In the months when I was beginning, ever so hesitantly, to eat meat again, I was sure that vegetables and starches would continue to be the emotional core of my cooking. The evidence at the time was convincing. I had no idea of how to cook meat or fish and wasn't particularly keen to learn. And while I had begun to look longingly at the meat section of restaurant menus, I remained more excited about the side dishes that accompanied stews or roasts than the main events themselves. After all, what could possibly be as good as rustic bread, pasta, ripe summer tomatoes or roasted autumn vegetables?
As it turns out, lots. In the past several years, I've cooked tagines and casseroles aplenty, roasted chickens and lamb shoulders and seared a good number of steaks and burgers. There was even a partially successful effort at offal. I have a butcher, where they know me and let me pay the next day when I'm short on change. As for the vegetables, while they too are bought with care, their position has suffered. Bags of salad get chosen in lieu of stewing or sauteing, the odd, inspired purchase (cauliflower most recently) often languishes in the lower reaches of the fridge. The problem is magnified in the winter, when the vegetables that can be eaten with little preparation--tomatoes, cucumbers, green beans, asparagus--are either unavailable or unappealing. I've done better with vegetable-heavy soups, but they act as a precursor to the meaty main course, rather than a challenger on the same plate.
The situation has been likewise with starches. I use potatoes rarely enough that they need to be purchased specially. I have one bag of rice. Save the odd couscous, it's usually bread. Good bread, I might add, but this carbo-lover craves a bit more variety.
A reprieve came unexpectedly on Monday night, when we were eating the leftovers of a lamb, apricot and prune tagine. (This was a variation on Amanda Hesser's Kadjemoula in Cooking for Mr. Latte). Earlier in the day, I had seen a supermarket magazine recipe for a winterized tabbouleh, featuring walnuts, pomegranate and herbs. There was, I recalled, another version (utilising cauliflower and a pomegranate molasses dressing) in one of the Moro cookbooks. Inspired to use up that bloody cauliflower, I set to work. Discovering that the bulgur I had purchased was too coarse to hydrate properly in the time available, I substituted couscous. No matter. Leftover toasted walnuts were crumbled, a pomegranate messily disassembled, mint and walnut chopped. I ended up dispensing with the cauliflower entirely, though I imagine that the visual trick of the large and small nubbly bits would have been quite clever.
Doused with a copious quantity of lemon juice and olive oil, this bastardised tabbouleh was zingy and satisfying, not only a worthy complement to the better-the-next-day tagine but a contender for best on plate.
Lest I get too smug, however, the cauliflower's final resting place turned out to be the garbage can.
Bastardised tabbouleh
(adapted from Waitrose's free in-house magazine)
I hesitate to even call this a recipe. Vague on quantities, open to variation, this is more like a blueprint.
Couscous or fine bulgur, enough for two
1 smallish pomegranate
a good handful parsley (or coriander/cilantro) and mint, more if you'd like an herb-dominant version
a slightly smaller handful of walnuts (almonds or pine nuts would work too)
at least one lemon's worth of juice
olive oil
Total time: less than 30 minutes Active time: enough left over to have a quick pre-dinner drink
Hydrate the grains according to package instructions. If using hot water, allow to cool slightly. In the meantime, toast the walnuts in a dry pan or a 350 degree oven. Keep an eye on them; they shouldn't take more than ten minutes. While the nuts cool, chop the herbs coarsely and tackle the pomegranate. (I've found that placing a bowl in the sink limits the amount of bright pink juice decorating the kitchen.) Chop or break the nuts into smallish pieces. Break up any lumps in the grain then add the nuts, herbs and pomegranate. Add enough lemon juice to pull the flavours together, and use the oil for a bit more lubrication.
Eat with meat, or not.
Sunday, 21 January 2007
Sunday, 14 January 2007
Les Petit Pois eats petit pois
Forgive me for that moment of twee-ness. But it just so happens that one of the best things--boyfriend's words, not mine*--to grace our table in recent weeks counted as its main ingredient none other than a humble bag of frozen petit pois. In the interests of full disclosure (this is where my parents should stop reading), it also contained a bit of serrano ham. Called simply sopa de guisantes (pea soup with jamon and mint), this toothful, bright green potage features in the ever-reliable Moro cookbook. Carrots and bay leaves (they use fresh; I had only dry) fortify the one-note sweetness of the peas, while the ham yields an earthy saltiness and a bit of textural contrast. And the mint? Who am I to question the wisdom of this classic culinary pairing?
I've made very few alterations to the original recipe. For cost reasons, I used about 1/2 the quantity of jamon. Perhaps--and here I flout culinary wisdom with some trepidation--those who abstain from pork products could substitute a very little bit (1/2 teaspoon?) of good quality, sweet Spanish paprika. Either way, there could be no possible objection to a glass of fino, so cold that a film of condensation has formed on the outside, and a basket of chewy, just slightly sour bread.
Sopa de guisantes (Pea soup with jamon and mint)
4 tbsp olive oil
1/2 medium onion, finely chopped (I used a bit more)
1 medium carrot, finely chopped
2 bay leaves, preferably fresh
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1/4 pound jamon serrano, finely chopped
1 small bunch fresh mint, finely chopped
just over 1 pound podded peas, frozen
enough stock to cover**
Special equipment: this is much easier with an immersion (stick) blender
In a large saucepan, warm olive oil over a medium heat. Add onion, cooking until it turns golden, then add carrot and bay leaves. Cook for a further 5 minutes, stirring a bit, then add garlic, 2/3 of the ham and 1/2 the mint. Stir, then add the peas and cover with stock. Simmer for a good five minutes, or until the peas are soft. Take off heat and puree until smooth. Season with salt and pepper, then garnish with remaining mint and jamon.
* Said boyfriend is English and moderately laconic. He does not say such things with great frequency.
** An English brand called Marigold makes a peerless vegetarian stock, powdered and quite low in sodium. In its absence, I'd suggest the vacuum-packed chicken or vegetarian stock sold at Whole Foods.
I've made very few alterations to the original recipe. For cost reasons, I used about 1/2 the quantity of jamon. Perhaps--and here I flout culinary wisdom with some trepidation--those who abstain from pork products could substitute a very little bit (1/2 teaspoon?) of good quality, sweet Spanish paprika. Either way, there could be no possible objection to a glass of fino, so cold that a film of condensation has formed on the outside, and a basket of chewy, just slightly sour bread.
Sopa de guisantes (Pea soup with jamon and mint)
4 tbsp olive oil
1/2 medium onion, finely chopped (I used a bit more)
1 medium carrot, finely chopped
2 bay leaves, preferably fresh
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1/4 pound jamon serrano, finely chopped
1 small bunch fresh mint, finely chopped
just over 1 pound podded peas, frozen
enough stock to cover**
Special equipment: this is much easier with an immersion (stick) blender
In a large saucepan, warm olive oil over a medium heat. Add onion, cooking until it turns golden, then add carrot and bay leaves. Cook for a further 5 minutes, stirring a bit, then add garlic, 2/3 of the ham and 1/2 the mint. Stir, then add the peas and cover with stock. Simmer for a good five minutes, or until the peas are soft. Take off heat and puree until smooth. Season with salt and pepper, then garnish with remaining mint and jamon.
* Said boyfriend is English and moderately laconic. He does not say such things with great frequency.
** An English brand called Marigold makes a peerless vegetarian stock, powdered and quite low in sodium. In its absence, I'd suggest the vacuum-packed chicken or vegetarian stock sold at Whole Foods.
Sunday, 7 January 2007
Seeing things through orange-hued glasses
The new year has brought a lovely new addition to Les Petit Pois' modest kitchen. In order to mark a recent milestone, a dear friend found me a set a set of little-used, volcano-orange Le Creuset pots--5 in total, complete with a clever hanging/storage rack. Though I did swear a bit when lugging them back home that night, I am completely besotted. Now, it may be the perfectly-seasoned, heavy-as-all-get-out cast iron which has led to a noticeable improvement in cooking outcomes this week. It's not difficult to imagine that the carrot-fennel soup I wizzed up, or, for that matter, the braised lentils I wrote about previously, would benefit from being cooked in a heavy-bottomed pot. And yet, the effect seems to be psychological as well, as if owning the pots of a serious chef has helped me to throw off some of the self-doubt that often stymies my cooking. Or maybe this is just a gift with good karma.
As I write, the two largest pots in the ensemble are being pressed into service. The 20cm is full to the brim with an ever so slowly simmering carbonnade (beef and beer stew a la Flanders), the largest has just gone back into the oven housing the now-legendary (at least in my cooking and blog-obsessed world) no-knead bread. With chilly, if not cold, weather on the horizon for the foreseeable future, I'm thinking that this stew-bread double act, supported by an able cast of soups and slow-cooked legumes (accompanied by lots of spicy red poured into those Bordeaux glasses...) has a profitable run ahead of it.
Carbonnade (primarily adapted from Larousse and Nigella Lawson's recipe for beef braised in beer from How to Eat)
1 tbsp flour
1 1/2 pounds lean stewing meat
1-2 tbsp olive oil
3 medium onions
2 garlic gloves
1 cup prunes
16 oz beer*
several branches fresh thyme
2 heaping teaspoons dijon mustard
salt and pepper to taste
serves 4-5
total time: 2-3 hours
active time: 30-40 minutes
Lightly coat chunks of stewing meat in flour. Add 1 tbsp oil to a large frying pan and heat to medium-high. Add meat, in batches if necessary to avoid overcrowding, and brown well on all sides. Don't try to turn the meat too quickly; it will probably take a few minutes per side. In the meantime, slice the onions thinly. After the meat is done, remove to a plate and add onions to the frying pan. Lower heat slightly. Using a bit more oil if necessary, cook slowly until golden brown, 15-20 minutes.
Transfer both meat and onions to a lidded casserole or pot, preferably one that fits the items somewhat tightly. Add a splash of beer to the frying pan, turn up the heat and gently scrape up any browned bits. Pour this and the rest of the beer over the meat, topping up with water if the meat is not mostly covered. Add prunes, sliced in half if desired, whole garlic cloves, and the thyme, stripped from its branches.
Cover well and place on low simmer. (If you cannot keep the surface at a mere shudder, consider using a ring reducer or placing the stew in a low oven.) Check periodically, topping up with water if it looks like it's drying out. Add mustard with about an hour to go. The beef will be tender after about 2 hours, but could happily cook for at least an hour more.
Season, adding more mustard if necessary, and serve over mashed potatoes, wide noodles or with lots of bread.
* I've used both IPA-style ales and wheat beers with success. If using a porter or stout, you might consider adding a teaspoon or so of brown sugar, although I've found that the carmelised onions and prunes offset any bitterness from the beer.
As I write, the two largest pots in the ensemble are being pressed into service. The 20cm is full to the brim with an ever so slowly simmering carbonnade (beef and beer stew a la Flanders), the largest has just gone back into the oven housing the now-legendary (at least in my cooking and blog-obsessed world) no-knead bread. With chilly, if not cold, weather on the horizon for the foreseeable future, I'm thinking that this stew-bread double act, supported by an able cast of soups and slow-cooked legumes (accompanied by lots of spicy red poured into those Bordeaux glasses...) has a profitable run ahead of it.
Carbonnade (primarily adapted from Larousse and Nigella Lawson's recipe for beef braised in beer from How to Eat)
1 tbsp flour
1 1/2 pounds lean stewing meat
1-2 tbsp olive oil
3 medium onions
2 garlic gloves
1 cup prunes
16 oz beer*
several branches fresh thyme
2 heaping teaspoons dijon mustard
salt and pepper to taste
serves 4-5
total time: 2-3 hours
active time: 30-40 minutes
Lightly coat chunks of stewing meat in flour. Add 1 tbsp oil to a large frying pan and heat to medium-high. Add meat, in batches if necessary to avoid overcrowding, and brown well on all sides. Don't try to turn the meat too quickly; it will probably take a few minutes per side. In the meantime, slice the onions thinly. After the meat is done, remove to a plate and add onions to the frying pan. Lower heat slightly. Using a bit more oil if necessary, cook slowly until golden brown, 15-20 minutes.
Transfer both meat and onions to a lidded casserole or pot, preferably one that fits the items somewhat tightly. Add a splash of beer to the frying pan, turn up the heat and gently scrape up any browned bits. Pour this and the rest of the beer over the meat, topping up with water if the meat is not mostly covered. Add prunes, sliced in half if desired, whole garlic cloves, and the thyme, stripped from its branches.
Cover well and place on low simmer. (If you cannot keep the surface at a mere shudder, consider using a ring reducer or placing the stew in a low oven.) Check periodically, topping up with water if it looks like it's drying out. Add mustard with about an hour to go. The beef will be tender after about 2 hours, but could happily cook for at least an hour more.
Season, adding more mustard if necessary, and serve over mashed potatoes, wide noodles or with lots of bread.
* I've used both IPA-style ales and wheat beers with success. If using a porter or stout, you might consider adding a teaspoon or so of brown sugar, although I've found that the carmelised onions and prunes offset any bitterness from the beer.
Monday, 1 January 2007
Humble Fare
At once primeval and utterly quotidian, lentils are a key ingredient of some of the world's oldest cuisines. Archaeologists have dated cultivation to the paleolithic age, while the Bible, Aristophanes and Apicius all feature the consumption of lentil stews and potages. Today, in the form of the Indian dal, and the lentil and rice dishes (including mjadarrah and koshari) ubiquitous across the Middle East, they remain a staple source of (cheap, local) protein to tens of millions daily.
For the (voluntary) vegetarians of the West, lentils occupy a similarly central role. Yet try as I did over 15+ years in their camp, I was never able to embrace this homely legume. Sludgy in colour, mushy in texture, often doused in copious quantities of harsh curry powders, lentils came to symbolise everything that was boring and abstemious about generically ethnic vegetarian fare. To be fair, the problem was something like that which I encountered with tofu. In the skillful hands of a Chinese or Thai cook, tofu was tasty, sometimes even moreish. In my own, it was bland, bereft of texture and generally to be avoided. Likewise, while the lentils served at curry houses or in the mezze dishes of a Lebanese restaurant did more than just fill the stomach, none of my own efforts in these genres merited repetition.
It was only after I began to eat meat again that I finally found a lentil that commanded respect. The Puy lentil, cultivated under AOC protection in the Auvergne region of France, possesses a delicate, earthy taste and, crucially, retains its shape when cooked. As I recall, lentilles du Puy had a particular following amongst restaurant chefs in the late 1990s, who used them as a garnish for roast fish and meat. They are most often paired with Mediterranean herbs--notably thyme and mint--garlic and pancetta (or another form of smoked pork) and simmered until soft. Loosened up with stock, puy lentils make a hearty soup; served at room temperature, they form an excellent salad, particularly when garnished with goat's or blue cheese.
At first, in a concession to my boyfriend's ambivalent attitudes towards non-animal protein, I cooked my lentils in a soupy, salty bath of pancetta, carrots, onion and thyme. The following summer I found a fantastic lentil salad recipe from Nigel Slater, calling for ample quantities of feta, red onion and mint. But by far the best--and most popular--has been a simplified version of a bulgur and lentil salad which I found in the Gourmet cookbook. My variation has eliminated the bulgur altogether, along with the shallots, carrots and celery. I've retained the toasted walnuts and fresh tarragon, upping the quantities of both and adding a final spark of acidity with lemon juice. The result is, at least to my mind, earthy, sprightly and satisfying. Humble fare it may be, but some days, you don't need anything more than that.
Puy Lentils with Tarragon and Walnuts
3/4 cup lentils
1 large handful of shelled walnuts (I'd describe my hand as relatively small; adjust accordingly)
1 slightly smaller handful fresh tarragon
1 slug (probably a good teaspoon) white wine or white wine tarragon vinegar
juice 1/2 lemon
1-2 slugs olive oil
salt and pepper
Place the lentils in a heavy-bottomed pot, cover with enough water to leave about 1 inch on top and bring to a boil. Lower to a simmer and cook, adding water if necessary, until lentils are tender but not falling apart. This should take 30-45 minutes. In the meantime, toast the walnuts either in a dry pan or a medium oven (10-15 minutes should suffice). When cool, break into coarse pieces. Roughly chop the tarragon. When the lentils are finished cooking, allow to cool slightly then mix in the walnuts and tarragon (this will wilt in the heat; no matter). Lubricate with a bit of oil, then adjust the acidity with the vinegar and lemon juice. Season to taste and serve.
Eat warm or at room temperature. Though I've never had leftovers, I'd imagine they would taste quite good as well.
For the (voluntary) vegetarians of the West, lentils occupy a similarly central role. Yet try as I did over 15+ years in their camp, I was never able to embrace this homely legume. Sludgy in colour, mushy in texture, often doused in copious quantities of harsh curry powders, lentils came to symbolise everything that was boring and abstemious about generically ethnic vegetarian fare. To be fair, the problem was something like that which I encountered with tofu. In the skillful hands of a Chinese or Thai cook, tofu was tasty, sometimes even moreish. In my own, it was bland, bereft of texture and generally to be avoided. Likewise, while the lentils served at curry houses or in the mezze dishes of a Lebanese restaurant did more than just fill the stomach, none of my own efforts in these genres merited repetition.
It was only after I began to eat meat again that I finally found a lentil that commanded respect. The Puy lentil, cultivated under AOC protection in the Auvergne region of France, possesses a delicate, earthy taste and, crucially, retains its shape when cooked. As I recall, lentilles du Puy had a particular following amongst restaurant chefs in the late 1990s, who used them as a garnish for roast fish and meat. They are most often paired with Mediterranean herbs--notably thyme and mint--garlic and pancetta (or another form of smoked pork) and simmered until soft. Loosened up with stock, puy lentils make a hearty soup; served at room temperature, they form an excellent salad, particularly when garnished with goat's or blue cheese.
At first, in a concession to my boyfriend's ambivalent attitudes towards non-animal protein, I cooked my lentils in a soupy, salty bath of pancetta, carrots, onion and thyme. The following summer I found a fantastic lentil salad recipe from Nigel Slater, calling for ample quantities of feta, red onion and mint. But by far the best--and most popular--has been a simplified version of a bulgur and lentil salad which I found in the Gourmet cookbook. My variation has eliminated the bulgur altogether, along with the shallots, carrots and celery. I've retained the toasted walnuts and fresh tarragon, upping the quantities of both and adding a final spark of acidity with lemon juice. The result is, at least to my mind, earthy, sprightly and satisfying. Humble fare it may be, but some days, you don't need anything more than that.
Puy Lentils with Tarragon and Walnuts
3/4 cup lentils
1 large handful of shelled walnuts (I'd describe my hand as relatively small; adjust accordingly)
1 slightly smaller handful fresh tarragon
1 slug (probably a good teaspoon) white wine or white wine tarragon vinegar
juice 1/2 lemon
1-2 slugs olive oil
salt and pepper
Place the lentils in a heavy-bottomed pot, cover with enough water to leave about 1 inch on top and bring to a boil. Lower to a simmer and cook, adding water if necessary, until lentils are tender but not falling apart. This should take 30-45 minutes. In the meantime, toast the walnuts either in a dry pan or a medium oven (10-15 minutes should suffice). When cool, break into coarse pieces. Roughly chop the tarragon. When the lentils are finished cooking, allow to cool slightly then mix in the walnuts and tarragon (this will wilt in the heat; no matter). Lubricate with a bit of oil, then adjust the acidity with the vinegar and lemon juice. Season to taste and serve.
Eat warm or at room temperature. Though I've never had leftovers, I'd imagine they would taste quite good as well.
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