There is snow on the ground here and that means long treks on snowshoes. Which are inevitably followed by a fire in the hearth and a hearty meal. What could be cozier than a pot pie? Break through the golden crust and a finger of steam beckons you toward tender chunks of goodness bound in a creamy sauce. These are a great repository for leftovers—chicken, shortribs, even fish—or any odds and ends rattling around the vegetable bin. Think of this recipe as more of a template than anything, easily adapted to whatever you have on hand. Consider making the dough ahead of time and stash it in the freezer. That way, when the temperature drops, you'll be ready.
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I'm about to pick a major bone, so if you're not in the mood—and I'm not talking about steak for dinner—turn away now. There's been a media pigpile on Paula Deen this week and I've got to get in my licks. It's not just that she has consistently used her Food TV show to promote unhealthy (and foul) food and been a longtime paid shill for industrial-meat giant Smithfield (whose inexcusably raised products are proven to increase the risk of diabetes), but now she's a spokesperson for Novo Nordisk's diabetes treatment Victoza (the 2010 FDA approval of which came amidst powerful evidence of a link to thyroid cancer), after disclosing that she was diagnosed with the disease three years ago. I find this all so deeply disturbing. And then I read a review by Nigella Lawson on the Piglet, Food52's wonderful Tournament of Cookbooks, where she writes about being suspicious of Heidi Swanson's excellent Super Natural Every Day "because I always fear a certain smuggery, and words like 'my natural kitchen' set off the alarm bells." How have we come to this place where natural and healthy are deemed "smug," and doughnut burgers for breakfast are the order of the day? As I used to say in junior high, gag me with a fork. I think you know where I stand on all this. Bacon and kale are both welcome in my kitchen...
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Even though it may seem like I am the most organized kitchen bitch on the planet, there are definitely times when I reach for something and it's not there. Although once I was not above keeping canned (or boxed) stock in my pantry, I now resist that easy (and nutritionally challenged) out. Tragically, my source for chicken feet dries up in the winter and though I'll make stock from whole birds, it's just not as good. Dashi, the Japanese broth made with kombu and bonito flakes is one option, but its flavor is very specific. So when I came across a recipe in The River Cottage Preserves Handbook for a homemade vegetable bouillon, I got very excited. It's basically just a bunch of vegetables ground into a paste and preserved with salt. You stir a bit into hot water to make an authentically flavored stock for soups, stews, curries, whatever you like.
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Hoary old chestnuts. Those are well-worn aphorisms and anecdotes, close kin to the cliché. Curious as to the origin of this phrase, I searched online and found a long-winded reference tracing it back to an English play of the mid-19th century. I had thought it would refer to the fact that chestnuts, encased in their hard shells, last a rather long time. Did you know the chestnut is also called chinkapin or chinquapin? By any other name, it's still the nut of a tree that belongs to the same family as the beech and the oak. I'd never prepared chestnuts, nor particularly enjoyed eating them on the rare occasion they appeared on my plate. They're always so dry and chalky. People do seem to love them, though—Americans in their Thanksgiving stuffing, the French obsessed with their marrons glacés. Vendors with carts full of roasting chestnuts—a romantic throwback to sweeter times—are still a common sight in many cities (London, New York, Rome), but I have to confess that acrid and sooty smell has never been my favorite. So it's no wonder that the jar I convinced myself to buy last year sat forlornly at the back of my cupboard these long months, getting hoary. Then I came across a recipe for chestnut and parsnip bisque. A vegan recipe, no less.
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I'm sure it will come as no surprise to you that the firm white head of the cauliflower is referred to as "the white curd," for it looks like nothing so much as a big virginal cheese. Of course it comes in other colors—orange, green, even purple—but it is the white that is the most common, the most classic and perhaps the most invitingly pristine. It's lovely baked with cheese sauce, pureed into a creamy soup or steamed whole and dressed with a caper vinaigrette and toasted breadcrumbs, but it's also a rather surprisingly capable foil to far more assertive flavors. This Indian "dum," a type of steaming done in a tightly sealed pot, traditionally over a wood or charcoal fire, transforms the cauliflower into a velvety heap cloaked in a fragrant and highly-spiced sauce. You can make a simple meal of it along with a pile of nutty basmati rice, or serve it as part of a larger repast with braised lamb or grilled chicken. Either way, it's certainly no wallflower.
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A while back, I believe I mentioned a desire to explore some lesser-known ingredients with you. I've been keeping a running list—including pickled tapioca, sorghum molasses and dried Persian limes—so do let me know if there's anything you're curious about. This is kohlrabi—from the German "kohl," meaning cabbage and "rabi," meaning turnip. It's a brassica, like cauliflower, kale and collards, and has all the same nutritional benefits: low in carbs and calories, high in fiber and antioxidants. It also comes in a deep purple color. Slightly sweet and fresh, with the faintest peppery bite, kohlrabi can be eaten raw or cooked. If raw, it needs to be peeled, but after cooking the tougher outer skin softens up plenty. With all the cozy soups and hearty braises we're eating at this wintry time of year, it's nice to have some cool, crunchy salads as a counterpoint, (here's one with celery root, and another with radicchio and grapefruit), so I used my kohlrabi in a crisp, sprightly slaw.
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Like other legendary odd couples—Harold & Maude, Oscar & Felix—sweet and salty rub up against each other and achieve a sort of sublime friction. Not exactly opposites, they speak the same language but with very different accents. It's now well-known that the trifecta of sweet-salty-fatty proves virtually irresistible to the human palate, making things like Doritos and kettle corn the equivalent of edible crack. A decidedly much more highbrow—and indeed healthier—precursor that plays with that same equation is the delectable scourtin. A close cousin of shortbread, these crisp, buttery biscuits studded with briny black olives were originally made at Les Vieux Moulins in Nyons, France, an ancient Provençal olive mill. The owner, Jean-Pierre Autrand, shared his family's recipe with Susan Herrmann Loomis, an ex-pat expert on French cuisine. And I'm sharing it with you. For very little effort, you get a truly great cookie whose pitch-perfect sweet-salty flavor goes just as well with a dry martini or a glass of prosecco as it does with a cup of chamomile tea. (Much like these inspired cookies.) Make a batch immediately.
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Oil is one of the iconic symbols of Hanukkah, meant to remind us of the oil that kept the Second Temple of ancient Israel lit with a long-lasting flame. This miracle is celebrated with the consumption of all manner of fried treats, and the latke is front and center. Latkes are usually made from potatoes, but can often incorporate other vegetables, including sweet potatoes, celery root, apples, beets or whatever's on hand. This type of pancake is found in the cuisines of Luxembourg (gromperekichelcher), Latvia, Lithuania, Austria, Belarus (draniki), Germany (Kartoffelpuffer), Poland (placki ziemniaczane), Ukraine (deruny), Hungary, Slovakia, Persia and the Czech lands (bramborák)—not to mention India and Korea (pa jeon), among others. It's a simple fritter—easy to make and easy to enjoy—with a very universal appeal. I made some last night for the first night of Hanukkah, and wished my dad were alive so I could share them with him.
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From the time that I was 11 until I left for college at 17, I lived with my parents in an extraordinary architectural house in the redwoods at the top of a mountain looking down over rolling hills and the town all the way to the ocean. My father was the provost of Stevenson College at UC Santa Cruz, and that house came with the job as did a mandate to do lots of entertaining for both students and faculty. Fortunately for my father, he was married to my mother, a consummate hostess. She threw many legendary parties, not the least of which was the annual Christmas party—really two parties. While the adults got plastered on Fish House Punch upstairs, the children ran amok downstairs. There was a 20-foot tall Christmas tree, a visit from Santa bearing a huge bag of gifts, live music, and an endless stream of cookies and savory delights, including little phyllo-wrapped pastries. Someday I hope to have a big house that I can fill with loads of people (I can only manage it in my screened-in porch on July 4th), but for now I will content myself with making burek.
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My friend Jim has been chomping at the bit for this mushroom lasagna. I mentioned it in passing on my GFL Facebook page (Still haven't "liked" me yet? Hustle over there and help me boost my numbers, yo!) and he started drooling and envisioning a cozy Christmas Eve gathering with this as the irresistible centerpiece. Never mind that I basically kiped the recipe from a recent article in the New York Times in which editor Sam Sifton waxed eloquent about "a gooey thrill of savory sweetness, salty astringency and the meaty pong of wild mushrooms"—a lasagna made by Monica Byrne of Brooklyn's Home/Made. Sifton adapted her recipe for home cooks with a few shortcuts, including no-boil noodles, and I adapted it further to use what I had on hand. Living in the sticks, you can't just run out to the corner store for a ball of smoked mozzarella or some truffle oil whenever the whim strikes. But one of the many beauties of lasagna is that it's pretty forgiving, as long as you're using a light touch and very fresh ingredients, whatever they may be. Personally, I'm not the biggest fan of those leaden layers with all kinds of meat and sausage and an overly seasoned tomato sauce. But this recipe eschews meat altogether in favor of radicchio (though I could definitely see adding in some pancetta or bacon), and the sauce is a garlicky béchamel. It's a rich and creamy dish that's pretty much exactly what you want for dinner on Christmas Eve—unless you're making tamales. Or duck. Or paella, which is what I'll be eating on the 24th.
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