tasty

Invoking Korea: I am madly in love with all pancakes.

~ wellfedemily ~ 2 Comments

Much as I love home, every so often (three to six times per week) I consider escape. Sometimes it’s the weather, and periodically it’s people – sometimes it’s both (though rarely is it some of the weather or all of the people). Sometimes the grey is all around and the idea of putting on a coat or fighting back is exhausting and you don’t care enough to do either because it’s the west coast and there will always be damp and because some people are going to rain on your parade whether it’s warranted or not. And that’s when I think of Korea. I’ve never been there. They do clever things with cabbage and have excellent pancakes.

A million years ago now, when I was very small, my grandpa returned from Korea with a pair of pretty dolls in blue dresses. They had marabou fans and elaborate hairstyles and I thought that everything pretty like that came from Japan until Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? And then I found out where Reykjavik was and then I thought I knew everything. I hope you know that those two thoughts are not completely related. Korea. Seoul. I want to go.

Dollies.

Seven years ago I attempted to teach a Korean family English. They’d hired me as a tutor, totally unqualified, and they were so earnest and funny that I couldn’t wait to see them every week. They tried to teach me a thing about Korea for every thing I taught them about Canada or grammar or homonyms, and often that involved food. They had one son, Daniel, who was ten years old and worried that strangers would kidnap him because of his handsomeness. I told him to be wary of vans and free candy. His mother taught me about salty little dried fish and kim chi, and I’ve since tried in vain to find anything as good as the stuff she made at home. Her tofu was not the stuff of hippies.

My love affair continues, and with each passing year I wonder how it’s possible that I haven’t made it there yet. If my bank account contained enough for airfare, or if airfare was forty dollars, which I have, I’d be gone. (Don’t worry: When I go, I’m taking Nick with me.)

But it’s not my turn. This week David is leaving. He’s going to Amsterdam to ride his bike to Istanbul, and then he’s probably going to Germany to get even more educated, and he’s already one of the top eight smartest people I know. I assume he will miss Vancouver’s diverse culinary scene, most particularly the Asian stuff. It’s good here. Very good, every kind. Also I’m kind of selfish and have been harbouring escape fantasies, and so I planned for a room of us to dine Korean and send him off while I attempt to live kind of vicariously through David. Well, kind of Korean. I really wanted the pancake. (I really want all pancakes.)

As with all my plans, what started off as a quiet little evening soon grew to include all the people who actually ought to have been invited, and soon there were ten. In my mind, that was a totally reasonable number to try and feed, so I estimated that dinner would take a total of twenty minutes to prepare. In future, I will make time for what I like to call “inevitable realizations,” or: “I have no pans big enough to make this much food.” Thankfully, Greg offered his place across the street as a venue. I bought four pounds of Chinese noodles, many little bags of baby bok choy, and too many green things that I would have to accommodate in some way, probably the oven. I also had to double the pancake recipe, and because of that, bake it instead of fry it, which turned out more than okay, like Korean Toad in the Hole.

I’ve decided that you really ought to have my doubled-up recipe, and that you should probably bake it.

Pa jun or pajeon, or: “That really good pancake I like.”

  • 2 cups all-purpose flour
  • 2 cups rice flour
  • 4 eggs, lightly beaten
  • 3 cups cold club soda (or beer)
  • 1 tbsp. plus 1/4 cup canola oil
  • 1 cup green onions
  • 1 cup carrots, peeled and julienned
  • 1 cup zucchini, julienned
  • 1 small onion, sliced into thin strips
  • 1 tablespoon red pepper flakes
  • 2 tsp. salt
  • 2 tsp. black pepper

Grease a baking sheet with 1/4 cup of the oil. Preheat your oven to 400°F. Add your baking sheet and let the oven and the sheet heat up together.

Pull the baking sheet out of the oven once the “it’s not ready” red light goes out (which means it’s ready). Add your vegetables.

I tell you to julienne things, but then I don't do it myself because I kind of hate doing that because it takes too long. I guess you don't have to. Just cut everything really thin.
I tell you to julienne things, but then I don't do it myself because I kind of hate doing that because it takes too long. I guess you don't have to. Just cut everything really thin.

In a large bowl, mix your flours, your eggs, your soda, one tablespoon of oil, your salt, pepper, and chili flakes, and whisk to combine. Pour over the veggies, tucking any strays into the batter blob.

Batter blob.Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, until golden brown.

Large tray of pancake.Serve with a quick little sauce, and a bit of kim chi, which I’d meant to include but totally forgot about. The sauce?

Cho Ganjang

  • 4 tbsp. soy sauce
  • 4 tbsp. cheongju (Korean rice wine) or sake
  • 4 tbsp. rice vinegar
  • 2 tbsp. sesame oil
  • 4 tbsp. lemon juice
  • Salt, to taste

Serve to others. Because there is no love like the love between people who love pancakes.

A good-looking chap, yes?
A good-looking chap, yes?
Feasty, on Chinette.
Feasty, on Chinette.

Of course I am excited for David and his magical adventures. Though it is beginning to feel like time for my own adventures. Sometimes you fall into them, and sometimes your life pushes you in – I’ll let you know what compels me, once something finally does.

In the meantime, eat pancakes.

And then smile, lay on the floor, and be full.
And then smile, lay on the floor, and be full.

Clams in porter and cream: If there’s a better title, I can’t think of it.

~ wellfedemily ~ Leave a comment

Friday, in the middle of the day, I had to supplement the wine with a Diet Coke because I was just having too much fun. I kneaded enthusiastically. I needed a nap. Of course that meant that I overcooked the bread – I forgot the buzzer and woke to wondering how much longer was left on the loaf, only to find that instead of golden it was a dark – though edible – brown. Also, because sometimes when I’m shopping I’m drunk filled with tremendous enthusiasm for the next feast, I accidentally grabbed the whole wheat flour that acts and sort of tastes like white flour (the word “SALE!” is like onomatopoeia to me – I see it and I think of a joyful noise and it compels me) – the colour is odd, but Grace was kind and said the finished loaf looked “artisanal,” which I can’t actually define but I think means “crusty and way too high in fibre.”

No matter – the little biscuits for the strawberries turned out perfectly, so all was not lost. Small victories. But then Grace brought lemon slice in cake form, so we ate the peppered berries and honeyed cream that way, and it was even better. I ate the biscuits and the leftover berries and drank the leftover wine for breakfast. I wrote about them here.

Almost all of my photos from the evening turned out blurry. Fortunately, Grace also brought a tripod and her good camera. And I am now in possession of a few glamour shots of the meal, so it’s time now to tell you all about it.

Brownish caramelized onion and fennel bread.
Brownish caramelized onion and fennel bread.
Green and white asparagus baked in olive oil with garlic.
Green and white asparagus baked in olive oil with garlic.
Grace's pretty salad. Fresh greens, and dressing she made herself: Roasted red peppers, garlic, olive oil, happy thoughts.
Grace's pretty salad. Fresh greens, and dressing she made herself: Roasted red peppers, garlic, olive oil, happy thoughts.

I couldn’t tell which of us was trying to seduce the other, except that we’re both very sloppy drunks and then two bottles in, James called and offered to bring us wine, and Paul called and asked what we were doing and then came over with some beer and an empty bottle of ketchup so nothing life-changing really happened. Nothing life-changing except for this:

Clams have feelings too? I don't think they do.
Clams have feelings too? I don't think they do.
Another angle, because they were just so damn sexy.
Another angle, because they were just so damn sexy.

And it’s possible that I’m exaggerating and tooting my own horn here. But I don’t think so. What do you need to make this happen in your kitchen? Not much. Not much at all.

Ingredient pile, with wine. These next two pictures come from my camera, which explains their wobbly suckiness. We'll conclude with Grace.
Ingredient pile, with wine. These next two pictures come from my camera, which explains their wobbly suckiness. We'll conclude with Grace.

Clams in porter and cream

(Serves four, unless one of you is me or Grace)

  • 4 lbs. clams
  • 2 tbsp. olive oil
  • 1 medium-sized onion
  • 1 medium-sized bulb of fennel
  • 3 cloves chopped garlic
  • 1/2 cup beef stock (you can use chicken if you want)
  • 1 tsp. salt
  • 1 tsp. black pepper
  • 1 cup porter or other dark beer
  • 1 cup heavy cream
  • 1 cup chopped mushrooms
  • 1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley

Before you do anything, make sure your clams are clean. Soak them in a bath of cold-to-lukewarm water, 4 cups water to 1/3 cup salt. Your clams will spit out any sand they’ve got kicking around inside their shells – you may need to repeat this process two to three times to be sure you’ve got it all. Nothing’s grosser than a mouthful of sea dirt.

My pretties.
My pretties.

When they’re good and clean and you’re ready to get on with it, heat the oil in a large pot, and caramelize your onions, garlic, and fennel, deglazing the pan as needed with the beef stock. Add the salt and pepper.

When everything’s golden and smells good, add the beer, the cream, stir it all up, then add the clams. Steam these with the lid on until the beautiful little guys open, ten to fifteen minutes. Possibly longer, if they’re stubborn. Which can totally happen. Shake the pan frequently to ensure that all the clams touch the heat and the liquid.

Before serving, add in the mushrooms, stir to coat and cook lightly, and then dump the whole thing into a big bowl. Garnish with the parsley. This is excellent over pasta, or just as is, with lots and lots of bread. Drink lots of dry white or pink wine. Sigh repeatedly over your contented fullness.

And then eat this:

Lemon slice topped with peppered strawberries and whipped cream with honey.
Lemon slice topped with peppered strawberries and whipped cream with honey.

The whole meal had a soothing, sedative effect on the both of us, and we never made it out to karaoke, as planned. Come to think of it, many of the meals I’ve shared with Grace have done more to lull than energize: Perhaps our diets are too rich? Maybe we gorge ourselves too much? Maybe there’s more to life than eating and possibly we could eat less and venture out into the world a bit more, because it is Friday after all and we have to consider our youth? Maybe, but I doubt it. It’s probably just the wine.

Chana masala, eight years ago, and the only thing I miss about Surrey.

~ wellfedemily ~ 3 Comments

A quasi-Indian feast.

My first encounters with chana masala were from a place off the highway in Surrey called Kwality Sweets, a tiny little shop that sold samosas by the paper bag, three for a dollar, and you could pay any way you liked unless Mrs. Sekhon was working, and then you could only pay cash. I think Kwality Sweets provided me my first taste of chick peas.

Later, when I began spending weekly evenings in Burnaby with my grandmother, we’d go to the Himalaya in Vancouver at Main & 49th with my aunt and uncle, and the chana masala was heaped onto a plate with the samosas, which I think you got two of. My grandmother liked that place, and the waiter, George, who had been raised in India.

Ever since George, I cannot think of men like Rudyard Kipling without imagining anyone’s old dad or grandfather, grey slacks belted high on the waist, and the accent. If you closed your eyes when George spoke, you’d have thought he was turbaned and bearded, not blue-eyed and balding. His syllables, mottled and pleasant, undulating like a car rolling downhill on octagon tires, reminded me of the way that the chatty men spoke, those men always dressed in colourful turbans and white dhotis or Umbro tracksuits and dress shoes, seated on Kwality Sweets’ plastic deck chairs, nice men who would always ask if this was my first samosa, and had I had the jalebis? Yes, of course, I’d answer – they’re my favourite. George never asked me what I liked. It didn’t matter, and I was okay with that – I was a teenage girl, and he was more interesting than me.

George did not seem to be a fan of most of his customers, but Cuddles found him curious, and soon, like John and Chris of the Penny Farthing, he knew her order and they would chat. He would bring her the fiery pickled carrots and the minty green chutney, and he would almost, almost smile. Indian food was a kind rebellion, she told me once, a thing my grandfather would never have eaten. He liked curry, she said – he just didn’t know it. She would sneak hints of the yellow powder into his food. A trace of it in regular old potato salad makes all the difference in the world.

After my grandmother, my aunt and uncle remained familiar to George. I did not, though we would still stop in for a samosa, a plate of chicken tikka, and a little square box of jalebis and gulab jamun, and maybe a slice or two of barfi, which I think must be Indian shortbread. The last time I was there, George was too, although there was no small talk. He served Nick and I quickly, if disinterestedly, and I left a very large tip.

Indian food in the city is not like it was in the suburbs, where little sweet shops with the same blue and white and red signs that were all or almost all in Punjabi are pretty much everywhere now. The Himalaya is a rarity out here, where places like Vij’s, Maurya, and Chutney Villa turn out delightful delicacies that, while fantastic, are not what you’d qualify as comfort food. And they cost too much. Mrs. Sekhon would not charge you eight dollars for a small plate of chana masala. George would give it to you for free.

And so, periodically, when it seems like time again for a chick pea, I like to whip up an easy batch of spicy goodness, served with rice, and sweet potatoes and spinach simmered in coconut milk and nutmeg and lime, and a lazy sort of raita. It’s as satisfying a feast as I remember, even if it is my own spin on things, because it would feel like infidelity to produce the same meal exactly. Like ratting out your mother’s rumball recipe, it’s a thing you don’t do without at least a dozen years’ distance. So, stay tuned. As my moral fibre unravels, you can expect a perfect reproduction and detailed instruction in about a decade. (Not quite as soon for the rumballs. My mom insists that she will endure.)

Chana masala is a very easy thing to make. My version is utterly inauthentic, but it’s soothing and wonderful, and tastes enough like the stuff to pass, even if you cannot find your garam masala, which I couldn’t. So this recipe doesn’t call for it. Which makes it all the easier to make at home. I wonder if that means it isn’t chana masala? Maybe not. But I wouldn’t bother trying to come up with a new name.

Weeknight Chana Masala

  • 1 tbsp. butter
  • 1 tsp. coriander seeds (if you don’t have coriander seeds, ground coriander is fine, although if you’re using ground, then add it later, with the other dry spices)
  • 1 onion, chopped
  • 3 cloves minced garlic
  • 2 tsp. finely minced fresh ginger
  • 1 14 oz. can (about 1 1/2 cups fresh) diced tomatoes
  • 1 tbsp. chili powder
  • 2 tsp. ground cumin
  • 1/2 tsp. cayenne pepper (I use a full teaspoon, but Nick told me that I should tell you to use less, because you might not expect it to be as hot as it is, which is how we/I like it … I think he thinks you’re a wimp)
  • 1/4 tsp. cinnamon
  • 1 tsp. ground black pepper
  • 1 19 oz. can (2 cups) chick peas
  • 1 lime, just the juice
  • Salt, to taste
  • About 1/4 cup of cilantro, a third of which is reserved for sprinkling on top

In a pan on the stove, melt the butter. Add the coriander seeds. Give them about a minute, and then add your onions, garlic, and ginger. The smell will be pungent and fantastic. Once the onions have cooked until translucent, add in your tomatoes, juice and all. At this point, you’ll want to add in your dry spices, all of them. And the smell gets a bit stronger, and you’ll feel slightly more alive.

Add in your chick peas, and squish the lime juice over top. Reduce the whole thing until the juices all but disappear. You want it to be thick and rich, not runny. I didn’t add any salt, but here’s the point where you want to taste and adjust your seasonings.

Chick peas getting awesome.Just before you serve this, toss in most of the cilantro. Reserve the rest for topping. Eat with naan bread, and something to sop up the spice (if you used a full teaspoon of cayenne pepper). I also served it with rice, and mashed sweet potatoes and spinach (simmer two medium sweet potatoes in a can of coconut milk, the zest of one lime, a bit of garlic and ginger, and a half teaspoon of nutmeg until the liquid has pretty much disappeared and the potatoes are tender, add a handful of spinach, and then mash).

Chana masala and side dishes.With a crisp sauvignon blanc or dry rosé, this is excellent. Nick forgot what I asked him to grab on the way home, so we had a fresh little pinot gris, and it was also tasty. For dessert, I’ll cut into a fresh, perfect yellow melon I found at the store on the way home, because I do not have jalebi, or gulab jamun, or even barfi, and I don’t know how to make them. I imagine in India, and even in Surrey, that melon is perfectly acceptable when jalebis are unavailable. I may drive out there this weekend, just for a small square box, all my own.

Feasty.

Sweet potato gnocchi: Just because you’re broke doesn’t mean you have to eat poverty food.

~ wellfedemily ~ 7 Comments

Sweet potato gnocchi with sundried tomatoes and basil.

When I called this thing “well fed, flat broke,” it was because payday was looming on the not-too-distant horizon and we had no money, but the quality of our meals did not suffer. And I thought it was appropriate, because even on nights when we literally have nothing left to show for all our hard work, we still manage to eat fantastically well.

This is in part due to my compulsive tendency to hoard when times are good – we always have a fridge full of basics that can be spun into something you’d want to eat. I think it’s also because our cute little existences would end in very clumsy suicide if we had to come home to Kraft Dinner and wieners every night once the cable’s been cut off (it has) and our astronomical debt rears its ugly head (it continues to). I cook because we love to eat, and because we don’t care to be reminded all the time about how many ways we suck (so stop calling, Canada Student Loans). A good meal makes us feel better, like regular people who are good at life and who manage to live on what they earn. A crappy meal reminds us that we are little more than 26- and 27-year-old children playing grown-up. So we are well fed.

And, today, we are flat broke.

But I have basil in the fridge, and sundried tomatoes, and sweet potatoes, and I felt like dining in a spot of sunshine and pretending I was anywhere else, and preferably somewhere where sand in my bathing suit would be my biggest worry at any given time. It’s very easy to indulge those fantasies – all you need is a little bit of preparation.

Oh! Before I get started, I wanted to show you what I mean by “two medium sweet potatoes.” I find that the size of vegetables is very subjective and varies from place to place and depends on what time of year it is.

I am aware of the unfortunate resemblance ... I wanted to show you the shot from the other angle, but at that point the resemblance wasn't merely unfortunate, it was uncanny, and sort of gross.
I am aware of the unfortunate resemblance.

Sweet potato gnocchi

  • 2 medium sweet potatoes, baked (bake in a 400°F oven for one hour – cool completely before working with these … I recommend doing this the night before)
  • 2 1/2 cups flour (plus additional flour for kneading – the amount will depend on how much moisture is in your sweet potatoes)
  • 1 egg
  • 1 tbsp. orange zest
  • 1/2 tsp. nutmeg
  • 1/2 tsp. white pepper
  • 1 tsp. salt

In a large bowl, mash your sweet potatoes. Add the flour, the egg, the orange zest, and the nutmeg, white pepper, and salt.

Ingredients.Mix these together until the whole thing forms a dough. It will be a very soft dough, which means that you will need to work a bit more flour into it. As mentioned, this amount is variable, and depends on how wet your potatoes are – I needed an additional cup, plus some to keep the gnocchi from sticking together once formed.

Once a dough is formed, divide it into six chunks of about equal size. I saved one, and threw the rest into the fridge to keep them cool while I worked. Roll the chunk out into a long dough snake. (Official term.) I rolled mine until it was about a half-inch in diameter. Then, cut the dough into small pieces, about half to three-quarters of an inch. If you know how to roll the gnocchi with a fork to make it look nice, go for it. If you’re like me and you just mangle the shit out of it, then you can call the little pieces done. Put them on a tray lined with floured parchment while you cut apart the rest of the dough.

Throw these in a pot of boiling water, and then when they rise to the top, they’re done, about seven minutes. You’ll probably end up with more than you can eat, and if that’s the case then you can freeze the uncooked gnocchi for another fun time.

Once cooked, I tossed these in a pan with two tablespoons melted butter, a 1/2 cup of chopped sundried tomatoes, a whole roasted garlic (with the cloves squished out), and a generous smattering of basil (reserve a bit to top the pasta with). I also threw in a handful of parmesan cheese.

Gnocchi in pan.Serve topped with fresh basil and parmesan cheese. Imagine you’re somewhere drenched in sun that smells like lemons. Drink red wine. Eat. Enjoy.

It may not look like a lot, but this was remarkably filling. Nick couldn't even finish my leftovers.
It may not look like a lot, but this was remarkably filling. Nick couldn’t even finish my leftovers.

Sometimes I feel like I am being followed around by my own personal fail whale, and I am not Ahab. Or, “Coconut Layer Cake: A delicious summer treat.”

~ wellfedemily ~ 2 Comments

-51

As a 1930s wife, I am

Very Poor (Failure)

Take the test!

And I am reminded again of my many failings. And though I don’t put too much stock in this one – Nick took the husband version of the test and was also slapped with a big fat FAIL – it does remind me that I do suck at a great many things. This does, and the cake I made for Sooin.

The cake was delicious: coconut, sweet, and frosted with goat cheese icing. But it was fugly as all get-out, and by now, I’ve run through all the different ways in which it was not my fault (I lost my round cake pans, my apartment was too hot and the icing didn’t set, there was not enough time, there’s never enough time). Tasty though it was, if we’re judging on appearance, I get another big fat FAIL. I wish I made cakes that look like this:

SuperStock_1555R-191028But I make cakes that look like this:

Cake (not pretty).My cake has personality. And character. That other cake is probably made with Splenda and ground-up babies. And it will probably give you cancer. It’s too pretty – you can’t trust it.

Make my cake. Use your round cake pans, cut each layer in half and stack them together, and ice the thing when the weather is cooler. As I mentioned, I made a frosting with goat cheese, and it was lovely – just make cream cheese icing, but instead of cream cheese, use goat cheese. It’s tart and wonderful and will make a rich, delicious frosting that you’ll want to eat with your fingers. But I was thinking about it today, and I think it would have been even better as a layer cake frosted and filled with whipped cream. It would have been effortless, and beautiful if sprinkled with a smattering of toasted coconut.

Coconut Layer Cake

(Two 8-inch round cake pans. Or one 9×13 slab.)

  • 1 cup butter
  • 2 cups granulated sugar
  • 4 large eggs, separated
  • 3 cups all-purpose flour
  • 2 tsp. baking powder
  • 1/2 tsp. salt
  • 1 cup unsweetened coconut milk
  • 1 tsp. vanilla extract

Preheat your oven to 350°F.

In a large bowl, cream together your butter and sugar until the mixture is lighter in colour and fluffy. Drop in your yolks (reserve your whites in a separate bowl), and continue to beat.

Mix together the flour, baking powder, and salt. While still beating the butter/sugar/egg mixture, add the flour in by the cup. After the first cup of flour, add in about half of the coconut milk. And then add another cup of the flour, and then the other half of the coconut milk. Add in the vanilla, and then the final cup of flour. Beat it.

In that other bowl, whip your egg whites until they form stiff peaks. Once these are all ready to go, fold these into the batter.

Egg whites being folded into batter.What’s folding? It’s easier than maybe it sounds. You’ll literally be folding the batter over the egg whites, combining the two substances gently until one is integrated into the other.

Pour into your cake pans, which you will, of course, have lined along the bottom with perfectly fitted parchment paper. Bake for 30 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out of the centre clean. Let rest in pans for five minutes, then turn onto racks to cool. I really think you should frost this with too much whipped cream.

Serve. Enjoy. Personality goes a long way.

Blurry photo of cake.

Fish wrapped in grape leaves: Better than fish not wrapped in grape leaves. (Fact.)

~ wellfedemily ~ 5 Comments

Fish and veggies.

Today we were supposed to have pork tenderloin again, something we eat a lot of during the week because it’s so quick and easy. But then yesterday we were at Nick’s sister Sharon’s place, and she handed me a bag of blue cod, because apparently she was the only one at her house who would eat fish tacos so she ended up stuck with a bunch of fish she had no use for. Cue the thirty-year-old man-child giggles over fish tacos, and I end up with a few free fishies and an awesome plan.

A few weeks ago, I stumbled across a jar of grape leaves at the market and got all excited – I was going to make dolmades, which are pretty much just Greek meatballs wrapped in briny leaves. And then I forgot. And then I got fish. So I decided that today was a day for white fish and lemon zest and garlic and basil and just a dribble of olive oil, and pretending that we’re anywhere but here. Odd how the heat here is unbearable, but if I were mostly naked and being slathered in oil on some Mediterrannean shore by someone named Nikolas or whatever Greek men are called, it would be infinitely easier to endure. Here, I suffer the heat and Canadian Nicholas and his ongoing love affair with Game Cube Zelda, which he has played for hours and hours, for days on end. He is less Greek than anyone else alive.

“You’ve never seen a real game binge yet,” he says. He is going to wake up to find that a terrible fate has befallen his thumbs. And I will be all kinds of surprised.

But anyway.

I had grape leaves.

Fish on leaves.I can’t tell you how many leaves you will need, because it depends entirely on the shape and size of your fillet. I needed five, because the grape leaves varied in size. You may need more, or less, but fortunately you get quite a lot in a jar.

I topped the fish, which was not frozen, with a little bit of lemon zest, some chopped garlic (perhaps too much), some fresh chopped basil, and just a taste of olive oil. A little black pepper, but no salt. The grape leaves are salty enough, so salt once you’ve tasted the finished product. You can’t unsalt a thing.

Wrap the fish in the leaves, covering it completely.

Wrapped fishy.Drizzle the packet in oil, both sides. Then place it on the barbecue or in a pan on the stove. Three minutes per side over medium heat should be more than enough – less if you have a very thin piece, more if you are working with a big thick chunk.

Fishies on grill.Serve with a drizzle of lemon, with fresh vegetables on the side. I chose asparagus, because I always forget that I’ve bought asparagus and wind up with way too much at any given time. I also made a stuffed tomato salad out of a little chopped tomato innards, some grated cucumber, yogurt, a handful of cooked bulgur (which I have on hand because it makes excellent, filling salads for work lunches), a pinch of fresh garlic, and some mint. Very refreshing, and just enough for a day where the air is still heavy with heat and the clouds have started to roll in and make things muggy.

DinnerIt’s started to cool off though, so tonight I will make muffins. If they go as well as I think they will, I will report back tomorrow. In the meantime, I have to go make fun of a 27-year-old boy who’s imagining himself a trotting, dragon-slaying dork elf. This could happen to you:

If I don't mock it in its tracks, who will?
If I don't mock it in its tracks, who will?

Grilled (and then chilled) potato salad, or, “How to Accessorize a Meatfest.”

~ wellfedemily ~ 1 Comment

It’s been oppressive-hot around here, and I have not felt like writing these past few days. We continue to eat, but the act of balancing hot computer on lap has been less than appealing. But then Nick started playing video games for hours on end, so a retreat to the bedroom (to Nick’s non-laptop computer) was in order.

Yesterday was one of those half-naked, stand-by-your-fan kind of days, and though I promised Grace a meatfest, I wasn’t able to deliver it in my apartment. Slow-cooking heats 600 square feet remarkably quickly, and as Canadian Tire was out of big fans, we’re currently operating with just the one. So I made the food, and transported it to Grace’s, who’s apartment was much more temperate.

But one should not make a meal of meat alone. No. I made the ribs that I wrote about before, except that I used pork side ribs this time, and the result was even better. (Also, I noticed that I screwed up typing the recipe for the barbecue sauce, so I’ve now fixed it. Oops. Sorry.) Last week I went to Costco, and confronted by two sets of meat, back ribs and side ribs, side by side, I couldn’t decide what was better. The side ribs worked out well – very meaty. Was pleased. I couldn’t make the full amount, because when I finally got most of these defrosted, the bottom rack was still frozen. Good thing: I don’t have an oven big enough to cook that much meat.

SDC10498Anyway, I decided that we really ought to have a summer salad as well, and maybe something with potatoes – I found some lovely new and purple potatoes at the market that morning. Of course, it was intolerable inside and I certainly did not want to hang out over a pot on the stove, so I decided to grill the potatoes. Every recipe I found for grilled potato salad sounded very good, but it was all for warm potato salad, which was really not appealing. Here is my alternative:

Grilled Potato Salad with Tarragon Aoili

  • 4 cups grilled chopped potatoes
  • 1 cup grilled asparagus, chopped
  • 1 cup grilled green beans, chopped
  • 2 cups whole grape tomatoes
  • 4 slices bacon, chopped

As mentioned, you’ll want your vegetables to be grilled and then chopped. Except for the tomatoes. Keep them fresh and raw for a delightful pop. Once your vegetables come off the grill, allow them to cool for awhile, until you can handle them comfortably. Make sure to parboil your potatoes before grilling: Give them six to eight minutes in boiling water, or until they’re almost done. Fry the bacon. But don’t stand over the stove-top too long.

cooling veggies

Aoili:

  • 1 egg
  • 1 clove garlic
  • 1 tsp. dijon mustard
  • zest and juice of one lemon
  • 1 tsp. salt
  • 1/2 tsp. pepper
  • 1 cup olive oil (use good stuff. Or use grapeseed oil. Hell, you could even use canola – it doesn’t matter. Use what you like.)
  • 2 tbsp. fresh tarragon

Blend the egg, garlic, mustard, zest, salt, and pepper in a food processor until the garlic has broken down and is in tiny little pieces that you can’t quite see. Slowly pour in the oil (while the blade is in motion). This will produce mayonnaise, which is awesome. Dribble in the lemon juice, and add the tarragon, continuing to process until the herb has been destroyed and thoroughly integrated.

This will make more aioli than is necessary for the salad, but that’s good news. You can use the rest on vegetables, or spread it on sandwiches. Either way, don’t use it all, and don’t throw it out either.

Toss the veggies and bacon with the dressing, as much or as little as you like, and return it to the fridge for at least an hour before serving. Let those flavours sink in!

Serve cold, with meat.

potato saladAnd then we went to Grace’s. And Grace took lovely pictures of the food. She has photography skills.

A plate of ribs in flattering yellow light.
A plate of ribs in flattering yellow light.
Another shot of food in flattering yellow light. Grace has good lighting. I look much better there.
Another shot of food in flattering yellow light. Grace has good lighting. I look much better there.
And now, the eating process in three slides.
And now, the eating process in three slides.
SPEED!
SPEED!
I like how you can see me in the side of this shot, nerding out and taking my own photos of the food. Fail?
I like how you can see me in the side of this shot, nerding out and taking my own photos of the food. Fail?

The result was a delicious feast that I was pleased to have endured a day of heat to make, all things said and done. Grace made margaritas, and we drank wines. And then Grace produced a rhubarb shortcake with whipped cream that was all sorts of revelatory, and I learned that rosemary and rhubarb are a magical pairing that I would like more of. Possibly every day. Holy crap. I wish there was a photo. And with that, I now must figure out how to feed myself while wearing almost nothing and not turning on the stove, as despite the cloud cover, it’s still very warm. Goodbye, for now.

Nothing says “I love you” like a freezer full of meat. This is a post about ice cream.

~ wellfedemily ~ 2 Comments

Admittedly, I am quite terrible when it comes to romance. I giggle at all the serious parts, and when it gets really uncomfortable romantic, I can’t help but make a hilarious fart joke or something equally awesome juvenile. At my wedding, to break up all the awkward love/forever stuff, I made Nick give me a high-five right before the kiss part. I like to think that romantic overtures are his job, because he’s no good at it either, so when he fails I can cry and say it’s all his fault that we don’t sparkle. And then I throw up a little in my mouth.

But Nick has been away for three days, and he won’t be back until late this evening. And he won’t be all that hungry, but it’s been hot out. And our patio is quite lovely, and I thought that a little bit of ice cream would be very nice, maybe with a small aperitif or the fruity bottle of wine I bought yesterday. And raspberries are starting to be reasonable again, and I love them. So even though Nick doesn’t really like raspberries or even care about ice cream, he does inexplicably like me, so in the interest of a little quiet time and catching up, and in a half-assed jab at romance, I decided to make ice cream. With raspberries. But I added alcohol, so at least there’s a small chance he’ll be impressed. And whatever. He won’t eat much anyway, so I might as well make something I like.

I don’t have a churn or anything, and I do have the Cuisinart soft-serve machine but I haven’t had all that much success with it. But several years ago, I took a French cooking class where I learned how to make an easy stove-top ice cream, or “frozen souffle”, and this has proven to be very useful, especially when I want to be impressive but only feel like giving 60 or so percent. Which is pretty much always.

I’ve given the recipe from the class, though for my own purposes, I’ve adapted the recipe a bit, as the original recipe was for a frozen Grand Marnier souffle (and I only had Amaretto), and it didn’t contain any fruit. Also, I’ve found that the fruit falls to the bottom of this, so instead of putting it in ramekins, I put it into a large bowl and scoop it out once it’s frozen so I can control the fruit : cream ratio a bit better. Don’t bother adding the fruit, though – use it as a topping. MUCH easier to deal with later on: Because the fruit separates and I have the coldest freezer ever, the raspberries created a difficult (if delicious) ice shelf that I had to stab hard (several angry times) in order to penetrate it with a spoon. Mash up the fruit or make a sauce out of it. Way better.

Frozen Grand Marnier Souffle

  • 1/2 cup sugar
  • 1/3 cup Grand Marnier (or Amaretto, or whatever you like … I am going to try this with Irish whiskey and dark, juicy cherries once the right kind of cherries start popping up at roadside stands)
  • 5 large egg yolks
  • 2 tbsp. water
  • 1 1/4 cups chilled whipping cream

Whisk first four ingredients in a medium bowl. Make sure the bowl will fit nicely over a saucepan. Place the bowl atop the pan, which will contain simmering water, of which there will not be so much that it touches the bottom of the bowl. Whisk this over medium heat for about ten minutes.

Whip the cream until stiff peaks form. Once the mixture on the stove is finished, fold it into the cream. Pour out into four ramekins, or, if you’re like me, a large bowl. Refrigerate for four hours before serving.

The recipe I have insists that you place the mixture into four ramekins fitted with aluminum foil “collars” – strips of foil around the inside, about six inches wide and folded lengthwise in half. As you may have noticed, I’m pretty lazy. I always skip that step, and it doesn’t seem to matter.

For some reason, I could not take a decent picture of these. The only way it would look half-okay was to take the picture on the floor, which I kind of swept with my hand before taking the picture. So my floor is kind of dirty. But it always is, because I never look down there.
For some reason, I could not take a decent picture of these. The only way it would look half-okay was to take the picture on the floor, which I kind of swept with my hand before taking the picture. So my floor is kind of dirty. But it always is, because I never look down there.

And so? Well, Nick was okay with the ice cream. He ate it, and that’s something, and he even said it was good, and he doesn’t usually lie to me. But instead of a heartfelt outpouring of his “I missed you, wife”-feelings, he was more, “oh, wow – you bought a lot of meat this weekend. I love meat!” and then he grabbed my boob. Which I took to mean, “you are the wind beneath my wings and also SUPER HOT – let’s go buy you a puppy.” I did buy a lot of meat this weekend, as we had finally run through the last of the previous meat haul, which I had bought well over two months ago. And he caught nine trout (did I mention Nick was fishing? Nick was fishing), so we have a whole bunch of plastic-wrapped fish carcasses (carcassi?) in a bag in the freezer.

My fridge looks like this but with vegetables, but no one cares about that around here but me.
My fridge looks like this but with vegetables, but no one cares about that around here but me.

I probably could have skipped the ice cream and just made him a meat sandwich. But you know that I really made the ice cream for me. And romance? I don’t really have a tidy conclusion to that topic. Maybe one day we’ll figure that one out. Or we’ll have affairs. But as long as our wine fridge and our meat freezer are stocked, I’m sure we’ll find ways to endure one another in the meantime.

The fish is just a vehicle for the tartar sauce. Obviously.

~ wellfedemily ~ 6 Comments

Every so often, I think of fish and chips, and of my grandmother, and of the Penny Farthing, the place we used to go. The Penny Farthing was a tattered old restaurant on Kingsway across from the Safeway, and it was my first taste of England. We would go there and order cod, and I would get extra tartar sauce, and I would dump malt vinegar and big chunky salt flakes all over my chips until they were soggy, and then they were perfect. Cuddles (my grandmother was Cuddles – other people call their grandmothers “Grandma,” which is a name for old ladies, or “Nana,” which is the name of the dog in Peter Pan) would order onion rings for us to share. She would pour the salt out onto a plate and dip the rings, because the salt stuck better that way. When there were no more onion rings, she would lick her pointer finger and push it onto the plate to catch the last of the flakes, and then would pop the finger into her mouth, and then the fish would come.

The cook there was named John, and as I understand it, in a previous life he had been a cook for the Merchant Marine. I don’t quite know what that means – I never thought to ask. But he was a large, crabby man with sailor tattoos, and he would smile for Cuddles and grunt a pleasant greeting. His wife, Chris, would come to our table on ceremony, not to take our order (she knew what it was), but to say hello, and to talk about her son or her trips back home. Cuddles understood her through the accent, though it was harder for me, and I only ever collected snippets to refer back to. Later, John would run off to Thailand in scandal, and Chris would return to England, and the shop would be taken over by younger people who never cooked the fish right because the oil was dirty and never quite hot enough. Young people. What do they know? Not a thing about frying fish.

And I don’t know a thing about it either. But sometimes, when the weather is hot and I’m in the mood for beer and nostalgia and the best parts of Britain, I like to fry up a piece of fish in my humble little pan, mushy up some peas, and dream of fries soaked long in malt vinegar, studded with large flecks of salt. I rarely make fries at home: Some things are best left to the experts, and it’s always good to have a reason to go out.

And because it has been hot all of a sudden and beer has been on my mind, and because of late I have found myself writing about Cuddles, today was a day for fish and cold coleslaw and minty mushy peas. And extra tartar sauce.

My recipe does not purport to result in anything like the fish part of fish and chips, because I don’t own a deep-fryer. Even if I did, today would not be the day for it, because my apartment is already too hot, even with all of the windows open. If I were at Cuddles’ house on a day like today, she wouldn’t deep-fry either – she would arrange two Highliner tempura fish sticks and a piece of cheddar cheese on a bun smeared with homemade tartar sauce (using homemade pickles) and piled with shredded iceberg lettuce. And we would eat this and then watch Keeping up Appearances on PBS and the evening would proceed as usual.

I seem to be wandering off topic. I wanted the fish, and the tartar sauce, and the Englishy bits like the peas and the coleslaw that I remember, and I thought about picking up a bag of Miss Vickie’s Sea Salt & Malt Vinegar chips to mimic the flavour I missed, but I didn’t: I resolved instead to visit somewhere real and English that will do it for me right, even if that is days or weeks away. So I wandered down to the market and bought a me-sized fillet of halibut, some pickles, an onion, a bunch of fresh dill, a bottle of English salad cream, and a bag of shredded cabbage and carrots. I bought some beer, because that’s just what you do, and Nick is out of town so it won’t be a race to drink my share – I can enjoy them.

The tartar sauce is the important part, and I underestimated the importance of texture.

Tartar Sauce

  • 1 egg (at room temperature)
  • 1 tsp. dijon mustard
  • 1 tbsp. lemon juice
  • 1 cup oil (whatever kind you like: I wanted a neutral taste from the oil, so I went with canola)
  • 1/2 cup of roughly chopped dill pickles
  • 1/2 cup roughly chopped onion
  • As much dill as you like, also roughly chopped
  • Salt and pepper, to taste

Crack the egg into a food processor and add the mustard and the lemon juice. If you don’t have a food processor, you could use an electric mixer, or, if you have strong, non-lazy arms, you could whisk this in a large bowl. I recommend the food processor. Because it’s way more fun. Press down the button that makes the blade go all whizzy – you don’t want to pulse. Constant motion is the thing.

While the egg is in blending motion, slowly dribble in the oil. SLOWLY. I don’t know why – science is why, but that’s all I’ve really got and I can’t expand on it. You’re making mayonnaise at this point. Isn’t it marvellous? It is.

When the mixture has thickened and looks like mayonnaise, season with your salt and pepper. At this point, you have a judgment call to make. I was just super excited about everything, so I added my onion and pickles and dill and puréed the shit out of all of it, and it was delicious, and since I now have two whole cups of it, it’s going to make potato salad and a lovely marinade for grilled vegetables, but it wasn’t chunky, like tartar sauce is. I added capers to mine because I thought it needed texture – if you like a smooth tartar sauce, throw your onion, pickles, and dill into the food processor and whiz away. If not, then mince the pickles and the onion and stir them into the mayonnaise separately. Both ways would be good.

Whiz/blend/sauce!When it’s done and you’re happy, pour it into a bowl, cover with plastic, and refrigerate until you’re ready to use it. At this point I made some coleslaw (which wasn’t a challenge: I toasted some sunflower seeds, spilled them all over my stove, floor, and into the heating element, and poured them and some jar sauce over some bagged salad mix).

Coleslaw: Convenience food.I also made some peas. I meant for them to be mushy, but forgot I had baby peas, not the big, hearty peas I had planned on using. The result was that my peas wouldn’t mush – you need to be able to mash them with a potato masher. No matter – they were still tasty. I threw a couple of teaspoons of butter into a pan, melted it, added a cup or so of peas from the freezer, and sauteed for five minutes with a small handful of fresh spearmint. You could use regular mint if you like. But you should always use mint with peas.

Minty peas. No mush.And then I pan-fried a little panko-and-lemon-zest-crusted-halibut in some butter for about seven minutes (it wasn’t a very big piece) and topped with the tartar sauce and a smattering of capers. Served with ice-cold beer, this was very much the combination of tastes that I love and remember. A satisfying evening, all the way around, and the perfect way to end a busy, sweltering week, even if it wasn’t how Cuddles would have done it. But more on that another time.

A me-sized feast.

Bitochki stroganoff. Or, fresh herbs really shine through in a meatball.

~ wellfedemily ~ 2 Comments

Grace once said that fresh herbs really shine through in a meatloaf. It was right before the karaoke portion of the evening, so she was a little drunk, and the expression on her face, and the seven whiskey sours I’d had (Grace makes excellent whiskey sours), was enough to convince me that she was right, even if that same expression caused Nick to explode whiskey sour out of his mouth. On another evening, she made the fresh herb meatloaf, and it was true: Fresh herbs really do shine through in a meatloaf. Also, Grace makes fantastic meatloaf.

Fresh herbs from deck.And it’s just a few days before payday now, and my arthritis has been a bitch lately, and while it’s tempting just to eat off the McDonald’s extra-value menu for the next couple of days out of laziness and joint fatigue, I think it’s probably better (for our financial state and my general health) to eat food at home. And I have felt like pasta and mushrooms and meatballs, of late, and because we’re down to very few ingredients (but just the right ingredients to have a meal of pasta, mushrooms, and meatballs), it seems like time to use up what we have, and to make the most of it.

Bitochki, which sounds like a crunchy Russian swear, are actually Russian meatballs, and they are excellent in a creamy stroganoff sauce. Add some fresh herbs? Восхитительный!

The great thing about meatballs is that they’re easy to make when your hands barely work and you’re high on painkillers.

Bitochki: Russian Meatballs

  • 1 lb. ground beef
  • 1 lb. ground pork
  • 1 onion, finely chopped
  • 1 tbsp. butter
  • 2 slices bread soaked in milk, squeezed dry and broken into hunks
  • 1 tsp. chopped fresh tarragon (or thyme – thyme would be good too)
  • 1 tsp. chopped fresh parsley
  • 1/2 tsp. lemon zest
  • 2 cloves finely minced garlic
  • 1 egg
  • salt and pepper, to taste
  • 1 cup of bread crumbs

Stroganoff sauce

  • 1 tbsp. butter
  • 1 cup onions
  • 1 onion, finely chopped
  • 1/2 lb. sliced mushrooms
  • 1/2 cup dry white wine
  • 2 cups sour cream
  • 1/2 cup milk
  • 1/2 tsp. nutmeg
  • 1 tsp. black pepper
  • Salt, to taste
  • Chopped chives and parsley, as much as you like

In a pan on the stove, caramelize the onion in the butter for the meatballs. This is important, and also delicious. If these were authentic, you’d use rendered fat from around a cow’s kidneys. But I don’t have any rendered beef kidney fat at the moment. Actually, you wouldn’t use the lemon zest or the tarragon either. Do it my way anyway. Fifteen minutes, minimum. When that’s done, take them off the stove.

Mix together the meatball ingredients, and once cool enough to handle, add your onions. Once again, it’s important to use your hands for meatballs. And if your hands are crippled and sore, the cold meat actually feels kind of nice. When your meatball mixture is, well, mixed, roll your meatballs – an inch in diameter is ideal, or close to the size of golf balls. Before throwing them into the pan, roll each ball in bread crumbs. A little paprika in your bread crumbs would probably be lovely.

Oil the onion pan, and fry the meatballs until browned on all sides. This takes longer for me than most people because I second-guess my playlist and have to keep running back and forth from the kitchen to skip the songs.

Meatballs!When the meatballs are done, put them on a pan and throw it into a warm oven. The idea here isn’t to cook them further, just to keep them warm while you make your sauce. Since I recommend serving this dish with noodles, you could probably put on a pot of pasta right about now as well. I like spaghetti. But you already knew that.

Pour the grease out of the onion/meatball pan, but don’t scrape the solids out. If the pan is quite dry, add butter, and throw in your other chopped onion. Soften, and add your mushrooms, adding water to caramelize the onions and soften the mushrooms. Once the mushrooms have soaked up all those delicious pan flavours (you may want to add a splash of water, just to help things along), add in your wine, milk, and your sour cream, as well as your pepper, nutmeg, and any salt. Stir together, and allow to simmer over medium-low heat until thick, and until your pasta is done.

Meatballs in sauce!Just before you drain your pasta, add the meatballs back to the sauce. Drain your pasta and dump the noodles into the pan as well, and toss to coat. You may want to throw in some chopped spinach, if you feel like your vegetable requirements aren’t being met here. Serve topped with chopped chives and parsley. Accompany with the remainder of the wine. Or vodka. Unless you’re perpetually out of vodka, like me.

Bitochki in stroganoff on pasta.This is good the first day, and remarkable the second day (fresh herbs, you know). And it’s so easy, if you’re really really not feeling well, it’s a breeze to delegate, which I think is the ultimate test of a recipe. Can monkeys do it? Perfect. So can Nick (or whoever you prefer to boss around). And even though it sounds like it would be impossibly rich, it’s really not – you won’t feel disgusting after eating it. I am very much looking forward to this for lunch tomorrow. And now I am going to eat some more painkillers and start in on that wine….