Diet, Dessert and Dogs

*Or, Corn Cubed Pancakes

*Or, You Don’t Need Math to Enjoy These Pancakes

[Unadorned corny goodness, tall and proud.]

I was one of those students who always did pretty well in math even though I didn’t understand most of it. In other words, I was a good memorizer. These days, I rejoice if I can remember what I ate for breakfast, but back then, even multiplication tables didn’t pose a challenge. The more advanced types of computation, however, were a complete mystery to me (which is why I dropped out of Calculus in CEGEP.  Yes, I altered my entire career path, from Psychology to English Literature, based solely on my fear of statistics).

These days, the “new math” leaves me both breathless and hyperventilating (sometimes simultaneously).  My friend Babe’s eleven year-old daughter conducts problems in long division using a multi-step process that involves drawing little lines, circles and boxes, seemingly much more complicated than the old-fashioned dividend/divisor (with remainders) method I learned in school. And even with all these new approaches, when the computer is down at our local video store, the cashier still has no idea how to make change for a cash purchase.

It’s times like those (when I can’t rent Bridesmaids, dammit) that I wish everyone could have a teacher like my eighth-grade functions instructor, Mrs. Klein.  Well, that was her actual name, but we all affectionately called her Mrs. Clown.  (No, she didn’t have a bulbous red nose and electro-shock hairstyle–though her hair was suspiciously white–but she did offer boundless energy, sweeping arm gestures, and a hilarious delivery that made us guffaw–at functions!).

[Topped with some Fresh Plum Sauce]

Unlike most math teachers, Mrs. Clown actually made learning about algorithms, formulas, cosines and exponents fun. When she wrote an equation on the board and asked for volunteers to come up and solve it in front of the class, everyone’s hand shot up. When she explained images and sets, we sat entranced, as she peppered her explanation with anecdotes about her husband fixing the car engine over the weekend, or compared variables in a math problem to specific student personalities in the class.  We students never sat through a single period in which we didn’t laugh out loud at least once or twice (and how many people can say that about their math class?). When the bell rang, we were genuinely surprised that the hour was up.

Mrs. Clown wrote notes on the board in huge, clear, print so that everyone–even spectacle-clad Norman at the back–could see it clearly; and she provided tips and tricks to ensure that we’d remember the rules. One of her favorite ways to point out a potential problem in a formula was by writing the word “SNAG” in all-caps and enclosing it in a box outline, like this:

When we spied those “SNAG” boxes, we knew we were in for an extra-lengthy anecdote.  In fact, we’d sometimes deliberately attempt to create a  “SNAG” situation in one of her problems, just so we could listen to another story about Mr. Clown.

Last week, when the HH and I received an organic cob of corn in our CSA, I decided to mix up these pancakes as an antidote to the overly greasy, heavy griddle cakes I ate a few weeks ago in New York City.  I’d been thinking about corn pancakes since then, and when I spied this recipe on Jess’s blog, I knew I had to give it a try.  Using her recipe as a template, I added two more types of corn (two corn “variables,” you might say) and was delighted with the results.  And while the pancakes themselves were delectable, they introduced a mathematical conundrum of their own: what to call them?  Are they “triple corn” pancakes?  Or, perhaps,  “corn cubed pancakes”?  Sadly, I never truly mastered exponents despite Mrs. Clown’s tutelage, so that’s one formula that shall remain unsolved.

Whatever you call them, they were fantastic.  The HH proclaimed these “the best pancakes you’ve made yet.” They’re incredibly fluffy, with a cakelike interior punctuated by a smattering of plump corn kernels (and do feel free to substitute blueberries if you prefer) and a subtle texture from the cornmeal.  I had never used corn flour before and found it imparted a lovely, delicate crumb and mild flavor.

Next time you’re in the mood for pancakes, go ahead and have a couple of these,  or three.  Okay, maybe not, since five is a lot of pancakes.  Oh, wait–SNAG–two PLUS three is five, not two OR three; I shouldn’t have added the numbers but rather divided the total batch of 12 into the single divisor of each serving instead (or was that “mulitply each serving”?). . .  . which would have ultimately made a total of 1746 calories per batch, which works out to how many per person?

Whatever.  The only equation you need to remember is:  pancakes + topping = delicious.

EAT.

[Inside that corny goodness.]

Last Year at this Time: Cheryl’s Cold Thai Rice Paper Rolls (ACD Stage 2; gluten free)

Two Years Ago: Flash in the Pan: Zucchini Bread Oatmeal (ACD Stage 2; gluten free)

Three Years Ago: Banana Daiquiri Ice Dream (from The Ice Dream Cookbook) (not ACD friendly)

© Diet, Dessert and Dogs

[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.

Seven Grain Dirty Rice and Beans

adapted from Eat More, Weigh Less (original recipe on this site)

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.

Last Year at this Time: Quinoa and Oatmeal Croquettes

© 2009 Diet, Dessert and Dogs

There are certain food combinations that strike one as just so naturally compatible, you couldn’t imagine them any other way. Consider the seminal chocolate and peanut butter, for instance: could there be a happier marriage of sweet, salty, creamy, smooth, and enticing? Or what about vodka and orange juice, or pancakes and maple syrup, or french fries and gravy, or macaroni and cheese, or apple and cinnamon or–I could go on.  On the other hand, it’s always gratifying to discover alternate matches that may seem bizarre at first glance, yet actually work once you give them a try (funny, why did the HH suddenly come to mind?)

When I was an undergraduate at the University of Windsor, my wacky room mate had a friend who ate her pizza with peanut butter where the tomato sauce should have been.  She swore it tasted great (I declined to sample a slice). During my childhood in Montreal, my friend Gemini II used to eat liver sandwiches with cream cheese (again, I believe I passed on that one).  The well-known duo of french fries and mayo always struck me as odd until I was served sweet potato fries with mayo at one of my favorite vegan restaurants  (which, of course, prompted me to head straight home and prepare spicy sweet potato fries with avocado mayonnaise, and now I’m hooked).  I’m sure you’ve got your own personal favorite fixings that, any disparaging comments aside, you adore nonetheless (and please feel free to ‘fess up in the comments section!).

Well, as some of you may recall, the HH and I have just a smidge of surplus mint around here this summer.  Yes, indeed, I’d venture to say that my garden is in mint condition!  I’ve been concocting as many beverages, appetizers, dips, entrées or desserts containing the stuff as my little hands can muster, and even thought I was doing pretty well until the other day when I stepped round the corner of our house and saw that those darned wanton herbs had been propagating over night–it appeared as if I’d used nary a leaf!

And so, by dint of mint, I was forced to come up with yet another recipe showcasing the stuff.  Which actually worked out perfectly, since Holler and Lisa’s No Croutons Required event this month requests a salad focusing on a favorite herb.  Well, if by “favorite,” they meant “so much that I could rip bagfuls from the yard and still have enough left to freshen the breath of the entire town of Gilroy, CA on July 25, 26 & 27th in the month of July”; or “so much that I will have to start using it as packing filler when I mail trunks of fine china or glassware across the Atlantic” or “so much that even the thought of mint makes me feel a bit queasy, which, as it turns out,  is actually okay, since mint helps to aid in proper digestion” or “so much that I will have to cook at least one dish with mint in it every single day for the forthcoming 11 months, until it sprouts up again next summer, just to use it up”–well, if that’s what they meant by “favorite herb,” then yes, mint is indeed my favorite, and definitely deserves to be featured in my submission to the event.  

I do enjoy a good fresh peach, but when I saw three of the fuzzy spheres nestled in our organic produce box a couple of weeks ago, I almost despaired.  A properly ripened peach is a wonderful thing, but there seems to be a terribly small window of maturity wherein peaches are at their apex of flavor and texture–firm, juicy and sweet-tart–before they quickly decline into dry, powdery mush. If not eaten precisely on the right day (sometimes the right hour), the peach becomes unappetizing at best, perhaps suitable for a sauce or baked good; at worst, it’s both tasteless and unpleasant, and destined for the compost bin.

Given the capricious nature of the downy stone fruits, I decided a salad would be the perfect context in which to combine it with other ingredients that could overshadow their potentially less-than-stellar consistency.  Mint was a given, of course, and for some reason, I felt that cucumbers would also suit the flavor palette.  The final addition was sweet corn kernels–partly because they just called, “pick me!” and partly because I thought the color would work well with all the other summer hues, which always elicit a desire in me for fresh fruits and veggies.

In the end, we both adored this random combination of ingredients and have now consumed it four times in the last 2 weeks.  The peaches are tart and luscious (and even the sub-par slices soak up the dressing and seem more juicy); the cucumber is cold, watery and mild; the corn is crisp and sweet; and the mint is pungent and peppery, all culminating in a perfect pastiche of color, flavor and texture.

It’s true, peaches, corn and mint may not have been born for each other; but their arranged marriage in this dish makes for one very harmonious union.  

Minted Peach and Corn Salad

This salad comes together quickly, resulting in a fresh, crisp, juicy, altogether irresistible side dish for almost any warm weather meal.  It’s best eaten right away, but will keep for a day in the refrigerator.

Dressing:

3 Tbsp. (45 ml.) rice wine vinegar

3 Tbsp. (45 ml.) extra virgin olive oil

1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) agave nectar

juice of 1/2 large lime

1/4 tsp. sea salt, if desired

1/3 cup (80 ml.) chopped fresh mint leaves

Salad:

1.5 cups (375 ml.) corn kernels, fresh (steam lightly if desired) or frozen (defrost but don’t cook)

1 medium cucumber, peeled, seeded, cut in quarters lengthwise and sliced

3 large, ripe peaches, washed, pitted and cut into slices

1/3 cup (80 ml.) unsalted cashews, lightly toasted

In the bottom of a large salad bowl, combine all the dressing ingredients and whisk together.  Add the remaining ingredients, toss well, and serve.

* [or Concasse, if you prefer the more conventional term. . . but I just loved the word "tracklement" ever since I read it on Lucy's blog, and besides, "Tomato Tracklement" is just so much more alliterative.]

Last weekend was our Canada Day holiday, and this year I learned an important lesson.  No, it wasn’t “Canada is 141 years old” (even though it was).  Uh-uh, it wasn’t “Canada is a vast and picturesque, multicultural and welcoming country in which to live” (I already knew that one).  Nope, not even ”Although Canada is a vast and picturesque, multicultural and welcoming country in which to live, a summer full of rain really sucks–almost as much as a typical Canadian winter.” And finally, nay, it also wasn’t “The Girls are still scared of fireworks” (really, talk about stating the obvious). 

No, dear readers, the all-important lesson I learned this past weekend was simply this:

Never (and I mean never) attempt to drive across the province at the beginning of a long July 1st weekend.

Elementary, you say?  Well, for some reason, the HH and I, despite 10 years of trekking from Toronto to Montreal and back on a regular basis, have never traveled that particular stretch of the 401 on the long Canada Day weekend.  This year, with my dad turning 87, we decided it was a necessity.  

Big mistake.

BIG.

The 500-kilometre (about 315 mile) drive usually takes us between 4.5 and 6 hours, depending on (A) time of departure; (B) weather conditions; (C) who’s driving; (D) number of rest stops; and (E) traffic.  This past weekend, our multiple-choice answer was overwhelmingly, “E,” or really, more like, “EEEEEeeeeee!!!”  To be precise, eight hours’ worth of “E.”

As we slid out of the city and onto the highway, I sensed a barely perceptible increase in the volume of vehicles on the road.  Then, within about five minutes, it became painfully clear: everyone and their canines were heading off to the cottage for the long weekend.  And us?  No cottage; no canines (The Girls were happily ensconced at the doggie daycare for the weekend); and no discernible movement on the roads.  I’d completely forgotten our route included a short span of terrain known as ”cottage country” (also known, as the Barenaked Ladies recently reminded us in song, as “Peterborough and the Kawarthas“).  And there we were, the HH and I, motionless amid all the eager, impatient, fidgety and perspiring boaters, gardeners, waterskiers and Barbeque-ers, our wheels moving barely a quarter turn every 10 minutes or so.

Even if we could afford one, I doubt we would actually buy a cottage (and this has nothing to do with the fact that the HH is a role model for ”don’t do it yourself-ers”).  Still, I do treasure memories of spending summers at various country houses when I was a kid.  My parents couldn’t afford a cottage, either, but in those days, rentals were abundant and reasonably priced, and didn’t require reservations a year in advance (one summer, in fact, I clearly remember my parents discussing the possibility of escaping the city on the very evening school let out; by the following afternoon, I’d tossed my report card in the closet, pulled my collection of comic books out instead, and we were on the road toward our temporary summer home).

In those days, my parents rented a house through July and August.  They’d pack up the family (my two sisters, our cocker spaniel, Sweeney, and I) in the back of my dad’s station wagon-cum-butcher shop delivery van, and off we went to our rudimenatry cabin in the woods, sans modern amenities or TV. Along with the other husbands, my father helped us settle in the first weekend, then headed back to the city (and his store) during the week, while the rest of us hung around with the moms and kids until the men returned each Friday evening. For five days a week, the wives managed to keep things running smoothly, demonstrating both independence and resourcefulness; yet every Friday, they mysteriously reverted to squeaky voices, soft entreaties and deference, much as early feminists must have done when their soldier-husbands returned from the front.  

In the intervals free from paternal presence, we children would run barefoot along the roadside, plucking thick, flat blades of crabgrass to grip securely between tightly pressed thumbs, then huffing and blowing our makeshift whistles, our postures in supplication to nature.  We’d seek out the other kids whose parents rented homes around the same lake, for day-long games of hide-and-seek, for building sand forts at the lakeside, or for throwing sticks to Sweeney and the other dogs (who, bored with our weak attempts at “fetch,” would lope off and sleep under porches, squirrel-hunt in the woods, or, toward evening, launch a stealth attack on the hotdogs piled on plates beside the Bar-B-Q’s).

By the end of the season, we’d worn ourselves out with outdoor games, our limbs buff and bronzed in variegated strips of earthtone after two months of shifting sleeve lengths.  All the books I’d brought were read and forgotten; I’d colored and drawn and written in my journal about my adventures; my younger sister and I had picked countless plastic sandbuckets full of wild blueberries from the hill at the end of town; and we were, finally, ready to go home.

One of my fondest memories is the drive back south, passing field after field of farmers’ corn as it just approached ripeness.  The long, elegant leaves swished and swayed in the breeze like our own welcoming committee, a troupe of Hawaiian dancers greeting tourists as they disembark from the plane.  By the time school resumed, we were eating fresh cobs of corn with our dinners, juice trailing down our chins and our cheeks flecked with wayward bits of yellow like reverse freckles on our tanned faces.

I reminisced about that incomparable corn as I contemplated Pancakes on Parade, the event hosted by Susan of The Well Seasoned Cook.  I had already decided (though I love sweet pancakes and make them whenever there’s an excuse) that I wanted to do something savory for this event.  Corn cakes are a long-time favorite, and they seemed the perfect choice.  And while there’s nothing quite like a plump, fresh cob of grilled or steamed corn, juicy and sweet and eaten with the same enthusiasm usually reserved for long-absent lovers, sometimes it’s just impossible to acquire the fresh kind.   That’s when frozen, or even canned (heresy!) come in handy.

The crêpes are based on a recipe I created a few years ago for a brunch event.  This time, however, I decided to pair them with a sweet and tart tomato concasse, and the combination improved the overall effect considerably.  The tracklement cooks up really quickly, in just the right amount of time to serve alongside the crêpes.  Savor these right away, or wrap up for later consumption–they’d make a great snack if you ever find yourself stuck on the highway for eight hours or so.

Corn Crêpes with Quick Tomato Tracklement

A savory pancake with occasional bursts of sweetness in juicy corn kernels, these are great with the accompanying tomato concasse for brunch or light dinner. Or use with other savory spreads such as hummus or avocado mayonnaise.

3 Tbsp. (45 ml.) sunflower or other light-tasting oil

1 c. (240 ml.) unsweetened soy milk or almond milk

1 tsp. (10 ml.) apple cider vinegar

1/2 cup (120 ml.) corn kernels, freshly cooked, frozen or canned (drained)

1/2 cup (120 ml.) water, vegetable broth or liquid from canned corn

1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) finely ground flax seeds

1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) agave nectar

3/4 c. (105 g.) light spelt flour

3 Tbsp. (45 ml.) organic cornmeal

3/4 tsp. (3.5 ml.) baking powder

1/4 tsp. (1.5 ml.) baking soda

1/4 tsp. (1. 5 ml.) sea salt

1 tsp. (10 ml.) dried dill weed or 1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) fresh dill, chopped

1/4 tsp. (1.5 ml.) smoked paprika

In a medium bowl, combine the oil, soymilk, vinegar, corn kernels, water, flax seeds, and agave nectar. Mix well and set aside while you prepare the dry ingredients, or at least 2 minutes.

In a large bowl, sift the flour, cornmeal, baking powder, soda, and salt.  Add the dill and paprika and mix well. 

Pour the wet mixture over the dry and stir just to blend (a few small lumps may remain here and there; this is as it should be.  The batter will be thin).

Heat a small nonstick or cast iron frypan over medium heat.  Using about 1/2 cup (120 ml.) batter per crepe, fill the pan and tilt if necessary to coat the bottom of the pan evenly. Allow 4-5 minutes before flipping the crepe (it is ready to turn when bubbles appear and pop on the top surface, creating little “craters,” and the edge of the crepe looks dry).  Cook briefly on the second side, only enough to dry the surface, about one minute.

Keep cooked crepes warm while you continue with the rest of the batter. Serve immediately.  Makes about 6 large or 20 small crepes.

Tomato Tracklement

1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) extra virgin olive oil

2 cloves garlic, minced

1/2 onion, chopped

4 plum tomatoes, skinned and chopped fine

1 tsp. (5 ml.) dried basil or 1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) fresh, finely chopped

2 Tbsp. (30 ml.) red wine vinegar

2 Tbsp. (30 ml.) sucanat or unrefined sugar

1/8 tsp. cayenne pepper

1/8 tsp. sea salt

In a small saucepan, heat the oil over medium-high heat.  Add the onion and garlic and sauté until the onion is translucent, about 5 minutes.  Add the basil and cook for one more minute.  Add remaining ingredients and continue to cook over medium-high heat, stirring frequently, until most of the liquid has evaporated and the condiment is thick and almost smooth, 10-15 minutes.  Serve warm or at room temperature over corn crepes, bread or crackers.  Makes about 3/4 cup.

When I first read about the blog event called No Croutons Required, hosted by Lisa of Lisa’s Kitchen and Holler of Tinned Tomatoes, my first thought was, “Yes! I’d love to contribute my favorite soup recipe!” 

Then, quick on the heels of that thought was this one: ”Hmmn.  No, maybe not.  Can’t use that one; too bland. Too boring.  Too commonplace. Too–I don’t know–too beige.” 

And yet, I love that soup.  It’s easy to make, the ingredients are staples we always have on hand, and it’s never let me down. It conjures warming memories of my childhood. In wintertime, it’s often the basis for a hearty, simple dinner in our house.  And it’s delicious!  

And that’s how I realized that yes, sometimes, beige is exactly what you want. 

You know what I mean.  Case in point:  we recently moved into this relatively new house.  The previous tenants had taken it upon themselves to paint every room according to their own eccentric tastes.  Living room:  mustard yellow, tomato red and rust.  Kitchen:  mint green and dusty rose.  Bedroom (I kid you not): DEEP PURPLE and MUSTARD YELLOW.  (Purple!  And yellow!)  Bathroom:  baby blue.  And so on, and so on. . .

Well, before we moved in, we had to have the whole thing freshly painted in a nice, neutral, beige-like color.  And while part of our choice was really just consideration for the next tenants and what they might like, that wasn’t the only reason we picked beige.  Beige is familiar. Beige is inobtrusive.  Beige is unoffensive.  And it goes with everything (unlike paisley, which, apparently, goes with nothing).

There are times in life when you could just use a little beige. 

When, for example, you finally break it off with that philandering Rocker Guy (he of the black leather pants), and now you desire a nice, standard-issue, plaid-shirt-Levis-jeans kinda guy.  Or when you’ve already contorted your mind watching Memento, Twelve Monkeys, Adaptation, or Dogville, and now you just want simple and easy, like On the Road to Morocco or Pretty Woman (yes, I realize that last one stars Julia Roberts, but she wasn’t quite so Julia Roberts back then, so I can live with it). Or when you’ve spent a romantic evening lingering over a seven course tasting menu of exotic, geometrically spectacular dishes and a magnum of Veuve Cliquot, and now you just crave a long, cool, soothing glass of plain vanilla. 

Or this, perhaps most of all: when you’re feeling desolate because winter has just gone on far too long with its relentless snowstorms and hours of shoveling, and what you yearn for more than anything is to seek refuge inside, peel off those sodden mitts and pants, curl up with a hot bowl of potato soup, and slurp.

This is the soup my mother made regularly when we were kids.  Unlike my dad’s soup (he was the Soup Master in the house), my mother’s potato and corn concoction was a conventional recipe without bells and whistles.  I’d never tire of watching as she peeled the potatoes, their spiraling, freckled skins falling silently on a sheet of paper towelling by the sink.  After she chopped the flesh into small cubes, she’d ease them by handfuls into the pot of simmering broth. Prep time was usually fairly hasty, as my mother had other things to attend to (such as watching her soap opera) while the soup bubbled gently on the stove. She’d return to the kitchen once or twice at commericals to stir the contents of the pot, but for the most part, the soup took care of itself.

Even though it isn’t fancy or flashy, this soup was a favorite in our house. Though unadorned with dumplings, noodles, or even a dollop of cream, don’t let this soup’s unassuming appearance fool you; this still broth runs deep. Under the basic plaid shirt and Levis exterior you’ll find a sensitive stock that’s more alluring than you might expect. It offers a serious nutritional contribution of potassium and other minerals (potaotes), beta carotene (carrots), soluble fibre and anti-diabetes qualities (corn and barley), all bathed in a reliable, stable, standup broth that would never break your heart. 

Oh, and it’s unabashedly beige.

My Mother’s Potato-Corn Chowder

No dissembling here; this soup is just what it appears to be–hot, milky, nourishing, and quintessentially comforting.  Potatoes and corn and carrots and celery cooperate beautifully to create a classically delicious chowder. This recipe was my mother’s specialty, and like her, exudes an understated charm.  

1 large onion, finely chopped

1-2 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil

2 medium carrots, diced

2 ribs celery, diced

1 large handful (about 1/3 cup) pot barley

2-3 potatoes, cut into 1-inch (2.5 cm) cubes

1 liter (4 cups) vegetable broth (I use Imagine)

1 Tbsp. dried dill

1 Tbsp. dried parsley

pinch paprika

1 tsp. garlic salt

freshly ground pepper, to taste

1-2 cups unsweetened soy or almond milk

about 1 cup fresh, frozen, or canned corn kernels

In a large pot or dutch oven, saute the onion in the oil over medium heat until translucent.  Add the carrots, celery and barley, and continue to saute for another 5 minutes or so, until the vegetables begin to soften.

Add the potatoes and vegetable broth, increase the heat to medium-high, and bring to the boil.  Once the mixture is boiling, lower heat to simmer and add the seasonings.  Simmer for about 30 minutes, until the potatoes and other vegetables are tender. 

Add the soymilk and corn and simmer until heated throughout. At this point, you may scoop out about 1 cup of broth and 1/2 cup of potato chunks and puree them together, then return the mixture to the pot for a thicker and creamier soup base.  (I like it the way it is, as the soup is quite chunky).

This soup is perfect on a winter’s afternoon, with a slice of hearty bread, or, if you must, with dumplings.  Makes 6 servings.