tomato_kumato

Me with two margaritas for the price of one. Olé!

When I actually lived in the States, I never craved American food. Ever. My favorite food was Italian, which, as a New Yorker living in an Italian-American family, I could get any day of the week. I had my occasional sushi binge, and I was never one to turn down a bagel, but I never had these incredible cravings that I get now. When I get home, I buy myself a bucket of buffalo wings and go to town on them. I need, need, need an American grilled cheese with Campbell’s tomato soup. But more than anything, what I really, really miss is decent Mexican food.

I like almost everything that passes my lips to be hot, hot, hot. I used to carry a bottle of Tabasco around with me to flavor food that was not hot enough for my liking. When I reheat my mother’s tomato sauce for lunch, I add crushed red pepper. Where the Canadian adds parmesan cheese, I wield cayenne. The French are not so into hot. I knew that if I wanted Mexican done right in the City of Lights, I would have to do it myself.

I started out with a recipe for Chorizo Tacos from Nosheteria. The recipe was sort of an outline, so I didn’t feel bad changing things up a bit: I didn’t have nearly as many mushrooms as were recommended, so I supplemented extra potato, which I chopped into a fine dice instead of grating (my grater had been melted by the Canadian and we had yet to receive our industrial one care of my Mom). I never achieved the melting potato that was outlined in the original recipe, but it did its job of soaking up the grease from the sausage, which was actually a mix of merguez and Spanish-style Chorizo, which is cured, not raw. But even with the changes, the slick-less taco filling that was promised came through.

This and some white fish that I just floured, spiced with salt, pepper and cayenne were the taco fillings. I also made two quesadillas: one with the chorizo mixture and a mixture of shredded emmental and mimolette (this is France here… we don’t have pepper jack and cheddar), and the other with cheese and a combination of red and green spring onions.

But wait… there’s more!

I also made my famous guacamole, which I learned how to make from our Mexican housekeeper, Francesca. Recipe at the end.

All I seem to see nowadays as commentary on recipes for cornbread, chili, lasagna, spanakopita… is critique for the fact that the recipes aren’t authentic. Well, I’m sorry, but sometimes I can’t find real queso fresco or Mexican chorizo. And I’m OK with that. The whole point of cooking is to try new things, to experiment, and having a group of friends over to enjoy some slightly Frenchified Tex-Mex is my idea of an amazing night.

The Canadian’s three-liter bottle of Crown Royal (aka Steve Royal) got into the festivities as well: he’s sporting the sombrero I brought him from Mexico!

Chorizo Tacos (adapted from Nosheteria)

1 large yellow onion, diced
2 links of merguez, removed from casing
6 slices of Spanish Chorizo, diced
1 large potato, diced fine
5 button mushrooms, sliced

Heat a skillet over medium heat. Add the sausage and stir until it releases some yellow grease. Add the onions and stir, cooking until translucent (5 minutes). Add the potato and fry until cooked through. Add the mushrooms, stirring until they are cooked and all traces of oil are absorbed.

Francesca’s Guacamole

2 Hass avocados
1/2 red onion, finely chopped
1 tomato, seeded and chopped
juice of 2 limes
salt to taste
cilantro, chopped, to taste

Halve and remove the pits from the avocados. While still in their shells, use a sharp knife to chunk them (think checkerboard) and then use a spoon to remove the flesh. Mash SLIGHTLY with the tines of a fork. Combine with the other ingredients, except the tomatoes, and allow to sit for at least an hour. Add the tomatoes and combine fifteen minutes before serving.

Sorry everyone! I’ve been so bad… I’ve been getting back up to speed reading everyone’s updates (sorry for the lack of comments… I had a lot to read) and I feel badly seeing how busy everyone else has been while I’ve been doing a lot of nothing.

Since I’ve been back, the only things I’ve made have been pasta and fried eggs. The Canadian’s birthday was last week, and I bought a cake! Yes, it was an amazing cake, and yes, it was very French of me to pass off the baking to a professional, but still, it was out of character. You see, I’ve had a very busy few weeks back. Upon arriving in Paris, I hardly had a chance to unpack before I whisked myself off to Paris with Britney to see the Spice Girls! I was in the 6th grade the last time they were popular, and so was everyone else there, apparently. Everyone knew all the words, and it was probably the best concert I’ve ever been to.

We stayed in an amazing hostel, St. Christopher’s, which not only was fun and amazingly clean, but also served up a very good (and very reasonable) hummus with pita appetizer in the bar. I got my hands on a Cornish Pasty this time and we got a decent curry at a chain place (I’m sure to Londoners it was awful, but Britney and I loved it), but I still have to go to Goulder’s Green Chinese food. I also introduced Britney to the wonders of Wagamama, and she has come up with a plan that involves a commuting Londoner bringing her Wagamama for dinner every day to be picked up at Paris Gare du Nord.

I got back to Paris with a terrible cold, but I still set off for the other trip I’d planned: Amsterdam. (This was when I thought the Canadian would be in Amsterdam, not sitting on my couch and boiling the plastic cheese grater to get the Comte off it. Mom, please send me a metal one… the Canadian needs special toys for his special needs.) I went with a friend and took advantage of the loose laws there, and therefore ordered the tray of food you see above. (Applesauce not pictured. Mixed with mashed potatoes=heaven.)
Wow… all this is getting very bloggy. The point of the matter is that I’m back now, and I have an antipasto party to tell you about.

This all began, as so many strange ideas do, in my father’s head. He picked me and my sister up from the city and drove us out to Long Island, where we would be met my my mother, brother and sister the following day. He had decided that “we” would be making a typical Italian antipasto. He gave me a sketchy shopping list… things like “eggplant rollatini-eggplant, cheese.” I knew that he couldn’t do this alone, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to take it myself. Grudgingly, I decided to fulfill his wishes, and asked him exactly what he wanted. Long story short, in the end I made everything, and my father ceremoniously plated the braciole, eggplant rollatini, stuffed green peppers, stuffed mushrooms, and stuffed clams. I stood by the side, saying nothing, but as my brother praised the rollatini and my sister gorged herself on mushrooms, my mother leaned over to me and whispered, “Good job.”

This picture is awful, but it’s the only one I got of everything. From the top right, it’s stuffed mushrooms, baked clams, stuffed green peppers, braciole, and eggplant rollatini. And my father was right about one thing: the key is mixing all the sauces (tomato, braciole au jus, and clam juice) on the plate and sopping it up with good Italian bread. (We get ours from Sullivan Street in the Bronx.) Here are the recipes… they’re approximate, but they work. I cheated on the clams and braciole and got them from the store, but you could just as easily make them yourself as well.

Stuffed Green Peppers

Halve three green peppers and lie them in a baking dish. Stuff with a mixture of one part hot Italian sausage and one part ground beef, Italian breadcrumbs, grated parmegiano reggiano, and an egg. Cover with tomato sauce and bake at 350 for 40 minutes.

Eggplant Rollatini (the hit of the night)

Slice three eggplants lengthwise into strips about a quarter inch to a half inch thick. Make sure they’re all the same size. Dredge each slice in flour, then beaten egg, then Italian breadcrumbs. Bake for ten minutes on each side at 375 degrees. In a separate bowl, combine equal parts ricotta cheese and grated mozzarella. Add a few tablespoons of parmegiano reggiano to taste, and season with black pepper and a chiffonade of fresh basil. Place about a tablespoon of the cheese mixture at the end of each of the rollatini, and roll. Place them, seam side down, in a baking sheet. When all of the rollatini have been rolled, cover with tomato sauce and bake at 350 until the cheese is melted.

Baked Stuffed Mushrooms

Remove the stems from about twenty stuffing mushrooms (large white mushrooms) and bake the mushrooms on a baking pan for about ten minutes to dehydrate them. Chop the stems finely and sautee in butter and olive oil with one large onion and a few shallots. Turn off the heat and add enough breadcrumbs to soak up the liquid in the pan, about half a cup to a cup. Add parmeggiano reggiano cheese to taste… a couple of tablespoons. Stuff the mushrooms until heaping with the mixture, and bake for about another fifteen to twenty minutes at 350.

It’s a really good thing I got interested in cooking, or else I would have spent all of last July eating stuck-together spaghetti with a bit of jarred sauce.

Let me explain.

As those who have been following this blog for a reasonable amount of time may know, I spent this past July helping an old French tutor jump-start a language program in Southwestern France. She and her brother bought a house in the tiny town of Paziols, an hour away from Perpignan. She, her nephew Alex, Alex’s sometimes-present father Wolf, four of Anne-Marie’s brightest early-teenage students and I went down to the old vineyard house this summer for the month to experiment, to see what could be done in the area and to make plans for next year, when she will run two programs, one in July, one in August, with the help of Alex, me, and some of the kids who were campers last year.

Tangent. Back to the ratatouille. You see, when we arrived all bedraggled (this was right after my backpacking trip through Western Europe), and drove the hour out to the house, there really wasn’t anything to eat. Alex made a pot of pasta, but didn’t use enough water and overcooked it (can’t blame him… he’s French. His mother has been cooking for him for his entire life). That and some cheese was our dinner, and I knew right away that things were going to have to change. I need my vegetables.

Later on, I spoke with Anne-Marie, cautiously bringing up the idea of teaching the kids how to make some typical French dishes while we were there. She loved the idea and asked for suggestions, and the first thing that my vitamin deprived body thought of was ratatouille. She and I set out for the tiny épicerie, and she picked out some of the best summer vegetables. We got home, she pulled out an apron, and handed it to me.

What?

Apparently, this Frenchwoman considered herself a New Yorker. She made a mean quiche Lorraine, but I was going to be making this ratatouille… if I could figure it out. I started slicing the vegetables semi-confidently, wondering how in the world I was going to pull this off. OK. Think. Think like Alton Brown: food is science.

Onions in first, sweat them a bit, bring out the natural sweetness. A little garlic… hell, who am I kidding? A lot of garlic. I need all the help I can get. Then the eggplant… that takes longer than zucchini… right? Oh well… it’s seared now on both sides and nice and brown, so in goes the zucchini. That’s brown… now some tomatoes. How many? Who knows. I add two, then three, mush them down and try to create some semblance of a sauce. I cheat and reach for the tomato paste because it doesn’t look like enough, and then I toss in a few more tomatoes, just to be safe. Also because I ate half of the first ones while I was slicing them… they were summer tomatoes, and I couldn’t help it. Herbes de provence, salt and pepper. And then Alex is over my shoulder.

“Tu sais cuisiner?” You know how to cook?

“Un peu.” A little. Sometimes I set off the fire alarm, and I’ve undercooked chicken and had to throw it back under the broiler. I keep that tidbit to myself.

“Ca sent bon.” Smells good. It does, like onions and garlic. I wish I could taste it, but the kitchen is too central to do it without anyone catching me, so I feign confidence, prod a piece of zucchini with a fork, and declare it done.

Apparently, the ratatouille went over well: I decided what to cook for the rest of the summer. Anne-Marie taught all the kids to make mayonnaise and salad dressing from scratch, but all summer, my greatest pride was still in that first dinner. I still don’t use a recipe for ratatouille… every time I make it in my tiny Paris kitchen, I remember my experiment in the house in Paziols, and I feel like a real cook… before I burn cupcakes while I’m giving myself a manicure again.