Fish on a cold night ~
Like magic. Yesterday it was hot and tonight a cold and fog-thick wind is up, the warmth is gone, and any desire to eat a salad of small tomatoes with string beans has left with the balmy night air. Halibut (the romance of far cold waters) along with potatoes and something or other else. Already the dinner feels very Baltic in mood or color. I don't know Baltic or North Sea much of anything, let me be the first to say.
I cooked three potatoes (yellow) in the pressure cooker. I smeared a little butter over the baking dish (red on the outside, a case in which the pan is more colorful than the food itself). Sliced the cooked potatoes and sprinkled with salt and paprika (I had only somewhat hot paprika and used it carefully but now realize that I was adding more color). On top of the cooked potatoes I plopped a thick piece of halibut, sprinkled it again with salt, more of that feisty paprika, and some dill weed. Without caution I spooned over all a half-cup of sour cream, shmooshing it over, around, and into. Another sprinkling of salt (I think I under-salt everything) and then a reckless toss of paprika. I dotted the dish with a few ragged pieces of frozen butter - it had been out to butter the pan and it seemed wrong to leave it at that, there on the counter. Into my toaster oven at about 350 degrees. After a while (say 15 minutes) I checked the fish -- not done. Back into the little oven for more minutes. Then it was done and it was very good. Fish over cooked potatoes, smothered in sour cream.
There's thunder in the distance, which is not a good thing in the forest after a dry year. It's time to get in bed and read more about Agamemnon. It's all that romance language of the deep sea fish and fog and red pans and spices.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Who bought this?
Soup tonight ~ parsnip, turnip, sweet and white potatoes, leeks, and herbs. Is something forgotten? Small spoonful of crushed coriander seeds briefly warmed in olive oil and butter at the beginning. Salt and pepper. Then the hand-held blender. Sprinkle parsley, and a spoonful of dairy, as in yogurt or sour cream or perhaps creme fraiche, if I'd had some. It was nice and after all the wrong foods, foraged here and there, the root vegetables had me brimming with confidence. That mid-winter confidence. This nice soup came from La Tartine Gourmande blog, where I look at the pretty pictures, read about things to cook, read the French version (Paris still calling), and generally try to ignore the rest. The rest is very nice also, if one is interested. Served with warmed up ricotta and spinach ravioli. Too bad about no salad.
Tomorrow ~ chicken with dumplings
Next ~ goulash (beef), with many onions, good paprika (let's hope). Cabbage somehow, probably baked slowly. But does that seem too much luscious, with the braised meat?
Who bought this? or rather all of that? the pounds of onions, odd bags of root vegetables, the rippling ruffled (whoo hoo, such sounds!) Savoy cabbage, frozen peas, and ee gads enough meat to feed...
Goulash/Gulyas ~ how I learned to cook. It's because I love looking at the word gulyas and possibly even more I love the sound of it. Long ago a young woman arrived in my home town. Many, or was it all, of the young men I knew were in love with her. She was Hungarian, which to all of us meant danger and escape. Upon catching sight of her, my friends would comment in low tones, okay, in reverential tones, that her name, Czardas, was Hungarian and meant dance. Or was her name Esterhazy? Over the years my memory of the name has wavered. None of this means much, except that it's how and why I learned to cook.
Tomorrow ~ chicken with dumplings
Next ~ goulash (beef), with many onions, good paprika (let's hope). Cabbage somehow, probably baked slowly. But does that seem too much luscious, with the braised meat?
Who bought this? or rather all of that? the pounds of onions, odd bags of root vegetables, the rippling ruffled (whoo hoo, such sounds!) Savoy cabbage, frozen peas, and ee gads enough meat to feed...
Goulash/Gulyas ~ how I learned to cook. It's because I love looking at the word gulyas and possibly even more I love the sound of it. Long ago a young woman arrived in my home town. Many, or was it all, of the young men I knew were in love with her. She was Hungarian, which to all of us meant danger and escape. Upon catching sight of her, my friends would comment in low tones, okay, in reverential tones, that her name, Czardas, was Hungarian and meant dance. Or was her name Esterhazy? Over the years my memory of the name has wavered. None of this means much, except that it's how and why I learned to cook.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
No mystery
No way out of town today, and no way anything else. But I have potatoes and onions and milk, so there it is - potato soup for dinner, hot vichyssoise. For lunch, a glass of orange juice.
I typed some and then erased. Out of the blue came the word choice opium. What did they know? That somehow mud, out of, by the roadside were but steps on the way to opium?
I typed some and then erased. Out of the blue came the word choice opium. What did they know? That somehow mud, out of, by the roadside were but steps on the way to opium?
Monday, February 23, 2009
Buckwheat nu
How and where and more how ~ Go to the food blog 101 Cookbooks. Look at the ingredients list for soba and open that. The dish is called Otsu (means nothing to me). This is very tasty. It's in steps, perhaps too many, but is simple.
Drain, squash, cube, and fry tofu (I chose to fry, a change from the recipe). The cook recommends toasting the tofu in a heavy pan, which might be even better than frying.
Mix up the dressing, and don't bother with a food processor. Just use a microplaner to grate the ginger, then whisk all (I heated the honey in microwave; agave would be good). Pour the dressing over the tofu, for a chance to absorb the good stuff.
Boil up the noodles, drain under cold water and mix with a tad of oil.
Mix it all together, noodles, dressing, tofu, cucumber, cilantro, scallions, and probably something else.
Do not put this in the freezer.
Drain, squash, cube, and fry tofu (I chose to fry, a change from the recipe). The cook recommends toasting the tofu in a heavy pan, which might be even better than frying.
Mix up the dressing, and don't bother with a food processor. Just use a microplaner to grate the ginger, then whisk all (I heated the honey in microwave; agave would be good). Pour the dressing over the tofu, for a chance to absorb the good stuff.
Boil up the noodles, drain under cold water and mix with a tad of oil.
Mix it all together, noodles, dressing, tofu, cucumber, cilantro, scallions, and probably something else.
Do not put this in the freezer.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Sunshine
To throw you off.
Two pots of chili
Two pots of chili
Mostly the beans ~ I made an under-seasoned chili yesterday, beginning the day before by soaking 1 lb borlotti beans overnight. The next day I drained the beans (I know, there is a lot of disagreement about all of this), covered with some water, not that much, and overcooked them in my pressure cooker; by the end there was a fairly thick bean broth. This may need thinning, I thought, and at some point I added broth and water, with my usual cautious hand, now looking, now adding, beginning to taste for salt.
Onions and garlic ~ Two onions chopped finely and sauteed in olive oil. After about 10 minutes of cooking, I added 5 or 6 minced, formerly plump local garlic cloves. Why do I care about local garlic? Because I don't like thinking about my garlic bulb being one in several tons of garlic, forklifted into a shipping container to travel the world to my kitchen. I draw the line at seagoing garlic trapped in a container. I have a garlic press, which I point out to all who inquire, but I like mashing or chopping garlic. They are little and don't jump around the chopping board, or the wooden bowl, or whatever I used. Oh, and sometimes my good old wooden or granite mortar and pestle.
Herbs and spices ~ After more cooking of onions and garlic, I added about 2 tbsp fresh thyme, chopped into tiny shapes. This didn't seem like enough, so I added about 1 solid tsp dried thyme as well. Stir stir. This is when I would have stirred in 2 tsp or so cumin powder and quite a bit of ancho chili powder, but I forgot to. I also forgot the cocoa powder and never remembered it.
Change of plans and pans ~ I set this pan aside (another way of saying I took the small pan off the stove and put it somewhere else). In the midst of these steps, I received a telephone call from two vegetarians, on their way, here in 6 hours, will there be food? Quick - revision of meat and beans chili. I looked into the pot of beans, with its thick beany liquid, and then put the heat on under it. I added more water and then broth. Over time I added more of both, judging the amount as I cooked along. Then I added one large can of whole tomatoes to the beans, squishing each tomato with my hands, straight into the pot, taking care not to squirt myself with one, and then poured in the juices. I knew it was really not enough for so many beans and added several long squirts of tomato paste from the tube. After staring into the bean pot, now simmering, it looked like the time to add the onion and garlic/herb mixture, more salt tasting, and added the forgotten cumin and New Mexico chili powder, enough to season, but not enough to frighten away those New Englanders. I worried, and would continue to, even when eating, that I had cooked too many beans for the amount of tomatoes or onions or seasonings. I removed some of the bean mixture from one pot into another and and put a fire under it. This will be the non-meat version. It looked pitiful. But I continue staring into this pot, knowing there will be an answer for me. I open a drawer and pull out some white rice, long-grained, sitting next to various organic, varietal brown rices which I decide against. I add one handful of white rice, look into the pot, and add another handful, and then water. Later on I had to add more water, as it continued to get too thick and was sticking to the bottom of the pot, one of my oldest stainless steel sauce pans. Finally the small pot of chili with rice looked okay.
Meat ~ I fried up the 1 lb ground organic, grassy ground beef and the who knows what one-half pound ground pork. It could be that I sprinkled more ancho powder and salt into this as it cooked, but I forget. Now came the time to pour this into the other reserved bean mixture and taste. Bland, with kind of creamy looking (thick and luscious bean broth), sort of pink.
Later, eating ~ Later there was grated Monterey Jack cheese and sour cream on both versions of the chili. I won't say more about the sour cream, other than we didn't notice. But it does turn out that I am a hesitant chili cook, short on confidence. Not very much like Texas.
Onions and garlic ~ Two onions chopped finely and sauteed in olive oil. After about 10 minutes of cooking, I added 5 or 6 minced, formerly plump local garlic cloves. Why do I care about local garlic? Because I don't like thinking about my garlic bulb being one in several tons of garlic, forklifted into a shipping container to travel the world to my kitchen. I draw the line at seagoing garlic trapped in a container. I have a garlic press, which I point out to all who inquire, but I like mashing or chopping garlic. They are little and don't jump around the chopping board, or the wooden bowl, or whatever I used. Oh, and sometimes my good old wooden or granite mortar and pestle.
Herbs and spices ~ After more cooking of onions and garlic, I added about 2 tbsp fresh thyme, chopped into tiny shapes. This didn't seem like enough, so I added about 1 solid tsp dried thyme as well. Stir stir. This is when I would have stirred in 2 tsp or so cumin powder and quite a bit of ancho chili powder, but I forgot to. I also forgot the cocoa powder and never remembered it.
Change of plans and pans ~ I set this pan aside (another way of saying I took the small pan off the stove and put it somewhere else). In the midst of these steps, I received a telephone call from two vegetarians, on their way, here in 6 hours, will there be food? Quick - revision of meat and beans chili. I looked into the pot of beans, with its thick beany liquid, and then put the heat on under it. I added more water and then broth. Over time I added more of both, judging the amount as I cooked along. Then I added one large can of whole tomatoes to the beans, squishing each tomato with my hands, straight into the pot, taking care not to squirt myself with one, and then poured in the juices. I knew it was really not enough for so many beans and added several long squirts of tomato paste from the tube. After staring into the bean pot, now simmering, it looked like the time to add the onion and garlic/herb mixture, more salt tasting, and added the forgotten cumin and New Mexico chili powder, enough to season, but not enough to frighten away those New Englanders. I worried, and would continue to, even when eating, that I had cooked too many beans for the amount of tomatoes or onions or seasonings. I removed some of the bean mixture from one pot into another and and put a fire under it. This will be the non-meat version. It looked pitiful. But I continue staring into this pot, knowing there will be an answer for me. I open a drawer and pull out some white rice, long-grained, sitting next to various organic, varietal brown rices which I decide against. I add one handful of white rice, look into the pot, and add another handful, and then water. Later on I had to add more water, as it continued to get too thick and was sticking to the bottom of the pot, one of my oldest stainless steel sauce pans. Finally the small pot of chili with rice looked okay.
Meat ~ I fried up the 1 lb ground organic, grassy ground beef and the who knows what one-half pound ground pork. It could be that I sprinkled more ancho powder and salt into this as it cooked, but I forget. Now came the time to pour this into the other reserved bean mixture and taste. Bland, with kind of creamy looking (thick and luscious bean broth), sort of pink.
Later, eating ~ Later there was grated Monterey Jack cheese and sour cream on both versions of the chili. I won't say more about the sour cream, other than we didn't notice. But it does turn out that I am a hesitant chili cook, short on confidence. Not very much like Texas.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
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