Home Ec

I remember the first time I made applesauce. I think I was about 10. My mom and I peeled and cored some apples, tossed them in a pot with some water, sugar and flavorings, and applesauce happened.
"We can do this?" I asked, amazed.
"Well, where did you think applesauce comes from?" answered my mom.
Um, actually, up to that instant, I thought it came from cans or jars.
One of those breakthrough moments: You realize that prepared food is viscerally connected to the fresh item. And that factories have taken over the production. But you can take it back. Simple.
I had a ball seasoning my first homemade applesauce with the predictable flavors of cinnamon and cloves. So "bakery."
If you know me at all, you'll have already guessed I didn't season my applesauce this week the same way. First, fresh bay leaves. I'm religiously devoted to them, so in they went with the apples, water and agave syrup. Second, orange juice and zest. It can't be helped; I am enslaved to an orange tree at the moment, and I love it. OK. And, a pinch of salt.
The applesauce is subtle; not a knockout. It's just... nice. Would I do it differently? Yeah, I'd add in some chile pepper. Heh.
You're asking where the hell did I get apples for the applesauce this time of year. They were a gift from a local friend; Golden Delicious apples that she predicted would have no shelf life at all. Well, they kept really well out in the cold garage for more than a few months, and finally met their happy destiny.
I have two plans for the applesauce. Latkes (potatoes and onions, grated and fried and slathered with sour cream), and deconstructed apple pie (with baked puff pastry and cheddar cheese).
I am becoming less and less fearful of the ownership of fruit trees. Thunderous bounty, but something you can share.

A Tribute to the Newborn Oliver

I'm glad to see restaurants are offering olives as appetizers. When the olives are really good, fresh, and ideally, local... you've got a good dish of snackies.
A fun twist on the olive dish lately has been oven-roasted olives. I ordered some at an acclaimed local pizzeria, and doggone it, the olives were heated in the pizza oven!
But that's all.
Warm olives, otherwise nude and dull.
Somehow you wish the olives would pick up a bit of smoke, or oregano, or jeez, mozzarella.
Uh.
Let me tell you about a personal favorite flavorizer this time of year. Orange rind. I gots the oranges (and so does the food bank; we're taking two huge boxes of oranges tomorrow).
This simple dish of roasted green olives took a little bath in olive oil mixed with orange zest, some peeled garlic, and sliced hot peppers. No salt needed; the olives are salty. These are soft cured, velvety, buttery green olives from the farmers market. We accidentally ran into some inferior cure from another vendor the other day, and the pitted (eek) green olives are brittle, and taste like something from the refrigerator door, circa 1970. (Why? Bad goal.)
Use soft olives.
Here's the trick: Cook the olives until they begin to collapse. This batch went almost 45 minutes.
They will be very hot when they come out, and You Will Have to Wait!
The only thing I would do differently (and I will try this) is to shave some fennel bulb in there with the other flavors.
They're pretty. A little out of focus, but check out the depth of field on that ratty dish towel!
All the better to wipe your warm, drippy, tasty fingers on.

Ooh, Fuzzy Wuzzy Wuzzy

Have I run this picture before?
It's Bean Sprout about three weeks after he came to stay with us. Four years ago.
We'll be celebrating the anniversary of his arrival again, on Valentine's Day. I might even get out the spare, emergency, extra-special rubber piggy for a present. The clean one. There are three piggies in rotation on the floor, and they do get dirty. But there's an unused one in a drawer, waiting for an extraordinary occasion.
See that tiny pink blob just above Bean Sprout's head? That's his first piggy (before it even got dirty). Cranky just knew to spend stupid money on it at the upscale pet store. Bean Sprout loved it right away. That's why we kept buying backups, and leaking them out to him whenever it felt, aw, special.
I can tell you all this because Bean Sprout, despite his many amazing accomplishments, doesn't know how to read.

What Can I Say?

Lamb shank, local and pasture-fed. Flageolet beans, local and not as tender as I'd have liked. (Maybe not cooked long enough.) Braising liquid of frozen tomatoes, commercial (eek!) chicken stock, local wine, and aromatics (celery, bay leaves, rosemary, orange zest) from the garden. Oh, wait: plus farmers market garlic, carrots and onion.
It's nice to be in the braisey-brains season again. It took some teeth-gnashing and a sky-load of cold rain. I've noticed reading the blogs that we (in the Northern Hemisphere) are all finally succumbing to stews and soups and beans, beloved beans.
The lamb shank had been in the freezer for a week or so — and it was a long shank, too long for my trusty, crusty Le Creuset pot. Cranky sterilized his hacksaw with the elbow of his sweatshirt, and took a whack at the leg. A minimum of meat and bone dust later, it was two perfect pieces, and the rest was easy.
My mom asked me the other day if I could braise a lamb shank without a recipe, and I told her I thought I could, but it was always nice to have a cookbook open on the counter.
Guess what, mom. I did it without a cookbook this time.
When I was all finished, I went and took a peek at the recipe in Lidia's Italian Table... and Lidia had it right!

No, Thanks, I'll Take My Own Leek

Sorry for the bleached-out snapshot. One of those quickie sidewalk fly-bys. I just had to get a picture of one of the worst examples of restaurant misspelling (which is sometimes cute, sometimes naive, but come on!).
Anyway, I'm having properly spelled potato-leek soup soon, maybe tomorrow. I'm thinking of tweaking (or should that be "tweeking"?) it with the addition of a little blue cheese. I already found out that blue cheese is surprisingly good in potato soup. This time, I'm just going to leak in a few leeks from the garden and see how that turns out.
I'm predicting a winning streek.

One Year to Go

Breathe, breathe...
Don't forget to breathe, gasp...

Zesty Hot Bath

Ghod, I love artichokes. I love all the "A" vegetables, and artichokes best. (I'm told that Zuckerman's Farm will begin selling asparagus in four weeks, by the way. But back to artichokes.)
I was a lucky kid. I grew up eating artichokes, so they were never weird to me. But I've been through a gradual change in what I will dunk the leaves in.
At first, it was always just a little dish of mayonnaise. Dunk, scrape, chew. Happy. But the mayonnaise was fridge temperature, and, eek.
I tried pure melted butter with artichokes once or twice, but it was too unguent, too self-absorbed, too dull.
Cranky and I finally settled for a long spell on a mixture of mayonnaise, yogurt and a twinge of Dijon mustard, all at room temp. It had a nice, spunky taste, if a little naive. I would probably resort to it again.
So what happened? I only had a little yogurt left, and I needed to use it as a culture for a batch of homemade yogurt. I sure wasn't going to dunk leaves in pure mayo.
Well, I don't know what happened. My private brain was way ahead of my public brain, because without me realizing it, I was making bagna cauda. (Brainya cauda, I guess.) Without a recipe.
You probably have a recipe for bagna cauda. Use it. But promise me you'll do this: Add Orange Zest. More than you think; and a little lemon zest is good too. You also need to mortar-and-pestle some capers in there as well. I used salt-packed capers; probably not rinsed well enough but I loved the saltiness.
Do not forget to include the orange zest.
Orange zest.

o r a n g e  z e s t
{{ you... are getting... hungry... }}

You Must Eat This

I make a version of this salad every winter, a couple of times or more. For the first several years, I used celery root to top the beluga lentils. Celery root is velvety and divine, but it's a bitch to peel.
This year I happened upon the lucky merger of celery and fennel bulb, because that was what was on hand. (Not that I've never combined celery with fennel; it was just a new twist on an old lentil recipe). Along with some thinly sliced mild onion, it makes a stellar wintry raw melange, airy and light and tart atop the gently cooked beans.
A simple, very simple dressing of first-rate olive oil, vinegar (I used homemade apple-pear vinegar), salt and pepper ties the two layers together.
Come on. I think you can do this without a recipe.

Survey. Fun.

Do you still read newspapers?
I do. I read a couple of them in print, and the rest of them online.
I always read the food section of my two print papers, but I often forget to cruise the online food sections of, say, the LA Times or the Washington Post (whuh?).
I certainly do read the glossy food magazines I subscribe to, but I also read the blogs. Yeah, you, ya silly bloggies!
Well, my pal Leena is embarking on a study comparing blog food writing with print food writing, and the readers who read them.
Leena is an American student getting a masters degree in gastronomy in Australia. (And could I just get a do-over? When I was her age, there was no such thing as a degree in gastronomy. In Australia! Hmmpphhh! Jealous.)
But, onward.
Leena has posted a survey. She asked me for help directing traffic to her site. Come on, help out a grad student. It'll take about 10 minutes (and it's open only to North Americans people in the United States; sorry to any Canadians I led astray).
The survey runs for the next two weeks or so. I'll remind you if we need more participants later on in the month.
I'll find a way to get results to you if Leena can't do it herself. But I suspect Leena can do anything she sets her mind to.

Famespotting

It's mind boggling, when you think about it. So many chefs live in Marin County.
I ran into Ron Siegel at the farmers market a few weeks ago. I mention him by name because he may be one of the most famous. (He once won an episode of "Iron Chef" — in Japanese!) But several other stellar chefs, many of whom own or at least cook at some of San Francisco's finest places, live here. Many of them are our local French chefs, presumably because of access to a French school in Marin for their kids, but probably also because they're a tight gang and love to hang out with each other.
You'd think the eating would be better in Marin because of this, but no.
We have Applebee's.
Oh, to be fair, we have loads of lovely, small, personal restaurants. I haven't even visited them all.
(I tend to return to some of my tried and true joints.)
It was while I was snacking on a dish of wonderful carpaccio with capers and cheese and arugula at an old standby restaurant that I sensed an infusion of spa-smacked radiance. A bolt of buffed and puffed beauty had entered the room, I could tell even with my back to the door. All mani-pedi, exfoliated and gelled to camera-ready faux casualness, it was Tyler Florence. TV chef guy. I actually don't know much about him.
I do know he recently moved to Marin County, without a place to cook. He just squeezed in amongst all our talent, and — I guess he's waiting for an offer.
He popped into this restaurant at the side of the hostess (she was taller), took an appraising gaze down the length of the place (it's gorgeous; it could stand a little spa-smacking, but it has good bones), and then he vanished.
I don't know what that was all about.
But I do know Florence is in partnership with Applebee's, creating Marin-worthy yummables such as the Bruschetta Burger.
See ya there?
Didn't think so.
UPDATE: Tyler Florence will be opening his "first signature restaurant" in San Francisco this summer, in the York Hotel, which is being renamed Hotel Vertigo. Urp! Hee hee. Guesses are still on as to what he'll call the eatery.

Winter, Actually

I love soup.
Sometimes I think that must make me a simpleton. Soup is sick-room food. Soup is just a bowl of wet flavors. Soup is so easy.
Well. I still love soup.
Cranky and I went for a meal at a nearby restaurant known for beef, mainly, but the acclaimed chef-owner (he's rarely on the premises, I suspect) also loves soup. He wrote a whole cookbook on soup.
I've flipped through the cookbook, unable to convince myself I need to buy it. For one thing, some of the recipes are so rarefied: complex, unnecessary, yadda yadda. For another thing, I know how to make soup.
But there I was at this meaty restaurant, and I ordered the soup. We both did.
God, it was beautiful, like the top of a chocolate cake. It was black bean "bisque," brightened with hot flavors and so silky smooth, it was surely passed though a chinoise.
See, now, that's probably something I wouldn't do at home. But this soup was So Silky Smooth... I might.

Summer (Psych!)

I can't seem to kick-start my winter cooking. I dream of braises and breads and cookies, but I'm still eating pretty much cocktail party buffet-style: a little charcuterie, some cheeses, toasted nuts.
I admit I've dabbled in the seasonal requisites: the roast beef for Christmas and the Hoppin' John for New Year's Day.
Yesterday I stirred up a batch of my signature slow-cooked scrambled eggs (they come out creamy and unlumpy), served with sauteed chanterelles and a side of roasted potatoes.
The other day we defrosted a bag of homemade (homegrown) tomato sauce for spaghetti.
And like that.
But I just can't get my stew thing on, probably because I'm less and less interested in meat.
Ho, well. We're going to a meat-centric restaurant tomorrow for Cranky's birthday (can you say early Social Security benefits?). Cranky loves a little steak now and then. I may just order soup and duck-fat french fries, hold the cow.
But what's really on my mind?
Summer.

Fakin' It

I think I'm pretty good at tasting a dish and parsing the individual ingredients therein.
I'll get fooled sometimes. Or I'll taste something I've never had before, so there's no way I can guess what that ingredient was. Sometimes it takes me a while; "It's like... it's like... oh, come ON, I know what this is..."
This modest talent is what makes me want to re-create dishes I've had in restaurants.
Only it turns out you have to have a good memory of what was on your plate.
Last November, Cranky and I joined Sam and her mum for a meal at Ubuntu in Napa. The four of us had a grand time exploring our vegetarian dishes. Some were good, some were better. I adored the cauliflower in an iron pot, and Sam wondered whether I would try to cobble together a version at home. (I might; but I haven't yet. Still shopping for the adorable iron pots.)
Easier for me was to take a stab at a lovely salad of fingerling potatoes with greens and a thrilling mustardy dressing.
See, now that's all I remembered about the dish. Oh, I remembered that the potatoes come from Little Organic Farm. And I remembered the gorgeous layout on the plate.
So I put together a mock-up at home, using genuine Little potatoes, and ancho cress as my greens. Yummy!
Then I took a look at Ubuntu's web site, and discovered that the menu lists fennel as a green ingredient with the potatoes. Wow, that sounds nice; a little sweet, a little mysterious. I would like that. And reading Sam's post about the salad, I realize it also included torpedo onions. I would like that, too. Oh! And looking at Sam's mum's post, it looks like there might have been minced chives. I would like that, too.
Wait. I did like that. I just forgot.
Oh well. Simplicity in cooking is a nice excuse for a bad memory.
Say I.

Can I Get a Little Farm Aid?

My winter crops are devastated.
First it was the flooding from all that rain.
Then came the hurricane-force winds, knocking tender plants right on their sides.
It wasn't until the rain stopped that I could go outside to take a look. I've been uprooted!
This is a broccoli plant, lying flat with its roots exposed. (Yes, I could do a little weeding, but much of that debris floated or blew in. Leave me alone; I'm grieving. Yeah, that's it. Widow's weeds. Ha.)
I can understand a towering, top-heavy tree with shallow roots tipping over in these conditions. But a harmless little backyard kitchen-garden plant? And this wasn't the only one. The cauliflower plants took it on the chin, too.
I figure I'm due some compensation. And maybe even some under-the-table payoffs if I promise to continue not to grow cotton.
Not gonna happen, of course.
So, next-best proposal: Farm Aid.
Joan Baez, come on up. Neil Young, too. You guys don't live too far away. If Willie Nelson and John Mellencamp want to come too and croon to my soggy farm, so much the better.
I'll be the one at the front door, selling tickets.

My County Is Closed

We are being smacked by a storm so wet and blustery, Marin County has been shut off from the rest of the world.
Seriously. Hwy. 101 is off-limits to traffic from the Golden Gate Bridge, all the way up to Sonoma County.
We can't even escape over the San Rafael Bridge, because the gale-force winds blew over a couple of semis there this morning, so they decided to close that, too.
We don't need to go out for anything, but if we did, there are several shops we could get to easily. Nope, today it's canned clam chowder from the Mood Emergency Rations, one crate over from the Earthquake Survival Kit.
I probably shouldn't have said earthquake.
It came to me in a flash yesterday that it might be smart to put sandbags on top of the fiberglass canopy over the patio. Good idea. That thing has been rumbling around, but it's still attached.
Oh, but part of our backyard fence blew over.
Otherwise, no leaks, no surprises.
Lots of puddling outside, but I guess we're watertight indoors. Nice to discover for our first winter in this new place.

The photo was taken last October, and you can see the sunbursts in the water drops (clicky on the picky). I don't think those water drops were rain, but that's the only drippy picture you're getting today. I'm not going out there with a camera, no sir. It's all we can do to bundle up and get poor little Bean Sprout emptied on the lawn when he insists. He's having a brave-kidney day.

Have a Whack at It, Ya Wacky Iowans

Iowa, insisting on having the first primary or caucus in the country, likes to think it chooses the parties' nominees (with only the 10 or 15 percent of its eligible voters actually turning out). Four years ago they picked Kerry as their Democratic choice, and all the rest of the states went into thumb-suck mode and said, "Well, OK, let's pick Kerry too." And he went through hell, and lost anyway.
Anything could happen tonight (yeah, the caucuses start at 7 p.m., and too bad if you've got to be at work then, you ain't votin'). The poll numbers are close for Clinton, Edwards and Obama, and they're swirling around like crazy; some polls predict Obama on top, some... well you can figure it out.
But I think a lot of us are fed up with this notion that Iowa sets the tone. I get to pick my prom king or queen next month, and I'm just contrary enough to vote for the candidate I truly like best, even if it's not the one chosen in Iowa.
Except I don't know who I like best.
Never mind what I said, Iowa. You can make my choice tonight.
Oh, right. This is a food blog.
So here is a picture of nutritious Iowa food.
Lucky thing I eat locally. No tasty Cow Chips for me, thanks.

Hoppin' New Year

It was just going to be another ordinary day, chez Cookiecrumb and Crankycrumb. But a couple of bold friends decided to infuse our new year's day with friendship, cordiality, and eating. I say bold, because Anita and Cameron invited themselves to stop over, driving down from their vacation stay in Napa. We were on their way back home.
Amazingly, we pulled together a traditional feast made with food already on the premises. Dried black-eyed peas. Brussels sprouts in the fridge. Bacon in the freezer. Onion and garlic in the onion and garlic bowl. Homemade pear vinegar.
It was supposed to be a humble Hoppin' John, but the ingredients were so ratcheted up (Prather bacon, local brussels sprouts instead of cabbage) that we decided to call it Hiphop Jonathan.
Happy New Year to all of you!