Three Hens a'Brinin'

Bulgur Displays

You say "Tomato," I call "Shenanigans!"

Master and I had originally planned for the "big" Holiday meal on Thursday, so we made a pre-holiday trip to Walmart for groceries. Knowing now what I wish I had known then, those three words will forever fill me with dread. Walmart's supermarket may be fine for pantry items, and their prices are often unbeatable. But their produce section exemplifies all of the grievances cited in Jeffrey Steingarten's righteously crabby essay "Ripeness is All." I thank my lucky stars for the gourmet boutiques in my neighborhood, without which I'd sooner starve.

With the actual Holiday feast postponed until Christmas proper on Friday, I still needed to come up with something for Wednesday night's dinner. I'd spent the previous evening becoming reacquainted with Vegetable Heaven. So I was still in a Mollie Katzen state of mind when I began to gather ingredients for some manner of roasted tomatoes/roasted garlic preparation, maybe with baby spinach, mushrooms, possibly served over pasta. Easy, breezy, tasty, wholesome. The heaps of intensely rosy Roma tomatoes in Walmart's produce department at least held the promise of flavor. Alas, I knew better upon cutting into the mealy, never-ripened and furthermore frost-damaged flesh of the first tomato [sic] that I'd been royally had. Against all better judgment, I maintained hope that slow roasting might still coax some goodness out of these picture-perfect but utterly insipid tomatoes. Let no one say that there's no such thing as a hopeless cause. Roasted and peeled, the tomatoes still tasted like twice-microwaved Styrofoam. I was crushed. But the show must go on, and so into the pot, along with two whole heads of roasted garlic, went the tomatoes. Ample amounts of fresh basil and marjoram went some way towards salvaging the sauce. A little red wine or Balsamic vinegar (neither of which was on hand), and a few grinds of Parmigiano-Reggiano (ditto) might also have helped. But, honestly, if someone had served this to me without mentioning that there were tomatoes in it, I would never have guessed. Sure, I realize I'm being particular, perhaps even persnickety, about the produce. But I can't comprehend how anyone who has tasted a good tomato could ever settle for less.

More drama in getting the pasta to the table. I may have mentioned that Master's stove top consists of only two working burners, the larger of which smokes upon heating (due to a dousing of paraffin during a candle-making experiment many moons ago). The smaller burner was fine for the sauce, but it absolutely refused to bring the large pot of pasta water to a rolling boil. Even when I made a point of turning my back, as suggested by the adage, that water just would not come to temperature. After nearly an hour of this nonsense, I dusted off the electric cooktop again. By the time dinner was served, between the heartbreak of those tomatoes and the reticent pasta water, it's fair to say that I wasn't in the cheeriest of moods. I was just relieved to see the back end of a needlessly frustrating ordeal. Master actually liked the sauce - a lot more than I did. And that's all that really matters. It was enough to spare me the paddle that night, speaking of "back ends."

Stir Friday Redux

Though it was well received by Master, I wasn't thrilled with the yu choy sum stir fry. I think it was those bitty noodles. Seeking something cheap, quick, and satisfying to prepare for dinner, I hit the local Asian market. The gai-lan looked great, and inspired me to recreate the dish Master ordered each time we'd gone out for Chinese food. If he loves chicken and broccoli, why not serve up chicken and Chinese broccoli? I admit that the prospect of introducing another person to gai-lan, a cultivar of the more assertive and divisive rapini, is always exciting. Too few seem to know the joys of this wonderful vegetable. Though I can't imagine anyone not liking gai-lan, especially when only its crisp, sweet stalks are used, the pleasantly bitter leaves and flower heads reserved for another dish, I hedged my bets by including some broccoli florets in the stir fry. Far from being brassica "overkill," the cruciferous cousins complemented one another beautifully. The chicken breast, marinated well in advance with xiaoxing wine, garlic, ginger, soy sauce, sugar, cornstarch and dark sesame oil, was tender and flavorful. I feel like I'm finally mastering the "tricks" of a successful stir fry, such as preparing the components separately, timing the rice, and thickening the sauce with a cornstarch slurry. They may be little things, but they make a substantial difference. I was very happy with the results. More importantly, Master loved the dish.

As I was stocking up on pantry essentials, I'd noticed that fresh yardlong beans were also available. Why not strike while the wok was hot, so to speak, and offer a second dinner item? But could I ever hope to pull off a "dry fry" without dou ban jiang, the fiery bean-and-chili paste at the heart and soul of this Sichuan favorite? I decided that the answer was an emphatic "no" and, knowing that I would quite literally be risking my hide by defying Master's strict no-chillies mandate, added the sauce to my cart. Brazen fool that I am, desperate yet emboldened by the tyranny of timid taste buds, I was convinced that I could sneak just enough of this essential ingredient into the meal to satisfy my desire for authenticity without inflaming Master's tongue - and displeasure. It would be a calculated risk, calling for the tiniest measuring spoon. Did I even own a 1/8 teaspoon?

Since I would be preparing the meal at Master's place, I had to smuggle the bottle of dou ban jiang into his kitchen without arousing suspicion. Before I'd even taken off my hat and gloves, I hid it in the fridge's frostiest recesses until it was needed. Fortunately, Master was elsewhere at the critical moment when the wee dollop of chili paste hit the searing surface of the wok. Even the infinitesimal amount I added was enough to send up potentially deal-breaking wafts of stinging, spicy smoke. Tamed by the heat and by the synergic powers of fried ginger, garlic and scallions, it was all but undetectable in the finished dish. If Master noticed the scintilla of heat, he didn't say anything. I should be grateful that he doesn't read my ramblings here, as there would no doubt be painful consequences for such bold disregard of his orders. No, the problem turned out to be not the dou ban jiang but the long beans themselves. Though I'd given them ample dry-fry time in which to pucker, and I'd exactingly cut them into uniform 2" pieces, they came to the table a little underdone. Again, Master did not complain. Long beans were as new to him as gai-lan. But it is possible that the wok was not hot enough during the dry frying. I'm still adapting to its touchy electric controls - as the numerous minor burns on my hands will attest.

Kofta-esque

As my confidence grows, so does my ambition. Master's Wednesday-night dinner was a more elaborate affair, featuring several sides and a dessert, and requiring a good three hours of preparation.

The menu was lamb kofta, Moroccan carrot salad, couscous with pistachios and orange blossom water, and poached Asian pear over lemon sorbetto. The inspiration came from my dear friend Raj, a fabulous cook in whose kitchen(s), and at whose patient hands, I learned much of what I know. Whenever we cooked together, I sat to the side and dutifully scribbled notes in a small Moleskine notebook that has become my Bible. Even as spattering oils and drizzled condiments have rendered portions of many pages illegible, this gustatory grimoire remains my one constant kitchen companion. Time and trial have modified the particulars of these recipes somewhat. For one thing, his bordering-on-inhuman tolerance for the heat of chillies - and for the persistent pungency of asafoetida - are feats I could never hope to match. So, while amounts and ingredients may have been adjusted to my tastes, he still deserves credit for this well, one to which I return for many of my meals, always with the deepest gratitude and a twinge of bittersweet nostalgia.

Raj's lamb kofta were little nuggets of perfection, studded with bits of dried apricot, minced onion and cilantro. I omit the fruit, saute my onions and garlic in ghee, substitute fresh mint for half of the cilantro, and add citrus zest, pomegranate molasses, and a cup of plain breadcrumbs. I've found these changes to yield larger kofta that stay moist as they bake and offer a tantalizing rush of flavors with every forkful - so much flavor that a dollop of plain Greek, Indian or Turkish yogurt suffices as an accompaniment, though an actual raita would also be lovely.

Master told me that he'd never knowingly eaten lamb before. I know as many people who dislike lamb vehemently as I do lamb lovers, so I wasn't certain where on the spectrum he would fall. But his rural Pennsylvania-bred palate, to which many of the Mediterranean flavors I offered were new and unfamiliar, seemed to savor every element of the meal. I watched him happily devour several manly portions last night, and the leftovers for lunch this afternoon. That's one more for Team Lamb, then.

LAMB KOFTA
1 lb chopped lamb
1 red onion, minced
1 large clove garlic, grated or finely minced
1 T ghee
1/2 t coriander seed
1/2 t cumin seed
1/2 T black peppercorns
5-6 cardamom, decorticated and crushed
(1/2 t cayenne pepper, optional)
(1 t garam masala, optional)
1 large egg
1/4 cup fine, unseasoned breadcrumbs
1/2 cup fresh cilantro (leaves and stems), coarsely chopped
1/2 cup fresh mint leaves, chopped
zest of half an orange and/or half a lemon
1 T pomegranate molasses

Toast coriander and cumin in a dry pan until seeds are browned and fragrant. Grind finely together with peppercorns. Set aside.

Preheat oven to 350°.

Melt ghee in a large pan and saute onion. When onions have softened, and 1 generous tsp of the spice mixture and a handful of sea salt. Stir well and continue cooking for a few more minutes.

In a large bowl, combine the ground lamb, cooked onions, egg, cilantro, mint, (cayenne and garm masala), citrus zest, pomegranate molasses, bread crumbs and cardamom. Mix well with clean hands, incorporating all ingredients. The mixture shouldn't be too sticky or loose. If it is, add more breadcrumbs. Shape mixture into tapered balls and place on greased foil-covered tray. You should be able to get 10 good-sized kofta from 1 lb of meat.

Bake uncovered. Check for desired doneness after 30min. Serve hot.



The carrot salad is a fairly traditional rendition of a preparation that I've enjoyed at the homes of my Mom's many Moroccan friends. For Master's sake, I left out the cayenne, as I do when making this for family gatherings. The results are still delectable, though I miss the inimitable zing that only a dash of red pepper can provide. I continue to revel in the bounty of inexpensive Meyer lemons here, though the regular variety will serve just as nicely.

MOROCCAN CARROT SALAD
8-10 carrots, peeled and cut into large coins
1 garlic clove, grated
2 T good olive oil
1 T honey
1/2 tsp cumin seed, toasted and ground
1/2 tsp coriander, toasted and ground (or, if you can, use the spice mixture prepared above)
1/4 tsp paprika
(1/4 tsp cayenne pepper, optional)
1/5 cinnamon stick, grated
juice and zest of 1 Meyer lemon

Bring a large pot of lightly salted water to a boil. Add carrots and 1 tbs sugar. Cook until carrots are just soft. Drain carrots and set aside.

Combine all other ingredients and mix well. A small fork works best. Pour over carrots and chill until ready to serve. The longer this chills, the better it tastes!


The Couscous with Pistachios is simplicity itself. Prepare a box of couscous using equal portions of stock (vegetable, beef, or even clear apple juice) and water. While the couscous is steaming, shell a few fistfuls of salted, roasted pistachios. Crush these with a mortar and pestle or grind coarsely. Add to couscous, along with orange zest, the juice of half a lemon, a good drizzle of olive oil, salt and fresh mint. Mix well with a fork - essential to fluff up the couscous. Garnish with a few whole pistachios and mint sprigs, and serve hot. If you can sprinkle a little orange-blossom water over the top before serving, by all means do so! Another indispensable tip from Raj, who bought me my first bottle of this balmy nectar.


Asian pears can be fibrous and a little bland, but the poaching liquid - a thin simple syrup spiked with star anise, cinnamon, cloves, black peppercorns, cardamom, citrus zest, and fresh ginger - permeated and softened the pear pieces. Spooned over an airy lemon sorbetto (purchased, not prepared), it was a light and satisfying dessert - just the way I like 'em. I'm always trying to sneak fruit into our meals, as dinner feels incomplete without it. Master, whose much more of a cookies-and-pie guy, had no complaints. I'll call this one, cribbed from a Korean cookbook whose title and author elude me, a qualified success. The overall flavor was missing... something. I may try adding a vanilla bean to the bubbling brew next time.

Three Days

Come Monday morning, my behind was so, so sore. Three consecutive days with Master meant not only many a sound paddling, but also multiple opportunities to prepare meals in an unfamiliar kitchen. While this can be a dicey proposition, all in all I feel as though I acquitted myself nicely.

Master's brand-spankin'-new electric wok had arrived during the week. So I broke it in on Friday night with a simple stir fry of yu choy sum (Chinese flowering cabbage) over lo mein. Not being the biggest fan of the traditional oyster sauce, I opted for a blend of tamari soy sauce, kecap manis, mirin, honey, beef stock and fresh-squeezed orange juice. Kecap manis gets a bad rap, but I quite like it, especially in combination with a strong soy sauce like tamari, whose salty, umami richness is rounded out nicely by the treacly sweetness.

The yu choy sum, with its aromatic base of garlic, ginger, scallions and red onions, made for a flavorful and light meal. The wok performed flawlessly. The same could not be said for the range, which seemed to take forever to bring the water to a boil. The noodles were also more broken than I would have liked, but Master didn't seem to mind. He roundly pronounced the dish a success, went back for several servings, and took pride in sharing a portion with a friend who dropped by later that evening. I don't know how well the delicate yu choy sum held up to reheating, but the friend - a professional chef, mind - seemed to enjoy it. Go, me. I thought the stir fry tasted fine, if a bit bland without a hit of Sriracha. Fortunately, I'd brought the bottle along. This is becoming an addiction, isn't it?

I will spare you, gentle readers, the details that led to Master and me getting such a late start on Saturday. Use your ample imaginations, but know that they may still come up short. Suffice to say that it was well past noon when we settled in for breakfast. I felt like making French toast, which just happens, sometimes, and can't be easily explained or dismissed. Rummaging through Master's fridge turned up a loaf of oat bread and many dubiously dated eggs. No, no, this wouldn't do. An emergency foray to the local market, with a stop at home to raid my own kitchen for maple syrup and butter, nutmeg, a cinnamon stick and my trusty microplane grater, brought a dozen fresh eggs, cinnamon bread, and unexpected delights in the form of frozen wild blueberries and a fresh Meyer lemon. Uncooperative burners and worryingly thin lactose-free milk aside, I was able to deliver a perfect golden-brown stack of eggy, orange zest-and-spice-scented joy to the table, alongside an improvised compote, kicked up with the exquisitely perfumed juice of that Meyer lemon. Both the French toast and the blueberry compote turned out even more delicious than I'd anticipated. I can see why Master was delighted. I was on a roll. Could I make it three for three?

I'd have to wait until Sunday to find out, as Saturday night saw us returning to the same Chinese restaurant we'd dined at the previous weekend. Master is a creature of habit, and he can be unfailingly loyal to favorite eateries. My Sichuan pork was on a par with the twice-cooked pork dish I'd ordered during our last visit - flavorful but unexceptional, and neither hot nor spicy enough to titillate me. I should confess that I've been spoiled by having a roommate (from Sichuan) whose ultra-authentic home cooking knocks the pale imitation on offer at Chinese restaurants into the proverbial cocked hat.

Waste Not...

Still had plenty of that spurned sauce left over. It waited out the weekend, which presented distractions in the form of back-to-back restaurant forays, until an unexpected supermarket trip on Tuesday provided a bounty of exciting ingredients. So this time it graced a medley of lemon tempeh and steamed sugar snap peas, carrots, broccoli, zucchini and sunchokes. Livened up with an infusion of fresh basil and cilantro, and that overdue schpritz of Sriracha, the coconut concoction made for a wholesome and satisfying second meal.

Note to self: eat more sunchokes. They're fantastic!

If You Can't Stand the Heat...

Master can not stomach spicy food.

I live by the credo that spice is the variety of life, and take great pride in a spice pantry - no mere rack, this - fully stocked, from amchur powder to zingiber.

No one ever said this was going to be easy.

I suppose a Thai-inspired coconut sauce, to be served over Basmati rice and an assortment of lightly steamed vegetables, may not have been the most intuitive choice for Master's dinner. But I made every effort to curtail the heat, forgoing my usual (generous) splash of Sriracha, using only two of those insidious bird's eye chillies, and straining the sauce several times, to rid it of any potentially offensive seeds or fragments. I assure you, Sir, that my intentions were good.

This is a sauce I often prepare purely for the sensory delights of the mise en place. Rose-tinged curls of fragrant lemongrass. Little heaps of lime zest, grated ginger root and garlic clove, all glistening with their aromatic oils and juices. A mountain of diced pink shallots, red onion, and grass-green scallion. Cilantro and basil leaves off to the side, washed and waiting patiently. And those tiny, tapered chillies - so pretty, so potent. Only two tonight. Ordinarily there might be six or seven, eight when I'm feeling especially randy. Even before the mingling of flavors brought on by gentle heat, and the indescribable renderings of herbal aromatics, lashings of piquant citrus and white-hot peppery sparks against the rich, subtly sweet backdrop of the coconut milk, I'm intoxicated and enthralled.

4 or 5 shallots, diced
1 small red onion, diced
2 scallions, chopped (both the white and the green)
2-10 bird's eye chillies, chopped - remember to remove those hellishly hot seeds when cooking for Master!
2 med. garlic cloves, grated
1" or so ginger root, peeled and grated
1/3 lemongrass stalk, bruised with the back of a knife and coarsely chopped
juice and zest of half (1/2) a lime
1 (14 oz.) can coconut milk
a handful each of fresh cilantro and basil leaves, washed, dried and chopped

Heat pan and saute shallots, onion and scallions in a splash of olive oil. Add the garlic, ginger, lemongrass, chillies, lime zest and a pinch of sea salt. When all but the lemongrass are soft, and your kitchen smells like Heaven, add coconut milk and lime. Stir and bring to a boil, then lower heat and simmer until sauce is reduced in volume and of the desired consistency. Remove from heat and strain (at least once). Add cilantro and basil. Stir well. The residual heat will be enough to wilt, but not cook, these lovely herbs. Set sauce aside. A hearty schpritz of Sriracha can be added, to taste, but is strictly optional.

Sounds simple enough, and it is. But it would be helpful to have a strainer large enough for the task at hand. I did not, and so was reduced to doing the deed one spoonful at time, using a tea strainer. This made for a hilarious spectacle, should anyone have been watching, but I assure you that it was as frustrating, messy and inefficient as it sounds. We live, we learn. When he heard of my travails, Master was kind enough to buy me a large strainer. He is too good to me.


I prefer to use my own knives whenever possible, so I cut up the vegetables - carrots, zucchini, green beans, and red and yellow bell peppers - at home. The plan was to pack the sauce, the vegetables, and a quantity of uncooked Basmati rice for assembly in Master's tiny kitchen. This would also allow for the last-minute inclusion of chicken, if a viable prepared or frozen supply could be located. And so, like little Red, over the hill and through the woods I went, bag of goodies in hand.

My previous meals for Master - a spinach-and-mushroom lasagna; braised pork chops smothered in five-spiced apples; a Tuscan-style kale and sausage soup; bison and roasted root vegetable cottage pie - had been one-pot affairs, ported over piping hot and requiring no more than a serving spoon and plates. I had therefore overestimated the resources of Master's kitchen, which is fine for its usual service of toasting or nuking food but insufficient for anything more ambitious. A range with no working burners was not going to get the rice boiled. Before panic (mine, entirely) could ensue, Master dusted off a frightful-looking electric cooktop, which perched unsteadily atop the useless burners but proved to work well enough. A quick inventory of the refrigerator revealed a lemon-basil rotisserie chicken, nearly untouched, which was soon shredded. Things were looking up. Dinner would be happening, after all.

"Do you have any oil?"

It seemed an innocent question. Even if it's - ugh - corn oil, as I found at another non-cooking friend's apartment, who doesn't have some sort of cooking oil on hand? Forget such luxuries as garlic cloves, a quantity of edible oil would appear to be indispensable to even the most rudimentary of working kitchens. Nevertheless, there was no oil here. As I resigned myself to steaming the vegetables, and set about such business, Master produced a bottle of curiously high-end olive oil from the cluttered recesses of one cabinet. The bottle itself, unsealed and matted with a thick fuzz of dust, cat(?) hair and abject disregard, did not look promising, even when thoroughly rinsed. The price tag had gone yellow with age, practically trumpeting the rancidity of the contents. It was a trembling fingertip, moistened with a drop of the golden-green oil, that I lifted to my tongue for a taste test. Lo, it was good! The wondrous olive had done it again. Call it an early Hannukah miracle.

While the rice was simmering, and the other components merrily cooking, I popped the sauce in the microwave to reheat it. What emerged was still redolent of coconut and herbs. I may have swooned under its ambrosial spell, or perhaps with sheer relief. Places could be set, water glasses filled.

"Taste this," I said, offering Master the spoon with which I'd stirred the sauce. "Hopefully it isn't too hot for you. I barely put any chillies in it." Lies. There would be punishment for such insolence.

I don't know why I thought I could sneak those atomic Thai chillies past his sensitive tongue.

By my standards, the sauce was mild, if admittedly still too hot for the uninitiated. Master noted the afterburn lurking beneath the creamy coconut and declared it too intense for his liking. So much for subterfuge. I was crushed. But he was the Master. In future efforts, I would have to remember to tailor my offerings to his tastes, not to my own.

It was fortunate that I'd opted to keep the sauce separate from the other components of the meal. Between the rice and the vegetables and chicken, fortified with a few more handfuls of fresh basil and cilantro, dinner was perfectly fine without it. Delicious, even. Or so Master tells me. I ladled the sauce over my portion and reveled in its perfumed loveliness. It could have used more chillies, though.

the adventure begins. strap yourselves in.