So yesterday when I made my old standby apple pie, I also baked a skilletful of pie for my vegan/lactose-intolerant friends. No butter. No hydrogenation. I've tried Earth Balance before, but found it made a rather rancid-flavored pie. I turned to my favorite dairy substitute: coconut.
I froze 1/2 c. coconut oil in a little dish, and then shaved it into a pint of (salted) flour. I added the usual amount of water (enough to make a ball), and rolled it out into a bottom crust for a #9 cast-iron skillet. Coconut oil, unfortunately, is composed of fat crystals that are all of the same size. Butter has fat crystals of lots of different sizes, which means that it softens and melts gradually. Coconut oil, on the other hand, is more like water: it's hard, or it's liquid. This makes it a capricious & wily ingredient for things like pastry dough: if it melts all the way into the dough, you have no flakes, but if it stays in hard lumps, you have a heavy pie crust with holes in it where big fat lumps used to be. The bumps should be soft enough to give when you roll out the dough. By the time I was done rolling it out, the coconut oil was definitely liquefying, leaving me with a sticky dough. I just hurried myself up and got it in the fridge again quickly as I could.
For the filling, I mixed 1/2 c. rapadura sugar, 3 T. cornstarch, the juice of half a lemon, and 6 c. chopped pears.
I topped the pie with a streusel made from 1 c. flour, 1/2 c. rapadura, 1 c. shredded coconut, and 1/2 c. coconut oil. In retrospect, the coconutty flavor disappears from the crust during the baking, so there was no need for me to develop the coconut theme any further in the streusel. I should have left out the shredded coconut.
Also, I realized too late that the ripest pears had already seduced my housemates, and I had to bake with crunchy unripe pears -- lame!
It was delicious anyhow. The crust had a rich flavor and flakes enough to satisfy me -- but didn't brown as well without those milk sugars.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Apple Pie
Today, for several reasons, was a good day for pies and the Dresden Dolls. Sometimes it just has to be loud and buttery.
I was baking in my #9 cast iron skillet. Skillet pies are tricky -- they're huge, so the crusts are less structurally sound, and the steep sides also allow crust-slip. Nonetheless, they are a sight worth beholding once or twice, especially if you've left your treasured pie tins back in Virginia, along with your marble rolling pin and a well-used pastry cloth. It's like you just got off the Oregon Trail, but, damn it, you need pie and see if you don't just buckle down and make it in the skillet.
I make the crust with a 3:1 ratio of flour to butter, by volume, plus extra butter proportionate to my mood. A skillet pie takes 3 cups of flour, and today I used two and a half sticks of butter. You tell me how I'm feeling. I froze the butter and grated it like cheese into the flour -- a trick from a fiddler in North Carolina. I also use a lot of salt to heighten the contrast between buttery-savory crust and sweet gooey filling (a tablespoon, today). When the butter's all grated and fluffed into the flour, I drizzle on cold water, tossing the dough lightly with a fork, until it forms a ball when pressed, and there aren't a lot of dry crumbs. This is perhaps more water than most recipes like, but I roll it out with a generous bit of flour, and it comes out lovely.
But rolling's a bitch, especially on a hot summer day when the butter just wants to melt into the flour. First, divide the dough into a large ball and a small ball, refrigerating the small one. Push the dough into a round and pat it down with the rolling pin until it's about half an inch thick. Then roll from the center out, and lift frequently to re-flour the rolling surface (and the top, too). When it's larger than the skillet, accounting for the sides, fold it in half and place it on one side of the pan, then carefully unfold it. I usually have to patch it in places with the scraps. When it's all ready, with a little bit of overhanging dough, stick it in the fridge and make the filling.
Filling: Depending on how thrifty a Mennonite you are, and the ugliness of the apples you salvage, making the filling can take quite a while. Combine 3/4 c. rapadura sugar, 3-4 T. cornstarch, pinch of salt, the juice of half a lemon, and 1-2 tsp. cinnamon. Toss with 6 cups chopped tart miscellaneous baking apples (rot, worms, and worm poop all removed -- but leave the skins if you're not serving Irma Rombauer). Let it all macerate while you make the top crust (the apples will juice up with the sugar on them).
Top Crust: Retrieve the little ball of dough from the fridge, and roll it out just like the bottom crust. Slice it into centimeter-wide strips. Put the filling into the bottom crust, then top with half the strips lined up parallel to each other, with maybe a centimeter between them. Place the first perpendicular strip in the middle of the pie, and weave it under every-other strip. Continue placing perpendicular strips from the center out. Dip your finger in a glass of water, and run it over the rim of the bottom crust (water acts as glue to fuse the lattice). Fold the overhanging bit of bottom crust up over the ends of the lattice strips, press it tightly, and flute it nicely.
Bake it at 450 degrees Fahrenheit for 15 minutes, then place strips of tinfoil around the rim to keep it from burning, reduce the oven to 350 degrees, and bake until it's done (the filling will make thick bubbles near the middle of the pie). Don't break your wrist trying to carry the pie by the skillet handle; it's going to be a ton of pie and will probably require two hands.
And I only use butter, or lard when I'm in Hungary. I do not believe in hydrogenation. Butter helps you absorb fat-soluble minerals, and causes less heart disease than vegetable shortening. If you're concerned about weight, you should be more worried about the sugar in the pie than the fat. And if you're worried about cholesterol....
I was baking in my #9 cast iron skillet. Skillet pies are tricky -- they're huge, so the crusts are less structurally sound, and the steep sides also allow crust-slip. Nonetheless, they are a sight worth beholding once or twice, especially if you've left your treasured pie tins back in Virginia, along with your marble rolling pin and a well-used pastry cloth. It's like you just got off the Oregon Trail, but, damn it, you need pie and see if you don't just buckle down and make it in the skillet.
I make the crust with a 3:1 ratio of flour to butter, by volume, plus extra butter proportionate to my mood. A skillet pie takes 3 cups of flour, and today I used two and a half sticks of butter. You tell me how I'm feeling. I froze the butter and grated it like cheese into the flour -- a trick from a fiddler in North Carolina. I also use a lot of salt to heighten the contrast between buttery-savory crust and sweet gooey filling (a tablespoon, today). When the butter's all grated and fluffed into the flour, I drizzle on cold water, tossing the dough lightly with a fork, until it forms a ball when pressed, and there aren't a lot of dry crumbs. This is perhaps more water than most recipes like, but I roll it out with a generous bit of flour, and it comes out lovely.
But rolling's a bitch, especially on a hot summer day when the butter just wants to melt into the flour. First, divide the dough into a large ball and a small ball, refrigerating the small one. Push the dough into a round and pat it down with the rolling pin until it's about half an inch thick. Then roll from the center out, and lift frequently to re-flour the rolling surface (and the top, too). When it's larger than the skillet, accounting for the sides, fold it in half and place it on one side of the pan, then carefully unfold it. I usually have to patch it in places with the scraps. When it's all ready, with a little bit of overhanging dough, stick it in the fridge and make the filling.
Filling: Depending on how thrifty a Mennonite you are, and the ugliness of the apples you salvage, making the filling can take quite a while. Combine 3/4 c. rapadura sugar, 3-4 T. cornstarch, pinch of salt, the juice of half a lemon, and 1-2 tsp. cinnamon. Toss with 6 cups chopped tart miscellaneous baking apples (rot, worms, and worm poop all removed -- but leave the skins if you're not serving Irma Rombauer). Let it all macerate while you make the top crust (the apples will juice up with the sugar on them).
Top Crust: Retrieve the little ball of dough from the fridge, and roll it out just like the bottom crust. Slice it into centimeter-wide strips. Put the filling into the bottom crust, then top with half the strips lined up parallel to each other, with maybe a centimeter between them. Place the first perpendicular strip in the middle of the pie, and weave it under every-other strip. Continue placing perpendicular strips from the center out. Dip your finger in a glass of water, and run it over the rim of the bottom crust (water acts as glue to fuse the lattice). Fold the overhanging bit of bottom crust up over the ends of the lattice strips, press it tightly, and flute it nicely.
Bake it at 450 degrees Fahrenheit for 15 minutes, then place strips of tinfoil around the rim to keep it from burning, reduce the oven to 350 degrees, and bake until it's done (the filling will make thick bubbles near the middle of the pie). Don't break your wrist trying to carry the pie by the skillet handle; it's going to be a ton of pie and will probably require two hands.
And I only use butter, or lard when I'm in Hungary. I do not believe in hydrogenation. Butter helps you absorb fat-soluble minerals, and causes less heart disease than vegetable shortening. If you're concerned about weight, you should be more worried about the sugar in the pie than the fat. And if you're worried about cholesterol....
Nonpeareil
A side-effect of spending many hours of my youth in a hot & sticky orchard is that I've nearly exhausted all possible fruit puns. However, since I spent more time in the peaches than the pears, I appearantly neglected a few choice pear puns (not to be confused with bare buns). Like nonpeareil -- which perfectly describes today's challenge. How can I take something as unparalleled as a ripe pear, and tamper with it? The fact that my pears are quickly morphing from exquisitely ripe to brown mush is, of course, the only reason I would tamper with them.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Blackberry Preserves
In the ripe-fruit lifespan, it was an age and a half ago that H. Rose and I picked blackberries on the path to Mt. Hood -- so I had to act quickly to nab all the visible mold and get some lactobacillus in there to set up forts and outposts against the spores.
To make the preserves, I mixed a quart of non-moldy berries with 2 tsp. salt, 2 tsp. Pomona's Universal Pectin, 2 tsp. calcium water (it comes with the pectin), 1/4 c. whey and 1/4 c. rapadura. Hopefully the lactobacillus will triumph over the mold when it comes to all-out warfare.
The siege is on.
To make the preserves, I mixed a quart of non-moldy berries with 2 tsp. salt, 2 tsp. Pomona's Universal Pectin, 2 tsp. calcium water (it comes with the pectin), 1/4 c. whey and 1/4 c. rapadura. Hopefully the lactobacillus will triumph over the mold when it comes to all-out warfare.
The siege is on.
Monday, August 27, 2007
In Which I Make Whey for Pear Chutney
So I quit my job at the law firm. Now I have time to catch up on some mending and tackle the pears. First item: lacto-fermented pear chutney. Lacto-fermentation is the traditional way to preserve pickles and sausages using lactobacillus bacteria. Frankly, I can't pass up the chance to make the little guys do my bidding. They do it so well, producing lactic acid to aid digestion and populating intestinal tracts with little colonies of health.
I started with a quart of good yogurt, which I poured into a nest of cheesecloth rubberbanded to the rim of a large Adams peanut butter jar. I buy Adams just for the jars, which hold more than a quart and have no neck, making them perfect sprouting, pickling and cheesemaking crocks. After enough lacto-laden whey had percolated through, I mixed it with lemon juice, lemon zest, water, rapadura sugar, spices, and raisins, and poured it all over the pears. Now they get to bubble, bubble away in the cupboard.
It's wonderfully witchy to line my cupboard with jars of living, fermenting things, but it also satisfies a certain nurturing instinct of mine -- the same instinct that makes it difficult for me to resist snatching small children and rearing them tenderly as my own. Think how endangered all your children would be if I weren't fermenting my pears!
Sunday, August 26, 2007
The Oldest-fashioned Bread
I put a bunch of enzymes to work three days ago. They've been slaving away for me in my kitchen, spinning starch into sugar and unlocking secret stores of nutrients.
I first made sprouted wheat bread last fall, when I needed something besides cranberries to sustain H. Rose and me on a cranberry-picking backpacking trip. Its dense texture -- caramelized crust and moist interior -- utterly enchanted us, especially paired with the oily melting sharp cheddar we'd packed along.
The process is simple. Soak hard wheat berries (red wheat really shines, but white works, too) one morning in plenty of filtered water. At nightfall, drain them, and depending on the temperature of your kitchen, they might have little sprouts the next morning or evening, or even later. The white sprout should be about 1/3 the length of the grain, but don't be fooled by the skinny little rootlets which are longer and wigglier than the true sprout. If the berries sprout too much, the enzymes will eat all the starch and turn it into sugar -- and good luck making bread from pure sugar. If they don't sprout enough, the bread will not be magic.
Once they are perfect, put them through a meat grinder with some dates -- about half a cup per pint of sprouts. You'll have to grind the whole mess several times over, and the more consistent the texture, the better your bread shall be. Unfortunately, I left my old meat grinder in Virginia, and the one I found here is not nearly as thorough.
Knead the sticky mess, and let it sit for a while. Of course it isn't going to rise, but because it's so full of magic germinating energy, and might catch some wild yeasts from the air, that I do let it rest. Anyhow. gluten always likes to take beauty rests to stay strong & elastic.
I shape the dough into little oblong loaves, maybe two inches tall and the size of my hand with my thumb tucked under, and let the loaves sit a bit before slashing them thrice with a sharp knife and putting them in a slow oven for a couple of hours. When your whole house smells like honey and hay. and the loaves are crusty and deeply colored, you may pull them from the oven. They soften up if you wrap them and store them somewhere cool for several days, but I don't know anybody who can resist fresh bread.
H. Rose adds that she likes her loaves crusty, and once when her oven was too hot, they were really hard, and really good.
I first made sprouted wheat bread last fall, when I needed something besides cranberries to sustain H. Rose and me on a cranberry-picking backpacking trip. Its dense texture -- caramelized crust and moist interior -- utterly enchanted us, especially paired with the oily melting sharp cheddar we'd packed along.
The process is simple. Soak hard wheat berries (red wheat really shines, but white works, too) one morning in plenty of filtered water. At nightfall, drain them, and depending on the temperature of your kitchen, they might have little sprouts the next morning or evening, or even later. The white sprout should be about 1/3 the length of the grain, but don't be fooled by the skinny little rootlets which are longer and wigglier than the true sprout. If the berries sprout too much, the enzymes will eat all the starch and turn it into sugar -- and good luck making bread from pure sugar. If they don't sprout enough, the bread will not be magic.
Once they are perfect, put them through a meat grinder with some dates -- about half a cup per pint of sprouts. You'll have to grind the whole mess several times over, and the more consistent the texture, the better your bread shall be. Unfortunately, I left my old meat grinder in Virginia, and the one I found here is not nearly as thorough.
Knead the sticky mess, and let it sit for a while. Of course it isn't going to rise, but because it's so full of magic germinating energy, and might catch some wild yeasts from the air, that I do let it rest. Anyhow. gluten always likes to take beauty rests to stay strong & elastic.
I shape the dough into little oblong loaves, maybe two inches tall and the size of my hand with my thumb tucked under, and let the loaves sit a bit before slashing them thrice with a sharp knife and putting them in a slow oven for a couple of hours. When your whole house smells like honey and hay. and the loaves are crusty and deeply colored, you may pull them from the oven. They soften up if you wrap them and store them somewhere cool for several days, but I don't know anybody who can resist fresh bread.
H. Rose adds that she likes her loaves crusty, and once when her oven was too hot, they were really hard, and really good.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Saturday Supper
The other day at work, AZ turned to me and asked, "Who says supper anymore?" I forget what I'd said that included the word "supper," but I made sure to include it in my conversation throughout the next few days, in the hopes of provoking more people. I may sometimes sup on peanut butter, and sometimes on roast lamb, but damn it, sup I shall.
Tonight my dear L. Joy is making supper for us all. We sprawl on blankets in the sun, or debone a chicken, while she stews up four different varieties of wat, and pedals across town for the best injera. Thanks to a Mennonite college cross-cultural semester, she can say "hi" in Amharic to the people in the Ethiopian market. And now this house is brimming with the mass anticipation of a real shared supper, just like the entire Saturday city uncorking its wine, tunings its guitars, and chopping its Walla Walla sweets. Soon we'll all be getting messy dipping wat from a common platter with our torn-off bits of spongey sour injera.
Tonight my dear L. Joy is making supper for us all. We sprawl on blankets in the sun, or debone a chicken, while she stews up four different varieties of wat, and pedals across town for the best injera. Thanks to a Mennonite college cross-cultural semester, she can say "hi" in Amharic to the people in the Ethiopian market. And now this house is brimming with the mass anticipation of a real shared supper, just like the entire Saturday city uncorking its wine, tunings its guitars, and chopping its Walla Walla sweets. Soon we'll all be getting messy dipping wat from a common platter with our torn-off bits of spongey sour injera.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Fruit, Continued
My table is piled high with fresh, free fruit today. Bruised drops, mostly (the sweetest -- they always drop when perfectly ripe), but also some bike-path blackberries. It seems the city is a good place to scavenge. Not from yards, of course, but what's a girl to do when she takes a wrong turn on her bike and stumbles across a dead-end street positively rolling with pears? She finds the nicest ones and takes a bite out of each, and then gathers up the rest to soften on her counter. And when she finds a heavy-laden plum tree behind a factory? Tosses the ripest over the fence to a worker, who catches it neatly. And at the apple tree where the worms have already found the sweetest apples? She learns to share with a closer neighbor.
Somewhere, off in a plain white church, my aunts sing in a throaty alto almost overwhelming my cousins' soprano, uncles booming bass like the limestone foundations of my old farmhouse, "For the blessings of the field,/ For the stores the gardens yield...."
It's canning season, and where is my root cellar now?
Somewhere, off in a plain white church, my aunts sing in a throaty alto almost overwhelming my cousins' soprano, uncles booming bass like the limestone foundations of my old farmhouse, "For the blessings of the field,/ For the stores the gardens yield...."
It's canning season, and where is my root cellar now?
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
When You Love a Fruit Snob
Lovers dole out fruit. It's sexy, right? Globes of exploding juice, stained lips, original sin, squeals of delight -- not to mention the romantic armloads of literary precedence. (Goblin Market is still by far my favorite fruit scene, perhaps seconded by Laura Ingalls Wilder's account of oranges at Christmas. Other accounts of oranges are just too ear-reddening).
As far as gifts to lovers go, fruit seems fairly straightforward -- but bad fruit is easily come by, and about as unsexy as it gets.
Fortunately for the fruitless lover, I can provide expert selection advice. Credentials: I am the Blueberry Princess. I am also a professional Apple, Strawberry, Grape, Peach, Plum, Cranberry, and Cherry Harvester, and Hawker of Fresh Fruits at the darling old H'burg Farmer's Market (and now let us all sigh for a hot, misty morning peddling peaches).
1. Fruit stickers are anathema.
2. Fruit should only be picked & consumed at the peak of ripeness.
You can purchase stone fruits like peaches -- very locally -- and let them soften up a bit on the counter. A note on peaches: the darkest color splotches only indicate sunburn and are of no consequence when considering ripeness. The background color should be creamy-pink, without a hint of green. If they're eating-ready, they shouldn't survive a trip down the block on a feather bed, let alone a tractor trailer across ten states.
Blueberries are relatively durable. Good ones, that is -- no mold, scratches, or the faintest hint of underage pink -- will keep quite well in the fridge for those who practice delayed gratification. The juicy berries -- rasp, black, straw, wine, etc... -- do not keep for any significant duration. They're best from the stem straight to your lover's lips, and a good excuse for a suggestively pastoral outing. Serve all berries one at a time.
Apples vary considerably. Avoid "Red Delicious;" they're mealy and bland.
And in spite of all the classical hedonism of grapes, I'm snobbish about the convenient seedless ones. I'd much rather have a flavorful Concord -- maybe Muscat -- and so what if spitting out the seeds isn't sexy.
The navel of a melon should straight-up smell like pheromones.
As far as gifts to lovers go, fruit seems fairly straightforward -- but bad fruit is easily come by, and about as unsexy as it gets.
Fortunately for the fruitless lover, I can provide expert selection advice. Credentials: I am the Blueberry Princess. I am also a professional Apple, Strawberry, Grape, Peach, Plum, Cranberry, and Cherry Harvester, and Hawker of Fresh Fruits at the darling old H'burg Farmer's Market (and now let us all sigh for a hot, misty morning peddling peaches).
1. Fruit stickers are anathema.
2. Fruit should only be picked & consumed at the peak of ripeness.
You can purchase stone fruits like peaches -- very locally -- and let them soften up a bit on the counter. A note on peaches: the darkest color splotches only indicate sunburn and are of no consequence when considering ripeness. The background color should be creamy-pink, without a hint of green. If they're eating-ready, they shouldn't survive a trip down the block on a feather bed, let alone a tractor trailer across ten states.
Blueberries are relatively durable. Good ones, that is -- no mold, scratches, or the faintest hint of underage pink -- will keep quite well in the fridge for those who practice delayed gratification. The juicy berries -- rasp, black, straw, wine, etc... -- do not keep for any significant duration. They're best from the stem straight to your lover's lips, and a good excuse for a suggestively pastoral outing. Serve all berries one at a time.
Apples vary considerably. Avoid "Red Delicious;" they're mealy and bland.
And in spite of all the classical hedonism of grapes, I'm snobbish about the convenient seedless ones. I'd much rather have a flavorful Concord -- maybe Muscat -- and so what if spitting out the seeds isn't sexy.
The navel of a melon should straight-up smell like pheromones.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Wacky Cake vs. Chicken Shit
I come from a long line of women who wash their saran wrap and reuse coffee filters -- for coffee that's been cut with chicory. My take on this heritage of thrift can be economically expressed with the following Poor-Richardesque maxim: real privation breeds innovation, but miserliness breeds mold.
For example, there was a time when poultry and eggs were expensive commodities. So my foremothers raised their own or, when birthday time came around (11 times a year) invented eggless Wacky Cake. Innovation. Nowadays chicken is cheap because we've developed sufficient technology to cut our chicken with shit. Miserliness.
(A chef I worked for in Seattle refused to eat chicken because in culinary school he learned it could legally contain 7% shit by weight. I think he was full of it himself. Sure, a lot of chickens are treated unethically and taste bad, but chicken shit is fragrant enough you'd think we'd notice. And once I saw him pop a bite of chicken when he didn't think I was looking. But the Russians have weighed in on his side).
In any case, we've all got a couple of vegan housemates or Depression-era great-aunts who want their chocolate cake minus the eggs. And that's when you whirl into the kitchen and whip up Wacky Cake: the Retro-Vegan Wonder. My Mama used to make it for my birthday, decorated with a streublich-looking coconut cream cheese icing and wild roses. I also recommend it with peanut butter, but that goes for most everything.
In one large bowl, whisk together 3 c. flour (whole-wheat or spelt or whatever), 1.5 c. sugar (or your favorite sweetener -- I've used a smaller volume of agave nectar with success), 1 tsp. salt, 2 tsp. baking soda and cocoa powder to taste. My old recipe calls for 3 T, but that's borderline miserly. I like 1/3 c., or else melted dark chocolate added with the liquids.
Add the liquids to the bowl: 2/3 c. cooking oil (try coconut oil or even olive oil -- the tang tends to cook out just fine), 2 T. vinegar (yes, vinegar), and 1 T. vanilla. Pour 2 c. water on top and stir it all together. Toss it in a greased 9 x 13" pan and bake 25-30 minutes at 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
For example, there was a time when poultry and eggs were expensive commodities. So my foremothers raised their own or, when birthday time came around (11 times a year) invented eggless Wacky Cake. Innovation. Nowadays chicken is cheap because we've developed sufficient technology to cut our chicken with shit. Miserliness.
(A chef I worked for in Seattle refused to eat chicken because in culinary school he learned it could legally contain 7% shit by weight. I think he was full of it himself. Sure, a lot of chickens are treated unethically and taste bad, but chicken shit is fragrant enough you'd think we'd notice. And once I saw him pop a bite of chicken when he didn't think I was looking. But the Russians have weighed in on his side).
In any case, we've all got a couple of vegan housemates or Depression-era great-aunts who want their chocolate cake minus the eggs. And that's when you whirl into the kitchen and whip up Wacky Cake: the Retro-Vegan Wonder. My Mama used to make it for my birthday, decorated with a streublich-looking coconut cream cheese icing and wild roses. I also recommend it with peanut butter, but that goes for most everything.
In one large bowl, whisk together 3 c. flour (whole-wheat or spelt or whatever), 1.5 c. sugar (or your favorite sweetener -- I've used a smaller volume of agave nectar with success), 1 tsp. salt, 2 tsp. baking soda and cocoa powder to taste. My old recipe calls for 3 T, but that's borderline miserly. I like 1/3 c., or else melted dark chocolate added with the liquids.
Add the liquids to the bowl: 2/3 c. cooking oil (try coconut oil or even olive oil -- the tang tends to cook out just fine), 2 T. vinegar (yes, vinegar), and 1 T. vanilla. Pour 2 c. water on top and stir it all together. Toss it in a greased 9 x 13" pan and bake 25-30 minutes at 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Chocolate
Food is all about electromagnetism. From snakes stalking their infrared mice to bees pollinating their ultraviolet daisies, color tells us what to eat. The prettiest, brightest vegetables have the most antioxidants, which keep us living longer and happier. It's interesting that antioxidants aren't just associated with colors, but are the actual pigments themselves. Even the names tell you what color they are, like the zeaXANTHin* antioxidants in saffron and the anthoCYANin* antioxidants in blueberries. Anyway, we've got a palate for pigments -- so what happens when we start mixing nutritional paints?
We get a big messy anti-cancer, anti-aging elixir. An enthusiastic five-year-old's goopy fingerpainted panacea. A study in brown. Chocolate, my dears, it's chocolate!
*Xanth is Latin for yellow.
*Cyan is Latin for cyan.
We get a big messy anti-cancer, anti-aging elixir. An enthusiastic five-year-old's goopy fingerpainted panacea. A study in brown. Chocolate, my dears, it's chocolate!
*Xanth is Latin for yellow.
*Cyan is Latin for cyan.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Dollarbags
A hippie grocery store three blocks from my house has this policy of putting extra-ripe produce in large bags, which sell for a dollar. Yesterday it was bananas. I made another loaf of banana-rescue bread (this time with two absolutely oozy bananas and only one egg, and raisins because I was bored). I just so happened to be making peanut butter truffles this morning and, as usual, found myself with some leftover tempered chocolate. I broke bananas in marshmallow-sized pieces and dipped them. The result has the same textural appeal of a chocolate covered marshmallow -- what with the chocolate shell collapsing inward on the soft, slightly springy interior when you bite down -- minus all the "I'm a disgusting bit of extruded sugar, gelatin, and preservatives" nonsense that marshmallows are in the habit of yelling at you.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Salt of the Forsaken Earth
Ever since I went to Transylvania last spring I've been mysteriously anemic. My blood pressure is often at dizzying lows, my heart slow and passive. There are things that help, like exercise, exorbitant water consumption, exorcisms, and SALT. I personally believe the reason salt is so effective is not that it stiffens my blood vessels but that it makes my blood so tasty to the vampire that he can't help but savor it in deliciously delayed moderation, luxuriating in the subtle & sanguine notes of blackberry, innocence, and chocolate, instead of guzzling it all down like the eternally damned fiend he is.
And that's because salt is the primary difference between restaurant food and home cooking. Snow it on your meat before roasting. Dump a cup in the pasta water. Your dinner guests will lower their forks in surprise, lost in the lovely clarity of sodium-enhanced flavors -- and later, the vampires that crouch by all your darkened bedsides will pause in their feasting, looking sweetly vulnerable for failing to notice the drops of your blood still dripping on their lace cravats, and ask themselves, "Is that a hint of sumac and Spanish paprika?"
And that's because salt is the primary difference between restaurant food and home cooking. Snow it on your meat before roasting. Dump a cup in the pasta water. Your dinner guests will lower their forks in surprise, lost in the lovely clarity of sodium-enhanced flavors -- and later, the vampires that crouch by all your darkened bedsides will pause in their feasting, looking sweetly vulnerable for failing to notice the drops of your blood still dripping on their lace cravats, and ask themselves, "Is that a hint of sumac and Spanish paprika?"
Fired & Tired
I was famished yesterday after work. Getting yelled at in triplicate and filing carbon copies of ugly rumors is quite draining and hunger-making. Then a friend showed up, who hadn't had supper either, and the poor boy was having such an awful day he'd lost his appetite. What could be done? Something quick enough for the hungry girl and tasty enough for the stressy boy?
With the burner cranked up full bore, I heated EVO in my #9 cast iron skillet, tossed in a chopped onion and let it brown. Once crispy-caramelized, a generous splash of water helped the onion cook up faster. Before the water cooked off, I added a little agave nectar and a pillar of salt. When it had reduced pretty well, I pulled a chunk of cheapo salmon from the freezer, shoved the onions to the back of the pan, and tossed sliced zucchini in around the fish. I got a little bored waiting for the fish to brown, so I made patterns on the zukes with raisins and decorated the fish with turmeric and curry. And I further indulged my impatience by pulling it all off the heat when the fish was just browned on both sides, and still pinkie in the middle. Hey, it had been in the freezer for weeks. How many nasties could've survived?
Served it up with a refresher splash of EVO and more salt.
Lots of rejuvenation happened around that supper table.
With the burner cranked up full bore, I heated EVO in my #9 cast iron skillet, tossed in a chopped onion and let it brown. Once crispy-caramelized, a generous splash of water helped the onion cook up faster. Before the water cooked off, I added a little agave nectar and a pillar of salt. When it had reduced pretty well, I pulled a chunk of cheapo salmon from the freezer, shoved the onions to the back of the pan, and tossed sliced zucchini in around the fish. I got a little bored waiting for the fish to brown, so I made patterns on the zukes with raisins and decorated the fish with turmeric and curry. And I further indulged my impatience by pulling it all off the heat when the fish was just browned on both sides, and still pinkie in the middle. Hey, it had been in the freezer for weeks. How many nasties could've survived?
Served it up with a refresher splash of EVO and more salt.
Lots of rejuvenation happened around that supper table.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Banana Bread
Yeast makes little volcanoes in my tummy. So I suppress my ancestral baking instincts and do the quick-leavened ones, which aren't as satisfying as organism-risen breads, but have a couple other advantages, like efficiency and muffin-ness. I did throw together a nice little banana bread the other day, when I realized my housemates really weren't going to eat the blackened fruit -- and I am proud to report that after three days, the reincarnated banana/bread has resisted the slow, dry death of most quick breads. Creamed a chunk (half a fist) of coconut oil with a similar volume each of agave nectar and ground flax. In another bowl, I mashed the rescued banana and blended it with 3 eggs and a generous splash of vanilla. I dumped the two bowls together and used the empty one to mix a fist or two of spelt flour, 2 tsp. baking powder, and a lot of salt, which then got tossed into the liquids and stirred together with a few swift strokes and half a fist of chopped walnuts. And honestly, when you've got that much flax meal and whole-grainy stuff in your quick breads or muffins, you can ignore the conventional caveats against overmixing. Not that they require lots of mixing, but you needn't pee your pretty panties if you lose count of your strokes. One greased loaf pan and a 350-degree oven till it's done. Which is about the time it takes to pack a lunch and have half a good phone call, during which your friend mentions the word "oven" and you yell like a banshee and race for the kitchen to find your banana-rescue bread is perfectly done. Eat a slice right then; your friend won't hear you slobbermunching if you're careful.
Lunch Bag
Let us all sigh for the days when we packed ourselves glorious lunchboxes. I'd settle into the lunch corner and hunker into my sandwich: the layered garden lettuce, the slab of cheddar, the mayonnaise slathered not just on the bread but between other sandwich strata -- a recurring oily emulsified geologic event between the Bread and Cheese and Lettuce years -- and such fluffy wholewheat homemade bread years! sliced so thick I had to perform a caesarean to ensure a live birth of sandwich from sandwich bag. Like a ship in a bottle -- how did I finesse myself such a packing job late last night, all sleepy impatient to get to bed and annoyed at this chore that only reminded me of how soon I had to rise again, and brush my teeth, and go to school?
I marketed those sandwiches! For $2.50, my classmates would place orders the day before, and have themselves a wholesome lunch.
Sigh indeed. There are no glorious geologic sandwiches nowadays. Just celery and peanut butter and, when I am feeling happy, raisins for ants-on-a-log. A chicken sausage. A glob of yogurt. An apple that I'll probably save for my bike ride home.
I marketed those sandwiches! For $2.50, my classmates would place orders the day before, and have themselves a wholesome lunch.
Sigh indeed. There are no glorious geologic sandwiches nowadays. Just celery and peanut butter and, when I am feeling happy, raisins for ants-on-a-log. A chicken sausage. A glob of yogurt. An apple that I'll probably save for my bike ride home.
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