tomato_kumato

We didn’t always eat salad in my house. I don’t remember when the bowl of greens dressed in a simple vinaigrette first made an appearance… my mother seems to think she always made it, but I know better. I remember not liking salad at all, but then at some point, hot veggies started being replaced or accompanied by a huge salad in a glass bowl, greens, oil, vinegar, mustard, salt, pepper. My sister and I started eating salad all the time. My brother still doesn’t like it.

***

I went to a boarding high school, where we ate cafeteria food three meals a day. The bread was stale. The soup was salty. I used to eat five or six oranges a day because the fresh fruit was usually good. My friends used to make fun of my tendencies to pick one item of produce and stick to it for every meal for a few weeks, until I couldn’t bear it anymore. Bowls of tiny cherry tomatoes. Plates of apples sliced with peanut butter. Sticky rice with soy sauce. Spinach nuked in the microwave and covered with salt and black pepper. Romaine lettuce with feta and balsamic vinaigrette.

***

When I went to France for the first time, I lived with a host family in the north. On Wednesdays, we ate lunch at home. Usually chicken nuggets with mashed potatoes that came from a box. And salad. Endive and apples with cider vinaigrette. Beets and goats cheese. Carottes rapees. Grated celery root with mayonnaise.

***

In college, I got my first kitchen. In the beginning, I reveled in being able to cook for myself. After awhile though, I hated trudging down to the 24-hour Dominion to buy food. I would buy huge heads of lettuce and a few wedges of cheese and assemble 4, 5, 6 salads a day. I accumulated a stack of bowls at my desk, still slick with oil from the homemade vinaigrette my grandmother taught me to make. I would work all night and go to bed at sunrise, having eaten salad while the sky was still dark.

***

The Canadian is gone. He’s gone to Spain, then to Argentina. I’ll see him again in a few months, but I don’t have the heart to cook anything anymore. When he was here, I never had to think about being hungry–he was always hungry first. He had a “hungry noise,” a low-pitched whine like a puppy, and then he would make a sad face. What do you want? The answers varied, but there were only a few options. Chili. Eggs and potatoes. Tuna casserole-ish. Pasta with pesto. Pasta with sausage. Pâté and cheese. I rolled my eyes when I went into the kitchen, but the truth was, I loved when he asked me to make him things. Especially when he stared at me after cleaning his bowl, hoping there were seconds. There always were. I know how to feed the Canadian.

I’m back on salads now. I didn’t eat too many when the Canadian was here… Whenever I tried to make some to get some vitamins, he looked at me like I was a little crazy, and besides, why make salad when I’m already making something else for him? But now I don’t have the will to cook for one, so I assemble. Endive and beets. Romaine and parmesan. Frisée and brie. I’ll be home in a few days, where I’m expected to contribute gratin dauphinoise and sambusik cookies to the Christmas meal. Until then, I’m slicing apples on top of lettuce and calling it dinner.

I was not raised in a typical American household. My mother is a trained cook, and while she never went professional, her ability to replicate restaurant dishes from one taste is frankly uncanny. As such, I was raised with a revolving door of meal options for dinner. An invitation to my table was always coveted by my friends, where they could come and watch my Jackie O. mother: jet black bouffant, huge dark sunglasses, brick red lipstick, black ballet flats before they were cool, French scarves arranged just so. She looked about twenty-five. She still claims to be, which will be awkward when I become older than her in less than five years.

When I watch those cooking shows like Sandra Lee or that woman who makes five meals out of three ingredients, I’m frankly confused. My mother ran schedules for four children (five, if you, like my mother, count my father as one) and still managed to get a gourmet dinner on the table every evening. I don’t quite get those microwavable meals: we used to get Birds Eye green beans and spaetzle in pesto, but only because my father and I whined and complained until she bought it. She makes her own creamed onions. A woman who makes her own creamed onions is not ever going to make you eat Manwich, Hamburger Helper, Rice-a-Roni, or tuna casserole.

The only casserole I’ve ever had is lasagna, which I don’t really count as a casserole anyway, because it’s lasagna. So you can imagine my surprise when the Canadian, hungry one afternoon when I had already put away a delicious panini, asked for tuna casserole.

OK, to be fair, he didn’t actually pronounce those words. What he asked for was pasta with “maybe some tuna, mayo and cheese.” I looked at him like he was insane until he validated his request by saying that it was “tuna-casserole-ish,” which didn’t really validate it at all in my mind. I was still standing there asking myself how the boy who wanted his last meal on earth to be a seared ahi-tuna steak could possibly be sitting on my couch in shorts and a bucket hat from Mallorca asking me to make him tuna casserole.

But I was up for the challenge. Into the kitchen I went, trying to think how in the world I was going to pull off something that actually tasted good.

First of all, I didn’t have any mayonnaise. At home, we always have Hellman’s, but I only eat it on turkey sandwiches, and the French aren’t too keen on turkey sandwiches (they eat a lot of ham), so I have mustard as a standard, and no mayo. No problem, I’ll just borrow from carbonara and mix some egg yolk with olive oil to make a barely cooked sauce at the end. Now the problem was cheese: he didn’t want a cheese sauce, he wanted the cheese melted in. But cheese melted in always gets all globby and nasty and I wouldn’t stand for that. So I grated the parmesan into the egg and oil mixture and mixed it around. When the pasta came out, I started adding the egg mixture, stirring and watching as it became a thick, creamy sauce (I always think that’s like magic, no matter how many times I do it). Newly confident, I added the tuna and some black pepper and gave it a taste.

The verdict? Tuna casserole is weird. The Canadian is weird. But he liked it: he even asked me to make it again a few days ago, which is good, because the first time I was so bewildered that I forgot to take a picture, and I wasn’t able to share this very interesting bit of Americana with you. So there you have it: a recipe for Tuna Casserole-ish. If you grew up with tuna casserole, like the Canadian, you might like it. As for me, I’m going to stick with the ahi… the whole cheese and tuna thing just isn’t doing it for me.

Tuna Casserole-ish

Cook enough pasta for two people (or one Canadian) in a large pot of salted water. I like rigatoni or even penne. While the pasta is cooking, combine one egg yolk with about a tablespoon (maybe two) of good olive oil, pepper, and a couple of tablespoons of grated parmesan cheese (to taste). When the pasta is cooked, drain it, reserving a little bit of the pasta water. Turn off the heat and return the pasta to the pot. Using your wooden spoon, add a little bit of the egg, oil, cheese mixture at a time, stirring to combine and making sure that the egg doesn’t curdle. The sauce should thicken to a creamy consistency. When all of the sauce is added, break in one small can of tuna with a fork. Mix to combine. If the sauce seems too thick, you can thin it out with some of the pasta water. Serve with extra cheese on the side. Serves two normal people or one very hungry Canadian.

More than any other time of year, I feel like winter screams for a certain kind of food, and that food is made in a deep stock pot. Winter is soup time. The Canadian noticed about as soon as I did. As I was boiling the leftover turkey bones in a pot for stock, he looked over, lifted his eyebrows in his Canadian way, and asked,

“Soup?”

“No… stock.”

“What?”

“Stock. I boil the bones to make stock. It’s a soup base.”

“Does this mean I will eventually be able to eat soup?”

“Yes.”

And he was. A few days later, I took out my stock and decided to make a pot of minestrone, one of my favorite soups. I would have gone with the typical chicken noodle, but the Canadian likes tomato, mushroom and vegetable soups, so I figured minestrone was a good compromise.

A few days later, Britney and I decided we weren’t quite done with the soup thing (plus we’ve both become obsessed with gridskipper.com, and an article a couple of weeks ago touted the local soup bars). We decided to go to Bar à Soupes in the 11th, near Bastille. We showed up at nine, so a few of the soups had run out, but we had the choice of a soup de marché (a vegetable soup), tomato-ginger, carrot-coriander, celery-bleu d’Auvergne, and split pea. As we were trying to decide, the lady behind the bar (literally, Soup Bar is just a bar with soups, salads and desserts and a few tables), let us know that there was a 6.50 option where you could sample three small soups with a roll… perfect for me and Britney who can’t make decisions.

Britney decided on vegetable, split pea and tomato-ginger. I went for tomato-ginger, carrot-coriander and celery-bleu d’Auvergne, which is strange, because I don’t like celery in general, but I couldn’t look away from the pale green, velvety soup. In the end, this one ended up being my favorite: it tasted less like celery than like an amalgamation of fresh vegetables with the definite tang and creaminess of blue cheese. Britney liked the split pea, so I guess the creamy soups were the winners. The other soups were good as well, tasting fresh and of their essential ingredients. We finished by splitting a piece of warm and melty chocolate cake. It seems that others have come to appreciate it as well: as we left around ten, two more groups had come in to sit and eat.

Minestrone (adapted from Gourmet, March 1993)

rind of parmesan cheese

1 28-oz. can of white beans
1/4 pound pancetta
1/3 cup olive oil
1 onion, chopped
1 large carrot, cut into half-moons
1 rib of celery, cut into 1/2-inch dice
3 garlic cloves, chopped fine
2 zucchini, scrubbed and cut into half-moons
4 cups shredded green cabbage (preferably Savoy)
a 28-ounce can tomatoes, chopped coarse, with juice
4 1/2 cups chicken stock

1 cup small pasta
salt, pepper, dried basil

In a heavy kettle cook the pancetta in the oil over moderate heat, stirring, until it is crisp and pale golden. Remove and add the onion, and cook until the onion is softened. Add the carrots, the celery, and the garlic and cook the mixture, stirring, for 4 minutes. Add the zucchini and cook the mixture, stirring, for 4 minutes. Add the cabbage and cook until the cabbage is wilted. Add the tomatoes, parmesan rind and the broth and simmer the soup, covered, for 1 hour. Stir the white beans into the soup. Simmer the soup, uncovered, for 15 minutes, and season it with salt, pepper and basil. Add the pasta and simmer until cooked. Add the pancetta and serve. The soup may be made 3 days in advance and kept covered and chilled. Reheat the soup, thinning it with water as desired.

When I first learned how to cook (that is, cook things besides Kraft Dinner, omelettes and grilled cheese) more than three years ago, one of the first things I learned how to make was tomato sauce. The second was lasagna. What are you going to do with a vat of tomato sauce when you’re just one person?

My mother taught me, as she teaches everything, by speaking, not by showing or writing down, and so I would repeat the instructions to myself nervously as I made my lasagna.

It worked out well. It definitely wasn’t my mother’s, but I was able to feed my friends, and when I finally moved from Toronto to Paris, it was one of the two recipes (along with my guacamole) that my friend Mel asked me for. Well, I have yet to give her the recipe, because I teach by showing, but when I do, it’s not going to be the one I made three years ago.

I’m sorry, Mommy. But to be fair, it was never the same when I made it, and this one comes so much closer to the saucy, crispy around the edges, cheesy, flavorful lasagna that I remember you serving us when we were kids. And I did get it from an Italian… that has to count for something, right?

This lasagna comes from the one and only Little Big Head (Giada de Laurentiis), whom I have hardly ever trusted with anything culinary. I guess she couldn’t have been all wrong… it does take some talent to make your hair stand up that high and to say decadent at a rate of about once every hundred words, but Giada, I’ve made fun of you for too long, and I’m sorry. You’ve proven me wrong with this lasagna, so now I’m sharing it with the world in hopes of redeeming myself.

Classic Italian Lasagna (courtesy of foodnetwork.com)

Bechamel Sauce:
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus 2 tablespoons for the lasagna
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
4 cups whole milk at room temperature
Pinch freshly grated nutmeg
1 1/2 cups tomato sauce
Salt and white pepper1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 pound ground chuck beef
Salt and pepper
1 1/2 pounds ricotta cheese
3 large eggs
1 pound lasagna sheets, cooked al dente
2 packages (10 ounces each) frozen chopped spinach, thawed and squeezed dry
3 cups shredded mozzarella
1/4 cup freshly grated Parmesan

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.Bechamel sauce:
In a 2-quart pot, melt 5 tablespoons of butter over medium heat. When butter has completely melted, add the flour and whisk until smooth, about 2 minutes. Gradually add the milk, whisking constantly to prevent any lumps from forming. Continue to simmer and whisk over medium heat until the sauce is thick, smooth and creamy, about 10 minutes. The sauce should be thick enough to coat the back of wooden spoon. Remove from heat and add the nutmeg and tomato sauce. Stir until well combined and check for seasoning. Set aside and allow to cool completely.

In a saute pan, heat extra-virgin olive oil. When almost smoking, add the ground beef and season with salt and pepper. Brown meat, breaking any large lumps, until it is no longer pink. Remove from heat and drain any excess fat. Set aside and allow to cool completely.

In a medium sized bowl, thoroughly mix the ricotta and eggs. Season with salt and pepper. Set aside.

Into the bottom of a 13 by 9-inch baking dish, spread 1/3 of the bechamel sauce. Arrange the pasta sheets side by side, covering the bottom of the baking dish. Evenly spread a layer of all the ricotta mixture and then a layer of all the spinach. Arrange another layer of pasta sheets and spread all the ground beef on top. Sprinkle 1/2 the mozzarella cheese on top of the beef. Spread another 1/3 of the bechamel sauce. Arrange the final layer of pasta sheets and top with remaining bechamel, mozzarella and Parmesan cheeses. Cut the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter into 1/4-inch cubes and top lasagna.

Line a large baking sheet with aluminum foil. Place lasagna dish on top, cover and put on the middle rack of the oven and bake until top is bubbling, about 30 minutes. Remove cover and continue to bake for about 15 minutes.

This keeps well, just reheat it in the oven (or microwave for just one serving). It tastes even better the next day. Serve with extra tomato sauce and parmesan on the side.

I’ve been being a student recently, and thus have had very little time to post. But I haven’t forgotten about you, dear reader! Here’s a recipe for a pasta dish I made last week. I just took some merguez sausages out of their casings and cooked them until brown, cooked a diced onion in the fat from the pork, added some tomato paste and some homemade marinara sauce, the pork, and a little touch of crème fraiche. It was a quick and easy dinner for two, and we both loved it, especially with a little extra cheese sprinkled on top (him) and some cayenne pepper (me).

Don’t hate me… I’ll be back tomorrow with the lasagna recipe that *gasp* blew my tried and true family recipe out of the water!

I know… I know. I’ve been bad. It isn’t even that I haven’t been cooking! I have tons of recipes to share, plus I just got back from England, where I ate at some awesome places. Nope… I just sometimes forget that I’m a student until I suddenly have to be one nonstop for several days. But my paper on Atlas Shrugged has been turned in, so I’m back and ready to tell you about Thanksgiving, yesterday.

Yes… I said yesterday. And yes, I’m well aware that Thanksgiving is actually today. But you see, back to the student thing, my partner in crime, Britney Spears (see Halloween post), was leaving for Madrid on a school trip early this morning, so we decided to have it one day early. I sent out invitations, but because of the strike, we were only able to attract three of the six who RSVPed… and they were all boys. Hmm…

I woke up at 9:00 yesterday to start work. The Canadian slept and shouted what he thought were helpful comments from the living room. He also watched in awe as Britney rolled out a pie crust. “I’ve never been behind the scenes before…”

The menu was as follows…

Roast Turkey Legs
Stuffing
Pumpkin Tarte Tatin
Whole Cranberry Sauce with Orange
Green beans with scallions
Sweet Potato Hash
Mashed Potatoes
Gratin Dauphinoise
Buttermilk Corn Bread
Tarte Tatin
Spiced Pumpkin Pie with Tender Pie Crust

Get ready… this is going to be a long post.

Ok, first of all, the turkey. I couldn’t roast a whole turkey in my dinky little oven, and even though some of the local shops were offering to sell whole roast turkeys, I wanted to do everything myself (not even a frozen pie crust around here). I went with turkey thighs, and I bought four of them. In the end, this was too much: as the Canadian said and Emese agreed, no one really cares about the turkey. It has to be there, in case you want to take a little slice and place it decoratively on your plate, but really, it doesn’t matter.

Well, good. Because I followed my mother’s advice and cooked them for an hour, (rubbed them first with some butter, sage, salt and pepper) but they were still pink inside, so I threw them back in after I had reheated everything else, and the turkey made an appearance on the table during second helpings of everything else. As Emese said, the potatoes are what are important.

Or, if you’re the Canadian, the stuffing. And no, stuffing does not come out of a box here. I called my mother and asked for a recipe, but she infuriatingly gave her “until it’s wet enough… enough to cover the bottom of the pan” directions, so I turned to Ree. To be fair, Mommy, her recipe was pretty much the same as yours… it was just easier to follow. And the stuffing was really, really good. I was going to only make one pan when there were going to be nine of us, but the Canadian thought that was ludicrous, so I made two. We finished one, but there were only six of us, so I suppose he was right.

I tried another new thing, the Pumpkin Tarte Tatin from the Wednesday Chef. I didn’t invert it, because I’m lazy, but it was delicious. I told Britney that I was going to attempt it, but that I wasn’t sure it would work out. She said, “Pumpkin and cheese? How can you go wrong?” Then I told her there was pastry and cream involved. Nuff said.
Cranberry sauce used to be the one thing on the table I sort of ignored. (Actually, make that one of two things. And I still ignore creamed pearl onions, so they didn’t make it onto my table. Sorry, Mommy). But I grew to love it, and now I can’t live without the tangy sweetness. I got my recipe from Finding La Dolce Vita, and it was perfect. As I watched the cranberries floating in the orange juice, I was a little bit skeptical, but then all of a sudden, without warning, it was cranberry sauce. I couldn’t tell you how it happened, but it was gorgeous on the table, and it’s almost gone! (I saved a little to have with my leftovers… Shh…)

Britney told me I didn’t need to have vegetables at Thanksgiving, but I ignored her. Yes, I didn’t make roasted brussels sprouts with pancetta and pistachios… possibly my favorite veggie on the Thanksgiving table, because I know that people are prejudiced against them and will never love them the way I do (*cough*theCanadian*cough*), but my Mommy promised to make them for me at Christmas, even though they’re usually a Thanksgiving fare, so I moved on and went with green beans. Guess what? They’re almost gone. For this, I can only thank Mommy… I used her recipe. You slow cook finely sliced shallots in some olive oil and butter, blanch the green beans (I boil water in my electric kettle, pour it over the beans, and dump it out almost immediately, right after they turn green. Then run them under ice water. You want them to still have some snap.), and then dump them into the pan with the shallots until ready to serve. Just turn the heat up, add a little more oil if you need it, and toss until heated through. So easy… and everyone ate their greens. My god, I am my mother.

We needed sweet potatoes, but I was running out of space in my oven. I made everything ahead of time, but it was all going to have to be reheated, and I’ve never much liked that marshmallow yam thing anyway, so I decided to try an epicurious recipe for Sweet Potato Hash. Because I was making it last minute, it turned into more of a Sweet Potato Mash (haha… rhyming. I’m so clever.), but it was delicious anyway. I also was having a slight problem with my brown sugar… I paid an exorbitant amount for it at the American store, only to learn that it was stale and hard as a rock. I sprinkled it with water and microwaved it, so some of it melted, leaving massive craters, and I was able to make small brown sugar pebbles when I attacked it with a fork. I used the smaller pebbles for pumpkin pie (which turned out creamy and delicious, than you), so I was left with larger pebbles for my potatoes. Thus, I had some trouble getting it to caramelize the potatoes and was happy enough to get it to melt. They were delicious and creamy and there’s very little left, but I’m thinking about saving them and eating them cold tonight.

Kudos to those who are still here. Mashed potatoes are mashed potatoes. I made a huge pot and threw some crème fraiche, heavy cream, butter and milk. They were a little wanting for salt, but there’s not much left, so I guess people were happy with them.

Gratin Dauphinoise is always the most popular dish for Thanksgiving at home. It’s my recipe, and I won’t give it to my mom, because I don’t want her making them without me. I usually make them at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and my aunt refuses to come to our house unless I promise they’ll be on the table. You slice potatoes reeeaaaalllly thin, put a layer in a greased baking pan, top with salt, pepper and nutmeg, and then a layer of grated gruyère cheese. You keep going with these layers, but only peppering the potatoes, no salt or nutmeg, until the last layer. Before putting the last bit of spice and cheese, you mix a cup of cream and a cup of milk and scald it, temper one egg and add it, and pour the mixture all over the gratin. Then add the spice (salt, pepper and nutmeg this time) and a layer of cheese. It’s amazing. I’m currently eating it for breakfast.

Emese made the cornbread from a recipe we got off epicurious. I don’t recommend it, so I won’t post it. It was fine and all, but not nearly moist enough. Emese and I ate quite a bit of it when we were in the picking stages after thirds or fourths, when you don’t want to refill your plate again. I suppose it helped that we were the two who were eating on the floor, right next to the table.

The tarte tatin was the same one I’ve posted about before. Same deliciousness. I won’t go on, as my fingers are starting to hurt and my gratin is getting cold. The pumpkin pie was delicious. It’s almost gone, and everyone was complaining that they didn’t have room for pie. That’s ridiculous. Who doesn’t have room for pie. Now if you’ll excuse me, there are some potatoes calling me. Happy Thanksgiving!

The Canadian just woke up from his nap and told me he could smell pie.

Me: A whole pie, or a slice of pie on a plate?

The Canadian: A whole pie.

He just at the rest of the pie in bed. I have photo evidence.

Place baking sheet in oven and preheat to 450°F. Whisk 2/3 cup golden brown sugar, 1/2 cup sugar, 2 tablespoons flour, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoon cinnamon, 1 teaspoon quatre épices, and 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg in large bowl to blend. Whisk in 1 1/2 cups canned pumpkin and 4 eggs, then 1 cup of heavy cream. Pour mixture into crust. (I used a homemade butter crust.)
Place pie on preheated baking sheet in oven. Bake 10 minutes. Reduce heat to 325°F and bake until sides puff and center is just set, about 40 minutes. Cool. Serve at room temperature.

Sometimes, you just need something hot and delicious.

I made myself rice pudding on one of those days recently, and of course, when I told my friend, she laughed at me. Aren’t those the days when you just grab the jar of Nutella and go to town on it with a spoon?

I suppose… maybe. Anyone who knows me well knows I’m not a huge fan of chocolate. Besides… I love idly stirring as something as wonderful as rice pudding comes together (which anyone who knows how to make risotto can make: it’s another one of those “add liquid and stir ’til it looks right recipes.) Just melt 2 parts butter to 1 part sugar in a saucepan. Add 4 parts arborio rice, and toast in the butter. And then, it’s stirring time: add warm milk flavored with vanilla by the ladleful until it’s is creamy and delicious, with toothsome grains and a thick, white pudding. Stir a little more butter in, and maybe some cinnamon, and that’s it: you have your snack.

Now I’m not saying there aren’t days for the Nutella pot, but there are also definitely days for hot, delicious (wow… almost went Giada there and said decadent… now you know how good this stuff is) rice pudding.

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.

What is it about fried eggs? They’re like a completely different animal from scrambled eggs or omelettes. There’s something about the barely cooked yolk breaking all over whatever else is on your plate that’s so satisfying.

When I was younger, my father used to mesmerize me by pretending the yolks of his fried eggs were eyes, and he would poke them and scream as I watched in disgusted admiration, standing by my old scrambled eggs, just this side of dry.

I’ve seen the error of my ways: even my scrambled eggs are barely cooked now. But my favorite? Fried, with some sort of starch to soak up the yolk. For my father, it was a fork-split English muffin, and I’ll go the Thomas’ route every once in awhile, but the best option is my mother’s home fries. She used to fry them up on random winter mornings before school: one onion for every potato, and one potato for every person. Fried the onions soft in olive oil and butter, adding the starchy potatoes, paprika for color, and salt and pepper. She’d wait until they stuck to the bottom with all the starch and sugar before flipping them, so every potato developed a dark, sweet crust. I made myself some of these potatoes, and then just as they finished, I moved them aside and fried my egg right alongside. When the yolk broke as I plated, I didn’t even mind.

I’m not terribly impressed with the picture… but there was no way I couldn’t blog about this. This is the chili to end all chilis. I don’t know if I’ll ever need to make another chili again. Well… scratch that. I know I want to make another chili, but I don’t think the Canadian would stand for it. When I made this for him last week, he turned to me and said: “I think this is the best chili I’ve ever had.” He claimed he wasn’t even hungry before I brought it out, but he ended up having two servings that night and finishing the leftovers the following afternoon. Are you ready for it yet?

As usual, the original recipe for Beef and Dark Beer Chili, which I found on epicurious, needed some tweaking. Funnily enough, Jen over at Life’s Too Short to Eat Fat Free Cheese had tried the recipe just a day before I had intended to. I was a little worried, because she didn’t seem impressed, but I went along with my plan, changing the following aspects of the recipe:

1. I used double the jalapeño, but no chipotle chili.

2. I doubled the tomatoes asked for in the recipe, and I used whole canned tomatoes with juice.

3. I added a few tablespoons of tomato paste.

4. I added a lot more beer (Guinness)… about double.

5. Instead of sautéing the veggies in olive oil, I just drained most of the beef fat and fried them in that.

The end result was a lot saucier than the recipe called for, and it was quite spicy, but I served it with sour cream and grated cheese. My policy for chili making is to taste as I go… I cooked this chili for almost two hours, and I checked it every time I stirred, adding more spice and liquid as I saw fit. In the end, it paid off, and the Canadian loved it.