Wednesday, July 25, 2012
A steamed beet at Gare du Nord, Paris
Il fait 40 degrees la-non? Forty degrees Celcius, 100 degrees Farenheit? Only emergency lighting and oppressively hot, stagnant air. Periodically a train passes alongside, offering a scant breee. I'm taking deep breaths trying to still my heart which is slowly crawling its way up my throat. I calm down a bit. This is good as the lower adreneline levels cool me off slightly. I imagine rescue by means of one of the passing trains stopping and lettin us cliumb aboad. I envision the train rolling backwards to the nearest station. After a good 15 minutes the electricity comes on and along with it, the ventilation so not at least some hot air is circulatino in the car--a relief even if its the same temperature as before. We advance a few feet and stop. And again. And again. We roll backwards due to the incline of the track. There's no power at the main station but better yet, a train in front of us is disabled. I'm saying "oh for F*'s sake" but the Parisians really keep their cool. Amazing people, given the circumstances. I really just can't hold in the snide, sarcastic comments. There are people in the train who are texting their families (if they have a signal that is--this section of the tunnel is a long one, and it's a black hole, no bars on the phone; you can forget about 3G). People remark that they have kids at home, now alone waiting for their parents who are stuck on the train. Some tired commuters sleep like dogs in a hot car. But overall they're rather stoic about the situation. They, like I, know that trains run full out on this line, pulling up one directly behind another during rush hour; at times, it's certainly more than one train every two minutes as advertised. I pay about 90€ for a monthly train pass, and live 15 km outside of Paris--a steal, but in my opinion I get what I pay for. Can I please pay more? My hubby laughed at my idea to write a letter to the train company SNCF, offering to donate a couple hundred € in order to have A/C on the train--a totally preposterous idea to the French--paying more, that is. One hour after boarding the train at Luxumbourg, I stumble onto the platform at Gare du Nord to a crush of people trying to board the train, a steamed beet, and the same color. Normally it's a ten-minute trip. Sigh. For once, the fetid warm air of the ugliest station in Paris feels cool and inviting. None of the passengers are complaining; they are pressed together boarding the hell hole prison that i just spent a pretty panicked hour in: sardines in a metal tin, soon to be just a juicy too. I'm angry and exhausted, because I know that it's just the status quo. I trudge to my train and buy some ice cream on the walk home. That'll cool me off, I hope.
Friday, June 01, 2012
I get 25 minutes.
That's right; less than half an hour all to myself. No duties chores responsibilities--other than cursory polite gestures to fellow commuters stuffed into this dingy sardine box that smells faintly of body order and expensive French perfume. I don’t have any dishes to clean, mail to open, coworkers looking over my shoulder at what’s on my screen. This is my time. So when you, my friend get on the train, understand that you are interrupting my 25 minutes. You are robbing me of precious restorative moments—a flash of inspiration before the subway doors slide shut, and it’s gone. I regroup. I peruse. I dream. I create.
At least play an accordion, or do some chanson, mon gars, while I'm traversing the world’s most poetically charming river view available from a train seat. No boom box, je vous en prie. And can ya keep it to one musician per car, per ride? How much polite civility am I really required to dish out on a daily basis, when the music is as bad as a group Japanese tourists at a karyoke bar? You may very well be deserving of a Euro or vingt centimes for that jazzy tune sung so pretty with the backdrop of your tatty guitar, but right now I swear ta god if one more dude gets on the metro with a circa 1981 American boombox karaoke backup and a voice like Bob Dylan (present day), I'm gunna show the French the definition of going postal. Hmm…observing the reverse cultural definition would require me to throw myself in front of train—eew. I guess part of being a stranger in a strange land is to learn to muster the patience to handle a train ride of really bad karyoke.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Patates farcies à la viande et aux herbes- à al Janine
Patates farcies a la viande et aux herbes- à al Janine
This is a good way to use leftover meat—veal roast for this version.
4 big baking potatoes, 2 large tomatoes – cored so they can be filled
stuffing:
1 head kale
several cloves garlic
sml bunch green onions (thinly sliced)
3 slices of white bread (can use old dry bread) soaked in milk
1 bunch parsley
200 grams leftover meat (veal/pork roast, or fresh veal or pork)
heavy cream
-------------
all of the above can be prepared by finely chopping in food processor
Boil salted water to cook the potatoes. Heat oven to 210 deg. C. Choose 4 big baking potatoes of similar size; you could also stuff big tomatoes. Peel potatoes and cut in two lengthwise. Boil 10 mins. Get a bowl of cold water ready for when the potatoes are done.
Prepare the stuffing. Sautee the kale in olive oil-sliced into fine strips with the tough white parts removed. Start on med-hi heat for 2 minutes, then on low heat for 5 minutes. When kale starts to soften, add 2 cloves diced garlic and green onions; cook 3-5 mins more till onions just soften. Take off the heat; now add the rest of the ingredients. You can add some cream, and salt and pepper to taste (nutmeg might be good too?)
Potatoes should be done now, plunge in cold water. Aim to hollow out a good-sized cavity in the potato—leaving the rest to make a “hat” that will top the stuffing. Stuff potatoes and tomatoes, put “hat” on top; place in pyrex baking dish. Bake for 10 mins, then add about 200mL of bouillon in bottom of dish. Bake 20-30 mins more, add more liquid if necessary. When taters are soft, it’s done.
This is a good way to use leftover meat—veal roast for this version.
4 big baking potatoes, 2 large tomatoes – cored so they can be filled
stuffing:
1 head kale
several cloves garlic
sml bunch green onions (thinly sliced)
3 slices of white bread (can use old dry bread) soaked in milk
1 bunch parsley
200 grams leftover meat (veal/pork roast, or fresh veal or pork)
heavy cream
-------------
all of the above can be prepared by finely chopping in food processor
Boil salted water to cook the potatoes. Heat oven to 210 deg. C. Choose 4 big baking potatoes of similar size; you could also stuff big tomatoes. Peel potatoes and cut in two lengthwise. Boil 10 mins. Get a bowl of cold water ready for when the potatoes are done.
Prepare the stuffing. Sautee the kale in olive oil-sliced into fine strips with the tough white parts removed. Start on med-hi heat for 2 minutes, then on low heat for 5 minutes. When kale starts to soften, add 2 cloves diced garlic and green onions; cook 3-5 mins more till onions just soften. Take off the heat; now add the rest of the ingredients. You can add some cream, and salt and pepper to taste (nutmeg might be good too?)
Potatoes should be done now, plunge in cold water. Aim to hollow out a good-sized cavity in the potato—leaving the rest to make a “hat” that will top the stuffing. Stuff potatoes and tomatoes, put “hat” on top; place in pyrex baking dish. Bake for 10 mins, then add about 200mL of bouillon in bottom of dish. Bake 20-30 mins more, add more liquid if necessary. When taters are soft, it’s done.
Wednesday, February 01, 2012
Half of an iphone cover, a skinned knee and nice tour of Noisy-le-sec's fine police station
I make it a point not to stay late at work. Generally at 5:55 pm I’m out the door heading for my train, which runs every quarter hour. I blame it on working so many late nights and weekends in the lab during my PhD studies, while single. This night I had champagne & hors d’oeuvres in compensation for my sacrifice, so I made an exception. Fiddling around on my iphone, bored, quite tired, and annoyed not to be in the express train since they all run local after a certain time of night.
At the Noisy-le-Sec stop, just before the buzzer sounds for the doors to close, some tall dude rips the iphone out of my hands, but I keep hanging on. I say something like, “No, no, no, no…” then, “Asshole!” as I end up with the phone’s cover in my hand, frayed at one end where it’s ripped away from the part of the cover cradling the phone. Oh—and the headphone cord has been ripped clean in two as well.
My brain partially engages at this point and I realize that yelling in English on the train platform in a Parisian suburb is not going to be terribly effective. I start screaming “Voler! VOLEUR!” (thief) and continue with “Where’s security? Pull the alarm!” and whatever else I can think of to get anyone to actually help me instead of just staring in a mildly curious fashion from inside the train or hanging out of the open doors and outright gawking at the mad woman. There’s a diminutive mother, about my age and an immigrant too—just like the thief that ripped me off (and me, for that matter). She’s urging us to file a police report and convinces the second man to get off the train so he can file a report too.
In the exchange that ensues between the young woman and the other victim, I understand that there were 3 attackers who ran down onto and across the tracks to the exit. No one stopped them (in spite of me screaming my head off like a fool), but we do have plenty of onlookers until the train finally pulls away.
She calls the police, who arrive rather quickly, but stays with us and lets us call our spouses to let them know that we’d be arriving home late—and allowing them to call the phone company to have our phones blocked.
I make some comments to the officers about how this never happened to me in NYC. In Manhattan, someone would have tried to stop the thieves. I realize now that the only two “witnesses” to the crime were people getting off the train who lived in Noisy-le-sec. Considering that the train was about half full by my estimate, there were certainly more than 2 witnesses to this crime led by a gang of 3 in different cars of the train. The policeman says, “We’re 3 officers for a city of 40,000 inhabitants. We have a police force with American ambitions and African means (€)”. I remarked, “What can I do? It’s 9:30 pm in a half-full train”? “Be careful and don’t show your phone”. “What’s the good of having a phone if I can’t use it”? I’m still so American sometimes.
I decided my comments about the U.S. were not helping matters when the cop mentioned “Ici c’est le droit de l’homme/Here it’s the rights of man [that rule the day]”. I think he really wished he could pack some heat to scare those punks, as most of the time the justice system just lets them go after catching them, he admitted. He was a sweet guy for a cop. I guess it’s because he’s got to be a nice guy. No gun, no taser, just the “droit de l’homme” as his weapon. The entire police force of Noisy le Sec, myself and the other victim squeezed into the smallest cop car in Western Europe. I was shoehorned in the middle seat and could have easily reached over to steer the car, had I been so inclined.
It takes over an hour for me to give my testimony or constater. Meanwhile, supercop and I talked about where I’d visited in France, where I’d lived in the USA, and how I got to France. The illuminating part for me was the station itself. Pictures of France’s elite squad in full SWAT gear kitted out with a very serious german shepard, plus monikers such as “big nose” written in red indelible marker adorned the lockers. Someone at least had the mercy to order lockers in a nondescript beige, perhaps full well knowing that any fashionable color choice would reveal their true age. In short, it looked like a highschool men’s locker room from the 70s. I was told that I couldn’t call my husband’s cell number, because the police dept. had them blocked. It’s too expensive. I asked if they had internet access, and he looked apologetic. Reality came in for a crash landing. Nothing would ever happen to a single one of these pubescent punks that ripped me off. All I had to show for it was half a phone cover and a skinned knee, earned by hanging on to my beloved iphone.
At some point my new friend even pointed out the elite force, referring to them as “the real police”. They sure were amicable for cops; I mean one just doesn’t joke with say, New York City’s finest—even traffic cops. In NYC you threaten a bus driver and it’s like a $750 fine and 6 months in jail*. But I don’t think they get stabbed anymore. Hell, I just read that you can walk clear across Central Park at midnight and there’s barely any chance you’ll get mugged, let alone murdered (I looked it up, last murder in the park was in 2002). But that’s really my point. It’s high time to beef up the police squad and arm them with some nasty fucking dogs. Don’t like the guns? Fine. How about a little canine-induced fear? And make sure those damn dogs can run faster than 6 foot something dudes from the hood. Buy some god-damned tasers if you’re allergic to lead. But do fucking something! Something other than saying, “Well, what do you want us to do with 3 cops”? I can’t vote in this country motherfucker. Figure it fucking out.
It’s now near midnight and Friday the 13th, and if you’ve been following any of my stories in the land of stinky cheese, you and I both know that this 1 ½ tour of Noisy le Sec’s fine law enforcement establishment would not be my last visit to a police station in the near future. I was right.
My new best friend in Noisy-le-sec was kind enough to tell me that I could officially file my complaint anywhere in France, but I’d need to come back with the serial # of the phone. Ok; easy enough, as I can see the police station from my train stop. So after a glass of whiskey, some leftovers, and two hours spent updating all of my sensitive passwords that were set on auto-login in my former iphone, I was definitely in the mood to go back to the cop shop at 9 am. I arrive at the municipal police to discover that all official police reports must be filed at a national police station (I consoled myself with the knowledge that at I’d get to see some real guns). I recognize neither of the addresses that are listed. Perfect I’ll just look them up on the ol’ handy iph…Fuck. Ok, at least my neighborhood’s inhabitants are as friendly as Midwesterners. The florist draws me a map to make sure I don’t miss the stop where I need to get off. I half expected her to take me to the bus station.
I wait 10 minutes for the bus and begin writing this story on the back of the map she’s drawn for me. The station is in the tall housing blocks, meaning that I’m in the projects between my town and the next one on the RER A—another Parisian suburban train line. The ‘hood seems nice enough in the daylight but they guy has to buzz me in, which I find disconcerting. I mean, he’s a cop—right? Shouldn’t he be able to hold his own? I give him the short version. He says something about a “printer problem”. I explain that the other officer told me that I could file anywhere—only to have him tell me that he can’t do anything for me. Can’t I go to the other National Police office? No, I’m on foot. I say, “I’m sorry, are you telling me that you can’t help me”? “Our printer is down and we’re waiting for the technician”. I’m dumbfounded.
I take the bus back to the train station, take that slow train into Paris and arrive at work around 11:30 am, just in time for lunch and another trip to the police station—this time, to the Commissariat de Police du 5eme arrondissment. This place is clean, well lit, and I’m sure this policeman has ironed his shirt and not peeled it from the floor of his car. I tell my sad story, in full detail all over again, based on the officer’s questions, even managing to get worked up about it all over again. I suppose he did me a favor, filling out the report in full so it didn’t have to be transferred to the sad Noisy cops, giving them yet more paperwork. Yeah. Might as well give those poor sweet guys a break.
*A perfunctory Google search suggests that you can get up to 7 years for assaulting a NYC bus driver.
At the Noisy-le-Sec stop, just before the buzzer sounds for the doors to close, some tall dude rips the iphone out of my hands, but I keep hanging on. I say something like, “No, no, no, no…” then, “Asshole!” as I end up with the phone’s cover in my hand, frayed at one end where it’s ripped away from the part of the cover cradling the phone. Oh—and the headphone cord has been ripped clean in two as well.
My brain partially engages at this point and I realize that yelling in English on the train platform in a Parisian suburb is not going to be terribly effective. I start screaming “Voler! VOLEUR!” (thief) and continue with “Where’s security? Pull the alarm!” and whatever else I can think of to get anyone to actually help me instead of just staring in a mildly curious fashion from inside the train or hanging out of the open doors and outright gawking at the mad woman. There’s a diminutive mother, about my age and an immigrant too—just like the thief that ripped me off (and me, for that matter). She’s urging us to file a police report and convinces the second man to get off the train so he can file a report too.
In the exchange that ensues between the young woman and the other victim, I understand that there were 3 attackers who ran down onto and across the tracks to the exit. No one stopped them (in spite of me screaming my head off like a fool), but we do have plenty of onlookers until the train finally pulls away.
She calls the police, who arrive rather quickly, but stays with us and lets us call our spouses to let them know that we’d be arriving home late—and allowing them to call the phone company to have our phones blocked.
I make some comments to the officers about how this never happened to me in NYC. In Manhattan, someone would have tried to stop the thieves. I realize now that the only two “witnesses” to the crime were people getting off the train who lived in Noisy-le-sec. Considering that the train was about half full by my estimate, there were certainly more than 2 witnesses to this crime led by a gang of 3 in different cars of the train. The policeman says, “We’re 3 officers for a city of 40,000 inhabitants. We have a police force with American ambitions and African means (€)”. I remarked, “What can I do? It’s 9:30 pm in a half-full train”? “Be careful and don’t show your phone”. “What’s the good of having a phone if I can’t use it”? I’m still so American sometimes.
I decided my comments about the U.S. were not helping matters when the cop mentioned “Ici c’est le droit de l’homme/Here it’s the rights of man [that rule the day]”. I think he really wished he could pack some heat to scare those punks, as most of the time the justice system just lets them go after catching them, he admitted. He was a sweet guy for a cop. I guess it’s because he’s got to be a nice guy. No gun, no taser, just the “droit de l’homme” as his weapon. The entire police force of Noisy le Sec, myself and the other victim squeezed into the smallest cop car in Western Europe. I was shoehorned in the middle seat and could have easily reached over to steer the car, had I been so inclined.
It takes over an hour for me to give my testimony or constater. Meanwhile, supercop and I talked about where I’d visited in France, where I’d lived in the USA, and how I got to France. The illuminating part for me was the station itself. Pictures of France’s elite squad in full SWAT gear kitted out with a very serious german shepard, plus monikers such as “big nose” written in red indelible marker adorned the lockers. Someone at least had the mercy to order lockers in a nondescript beige, perhaps full well knowing that any fashionable color choice would reveal their true age. In short, it looked like a highschool men’s locker room from the 70s. I was told that I couldn’t call my husband’s cell number, because the police dept. had them blocked. It’s too expensive. I asked if they had internet access, and he looked apologetic. Reality came in for a crash landing. Nothing would ever happen to a single one of these pubescent punks that ripped me off. All I had to show for it was half a phone cover and a skinned knee, earned by hanging on to my beloved iphone.
At some point my new friend even pointed out the elite force, referring to them as “the real police”. They sure were amicable for cops; I mean one just doesn’t joke with say, New York City’s finest—even traffic cops. In NYC you threaten a bus driver and it’s like a $750 fine and 6 months in jail*. But I don’t think they get stabbed anymore. Hell, I just read that you can walk clear across Central Park at midnight and there’s barely any chance you’ll get mugged, let alone murdered (I looked it up, last murder in the park was in 2002). But that’s really my point. It’s high time to beef up the police squad and arm them with some nasty fucking dogs. Don’t like the guns? Fine. How about a little canine-induced fear? And make sure those damn dogs can run faster than 6 foot something dudes from the hood. Buy some god-damned tasers if you’re allergic to lead. But do fucking something! Something other than saying, “Well, what do you want us to do with 3 cops”? I can’t vote in this country motherfucker. Figure it fucking out.
It’s now near midnight and Friday the 13th, and if you’ve been following any of my stories in the land of stinky cheese, you and I both know that this 1 ½ tour of Noisy le Sec’s fine law enforcement establishment would not be my last visit to a police station in the near future. I was right.
My new best friend in Noisy-le-sec was kind enough to tell me that I could officially file my complaint anywhere in France, but I’d need to come back with the serial # of the phone. Ok; easy enough, as I can see the police station from my train stop. So after a glass of whiskey, some leftovers, and two hours spent updating all of my sensitive passwords that were set on auto-login in my former iphone, I was definitely in the mood to go back to the cop shop at 9 am. I arrive at the municipal police to discover that all official police reports must be filed at a national police station (I consoled myself with the knowledge that at I’d get to see some real guns). I recognize neither of the addresses that are listed. Perfect I’ll just look them up on the ol’ handy iph…Fuck. Ok, at least my neighborhood’s inhabitants are as friendly as Midwesterners. The florist draws me a map to make sure I don’t miss the stop where I need to get off. I half expected her to take me to the bus station.
I wait 10 minutes for the bus and begin writing this story on the back of the map she’s drawn for me. The station is in the tall housing blocks, meaning that I’m in the projects between my town and the next one on the RER A—another Parisian suburban train line. The ‘hood seems nice enough in the daylight but they guy has to buzz me in, which I find disconcerting. I mean, he’s a cop—right? Shouldn’t he be able to hold his own? I give him the short version. He says something about a “printer problem”. I explain that the other officer told me that I could file anywhere—only to have him tell me that he can’t do anything for me. Can’t I go to the other National Police office? No, I’m on foot. I say, “I’m sorry, are you telling me that you can’t help me”? “Our printer is down and we’re waiting for the technician”. I’m dumbfounded.
I take the bus back to the train station, take that slow train into Paris and arrive at work around 11:30 am, just in time for lunch and another trip to the police station—this time, to the Commissariat de Police du 5eme arrondissment. This place is clean, well lit, and I’m sure this policeman has ironed his shirt and not peeled it from the floor of his car. I tell my sad story, in full detail all over again, based on the officer’s questions, even managing to get worked up about it all over again. I suppose he did me a favor, filling out the report in full so it didn’t have to be transferred to the sad Noisy cops, giving them yet more paperwork. Yeah. Might as well give those poor sweet guys a break.
*A perfunctory Google search suggests that you can get up to 7 years for assaulting a NYC bus driver.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Fully booked till Christmas
With a sign on the door saying fully booked till Christmas--I knew that I was in for a treat. Café Sorgenfri's (http://www.cafesorgenfri.dk/) red and white checked tablecloths lent a festive air to dark panelled walls all decked up in pine garland and Christmas ornaments. The place had the air of a 100 year old bar, not unlike New York's McSorleys, met with an old country bistro in a dark cozy basement for a clandestine rendezvous.
To me, a budding foodie American, smørrebrød (otherwise known as smorgasbord) was--ahem--just a tray full of open-faced sandwiches (apologies to my Danish friends). Little did I know that there's a quite a tradition of Danish smorgasbord and items should be eaten in a particular order and on the correct type of bread: brown or white. Also, the size of the platter dictated the length of time needed to book the table. Now this sounded more like smorgasbord to me. At Christmastime restaurants often serve a special holiday smørrebrød spread set out for office parties and family gatherings.
After ordering some jule beer (Christmas beer-pronounced yule-uh-beer) tucked in to an incredible smorgasbord consisting of: sweet pickled herring & brown bread, small shrimp on white bread with mayonnaise, pâté of pork liver on white with cold pickled beetroot and warm red pickled cabbage, chicken salad with bacon & mayonnaise on white, Frikadeller pork meatballs with pickled cabbage, pork with the skin on that had turned into pork cracklings, topped off with brie sweet 'n smooth as butter.
The herring wasn't fishy at all, but slightly sweet and vinegary with a velvety texture (my husband who generally won't go within 10 feet of something smelling slightly fishy, ate an entire sandwich! Seriously.). The pork pâté brought back childhood memories of liverwurst dumping soup and the condiments were perfectly paired for each dish--the sweet acidity of the red cabbage making a nice contrast with the rich Frikadeller and pork cracklings. The Frikadeller were crispy on the outside, just as any excellent meatballs should be, and the pork cracklings attached to the pork roast like that were exceptional. Though, by meal's end I was dying for a salad for dinner. For the next week.
Notes:
After writing this, I looked up some descriptions of the restaurant and evidently, the restaurant used to be a sailor's tavern and the house dates to 1796. Go figure.
Café Sorgenfri does a special Christmas smorgasbord platter with even more courses than the one we plodded away at for 2 hours and didn't manage to finish.
To me, a budding foodie American, smørrebrød (otherwise known as smorgasbord) was--ahem--just a tray full of open-faced sandwiches (apologies to my Danish friends). Little did I know that there's a quite a tradition of Danish smorgasbord and items should be eaten in a particular order and on the correct type of bread: brown or white. Also, the size of the platter dictated the length of time needed to book the table. Now this sounded more like smorgasbord to me. At Christmastime restaurants often serve a special holiday smørrebrød spread set out for office parties and family gatherings.
After ordering some jule beer (Christmas beer-pronounced yule-uh-beer) tucked in to an incredible smorgasbord consisting of: sweet pickled herring & brown bread, small shrimp on white bread with mayonnaise, pâté of pork liver on white with cold pickled beetroot and warm red pickled cabbage, chicken salad with bacon & mayonnaise on white, Frikadeller pork meatballs with pickled cabbage, pork with the skin on that had turned into pork cracklings, topped off with brie sweet 'n smooth as butter.
The herring wasn't fishy at all, but slightly sweet and vinegary with a velvety texture (my husband who generally won't go within 10 feet of something smelling slightly fishy, ate an entire sandwich! Seriously.). The pork pâté brought back childhood memories of liverwurst dumping soup and the condiments were perfectly paired for each dish--the sweet acidity of the red cabbage making a nice contrast with the rich Frikadeller and pork cracklings. The Frikadeller were crispy on the outside, just as any excellent meatballs should be, and the pork cracklings attached to the pork roast like that were exceptional. Though, by meal's end I was dying for a salad for dinner. For the next week.
Notes:
After writing this, I looked up some descriptions of the restaurant and evidently, the restaurant used to be a sailor's tavern and the house dates to 1796. Go figure.
Café Sorgenfri does a special Christmas smorgasbord platter with even more courses than the one we plodded away at for 2 hours and didn't manage to finish.
Monday, July 04, 2011
Festival São João, Porto, Portugal
We went to Porto, Portugal for the annual St. Jean (or São João, in Portugese) festival, which is notable for its tradition of banging members of the opposite sex on the head with a squeaky plastic hammer. It was pretty damn funny at first, but as the blood alcohol level increased with the rising moon, the whacks got a bit more vindictive—sometimes devolving into a chasing match in order to bring down the gavel in retribution. The squeaks of the plastic hammers lasted well into the wee hours.
As was explained to me, at its core, the origin of the head-hammer-banging tradition was actually a form of flirtation. This was accomplished by sneaking up on a (presumably cute) member of the opposite sex, and then tickling their nose with a flower from a garlic plant. These flowers can still be found in Porto on the day of the festival, and I can tell you that when I saw one coming towards me, I put my hammer in front of my nose. I can only assume that dabbing garlic juice on someone’s nose so they smell garlic for the rest of the night was a good conversation starter. That kernel of the tradition—making friends with strangers—is what gives its spark to the São João Festival. In the spirit of all spring pagan festival (the good ones, anyway) the flower ritual is accompanied by feasting and consumption of generous amounts of alcohol. I can only imagine that being rather wine-sodden helps preserve the other important element of spring festivals—fertility.
During the festival it’s traditional to eat goat (I must admit that vivid images of sacrificial rituals jumped into my head when I heard this was the traditional meal) and sardines, which are sold at riverside tents complete with picnic benches draped in Super Bock-themed tablecloths and ice-cold bottles of beer of the same name. It’s the first time that I’ve had goat and I was surprised at how much it didn’t taste like chicken, though grilled, it has a similar texture. Grilled sardines and green peppers are the other traditional dish served during the festival and their odor emanates from not only riverside food carts, but also from little half-barrel style charcoal grills set up in the street outside of ramshackle bodegas throughout the city. We smell the vapors wafting in on the afternoon northern sea breeze throughout São João day.
In southern European style, the festivities commence at midnight, and in our case, following a gut-busting three-hour-long meal including 2 dessert courses. A mother next to us caught her three-year-old daughter as he slid off of daddy's shoulders, sound asleep, midway through the fireworks. I did manage to stay conscious for the lovely and lengthy display, including some fireworks cascading off of the bridge and flowing into the Porto river below, reminiscent of Tinkerbell’s magic pixie dust.
As the effects of the late hour, full stomach, and generous pouring of vinho verde and red Duoro wine set in, we crossed the bridge from the Gaia side of the river to reach Porto. On the other side, after turning along the little cobblestone street lining the river, we came upon the most unruly seething throng that I've encountered outside of Pamplona's running of the bulls. We tried to fight our way through, only to run up against a line of bodies snaking towards food, music and Super Bock stands dotted randomly along the borders of the packed street. Thankfully, there was an escape route available by heading one street away from the river and cutting through a vehicle tunnel containing only a scattered handful of pedestrians, thereby providing some breathing space.
As the crowds slept off their hangovers the next morning, the city was in a sort of blissful repose that one imagine happens to a city after only after a natural disaster. Impressively, the city hall plaza that had a line ten-deep waiting for churros (much to my dissapointment, I was too tired to wait my turn) just a handful of hours before, was now empty, completely devoid of garbage, and smelled fresh cleaned cobblestones—what efficiency!
Porto’s riverbank is lined with charming historical buildings, now filled with shops selling Portugese ceramics and tourist items. We wound our way up from the river banks through little cobblestone streets and crossed ancient but well-conserved tile-faced apartments, often with businesses on the ground floor. On the Gaia side of the banks, it’s a sleeker, more modern version than Porto. We sit down to enjoy a view of the river and see a fleet of boats taking tourists on week-long journeys up the river to the Duoro wine region—a UNESCO world heritage site and the first appellation controlee for Port wine.
We also did a quick driving tour of the Duro wine region, avoiding the interstate to wind around the roads leading up to the high plateaus where the famous grapes grow on the banks of the Duoro river. It was hot—I can’t believe that grapes can grow in the heat that we basked in while overlooking the rolling valley below.
I was also impressed by the beach-sand and nettle-studded dunes along the Gaia beach, which are often whipped by the strong north wind, rising from the Atlantic in the afternoon. Luckily, we experienced only a very light breeze while enjoying ice-cold Super Bock in a chic beachside spot, lounging on ultra-modern bean bag chairs that looked like they came straight from the pages of a Habitat catalog. The waves lapping at mt feet felt surprisingly cold after sitting on the intense sun, but I didn’t think much of it until I started losing sensation in my toes and fingertips 15 seconds after plunging into the drink to cool off. Bathers beware! That Atlantic breeze keeps the ocean near Porto quite chilly, even at the end of June.
All in all, it was a memorable and extremely tasty visit. I know that I wasn’t the only one infected by the spirit of São João, as I caught tourists in the airport taking their plastic hammer “trophies” back home as souvenirs.
As was explained to me, at its core, the origin of the head-hammer-banging tradition was actually a form of flirtation. This was accomplished by sneaking up on a (presumably cute) member of the opposite sex, and then tickling their nose with a flower from a garlic plant. These flowers can still be found in Porto on the day of the festival, and I can tell you that when I saw one coming towards me, I put my hammer in front of my nose. I can only assume that dabbing garlic juice on someone’s nose so they smell garlic for the rest of the night was a good conversation starter. That kernel of the tradition—making friends with strangers—is what gives its spark to the São João Festival. In the spirit of all spring pagan festival (the good ones, anyway) the flower ritual is accompanied by feasting and consumption of generous amounts of alcohol. I can only imagine that being rather wine-sodden helps preserve the other important element of spring festivals—fertility.
During the festival it’s traditional to eat goat (I must admit that vivid images of sacrificial rituals jumped into my head when I heard this was the traditional meal) and sardines, which are sold at riverside tents complete with picnic benches draped in Super Bock-themed tablecloths and ice-cold bottles of beer of the same name. It’s the first time that I’ve had goat and I was surprised at how much it didn’t taste like chicken, though grilled, it has a similar texture. Grilled sardines and green peppers are the other traditional dish served during the festival and their odor emanates from not only riverside food carts, but also from little half-barrel style charcoal grills set up in the street outside of ramshackle bodegas throughout the city. We smell the vapors wafting in on the afternoon northern sea breeze throughout São João day.
In southern European style, the festivities commence at midnight, and in our case, following a gut-busting three-hour-long meal including 2 dessert courses. A mother next to us caught her three-year-old daughter as he slid off of daddy's shoulders, sound asleep, midway through the fireworks. I did manage to stay conscious for the lovely and lengthy display, including some fireworks cascading off of the bridge and flowing into the Porto river below, reminiscent of Tinkerbell’s magic pixie dust.
As the effects of the late hour, full stomach, and generous pouring of vinho verde and red Duoro wine set in, we crossed the bridge from the Gaia side of the river to reach Porto. On the other side, after turning along the little cobblestone street lining the river, we came upon the most unruly seething throng that I've encountered outside of Pamplona's running of the bulls. We tried to fight our way through, only to run up against a line of bodies snaking towards food, music and Super Bock stands dotted randomly along the borders of the packed street. Thankfully, there was an escape route available by heading one street away from the river and cutting through a vehicle tunnel containing only a scattered handful of pedestrians, thereby providing some breathing space.
As the crowds slept off their hangovers the next morning, the city was in a sort of blissful repose that one imagine happens to a city after only after a natural disaster. Impressively, the city hall plaza that had a line ten-deep waiting for churros (much to my dissapointment, I was too tired to wait my turn) just a handful of hours before, was now empty, completely devoid of garbage, and smelled fresh cleaned cobblestones—what efficiency!
Porto’s riverbank is lined with charming historical buildings, now filled with shops selling Portugese ceramics and tourist items. We wound our way up from the river banks through little cobblestone streets and crossed ancient but well-conserved tile-faced apartments, often with businesses on the ground floor. On the Gaia side of the banks, it’s a sleeker, more modern version than Porto. We sit down to enjoy a view of the river and see a fleet of boats taking tourists on week-long journeys up the river to the Duoro wine region—a UNESCO world heritage site and the first appellation controlee for Port wine.
We also did a quick driving tour of the Duro wine region, avoiding the interstate to wind around the roads leading up to the high plateaus where the famous grapes grow on the banks of the Duoro river. It was hot—I can’t believe that grapes can grow in the heat that we basked in while overlooking the rolling valley below.
I was also impressed by the beach-sand and nettle-studded dunes along the Gaia beach, which are often whipped by the strong north wind, rising from the Atlantic in the afternoon. Luckily, we experienced only a very light breeze while enjoying ice-cold Super Bock in a chic beachside spot, lounging on ultra-modern bean bag chairs that looked like they came straight from the pages of a Habitat catalog. The waves lapping at mt feet felt surprisingly cold after sitting on the intense sun, but I didn’t think much of it until I started losing sensation in my toes and fingertips 15 seconds after plunging into the drink to cool off. Bathers beware! That Atlantic breeze keeps the ocean near Porto quite chilly, even at the end of June.
All in all, it was a memorable and extremely tasty visit. I know that I wasn’t the only one infected by the spirit of São João, as I caught tourists in the airport taking their plastic hammer “trophies” back home as souvenirs.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Street Food--in Madeira?!
We hadn't even checked in to the hotel yet, and I roll down the window upon sighting a street-side food cart billowing charcoal smoke. Is that pork I smell? My belly starts grumbling. Yes, please! I'll have some of that immediately; even if it means negotiating a pond-sized puddle (so much for the cleaning deposit on the rental car).
It's a challenge to find a spot for the car that looks as though we'll avoid being blocked in, and we ford the--er--lake heading toward the smoke and what's sure to be good food. There's not much more than a small assembly of plastic tables & chairs next to an aluminum shanty with a charcoal grill, but it's jam packed and there's a line at the take away counter. It looks even better than it smells. There's something called bolo de cacao, which kindof resembles a giant english muffin that's been cooked on a flat grill that's split in half and spread thick with garlic herb butter like is used for traditional escargots and what looks like chicken and some sort of ribs (pork? beef?).
Upon further investigation we find the covered market selling local tropical flowers, fruit and veg, but there's another surprise--a chimney in the corner for grilling meat on skewers. I found out later that espetada, beef skewers marinated in bay leaves and flavored with smoke from bay leaves that are thrown on the fire, are a local specialty. We turn another a corner and hit the motherload--2 stalls exuding the most enticing meat smells imaginable. We settle on pork ribs, bolo de cacao and some of the local alcoholic cider and dig in. Observing one of the locals beside us, it seems the traditional way of eating is to hold a piece of bread in one hand and meat in the other, and we feel very professional in mimicking his style. Bellies full to bursting, we explore the wonders of the market, which include some lovely old-school embroidery, something Madeira is known for, and then check in to the hotel to sleep off the food coma.
It's a challenge to find a spot for the car that looks as though we'll avoid being blocked in, and we ford the--er--lake heading toward the smoke and what's sure to be good food. There's not much more than a small assembly of plastic tables & chairs next to an aluminum shanty with a charcoal grill, but it's jam packed and there's a line at the take away counter. It looks even better than it smells. There's something called bolo de cacao, which kindof resembles a giant english muffin that's been cooked on a flat grill that's split in half and spread thick with garlic herb butter like is used for traditional escargots and what looks like chicken and some sort of ribs (pork? beef?).
Upon further investigation we find the covered market selling local tropical flowers, fruit and veg, but there's another surprise--a chimney in the corner for grilling meat on skewers. I found out later that espetada, beef skewers marinated in bay leaves and flavored with smoke from bay leaves that are thrown on the fire, are a local specialty. We turn another a corner and hit the motherload--2 stalls exuding the most enticing meat smells imaginable. We settle on pork ribs, bolo de cacao and some of the local alcoholic cider and dig in. Observing one of the locals beside us, it seems the traditional way of eating is to hold a piece of bread in one hand and meat in the other, and we feel very professional in mimicking his style. Bellies full to bursting, we explore the wonders of the market, which include some lovely old-school embroidery, something Madeira is known for, and then check in to the hotel to sleep off the food coma.
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
an American Thanksgiving in Paris
At Thanksgiving, Americans celebrate the tradition of an "autumn harvest feast" shared by Native Americans and newly arrived colonists. Putting aside the ensuing tragic history of Americans' treatment of Native Americans... Thanksgiving was also a history of using local ingredients to prepare the feast, and it is in this tradition that I've prepared my American in Paris Thanksgiving Menu.
"Cranberry sauce" au groseilles
Lysh's special stuffing
Gratin des Patates Douces/Sweet Potato Gratin
Brioche du boulengerie locale
Pintade a l'Americaine
and... cheescake (I know, I know! --but I can only blame it on the fantastic meal we recently had at a NY-style deli/diner here in Paris)
Instead of cranberries I, tried groseilles--a small, tart, red berry that was available fresh at my local supermarket. I cooked up just like cranberry sauce! No poultry seasoning? I used bouquet garni + sage boiled for a long time together with the bouillion to 'wet' the stuffing. In my experience sweet potatoes are a bit, um...unusual to the french palate, so I transformed them into a gratin (basically scalloped sweet potatoes with cream and cheese, what's not to like?). Can't find turkey? Or in our case, will the turkey not fit in they tiny toaster oven? Then go with pintade--or even quail in a cocotte basted with wine. You can still stuff 'em even if they go in the cocotte! Finally, instead of homemade rolls, why not get some brioche from the local boulangerie (generally my job at Thanksgiving, and my roll recipe was rich with milk, butter and eggs, so brioche substitute nicely).
"Cranberry sauce" au groseilles
Buy fresh groseilles; measure amount of water needed to just cover them in a pan. Remove the berries from the pan and add an amount of sugar equal to the quantity of berries to the water. Add some orange or lemon zest and let the water come to a boil, dissolving everything.
Cheesecake in France--yes you can!
The Crust.
Forget graham crackers; that is unless you really want to schlep all over Paris to nearly every "epicerie Americaine" in order to find every last ingredient. Remember--this ain't your momma's T-day. It's yours-Paris style!
Buy a big pack of speculoos and toss 'em into the food processor and whiz till crummy. I think I just used a couple tablespoons of water mixed in till it formed a paste, but you could add 2 T of melted butter if you feel it necessary. Bake at ~160 deg C for 10-12 mins till golden. Let crust cool while preparing the filling.
The filling. How the heck is this gunna work without Philly cream cheese anyhow?
After extensively combing thru many many blogs of other folks living abroad and suffering from a similar lack of cream cheese, I decided that Carrefour's "fromage a tartiner" was the way to go, combined with a "New York style" cheesecake recipe, relying on some flour in the batter to stiffen it. Also, these are baked at a high initial temperature to give the outside a nice golden color.
2 1/2 pounds [actually 1.13 kg] of 'fromage a tartiner' Yes it IS alot. Don't sweat it, it's all gunna fit in there!
1/2 C heavy cream [creme fleur Normandie or high quality]
1 to 3/4 C sugar
3 T flour
SKIP the SALT! [bastard cheese is salty enough]
2 tsp. lemon juice
1 tsp. vanilla extract [I used 5 sachets of sucre vanille]
2 large egg yolks
6 large eggs
Whip the French cream cheese substitute like the bastard it is (in a land of glorious cheese such as France we can't be too uppity about the fact that we're using Monsieur fromage a tartiner, they just don't do good junk food here; 'tis true). Mix the flour in with the sugar & 'sucre vanille; mix with creamed cheese half at a time. Add lemon juice (and vanilla extract if you're using it). Make sure you scrape the sides of the bowl frequently with a rubber spatula to thoroughly mix in each ingredient. Add egg yolks and mix; now 3 whole eggs; and the final 3 eggs. Filling's done!
A word of caution. I nearly destroyed my lil' oven with this recipe. Use a pizza pan under the springform pan to catch any batter than leaks out--or gushes, in my case. Months later, it still smells like cheesecake when I preheat the oven.
Pop into the oven preheated to a searing 260 deg. C. That's max, baby! After 10 mins, reduce heat to 93 deg [(I know, I know, but we're converting from 200 F). Stupid ovens with Celcius dials] and bake for 1h 40mins. Remember, it's basically a big flan, so it won't set until it's chilled. But I seem to recall doing the giggle test. You know--giggle the pan and if the middle part sways like a drunken football fan, then it ain't done. Cool slowly over 2-3 hours. The Joy of Cooking suggests placing a bowl over the pan during cooling. The recipe I used said to run a knife along the outside of the pan to loosen the edge, but my cheesecake came out very light, airy and fluffy, I guess due to the bastard cheese being runnier than traditional Philly. She came out de-lish-ous!
"Cranberry sauce" au groseilles
Lysh's special stuffing
Gratin des Patates Douces/Sweet Potato Gratin
Brioche du boulengerie locale
Pintade a l'Americaine
and... cheescake (I know, I know! --but I can only blame it on the fantastic meal we recently had at a NY-style deli/diner here in Paris)
Instead of cranberries I, tried groseilles--a small, tart, red berry that was available fresh at my local supermarket. I cooked up just like cranberry sauce! No poultry seasoning? I used bouquet garni + sage boiled for a long time together with the bouillion to 'wet' the stuffing. In my experience sweet potatoes are a bit, um...unusual to the french palate, so I transformed them into a gratin (basically scalloped sweet potatoes with cream and cheese, what's not to like?). Can't find turkey? Or in our case, will the turkey not fit in they tiny toaster oven? Then go with pintade--or even quail in a cocotte basted with wine. You can still stuff 'em even if they go in the cocotte! Finally, instead of homemade rolls, why not get some brioche from the local boulangerie (generally my job at Thanksgiving, and my roll recipe was rich with milk, butter and eggs, so brioche substitute nicely).
"Cranberry sauce" au groseilles
Buy fresh groseilles; measure amount of water needed to just cover them in a pan. Remove the berries from the pan and add an amount of sugar equal to the quantity of berries to the water. Add some orange or lemon zest and let the water come to a boil, dissolving everything.
Cheesecake in France--yes you can!
The Crust.
Forget graham crackers; that is unless you really want to schlep all over Paris to nearly every "epicerie Americaine" in order to find every last ingredient. Remember--this ain't your momma's T-day. It's yours-Paris style!
Buy a big pack of speculoos and toss 'em into the food processor and whiz till crummy. I think I just used a couple tablespoons of water mixed in till it formed a paste, but you could add 2 T of melted butter if you feel it necessary. Bake at ~160 deg C for 10-12 mins till golden. Let crust cool while preparing the filling.
The filling. How the heck is this gunna work without Philly cream cheese anyhow?
After extensively combing thru many many blogs of other folks living abroad and suffering from a similar lack of cream cheese, I decided that Carrefour's "fromage a tartiner" was the way to go, combined with a "New York style" cheesecake recipe, relying on some flour in the batter to stiffen it. Also, these are baked at a high initial temperature to give the outside a nice golden color.
2 1/2 pounds [actually 1.13 kg] of 'fromage a tartiner' Yes it IS alot. Don't sweat it, it's all gunna fit in there!
1/2 C heavy cream [creme fleur Normandie or high quality]
1 to 3/4 C sugar
3 T flour
SKIP the SALT! [bastard cheese is salty enough]
2 tsp. lemon juice
1 tsp. vanilla extract [I used 5 sachets of sucre vanille]
2 large egg yolks
6 large eggs
Whip the French cream cheese substitute like the bastard it is (in a land of glorious cheese such as France we can't be too uppity about the fact that we're using Monsieur fromage a tartiner, they just don't do good junk food here; 'tis true). Mix the flour in with the sugar & 'sucre vanille; mix with creamed cheese half at a time. Add lemon juice (and vanilla extract if you're using it). Make sure you scrape the sides of the bowl frequently with a rubber spatula to thoroughly mix in each ingredient. Add egg yolks and mix; now 3 whole eggs; and the final 3 eggs. Filling's done!
A word of caution. I nearly destroyed my lil' oven with this recipe. Use a pizza pan under the springform pan to catch any batter than leaks out--or gushes, in my case. Months later, it still smells like cheesecake when I preheat the oven.
Pop into the oven preheated to a searing 260 deg. C. That's max, baby! After 10 mins, reduce heat to 93 deg [(I know, I know, but we're converting from 200 F). Stupid ovens with Celcius dials] and bake for 1h 40mins. Remember, it's basically a big flan, so it won't set until it's chilled. But I seem to recall doing the giggle test. You know--giggle the pan and if the middle part sways like a drunken football fan, then it ain't done. Cool slowly over 2-3 hours. The Joy of Cooking suggests placing a bowl over the pan during cooling. The recipe I used said to run a knife along the outside of the pan to loosen the edge, but my cheesecake came out very light, airy and fluffy, I guess due to the bastard cheese being runnier than traditional Philly. She came out de-lish-ous!
Monday, March 07, 2011
Risotto au Champignons de Cantal
Beef broth and a jar of let's call them 'artisinal' cepe mushrooms made one of the best risotto dishes I've ever eaten, let alone cooked myself! Thanks to dad-in-law for the cepes mushrooms, prepared by flash frying, then preserving in oil in a 1 cup-sized glass jar with metal enclosure (likely dating to before my birth, judging from the oxidation on the lid).
You can find the recipe for standard risotto elsewhere (on this blog, for example:) Use a basic eschalotte, white wine & beef broth recipe. BUT- put some dried mushrooms into the broth as you're heating it for some extra mushroomy-ness! In another pan, sauteé the mushrooms on medium heat till they get a bit browned--almost crunchy, in fact. About 5 minutes before the risotto is done, add the sauteéd mushrooms. Remove from heat; finish with parmesan cheese and a chunk of butter (or not--it's so rich in flavor, I didn't even use any!).
You can find the recipe for standard risotto elsewhere (on this blog, for example:) Use a basic eschalotte, white wine & beef broth recipe. BUT- put some dried mushrooms into the broth as you're heating it for some extra mushroomy-ness! In another pan, sauteé the mushrooms on medium heat till they get a bit browned--almost crunchy, in fact. About 5 minutes before the risotto is done, add the sauteéd mushrooms. Remove from heat; finish with parmesan cheese and a chunk of butter (or not--it's so rich in flavor, I didn't even use any!).
Monday, February 28, 2011
Deviled Eggs a la Spartan in france
2 eggs
few sprigs of basil (or 2 handfulls of rocquettes)
olive oil
1 big clove of garlic
6-8 walnut halves
Hard boil the eggs. If you've never done this before, here are some quick hints. Cover the eggs in cold water and turn the burner on full, just till it comes to a boil. Set your timer for 12 mins (10 min for eggs at room temp) and turn down to a good, steady simmer. When done, let cold water run into the pan, until everything cools. Refridgerate the hard-boiled eggs till ready to make the filling.
Filling: Place garlic and walnuts in the blender and whiz. Add a lug of olive oil and the basil or rocquettes, whiz again. Peel the eggs and halve; put yolks in the pesto mixture & whiz. Spoon the green mixture into the egg whites-and voila! Yummy green & white deviled eggs (just in time for MSU spartan basketball madness).
Another pesto creation if you're into wierd American appetizers--cover WASA crackers with chevre and spoon over the rocquette pesto from above (minus the egg yolks). Divine!
few sprigs of basil (or 2 handfulls of rocquettes)
olive oil
1 big clove of garlic
6-8 walnut halves
Hard boil the eggs. If you've never done this before, here are some quick hints. Cover the eggs in cold water and turn the burner on full, just till it comes to a boil. Set your timer for 12 mins (10 min for eggs at room temp) and turn down to a good, steady simmer. When done, let cold water run into the pan, until everything cools. Refridgerate the hard-boiled eggs till ready to make the filling.
Filling: Place garlic and walnuts in the blender and whiz. Add a lug of olive oil and the basil or rocquettes, whiz again. Peel the eggs and halve; put yolks in the pesto mixture & whiz. Spoon the green mixture into the egg whites-and voila! Yummy green & white deviled eggs (just in time for MSU spartan basketball madness).
Another pesto creation if you're into wierd American appetizers--cover WASA crackers with chevre and spoon over the rocquette pesto from above (minus the egg yolks). Divine!
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Tomato & cream Lasagne
1 eggplant
1 large onion
5 cloves garlic
1 large can peeled tomatoes in sauce
1/2 - 1 t. oregano, thyme, rosemary
fresh basil & parsley (to dice at garnish at the end--optional)
several mushrooms
Slice the eggplant into 0.5 cm thick slices and salt on both sides. Heat a heavy, tall saucepan/french cocotte on medium. Slice onion, red pepper, mushrooms ~ the same thickness. Put a lug of olive oil in saucepan, fry up eggplant till golden on one side; flip till done. Remove from pan. Do the red pepper next & turn the heat to high, cooking till just grilled on both sides. Remove from pan and finish with the onions plus crushed whole garlic cloves. Add the can of whole tomatoes when onions are translucent. Add dry spices: rosemary, thyme, oregano. Add 2 diced cloves garlic. Leave the tomato-y mixture to simmer while preparing the bechamel.
Melt 3T butter in saucepan on med-low. Add 3T flour, let cook 3-5 mins (don't brown). Add 2 C. milk, whisking vigorously 'till it comes to a boil and thickens. Put on full heat and dilute whisking/stirring continuously while adding ~2 C of milk in a slow, steady stream. Let come to a boil a 2nd time, then simmer, add 2 cloves diced garlic, 1/2 t of nutmeg, and 1 bouillon cube (chicken).
Remove tomato mixture from heat, put 1/2 to 3/4 of the mixture aside in another bowl. Lay lasagne noodles over the remaining tomato mixture, cover with mozzerella or gruyere cheese, layer in red peppers + more sauce, then noodles, then cheese*.
*It really depends on how you prefer your lasagne. I like lots of sauce, so I only had around 3 layers of tomato sauce + noodles before switching to bechamel. I also used my round french cocotte, as I was too lazy to clean another pan. This meant that I layered whole noodles in a sort of asterix pattern, or used one whole noodle, then broke another in 2 to fill in the holes. The final result gave a nice pink mixture of tomato and bechamel, as the sauce mixed altogether due to the round cocotte. If you prefer your sauce layers to be separated--then go for a square lasagne pan, use more noodles and make sure there aren't any gaps!
Ok--when you've got the last tomato layer in place, put cheese, then switch to bechamel. Add a layer of grilled eggplant; cover with more bechamel, noodles and cheese; repeat. Finish off with a good layer of cheese so it crisps up nice in the oven.
I put the whole cocotte in the oven ~ 1.5 to 2 liters at 200 deg. C for 45 mins. The joy of using the same dish is that it's already hot so it cooks faster!
No meat in this dish, which is extremely unusual for me, but god was it GOOD!
1 eggplant
1 large onion
5 cloves garlic
1 large can peeled tomatoes in sauce
1/2 - 1 t. oregano, thyme, rosemary
fresh basil & parsley (to dice at garnish at the end--optional)
several mushrooms
Slice the eggplant into 0.5 cm thick slices and salt on both sides. Heat a heavy, tall saucepan/french cocotte on medium. Slice onion, red pepper, mushrooms ~ the same thickness. Put a lug of olive oil in saucepan, fry up eggplant till golden on one side; flip till done. Remove from pan. Do the red pepper next & turn the heat to high, cooking till just grilled on both sides. Remove from pan and finish with the onions plus crushed whole garlic cloves. Add the can of whole tomatoes when onions are translucent. Add dry spices: rosemary, thyme, oregano. Add 2 diced cloves garlic. Leave the tomato-y mixture to simmer while preparing the bechamel.
Melt 3T butter in saucepan on med-low. Add 3T flour, let cook 3-5 mins (don't brown). Add 2 C. milk, whisking vigorously 'till it comes to a boil and thickens. Put on full heat and dilute whisking/stirring continuously while adding ~2 C of milk in a slow, steady stream. Let come to a boil a 2nd time, then simmer, add 2 cloves diced garlic, 1/2 t of nutmeg, and 1 bouillon cube (chicken).
Remove tomato mixture from heat, put 1/2 to 3/4 of the mixture aside in another bowl. Lay lasagne noodles over the remaining tomato mixture, cover with mozzerella or gruyere cheese, layer in red peppers + more sauce, then noodles, then cheese*.
*It really depends on how you prefer your lasagne. I like lots of sauce, so I only had around 3 layers of tomato sauce + noodles before switching to bechamel. I also used my round french cocotte, as I was too lazy to clean another pan. This meant that I layered whole noodles in a sort of asterix pattern, or used one whole noodle, then broke another in 2 to fill in the holes. The final result gave a nice pink mixture of tomato and bechamel, as the sauce mixed altogether due to the round cocotte. If you prefer your sauce layers to be separated--then go for a square lasagne pan, use more noodles and make sure there aren't any gaps!
Ok--when you've got the last tomato layer in place, put cheese, then switch to bechamel. Add a layer of grilled eggplant; cover with more bechamel, noodles and cheese; repeat. Finish off with a good layer of cheese so it crisps up nice in the oven.
I put the whole cocotte in the oven ~ 1.5 to 2 liters at 200 deg. C for 45 mins. The joy of using the same dish is that it's already hot so it cooks faster!
No meat in this dish, which is extremely unusual for me, but god was it GOOD!
Friday, November 26, 2010
Risotto a la Choux de Romanesco
I was paging through a copy of Jamie Oliver's Italian cookbook at my sister in law's and the shape of this funny type of cauliflower (romanesco) lodged itself in my brain because I bought it instantly. Jamie's recipe says it has an unusual taste, and to me it's a combo between brussel sprouts and cauliflower. I took hints from his recipe, adding the diced 'core' with the onions, then the florets in with the broth that the risotto gets frequently bathed with during the course of cooking. Instead of anchovy old for the breadcrumbs (hubby will NOT eat them under any circumstances) I used the firey italian spice mix consisting of red pepper flakes, parsley, and dried tomato heated in olive oil. Then I tossed in the breadcrumbs, and I must say it turned out quite well. I liked the spicy crunch it made mixed with the creamy earthy flavors of the romanesco cauliflower.
Sicilian food
I'm staring at the departures screen in Charles de Gaulle airport tying in vain to guess the destination of my surprise birthday trip. (It was amusing to be the butt of my own joke, as I'm the one who offered a surprise birthday trip two years ago to Sevilla, Spain for my husband.) I've been staring at "Palermo" on the screen and am disappointed rather than alarmed when I hear my husband say that our destination is not displayed on the screen. At the check-in counter, it's unavoidable that I learn we're going to "Catania" somewhere in Italy--but, where the heck is Catania?! I play a quick game of 20 questions with my husband and realize in 3 questions that it is in Sicily.
Even the airport food looks good! Pizza and something that looks like breading-covered meatballs (definitely gunna find out what those are); and passing the Italian 'cafe' the aromas are enough to amp my hunger meter at least 3 notches. Even my husband, a Frenchman--who certainly have an appreciable affinity for their 'cafe' --agrees that Italian coffee is the best.
The super cute couple (Rob & Christina) run our B&B have a whole list of their preferred restaurants prepared for their guests. We go to "al Aldo" where I eat linguine al mare with pomodoro tomato sauce, little clams, mussels and tender, scrumptious baby squid. (An aside: perhaps you grew up in or know of a seafood-loving region in the USA that serves such a delightful variety of small shellfish, squid and the like as you can find here in Sicily or in say, Barcelona, but I've yet to find it). Julien ate macaroni pasta (which looked like penne to me, but I'm not Italian; what do I know) ala Norma--pomodoro, ricotta, and eggplant with a really unexpected flavor; perhaps they used the BBQ that he spied out back on the way to the loo. The waiter was terribly patient with us, considering that the French "Routard" guide had an abysmal excuse for Italian translations. Ok, we're in Sicily, but it's Italy man, and if you're not willing to eat anything here that's local and fresh unless you're deathly allergic, frankly, you've wasted your vacation my friend.
Bellies full to bursting, we spend the rest of the day lazily wandering around the old streets of Catania where the buildings emanate an old-world--yet slightly sooty--charm of long-past days of glory.
Our early morning departure from de Gaulle airport meant we were exhausted by sundown, so we happily tried the restaurant "Camelot" just down the street from our bed. Though the name provoked images of Monty Python characters dancing 'round the dining room, the decor was reserved and rather homey. We watched in awe as a circus of meat was paraded out to hungry diners seated at tables adorned in red and white checkered tablecloths; the quantity of grilled meat and fish on the platters suggested that Camelot's other diners were ravenous as lions--like us, after a long day (hey-sightseeing is hard work!). After an exchange of sign language, necessitated by the non-existent Routard translations; we understood that when the waiter flapped his arms, it signified that "quaglie" was quail. So Julien ordered BBQ meat, and being on a seafood kick, I got grilled swordfish. I'll admit that when the meat arrived, I was disappointed not to have ordered from the meat parade--I hate it when people order better than me! The rolled up meat/cheese/ham on skewers (involtini, perhaps?) were killer, and the barbeque flavor--insanely good.
We explore the impressive fish market the next morning and decide to do some shopping for a picnic lunch. Here's our list:
speck
breseola
salami
grilled (blackened?) ricotta
provolone
grilled red pepper
tomatos
bread
...and the COST - less than what I spend on a sandwich in Boston!
I finally get my fish fix when we have dinner at al Mare. I get the
antipasto tutto mare : 4 cold dishes of squid salad, eels (?), boccarones, shrimp ceviche (very unusual, but I think I prefer my shrimp cooked, which is too bad because I don't think the quality was to blame, given the freshness of the other dishes)
But wait! There are antipasto tutto mare hot dishes too, including:
baby sardine stuffed with breadcrumbs & pine nuts
grilled baby squid
the best damn mussels I ever ate, since they were drowned in olive oil and some killer fish broth.
After all that I ordered pasta (!) and it was so good I stuffed myself to bursting. I've never seen the combination of pistachios, cream and tiny shrimp but I'm going to try it at home!
Oh look what google found for me--and it appears to be an authentic Sicilian who's penned the recipe
http://pinchmysalt.com/2006/12/27/farfalle-with-pistachio-cream-sauce/
Lunch plans were foiled by the fact that Aldo only serves customers during the week, but we serendipitously found a place close to another restaurant that was (also) closed on Sunday. Happily, this was a family place and we ate really well AGAIN! I had risotto al pomodoro with asparagus, with tiny tasty shrimp making another appearance. What I would give to have a recipe for such a wonderful fish stock that totally made this dish. Such simple ingredients, but that stock gave it a depth that I've never achieved in a risotto.
We were so excited to (finally) have pizza for dinner that we didn't even change our shoes when we got downstairs and realized that it was raining. This was a major tactical error as the cobblestone streets do not drain well, and the large umbrella was inadequate to cover our legs, meaning we ended up in jeans and shoes that were drenched from the knees down. And to top it off, we ate in a lovely outdoor pizzaria --that's right, under the covered terrace but with rain falling all around the table and a stray kitten fighting with us for some dry pavement. Ok, the cat was really cute, but the damp meant we ate our pizza in record time--not the way sicilian food was meant to be enjoyed. Mine was procuitto and tartuffo nero black truffles with truffle oil. (Eww, a double dose of mushrooms meant Julien wanted no part of it, so I ate the leftovers for breakfast)!
Oh, and we got to try some of those breaded meatballs, which are actually arancini-or fried, breaded balls of risotto/rice--found everywhere in chic American restaurants these days. According to our B&B hosts, the shape indicates what's stuffed inside like bechamel + ham, or ragu. And yes, even the airport food was good!
Even the airport food looks good! Pizza and something that looks like breading-covered meatballs (definitely gunna find out what those are); and passing the Italian 'cafe' the aromas are enough to amp my hunger meter at least 3 notches. Even my husband, a Frenchman--who certainly have an appreciable affinity for their 'cafe' --agrees that Italian coffee is the best.
The super cute couple (Rob & Christina) run our B&B have a whole list of their preferred restaurants prepared for their guests. We go to "al Aldo" where I eat linguine al mare with pomodoro tomato sauce, little clams, mussels and tender, scrumptious baby squid. (An aside: perhaps you grew up in or know of a seafood-loving region in the USA that serves such a delightful variety of small shellfish, squid and the like as you can find here in Sicily or in say, Barcelona, but I've yet to find it). Julien ate macaroni pasta (which looked like penne to me, but I'm not Italian; what do I know) ala Norma--pomodoro, ricotta, and eggplant with a really unexpected flavor; perhaps they used the BBQ that he spied out back on the way to the loo. The waiter was terribly patient with us, considering that the French "Routard" guide had an abysmal excuse for Italian translations. Ok, we're in Sicily, but it's Italy man, and if you're not willing to eat anything here that's local and fresh unless you're deathly allergic, frankly, you've wasted your vacation my friend.
Bellies full to bursting, we spend the rest of the day lazily wandering around the old streets of Catania where the buildings emanate an old-world--yet slightly sooty--charm of long-past days of glory.
Our early morning departure from de Gaulle airport meant we were exhausted by sundown, so we happily tried the restaurant "Camelot" just down the street from our bed. Though the name provoked images of Monty Python characters dancing 'round the dining room, the decor was reserved and rather homey. We watched in awe as a circus of meat was paraded out to hungry diners seated at tables adorned in red and white checkered tablecloths; the quantity of grilled meat and fish on the platters suggested that Camelot's other diners were ravenous as lions--like us, after a long day (hey-sightseeing is hard work!). After an exchange of sign language, necessitated by the non-existent Routard translations; we understood that when the waiter flapped his arms, it signified that "quaglie" was quail. So Julien ordered BBQ meat, and being on a seafood kick, I got grilled swordfish. I'll admit that when the meat arrived, I was disappointed not to have ordered from the meat parade--I hate it when people order better than me! The rolled up meat/cheese/ham on skewers (involtini, perhaps?) were killer, and the barbeque flavor--insanely good.
We explore the impressive fish market the next morning and decide to do some shopping for a picnic lunch. Here's our list:
speck
breseola
salami
grilled (blackened?) ricotta
provolone
grilled red pepper
tomatos
bread
...and the COST - less than what I spend on a sandwich in Boston!
I finally get my fish fix when we have dinner at al Mare. I get the
antipasto tutto mare : 4 cold dishes of squid salad, eels (?), boccarones, shrimp ceviche (very unusual, but I think I prefer my shrimp cooked, which is too bad because I don't think the quality was to blame, given the freshness of the other dishes)
But wait! There are antipasto tutto mare hot dishes too, including:
baby sardine stuffed with breadcrumbs & pine nuts
grilled baby squid
the best damn mussels I ever ate, since they were drowned in olive oil and some killer fish broth.
After all that I ordered pasta (!) and it was so good I stuffed myself to bursting. I've never seen the combination of pistachios, cream and tiny shrimp but I'm going to try it at home!
Oh look what google found for me--and it appears to be an authentic Sicilian who's penned the recipe
http://pinchmysalt.com/2006/12/27/farfalle-with-pistachio-cream-sauce/
Lunch plans were foiled by the fact that Aldo only serves customers during the week, but we serendipitously found a place close to another restaurant that was (also) closed on Sunday. Happily, this was a family place and we ate really well AGAIN! I had risotto al pomodoro with asparagus, with tiny tasty shrimp making another appearance. What I would give to have a recipe for such a wonderful fish stock that totally made this dish. Such simple ingredients, but that stock gave it a depth that I've never achieved in a risotto.
We were so excited to (finally) have pizza for dinner that we didn't even change our shoes when we got downstairs and realized that it was raining. This was a major tactical error as the cobblestone streets do not drain well, and the large umbrella was inadequate to cover our legs, meaning we ended up in jeans and shoes that were drenched from the knees down. And to top it off, we ate in a lovely outdoor pizzaria --that's right, under the covered terrace but with rain falling all around the table and a stray kitten fighting with us for some dry pavement. Ok, the cat was really cute, but the damp meant we ate our pizza in record time--not the way sicilian food was meant to be enjoyed. Mine was procuitto and tartuffo nero black truffles with truffle oil. (Eww, a double dose of mushrooms meant Julien wanted no part of it, so I ate the leftovers for breakfast)!
Oh, and we got to try some of those breaded meatballs, which are actually arancini-or fried, breaded balls of risotto/rice--found everywhere in chic American restaurants these days. According to our B&B hosts, the shape indicates what's stuffed inside like bechamel + ham, or ragu. And yes, even the airport food was good!
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Reflections
I apologize to the author I'm plagarizing (badly). You most clearly see your own age reflected, not in oneself, but reflected in the face of a close friend.
I hadn't seen them in perhaps a decade, but they're like my old college friends. I eagerly looked forward to each chance I would get to see them, and indoctrinated many of my friends. I was a member of their fan club, before they became national stars and Brian's face was featured in a major movie. I knew the words to all of their songs and was sure they would make it big one day. And they did for one brief moment, but then it fizzled, while I loved them no less. Brian had a string of solo albums, but occasionally the group would do some infrequent reunion concerts always in Michigan and Chicago, too far to visit. I even tried to get them to come to Paris to play in my friend's flat.
They quietly took the stage, without introduction, and before the lights even came up. Surely these weren't the same skinny, holey T-shirt clad local celebrity rockers from my college days. I was nearly convinced that these guys were the opening act--that is, until I saw Brian. Then I was sure. It had been more than 15 years and my god, do I look that old myself? They're old! I mean, I'm looking at the definition of aging rocksters here. When the hell did that happen? I don't feel old?! Ok, sure I'm married now and have a (very) few grey hairs of my own. But I don't feel like I've settled into grown-upness quite yet! I guess I should have known when this particular reunion tour was promoting their new children's album. So they all have kids, that's cool, I thought.
They played a great set, so me old old stuff and the ghosts of youth flitted across the stage with Brian and the guitarist, AJ, playfully battling over who could out-rock the other. The formerly stick-thin AJ had the same hair, but that angular nose and frame had morphed into, well-- a dad's face. And look at the wedding bands on every finger; I fingered my own and smiled. Perhaps we're all getting grey, but they still rock, man.
I hadn't seen them in perhaps a decade, but they're like my old college friends. I eagerly looked forward to each chance I would get to see them, and indoctrinated many of my friends. I was a member of their fan club, before they became national stars and Brian's face was featured in a major movie. I knew the words to all of their songs and was sure they would make it big one day. And they did for one brief moment, but then it fizzled, while I loved them no less. Brian had a string of solo albums, but occasionally the group would do some infrequent reunion concerts always in Michigan and Chicago, too far to visit. I even tried to get them to come to Paris to play in my friend's flat.
They quietly took the stage, without introduction, and before the lights even came up. Surely these weren't the same skinny, holey T-shirt clad local celebrity rockers from my college days. I was nearly convinced that these guys were the opening act--that is, until I saw Brian. Then I was sure. It had been more than 15 years and my god, do I look that old myself? They're old! I mean, I'm looking at the definition of aging rocksters here. When the hell did that happen? I don't feel old?! Ok, sure I'm married now and have a (very) few grey hairs of my own. But I don't feel like I've settled into grown-upness quite yet! I guess I should have known when this particular reunion tour was promoting their new children's album. So they all have kids, that's cool, I thought.
They played a great set, so me old old stuff and the ghosts of youth flitted across the stage with Brian and the guitarist, AJ, playfully battling over who could out-rock the other. The formerly stick-thin AJ had the same hair, but that angular nose and frame had morphed into, well-- a dad's face. And look at the wedding bands on every finger; I fingered my own and smiled. Perhaps we're all getting grey, but they still rock, man.
Risotto italiano
1/2 c white or red wine
4 c chicken or beef stock
salt, pepper, 1 T italian seasonings, 3-5 cloves garlic
olive oil, butter
block parmesean cheese - about 1 cup shredded
1 box Trader Joe's risotto arborio rice
1 onion
1 small can tomato paste
Bring 4 c stock to a boil, or microwave bullion cube in pyrex measuring cup. Fry 2 italian sausages, cut into pieces and set aside. Drain the excess pork fat, but leave the little brown sausage bits. In olive oil or butter, sautee some onions till just transparent. Optional: Keep on medium heat and add a whole package of risotto/arborio rice; add a bit of olive oil if needed to coat the grains just till they glisten. Stir frequently during 2-3 minutes, do not brown the rice. Pour in 1/2 c of wine (normally I use white, but since we're adding tomato paste, you can go red) stir vigorously; you'll see the risotto sauce start to thicken & get creamy. Turn down the heat to a simmer & add stock immediately, just enough to make some sauce. Keep adding stock when it looks thirsty. Add one small can of tomato paste, salt, pepper, 3 cloves of minced garlic (or more, yum!) & italian herbs: rosemary, thyme, oregano, throw in some parsley if you fancy. Simmer for about 30-40 mins, risotto is ready when al dente. While pouring the wine for dinner, turn off the heat, stir in 1/2 c or more of freshly grated parmesean cheese (off the block, don't cheat on this step) and a couple of T of butter (I use olive oil to reduce the cholesterol) and the italian sausage. You can also add a final 1/4 to 1/2 cup of stock, as risotto will thicken upon standing. Buen provecho!
A few hints:
Don't cover the risotto, or the sauce won't form correctly. Don't let the risotto dry out or simmer too fast, you'll get a stuck on mess at the bottom of the pan. A flat wooden spatula works pretty well to scrape the bottom often to avoid stick-age.
4 c chicken or beef stock
salt, pepper, 1 T italian seasonings, 3-5 cloves garlic
olive oil, butter
block parmesean cheese - about 1 cup shredded
1 box Trader Joe's risotto arborio rice
1 onion
1 small can tomato paste
Bring 4 c stock to a boil, or microwave bullion cube in pyrex measuring cup. Fry 2 italian sausages, cut into pieces and set aside. Drain the excess pork fat, but leave the little brown sausage bits. In olive oil or butter, sautee some onions till just transparent. Optional: Keep on medium heat and add a whole package of risotto/arborio rice; add a bit of olive oil if needed to coat the grains just till they glisten. Stir frequently during 2-3 minutes, do not brown the rice. Pour in 1/2 c of wine (normally I use white, but since we're adding tomato paste, you can go red) stir vigorously; you'll see the risotto sauce start to thicken & get creamy. Turn down the heat to a simmer & add stock immediately, just enough to make some sauce. Keep adding stock when it looks thirsty. Add one small can of tomato paste, salt, pepper, 3 cloves of minced garlic (or more, yum!) & italian herbs: rosemary, thyme, oregano, throw in some parsley if you fancy. Simmer for about 30-40 mins, risotto is ready when al dente. While pouring the wine for dinner, turn off the heat, stir in 1/2 c or more of freshly grated parmesean cheese (off the block, don't cheat on this step) and a couple of T of butter (I use olive oil to reduce the cholesterol) and the italian sausage. You can also add a final 1/4 to 1/2 cup of stock, as risotto will thicken upon standing. Buen provecho!
A few hints:
Don't cover the risotto, or the sauce won't form correctly. Don't let the risotto dry out or simmer too fast, you'll get a stuck on mess at the bottom of the pan. A flat wooden spatula works pretty well to scrape the bottom often to avoid stick-age.
Coq au Vin
My husband tells me I've done it well due to the nice ruddy sauce
< 2 lbs rooster or chicken
1 bottle red wine
1/4 c cognac
dried mushrooms, like porcini
boquet garni, salt, pepper
chicken stock
butter & flour
In a cocotte, sear the chicken/rooster (less than 2lbs) on high heat, then brown for 5 minutes on each side, with lid on. To flambee with cognac, pour 1/4 cup in with the bird, stand back and light! Shake the pan till flames subside. Add one bottle of wine, add stock to completely cover the bird. Add salt, pepper, dried mushrooms, like porcinis, and boquet garnis (parsley, thyme, bay leaves), simmer for 45 mins. Remove the bird from the sauce, cut off the fillet, legs & wings, set somewhere warm. Reduce the sauce by 1/3 (?) by boiling vigorously, take off the heat. When no longer boiling, add the beurre maniere (3 T of flour + 3 T butter mixed to a paste), whisk vigorously and bring sauce to a boil. Serve with boiled potatoes and parsley.
Make browned onions in another pan when you start the bird. Peel small boiling onions, brown them in 1 T oil + 1 T butter. Roll continuously to brown all sides. Add stock or wine, or mix to cover them, plus boquet garni. Simmer till liquid evaporates. They turn out caramelized, sweet and oh so flavorful by soaking up all of that sauce.
< 2 lbs rooster or chicken
1 bottle red wine
1/4 c cognac
dried mushrooms, like porcini
boquet garni, salt, pepper
chicken stock
butter & flour
In a cocotte, sear the chicken/rooster (less than 2lbs) on high heat, then brown for 5 minutes on each side, with lid on. To flambee with cognac, pour 1/4 cup in with the bird, stand back and light! Shake the pan till flames subside. Add one bottle of wine, add stock to completely cover the bird. Add salt, pepper, dried mushrooms, like porcinis, and boquet garnis (parsley, thyme, bay leaves), simmer for 45 mins. Remove the bird from the sauce, cut off the fillet, legs & wings, set somewhere warm. Reduce the sauce by 1/3 (?) by boiling vigorously, take off the heat. When no longer boiling, add the beurre maniere (3 T of flour + 3 T butter mixed to a paste), whisk vigorously and bring sauce to a boil. Serve with boiled potatoes and parsley.
Make browned onions in another pan when you start the bird. Peel small boiling onions, brown them in 1 T oil + 1 T butter. Roll continuously to brown all sides. Add stock or wine, or mix to cover them, plus boquet garni. Simmer till liquid evaporates. They turn out caramelized, sweet and oh so flavorful by soaking up all of that sauce.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Cote de Ventoux, guacamole and some artichoke dip
Now that I've returned from the 5th shopping trip in 2 days, I finally have a phone, 100+channels of english-speaking TV, and... (drum roll please), an internet connection. I thought I had it all figured out. Even before I left, I planned, researched, ordered things online, made calls. I was sure I could pull off this move without a hitch. I forget about entropy. No matter how much planning you do, something unexpected happens. Like planning a wedding (so I imagine after having participated in many of my friends' weddings), you can't account for everything--there's always a monkey wrench that gets thrown in at that last minute.
Yesterday, I went to IKEA and got a bed; to Target and got other various essentials for the house--all of this after a a brief nite's respite and with a major dose of jetlag. A quick tour at Whole Foods for some yummy edibles, and back to the house to unload all of the purchases. Whew. The bed box was so heavy I had to unpack it at the foot of the stairs to take it up piece by piece. But I managed to unload most everything and find a parking spot for the rental car.
Alright, now I just need to find that mattress that comes with the bed and enjoy a long night's well-deserved rest. Wait a minute. Hang on just a cotton-picking minute! Where the hell is the mattress? No. It's a cruel joke. It's 8:30pm and IKEA closes at 10--too far to make a return trip before they close. Right. Well I bought some carpets and blankets and, oh yes, towels. Let's make a big pile of them and maybe add... yes, my big fluffy robe- that'll do it. Surprisingly, it wasn't too uncomfortable for a makeshift mattress in the end. Aside from turning in the night and ending up in the bathroom, that is.
Today, tour 2 of IKEA. Amazingly, I manged to buy some more crap that I was too tired to bother with the day before. Ah, evil genius that is the design of the IKEA showroom, I salute you. I used a Zipcar (car sharing/rental) for the 1st time, and successfully avoided crashing into kamikazi Bostonian drivers who thought that the fastest moving car had the right-of-way at intersections where the traffic lights weren't working due to a power outage. (For the record, this is not true- one should stop at each light as if it's a stop sign, even in Boston). I even made it back to the house on time for my cable/TV/phone appointment, basically my savior at this moment in life. Nice guy comes and sets me up, but tells me that I need another plug so that I can connect the cable box and my phone at the same time. "Don't you have a power strip?" he asks. No, I didn't think of that. Don't have a single thing with an US-standard plug, actually-0ther than the lamp I bought at IKEA yesterday. AGGHH. Well, no matter. At least I have internet. Who needs a stupid phone anyway, I have Skype. One small problem, the installation program doesn't work. I need some stupid account # that the guy didn't give me. But he did said that i could call if I had any problems. Great. NO phone, because I can't plug it in without a power strip. Ha. Ha. Ha.
Right. So I need a power strip. I have no car today, one day rental only. So... I can't go back to Target. Where can i find one here? Let's try the super-duper grocery store. Happily they had not only my power strip, but also some tools that I realized I was missing when I tried to assemble my foldy-IKEA bed. Now I'm all set. Opened the Cote de Ventoux, made some American artichoke dip and guacamole with blue corn tortilla chips. Minor dramas solved, and I'm now reconnected to the world. Bienvenue, Bienvenido, Welcome!
Yesterday, I went to IKEA and got a bed; to Target and got other various essentials for the house--all of this after a a brief nite's respite and with a major dose of jetlag. A quick tour at Whole Foods for some yummy edibles, and back to the house to unload all of the purchases. Whew. The bed box was so heavy I had to unpack it at the foot of the stairs to take it up piece by piece. But I managed to unload most everything and find a parking spot for the rental car.
Alright, now I just need to find that mattress that comes with the bed and enjoy a long night's well-deserved rest. Wait a minute. Hang on just a cotton-picking minute! Where the hell is the mattress? No. It's a cruel joke. It's 8:30pm and IKEA closes at 10--too far to make a return trip before they close. Right. Well I bought some carpets and blankets and, oh yes, towels. Let's make a big pile of them and maybe add... yes, my big fluffy robe- that'll do it. Surprisingly, it wasn't too uncomfortable for a makeshift mattress in the end. Aside from turning in the night and ending up in the bathroom, that is.
Today, tour 2 of IKEA. Amazingly, I manged to buy some more crap that I was too tired to bother with the day before. Ah, evil genius that is the design of the IKEA showroom, I salute you. I used a Zipcar (car sharing/rental) for the 1st time, and successfully avoided crashing into kamikazi Bostonian drivers who thought that the fastest moving car had the right-of-way at intersections where the traffic lights weren't working due to a power outage. (For the record, this is not true- one should stop at each light as if it's a stop sign, even in Boston). I even made it back to the house on time for my cable/TV/phone appointment, basically my savior at this moment in life. Nice guy comes and sets me up, but tells me that I need another plug so that I can connect the cable box and my phone at the same time. "Don't you have a power strip?" he asks. No, I didn't think of that. Don't have a single thing with an US-standard plug, actually-0ther than the lamp I bought at IKEA yesterday. AGGHH. Well, no matter. At least I have internet. Who needs a stupid phone anyway, I have Skype. One small problem, the installation program doesn't work. I need some stupid account # that the guy didn't give me. But he did said that i could call if I had any problems. Great. NO phone, because I can't plug it in without a power strip. Ha. Ha. Ha.
Right. So I need a power strip. I have no car today, one day rental only. So... I can't go back to Target. Where can i find one here? Let's try the super-duper grocery store. Happily they had not only my power strip, but also some tools that I realized I was missing when I tried to assemble my foldy-IKEA bed. Now I'm all set. Opened the Cote de Ventoux, made some American artichoke dip and guacamole with blue corn tortilla chips. Minor dramas solved, and I'm now reconnected to the world. Bienvenue, Bienvenido, Welcome!
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