Playing groundhog

I do not care what the calendar says. As far as I am concerned, the new year does not start until a good time after February 2nd - usually not until sometime towards the end of March. Truly, how can one feel that they are beginning anew when the world is still trapped under a blanket of snow?

I am a person wholly affected by my surroundings. As I have alluded to before I tend to have strong reactions to changes in the weather. And, like most I’m sure, I tend to eat in response to what’s going on outside my window.

With the grey days of early spring just settling upon us, I find myself eagerly awaiting the bourgeoning brightness of April and May. I have been keeping a steely eye on our neighbour’s lawn and our green grocer’s inventory to see the return of a green palette - in shades of grass, asparagus and pea shoots.

Sadly, I am a bit ahead of Mother Nature, who is still enjoying the last vestiges of her beauty sleep. Today dawned cloudy and cold, with a crisp, howling wind to greet us. It seemed somehow fitting that I turned to my freezer for comfort as I spied a bag of frozen petit pois (small, sweet peas). Even though my landscape is still drab and monochromatic, at least my bowl is filled with the promise of the months to come.

My apologies to any readers outside the Northern Hemisphere for this weather-centric post. Happy autumn to you all!

Spring Pea Soup
This creamy, yet fresh tasting soup is delicious served either hot or chilled. While I wanted a pure, unadulterated pea taste in this soup, herbs would be a natural partner. A few sprigs of mint, chives or flat-leafed parsley could be added while puréeing.

Ingredients
1 teaspoon olive oil
1 teaspoon butter
2 shallots, finely minced
3/4 cup vegetable or chicken stock (low sodium if store bought)
1 1/4 cups petit pois (if frozen, defrosted)
1/4 teaspoon lemon juice/sherry vinegar
Salt and pepper to taste

In a small saucepan over medium low heat, melt the butter into the olive oil. When foaming has subsided, add the shallots. Season with salt and sweat the shallots until translucent, about 2 minutes.

Add the stock and bring to a boil. Add the petit pois and cook until bright green and just tender. This depends on their size, but should only take a few moments.

Using an upright or immersion blender, purée the soup until very smooth. If using the upright blender, be careful about blending hot liquids - you might want to allow it to cool before attempting. Or, undo the centre of the lid to vent out the steam, covering the hole with a kitchen towel.

Add the lemon juice and cream (if using), season with salt and pepper to taste. Drizzle with additional olive oil for garnish, if desired.

Serves 2 for a light lunch with a salad, or one who's feeling hungry.

Notes:
• You can play with the aromatics in this recipe. Leeks would be a fine substitution for the shallots.
• Added at the end, a dash of cream or an additional dab of butter to this soup adds a wonderful richness to the finish.

From the produce section, with love

When my brother and I were growing up, I do not remember having an option when it came to vegetables. Wait, I should clarify. It was not that there was a lack of variety in the vegetables placed before us, it was that we were never really given the option of trying them or not – we just did. We ate everything.

I’ll admit my Mother may be the better resource on this, but I do not remember there ever being a vegetable my brother or I would simply not eat (sure, there were ones that were not favourites). I recall being aghast when watching television and witnessing kid surreptitiously hide some Brussels sprouts in a napkin.

The thought had never dawned on me – I mean, why would anyone not want to eat a Brussels sprout? It was a completely foreign concept to my 7-year-old brain. Admittedly, our cocker spaniel did love corn, so he would have probably appreciated any scraps had we been willing to part with them.

We were lucky to be exposed to a wide array of vegetables, from a young age. We happily gobbled up steamed broccoli, curried cauliflower, peas in our aloo (potato) subsi, okra, spinach, beans of all sort, along with pulses and lentils. We even knew the three sides to one of our favourites — a vegetable that could be an aubergine when my grandmother was cooking, then transform itself into eggplant parmigiana at our neighbour’s house, and still be called baigan and brinjal when my Mom or Dad made Indian food.

My love for vegetables has carried me to adulthood, as I’ve expanded my repertoire to include new preparations and cooking methods. Nothing is better come springtime than roasted asparagus, more welcomed in summer than marinated salads, or more comforting in winter than braised leeks served alongside grilled meats.

S, on the other hand has not always been keen on our leafy and tuberous friends. Up until a few years ago, I could not even convince him that the noble onion was something that should pass his lips now and again. Luckily for me, a sojourn in some far-off lands opened up his culinary horizons and he is now my willing taste-tester. Though I’ll admit, I’ve not yet heard him say he ‘craved’ a vegetable – but I’m sure we’re on our way.

The many-named eggplant has been a perennial favourite, so when it came to deciding on what to make this past weekend, it was the obvious choice. Roasted in the oven, then used to top crunchy layers of puff pastry and a silky, rich filling of onions and herbed chèvre, the flavours were pronouncedly fall and the balance of textures exactly what I was looking for.

I sent one of these tarts to my parents this week; I hope they consider it a small thank you for all those years of ‘forcing’ me to eat my vegetables.

Roasted eggplant tart, with caramelized onions and chèvre

1 large globe eggplant
1 sheet puff pastry, thawed as per package instructions
2 small onions, halved and then sliced finely
100 g (3 oz) chèvre, softened and divided
100 g (3 oz) cream cheese, softened
2 tablespoons mixed fresh herbs (or more to taste), I used chives, parsley and thyme
5-10 cloves garlic, roasted and crushed into a paste
Salt and freshly ground pepper
Olive oil

Preheat oven to 425º F (220º C).

Slice eggplant into 1/2" rounds. Toss with olive oil, salt and pepper. Place in a single layer on a baking sheet and roast for 12 minutes. Turn the slices and roast for another 12 minutes, until lightly golden and soft. Alternatively, you can sauté the slices over medium heat. Set aside.

Reduce oven temperature to 400ºF (200º C).

On a floured surface, roll out the puff pastry to16”by 10”, trim any edges to form a neat rectangle. With a paring knife, score a 1” border around the edge of the pastry. Place on baking sheet. Prick (dock) the interior of the rectangle all over with a fork, to prevent excessive rising. Bake for 15 minutes, or until an even pale golden brown. Depending on your oven, you may need to rotate the pan halfway through the baking. Set aside on rack to cool (do not remove from baking sheet).

Meanwhile in a small saucepan with a tight-fitting lid, sauté the onions along with 1 teaspoon of salt. After the onions have become translucent cover and continue to cook, stirring frequently, for 15 minutes or until caramelized. Remove from heat, uncover and allow to cool.

In a small bowl, blend together half the chèvre, all the cream cheese and the herbs. Depending on the type used, you may need to loosen the mixture with a teaspoon of olive oil. You are looking for a lightly whipped, spreadable consistency. Season with salt and pepper, and set aside.

Being careful not to crush the pastry, spread the garlic paste over the crust. Top with the cheese mixture, followed by the caramelized onions. Arrange roasted eggplant over the onions and top with the reserved chèvre. Drizzle with a bit of olive oil, if desired.

Bake for 10 minutes, or until cheese starts to brown and the eggplant is warmed through. Can be eaten warm or at room temperature.

Serves 4.

Notes:
• For the ruffled effect shown with the puff pastry, I used a removable-bottomed tart pan with a fluted edge.
• Lemon zest and/or juice are welcome additions to the herbed cheese mixture.
• Any roasted vegetable would be excellent with this combination; tomatoes, zucchini or mushrooms are all suitable.
• Omit the chèvre and substitute an equal amount of a blue cheese for the filling.

We all have our quirks

As much as I espouse an easygoing approach to all things food related and try to promote creativity and substitutions whenever possible, I have to admit this tendency does not carry over to all aspects of my lifestyle – or even to all my views on things culinary. In fact, there are certain things about which I’m downright pernickety.

For instance, I adore having the right tool for a job. Even though I know that there are a million and one ways to zest a lemon, having the proper tool suited for the end result is a joy. A good chef's knife is your best friend. A well-shaped olive wood spoon makes stirring risotto a pleasure. The same holds true for servingware - you must admit that your gorgeous soba noodle soup is all the more stunning when served in a bowl shaped for optimal slurping. We have shelves in our basement devoted to my inability to say no to the “perfect” vessel.

I am a sucker for organization. Send me to a kitchen store, a craft store or even a stationer; I will happily troll the aisles for containers and caddies, labels and all things compartmentalized. I’ve actually spent time imaging all the things I could organize if I had the proper space and resources – oh how gorgeous my closets could be. I have even been known to have a moment of excitement over a new size of Tupperware. I can’t help it; it’s an obsession.

These two compulsions bring me to the granddaddy of them all — my love of lists. S has had to come to accept and respect my incessant hording of tiny slips of paper, each covered in cryptic notes and itemized records that usually only make sense to me. Maybe this harkens back to my childhood need to overachieve (gold stars were like ambrosia to me), but going through an orderly list and checking off items as they are completed gives me an incomparable sense of accomplishment.

I have lists for everything; for grocery lists, for errands, for Christmas presents, for correspondence, for books to read or topics to research … even the margins of my day planner are not safe from my scribbles.

I could go on, but I’m starting to scare myself.

As of late, I’ve been thinking about two lists in particular. One I’ve had for years, and is added to rather frequently. This list contains names like The French Laundry and Babbo, Fat Duck and El Bulli … and items referring to Chubby Hubby’s dear wife S and her gorgeous dumplings, finding the perfect baguette, and most recently an entry devoted to the idea of convincing Melissa and Clement that a macaron tasting tour of Paris with Michèle is exceedingly necessary. This list chronicles my food fantasies – dishes I want to try, places I long to visit and people I would adore the opportunity to meet.

The second list is much more tailored to my own little kitchen. This one details 50 or so items that make up my running tally of dishes I believe I should attempt to make at least once in my life, or recipes to master. Some are dishes I consider classics, while others are ones that have piqued my interest. Examples include:

8. Bake a quintessential yellow cake with chocolate frosting – think of what Wally and the Beave would have had with a cold glass of milk after school.
17. Make puff pastry and croissant dough from scratch.
21. Perfect my roast chicken recipe.
35. Invite Mom and Dad over for an Indian meal that knocks their socks off.
46. Make French fries at home, and decide once and for all where I stand on the “skinny frites vs. fat chips debate.”

This weekend I decided that #46 was due to be checked off my list. Not only would I tackle an age-old question of taste, but I would also continue my quest to conquer my innate fear of deep-frying. With a Saturday stretching before me, and an eager panel of tasters, I julienned and soaked, dried and fried (doubly, of course) and produced two batches of fries for their highly-scientific consideration. In the left corner, we have what I consider to be an example of the skinny frites tradition, destined for garlicky aiöli. In the other corner, we have the fat chip contender, the perfect partner to deep fried fish and the proper vehicle for gravy and cheese curds for Poutine.

After deliberation, the panel had two votes for skinny and one undecided. Both S and his dear father favoured the more assertively crispy fry, while I was still torn. I appreciated the snap of the exterior of the skinny fry, but could not totally discount the comfort of the baked-potato-reminiscent floury-ness of the chip style.

Each has its place at my table. I may be compulsive, but I can’t seem to play favourites. So #46 remains, but I still think these deserve a gold star.

Definitive fries  
I use a hybrid of tips, taken mostly from Tony Bourdain’s Les Halles Cookbook and Alton Brown’s I’m Just Here for the Food. Both employ a double-fry method; first poaching the potatoes at a lower heat, then frying a second time at a higher heat to ensure a crispy exterior. The draining station detailed is that of Alton Brown – it keeps oil droplets from collecting on the grates of the draining rack and helps to prevent soggy fries.

4 large baking potatoes, russets are good
Oil for frying
Salt

For the skinny fries, peel the potatoes (if desired) and cut each one lengthwise into slices 1/3 inch thick. Cut the slices lengthwise into sticks 1/3 inch thick. For the fat chips, prepare as above but slice the potatoes into 1/2 batons. Soak the potatoes in bowls of ice water for at least 30 minutes (as long as overnight) to release the excess starch.

In a deep fat fryer or a heavy bottomed pot, preheat 3 inches of oil (or follow manufacturer’s recommendations) to 300ºF.

Rinse potatoes in a few courses of clean water. Drain, then lay them out on a kitchen towel or paper towel and pat dry. Removing excess moisture at this stage will help reduce the oil from splattering when the potatoes hit the fat.

Assemble your draining station. Take a baking rack and invert it so that the legs are pointing upwards. Place this on top of a few layers of newsprint.

Fry the potatoes, in small batches until translucent and just starting to turn pale gold (approximately 6-8 minutes for the skinny fries, 8-10 for the thick ones). Do not overload the oil, or the temperature will drop too quickly and the potatoes will be uneven. Cooking times will depend on the size of batch and how well you can maintain the oil temperature. Using a spider, basket or tongs remove the first batch to the draining rack. Proceed with remaining potatoes until done. Allow to stand for at least 10 minutes, or up to 2 hours.

When ready to serve, raise the heat of the oil to 375ºF.

Again working in batches, fry the potatoes until golden and crisp, about 2-3 minutes for the skinny and 3-4 for the thick. Remove to the draining rack (lined with fresh paper) for a moment to cool then transfer to a large bowl. Season liberally with salt and toss the fries to coat. Serve immediately.

Serves 4, generously.

Notes:
• A good sprinkling of Maldon salt was all the adornment we needed, but smoked paprika, finely minced garlic and parsley or cumin and turmeric all make great seasonings.
• The aiöli from Laura Washburn makes a perfect accompaniment.

The terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day ... that turned into a week

Title with thanks to Judith Viorst.

Monday started out with me slipping in a mud puddle. Tuesday introduced impossible deadlines to be met – and was a day that did not seem to have enough hours in it. Wednesday, well, I forget Wednesday, I’m sure it happened but I have no recollection of it. I think it was so traumatic that I blocked it from my memory.Thursday brought misunderstandings of seemingly endless proportions. And now it is Friday, and it’s raining outside.

As you may guess, I’m in a bit of a mood.

It is times like these, when I am feeling overwhelmed, that I transform from a usually capable person into a somewhat dramatic, hopeless mess. And it is times like these that the smallest of favours are the grandest of gifts.

These adorable little tomatoes for example, a co-worker brought them to me from her garden – she is a kind and thoughtful lady who never thinks twice when given the opportunity to do something for another. Perfectly ripened, almost candy-like in their sweetness and utterly photogenic, I have had the pleasure of enjoying three miniature little harvests of tomatoes, my morning brightened by a little bag of these babies waiting on my desk in the morning.

Or this lovely green dish, a gift from my dear S in apology for setting fire to one of my roasting dishes (long story involving preheating the oven without remembering that he’d hidden dirty dishes in there earlier). Smooth and sleek with its feminine fluted edge, I love the weight and feel of the ceramic — and the colour is so utterly of him (as you may have noticed, I have a fondness for white serving ware).

So things may not be as dire as they seem. Last night, I surveyed the kitchen and came across some gorgeously crusty Calabrese bread, some herbs and my darling tomatoes. Remembering a recent sunny afternoon at the Taste of the Danforth food festival in Toronto, with the company of great friends and laughter all around, I was inspired to recreate the fabulously fresh bruschetta we’d had at Il Fornello.

The first bite of crusty bread, tangy soft cheese and luscious tomatoes, and I’d banished the gloom. Such a simple pleasure, coupled with a quiet evening, had a wonderfully restorative effect. I slept soundly, and woke this morning with a renewed sense of enthusiasm to face the work ahead.

That’s when I noticed the rain clouds.

Bruschetta with tomato salad and chèvre
Bruschetta, from the Italian bruscare (to roast over coals) technically refers only to the grilled bread. My apologies that I have not included amounts here, instead just the ingredients. But truly, when in a mood like the one I’ve been in, the last thing one wants is to stress over measuring spoons. Use the proportions that best suit your palate. This is supposed to be a dish that exemplifies the “path of least resistance” – the quickest way to pleasure with minimal effort.

Ingredients

Tomatoes, grape or cherry halved, or your favourite large variety cut into manageable bites
Red onion, finely minced
Garlic, finely minced or microplaned (optional)
Basil, in fine strips (chiffonade)
Parsley, finely minced
Salt and pepper
Red wine vinegar (optional)
Olive oil
Slices of Calabrese bread, or any other crusty bread you like
Garlic (left whole)
Chèvre

Preheat broiler.

Combine tomatoes, onion, garlic and herbs in a bowl. Season to taste with salt and pepper and a scant splash of red wine vinegar. Pour over a good-quality olive oil, mixing gently to combine. Allow to sit at room temperature while you prepare the bruschetta.

Under a hot broiler, toast bread on one side until golden brown. Turn and toast the second side until just starting to turn colour. Remove from oven and, working quickly, rub the cut side of the whole garlic clove all over the lightly toasted side. Top with crumbled chèvre, and return to the broiler until the cheese is starting to melt.

Serve topped with tomato salad and a final drizzle of olive oil.

Notes:
• This recipe can be done on a barbeque, grilling the bread first over medium high heat. To melt the cheese, turn the grill down to medium heat and close the lid, checking after 2-3 minutes.

Reviewing The Best

As promised, this is my first installment in my spotlight on five books from my recipe collection. I'll devote three entries to each book.

I came across the television show The Best when flicking by a BBC Canada preview one long weekend. Starring Ben O’Donoghue, Paul Merrett and Silvana Franco, the premise of the show was simple – two separate theme ingredients/meals would be set up as a challenge for each episode. The three would then prepare and present their interpretation to a cloistered group of judges. Some examples were; the best sweet summer tart, the best lamb lunch, and the best simple sandwich.

Though this may sound rather like an episode of Iron Chef – The Best could not be further from the Kitchen Stadium of Chairman Kaga. The hosts, two classically trained chefs (O’Donoghue and Merrett) and one experienced cook and food stylist (Franco), worked together with an easy competitive camaraderie. Each took on the duties of sous chef for the others, and there was frequent tasting and joking along the way.

It was the charm of the series that made me seek out the cookbook by the same name – which has fast become one of my favourite books for inspiration. The three authors, with their diverse backgrounds and influences, support and encourage my somewhat schizophrenic interests in cooking.

Merrett’s Perfect Cheese Soufflé and sublime Watercress and Mushroom Soup appeal to the part of me that likes a bit of fuss over a meal. His recipes can be a bit labour (and time) intensive, but the results are nothing short of show stopping.

O’Donoghue, proud of his Australian roots and classically trained, tempts me with fresh ingredients presented in laid-back style. His Summer Berry Compote and Braised Tuna Salad epitomize his philosophy on food – elegant yet gutsily straightforward, uncompromising in its quality.

Franco is a woman after my own heart. An accomplished food writer and stylist who has worked with the likes of Ainsley Hariott, she has not let acclaim change her views on food. Simplicity itself, relying on cupboard staples and no-nonsense preparations, dishes like her Chinese Style Barbecue Pork and Goat’s Cheese and Cranberry Toast offer immediate satisfaction.

The first recipe I’ve chosen to highlight is Ben’s Tomato and Herb Spaghetti from “The Best Quick Pasta Supper” episode. I love the combination of the velvety robust sauce against the herbaceous crunch of the pan gritata (toasted breadcrumbs) – all slurped up with perfectly cooked spaghetti. In the midst of summer I will admit that I sometimes substitute the canned tomatoes with peeled fresh ones, whenever I find myself in possession of some just about to pass their prime.

Ben’s Tomato and Herb Spaghetti
The Best by Paul Merrett, Silvana Franco and Ben O'Donoghue.

For the pan gritata:
4 tablespoons roughly chopped thyme leaves
4 tablespoons roughly chopped parsley
2 tablespoons roughly chopped majoram
1 small dried-out or day-old chibatta, made into rough crumbs
8 tablespoons sunflower (or other neutral) oil

For the tomato sauce:
1 garlic clove, crushed
3 tablespoons olive oil
800 g jar of San Marzzano plum tomatoes, or 2 x 400 g cans of plum tomatoes in their own juice, drained
1-2 bird’s eye chilies
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) pack best-quality durum wheat dried spaghetti
1 garlic clove, chopped
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

To make the pan gritata, first process the herbs in a food processor. Empty into a bowl, add the ciabatta crumbs and blend together using your hands.

Heat the sunflower oil in a frying pan and shallow-fry the herbs and breadcrumb mixture for 3-4 minutes, until crunchy. Drain on kitchen paper.

Make the tomato sauce by gently frying the garlic in 2 tablespoons of the olive oil for 30 seconds, until sticky. Add the tomatoes and chilies and cook for 30 minutes over a very low heat until broken down and the tartness has gone from the tomatoes.

Meanwhile, cook the pasta until al dente (according to the packet instructions) and drain. In a large frying pan, heat the remaining olive oil and add the chopped garlic. Toss through the cooked spaghetti. Then serve the spaghetti in a bowl with the tomato sauce surrounding it and season with salt and freshly ground pepper to taste. Sprinkle the pan gritata all over and serve.

Serves 4.

Notes
• In the case of the dish in the photograph, I happened to have fresh, finely crushed breadcrumbs around from another recipe. I opted to use them instead of the ciabatta, and tossed some through with the cooked pasta. For your first time making the recipe, I recommend using the ciabatta as instructed – the coarser texture adds another dimension to the dish.
• I choose to season the sauce with salt and pepper while it is cooking, rather than at the end.
• When I use fresh tomatoes, I reduce the cooking time for the sauce to about 15 minutes, as I like to preserve a bit of the freshness of the tomatoes.
• Although not mentioned in the recipe, I find that a bit of freshly grated Parmesan never hurt anyone.