Devil's Dung and Cauliflower

I mean no disrespect, but this monolithic flower fails to draw even slight smile from my lips but rather elicits a bored yawn of tolerance. Hardly first choice in any matter of thinking, every random once in awhile particularly knee deep in winter when vegetable friends of delicate constitution look worse for the wear and edible pickings are slim, a snowy rumpled head manages to stow away into my unsuspecting grocery cart. Cauliflower or Brassica oleracea, those ghostly florets of bland- are a hearty hale food unenthusiastically consumed whilst dreaming about produce from exotic locales elsewhere.

More like the plastic centerpiece for a child’s Playskool environment than actual food meant to be cut, steamed, and chewed; cauliflower is something of a red herring in the vegetable world. The faintly textured nodule suggests something fearsome hatched from the skull of an alien invader or sprung free from endangered coral sea mass. I almost forget that chou-fleur born of sun and soil is precariously tethered to the plant kingdom by stem and curvaceous leaf. No ordinary poster child, this albino vegetable curiously boasts a high nutritional profile. And it isn’t so much that this cabbage cousin actually tastes bad but its flavor and texture is mild, vague, and generic; a sort of tofu of plants- which conveniently lends itself to inventions such as fauxtato or comforting casseroles bathing in cream and cheese.

But alas, I can’t get around it. At heart I am unrepentantly shallow sneaking furtive peeks at hot house tomatoes and multi-pack peppers. While I have described a food that could easily be seen as reliable, unconventional, nutritious, and adaptable; all I think about is its– overwhelming lack of luster. Squarely at the intersection of flabby and colorless is a plate of boiled cheerless lumps gasping for attention and a little differentiation.

I decide that this is exactly what I should do-- what I must do, as I catch myself daydreaming about the sherbet green spirals of Romanesco cauliflower and dallying with the exotic sensations of faraway produce. I don’t even try to enjoy this vegetable’s subtle charms but perhaps if I did, I would extricate myself from the dissatisfaction that comes from looking elsewhere but here.

To the rescue Indian spices which breathed new life into my diet last week. In perusing the good book, I stumbled upon a dish which promised to change my attitudes about that unfortunate head of no goodness. Asafetida that rascally trickster, the pungent resin which smells of rotting garlic yet tempers rumbling bowels, wards off colds, pregnancies, and evil spirits, and compels both wolves and catfish. Devil’s dung, hing, or food of the gods: anyway it is called--I love it. While it is used as an onion and garlic substitute by some spiritual traditions, the flavor has a hard to describe depth and sulfurous edge which provides interesting counterpart to anything mild. In addition the recipe calls for two kinds of heat, lemon juice for sparkle, and just the right amount of turmeric to give the florets a tasteful golden glow. In the end those grainy textured sprockets which used to feel too mealy in the mouth, are poised just right to hold onto the fierce bright interplay of spices. And bathed in just the sheerest tint of color, each floral cluster suddenly blossoms, the beauty of awareness itself.

Is it possible that my food could be teaching and singing to me as well? I now stand before a very different kind of bouquet, a flower head alive with taste, possibilities, good looks, and fetching Zen wisdom too. Commit myself to the here and now, it urges me. And I swear it crooned…

Well, there's a rose in a fisted glove
And the eagle flies with the dove
And if you can't be with the one you love, honey
Love the one you're with.

Cauliflower with Cumin and Asafetida- serves 4 adapted from Madhur Jaffrey’s Indian Cooking

So good that I am making it again this week. I am looking forward to tossing it into an omelet. This time I would like to add more chili and brown up the cauliflower a little longer before adding the lemon water. And of course, more coconut butter.

Ingredients:
1 head of cauliflower broken up into florets
3 Tblsp. Grapeseed oil
Good pinch of asafetida
½ tsp. of cumin seeds
1 small onion, thin half moon slices
½ jalapeno, deseeded and finely chopped
1 tsp ground cumin
¼ tsp. ground turmeric
¼ tsp. cayenne pepper
¾ tsp. salt
4 fl. Oz. water
Juice of half lemon
Optional: a little snub of coconut butter
Chopped cilantro

Directions: Put the oil into a large pan and set on medium high heat. Sprinkle the asafetida and cumin seeds into the oil and enjoy the aroma for a few moments before adding the onions. Lightly brown the half moons and then add the cauliflower pieces and jalapeno. Sauté for a few minutes until the florets gain a little color. Turn the heat down and add the ground cumin, turmeric, cayenne, and salt. Add the water and lemon juice, toss and cover on a low simmer. Cook until the cauliflower is just tender and stir in chopped fresh cilantro and/or some decadent coconut butter at the very end. Enjoy!

What About Beans?

Anna was an old flat mate of mine. Plainly said, we butted heads on a semi regular basis around domicile activities and our vastly different ideas about home. Enough years older than me to assume the role of elder, she did so with zest and annoying all-knowingness. Once she was rude to my mother on the phone. And then she almost killed the motor of my Kitchen Aid Mixer. These two incidents were sufficient enough proof to indicate that she was no ordinary roomie and I would be wise to creep around the perimeter of my apartment and when possible, stay holed up in my room.

I quietly endured the voluptuous flowery scent of Nag Champa which wafted into every crevice high and low, tuned out the constant hypnotic drone of kirtan, and made do with a living room converted into an intentional-yoga-meditation space. For awhile I even avoided the kitchen, cowering away a shivering culinary wimp. But over time I pushed back, albeit in a passive aggressive kind of way. Whenever I had enough of her insolence I would pressure cook rice, seaweed, dried shrimp, and astragalus root and allow the roiling bubbling stew to rattle and hiss; to let the low tide aroma do the talking. While my remembrance of our devolving relationship was something akin to an on-off game of Whac-a-Mole, it is fair to also say that in spite of our growing battle of the wills, Anna was an excellent cook with a genuine desire to nourish the soul and body. All was not lost on me.

With one eye, an ear, and an antenna or possibly two fixed upon her stove pot it was there that I sensed a slower rhythm to cooking. At the stage in life where I fabricated furniture out of milk crates, spare boards and cement blocks, I could barely commit to home accessories let alone spice-in-whole-form. Our kitchen cupboards were a charming mishmash of tins, pods, tinctures, and dark brews. The countertops alive with the necessary instruments required to beat, mash, and sieve reluctant seeds, teas, and pastes. It soon became apparent that much attention and reverence was lavished by her upon that which I simply regarded as the funny yet forgettable bean. Beans, the subject of low brow jokes, shaken from a can, and pushed aside in a meat filled chili bowl. Other than hasty greeting cast towards a quickly devoured burrito or bowl of lentil soup, the lowly legume remained second hand filler.

Out of Annapurna’s hands, I ate my first black eyed peas simply simmered in water, perfumed with the floral green of marjoram and the delicate crunch of coriander. I had my first warming spoonfuls of dal, observing as she dropped whole seeds into hot oil, intensifying the flavors of already fragrant seasonings. This was stirred into that- the kitchen marvelously alive with layers of noise and exotic delicious smells. Those moments and probably many others that I couldn’t comprehend served as backdrop to the contrasting beat of Beastie Boys and the melodrama which characterized my own fledgling life.

Now whenever I eat beans I am humbled just a bit thinking of these nutritional powerhouses which give so much, without much fanfare. Inexpensive yet high in protein, calcium, fiber, and other vitamins and minerals, “poor man’s meat” also enriches the soil in which it grows with essential life giving nitrogen. Their beauty and flavor subtly modulated does not shout out, “look at me” but rather patiently awaits often being overlooked. Gratefully the noise in my life is tempered and by dint, spaces opened up to see the obvious. Things like beans, the sky, dirt-- and inextricably teachers who show us the way.


Black-eyed Beans with Mushrooms or Lobhia aur khumbi, serves 6
Adapted from Madhur Jaffrey’s Indian Cooking

These beans are cheery little fellows who seem to want nothing more than to make one smile. Thin skinned, sweet, a tad smoky, and almost succulent they are good choice for an avid bean hater. It is tempting to skip steps with Indian cooking. I do it all the time and then reprimand myself later. I also tend to reduce the oil and salt when following Jaffrey’s recipes and regret this as well. Time, oil, and proper seasoning give the appropriate depth. The proportions below reflect my choices and still offer satisfying results.

Ingredients:
8 oz. dried black-eyed peas
2 pints water
6 oz sliced crimini mushrooms
Grapeseed oil
1 tsp. cumin seeds
Cinnamon stick
Onion chopped
4 garlic cloves chopped fine
14 oz. diced tomatoes
1 ½ tsp ground coriander
1 tsp ground cumin
½ tsp ground turmeric
¼ tsp cayenne pepper
1 ½ tsp salt
Fresh ground pepper
Chopped cilantro

Directions: Put peas and water into a heavy pot and bring to a boil. Cover and turn the temperature low to bring the beans to a simmer. Turn off the heat after 2 minutes and leave covered for an hour (I didn’t wait the full hour). In a large skillet on medium high fire heat some oil (I believe she asked for 3 Tblsp) and then toss in the cumin seeds and cinnamon stick to toast for a few seconds. Then put in the onions and garlic and brown. Stir in the mushrooms and cook until they begin to wilt, add in the tomatoes with its juice, ground coriander, cumin, turmeric, and cayenne pepper. Cook for about ten minutes to allow the flavors to come together and then turn off. In the meantime bring the beans to a boil again and then lower the flame to bring the beans to a simmer. Cook until the beans are tender which should take 20-30 minutes. Add the mushroom mixture, salt and pepper to the mix and cook on low for an additional 25 minutes. Add the cilantro towards the end and serve over rice with some yogurt on the side.

Can't Hide From Love!

"The minute I heard my first love story I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was. Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along." Jalal ad-Din Rumi

In celebration of Valentine's Day and all the big and little loves in life, I'd like to send each reader who emails me their physical address (by 2/20/08) something *delicious* that I have discovered recently. Thank you for coming here time again and sharing your friendship and thoughts on food. Let us feast on Love!

Food of the Gods

Along with crow there has been an inordinate amount of citrus fruit being shucked and consumed over the past few weeks in this dainty household. Approximately 6 navel oranges, a sanguine colored one, 4 Clementines, 2 grapefruits, and one can of mandarin oranges. On paper the evidence is hard to ignore, I have polished off the equivalent of a medium sized over-priced fruit basket from the Sunshine State all the while considering myself indifferent to this entire food group, really indeed.

I think the root of this life long sometimes chilly reception has been the contemptible red delicious apple and possibly partially the banana of my youth. Either/or, both, and on occasion grapes have been served up, saddled alongside and indelibly printed upon an unsuspecting sandwich. Healthy “dessert” riddled with seeds, mealy mouthful complete with waxy rind, or bruised flabby fruit. Any way you sliced it from beginning to end, it added up to be destroyer of school kid lunch and therefore justifiably bullied at the bottom of the rubbish bin.

If it weren’t enough, in addition to ruining a good named sandwich, and simultaneously being too delicate for its own good, fruit seemed to be code for sensible, wholesome, and boring. No time for breakfast, need a snack, hungry, restless… a tad antsy? Any adult worth their age would assuredly plunk down a piece of fruit with the authority of the final word while any child younger than ten would certainly balk. And almost never would a truce be drawn with the playful exchange of Hostess Twinkies or the like, not in my world anyways.

Down yonder past the age of ten and with a diet leaning heavily on the vegetal side, I have carried my fruit folly far too long and wide. It isn’t that I never partake in the stuff. I adore pies, crumbles, strawberry ice cream, and especially fruit cake. But the other half of this truth is that I find the lot of them too precious, roving towards rot, and winsomely seductive yet too often crushingly vapid inside. I confess in these matters I gravitate towards substance preferring handsome to pretty, reliable to capricious, savory to dimply sweet, the turn of the earth to the gossamer loft of sky.

So it is quite by accident and good fortune that I have taken the fork in the road. Somewhere in my wasteland I noticed that a friend of mine was always eating pre-peeled grapefruit in a cup which meandered into a conversation about the price of convenience. While I initially thought it odd to pay twice as much (I am serious and cheap) for something as easy to do such as segmenting citrus, I began to relax into J’s obvious pleasure in this simple luxury. And as if by osmosis, soon I wanted to be pampered by pamplemousse.

I want to take off my corset of seriousness, be unbridled, happy and free. I want to stop laboriously describing my meals in terms of how and where it is grown, not think about fat grams and fiber, food pyramids and serving sizes. I want to eat unencumbered by information and luxuriate simply in the senses. By Jove I want fruit ambrosia! Here in New England where daily we unbury our homes from blankets of snow, nervously salt slabs of ice, and bound our limbs in high performance fleece- bodies need rich fuel in the form of stews, biscuits, and bakes. But some levity is needed if we are going to make it through until April.

I suggest for starters, naked slippery fruit. Imagine lying back upon a divan while being hand fed peeled grapes, figs, and other succulent dainties. I assure you no one will be thinking about the strains which come about from shoveling driveways. Instead the instant explosion of sun, life, and flavor will play upon the tongue, vivid immediacy rewarded by labored efforts to skin bland membranes surrounding each jeweled segment. Smiling perk of citrus against the cool hand of cream, golden goo of honey graced by the tropical kiss of coconut. Daily digs into this food for the gods and I am beginning to feel immortal. Maybe cushy, hedonistic splendor isn’t such a frivolous thing, but an ingenious survival imperative. Move over vegetables?

Sunshine Ambrosia for J

Ingredients:
1 grapefruit peeled and de-membraned
2 navel oranges peeled and de-membraned
1 blood orange peeled and de-membraned
1 can of mandarin segments
Pomegranate seeds
Greek yogurt
Unsweetened coconut
Honey
Fresh mint

Directions: Obviously one can use any fruit that one is partial to. I like the idea of sticking with veils of citrus flavor. The key thing is peeling the membranes since the succulent crush of pulp against tongue is really something to experience and the ultimate in luxury. Place all prepared fruit into a bowl and carefully mix, if desired sprinkle with pomegranate seeds or some other pop of color like dried cherries. Serve in individual bowls with a dollop of yogurt, drizzle of honey, some coconut and mint.

I Hunger Therefore I Am

Chomping exuberantly on a dark green gnarl of gum in a most un-ladylike manner I feel utter satisfaction not to mention resurgent crackling joy. On any other day this behavior would ratchet down a notch or two, but tonight I am back from afar. If there has been one thing, a beacon in the night, a touch stone against my crooked palm which has steadfastly wedded me to self, it has been my unflagging appetite which sends me scuttling about in divergent directions. For the past two unbearably long and strange weeks I have been marooned, dried up and just about unknown amidst a white out sea of nausea, antibiotics and a just won’t quit humorless apathy for sustenance.

The sort who breezes through moment after another considering, anticipating, and adoring food in its glorious guises, I can scarcely remember time or space without the accompaniment of something refreshing to quaff or delicious to nibble upon. Whether located at an all you can eat buffet, atop an airplane, slopped out of battered cafeteria pans, or squeezed out of tubes or stuffy boxes; when food is involved I am happy to gaze and converse, but mostly downrightly devour the subject at hand.

So confusion and disbelief hit hard when I found my teeth clamped shut at the mere thought of any vegetable which would normally solicit feelings of warm affection. The strangeness of it all set off a ricocheting earworm which had SpongeBob SquarePants and Patrick Starfish gleefully shouting in tandem, “It’s Opposite Day!” every time I settled upon some unusual food choice. It was as if the salt laden overly processed food loving taste buds of a teenage kid got swapped with mine along with his kidney- I swear I became another. In between negotiating quease, the only things remotely appealing were packaged hotdogs, mac-n-cheese, toast, bananas, and canned soup. In opposite land I reverted to eyeballing soda and Doritos, doughnuts and Ho-ho’s, rejecting anything green or fiber rich all the while staring numbly into space.

In the end it wasn’t really significant what was eaten as odd and noteworthy as it was, but rather to notice there was such a startling absence of joy in this strategic eating to survive. The whole treading slowly to nowhere had me thinking about the push and pull of hunger which is sewn into the fabric of our being. An appetite is intuitive utterance from within urging us outward towards new worlds whether physical, mental, emotional, or even spiritual. Every call and response broadens and amplifies our circle of being as we return each time another part of us discovered. Eating is a response to some original desire, conscious or not. While it stands to reason that the absence of desire is equally appropriate for certain moments, I found it to be lonely territory nonetheless. In that space rather than stillness or restorative rest-I found myself squeezed inward and disjointed, cut off from the vibrancy and color of both inner and outer worlds. To think that too long, pinched off of the vine of life, we would succumb to unripe death. I cannot think of more rousing reason to dig deep into our souls and enjoy all shapes and sizes of our hunger, to discover and be fed over and over again.

Shchi: Serves 6 Adapted from SoupSongs
Sauerkraut is almost always a palate pleaser and just the thing to get my appetite rolling. Don’t let the fear of stodgy cabbage fool you. This is light, pretty and delicious. A Russian version of sauerkraut soup, this is considered humble fare and really gussied elaboration upon cabbage, salt and water. If pickled kraut, V-8, or borscht is your thing forge ahead. Serve with pumpernickel bread and butter.

Ingredients:
2 Tblsp. butter
2 cups of sauerkraut rinsed and drained
2 cups shredded cabbage
2 Tblsp. tomato paste
2 Tblsp. butter
½ onion diced
1 garlic clove chopped
10 dried porcini mushrooms rehydrated in boiling water, chopped fine
1 small turnip peeled and diced
1 beet peeled and diced
1 16 oz. diced tomato
10 -12 C of beef stock (could use miso paste & stone ground mustard to create a “meaty” vegetarian broth)
Salt and pepper
Pinch of hot pepper flakes
Pinch of dill

Directions: Sauté in a Dutch oven over medium high flame, butter, shredded cabbage and sauerkraut for about 15 minutes. Stir in tomato paste and a cup or so of broth and continue to simmer on low for another 40 minutes. Meanwhile in a separate skillet, fry up the remaining butter, onion, garlic, chopped mushroom, turnip, and beet for about 15 minutes. Add the sautéed vegetables to the Dutch oven, the remaining tomato, stock, and spices. Bring to a boil and then lower the heat to simmer for another 20 minutes or so. Check for seasoning. Ideally allow the soup to sit for a day before reheating. Serve with a dollop of sour cream and more dill.