Por favor, quiero unos zapatos con mi carne.

Last month I traveled to the Dominican Republic.  To my great surprise, I discovered that my dust-covered, moth-eaten, high school Spanish actually enabled me to converse with the locals--albeit at the most rudimentary level.  Not surprisingly, my greatest success crossing the linguistic divide centered around dining.  Donde esta  la mantiquilla?  Where is the butter?  Necessito una agua, por favor.  I need some water, please.  Queremos vin blanc.  We would like some white wine.  To my gringo companions, I was a rock star.   I could ask for more beer--mas cerveza; a spoon--una cuchara; hielo--ice.  With each passing day, more espanol kicked in, and I became increasingly emboldened.  I felt like a United Nations translator--you know, just doing my little part to bring the world a little closer together.

It seemed to me that it was no coincidence that my almost-defunct Spanish would resurrect itself around the dinner table.  I convinced myself that some things in this world are universal:  a mother's love, a lover's touch, and the absolute communal experience that is food.   Food binds us to family, to friends, and now, as I had discovered on some sort of primal level--other cultures.  So it was absolutely with no compunction I asked for some potatoes to accompany the all-you-can-eat-meat extravaganza of a Brazilian steakhouse.  You've been to these places before.  The waiters walk around with spits of meat that they carve off into your plate in a carnivorous orgy:  huge skewers of steak, pork, chicken, and lamb.  Slice after slice after slice of pure unadulterated meat.  But on this particular evening, the guy who was supposed to be carrying around the side dishes of potatoes and vegetables was no where to be found.  Not to worry.  Hablo espanol.  I speak Spanish.  Senor, por favor.  Sir, please. Quiero unos zapatos con mi carne.  I would like some potatoes with my meat.  Somehow I failed to register the waiter's look of confusion.  Smile big and act confident--'cause you know I've got this Spanish thing nailed. QUIERO UNOS ZAPATOS CON ME CARNE!  If you say it louder and more emphatically, you'll be understood.  And so I was:

I would like some SHOES with my my meat.

Most kindly, and perhaps because they weren't the most fluent in English, the wait staff didn't ask if those would be manolo blahniks or christian louboutin.  Instead they just laughed, and pointed to my feet.  And because, in the end, pointing is truly the universal language, I discovered my error and laughed right along with  them--knowing full well that this was one of those times in life when people weren't laughing with you, they were laughing AT you.

And damn.  I never did get those zapatos; I mean papas.

I can't believe I have to eat the whole thing

If you read my last blog, you pretty much had to figure that there would be another zucchini recipe this week.  I harvested over 10 pounds of the stuff from my little shared garden last week, and that massive sumo wrestler of a zucchini is still enthroned on the counter like some kind of vegetative version of Jabba-the-Hutt.    He mocks me--practically screaming out every day "Hey, you wanna piece of me.?"  Yeah right--like I haven't had a piece of him every day for the past week.  So far this week we've had zucchini fritatta, sauteed zucchini, and zucchini bread.  I've shared zucchini with friends and neighbors.  No one tells you that when you eat local seasonal produce (and what's more local than a garden just down the street?) that you'll be eating the same freaking thing every day in a row.  Compound this by the fact that the only green thing that my children will eat are Jolly Ranchers, and you can a pretty good idea of the dimension of the problem.  Instead of the ubiquitous refrain of "what do you want for dinner tonight?" in my house, it's "how do you want me to fix the zucchini tonight"?  Ugh.   It's no easy feat getting all of it into recipes, and then getting it all down your throat. 

Tonight, however, I prevailed.  My zucchini piece de resistance--zucchini fries.  These are good.   Really good.  Not good enough for the kids to eat them, but whatever.  More for me.


Zucchini Fries
Another shamelessly plagiarized recipe.  This one from Health.com.

1.  Cut off a hunk of zucchini from the monster, and cut it into long skinny strips.  We're making something called "zucchini fries" so let McDonald's be your guide here.


2.  Mix together 1/4 cup of milk and 1 egg white.  Feel free to use 1/4 cup of egg beaters; it worked fine.


3.  In another bowl mix together 1/2 cup seasoned bread crumbs and 1/2 cup shredded Parmesan cheese.  A note here on the Parmesan cheese.  I religiously keep two kinds on hand at all times:  the cheap stuff that comes in a green can and the hunk of outrageously expensive imported Parmesan-Reggiano.  The cheap stuff is great to throw on some popcorn or toss into a meat loaf, and the expensive stuff has the perfect flavor to season a risotto or grate onto pasta.  The shredded stuff that comes in the clear plastic container?  All the expense of the imported hunk with about as much flavor as the stuff that comes in the green can.  Don't buy it.  Except for this recipe.  For some reason the little shreds of cheese crisp up beautifully in the oven and give these "fries" their crisp without all the evils of real frying.  The fake stuff won't work, and the real stuff is a pain to properly shred.  


4. Coat the zucchini strips into the egg mixture, and then toss them in the bread crumb mixture.  Lay them out on a well-sprayed cookie sheet.


5.  Bake at 425 degrees for about 20-30 minutes until golden brown and crisp.  Look at the remaining 3 pounds of zucchini and wonder what you're going to do with it tomorrow.

You can hide, but you can't run

I am not a gardener.  I may have two opposable thumbs, but they are most certainly not green.  In short, if I plant it, it will die.  Just take a look at my typical handiwork:

The Azalea Corpse

The Half-Dead Magnolia

The Decapitated Juniper

It's a horticultural chamber of horrors.  

Indeed, I'm convinced that the plant world is on to me.  Over the years it's conspired to ensure that nothing green or flowering or edible will ever truly take hold in my yard. The plants somehow know that I am botanical butcher, and the smart ones steer clear.  This year, however, I tricked them.  This year I planted a garden in someone else's yard, and although the tomatoes, peppers, and eggplant managed to escape me, it appears that the zucchini didn't get the memo.  They tried to elude me.  They hunkered down beneath those big umbrella-like leaves and hid.  Thought those prickly vines would protect them. Thought they could take advantage of my inexperience by blending in with the rest of the foliage and eluding capture.  They nearly succeeded in simply rotting away on the vine--but  HAH.  They may have grown to close to 5 pounds each, but I was not to be denied. Ultimately I found my prey: nuclear-sized hulks of zucchini that likely lost any and all flavor about 2 weeks ago.  Of course, they didn't count on me making zucchini bread.  Add just about  anything to flour and sugar and it will taste good.

You should've see the one that got away.

Do you think a taxidermist could stuff and mount it?

Zucchini Bread

Zucchini Fate.

• Cooking Light Magazine, July 2005
• 
  
• 1.   Preheat oven to 350°.
• 
  
• 2.  Lightly spoon 3 cups all purpose flour into a dry measuring cup .  Level with a knife.  Combine with1 tsp baking powder, 1 tsp ground cinnamon, and 1/2 tsp salt in a large bowl.
• 
  
• 3.  Combine 1/2  cup egg substitute and 1/3 cup canola oil, 1 tsp grated lemon rind, and 2 tsps vanilla extract, and 1 large egg lightly beaten in another large bowl.
• 
  
• 4.  Add 1 and 1/2 cups sugar until combined.   Add 3 cups of shredded zucchini.  Add flour mixture.
• 
  
• 5.  Add 1/4 cup chopped walnuts, toasted.  
• 
  
• 6.  Divide batter evenly between 4 (8 x 4-inch) loaf pans coated with cooking spray. Bake at 350° for 1 hour or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 10 minutes in pans on a wire rack; remove from pans. Cool completely on wire rack.

Independence Day

Nothing says the 4th of July quite like Korean Barbecue.   It's simple really.  You take one Korean-American, marry her off to an Italian boy from Long Island, then plant them in a cul-de-sac with a bunch of Germans, Poles, Irish, and Jews.  Check your politics at the door.  Mix generously with alcohol--preferably from the Napa Valley.  Serve the children--dozens of them--hot dogs, macaroni and cheese, and watermelon slices.  Then feed the grown-ups chilled cucumber soup, chim-chi,  pickled radishes, and huge steaming plates of grilled beef and chicken seasoned with spices that Thomas Jefferson only read about in books.  


I'm not sure that 236 years ago the Founding Fathers ever expected that we'd be celebrating their little experiment in self-governance this way, but no matter.  This was a party worthy of America.     


Kalbi – BBQ short rib

By Alana Piccolo

1.    Go to an Asian market and buy two and a half pounds of LA style-cut beef short ribs.   If you've never been, shopping at an Asian market is about as close as an experience as you'll ever get to being beamed onto another planet like the Star Trek gang.   One minute you're standing in the parking lot of a suburban strip mall, and the next, you're smack dab in the middle of a busy South Korean market standing next to a particularly pungent vat of fermenting cabbage.  Not speaking Korean is a distinct disadvantage, but you'll survive. Just be mindful that these aren't Texas-style ribs.  LA style ribs are thinly cut across the bone, so that each piece is a long, thin, strip with 3 bone sections in it.  


2.  Rinse the ribs in cold water and pat dry with paper towels.  Place ribs in a large bowl or roasting pan.  Peel one kiwi and puree in a food processor with 1 tbsp of cold water.    Add kiwi puree to ribs and massage the meat with the kiwi mixture. 

3.  Mix together the following ingredients in smaller bowl and pour over meat:  6 Tbsp soy sauce, 1 Tbsp sesame oil, one spring onion cut on the diagonal, 1 Tsp toasted sesame sees, one tsp sugar, fresh black pepper.  Marinate for 3-4 hours.

4.  Cook over a hot grill 5-7 minutes on 1 side and 4 minutes on other.  Serve hot with rice, steamed veggies, or Korean side salads which can also be purchased at your local Asian markets.  But bring this picture with you so you can point to it as you ask in your best Korean:  "DO. YOU. HAVE. THIS?" 

Who says size doesn't matter?

The view from my garden

My house has a lot of trees.  I like trees.   From the first pale green fuzz of spring to the stark nakedness of winter, nothing marks the cycle of the seasons quite like trees.  But here's the thing.  A house with a lot of trees is necessarily a house without a garden.  All that cool shade just sucks the lifeblood out of anything that grows.  I've managed to coax along a few hearty herbs: chives, oregano, and thyme, but anything that needs to flower and fruit is a goner.  For too many years I've dutifully schlepped to Lowe's and bought my $20 worth of seedlings, and just about this time of year, I'm celebrating that one glorious $20 tomato.


But not this year.  This year a neighbor friend of mine took pity on me.  She has a house with sunshine--8 to 10 hours a day of solid Virginia sunlight.  Every year her garden looks like she's been doping it with steroids--big hearty tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, and giant zucchini.  Whereas I'm forced to stingily pinch almost-yellow basil leaves from the one or two plants that survived May, this garden grows enough basil to actually make a homemade pesto.   And this year, my dear dear dear friend let me SHARE her garden.   
This year I got to put my $20 worth of seedlings someplace where they grew.  And oh my--how they did.  Just look at these bad boys--almost 12 inches each of homegrown hunky produce:

Somehow a grainy blurry picture seems appropriate here.

No one should have zucchini this big.  It's enough to make a girl swoon--or at least get her to make ratatouille.  

Ratatouille

Borrowed liberally from Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child without any permission what-so-ever.

1.  Peel one large purple eggplant and slice it lengthwise into 1/4" slices.  

2. Slice off the ends of one large zuccini, and slice it just like the eggplant--w/4" slices.   Seems like a pity but  it is for cooking, after all. 

3. Toss both the eggplant and zuccini with salt, and layer the slices  between paper towels for about 30 minutes.  The salt draws out any bitter juices, which the paper towels then absorb.

4. Lightly fry each slice of eggplant and zucchini in olive oil until slightly brown--about a minute on each side.  Set aside.

5.  In the same skillet, saute one sliced yellow or white onion and 2 slice bell peppers (any color works) in olive oil.

6.  Once they are limp, but not brown, add 2 cloves of mashed garlic.  Salt and pepper to taste.

7.  Here's where I depart from Julia.  Julia now adds one pound of fresh tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and chopped.  It's a total pain to do this.  If you are feeling all high and mighty, or have a bushel of tomatoes to use from your garden (never my problem, but perhaps this year will be different), go ahead an use fresh tomatoes.  Build in about a half an hour to blanch, peel, seed and chop the tomatoes.   If you're lazy, just add one 27 ounce can of diced tomatoes.  

8.  Add 3 Tbs fresh chopped parsley.  A word here on parsley.  Buy flat parsley.  Be careful not to buy cilantro, which looks remarkably similar to flat parsley; if you do, your ratatouille will have a decidedly Hispanic flair.  But if you buy curley parsley, your ratatouille--or anything else that cook with it--won't have any flavor.   There's a reason that curley parsley is used for garnish at Denny's: there's no expectation that anyone will actually eat it.

Flat: parsley good.

Curly parsley bad.

9.  Layer a large saucepan or casserole dish with the tomato mixture and the eggplant and zucchini.  Cover and simmer on low heat until it's ready.  Julia advises that it need only simmer about 10 minutes covered and another 15 uncovered.  I just let her simmer on low heat until it looks like all the ingredients are well-blended and the dish is giving off an aroma that makes your mouth water--about an hour. 

Sin with a Cream Cheese Frosting

Three months ago I vowed to drop enough weight to be worthy of a bikini.  I joined a gym.  I ate Brussels sprouts.  And salads.  And lean meats.  And cheese.  And salmon smothered in a whipped hollandaise sauce.  And potatoes sauteed in butter.  And veal shanks with goat cheese.   And carrot cake.  Oh. My. God.  The carrot cake.

I have wholly and utterly failed.  I wake up every morning vowing that today is the day to get serious.  But the devil knows how to tempt.  Every day there is something delicious to nibble or sip or inhale.  Satan has convinced me that there is some celebration that just wouldn't be the same paired with celery and carrot sticks, but instead warrants butter and bread and triple cream brie.  And carrot cake.  Three months later I haven't lost a pound, or an ounce, or a gram.  Three months of squats for squat.  The spirit is strong, but the body is oh-so-weak, and don't you know the devil knows it.   It's the devil's fault, and I've seen him up close and personal.  Satan  isn't some goateed red-faced imp with horns and a pitchfork.  Satan's alive and well in this sugar-infused, cream cheese smothered, carrot cake.  Sin never felt-or tasted-so good.

 Bonnie's Carrot Cake, a.k.a. "Sin with a Cream Cheese Frosting"

1.  Rationalize why making this cake is better than going for a run.

2.  Preheat oven to 350 degrees, and grease and flour a 9 X 13 inch pan.

3.  Toss together:  2 cups of shredded carrots (diet food!), 1 8-oz can of crushed pineapple, drained (fruit is good), one and 1/3 cups of flaked sweetened coconut (coconut is also technically a fruit), and 1/2 cup flour (only enough to lightly coat).  Set aside.

4.  Sift:  one and 1/2 cups flour, 2 tsp ground cinnamon, 2 tsp baking soda, and 1/2 tsp. salt (some carbs, but not so bad).  Set aside.

5.    In a large bowl, mix 3 eggs and 2 cups of sugar until light and fluffy. (A whip attachment works best.)  Continue whipping and drizzle in 3/4 vegetable oil and 3/4 cup buttermilk.  Fold in dry ingredients by hand and pour batter over fruit mixture. Fold carefully to blend.  (This is pretty much where any dieting resolutions have turned straight into the gates of hell.)

6.   Pour batter into prepared pan and bake for 40 to 45 minutes.

7.  While the cake is baking, heat on low heat 3/4 cup of sugar with 1/3 cup of buttermilk until the sugar is dissolved.

8.   Immediately after taking the cake out of the oven, poke holes in the top of the cake and pour the glaze over the cake.  Spread as you pour to make sure the entire cake is covered  (so doomed, so doomed).  Let it cool.

9.  Now to ensure your fate, beat together 1 8-oz package of cream cheese and  1/4 cup of softened butter.  


10.  Add 1 tsp of vanilla, and gradually sift in one pound of powdered sugar into the mixture.  (Not a typo:  one pound.  This tastes good for a reason).  


11.  Add a teaspoon or so of milk at a time until you get a smooth, spreadable texture.


12.  Frost the top of the cake.  Refrigerate.  (Yeah right--like you can wait that long.)

A Night to Remember

One hundred years ago, at 11:40 p.m., the RMS Titanic struck an iceberg in the north Atlantic on its maiden voyage from Southhampton, England, to New York City.   Two hours and 40 minutes later, this state -of-the-art, "practically unsinkable" vessel, and the pride of the White Star Line, split in two and sank to the ocean floor.  The exact number of people who lost their lives is not precisely known.  In an era before computers, passenger manifests of the time were prone to inaccuracies, omissions, and errors.  As with any great tragedy, and in the words of Rudy Giuliani when he was asked to estimate the number of deaths on 9-11, "it is likely more than we can bear."

The following menu commemorates the 100th anniversary of this fateful night.  It isn't the entire menu, which was 11 courses, but instead it has been pared down so that normal humans might actually eat and enjoy it.  It is a menu that is mindful of the deaths, but yet fully celebrates their lives.  The last meal in the first class dining room of the Titanic, was a culinary extravagance, where the rich and privileged "ate and drank with abandon."  The food was heavy and fatty, each course "accompanied with wine and liquor in sufficient variety and quantity to yield magnificent hangovers."  It was meal symbolic of the Edwardian age - opulent, elegant, and completely oblivious of the tragedy just around the corner - either the iceberg looming below the surface, or the slaughter that would be World War I.  

First Abridged Course

Poached Salmon with Mousseline Sauce and Cucumbers

• 1 large salmon filet
• 1 onion, peeled
• 1 English cucumber (optional)
• 1/2 lbs carrots, sliced
• salt & freshly ground black pepper
• 5 cups fish stock
• 2 bay leaf
• 2 parsley sprigs, finely chopped

For the mousseline sauce

• 6 egg yolks
• 2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
• 2 tablespoon white wine vinegar
• Three sticks of butter, melted
• 2 Tbsp tarragon, chopped
• 1 cup whipping cream, lightly whipped
• salt & freshly ground black pepper

1. Preheat the oven to 400°.
2. Place the salmon in a shallow, ovenproof dish. Top each salmon steak with the sliced onion and carrots then season with salt and freshly ground pepper.
3. Pour over the fish stock and add the bay leaf, chopped parsley and bring to the boil.
4. Remove from the heat, cover, then place in the oven for eight to ten minutes.
5. While the salmon is poaching make the mousseline sauce. Place the egg yolks, mustard and white wine vinegar in a blender and process until well-mixed.
6. With the blender on constantly, gradually pour in the melted butter.
7. Mix in the tarragon, fold in the whipped cream and season with salt and freshly ground pepper.
8. Once the salmon has cooked remove the steaks from the stock. Peel off the skin.
9. Garnish each piece of salmon with the cooked onion, carrot, sliced cucmber, and a little of the fish stock. Serve at once with the mousseline sauce on the side.

Second Abridged Course

Oh Come on, nothing says "Titantic" like Kate Winslet

Punch Romaine
Servings Size

Update

• 6 cups crushed ice
• 2 cups champagne or 2 cups sparkling wine
• 1 cup white wine
• 1/3 cup fresh orange juice
• 2 tablespoons lemon juice
• 2 tablespoons white rum (optional)
• orange peel, slivered (optional)

Simple Syrup (use 1 cup)

• 2 cups sugar
• 1 cup water

1. Simple Syrup:  In a large saucepan, combine the sugar and water. Cook over medium heat, stirring gently until sugar is dissolved. Bring to a boil and cook 1 minute or until syrup is clear. Remove from the heat and cool. Makes 2 cups-Syrup can be stored in a sterilized container in the refrigerator for up to one month.
2.  In a blender combine the crushed ice, 1 cup simple syrup, champagne, white wine, orange juice, and lemon juice. Blend until mixture is well combined.
3. Spoon the mixture into individual dessert cups. Drizzle with rum, if desired, and garnish with a sliver of orange peel. Serve immediately.

Main Course

 Vegetable Marrow Farci

Since vegetable marrows are available for only a few weeks each year, feel free to substitute two large zucchini (courgettes). Before the Second World War, the stuffing would have been made with short-grain rice, which is now difficult to find. Unless you are a stickler for Titanic accuracy, sushi rice or long-grain rice makes perfectly acceptable substitutes.

1 vegetable marrow or 2 large zucchini
2 tbsp. olive oil
1 cup finely chopped red onion
3 cloves garlic, minced
¼ cup chopped fresh basil
1 tsp. dried oregano
1 tbsp. tomato paste
1½ cups button mushrooms, chopped
2 tbsp. red wine vinegar
? cooked rice
¼ tsp. each salt and pepper
¼ cup grated Parmesan cheese
¼ cup fresh bread crumbs
2 tbsp. butter, melted
Fresh basil

• Halve marrow lengthwise; scoop out flesh with spoon leaving ¼-inch shell. Discard large seeds.
• Chop scooped flesh into small dice; reserve.
• In skillet, heat oil over medium heat; add onion and garlic and cook, stirring often, for 7 to 8 minutes or until softened and lightly browned.
• Stir in basil, oregano, reserved marrow, and tomato paste. Cook, stirring often, for 5 minutes.
• increase heat to high and add mushrooms.
• Cook, stirring, for 3 minutes or until vegetables are well browned; stir in vinegar.
• Remove from heat and cool slightly.
• Stir in rice, salt, pepper, and 3 tbsp. of the cheese.
• Spoon into hollowed vegetables, packing lightly with back of spoon.
• Sprinkle evenly with bread crumbs and remaining cheese; drizzle with butter.
• Place in greased baking dish in 350?F oven for 30 to 40 minutes or until marrow is fork tender and topping is well browned.
• To serve, slice marrow diagonally in 3-inch slices. Garnish with fresh basil.

Makes 6 servings.

Potatoes Parmentier & Boiled Potatoes

Update

Parmentier Potatoes

• 1 1/2 lbs potatoes
• 1 cup butter
• 1 tablespoon fresh parsley, chopped for garnish

1. Peel and cut the potatoes into small pieces, about 1cm (1/2 in) square.
2. Melt butter in a large sauce pan over low heat.
3.  Increase heat to medium, and add potatoes;  cook until tender and slightly browned.
4.  Sprinkle with chopped parsley

Boiled New Potatoes

• 1 1/2 lbs small red potatoes, skin on
• Zest of 1 lemon,
• butter, to taste
• pepper, to taste
• salt, to taste

1.                  Boil potatoes for approximately 10 minute in enough water to cover.

2.                  Before serving, add lemon zest, butter, salt and pepper to taste.

Lamb with Mint Sauce

Lamb:

• 3 8-chop racks of lamb, trimmed
• 6 tablespoons Dijon mustard
• 3 cups fresh white breadcrumbs
• 6 tablespoons chopped fresh mint
• Fresh mint sprigs

Preheat oven to 450°F. Sprinkle lamb with salt and pepper. Spread 1 tablespoon mustard on each side of each lamb rack. Mix breadcrumbs and mint in medium bowl. Press breadcrumb mixture onto lamb, coating completely.

Arrange lamb, meat side up, on large baking sheet with rim. Roast lamb 10 minutes. Reduce oven temperature to 350°F. Roast until thermometer inserted into lamb registers 130°F. for medium-rare, about 20 minutes longer.

Transfer lamb to work surface. Tent with foil; let stand 5 minutes. Cut lamb racks between bones into chops. Arrange chops on plates. Garnish with mint sprigs; pass Mint Sauce separately.

Mint Sauce

• 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons chopped fresh mint
• 1/2 cup canned beef broth
• 1/3 cup minced shallots
• 6 tablespoons red wine vinegar
• 1/4 cup sugar
• 2 teaspoons cornstarch

Combine 1 cup mint, broth, shallots, vinegar and sugar in heavy small non-aluminum saucepan. Stir over medium heat until sugar dissolves. Simmer 2 minutes. Remove from heat. Cover and let stand 2 hours.

Strain sauce into large glass measuring cup. Place cornstarch in same saucepan. Gradually whisk in sauce. Bring to simmer over medium heat, stirring constantly. Stir until sauce thickens slightly and turns translucent, about 2 minutes. Remove from heat. Cool to room temperature. (Can be prepared 1 day ahead. Cover and refrigerate. Bring to room temperature before continuing.) Stir in remaining 2 tablespoon mint. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Makes about 1 cup.

Fourth Abridged Course

Asparagus with Vinaigrette

• 32 spears of asparagus, steamed until just tender;  chill
• Serve with vinaigrette as follows:

Vinaigrette

    3 tablespoons red wine vinegar

    1 shallot, finely chopped

    1 tablespoon chopped fresh Italian parsley

    1 tablespoon chopped fresh chives

    1 tablespoon chopped fresh basil

    1 tablespoon chopped fresh dill

    1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

    1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

    3/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

Blend together the first eight ingredients either in a blender or

using an immersion blender.   Then, while still blending/whisking,

slowly add in the olive oil until you have a good emulsion.   You can

make a few hours ahead, no problem, and just chill it.

Fifth Abridged Course

Waldorf Pudding

Of the many authentic Edwardian recipes we researched for this book, Waldorf Pudding was one that eluded us. The recipe here is a modern invention based on three of the essential ingredients in the famous Waldorf salad‑walnuts, raisins, and apples.

• 2 large tart apples such as granny smith, peeled
• 1/2 cup sultana (golden raisins)
• 2 tbsp. lemon juice
• 1 tbsp. finely chopped crystallized ginger
• 1 tbsp. butter
• 1/3 cup granulated sugar
• 2 cups milk
• 4 egg yolks, beaten
• Pinch finely ground nutmeg
• 1 tsp. pure vanilla extract‑1/4 cup toasted walnuts, halved

Chop the apples into a small 1.5 cm sq dice.  Stir in raisins, lemon juice, and ginger. In skillet, melt butter over high heat; add apple mixture and cook for 1 minute. Stir in 2 Tbsp. of the sugar. Cook stirring often, for 3 to 4 minutes or until the apples are lightly caramelized.  Scrape apple mixture and syrup into 10‑inch round glass baking dish or individual creme brule dishes.

Meanwhile, in a saucepan set over medium heat, heat milk just until bubbles form around edges. Whisking constantly, add some of the milk to eggs; whisk until well incorporated; add the remaining milk, nutmeg, and vanilla, and mix well. Pour over apple mixture.

Set baking dish inside large roasting pan; pour enough boiling water in roasting pan to come halfway up sides of baking dish. Place in 325 F oven for 45 to 50 minutes or until custard is set but still jiggly. If using individual  creme brule dishes, lower the  temperature to 250 degrees and shorten the cooking time to 20 minutes.  Be careful that water bath doesn’t dry out. 

NOTE - cooking time can be hard to judge, check often.  Carefully remove baking dish to cooling rack; sprinkle with walnuts. Cool to room temperature before serving.

Makes 8 servings 

Chag Sameach

I know that it's Holy Week, and at the risk of sounding irreverent, I've found God in a macaroon.  As you well know, I'm not a baker, but recently I've discovered the perfect macaroon.  It's just  shredded coconut, condensed milk, and some flavorings.  Less is oh-so-much more.  It's the perfect cookie--a little crunch on the outside and soft sweetness further in.  I find myself breaking off small pieces to slowly chew and savor every coconut-laced morsel.  It's macaroon turned into a religious experience, but not as it turns out--my religion.

As I was sharing my recent discovery with a group a work colleagues, one young woman chimed in that she had to have the recipe because it's the perfect cookie for passover.   Passover?  As I tried to persuade her that this was the perfect cookie for anything, she gently reminded me that passover meals exclude any sort of of leavened product.  (Precisely, no  doubt, why we Catholics inherited that flat little flavorless disk that is a Communion wafer).   But for the Twelve Tribes, a dessert that's nothing but coconut and condensed milk is exactly what Yahweh had in mind.  So here I am a lapsed Catholic offering up the perfect passover dessert.  Chag Sameach.  Happy Passover.  God so works in mysterious ways.

Passover Macaroons


1.  Mix together the following:  4 cups shredded sweetened coconut flakes, one cup condensed milk, 1 tsp vanilla, 1 tsp almond extract and 1/4 tsp salt.

2.  Drop about a teaspoon-size mound onto a well-greased cookie sheet.  It's a little sticky here, but then most religion is. Bake in an oven pre-heated to 350 degrees until lightly browned--about 9-12 minutes.  Cool and serve.

3.  That's it.  I told you this was easy.  Thanks be to God.

Cafe Renaissance

There are a few things that happen when you start working a lot of hours at the office.  At first it sort of exciting to roll up your sleeves and tackle the project.  It's new work. Interesting work.  Challenging work.  And then the reality hits that it's- well, work.  And  every hour at the office is one less hour to do the laundry, help with homework, and cook.  And when there's no cooking, the time and material for a cooking blog gets really thin--unless, of course, your husband decides to make the one thing he makes better than anyone I know:  Reservations.








Ah.  The pleasure of having someone else cook for you, and then have it all served up to you with fresh roses on white linens in a candlelit space--proceeded by a salmon-colored cosmo.  Hard work has its benefits.  Most people who like food have a favorite eatery.  We foodies may branch out or do take-out, but ultimately we have a spot where we prefer to dine out.   Ours is a restaurant in Vienna, Virginia called Cafe Renaissance.  

It's a bit bizarre to find such a treasure positioned at the end of a strip mall, right down the sidewalk from a dry cleaner and a barber, but once you walk through the double doors you're transported to an entirely different dimension.  The walls are donned with faux-impressionist paintings, the flowers are fresh, and a sure sign that I'm getting older:  it's quiet.  The owner is Iranian, our favorite waiter Jordanian, and the chef is from Turkey, but the food is pure French--and some of the best on this side of the Potomac.  Bring an appetite, your wallet, and good friends.   Even though it isn't cheap, this is a culinary experience that you'll want to share.  But make a reservation, especially on weekends.  This place is busy.   Just like me these days.  Sigh.

A different kind of cheesecake

It's no secret that I'm a cheese gal--even for dessert.  Although a deep rich dark chocolate anything is up there, in the end, I'll choose a triple cream brie every time.  There's something sexy about licking it off my finger--even as I engage in total disbelief and pretend that it won't end up on my thighs.  So recently when I offered to bring something to a fundraising champagne and dessert gala, I immediately opted for a brie cake.   You've seen it before.  It's behind the glass case in the cheese shop at Wegman's or Whole Foods.  It's outrageously expensive--more outrageous when you realize how utterly easy and cheap it is to make yourself.  Indeed, the fact that these grocers persist in such abject thievery wholly exonerates that I've copied it whole cloth and am posting the results here.

Brie "Cake"

1.  Go buy a small wheel of a good rich and creamy brie.

2.  In a small bowl mix together the following:  1/2 cup apricot preserves, 2 Tbsp. golden raisins, 2 Tbsp. dark raisins, 2 Tbsp. craisins, 2 Tbsp. chopped dried apricots, and 2 Tbsp. of chopped walnuts or pecans.  You will have a gloopy concoction.  If it's too gloopy, add more dried fruits and/or nuts.  If it's too dry, add more preserves.  You can be creative with this step.  I have substituted caramel sauce, maple syrup and  raspberry preserves for the apricot preserves, but in the end, I think that the apricot preserves are best.  Your choice.  It's a free country.

3.  Slice the rind off the top of the brie.

4.  Slice the brie wheel in half, horizontally, to obtain two layers of your "cake".

5.  Spread about half the mixture on top of one of the layers, and top it off with the other layer.

6.  Pile the remaining mixture on the top layer.  The mixture should be thick enough that you can pile it into an attractive rounded pyramid.

7.  Garnish with walnut or pecan halves or dried apricot halves.  Serve it with crackers, french bread, or my favorite:  just slice it into wedges and serve it like the cheesecake that it is.

P.S.  The beauty of this dish is that any leftovers can be cut up, rolled up into raw puff pastry and baked for another entirely different and decadent dessert or appetizer.  

The Great American Melting Pot

My children spent their formative years in the home of a lovely Afghani woman.   No, scratch that--she's an American.   They grew up on rice laced with carrots and raisins, and she could stew an eggplant until it tasted like candy.  If I could only repeat that feat, my children might actually eat vegetables.  But besides feeding my children, she did the only thing that really mattered to me as a working mother:  she loved my children.

My hairdresser, who depending on the day, I might actually love more than my children, is Iranian- or was, I should say.  He's an American now too.  He is living in suburbia with his wife and two kids, and he's an absolute artist when it comes to hair color.  No one knows when my roots show because he has managed to match his dyes to my natural hair color.  At the risk of sounding hyperbolic, if there was a Nobel prize for hair color (and why isn't there?) this man would be standing on the Stockholm stage every year.

Queso-blanco; diced small

Another "new" American is a friend of mine, who like my grandfather, came to this country when he was 17 and taught himself English.  Unlike my grandfather,  this guy makes a mean macaroni and cheese.   It  uses-of all things-queso blanco, a cheese from Latin American that I didn't even know existed until he told me about it.  It must be good because they sell it at Costco in a two pack.   It's a subtle and mild cheese, and for those who grew up on the macho of cheddar for their mac-n-cheese, you may find it too mild.   Nonetheless, this version of mac-n-cheese is remarkably simple--you take this Mexican cheese, cut in up into small pieces, melt it over pasta with a little milk and butter, salt and pepper, add some parsley,  and voila!.  It's the perfect metaphor for what should be our immigration policy:  something simple that let's good people come to this country to share their best gifts and talents.

Macaroni-n-Queso-blanco

1.   Cook one pound of your favorite macaroni, al dente.


2.  Add 1 cup finely dice queso-blanco and heat over low heat, with a tablespoon of butter until the cheese begins to melt.  Stir constantly.  A word of warning here, queso-blanco doesn't melt into a nice creamy roux; even with the coaxing of some butter, it's a cheese that stubbornly keeps its shape.  By the end a lot of the cheese had glommed onto my stirring spoon, and I had to keep scraping it off.  Eventually, I managed to get the cheese fairly evenly distributed, but if look elsewhere if you want an alfredo-like sauce.

3.  Add fresh chopped parsley--about 1/3 of a cup, a generous dose of pepper, and salt.

The Final Product

4.  Voila: a macaroni-n-cheese that doubles as pasta salad.

Bee in my bonnet about buns in the oven

Let's face it. All of the baking in the world is done by women.  It's not our fault; sometimes biology is destiny.  Now men have an integral role in getting the bun in the oven, but while it's baking, they're pretty much AWOL--doing things that men do, like trying to win the Republican nomination for president.  Now don't get me wrong, I have an imminent respect for the miracle of baking.  It's a beautiful thing--a mystery really, how the union of flour and yeast can culminate in a perfectly brown bun.  And I fully respect that for some people this union of flour and yeast is a sacred thing.  Having done my fair share of baking, I actually count myself among them.

There are times, however, when things go wrong in the kitchen. The recipe was wrong or the dough didn't rise. Sometimes it's not the right time for baking.  Sometimes the oven is broken and it's too dangerous to wait for the buns to be finished before you fix it.  Sometimes there are enough buns in the pantry already.  Who knows?  Just don't forget whose oven it is and who is doing the baking.  The baker is the best person to figure out what to do.  Scratch that.  She's the only person who can figure out what to do because its her buns and its her oven.  So to the politicians and clergymen and whoever else is trying to control, regulate or otherwise take the baking away from the baker, your ideas and your laws are half-baked.  Please.  Do us all a favor and stay out of the kitchen.    

Happy Anniversary

The one year anniversary of my blog was this month.  It sort of got away from me, and I find myself surprised that's it's been a whole year.  Just like each of my kids' birthdays, my wedding anniversary, and well--ok, my age, I find myself perplexed by the passage of time.  Really--how in the hell does it happen?

But it's been fun, and when I started, I questioned whether I'd be able to keep it going.  I worried whether I could find enough material to scratch out an essay every week about life through the lens of food, or perhaps it's food through the lens of life?  Whatever.  I'm still here.  Along the way I've reconnected with old friends and made some new ones--much how I've reconnected with old recipes and tried some that I never would have otherwise.  A year ago when I googled "minivan cook", I came up with stories of minivan murders in Cook County and how to cook crystal meth in a minivan.  Now the same search pulls up this blog.  Say what you will, but I'll take that as an accomplishment.  Many thanks to those of you who follow me, encourage me, or feed me ideas.  We're a small little cadre, but look at this way, we're keeping crystal meth off the internet.   Happy Anniversary, Minivan Cook!

Anniversary Cake

Yeah right.  If you've been following this blog, you know that I don't bake.
Best I'll do is open a box of mix and add water, eggs, and oil.  Better yet--maybe I'll go buy one.  They're big and cheap at Costco.

Garlic: Stat

So if you read last week's post, there's no surprise about this week's: chicken thighs in garlic and lemon.  To the extent that not having garlic in the house was a crisis, obtaining some became an emergency.  A house without garlic is simply not a home--or at least any kind of home I'd want to live in.   It's like culinary feng shui--without garlic, there is an emptiness in the kitchen that generates negative energy.  Suffice it to say we were without garlic for less than two hours--long enough so that I could not make the recipe that I wanted to, but short enough that our house was still invulnerable to  neighborhood vampires. Now that the garlic stores have been replenished, equilibrium has been restored, evil spirits are at bay, and all is right in my world.

Garlic Chicken  

1.  8-12 chicken thighs on bone or 6 leg quarters cut up, skinned.  You are going for the dark meat here.  Set aside.


2.  3-4 potatoes peeled and sliced into 1/4" thick pieces.  Layer a large Pyrex roasting pan with the potatoes.

3.  Crush a whole bulb of garlic in a large bowl.  Put a note on the kitchen bulletin board to buy more garlic, because it really is a problem when you run out.  

4.  Add about 1/4 cup olive oil to the garlic and the juice of two lemons.  Add salt and pepper.  Mix well.

5.  Add the chicken thighs and coat them well with the garlic mixture.  Place over the potatoes.

6.  Bake on 350 degrees for about one and a half hours.  Check to make sure the internal temperature of the chicken registers at about 180 degrees.  Remove the chicken from the pan.  Stir the potatoes with the pan juices, and broil for about 3-5 minutes to get the potatoes a little crispy and brown. 

Before

After

7.  Take the garlic pact:  if you eat this dish, anyone you intend to kiss has to have eaten it too.