Poking around on Pinterest

Pinterest, for me, has proven to be only mildly addictive. I only follow a handful of boards, and honestly, I know my limitations when it comes to crafts. While I’m perfectly capable of making marshmallow shooters out of old yogurt cups and balloons (a big hit this summer!), it is pretty unlikely that I’m going to undertake anything much more ambitious. I like to glance at the fashion dreams of some of my chic friends, but at this point in my life I’m pretty sure what looks good on my Amazon-Queen figure, and don’t stray too far from my wide-legged jeans, scoop or v-neck shirts, and structured jackets. Pithy sayings make me chuckle, but they aren’t going to make me forget to meet the kids at the bus.

The food, though, is pretty alluring. The pinners I follow run the gamut from champion microwavers of frozen burritos to professional chefs, from triathletes optimizing their fuel consumption to pleasure-seeking gluttons. And, it seems, a lot of aspiring bakers. So while I don’t lose hours of my life clicking around (I save that for Facebook), I do enjoy seeing what other people are eating. Or at least wishing they were eating.

With the space that has opened up in my life lately, thanks to having a KINDERGARTENER AND A SECOND GRADER AND NO BABIES NO MORE, I have been trying lots of new Pinterest recipes, some way out of my comfort zone. Last night we ate this frequently-pinned takeout-style sweet and sour chicken, which delivered on its “just like takeout” promise, despite its odd method. Yum. And also, maybe takeout sweet and sour chicken isn’t all that good.

Tonight, I made one of my favorite meals: Bunch O’ Sides. Like a potluck, only better, because I don’t bring crappy deli food to my Bunch O’ Sides night. Alongside the sweet potato salad and apple-pops (one of my kids will eat almost anything you stick on a skewer. And little else.) were two new Pinterest finds: Zucchini Tots and Scalloped Tomatoes. And they were so delicious and easy and seasonal that I ran over to share them with you. Enjoy!

Soon. But not today.

Still on vacation, mentally, if not physically.

Pasta Proficiency

Sometimes a simple pasta is just the thing: quick, crowd-pleasing, and deeply satisfying. But sometimes it is decidedly not the thing, usually because it is bland and watery. After serving many in the latter category over two decades or so of impromptu simple pastas, I’ve mastered a few steps that make quick weeknight pasta memorable–in a good way–every time.

Thing one: Contemplate your ingredients.
Tonight I made a vaguely Greek pasta out of garden gleanings and assorted half-jars in the door of my refrigerator. Amongst the assembled pile on my counter, I red-flagged the shrimp, which can get overcooked while you simmer your sauce together, the fresh spinach, which can make the whole dish watery, and the fresh tomatoes, which loose their sweet brightness when cooked. In order to make sure that none of these dreadful fates befell my pasta, I started off by sauteing the shrimp until just shy of cooked, and transferring them to a wide plate. I then sauteed the spinach until it wilted, chopped it coarsely, and set it aside to drain while I put together the rest of the dish. The tomatoes, I held back until the very end of cooking, allowing them just to warm through. None of these steps are particularly refined techniques; it is the act of thinking this out before I started that made a huge difference in the finished dish.

Thing two: Really, really finish your pasta in the sauce.
For years, I tossed the cooked pasta with the sauce in the saute pan and then moments later, plunked it in a bowl, thinking that I was using all of my Giada-fabulous tips. But no….the commingling of sauce and pasta takes place over a few minutes. For this dish, I used Barilla thin spaghetti, with a box-suggested cooking time of 6 minutes. I checked the pasta at 4 minutes, found it close to done, and transferred it to the waiting sauce along with at least a half-cup of cooking water. And then I waited, tossing with my handy tongs, until things started bubbling again. And THEN, I gave it another minute or two to simmer together, really letting the pasta soak up the flavorful pan sauce. A pat of butter (or glug of olive oil) finishes things off.

Thing three: Taste and season one last time.
Since I planned to add briny feta cheese to the pasta at the end, I salted lightly at each step of the cooking process: a sprinkle on the shrimp, a bit into the jarred veg, another pinch when I added the wine and lemon juice. And I cooked the pasta in heavily salted water. But still, when I forked up a strand of spaghetti just before serving, it wasn’t quite balanced. One last hearty pinch of salt, plus a few cranks of the pepper mill, brought it right where I wanted it to be.

Yum.

Mediterranean Shrimp Pasta
Serves 4

3 tablespoons olive oil, divided
1 pound large (25-30) shrimp, peeled and deveined
3 cups spinach, stemmed
4 cloves garlic, minced
3/4 cup marinated artichoke hearts, drained
1/3 cup roasted red peppers, chopped
1/4 cup dry white wine
juice of one lemon
1 large tomato, cored and diced
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
12 ounces spaghetti, cooked a minute shy of al dente
4 ounces feta cheese, crumbled
3 tablespoons fresh basil, torn or chopped
salt and pepper to taste

In a large saute pan, heat 2 teaspoons oil over medium low heat. Add the shrimp in a single layer and cook, turning once, until almost opaque. Transfer to a wide plate. Add a second teaspoon oil to the pan, and add the spinach. Saute until wilted, then transfer to a cutting board, coarsely chop, and set aside to drain.

Wipe out pan and return to stovetop, increasing heat to medium-high. Add remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil to the pan, then add garlic. Saute garlic until aromatic, about 30 seconds, then add red peppers, artichoke hearts, wine and lemon juice. Simmer until liquid has reduced slightly, 2-3 minutes. Add tomato to the pan, and return shrimp and spinach, warming all ingredients through. Add pasta, about 1/2 cup pasta cooking water, and butter to the pan, return to a simmer, and cook for 1-2 minutes. Add feta and basil, toss, taste, adjust seasoning, and serve.

Yes We Can!

Fears are not universal. I’m terrified of heights, but am your go-to girl when it come to spider management. I’m okay in closed-in spaces, but crowds make my heart race. And while I can bake a pie from scratch, conjure bread from wild yeast, and fillet a fish in less than 5 minutes, I can’t can. Can I?

In an attempt to conquer my fear of “processing,” I took a class with the loveable and encylopedic (is that a word?) Cathy Barrow , in which we learned the basics of pickling and canning. (Mini-advert here: if you are DCish and have any interest in preserving foods, try one of Cathy’s classes! They are affordable and really, really wonderful.) While I was fascinated to learn about lactofermenting–hello, homemade kimchi!– and quick pickling, the crystallized moment for me came while helping to process jars of cherry chutney. It’s not rocket science. It’s not that time consuming. And, unlike many of my kitchen experiments, the equipment isn’t even particularly expensive.

A few weeks later, empowered with this new understanding, I set about preserving some of the season’s best things: peaches and cherries. The aroma of the peaches wafting from the entryway of The Local Market was outrageous. I grew up in New England, and it wasn’t until I moved to Virginia that I really got the allure of July peaches. And this year, the crop is intoxicatingly sweet. Happy girl. I bought 5 quarts and continued my shopping at the conventional grocery store, picking up Northwestern cherries for $1.99 a pound. Despite the Michigan cherry crop failure, Oregon Bing cherries are still affordable and crazy sweet this year. (I can hate global warming but still appreciate the superior fruit, right?). I borrowed a stash of canning stuff from my fearless canner neighbor, and picked up fresh jars at the hardware store.

Ok. Deep breath.

Making the jam was actually the hardest part, by far. For some reason, I have it in my head that jam made without commercial pectin is somehow more artisanal or something. Which is kind of stupid; by eschewing the commercial pectin, I end up adding tons of white sugar, which isn’t really the goal, either. But I had a vision, and trust me, you don’t want to get between me and my visions.

Pitting 10 pounds of cherries is kind of a drag. I’ll enlist a friend next time, even just to keep me company. But (spoiler alert) I ended up with enough pitted cherries for 6 half-pints of jam, plus a tart, plus a small freezer stash for making smoothies with apple juice and bananas. I also got to fiendishly rub together my red-stained hands, intoning “out, out, damned spot!” for a couple of minutes, which was a highlight.

Prepping the peaches was easier. Instead of the blanch-shock-peel method, I just used a veggie peeler, which was much faster. I added sugar, some flavorings, brought the gurgling pots up to 220 degrees….blah blah. Lets get to the canning.

This is it:
1. Sterilize jars. I did this in my otherwise empty dishwasher.
2. Warm lids. Brought a small pan of water to a simmer, turned off the heat, and dropped in the lids to slightly soften the orange sealing compound around the edge.
3. Ladle in hot jam, leaving 1/4 inch headspace. Cathy taught our class that Ball jars are actually calibrated to measure headspace; the bottom of the first screw thread is 1/4 inch and the bottom of the second thread is 1/2 inch.
4. Wipe jar edge clean, top with a lid, then screw on a ring fingertip tight (don’t use your whole palm to tighten….just, well, your fingertips).
5. Lower jars into a huge pot of boiling water, onto a rack. Leave them there for 15 minutes.
6. Lift jars straight out of water bath (don’t tip to get water off the top…..) and place onto a dishtowel on the counter. Wait for the satisfying ping of the jars sealing.
7. Cool on the counter overnight.

That’s all. I did it! I now have jam to eat and share for the long, peach and cherry free months to come. And, it turns out, I can.

Vanilla Peach Jam
Makes about 6 half-pint jars

8 cups peeled, pitted peaches
5 cups sugar
1 tablespoon butter
2 vanilla beans, split open
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice

Combine everything in a heavy dutch oven. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, and cook, stirring frequently, until jam registers 220 degrees on a candy thermometer. Cool slightly, then ladle into jars for processing, or just store in the fridge for a couple of months. But then you aren’t facing your fears.

Cherry Jam
Makes about 6 half-pint jars

3 1/2 pounds pitted sweet cherries
3 cups sugar
1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
1 granny smith apple, halved and cored*

Combine all ingredients in a large dutch oven and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to a simmer and cook, stirring frequently, until mixture reaches 220 degrees on a candy thermometer. Cool slightly and fish out the apple halves. Ladle jam into jars for processing. Or, as above, just keep it in the fridge. But a life lived in fear….. ; )

*Cherries are very low in natural pectin, so by adding an apple to the jam as it cooks, you are able to extract the apple’s copious pectin and end up with a less-runny jam.

Gettin’ My Garlic On!

Many moons ago, when I sat far lower on the cooking learning curve, I made a marinated steak with homemade caesar salad that together contained at least a head of garlic. I thought it was good, but my family was fairly merciless (“Hhhow’s the hhhhottub, Hhhhoney?”) in their teasing. But what can I say? I love the burn.

Last weekend I traveled to Gilroy, CA….the garlic capital of the United States, to compete in the Great Garlic Cook-Off. And my entry, scaled for 6 servings, contained 5 1/2 heads of garlic. Oh yeah.

The Gilroy Garlic cook-off is a unique beast. It doesn’t have a huge prize, or a particularly glamorous location, but it has a quite a following within the shadowy underworld subculture of competitive cooking. Because the only requirement is that entrants use 6 cloves of garlic, there’s huge freedom to create something that shows off cooking skills, rather than focusing on a sponsor’s ingredient. The result is a cook-off competition with a bit of gourmet cache….and killer bragging rights within the aforementioned shadowy underworld subculture. I was elated to have been selected to compete.

My roasted garlic tamales with bacon garlic jam were kind of awesome….but not winners. Not this time. The winning dish, made by the fabulous Laureen Pittman, was a braised piece of pork belly, crisped and glazed with a luscious garlic and fig sauce, sitting on a rich, creamy tuffet of polenta. Uncle. All of the entries were creative and delicious-sounding, and the other competitors had serious cooking chops.

My dish didn’t win because I was in such good company, and also perhaps because I plated a little early, and tamales approaching room temperature start to lose some of their appeal (ya think? Oops.) But they are still really good. If you aren’t making them against a clock, I’d double, or even triple, the recipe, since the unsteamed tamales freeze gorgeously, and I’m pretty sure you’ll be happy you have a stash of these in the freezer.

Roasted Garlic Tamales with Bacon Garlic Jam and Ancho Chile Sauce
Makes 12 tamales

For the bacon garlic jam:
6 ounces thick-cut bacon, in 1/2” strips
1 1/2 cups peeled garlic cloves
3 tablespoons cider vinegar
¼ cup maple syrup
1/4-1/2 cup chicken stock

For the chile sauce:
3 ounces dried ancho chiles
1 ½ ounces dried anaheim chiles
¼ cup raisins
4 cloves garlic, peeled
1 tablespoon lard*
1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup chicken stock

For the tamales:
2 heads garlic
1 tablespoon olive oil
1/3 cup lard*
2 ½ cups masa harina
½ teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon kosher salt
2 ¼ cups chicken stock

About 15 dried corn husks

*If you don’t do lard, you can substitute shortening. But for the record, good quality, non-hydrogenated lard is lower in saturated fat than both butter and shortening.

Preliminaries:
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Trim the top third off of the whole heads of garlic (destined for the tamale dough), drizzle with olive oil, wrap in foil, and roast in the preheated oven 30-40 minutes, until soft and golden brown.

Remove the stems from the chiles (destined for the sauce) and combine in a bowl with the raisins, then cover with boiling water. Top with a plate to keep chiles submerged, and set aside for 20-30 minutes.

Make the bacon garlic jam:
Render the bacon in a medium sauce pan over medium-high heat. When the bacon has started to crisp, add the 1 ½ cups garlic cloves, cider vinegar, maple syrup, and enough chicken stock to just cover the garlic. Bring to an enthusiastic simmer, and cook, stirring frequently, until garlic is very tender and slightly caramelized. Mash jam into a chunky paste, then push solids to one side of the pan, allowing the rendered bacon fat to pool on the other side. Spoon out all but 1 tablespoon of the bacon fat.

While the jam simmers, make the chile sauce:
Combine soaked chiles and raisins with 4 cloves garlic and about half of the soaking liquid in the jar of a blender, then puree until smooth. Melt lard in a medium saucepan, then whisk in the flour until smooth. Whisk in the cumin, salt, and chicken stock until smooth and bubbling, then strain the chile puree into the sauce through a mesh strainer. Bring to a simmer over medium low heat, stirring frequently. Measure out 1/3 cup of the chile sauce and stir into the bacon jam; keep remainder warm for serving.

Make the tamales:
In the bowl of a stand mixer, beat 1/3 cup lard until soft and light. Mix together masa harina, baking powder, salt and chicken stock in a separate bowl, then add to lard in 3 additions, mixing well after each addition. Squeeze in the roasted garlic pulp and continue mixing until well incorporated.

Bring a few inches of water to a boil under a covered steamer.

Shred 1 or 2 of the corn husks into long thin strips for knotting tamales. Working in batches, spread about 1/3 cup tamale mixture into a 3” x 5” rectangle at the top third of each corn husk. Spoon 1 tablespoon of the bacon garlic chile mixture down the length of the tamale dough, then roll up, folding in one end. Tie with a husk strip, and arrange, open side up, in the steamer. Repeat to form 12 tamales.

Steam tamales for 30-40 minutes, until they feel firm to the touch. To serve, unwrap tamales and drizzle with chile sauce.

Midsummer’s Harvest Dream

So I got back from this:

And found this:

A few sweaty hours in my neglected garden yielded, along with an unseemly pile of weeds and bitch-ass raccoon*-bitten tomatoes, an inspiring pile of tasty and delicious veggies. We have passed the tipping point in the “work in, harvest out” balance. Squeals of joy from beet and chard lovers all around!

So what to do with it all? I have ideas! I started with this, which was delicious, and this, which is insanely moist and flavorful. Next time, I’ll skip the frosting so I don’t feel so bad about eating it for breakfast. Which I did, anyway, this morning, but felt a little bad about it.

And then I made one of my favorite cooking-in-the-summer recipes, which should not be confused with not-cooking-in-the-summer recipes, in which vegetables are pure and perfect and just raw or grilled with a little salt and olive oil. But yes, cooking: greek-style greens pie. Basically spanakopita, but loaded with assertively flavored swiss chard and beet greens instead of spinach. These greens really stand up to feta’s punch, so you taste verdant green-ness, not just briny tang. Not that there is a thing wrong with briny tang, but, you know, balance. In all things.

The magic here is in the crispy, flaky phyllo crust. If you fear phyllo, I’m guessing that you’ve never played with it. To me, phyllo is a great ingredient for “good enough” cooking…..no perfection is necessary, or expected, with phyllo. You layer a sheet or two in a pan, brush (do you have a pastry brush? Worth the 5 bucks you’ll spend on it; I use mine weekly) with melted butter or olive oil or a mixture of the two, then layer some more. If the edges look funky, tuck them in. Or fold them over. Or cut them off. It’s all good.

I love this recipe because it doubles and triples as your harvest doubles and triples. Freeze pans of greens pie, unbaked, as a way to preserve the harvest (because greens tend to come all at once, it seems). Or bake a bunch and bring them to friends with new babies. Or who are tapping their toes, waiting for new babies, as the case may be.

I also love it because it is delicious, and my 7 year old agrees.

**Remind me to tell you about the bitch-ass raccoon. Soon.

Greek-Style Greens Pie
Serves 4 as an entree with a chunky Greek salad or 6-8 as a side dish

4 tablespoons olive oil, divided
1 large onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
10 cups chopped summer greens, such as kale, chard, beet greens, and turnip greens, center ribs removed
2 eggs
4 ounces crumbled feta cheese
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon red pepper flakes
½ cup chopped scallions
½ cup chopped parsley
9 phyllo dough sheets, thawed

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Heat 1 tablespoon olive oil in a very large skillet over medium heat. Saute the onions and garlic, stirring frequently, until golden and tender. Add the greens and allow to wilt, stirring often to bring wilted greens to the top. When the greens have cooked down, continue sauteing until the pan is dry, another 3 or 4 minutes. Set aside to cool slightly.

Combine eggs, feta, salt, pepper flakes, scallions, and parsley in a large bowl. Add the cooked greens, and stir to combine.

Pour the remaining 3 tablespoons olive oil into a small bowl. Use a pastry brush to lightly coat the inside of a 9×9 square baking dish with the olive oil. Unroll the phyllo sheets and cover with a damp cloth while you work. Stack 3 sheets on a cutting board and lightly brush with olive oil, then fit into the bottom and sides of prepared pan. Repeat with 3 more sheets, and fit into pan at a 90-degree angle to the first sheets.

Fill pan with greens mixture, then oil and layer 3 more stacked sheets of phyllo on top, folding and tucking to enclose filling. Brush top with any remaining olive oil. Use a sharp knife to score pie all the way through, into 6 portions.

Bake pie in the preheated oven until puffed, golden, and crisp, about 30 minutes. Cool slightly then re-cut along scored portion lines. Serve hot, warm or at room temperature.

My oh my, blueberry pie.

I love, love, love to play with my food….I love to play with flavors and textures and colors and crunch. Its my thing: in the same way that some people can envision what a bright pop of color can do for a room, or what a song would sound like played in a lower key, I can imagine what a cake made with lavender, orange zest, and black pepper would taste like, without taking a bite. I love to hide unusual flavors in food, like an undercurrent of star anise in an italian-style duck ragu, or the tangy-sweet pop of a few golden raisins in a mushroom salad.

But there are a few classics that should not be messed with. I don’t really want ginger in my chocolate mousse. Nor do I want thai curry on my BBQ ribs. Maybe the twist would be good….but classics are classic for a reason, and they should be appreciated in their simplicity. I strongly support improving techniques, but at the end of the day, the pure flavors should shine.

Case study: blueberry pie, the first week of July.

In the mid-Atlantic region, where I live, blueberries come into peak season in early July. They are big and juicy and sweet and I can’t resist eating the fattest ones straight from the fridge. But I buy lots, so I can make a heaping blueberry pie to take to a Forth of July picnic and be the one who brought the pie.

This isn’t Maine pie, which tends to be double crusted and made with tiny, intense, hipster wild berries. This is the pie for the rest of us, who like the comfortable squish of a fat, mild berry, and are okay with that. It has just the right balance of sweet, salt, and tang; of gooey filling and crispy crust. Embellish with a scoop of homemade vanilla ice cream, maybe even cranked-by-the-kids, or with a fluffy cloud of whipped cream, or just eat it plain. But eat it….now, while the berries are plentiful and sweet and affordable. It is a classic.

July Blueberry Pie
Adapted from Maida Heatter’s Pies & Tarts

6-7 cups of juicy fat blueberries
1/4 cup cornstarch
1/4 cup cold water
3/4 cup boiling water
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1/4 tsp kosher salt
1 Tbsp fresh lemon juice
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 Tbsp unsalted butter
1 9-inch pie crust, blind baked*

This is no everyday pie (is there such a thing?) so begin by taking the time to go through the berries, handful by handful, and pick out any twigs, green stemmy bits, or gnarly blueberries that might mar the perfection of your pie. Rinse lightly, drain well, and pat dry with a kitchen towel. Transfer the berries to a big bowl.

Combine corn starch and cold water in a small saucepan, and whisk until dissolved. Pour in the boiling water, and keep whisking until mixture is smooth. Add sugar, salt, and about a 1/2 cup of blueberries from your lovingly-cleaned stash, and set over medium-low heat. Whisking pretty frequently, bring to a simmer, smashing the blueberries against the side of the pan to release their color into the mixture. As the mixture thickens, it will slowly clarify. Keep stirring and smashing until the mixture is thick, richly colored, and somewhat transparent. Remove from heat, whisk in the butter, vanilla, and lemon juice, then pout over waiting berries. Use a large rubber spatula to toss the berries in the gel. Once the berries are well coated, pour into the pie crust, and set aside at room temperature for an hour or 4. Overcome your patriotic need to refrigerate the pie….it will make the gel cloudy again, do unspeakable things to the crust texture, and, trust me, this pie is not going to last more than a day or two. You’ll be fine.

*This sexy little number will show off your mad pie crust skillz in a big, big way. If you aren’t sure about making a crust, or don’t have time, or were up late last night drinking unmentionable quantities of very very cold white wine with a friend instead of mixing and chilling your dough, I recommend going the refrigerated Pillsbury route. Under no circumstances can I bless the use of one of those frozen pie crusts in the foil pans.

Garden Fabulous

This is Year Two of the great “Learn to Grow Vegetables in Case of Global Financial Meltdown” project. Last year, things didn’t go so well. We had lots (and lots and lots) of swiss chard, but our tomatoes totally failed, a critter gnawed off the zucchini vine at the base after a single squash, the kids pulled up every single carrot “to check” long before they were even baby carrots, and I think we got about 7 pea pods at a time, which made a tasty snack, but was not the bountiful harvest I envisioned.

Things are going better this year. Part of the improvements are due to lessons learned (stake the peas!) But most are due to killer growing conditions: a warm, early spring with sporadic soaking rains. My soil is one year further amended, and also, I’m sort of co-gardening with my neighbor.

This co-gardening thing has been nice in terms of sharing watering and weeding responsibilities (as well as sharing the swiss chard) but my neighbor and I have very different approaches to gardening and we are basically just implementing them both. I am a type-A gardener, curling up with seed catalogs and quadrille paper in early February to map out a master plan that included rotating short-season crops through the same spots and planting 3 or 4 rounds of different veggies, so we wouldn’t be hit with two much of a glut. My neighbor’s approach consists of going to the garden center and buying whatever they have that he likes to eat. Both methods work, it seems: many of his commercial starts have done much better than my babied seedlings, and I’ve been able to supply both families with crisp, tender lettuces for weeks now, with no bolting in sight.

But.

Dude planted 6 cucumber vines.

That’s a pant load of cucumbers in our 3 3′x6′ raised beds. And a pant load of a cucumber harvest to deal with.

I love summer cucumber salad….you know the one: cukes, vinegar, a little sugar, a little salt. Basically a quick pickle. But the rest of my family is rather “eh” on it, and a girl can only eat so many cucumbers (although after Chick-Fil-A Fest, a girl needs to eat some cleansing veg).
And these aren’t really pickling cucumbers; too big, too seedy. Cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches on whole wheat with fresh basil are good. And so are cukes dipped in hummus. But the cukes have been getting ahead of us, and I found myself with 5 foot-long monsters in the fridge and another 5 or 6 ready to harvest. And the neighbors? Out of town this week.

So I give you Garlicky Cucumber Soup. Chilled and refreshing in that uniquely cucumbery manner, it is like drinking a bowl of tzatsiki. In a good way. Also: blender. fridge. table. done.

Garlicky Cucumber Soup
Serves 6

4-5 cucumbers, peeled, seeded, and chopped
3 cloves garlic, peeled and chopped
2 cups lowfat plain yogurt
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
2 tablespoons lemon juice
2 tablespoons olive oil
1/2 cup mint leaves
1/2 cup basil leaves (or dill, if you grow dill, which I don’t)
1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes (optional)

Combine in a blender, puree until really smooth (more than just a buzz….let it go for a minute or more). Chill, serve. Seriously.

To do it up, I might add some fresh avocado another time. Or top it with a little crabmeat tossed in lemon and minced basil. But for tonight, it was perfect and summery as-is, served with homemade pita and roasted beet and feta salad. Makes gardening….even co-gardening….worth it.

….in which I attempt to eat Chick-Fil-A in good conscience.

I ❤ Chick-Fil-A’s spicy chicken deluxe sandwich.

But I also love to spend my money in a way that doesn’t work against basic civil rights, and I think dropping $6.35 plus tax on lunch at a franchise controlled by openly bigoted management is ultimately hurting the civil rights of LGBT people*. And when one group’s right are infringed, all groups rights are infringed. Not cool with that, I assembled a pile of like-minded people to have a DIY Chick-Fil-A night.

There are many, many people on the internet trying to recreate Chick-Fil-A at home. Some things they have in common:
1.Powdered sugar in the dredging mixture
2.Some discussion of a pickle juice brine
3.Long comments arguing the merits of said pickle juice brine, usually with some current or ex Fil-A’r chiming in that while the grilled chicken in brined in pickle juice, the fried chicken is not.

So right there: that was my test. Pickle juice or no pickle juice. The dredges suggested across the various sites were very similar, but some included dry milk powder along with the powdered sugar, and that seemed intriguing. Ultimately I decided to go with one pickle juice brined method and one non-pickled juice brined, but dry-milk dredged, method. Not entirely scientific, but close enough for me.

Also, I decided to make fried chicken sliders, rather than full-sized sandwiches, because I wanted to be able to eat one made by each method. So I started off with about 4 ½ pounds of boneless, skinless chicken breast. I took off the tender, sliced each breast into thirds, then pounded them out slightly so that each piece was uniformly thin. Half just went into the fridge; the other half were doused in dill pickle brine and chilled for about 4 hours.

Once frustrating swim team extraction later (Mom! Can’t we stay just until adult swim?) I arrived home, appreciated having friends who don’t need me to clean for their arrival, and transformed my kitchen into a chicken frying operation. It was hot and greasy, there was a lot of beer, and at one point, my 5-year old was standing on the dining room table, hands tucked into armpits to form “wings,” shaking his booty old-school and singing “chicken bok dance! Chicken bok dance!”

But what of the chicken? Clear winner: pickle juice brine, baby! The saltiness of the brine balanced the touch of sweetness that the powdered sugar in the dredge provided, and elevated the whole thing. The non-brined one was good, for sure, but a little too assertively sweet. I think that the proteins in the dry milk powder gave it a darker hue (although, honestly, I wasn’t gauging the oil temperature as carefully when I was frying the non-brined ones…..the party was pretty well under way by then. The difference in the two colors could have just been from the oil temperature climbing up). At the end of the day, though, fried chicken on squishy rolls with dill pickle chips just aren’t going to suck.

Jen’s Best Attempt at Chick-Fil-A At Home
Serves 6

2 pounds boneless, skinless chicken breast
1 cup pickle juice (from the dill chips that you’ll use later)
about 2 quarts peanut oil, for frying
2 eggs
1 cup flour
¼ cup powdered sugar
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 tablespoon paprika
1 tablespoon garlic powder

12 slider-sized potato rolls, split
36 dill chips

Divide chicken breast pieces into thirds, and lightly pound to a uniform thickness. Transfer to a non-reactive container (Glass bowl? Plastic bag?) and pour in pickle juice. Cover and chill at least one hour, up to 8 hours or so.

Heat the oil in a heavy dutch oven until 325 degrees. Use a thermometer….this takes longer than you think, and underheating the oil will make greasy chicken.

Beat together eggs with a few tablespoons water in a shallow bowl. Combine flour, powdered sugar, salt, paprika, and garlic powder in a separate shallow bowl. Drain the marinated chicken, dip in egg mixture, dredge in flour mixture, then fry in the hot oil, turning once, until deeply burnished and cooked through, about 4 minutes per side. Drain on a cake rack sitting on a rimmed baking sheet (or paper towels, but I really do think the rack method keeps things crispier) and lightly salt.

Fill slider buns with fried chicken and pickles. You may want to offer lettuce and tomato, or mayo, or chipotle lime aioli (whateva), but you should try them neat, first.

Yum.

*Not looking for a fight here. But if you are interested in reading more about how Chik-Fil-A management has brought their personal politics into their business practices, I recommend starting here. If all of the hate starts getting you down, take a few minutes to watch this video in which drag queens encourage us to resume our Chick-Fil-A habits.

Did the Maccabees Keep Their Oil at 350?

With an abiding love for tall, dark and intellectual men, I spent much of my 20s in relationships with Nice Jewish Boys, and, being the kind of girl you could take home to Mom (by day, at least), was invited to a couple of Chanukah celebrations along the way.

Chanukah at Chad’s house was fairly forgettable—although I still cringe at the memory of his dingbat-non-Jewish new stepmother interrupting a sung prayer, declaring that it reminded her of “Angels We Have Heard on High,” and gracing us with an a cappella rendition.

But Chanukah at Aaron’s house was actually one of the highlights of my short experiment in West Coast living. We drove up to his relative’s house in Malibu, a relative who regaled us with tales of his latest production, a little film called “Titanic.” I felt like a church mouse in my WASPy skirt and twinset amongst a flock of designer-casual cousins. The food was forgettable, catered in, but the latkes! I can’t remember Aaron’s last name, but I have never forgotten his grandmother’s latkes.

This was a woman who had, within 30 minutes of meeting me, patted my leg conspiratorially and said “Don’t worry about your thighs. Men like big thighs on a girl.” I hadn’t, until that moment, been particularly worried about my thighs, being at the twentysomething height of my nubile-young-thingness. But this was L.A., after all, where even Jewish grandmothers have distorted views of healthy women’s’ bodies. I’m willing to overlook her pointed comment because of the latkes…..crispy-edged, tender-moist in the center, not greasy….with flecks of green something.

Over the years, I’ve tried to reproduce those latkes, combing the internet for new ideas. I shredded my potatoes by hand and by processor, I added flour, potato starch, matzo meal….fewer eggs, more eggs. But they just weren’t what I remembered. This year, I stumbled on a Chowhound discussion of grating versus shredding, terms that I had previously considered interchangeable. It turns out that grating is actually using the nail-punch side of a box graters, producing potato mush rather than potato shreds. Apparently, this is the central European method of latkery, distinct from the German/western European shreds.

Armed with 5 pounds of russet potatoes and an embarrassingly large jug of peanut oil, I immediately got grating. It is slower going, for sure, than shredding, even than hand shredding. Ultimately I ended up with a goo that, with some flour and an egg, fried up into Aaron’s Grandmother’s latkes! Slightly cakey, crisp at the edges, almost chewy in the center….yum.

But here’s the thing: they were pretty greasy. I checked my oil temperature, which stayed right in the 350 range for minimal grease absorption the whole time I was frying. Maybe there is something about the grating? I decided that I must immediately make some shredded-potato latkes to test.

So I shredded (by hand!) and wrung dry and floured and egged and fried, and sure enough, the shredded latkes were much less greasy. It seems counter-intuitive to me; greasy food happens when the moisture in food doesn’t turn to steam fast enough to form a bubbly barrier, exerting enough force on the oil to keep it from seeping in. Usually the culprit is oil that isn’t hot enough, but the oil temperature had stayed pretty consistent through both of my latke batches. Hrm.

If I were Alton Brown, or on the Cook’s Illustrated team I would have delved further in the science of it all. But since I’m not, and I had laundry to do and Christmas presents to wrap, I decided to just try something else, and see how that went. I wanted the creamy-chewy center of a grated latke, but the less greasy, super-crisp exterior of a shredded latke.

I opted for a ground-potato mixture, inspired by the latke musings of my favorite internet food chatters. Grinding potatoes in my food processor, with the chopping blade, not the shredding blade, resulted in a potato goo with more edges, slightly drier than the hand-grated potato goo, and profoundly easier, faster, and less bloody. I mixed the potato goo with the ingredients of my previously favored latke recipe, and got frying.

Nirvana.

Latke nirvana. Shatteringly crisp edges, toothsome interior, rich potato flavor, no gumminess…..I’m there.

Having no tradition to fall back on, I served the latkes with everything: homemade applesauce, sour cream, smoked salmon, some briney capers…..we gorged to the point of regret. Once a year.

So I leave you with what, for me, is the best-of-class latke, and raise a glass to Aaron’s Grandmother, where ever she may be. Chanukah Sameach!

Shiksa* Latkes

Serves 4 for Latke Night, or more like 6 or 8 as a side dish

2 pounds russet potatoes, skins on, well scrubbed
4 scallions, thinly sliced
2 eggs
1/3 cup flour
½ teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon kosher salt
about a cup of peanut, grapeseed or vegetable oil, for frying

Chunk up the potatoes into roughly 1-inch cubes, and toss into a food processor fitted with the chopping blade. Process until finely ground, scraping down once, about 2 minutes. Transfer potato goo to a mixing bowl, and mix in the scallions, eggs, flour, baking powder and salt.

Heat about ¼ inch of oil in a large heavy skillet over medium-high heat, until oil is around 350 degrees. Spoon tablespoons of now-pinkish potato batter into hot oil and fry, turning once, until deep golden brown. Drain on a rack set over a sheet pan. Repeat with remaining batter, refreshing the oil every few batches to maintain the ¼ inch level.

Serve hot to the appreciative assembled masses, with whatever your family thinks is the only appropriate thing to serve with latkes.

*To my understanding, based on a quick survey of my Jewish friends, this term is a simply slang for a non-Jewish woman. I had one person, however, state that it is really pejorative, and if that is your understanding, my apologies. I use it to describe myself in a deprecating manner, because a girl with my all-WASP, Founding Families lineage has no business makin’ latkes.