village people

for a long time, i think french onion soup was sadly maligned.  swept into the bin of outdated 80’s dinner party food, it moped in the corner with shrimp cocktail; it braided the hair of raspberry vinaigrette as she wept softly into her duran duran hankie; it held sun-dried tomato’s hand and told her not to blame herself.  but somewhere along the way, french onion soup magically managed to find redemption.  now less-outdated, and more considered a classic, french onion is suddenly the johnny depp of soups: it somehow managed to not change a jot in 30 years, and damn it still looks tasty.  

having a batch of homemade soup in the fridge is a must for me in these chilly, blustery months.  whether it’s for a quick lunch or an easy supper, there’s not a more warming winter meal to be found, for both soul and body.  and personally speaking, there isn’t much i enjoy more than being able to bring healing food to a sick pal, a hardworking matey, or just a friend in need (or a friend indeed).  for generations we had whole villages (literally) of people helping us in raising our kids, in living our lives, in any of our times of need.  these days too many of us find ourselves on an island.  and i truly believe johnny depp--  i mean, john donne, was right: no man is an island!  dammit, i’m bringing the village back.  so who wants some french onion soup?

 french onion soup (adapted from michael ruhlman’s “twenty”)

unlike most incarnations of this recipe, ruhlman insists that you not use stock for this soup, rather that the onions with their slow caramelization provide all the flavour you need.  thusly, this is an exceptionally thrifty soup.  (i’d say cheap, but i feel that undermines the recipe, as if i were likening it to lindsey lohan.  which, dear french onion soup, i would never do.  you're better than that.)  it’s classy rather than cheap, and entirely friendly to your wallet.  sure enough, the only thing this soup shall set you back is time, but even that is mostly unattended. 

2 tbs butter

6 large (or 8 medium) onions

salt & freshly-ground black pepper

1/3 cup sherry

splash of red wine vinegar

splash of red wine

to serve:

slices of baguette

grated gruyere

thinly slice the onions.  if you are like me, and have no CIA-trained knife skills (either the culinary institute OR the government agency), i implore you to use a mandolin.  they’re remarkably affordable, and truly save your sanity (much cheaper than therapy).  this pile of onions took about 3 minutes with the dear tool.  it’s a life-saver.

does anyone else hear the theme music to "close encounters" ...?

use a large pot as you have a LOT of sliced onions here.  enameled cast iron dutch oven works marvelously.  place the pot over medium heat and melt the butter.  add the onions, toss to coat with melted butter, and add 2 teaspoons of salt.  

it's not a small amount of onions...

cover and cook until the onions have softened and started to steam.   

getting there...

remove lid, reduce heat to low, and cook for (wait for it) 3-5 hours, stirring occasionally, until they have cooked down into a glorious tumbling amber mess of soft caramelized goodness.

boomba!

add 6-7 cups of water (depending on how thick you like the soup), raise heat to high until it reaches a simmer, then reduce back to low.  add the sherry, the vinegar and the wine.  season with salt and pepper as needed.

when you’re ready to serve, turn on your broiler, then place your baguette slices in your bowl of soup so they get nice and soft.  sprinkle some grated gruyere on top, then place your bowl in the oven until the cheese is bubbly and a little browned.  

mmmm...bubbly

so reacquaint yourselves with an old favourite.  drop some off to a member of your village, and keep some handy in your fridge for quick and easy meals throughout the week.  the village will thank you...

and the beet goes on

i remember when i was but a tot, when a perfect day involved my friend anna from down the road, our teddies, a picnic in my back garden, and orangina.  

look out for that owl, he will shoot you the side-eye and steal your popsicle when you’re not looking.

a few years later, the perfect day involved a sleeping bag, a video of the breakfast club, and some impulse body spray just to make you feel really classy.

later still, a dodged curfew, a beach, a boy you might have a crush on (or you might not.  you’re not quite sure yet, and that’s okay), and a bottle of boone’s strawberry hill.   

let’s face it, perfection comes in many forms; wears many faces.  each year, each decade, the perfect day sheds its skin, and undergoes a metamorphosis into something perhaps completely unlike before.  lou reed meets franz kafka.

mushrooms.  to me, perfection.

fast-forward a few decades, a few kids, and what, now, does the perfect day (or, evening) entail?  why, pajama pants, an uncorked bottle (or two) of red, and a fun cooking project with your partner in crime-fighting and cookery.  

the supermensch shares most of my food crushes, which makes cooking with her such a pleasure.  we both have a fascination with fennel, admire the elegance of the eggplant, and the beatific beauty of the beet.  (she crushes slightly less hard on alliteration, though, so let’s move on.)

autumn has hit hard here in the pacific northwest.  pretty much overnight, actually.  to the right of the frame is summer, to the left is autumn, muscling poor summer out of the way like a schoolyard bully.  

boom

though summer’s end always brings a pendulous and somewhat dramatic single tear to my eye, autumn also holds a warm place in my heart.  for, despite its dark mornings, blustery days, and soggy nights, it brings with it presents of culinary wonder: freshly sprung mushrooms with wet earth still clinging to their slender stalks, tiny brussels sprouts that make you feel like gulliver eating a cabbage, and my old favourite, the humble beetroot. 

when the supermensch shined her spatula signal into the sky, we knew that in some shape or form, we had a hot date in store with a bunch of beets.  SM found a recipe (in the still-adored “a change of appetite” by the terribly clever and entertaining diana henry) for beet and carrot fritters with dill yogurt sauce which awoke our appetites with rumbly roars.  time to turn up the volume on the lou reed.  to the chefmobile, supermensch!  we have a root vegetable to save!

beet and carrot fritters with dill and yogurt sauce (adapted from diana henry’s excellent “a change of appetite”)

fritters:

canola oil (diana suggests peanut oil, but the canola we had on hand did just fine)

1 small onion, finely chopped

2 cloves garlic, crushed

1 large russet potato

2 large carrots

2 large beets (diana apparently thinks that size DOES, in fact, matter)

2 eggs

salt & freshly ground pepper

sauce:
1 cup greek yogurt

2 cloves garlic, crushed

1 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

1 tbsp chopped dill fronds, plus extra for garnish

heat ½ tbsp. canola oil in a skillet and gently sauté the onion until soft but not browned.  add garlic and cook a further 2 minutes.  remove from heat and transfer to a bowl.

shred the remaining vegetables (preferably with the aid of a food processor to save your poor joints).  use a clean dish towel (preferably red so the beet doesn’t stain it) to squeeze out excess moisture.  once fairly dry, add the shredded vegetables to the bowl with the onion.  add the eggs, season with salt and pepper, and mix well.

action shot!

mix together ingredients for the sauce.  the flavor will develop with a little time, so be sure to make it before you fry the fritters.

heat 1 tbsp of oil in the skillet, and spoon in the mixture in roughly 1/4 cup portions.  don’t overcrowd the pan, you want them to have enough room to form a nice crust.  cook over medium heat until the bottoms are brown and crispy, then flip and repeat.  once both sides have a good crust formed, turn down the heat to low and cook a further 4 or 5 minutes on each side to make sure they are cooked through.  repeat in batches, keeping the cooked fritters warm in a low oven, until all are done.

serve with the yogurt sauce, the remaining dill, perhaps some mushroom ragout (as you can never have too much of a good thing), a fat bottle of red, and a fabulous friend.

perfect.

who's the boss?

the other evening, as the sun set beautifully behind the olympic mountains, as some relentlessly poppy music blared from my speakers, and as i zen’d out in the chopping of an impressively large pile of scallions, i started pondering: from where did my love of cooking spring?  

i thought about photoshopping a bunch of scallions into this pic, but reconsidered.  

it's zen enough without it.  i could cook anything to this view.

i seem to remember always loving food.  of eating voraciously the smoked haddock and the roast dinners my mum made when i was but a wee bairn.  i remember starting university and being relieved that it was self-catering accommodation, so i could eat whatever the hell i felt like eating, any night of the week.  of course, back then my repertoire consisted of about two dishes, so clearly something had to give.  amidst crazy socials and pub crawls, and even the occasional lecture on post-1900 american literature, i decided that in order to eat, i needed to learn how to cook.  i got my hands on a couple of cookbooks (no doubt delia smith), and got to studying.  

this was the book i grew up with in my childhood kitchen.  

the "joy of cooking" for the british people.  

love delia.  always have, always will

i was an English major, this was nothing new: read the text, devour the words (if you could not yet devour the food), break down the prose, formulate a strategy, and boom.  now i had a game plan (and now i was really bloody hungry).  i set about steaming artichokes, exploring local seafood choices, and attempting to perfect a piccata sauce.  what in fact eventually evolved into a deep love of cooking for others, for the somewhat selfless giving of love on a plate, first began as a completely selfish endeavor.  it was just me: a team of one.  only i ate it, only i congratulated the chef on success, only i sent back what was crap.  but i held the remote.  i had the control.

(a cherry bomb of control, if you will.  more of that to follow...)

it struck me a day or two later (perhaps in the midst of a similarly massive pile of scallions.  truly, they are the most reflective of alliums) that maybe one of the reasons i still love cooking so much (aside, of course, from my appetite) is perhaps that control.  in somewhat of a maelstrom of a life, of 3 busy menschkins with varying degrees of school and activities (and varying degrees of manners), with various house projects and life projects, with curious and occasionally aggravating medical mysteries, with figuring out what the hell to do with my life once i grow up, there isn’t a great deal of control.  do not misunderstand, this is not a plea for acceptance, nor one for sympathy.  no, no.  merely a train of thought leaving the station, for which you lucky four readers are in fact unwitting passengers (choo choo).  cooking, for me, has become a different kind of comfort.  a therapy.  something that is all me.  something that i, for once these days, am in control of.  and that, my sweet four readers, is a rare and precious thing. 

last night i found myself craving the sweet-salty-sour-hot taste sensation that is southeast-asian cuisine.  enter my new favourite culinary tome, diana henry’s “a change of appetite.”  she has a recipe for vietnamese chicken lettuce cups that ticked all of the craving boxes.  so i took control.  i told charles he was no longer in charge.  i told tony danza he most certainly was not the boss.  i took back the night from JT.  i raised my spatula high up into the sky and shouted “they may take our knives, but they’ll never take our kitchen!!”  and then, after chiding myself for being overly dramatic and referential, i cranked the peppy music as the sun set once again over those glorious mountains, and i grabbed the scallions…

mama-feels-like-cooking-vietnamese-chicken-lettuce-cups (adapted from “a change of appetite” by diana henry)

2 lemon grass stalks, outer leaves removed, inner core chopped

4 garlic cloves, chopped

salt & freshly ground pepper

1 tsp sugar

1 tbsp thai fish sauce

2 ½ tbsps canola oil

2 skinless, boneless chicken breasts

use a small food processor or blender to finely chop the lemon grass and garlic.  season with salt and pepper.   (diana uses a mortar and pestle, which all sounds very zen and lovely, but i have not the time nor the hand strength these days for that.  if i need zen, i have my scallions.)

add sugar, fish sauce and oil, pulse a few more times to blend. 

put chicken in a bowl and cover with marinade.  place in fridge to chill (lllliterally) for a few hours, or even overnight.

i told you it would return.  this is a cherry bomb pepper, 

which i used for this recipe.  ridiculously adorable.  so cute, so hot.  

i'd pop them by the bushel load, if i didn't think that it would kill me.

for sauce:

6 garlic cloves

2 red chiles, trimmed (& seeded if you don’t like the spice.  i shan’t judge you)

¾” piece of fresh ginger, peeled & chopped

2 tbsps sugar

juice of 1 juicy lime, or 2 if they’re crummy ones

3 tbsps thai fish sauce

soy sauce (optional)

put all sauce ingredients into a small food processor or blender.  blend (scraping sides down a few times) until everything is finely chopped and fully incorporated. 

(i added a little soy sauce as my kids go nuts for it, but you certainly don’t need to.  also, as 2 of 3 menschkins aren’t great with heat, i blended the sauce without the chiles first, portioned some out for them, then blended the remaining sauce with the chiles for the rest of us.  2 sauces, almost no extra work.  win/win.)

toppings.  any combination of:

1 slightly underripe mango, peeled and cut into matchsticks

2 medium carrots, peeled and cut into matchsticks

½ cucumber, cut into matchsticks

1 cup bean sprouts (already matchstick-sized!  lucky you!)

scallions, thinly-sliced

fresh mint leaves

fresh basil leaves

1 head of butter lettuce, leaves separated but left whole

remove chicken from marinade and place on either a preheated grill or a ridged grill pan on the stove.  grill on both sides until cooked through.  

clearly this depends on the heat of your grill/pan, also the size of your chicken breasts, but roughly 20 mins total.  obviously check for doneness and don’t sue me if it’s still pink in the middle:

that's right.  pink in the middle.  boom. 

time to serve.  place some of the sliced chicken and whichever of the vegetables and herbs you fancy in the middle of a lettuce leaf and roll up.  dip, or drizzle with sauce, and away you go.  and if you fear the absence of carbs, some steamed rice goes brilliantly.

we're eating a rainbow, people!

enjoy with a sense of great personal satisfaction, and preferably with “take back the night” playing in the background.