An Effing Foodie

Rainy Day, Sunny Dal: Red Coconut Lentil Recipe

In starving grad student times, dirt-cheap Indian dinners on East 6th St were a welcome break in a routine of ramen and grilled cheese.  For $8-10 a head, my comrades and I basked in the nuclear glow of a bazillion Christmas lights and winking Mylar garlands, sharing lamb korma, palak paneer, steamy basmati biryani, and mounds of naan.  Nothing like a caddy of chutney to make a lady feel festive and fed.

In the course of these budget feasts, the little aluminum dishes of complimentary turmeric-touched cabbage and lentils inevitably fell by the wayside.  But I've always loved them, and consistently ended each dinner with a portion of rice draped in canary-yellow lentil gravy.

I've discovered embarrassingly recently (like, last week) that the ubiquitous dal is dead-easy to replicate at home. Thrifty-and-filling, delicious-and-nutritious, simultaneously bone-sticking and sunny, dal's an ideal balm on a rainy spring day.

And unlike their pulse/legume cousin, the bean, lentils/dal need no soaking or long-minded prep, and can be ready in 30 minutes.  Procrastinators, gather ye lentils while ye may!

This bowl of saffron feel-goods has little to do with anything traditionally Indian; it's a grab-bag of things I happened to have in the pantry, and it produced a generous pot that ensured a week of dal-on-rice, dal-as-soup, dal-with-random kale, with even enough for a quart of frozen emergency dal. 

(Just in case there is an immediate and overwhelming need for something creamy, spicy-savory, and punchy carmine.)  

The Great Yeast Forward: Hamburger Curry Buns, or Japanese Bierocks Recipe

Everybody's got a chink in their cooking armor.  Mine is fluff.

Specifically, anything where the incorporation of air comes into play.  This means souffles, meringues, popovers, and yeast breads--anything where restraint is a virtue, where part of the process is knowing when to walk away. 

I'm a poker, a prodder, a meddler.  If me coaxing a food along is more likely to harm then help, I'm sh*t out of luck.

But it's time to conquer cooking demons.  Live yeast culture, quake at my presence.

The impetus for yeast domination was a bierock that I had at Peekskill Brewery (spelled beer lock on their bar menu).  Billed as pretzel dough pockets with seasoned beef, red cabbage and apples, it was a genius concept in beer food that didn't quite take wing; the dough was a little tough, and when you jerked the little packets apart (or bit into them) crumbly, under-seasoned filling flew out.

(Much, much better on that visit was the pork belly with lentils, fried oysters, and arugula salad with blue cheese and pumpkin.)

But as I picked bits of beef and cabbage off my lap I thought, I bet I could do this better.

I'd come across bierocks paging through the gorgeous Saveur Cooks Authentic American; they're a hearty, field-friendly lunch (not unlike Chinese da bao, or Cornish pasties), popular on Mennonite farms in Kansas, whose recipe stems from German and Russian immigrants.  

The Saveur bierocks were huge (think smooshed softball) and filled with ground beef, cabbage, cheddar cheese and mustard.

Which sounded great, 'cept on the day of the Great Yeast Forward, I was short a couple of those elements. 

So I did some digging in the 'ol pantry and tweaked accordingly: Instead of the Eastern Blockequse cabbage and cheese, I was running with Japanese hamburger curry with peas.  Spicy, economical, and bound to congeal in a way that made it easy to stuff into buns.

I wish I could say the road went smoothly but , my fluff blight was right on my heels. 

I followed the damned instructions to the letter, set the dough in a warm spot in the kitchen to proof; the prescribed 30 minutes ticked by, and my kneaded mass failed to double.

Ooookaaay...don't panic.  Maybe it needs to be somewhere warmer?  Yeast likes warm.  Set the dough bowl in a barely-on oven.  60 minutes.  No movement.  90 minutes.  120.  Doughy defiance.

I called Max, my handy breadmaster, in tears. 

WHY? WHY WON'T SHE RISE, CAPTAIN???

"Did you test the yeast in water and sugar to make sure it was still active?"  Yes.

"Did you knead the dough well?"  Yup.

"Is the bowl somewhere warm?"  Ayup. 

Then....I dunno, baby. You're cursed.

I stared down at the dimpled, snickering mass.  Not conceding defeat, I re-floured a clean surface, tested and prepped more yeast, kneaded the beer-smelling primordial brew into the smirking dough, set it back into it's oiled bowl, and plopped the bowl on the counter atop the dishwasher (set to plate warmer).

Three hours after the initial bloody proofing began, the FN dough finally doubled in size.  I punched it down with grim relish.

The final results?  An authentic fresh-baked-bread-smelling kitchen, and a dozen curry buns to bring to a potluck.  The bread itself was soft and a little sweet, and matched well with the still-moist filling. 

Next time I'll go spicer and more copious with the hamburger curry (the bread to filling ratio was about 2:1, oops), but they were still loads tastier and less combative in texture than the Peekskill bierocks.

Even though I halved the size of the giant Saveur buns, my 3-inch diameter babies were still too big and filling for a potluck, expanding in the stomach like starchy C4.  For the next soiree, I'd make 'em as tiny as I possibly can (divide the dough to 32 balls, roll & fill); but for getting stuck on a plane, train, bus, cubicle or wheat field, the 3-inchers would be a welcome pocket meal. 

My biggest mistake?  I shouldn't have been trying to do this before a dinner party.  Bread dough rushes for no man/woman; I turned what should have been a relaxing, ruminative ritual into a spiral of self-doubt. 

We'll call it a draw, enemy fluff.

I Spy: Peach Tea Pork Chops with Fennel and Roasted Chili Sweet Potatoes

It's that tricksy, thieving kind of East Coast bright outside.  The sort indicative of clear, freezing air that makes snotmonkeys of the lot of us. 

So I'm trying to combat the sunshiney-freezing mindphuck with bright-tasting food.  The Man and I always keep Twinings Black Peach Tea around as a winter balm; he was steeping himself a cup as I was prepping pork chop brine.  I got the unmistakable whiff of peaches and thought...why the hell not?

So I subbed the 2 bottles of Magners (which we didn't have around, anyway) with 24 ounces/3 cups of strongly brewed peach tea.  Instead of the apple-sage butter, I went with sliced fennel and onion sauteed in the chop searing pan (yep, my fennel fascination continues) deglazed with a bit of sherry, so that the natural sweetness of the veggies picked up caramelized meat mojo.

I had a couple of sweet potatoes lingering from Momma Foodie's visit (she loves unadorned, whole roasted sweet potatoes); I cubed them for faster roasting (skin-on) and tossed them with some kosher salt, chili powder, olive oil and a couple of sprigs thyme.  About 20 minutes in a 400 degree F oven and boom--toothsome, comforting, crispy-candy-spicy, and a nutritional juggernaut as well, with copious vitamin A, C, fiber and manganese.

The chops picked up a subtle suggestion of summertime fruit and tea, and it foiled well with the softened licorice of the fennel and spicy sweet potatoes.  Look how defiantly stinkin' cheerful that plate looks!  Take THAT, January.

Roundup 2009, Home-Cookin': Freakin' FENNEL (and Pearl Barley)

Left to my own devices in a supermarket, I get the grabbiest in the produce department.  (This is particularly true in winter, when my body gets the idea it can ingest sunlight via plant life.)

A lot of peeps who cook regularly are cooking up against the forces of meat rot--I, however, picked up my momma's penchant for picking up more vegetables than an oft-eating-alone lady can possibly consume.  It's a tarantella of cooking vs. vegetal wilt.

I tried to walk past the pile of fennel bulbs at Stew Leonard's.  NONONO.  You don't need it! You've got arugula, radicchio, avocados, tomatoes, cabbage, green chilis, apples, pears...walk AWAY from the freakin' fennel!!!

Fail whale, a la fennel-resistance.

Ditto for a package of pearl barley (AKA Fail Whale Two, Rise of the Grocery Glutton). 

I justified it this way: I'd never made fennel or barley before...I'm learning something new!

Love it when learning is tasty.  'Twas easy too: I parboiled the barley separately (about 30 minutes, with some chicken bones leftover from a previous dinner) and sauteed the thin-sliced fennel bulb and a shallot in some olive oil, butter, a pinch of sugar, salt and pepper.  Tossed the barley in with the fennel to coat, and sprinkled in the chopped fronds as I was turning off the heat.

The pearl barley had a great chew and nuttiness that complemented the tender, anise tang of fennel--it was a warm, welcoming bowl that was at once familiar and intriguing.

Feeling protein-guilt, I topped it with some diced fresh mozzarella and roasted pumpkin seeds.  The cheese was a good add--the pumpkin seeds, not so much.  There was something about them that smothered out the welcome licorice waft. 

Next time, pistachios or pine nuts...oooh, maybe crumbled bacon, or Parmesan. 

Need more convincing?  Well, both fennel and barley pack considerable fiber (always a plus); fennel brings vitamin C and potassium to the party, and barley has all the cereal benefits of iron, zinc, manganese, selenium, and niacin...all of the above are said to be helpful in combating Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD, i.e. serious wintertime funk).

Considering all the other gluttony you bear witness to, maybe revealing more acts of vegetable surrender is in order.  Remind me.

Recession Recipe: Brekky/Brinner Strata with Arugula and Gouda

We're in a recession!  We're out of a recession!  Whatever the current CNN status is, your average eater is a little strapped and cautious at the moment...

So it seemed an appropriate time to address this comment:

What does the effing f o o d i e eat when she is home? Us humble ham 'n eggers want to know.

Short answer: Scraps.  If it can't be finagled from rotating produce and pantry power, I'm probably not eating it at home...which boils down to lots of cold udon, bean soups and homemade pizza:

...and eggs. LOTS of eggs.

One may be inclined to blame the economy for my egg-sucking ways, but I've always been grossly fond of them.  Those closest to me know that I adamantly believe EVERYTHING can be improved by putting an egg on top, and that the only thing better than brunch is brinner.

The recipe I'm about to share is totally money for the following reasons:

1. It's stupid-easy, but to impressive effect.
2. It can (and should!) be made ahead of time, for as many or as little people as you need.
3. It costs mere pennies to make, and encourages scavenging/repurposing.

TahDAH!

<Readers squinting>  Is it quiche?  Bread pudding?  Souffle?

Yes and no, to all of the above.  It's strata!  Think savory bread pudding, but puffier and more custardy, with more egg than bread.  It's the answer to your large-scale brunch-making prayers, the quiche-esque solution for those with no talent for crust-making or fluffing egg whites.

Don't let the golden-brown crusty look fool you--as intact and tough as that crusty bread looks in the picture, the long soak ensures that the whole is soft and yielding, with nary a trace of dryness.  I served this bad boy with a spoon!

Some basic principles:

• Use stale or toasted hard-crust bread: It's time for that half a rock-hard baguette to shine!  With the moisture drawn out, the bread will be more receptive to soaking up your custard mixture, making your end result puffier and crisper on the exterior, and more tender on the interior.
• Use whatever you have on-hand (or, whatever appeals to you at the moment): Magically, if you use whatever odds and ends you've got, your strata is likely to be just as delicious as if you choose to procure special ingredients.  It's a recipe that dresses up as easily as it dresses down, whose success and eater-satisfaction is not dependent on pricey add-ins.
• Think omelette with your fillings: I.e., precooked.  Roasted/grilled/sauteed veggies, browned sausage, melting cheeses--nothing raw or weepy, as you'll overcook your eggs trying to cook the fillings, or create an excess of liquid that won't cook off in time (mmm, swampy strata). 
  
• Give yourself time: Strata requires very little active preparation, but soaking = love.  Rush egg/bread bonding time at your own peril.  If you want to have strata for dinner, toss it together that morning or afternoon; if you want it for brunch, assemble the night before. 

Ready? 

Recipe Reeeemix: Hainanese Chicken Rice (AKA Chicken with Scallion-Ginger Sauce)

I love it when people insist that chicken doesn't taste like chicken anymore.  Maybe it's because I wasn't raised on a farm, and never had to opportunity to purchase a chicken in the golden era of non-industrialized food.

Or maaaaybe people just don't know how to cook chicken.

I'm not saying that all chickens are created equal--if you can come up with the scratch to buy free-range sustainable boutique chicken at $7 a pound, then by all means, please do support that farmer.  I, however, take a certain glee in scooping up family packs of thighs and drumsticks at my local megamart.

That your chicken needs to be expensive, or preciously tended to, or expertly timed in order to taste good is a load of bull.  Family FN Foodie does have a penchant for meats of a darker, sultrier nature (duck, beef, fatty pork and lamb), and often eschews chicken in restaurants, but there's one chicken dish that we not only order every time it's offered, we order it in concert.

I speak of the humble Hainanese Chicken Rice.  Beloved by Chinese people at large (and favored by Singaporeans and Malaysians in particular) it's straightforward comfort food: Gently poached chicken served over rice made from its own stock, served with a ginger-based dipping sauce and a chili sauce for ooomph.

No fancy fusion, glitz or sideshows.  Just pull-apart chicken that tastes like chicken, on top of chicken-flavored rice.  Sounds like a snooze, but trust me--the anise-tinted stock steeped into jasmine rice is soothingly savory, and everything you want out of flavored rice packets that you just can't get without boiling bones.

Recipe Reeeeeemix: Chicken Long Rice with Green Curry and Leeks

I dig braised meats, deep-fat frying, and charred chops as much as (who am I kidding, grossly-more-than) the next eater, but I've definitely hit a brown-food wall.  I'm a 'lil fatigued of things that taste like they're meant to prepare you for hibernation.

Which makes me cuckoopants-nostalgic for local Hawaiian food.

Which makes me dig through the pantry...and realize that I'm a couple of staples short of a faithful reproduction of chicken long rice. 

(Perhaps in the next life, I'll learn to keep a non-sprouting hand of ginger around.)

What is chicken long rice, you ask?  It's basically broth-bathed, ginger-scented bits of vermicelli noodles suspending tender chunks of chicken, usually spooned over rice.  It's a pretty Hawaii-specific thing, amorphous by nature--neither Chinese nor Japanese, too thickened to be soup-noodles, but too thin to be stew. 

No matter! I'm recklessly tweaking the beloved, monotone classic of chicken long rice to suit the contents of my fridge and my selfish mid-winter needs.

At home, they usually make long rice with round onion and finish it with green onion; I didn't have either, but I did have some pert leeks.  Using both the white and the green parts of the leeks made a fine (if blaringly inauthentic) substitute. 

I was also missing the aforementioned ginger, which is tougher to duplicate.  But my eye landed on a jar of Thai green curry paste crouching in the fridge door.  Why not?  It's got galangal in it--not quite ersatz ginger, but closer than anything else I had on-hand--plus, the heat from chilis and citrus notes from the lemongrass and kaffir lime leaves would be an eye-opening off-beat to a generally one-note dish.

And hell, since we were taking it to curry paste, why not season with Vietnamese fish sauce rather than salt?  Let's flip in some star anise, too, as a shout-out to the Chinese.

The result?  Not a chicken long rice you'd find at a luau or plate lunch place, but a bright, soothing bowl that I'd be happy to serve to NYers and kamaaina alike.

Prime Rib, the Vertical Strip!

Since y'all have already read the ins-and-outs of doing a standing rib roast at home (AHEM!), I figure emphatically captioned piccies would serve you better than a recap.  Be prepared to know everything you need to know about roasting in a scrolling 18 seconds.  Ready?

1) Assemble your sh*T! AKA, mise en place:

• 1 (4-lb.) fridge-aged standing rib roast
• kosher salt, cracked black pepper
• mixed herbs (I went with 2-3 sprigs each of rosemary, thyme, and winter savory)
• 6-16 cloves of garlic (to taste!)
• Coleman's mustard powder
• (not pictured: olive oil)

2) Strip herbs!  Chop 'em!  Mix with chopped garlic and a couple glugs of olive oil!  Smear it on!  Season with salt, pepper and mustard!

3) Brown on high heat (450 degrees F, 25-30 minutes), finish on low (275 degrees F, 60 minutes, or 15 minutes per pound for medium-rare)!

It's Fusion*! It's Metaphor! It's Toad in the Hole con Curry!

Like anyone else, I’m kinda given to cooking ruts.  My inclination is to slap steaks, chops, pasta, and variations of green beans and tomato salad in front of peeps, and nobody complains, so I rarely deviate.  But it makes for FN boring cooking (and FN boring reading about cooking, natch).

So when I blew up my router vacuuming (don’t ask), and a trusted friend of mine popped in remotely and fixed it lickety-split, I figured I owed the man some eats, and told him to name his dish.

We were chatting online, so I couldn’t see him, but I could practically hear the smile spread across his face.  “Toad in the Hole,” he said. “Con Curry.”

A little background on this guy--Japanese-style curry is his lube/eats-cornerstone of choice.  For Curry Fiend, there is no food that can’t be improved with a cloak of spicy brown, and there is no meal he’d prefer over a steaming plate of katsu curry.

His request was not as strangely fusion-disastrous as it sounds...Toad in the Hole is browned sausages enveloped in Yorkshire pudding, generally served with squishy peas, mashed potatoes and onion gravy.  Topping it with curry and pairing it with rice seemed a bare half-step from its Brit comfort food origins, and given the rapidly apparent fall chill, it felt totally seasonally appropo.

The Battle for Middle Pork is Far From Over: Cider-Brined Pork Chops with Sautéed Apples, Onions and Sage

These are the voyages...of the Pork Chop Enterprise...DAAAA-DA-DUMMMM....

“I don’t have pet peeves,” he said, correcting the interviewer. And with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he added, “I have major, psychotic hatreds.”
        -the late George Carlin, (via the NYT)

A minor psychotic hatred of mine was recently inflamed in the Meat Department of Stew Leonard’s.

Who, I fumed, will pay prime prices for a steak in the shape of a 3-ring binder??? WHOOO???

Of course, as I was thinking this, sleep-deprived mommies and hungry bachelors were edging around me, trying to get at my “reject” stack of cellophaned, lopsided meat.

Ushering my shopping-cart-pushing Man away from the misshapen beef (and similarly ill-fated lamb...CURSES!), we took stock of the Other White Meat selection.

Luckily, the pork didn’t suffer the same madman with a hacksaw, so into our cart went 4 evenly butchered, bone-in pork chops.  As we navigated through the one-track maze that is Stew’s, I pondered brining possibilities; I knew I had a 6-pack of hard cider in the fridge, and it seemed as good a place to start as any.