I was just released from the hospital after a three day stay. Yesterday, my wife and I got into a conversation with one of the nurses, Urika. The conversation soon turned to food and the food her parents made. She explained that she was from Panama, but that her people had come from the Caribbean to work the canal. In addition to the wonderful seafood, she remembered her dad cooking pig’s knuckles. First, he’d boil them, then put them in a pit outside, then freeze them, then he’d slowly cook them in a just a little water. This would crisp them up, and the aroma would bring everyone in the neighborhood to the door.
Her mother’s dish, both humbler and more loved, was coo-coo. Coo-coo, she explained, was made by throwing okra in a little water until it got slimy. Then, you would take some corn meal and pour it in a pot of water and stir it till smooth. The two would be added together and shaped into a bowl and emptied on a plate.
I am going to make coo-coo. Or maybe just polenta.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Mango Salsa
What is the first recipe of your own you'd still make?
I remember the first recipe I wrote that I was proud to serve. It was for Mango Salsa—very much of its time (the early nineties) and place (Northern California). Not that Mango Salsa was particularly innovative, but this version was mine. I’d serve it with grilled asparagus marinated in lemon and soy, portobello mushrooms marinated in a dark soy with sesame oil and a little honey, and parboiled potatoes grilled with green onions, peanut oil and curry powder.
This recipe came up at my brother’s wedding, when a good friend of my parents happened to remark that he still made that salsa from time to time. I haven’t made it in years, maybe even ten years. Looking over the recipe, there are some things I’d change—the cumin doesn’t seem quite right (and too many chiles by far)—but it is basically a good recipe. But still, it isn’t how I cook any more. It also, sadly I think sometimes, is not where or when I cook.
So many elements of the recipe are dependent on that original context. I don’t have as many opportunities to grill as I used to, my cooking has become much more European and less Asian, and fish in general is a declining resource, one much more expensive than it used to be (and for good reason).
Still, I think I will try to make the salsa some time in the next couple weeks. Maybe with fish on a grill pan, not a grill, maybe not with asparagus, but definitely following the recipe as I wrote it then (halving the chiles), not as I would now.
This is the recipe as originally written. I have not made it in years and make no promises.
Mango Salsa
This salsa is flavored with ginger and sesame oil, giving it an Asian feel. Excellent with grilled fish or chicken, or just by itself with some chips.
2 small-1 large mango, peeled and diced finely
2-4 Roma tomatoes, peeled, seeded and diced
1/2 Bermuda onion, finely diced
2-6 serrano chiles, minced, and seeded (optional)
1-3 jalapeno chiles, minced, and seeded (optional)
2 tablespoons minced cilantro
1/2 tablespoon minced fresh ginger
1 tablespoon (or more) rice vinegar
juice from one lime
1 teaspoon sesame oil
1 teaspoon roasted cumin
dash soy sauce, dash salt
Mix ingredients together. Adjust seasonings. Let sit for one hour before serving.
I remember the first recipe I wrote that I was proud to serve. It was for Mango Salsa—very much of its time (the early nineties) and place (Northern California). Not that Mango Salsa was particularly innovative, but this version was mine. I’d serve it with grilled asparagus marinated in lemon and soy, portobello mushrooms marinated in a dark soy with sesame oil and a little honey, and parboiled potatoes grilled with green onions, peanut oil and curry powder.
This recipe came up at my brother’s wedding, when a good friend of my parents happened to remark that he still made that salsa from time to time. I haven’t made it in years, maybe even ten years. Looking over the recipe, there are some things I’d change—the cumin doesn’t seem quite right (and too many chiles by far)—but it is basically a good recipe. But still, it isn’t how I cook any more. It also, sadly I think sometimes, is not where or when I cook.
So many elements of the recipe are dependent on that original context. I don’t have as many opportunities to grill as I used to, my cooking has become much more European and less Asian, and fish in general is a declining resource, one much more expensive than it used to be (and for good reason).
Still, I think I will try to make the salsa some time in the next couple weeks. Maybe with fish on a grill pan, not a grill, maybe not with asparagus, but definitely following the recipe as I wrote it then (halving the chiles), not as I would now.
This is the recipe as originally written. I have not made it in years and make no promises.
Mango Salsa
This salsa is flavored with ginger and sesame oil, giving it an Asian feel. Excellent with grilled fish or chicken, or just by itself with some chips.
2 small-1 large mango, peeled and diced finely
2-4 Roma tomatoes, peeled, seeded and diced
1/2 Bermuda onion, finely diced
2-6 serrano chiles, minced, and seeded (optional)
1-3 jalapeno chiles, minced, and seeded (optional)
2 tablespoons minced cilantro
1/2 tablespoon minced fresh ginger
1 tablespoon (or more) rice vinegar
juice from one lime
1 teaspoon sesame oil
1 teaspoon roasted cumin
dash soy sauce, dash salt
Mix ingredients together. Adjust seasonings. Let sit for one hour before serving.
Monday, November 16, 2009
A Disappointing Meal
What is most disappointing (not the worst) meal you have had recently? Or ever?
For our anniversary, my wife and I went to one of our favorite restaurants, one of the first places in New York to focus on local, seasonal ingredients. Our appetizers were excellent—a soup of lettuce and celery root and a dish of rabbit offal. Both were simply but expertly prepared.
The main courses were the problem. My wife had a salt-crusted baked duck served with shaved carrots. The duck was slightly undercooked and lukewarm. The big problem, however, was the carrots. They had no flavor. A little crunch, yes, but that was about it.
My pork was more of a mess. It was served with noodles (fideos), stuffed in the neck of a hollowed out squash, looking like some baroque wiring connection. Every individual element was good; the pork in particular was excellent, but texturally it didn’t make much sense—it was all on the softer side of things.
My point isn’t to grouse, but to try to figure out how this could have been served. It wasn’t bad, just disappointing.
I do have a couple of thoughts. First, menus are designed seasonally, not daily. Carrots that are bursting with flavor one week can be bland the next. The second thought is a kind of generosity on the part of the chef. Squash is in season and is excellent; the kitchen just got an great source for fideos—perhaps all of these can go on the same plate?
Restraint and self-censorship—as in the first courses we had—is often the better, if harder, course.
For our anniversary, my wife and I went to one of our favorite restaurants, one of the first places in New York to focus on local, seasonal ingredients. Our appetizers were excellent—a soup of lettuce and celery root and a dish of rabbit offal. Both were simply but expertly prepared.
The main courses were the problem. My wife had a salt-crusted baked duck served with shaved carrots. The duck was slightly undercooked and lukewarm. The big problem, however, was the carrots. They had no flavor. A little crunch, yes, but that was about it.
My pork was more of a mess. It was served with noodles (fideos), stuffed in the neck of a hollowed out squash, looking like some baroque wiring connection. Every individual element was good; the pork in particular was excellent, but texturally it didn’t make much sense—it was all on the softer side of things.
My point isn’t to grouse, but to try to figure out how this could have been served. It wasn’t bad, just disappointing.
I do have a couple of thoughts. First, menus are designed seasonally, not daily. Carrots that are bursting with flavor one week can be bland the next. The second thought is a kind of generosity on the part of the chef. Squash is in season and is excellent; the kitchen just got an great source for fideos—perhaps all of these can go on the same plate?
Restraint and self-censorship—as in the first courses we had—is often the better, if harder, course.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Keats and Grapes
Do you have a favorite or interesting food moment in poetry or prose?
Near the end of his Ode on Melancholy, Keats gives a very physical image of melancholy itself:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight,
Veil’d Melancholy has her sov’ran shrine.
Though seen of none save whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine.
Bursting a grape by pressing the tongue against the roof of one’s mouth takes a little work—it is strenuous. When one does, one is rewarded first with the sweet nectar of the grape and then with the mouth drying tannins of the skin. The flavor combination is much more complex than a glass of juice. It is a melancholy experience, sweetness followed by a necessary astringency.
Near the end of his Ode on Melancholy, Keats gives a very physical image of melancholy itself:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight,
Veil’d Melancholy has her sov’ran shrine.
Though seen of none save whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine.
Bursting a grape by pressing the tongue against the roof of one’s mouth takes a little work—it is strenuous. When one does, one is rewarded first with the sweet nectar of the grape and then with the mouth drying tannins of the skin. The flavor combination is much more complex than a glass of juice. It is a melancholy experience, sweetness followed by a necessary astringency.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Gravlax
I mentioned gravlax in my last entry and I guess that is as good a reason for any to give my recipe for it. I serve it with some brown bread (or just croutons), horseradish crème fraiche (a couple of tablespoons of freshly grated horseradish mixed in with a half a cup of crème fraiche), and a ginger-dijon gastrique (in honor of Barbara Tropp—recipe follows).
Gravlax
2 lb fillet of fresh, wild salmon. Have the fishmonger remove the bones or do it yourself using tweezers.
1 tb malt whiskey
1/3 cup salt
¼ cup sugar
1 tb peppercorns.
1 bunch dill
1. Rinse and dry salmon. Place a couple of cuts on the skin side.
2. Sprinkle whiskey on flesh side of salmon.
3. Place peppercorns in pan and toast until aromatic—just 2 or 3 minutes at most. Crush either in mortar or with side of knife and mix with salt and sugar.
4. Cover flesh side of salmon with sugar/salt/pepper mixture. Place dill on top.
5. Place fish, skin side down on plastic wrap and place in non reactive dish. I use a pyrex casserole.
6. Every twelve hours or so (this is not a precise affair), pour liquid out. Salmon is ready after two days and is good for another day or two.
7. Remove all of the dill from the fish and throw away
And this is where the fun begins. Take your sharpest, longest knife and begin slicing across the grain, making the slices as thin and as large as possible. You’ll find at first that you’re just getting chunks. But you will eventually get long, thin slices or at least longer, thinner slices. The trick is to try almost fighting against your own slice—don’t let the knife dig in to the salmon, let it push against the salmon. Of course, most of the slices will be abject failures—they won’t look anywhere near as nice as they do at the local appetizing counter. Of course, you’re not slicing it 8 hours a day with knives that are only used to slice fish. Don’t worry—it is still impressive. You can also arrange it on or off bread to obscure the imperfections. And those little awkward little thick bits are great minced. You can even put them on top of a little dollop of the crème fraiche and put a sprig of dill on top.
Ginger-Dijon Gastrique
2 one-inch coins of ginger, crushed
¼ cup sugar
¼ cup unseasoned rice wine vinegar
½ cup Dijon mustard (Maille is my preferred brand)
1. Place ginger and sugar in a heavy bottomed pan and heat.
2. When sugar begins to caramelize, stir a couple times and add vinegar. Turn down heat and let sugar dissolve. Boil down for a few minutes and turn off heat.
3. Discard ginger and add liquid to mustard. If not mustardy enough, add more mustard.
Gravlax
2 lb fillet of fresh, wild salmon. Have the fishmonger remove the bones or do it yourself using tweezers.
1 tb malt whiskey
1/3 cup salt
¼ cup sugar
1 tb peppercorns.
1 bunch dill
1. Rinse and dry salmon. Place a couple of cuts on the skin side.
2. Sprinkle whiskey on flesh side of salmon.
3. Place peppercorns in pan and toast until aromatic—just 2 or 3 minutes at most. Crush either in mortar or with side of knife and mix with salt and sugar.
4. Cover flesh side of salmon with sugar/salt/pepper mixture. Place dill on top.
5. Place fish, skin side down on plastic wrap and place in non reactive dish. I use a pyrex casserole.
6. Every twelve hours or so (this is not a precise affair), pour liquid out. Salmon is ready after two days and is good for another day or two.
7. Remove all of the dill from the fish and throw away
And this is where the fun begins. Take your sharpest, longest knife and begin slicing across the grain, making the slices as thin and as large as possible. You’ll find at first that you’re just getting chunks. But you will eventually get long, thin slices or at least longer, thinner slices. The trick is to try almost fighting against your own slice—don’t let the knife dig in to the salmon, let it push against the salmon. Of course, most of the slices will be abject failures—they won’t look anywhere near as nice as they do at the local appetizing counter. Of course, you’re not slicing it 8 hours a day with knives that are only used to slice fish. Don’t worry—it is still impressive. You can also arrange it on or off bread to obscure the imperfections. And those little awkward little thick bits are great minced. You can even put them on top of a little dollop of the crème fraiche and put a sprig of dill on top.
Ginger-Dijon Gastrique
2 one-inch coins of ginger, crushed
¼ cup sugar
¼ cup unseasoned rice wine vinegar
½ cup Dijon mustard (Maille is my preferred brand)
1. Place ginger and sugar in a heavy bottomed pan and heat.
2. When sugar begins to caramelize, stir a couple times and add vinegar. Turn down heat and let sugar dissolve. Boil down for a few minutes and turn off heat.
3. Discard ginger and add liquid to mustard. If not mustardy enough, add more mustard.
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