How I Spent My Evening: A Story in Pictures

I love making these tiny French butter cookies at Christmas. They are not difficult, but a tad laborious. I realize I skipped photographing a step - the slicing of the dough. Such is the case, late at night, when one's hands are awfully sticky. My apologies...
Step one: Hurl partially formed dough onto a parchment sheet.
Step two: Try to persuade dough to conform to the sized paper under the parchment.
Step three: Try harder... use rolling pin "persuasion."
Step four Cut dough into strips, and alternate.
Step five: repeat, using eggwash "glue" and reverse the colour scheme. Repeat again, reversing colours once more for the final layer.

Step six: chill and thinly slice the completed cookie logs. (You can wrap them well in waxed paper or parchment, and freeze them for several months. Defrost slightly before slicing, or they will be shattery.)

Step seven: bake for 8 minutes.

Versatility (Roasted Pork Tenderloin)

One of my favourite cuts of meat is pork tenderloin - one that I have only become familiar with in the last couple of years. Until I was inspired by a photograph I saw online, the only use I had for pork tenderloin was Porc Normandy - a braised, creamy dish from northern France. I just didn't know what else to do with the stuff. It seemed kind of expensive for stir fry, and I thought that the oven would dry it out.

I was wrong on both counts, as it turns out. Even a small-ish, on-sale piece of tenderloin goes surprisingly far in a stir fry (I'm planning a double ginger stir fry as I type this), and as for the oven - roasting a tenderloin is easy, low-stress, and has an unbelievable flavour payoff for even the most minimalist treatment. Roasting, therefore, is the method that I have turned to the most since I started regularly adding pork tenderloin to my shopping cart.

Roasted Pork Tenderloin

Preheat oven to 325 F.

Trim the roast of any silverskin, being careful not to remove too much of the actual meat. If there's a skinny end on your roast, tuck it under and tie it with a piece of butcher's string to create an even thickness for the length of the roast.



Line a large baking dish with tin foil, and spritz with a little oil. If you like, put down a layer of sliced onions or fennel, and use that as a bed for the pork. Spritz the pork with a little canola oil, and season generously with coarse salt and pepper. If you're feeling feisty, add any other seasoning that comes to mind - cumin is good, as is powdered chipotle pepper.

Roast, uncovered, for about 50 minutes per pound. Allow to rest out of the oven for five minutes before slicing on the bias, and serving. A sauce is nice, but totally optional.

If you should (mysteriously) have any leftovers, or had the good sense to roast more than you needed, slice them thinly or thickly for sandwiches the next day, or use them as part of a burrito filling. Tasty. Dead easy.

More Possiblities, or, Eggs, Again

It has been years, literally years, since I made an omelette. I suppose I fell for the siren charms of the fritatta, which involves less crucial timing and is more forgiving of somewhat random fillings. Perhaps I am afraid that my omelette will break or over-brown, and I will feel the bitter sting of failure in the kitchen. At least, an ugly omelette is still quite edible - even tasty - so one can consume the evidence and start anew each time. I certainly eat breakfast out often enough on the weekends that, if I want a good omelette, I certainly know where to get one, but there is something to be said for making it oneself.

Perhaps it is our North American culture that seems to broadly consider the omelette an individual portion, unlike the family-feeding monsters you can find in the farmhouses of France. Making omelettes for breakfast has always been something that I made when I was alone, so I wouldn't be eating in relay at the table, or allowing one to grow cool before the other one was finished. Happily, the Food Network provided something of a little jab to the frontal lobe, reminding me that an omelette can be a perfect meal for two, no waiting, if one is willing to divide a single, larger omelette into portions.

I am happy to report that I have not entirely lost my touch. Breakfast was a delightfully pale, gold-tinged omelette of mushroom, shallot, bacon and Tintern cheese, and it caused no embarassment whatsoever. In fact, it is inspiring me to flex my newly-fixed wrists over many omelettes to come.

I'm just getting warmed up.

Infinite Possibilities

Of course, eggs aren't just breakfast food, or the glue that keeps your cakes and meatloaves from crumbling helplessly as you attempt to slice/eat them. Eggs have an infinite number of possibilities attached to them, whether as the star ingredient or merely an essential component. Merely, of course, practically deserves air-quotes, because there is nothing insignificant about the role of the simple egg in great baking and cooking of our time. Really, there isn't a single culinary nook they haven't invaded: they help breadcrumbs adhere to chicken, they make a dandy snack when stuffed, they are critical to hollandaise and quiche, they make muffins rise better, an egg salad sandwich is a perfect summer lunch... the list goes on.

I also like to have eggs for dinner. Sure, scrambled eggs on toast are a classic and kind of fun breakfast-for-dinner sort of thing to do, but the very best eggs-for-dinner that I know is a family of Indian dishes known as Masala Eggs. (or, Eggs Masala. Or, insert variation of your choice here.) I think of it as a family of dishes because there are literally thousands of variations to choose from - some regional, some preferential, some dictated by your darkest curry desires.

I confess that my (current) very favourite Eggs Masala actually uses the sauce from this Chicken Korma recipe (but pureed smooth with an immersion blender), but I'm happy to have just about any version, and the one shown here has the advantage of feeling very light on the palate, while still being satisfying.

Once again, I have adapted this from Quick and Easy Indian Cooking by the inimitable Madhur Jaffrey.

Hard Boiled Eggs Masala

Serves 2 for lunch, or 4 for dinner as one of several dishes

4 hard-boiled eggs
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground coriander seed
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon salt
freshly ground black pepper
1 tablespoon canola oil
1/2 teaspoon whole cumin seeds
1/2 small onion, finely chopped
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh ginger root
1 cup of canned diced tomatoes (with some liquid)
chopped cilantro to taste

Combine ground spices with lemon juice and a tablespoon of water in a small bowl. Mix to create a thin paste.

Heat the oil in a medium-sized non-stick frying pan, over medium heat. Add the cumin seeds, give the pan a shake, then add the onion and ginger. Stir and fry until onion browns nicely. Add the spice paste, and stir and cook for another 15 seconds or so. Add the tomatoes, and bring to a simmer. Reduce the heat, cover, and simmer for about 10 minutes. Stir in the cilantro, and lay the eggs (sliced in half length-wise) onto the sauce. Spoon some of the sauce over the eggs. Serve with rice or naan, or (!) even over toast. For a thinner, smoother sauce, just add a tablespoon or two of water and puree before laying down the eggs.

Casserole

Baked pasta is a popular execution which can range from the simple combination of noodle-of-choice with sauce-of-choice, generally topped with cheese and popped into the oven, to elaborate layers of disparate ingredients which meld into a glorious and highly specfic dish, such as the classic lasagna al forno. Whenever you stray too far into the realm of binders, breadcrumbs, and cross-culture fusion, however, it generally becomes safe to call the resulting concoction a casserole.

Mexican is a frequent flying flavour, at our house. That is to say, I cook a number of straight-up Mexican dishes, as well as the odd Tex-Mex or Cali-Mex items thrown in. I also am not at all above flinging Mexican flavours into decidedly non-Mexican dinners - in part because I believe many dishes improve with a little hot sauce added, and in part because I simply like the flavours, and am quick to reach for the ground chipotle or jalapenos to spruce up a dish that is otherwise lacking.

This is a variation on a Cooking Light recipe - I haven't gotten the perfect texture yet, so some experimenting is yet to occur. The basic structure is this:

Chipotle Macaroni Casserole

Sautee an onion with half a green pepper (diced), until softened slightly. Sprinkle with chipotle powder and a little flour (about a tablespoon or two) and stir in some minced garlic, and minced or pureed chipotle in adobo sauce, along with some cumin and oregano.

When the mixture starts to stick, add a 398 ml / 14 oz. can of diced tomatoes with their juice, and stir well until thick and bubbly. Next, stir in about a cup of milk, and a cup of ricotta mixed well with a beaten egg. Reduce heat to low and stir until well integrated. Mix in a couple of handfuls of cheese - Cheddar, Monterey Jack, Parmesan - whatever spirit moves you, really, and turn off heat. Taste the sauce and adjust for salt and pepper, hot sauce (feel free to add whatever hot sauce strikes your fancy), and general flavour components.

Stir in cooked pasta - approximately 4 cups of cooked macaroni or its equivalent - and some nice diced, cooked chicken breast - great for leftovers - and pour the whole lot into a casserole dish. Top with a little more cheese, and breadcrumbs, if you like that sort of thing and can be bothered. Cover lightly and bake at 350 F for about half an hour, or until bubbling and browned.

Leftovers, should there be any, reheat well on medium heat in the microwave.

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...