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Brekkie à la polonaise

Oh, lordy. My last post was at the end of January.

It’s not that I haven’t been cooking. In fact, I’ve been cooking with steel toed shoes and a chef’s hat: For the last twelve weeks, Wednesday nights have been George Brown College nights—as in, cooking school.

The twelve-week class, Culinary Arts I, is the first step to a certificate in culinary arts, something I think I’d like to pursue. It’s fun, I get to wear my cheffie gear, and cook on gas.

The first course, obligatory, was introductory. Soups, salads, poached fish, sauces, braises, pan roasting. None of it was totally new to me, and yet I gathered up a thousand tips and nuggets of knowledge for the chef instructor (like, hey guys! Onions skins added to your chicken stock will turn it a lovely golden brown. True story.)

I believe the program is making me a better cook. I’m getting acquainted with basic French sauces. And, well, frankly, quite a few recipes of the yester-decades (salad in a pineapple boat, anyone?).  Without getting into to much detail, it’s a pursuit worth taking, and I plan to go back in the fall for more.

Now for the polonaise, which I knew nothing about before this Wednesday's class. It’s a very tasty garnish, made up of chopped boiled eggs, beurre noisette (browned butter, and lots of it), bread crumbs and parsley.

I made a tasty rendition of it, this morning. I roasted cauliflower, yellow bell pepper, and finished them off by sprinkling the polonaise, and toasting it a tad. Topped with a fried egg. Voilà ! Déjeuner à la polonaise ! Sort of…

For recipes, email me: dianeeros AT gmail.com

Sharp and Alive

Nothing brightens up a crummy winter’s day like this lemon and celery salad.

Way back in December, I got the new Canal House cookbook, Canal House Cooks Every Day, by Christopher Hirsheimer and Melissa Hamilton (sister of Gabrielle Hamilton). The first thing I made was this meal: grilled beef with parsley-tarragon butter and a chopped celery salad. Preserved lemons in the celery really shines, especially when it’s grey and wet out there.

The celery I used was the very most tender—the pale ribs in the centre—along with all of their leaves. Finely chopped anchovies and preserved lemon were tossed along with a lemon and olive oil dressing. The result is spectacularly sharp and alive. It’s best served cold.

As for the steak and butter, I never bothered with the tarragon. Just plain parsley was beautiful on its own. I like my meat grilled rare; in my inaccurate and kind of cartoony understanding of how biology works, my body yells “hurray!” as soon as the bloody steak hits my stomach and those proteins get cracking.  Please don’t quote me on this.

For no reason at all, here is Olive the cat. I’m not sure what she was doing on the table (not allowed!). She doesn’t care for lemons. Actually, she doesn't even know what they are.  

Accomplishments measured in bread

First, I should confess this is post is only a partial effort. I’ve got the flu, which means that I’ve been productive in a very limited sense over the last few days: I’m eating an awful lot of this soup; I watched all of Freaks and Geeks; and I even dragged my sorry ass across the street for some lemons at noon today. And, naturally, these activities were separated by naps. Those are my accomplishments.

I thought, however, that I should tell you about something I achieved before I got the flu. As of late December, I’ve been making sourdough bread.

I’ve been using the Tartine Bread book as a guide. At first, I kept the starter in a drawer in our bedroom. It smells sweet and tangy.  The loaves it produces are moist, bubbly, and the crust is chewy.

I’m now experimenting with storing the starter in the refrigerator, seeing as I only have time to make loaves every two weeks or so.  This bread takes time; just the first rise is a four hour commitment. But the result is worth it, and the recipe makes two large loaves—enough to share.  I’ll be making this bread for a while, so I’m sure I’ll tell you more about my sourdough adventures on a day where the flu hasn’t muffled my brain functions.  

Most of these pictures--except this last one--were taken by my father, who visited a couple of weeks ago. He brought a jar of starter back to the farm, where I’m told my mother has been putting the sourdough to use as well. 

Mezcal, de todos modos

Para todo mal, mezcal…para todo bien, también.

I saw that scrawled on a bathroom wall in a bar in Mexico City. “For all that’s good, mezcal…and for the bad stuff too.” Except that in Spanish, it rhymes. Sort of. It’s bar loo graffiti wisdom, which I've always felt should be taken seriously.

We came back from our trip Mexico with this bottle of El Mero mero, from Oaxaca. 

It’s a beaut. Translating loosely from its own label and based on what I’m tasting, it’s a clean and bright, smoky and vaguely metallic.  It’s un-aged, so clear as water. And I’ve been serving it with orange slices, which I dust with a little smoked paprika (I suspect they can be sprinkled with piquín instead).  

And for heaven’s sake, don’t shoot this stuff! Sip it slow, while eating oranges and other nibblies. With my friend Mika, we ate Soma’s Old School chocolate instead of oranges, which was just as perfect. 

Michoacán, for the living and for the dead...

Today's our last full day in Mexico City. Six weeks flew by, and I'm feeling very much at home here again. I'll have better things to write when I'm back in Toronto, with a little post-trip perspective. (I'm also bringing back a few recipes, which I'm sure you'll be seeing here).

But in the meantime, here's a little treat: Andrew's video of La Noche de muertos --- the night of the dead. We went to the state of Michoacán for the Day of the Dead, and on the night of November 1st, we explored towns that dot the shore of Pátzcuaro Lake. We saw four cemeteries that night, one of them on a small, quiet island called La Pacanda. As villagers kept their dead company in the cemetery, the island's church bell tolled.

Day of the Dead from Andrew Budziak on Vimeo.

Lucky Encounters

Stumbling upon unexpected treasures is something that keeps happening here. In Mexico City, you can find things to do just by wandering aimlessly. Even if you are walking somewhere with purpose, you’re likely to be side swept by something interesting. Or in my case, something tasty.

Today, on our way to the ruins of the Aztec temple wedged in next to the giant Catedral Metropolitana, we happened upon the Museum Nuestra Cocina Duque de Herdez … basically, the Mexican cooking museum!

The first two photos are from their pre-Hispanic kitchen exhibit. The last two, below, are from the colonial period. I absolutely love the tiled wood stoves and the comales.

More Mexico City Munching

El DF en la noche from Andrew Budziak on Vimeo.

Mexico City is for eating

We landed in Mexico City in Monday. It's been a thrill to showing Andrew this city I love. We've been busily rushing from food cart to cantina to market, trying to fit what we can into our stomachs.

Our apartment has a perfect little kitchenette (une cuisinette!!), which I baptized on Wednesday by making a chicken soup. And then Andrew made this video!


Diane at the Market from Andrew Budziak on Vimeo.

This Is The Stuff

I love this cornbread recipe. It’s unusual, because it has a bit of a Middle East meets Deep South quality to it. Instead of butter or lard, you have olive oil. And the Aleppo pepper is so perfect in this. I like it fresh out of the oven, with butter. I like it toasted. I like it with breakfast, and I’ve made some pretty brilliant avocado and cheese sandwiches with it.

Aleppo pepper might be hard to find. Here in Toronto, I get it at Akram’s in Kensington Market. But if you can’t find it, you could approximate the taste with sweet paprika and a pinch of cayenne. Or perhaps flaked ancho chilies? But if you are able to get Aleppo, it’s worth it. It offers a gentle, sweet heat. You’ll find plenty of use for it in yoghurt sauces, kabobs, rubs, stews… or maybe this egg recipe.

Instead of posting the recipe, I’m going to send you to where I originally came across it, on the Smitten Kitchen blog. Click here for cornbread!

In a pinch, I’ve used yoghurt instead of sour cream, and substituted the buttermilk for plain milk with a splash of vinegar. It was just fine, so don’t feel you have to run out and buy all sorts of dairy if you don’t have it. And I sometimes throw in a handful of pine nuts, which is perfectly lovely. 

Turkish Menemen, or Eggs at Their Best

Menemen is eggs, poached in a fragrant tomato and red pepper simmer, heaped into bowls and served with garlicky yoghurt.  It’s a Turkish dish, and I love the combination of spices. I’ve made it without the red pepper, and it was just as delicious.

Make the garlic yoghurt first, and leave it at room temperature while you prepare the eggs. Serve with good sliced bread or flatbread. Or wait until next week, when I’ll post a recipe for Aleppo pepper cornbread, which is a perfect partner for menemen (and which uses the same Aleppo chili flakes you’ll need in this egg dish).

Menemen with Garlic Yogurt

Adapted from a recipe in Anna Hansen’s The Modern Pantry
Serves two hungry people, or four kinda peckish people

For the garlic yoghurt:

¼ cup olive oil

1 cup plain or greek yoghurt

1 clove garlic, finely chopped

The juice of half a lemon

For the menemen:  

2 tbsp olive oil

2 tsp fennel seeds

1 tsp cumin seeds

½ tsp mustard seeds

1 tsp Aleppo chili flakes

A thumb-sized knob of fresh ginger, peeled and grated

1 onion, finely diced

2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

1 sweet red pepper diced

6 large ripe tomatoes, diced

4 good quality eggs

Salt and pepper

To serve:

A swirl of good quality olive oil

A good handful of chopped Italian (flat leaf) parsley

            First, make your yoghurt. Combine the olive oil, yoghurt, garlic and lemon juice in a small bowl, mix well. Salt to taste. Leave at room temperature while you prepare the menemen.

            In a heavy cast iron pan, heat the oil over medium-low heat. Add the fennel, cumin, mustard seeds and Aleppo chili flakes.  Sauté gently, letting it just fizzle a tad, for 4 minutes, or until the aroma fills the kitchen. Throw in the ginger, onion and garlic, and continue sautéing for a few minutes more, until the onions have softened but not browned. Add the tomatoes and red pepper. Simmer gently, stirring occasionally, over low heat for 10 minutes, until it thickens. 

            Taste for seasoning, and add a pinch of salt and some pepper to taste.  Now crack the eggs onto the mixture, and cook, undisturbed for about five minutes. You want them cooked, but the yolks still runny. To encourage the tops to steam, you might want to use a lid for part of the cooking pan.

            To serve, swirl olive oil, and sprinkle the parley. Gently scoop the eggs out into shallow bowls, along with the tomato mixture. Serve piping hot, with bread or toast. 

From Montfort Dairy, with Love

When I go to market, I like speaking to Ruth Klahsen, the owner and lead cheesemaker at Montfort Dairy.  She tells me which cheese I should melt on pizza, which will go nicely in a sandwich and which, she says with a twinkle, is just perfect with a glass of wine.

Most recently, I got the Pecorino fresco --- a young, soft, and subtle sheep’s cheese. My perfect lunch? This cheese, with fat slices of fresh tomato, coarse salt, and basil on a garlic-rubbed toast.  I ate this every day for lunch when I was off in July, along with chicken liver terrine. 

Sharing Nuts

I made these nuts the other night. They are so freaking addictive.

Instead of posting the recipe on my own blog today, I’m just going to forward you to Tartine Gourmande. She recently posted her version, so it seems unfair to adapt and post my own so soon. Also, you’ll get to see her fantastic photography.

But here are some key points:

-Quinoa!

-Rosemary!

-Cayenne!

-Maple Syrup!

Just a note on the recipe – I think I whipped the egg white too much, and ended up with slightly sticky nuts. Don’t do that. 

A few scattered notes

I just finished devouring Blood, Bones & Butter –a book, not the actual stuff—by the chef and owner of a New York restaurant called Prune.  Gabrielle Hamilton starts her memoir with a scene from her childhood in rural Pennsylvania; an outdoor party her father threw every year, with several lambs on a spit, turning over hot coals all day.

The first scenes remind me of my father’s own michoui.

That’s where any similarities end.  A few pages later, she’s seventeen, in New York City, and has just been charged with Grand Larceny and Possession of Stolen Property after a year of slipping profits into her waitress’ apron at a busy Manhattan bar.

Before I knew anything about Grabrielle Hamilton, or her beautiful book, we went to her restaurant. I wrote about it back then.

(If I recall, that photo you see there are of the remnants of a beautiful poached pear and chocolate dessert)

On an unrelated note, here’s a link to my friend Sal Ciolfi’s piece on life after Crohn’s, and on "seeing the rainbow" of a grocery store now that he can eat whatever he pleases.  Click here for Sal. 

And one last not-so-nimble segue:

I can’t believe the colours at the market these days. I love this time of year. Rainbow, indeed.