You know you're in Paris when...

...you can buy as many macarons from Ladurée, the pâtisserie where the first macarons were made (and where Pierre Hermé got his start), as your little heart desires...even at the airport! Sadly, we only stopped in Paris to change planes. 

Something to enliven

I've been busy with painting, oh so much painting--like eight to ten hours every day the past two weeks clearing baseboards and crown moulding (of general grime, sawdust, plaster, and cat hair), stripping and re-finishing hardware, taping, patching, priming, and, of course, actual painting. Getting this new apartment ready has been a lot of work--way more than I'd imagined it would be--and there's still a few more days' worth to be done. Luckily, I've had the help of my boyfriend and a couple of very kind and dedicated friends. We've been working steadily through the days, keeping one another sane and motivated. Without them, I'm sure that by now I'd be lying somewhere in a pool of paint, exhausted, paint-spattered, and delirious.

Though we've been really busy, we've still had to eat. There has been no time for trips to the farmers' market or elaborate meals. Early every morning, I've been preparing a little lunch for the four of us--something simple and hearty, something to nourish and enliven us after a few hours of work. Over the past week, I've made this mujadara a couple of times, this lentil salad, this split-pea dal, a few loaves of Tartine sourdough, a black-bean chili, and best of all, maybe, Tahera Rawji's okra curry.

I'm not sure what it is about okra, but I'm always excited to try more however it's served. Maybe it has something to do with how weird a vegetable okra is (at least to me, not being from the American South)--so ridged and pointy, so slimy on the inside, so distinctively vegetal tasting---I guess I'm just curious about what people do with it, about how they make it welcome at their tables.

My favourite preparation for a while now has been this okra curry. It's warmly spiced, rich, and comforting. You start by browning the okra--this seals it up so that it doesn't make the curry slimy. Then, you make the lush base in which the okra stews--onions sautéed to a golden hue, chopped tomatoes, garlic, ginger, and a punchy dose of spices. It all comes together pretty quickly. Add the okra back in, and within a few minutes, you've got yourself a tangy and wonderfully aromatic curry. That's how I've been making okra welcome at my table lately.

Okra Curry

Adapted from Tahera Rawji's Simply Indian

Note: I like to make my own curry powder. That way, I know that my curries will be punchy and flavourful. It's simple--toast whole spices like cumin, coriander seed, fenugreek, clove, and mustard seed along with a few dried chilis in a dry skillet, grind them to a fine powder, and then blend with a bit of cinnamon and turmeric. Garam masala is another spice blend that you can make at home. Typically, it includes the sorts of spice that complement sweet things--like nutmeg, cardamom, and star anise--along with a bit of black pepper (I've included one of Rawji's blends below). About the yogurt--it makes the curry a little creamier and adds a bit of tanginess, but if I don't happen to have any yogurt lying around, I don't worry about it.

1 lb okra
1/4 cup vegetable oil
2 medium onions, sliced
1 large tomato, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 teaspoon grated ginger
1 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 teaspoon curry powder
1 teaspoon turmeric
1/2 teaspoon garam masala
2 tablespoons yogurt (optional)

Wash the okra and thoroughly pat dry. Trim at both ends and cut into half-inch lengths.

In a wide skillet, warm the vegetable oil over medium-high heat. Add the okra and, stirring occasionally, fry until golden brown. The frying seals the okra. Remove from the oil and set aside.

In the same skillet, sauté the onions over medium-high heat until golden. Then, add the tomatoes, garlic, ginger, cayenne, curry powder, and turmeric. Continue cooking over medium heat for about five minutes, allowing the tomatoes to break down and the flavours to come together. Add the okra and stew for another five minutes. If the pan starts to get too dry at any point, add a splash of water. Then, add the yogurt, if using. Just before serving, stir in the garam masala.

Garam Masala

Adapted from Tahera Rawji's Simply Indian

1/2 cup cardamom pods
3 whole nutmeg
1 tablespoon black peppercorns
6 whole star anise
4 cinnamon sticks

Toast the spices in a dry skillet until fragrant. Grind to a fine powder and seal in an air-tight container. It should keep for about a year.

About the door hardware: one of the great things about the new apartment is that it came with all its original solid brass door knobs, plates, and rosettes--gorgeous old Victorian(ish) things. What was not so great was that they were carelessly painted over and painted over in hideous colours (peach, blue, something that was once white). I was determined to save the hardware. There are a number of methods out there, but since there might have been a layer of lead paint on everything of mine, I decided on the method described here on An Urban Cottage. Basically, you get your hands on some sodium carbonate (Arm & Hammer sells it as "Super Washing Soda," found in the laundry aisle) and a bucket you don't mind discarding later. Then, you boil enough water to cover your ailing hardware and dump it in the bucket, and for every quart of water you boil, you add about a quarter cup of sodium carbonate to the mix. Soak the hardware in it for at least 24 hours, and the paint will peel right off, usually in one neat piece. Magic! Or maybe just chemistry. Then, just scrub off any remaining paint with an old toothbrush and give your hardware a new coat of paint, preferably something rust resistant. I used Rustoleum spray paint--the satin nickel in their metallic line. This was really, really easy--no simmering in a crock pot, no chemical paint stripper--just good old sodium carbonate, which, by the way, is the same alkali key to making excellent ramen noodles, (but please don't use Super Washing Soda in your ramen dough--it's probably not food grade). Hopefully, I'll be able to say more on that later...in the new kitchen.

Counting the days

When I asked my mother to teach me to cook a dish or two, she said it was not worth my time, that she had to do these things, I did not. This worked hard against me, not only when I found myself alone, but when I was a divorced father with a three-year-old daughter. Still, while I remained unable to cook for myself, Rachel and I in effect taught ourselves to do some cooking together--to cook for someone you care about is quite compatible with not wanting to take care of yourself--messy sometimes, but excellent ingredients and the best of intentions getting through. --Stanley Cavell, Little Did I Know (p. 49) 

It seems as though the last thing I've had time to do this summer is cook. I certainly didn't plan things this way--July and August were going to be dedicated to leisurely trips to farmers' markets on the North Side and long afternoons of pastry-making and berry-eating. I'm not quite sure what's happened to this summer. It probably has something to do with the new apartment needing renovation and the school work from the spring I only finished just yesterday (hooray, now I'm actually on holiday). 

And now, while my boyfriend is attending a short but intense philosophy seminar with some very cool people in the Research Triangle, I'm in Chapel Hill, NC, without a thing to do but stroll around in the sun, stopping occasionally only to browse book collections or to eat with my constant dining companion, Stanley Cavell's autobiography, Little Did I Know. (Sadly, I don't have access to a kitchen. This chair at the Inn, however, is incredible. What possessed someone to mix green toile with intensely red walls and a checkered floor, I don't know.)

Between my visit to Auburn, Alabama earlier in the spring and my stay in Chapel Hill, I am developing a serious crush on the American South. There is something lovely about big, old trees and the hum of insects in the evening, about expansive porches and unsweetened iced tea, about having trees in the backyard heavy with summer fruit. I think I could live in a place like this.

On Saturday morning, a few of us walked into the neighbouring town of Carrboro to the farmers' market. (I am missing some of the best weeks of summer produce!) We came back to the hotel with potato-studded bread, a soft, barely ripened cheese from the Chapel Hill Creamery, two kinds of tomatoes, fresh Turkish figs, and half a lemon pound cake. We laid out our spread on one of the tables on the hotel porch (the hotel staff even obliged us with plates, napkins, and tea) and had ourselves a little picnic, while gushing about our favourite passages from Cavell's writings, of course.

But without a kitchen here, I'm just about ready to go home. I don't think I've gone quite this long without a home-cooked meal since my first year in undergrad on the mandatory meal plan. Not that I haven't had some great dining experiences here. Check out Lantern, if you ever find yourself in the area. The chef, Andrea Reusing, marries Asian flavours and techniques with traditional, locally sourced North Carolinian ingredients. The results are pretty spectacular. A few nights ago, I had a fantastic seafood hotpot chock-full of shrimp, halibut, squid, and mussels, all steeped in a wonderfully rich and lemony shrimp broth. The rest of the table split themselves between plates of whole fried flounder and pork chops. I think everyone was pretty pleased. 

Still, I'm counting the days until we're home. There will be lots of painting to do, but if I can just squeeze in a trip to the farmers' market, I know exactly what I'm going to share with you.

Kicking back

These strawberries were destined for pie. But then my boyfriend and I *gulp* decided to buy and fix up the apartment across the hall and move in come September. So I cleaned and hulled the berries, tucked them into the freezer, and hoped I'd find the time to do something special with them in a few weeks. Five came and went. There was a kitchen layout to plan, contracts to sign, an old clawfoot tub to strip and re-finish, paint to pick out, and a seemingly endless array of supplies and fixtures to track down and grab ahold of. It's been messy and more than a little nerve-wracking, but things are finally starting to come together. The walls have long been patched up, the floors were sanded down and stained last week, and the kitchen cabinets are going in as I type--(at this point, I'm just the gopher for cold glasses of water, Band-aids, screwdrivers, etc.). I don't want to speak too soon--but it looks as though we'll have a new home, our first real home, in just a few short weeks.

But about those berries. There's been an unrelenting heatwave here in Chicago. The short of it is--it's been far too hot to even dream of flaky, buttery crusts and unctuous, oozing fruit. So, when my friend, Adam, visited for the week and encouraged us to kick back a little, the berries hit the blender, along with some riesling, lemon, and sugar. And after a short spell in some ice-cube trays in the freezer, it was back to the blender with more riesling. Boozy strawberry slushies--nothing fancy, just perfectly summery and sippable.  

Boozy Strawberry Slushies

Adapted from Bon Appétit, August 2011

Note: I have a feeling that these would be even better with lime juice in place of the lemon, along with a generous dusting of lime zest (I just couldn't be bothered to run to the store again). If you do try the slushie this way, hold back on the lime juice and zest until the second purée, as the juice tends to lose its flavour soon after squeezing.

2 cups hulled strawberries
1 750-ml bottle dry Riesling
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
3-4 tablespoons sugar, depending on the strawberries' sweetness

Purée the berries, lemon juice, sugar, and 2 cups of the Riesling in a blender. Pour the berry mixture into ice-cube trays and freeze until solid. Chill the remaining wine in the refrigerator, covered. When you're ready to serve, purée the ice cubes with the remaining Riesling. Pour among six glasses. Garnish with basil or mint.

Above: the new living room as it was a couple of weeks ago.

The secret ingredient

When it comes to food, we all have our guilty pleasures--the things that we ate while growing up and that we're a little sheepish to admit to still eating and loving now. One of my boyfriend's is instant ramen. The noodles, admittedly, have a certain something to them--a flavour and consistency that you won't find in any other noodle. And the deliciously salty seasoning that comes in a little packet with them--well, it's the closest we get these days to those wonderfully rich and meaty broths of Asian noodle houses the world over (pescetarianism--it has its limits, you might say). Given this little penchant, both of us were delighted when we found out that the first issue of Lucky Peach--David Chang and Peter Meehan's latest brain child, a food quarterly--would be dedicated to ramen.

Lucky Peach is just about everything I hoped it would be--there's the booze-fueled rant of which I posted an excerpt a while ago, Chang and Meehan's travelogue of the time they spent eating their way through Japan last year, Ruth Reichl's instant-ramen taste test, and, of course, a trove of ramen-centric recipes (and seven wicked egg recipes thrown in for good measure)--some simple, some wacky, some daring, and all likely brilliant.

The one recipe for which I can vouch so far (it's latecoming, I know, but I've been busy lately trying not to inhale clouds of lead dust) is the ramen gnocchi parisienne. That's right--gnocchi made from an instant-ramen-based dough. Who would ever think of doing that, replacing flour with instant ramen in a pâte à choux (the same pastry as that used for eclairs)? It's insane. It's perverse. And it's awesome.

Here's how it works. After a quick dip in some hot milk, the ramen get whirled in the blender with a bit of that milk and a few egg yolks. There's your glorious ramen pâte à choux--simple as that. Then, it all gets loaded into a pastry bag and piped into one-inch morsels, cut with a butter knife straight into a pot of boiling water. A minute later, the gnocchi come floating to the top, ready to be scooped out and chilled. Then, the royal treatment: a quick sauté in butter, a sprinkling of herbs, parm, and lemon juice. Just perfect--gnocchi with crisp, buttery crusts, creamy centres, and that wonderful savour that only instant ramen lend. (My parents couldn't place it, but they did enjoy the gnocchi--shhh, don't tell.)
2011-08-19 - Having finally had the chance to read through the first issue of Lucky Peach cover to cover, I have to say that, Chang's genius aside, the real gems of this issue are (1) Todd Kliman's piece, `The Problem of Authenticity' in which he does a fine job of reminding readers that cuisine is a dynamic, living, ever-changing thing, that traditions always undergo re-interpretation with the coming of different cooks and different contexts, and so that we shouldn't put too much stock in the idea of authenticity, and (2) Jun'ichiro Tanizaki's wild, weird, and fantastic short story, `The Gourmet Club'. I adore Lucky Peach and can't wait for the next issue.

Instant-Ramen Gnocchi Parisienne
Adapted from Lucky Peach, vol. 1
Note: if you have a garden spilling over with herbs, you might want to try Chang's intended finish for these gnocchi. Once the gnocchi have been sautéed, melt a tablespoon of butter in the pan, pour it over them along with the lemon juice and divide between two plates. Then sprinkle with 2 tablespoons chopped parsley, 1 tablespoon chives, thinly sliced, and 1 tablespoon picked tarragon. Dust with parm and serve.

Pâte à choux:
2 cups milk
2 packages instant ramen, seasoning packets reserved for another use
4 egg yolks
2 tablespoons butter

The finish:
lemon juice
grated parmesan cheese
2 tablespoons gremolata butter (see below)

Make the pâte à choux. Bring the milk to a boil in a small saucepan and remove from heat immediately. Break up the ramen noodles and add them to the milk. Let them steep and soften in the milk for about 1 minute. The noodles should still be pretty firm.

Strain the noodles, reserving the milk. Combine the noodles and 1 cup of reserved milk in a blender and purée for half a minute. Then add the egg yolks and process until the mixture is smooth, homogenous, and has the consistency of loose toothpaste. (If for some inexplicable reason the mixture is dry, add more milk a tablespoon at a time to loosen it. This shouldn't happen.)

Transfer the batter to a pastry bag fitted with a half-inch wide tip (try an Ateco no. 806). (Avoid spillage by first tucking a portion of the bag into the pastry tip--this blocks flow--and then twisting up the open end to push the batter towards the tip. Stand the bag up in a tall drinking glass for easy storage.) Put it in the fridge to chill for the amount of time it takes to bring a large pot of water to a steady boil. Lightly grease (olive oil, butter, or spray fat are fine) a half-sheet and set it aside.

Cook the gnocchi. Working in batches, pipe the dough out directly into the water, using a butter knife or small spatula to cut one-inch logs as dough comes out of the bag. After about a minute, the gnocchi will rise to the surface of the pot. Scoop them up with a slotted spoon and transfer them to the greased half-sheet. At this point, you can cool the gnocchi and store them, covered in plastic, as long as overnight in the refrigerator.

Heat a tablespoon of butter over medium heat in a wide sauté pan. When the butter foam subsides, add the gnocchi in batches and them, stirring occasionally, until they're golden-brown and delicious looking, about 3 to 4 minutes. Add butter to the pan as needed for the remaining batches.

To finish. Heat the herb butter in the pan just until melted and pour it over the gnocchi. Toss to coat and divide between two plates. Finish with a generous squeeze of lemon juice, a sprinkle of the remaining herbs, and a dusting of parmesan.

Gremolata Butter (Snail Butter)

Adapted from Melissa Clark's column, A Good Appetite

4 tablespoons butter, softened

2 generous handfuls of parsley (about 1/8 cup, packed)

2 garlic cloves, sliced

1 small shallot, chopped

1/4 teaspoon sea salt

1/4 teaspoon fresh ground pepper

1/4 teaspoon lemon zest

In a food processor, combine parsley, garlic, shallot, salt, pepper, and lemon zest. Pulse until minced. Remove half the mixture and reserve for garnish.

Add softened butter to food processor and pulse until mixture is smooth and tinged with green. (You can make butter a few days ahead and store it in refrigerator.)

Fish at the bridge

Okay, I know I've been promising a report on some of David Chang's perverse ramen-based concoctions from the first issue of Lucky Peach for a while now, but the truth is, I haven't been spending much time in the kitchen lately. My parents are visiting from Toronto, and we've been running all around town on home-improvement-related errands all week. I've spent more time at Ikea than anyone really ever should, and, consequently, my living room is now a fortress of neatly stacked cardboard boxes. Hopefully, there will be time for ramen hijinks this weekend.

I'm glad to say that my boyfriend and I at least had the time to sit my parents down in front of the TV and not-so-subtly present them with the Chicago episode of Tony Bourdain's No Reservations, hoping to entice them into driving us to some of the more out-of-the-way destinations it featured. That's how we ended up on a desolate stretch of 95th Street on Wednesday, way farther south than we've ever ventured, taking our pick of some luscious smoked fish.

Now, I wouldn't have expected to find good smoked fish in the Midwest, much less at such an unremarkable-looking roadside joint, but I trusted in Bourdain as I tend to, and it definitely paid off. Calumet Fisheries is of a dying breed of smokehouse in America--since 1948, they've been smoking fish on premises the good old-fashioned way, smouldering wood and all. And they're really all about the fish--they do retail out front, take-out only, and smoke the fish out back. We took our fish home to eat, but there was definitely a line of parked cars when we got there, people inside happily eating away, picnicking on the roadside.

The fish was fantastic, the salmon especially. When we got home, we unwrapped our precious parcels at the table and just dug in. There was no conversation, only the occasional exclamation about how good everything was. It was a splendid meal after a long day of errands. I hadn't had take-out with my parents in years, and this was certainly the best we've eaten together.

Update 07-13-2011: The folks at Calumet are great. My parents were so thrilled with the fish that they insisted we go back for more this week. The guys behind the counter were encouraged by our enthusiasm for their fish--so much so that they pulled out a salmon head, just smoked an hour and a half before, broke it down for us on the counter, and let us have at it. My grandmother has been a big fish-head enthusiast for as long as I can remember, and I guess I am now too. I still have mixed feelings when it comes to fish eyes--a little too mushy, if you ask me--but the rest of the head is awesome--wonderfully fatty and flavourful.

Simple pleasures

For me, summer is about simple pleasures. It's about eating wild blueberries straight from the bush along a well-worn, wooded trail, about marvelling at the fireflies in the yard at dusk, winking in unison, about strolling between stalls at the farmers' market on sun-drenched mornings, everything fresh from the fields. And so, when summer hits, most of the activity in my kitchen comes to a standstill. It's too hot to labour over the stove, and I just want to eat everything pretty much as it is anyway.

Bread is an exception. For warm, fragrant loaves to be torn into at the end of the day alongside radishes and butter or a simple salad, it's worth it--I will sigh and fire up the oven. Sure, it requires a bit of planning and mixing and waiting--a drag, I know--but eating it? Now that's a simple pleasure...especially if what you've got is brioche.

Brioche is one of those breads that needs no adornment that first day--no butter, no jam, no preserves. Just savour it as is--plush, buttery, and barely sweet. If the croissant had a darling little sister, brioche would be her. Unlike with the croissant, the generous amount of butter that goes into brioche is incorporated bit by bit directly into the dough, making brioche more bread than pastry compositionally but almost every bit as buttery and luxurious.

Typically, my style in the kitchen is a little old-school--I'm a wooden spoon and whisk kind of girl. I've waved off the need to get a stand mixer, happy to mix and whip and knead with my own hands. But last week, I caved when my boyfriend's parents offered to buy us one (a housewarming gift--but more on that some other time). One of the reasons I gave in was, of course, brioche.

You can make brioche by hand. I did it a couple of Thanksgivings ago and ended up with quite the collection of blisters. The brioche was really good, but as you might anticipate, I haven't tried it again since. 

The stand mixer makes brioche a breeze--once you've got your yeasted dough together (from Tartine Bread in my case), you just drop in the butter, one half-inch cube at a time, until you have a gorgeously silky and buttery dough. And if you aren't imprudently eager to break in your stand mixer like I was this week, you'll do all this in a kitchen that isn't breaking 80 degrees--though, if you really can't wait, just let your dough proof in a bowl set over an ice bath, and you should be fine (the butter will melt out of the dough, otherwise).

I won't post the recipe for Tartine Bread's brioche here--because it takes off from the basic method used throughout the book, it's a little complicated and probably best explained in the book itself. I've already gushed about it before--if you're into making bread and want to try your hand at sourdough, it's well worth having. However, you can find Dorie Greenspan's recipe for brioche, the one I used two Thanksgivings ago, here--it's a little more traditional, a little fussier, but, again, still a breeze if you've got a stand mixer.
Need I even say that brioche makes the most indulgently awesome and custard-like french toast?

In anticipation of my next post: my copy of the first issue of Lucky Peach finally arrived in the mail late this week, and it's so awesome. David Chang is a madman. Using instant ramen as an ingredient in another dish? Perverse but likely brilliant.