Taste Memories

Lunching

Whenever possible, I like to take my lunch at home. Sometimes it is worth waiting an extra hour or two if it means settling down to a simple but civilized repast, rather than choking down the limp lettuce and cardboard chicken salad the café in our building charges $7 for. But often my schedule won't allow for this luxury, in which case packing my lunch is well worth the trouble. The lunches I pack for myself are invariably cheaper, more wholesome, and far more delicious than anything I can buy around school.

Often, I will make a big batch of soup on the weekends, and enjoy it for lunch throughout the week (thank to my investment in a sturdy wide-mouthed thermos). Many of my favorite soups have already been featured on this blog, but I've also recently become enamored with an andouille, lentil, tomato, and kale soup that I plan to blog about soon. It is a lovely balance of smoky, sweet, and savory flavors, and it's the kind of substantial soup that keeps me going all afternoon long.

Sandwiches can, of course, be excellent for lunch, but by the time I've schlepped a sandwich to school, it's bound to have altogether lost its distinction, and has often become downright mushy. So instead, I go in for salads in a big way. Oftentimes, I need nothing more than some tender greens, a creamy-centered hard-boiled egg, and a judiciously seasoned dressing to keep me happy.

But for something a little more elaborate, I like this quinoa salad. It's nutty (from the quinoa), fresh (from the lemon), fragrant (from the herbs), and a little spicy (from the smoked paprika). It could hardly be more nutritious. It's also a very movable feast – you could experiment with bulghur or brown rice instead of the quinoa, and feel free of course to use lime or a good red wine vinegar instead of the lemon. Play around with the spices, and substitute any vegetables you fancy instead of (or in addition to) the cucumber. I've even omitted the shrimp for vegetarians, and added a handful of green grapes, to good effect.

With a few tupperwares of this salad packed tidily away in the fridge, I'm really rather looking forward to Monday. After all, whose day isn't immensely improved by the solace of a good lunch?

 

Quinoa Shrimp Salad

Ingredients:

1 cup quinoa

1 tbsp olive oil

1lb shrimp, peeled and deveined

1 tsp salt

1 tsp smoked paprika

1 cucumber, diced

¼ cup slivered almonds

½ cup feta, crumbled

Juice of 2 Meyer lemons (regular will do too)

Zest of 1 Meyer lemon (ditto)

A few handfuls arugula and/or a few handfuls of suitable herbs (basil, mint, and/or flat-leaf parsley would all play well here)

 

Method:

Cook the quinoa according to the packet directions (usually, you add double the volume of water to quinoa, bring it to a boil, and simmer for 10-15 minutes).

Add the olive oil to a large skillet or wok over high heat. Add the shrimp, salt, and smoked paprika, and sauté for a minute or so, or until the shrimp is just pink.

Combine the remaining ingredients with the warm quinoa in a large bowl. Add the shrimp and any cooking juices, and toss to combine.

Serves 4, or makes a week of lunches.

Soup Surprise

If I may toot my own horn for a moment, I am a dab hand at throwing together pretty decent dishes on the fly. A few weeks ago, for example, I made a handy little radicchio salad, topped with halved soft-boiled eggs, shards of pecorino, and dressed with a gutsy anchovy and slow-roasted garlic emulsion. This very afternoon, I improvised a rather tasty slaw when I decided to liven up a slightly decrepit head of cabbage by shredding it, and grating in the creamy flesh of a few beautiful pears. Late last summer, I ended up with a wonderful breakfast when I spontaneously scraped down a leftover grilled corn cob, mixed the kernels with a dollop of homemade basil mayonnaise, and topped the lot with an oily-bellied fried egg.

Oh, don't misunderstand me – there are plenty of disasters, too (I recently took it upon myself to turn a bunch of rhubarb into something along the lines of applesauce. The resulting substance was pale pink and quivered ominously. It tasted like mouth-puckeringly sour wood. It was described by my chief taster as "incredibly strange.") But the results of my experiments are more often edible than not, and sometimes even toothsome. They are almost never, however, particularly memorable – by which I mean the kind of dish that demands to be savored now, written about soon afterwards, and made again time after time.

This soup is a rare, doubtless fluky exception. It is uncommonly, uncannily good. It is comforting but stylish, mellow but deeply flavored, and deceptively complex. When I had drunk up every last drop, I was tempted to start hoarding all the artichokes and meyer lemons at the market before the season is out, so I could sup it year round. But I'll nobly refrain, just in case you decide to heed my advice and make a batch for yourself.

Creamy Artichoke, Fennel, Shrimp, and Meyer Lemon Soup

Ingredients:

1 bulb of fennel, roughly chopped

3 medium artichokes, wrangled, outer leaves discarded, and with the hearts roughly chopped

4 cups of good vegetable or fish stock

The juice of a Meyer lemon

½ cup of heavy cream

2 Tbsp butter

1lb shrimp, depeeled, deveined, and cut into bite-sized pieces

 

Method:

This really couldn't be easier. Throw the fennel and the artichokes into the stock, and boil vigorously (covered) for 30 minutes or so, until the artichokes are very soft (the time this takes will depend a bit on the size, and therefore toughness, of your 'chokes).

Meanwhile, melt the butter in a skillet over a low flame, and poach the shrimp gently in the butter, until they are just pink and still tender.

Next, puree the soup using an immersion blender (or in a standing blender). Add the lemon juice, the cream, and the shrimp (together with the remaining butter in the skillet).

Taste the soup for seasoning, acidity, and concentration, and adjust accordingly. (I found my brew needed to be thinned with a little water, but nothing else.)

Serves 4.

Scenes from Tu B’Shevat

Since coming to America, I've become more and more interested in some of the Jewish traditions which we never really practiced back home in Australia. So I was thrilled when my friend Kelly offered to initiate me into the Jewish holiday that celebrates the birthday of the trees, known as Tu B'Shevat. Together we prepared a special vegetarian seder for our friends, featuring certain key fruits and grains, each of which is richly symbolic. It was tremendous fun, and I learned a great deal.

It is traditional to begin the meal with a dish featuring a fruit with an inedible shell, which symbolizes "the kind of human being whose goodness and humanity become accessible through the actions of outside effort and change." [Roberta Kalechofsky and Rosa Rasiel, "The Jewish Vegetarian Year Cookbook," p. 110] We chose the pomegranate to this end, and served a pomegranate, lime, and vodka cocktail.

Next up, one serves a fruit with a soft exterior and a hard pit center, which is likened to "those of us who may give the appearance of being open to receive love and communication but who, when tested, lack compassion and have a heart of stone." [Ibid, p. 111] We set out a dish of briny green olives for this purpose.

It is then time to partake of a fruit which is edible both inside and out, to represent "that part of humankind which can open its heart and its mind to others." [Ibid, p. 113] As is apparently typical, we used figs. We made ciabatta toasts with orange-zest and honey ricotta, topped with sticky figs (loosely adapted from here).

Finally, one consumes food that cannot be used in its raw state, to remind us that "there are some matters that require our active intervention to bring them forth from their state of potential usefulness to actual usefulness." [Ibid, p. 116] As is usual, we used wheat and barley. The wheat was in the form of a bulgur wheat, green grape, toasted almonds, cucumber, scallion, and feta salad. This salad actually served a number of roles, since I believe the meal is also meant to feature almonds and grapes.

We then used barley to make a risotto, flavored with Meyer lemons, thyme, spinach, crème fraiche, and grains of paradise (adapted from here).

Since using dates and carob in the seder is also called for, we finished up with a delicious sticky date, coconut, and carob pudding, with brown butter butterscotch sauce, and whipped cream (loosely adapted from here).

I found the seder quite moving. The dominant themes of renewal and regeneration felt eerily appropriate, given that my homeland has just withstood the most terrible bushfires in Australian history. The figures are numbing - 1800 houses have been destroyed; 7000 people left homeless; and the death toll is now over 200 and set to rise still further. I am mourning the tragedy from afar, and willing that the trees in Victoria bloom again.

Comfort in a Bowl

I'd wager that most people's hit list of rib-sticking foods does not include Brussels sprouts. Frankly, it should. I owe this extremely useful piece of knowledge to the folks at Maxine's, an absolute little gem of a restaurant in Girdwood, Alaska. My Mother-in-Law kindly took us there on our recent visit, on a night where the mercury dipped well below negative thirty. It was an evening for comfort and warmth, so I opted reflexively for the duck confit. It was a lovely rendition, but, truth be told, I was even more beguiled by the Brussels sprouts gratin it came with. Studded with bacon and veritably oozing with cream and cheese, this was admittedly not a dish for the faint of belly. And yet the grassy Brussels sprouts somehow kept the whole thing in check. I'm rather a sucker for austere characters in decadent garb, so I was totally charmed. I've been daydreaming about this ever since.

It was just the thing for that night, and it was just the thing tonight, too – especially since I got stuck in a snowstorm coming home from my first (exciting but rather hectic) day back at grad school. Of course, I could hardly duck back into Maxine's and beg them for a bowlful, but that's where a taste memory comes in handy: I was able to recreate the dish with great success my first time around. Next time around, I might add a little garlic to the onion during its last minute or so of cooking; I might also toss in some shrimp; and I might serve this over a fluffy bed of white rice instead of spaghetti. But there will be a next time. For, needless to say, this was just what I needed after a 7am start, a bunch of meetings, and a serious train delay: namely, comfort in a bowl.

 

Spaghetti with Caramelized Brussels Sprouts, Bacon and Cream

Ingredients:

6oz center-cut bacon, diced

1 onion, diced

16oz Brussels sprouts, peeled, washed, and halved

½ cup light cream

1 tsp Worcestershire sauce

A handful of parmesan cheese, grated

A handful of flat-leaf parsley, rough chopped

Black pepper

8oz spaghetti, to serve

 

Method:

Place a skillet over high heat, and sauté the bacon until it is golden and crispy (about 5 minutes).

Remove the bacon with a slotted spoon, and place on paper towels to drain. Reserve most of the fat, leaving about a teaspoon behind.

Lower the heat to medium, and sauté the onion until it is soft and golden (about 5 minutes). Set aside the onions.

Add the Brussels sprouts, cut-side down, and let them sit without stirring, until they are nicely caramelized (about 5 minutes).

Add the cream and Worcestershire sauce to the skillet, and simmer the mixture for a few minutes, or until the Brussels sprouts are sufficiently tender.

Remove the skillet from the heat, and stir in the parsley and a few good grinds of black pepper. Now add the spaghetti to let the noodles soak up a bit of the cream sauce. Serve immediately.

 

Serves 2, generously.

Old Faithful

To say that I've been in a cooking slump of late wouldn't be quite accurate, but I've hardly been bursting with culinary ideas, either. Venturing over black ice to get to the grocery store is not an appealing prospect at the moment, especially considering the uninspiring winter produce which I know awaits me. So I find myself making the same recipes time and time again, which are mostly the kinds of things I'd scarcely think to write about. But sometimes the most unprepossessing of dishes can be uncommonly satisfying and handy, which brings me to this little pasta sauce.

Got butter? Got an onion? A head of broccoli? Some kind of stock? Some kind of cream? A bit of cheese? And a packet of spaghetti? Then a fabulous dinner is but fifteen minutes away. What you'll end up with is a lush celadon-colored puree in which to swathe your pasta. The sauce is quite mild, but the broccoli lends just enough of a bracing edge here to keep things interesting. I like to add a sprinkling of red pepper flakes at the end, for color and zip and sizzle. I imagine some toasted breadcrumbs would also be fantastic in their place.

The other nice thing about this recipe is that, like most of those in my regular rotation, it's subject to myriad promising variations. You can add some garlic to the onion (for the last minute or so of its cooking time), or you can fry the onion in bacon fat. For that matter, some actual bacon in this is delicious too, although I'd go easy on the cream and cheese in that case, lest the dish become excessively rich. My favorite rendition of all involves adding some nice oily black olives to the sauce at the very end (after pureeing the broccoli). It's hard to go wrong with this, really. Humble it may be, but still too good not to pass along.

Broccoli pasta sauce

Ingredients:

1 tsp unsalted butter

1 onion, diced

½ tsp kosher salt

2 large heads broccoli, cut into florets

3 cups vegetable stock

¼ cup light cream

¼ cup parmesan cheese, grated

Spaghetti, to serve

 

Method:

Add the butter to a large pot over medium heat.

Sauté the onion with the salt until soft and golden (about five minutes).

Add the broccoli florets, and stir them around a bit.

Add the stock, and bring the mixture to a boil.

Boil the broccoli for 5 minutes or until the florets are soft.

Blend the soup thoroughly with a stick blender (or in an upright blender).

Stir in the cream and cheese, and taste for seasoning.

Serve over pasta.

Creamy Roast Mushroom and Garlic Soup with Thyme

Have you ever had the experience of craving a food that you don't actually like? It has happened to me a lot recently, first with black beans, then with brussel sprouts, and most recently with mushrooms. Never one to resist a craving (I like to think that our bodies know what they need, if only we would listen), I succumbed promptly, and trotted off obediently to Wholefoods to stock up on portabellos and dried porcini mushrooms. I decided to make a soup with them, to christen my shiny new Cuisinart stick blender (thank you, Daniel Santa) and my delightful new Polish pottery bowls (thank you, Mum and Dad Santa). Aren't they adorable?

And you know what? The soup I threw together was ridiculously good, and exactly what I wanted. I've always been scornful of those who bizarrely insist that mushrooms are meaty (how could that be possible?), but they sure are savory, and earthy, and full of umami punch. The addition of thyme manages both to elevate and ground this soup in a way that's difficult to describe, but easy to appreciate.

This was so good, in fact, that I have devoured the entire batch of soup singlehandedly this week (silly Daniel thinks creamy soups are the pits). But if you were to ask me, I'd still deny liking mushrooms. As well as being stubborn, naturally.

 

Ingredients:

kosher salt

olive oil

1 oz dried porcini

6 large portobello mushrooms, destalked and cleaned with a damp cloth

4 garlic cloves

1 tbsp unsalted butter

1 large onion, diced

1 tbsp fresh thyme, taken off the stalk

3 cups vegetable stock

½ cup sour cream (I used light)

½ cup half and half

 

Method:

Preheat the oven to 400˚F.

Lightly oil a baking sheet, and pop the mushrooms and garlic on it. Drizzle them with a little olive oil and sprinkle them with a little kosher salt.

Roast the mushrooms and garlic for about 50 minutes, or until they are both nice and soft.

Meanwhile, soak the porcini in 2 cups of boiling water for about 30 minutes.

Place a large pot over medium heat, and add the butter.

Sauté the onion with another pinch of kosher salt until it is soft and golden (about 5 minutes), adding the thyme during the last minute.

Add the portobellos, porcini and their soaking liquid, as well as the stock, sour cream, and half and half. Blend thoroughly with a stick blender or a standing blender.

Reheat gently, and serve the soup warm, perhaps with an additional dollop of sour cream and a few sprigs of thyme.

 

Serves 4 – 6.

Dark Days, Enlivened

Although I was pretty desperate to see my family during the Australian leg of our recent vacation, I was sort of dreading the shift in seasons that comes with travelling halfway around the world. I love the snow and the cold, and I despise the heat that I knew would beset Melbourne in December. It wasn't until I was back in Melbourne, devouring a mango with flesh that cut like butter, that I realized how much I missed the summer, if only for its produce. Upon returning to Boston, I subsequently found myself yearning for the freshness, acidity, and tang of the food I'd eaten whilst on holiday. All of a sudden, being doomed to months of woolly pears and yams and kale just did not seem fair. (The woolly outfits, I don't mind).

What should come to my rescue but Myer lemons? Some speculate that these big, glossy yellow beauties are a cross between regular lemons and oranges, but that description, while plausible, doesn't even come close to capturing their charm. Myer lemons are incredibly fragrant, and their zest livens up too many dishes to name. They are sour but not bitter, and with a good dose of sweetness too (so you can do as I do, and eat them raw). Myer lemons are one of my favorite aspects of the American winter, just as concord grapes are one of the best parts of the New England Fall.

So much do I love Myer lemons that, upon spotting them at Wholefoods a few days ago, I actually exclaimed in delight. But I nearly didn't succeed in procuring any. You see, being Australian, I drop my 'r's, so words like 'myer' tend to come out of my mouth as 'myaahh.' In consequence, when I instructed Daniel to go grab me a bag of Myer lemons, he came back empty-handed, reporting that there was only a different kind of lemon available. The misunderstanding was quickly rectified, but it just goes to show the mayhem that can result when an interaccent couple shop for groceries, without a translator in tow.

Anyway, I've been using my Myer lemon stash in just about everything I've cooked since – the juice has been utilized to perk up the aforementioned sautéed kale (which I really do love, for all that) and brown butter brussel sprouts (so good, it's almost criminal that some people won't try them). The zest has come in handy for salad dressings and pasta dishes. But the best thing I've made with them is this champagne Myer lemon aioli. To amp up the Myer lemon flavor, I used my new favorite lemon-flavored oils and vinegars to make it (I never thought I'd hold anything so trendy as a flavored oil in such high esteem, but these are really worth a try). If you don't have these, however, this aioli will still be delicious made with regular extra virgin olive oil and champagne vinegar. I'd serve this aioli alongside pretty much any seafood dish, and it would also go well with chicken, simple steamed vegetables, or even with eggs. Its applications, in short, are innumerable. I'd wager that, with a nice little bowl of this in your icebox, your uncontrollable longing for Spring may well wane.

Champagne lemon aioli, served alongside chipotle-dusted shrimp, and a pared-down version of this salad, made with Myer lemon zest (naturally).

 

Champagne Myer Lemon Aioli

Ingredients:

1 egg yolk

1 tsp good dijon mustard

A pinch of good salt

¾ cup safflower oil

¼ cup good extra virgin olive oil (I used this one)

2-3 tbsps champagne vinegar (I used this one)

The juice of 1 Myer lemon

2-3 cloves of roasted garlic, ground to a paste (I roast my garlic for 3 hours at 225˚F for particularly mellow results, but you can also get away with less time at higher temperatures)

 

Method:

Whisk the egg yolk, mustard, and salt together in a large, heavy bowl.

   

Add the combined oils to the yolk/mustard mixture in tiny drips, whisking constantly. After a short while, you'll see the mixture start to thicken up to the consistency of heavy cream – at this point, it wants to be mayonnaise.

   

Now add the oil in a steady stream, whisking constantly, until it's all used up.

   

Stir in the remaining ingredients, proceeding slowly, and adjust for seasoning and acidity and garlickiness (if I may).

Our Vacation, in Pictures

Sorry for my absence! Will you forgive me if I showed you where I've been and what I've been doing?

I had forgotten how beautiful the morning light in Australia is. This shot was taken in the Cottlesbridge / Kangaroo Ground area, northeast of Melbourne, where I grew up (and where my parents still live).

Dinner, our first night in Australia, courtesy of my Mother's spectacular welcome hamper: local arugula, smoked trout, orange, and radish salad, with an amazing balsamic vinaigrette.

My homeland, literally.

Spot the kangas!

Apollo Bay, my family's holiday destination of choice for over twenty years.

Calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean.

Spot the transition. Our next destination was Girdwood, Alaska (Daniel's Mom's town).

The fact that my eyelashes froze in the -15˚F (-25˚C) weather should distract you from the fact that my eyebrows need some serious attention.Ahem.

Daniel, in contemplative mode.

Moooooooose.

I could hardly believe how beautiful it was.

Haunting, almost.

Quite magical.

And did I mention it was cold?

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Fa la la la la

Christmas in Australia is a very different proposition from Christmas in New England. Think kangaroos instead of squirrels, 110F days instead of snow storms, and sixteen hours of sunlight instead of eight. You'd think, then, that Christmas fare would be quite different too.

And you'd be wrong. My family has insisted on serving roast turkey with all the trimmings, followed by a traditional English fruit pudding with hard sauce, ever since I can remember.  

I've railed against this tradition for some years. I like turkey well enough, but it tastes like hell when the temperature is, well, hellish. As for English fruit pudding, I think it tastes like boiled lead. This year, for the first time, my family has decided to ditch the stodge, and do the rational thing - go out to a restaurant for a lovely, civilized Christmas lunch. I'm grateful not to have to sweat over a pudding basin on Christmas Eve or peel 347 potatoes on Christmas morning because, trite as it may sound, all I want for Christmas is to spend it enjoying the company of my wonderful family.

So much so that, the night before we left for Australia, I had a Christmas present crisis. Everything I'd bought seemed perfectly nice, but I wanted to do a little something extra. My family deserved handmade gourmet gifts, and handmade gourmet gifts they would have. I decided on  these salted butter caramels, because they are fancy and delicious but could be made with ingredients I had kicking around the pantry. It occurs to me that, if you're in this predicament too this Christmas Eve, you'd do well to do as I did.

You can dress these up with tempered chocolate and a few grains of fleur de sel, before wrapping them in lurid candy wrappers, as I did. You can double the salt in the recipe for a more contemporary and sparkly finish, as I did not (my family are traditionalists, you see). But even if you just slip a few candies in a bit of tinfoil and pop it in your loved one's stockings, I really doubt they'll complain. They may even rave, and love you just that little bit more for it. I'm just sayin'.

Happy Holidays, and see you in the New Year!

Mexican Tomato, Black Bean, and Lime Soup, with Cilanto Pesto

 

I usually hesitate to blog recipes this straightforward, but 'tis the season to be busy, and we all need a few more dishes like this in our repertoire. For one thing, it's the kind of soup that you want to plant your face in on a chilly December Boston night. For another, the whole thing takes 20 minutes, start to finish. Still more, this soup is soul-satisfying in a way that few dishes this good for you can claim to be. Finally, it's easily adapted for both vegetarians and carnivores, and has plenty of protein either way. Oh, and – nearly forgot – you'll probably have all the ingredients to make it in your larder already. What more could you want? So I'll trust that, when I say that you should make this for dinner tonight, you'll take my word for it and follow suit.

By the way, if you don't feel like dirtying more dishes by making the pesto, just a swirl of sour cream and a sprinkle of cilantro over the soup would be a worthy final benediction. But the pesto really is delicious, if you can be bothered, and transforms this soup from homely to complex. It makes it (dare I indulge in this Martha-ism?) company-worthy. But I suggest that you tuck yourself under a blanket and enjoy a steaming bowl of this alone instead. What better way to find brief respite from the distasteful seasonal madness that is upon us already?

Ingredients:

1 tbsp safflower (or other flavorless) oil

1 tbsp cumin

1 tsp ground chipotle (or more, to taste)

2 medium onions, diced

28oz can tomatoes

32 fluid oz chicken or vegetable stock

15.5oz can black beans, drained and well-rinsed

Juice of 1 lime

Some shredded chicken (optional)*

 

For the pesto:

1 bunch cilantro

½ cup salted cashews

¼ cup safflower (or other flavorless) oil

Juice of 1 lime

 

* I like to keep a supply on hand. I buy bone-in, skin-on chicken breasts on a nearly weekly basis, and roast them at 450˚F for 40 minutes, or until the skin is crisp and the flesh is beautifully tender. I shred the meat and use it all week for this and that. It's so much better (and cheaper) than the dried-out cardboard-like horror that is boneless, skinless chicken breasts. In fact, I'd wager that the misguided chicken-thigh-loving crowd could be won over by breast meat prepared in this way.

 

Method:

Place a large soup pot over medium-high heat, and add the oil.

Sauté the onions with the spices for 5 minutes or so, until the onions are tender.

Add the tomatoes, the stock, and the black beans, and simmer vociferously (covered) for about 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, prepare the pesto, by bashing all of the ingredients together in a mortar and pestle (or whizzing them in a food processor).

I like to puree most of the soup in a blender with the lime juice, leaving about a third of the mixture unblended for some residual texture.

Check the soup and pesto for seasoning and acidity.

If using the chicken, warm it gently and add it to the soup bowls before ladling the soup over it.

Serve the soup with a swirl of pesto on top.

 

Serves 4.