Cabbage coming out of my ears

I have spent the better part of the past two weeks preparing and eating cabbage -- a vegetable that I never particularly cared for in the past, one which usually ended up in a jar of kim chi for lack of inspiration on my part. But I had an assignment: find a tasty soup that included cabbage...that a 5th grader could help to prepare and then would actually eat. Ah, a challenge, to be sure!

Testing out various cabbage-based soups was part of my recipe research for a FoodPrints' 5th grade lesson, which, like all FoodPrints lessons, would include a hands-on communal cooking component. The final cabbage soup recipe became part of a pretty great lesson centered around WWII Victory Gardens -- a lesson made especially awesome by the inclusion of incredible historic resources like the 1940s ration books and stamps that my co-instructor Barbara found in her parents' attic. During our discussion and activities about rationing, the kids really seemed to get the sense of urgency, the critical importance of resource conservation, and the self-sufficiency that families on the American home front exhibited during World War II. Not only that, but they turned around and started volunteering all kinds of great ideas about why and how kids today should conserve resources and encourage their peers and neighbors to garden today. It warmed my heart. And the soup warmed my body. (Thank goodness for that with these recent freezing temperatures!)

We made two big batches of cabbage soup during last week's classes and I've got two more classes -- and thus two more giant pots of cabbage soup to make -- next week. Good thing I've grown to love cabbage and beans. And after a taste of the final recipe, it appears that a whole lot of 11-year-olds have, too. They were clamoring for seconds like you wouldn't believe!

Tuscan Bean and Cabbage Soup

This recipe is adapted from TheSoup Bible. (Thanks, mom and dad, for this timely Christmas present!) There are many versions of this soup which uses ingredients many American families would have grown in their World War II victory gardens. This one uses white beans, leeks, and cabbage. It is especially great alongside whole wheat toast with fresh herb butter.

Ingredients

• 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
• 1 medium yellow onion, diced
• 2 medium leeks, white and light green parts only, well-rinsed and sliced
• 1 large potato, scrubbed and diced
• 2 garlic cloves, peeled and minced
• 2 cups of dry white beans, pre-cooked and drained
  (or one 14-ounce can of cannellini beans, drained)
• 4 cups chicken or vegetable broth
• 2 generous cups green cabbage, cored and thinly sliced
• ½ cup fresh parsley leaves, washed and chopped
• 2 tablespoons chopped fresh oregano (or 1 tablespoon dried oregano)
• 1 jar of canned tomatoes, chopped
• coarse salt and ground pepper
• ¼ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Directions

In a large Dutch oven or heavy pot, heat oil over medium-high. Add onion, leeks, potato, and garlic.  Cook, stirring occasionally, until softened, about 5 minutes. Add stock. Stir in cabbage, parsley, oregano, beans, and tomatoes. Bring soup to a boil, then reduce to a rapid simmer. Cover and cook until vegetables are tender, about 20 minutes. Remove from heat. Season with salt and pepper.

Spoon out about 1/3 of the soup into a food processor or blender and process until smooth. Return puree to the soup pot and stir together. Ladle soup into bowls and sprinkle with a generous spoonful of Parmesan.

(It's okay that I'm putting the recipe up: the free, open-source FoodPrints lessons will be posted online soon!)

Tall, Dark, and Belgian

No, it's not the tagline for a personal ad. It's my latest homebrew: a dark Belgian strong ale, recently unveiled. While I still prefer the pumpkin ale for overall drinkability, this one is pretty good. It's mellowed a little since bottling.

Since having my first official beer dinner last weekend -- it's like a wine dinner, with each course paired with a particular vintage, in this case 4 different beers -- I can't stop thinking about other ways to accent and infuse things with beer. The main course was a venison stroganoff, featuring dried porcini mushrooms soaked overnight in TD&B. "Yum" is an understatement. (To be fair, the handmade egg noodles were as much the stars as the the Italian mushrooms or the fancy venison loin from Gary.)

And yet, my favorite course might have been the beer floats. My friend Kevin introduced me to the idea of mixing beer and ice cream during his decadent beer dinner dessert course: Brooklyn Brewery's deep chocolate stout with a scoop of Moorenko's mocha chip ice cream, drizzled with melted chocolate and topped with crushed malted peanut butter milk balls.

Seeing as I have some good ice cream in the freezer, for a change I would not be surprised if some of it ended up in a frosty mug of TD&B sometime soon....

Using your noodle

I have made some pretty mediocre pasta from scratch in recent years, I'll admit it. No matter whether I used organic all-purpose flour or the fancy semolina I smuggled back in my hand luggage from Italy last summer, it never turned out right. Never mind if I used ice water or olive oil, kneaded it a lot or just until the ingredients came together. It was always a little too bumpy. Or tough. Or both. Until yesterday, when some of the most gorgeous egg noodles I've ever seen came out of a pot of boiling water in my kitchen, to be smothered in a makeshift stroganoff sauce and doused with beer-soaked mushrooms and tender chunks of venison for a dinner party I was hosting.

Turns out that I had simply been missing the two most important ingredients: Italian opera and an enthusiastic sous chef.

Things started out a little iffy, with some egg leakage and odd dough texture early on. Okay, so maybe I didn't have the standing mixer the recipe recommended. And I didn't have two large eggs so we used three small ones. And we were using white whole wheat flour instead of all-purpose. And I'd forgotten to sift it. But we were not to be deterred. We poured ourselves glasses of red wine and before my dough took its usual turn toward overkneaded mediocrity I stepped back for a moment to troubleshoot.

 

Kenton found a great website called How to Cook like your Grandmother with encouraging commentary and some instructive video clips on egg noodle making at home. And I began the search for appropriate music on Pandora. Nothing like opera to bring out the (genetically nonexistent) Italian in us.

Moments later, we were cranking. Literally. You are seeing important factor #2 in action here: teamwork. Why had I thought it was a good idea to try to do this all by myself before? This is so much more fun!

And, miracle of miracles, it turns out I have found someone as excited about fresh noodles, and cutting them just so, as I am. Amazing.

Tell me honestly, are these beautiful noodles, or what?

Not as difficult and so much more delicious than expected. If I have kids one day, I am totally going to make egg noodles with them. I'll even let them choose the operetta.

C...c...c...cold!

Oh, what a treat it was to lounge around Dupont Circle, my jacket unzipped, scarf discarded, hands ungloved, basking on a sun-drenched park bench with my cappuccino after the farmers' market this Sunday! "A girl could get used to this," I smiled to myself.

Oh, how much warmer it was than the last Inauguration, I marveled, sporting only one set of knee-high wool socks and still able to feel most of my toes by the end of President Obama's speech down on the mall on Monday morning. As he waxed political about climate change and how it would be a priority over his next term, I secretly relished the warmer-than-usual weather. Okay, fine, so it's bad for the planet, but how nice it is to not have my teeth chattering constantly, not have wind-chapped hands for a change.

"Oh, god, will this wind ever stop??" I whimpered at 8am as the 10-degree winds whipped Ollie and I around the Metropolitan Branch Trail on our way to teach at Watkins Elementary yesterday, chilled snot running molasses-like down the inside of my warmest scarf (currently in the washing machine) and toes instantaneously frozen inside wool socks and sneakers as soon as I emerged from my apartment. (What a day for the zippers on my warm winter boots to break. Figures.) Fingers numb even ensconced in ski mittens, head semi-protected by my handmade-in-Houston knit cap... bike tights, wool leg warmers, jeans, a turtleneck sweater, 2 sweatshirts, and windbreaker keeping the core of me somewhat unfrozen, at least.

Is it spring yet?

Creme de la creme

This year's belated birthday dinner fell on Three Kings Day, so we decided to celebrate Three Kings and Two Queens day at my parents' place. It was my favorite kind of meal, featuring lots of good food and some of my favorite people on the planet. Dad was on pickle and prosecco detail, mom made the lasagne, Kenton and I worked on the salad, and, after a post-dinner stroll, my little brother brought out the creme brulee. Not a bad meal, I would say. (For the record, I'd pick custard over King's Cake any day.)

It was a great celebration, and I departed with a fully belly, a happy heart, some fun gifts, and half a pan of leftover lasagne.

p.s.- Turns out it's a lasagne-themed week, as I'll be making spinach and mushroom lasagne with students at Brainfood -- the creme de la creme of food-focused youth development programs in the District -- tonight and tomorrow night. More on my new gig with Brainfood in coming weeks!

Kiss the cook

Whoever started making those kitschy "Kiss the Cook" aprons was a genius. Not that I own one. I don't think I deserve one...yet.

Seriously, tell me you have never had such a good meal that you wanted to kiss the chef. No? You need to get out more. Cook smooching is generally only a problem if a) you are out to dinner with your boyfriend, and/or b) the chef is a total stranger. (I'm sure there are other situations, but these are the top two.) I have talked my way back into the kitchen and personally thanked the head chef only twice over the course of my life -- both times during a solo trip through eastern France in 2006. The first was the chef at a nondescript bistro in Grenoble who made a rabbit stew and then a chocolate mousse that brought tears to my eyes (and warranted its own meal-recounting postcard home to dad), and the other was the genius behind the lavender creme brulee at a tiny restaurant that I fear I might not be able to find again in a village I couldn't name offhand, somewhere between Paris and Marseille (better dig up that old travel journal). I am proud to say that I restrained myself both times, planting a chaste peck on each cheek -- it was France, after all -- while mumbling mangled magnifiques and merci beaucoups. The chefs seemed somewhat startled, but pleased. (I'd have done the same at Alice Waters' place if the chef who'd made the candied orange peel ice cream with caramel sauce hadn't left for the day.)

I have calmed down a bit in my older, wiser days. Really the chef kissing was always simply meant as a sincere expression of thanks for a particularly inspired meal, anyway. The reason it is on my mind is because I have recently been privy to not one but TWO stellar, kiss-worthy meals of late, both courtesy of my favorite dining (and cuddling) companion. Since we are both lovers of well-crafted food and language, we've drafted a few love letters in belated thanks to those who wooed our tastebuds so artfully while supporting local farms so devotedly.

This one is for the the culinary geniuses at Arlington's The Green Pig, to whom I should have written a love letter on the spot:

Shall I compare thee to the trout and farro?

Butternut mouthfuls doused in maple butter:

Such flavors shake the tastebuds til tomorrow,

Each morsel we’d recount and later mutter:

Almost too rich, that snail and mushroom toast!

Can’t recollect who scarfed the last pork taco,

Or which tidbit of salad we’d loved most,

Were hardly ready for dessert that followed,

But the eternal wisdom of our waitress

Led us right to the butterscotch concoction

Not even Death shall rob mem’ries of th’ garnish:

That chocolate, those pecans defy description.

So long as tongues can taste or eyes can see,

So will that dinner be recalled with glee.

And to the crew at Brooklyn's Applewood, where we had my official birthday feast, an experience that inspired the comment-card-turned-epistle-of-undying-gratitude left with the tip, we offer this:

My boyfriend’s eyes are fixed on the last bite

Of that chocolate pistachio torte of bliss

As I sip the last of our brandy flight

And daydream of another meal like this.

I’ve tasted duck before, but none this way:

Such tender meat and crispy, golden skin

With silky collards and parsnip puree,

Washed down by yet another sip of Zin.

But first, the holy trinity of cheese –

“Artisanal,” they said, sheep, goat, and bleu –

And a magenta cocktail, “Brighton Beets,”

And flaky pike which we could not eschew.

E’en so, by heaven, the scallops were the best. 

No, wait, the duck! No, cheese! We must retest….

(It may or may not be true that I had to hustle us out of there before Kenton snuck back to the kitchen to kiss the chef at Applewood.)