Food

A Honey of a Date

February 11, 2015 by Carol 3 Comments

Unknown-2 When son Avi and Shira returned from a trip to Israel, they brought me a gift of date syrup. I had never used it before, but knew that it was the original “honey” cited in the Bible. Very exotic, I thought, but I really had no clue what to do with it other than to drizzle it over toast.

However! My preparation for the Middle Eastern feast continues, and when I opened Ottolenghi and Tamimi’s Jerusalem cookbook yet again and found Pureed Beets with Yogurt and Za’atar, my heart skipped a beat. The list of ingredients called for date syrup. Yes! Finally a chance to use this sticky sweet condiment. Along with garlic, red chile pepper, scallions, goat cheese, and chopped hazelnuts, this was going to be one heck of a dish.

The only problem is that Joel detests beets. There’s no way to hide the vibrant colored veggie in other ingredients, as Jessica Seinfeld does for children. But, if I could make them interesting, might he actually take a taste? He did indeed, and even pronounced it, “Not bad.”

I thought it was amazing (although I think I would find a better cheese). The deep purple-red puree swirled with the creamy, alabaster Greek yogurt was both beautiful and luxurious on the tongue and palate. The crunchy nuts and scallions made for a wonderful interplay of flavors and textures.

Then, from their perch in back of the counter, I heard the beet greens calling my name. Not wanting to waste this singular opportunity to have the root veggie in the house, I figured I should make use of the whole vegetable. So, I went back to the classic volume The Joy of Cooking and found the most delectable recipe, calling for onion, horseradish, and mustard. Instead of sour cream, I spooned a bit of Greek yogurt over the top.

It was over-the-top delicious. Of course, since I probably will not get Joel to eat beets ever again,
I will have to make the recipe with some other leafy green that doesn’t have a dark red globe on the end of it.

Snow Job

February 9, 2015 by Carol 1 Comment

growing_orange_on_tree_187928 It’s snowing again. Rather, still. Here in Central Mass we will be at, or pretty close to, the seven-foot mark by the time this latest in a series of winter storms ends. And, while trees and shrubs dripping with glistening white frosting are pretty enough to illustrate a book of fairy tales, the glossy, gleaming ice dams building up on my roof are big enough to sink an ocean liner.

Thank goodness for my little sunroom, where I keep houseplants and fruit trees, along with a tray of herbs and vegetables I am attempting to grow from seed. If only the sun would shine.

Today is watering day. Normally, I might just look at that chore as another in a long list of tedious items on my to-do list, but today it is a pleasure. Why? Because within seconds of the water hitting the soil, the aroma of the rain forest begins to waft up and cause body and soul to rejoice.

This hint of Mother Nature’s perfume lasts only a moment, but for as long as it does, I can forget the swirling snow, the howling wind, and the sub-zero wind-chill factor. I can enter my little fantasy world in which I pick my breakfast orange from my own tree,
and enjoy it with a cup of coffee and the morning paper in the open-to-the-sky courtyard of my hacienda.

At least until the phone rings.

The Cheese State of Bliss

February 2, 2015 by Carol 1 Comment

My wonderful literary agent, Kimiko, and I were enjoying lunch while discussing our respective menu choices as well as food in general. She began to tell me about her Brazilian sister-in-law’s delicious cheese bread recipe. I like the sound of anything with cheese in the name, and Kimiko likes it because it is gluten free.

Suddenly, a man at the next table turned to us. He apologized for eavesdropping on our conversation, but felt that as a native Brazilian, he must tell us some important things about pao de queijo. Among the facts about this very popular Brazilian snack food was his warning NEVER to make it in a blender, as some recipes direct, or we would end up with a block of concrete.

Intrigued by the thought of a chewy, cheesy bread roll, I searched the Internet for recipes the minute I got home. Of course, the ones at the top of the list instructed the home cook to put ingredients into – you got it — a blender. Adequately forewarned, I found another recipe further down the list.

The only ingredient I didn’t have in the house was the base ingredient in the recipe, tapioca flour. It is this flour which makes pao de queijo the quintessential food of Brazil, as the starch is extracted from the cassava root, native to the northern region of the country.

As is my wont, I tempted fate by preparing the pao de queijo for the first time for a company lunch, making a batch to go along with tomato soup and a salad.

The positive: the pao de queijo was cheesy, chewy, and absolutely yummy.

The negatives: 1) I should have made a triple batch because 2) these treats are potentially addictive.

The Wish Book

January 20, 2015 by Carol 2 Comments

My kitchen table sits next to a big bay window that looks out onto my backyard. I love to sip my morning coffee gazing out at the expanse of green surrounded by all manner of trees and shrubs. Crab apple, wisteria, potentilla, hydrangea, spirea, climbing roses. Their vivid colors against the lush greens fill my mornings with cheer. Isn’t it great to be alive? And, isn’t it amazing how many shades of green there are?

As the frigid cold descends upon Central Massachusetts, thank goodness for the evergreens. Rhododendrum, azalea, spruce, and arbor vitae provide a warming counterpoint to the bare gray branches that make shiver. Even when it snows, the branches of these backyard stalwarts provide a sculptural framework for sparkling white frosting.

Round about January I start to fantasize about palm trees. Tall and gangly, with a Dr. Seuss-like mop of foliage on their heads, they sway in balmy tropical breezes in time to the rhythm of steel drums while I lounge in a hot sun drinking fruity drinks with little umbrellas in them.

But I am not in the tropics. I am in New England. So, I sit with baited breath awaiting the arrival of the postman. In his bag should be the annual onslaught of seed catalogues. These books filled with fruits, berries, vegetables, and flowers entice me and, even though I know that my plans are bigger than my acreage, I devour their pages with hungry eyes. Vibrant reds, sunny yellows, rich purples – they compete for my attention. And I want them all.

Astronomical spring will be here in about 59 days, and perhaps the path to the backyard will be clear enough to be able to plant some peas, even if I have to start them in the cold frame. In the meantime, I am poised like a Pavlovian dog waiting for the postman to ring twice and set me to salivating.

Gathering the stories

March 26, 2012 by Carol 4 Comments

Every Saturday of my childhood, I went to Bubby’s house for lunch after services. Since Bubby was strictly Orthodox, she would not cook on Shabbat, the Jewish Sabbath, so everything had to be prepared in advance of sundown on Friday. Foods simmered on top of the stove or in the oven overnight. Consequently, the heavenly aroma of chicken soup, brisket, and stuffed cabbage permeated the house and filtered all the way out the front door, beckoning visitors and tempting passersby.

By my late teens I became interested in cooking myself, but realized that I had no idea how to make her standards. The summer of 1971, Bubby fell gravely ill with shingles. Every day I would go to St. Luke’s Hospital to spoon-feed her, as she didn’t want to eat. Perhaps she feared that the food would not be kosher, or maybe she just didn’t feel well enough. Or maybe, she was just used to her own cooking, which was fabulous. (Bubby was such a good cook that the visiting cantor who stayed with her during the High Holidays told me years later that he blamed her specifically for his huge weight gain. He couldn’t resist her challah, strudel, mandel breit, lockshen, etc. I understood; nobody could.)

Somehow I must have known that I might never get the chance to ask her questions again, so one day as I was helping her with her lunch I asked, “Bubby, will you give me your recipes?”

“I don’t have them written down.”

“You can dictate them to me. I’ll write everything down. ”

“Only if you write in Yiddish.”

“But I don’t know Yiddish.”

“You have to do it in Yiddish.”

“Bubby, if you were so interested in having me learn Yiddish, why didn’t you teach me? Why did you only speak it when you didn’t want me to understand? Bubby, I’m going to live in Israel. I speak, read, and write Hebrew!” (The “speak” may have been a bit of an exaggeration at the time, but, hey, we were talking about food here.)

“Yiddish or nothing.”

Needless to say, I got the “nothing.”

I have now spent virtually every Friday of my adult life attempting to replicate her challah. Several years ago, when my dad was still alive, he was with us for dinner. Whether a Shabbat or holiday I can’t remember, but the meal did feature challah. After we had completed the blessings over the wine and the bread, my father startled me by saying, “This challah is better than Bubby’s.”

I doubt that was true, but will take that compliment with me to the grave.

As for all her other scrumptious dishes, I have never attempted to make egg noodles (hers were like silk), and I can’t stuff a cabbage leaf to save my life. My brisket with tzimmes, however, is identical to hers. When it comes to the desserts, I have never tried to duplicate the strudel since, in the attempt, I would end up the size of a house (remember Cantor Albert). Mandel breit is a once-a-year experiment and, while not bad, it’s just not Bubby’s.

In large part due to my failure to ask questions when I had the chance, today I ask lots of them. Slowly, I am gathering stories and recipes from my own relatives to publish a family memoir.

The moral of this story is to ask questions while your elders are alive and healthy. Get as many stories from them as you can. Write down the recipes and try them out, preferably with their source. And remember to share both.

And, if they expect you to learn the language of your ancestors, find out sooner rather than later.

Baking is Chemistry

March 14, 2012 by Carol 2 Comments

“Baking is chemistry” is the message I have been trying to convey to my three children for years. Whenever they would come home from school with an assignment for a science project, I would suggest that they try baking a cake with varying amounts of baking soda, baking powder, or some other ingredient, the theory being that they would see chemistry in action and I would get to eat cake. Not one ever took my idea seriously. Granted, they had excellent science projects, but I really wanted them to learn their way around a kitchen, especially since their father is hopeless in that part of the house. (Joel says that we split the kitchen duties 50/50 – I cook and he eats.)

Anyway, I have been baking challah every week since my marriage in 1977, in an attempt to duplicate the delicious loaves my own grandmother made during her lifetime. A few years ago, I decided to start doing the same in our cottage in the Berkshires. After all, I figured, why bring day-old or frozen bread with me when I could have freshly baked loaves, warm and fragrant right out of the oven?

Well, my challah came out weird. The dough was gooey and sticky, and full of odd-looking bubbles. The final baked product was flat and dense. Now, having been trained in research, I looked at my ingredients to make sure that each item was the same brand as the others. Where they were not, I purchased new – down to the brand of raisins. The challah still came out weird. So, next I looked at my measuring cups and spoons; even they were the same brand. Still weird – and ugly.

It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that I finally connected the dots (okay, I admit it, I’m slow). My neighbor, Sheila, and I were discussing how bad our hair looks when we shampoo in the Berkshires. We attributed it to the greasy-feeling water that results from the water softeners we need to counteract the hard town water. And, what are water softeners? Sodium chloride (i.e., salt).

Suddenly, it dawned on me: Awful looking hair and weird looking challah. Duh! Maybe it was the water! I immediately went to the computer to Google “the effects of hard water and soft water on bread baking,” and learned that, yes, this could be my problem. So, this past Friday, I tried baking with bottled water and, voila! My challah came out the way it is supposed to come out – soft and delicious.

By the way, my kids are all excellent cooks now, no thanks to the chemistry lessons I failed to impart.