It’s been hot in Toronto recently.

Not just h-o-t hot, either.  More like h-a-w-t exclamation point hot.  With the humidex, most days last week were hovering in the mid 40′s, which when I did a conversion for an American co-worker turned out to be about 109* F.  This is generally much warmer than we’re used to around here, so please excuse me while I bitch and moan about it a wee bit.

Anyway, all of that heat percolating around us demanded that I find a touch of sweet relief.  At first that meant hauling out the ice cream maker for a few churns (lemon blueberry and fig ice creams were the frosty scoops du jour) but after a few days something a little different was on my mind.

A while back I’d read a product review on Serious Eats for the Zoku Quick Pop Maker and at the time (I’ll be honest) the idea of it did nothing for me.  But, thanks to The Atlantic’s food channel and its spate of ice pop-related stories, the idea of crafting artisanal ice pops began to pervade my subconscious and gain a fair amount of traction.

Before I knew it, I was asking the Everyman (by way of justifying its potential existence in my already overstocked kitchen) if a machine that freezes ice pops in only 7 minutes was an unnecessary extravagance.  I should have known the answer before I even asked the question (in case you’re wondering, it was that may be the very definition of unnecessary extravagance) but after mulling it over for a few more days, I ended up buying one anyway.  They can be had by visiting your local Williams-Sonoma, though if you’re in Canada I would suggest hopping across the border to get one, because the exchange markup  is brutal.  Alternatively, you could just buy the old fashioned frozen pop makers, since they clearly also get the job done.

Once the base of the machine has been frozen for 24 hours, it’s only 7-9 minutes to any kind of frozen flavour combo that your heart desires.  After a few test runs I found that juice freezes really well, but ice cream base with alcohol less so (achieving nothing firmer than soft serve even after nearly 15 minutes) and that there really are endless variations to be had.

Next on the docket will be a choco-banana filled fudge bar, some hibiscus and green tea snacks and possibly a frozen agua fresca.  The Everyman is even getting in on the fun and has expressed interest in cherry pops, pineapple and a little bit of lemonade for starters.  As we develop interesting recipes, I’ll be sure to pass them along.

See?  I promised I’d still come with the neat stuff during my time off!

Until next time…

I don’t like to see good food go to waste.

So whenever I buy some from my local farmer’s market or get a delivery from our farmshare, I’m always hyper aware of the imaginary ticking timer that hovers above all of our food.  Each and every time I open the fridge is a reminder to use it or lose it, which is probably as much a holdover from my hungry years as a desire not to be flippant with my finances.

Recently while shelling a few quarts of peas I thought it seemed like such a shame to throw away close to 80% of the veg (the pod) and thus decided to explore ways to repurpose them.

But the bag full of cleaned empty pods sat in the crisper of our fridge for a few days while I tried to work something out, taunting me with the possibility of spoilage daily.

And then it hit me… if I just steamed the empty pods a little, their fibrousness would break down enough to make friends with my high powered blender.

So that’s just what I did.

Once the pods were soft and bright green, it was an easy mental hop, skip and jump to turning them into a light and nutless pesto.

Not bad for something that would have been compost fodder otherwise, don’t you think?

Foodie’s Pea Pod Pesto

Clean, empty pods from 1 quart of shell peas, strings and stems removed

1 oz parmagiano reggiano

3 cloves garlic

Olive oil

Salt and pepper to taste

Steam the empty pea pods for 3-5 minutes over simmering water until softened and bright green, set aside.  In the bowl of a blender or food processor, combine steamed pods, cheese, garlic and olive oil and pulverize until a smooth and paste-like consistency has been achieved.  Add olive oil or water as necessary to thin the pesto if desired.  Season with salt and pepper to taste and use anywhere you would use traditional pesto, or freeze in ice cube trays for a fresh and welcome blast of spring come wintertime.

Makes approximately 1 cup of pesto.

Until next time…

As someone who developed a fairly serious allergy to most varieties of shellfish during the past few years (severe enough that I now carry an epi-pen) I don’t often consume much in the way of shellfish.

But last year, after eating smoked prawns at The Black Hoof, I fell head over heels in love with one of the few crustaceans I’m still capable of eating.  BC spot prawns are generally sold fresh (read: alive) and are only available for a few brief months each year, starting in May and usually stretching through to July or August.  I can’t quite explain it, but there is something so much more creamy, sweet and delicately briny about spot prawns than any other shellfish I’ve ever sampled before.  Being that they also don’t induce anaphylaxis in me doesn’t hurt either.

I’ve tried in vain to find them frozen on several occasions, only to come up empty handed.  A few weeks ago when I searched for them at the St Lawrence Market, 2 out of 3 fishmongers had no idea what I was even asking for and the third outright said they didn’t carry them.  Faced with being at a loss for a second season in a row, I half-heartedly reached out to the obsessives on Chowhound who were surprisingly adept at pinpointing several places in the GTA that could help a sister out (I’ve had mixed success with reaching out for help on Chowhound, so I honestly wasn’t expecting much).  Most of the suggestions were out of the way for this non-driver, in the burbs of Scarborough and such, but one happened to be right downtown.  The T&T Supermarket on Cherry St even had spot prawns advertised in their circular, so I emphatically coerced the Everyman into letting me take my practice drive for the day over to said grocery store.

Once we got there, we found a large tank at the back of the store teeming with the vibrant pink beauties.  The tank was overcrowded though, so the spot prawns didn’t seem as lively as I had expected them to be, though they were certainly still alive.  Asking for 2 pounds, the fishmonger deftly scooped them out of the tank with a net, which set the previously docile prawns to wildly thrashing about.  Once bagged and tagged, I didn’t waste much time before exiting the store and returning home.  Live stuff generally doesn’t stay alive for long when trapped in a small plastic bag.  As a last ditch effort at giving me the finger, the spikiness of the prawns managed to pierce a hole in their bag unbeknownst to me and leak seawater all over the floor mat of my car.  Note to future intrepid purchasers of live prawns – always place them into a cooler or some other hard bottomed storing device when travelling, so as not to suffer the same fate, unless you enjoy washing floor mats for fun.

At home, I had no concept of how to prepare live prawns, and after turning to the internet I was faced with the realization that I had to rip off their heads.  The picture above is what was left of the prawn heads once I accomplished that task; an experience I found more than a little chilling since they were still moving about.

Once I finished, I didn’t want to mess with the flavour of the prawns too much, so I grilled them briefly on the barbecue so as not to corrupt their fragile texture.  I have to say, for a first attempt at cooking them myself, I wasn’t overly impressed.  They didn’t taste much different than any other shrimp, which caused me to wonder how fresh they really could be and if they were even spot prawns at all (it wouldn’t be the first time a grocery store pulled a bait and switch).  Grant’s prawns were so amazing by comparison that I’m certain something must’ve been off.

I still have about a month and a half before the season is over, so perhaps before it concludes I will attempt to source some fresh spot prawns again – possibly even for smoking!

Until next time…

For a long time now I’ve had a growing fascination with Italian cuisine, namely pasta in particular.

I constantly marvel at the innumerable shapes and sizes of pastas that Italy has created, and the myriad uses they have unique to each one.  For at least 6 months I’ve wanted to take a course that would teach me more about the intricacies of a subject I know precious little about, but as far as I can tell, such a course does not exist.  It’s unsurprising really, as I’ve noticed that Italians generally tend to be quite cagey when it comes to passing on their culinary know how to non-familial brethren.  If you are lucky enough to gain mentorship, I bet you sure as hell had to prove yourself first.  I’ve not yet found a person who thinks I’m worthy of what is to most a cultural birthright and so I continue on, on my own.  Perhaps when I make it to Italy one day I will track down a willing nonna who will share all her secrets with me.  One can always dream!

Barring any sort of official instruction, I’ve been messing around with pasta dough on my own more and more lately.  I’ve been meaning to buy the Encyclopedia Of Pasta ever since it came out, but my local bookseller never has it in stock and it’s definitely the kind of tome I want to page through before I buy it, just so I can make sure it’s really what I’m after.

In the meantime, I’ve been perfecting my stamped and ribbon pastas on and off for the past few months, so last night I thought I’d try something completely different.  Using Ruhlman’s pasta ratio I prepared 4 servings of dough in the morning and left them to rest in the fridge all day.  When I arrived home I started the basics of a red meat sauce on the stove by combining half a jar of my home canned tomato sauce with a lingering hothouse tomato, 4 grated zucchinis and half a pound of ground beef.  While the sauce simmered, I split the dough in half and began rolling out long, snaky tubes.  Snipping them down into 1 inch lengths, I rolled them a bit longer and thinner between my palms, then used a bench scraper to gently drag the dough nubs across the surface of the table until it formed either cavatelli or capunti.  I can’t say with certainty which one I made because so many pastas are so nuanced that they have only the faintest whisper of difference between them.  In this case, I think what I made is capunti, because I’m pretty sure cavatelli is usually made with a ricotta enriched dough.  As you can see from the above photo, some turned out rather well while others are an embarrassment to real pasta.  For a first attempt though I thought they were magical, and once they floated to the top of the briny, boiling water, I tossed them in a meaty tomato sauce and allowed the whole to soak in a little bit.

Like fingerprints, they’re all a little different, but definitely not quite perfect just yet.  The fun part about experimenting with pasta (or anything, really) is that in the end you can just eat your mistakes.

And let me tell you, these were some tasty, tasty mistakes!

Until next time…

Here at Foodie And The Everyman, we’re always trying to find new ways to incorporate more healthy and environmentally responsible meals into our life.

Being virtuous ain’t easy though, and after a tough day at the office, mostly I just want to inhale a cupcake or a juicy steak.  Unfortunately, one can’t live on cake or steak alone, so every now and then I need to boost my vegetable intake to compensate for one too many edible indiscretions.

As part of that, I’ve recently adopted the idea of participating in Meatless Mondays at home.

Normally, my concept of meat-free eating is firmly rooted in either a tofu preparation, one of my hand-rolled vegetable pastas or occasionally a hearty soup.  And since the Everyman is allergic to nuts and won’t eat eggs or seafood, I am somewhat limited in the options available to me, so it seemed important to expand the vegetarian repertoire.  That it would be good for our health and also the planet are somewhat of an added bonus.

However, for the inaugural Meatless Monday, I had no tofu in the house, and I’d already packed pasta leftovers for our lunches, which meant that another pasta meal was out of the question.  Thus our first Meatless Monday supper would require a slightly more elegant solution.  After brainstorming for a little bit, I decided to concoct a veggie burger with homemade buns, mashed white beans, flax seed and piri piri sauce for a little bit of kick.  Once mixed together and grilled, the patties proved tender and delicious, if a little sloppy to eat.  Next time I’ll most definitely have to experiment with other ingredients to make the patties firmer.

To accompany the bean burgers, a fresh vegetable slaw sounded lovely and I’d been inspired earlier that day by a Chow apple, endive and fennel recipe, so I whipped out my trusty mandolin and made short work of an apple, a fennel bulb, 3 stalks of celery and 2 shallots.  When everything was shredded, I dressed the slivers with a white wine and basil vinaigrette and tossed it to coat.  Combined with the white bean burgers, it made for a simple but satisfying vegetarian meal, with bold, look-at-me flavors that packed a significant wallop.

Perhaps you can win people over with salad after all?

Until next time…

When I was a child, shepherd’s pie was one of several dishes that my dad could make relatively cheaply and easily, so it was one we had fairly often.

I’m not sure what it was about shepherd’s pie exactly, but for years I’ve mercilessly decried its very existence.  If I had to guess, I’d say it was likely the whole frozen pea/carrot/corn blend that caused me to hate it with a passion, because I’ve had too long and varied a love affair with mashed potatoes for them to be the cause.

That negative connotation stuck with me even after all of these years, and though the Everyman is quite a fan of shepherd’s pie (categorizing it as one of those dishes he never craves but whenever he ingests it he wonders why he doesn’t eat it more often) I have never so much as considered making one.

But, then I concocted that delectable chicken pot pie recipe.  And it got me thinking – why limit a shepherd’s pie filling to that sad, sloppy mess of frozen veggies and ground beef?  Having just recovered from a bout of food poisoning (where the only things I could ingest were mashed potatoes or peanut butter on toast) I had a gigantic bowl of creamy buttermilk mash left over but no semblance of a plan for what to do with it.

Before I knew it I was mentally mapping out a shepherd’s/cottage pie hybrid that had the filling of a chicken pot pie, but was topped with pillowy mash instead of golden puff pastry.  The more I thought about it, the more I realized that having all that mash on top meant I should omit the chunks of potatoes from the filling and replace them with something else.  My pot pie recipe typically consists of a carrot, celery, pearl onion and potato blend, and having nothing else in the house I opted to just beef up the other quantities.  To make the hybrid version that much more complete though, next time I would replace the potatoes with those ubiquitous frozen peas and corn instead.

The pie was baked until the top was burnished and crispy, and after a few bites I was convinced that this melange of pies wasn’t all that bad.

It’s still a far cry from the traditional variety, but with a few more baby steps, we may yet get there.

Until next time…

During the past few months I’ve become increasingly entranced by the idea of making my own pasta.

While achieving ribbony, hand cut noodles has been a work in progress, I’ve slowly but surely become more proficient, bit by flour-covered bit.

As such, I’ve been on the market for some form of pasta machine, but ever since my snafu with the stand mixer pasta attachment, I haven’t been in much of a hurry.  I’ve also been told they can be quite expensive, so I didn’t want to plunk down any cold, hard cash until I was absolutely certain it wasn’t just a passing fancy.  In the interim, pastas have been made with some regularity in our household by using the old fashioned method of rolling pin plus sharp knife.  Rustic for sure, but still extremely satisfying when compared next to your standard out of the box fare.

So, while the Everyman and I were out shopping for our upcoming trip, it occurred to me to stop into a housewares store to check if they happened to sell pasta makers.  In the first store I was out of luck, but ducking into the second as we headed towards the exit, not only did I find a pasta maker, but it was the last one, and a floor model at that, so for all intents and purposes it was a steal.  The only catch was that it didn’t come packaged, which meant that a) there was no manual, and b) it took the clerk 20 minutes to try and figure out what the SKU was so they could enter it into the cash register.  But, for a mere $20 I certainly wasn’t complaining.

Once I got my new toy home, I immediately began considering what the first pasta should be.  It didn’t take me long to decide on an all semolina dough made with a combination of whole eggs and egg yolks.  After stirring it together to form a shaggy dough, I kneaded it until it formed a cohesive ball.  Formed into a loose disc, I patted a sheet of plastic wrap around it and tossed it in the fridge to rest.

Meanwhile, I began to realize that a floor model pasta machine probably had numerous opportunities to get dirty and germy, so I decided that the machine should take a good hot bath before its maiden voyage.  Big mistake!  Of course, that probably would have been a much better idea 6-8 hours before I intended to roll out the pasta, rather than half an hour beforehand.  Even after repeatedly shaking stray droplets from the machine with all of my might, the dough still managed to become moist and tacky from being pressed through the damp apparatus.  Applying additional flour to the dough after each pass made a negligible difference, but after a few tries I finally had a fairly thin and golden sheet of pasta to be tinkered with.

Next I had to choose how I wanted the sheets to be cut, and at first I selected the thinnest angel hair press (without thinking it through).  What with the dough being as sticky as it was, it passed through the die cutters and formed one big, glutinous blob.  I rolled the gummy bits and pieces back into a disc and turned back to rolling out the second half of the pasta dough.  Once it was also papery thin, I ran it through the linguine cutter with much greater success.  This hand cranked pasta making is not nearly as easy as it looks, you know!

The last step before it became dinner was to throw together a quick sauce to properly dress the beautiful, fresh noodles.  I sautéed a chicken breast cut into strips with some chopped leeks and a lone parsnip, deglazed with some white wine and lemon juice, then thickened with a dollop of creme fraiche.  After dipping the noodles into a quick, salty bath, everything was tossed together until the sauce completely slicked the linguine.  Finished with a generous crackling of pepper, it was all I could do not to wolf down a bowl while standing over the steamy hot sink.

Probably the best compliment was when the Everyman commented that the chicken seemed almost superfluous in the dish.  I may still have a long way to go to perfect my pasta making abilities, but I must be on to something if he was willing to eat a vegetarian dish, not to mention one with a fair amount of parsnips.  I also marvelled at how much more professional my pasta appeared simply because of its uniformity.

Foodie’s Parsnileeky Pasta

4 oz eggs (about 1 yolk and 2 whole eggs)

6 oz semolina flour

1 tsp salt

1 chicken breast, sliced into strips

1 parsnip, peeled and chopped

1 leek, chopped

0.5 c. white wine

juice of 1 lemon

2 tbsp creme fraiche

Combine the first 3 ingredients in a bowl and knead until smooth and pliable.  Shape dough into a disc, wrap in plastic and refrigerate for at least a half hour before rolling out.  Meanwhile, sauté the chicken breast in a pan (with whatever fat you desire) until golden brown and mostly cooked through.  Add the parsnips and leeks and continue to cook until softened.  Once the vegetables have cooked, deglaze the pan with the wine and lemon juice, stirring to scrape up the browned bits.  Once the wine and juice have nearly evaporated, add the creme fraiche and reduce heat to a low simmer.  Retrieve the pasta dough from the fridge and roll out into whatever shape you please.  Let air dry for 5 to 10 minutes, then cook briefly in a heavily salted pot of water at a rolling boil for 1-2 minutes maximum.  Toss the drained pasta with the simmering sauce, a crack of fresh pepper and serve.

Makes 4 servings.

Now, all I have to do is figure out how the heck you clean this thing without getting it wet again.  Anyone out there have any suggestions?

Until next time…

Sometimes I come across strange recipes on the internet that I just can’t help but test out in my own kitchen.  I become inordinately fascinated by these culinary oddities, with a fixation that won’t be satisfied until I taste them for myself.  Of course, in order to get the Everyman to try many of them, I generally have to leave out certain salient details that might give him pause.

Case in point would be when this particular recipe popped up in my RSS, gleaned from the Serious Eats column The Crisper Whisperer.  I’m sure that by the time he finishes reading this post I will have received a call or an email about this particular cake and his personal thoughts on it, but when he asked me what it was last night I simply uttered “spice cake”.

Over the years we’ve all come to acknowledge carrot cake, sweet potato pie and zucchini muffins as relatively commonplace dessert-type offerings, but up until this point I’d never seen or heard of a parsnip cake before.  Between the fact that I was vaguely intrigued and disgusted by its very existence, and the fact that I had a half bag of parsnips lounging around our crisper not getting any younger, I decided it had to be done.

The recipe began simply, calling for all the usual suspects that come to a batter party (flour, sugar, eggs) but I immediately began making changes and substitutions.  Where there was once flour I replaced it with spelt, and a cupful of allergenic walnuts became a measure of porridge oats, while white sugar was traded for brown.  Then, just because I felt the guilt of attempting something healthy (yes, I suffer from the opposite form of guilt, not for eating badly, but from trying to eat too good) I threw in a small handful of dark chocolate chips – just because.

As quick as the cake was to put together, the longest part of the process was grating the cursed parsnips.  3 ‘nips later, I was left with a huge mound of damp flesh that could’ve been mistaken for shredded coconut or parmagiano by any number of people.  Once it was all mixed together, it was baked in the oven for the better part of an hour until it came out brown and roasty toasty (as above).

As far as taste goes, it’s certainly unique.  Not being much of a fan of frosting, I wasn’t keen on serving it with the proscribed ginger cream cheese, which was all the more reason to add chocolate chips if you ask me.  It wouldn’t necessarily be at the top of my wish list of cakes I absolutely have to eat before I die, but it did offer a rather pleasant change of pace without tasting overbearingly of parsnip.  I’d say that’s a rather formidable accomplishment, don’t you think?

Foodie’s Oatmeal Parsnip Spice Cake

1.5 c. spelt flour

0.5 c. porridge oats

1 c. brown sugar, packed

2 tsp baking powder

1 tbsp ground ginger

1.5 tsp ground cinnamon

0.75 tsp ground nutmeg

0.75 tsp ground cloves

0.75 tsp salt

3 eggs

0.5 c. canola oil

0.5 c. milk

1 tsp vanilla

2 c. peeled, shredded parsnips, packed (about 3-4 large parsnips)

0.25 c. chocolate chips

Preheat the oven to 350*.  Combine the first 9 ingredients in a bowl, blend well and set aside.  Combine the next 5 ingredients in another bowl, then fold the wet into the dry until just incorporated.  Stir in the chocolate chips, then pour into a square cake pan.  Bake for 45-50 minutes, or until a cake tester inserted in the centre comes out clean.  Cool completely before serving.

Makes 16 servings.

Until next time…

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 life.

After all, I’ve got a quarter century 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 chew!

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…

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…

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…

As some of you may recall, late last year I embarked on an attempt to cure my own prosciutto.

And now, as the first stage of that nearly 2 year process draws to a close, we’ve come to one of the more time-consuming and arduous tasks.

Having been rested in a salt and herb coat for quite some time now, the prosciutto is nearly ready to be smeared with a mixture of lard and black pepper and hung to be aged until it’s magically delicious.

Of course, to get to that point, one has to have a fair amount of lard.

Lucky for me I bought half a pig last summer, which came with its own lion’s share of fat.  As you may know, fat can eventually be rendered down into lard.

Which is exactly why I spent most of my Saturday cooking down 10 (of approximately 30) pounds of pork fat I had in the freezer.  The prosciutto won’t require nearly that much, but if I’m going to the trouble, I might as well render some down for myself, too.

But, instead of using the stovetop approach recommended by our organic grocer Bob, I consulted Jennifer McLagan’s Fat and found that it suggested rendering large quantities with the consistent heat of an oven, which is a decidedly more laid back, hands-off approach that I could wholeheartedly get behind.

So, after nearly an hour spent cubing semi-frozen pork fat with a cleaver, I boffed the whole lot into the biggest oven-safe pot I have (my lovely ginormous stainless steel stockpot from Udeal) and settled in for a long afternoon, checking on the fat approximately once per hour and giving it a stir.

Nearly 5 hours later this is all the action that’s happened at 250*:

Now, because it’s all fat, there is a little bit of water in there (McLagan recommends about 1/3 cup per pound) that will evaporate as the fat slowly melts, and at the same time prevents it from burning.

Something tells me it’s going to be a long night.

Until next time…

When I was growing up I wasn’t exposed to much in the way of game meat.  Aside from the occasional curried goat roti (a nod to my mother’s Caribbean heritage) or a festive Cornish rock hen (often my father’s answer to preparing holiday meals for 2) I didn’t really develop a taste for wilder fare until I was in my early 20’s.

Without a doubt, the one meat I’ve been an exceptionally slow adopter to is rabbit.  This is partly because the skinned carcass of a whole rabbit too closely resembles that of the small felines that share my home.  I make no bones about eating cute, fuzzy animals if they taste good, but the possibility of questionable provenance has held me back in the past.

It’s taken a few years, but I’ve gradually warmed to the idea of rabbit.  It may have started during a meal at Cowbell or perhaps tasting a terrine from The Black Hoof, I’m not quite sure.  While we were in Quebec City in the fall I enjoyed shredded rabbit confit linguine at Le Lapin Saute, and for our anniversary I consumed a similar dish at Splendido.  I’m still not a fan of rabbit rilettes, but I think I’ve made substantial leaps and bounds (har har!) towards getting over my mental distaste for it.

Recently, I even went so far as to buy a saddle of rabbit at Fiesta Farms, a place I know I can steadfastly trust not to sell me skinned kittens.  But for several days the packet of rabbit sat on the bottom shelf of the fridge, taunting me.

At first I’d considered using the Ratio app to make another batch of dough for tagliatelle, but pasta seemed an awful lot of work, and also not very far outside of my past 2 rabbit experiences.  I briefly toyed with confit as well, until I realized the duck fat was frozen.

Finally, I settled on a rustic preparation that I assumed would produce delectable results with minimal effort (always a bonus after a long day at work).  The saddle was split, seasoned with salt and pepper and browned lightly in a pan.

Next, my dutch oven was employed to sauté some garlic, leeks, celery and carrot until softened.

A fairly generous splash of white wine deglazed, a few spoon plops of a mustard the Everyman’s mother brought us back from France enriched and sprigs of thyme aromatized.

Adding a couple of my frozen chicken stock cakes to the pan, I tossed in a handful of quartered baby potatoes, replaced the lid and braised it for an hour and a half.

The finished dish was almost exactly what I wanted.  The broth was rich and savoury, the meat succulent, and the veg al dente tender.  Next time I’d perhaps reduce the amount of liquid in the braise a touch (I added a cup of water to bring the liquid level up), but overall the meal was a success.  The Everyman confirmed it hadn’t been a failure when he enquired the next day if there would be rabbit in his lunch.  A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

Foodie’s Mustardy Braised Bunny

2 lb rabbit saddle, split

3 cloves garlic, chopped

3 small carrots, roughly chopped

2 stalks celery, roughly chopped

1 leek, roughly chopped, dark greens discarded

6 small potatoes, quartered

1 c. white wine

2 c. chicken stock

1 tbsp grainy mustard

large handful of thyme sprigs

olive oil

salt

pepper

Preheat oven to 350*.  Heat olive oil in a dutch oven until shimmering.  Season rabbit with salt and pepper and sear until both sides are browned; remove to a plate.  Sauté garlic, carrots, celery and leeks in a splash of olive oil until translucent and softened.  Add white wine to deglaze the pan, then stir in chicken stock, grainy mustard and thyme.  Add potatoes and stir to combine, then nestle rabbit into the broth.  Braise, covered for 1.5 hours.  Serve in a bowl with a large scoop of braised veg and broth.

Makes 4 servings.

Until next time…

I think I’m in love.

Last night I came across the greatest idea I’ve ever wished I had.

It’s called chocri.

Chocri is a German-based company that specializes in build-your-own chocolate bars.  According to their website, they take the idea of food customization to its most promising apex – the blendification of bespoke bars.  Considering what a trend food individualization has become over the last few years (as I discussed in my article about Sweet Flour Bake Shop last month), I can completely understand how this idea came about; I just hope it proves popular enough to make its way to Canada.

On the chocri website, you get to choose from the 3 basic chocolates (white, dark or milk) and then add up to 5 (of more than 90 potential) toppings.  There are fruits, nuts, spices, candies, granular additions like seeds, etc, and decorative elements like dragees and sugar pieces just waiting to grace your personalized edible confections. Once you’ve selected your toppings, or chosen one of their signature blends, chocri will create and ship your treat directly to you within 14 days.  And that is what they call, a fait accompli.

As of this writing it appears that chocri is only available in the US and select countries in Europe, but perhaps if we all politely email-bomb(ard) them, they’ll add Canada to the list of countries to conquer next.  I’m already trying to formulate a loophole that will get some of this potential genius into my belly.

Because really, isn’t it about time you got to have it your way?

Now if only they would add bacon to the list of toppings, I’d be all set!

Until next time…

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself purchasing Michael Ruhlman‘s Ratio application from the iPhone App Store.

It’s a bit of a dirty little secret that I’ve become addicted to food and cooking apps, and I have the Epicurious, Jamie’s 20 Minute Meals, and Nat Decants apps to prove it, and now Ratio as well.

Now, I may have a fair amount of respect for the Charcuterie book (moreso for its co-author than for Ruhlman himself) but the more I see him on TV (typically on No Reservations) and with that whole “are we too stupid to cook” thing he blundered last week, the more I’ve started to view him as a pompous, self-aggrandizing ass.

But, I had bought the app for the inherent practicality of it, so I still intended to test it out.

The first thing I wanted to make was pasta, because it’s simple, tasty and elemental.  For my run through I chose to use the suggested variation and made a yolk only pasta instead, with some doppio zero flour.  Once I had the disk of dough chilling in the fridge, the question became one of what to serve with it.

After a brief interlude during which I sat in front of the fire wracking my brain, I recalled the bags of oxtails I had loafing around in the freezer.

In a brief moment of inspiration, I decided to braise them in red wine and mirepoix for 5 hours, until all of the tail vertebrae fell right out.

Once I had them braised, I retired for the evening to contemplate the best companions for such a gelatinous cut.

The next day I began hunting through the fridge for vegetable cohorts.  Cauliflower and oxtail just didn’t have a great ring to it, and I wanted something vibrant that would visually pop in the dish.

Once I dug into the veggie drawer, the kale jumped out as the ideal compliment.  Sautéed with a bit of olive oil and chili flakes, it reduced down to nothing.  After cooling it a little, I roughly chopped the greens and tossed them back into the pan.

Next, it came time to settle on a pasta shape.  Initially I’d wanted to make ravioli with my brand spankin’ new cutter (I caved and bought a plain one rather than that Jamie Oliver branded set because I didn’t need to spend an extra $35 just for his “name’).  But, once I realized exactly how small the cutter actually was and how long it would take me to make all of them, cutting the dough into coins seemed a much better idea.

After I rolled out the dough with my (also) new stainless rolling pin, I cut 50-odd fluted rounds from the dough, then flitted back to preparing the sauce.

Fishing a few chunks of oxtail out of the jellied tupperware block it had formed overnight, I roughly chopped it too, then added the shreds to the waiting kale pan.  Once the heat hit the oxtail, the meat loosened up into a silky, sticky mess.  A few spoons of creme fraiche and some white wine mustard were all it took to coerce the ingredients into a rich sauce.

5 minutes later when the water was at a rolling boil, I flipped the coins in as quickly as I could, and a little under 3 minutes after that, they were precisely al dente.  Tossed in the waiting sauce, the dish formed a simple but elegant weeknight meal.

As we enjoyed the soft and juicy decadence of the oxtail against the crisp bites of the kale, the Everyman asked me where I’d bought the pasta dough.  Being as clued out as he is to what’s going on in the kitchen, he’d never realized that I’d made it all from scratch.  I’m not sure if that makes it a compliment or insult to Michael Ruhlman’s pasta ratio, but overall the dish was pretty damn good, if I do say so myself.

Until next time…

On a recent Sunday morning I had a bit of spare time, so I chose to do one of the things I love to do best; sit down and be entertained by James Chatto on Gold Medal Plates 2008. I can’t put my finger on it exactly, but there is something so soothing about listening to that man talk that it practically lulls me to sleep.

Whilst watching, a glaze on one of the competitor’s dishes (I think it was Patrick Lin’s) inspired me to prepare a few quails I had lying around the house for dinner.  I had a bunch of new spices I wanted to test out, so I started brainstorming how I would likely blend them together.

We love quails here at Foodie and the Everyman, but I find there’s such a dichotomy surrounding them.  On the one hand, they’re quite delicate and twee because they are such tiny little birds, but on the other there’s something rather primal and brutish about ripping apart a whole bird to consume all by oneself.  Either way, they make an absolutely delectable meal, and in some ways can be considered game “lite” because their flavour is exceptionally mild and not nearly as intense as horse or moose or venison by comparison.

Once I sat down and pondered for a few minutes, the flavour profile I wanted to create became relatively clear.

I began with the base that had sung to me on the show, a mixture of honey and lavender thinned to a glaze-like consistency.  To smooth it out I added a little melted butter, then a handful of crushed long peppers, and finally a splash of leftover juice from a finished bottle of pickled balsamic onions.  Swirling it all together, the fragrance leapt up and smacked me in the palate; always a good sign.  Dipping a finger, I found it was just right.  The quails were brushed liberally with the liquid, then left to marinate in the fridge for a few hours.

Later that day I first seared them in a blazing hot pan, then set the oven to full blast and roasted them for little more than 10 minutes.  Sided by some sweet potato gnocchi, they made a lovely light winter meal.  Though the glaze was definitely a hit, I decided that next time for ease of consumption we need to go one bird size larger.  Perhaps a cornish hen or squab will be in order…

Long Pepper Lavender Honey Glazed Fowl

3 tbsp Manuka honey

1 tbsp butter, melted

1 tsp lavender

5 long pepper pods, ground

2 tbsp pickled onion juice

2 quails

Whisk together ingredients, then brush onto the quail.  Refrigerate and marinate for 4 hours up to overnight.  Preheat the oven to 475*.  In a saute pan, sear the quail on all sides over high heat until well browned on all sides.  Brush quail with reserved marinade before finishing in the oven, roasting for 10 minutes or until cooked to your liking.

Makes 2 quail.

Until next time…