crazysalad

Sunflowers

“Did you see the sunrise this morning?”
the old woman on Dale Street
who gardens with the parrot on her shoulder
asked me as I was walking home from Grant’s Deli
with a baguette under one arm and a cup of boiling Italian roast
burning my palm.

“And did you see the sunset last night?” I asked her.
Under a summer peach and apricot sky
my daughters and I had gone out to our front-yard garden to gather tomatoes—
bagfuls of yellow, roma, green zebra, cherry, heirloom—
and more to share with the neighbors
and handfuls of fragrant basil for our pasta dinner with fresh, no-cook sauce.

The parrot woman smiled.  “We are blessed.”

Recipe for (Almost) No-Cook Tomato Sauce

3-4 tomatoes
A handful of basil
2 cloves of garlic
Olive oil
Pasta

Boil water for pasta.  Cook pasta.  (I like farfalle ("butterfly") pasta with this sauce because the wings in the pasta hold the sauce nicely. 

While pasta is cooking, chop tomatoes.  Tear or chop basil into small pieces.  Slice garlic.  Heat olive oil in a saucepan and add garlic.  Cook until soft, but not brown.  Add chopped tomatoes.  Cook for a few minutes, just long enough to reduce the water (juice) from the tomatoes a little.  Turn off heat. 

Drain pasta and add to saucepan with tomatoes.  Add chopped basil.  Stir and serve.

The Sun
by Mary Oliver

Have you ever seen

anything
in your life
more wonderful

than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon

and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again

out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower

streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure

that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you

as you stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--

or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?

Into the Marrow

Osso Buco
by Billy Collins

I love the sound of the bone against the plate

and the fortress-like look of it

lying before me in a moat of risotto,

the meat soft as the leg of an angel

who has lived a purely airborne existence.

And best of all, the secret marrow,

the invaded privacy of the animal

prized out with a knife and wallowed down

with cold, exhilarating wine.

I am swaying now in the hour after dinner,

a citizen tilted back on his chair,

a creature with a full stomach–

something you don’t hear much about in poetry,

that sanctuary of hunger and deprivation.

You know: the driving rain, the boots by the door,

small birds searching for berries in winter.

But tonight, the lion of contentment

has placed a warm heavy paw on my chest,

and I can only close my eyes and listen

to the drums of woe throbbing in the distance

and the sound of my wife’s laughter

on the telephone in the next room,

the woman who cooked the savory osso buco,

who pointed to show the butcher the ones she wanted.

She who talks to her faraway friend

while I linger here at the table

with a hot, companionable cup of tea,

feeling like one of the friendly natives,

a reliable guide, maybe even the chief’s favorite son.

Somewhere, a man is crawling up a rocky hillside

on bleeding knees and palms, an Irish penitent

carrying the stone of the world in his stomach;

and elsewhere people of all nations stare

at one another across a long, empty table.

But here, the candles give off their warm glow,

the same light that Shakespeare and Izaac Walton wrote by,

the light that lit and shadowed the faces of history.

Only now it plays on the blue plates,

the crumpled napkins, the crossed knife and fork.

In a while, one of us will go up to bed

and the other will follow.

Then we will slip below the surface of the night

into miles of water, drifting down and down

to the dark, soundless bottom

until the weight of dreams pulls us lower still,

below the shale and layered rock,

beneath the strata of hunger and pleasure,

into the broken bones of the earth itself,

into the marrow of the only place we know.

from “The Art of Drowning” by Billy Collins
(University of Pittsburgh Press)

Thanks to Daron for introducing me to this poem, and to Matt, who was inspired to learn to cook Osso Buco because of it.  Poetry and cooking--now there's a happy marriage. 

Here are some links to recipes for Ossobuco.  There seem to be 2 versions: those made with just meat, flour, butter, and wine, like Mark Bittman's recent recipe in the New York Times; and those also made with carrots, celery, and tomatoes, like this version by Giada de Laurentiis.  Ossobuco alla Milanese is traditionally topped with gremolata (a chopped garlic, parlsey, and lemon zest garnish). 

And here are two Italian recipes, one simple version and one with vegetables.  Like many Italian recipes, the latter has no quantities, just a list of ingredients and how to prepare it.  Just put in enough meat for the number of people you are serving, it says.  Così.

Finally, no discussion of veal would be complete without mentioning the horrific conditions that crated, "milk-fed" (actually formula-feed) calves are raised under. (The white color of the meat is due to anemia, a lack of iron in the animal's diet.)  Marian Burros chronicles how consumer outrage and boycotts over inhumane treatment of these animals have led to changes in the industry. Thankfully, it is now possible to buy humanely-raised veal.  Not only are the calves allowed to move, but the rosy-colored meat from animals raised on grass actually tastes better, too. 

As always, knowing where your food comes from is key.  It starts with you.  The more you know, the more you can do.  Ask your butcher or grocer where their meat comes from and how it was raised. 

Some sources for pastured veal: Eatwild, Grass Run Farm, Local Harvest, American Pasturage, and Bobolink Dairy, run by my favorite, passionate cheesemaker/breadmaker, Jonathan White.  His website says it all: cowsoutside.com.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

My dad would have been 67 today.

Later today, as I do every year, I will make his birthday cake, his favorite--German Chocolate.

But this morning I made biscuits.  My dad’s biscuits. 

Like many experienced cooks, my dad kept the “recipe” for biscuits in his head.  He measured with his eye and adjusted the dough as needed with his practiced hand.  When I moved out on my own, I began cooking for myself.  As a novice cook, I didn’t trust myself, didn’t have the confidence yet to work without a recipe. When I came back home once for a visit, I begged him for his biscuit recipe, he obliged me and wrote out the following:

From my mother, I learned how to make dinner.  She was a working mom, but every night she made sure we sat down together as a family around a well-balanced meal: meat, starch, and a vegetable.  When my sister and I grew older and my mom went back to school at night to earn her degree, all of us pitched in and took turns making meals.   I know my dad helped, too.  But when I think of him in the kitchen, it’s always breakfast time.   

He only made breakfast on the weekends.  During the week, with everyone rushing off to work or school, we usually ate toast or cereal.  Fast and easy.  But on Saturday and Sunday, Dad would rise, make a pot of coffee, and read The Washington Post.  Then he would make biscuits. 

Often I would wake up just as the biscuits were coming out of the oven.  Maybe it was smell that had pulled me out of my slumber and hunger that had provided the incentive to get out of bed. 

Hot biscuits.  I loved pulling them apart and watching the steam rise out from between the flaky layers.  Then came the hard part—deciding what to put on them.  Honey butter, apple butter, or jam?  I loved all three, so I usually had one with each topping.

But if I got up early, my dad would let me help him bake.  After we had shaped and cut out most of the dough with the biscuit cutter, he would give me the scraps to play with.  I would knead the scraps together and roll it into a long snake-like shape or coil it into a spiral.  Or I would experiment with new creations, filling the dough with jam or sugar or whatever I could think of and then folding it over.  Invariably, the filling would leak out during baking and burn into a sticky, black spot on the bottom of the baking sheet.  The thin snake would have to be pulled out early because it required less baking time than the thick, round biscuits.   In contrast to contrast to his high, fluffy, and identical golden rounds, the biscuits I made were small, misshapen, grey.   Tough from being overworked.

I learned a lot about baking that way. Playing.  Experimenting. Hanging out with my dad.  The best part was sitting down to eat with him afterwards. 

Knowing we had all morning together and nowhere to go. 

From my mom, I learned the fundamentals of cooking.  Shopping, planning, executing a meal.  Getting it done.  Doing it every night, because your family depends on you.  Understanding the importance of good nutrition.  All things I still use and appreciate.  A deep, deep respect for food. 

But from my dad, I learned the joy and camaraderie of the kitchen.  How to make things I love and crave to this day: bread, cinnamon rolls, biscuits.  Warm, delicious things that made the whole kitchen smell homey and sweet.

That’s how my kitchen smells this morning. 

Thanks, Dad.  I miss you.

Horchata

I am pleased to announce my first guest writer for crazysalad!

As part of a semester project for her Spanish class, my daughter, Tamara, researched one of her favorite drinks, Mexican horchata.  She graciously gave me permission to reprint her report here.  In exchange for photographs, she also let me taste some of her yummy homemade horchata before she took it off to share with her classmates. 

Description and History of Horchata
    In Mexico there is a group of beverages called “aguas frescas”, or fresh waters, made from a mixture of fruits, grains, or seeds, blended with sugar and water. The most popular flavors include agua de tamarindo, made with tamarind pods, agua de jamaica, made with hibiscus flowers, and agua de horchata, made with rice.
    Horchata is a traditional Mexican cold beverage made of rice, almonds, canella, lime zest, and sugar. The Spaniards brought Horchata to the New World. The original horchata de chufas of Spain was made with tigernuts, or chufas, which are a species of sedge plant originally cultivated in Egypt. However, since chufas were not readily available in the New World, the Spaniards substituted ground squash seeds instead.
    Later, almonds and rice were incorporated into the drink, and it evolved into the Mexican horchata that is drunk today. Horchata de chufas is still a common beverage in Spain, but in Latin America, the rice-based horchata is more prevalent. And even now in the U.S., especially in San Diego, one can find horchata in many Mexican restaurants and grocery stores.

Different Types of Horchata
    Even among rice-based horchatas there are many different variants. Ingredients often include cinnamon, vanilla, orange, or lime. Horchata in El Salvador uses ground cocoa and sesame seeds instead of almonds. My friend, Lupé, says when she was growing up in Mexico, her mother made horchata with ground cantaloupe seeds. Horchata is also available as a powdered mixture or concentrate at Mexican grocery stores.

Horchata Tasting
    After I made my horchata, I compared it to horchatas from various restaurants and stores in San Diego.  Here are the results:
Mama Testa Horchata – According to Cesar, owner of Mama Testa restaurant in Hillcrest, their horchata is made from a coconut oil-based syrup that is mixed with water in a dispenser. It was sweet, milky in color, and good, but didn’t taste quite like horchata, in my opinion.
Porkyland Horchata – This horchata had a strong taste of cinnamon and vanilla. It also had a strange oily aftertaste and it was very, very sweet.

Bottled concentrate “Fiesta” brand – This concentrate contained only milk, sugar, rice, and cinnamon. The directions called for 1 part concentrate to 7 parts water, which seemed a little thin. It tasted mildly sweet, but more like sugar water than rice.
Powdered mix “Klass” brand – This contained a lot of sugar, hydrogenated oils and preservatives. There was definitely not enough mix for the quart of water the instructions called for, and it did not even taste like horchata. It tasted medicinal or almost like a bizarre sort of candy.

Horchata de Oaxaca Recipe
(from Authentic Mexican: Regional Cooking from the Heart of Mexico by Rick Bayless & Deann Groen Bayless)

Time: Active involvement about 20 minutes, plus soaking time

Yield:  About a quart, or 6 servings

6 tablespoons rice
6 ounces (1 1/4 c.) blanched almonds
1 inch cinnamon stick
Three 2-inch strips of lime zest
1 cup sugar

1. Soaking the rice and almonds. Thoroughly pulverize the rice in a blender or spice grinder. Transfer to a medium-size bowl and add the almonds, cinnamon stick and lime zest. Stir in 2 cups of hot water, cover and let stand at least 6 hours, or preferably, overnight.

2. Blending and straining. Scoop the mixture into the blender jar and blend for 3 or 4 minutes, until it no longer feels very gritty. Add 2 cups of water, then blend for a few seconds more. Set a large sieve over a mixing bowl and line with 3 layers of dampened cheesecloth. Pour in the almond-rice mixture a little at a time, gently stirring to help the liquid pass through. When all has been strained, gather up the corners of the cheesecloth and twist them together to trap the dregs inside. Squeeze the package firmly to expel the remaining liquid.

3. Finishing the horchata. Add 2 cups of water and stir in enough sugar to sweeten the drink to your taste. If the consistency is too thick, add additional water. Cover and refrigerate until you’re ready to serve. Stir before pouring.

I'm getting ready to head off on a trip to Tokyo with my family. I've never been before, so I'm really looking forward to eating lots of sushi, ramen, and shabu shabu.  Tops on my list of places to visit are the Tsukiji Fish Market, tea shops and the department store food halls.

Itte kimasu!

Cappelletti in Brodo

Marta Ferrari’s Ricette e Racconti Della Mia Reggio © 1999

In addition to typical products, each region and often each town, has its own typical dishes. When I ask most of my friends from Reggio Emilia what their favorite pasta is, almost unanimously they tell me cappelletti in brodo (pasta in broth). 

You know how when you are sick as a child and your mother brings you chicken noodle soup?  Even if it was just Campbell’s canned soup (as mine was), you remember it as delicious and comforting and form an emotional attachment to that dish, simply because of what it represents.

Now think of the best homemade chicken noodle soup you have ever made (or tasted) and you will have some idea of what cappelletti in brodo tastes like.

Cappelletti, or little hats, refers to the shape of the pasta, which are small, round and filled with cheese and meat. The broth, made from both chicken (capon) and beef, is rich and dark in color.  Although they resemble Bologna’s tortellini, cappelletti are stuffed with chicken, veal and pork, but not mortadella. Smaller than tortellini, three or four cappelletti easily fit on a soup spoon.

If you ask a Reggiano who makes the best cappelletti, the answer is always the same: my mother (or grandmother). It is a very labor-intensive process. 

Pasta made with fresh egg dough is rolled out into thin sheets (as for ravioli) and then cut into 2-inch squares.  The squares are then stuffed with the filling, folded into triangles, and the ends brought together to form the distinctive hat shape.  Sounds easy enough, but try making several hundred of these and see if you can get any of them to look the same.  I couldn’t.  I was just happy if they held together and didn’t tear open and spill their contents into the soup.   

This recipe comes from Marta Ferrari’s Ricette e Racconti Della Mia Reggio (Recipes and Stories of My Reggio).

Pesto (ground filling) for cappelletti:
2 small onions
150 g. (10 T.) butter
beef rib roast
70 g. (2 1/1 oz.) prosciutto
60 g. (2 oz.) ground pork
90 g. (3 oz.) veal (or turkey or chicken)
liver and giblets
1 egg
1 clove garlic (optional)
nutmeg, breadcrumbs, grated cheese to taste

If you haven’t made cappelletti before, Ferrari’s book is frustratingly short on details. She doesn’t specify the quantity of beef for the filling. Apparently she assumes that you have eaten and seen cappelletti prepared, for she doesn’t say how large the squares should be made when cutting the pasta. The final ingredients are given as “q.B,” which means “quanto basta” (a sufficient amount). It is understood, she notes, that the cappelletti are eaten with broth, but she never tells you how to make that broth.  Hey, if you are going to the trouble to make cappelletti, you better know how to make something as simple as broth. 

Just for comparison, here is another recipe for cappelletti (in English).

Until recently, I think most cookbooks in English also assumed a basic knowledge of cooking experience on the part of the reader.  It’s only been in the last half century, as fewer and fewer people learn to cook, that books such as The Simpleton’s Guide to Boiling Water have become the staple in publishing.  Don’t get me wrong--I still have the Betty Crocker’s Cookbook for Boys and Girls that I learned to cook from.  I wish I could say I were an intuitive cook who can create great meals off the top of my head, but I am sadly cookbook-dependent, relying on my library for inspiration and guidance through most meals. 

Still, Ferrari’s book is a great resource and the definitive (i.e., the only) cookbook of Reggio Emilia.  Cappelletti are traditionally made and served at Christmas time.  The rest of the year, however, cappelletti in brodo is available in nearly every restaurant in town.  Even when it is not listed on the menu, you can still order it and they will usually have it on hand. 

After spending a year eating in the same half dozen restaurants in Reggio, it didn’t take us long to compare and rank which had the best cappelletti in town. Below are two different restaurants’ versions of the dish. 

Our favorite was from Sotto Broletto, a pizzeria conveniently located 50 meters from our apartment.  This restaurant also seemed to attract the handful of stray tourists that got lost and found themselves in Reggio.  Undoubtedly, they ended up at Sotto Broletto, as we often did, because it was one of the few restaurants open for dinner at the shockingly early hour (in Italy) of 6 pm.  Sotto Broletto’s broth is dark and flavorful, the cappelletti soft and juicy.  The ingredients are well balanced, that is, not dominated by one flavor, such as cheese.

Below is cappelletti in brodo from Casseruola.  Fancier and more expensive, Casseruola was one of my favorite all-around restaurants, especially for their grilled vegetables and steaks.  Their cappelletti broth is lighter in color and has a more delicate taste, probably made entirely from chicken broth.

Millet, It’s Not Just For Birdseed Anymore

I led a deprived, un-American childhood: my mother refused to buy any breakfast cereals with added sugar.  That’s right, no Cocoa Puffs, no Sugar Snaps.  No crackle or pop.  The only cereals allowed in our house were unsweetened rice puffs and unsweetened shredded wheat.  When milk was added, the puffed still tasted like sawdust and the wheat quickly turned to leaden mush in the bottom of the bowl.  Oddly enough, we were occasionally allowed Grape-Nuts, which contain neither grapes nor nuts, but sugar in the form of malted barley, and Chex, which contain both malted barley and sugar.  This probably owed more to my dad’s influence—he liked them and bought them for himself—than my mother’s “don’t argue with me” policy. 

Now I find that I’m inflicting the same abuse on my own offspring.  I make my husband stash his Raisin Bran on the top shelf of the pantry where the kids are less likely to notice it.  Still, they know where to score some Froot Loops, if they really want to (Halmoni’s house).   

So despite years of television watching, whereby cute characters and catchy jingles tempted me with forbidden foods, as an adult I find I have no desire to eat those boxed, sugary cereals.  If I want to eat something that sweet for breakfast, I would rather cut a big slice of last night’s birthday cake or make fresh scones.  Most of the time, I am content to eat a bowl of slow-cooked, steel-cut oats, sweetened only with currants and topped with toasted almonds. 

But a look down the cereal aisle of any grocery store clearly shows that I am in the minority of American consumers. For that I blame the Kelloggs. 

Tomato Bruschetta Recipe

   

The recipe for bruschetta is so simple, it could be just two sentences:  In a bowl, stir together chopped tomatoes and chopped fresh basil, season with salt and pepper.  Grill or toast slices of good Italian bread, rub each slice with garlic, spoon some of the tomato-basil mixture on top and drizzle with good Italian olive oil. 

But as in most of my cooking, the key lies not in the recipe, but in the ingredients.  When my sister and I were kids, we made our own garlic bread by toasting American white bread, spreading on margarine and sprinkling it with dried garlic powder.  Hey, we liked it, garlic-breath and all!

But when I discovered bruschetta for the first time in Tuscany nearly 20 years ago, I was so blown away by the flavors that I began trying to recreate it as closely as I could here in the U.S.  How could I achieve the same texture of bread that crunched satisfyingly when you bit into it, yet soft enough to give way and fold into your mouth?  I especially loved tomato bruschetta.  Could I replicate that balance of warm, ripe tomatoes, fragrant fresh basil, sharp but not overpowering garlic, and peppery olive oil?