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Why, oh why did I choose Sundays? What was I thinking? I must have been on a chocolate high at the time and totally out of it. Otherwise, why on EARTH would any sane person choose Sunday morning to track her weight loss (which, at this point, is actually a misnomer; for, as of this morning, I am now tracking my weight gain. Oh, woe).
Well, I suppose I can take some small comfort in the fact that we spent all of last evening at a spectacular birthday bash for my friend Gemini I’s husband. And, given that my mouth was basically open for business between 6:00 PM and midnight last night, I’m assuming some of this is temporary (I’m hoping. . . .). Enough self-recriminations–must move onward! And man, that gal sure knows how to throw a party.
For your entertainment pleasure, I thought I’d try to remember as many as I can of the continual flow of appetizers and h’ors doeuvres that floated by all evening, aloft many a wait-staff’s capable hands. In addition to a huge buffet table heaving with platters of cheese, crackers, olives, breads and spreads and cut fruits, there was also an endless array of hot and cold appetizers, including stuffed button mushrooms, garlic-stuffed olives, one-bite caramelized onion quiches, mini crab cakes with wasabi dollops, bocconcini-stuffed sundried tomatoes, mini shrimp dumplings, mini hamburgers (yes, with mini buns–looked like plastic toys, actually!), mini cold rice paper spring rolls, chicken satay skewers, mini grilled cheese sandwiches, and a probably six or seven other choices I’ve forgotten.
The dessert trays were deadly, heaped with one-bite brownies in three or four flavors, double-chocolate chip cookies and plain ole vanilla ones, three kinds of biscotti, miniature individualized banana splits served in shot glasses, all topped off by the birthday cake, an enormous rectangle of vanilla sponge decked out with cream and fresh strawberries, all tied up with white chocolate ribbons and bows.
One side of the room served as a bar station, where servers were generously dispensing custom pomegranate-blueberry martinis (I have no idea what else was in it, but it was delicious) and any type of wine or liquor you choose. I was thrilled to see my favorite Australian shiraz in the group. . . all I can say is, good thing I wasn’t the designated driver last evening (thanks, HH!).
As it turns out, Gemini II’s daughter is actuallly a vegetarian in a highly carnivorous family, so there were lots of veggie options there–though I’m not sure whether that was actually good for me or not. I threw WOCA to the winds and ate more than my fair share (and am paying the price for all that wheat I consumed).
Which leads me to. . . .salad. After that kind of indulgence, today I’m craving something basic. A simple, cleansing salad seems in order.
Now, I must admit that I’ve never really been a salad person. Is it because I don’t like salads? No, that wouldn’t be the reason; I thoroughly enjoy my mixed baby greens, for instance, whenever the HH and I have dinner at one of our local haunts. After reading about the need to properly toss a salad on The Good Eatah’s blog recently, I thought my tossing skills might not be up to snuff. Or maybe the idea of cold, raw veggies smack dab in the middle of a cold, raw winter is just too painful to bear? But that’s not it, either; I do still enjoy munching on my cold, raw apples and grapefruit.
Part of my aversion to salads may be rooted in the meals of my childhood, when “salad” meant iceberg lettuce, woody tomatoes, and wobbly cucumber slices, unceremoniously slathered with mayonnaise. Still, I was confident that years of therapy had finally eradicated that association. No, I’ve decided that the reason for my anti-salad stance is actually twofold: first, being basically lazy, I’ve always found it just so much work to wash, peel, and cut up all the veggies. And second, my frugal (okay, downright cheap) nature has too often prevented me from taking advantage of time-saving salads-in-a-bag, as I’m unwilling to fork over my hard-earned discretionary spending money on those overinflated prices. You see my dilemma.
Still, once in a while I encounter a salad that does seem worth the extra effort, and today’s recipe came to mind. Just like a fulfilling relationship, a bowl of delectable salad greens may take some work, but the result is eminently satisfying (hear that, HH?). Such is the case with several of our staple salads here in the DDD household, such as the Asian-Inspired Napa Cabbage Salad, the always-popular “Broccoli Delight” from my friend Caroline’s cookbook, or the super-easy and absolutely irresistible Raw Kale salad (“Ohh, Mum, that kale salad is our favorite! Pick that one!”). All these are delicious (and I’ll post recipes in future), but this time, I favored dandelion.
This simple, appealing salad accompanied our highly successful Savory Stuffed Crepes, which the HH and I enjoyed for brunch the other day. Originally, this recipe called for the duo of pears and dandelion, but once, when I ran out of pears I subbed apples, and have now come to prefer the latter combination.
I first tasted dandelion greens during my year studying nutrition, but had been daydreaming about them since my early twenties, when I read the novel The Bone People by New Zealand author Keri Hulme. In the book, the protagonist (an eccentric hermit whose lifestyle I sorely envied at the time) produced her own dandelion wine. Well, if I can’t have the wine, I suppose the leaves will have to do. . . .but I would still love to sample that fermented version one day.
The salad marries a subtle, slightly sweet and creamy dressing with the bitter gusto of the dandelion. Being high in calcium and other minerals, dandelions are a natural health food. They’re also a great liver tonic, stimulating that all-important organ to filter the “bad” cholesterol out of the body. And after all that booze last night. . . .well, come to think of it, I could have used a fresh juice with some dandelion leaves in it, too!
The recipe produces an abundance of fresh dressing that pools gently at the bottom of the bowl, perfect for sopping up with scraps of bread or for treating The Girls to a dressing-topped dinner. (“Um, Mum, did we hear that correctly?”) Overall, the salad is crisp, light, and very refreshing. (“Didn’t you just say, ‘dinner,’ Mum?”) And it offers a fabulous array of minerals and vitamins. (“We were sure we heard ‘dinner.’ Isn’t that right, Mum?”) And, as dandelion is both a high-antioxidant food and a leafy green, I’m submitting this recipe as my contribution to Sweetnicks’ weekly ARF/5-A-Day roundup (check it out on Tuesday evenings). It would make the perfect accompaniment to a healthy dinner. (“Knew it! Is it time yet? So, when do we get some?“)
Bittersweet Salad with Apples and Dandelion Greens
adapted from Enlightened Eating by Caroline Dupont
The recipe was created by the exceedingly talented Jennifer Italiano, owner of Toronto’s first all-raw restaurant and one of my personal favorites, Live Organic Food Bar (they’ve now expanded the menu options to include macrobiotic and some other cooked items).
1/4 cup tahini (may be raw)
1 cup freshly squeezed orange juice (I’ve used reconstituted, and it’s not as good)
2 Tbsp. dulce (or other dried seaweed) flakes
1 Tbsp. freshly grated ginger root
1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp. curry powder
pinch salt
1 large bunch dandelion greens, large stems removed, chopped
2 pears or apples (I used fuji), cored and thinly sliced
1/4-1/2 red onion, thinly sliced
In a blender or in a bowl and using an immersion blender, mix all ingredients thoroughly (until the seaweed is well pulverized).
In a large salad bowl, combine the dandelion, pear, and onion. Pour the dressing over all and toss gently.
Allow to sit for at least 10 minutes (up to 2 hours), to marinate. Makes 4 servings (two in our house).
How can someone, especially someone who purports to be interested in healthy eating and vegetables, reach the ripe old age of 40-something and still never have tasted a turnip? Shocking, I know; but yes, indeed, that someone is moi.
I blame it all on Modern American Drama. One of the first courses I took as a university student, it was taught by my mentor, John Ditsky , for whom I harbored a 20 year-long crush (but that’s neither here nor there).
Truly, since my undergrad days, whenever I’d think of turnips, all that came to mind was that scene in which Estragon asks Vladimir for a carrot but gets handed a turnip instead–and the turnip, having resided in his filthy coat pocket for who knows how long, is not exactly an appetizing substitute. So, for many years, just the thought of turnips would throw me into a bout of existential angst. I believed turnips to be the unwanted progeny of carrots. Or perhaps parsnips. Or, on the other hand, just anything. But then, I thought, what is anything, anyway? And aren’t we all just nothing waiting for something? It was just a turnip, after all, no more than that. Nothing to be done, nothing to be done. . .oh, when will He arrive? When?? Must. . . take. . . off. . . this. . . .boot! [She exits. End of Act I.]
Soooooo. . . . back to the turnips. When our organic produce box arrived this past week and I spied a kilo bag of turnips, I was thrown into a panic. What to do, what to do? Would there be a way out of this mess? (“Yes, you had us rather worried for a bit, Mum. And why do you keep talking like that? Who is this Godot person, anyway?”).
Well, I decided it was time to Confront the Turnip. Like it or not, I was going to cook with these babies! In order to survive the ordeal, I decided to start small, something easy and relatively foolproof. Soup!
One of our favorites here in the DDD household is a fabulous Parsnip and Pear soup from Flip Shelton’s Aussie cookbook, Green (and since turnips are the illegitimate offshoots of parsnips, it gave me an idea . . . ). I had been both surprised and delighted by the fabulous melange of smooth, sweet, spicy, and savory in that soup. Shelton’s recipe was extremely simple, yet the final result exalted the lowly roots and fruit to a level beyond the sum of their parts. I thought, what about a similar recipe for turnips with pears?
As usual, we had a bunch of overripe pears in the house, so there was no problem finding the fundamental ingredients. And it also occurred to me that this would be a very suitable entry to Sweetnicks‘ weekly ARF/5-A-Day roundup, so it will also be my contribution to that event this week.
After a bit of digging around for some kind of turnip and pear soup recipe, I found something that sounded appealing in my old Sundays at Moosewood cookbook, called, oddly enough, Turnip and Pear Soup. The challenge began!
The soup was ridiculously easy to prepare, and took only about 30 minutes from start to finish (including peeling and chopping). It was warming and really quite tasty. While I know that turnips are not to everyone’s taste, if you’re feeling adventurous (or existential–I mean, who knows when we’ll next have the chance to taste a turnip?), then go ahead and give this one a try.
And, well, if it turns out you don’t like it, I suppose you could always serve it to Pozzo and Lucky. They’ll eat anything.
Turnip and Pear Soup (adapted from Sundays at Moosewood Restaurant)
1 large onion, chopped
2 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
3 medium-large turnips, peeled and chopped
3 large ripe pears, peeled and chopped
1 tsp. dried thyme
1/2 tsp. sea salt
2-3 cups vegetable broth (depending on how quickly the vegetables cook)
1/4 tsp. nutmeg
1-1/2 to 2 cups pear or apple juice
freshly ground black pepper, to taste
In a large saucepan, saute the onion in the oil for about 5 minutes, until translucent but not browned (I ended up browning it a bit, and it didn’t seem to make a difference). Add the chopped root vegetables and fruit (if used) along with the salt and herbs. Saute for another 10 minutes or so, stirring occasionally.
Add the vegetable stock and cook, covered, on low heat for 20 to 30 minutes, until the vegetables are soft and tender. Add the spices. In a blender or food processor, puree the soup with juice or milk, until smooth and thick. Season with black pepper to taste. Garnish with fresh or more dried thyme, if desired. Makes 4 cups.
Necessity is the mother of many a new recipe in our house.
Because there are only the two of us (humans) living here (“Don’t forget about us, Mum!“), it’s usually fairly easy to decide what to have for dinner, or what to buy at the grocery store. My HH and I share many a similar taste, except for all that animal flesh he eats, and we even enjoy cooking together whenever we do cook (which seems to be less and less frequently these days, come to think of it).
One thing we have in common is an apathetic response to pears. I crave a fresh pear probably twice a year–no connection to any other event or season; it’s just something that happens, and then I eat a pear. When I do bite into it, I do appreciate all its lush juiciness, smooth, aromatic flesh and the little-known fibre boost it supplies.
Pears wouldn’t be a problem over here, except that we are also the happy recipients of a weekly organic fruit and vegetable box. When I’m not being lazy, or when I have extra time on my hands, I will contact the company ahead of time if there’s something I don’t want (such as cantaloupe, or extra mushrooms) and they will kindly exchange it for something else I do want (such as kale, or sweet potatoes). However, more often than not, I am forgetful this way, and we end up with two to four pears in the box.
If I’m indifferent to fresh pears, my HH is positively aloof. He won’t eat them; doesn’t like them; won’t even so much as glance in their direction. The result of this situation at home is the all-too-frequent overly ripe pears sitting in a bowl in our kitchen, looking ennervated and gloomy and feebly hanging on for dear life. What to do?
In the past, I’ve simply chucked them, with no fanfare and lots of guilt (well, at least I put them in the organic waste bin). Then I realized that I could quarter, core, and freeze them for later use in a morning smoothie, along with my frozen banana and berries. This worked well, and I enjoyed the added flavor imparted by the pears. Eventually, though, the number of ziplocs containing pears just grew too large.
A couple of weeks ago, I decided to whip up some of my favorite oatbran banana muffins, and grabbed a bag of frozen overripe bananas to defrost. To my dismay, I realized once it was too late to re-freeze them that the melted, leaky mass in the bowl wasn’t bananas at all, but a batch of my frozen pears. What to do?
The pear slices were too soggy and soft to use as they were (and certainly not suitable to cut into dice, as is so often the requirement for any baked goods made with fresh pears). I had a wonderful recipe for pear and ginger muffins that I’d made about a year ago, but it called for freshly diced pears, and this mass of oozing, juicy, soggy goo was just too amorphous for any such recipe.
Then it hit me that I could do with the pears what I had intended to do with the bananas: grab my trusty hand blender and whip them in to a puree. Then use the puree in a quickbread recipe.
I got to work and concocted what I thought would work. I even threw in some Salba, as I’d just bought my first bag (for the low, low price of $13.70!!!) and wanted to experiment. An hour later, I had four pear and ginger loaves–a little too flat, a little too dry, but on the right track. A few more test runs, and I was pleased enough to give the results to my HH to taste. I told him it was a “spice bread.”
Well, let’s just say, the days of the Pear Prohibition are over. My HH made quick work of 2 loaves in succession that very night, then asked for another for breakfast the next day. I’ve since told him they contain pear, and he’s even okay with it.
Here’s the recipe, so you can see what you think. Another reason I’m excited about it is that this will be my first contribution to the ARF/5-A-Day Tuesday round-up next week, hosted by Cate at Sweetnicks.
[NB. Those eagle-eyed among you (okay, technically "between you," since among is reserved for more than two) will notice that there is, indeed, a photo attached to this post, despite my earlier whining that I'd forgotten my camera up north. Luckily, I shot a few photos of my pear loaves last week, when I baked them. Wow, that free camera can snap nifty photos!]
Mini Pear and Ginger Loaves
1-1/3 cups (approx 325 ml) pear puree (can be fresh or previously frozen; use overripe pears)
2 tsp. (10 ml.) freshly grated ginger root
2 Tbsp. (30 ml.) finely ground chia seeds (I’m guessing you can substitute ground flax seeds as well)
2/3 cup (160 ml) agave nectar (dark or light–your choice)
1/2 cup (120 ml) organic sunflower or other light-tasting oil
2 Tbsp. (30 ml.) good quality balsamic vinegar
1 tsp. ( 5 ml.) pure vanilla extract
1/2 tsp. (2.5 ml.) pure lemon extract
2/3 cup (75 g.) walnuts, broken into pieces
1-1/3 cups (175 g.) whole barley flour
2/3 cup (85 g.) whole oat flour
1-1/2 tsp. (7 ml) aluminum-free baking powder
1 tsp. (5 ml) baking soda
1/2 tsp. (2 ml.) sea salt
2 tsp. (10 ml.) ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp. (1 ml.), scant, ground cloves
Preheat oven to 350F (180C). Lightly spray an 8-loaf mini loaf pan (or 8 individual mini loaf pans) with nonstick spray, or line with paper liners.
In a medium bowl, combine the pear puree, ginger, Salba, agave nectar, oil, vinegar, vanilla, and lemon extract. Mix well, then gently fold in the walnut pieces. Set aside while you measure the dry ingredients, or for at least 2 minutes.
In a large bowl, sift together the flours, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon and cloves.
Pour the wet mixture over the dry mixture and stir to combine. Do not overmix (it’s okay if a few small dry lumps remain here and there). Using a large ice cream scoop or small measuring cup, pour the mixture into the loaf pans, filling about 3/4 full (these won’t rise a lot more once they’re in the oven).
Bake in preheated oven for about 30 minutes, rotating the pan once after 20 minutes to ensure even heating. Loaves are ready when a tester inserted in the middle comes out clean but moist.
Cool 5 minutes in pans, then remove to racks to cool. These freeze well. Makes 8 mini loaves. May also be baked as muffins.
Final note: the last time I whipped these up, I was probably daydreaming while stirring and forgot entirely to add the oil; it didn’t make a huge difference, and they were still delicious. So you can also bake these as fat-free Pear and Ginger Mini Loaves or Muffins, if you wish.
[This recipe will also appear in my upcoming cookbook, Sweet Freedom, along with more than 100 others, most of which are not featured on this blog. For more information, check the "Cookbook" button at right, or visit the cookbook blog.]
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