Monday Morning From My Back Porch

Feeling Centimental?

I'd like to trumpet the SECOND world-altering event of this week, after a lovely inauguration last Tuesday: this is my 100th blog post!  If you were here, I'd pour you a glass of champagne and feed you canapes.  But as it stands, the only people around who actually read this blog are Adam my husband-to-be and my dog Cally.  And it's a toss-up between those two as to who actually reads my posts on a regular basis.  So no champagne for them.

Speaking of Cally, here we are emerging from a nap today.  (And she wonders why I yell at her for getting on the couch.)  It's been a snowy day, perfect for lounging at the coffee shop, the briefest of walks along the river, and cuddling on the bed... not very good fodder for a celebratory blog posting, I admit.  But sometimes 'homey' is the name of the game on a Sunday in late January. 

Dinner actually turned out to be a little exotic: I whipped up a really yummy batch of Pad Thai, that pink-hued noodle dish with shrimp, bean sprouts, and peanuts.  Only my grocery store didn't have bean sprouts and if I was going to spring for shrimp I didn't want to spring for peanuts (I'm trying to buy a house here, people).  The irony of the thing is, peanuts do not sell for peanuts.  Nor do any nuts, really.  It turned out well anyway, though I'll definitely try both stores in my 'hood for bean sprouts next time.  It was missing that fresh, juicy crunch.

It's fun to make, and has some rather unconventional ingredients.  You cook shrimp, green onions, and garlic in a hot saute-- would 'stir-fry' be the appropriate jargon here?; then add ground dried shrimp (sounds grody, but it adds great flavor), fish sauce, chili flakes, sugar, and ketchup (is that what they use in Thailand?!).  Stir for a few minutes, then drag the mixture to one side of the pan, and pour two beaten eggs in to the other side.  Let the eggs cook un-disturbed for about a minute, then scramble them up with the other ingredients.  Dump in the rice noodles (which have been drained after you soaked them in very hot water for 15 minutes), and stir for a couple more minutes over high heat.  Garnish with cilantro and lime wedges (and bean sprouts and peanuts).  Very delicious flavors, though next time I'll probably cut back on the noodles to allow for more sauciness.
Then Adam devised a very scrumptious hand-held dessert.  Homemade (by Adam!) chocolate chip oatmeal cookies with a heavy dousing of Tillamook vanilla ice cream on top.  Mmm.  That's cause for celebration right there.

Thanks for reading, my friends.  If you continue to do so, I promise at least one hundred more.

Braised Be

An otherwise fabulous Alice Waters recipe instructed me to scatter this delectable braised cabbage and roasted potatoes in a circle around the halibut-- for some reason the highest organism on the food chain always gets featured front and center on a plate, with the afterthought veggies serving as a mere picture frame.  If I ever make this dish again, and I can assure you that I will, the cabbage will be shaped into a big heart in the middle of the plate, and the fish and potatoes will be served on a little saucer on the side.  What I mean to tell you is, this method of making cabbage is...  ...the only way to make cabbage.

Now I know what you're thinking!  Ew, cabbage.  Ew, stinky, sulfuric rabbit food.  But no!  Try this recipe.  You will be converted.  Take a head of green cabbage (the recipe called for Savoy Cabbage, which looks like green cabbage with a perm, but we're not that fancy in Hood River).  Cut the head into 2 inch wedges and pack them into a baking dish.  Oh yeah: turn the oven on to 400 while you're prepping.  Sprinkle the wedges with thyme, and tuck a bay leaf in there somewhere.  Pour over it all 1/2 cup of vegetable stock, and 1/2 cup of dry white wine.  Slice up to 3 Tbsp. of butter and dot the tops of the cabbage wedges.  Cover and bake for 30-45 minutes, until the cabbage is tender.  When cooled enough to work with, cut the core off of each wedge and discard, roughly chop the leaves, and return them to their juices in the baking dish.  Here is a shot just before going into the oven.  As is usually the case when something comes out amazing, I forgot to take an "after" shot.  Eh voila.  Cabbage for people who hate cabbage.
Oh, and if you want to make something good to go with your ambrosia-cabbage, you can douse a couple filets of halibut in some wine and veggie broth and roast 'em at 500 for a few minutes; and you can toss some quartered red potatoes in a bit of olive oil, salt, pepper, and maybe some rosemary or something before baking them covered or no for about a half hour at 400.  Or you can just save room for more cabbage.

Wresting Acceptance

I guess when cooking, as with anything in life, failure is inevitable.  That doesn't mean I like failure in cooking (or anything in life).  Losing control over something I'm doing makes the tendons stand out on my neck, and a very small but powerful muscle between my shoulder blades start shooting bolts of electricity outward like wings of tension.  Adam and I had a discussion about control recently, so my failure with falafel last night was aptly timed.  He had said (in a sort of irritatingly Zen kind of way) that exerting control over factors that you cannot change will only cause suffering.  I tried to maintain (with neither of us quite falling for it) that ambition is a good thing, and continuing to strive for control is equal to progress.

I still don't know the answer to the dilemma, though I'm beginning to suspect that a combination of ambition and acceptance-- namely, a little of the former and a lot of the latter-- is one good solution.  (I could choose ALL acceptance like a monk, but those of you who know me know that a Sunday hike to hell and back is a likelier proposition.)  I tried to manifest some acceptance when my falafel turned to mush in the frying pan last night.  But I'll leave it to you to decide on my level of success.

It all started out so well.  Falafel from scratch! Look at the beautiful beans, painted with the lovely hues of cumin, turmeric, cayenne and salt.  And as I added parsley, green onions, garlic, lemon juice, water, and eventually flour to the mixture, I knew-- just KNEW!-- I was onto something ground-breaking.

I pureed them all to a thick paste and heated some oil in a pan.  The batter smelled like heaven itself-- a complete 180 from the powdered mix I had always bought in a box.  This meal was going to be like our new president: in a word, perfect.

I formed little balls of the stuff and placed them lovingly into the sizzling oil.  So far so good.  But after the requisite ten minutes I flipped them over, and they started to disintegrate.  What was going on here??  This was not part of my plan!  Soon I had a panful of boiling falafel crumbs... and there was NOTHING I could do about it. 
The butterfly wings of electricity were shooting outward across my back.  In a few drastic measures of pure reaction I dumped the lot of it into a bowl, and as soon as it cooled I was going to toss it in the trash.  (Luckily I had that foresight, otherwise the burning oil would have burned through the trash bag and my punishment for rashness would have been to wash out the trash bin.)

Then my angel of patience walked into the kitchen.  "What are you doing?" he asked, and I unloaded my wrath toward the falafel (or toward my lack of control?) on him, and he responded wisely.  He was quiet.  Then he said, "Do you want to go out instead?"  I took a breath.  No, I didn't.  I didn't want to give up yet.  But I also didn't want to be a baby.

So, I turned the heat back on under the pan, poured significantly less oil into it this time around, and started over.  Fortunately there was plenty of batter left.  And it worked, kind of.  The consistency wasn't amazing-- they were a bit pasty on the inside, instead of fluffy like they should be.  And the outsides were not crisp-fried since I was afraid to use too much oil.  But they did taste delicious, especially thanks to a fantastic Lemon-Tahini Sauce drizzled over top.  And at least we didn't head down to the pub for a veggie burger with my tail between my legs and a black cloud over my head.  That would have been no fun for anyone.  

So, they weren't perfect, but they were good.  And I'm glad I stuck with it.  So, hey!  One point for ambition!  Oh wait.  Or is that acceptance?  
P.S.  This post is far too long to include recipes, both of which I'd actually recommend, if you've got an idea to prevent falafel disintegration.  Email or comment for recipe(s).

And P.P.S. Let us take a cue from our falafel kerfuffle, and not expect too much from 44.  He's just a person, like the rest of us.

Tener o no Tener

Thank God it's Friday.  After a busy week at work, a head cold, and a less than stellar credit report (more on that another time.  Maybe.), I needed to end my day and ring in the weekend with an El Rinconcito burrito and a cold beer, and there was really no two ways about it.

El Rinconcito is a terrific taqueria housed in a trailer on Cascade Ave.  I was glad to find that someone has even taken a picture of it and posted it online:

As you can see, there are no bells and whistles on this establishment.  Unless you count the umbrellas.  And the Mexican pop band calendar hanging inside featuring photographs of Latino men in waxed mustaches and painted-on jeans, with their thumbs slung through their belt loops.  But bells and whistles are not necessary when you can get a huge Veggie Supreme burrito filled with fresh, delicious ingredients that actually hold a candle to the mission-style-heaven-in-foil-wrapped-cylinders of my young adulthood.  I'm talking fresh, whole pinto beans, yummy rice, sour cream, shredded Jack, and this amazing kind of pico de gallo involving cilantro, cabbage, and onions all chopped superfine.  And then there are two homemade hot sauces to choose from (and if you're smart, you'll get one of each): the smoky, spicy red sauce; and the green, fresh stuff.  It's good enough that I completely forgot to take a picture of it before polishing it off.

But my allegiance to this place was put to the test tonight.  While Adam and I stood at the cash register placing our order, I asked the pretty young cashier if we could get avocado in the burritos.  She turned around and asked an elder Hispanic woman-- a woman shaped somewhat like a burrito herself-- "Tenemos avocates?"  The woman looked up from the grill, which, being inside of a small trailer, was a tortilla chip's throw from the cash register.  She eyed Adam, and then me, each of us head to toe.  We stood there, the cashier stood there, somebody else's carne asada sizzled on the grill.  Then she looked back down and said abruptly to her grilling meat before resuming to chop it: "NO."

Sigh.  Well, we hope that whichever customer passed the avocado test tonight is enjoying the fruits of their coolness.  And we'll still go back to El Rinconcito.  Sometimes you just gotta eat what the woman gives you.

A Day in the Life

I had what you might call a synchronous moment the other day.  I was peevishly scanning through radio stations; on the hour-long drive to Portland on Sunday, NPR was inexplicably out-- its normal station had been replaced by a dull static and it was bookended by a Christian call-in show on one side, and some Spanish crooner on the other.  Not to sound narrow minded or anything, but I never listen to anything but NPR on the radio, and without wasting my time or yours in trying to explain why that is so, I will just skip that and say that I certainly didn't plan on finding anything of remote interest while pounding the Tune button.

Then I heard the unmistakable harmonies of John Lennon and Paul McCartney, in what had to be a Beatles song, only one that I had never heard before.  I stopped my channel surfing at once.  The song soon ended (before I had the wisdom to pay attention to some of the lyrics, so I could find out later what it was), and the announcer came on with his honey-voice, welcoming me to the Beatles Basement, and declaring the purpose of the show to be in honor of Sir George Martin's 83rd birthday.  It took me a second to remember who George Martin was-- ah yes, the producer of all the Beatles records-- and I almost changed the channel again.  But then I thought, hmm, well, might as well listen to some classic old Beatles songs.  Even if you never need to hear "Hey Jude" again, you can still always manage to hear it one more time.  Better than fire and brimstone, any day.

Then a clip of Martin speaking came on, and he told a story about how John approached him before the making of Let it Be and said, "We're not going to need any of that production crap on this album."  Apparently John wanted each song to be an organic whole, recorded and preserved in its integrity from beginning to end.  And so Martin obligingly went home.  Only problem was, Sir George recounted, sometimes it would take 20, 50, even 75 takes before they'd get a song right, if they got it right at all.  Which of course did not exactly lead to harmony within the recording studio.  By the time they shelved the project (out of frustration maybe?), Paul called George Martin and asked him to come back.  The product of Martin's return was Abbey Road.  Of course, I was transfixed.

So when "Day in the Life" came on, I heard the song with brand new ears.  And hearing a Beatles song, especially a really good one, for the first time, is a pretty shattering experience.  The hairs on my arms stood up on end.  First John's ghostlike and melancholic lines, "I read the news today, oh boy..." and then Paul's perky piano interlude: "Woke up, fell out of bed... ."  What an incredible song!  I will confess, that by the time that intense piano chord is struck at the end, my chin was quivering a bit.

But I think the experience was enhanced by the fact that it was the Sunday morning of what was turning out to be an awesome weekend: I went for a great hike with a new friend, Adam and I went house-hunting, we had some other new friends over for dinner...  It's like I was being escorted right into a new life that was very excited to have me.  New house, new friends, new town.  And then, right when I'm rushing headlong into the future, here are The Beatles all over again.  Those four Liverpoolians did no small work of flooding my mind with the existential blasts of childhood.  If my metaphor isn't too irritating, I'd like to venture that life is a little bit like lasagna.  There's old stuff, that you love so much.  You know, like The Beatles, and listening to their records with your little sister when she was so young and cute, and being in that old house that you can still smell and imagine but will never see again.  But the new stuff piles on, and you forget about the old stuff for the most part, but sometimes at very well-timed moments all that new stuff sort of comes to a head to make you love the old stuff that much more.  Funny thing is, I'll probably look back at these crazy novelties one day and have a little sniff of nostalgia.  And there might even be a Beatles song playing.  But anyway, what I'm trying to say is, and the reason I sort of weirdly mentioned lasagna at all in the first place: it's all about the layers.   

Quick Tip-Oatmeal

While making one of my staple breakfasts this morning-- oatmeal-- it occurred to me to do the thing that makes all sweet things so delicious: add salt.  I've tried to be creative with my morning porridge, stirring in all manner of sweeteners (brown sugar, maple syrup, honey, molasses), fruit (dried or fresh), nuts, seeds and spices (cinnamon!)-- all at varying degrees and combinations.  But never have I gone back to the basics with this particular dish.  So, next time you're making oatmeal, throw in a pinch of salt.  It makes it more... three-dimensional.  I think you know what I mean.

In other news, today my mom sent me this wonderful quotation on happiness.  Like a good mama, she knew I needed it.

"Happiness is always a by-product.  It is probably a matter of temperament, and for anything I know it might be glandular.  But it is not something that can be demanded from life, and if you are not happy you had better stop worrying about it and see what treasures you can pluck from your own brand of unhappiness."  -Robertson Davies

Motley Meals

2009 has been a productive year so far, but in one respect only: food.  I've been making so much of it, I have to cram four different dishes into one blog post.  As for doing ANYTHING that involves going outside (and you'd be surprised by how much of our lives we conduct outside of our homes), there is nothing doing.  The roads are icy, it continues to snow every other day or so, and when it's not snowing, it's raining and leaving a very depressing slush on the ground.  Having hit the bottom of the barrel of my cabin fever yesterday I called a friend to see if she had any snowshoes I could borrow, and happily she did!  I took Cally out to the Post Canyon trail and had a blast-- I'm definitely getting me some snowshoes.  Our trip was cut short when a couple of yahoos started shooting a gun in my general direction, so I came home and made soup (see below).  When stuck or driven indoors by wayward firearms, make soup.  It seems like a good enough answer to the problems of life and winter.

Anyway, here are those shrimp I described in my last post.  The marinade was delicious, but I made the mistake I'm not going to make anymore of buying frozen shrimp.   I can never get frozen seafood to lose its fishy flavor upon cooking.  But here's the marinade.  I'm sure it would be good on any ol' fish or tofu.

1 garlic clove, chopped

1 bird's eye chili, deseeded (if you wish) and chopped

1 Tbsp. tamarind paste/concentrate

1 Tbsp. sesame oil

1 Tbsp. soy sauce

2 Tbsp. lime juice

1 Tbsp. brown sugar

Put the lot into a small saucepan and stir over low heat until the sugar melts.  Cool completely.  Marinate your food item of choice for as long as you can, even overnight.  Recipe from What's Cooking Thai.

Here is a beautiful batch of roasted cauliflower, the idea for which I took from Hilary Kooks.  It's super easy: chop a head of cauliflower into chunks and stir into it several cloves of chopped garlic, some chili powder, dried basil ("or other green herb," says Hil), s&p, a few Tbsp. sesame oil, and a couple Tbsp. tahini.  Spread out in a pyrex dish and roast at 375 for as long as an hour (I cranked it up to 400 for the last ten minutes).  It was good served over quinoa.
This is the best thing I've made recently: Brazilian Black Bean soup.  Inspired by the Moosewood recipe but much tampered with, it goes like this.  And I'm going to be quite general here, because the best soup will contain the ingredients and proportions that YOU like (I know, I know, Hilary is starting to rub off on me here).  

Soak 2 or 3 cups of black beans over night.  When you're ready to start cooking, put the beans (drained) with 4 or 6 cups of clean water to a boil in a big soup pot, then simmer and cover for an hour or hour and a half.  Your life partners will thank you for changing the water-- it reduces gassiness.  

Meanwhile, chop a BUNCH of onions-- three cups or so-- and a BUNCH of garlic-- I used about ten cloves, crushed.  I was weirded out to see the recipe call for that much garlic, but I'm glad I went with it.  Garlic=good.  Then chop a carrot or two.  Toss onions, carrots, and HALF the garlic to saute in evoo over medium heat until carrot is barely tender.  Stir in cumin, salt and pepper.  This'll need to season the whole pot of beans, so don't be shy.

Add the rest of the garlic, and a chopped red pepper and saute for another ten or fifteen minutes.  Scrape all the veggies into the beans.  Add a couple chopped tomatoes if you like.  Add a cup and a half of orange juice.  Simmer for as long as you can stand it.  Stir in some leftover quinoa or rice if you like-- this was my random idea, and an excellent choice if I say so myself.  Garnish with any combination of green onion, cilantro, cheddar, crumbled tortilla chips, hot sauce and/or sour cream.  Oh boy this was good, and it'll be even better today.
And lastly, oatmeal cinnamon waffles.  These were pretty good, but not good enough to share the recipe here.  Email me if you absolutely need the recipe.
Sorry for cramming so much food into so little space.  This blog is starting to look like my fridge.

The Improvisational Kook

So when you're fourteen and a freshman in high school and you're looking around at all the candidates for your life-long best friend, my advice is that you choose someone who is very creative and generous.  Trust me, it really pays off.  After many years of hard work, you can actually trick this person into thinking that you're worthy of her attentions, and she'll start to give you some incredible stuff.

As if walls full of art work, and several rad pieces of handmade or hand-silkscreened clothing were not enough, my well-chosen friend Hilary sent me this book for Christmas.  It is, as usual, handmade-- and when I say handmade, I mean bound and designed by HAND.  This ain't no gussied up storebought sketchbook.  Anyway, in the words of the author, here is the thesis of the creation:

A cookbook!  Or should I say Kookbook?  I have always enjoyed the syntax of Hilary's recipes-- I've got a few treasures from years past, and it's really fun to laugh while cooking at phrases like "splashies of tamari" and "lemon of 1 juice."  This book is no exception in the creative descriptions department, but it is also so so much more.  Look at these pages for example.
Beautiful!  In her characteristic style, she mixes and matches drawings and prints.  How appropriate that recipes are the newest addition to her amalgamation of media; if any of you have ever eaten something that Hilary has cooked, chances are you've swooned and asked, "What's IN this?"  But like any true creative, Hilary shuns precise measurements and instructions.
There are as few numbers and quantities as possible, which can be a bit unnerving for a Virgo cook like me.  But the principle is sound: she wants you to trust yourself and your ability to think of the meal as a balanced composition.  Why should some recipe-writer miles away from one's own town and life and tastes know any better how to assemble your dinner?

And so I started with two of the recipes and ran with them.  It's what Hilary would have wanted.  I made the "Marinated and Baked Tofu" (soy sauce, ginger, garlic, sesame and olive oils, pepper, chili flakes, lime juice-- that was my version, not Hil's) and cubed it up and threw it on top of "Taylor's Favorite Salad," which is now also Megan's Favorite Salad as well.  (Hilary, was this inspired by The Bangkok from Savor?)
It's a pretty basic salad-- lettuce, tomatoes, cukes, carrots, lots of cilantro, green onions, but it stands out in three ways.  One, the aforementioned tofu, especially if it's eaten while still warm.  Two, a lovely and spontaneous sweet and salty Asian-flavored salad dressing composed of orange and lime juices, soy sauce, oils, ginger, honey, and other stuff probably too that you can find if you rummage around.  And three, a crunchy nut topping akin to crack cocaine in its addictiveness.  I got a little wild with my nut topping too-- I threw some honey roasted peanuts, coconut, and cashews into the mortar and pestle and pounded them into a rough crumble.  And as you can see, I did not use sparingly.
It was so delicious!  Adam wasn't feeling well and only ate a bite or two of his before going to bed early, so after inhaling mine I polished his off as well.  I'm not proud to admit it, but I mention it as a testament to the deliciousness.  There are lots of leftover salad makings, so tonight I'm going to make it again, only this time I'm going to top it with Chili/Tamarind shrimp.  Drooling yet?

Here's one last excerpt from Hil's book.  Don't forget the peeper!