Category Archives: Food

Mom and Dad gifted us with a deep-fryer this past Christmas, and during this week’s snowstorm I finally had an opportunity to try it out. I’ve been frying things over the years, to mostly disastrous results. I never used a thermometer to check the temperature, so it was either too cold or way too hot. The trick, from what I read, is to make sure that food items get cooked quickly enough to get a crunchy exterior, while not taking in too much oil. That largely happens when you have the temperature and the timing correct. (I can still remember the night I almost burned the Boston condo down trying my hand at fried chicken. I thought the trickiest part would be the paper bag shake, but it was really how to navigate the spattering oil and thick smoke that had the smoke detector exhausted by the time it was all over. The worst part was that the chicken, even with its perfect buttermilk dressing, was burnt on the outside and bloody on the inside.)

The deep fryer fixed all those flaws, maintaining its temperature and still staying spatter-free. The potatoes I’d cut up went in and started bubbling like you see on the cooking shows, and after a few minutes they came out perfectly golden (or as Gram liked to say, good and brown). It was a rare culinary success, and I hurriedly sprinkled them with sea salt before they cooled. Served with an aioli and ketchup, they were reminiscent of the fries I’ve had at Five Guys, so I’d say I pulled it off. Next adventure: fried artichoke hearts. Wish me luck.

For those of you who still do fish on Fridays, this simple dinner plan is perfect. Steam some rice, sauté some Swiss chard in olive oil, garlic and a couple pats of butter, and roast a piece of sea bass in a little pool of olive oil, rice vinegar, soy sauce, salt & pepper. That’s it. If you use a rice cooker, that’s the longest part of this process. In other words, it’s quick and easy, simple and delicious – just the sort of thing we need for these wintry days of Lent.

It turns out that lentils are more than just a fairy tale footnote, and this recipe for a lentil soup is absolute proof of that. As long as winter hangs on, and the chilly first days of spring retain a frigid core, there will be a need for soup and similar comfort food. The rustic ingredients magically transform into a soup that is a hearty and filling as it is tasty. The broth turns an inky midnight/violet shade as the lentils cook – a delicious hue that is tempered once the red tomatoes go in. While every ingredients counts here, it is perhaps the fresh parsley and grated parmesan that makes the big difference in the end. (Those two bay leaves are a necessity to work their magic as well.) If you’re looking for a way to make the end of winter just a little more bearable, this is my secret weapon. Wield it well. (It comes from a wonderful cookbook, ‘Good Cooking’ by Jill Dupleix.)

Abruzzese Lentil Soup

Ingredients:

• 1 ¼ cups small green lentils
• 2 garlic cloves, smashed
• 2 bay leaves
• 1 onion, peeled and sliced finely
• 2 celery stalks, finely sliced
• 2 carrots, peeled and diced
• 2 Tbsp. olive oil
• 14-oz can crushed tomatoes
• 14-oz can chickpeas, drained
• Sea salt & pepper
• 2 Tbsp chopped fresh parsley
• Freshly-grated Parmesan cheese for serving

Rinse lentils, then place in pan with garlic, bay leaves and 6 cups cold water. Cook until almost tender (about 30 minutes), skimming occasionally. Finely slice onion and celery, and dice the carrots. Heat olive oil in large saucepan. Add onion, celery and carrots and cook, stirring often, for ten minutes.

Add vegetables and tomatoes to lentils and stir well. Simmer until nice and soupy, about 20 minutes. Add chickpeas, sea salt and pepper, and simmer for at least 10 minutes longer, adding extra water as necessary. Stir in chopped parsley and ladle into warm soup bowls. Served with grated Parmesan on top.

If you’re looking for an exact recipe for a frittata, look elsewhere. The whole point of a frittata is that it is a very forgiving dish – it bends and yields to whatever is in the fridge, and however you prefer to make it. I’ve made this a coupe of time – each one different – and each one delicious. I prefer it to an omelet, as there’s no tricky flip or roll involved. (Of course, if Andy’s going to be making it, I’ll take the omelet.)

For the frittata, you can fill it with whatever you like. If you’re using a meat (I’ve tried sausage and bacon to great effect), you can chop it up and render the fat directly in a 12-inch pan (oven-safe and non-stick) to be used for the final dish. For any vegetables you want to use, I’d saute them in a separate pan (you don’t want all that moisture going into the frittata) until they’re relatively soft.

In another bowl, I whisked 8 eggs and about half a cup of heavy cream. (The fat’s important, so don’t go skim.) To this, I added salt and pepper, and any fresh herbs that work for you. When the meat’s finished cooking, and still on medium heat, add the eggs and vegetables and stir everything gently together. As the edges pull away from the pan and the eggs start to set, put the whole thing into a 350-degree oven until it’s set to your liking. (About 8 to 10 minutes for a firm frittata.)

Let it rest for a bit before cutting, then top with more fresh herbs.

Scallions, more commonly referred to as green onions, don’t seem to enjoy as much popularity as they deserve. I love where they fall on the onion spectrum, somewhere between a traditional onion and the chive. I also love how much color they add to any dish (it’s best to use a decent amount of the foliage for precisely this reason). Their flavor is delicate, but important. They add an onion-like touch without the harshness of the real thing. I enjoy them with eggs, and fresh dill and parsley for a bright omelet – or as a topping on kimchi fried rice or a pungent pho. Such a garnish may seem optional, but it provides an integral flavor, texture, and freshness to any savory dish. The lesson here is that the scallion should never be underestimated. A good lesson for all of our stalwart ingredients, and a testament to the power of fresh ingredients.

Ever since seeing a photo of the finished product, I’ve wanted to try my hand at these pickled beets and eggs. With our first brunch in need of something with a little pizzazz, I set about to see what magic the Pennsylvania Dutch had crafted. This one requires a bit of forethought and planning, as it is essential that the 48-hour soaking period be honored in order to achieve the colorful brilliance you see here.

Billed as a “gift from the Amish” (and all of my close friends know my affinity with the Amish), here is the old-fashioned recipe in case you want to recreate it.

Pennsylvania Dutch Pickled Beets & Eggs

• 8 eggs (hard boiled)
• 2 (15 oz.) cans whole pickled beets, juice reserved
• 1 onion, chopped
• 1 cup white sugar
• ¾ cup cider vinegar
• ½ teaspoon salt
• 1 pinch black pepper
• 2 bay leaves
• 12 whole cloves

1. Place eggs in saucepan and cover with water. Bring to a boil. Cover, remove from heat and let eggs sit in hot water for 10 to 12 minutes. Removed from hot water, cool, and peel.
2. Place beets onion and peeled eggs in a non-reactive glass or plastic container. Set aside.
3. In medium size non-reactive saucepan, combine sugar, 1 cup reserved beet juice, vinegar, salt, pepper, bay leaves, and cloves. Bring to a boil, lower heat, and simmer 5 minutes.
4. Pour hot liquid over beets and eggs. Cover and refrigerate 48 hours before using. (Stir or shake once or twice a day for even color to soak through.)

This is not a recipe for everyone, but it would make a great side-dish for Easter, thanks to the way the beet color seeps into the eggs. Once they are cut open, it’s the sort of combination that doesn’t seem real for something you can eat, but there it is, a wondrous collision of hot pink and sunny egg-yolk yellow.

This dish was one of the first I ever learned to make, way back in Andy’s kitchen in Guilderland circa 2000, and was one of the first dinners I ever cooked for him. It’s simple enough, and very forgiving, so I won’t waste time with exact measurements or ratios. It begins with a sweet onion, diced and cooked in some olive oil on medium heat to the point of translucency. To that, add some garlic and a can or two of tomatoes, diced or chopped however you like. Boil this for a bit, then add a serving of vodka, and let boil off a bit more. Add some cream and Parmigiano-Reggiano and a decent bunch of roughly-chopped fresh basil. That last piece is the most important part, lending it a pesto zing that sends it soaring. Serve with penne and you’re done.

Food is the way to the heart.

Gleaned from the pages of the New York Times Magazine, this knock-off version of a Sausage, Kale & Potato Soup replaces the sausage with a kielbasa, and it’s a switch that lends a smoky and salty edge to the kale, negating the need for any additional sprinkling of white stuff.

I sliced up a simple pre-cooked kielbasa and sautéed it on medium heat, rendering a bit of the fat and slightly browning the pieces of kielbasa. To this, I added a large onion (chopped), then two large potatoes (peeled and diced) and about 5 cups of chopped kale (I cheated and bought the washed and chopped kale in a big-ass bag). A lot goes a little way, though it keeps its roughage and integrity far better than spinach.

As things began to wilt, I added a large carton of chicken broth (low sodium, since no one is getting any younger) and a heaping Tablespoon of Balsamic vinegar. Grind some peppercorns into the pot and, once it comes to a boil, turn it down to simmer for an hour or two. The end result is spectacular, and kale is good for you!

I’ll try the original using sausage in the future, but for now this was a pleasant reminder of my grandma, who loved kielbasa. (And a good head on her beer – her words, not mine.)

‘I’m not asking much, just a token, really, a trifle…’ ~ Ursula, ‘The Little Mermaid‘

To be fair, I don’t really know or care whether this is a proper trifle. It’s the recipe that Magnolia Bakery allegedly uses for their banana pudding, but for all I know it’s an internet hoax. It doesn’t really matter – anything that uses instant pudding mix and condensed milk has to be good. Three cups of heavy cream whipped into a peaking frenzy can’t be bad either. The online comments raved about this one, and if it was good enough to approximate, or actually be, something from Magnolia Bakery, that seemed a decent-enough pedigree for me.

There’s nothing tricky about this trifle; mostly it’s about the assembly and properly-plotted timing for the pudding to set and then the trifle to rest. This was my first time whipping cream (I’ve only ever whipped ass before), but thanks to the Kitchen Aid mixer it went quite smoothly, and soon enough there were peaks and fluff and I was folding it in like a real functioning person. For some of us, it’s the small kitchen victories that mean the most. Here’s the recipe, followed by a few scant hints of what I learned on this culinary journey.

Magnolia Bakery’s (Alleged) Banana Pudding

INGREDIENTS

• 1 ½ cups water
• 2/3 cup instant vanilla pudding mix
• 1 (14-ounce) can sweetened condensed milk
• 3 cups heavy cream
• 1 (12-ounce) box vanilla wafers
• 4 bananas, sliced thinly into coins

DIRECTIONS

Mix together the water, pudding mix, and sweetened condensed milk until smooth. Refrigerate for at least 4 hours, or overnight until it sets up.

Whip heavy cream until soft peaks form. Working in thirds, fold the whipped cream into the pudding mixture until well incorporated.

In a trifle bowl, layer vanilla wafers, sliced bananas, and pudding mixture; continue until you’ve used up all the pudding mixture. Refrigerate for at least a few hours before serving so the wafers have a chance to soften. {Yields 12 servings}

A few tips I gained via the internet and this virgin experience: chill the mixing bowl and paddle before you whip the cream, and add a few drops of the very best vanilla extract. Martha insists. The recipe originally called for letting the trifle rest for an hour, but I let it sit overnight, ensuring that those vanilla wafers had a chance to soften and become like a sponge cake – the end result was wonderful.

From time to time I like to think that this blog delivers a really useful nugget of information that changes the way we live our lives. This is one of those times. If you’ve ever mourned the passing of a fresh pizza, and sighed at the reheated sogginess of the microwave or the dried-out desert of the oven, check out this method of reheating your leftovers. Even the most hungover of you should be able to master this in a few minutes.

When Suzie resurrected this pistachio cake from the Ko family recipe vault a while back, I greedily devoured the small piece she delivered to Andy and myself, and promptly demanded the recipe. It was spongy and soft, with bits of chocolate and the subtle nutty goodness of pistachio running through it. I imagined it took a great deal of delicate maneuvering to bake such a thing of beauty, and I dreaded what sort of pistachio grinding and nuanced assembly it might require. (Andy has always been the baker in the family, but something about a bundt makes me want to try my hand at it.)

A few months later Suzie delivered the recipe, along with this entire cake, for our annual New Year’s Eve gathering. It was as much a feast for the eyes as it was for the mouth, and we placed it on a proper cake pedestal worthy of that kind of sweet majesty. Memories of Ko dinners came flooding back, and I looked over the recipe to see if this was something even remotely possible to make on my own.

Seems it was. A box of cake mix and a packet of pistachio pudding powder formed the main ingredients. There was no grinding of nuts, there was no gentle folding-in of egg whites. Another childhood memory revealed to be the stuff of Family Circle Americana sponsored by Jello.

That didn’t make it any less authentic or delicious, and there’s a lesson in that: I’m more Jello than I realized. What’s next? Velveeta?

A pan of roasted vegetables!

A bed for a roasted chicken, or a side dish of its own, this simple method of crafting rustic culinary elegance is a mainstay in our home now that winter is knocking on the door. I prefer a simple coating of olive oil and salt and pepper to let the natural flavor of the vegetables come through. My favorites are the winter root vegetables, coupled with winter squash. Give me an orange trio of carrots, sweet potatoes, and butternut squash, and I’m giddy as a lamb at a Mariah Carey Christmas concert.

Dropping a bunch of beef bones into the pot of water begins my Sunday morning on a plaintive note. Before Andy puts on the classical music station, before I rev the exhaust fan, before the fish sauce mingles with the star anise to create the makings of a proper Phở broth, the simple sound of bones falling into water greets the day. For eight hours these bones will simmer, crafting one of the most delicious broths that has been used for years as an antidote to the winter doldrums.

It’s a long gestation period for a soup, I know, but it’s always been worth it. I sit back down at the dining room table and write these words, find these photographs of a little brook at a local cemetery. How fitting, to be talking about bones, and then to have these pictures showing the water that passes by hundreds of bones every day. The beautiful, sad cycle of life, going round and round, in water and steam and air and sustenance.

The babbling brook goes on and on, murmuring nothings and somethings and everythings to all who dare to listen.

It’s not always easy to listen, though. We would rather fill the incomprehensible with familiar noise, known words, recognized cadences. Strange languages, secret codes, other-worldly messages – we don’t want to hear them. We crave our known comforts. The rest is just background noise.

My broth is running over. It spills and hisses on the hot stove. Plumes of steam rise before me, as if I were making an offering to the gods. Maybe they will smile upon my soup. Maybe the ghost of some sacred cow sends a silent moo to bless this morning.