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Wow… after a lot of difficulty, I’ve finally participated in my first Daring Bakers Challenge… and I loved it!

The challenge this month was for French bread. “Perfect,” thinks I, “I live in France!” Plus, I figure it won’t be too difficult, considering that I’ve made bread before.

I made my little baby bread ball, stuck it in the oven with the light on (thanks for the tip!) And let my kitchen steam up with the smell of bread dough.

Of course, it wasn’t nearly as easy as I thought it would be. The shaping at the end, especially, proved to be rather difficult, as is pretty obvious from my pictures. The tip in the recipe about putting a pan of water and ice in the bottom of the oven to create steam worked wonders for the crust, and the taste was good, which is what counts.

In the end, I definitely learned something, and I’m feeling much more confident in my bread-baking skills. Who knows… maybe bread will become a new part of my regular repertoire?

I’m so glad I participated in this, my first challenge! Be sure to check out the other Daring Bakers’ posts as well!

OK… so here’s the thing. I call myself an Italian-American, but the truth of the matter is, I’m only half. My mother, who does the majority of the cooking in my house, is actually German-Irish, and so she sees no issue with serving cheese with fish-based pasta dishes.

Personally, I never used cheese on these dishes. The only pasta and seafood meal she made was Shrimp Fra Diavolo, and she almost never made it. I worshiped the spiciness of the dish, and I refused to dull it at all with cheese. In fact, as I got older, I would often add more hot pepper.

So it wasn’t until I went to Italy that I realized that you are technically not supposed to eat cheese with these dishes. My brother or sister would order cheese with their Spaghetti con Vongoli, and the server would look at us as though we all had two heads.

I suppose my father never put cheese on his seafood pasta either… I guess I just never noticed. No Italian I’ve ever asked has really been able to explain the reasoning behind this… but then again, no French person can ever tell me why they think peanut butter and jelly is a disgusting combination.

So when I couldn’t tell the Canadian why “you can’t eat seafood pasta with cheese!” he used our brand new cheese grater to cover his liberally with parmesan. I just added extra pepper and shook my head.

Spicy Shrimp and Spaghetti (adapted from Culinary in the Desert)

3 ounces dry spaghetti
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 teaspoon Cayenne pepper
1 teaspoon chili paste
2 garlic cloves, minced
8 ounces frozen pre-cooked shrimp, thawed
1 28-oz can whole tomatoes
2 tablespoons sour cream
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 teaspoon dried basil
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

In a large pot of boiling salted water, cook pasta and drain, reserving some of the pasta liquid.

Meanwhile, heat oil in a large saucepan. Add Cayenne, chili paste and chopped garlic and cook just one minute. Lower heat and add shrimp. Stir in tomatoes, tomato paste, basil and salt. Simmer 10 minutes until sauce is slightly reduced. Remove sauce from heat and stir in crème fraîche and pasta. Add pasta water if needed. Serve with extra pepper on the side, or cheese for your non-Italian guests.

Serves one and a Canadian.

I love markets.

I love taking my big canvas bag out and perusing the different stands, buying up cheap, fresh produce and meat and fish (and containers of thirty eggs). The Canadian calls it “Emily versus the market.”

Every week, I go to the market near my house. I have to walk about ten minutes to get there, and it’s a nice walk, right across the Champs de Mars. Sometimes, I go twice a week. Whenever I invite the Canadian, he grumbles and stands aloft. He doesn’t help me pick anything. He says he “doesn’t do well at markets.” I tell him that this is ludicrous. He likes food. He should like looking at food. He says he likes looking, but he wants to be able to pay for everything all at once. I tell him I’ll pay. He says if I pay, he doesn’t want to pick things, because he feels bad about me paying for food that he wants. I say, then he should give me money. He says, “then why don’t I give you money, you go, and I’ll stay here and wait for you. Bring me a present.”

I go to the market alone a lot.

On Thursday night, I made Jaden’s Tropical Salmon (coming tomorrow to a blog near you) for me and the Canadian. The Canadian did the dishes (he lost a bet and has to do the dishes for a week. It’s nice.) Then we packed up and went out to the airport for seven hours.
Why, you ask? The Canadian Sister is here visiting us from Barrie, Ontario! She’s never been to France before. She was arriving at six in the morning, and since it takes an hour to get to the airport and the RER doesn’t start running until 5:30, we left the night before. We set up camp in the arrivals terminal, I raided the vending machine for snacks, and we waited.

When she finally got here, she came with me to the market. She didn’t want to sleep, she said. She wanted to get over her jet lag right away.

I like her.

The Canadian gave us money and took a nap.

The Canadian Sister is much better at the market than the Canadian. Maybe it’s a girl thing. She helped me pick produce, made faces with me at the cheval (horse) in the butcher’s case, got made fun of for speaking English with me. (”Américaines? Canadiennes? Allemandes? Anglaises?”), and she picked the steaks we had for dinner.

I never appreciated steak when my mother made it. We had it about once a week, but it was as normal to me as chicken. Now that I know how much it costs, steak dinners are few and far between. But the Canadian Sister likes steak, and I like the Canadian Sister, so we got three entrecôtes.

I’m always afraid of undercooking steak (yeah… that last post pertains to steak as well), so I got myself a recipe. The steaks were incredible. I served them with the Mushroom Hash from the Wednesday Chef, and the meal was delicious. And no, I didn’t undercook them… they were perfectly medium-rare. Even though I did almost set the kitchen on fire (something on the bottom of the pan caught on fire, and for some reason I was perfectly calm as the bottom of the frying pan erupted into flames, and I just sort of held it aloft until it settled down. I imagine this is what Giada di Laurentiis must do if this ever happens to her. Or someone on severe anti-anxiety medication. It is very anti-me.)

The Canadian Sister is sleeping now, and the leftover steak is sitting in the fridge. I think I may go snack on it while I wait for her to wake up.

Belgian Steak (adapted from Everybody Eats Well in Belgium by Ruth Van Waerebeek)

4 sirloin steaks
3 tablespoons butter
salt and pepper
red wine
good mustard

Bring the steaks to room temperature. Heat the butter over medium heat until melted, then turn the temperature up to high and add the steaks. Cook for one minute on each side, and then add salt and pepper and turn the temperature down to medium. Cook the steaks until done, turning every so often. For medium rare, about six minutes in total. Remove the steaks and allow to sit for several minutes to redistribute the juices. Meanwhile, add about a tablespoon of mustard to the pan and deglaze with a cup of red wine. Stir to combine and serve on the side.

I have a habit of undercooking baked goods. OK, scratch that. I have a habit of undercooking everything. I’ve undercooked steak. I’ve undercooked ahi tuna. That takes a lot of skill and dexterity.

I guess I’ve just always been fairly convinced that there is nothing worse than something that is burned or overcooked. A gray steak has absolutely no appeal, no matter how succulent the filet cut was to begin with. The actual application of heat is everything, and I’d rather pull out a quickbread that’s a little doughy in the center than one with a crumb like styrofoam and a crust like cardboard.

But not this time. No, sir. I just tried the Pumpkin Pound Cake over from Desert Culinary. (Sidebar: I love this blog. I just discovered it a while back, and I feel like I’ve been missing out. I’ve already made two recipes from it–the other will be up here soon–and I can’t wait to make more!)

The cake came out perfectly. After about thirty minutes, the house smelled just like pumpkin, and I desperately wanted to peek, but I just sat at my computer reading my other food blogs and waiting. And waiting. Until the dreaded fifty minutes were up and I peeked. I checked with a toothpick. And then, something unheard of. Without cutting into the cake, I put it back in the oven.

I know. It’s a milestone for me. But when the cake came out ten minutes later, after a total baking time of one hour, I knew it was worth it. The Canadian and I have been snacking on this cake all week, and it is divine. Sweet, but not too sweet, spicy, moist and delicious. And not in the least undercooked.

I made a few changes:

1. As you can tell from the pictures, I skipped the buttermilk glaze. I wasn’t using real buttermilk in the cake anyway (I soured my own milk with lemon), so it didn’t seem worth it. The cake didn’t suffer.

2. I used light brown sugar, because the box was opened. It had started to clump a bit, but try as I might, I couldn’t get some of the smaller clumps to… un-clump. But it actually worked to my advantage: see those little pockets of dark brown sweetness? There were several floating throughout the cake, and they were a welcome surprise. I may have to do it again on purpose next time.

3. I didn’t dry the pumpkin on paper towels first. I’m lazy. It didn’t matter much.

4. I subbed the spices listed for a four spice powder sold here in France made up of cinnamon, nutmeg, black pepper and cloves. It’s easy. I’m lazy.

5. I used all all-purpose flour.

In New York, it’s easy to get street food. Not only are there stands famous for ethnic cuisine, but just about anywhere you like, you can get yourself a hot dog with ketchup, a pretzel with mustard or a knish, not to mention a hot roll with butter or bagel with cream cheese and coffee.
In Toronto, the selection is slightly different. Vans selling Chinese food and poutine line the bigger avenues, and even the smaller streets have hot dog and sausage stands.

As for Paris… well it took some getting used to. Sure, you have your boulangeries with panini and sandwiches (or something a little sweeter if you’re feeling crazy), but one of the best ways to get a quick meal in Paris is to go to one of the many Asian traiteurs.

A traiteur is technically a specialty shop of sorts. There are Italian, Japanese, Vietnamese traiteurs… even an American one right near my school where you can pay exorbitant prices for Skippy, canned pumpkin, H and H bagels and Oreos. The Asian traiteurs are plentiful, though, and there happens to be one right on the walk between my fourth and fifth period classes.

Nearly every Tuesday, I stop by the traiteur. I used to experiment, trying the steamed shrimp or veggie dumplings, vegetable stir fry, caramel beef, or even the boules de cocos, small balls made of coconut flavored rice and rolled in coconut flakes. Now, however, I always go for the same thing: the salade de soja, soy salad.

By soy, they mean soy bean sprouts. Added to these sprouts are other vegetables, chicken or shrimp, and a deliciously sweet, creamy dressing that I can’t quite identify. I like to cover mine with soy sauce, but unless I buy potstickers at the same time, they won’t sell it to me. “Il y en a déjà de la sauce!” There’s already sauce. Leave it to the French to tell you how to eat your food. (This is the same country where sometimes you are refused ketchup for your fries.)

A little while ago, I tried to recreate a version of the salad. Mine was delicious, and Britney and I slurped it all up after a long night of drinking, but it isn’t at all the same as my traiteur version. Oh well… guess I’ll have to keep experimenting!

Mock Traiteur Salad

1/2 green cabbage, sliced very thin, as for cole slaw
1 red or orange bell pepper, cut into matchsticks
1 jalapeño pepper, finely diced
1 scallion, thinly sliced
2 cups soy bean sprouts
1 inch ginger, grated
1 clove garlic, minced
4 tablespoons soy sauce
1 tablespoon chili paste
3 tablespoons cider vinegar
1 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon honey
1 tablespoon sesame oil
2 tablespoons crème fraîche (or sour cream)

Combine cabbage, peppers, scallions and bean sprouts in a large bowl. Combine sugar and vinegar to dissolve sugar. Add the rest of the dressing ingredients. Stir and pour over slaw. Toss to coat and allow to sit for at least three hours. This salad gets better (and hotter!) with time.

I used to be one of those people. I know you know what I’m talking about.”Valentine’s Day is just commercial America’s way of making money between Christmas and Easter.”

“Those chalky hearts are the best thing that come out of Valentine’s Day, and Tums taste better.”

“At least the chocolate will be half-off tomorrow.”

Well… I hate to disappoint my fellow grumblers, but in France, Valentine’s Day is awfully nice and quiet. I wouldn’t have even noticed it was coming, except for the fact that I live down the street from a flower shop, which I pass at least twice every day, and they had a reasonable assembly of red flowers in the window.

As my first Valentine’s Day with a boyfriend, I guess I should have planned something big. My friend, the English One (who took me to Wagamama…), was pretty surprised when I told him that the Canadian and I didn’t have any big plans, but I didn’t mind. I’m not a huge fan of commercial holidays.

I made tuna (the Canadian’s favorite). He bought me a little flower. We watched some TV and drank a bottle of wine. Not veering terribly away from the norm, but I adored it. It was my best Valentine’s Day ever. Little chalky hearts, be damned.

Asian-Flavored Seared Tuna (adapted from Bon Appétit March 2000)

Note: I used regular soy sauce, and I found this to be way too salty for me. However, I don’t really like salt, and the Canadian thought it was fine. If you are sensitive to salt, I highly recommend using low-sodium or not serving the extra sauce on the beans. And yes, I know this recipe makes three steaks… the Canadian got two. Because it’s Valentine’s Day.

3 6-oz. tuna steaks
1/4 cup soy sauce
1 teaspoon wasabi paste
1/2 teaspoon onion powder
2 large handfuls green beans
2 tablespoons sesame seeds
1 tablespoon sesame oil
1 scallion, finely chopped
1 heaping teaspoon brown sugar
Mix the soy sauce, wasabi paste and onion powder in a bowl, and place the tuna steaks in the marinade. Let sit for no more than fifteen minutes while you prep the rest of your ingredients. Meanwhile, boil some water and blanch the green beans. Heat a skillet over high heat, and add the sesame oil. Remove steaks from marinade and allow to drip of excess liquid. Roll one edge in the sesame seeds, and season both sides with black pepper. Cook the tuna steaks to preferred doneness… we like them almost raw with just the outside seared and hot. Remove the steaks and keep warm. Add the sugar, scallion and green beans to the skillet, and cook until the sauce has reduced slightly. Serve green beans on the side. And keep in mind my tip about the extra sauce… if you must have it, keep it on the side.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Today, I made doughnuts for the first time.

It was a learning experience.

When I lived in Massachusetts, one of our favorite things to do was to run to Smallack farms and get a box of apple cider doughnuts. They were dipped in cinnamon sugar, and they were just about the best things ever. And we didn’t even feel bad about eating them, because we figured that running to the farm and eating a box of doughnuts essentially cancelled each other out.

I wanted to participate in Peabody and Helene’s doughnut challenge, and I got very excited, because there is a market near my house that is only opened on Wednesdays and Sundays, and they sell amazing apple cider. I actually even had a recipe for cider doughnuts from Peabody’s archive that I had been wanting to try for awhile. In my eyes, the planets had aligned, so I got up bright and early on Wednesday, went over to the market, and picked up my ingredients. This is when the learning started.

1. I need to get a one cup measuring cup. Or learn to count. I can’t be sure, but I think I only added two and a half instead of three and a half cups of flour. The dough was more like batter, and I tried so hard to roll it out before I decided that it just wasn’t going to happen.

2. I am not afraid of boiling oil. But I should be. As I was trying to get the temperature right, I ended up scalding the bottom of my pot, making a couple of rejects when the oil wasn’t hot enough, and standing against the wall while the few inches of shortening in the bottom of my dutch oven boiled to five times their original height and threatened to take over my kitchen.

3. The rejects taste awesome.

The Canadian came in to ask me some questions about photoshop, and he took a bunch of the doughnut holes (AKA Tim Bits… Tim Hortons… any Canadians out there? OK. Moving on.) which he enjoyed quite a bit. After awhile, I got a nice rhythm going… but then I was out of dough. So… yeah.

Rejects and Timbits.

Link to Recipe: http://www.culinaryconcoctionsbypeabody.com/2007/10/12/the-joys-of-fried-dough/

If you hadn’t guessed it yet… I’m a little bit of a travel-o-holic.

Not only is my ideal job to be a travel journalist (journalism school… my new job at wCities…), but since starting this blog, I’ve lived on Long Island and in New York City, Toronto, and Cannes. Oh… and Paris. Almost forgot.

So it should come as no surprise to any of you that I also love to take little trips. Nothing can beat living in a new place, but when I’m scrimping and saving, buying the half-off ham at our cheap supermarket, all I’m thinking is about the savings I can deposit to put towards a new trip. I travel cheap, staying in hostels and either buying food at local outdoor markets or cooking for myself mostly (OK… and treating myself to one or two nice meals out), so I can afford to go away pretty often thanks to my shiny, new student rail pass. Since starting in Paris this past September, I’ve been to London twice, Amiens, Amsterdam, and Toronto. Lucky me!

One of my favorite trips this year, though, was of a slightly more… expensive type. This was probably one of the last vacations I’ll take with my family, so I didn’t feel the slightest bit badly about being spoiled with a post-Christmas trip to Mexico, staying in a resort in the west (by Manzanillo, Jalisco) with my family and my cousins.

There was a swim-up bar. Heaven.

The odd thing? I almost missed my cheap backpacking adventures. And so, one morning, instead of heading straight down to the pool with my new Christmas books (three travel narrative anthologies… *squeal*!) I got myself a dollar to get onto the boat to Barra Navidad, the town near the resort.

I realized then that the thing I adore most about travel is the people. The real, true life. Yes, I love a swim-up bar, but even more, I loved getting my feet dirty walking along the dusty roads. It was nice that all of the native Mexicans working at the hotel had some ability to speak English, but it was so much more fun to break out my rusty Spanish on the streets as I bartered for a tiny Mexican hat to put on the Canadian’s three-liter bottle of Crown Royal, affectionately called Steve. The food at the resort was divine, but how can you beat an authentic Mexican taco, bought for eight cents at an outdoor stand? The mere idea makes my mouth water.

Yes, this is a food blog, not the story of my life, and this story, like most stories of my life, does have a food-related point: Gambas Diavolo. Devil’s shrimp. How odd, because to me, they tasted like heaven, served with the heads and tails on, a pile of napkins, and a basket full of fresh corn tortillas on the side.

I’ve been given the official go-ahead that it’s safe to tell you about my new job! I now work for a site called wcities.com, where I write Paris restaurant reviews. In honor of this announcement, I decided to post a restaurant review that I’ve been meaning to get up here for some time… Le Serpent Qui Danse.

The name of this restaurant is taken from a poem by French writer Charles Baudelaire. It’s in the 11th arrondissement, kind of far away from a lot of touristy destinations, but it’s totally worth it.

In reality, this sort of food is not very Parisian. A lot of food that comes from other places in France has somehow found its way to Paris: the Lyonnais bûchon, the Marseillaise fish house, and the Savoyard raclette and fondue restaurants. Nevertheless, many people who come to Paris want to sample “traditional” French food go straight for the pot of melted cheese… and this is where capitalism settles in for the long haul.

The majority of fondue and raclette restaurants are decorated in a typical Savoyard/Swiss fashion: as chalets. The authenticity stops there. Mostly what you get served is a pot of thinned, melted cheese and a few cubes of bread which, I can tell you from personal experience, is not what is served in the Alps.

At Le Serpent Qui Danse, the raclette cheese is brought out on a traditional melting apparatus. Basically, there are two heaters on either side of the wedge of cheese, which the diners can arrange closer or farther away from the wedge according to their eating speed. Melted cheese is scraped from the wedge onto plates of boiled potatoes, pickles and meats. This is where Le Serpent Qui Danse proclaims its authenticity.

You have a choice of meats including a pork-free and vegetarian version (not too sure what that entails…), but when I was in the Alps I always had ham, so ham is what I ordered. Our waiter, however, was certain that there was something better, and, alongside our order, he brought a free plate of dry-cured beef. He was right.

Britney and I stuffed ourselves full of cheese, bread, meat and salad that day, and while it was a thoroughly overwhelming gastronomic experience, I would most definitely do it again.