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.