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.

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.

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.

With Apologies to Benny.

Gentle readers!  I have been sorely remiss in my blogging, but I have a reason(s), sort of!

See, I am taking the GRE next week, and between pretending to learn math and getting angry at practice tests, I have had neither the time nor energy nor inclination to engage in anything culinarily (a word I just made up) exciting.  Also, The Husband and I leave soon for our four-week New York/India Holiday Extravaganza, so we have enacted a moratorium on new food purchases and are forcing ourselves to work though the fridge and freezer stocks as much as possible before our departure.  As you can imagine, this complicates starting up all the exciting new blog things I had planned.

However, we still have to eat, and what better way to use up old vegetables than stir-fry?

I used to hate making stir-fries.  They never tasted right, things didn't cook properly – for something that seemed so easy to throw together, it was remarkably difficult.  That is, until we got our wok.  Our glorious, 14-inch, cast iron, solid-as-a-friggin'-rock wok.

gracias, ben y alé!

Seriously, it's pretty awesome.  It may weigh somewhere in the area of a metric tonne (imperial weight) and take forever and a day to heat up, but it works like a charm.

Now, I've always thought that pieces of specialized, single-function equipment – things like woks and bread makers and rice cookers and pastry cutters – were entirely unnecessary, and that a good cook could easily improvise and make good food without them.  I still believe that about most things, but the wok has converted me.  I am a wokist.  All hail the mighty wok and its ability to cook food.  Thou shalt not mock thy wok.  Wok wok wok.

like this, only with woks (also I am not a tiger)

Anyway, so:  stir-fries.  After some rummaging around in the fridge (which is still packed to the gills with dairy products), I found the following: shallots, garlic, ginger, hatch chiles, red peppers, zucchini, carrots, broccoli slaw, peas, bok choy, and tofu (full disclosure: I might have actually gone out and purchased the tofu and choy, but that was only because we needed some protein and who doesn't love bok choy and don't judge me).

Once everything was chopped, I heated up some grapeseed oil and, once it was hot, added a couple of teaspoons of Gunpowder green tea leaves and let them fry until they began to open up (for those of you unfamiliar with Gunpowder tea, the leaves are tightly rolled little balls that uncurl when you cook or steep them).  Then, add the onions, garlic, ginger, and chiles; once they have become fragrant, mix in the tofu and a bit of Chinese Five Spice powder and cook until golden brown.  Next come the snap peas, then the red pepper and zucchini.  The carrot and broccoli slaw follow (broccoli slaw is this awesome pre-made mix of shredded carrots and broccoli stems that they sell at both Fresh and Easy and Trader Joe's, which has become a fixture in my salads).  The bok choy goes in last, and once it has wilted and become tender, you're basically done.

"But Heather," you might be saying, "what about the flavor?  Your dish seems to be lacking in tasty essences."  And herein lies the trouble I usually had with stir-fries:  it turns out that I don't really like soy sauce.  In small quantities, sure, but I find it very easy to be overwhelmed by the flavor (and using it as a dipping sauce for gyoza or similar just plain terrifies and confuses me).  But I do really like teriyaki sauce, which is what I used here (I added a small amount after the red pepper and zucchini, then some more after the bok choy), so go figure; I also added a bit of Trader Joe's sweet chile sauce (which, incidentally, is what I use for dippings of gyoza or dumplings, etc.).  Oh, and at some point you should tell The Husband to cook up some black rice/somen noodles and then throw them in at the end, and also chop up some pickled peppers if you want some extra kapow.

Et, voila!

noodles!  they are EVERYWHERE.

You can also do basically the same thing again tonight, using homemade seitan in place of tofu and peanut satay sauce/seitan cooking liquid in place of teriyaki and brown rice instead of noodles, and maybe adding some dilly beans too if you're truly mad.

It's Janet - Miss Jackson if you're pasty. (UPDATE)

Ok, first things first:  this post is about pasties, the food (where "pasty" rhymes with "nasty").  Not the other pasty, which rhymes with "hasty" and is only occasionally edible.*  Make sure you remember this, or else this post will get confusing and probably rather weird by the end.^

So, pasties.¥

The pasty is, essentially, a self-contained pot pie.  Originating in Cornwall (or Devonshire, depending on who you believe), it was a common food for Cornish tin miners who were unable to come back aboveground for lunch.  The thick, dense crust, which was folded over the filling and crimped closed, made the pasty easy to eat with one hand, which is quite useful when you're hundreds of feet underground and covered with dirt and soot and arsenic.§  The dirty bit at the end, where the miner had been holding the pasty, was then discarded; this not only prevented the miner from consuming arsenic and dying of poisoning,ˇ but the leftover bit of crust was believed to appease the mine demons.‡

I am not a Cornish miner.◊  But, I do certainly like mouse books, which is of course where I first learned about pasties.±  They also come up in another series of books I enjoy, this time about a cat who solves mysteries, sort of.∞  Anyway, these cat books take place in northern Minnesota (or Michigan or something), where pasties˚ are common.  So it comes up a lot, and this is where I learned the pronunciation and the traditional filling (steak, potatoes, onions, rutabaga).

I decided to finally attempt to make pasties€ after a visit to the Cornish Pasty Co. in Tempe.  I think I got the Vegetarian Cottage Pie, but don't actually remember.  Whatever it was, it was pretty tasty, but I definitely came away thinking I could make it myself.  Also, after the day of chili and cornbread (and pie), I had decided that, PHX weather be damned, I was going to start using my oven and eating like it was autumn, even if it killed me.

Finding a good pasty recipe is a complicated undertaking, mostly because of the small handful of variations and the vehemence with which those variations are defended by their respective camps.  This is a good place to start (and possibly be overwhelmed) with your own pasty making.†  (The sweet pasties at the bottom of the page also sound tasty - like a portable fruit pie, but vastly superior to this.)  I actually got my crust recipe from here, because it seemed a bit lighter; I was pleased with the result, but am thinking that a proper shortcrust would be good too.  As for filling, I was distinctly untraditional: I blanched and mashed some potatoes, carrots, and cauliflower, then added that to a pan of onions, garlic, bay leaves, rosemary, cremini mushrooms, and peas (a slice of smoked Gouda cheese went on top of one of the pasty fillings, too).  We ate them with a bit of homemade ketchup and were full of autumn (sort of) cheer.

Also, sorry - no pasty (of either variety) photos today (I forgot to take one).  Instead, I offer a picture of Pannekuchen tangled up in a ball of yarn.

Not a magic cat.

UPDATE: If, like The Husband, you know nothing about music from albums that have sold more than 2,000 copies and are thus sellouts, this title is a reference to the 1986 Janet Jackson song, "Nasty."
*But significantly more related to the person in this post's title.
^Though the other pasty (the...article of clothing?) would be relevant to the crafty nature of this blog.  I could turn it into a side business:  Hasty Pasty, for the stripper on the go!
¥The food.  Stay with me here, people - we've got a lot to get through.
§No old lace, though.  Too frilly and murdery.
ˇSooner than he would just by being covered in arsenic all day, I suppose.
‡No, really.
◊Or minor.  Or myna.
±Again, I am talking about the food.  The quests that the mice go on are not for sparkly tassels so that they can go about topless; besides, they are mice and they don't have the same social mores as humans so don't worry about it anyway.
∞And before The Husband gets on here and starts making fun, let me just say that the cats themselves to do not actually solve any mysteries; their owner, a wealthy former newspaper reporter, does.  The cats cannot talk; they are normal cats.  Though one of the cats is sort of magic, but not really - even if he has extra whiskers and that might make him more perceptive and/or magical, he just does the things that cats do and his owner connects the dots and then the bad guys somehow get caught.  If you've ever owned a cat, you would know what I'm talking about if I had any idea how to actually describe what I mean.
˚I am mostly referring to the food, but since I have never been to northern Minnesota or the UP, I cannot comment on the popularity of the hasty pasty.
€I give up.  Pretend this is whichever one you want.
†Also, be sure to check out the Star-Gazing Pasty recipe at the bottom of the page.  Trust me.  Ignore the bit about herrings if you need to.

apparently all caps is not acceptable title behavior.

Faithful readers!*  I have been remiss in my blogging, but I have a reason!

So, remember when I went to New York and it was autumn and lovely, and I mentioned how Arizona decided to tone it down a bit when I returned so that I could go outside and not get too stabby?

Yeah, that's over now.

Since I've gotten back to PHX, the temperature has decided to hover perilously close to 100º, which is exactly the same thing that happened this time last year, when I first arrived in Arizona.^  I had all these grand designs for fall cooking and baking, but the heat broke my resolve.  Fortunately, The Husband stepped up his game, and we decided that maybe, just maybe, if we pretended like it was fall and we made fall foods, perhaps we could trick the weather into changing.  

And one of the great fall foods, of course, is chili with cornbread (with smuggled apple pie, oh yes!).  I had asked The Husband to write about it, because he made it, but he responded, "Blearghª, it's just chili."  So, herewith I am going to try to re-create the chili-making.

First, choose 10 or so varieties of bean from our almost nonsensical collection.‡  Next, because you are clearly anticipating a long, hard winter that will require sustenance, through several handfuls of each bean type into the pressure cooker.  Put pressure cooker on the stove, then check email and Google reader.  Once beans cook, start chopping tomatoes (or use canned tomatoes, whatever), and dig out the frozen corn and peppers.  Chop some (a lot of) garlic too, and some onions, and throw everything into a pot and let it simmer.  Go read a few blog posts and comment on Facebook.  Put in spices.  Taste, then add more.  Yell at NPR story.  Add some more pepper, because everyone has tastebuds of steel, right?∆  Spend 20 minutes sifting through prodigious music collection to find perfect album for chili.  Serve.  Go get more milk, since your wife drank both your and her glasses before finishing even half her dinner.

So, yeah, it was spicy.  But!  It was tasty, especially when you add some sour cream and avocado and cheese, all of which cuts the mouth-burnination quotient greatly.  There was also green sweet cornbread (made with honey and blue cornmeal) and fig-cranberry-apple-ginger pie.  I don't know much about the construction of these two delights, other than that the pie contained Jonagold and Pippin apples (Pippins are kind of my new favorite apple, by the way); if you want the details, you'll have to ask The Husband.  Or just raise a ruckus, and perhaps he'll cave to peer pressure and finally write the damn post himself.

Next up, pasties!  (Not those kinds, pervert - this is a family blog.)

*All five of you!
^Happy One-Year-and-One-Day anniversary, PHX!  Except that it's not happy, because you're a punk and like trotting out heat waves like show ponies.
ªAt least, I think that's what he said.  It is very hard to transliterate guttural mumblings.
‡Please note that this makes up less than half of our total bean hoard.  Like I've said before, we (I) have problems.
∆Wrong.

THE PROBLEM WITH BLOGGING: I SOMETIMES FORGET TO BLOG (PLUS A RATHER LONG STORY IN WHICH I ANTHROPOMORPHIZE CORN)

Here's the interesting thing about blogging: you need to remember to actually write things, otherwise you're less a blogger and more a lazy person who happens to have a blog.  And laziness will not net me a book deal, nor will it bring me fame and wealth and UNSPEAKABLE POWER.  So, I need to get kraken.  I mean, cracking.

cracker?

All right, so I don't have any recipes per se, because I am not-so-good with remembering those sorts of details when I'm in the midst of cooking.   I also don't have any photos, because (a) I am too impatient to dig out my camera and waste precious moments between the food being ready and the food being in my stomach, and (b) my camera (or our lighting) gives everything a yellowish tint, and I don't want you thinking that all of our food is afflicted with jaundice.  (Given these qualifications, I am clearly well on my way to food blogging success.)

BUT, I do have a story.  A story of meat, and corn, and one woman's attempt to learn from the mistakes of others and make a damn fine meal for herself.

The Husband had decided to skitter off and feign interest in professional sports, so I was left to my own devices for dinner.  Since I would be dining alone (so, so alone), it seemed like as good a time as any to tackle the pork ribs that had been sitting in the freezer.  (NOTE: Yes, I am usually a vegetarian.  It was one of the three or four times a year when my bloodlust rises up and can only be satiated by hunks of sweet, tender flesh.  Stop judging me.)  I had also just received a shipment of mole powder, so the choice was obvious: braised pork mole.  In addition to the spices and chiles, I decided to add some Roman beans (because we have too many beans - seriously, I HAVE PROBLEMS) and – this is where it gets interesting – some posole.

My friend Soups has written about her adventures with posole, so I thought I knew what I was getting myself into.  I bought pre-treated corn (it said CORN FOR POSOLE right on the bag), I soaked it overnight, and I planned on an extended cooking time.  After making up a sauce with garlic, onions, roasted chiles, Mano y Metate's Pipian Rojo mole powder, tomatoes, tomatillos, and vegetable broth, I quickly seared the ribs, threw everything (pre-soaked beans and posole included) into a pot, and boshed it into the oven at 300 degrees.  After four hours, I removed the pork to a cutting board to cool, then moved the entire operation to the stove, where it simmered for an hour.  I de-boned and cut the pork (more like pulled apart the pork, since it was so tender and fall-off-the-bone and buttery and it all sort of made me question this whole vegetarian thing).  I popped the pork chunks back into the mix, salted and peppered, and let the whole shebang cook for another hour.

Now, at this point, it was 7pm.   I was starving.  I took a taste.

The pork was still fantastic.
The beans retained a bit of their meaty texture, but still melted in your mouth.
The mole sauce had just the right amount of bite and sweetness, with some smokiness from the roasted chiles.
The posole...?

The posole was crunchy.

SIX HOURS.  That's how long it had been cooking.  Six hours of roasting and simmering and filling the apartment with delicious aromas, and still the posole taunted me.

Now, under normal circumstances I would have left the posole to simmer all night if I had to, all the while muttering dire threats and suggesting that, if the food didn't cooperate, I could not be held responsible for what might happen.  But I had bar trivia obligations in two hours, still hadn't showered, and needed to eat something, as English pubs are not known for their vegetarian-friendly fare. 

So, I gave in.  I ate the crunchy posole.

Overall, it wasn't terrible.  Apart from the chewy bits, the whole thing was quite tasty; I originally ate it over rice, but it was even better the next day with a hunk of crusty sourdough bread.

The score so far: posole 1, Heather 0.  But I still have a lot of posole left, as well as three other mole powders and a hill of beans.  And a pressure cooker. 

There will come a time when our paths will cross, posole, and I assure you: I do not intend on being defeated again.