Comida Cubana

Cuban food gets a bad rap in the States, at least from most Cuban Americans I know, who complain about a lack of seasoning, ingredient choices, and creativity. Rice and beans, rice and beans, more rice and beans maybe with a little pork.  Yet I have to say that while moros y cristianos features prominently in most meals on the average Cuban table -- not surprisingly, given the monthly allotment of rice and dry beans given by the government to each Cuban citizen, and the average person's inability to afford much more -- I've enjoyed some deliciously diverse dishes while bouncing around Havana.

Perhaps the best experience I had during my 10 days in Cuba was a cooking class, hosted by the lovely Malinelli and her charming husband Hector at their home. My best friend Becky and I started our culinary adventure at the open-air agromercado, tagging along as our cooking instructors bought fresh ingredients from local, organic farmers....

At this stand, Mali showed us how to pick out good malanga -- a local tuber used to make fritters and other starchy delights:

I was dubious about these unassuming, dirt encrusted root veggies until Hector showed us about an hour later how to scrub, prepare, and perfectly fry them. I don't normally seek out fried food -- to be honest, eating it usually leaves me feeling a bit ill -- but I could've devoured these garlic and herb loaded malanga fritters for days, with or without local honey to dip them in. And now Becky and I know how to make them, thanks to the hands-on practice and follow-up recipes sent to us by our kind cooking instructors.

Here we are with our delightful hostess, Mali, and a friendly English couple who also joined our cooking class, sitting down to our homemade Cuban feast:

After a hearty late afternoon meal of fried plantains, a simple salad, pork with sour orange and garlic (my new favorite dish), a new twist on the traditional black beans and rice, the famous malanga fritters, and capped off with great conversations about Cuban history, economics, and culture over coffees and cheese with guava jam for dessert, we were ready to face the rest of the day with contented bellies. It's a good thing, too, since our evening led us first to live music and dancing at the Casa de Musica in nearby Miramar and then a jaunt around the hip Fabrica de Arte Cubano on the later side. I was still so contented from lunch that after our late night cab right back to the Airbnb, all I had room for was a bit of leftover fruit before crawling into bed. Well, maybe I could have nibbled on a malanga fritter or two....

Vermonster

Goodness, I believe I haven't been to Burlington for a summertime visit since biking through on the Bikeable Feast in 2009. Now, this wasn't just an excuse to escape DC's heat and humidity -- I was heading up north to Vermont to visit friends, and then just a bit further south to Connecticut for my dear friend Felicity's wedding -- but fleeing DC summer weather for a week and a half was not a tough sell.

I love this place. Not even an hour after collecting me and my little rolling suitcase at the Burlington airport on Thursday afternoon, my old teaching pal Mark whisked me off to the Intervale, where we picked up a double farm share -- he knew I was coming, so wanted to be fully prepared with ample produce. After harvesting armloads of string beans and basil, cutting floral bouquets, and shuttling piles of fresh corn and tomatoes and greens into and out of the minivan, it was time for a dip in the lake followed by an outdoor concert and picnic (featuring seasonal fruit, local cheese, and the classic wine in a water bottle). Friday was a cooking extravaganza, with Mark and I sampling local beers and ciders while whipping up at least a half dozen dishes for an evening barbecue with friends. If I didn't know better, I would think Mark and Susan were trying to lure me into moving to Vermont. Hmm.

Saturday afternoon, I met up with my best friend Becky. She and her family had driven down from Montreal to hang out at Burlington's annual Festival of Fools. There was some good eating along the way, before her family let her come spend a few days of much-needed quality girl time with me. After a stop by one of my favorite co-ops in the country -- City Market -- to pick up dinner and some snacks for the next day's anticipated long hike, we were off to Waterbury.  It took us 5 hours on Sunday to make the rather steep hike up to the summit of Camel's Hump and back, and Becky and I were a bit ravenous afterwards. Oh, we had hiking snacks, sure, but did I mention it was a challenging, 5-hour hike? There was no choice but to head directly to the Ben & Jerry's factory. Forget the tour, we dove directly into a Vermonster:

Okay, technically it was a Mini Vermonster. That's Becky proudly showing off the sundae as big as her head. Don't shake your head at me, we split the four enormous scoops of ice cream, 2 bananas, and a brownie slathered with hot fudge, whipped cream, and nuts. Good thing it was a few more hours before dinner. It was amazing. I wonder if Becky is also trying to lure me north. Hmm. It is awfully good ice cream....

A german feast!

I was sad to have my friend Tinka head home to Munich earlier today, after our fun week of biking and dancing and exploring the city together and feasting. What a special treat it was to have my friend here for her birthday, when we cooked up a feast based on some recipes from the Bavarian cookbook she kindly brought me. (Seems I'm not the only one who gives other people gifts on their own birthday.)

Last weekend as we perused the farmers market, the two of us picked up fixin's to make chicken schnitzel and spaetzle. And of course since I had an extra sherpa with me at market, I went a little crazy again with the produce acquisition... which is funny, since my fridge was already stuffed with homebrew, and produce from both of my school gardens, as well as about 6 pounds of rhubarb from my landlady, but luckily I am an excellent fridge packer. Anyway, when Wednesday evening rolled around we got to work on a proper German meal, paying no mind to the fact that I was woefully underprepared for proper German cooking. How do I not yet own a spaetzle press?? At least I had a solid tenderizer:

Each of us playing to her strengths, Tinka took care of the chicken pounding and cheesy spaetzle making, while I got cracking on some veggies to make sure we didn't die of heart attacks right at the end of the meal.

It was SO delicious. But the highlight of the cooking was perhaps earlier that day, with our improbably successful German rhubarb cake, which we baked and then enjoyed with a few cocktails midday for a birthday "lunch." (I think the last time I counted drinks and dessert as a meal was some time during my senior year of college. Though at that time I didn't need a 2 1/2 hour nap right afterwards.) I say improbable because, dear readers, the recipe was the most bizarre thing I had ever read, and having never tasted -- nor even seen -- a rhubarb cake in my life, I had no idea if my interpretation of the less-than-clear directions would even come to an edible conclusion. Clearly it did, as less than half of the 10" pastry remained after lunch:

If you want to try making it yourself, here's the recipe we found online for the rhubarb topping and for the base. (Forget the meringue layer -- it's way too humid to mess with it these days.) Beware, though, as my landlady tried to recreate it twice to no avail. Let's just say the instructions are not up to the stereotypical German standards of precision. I'm thinking I need to head to Bavaria sometime soon to research this recipe further....

It's all (deliciously) Greek to me

Many years ago, when working downtown for a global health nonprofit, my friend Jeanne came into the office one afternoon with the most divine smelling takeout container ever. Rich, lemony, chicken aromas wafted through the office as my colleague strolled past my desk with her pint of soup from the Greek deli around the corner.

This was my first encounter with avgolemono soup, and it was love at first scent. I believe this was in 2006. I've been in love with this soup for ten years. And just tonight, I perfected making it.

Oh, there were some bumps along the way. Nothing ever ended up being completely inedible, mind you, just odd textural disasters that I did not foist on dining companions. I ate lots of that over the years. But tonight's velvety, lemony victory was pure bliss. And a good thing, too: what's this freezing rain coming down on the first day of spring? Did Mother Nature not get the memo?

I think the secret to tonight's gustatory awesomeness was the homemade chicken broth (where I usually used delicious but definitely different veggie stock). And the fact that I kept the heat low enough while cooking was key for tempering the egg yolks. Upon reflection, I suspect that the latter is where I strayed during earlier batches. Live and learn.

Right. You want the recipe, eh? Well, here you go:

Easy Avgolemono Soup for Two
(or for one, with leftovers)

Ingredients

• 1 TBSP butter + a good glug of olive oil
• 1 large onion, diced
• 2 large garlic cloves, peeled and chopped
• 2 handfuls cooked brown rice
• 1-2 handfuls shredded, cooked chicken (optional - I had some left from making stock)
• 1 quart or more of good chicken stock, warmed
• 2-3 cups freshly chopped spinach
• Juice from 2 lemons
• 2 egg yolks
• Salt and pepper

Directions

Saute the onion in butter/olive oil until soft.

Toss in the garlic, rice, and chicken bits and stir well.

Add the chicken stock, spinach, and lemon juice, and simmer over medium-low heat for about 10 minutes. (Don't bring it anywhere close to a boil! This is where I went amiss...repeatedly... usually when I was starving and trying to make this soup quickly and thus ended up with lemony eggdrop soup.)

In a small, heat-proof container, beat egg yolks. While whisking, slowly dribble about 1/4 cup of the warm soup broth into the yolks. Then slowly whisk in another 1/4 cup. And another. Now you're ready to slowly whisk the tempered egg/broth mixture back into the main soup pot. So whisk it, carefully, and over low heat.

Taste, then add salt and pepper as needed.

Voila! Your velvety, lemony, nourishing pot of deliciousness is ready for immediate consumption in less than 20 minutes from start to finish.

Now I just need to find a charming, single Greek man who can appreciate my cooking skills.... Know anyone?

Downright fun

It's been too long since I've been part of an elaborate dinner gathering. (Oh, don't worry, I've still been eating well, between lots of cooking at home and with kids in schools, and out and about on dates.) Last night, in celebration of the series finale of Downton Abbey, my landlady threw a wonderful dinner. It all started with me needing an excuse to make some cocktails with the starfruit I'd pickled....

What's that? You're surprised that I enjoy the at times staid, at other times melodramatic PBS drama? I was an English teacher for a time, and retain a soft spot for all things Victorian/turn-of-the-century. No, it has not led me to catch Pride and Prejudice and Zombies in the theaters...but mostly because the trailers looked terrible. (The book was actually pretty good.) But I digress.

Last night's dinner was superb. Our neighbor Michele made these adorable little cucumber finger sandwiches. Sarah assembled a big green salad. I boiled up some farmers' market potatoes and parsnips, which were later tossed with butter and fresh parsley. I was also in charge of the asparagus. Kate brought some great red wines. But the stars of the show were Jacky's from-scratch Beef Wellington -- finally, a way that I can enjoy pâté! -- and Kathryn's stunning Charlotte Russe for dessert.

Here's Jacky carving the Wellington. I should have taken more pictures. I blame the good company and irresistible food and drink.

We sipped on limoncello tonics with pickled starfruit and nibbled on some nice cheeses as the final bits of our main meal came together. This was the moment when Kathryn helped me save the hollandaise from the brink of disaster. Should you find yourself in a similar state of panic -- the sauce was so smooth and velvety one minute, then a separated puddle of butter moments later -- I offer Kathryn's brilliant solution: rewarm the sauce over the lowest heat setting, and whisk in a touch of dijon mustard and a few spoonfuls of cold water until the velvet texture of the sauce returns. Voila!

Because I can't seem to resist sharing recipes these days, here's the base recipe for the hollandaise, based on Julia Child's. With Easter -- and asparagus season -- just a few weeks off, you'll want to keep it handy.

Hollandaise Sauce

Ingredients
3 egg yolks
1 tablespoon cold water
Juice from 1 lemon (or just 1/2 lemon if you're not a lemon fiend like I am)
1 1/2 sticks of butter at room temperature, cut into Tablespoons
salt and pepper, to taste

Directions

Whisk the yolks, water, and lemon juice in the saucepan for a few moments, until thick and pale (this prepares them for what is to come).

Set the pan over moderately low heat and continue to whisk at reasonable speed, reaching all over the bottom and insides of the pan, where the eggs tend to overcook.

(In retrospect, I bet this would work really well with a double boiler. Note to self....)

As they cook, the eggs will become frothy and increase in volume, and then thicken. When you can see the pan bottom through the streaks of the whisk and the eggs are thick and smooth, remove from the heat if things start looking funny.

By spoonfuls, add the soft butter, whisking constantly to incorporate each addition. As the emulsion forms, continue whisking in spoonfuls of butter until fully absorbed.

Season lightly with salt, pepper, and a dash of cayenne pepper if you're feeling spunky, whisking everything together well.

Taste and adjust the seasoning, adding droplets of lemon juice if needed. Serve.

(If your sauce starts to fall apart, see Kathryn's tip above.)

Pierogi in the sky

I grew up, like many American kids of the 80s, on boiled Mrs. T's potato and cheese pierogis. I have fond memories of tossing boxes from the frozen food aisle into the grocery cart in middle school. And I liked them. Then, a couple of months ago, during our annual Slow Food DC board holiday dinner at Boundary Road, my tastebuds were rocked by the real thing. (Or at least what I imagine being the real thing, having not ventured to Poland. Yet.) Light, buttery, rich pierogis that melt in your mouth. Oh god, they were good. I've been obsessed with the idea of making them ever since.

I'd considered making some for my birthday dinner in late December, but then got distracted preparing tajines and curries and ran out of time. I'd contemplated making them with more daring gentlemen sous chefs (I mean, er, dates) in January and February, but, well, it seemed extreme for someone who was just starting to know me to be subjected to 3+ hours of solid cooking and my friendly but firm reminders of "Don't overknead the dough!" So when my dear and daring foodie friend Kathryn suggested we get together to cook yesterday, I knew exactly what we were going to make.

Initially we were going to simply have different fillings, but after some online research we couldn't decide which dough recipe to try... so of course we decided on 3 different doughs, each with a different filling. (Don't you lecture me about the Scientific Method! I know!!) We figured that if one of them resulted in total, inedible disaster, at least one of the others would turn out, right? And if all of them failed, well, we still had a nice growler of Hellbender scotch ale and things to nibble on.

We started with what appeared to be the simplest dough, and the most traditional filling:

As the dough rested, I riced some of our boiled potatoes before stirring in some mashed celeriac and sauteed cabbage, along with the not-at-all-Polish addition of garlic for the second filling. Then it was time to boil some sweet potatoes to mash, before stirring in freshly grated nutmeg and slices of quick-seared guanciale for our third filling:

Oh, the guanciale? Don't worry, there is going to be a whole post soon about this much-anticipated first attempt at curing meat sourced from Farmer Bev over at Eco-Friendly Foods. For now, I hope you're content with knowing that the public debut of the cured pork face was delicious and that nobody got food poisoning. Meanwhile, here's Kathryn working her magic on doughs 2 and 3:

In the blink of three hours, we were ready to start cooking our homemade pierogis!

Luckily Kathryn's husband showed up just in time to help finish filling the final dozen pierogis, and taste test our final product, washed down with ample ale. (Yes, yes, I know, it would have been more authentic to sip on potato vodka, but I'm using all of mine in the current batch of limoncello.)

Delicious. Thanks, Kathryn and Chris, for participating in this cooking adventure! And for those of you who want to try making your own, I recommend dough #1 or 2 from this site, and fill them with whatever your heart desires. (Mine desires more guanciale.) Don't worry, mom and dad, I saved a few of each in the freezer for the next time I see you. :)

The shank of the evening

Yesterday morning, Farmer Bev handed me a couple of packages of pork shanks, sliced osso bucco style. I meandered through the rest of the market, picking up various odds and ends that might go well with them -- carrots and celery and fennel at New Morning Farm, onions at Twin Springs, leeks at Spring Valley -- and finally wobbled home on a very loaded Ollie. For this first installment of Ibti's Offal Adventures, I offer a recipe I adapted from Epicurious, enjoyed just this evening by my fellow Slow Foodies at our monthly board meeting:

Braised Pork Shank with White Wine and Veggies
Ingredients

• 1 handful dried mushrooms
• 1 cup boiling water
• 2 fresh pork shanks, cut into thirds, skins removed
  (No, I didn't waste the skins, thank you very much, I saved them for my landlady's 3 dogs.)
• 3 TBSP olive oil + a bit more for the final meat searing
• 1 large onion, diced
• 1 handful diced carrots
• 1 leek, chopped
• 1 handful diced celery
• 1 fennel bulb, diced
• 6 garlic cloves, peeled and coarsely chopped
• 1 cup dry white wine (I had a semi decent pinot grigio on hand)
• 1 cup broth (Thank you, GrowingSOUL, for my quart of Putting Stock in Your Community artisanal chicken stock!)
• 2 TBSP chopped fresh sage (from one of the school gardens I manage)
• 2 TBSP chopped fresh rosemary (from my front steps -- doesn't get more local than that)
• 1 handful chopped fresh parsley (also from my school garden)

Directions
Preheat oven to 325F. Open the wine and pour yourself a glass. I mean, you've got to be sure it will go well with braised pork.

Pour 1 cup boiling water over the mushrooms and let stand until mushrooms soften. Drain and chop mushrooms, reserving the delicious soaking liquid.

Meanwhile, sprinkle the pork with salt and pepper. Heat olive oil in a large, heavy cast iron pan or dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add pork, in batches if necessary, and brown on all sides, about 15 minutes total. Transfer the browned pork to a rimmed baking sheet or lasagne pan.

Reduce heat to medium. Add onion, carrots, leek, celery, and fennel. Cook until vegetables are soft and beginning to color, stirring occasionally, about 10 minutes.

Stir in garlic and chopped mushrooms. Add wine and bring to boil, scraping up any browned bits. Add broth, reserved mushroom soaking liquid, and 1 TBSP each of sage, rosemary, and parsley. It's probably time for another glass of wine as you marvel at how amazing your kitchen is starting to smell.

Return pork and any accumulated juices to pot, arranging in single layer. Place pot in oven and cover with a lid or foil or, if you're a foil conserving loony like me, an inverted stainless steel bowl. Braise pork until very tender, turning over every 30 minutes, for about 90 minutes total. I put the baking sheet on the bottom rack of the oven just in case my deep skillet spilled over. (Apparently, this part of the recipe can be made up to 2 days ahead. Simply cook things to this point, then cool slightly, refrigerate uncovered until cold, then cover and keep refrigerated. Simmer until just warm before continuing.)

Heat oven to 425F. Transfer pork to rimmed baking sheet. Brush with olive oil; sprinkle with remaining sage and rosemary, and a few grinds of black pepper. Roast pork until browned, about 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, tilt the pan and spoon any fat from surface of sauce. Scoop out the veggies and keep them warm in another pan.Boil your original pot/pan until the sauce lightly coats the back of a wooden spoon, about 7 minutes. Season with salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Divide veggies among serving bowls, top with pork and sauce, and sprinkle with another handful of chopped parsley. If any of that wine remains, go ahead and offer some to your guests. (But if not it's okay, we don't judge here. Just open another bottle.) Enjoy!

I'm thinking some kind of Mexican-inspired chocolate mole sauce for the other shanks I'll be testing out with mom and dad next weekend. But if you have suggestions, readers, please send 'em along!

A modest proposal

A few weeks ago at the Dupont farmers' market, I got to talking with my friend Bev about how much I'd enjoyed the lamb with which he'd supplied me for the Irish stew dinner. At one point, I suggested that more folks would be chasing him down for lamb necks if only they knew what to do with the inexpensive, meaty cuts. I also pointed out that though his meats are consistently stellar, his website was a little lean on content. (Hah. You must've seen that one coming.) Not a lot of recipes or recent blog posts, anyway.

About an hour later, as we sat yapping on the back of the Eco-Friendly Foods truck, a plan had formed: every few weeks, Bev would supply me with some of the less common cuts of meat and I would take them home and fiddle with a few different recipes. If things turned out well, I'd write things up and send along the recipe. If my experiment happened to go horribly amiss, at least then I could offer ways NOT to prepare certain cuts. Either way, it would mean more opportunities to hang out with my carnivorous dad (and mom, who is a good sport), along with some other adventurous cooking friends.

If you've been following this blog for any length of time, you know that I have been pretty adamant in recent years about not being wasteful, but until recently I've been focused on things like saving veggie scraps to make stock and composting. I have grappled a few different times during my life with the complicated idea of eating meat and how it fits with my beliefs. During high school and college I was a vegetarian. Many years later on the bikeable feast cross-country trip, as a means of really understanding what gets meat to my plate I participated in the butchering of chickens. I have finally settled on eating very little meat, and when I do eat it, sourcing responsibly raised meat from local farmers and chefs I know and trust. I believe in using the whole animal if it's going to give its life to feed us. And yet, outside of tasting some chili and lime fried pig ear that the chef sent to my table at Barcelona about a year and a half ago I have not really participated in the whole "nose to tail" movement.

Now, in an interesting turn of events, it's looking like coming months may feature pigs feet, jowl, face bacon, and some of the organ meats. (No liver, though -- I can't handle the smell of it, never mind the texture or the fact that it is the organ that absorbs all of the body's poisons. I can't get past that, sorry. I will leave others to enjoy pâté and liverwurst.) From the get go, Bev tried to talk me into making haggis, which I had managed to avoid on my travels through Scotland. If I can cobble together a version without liver I may try that in a few months, but I'm going to need to work up to it. My dad, upon hearing this latest culinary development, was especially excited about the prospect of making traditional Iraqi dishes with harder to find animal parts, and I had to talk him out of the stuffed lamb stomach for Round 1 -- I'm going to need to work up to that one, too. Mom will likely be sending some traditional, meaty Polish recipes my way soon. My friend Kathryn is already talking about smoked pigs feet for Round 2. (Meanwhile, I think I'm starting to fall for a cute vegan. It's going to be an interesting few months coming up....)

Bev's hinting about bringing me some pork shanks next weekend. Stay tuned!

I need some space

Oh, 35 pounds of tomatoes, the problem isn't you, it's me. (Well, actually, it's my limited burner surface area.)

Usually I can manage a rather high level of culinary gymnastics during a big curry night or a personal cheffing session by getting creative: starting some things in the stove and then moving them to the oven, say, or using the plug-in rice cooker for grains. But tonight I found myself with a bit of a math problem: 4 burners, and at least 7 pots that need them. (Where is my favorite math teacher when I need him?)

So riddle me this, culinary mathemagicians: How would you account for

• 1 burner: pot of applesauce that needs to be kept hot for canning
• 1 burner: tureen of vegan pho broth that still needs simmering for another 3 hours
• 1 burner: a large pot of boiling water for scalding tomatoes
• 1 burner: medium pot of simmering water to keep jar lids sterile
• 2 burners: the giant canning pot
• 1 burner: the tamale I was going to warm up for dinner...?

My solution: Work in waves. (This is the kind of problem solving that got me into advanced math classes back in 7th grade, thank you very much.)

BURNERS 1 & 2: giant canning pot to sterilize jars, then process filled jars
BURNER 3: applesauce cooking, then tomato scalding
BURNER 4: 1 pot of simmering water to keep jar lids sterile

As for the pho broth: I boiled and then removed it from the stove and covered it to keep warm, then returned it to BURNER 3 when tomatoes were processing. Oh, and dinner: a tamale steamed in a strainer precariously balanced over the canning pot, along with a spinach salad and a limoncello tonic. (What, BURNER 4 was busy warming some tea to make a batch of kombucha!) Next time when I really get cooking I could also break out the portable propane burner, and maybe even the beercan stove -- how did I only think of those now? And maybe I can rig some kind of solar cooker in my sunny front room....

Our food rocks the palate

How do I keep getting talked into things that begin early on a Saturday, across town? (Because I'm a sucker? It's possible.) Yet once again I was glad I hauled myself out of bed at the crack of 7:30am yesterday to get myself to the WIC Get Fresh Festival, where I was competing on a team with my friend and fellow food educator, Vera, in a farmers' market cook-off.

(I see you looking at the computer screen, eyebrow raised. Fine, I didn't actually get myself to RFK Stadium until closer to 10am. But I did get up before 8. I just move more slowly on the weekends.)

As Ollie and I rolled up, my team was in the midst of shopping for our three dishes. I locked her up and we jumped right in. We had to come up with an appetizer, main dish, and dessert heavily sourced from the RFK Open Air Farmers' Market. We'd have 90 minutes to cook, then present our dishes to the 5 judges, a mix of local chefs and Dept of Health folks. Oh, and part of the challenge was that our only heat source was a grill. I love a challenge.

Laden with bowls and bags of fresh produce, we headed to our cooking station. First, we began chopping the ingredients for a spicy tomato and watermelon salad with jalapenos and fresh mint, inspired by my teammate Levita. Beautiful presentation, no?

The juice at the bottom, after we'd served the salad itself to judges and market shoppers, might have been my favorite part. (I think the spicy, minty watermelon juice would've been even better with a splash of tequila, but that was not entirely appropriate for a family-friendly, Department of Health-sponsored event, so I tucked away that little bit of knowledge for later.) Next, I joined the main course team, skewering our veggie and paneer kabobs. The Indian cheese chunks were marinated in a delectable marinade of yogurt, garlic, ginger, and garam masala, and the aromatic, grilled kabobs attracted eager tasters like nobody's business. Props to Niraj for the ingenious recipe.

I was actually fairly removed from our dessert offering -- a fresh fruit salad with yogurt and cinnamon -- though I did chop some market peaches for it at one point. To be honest, I was busy near the end, scarfing grilled paneer that had fallen off some of the skewers. (You know, quality control.) As 12:30 rolled around, we presented our offerings to the panel and waited...and waited... It turned out there was a tie between my team -- Our Food Rocks the Palate -- and a lovely group from a vegetarian catering company. The judges decided we'd have to answer a food trivia question to determine the winner of the competition. Apparently having two teams in first place was not an option.

The million dollar question was: In one minute, list as many foods as you can that came from the New World. (Turns out that what WE did not know previously was that the emcee was a food history buff. But what SHE did not know was that I teach a series of lessons on food origins to 5th graders. Heh.) We won.

In case you're wondering, no, there was no million dollar prize. In fact, the prize was a small box with plastic vegetables in it and a plaque mounted on the side proclaiming, "Get Fresh Festival -- Grill Chef Competition -- First Place," that will live at nearby J. O. Wilson High School, where a few of my teammates work. And a sense of pride, of course. Go team!!

Parks and Rec

Many thanks to my friend Josh, who invited me to teach a Garden Cooking class this evening at the Deanwood Rec Center. It was a lot of fun, and part of DPR's Community Garden program: a whole season of free classes on everything from building compost bins to designing a forest garden to beekeeping to inoculating mushroom logs. My assignment was to teach folks tasty and inexpensive ways to cook the bounty of produce one can grow in a DC-area home or community garden plot (or at least find at local farmers' markets -- we're no purists).

We started out with about 5 participants, but after I finished blah-blahing and we got to cooking, the numbers steadily jumped to about 15 people. It was my favorite kind of class: low-key with a mix of ages and experience levels, but with enthusiasm across the board. After a round of hand washing, I introduced the recipes, then let folks self-select which group they'd like to work in (oh, what a change from teaching a classful of 5th-graders).

The crowd favorite may have been my favorite massaged kale salad, with well-beaten purple kale and double the usual goat cheese. That kale was massaged to within an inch of its (delicious) life by a very enthusiastic masseuse:

No, maybe the favorite was the basil-chard-pumpkin-seed pesto pasta salad, in which some attendees tried sauteed chard stems for the first time (and loved them, thank you very much):

Then again, one of the aspiring young chefs told me on her way out that she was definitely going to make the peach-tomato-black-bean salsa at home. I mean, who can resist late-summer peaches?

For your cooking pleasure, I offer the latter, one of my newest favorite recipes, here....

Tomato, Peach, and Black Bean Salsa

Ingredients

• 1-2 cups cooked black beans (see below)

• 1 small red onion, diced small 

• 2-3 tomatoes(of any color and shape), diced small 

• 2 peaches, cored and diced small

• ½ small chili pepper, seeded and minced

• Handful of herbs (mint, cilantro, and/or parsley), chopped

• ½-1 tsp apple cider vinegar

• Juice from 1 lime (optional)

• Pinch of salt

• Freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Directions

Combine all ingredients in a medium bowl and toss thoroughly.

VARIATION: Leave out the beans and plop spoonfuls of this on slices of baguette for a fresh bruschetta!

TIP: How To Cook Dried Black Beans (courtesy of www.thekitchencaravan.com)

1. Take 1 cup dried beans, place in a bowl, and cover with about double their amount in water. Soak for at least 4 hours or overnight.
2. Drain the beans of their soaking liquid and transfer to a pot. Cover again with at least 2-4 inches of water and bring to a boil.
3. Turn the heat down and simmer covered on very low heat until the beans are cooked through and soft (about 1 hour).
4. You can add cumin, ginger, or garlic to the cooking liquid to add flavor. Ginger and cumin both help with the digestibility of the beans, reducing gas.

Oh, heck, they were all delicious. And luckily I didn't need to schlep any leftovers back home. Now THAT is the sign of a successful class.

Fraiche pasta?

Tonight, in spite of my best laid plans to heat up yet another batch of curried lentils and roasted root vegetables, I found myself holding a box of angel hair pasta and could not bring myself to put it down. Maybe it's the cold weather. Or the fact that most of my personal cheffing has been for a couple who are trying to cut out carbs. Or the ferocious cravings for hearty, comforting pasta that I've been having since, oh, early November since I resolved to cut gluten out of my diet.

(Obviously I've fallen off the wagon a few times during the holidays. And more recently when we had a Slow Food gathering at a local brewpub. And just yesterday when friends recently returned from Paris handed me a gift of smuggled, fresh macarons. But I do try, because my body seems to hurt a lot more when I indulge. I noticed a marked increase in low back pain this morning, likely due to my polishing off a half dozen macarons while soaking in the bathtub last night.)

At least this was a box of rice-based pasta in my hand tonight.

Now, I will say that most gluten-free food items that attempt to mimic the real, glutinous (and delicious) thing fall way short. Including pasta. The biscuits that I attempted a week or so ago were weirdly textured such that I actually attempted to pass them off as sweet potato scones. (True story. Embarrassing.) I don't even bother with gluten-free beer. (Oh, beer, nectar of the gods, I've been missing you!) But I digress (again). Tonight I had a hankering for pasta that would not quit, exacerbated by my stumbling across a delicious sounding concoction while I poked around online for inspiration for what to do with my leftover creme fraiche from yesterday's cheffing. (BTW, if I ever find myself in Indianapolis, home to the farm-to-table restaurant from whence this recipe hails, I'm totally going there for dinner.) It was so spectacularly tasty and simple, and for once I had all of the ingredients on hand (and it's likely you will, too), that I offer the recipe, slightly adapted and using way fewer dishes, here:

Lemony Fraîche Pasta

Ingredients

• 8 oz. box dried angel hair pasta (gluten-free rice pasta is pretty good in this one!)
• salt
• 1-2 handfuls fresh parsley leaves, washed and finely chopped
• 1 garlic clove, peeled and finely minced
• zest of 1 lemon (have a microplane? use it!)
• ½ cup crème fraîche
• 2 TBSP olive oil
• Juice from 1 lemon
• 1-2 handfuls Parmesan cheese, finely grated (you can reuse the microplane here, heheh)
• a pinch of red pepper flakes
• freshly ground black pepper

Directions

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add the pasta and cook until al dente, according to the package instructions (usually 5-7 minutes, but if your package tells you to rinse the noodles in cold water after draining, please ignore that part).

Meanwhile, in a large bowl, combine the parsley with the garlic and lemon zest, mixing until just combined. Stir in the crème fraîche with the olive oil and lemon juice until combined. Stir in parmesan and red pepper flakes. There, your sauce is done.

When the angel hair is cooked, use tongs to transfer it directly to the bowl with the sauce. Toss the spaghetti until the sauce coats the noodles evenly. (The pasta water clinging to the noodles will help to thin the sauce.) Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Dust with more parmesan if you like and devour while hot!

This pic was snapped before I dusted both pasta and salad with some fresh parmesan -- partly in honor of the winter storm's dusting of my city with snow earlier today, though just in case you're wondering I did not add 5-7" of grated cheese to my noodles.

Winter warmers

Freshly returned from tonight's monthly ANC meeting, covered in a downy layer of snow, I shuffled into my kitchen with cold toes, wet sneakers, and a hungry belly. (What's that? Yes, snow! The first of the season! There was about an inch that had accumulated on the front steps over the hour and a half I was out.) I rummaged through my somewhat bare refrigerator and pantry to see what I might add to the delicious vegetable stock simmering on the stove. I hadn't eaten in a solid 3 hours and I had soup on the brain.

Okay, fine, mostly soup. While I was scavenging for ingredients in my snow-chilled state I may have heated up a little of the ponche left over from this weekend's apartment warming party -- Patricia's Mexican holiday punch was even more delicious rewarmed with a shot of brandy. And all of the fruit in there can only boost my immune system in preparation for tomorrow's temperatures in the single digits. (No, this is not the exact spiel I give to 3rd graders about eating more foods rich in antioxidants.)

Anyway, soup. While the cupboard was not completely bare, I found myself with a motley assortment of odds and ends. A couple of onions. Some stale bread. Cheese ends. A few fingers of marsala wine. A head of garlic. It was beginning to look like I had the makings for a vegetarian french onion soup. I poked around online as I sauteed some onions (and finished up the ponche) and came across this recipe. Here is an adapted version, which, incidentally, is as hearty as it is tasty and budget friendly.

Faux French Onion Soup

Ingredients

• 8-10 cups of vegetable broth (make your own by simmering 10 cups of water + a bay leaf, some carrot and onion scraps, mushroom stalks, salt/pepper – strain to remove veggie solids before using)
• a hearty handful of cheese rinds
• 1 TBSP olive oil
• 1 TBSP butter
• 2 medium onions, peeled and thinly sliced
• 3-4 garlic cloves, peeled and thinly sliced
• a good splash of marsala wine (sherry would work, too)
• 1 tsp red wine vinegar
• salt and freshly ground black pepper
• a few handfuls of 1-inch chunks of stale bread
• a small block of Gruyere cheese, grated

Directions

Warm broth with cheese rinds in a large pot. Keep at a simmer as you get the rest of the recipe together.

Heat the olive oil and butter over medium heat in a medium pot.

Add the onions to the pan, coat with the olive oil-butter mixture, and cook, stirring often, until the onions become translucent (about 10 minutes).

Add the garlic and a pinch of salt. Cook, stirring constantly, until the onions and garlic begin to show some color (about 5 minutes).

When the onions are soft and show a good amount of brown, deglaze the pan with the marsala, scraping the browned bits from the pan’s bottom. Cook until the liquid is almost all evaporated from the pan.

Add (strained) vegetable broth, vinegar, and season with salt and pepper to taste.

For each serving, drop a handful of bread cubes into an empty soup bowl. Sprinkle the grated cheese over the bread. Ladle the soup over the bread and cheese in each bowl. Devour.

Foodie stamps

Can you feed yourself on $30/week?

Zucchini latkes, made one summer with farmers' market eggs
 and yogurt, community garden zucchini, and homegrown chives.
Cost per serving @ $1.

I did not take the official DC Hunger Solutions Food Stamp Challenge last week, but I've been there and so can attest that one can still eat well on not much money. It's odd being a self-proclaimed foodie while being not so far above the income bracket qualifying for food stamps these days, but it's not unheard of. Food education is important -- people tell me this on an almost daily basis -- but it doesn't pay that well. So in honor of the Food Stamp Challenge, I offer some ideas for ways to eat well when you don't have a lot to spend. Incidentally, these are tips that I often share with groups of low-income folks I work with here in our nation's capital:

1. Learn to cook -- Not only will you enjoy the food more when you've had a hand in preparing it to your liking, but it's way less expensive than eating out. (And don't give me that "fast food is cheaper" line: you'll be paying for it in poor health and hospital bills later.) Plus, you will endear yourself to friends and family, and neighbors who smell the aromas coming from your kitchen.
   
2. Go vegetarian -- Meat, especially sustainably-raised meat, is pricey. Lentils, black beans, cowpeas, chickpeas are your friends... and dry legumes are more nutritious and less expensive than their fresh, frozen, or canned brethren. Eggs are another good option. Need recipe ideas? Call me.
   
3. Garden -- Grow some of your food. It's amazing what you can grow in a 4'x8' raised garden bed, or even a few pots on the porch, steps, or windowsill. And you may never have to pay $2.99 for a sprig of fresh herbs again. (Take that, Whole Paycheck!)
   
4. Barter/workshare -- If you're new to gardening, you can learn by volunteering at a local farm or community/school garden, and the bonus is that folks often send you home with fresh goodies. (The free produce is limited in the winter, but spring, summer, and fall are bountiful in our region.)
   
5. Learn to bake -- Flour is way cheaper than bread, and you can adjust the texture and ingredients to your taste. And there is the added bonus of killer triceps with all that kneading. Let me know if you want some sourdough starter.
   
6. Drink less -- And have friends who are generous with their homebrew.
   
7. Save your scraps -- Little odds and ends of things can be mixed together to make tasty soups, salads, stir-fries, and quiches. I've been saving bones and vegetable scraps in my freezer and making broth out of them for years, and my stocks for soups and stews are the tastier for it. (I also pack out my vegetable scraps for composting when I cook at friends' houses, but let's not get too crazy here. We can talk about composting another time.)
   
8. Use your benefits wisely -- If you do qualify for food stamps, use them as much as possible at local farmers' markets that double (yes, you read that right, DOUBLE) the value of your food stamps. Your grocery store sure as heck doesn't double 'em, and the produce is so much fresher and healthier at the market. Even if you only spend $15/week at the farmers' market -- half of the allotted $30/week of the F.S.C. -- you'd get $30 worth of fruits, veggies, milk, eggs, and such at the market and still have $15/week left to spend on other stuff at the grocery store (orange juice, beans, rice, you name it).

So that's my spiel. Whether or not you're on food stamps, I like to think that these tips might be helpful for those on a tight budget.

Do you have other ideas for eating well for not a lot? I'd love to hear 'em.

Word to your mother

A couple of weeks ago, I started myself on a gluten-free diet to see if it would help my persistent back pain. So far the only difference I've noticed is an increase in my cravings for sourdough bread and beer, but I'm sticking it out til Thanksgiving. Now, giving up gluten doesn't mean that I have to give up all things fermented, thankfully, and it's actually inspired me to try out some otherwise neglected food and drink items. Hot mulled cider with bourbon, for instance, which I had a mug of at Mothership last night. Shrubs with sparkling water. And kombucha.

Readers, if you've been following this blog for awhile, you may recall the first time I tried to make kombucha. It was, shall we say, not the most delightful thing to imbibe, and I may or may not have promptly deposited that kombucha "mother" directly into the compost bin along with its putrid liquid accompaniment. Perhaps, I thought, I was just not cut out for making this tart and fizzy health drink. And yet, another opportunity presented itself at the Alexandria Food Swap a few weeks ago and I couldn't resist. Armed with a new "mother" -- a SCOBY (Symbiotic Culture of Bacteria and Yeast), if you want to get technical about it -- I'd snagged, and some instructions from the kombucha swapper, Jen (I suppose you could call her the Mother of the mother), I decided to try my hand at this fermented beverage a second time. Lord knows it couldn't possibly taste worse than the first time.

I will concede that kombucha mothers are kind of strange, somewhat akin to what you might encounter in a mad scientist's laboratory. Kenton was totally weirded out when I showed him the gelatinous floating mass in the quart jar I had tucked into my cupboard and I've noticed he hasn't gone into that particular cabinet much the past few times he's been over. He did seem intrigued by my explanation of the unusual taste and the probiotic benefits to one's digestive tract, though, so I think he may be up for trying some when it's ready. Well, after I pre-taste this second version, made with blueberry acai tea and raw sugar.

Is it just me, or does my kombucha jar have a certain Middle Eastern flair? Maybe that's what was missing the first time around: a trendy headdress.... Lord knows this second attempt tastes better. I tried my first shot of it this morning before breakfast. Delicious. Word to my mother.

I'm brewing a batch of raspberry tea for batch #3 right now. Finally, a use for the fruity teas that I seem to acquire each holiday season!

Green pre-teens

It's not just me who is obsessed with raw kale salad. It's not even just the entire third grade at Watkins Elementary who can't get enough. Now folks all over the city will be making it. At least those who attended the healthy cooking session at the Good Food Stage at 2pm last Saturday. Some of them were fortunate enough to walk away with beautiful bouquets of fresh kale, courtesy of FreshFarm Markets (who sponsored the demo), ready to make it at home.

I like to think it was me who got the audience interested in eating dark leafy greens, but in truth credit is due to the Watkins superstars who stole the show during our salad making demonstration at the Green Festival. Many an audience member came up afterwards to pick up a copy of the simple yet irresistible recipe, to ask questions, and -- mostly -- to marvel at the poise and skills of my assistant chefs.

We all know I hate public speaking, but I keep ending up in front of groups. Luckily, these amazing 9-year-olds from my third grade FoodPrints classes last year upped the cuteness factor enough to cover for my mumbling into the wireless microphone and near stabbing of myself in the hand trying to saw open the jug of olive oil. Many thanks to my lovely assistants, Destiny, Damiyah, and Londyn, for their help this weekend -- I'd be proud to work with you any time!

Suitland salsa

Last week, my friend Jessica asked if I could lead a bulk salsa and pesto-making session at a church in Suitland. Get paid to teach a group of friendly local food lovers and farmers' market supporters to make some of my favorite foods? Yes, ma'am. Call me any time.

I took the metro out early Monday morning to meet up with the group at a church that had agreed to let us use their commercial kitchen. With Maxine at the wheel, we roamed the area to gather our necessary ingredients and equipment. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find fresh cilantro in this urban food desert?? I do believe it took three separate stops to find it. (First world problems, yes.) Then we had a little stop for lunch. (It is me we're talking about here, and by then I'd gone more than three hours without a snack. Thanks for treating me to lunch, Antoinette!) We made our way back to the Hunter Memorial African Methodist Episcopal Church and for the better part of the afternoon, the four of us washed, chopped, stirred, and blended many quarts of fresh tomato salsa and kale-sunflower-seed pesto for taste testing at the Suitland Farmers' Market.

There may have been a little taste testing during our session, but that was purely for quality control.

Interestingly, the salsa was not nearly as spicy as I'd remembered it being when I made it with middle schoolers awhile back. No matter how many jalapeno peppers we added, the "hot" salsa never got very hot. Maybe it's because we used grocery store peppers instead of farmers' market ones. I wonder. In any case, it was still very fresh tasting and delicious with the onion and (much sought after) cilantro. Our market shoppers who tasted it the next day seemed to like it just fine scooped up with whole wheat tortilla chips, so we may give this another go sometime soon.

The sunflower seed-based pesto was not as good as Jessica's original version using peanuts, but with peanut allergies abounding these days, I opted for tasteability over taste-superiority. It wasn't bad, but we can do better. And I very much look forward to that research....

It was a lot of fun all around, but my favorite part of the afternoon was hearing from one of my young assistant chefs how excited she was to learn to make pesto from scratch, how she loved tasting and adjusting the recipe each time -- a squeeze of lemon juice here, a little more garlic there, maybe a pinch of salt -- and how she just couldn't wait to go home and make a batch with her young daughter.

Ah. This is why I do what I do.

Holy shiitakes!

I was swatting away flocks of hungry mosquitoes and pinching off endless limbs from some of the most gigantic tomato plants ever on Sunday afternoon while Kenton napped on the couch upstairs. (Yes, I have a real couch in a real upstairs at the new place!) As I stepped back to marvel at the growing pile of tomato branches and the single red tomato produced by the 5-foot plants, I leaned to the right of the back yard's single raised bed to see if I might have missed any errant plant bits that needed to be removed. I suddenly noticed some growths on the oak logs propped against the shaded fence...

HOLY SHIITAKE, another harvest! A real one!!

After two years of near dormancy, save two shrooms a couple of months ago, one of my shiitake logs presented a rather generous peace offering. (Maybe it knew I had contemplated donating them to the great compost pile in the sky not too long ago.) I scampered up two and a half flights of stairs with close to a pound of gorgeous mushrooms and as we admired them piled on my kitchen table I began to scheme how best to prepare and enjoy this most delectable and unexpected fungal feast. In a stirfry? Sauteed with butter and loaded onto toast? Was I somehow out of tamari?? Noooooo!

In the end, they ended up sauteed in thick slices in butter with homegrown garlic and thyme and a generous helping of sherry. Served over a bed of creamy rosemary grits, Kenton agreed they might have been the most delicious mushrooms ever.

I may or may not be checking the logs twice daily now.

Cutting the mustard

Readers, please don't think for a moment that I have abandoned you. Tales are forthcoming about community garden workdays and cooking lessons and working with various farmers markets leading up to the start of the season. (Farmers' market season, that is, though tax season is also breathing down my neck.)

Today -- or tonight, rather -- I offer a simple recipe, one which I have been fiddling with for a couple of years now. I recall the evening my friend Vinnie and his partner had me over for dinner those many nights ago, toward the end of which I left with an old issue of Saveur magazine that contained the base recipe for my now much beloved mustard recipe. There are a few standard ingredients -- namely, the ground spices -- and there are some variables: 1) mustard seeds, 2) vinegar, and 3) beer. The variations on this theme are endless.

The original recipe calls for stout, brown mustard seeds, and red wine vinegar. I tried that the first time and it was inarguably delicious. I gave most of it away as Christmas gifts that first winter. Necessity -- i.e., it being too cold out some nights to head out on my bike when I'd sense the first tinglings of a mustard craving -- has led me to try everything from balsamic to apple cider vinegar, and all kinds of mixes in between. I've sometimes snagged a few cups of yellow mustard seeds, and other times the smaller dark seeds, and still other times a mix of the two from dad (who should probably start buying stock in bulk mustard seed, considering his frequenting of the Middle Eastern spice shop since I picked up this mustard making habit). I've experimented with porters, English ales, apricot ales, my own pumpkin ale. Most recently, one of the last bottles of the Tall, Dark, and Belgian made its way into a batch of exceptionally spicy, stone-ground mustard. (The real secret that puts the current batch over the top? Garple.) Slathered on corned beef for a St. Patrick's Day gathering or two this weekend, stirred into horseradish for a sandwich, or mixed into salad dressings, I assure you, this mustard holds its own.

Okay, enough stalling: here's the recipe so you can make your own
Basic Spicy Mustard
Ingredients

• 12-ounce bottle of beer
• 1 1/2 cups whole mustard seed
• 1 cup vinegar
• 1 TBSP salt
• 1 TBSP freshly ground black pepper
• 1/4 tsp ground cinnamon
• 1/4 tsp ground cloves
• 1/4 tsp freshly grated nutmeg
• 1/4 tsp ground allspice

Directions

Combine all ingredients in a glass, plastic, or ceramic mixing bowl (or if you're really careful with the beer pouring, this fits EXACTLY into a glass quart jar -- yeah, I just threw down that challenge).

Cover with a towel or recycled sandwich bag and let the mixture sit on your counter for about 2 days. This allows the flavors to talk to each other and the mustard seeds to soften.

Puree in a food processor, pausing occasionally to scrape down the sides of the bowl. After about 3 minutes, you'll suddenly see the mustard thicken and become creamy. (It's kind of like magic. At least Kenton and I think so.) You're done! And friends and family will be so impressed, while you secretly know all it took were a few simple ingredients and a couple days of patience.

You can smear some on a sandwich right then, but be sure to put the rest into a glass container, or a few smaller containers, and store in the refrigerator. It starts off quite spicy, but it'll mellow after a few weeks. Use it within about 6 months... not that I've had ANY mustard last that long around here....

Back to my roots

This past Saturday, aspiring and accomplished urban gardeners celebrated the 6th annual -- and best ever -- Rooting DC. It was the fourth time I attended the free, all-day conference, and the second time I've presented. (Me! An expert at something! I have been known to preserve a thing or two in my day....) This time, instead of demonstrating how one could make vegan kim chi, as I did in 2010, dozens of us made kim chi together. And pickles, too. It was an exercise in controlled chaos.

As soon as I finished giving a primer on the basics of pickling and fermenting, the workshop attendees pounced on the tableful of produce, spices, and equipment. (I forget sometimes that adults need instructions and parameters, too. At least they were all avid handwashers, if not so much washers of tables and dishes.) The enthusiasm was electrifying, though, and as I made a few rounds passing out additional kim chi mashers and suggesting folks pass along ingredients they weren't using to other groups who needed more greens or mustard seed, I couldn't help but smile.

There were easily double the number of people I'd expected. Luckily we had enough jars, kindly donated by my fellow Slow Food DC board members, supplemented with more jars donated by my friend Jessica at GrowingSOUL, and a random assortment of glassware I'd amassed in the weeks leading up to the hands-on workshop. Using a big, beautiful crate of beets, turnips, radishes, cabbages, kale, and onions from the lovely Farmer Mo at Moutoux Orchards, plus cucumbers from the grocery store (they're not in season yet, but I didn't want to get attacked by folks expecting traditional pickles at a pickling workshop) and a load of spices picked up at GLUT, we chopped, peeled, mashed, and stuffed jars full of savory treats. Cinnamon sticks were hammered on cutting boards, vinegar solutions concocted in mixing bowls.

People asked lots of good questions, and I left with some research to undertake. (Like what is this about pickling grapes?? I'm so on it!) Nobody lost a finger, and the only missing implement after all was said and done was a set of measuring spoons. Not bad.