I think I’ve pretty handily established how much I’ve come to enjoy cooking and eating rabbit during the last 6 months.

Coincidentally, rabbit’s profile and status has been elevated in the media lately, with some even going so far as to dub it the “gateway” animal to raising their own food.  I wouldn’t necessarily go to that extreme, seeing as I have enough small, stinky animals coexisting with me as is, but I do love to suck the meat off the bones of the occasional, delicious hare.  No longer just a popular protein for immigrant fare, rabbit it seems is beginning to come into its own, whether the mainstream is ready or not.

So, it was without hesitation that I purchased a few whole rabbits on my last 2 trips to The Healthy Butcher, even though I had no particular plans for their meaty little carcasses at the time.

Since then we’ve had rabbit braised in red wine over polenta, a ginger mustard stewed rabbit, and most recently a succulent rabbit ragu (pictured above).  We generally don’t eat a whole lot of red meat or pork on a regular basis (it’s typically one or the other about once every 2 weeks), so rabbit has been a refreshing way to break up the monotony of a diet riddled with vegetarian meals, pastas and poultry.  It’s gamey, yet mild and faintly sweet, lending itself to numerous preparations; small enough to be cooked relatively quickly, while also capable of being braised for many hours.  In our house, one might even go so far as to say that rabbit is the new pork belly, or even the new chicken!?!

While sautéing the base for said ragu on a Sunday not too long ago, I stopped to reflect on a time when I used to think ragu was merely a brand that came in a jar, and how unlikely it would’ve been for that younger me to consume a bunny rabbit (nigh on 25 years ago, I’d reckon).  Oh, how things (and opinions) have changed.  After a 6 hour simmer, the ragu I craftily prepared with a jar of my own preserved bruschetta (subbing in for canned tomatoes) melted down into the perfect, wintry sauce for blanketing a bed of hand cut egg yolk noodles.  It wasn’t the first, but it’s sure to be but one of many delicious rabbits I’ll sit down to over the course of the rest of my years.

After all, I’ve got 25 years of rabbit abstinence to make up for.  If you haven’t already, I’d suggest you hop to it and get yourself on the rabbit train, too.  Choo choo!

Until next time…

One of the main reasons I made a stop at Sanko this weekend was to pick up ingredients for a simmered soybean side dish that I’d read about over at Serious Eats and had been wanting to make for nearly a week and a half.  The Everyman is no fan of soybeans, but the dish sounded just perfect for me to bring to work as a relatively healthy afternoon snack, so I’d been mentally drooling over the umami-ish combination ever since.

Of course, while I was there I couldn’t help but grab a few other odds and ends that I had no specific intentions for, other than random experimentation.  Shopping in Asian stores is always fun for me, because oftentimes packages contain minimal English, so you don’t always know exactly what you’re going to get.  It’s like playing culinary roulette, just not deadly.

Once I got home with my mysterious bounty, I began prepping the dried soybeans so that the following day I could complete the recipe, while visions of deliciousness danced in my head.

Coincidentally a few days prior I had made another Serious Eats recipe, this time for something called velvet chicken, which sounded similar to san bei gi, otherwise known as 3 cup chicken.

The velvet chicken produced absolutely succulent, tender and flavourful meat, but afterwards I still had a great deal of leftovers, including nearly a litre of the rich and sticky poaching liquid.  I knew the rest of the meat would get used up in a batch of the Everyman’s favourite chicken salad, but I had no plans for the richly savoury broth, other than possibly soaking some ramen noodles in it, as the recipe suggested.

So, it should come as no surprise that when I went to make the nimame, it dawned on me to swap out the dashi for some of the remaining poaching liquid.  Purists will probably be horrified by what I did, but I think we can all agree that I’m about as far from a culinary fussbudget as you can get.

Warming the liquid, which was comprised mostly of stock, soy sauce and aromatic spices, I began by adding some mirin, a few spoonfuls of miso paste, a flurry of bonito shavings, some dried kombu strips and shiitakes, plus the rehydrated soybeans. I turned the heat down to low and let it slowly bubble away on the stove for a little bit.

Once it had simmered for close to half an hour, I slipped a package of udon noodles in and let them warm through.

What I was left with was hardly traditional by any stretch of the imagination, but it was smoky and meaty without containing any real meat at all.  The addition of the bonito, mushrooms, miso and kombu upped the umami factor considerably, as they combined to form a more complex layering of flavours.  I’m not sure what to call it other than hodgepodge, but what I do know is that it’s friggin’ delicious!  Perhaps at some point I’ll get around to making the real nimame.

Until next time…

I went to the Japanese importer Sanko down the street from my house today.

Aside from the fact that the staff kept looking at me like I was horribly out of place, I came away with a good haul of stuff for some experimentation later this week.

Here’s a small sampling of the bounty to pique your interest; it includes udon, kombu, mirin, bonito and a seaweed/sesame sprinkling concoction.

Yum!

Until next time…

During the last few weeks it seemed like you couldn’t swing a cat without being subjected to the Vancouver Olympics in some way, shape or form.

As someone who is generally not a huge fan of sports in any respect, I’m sure you can imagine how exasperating I found the 24/7 coverage, especially when you stop and consider how much time, effort and money goes into what amounts to a glorified international pissing contest.  However, the Everyman is a huge lover of sports, so there was a fair amount being viewed in our household during those 16 days.

One food-related topic that received quite a bit of press during and after the games was the validity of having McDonald’s as a prominent corporate sponsor.  Many have chimed in and been rather vocal about this, including those who wished that we’d showcased uniquely Canadian cuisine, instead of pandering to the lowest common denominator.  GFR even had some random 12 year old write a (rather unedited) rant about the whole affair, the gist of which boiled down to shame on us.

Far be it from me to be a shit disturber, but with the exception of the whole First Nations/Burgergate saga I’d have to say I respectfully disagree and might even (sort of) be on the same side as McD’s(!) for once.

I know.  You’re all shocked and dismayed about how that could ever be possible.  Well, it goes a little something like this…

Truthfully, I’m no great fan of McDonald’s.  In fact, I think in general it is a lot of what is wrong with our food environment with its cheap, unsustainable and empty calories.  But that being said, I don’t think that having them sponsor the games was necessarily the worst thing, either.  You see, what with all this talk about junk food taxes or health food subsidies lately, it raises a rather interesting point.  Unless such a time comes when grossly unhealthy food is completely banned or outlawed, we are always going to be surrounded by McDonald’s and their ilk and will have to learn to make educated choices about them.  In a way the idea of advertising McDonald’s using Olympic athletes actually strangely ties in to teaching children about food.  Rather than looking at these ads and cynically thinking “Oh, no world class athlete sustains themselves on crap like that” we should instead be using it as a forum to instill the (nearly lost) principles of everything in moderation in the younger generation before ailing health becomes a  forgone conclusion.  Realistically, we all know that making any food strictly verboten will only serve to make it that much more desirable in a child’s eyes.  In spite of my personal opinions about fast food in general, I believe such a shift still needs to be made, because as a food category it’s likely not going away any time soon.

When I was growing up, McDonald’s was a treat, something to be had 2 or 3 times a year, or perhaps as a venue for hosting a winter birthday party.  Nowadays this nutrient deficient food is in some cases a more common occurrence than a home cooked meal for a great many people.  It’s no wonder today’s children are likely to be the fattest generation to go on record, with a truly appalling rate of juvenile diabetes to boot.  But, if we used people that children might idolize to foster a healthier relation with the cult of fast food, it’s possible that the tide of childhood obesity could turn itself around.  It could even be as simple as leveraging them to give a further explanation of the concept of ‘as part of a balanced diet’ and how that relates to the salt and fat and sweet we’ve all become so accustomed to consuming.  Because really, you can sell just about anything on TV if you have the right amount of spin, so why not be corporately responsible while they’re at it?

Even evil fast food conglomerates can be an educational opportunity if you know how to use them, sometimes.

Until next time…

I’ll be honest.

I’ve been categorically ignoring the whole no knead bread trend since I first heard about it back in 2006.

It became quite the internet sensation at the time, died down and now seems to be making the rounds again, due at least partially to Cathy Erway’s new book about not eating out for 2 years, I assume (which includes her riff on the recipe).

As someone who loves cooking and food as much as I do, I can say with alacrity that I’ve often thought of no knead bread as the lazy person’s shortcut, aka baking for dummies.  If you asked my mother, she’d probably cluck her teeth and mutter something under her breath about it being the cowboy way.  Beyond that, even though I start by mixing 90% of my breads in a stand mixer for at least part of the process, I can’t imagine giving up the interaction with the elementalness that is bread just to make life “simpler”.

But, when I saw Erway’s recipe for parmagiano, peppercorn and potato no knead bread, I made an exception and decided to try it.  At the time I had no knowledge of what made her recipe differ from the standard no knead bread, so I followed everything to the letter except for 2 things.  I subbed in a cup of whole wheat flour to surreptitiously improve its healthiness and instead of cracked black peppercorns, I mixed up a blend of 5 different ones that I’ve had lurking in the kitchen, including Muntok, Sarawak, Malabar, Tellicherry and Moula peppercorns crushed in a tea towel with a mallet.

The first sign that things were going slightly awry was when I realized I had no white potatoes to contribute to the potato water called for in the recipe.  Because I wasn’t sure whether it was intrinsic to the success of the original or not, I didn’t want to omit it altogether, but I also had no time to run out and get a spud.  Instead I boiled the only thing I had left in the house that was tuber-like; a yam.  After combining everything with the yam water, I wondered whether I’d be able to discern the taste in the finished product.

As it sat there on the counter in a bowl for the next 24 hours, there was no visible reason to believe that it did.  On the contrary, I found the odd grey shade from the peppercorns much more ominous than the potential of orange yam bread.

The next day the small dough ball looked relatively spongy and ready to be shaped and slapped into the oven.

After softly patting it into a boule, I rained an ungodly amount of parm down over the top of the bread and left it rest for a few more hours.  Once the dough had nearly tripled in size, I carefully eased it and the parchment paper it rested on into the secret weapon of the recipe, a preheated cast iron dutch oven.  All that was left was to cover it with the lid and wait for crusty, airy perfection.

Nearly 45 minutes later, the bread was richly burnished and auburn.  The parm gave it a heavenly aroma that was enticing me to eat, but I patiently held back until the loaf was cool enough to slice.

After trying a bite, I think we both agreed that 3 tablespoons of peppercorns was a bit much, even for spicy people like us.  True to its word, the bread did have a thick, chewy crust, but overall I didn’t find it to be any better than the loaves I’ve already been making.  The only snippet from the no knead technique that I will be trying again is to bake my next loaf in the dutch oven, to see if it works just as well at producing an envy-worthy crust from traditional bread.  To date all I’ve been baking on is a pre-heated pizza stone, so I’m intrigued by the inherent possibilities of an enclosed baking vessel.

For that I suppose I owe Jim Lahey a modicum of gratitude.

I’ll update as I experiment more.

Until next time…

A few weeks ago when the Everyman made un-Valentine’s Day dinner for me, the accompanying sauce for the pork chops was so slurpable that I could not bring myself to rinse the leftovers down the drain.  Instead I kept the pear, thyme and shallot infused jus in a small container in the fridge, with no clear idea for what I meant to do with the rest.

Flash forward to nearly 2 weeks later when a dinner of broiled lamb loin chops and cumin glazed carrots was looking rather forlorn on the plate.  Digging the jellified jus out of the fridge, I opted to warm it in a saucepan with a frozen cube of vegetarian stock.  Once it had thinned out a touch, a knob of membrillo jam melted and sweetened it a bit, while a splash of barley malt vinegar brought everything into balance.

Served with the crispy broiled lamb, the resulting sauce was quite nearly the perfect pairing for lamb.  It was so well matched that I think I’d even go to the trouble of making it from the start just for lamb chops next time.  Score 1 for culinary ingenuity!

Until next time…

Above all else, I admire passion in others.

Not for me are the random masses shuffling along through their workaday lives, never fully immersing themselves or finding anything worthwhile to commit to.  Instead I respect the creative, overly exuberant doers, the ones who push the envelopes and expand the boundaries of their respective fields through constant trial and experimentation.

When I familiarized myself with Paul A Young’s 2009 work Adventures With Chocolate recently, I knew I’d found a rare culinary maverick worthy of further examination, whose book I just had to lay hands on.  Once I managed to track down a copy through Alibris UK I only had to exercise a modicum of patience until it arrived on my doorstep a week and a half later.

Adventures With Chocolate is a rollicking stroll through the mind of a (not so evil) genius, whose book jacket photo reveals a dapper young man reminiscent of a modern day Willy Wonka.  This is by no means your mother’s cookbook, resplendent as it is with the rich tones and lush textures of pure chocolate juxtaposed against rustic, homespun preparations.  It’s part concept journal and part chocolate as high art, but on all accounts they add up deliciously.  I’ve yet to test drive a single recipe, but after my recent experimentations with chocolate and ‘nduja I’ve been inexplicably drawn to some of his more whimsical combinations, including chocolate water crackers (for cheese), fig and date tarts with cumin chocolate syrup and cedar cassia truffles (to name a few).  I’ve no doubt that once I start I will work my way through the book in its entirety.

Especially helpful for the novice chocolatier is the glossary near the beginning that identifies certain flavours that marry well with distinct varieties of single origin chocolate.  I may be somewhere between amateur and professional (having only dabbled in truffle making during my late teens and early twenties under the moniker Princess P) but even I found the table to be an invaluable tool.  I’ve also found it curiously prevalent for British recipes to specify the variety of sugar; whether it’s turbinado, muscovado, caster or any other, nothing is left to chance in the precise flavour compilations Young is after (definitely a trend I would like to catch on universally).

Beyond what I would refer to as the “cerebral” or thinking man’s portion, the book does offer a whole lot more.  It’s chockful of history, definitions, detailed instruction and suggestions for personalization, plus recipes for grown up versions of many childhood favourites like hot chocolate, syrups, chocolate hazelnut spread, sorbet and fondue.  Moreover, all of the photo spreads are so sumptuous that even pairings that might not immediately hold appeal (like the gin, cucumber and rose ganache) end up creeping up and inviting you to dig in.

For some reason there was a certain amount of hot fuss about his Stilton chocolate truffle more so than any of the rest, but I’m not entirely sure why.  I know of several chocolatiers in the Toronto area alone who have variations on bleu ganache and as far as cheese and chocolate are concerned, I’ve personally been making chocolate chevre truffles for the past 10 years so it can’t be considered that new.  That being said, I am heartily looking forward to the rosemary poached pear with Stilton ganache seeing as how I love all of the ingredients on their own.  The only thing I could figure was perhaps Britain has not yet rode the ‘adding everything savoury to chocolate’ train (i.e. bacon, etc) yet but I’ve found no substantive evidence one way or the other.

So, you may be wondering how I can be comfortable recommending a book to anyone who may be able to get their hands on it even though I have not cooked a thing?  Well, not only is it beautiful to behold, but it’s also a wellspring of knowledge and inspiration – and I don’t even need to taste one damn thing to discern that.  Cook from it if you will, but above all else allow it to encourage more creativity to flourish in your mind.

Until next time…

When I was younger, comfort food took on many forms.

Being half Trinidadian, if my mom was cooking it often meant some sort of roti and curry preparation to warm our hearts and bellies.  After my parents split and my dad took over the cooking for our household, it was a Sunday roast chicken redolent with paprika, garlic, onion and pepper with a side of fluffy stuffing.  Once I was considered old enough to cook on my own, my foods of choice were often plain, bland and white, including tall glasses of cold milk, hot buttered rice and large piles of creamy mashed potatoes – clearly my love of starchy white carbs was cultivated at a young age.

These days comfort food in our household usually means homemade macaroni and cheese (prepared with creme fraiche, parmagiano, manchego and chevre instead of nuclear cheese food), baked panko crusted sriracha nuggets or my aunt’s Christmas morning poached chicken salad that the Everyman fell in love with while we were there for the holidays.  While the spirit of the dishes remains the same, the ingredients and methods have certainly gone more upmarket to account for our more refined tastes and preferences than what we would have settled for as kids.

The one comfort food genre that I’ve never really dabbled much in was Southern food.  I like cornbread, fried chicken, BBQ and all the other stereotypical fare as much as the next person, but I generally don’t make much of it at home.  But between this article about Hank’s new Southern dinner menu and the return of more wintry weather recently, I was suddenly craving something heartier and more rib-sticking than normal. Over the years I’ve enjoyed all of the components of the dish I made last night separately, but I never bothered to put them all together as one before.  It’s far from authentic Southern or Caribbean fare but dang, it does taste good.

To begin I soaked half a pound of red beans overnight, then simmered them in several inches of water until they were mostly tender.  In the meantime, I sautéed several links of a homemade spicy poblano sausage I had in the freezer with some chopped celery, onion, thyme, cumin and cayenne until the whole upper level of our house was nose-tinglingly fragrant.  Once the sausage and veggies were well browned, I added a handful of frozen stock cubes and scraped the bottom of the pan with a spoon.  At this point I put on water to boil for a pot of brown rice.  Draining the beans in a colander, I added them back to their pan with the remaining sausage/veggie/broth mixture as well as a few fresh bay leaves, then covered and simmered again.  In the interim I mixed up a cornbread batter and slid it into a preheated blackened frying pan.  Once the cornbread was mostly cooked through I grated a large dusting of peppered pecorino on top of it and returned it to the oven to brown.  When everything was ready I served the sausage and bean mixture atop a mountain of brown rice with a wedge of crispy cornbread on the side.

By no means is this comfort food a 30 minute meal (since some of it requires advance planning) but in a pinch you could prepare it with canned red beans and make the whole thing in one day (assuming you rinsed the beans well before starting).  Personally, I think it works better if you let it rest overnight, because then the flavours have more time to meld, and the liquid and pork fat meld into a more gelatinous gravy.  Yum!

Foodie’s Southern(ish) Comfort

1 c. brown rice, dry

0.5 lb red beans, dried

3-4 links of spicy sausage of choice, chopped into 1″ chunks

8 cloves garlic, minced

6 stalks celery, chopped

2 onions, chopped

2 c. stock

cumin

thyme

cayenne

2-3 bay leaves

1 c. cornmeal

0.5 c. flour

1 tsp salt

1tbsp baking powder

0.5 tsp baking soda

1 tsp sugar

4-6 tbsp lard, plus extra to grease the pan

1.5 c. buttermilk

1 egg

fresh cracked pepper

0.25 c. grated cheese (any pungent hard cheese will do)

Soak beans overnight in a bowl of cold water.  The next day rinse the beans and add them covered by several inches of water to a dutch oven and let simmer with the lid ajar for half an hour.  In a separate pot bring 3 cups of water to a boil with a few pinches of salt, then add brown rice and reduce to a simmer, cooking until fluffy and softened, then set aside.  Sauté sausage, garlic, celery and onion in a pan until well browned, then add spices to taste (I started with several teaspoons each of thyme and cumin and just under a teaspoon of cayenne).  Stir until you can smell the spices toasting, then add stock to deglaze the pan.  Drain the cooked beans and combine them with the sausage and broth mixture back into the dutch oven, plus bay leaves.  Let simmer covered for an additional 30 minutes while you prepare the cornbread.  Preheat oven to 450*, then combine cornmeal, flour, salt, baking powder, baking soda, sugar and lard until smooth and incorporated.  Stir in buttermilk and egg until a lumpy batter forms.  Preheat a skillet on the stovetop until very hot, then add a small knob of lard and melt it to coat the entire pan.  Pour the batter into the skillet and cook on the stovetop for several minutes until you can smell the crust of the cornbread developing.  Crack a bit of fresh pepper on top, then remove to bake in the oven for 30-40 minutes.  During the last few minutes of cooking sprinkle the grated cheese on top (or you could mix it into the batter if you like). Serve warmed rice with a spoonful of beans and sausage in gravy, with a warm chunk of cornbread on the side.

Makes 6-8 servings.

Until next time…

Today I am leaving you with a picture of a recent vegetarian supper I concocted out of couscous, lentils and roasted root vegetables in a tarragon cream.

The reason for this is that I am currently coming down from a meat hangover after having been to Cowbell twice in the last 36 hours, and needed something lighter and plant-based to inspire me.

We visited for dinner on Saturday night and enjoyed a meal of all of the usual delicious suspects, including the charcuterie platter, a consomme, some red deer and variety pork dishes, and a pot of chocolate rillettes.  Chef was kind enough to serve our dinner himself, and at the end of the night he even brought out some wonderful ice wine and wished me a happy birthday.  It turns out his birthday is also this week, so I wished him many happy returns.

On Sunday morning we came back nearly 12 hours later to enjoy the mother of all brunches.  I ingested what they call the Rusty and Jerome, which is a TV tray laden with just about every item on their brunch menu, including a melange of bacon, toast, waffles with fruit, meatloaf and gravy, eggs and baked beans and sausages.  It was quite the impressive feast, and I enjoyed it all the more when they brought it to our table and assumed the Everyman had ordered it.  Instead he had a Belgian waffle with the aforementioned fruit, a side of home fries and a few links of chorizo.  After behaving like a pair of gluttonous beasts, we left Cowbell once again and continued on with my birthday, albeit in a food-addled stupor.

The third instance of the equation is actually part of my present.  The Everyman and I will be participating in one of their private butchery classes (I just have to pick which one) which basically means that I received the gift of 3 Cowbells for my birthday.

What a lucky girl I am!

Only a Furama cake (from my favourite Chinatown bakery) could have made the day better.

Until next time…

Tomorrow is my birthday.

So, it seems only fitting that as I prepare to spend another year in this skin, I should reflect on what it is I’m planning to do in the coming months, particularly in relation to gardening.

With the exception of the various forms of root stock I ordered (potatoes, sunchokes and asparagus) all of my seeds have arrived.  I spread them out on the kitchen table last night and simultaneously felt surges of fear and excitement.  There’s something rather exhilarating about the potential of this year’s garden with the many unknowns I’m introducing into the equation, but at the same time I can also see the immense amount of work all of the seed packs represent.

Of course, the few months between receiving the seeds and actually planting them into the ground is excruciatingly painful for someone as impatient as I am.  There is the distraction of starting the seeds in the basement, but that is just a temporary solution, which is why I invariably end up going back to the seed catalogues that keep showing up at my door and ordering more.  In fact, immediately after I placed the orders for all of the seed packets that you see above, another Richter’s magazine (ironically) showed up, attempting to entice me into purchasing again.  To date I haven’t caved, but only because I’m not sure whether I realistically have room for all of the things I’ve already bought.  Regardless of that concern, I’m sure before May rolls around there will be a few more seed orders arriving at my door.

As an added bonus, the company that sent me the seeds on the very left (Heritage Harvest) included a free package of tomato seeds with my order, and I’m very intrigued by them.  They’re called Henderson’s Wins All and apparently this heritage variety grows grotesquely massive 2-3 pound specimens.  While some of you may be aware of my fascination with all things tiny and squee, I’m also (surprisingly) amazed by those biggest vegetable ever contests that people hold every harvest season.  Between the Sicilian Saucer (another 3 pound beast) and this new Henderson’s I think I’m going to have giantesse all wrapped up this year.  I’m expecting it’ll be a very Alice In Wonderland-esque garden with all of the tiny cherry tomatoes being dwarfed by these 2 oversized plants.

All that’s left to do (for now) is take the handy dandy new Grow Great Grub by Gayla Trail (of You Grow Girl fame) that the Everyman bought me recently and plot out precisely when I have to start planting all of these piles of seeds.  That should keep me occupied for at least a few minutes during the next 60 or so days.

God, it’s going to be a long wait until springtime.  Thank goodness we get to go to Cowbell for dinner tonight to take my mind off of it and put it on my birthday instead.  Yum-lish!

Until next time…

In fact, if I’m to be brutally honest, I’d have to say that I generally despise the smarmy little buggers (with the exception of the kith and kin of a few friends or relatives of mine, that is).  For comfort’s sake I usually prefer to keep a fair amount of distance between me and the lot of them with their bad manners, foul mouthes, entitled attitudes, short attention spans and constant orbit of gadgets and technology (/rant).

That being said, there’s been a lot of talk about children in the media lately.  There’s plenty of discussion surrounding the obesity epidemic that’s facing their generation and how as a society we need to focus our energies to improve and shift their current fate.  Mrs. Obama has her Let’s Move initiative, Alice Waters has the Edible Schoolyard program,  and Jamie Oliver’s recent TED Prize wish was to teach every child about food.  Of course, that’s merely a sprinkling of the many projects attempting to tackle this multi-faceted problem, but these 3 just happen to be some of the most highly visible.

On the surface they all sound like rather noble causes, and certainly there is a degree of credibility behind the idea of educating children about food and exercise in order to stem the tides of an obesity related epidemic.

And anyone who has seen the promo clip of Oliver’s upcoming show (specifically the kids that don’t know the difference between potatoes and tomatoes at around 1:16 in the video) should be able to grasp the positive ramifications when kids get switched on about food.

However, the point where I often find myself flummoxed is when people start talking about banning, outlawing, taxing or restricting certain foods deemed to be “unhealthy” from school premises  in order to achieve that goal.

I find this proposition difficult to swallow for 2 reasons;

Firstly, anyone who has ever spent any amount of time with a child (regardless of age) knows that as soon as you refuse them access to something, you inevitably make it seem irresistible in their eyes.  Remove sodas, candies and sugary snacks and all of a sudden you’ve got kids clamouring for them even more so than they already do now.  Not to mention the potential for “black market” trading of said contraband goods – if kids really want it, they’ll always find a way.

Secondly, I really don’t understand why schools should be involved in feeding kids to begin with.  As a parent, why would you ever want to entrust the health and welfare of your darling dear to another person that most likely doesn’t have their best interests at heart?  Heaven knows you can’t be there for your children 24 hours a day to protect them from the so-called evils of food, but instead of leaving them to fend for themselves in a cafeteria, you could (novel idea alert) prepare a meal for them yourself.  Perhaps there is just a fundamental difference between schools in Canada and the US, but when I was in school (and I attended in 3 different provinces over the years) none of the institutions prepared food or even had a cafeteria on-site until I got to high school, and even then it was just a small snack bar.  The line where food met school was explicitly defined as the occasional sponsored pizza or hotdog “treat” day, but that was it.  At what point did it become acceptable to completely outsource the care of society’s children to lunch ladies, yet still be able to level the blame at them when people didn’t have the time or desire to take the matter in hand themselves?

I know it’s been proven that it’s easier for children to learn when they are not hungry, so I do understand the reasoning behind providing the option of food in schools in the event that a child might not be getting it elsewhere, otherwise.  But beyond that sort of specific scenario, if parents are really that concerned about the food their kids are eating, they need to make an effort to educate them one on one as well.  You can’t rear a child on a steady diet of crap at home and then expect them to easily pick up healthy attitudes solely from programs at school.  Attitudes towards food are learned behaviours, and if you set a decent example for your children at home, you leave them in better stead to avoid all of that other crap when they are out in the real world.

And at the end of the day, isn’t that where they need to apply it the most?

Until next time…

Aside from my timtana experiment last week, I haven’t really done a whole lot of bread baking yet this year.  I’ve been more than a little preoccupied with work, planning our vacation and things of a more pastry-ish nature, so when I decided to make bread again this week there was a fair amount of anticipation on my part.

I once read that the word ciabatta loosely translates to mean “carpet slipper” in Italian.  Given their delicate dough and diminutive stature I can’t really say I’m surprised, though I’m not sure what about carpet slippers is supposed to make them sound appetizing or appealing, despite the fact that they are.

Coincidentally those small, squat rolls are some that I enjoy preparing (and eating) quite a bit.  Of course because I am merely an honorary Italian, I make no bones about putting my own little twists into the bread that I’m baking, and on Family Day yesterday I decided to enhance the ciabatta with a healthy dose of homemade tomato conserva.

I began the night before by mixing up a biga (sourdough starter) by combining flour, water and a small amount of yeast and then letting it ferment on the counter.

The next morning I incorporated more flour, water, salt, yeast and the conserva into the biga, and kneaded it until it stretched like bubblegum.  Once the olive oil topped conserva was mixed in, the dough turned a slightly unnatural shade of orange, but it smelled rich and earthy, so I knew I was on the right track.

After a lengthy 4 hour rise, I split the dough into small 2×3″ rectangles, sprinkled the tops with salt and let them rise again.  After they proofed, I tossed a handful of ice cubes into a pan in the oven for steam creation, then slotted my sheet tray inside.  20 minutes later I was left with a tray of those delicious rusty coloured beauties you see above.  They’re sort of small, but I think they came out the perfect size to accompany a lunchtime bowl of soup or as a small side sandwich.  To up the textural interest, perhaps next time I’ll rehydrate some coarsely chopped sundried tomatoes to stir in as well.  Yum!

Until next time…

I know, I know.

That clichéd Simpsons line has been popping up in stories all over town this week but I really do love the Simpsons and specifically enjoy that episode.

We’re not really fans of the big “V-day” here at Foodie and the Everyman (which I tend to refer to in my head as venereal disease or victimized delusions day, for no particular reason).  In fact, when the Everyman and I first started seeing each other, it was only a few weeks before V-day (and my birthday which is one week after) and we both agreed about how ridiculously stupid it is.  So generally speaking, we don’t tend to celebrate it.  I prefer to think that the person I’m with is going to do nice things for me all year round instead of being bludgeoned into submission by some industry’s made up excuse for a spending spree.

And for the most part the Everyman does and so do I.  Though he doesn’t often bring me the “traditional” gifts of chocolate or flowers, he does regularly indulge me in other ways, such as expanding my love of restaurants and travel.  In fact, just last week he told me I could start planning our next vacation to wherever I wanted to go, and to me that’s more romantic than a February 14th drugstore chocolate sampler any day.

But because we both love to eat, we did go out for dinner on V-day one year (to Mistura) but like that article in the Globe earlier this week, I wouldn’t necessarily consider it a worthwhile experience (though it was one of the last times I ate lobster before I got sick).  The whole time we were there the service was so rushed and you could tell the meal had been hastily prepared.  At the end of the night it was apparent that their main objective was maximizing bums at tables and gross consumerism is just so sexy, you know?  So, we just don’t bother anymore.  If the Hoof wasn’t constantly overrun with hipsters, I’d probably have gotten on board with going there for an anti-V-day meal, but it’s packed every night of the week anyway, so that was pretty much out of the question.  I don’t enjoy busy restaurants on a good day, so amplifying that by adding a “holiday” to the mix makes it even less appealing to the both of us.

So for Family Day weekend, we’ve done what we often do on long weekends; stop at the Cheese Boutique to stock up on cheese and charcuterie.  Throughout the weekend we devour various platters of fruit, cheese, meat, bread, olives, etc, and wash it all down with plenty of red wine.  Sometimes I will bake desserts too, and this weekend I decided to make an old favourite of ours; the whoopie pie.  According to many sources, whoopie pies are supposed to be the new cupcakes in 2010 and maybe they are, I don’t know.  I just know I’ve liked them for a very long time even though I only started making them for myself last year.  Though you can’t really tell, these whoopies are made of red velvet and are filled with freshly whipped homemade marshmallow creme.  A delicious decadence that we can both enjoy, as one of the ways I regularly express my affection for the Everyman comes via the kitchen.

Adding a surprising twist, the Everyman’s also offered to cook dinner for me tonight, which (as the primary cook in our household) is something I can definitely get on board with.  He’ll be cooking a few of my most favourite things (figs, pork, chocolate) in the following dishes;

• fig and prosciutto crostini
• pork loin in a pear and shallot reduction
• dark chocolate creme brulee
  

A night of not being on kd (kitchen duty) is also always appreciated, and something I look forward to on any long weekend.  The fact that he’s committed to making such an ambitious menu makes the whole gesture that much more special, too.  Though, truth be told he’s always been one for big ideas; the first time he invited me round for dinner the man who claims he cannot cook spent nearly 4 hours whipping up a jambalaya for me.  He might not feel like the act of cooking is intrinsic to him like I do, but when he sets his mind to it, he can turn out some mighty fine meals.

So, while everyone else is getting all dolled up to go stuff themselves silly before passing out from wine and heartburn-addled excess (a mood-killer if ever there was one) I’ll be lounging around in front of our fire, perhaps cracking a good book or catching up on the list of Ted speeches I want to see.  Perhaps that isn’t your ideal picture of romance, but to us every day is a holiday if you make it one, and all the more so when presented with an unexpected gift of free time!

Until next time…

While other kids got to have play dates and scheduled outings with their moms and dads, I enjoyed an absentee relationship with mine; 2 of 3 being terminally addicted to their kitchens.  In the years that my parents were together I barely saw my mom because she’d leave for work while I was still at pre-school and not return until 2 or 3 in the morning.  After my parents separated, my mom and stepdad were too busy chasing their restaurant dreams to worry about things like family all that much, so I lived with my dad and only saw them a couple times a year.

Despite many wonderful things I learned and was inspired by during my time in their restaurants, the one thing that continues to irk me to this day is the overly critical nature that they’ve imbued in me.  It was never more evident in them than on the rare occasions when we would go out to eat as a family.  Rather than enjoying the brief time we had together, they would categorically pick apart whatever we were eating, regardless of whether it was a cheap trattoria or a fancy French bistro.  They’d then move on to analyzing whether they could make a particular dish better, and consequently discuss how to do so.

It drove me nuts.  Had I been older it probably would have driven me to drink, but at that young age all I could muster was a withering roll of the eyes.  I didn’t see them often, so all I wanted was to make the most of our time, but they never let up.  For years I vowed I would never be like them, determined to be happy with whatever was set before me, instead.

But, over the last few years I’ve found their somewhat unsavoury trait rearing its ugly head more and more in my demeanour.

Between working in their kitchens and stints at culinary school I’ve had plenty of time to develop an overly picky palate.  In a lot of ways it’s been for the best; I’ve gained a certain level of disdain for junk, fast and pre-packaged food-like substances in favour of slow (or what I like to call real) food.  On the flip side, it also makes friends and lovers (unnecessarily) nervous wrecks when feeding me, and coworkers assume I’m some sort of snob because I choose not to eat their hydrogenated oil filled crap or corn syrup laden goodies.  Even though I’m relatively quiet about my beliefs and standpoints on food (preferring to internalize rather than proselytize) most people assume I’m some sort of elitist crank or cow hugging moon maiden, anyhow.  That I don’t care what anyone thinks of me or my habits seems to stymie them all the more.

I often try to rationalize that I’ve only taken on the best parts of this annoying habit from my parents.  Instead of critiquing things for how bad they might be, I strive to only indulge in tastes of ridiculously good food because I think it satisfies your body, soul and cravings more.  Of course, that’s a mantra that’s easier said than done…

When you’re young, the theatre of a meal was more about the company than the actual meal, but as I’ve gotten older, that expectation has slightly equalized.  I still enjoy spending time with whomever I choose to break bread with, but it has become harder to enjoy something I didn’t cook myself because my standards have become prohibitively high.  In most cases it’s not that I think I could prepare the food any better, but that much of the time I find myself unsatisfied by it.  Our dinner at Tappo last weekend before the theatre was a prime example of such, with food that was too salty, too gloppy and too uninspired for me.  It didn’t help when a busboy dropped a dirty knife down the Everyman’s back on the way by and didn’t bother to apologize, either but that’s a story for another day.

In recent years I can recount only Eigensinn Farm as having completely exceeded my expectations.  That’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy any of the other meals I had before or after it, just that none stand out as much as it did.  My frequent posts about The Black Hoof and Cowbell should also serve to illustrate how much I love what both of them are doing, but even then there are always small things to nitpick about.  Even our recent trip to Splendido, which has been considered one of the best restaurants in Toronto for quite some time was dampened by a general impression of “meh”, despite the stellar service and reputation.

One of my goals for this year is to try and shake this critical monkey off my back.  For Christmas the Everyman gave me a trip to Langdon Hall, and so help me jeebus, I want to enjoy it.  Let’s just hope it lives up to the visions I’ve built up in my mind.

Until next time…

Lest you start smirking about how seasonally appropriate this next dish is, wipe those silly grins from your faces because it was actually inspired by a comment left by Larbo’s friend Dan (aka the Chocolate Man).

It wasn’t enough for me to make my own ‘nduja.  Nor was it sufficient to try my hand at combining it into ‘nduja burgers.  And even after all that, my ‘nduja chocolate truffles only served to stoke the fire of my curiousity.

Nope.  I had to reach further; I had to do more.

Larbo’s friend Dan succinctly reminded me that what had initially inspired me to make ‘nduja truffles in the first place was a bizarre chocolate and ‘nduja pasta recipe on an Italian food website I’d noticed through Foodgawker.  It seemed only fitting that I should further expand on that idea in my own unique way.

Ideas have been marinating for a couple of days now, but yesterday afternoon I finally came to a conclusion about what I wanted to do.

Rather than simply sprinkling pasta with cocoa nibs, I opted to make a bitter cocoa pasta dough instead, as Dan had suggested.  At one point in the not so distant past I vaguely recalled chocolate pasta being in fashion, but even then I think it was intended as a dessert course rather than an entree.  A chocolate ‘nduja pasta was firmly entrenched in experimental territory, indeed.

After I’d mixed up a loose dough of flour, eggs, cocoa powder, salt and olive oil, I decided to test the extruder mechanism on my stand mixer.  Once the dough had chilled for a little bit I fed it through the tube and waited for it to come shooting out of the linguine die.  Apparently a dough must be much stiffer in order to properly work through the pasta attachment, so with that lesson learned, I scraped up the remaining dough bits and rolled them out once more.  When I achieved an appropriate thinness, I began haphazardly cutting the dough with a ravioli wheel into a very loose representation of tagliatelle.

Tossing it with additional flour, I spread it out on a clean tea towel and continued working on the other components I envisioned for the dish.

Next I peeled, washed, sectioned and blanched a head of cauliflower.  At crisp tender stage, I skimmed it and doused with cold water, then dropped the pasta into the rolling boil in the pot.  2 and a half minutes later the pasta was al dente, so it got a cool shower too and was briefly set aside.  A large hunk of ‘nduja was melted into a “sauce” with some of the pasta water, at which point the cauliflower was tossed in the hot liquid to coat.  Then the delicate cocoa noodles were added and briefly dressed with the sauce as well.  A generous microplaning of parmagiano gave the dish the requisite umami-esque tang and dinner was ready.

Conceptually speaking, the flavours worked well, but the Everyman tells me I may have overdone it with the quantity of ‘nduja I added to the sauce.  Next time I’d probably err on the side of caution and cut the sauce with more dairy of some kind (creme fraiche, perhaps?) but as a first try I was relatively pleased.

And so the ‘nduja experimentation continues.

Until next time…

A couple of weeks ago, I entered and won a contest over at Kitchen Therapy that netted me a free bag of a new gluten free product called timtana.  Timtana is a milled all purpose flour ground from timothy grass, which is completely gluten free but full of lots of good for you nutrients like fibre, protein, calcium and iron (you can read more about it over at Kitchen Therapy if you’d like).  A company called Montana Gluten Free graciously provided the bags of flour for the Kitchen Therapy giveaway.

As I’ve previously mentioned, my mother in law is allergic to wheat, so I often keep an eye out for new developments in gluten free products, and have a whole drawer in my freezer devoted to the various alternative flours that I use when baking for her.  Over the years I’ve found that while gluten free baking is not easy, once you know what you’re doing improvisation is possible.

A 3 pound bag of timtana flour arrived at my door a little over a week ago, and has been sitting on my counter waiting for inspiration to reach out and strike ever since.

While an original idea has yet to take shape, in the interim I decided to use Michael Ruhlman’s Ratio app and the basic bread dough formula for a first pass.

The proportions are simple and include 3 parts water to 5 parts flour, plus a little bit of salt and yeast thrown in for good measure.  Because timtana is gluten free, I also opted to toss in a bit of xanthan gum (the gluten free baker’s friend) for some extra leavening power.

Once the ingredients were combined in my stand mixer, I found the dough impossibly dry so I poured a drizzle of buttermilk in to moisten.  After everything had been incorporated, I left the dough to rise for several hours on a sunny counter.

Punching the dough down before shaping it into a loaf, it became clear that even with the xanthan gum this timtana bread was not going to be airy.  This isn’t meant to blame the Ratio app per se, but rather to reinforce that the proportions are clearly only meant to be used with ordinary wheat flours.  Still, not ready to admit defeat, I shaped the dough into a rustic boule, pressed it onto my baking stone and walked away for 40 minutes.

When the loaf emerged from the oven it was a rich, bronzed colour with tufts of crunchy bits poking up on top.  While definitely not the most attractive loaf I’ve ever made, it did waft its enticingly nutty aroma throughout the kitchen.  A small nibble confirmed that timtana flour is laden with nut-like undertones, but also a subtle hint of grassiness.  Unfortunately, due to the lack of proper leavening the loaf was dense and heavy as a stone.

As a standalone flour, I wouldn’t necessarily say that I was blown away by timtana, but I foresee it having many delicious applications.  I tend to prefer my bread to be light and airy, so baking a loaf with only this flour is not something I’d probably repeat again, but I think that it has a lot of potential in a gluten free blend, perhaps with oat flour.  I also think it would be ideally suited to quick breads and muffins, and will be substituting some in the next time I make either.

For the meantime I’d say I am rather undecided, though.  Have any of you had success with timtana, or recipes to share?  If so, I’d love to hear all about it.

Until next time…

As you may recall, one of the things I wanted for Christmas was a bag of Chris Cosentino’s Boccalone lard caramels (amongst other things).

After the holidays I was able to cross a few things off that massive list (I Know How To Cook, the dough press, a scraping beater, a rolling pin and the spice storage solution, specifically), but I was still no closer to tasting those caramels.  As I probably mentioned at the time of writing, unless I get myself (or someone I know) to California (which is highly unlikely) I don’t have much chance of partaking of them any time soon, either.

You may also have noticed that this past weekend I rendered down the better part of 10 pounds of pork fat into lard, the majority of which has been earmarked for sealing the prosciutto.  Even after taking that into consideration, there was still a fair amount of fat left over.  Some I planned to freeze for another day, but it occurred to me that I had enough of a surplus to sacrifice a little to a lard caramel experiment.

When I first read about these fancy lard caramels, I assumed there must be some magical twist to them.  Further research revealed that wasn’t the case, and in fact the only thing unique about them (compared to other caramels) is the fact that the lard supposedly comes from Cosentino’s restaurant.  Beyond that, everything I read indicated they’ve employed a fairly standard caramel recipe.

So, with that in mind, I took my variation on Alice Medrich’s caramel recipe and lardified it.

But that wasn’t enough.  I also had to see if lard caramels could translate into my favourite variety; the chocolate cream caramel.  I’m not talking about that insipid Tootsie Roll stuff, but a chocolatey, chewy lump with grown up flavour.

I started by combining the typical caramel ingredients (sugar, salt, golden syrup) in 2 pots.

Gradually, I added chopped 78% chocolate, lard and cream to one mix and ground vanilla beans, lard and cream to the next.

Once those were in, I continued to cook the caramel until the temperature rose to about 265*.

After it achieved temperature I poured the hot goo into prepared pans and let it sit.

Several hours later… voila!  Vanilla caramels (above) and chocolate cream caramels (top of post).

So how do these stack up to regular caramels, you’re wondering?

Well, the vanilla caramel is rich and lusciously creamy, but finishes with an intriguing savoury note.  To further intensify it I’ve since sprinkled some of the slices with a smoked alderwood salt that counterbalances their sweetness.

The chocolate cream caramel is another story; one that I have not quite made my mind up about yet.  While it is similar in shape, texture and appearance to those old Kraft squares, the flavour is darker, with a demurely refined tone.  It’s also much firmer than the vanilla caramel, which may be the result of a slight scorching of the chocolate in the pan, I’m not 100% sure.  The smoky pork flavour is also much more prevalent in the chocolate version, in a way I’m not sure I like.  As of this writing I have not written them off, but I certainly haven’t decided that I’m loving them, either.  I’ll have to sit on them for a few more days before I declare my final verdict.

Overall though, I’d say the vanilla lard caramels were a smashing success, and along with my garamelic, something that I could see myself eating regularly for years to come.  If you’re interested in recreating or experimenting with it, I just took the garamelic recipe and divided it in half, replaced the butter with lard, and in the case of the chocolate creams, melted 5 ounces of chocolate down into the cream before adding it to the caramel.  Easy peasy, lemon squeezie!

Until next time…

I’m going to preface this by saying that this post is probably not for everyone.  With that in mind, I suggest you read on at your own risk.

Just before Christmas, Larbo and I were discussing ‘nduja and fate happened to drop this on my lap.  Being that our combined aptitude for deciphering Italian is mediocre at best, the consensus we reached was that it was a recipe for an ‘nduja and cocoa nib pasta sauce, but at the time we were unable to tell whether it was actually a traditional recipe from the Calabrian region that ‘nduja hails from, or just some kind of joke or one off creation.  Both somewhat perplexed, the bizarre medley has been on my mind ever since.

Generally speaking, Larbo, Scott and I have been good-naturedly one upping each other with this ‘nduja stuff since we all started making it early last year.  It’s become somewhat of a common theme in our posts, and I’m pretty comfortable saying that it’s likely one of the top trafficked search terms that brings people to our individual sites (I know it is on mine).

But, I just couldn’t shake this chocolate/’nduja feeling, so after much deliberation I decided what direction I wanted to take it in – that which has always been near and dear to my heart; the truffle.

I began by melting down a variety of chocolate bar ends from some French chocolates my super-nice boss had brought me back after a recent business trip.

I used a 2:1 ratio of chocolate to cream to create a rich, decadent ganache with dark cocoa solids ranging from 99% to the low 80s.

Once the chocolate bits were melted, I heated and cooled the mixture until it was properly tempered.

Once the ganache was tempered, I slowly began scooping ‘nduja in by the tablespoonful.  After close to half a cup of the fiery spread was incorporated, I felt the ganache exhibited a palatable level of heat.  Because the truffles would be served cold, I seasoned a bit heavier than I would have otherwise, but the end result was a silky smooth mixture with a warming hint of spice as well as a glossiness on the tongue.

After chilling the ganache, it took on the robustly red colour of the spicy ‘nduja.  Scooping it into little balls and rolling with fast hands, I coated the ganache niblets in rich cocoa powder and chilled them once more.

After they’d firmed up again I took a moment to sample one.  For a first attempt at incorporating ‘nduja I thought they were quite good, though perhaps next time I would whip the ganache a little bit after adding the ‘nduja to give it a fluffier texture.  Overall, it certainly retained the main characteristics that I love about ‘nduja, while at the same time sitting firmly in dessert territory.

For those of you who think this is all quite strange, I will remind you of my chocolate guanciale toffee and roasted garlic caramel.

Clearly, I often deal in weird.

But it can’t be that off the mark.  I read recently that Toronto’s own Xococava is making chorizo truffles, so I don’t see why ‘nduja couldn’t be the next logical step.  People eat chili pepper chocolate all the time, after all.

Surely I’ll be revisiting this topic again soon, because it certainly merits further experimentation.  Who knows.  ‘Nduja truffles could be the new chocolate covered bacon!

Until next time…

After much deliberation (and a healthy dose of procrastination), I’ve finally selected and plotted my intentions for the 2010 garden.

It might seem awfully early to some, but seeds must be ordered, delivered and started before a springtime sowing in late May can be accomplished.

This year will be interesting for a number of reasons.

Primarily because I’m going to be trying to grow a couple crowns of asparagus for the first time, but I’m also attempting rare French strawberries from seed, as well as leeks, garlic and chard.

As you can see from my crude 10,000 foot drawing, there are lots of different veggies being installed, as well as a small bee garden that I hope will attract a healthy amount of polinators to our rooftop sanctuary.  We had a bit of a problem with the lack of bees last year, though I’m not sure if it was due to colony collapse or the overall shitty weather, but it can’t hurt to encourage them with a pretty flower garden.

In case you were curious, here are the plans for this year:

Beans – cranberry, orca, sayamusume, tri-colour bush, black coco, purple fava

Peas – chestnut chickpea, large manitoba, asparagus peas, carouby de maussane

Garlic – red russian hardneck

Berries – mignonette strawberries, wolfberries

Carrots – rainbow blend, parmex

Chard – bright lights

Peppers – friar’s hat, ancho, jalapeno, 5 color Chinese

Tubers – mixed bag potatoes, Carmen sunchokes

Leeks – varna

Beets – blankoma, chioggia, touchstone gold

Asparagus – Jersey giant

Herbs/Flowers – lady lavender, bee blend, catnip, lemon thyme, rosemary, curly parsley, Italian bush basil

Lettuce – luscious blend, mesclun

Shallots – ambition

Tomatoes – gold nugget, sungold, principe borghese, bonner, chibikko, orange banana, old ivory egg, yellow bell, old timer red and yellow, pink Thai egg, tonodose des conores, white currant, Sicilian saucer, black cherry, red currant, costoluto genovese

As you can see from both the image and the list above, I’m still skewing mostly towards tomatoes, and will once again be growing them in a series of kiddie pools.  Since we had such a poor showing last year, I’m hedging my bets by not growing many of the (sometimes difficult) full size heirloom varieties, and am focusing on a myriad of rare cherry tomatoes instead.  My reasoning behind that is simple; cherry tomatoes are delicious and easy to eat, and every Saturday during the summer last year I was shelling out $10 for a couple of pints of them.  If we extrapolate that over the course of the growing season, I spent close to $200 just on cherry tomatoes, and I could certainly find better places to spend that money, or at the very least on other things at the market.  I’ve also selected one monstrous tomato (the Sicilian saucer) to grow just because – the write up about it said they typically grow 2-3 pound specimens, which is somewhat reminiscent of the Greek freak.  As some of you might know, I am captivated by all things tiny and adorable (hence my love of mini vegetables) but, I also have a strange fascination with foodstuffs that are freakishly large.  I’m entirely prepared that this Sicilian saucer might not grow anything at all, but there’s always a chance that it will grow some. Beyond that I’m looking forward to the chibikko, a rare Japanese tomato, and the tonodose des conores, an old French variant.

Seeds have been gathered from numerous sources, including West Coast Seeds, Salt Spring Seeds, Richter’s, Vesey’s, Clover Roads Organic Farms and Heritage Harvest Seeds.  I was a bit disappointed that I didn’t find anything I wanted from Urban Harvest, but I’m sure I’ll be visiting them in May if I need any transplants.

If you’re interested in growing food that’s heritage, heirloom or just plain rare, I’d suggest you check any of these guys out, for their astonishing selection of plants.  I know they all certainly had more than I have the ability to grow, but there’s always another year to plan for!

Until next time…

Ever since I made ‘nduja back at the beginning of May I’ve been playing the waiting game while it fermented, cured and hung in my kitchen window, taunting me.

During that time my friends Larbo and Scott of This Little Piggy and The Sausage Debauchery (respectively) have been churning out all kinds of wondrous delights made with their versions of the piquant spread while I’ve been quietly biding my time.  In fact, Larbo’s probably been the most prolific, creating ‘nduja di bufala, ‘nduja pate and most recently an ‘nduja mortadella to make us all jealous and drooling.  Once I work through some of my own ‘nduja reserves I fully intend to build on his pate idea, but for now I’m holding those cards close to the chest.  Lest you think that Scott’s some sort of slouch, let me tip my hat to him for single-handedly starting up a mail order business to bring ‘nduja-making supplies (and other imported Italian goodies) to the masses.  As you can see, our combined aim is to completely blanket the planet in ‘nduja fever!

In an attempt to keep mine somewhat traditional, I’d let the ‘nduja hang for as close to the year I’d originally intended as I could possibly wait.  Some of it will surely see a 1 year anniversary since my first attempt was a double batch, leaving me with close to 6 kg of ‘nduja hanging around waiting for inconspicuous consumption and culinary inspiration to strike.

This very weekend was the first time since I stuffed the ‘nduja that I’d had an occasion to cut down a finished link and give a taste, and words cannot express how truly excited I was.

From the look of the casing, which was dried, brittle and shrivelled, I wasn’t expecting much, but once I sliced it open the hot Calabrian peppers immediately began their assault on my senses.  Prodding gently with my paring knife, I found the ‘nduja had indeed retained it’s semi-moist spreadability, and a tiny raw taste confirmed the assertively pleasant fire emanating from within.  10 minutes later I still wasn’t dead, so I ascertained that the folklore I’d been told about all of the salt and chilis warding off any chance of bacterial spoilage actually seemed to be true.

But, now that I had this wicked bounty to play with, what ever would I do with it?

For whatever strange reason, the first thing that popped into my mind was to make an ‘nduja burger.  I’ve heard tales of Larbo melting his into its own pasta sauce, or spreading it on the thin crust of a pizza, but I wanted to go somewhere a little bit different.  Given my extreme love of burger cuisine, I suppose it’s not much of a stretch.  In the future I’m thinking something with eggs might be fun, but as to what shape that might eventually take, I’m not quite sure yet.  So, for now a burger my ‘nduja would be.

To 8 ounces of organic grass-fed ground beef I added several heaping tablespoons of ‘nduja, erring slightly on the side of caution (just in case).

Next, I put on some disposable plastic gloves (recalling how burnt my palms had been the last time I mixed the moist Calabrian chillies by hand) and gently coaxed the spread and ground into a beefy suspension.  After heating a skillet to absolute blazing, I quickly seared both sides of the patties to a perfectly browned and crispy crust.  7 minutes in a 250* oven (occupied by the ever-melting lard project) was all it took to cook the burger the rest of the way to edible (because I wasn’t taking any chances on this one yet and shied away from my usual medium rare).

The finished burger got some love in the form of a homemade Red Fife infused burger bun I’d whipped up the other day, plus a side of my delicious gherkin pickles.

The first bite sung with the subtly increasing ‘nduja heat, and I commented to the Everyman that next time I’d probably be a little more generous with the ‘nduja.  By the end of the burger I felt my assessment was still correct, but the problem with ‘nduja is that the more you have it, the more you want it, so I doubt I’d ever truly have “enough” anyway.

At the very least, after my inaugural experiment with this incomparable spread, I’m looking forward to many other flights of fancy.  As soon as spot prawn season comes around (though to be honest I have no idea when that is) I’ll definitely be attempting something similar to Grant’s smoked spot prawn and ‘nduja dish that I enjoyed so much.  Yum!

Until next time…