll admit that. Faults such as ambrosia salad, a sturdy belief in shortening, and far too many jellied... well, jellied everything.

I suspect editions older than mine have a how-to section on tying a bow in your hair and serving your husband a martini when he gets home from the office.

But, despite its flaws, Joy of Cooking is solid, like a good advice grandmother, always there when you need her most.

This morning, when I failed twice to poach an egg, I ran to Rombauer and Becker for a refresher lesson.

Later, when I had decided to do something about an old, mushy banana, I flipped to the B’s in the index. After all, a banana bread recipes that’s been in print since 1931 in unlikely to fail.
Also, my lovely friend Emma makes killer oatmeal cookies, and they’re Joy of Cooking as well.
So there.

Here’s lunch, a successful poached egg (the key is in the vortex, folks) on asparagus with mizithra cheese.

Prairie sky and dirty fingernails

2009-06-16T11:26:00.000-07:00

Toronto is nice. People are friendly in the streets. There are hundreds of thoughtful parks in every neighbourhood. Precisely 99 public libraries are scattered through every part of town. Toronto is where I need to be, for dozens of reasons. Good reasons, like love and journalism.

But my heart isn’t in Toronto, with all this concrete and all these condos. It’s somewhere in the prairies, covered in garden dirt and watching the sun to set in an immense summer sky.

I don’t mean to sound so tragic. Toronto’s a great town. I just keep having to do little things that get my fingernails dirty, like scratching dogs behind the ears. It makes me feel better, closer to where I’m from.

Balcony gardens will also keep my fingernails dirty and my heart light. Friday, I seeded some spinach and arugula. June 12th was certainly late to seed greens, but with a balcony on the 16th floor, there’s be plenty of shade and cool breeze.

Smoked goldeye tartare
Just for one last dose of tragedy: I can’t make this anymore, because there is no goldeye in Ontario, as far I can tell. Goldeye is only found in freshwater lakes in Manitoba and Saskatchewan, making this a perfect prairie recipe, just so I can indulge in another dose of nostalgia, if I may.

The meat of 2 smoked goldeye fish, stripped of bones and cut into 1 cm cubes
1/4 cup olive oil
1 small Spanish onion, finely chopped
1 small jar (110 ml) capers, drained
1/4 cup fresh dill, roughly chopped
The juice of half a lemon
Salt and pepper to taste

Combine all ingredients in a bowl. Refrigerate for at least an hour. Serve on wheat crackers or thinly sliced bread.

A book to curl up on the couch with

2009-06-09T12:33:00.000-07:00

The first line in Tessa Kiros’ cookbook, Falling Cloudberries, is a perfect prelude:
"My mother’s name is Sirpa Tuula Kerttu Peiponein.
My father’s name is George"

Kiros wrote her recipes like a memoir, rich with family history and wisps of childhood nostalgia. Falling Cloudberries is divided into regional chapters, recounting recipes from her family, her friends, and from many countries and kitchens she has known through her life. With a Finnish mother, a Greek-Cypriot father, an Italian husband, a childhood spent in South Africa, and years working in restaurants across the world, the author fills her book with solid, time-tested and heartfelt recipes.

A sampling of the recipes I’ve been reading, curled up on the couch, no where near the kitchen:

-From Finland: Herrings marinated in vinegar with dill and allspice
-From Greece: Pork with celery in egg and lemon sauce
-From Cyprus: Filo with poached pears and rose petals, pistachio praline and vanilla ice
cream
-From South Africa: Lemon vanilla jam (She suggests it be served with simple sponge cake
and mascarpone cheese. Sold!)
-From Italy: Arugula, parmesean, and pommegranate salad with balsamic vinegar

The recipes read like travel fiction. I love this book.

The bowl of lemons next to the book doesn’t look like much, but I’m just using them as weight to press out the juice in salted chili peppers for Chiles in olive oil, simple, no-fuss recipe that Kiros brought back from Cyprus. It’ll be ready to photograph tonight, and I will update my blog with my (anticipated) success. This recipe works especially well for me because I can never use up all my chilis before they go bad ( I often have to dry them). I’m afraid I’m a bit of a spice wimp.

Chilies in olive oil
Adapted from a recipe in Tessa Kiros’ Falling Cloudberries

40 or so fresh red chiles
a good amount of salt
1 ½ cups olive oil

Slice the chiles into thin disks (1/16 of an inch). Kiros suggests using kitchen gloves, but I didn’t. I was very, very careful not to rub my eyes. Remove as many seeds as you can by putting the cut chilies in a colander and sharply tapping the edge of the sink. Leaving the chilies in the colander, generously sprinkle with salt. Place the colander over a bowl, and cover the chilies with saran-wrap, then place something heavy about the saran-wrap to press the juice out (a bowlful of lemons, for instance...).

Let the chilies sit like this for 24 hours. Squeeze the excess moisture and salt out of them, and place them in a sterilized jar. Make sure the chilies are covered in oil, or else they will spoil. After a few days, the oil will be ready to use (in marinades, on pasta, salads, etc...). Store in cool cupboard.

And a few hours later...

Spring's ground infantry

2009-05-25T19:46:00.000-07:00

Asparagus is a sure sign of spring. Its brave pointed heads soldier up from cold, moist soil. The season for asparagus is the same season that you find sad, cracked, baby-blue robins’ eggs in the grass. On my parents' farm in Manitoba, two rows of it grow right down the middle of the garden. Those rows have been producing, year after year, since I was little.

As kids, we were sent out to the garden fifteen minutes before suppertime, with a bowl and a knife. We knew how to look for them (the fat ones, a day or two old, just peeking out) and how to cut them (well below the soil, always at an angle).

Then my mother blanched them and we ate them with loads of butter.

When I was about ten, I got into big trouble. It was August, and the asparagus had grown to its full potential; thick woody stems with full, fluffy wisps, speckled with orangey-red berries—Christmas in August. The plants were so soft, and thick, and taller than I was. And nothing in the world was more fun than throwing myself into them one afternoon, over and over, until I had flattened the entire patch.

In University, I took a botany class called "Economic plants" — basically, plants humans use to eat, to feed its livestock with, to make medicine, to make clothes, to get high on. Each student was assigned a plant to study Others got strawberries, wheat, cotton, carrots. I got asparagus.
In the days that I was writing the final essay, I remember waking up from a very fitful sleep in a panic. I had dreamt that I was asparagus. And that I could feel my roots growing deeper and deeper underground with every year. It was all very weird. Thinking back, I should have looked into what that dream meant.

Anyway, now its 2009, and I certainly haven’t settled my roots perennially the way asparagus does. But I have been eating a hell of a lot of asparagus, like I always have this time of year.

Simple roasted asparagus
While I still like my asparagus doused in butter, my favorite way to eat them nowadays is to roast them in the oven. If they get a little charred, all the better. This isn’t exactly a whiz of a recipe, but it’s the best way to enjoy asparagus for what they are.

1 lb local, fresh asparagus (if possible, buy asparagus that is store with it’s cut stems in water— they’ll be less woody)
A good drizzle of olive oil
Fresh ground pepper and salt, to taste.

Preheat the over to 450 F. Trim the woody ends. In a shallow baking dish or a cookie sheet large enough to accommodate all the asparagus, side by side like little soldiers. Drizzle them with oil. Salt and pepper them, and slide them in the oven, uncovered. When they are glistening and wrinkly, and browned on the bottom (ten minutes or so), take them out and turn them over, using a fork. Leave them in for an additional ten minutes.
They’re great as is, but you can dress them with lemon juice, or shaved parmesan. Or even some crispy pancetta.

Fiddle-dee-dum, not dead yet

2009-05-09T17:37:00.000-07:00

There are few things I get nervous about in the food world. And, mostly, these things are avoidable deaths: Don’t feed your dog chocolate, don’t eat rhubarb leaves. And cook your fiddleheads thoroughly.

Well, undercooked fiddleheads aren’t fatal, as far as I know. They’ll just make you sick.

But tonight I cooked my first fiddleheads, and I think I’ll live. More than that, they were rather quite good. Tender, and buttery, they’re a lot like mild, just-out-of-the-ground asparagus.

I sprinkled them with mizithra—a salty, Greek sheep’s cheese. It’s dry and crumbly, and it can almost be used as a hefty substitute for salt.

Ah, yes, and a helluva lot of butter.

That’s it.

Fiddleheads with butter and mizithra
½ lb fiddleheads
1/4 cup salted butter
1 or 2 tablespoons crumbled or grated mizithra

Wash and trim the brown ends of the fiddleheads. Bring water to boil in a large saucepan. Boil the fiddleheads for 4-5 minutes. Drain. In a frying pan, melt the butter and add the fiddleheads.

Sautée for an additional 4-5 minutes, or until tender like asparagus. Serve with mizithra.

Excuses won't do

2009-05-02T18:57:00.000-07:00

Before you say anything, I know haven’t been updating very regularly. And I do apologize, sincerely. I’ve had the word "blog" scratched into my agenda everyday. It just hasn’t been crossed out.

Today is a day to get back on track. Today is Saturday, a good day. Things have been so busy, with a great CBC internship on weekdays, and with my new job at Good Egg (link) on the weekends (more about that, later).

Oh, and I have more excuses! When I left Montreal, I also had to part with the school camera. Since then, I’ve been struggling to take good pictures with my pocket camera.

Because it’s been two weeks since I last posted on La Cuisinette I have so many things to tell you about:

Good Egg
I started a part-time job at a shop called Good Egg. It’s a lovely way to spend my weekends. It’s a food bookstore / cooking emporium in Kensington Market.

Good Egg is packed with cookbooks, food politics essays, biographies of famous chefs, books on foraging, books on fancy chicken breeds and on picking mushrooms. And books on anything else related to food (including "Kama Sutra in the Kitchen" and children’s books on poop). It’s also full of kitchen nicknacks, like bibs, peanut shaped erasers, rubber chickens, and lapel pins shaped like shrimp. You know, the kind of thing you might not know you need, but you do.

Parcel
My mum sent me a parcel. It was full of goodies: jars of preserves that my Grandma, Marge, made the summer before she died; a packet of arugula and spinach seeds from my parents’ back porch planter; and, to go along with those seeds, two small bags of sheep shit compost.

You know your mother loves you when she ships shit half-way across the country.

Tinga de pollo
Adapted from a Diana Kennedy recipe

Also, here’s a recipe. I can only preface it by saying that I just finished a pile of tinga tostadas, and they were grand. This recipe is the closet thing to the ones I used to eat with Emma, in Coyoacán Market, Mexico City.

Tinga is sloppy, smokey tomatoey meat, usually pork or chicken, eaten on tostadas or in tacos.

180 grams (3 links or so) chorizo
½ cup chopped onion
2 or 3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
2 cups shredded green cabbage
4 tomatoes, finely chopped (or even pureed, if you have time)
3 canned chipotle peppers in adobo
2 tbsp sauce from can of chipotles
2 medium chicken breasts, poached and shredded (or 2 to 3 cups of shredded left-over

roast chicken)
1/3 cup of the poach water from the chicken (1/3 cup chicken broth)
salt to taste

Skin and crumble the chorizo sausage. In a large skillet, cook on low heat until cooked through, but not brown. Discard any excess fat. Add the cabbage, onion and garlic, and cook on medium-low heat until the cabbage is soft and onions are translucent. Add tomatoes, and turn the heat up to medium. Add the chipotle chilis (whole) and the chipotle sauce, and cook until the tomatoes are fully cooked and the skins have curled. Add the chicken and the broth. Adjust the salt. Serve on tostadas with sliced avocado and crème fraîche.

This week:
The photo of the mountain sheep is only linked to the tinga recipe in the sense that I took it in Mexico City, at the zoo, probably after having eaten tinga. I can’t bring myself to post the pictures I took with my point-and-shoot.

I will practice.

Lovely, lovely carrots

2009-04-18T10:21:00.000-07:00

Goodbye Montreal poutine. Hello picnics in Queen’s Park! Which is exactly what I did yesterday afternoon.

It was a beautiful 20 Celsius in my big, new city, and I spend the out walking. I strolled down College Street, Dundas, Roncesvalles, and Grenedier, all the way to High Park, which is beautiful, even in the stern, grey colours of April.

Then, I took the subway to Queen’s Park. The subway in Toronto has terrific names—Landsdowne, Osgoode, Runnymede, Keele—all the more British with their E's, hanging at the end, like a decoration.

But I’d better get to the marinated carrots. They are the first thing I’ve made in my new kitchen, and they turned out to be as lovely in Ontario as they are anywhere else. These carrots are perfect: fresh, vinegary, sweet and spiced with a smidgeon of fresh chilies. And crunchy! A perfect picnic food, really.

The key to these carrots is to parboil them, just so. Too cooked, they’ll lose the crunch. I find that 10 minutes boiling is good, if I keep the carrots whole, or halved. Also, the recipe calls for the carrots to sit for 24 hours. They’re pretty good even after a few hours, so don’t hesitate to make them the same day.

Marinated carrots
Adapted from a recipe in The Silver Spoon (Phaidon Press)

1 ½ lbs carrots, washed, peeled and cut in half, crosswise to fit in the pot
2 cloves garlic, very finely minced
2 or 3 sprigs flat-leaf parley, chopped
pinch of dried oregano
6 tbsp olive oil
3 tbsp white wine vinegar
1 small red chili, seeded and finely chopped

Cook the carrots in boiling, salted water for 10 minutes, or until just tender, but still quite crunchy. Drain and let sit (to dry) while you chop the garlic, parsley and chili. Cut the carrots into thin batons. In a bowl, combine carrots, garlic, parsley, oregano, olive oil, vinegar, and chili. Cover and refrigerate for 24 hours. Serve cold or at room temperature (or picnic basket temperature, I suppose.)

On fridge duty

2009-04-09T16:24:00.000-07:00

We’re moving to Toronto! We’re packing our things, labeling the boxes, and trying our mighty best to empty the fridge and cupboards. That being said, I’m sure you’ll understand that I haven’t got a recipe this week. I’m eating jumbled-like, with occasional trips to Dairy Queen.

What I’m saying, is I haven’t been cooking. More like using.

Just now, I made a ground lamb skillet with a few borderline cheeses from the back of the fridge, a wrinkly onion, some suspicious carrots and a bag of penne pulled from dark corners. It was...okay.

But next week, I’ll be in Toronto. I’ll be basking in hot dog stands, and I’ll have a new apartment kitchen. And I promise recipes.

Lamb, full circle

2009-03-29T07:36:00.000-07:00

It arrived in a leather suitcase, on Trudeau International Airport’s baggage claim. It was heavy and cold. It came off the rolling carpet and onto the floor with a thump.

The suitcase was full of lamb! Ground lamb, leg of lamb, lamb chops, lamb garlic sausage, lamb breakfast sausage, and a few delicious misfits: some goose and venison. My dad brought the suitcase, a gift from the farm.

He spent the weekend with me, in Montreal, and I took him to some of my favorites parts of the city. We had a lovely weekend, we walked a lot, stopping every few hours to eat or have coffee. It was a vacation in my own city, and it reminded me of trips to Winnipeg with my dad when I was a little girl. Endless ice cream and hamburgers, treats the whole way. Things have not changed.

But back to the suitcase: I’ve only made a small dent in my now-meat packed freezer, and already, I can feel my red blood cells dancing.

On Friday, we fried some garlic sausage with some perogis. There was some left over garlic sausage, and this caused a kind of chain reaction.

On Saturday, we left the sausage in the fridge, and my dad made a chili with the ground lamb.

On Sunday, we made a delicious leg roast, with maple syrup and rosemary. (Earlier that day, we went back to the market, and my dad bought four litres of maple syrup. It went into the emptied leather suitcase, Winnipeg bound.) We had some friends over that night, so we served some leftover chili as a starter.

With the bone from the roast came a noodle soup on Monday night (inspired by Mark Bittman ). It was packed with vegetables and Friday's garlic sausage.

Those leftover noodles became a chow mein (well, sort of) with a sauce made from Monday’s broth.

The leftover sauce inspired egg foo yung (again, sort of).

By then, my string of leftovers was broken, so I had to dip into the freezer again for some breakfast sausage.

Legume love

2009-03-21T14:32:00.000-07:00

As it turns out, my love affair with lentils is not over. I think they love me too, the way they’re treating me (very well, that is). Don’t worry, I’m all right. I’m weaning myself off them. I came very close to writing about them again, in this week’s blog, but I know it would be too much. Too many lentils, too soon.

To compensate, I’ll write you about another legume. Cheap strategy, you say? You haven’t tasted this salad yet.

It’s warm and spicy, with its roasted butternut squash and allspice. Chickpeas are not lentils, and they don’t try to be. They charm me just as much, with their cheeky little bums, those cutties.

Also: My father is in town, and he arrived at Trudeau International Airport with a suitcase full of lamb. And now, I have a freezer full of lamb. So next week, I promise to write about it. No more legumes. I promise.

Warm butternut and chickpeas with tahini dressing
Adapted from a recipe by Molly Wizenberg in orangette.blogspot.com

For salad:
1 medium butternut squash (2 to 2 ½ lbs), peeled, seeded
and cut into 1 ½ inch pieces
1 medium garlic clove, pressed
½ tsp ground allspice
2 tbsp olive oil
salt
1 can (19 oz) can chickpeas, drained and rinced
½ of a red onion, finely chopped
1/4 to ½ cup fresh cilantro, corsely chopped

For tahini dressing:
1 medium garlic clove, finely minced with a pinch of salt
4 tbps lemon juice
3 tbsp well stirred tahini
2 tbsp water
2 tbsp olive oil, or more, to taste

Preheat the oven to 425 F. Combine the squash, oil, garlic, salt, and allspice and roast for 10-15 minutes on a baking sheet, until soft. Let cool, but not completely.

Meanwhile, make the dressing. Whisk together the garlic, lemon juice, tahini, water and olive oil.
Combine the cooled squash, the chickpeas, onion and cilantro in a bowl. Toss with the tahini dressing and serve (or toss with half of the dressing, reserving the rest so each person can add dressing to taste).

A quick note on Pavlov's dog

2009-03-04T11:28:00.000-08:00

When I make dinner, I like to listen to CBC Radio’s As It Happens.

Andrew told me that when hears clips from As It Happens any other time of day, his stomach grumbles.

Pretty, though

Also, here is a picture of a cake I made on Sunday. It wasn't very good, honestly, but I did think it was pretty. Here's it's glamour shot.

Touski, or the secret to soup

2009-02-24T14:07:00.000-08:00

I don’t really have a recipe today, but I’d like to tell you about a soup I made on Sunday. It’s my favorite kind of soup, the kind that can only happen when you’re interested in cleaning your fridge. In French, or at least in my family, it’s called a “touski” soup— on y met tout ce qu’il y a dans le frigo— an “everything-in-the-fringe” soup. A plethora of the weekend’s leftovers and of nearly forgotten bits and bobs. In other words, a heartfelt attempt to get to know your fridge.

You have to use your judgment, but these soups are often are beautiful, and strangely perfect. And I always feel rather independent making this kind of soup: Because I've marched ahead with no recipe, and because I’ve managed to salvage and recycle what might have gone to waste.

This particular soup is made of leftovers from a weekend with friends. We had a party on Friday, which became more of a potluck. We also had some friends, Tim, Michelle, and Julia, who stayed at our place for a glorious weekend of eating and drinking.

For our party on Friday night, Red brought a Portuguese roasted chicken. It was delicious. We had bones and meat left over. The bones eventually became broth, along with some onions, garlic and a few sprigs of oregano. And the chunks of meat adds to the soups heartiness.

On Saturday night, Michelle made tacos. She’s a fantastic cook, and had the wonderful idea of making mashed yams as one of the taco fillers. We were left with some of that, and with some chopped tomato. I added the yam in the pot, just after sauteeing some more onions and some diced potato. In went parboiled lentils, too. I found them at the pack of the cupboard, left over from a previous week long obsession with lentils.

In our fridge, we also had some near-goner spinach. That went into the soup at the last minute, just to wilt.

On Sunday night, in the wake of our wonderful weekend with friends, all these leftovers came together and became a warm oregano and chicken soup, heavy with vegetables and lentils. The mashed yam turned it into a thick and hearty soup.

Now, we are in our quiet apartment, our friends are gone, and it feels a little empty. But we’re still enjoying the leftovers, thinking of all the good times and good food we had.

This week

I’ve never told you about my favorite food blog, Orangette. Last Sunday, I made a batch of her butterscotch cookies. I made them again on Friday. And then I made them once more last night, with my good friend Caroline and a bottle of wine. You should try them too.

Cake and half-truths

2009-02-10T18:10:00.000-08:00

The summer before last, when I lived on Braemar Street in Winnipeg, there was an apple cake that I made a lot. My parents’ crab apple trees were heavy with fruit, and I came home from the farm with loads of apples several times in late August.

I have to say, this story isn’t really about cake. It’s about those little secrets that are best kept to yourself. It’s about little accidents that should be left untold.

I had been invited to a supper with people I didn’t know very well. Keen on impressing, I made my cake the night before, so it would be well set and I wouldn’t have to scramble in the kitchen after work. It would be a hit, I knew it. It’s a beautiful cake, light, not too sweet, and packed with apples.

And apples, I had.

The problem, you ask? It wasn’t just the summer of crab apples. It was also the summer of ants. They were all over the kitchen that year, ransacking everything while I wasn’t looking, laughing at me when my back was turned.

On the dinner night, while waiting for the bus, I inspected my carefully saran wrapped cake. And then I saw it. An antenna sticking out of the icing, squashed against the plastic.

Shit. An ant in the cake. I got on the bus, sat down, and carefully unwrapped the cake. There were a dozen ants, smooched into the sweet icing. Diabetes kills, I thought. Bastards.

I picked all the bugs out before my stop.

Everyone enjoyed the cake, no one ever knew. Except me, of course. And you, now.

Insect-free apple cake
adapted from a recipe in the MCC Simply in Season

5 cups tart apples (peeled, cored and chopped)
1 1/3 cup sugar
½ cup oil
2 eggs, slightly beaten
2 tsp vanilla
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 cup flour
2 tsp baking soda
2 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp salt

Icing

2/3 cup brown sugar
1/4 cream
1 tbsp flour
1/3 powdered sugar

Combine the sugar and the apples and let stand while mixing other ingredients. In a separate bowl, combine oil, eggs and vanilla. Set aside. In a third bowl, mix flour, baking soda, cinnamon and salt. Alternating between the egg mixture and the flour mixture, pour and stir into the apples. Pour into a greased cake pan (3.5 L). Bake for 50 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean.

For the icing, bring brown sugar, cream, and flour to a brief boil in a sauce pan. Remove from heat and stir in the icing sugar, briskly. Pour onto slightly cooled cake immediately.

Subscription anxiety and bean burgers

2009-01-30T09:24:00.000-08:00

I should buy Gourmet Magazine more often. If it wasn’t for the cheque addressed to the New Yorker (eep!) that I just dropped in the mail, I would be getting a subscription to Gourmet, definitely. You can't have everything, they say.

But, as a treat, I bought a copy this weekend and spent an entire evening folding the corners of pages that had especially nice recipes. That was Saturday. Today is Thursday, and I am making my third recipe from the February issue already. And it’s still January.

First, there was Paprika roast chicken with sweet onion, on Sunday night. It was amazing. Then, on Monday, there were the Black-bean burgers, which were ridiculously satisfying in that pasty beanie sort of way. I love these burgers, which is why I’m sharing the recipe with you, below. And finally, tonight, in the oven at this very moment, are Gourmet’s Buttermilk fantails, a fancy looking dinner roll. They may or may not work out. But the way things are smelling in this apartment, I think they’re working out.

Black-bean burgers
adapted from Gourmet Magazine (by Gina Marie Miraglia Eriquez), February 2009 issue

2 (14-oz) cans of black beans
3 tbsp mayonnaise
1/3 cup dry bread crumbs or crushed crackers
2 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp dried oregano
1/4 tsp dry cayenne
1/4 cup finely chopped fresh cilantro
salt and pepper
3 tbsp frying oil ( I used olive)

4 hamburger buns

guacamole, salsa and sour cream as garnish

Rinse and drain 1 can of beans. Purée in a blender or food processor, along with mayonnaise, bread crumbs, cumin, oregano, cayenne and salt and pepper. Transfer to a bowl and mix cilantro and second can of whole beans (rinsed and drained). Form into patties and cook at medium-high heat in an oiled frying pan, on both sides until crispy-brown on the outside.

Serve on hamburger buns. I made a coarse, tomatoey guacamole to heap on top of the patty.

Process this

2009-01-23T06:59:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, when I interviewed my favorite food blogger, Molly Wizenberg, for a profile article, there was this one thing I really wanted to know: Did she have any culinary guilty pleasures? Did she, who always writes so wholesomely, enjoy a bowl of Kraft Dinner or some instant noodles once in a while? Does she have a secret love for processed foods? Because certainly do.

Molly wrote me: "Oooh boy. I love peanut butter. I also love Hershey's chocolate syrup (on vanilla ice cream, preferably), gummy candies, and sour gummy candies. When I was a kid, my dad always made macaroni and cheese with Velveeta, and I loved it. I bet I still would today."

I was a relieved, frankly. I don’t have to justify my likes and dislikes. It’s just that for someone who cares about food so much, I have a disproportionate passion for No Name frozen perogies and fried bologna with cheese.

But I know that good food writers aren’t ashamed of their own secret cupboard affaires (Vogue’s Jeffrey Steingarten, for instance, swears by Heinz ketchup on French fries).

At any rate, I suspect everyone, no matter how fancy pants they may be, has a special spot for something completely manufactured, packaged and preserved with ingredients
unpronounceable. Say, something you pour water into and then zap in the microwave. Or hot dog wieners. Or goldfish crackers.

I’m not saying that it’s not junk, because it is. As a whole, processed food is terrible for your gut, terrible for the Earth and probably, at some level, terrible for your soul... But only if you eat too much. Because knowing it’s so awful makes it special. Processed food is like glow bowling. It’s kind of stupid, but really fun on occasion, especially if you’re drunk.

Does that make any sense? I starting writing this last night, over a bowl of Campbell’s tomato soup. It was salty, uniform, and exactly what I needed. Then I went out for a shawarma on Crescent street (which, for the record, is not junk food).

This week

Given the nature of this posting, I can’t possibly include a recipe of my own. Unless you want my recipe for tuna casserole using Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup. But if you want that recipe, I’m pretty sure it’s written on the can’s label.

Instead, and for everyone’s benefit, I’m posting a soup recipe on behalf of my friend Red. He makes great soups, and every time I ask him how he makes a soup, his recipe is quick and simple. Next time, instead of instant noodles, I should take a few extra minutes and make Red’s soup.

Red’s zucchini soup

4 zucchinis
4 slices of laughing cow cream cheese
1 clove of garlic
1 vegetable or chicken bouillon cube
Some olive oil

Chop the zucchini into 1 cm discs, keeping the skin. In a large pot, fry them in olive oil, on low heat for 5 minutes, without burning them. Add crushed garlic clove and a cube of bouillon. Pour some water into the pot so it just covers the zucchini slices. Cook on high heat until they’re soft. Add the cheese.
When it dissolves, puree the soup, adding more water if it’s too thick. Serve.

From the top shelf

2009-01-12T10:32:00.000-08:00

My obsession with lentils started on Thursday night, when I took a curried apple and lentil salad to a potluck (recipe below). For the next few days, if I wasn’t making lentils, I was thinking about them.

Even today at the journalism department computer lab, I flicked a mashed lentil off my shirt. I’m not sure how it got there, but it likely has something to do with the bacon and lentil dish I ate for lunch. I know. Sorry. "No food in the lab". But I didn’t eat lunch in the lab. It was the lentil that followed me there.

My crush on lentils isn’t forever, but there are more recipes to try before I put them back on the top shelf with my other infrequent legumes and beans. My kitchen spotlight will fade away.

But before it fades, let me say this: Lentils are easy. Spend almost no money. Soak them for almost no time. Pay almost no attention to them while they simmer. Serve. Enjoy.

Apple Lentil Salad
Adapted from "Simply in Season", a collection of recipes from the Mennonite Central Committee.

1 cup of dry lentils, soaked in hot water for 15 minutes
2 tablespoons curry powder
1 teaspoon salt
2 cups water
3 tart apples, cored and finely cubed
1/4 cup lemon juice or cider vinegar
1 small red onion, thinly sliced
Handful fresh cilantro, roughly chopped.

Heat the olive oil in a large saucepan. Add the salt and curry and heat up until just bubbly. Drain the lentils and add them to the pan. Fry briefly, then add the water. Cook until the lentils are tender, about 20 minutes. Stir once in a while, add water if needed, and drain any excess when the lentils are cooked. When the lentils are just cooled, add all other ingredients.

The salad can be eaten warm or cool, but I prefer it after it's been left in the fridge for a few hours.

This week

I received a copy of Jamie Oliver's Cook with Jamie—my guide to making you a better cook. He's lovely. He uses phrases like "bash up" for your rosemary, and "Serve! Eat!" for his Super squid linguini recipe. Yes, Super squid. And I think Jamie's just super.

Beer bread for small apartments

2008-12-04T09:14:00.000-08:00

I’ve done it. I’ve finally found a name for this blog: La Cuisinette.

Now that I’ve fully moved into the new apartment, I’m realizing that what we have is not quite a kitchen, and not quite a closet either. It’s something in between, like a kitchenette. The kitchen is small, but I can live with it. I need to get a few things, like a good knife and maybe a few more shelves. But usually, as long as I’ve done the dishes, there’s room to make anything.

I’ve had my fair share of awkward kitchens anyway. I had an apartment on Dumoulin Street, in Winnipeg, where the oven worked only occasionally. One evening, in January, I started make bread, when I realized, just as I was about to slide the loaf into the oven that the oven wasn’t working. So I covered the loaf with tea towels and I dashed to my neighbour, Matthieu’s. The mad dash in Winnipeg’s -35 degrees killed the loaf instantly.

My friend Emma and I rented a room in Mexico City two winters ago, in an apartment owed by two older ladies, a 60 year old retired school teacher, Teresa, and her mother, Margarita, who was in her nineties. It was a tight fit. Margarita loved to have her late night snack (at about 7 o’clock) at the kitchen table, which butted up against the kitchen sink.

Almost every morning during those 6 months, I woke up early, when there was still room in the kitchen, and made myself some porridge. Then I’d grab a fresh orange juice at a kiosk near the bus stop. I would hold on tight to that juice as the bus bombed its way down the Tlalpan highway, all the way to university.

In our Mexican kitchen, Teresa taught me to make flan, something I have never been able to recreate back in Canada.

Last night, in my new Montreal kitchen(ette), marked my first misadventure in this apartment. We ordered sushi and watched an Eddie Murphy movie. I got up to get ice cream and came back with an unfortunate, tepid, blueberry froth. The freezer doesn’t work anymore. We’ll have to thaw it today, and see what to do.

There are quite a few more kitchens in my history of kitchens, and they’ve all had their ups and downs. And I’m sure there will be many more. But the point is, I’m a student, and even when I’m not a student, I’ll probably live in these sorts of apartments for a while. I’ve learned to cook in kitchens that are less than perfect, and I know that I’ve managed to make great food. In a way, my blog reflects that. All the recipes I post were first tried in a less than perfect cuisinette.

Today, I have a recipe that honours all students in small kitchens. It’s a quick, easy bread, and its only yeast (and liquid) is a bottle of beer. You don’t even have to knead it, for pete’s sake. So if you’re a student without even a kitchen counter, you can still make this bread.

It’s also very adaptable. There is always cheese in it, but you can use whatever cheese you like. Or whatever cheese you have in your fridge. And you can add onions or herbs, or whatever you might fancy. Or whatever you have in your fridge.

Apartment beer bread
Adapted from a recipe in the Globe and Mail, by Lucy Waverman (March 2008)

2 cups whole wheat flour
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/4 of: chopped herbs of your choice OR/AND chopped onions or scallions
1 cup grated cheese
1 12 oz. bottle of beer
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

Preheat oven to 350 F. In a large bowl, mix all ingredients except beer and mustard. Add last two ingredients, and mix well with spoon or your hands, making sure the mustard and all the flour has been well incorporated. Transfer to a greased bread pan, smooth top of loaf with a damp hand. Bake for 40 to 45 minutes, until the loaf is golden brown.

On Chai Tea and Piracy

2008-11-21T08:07:00.000-08:00

I’ve got a little catching up to do this weekend. It’s Friday morning, and it’s going to take me a few hours before I really get the ball rolling on my work. So I’m going to start my day right, with Nutella toast and a nice cup of chai tea. The radio’s on, and after breakfast I’ll clean up. Then, I’ll probably make some cookies, and then, then I’ll get started. But my day starts with this cup of chai, a recipe from my aunt.

I had entirely forgotten about this recipe, but I remembered it last week. With the cold comes a tastes for warm spiciness. During the past few days, I’ve kept a pot of it on the stove, perpetually warming, ready. It’s warm, sweet and spicy, perfect for a cold apartment, and it’s better than any tea bag. I’ll tell you why: There’s something a little witchy about it, when you throw pinches of this and handfuls of that into a big pot of simmering aroma that fills up the place. As well, with tea bags, you can’t know or decide what goes into your chai. So if you’re partial to cardamom, double it. The original recipe called for sugar, but I prefer honey for this. I have reason to believe this tea will be a staple for me this winter.

Chai Tea
Adapted from a recipe from my Aunt Hélène

3 tbsp loose black tea
1 cinnamon stick
3 pieces star anise
6 whole cloves
2 pieces whole cardamom pods
6 whole black peppercorns
6 cups hot water
1 ½ to 2 cups milk
1/3 cup honey
Bring all ingredients except the milk and honey to a boil, lower heat and allow to simmer for a few minutes. Reduce heat, add milk and honey, reheat until very hot, but avoid boiling. Adjust sweetness if needed. Serve, with or without straining.

This week
Somali pirates are changing the economic life in port towns along the Gulf of Aden, where they inject their criminal fortunes into local businesses. Entrepreneurs and restaurant owners have seized an opportunity, setting up shop as caterers for the crews of highjacked cargo ships. They offer a range of "western style food" , including grilled fish and pasta, that will please the palate of the kidnappees.
Click here for an article by the AP.

An Appetite Well Deserved

2008-11-12T13:08:00.000-08:00

I spent last weekend on a farm in the Eastern Townships. I went there, officially, to conduct some interviews for an article on the new generation of agriculture. Unofficially, I went to Caroline Poirier and Sébastien Alix’s farm for a change of pace.

On Friday, I plucked and gutted chickens, and on Saturday, I hauled bales down barn stairs and stacked them along the walls. I also rolled several hundred feet of irrigation pipes. I got guts under my fingernails, dust in my lungs and scratches on my arms. In other words, I spent the weekend working up an appetite.

Caroline, 24, and Sébastien, 32, raise lamb, laying hens, meat poultry and cultivate 3 acres of vegetables for CSA boxes they sell to costumers in the Sherbrooke area. They also happen to be raising a 18 month year-old boy, Rémi, and are expecting a second child in December. They have, to say the least, their hands full. And they have an absolutely lovely, very busy life.

I may be a city girl these days, spending afternoons in coffee shops with my laptop in Montreal’s Mile End, but I grew up on a sheep farm in Manitoba. The time I spent in the Eastern Townships was not very different from what I did on weekends as a teenager.

I’ve come to miss that "good day’s work", the kind of work that means that food being grows right in front of your eyes, in your garden and your pasture. With that kind of work comes a kind of eating that is completely unlike having coffee and a pastry while you type on your laptop in the Mile End. It’s a kind of eating that is well deserved, that satisfies a hunger built up while you were working at making the very food that ends up on the table.

So, today I have a recipe for a lamb and eggplant casserole that Sébastien’s dad, André, brought to the farm for us to eat on Friday night. Admittedly, the eggplants were not Caroline and Sébastien’s, but the lamb certainly was. The casserole was quick to make, André told me, easy to thrown into the oven while you’re cleaning yourself up after your day’s work.

The ingredient amounts are pretty flexible, depending on the liquidity of your tomatoes. The best tomatoes to use, of course, are home canned tomatoes from your very own garden.

André’s lamb and eggplant casserole

2 medium onions, diced
4-6 cloves of garlic, minced
2 lbs ground lamb
2 pint jars of canned tomatoes
2 medium-large eggplants, sliced into half-inch rounds
olive oil
1 cup (or more!) grated old cheddar (the more flavourful, the better)

In a large frying pan, brown the onions, garlic and lamb. Add the tomatoes (liquid included), and simmer at a low heat for an hour or so, until it thickens and the flavours mix. Meanwhile, sprinkle the eggplant slices with salt and let sit in a strainer over the sink to let the bitter juices out for half an hour. Then, rince the eggplant and pat dry. Fry the slices in a second frying pan until lightly golden. Pre-heat oven to 350 F.

In a casserole, make two or three layers, alternating between the lamb and the eggplant, as with a lasagna. The last layer should be lamb, topped off with the grated cheddar. Bake uncovered in the oven for half an hour to 45 minutes, or until cheese in bubbly and golden.

This Week

This week, I am posting the first installement of my friend Salvatore Ciolfi's Montreal restaurant review. Sal is the Montrealer that will tell me about any restaurant that I need to visit in the town.

Sal's Restaurant Review: Beijing
by Salvatore Ciolfi

Given the large Chinese population in Montreal, it's always been a bit of a surprise to see how small and unimpressive Chinatown is. I mean compared in size, scale and fun to those in Toronto and Vancouver, Montreal's few blocks worth of China-themed businesses looks a touch on the pathetic side...as if a Chinatown didn't exist, and one was quickly thrown together to appease people. This is especially noticeable when you visit Vancouver's, which is so all consuming, you can easily forget you're in North America. All that said, there are a few restaurant gems in Chi-town, and one may have the city's best Hot and Sour soup: Restaurant Beijing.

A lot of Montrealers, particularly those who like cheap late night meals, will probably tell you that "VIP" is the area's best resto, but I'd argue that real foodies would be much more at home in Beijing's clean, bright room, and certainly more at ease with their fresh ingredients and menu. And besides, Beijing does stay open until 3am, so it's not like they're slouching in the post-booze world of early morning dining. Plus, it's a family style restaurant, which means one thing: lazy susans! Automatic bonus points if you ask me.

Recently, the Montreal Gazette featured the restaurant's aforementioned Hot and Sour concoction, and a recent visit was enough to justify the coverage. Spicy but not overpowering, the soup had just enough vinegar to give it a tangy, full-bodied flavor. Shrimp, tofu, egg whites and various Chinese vegetables give it a hearty feel, even if in the end, it's a fairly light soup that’s surprisingly good at opening up your taste buds. Traditionally, this is a Sichuan specialty, but here they also use barbecued pork to give it a Beijing regional touch.

The rest of the extensive menu is equally versatile, with numerous regional variations on traditional Sichuan dishes available. Our group opted for a serving of the “Thai style seafood chow mein,” which is a spicy, and colorful rethink of “Cantonese chow mein” featuring shrimp, crab and enough fresh basil to fool this Italo-Canadian into thinking he was back at his mother’s house. Confusing, but delicious all the same. All five of us agreed that we’d order this one again if we had the chance.

Equally great was the “Chicken with ginger and green onions,” a seemingly simple dish that packs a lot of subtle flavor (unless you happen to bite directly into a piece of ginger, as I did. There is nothing subtle about biting directly into a piece of ginger). The only minor misstep of the night was our third choice, “Sweet and Sour Pork,” which like most other dishes in the sweet and sour world, comes covered in a sugary, bright red sauce. The pork was a tad on the chewy side, and though the accompanying peppers and pineapple were fresh and tasty, the dish was a bit of a disappointment. Of course, it could just be that everything else we had was so great, that it just suffered in comparison. I’d be willing to bet that it’s still better than similar offerings at other restaurants.

All told, one large bowl of soup, a mountain of steamed rice, and three plentiful dishes was enough to feed five people, and it only ran us $58. A great deal if I’ve ever had one, and further proof for this Montrealer that there’s only one VIP in Chinatown, and that’s Beijing.

For the enterprising, here’s Beijing's “Hot and Sour Soup” recipe:

Ingredients:
3 1/2 cups chicken broth
260 grams firm tofu, diced into half-inch cubes
12 small shrimps (50 grams)
50 grams barbecued pork strip, diced (available in Chinatown)
25 grams shredded Chinese radish (comes in a can; also available in Chinatown)
25 grams wood ear fungus (available in Chinatown; these come dried and must be moistened in cold water overnight until soft)
25 grams of bamboo shoots, diced (comes in a can; available at most grocery stores)
25 grams mushroom strips (these come dried and must be moistened overnight in cold water until soft)
1/2 teaspoon (2 mL) salt
2 teaspoons (10 mL) sugar
2 teaspoons (10 mL) white vinegar
1 teaspoon (5 mL) dark soy sauce
2 teaspoons (10 mL) light soy sauce
1/2 teaspoon (2 mL) sesame oil
1/4 teaspoon (1 mL) chili oil
pinch of black pepper
1/4 teaspoon (2 mL) cornstarch dissolved in one tablespoon
(15 mL) of water
1 egg white

Directions:
Make sure all ingredients are ready beforehand. The secret to this recipe's success is to work quickly.

Quickly steam tofu, shrimp, barbecued pork, radish, wood ear fungus, bamboo strips and mushroom strips in a steamer over boiling water. Set aside.

Pour chicken broth into a very hot wok. Once the broth reaches a boil, add steamed ingredients. Using a wooden spoon, stir together quickly.

Add salt, sugar and vinegar. Stir together quickly.
Add soy sauces. Stir together quickly.
Add sesame oil. Stir together quickly.
Add chili oil and black pepper. Stir together quickly.
Add cornstarch. Stir together quickly.
At the very last moment, add one egg white. Stir together quickly. Serve immediately
Serves four.

A Blueberry birthday

2008-10-26T13:04:00.000-07:00

I don’t know why I am reminded of blueberries so late in the year. Maybe it’s because it’s such a beautiful day in Montreal. I spent part of the afternoon in the park. I sat on a bench to knit for awhile. No jacket. Just me, my knitting needles and hot peppermint tea.

On the way home from the park, I thought of my blueberry-yogurt pancakes, and how wonderful and fluffy they are. I still have blueberries in the freezer, so I’m not completely out of season in telling you about them. I bought two litres of farmed blueberries in August at Marché Jean-Talon , and I’ve been throwing a handful of them in breakfasts here and there. But the best blueberry breakfast is my blueberry-yogurt pancake.

Maybe I thought of these pancakes because today is my Papa’s birthday, and if I were in Manitoba, I would most definitely be making them for him.

So for Papa’s birthday, a recipe for blueberry-yogurt pancakes. The ground flax isn’t absolutely necessary, but it adds a nice nutty taste

Blueberry-yogurt pancakes

1 cup flour (I normally use half white, half whole-wheat)
1 tablespoon ground flax
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 egg
½ cup milk
½ plain yogurt (or not so plain yogurt! Berry or vanilla flavoured yogurt is nice too.)
2 tablespoons vegetable, canola or sunflower oil
3/4 cup blueberries
butter for grilling

Combine dry ingredient. In a separate bowl, whisk together liquid ingredients. Pour liquids into dry ingredients and mix until all flour pockets have disappeared. Melt a tablespoon of butter on a frying pan or a pancake griddle before pouring pancakes. Flip pancakes when top starts to bubble. Makes 2 servings.

A First Step

2008-10-23T16:42:00.000-07:00

I’m sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of wine, scribbling in a notebook, and deciding what name to give my new blog.

The Thymes? The Garlic Press? No, no. This is strange; I’m having wine and cheese, apparently.

By the time I post this, I will have decided on a name for my blog. I’m just being very meticulous, I guess. I want this blog to be about food, yes, but about food in every way. There will be recipes, of course, but that won’t be all.

I want to write about food as life.

Food as life, because it can tell you about everything. Food is politics. Food is social. It is art, culture, and subsistence. It is agriculture and economy. The most important thing is, food is on all of our tables. When it’s not, we are certainly scratching our heads, thinking about how to get it on there.

So, food is everything, and I’m awfully excited about that. But there will be recipes, too...I promise.

I still haven’t thought of a name for my blog, though. That’s ok, I’ve made the first step.

This Week

Check out this link to Michael Pollen’s article in the New York Times Magazine. It’s an open letter to the next American President on food and agriculture policy.