I am a big fan of blending my gazpacho, although I also like it chopped. It depends on the goal: if avocado and lots of herbs or a green pepper are part of the plan, then pureeing is not the strategy, except when I dine alone. I don’t mind eating brownish soup. (Shhh.)

But tonight I had mostly red in my kitchen, and a puree was ideal. (Although I didn’t have any strawberries or cantaloupe on hand, I would likely have added some for the sweetness–a little fruit in gazpacho is really subtle and delicious.) When I’m making a blended batch, I reserve some of the chopped vegetables for  texture, and usually add some other garnish–sometimes shrimp, crab or avocado. I’ve never considered a floating crostini…that would feel too fussy for this kind of edible spontaneity.

Tonight I had some sweet, jumbo lump crab, to which no mollusk or crustacean compares.

**Note: this soup is best if it has time to sit: I recommend making it in the afternoon (or a day before) and blending once more just before adding garnishes and serving.

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Today’s Gazpacho

Generously serves 2

3  medium tomatoes, cored and rough chopped

1 large, red pepper, cubed

1 medium, yellow pepper, cubed

1/2 red onion, diced

1 large cucumber, peeled, seeded and cubed

1 jalepeño pepper, diced (optional)

Juice of 1 lemon

Generous bunch of fresh basil

Olive oil, s & p

1/2 c jumbo lump crab

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Blend the vegetables, reserving about 1/2 cup to mix into the puree just before serving.

Add jalepeño in parts, to taste.

Add a few leaves of basil, and more if you’re happy with the taste and color.

Drizzle olive oil into the puree, and add lemon, salt and pepper to taste.

Just before serving, chiffonade remaining basil and garnish bowls with chopped veggies and jumbo lump crab.

When this blog was young, before I bought myself a respectable camera, I took pictures with a teensy point and shoot, whose viewfinder is so small it looks like a postage stamp. I want to take it to Goodwill, but the camera is covered in sticky crumbs and has butter in all of its metallic creases, so I’ve kept it. I moved on to a fancier point and shoot for a while there–one with a ‘food’ setting–but then I started reading other food blogs and realized that my photos were an absolute embarrassment. They’re still here because I am sentimental and want my great, great grandchildren to have access to all accounts of my cookery, just in case they’re curious about what a dead relative was like. Honestly, though, I blush at the idea of anyone looking at food pictures I took before May, 2009. This will probably be funny to read in the year 2109, so laugh it up little ones, if you’re out there.

But to those of you who read other incredible blogs, like 101 Cookbooks, Orangette, or Smitten Kitchen, please don’t judge me for my bizarre recipe choices. After all, I’m only doing my best to keep up with the caliber of food photography out there–and to do so, I must shoot by day. I’ve tried to hard to make more elegant lunches, but frankly, people don’t typically come over for lunch. Cooking up a grand meal for 1 in the middle of the day is a sad idea indeed. I’d rather throw cold leftovers onto a bed of lettuce and eat in a much less depressing fashion. This is why full-out, gorgeous pieces of meat and fish are rare appearances here at Bread & Courage. I’d even venture to say that whatever recipes do involve warm proteins are remnants of my point and shoot days, before I realized that big, white flash patches are not all that appetizing.

In that respect, I guess, this post isn’t really a departure from what I’ve been up to. After all, Ceviche is cold–and as old as a leftover. But it is at least a leftover worth writing about, since its extended time in the refrigerator is what makes the dish so worthwhile. I had never made Ceviche before this week, but I will never be intimidated again.  The possibility of eating (or feeding) raw fish is pretty frightening, and I’ve always wondered if I’d botch the marinating process or buy bum fish. (Although I suppose if I fully believed that, I would stop eating at dive-y sushi joints.) But really, my own hand in it is what scares me most. It still does, I’ll have you know, but not because of the cooking process.

Ceviche takes care of itself, and is refreshingly uncomplicated–especially if you use a fork or wear rubber gloves. The only qualm I have (which is entirely preventable!) is that Ceviche can make you smell–strongly–like a fishmonger. You’ll need at least 8 limes for this recipe, and I suggest buying a couple of lemons, too, so that you can vigorously scrub your fingertips after you’ve chopped and mixed the fish. When you serve it later, please have hearty chips or forks alongside so that your guests won’t go home cursing your recipe. And DO NOT send it with your husband as a ’snack’ at the office. These warnings should by no means be a turn off: Ceviche is too delicious to shy away from either for its raw-ness or for its scent. Just marinate it for a solid 8-12 hours (I let mine sit a full day)… and be sure it’s not served as finger food.

I like Ceviche full of chopped herbs and vegetables, although you can leave out the extras and serve it as plain as you like. I also used a 1:1 ratio of scallops and shrimp, although comparably-sized pieces of white fish or calamari are also delicious.*  Either way, be sure that the fish is swimming in juice–if any pieces are exposed, squeeze more lime, or shake the bowl every few hours to ensure that all of the fish gets ‘cooked.’

Shrimp and Scallop Ceviche

Serves 2-3 as a main course

1/2 lb shrimp, peeled, deveined, chopped

1/2 lb scallops, cleaned and chopped

2 stalks celery, diced

1/4 c cilantro, finely chopped

1/4 c parsley, finely chopped

1/2 yellow bell pepper, diced

1 c  cherry tomatoes, cut in half or quarters

2 green onions, diced

1/2 Serano pepper, finely diced (about 1 T)

1/2 cup lime juice (about 8-10 limes)

salt and pepper

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Squeeze limes to render 1/2 c lime juice.

Place fish in a bowl with a lid, large enough to accommodate all of the other ingredients.

Pour lime juice over fish and let sit 8-12 hours at a minimum, although preferably longer.

1 hour before serving, drain half of the lime juice and add chopped vegetables and herbs.

Season to taste just before serving.

*It goes without saying that if you decide to add more fish to the recipe, you’ll need to add enough lime to keep the ratio of lime juice to fish the same.

But there is a problem with strict meatlessness when you live with a carnivore. And an even greater problem when you live with a carnivore in Texas and all of his friends are also carnivores. And the problem intensifies when you like his friends…and people, generally. Because not a lot of great dinner parties I’ve been to have featured a meatless dish.

Michael Pollen first put my dilemma (as it were) into focus: civilization was built around the fire. Roasting meat, not unlike the way it’s done at dinner parties, is the key to coming together. This is especially true of dinner parties in Texas. No one would come over to my house if I offered them quinoia pilaf. Except, maybe, my yoga teacher. So, I succumb. Not because my body wants to fill itself with flesh, but because my soul wants to be connected. More often than not, ‘breaking bread’ comes with a side of some communal butchered thing. And people are more important to me than anything–even a few hapless shrimp and the occasional pig.

So, the time is nigh for writing about this shrimp and sausage  soup. I’ve been doing a lot of twisting and bending lately, and if I don’t get this on the page soon, you will be even less likely to make it. Which would be a shame because it is delicious—and if you can find some well-treated pigs and happy, pink shrimp, all the better.

This meal is ideal for an omnivorous winter party—it just sings with flavor and spice. It is silky with occasional bursts of meaty chewiness. Delicious. And even though I’m not generally enticed by meat, there is something about pork in soup that really gets my belly rumbling. There’s no doubt that the best pots I’ve made have begun with a slab of pork salt, pancetta, bacon or, in this case, sausage.

This is the kind of meal I imagine would bring, not just individual nomads, but entire tribes of nomads, together. That is, if they had access to boar that wandered close to the Spanish coast. Its broth has just the right texture, consistency and richness to leave you feeling like you could roll away from the fire and fall asleep. Which is pretty close to what my group did the night we ate this. I dare say, vegetarians ought to make an exception for this dish. Dark winter days call for a bit of fleshy spice. And as they lift their bowls, they should say what I said to myself, “To civilization! Here, here.”

Spicy Shrimp and Chorizo Stew

Adapted from Food + Wine

Serves 6 as a main course

2 lbs medium shrimp, shelled and deveined—save shells
2 quarts chicken broth
8 oz Andouille sausage, chopped and removed from casing
1 large, sweet onion diced
1 large carrot, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
28 oz can crushed tomatoes
1 tablespoon all-purpose flour mixed with 2 tbsp of water
S & P
Parsley, for garnish

Simmer shrimp shells in chicken broth about 10 minutes. Strain the broth and discard the shells.

In a large soup pot, cook the sausage over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, until browned.

With a slotted spoon, transfer the sausage to a separate plate.

Put the onion, carrot, garlic and paprika to the pot and cook over moderate heat until softened, about 10 minutes.

Add the crushed tomatoes and cook until the liquid has evaporated, about 15 minutes.

Return the sausage to the pot, add the shrimp broth and bring to a boil. Simmer over moderate heat for 25 minutes. (If you are doing this soup in advance—which I did—pause here and let the soup stand until you are almost ready to serve. Before following the next step, bring soup to a warm temperature.)

Stir the flour mixture, whisk it into the soup and boil for 2 minutes.

Season soup with salt and pepper.

Add the shrimp to the soup and cook just until pink and curled, about 2 minutes. Ladle the soup into bowls and top with parsley.

Once upon a time in 2006, I attended a summer financial program in Hanover, New Hampshire. In three weeks—nearly the most miserable twenty-one days of my twenty-one years—I learned little more than that I had no business at business camp. I had enrolled right after college graduation, hoping to postpone the inevitable job-market—or at least make myself more marketable.

Graduation came and went in a soggy flourish, but as soon as I got out of a rainy Philadelphia, I was back at school again, studying spreadsheets in the glorious green mountains. Although I endured the program for a full month, it took less than a single lecture for me to come upon a pretty simple formula: Isabel + Spreadsheets = Tears.

Indeed, I spent most of that sun-shining June wearing wet misery upon my face. I woke up in the night, febrile, tearing, tossing and terrified, like a little dinghy on fire out in a stormy sea. The workload was horrible—intended to mimic life as a banker—and most of my peers were econ or accounting majors. Yes, I was definitely out to sea. Nothing in my arsenal of literary theory had prepared me for this. I was in a cellular Hell, surrounded by McKinsey-courting, money-crazed madmen. All I wanted was to be a writer, I lamented, slinking away into the woods, wishing some sylvan hero would rescue me, a worn “Walden”tucked in his back pocket.

Which brings me to this tidbit: my frustration was also born from a certain sideways glancing boy I' d noticed in the lecture hall. He had dirty blond hair, the kind that curls a bit at the nape of the neck, and wrinkles around his smile…the kind that make me weak at the knees. On the first day of spreadsheet modeling class, I watched him unwrap a Bartlett pear from a brown paper bundle and eat it slowly, half chewing, half sucking, all while cradling its bulbous bottom as juice slinked down his fingers and dripped into his lap. It was quite a show.

Naturally, images of this impish fellow kept me up at night, and I was torn between wanting the days to pass so I could get out of my office-dormitory, and wanting them to last a bit longer, so that he and I might get a chance to speak. Well, one day we did—the 26th of June, when he sent a note that challenged me to a race up the fire tower. Not knowing what that was, I accepted, on the condition that he fetch me at 5am. After a very sleepless night, we were off. I lost. But the view up there was spectacular, and afterward, we had croissants and coffee by the river and took a very nude-ish dip before our accounting lecture at 8am.

July 4th soon followed, and by then we had traded accounting class for trips up trees with bagfuls of cherries. We spit pits at each other from our perches—highly romantic, indeed. We celebrated our Independence by drinking Moonshine he' d made (those Dartmouth boys are like grown-up scouts) and eating salted Edamame pods, knee-deep in a creek. We walked to the nearest grocery store as the sun started to soften, and bought ourselves a picnic of feta cheese, an aged baguette, green peppers, (which I later admitted I find too bitter) a gigantic tomato and fresh basil to eat in a field while the fireworks boomed for us.

As I limn this three years later, he' s sitting by my side, reading the Financial Times. He finally got a day off! He made the trip to my parent’s house in Connecticut late last night! And while I' m still grumbling about Thoreau and feta cheese, he' s gone off and become a banker. But, in his spare time, he has helped me make this one of our favorite summer recipes. Try it with somebody you love, and if you can get your hands on some homemade lemonade and Moonshine, you' ll love them even more.

Salmon Burgers with Zucchini and Fennel Slaw

Adapted from Gourmet

Serves Two (easily halved if your dining partner is busy with a spreadsheet)

6 Tbsp Mayonnaise
4 tsp fresh lemon juice, divided
6 Tbsp chopped chives
2 tsp grainy mustard
¼ tsp cayenne
½ pound skinless salmon filet, chopped
8 saltine crackers, crumbled
2 medium zucchini, grated (or 3 cups)
1 small fennel bulb, trimmed and sliced thin
s & p
Olive Oil
Dijon mustard

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Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Whisk together mayo, 2 tsp lemon juice, chives, mustard, cayenne and salt and pepper (about ½ tsp of each).

Stir together salmon, crackers, 1 ½ cup zucchini, and half of mayonnaise mixture in another bowl.

Add fennel and remaining zucchini and leftover lemon juice to mayo mixture in medium bowl and toss to combine slaw.

Form salmon mixture into 4 patties and place on a baking rack for 12-15 minutes, until fish turns lighter in color. Serve with slaw and a dab of Dijon mustard.

Alternatively, you can cook salmon cakes in a skillet over medium heat, which takes about 6 minutes.