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.

CIMG2666

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.

CIMG2668

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.

IMG_3180

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.

IMG_3186

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.

IMG_7355 (Modified)

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

April 13, 2010

On a scale of one to ten…

Filed under: Pasta, Vegetarian Main Dishes — Tags: , , , — emiglia @ 1:48 pm

Growing up, this was my father’s favorite phrase.

“On a scale of one to ten, how do you think you did on that test?”

“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate this pizza over Patsy’s?”

“On a scale of one to ten, where does this camp rate? How about the one from last year?”

I abhor that phrase so much that, when I dislocated my shoulder skating in high school and the nurse asked me how much it hurt, “on a scale of one to ten,” I almost punched her with my good arm.

“I don’t know!” I wailed. “It hurts!”

I’m not good with numbers–I never have been. There’s something to be said for the belief that your brain works in a certain way, making some things come easily–languages, writing, spelling in my case–and other things nearly impossible, like physics. (Izzy, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry for having physics-related meltdowns in your room nearly every night between 2003 and 2004.)

The point is, a scale like “one to ten” works well for my father, who has made his life revolve around numbers, working in finance for the past twenty years. As for me, the one who tried to send my first “novel”–21 typed pages of teen romance and drama closely modeled after the Alice books I’d just finished reading–to the address on the back of one of my Yearling Paperbacks, I can say unequivocally that a scale that revolves around words is much more useful for me.

For example… how much do I miss Paris? So much that, while watching Chansons d’amour on DVD late last night, I started crying when I recognized the cinema they went to. I sobbed when they pronounced the Chateau d’Eau metro stop. I craved the huge windows that pull in like French doors and close only with insistence and urging, windows that people open and smoke beside with an ashtray balanced on the rail, because everyone in Paris has an ashtray. Hell, when one of the characters shouted up to be let into a building and the other responded with a door code, I missed that.

I missed my door code.

I don’t know where that hits on a scale “of one to ten,” but I’d say it’s a lot.

Today, when going through pictures for my blog, I realized that my cache of Paris pictures is nearly empty. I have a handful left from the jardins de Luxembourg, a few from the parc Buttes-Chaumont and some from the Cite des Arts. There are a handful of the chateau in Chartres as well, but that’s not Paris. Not really–although at this point, it’s close enough. I’m nearly scared to post them–some is better than none.

I rode the New York subway yesterday reading a pilfered copy of The World According to Garp in French that I found on the bookshelf of my rented apartment years ago, and if I stared hard enough at the pages, if I held my breath to not smell the relative cleanliness of the New York subway and pretended I could smell that disgusting mix of stale urine and staler cigarettes, it was almost as though I were back.

I could remember jumping on the train to get back to my old market, the one in the 15th where, last year, I bought endive and ate them in the metro stop at La Motte Piquet-Grenelle. I bought bunches of asparagus with dirt still on them–last year, I mixed them with pasta and pesto. Last night, I picked some up at the Food Emporium, and my sister and I ate them roasted, slurping the skinny ones up like spaghetti. It wasn’t the same.

How much do I miss Paris, “on a scale of one to ten?”

Eleven.

Pasta with Pesto and Asparagus
1 lb. spring asparagus, the tough ends trimmed, cut in thirds
1 tsp. olive oil
2 cups dry pasta
3 Tbsp. pesto

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Toss the asparagus and olive oil together, and lay flat on a baking tray. Roast 15-20 minutes, until the tips of the asparagus are charred.

Meanwhile, bring a pot of salted water to a boil and cook the pasta until al dente. Drain the pasta, reserving some of the cooking water, and toss with the pesto, adding water if needed to thin the sauce. Add the asparagus. Eat on your Parisian balcony with a glass of white wine.



Roasted Asparagus
1 lb. spring asparagus, the tough ends trimmed
1 tsp. olive oil
1 hefty pinch salt
freshly ground black pepper

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Toss the asparagus, olive oil and salt together, and lay flat on a baking tray. Roast 15-20 minutes, until the tips of the asparagus are charred. Season with black pepper and eat hot with your fingers.


April 8, 2010

Ceci n’est pas un bol de pâtes…

Filed under: Pasta, Vegetarian Main Dishes — Tags: , , , , , — emiglia @ 11:47 am

For those of you who have forgotten your French/took Spanish/don’t know about the juxtapositional Magritte painting, what I’ve written above translates to, “This is not a bowl of pasta.”

And it’s not. So I’ve ripped off a brilliant French artist, but not without due cause: Magritte philosophized through his famous painting–a painting of a pipe with the words “Ceci n’est pas une pipe” painted below it. He explained that there was an emotional lack in the pipe painting, which, of course, was not an actual pipe: “Try and put tobacco in it,” he suggested to illustrate his point.

This emotional lack, however, does not exist in the “pasta” I made (though some may exist through the photograph, which implies pasta but does not follow through. Tease.) The dish I made, complete with a simple tomato sauce of onion, basil and Pomi, was served, not atop al dente spaghetti, as we are so accustomed to in this house, but tofu.

Tofu?!?

Tofu.

Shirataki noodles, to be more precise. I had heard about them for years, but I only picked up a pack whilst strolling through the supermarket one day, assembling my basket of pre-washed spinach and individual cups of Fage yogurt and all the other things that I didn’t even realize I missed at ED in Paris until I was confronted with the sensory overload that is an American supermarket. I grabbed a bag on a whim, took them home, and made spaghetti. And it ruled.

Shirataki noodles are marketed towards people on low-carb (ick) diets or those looking to sneak in a little extra protein, but I like them for what they are: snappy-textured spaghetti-esque noodles that are quick to prepare (rinse and zap in the microwave for two minutes), conveniently portioned, and the perfect vessel for a bowl of tomato sauce and basil.

Shirataki Noodles with Tomato-Basil Sauce
Those of you who remember the Marcella Hazan tomato sauce trend a few years back may recognize this sauce. I tweaked it for daily use–the other has too much butter for me to come to terms with on a Tuesday night–but I always go back to that one on special occasions. A copy of that recipe is available here.

1 package shirataki spaghetti
2 cups Pomi
1/2 onion, in tact, skin removed
1 tbsp. butter
salt and pepper
3-5 basil leaves, ripped

Heat the Pomi and onion in a saucepan over low heat. When the Pomi simmers, cover the pot and allow to cook, stirring occasionally, for 30 minutes. Remove from the heat and extract the onion half. Discard.

Stir in the butter, salt and pepper.

Meanwhile, rinse the shirataki noodles well and cover with about an inch of water. Microwave 2 minutes and drain. Toss the noodles in with the sauce and stir to coat. Serve in bowls and garnish with basil. Serves 2, although the photos serve none.

March 26, 2010

Kale Chips

Filed under: Appetizers, Vegetarian Main Dishes — Tags: , , — emiglia @ 3:32 pm

Like most people, I think, I don’t cook just for me.

Don’t get me wrong–I love being in the kitchen. Case-in-point: my mother has been off gallavanting with my little sister in Virginia for the past week, and instead of scavenging in the fridge for meals of leftovers she so kindly left us, I’ve been wandering through the Food Emporium after work and dusting off that list of recipes I’ve been meaning to try. I love the feeling of laying out all my ingredients on her ample counter space. I’ve missed slicing through an onion–and using my mother’s fancy Japanese knives doesn’t hurt.

But the main thing I’ve been doing since she left hasn’t just been trying recipes that I want to try, but recipes that my father, who’s on a health-food kick, can enjoy: Straciatella soup, roasted broccoli, shirataki noodles with mushrooms…

“She made me pasta! La bambina!” My father exclaimed last night after discovering that he could have the proverbial cake and eat it too when I served him a plate of shirataki noodles, made entirely from tofu. So even if my mind was wandering, thinking about patatas bravas or quickbread recipes I wanted to try… I have to say that my three days of health food dinners were worth it.

Especially because I also discovered something that I love–kale chips. I don’t know how to say kale in French, and I’ve never bought it there, but it’s so easily available here that I bought a bunch on a whim and decided to try these. Those of you who follow me on Twitter may have noticed how much I love them–I ate nearly a pound of kale in crunchy form (that’s two batches of kale chips all by myself), chomping my way through them like a dinosaur. Even my culinarily cautious sister tried one.

“It’s pleasant,” she said, chewing thoughtfully, before sprinkling a few on top of her pasta. I’m cool with that, though I prefer to eat them by the handful, which my friend, the Almost-British One, so bluntly told me will turn me magnetic.

I don’t care–I’m back in the kitchen again.

Kale Chips
1 bunch kale, washed, leaves ripped into bite-sized pieces
olive-oil spray
salt

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Dry the kale well and lay it out on a cooling rack positioned on top of a baking sheet. Spray with olive oil spray and sprinkle with salt. Roast for 15 minutes, until crispy and slightly browned at the edges. Chomp like a dinosaur.


February 16, 2010

Lent

Filed under: Pasta, Vegetarian Main Dishes — Tags: , , , , — emiglia @ 11:55 pm

Today is Mardi Gras, also known as Shrove Tuesday or Pancake Day to some–the last day before the period of Lent.

I know that most of you are probably at least vaguely familiar with Lent–it’s that day that we Catholics make ourselves suffer and give up something like chocolate or cigarettes or drinking or television… right?

Well… sort of. Lent is a period of introspection, of preparing ourselves for Easter, which is really the most important holiday of the Catholic calendar, regardless of what the Hallmark industry and Santa Claus may want us to believe. For forty days before Easter, which represents the rebirth of Jesus–and essentially everything that makes Christians Christian–we get ourselves ready, and yes, this often does involve giving up something that we may find difficult to relinquish.

I’m not trying to get all preachy on you–God knows that I of all people am not the person to be preaching Catholic doctrine to anyone. I’m just trying to set the record straight: we don’t fast because we want to suffer; we fast because it makes us think. The whole idea behind giving up something that you want is that each time you reach for it–a bar of chocolate, a cigarette or a beer–you stop yourself, and then you remember why you’re stopping.

It’s because of this that my favorite priest–and yes, I have I favorite priest: the one who led my student youth group at boarding school–changed the rules somewhat. Father Francisco was a Franciscan monk, the most Catholic of all the Catholic people I’ve ever met. He walked the campus in billowing black robes and prayed when he joined us for breakfast like it was the most natural thing. His suggestion for Lent was not to give something up, but to take on a new challenge: he said that it was important not only to be introspective during Lent, but to use the period to give back to others as well.

I may pick and choose the parts of Catholic doctrine that I subscribe to, but I think that most Catholics–even lapsed Catholics–make some sort of gesture during Lent. It’s like an internal clock that gets us every year, even if we haven’t been to mass since Christmas, even if we haven’t really even taken a second to think about whether or not we believe, most of the C and E Catholics I know will go to church at some point tomorrow and come out with a black smudge on their forehead and something in mind that they’ve decided to live without.

I’ve decided to do a myriad of things, most of which I will not share here, for the sole reason that I’ve always liked the story in the Bible that tells you to pray in quiet, to hide the fact that you’re fasting when you do, because it’s a personal thing that you should do for your own fulfillment. I will share, mostly because it has some sort of effect on all of you, the fact that I will be giving up all meat in this Lenten season (as with most Catholics, I do not take this to include fish), and so on the eve of Ash Wednesday, I offer you this recipe, which I’ve been making for years, ever since I found it on Ree’s website.

Asian Noodle Salad (adapted from The Pioneer Woman)
1 package whole wheat spaghetti, cooked, rinsed and cooled
1/2 head sliced Napa cabbage
1/2 head sliced Purple cabbage
1 bag bean sprouts
2 carrots, sliced into rounds
1 bunch cilantro, chopped
3 scallions, sliced
1 lime, juiced
8 Tbsp. olive oil
8 Tbsp. soy sauce
2 Tbsp. sesame oil
1/3 cup brown sugar
3 Tbsp. fresh ginger, chopped
2 cloves garlic, chopped
2 jalapenos, chopped

Mix pasta and vegetables together. Whisk dressing together and pour over salad. Toss to combine.

November 3, 2009

Pasta with Mushrooms and Gorgonzola Sauce

Filed under: Pasta, Vegetarian Main Dishes, cheese — Tags: , — emiglia @ 9:08 am

Note: Please be aware that this post was scheduled to go up on Halloween, and then my Wordpress had a fit and died most unfortunately. Put yourself in a Halloweeny mood if you like. P.S. Sorry for the pictures, which are probably the only scary part of this not-very-Halloweeny Halloween post.

Today, most people have their Halloween posts going up–something sweet or creepy or at the very least black and orange. I do not.

Halloween is not a big deal in Europe. I recently learned that the holiday is, in fact, of Irish and not American origin, but it’s in the States that we start getting ready at the end of August, throwing up ghoulish designs and selling costumes in stores as soon as kids are back in school. Here, if anyone celebrates, it’s college kids–the Halloween celebrations I’ve seen since leaving the States usually involve dressing up and drinking (multiple, strong) drinks with dry ice in them so that they smoke like witches’ brew. Don’t get me wrong: I love those celebrations, but there’s something so safe about being a kid and trick or treating, guarding your bag of candy like your bounty once you’re safe at home.

I’m leaving Spain in a week, and leaving a place always gets me thinking: I’ll miss San Sebastian, a city I’ve come to know and love. It’s a strange feeling to arrive in a new place and know that soon this will be your home, soon you’ll know everything about it, and yet that’s what’s happened yet again here, for me. San Sebastian is mine now, now that I’m ready to leave it.

I’ll miss the surf, of course, the surf I’ve waxed poetic about since I got here. I sold my surfboard yesterday–I’m sure I’ll have a new one soon, as soon as I arrive in Argentina, but it still felt like something so final, and it’s strange to sit in my room and not see it here.

I’ll miss walking around and speaking Spanish–my Spanish is nowhere as good as my French, but even giving directions or the time in Spanish, saying agur (goodbye in Basque) when I leave a store… it will be strange to be back in France and then soon after in America, back to my normal routine.

But there are things I’ve missed since coming to Spain, one of which is cooking for people. I’ve gotten used to being the point person for a new recipe or for bringing something delicious to a party, and here, due to whatever reason–the fact that I don’t have my own place, the fact that we party out more often than we stay in–has not been the case. I never realized how much I love having people to cook for until suddenly I was alone, cooking for myself, regressing back to the dishes of stewed tomatoes and vegetables that got me through my first few weeks in Paris, the weeks where my kitchen was my own and the only plate at my dinner table was mine.

So a few nights ago, I decided to cook for myself as though I had people to cook for, as though I had people other than myself to impress, and impress I did. This dish is simple to make, but it’s one of those dishes where the product is so much more than the sum of its parts. Slowly cooking earthy mushrooms with sweet onions, adding just a little bit of cream (if you’re feeling bad) and a bit of blue cheese (even if you’re not) and serving the whole thing over pasta infused with even more mushroom deliciousness… well let’s just say that even if you’re cooking for one, you may forget that you’re the only person you’re spoiling.

Pasta with Mushrooms and Gorgonzola Sauce

1 tsp. olive oil
1 tsp. butter
salt
1 onion, sliced
350 g. (12 oz.) mushrooms, sliced (I used plain white button mushrooms because they’re cheap and so am I, but feel free to change it up. And please, slice them yourself.)
black pepper
1/4 cup vegetable broth
1 tsp. cream
1 tbsp. blue cheese
1 cup mushroom fettuccine (or other pasta)

Heat the oil and butter over medium heat and cook the onion with a bit of salt until just soft. Move to the sides of the pan and turn the heat up to medium-high.

Add the mushrooms to the pan in batches so that there is no crowding. Allow to brown and release their liquid, and then combine with the onions at the sides of the pan, tossing to combine and then moving back to the sides of the pan. Repeat until all the mushrooms are cooked.

Reduce the heat to low and add the black pepper and broth. Meanwhile, cook the pasta.

When the pasta is cooked, add the cream and cheese to the mushroom mixture and stir until the cheese is melted. Remove from the heat and add the pasta. Toss to coat, adding pasta water if the sauce needs thinning.


October 8, 2009

Escalivade

Filed under: Side Dishes, Vegetarian Main Dishes — Tags: , , , , , , — emiglia @ 2:30 pm

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.

August 9, 2009

Quiche

Filed under: Eggs, Pork, Salad, Vegetarian Main Dishes, cheese — Tags: , — emiglia @ 10:22 am


We drive up the path, and even though I’ve been self-consciously wedged between my boyfriend’s mother and one of his best friends for the past several hours as we rode the straight-shot highway from the north–Paris–to the south, I can’t help squirming in my seat, causing the close physical contact I’ve been trying to avoid this whole time as I knock manouche #1’s elbow three or four times, craning my neck to see around him, to drink in everything.

Memories stream back into my consciousness as the reality sets in: grapevines, tiny winding roads. Castles so old I can’t even fathom it. Familiar signposts leading to even more familiar locations–I smile as I remember, not even having realized until this very moment that I had forgotten–the names of winemakers in the region, of nearby cafés, of the champion rugby team.

This feeling used to only come from Long Island–the only true home I had for years: the feeling of something, of some place, that is just so inexplicably right.

When I left Paziols last year, I wasn’t sure I would be coming back–plans were crumbling and rebuilding themselves left and right: a for-sure move to Argentina slowly became a quick jaunt to Spain, and a firm decision to leave Paris at the end of December was fading away as I realized that maybe I would be able to face my 18-month itch–that need I feel to move every year and a half–that maybe someone was more important to me than that feeling, that need, to move on.

But I was back–and, in spite of myself, in spite of the fact that I was dejected about the loss of my almost-job in Africa, despite the fact that I had no real idea what I would be doing at the end of the summer, I was back in Paziols for five weeks, and I allowed myself to be happy about it.

I have turned Paziols into a true home over the past few weeks–a metamorphosis that you, my readers and internet confidantes (no better kind) have witnessed as it unfolded, slowly creeping in around the edges, the way the midday sun here creeps into the cool and breezy mornings so that you don’t even notice until you realize you’re gulping down diabolo menthes by the glassful.

It seems bizarre that I only got here five weeks ago: I feel like I just got here, but at the same time, I feel as though I’ve been here forever. The house feels as though it has my imprint on it–my place at the table, in the chairs by the bookshelf, in my bed by the window in the attic–no place has seemed so right in a long time.

The past few days have been peppered with talk–talk of making programs in Paziols a more permanent thing. My heart skips a beat as I plan–my default setting–plan for adult classes in winemaking and cuisine, coordinating groups with lessons at the boulanger in Cucugnan. I imagine what it would be like to live here all the time–to welcome, not only two groups of children every summer, but other groups, other people, throughout the year. To share Paziols with even more people, and to get to know it better myself. I know it’s just a dream, just a haze in the distant and indefinite future, but for me, it already feels so real I can taste it.

And taste it I will… in time. For now, it’s goodbye again: goodbye to the light pink rosé we’ve been drinking all summer, to the fresh cheeses that sit upon our table every day. Goodbye to fresh baguettes every morning and three or four heads of lettuce consumed every day.

It’s goodbye to the tomatoes we’ve come to love–the ones that I dressed simply with garlic, basil, olive oil, oregano and feta cheese and made into the quintessential summer salad here in Paziols–the one that was missed the day I ran out of tomatoes and didn’t think anyone would notice.

It’s goodbye to perfect summer dishes that I loved to make and typical winter dishes that I sweated over but made anyway because you can’t come to southwestern France without tasting classic cassoulet.

This quiche was a lunchtime standard this summer, one that I could throw together over my shoulder as I spelled out directions slowly and carefully in French to sous-chefs unsure of the meanings of the words dorer, demi and ajouter.

It’s easy enough to throw together quickly for a crowd, but tasty enough to serve with a simple green salad as a classy summer dinner, for quiche, like so many things French has become synonomous with class back in the States, where I’m headed tomorrow. As for me, it’s just a synonym with France, with everything that has been my life for the past two years. And, like everything else, I find it simply delicious.

Quiche Lorraine
5 eggs
25 cl. crème fraîche
1 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. black pepper
1 pinch fresh nutmeg
400 g. lardons
2 onions, diced
1 refrigerated pâte brisée
1/2 cup grated emmental cheese

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.

Combine the eggs, crème fraîche, salt, pepper and nutmeg in a bowl until well combined and smooth. Set aside.

Heat the lardons in a skillet over medium heat. When they begin to release some grease, add the onions. Cook until the onions and lardons are golden brown.

Roll the pâte brisée out in a tart pan. Spread the lardons and onions over the bottom, and pour in the egg mixture. Sprinkle the emmental cheese over the top.

Bake for 15-20 minutes, until the top of the quiche is golden. It will puff up slightly, but don’t worry: as soon as you remove it from the oven, it will fall back into place. Serve with green salad simply dressed with homemade vinaigrette.


Vegetarian Quiche
5 eggs
25 cl. crème fraîche
2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. black pepper
1 tsp. dried basil
1 pinch fresh nutmeg
1 tbsp. butter
1 tsp. olive oil
1 carrot, diced
1 onion, diced
1 stalk celery, diced
1 red pepper, diced
1 orange pepper, diced
1 refrigerated pâte brisée
1/2 cup grated emmental cheese

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.

Combine the eggs, crème fraiche, salt, pepper, basil and nutmeg in a bowl until well combined. Set aside.

Meanwhile, heat the butter and olive oil over medium heat in a skillet. Add the vegetables and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened and golden, about 10 minutes.

Roll out the pâte brisée in a tart pan. Spread the vegetables over the bottom, and then pour in the egg mixture. Sprinkle the emmental cheese over the top.

Bake for 15-20 minutes, until the top of the quiche is golden. It will puff up slightly, but don’t worry: as soon as you remove it from the oven, it will fall back into place. Serve with green salad simply dressed with homemade vinaigrette.

Homemade Vinaigrette
1 tsp. French mustard
50 cl. cider vinegar
50 cl. extra virgin olive oil
50 cl. sunflower oil
1 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. black pepper

Place all ingredients in a clean jar with a lid. Shake to combine. Taste for seasoning. Use to dress clean, cool lettuce just before serving.

June 30, 2009

Burek

Filed under: Vegetarian Main Dishes, cheese — Tags: , , , , — emiglia @ 3:15 am

“I don’t have a home.”

An oft-uttered phrase, at least for me, for whom it’s fairly true.

It follows, naturally, that I don’t feel homesick. Or at least, I shouldn’t. That’s not terribly true.

It’s true that I adapt easily, that I usually don’t mind uprooting myself and sticking myself somewhere else. Living out of a suitcase, getting used to a new time zone, sharing a bathroom with people I don’t know… these things have never been a problem for me.

And yet, there is this crawling, gnawing sickness I get in my stomach sometimes–a feeling that I always want to feed, because it feels so close to hunger, even though I know it’s not. It creeps up on me in places where it shouldn’t: in my apartment in Paris, in my parents’ house–the house where I grew up. At a friend’s apartment. In the park. It’s homesickness–that I know for certain. What I don’t know is how to fix it, because I don’t have any home to go to.

I’m back in Paziols: my third summer in a row. For the past few summers, I’ve made my way down to this tiny town, just close enough to the Spanish border for the Catalan accent and Occitan language to permeate everywhere. I love this town: love the hour’s drive from Perpignan, love watching as the airport and shopping center give way to endless, crawling green vines, to winding paths into the Pyrenees, to the little towns I’ve come to know so well.

Estagel, Tuchan, Tautavel. I read the names on the signposts, recognizing them and waiting until we’re close enough to Paziols for the tiny, 300-some-odd person town’s name to start appearing as well. I wait until I see the road I recognize: too narrow for two cars to pass one another, with trees leaning over, forming a tunnel, welcoming me back.

The house is different this year, once again. Since we’ve arrived, it’s been a flurry of painting and organizing and dusting and endless laundry. This summer, Patricia, Alex’s mom, who used to come to Paziols to cook for our group of nearly 20, will not be here. The task–and the “toque du chef”–has passed to me. She drove us down and stayed for a few days, and last night, she taught us how to make burek, a Balkan dish of filo and feta cheese.

We’ve been back and forth to Perpignan at least three times, and I’ve been to Spain once and am heading back out tomorrow to pick up our new group: 13 more kids, in addition to the veteran from last year who arrived on Sunday and my boss’ niece, who have been painting and organizing and vacuuming with the rest of us. 13 more starry-eyed Americans, who probably will have no idea what they’re in for as they’re driven, drowsy and jet-lagged, up the same paths that brought me so much comfort a few days ago.

I hope they learn to love it as much as I do. I hope they leave a piece of their hearts here when they go. I hope they know, when they get that clawing feeling from the pit of their stomachs, that a summer morning in Paziols with a hot cup of coffee and a tartine with Nutella, a morning filled with jokes and laughter… I hope that they realize that that is the perfect cure.

Burek

~30 sheets of phyllo
8 125 g. pots of yogurt
30 cl. crème fraîche
800 g. feta, crumbled
5 eggs + 1
pinch of pepper
1/2 cup sunflower oil
1/2 cup sparkling water

Combine the yogurt, crème fraîche, feta, eggs and pepper in a bowl–be careful not to crush the feta.

In a plastic bottle, combine the oil and water. Poke some holes in the top of the bottle with a sharp knife.

Taking the phyllo sheets two at a time, sprinkle the top sheet with the oil-water mixture, and then spread some of the yogurt-feta mixture over half of the sheet. Roll and place in an oiled baking sheet. Continue with all of the sheets, and paint the top of the dish with the reserved egg.




Bake in a 350 degree oven for 30 minutes or until golden and the filo is cooked through.


Concombre au yaourt

1 cucumber
2 heaping tablespoons of crème fraîche
13 125 g. containers of Greek yogurt
5-6 cloves of garlic
a few tablespoons of minced fresh parsley (optional)
salt and pepper

Peel the cucumber and dice it.

Empty the yogurts into a large container and add the crème fraîche and cucumber.

Press the garlic and add it to the yogurt mixture. Add the parsley, salt and pepper to taste and combine. Taste for salt and then keep at least 2 hours in the refrigerator, covered, at least two hours before serving. Serve with the burek.


June 23, 2009

Mediterranean Vegetable-Cheese Pie

Filed under: Eggs, Vegetarian Main Dishes — Tags: , , , , , , — emiglia @ 6:27 am

“And it’s so healthy!” My father exclaims, digging into a huge bowlful of salad.

My siblings and I are used to these conversations. I twirl another forkful of spaghetti and my sister blots the grease from her slice of pizza, both of us aware of the fact that our dinner choices are probably ten times healthier than my father’s. My brother smiles to himself as he cuts into a steak: he doesn’t care whether what he’s eating is healthy or not… he’s got the metabolism of, well, a teenage boy.

“I could eat this for every meal, every day. It’s just so fresh! Do you think you could make me a salad like this for dinner?”

“Sure…” My mom answers, in the same voice she used to use when we used to ask if planting watermelon seeds in the backyard would sprout real watermelons. She’s a preschool teacher, and she’s very good at egging on our childish plans. She doesn’t bother to correct my father and tell him that she makes a salad with dinner every night that’s ten times healthier than the one he’s eating.

My father suffers from the same jilted look on reality that so many Americans do: he thinks that anything with vegetables–even a salad laden with dressing, salt, cheese and croutons–is healthy. He thinks that anything with grill marks is oil-free. I used to believe him, until I started cooking myself and realized how much oil goes into some of the “healthy” options that we’re all used to.

As a food blogger, I sometimes have trouble with portion control, with tasting all of the things I make for this blog just a few too many times. Luckily, Ann from Redacted Recipes has provided a recipe truly worthy of the title “healthy,” with deliciousness to boot.

This pie, made up of vegetables, eggs and lowfat cheeses is truly worhty of the title “healthy.” And, like Ann, I feel no regret in finishing half the pie myself and calling it dinner.

Mediterranean Vegetable-Cheese Pie (adapted from Redacted Recipes)

Olive-oil cooking spray
2 medium potatoes, sliced in 1/8-inch rounds
1/2 cup diced onion
8 oz (about 8 cups) baby spinach, from frozen, thawed
3 garlic cloves, chopped
2 whole eggs
3 egg whites
1/2 cup ricotta
1/2 cup nonfat cottage cheese
3 tbsp finely chopped basil, plus more for garnish
1 zucchini, sliced into 1/4-inch rounds
1 1/2 tbsp grated Asiago or Parmesan
salt and pepper

Heat oven to 350°. Coat a 9″ pie plate with cooking spray. Line bottom of plate with potato slices. Cut remaining slices in half and arrange around side of plate. Season with salt and pepper. Lightly spray them again. Bake 12 to 15 minutes. Remove from oven and set aside.

Coat a sauté pan with cooking spray and sauté onion over low heat until tender, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and saute about 1 minute. Add the spinach and stir until just heated through. Remove from heat. Drain excess fluid from onion and spinach mixture.

In a bowl, beat eggs and egg whites. Stir in ricotta and cottage cheese. Add half the basil and a pinch of salt and set aside.

Spoon onion and spinach mixture into pie plate over potatoes. Layer on egg mixture, then slices of zucchini.

Bake 35 to 40 minutes or until egg is set and a knife inserted into pie comes out clean. Sprinkle grated cheeses evenly over top of pie and top with basil garnish. Return to oven for 5 minutes or until cheese melts. Remove from oven and let sit for 5 minutes. Cut pie into 4 wedges. Serve immediately.

Older Posts »

Powered by WordPress