Tomato Kumato

July 3, 2010

Ratatouille

Filed under: Side Dishes, Vegetarian Main Dishes — Tags: , , , , , , — emiglia @ 11:42 am

IMG_7387 (Modified)

It’s funny how I forget how much I love France until I’m back–I know how much you are all probably tired of hearing this over and over again, but each time I come back, it’s as though I’ve never felt this way before.

Even though I know how much I missed it, even though I can read my blog entries from when I was in Cannes and in Paris, even though I know how inspired I felt and how much I actually sat down to write while I was living in the 5th last year, I am still completely bowled over every time I come back and have that, “Oh… right,” moment. The one that reminds me that I’ve come home.

Ireland was great–I’m not denying it. I had an amazing time in London with Emese and the English One, and I’ve never laughed so much or so hard as when I was traveling around the British Isles with the CYF, King Kong and the Engineer. But as the Country Boy, the Parisian and I drove over the border from Spain to France, now with Anne-Marie and three of the kids in tow, I remembered.

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Anne-Marie laughs at me when she catches me looking out the window. “T’es vraiment bien, là,” she says. You’re really good, there… It’s not a question… she knows when I stare at these vines that I’m better than I’ve ever been.

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I found a page of the little notebook I carry with me everywhere–it’s almost full and some of the pages are falling out. I started writing in it when I first moved to France three years ago. In purple pen, my familiar scrawl speaks words that seem so faraway now. “I want that feeling of ‘The place I am is the best place I’ve ever been.’ I can’t remember the last time I felt that way. I want to curl up and hide in my cargo pants. It used to be so easy.”

But this is nothing like high school and ski caps and cargo pants and quilts I wrapped myself up in to drink endless cups of coffee and get lost in Blink-182 lyrics. That was fake–an identity I had created for myself out of something that I wanted to be. This is something that has come about based on who I wanted to be, maybe. I find myself writing my own future into my fiction and being surprised when I find myself living it years later. But it’s real now… that’s for sure. Paziols is home; France is mine.

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There are some kinks to work out, for sure. The Country Boy and I have taken to late night walks–I can’t sleep when everything is this good; I’ve been getting three hours of sleep a night and climbing out of bed early in the morning so that I can have the sidewalks to myself for the only cool daylight hour before the sun bakes the streets as I buy our daily bread from the café down the road. I’m full of energy, attacking jobs I used to hate, like mopping the floors, with vigor. Anne-Marie has to forcefully drag me away from sinks of dirty dishes I want to wash and lesson plans I create weeks in advance. I can’t help it–I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy before.

Voilà. If only I could sit Nicolas Sarkozy down for a chat, maybe he’d make an exception for me and let me make Paziols my home all the time, instead of for the six weeks that already feel as though they’re passing too quickly.

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Until then, I’ll just keep on keeping on, immersing myself in everything that will sit still for me and some things that won’t, and, of course, embrace being in my kitchen again, where it only seems right to bring together the summer staples of tomatoes, zucchini, eggplant and herbes de Provence for ratatouille.

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Ratatouille (serves 10 with leftovers)

Note: My Dutch ovens are small, so I used two and divided the recipe between them.

3 yellow onions
4 tablespoons sunflower oil
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
salt, to taste
3 zucchini
4 small eggplants
3 red peppers
2 tablespoons herbes de Provence
4 cloves garlic
1 120 g. can of tomato paste
1 800 g. can of whole, peeled tomatoes

Cut the onions into a small dice. Sauté them in a large Dutch oven over medium heat with the sunflower oil, olive oil and a bit of salt to taste.

Cut the zucchini and the eggplant into half-moons. Cut the peppers in half, remove the seeds, and cut the halves into thin half-rings.

When the onions are translucent, add the eggplant. Cook for 3 to 5 minutes, then add the zucchini. Continue to cook for 3-5 minutes, and finally add the peppers. Toss to combine and continue to cook.

Press the garlic with a garlic press and add it to the Dutch oven with the herbes de Provence. Mix and add the two cans of tomatoes.

Cook together over low heat, covered, at least an hour and up to two hours. Serve with a French-style omelette, and hide some to have for leftovers the next day: they’re even better.

Photo credits : Alexandra Schwartz

June 14, 2010

…Hello Edinburgh

Filed under: Side Dishes, Uncategorized — Tags: — emiglia @ 4:01 pm

Hello from Edinburgh!

OK… I’ll let you in on a secret. Not actually in Edinburgh. Haven’t been in Edinburgh for a few days. But I’m behind on my posts, and I’m trying to keep things in order, because I’m anal-retentive, and I like things to be organized, (color-coded, when possible). Don’t worry–I should be caught up soon. Until then, a few words about the capital city of Scotland, surrogate home of the Almost English One, and first stop on my backpacking adventure with one of my friends from university back in Canada, The Canadian Yankees Fan, as well as two of her friends who, up until about a week ago, I had never met. Luckily, we all seem to suffer from the same horrid sense of humor, and I can decisively say that my stomach has never hurt so much from laughing, even if half the time I’m not too sure what we’re laughing about.

As for Edinburgh…

Things That I Recommend:

Fish pie and mushy peas at the Halfmarket House, a pub just off the Royal Mile on a street that is not-so-appetizingly called Fleshmarket Close. The pub has been recommended time and time again by various publications despite changing hands numerous times, and the food is classic Scottish pub fare–mushy peas are always excellent, but I had never had fish pie, and I’ve decided I like it. It’s like chicken pot pie… only fishier.

Fish and chips. Nuff said.

Edinburgh Castle, which gives you a great view of the city as well as a number of interesting exhibits on Scottish history including the Scottish crown jewels and several memorials to war vets.

Tron Pub for cheap hamburgers and beer, a well-stocked jukebox and lots of students to meet and mingle with. (Please pardon the picture. It was dark, and I had been drinking just a bit.)

The Princes Street gardens for, amongst other things…

…staged fights (no Engineers were injured during the creation of this blog post)…

…hillside attacks of your Canadian Yankee Fan (CYF) friends…

…pretending to be five years old and taking over playgrounds…

…staging hill-rolling contests…

…and making fun of people (in this case, King Kong) when they fall off playground apparatuses. (Apparatusi? Apparati?)

Things That I Do Not Recommend:

Deep-fried haggis bought at the chippy. Apparently, some people like this, namely Scotty, but after seeing CYF, King Kong and the Engineer try and fail to eat this after a night out, I have come to the conclusion that haggis is best consumed on a plate with neeps and tatties and not in a styrofoam box with chips and gravy.

Going to Edinburgh in any season without a rain slicker, rain boots and an umbrella.

Things That Are Neither Here Nor There:

I lost my blue scarf and my new sunglasses that I picked up in a hostel somewhere. They were black and 80s-tastic, and I’m pretty upset about it. I like to think that things that I lose join some sort of karmic circle of life, because otherwise, I feel pretty lame about all of the things I’ve lost which, to date, include at least six pairs of sunglasses, several black sweaters and a Cambridge sweatshirt I left in a train bathroom.

The suitcase I left in Edinburgh at Scotty’s house is still there. My shoes will remain separated by the Atlantic, and I still have not worn the red scarf I received for Christmas nearly four years ago.

Also, I still have not climbed Arthur’s seat. Someday.

Halfmarket House, 24 Fleshmarket Close

Edinburgh Castle, Royal Mile

Tron, 9 Hunter Square

Princes Street Gardens, Princes Street

May 20, 2010

Courgettes et Tomates à la Provencale

Filed under: Side Dishes — Tags: , , , , — emiglia @ 9:12 am

If you want to be viewed as a tourist in France, there is one surefire way to do it.

It’s not speaking English loudly, although that helps your case, as does carrying a large map and blocking intersections to read it. Driving too slowly or too carefully is a pretty dead giveaway of a non-local, as is exclaiming over things that are “quaint.” Wearing the “wrong” jeans is seen as a sin here, where the perfect jeans are completely moulant and give you the best-looking butt you’ve ever had, but not nearly as bad as the number one, all-powerful thing not to do while in France.

Eating on the street.

If you want to be spotted a mile away as a foreigner, be my guest: grab a sandwich from a boulangerie, a piece of fruit from a vendor or, horror of horrors, something pre-packed from your bag and dig in as you walk–after all, that’s more than acceptable back home, where lunch hours are hardly 20 minutes long and you barely have time for a cup of coffee before dashing out the door in the morning. But take it from my first-hand experience of having Frenchmen jovially yet judgmentally wish me “Bon appétit” as I scurried down the Parisian streets with a sandwich in hand or Provencaux with their berets and sets of boules stop playing and watch as I chomp on an apple–if you want to be ridiculed, vas-y, but if you want to appear to be a local, please, find a cozy café and have a seat.

I understand that it’s not easy–there are things to do and people to see. But if you just take a breath and look around as you nibble at your midday meal, you will enjoy it all–France, the people you’re with, your time, and the food–quite a bit more. There is so much to look at here in France, so many things to observe and people to see, and I’ve learned, after quite some time, that the majority is much better seen from behind a glass (or a carafe) of wine at some little table on a café’s terrace.

The only exception to this rule is le quignon, the crusty end of your baguette as you leave the boulangerie. To this, I say go for it: there’s nothing better than hot baguette fresh from the oven. But be sure to save the rest for the juices that these tomatoes will give off.

Courgettes with Feta and Mint

4 globe zucchini
1/2 cup feta
1 egg
2 tsp. mint
1 tsp. herbes de provence
1/2 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
1/2 tsp. salt (depending on the feta you use, this may not be necessary)

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Slice the tops of your zucchini off and reserve for later. Place the zucchini on a nonstick baking dish or one greased with a little bit of olive oil. Roast the zucchini 10-15 minutes, until the flesh is soft.

Scoop the flesh from the zucchini into a bowl. Drain of excess liquid and mash with a fork until creamy. Add the cheese, egg, herbs, pepper and salt, and combine with the fork until smooth. Scoop the mash back into the zucchini bulbs and roast until the filling puffs up and turns golden on top. Serve with the reserved zucchini tops.


Tomates à la Provencale

4 tomatoes
1 tsp. salt
1/2 cup breadcrumbs
1 tbsp. herbes de provence
1/2 tsp. fresh black pepper
2 Tbsp. pine nuts
2 tsp. olive oil

Slice the tomatoes in half and sprinkle them with salt. Allow them to sit as you bring the oven to 400 degrees. Combine the breadcrumbs, herbes de provence and black pepper in a bowl.

After five minutes, the tomatoes will have released some of their water. Tip this water off and dispose of it.

Lay the tomatoes in a nonstick baking dish or one greased with a little bit of olive oil. Evenly distribute the breadcrumb mixture, and scatter the pine nuts on top. Drizzle the olive oil over the tomatoes, and roast them until the tops are golden.

February 24, 2010

Almost-Spring

Filed under: Appetizers, Side Dishes — Tags: , , , — emiglia @ 12:47 pm

Almost-Spring is in the air.

If you’ve lived in cold-weather climates (I’m looking at you Canadians… and you, too, New-Englanders), then you know what I’m talking about: it’s not warm–far from it. In fact, everyone is still bundled up as they hurry down the street, bemoaning the rain and slush… and then you realize: the ice and snow has been replaced by its wetter, warmer cousin! Almost-Spring is in the air! It’s almost enough to make you take off your second pair of long underwear.

Almost.

I don’t remember this season in New York–I first glimpsed it at Andover, when, after months and months of trekking through snow (and black ice, and snow that sort of melts from salting and then refreezes, and more snow, and sand…), the ground was visible again. You could smell mud and grass, and even if there was no floral evidence quite yet, it was coming. I could feel it as I inhaled the smell of mulch, looking forward to days when we would be able to sit on the lawn in the sun and pretend that we weren’t shivering beneath our thin sweatshirts…

This winter has been especially harsh, as far as New York winters go. Personally, I don’t mind snow every week and negative temperatures, but then again, I voluntarily spent three winters in Massachusetts and two in Ontario, so who am I to talk? It’s better than the wind off the Seine in Paris winters, which don’t have the added bonus of snowman-making material in the park or the snow days that permit middle-of-the-afternoon weekday treks to said park, where you can construct avant-garde representations of gangster snowmen in Liliput that would rival similar sculptures by a certain six-year-old and his stuffed tiger.

Still… Almost-Spring in Paris is beautiful. Without the snow and ice, the flowers bloom earlier. The sidewalks aren’t quite as damp; there’s no need to pick your way precariously over three-foot trenches of ice and ditchwater. And maybe the mud in the parks grasps your shoes a bit too harshly, it’s this time of year (OK… all times of year) that really get me thinking about Paris.

So, in honor of Almost-Spring, I offer you an Almost-Spring recipe. Pencil-thin asparagus will soon be plentiful–in Paris, they favor the fat white ones, but I was always partial to these. Last year, I found some at my local market and, on a whim, wrapped them in prosciutto. Since then, this has become a standby vegetable side dish when I want a weekday to feel a little special.

Prosciutto-Wrapped Asparagus

1 lb. asparagus, washed and dried, ends trimmed
about 8 slices prosciutto
1 tsp. extra virgin olive oil
freshly ground black pepper

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Coat a baking dish with the olive oil.

Split the slices of prosciutto in half lengthwise, so you get two long, thin strips. Carefully wrap each asparagus spear in prosciutto, and lay them in the baking dish with the seam-side down.

Roast 15-20 minutes, until the prosciutto is crisp and the ends of the asparagus have withered and colored a bit. Remove from the oven and sprinkle with freshly ground black pepper. Serve immediately.


October 8, 2009

Escalivade

I love to check out what other people are buying at the grocery store.

I know that most (read: normal) people would rather be doing their taxes, watching Paris Hilton speak about politics, listening to the Hamster Dance song on repeat… anything aside from waiting for the cashier to ring up their purchases, but I honestly do love it. It might be the people-watcher in me, but I think that looking to see what other people are buying is fascinating.

What is that man going to do, for example, with one orange, a tiny bottle of heavy cream, and a can of olives? Does that woman eat microwave pizza every night, or is she stocking up for the apocalypse? How many people are in that man’s family that he has to buy 20 pork chops? And how much did that scraggly, bloodshot young man smoke that he needs a frozen Mars bar, a family-sized bag of tortilla chips, a two-liter bottle of Coke and a bag of Carambars to come back down?

If someone were as interested as I am in what is passing in front of them on the conveyor belt to check out my purchases as of late, they would probably think I was a vegetarian: I’m not, and I haven’t been since 2005 (and even if I were, I doubt that I would have been able to keep it up in Spain, land of amazing seafood, incredible ham, and general use of pork products everywhere you look). But when I go shopping, I look like the poster child for that old-school food pyramid… the one I grew up with that actually looks like a pyramid, I mean.

This week, for example, as I emptied my shopping basket behind one woman’s selection of various sorts of ham, dry cereal and meal replacement bars and in front of a gentleman’s two bottles of dry white wine, one bottle of detergent and small loaf of seeded bread, I wondered what people would think of me? Ten pear-shaped tomatoes and three containers of cherry tomatoes, a bag each of apples and pears, a shrink-wrappd styrofoam flat of white button mushrooms, six cans of tuna, a bottle of tomate frito, a head of broccoli, two bags of grated carrots, a box of mushroom linguine and three glass jars of lima beans. You’d think I never ate a thing aside from vegetables… and canned tuna.

And while that’s not true (I just ventured into the world of pintxos making with a native Donostian chef last night, where everything was deep-fried, pork producty deliciousness), there is something to be said for filling your belly entirely with vegetables, for getting that satisfied feeling after having eaten just a touch too much, and knowing that all you’ve eaten is carrots and cucumber.

The urge to binge-eat out of the produce drawer starts to leave me as the weather gets cooler, but even though it’s been raining here–the skies opening and soaking you in five seconds or less–I’m still making meals out of tomatoes and lima beans and carrying around more apples in my purse than Johnny Appleseed.

This dish is typically Catalan–a different part of Spain, and something that I learned to make in Paziols (also in Catalogne/Cataloña). Summer vegetables are gathered and roasted with garlic and olive oil and then bathed in a simple vinaigrette made from Banyuls vinegar and fresh herbs. This is one of those dishes that is so much more than a sum of its parts, and it’s perfect for people like me, who make their meals entirely from vegetables.

Escalivade

250 g (1/2 lb.) tomatoes
250 g (1/2 lb.) eggplant
300 g (2/3 lb.) zucchini
300 g (2/3 lb.) red pepper
200 g (a bit less than 1/2 lb.) green pepper
200 g (a bit less than 1/2 lb.) yellow pepper
200 g (a bit less than 1/2 lb.) orange pepper
1 onion
3-4 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
2 Tbsp. fresh chives
4 cloves garlic, minced
2-3 small shallots, minced
a few sprigs of fresh thyme
freshly cracked black pepper
2-3 Tbsp. Banyuls vinegar, or good wine vinegar

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Wash and dry the vegetables. Seed the peppers and slice them into strips. Slice the eggplants and zucchini into strips of about the same size. Cut the tomatoes and onions into rounds.

Organize the vegetables in a baking dish any way you like (traditionally, you keep the like vegetables together, which makes for a prettier presentation.)

Dress the top of the dish with one tablespoon of the olive oil, and place the entire thing in the oven to roast for 30-40 minutes. Every so often, add a bit of water to the dish to keep the vegetables from burning.

When everything is cooked, allow to cool for a few minutes before removing the skins of the peppers. (Note: I don’t always do this step.)

Add the rest of the olive oil, the vinegar, the garlic, the shallots, the chives, the thyme and the pepper.

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.

July 19, 2009

Normal

Filed under: Pie, Salad, Side Dishes — Tags: , , , , , — emiglia @ 11:59 am

It’s incredible how quickly something that was foreign and bizarre can become a natural and normal part of your daily life. It’s even more strange how quickly something that used to be normal can seem so far away.

I live in Paris: I’m used to it by now, used to saying it, used to going about my daily life with La Poste and Champion and the Paris métro as frequent players in my day to day. But when I first moved to Paris, everything seemed new and exciting and shiny. I craved the days where I would get to say to someone, nonchalantly, of course, though I was jumping with excitement on the inside, “I live in Paris.”

After three months back in the South, Paris–and everything that goes along with it–seems so far away. Gone are days filled with minutes that were just for me. Gone are afternoons of walking around and discovering new things. Gone are early evenings of apéro and Le Grand Journal–the news program I slowly became addicted to over the last few months of being in Paris.

Normal, now, is dinner at nine on the terrace. Normal is buying enough potatoes to feed an army without blinking an eye. Normal is throwing ten or so packs of jambon cuit into the caddy at the supermarket–it doesn’t matter if we don’t have sandwiches planned on the menu… they’ll get eaten by someone eventually.

Normal is translating every five seconds what someone around me is saying into another language. Normal is trying to find ways to reword the French jeux de mots printed on the inside of Carambar wrappers, that French candy that gets devoured the minute I walk into the house with a pack.

Normal is running into the woman who runs a program for French teenagers in our tiny town while in line at the tinier supermarket. Normal is upping the count for dinner from 17 to 25 when we decide to have these guests over just a few hours before we plan to sit down to eat.

Normal is throwing several dozen sausages on the grill and preparing a few pounds of tomatoes for a salad.

Normal is selecting about seven cheeses for a cheese board, knowing everything would be gone by the end of the night.

I’m aware, somehow, that soon this will all seem faraway and hazy, in the same way that Paris has become. I know that once I’m back home in the States this August, Westhampton and driving everywhere and taking the New York City subway will be my new normal, and I know that that too will fade when I leave after just one short month for Spain. I know that this is the essence of the life that I have made for myself, and I know that normal, for me, will never be just one thing.

But for just a few weeks, I like to pretend that this is the way that my normal life will always be, that mornings of making French toast in bulk and evenings of serving up tart tarte au citron will always be a part of my day-to-day. I know that it’s a lie, but even for me–”tell me like it is, even if it hurts”–I’m going to tune out the whisper that tells me that I’m just kidding myself, have another glass of Muscat de Rivesaltes and hide behind the chirp of the cicadas for just a little longer.

Tomato Salad

6-8 on-the-vine tomatoes in various colors, vines reserved
1 spring onion, minced
2 cloves of garlic, pressed
3-4 Tbsp. olive oil
salt
1 tsp. dried basil

Cut the tomatoes into chunks and mix in a glass bowl with the onion, garlic, olive oil, a generous amount of salt and the basil. Add the vines and allow to marinate at least one hour outside the fridge. Remove the vines and toss before serving.


Tarte au Citron

4 large eggs, cold
1 1/4 cup sugar
1 cup fresh lemon juice
1 Tbps. fresh lemon zest
12 Tbsp. butter, cold
2 refrigerated pâtes brisée

Prebake the pie crusts in a 350 degree oven until just crisp, 5 minutes.

Whisk the eggs, sugar and zest together. Heat in a double boiler until the eggs begin to foam. Add the lemon juice, bit by bit, whisking constantly. When the mixture has the consistency of loose lemon curd, remove from the heat and mix in the butter.

Pour the filling into the crusts and heat under the broiler until just set. Refrigerate until ready to serve.

May 26, 2009

Rosé and Fruit Salad

Filed under: Side Dishes, Uncategorized — Tags: , , , — emiglia @ 10:55 am

I used to hate picnics.

I also used to hate lunch in general, but that’s neither here nor there.

My opposition to picnics didn’t have anything to do with the outdoor setting, the paper plates or the gooey marshmallow roasting, all of which would have usually been problematic for me. I was one of those super-neat kids (my mother–bless her heart–managed to have a family of four kids who actually liked being clean and were uncomfortable when other kids misbehaved in our general vicinity). However, when it came to picnics, I made an exception, and I was perfectly happy to eat in the grass with the rest of the kids. What bothered me was what was served: hot dogs (still won’t go near them), mayonnaisey potato salad, and the worst: that ubiquitous bowl of fruit salad.

I didn’t have a problem with fruit salad as a concept, not really. My mother made fruit plates all the time, and I devoured them without a problem. What bothered me, now that I think about it, was the mix of unseasonal foods in one big bowl: berries, grapes, citrus, apples, bananas… all those things had no business being put together, especially not with some sort of sauce that came from a canned intruder, and I wouldn’t eat it.

As I got older, I got less picky, and often fruit salad was the only healthy option available at this or that picnic or barbecue, and so I started to eat it. Not happily, but I’d eat it. Soon enough, I started to realize that there were certain combinations I liked: blueberries, raspberries and strawberries or grapefruit, oranges and tangerines. Things that went together made sense on my palate: it was the mix of unfriendly bedfellows that made my nose wrinkle.

So when I set about creating my own fruit salad, I knew that I would be mixing seasonal fruits together, fruits that naturally complemented each other, instead of grabbing a little bit of everything and putting it in a bowl. I mixed strawberries and peaches together: not too many varieties, but just enough. Since it’s a little bit early in the season, I added a bit of sugar, but you could just as easily leave that out. I also through in some rosé from the bottle we didn’t quite finish last night: Alex and I open a bottle of wine on most nights, but we usually have a few inches left at the bottom. Sometimes we finish it the following night, but more often than not, I cooked with it. This rosé, with its strawberry undertones, made the perfect acidic complement to the salad. If you don’t have any, feel free to use a bit of lemon or lime juice and an extra teaspoon of sugar.

This salad, with maybe a few blackberries or raspberries, will be my fallback fruit salad this summer… and next to one of those typical “everybody in the pool” salads, I think it will come out as the winner.

Rosé and Fruit Salad

400 g. (14 oz.) strawberries, hulled and quartered
3 small peaches, sliced in eighths
1 Tbsp. sugar
3 Tbsp. rosé wine
2-5 basil leaves, chiffonade, or 1 tsp. dried basil

Combine all the ingredients in a bowl, except for the basil, if using fresh. (If using dried, feel free to add it at the beginning.)

Allow the salad to sit for five minutes to let the flavors blend. Add the fresh basil just before serving.

May 18, 2009

Pork Chops with Spicy Pineapple Salsa

Filed under: Pork, Side Dishes — Tags: , , , , — emiglia @ 5:59 pm

When I was in elementary school, my biggest fear was the day that our gym teacher would inevitably annouce that we were running “the mile.”

Running “the mile” was something that every elementary school kid was required to do, I assume, but for me, it was terrifying. I had never been into sports: every once in awhile I would sign up for soccer or swimming or tennis as an after school activity, but I always preferred writing or art or acting, and so my brushes with all things athletic were few and far between. Worst of all for me, who was “a little bit pudgy” (aka, the fat kid), was to run the mile in Central Park, from the park entrance on 91st street to the Jackie Kennedy plaque and back. Most kids could do it in about seven minutes, but I always lagged behind with the asthma kids, clocking in at around fourteen or fifteen.

When I finally reached high school and was rid of the dreaded mile, I was sure I would never run again. Sure, until a few months in, when crew season was over, and I realized that I actually wanted to exert some energy and take a run. The day I picked was a typical midwinter Massachusetts day: cloudy with a chance of sleet and snow, the sidewalks a mess of slush and black ice. I donned several layers, including a New York Yankees beanie and a pair of mirrored sunglasses, and off I went into the afternoon, dressed as the unabomber.

My first few years of running were forced: I hated rolling out of bed early, hated the feeling of lactic acid burning my legs and the cold air burning my lungs. I hated days when I convinced myself not to run and hated days when I actually went out and did it. I ran sporadically throughout high school and the summer before my first year of college, but by the time the Toronto winters had invaded, even more overwhelming than those I had braved in Massachusetts, I locked myself firmly indoors, glad to be rid of a habit that I had forced myself to keep for the past few years.

It’s funny how things change. Funny how, after weeks of rain and hail and clouds, we were finally greeted with a warm and pleasant day here in Paris, pleasant enough to allow me and my friend Matt to walk all the way from the Vietnamese restaurant where we had dinner in the 19th back to my home in the 5th. Pleasant enough so that when the last few blocks were interrupted by yet another downpour, I was able to keep smiling. Pleasant enough so that tonight, just as the sun was setting–that magical time of evening that we call dusk and the French call crepuscule, a much better word in my opinion–I tied on my running shoes and set out for a journey around my neighborhood.

I started running again a few weeks ago, slowly, considering the fact that I just dislocated my knee for the second time in so many months. I found a program on the Cool Running website many moons ago called Couch-to-5K, a program made for “runners” like me who want to turn their 15-minute stroll into a real run. Sometimes it’s hard, but mostly I love it. I’ve come a long way from staying up at night, wondering if tomorrow would be the dreaded mile day to actually looking forward to my runs, my time alone with my neighborhood, my feet pounding the pavement and blood pounding in my ears. Today, I moved up a level, moved to an even harder run, and I loved the feeling of finishing it, of catching my breath, of feeling what my body could accomplish after just a few short weeks.

Things change. The weather, our feelings, our dreams. Even our tastes. There was a time I never would have mixed sweet and salty, and there was a time I never would have eaten warm fruit. But I tasted that feta and watermelon salad, fresh and cool one summer, and I put a forkful of blueberry cobbler into my mouth and fell head over heels. You never know unless you try, sometimes again and again, how easy it is to fall in love.

Pork Chops with Spicy Pineapple Salsa (adapted from Bon Appétit)

1 can pineapple in chunks
1 tsp. powdered ginger
1 jalapeño pepper, halved
1-2 dried cayenne peppers
1 tsp. cumin
3/4 cup (or more) water
2 teaspoons white wine vinegar
2 boneless pork loin chops, trimmed
1 large egg
1/2 cup breadcrumbs (I used the extra-crunchy ones from the grocery store, but you can also use panko)
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup flour
1 tablespoon canola oil
cilantro (optional)

Heat the pineapple, jalapeño, cayenne, cumin, water and vinegar over medium heat until bubbles form. Reduce to low and simmer, stirring occasionally, while you prepare the pork chops.

Pound the pork chops between two sheets of plastic wrap until thin and even. Heat the canola oil over medium-high heat in a skillet.

Lay out three bowls: in one, place the flour, in another, the egg, beaten with a bit of water and the salt, and in another, the breadcrumbs. Dredge the pork chops first in the flour, then in the egg mixture, shaking off the excess, and lastly in the breadcrumbs. Fry the pork chops in the oil on both sides until crispy, about 1-2 minutes per side. Serve with the salsa, and garnish with the cilantro.

Note: The salsa, prepared this way, is quite spicy. I like it, but it may be too much for some. If you don’t like a lot of heat, remove the seeds from the jalapeño or only use half.

May 6, 2009

German Food

Filed under: Pork, Side Dishes — Tags: , , , , , — emiglia @ 8:48 am

When I was growing up, dinners were usually pretty similar. Most nights, we had chicken: either breaded chicken cutlets or a roast chicken. As a side, we had pasta with tomato sauce or roasted or mashed potatoes. There was always a vegetable: usually broccoli or green beans that had been boiled or steamed and then buttered. It was good food and it was well-made, but it didn’t vary very often.

Every once in awhile, though, we would have something a little different: paella was a summer favorite, as was fish like salmon or swordfish. Sometimes we had breakfast for dinner (a favorite amongst us kids) or lasagna or spaghetti and meatballs. One of the special meals we sometimes had was a little bit of a sore spot: I loved when my mom would make “German food,” but my sister absolutely hated it.

“German food” consisted of pork chops, cucumber salad, red cabbage and cornbread. I never touched the red cabbage, but everything else ranked high in my book: the cornbread may have come from a blue box, but the combination of the vinegar from the salad, the pork and the cornbread dipped in the sauces was amazing.

Unfortunately for me, my little sister went though a phase where she wanted a pet pig–she would actually peer at every box delivered to the house, hoping it was “my pig”–and so when she realized that pork chops were, in fact, pig, she refused to eat them, and German food stopped appearing on the menu.

That’s the only way I was ever served pork chops growing up, and so I don’t usually buy them at the supermarket. Every once in awhile, though, I am drawn to the huge, orange “5-euro” sticker on the packs of six that my market always has on sale, and so I pick one up and make three meals out of it.

I’ve never made “German food” myself: we don’t have instant cornbread or red cabbage in a jar, and it had never occurred to me to make those things myself. This week, however, was one of the weeks that I picked up some pork chops, and so I sent my aunt an e-mail, and the rest is history.

This is one of the only meals that comes out tasting the way I remember it, and, oddly enough, I think that it’s because I don’t make it the same way my mom did. When I copy her recipes as written, I always feel as though they’re missing something. But when I riff off something I remember, trying to put it together based on what I know works in the kitchen, I end up with something just as special as those dishes my mom made for me so many years ago.

This meal ends up being fairly sweet: the applesauce is my own addition–I love the way that it goes with pork–but it makes the ratio of sweet to savory pretty high. If you’re serving enough people to warrant actually making a fifth dish for the table, I would recommend making some cornbread (Hint: Fry up some lardons and use the grease instead of butter in the cornbread) to have another savory dish to mix with the two sweet ones. We just had bread though, which is a perfectly suitable vehicle for mopping up the juices of sweet and sour cabbage, acidic cider vinegar and spicy mustard.

Please, don’t be nervous about the fact that there are four dishes in this meal! They all really take care of themselves, and the most difficult thing to do is chop all that cabbage (and get the purple stains out of your cutting board).

This is my entry for Family Recipes: Memories of Family, Food and Fun. This foodie event asks us to delve into our memories about family and food, something that many of you already write about daily! If you’d like to add your recipe to the round-up, you have until May 23rd.

Mustard-Rosemary Pork Chops

2 pork boneless pork chops
1 cup milk
1 branch fresh rosemary
1 tbsp. spicy French mustard
1 tsp. cider vinegar
1 tsp. vegetable oil
salt and pepper

Place the pork chops in a bowl and cover with the milk. Add the rosemary and cover with plastic. Marinate for 1-2 hours in the refrigerator, turning at least once.

When you’re ready to cook the chops, heat the oil over medium heat in a skillet. Remove the chops from the marinade, allowing the excess to drip off. Salt and pepper the chops. Combine the vinegar and mustard in a small bowl, and brush the chops on either side with the mixture.

Fry the chops over medium heat until completely cooked through, about 3-4 minutes per side.

Anne’s Sweet and Sour Red Cabbage

1 tsp. olive oil
1 tbsp. butter
1 large yellow onion, sliced thinly
1 small head red cabbage, cored, cut into eighths and thinly sliced crosswise
2/3 c dark brown sugar
1/2 c red wine vinegar (I used cider vinegar)
One cooking apple, peeled and cut into dice
salt and pepper

In a skillet, heat oil and butter over medium heat. Add the onion and a pinch of salt and cook, stirring frequently, until soft and lightly colored, about 5 minutes.

Add the cabbage and cook, stirring regularly, until just wilted, about 8 minutes. Add apple, vinegar and sugar, and cook until the cabbage is soft but still has a bit of a crunch to it, about 20 minutes (Note: My aunt’s recipe notes 8-10 minutes of final cooking time, so check and see if you would like to cook it as long as I did.)

Season with salt and pepper, and adjust the acidity or sweetness with vinegar or sugar.

Applesauce

Note: This is not a very sweet applesauce, seeing as it’s made to be served with savory foods. If you want to make applesauce as a dessert, consider adding a bit more sugar.

8 small apples
1/4 cup water, plus more as needed
1-2 tbsp. sugar, depending on the sweetness of your apples
1 tbsp. apple cider vinegar
1 tsp. Quatre Epices (if you don’t have this spice blend, use equal proportions of nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves and black pepper)

Core and peel the apples and roughly chop them. Place them into a saucepan with the water, sugar, vinegar and spices. Heat over medium heat until the liquid boils, and then cover and reduce the heat.

Add more water as needed until the apples are cooked through and easily mushed with the back of a spoon, about 20 minutes. Mix the apples until the mixture is saucy but still has a few chunks of apple.

German Cucumber Salad

1 English cucumbers
1 tbs salt
2 tbs sugar
1/4 cup cider vinegar
1 tsp. olive oil
1 tsp. black pepper

Using the slicer portion of a box grater, slice the cucumbers. Drain any liquid that accumulates as you slice. Add the salt, sugar, vinegar, oil and pepper to the cucumbers. Allow to sit, outside the fridge, for at least thirty minutes, tossing occasionally. The longer this sits, the better it is.

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