In the meantime, he caught this fish:

He caught several fish last weekend, so I know his casting isn’t a fluke either.

I married up.

Come dinner, I felt like I had a first class ticket to an old lady’s house in Tripoli. No jet lag. I was wrong to think that the magical combination of Middle Eastern spices could only be had in some far away place–or at a restaurant owned by someone from a far away place. As it turns out, Christopher substitutes fine for a Lebanese grandmother.

I watched him make these on July 4th. It looks pretty simple, and requires only things my parent’s already had in their spice rack. The only critical component was leaving enough time for the spices to enliven the lamb. He made the meatballs after lunch, and let them sit until dinner. On the grill, they get crispy outsides, but hold up fine, even without breadcrumbs or yolks. We served these with a simple yogurt, cucumber and dill sauce.  Some call it tzatziki.

Lamb Kafta

4 cloves garlic

1 tablespoon kosher salt, plus a pinch

1 pound ground lamb

3 tablespoons grated onion

3 tablespoons chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley

1 tablespoon ground coriander

1 teaspoon ground cumin

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon ground allspice

1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

1/2 teaspoon curry powder

1/4 teaspoon ground ginger

Freshly ground black pepper

Olive oil, for brushing the grill

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Dice the garlic as finely as possible, then rub in sea salt to form a paste, using the flat-side of a knife.

Add the spices, onion, garlic and parsley to a large bowl and mix completely.

Add the ground lamb to the spices and mix until fully blended.

Roll into 1/2″ patties and refrigerate, at least 3 hours.

Grill for 3-4 minutes per side.

It’s been tough in most places this winter, and these are the cold doldrums. In lots of cities, there are heaps of hardening, sandy snow. We don’t have that in H-town, but I did have a snow day a few weeks back. Nothing fell from the sky, but there were icicles on my window. It was so nice to have that front come. I even saw a frozen puddle.  While it was cold I made lentil soup and wished I lived in one of those snowy cities.

I haven’t experimented nearly enough with lentils. They seem so humble: tiny little things, typically brownish green, easily mushed. To be honest, beans tend to get away from me all together, unless they come from a can. The soaking process is too technical, I guess. Beans always lose their skins in my pots.

But not lentils! They don’t even need to soak at all. And it’s perfectly ok (actually delightful) if they come apart in a soup. This is helpful for someone who tries at all times to keep one eye on the Constitution while cooking. Tonight, I got spaghetti sauce on my Amendments. I marked due process (from the Fourteenth) with a splattering of red.

In fact, I was learning spending powers on my snow day. I rolled out of bed at 7 to a crystalized pane, had a bowl of oats, and finished a paper (we had to write a snow day paper!) by 11. I made this pot in time for lunch… and it made my Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. I wish I’d saved some to freeze, but I was greedy.

The soup is adapted from 101 Cookbooks, where it’s called, “Lively Up Yourself Lentil Soup.” It does that. Especially if you add a little bit of sausage. Whole Foods has a wonderful spicy chicken link that tastes like it should be from a much bigger, mammalian animal. If you’re picking that up, I recommend grabbing a loaf of Seeduction bread. I flirted with seeds and soup until the Texas weather warmed up, and when it did, I missed winter. Some day, I will make heaping pots of hot soup and snowshoe across my favorite bridge. I’ll hike my way to a pot of coffee at the Dirt Cowboy and enjoy a cold nose and the static of a wool hat. But I’ll remember that this soup first came alive for me in Houston.

Saffron Lentil Soup

2 cups lentils, rinsed, rocks removed

1 T olive oil or butter

1 large, white onion, chopped

A 28-oz can of crushed tomatoes

2 cups water

3 cups spinach

A pinch of saffron

1 spicy chicken sausage (or otherwise)

1/4 c grated, hard cheese for serving (I like Peccorino)

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Place about 6 c of water in a sauce pan and bring lentils to a boil.

Cook about 20 minutes, or until tender and drain.

Bring a bit of boiling water to a boil and soak saffron threads, set aside.

Heat oil or butter in a large pot, and saute the onion, adding the chicken sausage as the onion begins to brown.

When the onion and sausage are browned, add the tomatoes, lentils, saffron broth and 2 c of water and bring to a simmer.

After the soup has reduced a bit, add the spinach.

Serve warm with a sprinkling of cheese and good bread.

This soup is nothing to mess with. It is loaded with vitamins, antioxidants, immune-enhancers and most importantly, tons of flavor. If I were a germ, I’d scoot right out of my host body and prey upon someone else. So make sure your friends have batches on hand.

This particular carrot ginger soup came to me from the pages of Candle Café Cookbook, one of my favorite vegetarian cooking resources from one of my favorite vegetarian eating resources, the Candle Café in New York. I used to live around the corner and went there whenever I felt the urged to be elixed.

Have you ever felt so energized by a meal that it literally feels as though all of the nutrition you just ate went straight into your bloodstream? That is how I feel when I eat a great, vegetarian meal. That is how I feel when I eat at Candle Café… and now, that I how I feel when I make their recipes at home.

Imagine my excitement when I found that I could buy the Candle Café cookbook and get that fix whenever I pleased? Elated, that’s how… as though some wonderful adrenal force was coursing through my veins. Some people take drugs; I take carrot soup.

I could go on and on about the recipes in that cookbook. Unlike so many restaurants, which seem to have trouble paring their industrial sized recipes down to the scale of a domestic kitchen, the folks at Candle Café make it possible for you to actually recreate their meals. Hold on, I feel a rush coming on.

I garnished this soup with another recipe (adapted slightly) from the book—a miso tahini dipping sauce with shaved carrots and ginger. It balanced the sweetness of the carrot puree with its rich, salty sesame flavor. I added a cold dollop of it onto the warm soup, and I must say, the temperature contrast was really dynamic and heightened the complementary flavors. If you don’t want to get sick, but you do want to get high… make this soup.

Velvety Carrot and Ginger Soup

From Candle Café Cookbook

Serves 4-6

1 Tbsp olive oil
3 medium onions, peeled and chopped
5 cups of vegetable broth
6 large carrots, peeled and chopped
3 tablespoons finely grated fresh ginger
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground coriander
pinch of cayenne
sea sat and freshly ground pepper, to taste

In a large, heavy bottomed stockpot, heat olive oil. Add onions and sauté for about 7 minutes, or until golden.

Add the broth, a cup of water, the carrots and 2 tbsp of ginger. Bring to a boil then reduce heat and simmer, partially covered, for about 20 minutes, or until carrots are tender.

Remove pot from heat and cool for about an hour (if you don’t have an hour, be sure to pure the soup in small batches to prevent heat-related blender accidents…)

Pure the soup in a food processor or blender. Add the remaining ginger, cinnamon and coriander and blend again until very smooth. Serve warm or cold with a dollop of miso tahini dipping sauce and chopped scallions or chives.

Miso Tahini Dipping Sauce

1 c sweet, white miso
1 c water
1 c grated carrot
1 tbsp grated fresh ginger
3 tbsp tahini

Pure miso and water in a blender or food processor. Whisk in tahini until incorporated. Mix in carrots and ginger. Store refrigerated up to 1 week.

All in all, a liquid life is not that appealing to me. Until spring: when the season comes, as the weather warms, (or heats up, if you’re here in Houston) it’s a nice feeling to go to bed full of a gentle soup—nothing too sparse, but something you could consume to your heart’s content while still feeling like a sylvan sprite. My friend Lindsey calls this kind of thing, “Hummingbird food.” And who doesn’t want to feel like a hummingbird come springtime?
Asparagus is one of my all time favorites markers of this fleeting season. Lately, I’ve been grilling it, serving it in salads with loads of Parmesan cheese or using it as a green raft for a floating fried egg. This soup can be hard to make, if only because blending such a beautiful food into mush seems like a real waste. Until you realize that it can be frozen and enjoyed in the dead of December. Now that’s my kind of asparagus. (I’m sure Gwyneth would be proud of me for incorporating it into a post-Christmas cleanse…)
I jest, but only somewhat. The truth is, this soup is certainly made for private moments: it’s nothing glamorous, or robust, or dinner-party worthy. But on the first hot night in Houston, after sweating and twisting and burning through 90 minutes of power yoga, a little bowl of green feels like just what the doctor ordered. I’ve taken to sauteing some raw spinach into it to add some bulk, or sprinkling it with a hard boiled egg or Parmesan cheese, and even though those garnishes are exactly what adorn my usual plate of grilled, roasted or raw asparagus, there’s something about spooning it that’s totally refreshing.

Asparagus and Spinach Soup

Makes 6-8 servings

3 bunches green asparagus, chopped

1 yellow onion, chopped

2 c spinach, well washed

2 celery stalks, chopped

2 T olive oil

1/4 c white wine

1 c light cocnut milk

1 QT (4 c) vegetable or chicken broth

S & P to taste

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In a heavy-bottomed skillet saute onion in oil for about 7 minutes or until translucent.

Add asparagus, celery and wine and saute until beginning to soften, about 5 minutes more.

Add broth and coconut milk and bring to a boil.

Lower heat and simmer about 30 minutes, or until broth is reduced somewhat.

Add spinach and cook until wilte.

Allow soup to cool slightly then puree in batches to desired consistency.

You can pass this soup through a food mill if you prefer a thinner version.

Garnish with chopped egg, parmesean cheese or simple herbs and serve warm or cold.

No matter how beautiful—or how well their flavor stands up to their wan, grocery store brethren—these early tomato specimens don’t thrill me the way a sun-ripened fruit might. But that’s ok, because the weather here has still been dipping at night, and I’m not yet averse to turning on the oven and coaxing a little sweetness out of my preemptive tomatoes. In a few months, when the season is at its peak, I’ll eat nearly everything raw. But for now, roasted tomatoes with a dash of sugar are a total pleasure, especially if you gussy them up a bit, say with some basil, peppers and a dash of cream.

I’m also highly inclined towards soup in the evenings. It is the epitome of comfort to slowly spoon your dinner—savoring each bite by necessity. I wish I were capable of eating slower in general, in which case food would probably satisfy me more quickly. Alas, I am not. Instead, I play tricks on myself, like roasting and pureeing and making things boil in order that I might enjoy them for a slightly longer period. It doesn’t always work: right now, I have a burnt tongue, for example.

But what is better, a blistered mouth or the stomach ache I’m guaranteed through July and August, when I go about devouring quarts of gazpacho? I think it’s a symptom of having been to prep school, where dinner lasted fifteen minutes and I spent four years rushing to get my marinara and penne  down in time for study hall. There are some things I savor: wine, chocolate, cheese (whatever wine, chocolate and cheese I consumed in high school was undoubtedly of low quality). For some reason, I spend the warmer months of my adult life rushing at the tomato—perhaps because they come and go, apparently abundant, and then notably absent for so long. Well, my cup runneth over with spring and I really do need to take a deep breath and give thanks for modern technology: God bless the hoop house and all its advances.

This soup put to use a few other things, lurking locally: some fennel from the garden, and basil, too. I also have lots of onions on hand, and loads of roasted red peppers, a jarred recollection of August 2009. The recipe is a rendition of one I read in my favorite vegetarian food blog, 101 cookbooks, although I’m not shy about swirling in a bit of cream at the end. Roasted tomatoes and cream… who needs strawberries?

Roasted Tomato Soup with Basil and Bell Peppers

2-3 pounds of tomatoes, any kind, cored and halved or quartered, depending on size
1 c roasted red peppers
(alternatively, you can roast two raw peppers alongside your tomatoes)

1 fennel bulb, sliced
3 medium yellow onions, quartered
1 head of garlic, generously coated in olive oil
3 cups of stock—vegetable or chicken
1 c basil, torn plus 1 T chiffonade for garnish
2 t turbinado sugar
2 T olive oil
1 t balsamic vinegar
Heavy cream for garnish
s & p

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Heat oven to 375.

In a large bowl, coat tomatoes and sliced fennel with olive oil.

Spread evenly across two baking sheets, placing the tomatoes on one sheet and the onions, fennel and garlic on another.

Sprinkle with salt and roast about 20 minutes, or until vegetables begin to soften.

Drizzle balsamic vinegar and sugar across tomatoes and rotate both pans.

Cook an additional 25 minutes, or until caramelized.

While vegetables cool somewhat, bring broth to a simmer and cover.

When garlic cloves are cool enough to handle, squeeze them from their skins.

Place ingredients in a blender and puree until smooth, working in small batches to prevent heat-related injuries.

Just before serving, reheat blended soup and garnish with cream and basil.

Alternatively, allow to cool completely and serve chilled.

I met the pair just before Christmas, when the weather was beginning to nip a bit. They came to Houston for an event that Recipe for Success was holding at a new restaurant called Canopy. The chef cooked recipes inspired by their book “In Late Winter We Ate Pears,” a chronicle of falling in love while following a hunger trail. I didn’t eat the food that night because I was helping to the event run smoothly, but I did sneak into the back, buy the cookbook, head home, and drink almost an entire bottle of wine while losing myself in a Mediterranean love affair.

I finished the book the next day and even managed to meet Caleb and Deidre for a drink at Anvil, a favorite bar that serves esoteric, antique cocktails, which—as it so happens—are one of Deidre’s specialties. The two-day whirlwind of book reading and author-meeting gave me a very clear sense of fate: Deidre and Caleb own one of the restaurants where Christopher and I flirted over pizza during weekends when we escaped the quiet Dartmouth campus and went to the (even quieter) town of Woodstock. Their restaurant, Osteria Pane e Salute is in the center of Woodstock—just a short walk from the church where we got married in October. Christopher and I spoke to Deidre about wine years ago while eating at the counter, though at the time I had no idea that cooking and growing food would become such serious habits of mine.

And then she reappeared, full of uncanny ties to my life. I first met she and Caleb amid sawdust and cherry pickers as restaurant workers tried desperately to get Canopy ready for the event that evening. Connections to food and gardening were unearthed, and I invited them to join me in the classroom that afternoon, where my co-teacher and I would be making pizza, pesto and tomato sauce with our students. After observing the garden and the classroom kitchen, Deidre spent some time deconstructing a recipe with a rather pouty 3rd grader while Caleb showed a group of 5th graders how to make the perfect dough: not too sticky, not too dry.

Later that night they disappeared into the bright lights of Canopy, while I snuck out through a dark back door after the last guests were seated. Don’t get me wrong: it exactly what I wanted to do. Somehow I knew that the book they’d written would make my own path clearer. I learned about their vineyard; their greenhouses; their own raised beds. I learned that they don’t grow certain things so that they can feature the produce of other local Vermont farmers. They keep Woodstock and its visitors warm and welcome year round—except when they head back to their own gastronomic homeland when winter becomes impossibly bleak.

There is a card on my desk that I bought for them at Christmastime that I keep meaning to send to commemorate our evening of retro drinks and everything that they have inspired me to remember. But I keep forgetting to send it. I’ve written more than one, in fact, since the Christmas card quickly became untimely. Instead of reaching out, I reach in: I’ve made almost a dozen recipes from their book and I dream of myself learning someday at their oven. I keep my fingers crossed that Christopher will go back to Dartmouth for business school, so that I can sneak away to Woodstock once again—going somewhere new and familiar all at the same time.

Which brings me back to tomato sauce. I always have a Ball jar full, waiting to be spread over all sorts of things in addition to pizza dough. I spoon it over baked yams, set it beside grilled fish or just dab some onto warm, buttered bread. Caleb and Deirdre have a wonderful recipe for wintertime pizza sauce, which I beef up with onions and serve as a full-blown tomato sauce perfect for pasta or as a thicker spread on pizza. It’s just right when you want something savory and “blessedly simple,” as Caleb describes. The sauce reminds me of the tastes of childhood, yet brings into relief all the delicious details of being an adult: the pleasure of watching garlic go gold; the glow of home-grown herbs on the countertop and the pride that comes from making something so good that people eat it straight from the jar, with a spoon.

Tomato Sauce

Inspired by “In Late Winter We Ate Pears”

1 15 oz can of crushed, concentrated plum tomatoes
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 medium yellow onion, chopped
3 T tomato paste
1 T red wine vinegar
1 bunch fresh Oregano, chopped or 1 T dried
2 pinches crushed red pepper flakes
¼ c olive oil + 2 T
s & p to taste

In a medium sized sauce pan, sauté onion in 2 T olive oil until golden—about 6 minutes.

Add garlic and sauté until light brown—about 3 minutes.

Meanwhile, mix remaining ingredients together in a separate bowl.

When onion and garlic are ready, add tomato mixture and allow liquid to bubble.

Lower the heat and cook until sauce has reduced somewhat—or thin it out with 1 c water and use for pizza sauce.

Perhaps it was served to you. Perhaps you made it. Either way, if you’re looking for some help putting away all of those eggplants, zucchinis and basil bunches popping up in your garden just about now, then welcome. This is all about how to avoid lifeless ratatouille—from a gal who has had (and made) her fair share of both good and bad varieties. Before I launch into the finest recipe for ratatouille I’ve discovered, let me first admit that I hate recipes. The raison d’être of this blog, is in fact, my distaste for recipes—especially where things like ratatouille are concerned.

When I started this site, I wanted to create a place where it would be OK to riff a bit, because, even after years of cooking, I never fail to look at a recipe and wonder what I can change about it. When I open a cookbook, I glance at the ingredients, jot them down, and proceed to modify the steps involved to suit my fancy. Often this happens much later in the game—as in, when things are already simmering, boiling or stewing. There are always, always, at least two or three aspects of a recipe that I don’t appreciate and am not interested in following, and sometimes I change my mind at the last minute.

Because of this particular character trait, (good cooks would likely call it a major character flaw) I’ve made some pretty wilted ratatouilles in summers past. Nothing is worse than overcooked vegetables. Except, perhaps, wasting pounds of good produce. But still, every garden yields different results, every farmer’s market has different colors and shapes to offer. I can’t just follow every detail of a prescribed dish… at times like these, it’s actually impractical. That said, I’ve learned that some rules cannot be broken: when we cook, and especially when we bake, there are processes to abide. The trick is knowing where you can improvise, and where you must honor the author’s wisdom. I really do believe that once you learn some basic techniques—both in cooking and in baking—you can execute something right, but add your own touches as you go. That is the dream, at least.

Alice Water’s advice from “The Art of Simple Food,” was a great jumping off point for my summer stew ambitions in 2006—the year I finally got ratatouille right. Despite what I’ve said about her in the past, Waters does a slightly ingenious thing in the layout of her books: she lists the ingredients of her dishes with the steps in between. That way, you go along, adding things in clearly laid out steps, rather than staring at a long ingredient list separate from an even longer list of directions—which is, unfortunately, the way I write my recipes. Oh dear. Anyway, it was exactly this style of authorship that illustrated the importance of steps in the ratatouille process—even if you vary your ingredients a bit. Sometimes I feel like using different herbs, more onions, fewer peppers, a new type of zucchini, etc. etc.

Waters’ recipe allowed me to experiment while honoring the integrity of the flavor and consistency of fresh vegetables. In other words, she made my dreams come true. No wilted zucchini, no pulverized eggplant, no rubbery tomatoes resulted when I proceeded in a certain way—even if I did make my own substitutions. Ultimately, dear Alice taught me a great lesson: it all boils down to the order of things.

You must cook the eggplant first, then remove it, allowing it to soak up enough olive oil to have flavor and heft, but protecting it from your whirling wooden spoon and from the hard-bodied peppers and squash that might otherwise turn it into mash during the cooking process. Then, you must add onions; garlic and herbs; peppers; zucchini and tomatoes in that order, as it coincides with how long each vegetable will take to cook down to an equivalent consistency. When you’ve done it right, each vegetable will retain its integrity, suspended in a warm, salty and basil-tasting tomato sauce.

Finally, something all good cooks know, but that must be said: make sure that all of the pieces of produce you put in the pot are equal in size. That will ensure even cooking even if your ingredients are varied in consistency.

Le voila, un ratatouille parfait… there are so many possible versions, but a few essential steps.

Classic Ratatouille

Serves 6-8

Adapted from “The Art of Simple Food”

(Do this in a heavy-bottomed skillet over medium heat. Cut ALL vegetables into ½ inch pieces.)

3 Italian eggplant, sliced, salted and left to drain 20 minutes
Large can San Marzano tomatoes
2 chopped, red onions
4 tbsp olive oil, divided (plus more if necessary)
6 diced cloves of garlic
20 basil leaves, divided
1 tsp red chili flakes
2 chopped peppers (red, yellow, green or orange)
5 summer squash or zucchini (mix and match as you choose)
Additional herbs of your choice

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Sauté eggplant in 2 tbsp olive oil until tender and golden, about 10 minutes.
Use juice from the canned tomatoes to deglaze pan, scraping brown bits into the eggplant mixture as you cook them—chances are they will start to brown the pan before they are cooked, and you don’t want to burn them or lose the flavor of the brown bits. Once cooked, transfer eggplant to a bowl.

Pour remaining tablespoons of olive oil into the pan to sauté onions. Cook until golden and translucent, about 8 minutes.

Add garlic, about 10 basil leaves and red chili flakes to the onions and stir a few minutes.

Add chopped peppers and cook until just softened, stirring constantly.

Add zucchini, and cook until golden and just softened, stirring constantly.

Add remaining tomato juice and tomatoes.

Season with herbs of your choice (or just salt and pepper) and cook another 3 minutes.

Add eggplant and cook another 10 minutes until vegetables are soft, but not insubstantial. If some remain too al dente, cover pot and simmer a few extra minutes.

As a side note, I like to serve this with a grilled cheese sandwich, preferably one made from Anima goat-cheese Gruyère on a toasted French baguette. For those of us working without a Panini maker, it’s easy enough to flatten out a thick sandwich like this between two piping hot skillets and a couple of pats of butter.

SALAD:
2 c chopped tomatoes
2 c crutons
½ c thinly sliced red onion
12 large basil leaves, chopped
½ c feta cheese, crumbled
2 tbsp. capers
4-6 tbsp dressing
1 head romaine heart lettuce, thinly sliced

Combine ingredients (except lettuce) in a large mixing bowl. Toss with 4 tbsp dressing to taste. Add more, if necessary. Arrange romaine lettuce on serving platter, top with tossed panzanella.

DRESSING:

1 tbsp chopped garlic
1 tbsp Dijon mustard
2 egg yolks
2 tbsp. capers
1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
2 tbsp balsamic vinegar
6 large basil leaves
1 c olive oil
¼ tsp. black pepper

Place ingredients (except olive oil) in blender. When the blender is running, drizzle olive oil in a slow, steady stream. Season with black pepper and reserve. Keeps for a week in the fridge.