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.)