Julie & Julia and Stewart

If you saw the movie, Julie & Julia and didn’t go home hungry, please raise your hand. It was the Beef Bourguignon that got me, and now that it’s fall, I’ll definitely be making it.  But as it was, when I got home, I had my own feast waiting. My husband, Stewart, had dinner ready, opera playing, and candles lit. Men, take note: women love it when you cook, and what you cook isn’t nearly as important as the fact that you did.

Here’s Stewart’s menu: frittata with onions, prosciutto and cheese; mesclun salad with a red wine, balsamic vinaigrette, and wine. Frittatas are cool; they accommodate those mystery items in your fridge too good to throw away, but not enough for a serving. Plus, they’re easier to cook than omelettes.  If you’re still not convinced, take it from our friends the Italians, masters of eating: frittata wedges make a great lunch.

Stewart walked to our local cheese shop for the prosciutto and cheese, but otherwise cooked from our cupboards. I envy that he cooks like he gardens: he doesn’t worry about the rules.  And because I’m usually the one in the kitchen, I questioned him politely about his technique. There’s a lot to be learned from someone who doesn’t sweat the small things. Although he was reluctant to reveal his secrets, here’s what I learned:

Stewart’s Frittata and Mesclun Salad

Saute some diced onions and prosciutto in olive oil; set aside. Beat four eggs and pour then into your favorite egg pan over medium heat. Spoon the prosciutto and shallots evenly over the top along with the cheese (I’m not sure what kind he used but consult with your cheese experts). Cover, and cook until done. (I usually finish mine in the oven, which can dry out the eggs, but his weren’t.) He skipped the salt and pepper, but I didn’t miss it.

For the salad vinaigrette, whisk 1 teaspoon red-wine vinegar with 1 teaspoon balsamic vinegar. (I wouldn’t have thought to combine the two but it worked). Whisk in 2 teaspoons of good-quality olive oil or enough to balance the acidity. If you’re like me, season with salt and pepper. Toss the greens in the vinaigrette. Serve with the frittata and red wine. And don’t forget to kiss the cook!

 

Fried Green Tomatoes

I grew up on green tomatoes, hard and woody, unidentified foreign objects in my iceberg salad.  No amount of Ranch dressing transformed them into something a kid would consider edible. Blush-skinned ones couldn’t be trusted to deliver either. If you weren’t raised in Alaska, here’s the answer as to why our tomatoes were never juicy: only green ones could survive the two-week trip up the Alcan Highway.

Until I moved to the lower 48, Early Girl described a morning person, not a beloved fruit known throughout the Pacific Northwest to ripen even in the rainiest of summers. Five years later, I discovered something important: tomatoes are tasty. Not just the fancy heirloom ones with funny shapes and the ubiquitous Early Girls, but the green ones. When I began growing my own, I couldn’t stand the thought of wasting them. Alaska has termination dust, Seattle has green tomatoes. So, what to do with them? I figured if they were good enough to have a movie named after them, fried green tomatoes must be the answer. Chutney came to mind, too, but that required more time than I wanted to invest.

Fried green tomatoes require only two things, flour and oil, unless you count salt and pepper, which most cooks don’t. Slice the tomatoes about 1/4th inch thick. Dredge them in the medium of your choice or some combination thereof:  flour, cornmeal, breadcrumbs or Panko, seasoned with plenty of salt and pepper. Cook them in olive oil until nicely browned. Enjoy immediately.

Here’s another option. It occurred to me last week that if you can roast most vegetables, why not green tomatoes? A cookbook author by the name of Mr. Taylor, a.k.a. Hoppin’ John, had the same idea. Cut the tomatoes into wedges, toss them with olive oil and some S&P; cook in a 350 degree oven for thirty minutes or so depending on the thickness and voila. I love the tangy flavor, and what could be easier, not to mention healthy?

If you like gratins, and who doesn’t, here’s a recipe from Mar, a colleague’s mother. I haven’t tried it yet, but I recognize a winner. Butter a baking dish, layer with green tomatoes sliced 1/2 inch thick, cover with breadcrumbs, douse with melted butter, sprinkle with thyme and oregano; continue layering ending with the breadcrumbs. Top with grated Parmesan cheese; bake in a 350 degree oven for an hour.

How do I know they’ll be good? Mar’s daughter, Jane, says they’re a vehicle for butter. Although butter gets a bad rap these days, the organic kind in moderation is fine. Nothing in my mind replaces that rich flavor, not to mention the mouthfeel that nutritionists and other food experts talk about at length. I have yet to find a suitable substitute. Near the beginning of the movie, Julie and Julia, when the fish in browned butter that Julia Child ordered in a Parisian restaurant is brought to the table, she beams and simply says: ”butter.”

So why write about the humble fruit I once hated? There’s something about growing your own food that changes you. A connection to what we eat makes us less likely to squander, and gives us a greater appreciation for what goes in our mouths. And, given patience and the proper preparation, even green tomatoes are worth blogging about.

Guerilla Gardening

When my husband, Stewart, and I moved into our first house at Green Lake, he’d pruned, fed, and watered the roses while I was still researching the Latin name. Librarians thrive on context and facts, which is all well and good. But sometimes I become mired in data, which impedes getting things done. Information overload comes to mind, but it’s not that–it’s more of a personal style of how you approach life. Fortunately, there’s room for guerrillas and information gatherers. (I’m borrowing the word from the well-known book, Guerrilla Marketing in which unconventional methods, imagination, wit, and energy are promoted.)

I bring my proclivity for research to cooking; I love Harold McGee’s On Food and Cooking, the Joy of Cooking, and LaRousse Gastronomique. But when it comes to creating recipes, I often abandon my cookbooks for intuition. My best creations seemingly arise from nowhere, and it’s freeing to be inventive rather than trying to imitate what someone else has done. When a foodie friend noticed Chinese five-spice in a fruit salad recipe I created for my cookbook, Good Times at Green Lake, she remarked that she’d never heard of that particular spice medley used with fruit. Why not ignore the rules, go with your gut, and combine flavors in new ways? Pumpkin-seed crusted salmon? Sure thing. Pomegranate molasses salad dressing? Sounds good, and it’s loaded with antioxidants. Is salsa fresca on your short list? Substitute tomatillos for tomatoes and impress your friends. 

Amie, my brother’s colleague, commented on my last blog that she’d had her share of bombs, and to that I say, bravo. I’ve learned more from mishaps, than recipes that come together easily, and my friends still show up for dinner. Here’s my advice when recipes go awry. Do as the French: shrug your shoulders and say nonchalantly, oh well.

Not that I’d experiment on just anyone; close friends with adventuresome palates are the best ones to try out new things. Plan your menu around tried-and-true dishes, throw in one test dish, and, voila, you’re a guerrilla cook! If you’d rather not make guinea pigs of your loved ones, start by simply trying a new, unusual recipe, or make one you can have for dinner the next day if it doesn’t meet your expectations. Think of food as a jazz combo and improvise; and remember: only confident, adventuresome cooks have bombs to brag about.

Betty’s Kitchen

Edmonds PCC

On the way to visit my friend, Adrienne, a sign in the distance, weathered and barely visible above the tree line, caught my eye: Betty’s kitchen. I’ve never been to Betty’s Kitchen, but I’ve been to Betty’s kitchen, and so have you. Sound crazy? Read on.

Betty’s kitchens can be found in every bustling city, quiet hamlet, and even next door. When I arrived at Adrienne’s, I stepped into Betty’s kitchen. The smell of bacon and pancakes greeted me, and I was transported to my childhood, watching my mother make silver dollar pancakes, which always tasted better than the regular sized ones. Adrienne’s husband, Russ, cradled baby Helen, as daughter Clara, danced around the kitchen for no particular reason, as only children do. Betty’s kitchen on Saturday morning, family time, happy children, coziness on a drizzly morning in the Pacific Northwest.

My brother, Scott’s, house is Betty’s kitchen, especially on Christmas Day. Family, friends, friends-of-friends, orphans, singles, and others with no place to go are invited for dinner. Father-in-law, Al, brings the prime rib, Scott makes his killer curried butternut squash soup, and long-time friend, Fish, (I don’t know his given name) always brings king crab. The food doesn’t matter (although it’s always great)  as much as the warmth and friendliness of the company. Hugs are plentiful, ribbing means you’re well-liked, and if someone asks you for a recipe, it will forever be associated with your name, even if it isn’t your creation: Bitsy’s Caesar salad, Scott’s squash soup,  Sue’s fennel butter (On second thought, that is my recipe). The evening is boisterous, people eat too much, and folks go home happy.

Betty’s kitchen doesn’t have to be in a home. My local Puget Sound Consumer Co-Op (PCC) is Betty’s Kitchen too. About a month ago, a bagger tucked a flyer advertising a $2 benefit-breakfast for Children’s Hospital into my grocery sack. Stewart, my husband, was working, and my friends were busy, so I decided to go by myself. My expectations weren’t high (What can you get for $2?), but  PCC has high standards so  my curiosity got the best of me. What a pleasant surprise: blueberry pancakes, sausage (turkey or vegetarian), fresh strawberries, coffee, and Odwalla juice or smoothies.

Holy smokes, the juice alone costs more than $2. But that wasn’t the best part. The place was packed, so I approached an occupied table and introduced myself. Within minutes, I chatted easily with Joe and Sharon, two of my Edmond’s neighbors I hadn’t previously known. When it was time to leave, I thanked them for sharing their table. “Not my table,” said Sharon, “our table.”

It’s no secret that times are tough, neighbors are stressed, and friends struggle to make ends meet. We need Bettys’ kitchens more than ever. Create, participate in or find Betty’s kitchen, and then, tell me about your experience.

Something Fizzy Something Fun

I love ginger, but that hasn’t always been true. Years ago when I told my catering friend, Carol, that I didn’t like it, she predicted that someday I would. The only form of ginger I knew as a child was a cookie that ended in the word, snap.

I don’t remember when my palate changed, but those kinds of things occur gradually. Children learn that green things taste good, men eat quiche, and some people even eat entrails (but not me).  Back to the ginger theme:  when I was in Anchorage last March, I tasted my first glass of fresh ginger ale at the Ginger restaurant downtown near Club Paris, known for its steaks. I’m not sure why ginger ale appealed to me in March when snow was plentiful and leaves were imaginary, but then again, ginger ale is friendly, fizzy, and fun! And did I mention, tasty?

You have to love fresh ginger to appreciate this fizzy beverage. It has that addictive quality unique to hot foods, which is why I quaffed two glasses in short order. I pleaded with the waiter for the recipe, but unfortunately, he qualified his affirmative answer with the caveat that he’d have to kill me. I took his warning seriously in a city where I’ve seen bumper stickers that read, we shoot moose, why can’t we shoot tourists, or something to that effect. Gulp!

The night before Easter, I pined for a glass of that ginger ale, and surfed the web until I found a recipe I thought worthy of  trying.  Fortunately, I was right, and served it before brunch the next morning; my friend Carol (not the catering one) gave me the kind of compliment that cooks relish when she told a friend she could drink it all day. Stewart, my husband, served it in swirly martini glasses, and voila, something fizzy, something fun with a minimum amount of effort.

Not everything you serve at a party has to be time consuming, but with a little forethought, you can serve one standout item that friends will remember: homemade crackers, unusual ingredients, such as jicama, or perhaps an unexpected preparation of a standard dish. I recently created a recipe for coconut salmon served with smoked paprika potato wedges: sweet, tangy, and smoky. So ginger lovers unite: here’s the recipe for the ginger ale, perfect for your Memorial Day picnic. Enjoy!

Nome meets Bejing

On a recent trip home from Anchorage, the woman beside me  on the airplane quietly beaded sealskin moccasins for her granddaughter while I knit a sweater for my friend, Adrienne’s, newborn. A native of Nome, my seatmate was flying to Beijing to get married, never having ever been out of the state. Why Beijing? Her fiancé had spun a globe, picked a spot, which turned out to be China. She would have preferred getting married in Nome, her village, finish line for the Iditarod race, population 3500, depending on the season. She fretted because she’d left the task of drying salmon to her children, an undertaking with serious implications. Unlike the lower 48 where it has cachet in trendy restaurants, villagers depend on fish to sustain them through the winter.

My appreciation for salmon peaked last year when the price exceeded $20 a pound. Alaskans stock their freezers with it and if you don’t fish, it behooves you to cultivate friends comfortable holding fishing poles and swatting mosquitoes. Years ago, I caught my first and only silver salmon on the Kenai River at my sister-in-law’s river camp, barbecued it on my mother’s Weber, and after one bite, realized what the fuss was all about. It wasn’t a particularly big fish, seasoned with only salt and pepper, cooked until it was just done, which means just right.

Salmon is a priceless resource and other than Alaskans, most people don’t know that the biggest sockeye run in the world, Bristol Bay, is at risk. A multinational company, Northern Dynasty, has proposed an open pit mine at the headwaters that would threaten the environmentally fragile ecosystem and the millions of fish that spawn in the rivers upstream. Red Gold, a recently released documentary, tells the story through the eyes of the fishermen whose livelihoods are at stake. 

Please join me in protesting Pebble Mine in order to protect the watershed. Building the largest open pit mine in North America isn’t worth risking the greatest wild salmon fishery in the world.  Write your congressmen, tell your friends, and if you live in the Seattle area, come to a screening for Red Gold at Bastyr University, April 7th at noon. Having done so, you can enjoy your salmon this summer knowing you’ve done your part to ensure you’ll be eating it in years to come.

I never learned the name of the woman sitting next to me on the airplane. As we descended into SeaTac, her eyes widened and she reached for her camera: “it’s so big.” I’ve always wondered what she thought when she landed in Beijing.  I’m quite certain she felt like a small fish in a big pond. Organisms evolve and thrive only in their “ponds”, fragile ecosystems easily disturbed by human intervention with devastating repercussions. I can only hope that we take action to ensure the sockeye salmon in Bristol Bay continue to flourish in their home.

A Toast to our Farmers

If your eggs have the blues and your potatoes need a bath, chances are, you know a farmer. I couldn’t believe my good fortune on Saturday when I stopped by local farmers Jon and Elaine’s place on Camano Island. Not only did they have fresh eggs, but Jon, armed with a pitchfork, accompanied us to his garden. He didn’t have any greens, but he did have potatoes: Russets. I pretty much had sworn off eating them after reading Eric Schlosser’s Fast Food Nation detailing the mass production of Burbank Russets for French fries served at McDonald’s which “had a profound effect on the nation’s agriculture and diet” and not in a good way. Increased demand for crispy fries of a certain length resulted in monoculture, which encourages the proliferation of pests and the necessity of poisoning them. For more information, Read Michael Pollan’s chapter on potatoes in The Botany of Desire. You’ll never look at potatoes in the same way again.

So, with one swing of his pitchfork, Jon unearthed six pounds of Russets (and two beets) all the while the chickens scratched happily around their newly constructed pen, oblivious to Snickers, the beloved dog. Jon filled me in on the comings and goings of Open Gate Farm, his plans for a new tractor shed and the cow he intends to buy for the manure (this was the first his wife, Elaine had heard about it, but she seemed pleased with the prospect of fresh milk to make cheese.) I’m always in awe of farmers, some of the hardest working people I know who manage to plant, weed, build, fix, compost harvest, work other jobs and still take time to cheerily talk to their customers. They care about food and who eats it, and they’re happy to discuss it with folks who know that what they eat is important.

If you don’t know any farmers, take the time to find one. Start at your local farmers market and ask the people who grow your food lots of questions, such as how do you fertilize crops and control pests? Even better, ask if you can visit the farm. Somewhere in the recent past, we lost our connection to food, so now we eat processed products that really aren’t food at all. Take your children to the market, let them choose some veggies, talk about how food is grown and the importance of eating whole foods instead of processed ones. I know it’s winter, and the summer markets are closed. Put out your feelers for community supported agriculture (CSA’s). Even Alaska has some. Seek out local restaurants that serve local food, and if you don’t know of any, let the proprietors know what you’d like to see on the  menu.

So, what did I make with those beautiful eggs and just-dug Russets? Omelets and pan-fried potatoes. I believe it was Julia Child who said you never have to worry about what to cook for breakfast, lunch or dinner if you can make a good omelet. Not those embarrassingly big, overcooked ones from diners that serve bad coffee and fried eggs with crispy edges. I’m talking about French ones rolled out of the pan and soft in the center. Pair them with a salad or something more interesting such as braised kale, pour your self a glass of wine, and then, make a toast to the farmers, and the army of folks who bring food to your table.

How to Make a Decent Omelet

First, have all of your ingredients at hand; that would be only eggs if you’re making a real French omelet, but I’m assuming you’re hungry, have kids to feed, and a few things in your fridge you’d like to use up. In a medium bowl, whisk two eggs per person with a generous pinch of salt until you can’t see the whites but they’re not yet frothy. Heat a small pan, about 7 inches in diameter, (Use one that’s well-seasoned so your eggs won’t stick.), over medium-low and melt a teaspoon or more (you know your pan better than I do) of unsalted organic butter. Test the pan for hotness by pouring in a tiny amount of the eggs. If they sizzle loudly and say, hey, look at me, the pan is too hot. If they make a pleasant psssttt sound, the pan is ready. You don’t want to immediately fry and brown the bottom of your soon-to-be omelet.

Gently shake the pan and use a heat-proof spatula to stir the eggs into curds, allowing the uncooked eggs to have their chance to set. When they’re almost there but soft curds remain, let them quietly cook for a minute or two. Place thin slices of cheese and whatever else you salvaged from your fridge (whatnots, which should be room temperature) in the center and press gently. Now fold one-third of the omelet over the whatnots, loosen the flat part, and scoot it over to the right so it hangs over the edge. Flip the pan over the plate (Did I mention you should have a warm one ready and waiting?) so your omelet folds into a cylinder. This will take some practice, but in time, they’ll be uniform, and anyone who recognizes a properly cooked omelet will praise your newly-honed skill.

No matter how your first ones turn out, they’ll be ready in minutes and much tastier than the over-stuffed, overcooked ones ubiquitous in this county. If you morph into an omelet purist, see Julia Child’s, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, volume 1 for additional details. But above all, have fun, and spurn those funny-looking, two-sided omelet pans sold in cooking stores near you.  You don’t need one!

Fluff with Substance

My family of origin cared about words. Grammatical errors brought ridicule and oxymoron’s earned you extra points. I’m exaggerating, but heaven help the kid who ended a sentence with a preposition. “Where at” didn’t cut it.

     It was October of 2008 when the sign, Fluff with Substance, on a storefront in Portland, Maine compelled me to cross the street and go inside. What on earth does fluff with substance mean? Ever since that day, I’ve pondered the notion. Everyone knows what jumbo shrimp are, but how can something insubstantial also have weight and importance? But then again, even fluffy things have mass and occupy space.

     During the holiday season, I perused my recipe notebook for my favorite nuts and cookies. Sometimes I fret about what tastes good versus what’s good for you, and that kind of thinking can be detrimental to your well being. Really. Constant worry about eating healthy negates eating healthy if that makes any sense. So, I ask, how can you have fluff with substance? Here are a few suggestions. First go nuts. Nuts, particularly walnuts, are brain food. By starting with nuts I’m ending with substance.

      My second suggestion is to substitute ingredients without changing texture or flavor. For example, spelt flour is interchangeable with unbleached white, and is nutrient dense. You can also substitute cane sugar such as Rapadura for a portion of plain white. When it comes to butter, buy unsalted organic. You can control the amount of salt and at the same time, reduce your toxic load. Keep the flavor and lose the toxins.

     Buy dark chocolate, the best you can afford, and lots of it. Melt it in a double broiler, spread it about 1/4 inch thick on tin foil, and top with your favorite toasted nuts and dried fruits such as cashews, pistachios, pecans, candied ginger and dried cranberries. Harden it in the fridge and break into irregular pieces. Voila! Chocolate bark for all your friends loaded with antioxidants and feel-good endorphins.

     Carefully choosing your recipes is worth the time. One of my favorites is Pistachio-cranberry Biscotti Straws from the December 2006 issue of Fine Cooking. Do I make them because they’re healthy? No, I never cook something only for that reason. They’re pretty and taste good with a mug of coffee on Christmas morning.

     As it turned out, the Fluff with Substance store sold scarves that weren’t designed for warmth, but offered a modicum of protection with a touch of style. On beaches, feathers co-exist with rocks; we can be firm and still yield. Although you can’t be a purist in this world, I prefer to think of it is yin yang, which makes life interesting. 

 

Harmony in Winter

As a child in Anchorage, my favorite fruit was mandarin oranges. It never occurred to me that in the lower 48, they grew on trees and could be picked, peeled and eaten on the spot. Mine came from cans with orange labels, the segments uniform, swimming in syrup my mother carefully drained before serving them in saucers. No matter the season, they lived in tin homes, and could be eaten any time of the year
     In recent years, my interest in eating seasonally has evolved and appeals to me on several levels. Cooking with locally grown produce available during times prescribed by the weather, helps me transition full circle from fall to summer. Heavier foods provide extra calories in the winter, and provide comfort and warmth. With the coming of spring, I transition to lighter, more colorful foods as the days lengthen and the temperature rises.
     Another way to encourage winter harmony is to balance flavors and textures: sweet and savory, crunchy and soft, smooth and textured, spicy and subtle. Although I wasn’t consciously thinking about such things when I created a salad centered on mandarin oranges for my friend, Wendy’s, birthday dinner, balance somehow unfolded.
     I had planned on serving green beans, but shriveled ones wouldn’t do, so I quickly changed strategies in the produce aisles of PCC. And that’s when I saw them: a basket heaped with satsuma oranges. I have to admit, I don’t know quite what to make of them, but they’re a fun, happy fruit: imperfectly shaped, somewhat yielding, and sweet. In fact, it’s hard not to befriend this scaled down orange that begs to be peeled, not to mention the color which makes no apologies.  After searching the Internet, I couldn’t find the perfect salad recipe so like any mindful cook, I created my own. I started with the fruit, created a vinaigrette, added toasted pumpkin seeds (particularly good for men’s health), pressed them into creamy goat cheese, spiced them up with smoked paprika, and there you have it. Harmony, color, and warmth in the middle of December.

Mandarin Orange and Pumpkin Seed Salad

 

Three mandarin oranges, segmented

3 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

¼ cup olive or walnut oil

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

1 small clove garlic, chopped

1 large head red bib lettuce, cleaned and spun dry

5 ounces goat cheese

¼ cup toasted pumpkin seeds

Smoked paprika

 

Squeeze the pulp from the oranges into a bowl to yield about 1/4th cup. Whisk in the balsamic vinegar and a large pinch of salt. Whisk in the olive oil, mustard, and garlic. Slice the goat cheese into sixths (dental floss slices it cleanly) and press the pumpkins seeds into each slice in a decorative pattern. Sprinkle with smoked or regular paprika. Toss the lettuce in just enough dressing to coat it and arrange on six plates. Divide the orange slices among the plates and put a slice of the cheese on each plate. Sprinkle with the remaining pumpkin seeds. Serve immediately. 

Yields six servings

Gifts from my Mother

Trigeminal neuralgia has stolen my mother’s life. Aptly called the suicide disease, even the medical community recognizes it as one of the most painful conditions known. The intermittent facial shocks, fleeting, but excruciating, rob her of the pleasure of eating and even drinking liquids. Now, my mother is mostly bones and her world has shrunk to the walls of the Anchorage Pioneer Home, across from the Park strip which once served as a runway.

Last Friday I flew up to visit her for a long weekend. I had grand plans to wheel her to New Sagaya for lunch, bake cookies in the Rose lounge, and to knit. But my big plans weren’t hers, and like the fading fall leaves, I dropped them and did the only thing she asked of me: to take her to the solarium on the fifth floor. I tethered my bag stocked with New Yorkers, the Edmonds Beacon, and Zing Bars, to the handle of her chair and pushed her upstairs. It was one of the few sunny days in months, and the room was snoozy warm. I parked my mother in a pool of sunshine and sat beside her. For the first time in weeks, I didn’t have to do anything but be with her, listening to the gurgle of the fountain and the occasional truck driving by. No email to answer, blogs to write, or cell phone to check. I’m not sure how long we slept. Outside, the sun slanted from the west, and the sky flooded pink over Sleeping Lady.