Vegetarian Archives - Patent & the Pantry

Szechuan Green Beans

January 18, 2017 1 Comment

I get into food ruts sometimes.

It’s like I get into a culinary funk and lose all my imagination, rotating through the same few dishes until something breaks the cycle.

Other times, I get into food obsessions.

During those periods, I make the same thing over and over – not because I’ve seemingly run out of culinary creativity, but because I just want to keep eating the same great dish.

One of those obsessions is Szechuan Green Beans – a recipe I got from Julie Van Rosendaal.

I had swung by her house one afternoon a few years ago where she had just been nibbling on some of these green beans sauteed with garlic, ginger and a squeeze of chili paste. She pushed the plate toward me; I took a bean and never looked back.

That first bite of slightly softened bean with the hit of spicy heat, the pungent garlic and green onions, now sauce soaked, hit all the right notes. So, I reached for another. And then another. When all the beans were gone, I found myself picking up the thin slices of garlic and stray bits of onions until the plate was picked completely clean.

I made them for the first time two days later. And the next night after that.

Since then, every few weeks I find myself grabbing fistfuls of green beans at the market, dreaming of eating the spicy, hot, slightly wrinkled beans over some rice with chopsticks.

This addiction runs so deep that I now typically double the recipe just to ensure I will have plenty to take to work the next day for lunch. This most recent batch was only a single – I didn’t have enough garlic at the time to make more – and when the beans were gone, I felt suitably bereft.

I ate them all with rice and a side of pickled ginger – another bizarre food obsession that has manifested in the last year or so.

And, as there are still beans in the fridge, I’m pretty sure I know what will be for dinner tomorrow night.

And here is a more accurate photo of what it looks like when I’m eating it. Since, really, I’m not fancy enough for that kind of plating when I’m eating on my couch.

But picture a whole bunch of pickled ginger with it.

Saw some lovely green beans at the store and bought a few handfuls knowing that would mean I could make Szechuan Green Beans. I up the garlic and lower the chile paste a bit, but otherwise this is pretty much the recipe from Dinner With Julie. Served over some Japanese rice.

A photo posted by gwendolyn (@gwendolynmr) on Apr 22, 2015 at 3:39pm PDT

Szechuan Green Beans

This is virtually the same recipe as posted on Van Rosendaal’s blog, though I recommend going to the higher end of the garlic and I upped the green onions, as well. Instead of Sriracha, I’ve also used Sambal Olek to good effect.

1 tbsp (15 mL) canola oil
1 tsp (5 mL) sesame oil, optional
1/2 lb (250 g) green beans, stem ends trimmed
2 tsp (10 mL) grated fresh ginger
3-5 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
3 green onions, chopped
1 tbsp (15 mL) soy sauce
1 tsp (5 mL) sugar
1 small spoonful of Sambel Olek (or a squirt of Sriracha)
Toasted sesame seeds, optional

Heat a heavy pan over medium-high heat and add the canola and sesame oils. Add the beans and cook, stirring occasionally until they start to turn golden. Add the ginger, garlic, green onions, soy sauce, sugar and Sriracha and cook a few minutes more, stirring often, until the garlic is golden, the beans are deeper golden and the sticky sauce has coated them all.

Sprinkle with toasted sesame seeds, if desired.

Serves 4.

A version of this article originally appeared in the Calgary Herald.

Salads, Vegetables, Vegetarian

Grilled Zucchini with Feta and Lemon, and Grilled Panzanella

August 7, 2016 No Comments

It’s been summer for all of one day this year – and by that I mean that we’ve had, cumulatively, about one full day of hot, sunny, bright, lovely weather.

The next storm is rolling in as I type, grey clouds muting the sky.

I can smell the dampness in the air, that fresh greenness that announces the rain about to fall.

No matter, I ate summer for dinner, even if the weather wasn’t cooperating.

Despite the near-daily storms, hail and thunder, the markets and grocery stores are at least full of seasonal bounty: corn, zucchini, basil and a medley of tomatoes.

Judging from Instagram, people are also having a banner year for zucchini, which always prompts questions of what to do with it all.

Sure, you can make chocolate zucchini loaf, but I like to celebrate them in all their natural – un-cake-like – glory. I had been bandying around grilled zucchini ideas the other day and came up with a plan to play off that flavour with some salty feta and oh-so-summery mint.

I actually can’t even quite bring myself to call this a recipe; it’s more like a suggestion of things that go well together. Want more feta on top? Go for it. Think some pine nuts might be nice? You’re probably right; try that too.

And since I was going to be grilling, and I have oodles of tomatoes because I just can’t resist buying so many when they’re finally in season, I thought I’d do a riff off a traditional Panzanella salad.

I’ve been joking a lot that this has been the summer of salad and toast. Well, this is basically the combination of those two things.

Though, instead of actual toast, I brushed slices of really good sourdough with some olive oil and then grilled them so they had those delicious char marks, which adds just a hint of summery smokiness.

Panzanella is one of those dishes that is really best in the summer months when tomatoes are in all their glory and you want to eat as many as possible because they actually taste like they’re supposed to and they arrive in stores in a rainbow of colours.

Traditionally, this salad is made with stale bread, but I’ve found I’ve preferred to roast roughly ripped up bits of bread in the oven or, now, this method. The roasting and grilling helps the bread retain a slight crunch and chewiness, even when soaking up the tomato juices and simple dressing.

(Don’t have a grill? No problem. Grill pans will mimic this quite well, just set one over medium-high heat and then follow either of these recipes the same way. Except, with the bread, weighting down the slices with something – I have used a can of cranberries wrapped in aluminum foil, so, really, anything goes – helps get those grill marks just right.)

With any luck, we’ll get an actual summer in the next few weeks – and hopefully into September. However, even if we have to stick indoors in the evenings, at least the eating can be seasonal.

Grilled Zucchini with Lemon and Feta

Think of this more as guidelines for a great side dish; you may find you want more lemon or cheese – or less, though I’m not sure how that would be possible. Don’t fret about making the zucchini slices perfectly the same thickness, just watch them on the grill and turn when they’ve got nice grill marks.

1.5 pounds of small zucchini, about four or so
Olive oil
Salt
Freshly ground pepper
3 to 4 tablespoons feta, crumbled
Juice of 1/2 a lemon
3 tablespoons fresh mint
Good extra-virgin olive oil for drizzling, optional

Preheat the grill to medium-high.

Remove the ends and then slice the zucchini lengthwise as thinly as possible.

Brush one side with olive oil and sprinkle over a scant amount of salt and then freshly ground pepper. (The feta is also salty, so you don’t want to add too much to the zucchini.)

When the grill is hot, place the zucchini strips on the grate, oil side down, and then brush the tops with a little more oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Grill until they have nice char marks have gone soft. Remove to a serving dish or platter.

Scatter over the crumbled feta. Squeeze the 1/2 lemon overtop, cut side up to keep the seeds from ending up on the plate.

Stack the mint leaves on top of each other and then roll into a cigar. Thinly slice them into ribbons and then scatter over the zucchini and feta.

If desired, use some good extra-virgin olive oil to do a very light drizzle over top.

Serve immediately.

Panzanella

Traditionally, stale bread is used for this, but I love grilling the bread (or roasting it in the oven when it’s not summer). You can use all the same types of tomatoes, but I love to grab all sorts of colours to make this really stand out.

For the grilled bread:

1/2 lb (250 g) ciabatta, sourdough or hearty bread, sliced 1/2-inch thick
Olive oil
Salt
Freshly ground pepper

For the salad:

1/2 small red onion, thinly sliced
3 tbsp (45 mL) red wine vinegar
2 lb (1 kg) tomatoes
1 garlic clove, peeled and minced
Salt
Freshly ground pepper
Pinch or two of sugar
1/4 to 1/3 cup (60 to 80 mL) extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 cup fresh basil leaves

Turn on the grill to medium-high heat.

In a small bowl, pour the red wine vinegar over the onion slices and let sit, stirring occasionally, while you prepare the rest of the recipe.

Brush the sliced bread with the olive oil and then sprinkle with some salt and pepper. When the grill is hot, place the slices, oil side down, on the grates. Grill until the bread has nice char lines. Remove from the grill and set aside.

Core and slice or dice large tomatoes – smaller ones can be halved or quartered – and add to a large bowl. Strain the onion slices, reserving the vinegar for the dressing, and add them to the tomatoes. In a jar or small bowl, combine the vinegar, garlic, salt, pepper and sugar. Shake or whisk until the salt and sugar have dissolved.

Add 1/4 cup (60 mL) of the olive oil and shake or whisk again until the vinaigrette is emulsified. Taste for seasonings, adding more oil if the dressing tastes too acidic.

Pour most of the dressing over the salad and toss until well mixed.

Cut the bread into rough, bite-sized squares.

Add the bread pieces to the tomatoes and toss again, making sure they get saturated with the vinaigrette. Add more dressing as necessary. The bread pieces will soak up some of dressing.

Let sit for about 5 minutes and then toss again.

Tear the basil leaves roughly, add to the salad and mix until combined.

Serve immediately.

Serves 4 to 6.

Salads, Vegetarian

Asparagus Salad with Parmesan and Lemon-Dijon Dressing

March 26, 2016 No Comments

It is thisclose to spring.

Sure, we’re in the middle of that weird part of the changing seasons when the weather flip-flops between sun and beers on patios, followed closely by fat flakes of snow coating the landscape. But even in these confused days of shifting temperatures and growing impatience for that first flush of green, I want to at least taste like spring has arrived.

I’m eager to shrug off the winter comfort foods — braises and creamy pastas — for the fresh flavours that come with the changing season. I want to nibble on green shoots and tender vegetables that are harbingers of longer, warmer days to come.

So, forgive me, because I’m about to cheat.

Here, it is not yet asparagus season — that’s still a good six weeks or so away — but I just need that first taste of it.

If you are more patient than me, feel free to bookmark this for later. But I won’t tell if you reach out for a bunch of asparagus at the grocery store because you’re also looking for something light and green to cleanse the winter palate.

Lemon, with its inherent brightness (which I argue makes it good for any season), matches well here and also seems to herald the changing of the seasonal guard.

It’s a perfect match with asparagus. Even in the colder months, when I crack and buy some to roast in a hot oven with a drizzle of olive oil and some salt and pepper, I will squeeze over a wedge of lemon or two to add some zing and cut the richness.

For spring, though, I want asparagus in salad form.

While we often think of steaming, roasting or grilling the green spears, it’s perfectly tasty without any heat being added to the mix. Sometimes I make salads by peeling off thin layers of the stalks to create ribbons. Other times, I make this salad, where I slice them into coins and add a bit of crunch with some walnuts and salty richness from some Parmesan cheese.

I came up with this recipe for Asparagus Salad with Parmesan and Lemon-Dijon Dressing when I was writing Pucker, which, it’s hard to believe, has now been out for about 16 months. At turns it feels like years and year ago, while in others it feels like I was just working on it, just seeing the designs, just holding my own copy for the first time.

I still find it a little hard to believe that I wrote a book, even more so when I stumble upon it in stores or get tweets from people about what they’ve made or how they’ve made some recipes their own. (Thank you to all who have tweeted or Instagrammed their dishes; it is so rewarding and I’m so grateful.)

So, maybe this is weird, but sometimes I crack my own copy to make something (why reinvent the wheel, right?). And right now, that’s this salad. I apologize in advance if making it — and talking about how it’s pretty much spring now — brings on the next great snowstorm. In that case, take the asparagus and roast it off instead. Just don’t forget the squeeze of lemon at the end.

Asparagus Salad with Parmesan and Lemon-Dijon Dressing

As published in Pucker: A Cookbook for Citrus Lovers, Whitecap Books (2014)

1 bunch asparagus (about 1 pound/500 g)
4 to 5 green onions, sliced
1 cup grated Parmesan
1/2 cup walnuts, toasted and coarsely chopped

Dressing:

2 tablespoons lemon juice
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
1 teaspoon honey
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

Chop off the rough ends of the asparagus and then slice crosswise into 1/4-inch coins, leaving the tips intact. In a large bowl, combine the chopped asparagus, green onions, Parmesan and walnuts.

In a jar with a lid or in a small bowl, combine the lemon juice, Dijon, honey, salt and pepper. Shake or whisk to mix thoroughly, then add the oil and shake or whisk again until the dressing has emulsified. Pour most of the dressing over the salad and toss. Add more dressing as needed. Serve immediately.

Serves 4.

Vegetables, Vegetarian

Braised Sweet Peppers and a Memorial to My Grandfather

November 11, 2014 2 Comments

Chocolate Heart.

That’s my grandfather’s nickname for me.

He bestowed it on me the first day I drew breath, after opening the first window on an advent calendar and finding a little heart-shaped chocolate behind the perforated cardboard. He didn’t use it often, though always on my birthday, scrawling it in his deeply slanted handwriting on cards, exclaiming it lovingly when I called to thank him.

It’s a special nickname, a personal story between the two of us; other family members rarely use it.

We are not a family for rituals, but hearing him call me Chocolate Heart each year was one I looked forward to. As was the phone call I made to him each Remembrance Day when I would thank him for coming home from the war. It started back in 1996 when I was working a co-op term for the Peace River Block Daily News in Dawson Creek. There, Remembrance Day took on an importance I hadn’t seen in the cities I lived in. Each year, the newspaper put together a special section dedicated to sharing stories of the veterans who called the northern B.C. town home. That winter, we wrote the stories of war brides who had married Canadian soldiers and returned with them after the war to Canada, settling in the then-small community with no sidewalks and dirt roads. Touched by their stories and recognizing how important the act of remembering those who did not make their way home was for those who lived there, I went to the Remembrance Day ceremonies. And when I got back home that afternoon, I called Papa.

If he had not come home, I would not be here.

This day last year was the last time I heard his voice. This year, there is no phone call.

Two weeks after we chatted, he passed away unexpectedly in his little cabin on the parcel of land overlooking the waters of Active Pass and the stand of soaring Fir trees he refused to chop down, despite them blocking much of the view. It was two days before my birthday and among all the things I mourned about losing him was the fact I wouldn’t hear him call me Chocolate Heart one more time.

This is the man who nurtured in me a passion for good food and wine, who introduced me to prosciutto and Riesling, who shared his love for cooking with a little girl who loved to be in the kitchen with him. Somewhere there’s a photo of the two of us leaning over a pasta rack, fresh noodles dangling from the sticks as we grin behind them, proud of our efforts and patiently waiting until we could eat them.

JASMacdonald. Untitled, year unknown.

An artist and former art instructor at UBC, he showed me the beauty of art and how to appreciate it, even though his skills and talents didn’t travel through the mess of genes to me. He taught me how to catch fish by jigging over the side of a row boat bobbing in the waves from the BC Ferries as they slid through the pass between Galiano Island and Mayne. In his studio’s makeshift kitchen, at a counter made of a length of plywood on sawhorses, he showed me how to make pesto from the basil he grew in his greenhouse. We’d eat it on bread with cheese, looking out through the Fir trees to the blue water, listening to jazz.

He dreaded Remembrance Day, refused to go the legion for any ceremony, choosing instead to stay at home and drink tumblers of wine while watching the birds flit around the feeders he kept filled and past them down the steep grassy slope to the ocean. It was a reminder of friends he lost during the war and those he had served with who had died in the intervening years. But he liked the phone call. And so did I.

Sometimes I could persuade him to share stories of his time overseas. He didn’t linger on the atrocities of war, of those fellow soldiers he lost. Instead, with his trademark chuckle, he’d weave tales about his misadventures and mishaps as a navigator. Like how he convinced his superior officers that he didn’t know how to swim — a key skill when one is threatened with the chance of being shot down over water — and was ordered to learn, which meant he spent afternoons in a heated pool learning the basics of front crawl (“Which is the easiest to learn?” he’d asked before demanding he only learn that one stroke.) while the other soldiers ran drills outside.

From the time I was young, I heard the stories of how he was shot down while on a bombing mission to Stuttgart. Hearing the tales before I was old enough to fully understand the dangers he was in made his funny anecdotes more amusing than scary. Half the crew was killed when the plane went down. He had parachuted to safety and spent three days wandering the French countryside, hiding in barns and haystacks, eating raw eggs and mulled wine before he was connected to the French underground and smuggled into Switzerland. The northeastern corner of France was occupied at the time and it was only by chance he was not discovered. He never focused on that part of it, instead spinning stories about how his cover was that he was ‘Jacques’ a deaf-dumb gardener because he had no aptitude for language and if he spoke, he would immediately be identified as a Canadian. “Which was dumb,” he would later say, “because if anyone made a loud noise near me, I’d turn around.”

He broke the rules of internment in Switzerland, reaching out to his wife back in Vancouver with their baby daughter to say he was alright, even as she was receiving telegrams to report he was missing in action. And when boredom in Bern reached a fever pitch, he and a few other soldiers smuggled themselves back into France and down to the coast to try to get back to England.

The upside of all those boring days was he wrote everything down; I have one of those journals, his words written out in his signature slanted handwriting, as well as a typed version of his story. So those stories won’t be lost, at least. It’s the stories I didn’t get to hear that make me wish for one more day at his side with a tumbler of wine and the sound of his voice.

He leaves a legacy, though. It is in the food I make and the skills I learned at his side. It’s in my love of Italian food and a good Gewurztraminer.

I miss him dearly.

In the days just after he passed, I wanted to make something that would connect us in some way. I can’t make Fettuccine con Piselli e Prosciutto without thinking of him. (That post is also about him.) Nor Pasta Carbonara. But I remembered all the times we also made Sweet Braised Peppers from his favourite cookbook by Umberto Menghi and I knew that was the perfect way to honour his memory. It’s one of the first things I remember making with him. It’s also the first time I learned you can’t touch your eyes after touching a hot pepper — a lesson that had my grandfather making me lay on the couch with a cold, wet facecloth over my eyes. Why he was using hot peppers, which the recipe doesn’t call for, remains a mystery to me.

So, in my grief, I chopped peppers and made a tomato sauce and ate it all with crusty, buttered bread that I used to swipe the last of the sauce from my bowl. And I know he would have been nodding his head in enjoyment and telling me I should just eat a little more.

Peperonata (Braised Sweet Peppers)

From The Umberto Menghi Cookbook.

1 tablespoon olive oil
1 medium red pepper, quartered
1 medium green pepper, quartered
1 small onion, diced large
Salt (to taste)
Freshly ground pepper (to taste)
1 clove garlic, finely chopped
1/3 cup tomato sauce
1/4 cup Parmesan cheese, coarsely grated

Preheat oven to 400F.

Saute peppers and onion sin oil in a skillet on medium heat for 4 to 5 minutes.

Season with salt and pepper.

Put peppers and onion in a casserole dish. Sprinkle garlic on top of peppers and onion. Pour tomato sauce over peppers, onion and garlic. Sprinkle Parmesan cheese on top of peppers, on, garlic and tomato sauce. Put casserole dish, uncovered, in oven and bake at 400F for 15 minutes.

Serves 2.

Breakfast, Dinner, Vegetarian

Eggs in Purgatory

November 16, 2013 2 Comments

Necessity is the mother of invention.

True in the world of technological advances. True also in the world of the kitchen.

Because, on those nights when there doesn’t appear to be anything in the cupboards and the fridge is down to just the basics, there are still meals to be made.

Such was the case the other night when I found myself hungry and with only the very basics in my cupboards and fridge. (Eclectic basics due to my bizarre impulse grocery shopping skills, but basics nevertheless.)

Among them, a can of diced tomatoes I’m sure I bought for a Bolognese that never ended up getting cooked, a chunk of Parmesan, part of a red onion, some rapidly wilting herbs and eggs.

In short, all the ingredients for a dish known as Eggs in Purgatory.

(It’s sometimes also known as Eggs in Hell, though I’d argue that’s for a spicier version than I can handle.)

There are millions of variations for this recipe, but they all start with the basic concept of cooking eggs in a tomato sauce. Beyond that, it can be as creative as one wants or dependent on what one has on hand: wilt in some greens like spinach or kale, add sausage, spicy chorizo or strips of prosciutto, sauté onions and garlic to give the sauce more flavour. Make a more “hellish” version by throwing in some chopped jalapenos or chilies while sautéing the onions. The options are limitless.

With my limited supplies, however, I kept it pretty basic. Thankfully, basic doesn’t mean boring.

With only 10 minutes and a very small amount of effort, I had a flavourful and filling dinner. The rich eggs with slightly runny yolks are a nice foil to the spicy tomato sauce. I mopped it all up with a crusty piece of bread slathered with some butter.

Using just one pan to make a meal means this dish is near perfection.

Next time, I probably won’t wait until necessity forces me to make this for dinner; I’ll make sure I have the ingredients for Eggs in Purgatory.

Eggs in Purgatory

For a spicier version, add more red pepper flakes or add some diced jalapeno. For some more green, wilt spinach or kale just as the onions have softened before adding the diced tomatoes.

1 tbsp (15 mL) olive oil
2 tbsp (30 mL) diced onion, about ¼ of a small onion
1 clove garlic, diced
¼ tsp (1 mL) red pepper flakes
1 13.5-oz (398 mL) can diced tomatoes
¼ tsp (1 mL) salt
freshly ground pepper
2 eggs
¼ cup grated Parmesan
¼ cup chopped herbs

In a pan over medium heat, warm the oil and then add the onion, letting it sauté until softened and slightly transluscent. Add the garlic and red pepper flakes and sauté until fragrant, about a minute longer. Pour in the diced tomatoes and juice, stir and let come to a simmer. Add the salt and a few grinds from the pepper mill, then let the tomato sauce cook until the liquid reduces and the sauce thickens slightly. Taste for seasonings, adding more salt or pepper as needed.

Using the back of a spoon, make two divots in the sauce and crack the eggs into the spaces. Sprinkle the parmesan over the sauce and egg whites.

Cover with a lid and let the eggs cook until the whites are set and the yolk is slightly runny (or to your desired doneness).

Remove from the heat, then sprinkle with the chopped herbs.

Serve immediately.

Serves 1 to 2.

Pasta, Vegetarian

Looking for the Butter, Onion and Tomato Sauce?

October 20, 2012 2 Comments

If you’re looking for the Butter, Onion, Tomato Sauce after seeing it on Global Calgary this morning, it’s right over here.

Thanks for watching!

Dinner, Lunch, Vegetables, Vegetarian

Spring Green Risotto

April 18, 2012 2 Comments

Last Saturday, I had drinks on a patio. Sunglasses were a necessity, as was a tall glass of something cold, and good conversation with friends.

All along 17th Avenue, patios were cracked open for the first warm weekend day in March. Tables were jammed with people laughing, drinking and turning their faces skyward to bask in the warm sun.

It’s as sure a sign of the changing seasons as the fact we had to put our clocks forward that night. (Though one is very much preferable to the other.)

It’s nearly spring.

But we’re not quite there yet.

After all, there are still patches of snow and, it being Calgary, we can be assured of one last blast of winter before spring truly arrives.

As I wait for those first green buds to appear, I find myself drawn to eating something that can at least remind me of spring. This Spring Green Risotto from the Barefoot Contessa is a good fit.

The bright green of asparagus and peas, the bright flavour of lemon zest and juice are the tastes and sights of spring. The mascarpone (or, in my case, cream cheese as mascarpone was not to be found) brings a rich creaminess that’s a good last comfort-food hurrah as winter fades away.

Risotto is a bit fussier than other dishes because of the continual stirring, but I think it’s worth the effort. In my experience, you don’t have to be chained to the pot, constantly moving the grains of rice about. You just need to be nearby for frequent stirring.

(I’m sure someone is mentally scolding me right now for that statement, but if the thought of cooking a risotto has put you off because you believe it will be a major arm workout from stirring for 30 minutes non-stop, this is me suggesting you reconsider. No, you can’t walk away; yes, you can do light kitchen tidying at the same time. Or that’s what I did.)

The patience and frequent stirring is worth it. Especially with this recipe.

Those little green peas popped with flavour, while the lemon juice made it bright and the cream cheese (see the recipe notes) added a smooth, creamy flavour without too much richness.

It’s enough to tide me over until spring finally does break through. Or at least until the next day warm enough for patio drinks.

Spring Green Risotto

Adapted from Barefoot Contessa Back to Basics. I omitted the 1 cup (250 mL) of chopped fennel, since I don’t like the flavour. Add it in with the leeks if you’re more of a fan. If you can’t find mascarpone (which I couldn’t – and didn’t want to go searching for in another store), spreadable cream cheese is a decent substitute. It’s less authentic, but was creamy and tangy enough. Using light cream cheese will also cut some of the calories.

1 1/2 tbsp (22 mL) olive oil
1 1/2 tbsp (22 mL) unsalted butter
3 cups (750 mL) chopped leeks, white and light green parts only (about 2 leeks)
1 1/2 cups (375 mL) arborio rice
2/3 cup (150 mL) dry white wine
4-5 cups (1 to 1.25 L) simmering chicken stock
1 lb (500 g) asparagus, cut diagonally in 1 1/2-inch (4 cm) lengths
10 oz (300 g) frozen peas, defrosted
1 tbsp (15 mL) freshly grated lemon zest (about 2 lemons)
kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tbsp (25 mL) freshly squeezed lemon juice
1/3 cup (75 mL) mascarpone cheese
1/2 cup (125 mL) freshly grated Parmesan cheese, plus extra for serving
3 tbsp (50 mL) minced fresh chives, plus extra for serving

Heat the olive oil and butter in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Add the leeks and saute for 5 to 7 minutes, until tender.

Add the rice and stir for a minute to coat with the leeks, oil and butter. Add the white wine and simmer over low heat, stirring often, until most of the wine is absorbed. Add the chicken stock, a soup ladleful or two at a time, stirring often.

Most of the stock should be absorbed before adding another ladleful. This should take between 25 and 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, blanch the asparagus in boiling salted water for a few minutes, until just tender. Drain and cool in ice water.

When the risotto has been cooking for about 20 minutes, drain the asparagus and add it to the risotto with the peas, lemon zest, 2 teaspoons (10 mL) salt and 1 teaspoon (5 mL) of pepper. Continue cooking and adding stock, stirring almost constantly, until the rice is tender but still firm.

In a small bowl, whisk together the lemon juice and mascarpone.

When the risotto is done, remove from the heat and stir in the mascarpone mixture, plus the Parmesan and chives. Taste and adjust seasonings as necessary.

Sprinkle with chives and more Parmesan to serve.

Serves 4 for dinner, 6 as an appetizer.

This article first appeared in the Calgary Herald. For recipe ideas and stories about food, check out the Herald’s food page.

Miscellaneous, Vegetables, Vegetarian

Pickled Onions and Onion Jam

December 10, 2011 8 Comments

As a kid — like almost all kids, I imagine — I was resolutely against onions. No, not in any dishes, please and thank you. And I was totally convinced that I could tell when they were in something. Until my mum did a little experiment. With my eyes closed, she gave me a piece of cooked celery and a piece of sauteed onion to taste. If I could tell them apart, I won. And if I couldn’t, then I wasn’t allowed to complain about onions ever again.

I failed.

Even though it was a 50-50 shot.

Now, I find the whole thing amusing. These days, almost all of my favourite dishes start with sauteeing some diced onions in butter or olive oil or both. (Like this one or this one or this one. Huh. Think I have a pasta addiction? Yeah.)

Of course, they don’t have to just be the start of a dish.

A few months ago, over at my day job, I wrote a piece about saving the standard sandwich. I made some jazzed up mayo with lemon juice and a whole bunch of herbs and then I made onion jam. That was my first time making it and it was a revelation. Sweet and savoury, rich and that slight hit of vinegar. Dear god help me, I was eating it with a fork. Seriously. And I had just made some no-knead bread and I had a chunk of brie and for the next three days, that became my go-to snack. (That and the herb mayo on toast with thin slices of tomato. Drool.)

A few weeks ago, I made a little Mexican feast (guacamole — recipe coming — and slow-cooked pork and tortillas) and at the last second, I thought nothing could improve this delicious trifecta than a little zing from pickled onions. I did a quick surf around the web, found a recipe and whipped them up. It made those little tacos sing. Seriously.

And then, a few days ago, I bought two red onions for reasons that are entirely unclear to me. And so, with two red onions and two recipes that would transform those little purple globes into something amazing, (And that’s with me liking red onions to begin with.) I got cracking.

I made Pickled Onions and Onion Jam.

I didn’t have brie this time around, so I’ve been eating the onion jam with Monterey Jack. Less fancy, still tasty. And I don’t have homemade tortillas, slow-roasted pork and guacamole, but I do have toasted bagels and ripe avocados that I’ve just mashed on top before lacing on top a few forkfuls of pickled onions. So simple, so good.

One quick note on the pickled onions: I made them the first time without the fennel and the second time with. Since I don’t love fennel, I will probably leave it out from now on. But if you do actually like fennel, then go for it. Other recipes I found also called for allspice berries (don’t have any; trying really hard to stop buying ingredients for just one recipe) and dried chiles (don’t have any and didn’t really want that kick of heat.) So, in short, this is totally adaptable. This is how I did it this time around.

Pickled Onions

Adapted from several sources.

3/4 cup white vinegar
3 tablespoons sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 bay leaf
5 whole cloves
5 peppercorns
1/4 teaspoon fennel seeds
1/4 teaspoon coriander
1/4 teaspoon mustard seeds
1 large red onion, peeled, and thinly sliced into rings

In a small, non-reactive saucepan, heat the vinegar, sugar, salt and spices until the mixture comes to a boil. Add the onion slices and lower heat, simmering gently for about a minute. Remove from heat and let cool. Transfer the onions and the liquid into a container and refrigerate.

Onion Jam

2 tablespoons (30 mL) olive oil
2 tablespoons (30 mL) butter
2 red onions, halved and sliced into 1/4-inch (1/2-cm) moons
1 clove garlic, crushed (optional)
1 teaspoon (5 mL) fresh thyme
¼ cup (60 mL) balsamic vinegar
1 tablespoon (15 mL) sugar
pinch salt

In a saute pan, heat olive oil and butter over medium heat until melted.

Add onions and a pinch of salt (which helps to draw out the onions’ moisture) and garlic (if using); saute until onions are cooked and caramelized, about 15 minutes. Add sugar and thyme, stirring to dissolve the sugar.

Add vinegar. Simmer until it is thick and has a jam-like consistency, about 5 minutes. Remove garlic clove.

Dinner, Pasta, Vegetarian

Butter, onion, tomato sauce

October 25, 2011 11 Comments

My general approach to tomato sauce is simple: I wing it.

After years of watching my parents throw basic ingredients into a pot and letting it simmer for an hour or two to create a hearty and rich tomato sauce, and even more years of making it from scratch on my own – owing to a perhaps unnatural love of pasta – I don’t give too much thought to cooking up a decent red sauce.

I’m a big believer in the long-simmered sauce with a multitude of ingredients that all come together over a slow heat, melding and marrying into something that is so much greater as a whole than the sum of its parts.

But I can also turn around a very basic sauce in 15 minutes.

At the very least, my spaghetti sauce usually has garlic and diced onions, sauted in olive oil with a generous pinch of salt, canned plum tomatoes I roughly (and gently, using a butter knife) chop in my hand over the pot, fresh basil if I can get my hands on it, a little sprinkle of sugar if the whole mix is too acidic, and a Parmesan heel, which I stash in my freezer for just such occasions.

So, it takes an unusual tomato sauce recipe to catch my eye.

Like this one. It has three ingredients. (OK, four, if you count salt, which, in general, I don’t, since almost all recipes call for salt.)

Canned tomatoes. A yellow onion. Butter.

That’s it.

Marcella Hazan’s recipe for tomato sauce with butter and onion has made appearances over the years on various food blogs I follow.

Each time I saw it, I thought I really should remember to give that a try.

And then I’d forget about it until someone else posted their love of this simple yet rich dish.

This seemed like a great weeknight dinner recipe since there is minimal fuss. No chopping or dicing, sweating or sauteing.

You dump it all into the pot, let it come to a simmer, reduce the heat, and go about things. In this case, a little laundry, some tidying and things that allowed for a quick wander past the pot to give the tomatoes a stir and squish against the side with a wooden spoon.

At the end of 45 minutes, all it needed was a small pinch of salt and to be dolloped over a nest of noodles.

Some have suggested sprinkling on Parmesan, but I opted not to. The sauce is rich and tasty without adornment, which is sort of the beauty of it.

The butter adds an almost unidentifiable creaminess and mellows out the acidity of the tomatoes.

And, luckily, such an easy recipe is simple enough that in the future I can pretty much wing it.

Marcella Hazan’s Tomato Sauce

This was adapted from Hazan’s The Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking by way of several food blogs. Since there are only three ingredients, I do recommend using San Marzano or San Marzano-style canned tomatoes, which are packed in tomato puree instead of water and have, therefore, a greater tomato flavour. You can find Marzano-style tomatoes in most grocery stores these days.

1 28-oz (796-mL) can of whole tomatoes
5 tbsp (75 mL) butter
1 medium yellow onion, peeled and halved
1 lb (500 g) spaghetti
salt to taste, if needed

Put the tomatoes, butter and onion in a pot over medium heat. Once the butter is melted, stir to combine, then reduce the heat to low or medium low – depending on how hot your element is; you’re looking for a slow but steady simmer – and cook for about 45 minutes. Stir occasionally, squishing the tomatoes against the side of the pot.

Cook pasta according to package instructions.

Remove sauce from heat, discard the onion and taste. Add salt if needed. Serve over cooked pasta.

This article first appeared in the Calgary Herald. For more recipes and meal ideas, head to the Calgary Herald’s food page.

Dinner, Salads, Vegetables, Vegetarian

Quinoa Tabouleh

August 27, 2011 1 Comment

Some people impulse buy gum.

I impulse buy five-pound bags of quinoa.

Oh sure, I thought it was a lovely idea in that moment, romanced by all the things I could do with this versatile, healthy, nutritious ingredient chock full of protein and fibre.

Especially after I saw on the back of the hefty bag that I can cook quinoa in my rice cooker. (Cooking rice and rice-related ingredients? Not my forte. I blame it on a year living in Japan where my apartment came equipped with a rice cooker.)

And then I got the family-sized bag home, jammed it into my cupboard and kind of forgot about it as it occupied valuable real estate in my kitchen. I finally unearthed it many weeks later, concocting a biryani-style salad with currants, chickpeas and a curry-lime dressing.

And then I forgot about it again.

Since then, there has been a bit more experimenting with quinoa.

But there is also something to be said about going back to basics — honest-to-goodness classic dishes that remain in the cooking repertoire for a reason.

Things like tabouli.

Or tabbouli. Or even tabouleh.

Or however you want to spell it.

In theory, this is a salad I should like. Mint and parsley, lemon juice, tomato and cucumber. All those herbs with that zip of acidic lemon, the crunch of cucumber and umami taste of tomato? I like all those things. A lot.

What I don’t like is bulgur, the grain traditionally used in tabbouleh salads.

I made a huge bowl of it once using a recipe that called for bulgur and then had to eat it for two days to get through it, hating it the entire time.

I didn’t like the taste or the chew and forcing myself to finish the thing, which had taken a bit of time and effort to prepare, did not help the situation.

So, as I was sorting through my cupboards the other day and stumbled across the still half-full bag of impulse quinoa, I was struck by a thought: why not make tabbouleh with a grain-like ingredient I actually enjoy?

And I pulled out my rice cooker and did exactly that.

(As a result of cooking it this way, I can offer you no suggestions or guidelines for cooking quinoa, other than tell you what I was also told: give it a bit of a rinse or a soak – say about 10 minutes or so — before cooking, which should alleviate any of the bitterness you might taste otherwise.)

With the exception of using quinoa and the addition of a red (or orange or yellow) paper for a bit of additional colour and crunch, this recipe holds quite true to traditional tabbouleh.

It’s the abundance of herbs, slight onion bite from the green onions and generous amount of lemon juice that gives it such a refreshing and light taste.

It’s the substitution of quinoa for bulgur that makes it no hardship to finish it off pretty quickly.

And, thankfully, I still have plenty more quinoa to make this again.

Quinoa Tabbouleh

4 cups (1 L) cooked quinoa
1 red, orange or yellow pepper, diced
1 cup (250 mL) cherry or grape tomatoes, halved or quartered
2 to 4 green onions, sliced thinly
2 mini cucumbers, halved, seeded and sliced
¼ cup (50 mL) mint, chopped
¼ cup (50 mL) parsley, chopped
1/3 cup (75 mL) lemon juice (from about 2 lemons)
1 tsp (5 mL) salt
freshly ground pepper
1/3 cup (75 mL) extra virgin olive oil

Cook quinoa according to directions. Let cool and place in large bowl. Add red pepper, tomatoes, green onions, cucumbers, mint and parsley. In separate bowl, mix lemon juice, salt and pepper. Whisk to dissolve salt. While whisking, slowly drizzle in olive oil to emulsify. Pour about ¾ of the dressing over the salad and toss. Add the remaining dressing if the salad seems dry.

Serves 4.

This piece originally ran in the Calgary Herald. For more great recipes and stories, head to the Herald’s food page at CalgaryHerald.com/life.

Dinner, Travel, Vegetarian

Momofuku Ginger Scallion Noodles

June 14, 2011 5 Comments

Last year I was lucky enough to travel to New York for a week.

And my friend, whom I was visiting, was open to all the restaurant suggestions I had. And there were plenty of them. But at the top of the list was Momofuku.

One of the first meals we enjoyed was at Momofuku Noodle Bar. And, towards the end, we had another amazing meal at . . . Momofuku Noodle Bar. Because even though I had wanted to go to the Noodle Bar and Ko during the trip, somewhere along the way things got confused and when I thought we were at Ko, we were at the Noodle Bar. Whoops.

We could have later gone to Ko when we realized the error, but I didn’t feel I could visit Momofuku and not have the ramen, which is one of those dishes that instantly transports me back to Japan (when it’s done right) and yearn for Japan (when it’s not).

That first night at the Noodle Bar we ordered the pork buns (which I still daydream about sometimes; they were just unbelievable) and the Ginger Scallion Noodles. These, these were so good that I was almost tempted to order them the next time we went back. Chewy ramen noodles, doused in a mix of thinly sliced green onions with a pungent hit of ginger, a slight hint of salty soy. I don’t think we left a single slice of scallion in that bowl.

We ate a lot of amazing meals that week (and had some incredible experiences too: a Broadway show, an afternoon at the Met) but I found myself coming back to Calgary and thinking about the noodles. When I took the job as the Food Writer for the Calgary Herald, I was quietly ecstatic to discover I would have access to a fairly good library of cookbooks (for research purposes, of course), which included the Momofuku cookbook by David Chang and Peter Meehan. I may have pulled it off the shelf to flip through in my first week on the job (for research purposes, of course). And then I kind of put the idea of making the noodles on the backburner.

Until this week.

When, suddenly, all I wanted to do was make those noodles.

So I did.

The recipe is ridiculously simple and it’s really only mincing the ginger and slicing the onions that takes any amount of effort (and, in the end, not all that much).

But the cookbook also outlines how the restaurant serves up the dish that I had fallen in love with a year ago:

Cook six ounces of ramen noodles, drain and toss with 6 tablespoons of the ginger scallion sauce, then top with bamboo shoots (another recipe from the book), quick-pickled cucumbers (another recipe from the book), pan-roasted cauliflower (pretty much just like it sounds), more sliced scallions and a sheet of toasted nori.

Yup, that sounds delicious. But I just didn’t have the patience to do any of that.

Maybe next time.

(I wrote more about my trip over here, if you want to check out some of what I ate — hint: Crack pie! — and some hot shoes I bought.)

Ginger Scallion Sauce

2 1/2 cups thinly sliced scallions (greens and whites, from 1 to 2 large bunches)
1/2 cup finely minced peeled fresh ginger
1/4 cup grapeseed or other neutral oil
1 1/2 teaspoons usukuchi (light soy sauce)
3/4 teaspoon sherry vinegar
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt (or more to taste)

Mix together the scallions, ginger, oil, soy , vinegar and salt in a bowl. Taste and check for salt, adding more if needed. Add several spoonfuls to cooked ramen noodles.

(You can find ramen noodles in most grocery stores these days, typically in the produce section by the fresh herbs and wonton wrappers.)

Dinner, Vegetarian

White Pizzas with Arugula

March 30, 2011 3 Comments

That’s slush outside right now. Melting snow and ice are forming rivulets that wend their way along curbs, searching out drains, forming murky puddles. Patches of grass left exposed are at last revealed, mats of brown carpeting the landscape.

It’s that shoulder season between winter’s end and the birth of spring when everything is dirt-covered, mottled from months of being hidden under cold and damp and snow.

So, until those pops of green start to stand out in relief against the landscape, until those buds burst out along tree branches and from the once-frozen ground, the next best thing, as far as I’m concerned, is to eat like spring is already here.

It’s time to shed the stews and soups of winter comfort and embrace herbs, baby lettuces, tender chard, pencil-thin stalks of asparagus and peppery arugula.

Well, in my kitchen at least.

There was something about this recipe for White Pizzas with Arugula that caught my eye at one point as I flipped through the Barefoot Contessa’s Back to Basics cookbook ages ago.

I like a good traditional pizza. And some of you may remember a version I did last year topped with shaved asparagus.

But this one appealed because I like the idea of garlic and cheese matched with an arugula salad that had been tossed in a lemon vinaigrette. It was like a salad and main dish combined to make something even better.

Arugula, which is also known as rocket, has a nice pepper bite to it, owed, apparently, to being a relative to radishes and watercress.

The lemon would add a nice bright kick, but the melted cheeses – Fontina, mozzarella and goat cheese – would lay a decadent foundation on the pizzas.

Oh, and garlic-infused olive oil? Well, that would take the whole thing over the edge.

The only thing that could have stood in my way was attempting to knead dough (a task that remains my culinary nemesis for now), but Ina Garten’s recipe calls for pretty much the entire thing to be done in a stand mixer.

Sold.

The pizzas are simple to put together and came out of the oven crisp, the cheese just starting to change to a soft golden colour. Topped with the arugula, they’re a food metaphor for the changing season: bright green emerging from white.

And the taste was a marriage between the comfort food of winter and the emerging flavours of spring: the peppery arugula and acidic zing of lemon vinaigrette played well against the rich pizza with its creamy cheeses and garlicky oil.

Don’t be intimidated by the rather lengthy recipe; it’s all pretty straightforward. And the result is worth it. Because even if this isn’t the last we see of winter -and, judging from the last several years here, I suspect it’s not – I can at least taste spring.

White Pizzas with Arugula

This recipe comes from The Barefoot Contessa Back to Basics. To make all at six pizzas at once, you will need three parchment-lined sheet pans. But this recipe is easily halved if you want. She also calls for a few sprigs of thyme to steep in the olive oil with the garlic, but I didn’t have any on hand and I don’t think I missed out by not adding it.

I’ve found arugula at Lina’s Italian Market, at the farmer’s market and sometimes in clamshell-type packages at major grocery stores.

Pizza:

1¼ cups (300 mL) warm water, 100?F to 110?F (38?C to 43?C)
4½ tsp (22 mL) dry yeast
1 tbsp (15 mL) honey
olive oil
4 cups (1 L) all-purpose flour, plus extra for kneading
salt
4 garlic cloves, sliced
1/4 tsp (1 mL) crushed red pepper flakes
freshly ground pepper
3 cups (750 mL) grated Italian Fontina
1½ cups (475 mL) grated fresh mozzarella
11 oz (300 g) creamy goat cheese

Salad:

1/2 cup (125 mL) olive oil
1/4 cup (50 mL) freshly squeezed lemon juice
8 oz (250 g) baby arugula

For the dough, combine the water, yeast, honey and 3 tbsp (50 mL) olive oil in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a dough hook. When the yeast is dissolved, add 3 cups (750 mL) flour, then 2 tsp (10 mL) salt, and mix on medium-low speed. While mixing, add up to 1 more cup (250 mL) flour, or just enough to make a soft dough.

Knead the dough for about 10 minutes until smooth, sprinkling it with the flour as necessary to keep it from sticking to the bowl. When the dough is ready, turn it out onto a floured board and knead by hand a dozen times. It should be smooth and elastic. Place the dough in a well-oiled bowl and turn it to cover it lightly with oil.

Cover the bowl with a kitchen towel and allow the dough to rise at room temperature for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, make the garlic oil. Place ½ cup (125 mL) oil, the garlic and red pepper flakes in a small saucepan and bring to a simmer over low heat. Cook for 10 minutes, making sure the garlic doesn’t burn.

Preheat the oven to 500F (260C). Dump the dough onto a board and divide into 6 equal pieces. Place them on a sheet pan lined with parchment paper and cover them with a damp towel. Allow the dough to rest for 10 minutes. Use immediately, or refrigerate for up to 4 hours.

Press and stretch each ball into an 8-inch (20cm) circle and place 2 circles on each parchment-lined sheet pan. (If you’ve chilled the dough, take it out of the refrigerator approximately 30 minutes ahead to let it come to room temperature.) Brush the pizzas with the garlic oil, and sprinkle each one liberally with salt and pepper.

Sprinkle the pizzas evenly with Fontina, mozzarella and goat cheese. Drizzle each pizza with 1 tbsp (15 mL) more of the garlic oil and bake for 10 to 15 minutes, until the crusts are crisp and the cheeses begin to brown.

Meanwhile, for the vinaigrette, whisk together ½ cup (125 mL) oil, the lemon juice, 1 tsp (5 mL) salt, and ½ tsp (2 mL) pepper. When the pizzas are done, place the arugula in a large bowl and toss with just enough lemon vinaigrette to moisten. Place a large bunch of arugula on each pizza and serve immediately.

Makes 6 pizzas.

This originally ran in the Calgary Herald. For more recipes, check out the Herald’s online food section.
Bonus pizza: Homemade pesto topped with tomatoes.

Dinner, Salads, Vegetables, Vegetarian

Warm Lentil Salad

January 23, 2011 19 Comments

I can barely close my staples cupboard.

Between the lentils, couscous, pasta, and at least five types of rice, the shelves are jammed with an overabundance of ingredients. I’ve squeezed half-eaten packages of rice noodles over near-empty bags of Arborio and sushi rice. I have two types of couscous (regular and Israeli) and two of quinoa (regular and black). And there are at least three bags of lentils: one I bought on impulse because I liked the look of the green disks, mottled like tiny pebbles, a freezer bag of several cups my parents gave me during a visit because I expressed interest in eating more lentils and a third bag I inherited from a friend when she was moving away and was purging her cupboards of all foodstuffs.

The trouble is, I had no idea what to do with them.

One of my New Year’s resolutions — which, I will admit, I’m not really fastidious about, though I like the idea of setting goals, even if I don’t always accomplish them. It’s like how I love to make lists and then check off tasks when I get them done – was to start attacking the staples cupboard in an effort to reduce the volume of ingredients in there.
Lentils, I decided, were to be the first challenge.

I must have read somewhere about warm lentil salads because that was the first thing that come to mind when I decided to tackle this. I have no recollection of when or where I would have stumbled across such a recipe. But I had such a firm idea in my mind of what I was looking for: cooked lentils studded with slightly sautéed carrot, celery and onion and then tossed in a French-style vinaigrette and served up still warm.

Most of the ones I found while searching called for goat cheese, bacon and sausage. I’m certainly not against the idea of adding any of those to a salad. (In fact, I would count those three things among my top favourite foods; certainly they are things that would improve a lot of salads.) But this was about using up what I already have in my kitchen. And the few ingredients in the recipe I finally found on Molly Wizenberg’s blog, Orangette, were all things I had on hand.

It comes together quickly, especially if you time it so you are chopping and then cooking the vegetables while the lentils quietly simmer away with a bay leaf. Drain them and toss into the pan of onions, carrots and celery, then slosh over the vinaigrette and stir. Sprinkle with parsley, some crunchy flaked sea salt and it’s ready.

After patiently photographing the dish in the last few moments of daylight, I took that first bite.

The earthy lentils combined with the slightly softened vegetables and the mustard-spiked dressing, along with the fresh green taste of parsley was perfect. The crunch of sea salt and the small sprinkle of vinegar for added tang put the dish over the top.

I polished off the entire bowl. And then scooped myself another one.

The simplicity of all the flavours came through, but together created a homey dish, perfect for a winter afternoon.
After eating this, I could see getting through the rest of the lentils won’t be a problem.

(Edited to add that I made this again less than a week later. That is how good it is. Go forth, make it. It’s easy and so delicious!)

French-Style Warm Lentil Salad
This recipe comes frrom Molly Wizenberg of Orangette, which she had adapted from Epicurious.com. She says it is even better the second day, though I would add the caveat, “if you have any left.”

1 cup (250 mL) French green (also known as “Puy”) lentils, picked over and rinsed
3 cups (750 mL) water
1 Turkish bay leaf
½ teaspoon (2 mL) salt, divided
1 small onion, finely chopped
1 medium carrot, finely chopped
1 celery stalk, finely chopped
2 medium garlic cloves, minced
1 teaspoon (5 mL) finely chopped fresh thyme
5 tablespoons (65 mL) olive oil, divided
2 tablespoons plus ½ tsp (27 mL) red wine vinegar
½ tablespoon (7 mL) Dijon mustard
Crunchy sea salt, for serving
2 tablespoons (25 mL) finely chopped Italian parsley, for serving

In a medium saucepan, bring the lentils, water, and bay leaf to a boil over medium-high heat. Reduce the heat and simmer, covered, until almost tender, about 15 minutes. Stir in ¼ teaspoon (1 mL) salt, and then simmer, covered, for another 3 to 5 minutes, until tender but not falling apart.

While the lentils simmer, warm 1 tablespoon (15 mL) of the oil in a 12-inch skillet over medium-low heat. Add the onion, carrots, celery, garlic, thyme, and 1/8 teaspoon (0.5 mL) salt, and cook, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables are just softened, about 7 to 9 minutes.

Meanwhile, make the vinaigrette. In a small bowl, whisk together 2 tablespoons (25 mL) vinegar, mustard, and remaining 1/8 teaspoon (0.5 mL) salt. Add the remaining 4 tablespoons (50 mL) olive oil, and whisk to emulsify.

When the lentils are ready, drain them in a colander or sieve, and discard the bay leaf. Dump them into the skillet with the vegetables, and add the vinaigrette. Cook over low heat, stirring gently, until heated through. Stir in the remaining ½ tsp (2 mL) vinegar, and serve warm, with crunchy salt and parsley for sprinkling.
Makes 4 side-dish servings

This originally ran in the Calgary Herald. For more recipes, check out the Herald’s online food section.

Dinner, Vegetarian

Pyrohy or Perogies

November 13, 2010 8 Comments

It started with an innocent tweet asking for suggestions on what to do with some leftover mashed potatoes. (A phenomenon I don’t think I’ve ever encountered. I’d just eat them straight-up with a little butter, but I digress.) I threw out the idea of fish cakes and a few others also had ideas.

And somehow from there Cheryl started talking about pyrhohy and the next thing I knew I had managed to scam an invite over for a lesson on how to make them at home. (Call them what you want, but I’m going to go with pyrohy here because that’s what Cheryl calls them and since she was kind — and patient — enough to teach me how to make them, I’m going to defer to her expertise.)

Anyway, I’ve long loved pyrohy though my only experience was the frozen kind from the grocery store. My first experience with homemade pyrohy was when my friend Colette had a group of us over for a Ukrainian dinner, serving up homemade cheese-and-potato dumplings and cabbage rolls made by her mom in Saskatchewan. They were fantastic and we all ate a lot that night. (There was kielbasa too and I provided a lemon tart, so we were all pretty stuffed at the end.)

Then an even larger group of us went to a fall supper at St. Stephen Protomartyr Ukrainian Cultural Centre where we supported the Knights of Columbus in their fundraiser by enjoying more homemade pyrohy, cabbage rolls, little meatballs in a dill and mushroom sauce and fried chicken. And then there was dessert . . . .

All this to say, it’s been a pretty pyrohy-filled fall. And that’s not a complaint.

So, a few Sundays ago, I drove over to Cheryl’s, met her two adorable kids and then got set up in the kitchen, along with Andree who had also been invited over for the lesson. There, in Cheryl’s beautifully lit kitchen (oh the photos I could take if I had that set up!), we became an odd little assembly line of workers. Cheryl showed us what to do and we tried to replicate it, occasionally with some success. And then we went home with two baking sheets full of pyrhohy ready to freeze or eat immediately.

So I did.

And they were delicious. (Due, I’m sure, in no small part to the onion I diced and gently fried in a generous dollop of butter.)

And, um, there are no photos of what they look like cooked because it was dark by then and the next time I ate them it was also dark and, well, now they’re all gone. Guess I’m going to have to make some more.

Pictures are after the recipe because they are a bit of a play-by-play of how to make pyrohy, so that made more sense.

Thank you again to Cheryl for the lesson!

Cheryl’s Pyrohy Dough

5 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 egg
1/2 cup oil
2 cups hot water

Mix together the flour and salt in a large boil. Whisk together the egg and oil, then add to the flour, mixing to combine. Add the hot water and mix again to form shaggy dough. Let rest for 15 minutes before using.

While letting the dough rest, begin forming the filling into small balls. This will make it much easier when it comes to filling the pyrohy.

To make the pyrohy, take a portion of dough and roll it into a log (like you did as a kid while using playdough), then cut into portions and roll those into balls. Using a rolling pin, lightly roll out the dough balls into ovals.

Place the filling in the centre of the dough oval and pull it over so the two halves meet each other. Gently pinch the dough sides together, trying to ensure no air is trapped inside. You can use your finger, curved slightly, to shape the pyrohy into their distinctive half-moons.

(I’m going to be honest here, I don’t think I’m explaining it well, but the pictures should help. Or you can check out Cheryl’s own post on making pyrohy here.)

We made straight-up mashed potato, mashed potato with bacon (put the bacon inside the mashed potato to keep it from perforating the pyrohy dough and causing a giant mess when you boil them) and sauerkraut. But, really, what you put inside is limited only (and forgive me for being this cheesy) by your imagination. Ricotta and a bit of fruit? Yes, that would be good. Mushrooms mixed in with potato? Of course. And so on.

Dinner, Salads, Vegetables, Vegetarian

Quinoa Salad with Curry-Lime Vinaigrette

September 7, 2010 17 Comments

When Twitter first came on the scene, I wasn’t really sure what to do with it. I had Facebook and email and a blog already, so did I really need another way to connect with people? But I signed up anyway. And, as it has grown, I’ve come to see all sorts of benefits that I could not have previously imagined would come from this micro-blogging/communication/networking phenomenon. I’ve made new friends, found news stories and been given a few new recipe ideas.

This Quinoa Salad with Curry-Lime Vinaigrette is one of those recipes. A friend tweeted she had been thinking a lot about biryani-style quinoa dishes. I was curious and asked for links, which she happily sent along. I liked the idea of them, but neither of the recipes really grabbed me as a whole. Instead, I was more interested in picking and choosing the bits and pieces from each that were intriguing.

And I was more than motivated to try out something similar, having impulse bought a three-pound bag of quinoa from Costco. Seriously. Some people impulse buy gum; that makes a lot more sense.

I’ve liked quinoa for some time, ever since trying it with veggies and a peanut sauce at the Coup. But the idea of cooking it was a bit intimidating. Various reports of it being bitter or improperly cooked were enough to make me shy away from it. And then I saw on the back of this bag that you could cook it in a rice cooker. Can I make a confession here? I don’t really know how to cook rice on the stove because a former boyfriend bought me a cooker when I came back from Japan (where I had fallen in love with the one in my little townhouse). Now that’s all I use. So, knowing I could make perfect quinoa in the rice cooker was enough for me to put the giant bag of the stuff in my equally giant Costco cart.

And then I got it home and didn’t really know what to do with it.

And here we are.

So, I made this salad with quinoa and carrots and zucchini, currants and pine nuts and sort of make-it-up-as-you-go-along dressing based on what I thought would be good with hints from the other two recipes I read. Tossed it all together and it was fantastic. So I ate some more. And then I tweeted it and people started asking for a recipe. So, I made it again last week and actually wrote down what went in this time.

I was at the farmer’s market and bought some oddly coloured carrots (because I also impulse buy strange vegetables) and used them in the salad because I thought they’d be pretty. They were. But the first time I made this I used straight up normal carrots and it was just as fantastic.

Oh, and here’s the best tip I’ve read in a while for julienning vegetables perfectly. First cut it in diagonal slices, then stack those and cut into sticks. So much easier and they always look fantastic.

This is great right away, even better if you can let it sit for a bit so everything has a chance to hang out.

Lastly, I’d say that the beauty of a salad is it is infinitely adaptable. Don’t like pine nuts? Use sliced almonds instead. Currants are great, but I bet diced apricots or a handful of dried cranberries would also be delicious. And so on.

Quinoa Salad with Curry-Lime Vinaigrette

2 cups cooked quinoa
2 carrots
1 small zucchini
3 green onions
1/2 cup currants
1/4 cup pine nuts, toasted
1 cup chickpeas, rinsed and drained
zest and juice of one lime
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon curry powder
1/4 teaspoon dried ginger
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1 tablespoon honey
1/4 cup oil (I used olive because it’s what I had. Any veg oil will be great)

Cook quinoa according to package directions or using the “white rice” setting on a rice cooker. Set aside and let cool then place in large salad bowl.

Julienne carrots and zucchini, then slice green onions. Add to quinoa. Stir in chickpeas, toasted pine nuts and currants.

To make dressing, zest lime into a bowl, then add lime juice and honey. Whisk to dissolve honey, then add salt and spices. While whisking, slowly add oil to emulsify. Pour over salad and toss.

Szechuan Green Beans

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