Quiche lorraine -lite but tasty

Ingredients:

one pre-made pie crust
6 eggs
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup greek yogurt 2% (or sour cream, low fat if you like)
nutmeg, salt, pepper
an onion
canadian bacon (smoked) or lardons*
shredded cheese (swiss, cheddar or, your preference)

*A note on lardons--basically, French smoked pork belly (bacon) with an awesome flavor that's used so ubiquitously in French cooking that if you've ever eaten a real French dish, they've probably been a flavor component. Generally the fat is rendered from lardons to cook other ingredients in.

Pre-bake the pie crust in a tart pan or pie plate; following the instructions on the box for time and temp. Note: make sure the crust stretches up the sides to the top of the plate, b/c it shrinks during cooking. Oh, and don't forget to prick the crust with a fork or it'll puff up in the oven.

Slice the onions and cook them till they caramelize while the crust is cooking. If you're using real lardons, put those in with the onions to extract the yummy flavor.

Scald 1/2 c. milk in microwave, add 1/2 c.greek yogurt & mix.
Scramble 6 eggs, then mix in liquid, 1/4 + t. nutmeg, 1 t. salt, and pepper as desired.
Pour into baked pie crust. Layer in onions, bacon & cheese.
Bake 30 mins at 375 deg. F. till it gets a bit golden on top or knife comes out clean when you stick it in the center.

Serving suggestions:
Eat lukewarm; it's especially good with a big green salad with vinaigrette dressing!

The original recipe is adapted from Julia Child's The Art of French Cooking and from Oui Chef.

A wedding story

The raindrops started hitting the windshield about thirty seconds before we arrived at the beach where we were having our wedding ceremony. I am riding in the off-road limo with my parents—one of those cute Jeep Libertys, in dress black for the occasion, of course (but not easy to climb into in a wedding dress!). We arrive at the beach and all 30 guests are huddled under umbrellas and look forlorn against the backdrop of a frothy, bubbly blue-green sea the color of blue curaco-containing cocktail as it leaves the blender. I start waving frantically from the front seat for them all to enter the beach. There’s some commotion as we hadn’t actually planned in which order the moms would, “enter” the beach. Even though there was no church aisle or even any seats, my dad walked me onto the beach, gallantly leading me through the ruts made by what looked like a four-wheeler. The smell of the sea hit me full in the face as gale like winds frothed the normally tranquil bayside Cape Cod Sea into a seafoam green frenzy. I reach the justice of the peace and my gorgeous groom and turn to see our families and friends at a polite distance from the makeshift alter. We encourage them all to huddle in closer and the Justice of the Peace can barely be heard above the sound of the wind. Friends are pattering around in the sand to take pictures and half of my hairdo comes unstuck—truly a testament to the power of Mother Nature as there I-don’t-know-how-many coats of hairspray on my coiffed ‘do. We guide our four readers into the landing area, and it’s very intimate indeed as Pepe and Anne read in French, Rob quips a line speaking of tempests and Gisela reads in Singaporean Chinese and English. I tear up during the Apache Indian wedding prayer and I can’t help by kiss my Julito before the Justice says, “I now pronounce you husband and wife”. But we kissed after too! I turn to see all of our dear family and friends huddled together and shivering facing angry wind-driven raindrops and salt spray just for us! The image wasn’t one of the many that were digitally captured that weekend, but it remains etched in my mind like the smell of sea as I hit the beach, the sand in between my toes in my pink ballerina slippers and the roar of the wind.

Thanks Mr. 2 buck!

The hardwood floor rippled slightly under my feet as I lurched to the bathroom for my way too early Monday morning shower. Or was that merely the effect of too much two-buck Chuck from Trader Joe’s downed while consuming the best meal of the weekend? The smell of wine-soaked game hen still permeated the bedroom—not too surprising as the bed is in the open room right next to the kitchen (less street noise here than the actual bedroom) and I wished I could eat some more bird for breakfast.

I’d been looking for a good bird to cook since I roasted my first duck for New Year’s this year. I took cues from my French in-laws and used the rendered goose fat to slow cook some thinly sliced potato rounds just till golden brown and slightly crispy. Sure fat gives food great flavor, but duck fat is phenomenal! The potatoes were divine—rich and not too salty. A few years ago I had the best brussel sprouts of my life (American children’s most hated veggie), learning only after having eaten half a plate-full of the tender salty-sweet browned balls that they had been cooked in the canary yellow goose fat garnered from the fresh foie gras that I tried oh-so-hard not to eat too much of. After that, it was really too late to worry about cholesterol for the rest of the meal.

We found some Rock Cornish game hens at our local Russian bodega, of all places. The Joy of Cooking describes them as having a mild, but pleasant gamey flavor even though they’re practically all white meat (Joy, while very practical, is no Julia Child). I was too hungry to wait the hour-and-a-half that the wild rice needed to cook before I could stuff it in the birds, so I kept a component of the rice stuffing—the green olives—and put them in some sage-flavored stuffing mix from the pantry and into the tiny birds’ cavities. The roasting pan I used was our IKEA cocotte (French style porcelain coated cast-iron pan) so I didn’t even bother trussing the birds, as they only had enough room to shimmy in the pan side-by-side and the stuffing stayed in just fine. After the pan was good and hot, say after 15 minutes at 350˚F, I poured about a glass of the aforementioned two-buck Pinot Grigio in the pan, and at least two in me. I mentioned being hungry, n’est ce pas? After 30 mins more, I basted the birds and turned them up to 400˚F, and basted myself with some more wine, while surveying the caramelizing carrots & onions. Thankfully the rice was handled by my hubby, because I might’ve burned it.

Fifteen more minutes and it was time to tuck into those cute little birds. What could be cuter than single-serving sized fowl? And what could be more delicious? I honestly don’t know, because after being steeped in wine (me and the hens) this meal was off-the charts good. When you and your guests are making yummy noises after every single bite, I know I’ve hit recipe perfection—with a nod to Mr. Two-buck for his help.