Diet, Dessert and Dogs

Well, I suppose it had to happen eventually. . . winter has finally arrived in Toronto.  *Sigh*.  I really, really would love to live somewhere that I don’t have to don at least 4 layers of clothing (that would include torso, head, hands, and feet) in order just to walk out the door without permanently damaging my epidermis.  To allow the dogs a mere 12 minutes of romping at the local baseball field (that was all I could stand of the chill), it took 15 minutes to get dressed and another 10 to peel off the top 3 layers when I got home.  Dogs are lucky that way, aren’t they?  Permanent fur coat; gloves not required.  (“That may be true, Mum, and we love the cold, but you do have that opposable thumbs thing going on, which could definitely be perceived as an advantage.”)

Well, cold weather makes me think of soup.  And soup on a winter’s day makes me think of my mother’s chicken soup, a Friday night ritual in our house throughout my childhood, even though my dad worked late every Friday and didn’t even stride through the door until we kids were already in pyjamas.  Friday night was Chicken Soup Night.

And where do I come to parsnips from my mother’s soup, you might ask?  Why, in the soup itself.  The soup was begun early in the day, with Mom pulling out the largest stockpot in the house and filling it two-thirds full with water.  First, she’d tie up a whole bunch of fresh dill with twine (or, in a pinch, white sewing thread) and toss it in; then she’d add whole vegetables: one peeled onion; three peeled carrots; three stalks of celery; and a huge, peeled parsnip.  These were followed by hunks of chicken which simmered through most of the day, the flesh turning from pink to white to gray as it rose to the top of the pot, bobbing like the remnants of an airline catastrophe on the ocean, the heavy scent of chicken grease permeating the house.

Needless to say, I did not enjoy my mother’s chicken soup.

Of course, in those days, I had no idea that the seemingly anemic carrot my mother  used was called “parsnip”; I thought it was actually named “pietroshkeh” (pee-ET-rosh-keh), which is what my parents both called it.  (I also believed that the main character of my first children’s book–a tome I proudly read aloud, using my new skill of sounding out each and every letter–was called “Murse Rabbit,” until I was about 10.  It was then that The Nurse informed me “Mrs” was actually an abbreviation for “Missus.”  The humiliation!).

I still don’t know whether pietroshkeh is the Polish word (from my dad’s childhood in Poland) or the Russian word (from my mother’s ancestors), but I carried it with me until my late 20s, when someone served roasted parsnips to me at a holiday dinner and I asked what they were.  Imagine my surprise when I realized I’d already been eating them–and hating them–my whole life!

Luckily, I adored the roots in their roasted form.  Unlike the mushy, over-boiled parsnips of my mother’s soup, these actually tasted good.  And they had a subtle sweetness about them, the outsides partially caramelized through roasting, flavors mingling with the aromas of rosemary and thyme.  They were delicious!  Who knew they could be used in other ways besides watery, grey, fatty chicken soup?  Thus began a love affair with parnsips, and a quest to afford them their due.

I ate roasted parsnips, parsnips in faux mashed potatoes, or almond-crusted parsnips over the years, but I had never tried a baked good with parsnip.  Then, one Saturday at the organic market where I sold muffins and other treats a few years ago, a colleague brought in parsnip loaf.  Like a winter-pale version of its tanned carrot cousin, the parsnip loaf offered the same warming spices, slight sweetness and flecks of grated flesh distributed throughout.  Indeed, you can substitute carrot here if you prefer, but the parsnip adds its own unique character to the loaf, an understated spiciness and sweet appeal that no other vegetable can provide. 

Try these moist, flavorful quick breads, and I bet you’ll end up loving the lowly pietroshkeh, too.

Parsnip Mini Loaves or Muffins, with GF Option

A lovely, intensely flavored muffin for breakfast or an afternoon snack.  The fruity flavors of orange and banana meld wonderfully, and the parsnip adds moisture and substance with just a hint of its earthy flavor.

Version I (contains gluten)**:

finely grated zest and juice of one large organic orange (wash before zesting)

1/2 cup (90 g) Sucanat or other unrefined evaporated cane juice

1 medium very ripe banana, mashed or puréed

1 large parsnip (about 9 ounces or 250g), grated on medium blade of your food processor or largest holes on a box grater

1/4 cup (60 ml) sunflower or other light-tasting oil, preferably organic

1-3/4 cups (260 g) light spelt flour

1 Tbsp (15 ml) baking powder

1/4 tsp (1 ml) baking soda

1/4 tsp (1 ml) fine sea salt

2 tsp (10 ml) cinnamon

1/2 tsp (2.5 ml) ground nutmeg

1/2 tsp (2.5 ml) ground ginger

Preheat oven to 350F (180C).  Line 6 mini loaf pans or 9 muffin cups with paper liners, or spray with nonstick spray.

Pour the orange juice into a glass measuring cup and measure out 1/2 cup (120 ml).  If your orange didn’t yield at least 1/2 cup (120 ml) liquid, add water to equal that amount. 

Place the orange zest and juice in a medium bowl with the Sucanat, banana, parsnip and oil; mix well.  Set aside to allow the Sucanat to dissolve somewhat.

In a large bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger. Add the wet ingredients to the dry and stir just to blend (do not overmix!). 

Using a large ice cream scoop or 1/3 cup (80 ml) measuring cup, scoop the batter into the prepared pans (they should be quite full).  Bake for 30-35 minutes, until a tester inserted in the center loaf or muffin comes out clean.  Cool 5 minutes before turning onto a rack to cool completely.  May be frozen.

Version II (Gluten Free)**:

finely grated zest of one large organic orange (wash before zesting)

3/4 cup (180 ml) pure orange juice

1/2 cup (90 g) Sucanat or other unrefined evaporated cane juice

1 medium very ripe banana, mashed or puréed

1 large parsnip (about 9 ounces or 250g), grated on medium blade of your food processor or largest holes on a box grater

1 Tbsp (15 ml) finely grated flax seeds

2 tsp (10 ml) finely grated chia seeds

1/4 cup (60 ml) sunflower or other light-tasting oil, preferably organic

1 cup (150 g) All-purpose gluten-free flour (I used Bob’s Red Mill, but you can use your own mix if you prefer)

1/4 cup (30 g) coconut flour

1 Tbsp (15 ml) baking powder

1/4 tsp (1 ml) baking soda

1/4 tsp (1 ml) fine sea salt

2 tsp (10 ml) cinnamon

1/2 tsp (2.5 ml) ground nutmeg

1/2 tsp (2.5 ml) ground ginger

Preheat oven to 350F (180C).  Line 6 mini loaf pans or 9 muffin cups with paper liners, or spray with nonstick spray.

In a medium bowl, place the orange zest, orange juice, Sucanat, banana, parsnip, flax seed, chia seed and oil; mix well, ensuring that the chia is well distributed and doesn’t clump.  Set aside to allow the Sucanat to dissolve somewhat.

In a large bowl, sift together the all-purpose flour, coconut flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger.  Add the wet ingredients to the dry and stir just to blend (do not overmix!). 

Using a large ice cream scoop or 1/3 cup (80 ml) measuring cup, scoop the batter into the prepared pans (they should be quite full).  Bake for 30-35 minutes, until a tester inserted in the center loaf or muffin comes out clean.  Cool 5 minutes before turning onto a rack to cool completely.  May be frozen.

**NOTE:  These are NOT ACD-friendly recipes (since they contain banana and Sucanat; some anti-candida diets even prohibit oranges.  Sorry, my ACD cronies.) 

Last Year at this Time: Herb and Feta “Polenta” Appetizers

Two Years Ago: Turnip and Pear Soup (with apologies to Samuel Beckett)

© 2010 Diet, Dessert and Dogs

[Sometimes, you just want to eat something now.  I've decided to offer a mini-post every once in a while, for a dish that comes together incredibly quickly or else is so easy to make that no recipe is required. Here's today's "Flash in the Pan." (For other FitP recipes, see "Categories" at right).]

[Rutabaga "fries"--who'd have ever thought?]

I hadn’t intended to post another Flash in the Pan so soon after the chia pudding a while ago, but it’s been that kind of week over here at the DDD household. . . and all I’ve had time for are lightning-quick recipes. 

No matter; these oven fries have quickly become a new little obsession.  They’re a simple, speedy way to spruce up your more conventional oven fries, and a convenient means to use root veggies that you might not normally consider eating (to wit, rutabaga–in fact, this is the only way I’ve ever had that vegetable and actually liked it!).  And with the crazy Canadian weather still throwing a few final chilly rainstorms our way, these are a great comfort food.

[Parsnip fries--they'll make you a fan of parsnips!]

You can use pretty much any root vegetables you fancy here, or mix up several in one batch for a tasty, higher-protein side dish.

[Sweet Potato fries--a classic!]

So far, we’ve had these with rutabaga, parsnips, and sweet potatoes, but I can envision all kinds of variations:  regular spuds would be a perfect foil for a spicy, almondy crust; or how about your favorite squash, cut into fries?  You could even bake up some cauliflower florets this way. 

I’ll be back next time with a “real” recipe for some yummy burgers. . . AND an exciting book giveaway!

“Mum, we’d be happy eating pretty much any variation of these. . . or how about just giving us some of that almond butter coating?”

Almond-Crusted Root Vegetable Oven “Fries”

This recipe couldn’t be simpler.  The only caveat is to be sure to bake the fries long enough, so that the coating becomes somewhat crispy; this isn’t the time for mushy, just-done fries.  When properly baked, the almond coating crisps up nicely, the fries themselves begin to caramelize and sweeten, and the whole package is entirely irresistible. 

1 medium rutabaga, 3 medium parsnips, 2 medium sweet potatoes, or other root vegetables of your choice, peeled and cut into thin fry-like strips

3 Tbsp (45 ml) smooth natural almond butter

1 Tbsp (15 ml) extra virgin olive oil, preferably organic

1/2 tsp (2.5  ml) fine sea salt

other spices of your choice:  garlic salt, curry powder, cumin, garam masala, Chinese 5 spice powder, etc.  (about 1 tsp/5 ml total)

Preheat oven to 400F (200C).  Line a large baking tray with parchment paper, or spray with nonstick spray.

Place the “fries” in a large bowl.  In a small bowl, combine the almond butter, oil, and spices. Drizzle the coating over the fries, and toss the mixture with a large spoon (or even better, your hands) until they are all evenly coated.

Line the fries up on the cookie sheet in a single layer.  Bake 35-50 minutes (depending on thickness of your fries), until the coating is browned and a bit crispy, and the fries are fully cooked.  Makes 3-4 servings.  Will keep, refrigerated, up to 3 days.

Years ago (oops, make that a decade), during the tumultuous year after my starter marriage dissolved, I lived with my friend Gemini I.  As two single thirty-somethings interested in social events or activities that might bring us into contact with eligible men, we decided to try out some cooking classes (what were we thinking?  We might as well have looked for guys in the pantyhose department at Macy’s.  .  . oh, wait a sec: apparently, in Australia, that’s exactly where you might meet some guys these days). 

In any case, we signed up for one series run by a well-heeled Toronto chatelaine who’d attended Le Cordon Bleu (it was only a weekend seminar, but she never told us that) and decided to teach classes out of her home.  It took just one evening, and I was hooked; after that, Gemini I and I attended about half a dozen more classes as well.  It’s not that I actually learned very much; and the food, while fine, wasn’t the most spectacular I’d had, either. But oh, what a house!

Oh my, how I envied her house.  Situated beside a thickly forested ravine on a cul-de-sac in the tony Rosedale area, Ms. Culinati’s residence was a massive, ivy-covered, stone-and-brick Tudor style mansion of at least 5,000 square feet, almost more like a museum than a home.  At over 100 years old, the building’s interior had been completely renovated and rendered ultra-modern inside.  The setup was perfect for cooking classes: after passing beneath the towering entryway, we participants filed across the open-concept first floor (tiled in marble), toward a state-of-the-art kitchen just off the entrance.  There were six cushy stools lined up against one side of a wide, grey and black granite peninsula, which also divided the room and separated us from the cooking area. 

Ms. Cordon Bleu held forth on the opposite side of the counter behind the built-in stainless steel stovetop, prepping ingredients and chattering about the best shop in Paris to buy Le Creuset, the plumpest, most perfect berries at All the Best on Summerhill (even back then, I recall that a pint–about  500 ml.–of strawberries cost over $4.00 at that store), or how she flew to New York last weekend to pick up the very best fleur de sel (because really, you simply couldn’t use anything less).  

Despite the fact that our personal orbits existed in completely different universes, I still enjoyed the recipes, the skillfully selected wines that accompanied them, and the stolen glances around the rest of the house as I ostensibly attended to our cooking.  And, of course, it was always rewarding to have an evening out with Gemini I.

Most of the dishes I encountered in those classes, I will never make again, either because they contain ingredients I no longer eat, or because they contain ingredients far too extravagant for everyday consumption (last I heard, her courses had morphed into all-out travel tours, wherein participants flew to Tuscany for a week to cook and live together in a villa.  Who are these people, and how can I be written into the will? Just asking).

Still, almost despite herself, in one class Ms. C.B. provided us with this recipe for Curried Root Vegetable Chowder with Dumplings.  And while the original soup contained chicken broth, butter and wheat flour, it was a cinch to convert.

I’ve loved this chowder since the first time I slurped it back in the 1990s.  It’s one of the easiest soups you’ll ever make (and while the dumplings are marvelous and do elevate the broth an echelon, you can just as easily forego the sophistication, toss in some elbow pasta, and happily spoon this up for a quick weekday dinner). Once the veggies are chopped, it’s a matter of a quick sauté, a splash of prepared broth, and a sprinkling of ONE spice: mild curry powder. It also makes use of an underused, but very tasty, root veggie: celery root.

It sounds almost too simple, I know; but believe me, the result will astonish you. The varying levels of sweetness from the different roots, along with the whisper of curry, combine for a soothing, warming and entirely captivating dish. This is one soup you’ll want to stay at home for. In fact, it’s the perfect soup to charm those eligible guys–that is, once you find them. 

This month’s No Croutons Required is asking for soups or salads with pasta.  I’m hoping these dumplings count. The event was started by Lisa and Holler and is this month being hosted by Holler.

Curried Root Vegetable Chowder with Dumplings

(adapted from a very old recipe from The Art of Food Cooking School)

This is the perfect soup to serve to guests; the dumplings elevate this to a fancier level, yet the soup is down to earth and very appealing.  For a gluten-free option, omit the dumplings or use your favorite dumpling recipe with GF flour.

2 Tbsp. (30 ml.) extra virgin olive oil

1 small onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, minced

1-1/2 tsp. (7.5 ml.) mild curry powder

4 cups vegetable broth

2 medium carrots, peeled, halved and cut into 1/2-inch (1 cm) pieces

2 large parsnips, peeled, thick end halved lengthwise, and cut into 1/2 inch (1 cm.) pieces

1 small celery root (celeriac), trimmed, peeled and cut into 1/4 inch (1/2 cm) cubes

1 medium sweet potato (yam), peeled and cut into 1/2 inch (1 cm.) cubes

1 tsp. (5 ml.) sea salt, if broth is unsalted

freshly chopped cilantro, for garnish

Dumplings:

1 cup (140 g.) spelt flour

1-1/2 tsp. (7.5 ml.) baking powder

1/2 tsp. (2.5 ml.) sea salt

1/2 tsp. (2.5 ml.) nutmeg

2 Tbsp. (30 ml.) cold coconut oil

1/4 cup (60 ml.) currants

5-6 Tbsp. (75-90 ml.) unsweetened soymilk or almond milk

To make the soup, heat the oil in a large pot or dutch oven over medium heat. Add the onion and cook for 3 mintues.  Add the garlic and curry powder and cook for another minute or so.

Stir in the broth, carrots and parsnips.  Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer. Cover and simmer for 10 minutes.  Stir in the celery root and sweet potato and cook for 10 more minutes.

Meanwhile, make the dumplings: In a medium bowl, sift the flour, baking powder, salt and nutmeg.  Rub in the coconut oil  (pinch the mixture between your thumb and fingers repeatedly) until the mixutre resembles a coarse meal.  Add currants and toss to coat.  Add milk and stir with a fork until the mixture comes together.

Season the broth with salt and pepper to taste.  Then roll bits of the dumpling dough (about a tablespoon for each) into balls and place on top of the simmering broth.  Cover and cook without disturbing for 15 minutes.  Remove the cover and divide the soup into 4 bowls [I've found it makes much more than this]. Garnish with cilantro and serve.  May be frozen.