[As promised, today I'm posting a giveaway along with this recipe. Who knew there were so many Larabar fans out there? But no, my friends, sorry to say that no one guessed the bar I'm giving away! (Though I did love Alex's suggestion that it might be one of The Girls' treats.). I'm guessing these bars are new to most of you. . .so get ready to be delighted, to be taste-tempted, and to become an instant fan! To learn more about the bars and the giveaway, go here. Then be sure to come back to leave a comment--and for this yummy recipe!]
Remember last week, when I crowed about summer finally arriving in Southern Ontario? Well, little did I know that that single day would constitute the entire season! As of this week, we’re waking up to a distinct chill under ever-darkening skies; there’s condensation on my car windows when I slip into the driver’s seat; and the air has that crisp, hollow clarity that seems to catapult sounds exponentially, even across mountains (not that there are any mountains in our little suburb, of course, but you get the idea).
Huh? Where did our summer go this year?
This type of weather always brings to mind a course in oil painting I took back in tenth grade (my brain tends to free associate that way). With my high school art teacher’s encouragement and visions of a really hip garret in my mind, I rode the Number 17 bus across town for an hour each way every Thursday evening to sit at my easel and soak up instruction about rendering depth, shadows, perspective. . . and to paint nude models. Yep, this little 15 year-old moi was mighty shocked, I must confess, at the cavalier nature with which those women threw off their cover sheets and posed in any variety of positions for us novice painters (as I recall, I came down with a cold the evening of the male model class. . .but in reality, I was probably too freaked out to attend. Ah, sweet and innocent youth!).
One of the things I loved most about oil painting was the pigments themselves, the linimint smell and gooey texture, and the magical, musical names by which they were known: Burnt Umber. Burnt Sienna. Cerulean Blue. Cadmium Red. Cadmium Yellow. Yellow Ochre. I loved the cadences in the sounds and the appearance of the hues just out of the tubes–deep, intense versions of the real-life counterparts (sort of like using super-saturation when you doctor your blog photos–except real!). For some reason (perhaps the fact that I was born in the fall), the warming reds, oranges and yellows were most appealing to me, and I often painted with those.
Suddenly, all around our neighborhood are reminders of my foray into oil painting: amid the remnants of green, the trees are beginning to sport their fall finery, festooned with splashes of ochre, rust and crimson, all vying for prominence on the branches.
So when I served dinner to a couple of old friends last night, I thought this warm summer salad would be perfect. Leaning heavily on the emeralds of June and July, highlighted with the yellows of August and September, this dish bridges the short divide between summer and fall as the weather extends its first chilly grip (or would that be grippe?) on Ontario’s resentful denizens.
Remember that high school reunion I attended back in May? Well, ever since then, I’ve planned to get together with my old friend The Poet. The Poet (so named because he penned the poem that graced our yearbook’s cover page) and I were best buds back in high school and through our undergraduate years. He helped me survive those boyfriendless undergraduate years without feeling like too much of a social outcast, by providing a Saturday night perma-date. A contemplative, sensitive soul, TP could also be uproariously funny and always cracked me up.
Eventually, we lost touch. We had neither seen nor heard from each other until the reunion. Just as Sterlin and I were loitering around the hotel lobby after checkin, I heard a distinctive bellow: “Ricki Heller, I’d recognize you anywhere!” and turned to see none other than TP. (On one hand, I was flattered to hear this; I suppose it means I look sort of the same as I did in high school. On the other hand, I was a bit aggrieved to hear this. I mean, do I look the same as I did in high school??).
And while many of us that weekend promised to get together once we were back in the city, I really meant it when I vowed to contact The Poet again. And so, last evening, he and another old high school chum came to dinner.
This dish was one of the dinner’s highlights. Also featured were a terrific leafy green salad with roasted peppers and “goat cheese” (recipe anon); herbed sweet potato fries; raw almond-veggie pâté; and (for me) herbed walnut burgers (another recipe I’ll post soon) plus salmon for the guys. For dessert, I served the chocolate layer cake with chocolate buttercream frosting from Sweet Freedom** and filled it with sweet potato buttercream (a huge hit).
I based this recipe very loosely on one I came across in the Australia Women’s WeeklyVegetarian Cookbook, a salad called “Hot Spinach and Pea Salad” (even though the actual recipe lists chard, not spinach, in the ingredients!). Since I am wont to wax poetic about all things antipodean (I know, it’s more like, ”wax pathetic”), it makes sense I’d veer toward this dish. But I’ve made so many changes to the original, I consider it entirely mine now.
The salad can be served warm or at room temerature (I actually prefer the latter) and features a truly resplendent display of autumnal greens and golds. The flavors are mild and pleasing, without a sharp sting of garlic or spice; just a flavorsome combination of Asian seasonings, just-soft zucchini, crunchy, juicy beans and plump, sweet peas.
Best of all, it only takes 10 minutes to make–so you can still run outside and catch the last few rays of that elusive summer sun.
**For those of you who have the book, be sure to check the correction here!
Gold and Green Warm Summer Salad
A warm, filling dish that can help you through the transition from summer to autumn. You can use edamame in place of the peas if you’d like to boost the protein for a main dish.
1 Tbsp (15 ml) sesame seeds, toasted
1 Tbsp (15 ml) coconut oil, preferably organic
1 clove garlic, minced
6 collard leaves, shredded
1 medium (250 g) yellow zucchini (summer squash)
2 cups (480 ml) fresh green beans, cut in half
1 cup (240 ml) fresh or frozen peas or shelled edamame, thawed
2 Tbsp (30 ml) extra virgin olive oil, preferably organic
In a large, heavy-bottomed pot or cast-iron skillet, melt the coconut oil over medium heat. Add the garlic and collard and sauté until greens are wilted. Add the zucchini, beans and peas and cook another 2-3 minutes.
Meanwhile, in a small bowl, whisk together the olive oil, Bragg’s, lemon juice and ginger. Pour the mixture over the vegetables in the pan and cook another 2-3 minutes, until warmed through. Add salt and pepper to taste. Sprinkle with sesame seeds just before serving. Makes 4 servings. May be frozen.
Even though the HH is of Scottish descent and I hail from the Poles and Russians (the joke possibilities are endless, aren’t they?), we live in a predominantly Italian neighborhood. And while we enjoy a good relationship with most of our neighbors and have even become friendly with some of them, in some ways, living here has induced a bit of an inferiority complex.
I know it’s a cliché, but in our neighborhood, at least, the lawns are perfectly tended, with gardens that have been pruned and primped more than J Lo’s hair on Oscar night. On any given evening as the HH and I enjoy our stroll with The Girls, we pass yards that could qualify as tourist attractions, complete with plush grass carpets, a profusion of exotic flowers in myriad colors, and hand-crafted topiary in any variety of shapes (my favorites are the bear and cat shrubs–I kid you not). And while we like our house and do try to keep it in good repair, the HH’s idea of ”property maintenance” is picking up the newspaper from the porch each morning.
But in the realm of food–what a learning experience it’s been! I was already a lover of Italian cuisine even before we moved here, and felt a bit heartbroken when I was told I could no longer eat wheat. No more pasta primavera? No more wholegrain bread dipped in chili-infused olive oil? No more gnocchi–my all time favorite (and most elusive) type of pasta? Luckily, there are a couple of places in the city where I can still enjoy rice pasta or spelt pizza–and, of course, I can make my own.
Since we moved here, though, I’ve had a series of culinary coaches. Each time I enter the local grocery/deli to pick up something for the HH, Melvin, my friend behind the counter, offers a tutorial on the varieties of asiago cheese or which olives are best. Our (extremely generous) landlord, who lives only a few blocks away, provided all kinds of tips on how to plant and raise my tomato garden last year–then presented us with several jars of his own home-canned tomato sauce. (Thanks again, Vince!). And can it be that The Girls have developed a predilection for basil (pesto-coated potatoes at the top of the list)?
So, when I happened upon them in the bulk store a few weeks ago, it seemed only natural that I’d want to give lupini beans a try. A new legume I’d never eaten before! I grabbed a small bag full and headed to the cash.
“Have you ever eaten these?” I asked the cashier.
“No,” she replied, “but our Italian customers make them all the time. You have to soak them for ten days. But every day, you have to spill out the water and replace it. Do you still want them?”
Of course I still wanted them, I assured her. Besides, I knew she’d made a mistake. Who ever heard of a dried legume that needed ten days of soaking? Anyone who’s ever cooked dried beans from scratch knows that you simply soak them overnight, drain, refill, boil, and eat. Simple!
Er, sorry Ric, but that’s simply WRONG. After a bit of Internet sleuthing, I discovered that the cashier had, indeed, been correct. Apparently, a high alkaloid content produces a bitter taste that can deter even the most steadfast legume-lover from sampling the beans. Soaking, then rinsing and soaking again–and repeating the process every day for at least ten days–allows the bitterness to be washed away so that the beans are then palatable.
According to Purcell Mountain Farms’ page on lupinis, “All this effort is worth it. The Lupins family of the grain legumes are one of the highest in protein content, second only to soy beans.” Hooray for serendipity–and an alternative to tofu!
Lupini beans are generally served at Easter or other holidays (and no wonder–when else would people have the time to prepare them?). I suppose you could simply boil them in advance, then keep in the fridge while you moved on to other holiday dishes. Once they’re ready to eat, you replace the soaking water with salted water (brine). This way, the beans will keep for weeks in the refrigerator. Here’s a basic tutorial, including info about the tough outer skins.
In the past, while in the midst of baking a birthday cake or other multi-ingredient confection, it’s often occurred to me, ”Who ever thought it would be a good idea to mix raw broken eggs, milk, sugar, flour–and then take that wet mixture, pour it into a metal pan, and bake it?” I mean, why on earth would they assume that would work out? In this case, did someone cook up the beans just like any other, bite into one only to spit it across the room like the sparks flying off a welding torch before suddenly thinking, ”Hey! Why don’t I take these putrid beans, put them in a jar, refresh the water once a day for ten to fourteen days, and then taste them again?!” Seriously, how do these recipes come about?
Well, luckily for us, some fool masochist did think to repeatedly rinse the beans before eating, and we all get to benefit from the innovation. While I can understand the reverence these tidbits receive in Italian homes–they are springy, toothsome and offer the same snacky enjoyment as biting into unshelled edamame (with the same “pop” as you crack the tough outer skins and enjoy the inner bean), I’m not sure I’d make them again. Checking on the beans for ten days felt like a commitment just shy of cohabitation, and I’m not sure I’m that much in love.
Laced with extra virgin olive oil, garlic and sage, however, these made a delectable contribution to our antipasto plate a while back, providing a great boost to the protein content of my meal. I’ve still got half a jar left in the refrigerator, too. Which, come to think of it, would make a great gift for my landlord.
A great snack once you’ve got them on hand. . . just don’t plan on eating these at the first sign of hunger.
About 1 cup (240 ml) dry lupini beans, rinsed and picked over
4 cups (1 liter) water, plus more for boiling
salt
1 clove garlic, minced
splash of extra virgin olive oil
ground or freshly chopped sage, to taste
Place the beans in a pot in the water and soak overnight. After 24 hours or so, drain the beans, refill the pot, and bring to a boil. Boil gently until the beans are relatively tender (these will never get really soft), 1-2 hours.
Drain and rinse the beans. Place in a clean jar or container and cover with water. Place in the refrigerator and change the water once a day for 10-14 days (it took mine a full 14 days for the taste to lose all its bitterness).
Once the beans no longer taste bitter, add salt (to taste) to the water in the jar. They can be stored this way in the refrigerator.
When ready to eat the beans, remove some from the jar and splash with olive oil. Toss in the garlic and sage, and dig in. Makes about 2 cups (480 ml) beans.
[NB: Just a reminder that you have eight chances to win a free copy of my new cookbook, Sweet Freedom, in the next post!]
I was around 12 when my friends and I first began to find ourselves interested in boys as romantic partners, and not simply background annoyances during art class. (Yes, twelve is ancient by today’s standards!)
During that year at school, we girls were all given a little blue pamphlet (because pink would have been so conventional, and this was a progressive publication, you see) with a title something like, “For the Young Lady.” It was sponsored by Modess sanitary napkins (who knew it was pronounced “Mo-DESS”?)–and it was filled with platitudes about “what attracts a boy.”
Each page offered a different imperative, such as, “Boys like a girl who sits with her ankles crossed” and “Attractive girls always chew with their mouths closed.” But the decrees that made the strongest impression on me all concerned comportment–how to present yourself in the unspoken quest for a male: ”Always walk with your head high and your shoulders back,” or “Boys like girls who stride from the hips, not the waist” (still don’t get that one), or “Boys appreciate girls who laugh at their jokes.”
I spent many hours sequestered in my bedroom, eyes fixed on my contorted image in the mirror as I endeavored to perfect a near-military posture, shoulders pinned stiffly back, hips thrust forward and derriere in the air in an exaggerated arch (the origin of my current lumbar problems, perhaps?), laughing at imagined quips in a (vain) attempt to imitate the dulcet giggle of Serena (the more beguiling cousin on Bewitched). Unfortunately, I ended up looking like that farmer whose body is overtaken by aliens in Men in Black.
For some time after I studied that booklet, I worried that I was perhaps too much “myself,” and that was the reason why my friends all had beaux while I stayed home Saturday nights watching SNL (wait a sec–I still stay home Saturday nights watching SNL!). But I just couldn’t bring myself to “laugh at their jokes” if the jokes weren’t funny. Or to pretend I didn’t know the Calculus answer when I did. Or to fuss over his shiny red sportscar when really, isn’t it just a big metal box that gets you where you want to go?
As I got older, I began to believe that “being myself”–despite any drawbacks to my social life–was just easier than trying to be someone else. I’m with Mark Twain on this one, who once remarked that you should always tell the truth; “that way, you don’t have to remember anything.”
Fittingly, I’ve come to feel the same way about foods: comestibles should be just exactly what they are, rather than aspire to be a lesser imitation of something else. Partly for that reason, I’ve often resisted making veggie “burgers” (there are but two such recipes on this entire blog). It’s not that I don’t like a good, juicy veggie burger as much as the next guy (I tend to order burgers–and my beloved sweet potato fries–almost every time I go to a particular popular resto here in Toronto). It’s just that, for the most part, veggie burger recipes I’ve encountered in the past are often a thinly veiled attempt to impersonate a similar burger of the animal variety.
I just don’t see the point in using one food (for example, soy) to stand in for another food. If I wanted meat, I’d eat meat. I have no illusions that my tofu is going to taste like anything other than tofu–though that’s not to say it won’t be well-marinated, savory, intensely flavored tofu.
So if you’re looking for “meaty” burgers, I’m guessing these may not appeal to you; these are really and truly veggie burgers. They are not brown or pink like meat (their golden hue clearly suggests a more herbaceous origin). They are not dense and sinewy. They proudly pronounce their contents with clear flecks of chopped veggies. There is simply no mistaking that this is a vegetarian food. Eat these, and you are unequivocally entering a “no-meat” zone.
I got this recipe from my major ACD reference, The Complete Candida Yeast Guidebook. At first, I was skeptical that anything created specifically to help eradicate candida could be flavorsome. In the end, though, I actually loved these. With a hearty slather of avocado mayonnaise, they were the a perfect segue to spring. (These would also be smashing with some tahini-miso sauce.)
In typical fashion, the HH dismissed the patties as “too veggie” and continued reading his newspaper. But after I set down my plate, smacked my lips a few times and licked my fingers, he peered over the Business section and couldn’t resist asking for a bite.
“Not bad at all,” was the initial verdict. Pause. “Hmm, those are pretty good.”
I kept eating.
About halfway through the meal, he commented, “You know, those were great. They taste like something you’d get at one of those expensive health food restaurants.”
I kept chewing.
A few minutes later, he added, “You know, I’d eat one of those.”
Oh, really? What a surprise!
“Would you like me to heat one up for you?” I asked.
“Sure, that would be great,” he said. Then he scarfed it down in less time than it takes to push back your shoulders, thrust out your hips, and giggle oh-so-fetchingly.
Well, if you’ve read this blog for any time at all, you know that this scenario plays itself out fairly frequently in the DDD household; change the recipe, but the gist of the exchange is the same. Why, then, won’t the HH simply learn his lesson and trust me that he’s going to like what I cook, vegan or not? No idea. Guys are still a mystery to me, blue pamphlet or no blue pamphlet. But at least the HH is consistently the HH–his true, authentic self.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Springtime Veggie Burgers
adapted from Complete Candida Yeast Guidebook
These burgers really do evoke spring, with their multicolored flecks of vegetable matter, garden flavors and lighter texture. They’re perfect baked, as I made them, but would be great on the grill as well.
1 cup (240 ml) cooked, drained beans (I used chickpeas–but black beans, kidney beans, navy beans or pinto beans would be wonderful in these)
1 cup (240 ml) chopped mixed vegetables (I used carrot, celery, red pepper and tomato) or vegetable pulp from a juicer
1 small onion, cut into chunks
1/2 cup (120 ml) raw sunflower seeds
1 Tbsp (15 ml) raw pumpkin seeds
1/4 cup (60 ml) fresh parsley or cilantro, chopped
1 Tbsp (15 ml) Bragg’s, tamari or soy sauce
1/2 tsp (5 ml) dried dill weed
1/2 tsp (5 ml) dried basil
1/2 tsp (5 ml) dried tarragon
1/4 tsp (1 ml) fine sea salt
dash cayenne
1 tsp (5 ml) finely ground flax seeds
1/4-1/2 cup (60 ml-120 ml) flour (I used chickpea, but any mild-flavored flour would do; and finely ground breadcrumbs would be great in these)
Preheat oven to 375F (190C). Line a cookie sheet with parchment paper, or spray with nonstick spray.
Place everything except the flour in the bowl of a food processor and blend until almost smooth and only small flecks of vegetables remain (I like my burgers fairly homogenous; if you prefer chunkier burgers, process a bit less). Sprinkle with 1/4 cup (60 ml) flour to start, and pulse to combine; check the texture of the mixture with your hands. It should be very moist but still hold together. If the mixture is too wet, add more flour until desired consistency is reached.
Shape the mixture into 6-8 burgers, depending on how big you’d like them. Flatten each burger to 1/2 inch (2.5 cm) thickness and place on the cookie sheet, spacing evenly (these won’t spread as they bake).
Bake about 15 minutes on one side, then flip and bake another 10-15 minutes on the other side, until burgers are lightly browned. These may also be cooked on a flat grill; spray with olive oil spray and grill 8-10 minutes on one side, then flip and grill another 5-8 minutes on the other side.
Serve in buns with all the accoutrements, roll into wraps with tortillas or leafy greens, or serve with flatbreads. Makes 3-6 servings. May be frozen.
As we often do, the HH and I made the trek to Montreal over the long weekend to spend the holidays with my family. While I long ago became accustomed to toting along some sort of sustenance for these trips (my diet, even when I’m not on a candida cleanse, is considered fairly “out there” by the rest of my kinsfolk), this last visit presented a particular challenge, as I couldn’t even partake in those few foods I normally eat when staying with the CFO.
As a result, our cooler was packed a little more than usual as we departed for La Belle Ville. At our pit stop near Kingston, the HH bought himself a regular coffee and chicken club at Tim Horton’s, while I munched on grape tomatoes, baby carrots, and my new favorite hummus–a Curried Pumpkin variety.
The hummus came about the week before we left, as I was standing in the kitchen ruminating (figuratively, of course) about how much I miss my beloved pumpkin oats (à la Shelby) since I began this infernal ACD. While I ruminated (literally) on some hummus, it occurred to me: why not combine the pumpkin with my hummus instead? Eureka! I threw together some standard hummus, tinkered with the spices and fats, and ended up feeling rather smug for having created a unique, ingenious and flavorsome dish. Immediately, I determined to blog about it.
Well, a few days later, I encountered Vegan Yum Yum’s post about Apple Pie Coffee Cake. The post opened with the following line: ”I have a knack for inventing things that have already been invented.” Ooops.
Rather quickly, I was accosted by insistent, niggling doubts (sort of like Chaser when she wants to go for a walk) about my hummus. Could it be that my original invention already existed? Eventually, I succumbed and, after a quick Google search, discovered that pumpkin hummus abounds on the Internet. In fact, it’s almost as ubiquitous as those little popups (you know the ones–those rows of laughing emoticons) that invade your screens when you’re looking for something else. Curses!
I did take some comfort, however, in the knowledge that all of us, at some time or another, have probably considered an idea or concept of ours to be entirely unprecedented, only to discover fairly quickly that scores of others had already considered the very same thing.
* * *
The scene: Ricki, aged 17, returns home from CEGEP. The Nurse hunches over the kitchen table, enjoying a Fresca and reading Family Circle.
RICKI [flushed with pride at her own discovery]: Hey, did you ever consider how every person sees everything through their own mind? I mean, maybe each of us is actually living in our own little world, which is, like, just our own consciousness, and maybe everything else is just an illusion? Like, what if you’re not really here, but you’re only here because I think you’re here–what if everythng in the world is just an offshoot of my own imagination, creating my reality? What if there’s really nothing else except me? Whoah. Weird, huh?
THE NURSE: I hate to tell you this, but that’s a common theory. It’s called solipsism. Just read some philosophy, genius. Geez. [She yawns. Ricki sinks under the table].
Or how about the same scene, six years later:
Ricki and the CFO are hunched at the kitchen table, drinking Diet Pepsi and reading People magazine.
THE CFO: Hey, Ric, did you ever consider how every person sees everything through their own mind? I mean, maybe each of us is actually living in our own little world. . . . . What if there’s really nothing else except me? Whoah. Weird, huh?
RICKI: I hate to tell you this, but that’s actually a common concept. They even made a movie about it–The Matrix. Just rent the film (which is much more fun than reading philosophy; besides, Keanu Reeves is much cuter than Descartes).
* * *
Well, no matter. Original or not, this hummus is delightful. With its subtle, sunny glow from both pumpkin and turmeric, to the slightly sweet spice from a mild curry and creamy chickpea base, the flavors meld beautifully to create an enticing appetizer or sandwich filling.
When I served this at dinner last week, the HH proclaimed, “This is the best hummus I’ve ever had,” and made me promise to prepare it again.
Now, I’d be inclined to agree with him, except of course I can never be 100% certain that his experience of hummus is identical to my experience of hummus. . . I mean, what if he’s referring to something entirely different from me when he says “best”? And what if I am actually living in my own little world, separate and distinct from his, and the HH is just a figment of my imagination? (Well, okay, I guess that wouldn’t be so bad–it would just mean more hummus for me!). Either way, I’ll be making this again.
Curried Pumpkin Hummus
Unlike most hummus recipes, this one includes no added oils–the almond butter and tahini provide enough fat to render this smooth, creamy, and very satisfying. (And quite original, don’t you think?) It’s great as a filling in raw collard wraps–as seen above–too.
3/4 cup (180 ml) packed cooked pumpkin purée, fresh or canned
2 Tbsp (30 ml) smooth natural almond butter
3 Tbsp (45 ml) tahini (sesame paste)
2 large cloves garlic, minced
1-1/2 tsp (7.5 ml) mild curry powder
1 tsp (5 ml) cumin
1/4 tsp (1 ml) fine sea salt, or to taste
1/4-1/3 cup (60-80 ml) fresh chopped cilantro, to taste
Cover the chickpeas with water and allow to soak overnight or at least 8 hours. Drain and cover with fresh water in a large pot. Bring to boil, reduce heat to medium-low, and cook until very soft, about 40 minutes. (Alternately, use canned, well-rinsed chickpeas).
In the bowl of a food processor, combine the drained chickpeas and remaining ingredients and process until smooth (add up to 1/3 cup or 80 ml water to achieve desired thickness). Scrape into serving bowl and drizzle with olive oil, if desired. Serve with pita chips or raw veggies, or use as a filling in sandwiches or wraps. Makes about 3 cups.
The three of you who were reading my blog last year at this time may recall that I am not a fan of winter. “What?” the rest of you ask, “and you from Montreal?”
Well, I’m here to tell you that being born in a certain place doesn’t automatically predispose one kindly toward the weather of said location (nor does it predispose one to winter sports; in other words, no, that’s not a tatoo on my rear, but a lingering bruise from a skating accident back in 1981). To me, the ideal climate would be temperate, neither too hot nor too cool (I’m thinking between 68 and 80 Fahrenheit, or 20 and 22 Celsius), with sun about 95% of the time (just enough rain to ensure there’s no drought) and terrain surrounded by lush, grassy, fragrant forests with treetops that sway and quietly rustle in the breeze, like Hawaiians doing the hula. Oh, and no bugs. And no snakes. Or spiders. And, what the heck, may as well throw in a yellow brick road, while you’re at it.*
But here we are, too far into November to deny the imminent crystalline entombment, and I must face the fact: it will be winter soon. And what is there to do? Generally, when I’m feeling down, my options fall into two categories: 1) food-related; and 2) dog-related. As I write this, The Girls are sleeping off their early walk with the HH; and so, it seems, the next step is alimentary, my dear.
While baking is always my first instinct in the kitchen, I do enjoy cooking as well. These days, it’s rare for me to spend any more time than necessary making dinner (read: 20 minutes, tops), but yesterday, I felt the need for the extended, meditative experience of slow cooking. In the morning, I loaded the dutch oven with dried beans and water; and by 7:00 PM, we were feasting on my age-old, many-times-refined, much-tweaked recipe for chili with mixed beans and “ground turkey.”
[Seems I still haven't quite mastered the focus on my dandy new camera, but you can still make out the meaty-looking crumbles in there, can't you?]
When I was a kid, I used to think chili acquired its name because it was meant to be eaten in cold weather. While it’s true that this soup-cum-stew is best served in cool weather, it wasn’t until I began to read up on Indian cuisine that I discovered the name actually referred to a spice blend often used in the mix. Trusty Wikipedia tells me that Chili con Carne is the official dish of Texas; and that particular bowlful, it turns out, is the version made without beans. Most of us, I’d wager, still think of beans when we think of chili, however.
I also think of chili as the chameleon of stews: years ago, a friend who’d just returned to Canada from three years in Mexico served me mole, another form of chili; the notion of sharp spices with just an undertone of bitterness seemed immensely appealing (don’t be alarmed at the coffee and chocolate in this version!). And a recipe once given to me by a former student from India featured simmered, pulled beef and a variety of curry spices with lentils.
I first cooked chili when I was an impoverished graduate student living in Windsor, Ontario. The recipe developed over the years, and what was once a fairly basic vegetarian chili has morphed over the years into my own version of the dish. I include frozen tofu that’s been defrosted and crumbled to resemble ground meat (in fact, the first time I made this for the HH, he assumed the tofu was ground chicken. Perfect for skeptics!). The HH and I also both agree that chili should be more of a stew than a soup, so I simmer mine until almost all the liquid is absorbed and the beans are suspended in a kind of spicy tomato sauce. If you prefer yours thinner, simply cook a bit less or add a bit more water.
Eventually, my own additions became so numerous that even my enormous dutch oven was barely adequate to hold the stew, and I had to stop adding ingredients. As a result, this makes a huge batch, and enough to freeze in single-serve containers that will sustain you through the winter. While you slurp it up, just imagine that you’re somewhere warm, and green.
This chili provides a thick, spicy, filling and very substantial meal.Don’t let the long ingredient list deter you—this recipe makes a big batch that you can freeze for later, and it’s definitely worth the effort!
2 Tbsp. (30 ml.) extra virgin olive oil
1 large onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 small jalapeno pepper, minced (remove seeds for less heat)
1 green pepper, chopped
1 red pepper, chopped
1 rib celery, chopped
1 large carrot, diced into small cubes
1 block firm tofu (about 12 ounces or 350 g.), frozen at least 24 hours, defrosted in boiling water, squeezed dry and crumbled
1-1/2 cups (375 ml.) dried beans, soaked overnight and cooked (try a combination of kidney, black, pinto, romano, chick peas, yellow peas, lima beans, great northern beans, navy beans, or other beans of your choice)
2 large cans diced tomatoes
1 small can tomato paste
1 Tbsp (15 ml.). chili powder
1 tsp. (5 ml.) dried coriander
1 (5 ml.) tsp. dried oregano
1 tsp. (5 ml.) dried basil
1/2 tsp. (2.5 ml.)dried cumin
1/4 tsp. (1 ml.) cayenne
1/2 tsp. hot pepper sauce (such as Tabasco or Red Hot)—omit for less heat
1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) instant coffee or coffee substitute
1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 cup (120 ml.) corn kernels (use drained, canned, or frozen)
Heat oil in a large dutch oven over medium heat.Add onion, garlic, and jalapeno, and sauté until onion is soft.Add peppers, celery, and carrot, and sauté about 5 minutes, until vegetables begin to soften.
Add remaining ingredients except corn.Stir well and allow to simmer for at least 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.(This chili is best if left to simmer over very low heat for about an hour).Add corn and heat through.
Serve in soup bowls with hearty bread.Makes 8 servings. May be frozen.
*That’s right, mate, it’s no coincidence that my dreamscape is pronounced “OZ.” (Well, except for the spiders and snakes. Darn.)
