Tomato Kumato

September 29, 2009

Pet Peeves

Filed under: Uncategorized — emiglia @ 4:14 pm

People who stand on the left side of escalators.

Slow internet.

No internet.

Not having to pee the entire time you’re walking home and then suddenly desperately having to pee and not being able to find your keys.

People who walk too slowly and don’t pick a side of the sidewalk.

Boogie boarders stealing waves.

Improper use of homonyms, semicolons, commas, colons and em dashes by native English speakers.

Children screaming.

Children screaming early in the morning.

Children screaming early in the morning on the weekends when you do not feel you have the authority to tell the aforementioned children to put a sock in it.

Poor quality pots that get scalded on the bottom from being cooked at a medium temperature.

My last pen running out of ink just as I remember what I wanted to say.

People who put the empty milk continer back in the refrigerator.

People whose relaxed mouth position is opened.

My hands getting stuck in the sleeves of a long-sleeved wetsuit.

Running out of salt and not noticing until it’s too late.

Food pictures that do not reflect the deliciousnss of the food.

I am not a photographer. I never was a photographer. I’m a writer: always have been, always will be. However, I know all too well the importance of pictures to their accompanying food articles–heck, I just admitted that I’m a writer and know nothing about photography, and yet I find myself clicking past certain posts just because they don’t have pictures to go wth them. I usually can talk myself into going back and discovering what are sure to be delicious things and witty stories I’ve missed, but there’s just something enticing and wonderfully expectant about starting off a recipe or a story with a great picture.

So I understand if you click past this post: my dinnertime here, like with most Spaniards, is around 9 or 10, and I don’t have much natural light anyway in the ever-rainy Basque region (although the last two days have been bright and sunny and a wonderful 25 degrees–you know that life is good when you spend a Tuesday afternoon in late September lying in the sun with a San Miguel in your hand and the perfect view of surfers in front of you.)

I think what I like most about the weather here is that the inspiration for fall food is hitting me much later than it usually does–don’t get me wrong: I love pumpkin and squash, and there will come a time for all things orange, but last year, I let the pumpkin in a bit too early and ignored the last of the summer produce, and I wouldn’t want to do that again.

This is perfect for after a day at the beach, when you want something light and easy to make but still filling–something that feels like a meal instead of my favorite “big bowl of vegetables.” It’s the kind of salad I remember eating in a restaurant in Rome–the kind of salad I remember my father saying he could eat for every meal of his life.

Funny: I kind of feel the same way.

Salade Composée with Shallot Vinaigrette
1 shallot, minced
1 tsp. good French mustard
2 tbsp. cider vinegar
4 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
1/4 tsp. black pepper
1/2 tsp. herbes de provence
1/2 tsp. salt

500 g. haricots verts or string beans, sliced into bite sized pieces along the diagonal
8 new potatoes, quartered
3 eggs
3 oz. swiss or emmental cheese, diced
10 cherry tomatoes, halved

Combine the shallot, mustard and vinegar in the bottom of a large bowl with a fork. Stream in the olive oil, whisking all the time, and continue to whisk until emulsified. Add the pepper, salt and herbes de Provence. Set aside.

Meanwhile, put two pots of water on the stovetop to boil. Drop the new potatoes into one while the water is still cold and bring to a boil. Cook about 20 minutes (from the time the potatoes are added to the water) until a fork slides in and out easily. (This may take less time: check after 15.) When the other pot of water comes to a boil, add the green beans and cook until crisp-tender: about 5 minutes.

Rinse the cooked potatoes briefly in cold water (you want them warm but not steaming) and put them into the bowl with the dressing. Toss to coat.

Shock the cooked string beans in cold water so that they retain their color, and add them to the bowl with the potatoes.

Place a new pot with about 3 inches of cold water in the bottom on the stovetop. Add the eggs and bring to a boil, uncovered. When the water boils, remove the pot from the heat and cover for seven to twelve minutes (seven will result in creamy, slightly underdone yolks, twelve in perfectly set ones. I like seven or eight, but it’s a personal preference).

Place the cooked eggs in cold water and rinse until completely cooled. Peel and halve them.

Add the tomatoes and cheese to the bowl and toss all the ingredients together so that the dressing is evenly distributed. Top with the eggs and serve with warm, crusty bread.

September 27, 2009

Foodbuzz 24, 24, 24: Pintxos in San Sebastian

Filed under: 24 — Tags: , , — emiglia @ 10:00 am

I am horrible at making decisions.

This applies to most areas of my life, but is especially in choosing what to order at a restaurant. I can deliberate over the menu for a very long while without actually making any choices. Luckily, I’m currently in San Sebastian: no need to make decisions when pintxos are abound.

Going out for pintxos is more than just going out for dinner here. It’s a social thing: San Sebastian is a tiny city, and when you know the right spots, you’re likely to run into people as you go. You can have a little bit of your meal with several different groups of friends and make sure you’re getting the best version of every pintxo there is to offer. Of course, going to the best places also means you may run into crowds, but that’s OK… there’s more than enough space to wedge yourself between two people you don’t know.

Most bars in San Sebastian have some sort of pintxo on offer, even if it’s just one Spanish tortilla cut into wedges on the bar. However, the best ones have a variety of options, hot and cold, to have with a nice caña (beer) or txacoli (Basque sparkling white wine).

The hot options are usually written on a chalkboard on the wall, while the cold options are laid out for you to see on the bar. Ask for un plato and get started choosing: every bar has a different way of keeping track of how many you’re taking, but most of them can just remember by watching you.

If you’d rather make your tapas experience into a sit-down meal, you have a few options. One is to order raciones. These are simply larger portions of tapas designed to share with more than one person. The racion above is fried potatoes with lomo (pork), red peppers and green peppers, and it’s absolutely sensational–those green peppers have become a staple of my diet here.

Another option is to go to a pintxo restaurant as opposed to a bar. Here, you’ll sit down and have your food brought to you, much like in a sushi bar (i.e., you can keep ordering more as you go). These places are slightly more expensive than your average tapas bar… by that I mean maybe one or two euros more per pintxo than a regular place (5 euros tops per piece). You can still get a $75 value meal from a similar quality restaurant in New York for about 20 euros.

One of my favorite places to go for a meal like this is called Aloña Berri. It’s in Gros, the city that faces the Zurriola beach, and is an easy walk from the Parte Vieja of San Sebastian. Pretty much everything I tasted left me wanting more, but luckily, I had other dishes on the way!

This one, from Aloña Berri, is sea urchin purée served in the shell with red caviar. It tasted exactly like the sea… if you like oysters, you’ll love this.

I generally tend towards seafood dishes here in San Sebastian–everything is so fresh and delicious. I was persuaded by friends to try this beef cheek at Aloña Berri, though, and I wasn’t disappointed. It was melt-in-your-mouth tender and just the right amount of meat to get all the flavors and not leave you stuffed.

Foie gras, called simply foie here, is a popular pintxo: pretty much every bar has some version of it, usually served with a sweet counterpart, like apple, marmalade, honey or membrillo. This one had an apple glaze and was very rich (and very cheap… less than 5 euros!)

Seared tuna was served with green beans and veered slightly away from the Asian preparation I’m used to.

I loved the preparation of this crab, served in the shell. I can’t extoll the seafood here enough… everything I’ve had is just amazing!

This dish was the star: this txipiron (baby calamari) comes with an arancini rice ball, a spun sugar-chile wafer, the txipiron itself and hot broth in a glass. The waitress explains the order in which to eat them (arancini, wafer, txipiron, broth)–it’s an experience worthy of any top molecular gastronomy restaurant! As my dining companion said, “It’s sweet then hot then bitter then sweet, and it’s just like, ‘play with me!’” (Anonymous to protect the innocent: I can’t hold it against you it if amazing food turns you into a poet.)

While eating at a pintxo restaurant is an amazing dining experience that should not be missed, my favorite part of pintxos is the social aspect. It’s so impressive to watch the waiters, who also serve as line cooks of sorts. They cut bread as easily as if they were opening a door and deal slices of cheese and ham onto plates as so many decks of cards.

They know what you’ve ordered long after taking ten other requests, and they don’t write anything down. They remember everyone’s face–”Otro chico, ¿no?” Another guy… right? I’ve heard as a friend comes to the bar to pick up the pintxos his buddy ordered. I’ve waited tables before… I know what it is to have to remember. But even I can’t fathom this.

I love to watch them pour glasses of txacoli the traditional way: from up high so that the bubbles froth through the drink.

It’s for this that most of my pintxos dinners happen in the actual bars, where the food is laid out in front of you and locals sit and chat over a beer and a cigarette or a pack (it’s still legal to smoke in bars in Spain). You may have to elbow your way to the front, but once you do, it’s worth it.

Cold pintxos can be very alluring, especially in the summer months. Many of them are topped with some sort of mayonnaise, which I have to admit, I usually scrape off. The combination of colors and flavors always draws me back though, especially because the quality of everything is just so good. This one came from a bar called Senra: the Spanish ham and smoked salmon together were a surprisingly delicious combination.

I love pintxos that can mix sweet and salty: this one, from the same bar, combined fried cheese with raspberry jam and a sweet, honey-like spread.

In the end, though, I almost always turn to hot pintxos: I took a tip from the locals and tried them, and because so many of them have to be made to order, this is really where you can see this local cuisine shine.

This one comes from one of my favorite pintxo bars in the Parte Vieja: Cuchara de San Telmo. This bar is always packed to the gills, but you can take your plates outside once you receive them and enjoy them on the terrace. This particular bite is one that I always order: vieira or scallop wrapped in bacon and grilled a la plancha.

Beef cheek is on all the menus in San Sebastian, so we tried it again at this place: once again, melt in your mouth tender and delicious, with mashed potatoes to boot!

I always gravitate towards any seafood, but pulpo, octopus, is one of my favorites–literally every pintxos bar here has some form of octopus on the menu, and the one at La Cuchara doesn’t disappoint: perfectly tender and tasty with braised cabbage alongside.

Just down the street is one more bar that I love: Casa Gandarias. The gambas here are amazing and succulent, with a mixed vegetable salsa over the top.

If you still have room for dessert (make room!) try the tarta de queso at La Viña. It’s nothing like American-style cheesecake, as you can probably tell from the photos, but it’s sweet and creamy and perfect to share: for 4 euros, you get one large piece sliced in two.

Ask the bartender for a DVD (pronounce it day-ubay-day), and he will gladly give you one that features several of this bar’s famous recipes, including the one for the cheesecake.

Of course, don’t take my advice: simply walk down the streets of Parte Vieja, and you’re sure to find some of your own favorites!

Addresses:

Aloña Berri

c/ Bermingham, 24

Senra

c/ San Francisco, 32

La Cuchara de San Telmo

Abuztuaren Hogei ta Hamaikako Kalea 28

Casa Gandarias

c/ 31 de agosto, 23

La Viña

C/ Abuztuaren 31-KO 3

September 25, 2009

Maple Brown Sugar Oatmeal

Filed under: Breakfast — Tags: , , — emiglia @ 6:55 am

When I was 17 years old, I attended a boarding school in Massachusetts… that much I think you know.

When I was 17 years old, I was also very socially awkward… I think you may know that too. I had technicolored hair and a massive army print jacket that I wore around everywhere. I hung out under my bed and wrote fan fiction and read a lot of Charles Dickens. I had a black New York Yankees beanie, which I wore all year round because I couldn’t be bothered to comb my hair. I consumed coffee around the clock and not much else. I had no idea who I was: I spent most of my time trying on different characters and personas, startling those around me with how drastically I could change from one month to the next.

I was surrounded by people, but I felt very alone. I rather liked it.

I remember one afternoon, my father had come up to visit after a business meeting in Boston. I remember clearly walking up the hill that led to my school–it was cold, and leaves were cracking under our feet with each step–and my father giving me one of his speeches that he’s so famous for in my household. I don’t remember the exact words–I wish I could–but it went something along the lines of, “Man is a social being, you can’t spend your whole life being alone.”

At the time, I didn’t see why not: no one understood me, no one got me as well as I got myself. I was perfectly happy to dissolve into my writing, to perpetually have headphones on, to tune out the rest of the world. And why not? It’s so easy to be alone when you’re only pretending…

When I was in high school, I lived in a dorm. I had good friends, even if for awhile I hid out in my room away from them. My family was only an hour’s plane ride away. I was alone, but not really.

It’s different to actually be alone… really alone. It’s different to have your family far away and scattered and accustomed to you being gone all the time, to have all the people you know and all the people you used to know in other places, on other continents, with other lives so different than when you knew them. It’s different to wake up in the morning and not know who you’re going to see, to not know the next time you’ll hug someone, touch someone, kiss someone.

I don’t say this to be depressing–God knows I’ve had my share of ups and downs and this is not a down. I love being in San Sebastian, and I’m very excited by my life here. It’s just…

I remember, back in high school, not too long after my father gave me that speech, a dear friend of mine confessed his feelings for me, and I took pause: I knew immediately that that was not what I wanted, that I wanted to stay friends. And yet I contemplated, for just a few moments, how much easier life would be if I knew that there was always someone who loved and was thinking about me. That there was always someone I could call, if I ever needed, just to have someone to say “goodnight” to before falling asleep.

The English One constantly reminds me that the friendships I’ve come to savor, the ones that really matter, are few and far between–otherwise, they wouldn’t be worth the time and effort. I know this, and I appreciate it. But sometimes, I miss the days when it was so easy to be alone only as long as I wanted to.

On days like this, I believe that comfort food is in order, and something that can be made for one. I’m quite partial to oatmeal: simple and warm and sweet… exactly what I need on a contemplative day.

Maple Brown Sugar Oatmeal
1/4 cup oats
1 cup skim milk
1 tbsp. maple syrup
1 tsp. salt
water, if needed
1 tsp. butter
1 tbsp. brown sugar

Mix the oats, milk, maple syrup and salt in a saucepan and cook over low heat until all of the milk has been absorbed, stirring if needed, about 5 minutes. Add water if the milk evaporates too quickly to sufficiently cook the oats to your liking.

Serve in a deep bowl: immediately top with butter and brown sugar, and while waiting for them to melt, contemplate your life, preferably on a foggy fall day by a window.

September 24, 2009

Pissaladière

Filed under: Pizza — Tags: , , , , — emiglia @ 1:43 pm

People don’t change.

Or at least… that’s always been my theory.

Sure, you can change your mind, change your hair, change your job or even change your life, but I’m fairly certain that the majority of people, if not all, don’t actually fundamentally change from the time they first establish themselves as who they are.

I think that the difference between what most people perceive as change and what I’m describing is simple, if a little bit hard to chew: I don’t think that we really know ourselves for most of our lives. I was famous in high school for being “lobotomy girl,” constantly jumping from one thing, one look, one personality, even, to the next: the root of my 18-month itch that I now know so well. To other people, it seems as though I’ve changed a lot, and on the outside, I have: I don’t have that army-print jacket or the orange hair that so many people associated with who I was. But the person that I was, as much as my dreams and aspirations and goals have changed, is still the same person.

This has always been my theory, and I’ve stuck through it. But recently, I’ve started questioning it. Is it possible for a person to truly change? To really become someone different and distinct from who they used to be? I’ve always thought that I must be essentially the same person I was when I was 13 or 14, after all, this is me and that was me. But I’ve recently gotten back in touch with some people who knew me way back when, and well… it’s strange what talking to someone who knew a younger version of yourself will force you to remember about who you used to be and what used to be important to you. It’s a very weird idea for me, but I’ve been rolling it around in my head, trying to see if I like the way it tastes.

I still don’t know… I’m not sure I’ll ever make up my mind: even if I do end up liking this new idea, I’m too stubborn to reject my old ways. Until then, I leave you with something else that you may have to learn to like, but that’s worth it in the end. Pissaladière is often referred to as Nicois pizza, a dish of dough with caramelized onions, anchovies and olives. It’s got all sorts of tastes that kids find hard to swallow, but when you learn to love it, it’s divine.

Pissaladière

1 pâte feuilletée or puff pastry dough
2 Tbsp. butter
1 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
2 onions, thinly sliced
1/2 cup white wine
1/2 tsp. herbes de Provence
1 tin anchovies
several black olives (6-12 depending on the size of your pissaladière)
salt and pepper

Heat a skillet over low heat and add the oil and butter. When the butter has melted, add the onions with a pinch of salt. Allow to cook without stirring for fifteen minutes or so, until the onions begin to color. Add about half of the wine and continue to cook. Stir every 2-3 minutes until the onions have caramelized, adding wine when they look dry. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 450 degrees.

When the onions are cooked, stir in the herbes de Provence and some fresh black pepper.

Unfold the dough and lay it on a baking sheet or in a tarte pan. Fork it all over. Spread the onions in an even layer over the dough. Lay the anchovies over the onions to form a diamond pattern, with an olive between each diamond (see photo). Bake at 450 degrees 5-10 minutes, until the dough is browned. Serve hot or cold.

September 23, 2009

Crème Catalane

Filed under: Side Dishes, Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , — emiglia @ 12:49 pm

When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.

I’ve always had a hard time with that proverb, not because I don’t believe it’s true, but because I’ve always had a hard time with the visual nature of proverbs. I know that “when life hands you lemons…” is supposed to make you think of the hard parts of your life and how to change them to make them better, but as for me, I always just think of freshly squeezed lemonade.

I guess it’s the foodie in me.

But I do believe in the essence of the proverb, once I get over my obsession with freshly squeezed lemonade (add a little bit of raspberry, and I’m in heaven.) Although I prefer to think of it as, “when life gives you a botched recipe for crème catalane, use a blowtorch.”

And yes, don’t worry, I do plan to explain myself.

I’ve been combing through my pictures from this summer ever snce I got my new computer, and I found these, of a crème catalane that was saved thanks to Marc’s quick thinking and the fact that he even had a blow torch to begin with. For me, this metaphor runs even more true, perhaps just for the absurdity of it: I’m always the one ready to come up with a half-baked crazy idea out of left-field to solve even the most mundane of problems. Making mountains out of molehills, and all that jazz. (OK, OK, I’m stopping.)

At the end of the day, I just find it more fun: when things aren’t working out for me, instead of making a little change, I overhaul my life: I dye my hair a drastic new color, I pick up a completely new activity, I start going by a new nickname, and, of course, as so many of you on here are bound to be aware of by now, I move: to a new city, but more often, to an entirely new country. It doesn’t work for everyone, but it works for me.

When these crème catalanes didn’t brulée in the oven like the recipe swore they would (I had my doubts from the beginning), I could have just made a lovely caramel sauce for them and be done with it. They would have still been delicious: you can’t go wrong with creamy custard infused with delicate citrus and cinnamon.

Or, I could have trekked all over Perpignan looking for a kitchen torch, only to spy Marc’s heavy duty blowtorch, and have a little bit too much fun bruléeing 20 crème catalanes. Honestly, which one would you prefer?

So when life gives you lemons, go ahead and make lemonade, if you want to.

Or, you could come up with something just a little bit fantastic.

Creme Catalane (serves 6)

Creme catalane is the Catalan version of a simple crème brulée, infused with cinnamon and citrus. If you have a favorite crème brulée recipe already, you can easily add these flavors to your own recipe. If not, here’s how I do it.

1 liter whole milk
zest of 1 lemon
zest of 1 orange
1 cinnamon stick
70 g. flour
8 egg yolks
raw sugar (for bruléed topping)

Place the milk in a heavy-bottomed pot and add the zests and cinnamon. Bring to a simmer and then reduce the heat, stirring every once in awhile. Cook for 15 minutes. Your kitchen should smell incredible.

Combine the flour and egg yolks with a whisk until the yolks have lightened in color and the flour is completely combined.

Enlist a friend for this step or risk being burned: while whisking continuously, pour the milk mixture in one fluid stream into the egg mixture. Return the whole mixture to the pot and place it back over the heat. Whisk continuously until the mixture thickens and resembles thick cream.

Distribute the mixture in ramekins and chill in the fridge for at least three hours.

When ready to serve, remove from the fridge and top with a thin, even layer of raw sugar. Brulée the tops with a kitchen torch or a blowtorch… or really any torch you’ve got lying around the house.

September 22, 2009

Gazpacho

Filed under: Soup — Tags: , , , — emiglia @ 5:01 am

gazpacho

When I was growing up on Long Island in the summertime, my favorite thing in the world was a whole day spent at the beach.

I loved arriving in the morning, towels and swimsuit in hand. I loved playing in the sand and then rinsing off for lunch in the cafeteria. I loved spending the afternoons in the ocean and eating ice cream and playing tennis and doing cannonballs in the pool. I loved coming home at the end of all of it, feeling that extreme fatigue that only a day in the sun and the salty waves can bring and that only a severe amount of icy cold watermelon can cure—for me, all of this, and not just the sandy shore and Atlantic waves, made up the beach.

This is probably why at every beach I’ve been to since I’ve been home, I’ve been horridly disappointed. No one but the friends I grew up with—a bedraggled group made up of all the siblings of three families we always knew—would spend hours in the ocean jumping waves and follow it up with a milkshake. No one would tan while reading trashy magazines and take breaks every five minutes for a dip in the pool. It wasn’t the same, and I didn’t like it.

Not so in San Sebastian. It could be the surfing–yes, my readers, I have been so absent because instead of spending my days in front of the stove as I usually would when there’s this much rain (and there is a lot of rain), I’ve been suiting up in a wetsuit and hitting the beach. It’s still not the easiest thing in the world for me, which is why I take such pleasure in little victories: the first time I stood up, the first time I was able to carry the board without feeling like it was going to fall or I was going to hit someone. The first time I came out of the water without injuring myself (I’ve got countless bruises on my legs, I bashed my head into my own surfboard coming up after the “washing machine” of white water that I used to adore, and last Friday, I got a handsome slice taken out of my face by the nose of the board. I think it makes me look hardcore.)

Most of all, what I like about surfing is the fact that it brings back that feeling of summertime, even if I am heading to the beach wrapped up in a flannel shirt and a fleece instead of in shorts and a t-shirt. I love the fact that every night, when I wash my hair, I find sand and seaweed. I love the fact that every morning my shoulders ache from paddling. I love the fact that I can walk back to work with the smell of salt on my skin. And I love getting home at the end of the day and making it all better with my new version of icy cold watermelon: gazpacho.

I’ve always loved gazpacho: here, we buy it in cartons as anonymous and banal as milk cartons. I go through about two a week myself. But back in Paziols, I made a huge vat of it as an experiment and was greatly surprised to see the kids go through it in one fell swoop: definitely didn’t see that one coming. This gazpacho is in the Andalucian style: the addition of bread makes the texture much more filling and silky. And although I know that the trend back in the states is to eat gazpacho chunky–like a soup-salad hybrid–here in Spain, gazpacho is smooth, perfect for drinking out of a glass after a long day at the beach.

Gazpacho Andaluz
1 clove garlic
1 Kilo tomatoes
1/2 small red onion
1 small green pepper
1 small red pepper
1 small cucumber
1 cup tomato purée
2 teaspoons Sherry
1 teaspoon red vinegar
1 slice stale white bread soaked in water
1 cup extra virgin olive oil (the good stuff!)
salt and pepper

In the food processor, combine the garlic and a little bit of the olive oil with a few pulses. Add the rest of the vegetable ingredients and pulse until smooth but still textured. Add the tomato purée, sherry, vinegar and bread and pulse until the bread is combined with the rest of the ingredients. Stream in the olive oil.

Season with salt and pepper. Serve with a drizzle of olive oil over the top, as well as pepper sauce for those who like it a bit spicy and garnish with cubes of boiled egg or ham.

September 9, 2009

Steaks with Parsley Sauce

Filed under: Beef — Tags: , , — emiglia @ 12:29 pm

I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to do something I’m so bad at.

I’m not talking about cooking: I was never bad at cooking. I was insecure, I had things I couldn’t make, but everything went along a learning curve, and for someone who was teaching themselves using Epicurious as her only guide and nonstick pans bought from a place called Honest Ed’s in Toronto, I think I learned pretty quickly.

I’m talking about surfing.

For those of you who read this blog and know that I tend to gallavant from one exotic place to another without much regard for the real world at all, it may come as a shock that I have certain travel dreams that I have yet to conquer.

For example, I’ve always wanted to work a ski season at a mountain (preferably Okemo in Ludlow, VT, but I’m not picky). I imagined working all day and skiing as soon as I got off work… it seemed like perfection.

I’ve also always wanted to go work on an organic farm for a few months. There’s a program that sends volunteers to different farms in different countries, and from the moment I read about it in the Herald Tribune three years ago, “milking carrots in Argentina,” as I jokingly refer to it with the English One, has been on my radar.

The last: surfing. I know that most people have some sort of repressed urge to move to Hawaii and surf all day, but because my travel dreams have always been able to become my reality, I never really suppressed it, and now I have my chance.

I mentioned yesterday that I’m currently in San Sebastian: I’ll be here for two months, surfing and learning Spanish. I started surf lessons two days ago, and as much as I tried to talk myself into loving it as I walked down to the surf school, part of me would worry that my dream would not be all that it was cracked up to be, that I would try and fail and move on, as I tend to do (I’m not proud of it, but there it is, and why have a blog if not to tell the truth to total strangers).

But surprisingly, at least to me, I fell immediately in love with it: like my favorite childhood sport of boogie boarding, only ten times more fun and ten times more tiring–after an hour of trying to stand and falling, I was exhauted, but I had done it.

And, with the sort of lousy lead-in that we food bloggers are, every so often, guilty of using, I present something else that I used to do poorly but that I loved anyway: steak. More precisely, steak with parsley sauce, similar to an Argentinian chimichurri, but I took too much liberty to really call it that. It’s spicy and garlicky and fresh, and I understand now, after hours and hours spent in the sun, why the Argentians, with their warm weather, decide to top their steaks with something so fresh and green and bright.

Steaks with Parsley Sauce
1 large bunch of fresh flat leaf parsley, washed, stemmed, and dried
4 cloves of garlic, peeled
1 shallot, minced
1 small carrot, grated
2 Tbsp. lemon juice
2 Tbsp. lime juice
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. dried oregano
1/2 tsp. Peri-Peri sauce or your favorite hot sauce
1/2 tsp. black pepper
about 1 cup extra virgin olive oil (I tend to need a bit less)

Place all ingredients except olive oil into the bowl of a food processor. Pulse until combined but not too smooth. Add the olive oil in a stream and pulse the entire mixture until it comes together as a rough sauce.

Serve with your favorite steaks. The rest of the sauce makes a great dip, pasta sauce or topping for anything from chicken to burgers! Store it as you would pesto, with a thin layer of oil over the top to keep the color green.

September 8, 2009

Tomato Salad

Filed under: Salad — Tags: — emiglia @ 4:55 pm

I don’t know when my home stopped being my home.

It seems as though it just happened yesterday, in a split second, that moment before sleep and awake and suddenly it was gone. But I know that’s not how it was, because if it were, I would be able to say when and why.

For me, home has become something else: the real world, the hungover morning spent piecing together the bad decisions of the night before. Some people say–make that most people–that you have to go home at some point: bars close, clubs kick you to the curb, your coat hastily retrieved from the coat check, and you start passing the early birds on their way to work or decked out in full spandex for a quick morning jog as you contiue your bleary jaunt through the city during that odd time of day that seems normal to most people but that you thought you would never see…

But how lovely a thing–to continue running on fumes, to go without sleep, to allow last night to continue into this morning without a break, to never let the party end. Because once the music stops, when you see it all in the morning through the stark and clear lenses of the daylight and dismal working folk, you start to wonder if what you’re doing is what you should be doing. You start to question, asking yourself how much longer you can continue dancing all night and smoking all day and sharing furtive and illicit kisses with people you barely know… or people you perhaps know just a little too well. Someone pulls the plug at some point, someone brings the house lights up, and you’re left standing with nothing but the clothes on your back and the money you managed not to spend wondering if you’d rather go home or wander the city streets instead.

I’ve been gone a long time. I’m sorry, but then again, I’m not. Paziols took a lot out of me, both with regards to my cooking and to my writing, and going home really does put things into perspective.

I’m back to my regular gallavanting ways, however–I don’t think this party is ever going to end. This time, I’m in San Sebastian-Donostia on the Basque coast of Spain. I’m surfing, tasting tapas and eating tomatoes–back home they were the last of the season, but here, the season seems to continue all the time–and I’m dancing my way home along the coast every night.

Emiglia’s Perfect Tomato Salad

1 kilo tomatoes (I like to use a variety of red, orange and yellow tomatoes on the vine and kumatoes, but use whatever looks good… even cherry or grape tomatoes)
2 cloves garlic, pressed
1-2 tsp. salt
2 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil (use the good stuff here)
2 tsp. dried basil
1 tsp. dried oregano
1/2 tsp. cayenne pepper
1 green onion, minced

Cut the tomatoes in eighths and place them in a glass or plastic bowl (no metal). Add the rest of the ingredients, including the washed vines of the vine-on tomatoes if you used them. Toss to combine. Allow to sit, covered, at room temperature for an hour. Remove the vines and toss once more before serving.

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