The Ones That Almost Got Away

I'm not sure what it is about the fish tales that makes them so much more apt to wriggle through my narrative net. Looking at my blog backlog, I see that we're pretty much caught up, with only two recent fish feasts having gone without comment. So let's reel in those bad boys.

Salmon is not one of Master's favorites. And I concede that it can be a good deal fishier than many of the mild, white fish I've favored for our Friday dinners. The upshot is that salmon requires some sweetening of the deal. In this case, I took the idiom to heart, baking the fish to a flaky finish in a sweet and tart marinade of clementine juice, brown sugar, balsamic vinegar and minced garlic.

The borlotti beans were acquired during the early legs of a long Wednesday afternoon walk. I had stopped in for a mango granita and found myself unable to resist those attractively marbled magenta, green and white pods. I ended up walking around Downtown for hours, clutching the plastic bag that held my precious freight until numb fingers forced me to relinquish it. The Swiss chard was more of a last minute purchase, though no less irresistible in its leafy abundance. Master was kind enough to shell the beans while I chopped up a fennel bulb, onions, and Roma tomatoes, and waited for the water to come up. The beans boiled, the fennel simmered in stock with a handful of thyme. I was up to my elbows in chard, cutting stems from leaves, which amassed to bury the cutting board, the kitchen counter - even the knife often enough for the task to feel akin to blazing through dense underbrush with a machete. The chard, reduced to manageable bites, sauteed until just crunchy and still rubicund. I squeezed in some lemon juice before serving.

I thought everything tasted great. Master ate, and seemed to enjoy the meal, though I could tell that neither the salmon nor the sides were ever going to be favorites. He explained it as the difference between "mmmm" and "yummy!" He's a tough one to please. But I am not so easily deterred.

And sometimes I do hit that "yummy!" bullseye, as I managed with this dinner of baked flounder, tomatoes Provençal, and gingered carrots. Though you may just see a hodgepodge of herb-y, crumb-y sameness above, I assure you that the tomatoes and the fish were total textural contrasts. Beneath their thin, crackly crust, the breadcrumbs baked into the tomatoes (which had just been plucked from their garden vines) were soft, peppery, and dense from absorbed juices, Parmesan cheese, parsley, and olive oil. The breading on the flounder was crisp and light, flavored with citrus zest and thyme. The carrots were just barely glazed in a sugar-and-ginger syrup, in the manner I've found Master likes best. Every element of the plate was calculated to please and, though I may have gone a bit overboard with the black pepper, it was a huge hit. We only wished I'd made more of the tomatoes. I really thought that a dozen - all that the casserole dish would accommodate - would be enough for two people. Ah, but I should have realized that standard serving math does not apply where good tomatoes Provençal is concerned, and that the only guarantee is that enough is never enough.

Oooooh! Do it again!

Oh, wait. That was Mufasa. And this is moussaka. Close enough.

My brother had come into possession of a ridiculously oversize globe eggplant just as he was due to take off for a long weekend in New York City. I offered to relieve him of his perishable burden, seeing as how Master has always been especially enthusiastic about my eggplant dishes. Me, I'm not crazy about this vegetable, undeniably handsome as it is. It would be fair to say that I am coming to terms with it. The memory of poorly prepared eggplant at its seediest, mushiest, and most bitter still haunts me. And while I've learned to tame these properties, and to appreciate the sweet, dense, velvety character of a properly cooked eggplant's flesh, I will always be wary of just how unpalatable it can be. Perhaps I'm also not just a little scarred by the sights and sounds of eggplants, roasting to make baba ghanoush, exploding in my mother's oven. That kind of thing can traumatize you.

The boon of a secondhand eggplant inspired me to try my hand at a moussaka. Master loves eggplant and adores a nice lasagna, so this Mediterranean favorite should be a home run. For the meat layer, I used ground bison, spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg for added sparkle, sauteed with garlic, onion, and a concassé of fresh tomatoes. I peeled and cut up 1/4 of the gargantuan eggplant and fried the slices in olive oil. But I balked at having to make a béchamel sauce with the lactose-free milk we had on hand. Reading up on regional variations of this popular dish presented an answer. In Greece, an egg custard forms the top layer. Master reacts unpredictably to anything that includes too many eggs. I reasoned that I could simulate a passable custard by beating a couple of eggs into a pint of thick Greek yogurt (a foodstuff I'm always trying to sneak into our meals). I wasn't sure it would work - I half expected the 0% fat yogurt to collapse into a curdled, runny mess.

It did not. On the contrary, the yogurt-and-egg mixture baked to a perfect mimicry of a traditional custard - solid, wobbly, and with a melt-in-the-mouth texture accentuated by the yogurt's natural tanginess and the bit of lemon zest and juice I'd blended in. The yogurt custard was as light as the cooked meat and eggplant were hearty, and it came together to make a very satisfying moussaka. Master didn't even complain about the yogurt.

Out of Africa

I had my heart set on fish prepared with charmoula, the savory North African marinade made with cilantro, parsley, garlic, toasted cumin seeds, paprika, lemon juice, salt and olive oil (and chilies, ideally). Alas, other than a scrappy looking salmon fillet, there was no fresh fish to be found at the market. I won't say I didn't panic. A call to check the status of our cilantro (negative), parsley (dubious) and lemon (affirmative) stocks didn't really put me at ease, though it did set my resolve to finish off the economy sized package of chicken thighs we'd stashed in the freezer. A tray of sweet potatoes, lightly oiled but otherwise naked, could roast in tandem with the chicken. I remembered that we had an abundance of garden tomatoes, including a colossal red-and-green striped heirloom beauty - thanks, A! - poised at peak ripeness. I recalled seeing a cucumber in Master's refrigerator, concealed among the deli meats and partially empy water bottles, and I could always count on a big bag of carrots and at least one onion. That sounded like the makings of kachumbari - a sort of Kenyan pico de gallo heavily inspired by the classic Indian cucumber salad (they should have patented it!) - a perfect Summer side.

I sliced the onion, seeded the cucumber, and soaked them in salted water. I find that this extra step, which keeps them mild and crisp, is always nice when they're to be consumed raw. The charmoula started with the cumin and a clove of garlic, pounded together into a paste, then pureed with the herbs, spices, and oil. The roughly chopped tomatoes, a shredded carrot, and cilantro joined the onion and cucumber in a large bowl, to be dressed with only lime juice and sea salt. I turned the thighs and the sweet potatoes once, but was otherwise free to get a jump on washing up the prep dishes while everything hummed along.

The food was delicious but, for me, it was even more gratifying to know how much pleasure Master took in it. He ate heartily, and it made me happy just to see him eat so well.

Surrender

If you're reading this, you probably know me pretty well. And if you know me, then you know how I tend to be a bit, let's just say "control freak-y," wherever food is concerned. It's no secret how I'll tote along my own knives and condiments if I plan to cook at your place; how I could spend hours selecting string beans from the bin at the market; how nothing I order in restaurants is ever quite the way I would have made it myself. It's therefore a positive exercise to surrender complete control of the menu occasionally, as I did this week.

Master was doing his grocery shopping earlier in the day. I encouraged him to pick up whatever he wanted me to make for dinner, and asked only that he let me know what proteins and vegetables I would have at my disposal. Seems not so long ago that planning dinners in this fashion was the rule rather than the exception. I'm not sure at what point I usurped menu control. But this was fun, and it forced me to think on my toes.

When the call came, I was informed that pork loin chops, a head of Napa cabbage, fresh corn, tomatoes, carrots, and cucumbers were all waiting for me in the refrigerator. That sounded like the makings of a fine summer dinner. I needed only to pack a jar of homemade Chinese five-spice powder and to hit up the market for a knob of ginger, chicken broth, a couple of Patagonia pears, and some cilantro - since our little experiment in herb farming was thwarted by thrips (whose voracity for those pungent green leaves is apparently even greater than our own).

It was already past 6 PM by the time I arrived at Master's gate. When I sat and considered the options, braising the meat seemed to be the best way to compensate for a somewhat abbreviated stretch in the marinade (canola oil, ginger, soy sauce, green onion, garlic, five-spice, red pepper flake, and brown sugar, if you're wondering). I shredded half of the cabbage and one of the pears, sauteed them with scallions, garlic and ginger, sprinkled in some dark sesame oil, then wiped the pan out to prepare it for braising the pork.

For the other side, I wanted to make a grilled-corn and grape tomato salad. Thus began the great struggle to cook corn on the Foreman grill. Oh, it looked like it would be easy enough. Heat it up, soak the husks so they wouldn't burn, and let the grill do its thing. But three corncobs do not sit well on the inclined surface of this device. The floating hinge doesn't float high enough, and the cobs roll down to the edge, away from the searing heat. I spent the better part of an hour pushing and poking the corn back into place with a wooden spoon handle, turning each when it looked like rows of kernels were beginning to char - or weren't getting any color at all. When I'd had quite enough of this Sisyphean silliness, I impatiently yanked the corn off the grill and, not even waiting for them to cool (not so smart, that), sliced the kernels off into a bowl - something I've seen done many times, but have never actually tried myself. To my pleasant surprise, the grill had indeed worked its magic on the corn, which tasted unrecognizably vibrant and sweet. I tossed the corn kernels with the tomatoes, halved, lots of finely chopped cilantro, the juice of a lime, salt and pepper to season. Lovely!

I had prepared the pork, the sauteed cabbage and pears, and the corn to appeal specifically to Master's sweet tooth, but in no way was the sense of sweetness overpowering. The five-spice and the ginger cut nicely through the concentrated natural sugars. The lime and the tomatoes gave acidic punch to the salad, whose raw elements also lent an appealing overall lightness with the meat and the cooked vegetables. Master loved everything on the plate, both separately and together. And if we've confirmed our suspicions that Napa cabbage and IBS make for uncomfortable bedfellows, well, now we know. No more cabbage.

Buffaloed

Master keeps buying one-pound packages of ground bison. I'm not complaining - it's good stuff. It's the "ground" part that presents a problem. There's only so much I know to do with ground meat. I can make just so many buffalo burgers, and it's hardly the season for heavy shepherds pies. Stumped, I turned to the library for "outside the bun" ideas. Hours rifling through Bayliss, Bittman, Batali - yeah, kinda got stuck on the 'B's - turned up nothing. Nothing! Grudging acknowledgment of its relative leanness aside, ground bison doesn't get much love in the food world. I suppose it's seen as the ground turkey of meat on the hoof. What if we were to approach this more ethno-specifically? Portuguese, Peruvian, Lebanese, Creole. Nope. The ground beef recipes were still the expected meatballs, meatloaves, meat sauces, and meat pies. In defeat, I jotted down notes and a shopping checklist for a Sicilian ragout with peas. It would do. Or it would've done, if one parting perusal - through a hefty Thai cookbook - hadn't set me on a different course.

The idea of a soup with rice vermicelli, cucumbers and small pork meatballs was immediately appealing. One pot, raw vegetables, and the "bun" noodles with which Master had been so smitten during a recent visit to a Vietnamese restaurant. The evening's forecast threatened severe thunderstorms, which would cool things down enough to justify serving hot soup. I wasn't sure about substituting bison for pork, since they're rather dissimilar where texture and flavor affinities are concerned, but I was willing to risk it.

Beef stock, simmered with sliced ginger, soy sauce, fish sauce, lime juice, brown sugar, and lots of cilantro - roots, stems, and all - served as the broth. The meatballs were very simply seasoned with grated ginger, dry sherry, soy sauce, brown sugar, and lime zest. They cooked in the strained broth until they floated to the surface like meaty little buoys. The cucumbers went in raw, just before serving, as did the rice noodles, softened with a warm water soak.

Master declared the broth "gorgeous" when I set the bowl in front of him. Gorgeous! Such effusiveness caught me off guard, and it was just the preamble. He proclaimed love for the noodles, even if they were somewhat difficult to wrangle without chopsticks, and for the meatballs, too. It all came together nicely, so I will concur on all counts, adding only that the cucumbers, parboiled by the hot soup but still crisp, were quite a treat. And ground bison made for especially light and fluffy meatballs, its delicate flavor accented but not overwhelmed by the ginger and lime.

Faced with a surplus of beautiful black plums, and fearing that the soup would not be enough of a meal for Master - a concern unfounded, as it turned out - I planned to serve a plum crisp for dessert. The fruit, pared and pitted, needed nothing but 45 minutes at 375° to stew down to a tart, soupy, claret-colored concentration - the quintessence of a sultry summer. Though full from dinner, Master and I both found room for a few spoonfuls as we whiled away the lazy evening, playing cards and enjoying one another's company. Life is good.

Turkish(ish) Delights

I turned Master on to the joys of Turkish food - the pleasures of meat simply seasoned and expertly grilled, the tantalizing assortment of appetite-teasing salads and accompaniments. We had tentative plans to celebrate my birthday with dinner at the kebab house, but ended up going out for Thai instead. Which was fine with me, and my moo yang nam tok (spicy grilled pork salad) was fiery and little short of sensational. But I recognized a shared craving, and so I took it upon myself to bring the Turkish - or at least my interpretation of it - to us.

Okay, so maybe I just wanted to keep chicken thighs exciting for myself. Master buys them in such large quantities, and it can be a challenge to find new ways to serve them up. My choice of marinades - yogurt, garlic, ginger, paprika, mint, lemon juice - made these seem like an ideal anchor for a plate of Turkish delights: taze fasulye - fresh green beans cooked "à la Turk" with onions, olive oil, cherry tomatoes, and sugar; and a kisir, or bulgur wheat tabouli, with tomatoes, scallions, parsley, and mint.

I took liberties, using coarse bulgur instead of fine, and adding ribbons of purple basil to the beans. Was it authentic Turkish? Not particularly. Was it delightful? Absolutely. The chicken could have marinated longer - always an issue on Friday nights - but the yogurt still had its desired tenderizing effect and the spices, though subtle, came through in broiling. Master has been snacking on raw cherry tomatoes by the bushel, so I knew the combination with the green beans would appeal. The kisir provided cooling, herb-y and lemon-y contrast, and went very well with the mingled poultry and vegetable pan juices. A meal fit for a pasha, if not a caliph, I have to say.

Greens Days

It's farm-market season, finally. And if the first forays saw little available in the way of vegetables, the variety and quality of offerings has at least been improving from week to week.
Now, if only something could be done about the lamentably ongoing dearth of good fruit.

Vibrant greens seem to rule the day. Most irresistible among recent selections have been the beet greens, with their lank, ruddy stems, great plumes of multihued leaves, and wee, bulbous roots. Hitherto new to me, they've been a most joyous discovery. Tasting faintly of the root's familiar, earthy sweetness, with a crunchy yet yielding texture, they've enlivened two recent menus, and will no doubt continue to inspire as long as they remain in seasonal supply.

Market day is Wednesday, but last week's cullings - the beet greens, a bag of "baby" tatsoi (spinach mustard), and a half-dozen immaculate Japanese eggplants - were deferred by Wednesday night errands and an ill-advised diner dinner until Friday. This afforded me more time to plan and to play. The teriyaki chicken thighs (you may have noticed that both Master and I are dark-meat guys) marinated while the eggplants, halved and scored, soaked up a mixture of soy sauce, dry sherry, brown sugar, dark sesame oil, and garlic. I prepared a cup of quinoa and set it aside to cool. As the chicken broiled and the Foreman grill warmed up, I steamed the beet greens and tatsoi in whatever water remained after rinsing and a quick spin-drying. I believe a squeeze of lemon juice and a minced garlic clove also went into this pan. When the greens were wilted and properly seasoned, I tossed them with the quinoa and an unstinting handful of dried cranberries, coarsely chopped. The eggplant halves went onto the sizzling-hot grill for a few minutes, just until their tender skins were char-marked but still a rich purple, and the sweet white flesh had softened to an almost custardy consistency. Lovely things, inside and out.

The pink tinge that the beet greens imparted to the pearly quinoa was a nice surprise. So was the sapor with which Master dug into this heaping portion of heavenly, healthful food. An excellent meal, this one. As far as I'm concerned, it made up (somewhat) for the unspeakable dietary crimes we had both committed earlier in the week.

The following week's farm-market foraging brought more beet greens, another bag of tatsoi, a bundle of young kale, a fresh mesclun bouquet worthy of centerpiece placement, and what will in all likelihood be the last of the year's garlic scapes. A side trip to the Mexican grocery turned up some tempting tomatillos and quality flour tortillas. I had asked Master to defrost a package of ground bison the night before, so I was obligated to feature it in that evening's menu. Whenever I use red meat, I find myself compelled to counter with an overabundance of vegetables. Enchiladas seemed like a good "delivery system" for all that green goodness, especially if we were to forgo cheese for a light, tangy tomatillo salsa verde.

To prepare the salsa verde, I hulled, rinsed, roasted, and skinned the tomatillos, then blended them with diced red onion, garlic, scads of pungent young cilantro (fresh from Master's herb garden), the juice of a couple of limes, and a good drizzle of agave syrup. I added the chopped kale and beet-green stems to a skillet of bison browned with onions and garlic. Mild chili powder, Mexican oregano, more lime juice, and another agave drizzle made for a very tasty filling. The kale leaves, beet greens and whole tatsoi I sauteed separately, adding just a little salt and lime juice when they came off the heat. Each enchilada was assembled by wrapping a warm tortilla around several spoonfuls of the bison and some of the sauteed greens. These I packed into a glass casserole, doused with the salsa verde, and baked for 15 minutes. For those playing along at home, a pound of ground bison made twice as much filling as was needed for 10 tortillas. And seven of these enchiladas, with the mesclun salad - torn, tossed, and served unadorned, was more than enough of a meal to leave Master and me waddling away from the table, pleasantly padded and still licking our chops. That tomatillo salsa was fantastic.