Wee Peppers: An Update

I just learned that the wee peppers, so lovingly discussed here, are actually called Mini Bell peppers.  Most places suggest that they are good for stuffing, which I guess validates me?  Or maybe it was just the oversized chickpeas that were not good for stuffing?  MYSTERIES.  Where's Robert Stack when you need him?

I'm sticking with wee peppers, though, because it's more delightful.  WEE!

Triumphantly, Wee (Pepper) Return.

Today was a grown-up day, which meant that I made tea when I woke up this morning.  I realize that doesn't sound like much, but when you work from home and are sort of lazy and are maybe suffering from shin splints, it definitely counts.  (Let it be known that I also did some work and learned about pediatric GERD and had some delicious beet pizza [beetza?] for lunch, so I am on some sort of roll).  This is obviously all part of my (half-hearted) attempt to get back onto some type of schedule, so as to round out 2011 on a productive bang.

Fortunately, given how anyone would clearly be exhausted after such a day as this, our fridge is replete with tasty leftovers.  After several months of not-cooking and fail-cooking (how I messed up fried rice is still a mystery), it has been gratifying to discover that I can still make proper meals.  Perhaps my cooking mojo just went into hiding in October because it too was angry at the 100º+ fall days?  And wanted to punish me for dragging it out to the desert by making me go out to eat all the time?  Oh, cooking mojo, we need to work on your intimidation skills.

Tasty dinner #1 was a pumpkin soup, which is described here.  Tasty dinner #2, which The Husband declared to be The Best Meal EVARRR and I declared to be proof of The Husband's obsession with hyperbole, was wee stuffed peppers, called wee peppers because the peppers were indeed wee.

Pros of wee peppers:

• Adorable
• Probably cook quicker?
• You can eat like twice as many and feel like a giant
• Seriously: SO CUTE
• Juggling purposes?

Cons of wee peppers:

• Impossible to stuff

Of course, the cons of my plan were not immediately apparent when I giddily purchased the wee peppers at the farmers' market, and actually did not become apparent until I was already well into making the stuffing and thus could not turn back.  Luckily, I am the sensible sort, which means I just pretended that I hadn't made this realization and just assumed things would work out in the end.

To make wee stuffed peppers, you must first acquire wee peppers.  Mine were red and yellow and hidden amongst the huge beets and parsnips.  I suppose you could use regular-sized peppers IF YOU MUST, but then they are no longer wee and is it really worth it anymore?  (Probably.)

Slice these bad boys in half, lengthwise, and remove the seeds and membrane.  Season the cavities with a little bit of salt and set aside.  You can probably also preheat your oven to 400ºF, if your oven isn't incompetent like mine.

For the stuffing, cook yourself a couple of handfuls of dried chickpeas with a good slurp of olive oil and a dried chipotle pepper.  Mince 10 or so cloves of garlic and, once the beans are done, drain, reserving the cooking liquid.  Heat some oil in a saute pan; when hot, add the garlic and 1 T fresh rosemary.  Once the garlic is fragrant, add the chickpeas and cook, stirring occasionally, until the they are brown and crispy.  While the chickpeas are sauteing, cook up some grains (I used 1/2 c. of a Middle Eastern couscous/quinoa blend, cooked in the bean broth). Mix in one roughly chopped tomato and some diced feta, add the grain blend, then season to taste (depending on the saltiness of the feta).  Remove from the heat, because you don't really want the tomatoes to cook or the feta to melt.

By the way, I think the feta is key, and might just be what made this so good.  There isn't much going on with the stuffing, flavorwise, apart from garlic and rosemary, so a good cheese is necessary.  I fulfilled my bourgeois quota with some local peppercorn goat-milk feta, which was salty and smooth and fantastic.  If you aren't lucky enough to get a hold of fancy cheese, it might be worthwhile to add more rosemary, or maybe lemon, to the stuffing, to perk up the flavors a bit.

Attempt to stuff the wee peppers.  Discover that the chickpeas are pretty much the same size as the wee cavities.  Make a giant mess.  Have a lot of stuffing left over.  Gingerly balance the overloaded peppers into a lightly oiled baking dish, cover with aluminum foil, and bake at 400ºF for about 15 minutes.  Uncover, sprinkle on some shredded parmesan, discover that the shreds of cheese are longer than the wee peppers, make a giant mess.  Return the dish to the oven for an additional 5 or so minutes, until the peppers start to dehydrate a little and get a bit of color on them.  I served the wee peppers on a bed of the some extra stuffing, topped with a dollop of avocado-yogurt sauce (mash one avocado; add a heaped dessert spoon of plain yogurt, a squeeze of lemon, a generous pinch of salt, and some ground black pepper; mix well until smooth).  A sprinkle of toasted pepitas are fun, especially if you just have some lying around from a soup adventure.

The peppers keep pretty well and can easily be reheated in a toaster oven or similar (though they can get mighty soft, so keep an eye on them).  The extra stuffing also keeps, but the feta chunks will melt when heated up; not a huge loss, but I found the large bites of feta to be appealing, so I might keep that separate in the future.  The avocado sauce, however, turns brown and unpleasant with a quickness, so only make what you need (1/2 avocado worked well for roughly 8 wee halves).

Also, because it has been awhile, here's a photo of our little idiot.  Yes, he really sleeps like that.

Blogwhoring

Just a little note to say that there are two—yes, TWO—new(ish) posts up at AW80D: Yorkshire Gingerbread and Kitsune Udon.

Also, my kitchen REALLY smells like pickles.  But I'm a little afraid to look at them.

Also also, the other night I had pig's blood sauce.  Verdict: salty.

Also also also, here's a shot of the blogging process.  Now you know why I'm as productive as I am.

Pickles and Peaches and Pancakes! Oh My.

Finally got to go to the PHX Farmers' Market yesterday [This was actually several days ago at this point, but bear with me. --Ed.] [Who is this Ed person and why is he commenting on my blog? --Heather], which was one of the things I had missed the most during our extended stay in the TUX (along with sleeping in my own bed and not having to furiously disinfect my hands all the time).  It was a strange sensation to be shopping when the giant industrial air conditioners weren't completely necessary, and the Market is even starting to get interesting again, having moved beyond the point where all greens spontaneously combust and the only things that properly grow are chiles and sadness berries.

I'd been itching for some time now to attempt some pickles.  Not just any pickles:  lacto-fermented pickles.  I've become entranced with the idea of idle wild yeasts being harnessed to make my food for me, even if my last two attempts at employing the lazy buggers (for sauerkraut) failed miserably and less-miserably, though saltier, respectively.  However, while strolling through the misters, I happened upon some absolutely darling little cucumbers—all short and squat and knobbly, they were just crying out to be purchased and experimented upon and changed from humble cucumbers into Herculean specimens of pickled perfection.  (Or explode.  Something.)

The first rule of pickling is that you do not talk about pickling you need the right equipment.  I am fortunate enough to have borrowed (stolen) a small earthenware crock from my parents' attic, because I am also fortunate enough to have a stepfather whose first wife collected things like earthenware crocks.  If you do not have an earthenware crock, I would suggest checking your attic; if you don't have a stepfather whose first wife collected such things, I would suggest asking your mother to get cracking and informing her that there is no dishonor in marrying for pickles.

I rinsed off my cucumbers and popped them into the crock, along with a few dill fronds and some bashed-up cloves of garlic.  Cover with a brine made from 2 T. salt per quart of water, then use a weight to ensure that everything stays submerged.  If you have concerns that small creatures (such as an incredibly dim kitten) will fall in and drown and ruin your pickles, you can tie some cloth around the crock for safety's sake.

Ms. H's home for wayward gherkins.

According to my Lost Art of Real Cooking, these little beauties need to sit for about 25 days to reach their full pickle potential.  They also shouldn't be exposed to temperatures much above 80º for too long, else they will catch pickle Ebola and melt from the inside out.  Hopefully a dark corner of the pantry and a marginally-functioning air-conditioner will keep the wee yeasties in line.

[NOTE: The following peach section is dedicated to The Husband.  I'm pretty sure he'll figure out why.]

Also, on my wanderings through the Market, I kept getting distracted by the abundance of peaches.  One peachmonger told me a tale of a lady from Georgia who doubted the ambrosial qualities of his peaches, but once she sampled his wares, she was so smitten that she promptly bought up a couple dozen.  Of course, I had to purchase some—she was from GEORGIA, people!  Those folks know peaches.

But here's the thing—I don't even like peaches.  I mean, I like them well enough, I suppose, but I'm firmly on Team Nectarine (playing mostly in the underripe division, much to the mocking delight of The Husband).  Anyway, they somehow ended up in my bag, and while I can usually rely on The Husband to deal with things like this, he is still learning how to eat again, which leaves me with millions of six ripe-right-now-I-mean-REALLY-ripe peaches and a total lack of interest in traditional methods of peach consumption (i.e., taking a bite and making an ungodly mess with all the juice going all over the place or having them put into a can by a man in a factory downtown).

Racking my magnificent brain, I came up with a solution (at least until I am tricked into buying the damn things again next week): peach salsa!  I chopped up a couple of peaches, along with several itty-bitty grape tomatoes and half a red onion, then mixed it all up with some salt, lemon juice, and aleppo pepper.

If I had my little way, I'd eat peaches everyday.  (No.)

I think it all would have worked a little better with slightly less-ripe peaches, but it's bright and summery and now I have fewer peaches taunting me (though their voices, I can hear them still), so all is well.

As for Pancakes, he is very happy to have us home and is thoroughly enjoying sleeping on my laptop while I try to do work.  Here he is looking vacant, per usual:

and here he's being a VERY HELPFUL CAT while I'm trying to crochet.

SO. HELPFUL.  Thank goodness he was around, or else that yarn might have caused quite the ruckus.

PEACHES UPDATE: I've apparently decided that right now would be a fantastic time to come down with my first illness since moving to the desert, which is turning out to be a poor decision on my part.  Anyway, given that The Husband is in no position to take care of me, and that actually cooking something for reals seemed way too much effort, I ended up making myself a wee fried egg sandwich to tide me over between bouts of ice cream (which is about the only thing I feel like eating when my head feels like it is chock full of damp sheep).  I toasted up some fancy bread, and while the egg was frying, spread on some goat cheese and smashed avocado and added some arugula.  Next went my horribly-misshapen sunny-side-up egg (I am no good with eggs), a sprinkle of smoked sea salt, a crack or two of fresh black pepper, and a few heaping dollops of peach salsa.  The Husband called me bourgeois, but I was content to control the means of production for this sandwich because at least I was well-fed.

PICKLE UPDATE: My kitchen smells like dill and garlic.  Good sign?

Scroungin', or Cooking While Housesitting and Also Really Tired

Remember how I said I was back?  That might have been a lie.  I am once again in the TUX, spending my days in hospitals and my nights in either hospitals or hotels.

Things hospitals are good for:

• Quasi-experimental surgery
• Drugs on demand
• Socks with the little grippy things on the feet
• Warm blankets
• Attractive surgeons

Things hospitals are not good for:

• Sleeping
• Not contracting diseases
• Eating
• Olympic-caliber bobsledding

So, I've spent the majority of the last couple of weeks subsisting off of the World Class Dining Service (sic) that the hospital provides (though, to be fair, the options for visitors are much better than the options for patients) and essentially catnapping on foldout couches in between vitals checks and overeager resident visits that occur through the wee hours of the morning.  Happily, things are looking good to not be in TUX for much longer and maybe we'll actually get to stick around PHX for more than a night or two and enjoy the double-digit(!) temperatures that are forecasted.

However, before this villainous return visit, I at least was housesitting and actually had the chance to cook for myself on the rare occasions I left the hospital before it was dark.  You know how success is 99% perspiration?  Well, these dishes were 99% desperation, combined with whatever I could loot from the fridge (supplemented with some purchased vegetables once I figured out where the Whole Foods was) and jerry-rigged cooking contraptions (because it wasn't until about a week in that I figured out where the lids were).  And maybe a smidgen of pure terror at what a diet of pop, Sun chips, and mac & cheese was doing to my digestive system.

Dish the first was a vaguely Mediterraneanish salad composed almost entirely of things I managed to steal from the lovely people who were letting me squat in their house.  I fried up some chickpeas and broccoli with some garlic, then added little rings of thinly-sliced sweet peppers, halved cherry tomatoes, and a squeeze of lemon.  Mix this in with some couscous blend and some surprisingly-good feta cheese, and while it won't win you any roses at the county fair, it will soothe a cafeteria-ravaged stomach.

 

The second dish was a bit more exciting, mostly because I got to go real grocery shopping for the first time in weeks and got to spend my evening cooking instead of sitting in the surgical ward AND I saw my first-ever coyote on the drive home.  This time, undoubtedly inspired by the Asian noodle salad that The Husband so kindly wrote up for me, I sauteed up some garlic, broccoli, peppers (notice a food-trend?) and onion in a little oil and soy sauce, then added some bok choy and spinach and let them cook until wilted.  I cheated a little and made some Trader Joe's miso soup mix (about a cup) and poured that in to simmer for a few minutes.  The veg were served over udon noodles and topped with some sliced scallions (you may also note some roasted Brussels sprouts, but they were added to reduce the number of dinner plates and simplify transporting dinner from the main house to the casita, and they were very tasty on their own, just drizzled in olive oil and a generous sprinkling of salt and roasted in a toaster over until tender, then blasted under the broiler to brown up, though some of them did soak up a little of the miso broth, and they were also pretty fantastic, but Brussels sprouts are pretty amazing and maybe one of my favorite vegetables, so they're kind of hard to ruin).  I was endlessly pleased with myself after this one, though I may just be incredibly easily heartened by not-takeout at this point.

 

Hopefully, we will be hitting the long, dusty interstate back to PHX (for good!) tomorrow, which means a resumption of normal life and good food and relaxing days (only briefly interrupted by panic over the manuscript deadlines I have hovering about my head, but at least I've learned that there are four stages to sepsis progression and that you can't be an ethical nurse unless you can explain Kantian deontology).

Touched by his Noodley Appendage

(So, my little trip is over, and I do have some glorious food stories, but need to dig out the photos and actually get around to writing things up.  What can I say: being home is distracting.  Until then, enjoy another guest post from The Husband—Asian noodle salad, served cold, which seems terribly appropriate given the recent multiple days of excessive heat warnings in the PHX.)

Here’s another one for y’all as you battle the frightening heat…

Once the summer hits here in Phoenix, it’s sometimes hard to convince oneself that turning on the stove or using the oven could possibly be a good idea. When you’re already living in an oven, turning up the heat is a recipe for sadness.

Yet your options at dinner can seem rather limited when you decide to completely eschew the stove/oven. Unless you’re a raw foodist, after all, finding true sustenance without cooking is a challenge. And while my Indian roots sometimes tell me I should go for hot (temperature) and hot (spiciness) food, in order to sweat and cool myself down, my better judgment sometimes jumps in and contradicts that logic, instead suggesting that consuming cold things can be cooling and refreshing. Well, it doesn’t have to be either/or. In these hyper-partisan, divisive times, you can instead choose to be a uniter, not a divider, to take the middle road between raw and cooked, and between hot and cold.

I speak, my friends, of salad. No, not a wimpy substance-free side salad. Rather, a salad with a variety of vegetables, with protein, with cooked elements, with fire and kick and oomph and pizzazz. And most importantly, the ability to cool you down on a hot day.

Wifey has written before on the gloriousness of salad, so there’s no need to repeat her wise words here. Instead, I give you a how-to guide to making a wonderfully delicious, (mostly southeast and east) Asian-inspired salad — a hybrid of sorts that achieves our two goals of minimizing use of heat-producing devices and also cools you upon eating it.

Now, before we continue, I must admit that I’m not so good with recipes — be it following them (Ravi Shankar never gets guff for improvising, so stop sippin’ on the Haterade, you recipe-obsessed fools; live it up a little) or providing others with instructions for making something I’ve put together in my own kitchen. This post falls a bit into the first category and a bit into the second. I think I probably pulled inspiration from three or four different Asian noodle salad recipes I perused at some point or another, and then I just decided to wing it from there and make some (many?) additions of my own. And now that it falls upon me to recount precisely what I did, I’m going to leave you instead with some generic instructions that pretty much ensure you’ll only get vaguely close to my original creation. Though that’s the fun of cooking, right? You get to experiment and do things your own way and come up with something that you want to eat.

With those caveats aside, let’s discuss making a delicious salad. Really, there are three crucial parts: some starchy noodle or carbohydrate-rich base accompanied by a protein to provide substance, a plethora of fresh vegetables to provide crunch and texture and a nice mélange of flavors, and finally a dressing which offers a way to tie everything together with a nice acidic bite and spicy finish.

For this salad, I started with some rice noodles — Trader Joe’s Thai rice sticks, to be specific, though really any Asian rice or bean thread noodles would suffice. Fortunately, cooking up noodles in boiling water doesn’t take too long, nor are you required to stand by the hot stove and observe as they cook, which is an important consideration if you’re trying to stay cool. Once the noodles have cooked, immediately run cold water over them as they drain, both to keep them from cooking further and also to get them to a cooler temperature. (I actually kept the cooked noodles in a bowl with ice, to make sure they were chilled and didn’t dry out.) While the noodles cook, sauté (in a small amount of grapeseed oil, along with a dash of teriyaki sauce, minced garlic, and some pepper flakes) some thinly sliced tofu. Again, not too much supervision required here — just flip the tofu over when it has browned. And once you’ve done that, you’re done with the cooking element. Set aside the tofu, and we’re ready to move on to the cooling and the crunching.

For the veggies, I went a bit crazy and threw together whatever we happened to have in the fridge; in this case, the list included: purslane, amaranth, cucumber, broccolini, a broccoli/cabbage/carrot slaw mix, and jalapeno.

The dressing was originally supposed to be a relatively simply mix of rice vinegar, sugar and lime juice, but quickly got out of control once I realized all the different bottles and jars we had in the pantry and on the fridge door. So I ended up trying to find a tasty balance between rice vinegar, brown sugar, and freshly squeezed lime juice, along with tamari soy sauce, mirin, sweet chili sauce, ground chili paste, teriyaki sauce, minced garlic, thinly-sliced shallots, and a nice bit of ginger. After some very precise kitchen science, I came up with the perfect ratio between those various items.

And finally, for garnish, I used a lot of basil and mint leaves, along with a couple slices of lime, and also a sprinkling of thinly sliced green onions and chives.

When all was said and done, it looked something like this.

A nice balance of cooling and spiciness, and some definite deliciousness was achieved.

Satellite Affiliate Blogging

I am taking this humble blog on the road!  Yes, I am coming at you today not from the PHX, but from the TUX, where I am housesitting for the next twoish weeks.  Given the unfamiliar kitchen and my complete inability to find anything therein, the food blogging might be a little light-in-its-loafers, but there are always tamales to be talked about, and I plan on getting my fill.  And perhaps this break from PHX will inspire me to get my craft on?  WHO KNOWS?

This trip to the TUX strangely coincides with the beginning of The Husband's liquid diet, which is convenient in terms of cooking-in-a-strange-new-place situations (hurrah for leftovers!).  Said leftovers were the remnants of the butter and cheese overload that took place last week, one meant to gird The Husband's loins with as many calories as possible to sustain his not-terribly husky frame.

Dish one was bubble and squeak, which has been lovingly detailed here; there was a slight switching of the pitch up, as I used Brussels sprouts and kale in place of the cabbage and spinach.  It was a fair bit heartier than the original (which is saying something, given the original's ingredients), and I think I actually prefer it this way.  The sprouts and kale are just so much more flavorful than cabbage and spinach, and they also crisp up much better under the broiler.

Dish two in the pantheon of foods that are good but not good for your arteries was vegetable lasagna made with homemade noodles (see here for basic recipe).  The general layering strategy here went noodle; thinly-sliced zucchini; ricotta, herbs de provance farmers cheese, and amaranth blend; sliced provolone; noodle; herbed tomato slices; broccolini; shredded mozzarella and Parmesan blend; noodle; basil; provolone; mozzarella; noodle; and finally, fire-roasted tomato sauce.  Put all this fantasticness in a baking pan, cover with aluminum foil, and bake for 20 minutes at 375ºF.  Once it's all good and bubbly, remove the foil, add some shredded cheese (mozz and parm are always good, but don't be afraid to mix it up) and bake until nice and brown, another 20 minutes or so.  Let it sit and cool for 15 minutes, then enjoy!

Both dishes heat up pretty well, though the lasagna is a bit on the dry side—intentionally so, given the small amount of sauce I tend to use—so just make sure to cover it with a paper towel when microwaving.  If you're feeling healthy, a wee salad comprised of things you find rummaging through the fridge is a nice touch, but really, don't kid yourself.  Apart from not eating it, there's little that can transform this orgy of butter and cheese into something that's good for you.

In lieu of cheesy, buttery photography, here's what the view looked like today

and tonight.

Plus sub-100ºF temperatures in August?  I could get used to this.

Ice Ice Coffee

(It's guest post time here in the desert!  The Husband has decided to get into blogging, now [check out his music blogthing here if you're one of those snobby music types who makes fun of the musical choices of others—YES, I ENJOY RICK ASTLEY UN-IRONICALLY, WHAT OF IT?], and even though I still haven't been able to get him to write that chili post, he's deigned to share his thoughts on a few food-related adventures. First up: coffee, the consumption of which I don't personally understand, but hey—different strokes for different folks [or, for those of you lovely readers who are lizards: different drinks for different skinks].)

Hey, look at me: I’m stone-cold guest-blogging up in this joint. Thanks, Wifey, for letting me overtake your blog with a post about, yes, making coffee. Ok, enough dillydallying, let’s get on with it…

Life in the desert can be hot. Really hot.

But friends, I come here not to complain about 110+ degree days accompanied with dire warnings of dangerous heat indices. Rather, I come to help you.

When the temperature is halfway between boiling and spontaneous combustion, it takes a bit of a toll on anything bold enough to venture outdoors to face the elements. Your body heats up very quickly and you soon find yourself sapped of energy—all in all, not a particularly pleasant way to start the day.

However, you are not destined to suffer. For there is a way to partially combat the melting. A very simple way. A way that will not only save your body, but also your wallet.

What is this magical solution, you ask?

Coffee. Yes, coffee. Iced coffee.

Wow, you’re the greatest guest blogger ever. That was a really revolutionary idea there. It’s not like anyone’s ever thought of that before.

Hey, now. Let’s not get too snarky. Ok, sure, there’s nothing too special about what I’ve just told you. You can get iced coffee at any decent coffee shop come summertime. But that is not what I speak of. While your neighborhood coffee shop may indeed provide you with a beverage filled with caffeine, sugar, and coldness, you can do so much better.

Most coffee shops brew up hot coffee at something close to double-strength, chill it in the refrigerator, then pour it over ice when a customer comes in and asks for an iced coffee. Well, that’s bunk. Though that iced coffee may succeed in giving you your caffeine/sugar/coldness fix, why settle for that mediocre product? And why pay two dollars or more for a cup mostly filled with ice—ice that serves to continually dilute your beverage as it melts away?

Allow me to let you in on a little secret mathematical equation handed down to me on golden tablets by The Jeebus: cold-brewed coffee + ice cubes made of coffee = WIN. That’s just a stone-cold fact.

In addition to being delicious and refreshing, the advantage of cold-brewing your coffee is that it tastes less acidic, and the flavor profile is far more robust. You’ll notice fruity and floral notes that you didn’t even know were there.

Well then, time to get on with it and tell you how it’s done. Like with all fine foods, it’s all about the ingredients. In this case, some nice freshly roasted beans. (My Phoenician Phriends: if you get your coffee beans from anyone other than Cartel or Fair Trade, you’re doing it wrong.) Also, it’s about doing some advance planning; cold-brewing means you need to start the coffee-making the night before.

Take your beans and grind them as you would normally. Put them into your French Press at twice the amount you would use for hot coffee, add water, and give it all a swirl. Throw it in the fridge overnight, and then plunge your grounds the following morning. In the meantime, you’ve hopefully already made frozen coffee cubes, which now reside in the ice tray in your freezer. Pour your overnight-chilled coffee into a mug, and add your ice cubes made of coffee. Now here’s the final step, taking your very good iced coffee to the realm of Total Awesomeness: cream. No, not milk. Nope, not half-and-half. And sure as hell not that non-dairy creamer crap with carrageenan and corn syrup solids; that’s just nasty. Straight up cream is how we roll. (Cream rules everything around me. C.R.E.A.M. That’s recursion, y’all!) Heavy cream. Not the slightly de-fatted light whipping cream. I’m talking the full fat (i.e., full of deliciousness) stuff.

Voila, you’re done. And now you can laugh at those suckas paying for watered-down cold coffee at Starbucks.

(In addition to deliciousness that cures your lethargy and cools you down, there are ancillary benefits of making this delightful concoction. Since you’re making your coffee at home, you’re saving cash monies. And since you’re pretty much making this the night before, you’re saving valuable time in the morning — thereby allowing yourself to get a couple extra minutes of precious, precious beauty rest. These are two very important considerations for those of us who are: (a) cheap, and (b) unwilling to get out of bed in the morning.)

 

Souper Duper

My newest post is up at AW80D:  gazpacho!  Perfect for those lazy summer nights when it's hotter than a catamount in a parka shop on the surface of Mercury. 

Or something.

Tiny Plates

We were invited to a small plates dinner party the other day, which necessitated the making of small plates.  Given that The Husband and I rarely partake in any food-related adventure that could charitably be described as “small,” this complicated matters slightly.  In the end, we just decided to make regular plates, only less of them, to varying degrees of success.  (Actually, the only non-success was the eggplant ravioli, which fell apart in the pan and generally caused trouble.  I readily admit that I only half-remembered the recipe, and also skipped some steps in the made-up version of the recipe that exists solely in my mind, so maybe this isn’t much of a surprise.)

As for the more successful plates, The Husband made his glorious hummus, and I whipped up some herbed goat cheese and ricotta-covered figs (which made use of the basil-goat cheese-ricotta blend from the disappointing eggplant failure).  I also made the following bean recipe, which I was really quite pleased with.  It’s based on a dish from a restaurant in DC that was a regular date-night fixture when The Husband and I were wooing (being wooed?  flinging woo?); given that said restaurant is also a tapas bar, it seemed like as good a place as any to nick a recipe for a small plates party.  We originally served it plain, but I discovered today that it goes well in a pita pocket with some tomato, pickled peppers, and feta cheese (some leftover homemade hummus is probably a good thing, too).   

The original dish called for gigante beans, which given our track record, we strangely do not have.  I substituted Christmas lima beans, which aren’t as creamy as gigante beans, but are faintly nutty and, I think, preferable to your bog-standard limas, and they worked well.  Given that I used hoighty-toighty heirloom beans, I cannot comment on the feasibility of using canned or frozen lima beans; I would think that, as long as they could hold their shape and still have a bit of bite to them, they would be fine.  I don’t know that baby limas would work as well, though—you want a hearty bean that brooks no guff and tolerates little-to-no sass.

To start, cook one cup of dried Christmas lima beans (or bean of your choosing) in whatever method you prefer (I advocate the pressure cooker, as always, because I am incapable of forethought in these matters) until tender.  While the beans are cooking, thinly slice eight or nine cloves of garlic (or even 10 or 11—be brave with your garlic, and you can sleep soundly knowing that you are safe from vampires) and chop up a good handful of fresh dill.

When the beans are good and ready, heat up a good couple of sloshes of olive oil in a sauté pan.  (Note: When cooking with olive oil, don’t use some fancypants, expensive oil, because the heat will ruin it; I always keep a bottle of mild, moderately-priced Italian extra-virgin olive oil on hand for the few occasions where we are either using (a) a lot of olive oil [see hummus] or (2) cooking with olive oil.)  Be generous; you want these beans to be slick.  When the oil is ready, add the garlic and stir, cooking just until the garlic is fragrant, then add the beans and stir to coat.  Once the beans are glistening, add three-quarters of the dill, along with a good, large pinch of salt, and stir.  Cover, reduce the heat to medium-low, and let simmer for five or so minutes.  Taste for additional salt (beans can take a good amount), and add the remaining dill.  Mix together and serve.  

Depending on the flavorfulness of your cooking oil, you might want to drizzle some good olive oil over top, to get that lovely grassiness (which goes so well with the nuttiness of the beans).  For a slightly more substantial take, a dollop or two of yogurt (or labneh) mixed through would certainly be welcome, but there’s really no need to gussy this up; your beans are beautiful just as they are.

Also, on the same day I learned that these beans go well in a pita, I learned that Pancakes does not like being near a pool.  Have you ever seen a cat hyperventilate?  It's disconcerting.  However, high on the list of things Pancakes does like is his new tunnel.  

I'm starting to regret giving him yet another place from which to launch guerrilla attacks at my ankles, though.

Everybody Gets Beans!

I am in love with heirloom beans.  Having grown up severely bean-disadvantaged (kidney beans and chickpeas being the only beans my family recognized), I have overcompensated in my adulthood by purchasing massive quantities of beans of many styles and stripes.  Of course, as with any infatuation, I still want more, but have managed to convince myself that I can acquire more beans only when the current stock has run out.

However, in spite of our heroic attempts, the bean situation remains largely unchanged.  This could be on account of villiany, but it's mostly because I've been unsure of the best way to deal with them.  Beans are frequently a part of the total dish, but very rarely are the total dish, and so using the heirloom beans in curries or chilis or tacos seemed almost like we'd be missing out on the things that make the fancy beans so fancy.  I needed some way to let the very beany essence of the beans shine through.

That's where this recipe comes in.  It's based on Jamie Oliver's Humble Beans, with a few tweaks.

First, get your beans.  You want meaty beans for this dish, ones that plump up and are full of flavor.  I used six different varieties: Ojo de cabra, Rio Zape, Cattle, Anasazi, Roman, and Borlotti.  If you also plan on being absurd and using multiple bean types, be sure to confirm that they have the same cooking time.  This isn't a huge deal if you like some of the beans mushy, but if you're looking for the beans to retain some kind of structural integrity, this is important information.

All told, I started with approximately one cup of mixed bean.  Into the pressure cooker they should go, along with a dried chipotle morita, three or four bay leaves, and a slurp of olive oil.  Cook until tender (these will simmer for a bit later, so if they are just a wee bit crunchy, don't panic) and set aside, reserving the cooking liquor.

Next, in a large saute pan, heat a tablespoon or two of grapeseed (or other neutral) oil and, when hot, add a couple of good pinches of black mustard seeds.  After they've been allowed to sputter for 10 or so seconds, add some diced onion (around half a small one) and five or six cherry tomatoes, quartered.  Stir until the tomatoes begin to disintegrate and the onions go translucent, then mix in several cloves of garlic (finely chopped).  Once the garlic is fragrant, maybe 20 seconds, pour in the beans, along with 1/4 c. of the cooking liquid.  Stir in a pinch of thyme and rosemary (for a smidgen of earthiness) and let all this goodness simmer together for 10 minutes or so, adding more cooking liquid (or water) as needed to keep everything from getting too dry.

Once all the flavors have melded, add a couple of sloshes of cider vinegar (the exact amount depends on how tangy you want it to be) and a couple of big pinches of salt (they can take it).  Taste, re-salt or vinegar as needed, then mix in a drizzle of good olive oil to make everything shiny and luscious.  These not-so-humble-anymore beans get on with a good hunk of crusty bread like a house on fire, though fresh tortillas or pita will also do in a pinch.  I've made this a couple of times now, and I like to keep some on hand for a quick and hearty snack.  It may look like cat food, but listen here, meow—it's good stuff.

Another One!

There's a new post up at Around the World in 80 Dishes, this time talkin' 'bout pasta.  Check it out!

Also, I promise I am not neglectin' this 'umble blog.  There are a few posts knockin' about this ol' noggin'—it's just that I am partakin' of GOOD's 30-day no-Internet-after-8pm challenge, and since most of my bloggin' took place post-8 o' clock, I've been tryin' to adjust to daytime bloggerel. 

Soon!

via ICanHasCheezburger.com

(Also, I have no idea where all those extra apostrophes came from.)

In Other Blogs...

By the way, if you aren't following my other Internet incarnation, there's a new post up about gallo pinto and volcanoes and Costa Rica and it's really good so you should read it and then make gallo pinto yourself!  Yes!

Also, here is a photo of a chicken in a shopping basket. 

This is how I know that my eggs are free range: the chickens come into the store and lay them right before your very eyes.  Cluck cluck.

Project Figgy Figgy Fig Fig

I've decided that, since I have expended more than enough energy complaining about phx summers, I should start trying to look on the bright side and appreciate all those things about months of triple-digit temperatures that are not terrible and utterly soul-destroying.  These things include a renewed appreciation for seasonality; mighty haboobs; the fact that a cold beer never tastes as good as it does on a hot, summer day; monsoon season and the awesome thunderstorms that come with it; and figs.

Yes, even in the depths of summer, when it seems more likely that fruits would spontaneously combust than ripen, figs manage to survive.  Of course, fig season lasts all of a week, and given that we were in and out of town over the course of June and July, I was sure I had missed it.  Imagine my surprise and glee when I saw some figs at the grocery store.  There weren't the figs I had been dreaming of, being from California and not totally at the peak of ripeness, but nonetheless I snapped up a couple of packages, visions of figgy delights dancing through my head.

The figgy gods must have been smiling upon me, because when I went to the farmers' market the following day, what did I see?  More figs!  I obviously bought a dozen and, given the bounty of figs I had received, declared the (smaller, sweeter, riper) phx figs to be for mostly-unadulterated consumption only.  These little figgy jewels, along with some fresh nectarines, were coated with a wee bit of olive oil and grilled (on my decade-plus old George Foreman grill, because that's how we roll in city apartments sans balcony) and served on little baguette crostinis of goat cheese and the briefest of sprinkles of black Hawaiian salt (for the figs) and strawberry balsamic vinegar (for the nectarines).

There were more.  They were eaten before the camera could get to them.

As for the other figs, they became part of Project Figgy Figgy Fig Fig, which was my attempt at making balsamic figgy jam.  I have written about the only other time I tried (and failed) to make jam; even with my less-than-stellar record of jam production, I figured that a figgy sauce would be an acceptable outcome.  To be perfectly honest, as long as I did not set the figs on fire, I was pretty sure I'd be happy.

To start, stem and quarter 2 lbs. of figs.  In a large, heavy pot, bring the 1 c. water and the figs to a boil, then let simmer for 5 minutes or so, until the figs get soft.  Using a potato masher, crush the figs to whatever consistency you desire.  Add 1 c. sugar, 1/2 c. balsamic vinegar, and 1/4 c. lemon juice, then return to a boil.  Reduce the heat and let the figs simmer until they thicken up, but aren't dry.

Now, the recipe suggested that this thickening process would take 20 minutes.  This is a blatant falsehood.  Perhaps the original author had magical figs, or was a wizard, or something, but I had to simmer those figs for at least an hour to get the sugars working.  See, figs are a low-pectin food, and if you are like me and stubborn and impatient and not about to waste precious figgy time with tracking down packets of pectin,  you just have to persevere and TRUST THE FIGS.  Rather than go by cooking time, the best way to check for the doneness of your jam is to do the gel test.  My method is to pop a small plate into the freezer when you start the simmer; when you think the figs are properly thickened, get your plate and spoon a small dollop of the jam onto it.  When the jam cools (you can use the refrigerator to speed up the process), tilt the plate—if the jam doesn't move, it's good to go.  If the jam is still runny, leave it to simmer for another couple of minutes and try again.  I promise: it will set.  Eventually.

After much testing and cursing and fretting, you should end up with this:

Project Figgy Figgy Fig Fig is GO.

Dark, sticky, unctuous figgy jam.  The sweetness is subtle, undercut by the pleasant tanginess of the balsamic.  With a little less sugar and the addition of some rosemary, it could make a fine savory jam.  As it is, it's delicious on toast points with goat cheese, alone on toast, with a little almond butter for a twist on the old pb&j (I call it the Elitist Breakfast), on (or in) scones...basically, it's just good.  And it's a nice little reminder of the good life during a desert summer (if you don't melt first).

New Things

Looking at the ol' post tally, it seems I haven't posted since May.  The short reason for this is that I became a very strange combination of lazy and busy (the company that sporadically pays me decided that I should actually work once in a while, and June became the month in which I copyedited ALL THE THINGS); the long reason is the usual combination of things, including two extended trips back East to visit family and the resulting difficulty of cooking when you are not at home and lack of things in the fridge when you are home.

Fortunately, the summer of travel is mostly over, though the Usual Reasons for not posting will be in full force in about a month or so; however, I am hopeful that I can get back into the swing of things, at least for a little while.

Oh, and there has been a major development in the world of this humble blog:  I now have a second blog.  Yes, I know it seems silly to start blog number two when blog number one is languishing, but I actually think that this dual-blog system will be good for productivity.  My overly-ambitious blog conceit, Around the World in 80 Dishes, now has its own place at http://aw80d.blogspot.com.  I decided to pull up stakes and move AW80D because I felt like it narrowed my focus too much—it was as though, once I started, it was all I should be posting.  Other recipes, or crafts, or whatever no longer seemed to fit, and so essentially nothing was published. 

Now that the focus for AW80D has moved somewhere else, I can go back to posting about whatever grabs my fancy here.  And I promise that it won't be more odes to salad (at least for a little while).

Salad Days

(Confidential to Mullins:  I'm sorry, but this will, once again, not be the salad topic you were hoping for.)

Oh man you guys, you know what's good?  Salads.  I have become something of a salad fool these past few months, maybe because I'm trying to fit in as much lettuce as I can before the leaves start to spontaneously combust in the summer heat.

I feel like I enjoy a really good salad more than I enjoy most other foods that are equally really good.  It might be because all the things that make for a really good salad are so fragile and ephemeral, as though there is such a small window of opportunity that, when you get it right, it seems all the more magical.  It could also be that eating salad just feels good.  It's a delightful food indeed that can manage to be both light and refreshing AND hearty and satisfying, which is how I prefer my salad.  To mix my metaphors, I like a salad with a bit of meat on its bones.

Though I've always generally enjoyed salads, I have never liked eating salads in public.  Not, as the subject of my earlier rant would have you think, because I am forever flustered by the prospect of being human and occasionally looking awkward while I eat, but because, being in possession of ladyparts, I didn't want to be judged as one of those women who only eats salad, or is not comfortable eating anything more substantial than a salad.  I don't think The Husband knows this, but when we first started dating, I balked at ordering salads, even if they sounded delicious, because I didn't want him to think I was some sort of delicate creature who subsisted by daintily nibbling at lettuces, especially since I knew that I was really the sort of creature who would eat an entire bag of cheese puffs and spend several minutes happily licking all the processed cheese food powder off of my unnaturally-orange-dusted fingers.

Fortunately, I've gotten over this, and am much happier looking slatternly and full of good food than being proper and starving.  And I still enjoy salads.  Victories all around!

So, because I am still trying to decide if dinner tonight was good enough for a blog post, I am instead going to share with you my recipe for the best darn salads ever.

Of course, the key part of any salad, that which takes a salad from acceptable to awesome, is freshness.  Novel idea, I know — but bear with me.  Fresh vegetables actually taste different.  I don't just mean better; I mean there is a palpable difference in the flavor and feel of fresh-picked anything.  Grocery store lettuce, both in the heads of lettuce and the bagged salads, just can't compare, and this is, sadly, what most people have access to (if they have access to fresh fruits and vegetables at all, an issue which I think is far too frequently ignored in the food blogsphere and is beyond the scope of this post, but one I hope to take up here soon).

My solution?  Go beyond lettuce.  I use hardier greens, ones that stay fresh longer and keep much better in the fridge.  I've gone mad for kale salads, and have recently become enamored of mixed cabbage salads, but chard and collards work just as well; I've also discovered that young arugula keeps magnificently.  Another option is to consider forgoing greens altogether, or relegate them to a supporting role, by using more vegetables.  I've made fantastic salads using just broccoli florets and slaw (a mix of shredded broccoli stems and carrots), but most any vegetable will do so long as it's sliced thinly.  Lately I've been using the aforementioned cabbage (apparently a mix of young Asian cabbages, according to the nice man at the farm table), arugula, and purslane (a succulent green that grows like weeds here in the desert); it's the tail end of kale season, but Red Russian kale made an appearance in most every salad I made between the months of January and April.

Next comes the dressing.  For the first 20 or so years of my life, I only ate Italian dressing.  While in London, I discovered Caesar dressing, and I went back and forth between the two until I met The Husband, who taught me how to make my own dressing.  His version has now become too complicated for me (something about sugar and mustard and it always makes a mess), so I usually just put my greens into an empty yogurt container, pour in a bit of olive oil and some variety of balsamic vinegar, pop on the top, and give the whole thing a good shake (a grind or two of fresh black pepper is always a plus).  I've seen multiple recipes that suggest a 3:1 ratio for your oil:vinegar, but mine is usually closer to 1:1, though there is usually a smidgen more oil; I always use olive oil, and rotate between regular, white, fig, and pomegranate balsamic vinegars (with an occasional citrus squeeze when it's in season).  As with greens, and so much in life, the key is using the best stuff you can.   Quality oils and vinegars aren't cheap, but if you can manage it, they're good investments; they keep forever, and you'll use so little at a time that even a small bottle goes a long way.

Finally, it's the toppings.  I'm a relatively simple sort, and apparently part chipmunk, so I favor a mix of nuts and seeds (mostly sunflower seeds, pepitas, and sliced almonds), along with croutons, because who doesn't love carbs?  I also have been keeping cans of chickpeas and kidney beans on hand for use in salads, to add a bit more protein and give the whole thing the air of a proper meal.  Some people (The Husband; also, communists) enjoy things like dried cranberries, but I don't much care for random bouts of chewiness in a crunchy salad.  But, if you're that kind of person, you should go for it.  Cheese is also an essential part of any salad, so I top everything off with a bit of grated Parmesan and some crumbles of goat cheese (a recent addition I am rather pleased with).  If we kept more kinds of cheese on hand (I know, I know — what kind of Americans are we?), shavings of Cheddar or Manchego would undoubtedly be good, or feta, if you like a salty little something.

I promise there is lettuce somewhere under all that glorious cheese and bread.

There you have it.  In summation:  salads are good, you should probably eat more of them, and if you're a lady you shouldn't feel bad about eating salads (unless you have legitimate food-relationship issues, in which case you shouldn't feel bad, but you should probably seek out help).

AW80D - Falafel

I ate my first falafel in college.  I know, it's a big shock that small-town Western New York wasn't rocking the crunch patties and flavor sauce back in the day, but it's true.  I was a sophomore, at an accepted student event (where you could frequently find me, considering that I was both an indentured servant to the Admissions Office and a fan of free food).  At the buffet, there were these little crispy things that a friend swore were delicious, so I tried one.  Sweet merciful kittens, it was terrible.  Dry and flavorless, I was concerned that I had somehow screwed up and was eating it incorrectly, because I couldn't fathom why my friend would steer me to try something this bad.

Fast forward several years.  By this point, I had gone vegetarian, and The Husband (then The Boyfriend) insisted that I try falafel again.  He offered to make me some, and we acquired a falafel mix.  While these weren't nearly as dry as I remembered, they still weren't good.  The Husband insisted that a well-made falafel was good, and that I would probably enjoy one, given how much I enjoy hummus and tzatziki.  I assumed he was lying, though I did agree to try falafel a few more times, even though I was consistently disappointed.  What can I say:  I'm an eternal optimist.  (Ha.)

Fast forward another couple of years.  We had moved to the desert and were leaving the farmers' market, when we noticed a stall selling Middle Eastern food.  We decided to get pita wraps for dinner, but to my horror, the only vegetarian option was falafel.  However, the falafels didn't look like the ones I was used to; they weren't deep-fried to the point of carbonization, but instead just lightly browned.  Plus, I was really hungry.  So I knuckled down and bought one.  It was a revelation.  I'm pretty sure we had each finished ours before we made it the four blocks home (and if you know The Husband and the speed at which he eats, that's saying something).

Having discovered that falafel need not be dry and boring, I decided that I should probably learn how to make them.  My method is a bit of an amalgam of various recipes, supplemented with my natural predilection for making things up as I go along.  I am a firm believer in using fava beans, as I think they provide a more complex flavor than the straight-chickpea route.  I also add bulgur, which according to my (very brief internet) research means they are Israeli, even though the addition the favas sort of negates that.  Consider this falafel as a food without a country.

While everything comes together relatively quickly once all the ingredients are present and accounted for, you will need to plan at least 24 hours ahead (to allow the beans time to soak).  You can also make the falafel mix in advance, but don't cook the patties until just before you plan to eat, as they tend to dry out.

To make your falafel, put a half-cup each of dried fava beans and dried chickpeas into separate medium bowls.  Fill the bowls with enough water to cover the beans by an inch or so, then leave to soak overnight.  The beans should roughly double in size.

Next is the most tedious part of falafeling:  shelling the favas.  Fava beans are shell beans.  When found in the wild (or at the store), they need to be removed from the pod (much like peas); unlike peas, the individual beans must also be shelled.  The same holds true for dried favas.

To the left:  unshelled.  On the right:  totally nude.

Some of the favas may have split during the soak, but for those that haven't, shelling is easy:  using a small, sharp knife, make a shallow cut along the end of the bean opposite the little black line (originally the point where the bean was attached to its pod), then peel off the shell.  If the beans are well soaked, the skin should come off without much fuss.  You can also purchase already-shelled dry fava beans, but they are more expensive and a bit tougher to find and where's the fun in that?

Once the favas are peeled, drain the chickpeas, give both sets of beans a good rinse, and add them to the bowl of your food processor.  Roughly chop half an onion and toss that in, along with a few cloves of garlic.  A pinch or two of cumin and some chili powder (I like Aleppo) won't go amiss, nor will a handful of raw coarse bulgur.  Tear up a handful each of parsley and cilantro, and add to the bowl.  Salt and pepper generously, then whiz the whole lovely mess until it's good and mixed.  Aim for a medium grind; if you find everything is a little dry, you can add a drizzle of olive oil or a tiny bit of water, but not too much — you don't want it to be too wet or turn into a puree — the liquid from the soaking should be enough.  The resulting batter should be sticky enough that you can easily form a patty, but dry enough to maintain its shape.

Once the mix is ready, heat a tablespoon or two of grapeseed (or similar) oil in a large pan over medium heat; I like one with sloping sides, to help with the flipping.  When the oil is hot, add the falafel patties one at the time, making sure not to crowd the pan.  Let them cook until brown on the bottom, maybe five minutes, then flip.  Cook until the other side is also browned and crispy, and serve.  This recipe should make a dozen or so small falafel patties.

Two competing schools of falafel construction:  the manageable (mine, below), and the chaos-in-a-pita (The Husband's)

We usually make our falafel pitas with homemade hummus, tzatziki, and cucumber-feta-tomato salad; last time, I added some broccoli slaw for a bit of crunch.  Any number of toppings could work:  baba ghanoush, tahini, harissa (for some kick), Greek dressing, a squeeze of lemon, spinach, plain yogurt, pickles, relishes...  You could also crumble the falafel into a salad, or make larger patties and grill them like a burger. 

THE POSSIBILITIES ARE  ENDLESS.

AW80D - Bubble and Squeak

(NOTE:  Apologies for the double post, but Blogger seems to have eaten my previous bubble and squeak post.  See, it's so tasty that even internet robots can't resist!)

Bubble and squeak was always going to end up here, it being one of my favorite dishes and also an excellent non-scone recipe for the UK/Ireland section.  However, I did not expect it to appear so soon.  The original plan was to have most, if not all, regions in possession of at least one recipe before I moved to double representation, but as I have been learning, very little of this blog adventure has been going according to plan.  The Husband was recently in need of simple, tasty food, and we had half a head of cabbage about to go bad.  So here we are.

Bubble and squeak is, at its core, a recipe for the using up of leftovers, specifically those from a traditional English roast dinner.  Similar dishes abound throughout Europe, but the two that matter for the purposes of this post are colcannon, from Ireland, and — I kid you not — rumbledethumps, from Scotland.  (RUMBLEDETHUMPS!  Is that not just the most delightful thing ever?  And now you know why I adore Scotland so.)  There are a few minor differences (colcannon substitutes kale for cabbage, and rumbledethumps(!) involves cheese), but all three dishes are basically just potatoes, a leafy green, and copious amounts of sweet, sweet butter.   For the etymology nerds out there, bubble and squeak takes its name from the sound that the food makes while cooking.   Colcannon is derived from cole, meaning cabbage; rumbledethumps comes from rumbled, for food that has been mashed or scrambled, and thumps may refer to the fact that, originally, this dish was made by bashing the daylights out of the potatoes and cabbage with a large pestle. 

I first discovered bubble and squeak in a cookbook I bought ages ago, which was purchased mostly for the introductory sections (discussions various grains, oils, beans, etc., with lots of pretty pictures).  I can't remember a single other recipe from said cookbook, and it was given away during the Great Purge of 2009, but because it introduced me to bubble and squeak, I will always think fondly upon it.  Godspeed, forgotten cookbook, wherever you are.

My recipe is slightly different from some of the more traditional ones I've uncovered, but its heart is in the right place.  It's a very simple recipe, with few ingredients; if you find yourself with leftover mashed potatoes and greens (or any vegetable, really), this should come together in a flash.  This means you can also prepare the potatoes and/or the vegetables ahead of time, or even cook the entire dish the day before; it reheats wonderfully.  Also, as a side note, one of my all-time favorite cooking shows, Two Fat Ladies, insists that you must use lard or drippings in this dish, as they are the only fats that can heat up enough.  This is a load of old rubbish.  While I'm sure that bacon fat is wonderful stuff, butter does just fine.

Get yourself a couple of medium-sized potatoes; I prefer russets, but any starchy potato will do nicely.  Since I think the skin is the best part of a potato, I give them a good scrub and then chop them into one-inch chunks.  (Peeling the potatoes is fine, as is leaving them whole — I just find that chopping them up speeds up the cooking process.)  Plop them in a large pot with some well-salted water and boil under tender.

While the potatoes are boiling, thinly slice two leeks and a half a cabbage.  Melt a good dollop of butter in an oven-safe pan (I use my trusty 10 1/4" cast iron skillet) over medium heat, and saute the leeks until translucent (a finely-diced clove or two of garlic wouldn't go amiss here, either).  Add the cabbage, cover, and cook until tender.

Once the potatoes are done, drain, add a slosh of milk (or cream, if you are devilish) and a good knob of butter, then mash.  Lumps are perfectly fine, but just make sure it's easily mixable.  Salt and pepper to taste.

When the cabbage is ready, add a few handfuls of spinach and cook until just wilting, which will take but a minute or two.  Add the greens into the potatoes, return the skillet to the heat, and add another dollop of butter to melt.  Mix the greens and potatoes together until everything is relatively well incorporated, then pour it all back into the skillet.  Even out the potato mixture, much like you would cake batter in a pan, and let cook until the sides and bottom have browned.  (This is when the bubbling and squeaking will occur; if you find that your dinner is not singing to you on the stove, it's a good sign that the heat may not be high enough.)  You can add a few additional dabs of butter along the top of the potatoes, as well as some more salt and pepper, if you'd like.

While the bubble and squeak is a-bubblin' and squeakin' away, turn on your broiler to heat up.  Once the potatoes are nicely brown and crisp, pop the skillet under the broiler for a few minutes, until the top is also brown and crisp.  Let sit for a few minutes to cool, then serve.

Half a pan of bubsqueak, because we are impatient when butter is involved.

The Husband and I have been known to enjoy the odd bubble and squeak as part of a brunch spread (where it once accompanied potato-leek soup, because we enjoy repetition), but it is also an excellent meal in and of itself, particularly suited to cold, grey days (of either the weather or temperament variety) where warmth and heartiness (and butter) are much appreciated.

AW80D - North Africa

I sometimes wish that my literature-lovin' heart wasn't so set on the allusions that Around the World in 80 Dishes conjurs up.  Not that 80 dishes are too many — it's just not the easiest number to work with when you're dividing something up for a project such as this.  Ten regions seemed too few, as though interesting countries would get the short shrift, or there would be no consistency across the regions; 20 was just too many, and would require a level of internal nit-picking that I wasn't willing to undertake.  And there are no other factors in between.  So, 16 regions is what I settled on, and 16 regions is what I'm stuck with.

If I hadn't been so stubborn and was willing to change up my region tally, North Africa probably wouldn't be its own separate section.  Perhaps it's because of the restaurants I frequent, but to me, North African food is just so intimately connected with the rest of the Mediterranean-at-large (the Middle East, Italy, Greece, and, to a lesser extent, southern Spain) that I probably would have lumped to whole shebang together, made a tagine to represent North Africa, and be done with it.

But that seems to be missing the point.  The AW80D challenge is supposed to be, well, a challenge.  Apart from my (woefully misguided) belief that this blog will bring me internet fame and fortune, I really want AW80D to chronicle my odyssey of food — my questing forth through the seas of culinary ignorance to the well-fed shores of awesome food...island?

So, to reel this wayward and tortured sea-faring analogy back in (oops):  North Africa.  For recipe-selection purposes, I am generally following the UN definition of Northern Africa:  Algeria, Egypt, Libya, Morocco, Sudan, Tunisia, and Western Sahara, with Mauritania added to complete the Maghreb.  This is, of course, only a rough guide, and I reserve the right to employ cartographic trickery as needed (they don't call The Husband Sir Mapps-a-lot for nothing).  The iconic tagine will hopefully make an appearance, but other than that, I'm still figuring out this entire North African food thing.  After the first North Africa AW80D post, a friend from Tunisia pointed out that she's never had preserved lemons, which sort of complicates my "preserved lemons are such an integral part of North African cuisine" line I was pushing. 

Well, then.

It seems that I may harbor a few misconceptions about what North African food really is.  But this is exactly what AW80D should be — a learning experience.  Maybe I should start actually researching things before I go blathering on about them?

So it'll be back to the cookbooks for me, to re-orient my culinary compass and get my tasty bearings.  I just hope there don't be food dragons beyond the horizon.

(Ok, I'm done with the nautical references now.  Really.)

(Yar.)

Life in the Desert

Spring is rapidly drawing to a close here in Phx, which means that the days keeping the blinds open and willingly going outside are ending.  The weather forecast is suggesting that triple-digit temperatures will make an appearance this week.  Summer is nigh.

While, for most of the year, life in the desert can be dusty and drab, the weeks following the winter rains result in a mass greening, where all the cacti and succulents and grasses go bonkers for the hydration and ramp up their photosynthesis in anticipation of several months of dryness.  Plants that appeared to be dead and withered suddenly start sprouting leaves, the wildflowers begin to bloom, and the cactus blossoms start to sprout; also, the rivers return (albeit briefly), and the migratory birds start to appear (also briefly).  Spring in the desert is quite lovely (unless you suffer from pollen-based allergies, in which case you are in for several weeks of excessive tissue use).

However, the trials and tribulations of the past few months have made it difficult to get out and enjoy the desert winter and spring, and I was loathe to let spring turn into summer without having some adventures to tide me over until fall.  Fortunately, the weather gods were smiling this past weekend, and they deigned to give us desert dwellers one final day of pleasant temperatures before the great outdoors switches to the far side of uncomfortable.  Given that it was probably the last time I could reasonably enjoy going outside until early November, it seemed an excellent opportunity to get out and have my mini-adventure.  Last November, The Husband and I got a family membership to the Desert Botanical Garden, mostly to get a discount on their Las Noches de las Luminarias festival (strolling around a Christmas-light-and-lantern-bedecked garden, drinking mulled cider and listening to carolers, is an excellent way to get into the winter spirit when it is still 80ºF outside).  It's one of our favorite places in Phx, and an excellent place to just wander about; even though it's right smack in the city, it's easy to get lost in nature.  It's also the perfect one-stop shop for all your blooming desert needs, since pretty much every native Sonoran plant is tucked away somewhere.  And there are birds and lizards and wee mammals.  Yes. 

So, in lieu of recipes I haven't written up yet, here are some pretty pictures from the desert.

Saguaro flowers.  The hole in the shortest one is a nest for any number of birds.

Chollas in bloom.

The creosote bushes have transformed into desert pussy willows.

A female Anna's Hummingbird, a common migrant in the desert.  (I think - any armchair ornithologists out there with different opinions?)

Paperbag bush, post-flower.

A starling perched atop an agave bloom.

A Round-Tailed Ground Squirrel, hanging out near some agaves.

Now you know why I enjoy spring in the desert.

Golden Barrel Cactus with tiny blossoms.

Old Man Cactus.

Ocotillos (my favorite desert succulent) in leaf and bloom.

Chihuly and palms.

The wildflowers are bloom, too.

A Beehive Cactus flower.

Tiny Mexican cactuses with tiny red flowers.

The yuccas were in bloom, too.

As were the Prickly Pears.  You can see the flowerless fruits; when they turn the same color as the flowers, then they're ripe.