Taste Memories

Legacy

There is an unspoken rule in my family. Whenever someone is sick, sad, or otherwise in need of solace, it is incumbent on us to spend the afternoon making our special bolognaise sauce for them. The recipe is not a family secret, exactly, but it has been perfected by my Mother and Father for the duration of their married life (over twenty-five years now). It is rich, comforting, and deeply satisfying, and is by far the best bolognaise I have ever tasted. A whiff of it bubbling on the stove takes me right back to the weekend afternoons of my childhood, since that was often when Mum or Dad would cook up a batch.

We'd eat it over spaghetti in the evening, and the sauce would swathe the noodles with its sticky, savoury, meaty juices. As a child, I would make spaghetti sandwiches out of it, preferably on soft white bread lavished with butter. It was what Dad made for me after my horse threw me off right in the middle of a dressage test when I was twelve; it was what Mum brought to me when I was nineteen, living alone, and struggling to find time to cook for myself during a particularly gruelling exam period; it was what I served to my exhausted parents and sister when they got off the plane all the way from Australia last year. No matter how inauthentic or how unfashionable it might be, this is the recipe in my repertoire that I treasure the most.

Spaghetti Bolognaise

 

Ingredients:

 

1 tbsp olive oil

2 large onions, finely chopped

1 lb baby carrots, finely diced (I like to do this by hand, so some little carrots pieces remain visible in the finished sauce)

1 head celery, finely chopped

1 tsp kosher salt

6 cloves garlic, smashed

1 lb uncured unsmoked streaky bacon, finely diced

5lb ground beef (about 90% fat)

2 * 28 oz cans crushed tomatoes

1 * 28 oz can diced tomatoes

12oz can tomato paste

2 cups red wine

6 bay leaves

1 bunch curly parsley

1 large handful basil, cut into thin chiffonade strips

 

To serve:

spaghetti

parmesan

butter and lemon zest for the pasta (optional)

 

Method:

 

Add the olive oil to a large, heavy-bottomed Dutch oven (with at least a 7-quart capacity) over medium-high heat.

 

Add the onions, celery, and carrots, and the kosher salt. Let the soffrito soften but not brown for about 10 minutes, and then add the garlic for a few seconds, before turning off the heat.

 

Meanwhile, fry the bacon in a skillet over high heat, until it is quite crispy (about 10 minutes).

 

Drain the fat from the skillet (you can leave a little of it if you want the sauce to have a more pronounced bacon flavor, but I get rid of it all), and add some of the beef to it (about 1/3 of it).

 

Brown the beef in 3 - 4 batches over high heat, mashing it with a large fork to break up any clumps. This step is hugely important - nobody likes lumpy bolognaise. I also use a potato masher at this stage to help declump, which is effective although unorthodox.

 

Then, add the bacon and browned beef to the soffrito, and stir in the tomatoes, wine, and bay leaves. Bring the mixture up to a slow boil, and simmer, covered, for at least 2 hours (preferably longer). Stir it occasionally, and add a little stock mixture or water if it looks dry. You should taste it and adjust the seasoning about halfway through the cooking too.

 

Next, uncover the Dutch oven and let any small pockets of liquid in the bolognaise evaporate. The sauce should be extremely thick and the ingredients well-integrated, at which point you can take it off the heat and start making the spaghetti.

 

While the spaghetti cooks, finely chop the parsley in a food processor (or by hand). Add the parsley and the basil to the sauce, and give it a final taste for seasoning.

 

I like to dress the cooked spaghetti with a knob of butter and a little lemon zest (although I suspect my Father, very much the traditionalist, would not approve) before topping it with a generous amount of bolognaise sauce. In my family, we serve the pasta and sauce unmixed, since this leaves the individual diner to adjust the proportions of their meal to suit their tastes. But do as you will.

 

This makes an enormous quantity, about 5 quarts. Feel free to reduce the amount, but I prefer to make it in bulk because it freezes incredibly well and is extremely versatile. It is delicious over any kind of pasta, in lasagne or pasta bakes, over mashed potatoes, grilled eggplant, baked potatoes, or even in subs. 

Eggs in Purgatory

 

I keep seeing versions of this dish, popping up all over the place on my favorite blogs. Here’s my rendition. It’s another delicious alternative breakfast, and it puts to work my all-time favorite – and yet highly idiosyncratic – tomato sauce, which I created quite by accident.

 

Tomato sauces generally start out with a diced, sautéed onion and some garlic and crushed red pepper flakes. You then add the tomatoes, and simmer the whole thing over low heat for 20 minutes or so. I used to make tomato sauce for pasta in just this way, with excellent results.

 

And such was my plan one unprepossessing evening some years back. But, alas, I found the pantry devoid of the requisite onion, garlic, and crushed red pepper (how is that even possible?), forcing me to dispense with all three. Instead, I simply added the tomatoes directly to the olive oil, hoping for the best. Hungry and impatient, I cranked up the burner all the way, hoping to get the process going a bit quicker. When the phone rang, I rushed off to answer it, completely forgetting to turn the heat down. It was fifteen minutes before I realized that my tomato sauce was still bubbling volcanically over the highest heat.

 

I feared for the worst. Imagine my shock upon tasting the mixture, and finding it to be utterly delicious. But, in fact, it makes perfect sense: the high heat concentrates the flavor of tomatoes, rendering them sweeter and more mellifluous. And without the usual background soffrito, the tomatoes really sing. I’ve tweaked the basic recipe over the years (adding a glug of balsamic vinegar, and a little lump of butter with basil chiffonade at the end). But I’ve never looked back from the basic no onion-high-heat technique, and urge you to try it out too.

 

Ingredients:

6 eggs

freshly ground black pepper

 

For the tomato sauce:

1 tbsp olive oil

1 14.5 oz can diced tomatoes (I like Muir Glen’s); or (roughly) the same weight of fresh tomatoes, chopped

good salt

1 tbsp balsamic vinegar

1 tbsp butter

A handful of basil, cut into thin chiffonade strips

 

Method:

 

Preheat the oven to 375°F while you make the tomato sauce.

 

To do this, add the olive oil to a large, heavy-bottomed pot (or a wok) over high heat. Add the tomatoes, a good pinch of salt, and the balsamic vinegar. Let the mixture bubble furiously for about 15 minutes, stirring occasionally.

 

Then, when the sauce is as thick as you’d like it to be, take it off the heat. Add the butter and the basil chiffonade. Taste and adjust for seasoning and acidity.

 

Divide the tomato sauce between 6 ramekins, and then crack an egg over it. Bake for about 15 minutes, until the egg white is set, but the egg yolk is still runny. Give each yolk a good grind of black pepper, and serve with a devilish grin, or angelic aplomb (depending on your level of sinfulness).

 

Serves 6.

Cultural and Culinary Stereotypes: A Case Study

I’ve had Mexican food exactly twice in my life. In all fairness, I’ve only lived in Melbourne, Australia (where there is very little Mexican food) and Boston (where there is very little good Mexican food, or so I hear). All the same, I remain hugely ignorant on the subject of Mexican cuisine, much to my chagrin. So what am I doing posting this vaguely Mexican-looking recipe here?

This dish, I confess, represents my stereotype of Mexican food – the mental paradigm which I wish to alter and ultimately displace. For, much like Americans who invariably associate Australian culture with Crocodile Dundee and Steve Irwin, I invariably associate Mexican food with cilantro, lime, avocado, and black beans. In truth, the former stereotype irks me no end. There’s only so many grim smiles in response to the tired old ‘that’s not a knife, this is a knife’ chestnut that one’s cheek muscles can successfully pull off. Moreover, as someone who studies and teaches moral philosophy, I can assure you that there are few comparisons less flattering or conducive to one's would-be scholarly authority than the comparison with Steve Irwin (R.I.P.). It's hard to hold forth on Plato after one's students have inquired as to one's crocodile-hunting credentials. No wonder my accent is undergoing a seismic shift.

 

It is my hope that the consumption of this dish will set me free to go in search of authentic and interesting Mexican food, thus exorcising a (doubtless inaccurate) culinary stereotype. But what a tasty exorcism it was, and how often can you say that?

Pulled Pork Salad

 

Ingredients:

 

For the pulled pork: (adapted from this recipe)

1.5 lb pork tenderloin

½ cup red wine vinegar

¼ cup water

2 tbsp chipotles in adobo

2 tbsp agave nectar

2 tsp kosher salt

1 tsp mapuche spice

A pinch of red pepper flakes

 

For the avocado crème:

1 avocado

2 tbsp sour cream (I used light, which was fine)

Juice from 1 lime

A pinch of salt

For the salad:

1 punnet cherry tomatoes, halved

1 cucumber, peeled and sliced (preferably with a mandolin)

A large handful of cilantro, finely chopped

3 scallions, finely sliced

1 can black beans, drained and thoroughly rinsed

Juice from 1 lime

 

Method:

 

First, make the pulled pork. To do this, cut the pork tenderloin into large (about 2 inch) chunks. Then, combine the remaining ingredients for the pulled pork in a Dutch oven over high heat, and bring the mixture to a boil, stirring to combine.

 

Add the pork pieces, cover, and turn down the heat to low. Simmer for about 1 hour, until the pork is very tender.

 

Meanwhile, make the avocado crème by mashing the avocado flesh with the remaining ingredients, and adjusting for seasoning and acidity.

 

When the pork is done, shred it with two forks, and return it to the cooking liquid to moisten it.

 

Combine all the salad ingredients in a large bowl. Top with the pulled pork, and the avocado crème.

 

Serves 4 as a main.

Cauliflower Vischyssoise

 

A slight sniffle last week gave me a powerful craving for soup. I decided to make this soup for no other reason than that we had some cauliflower and leeks in the crisper, and I was feeling too lazy ill to trek to the store. My expectations were not especially high, but golly, was it good! Replacing the potato with the cauliflower lent a velvety texture and subtle nutty aroma to this otherwise classic soup. A steaming bowl of it cheered me up immensely, and quickly had me on the road to recovery. (Although I remain far too sick to sort out my laundry, naturally.)

 

Ingredients:

 

1 head cauliflower, defloreted (sorry, I couldn’t resist)

2 leeks, white parts only, rinsed and finely sliced

1 tbsp butter

1 quart vegetable or chicken stock

½ cup sour cream (I used light, and it was fine)

good salt and a whole nutmeg

 

Method:

 

Place a dutch oven over medium-low heat, and add the butter.

 

When the butter melts and bubbles, add the leeks. Let them cook gently, stirring occasionally, for about 10 minutes, or until they are a glossy tangle.

 

Add the cauliflower and the stock, and bring the mixture to a boil over high heat. Then cover the pot, reduce the heat to low, and simmer for about 30 minutes, or until the cauliflower is very soft.

 

Blitz the soup in a blender with the sour cream, and adjust the seasoning to taste. Serve hot, with a good grind of nutmeg.

 

Makes 2 huge bowls.

The War on Cereal, Continued

 

For the latest edition of my non-cereal breakfast ideas posts, I give you my favorite version of devilled eggs, featuring chipotle peppers in adobo in place of the usual mustard or hot sauce. It’s funny, actually: I never had much of a taste for chili peppers, until I discovered the smoky pleasures of chipotles here in the States. Oh, and have you tried chipotle mayonnaise? It’s like crack. You may end up eating the stuff straight out of the jar. At 3am. Only to be discovered by your puzzled spouse. Who then bogarts your supply. And who you then have to strangle. But, hey, at least you'll still have this breakfast to look forward to the morning after...

Chipotle Devilled Eggs

 

Ingredients:

8 hard-boiled eggs (about 8 minutes at a gentle simmer, followed by an ice bath, works for me)

2 tbsp mayonnaise

2 tbsp sour cream (I used light, which was fine)

2 tbsp chipotle in adobo (or to taste)

1 scallion, minced

A small handful cilantro, finely chopped

Paprika

Method:

 

Halve the eggs, and pop the yolks into a small bowl. Mash the yolks with all the remaining ingredients, except the paprika. Taste and add some salt, if necessary. Spoon the yolk mixture back into the egg whites, and sprinkle a little paprika over the top.

 

Serves 4.

 

P.S. As the picture shows, I like to serve these eggs with a finely sliced radish. Another welcome accompaniment is a glass of raw tomato juice (I just whizz up a tomato or two in a blender with a little basil, balsamic vinegar, good salt, and a splash of cold water. A celery stick for garnish is de rigueur, of course).

You Can Take the Girl Out of the College, But...

 

 

Remember those Gawd-awful cocktails that you probably made when you were in your college heyday? Pineapple juice, condensed milk, and peach schnapps, anyone? How’s about some canned guava nectar with a glug of bourbon? And I blush to recall the ‘signature drink’ I once created – morello cherries mixed with the finest (read: cheapest) New Zealand vodka that money could buy – for a party to honor my exit from a college sharehouse. It turned out to be a timely exit, because after that party, I’m sure the concrete beneath the balcony would never have regained its original hue (ahem). But I am a slow learner. When I moved into my next college sharehouse, our house-warming party showcased a bottle of truly horrible sherry mixed with defrosted strawberries and poured into a carved out cantaloupe. We called it (God help us) sangria.

Since then, my tastebuds have grown up a bit. I drink rarely, but when I do, I tend to stick to cheapish but reasonable reds, and the delectable single-malt scotch that Daniel has cultivated my taste for. But here’s a rather adult cocktail that I absolutely love. Daniel dubbed it a Kermit, since it’s so very, very green. It’s the platonic form of refreshment, and smells so delicious that even our kitties apparently couldn’t resist a whiff.

 

 

Kermit

 

Ingredients:

 

1 cucumber, peeled

1 lime, juiced

A handful of mint

½ cup cold water

A few ice cubes

1 shot of vodka

 

Method:

 

Blitz all the ingredients in a blender. Pour into a tall glass. Savor.

 

Makes 1 huge glass

 

P.S. I sometimes add a handful of green grapes and/or a peeled kiwi fruit for additional sweetness and tanginess, respectively.

P.P.S. I also love virgin kermits.

Sample Wedding Cake, the First

This blog is supposed to be (mostly) original recipes, but I just had to take a moment to blow off some steam about an unoriginal recipe. For this week, you see, I baked the first in (a now doubtless long line of) sample wedding cakes. That’s right, folks, we’re baking our own wedding cake, despite the fact that both of us have hitherto baked little more than a pan of brownies. Gosh, just reading that last sentence fills me with fear. Clearly, we’re crazy.

Anyway, it’s a joint project, but I executed this leg of it alone, since the cake was also doubling as a birthday cake for Daniel. (Happy Birthday, sweet bean!) I used Dede Wilson's Wedding Cakes You Can Bake (er, as opposed to what, exactly?), an admittedly straightforward and user-friendly guide to the whole process. Since we are both mad for chocolate and cherries, I quickly fixed upon the kirsch-soaked cherry and chocolate shavings cake with Italian buttercream. Never one to leave a recipe completely alone, I used sour cherries in place of the kirsch-soaked dried cherries, and substituted chocolate buttercream for cherry between the layers of the cake. But other than that, I followed the recipe to a tee (and for that reason, won’t transcribe it here). I even dutifully used the recommended brand of baking tins (Parish MagicLine, for those who're interested) and Magi-Strips. 

Even though I just made an 8-inch cake (no tiers), the whole process was pretty drawn out. I had to:

 

(1) make and cool the cake layers;

 

 

(2) apply the kirsch moistening syrup and the chocolate Italian buttercream to the torted layers;

 

 

(3) assemble the cake;

 

 

(4) apply the crumb coat and chill the cake; and

 

 

(5) frost the cake with vanilla Italian buttercream.

 

 

It took me over seven hours, all told. I didn’t mind, especially since no step was particularly hard (even the buttercream presented no problem). Besides, I love a big kitchen project from time to time.

But when we blew out the candles and I tasted my slice, profound disappointment set in. Despite Wilson’s promise to deliver cakes that not only look good but also taste good, this was no show-stopper. Notwithstanding the 12oz of Scharffen Berger bittersweet chocolate in the creation, the chocolate flavor was far too subtle for my liking. The sour cherries were incongruously sour (my own fault, of course) in contrast to the extreme (and rather sickly) sweetness of the rest of the confection, and the Italian buttercream left me cold. Now, it's not that the recipe was bad, you understand, but just that the results weren't for me. Normally, that would have been fine, but in view of all the work it took to make the cake, I must admit that I was a little bitter. The birthday boy alleged to enjoy it, but I nonetheless sensed a lack of relish behind the gratitude. He didn’t even go back for seconds.

 

Still, I think I learned something. To wit:

 

1)     A crumb coat is not in fact made of crumbs. (I am blushing in shame at this longstanding misconception).

2)     When it comes to assembling layered cakes and frosting them evenly, too much practice is never enough (as the pictures show, this first cake is pretty haphazard looking).

3)     It makes sense to split big baking projects over a few days – by the time I got to the final coat of frosting, I was too tired to care.

4)     I don’t like Italian buttercream. Despite containing only egg whites, sugar, and butter, it tasted to me like Crisco. Blech.

5)     If you’re going to make a chocolate cake, go big or go home.

For our next attempt, we’re thinking of trying a rich chocolate cake with a raspberry cream filling, and a different kind of frosting entirely. Maybe 7-minute frosting? An American buttercream? Would that look as pretty as the Italian buttercream? Please help me, experienced bakers! I’m so lost! I’d be extremely grateful for any advice, especially other wedding cake or frosting recipe recommendations.

Labne Balls, Three Ways

 

I had my first taste of labne back in college, at my friend Y’s house. Y and I had bonded over being the only Jewish girls at Melbourne University (OK, not really, but there isn’t a big Jewish population in Australia, at least not compared to the States. People used to assume we were sisters, even though we looked nothing alike. This amused us no end).

 

Anyway, Y was Israeli, whereas I am (half) Ashkenazi, descended from German and Polish stock on my Father’s side. So, although I wasn’t raised Jewish (or anything else for that matter), I’d noshed on gefilte fish and suchlike from time to time. But I’d never had the chance to taste Israeli food before that one fateful afternoon at Y’s house in the dreary Melbourne suburbs. I remember her casually laying out some homemade labne with crackers for an afternoon snack. I was floored by its deliciousness. Indeed, the taste stuck with me long after my friendship with Y had dissolved (over some silly boy, predictably enough).

 

How can I describe labne? Subtle but intense; unctuous but tangy; and with a texture like silly putty, which is much more appealing than it sounds. It’s also ridiculously easy to make.

 

So, you might ask, why haven’t I made it during the last seven years? The problem is that, in order to make it, you need cheesecloth. Cheesecloth, people, cheesecloth. And – for reasons I shall shortly explain – cheesecloth is just not something I feel comfortable buying at the grocery store.

 

A revelation came to me though, one afternoon, when I was browsing the internet, searching for orange blossom water. I could buy cheesecloth online! A few clicks later, the deed was done. When a nondescript package arrived for me at the house a week or so later, Daniel was curious, and suggested I open it. I did so sheepishly. When out came the cheesecloth, he raised a puzzled eyebrow. ‘We buy our cheesecloth online now?’ he inquired. I shrugged, blushed a delightful shade of fuchsia, and mumbled that it wasn’t available anywhere local.

 

I lied. You see, I just can’t bring myself to walk into Wholefoods, slip a packet of cheesecloth into my cart, and casually add it to my purchases on the conveyor belt. I mean, what if someone saw? For, although I freely admit that I’m pretty domesticated, buying cheesecloth is surely one (potentially ruinous) step too far in the Martha Stewart direction. Buying cheesecloth seems of a piece, to me, with ironing sheets, strategically positioning throw cushions, tucking lavender sachets into impeccably organized sock drawers, and other frightening acts of middle class domiciliary perfectionism. Indeed, just having cheesecloth in the house feels close to a betrayal of my feminist principles, and sort of makes me want to shriek.

 

So, if I were ever to buy cheesecloth in person, I would want it to be stashed behind the counter, so that I could point to it discretely and wordlessly. I would want the cashier to wrap it in a brown paper parcel so I could stow it surreptitiously under my raincoat as I stole into the street, eyes cast firmly downward. Perhaps under those circumstances, I could bring myself to buy cheesecloth at a store.

 

In the meantime, thank goodness for amazon. 

 

Labne Balls, Three Ways

 

Ingredients:

 

200g Greek yoghurt (I used Fage 0% fat, which was fine)

½ tsp salt

A handful of mint, minced

3-5 sprigs thyme, minced

1 tbsp grains of paradise (or cracked black pepper, if you don’t have it)

Zest from 1 lemon

Special equipment: cheesecloth

 

Method:

 

Line a strainer with the dreaded cheesecloth, and set it over a large bowl.

 

Mix the yoghurt and salt together, and put it in the strainer. Cover it loosely in plastic wrap, and leave it to strain in the fridge for about 2 days. By this time, the yoghurt mixture will be very thick.

 

Mix together the mint and thyme; pound the grains of paradise in a mortar and pestle until they are coarsely ground.

 

Now, take about a teaspoon of the yoghurt mixture at a time, and roll it into about 12 balls. Roll four balls in the lemon zest, four balls in the mint and thyme mixture, and four balls in the grains of paradise.

 

Enjoy on whole wheat crackers or with pita bread, for an elegant appetizer or snack. (So elegant, in fact, that I reckon Martha herself would approve.)