Cold Weather Dayenu (It Has Been Enough for Us): Warm Winter Salad

I could have taken it for a week. Or a month. Paris is wonderful and then it's time to go home. The islands are great until you get rock fever. Viagra has taught us that yes, there can be too much of a good thing.

No matter how beautiful you are, it's possible to overstay your welcome. The snow, ice, and freezing rain? It has been enough. I don't want to braise anymore; I don't want to make another soup. I'm tired of stepping in cold wet puddles in my socks.

I'm revolting (and by that I mean taking a stand, not needing a shower).  I want crisp uncooked vegetables in my life again; I want to see green.

 

Which is why I picked up a clamshell of mesclun mix (on sale), last week and tucked it in the fridge. But I felt guilty about it, like it was some culinary anachronism. The only way to deal with this off-season ageda was to find a partner for the lettuces that would bridge the gap between winter and denial; a warm winter salad that would give me hope for frozen-free future.

I had some leftover sliced onions and sweet potato cubes in the fridge (gotta love precut veggies in moments like this). Caramelized onions never fail, so I put some olive oil into a skillet, added the sliced onions, a bit of salt, and let them cook gently until caramelized, about 40 minutes. 

For the sweet potatoes, I did a similar thing: coated a skillet with oil, added the potatoes in one layer and covered them with a lid. I let them cook over medium high heat, and after 15 minutes, they had a crispy brown edge. I added some water, tossed them and cooked until they were yielding, another 10 minutes.

Final step: I combined the greens with caramelized onions, sweet potato cubes, roasted, salted sunflower seeds, salt, pepper, olive oil and sherry vinegar.

The sweet warm vegetables contrasted with the crispy, bouncy lettuce and gave me hope: after all this weather, we're all going to enjoy spring with a vengeance; I just know it.

School Lunch Success: Roast Chicken

A year ago, my then-boyfriend asked me for help with his daughter. "I can't figure out what to make for school lunch. My sandwiches always come back."

"What do you make?" I asked.

"The same stuff she eats at home. Salami and cheese, tunafish..."

From samlagrassas.com

So basically: the stuff that smells. What 9-year old wants to unwrap tuna or salami that's been aging at room temp for a couple of hours? That's the kind of stuff that earns you a nickname for life.

"I can't figure it out," he said.

So without mentioning the obvious, I asked around, and in Brooklyn at the time, noodles and dumplings were a big hit with elementary school girls. Seems like any pasta derivation wins with kids, and I suggested that he buy a big bag of frozen dumplings, steam 'em by the handful, pack 'em with a little dipping sauce and you're well on your way to an edible school lunch.

It worked.

And then I moved in. School lunch became one of my new chores. We had a good rotation going: turkey sandwich, steamed dumplings, cheese roll-ups, etc. And that was good for a while. Until somewhere, some kid decided something was wrong with bread. And soon, The Kid was asking for a "bag of meat". 

From clipartguide.com

Processed turkey, in a bag. Processed cheese, in a bag.

For some reason, that got to me. I think it was after Thanksgiving, when we had gorgeous turkey leftovers, and she opted for processed turkey. I'd even write it on the grocery list like that: "processed turkey". If I was going to go the bag of meat route, I couldn't send the turkey slices. I could ignore the processed turkey sandwiched between two wholesome pieces of bread, but a bag of turkey slices was just too much.

So I went about making meat she'd enjoy for dinner, and kept hoping it would turn into a bag of meat request for lunch. I tried pork tenderloin, pork chops, steak, even mac and cheese. It took me months before I figured it out.

From KraftRecipes.com

I had recently shot some videos with Kraft, and they asked me to make a very simple roast chicken. Ridiculously simple, basically a bird and some salad dressing. I made it one day when I didn't have time to think about dinner (I even skipped the vegetables), and as luck would have it, she loved it.

The dressing alone moisturized, lubricates and flavors the bird. Use any dressing you like; and if you prefer make your own (3 parts oil to one part vinegar, as much herb, seasoning, and grated Parm as you like), go for it!

This was a bag of meat I sent with pride. And none of it came back.

Indian Cooking for Novices: Coconut Curry Shrimp

I had a cooking date with SodiumGirl today. We were having our first date, and I thought we could get to know each other in the kitchen, via Skype. I was armed with Anjum's New Indian and looking for an excuse to crack it open. Since both Anjum and SodiumGirl are published by my publisher, Wiley, I thought this all made sense.

I love Skype, I really do, but it dropped our call every few minutes. Cooking wasn't going to happen, so I waited until our call was over to try Anjum's recipe.

As you may know, I'm now cooking for myself, my fiance, and his 9-year old daughter who is more into "plain" food than I am. I knew Indian cooking was asking a lot of her.

I gave her the cookbook this morning, with a stack of stickies and asked her to pick a few recipes that looked good. Coastal Shrimp Curry (p. 64), with cardamom, chiles, coconut milk and tamarind paste was the top of her list.

Photo from JustcookNYC.com

A well written Indian recipe can make a non-Indian person feel gifted. There are more spices used than in any other cuisine, plus there are fresh chiles, fresh garlic and ginger; there are purees and spice blends, coconut milk and tomatoes; coriander, cumin, whole cinnamon and thankfully never any one making you look for chicken stock. Indian cooking can take your kitchen to a place your family doesn't recognize and if you have a talented guide (like Anjum) that's a good thing.

As soon as I set the cinnamon and cloves into the oil; The Kid came home from school. I grimaced a bit; there was no way she was going to like this. And yes, I know there's always cereal, but it's important right now for her to feel like she's a part of what we're doing -- what I'm doing -- and I just knew I was going down a slippery slope.

I started cooking faster, and she hung around the kitchen looking for something to do. I added onions to the oil, she picked up a wooden spoon and started to stir, "I love this part so much," she said.

When it was time to measure the spices, I gave her a 1/2 teaspoon measure (which led to an impromptu lesson on fractions), and asked if she wanted to help, "Just for a little bit," she said. I know, I know, there's gotta be something more interesting happening right now on TV. 

I pureed the garlic and ginger; what was left...peeling shrimp? Egads. But she was still in the kitchen. I asked if she wanted to help once more and she said, "Just for a little bit." Again with the little bit.

As I was showing her to remove the shell, pull the legs and wiggle the soft tail out of the hard shell, she asked, "You know why I always say just a little bit when you ask me to help?"

"Because you'd rather watch TV?" I answered.

"No. Because when I say 'a little bit' you always give me a something more to do. I said I'd measure spices, and now I'm peeling shrimp!"

Sometimes I really misread The Kid. As for dinner, she ate two cucumbers, rice, shrimp, mango juice, and a glass of milk because that curry was seriously spicy and that's the only way she could get it down.


Anjum's Coastal Shrimp Curry 
Adapted from Anjum's New Indian
(adapted to be made with what I had in my pantry)

2 tablespoons vegetable oil (or coconut oil)
5 cloves
3-inch piece of cinnamon stick
1 medium-large onion, finely chopped
1-inch piece fresh ginger, peeled and roughly chopped
7 large cloves of garlic, peeled
1/2 teaspoon chile powder
1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric
1/2 teaspoon ground cardamom
1/2 teaspoon ground curry powder
1 teaspoon ground coriander
4 medium canned tomatoes, quartered
1 green chile, minced
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 can light coconut milk
1 pound shrimp, peeled and deveined
2 teaspoons tamarind paste

1. Heat the oil in a medium nonstick skillet. Add cloves and cinnamon, and cook until they are fragrant. Add the onion and cook until golden, 8-10 minutes.

2. Puree the ginger and garlic in a food processor and add to the skillet with a tablespoon of water. Cook over medium-low heat for 2 minutes until the water has evaporated and you can fry the paste. Add the spices, tomatoes and green chile and salt. (SodiumGirl, I tried, to pull myself back but I couldn't. I just saw all that good stuff in the skillet and knew a little salt would make it sing. I tried to wait until the end and taste, I really did, but I couldn't. I held back on the fatty coconut milk; this was not a compromise I was willing to make. Cook for 15 minutes, or until the mixture releases oil droplets into the pan. Taste; there should be no raw-tasting bits.

3. Add coconut milk and bring to a simmer for 5 minutes. Add shrimp, cook for 3 minutes and remove from the heat. Put tamarind paste in a small bowl, add 2 tablespoons of curry broth and stir to make a cohesive mixture. Return tamarind broth to skillet and serve over rice.

Modern Healthy: The Crisco Kid

When I first started dating my fiance, his 9-year old daughter and I bonded through cooking. Whether we made big kitchen-sink cookies or chicken under a brick, our friendship started in the kitchen. We cooked and we ate, she made a mess and I cleaned; it was what we did.

I moved in six weeks ago, and we're all taking our time feeling each other out during the transition. The dishes that we enjoyed making together no longer receiving love at the dinner table, and I don't want to get in the habit of making multiple meals.

As a cooking teacher, I'm used to making food, having people enjoy it (politely or sincerely; I'll take either), and having help with the dishes. But it's one thing to hypothesize cooking for a family; it's quite another to do it. I'm not used to putting a meal on the table and have my patrons opt for a slice of bread instead. And though I know I can make her pasta and butter or mac and cheese every night and have her fed and happy; that kind of cooking and eating is not going to make me happy in the long term.

What to do? These days I'm making the food I like to make, except I'll always leave a piece (of chicken, tofu, meat) "plain" so that she can try it.  I want her fed and happy, though the last thing I want to do is make food an issue for us. So I continue to cook. Because I like it And the understanding is that if she doesn't care for it, she can have bread or a banana or cereal.  And I've got to be OK with that too.

Last week, after deciding against a quinoa salad and herb-roasted pork tenderloin, she took a mini-bagel out of the fridge and slathered it with cream cheese. She was so proud of doing her own cooking and food prep and clean up and I was proud of her.

The next day, she asked for the same thing for lunch. I looked to the fridge: no cream cheese. Hmm. She kept pointing to the door, "It's right there!".

It wasn't, but there was a silver-foil wrapped brick of Crisco left over from my Thanksgiving pie crusts. "This isn't cream cheese, sweetie, it's Crisco," I said.
 
And I made the face that you are probably making right now, and asked, "Is this what you put on your bagel last night?"

A nod.

"And you liked it?"

A more enthusiastic nod and then a soft question, "Can I please have it again?"

Here she was, making a culinary request of me: Can I please have a bagel, slathered with Crisco, for my school lunch. I couldn't possibly...and yet, she was so proud, so excited about her invention, and once-again showing some enthusiasm for (I cringe to say it) semi-homemade food.

So yes, I made that Crisco bagel. I spread a thin layer on each side of the bagel, and packed it up with an apple and a note.

Because in this particular situation, given my hopes for healthy home cooking, it seemed like a Crisco bagel was the better choice.

She ate it, and never asked for it again.

Homemade Stock: The Gift That Keeps on Giving

It's Thanksgiving week, and I'm losing it a little.

You see, I'm hosting Thanksgiving this year. At my boyfriends' house, which will be my house too in ten short days (eeek!). My dear friend and co-host of Cook Yourself Thin, Harry Eastwood is traveling over from Paris to spend the holiday here, her first American Thanksgiving. A lot of firsts, a lot of joy -- and I want to feed it.

So no pressure, but I can't have Harry over and use some boxed stock or store bought pie crust. I mean I can, but...it would be like refilling the Blanton's bottle with Rebel Yell.

And so, yesterday was for stock-making. I've never made it in New Jersey, so I had the distinct pleasure of introducing myself to the butcher at the local grocery store and scoring some chicken backs, necks and wings, as none were on display. The butcher gave me a wink and requested that I return as soon as possible, which bodes well for meat futures.

When The Kid came home with a friend after school, the stock had been simmering for hours. They both commented on how good it smelled, which was nice to hear because let's face it: I wasn't making cookies. Then they spun in circles until they were nauseous, and came to the kitchen for a cure. I doled out small glasses of "miraculous" chicken stock. The Kid drank it and was healed.

I started to wonder what else I could do with this stock. I looked at those meaty little wings and thought: A little BBQ sauce, a broiler, and we've got dinner.

It worked.

After dinner, I strained that stock and kept the extra meat for the dog. No! I was told...don't give that to the dog...it could be lunch. As part of a burrito.

When I worked in restaurants, there were stories of chefs so cheap they fed their staff stock leftovers, or worse yet -- the raft after clarifying a stock. But somehow, in this new place I'm cooking, the diners are fighting the dog for the leftovers.

And, I've got a golden stock the texture of jello in the fridge.

Is it worth making homemade stock? Heck yeah. In addition to the stock, I've got a butcher winking at me, a cure for nausea, and dinner halfway done. As my friend Tamar Haspel would say, that's kitchen momentum.

STOCK-O
Makes one quart

I'm calling this stock-o, because this stock has the texture of jell-o. A thick rich gelatinous stock will make a terrific gravy. Or nausea-curing soup. Leave out the chicken, and you've got vegetable stock.

2 pounds chicken wings, separated at both joints (ask your butcher to do this; it's key for a gelatinous stock)
2 carrots, roughly chopped into 1-inch pieces
2 celery stalks, roughly chopped into 1-inch pieces
1 huge onion, roughly chopped into 1-inch pieces (keep the skin on)
5 sprigs parsley
5 sprigs thyme
2 bay leaves

Place all ingredients in a pot, cover with 2 quarts of water and bring to a simmer. Simmer, uncovered, for 3 1/2 to 4 hours, until it tastes vibrant. Let cool, remove large pieces of meat and vegetable with a slotted spoon; strain remaining stock. Let cool, remove fat, refrigerate or freeze until ready to use.

I'm Baaaaack: The Kid's Baked Macaroni with Parmesan

HEAR YE, HEAR YE.
I’m calling this blog back into effect.

I’ve had a year-long break from the blog, because, well…I needed a little space. And privacy.

You see, I’ve been dating a single dad for the last year or so, and about this time last year I was introduced to The Kid. Who is nine. And she can read.

Which is super-scary for a single chick who blogs about her love life. I remember the day she announced that she and her friends had Googled me.

God, no. I thought I’d have years before I was responsible for a kid who could read.

And then I remembered, I didn’t really have anything to fear on the Internet. I mean, there’s always www.myexgirlfriend.com, but until she has a credit card I’m safe there.

But still, The Kid made me nervous. I respected her. And the relationship I was in. I didn’t want to process that stuff in the open. So there’s been a hiatus.

But now I’m back.

And I’ve missed you a whole lot.

Between Home Made Simple, Cook Yourself Thin, and The Wooden Spoon, I’ve spent a lot of time talking to moms about cooking. But I wasn’t a mom; I was a single chick living in Brooklyn. It’s easy to say how easy it is to organize a kitchen, eat right and have dinner parties when you’re just worried about you.

Yep, I went from single to something sort of like “step”. It’s not just me in my kitchen any more, and this time around I’ve got a smaller, more challenging mouth to feed.

So in this next iteration of the blog, I’ll focus on this unique experience of dating a Dad and mothering without being a mom, like trying to make New England Clam Chowder dinner for your boyfriend (on request) only to have his daughter spit those tender cherrystones into her napkin. But there’s a flipside, like when the dynamic duo bring me breakfast in bed after I’ve been traveling for a week. This blended family thing complex. And it’s kinda great too.

I’m the same old Allison, just a version who walks a 9-year old to school in the morning, interviews babysitters and work bake sales. I also sign spelling tests.

I still eat and cook some damn good food. Maybe better, now that I've got a grill, fireplace and an herb garden.

And though you may have enjoyed my Brooklyn girl adventures in the past, I’m Manhattan-bicoastal now; splitting time between Brooklyn and New Jersey. Instead of dating this guy and that, I’m in two serious monogamous relationships: one with a dad and one with his daughter.

And I’ve got a brand-new decades-old suburban kitchen to work in, complete with a pantry full food like potato chips, fruit snacks, Capri-Sun, and way too much leftover Halloween candy that no one eats but me.

I wished for a family and I got one, a little bit differently than how I imagined it would be. And now, the adventure continues.


The Kid’s Mac and Cheese
As part of The Kid’s 9th birthday celebration, we hosted a dinner. Dad, daughter and I each picked a recipe from a cookbook and made them. I chose a roasted mushroom salad on greens (thank you, Alice Waters), he chose a long-cooked broccoli (Alice again), while The Kid went with Mac and Cheese (The Spoon Children’s Cookbook). Can you guess the table favorite?


Baked Macaroni with Parmesan
Adapted from The Silver Spoon for Children

INGREDIENTS

For the béchamel sauce:

4 tablespoons butter

½ cup all-purpose flour

1 ¼ cups whole milk

freshly ground black pepper

For the baked macaroni:

2 ¾ cups elbow macaroni

1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese

3/4 cup grated cheddar cheese (buy the brick and grate it. C'mon now!)

DIRECTIONS


1. Turn on the oven to 400 °F. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil and cook the pasta according to package directions.

2. Melt the butter in a small pan over gentle heat. As soon as the butter has melted, add the flour and cook the mixture over medium heat for 1 minute, stirring constantly to make a smooth glossy paste (this is the roux).

3. Remove pan from the heat, add 1/4 cup of the milk and whisk until smooth. Return the pan to the heat and continue adding the milk slowly until you've whisked it all in -- you're whisking and adding slowly to prevent the sauce from going lumpy.

4. Keep the pan on low heat and let the sauce cook very gently for 3-4 minutes, stirring constantly. The sauce will continue to thicken as it cooks. You will know it’s ready when the sauce is thick enough to coat the back of your wooden spoon. Add the Parmesan and Cheddar to the béchamel sauce and season with a little freshly ground black pepper.

5. Pour half (key step that I missed first time around; don't let that happen to you) of the béchamel sauce over the macaroni and mix the macaroni and sauce together.

6. Spoon the macaroni into an oven-safe dish about 10 inches square (or oval, or even a skillet). Spread the remaining béchamel sauce over the top of macaroni.

7. Put the dish onto a baking tray and cook for 20 minutes until it is golden brown and bubbling.

Cooking for Men: Cinnamon Baked Apples

A good friend of mine called last night around 6PM. The conversation went like this:

Him: “What are you doing?”
Me: “Writing.”
Him: “Wanna get dinner”
Me: “I’m writing. I’m reheating something I made yesterday.”
Him: “What?”
Me: “Pulled pork.”

Pause, and then the question he was waiting for:

Me: “Do you want to come over? I can make you a plate. But you can’t talk to me, because I’m working.”
Him: “Can I watch the game?”
Me: “Yes.”
Him: “I’m at the door.”

He’s not the only man I’ve last-minute-cooked for this week; I’ve been testing a lot recipes, and inviting friends to partake. The friends are men, mostly, and I’ve noticed something remarkable that happens when I invite them for food.

They come to the door more tentatively, and they're usually carrying a gift. They've put on a better shirt, and they're more formal with me than usual, like when they politely for seconds. And boy are they helpful, as in: Can they take out the garbage? Walk the dog? Do the dishes? They insist on clearing the table.

They look in my eyes when they say “thank you”, and they say it more than once, as if they’re eleven years old, I’m their best friend’s mom, and their mom told them to mind their manners, be polite and mind their please-and-thank-yous.

We've been friends for a while, but when I play in the kitchen and share, these men go all sweet.

It’s not a boyfriend/girlfriend thing, it’s more of a gender thing. These days, many of the men I know have almost been conditioned out of thinking that a women might enjoy cooking for them. When we when do, they get woozy. They look at me with a cocked head, the way my dog does when she comes across something she didn't expect.

My friend was halfway through his pulled pork when he said, “Allison, today I walked around the neighborhood, calling the women I know, and telling them I was nearby. They each invited me over, gave me something to eat, and told me about their love lives. I think it was the best day of my life.”

A drizzly, rainy Brooklyn day. A day for baking pies, lazy reading and slow cooking. And for this guy, a day to go door-to-door with his empty stomach and friendship.

Cooking is much more fun when there’s an appreciative someone who enjoys what you’ve made. And when that guest is as unexpected as the cooking, it’s a happy coincidence.

Cinnamon Baked Apples
Serves 6

6 small (4- to 6-ounce) baking apples (such as Golden Delicious, Braeburn or Rome Beauty)
1/2 cup golden raisins
1/3 cup (packed) brown sugar
1/4 cup chopped pecans (optional)
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 cup apple juice, plus ½ cup water
2 tablespoons (1/4 stick) unsalted butter

1. Preheat oven to 375°F. Using melon baller, scoop out stem, core and seeds of apples, leaving bottom intact. Using vegetable peeler, peel skin off top half of each apple. Arrange apples, cavity side up, in 13x9x2-inch glass baking dish.
2. Stir raisins, sugar, pecans if desired and cinnamon in small bowl to blend. Pack about 2 tablespoons raisin mixture into cavity of each apple. Sprinkle any remaining raisin mixture into dish around apples. Pour juice over and around apples. Dot apples with butter.
3. Bake apples 15 minutes; baste with juices. Continue to bake until apples are slightly puffed and tender, basting every 10 minutes, about 40 minutes. Transfer baking dish to work surface; let apples stand 10 minutes, basting occasionally.
4. Transfer apples to bowls. Spoon pan juices over and serve warm.

Nutritional Info (without pecans):
Calories: 192 / Fat: 4g / Carb: 42g / Fiber: 3g / Protein: 1g