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I am in love with this blog. I already posted about the Belgian Brownies, which, coincidentally, I plan to make again tonight for our Halloween festivities. But I also ended up raiding her archive for this Mushroom Ragú recipe, which I made for the Canadian when he moved here last week.

The Canadian loves mushrooms, however, like most boys, he also likes meat. I was a vegetarian for years, so I just can’t eat meat every day… it makes me feel ill. So what am I supposed to make the three or four nights a week when I just want to eat vegetables and the Canadian wants some animal flesh? Honestly… we haven’t quite figured it out yet. He seems content to add salami or pâté from the plate of cold cuts I keep around here to anything he doesn’t deem meaty enough, and then I get to eat my veggies and pasta in peace.

We both, however, loved this Mushroom Ragú pasta. I pulled out all the stops and used fresh pasta, which was totally worth it. Yes, once the Canadian realized there was no meat, he added some pâté, but we both loved the tastes. I felt that the sauce was a little bit dry, and, silly me, for the first time ever, I didn’t save any pasta water. Oh well… there’s always next time. And with this dish, there will definitely be a next time.

Wow… this Magazine Monday thing is not off to a good start for me. It’s because of midterms, but I know that’s no excuse… I’ve been pretty lazy with the book reviews too. Oh well… hopefully I can get back on track soon.

Anyway, two days late, my first Magazine Monday, which is really a blog (I told myself I could use blog recipes as well, because I have just as many recipes to try from y’all as I do from magazines.)

This one comes from Stephen Cooks, one of my favorite sites for food porn. I made these Espresso “Mayan” Cookies last week… but I think I did something wrong. The flavor was delicious, don’t get me wrong, but the texture left something to be desired, and mine didn’t look like Stephen’s. I tried some the next day, and they had softened a bit, which I liked. This one’s going to need a little bit of tinkering, because I loved the flavors… maybe I’ll try for something that rises a little bit more…

At any rate, the newspaper staff loved them, and when the Planet staff is happy, I’m happy.

I stumbled across The Wednesday Chef very recently, and I immediately became obsessed with Luisa’s recipes. She gets them from the New York and LA Times’ food sections, which appear on Wednesdays. I love that she even posts recipes that didn’t work out… sometimes I feel as though my fellow food bloggers prepare perfect and effortless food every day, but Luisa reminds me (not often, mind you) that not every recipe turns out exactly the way you planned.
Yesterday, I decided, like her, to try my hand at one of the recipes piling up in my recipe box, and what I tried were these: le Pain Quotidien’s Belgian Brownies. The recipe was perfect as-is, so I won’t post it here, but it’s over at her site if you want to copy it so get over there and copy it. Now. I brought a box of them in to the newspaper office while we did layout yesterday afternoon. There are none left. I only got half of one, but what I got was tender and delicious. The chocolate power is intense, and seeing as these cakes are near flourless, they are very light and moist.

On top of everything, the recipe was ridiculously easy. It’s going into my top five for desserts… I think I’ll get to taste a whole Belgian Brownie yet.

“Festina tarde was a renaissance concept: make haste slowly.”

It’s taken me a long time to get to Under the Tuscan Sun, but it’s not for lack of cooking. On Saturday night, I threw a massive dinner party at my house. I invited ten people, and crafted a perfect menu: apératif of Tomato Bruschetta and Wild Mushroom Crostini, Risotto with Parmeggiano-Reggiano for a starter, and then Under the Tuscan Sun’s Chicken with Lemon and Basil. The dessert was tarte tatin. I spent all day Saturday prepping, making sure that everything would be easy once my guests arrived. I made the tarte dough, precooked my risotto (a restaurant trick I learned while waiting tables), made my salad dressing, tomatoes, and dressing for the chicken, and precooked the mushrooms. I had very little to do once my guests arrived.

… If they arrived. I guess one of the drawbacks of having so many international friends is not being aware of their customs. Example? Apparently, in a lot of South America, it’s considered rude to show up somewhere on time. So while my American friends arrived about ten to fifteen minutes late (like my mother told me, and apparently their mothers told them, you are supposed to do), the others didn’t show up for two hours.

Bear in mind, also, that this is rugby night in France, and France is playing England for a chance in the semifinals. We’ve opened the wine, eaten all the bruschetta, and the five of us have gotten quite tipsy while trying to find a way to watch the game online. When my friends finally arrived, I managed to get everything on the table (I forgot about the salad though), but my chicken didn’t brown the way I wanted to because I’d lost my sense of timing (thank you, Bordeaux), I didn’t have time to take any pictures of the plated dishes, and by the time we’d finished with the risotto and the chicken, we wanted to watch the rugby game, so we abandoned the finished pie in the cold oven and went down to the Champs de Mars.

The French lost, and the next morning I had to wash essentially all the dishes in my house. But later that evening, my friend Emese came by to help me finish the tarte tatin, and as we sat together on my couch, sharing half a pie between us, I realized that this was what I had wanted. Just to haves some friends, even one friend, over to my house, to cook something delicious, and to talk for awhile. I don’t know if I’ve learned how to make haste slowly, but I know that eating that one pie slowly was much more fun than any dinner party could have been.

The Menu:

Tomato Bruschetta

Wild Mushroom Crostini

Risotto with Parmeggiano-Reggiano

Basil and Lemon Chicken

In a large bowl, mix 1/2 cup each of chopped spring onions and basil leaves. Add the juice of one lemon, salt, and pepper. Mix and rub onto 6 chicken pieces (I used chicken thighs) and place in a well-oiled baking pan. Dribble with a little olive oil. Roast, uncovered, at 450 for ten minutes and at 350 for about an additional twenty, depending on the size of the chicken. Garnish with more basil leaves and lemon slices.
Tarte Tatin

The French may, in fact, be my favorite people in the world. Why? Because of this: La Fête des Vendanges de Montmartre. For all you non-Francophones out there, that means a wine festival. The wine festival. Specifically, the wine festival for the harvest of the wine in Montmartre, also known as the 18th arrondissement.

Montmartre only recently became an arrondissement of Paris. Before, it was an independent city, and because it was outside the city limits and therefore exempt from city taxes, it soon became famous for its wine, which, at the time, was actually produced by the nuns. Even though Montmartre is now technically a quartier of Paris, the people who live in the 18th are still proud to be from Montmartre, and they act as though it’s independent of the rest of the metropolis. Upon arriving at métro Abbesses, I could understand why.

Montmartre has always been one of my favorite areas of Paris. I love the quaint buildings, the small, independent boutiques, the random staircases every which way you turn. I love the quieter pubs and shisha bars around every corner. I love the organized chaos of it all, the way that you can turn down a street and not know where you’re going to pop out at the end. I have spent many a lazy Sunday just wandering around behind the Basilica, climbing up and down stairs, finding remnants of the old moulins, reading the plaques below statues and artists ateliers, and watching the sidewalk artists try to capture what I love so much about Montmartre. No one had ever quite captured it for me until I went to the fête des vendanges.

The festivities started at the bottom of the butte, at the place de Jules Joffrin. There, people representing all of the different appellations were dressed in traditional winegrowers attire and were playing traditional music. Three young men in red velour from head to toe handed several euro to another man carrying a flag, sending him into a store to buy some sodas, and I realized that these were people my own age. I laughed to myself as I realized that no one from home would feel enough affinity to his hometown to dress up in red velour and march through the streets on a Saturday afternoon. I followed the parade as it wound up the streets of Montmartre to the Basilica, where the real festival was.

Behind the church, booths had been set up selling everything from homemade foie gras to portions of tartiflette scooped from what looked like massive frying pans. Vineyard representatives from as far south as the Vaucluse and as far north as Normandy were there to sell their wine and champagne, of course offering a little taste to anyone who asked. The Montmartre wine was way too expensive for my student budget, at forty euro for a bottle much smaller than the standard liter, but I did buy some good Provençal wine as I browsed the stands.

In front of the church, a band played a selection of songs including some by French singer Georges Brassens, to whom the festival was dedicated this year, but even better were the independent group singing behind the Basilica, a combination of doo-wop, jazz, and indie rock. People gathered around them and listened as the singer rocked back and forth, crooning a mix of French and English lyrics through a strong Southern accent. I realized then that maybe it wasn’t possible to capture what I loved so much about Montmartre. What I loved couldn’t be put on a canvas, because it was the sheer vivacity of it all: the living, breathing, sweating, laughing city. But maybe I could take a clue from the natives of the 18th. Maybe instead of trying to capture what I loved, I should celebrate it. That is, after all what a fête really is, and so at the fête des vendanges, I celebrated Montmartre.

Way back in September, when I was still just exploring Rue Cler, and my butcher hadn’t yet started making fun of me for the sheer amount of meat I buy (I like feeding other people!) I found these at Les Halles, my produce market. They were tiny and slightly pink, and I thought they were so adorable that I had to have them.

When I was growing up, we had steamed artichokes as big as baseballs, one per person, as an occasional side dish. We dipped each leaf in mayonnaise, and then my mother would cut the choke out so we could eat the heart. I haven’t eaten artichokes like that in a long time. For a moment, I thought that these artichokes were destined to be like those, but then I remembered some marinated, roasted artichokes we bought this summer at the Italian deli. They were coated in extra virgin olive oil and roasted with salt and black pepper. So that’s what I did with these little babies. So tender that only the tips and a few of the outside leaves had to be torn off before roasting, and then I ate them whole.

Just a quick little post on the Pumpkin Dahl recipe I tried from Well Fed. As always, there were substitutions: spinach for the kale and white beans for the black-eyed peas, but the curry flavor was delicious and went very well with the pumpkin I picked up from the market. This would go great with squash or sweet potato as well…

Sorry for the short post, but I’m planning a dinner party, and it involves a lot of work. I’ll be back to being chatty soon, though. Very soon.

I have to say, I was very, very proud of this chicken. I don’t really know why… maybe it’s because even though I kind of used the recipe for Lemon-Herb Roast Chicken on Epicurious, I kind of realized that I know how to do a lot of things myself, like timing, stuffing the cavity with all sorts of citrusy goodness, and especially with dealing with the kind of chicken they sell in France.

When you buy chicken here, even in the grocery store, there are often a few feathers left on. I find it reassuring… it makes me feel like it’s fresher. But I had to go through with a tweezer and get them off, rinse the whole chicken, and remove the parts they left inside.

Maybe I’m so proud because my friend, who is a self-proclaimed cook of two things: cheese on toast and sausages, stood and watched in awe as I slid the butter beneath the skin, stuffed the cavity with lemons and garlic, and even made a cream gravy afterwards. Seeing her watch me reminded me of watching my mother before I first went to university, trying as hard as I could to glean any tips from her before I had a kitchen all to myself. I think that may have been what Emily was doing as I made chicken and mashed potatoes for her last night in Paris. And I was proud.

I seem to have a thing for this pose.

In other news, I have finally picked this month’s book of the month… Under the Tuscan Sun. This memoir by Frances Mayes, which inspired the movie starring Diane Lane, has two whole chapters filled with recipes, one for summer and one for winter. Because I’m in neither summer nor winter (although it is starting to feel desperately like fall), I’m going to take recipes from both sections. I obviously can’t do some of the summer recipes now, but I’ve found things like Bruschette con Pesto di Rucola, Wild Mushroom Lasagna, Ribollita, Rustic Apple Bread Pudding, Red Peppers Melted with Balsamic Vinegar… So many things to try, so little time! I’m off to the market tomorrow… hopefully you’ll have some new Tuscan recipes shortly! Ciao!

Combine 1 stick room temperature butter, 4 tablespoons herbes de provence, 3 large garlic cloves, minced, and 1 1/2 tsp of lemon peel in small bowl and stir to blend. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Preheat oven to 450°F. Rinse 6 1/2- to 7-pound roasting chicken; pat dry. Slide hand under skin of chicken breast to loosen skin form meat. Reserve 2 tablespoons herb butter for gravy. Rub half of remaining herb butter over chicken breast under skin. Spread remaining herb butter over outside of chicken and some in the inner cavity. Season chicken inside and out with salt and pepper. Stuff the cavity with one lemon, cut into wedges, and one garlic clove. Place chicken in heavy large roasting pan. Roast 20 minutes, and then reduce oven temperature to 375°F. Roast chicken until juices from thigh run clear when chicken thigh is pierced with skewer, about 1 hour 15 minutes. Lift chicken and tilt slightly, emptying any juices from cavity into roasting pan. Transfer chicken to platter. Tent with aluminum foil to keep warm. Note: Cooking times are always approximate. Make sure you check it early so it doesn’t overcook. If you’re not sure, use a thermometer: it should read 175 when inserted into the thigh.

Pour pan juices into large glass measuring cup. Spoon fat off top. Add 1/4 cup white wine to pan. Place pan over high heat; bring wine to boil, scraping up any browned bits. Pour wine mixture into cup with pan juices. Add enough chicken broth to same cup to measure 2 1/4 cups liquid. Melt reserved 2 tablespoons herb butter in heavy medium saucepan over medium-high heat. Add 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour; whisk until smooth and beginning to color, about 3 minutes. Gradually whisk in pan juices. Boil until thickened to sauce consistency, whisking occasionally, about 7 minutes. Season gravy with salt and pepper.

All this talk about comfort food from last month’s book of the month (stay tuned for this month’s, coming up shortly), has started me thinking about what comfort food means to me. It’s actually always kind of been an obsession of mine… finding out what other people’s comfort foods are. It has a lot to do with what we were raised with, and it’s usually served hot. Comfort food also usually not good for you, but whatever… it’s good for the soul.

I always thought my comfort food was spaghetti and meatballs… and on some days, it is. But I think that skirts the definition of comfort food, which, to me, is something that makes you feel better no matter where, no matter when. And for me, that’s lasagna.

To break in a new house, I always make a huge pot of tomato sauce. The thing is, when I live alone, I don’t end up eating as much pasta as I thought I would, so my vat of tomato sauce excursion is almost always immediately followed by a lasagna-making extravaganza. After years of doing this, lasagna has slowly become my comfort food… easily grabbed, reheated, and served with extra tomato sauce and parmesan cheese on top. Preferably eaten out of a bowl… I have a thing about bowls. I find them far superior to plates. Come to think of it, I like spoons better than forks… only the little ones though. But I digress… (and make very frequent use of the ellipses…)

For the past two years, all of my friends were vegetarians, so I made lasagna with a layer of spinach instead of meat. In Paris, however, meat is definitely fair game, and so I’ve started making traditional meat lasagna… the way my mom makes it. And it’s even better with fresh basil from my basil plant scattered over the top.

“What sort of person am I? Where are my loyalties? And who will I remember when I grow up?”

An interesting note on which to end September. I meant to get through so much more of this book… post some kebab and baklava recipes, and really get into Middle Eastern cooking. I felt a bit like a failure, to be honest. But then I realized as I was rereading this passage in The Language of Baklava what Diana Abu-Jaber wanted us to understand: food is not just nourishment. Not just food for the sake of food. Food is about the rest of your life. Which brings me to this quote.

It’s a scary thing to have to think about. What kind of person am I, really? I project an outward image… I can’t think of anyone who would think of me as a bad person, per se, but I know that there are bad things I do, and more importantly, bad things I think that no one will ever know about but me.

Sometimes I start thinking about choices I’ve made along the way, friends lost but not forgotten. So it’s for them that I post these sambusik cookies. To Diana Abu-Jaber, this is what they meant. I’m hoping they can mean the same for me and for you.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Stir together one cup of clarified butter and half a cup of sugar. Add 3/4 cup of milk at room temperature. Add 4 cups of flour in small batches and knead the dough by hand until it is smooth. Roll out the dough to 1/4 inch thick and cut with a 2-inch cookie cutter. Combine 1 1/2 cups of ground walnuts, 1/2 cup sugar, 1 teaspoon of cinnamon, and a grating of nutmeg for the filling. Place a good mounded teaspoon of the filling on each round, fold it over, pinch the edges closed, and form into a crescent shape. Bake at 350 degrees for 15-20 minutes, until the cookies are lightly browned. Remove from the oven and sprinkle liberally with confectioner’s sugar.