One Day In Lisbon

May 23rd, 1967, my family set sail from Naples, Rome aboard the SS Independence.  We were returning to the United States permanently.

Two days later on the 25th, our ship docked in Lisbon Portugual  to refuel and stock supples before the final leg in our transatlantic voyage home.  I know the specifics because my father threw nothing away.  He kept the ships log,  itenerary,  meal cards, and my crayon-scribbled notes from the entire cruise.

We were in Lisbon for a full day while the crew scrambled to ready the ship for a 14 day crossing.  My father didn't want to stray far from the ship, so we mostly wandered around the old part of town that skirted the port.  I don't rememeber much about Lisbon except the old cobblestone streets and tall cracking buildings.  What I do remember about Lisbon is that I saw, tasted, and ate my very first fresh clam.  I ate anything and everything as a kid.  Those clams fascinated me.  I suppose that was the beginning of my love affair with all fresh shellfish.  I have never looked back.

Yesterday, I stopped in the Lexington Seafood Company to place an order for fresh  Blue Point oysters to have on Thanksgiving day next week.  There were a few people ahead of me, so I perused the small space.  They had some cool stuff dotted around the store.  I immediately grabbed a bottle of Blue Crab Bay Co. Sting Ray Spicey(sic) Bloody Mary Mixer with ocean clam juice.  That store was singing my song.  I made my way to counter to place my order when I spotted the most beautiful littleneck clams poking out from under the shaved ice in the deli cooler.  "There's no need to reserve oysters.", he said as I stood transfixed on the clams.  "We'll have plenty, trust me."  Uh, ok.  "I'll need two dozen, half in the shell and half shucked.", I said.  "No problem, just give me a call that morning.", he replied.  Great.  I bought two dozen littleneck clams and made my way home.

I adore the cuisine of the Iberian Pennisula. Spanish cuisine owns me.  Last night, with a nod to Portuguese Cataplana and Carne de Porco a Alentejam, I decided to combine and interpret both with a clam and pork stew.

I prepped the vegetables and aromatics well in advance by thinly slicing red potatoes, garlic, onions, grape tomatoes, green bell peppers, and roasted bell peppers.  I slit open italian sausages to release them from their casings and slid them into the refirgerator next to the gorgeous clams resting on a shaved ice pillow.

Mise en place.  Done.

On his way home from work, Michael picked up an early released bottle of George Duboef Beaujolais Nouveau, so we sat in the parlor and  sampled it for quite some time before dinner.  Nice.

When it was to time to eat, I cranked a saute pan to high heat, drizzled it with olive oil, and sauteed the sausage meat with smoked paprika, saffron,  salt, and pepper until crispy.  I tossed in the vegetables to release their liquids, deglaze the pan, and caramelize before adding enough stock to steam open the clams.  I wasn't going for a true stew.  I wanted sauced clams.

When the vegetables were tender and the tomatoes had collapsed, I tumbled in the littleneck clams, clamped a lid over the pan, and let the clams simmer and steam just enough to open without overcooking.  It smelled heavenly.

Once the clams opened and reached to the sky, I plated them in large pasta bowls, poured the pan juices around the clams, scattered the vegetables randomly, and sprinkled hand torn parsley over the top.  Michael made toast to sop.

The highly seasoned paprika-laced pork sausage totally transformed the sweet clams. The crumbled sausage meat worked its way into the clam shells, mixing hearty saltiness with delicate briny clam juice.  The plump clams exploded with sweetness. The tomatoes, peppers, and onions added soft bites while the shaved sliced garlic snapped with assertiveness.  It was crazy good.  Aromatic.  Light.  Clammy.  The broth was drinkable.  I know.  I did.  Who needed bread? 

I have Lisbon, Portugal to thank for my clam love. 

I had no idea,  back then,  that one day in Lisbon would forever feed my soul.

   

Horsing Around

I've been captivated with freshly grated horseradish since encountering it at a bloody mary bar in Louisville last year.  It certainly wakes up a boodly mary in a way that prepared horseradish simply cannot.  It's biting and hot in a pure way without the interference of vinegar based processing.  When freshly grated, the oils release into a  stinging aromatic mist.  Pure horseradish essence.

I have seen it at the grocery store lately wrapped tightly in plastic wrap and nestled on a shelf below the dueling colored  fingerling potatoes and gigantic plastic garlic keepers.  Hardly a high traffic area.  Last weekend I finally bought a horseradish root after wrestling with the price tag.  Was it $7.59 for a nob or $7.59 by the  pound?  With fresh ginger, I pluck off what I need, bag it, and take it to cashier.  The horseradish was too big for that and there was nothing  to pluck.  I handed the stumpy brown root to the very talkative cashier and asked her if it was sold by the piece or by the pound.  "This looks like something my dog would chew on.", she said. Yep. She was correct.  It did. "That dog dug up our cable lines the other day.  Front yard and back.", she continued.  Playing along, I responded, "He dug up all of your cable lines?", feigning total disbelief. She went on and on and on. She never answered my question. By the time she finished her story, the groceries were bagged and paid for. I think the horseradish sold for $7.59 a pound.

We got home from the grocery and  put everything away.  While Michael prepared quesadillas for his lunch, I prepared a blood mary for mine. I added tons of grated horseradish, celery salt, celery seed, worchestershire sauce, fresh squeezed lemon, and a pickled asparagus tip garnish. Heaven. 

Couched in front of the television for college football with bloody mary in hand, I pondered the ways I could use the prized horseradish purchase for dinner the following night.

Michael doesn't care for hot spicy and food, but he does like wasabi and horseradish.  Thank God. Yesterday, after some thought, I decided to make soup for dinner. It was a dreary chilly day.  Soup seemed comforting and warm.  I was over-processing and obsessing on how to use the horseradish until I just put all thoughts of it on hold and decided to decide when the time came to cook.  No recipes.  No overthinking.  No plan.

I rifled through the vegetable bin looking for suitable horseradish partners and found two stalks of celery, several onions, garlic, ginger,  1/2 sweet potato, and organic carrots. I didn't have to make a decision at all.  I'd make pureed carrot soup with horseradish.

I roughly chopped peeled carrots, the halved sweet potato, celery, garlic, and onions before dropping them into sizzling hot oil with salt to saute and sweat until translucent.  I didn't want any color on them. Shockingly, no caramelzation.  Once softened, I deglazed the pan with wine and let it reduce into wine syrup before adding vegetable stock, a bay leaf, juiced mandarin oranges, and cracked pepper.  I covered the dutch oven and allowed the soup to simmer for an hour.  I checked it occasionally, adding stock as necessary.

While the soup simmered, Michael prepared his decadent grilled onion & grilled cheese sandwiches for sopping and I worked on the soup garnishes.  Wanting freshness and sharpness, I tossed a combination of mandarin orange and lemon zest with minced parsley.  Think loose gremolata.

Fresh horseradish loses it pungency when cooked, so at the last minute I tossed in coarsely grated horseradish, gave the soup a stir, and turned off the heat.  I let the grated horseradish steep in the soup for a few minutes before pureeing it in batches with my swanky new blender. It was incredibly velvety.  I poured it back into the pot and added vegetable stock until the soup was the perfect consistency.

To gild the lily just a bit, I whipped mexican crema with fresh lemon juice, lemon zest, and finely grated horseradish for a final cooling swirl.

The flavor and texture was mind blowing. Pureed root vegetable soups can sometimes be cloyingly sweet and texturally heavy.  The fresh mandarin orange juice lightened the pureed carrots, adding a bright sweet acidity. The horseradish didn't dominate as I expected it to.  It had a mellow underlying soft spice with just enough pungent  heat to be present. Wow.  The tart creamy topping and zested fruit bridged freshness with earthiness to perfection.

Michael's luxurious grilled cheese sandwiches were  perfect soppers. They had crunchy buttery exteriors that released oozing cheese with sweet soft onions.  Bite. Dip. Swish. Moan. 

Orange mustaches with  sticky cheesy fingers. 

The soup was soft, creamy, velvety, pungent, spicy, and tart. It was everything wrapped up in a shallow bowl.  I only wish there had been more. 

The next time you run across a fresh horesradish root at the supermarket, pick one up and give it a try.

If you like horseradish, you will enjoy it.  If you love horseradish, you will rediscover it.

 

The Rise And The Fall: cheese souffle with candied bacon

We eat a lot of eggs in this house.  We adore them poached, gently fried, scrambled, shirred, and folded into cheesy omelettes.  Luckily, our cholesterol levels are in check.  Bring on the eggs!

Last night I wanted a change from our usual breakfast-for-supper routine.  Individual cheese souffles felt like the way to go..  I hadn't made a souffle years.  There was no way the two of us could eat an entire one, so I thought smaller individual souffles would be a better fit.  Although somewhat intimidating,  they were quite simple to prepare. 

I separated 7 eggs with  4 egg whites in one bowl and 3 egg yolks in another bowl..  3 yolks between two people? Healthy.  I started the flavor base by making a thick bechamel with 3 tablespoons of butter, 3 tablespoons of flour, and 1 cup of hot milk, adding the milk after the butter and flour had cooked long enought to cook out the flour taste. After the base reached a good consistency, I tossed in 1/2 cup of  grated parmigiano, 1/2 cup of grated gruyere,salt, pepper, minced parsley, and dill.

While the base cooled,  I tossed  the egg whites with 1/2 teaspoon of cream of tartar into my stand mixer and whipped the eggs whites until stiff, but not dry.

To promote a good rise, I buttered two straight sided bowls, sprinkled fresh parmigiano onto the buttered surfaces, and shook out the excess into the souffle batter.

After gently folding the whipped egg whites into the cooled cheesy egg batter, I filled the bowls 3/4 full and slid them into a 375 degree oven for 35 minutes to puff up and rise. 

I wanted something special to accompany our souffles. I thought a candied bacon salad would offer the right oomph.  Now, not even I am crazy enough to come up with the candied bacon concept. I adapted a recipe from Jamie Oliver's America cookbook, jamieoliver.com , a gift from Michael.

Crazy.  Insane.  Delicious.

While the souffles baked away in the oven, I prepared the candied bacon for the salad.

I sauteed 4 slices of bacon until almost crisp, removed them to a paper towel-lined plate, tossed a smashed garlic clove into the bacon fat for flavor, and sauteed good cubed country white bread until browned and crisp for salad croutons.

 I scooped the crunchy garlic croutons out of the skillet, placed them on paper towels to absorb the excess fat, and wiped the skillet clean before returning it to the heat with the bacon, 5 tablespoons of turbinado sugar, and 1/4 cup of freshly squeezed orange juice.

It simmered and popped.  It was beautiful..  I turned the bacon several times to fully coat it with the candied orange goodness.  The sugar caramelized into the reduced orange juice, creating a heavenly syrup that thoroughly engulfed the salty bacon.  I carefully pulled the bacon from the sticky sauce to let it cool and harden.

I stared at the bacon in total disbelief.  It was gorgeous. 

After 35 minutes, I pulled the souffles out of the oven.  Working quickly, I tossed delicate lettuces with julliened green pappers in a light vinaigrette and toppped our salads with the glistening bacon. Fleur de sel and cracked pepper finished them off.

In the short time it took to plate the salads, the souffles fell.  Deflated.  I knew it would happen.  It's the nature of the beast.

I have often used as light as air  when describing food.  The souffle was  like actually eating air.  Well seasoned and flavorful air.  The nutty cheeses had  melted into the egg puffs, adding sensational subtle earthy flavor.  Soft.  Rich.

The tartly dressed salad balanced the richness of the airy souffle while  the candied bacon exploded with salty sweetness. It was ridiculous. Sticky, peppery, sweet, salty, and crunchy. 

 I became a prisoner to the bacon.  I surrendered to it.

Captivated and captured.

The souffles were tasty, too.

A Chicken In Every Pot: Spatchcock Chicken

Greece is one of the few countries in Europe that both Michael and I have visited.  He spent a summer in Europe with a study abroad program  during college and made several trips to Greece during his summer overseas.  I spent a few weeks in Greece on an extended layover during my family's fare-well tour of Europe before our permanent return to America. Michael and I had very different take-aways from our experiences in Greece.  His  flowed with Sambuca, gorgeous views of the Mediterranean, youth hostels, and countless nights in Santorini nightclubs.  Mine were based on  hotel room service baklava and the cute outfits the Presidential Guard wore while guarding The Tomb Of The Unknown Soldier; Red berets sporting long  black tassels, short white ruffled skirts over white leotards with gigantic black pom-poms attatched to their shoes. I was captivated.  My father finally  bought me a Presidential Guard doll to quell my obsession. True.

Michael and I bring our individual Greek experiences together with food and drink.  We both share a love for Greek food, devouring briny black un-pitted olives, tangy feta cheese, and fried calamari showered with lemon juice whenever we can.  To this day, when dining out, we finish every meal with espresso or Greek coffee and a shot of Sambuca (with three floating coffee beans).

Last night, I brought the flavors of Greece into our home with oven roasted chicken infused with lemon, oregano, olive oil, and garlic.  Classic Greek Chicken.

It was embarrassingly simple to prepare.

 First, I spatchcocked a whole chicken. Ok, ok,  I butterflied a whole chicken by cutting out the backbone and cracking the breast bones to allow the chicken to lie flat.  Spatchcocking promotes even and quicker cooking along with very moist meat.  After spatchcocking the bird, I lowered it into a roasting pan with quartered peeled potatoes, sliced onions, and sliced celery.

I poured 1/2 cup olive oil over the chicken and potatoes along with the juice of 2 fresh squeezed lemons.  After liberally seasoning the chicken with salt, pepper, and 3  tablespoons of dried Greek oregano, I grated 5 cloves of garlic over the chicken before massaging the seasonings into the meat and skin.  Before sliding the chicken into a 350 oven to roast for 2 hours, I sprinkled fresh oregano over the chicken and added 1/2 cup of chicken broth to the pan for moist roasting.  After 1 1/2 hours, I brushed the chicken with melted butter to aid in the browning before returning it to the oven to crisp up and caramelize. 

The aroma from the onions, garlic, oregano, lemon, and chicken was utterly intoxicating. It smelled like Sunday supper on steroids.

Basically, Greek chicken is a meat and potatoes meal.  I didn't want to muck it up with a bunch of other competing elements, but I knew it would need something fresh to accompany it.  I made a gorgeous carrot ribbon salad tossed in a white balsamic vinaigrette with fresh parsley and chopped macadamia nuts.

 

 The chicken was falling-off-the-bone tender and incredibly moist.  Juicy and  messy moist.  The onions and celery practically disintegrated into the pan sauce allowing the bright lemon juice and pungent garlic to sweeten and mellow during the long roasting time. The potato quarters remained crisp and brown even after absorbing the pan drippings and were packed with flavor.  The Greek oregano took center stage permeating the chicken,  potatoes, and  pan juices with amazing perfumed  flavor, totally elevating itself  beyond mundane Italian pasta sauce seasoning or pizza topping. 

The carrot ribbon salad was light and crisp. The crunchy carrots napped in a bright vinaigrette with grassy   parsley provided needed soothing freshness and acidic balance.  

Tonight?  Leftovers. 

Hopefully, with Sambuca to follow. 

Oros, Greek for mountain; Ganos, Greek for joy.

Oregano.  Joy of the mountain.

Flower Power

 I needed potatoes last night.  I was planning an all out seasonal autumn dinner with  skillet-braised pomegranate maple sausages and oven roasted baby brussel sprouts.I wanted a pillow of buttery mashed potatoes to  soothe the bold flavors of the other ingredients.  Oddly, I couldn't find a single spud.  Not even a gnarly looking one with spindly arms  hidden in the back of the potato bin.

I did have cauliflower, an underused and under appreciated  vegetable.  It's a bit of trouble to break down and to cook, but I've always loved caulifower. My  freshman year in college I ate it every day at the student center cafeteria. My father  purchased a meal card for me with the hope that I'd eat well as I adjusted to college life. I thought meals cards were skanky, but I had to eat. Food choices changed daily on the cafeteria steam table. Cauliflower was the constant.  It was always there, steamed to mush and swimming in cheese sauce.  God, I loved it.  Grainy, cheesy, salty, soupy, and delicious.  I ate it every single day.

Last night, I already had brussel sprouts roasting in the oven. I didn't need another vegetable; and there was no way  I'd be able to reproduce my college cauliflower, so I decided to treat  the cauliflower like potatoes. Granted, it wasn't culinary genius, but it was a preparation I hadn't tried before.  Never wanted to or needed to, until I was potato-less.

While the sausages braised with onions, pomegranate seeds, stock, and pure maple syrup, I whipped up the cauliflower.  I took 3 cups of chopped cauliflower and boiled it in lightly salted water for 30 minutes until fork tender before thoroughly draining it in a colander while reserving some of the cooking liquid.  I dropped the soft cauliflower into the blender with salt, cracked pepper, 2 tablespoons of butter, and 1/2 cup of grated parmigiano. I blended it on high speed until it was lightly whipped, adjusting the consistency as needed with stock and the reserved cooking liquid.

After it was light and fluffy, I spooned the cauliflower puree into a serving bowl, topping it with fresh thyme leaves.

Fluffy? Hardly a word  associated with cooked cauliflower. It was fluffy and as light as air.  Whipped. Creamy. (without any cream), and  buttery soft. 

 The bold and assertive flavors of the oven roasted brussel sprouts along with the tart pomegranate seed-spiked  maple caramelized sausages needed a calming canvas for balance. Quiet flavor. 

The softly seasoned pureed cauliflower was just the ticket.

Even better than mashed potatoes.

Go figure.

Purging For Gnudi

I have been purging the pantry, refrigerator, and freezer for a few days now.  Weeks of over shopping have finally resulted in bulging cabinets, stacked frozen items, and buried perishables.  Lately, the vegetable bin has become a huge swathe of intermingled plastic bags hiding everything I wanted, but didn't really need.  Last night I was determined to clean it out and use some of the vegetables.

The obvious choice was a soup of some kind.  With a chill in the air and a misty rain coming down, soup sounded comforting.  Chicken noodle soup? Nah, we've eaten tons of pasta lately.  I was toying with the idea of matzoh ball soup when I came across a container of ricotta cheese hidden behind containers of gorgonzola cheese, creme fraich, and mexican crema.   Hmm. Gnudi. Ricotta cheese dumplings!  Perfect.

Gnudi is italian for nude.  Ricotta cheese dumplings are nude, fragile, delicate, and sensual. 

I wrestled a leek, a few carrots, garlic, and celery from their plastic prisons inside the vegetable bin and started prepping them for soup. Diced, sliced, minced, and set aside.

I had brown chicken stock in the freezer leftover from a lazy Sunday afternoon stock-making day., so I pulled it out of the freezer and thawed it in the microwave to make a basic chicken soup base. Either one of my choices would have worked with the soup base:  noodles, matzoh, or gnudi.  I had a hankering for something different. I went with the ricotta dumplings.

It was really simple.  I sauteed the vegetables in olive oil for 10  minutes to soften before adding salt, pepper, fresh dill, parsley,  fresh bay leaf, and the chicken stock.  I brought the stock to  a boil , reduced it to a simmer, and let it bubble away for 45 minutes.

While the soup simmered, I prepared the ricotta dumplings.  I plopped a cup of ricotta cheese into the food processor along with 1/4 cup flour, 1/2 cup parmigiano reggiano, 1 large egg, salt, and pepper.  I blitzed it for 10 seconds, scraped it into a bowl, and set it aside. Because I wanted  brightness and freshness to permeate the dumplings, I folded lemon zest, lemon juce, and fresh parsley into the ricotta dough.

After flouring my hands, I tried desperately to roll them into perfectly round dumpling balls. It didn't happen  because the dough was so delicate and soft. Thomas Keller would not have approved.  They were cute little dumplings.  They weren't perfect little dumplings. It didn't matter. It was dinner, not a cooking competition.

I slid the dumplings into the refrigerator to set up, made a shaved brussel sprout slaw to accompany the soup, and retired to the parlor for a few glasses of wine.

About an hour later, I pulled the dumplings out of the refrigerator and carefully dropped them into the simmering soup. They fell to the bottom before slowly rising to the top to finish cooking for 10 minutes.  As with any dumpling, they swelled to twice their original size.  Fine with me. The bigger, the better. More gnudi for both of us.

I ladled the soup into large pasta bowls, placed the dumpling into the broth,  and showered the top with fresh dill and parsley.

To echo the flavor in the soup and to gild the lily, I topped the dumpling soup with fried jullienned leeks.

The full bodied stock had deep flavor with  leached sweetness from the simmered carrots, celery, and leeks.  The vegetables were like candy, soaked with savory goodness.  The ricotta dumplings were divine. They were soft, earthy, unctuous, and bright with assertive lemon undertones with the fried leeks providing sweet onion crunch.

Bite after bite, flavor and texture happily danced together.  Mouth party.

What could possibly follow that meal?

Michael torching the creme brulee.

Perfect.

The Last Of The Summer Basil

I knew the time would come.  The last of the summer basil.  It grew out back all summer long just steps from the kitchen and at arms reach.  I used it for everything and anything.  I sometimes abused it, neglected it, and tortured it. Whatever I did with it or to it, it was always lovely.  Always there.  It was a fun ride while it lasted. I knew the end was nearing.  The recent cold snap and freeze warnings prompted me to snip it off and bring it in.

All summer I wanted to try a fascinating pesto technique from the Ligurian region of Italy.  Basically, pasta and pesto with a few twists and tricks thrown in.

Liquira is the birthplace of genovese pesto, the standard pesto we are all familiar with;  fresh basil, pine nuts, garlic, parmigiano reggiano cheese, and olive oil. Trenette con  Pesto alla Genovese, the signature dish of Liguria, is thick hand rolled pasta strands tossed with green beans, sliced potatoes, parmigiano, and pesto.  Based somewhat on that dish is Ligurian Pesto Lasagna, a free-formed lasagna layered and stacked with the same ingredients.  Most of the prep can be done in advance before the actual layering of the lasagna, which must be done at the last minute with hot steaming lasagna noodles.

With the plucked basil wrapped gently in damp paper towels, I began my journey to the Ligurian countryside and my quest for that pesto lasagna.

I made my own lasagna noodles because I love making pasta. Mixed, kneaded, rested, rolled, cut, and set aside to dry.  Check.

I made the classic pesto by blending 2 cups of fresh basil, 2 crushed garlic cloves, and 1/2 cup of toasted pine nuts in my fabulous new blender.  With the motor running, I streamed 3/4 cups of good extra virgin olive oil into the blender until the pesto emulsified.

Because pesto purists believe the heat from blending or processing pesto actually melts the cheese and changes its texture, I chose to blend in a combination of 1/2 cup sharp pecorino and 1/2 parmigiano by hand.

Then, it got interesting.  To finish the pesto for the lasagna, I stirred in 1/2 cup yogurt with 1/2 cup ricotta cheese to form a creamy rich pesto sauce.  I poured it into a small bowl, covered it with olive oil to prevent discoloring, and set it aside.

Although green beans and potatoes sounded odd as a lasagna filling, I went for it. Tradition. I blanched green beans and potatoes for 10 minutes before plunging them into ice water to stop the cooking.  After they had  drained, I sauteed them in unsalted butter to crisp up and caramelize.

 Mise en place. Check.

Knowing the lasagna was going to be very rich, I wanted something to balance the richness. I rummaged through the vegetable bin and meat drawer of our refrigerator, finding roma tomatoes and gorgeous paper thin sliced prosciutto. As an experiment, I rolled the prosciutto slices around quartered tomatoes, drizzled them with olive oil, and baked them for 20 minutes. Wow.

After a few glasses of wine, it was time to eat.

It went really fast at that point.  Working quickly to ensure the pasta sheets remained hot, I boiled the pasta noodles for 3 minutes until al dente and drained them in a collander.

I smeared a bed of pesto sauce onto our plates, followed by a lasagna sheet,  more pesto, grated pecorino, grated parmigiano reggiano, green beans, and potatoes.  I repeated the layers three more times before finishing the lasagna with pesto, cheese, green beans, and fresh basil.

The toasted crisp prosciutto wrapped tomatoes fell to the side as finger food garnish.

It was rustic and beautiful.  The crunchy sweet beans snapped through the velvety soft layered pasta while creamy herbal pesto oozed out from the sides. After melting under the steaming pasta, the sharp pecorino contrasted nicely with the nutty parmigiano creating a sauce within a sauce. It was complex, full-bodied, and light.  Multi layered tons of flavor.

The crisp salty prosciutto rolls gave way to squirting sweet tomato juice providing much needed acidity to contrast the soft lusciousness of the lasagna. Ridiculously crazy good. Seriously. 

I loved the abandonment of the free-formed lasgana. No rules. No perfect squares. No sagging centers. No sticky pans.

I did miss the burned and caramelized cheesy corners of traditional baked lasagna. Everything has its place.

It was a fitting tribute to the very last of the summer basil.

We'll meet again next spring, my garden work horse.  You served me well.

Indeed.