No, you’re not imagining: here I am again, a mere day after my previous post–and proffering yet another holiday-themed recipe! I know: totally out of character. But it’s the holidays!
I mean, doesn’t this happen to you, too? You’re invited to a plethora of holiday parties and events; and, since you really want to see all your friends and family, you accept every invitation with the best of intentions. Then, the weekend arrives and–ack!!–not only do you have seventeen shindigs to attend on the same day, you’ve also got your own holiday cooking and baking to take care of as well! You frantically attempt to juggle all your commitments, guzzling a bit of eggnog here and a bite of a cheese ball there before racing off to the next soirée.
(No? You mean it’s just me?).
Well, when Marly (of Namely Marly) and Allyson (of Manifest:Vegan) sent out a request a while back for bloggers to participate in their Virtual Vegan Holiday potluck dinner, how could I refuse such a good party? I offered to bring along an appetizer, then set about searching through my recipes for a tried-and-true favorite. (And don’t forget to check out all the other courses being served up by other bloggers today–full list at the end of this post!).
This carrot pâté is a longtime favorite of mine, and one I’ve been serving at special occasions since my twenties. When I first started serving this at dinner parties, the recipe contained something like 4 eggs and mayonnaise; I revamped it to a vegan version over a decade ago and have been refining it ever since. It’s a fabulous offering for a cocktail party, potluck dinner, or buffet table. Just place your unmolded pâté on a serving platter and allow people to shave off their own slices (be sure to tell them it’s not cheddar cheese–something my guests seem to assume in alarming numbers!). Leftovers are great on toast the next day (in fact, I’ve been known to slather some on an Oatmeal Poppyseed Scone for breakfast–sort of like a carrot jam), in a sandwich for lunch, or as an afternoon snack with crackers.
Because the carrots are first boiled, then baked, they release their natural sweetness and become meltingly soft, almost custard-like, when blended with the other ingredients. I enjoy the hint of thyme in this pâté, but if you’re not a fan, just leave it out or substitute with another favorite herb (I think tarragon would be superb in this, or a pinch of nutmeg).
I actually posted an earlier iteration of the recipe, waaaay back when this blog was still a young’un, but since there were only, like, eight of you reading at that time (okay, I just went back and checked: it was 12 of you), I thought it prudent to post it again, updated for the ACD; I also added a kick of spice in this version, courtesy of either sriracha or chili flakes. Besides, I felt obliged to shoot a new photo so that you wouldn’t assume the pâté was truly the same shade of neon orange that appears in the first picture. . . oh, wait a sec. Scratch that last comment.
Okay, so maybe it does have an electric orange hue. But I promise you, you will love this pâté. Just think of the color as lively, energetic, festive. . . inviting. Sort of makes you want to party, doesn’t it?
“Mum, we like to party, too, you know! And by ‘party,” we mean ‘eat some of that pâté,’ of course! Thanks for making recipe, too, Mum–we were getting nervous with all of that chocolate around the past few days.”
Carrot Pâté (Suitable for ACD Stage 2 and Beyond)
Unlike a traditional pâté, this carrot spread is smooth, creamy, and light–almost like a dense custard. The flavor is a tantalizing combination of sweet, tangy and spicy, and works perfectly with crackers or hearty bread.
1 pound (about 455 g) carrots, trimmed and peeled (6-8 large carrots)
2 Tbsp (30 ml) extra virgin olive oil, preferably organic
2 Tbsp (30 ml) apple cider vinegar
2 Tbsp (30 ml) light or white mellow miso*
1/2 tsp (2.5 ml) dried thyme or about 1 tsp (5 ml) fresh (I used 3 stalks)
1 package (12 ounces/375 g) extra-firm silken tofu (I used Mori-Nu)
2 Tbsp (30 ml) potato starch
1 tsp (5 ml) sriracha (for ACD Stage 3 or later) or 1/4 tsp (1 ml) chili flakes (for ACD Stage 2 or later)
1/2 cup (120 ml) fresh parsley or cilantro leaves
Preheat oven to 325F (170C). Spray four individual ramekins or 3 mini loaf pans with nonstick spray, or line with parchment. Place the ramekins or pans on a cookie sheet and set aside.
Place the carrots in a large pot of lightly salted water and bring to the boil over high heat. Lower heat slightly and cook until the carrots are just tender, 7-10 minutes. Drain and allow to cool.
Place the carrots and remaining ingredients in a powerful blender (I use a VitaMix) or food processor and blend until perfectly smooth and no traces of tofu are visible.
Divide the mixture evenly among the ramekins. Bake (on the cookie sheet) in preheated oven for 50-65 minutes, rotating the cookie sheet about halfway through, until the pâté is puffed slightly and the top appears dry.
Allow to cool, then cover and refrigerate at least 4 hours or overnight. To unmold, invert ramekin on a serving plate and shake once to loosen the pâté (if it doesn’t come out easily, run a sharp knife along the edge of the ramekin before unmolding). Garnish with more fresh herbs if desired. Serve with crackers or bread. Makes 10-12 appetizer servings. Will keep, covered in the refrigerator, up to 4 days.
* Note: you can replace the miso with cashew butter, tahini, or another nut butter if you like; I sometimes use half miso and half cashew butter for a creamier result.
Here’s the rest of the Virtual Vegan Holiday Dinner Lineup:
Show of hands: who watched the Royal Wedding this morning? (I won’t tell anyone.) I had set the PVR for 3:00 AM (Toronto time) just in case I slept through the alarm. . . which, of course, I did. But even pre-recorded, it was a lovely affair, and Kate did look rather smashing in her Sarah Burton-designed wedding gown, didn’t she? And wasn’t it touching when Wills whispered, “You look lovely–you look beautiful” to her and then when she turned to him in the carriage and said, “Are you happy?” (thanks, lip readers)–because really, what person in their right mind in that situation wouldn’t be deliriously happy–I mean, seriously, people, she is going to be queen. Oh, and kudos to her for not snorting through her nose when she uttered the “in richer or in poorer” part of the vows.
Although I made this dish for the HH and my Easter dinner, I thought it was perfectly fitting as a tribute to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. In my mind, nut roasts are decidedly British. Why? Well, I think it has to do with one of my first cookbooks, bought from the remainder bin at Book City (English cookbooks are always cheap in Toronto, since most people still resist cooking exclusively in grams and millileters). In fact, most of the nut roast recipes I’ve encountered (except those on blogs, of course) were from UK-based cookbooks–one doesn’t see the term “nut roast” too much in North American tomes.
This particular recipe is a throwback to the 1990s, when I cooked up a what was definitely an American take on the classic loaf, for a very artsy dinner party. You see, back ithen I had the opportunity to teach English at the acclaimed OCA (later OCAD), or Ontario College of Art and Design, at one time welcoming institution to JEH MacDonald, Arthur Lismer, Michael Snow, and many other famous Canadian artists. Situated in the heart of the university district downtown and abutting Chinatown, it is a wellspring of creativity, eccentricity, emotional immaturity and oil paint.
I remember vividly the day of my interview. I had applied for a one-year replacement position while the regular English teacher was on sabbatical. Knowing that OCA was an art college and, therefore, the polar opposite of my usual place of employ (where I dealt mostly with computer studies students), I determined to jazz up my typical “interview uniform” consisting of black blazer, black knee-length skirt, black tights, black pumps, gold stud earrings (with black stones) and subdued makeup (black mascara but definitely no black nailpolish). Instead, I donned my one and only patterned suit jacket, a fitted collarless button-down featuring muted floral print in shades of beige, maroon. . . and black.
As I waited outside the boardroom in which a six-member panel interrogatedgrilled humiliated met with candidates, I could hear muffled chatter of the previous interview in progress. Every now and then, punctuating the murmurs and dull buzz came an eruption of laughter so sharp and so drawn out that I imagined Robin Williams had dropped in for some impromptu entertainment between questions about curriculum.
Finally, the door swung open and the previous candidate sashayed out, her face flush with victory. She barely glanced my way as she strode by, raised her eyebrowns and wrinkled her nose as if to say, “Sorry, sweetie, this one’s in the bag.” Before I could worry too much, I was ushered in to the room and accosted with a barrage of questions. I walked away feeling as if I’d done my best–but sure my best was not enough. The following day, I received the call–I was hired!
I worked at OCA for two years, during which time I helped to launch the first Writing Center at the college (though I never did find out what happened to that other job applicant). I loved all the unconventional, offbeat students and professors there, with their scraggly hair that hung like tassels to their shoulders, their landscape tatoos, asymmetrical skirts, spiked hair and piercings in noses and eyebrows and lips and various other appendages that seemed just too bizarre at the time.
I often lunched with one of my colleagues (I’ll just call him “Roman à Clef) when we wanted to escape the maelstrom of the college and have a proper chat. Everything about Roman was soft and gentle, from his whisper-quiet voice to his pale blue eyes to his salt-and-pepper beard, full and plush like moss on a tree trunk. Roman was also a vegetarian, a perfect lunch companion.
Eventually, I felt comfortable enough to throw a dinner party for some of my OCA colleagues, but I still fretted about what I’d serve that could please everyone. I turned to my first (vegetarian) culinary hero, Mollie Katzen, and the original Moosewood Cookbook. In the book, Katzen offers a dish she calls “Carrot-Mushroom Loaf.” Except it’s not a loaf; it’s baked in a rectangular pan and is more like a kugel, made with something like five eggs. Nevertheless, I made the recipe and it was a collosal hit, not only with Roman (who wolfed down three pieces–each with a glass of wine–and then remarked, ”that was the best vegetarian meal I’ve ever had. . . if I were only twenty years younger, I’d ask you out about now”), but also with all the omnivores as well.
Naturally, when I sought out a superb nutroast recipe for my submission to Johanna’s A Neb at Nut Roast II event, I returned to the Katzen recipe. But I’d forgotten about the mushrooms in the loaf (verboten on the ACD); and there seemed no feasible way to replace all those eggs with ground flax. So I began with the concept of “carrot + loaf” and took it from there. I added pecans, a beloved but underused nut, and fresh dill, one of my favorite herbs to pair with carrots. For binding, I ground up a bunch of gluten free crackers, well, just to get rid of the broken ones hanging out at the bottom of the box.
I loved this loaf with its decidedly veggie slant. If you’re expecting a meat analogue, this is not the loaf for you. Still, even the flesh-loving HH enjoyed his slice with some caramelized onion gravy and a healthy serving of celeri rémoulade. Once baked, the slightly sweet carrots meld perfectly with the toasty nuts and herbs; and the slices hold up well the next day, perfect for sandwiches. The cooked carrots also imbue the loaf with a lovely golden hue that’s rather festive–in fact, one might even say, somewhat royal.
You’ve still got time to submit your own nutroast creations to the Neb at Nutroast II event–ongoing until May 5th!
This loaf is an ideal make-ahead main course, as the flavors mature and the texture firms up overnight in the refrigerator. It’s still great straight from the oven, too, slathered with gravy and served alongside mashed potatoes and your favorite vegetable.
1/2 medium onion, cut in half and then thinly sliced
1 Tbsp (15 ml) extra virgin olive oil, preferably organic
1/3 cup (80 ml) gluten-free cracker crumbs (I used 25 Mary’s plain crackers)
3 cups (300 g or 10.5 oz) toasted pecans
1/4 cup (60 ml) finely ground flax seeds
1/2 tsp (2.5 ml) fine sea salt
pepper, to taste
1 pound (455 g) trimmed and peeled carrots (about 6 large), cut in chunks
1 large celery stalk, cut in chunks
2 large garlic cloves, cut in half
1/4 cup (60 ml) fresh dill or 1 Tbsp (15 ml) dried dill
1/4 cup (60 ml) fresh parsley
1 Tbsp (15 ml) Bragg’s liquid aminos, tamari or soy sauce (use Bragg’s for ACD)
1/2 cup (120 ml) vegetable broth or stock
Preheat oven to 350F (180C). Line an 8 or 9 inch (20-22.5 cm) loaf pan with parchment, or spray with nonstick spray and set aside.
In a medium frypan, heat the oil; add onion and cook over medium heat until the onion is soft and beginning to brown, about 10 minutes. Turn off heat.
In the bowl of a food processor, grind the crackers until they become fine crumbs. Add the pecans, flax seeds, salt and pepper and process until you have what looks like a fine meal. Turn into a large bowl and set aside.
To the same processor bowl (no need to wash it), add the carrots, celery, garlic, dill, parsley, Bragg’s, broth and cooked onions from the pan along with any oil left in the frypan. Process until smooth, scraping down sides as necessary (there should be no lumps of vegetables visible). Add the mixture to the bowl with the nuts and stir together by hand. It should be fairly thick.
Spread the batter in the loaf pan and smooth the top. Bake in preheated oven for 60-70 minutes, rotating pan about halfway through, until deeply browned on the bottom and sides and a knife inserted in the center comes out moist but clean. Allow to cool 10 minutes before slicing. Makes about 8 servings. Serve with gravy, if desired. Will keep, wrapped in the refrigerator, up to 3 days. May be frozen: allow to cool, then slice and wrap slices individually; freeze, then store wrapped slices in a plastic bag in freezer.
[Voilà--homemade, veggie-based "beef" jerky. Well, it looks like beef. . . ]
The other day, I was bemoaning the fact that there are a bunch of coolbloggerconferences coming up this spring—none of which I’m attending. Then I noticed a tweet for five (five!) scholarships to the upcoming Eat, Write, Retreat event. I was about to kick up my heels and dance a little jig when I noticed that the scholarships were sponsored by Canadian Beef.
Oops.
Pouting, I fired off a twitter retort: “Too bad you have to eat meat to qualify.”
Well, couldn’t you have just knocked me over with a steak knife when I spied the following response: “not necessarily. . . . . Would love to see your entry !:)”
I quickly re-read the contest rules and discovered that I could still enter by writing about a memory of Canadian Beef. And really, who better to write about “memories of beef” than the daughter of a butcher, someone who ate beef virtually every day of her childhood and adolescence—and who now lives with a meat-eater? Why, none other than moi, of course!
I just couldn’t resist. So here’s my “Best Memories of Beef from My Childhood” entry.
Hoping to see y’all at Eat, Write, Retreat!
* * * * * * * * * * * *
[My dad and me, circa 2000, when he was 78.]
When I was a child, there was never any doubt about who was the boss in our family. With one disappointed glance, my father could cause my heart to ache for days. Conversely, he could also spark days of elation, my heart soaring, when I knew he was pleased with something I’d done.
More than anything, my father was defined by the work he did. He spent six days a week at his little butcher shop on Jean Talon West in the Park Extension area of Montreal, leaving for the store long before we children even woke for school and returning after the rest of the family had finished our dinners. On the odd morning when I couldn’t sleep and the clinking of his coffee mug drew me in the direction of the kitchen, I’d stumble onto a scene of my dad, his windbreaker already zipped up, hunched over the kitchen table sipping his tea and snapping at his toast before he grabbed the lunch bag my mother had prepared and rushed out the door.
On Thursdays and Fridays, when the store was open until 8:00 PM, my younger sister and I were often already in bed when he finally returned home. The other nights, he’d arrive between 6:30 and 8:00 PM, his pant legs smeared with dried blood and the smell of sweat on his shirt, sawdust still clinging to his shoes. He’d go straight to the kitchen table, where my mother dished out the remnants of whatever we’d already eaten for dinner—a dried-up hamburger, veal chops, salmon patties and “potato boats,” or, if his stomach were acting up (as it often did when he felt stress), a bowl of rice and warm milk with honey.
I began to resent that my father never seemed to have much time for us kids when he was home. I learned at a young age that if I wanted to interact with him any day but Sunday, I had to see him at work. Since his store was en route between our house in St. Laurent and the Jean Talon Metro (in those days, the gateway to downtown shopping), my best friends Gemini I, Gemini II and I often dropped in at dad’s store on the way home after a day spent browsing at Simpsons, Eatons, and Ogilvie’s. As eleven or twelve year-olds in those days, the hour-long bus and subway ride was a huge adventure, one our parents allowed without any 21st-Century angst, and a short pit stop at the butcher shop made the trip even more palatable in our minds.
[Jerky in the making: about halfway there.]
As soon as we pushed open the heavy glass door and the bell suspended above it announced our arrival, my father would stop what he was doing, wipe his palms on his apron and point in my direction. “Ah, it’s Rick!” he’d declare, like an emcee calling out the team captain skating onto the ice at the Forum. Then he began to crow. He would boast to whomever was around—Mrs. Lubov (one of the rich customers) as she placed her weekend order; or Vasili, the owner of the Greek bakery down the way; or Joe, the hobo who always seemed to be sitting on the plastic stool in the corner no matter the day or time, as if he were a permanent store mascot in the window. “This is my middle daughter,” my father would say, “she’s going to be a Professor.” The customers nodded and smiled, the way parents do when their three year-old proffers an imaginary teacup.
Within seconds, my friends and I were ushered to the back of the store behind the counter, between the freezer and wooden cutting block where the floor was cushioned with sawdust to absorb drips, grease and bloodstains from the meat. We knew the drill: we sat quietly on the old kitchen chairs against the wall until the store emptied out, whether it took 5, 10 or 25 minutes for my father to finish up with any customers who were waiting. Then he turned his attention to us.
“Okay, so what do you want to eat?” he’d ask with audible delight, as our eyes lit up with anticipation. He’d grab two Kaiser rolls from under the counter. Gemini I always asked for something unassuming like sliced turkey, but I’d go for my favorite, Montreal Smoked meat (made from Canadian Beef, of course). My father would slice the hunk of preternaturally pink flesh, its outside sheathed in a coating of slick black peppercorns softened by the smoking process, the thin sheets sliding out from beneath the swirling blade and onto his outstretched palm. With the rhythm of a dancer, he’d turn his hand over and slap each slice onto the open roll until he’d achieved a pile almost as thick as one of my school textbooks. Then he’d march into the freezer and pull out the jar of mustard he kept there for his own lunches, smear the meat with the yellow topping, and replace the rest of the roll over it.
[My dad on his 89th birthday, last year.]
The sandwiches were always too big for our gaping mouths no matter how wide we tried to open them, so we’d withdraw a few slices and eat them plain before turning back to the rest of the meal. When we were done, if we were still hungry (and even if we weren’t), my father would treat each of us to a piece of karnatzel, the long, cigar-shaped, spicy salami that hung suspended from hooks above the meat counter, drying out in the air and sweating drops of pink-tinged oil on the ground beneath them. With one snap of the thin log, we were each handed a hunk of the stuff to savor for another few minutes. The meat was crunchy, chewy and spicy, and I loved it back then.
With thanks and a pat on the back of the head, we headed out to the bus and the long ride home.
What I didn’t realize in those days, of course, was that my father’s absence at home grew from his desire to provide for his family, and in the store, he was expressing his love for me in the only way he knew how—by giving me food, the spoils of his labor. When I arrived for my occasional visits at the shop, I offered him the chance not only to show me off to his customers, but also to show me how he spent his days making a living.
Even though I don’t eat meat any more, I miss the times when I could drop in on my dad and observe him in his element; where he felt confident, efficient, capable and strong. These days, he struggles to regain his former vigor as his body ages even while his mind remains sharp and vibrant. I watch my elderly dad slowly shuffling across the hallway from bedroom to kitchen, where he hunches over the same kitchen table of my childhood, slowly cutting his dinner into small, manageable pieces.
These days, beef is scarce on his own plate, too. But the memories of those idyllic afternoons in the shop, when my father was still the boss of our house and king of the butcher shop, will forever remain in my heart. And with that memory, it still soars.
[Wouldn't you just love a bite?]
** For all you non-Ontario residents out there, the popular President’s Choice brand offers a line of sauces called “Memories Of. . . “
Veggie-Based, Gluten Free, Soy Free ”Beef” Jerky
This recipe is my tribute to the karnatzel in my dad’s shop, with a taste and texture very much like the spicy, chewy meat I remember. Don’t be deterred by the long ingredient list–this comes together very quickly and then sits in the oven while you can do other things.
These strips would make a great snack on the road, as, once they’re dried, they will keep for a long time. Having made this recipe twice now, I am convinced that it would be even better in a dehydrator. However, if you don’t have one, this oven method still produces a pretty stellar result.
1 medium beet, peeled and cut in chunks (about 4 oz/110 g unpeeled or 3.5 oz/95 g peeled)
1 large carrot, peeled and cut in chunks(about 3.5 oz or 95 g unpeeled, or 3 oz/85 g peeled)
1/2 small onion, cut in chunks
1 large clove garlic
2 Tbsp (30 ml) extra virgin olive oil, preferably organic
1 Tbsp (15 ml) Bragg’s liquid aminos, tamari or soy sauce (use coconut aminos for a soy-free version)
1/4 tsp (1 ml) paprika (or smoked paprika, if you don’t use liquid smoke)
1/4 tsp (1 ml) fine sea salt, or less, to your taste
Preheat oven to 375 F (190 C). Line a 9-inch (22.5 cm) square pan and a cookie sheet with parchment paper; set aside.
Place all ingredients in the bowl of a food processor and process until very smooth–there should be no pieces visible. It will take some time, about 5 minutes, and you will have to scrape the sides several times, but eventually the veggies will release their juices and it will come together in a sort of paste, like this:
Spread the paste over the parchment in the pan, taking care not to extend the mixture beyond the edges of the parchment. Bake in preheated oven for 30-35 minutes, or until the top is dry. Remove from oven and lower heat to 325 F ( C).
Invert a wooden (or other heatproof) cutting board over the pan and flip the jerky and parchment onto it. Peel off the parchment and cut the square into strips about 1 inch (2.5 cm) wide (the crinkly texture you see in the photos is due to the parchment paper wrinkling as the jerky mixture bakes). Place them on the parchment-lined cookie sheet and return to the oven for about 30 more minutes, until the strips are dried out but still flexible. If some of the strips dry out faster than others, remove those first and allow the rest to keep baking until they all reach the desired texture. Allow to cool completely before eating. Store, covered in the refrigerator, up to 3 days. Makes about 8 strips.
Most of us are familiar with George Bernard Shaw’s dictum, “Youth is wasted on the young.” Well, of course I realized that saying was just a bunch of bunk. . . until I hit 40, that is. At that point, I realized, “Oh, woe, why did I waste my youth on being young??”
There’s no denying we live in a youth-obsessed culture, one in which the elderly are given little if any respect or recognition (though I bet that will all change once Baby Boomers reach their 70s and 80s. . . they do tend to take over everything, don’t they?).
It’s a truism to say that when a woman reaches her 40s (unless she’s a Cougar like Courtney Cox-Arquette), she becomes more or less invisible to the opposite sex. (Seriously. I’ve walked across the street from a bevy of construction workers in shorts and a T-shirt, with nary a glance. The Girls got more flirting than I did!). And why do we stuff the elderly into homes with only each other, like a clothing store full of only black socks–and no other varieties? (When I was last in Montreal, The CFO and I visited a retirement residence into which my dad is considering moving. While the place was modern, clean and provided roomy apartments, good food, and weekly entertainment, his first comment upon leaving the building was, “It’s okay. . . but they’re all so old.” This from a guy who’s 88! Truly, if I inherit even half of my dad’s health and longevity genes, I’ll be a lucky woman, indeed.)
I suppose it’s inevitable that “old” becomes synonymous with “useless” in a culture that builds obsolescence into most inventions. Last week I heard a radio interview by Jian Ghomeshi of CBC’s Q (Jian, you know that I have a massive crush on you, the likes of which I haven’t seen since I was fourteen, right? And that I’m dying to be interviewed on your show, right? I’d be a terrific guest, really. I’ll even bake brownies.).
Jian interviewd Anna Jane Grossman, author of Obsolete: An Encyclopedia of Once-Common Things Passing Us By. Her focus (and she’s barely reached the tail end of her twenties) was items that have already become outdated within our lifetimes. Think eight-track tapes (and, bringing up a close second, video casettes); think cursive writing (and the poor profs who have to mark hand-written exams they can’t decipher); think corner phone booths (sorry, Superman, you’ll just have to stay on Krypton, because over here, you’re out of a change room); think Mix Tapes (and the recurring pleasure you experience from seeing a friend’s handwriting on the song list–well, if you can decipher it); and, perhaps most alarming, think “looking old” (how about Melanie Griffith, Madonna, Mary Tyler Moore or Mickey Rourke? They may not look old, but they don’t exactly look human, either). In our culture, many inventions are superannuated even before some of us can learn to use them (yes, I admit, I still don’t text message).
Well, the recipe for this kugel (really a savory bread pudding) is old. Really old. And, frankly, I still adore it. It was my mom’s recipe, which she got from her mom, who got it from her mom. . . and so on.
This kugel doesn’t include any modern ingredients or preparation methods. You won’t find wasabi paste, matcha green tea powder, or pink sea salt in this baby. You won’t need a hand blender, food processor, or VitaMix to make it. It’s entirely an old-fashioned recipe.
Given my ancestors’ humble Russian beginnings, the ingredients are more reflective of what one might find in a cold-climate farm at the outset of autumn: root vegetables, bread, eggs (which I’ve omitted, of course). And yet, even without flashy ingredients, even without any spiciness or too many seasonings (except fresh dill), this kugel is delicious and remains a long-standing favorite in my home.
The pudding is moist and flavorful, firm in the middle, with low-key flecks of grated carrot, chopped celery and yellow onion. The exterior browns up to a crisp, bronzed crust (in fact, my sisters and I used to wait until Mom placed the platter of kugel on the table, hefty slices piled high, then all pounce at once to be the first to grab a corner piece, as those attained the greatest crust-to-filling ratio after baking).
The dish is quick, easy, and comforting. Great for a holiday (such as the just-passed Rosh Hashanah or the upcoming Thanksgiving) or simply a quiet meal at home. And unlike some other aspect of modern life, the final result will never go out of style.
“Mum, don’t feel bad about that lack of whistles now that you’re. . . um. . . older. I’m sure that if you walked around sans clothing like Elsie and I do, you’d get lots of attention, too.”
My Mother’s Vegetable Bread Kugel
A versatile dish that serves as a wonderful side dish, or can be wrapped and toted along for lunch the next day, eaten at room temperature.
3 Tbsp (45 ml) extra virgin olive oil, preferably organic
2 large carrots, grated
2 stalks celery, diced
1 large onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups (480 ml) vegetable broth or stock, divided
1/3-1/2 cup (80-120 ml, to your taste) fresh dill, chopped
6-8 slices heavy, dense bread of choice, preferably a bit stale (I used a quinoa/millet loaf)
1 pkg (12 ounces or 375 g) Mori-Nu firm or extra firm silken tofu (or use regular silken tofu and decrease the broth by about 1/2 cup or 120 ml)
1/4 cup (60 ml) lightly toasted cashews, or cashew butter
2 Tbsp (30 ml) finely ground flax seeds
Pepper, to taste (add more salt if the broth wasn’t salty enough)
Preheat oven to 350F (180C). Line an 8 x 8″ (20 cm) square pan with parchment, or spray with nonstick spray.
In a large, heavy frypan, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the carrots, celery and onion and sauté until onion is translucent, 7-10 minutes. Add the garlic and cook another minute. Add 1 cup (240 ml) broth and the dill; cover and cook over low heat, stirring occasionally, until all the liquid is absorbed and the vegetables have taken on a golden sheen.
Meanwhile, either cut the bread into cubes or crumble in to a large bowl. Set aside.
In the bowl of a food processor, process the tofu, cashews, flax and remaining 1 cup (240 ml) broth, until very smooth and no traces of nuts are visible.
Turn the tofu mixture, along with the cooked vegetable mixture, into the bowl and stir until everything is well combined and all the bread is coated with the mixture. Smooth the top.
Bake in preheated oven for 30-45 minutes, turning once about halfway through, until edges are deep brown and crispy, and a tester inserted in the center comes out clean but moist. Allow to cool for 10-15 minutes before cutting into squares. Makes 9-12 servings. May be frozen.
[Giveaway Alert: Today is the last day to enter the cookbook giveaway! Post your comment by 12:00 midnight (Toronto time) to be eligible to win a free copy of Sweet Freedom!]
It seems impossible, but I returned to full-time work at the college this week after two months away. (Yes, just when most college students and profs are beginning their summer off, my vacation is over. I’m just wacky that way.)
Where did the time go? Somehow, it just doesn’t feel like a “real” vacation without either a flight somewhere, a ten-hour drive, flip-flops, suntan lotion, sand in your underwear, martinis with 3 olives, holding hands as you stroll along the beach, abnormally extroverted conversations with strangers–or all of the above. Instead, all I’ve done is stay at home attending to the usual quotidien activities that define one’s working days: cooking, writing, exercising, walking the Girls, getting together with friends, or wrapping up a cookbook.
It’s not as if I forgot about taking a proper vacation, no, no; it’s just that I never seemed to get around to it, sort of like that pile of 57 boxes that have been sitting in our basement since we moved in to this house in November, 2007. (It’s incredible, really, how you can get along perfectly well without stuff you once thought essential, isn’t it?)
Better late than never, I say. So with Mother’s Day upon us last weekend, the HH and I enjoyed a mini, virtual vacation (or ”stay-cation,” as it’s being called in these tough economic times). We slept in late, listened to the stereo, watched funny movies, took The Girls for an extra-long walk in a woodsy park, cooked together (though without hand-holding). And we ate appetizers.
[The prize: in honor of the end of the semester.]
Ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Because before all that, the weekend kicked off with a trek downtown to visit Ruth of Plentiful Plants and deliver her prize from my last blog giveaway: a chocolate layer cake from a Sweet Freedomrecipe (which she blogged about here). It was so great to meet Ruth in person–now I’ve got a friendly face to attach to a name.
[Don't those look yummy? Recipe at the bottom of this post]
And she had the sweetest surprise for me–some cinnamon roasted chickpeas that she’d made as a gift. And the best part? They are even ACD-friendly!! Whoo-hoo! Thanks so much, Ruth. I’ve been snacking on them since then and will be sorry to see them gone!
And so, on to dinner.
Years ago, when my friend Gemini I got married, she and her hubby honeymooned on a small Greek island, where their days were spent wandering from ruins to quaint local taverns to dusty roads bordered by wild flower gardens and back to their B and B. Mealtimes were spent gazing into each other’s eyes, hands clasped over a small, private table by the seaside, rocks so white you had to squint just to look at them. A cornucopia of fresh, rainbow colored produce and seafood graced their plates, the cerulean sea splashing up over their sandaled toes as they ate. I had an image of the HH and I doing something similar over a casual appetizer platter (well, without the island, hand clasping, white rocks, seafood or water part. No matter.)
We ended up with three appetizers: Almond “Feta” (in honor of that Greek island); lupini beans in garlic and olive oil (Italy’s representative here); and Raw Sunflower and Carrot Pâté (nothing to do with the Mediterranean–I just like it).
I’d been eyeing the recipe for Almond “Feta” from last month’s Vegetarian Times ever since it arrived in the mail. After thinking I’d lost the magazine, I finally found it again while clearing my desktop of stray papers and other debris (gee, imagine what I’d find if I ever did open those 57 boxes in our basement?).
I’ve loved feta cheese ever since I first tasted it as a twenty-something one summer when I worked as a secretary. One of my colleagues, a wacky, brash blonde named Dia Nicolopoulos (I mean, how could you forget a name like that?) invited me to her home for dinner. Remember the rock band Blondie? Well, Dia bore an uncanny resemblance to (young) Debbie Harry, complete with outrageous wardrobe, carmine lipstick, raspy voice, and teetering, stillettoed walk. She had a belly laugh that could drown out a fire alarm, and when she extended that dinner invitation, I didn’t hesitate to accept.
In a scene straight out of My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Dia’s mother kept foisting plate after plate of food at me. When I was sure I was about to burst, out came the feta. It was Dia’s mother’s own recipe, homemade from goat’s milk and bathed in a pool of opaque salted water. It was rich, creamy, salty, smooth–like nothing I’d ever tasted before, and I was smitten. I ended up eating three servings.
And while this almond-based version does require some advance prep (you’ve got to start 48 hours before you want to eat it), it was a worthy reminder of that long-ago dinner. With a color, taste and texture remarkably feta-like, this cheese was fantastic on its own or spread on crackers. Firm enough to cut yet not quite solid inside, it would be perfect sprinkled in bits and blobs inside a tofu omelet along with some red onion and basil. As the HH remarked, “You know, this cheese is really good in its own right. I mean, even if someone wasn’t particularly into the “veggie” thing, you could serve them this and they’d still like it.” High praise, indeed!
The raw pâté is my adaptation of a sunflower pâté in Nomi Shannon’s seminal Raw Gourmet. I added a hefty serving of beta carotene via carrots, both for color and flavor. The result was a fresh, light, with a slightly grainy texture and understated, natural sweeteness, it provided a perfect foil for the briny cheese.
The final appetizer, lupini beans in garlic and olive oil, were an experiment I tried following a chance remark while shopping at the bulk store. But I think these warrant an entire post of their own. . . suffice it to say that they require even more advance prep than the feta.
We completed the dinner with baby carrots, raw kale salad, and some crackers. With nothing else to do but enjoy each other’s company as we nibbled, it was a great way to end the evening. And while I still wasn’t quite ready to dive back into work, at least I ended my holidays in a relaxed frame of mind. I’m already planning the next appetizer dinner. . . now, if only I could secure that Greek island setting.
“Mum, you don’t really want to go away from us for two weeks, do you? Because, well, eating appetizers by the sea is all fine and dandy, but if you left, who would feed us??”
I thought these dishess would be the perfect contribution to Cheryl’s virtual baby shower for Sea of Book of Yum. Cheryl asked bloggers to post foods that would be appropriate for a baby shower. Congratulations, Sea!
Perfect for a party table or when dining al fresco, this cheese will transport you to a Greek island. (Okay, not really. But it is very good.)
1 cup (240 ml) whole blanched almonds
1/4 cup (60 ml.) fresh lemon juice
3 Tbsp (45 ml) extra virgin olive oil
1 clove garlic
1-1/4 tsp (6 ml) fine sea salt
1/2 cup (120 ml) cold water
1/4 cup (60 ml) extra virgin olive oil
1 Tbsp (15 ml) fresh thyme leaves
1 Tbsp (15 ml) fresh rosemary leaves
Place the almonds in a bowl of room-temperature water; allow to soak for 24 hours, then drain and rinse.
In a powerful blender, purée the almonds, lemon juice, 3 T olive oil, garlic, salt and water until very creamy, 5-7 minutes. (The original recipe calls for a food processor, but I found it didn’t get creamy enough that way).
Place a triple layer of cheesecloth over a strainer and spoon the cheese mixture into it. Bring up the ends of the cheesecloth, twist the top and squeeze slightly to remove some of the excess liquid; tie the top with a twist tie or elastic. Allow to drain in the refrigerator overnight, or at least 8 hours.
Preheat oven to 200F ( C). Line a cookie sheet with parchment paper. Turn the cheese out onto the parchment and shape it into a disk about 3/4-inch ( cm) thick. Bake for 40-50 minutes, until the top is firm and dry. Cool, then chill.
When ready to serve, place the cheese on a plate. Top with additional olive oil (I only used about 2 Tbsp/30 ml instead of the 1/4 cup/60 ml), sprinkle with herbs, and enjoy. (I used basil rather than the herbs called for, since that’s what I had on hand; I think pretty much any fresh herbs would be fantastic with this). Makes 4 appetizer servings.
Raw Carrot and Sunflower Seed Pâté
adapted from The Raw Gourmet
Perfect for light, casual summer dining, this fresh and healthy dip is a perfect accompaniment to crackers or crudités, or even as a sandwich filling.
2-3 large carrots, peeled and cut in chunks
1 cup (240 ml) raw sunflower seeds, soaked in room temperature water for 8-10 hours and drained
1/4 cup (60 ml) freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 clove garlic, minced
1 heaping Tbsp (20 ml) raw tahini (use regular if you’re not concerned about the pate remaining raw)
1/4 cup (60 ml) coarsely chopped parsley or cilantro, or a mixture
1/8 tsp (.5 ml) cayenne pepper
2 tsp (10 ml) freshly grated ginger root
1/2 tsp (2.5 ml) ground cumin, optional
1/2 tsp (2.5 ml) mild curry powder
Place carrots and seeds in a food processor and process until crumbly. Add remaining ingredients and process until desired texture is reached. Taste and adjust spices; process again and serve. Makes 4-6 appetizer servings. Will keep, refrigerated, up to 3 days.
Thanks to Ruth for this simple recipe that’s delicious (and just a bit addictive!). I had mine without sweetener, but add yours to taste.
1 can (19 oz or 540 ml) chickpeas, rinsed and drained
2 Tbsp (30 ml) tahini (sesame paste)
1 Tbsp (15 ml) cinnamon
1/8 tsp (.5 ml) fine sea salt
1-5 drops stevia or 1-2 Tbsp (15-30 ml) agave nectar, to taste (optional)
Preheat oven to 400 F (200 C). Grease a large roasting pan with coconut oil, or line with parchment paper.
In the bottom of a large bowl, combine the tahini, cinnamon, salt and optional sweetener. Add the chickpeas and toss to coat evenly. Spread the chickpeas in the pan, trying to keep them in a single layer if possible. Drizzle any excess coating over the top of the chickpeas in the pan.
Bake for 50-60 minutes, stirring frequently, until desired level of doneness is reached (I like them a little crunchy on the outside; some people prefer them softer, which would take less time). Allow to cool and store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 4 days. Makes about 2 cups (480 ml).
[Totally tangential rant: When I woke up this morning, I was sure my eyes were playing tricks on me--it is snowing outside! Snowing. BIG snow. As in, "little white flakes that fly across your field of vision." As in, "icy and slushy and boots weather." As in, "everything is coated with rime and appears opaque and goes crunch when you walk on it." As in, "turn the heat back on and pull those sweaters out of storage again." As in, IF I SEE ONE MORE DAY OF WINTER I AM GOING TO LEAP UP AND DOWN AND FLAIL MY ARMS LIKE A CRAZED FLAMINGO AND SCREAM BLOODY MURDER AND WEEP LIKE A CONTESTANT ON THE BIGGEST LOSER AND THEN DISSOLVE IN A PUDDLE LIKE THE WICKED WITCH OF THE WEST. Okay, maybe not really. But I will not be very happy, let me tell you.]
I’m sure we’ve all heard it before, but I’m here to reiterate: diets don’t work. In fact, I’m living proof of that axiom.
I embarked on my first bona fide “diet” at age thirteen (thirteen! there oughta be a law) because, at the cusp of adolescence, I entered a new school and was, for the first time, startled to discover that there were boys–and they had somehow become appealing overnight!–out there. And that my friends whose mammaries had developed the previous summer seemed to attract the boys more than I did. And that maybe, if I lost twenty pounds, I might be the object of male hormonal affections, too.
And so, the beginning of a lifetime of serial dieting was born.
That initial diet was called the Stillman Quick Weight Loss Diet (a precursor to the later Atkins fiasco) and it allowed NO fruits or vegetables, NO grains and, basically, nothing but protein. For three months or so, I dutifully ate hardboiled egg for breakfast, tuna fish (no mayo) for lunch, and some kind of cooked meat (likely chicken) for dinner. And yes, the pounds did drop. Unfortunately, so did my IQ, my heart rate, and several of my friendships.
Before long, it wasn’t just boys who paid attention to me, but my parents and teachers, too, as my skin became pallid and wan; my clothes bagged in decidedly unattractive ripples across my chest, waist and hips; my hair lost its luster, hanging scraggly and thin; and my basic demeanor shifted from formerly sweet, pleasant, and interested in academics to introverted and skittish, eyes flitting from one point to another without ever focusing, like a kleptomaniac hiding a pair of shoes in her purse as she crosses the electronic detectors at the Bloomingdale’s exit. Needless to say, my parents convinced me to abandon the Stillman diet.
Subsequently, in my 30s during a “heavy” cycle, my world changed for a time when I met Dean. He didn’t mind that I was chubby; in fact, he welcomed it.
Dean, you see, was Dean Ornish, author of the diet plan called Eat More, Weigh Less. I loved the book immediately and bought it based on the title alone (you know that myth about how every twenty-something guy dreams of being locked in a room with two sexy, randy lesbians? Well, every dieter dreams of being able to pig out uncontrollably without limits, yet still lose weight).** I didn’t care about the actual diet, no sir; all I cared about was that title–I could eat more, and weigh less! Yessss!
Little did I know that Ornish was a medical doctor–a cardiologist, no less–and his book was based on years of extensive study. In fact, Ornish was the first (and only, if my sources are correct) medical professional to prove in scientific, double blind studies that you can actually reverse heart disease with diet alone. That’s right; reverse, not just diminish; and diet alone–no pills, no medications! His original idea has now blossomed into a full-fledged industry, including an institute that practises what he preached. It’s called the Preventive Medicine Research Institute and people go there to recover from (and reverse) their heart disease. How cool is that?
The first edition of the diet, however, was incredibly stringent, allowing no more than 10% of calories from fat (from all food sources combined). Clearly, well-marbled steaks, chicken with skin, or whipping cream are not on the menu. It was a radical notion back then: a vegan diet, and one with a very low fat content (Happy Herbivore, rejoice!). Best of all, the book included recipes.
Following the Ornish plan, I never felt better. I see now that the menus were fairly grain-heavy, but at the time, I was happy to cook up the recipes, pile my plate as high as I could, and methodically shove one forkful after another into my mouth, chewing away. At times it took me the better part of half an hour to polish off a plate, but I never worried that I was eating too much–I was eating MORE so I could weigh LESS!
Ornish’s Seven Grain Dirty Rice and Beans was my first encounter with this spicy Cajun favorite and also my first foray into the world of cooking dried beans from scratch. The dish is a variation on the classic combination, with corn for chewiness, and a spirited spice mix. The result is a satisfying, multi-textured meal. The beans and rice pair up to offer a complete protein. As a single woman living on my own, it was also a godsend to be able to create meals from basic, inexpensive ingredients that would last a few days (theoretically, I’m sure, the recipes were intended for 6 or more servings, which would have lasted much longer than a few days, but I really was piling my plates pretty high).
I achieved the desired weight loss on the Ornish plan and even managed to maintain it for several years, until I moved to Toronto and began teaching at the college where I still work today. And then, I met my starter husband, we got married, and I ballooned once again, the cycle repeating itself. Did my weight gain play a role in our split? No. But our split played a role in my weight. . . after I dumped the guy, the weight began to recede as well, which led to my current relationship with the HH, after which I gained back all the weight and more. . . which is why I now need this ACD to clear out the toxins and, ideally, lose more weight. . . .
Do we detect a pattern here? Diets don’t work!
Nevertheless, I still love this dish. And I’ll always have a soft spot (well, right now, several soft spots, most of which are located between waist and hip areas) for Dr. Dean.
**Oh, dear me. I can just imagine the blog searches that will lead people here now. Especially since this dish has the word “dirty” in its title. Groan.
I have no idea why this is called “SEVEN” Grain Dirty Rice (unless I’m missing something, aren’t the rice and corn the only grains in this?). Whatever the reason, it’s a slightly spicy, very flavorful and hearty dish, one that’s easy to prepare–and it won’t break the bank.
2 cups (480 ml) dry brown rice (I used basmati)
1-1/2 cups (360 ml) chopped red onion
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 cup (240 ml) finely diced carrots
1/2 cup (120 ml) finely diced celery
1 small jalapeno pepper, minced (remove seeds for less heat)
1 Tbsp (15 ml) ground cumin
1 Tbsp (15 ml) ground coriander
2 tsp (10 ml) chili powder
1/4 tsp (1 ml) fine sea salt
3-3/4 cups (900 ml) vegetable stock or broth
1 bay leaf
1-1/2 cups (360 ml) chopped tomatoes (I used a large can of diced tomatoes)
1-1/2 cups (360 ml) cooked red beans (I used kidney; any firm bean will do)
1/2 cup (120 ml) fresh or frozen corn kernels
3-4 Tbsp (45-60 ml.) fresh chopped parsley
3-4 Tbsp (45-60 ml) fresh chopped cilantro
Preheat oven to 350F (180C). Spray a large casserole dish (one with a cover) and set aside.
In a fairly large, heavy-bottomed pot, heat the rice, onion, garlic, carrots, celery, jalapeno, cumin, coriander and chili powder over medium heat, stirring constantly, for about 5 minutes, until lightly browned.
Add the salt, stock, bay leaf and tomatoes, and stir to combine. Cover, lower heat and simmer for 15 minutes.
Add the beans, corn, parsley and cilantro. Turn the mixture into the casserole dish, cover and bake for another 30-40 minutes, until the liquid is absorbed and the rice is cooked. If necessary, add a bit more stock and continue cooking until the rice is sufficiently soft. Garnish with more chopped herbs, if desired. Makes 6-8 servings. May be frozen.
NOTE: The original recipe suggests cooking the entire dish in your pot on the stovetop. I found, however, that the rice never really absorbed the liquid that way, and it remained hard even after an hour of simmering. If the stovetop method works for you, however, go ahead and use it–you’ll save yourself some dishes to wash that way.
Can it be that spring has finally decided to grace us with its presence? Tentative buds peek from beneath the scraggy clay, ennervated blades of grass sun themselves daily, waiting to transform from brittle, strawlike shoots to brilliant green fringes undulating in tranquil breezes. The sun is finally blazing overhead, causing pedestrians to peel off successive layers of clothing, first hat, then gloves, then scarf, then jacket as they stroll along, like human illustrations of the the classic Aesop fable.
Bah, spring, I say. I know; you’d think I’d be ecstatic, wouldn’t you? After all, I consider myself the unrivalled Queen of Wrath Against Winter. In contrast to the frozen, snowy season, spring is a harbinger of new life. Flowers. Gurgling streams. Picnics in the park and “Paris in the-the.” The season premiere of Rescue Me. And yet, and yet. . . despite all this, spring has made me grumpy. Why?
Well, this might give you an idea:
Spring, circa 1960s:
It’s late March, and Ricki is jumping with excitement. Spring means it’s time for the annual visit to Uncle L (not to be confused with Uncle S of the Planters Peanuts jar–no fun!) over at the coat factory. Uncle L worked in the fashion district of Montreal, and once a year, Ricki’s mum took her and her two sisters to the factory so they could choose a new spring jacket–at wholesale prices!
What could be better? A two-hour bus ride to the mysterious, exotic East End of Montreal (the all-Francophone area, into which they never ventured otherwise); where everything was interesting and new, from the dark plumes of smoke that snaked across the sky from factory chimneys to the stray newspapers and empty plastic bags that swished across the neglected streets to the staccato joual that echoed down the alleys as they drove by. All of it was fun and exhilarating–and best of all, it culminated in a new coat! Whee!
Spring, Circa 1980s:
Ricki and her two best friends from CEGEP are excited. March means they’re going to Fort Lauderdale for Spring Break–their first vacation on their own and without parents!
What could be better? A shared hotel room in a beachside hotel. Six days sunning on the sand, lounge chairs and drinks by the cabana, three meals a day in restaurants. Evenings clearing the sand out of your swimsuit, getting gussied up and meeting scores of other twenty-somethings at bars and clubs. All of it was fun and exhilarating–and best of all, it culminated in a shopping spree (in American shopping malls, no less, with all those great brands we can’t get at home!) Wheeee!
Spring, Circa March 22, 2009, 4:15 PM:
Spring means taxes. What could be worse?
Grumbling while I gather my scattered paperwork from throughout the year, spend three hours organizing it into neat little piles across the kitchen table, then three more hours with a pad of paper and calculator, tallying up the numbers again and again and again, just to be sure. . . Whoah.
Spring means mud. Lots and lots of mud. What could be worse?
Wiping eight muddy paws, two muddy bellies and an occasional muddy chest two or three times a day over the course of the spring season (a locker room post-football game on a rainy day doesn’t even begin to compete with these muddy canine torsos). Walking dogs in springtime. . . .Whoah.
["Mum, to be fair, we really don't have a choice about the fur on the belly thing. . . unlike Dad, for instance."]
Spring means a yard that resembles, just a little too close for comfort, that mountainous pile of garbage and muck that Roy builds in his kitchen in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Could it be any worse?
After all the snow and ice have melted, the ground underneath has heaved and repositioned itself, and the previously unmowed grass has wilted and yellowed, falling in heaps and whorls like matted hair shaved from an unkempt Goldendoodle (or was that an unkempt Joaquin Phoenix?)–what’s left is a sodden, muddy, tawny and gray yard that serves little purpose other than as bathroom for your dogs (see “Spring means mud,” above)–and awaits hours of your physical labor to clean it up and make it presentable. Whoah.
Am I being a tad too negative? Perhaps. After all, taxes mean I actually have a job (something for which I’m extremely grateful in these hard times). And muddy paws means I have two furry, exuberant Girls to brighten my every day. A yard means I can finally, finally learn how to garden (remember last year’s monstrous mint fiasco?).
And so, as an attempt to bridge the gap between winter and spring, I decided to make this salad.
This is a recipe I created several years ago for a cooking class entitled, “Anti Candida Feast” (a rather ambitious title, I think now). At the time, I wasn’t following the ACD myself, but had been asked by a few previous participants for an ACD-friendly menu. And while I adore juiced beets (my favorite combo is beet, carrot, and ginger juice), I’ve never been a fan of raw beets in any other context. I’ve always thought of beets as more of a winter veggie, to be roasted or boiled into soup. This salad seemed the perfect means to combine the spirit of spring (in a raw dish) with these lovely crimson roots.
With its emphasis on beets, carrots and cilantro, I thought it would be the perfect submission to Weekend Herb Blogging, the weekly event started by Kalyn and now run by Haalo. This week’s host is Anna from Anna’s Cool Finds.
When I told the HH I was making a raw beet and carrot salad for dinner, his response was, “Blecccchhhh. Beets taste like dirt.”
“But they’re good for your blood,” I countered.
“Don’t care,” he said. “Dirt.”
“But they cleanse the liver!”
“My liver is clean enough.”
“But” (and here, I admit I was reaching a bit)–”they can help test your transit time!”
“Transit time?? You mean, like, how long it takes the beets to go in one end and come out the oth—”
“Yep.”
“Okay, now I really don’t want to eat those beets.”
I mixed up the salad anyway, planning to consume it on my own. But something about the vibrant colors, the springlike fuscia and orange, the heady aroma of lime and cilantro in combination, persuaded him to take a bite. And in the end, he loved it!
“This doesn’t taste like beets at all,” he said, chewing on a mouthful of beets.
Seeing him devour that plate of salad, I felt happy to welcome the spring. Exhilarated, even.
Wheeeee!
[PS You've still got nine days to enter the Maple Syrup and Chocolate Cake Giveaway! Click here for details.]
Crimson Salad with Pecans and Pumpkin Seeds
This vibrant, refreshing salad combines the brisk tang of lime with the natural sweetness of beets and carrots. Crunchy pecans and pumpkinseeds offer textural contrast and a protein boost. A great spring salad!
1 large beet, peeled (it should be fresh and firm)
2 large carrots, peeled
1/2 cup (50 g) chopped pecans, lightly toasted
1/4 cup (35 g) pumpkin seeds, lightly toasted
1 clove garlic, minced
1/4 cup (60 ml) freshly squeezed lime juice (about 2 limes)
1/4 cup (60 ml) extra virgin olive oil, preferably organic
3 Tbsp (45 ml) chopped cilantro or parsley
pinch fine sea salt
Using the medium grater on a food processor, mandolin, or hand grater, grate the beets and carrots and place in a medium bowl with the nuts and the seeds. Set aside.
In a small bowl, combine the garlic, lime juice, oil, cilantro and salt. Pour over the beet-carrot mixture and toss to coat everything well. Serve immediately. Makes 4 servings. Will keep, refrigerated, for 2 days.
Anti-candida variation: use an ACD friendly nut instead of the pecans (I used chopped Brazil nuts in the pictured salad, above).
I have a confession to make. I haven’t told you all about this yet because, quite frankly, I was afraid you’d reject me. Move that cursor elsewhere, and click. At best, roll your eyes. Maybe snort in disgust. Maybe gag, even.
But I’ve decided it’s time. I mean, really, what kind of lasting relationship can we have without full disclosure?
So I’m just going to come out and say it:
I love okra.
I.
Love.
Okra.
Are you running for the hills yet?
Oh, I know what you’re thinking: Okra? That polygonal pod that’s a staple in gumbo, and mostly reviled? That much-maligned member of the marrow family (but cocoa is in that family, too!) that most people reject without so much as a nibble? That pariah of the produce aisle that’s often referred to as gluey, viscous, slimy or mucilaginous–with seeds that remind you of those bowls of peeled grape “eyeballs” we all stuck our hands into at Halloween when we were kids?
Yep. That okra.
I adore okra’s long, lantern-shaped pods, the vibrant green skins with just a hint of fuzz and the wagon-wheel innards when you cut them across. I love the mild, slightly woodsy flavor and the pop of the seeds in your mouth. I could eat okra every day, and never tire of it.
I think it’s heartbreaking that okra gets such a bad rap. Okra is like the pimply nerd at school–the reject, the Carrie, the Napoleon Dynamite , the Ugly Betty. The last kid to be chosen for the baseball team. The scrawny kid on the beach who gets sand kicked in his face. The pink-and-too-frilly kid who takes her dad to the prom. The computer geek nobody wants to date so then he quits high school and starts some computer company run from his parents garage and redeems himself by becoming the richest guy in America. . . oh, wait. That would make him Bill Gates, wouldn’t it? And then he’d actually be much sought after, wouldn’t he? Well, heck! To my mind, that IS okra!
[A bit of spice, a bit of bite, a bit of lemon zest: an endearing combination.]
I think we should give okra the accolades it deserves. Let’s nurture its low self-esteem. Let’s compliment its grassy hue and lovely symmetry, tug its cute little tail at the narrow end and make it blush. Sure, it was born a green vegetable (already at a disadvantage compared to, say, watermelon). And then there’s the goo factor. But sometimes, with a recipe that takes our humble ingredient and pushes it to be its best, well, that little green lantern can really shine. That’s what I wish for my buddy, okra.
In these recipes, okra is elevated to something that transcends its reputation. It’s like okra gussied up for a date. Okra getting an A+ in physics. Okra at its best self–I know, like okra after taking one of Oprah’s “Be Your Best Self” weekends! (Just imagine the introductions at that seminar, sort of like David Letterman’s ill-fated attempt at hosting the Oscars: “Okra, meet Oprah. Oprah, okra.”).
Besides, okra has much to offer us. Described by WholeHealthMD as having a taste that “falls somewhere between that of eggplant and asparagus,” it’s a good source of Vitamin C and several minerals; and the seeds offer up protein in every pod, along with 4 grams of both soluble (known to help keep cholesterol levels in check) and insoluble (great for regularity) fiber in a one-cup (240 ml) serving.
[Still slightly al dente in this photo; cook a bit longer if you're an okra neophyte.]
These are two of my favorite okra dishes, ones that we consume fairly regularly here in the DDD household. The first is another adaptation from my dog-eared copy of Flip Shelton’s Green, a Moroccan Spiced Okra-Quinoa Pilaf. I’ve made liberal changes to this one, including altering the base from rice to quinoa. The spices are subtle with a barely detectable undertone of lemon zest in the mix. Served sprinkled with chopped nuts, this pilaf is a meal in a bowl all on its own.
The second dish comes from one of my all-time favorite cookbooks, Indian Cooking Course by Manisha Kanani. Again, I’ve made a few alterations to the original, which asks you to dry-cook the okra on the stovetop; I’ve found that adding chopped tomatoes and allowing the tender pods to stew in the juices produces a more appealing taste and texture. Although a masala curry, this one isn’t the least bit spicy, yet is still rife with the flavors of tomato, cumin, coriander and fresh cilantro. It’s a perfect side dish for Indian food, of course, but we also enjoy this as an accompaniment to burgers or cooked grains.
So go ahead, give okra a try! Who knows? You may even like it. And don’t worry, the secret will be safe with me.
Subtle flavors of warming spices and comforting vegetables, this quinoa-based pilaf can be made with any favorite grain.
2 Tbsp (30 ml) extra virgin olive oil
1 medium onion, diced fine
2 medium carrots, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 tsp (2.5 ml) chili flakes
2 tsp (10 ml) ground ginger
2 tsp (10 ml) ground cumin
1 tsp (5 ml) ground coriander
1 cup (240 ml) dry quinoa
1/2 cup (120 ml) green or brown lentils
3-4 cups (720-960 ml) vegetable broth or stock
freshly grated zest of one lemon
4 ounces (100 g) okra, washed, trimmed and cut into pieces
1/2 cup (120 ml) fresh cilantro leaves, chopped
1/2 cup (75 g) roughly chopped cashews or pistachios
Preheat oven to 350 F (180 C). Grease a large covered casserole dish.
In a large pot or dutch oven, heat the oil over medium heat; add onion, carrot, garlic, chili flakes, ginger, cumin and coriander. Stir until the vegetables start to soften and the spices are fragrant. Add the quinoa and lentils and cook for a few minutes more. Add the broth, lemon zest and okra and return to the boil. Remove from heat.
Pour the mixture into the prepared casserole dish, cover, and bake for 45-50 minutes, until the liquid is mostly absorbed. Sprinkle with the cilantro and nuts before serving. Makes 4 servings. May be frozen.
Anti-Candida Variation: omit the nuts, or use chopped almonds instead.
This is the perfect introduction to those wary of okra: keeping the pods whole prevents the juices from being released, and once the okra is cooked it’s not the least bit gooey inside. Be sure the pods are very soft and cooked through (the color will darken to an olive green) for best effect.
1 pound (450 g) okra or green beans, or a combination (washed and trimmed but not cut)
In a small bowl, combine the turmeric, chili powder, cumin, ground coriander, salt, agave, lemon juice and chopped cilantro (the mixture will still be fairly dry).
Heat the oil in a large frypan over medium heat and add the cumin and mustard seeds; fry for about 2 minutes, or until they begin to splutter and pop.
Add the spice mixture and continue to cook for another 2 minutes.
Add the tomatoes and okra and stir to coat well. Lower heat to simmer, cover, and cook until the okra is very tender and most of the moisture from the tomatoes has evaporated, 25-35 minutes. Garnish with more chopped cilantro if desired. Makes 4 servings.
Anti-Candida Variation: Use 3-5 drops of stevia in place of the agave or Sucanat.
Oh, come on. Be nice to me. I went to the School of Hard Gnocchis.
All right, buddy, you asked for it–
Look, don’t gnocchi it ’til you try it.
* * * * * *
Now, judging by my little preamble here, you might surmise that I don’t take my gnocchi quite as seriously as I should. I assure you, nothing could be further from the truth. I fully understand the gravitas of gnocchi, believe me; in fact, I take them just as seriously as my job (extremely); or saving for retirement (nerve-rackingly); or even the well-being of The Girls (all-consumingly).
(“Well, Mum, you know that we both take your well-being very seriously too, right? Because if anything ever happened to you, how would we get our dinner?”)
I am well aware that the genesis of a good gnocchi is more art than skill; and also that I am, in that particular realm at least, neither artistically inclined nor very skilled. Because the process usually requires planning, talent, and the equanimity of a Stepford wife, I have rarely ventured to attempt the challenge. A shame, really, as I adore gnocchi.
In my long-ago wheat-eating days, I would snatch any opportunity to sample one of those freshly pinched and simmered Italian dumplings. The HH and I patronized quite a range of small, family-owned Italian restaurants in our early days, and each boasted its own version of the little pasta pillows: smothered in Arrabiata with extra jalapenos mounded on the side; lightly pan-fried in olive oil, then sprinkled liberally with springy sage and dusted with freshly grated Parmesan; tossed gently in a vodka cream sauce with black olives and capers–I loved them all. I loved the slightly gooey exterior, the softly yielding chew, the smooth and subtle flavor that demanded a potato ricer to achieve.
Before today, I had yet to sample a spelt-based version of gnocchi. (Seems they don’t serve spelt gnocchi in most Italian restaurants I’ve frequented. Quel surprise!). The few times I endeavored to cook up some of the light, spud-based morsels using a traditional recipe in the past, the result was a total flop. Either the gnocchi were so hard and dense that they could be shot from a BB gun, or they turned out so soft and mushy that one might wonder where the pasta was hiding in this white, slushy gruel. And yet. . . and yet. . . they persisted in beckoning to me.
So, last night, I threw caution to the winds, and allowed my passion for the little rascals to lead me into temptation. I knew I’d likely get gnocchi’d up for my efforts, but just didn’t care. After all, the outcome would be a bowl brimming with my delicious, darling pasta babies! Besides, I thought gnocchi would be the perfect submission to Ruth’s weekly Presto Pasta Night over at Once Upon a Feast.
I started with a fairly simple recipe for Spiced Carrot Gnocchi that I found in Gourmet Vegetarian by Jane Price, and adapted it according to my own dietary restrictions: no eggs and no wheat (replaced with silken tofu and a combination of whole spelt and oat flours, respectively). I topped the gnocchi with a creamy, cheesy sauce of my own invention (I’ve had great luck with sauces in the past, thankfully), and sprinkled some chopped fresh parsley over top.
How did it end up? Well, let’s just say that the sauce was rich, creamy, and delicious, as expected. As to my experiments with my potato nemesis? Well, I must confess that, once again, success eluded me. Don’t get me wrong–they weren’t awful; in fact, the mildly sweet and dense chewiness was well complemented by the velvety, cheesy sauce. Still, if you’re looking for the traditional version of this pasta, you won’t be satisfied with these.
And I hate to admit it, I think I will finally put this kitchen quest behind me, once and for all. That’s right–it’s time to gnocchi it off for good.
Spiced Carrot Gnocchi in Cream Sauce
The contrast between the dense, slightly chewy gnocchi and the velvety sauce is a pleasing one. These gnocchi were a little heavy and slightly sweet; if you’re okay with non-traditional pasta, you may enjoy these.
Boil carrots in lightly salted water until tender; cool. While carrots are boiling, prepare Creamy Sauce (below); keep barely warm, covered, while you prepare the gnocchi.
Process carrots and tofu in a food processor until smooth. Add the Salba, lemon juice and Garam Masala and process again to mix. Turn into a large bowl.
Add the flours to the bowl and stir to mix (use your hands if necessary). This will make a very soft, sticky dough (add more flour if needed until you can handle the dough).
Coat hands with flour and roll dough into long rolls about the width of your index finger (3/4 inch or 2 cm. thick). Slice each roll into pieces about 1 inch (2.5 cm.) long. Press each lightly with the tines of a fork to create the typical gnocchi ridges.
Meanwhile, bring a large pot of water to the boil. Lower heat to medium-low and add gnocchi, about a dozen or 15 at a time. Boil until the gnocchi rise to the surface, then remove with a slotted spoon. Keep warm until you boil the rest of the gnocchi.
When all the gnocchi are cooked, top with Creamy Sauce. Sprinkle with freshly chopped parsley, if desired. Makes 4 large servings.
Creamy Sauce
This is an Alfredo-style sauce that would work beautifully over any kind of pasta.
1/2 cup (120 ml.) smooth cashew butter
1-1/2 Tbsp. (25 ml.) light miso
3 T. (45 ml.) lemon juice
3 Tbsp. (45 ml.) nutritional yeast
1 tsp. (5 ml.) onion powder
1/4 tsp. (2.5 ml.) garlic powder
1/8 tsp. (1.5 ml.) smoked paprika
1/2 cup (120 ml.) vegetable broth
1/2 cup (120 ml.) plain soymilk (not sweetened)
1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) organic cornstarch
In a blender, blend all ingredients until you have a smooth mixture. Pour this into a small pot and heat over medium-low heat, stirring frequently, until sauce begins to bubble. Simmer for about a minute, stirring constantly to prevent scorching, then pour over desired pasta. If you prefer a thicker sauce, spoon out about 1/4 cup sauce and place in a small bowl, then mix with another teaspoon of cornstarch. Return the mixture to the pot and simmer for another minute or so before using.
