Veggie and "meatball" stroganoff

"Love food hate waste" is the name of a website after my own heart.   I used to live somewhere with compost collection, but now have moved elsewhere, and -- living in a flat -- any bad, spoiled, or otherwise no good food is destined for the dump.  A very sad end to their salad days to be sure.

I try to minimize such waste.  I freeze things whenever I can, try to be creative with my leftovers, and eat through as much as possible ("You mean that slice of cake will go to waste if I don't eat it?  I suppose for the good of all humanity I will force it down.  Oh the pain.").  

This particular dish came about from the last quarter of a tub of creme fraiche.  It began its days contributing to a pasta sauce, expended yet more of itself on some strawberries and brown sugar, but spent the rest of its life languishing in my fridge without a purpose.  It was getting to the point where I would either have to use it or throw it out, so I began fishing around the kitchen for other ingredients to accompany it to its final destination.

I decided to go with something warm and rich to balance out the tangy creaminess of the creme fraiche.  A little paprika and some tomatoes would make a delicious sauce for something, and the combination made me think of beef stroganoff.  No beef in the house, but a few sausages from the freezer made a good substitution.  Some vegetables rounded out the meal, and voila: waste not, want certainly not.

Veggie and "meatball" stroganoff

1 tsp. olive oil

1 leek, cleaned, halved lengthwise and cut into 1 inch pieces

1 carrot, diced

1 large clove garlic, minced

1 Tbsp. each hot smoked paprika and sweet paprika

Approx. 2 C. cauliflower florets

3-4 medium tomatoes, roughly chopped, or 1/2 can chopped tomatoes and juice

1/4 C. low fat creme fraiche or Greek yogurt

1/4 C. tomato paste

1/2 C. water

2-4 sausages, as desired, cut into bite-sized pieces.

1/2 C. zucchini, sliced into thin half moons

1 tsp. salt

Parsley

Squeeze of lemon

Saute leeks and carrots in oil for 5-10 minutes until soft.  Add garlic and cook until soft.  Add paprika and cook for 2-3 minutes until fragrant.  Add tomatoes.  Mix creme fraiche and tomato paste and add to pan with water.  Add cauliflower, then nestle the sausage among the vegetables and let the dish simmer until the sausage is cooked through.  Add zucchini, cook until just tender.  Salt to taste.  

Garnish with parsley and a squeeze of lemon.  Serve over brown rice if desired, or noodles!

Serves 2-4, depending on size of appetite.

Bad picture good curry

Reading is a dangerous thing.  When I read Murakami, I need to stock up on soy sauce, mirin, and ginger.  When I read Balzac, out comes the brasserie and patisserie in my kitchen.  I haven't yet mastered Russian cuisine, partially because I have never managed to get through Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky.  One of these days...

For some reason, the last few books I've read have been set in India in the 19th century.  Intertwined with the narrative, I read description upon description of dals, chutneys and pickles, the method for making rotis or naan, how properly to cook rice, and the steamy heat of a curry cooked over a fire in a remote village.  My head filled with images of the Ganges, monsoons, small boats or palanquins on elephants, my tongue filled with turmeric and chili.  

Coming home one night with such a craving for spices and vegetables, but wanting something quick and light but satisfying, I looked through Anjum Anand's Indian Food Made Easy cookbook and found just what I was looking for.  A few tweaks -- in keeping with the spirit of her book -- and I was off.  I scarfed it down and had leftovers for lunch the next day.

It wasn't, however, until I cracked open my plastic container the next day that I really appreciated the recipe and decided it was worth recording -- hence the photo taken with my Blackberry.  The flavors had intensified and the aromas nearly transported me around the world to the land in my literature.  Proust would have been proud.

Bad picture, good curry

1 tsp cumin

1 tsp turmeric

¼ tsp red chili

1/3 C. dried shredded coconut plus hot water to cover

1 tsp minced ginger

1 medium onion, chopped

1 large carrot, chopped

1 large potato, scrubbed and cubed

1 small zucchini, halved and sliced

1 can chick peas

2 C. chopped greens such as spinach, kale or chard

Add warm water to coconut and let soak.

Saute onion in olive oil until soft.  Add ginger and heat through.  Add spices and cook a few minutes until fragrant.

Add carrot and potato to pan and cook until nearly soft, then add zucchini and allow them to finish cooking together.  It may be necessary to add a bit of water to the pan to keep the vegetables from sticking.  Alternatively, speed up cooking times by boiling the potato in a separate pot while the onions soften, then add to the pan with the carrot.

Add chickpeas, greens, and coconut and water, then stir through to wilt greens and allow flavors to meld.

Serve with naan (or pita bread as in photo!) or rice if desired.

Serves 2.

Strawberry and rhubarb bread pudding

I had some old baguette and the last few inches of a loaf of homemade bread that were just on the far side of fresh, and not quite good enough for salvage in the toaster.  I cut it up into cubes with the intention of making Barbara Kingsolver's asparagus and morel bread pudding (which I think came by way of Deborah Madison).  Alas, no asparagus presented itself, so the bread went into the freezer.   

This past weekend, I had settled in for an afternoon of cooking and wanted to whip up something to finish off our lazy dinner.  I had bought some new season rhubarb and found myself with an extra box of early strawberries that I needed to use.  I wasn't really in the mood to make pie or short crust, and had slightly exhausted myself on crumbles this winter, but then remembered my bread cubes in the freezer.  I thought that a golden and puffy bread pudding, faintly scented with vanilla but grounded with a hint of ginger, would be the perfect showcase for these ruby-hued harbingers of spring.

What I hadn't quite taken into account was that, at that point, my bread cubes were really, really stale.  I whipped up my milk and cream mixture (I should have used Steph Chows'recipe!) and put the bread in to soak.  30 minutes later, the liquid was gone and the bread was still rather hard.  So more milk went in.  15 minutes later, yet more milk.  I have never seen anything retain so much liquid, with the possible exception of my swollen feet after a trans-atlantic flight.

Nevertheless, it all came out pretty well in the end.  I baked it with some brown sugar and almonds sprinkled on top, and drizzled just the last few drops of cream over before serving.  The rhubarb and strawberries held their own individual shapes and flavors, and my bread, gorged with dairy, held it all together.  Lesson learned: use frozen, stale bread cubes for bread crumbs unless you want to buy stock in dairy farms.

Strawberry and rhubarb bread pudding.

Day-old bread, cut into cubes, approx. 3 cups

2 eggs

1/2 C. half & half or single cream 1/2 - 1 C. low-fat milk -- add more or use less milk depending on how dry the bread is.  It should be quite moist by the time it is baked.

1/2 tsp. vanilla

1 T. finely chopped crystalized ginger

1 1/2 C. rhubarb, sliced into 1 inch segments

1 1/2 C. strawberries -- left whole if small, or halved if larger, stems removed

1/4 C. slivered almonds

4 T. brown sugar

1 T. flour

Whisk eggs, cream, milk, vanilla, and ginger together.  Mix with bread in a large bowl and cover, letting the liquid absorb for 30 minutes to 1 hour.

Chop rhubarb and mix with the flour and 2 T. brown sugar.  Cut up strawberries, mix with rhubarb, then stir through bread mixture.  If there is a large amount of liquid left in the bread soaking bowl, pour off before mixing with the fruit.

Spread mixture into a 9x9 in. non-stick metal pan, or lightly grease a glass or ceramic dish.  Strew almonds over the top, and then sprinkle with the remaining 2 T. brown sugar.

Bake at 350 until the bread is puffed and the rhubarb is cooked through.

Sunday night oxtail stew

It seems to me that, no matter how much you love your job, there will be the occasional feeling of the blues as the weekend draws to a close.  The thought of getting up the following day and starting the whir of the working week is just too much.  My perfect recipe for chasing away the Sunday afternoon dread is to spend some time in the kitchen.  Often I come out with a cake or some bread, but sometimes I need the long, slow cooking of a homey casserole, or the gentle rendering of some meat into soft and unctuous bites of stew.

Unlike most of my recipes, this is definitely not a quick weekday meal.  Easy, yes, but made for a lazy stretch of hours on a weekend.  This sort of cooking rewards the time with a comforting dinner and lunch the next day.

This past weekend, inspired by a story about alternative and affordable cuts of meat and finding some oxtail at the farmer's market, I decided to try this slightly forbidding piece of meat.  Like Sandra Dee, the oxtail resists all attempts to soften it up for about 2 hours, when suddenly it gives in.  What you're left with is a rich, complex pot of juices that's a little more leather than pearls and sweater sets.

Oxtail does tend to give off a fair amount of fat as it cooks, so not only is something starchy like potatoes -- or big, fat butter beans -- essential to balance it out, but I also try to skim some off the surface as it cooks.  This is easier after the dish cools and the fat sets, so the leftovers make a perfect and easy lunch the next day.  The anticipation certainly makes the Monday morning easier to bear.

Oxtail and butter bean stew

2 T. olive oil

1/4 C. flour

2 medium onions, roughly chopped

2 big cloves of garlic, minced

2 large carrots, sliced into 1/2 inch thick rounds or half moons if very thick

2 C. canned chopped tomatoes

1 C. dried butter beans, soaked for 6 hours

4 large pieces oxtail -- approx. 4 in. across each, or about 4 lbs. total if using smaller pieces

2 bay leaves

1 cinnamon stick

Roll the oxtail in the flour, shaking off excess.  Heat olive oil in a large, oven-proof pot.  Add the floured oxtail and brown on all sides, then remove to a plate.

Cook the onions over low heat until soft, then add garlic, carrots, tomatoes, bay leaves, cinnamon, and browned oxtail.

Cover and let bubble away over very low heat, or put into an oven at 300.  The oxtail will need to cook for about 2-2 1/2 hours.  After an hour, add the butter beans.

Serves 4.

Spring super salad

Following on from my rhapsody about salad dressing, I now have a beautiful beaker full of golden olive oil, velvety balsamic vinegar, nubbly whole-grain mustard, and a sprig of rosemary floating jauntily therein (ok, looking slightly bedraggled and drowned, but keeping up its spirits nonetheless).  I need to find a salad to test it out.

Some people speak of salads with a denigrating tone, talking about rabbit food, or using it to describe someone who is constantly dieting and doesn't enjoy food.  Au contraire, I say.  A salad can be light -- a few peppery leaves of arugula, some sliced roasted beets, and a shaving or two of aged pecorino -- or a full-on meal.  I'm sure you know where I'm going with this.

For me, a salad is the perfect excuse to throw everything I have into the bowl.  It's the contrast in textures and flavors that make for an interesting, not to mention filling, lunch or dinner.  If I have a salad for lunch, it needs to take me through the 4:00pm cake-hunger, gym after work, and home with enough fuel so I don't chew my arm off on the train.  This means lots of vegetables, chicken, beans or tuna (or more than one!), some nuts or seeds perhaps, and maybe some home-made bread crumbs or a new potato if the vegetable box brings them.  As usual, the French did it right.  I take my inspiration from the perfect salade nicoise.  Bon appetit!

Spring super salad:

2 tomatoes, sliced

1 large carrot, halved lengthwise and sliced

1 yellow bell pepper, chopped

A few small potatoes, boiled and cut into bite-size chunks

1/2 can canellini beans

1 small can oil-packed tuna

Handful (1/4 cup?) pumpkin seeds (toasted if you're feeling ambitious)

A small head of tender lettuce, or some large leaves of a bigger, more robust head

Balsamic vinegar dressing, or other of your choice

If you need to make salad dressing, mix enough for two portions in the bottom of a large bowl (say, 2 tsp olive oil, 1/2 tsp. vinegar, 1/2 tsp. mustard).  

Into the bowl, add tomato, carrot, bell pepper, potatoes and beans and mix in the salad dressing (adding pre-made if using that).  Stir through the chunks of tuna, then mix in the lettuce leaves.  Sprinkle the pumpkin seeds over the top.

Serves 2.

Favorite salad dressing

With spring come the first tender greens and weather warm enough that we want to eat something cool for lunch or dinner.  Yes, these are our salad days.  Bowls of color, crisp and vital, bursting with life and the promise of new things to come.  As much as I want to dive in, first -- in the words of Julie Andrews as Maria -- we must start at the very beginning: salad dressing.

I know that many people might think of dressing as something that goes on last, as an afterthought, or something to gild the lily.  How very, very wrong they are.  Dressing, as everyone knows, is the fundamental tie that binds the salad together.  One can wear a nice suit, but it's the shoes and jewelry that make the outfit.

A few years ago I had to participate in one of those silly introduction games like we used to play at summer camp, only this was about 15 years too late to be fun.  There was a slightly unusual twist that probably would not have gone down well with the pre-teen set: this game was "If I were a piece of furniture, I would be a ___".  We went around the room, most people saying mundane things like "I would be a bed because I like to sleep" (I can't remember mine -- I must have even bored myself).  However, one person said, "If I were a piece of furniture, I would be a wardrobe."  I knew exactly what he meant.

On these lines, the true salad connoisseur knows that however important the separate ingredients, they are nothing without the dressing.  

Favorite salad dressing:

1 C. olive oil

1/4 C. balsamic vinegar

1 T. whole grain mustard

1 clove garlic, bruised

Fresh herbs if desired (either a sprig of rosemary to marinate in the dressing, or chopped parsley, basil or tarragon to throw in at the last minute)

Exact quantity of vinegar should be adjusted depending on how strong it is.

Black bean soup

Living in London, there are many things I miss about home. These include (but are not limited to) driving on the right, having a single tap for hot and cold water, not getting into awkward conversations about different definitions of the word "pants"... There are many gripes I could list (and, occasionally, do), but I generally manage to resist the urge, remembering that I live in a city that's an hour on the plane from most of Europe, has free entry to museums that hold much of the greatest art ever created, and is the birth-place of many culinary delights such as fish & chips and spotted dick. However, the one thing I have never gotten over is the severe lack of Mexican food. We have fantastic Indian food, a great selection of all the varieties of Chinese, wonderful Argentinian, Bolivian, and Colombian restaurants, but no, and I mean NO, burritos. I have seriously considered buying some super carnitas burritos when visiting home in CA, deep-freezing them, and bringing them wrapped in ice on the plane. Unfortunately, I have a suspicion that this may go contrary to most customs regulations.

We did have one stroke of luck when Wahaca opened in the last year or so. It is a great restaurant serving very tasty and mostly authentic Mexican food. I have to say that the burritos are just not the same -- they don't come wrapped in foil, which automatically disqualifies them in my book -- but they do some mean quesadillas and an amazing pork pibil. My favorite dish, however, is the humble bowl of black beans topped with queso fresco.

I was inspired to recreate this one weekend. Despite my predilection for canned beans, I have been experimenting with cooking my own from dried. I therefore ended up with a large container of black beans last week. Wanting a quick meal, I gussied them up with some onions, garlic, cumin and chipotle. I added some tomatoes for flavor and some early spring greens for color. It wasn't Mexico, but it took me a little farther south than the English Channel.

Black bean soup

1 medium onion, diced

1 clove garlic, minced

1/2 Tsp. cumin

A pinch of dried chipotle flakes

2 C. black beans

1 can tomatoes

1-2 C. vegetable broth

Sweat the onion and garlic until soft. Add cumin and chipotle flakes and stir around to release their aromas. Add the can of tomatoes, black beans and vegetable broth and bring to a boil.

Remove half of the soup and blend the remainder until smooth, either in a blender (having cooled off) or with an immersion blender. Return the chunky half to the pot, reheat if necessary.

Garnish with queso fresco (or, in my case, Wensleydale) and cilantro. Que rico!

Serves 2.