Fresh Cracked Pepper

Cabbage is a beautiful thing. Underrated, but mysterious and beautiful. A tight loaf (as the Brits say) of interlocking leaves is always a joy to slice through, yielding folds upon folds of spicy-squeaky goodness.  Unfortunately, cabbage is not the most inspiring thing to look at. Even piled high at quaint market stands, it can resemble dull-looking bowling balls. 

Another strike against this peasant cruciferae is that it’s not so easy to freestyle with as are so many other vegetables. You can’t really throw it in a quesadilla or a pizza, it doesn’t (as far as I know) compliment pasta, and it can be too brawny in salad. Thus, preparing cabbage usually takes a good chunk of time. Though it’s incredibly easy, you sort of have to plan around it. Good thing it keeps for about as long as it takes me to make those plans.

Enter the Savoy.  I have recently discovered this variety, and hereby declare it the Queen of Cabbage. Ruffled and maze-like, Savoy is a soft and pliable variety that cooks up to be tender and  slippery.  

In the last few weeks, I’ve found two spectacular uses for these lacey loaves. The first is from Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything, and best of all, it was prepared for me. It was a Tuesday night near the end of an insane semester. I returned home from a much-needed hour of yoga, and stepped into a house that smelled so good I almost fell back into Savasana (Corpse Pose). Was it apple cider? Not quite. Was it soup? I couldn’t quite place it. 

Sputtering away in our big stock pot was a stew-like mess of pinkish green strips of savoy cabbage. There was a subtle sweetness to it all, which I later found out was, of course, apples. The classic pair, those two, only I’d never encountered them so perfectly merged. 

The second Savoy success was a French gratin that I poached from Orangette, which she got out of a book on braising. I hauled it along to a potluck on Friday night, where it rounded out our multi-cultural meal nicely. There was Indian “street food,” fresh baguette with dipping sauces, homemade stromboli, baked ziti, chili and corn bread, and of course, plenty of wine. It was all topped off with a campfire-style jam session that went far past the dinner hour.

This is the simplest of recipes, with the sliced up Savoy withered in just-browning butter and some good stock, and then dotted and roasted with triple-cream French cheese.

Fresh out of the oven it looks lazy and marbled with different shades of green. The flavor is robustly tangy and creamy. And how couldn’t it be? You did hear the part about the triple-cream, right? Let the fact that I don’t have any pictures of the final product be the ultimate testimony. 

Next time you see a brainy Savoy staring back at you from beside the broccoli, don’t be afraid to scoop it up. You’ll get around to it. And when you do, you might just break into song. 

Continue reading ’savoy, sweet and savory’

Summer day after summer day out at our family cottage, us kids would wake at 6 every morning to our grandfather’s porridge. He’d put it on the old stove sometime before then, and probably retreat to the forest to chop wood or “putter,” as our parents would say.

Slowly, we’d rise, assembling one by one by the fire he’d made.

I don’t remember loving oatmeal as a kid, but I loved him and so I ate it anyway.

I’ll always associate the storied three-bears’ dish with him—doling it out into bowls for our crew of cousins. We’d sit out on the deck around a small wooden table, us girls in our baby-doll nighties, and him hovering over us with a pot in hand. I’m not sure if it’s a photograph I see or a real memory.

I guess we all come back to porridge, because lately it’s all I crave for breakfast. I’ve also recently discovered the steel cut, or Irish variety, which is less processed and more “whole” than it’s rolled and instant cousins.

Calorie-wise there is no nutritional difference between steel cut and rolled, but the extra steps in the processing of rolled oats does diminish some of the micronutrients (like Magnesium and Selenium) that oats have to offer. Steel cut oats are whole groats that have been chopped into two or three pieces. Rolled oats are groats that have been steamed and pressed. Quick or instant oats have been chopped, steamed, pressed, cooked, and dried. Even the littlest bear doesn’t want that in her bowl.

Oats are a superfood like no other. They stabilize your blood sugar, meaning you won’t get hungry as soon after eating breakfast. They also lower your cholesterol, and are high in fiber and protein. 

But besides health, steel cut oats are just so much better than the instant ones. I can’t even begin to explain it. They create their own starchy sauce while they cook, and when their done still have an al dente chewy snap that other hot cereals don’t hold a candle to. They also keep really well in the fridge, so you can make a huge batch on Sunday evening and have it for breakfast all week. 

Making this hearty breakfast is a snap. First, you want to toast 1 cup of oats to give them a nice, nutty taste. Spread them on a baking sheet and bake at 350 for 15 minutes before tranfering them to a saucepan, or give them a 2 minute dry toast right in the bottom of the saucepan, stirring constantly until you can smell them toasting.

Then you add 3 cups of boiling water to the saucepan (remove it from heat while you do this, or it might splatter, and watch out for steam), stir, and lower the heat. DO NOT ADD SALT. Salt inhibits the release of starch, and will stop your oats from becoming as creamy as they were meant to be. Now you can go take a shower or do what you need to do for 25 minutes, without stirring them once.

When you come back to your oats, they should be nice and tender, and just beginning to stick to the bottom of the pan. (Some recipes have you toast the oats in 1T butter for 2 minutes before adding the water. This is a decadent treat to try, and also prevents stickage later on.) It’s no problem if they’re sticking a bit, unless you have the heat too high, they’ll scrape right off. Now, add ¾ cups milk to the oats, stir, and let them cook for 10 more minutes.

Scoop a generous portion for yourself into a bowl, and sprinkle with good-quality sea salt (we’re lucky to have some from Slovenia kickin’ around right now, a gift from a friend). Salt actually increases the natural sweetness of the oats: you might not even need sugar! But if you want it, add 1T brown sugar or maple syrup, a shake of cinnamon, and some more milk or buttermilk.

And once, promise me at least once, you’ll try it with whole milk or a splash of cream.

It’s that time of year again when a person just can’t have too many hot beverage options. Coffee first thing. A latte later with a friend. Rooibos in the afternoon. Earl Grey after dinner. To this repertoire of refreshment I’ve recently added a mug of sweet spiced cider before bed.

There are many varieties of cider. From the mulled wine you get in the streets of Munich to the sugary instant mixes you got at a gift exchange 5 years ago—each claims to impart that cozy wintery spirit we all crave. Just don’t make the mistake I did at 16 when I downed 5 mugs of the stuff, not able to tell it was alcoholic.

But there’s another kind, neither spiked with booze nor full of artificial, crystalized who-knows-what. This one has all the best of simplicity and perfect balance of spices. And how could it not? It’s the one I grew up on. Are not our tastebuds conditioned to think that our traditions taste best? 

This “recipe,” for I hesitate to call it that, is virtually foolproof. You get to decide what brand of juice to use and how much of each spice to add. It come together in under 5 minutes, and is the perfect thing to have on hand for unexpected guests.

It’s a little hard for me to feel cozy when it looks more dreary March outside than crisp December. But with a cup of this cider in my hands, I can go almost anywhere. One sip and I’m transported home.  

And in just two weeks, a train will take me where this humble cup of cheer cannot.

Continue reading ’sheri’s spiced cider’

Nation, I know you’re stuffed. But you didn’t think all I was going to say about Thanksgiving was drunken cranberry sauce, did you? Oh no. Besides, in Canada, we eat this stuff right through Christmas.

Yet another winner from the good (ahem, OCD) folks at Cook’s Illustrated, this is pumpkin pie as if it’s gone through all the rounds of America’s Next Top Model. Only it’s pie—and so much better for the soul. 

I never really thought there was much to mess with when it came to pumpkin pie. Take a recipe off the back of the can and you’ve got yourself a winner. But in the words of one of my editors, there’s always room to make good better. 

Soft and smooth as pudding, there’s ne’er a curdled spot of pumpkin in this baby. With the perfect shade of pumpkin-orange throughout, this pie doesn’t look like it’s spent too much time in a tanning booth either.  

As I read through Cooks Illustrated’s version of the classic, I decided to heed most of their advice. Following those those test kitchen folks’ advice is like becoming a teenager and learning that some rules are made to push. Take, for example, the following:

Silly Rule #1) Straining the filling through a fine mesh strainer. Yeah, right. (My friend Aaron, my favorite Cook’s Illustrated mocker, joked that he was surprised they didn’t want you to strain them through a series of mesh strainers, graduating in fineness. Borrowing a tip from his wife, I put my hand-held blender to work where the old strainer once ruled.)

Silly Rule #2) Using 3 eggs PLUS 2 more egg yolks? Um, since when did I not need my arteries?

Other than that I followed the recipe verbatim, except for this one not-so-secret ingredient I would now like to share with you. The story goes a little something like this:

Last year I was making my first ever pumpkin pie for our first American Thanksgiving when I discovered I didn’t have any evaporated milk. Gosh! Darn it! Whatever would I do? Neither of us felt like leaving the house, and as I pawed through my fridge for a reasonable facsimilie, there it was, smiling back at me: a carton of premium, thick-as-molasses eggnog. 

With my deepest apologies to evaporated milk. As much as I loved you, something taller, darker, and more handsome came a knockin’ at my oven door. And let me tell you, things have never been so hot as this here pie. 

Continue reading ‘pumpkin puddin’ pie’

It’s kind of sad that I don’t get a full-fledged Thanksgiving this year. I know that every day is a feast with the comparative abundance I enjoy on a daily basis. When you’re living with a foot in two countries whose fall holidays don’t match up, though, planning a proper feast can slip easily by the wayside.

This year, our last-minute host in Ottawa delivered some fine impromptu stuffing and sweet potatoes. Days later, my visiting chef (mom) whipped up a pumpkin pie to help us refuel after our marathon. This Thursday, on the American holiday, we’ll likely share a smorgasbord of non-traditional dishes with other left-behind friends.

And so for this most humble of Thanksgiving posts, I had to reach way back into my photo archives for last year’s grown-up cranberry sauce, which I discovered on one of the first food blogs I started reading regularly. I have only one thing to say about this sauce: we’re still talking about it a year later.

I know what you’re thinking–why mess with perfection? But trust me on this one. It’s not so far off from the original, really. And after 20+ years of eating plain old cranberries n’ sugar, don’t you think it’s time for a change? I mean, let’s face it, life is too short for the same old. And If you hate it, I promise you someone will be happy to take it off your hands. (Express post to our place works as well.)

There’s something about an old favorite with a twist, like a reminder that old things too can be made new. What could be better accessories to tart, sweet cranberry sauce spiked with ruby red port, piney rosemary, and melt-in-your mouth figs.

My deepest apologies go out to turkey: there are some sauces that are just too good for you. This one deserves to be eaten by the spoonful. Or at least spread on crackers with a nickel of goat cheese.

But don’t despair, dearest bird. For you there’s always the recipe on the back of the cranberry bag.

Continue reading ‘grown-up cranberry sauce’

Outside my window the world is white. I’m not sure if the snow is here to stay quite yet, but one thing is sure: the cold is. Winter’s boney fingers slowly graze the once cushiony ground, casting December’s spell. The trees stand out against the white-grey sky, proudly showing their shape, leafless and spindly.

My apartment is warm and my desk is graced with overflowing mugs of tea.  As long as my shelves are full of heavy squash and my fridge is stocked with soup, I don’t mind that the days of fresh, delicate greens are so far off.

But there is one hideout. In a small jar in my cupboard, things still grow. Like a reminder that this cold death can’t last forever, their green curls bring a smile to my face and a bittersweet crunch to my sandwiches. 

It’s quite a miracle, really. Seeds and water, soaking; life in a jar. 

*Sprouting jar with three different sized draining lids, and sprouts provided by Sprout People. These people have a great selection of organic beans and seeds on which to try your sprouting hand. Their site also offers hints, information about the health benefits of sprouts, and interesting recipes.

It had to happen eventually. Sometimes life gets in the way of pretty pictures, and these, well, these look like I have these last few weeks of fall semester. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. On the inside, they’re almost perfect. 

And so with this introduction of the worst photos ever to grace this website, I bring you the best kind of indulgence: the kind that surprises you. This one sneaks in the back door and kisses you right on the mouth. With a mouthful of soft cheese and slippery, al dente pasta shells, this dinner proves that the stomach’s is more reliably discerning than the eye.

You know what the problem is with being a food blogger/photographer? There are no smiles, no shining eyes, no expressions to capture. Often food that blew your mind winds up looking like a pile of brown mush, or in this case, a Michelina’s frozen pasta entree. But food also symbolizes moments, and that is what I think these photos of my lunch-time leftovers do best–haphazardly taken after an eight mile run just before rushing to class.

This dish looks a lot better when it first comes out of the oven–the cheese all flecked with brown and the roasted tomatos bubbling up from beneath like a secret. Let’s face it, the microwave just leaves something to be desired when it comes to putting the best food forward.

I think part of the joy in this dish is that I didn’t make it. It was past of the third installment of a (once-every-some-weeks’) cooking group I have with two of my favorite friends: something we affectionately refer to as “estro-cook.” While I was laboring away on the butternuts, my partners in crime were busy working away at this little number. Two weeks later, it emerged from my freezer, masquerading as an Italian getaway. 

Not the kind of food I usually make, this dish left me delighting in the simple things: cheese I don’t care about the fat content of, garlic (ohhh, garlic), the taste of roasted things, and that everyday miracle of stuffing ingredients into a little boat of pasta. What could be better?

Continue reading ’smokin’ shells’

Ketch up dih fire Ma’hta
Pass me dih gungo peas,
Rub up dih flour Sarah - Lawd!
Feel di evenin’ breeze*

I never thought I’d see the words “Jamaican” and “shepherd’s pie” together in one recipe title. The first conjures up tastes of fried plantains, coconut, and spicy jerk seasoning. The second? Tired ground beef suffocated by dry mashed potatoes stripped of their whipped garlicy glory.  

Sure I’ve had good times with shepherd’s pie. It can be done right, and when it is, it’s at least 10 iron chef points ahead of meatloaf. There is something satisfyingly simple about it that makes me want to put on a peasant dress and go out and milk cows. It’s the same way I feel about stews and artisan bread and wine served in thick, stemless goblets. Good shepherd’s pie can be staid and steadfast, served on a beaten-up harvest table, surrounded by joy. 

So when I saw this pie, all stripped of those old-fashioned ingredients, I was wary. But as it stared back at me from the pages of Veganomicon, I knew I had to answer its rainbow plea.

A recipe that’s multi-step enough to rise to any special occasion, yet everyday enough to stuff in wraps for lunches, this dish can wear many masks. With a curry essence that’s sweeter than traditional Indian curries, this stew can also be made without the cassava (yuca) topping, and served over plain rice. 

Let me warn you about one thing first. As with many vegetarian recipes, there’s a little more prep involved in this one than your average sheep-herdin’ pie. But that’s what husbands (or boyfriends, or girlfriends, or kitchen elves) are for, right? If you’re lacking in a second pair of hands, do it in stages to lessen the load.  

I guarantee this will get you out of your casserole rut. (Does anyone make casseroles anymore?) Or at least out of your one-pot rut. (That sounds much more modern.) And as the skies get grayer by the day here in Syracuse, it might help splash your table with some good Carribbean vibes, mon. 

So let out those dreads and grab the keys–this is one you’ll have to make a special trip for. But don’t worry: I made all the mistakes for you already. What’s left should be all straw huts and sunshine.

*Jamaican Folk Song

Continue reading ‘jamaican yuca shepherd’s pie’

Before you quickly click away from this post muttering squash, AGAIN?? please humor me. If there’s any time of the year I’m allowed to indulge my love of the gourd family, it’s fall.

On Halloween evening I biked to the grocery store to procure a baguette. We were going to have it with Mark’s delicious Punkin Ale rendition of this Beer Baked Beans recipe. I rode home with my baguette sticking out from behind me, feeling like I was headed to a dinner party in Montmarte.

The best thing about that little jaunt though were the pumpkins. Dotting front stoops like jolly orange goblins, glowing as if they had invaded the streets of Syracuse, the rotund globes guided me all the way home. There’s something about a carved pumpkin that makes me smile every time.

Leaves crackled under my bike tires as I passed people in lawn chairs doling out candy. My twilight ride wove through neighborhood streets that grew more festive as the sun sank.

But my recipe today doesn’t have to do with beans, baguettes, or pumpkins, but another type of squash. I’ve posted about the silky, meaty butternut once before, but today it’s back, pureed into a low fat soup with pears and curry powder. Here it is pictured with a swirl of sour cream.

Some friends and I made this soup a few weeks ago as part of our newly founded “Estro-cook” nights. The semi-weekly Sunday evening cook-a-thon was named after a Winnipeg Folk Festival workshop called “Estro-Jam,” where women from different bands teamed up to play a daytime stage.

I just love how this picture shows off the sunny October afternoon I enjoyed it on. Having soup in the freezer is one life’s easiest pleasures.

This soup can even be dressed up with cubes of tofu and green lentils, as this cafe on B.C.’s Sunshine Coast did. I took this picture while I was solo cycle-touring around Vancouver island, and this picture reminds me of those days, spent largely alone, when a bowl of soup and a Moleskine journal could very well be a vagabond’s best friend.

And years later, though I am holed up in Syracuse as the fall wilts to shades of ochre, the dear gourd does it again.

Continue reading ‘leaves and butternuts’