Catch-Up with Relish

Wait! Come back!

Computer issues - namely, not having one on which the photos could be processed - have precluded me from keeping up with MC updates. I've had your best interests in mind, hoping to spare you from an excess of intrusive e-mails. But I'm back up and running again, on a machine that starts like a dream, purrs like a well-oiled kitten, and has been blessed with all the Windows 7 buttons n' bows that will allow me to prettify the pictures.

Since so many meals have gone by, I'll try to bring you up to date. The past is the past, however delicious, so let's not dwell on it. Forward, always forward. To relieve my muzzy memory of the burden of chronology, I'll gloss over prep details and present the plates in an entirely arbitrary order.

I don't believe we were all together for my first chimichurri pork. It was an off-the-cuff weeknight dinner, risky in that I couldn't be certain how Master would take to Argentina's beloved condiment, possessed as it is of a green, garlicky bite and pronounced vinegar sting. As it turned out, he loved it. This Friday encore had the luxury of a premeditated marinade, allowing for the end-cut chops to soak up every ounce of flavor from the cilantro, parsley, mint and garlic. I believe the earlier iteration was finished on the Foreman grill. These chops were topped with thick slices of red onion and baked instead. All the better an excuse to keep the oven hot for a tray of roasting parsnips. Not just roasting, nay. Caramelizing. In a few tablespoons of butter, with just a sprinkling of salt and black pepper, transforming these wan, woody roots into something extraordinary. Mashed, moistened with a little chicken stock and white wine, they were sweet enough to put many dessert-cart items to shame, while still retaining their pert and savory identity. I expected them to be tasty, but Master and I were both blown away by this parsnip puree. It may even have overshadowed the chimichurri chops, which were moist, flavorful, and perfectly delicious. It certainly outshined the rice dish they were served alongside, about which I don't remember a thing.

Sliced up for wraps, the leftover pork needed only a schmeer of "refried beans" - fudged using a can of black beans, simmered with stock, cumin and oregano, then blended with sauteed onions and garlic, and finished with a drizzle of agave syrup - and some improbably decent fresh tomatoes to make for a fine Saturday lunch.

It must have been an unseasonably warm day that prompted the dumpling experiment. I know we were returning from an afternoon trip to M&M Farms, made while neither of us was feeling hungry enough to think about dinner. I grabbed some five-spice tofu and a package of wonton skins, figuring I'd attempt to replicate my roommate's fantastic Shanghai-style dumplings. She'd walked me through the process just once, her fingers too quick and nimble to follow. For her, this was as natural an exercise as taking a breath. But her confidence (and disregard for recipes, English names of vegetables, or measurements) rendered at least half of the ingredients in the large mixing bowl inscrutable. Scallions, ginger and garlic were the only givens. She usually made her dumplings with minced shrimp and a stalky green vegetable - maybe an Asian variant of celery? - diced impossibly fine. I opted to substitute mushrooms and strips of blanched Napa cabbage. Actually, pulling together the filling was the easy part. Assembly, which she'd made look so effortless, wasn't going quite as smoothly. The flavoring liquids (yuzu, shoyu) and beaten egg added to bind the mixture made even the scantest dollop ooze out faster than the delicate wrappers could be pleated. Realizing that this was going to take time, I tried to pull a Tom Sawyer, enlisting Master's assistance. Halfway through one failed, frustrating attempt, he threw his hands up and walked away. I muddled through it, improving my gathering and pinching technique as the sloppy, mishapen dumplings piled up. At least I remembered her trick of allowing the water to come to a boil twice, adding a cupful of cold water each time. My ugly dumplings may not have impressed a Sichuan housewife, but we were pleasantly surprised to find that they tasted great. Since Master wanted to use up a stray sauce packet from a bag of frozen potstickers, I was free to throw together my own dipping sauce, spiked with fresh-squeezed ginger juice and yuzu (it's "not his favorite"). I tasted both. Mine was better.

We weren't observant, but my Mom always honored the Sabbath in her own way. It was the one meal of the week for which we all tried to corroborate our evening schedules. No social engagement was ever allowed to trump the familial obligation of Friday night's dinner. We four convened as the candles flickered. Joined in ancient song, we ushered in the Sabbath angels and bid them welcome, then sat silent and attentive as Dad intoned the blessings over the wine and bread. Friday night was when favorites like chicken schnitzel - no veal in our household! - were served, always with vegetables, often an Israeli salad, and a fresh loaf of challah.

The occasion of what would have been my Mom's 64th birthday must have left me nostalgic for these happier times. She never made panko-crusted chicken cutlets or minted peas. I'm not even sure that panko breadcrumbs were to be found on the supermarket shelves during her lifetime. Not one for fussy preparations or culinary airs, she would have wondered where the herbed mayonaisse came from, or the notion to mix orange zest and fresh thyme into the egg wash for breading. But I know she would have recognized the spirit in which the meal was prepared, and the love which went into every step of its preparation. And she would know that this was love not only for her blessed memory, but for Master as well, whose kindness and companionship I strive to reward with the best food I've ever made.

And this sentimental fool is now too choked up to continue. The lasagna rolls and frittata will have to wait for another day.

Quality Miso Soup is Strained

Ate some questionable takeout manicotti for lunch, and all day I've sensed that my system is on the verge of retaliation. I'm 99% sure that any problem is entirely a manifestation of my neuroses, but I've stuck to a regimen of water and thick, vitally probiotic Greek yogurt, just to be on the safe side. If malicious entities have indeed encamped, and they're fixing for a fight, they've got it.

Peckish but still wary when dinner time rolled 'round, I opted for a preemptive strike with miso soup. Cultural conditioning dictates that chicken soup should be the most dogeared recipe in my food pharmacopoeia. But it is miso soup by which I swear. And yet, until this evening, I have never made proper miso soup, only a vegan-friendly facsimile thereof. White miso paste added to boiling water has met my simple needs for a savory broth in which to parboil delicate somen noodles. Spiked with mirin, a little sriracha, perhaps a sprinkling of scallion whites and some reconstituted wakame, it has bolstered me on many a cold or fever-wracked night.

But good miso soup is so much more, and even the sorriest sampling to be found in restaurants has greater complexity than my quick-fix approximation. The soup that arrives tableside is clouded and heady, evocative of both earth and ocean. To ignore the fish component of miso soup is to deny its soul. Fortunately, I now have a bag of katsuo-bushi, shaved "bonito," and I need no longer settle for soulless soup.

A skipjack tuna out of seawater is an unhappy fish, and so water is not fit for swimming until it has soaked up the marine character of dried konbu. In four cups of water, the umami liquor leached from the seaweed was almost imperceptibly faint. Yet I suspect that dashi prepared with salted water would be lifeless if not unpalatable. Arrested just on the verge of boiling, the spent seaweed is fished out, and a cup and an additional heaping handful of the gauzy gray and pink fish flakes are allowed to simmer, off the heat, until they surrender to the familiar oceanic echoes of the broth and sink to the bottom of the pan. Strained and still steaming, the dashi was ready to receive the miso paste, which dissipated rather than dissolved as it was stirred in with a wooden chopstick. The residual heat was enough to bend the fragile somen, and they collapsed into the broth, softening almost instantly.

After a few bowls of this elixir, I was feeling hale enough to wrestle a tuna, let alone stave off a piddling ptomaine offensive. Eastern medicine triumphs yet again.

An Exultation of Sparrows

Maybe asparagus isn't the demure darling I made her out to be.

A text earlier in the week alerted me that Master had picked up a bundle of asparagus during his shopping rounds. Ah. Not content with my rhapsodic praise, still smarting from being upstaged by carrots and crustaceans, the statuesque jade diva now demanded star billing. And I was forced to oblige. That effectively scuttled my plans, tentative as ever, for Wednesday night's menu.

How best to placate Spring's prima donna? Shower her with presents! Drape her in satiny saffron-infused cream. Festoon her with pine nuts, parsley, Parmigiano-Reggiano and petite peas, shallots melted in butter, batons of baby zucchini, cubes of imported ham. Set her high atop a platform of premium tagliatelle, and let her sing her heart out.

And sing she did. After a quick, invigorating bath in boiling salted water, she belted, trilling her triumph in clear, pullulating notes. Her grand adornments, flaunted proudly, only drew attention to her brilliance. The pasta fawned at her feet.

It was Master shouting "brava!" and "encore!" throughout the meal. I took the bow.