Going Wild with Onions

 As I was sitting in my kitchen office, watching the lovely sunshine illuminate the utterly unlovely back lawn as revealed by melted snow, I felt the need of some uplifting flavor to keep up my Spring Awakening, and thought about making this bread from Brother Juniper.

 Wild Rice and Onion Bread is a treasure of a recipe. It's both comforting and crisp, with an aroma as it bakes that draws people into the kitchen, hungry looks on their faces. One slice is never enough. It's beyond tried and true-- I've shared it with friends, many places, and then watched my friends share it too. Easy but delicious, with a crisp crackly crust and a soulful flavor that needs no adornment.

 Rolls from this dough are wonderful, or a nice round loaf, decoratively slashed; but frankly I've taken to making long baguette-styled loaves of it, in order to enjoy more of that savory crust! And the bread is gorgeous to see, speckled with grains that peek out from the crust. The savor and texture of the onion and rice make a for a fresh, hopeful almost-spring nosh.


WILD RICE AND ONION BREAD  from Brother Juniper's Bread Book--
                                                                       Slow Rise as Method and Metaphor, by Peter Reinhart

(Adapted slightly by Amvyn from the CLBB. Thanks, Amy!)


8 C unbleached high-gluten, bread, or all-purpose flour
1/3 C chopped dried onions or 1 C diced fresh onions
1/3 C brown sugar
2 Tbsp instant yeast or 2 1/2 dry active yeast, proofed in 4 Tbsp warm water
1 1/2 Tbsp sea salt
1 C cooked & cooled wild rice blend
1/3 C buttermilk
1 1/2 C warm water

Mix all the dried ingredients, including the yeast and rice, in a bowl, then add the liquid ingredients, reserving a little water for later for adjustments during kneading. Turn the dough out onto a floured counter and knead for 10-12 minutes, or until dough is elastic, unified and tacky but not sticky.

Return dough to a clean bowl, cover with a damp towel or plastic wrap, and slip the bowl into a plastic bag. Put it in a warm spot. Allow between 45 minutes to 1 1/2 hours for dough to rise/double.

Shape as desired, into 2 loaves or a loaf and rolls, place in greased pans, cover and let rise again, allowing 45-60 minutes for rising. Cut a star pattern in the top, or for rolls, brush with an egg wash made of 1 egg beaten with 1/2 C water. This is a good idea if making baguette, too.

Bake in a preheated 350 degree F oven, for approximately 45 minutes-- rolls will take 12-15 minutes. These loaves are best if sprayed with cold water frequently during the first 10 minutes of baking to make the crust brittle. Cool thoroughly on wire racks before cutting. Makes 2 round loaves, or about medium 15 rolls.
 Serve with soup, or with sandwich makings, or on its own, though a glass of wine would be sooo happy sitting next to a slice of this bread.


 Keep those thoughts of Spring coming! Peace, Mari

5 Thrifty Things

Here are five thrifty little ways to use what is in your house, right now, to eat better.


 1. STEMS--

  Don't toss the stems of parsley, cilantro or mint. Tie them with kitchen string or throw them onto a tea ball and let them simmer in whatever you're cooking, to infuse with their flavor after you've used all the leafy parts. In fact, cilantro stems are so tender to start with, you can chop them very fine and use as you would celery, to add flavor and a slight crunch to soups, sautes, chili.


2. ZEST--

 I may have said this before, but I'll repeat it now: citrus fruits are precious and wonderful, especially to those of us in cold climes, so don't throw out the rind. Peel off the washed skin of any and all citrus in irregular sections with a paring knife, and freeze in a ziploc bag or (my choice) freezer container, for up to 6 months. You can take it out of the freezer and use as you would fresh, without thawing. Whether you're making a salad dressing, a sauce, baked goods, a drink, etc., it works perfectly.


3. GO NUTS--

 When you're down to the end of the bag of almonds: a couple handfuls of nuts are just the thing to grind and use to thicken a stew, add to a sandwich filling, use in a dressing for fruit salad. Chop instead and mix with a dash each of cinnamon and cumin, and scatter over chili, curry, rice, a smoothie. Use whole in pasta sauce (sauteed first for a nuttier punch), or to change up your usual fajita vegetables or burrito fillings. Or simply toast in a dry pan with a pinch of sugar or salt and shake of dried spice, then top your next salad with more flavor and nutrition than croutons provide.


4.  POT of GOLD--

 As in lentils (really the red ones cook up as golden-orangey). Or try black, navy pea, dark red kidney, pinto, or some of Rancho Gordo's exotic items, but cook up a big pot of beans on the weekend or any time. Using a slowcooker makes it convenient to cook them while you're busy living, and having them on hand in the fridge means you have a meal starter, adaptable to nearly any ethnic cuisine. You'll be able to whip up an Indian feast of lentils and spinach, pinto and potato curry, or Tex-Mex, Greek, Italian or Southern meals. Coming home to prepped beans makes dinner at least 60% easier for me, and usually has the benefit of making me feel more creative, too, knowing I'm not starting from zero.

5.  I CAN PICKLE THAT--

 The brine or oil leftover from your last jar of olives, pickles, marinated peppers or artichokes, is NOT garbage-- it's flavor you've already purchased. Don't toss it! Instead, trim and shred/julienne carrots or zucchini, or cukes, or slice onions or peppers, and immerse them in the fluid for several hours to overnight. Now you have homemade pickled veg to perk up a salad, saute or salsa. If using pickle juice, add extra vinegar to lower the overall salt content, and to make it go farther. Also, don't hesitate to try hard pears, lemon rind, or lightly cooked root vegetables. Flavor-boosted veg, almost instantly. It keeps for a week or more before it starts to be visually unappealing. Diced, these tasty gems are nice on top of hot or cold soups, in stews, mashed into a topping for crakers or bruschetta, or simply served on a plate for a pre-meal nibble.


 It's been a weird winter, but I feel Spring rising up. Good eating to you, friends.

  --Mari

Tried & Tweaked Thursday, Gone Bad.

During my first solid year of 100 % veghead living, I wasn't frantic as some get, since I'd long been used to eating veg-centric meals; but I did want to increase my repertoire, if only to have a better chance at pleasing my picky-eater of a partner. He still ate meat, and I wasn't wild about making the whole meal-with-meat-on-the-side thing happen every damn day. In those days we frequently had dinner guests, too, and I was determined to show them all that plant-based food was not going to leave them starved and unsatisfied. In Indianapolis, saying I was vegetarian was often taken to mean I dined only on salad, tofu, and a side of self-righteous anger.

So I stretched out, subscribed to some new food mags, and went on a deep search of my old cookbooks for overlooked recipes. In Rose Elliot's Complete Vegetarian, I discovered a world of easy, adaptable recipes that didn't strain a grocery budget. There were fancy mains, inventive and classic salads, sauces I'd never dreamt of, and simple, pleasing family-style dishes like Veggie Hotpot. This was a casserole of sliced potatoes, layered with some chopped veg and a walnut-studded tomato sauce, flavored with oregano. The kind of fireside comfort food best served with a plain green vegetable side and maybe some rolls.

Once we tried it, and it passed muster, I made it again and again, learning to slant it towards whatever flavor mood I was in. As written, it was a great and easy meal for a busy university student (as I was at the time), because I could throw it together in minutes after coming home from my last class and then stick it in the oven while I wrote papers, read chapters, or did laundry.

Back then I mostly chunked the potatoes, and often used jarred salsa in place of the chopped tomatoes-- still a good way to go. I rarely bothered to pre-cook the taters, preferring to add more liquid (like a cup of vino and a splash of soy sauce), so that they would just cook through while adding their starch and absorbing enough of the liquid to make the sauce, well, saucy.

 Yesterday, when I opened the old book to refresh my memory, I decided on another tweak-- one I've done in the past, though it's been years. I mashed the potatoes, along with a rutabaga. And layered everything with some leftover cheese fondue (otherwise, it's a perfectly vegan dish) and served it bubbling hot to my (current and final) hubby-man.

 Who hated it. In fact, he said it was "bland and depressing," which I didn't agree with or even understand. He clarified for me, saying it tasted like something you'd feed an orphan in a Dickens novel. Not the reaction I was hoping for. I spent the evening calling him Dick Whittington (not actually from Dickens), but was crushed anyhow.

 I make it a policy not to share things here that haven't garnered a good response from others, so I won't share this recipe yet, not till I've gotten my zing back and found a version that is LOVED. But I feel it's possibly helpful for others to note that we all make cooking mistakes, have failures. And I am enjoying the leftovers, and would disagree heartily with my man's assessment. Taste varies, and we can't get around that sometimes.

 Maybe I'm just attracted to picky guys. Peace, Mari

Refreshment: Changing the Way We Shop

During a time of year that many are making resolutions to eat differently, I'm finding a need to shop differently, too, hoping to combat a growing problem. It's an issue we've all encountered, I believe--

 I've been going stale in the kitchen.

 Low income, outside pressures and the will-o-the-wisp palate of my hubby-man have combined lately, giving me a less-than-enthusiastic outlook on our daily diet. THIS is hard to face, coming from a person that loves cooking and eating more than almost any other activities. And when I'm not actively cooking or eating, I'm reading about them. Yet when it comes time to make dinner, I've felt stalled, bored, dull. Wishing someone would just come and feed me for a week; but feed me with nutritious, fresh food such as I dream of making in my best moments.

 The dream is there; but when you're in the grocery store you've been going to for years, the same products sit on the same shelves (and I bitch crazily if they move those shelves around too often!!!) and you find yourself responding to your same budget by buying the same old things.

 Tough to break cost-related food habits, isn't it? Well, I tried by adding a few new items, intending to make stuffed grape leaves, soy spread, whatever... and so I have an unused jar of vine leaves taking up cupboard space, and a year-old packet of organic soybeans that will now take ages to cook.

Not helpful! While the urge to change up the cuisines I borrow from was a good one, I'm sure, I may have gone too far into hopefulness-- it's been years since I made grape leaves, or cooked soybeans from dry. Too much extra thought required to use them, and so they sit, a waste of money that could, back when I bought them, have been spent on more immediate needs.

 Ruminating on the situation while rereading old cookbooks for inspiration, I realized that a new store, a new set of them really, could help. It was a strategy of mine back when I lived in Indianapolis, to switch up the places where I did the bulk of my shopping. It means traveling farther, and getting used to new traffic patterns, but it has the benefit of forcing me to think outside the usual parameters of what we eat. The possible downsides include temporarily increased costs, since it's easy to go a little nuts over new items; and more outrageously overconfident buying.

 That's why, when I tread the aisles of my new stores this week, I'll have just a few newish recipes in mind-- and a list of necessities in hand. I guarantee I'll still be buying oatmeal, for its many virtues, and some kind of green vegetable. Sooner or later, I know I'll be excited to go back to some of my old haunts, hopefully with a cartful of awesome new vegetables and other goodies.

 Where do you shop? What's always in your cart? I'd love to know.

  Peace, and Happy New Year--
                                               
                                                Mari

Taste and See

 For my first ten years of cooking, I hardly ever tried a bit of what I was making, in the early stages. Instead, I would taste near serving time and then, usually, add a mad flurry of seasoning in a desperate effort to make the dish taste as I'd hoped it would.

 Of course, that only works to a degree, and it wastes a good deal of spice or other seasoning, because the flavors have to do all their work upfront instead of being able to meld and deepen through cooking. You also tend to use more salt, and who needs that?

 Now, it's not a bad idea to add a small shower, at the end of cooking, of the seasonings you used early on, to bring up and brighten those flavors-- a sort of callback. This goes for uncooked foods, too; anything you prepare can benefit from a final sprinkle. But that tactic should be done as freshening, rather than an attempt to do a major adjustment. Real adjustment comes from gradual, attentive tasting and adding, from letting time work it's magic. The adjustment in my own approach was just as gradual, but steady, once it began.

 My epiphany came while cooking for work-- taking care of young children and their parents, I found myself cooking for families with different palates than my own, who were used to using less salt in some cases, and had drawers of spices very different from my own stock of favorites. My crazed dump-in-a-half-jar system was not appropriate, I knew, for tender young taste buds. Neither did I wish to stress my employers' budgets that way, in the name of caring for them.

 So, I began to taste for seasoning, and to get a sense of the ingredients I was cooking with, during the chopping stage of prep. It is difficult to cook decently with food you didn't pick out personally, without tasting first. The tomatoes can look ripe and rosy, and still taste flat, bland and watery. the carrots may be sweet or bitter and soapy. Tasting as you chop informs your understanding of the textures of the food as well-- and that can be critical to the success of a dish. Knowing how hard, how ripe, how juicy an ingredient is, will help you know how much heat to apply, or how much of a tenderizing element, such as vinegar, that you might need to add.

 This must seem pretty obvious by now, yet so few cooks of my acquaintance do this, that I'm  surprised.  Many talented home cooks I know, never taste. They still turn out good food, but imagine how mind-blowing their dishes could be, then, if they took these extra steps during meal prep.

 The final burst of clarity came after I began working as personal chef to a fantastic boss with a sophisticated, well-traveled sense of taste. Her palate, and her husband's, had been honed by living in some of the finest food cities on the planet, and I wanted very much to please and delight, as well as nourish them. I found myself using fewer seasonings, in lesser amount, to greater effect than ever. I often asked my boss to taste along with me, thereby getting a sense of what she enjoyed. We talked about the food, and I got to experiment freely, in a truly well-equipped kitchen. My cooking, after a long evolution, had solidified into a recognizable style that was generally pleasing and always well accepted. My food had gotten better, my use of ingredients had reached new heights--  a more judicious and informed way of seasoning had truly transformed my cooking. I went on to serve other clients, with their own unique senses of taste, and today, sampling the raw material before cooking is second nature to me.

 What about you?


 

Making Food Difficult, or Making Do?

 Quite often, as I am hanging around food and recipe forums and blogs, looking for inspiration, a new approach to an old idea, or maybe even-- shock of shocks-- to learn something from other experienced cooks, I find myself disheartened as I read, by the human need to deify some process or skill, tool, or recipe. It's happened so much recently, I want to speak about it here.

Example: making your own pie crust used to be the norm, but because it is not anymore, people now fear it; and when they fail the first time, they assume it is due to the recipe, or that pastry-making is such a difficult and arcane process that you must have wizard-like powers and a magic spell to pull it off.

 You don't. What you need is practice, so that you can get beyond the fear that leads to the few mistakes that may ruin your pastry. And a little understanding of the chemical facts, though just practicing will get you there. It's actually very simple and straighforward, but try telling that to someone that messed it up once. They won't believe you, no matter your experience and skill.

 Instead, they'll spend hundreds of dollars on specialized equipment, cookbooks and flours. They'll listen closely to authoritative blowhards who tout "foolproof" recipes or complicated methods. The fact that my grandmother made superlative flaky, light and tender crusts with the cheapest of ingredients, a simple old rolling pin and a floured tabletop, makes no impression on these people. Her lack of formal culinary education doesn't convince them they could do the same with practice. They want instant success, they want Credentials, and they want to learn something more impressive than the fact that the chunks of cold fat, barely blended into the flour, will cause the forming dough to puff around them, and then melt in the oven, leaving hollows that make that flaky crust. It's just the truth-- it's not sexy, it's not scary, so why make use of it?

 When you complicate it, you rob yourself of the chance to grow naturally as a cook. It's sort of an odd idea, to want to avoid giving yourself time to make mistakes and learn from them, when you could just pump cash into the problem. The approach extends to everything from cookware to the proper way to use EVOO. People get a little information, and then let guidelines become sacred laws; people see a professional on TV use a technique, and then defend every aspect of that experience, making it precious. And when it isn't working, they go looking for a new object of worship, a new guru, a pan made with more expensive metals.

 It's cooking, it's baking, and though there are some truths that hold-- like the temperature at which water will boil at a given elevation (and depending on the purity)-- most things about cooking, indeed, about recipes themselves, are changeable, adaptable. Most elements of cooking get better with practice. If the recipe didn't work for you, why not try to figure out why, instead of deciding that the person who encouraged you to try it was wrong? Why not read up on the process a little more, so you can see where you might have gone wrong, then try it again and see what happens? Surely, if you have extra cash to spare going from recipe to recipe in search of perfection, you can afford to retry a recipe; and the bonus is, you'll have some understanding of it already, having tried it once. You're more likely to succeed the second time, with care and attention. It's far more practical than starting over from scratch with another unfamiliar recipe.

 Learning to make the recipes, techniques and tools at hand work for you, is learning to rely on your own taste, your intuition, yourself. It is, in fact, learning to cook. And once you've given yourself permission to explore what once went wrong, you'll better understand why when it goes right. You won't need to search for the right recipe to fit your ingredients most of the time-- instead, you'll understand how to adjust recipes to suit what you have, how to substitute one tool for another, how to make a dish go from "meh" to "wow!" without a run to the store.

 Cooking is a most personal endeavor, and you alone can set your comfort level-- but you alone can push your own boundaries. That, I believe, is a better type of search.


Peace, Mari 

Willpower Wednesday

 Tomorrow is a big day for foodies here, and a big twinge for some of us vegetarians. We may go through the year dealing comfortably with other people's eating habits, as we should; but the day we have to face a huge and obvious carcass can be trying. It's not an anonymous hunk, it's got wings and legs and you know exactly what it's suppose to look like.

 And then there are the other mealtime trials. Cooks putting bacon in the green beans, gelatin in salads or pies, people slathering whipped cream on the otherwise safe desserts before the vegan gets a slice. It's a like an obstacle course on the table, all while sitting with your family that loves you-- sometimes to death!

 This is why people go out to drink heavily on the Friday after. Family Drama is a flippant phrase that doesn't begin to cover the reality some of us face each winter.

While the vegetables served have always been the true heart of this feast for me, the other necessary element, sharing, is more important than the food, yet so bound up within the complex web of food-related memory and emotions, the simplest detail can set off a schism, fueled by family dynamics that seem impossible to change.

 Pumpkin pies-- who makes them now that the former family baker is gone, and do they spice them the way you like? If you bring wine, are you supposed to please the hosts or the other guests with your choice? Little rivalries can expand in the heat of the holiday oven. Siblings and relatives  push our buttons as we plan our gatherings. The imperfections in how we love one another rise to consume us.

 Some years can sail by with barely a flutter of dysfunctionality, some drag you down before you even get to Thursday, with a weight of discord you cannot seem to remove. You know it will be worse once you're there. It's like a sick TV show-- let's just stuff 20 people with unresolved issues into a room meant for eight and see what happens!

Don't forget to bring that wine.

 If you decide to give it a rest for one November, one December, you know you're going to pay. I've thought about doing that, this year, myself, with a weight on my chest as I contemplate it only because of my mother. For reasons I can't comprehend, she needs this from us, even though she will experience as much tension, as little pleasure, as the rest of us. It won't be nice, there won't be good conversation, there won't be a sense of togetherness, but only the appearance of that.

 Maybe that's all we can do, some years-- show up for the sake of showing up. Avoid our expectations of the event, good and bad, and try to be our calmest, kindest selves going in. Family, friendships, marriage, art, all require this of us, to keep showing up no matter what it costs. Investment through sheer time put in, which hopefully pays a dividend here and there.

 Or maybe it means I need to refocus, and shift my perspective. To be thankful that whatever tattered family rituals are wrapped around it, and however much of my pie gets eaten, tomorrow is just another Thursday, and in 24 hours, it's over again.

Peaceful feelings to you; today, tomorrow and all the rest of this November--
                                                                                                                                Mari