Rainy day food

When the rain begins, and the weather starts to cool, my mind wanders inevitably to sausages. Particularly, I must confess, the wonderful specialty sausages from Oyama Sausage down at Granville Island Market. I never know exactly what they will have available, each day, although there are certainly some frequent flyers, but I know that there will be a variety of fresh and cured sausages that will include, but not be limited to chicken, pork, lamb, beef, and a variety of game meats. Perhaps my favourite is the venison and blueberry, although competition is steep, and the chourice sitting in my freezer right now is looking mighty attractive. They don't use fillers (unless, as with black pudding, it is an essential part of the recipe), and they don't use more fat than is needful. Every sausage that I have had from there has been outright delicious. Sausage need neither be unhealthful nor frightening in the making, famous sayings notwithstanding.

Bangers and mash, that great classic comfort foods of British cookery, is one of the most straight-forward way to enjoy a good sausage, and I certainly do. I also borrow scraps from other european cuisines, though. Sausage with lentils and red wine, as the Italians would do. Cassoulet, as the French are prone to just about get into fist-fights over. Grilled beside a heap of red cabbage and apples, and buttery egg noodles, which would go down well in Germany or Scandinavia.

These are just beginnings. The possibilities, when you are starting with a good sausage, are just about endless. Breakfast hashes, stuffed into a good bun for lunch, or cut into coins and tossed with pasta for dinner. Jambalaya. Paella. Assorted casseroles and composed dishes. Heck, a nice, plump pork sausage next to a big bowl of homemade baked beans would be just fine, thanks.

A bit of onion, a bit of mushroom, and, as above, you have the beginnings of a sausage and gravy dinner that can feature any side dishes you like: scalloped potatoes, steamed broccoli, giant pile of coleslaw... really, whatever is in the fridge will likely go well with sausage.

When the weather starts to cool and the days are starting to grey with rain, this is what I want on my plate.

There are warm-weather sausage dishes, too, of course

Sweet and Simple

I love simple desserts, particularly on ordinary nights. Special occasions may call for fancy dessert footwork, but your average Thursday night is best topped off with something lightly sweet, easy to prepare, and deeply satisfying.

As we come to the end of the raspberry season, I am savouring them as best I can until we say goodbye to fresh berries for the winter. It is hard to beat, for both simplicity and deliciousness, a small bowl of really good, thick, yoghurt (the kind that is not too sour, but not cloying sweetened), topped with a scattering of red, luscious berries. And, if you happen to have a little limoncello to drizzle over the top - well, you've got the trifecta of weeknight desserts: soft, sweet, and just a little bit naughty. Well worth it.

Meatball Minestrone

I love soup. I cannot think of a culture that does not have some sort of soup. It can be an eloquent, evocative way to capture a sense of a particular cuisine, or a memory of a place. It can also be a tasty repository for things lurking in the refrigerator, slowly measuring their last useful gasps of usability until metamorphosis turns them into - if neglected, well, sludge, but if lovingly tended - a warming, welcoming breakfast (think menudo), lunch, or dinner.

As someone who grew up with "heirloom soup" in the winter, an ever-evolving pot of plenty into which most leftovers eventually found their way, I've always thought as soup as a somewhat ambiguous term, and was amused by people who made "mushroom soup" or "barley soup" because at any given time there might be mushrooms or barley or both in the heirloom soup. Even a soup that started off quite specific - chicken noodle, or oxtail, perhaps - would mutate quickly and, I thought, inevitably. As I grew older, I began to have an appreciation for the carefully thought out soups that highlighted a particular item. I've always had a fondness for minestrone, which somewhat bridges the gulf between the two philosophies of soup.

People will tell you that there are very particular things that one needs to put in (or omit from) a "true" minestrone, but these things vary by region and are often contradictory. Many minestrones are vegetarian, using plain water as the cooking medium instead of stock, and deepning the overall flavour with a rind of parmesan, and others will start with pancetta or bacon, and move on to a chicken broth. To achieve this particular minestrone, I went with a fairly classic approach, chose from the "acceptable" vegetables (since I had them on hand) and then spoiled it all by adding beef meatballs at the end. I'm not a bit sorry - the whole thing turned out just as I wanted.

Meatball Minestrone

2 tablespoons olive oil (or duck fat)
1 large onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 fennel bulb, diced medium-small
2 carrots, diced
1 small zucchini, diced (about 1 1/2 cups)
2 stalks of celery, chopped
1 cup of small cauliflower florets
8 cups water or vegetable stock
1 28 oz. can of diced tomatoes
1 15 oz. can of cannellini beans, with liquid
1/4 cup tripolini or other small soup pasta
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano leaves
1/2 teaspoon dried basil leaves
white pepper
salt to taste
small, cooked meatballs from 1 pound of ground meat (I bake mine in the oven for 25 minutes, rather than frying them)

In a large soup pot or dutch oven, heat your olive oil over medium-high heat. Add onion, garlic, fennel, carrots and celery, and stir well. Season with a little salt and white pepper, and stir for a few minutes until the vegetables begin to go translucent.

Stir in the water/stock, tomatoes (with their juices), zucchini, cauliflower, and herbs to taste. bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer gently, covered, for about 30 minutes.

Stir in the cannelini beans with their liquid, and the pasta. Simmer for an additional 10 minutes or until the pasta is al dente and beans are heated through. Add meatballs and stir through. Adjust for salt and pepper to taste before serving, and garnish each bowl with some fresh basil or a a dollop of basil pesto.

More Eating from Other Cultures

I've been longing to try making this since I first tried it in one of the few Persian restaurants here in Vancouver. The version that I had, I think may have not had paprika (and perhaps less, if any tomato), because it was a much yellower colour. The flavour, a lovely jumble of lamb with a lively spang of lime, is quite delicious. I was also delighted to discover that it is no more difficult to make than any other stew in my collection.

I pored over online-recipes until I found a consensus of ingredients and a method that looked sound, and then tweaked it to fit my own schedule and laziness needs. I am given to understand that this dish is usually cooked gently on direct heat (i.e. the stovetop), but I have modified it so that most of the cooking is done indirectly (in the oven), where I need not have to stir it so often.

While the combination of onions (quite a lot) and split peas - a pulse, true, but also vegetable in nature - I decided to add one more vegetable, and the traditionally accompaniment of white rice. The carrots are sauteed in a mixture of olive oil and spices, then squirted with lime juice and simmered in just enough water so that when it cooks down to a glaze, the carrots are just tender. You can vary the spices to go with just about any main course.

Khoresht Ghaimeh
serves 4 - 6

1 cup yellow split peas
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
750 grams cubed boneless lamb meat (leg or shoulder)
2 large onions, thinly sliced into half-moons
2 tablespoons tomato paste
2 tablespoons paprika
1 teaspoon turmeric
2 1/2 cups chicken stock
salt to taste
pepper to taste
1 - 2 limes, zest & juice

Rinse the split yellow peas thoroughly, and place in a small saucepan, covered with about an inch of water. Bring to a vigorous boil, turn off the heat, cover the pan and let stand until you are ready to use them, later in the recipe.

Heat a large iron skillet over medium-high, and sear the lightly salted lamb chunks (in small batches). Remove to an oven-proof casserole dish or dutch oven. In the skillet that was used for searing the lamb, add the oil and turn the heat down to medium. Add the onions, and sauté until they begin to caramelize and turn translucent, and then add the tomato paste, paprika, turmeric, lime zest and pepper. Sauté for another couple of minutes, stirring constantly, and then scrape into the pot that contains the lamb. At the chicken stock to the emptied skillet and stir over medium heat, scraping up all of the stuck-on spices, tomato paste and lamb fond. When it has been all loosend and the stock comes to a boil, pour it over the lamb and onion mixture. Cover the pot and place in a 350 F oven for 1 1/2 hours, until the lamb is very tender.

Drain the hot-soaked yellow split peas, and add them to the lamb stew. Stir until well integrated, and continue to cook (covered) in the oven for another 20 minutes, or until the peas are tender. Stir in the lime juice to taste, and let stand for a couple of minutes, to integrate the flavours. Serve with white rice.

If you by any chance have access to dried, crushed limes, I am told that is the authentic seasoning, rather than zest and juice. Add them with the paprika, et al. this dish also often has small chunks of potato, added when the peas are added. I didn't have potato, so I omitted it, and didn't miss it.

Things to make with Chicken

Ever since the closure of Mirasol, Vancouver's tiny bastion of delicious Peruvian food just off Main Street, I have lamented my inability to dine on Aji de Gallina - a dish of shredded chicken in a marvelous, lightly spicy sauce of mirasol peppers, milk, bread, and cheese.

I had, of course, ever since I first tried the dish, been keeping an eye out for a likely recipe to try. One exceedingly disappointing attempt later, I had given up the notion pending a supply of the proper kind of pepper - and I had started to give up on ever finding them up here.

I kept an eye peeled for a likelier-looking recipe than the one that I had worked from previously, since I seldom take a second stab at a second-rate version unless I can pinpoint where, in fact, I went wrong as opposed to the general crumminess of the recipe. I've seen recipes for Aji de Gallina that call for carrots, jalapenos and saffron, that start with the boiling of an entire chicken, that call for evaporated milk or an entire cup of parmesan cheese, many of which feature bewildering directions. I have shunned them all.

So, of course, I was delighted when Cesar posted a recipe on (Lima) Beans and Delhi Cha(a)t. I bookmarked it, and told myself that I would find a way to make it. A few months have passed since then, but I finally cleared the last hurdle to success: South China Seas on Granville Island Market has begun to stock not only dried aji amarillo/mirasol chiles, but jarred ones, and even a sauce made from these coveted yellow peppers. We decided on the jarred ones (cured in a sort of brine, but not pickled, per se). I nabbed a double-breast of chicken from the poultry shop, and we hurried home to put Cesar's recipe into action.

I confess that I did not follow it precisely - I've neglected the potatoes that should be served on the side, and the black olive garnish for reasons purely of convenience in the moment. Next time, I promise to finish things correctly...and there will be a next time, because this recipe was exactly right. The texture, the flavour, the colour - all completely dead-on with my memory of the dish from the many times I've had it at the restaurant.

I used ground almonds, instead of chopped pecans, because they were what I had available. I used whole brined peppers, rinsed, de-seeded and pureed in the mini-prep. I used sourdough bread from my local Greek bakery. None of these things detracted from the feeling of triumph of re-creating a dish that I fully expected I would never again get to eat in this town.

Now, I must bend my attention to chicha morada...

A Good Steak

A good steak can be hard to find but, fortunately, it's pretty easy to make. I marvel at minor-league steakhouses that charge an arm and a leg for something that usually requires pretty much minimal preparation - and then often manage to do it badly or at least indifferently. I know that best-quality meat can be expensive, of course, but for goodness sake, do it right!

I don't cook steak all that often, though. I don't have the attachment to it as special occasion food, as some folks seem to, and it is a bit pricey for good cuts. I have had excellent luck with rib steaks, (and I make a mean flank steak) but this time, I decided to try the good ol' dependable strip loin, simply because I had never cooked one before.

I selected a smallish steak - the smallest that I could find, actually - since I was cooking only for myself. In the store, it seemed petite to the point of being teensy, but it really would have been big enough for two people to share, if they weren't being too greedy. Sadly, I ate the entire thing myself, and I'm not sorry one bit.

I followed Alton Brown's instructions, which have never failed me on the rib eye, and which apparently work wonderfully with any tender steak. A quick pat of butter in the vacated pan, while the steak rested, a slosh of red wine from my glass, and a smattering of parsley made an impromptu pan sauce, reducing to a syrup consistency in the time it took for the steak to recover its composure.

I had a side dish of Thai red rice (not pictured, sorry) and a salad with fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, but almost any side dish at all would do just fine.

Herb exploration: Tarragon

Tarragon was not a frequent flyer in our household, when I was growing up. Consequently, my early exposures to it left me a little bit weirded out by its odd, licorice-y flavour, and I was never sure what to make of it - literally - so I never bought it.

After a few experiments, though, including one where I was slavishly following a recipe for Manhattan-style clam chowder (I'm not fond of clams, and had no experience cooking this dish, but it was as a treat for someone else), I ended up purchasing some fresh tarragon and adding it as prescribed. The effect, the change that was wrought in the soup, was phenomenal, and it warmed me to the use of tarragon in other dishes.



Because it is not one of my general repetoire, I've had to look around for uses for tarragon. Poultry seems to be such a natural match, that recipes abound for it, and that seemed like a fairly good place to start. With a fat bunch of tarragon, I cooked three meals in one week that featured the odd and woodsy little herb with the big flavour: Chicken tarragon, French style; Turkey burgers, Dawna style; and a ground-beef stroganoff to which it was a haphazard but welcome addition.



The Chicken tarragon had wonderful flavour, and represented the steepest part of the learning curve. I learned that I should have had the tarragon chopped and safely en mise before I got going, because the last minute frenzy to get it into the pan at the right time left rather longer pieces than would have been ideal. Still, the flavour was fantastically encouraging, and I'll definitely be making this again.

I also learned that the recipe I was working from was too skittish about reducing the sauce, and consequently, it was a little on the thin side, but that is easily remedied on the next round. Still, the steamed new potatoes and carrot coins were a wonderful foil for the creamy sauce, regardless of its consistency, and quite a pleasant change from the more complicated side-dishes that I sometimes feel compelled to make.

The turkey burger, however, was an unqualified success. I regret that I did not note down exactly what I did to it, but the method was fairly simple. Ground turkey, panko soaked in milk, an egg white, salt, white pepper, the requisite (and more finely chopped) tarragon, and a mere smidge of cayenne represented most of the ingredients. I cooked them on my indoor grill, and we ate them on toasted sourdough bread with tomato and cucumber slices and some cumin-laced yam fries. For once, I forgot about taking a photo until after we had finished eating, so no yam fries pictures - the burger shown above was one of the ones that was deliberately left over so that we would have some to take to work in our lunches the next day.

The stroganoff I failed to photograph entirely. It was a truly last-minute affair of ground beef with onion, garlic, the last of the now-aging tarragon, finely chopped, and sour cream. We had it mixed into farfalle pasta, with a green salad on the side. I hadn't decided to make the dish in order to use up the tarragon, it was more of a happy accident that I realized it would go well - and it did. I'll be sure to think of that, the next time I'm making a real stroganoff.

There is a French restaurant near my house that uses tarragon a lot. They put it in many dishes, from hollandaise (but not as a true Bearnaise) to omelettes to ratatouille. It is almost a signature flavour with their chef, and I'm starting to see why. It brings a delightfully unexpected, yet not overpowering note to the food that is not found anywhere else in the city.

Now, if only I could find that chowder recipe (long since gone, I'm afraid) and make it without the clams...

A Tangle of Prawns

I have a great fondness for easy dinners, despite my appreciation for elaborate or difficult food. This particular dish was a second go at Nigella's Lemon Linguine, which she explains is simple enough to make even when "the thought of cooking makes you want to shriek." I've never been afflicted with that malady, personally, but I have occasionally wanted to "lie down in a darkened room" instead.

Happily, simple and easy dinners can often be made with things you've got literally lying around in the pantry/freezer/fruit bowl. I have reduced the ratio of pasta to sauce from Nigella's recipe, and added some garlic-butter-sauteed prawns (I confess, from a package of individually frozen, pre-shelled, cooked prawns) to relieve what I had previously found to be a dish more suited as a side than as a main course. This absolutely did the trick.

Lemon Prawn Linguine
Adapted from Nigella Bites

serves 4

1 lb. dried linguine
2 egg yolks
1 cup freshly grated parmesan
2/3 cup whipping cream
zest and juice of 1 lemon
2 tablespoons butter, divided
parsley, to taste, chopped
1/2 lb. precooked frozen peeled prawns
1 - 2 cloves crushed garlic

Bring a large pot of water to boil. Add a good pinch of salt and the linguine, and cook until just barely al dente. Drain, reserving about a half-cup of pasta water.

While the water is coming to boil, and while the pasta is cooking, prepare the sauce: In a large, slightly warmed pasta-serving-sized bowl (rinse with hot water), stir together the egg yolks, cream, most of the cheese, and the lemon zest and juice. Don't beat too vigorously, just combine nicely. Chop some parsley and reserve it until the end.

Rinse your prawns under hot water, and toss them in a non-stick pan with a tablespoon of butter and a crushed clove or two of garlic. Allow them to simmer gently until warmed through. If they are done before you need them, turn off the heat and let them sit in the pan.

When the pasta is drained, add back into the cooking pot, and add the other tablespoon of butter. Stir about until the butter is melted and lightly coats each strand of pasta. Gently tip the pasta into your serving bowl with the sauce, and stir about until the sauce is evenly distributed. If it is looking too dry, add a little of the pasta water until it becomes slick again. Repeat as needed, if needed. Add the prawns and their garlicky juices, and stir about. Add the parsley for a final little toss. Serve at once, topped with ground black pepper and the last bit of parmesan.

Indoor grilling

I've never owned a proper outdoor grill. Mostly, the succession of apartments that I've lived in since I finished school wouldn't allow for it, either space-wise (tiny balconies) or financially. The house that I currently live in has a nice, big deck... well, actually, it has a big deck that's not that nice. It's weirdly shaped and one corner is falling down - literally - and the landlord (who claimed he was going to fix it in July) still hasn't shifted himself to do anything about it. I would be hesitant to put anything that had both fire/heat and weight out on it.

So, I have an indoor grill instead. Not a George Foreman, because my flinch-factor wouldn't go that high, but a sensibly oblong Hamilton Beach model that unhinges itself to be either a flat-grill surface, or clam-lids to become a two-sides-at-once kind of grill.

I am told that indoor grills never give you grill marks, but this is obviously untrue. What I have learned is that you need to preheat the little devils for at least 15 minutes, rather than the five minutes suggested by the manufacturer, and that a combination of open-lid/closed-lid works best to ensure even, rapid cooking that doesn't simply steam away the lovely striped char and leave you with dented, pale food.

The chicken above was my first use of the spice rub I gleefully reported receiving earlier this summer. I have little information as to what is actually in it, but it is certainly delicious, and while the chicken breast that I cooked with it wasn't as fabulous as the one that was cooked for me in Gibsons (on a real, proper, outdoor grill), it was certainly up to the task of tasting terrific.

Using spice rubs is fairly new to me, and I think I was a little too hesitant with the quantity needed here, so next time I will be sure to be more generous. I'm also contemplating using it on baked pork tenderloin, which has become one of my favourite affordable cuts of meat.

Breakfast at home (Zucchini Fritters)

Much as I adore going out for breakfast, I usually make some sort of effort at a breakfast at home at least once on the weekend. It often starts with a smoothie, just to fortify us with enough strength to beat eggs for a frittata or slice peppers for a breakfast quesadilla.

We are both savory-breakfast junkies, so it is no wonder that most of of our breakfasts at home are at least somewhat eggy. Today's breakfast was a sort of happy accident - I had picked up a zucchini to make my Zucchini Fritters "sometime soon" and by chance had some leftover Dijon-Dill sauce in the fridge. The urge to make some sort of Benedict-like breakfast was overpowering. I was quite helpless against it! I modified the fritter recipe to use spices that would go more harmoniously with the dill and mustard sauce, using a mixture of thyme, oregano, white pepper and a pinch of cayenne. I heated the leftover sauce (an emulsion of mayonnaise, sour cream and dijon) with a little pinch of cornstarch, to keep it from separating, and treated it like a faux-hollandaise.

Zucchini Fritters

Makes 6 fritters
Total prep and cooking time: 30 minutes

3 cups grated zucchini
1 egg, beaten
2 tablespoons butter, melted
1 cup breadcrumbs ~ I use panko
1/3 cup finely minced onion
2 teaspoons chile powder or southwestern seasoning
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 cup flour
oil for shallow-frying

Make sure that the strands of grated zucchini are not too long - I usually cut a slice into the zucchini lengthwise before grating. Squeeze the zucchini to release (and discard) extra liquid, and place the shreds in a medium mixing bowl.

Add the egg, butter, bread crumbs, minced onion, salt and chile powder/seasoning. Mix well with a fork, so that all ingredients are evenly distributed.

Using wet hands, shape the mixture into six thin patties. Dredge each patty in flour, patting it to remove excess flour. You can prepare in advance up to this point and hold the patties on a plate in the fridge, covered with plastic wrap.
In a medium skillet, over medium heat, heat enough oil to lighly coat the bottom of the pan. When the pan is hot, fry the patties in oil until a medium dark golden brown on both sides. Serve hot - for a tasty breakfast, place a poached egg on top of each fritter, and serve 2 per person.

I do confess that I wimped out on the eggs - they were simply steamed in little baskets, as opposed to being properly poached, but some mornings there are just only so many things you can keep in the air at once. A perfectly poached egg would of course be the preferable option, but I was willing to sacrifice that for convenience, today. Next time...

The fritters are a big favourite of mine, and something that I am prodded to make whenever the zucchini are heaped high in the produce stores. They are delicate - downright fragile before cooking - but not difficult to make, and they make a wonderful side-dish at any meal (or snack, I confess, with a little hot pepper sauce, or not, as you see fit. You can vary the seasoning to make them spicy, mild or assume compatible characteristics with any cuisine you choose.

They certainly don't need an egg or fancy sauce to show their little golden faces at the table. I do have a compulsion that must soon be addressed: I want to make these fritters meat-ball sized, and serve them with spaghetti and a light, fresh tomato sauce for a light veggie-based dinner. I'm convinced it would be a winner.

*This post was updated in 2017 to replace dead link to recipe*