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Archive for January, 2011

I have a confession to make . . . my kitchen is filled with processed food.  Pancake mix, frozen waffles, canned chicken broth, prepared breadcrumbs, canned tomatoes, frozen vegetables, and all manner of little jars and bags of “flavor enhancers.”  But, ha!  Before you condemn me, let me also say that while my life is made infinitely easier by all these little cheats and shortcuts, I am off the hook, because I have processed it all myself.  It would be impossible for me to feed my family efficiently, healthfully, and deliciously, without all these mother’s little helpers, but that does not mean that I am willing to succumb to factory-produced salad dressings, packaged foods filled with chemical preservatives, and the like.

It’s all really just a matter of thinking ahead and using the freezer efficiently.  The only real altercations my husband and I have had occurred when we were first married and he repeatedly threw away all my little kitchen dibs and dabs that, to his neat-freak eyes, looked like garbage.  A roasted chicken carcass?  ”That’s like money in the bank, and you threw it away???”  I would screech.  The leftover vinaigrette in the bowl after dinner—down the drain?  Well, mister, we’ll just see how you like your crunchy broccoli and grilled shrimp pasta salad without dressing when you eat lunch tomorrow!  The first mantra of a prepared chef is, first and foremost:  Do Not Throw Anything Away.  I know, I know, no one likes leftovers (including me).  But here’s a different way of looking at things.  Turn leftovers into something else, and then they are no longer leftovers, but pre-prepped ingredients.  Leftover pot roast?  Shred the meat, sauté onions and garlic, and add to crushed tomatoes and wine for an amazing ragu that’s divine with papparadelle.  Last night’s vegetable side dish becomes tomorrow’s savory vegetable soup with the addition of a little chicken broth and some cannellini beans—grate a little parmesan on top and serve with hot crusty bread.  Bacon leftover at breakfast?  Crumble, chop, and stir into savory scones with a little grated cheddar, or add to smashed potatoes, or crumble on top of a tomato risotto.  This is how we save money and stretch flavor.  If you don’t have plans for using these leftovers right away, store them in freezer bags or containers, carefully label, and freeze for a night when you are pressed for time, or the cupboard looks bare.

The second rule of thumb is this: when you’re making a little, go ahead and make a lot.  When we make waffles on weekend mornings, there’s always batter left in the bowl after everyone’s been served.  It’s no extra work at all to go ahead and cook more waffles with what’s left (even make a double batch), cool, then freeze for weekday mornings.  Beats Eggo’s.  Making breadcrumbs or croutons for a recipe?  Make extra and freeze.  Roasted chicken for dinner?  Throw the carcass in a pot with an onion (cut in quarters, don’t peel) and water, and you have a pot of homemade chicken stock before you finish washing dishes.  Strain into containers and freeze for soup and risotto.  If you really don’t have time to make stock (what, do you have tickets to the opera?), just freeze the carcass and make it later.  Dicing onions?  Go ahead and do a few extra, and freeze for when you’re really pressed for time.  Making cookies?  Triple the batch, scoop into balls, and freeze flat on a cookie sheet.  When they’re frozen, transfer to a ziplock and bake as needed.  They don’t even need to thaw first.  Bake an extra loaf of banana bread, or whole wheat sandwich bread, or batch of cinnamon rolls, or anything you’re putting in the oven on a leisurely day.  Make a huge pot of chili, a bigger batch of meatballs, more Bolognese than you could ever possible eat at one time.  Your weeknights just got a lot easier.

Third, don’t ever let anything go bad.  The only thing I have not successfully frozen is lettuce.  I like to think of the freezer as a little time machine that gives me a minute to breathe.  There’s nothing more panic-inducing than vegetables and fruit slipping towards oblivion.  Take a trip down the freezer section of the grocery store, and you will see that’s there’s very little that can’t be frozen.  Get some good containers, and those over-ripe peaches can be turned into compote with a little sugar and vanilla bean, easy to stir into an ice cream base, pour on top of whole grain pancakes, or stir into pound cake batter.  Wilted greens and spinach can be washed, dried, chopped and frozen to star later in risotto, soups, dip, pasta.  Learn from the corporate giants, but beat them at their own game.  I do have an extra freezer, but it’s cheaper than a full-time prep cook, and I know intimately what’s in all our food.

Sicilian Cauliflower Salad

1 head cauliflower

1/4 c. pine nuts

1/4 c. currants

2 anchovy fillets, chopped to a paste

1/2 c. Italian parsley leaves

1/2 loaf ciabatta

2 cloves garlic, sliced paper thin

pinch red pepper flakes

4 Tbs. white balsamic vinegar

1/2 c. olive oil (plus more for sauteing)

1/4 c. balsamic vinegar

Cover currants with boiling water and set aside.  Tear bread into bite size pieces and set aside.  Toast pine nuts at 350 until golden and set aside.  Cut cauliflower into florets.  Blanch briefly in boiling water, drain, plunge into ice water and dry thoroughly.  Heat olive oil in a large skillet.  Sear cauliflower over moderately high heat until blackened in spots but still crunchy.  Remove from skillet into a large bowl.  Heat more oil in skillet and saute bread until golden and crunchy.  Add to bowl with cauliflower.  Add a little more oil to pan and saute anchovy paste and garlic until garlic just begins to turn golden.  Scrape skillet contents into a small bowl, and add chili flakes and white balsamic.  While whisking, slowly drizzle in olive oil, until emulsified.  Drain the currants and add to cauliflower and croutons along with pine nuts and parsley.  Toss with vinaigrette.  Place balsamic in a small skillet and reduce over medium heat to 2 tablespoons.  Place salad on serving platter and drizzle with balsamic syrup.

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The landscape of my childhood was not a green square.  ”Out of the house!” my mother would insist on summer mornings.  We were not welcome back until lunchtime, when she would pass paper plates through the back door to us, cool, conditioned air creeping through the crack for a moment before it was slammed shut again.  No one asked us where we were going or what we were doing.  We dug holes in the sandy soil, built a fire inside, and boiled muscadines and flower petals to make potions, spread our shorts and t-shirts on the sandy bank of the slough so we could return home clean, waded through brackish water to conquer cities of abandoned concrete culverts, climbed trees, fought, spied through windows, frightened each other in the pet cemetery, slept outside, faced off mean dogs, caught tiny frogs and lightening bugs, and never got lost.  I imagined my children would do the same.  From the moment they were born, though, I was constantly bombarded with a single message: the world is dangerous, they must not go out in it, keep them close.  Maternal fear and protectiveness is a powerful instinct.  And so they have grown up safe, strapped in, fed well, protected.  I have searched my neighborhood online for sexual predators.  They have never, not once, ridden in a car without a seatbelt.  They do not eat high fructose corn syrup or trans fats.  Their water bottles are BP free.  We lock the doors at night.  They know what to do if someone tries to touch them inappropriately. They have our phone numbers memorized.  The batteries in our smoke detectors have been tested and are working.

Several weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of the night, gripped by a new fear: what is happening to their childhood?  Tess is 11, almost a teenager, and she has never explored the world on her own, woven a reality for herself out of bits of string and crossed fingers, never navigated secret paths, or looked to the sky to judge how far away the rain is.  Liam, not quite two years younger, has never come home with his pockets full of dead crickets and sticks, has not put a penny on a railroad track, has not followed his sister up a tree away from my watchful eye, buried anything nor dug it up later, has not eaten anything from the woods on a dare, or skipped rocks.  What startled me awake was the tiny frogs from my own childhood.  I woke up remembering that after a rain, you could run out into the ozone-scented air, the sky still purple, and collect them by the hundreds in a jar.  I haven’t seen them in years.  Where have they gone?  Have they been decimated by pollution, contamination, disturbance to their habitat?  I don’t know, but I do know that if I had spent every summer afternoon carefully sequestered inside or safe in a green square yard, I would never know that they had ever been there in the first place, and not able to worry now about where they’ve gone.  Not only have I been coddling my children out of the uninhibited joys of childhood, but I have been robbing their adult selves out of a precious belief that the world is beautiful, magical, worth saving.  So, armed with the knowledge that the world is actually safer than it was when I was a child, I sent them out into it.  For the first few days, I fretted, and they skulked around the door, trying to come back inside.  Soon, though, I began to need to call them home for dinner, and they came tumbling back, muddy, pink-cheeked and laughing, hungry for a warm dinner, their eyes wide with secrets and the shared knowledge of what they’d been up to.  I didn’t ask.

Roasted Winter Squash with Porcini and Cream

adapted from Roast Figs Sugar Snow

This is more of a method than a recipe–the quantities are adaptable and will vary depending on what sort of squash you use.  You could even use a small pumpkin, or a red kuri squash.

acorn, butternut or confection squash, tops cut off and seeds scraped out–if using butternut, cut lengthwise

dried porcini mushrooms, covered in boiling water and soaked until tender

very thinly sliced garlic (about 1-2 cloves per squash)

fresh rosemary, minced

softened butter (about 1 T per squash)

salt and pepper

grated parmesan (about 1/4 c per squash)

Preheat oven to 350.  Rub the cut sides and cavities of squash with softened butter and season with salt and pepper.  Drain porcinis and chop coarsely.  Place sliced garlic, porcinis, and a good pinch of minced rosemary inside each cavity.  Fill cream about 2/3 way up cavity.  Place in oven and roast until squash is tender.  Top off with a little more cream if it looks as though they’re drying out.  Near the end of roasting, sprinkle each squash with parmesan and return to oven until cheese is golden and squash are completely tender.  To serve, top with sprigs of rosemary and let guests scoop out squash with cream and mushrooms.

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Last night I developed a serious crush on Kendall and John Antonelli.  About 15 of us were gathered in their stylish little jewelbox of a cheeseshop to taste and learn about cheese. “This is the cheese that made me fall in love with cheese,” John Antonelli tells us.  He is holding to his nose a piece of comte, a firm cheese, pale and creamy yellow.  I do the same and breathe in a complex scent–caramel and fruit, round with notes of hazelnut. On my tongue, the creaminess is cut through with a saltiness that heightens these elements.  John describes the cheesemaking process, and I realize what I’m tasting is the summer pastures of the Jura massif in Eastern France, each grass in these diverse pastures contributing unique nuance to the cheese.  Neighboring shepherds pool their milk from the Montbeliarde cows through the summer and huge wheels of cheese are aged by affineurs and brought to market bearing the flavors of the mountainside, each season’s cheese a little different, marked by that summer’s weather and the grasses that grew there.

And, so, I start to think. There are lots of things that bother me about industrialized agriculture, but what I think bothers me the most is the lie perpetrated by the industry that food does not have a backstory. For the truth is, that it always does. Even the most processed, adulterated foods were shaped by human intention. When our food tastes completely homogenous, when the fast food industry convinces us that every single hamburger must taste completely identical to the other billion being served all across the world, we forget that all food has a story intimately connected to the larger human story. The history and connection are not gone, they’re just hidden, perhaps because the story is not a pretty one, not one we’d like to think of as we shovel in a burger covered in processed cheese.

When I have dinner, I want to taste the peculiarities of central Texas soil, I want to know whose hands have tended our greens, that land, animals and people involved in my dinner were well treated, respected, happy to give nourishment to my family. Stop by the cheeseshop. It’s not just cheese the Antonelli’s are selling–it’s ideas as old as the mountains of France and as fresh as the high summer breezes there. Go, taste, and think.

Kale Caesar with Torn Bread Croutons

Adapted from Tartine Bread

Croutons:

Four 1-inch slices day-old country bread, torn into 1-inch pieces

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

Salt

Kale Caesar:

3 garlic cloves

6 olive oil-packed anchovy fillets

1 tablespoon lemon zest

1 large egg yolk

Salt

2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, plus more to taste

1½ cups extra-virgin olive oil (you might not use it all)

1-2 bunches kale or mustard greens, center stems removed and leaves torn into bite-size pieces

⅔ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Preheat the oven to 400.  Toss the bread with olive oil and a large pinch of salt.  Spread on a baking sheet and bake until golden and crisp, about 10 minutes.

Place the garlic, anchovies, egg yolk and lemon juice in a blender or small food processor.  While motor is running, slowly add olive oil in a thin stream until emulsified.  When all the oil is incorporated, season to taste with salt and more lemon juice, if desired.

In a large bowl, toss kale with dressing, parmesan, and croutons.  Serve, topped with additional parmesan.


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A business partnership is sometimes more like a marriage.  It’s good to take a step back every now and then and remember what brought you together in the first place.  Twice yesterday, I was asked “How did you get into this business?”  I answered with the usual timeline of restaurant owner, chef, buyer . . . but that didn’t really answer the question.  I admit to being the type of person for whom all aspects of life must have a deep meaning and significance.  This doesn’t always make making a living easy.  Not so easy for the people who have to live with me, go on vacation with me, choose a restaurant with me, either.  I’m not so great at “hanging out,” which is not to say I can’t be free or loose or fun.  It all just needs to mean something, fit into a bigger picture.  When Stephanie and I met, we recognized in each other a similar desire to look under things, see inside them, understand more.  Both of us believe life must be grasped with both hands, and both of us believe in pursuits that bring about growth, change, vision.  A business is a constantly renewing source of new knowledge.  Ours especially challenges me to remain committed, connected and open–open about my own nature, about the nature of collaboration and connection, about our community, our world, and the role that what we eat plays in our lives.  Stephanie suspects that I’m in it just for the Rain Lily greens.  Well, yes, there’s that too.

Spaghetti Frittata with Sauteed Greens

adapted from Armandino Batali

1/2 pound spaghetti, cooked al dente, drained and cool

5 eggs

1/4 c. Italian parsley, chopped

salt & pepper to taste

pinch red chile flakes

1/2 c. parmesan cheese + more for serving

olive oil

1 bunch kale, collards, or broccoli greens

1 c. simple marinara sauce + more for serving

Preheat broiler.  Toss pasta with 1 cup marinara sauce in large bowl to blend.  Combine eggs, parsley and salt & pepper to taste in another bowl & whisk to combine.

Heat about 1 tablespoon olive oil in a large oven-proof skillet over medium-high heat.  Add pasta and toss til warmed through.  Pour egg mixture over; do not stir.  Reduce heat to medium low.  Cook until eggs start to firm up, and bottom begins to brown, lifting sides to let uncooked egg run underneath.  Remove skillet from heat.  Sprinkle frittata with cheese.  Broil until cheese melts and browns, about 3 minutes.  Meanwhile, wash greens and cut into 2″ pieces.  Heat oil in another skillet.  When it’s hot, add greens, with water still clinging to the leaves.  Saute quickly until wilted and season to taste with salt and pepper.  To serve, cut frittata into wedges and serve with sauteed greens, warmed marinara and extra cheese for sprinkling.

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