Peel, core, and chop about 20 large quinces. Heat in a pot with 1/2 gallon water until mushy, stirring frequently (this may take hours). Add 1 pt. fresh cranberries and sweetener to taste; cook until cranberries explode and texture is dry and pasty. Puree. Variation: Use apple cider in place of the water and reduce or eliminate sweetener. Serve with cheese; a little goes a long way!
This approach makes about 1 quart of quince butter, an amount suitable for canning in 1/2 pt. jars.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Fajitas de Mi Novio
Marinate 2 lbs. small pieces carne asada meat (skirt or flank steak) in bowl with 1 Anchor Steam-type ale, small onion minced, 4 cloves garlic minced, 1/2 bunch cilantro minced, salt, and pepper for minimum 30 minutes. Cook in an oiled pan on medium high until liquid disappears and meat is well-done. Serve with sauteed onions and bell peppers, fresh salsa, salad, tortillas, and guacamole.
R. prepared these for my family the night after Thanksgiving. We were already suffering from meat overload, so we adulterated these fajitas with lots of fresh veggies. Mmmmmm.
R. prepared these for my family the night after Thanksgiving. We were already suffering from meat overload, so we adulterated these fajitas with lots of fresh veggies. Mmmmmm.
Black Friday Soup Part 2 (The Soup)
In large pot caramelize 1 large onion and 3 stalks celery, diced. Add 3 carrots and 1 large tomato, diced, plus turkey meat and salt to taste. Cook 5 minutes then add 3 quarts turkey stock. Simmer gently for about an hour then add mushrooms, parsley, and chili pepper, all chopped, and noodles if desired. Simmer until veggies and noodles are tender.
Black Friday Soup Part 1 (The Stock)
Pull all remaining meat from one roasted turkey carcass and set aside for soup. Then brown remaining carcass in oven. Meanwhile, cook 1 large onion and 3 stalks celery, diced, in oil or butter in a large pot. Add carcass, 1 gallon water, and 1 T. cider vinegar. Simmer for about 2 hours, skimming often to remove the scum from the top. Strain.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
An Oatmeal Cookie Worthy of Christmas
Preheat oven to 350°. Cream 1 lb. butter or coconut oil with 1 1/3 c. brown sugar and 1 t. vanilla. Add 2 eggs (optional), 2 c. flour (gluten-free substitution OK), 2 c. oats (use Bob's for gluten-free), 1 c. currants, 1 t. baking soda, 1 t. grated orange rind, 1/4 t. nutmeg, and a pinch salt. Blend well. Bake in rounded spoonfuls on a cookie sheet for about 8 mins.
I make no claim that this is a healthy recipe.
I make no claim that this is a healthy recipe.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Salmon with Sun-Fired Salsa and Fresh Corn
Prepare Sun-Fired Salsa and combine with fresh kernels of 1–2 ears corn. Spread this mixture over salmon filets and bake at a low temp (325° F) until cooked through.
Sun-Fired Salsa (vegan + raw)
In a jar, combine equal parts pureed sundried tomatoes, oil, apple cider vinegar, and chopped fresh cilantro. Add optional additions, in 1/4 parts: minced chili, minced onion, lime juice. A pinch of cumin is also nice. Cover the jar and shake, shake, shake, or blend with a hand blender.
Monday, November 16, 2009
A FEW THOUGHTS ON THE PREVENTION OF H1N1 AND OTHER VARIETIES OF UNINVITED WINTER FUNK
As anyone who knows me well can attest, I tend to confront life's anxieties with a variation of the following mantra: "Well, this sucks. I've got no money/I'm going through a breakup/Bank of America has frozen me out of all my accounts due to a case of mistaken identity/I think this plane is going to crash/my cat just ate another plastic bag/I'm pretty sure I'm incompetent at my job/there's a scary pig-faced flu virus threatening to take over the world, and my health insurance is lousy... WHAT SHOULD I MAKE FOR DINNER?"
Indeed, cooking is the only coping mechanism that seems to work for me most of the time (provided I don't eat all my results in one sitting). It is especially effective for handling health-related worries, as I may not be able to prevent all illness with food but I certainly enjoy distracting myself with the effort.
Case in point: I have been making a lot of soups lately. In particular, I've been making some very tasty vegetable soups. Every time I see a news story about the swine flu, or someone mentions the vaccine, a little chill runs up and down my spine. "But that's just the swine flu!!" I think to myself, breath getting shorter and forehead mangling with stress wrinkles. "What about all the other flus? And colds? The bronchitis I got last year? My winter allergies? The both-ends bug that has been traveling through my apartment building for the last few weeks, confining my neighbors to their bathrooms for days on end? I'm sure to be sick until MAY no matter what I do!!!"
Then I make some soup. If there's a more comforting way to steel one's immune system against an approaching army of killer cooties, I don't know what it is. Sure we can wash our hands 50 times a day, avoid riding public transportation, beg our doctors for the shots, even wear those little paper face masks and scowl at anyone who sneezes. But is any of that FUN, really?
Making soup is fun. Plus it can be cheap and utterly easy. Plus it's a great way to use up old bones and vegetable scraps. Plus it's fun to eat, especially at this time of year when Mother Nature has conspired to provide us with so much yummy, immune-supporting, soup-able produce.
Mushrooms, for example, are readily available at this time of year and are so very good for the immune system. (White button mushrooms are not as nutritious as stronger-flavored varieties , FYI.) Even if you don't like the full-on mushroomness of a cream of mushroom soup, you can still throw a couple of shitakes into whatever other soup you're making to enhance the flavor subtly. Orange squashes and root vegetables, also so well-suited to winter soups, are rich in beta-carotenes... also super-immportant for immunity. Even basic vegetable and bone stocks are chock-full of minerals, ie magnesium and calcium, which you need plenty of during flu season. Soups also provide a great base for heavy-dosing spices and booster foods that support health such as garlic, ginger, chili, turmeric, and even seaweed (you'll never taste it).
Another great thing about homemade soup is that it is far preferable to canned or dried soups both in terms of its potential healthfulness and its economy. Homemade soup, when made properly with fresh ingredients, is blessedly free of the hormone-disrupting BPA, mystery preservatives, "spices" and "natural flavors" (read: MSG), and excess salt commonly found in packaged soups. You can also make huge batches and freeze individual servings for later, which works out to be much cheaper than buying prepackaged soups if you play your cards right.
A few notes on equipment: I find a couple of items to be indispensable for making soups and stews. A hand blender, available for about $25, is perfect for pureeing and much easier to clean than a regular blender (plus you don't have to cool a soup completely to blend it with a hand blender, which you must do if using a regular blender otherwise the steam will expand inside the jar causing the whole thing to explode, scalding and possibly disfiguring you for life). I also tend to use the crock pot a lot, especially for soups involving beans or whole chunks of meat. I highly recommend getting a crock pot for this purpose— you can get a perfectly serviceable one for under $50. When making soups or stews on the stovetop, you want a big heavy-bottomed pot— preferably of the enameled variety as opposed to aluminum which burns more easily and can leach unhealthy stuff into your soup. A Le Creuset pot is particularly great because it lasts a lifetime. And god forbid there's ever an unwelcome intruder in your house, you can whack him with it.
Anyway in spite of all the benefits listed above, my favorite thing about soup is that you can slurp it. Sometimes I make a little game out of slurping. I like to experiment with how loud or bizarre my sounds can get. This consummates the whole soup ritual nicely, like a salute or perhaps an affirmation: "Everything is going to be all right."
Indeed, cooking is the only coping mechanism that seems to work for me most of the time (provided I don't eat all my results in one sitting). It is especially effective for handling health-related worries, as I may not be able to prevent all illness with food but I certainly enjoy distracting myself with the effort.
Case in point: I have been making a lot of soups lately. In particular, I've been making some very tasty vegetable soups. Every time I see a news story about the swine flu, or someone mentions the vaccine, a little chill runs up and down my spine. "But that's just the swine flu!!" I think to myself, breath getting shorter and forehead mangling with stress wrinkles. "What about all the other flus? And colds? The bronchitis I got last year? My winter allergies? The both-ends bug that has been traveling through my apartment building for the last few weeks, confining my neighbors to their bathrooms for days on end? I'm sure to be sick until MAY no matter what I do!!!"
Then I make some soup. If there's a more comforting way to steel one's immune system against an approaching army of killer cooties, I don't know what it is. Sure we can wash our hands 50 times a day, avoid riding public transportation, beg our doctors for the shots, even wear those little paper face masks and scowl at anyone who sneezes. But is any of that FUN, really?
Making soup is fun. Plus it can be cheap and utterly easy. Plus it's a great way to use up old bones and vegetable scraps. Plus it's fun to eat, especially at this time of year when Mother Nature has conspired to provide us with so much yummy, immune-supporting, soup-able produce.
Mushrooms, for example, are readily available at this time of year and are so very good for the immune system. (White button mushrooms are not as nutritious as stronger-flavored varieties , FYI.) Even if you don't like the full-on mushroomness of a cream of mushroom soup, you can still throw a couple of shitakes into whatever other soup you're making to enhance the flavor subtly. Orange squashes and root vegetables, also so well-suited to winter soups, are rich in beta-carotenes... also super-immportant for immunity. Even basic vegetable and bone stocks are chock-full of minerals, ie magnesium and calcium, which you need plenty of during flu season. Soups also provide a great base for heavy-dosing spices and booster foods that support health such as garlic, ginger, chili, turmeric, and even seaweed (you'll never taste it).
Another great thing about homemade soup is that it is far preferable to canned or dried soups both in terms of its potential healthfulness and its economy. Homemade soup, when made properly with fresh ingredients, is blessedly free of the hormone-disrupting BPA, mystery preservatives, "spices" and "natural flavors" (read: MSG), and excess salt commonly found in packaged soups. You can also make huge batches and freeze individual servings for later, which works out to be much cheaper than buying prepackaged soups if you play your cards right.
A few notes on equipment: I find a couple of items to be indispensable for making soups and stews. A hand blender, available for about $25, is perfect for pureeing and much easier to clean than a regular blender (plus you don't have to cool a soup completely to blend it with a hand blender, which you must do if using a regular blender otherwise the steam will expand inside the jar causing the whole thing to explode, scalding and possibly disfiguring you for life). I also tend to use the crock pot a lot, especially for soups involving beans or whole chunks of meat. I highly recommend getting a crock pot for this purpose— you can get a perfectly serviceable one for under $50. When making soups or stews on the stovetop, you want a big heavy-bottomed pot— preferably of the enameled variety as opposed to aluminum which burns more easily and can leach unhealthy stuff into your soup. A Le Creuset pot is particularly great because it lasts a lifetime. And god forbid there's ever an unwelcome intruder in your house, you can whack him with it.
Anyway in spite of all the benefits listed above, my favorite thing about soup is that you can slurp it. Sometimes I make a little game out of slurping. I like to experiment with how loud or bizarre my sounds can get. This consummates the whole soup ritual nicely, like a salute or perhaps an affirmation: "Everything is going to be all right."
Quick Mushroom Soup
Saute 1 chopped onion and 1 lb, sliced mushrooms in 2 T. butter until tender. Add stock, salt, and 1 t. dried sage, a splash of white wine, or a dash of Worcestershire if desired. Cook about 20 mins. more. Puree. Serve hot or cold, with cream to taste.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Split Pea Soup with Chorizo
Chop a chorizo and a big onion. Saute until soft. Add dry split peas, generous stock, salt, and chili. Cook until mushy.
Curried Parsnip Soup with Fresh Ginger (vegan)
Saute a small chopped onion, add 2 big chopped parsnips, vegetable stock, curry powder, salt. Puree once the parsnips are soft. Add a few T. coconut milk and 1 t. of freshly-grated ginger. Serve.
Pasta with Garbanzos, Capers, and Fresh Parsley (vegan)
Heat garbanzos with a few cloves garlic in olive oil, about 5 minutes. Add a little water/wine and salt and cook 5 more minutes. Remove from heat. Add 2 large chopped tomatoes, 1 T. capers, half cup chopped parsely, and juice of half a lemon. Toss with pasta.
AN ARGUMENT AGAINST RECIPES
I am not much of a "recipes" person. Sure, it's fun to flip through my sister's cookbooks or the odd food magazine for ideas... most of which I never use. And there are certain cases in which a detailed recipe is indispensable, for example, when baking a fancy cake I've never actually tasted before. In that case I do lug out my batter-splattered Cake Bible (Rose Levy Beranbaum = National Hero), crack the already-broken spine, and dutifully do what I'm told.
For the most part though I feel that formal recipes appeal to the same voyeuristic impulses as the Food Network: they allow us to imagine, in vivid detail, the context in which a delicious dish is prepared and eaten, the very world inhabited by someone else's senses. By assuring a uniformity of product, they assure a partial uniformity of experience.
Thus I find expansive, formal recipes— and the glossy, mass-produced publications they come from— entirely optional. They exist for the benefit of home-cooks-in-training, or wannabe gourmets who don't yet have ideas of their own. (That's not meant as an insult, by the way.) Perhaps more importantly, they allow the accomplished cooks and chefs who write them to earn a living like the rest of us, or at least eat some tasty stuff while trying. These are all honorable pursuits but not really my cup of chocolate.
Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against voyeuristic impulses and test-kitchen-assured deliciousness. That's all very nice. But does it really teach us anything about food? Does it really teach us how to cook?
I'm partial instead to the directives one finds scribbled one the back of a paper napkin, possibly lacking measurements, perhaps detailed in some ways but obtuse in others; to put it another way, I prefer vague formulas to stepped-out instructions. For example, when my grandmother decided to cease production of her epic Christmas fruitcake several years ago (she was 85 at the time, and I suspect she had started to find the cakes too heavy to lift), I asked her to tell me how she made it. So she furnished, in her shaky 85-year-old's hand, an index card onto which she had summed up a process which I knew to take DAYS in exactly 14 words. It's not that she's a smith of such precision, my grandma. No, she just left a whole lot of stuff out.
I like that. It has become my model for writing recipes. This approach allows — or perhaps forces— the person using the scribbled formula to a) actually know something about cooking and b) interpret a little. For example, my grandmother always used candied citron and lime peel in her fruitcake, those oversweetened, neon-dyed bits one sees at the supermarket each holiday season with a texture vaguely remniscent of shoe leather. Well as it turns out, pretty much no one on the planet likes that stuff. It doesn't't taste anything like fruit, for one, and it's also a choking hazard. However, my grandmother's recipe says only "pound dried fruit." So when I make fruitcake, I use a mixture of rum-soaked raisins, apricots, and dried cherries instead. Intoxicating. I know I'm not making my grandmother's fruitcake when I do it that way, and yet, I sort-of am. We could debate it around our Christmas dinnertable if anyone other than me actually liked and ate fruitcake.
Even better, next time I make the fruitcake I could substitute a different kind of dried fruit entirely. How about currants? Or dried persimmons, with a heavy dose of cinnamon? The result would be totally different, and my own, and possibly revolutionary! Of course it could also be horrific. But there would never be a record of that, since the recipe was never dictated persimmon to begin with. I would simply dump it in the garbage and try, try to forget.
Don't all good cooks take other people's recipes and adapt them anyway, you say? What's the point of actually constructing recipes in a different, condensed form, rather than following the age-old tradition of writing the exact steps and letting the reader do what he or she pleases with them?
For one thing, even if I do make the same dish twice I'm not going to make it the same way twice, whether it'mine or anyone else's. I used to deal with this by manually editing published recipes from cookbooks and magazines using proofreading marks, so that later I'd be able to easily identify which steps and and ingredients were extraneous and where I could innovate. But then I lived in fear of other people finding my marks and realizing, well, what an OCD freak I really am. And the resulting recipes were not really recipes, what with all the crossouts and margin notes. They were formulas, and they didn't belong to the author anymore; they belonged to me.
For another, I do not personally like writing detailed recipes any more than I like using them. I intend to, sure. When I concoct something particularly tasty I scribble my notes onto some errant scrap with the intention of transcribing later, in greater detail, for the benefit of others. Which never happens. I'm much more interested in concocting the next new thing. So there it sits, a sparse note among other sparse notes, to be revisited next time I'm brainstorming what to make for dinner. Isn't that good enough?
One advantage to the "formula" model of writing a recipe is that it can emphasize proportions, as opposed to exact measurements, which are far more educational for the home cook in the long run. The first 10 times I tried to made salad dressing at home, for example, I followed the precise directives of a favorite salad expert (Deborah Madison = Vegetable Genius), and to good effect... but could I have reproduced said salad dressings without looking back at Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone? No, my memory is not that good. And I was not confident enough to invent something on my own. Then one day it occurred to me (sometimes I'm kinda slow) to actually look at the proportion of lemon juice/vinegar/whatever to oil to other stuff in those recipes, and Eureka! I figured out how to construct a damned good salad dressing, using whatever ingredients available, without consulting anyone ever again.
Which leads me to my point: A good home cook does not need to be told in excruciating detail how to make food taste good. He/she already has ideas about that. All he or she really needs to know are the base components of the dish and how it might be vaguely described to dinner guests. The rest is up to interpretation, whim, and a foundation understanding of ingredients/methods. A simple, short description of how to make a dish is, therefore, all most home cooks really need when learning to make something new.
This works out to about 50 words or less, including some indication of ingredients needed and methods involved, units of measure only when absolutely required; call it a Flash Recipe, a Formula, a Redux, a Tweat; call it a poem if you want.
Anything more is, in a way, garnish.
For the most part though I feel that formal recipes appeal to the same voyeuristic impulses as the Food Network: they allow us to imagine, in vivid detail, the context in which a delicious dish is prepared and eaten, the very world inhabited by someone else's senses. By assuring a uniformity of product, they assure a partial uniformity of experience.
Thus I find expansive, formal recipes— and the glossy, mass-produced publications they come from— entirely optional. They exist for the benefit of home-cooks-in-training, or wannabe gourmets who don't yet have ideas of their own. (That's not meant as an insult, by the way.) Perhaps more importantly, they allow the accomplished cooks and chefs who write them to earn a living like the rest of us, or at least eat some tasty stuff while trying. These are all honorable pursuits but not really my cup of chocolate.
Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against voyeuristic impulses and test-kitchen-assured deliciousness. That's all very nice. But does it really teach us anything about food? Does it really teach us how to cook?
I'm partial instead to the directives one finds scribbled one the back of a paper napkin, possibly lacking measurements, perhaps detailed in some ways but obtuse in others; to put it another way, I prefer vague formulas to stepped-out instructions. For example, when my grandmother decided to cease production of her epic Christmas fruitcake several years ago (she was 85 at the time, and I suspect she had started to find the cakes too heavy to lift), I asked her to tell me how she made it. So she furnished, in her shaky 85-year-old's hand, an index card onto which she had summed up a process which I knew to take DAYS in exactly 14 words. It's not that she's a smith of such precision, my grandma. No, she just left a whole lot of stuff out.
I like that. It has become my model for writing recipes. This approach allows — or perhaps forces— the person using the scribbled formula to a) actually know something about cooking and b) interpret a little. For example, my grandmother always used candied citron and lime peel in her fruitcake, those oversweetened, neon-dyed bits one sees at the supermarket each holiday season with a texture vaguely remniscent of shoe leather. Well as it turns out, pretty much no one on the planet likes that stuff. It doesn't't taste anything like fruit, for one, and it's also a choking hazard. However, my grandmother's recipe says only "pound dried fruit." So when I make fruitcake, I use a mixture of rum-soaked raisins, apricots, and dried cherries instead. Intoxicating. I know I'm not making my grandmother's fruitcake when I do it that way, and yet, I sort-of am. We could debate it around our Christmas dinnertable if anyone other than me actually liked and ate fruitcake.
Even better, next time I make the fruitcake I could substitute a different kind of dried fruit entirely. How about currants? Or dried persimmons, with a heavy dose of cinnamon? The result would be totally different, and my own, and possibly revolutionary! Of course it could also be horrific. But there would never be a record of that, since the recipe was never dictated persimmon to begin with. I would simply dump it in the garbage and try, try to forget.
Don't all good cooks take other people's recipes and adapt them anyway, you say? What's the point of actually constructing recipes in a different, condensed form, rather than following the age-old tradition of writing the exact steps and letting the reader do what he or she pleases with them?
For one thing, even if I do make the same dish twice I'm not going to make it the same way twice, whether it'mine or anyone else's. I used to deal with this by manually editing published recipes from cookbooks and magazines using proofreading marks, so that later I'd be able to easily identify which steps and and ingredients were extraneous and where I could innovate. But then I lived in fear of other people finding my marks and realizing, well, what an OCD freak I really am. And the resulting recipes were not really recipes, what with all the crossouts and margin notes. They were formulas, and they didn't belong to the author anymore; they belonged to me.
For another, I do not personally like writing detailed recipes any more than I like using them. I intend to, sure. When I concoct something particularly tasty I scribble my notes onto some errant scrap with the intention of transcribing later, in greater detail, for the benefit of others. Which never happens. I'm much more interested in concocting the next new thing. So there it sits, a sparse note among other sparse notes, to be revisited next time I'm brainstorming what to make for dinner. Isn't that good enough?
One advantage to the "formula" model of writing a recipe is that it can emphasize proportions, as opposed to exact measurements, which are far more educational for the home cook in the long run. The first 10 times I tried to made salad dressing at home, for example, I followed the precise directives of a favorite salad expert (Deborah Madison = Vegetable Genius), and to good effect... but could I have reproduced said salad dressings without looking back at Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone? No, my memory is not that good. And I was not confident enough to invent something on my own. Then one day it occurred to me (sometimes I'm kinda slow) to actually look at the proportion of lemon juice/vinegar/whatever to oil to other stuff in those recipes, and Eureka! I figured out how to construct a damned good salad dressing, using whatever ingredients available, without consulting anyone ever again.
Which leads me to my point: A good home cook does not need to be told in excruciating detail how to make food taste good. He/she already has ideas about that. All he or she really needs to know are the base components of the dish and how it might be vaguely described to dinner guests. The rest is up to interpretation, whim, and a foundation understanding of ingredients/methods. A simple, short description of how to make a dish is, therefore, all most home cooks really need when learning to make something new.
This works out to about 50 words or less, including some indication of ingredients needed and methods involved, units of measure only when absolutely required; call it a Flash Recipe, a Formula, a Redux, a Tweat; call it a poem if you want.
Anything more is, in a way, garnish.
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