Moreish

Why then the world's my oyster/Which with sword I will open.

Those Brits. First, they captured my eye–and my taste buds–with the most beautiful and inspiring cookbooks in my well-stocked culinary library. Turns out, my lovely collection of English cookery books, as they say on the east side of the pond, is one that I have built thanks to the happy coincidence that I happen to be related by marriage to some pretty serious food lovers-slash-cookbook givers: Kash’s Danish cousin María, and her stepmother, Marianne, who happens to own The Rose, a little gem of a restaurant in Oxford, England. (I learned a lot by cooking for one week in Marianne’s kitchen, but that is another story for another day.) María and Marianne have not single-, but double-handedly built my lovely English cookbook collection for me.

Those saffron-y, crème fraîche-bathed mussels that Laura G wrote about? Skye Gyngell’s book, A Year in My Kitchen. The yellow and red peppers braised in red wine that I served at our very first supper club? The owners of London’s magnificent River Café, Ruth Rogers and Rose Gray, include that recipe in River Café Cookbook: Green. The poached pear salad that appeared at my Thanksgiving table? Once again, A Year in My Kitchen. My old standby, roast chicken? Well, that’s my own recipe, by way of Marianne, by way of Simon Hopkinson, author of Roast Chicken and Other Stories. I love the blurb on that book, which hyperbolically proclaims it to be “the most useful cookbook of all time.” (Following my recipes, see a list of the English cookbooks that inspire my culinary lust.)

So, yes, those Brits. First they captured my eye and my taste buds, but really…those Brits. First, even before THAT first, they captured my ear. Remember that I’m a language geek as well as a food lover, which means that I notice words just like I notice food.

Don’t Brits do that to all of us: make us pay attention to our own language and see the newness in something we thought was so familiar? How many of us have been seduced by a British accent, no matter how much it may reveal to another Brit about the speaker’s social standing? As students, we all discovered how much of our own language we owe to Shakespeare, Mr. English himself, thank you veddy much. You know, “one fell swoop,” “cold comfort,” “green-eyed monster,” and, of course, I have to mention this one: “If music be the food of love, play on.” We can go to another country and hear words unfamiliar to us bandied about as if they were a foreign language: pull on a wool jumper, it’s cold; look at the diesel fumes that lorry spews out; I’m going out with my mates tonight, and so on.

Now, these Brits (but not Shakespeare, though if any of you knows of a cookbook he wrote, damn, that would be cool), bandy about the word “moreish.” Of course. Moreish. The first time I read that word, in Sybil Kapoor’s Taste, I asked my Danish-English cousin-in-law Tyge (don’t try to pronounce it, just call him “T” like his mates do) for clarification. It seemed too obvious, but there it was: “You know, when you eat something that’s really really good and it makes you want, well, more.” When Marianne, his mother, makes her outstanding viniagrette, Tyge as been reputed to drink the dregs after the salad has been eating. I’d say her dressing is moreish.

Samphire

Perhaps my English cookbooks do for me what hearing British English does: it makes me see my old, familiar foods and tastes in a new way. For example, one of my favorite salads of all time comes from Sybil Kapoor’s book, Taste: A New Way to Cook. It is like a traditional composed salad, with a warm and melty coin of goat cheese atop greens, but she includes lightly marinated roasted beets and samphire. Have you ever tasted samphire, or seen it for that matter? It’s a tiny succulent plant that grows in marshy areas near the ocean, and it has a briny, salty taste and a wonderful texture: it kind of pops in your mouth and the juicy taste of the sea flows out. Can you believe that I’m actually talking about English cookbooks in such a reverent way? I think British food has come a long way since Elizabeth David returned to London from her Mediterranean adventures and wrote a series of beautiful cookbooks that read like a delicious travelogue of all the sunny places she visited. Thank you, Mrs. David, for your gift to the English people! Where would they (and we, for that matter) be without you?

This post, then, is about the moreish foods we’ve eaten at our supper club, and whose recipes have not appeared on my blog until now. I even briefly considered suggesting a supper club redux, where we could request (demand?) command performances of our favorite foods, but I’m afraid that just might send my friend the Dinner Belle into an apoplectic fit. Delicious, yes, but just not enough coherence to make a harmonious meal. Yes, Belle, I see your point.

I’m posting recipes that have been considered moreish by one or more of us, my justification for a moreish dish being one that has been mentioned to me longingly, reverently, by another supper club member. (James is still holding out on us with that recipe for the marinated fish. Is it an ancient Chinese secret?) Those oysters you see at the top of this post set the bar for moreish, in my humble opinion. Not much of a recipe, however, is required, just a pot to steam them in and a weapon with which to wrench them open.

I know that some others of you have been reading my blog. Why don’t you step up now and post a note giving me a recipe for a moreish food? Isn’t that what this blog is really about?

Cheers, then.

Nico’s Marinated Butterflied Leg of Lamb (serves 8-10 hungry carnivores) — –adapted from Nicolás Wey Gómez

Nico’s advice: “You’ll have to taste it as you go along, and see.” Yes, you will, and you’ll know when it’s there, because the marinade will have that key balance of salty, sweet, bitter, sour and umami (thank you, Sybil Kapoor) that will make your taste buds sing.

1 leg of lamb (it can be a partial one; estimate about 1/2 lb. per person), butterflied (see note below)

Soy Sauce

Brown Sugar

Mustard (Dijon)

Garlic

Crushed Rosemary

Pepper

(Maybe a tinge of orange juice to give it a little acidity?)

**I added some sherry vinegar as well

Mix your desired quantity of ingredients in a giant ziploc bag. I suggest starting with about 1/4 cup each of mustard and soy sauce, and going from there. The garlic will mellow, so don’t be afraid to use a lot. Put in the leg of lamb, squeeze the air out of the ziploc bag, and squeeze the whole lot around for a bit. Allow to marinate for at least 2-3 hours, and preferably overnight.

Remove the leg of lamb from the refrigerator about 1 hour prior to grilling. Grill over a decent flame to desired doneness — in my opinion, rare to medium rare is best.

This dish is delicious served alongside couscous and braised peppers with red wine, from the River Café Cookbook: Green.

At our first supper club, Laura G served these apple turnovers for dessert. I can still conjure the taste of apple, celery seed and honey cream in my mind. Unusual and delicious!

http://www.foodandwine.com/recipes/apple-rye-turnovers-with-celery-seeds

At Laura and Kelly’s Frenchy French feast, Alex made an earthy terrine rustique. His recipe follows:

Alex’s Terrine Rustique

500 gr (1 lb.) pork meat

300 gr (2/3 lb.) veal (I used beef)

250 gr (1/2 lb.) lardoons (bacon

5 cl (2 fl oz) cognac

2 eggs

2 sprigs of thyme

2 bay leaves

nutmeg, salt and pepper

1. Cut the meats into cubes.

2. In a food processor, with the blade accessory, put meat cubes and mince them, but not too finely.

3. Put the meat into a bowl, pour in the cognac, add the thyme leaves, the nutmeg, salt (not too much because of the bacon) and pepper; mix everything and let sit for 15 minutes.

4. Add the 2 eggs to the meat and mix to obtain a homogeneous mixture; put into a paté terrine, smooth the surface and decorate the top with bay leaves. Cover with the terrine lid.

5. Put the terrine on an oven baking tray in which you must always keep some water during the baking time (This is called bain marie.)

6. Bake in a pre-heated oven at 180ºc/350ºf for 1 h 30.

7. Let cool down then keep in fridge for at least 12 hours before serving.

Serve with French bread and cornichons (gherkins.)

My English cookbooks:

Elizabeth David, Italian Food, Penguin, 1989

Simon Hopkinson (with Lindsay Bareham), Roast Chicken and Other Stories,Ebury Press, 1994

Sybil Kapoor, Taste: A New Way to Cook, Mitchell Beazley, 2003

Skye Gyngell, A Year in My Kitchen, Quadrille, 2006

Skye Gyngell, My Favourite Ingredients, Quadrille, 2008

Ruth Rogers and Rose Gray, The River Café Cookbook: Green, Ebury Press, 2000

“De noche, el vino es como el amor…

…de mañana, es como el matrimonio.” (At night, wine is like love; in the morning, it’s like marriage.) It’s clear that my student, Rudy, who wrote this gem, has a gift for aphorisms, because he turned a simple homework assignment on writing similes in Spanish into a little work of art. Upon hearing Rudy read it, Michael, another student in my class, simply threw up his arms helplessly, then dropped them down, lowering his head in a worshipful pose. Teacher’s pet, he was probably thinking.

It seems that even my language classes are filled with discussion about food and drink. A shared obsession is a wonderful thing. Last Friday, for example, I prepared a tortilla de patatas for my students, which, I explained, was the Spanish equivalent of macaroni and cheese: an almost universally agreed-upon comfort food, and what you eat when there’s nothing to eat. As we sunk our forks into our tortillas, Vikki had us swooning over something I have to try: her boyfriend’s specialty, tinga poblana. Juan is from Puebla, and tinga is a Pueblan specialty. I can’t wait to make it. It also sounds like great comfort food, and like menudo, the famous hangover cure, the spicy slurpiness of it would probably cure you of the feeling that wine is like marriage in the morning.

Vikki also shared a food discovery with us: a lonchera that serves delicious, cheap Mexican food. Next time I’m downtown, I’m going to visit the lonchera she describes below:

I’ve been meaning to tell you all, if you’d like to try a real taco (and practice your Spanish), there’s a lonchera móvil that parks at the corner of 6th and Chestnut downtown during the lunch hour. I see him when I return from class but I bet he’s there just about every weekday at lunchtime because Hispanics work in the building on that corner. He does not have the typical type of taco truck where they can make hot food inside. This is rather a pickup with a special stainless steel thingy where the bed ought to be that he opens up on one side.

An order of tacos is usually three, but sometimes four. Quite often, they use two tortillas for each taco. You will have meat choices like asada, barbacoa, tripa, lengua, cabeza (beef cheek) and carnitas. A fully dressed taco will have raw onions, cilantro and your choice of green or red salsa. My taco triumvirate is birria, al pastor and chorizo. I prefer the green salsa.

Or they may be able to make a torta for you. It is a sandwich on a wonderful bread called a bolillo. You will chose a meat (I like jamón) and they will put garnishes on like cheese, avocado, lettuce, tomato, refried beans (yep! I said refried beans), sour cream and jalapeño.

Let’s make a date and meet at the lonchera!

Here are the recipes for tortilla de patatas and tinga poblana:

TORTILLA DE PATATAS (TORTILLA ESPAÑOLA)

If you go to Spain, it would be a challenge to find a bar, simple restaurant or home where you wouldn’t find a tortilla de patatas. I think that this is the first time I have ever written down this recipe; it has lived in my memory since I first learned it in 1986, from Maru, the widow I lived with in Sevilla. She was from Galicia and insisted that the best potatoes for a tortilla were Galician ones. Over the years, I have found that Yukon Golds work as an excellent substitute. Don’t try to make this with Russet potatoes as they are too mealy and will not hold their shape or have the right texture. Regarding the oil, you may be stricken when you see the quantity I indicate below; it could be a little more or a little less depending on how many potatoes you have, but the secret to a good tortilla is to have enough oil to poach, not fry, the potatoes in until they’re tender and to keep the potatoes from browning or sticking to the bottom of the pan. Finally, this is such an easy dish to make, but there is one trick involved: you put a large plate on top of the pan, so that you flip over the entire omelet on a plate and carefully slide it back into the pan. At Spanish housewares stores, you can actually buy a giratortillas, or tortilla flipper, which is a wooden or ceramic plate with a knob in the middle on one side. I have never actually seen anyone use one! You don’t need a giratortillas but a non-stick skillet and a large dinner plate will make this task infinitely easier. If you subscribe to the cult of collecting unusual cookware from other countries, you can buy one at tienda.com: http://www.tienda.com/table/products/cm-66.html

Giratortillas

Necessary equipment: a 10-inch non-stick skillet; a dinner plate

4-6 medium potatoes, preferably Yukon Gold, peeled, cut in half lengthwise and then in half lengthwise again, those halves sliced very thin (about 1/8 inch thin)

1 large yellow onion, peeled, halved and thinly sliced

about 1 cup extra virgin olive oil

salt to taste (Spaniards tend to favor salty food, so to me, a good tortilla is well-seasoned with salt)

Heat a large frying pan over a medium flame, then pour in the olive oil. Add the potatoes, onion and about 1 generous teaspoon of salt. Cook slowly over a low-to-medium flame, stirring often to keep the potatoes and onions from sticking to the bottom of the pan or browning. When the potatoes are perfectly tender, pour them into a large colander set over a bowl to drain the excess oil; reserve.

Once the potatoes are well-drained, pour 1-2 T. of the drained oil into the non-stick pan. While the oil heats over a medium flame, crack 6 large eggs into a large bowl and lightly beat. Add about 1 T. of water to the eggs, then pour in the potatoes and mix briefly to combine. Pour this mixture into the non-stick pan, and allow to cook over low-medium heat, checking often the underside of the omelet by lifting it away from the side of the pad to ensure that the eggs brown but do not burn. Once the eggs are browned and set on one side, put the dinner plate on top of the pan. Firmly holding the plate in place with one hand, carefully lift the pan by its handle and in a quick, deft motion, flip the pan over so that the uncooked side of the omelet is face down on the plate. Gently slide the egg mixture, raw side down, back into the pan, and continue cooking, tucking under the edges of the omelet to make a smooth, curved edge, until browned on the second side. Slide omelet onto a clean plate and serve hot or at room temperature with chunks of crusty baguette.

TINGA POBLANA

Vikki described this recipe to us but without exact measurements (and really, in a conversation, who would give exact measurements?), so I consulted Diana Kennedy’s book, The Essential Cuisines of Mexico. I received this cookbook as a gift from my friends Catherine and Jorge when I was living in Maine; now that I live in Winston-Salem and Mexican ingredients are easy to come by, I need to use this book! Maybe the next time I host supper club…Vikki’s fiancé, Juan, uses chicken breast instead of pork in the version she described to us.

Tinga poblana con carne de puerco (adapted from Diana Kennedy)

Makes enough for about 12 tostadas

1 pound (450 g) boneless stewing pork, cut into 1-inch (2.5-cm) cubes

1/2 t. salt, or to taste

8 ounces (225 g) chorizos

1 pound (450 g) tomatoes, finely chopped (about 2 2/3 cups/665 ml)

1/3 cup (85 ml) roughly sliced white onion

3 springs fresh thyme or 1/8 t. dried

1/8 teaspoon dried Mexican oregano

2 Mexican bay leaves

3 canned chipotle chiles en vinagre, or en adobo, cut into strips

2 tablespoons liquid or sauce from the canned chiles

TO SERVE:

1 avocado, thinly sliced

1 cup (250 ml) shredded lettuce

Mexican crema agria, to drizzle atop the tostadas

12 corn tostada shells

Cover the pork cubes with water, add salt, and bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer until tender — about 40 minutes. Let the pork cool in the broth for a short period, then drain, reserving the broth, and shred the meat fine.

Skin the chorizos, crumble the meat into a skillet, and cook over low heat until the fat has rendered out. Remove the chorizo pieces from the pan and set aside.

Take out all but 2 tablespoons of the fat in the pan. Add the tomatoes and onion to the pan and fry over fairly hight heat for about 5 minutes, stirring the mixture well and scraping the bottom of the pan from time to time. Add the shredded pork, fried chorizo, thyme, oregano, bay leaves, chiles, liquid or sauce from the chile can, and 1/2 cup (125 ml) of the reserved broth to the tomato sauce. Adjust the seasoning and let the mixture cook and season for about 10 minutes, stirring it well from time to time. It should be moist, not juicy. (NB: Vikki talked about having sauce left over to dip a tortilla into).

Use as a topping for tostadas, topping with the avocado and shredded lettuce and drizzle with crema agria.

NOTE: This can be prepared up to a day ahead and can be frozen up to 1 month.

A tip for those who want to learn about wine

I got this tip from Laura G, who is becoming a serious student of wine.  She does, after all, get up on Saturday mornings to drive to Chapel Hill and sell wine at her friend’s store, Three Cups. I want to learn more about wine, so I can make good choices when it comes to pairing wine with foods, and also because I want to understand more about different varietals and talk about what makes a good wine good for me.

Laura reads the  weekly “Tastings” column in the Wall Street Journal, and she sent me this link: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB123516947573436527.html

“Verde que te quiero verde…”

A copy of this photo of a dreamy young Lorca hung above my desk when I studied for comprehensive exams.

“Green, how I love you green…” In case you’re not a geeky Spanish lit. wonk like me, those are the words of the great 20th-century Spanish poet/playwright, Federico García Lorca, from his poem, “Romance sonámbulo.” Lorca was gunned down by the Nationalist militia in a field outside of Granada in August 1936, just a month after the Spanish Civil War broke out. He remains a beloved figure for many people in Spain and elsewhere, not only as a martyr for the Republican cause, but also because his poetry, rich and complex with dark imagery and flamenco rhythms, is simply so beautiful. And, bringing it back to supper club, Alex can recite Lorca from memory. Perhaps we can ask him to recite “Verde que te quiero verde…” for our green dinner.

This month, Jon and Katie have thrown down the gauntlet: Think Green. Eat Green. Here is the challenge, as Jon presented it to us: “How green can you be? Can you grow your own organic greens and cook them using solar energy in a bamboo steamer wearing hemp skivvies? Can you recite the entirety of Dr. Seuss’ Green Eggs and Ham? The idea is to make a meal, as green as possible, from start to finish. Small environmental impact / Major gustatory impact. The greenest supper clubber gets a prize! Katie and I will make the entrée…. and Alex, moonshine isn’t so taxing on the environment, right?”

The first thing I thought was, “I am SO glad we are not doing this in Maine in February.” Then I thought: “Yikes…Sweet potatoes? Peanuts? Onions?” I don’t get the whole raw food thing, even though my friend Marisela just reminded me in the ubiquitous Facebook “25 things about me” that she can make cheese out of cashew nuts. Impressive, I say. As for myself, I don’t have anything brewing, fermenting, aging or sprouting in my kitchen. If it were six weeks from now, I could raid my mother-in-law Agnete’s garden for some tiny tender greens — every year she has a spectacular organic garden– but it’s just too early. Anyone up for crocus petal soup?

Supper club is one short week away, and I’m wondering: could the lack of our usual back-and-forth conversation point to heretofore-undiscovered competitive streak that we’re feeling now, lured by the promise of a prize? I assume that whatever that prize is is, it will be green.

I love Katie and Jon’s idea, because it has inspired me to consider carefully what I’m going to prepare. I’ve assumed the risk of taking on dessert, and I’m still mulling it over. The girls and I wolfed some hothouse strawberries from North Carolina last night for dessert, and that’s got me thinking…I have but one request — just please don’t make me drink wine from Childress! And I know I keep trying to stuff poetry down y’all’s throats, but in case you’re curious, here is Lorca’s dreamy, lyrical poem (the English translation follows the Spanish original):

ROMANCE SONÁMBULO

A Gloria Giner y a Fernando de los Ríos

Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar
y el caballo en la montaña.
Con la sombra en la cintura
ella sueña en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Bajo la luna gitana,
las cosas le están mirando
y ella no puede mirarlas.

*

Verde que te quiero verde.
Grandes estrellas de escarcha,
vienen con el pez de sombra
que abre el camino del alba.
La higuera frota su viento
con la lija de sus ramas,
y el monte, gato garduño,
eriza sus pitas agrias.
¿Pero quién vendrá? ¿Y por dónde…?
Ella sigue en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
soñando en la mar amarga.

*

Compadre, quiero cambiar
mi caballo por su casa,
mi montura por su espejo,
mi cuchillo por su manta.
Compadre, vengo sangrando,
desde los montes de Cabra.
Si yo pudiera, mocito,
ese trato se cerraba.
Pero yo ya no soy yo,
ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
Compadre, quiero morir
decentemente en mi cama.
De acero, si puede ser,
con las sábanas de holanda.
¿No ves la herida que tengo
desde el pecho a la garganta?
Trescientas rosas morenas
lleva tu pechera blanca.
Tu sangre rezuma y huele
alrededor de tu faja.
Pero yo ya no soy yo,
ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
Dejadme subir al menos
hasta las altas barandas,
dejadme subir, dejadme,
hasta las verdes barandas.
Barandales de la luna
por donde retumba el agua.

*

Ya suben los dos compadres
hacia las altas barandas.
Dejando un rastro de sangre.
Dejando un rastro de lágrimas.
Temblaban en los tejados
farolillos de hojalata.
Mil panderos de cristal,
herían la madrugada.

*

Verde que te quiero verde,
verde viento, verdes ramas.
Los dos compadres subieron.
El largo viento, dejaba
en la boca un raro gusto
de hiel, de menta y de albahaca.
¡Compadre! ¿Dónde está, dime?
¿Dónde está mi niña amarga?
¡Cuántas veces te esperó!
¡Cuántas veces te esperara,
cara fresca, negro pelo,
en esta verde baranda!

*

Sobre el rostro del aljibe
se mecía la gitana.
Verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata.
Un carámbano de luna
la sostiene sobre el agua.
La noche su puso íntima
como una pequeña plaza.
Guardias civiles borrachos,
en la puerta golpeaban.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar.
Y el caballo en la montaña.

SLEEPWALKERS’ BALLAD

Green it’s your green I love.
Green of the wind. Green branches.
The ship far out at sea.
The horse above on the mountain.
Shadows dark at her waist,
she’s dreaming there on her terrace,
green of her cheek, green hair,
with eyes like chilly silver.
Green it’s your green I love.
Under that moon of the gypsies
things are looking at her
but she can’t return their glances.

Green it’s your green I love.
The stars are frost, enormous;
a tuna cloud floats over
nosing off to the dawn.
The fig tree catches a wind
to grate in its emery branches;
the mountain’s a wildcat, sly,
bristling its acrid cactus.
But – who’s on the road? Which way?
She’s dreaming there on her terrace,
green of her cheek, green hair,
she dreams of the bitter sea.

“Friend, what I want’s to trade
this horse of mine for your house here.
this saddle of mine for your mirror,
this knife of mine for your blanket.

Friend, I come bleeding, see,
from the mountain pass of Cabra.”
“I would if I could, young man;
I’d have taken you up already.
But I’m not myself any longer,
nor my house my home any more.”
“Friend, what I want’s to die
in a bed of my own – die nicely.
An iron bed, if there is one,
between good linen sheets.
I’m wounded, throat and breast,
from here to here – you see it?”
“You’ve a white shirt on; three hundred
roses across – dark roses.
There’s a smell of blood about you:
your sash, all round you, soaked.
But I’m not myself any longer,
nor my house my home any more.”
“Then let me go up, though; let me!
at least to the terrace yonder.
Let me go up then, let me!
up to the high green roof.
Terrace-rails of the moonlight,
splash of the lapping tank.

So they go up, companions,
up to the high roof-terrace;
a straggle of blood behind them,
behind, a straggle of tears.
Over the roofs, a shimmer
like little tin lamps, and glassy
tambourines by the thousand
slitting the glitter of dawn.

Green it’s your green I love,
green of the wind, green branches
They’re up there, two companions.
A wind from the distance leaving
its tang on the tongue, strange flavors
of bile, of basil and mint.
“Where is she, friend – that girl
with the bitter heart, your daughter?”
“How often she’d wait and wait,
how often she’d be here waiting,
fresh of face, hair black,
here in green of the terrace.”

There in her terrace pool
was the gypsy girl, in ripples.
Green of her cheek, green hair,
with eyes like chilly silver.
Icicles from the moon
held her afloat on the water.
Night became intimate then -
enclosed, like a little plaza.
Drunken, the Civil Guard
had been banging the door below them.
Green it’s your green I love.
Green of the wind. Green branches.
The ship far out at sea.
The horse above on the mountain.

2 de agosto de 1924 Federico García Lorca English translation: John Frederick Nims

The World Seems New Again Today

Yes, we did, Daddy!

Yes, we did. I still can’t quite believe it, even though I spent most of the day, along with my children, glued to the television. A dusting of snow outside –like powdered sugar on top of a cookie–meant that Mira’s school was closed, a facet of Southern life that I still find amusing, if slightly absurd, after almost 3 years in North Carolina. I had to explain that people can cry from happiness to my 3 1/2-year old, Nadia, who saw a man on the t.v., tears streaming down his face. When she turned to me for explanation, she was startled to witness tears streaming down my face as well. “Are you really crying, mommy?” she asked.

The girls especially love Sasha and Malia, and we spent a great part of the day speculating about what they were thinking, where they were, and if and how they would be jumping on their beds in the White House tonight. As I was putting Mira to bed, she wondered if President Obama was *still* working in the Oval Office tonight. When I explained that he was attending several fancy parties and balls, she turned to me concerned, and asked, “Well, who is there?” I assured her that I was sure that in case of an emergency, President Obama would leave the ball. “Oh, like if Sasha gets sick and starts throwing up?” she asked, continuing, “I’m sure that Malia will take over until he can get there.” The fact that two little girls are living in the White House makes the whole thing seem real to them.

When I wasn’t watching today’s monumental events, I was cooking and eating. Here are a few simple recipes that I prepared today, to celebrate the inauguration of a president who stands for hope and promise. After Barack’s sober and inspiring speech, the girls and I ate an honest-to-goodness home-cooked lunch, perfect for a snow day, and in honor of our new president. We ate soup and biscuits, homey comfort food.

Then, tonight, Kash and I shared one of the last tidbits of the giant beef tenderloin that my mother gave us at Christmas. It is a gift that has given many times, as we cut it in to chunks and have been retrieving it from the freezer as desired. What better accompaniments than a baked potato and a great salad?

Mira’s carrot soup

I first started preparing this soup when Mira was a toddler, and she has always loved it. As we sat down to lunch, she told me that today’s was the best version I had ever made.

1 onion, chopped

2 garlic cloves, sliced

1 inch chunk fresh ginger, minced or grated

2 medium sweet potatoes, peeled and cut in chunks

1 lb. carrots, peeled and cut in chunks

1 delicata squash, peeled, seeded and cut in chunks

2 T. olive oil

6 cups vegetable or chicken stock

salt, freshly ground pepper, and a bit of grated nutmeg, if you like it

Sauté onion in olive oil over a medium flame until translucent. Add garlic, sauté for 1-2 minutes, without browning garlic, then add ginger and sauté, stirring constantly for one more minute. Add stock, carrots, sweet potatoes and squash. Bring to a boil, then turn down heat and simmer until vegetables are soft. Remove from flame, allow to cool 10 minutes, then purée (I use my fabulous immersion blender, which I have a hard time not thinking of as a “Mini-Primer”. The immersion blender is an indispensable appliance in the Spanish kitchen, and this is what they call it. Season with salt, pepper and nutmeg to taste.

Cheese-herb biscuits

Adapted from The Joy of Cooking

Preheat oven to 450º.

1 3/4 c. all-purpose flour

1/2 t. salt

3 t. baking powder

4-6 T. cold butter, cut in small pieces

1 c. shredded sharp cheddar cheese

1/4 c.minced fresh dill, cilantro, parsley or chives

Mix together thoroughly dry ingredients with a fork. Add butter, cutting into flour mixture with a pastry cutter or two forks. Add cheese, herbs and milk, and mix quickly, just until blended. Drop onto cookie sheet in 3-inch lumps. Bake for 9-12 minutes, or until golden brown. Makes 9 or 10 delicious biscuits.

Inaugural Salad

Yes, it’s a very geeky name. What about “Mixed Greens à la Obama?” Hmmm….He may be the Messiah, but that doesn’t improve the name.

8 cups well-washed, perfectly dry greens (a mix of baby greens, red lettuce, spinach or whatever you have on hand)

1 ripe avocado, peeled and cubed

1 can hearts of palm, drained and cut in rounds (or rounds and halved, if large)

1/3 c. dried cherries or cranberries

1/3 c. toasted, chopped walnuts or pecans

1/3 c. crumbled chèvre or blue cheese

Meriwynn’s shallot viniagrette (recipe follows)

Toss all ingredients together. Dress immediately before serving. Serves 4.

Meriwynn’s viniagrette

If there is one thing that never ceases to earn compliments from my dinner guests, it is my salads. I’m convinced that the secret is 1) dry lettuce, and 2) this dressing.

1 shallot, minced

2 T. sherry vinegar

1/2 t. kosher salt

large pinch sugar

4 T. best-quality extra-virgin olive oil

Mince shallot and allow to soak in a measuring cup or glass, along with salt, sugar and vinegar, for at least 10 minutes. Just prior to serving, whisk in olive oil until emulsified. Pour over greens mixture, toss and serve.

Ah, C’est Bon!

My cookbook fetish started young, and it has never ceased to be a source of inspiration and entertainment to me. In my collection, I have five cookbooks from my childhood, including a Nancy Drew cookbook, the book of recipes of all the delicious foods from The Little House series, and Teen Cuisine, which features cool, psychedelic illustrations by Peter Max (yes, these books date me. Sigh.) Last night I rediscovered an eccentric gem of a book, thanks to a memory jog supplied by my supper club cohorts.

It’s a cold January night by North Carolina standards–cold enough for my pretty potted fig tree to be trotted into the cellar –and we’re talking about our next supper club, which is only two short weeks away. When Laura and Alex announced a Cajun-Creole theme, I admittedly felt a bit nervous. I’ve never been to New Orleans, or anywhere in Louisiana. Creole and cajun flavors simply don’t make up part of my taste memory, so to speak. I don’t really know much about Cajun and Creole cooking, aside from what you’d expect: Kings’ cake, beignets and coffee with chicory, gumbo, jambalaya, tasso. I stewed over this for a bit, then raced to my cookbook collection with what I hoped was a solution. When I was a kid, my mother once took a business trip to New Orleans. She was there during Mardi Gras time and brought back a slew of great souvenirs for herself and for us. For her, it was a school-bus yellow can of Café du Monde coffee with chicory (which you can buy at Harris Teeter — no longer exotic, at least not here). For us, it was brightly colored strands of beads and delicate and elaborately decorated Mardi Gras masquerade masks; for me, she also brought me a reproduction of Mary Moore Bremer’s New Orleans Creole Cookbook, which was originally published in 1932.

I found the book, which is really nothing more than a pile of pages, the plastic binding long having disappeared. I leafed through, looking for a suitable recipe: Baked stuffed cucumbers? Baked stuffed mirlitons? Cauliflower boiled to within an inch of its life (in a cheesecloth bag, no less)? Not exactly inspiring dishes for supper club, or for anyone I know, really. Then I came across this one, which I will quote exactly. The recipe’s vagaries, and its unsubtle representation of African-American speech are amusing, but what I love the most about it is its precautionary tone. One would really have to be cocksure, or be prepared to take a terrible risk, to cook such a recipe. Miss Bremer, in the voice of the disapproving auntie who is sure you’ll never be able to get it right, really throws down the gauntlet. My question is, is anyone up to the challenge?

Pommes de terres, soufflé

This famous dish is difficult for any but a professional chef. All authorities would agree that the kind of potatoes used is of great importance. I would suggest a starchy potato.

Peel, cut square, and trim off corners. The pieces should be absolutely even, not thicker than a silver dollar, and cut lengthwise of potato.

They are hard to cut. Do not soak. Wipe each slice dry. Have two pots of lard. Pot number one must be warm. Put in ten or twelve slices at a time. Let them cook slowly until soft and nearly done. Then take out and cool.

Heat second pot of grease quite hot, but not smoking. Have the frying basket hot so as not to chill the grease.

Put into it not more than six slices at a time for the same reason. Turn on a fierce heat and fry till they puff and become slightly amber in color. Keep slices turning constantly.

If they do not puff in a moment they will never do so.

The exact temperature of fat depends on the quantity of fat and the texture of the potatoes; so accurate directions are impossible.

I would not advise one unskilled to try this for the first time when strangers are invited to dine; but anyone who likes to experiment may get great pleasure in mastering this dish. It is quite a feat, and puts one in the class with professionals. Besides, it is ever so nice.

The puffs may be served on a napkin and hurried to the table, having been salted first. One may get them in New Orleans, served most beautifully, sometimes in a hot basket made of pastry, tinted in various colors.

When you eat them be sure to appreciate the one behind the scenes, who prepared them, and say, with the colored folk, “Ain’t dat sumpin’.”

Bonne chance, mes amis!

Conviviality and Gratitude, Part 2

Cornucopia, inspired by my children's Thanksgiving art projects.

People ask me: Why do you write about food, and eating and drinking? Why don’t you write about the struggle for power and security, and about love, the way others do?

They ask it accusingly, as if I were somehow gross, unfaithful to the honor of my craft.

The easiest answer is to say that, like most other humans, I am hungry. but there is more than that. It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and the hunger for it…and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied…and it is all one.

I tell about myself, and how I ate bread on a lasting hillside, or drank red wine in a room now blown to bits, and it happens without my willing it that I am telling too about the people with me then, and their other deeper needs for love and happiness.

There is food in the bowl, and more often than not, because of what honesty I have, there is nourishment in the heart, to feed the wilder, more insistent hungers. We must eat. If, in the face of that dread fact, we can find other nourishment, and tolerance and compassion for it, we’ll be no less full of human dignity.

There is a communion of more than our bodies when bread is broken and wine drunk. And that is my answer, when people ask me: Why do you write about hunger, and not wars or love?

–MFK Fisher, The Gastronomical Me

MFK Fisher was nothing if not a master of her own creation. This was, and is, part of her genius. Some argue that she created the genre of memoir, which can be slippery and problematic, since it lies in that space between memory and invention. Her explanation about why she chooses to write about food reveals exactly what I find so seductive about her. Food is often about much more than basic sustenance, which is what she reminds us of in her writing.

For me, it is not only the consumption of food but the preparation of it that feeds me. It is such a simple pleasure, to create something and enjoy a moment of — nearly instant– gratification. A meal like Thanksgiving dinner becomes almost an exercise in Zen. Sure, you plan it out ahead of time so that the turkey doesn’t get served raw alongside scorched mashed potatoes, but the process itself becomes a kind of retreat.

I can’t think of a time when I’ve been more grateful to disappear into the refuge of my own kitchen. First, there is the separation, which weighs on me terribly, even when I don’t think I’m thinking about it. Then there’s Sean.

Sean, a high school friend of mine, died on November 11, Veteran’s Day to be precise — the first person I know who has died as a result of his service in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. We went to school together from junior high through high school. Tall and thin, with bright red curly hair and tons of freckles, Sean had a devilish, but always good-natured, sense of humor. He could make us laugh harder than almost anyone. Senior year, we sat next to each other in Trigonometry, and we talked constantly, mostly Sean, really, regaling me with stories of his crazy weekend adventures and job at Jack in the Box. I would practically fall out of my chair with laughter as he would recreate the garbled orders of customers at the drive-thru window.

I last saw Sean on graduation day, in a beautiful setting: a half-shell outdoor amphitheater on the beach in Southern California. I still can’t believe that 17-year-old kid is gone, and that of all people, he would teach me the meaning of loss associated with this seemingly endless war.

Last-minute preparations

My Thanksgiving dinner was, I think, the best I’ve ever done. My best explanation is that we are moved to create something good when we experience loss. It’s only a meal, but if we return to the notion of Zen, of being present in the moment, then a delicious dinner, enjoyed bite by bite, can be a truly special gift indeed.

See below for my Thanksgiving menu, and for links to most of the recipes. Thanks to Laura G for the pie crust tip: Martha’s all-butter crust recipe is fantastic!

Thanksgiving feast

Photographer and muse

Beautiful, happy children, full of pumpkin pie.

My lovely friend Laura.

My Thanksgiving menu:

See note below regarding brining a turkey.

Roast turkey with sausage and fennel stuffing and Madeira gravy:

http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Roast-Turkey-with-Sausage-Fennel-Stuffing-and-Madeira-Gravy-13279

Buttermilk mashed potatoes: These potatoes taste rich and slightly tangy.

http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Buttermilk-Mashed-Potatoes-106054

Wild mushrooms with chestnuts and thyme:

http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Wild-Mushrooms-with-Chestnuts-and-Thyme-107320

Braised brussels sprouts with apples and toasted pecans: I adapted this recipe from something I found on Heidi Swanson’s recipe journal, 101cookbooks.com. I love this website. Heidi devotes herself to vegetarian cooking, and every recipe I have tried from her site is great. This summer she advised me on a variation of her honey-lavender ice cream (I wanted honey-cardamom), and it came out great.

Here’s Heidi’s recipe; I omitted the tofu and added a dash of dry vermouth to the brussels sprouts as they were braising, and I used toasted pecans instead of pine nuts.

http://www.101cookbooks.com/archives/shredded-brussels-sprouts-apples-recipe.html

Poppyseed rolls: I followed the advice of several readers on Epicurious and made the rolls in a cloverleaf shape.

http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Poppy-Seed-Dinner-Rolls-837

Cranberry, shallot and dried cherry compote: This compote has a combination of sour, sweet, tangy and salty that I adore. I can eat spoonfuls of it.

http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Cranberry-Shallot-and-Dried-Cherry-Compote-108761

Pies: For the crust, I followed Laura G’s suggestion and used Martha Stewart’s pate brisee crust. Never again will I waste my time with another pie crust recipe. The apple pie filling is from Rose Levy Beranbaum’s Pie and Pastry Bible; the pumpkin pie filling is from, er, the Libby’s label.

Pie crust:

http://www.marthastewart.com/recipe/best-pate-brisee?autonomy_kw=pate%20brisee&rsc=header_4

A note regarding brining: I brined the turkey. Every time I have done this, I have been richly rewarded. The meat is always tender, juicy and flavorful, and the turkey never has the appearance of greying wood that needs a good sanding — the number one reason why many people abhor turkey. I follow the straightforward advice of Cook’s Illustrated:

2 cups kosher or 1 cup table salt

1 turkey (12-15 pounds gross weight), rinsed thoroughly, giblets, neck and tail piece removed

Dissolve salt in 2 gallons cold water in a large stock pot or clean bucket. Add turkey and refrigerate or set in very cool (40 degrees or less) spot for 8-12 hours.

note: I have found that a large cooler, well sterilized, does the trick, as I never have room in my refrigerator for a large bucket the night before Thanksgiving. I put the turkey in a salty ice bath, and set it outside for the night (assuming that the weather cooperates.)

Thanks, José / Gracias, José

It’s freezing cold outside — really, even by Maine standards– and the little girls and I are in our cozy kitchen baking a giant batch of oatmeal peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. My kitchen smells like a bakery, and the dough is so obscenely good that I let Mira, Nadia and Mira’s friend Jessie dip into the bowl for huge chunks of it with wild abandon.

I first baked these cookies back in August, for a bunch of supper club friends who made a potentially terrible day a lot better: they turned our move out of the school into a moving party. Here’s the recipe for the cookies that Laura, Alex, James and Jon sampled that day, and took home as well (the recipe makes a ton):

http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Joses-Oatmeal-Peanut-Butter-Chocolate-Chip-Cookies-11797

I decided that they were worth incorporating into my permanent repertoire when I got a one-line e-mail from Jon the following day: “These cookies are friggin’ delicious!!!”

Thanks, José, wherever you are. Gracias, José, dondequiera que estés.

Laura’s blog

Hello everyone,

In case you don’t already read it, you should check out Laura G.’s blog, which she writes through the W-S Journal. It’s called “Dishing it Out.” She has this mysterious friend, Madame M…

http://www.journalnow.net/index.php/dishingitout/

Conviviality and Gratitude

I have to say, November has been a long month with no supper club and no dinner parties at my house of late. When I first started thinking about a group for supper club, I wanted to choose people who would appreciate the art of eating, as MFK Fisher called it, a convivial bunch of friends “fond of feasting, drinking and good company.” Do we not fit the dictionary definition to a t? What a satisfying experience it has been, and, I’m sure, will continue to be.

I’ve also been thinking about gratitude, particularly at this strange moment in my life, and all that I have to be grateful for: beautiful kids, a supportive family, an inspiring new president, and yes (ok, people, get out your tissues), great friends. Here’s a poem that I love about food and gratitude that I wanted to share with all of you — and perhaps one that will inspire a future meal. Happy Thanksgiving to all of you, my lovely friends.

OSSO BUCO

I love the sound of the bone against the plate

and the fortress-like look of it

lying before me in a moat of risotto,

the meat soft as the leg of an angel

who has lived a purely airborne existence.

And best of all, the secret marrow,

the invaded privacy of the animal

prized out with a knife and swallowed down

with cold, exhilarating wine.

I am swaying now in the hour after dinner,

a citizen tilted back on his chair,

a creature with a full stomach–

something you don’t hear much about in poetry,

that sanctuary of hunger and deprivation.

You know: the driving rain, the boots by the door,

small birds searching for berries in winter.

But tonight, the lion of contentment

has placed a warm heavy paw on my chest,

and I can only close my eyes and listen

to the drums of woe throbbing in the distance

and the sound of my wife’s laughter

on the telephone in the next room,

the woman who cooked the savory osso buco,

who pointed to show the butcher the ones she wanted.

She who talks to her faraway friend

while I linger here at the table

with a hot, companionable cup of tea,

feeling like one of the friendly natives,

a reliable guide, maybe even the chief’s favorite son.

Somewhere, a man is crawling up a rocky hillside

on bleeding knees and palms, an Irish penitent

carrying the stone of the world in his stomach;

and elsewhere people of all nations stare

at one another across a long, empty table.

But here, the candles give off their warm glow,

the same light that Shakespeare and Izaac Walton wrote by,

the light that lit and shadowed the faces of history.

Only now it plays on the blue plates,

the crumpled napkins,

the crossed knife and fork.

In a while, one of us will go up to bed

and the other will follow.

then we will slip below the surface of the night

into miles of water, drifting down and down

to the dark, soundless bottom

until the weight of dreams pulls us lower still,

below the shale and layered rock,

beneath the strata of hunger and pleasure,

into the broken bones of the earth itself,

into the marrow of the only place we know.

–Billy Collins (Sailing Alone Around the Room: New and Selected Poems, 2001)